Dark Phoenix (Nico Di Angelo & Harry Potter)

1

A/N: Wanted to write this in Hermione's point of view but to hell with it. Nico makes for a far more interesting character, at least in this part.

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No words had been exchanged between Nico and the girl following the conversation prior to his confession.

The bushy haired brunette – she still hadn't let Nico know of her name – had pulled on his arm with practiced ease and brought him out of the broom room (as Nico had christened it). He decided to follow her wordlessly and with the expression of an addled schoolboy being dragged around by his mother.

The door had let them into a dark, musty hallway, wooden walls charred black with age, and dusty floorboards creaking under their weight. A once splendid staircase stood to his right but Nico had first glanced at what he believed were portraits covered by coffee stained muslin. They probably did more harm than good by allowing mildew to settle in. The amber glow of the evening seemed to come from everywhere but shone nowhere, shrouding the narrow passage in mottled darkness. Otherwise, the hallway remained cramped and suffocating, drawing the ceiling in towards the occupants. He could hardly make out the doors from where they had been built into the walls but the girl seemed seemed push at one such place, and it turned out to be a door that led him to a newer, much brighter (in comparison to the hallway at least) room.

The girl stopped walking, almost making Nico collide into her.

Suddenly, her chokehold on his arm loosened. Nico let it drop and he rubbed the area gently, wondering if there'd be bruising the next day.

Then the girl turned to him, a wan smile playing on her face as he drank in the sight of the new room.

There was a pregnant pause and her smile fell.

"You don't recognise this room either? Weren'tyou here last?"

He didn't have to say anything because Nico's practiced expression did the brilliant job of giving away his unfamiliarity of his surroundings. He could hardly pretend! His current location – a drawing room – appeared to have been erected for the sole purpose of hanging a faded, moth-eaten tapestry on an expanse of wall. Old as it might be, an opulent gold sheen of delicate embroidery broke through the layers of unscrubbed grime and dust it had picked up of the years. The sown on faces – covered in soot or not – were unmistakably rendered, almost as if the seamstress had godlike abilities.

But of course, Nico seethed. His current predicament was anything but normal and he didn't expect the inhabitants of this house to be either.

It must be a family tree of some sort but I can't read shit in this light.

Nico turned away to look to his right.

A black sea of curtains had been stripped away from their hooks and lay on top a blacker chest with ornate gold embellishments around the locks. Similarly, the room was bathed Dionysian grandeur, screaming wealth, and bleeding insufferable opulence.

A fire had been stoked, its orange flames dangerously close to the curtains as it cast an eerie glow across the room. A crisp crackle broke the boy out of his trance, and he blinked back his curiosity.

Within a few seconds, Nico had enough. The owners – or at least the previous ones – were wealthy fucks. And they advertised it.

My heart hums for you and your Gods awful appreciation of decor.

He turned to look at the girl who was now biting her lower lip in worry. Her gaze met his and Nico shook his head, craning his neck low to hide his eyes.