Sol lucit omnibas
The sun shines for all.
“The Patronus charm.”
It’s almost a cacophony of yells and screaming when Harry says that. It’s an obvious fact, allowing him to observe their reactions—even those in Slytherin were blatantly outraged by his claim. Well, it was less of a claim and more of a fact. Was it his fault that their ancestors categorised magic that way? No, it most certainly was not and he wasn’t going to let them pick a fight with him because of ignorance.
Roksana looked older than she was, making him smile pleasantly as she gestures for him to take the floor. He grins at the confused and loud students, some bold enough to stay standing to spit—quite literally spit and that was just disgusting—questions at his face. He had a fifty-fifty chance of killing a child if this continued. But he’s sure Roksana would Petrificus Totalus him without any hesitation.
He glances at his wand, meets eyes with Ron and Theo, then he grins. With a flick of his wrist, the students who remained standing and yelling were forced into their seats. Their eyes grew wide—almost child-like—as they stared at him with confusion and anger. All Harry does is smile, waving at them while Roksana retreats to her seat behind her desk.
“Lovely to see you all,” He says, faux joy clear in his voice. “My name is Hyperion Peverell, more commonly known as Harry Potter to you chaps, but I don’t really go by that anymore. Lordships and all.” He belligerently waves, grinning like a shark as he twirls his wand, sparks flying soon after.
“Now, you’re all screaming and whining about the Patronus charm being dark but then what does the Patronus really need? It doesn’t need intent, that’s what. The spell is a protective spell made to ward off Dementors. Sure, you can say it’s grey because of it but the fuel of a Patronus? Happy memories. Pure, untainted emotions—joy.” Harry describes, almost feeling giddy with himself as he spoke of the first spell that ever invoked such emotions from him. “Intent? No. The opposite of light is dark. Intent against emotions… What is a Dementor?”
He waits and waits, but no one answers him. Annoying little shits. He randomly points at the Slytherins, grinning when he finds the tip of his wand facing none other than Blaise Zabini. He wasn’t exactly familiar with the boy but Ron’s letters were rather nice to read, even if some of them were littered with numerous mentions of a rather charming lad from Slytherin. Harry couldn’t blame him, the boy was quite the looker.
“Zabini?”
Zabini raises a brow at him, but eventually gets up like the diligent student he was. “A dementor is typically classified as wraith-like creatures that we shouldn’t go anywhere near. They are the only creatures capable of sucking out the human soul… and happiness! Yes, they feed off happiness and generate sadness as a replacement.”
“Lupin taught us very well about creatures. Don’t really remember what you turned your boggart into.” He sheepishly says, causing the class to laugh. “Anyways… Can a dementor feel emotion? Anyone?”
“Peverell…”
“Professor! Lovely of you to answer. Might you grace your class with such knowledge?” Harry enthusiastically throws his hands open, tilting his head as Roksana relaxes on her seat.
“To answer your question—pay attention children, I’ll be quizzing you on whatever this one lectures you on.” Well, that got them sitting up straight and writing on their notebooks. “Dementors do not feel emotion. They feed off happiness as that is the only emotion they can momentarily feel upon sucking it out of a person. These creatures are eternally glutinous for emotions that they can feel for such a small time.”
“Hear that? They’re hungry creatures for the tiniest bit of happiness. Their purpose is to feed.” Harry summarises, “Dementors run on intent and intent alone. If the classification proves true then Dementors would be considered beings of light magic—don’t fucking tantrum. You’re here for a reason, sit the fuck down.” Okay, Katya would string him up like a dummy if she heard him cussing out a Hogwarts student—with merit of course.
The poor kid was—yeah, Harry wasn't sure who that was. A little lion, he knows from the robes, but he doesn't remember him at all. McLaren? Never mind.
“This is a controversial opinion for you people since you've yet to open your minds to the fact that Magic isn't inherently evil and neither are people.” He pointed and looked at Gryffindor before going on. “‘Twas our ancestors who established such a system to categorise our magic. If you would like to complain, kindly enter the crypts of the wixen of old and summon their ghosts so you may whine and cry until they grow weary of the living.”
Considering his studies on Necromancy, he might just do that… minus the whining and crying. He'd most likely tire the poor ghost with all his questioning and interrogation—to the chagrin of his own ancestors. Perhaps he could rip the souls of the three brothers out of the afterlife and pester them regarding their magical objects that were passed down from generation to generation.
