Chapter Nine

Hermione

"Blimey, Hermione. You look terrible," said Ron between mouthfuls of toast and jam. Harry glanced up, and nodded once.

"Yeah," he admitted. "You kind of do."

"Why, thank you," I snapped at them wearily, my voice lacking its usual sharpness. I knew it was true though. Last night, I fell asleep crying, and regretted it immediately when I woke this morning. I felt as if somebody had pumped the skin around my eyes full of air, and now they were swollen and red. The state of my hair did not help one bit.

"Did something happen?" Harry inquired. "You look like you've been crying."

I shook my head slowly. It took all my effort not to tell them everything right here and then, but the Gryffindor table was cramped with ears in every direction, so telling them right now would be unadvisable, especially if Nicole really was going to kill Harry, gossip would be the last thing we'd need. None of the Americans were here yet, but if the information got leaked out, they were bound to find out. The Hogwarts' gossip system was very efficient.

I filled a bowl with porridge, but when I placed it in front of me, I found no urge to eat. As if sensing my unhappiness and turmoil, neither of the boys said anything, occupying themselves with the food. I picked at the porridge for a few minutes, before standing abruptly.

"I forgot my Arithmancy textbook," I mumbled an excuse, and fled the Great Hall before anyone could point out that I've never forgotten my textbook in the dorm before (and the book also happened to be tucked under my arm). I didn't know why I felt compelled to leave; I should've brought Harry and Ron with me, so I could tell them everything in somewhere private.

"Good morning, Hermione." I jumped slightly at the American accent, and spun around expecting the worse, but only saw Percy and Annabeth, hand in hand, walking towards the Great Hall. No signs of Nicole. Annabeth had one hand up in a small uncertain wave, because even though we shared classes, we weren't very familiar with each other. I gave her a weak smile and waved a little as well, before hurrying off again.

Then, a horrible thought struck me. What if all the Americans were working together? The idea of killers hidden in the same classes as us was terrifying. But then I mentally shook my head. Bellatrix had said something last night, when she told Nicole that she wanted Harry Potter: it was 'him, or your brother, or you'. If the other Americans were involved, I doubt Bellatrix would threaten to take her brother instead of Harry. Bellatrix issuing her demands to Nicole, the youngest of the group, would be strange as well, so it is more likely that she was in it alone.

A small part of me, not overridden by terror, pitied her.

I climbed the last flight of stairs to the Gryffindor Common Room, gave the Fat Lady the password, and entered the safety of the dorms. Nicole was a Slytherin; this was the place she'd least likely show up. The Common Room was near empty, save for a few seventh years skipping breakfast to work on their overload of homework. I stood there for a moment, taking several deep, calming breaths, before going up another short flight of stairs towards the fifth year dorm room.

A strange feeling of peace washed over me as the warmth of the Gryffindor tower filled me completely. Maybe I should skip classes today. Tell Harry and Ron that I'm not feeling well.

Somebody was still inside the room, humming quietly, which was strange. I thought I was the last one to leave.

I opened the door, and then halted immediately. Because there was someone in the room. And I was the last person to leave. My Arithmancy textbook dropped to the ground with a dull thud.

"Hello, Hermione," Nicole purred. "You're late."

Nico di Angelo sincerely regretted deciding to skip breakfast. He pressed a hand over his stomach as it growled, aching for food. Maybe he was exaggerating a little, but he was a growing boy, so therefore extreme hunger despite a giant dinner the night before was completely acceptable. He should've gone down to grab something first before coming here, to a seventh floor corridor.

A few days ago, after Astronomy, he had been trudging down the tower when he felt a strange tug in his gut. They had been on the seventh floor, trying to find a flight of stairs that wasn't moving around and confusing them all. The feeling was different from the familiar ring in his head or sudden tightness of his chest when someone he knew dies; it was more like something was calling out to him, luring him towards it, like someone was tugging on his sleeve, whispering his name over and over again. He found himself straying away from their little group of Slytherin first years, only to be dragged back by Nicole, who was oblivious to what he was feeling.

