"Shit!" Nico cursed.

He'd failed to eradicate the soul shard in the gilded cup yet again. He had tried shoving darkness into the damned sentient object but the cup had just lapped it up, expelling baleful cackles instead of wailing screams. He'd tried crushing it beneath tons and tons of accumulated earth and he'd even tried freezing the cup before running it through with his sword but it always returned in perfect condition.

He hurled the offending object at the wall. It landed with a sickening crack but carried naught a scratch upon its surface.

He collapsed against the wall, hands sliding over his face. His head pounded with a vengeance; his stomach screamed for sustenance.

Taking a shaky breath, he tore his face from his hands and glared at the blasted object.

Why the fuck isn't anything working? Surely no form of mortal magic is stronger than the essence of the Underworld . . .

And yet, his shadows failed, his ice left no mark, and his sword left no dent.

And the only thing that did work . . .

He shuddered. The only ability that completely and utterly destroyed these objects would not work on living, breathing people.

Hellfire.

Black, flickering flames manifested in his palm. The simple flame radiated a heat so incomprehensively hot that it was cold, colder than the deepest, darkest pits of Antarctica. It was the chill of the Underworld. It destroyed everything.

No mortal could withstand it. Hell, Nico wasn't entirely sure a god could withstand it.

He closed his eyes and willed his beating heart to slow. After this cup, only two remained. One he could destroy with little worry. The other . . .

Nico inhaled sharply. He flung the hellfire at the cup and reveled in the soul's screams of complete and utter agony.

Justice.

So piercing were the screams that Nico had to shield his ears, or once again risk puncturing his eardrums. The shard didn't even attempt to manipulate him this time. The purification began immediately and without reprieve; unfettered, a single spark of the eternal flame could obliterate a building. Nothing escaped it. Nothing!

As soon as the soul perished, the glistening black flames blinked out of existence, taking the remains of the golden cup with it. Not even the tiniest piece of metal remained. The cup was truly and utterly wiped off the face of the earth.

Blood spurting from glittering, agonized emeralds. Pleas for help that begged only for an end. Flesh melting, bones combusting—

Nico flinched and threw himself onto the ground, desperately clawing at his eyes as if it would delete the image from his mind.

No, no, no, no!

That was not going to happen.

He'd find a way . . .

Harry will live.

(He couldn't kill another innocent person . . .!)

A cold breeze blew into the abandoned shack, wrapping around his body like a blanket of ice. He shivered and slowly stood up, head pounding even more viciously than before.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

At times, silence was his ally but now its monotony reminded him of his tragic, wasted life.

He had never felt so alone. Yes, he had been in shacks in worse conditions than this—abandoned, silent, and lonely.

But then he had a choice.

He didn't have to stay there. He didn't have to refuse company. He . . . He didn't have to close himself off from his world.

There remained a path upon which he could reenter the world of gods and monsters, of friendship and adventure. It existed like the light at the end of the tunnel; all it took to reach it was a couple of steps. But now . . . Now that light was locked behind bars, intensity diminishing every second, turning as black as the tunnel that housed it. No longer could he reach it with a few short movements. Now . . . he couldn't even reach it at all.

He expelled a shaky breath, rubbing his frigid face. It was ten years before the war even began—almost thirteen to the day he'd been whisked away to someone else's world. He couldn't even go back to America and save his sister; he'd fucking tried that, hadn't he? He had nothing left—nothing left to lose. He could die and no one would be the wiser; no one would care. He was a traitor, after all.

Nico traced the flight of dust particles as the wind blew them to and fro, each one like a feather in flight.

He had considered going back to camp once. He had considered showing up at Percy's house on his birthday. He'd even considered visiting Annabeth or Thalia once upon a weekend. But he could never do it.

How could he? They'd never truly been friends in the first place and his idiotic stunt during the Second Titan War pretty much cut off any and all ties. Especially with Annabeth and Thalia. Hell, Percy was his only friend back then, truly. He was the only one Nico would associate with after he'd—forgiven—Percy for breaking his promise.

But then . . .

Nico swallowed. Hard.

Then Kronos tricked him. Then he became a shell of a demigod. Even after he'd switched back to the side of his friends, Nico knew he'd never quite recovered. He'd screwed up everything.

(War changes people.)

He could still remember Percy's expression when he saw Nico entering their base, entering after he had clearly fought on—on—Kronos' side.

Hardened sea-green eyes drilled holes into Nico, mouth curving into a snarl Nico knew Percy only reserved for his enemies. His blood ran cold; his mouth dried.

"What do you want, traitor?"

Nico flinched, slamming his head against the wall. A piercing crack darted atop the air and into Nico's ears. He turned around . . . and winced.

He'd damaged the wall.

Breathing out a sigh, he cupped his face in his hands, breathing out hot air to melt the ice claiming his skin.

Riptide glinting maliciously as it aimed towards him, aimed right at his heart . . .

Nico knew Percy never quite forgot; even after the war, he'd still catch that shadow roaming free within Percy's gaze, that tiny lining of tension.

It seemed Percy was always a soldier around him after the war—always alert, always searching for something that told him Nico's intentions were malicious. At that point, Nico knew he no longer had a friend. No longer had a friend who he could trust completely and wholeheartedly. And so . . . Nico left.

But—but he'd always been comforted by the possibility that he could return, that there was ultimately always an option. Always a backup plan . . .

