The moment Thalia received her pendant, she became a different person.
Not that she had ever been shy, but now her restlessness doubled. She couldn't sit still. She paced the mansion halls, practiced footwork in the kitchen, and hounded Harry with the same question nearly every hour:
"When are we going to hunt something?"
At first, Harry pretended to ignore it. But the truth was, he understood. He could see the way she looked at the locket resting against her collarbone—like it was a promise waiting to be fulfilled.
And she was right. If she ever had to draw that blade in real danger, it couldn't be the first time she tested its limits.
So, one evening, as the sun slipped behind the trees, Harry found her on the back steps, legs bouncing, arms crossed tight.
"You win," he said, sounding resigned.
Her head shot up. "Really?"
"Really," he sighed. "We're going monster hunting."
She nearly whooped out loud, but caught herself and settled for a massive grin.
Callie, who had been reading nearby, slammed her book shut. "I'm coming too."
Harry held up a hand. "Not this time."
Her mouth fell open. "What? Why not?"
"Because," he said calmly, "I need to know exactly what Thalia's weapon does. And I don't want you anywhere near it until I do."
Callie scowled. "That is so unfair."
"You'll have your turn," Harry promised. "I'm not about to hand out magical lightsabers to demigods and not make sure they're ready."
Hermione poked her head out the back door, her expression suspicious. "Did I just hear you say you're taking her to hunt monsters tonight?"
"You did," Harry said, resigned.
"At night?" Hermione repeated, incredulous. "In the dark?"
"Yes," Harry said patiently. "Because monsters don't only attack at noon on sunny days. She needs to learn to feel them—sense them—before she sees them."
Thalia looked ready to burst with excitement.
Hermione folded her arms. "Where, exactly, are you planning to do this?"
"The Alps," Harry said.
Hermione blinked. "The Swiss Alps? Are you serious?"
"There are Manticores there," he said matter-of-factly. "And they're more predictable than Chimera."
Callie leaned back in her chair, looking mutinous. "I hope you get eaten."
Thalia clapped her hands together. "When do we leave?"
Harry sighed. "Now."
Teddy, who had been sitting on the floor playing with a stuffed hippogriff, looked up at them, lip trembling. "Go?"
Harry crouched down and kissed the top of his godson's head. "Just for a little while, champ. I'll be back before breakfast."
Teddy's hair darkened with sadness, and Hermione came over to scoop him up. "We'll stay here and play until Harry comes home," she said gently.
"Promise?" Teddy sniffled.
"Promise," Harry said, pressing a hand to his small shoulder.
Ten minutes later, Harry and Thalia stood hand in hand in the dark, cold hush of the Alps.
Snow crusted the jagged rocks. The moon lit everything in a soft silver glow. The air was so cold it bit through their clothes and settled in their lungs like frost.
Thalia inhaled deeply. "Gods," she whispered. "It's beautiful."
Harry glanced around warily. "And full of things that will eat you alive if you're not careful."
"That's why I have this," she said, tapping her locket.
"Only if you're prepared," he reminded her. "This is a test. Tonight, you're going to track, fight, and kill at least one Manticore. And you're going to do it without me helping you."
She swallowed, but her chin lifted. "Alright."
"I'll be nearby," Harry added. "If something goes wrong, I'll step in. But if you're going to survive in the field, you can't rely on me to save you."
Her breath frosted the air. "I understand."
Harry took out his wand and gestured to the snow-dusted rocks. A shimmering blue line of runes appeared, like footprints in the air, leading toward a low ridge.
"That's where I sensed the Manticores," he said. "Follow the markers. Once you see the first one, the trail will end."
"And then?" she asked.
He looked her straight in the eyes. "Then you hunt."
For a moment, she hesitated. The moonlight made her look much younger—just a girl, small and thin and far from home.
But she closed her fingers around the locket at her throat. When she looked back at him, her blue eyes were fierce.
"I'm ready," she said.
"Then go," he whispered.
Thalia drew in a breath and began to follow the rune trail into the snow.
Harry watched her silhouette until it vanished behind the rocks. He let out a slow, steadying breath.
Please, Zeus, he thought silently, watch over her.
The night stretched on.
Thalia moved like a shadow over the snow, senses straining. For long minutes, there was only the hiss of wind and the crunch of her boots.
Then she felt it—a ripple of wrongness in the air, a tingling across her skin.
She turned slowly—and saw a shape emerge from behind a boulder.
