Jack, not Jackson

Chapter 49:The Harvest

Pitch POV:
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Pitch was growing stronger. He had never found such an easy treasure trove of fears and materials for his night mares to feed on before. All it took was a slip of sandy nightmare dust into a wand core and Voilà, a harvest ripe for reaping.

Damaged minds and bruised memories so easily turned into power that if he was capable of it, he would have giggled with delight. As he was not capable of that, he settled for a flash of his pointed teeth.

Of course, none of this would be possible without his secret weapon. He brushed his wide sleeve back just an inch to touch his pulse as he remembered acquiring his secret weapon. His grin widens for a split second before he gives the order for the next night mares to go.

The mares bound off in a way that looks more dust then horse. Pitch thinks as he watches his creations storm off in a flurry of silent screams, eager to do what they were made to do. Corrupt.

There were two things keeping Pitch from advancing on the rest of the Magical community.
One: There was someone holding deeply damaging memories in that building. A massive trove of badly healed scars just ready to be ripped open.

Two: something was keeping him from working as well as he should have been with this new tool. It was casting more powerful spells of protection over the school then Pitch had been aware today's magic could produce.

The rest of the magical community would have to wait. For now, he had found a more interesting enigma to crush.
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3rd POV:
With a narrator
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Jack woke with a start. He had been taking a nap to try and rest from all the sleepless nights watching over students. Before he even moved he was listening for whatever woke him and taking his own pulse. No noise, except his uneven heart rate slowing.
That's odd.

Back when Jack was Percy, he would have groaned, plopped back onto the mattress and stuck his pillow over his head in a silent complaint to all of the cruel world.
This was not Percy.

Jack sat entirely still.
One minute. Two minutes. Five. Ten.
Still Jack sat waiting. Then from above, he heard something. It wasn't even a sound really, just the change of a sound one hears but doesn't register. Like electricity, or a dog whistle.

Jack was on his feet and out the door before a muggle had time to blink.
Something was about to happen.

Again, it wasn't a sound that warned him. It was more like the intake of breath right before someone screams. The silence that screams danger.
And a soldier that agrees.

Jack's feet led the way. He dashed down one hall up two flights of stairs down two more halls and scared the portrait of the fat lady so badly she opened without the passcode, allowing Jack through without ever having to stop.

He leapt into the common room and bounded up the last flight of stairs, finally crashing into Harry's room. Harry was taking a nap for the same reasons as Jack had been. The only difference between Jack and Harry; was that there was no full sized horse in Jack's room.

The students that had been chilling in the common room doing more procrastinating then the actual homework they'd being assigned, had rejoiced at the chance of something not-homework related and followed Jack without a word.

The last time they'd seen him dash off like that, he had died.
They didn't really want him to do that again.

It was because of this silent dash that they witnessed the first battle of this strange new war, of you could all it that.
A horse made of shadows faced a boy made of ice.

Movie perfect scene right?
White versus black, good versus evil. The typical 'Cool Hero Triumphs!' moment.
Which of course, becomes the moment for Jack to realize he did not, in fact, bring his staff.

He was weaponless.
Taking a slow, deep breath and keeping his eyes locked on the mare, Jack summons a sword.

He held his hand out by his knee, turned his wrist as if unscrewing something and a shimmering sword of clear blue white ice formed from the moisture in the air.
Now. This is not a normal sword.

You expect me to say it's been imbedded with magic and could cleave Zeus himself in half.
You would be very wrong.
The thing that made this sword unusual was the fact that it screamed.

No. Not like a girl.
No, not like Octavian either.
This sword whistled. An eerie tune of unearthly sound that haunted the air with each cut, slice, or thrust of the blade.

Finally, with an enemy he could see Jack was ready to fight.
The scene was set.
and the blade was ready to sing.