Nico fingered the broken plaster.

But now . . . that backup plan that didn't exist anymore.

Hours later found Nico studying his map. Only two more dots remained and—he furrowed his eyebrows as the map narrowed in on the location—and both were in the same place.

Nico froze as the location's name appeared.

Hogwarts.

He knew at least one—Harry—would be there but . . . two?

He should be happy. He would be able to knock out two birds with one stone. But . . .

That school was where everyone was, the Order and their children. And it was a school filled with drama, action, and scrutiny. It'd be that much harder to complete a mission undercover. Even if he were to sneak into the school with no one the wiser, surely there would be too much going on for him to complete the mission within a week much less a day. He'd have to focus on hiding himself, searching for that damn soul shard, and finding himself shelter and sustenance.

It was possible, yes, but it was troublesome.

The other option, though—to pose as a student or aid or, hell, even a janitor—was not any better. Frankly, it would have even more restrictions. He'd have an image to keep and tasks to participate in during the day. He may receive food and shelter that way but he'd only be able to work on destroying the soul shard at certain times.

It would be maddening.

He supposed that, however, would work better in the end. After all, he might as well stay until he found out how to destroy the last soul shard. The school's library might even help him with that. It could be an asset. But it could also be a restraint.

He scowled. He really didn't want to face any Order members either, especially since they'd parted on unsavory terms, but if there was one way to show them that he was keeping his end of the deal . . .

He tossed the map back into his pocket dimension, scowling.

It looked like he was going to Hogwarts.

(Some annoying, smartass portion of his mind sang, "We're off to see the Wizard . . . !")

"May I ask what brings you here, Mr. di Angelo?"

The boy in question reclined in the chair across from his desk, legs crossed and propped up on the desk's surface. Albus sat down into his office chair, waiting. Waiting for an answer, a response. But the boy remained silent, submerged in his own world.

His office was oddly quiet, devoid of the whirring and puffing of his silver instruments, devoid of sunlight and even candlelight. Not even the Sorting Hat snored upon his bookcase (though he did hear Armando Dippet's loud, pulsing snore in the background). The room was as still and dreary as a graveyard, a feeling only magnified by the young man's presence. Fawkes eyed him wearily from his perch, appearing even older than his cycle would suggest.

Albus waved his wand and summoned several balls of light. The boy flinched slightly but otherwise made no movement. Fawkes jumped to his shoulder, fiery eyes still trained on the boy. A minute frown made its way onto Albus' wrinkly face.

That was definitely not a good sign. Fawkes, after all, had an aversion to dark magic or, perhaps in the young man's case, dark auras . . .

Still . . .

Albus never would have suspected that Nico di Angelo would come to Hogwarts.

It was certainly a surprise when he awoke to commotion in his office before dawn had even broken across the sky. And it was even more startling when he had seen the object of his musings for the last several months sitting so languidly in his chambers. He knew, somewhere in his subconscious, that the boy was capable of it. He'd seen from Severus' memory the boy's prowess in battle, seen how he had defeated the greatest Dark Lord of all time.

After emerging from the Pensieve, he had shivered. Such power contained within one boy—such awe-inspiring magic. Teleportation—within warded areas!—control over darkness—shadows?—consummate swordsmanship and physical ability, and his sound manipulation of the glass. All without a wand. All without spells. Simply intent and will.

Not even the most powerful wizard could replicate Nico di Angelo's feats from that night. The kind of power he had displayed, in fact, had been . . . godly.

(It was a very humbling experience.)

From the boy's own mouth, Albus knew he was not a wizard. And from Severus' memories, he knew the boy was not a squib. So the question remained—what was Nico di Angelo?

A mystery, to be sure. A powerful, enigmatic mystery.

He was a wildcard in this war and one that Albus had hoped he could cast out of the equation altogether or play in his hand. Tonight, then, was an opportunity.

Five minutes had passed since Albus had asked his question and yet the boy offered no response. But Albus was patient. And so he waited.

Finally, after another five minutes, the boy looked into his gaze. His expression bore confliction but nevertheless, he spoke in a self-assured tone, "We made a deal. I've . . . I've come to fulfill it."

Albus blinked. That was unexpected . . .

However . . .

His eyes gleamed as a realm of possibilities opened itself up to him, the first good news in a legion of bad. It was the good kind of "unexpected," the kind that he could work into his plans and even use to bolster them.

To think he had unknowingly commissioned someone with indescribable power (for he had yet to find the source behind the boy's abilities) to protect the Dark Lord's most desired target . . .

"Of course," Albus responded with his kind, grandfatherly smile, that indulgent and all-knowing smile. To some it was comforting; to others it was arrogant and condescending. He hoped it was the former to the boy. He had no desire to convey any ill-will.

"I must confess," Albus continued, frowning slightly, "that it would have been easier if you had come at the beginning of the year."

Nico narrowed his eyes, "Why?"

Carefully cataloguing the boy's reaction, Albus replied, "The Ministry—our government—has sent in a spy to report on the school's daily activities and to change them as the Ministry sees fit. Your arrival will not pass unnoticed. I fear it will arouse even deeper suspicions within the Minister."

Nico didn't answer immediately; the gravity of the situation settled upon his shoulders.

"Oh," he muttered, scowling. "Wait—what suspicions?"