The Manticore was bigger than she'd imagined. Its lion's body moved with silent predatory grace, the scorpion tail arching high over its back. Eyes glowed green in the moonlight.
Her heart hammered, but she forced herself to stay still. This is why I'm here, she reminded herself. This is what I asked for.
Slowly, she reached up and tugged the pendant free from its chain. It rested in her palm, humming faintly.
"Please work," she breathed.
She pulled the miniature hilt free.
Lightning leapt from her skin into the runes. The blade ignited with a resonant crackle of power, a pillar of blue-white energy that lit the snow like dawn.
As Thalia's silhouette disappeared into the jagged dark of the ridgeline, Harry stood still for a moment, listening.
Only the wind answered him, hissing across the snow like a living thing.
He could feel her moving—just a flicker at the edge of his awareness, a ripple of focused, determined energy.
She's going to be fine, he told himself. You trained her for this.
Still, it didn't sit easily.
Harry turned and surveyed the wide clearing where they'd landed. No tracks except his boots and Thalia's smaller prints winding away across the slope. This was as good a place as any to make camp.
He reached into the small satchel slung over his shoulder and fished out the matchbox-sized object he'd bought in Doce Encanto.
He still remembered the look on Hermione's face when she'd seen it for the first time.
"You paid how much for a tent?" she'd demanded, appalled.
But Harry had only shrugged. "It was worth it."
He crouched and set the little rectangle on the snow. When he pressed his palm to the top and tapped it three times, a shiver of magic rippled outward in a quiet whoosh. The matchbox unfolded itself, seams splitting into expanding canvas panels.
In seconds, a sleek, modern-looking two-person tent stood where the matchbox had been.
It looked exactly like a high-end muggle hiking tent—charcoal grey with bright red trim and discreet rain flaps. Not a single crooked medieval pole or faded patchwork panel in sight.
Finally, Harry thought wryly, a tent that won't make me look like I time-traveled.
He stepped inside.
Warmth met him instantly, along with the faint smell of cedar and something spicy, like fresh tea.
The interior space stretched impossibly large. An entire studio flat tucked into a footprint no bigger than a twin bed: a little living area with a squashy sofa, a kitchenette with glowing blue cooking runes, and a narrow sleeping alcove curtained off at the far side.
He set his wand on the small coffee table and pulled off his thick winter cloak.
A soft globe of magical light floated to life over his shoulder, illuminating the space with a gentle golden glow. He exhaled and felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders.
This place…this strange, quiet haven…it felt like the exact opposite of every night he'd spent on the run from Voldemort. No fear. No urgency. Just waiting for someone he trusted to come back safely.
He liked that feeling more than he cared to admit.
He moved to the low bookcase tucked under the window and pulled out a slim, dark volume bound in dragonhide. The embossed title glimmered under his fingertips:
Applications of Blood Magic.
It wasn't a subject most British wizards liked to touch. Even Dumbledore, with all his endless tolerance, had given him a look of grave disapproval when Harry first mentioned studying it.
But after all he'd seen—after all he'd survived—Harry no longer believed in keeping any knowledge at arm's length.
If there was a way to keep the people he loved safe, he'd learn it, no matter what it was called.
He settled onto the sofa, propped the book on his knee, and began to read.
Chapter 3: Binding Blood and Warding Flesh.
Outside the tent, the wind gusted against the canvas in soft, rhythmic pulses.
Every so often, he paused and closed his eyes, reaching out with the subtle awareness he'd developed in the last year.
Yes—there. A flicker of Thalia's presence, a bright spark of determination moving steadily across the darkness.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and returned to his reading.
Hours slipped by like that.
Occasionally, he stood, stretched, and poured himself tea from the little rune-heated kettle in the kitchenette.
More than once, he thought of the old tents they'd camped in during the Horcrux hunt—patchwork fabric flapping in freezing wind, Ron's snores echoing through the cramped sleeping quarters, Hermione huddled under layers of blankets with books balanced on her knees.
This tent was nothing like those.
This was his, and every inch of it was proof that he'd built a life for himself—one not dictated by prophecy, or war, or anyone else's expectations.
Thalia's breath came in slow, controlled puffs as she advanced across the slope, her boots crunching over the crusted drifts.
In her hand, the lightning blade glowed in a constant, seething hum. The power was astonishing—like holding a living storm. She felt it thrumming along her bones, sparking over her skin.
