Chapter Text
Outrun The Night: Chapter One
Over the past five years, tensions in the Wizarding World had reached a fever pitch. It had started with skirmishes between the Order of the Phoenix and the Death Eaters, and had ended with riots in the streets. Both for Muggle Rights, and then later the Pureblood Riots in retaliation. Throughout the upheaval, the Athertons had perched precariously between the two camps. Struggling for neutrality in a time that demanded action. Still, for the sake of their children and avoiding being drawn into open war, they had tried.
Now, in 1974, their second son Percival is starting his first year at Hogwarts.
~*~
Trunk, robes, wand, holster, Faust and his cage- the sudden weight of of a hand on his shoulder makes him whirl, and Percival flinches when he realizes it's only his mother.
“Now, have you forgotten anything?” His mother’s voice grates on him, shocking him out of his repetitive litany even though she’s trying to be kind. The Pureblood witch has sent one son to Hogwarts already, but Percival is her pride and joy. Where Bracken is brash and self-serving, Percy has learned to think before speaking, and to follow custom wherever he can. “Don’t forget, there’s always the mail owls, darling, and you shouldn’t hesitate to write us-” Percival’s grey eyes flashed in the early morning light as he looked up at his mother, sparing one quick glance for the porters collecting baggage and stowing it on the train. All he requires are his robes, packed carefully in an Expanded bag, shrunk down to fit in his pocket; along with a few galleons for treats on the train.
“I’m sure if I’d forgotten something mother, we would have discovered it the first seven times we repacked the trunk.” He was solemn for a boy of ten, but his older brother was leaning over to ruffle his already untidy brown hair, made more so by shoving his hands through it in consternation every time his mother stopped him from passing the platform to board the train. He was already eleven for goodness sake! He ducked the large hand and tugged his robes straight, sending one flat glare in Bracken’s direction.
“IF I need anything, mother, I’ll write at once.” The tall, willowy witch nodded briefly. Of course her son was capable. Megaera ran a careful hand through her son’s hair and nodded, drawing herself up to her full height of 5’5” and nodded firmly.
“As it should be. Bracken, take care of your younger brother. And, this year, do try not to set anything on fire, hm?” Percival watched his mother turn and move gracefully through the crowd of parents sending their children off to the new school year. Her autumnal wine-colored robes swirling around her; the perfect shade and shape for the beginning of Fall. The consummate Pureblood witch.
Bracken leaned heavily on his younger brother’s shoulder until Percival shrugged him off irritably.
“You know this means you have to do what I say,” he gloated, his dark hair and eyes a match for their father. Percival’s steel colored eyes only narrowed.
“And you know very well that I will be the one upholding the family name while you goof off, Bracken,” he snorted, and strode in the direction of the train, trying and failing to smooth the mess that was his hair.
~*~
For as long as he could remember, Percival Atherton had known who and what he was. A Pureblood, the son of Purebloods, and the second son of a powerful and noble family. He had been raised within the welcoming open arms of the Wizarding World, and, even when that world lay on the brink of disaster, his parents had shielded him from the firestorm. Voldemort’s meteoric rise to power and the hells that had broken loose after; both personally and politically; had left the Pureblood world in shambles. And yet, as he followed the other first years onto the train to Hogwarts, he somehow knew that his world was about to change all over again.
~*~
Aren Wolff tugged uncomfortably at the collar of his school robe as they approached Hogwarts. His mother had overridden his muggle father’s desire to see him attend Durmstrang; a strong sounding school! A very european, continental school!; and had, instead, demanded he be allowed to attend Hogwarts. After all, she had declared, Newton Scamander attended Hogwarts, and his research paved the way for new laws concerning Beasts and Creatures, and allsorts. And as Granian breeders, well. His work had directly impacted their family’s livelihood back in the 20s and 30s, and it was no different now. And what with the unrest on the Continent in the aftermath of both Muggle and Magical warfare, what better place for their second son than at the very safe, very reputable Hogwarts?
And so Aren had brushed up on his English, read a few books on English culture, and his parents had sent him off by ship to Merry Old England. Now that the castle was coming into view, all his dreams of attending the same Wizarding school as his idol Scamander, he could feel his stomach doing flipflops.
“Well. Cowards never accomplished anything much,” he muttered to himself, and tightened his wand holster where it lay strapped against his forearm and returned to his compartment to await their arrival.
~*~
As the train flew down the track towards Hogwarts, Percival found himself a compartment in the First Years' section. Thankfully, it was empty of other students. He knew that, in recent years, attendance had dropped off. After that muggle war had ravaged the country, there were less families inclined to send their children that far from home, to a boarding school. Many fled the country, fled Europe altogether. Those who hadn't tended to find some reason to retire to family estates and linchpins, taking their children and private tutors with them. He'd wished, for awhile, that his family would do the same. Instead, as time went on, he'd come to understand that Hogwarts was the place to be. Ancestral homes could be invaded, wards shredded to ribbons and the occupants dragged out. Even linchpins; the original Houses of the Sacred 28 and their near relatives whose wards only responded to blood relations and ritually adopted heirs; had their weaknesses. Percival took his bag from his pocket and returned it to its original size. No one would notice him performing magic; he was on a train to school, surrounded by other young witches and wizards. He curled up against the side of the bench, and pulled out one of his books. May as well burn the time spent travelling in research and preparation for classes.