The twinkle in Albus' eyes died, "The Minister believes that I want to usurp his power and position." He knew, innately, that the boy would be able to sense any lie. He couldn't afford to alienate the young man, not when he possessed such possibilities.

The boy tensed. "Is there any truth to his suspicions?"

"No," Albus sighed forlornly. "Cornelius is simply afraid. Fear, unfortunately, is just as dangerous as any blade or curse. It has distorted his mind and robbed him of his mental faculties." He paused. "I believe that it was one of your American presidents that posited, 'There is nothing to fear but fear itself.'"

(Nico almost flinched; the man had no idea how close to home he'd hit. He forced himself to relax.)

Nico took a deep breath, moving his legs off the desk. "Okay . . . What if I were to pose as some teacher's assistant—like grading or . . . supervision?"

Albus frowned. "The Ministry would surely take notice if I were to give you any kind of authoritative position, especially given your youth. Perhaps if you had been older, your idea would have worked. Our best chance is to enroll you as a transfer student. Even that, however, is risky." And, Albus thought, it entails much forgery and persuasion . . .

Nico grimaced. "That wouldn't work either though. You forget—I'm not a wizard. I can't do magic."

Albus' eyes bore into the boy's dark ones. "Perhaps you are not a wizard, but certainly you can perform a kind of magic."

Nico froze.

His heart stopped, reply dying in his mouth.

How . . . ? How does he know?

He wracked his brains for any instance in which he had used his powers in front of the man. But he remembered none.

Mouth dry, he opened and closed it, body tense and poised to bolt. Albus simply sat patiently, waiting for Nico's response.

"What—what do you mean?" Nico finally breathed.

Albus gave him a warm, knowing smile. "You know what I meant, Mr. di Angelo."

Heart hammering, Nico refused to respond for a few seconds. What was the old man playing at? Did he really know or . . . or was he just baiting him, trying to get information out of him?

Nico's eyes narrowed. That's not gonna happen. Besides . . . he said "magic." If he really knew, then he would have said "powers" or something like that. He doesn't know—he's bluffing!

(He still couldn't remember any instance where he'd hinted at his powers and it was driving him nuts.)

Fucking old men, he cursed. All of them were like this. All expected him to fold. He hid a dark grin. Well not this time, you old sod . . .

He prepared his curveball, "You are more observant than I give you credit for, Mr. Dumbledore. I didn't expect you to deduce that I have a rather active . . . sex life."

It worked.

His bland, solemn delivery baffled the old man. Satisfied, Nico watched the bewilderment circulate on the man's otherwise calm and collected face. First, his eyebrows furrowed, then his mouth opened (and immediately closed), and finally the old man settled upon a half-bemused, half-amused expression, very much reminiscent of Curious George.

"Pardon me, but I must have heard wrong, Mr. di Angelo. Will you repeat that, please?"

Dark eyes locking into the old man's blues, Nico nodded and continued, "You heard me perfectly. Though I do want to know how you found out. Did you ask my sex partners about my . . . magic wand?"

When Dumbledore didn't reply, Nico scowled, "You did, then. I'm gonna kill Jeff . . ."

Cackling in his head, Nico burned the old man's bewildered expression into his memory.

Dumbledore coughed. "Ah yes . . . well, perhaps you are right. We should find another solution."

Nico breathed an inaudible sigh of relief as the old man changed the subject.

I still need to figure out how the hell he found out.

His fists unclenched and dropped off of his armrests.

"You sure I can't just masquerade around as a teaching assistant? Or hell—even a janitor?" he deadpanned. Dumbledore shook his head.

"I'm afraid not. Your appearance would draw undue attention as would your accent. Unless," Dumbledore looked thoughtful, "you would allow me to weave a glamour over you?"

Nico tensed. "No. Definitely not."

Dumbledore frowned. "Mr. di Angelo—"

"No."

He wasn't going to let some wizard mess with his appearance! Who knows what else he might do? Did that man think he was stupid or something? He doesn't even really know him and certainly not enough to trust him.

Hell, he didn't trust anyone.

"I see," muttered the old headmaster. He leaned back into his chair as silence lapsed over them.

"This is quite the conundrum, Mr. di Angelo. We have exhausted all plausible options—"

Dumbledore froze, eyes roving over Nico's black hair and pale features. "Perhaps not," he muttered, "Yes, yes, that might work . . ."

He peered at Nico. "If not a student or an aid, how about you pose as a relative of one of my professors?"

Nico's eyebrows raised to his hairline. "Are you serious?"

If he wasn't going to change Nico's appearance, how was that idea going to work? He didn't even sound like he was from here either. He had an American accent for Zeus' sake!

"How would that work?" he questioned, incredulous. "I don't even have the same accent as you guys."

"That's a simple fix," Dumbledore responded, beaming. "Accents can be faked."

Nico snorted. "Yeah for some people but I can't do a British accent."

The old man's eyes twinkled. "You never know until you try, dear boy."

Twitching, Nico retorted, "I have tried. It didn't work out so well."

The old headmaster's smile slipped. "Perhaps you are being too critical of your abilities."

Nico just stared at him, raising an eyebrow. Sighing, he shifted to a more comfortable position and, donning a British accent (or trying to), said, "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Albus winced. The boy was right. His pronunciation was off by, dare he say it, miles. It sounded like a rooster had devoured both German, American and Irish pronunciations and had spoken them all at once.

And so . . . they were back to square one.