"It's late," she had murmured. "Best if we stay together in case Filch decides to make us prey."

But he had felt the tug before, several times. It had been much weaker, and so he had ignored it, but now that he knew where it might be calling him from, it was harder let go.

So this morning, when he had woken to the familiar tugging feeling that had plagued him on and off since they joined the ranks of Hogwarts, he gave the excuse of needing fresh air to escape the others. Hopefully, they didn't suspect anything, and were already on their way to breakfast.

He turned around the corner, where the feeling was the strongest, most persistent, and he found himself confused by the utter emptiness of that hall. No doors, no windows, nothing. Nico continued down the hall, listening to an unknown but familiar voice screaming his name, pleading urgently, and felt like invisible hands were clawing at his skin, pulling him in different directions. Another corner, and everything abruptly stopped. The feeling faded into something throbbing for attention in the back of his mind, where it could be ignored. If he went downstairs, the feeling would be near nonexistent if he didn't think about it.

So he spun around on his heels and returned to the corridor, where immediately, the phantom voices and touches erupted in full strength again. Nico shuddered, but walked halfway down the hall before changing his mind yet again and hurrying back the way he came from.

And that was when he felt something change. The hands that originally tore at him in every direction now tugged him towards one, like they've impaled him with a giant fish hook and was reeling him in.

He turned around one more time, sucking in a nervous breath, and discovered a sudden new addition to the corridor: a door.

It seemed very normal, wooden, with a brass handle. But behind the flimsy covering, voices screamed, hands scrabbled, and Nico nearly threw up at the cacophony of the sounds of pain that washed over him when he threw open the door.

But when he stepped inside, everything silenced abruptly, leaving him shuddering with an icy feeling clawing up his spine. Maybe he should've brought the others along with him, even though they didn't appear to have experienced the same feelings as him. The door swung shut silently behind him, save for a gentle click when it locked itself.

Nico swallowed, and let his gaze sweep through the room. There was one large window across from the doorway, allowing the weak Scottish sun to light up the room, reflecting off the plain white walls. The floor was polished wood, and there were no other source of light save for the window. The room was utterly empty save for a small, round coffee table standing in the middle of the room on three thin, metal legs. Above the glass surface of the table was a single, plain white envelope, the only words being: "To whoever answered".

Nico picked it up, feeling the heaviness of its contents. Strangely enough, the envelope was sealed by a small sticker of a cartoon cat, and when he gently peeled it open, a slip of paper automatically fluttered out. There were four lines etched onto the paper in dark blue ink, the handwriting elegantly curved.

A single soul marked by a cursed blade,

To bring back the dead, a choice to be made.

A sacrifice, and exchange with the shadows;

An eye for an eye, a soul for a soul.

It sounded oddly familiar, but Nico couldn't remember where he might've read it before, which was frustrating because he didn't read a whole lot in the first place. Then remembering the still-heavy envelope in his hand, he tucked the paper into his pocket and tipped the envelope over onto the coffee table. Two objects clattered out, the sound deafening in the silent room. There was a small knife, blade tucked into a black leather sheath, and a tarnished silver key with a silver chain hooped around its elaborately designed head. Nico's hand went to the key first: the more exposed and safer object of the two. It was old, medium sized, the lock seeming very simple, while its head, beautiful despite its lack of luster, was made of twisting and overlapping silver strands that created an abstract picture of a keyhole. A lock inside a key.

Nico slipped the chain over his head, letting the key fall over his chest, tucked into his shirt. The metal was cold, taking an abnormally long time to warm up to his body, and Nico was already reaching for the knife.

A masterpiece, he knew the moment he picked it up. The weapon was perfectly balanced, the hilt smooth, fitting snugly in his grip. It wasn't ornamented like the key, but for a person dealing regularly with weapons, it was far more beautiful. Without hesitation, he slipped the knife out of its sheath, angling the blade to reflect the light. Unlike the key, it seemed new, or at least very carefully preserved, fondly cared for. The knife was razor sharp, smooth and undecorated. Except for a single word discreetly carved at the base of the blade, where it connected with the hilt. It was in English, and it took several tries before Nico got it right, his lips mouthing each letter carefully until all the individual sounds stringed into-

Traitor.

