Chapter 9: First Lessons and Hidden Power

Percy woke up to the sound of rustling fabric and hushed excitement. Sunlight streamed through the Gryffindor Tower windows, casting a warm glow over the room. The scent of parchment, ink, and fresh morning air filled his senses. It was his first full day at Hogwarts.

The dormitory was already stirring. Neville fumbled with his robes, Seamus and Dean were arguing about the best Quidditch teams, and Ron groaned into his pillow, clearly not a morning person.

"Come on, Ron," Harry said, stretching. "We've got classes."

Ron mumbled something unintelligible but dragged himself out of bed.

Percy swung his legs over the side of his four-poster bed, excitement mixing with nerves. He had spent years training to survive battles with monsters, but school? That was a whole different challenge.

"What's our first class?" Harry asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Percy checked his schedule. "Double Potions. With the Slytherins."

Ron groaned louder. "First thing in the morning? Snape's gonna love that."

Percy wasn't so sure about Snape yet, but he had a feeling that Potions wasn't going to be an easy class.

The dungeons were colder than the rest of the castle, with flickering torchlight casting eerie shadows across stone walls. The air smelled of damp earth and strange herbs. Glass jars lined the shelves, filled with ingredients floating in murky liquids—things Percy didn't want to think about too much.

Professor Snape stood at the front of the room, his black robes billowing slightly as he turned to face the class. His dark eyes swept over them, cold and calculating.

"There will be no foolish wand-waving in this class," he said, his voice soft but menacing. "As such, I do not expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making."

Percy recognized the type—Snape was the kind of authority figure who enjoyed making people uncomfortable.

Then Snape's gaze landed on him. "Ah, our… special student. Perseus Jackson."

Percy tensed. There was something in Snape's tone that made him uneasy.

"Tell me, Mr. Jackson, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

The room fell silent. Percy frowned, trying to remember. He had skimmed through a Potions book the night before, but he wasn't sure—then he remembered Hermione mentioning it.

"The Draught of Living Death?" he guessed.

Snape's expression didn't change. "Correct." He continued, "Where would you find a bezoar?"

Percy thought for a moment. "A goat's stomach."

Snape narrowed his eyes. "And its use?"

"It counteracts most poisons," Percy said carefully.

For a moment, Snape looked… surprised. Just for a second. Then his face hardened again. "At least one of you has been reading," he muttered. "Pity."

The rest of the lesson went by in a blur. Percy caught Snape watching him several times, like he was trying to figure something out.

By the time they reached Defense Against the Dark Arts, Percy felt like he had already lived an entire day.

Professor Quirrell stood at the front of the room, looking nervous. His turban smelled weird—like something rotten. The lesson was supposed to be about basic defensive spells, but Percy couldn't focus.

The moment Quirrell walked past him, a strange sensation washed over him. His gut twisted, like an invisible force was pressing down on him. His fingers twitched, instinctively reaching for a weapon he didn't have.

Then, as quickly as it came, the feeling faded.

He looked at Harry. Judging by the way Harry's face had gone pale, he had felt it too.

Something was very wrong with Quirrell.

That evening, Percy sat by the window in the Gryffindor common room, staring at the darkened grounds. The castle felt safe, but that moment in class had unsettled him.

For the first time, he wondered if coming to Hogwarts had been a mistake.

Back at Camp Half-Blood, he knew what he was fighting. He knew who the enemy was. Here? He was in unfamiliar waters.

Then again, when had the sea ever been predictable?

"Hey," Harry said, sitting beside him. "You felt it, didn't you? In Defense class."

Percy nodded. "Yeah. Something's off about him."

Harry hesitated. "You think he's dangerous?"

Percy didn't answer right away. He thought about all the times he had ignored his instincts before—how it had always led to trouble.

"Let's just say," he finally said, "I don't trust him."

Harry nodded, and they lapsed into silence.

Later that night, long after everyone had gone to bed, Percy couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned, but the nagging feeling in his gut wouldn't go away.

Finally, he gave up and swung his legs out of bed. The dormitory was dark and quiet, the only sound the soft breathing of his roommates.

Something was pulling him.

He grabbed his wand and slipped out of the room, padding quietly down the stairs into the Gryffindor common room. The fire had died down to embers, casting eerie shadows along the walls.

The feeling in his gut grew stronger.

He stepped toward the window, expecting to see nothing but the moonlit grounds. Instead, he saw something moving near the Forbidden Forest.

A hooded figure.

Percy's blood ran cold.

The figure paused, as if sensing it was being watched, then slowly turned its head.

Even from a distance, Percy could feel it—the same dark pressure he had felt around Quirrell.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

Who—or what—was that?

Then the figure vanished into the trees.

Percy exhaled, gripping the windowsill. He knew one thing for sure.

Trouble was coming.

And he was going to be right in the middle of it.