Curious, Nico spoke up, "Who would I have been related to?"

The old man smiled. "Professor Snape. I believe the coloring and . . . demeanor are right."

Nico almost choked as he visualized the walking, talking bat. He scowled.

Wait . . . "Do I have to be a relative from England?"

Dumbledore furrowed his brow, knitting together his hands. "Perhaps not . . . though that story would be harder to sell. Our community is closely knit and secluded mostly within the United Kingdom."

Nico silently cursed. This was getting ridiculous. "Well aren't America and England 'closely knit?' Have no wizards moved to America?"

Albus smiled gently. "None I am aware of, no. The American magical community is not as developed as that in the United Kingdom. Here, witches and wizards have been granted self-government, which we exercise fully. While I do not know if American witches and wizards are granted the same—I would assume so given their style of government—they do not exercise it. Instead of a united government, in America witches and wizards divide into smaller, regional groups. Therefore, most European wizards typically stay local."

Nico listened with interest. He had a feeling why the magical community wasn't as developed . . . Greek mythology had taken its place, hadn't it? Ah, the Mist . . . He'd never come across a wizard back in America, after all, and neither had any of his fellow demigods.

A thought dawned on him. What if these American "witches and wizards" weren't really witches and wizards?

Could these "witches and wizards" in America be Hecate's children? It would explain why the old man thought them regional, autonomous groups . . .

He grimaced. Either way, it meant he couldn't be Snape's relative from America.

Wait . . . what if—?

"What about Italy?" The old man tilted his head. "Italy does have a self-governing ministry, yes, though much less renowned than that of Britain or France. May I ask why?"

Nico smirked. Bingo. "We can say I'm his distant relative from Italy, then."

Dumbledore remained silent, goading him to explain.

"I know how to speak the language. And I could . . . probably fake the accent."

The old man stroked his beard, thinking. Nico began to shift impatiently as the silence stretched into minutes. He wasn't meant to sit still this long.

"Ah," the old man finally muttered, pleased. He smiled at Nico. "I do believe that we have your cover."

"Albus," Minerva called, walking up next to the man in question. "Why have you called a meeting so early? We have classes to prepare for!"

Though she was dressed in her emerald green robes, she did not appear as sharp as usual. Strands of hair fell from her hastily made bun, her blouse was ruffled beneath her robes, and she appeared older in the dim light, wrinkles and crow's feet more obtrusive than usual.

The rest of the staff, with the exception of Severus, fared no better.

Filius' hair stuck up like a duck's rear end and Pomona's robes were on backwards. Albus felt inclined to tell her but decided to spare her the embarrassment. Snape, however, billowed into the room with black, unwrinkled robes, his hair greased back and eyes sharp and grim. His perpetual scowl seemed even deeper in the wee hours of the morning.

"It's six o'clock, Albus! What could possibly be so important?" Pomona asked, exasperated.

Albus smiled at them and asked, "If you will wait only a few more minutes, I will tell you." He shared a meaningful look with Snape, which was missed by the bleary-eyed staff. They eyed him jealously, noticing his unflappability. Albus wondered how they would react if they knew Severus had been up for an hour already.

A few more minutes passed and the last few staff members stumbled in, including Dolores Umbridge. The Heads of Houses were pleased to note that she appeared as ruffled as they, if not more. She wore yet another ridiculously pink outfit, buttressed by hot pink robes and shoes—all of which bore wrinkles and creases.

She appeared even more like a short, monstrous toad in the morning without her makeup and alertness. Albus was beginning to understand that her rather excessive application of makeup was for their benefit rather than hers.

"Well," she demanded, voice clipped, "is there a reason that this meeting couldn't wait until a more reasonable hour?"

Albus smiled and rose from his (very comfortable) armchair. "I assure you, Madame Umbridge, that a matter of utmost urgency has arisen. I did not think it prudent to wait any longer and limit our time to cast a verdict. Severus, if you will?"

Scowling, Snape stood and took the headmaster's place in the center of the room. "I have just received word," he drawled, "that a distant family member has lost his guardians. Unfortunately, I am his only suitable remaining family member. By law, I am required to take him until his situation gets . . . resolved." A distasteful grimace twisted his lips.

Minerva frowned. "What does this have to do with us, Severus? Surely you can resolve your own family issues without our help."

Snape sneered at her. "As you well know, Minerva, I live at Hogwarts."

Realization dawned on the witch. "I see . . ."

"Yes . . . he will be coming here for the time being."

Umbridge's beady eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"He?" she simpered.

Snape scowled at her. "Yes, he, as in a male human being. Do you require a more precise definition, Madame Umbridge?"

She frowned. "No, thank you, I don't. I had simply thought that you were the last of the Prince line."

Snape bristled, "I am."

Tension draped over like a curtain, its folds curling and twisting over its occupants. If they weren't awake before, they certainly were now . . .

"How," Umbridge's sickly sweet voice broke through, "can that be if you claim another relative?"

Snape's nose wrinkled as he looked at her. He stood up straighter and bore down on the woman's short stature. "That is because the boy is the first cousin of Elias Windsworth, the man who married my mother's sister. The boy is not a member of the Prince line, Madame Umbridge. When his immediate family died, he was taken in by friends of the name of di Angelo—"

The Heads of Houses started at the familiar surname.