Several hours later a knock sounded on the glass and he looked up, meeting the gaze of an equally young wizard with sandy colored hair and bright eyes.
"Hullo... the other compartments seem to be full, and I'd like a bit of quiet. Would you mind if I join you?" Percival's eyes narrowed as he took in the boy's appearance. Clean and neat robes, well tailored if not of the best materials, and not of any immediately recognizable family. Interesting. He waved him in, returning his gaze to his book. The newcomer clattered around for a few minutes, stowing his bags and setting up across from Percival. He sighed and looked around, before pulling a slightly sticky paper bag marked with a "Bertie Bott's" logo.
Muggleborn or Halfer, he decided. More refined folk shopped elsewhere, where quality and price go hand in hand. Still, if there was nothing else on the train but some trolley, he could allow how most First Years would enjoy the risk and the dubious hilarity of watching others spit out their candy. He sniffed quietly, and turned the page in his book. While he might very well be just another muggleborn, he might also have been yet another refuge from the continent. About fifteen years too late, perhaps... unless his family had come over and never returned. Regardless, he was quite likely not to the standard an Atherton would take for a dear companion. He was slightly mollified, several long moments later, when the boy shifted awkwardly in his seat, and dragged a book of his own from his bags. Well. At least the boy had some understanding of time management!
Not long after, the trolleywitch came by with her cart of treats. Percival bought himself a licorice wand, and a small box of sour fruit pastilles. The boy bought more beans and, to Percival's very great relief, no chocolate frogs. He offered to purchase them cauldron cakes, but Percival declined.
"I don't much like the flavor," he said, peeling the silver foil from his box of pastilles. "But thank you anyone." The boy stuck out a hand, before rubbing it hastily on his trousers and offering it a second time.
"M' name's Adrian. Adrian Macmillan." Percival's world screeched to an unrelenting and horrified halt. Macmillan. One of the Sacred Twenty Eight? And he ate BERTIE BOTT'S BEANS and and... sat like some sprawling ungraceful creature? He swallowed hard, shocked and horrified at the revelation, and took the proffered hand, re-evaluating his earlier judgments.
"Ah... I'm. That is, my name is Percival Atherton, pleased to make your acquaintance." He found his hand gripped in a very friendly sort of shake, and most definitely not the elaborate, structured thing that was a Pureblood greeting of clasped forearms and precise finger placement. He made as if to say something, but Adrian rolled his eyes and lounged back against the seat, pouring more beans into his hand and snorting.
"Oh please, don't. I get enough of all that from my father's friends. Anyway. What are you reading?" Percival turned the cover so Adrian could see, and settled back in for the long afternoon, feeling uncomfortable and yet surprisingly at ease with the situation. Always another opportunity to learn new ways of interacting, he told himself firmly, and prepared to discuss the merits of 14th century wizarding textbooks with the Macmillan heir.
~*~
The castle looked even larger and grander from the edge of the lake. As they piled into boats in the gathering dark, lights sprung up around them and the boats started moving of their own accord towards the opposite shore. Aren tugged again at his collar, cursing the tie, and looked across at his boatmate.
"I'm Aren, and you?" His companion pushed a hand through his hair before responding.
"I am Percival Atherton," there seemed to be some implication that he should recognize the name, but he didn't. Aren cast about for something else to say, to drain the tension. Above them, the Castle was practically glowing with light. He jerked his chin in the direction of the many golden-hued windows.
“Is it like the stories say?” he asked, his accent sneaking through despite his best efforts.
The placid brunette looked up at him, blinking a little owlishly as he put a book back in his bag and tucked it into a pocket of his robe.
“Stories…? What stories?” Aren shrugged, fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt beneath the robe’s black sleeves.
“The stories, you know. About Scamander and the Order, and well. I suppose... Well. The Lor-” Aren found a hand clapped tightly over his mouth and the boat rocked in the inky black water. The Atherton boy had lunged across the seat to slap a hand across his mouth. Before he could work up the indignation to peel it away, he dropped it again.
“Do not say the name,” Percival snapped, “Do not ever say the name. Not if you want to get along here, foreigner.” He removed his hand and grimaced, wiping it on his robe. “No one who’s smart says his name… not even the one he had, before. It’s bad luck, and worse, you might attract the wrong sort of attention.”
Aren watched him slide down on the seat, and stare out across the water towards Hogwarts.
“And believe me…. You don’t want that sort of attention.”