At first glance, Percy Jackson is the son of Poseidon, the Hero of Olympus, survivor of Tartarus, the defeater of Monsters; but deep within his roots stems magic that reaches into another world: the world of wizards and witches and dark lords and on...
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A smooth month and a half flew by after the wedding. Percy was quite surprised, really. It felt like forever since he went this long without being chased down by a monster, given a prophecy or nearly killed by a dark wizard. It was a nice taste of peace to be sure. He and Annabeth, now married —he still couldn't believe that!— were slowly revamping the house.
Then, simultaneously, they groaned. The paint bucket clattered from Annabeth's hands and splattered on the carpet. Percy dropped the cardboard box he was holding, allowing the contents (toys and objects from his first bedroom) to spill out. They gripped their forearms where the Dark Mark burnt and looked at each other.
They had never been summoned before.
~•~
Upon arriving, they noticed that Malfoy Manor seemed even more dreary than before. The gardens had begun to wilt and the house seemed ever gloomier, as though it could sense the darkness its walls held. Percy was silently thankful that Draco wasn't there to see it. In the back of his mind, he wondered what would happen to the boy in the summer.
They had apparated, seeing as they had blocked off their fireplace completely for safety purposes, and were entering through the front gate. Their hands were interlocked tightly and their wedding bands glowed dimly as the sun set behind the surrounding forestry, plummeting the area into darkness.
Inside the house seemed even darker. Not only did it literally feel like a winter snow storm but the atmosphere was just as icy. Dark magic consumed the place now; Percy could feel the radiation of the magic in the air, vibrating against his skin in warning. Every human bone in his body told him to turn tail and run— but he couldn't do that now could he? That would be the end of their plans. Dumbledore would have his head — not that Percy cared for the opinion of that old coot.
Quickly, Percy blocked out those thoughts. If Voldemort read his mind and found out about their plot, there would be no use in running anyway.
They hadn't even reached the living room before a cackle echoed through the house. They stopped short, tensing. Two figures emerged from the door to the kitchens: one, Narcissa Malfoy, her hands clasped neatly at her sides and her head held high with arrogant dignity. The other was a far less welcomed sight. Percy recognized her instantly from the newspapers: Bellatrix Lestrange.
"Well, well," she coed. "About time."
"And you are?" Annabeth asked, feigning ignorance.
It seemed that Bellatrix knew that. She smirked, "I should be asking you that question. What does a Potter and his no-named little wife want from becoming servants of the Dark Lord?"