"—and returned with them to Italy. As I understand it, his guardians died two weeks ago and those Italian dunderheads have just now found him a . . . home," the man sneered the word.

The toad-like woman opened her mouth, tempted to say something, but then closed it just as quickly. "He will be Flooing in from Italy later this afternoon unless," Snape glowered at his listeners, "there are objections."

No one moved. Albus simply smiled.

Until of course—

"I had thought that only professors may live on school grounds. Is that not what the Hogwarts charter stipulates?" the Ministry employee continued, determined.

Albus' eye twinkled. "Perhaps I can answer that, Madame Umbridge. The Hogwarts charter does indeed allow for professors and other employees to live on school grounds. As determined by the Ministry a century ago, that clause extends to the families of such employees. You may look up the act; I believe it is called the 'Families of Hogwarts' Act, 1889."

Frustrated, the woman momentarily lapsed into silence, but Albus saw an invidious gleam growing in her eye.

"I trust that the paperwork has been filed for his citizenship then and everything is in order with the Ministry?"

Snape didn't even bat an eye. "He will not be under my care permanently, Madame Umbridge. I have declined to take on guardianship of the boy. He is simply staying here until the Italian Ministry finds him a permanent home. He has no need to become a British citizen but the Italian Ministry has procured him a temporary visa if you must know." Umbridge's smile slipped.

Albus stepped forward, "Are there any objections to the young man's arrival?"

Not even Umbridge voiced a complaint. The professors silently shook their heads. Albus clapped his hands in delight. "Good! Please join me later in welcoming the young man and helping him to get situated around noon then. Thank you for your cooperation this morning. You may leave."

The meeting adjourned, leaving the two conspirators to stare at an empty room while the adjourned left with creeping suspicions over the unexpected arrival, some informed, and one destined to find its way to Minister.

Nico felt absolutely ridiculous. He stood in front a mirror, scowling at himself, as he practiced his faux Italian accent. It was much better than his "British" accent (if it could even be called that) but it sounded slightly exaggerated. He'd been working on toning it down for the better part of an hour (and almost destroying the mirror when it told him, "A little thick, dearie.").

He thought he'd come pretty damn far. It was a lot less overt, but still noticeable to anyone who listened. But the mirror's constant babble embarrassed him more than he'd like to admit. There was no privacy in these wizard dwellings, was there? He muttered darkly to himself, as he sat back down into the chair across from the Headmaster's desk.

The portraits to his left of previous Headmasters (as the old man informed him) remained silent, eyeing him suspiciously. He glared right back at them, shivering just from the thought of moving pictures. It had nearly scared the shit out of him when he'd begun to hear voices but saw no bodies. (He thought he'd finally cracked.) But then, lo and behold, he had located the source. They were probably just angry that he'd poked them in the face.

. . . He was curious.

Finally, though, the door to the old man's office swung open, followed by the headmaster himself and his new . . . cousin. Snape glared at him as he entered; Nico simply scowled.

"I presume you have aptly prepared and memorized your . . . family history?" the bat drawled, looking pointedly at Nico.

Nico raised an eyebrow and, deciding to test out his "accent," replied, "Si, signore. Or should I say 'cousin'?"

Dumbledore smiled and clapped. "Admirable job, Mr. di Angelo. I never would have suspected your accent."

Nico nodded, silently thanking him.

"I have called in a favor to the Italian Minister. Quite a quagmire I rescued him from actually; his daughter was bitten by a rare magical snake and they had been unable to harvest the snake's venom for an antidote. Luckily, though, I had some with me and was able to administer it to his daughter in enough time." Albus smiled. "He has set everything up, including your 'visa.' Papers will be owled shortly."

Nico grunted. "Okay . . . what now?"

"Now," spoke Snape as he approached Nico, "we test your memory. Don't disappoint me."

Nico glared at him. "Shoot."

Snape swooped down on him, fists gripping his armrests as he shoved his face into Nico's personal face. Nico could see every blemish on the man's face, as well as his burning eyes and glare.

"What are the names of your deceased guardians?" he fired.

"Maria and Antonio di Angelo."

"How did they die?"

"Uncontrollable Fiendfyre."

"What are the names of your parents?"

"Mary Sutherland and Vance Windsworth."

"How did you receive your education?"

"I was homeschooled by my guardians. I have recently finished my studies and was about to become Antonio's assistant before they died."

"What were your guardians' occupations?"

"Maria didn't work but Antonio was an Auror."

Snape snarled. "How old are you?"

"Fifteen."

"Where did you live?"

"Rome, Italy."

"Where in Rome?" Snape's eyes gleamed in victory. He knew they had not discussed that.

But . . . the boy gave him a smirk, "Near the Colosseum. That's where the Ministry is, after all."

Snape sneered. "I wanted an address, boy."

Flames manifested in Nico's eyes. "Perhaps you would but no one else will. Landmarks and general directions will be enough for anyone else."

Snape straightened, standing up once more. His beady, dark eyes stared sourly at Nico. He has done this before, Snape thought. Any rookie would have pointed out that he did not have an address. Though given his abilities, it is not surprising.

"Adequate," he growled. Nico's jaw clenched, eyes flashing. But he kept his mouth shut.

Dumbledore walked up to the two.

"I believe it is time that you Flooed in, Mr. di Angelo."

As the professors piled into the small, darkened room, Nico looked for familiar faces. He didn't have to look far. Minerva McGonagall, that Flitwick person, and that Sprout person were all huddled near the old man, eyeing him with a varying degree of surprise and . . . resignation?

