The day after the boggart attack, Annabeth has her first lesson with Dumbledore.

Chapter Rating: General Audiences

Content Warning: Cursing

Word Count: 4993

And all the characters are owned by J.K. Rowling, or Rick Riordan.

Annabeth went to visit Nico that morning, bringing him breakfast from the Great Hall. When she got to the infirmary, Nico was just waking up. "Hey, stranger, want something to eat?" she asked.

Nico stretched and rolled his eyes. "What's up with these nicknames? My name is Nico, it's four letters. Not exactly hard."

Annabeth laughed. "I felt lonely. Percy gets to call you 'cuz'--"

"But you're not my cousin."

"--and Will gets to call you 'Neeks.'"

"Yeah, well, I hate it, so don't start calling me that either. Is that bacon?" Nico's eyes fell on the plate. Annabeth put the food on Nico's bedside table, as he grabbed a piece of bacon. She smiled. He looked so carefree and happy, considering what happened yesterday.

He's stronger than most people give him credit for.

Madam Pomfrey came out from her office. She looked around and noticed Annabeth sitting beside her patient. She shook her head, and said, "Nico cannot have visitors, he needs to rest."

Annabeth sighed and picked up her bag, which she'd thrown on the floor next to her. "Sorry, ma'am, I was just bringing him breakfast." She turned to Nico and gave a small smile. "I'll see you later, Nico."

"You used my name! Congratulations!" The sarcasm in Nico's voice made Annabeth laugh.

Her first class that morning was Divination, one of the few classes she had with Percy. Even though she liked being with her boyfriend, she hated that class. Trelawney was nothing like Rachel, and kept telling her she was going to die. The worst part was, she half-believed it, because, after all, she was a demigod on a quest.

On her way to the North tower, she passed Percy, headed in the opposite direction. It didn't take a genius to understand his intentions. "If you're going to visit Nico, turn around. Madam Pomfrey said no visitors."

"I don't give a damn what Madam Pomegranate says, I want to see him." Percy was joking, but Annabeth knew he meant what he said. He wasn't to the point where he'd break into the hospital wing... okay, there was a chance, but it was small. At the very least, he'd be bothering Annabeth about the subject for the rest of the morning. So, she thought it wise to report what she saw. Maybe it would stop his worrying.

"He's in a good mood, at least. I gave him breakfast and he seemed all right. Just focus on classes, he still won't be there by dinner."

Percy huffed. "Fine." He fished around in his pocket and pulled out an envelope. "This came for you. An owl gave it to me, but it has your name on it. Don't worry, I didn't read it."

Annabeth took it from him and opened it, it just had two sentences:

Come at 8pm. You know the password.

- Headmaster Dumbledore

"It's my lesson with Dumbledore!" Annabeth whispered. "It's tonight!"

"You'll have to tell me about it," Percy said at normal volume.

"Then let's get to class, before we're late," she said, and he shot her a look.

"Always the wise girl... fine let's go." With that, the two walked up the stairs.

The day passed in the blink of an eye. Annabeth, so focused on her classes, couldn't think about her coming lesson with Dumbledore. When she and Percy ate lunch and dinner, Nico didn't show. Percy didn't try to hide his disappointment, but at least he wasn't fixated on it. Before she knew it, Annabeth was climbing the steps to Dumbledore's circular office.

"Good evening, Professor," she greeted. "Thank you so much for giving me this lesson."

"Ah, Miss Chase. Sit." The headmaster nodded to her, so Annabeth took the open seat opposite his desk. She folded her hands on the table and looked at him with her grey, curious eyes. She couldn't help it; Athena's curiosity was in her genes. Battle strategies and high-stakes tactics excited her; there was something to having a battle weeks or even months away lost or won by a single tactical decision. The following lessons would mean the difference between the quest's success or failure. From what she knew about Riddle, she theorized he won his wars with wits, not brute force. While her knowledge of him was precious little, everything came back to tactics. His horcruxes, his calculated killings, they all helped to achieve a single, simple goal. The only way to defeat him was to know him, so Annabeth could figure out where those plans came from. But, fear kept them hidden; the only answers remained in the silver-haired man sitting before her. Not for the first time, Annabeth felt awe in how much power simple knowledge had.

