"Oh gods, Nico . . . you didn't . . ." Percy stared at him, open-mouthed with horror.

"You . . . you really went to him, didn't you? Even after . . . after . . ." He sucked in a breath and didn't finish.

Nico stood still; he felt like he was in a straitjacket. How could he have found out? He didn't—he wasn't going to—! Damn it! He clenched his fists.

"Are you calling me a traitor, Percy?" he snarled.

Percy stared at him, eyes hardening.

"I guess so. Why did you do it, Nico? What could Kronos have that you—we—don't?"

"Nothing!" he sneered. "I didn't go to him!"

Percy narrowed his eyes. "I saw you coming out of his camp, unharmed. Don't give me that shit. Stop lying and come clean, Nico! It's not too late to get out while you can."

"No it's not—because I was never in there in the fucking first place!"

Even as he said that, even as Percy simply stared at him with that knowing look in his eyes, Nico didn't know it he truly believed that . . .

He swallowed. "Please, just—just let me in. I want to help; this world can't go to Kronos!" Percy studied him with harsh judgment in his eyes. Nico fidgeted.

What was taking so long? Didn't they need all the support they could get?

And yet Percy continued to hesitate. Nico felt as if he had been stabbed.

". . . Come in," he finally muttered, moving out of the doorway.

Nico slowly entered the headquarters, muscles tense and alert, like a stranger in an unfamiliar world. Percy closed the door behind and took the lead. But even as he led Nico in, Nico felt something shatter between them, leaving behind an invisible wound. Nico wondered if it was one that would ever heal completely.

"Damn."

There was an array of apartment buildings before him, monotonous and dark in the pitch-black shadows of night. Windows seemed lumped together, metal and glass tangled to create old-fashioned, lopsided masterpieces. The doors looked plastic and dusty even though he couldn't see very well. He scowled.

The buildings looked like something out of a horror movie in which the stupid chick walks into and subsequently screams her ass off. Ah memories . . . Percy and Annabeth had made him watch lots, trying to scare him.

(Suffice to say . . . it didn't work.)

The night air swept around him, embracing his lithe body; he shivered, wishing he had a jacket. Goose bumps covered his bare arms. But he supposed he only had himself to thank for that; he hated long-sleeve shirts. My aviator jacket would have been a boon though . . .

The lights inside each building were shut off, with only the occasional lamppost lighting up the street. If there were no lights, Nico was sure the boogeyman would have enjoyed living here.

Nico snorted, and taking advantage of the lights (no matter how limited) he squinted, just making out the tiny numbers engraved in the shadowed brick.

The numbers directly in front of him were ten, eleven, and oddly enough thirteen. Twelve was blotched out. Nico's brows furrowed.

Odd . . .

He sighed, looking back up at the black backdrop of a night sky.

Whatever he was doing before, he knew it wasn't touring old apartment buildings. Especially at night.

(Why the Hades would anyone do that? It wasn't even Halloween yet.)

One minute he was just randomly walking . . . somewhere . . . and the next he was standing here with a faint feeling of nausea.

As if on cue, his stomach swirled uneasily. He winced. He was glad he didn't eat anything previously; he had nothing to throw up.

(Though maybe he wished he did; at least it meant he would have an illusion of three meals a day.)

Wherever he was, it wasn't New York. Hell, it wasn't even Los Angeles. Was he even in New York or Los Angeles previously?

So then where the Hades was he?

He glared at the building. He didn't like this. Something bigger was going on; something that would bite him in the ass later. He scowled. And all he'd wanted to do was relax now that the Second Titan War was over.

Nico looked back at the building for what seemed the tenth time. He was beginning to get restless. He was cold, hungry, and irritated. He swallowed. He needed to get out of here. But . . . where would he go?

He didn't know where he was or why he was here. He clenched his fists. He didn't like being messed around with. Whoever was doing this to him would experience a bit of pain when he got back . . .

He breathed in, calmly.

He needed to make a decision, calmly.

(Calm down . . .)