“Magic systems vary in terms of demographic. Us Brits and some others use the intent vs. emotion system to classify dark and light. France and Italy use elementalism vs. body and mind. With that said, using those systems ensure that the majority of healers are considered practitioners of dark magic.” He shrugs, waving away the outrage on their faces. It was the blatant truth he was willing to slap on their faces. “In some regions, magic doesn't have a light or dark category. In Asia, they just classify them through how the magic works; runic, elemental, illusory, and even divination. Though in some parts, they use the sun, moon, seas, sky, etc. to classify magic. One way or another, you'd be considered dark depending on where you are, so if you intend on travelling, learn to suck it up and deal with it.”
“You're an awful teacher.”
And of course, the little shit who says that is an arrogant brat from Gryffindor.
“And you're a terrible student, McLaren. Heard you've been skipping. What? Not enough courage to come to a dark arts class? Too scared?” Harry taunts, already feeling Roksana's glare. “Not quite Gryffindor.”
“It's McLaggen!”
“Ah… my apologies. I don't quite remember you from when I was still a Gryffindor.” he rolls his eyes, before feeling a tug. His gaze shifts to Roksana, pouting when she's already ushering him away from the front of the class.
“Alright, alright. Mister McLaggen, kindly sit down before I make you.” Roksana quickly instructs, glaring at the boy who begrudgingly descended back to his seat. In the meantime, she levels Harry with a glare, hurriedly telling him to take a seat himself.
Well, to be fair, it was his fault for playing coy. Not that he didn't care that much. Good for them.
The first thing Marvolo did when he realised that Black wasn't going to back down until he saw the Peverell boy… was lock his door, close his curtains, and tapped his wand against the record player. The room echoed the sound of L’Inverno by Vivaldi, making him relax. He nursed a glass of whiskey, just enough to calm his nerves and numb the stress from Sirius’ bouts of mania at the return of the golden boy.
“Nagini,” Marvolo whispers, his gaze shifting down to the serpent that slowly slithered towards him. He offers a hand to Nagini, awaiting her as she begins to coil around his arm before she settles upon his lap. “Sweet girl, forgive me for leaving you alone for so long.”
“I am older than you, boy.” Nagini hisses back, indignant as she slaps his arm with his tail. “The Black dog refuses to cease his whining. He speaks of a puppy that he has lost. Make him shut his mouth, Marvolo. He harms my ears.” The serpent says, coiling tighter around his form.
“But your little undead has returned.”
Marvolo pauses, eyes narrowed as Nagini gradually uncoils from him. He removes himself from the chair, unlocking his door. As he opens it, Nagini’s words speak true as there stands a hooded figure just outside. “Hm… you've returned earlier than I expected. Come now, report what has happened.”
A simple nod is what is given to him, allowing him to relax as he returns to his seat.
“A little late, but… Welcome back, Barty.”
As the hood falls, Barty reveals himself. Marvolo smiles, feeling almost pleasant at the sight of the familiar scar upon Barty's face. A little excursion to Germany had resulted in such a scar, though the cause was yet to be… properly determined.
Barty immediately kneels before him, “My lord… Apologies for my tardiness. Some… problems have risen upon the investigation.”
“And pray tell, what is the problem itself?”
Barty clears his throat, quickly getting up and tucking his hands behind him. “My Lord… please understand that the mission you have given me was never easy to begin with. I—not many are willing to divulge information on our targets… worse, they refuse to believe that they exist.” He grits his teeth, keeping his eyes on the floor before he meets Marvolo’s eyes. Barty flinches, looking away at once.
“Get on with it.”
“Throughout Europe, the Olympians are still thought to be a myth.” Barty explains, clearly careful with his words. “If not, they protect their existence until they die. I have met only a single person who was willing to speak about the Olympians, but even then… My Lord… they were dead the next day.”
Marvolo considers his words, trying to gauge out a lie from his follower. But Barty's rigid posture does not reveal any lies, neither does his mind reveal anything false. All were true, nervous thoughts that swirled around the surface of his mind and continued to do so as Marvolo delved deeper with his magic. Admittedly, if Barty were to lie, the possibility of his tongue being sliced off would increase.
“The Olympians… when did they surface?”
“Just a year and a half ago, my lord.”
“How much damage have they done?”
Barty shifts, uncomfortable and grimacing. “Grand… former head of french law enforcement—Anton Deveraux was killed just a few months ago… we… We are not quite sure who did it, but considering the intel that I received from Becken three months ago… There are currently three known members of the Olympians.”
Three, he clicks his tongue. Only three members of a troublesome group that suddenly appeared were known after a year of investigation.
“Their names?”
“Either Deveraux’s death, many understand it as an accident. A methodical and strategic approach that painted the man in a bad light upon his death… Becken said that the Olympian—Athena had constructed the assassination.” Barty explains, shuffling through his back before taking out a strange cube. “And—And this! I don't know what it is but it has the symbol of the Goddess of Wisdom on it. That said, the Olympians have taken to naming themselves after the actual Olympians of myth.”
