"You know better, babe, you know better, babe
Than to look at it, look at it like that
You know better, babe, you know better, babe
Than to talk to it, talk to it like that
Don't give it a hand, offer it a soul
Honey, make this easy"

---

Song: It Will Come Back, Hozier

---

XLVIII - Flight of Death

---

Hazel watched Tom Marvello Riddle with thinly veiled curiosity. There was nothing she had to fear of Riddle, no matter how much bravado and haughtiness he carried. While he was a powerful wizard, whose will any one of less standing would bow to. But she was not of lesser standing.

Tom was a product of the blessing of Hecate, yes—all wizards were. But the blessing was so diluted that even Celestial Bronze found nothing godly in wizards. Yet, Hazel Levesque was Hecate's champion, her first-ever chosen hero. But this man was foolish and didn't know that, so she was disregarded. Hazel took a deep breath and called the mist.

Instead, Riddle's eyes found the downtrodden son of the sea, supported by his lover. He was not looking at him, but rather gasping for his breath, overexerted from the battle. Hazel could see the blood dripping from his temple.

"I've heard many great things about you, Perseus Jackson. All of you, in fact, have tales that have reached my ears. But you, the destroyer, interest me." Tom stepped a bit closer.

Slowly, Percy raised his head, tilting it to the side as he slowly regarded the man. His eyes found Hazel, moving so she stood behind Riddle, and Nico, who was slowly and steadily gathering the shadows of his room. Nico nodded towards Hazel, shaking his head. Percy coughed. The room held its breath as he spoke.

"You set your eye on the wrong person."

Riddle frowned. "Who should I look at, boy? The huntress? The mechanic? The ex-praetor? There is no one!" He cried, "No one, here who could pose a threat like you."

Percy smiled, his white teeth stained red, "There is."

"Who?" Riddle hissed.

Percy gave another smile, crooked and red. "The Ghost King."

---

XLIX - The Ghost King

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"The Ghost King," Riddle tried, the words sounding strange on his tongue. He opened his mouth but Nico spoke, from behind him, causing him to turn.

"Yes," He said. "I am the Ghost King, and my blade is the blade that renders every man mortal. Her name is Thnisimótita, and while she will not be your final foil, she very well may be your cripple." He drew his blade, and the death and destruction that radiated from her caused the man to step back.

Nico glanced at his dear sister and the white mist that was gathering around her in thick swirls. She opened her eyes and met his, nodding. Nico grinned and darted forward.

Nico was fast but Voldemort managed to dodge out of the worst bite of Thnisimótita. If this had not happened, it would have landed between two of Riddle's lower Ribs, but instead, it pierced his upper arm.

The man grunted, and Nico's blade was brought to his defence as he fired a curse. Nico laughed as he saw the green flash. "The killing curse?" He crooned. "You try to kill the son of the dead with the spell of death."

Nico's eyes met his. "You aim high. Too high."

Nico did not introduce his sister, she was more capable of that. Riddle got her first statement when the mist wrapped around his feet like chains and forced him to turn to her. "What—" The man said.

"Voldemort." She said. "Vol de la mort. Flight of death. Tom Marvello Riddle." Her dark eyes flew open.

"I am the freer of death."

---

L - The Freer of Death

---

The man stumbled as the mist and jewels flew around him like a torrent of anger. She was calm and reserved as she watched the man, the faces of his followers pale as they watched her assault. No one dared to try and stop her.

Hazel warped and contorted the mist, letting the darkest pits of her mind create her images. No smile had ever come on her face at the terror of man, but Voldemort's face almost made one crack.

His face contorted in anger as she pummeled him with jewels and mist, warping the world around them. "You can do nothing to me," he hissed, trying to regain some semblance of control while everyone looked on.

Hazel tilted her head, and slowly a mocking smile spread on her face. "Oh?" was all she said.

The jewels flew fast and hard, digging into his pale skin. He howled in pain. Hazel continued the torrent, eyes finding her companions. Raking over Percy's bruised and bloodied form.

More, she told the ground.

The pale and gaunt form of Mr. Venterence, held up by Remus Lupin, and Sirius Black, his daughter behind him, sobbing.

More.

And finally, the murder and pain written plainly on Reyna's face as Thalia held her back.

More, more, more.

The gems whirled and cut and broke skin, and Hazel felt something rise in her. Satisfaction. This felt good. And she didn't regret that. But suddenly the man yelled, "Bellatrix, to me!"

A dishevelled woman suddenly appeared, and Hazel had her move her mist to form a shield as she had spell after spell thrown at her. A low grunt escaped between her teeth, the warping of the mist, of reality, weakening her. A spell came through and she was thrown back.

The doors to the hall were thrown open and Hazel caught a glimpse of Dumbledore before the onslaught of spells left her, and she managed to crawl away, out of their reach. Her head spun and she heard crashes and shouts, and a truly evil voice. Someone, she didn't know or care who, offered a hand, which she gratefully took.

She only saw the great battle between Dumbledore and Voldemort as it came to a close. Voldemort fled, taking his most loyal and still standing followers with him. Hazel was not sad to see him go, knowing he was hurt by the blade of mortality and that her bite was excruciating.

But just as he left, the Minister of Magic, followed by stunned and shaken wizards had arrived. He walked forwards, lip quivering as he stepped over the fallen and broken bodies on the floor. Dumbledore ignored the man's blubbering as he helped a strangely pale Harry up, who was quickly guided away.

"What is the meaning of this?" The minister cried. "What happened?"

Dumbledore stepped forward and spoke, bringing sudden attention to himself. "If you go to The Department of Mysteries, you will find several Death Eaters, even more than there are here, who are ready for your trial."

"Dumbledore!" The man cried, "Your here-I—" He looked wildly around. "Seize him!"

Dumbledore spoke then with a deep and powerful voice, "You have seen what I said was true all along! You know I am not a liar, yet you still refuse to accept it."

Fudge opened his mouth to speak but was cut off when a blade landed inches from his feet, red blood already drying on it. He stared, and all turned when a voice spoke.

"You son of a bitch," Annabeth Chase hissed, stepping forward.