Dumbledore allowed Annabeth a few moments with her thoughts. Then, he spoke. "I've told you everything I know about Lord Voldemort and your quest."

"But--" Annabeth started to say, but Dumbledore quieted her with a wave of his hand.

"From this point forth, we shall be leaving the firm foundation of fact and journeying together through the murky marshes of memory, into the thickets of wildest guesswork. From here on in, Miss Chase, I may be as woefully wrong as Humphrey Belcher, who thought the time was ripe for a cheese cauldron."

Annabeth ignored the part about the cheese cauldron. "But, you think you're right?"

"Naturally, I do," Dumbledore replied. "But I make mistakes like the next man. In fact, being--forgive me--rather cleverer than most men, my mistakes tend to be correspondingly huger."

Again, Annabeth sat in thought. Dumbledore made a fair point; these lessons would be a gamble. If his information was wrong, or if her plans didn't work, the quest would suffer. Nico would fail in his duty to his father, people would die. Was she willing to risk hundreds of people's lives on a hunch?

At the same time, if she didn't do this, there would be no contest; she would damn the quest by not knowing her enemy. No, at least if she tried, those people might have a fighting chance. The choice not to act had one outcome: failure. She wasn't about to give up before she'd even begun.

"Miss Chase?" Dumbledore asked. "Are you ready to begin?"

Annabeth nodded. "Let's go."

Dumbledore took a clear bottle from a shelf behind him and pulled the stopper off. Inside was what looked like liquid moonlight, a of sacred liquid made by Artemis. He emptied it into a bowl, a polished silver one with symbols engraved into the sides. Either it was complete gibberish, or a language that Annabeth couldn't read or recognize. She looked into the blue-tinted mist and saw the face of a man swirling there. "Who's that?" she asked.

"Bob Ogden," Dumbledore answered. "A government official who died some time ago. Now put your head in the bowl, Miss Chase. It will allow you to enter the memory."

Annabeth did so. She fell through a darkness as thick and black as Tartarus. Flashbacks from her first trip to the pit bombarded her; she opened her mouth to scream...

The next moment came, her eyes blinking in blinding sunlight. Dumbledore stood beside her, on a narrow country road, shrubs and bushes on either side. The cloudless, blue sky allowed rays of yellow sun to touch the grassy foliage around her. In the sparkling light, Annabeth thought she saw a little of Camp Half-Blood in this English valley.

The homeliness she felt ended the moment she noticed the other man. He looked on the older side, maybe in his 40's. He stood about as tall as she, though his lanky limbs made him seem a little taller. But, what attracted Annabeth's attention was his attire. He wore a striped bathing suit, one of those top-and-bottom suits that looked a little like a wetsuit. A frock coat ended at his waist, with long tails extending to his ankles. Annabeth couldn't help but laugh at the sight. This man had to be Ogden.

Ogden began to speed-walk down the road, Annabeth matched his pace to follow. "Where are we going?" Annabeth asked Dumbledore, who walked with surprising speed beside her.

In response, Dumbledore pointed ahead to a shack, hidden behind a dark tangle of trees. It resembled a haunted house, the forest of brown leaves blocking out almost all the sunlight. Everything within an acre of the shack looked sick and dying. Annabeth was in shock. How could such a dead-looking place exist half a mile from such a sunny valley?

A man jumped from the thick branches and opened his mouth to speak to Ogden. However, when he did so, nothing came out but hisses. Annabeth widened her eyes in surprise, wondering how that was even possible. It wasn't a whisper, it was a hiss. And as far as she knew, the human larynx wasn't capable of making that noise on its own.

Ogden tried to speak to the hissing man, with no luck. Despite Ogden's attempts at conversation, he wouldn't stop the hissing noise. The way Ogden reacted to the hissing, this phenomenon didn't seem unheard of.

Annabeth turned to Dumbledore for answers. "Why is that man hissing?"

Dumbledore kept his eyes glued on the two men. "The man is speaking Parseltongue. This is a magical language, allowing certain wizards to communicate with snakes."

"But-- that's not possible! Snakes don't have a language! And why would that man talk in a snake language if he knows Ogden can't understand him?"