The apartment buildings didn't look very inviting. But they weren't exactly uninviting. So one night should be fine . . . then he'd disappear.

He took a step forward and—

(Agony.)

Pain rippled through his body. He froze, gasping for breath, clutching his chest.

Wha—what is this?

Ghostly wails—piercing in intensity, heartbreaking in sound—invaded the silence.

They were angry. They were lonely. They were . . .

(Just like him.)

The screams tore through his eardrums, even as he tried to block it out.

And a scent . . . there was a peculiar scent that he had only smelled in the Underworld.

It was the scent of death . . . of a soul.

This soul . . . he cringed. It was shrouded in torment. Nico felt jagged edges throwing their claws at him, but failing.

The soul hissed at him. He gritted his teeth and swatted it away. Disgust flared up in him as he touched it.

Instantly he knew what it was.

Abomination. Monster. Parasite.

He had to destroy it. Nothing this terrible deserved to live.

It was impossibility. What idiot had done this? Mass murder for something as stupid as immortality. What . . . what bastard had made this—this—

Abomination. Monster. Parasite.

Nico reluctantly reached toward the soul in his mind's eye, trying to sense what he was up against.

His eyes snapped wide-open. This wasn't the only piece split from the soul. There was another in that very building. Both of them were so close together it was laughable.

Fists clenched, Nico took a step forward. As if obeying some invisible compass, he swiveled from east to west then crossed the sidewalk and stopped at a brick wall.

The brick building loomed high above him, but something felt off about it. It felt obscured—mired in secrets. A feeling wafted off of it into the air around Nico. That was when he realized.

Magic.

It was definitely magic, only a lot more muddled than that of Hecate's children. It was less pure; entangled.

Hades had told his son of wizards and witches once, but Nico hadn't really believed it, nor felt the need to look into it. Could . . . could his father have been telling him a true story?

Did Hecate really bless a group of mortals?

And I thought he was shitting me . . . Wait! He might have . . . making me think this.

He scowled. Still though . . . If he was dealing with an idiotic mortal—wizard—then he needed to contain the damage. Who knows how many more he or she might have told, how many more mortals trying to destroy nature's already precarious balance. Kronos had very nearly obliterated it and look where that had almost sent the world! Chaos and misfortune, blood and death, loss, grief—

"Nico! Nico . . ."

He shook himself out of his memories. He couldn't—if he thought about . . . about her then . . .

No. It's over. She's . . . in a better place.

Swallowing painfully, he looked back at the wall. Furrowing his brow, he looked deeper and caught the barest traces of—of something.

Something was behind here, hidden by magic.

But . . . what would it be? He squinted, reaching out further, trying to discern the clouded image, that secret feeling. He paused. Maybe it was a secret hideout? Or a secret compartment? Such an area was great for keeping things hidden but it was so obvious! Unless . . . no one else in this . . . world (he was reluctant to admit it, still unsure whether or not he was being pranked) could sense it. Maybe—his eyes widened.

Ah. Twelve.

Twelve was missing from the apartment buildings. So it was the twelfth building that was hidden.

He took a step back and immersed himself in the shadows. He shivered in pleasure as a chill caressed his body; the embrace of darkness. Within it was a chill so cold it was warm, an atmosphere so shrouded in loneliness that it was anything but. A paradox of feelings but an instrument of comfort.

He hurtled through a dark tunnel at electrifying speeds, like an exhilarating roller coaster ride, darkness wrapping around him like a blanket, shielding him from harm.

All too soon it came to a stop. The tunnel opened in a circular hole, revealing a minimally lighted room. He landed on the floor, silent and graceful, like a cat.

(Or maybe like a ninja . . . if I want to flatter myself.)

He quickly looked around and confirmed that it was indeed a building that was hidden. A door was behind him leading to other rooms. A huge, old, musty drawer sat to the right of Nico and a couple of dusty folding chairs were splayed lazily on the ground to his left.

To the naked eye, the building would look abandoned, but Nico knew better. There were various signs that people were in here. Some drawers were left open and the trail of dust on most of the floor was bleeped out in footprint-shaped holes.