Ahead of her, the Manticore waited.
Its scorpion tail arched high, the venomous barb twitching. Huge paws dug into the snow. Its reptilian eyes glowed like coals in the dark.
Thalia braced her feet, shifting her weight low, just like Harry had taught her.
Don't hesitate. If you hesitate, you die.
She exhaled, then stepped forward.
The Manticore lunged, tail whipping down in a blur.
She sidestepped in one smooth motion, swinging the blade upward. The hiss of severed air was drowned by the Manticore's screech as the blade sheared clean through its tail, cauterizing the wound in a spray of sizzling blue sparks.
The stump thumped into the snow behind her. The Manticore's roar shook her bones.
You can do this, she told herself fiercely. You are the daughter of Zeus.
It lunged again, jaws wide, but this time she didn't back away. She darted in low under the snapping maw and drove the humming blade straight through its chest. The smell of scorched flesh filled her nose as the creature convulsed and fell in a smoking heap.
For a moment, she just stood there, chest heaving, lightning still crackling in her grip.
She turned—and froze.
Two more Manticores stood a dozen paces away, massive shoulders hunched, tails coiling lazily in the moonlight. Their eyes fixed on her.
"Perfect," she muttered under her breath.
When they began to prowl toward her, spreading apart to flank, she knew she couldn't take them together. She turned and ran.
Snow exploded under her boots as she vaulted a low drift. She heard them behind her—massive paws thudding, claws scraping across ice.
She didn't look back.
Her heart hammered in her throat as she sprinted downhill, weaving between frost-glazed boulders.
Separate them, she thought, forcing herself to breathe evenly. Make them split.
She leapt a fallen pine trunk, skidded around a rocky outcrop—and when she looked back, her plan had worked. The nearest Manticore was almost on her heels, but the other had lost ground, forced to circle the rocks.
Good.
She spun on the spot, lightning blade raised, and met the creature head-on.
It didn't hesitate—roaring, it lunged straight for her. She swung with all her strength.
For a split second, she felt the blade strain against the containment runes, the lightning flaring brighter—lengthening the reach.
Then it cleaved through the Manticore in a single sweeping arc, cutting from neck to haunch. The two halves crashed lifeless into the snow.
Her whole body was trembling as she lowered the blade, breathing ragged.
Two down.
She glanced over her shoulder. The last one had vanished behind the pines.
Her pulse thundered in her ears, but she forced herself to focus. She wouldn't return to Harry with only part of the job done.
Not when she could feel the power in her hands—something that felt, for the first time, like it belonged to her.
Slowly, she began to track.
Her blade's glow lit the darkness around her in pulsing arcs. Each footstep left a print in the snow. Each broken branch or scrape of claws stood out in sharp relief.
Ahead, she caught movement—a flicker of a massive tail curling around a boulder.
She tightened her grip on the hilt, the lightning thrumming with her heartbeat.
This is what Chiron and Harry trained you for, she thought. This is what you asked Harry for.
With a deep breath, she stepped into the clearing.
The last Manticore turned to face her, hissing low, venom dripping from its fangs.
She didn't wait for it to charge.
She raised the blade over her shoulder and sprinted the final yards, her boots barely skimming the snow. When it reared up to strike, she thrust forward, burying the lightning into its throat. The smell of burnt fur and scorched blood filled the cold air. The beast gave a strangled screech and collapsed, limbs twitching as the blue glow faded from its wounds.
Then everything went still.
Thalia stood there, panting, her arm trembling from the effort.
Slowly, she lowered the weapon. She pressed the lightsaber's release rune, and the blade vanished with a soft pop, shrinking back into its pendant form.
Silence settled over the slope.
The adrenaline began to ebb, leaving only a strange, buoyant relief—and something close to awe.
She looked down at the locket resting in her palm. In that moment, she understood why Harry had called it a gift more dangerous than any weapon. It was power—pure, raw, hers to command or abuse.
I have to be worthy of it, she thought. Of him trusting me with it.
The stars overhead felt impossibly bright and close. She sank down onto a wide stone outcrop, propping her elbows on her knees.
The cold didn't bother her. Neither did the silence.
In the hush before dawn, she let herself think about her mother—about her father—about all the pieces of her life that had led her here.
Maybe, she thought, closing her eyes, this is who I was always meant to be.
And when the first pale light touched the peaks, Thalia Grace stood up, turned toward where she knew Harry waited, and began the slow walk back.