“Yes, of course Barty. I never thought that a group who are named after the council of gods on Olympus would name themselves after the council itself.” Marvolo drawls, glaring at Barty.
The poor man stutters for a while, before hurriedly continuing on with his explanation. “This cube… Becken had this in possession—stole it from someone, he said. His explanations on the original owner were vague but from my understanding, they were someone the Olympians saved.”
“Barty.”
“Yes, right… apologies…” Barty quickly says, “Erm… the second is Demeter. It's a name that has circulated across the Black Market. Demeter, apparently, is involved in the creation of strange potions, drugs, and even healing balms. Are you aware of the drug called Somnia Terrifica?”
A new drug? Marvolo wonders about it, curious and apprehensive. The name itself sounded tacky but if it's name was the literal effect of the drug then he would think it was a terrifying creation from someone named after the Goddess of Harvest of all things. “Terror Dreams. The drug is named Terror Dreams?”
“Yes… it's a combination of a hallucinogenic and something that causes an excruciating amount of phantom pain. There is no physical damage to the body but somehow, it's capable of targeting the sensors and making people feel pain without a physical cause.” Barty then takes out a small, circular container with dark green dust. “If this is inhaled then the effects happen within the next sixty seconds.”
“And the third?”
Barty stiffens, gritting his teeth as his hand immediately runs down the scar that slashed over his face. “Ares.” He says, almost hesitant to say the name. Not out of fear, rather, out of anger that tinged the cool of his voice.
“The most violent of the currently known Olympians. Counterpart of Athena but also the opposite. He's known to cause trouble in Germany and Russia. He managed to cause a battle between two houses, which ended up with five dead.” Barty gestures wildly, magic whirling from his hands.
“Your magic, Bartemius.”
The man flinches, shaking his hands before hurriedly tucking his hands behind him again.
“Right….but that's all I got from Becken.”
That was just three but the reputations of the currently known Olympians seemed to exceed their elusiveness. A strategic assassin that managed to end the life of a French ministry official and drag his name to the mud. A dangerous drug manufacturer and potioneer that titled themselves after the goddess of Harvest of all things. Then lastly, someone who fancied themselves the god of war, successfully managed a battle between two ancient houses of Russia, reaping the lives of five heirs.
“And none of them are confirmed to be the leader?”
Barty shakes his head, “The leader is assumed to be named after one of the three eldest gods.”
“So the title is between Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades… They are most likely named after Zeus because the titles are of the Olympians rather than chthonic gods.”
The assumption isn't quite plausible but it seemed more obvious that this person would name themselves Zeus. Well, there wasn't a confirmed number of members within the Olympians. If they followed the usual numbering of the actual Olympians, then there should be twelve of them. However, things didn't seem to properly add up and their monikers were more aligned to their corresponding specialities in magic.
Demeter didn't embody harvest and agriculture—if that were the case, they'd have heard more about the agricultural economy rather than the black market. Athena seemed to lean more towards strategic brutality rather than what their namesake embodied. Meanwhile, Ares seemed to be perfecting his role and making his namesake proud with the bloodshed and feuds they are starting.
Regardless, the group's emergence was unprecedented and frankly undesirable. They shook the magical world in ways that hindered his plans—even the expectations of others. Though, the death of Deveraux did cause the progress of some of his plans regarding French delegates to accelerate. Marvolo had difficulty of the scandal quite literally slapped across international papers regarding the crimes and scandals of Anton Deveraux. From embezzlement to funding organisations that clearly oppressed magical creatures—leading to an increase of death rates on magical creatures. He had heard that the Veela Community was on the verge of a coup d’état because of it.
“Very well… the issue regarding the Olympians shall be postponed until further notice.” Marvolo sighs, running his fingers through his hair. He stares at Bartyz meeting the man's nonchalant gaze. The poor thing—he’s lost all that fire he had when Marvolo first recruited him.
“I have a new mission for you. The same investigatory work.”
Barty immediately perks up, tilting his head and Marvolo can't help but remember a curious dog. Indeed…
“Harry Potter has returned.”
The reaction is instant, the visible stiffening of Barty's body as he stares at him, jaw dropping. It seems—that even Barty—was not aware that the golden boy had returned.
“What?”
“He goes by Hyperion Peverell now. Apparently, he's been studying in Durmstrang all this time but no other bits of information have been given to us. As expected, Durmstrang does not take the protection of their students lightly.” Marvolo scoffs. The institute seemed highly commendable compared to the numerous dangers that lurked within the castle of Hogwarts. “Find out everything about him. Whatever happened in the past two years, it's clear that Dumbledore's renowned saviour has abandoned all hopes of being the leader of the light.”