He reached out for the soul (if one could call it that)—

Screams!—full, blown-out screams!

He breathed roughly, clutching his head and trying to appease the pain striking at his head like a hammer.

It was here; one of them was here.

The hammer turned into a wrecking ball and it took all his strength to make that step forward, to close that abyss within which he fell, that nerve-wrecking shriek of anger and misery—

Stop, said he, the harbinger of death and balance, he who had won an impossible war, he who forced close that painful abyss . . .

He breathed a sigh of relief, body slightly trembling. He reached up to his ears, and upon striking a wet, sticky liquid, recoiled. He stared at the sanguine liquid, dazed but not surprised.

His ears throbbed and he listened to the rhythmic beat, so soothing, almost, a pleasurable throbbing, and an aftershock of endless agony—

He closed his eyes . . .

Focus.

He stood back up and dusted himself.

Nico walked toward the old drawer, where the split soul resided. His hand shot out and jerked the middle drawer out. He frowned. It didn't budge.

He tried again. Again. Open. Open!

"—told me that the definition of insanity was doing something over and over again but expecting different results."

Bubbling with frustration, he almost burned the entire chest, but quickly caught himself.

It was then that he realized he could just use his shadows to transport it out. He facepalmed and stood still for a single second. The throbbing was mere background music. Frowning, he wiped the blood from his ears with his shirt before it could dry, knowing that it would not reveal itself on the black surface.

Fearing infection, he pulled a piece of squished ambrosia from the back of his jeans and consumed it whole. Moments later, his throbbing receded and he prayed to the gods that it would heal everything.

One quick thought and he had the object filled with the split soul in his hand.

It was a heavy gold locket featuring a serpentine S inlaid in glittering green gems on its front.

Abomination. Monster. Parasite.

There was a tangible force field around it, trying to lure him back into that abyss . . . He ignored it. His shadows enveloped him like a cloak, protecting him from the locket's malicious influence.

He narrowed his eyes in disgust and summoned his sword. A three-foot long sword of Stygian Iron appeared overflowing with shadows in Nico's outstretched hand.

His fingers gripped the sword and the shadows left, receding back to the edges of the walls.

It would have been better perhaps if it was opened but this was the best Nico could do on short notice. He carefully placed the thing on the ground with the S facing him. Gripping his sword with both hands, he plunged downward.

A bloodcurdling scream broke out as soon as the sword pierced the locket. Nico winced, his eardrums pounding, but pressed onward. Shadows flooded his ears, muting the scream, saving him from injury . . .

His closed his eyes, gathering his power and ignoring the soul's tortuous cries. He let up as he felt the soul fade into nothingness.

It was gone.

Silence draped over the room and Nico opened his eyes, feeling drained.

He let go of his sword, letting it land on the ground with a loud metal clang. He toppled down after it, looking at his results. The locket was in shambles—completely ruined. Hellfire had charred it to rubble, black and ashy. Filthy.

He winced. His head pounded. His limbs were sluggish. The Hellfire had drained him . . . If only he had eaten more and conserved his energy . . . then he would be fine. He languidly put away his sword, sending it back to the shadows.

His vision felt hazy and his ears were pounding so loudly he couldn't concentrate. He panted like a dog. His eyelids were so heavy . . . He was lucky he even heard the footsteps resounding behind him.

He swiveled around slowly and blinked a few times before his vision came into focus. A group of people stared at him, stunned. Their faces were obscured by the darkness and Nico's weakening vision didn't help. He blinked twice more, trying to keep from falling unconscious. Damn . . . Not today . . . Why now!

One of them shuffled forth and demanded, "Who are you and how did you get in here?"

The figure held something that vaguely resembled a stick towards Nico. Other than that, Nico just managed to register that it was a gruff, male voice thick with suspicion, when the lull of blackness called to him. He struggled to stay awake but his eyelids . . . so heavy . . . and his limbs wouldn't move . . .

(He automatically knew he wouldn't get to take care of the other torn soul today.)