It was their position—behind the old man—that Nico was grateful for, however. The rest of the staff members, who he either vaguely knew from the few Order meetings he visited or didn't know at all, could not see their faces. Snape stood to Dumbledore's right, looking as cheery as usual.

And people thought Nico was grumpy . . . at least his the edges of his lips peaked up a few inches every once in a while.

But the professor that caught his attention the most, however, (and not because she was beautiful) was a short, stout woman below five feet tall wearing repulsive pink robes and an odd black bow in her hair, as if she thought she were a gift to the world. She bore striking resemblance to a toad—the big, fleshy face that was more wide than tall and lazy, beady eyes that stared at him with just as much intensity as he stared at her. He knew without a doubt that this was the government spy.

"May I introduce Mr. Nico di Angelo?" Albus announced, arm curling around Nico's shoulder and pulling him forward. He stiffened at the unwanted contact but forced himself to relax. He was supposed to be an ordinary kid, albeit one who just lost his guardians but still an average kid nonetheless.

The professors nodded to him and began introducing themselves. He learned the government spy's name was Dolores Umbridge . . . and that she had the most grating voice he'd ever heard. She spoke with that girly, bubblegum tone that females half her age tried excruciatingly to grow out of. She may flash him a sugary smile but he could tell that she was less than pleased at his arrival.

"Nice to meet you," Nico replied coolly, nodding to the teachers.

Dumbledore beamed. Nico had to admit that the man was a very skilled actor. (It made him wonder how many times the man had dealt in deceit.) "Now that you've been introduced, Severus will show you to your chambers—down in dungeons, I believe, near his—and after, we will introduce you to the student body at dinner—"

"Hem, hem," the spy interrupted, smiling sweetly.

Nico wanted to punch her. Her voice was really beginning to get on his nerves.

"Headmaster, shouldn't Mr. di Angelo enroll as a student in this school for the time being? Surely his education must continue."

Albus' jolly demeanor decreased somewhat but he dutifully answered her, "Ah, Madame Umbridge, there is no need. Mr. di Angelo was home-schooled by his guardians and has already completed his education."

The woman frowned, "Homeschooling cannot possibly cover all of the subjects offered at Hogwarts. Perhaps if he were to enroll—"

"Excuse me," Nico interrupted smoothly, "but I have finished my schooling, exceeding my graduation requirements. I don't need any extra schooling." He was proud of his Italian accent; he even managed to make the professors who knew him previously look at him, baffled.

The woman didn't look appeased. "Education is important, Mr. di Angelo. Don't you want to attain better knowledge? I'm sure Hogwarts can offer better schooling than anything you've had previously," she giggled. "And if you don't become a student, what will you do during your time here?"

Nico bristled. Infuriating woman. He knew that comment was meant to rile him up. I'm not taking the bait.

But before he could reply, Snape stepped in and stated, "He will be my assistant. Another set of eyes and hands will reduce the amount of addle-brained mistakes I must deal with daily."

Umbridge opened her mouth to speak again but the old man's voice punctured the speaking vacuum, "Now that everything is settled, I will show you to your rooms, Mr. di Angelo. How about a tour? . . ."

"I can't believe this—"

"—just blew me off! It's not like it's a big club—"

"This is stupid!"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered the Great Hall, or, perhaps more accurately, an inferno of anger and frustration. Even the candles lighting the Hall flickered in intensity, as if they too had a bone to pick with Educational Degree No. Twenty-Four.

Harry sat down next to Hermione at Gryffindor's table, the most vocal table of all. Down a couple of seats, Angelina was red-faced and furious as she glared up at the staff table, attempting to drill eye-sized holes into Umbridge's squat figure. The rest of the Quidditch team followed her lead. Even Fred and George were more sober and subdued than usual.

"Bloody banshee," Ron muttered, eyes trained on Umbridge's tittering figure. She looked around the student body with a poisonous smile, as if she were not the cause for the bubbling anger plaguing the room. Her neighboring professors were stone-faced and irritated.

"Ron!" Hermione chastised. "What would your mother say if she heard you say that? Calling her names won't solve anything."

"You sure?" Ron retorted. "I feel loads better." Harry nodded in agreement.

As the two began to bicker, Harry peered around the hall, glancing at those he'd met with at Hog's Head. They looked just as uneasy as he felt. Rather jumpy, too, especially Neville. He twitched every other minute, looking just about everywhere but the staff table.

Recalling what Hermione said about jinxing the member list, he half-expected to see someone with incurable ugly acne parading around the room but no such person appeared. He clenched his fists, trying to reign in the anger that threatened to explode out of him.

How else would Umbridge have known?

He realized that other people were in Hog's Head—especially that suspicious, veiled witch—but why would they care enough to inform Umbridge? No, no it had to be a spy among the members, or, or someone hiding in the back of the room. The timing of the new law was simply too much of a coincidence to be anything but calculated.

When he no longer heard Ron and Hermione yelling at each other, he looked up, only to find them both staring at him in concern.

"Does—does it hurt?" Hermione whispered, nodding to his hand. He shoved it out of view. "No," he replied, unclenching his fists, "just-just trying to figure out how Umbridge found out about . . . That." He noticed a couple of his peers attempting to eavesdrop. They averted their eyes as soon as he glared at them.