Dumbledore put a finger to his lips, silencing Annabeth, who focused back on the memory. Ogden and the other man were inside the house now, as filthy and disgusting as the its grounds. A layer of dirt settled on every surface, at least an inch thick. A grimy rocking chair in one corner of the room served as some kind of sitting area, though it was the only chair she saw. Two doors, one on either side of the main room, were so covered in grime they looked a dull brown color. A kitchen area, complete with a small, black stove and crumbling clay pots, fell between the doors. The whole shack reminded Annabeth of some kind of cave dwelling. She would know, after all; she'd lived in a few with Luke and Thalia before she'd arrived at Camp Half-Blood.

When she raked her eyes over the kitchen again, Annabeth noticed a young woman. She looked a little older than Annabeth, maybe nineteen or twenty. Her clothes, skin, and hair were as filthy as the room she stood in, so much so she blended in with the wall behind her. Annabeth couldn't blame herself for not noticing the girl before.

"Who is she?" Annabeth asked. She directed her question at Dumbledore, though she didn't bother to turn her head. She didn't expect an answer to her question, but she couldn't help asking it. She was Athena's daughter, after all. She had a natural curiosity, stronger than most.

Annabeth didn't have to wait long for her answer. Another new face, this time an older man, entered from one of the inside doors. He gave Ogden a disgusted look before gesturing to the girl. "M'daugher, Merope." Ogden greeted her, but she didn't respond. Instead, Merope gave her father a terrified look, then went back to tending to her pot on the stove.

After letting his surprise cross his face for a moment, Ogden turned back to the older man. The ministry official gave himself an extra second to fix his posture, giving him a more authoritarian air, then spoke. "Well, Mr. Gaunt, to get straight to the point, we have reason to believe that your son, Morfin, performed magic in front of a muggle late last night."

The pot, once clutched in Merope's hand, fell to the ground and shattered. The sudden noise got Ogden and Mr. Gaunt's attention, as well as Annabeth's own. Before Annabeth could process Merope's strong reaction, all hell broke loose.

"Pick it up!" Mr. Gaunt screamed at her. Merope bent down, grabbing at the shards of the shattered clay pot the best she could under the pressure. Her hands shook, her skin paled, her eyes widened with fear... "That's it, grub on the floor like some filthy Muggle, what's your wand for, you useless sack of muck?"

"Mr. Gaunt, please!" Ogden shouted.

Merope, who'd finally gathered the shattered pot, blushed from embarrassment and dropped it again. She drew her wand, hands shaking, and whispered a quiet spell. To Annabeth, it looked more like she was praying for a miracle.

She seemed to have a half-blood's luck, because the remains shot across the floor, hit the wall in front of her, and broke even more. Morfin, who'd been watching the scene from the rocking chair, burst into cruel laughter.

"Mend it!" Gaunt screamed. "You pointless lump! Mend it!"

"Why can't she perform magic?!" Annabeth cried. This man was doing exactly what her own father and step-family had done to her years ago. She could sympathize with how Merope was feeling, even if she never acted quite this helpless as a child. She knew different people responded to situations in different ways, but no one deserved to feel like an outsider.

Dumbledore didn't answer Annabeth, instead pointing back to the horrible scene unfolding before them. Merope ran to the pot, but Ogden finally decided to attempt to calm things. He reached the shards first, mending it with a flick of his wand.

Things continued to progress in that nature. Mr. Gaunt would scream like a lunatic about this and that. Ogden would attempt to summon Morfin to the court hearing. Morfin would watch the two duke it out like it was some sport. And Merope, exhausted from the pot ordeal, looked like she was trying to hide in the small kitchen. Dumbledore offered no wisdom. As Annabeth bombarded him with questions, he would only silence her and nod back to the memory.

Mr. Gaunt's rising temper only got more and more volatile. His manic screams increased in minutes, as he realized what little effect they had on Ogden. To supplement them, he started waving a ring he wore on his finger in Ogden's face. It was an ugly thing, a gold band with a large, diamond-shaped black stone on top. Annabeth cringed, but Mr. Gaunt seemed impressed enough with it, if his words were any sign.

"See this? See this? Know what it is? Know where it came from? Centuries it's been in our family, that's how far back we go, and pure-blood all the way! Know how much I've been offered for this, with the Peverell coat of arms engraved on the stone?"