Hyperion Peverell…
The topic was a strange one.
Peverell's Lord, the saviour of the wizarding world, and his prophesied equal.
He's quite curious about what will happen with that strange boy. There weren't many updates on the Hogwarts curriculum just yet but surely, the news of his return will spread across the country. The uproar would be delightful to witness as the Light crumbles at the knowledge that their little saviour was a blatant practitioner of dark magic.
But still, Marvolo remains curious and intrigued by what Peverell means when he speaks of Dark magic. Is it the magic of flesh that the French classify, or is it the explosive and powerful source that was human emotions?
Despite his expressive attitude during the interview, Hyperion Peverell was the most guarded person in that room. Marvolo was not blind to the way he took that cup from Fawley, clearly assessing if there was anything in it—veritaserum, if his assumptions were correct. Even before Lord Fawley reacted poorly to his daughter's blatantly anger, Peverell had continued to put pressure on every single individual using his magic. Marvolo was not stupid to think that it had been anxiety and his nerves that made his body feel heavy that day.
Peverell had made sure that they were all subdued even before the thought of an attack appeared in their heads.
He had spoken carefully, strategically as he invoked emotions and thoughts in them with the way he manipulated the narrative of his story. But there was truth in his words, especially when it came to the possibility of people sending him to the pyre once it was revealed that the wizarding world's golden boy was more dark then he ever was light.
Hyperion Peverell…
The entire day was filled with strange and yet fulfilling classes with the addition of the Durmstrang students furiously drilling knowledge into their heads. It was dizzying sometimes but evidently, very beneficial.
Ron's favourite of all the classes was, of course, Dark Studies. Seeing Harry practically drag everyone into the mud was hilarious and making him proud was joyous. Even Ginny had marched up to him, shook his entire body and scolded him for not telling her about Harry's return. Though Harry was quite busy with all the classes, it became a trademark of the day where everyone kept talking about Harry's classes.
“Harry's changed a lot, hasn't he?” Dean laughs, already excited to head to the library to bury himself in books about the topics Harry had blabbered on about ever so passionately.
"He's a right whiz at teaching, ain't he? Had McLaggen in bits by the end, so he did. Oh, and word is that Smith from Hufflepuff got a proper lashing after the idiot went off about magic being dodgy.” Seamus gestures wildly, getting annoyed yells from students walking by as he sheepishly waved them off. "Ah, it's a bit freaky, to be fair. He's totally flipped, like... And, well... He looked like he was gonna chuck some of the lads out the window.”
Ron sighs, rubbing the side of his head. The ordeal of Harry's change seemed to be disorienting for the entire house. Many Gryffindors were clearly angry at the sudden announcement that the golden boy was a practitioner of dark magic. "Yeah, well, it’s been a couple of years, innit? Didn’t really think he'd be the same... No one’s got a clue what went down that day. And now, all his family’s gone too…”
The truth was, Harry must have been ecstatic at the deaths of his relatives. Ron was not ignorant to the horrible nature and treatment of the Dursleys. Though he may not feel sympathy for them, he still thinks it was unfortunate that lives had to be lost. At the very least, Harry was free now. Thriving—to be completely honest.
But Ron liked to think back on my innocent times.
When Harry, Hermione, and himself were running around Hogwarts catching on to whatever trouble was in reach. They were dangerous, life-threatening—but those events made the mundanity of his current life tasteless. The lack of… everything reminded him that his best friends were not here with him. That they had to flee for their own safety while he was sheltered in his home with a family that could protect him. Harry and Hermione did not have the support systems he had. One was an orphan and the other had muggle parents that could be killed at any point in time if they made the wrong enemies.
So… it was invigorating to see his best friend thrive. The last he has seen of Harry was when he was still a boy—so skinny, so lithe, so… exhausted. Ron never sympathised much with his mother, often resenting her for favouritism, but meeting Harry… he could understand his mother then. Hermione came after and suddenly he felt like he had scrutinised his mother too much in her care for them.
Seeing him so healthy, so happy, so clearly fulfilled with his own life made Ron feel a sense of pride that threatened to swell and burst from his chest.
With Harry's arrival, he hopes that Hermione would soon follow. He hopes that they'll finally reunite, be together once again and brave the world like they used to.
Two years ago, the world may have won then but this time, he wouldn't let it.
“Psst—Psst! Ron!”
He blinks, turning to Dean who looked worriedly at him. All Ron does is smile, tilts his head and wonders about such worry.
