The Morally Greys

The wizards were completely stunned. Their minds struggled to catch up with the sheer audacity of the moment. But it was Vincent—who had been standing quietly by Luna’s side this entire time—who broke the silence with a single word: “Phaunos.”

The god’s eyes flickered toward Vincent, a smirk pulling at his lips. He seemed amused, intrigued even, by the mention of his name, and for a moment, he shifted his focus entirely away from the others. With a fluid movement, Phaunos crouched down in front of Vincent, his grin widening.

Matthew, who had been on edge ever since the god appeared, immediately stepped forward, pulling his brother away with a sharp tug. His voice came out low and dangerous, his eyes burning with protective fury. "I don’t care if you’re a god. Get away from my little brother."

To his surprise, the god didn’t react with the usual divine authority. There was no overwhelming sense of power or fear. The aura of terror that had been suffocating them all moments ago seemed to dissipate entirely. Phaunos only smiled, his expression dripping with a quiet amusement that only annoyed Matthew more.

“Ah,” Phaunos said, standing up with a fluid grace, "It doesn’t matter. You’re all coming with me anyway.”

Annabeth, ever the strategist, was the first to speak up. “Following you is the most logical course of action,” she said, voice steady. “No sense in resisting. We have questions, and you seem to be the one with the answers.”

Matthew’s hand clenched into a fist, his protective instincts still on full alert, but he didn’t argue. He picked up Vincent, who didn’t even protest, still calm despite the situation. Hermione, meanwhile, had walked over to Draco, checking his injuries over as they moved. Luna and Theo fell in line behind them, following Phaunos with a quiet curiosity.

They ended up in a large natural park—unmistakably in London, but unlike anything the wizards had seen in the city before. The lush greenery stretched out before them, a sharp contrast to the steel and concrete of the urban environment they were used to. Nature spirits began to gather around them, materializing from the trees and the earth, greeting Phaunos like an old friend. The yale, now smaller and undeniably cuter, had transformed, its massive tusks shrinking down to harmless nubs, its antelope-like body softening into a more playful form. Exodus seemed thrilled, her eyes wide as she took in the adorable version of the creature.

Luna, as ever, seemed unbothered by the surreal shift, though it was clear to everyone that there was something special about her in Phaunos’ eyes. In fact, the god himself watched her with a glint of fondness in his gaze.

But when he looked over at Vincent, the affection was even clearer. The boy didn’t feel the terrifying aura anymore, but Phaunos seemed to be watching him with some kind of soft admiration, though it was still clouded by mystery. Matthew, however, was still too protective to notice.

As they made their way deeper into the park, a figure appeared at the entrance to a cave—an old, male dryad, his bark-like skin creased with age. He was waiting for them, a knowing smile on his face. “Ah, Phaunos. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show,” the dryad said, his voice rough with age but welcoming nonetheless. “Come in. The answers you seek are inside.”

The moment the invitation was given, Theodore made it abundantly clear that he had no intention of stepping foot into the cave. His face twisted into a mix of discomfort and reluctance as he backed away slightly. “Nope. I’m good. Not going in there.”

Matthew glanced at his brother, concern flickering in his eyes. But there was no argument from Vincent, who was content to stay with his older sibling.

“It’s alright,” Phaunos said casually, not bothered by the refusal at all. He gave a nod toward the dryad and then turned to walk into the cave without a second thought. The He-Dryad simply shrugged in response, seemingly used to this by now, and followed him in.

Matthew, still carrying Vincent, glanced at Theodore one more time before nodding. He wasn’t about to let his brother go anywhere alone, especially not when they were surrounded by gods and nature spirits. The two brothers remained outside, standing guard, with Theodore giving an exaggerated sigh of relief, grateful to avoid whatever the god and the dryad were up to.

With that, Phaunos and the He-Dryad disappeared into the cave, leaving Matthew and his group on the outside, waiting to see what would happen next.

Harry Potter was not at Hogwarts. Nor was he with Draco, Hermione, or any of the others who’d snuck out of the castle. Where was he?

Cue drumroll.