"I've really no idea," Ogden answered, "And it's quite beside the point. Your son has committed--"

Gaunt let lose a manic roar again, this time lunging for his daughter. His fingers clutched the a heavy, gold locket she wore around her neck. Pulling her by the charm, he marched back to Ogden with an angered passion. Pulled by the chain of a necklace she couldn't remove, Merope struggled and gasped for air. "He's going to kill her!" Annabeth screamed. She felt an overwhelming urge to save her, but there was nothing she could do. She couldn't touch Merope or any of her captors.

"See this?" Mr. Gaunt screamed at Ogden, waving the locket while Merope gasped for breath.

"I see it, I see it!" Ogden assured him, his eyes glued to Merope.

"Slytherin's! Salazar Slytherin's! We're his last living descendants, what do you say to that, eh?"

"Mr. Gaunt, your daughter!" Ogden yelled in alarm, but Mr. Gaunt had already let go of the locket. Merope stumbled away from her father, massaging her neck and gasping. Mr. Gaunt's screams filled the room, but Annabeth was no longer listening. Her gaze held on Merope, watching as she walked back to her stove and resumed her place by the room's only window. She knew this had all happened years and years ago, but Annabeth wanted to help this girl so much. She was helpless, alone, suffering... It reminded Annabeth so much of herself before she'd run away...

Her thoughts stopped at the sound of horses and laughing from the window by Merope. Eyes still on her face, Annabeth could see it had gone completely white. The moment dragged on for years before voices wafted in from outside the window. All Annabeth could register was Merope's face, like something horrible was about to happen.

"My God, what an eyesore! Couldn't your father have that hovel cleared away, Tom?" It was a woman's voice, she sounded young, around Merope's age.

"It's not ours," a man, Tom, no doubt, replied. "Everything on the other side of the valley belongs to us, but that cottage belongs to an old tramp called Gaunt, and his children. The son's quite mad, you should hear some of the stories they tell in the village--"

The girl laughed, the clomping sound of horses grew louder and louder. Morfin stood from his chair, but Mr. Gaunt hissed at him, and he sat back down again. Merope's face was still in a state of shock, white as a cloud. Annabeth dreaded the moment this quiet spell broke. She didn't know what Mr. Gaunt would do, but she could guess. Between his temper, Merope's obvious fear, and the tension, set heavy in the air, she was sure it would be bad. Really bad.

"Tom," the girl's voice rang again, "I might be wrong--but has somebody nailed a snake to the door?"

"Good lord, you're right!" Tom exclaimed. "That'll be the son, I told you he's not right in the head. Don't look at it Cecilia, darling."

One second passed. Two. Three. Then, Morfin started to hiss, his cruel gaze focused on Merope. Gaunt then hissed, his voice a whisper, eyes devouring Merope. Annabeth didn't have to know what he was saying. She'd felt this kind of situation often enough. This was the calm before a battle.

Right on cue, Gaunt scream-hissed, his hands closing around his daughter's neck. Annabeth gasped in horror, reaching out, trying to help, but to no avail. Ogden fought back, throwing Mr. Gaunt across the room with magic. Once Mr. Gaunt fell unconscious, Ogden ran for his life. Morfin rose from his chair, revealed a bloody knife, and took off down the road after him.

"That'll do, Miss Chase," Dumbledore said.

Annabeth felt unable to tear herself away from the scene. "But-- Merope-- and Ogden-- and-- "

Dumbledore grabbed Annabeth's elbow and pulled her away. She fell through blackness again, but, this time, she didn't feel like screaming. Her concern for Merope weakened her; she couldn't do anything but wait for the office to come back into view. The second her feet touched solid ground, she whipped her head to focus on Dumbledore's face.

"Merope. What happened to her?"

Dumbledore sat down behind his desk before answering Annabeth's question. "Oh, she survived. Ogden apparated back to the Ministry and returned with reinforcements within fifteen minutes. Morfin and his father attempted to fight, but both were overpowered, removed from the cottage, and subsequently convicted by the Wizengamot. Morfin, who already had a record of Muggle attacks, was sentenced to three years in Azkaban--a wizarding prison. Marvolo, who had injured several Ministry employees in addition to Ogden, received six months."