“Er… six o’clock, Zabini.” He subtly gestures to the left making Ron turn his head (no he did not snap it).
The boy—man because apparently he was a month or so older than Ron—was leaning against a wall, obviously watching Ron. He was lacking the usual subtlety of a typical Slytherin, which was strange because Blaise took their house’s decorum rather seriously. To be honest, Ron is almost unnerved by how easy it is for him to shift into a different side of him whenever they meet eyes. And it's even more unnerving as Blaise—bloody—Zabini smiles at him like always. Well… Ron doesn't really remember when always began.
Like a natural, Zabini beckons for him and Ron is reminded of an owner calling for their dog. It's infuriating, horribly condescending but what does Ron do? He goes to Blaise like a good dog.
“Hey there, tesoro.” Blaise grins, leaning against the wall as he waves off his friends that were clearly questioning whether to wait for him or not.
Ron sees an annoyed looking Malfoy, promptly sending the boy a taunting grin which garners him an indignant huff.
“Stop trying to pick a fight with him.” Blaise drawls, pressing his back against the wall as he crosses his arms over his chest. His dark eyes are cast to the floor, as if he's avoiding Ron's gaze.
It's annoying.
“You don't call for me out in public for nothing, Zabini.” Ron says, chewing on his lip as he shoves his hands into his pocket. Over the past two years, he's learned the art of being discreet and subtle. Fred and George were strict on that when Umbridge had come to terrorise the school for their last year and Ron finds himself thankful for how his brothers were so adamant on teaching him and Ginny.
“Zabini?”
“That's your name, isn't it?”
Blaise chuckles softly, tilting his head. “I've gotten used to hearing you call me Blaise, tesoro.”
And I've gotten used to hearing you call me by that blasted nickname… Ron assumes it's a nuisance. Blaise’s first name is easier to say than his last. Besides, Ron likes his practicality now.
“What do you want?”
“So cold… but, never mind. Come now, it's best we speak in a more… private setting.” Blaise laughs—again. He takes Ron by the wrist, promptly dragging him away from the bustling hall of students that were pushing and slipping past each other. The action isn't unfamiliar now, not after Ron has become a victim of Blaise's shenanigans.
The classroom is vacant, like many of Hogwarts' classrooms. It's impractical to keep so many and let them dust. They should have been used for different things outside of students making them rendezvous points to shag and snog. Ugh.
“Blaise—”
“There we go, tesoro. Now… My questions are simple.” Blaise assures, sounding so soft and confident as he runs his hand up Ron's arm.
“It's about Ha—” Ron pauses, looks down at Blaise's surprised expression expression before he grimaces. “You want to ask about Hyperion.”
“My, my. Aren't you already accustomed to that new name…” Blaise smiles, cheshire-like as he reaches to grip at Ron's bicep. “As if you've called him that a hundred times…”
Because he has.
“Blaise… we're friends, I get that… but…” Ron sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “Hyperion isn't someone you want to get involved with. He's not… he's not the same person as he used to be.”
“Of course he isn't! I'm not blind, Ron.” Blaise quickly argued, brow furrowing as he shakes his head and quickly withdraws. His hand leaves Ron's arm and he's crossing them over his chest again. The displeasure in his eyes are evident and all the traits of Slytherin—their cunning and ability to mask their expressions—is but a mere speck of dust now. “And I know you're not too. Tesoro… His change might not be so good, especially with the ruckus the light is causing. Many of the scions of light families have already written to home about him.”
“And I'm to worry because…”
“Because it affects us all! You care about him, right? So…”
There's something off about Blaise's insistence. As he said, Ron isn't blind. He knows that the other boy does not say these things for his wellbeing. Something else is happening and Harry is involved, directly or indirectly, they've somehow managed to wrangle Harry into their shit.
“Look, I'm only going to tell you this once and that's because you're my friend.” Ron purses his lips, hurriedly grasping Blaise's shoulders. He was significantly taller than Blaise, opting him to look down at him as he gently presses Blaise's back against the closest desk. Their eyes are on each other, unable to look away.
“Don't fuck it up.” His words are harsh, borderline cold but he needs Blaise to listen. He needs him to understand as his grip on the other's shoulder tightens ever so slightly.
Ron isn't ignorant. He's not dumb. He's not that blind little boy anymore.
“Hyperion Peverell is a dangerous man. Getting involved with him… or even just pulling him into whatever operation or ideal you and the others have is dangerous…” He doesn't want to speak ill of Harry, never, but again, he's not blind. Ron doesn't ignore how dangerous Harry has become.
“Don't fuck up shit, Blaise. One wrong move and Hyperion Peverell will get you killed.”