The single word seemed to ring in his head, bouncing around his skull, echoing. Then he realized that it wasn't just one voice; it was many, overlapping and conversing and murmuring. Traitor. Traitor. Traitor. A traitor. It's a traitor. He's a traitor. You're a traitor.

No, he thought. How am I a traitor?

You're a traitor, the voices insisted.

No, he protested. I'm not.

You are, they repeated. You are. You are. You are. You-

Nico di Angelo dropped the knife, falling to his knees, and screamed as something, the voices, the words, burned him, and he was shoved into a small, dark place far, far away. The shadows, for once, were no longer comforting, and they jeered, laughing, pointing, swirling around him and grabbing at him.

Look! they said gleefully. Look!

No, he found himself screaming. I'm not a traitor!

Oh?

One voice stood out against all the others. It was soft, but mocking, cold, and cruel; familiar too, and that's what made it hurt the most.

Oh? Nicole's voice inquired, chuckling softly. But you are.

"What are you doing here?" I snapped.

"The Gryffindor dorms are pretty comfortable. Warmer," Nicole said instead, glancing around the room with an open, fascinated expression that would've looked sweet and innocent if it wasn't for her dull, uninterested black eyes. "We Americans got our own tower. Smaller, obviously, but since there're only four of us, it gets a little lonely. You dropped your book, by the way."

I bent down hastily to pick the textbook up, hugging it to my chest as if it could protect me. "You could always go to the Slytherin Common Room," I retorted, deciding to play along.

She pouted. "It's freezing in there, even when it was warmer. And the people there aren't very nice. I mean, some people are, but so much more aren't. They called me 'American', as if that was an insult." She sniffed disdainfully. "Idiots, the lot of them."

I nodded slowly, unsure where she was going with this.

Nicole nimble leapt up from the side of the bed she was perched on. "See, Hermione, you're not like them. You're nice, and you're smart." Her head was tilted curiously to one side, a few stray black curls falling over her falsely curious expression. "Aren't you?"

I decided not to answer, still doubtful and offensive with a Slytherin in the Gryffindor tower, but slightly more relaxed now that it was clear that Nicole wasn't about to slit my throat. But then the young girl poked me on the shoulder, and repeated, "Aren't you?"

With a heaving sigh, I said, "I guess."

Nicole was beaming, for reasons unknown. "Don't be so humble, Hermione! You are!" And then the smile waned into something that was simply a small, cold tilt of her dark red lips. "But sometimes being too smart isn't good, you know. Knowing too much can get you killed."

My heart began to pound, my hand turning cold and clammy, covered in nervous sweat. She knows. But of course she knows. Why wouldn't she?

"Though, well, in my opinion, it's really only a blabbermouth that can get you killed," she continued. "You can know anything and be perfectly fine, but speaking is usually what gets you killed. Curiosity kills the cat, Hermione." She laughed a little, an empty, lifeless sound that sounded almost sad. "Don't be the cat."

"What are you doing here?" I repeated, more viciously than last time. The nerve of her! I thought furiously. She's threatening me!

Nicole simply laughed that same laugh again, and stepped back a few steps. Her hand reached up to touch the smooth white curtains around the four poster beds – all of them now drawn open. "No need to be so hostile. I'm merely delivering a message." And then she grabbed a handful of the cloth, dramatically tugging it halfway across its rail and disappearing from sight behind the fluttering white drapes.

When I carefully, tentatively tugged the curtains back open, I found no one hiding behind them, as if the girl had disappeared into the shadows.

I'm early!

No, not really. Though I did say March or April 2017, and it's only February! I'm sorry though. I really am. I'll try better next time. Maybe.

BUT PLEASE REVIEW! I love reviews. They make me feel warm and fuzzy inside. So please review. Unless you already reviewed before and can't anymore. I pity you. REVIEW!