He was in an extravagant, luxurious apartment—one way fancier than anything he’d ever seen in the magical or muggle worlds. The apartment had wide glass windows with a breathtaking view of London, sleek furniture that practically gleamed, and was filled with a faint, calming scent of ocean salt and rosemary.

There, across the room, sat a witch—Mélisse Bellevue. Her gaze was fixed on an intimidating stack of paperwork, her wand hovering over the pages with precise, lazy movements. Occasionally, she’d mutter something under her breath, completely absorbed in her work.

And then there was the man. Or more accurately, the man who looked like Harry… except way more grown-up, ridiculously handsome, and maybe a bit too charismatic for his own good. His hair was the same inky black as Harry’s, but his eyes—sea-green and shockingly intense—set him apart. He’d introduced himself as Perseus, though he’d told Harry to just call him Percy.

At the moment, however, Percy was in the shower. And from what Harry could tell, he’d been in there for hours. Which left Harry in a rather awkward, stunned silence, staring around the room, unsure of what to make of this situation.

What had he gotten himself into?

Because here was the thing: he’d tried to follow Draco, Hermione, and the rest of the “Morally Greys” when they left the castle. He was curious—too curious, perhaps—and wanted to know what they were up to. But somewhere along the way, he’d gotten completely lost in the winding streets of London. He didn’t even know how he ended up in the right city, let alone the right part of town.

And then she had found him. Mélisse, this mysterious witch with an aura of elegance and command, who seemed to know exactly who he was without asking a single question. She had led him here, her steps graceful and confident, her tone polite but laced with an authority that Harry couldn’t quite defy.

What confused him even more was Percy. Mélisse had also found him—apparently just sitting on a beach with no belongings and looking, in her words, “ridiculously out of place.” Percy hadn’t argued. Instead, he’d just shrugged, flashed a disarming grin, and followed her to the apartment without any fuss.

Now, Harry was left waiting in a strange sort of limbo, stealing glances at Mélisse and wondering when Percy would finally reappear.

Because something was going on. And somehow, he’d stumbled straight into the middle of it.

A few minutes later, Vincent flinched, as if sensing something just beyond the edge of hearing. He tugged urgently at Matthew’s sleeve, slipping free from his brother's grasp before Matthew could react. Without a word, Vincent darted straight toward the cave’s entrance, feet moving faster than even he seemed to understand. Matthew took a step to follow, instinct kicking in—only to pause. Something in him whispered no, an unfamiliar but undeniable tug that made him stop with a frown.

Theodore watched, visibly more unsettled, a nervous glance shifting from the cave to Matthew, the usual calm in his expression disrupted by a quiet sense of dread.

Vincent sprinted into the cave, his steps echoing off cold stone walls. Strange metal "ropes" laced through the ceiling, holding dryads in tangled, unnatural webs of iron that sapped their life. But he didn’t pause, didn’t even blink at the sight as he continued deeper into the cavern.

He soon reached a larger, dimly lit chamber, where Phaunos sat cross-legged in the center, eyes closed as if lost in a meditative trance. The old he-dryad had melted back into an ancient, towering tree at the chamber’s edge, its twisted roots and branches spreading through the stone, supporting the weight of the cave. But there was no sign of Annabeth, Draco or Hermione anywhere.

From behind the tree, Luna appeared as if she’d been there all along, her expression serene and detached, her usual dreamy look unaffected by the eerie silence. Her mark glowed softly, casting a faint light around her. She looked at Vincent, her gaze both gentle and unsettling.

“Why did you leave them?”

It wasn’t a question so much as a quiet revelation, and the weight of it pressed against Vincent’s chest. He should have felt a surge of panic at her words, a racing heart or a wave of fear as realization dawned.

But there was nothing. Just a strange, calm certainty, as if he’d already known.

Vincent didn’t speak. He rarely did. Instead, he pulled his headphones off, the smooth cord slipping from his neck as he pointed silently at Luna, his eyes narrowing as his magic responded without a word. With a flick of his wrist, the air before them shimmered, and glowing letters began to form in the space between them.