"I say we use veritaserum on the boy. We—"

"He's justa boy! Look at how thin he is. He shouldn't be forced into an interrogation—"

"Molly, please. I am not saying we should act upon either course of action. But Alastor, veritaserum may be unnecessary."

Alastor scoffed. "Constant vigilance, Albus! How else are we going to get the guaranteed truth out of the boy—"

"Maybe we could just ask him. He's too young to be a Death Eater—"

"He could be using Polyjuice Potion?—"

"No, you dolt! We've been here longer than an hour—"

Albus Dumbledore had a splitting headache.

An emergency meeting had been called ever since the intruder had been found unconscious. He had been moved to the kitchen table where charms had been placed upon him to notify Albus when he awoke.

They had been residing on chairs in the drawing room—the very scene of the crime—for at least an hour, arguing over the course of action. Albus had seen the unconscious boy lying on the table in the kitchen. The boy was pale beyond belief yet paradoxically retaining an olive skin tone.

He had dark hair, in a similar style to Harry's hair, and seemed to be around fifteen with a tall, lean build. Albus had yet to discover how he had even gotten into Twelve Grimmauld Place. He could not have apparated; he should not have even seen the old apartment.

The apartment was protected by the Fidelis Charm. Only Albus could have told the boy how to get in there which he had no recollection of doing. The boy was as much a stranger to him as he probably was to the boy.

But even more astonishing was that the drawer that was reportedly impenetrable had been cracked open by the intruder. The drawer showed no signs of stress which led Albus to believe it had been opened magically, but with no spell he knew. And the drawer had not been opened without purpose.

Next to the boy, utterly ruined and destroyed, was a locket. Albus held it in his hands now, rubbing the charred surface. As he had inspected it, he had realized it for what it was. It was Slytherin's locket. Remnants of the emeralds still stained the surface, somehow retaining the serpentine outline.

He had been quite perturbed that the boy would destroy a priceless heirloom such as this. Knowingly or unknowingly he did not know. But he wanted to find out. Why the locket was in there in the first place and how did the boy knew of its existence?

A twinkle lit up in his eye; this was an interesting mystery, one he would surely have fun solving.

"Albus! Are you hearing this? We need to decide before an all-out war breaks out!" Minerva McGonagall whispered fiercely.

"Yes, Minerva, I'm quite aware," he responded, dipping his head to her.

She stared incredulously at him.

"Then why don't you do something, Albus?" Albus smiled gently at her.

"We need to choose carefully," was his vague response.

Minerva kept staring at him, disbelieving. Albus chuckled and decided to humor his Deputy and stop the debate.

"Veritaserum is always one hundred percent effective!" Alastor Moody barked.

"And illegal . . .," someone muttered.

"Everyone, calm down. We need to decide," Albus paused, tilting his head to the side, "Our guest has awakened."

A brief, peaceful silence stayed any voices and then, "Albus, what do you suppose we should do?"

Albus simply smiled and nodded respectfully at the man.

"I think we should go meet our young guest. We need to gain his trust so he will willingly tell us how he breached our defenses."

Nods of approval wafted through the crowd. Alastor grunted but didn't offer any resistance.

"Alright then, what are we waiting for? Let's go meet the boy."

Ten minutes later, the majority of the Order had left for the warm comfort of their beds or the harsh reality of work. Those few that stayed were the Weasleys', Sirius, Remus, Alastor Moody, and surprisingly, Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape.

They had all gathered in the kitchen, taking cautious steps toward the fully-awake boy studying each and every one of them from on top of the table with the calculating shrewdness of a Slytherin. But he stood up to them with the courageousness of a Gryffindor.

Interesting, Albus thought.

He was staring at the boy, silently evaluating him when his blue eyes met the boy's solid black ones. Albus sobered as he realized the depth of those eyes. They had seen war, pain and death. Those eyes were too old for their body. It saddened Albus to see that the young had to endure this kind of pain so early in life.

He had already seen it in Harry as well as some other kids, remnants of Voldemort's reign.

"Who are you?" the boy asked, calmly and quietly.