Hermione frowned. "Still? Well we know it wasn't any of the students that met with us . . . Maybe one of Umbridge's spies followed us . . ."

"I bet it was Malfoy, that tosser," Ron interjected, "He's been sucking up to ol' Toadface ever since she got here."

Harry nodded half-heartedly. "Maybe."

Hermione shook her head. "No, I don't think so. I made sure it was a secretive affair. There weren't even any Slytherins on the list either."

"It's okay, Hermione, we all make mistakes. Some more than others," Ron joked, though it seemed a little forced. Hermione glowered at him. "I hope you mean yourself," she retorted. Harry let out a small smile but soon his attention once again wandered. He found himself clandestinely studying Malfoy, who looked as smug as ever. It wasn't any different from his usual arrogant mug and Harry had to admit—if he truly was behind the new decree, he would have gloated about it to Harry.

The bastard just couldn't help it.

Moving from Slytherin table, his emerald stare moved onto the staff table. Only Dumbledore appeared unruffled, smiling at the proceedings with that twinkle in his eye, at least, at everyone but him. The man seemed determined to ignore him all year.

And well, if he was—fine! That was what everyone else in the world was doing at the moment anyway. What was one more person?

Scowling, his eyes wandered right a couple of seats down, trailing over irritated professors, and finally rounding on Umbridge. She caught his gaze and smiled at him, wielding poisonous daggers in her smile. Harry immediately looked away. To take a leaf out of Hermione's book, horrible woman.

Snape sat beside her and appeared repulsed by it. His permanent scowl was even deeper tonight, which Harry had not thought possible. The man didn't look in his direction or . . . in the students' direction, really.

He was subtly looking beside him to . . .

Harry's eyes widened and he froze.

His heart began to pump faster as the blood disappeared from his face. He became as pale as a ghost.

"Harry? Harry, what's wrong—?"

Hermione choked on her words as she followed his stare. She, too, froze as if hit by a Petrificus Totalus. Ron followed shortly.

"Is that—?"

Because instead of the usual shadowed seat beside the Potions' Master, there sat a person, a dark-haired boy around their age with piercing, black eyes.

Nico di Angelo.

Nico di Angelo was at Hogwarts.

The three friends couldn't even speak, so wrapped in surprise and jolted by the improbability of the moment. Harry didn't know how he missed his fellow students' whispers and gestures towards Nico.

"Who's that?"

"I don't know but he kinda looks like Snape, doesn't he?"

"He's kinda cute . . . you know in that bad-boy sense."

The last one was spoken by Lavender Brown and it was enough to shock Harry out of his reverie. He shared a startled look with Ron and Hermione, poised to whisper, when the Hall quieted. Harry whipped around and saw Dumbledore standing up, smiling at the Hall.

"Good evening, everyone," he started. "Before we dig into our delicious meal, I would like to introduce to you a new face." He gestured to Nico, who nodded nonchalantly to his onlookers. "This is Mr. Nico di Angelo, a distant relative of Professor Snape who has found a temporary home, like many of us, in Hogwarts. Please join me in welcoming him."

The claps that resounded were a lot less than they could have been, particularly since more students were surprised (and somewhat horrified) that another Snape had come to Hogwarts.

One was enough!

Lavender and Parvati looked especially startled.

"He has arrived from Italy," Dumbledore continued after the meager applause died down, "and has already finished his schooling. He will, however, be assisting Professor Snape in his lessons so do not be alarmed when you enter your Potions class tomorrow." He smiled at the whispers that erupted from his comments. "Now that's settled, everyone—tuck in!"

The food finally appeared on the table, accompanied by delicious aromas and blissful sighs. If one thing at Hogwarts never got old, it was the delectable food. Ron even forgot his temporary shock over Nico's appearance as he shoveled steak into his mouth. Harry and Hermione halfheartedly filled their plates. Harry had lost his appetite a long time ago.

As he ate, Harry watched Nico. There wasn't much to watch—other than the boy eating, at least—as he didn't talk to anyone, not even his "relative."

"Italy?" Hermione hissed. "Snape's relative? What is going on?" Harry shrugged, put-out. Too many things had happened recently and he was tired.

At last, Nico's black gaze mixed with his emerald one. He smirked, eyes matching his expression before turning back to his food. Harry furrowed his eyebrows. It was all just so confusing lately.

"Do you really think he is Snape's relative?" Harry whispered in reply. He could see the resemblance, he supposed. Hermione frowned. Looking around to see if anyone was eavesdropping, she replied in a low voice, "No, of course not. Remember how . . . you know detained him? They thought he was an intruder! And then he became a Member and . . . that incident with you and now he's here. Nothing makes sense!"

"One thing's for sure, though," Ron interjected, voice muffled by his food, "Umbridge is gonna give 'im a bloody rough time."

Harry did notice that she was staring awfully hard at the boy, and not in an admiring way either.

"Woah," Ron exclaimed, food spewing from his mouth, "What's wrong with 'im?

It had been a rather boring affair up until now.

(Though, he had to admit, he did find it amusing that the majority of the student body turned on him once they learned whose relative he supposedly was. Quite a reputation Snape had, then. And, he supposed, it was also funny to see the gaping mouths of Harry, Ron, and Hermione once they caught sight of him.)