{What did you hear?}

Luna stepped closer, her movements slow and deliberate, her expression unreadable as she gazed down at him. Then, as if drawn by an unseen force, she began to speak, her voice soft but heavy with something ancient, something binding. Her eyes glowed golden as she recited a prophecy in a language Vincent felt vibrating in his very bones.

Η αληθινή επιλεγμένη της Απάτης θα μολύνει το στίγμα,
Το αίμα της κόκκινης σελήνης δεν πρέπει να διεκδικήσει το σκοτάδ
Οι αθόρυβες κραυγές της μάχης καταπραΰνουν τα δέντρα,
Οι δύο εξειδικευμένοι θα βρουν τον επιζώντα για να αποτρέψουν τον παγετό.
Η χρυσή Μάντισσα στέκεται μακριά, φωτεινή με την μοίρα,
Οι Ήρωες του Ολύμπου καθοδηγούν τον δρόμο, δεν πρέπει να αργήσουν.

Vincent stumbled back, his feet tripping over an unseen crack in the cave floor. His balance failed, and he collapsed, scraping his arms and legs on the sharp spikes of stone that jutted from the ground. As he fell, he looked down at the agitated vines curling at his feet. His eyes narrowed as the words Luna had spoken echoed in his mind. They translated themselves almost naturally, the meaning shifting to fit the strange rhythm of his thoughts.

Οι αθόρυβες κραυγές της μάχης καταπραΰνουν τα δέντρα,
The soundless cries of battle quells the trees.

Vincent frowned, his breath shallow as the pain from his cuts barely registered. His gaze lingered on the sharp, golden threads that shimmered faintly in the blood now soaking his hands and arms. It was a faint, otherworldly sheen—like the blood was alive, like it carried something more than just life force.

Luna knelt down beside him, helping him up. She noticed the shimmering quality of his blood, her gaze flicking back and forth between his eyes and his hands. She didn’t ask him about it, but she couldn’t hide the flicker of curiosity in her expression. There was something different about him, something beyond the obvious.

But Vincent didn’t react to the pain. He just stood up, as if it meant nothing, as if he was more concerned about something else entirely.

In the other part of the cave, Theodore's unease only grew. He felt a sharp pang deep in his gums, his teeth suddenly aching like they did when he was about to shift, but he wasn’t transforming. His Βρυκόλακας mark flickered, tiny sparks of light dancing across the skin of his wrist, but it didn’t fully glow. It was as if something in him was stirring, but it wasn’t quite the change he was used to.

Matthew stood nearby, his focus shifting as he glanced down at his own Μάγος mark. Something was wrong with it—something he couldn’t explain. The singular ᵢ beneath the mark had morphed into a ᵢᵢ. It felt off, like the ink of it had been smudged, or worse, as if it was shifting in response to something he couldn’t quite grasp.

He felt his thoughts begin to drift, floating like they were being pulled in different directions by an invisible force. He blinked, once, twice, and then it happened. A pull, like a thread tightening deep in his chest, tugging him forward as if someone was guiding his every move—manipulating him. Oddly enough, he felt like a puppeteer rather than a puppet, strings pulling him taut.

The air around him thickened. He felt the plants, the vines, the very greenery, wither. The life in the air grew still, quiet, and all he could hear was the sound of his own thoughts—sharp, and growing louder.

His mind churned with confusion, but then there it was again—a voice, familiar yet strange. It was his own, unmistakably, but with something else layered over it, something faintly female, as though two minds were tangled in his own. He couldn’t focus enough to separate the two, the thoughts twisting together, indistinguishable.

He couldn't put his finger on it, but it was there, clear in its silent urgency.

He grabbed Theodore’s wrist before his own thoughts could get too tangled. His smile was sharp, too wide, and unsettling. Theodore shot him a look—one of confusion, maybe a touch of unease—but Matthew only grinned, a strange, almost satisfied expression on his face.

"Do you feel that, Theo?"

Matthew didn’t elaborate. Instead, he just gave his friend another wide, sharp grin, his eyes glinting unnervingly. Theodore’s unease deepened as the air around them thickened with an invisible tension, and the voice in Matthew’s mind whispered, too faint for anyone else to hear.