Albus raised his eyebrows. The boy had an American accent. That was interesting. Was he from America or was it acting? The Order members voiced nothing; their faces foretold of their surprise.

"I am Albus Dumbledore. Might I ask your name?"

He expected to see the spark of recognition ignite in the boy's face. But nothing happened. The boy paused, looking around the room with an unreadable expression.

"The rest of you?" he prompted.

Cautiously, Albus let everyone else introduce themselves. The boy stared at each and every one with cold indifference. He did not seem to recognize any of the names.

Perhaps he had amnesia?

Even an American wizard had heard of the Headmaster of Hogwarts as well as the famous Auror Mad-eye Moody.

The boy's gaze hardened. "While helpful, that was not my question. Who are you to me?"

Albus stood, surprised. What other adolescent would he have heard such a philosophical but probing question from? That was a question from the battle-hardened, the paranoid . . .

Who are you, young man?

The Order remained silent. They did not know how to respond to that either. Such information in times like these was sensitive . . .

"To you?" Albus murmured, frowning. "To you we are unwilling hosts, young man. This place is hidden for a reason and we would very much like to know how you found it."

The boy frowned at them. Albus made quick eye contact with Snape, briefly lowering his Occlumency shields.

Do you recognize him?

Snape shook his head imperceptibly. Albus glanced back at the boy, eyes softened.

Most likely not acquainted with the enemy then and certainly no Death Eater.

"It seems," the boy muttered, frowning, "that I am just as much a mystery to you as you are to me."

Albus' eyes' twinkled. "Indeed. Might I ask your name now that you know ours? It helps to solve mysteries."

The boy raised an eyebrow. "Nico. Nico di Angelo."

Albus discreetly looked at the other occupants in the room, silently questioning. Did they recognize the name? The boy obviously did not have amnesia; he was too sure for that. So perhaps Nico di Angelo was not a wizard? But no, a muggle could not bypass the Fidelis Charm.

A muggle could not open a drawer that wizards could not. A muggle could not destroy a priceless heirloom so expertly. It was impossible. Another moment of silence passed before Nico spoke again.

"Where am I?"

A gasp broke out from all the other wizards in witches in the room. Albus took this in calmly if not a little shocked. So the boy had not intentionally bypassed the Charm; curious. Mystery indeed, young man, one which even you do not understand the full extent.

"I am afraid I cannot tell you that, young man."

The boy looked annoyed.

"Country? Continent? You can't give me that, old man? Unless," he added coldly, "you are too senile to remember."

Albus smiled as the rest of the Order members grumbled about the boy's disrespect.

"You are in London, England, Mr. di Angelo. Where are you from?"

Nico studied him suspiciously.

"America."

Albus had thought as much. Accents can be very revealing.

"Would you mind telling us what you are doing here then, Nico? This is a very secure location and not many people could find it."

Nico snorted derisively and replied, "It's obviously not very secure if I can get in without even knowing it."

Albus frowned at the answer. He completely avoided the question.

It seems a different approach is in order. He reached into his robes and pulled out the damaged locket.

The Order members looked at it with interest.

Albus looked expectantly at the boy. A flash of recognition crossed his face until he schooled his expression once again.

He has been interrogated before.

"Then why did you destroy this locket? We found it next to you after you fell unconscious."

Nico glowered at him but said nothing, causing the Order members to mutter amongst themselves.

"He's guilty of something, Albus."

Albus ignored Alastor's comment, still pinpointing his gaze on the boy who looked very annoyed with himself.

"Mr. di Angelo?" he prompted.

Nico snapped out of his thoughts and glared at Albus. The Order members and their leader stepped back, wary at the ferocity of the gaze.

"It's none of your business, Mr. Dumbledore. Now if you will allow me to leave—"

"Nonsense!" Alastor snapped, hobbling forward.

"Alastor!" Albus warned, trying to get the man to stop.

Alastor took no heed of the comment, continuing forward to the boy at a considerable speed. He reached into his robes and pulled out a tiny vial full of clear liquid—Albus's eyes widened. He quickly reached for his wand, warning Alastor against his actions.

