Chapter Text
In the candlelight, his skin glows gold, cheeks flushed with red. His eyes scan the sea of redheads and his fingertips balance a golden form between them, looking at both everything and nothing, legs bouncing beneath the oak tables.
He sits at the end of table and tries to ignore the white noise of muttering in his ears, answering questions with short, awkward answers and keeping his hands on his cutlery to keep them still. The golden tablecloth contrasts against the alabaster white of his skin, the colour dancing over him like a smattering of something beautiful. He wears a placid expression, concealing the anxiety brewing in his chest. The candle lights paints him in gold.
He can't remember what Dumbledore has said, exactly, after he sat down and tried to ignore the stares burning into his skin, but his purple robes catches Nico’s divided attention again and his focus lands on the wizard, once more. His features deepen in the candlelight, giving age and character to those blue blue eyes of his, when his eyebrows climb upwards at the muttering buzzing around the body of students. He doesn't say anything, however, and Nico’s attention is drawn to the golden plates now covered by food that makes his stomach churn a little.
He glances to his side, a cold feeling harbouring in his chest and prickling over his skin, when he spots the ghost from earlier hovering around Harry, Ron and Hermione, an expression of shock and fear poisoning it's features when it notices Nico’s dark dark eyes on it. It's almost severed head rocks precariously, and it's silver, glassy eyes turn back to the trio when Nico can almost feel it trying to ignore his gaze.
“–the Hat gave several warnings before,” he hears it say with his gaze on the students, “always at times when it detects periods of great danger for the school. And always, of course, it's advice is the same: stand together, be strong from within.” It's voice trails off a little, and Nico barely hears Ron’s reply through the buzz in his ears.
‘Ow kunnit nofe skusin danger ifzat?' mumbles Ron, cheeks puffed out.
“I beg your pardon?”
After that, Nico tunes them out and redirects his gaze to his plate, still empty, cold under his touch.
The food is very nice, he supposes, but his stomach churns and his legs bounce under the table with nerves, so he doesn't really eat that much other than what he figures is required to look genuine. He eats, and doesn't offer to burn any, either, reasoning that it would attract too much unwanted attention that he definitely doesn't want right now.
(He ignores the nagging that says that his reluctance has something to do with the gods being the reason Nico’s childhood went up in flames, too. He ignores it, a little).
By now, most people have figured that he doesn't really want to be answering questions, and he’s left alone is a kind of strange solitude in his own bubble of quiet. His legs relax, stop bouncing, and brush against the bench as he swallows the last of his meal down, savouring the taste on his tongue and hoping it won't turn to bitterness like it often does. He supposes he should be grateful he can taste anything at all, unlike sometimes after he has undergone stress and shadow travel. He supposes he should be grateful for a lot of things
Eventually, the meals clear from the plates and platters and Dumbledore rises again, that same look of character on his features that remind Nico of Chiron, in a way. He quickly pushes the thought aside. Dumbledore grins with his teeth glinting in the candlelight.
“Well, now that we are all digesting another magnificent feast, I beg a few moments of your attention for the usual start-of-term notices,” says Dumbledore, blue blue eyes sweeping over the hall and outstretching his arms.
“First-years ought to know that the Forest in the grounds is out-of-bounds to students – and a few of our older students ought to know by now, too.” From the corner of his eye, Nico see's the Gryffindor trio smirk a little to each other and he raises a brow, a part of him wondering what could possibly be in such forest.
“Mr Filch, the caretaker, has asked me, for what he tells me is the four-hundred-and-sixty-second time, to remind you all that magic is not permitted in corridors between classes, nor are a number of other things, all of which can be checked on the extensive list now fastened to Mr Filch’s office door. We have had two changes in staffing this year.”
Nico scans the staff table, lingering for a second on a woman he doesn't know how he didn't notice before. The pink of her clothes contrasts against the plain robes the rest of the staff wear, sweet, poisonous smile catching his breath in his throat. His eyes narrow, and her patience does, too.
“We are very pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking Care of Magical Creatures lessons; we are also delighted to introduce Professor Umbridge, our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.”
There was a round of polite applause, but it was stunted and unenthusiastic and tension thickens in the hall.
Dumbledore continues, seemingly oblivious to the mood, “Tryouts for the house Quidditch teams will take place on the –”
He breaks off, words interrupted by a cough from the teacher Nico can only guess is Professor Umbridge, with her pink cardigan and violently sugared eyes. She stands, her legs short and her arms thick, wearing an expression of fake interest with honeyed words and pretty lies. For a moment, Dumbledore seems taken aback, before he sits and looks inquisitively at Professor Umbridge with a almost convincing alertness if Nico didn't know better.
“Thank you, Headmaster,” Professor Umbridge simpers, “for those kind words of welcome.”
Nico, almost wincing at her voice of all breath and high-pitched tones, pulls his bow lips together and bites down on his tongue. A flare of dislike flares through his veins.
She smiles sweetly, a flash of pointed, white teeth, and continues. “Well, it is lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I must say!”
“And to see such happy little faces looking up at me!”
Nico almost chokes, glancing around at the faces around him that definitely don't look remotely happy, instead wearing frowns and glares that he mirrors.
“I am very much looking forward to getting to know you all and I’m sure we’ll be very good friends!
The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance.
The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by careful instruction. The ancient skills unique to the wizarding community must be passed down the generations lest we lose them forever. The treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our ancestors must be guarded, replenished and polished by those who have been called to the noble profession of teaching.”
Professor Umbridge pauses and bows to the teachers, as if to expect one back. Expectedly, none do, and Nico notices that Professor McGonagall’s dark eyebrows have drawn together tightly, her mouth a thin line and eyes like snakes.
“Every headmaster and headmistress of Hogwarts has brought something new to the weighty task of governing this historic school, and that is as it should be, for without progress there will be stagnation and decay.
There again, progress for progress’s sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering. A balance, then, between old and new, between permanence and change, between tradition and innovation …”
Nico finds his leg bouncing again, his mind slowing almost like a broken radio searching for a signal it knows it won’t find, but he forces his attention to focus and glares at his hands.
“... because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognised as errors of judgement.
Meanwhile, some old habits will be retained, and rightly so, whereas others, outmoded and outworn, must be abandoned. Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited.”
She sits, and the silence that follows her speech is threatening, stagnant and difficult to swallow until it is broken by scattered claps that eventually break into applause. Nico doesn't clap with them.
He frowns, grasping onto any information that he can remember before he forgets it. To his left, he can hear Hermione and Ron and Harry muttering together, necks bent and heads bowed and their eyebrows all kinds of different expressions. Harry’s dark hair falls over his face, and his startling green eyes are muted and dulled as though her speech had taken something from them. Hermione is frowning, eyes accusing and tone incredulous, speaking far too fast for Nico to hear what she is saying. The fire of Ron’s hair anchors his attention, and he watches with bated breath as Dumbledore regards Professor Umbridge with a nod as he stands again. Silence, only broken by scattered, lingering mutters, rests on the hall.
“Thank you very much, Professor Umbridge, that was most illuminating,” he says, bowing to her, expression light and polite despite the conflicting emotions in those blue blue irises Nico can't help to notice.
“Now, as I was saying, Quidditch tryouts will be held …”