But then . . . they came. He stiffened and almost dropped his fork. As it was, his knife slipped, sending his steak flying across the staff table right smack dab into Umbridge's awaiting cheek.

(He barely even noticed her scream or the students' laughter, two of which, twins in fact, laughed the hardest.)

Nico's eyes widened as the feeling of their presence struck him. It was a cold feeling, but one as familiar as his own flesh and blood. The scent of death, of the Underworld, flew into his nose, preceding the arrival of milky-white entities; several of them, each flying through the air as if an agent of the wind itself. Each ghost bore no color; it was as if they had come straight out of a black-and-white film.

For many, as Nico saw, it was much earlier than that.

Some wore chain mail and carried swords. Almost all, in fact, wore clothing belonging to another era—the armor of the Middle Ages, the cravats and coats of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries (at least, so he thought), and, of the women, petticoats of ages long past. Many were grim-faced, especially the ones that hung over Slytherin table, but others still shared in the merriment of the hour.

Nico noticed one in particular around Gryffindor table who spoke with an eternal smile mounted on his nearly decapitated head. He pursed his lips, fingers tightening on his armrests.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

All souls were supposed to be ferried into the Underworld—or at least to Charon's waiting room. No souls should be wandering so freely among the living. His father would not be happy to hear about this but—Nico paused.

Actually . . .

His father had complained of overcrowding in the Underworld. Perhaps this would not anger him as much; maybe he even allowed the ghosts to stay? But no . . . that wouldn't be the case. These ghosts died long ago and should have passed through or into the Underworld centuries before. The Underworld was not as crowded then.

He honestly did not know what his father's reaction would be to this. Surprise maybe. Anger that they have been on the mortal plane for much longer than they were supposed to perhaps.

But his judgment . . . Nico honestly did not know.

And he didn't really care either.

He wasn't his father's servant or representative. He was barely his son. Why the fuck should he act in Hades' interests? He wasn't one to give undue favors. He wouldn't do anything. He technically didn't have a father for about another thirteen years anyway. He was sure the No-One-Who-Knows-Nico-Can-See-Him-Rule applies to gods as well or else Future-Hades wouldn't have risked contact earlier.

Sourly, he stabbed at his food. The remaining piece of steak (that hadn't gone to the spy) divided into even tinier pieces until, at last, he forced himself to eat it.

His fellow . . . "coworkers" seemed determined to ignore him but he was just fine with that. He wasn't exactly seeking conversation with them either.

Sighing inaudibly, he turned his attention back to the ghosts, trying to decide what to do. He could eject them to the Underworld; it wouldn't take much effort, really. They were more like shades than actual bona fide ghosts anyway. But that would be too obvious; Dumbledore and, hell, the entire school would notice their disappearance . . . disappearances that suspiciously coincided with his arrival.

If he wanted to hide in plain sight, sending them anywhere was not an option. So he would leave them here. He frowned; it just didn't seem right, though. Sure, they didn't appear to be malicious ghosts like Midas but . . . they should be in the Underworld.

It was Law.

The Gryffindor ghost he'd spotted earlier (the one with the nearly decapitated head) suddenly looked up at the staff table, as if sensing eyes upon him. It only took a second until his gaze collided with Nico's.

The ghost rapidly paled, transforming from a milky white to a chalky, almost completely invisible white. He gaped at the son of Hades, eyes as wide as saucers and radiating fear. Nico noticed, with satisfaction, that those nearest him began to shiver from the ghost's outpouring coldness. Nico smirked at him.

Checkmate.

The ghost turned tail and ran out of the room, followed by the others (as soon as they caught sight and sense of him). Students and teachers alike were baffled; they muttered among themselves, theorizing over the ghosts' odd behavior. None of them, except for perhaps Dumbledore and Snape, however, connected the phenomenon with a certain new arrival.

Meanwhile, Nico was pleased to see that they feared him. He was certain that they did not know who he was—by name and heritage at least—but all ghosts sensed his power over them deep within their souls. They inherently knew he was the Ghost King. And . . . And, Nico thought with dawning realization, they didn't know what he could and could not do, to them and otherwise.

This . . . This could work in his favor.

Even if he didn't threaten them with expulsion to the Underworld, they'd inherently believe it their duty to obey him. Nico collapsed back in his chair, pondering all the possibilities.

A ready-made army.

One he didn't have to wait to call up from the Underworld or otherwise.

A spy network.

Spies that would obey him completely and who could travel anywhere within the school without suspicion.

A slow, curling smirk graced his lips.

Next to him, Severus Snape gathered irrefutable proof that Nico di Angelo did indeed have something to do with the odd behavior of the ghosts. And he intended to find out exactly what it was.

Dear Cornelius,

As I am sure you are aware, a distant relative of Professor Severus Snape has just arrived from Italy. The man claimed that he did not know of any remaining family member which, considering the circumstances, is possible. Knowing what we know about Dumbledore's goals, though, I suspect this is not the case. The boy arrived at noon today. He has a slight Italian accent and claims to have finished his schooling but something is off about the boy and the timing of this incident. I assure you, however, that as your agent in this backwards school, that I will watch him for any suspicious actions.

Sincerely yours,

Dolores

AN: Hope you liked it. I was very iffy with this chapter. I know I said I'd update weeks ago but something unavoidable came up. Please let me know if you find any mistakes. As you can see, I took lots of liberties with this chapter.

Comments and requests are welcome,

Ilysia