The members in the back realized what the Auror was about to do and ran forward with their wands in hands. But they did not want to stun their ally. Nico just watched with a puzzled expression, his instincts screaming at him to back away.

Looking back, he'd wished he'd listened.

With the swiftness of a cobra, Alastor's hand lunged forward and grabbed hold of Nico's mouth, holding it open. Nico, surprised, froze for a second until he saw the bottle of liquid heading for his exposed mouth.

Nico struggled to get out of the man's grip but was too weak from his previous excursion. The Order members froze in horror as the bottle was unwillingly administered to Nico. Silence—terrible, morbid silence—reigned as the contents of the bottle forced their way into Nico's mouth.

Nico tried to spit it out but Alastor growled, "Swallow!"

He proceeded to clamp the boy's mouth shut and hold his head up towards the ceiling.

Eventually they heard the dramatic gulp of the swallow. Pleased, Alastor let go of the boy. But before he could ask any questions, Albus reprimanded the paranoid wizard.

"Alastor! What were you thinking? You know how dangerous the truth serum can be—"

"We need answers, Albus! These are suspicious times. You know that as well as I do."

"Still, Mad-eye. You didn't have to pour anything down the poor boy's throat! You have no sense of morality."

"Molly, Alastor; that is enough!" Albus roared.

Silence descended upon the group, like a vacuum had sucked every word, every noise.

It was only broken by the coughing of one truth-serum-administered boy.

"What did you do to me?" rasped Nico, coughing and hacking.

No one spoke, too afraid that they would be on the receiving end of Albus's rage. But then Alastor snapped out of his trance.

"Who are you?" he barked, looming over Nico menacingly.

"Alastor! You may not—"

"Albus, it's already been administered. We might as well press it to our advantage," was the voice of reason through one Severus Snape.

Albus stared at him for a few lingering seconds before nodding once, though very reluctantly. He did not like that the child before them may be subjected to invasion of privacy. As Albus looked at Nico, the boy was red and clammy from trying to keep his mouth shut.

Albus was inwardly impressed that he managed to hold out this long.

"It is alright, Mr. di Angelo. We will not make you answer anything you do not want to. But would you please cooperate?"

It was the only thing that Albus could do now. Alastor might have effectively ruined their one chance to gain the boy's trust. Nico glared threateningly at them, but nodded jerkily. He was still trying to resist Alastor's question.

With a sigh, Albus repeated, "What is your name?"

"Nico di Angelo," was the instantaneous reply.

Albus observed Nico's expression as he began to realize the true power of the truth serum. Fear pooled in his dark eyes. Albus felt wrong by doing this—invading Nico's privacy. But what was done was done.

"Where are you from?"

They had already procured this information, but it would be reassuring to have it revealed under the truth serum.

"The United States of America."

Albus was pleased. Nico had been telling the truth so far.

"How did you find this place?"

Nico visibly bristled, glowering at the people in the room.

"I was somehow transported right outside of this place."

Nico looked sour at the revelation. The Order members looked on with interest. Albus was intrigued. But Alastor was a little less accepting.

"Are you a wizard?" he growled, throwing the Statute of Secrecy out the window.

"Alastor!"

"Moody!"

"Of course he's a wizard, you dunderhead! How else would he have gotten in—"

"No."

A stunned silence fell on the group. They looked at the strange boy with utter shock and astonishment. If he wasn't a wizard, then how did he get in?

Even Albus was at a loss for words. Nico bubbled with rage inside, cursing the truth serum as well as the paranoid idiot that gave it to him.

If he didn't have this truth potion making him tell the real honest truth then he could have made something up. An elaborate hoax while trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

"Then how the hell did you get in?" Sirius asked, breaking everyone out of their trance.

Nico stayed silent for a while. His scowled in pain as he attempted to fight off the veritaserum. A few minutes passed as Nico became more and more sickly. His cheeks were red with strain and his limbs fidgeted in random spasms.

At last, he collapsed back onto the oval table, unconscious once more.