Chapter Text
Chapter 4: Patterns and Habits
The weeks following the Wit-Sharpening Potion incident slipped into a rhythm as steady and inexorable as the turning of the seasons outside Hogwarts' ancient walls. December deepened into a crisp, unrelenting winter: frost etched delicate patterns on the dungeon windows each morning, the Black Lake's surface occasionally skimmed with thin ice that cracked under the weight of the giant squid's lazy movements. Snow fell in heavy, silent blankets over the grounds, muffling the world beyond the castle—though owls still brought fragmented news of the Muggle war: Coventry's ruins, London's enduring blackouts, the distant thunder of bombs that even magical folk discussed in hushed tones over breakfast.
Hadrian Peverell navigated this rhythm with the precision of a man who had long ago learned that survival lay in blending into the pattern until one could rewrite it from within. Mornings began the same: the seven o'clock bell, the cool wash of lake-filtered light, the quiet choreography of dressing in the fifth-year dormitory. He rose before the others most days, performing silent calisthenics inherited from Auror training in another life—stretches to keep the younger body limber, breathing exercises to center the mind. By the time Abraxas stirred with his customary groan or Mulciber thumped heavily out of bed, Hadrian was already immaculate: robes pressed by a discreet charm, tie knotted flawlessly, hair tamed just enough to look effortlessly aristocratic.
Breakfast in the Great Hall remained a tableau of controlled chaos. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the leaden skies, occasional flurries of snow drifting across its illusion. House-elves—unseen but ever-efficient—replenished platters with wartime austerity in mind: thick porridge laced with dried fruits, toast with scant jam, sausages that were more filler than meat but flavored impeccably. Pumpkin juice steamed in goblets, tea brewed strong to combat the chill seeping through stone walls. Slytherins clustered in their green-and-silver enclave, conversations laced with house pride and subtle barbs at the other tables—Gryffindors too loud, Ravenclaws too pedantic, Hufflepuffs too earnest.
Hadrian sat in his established spot, engaging minimally but perfectly: a nod to Rosier's commentary on Quidditch prospects (matches postponed indefinitely due to "national precautions"), a mild laugh at Abraxas's anecdote about his father's latest Ministry connection. Tom Riddle presided further up the table, his circle orbiting with practiced deference. But Hadrian noted the shifts—the way Tom's dark eyes flicked toward him more often now, assessing, cataloguing.
The probing began subtly, engineered with the finesse of someone who understood power's currency was information.
It started in the common room one evening after dinner, the dungeon space alive with low firelight and the constant murmur of the lake against glass. Students sprawled in leather armchairs or at carved tables: younger ones practicing basic charms, older ones debating blood purity in veiled terms sharpened by the era's tensions. Hadrian sat near a window, a heavy tome on Advanced Potion-Making open on his lap—Libatius Borage's text, annotated in his precise handwriting with marginal notes on variations he "recalled" from continental study.
Tom approached not directly, but as part of a group—Abraxas trailing with a chessboard, Lestrange nursing a goblet of mulled cider charmed warm against the cold.
"Mind if we join, Peverell?" Tom asked, voice smooth as polished obsidian. He settled into the opposite chair without waiting, gesturing for the others to do the same. Public, casual—never isolated.
"Not at all," Hadrian replied, closing the book with a soft thud. His posture remained relaxed: one leg crossed over the other, hands folded neatly.
Abraxas set up the chessboard between himself and Lestrange, pieces animating with eager snarls. Tom leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees, expression one of polite curiosity.
"Settling into Hogwarts life alright? It's quite different from abroad, I imagine."
Hadrian inclined his head. "It has its charms. The castle's history is... tangible here in a way continental schools lack."
Tom's smile was faint, engaging. "France, was it? Beauxbatons influence, perhaps?"
"Private tutors, mostly," Hadrian said truthfully—Death's adjustments had woven that seamlessly into his fabricated history. "Family preferred discretion during unstable times."
A nod from Tom, accepting without pressure. "Wise. The Peverells have always valued privacy, from what I've read. Antioch, Cadmus, Ignotus—the Tales of Beedle the Bard make them sound almost mythical."
Hadrian allowed a small, enigmatic smile. "Legends grow in the telling. My branch was more reclusive—estates warded heavily, records sparse."
Nothing useful: no locations, no living relatives, no vulnerabilities. Tom probed gently about magical theory next—during a shared Transfiguration class with Dumbledore, as they practiced vanishing small mammals (rabbits today, twitching nervously in cages).
Dumbledore's classroom was sunlit despite the snow outside, high windows framing the white-blanketed grounds. The professor—younger, auburn-bearded, eyes already piercing behind half-moon spectacles—demonstrated with effortless grace, a rabbit disappearing in a swirl of smoke.
"Excellent form, Mr. Riddle," Dumbledore noted as Tom's vanished cleanly. Then, turning to Hadrian's equally flawless attempt: "And you, Mr. Peverell—precise wand movement. Continental flair?"
Hadrian lowered his wand. "Practicality over flourish, Professor."
After class, in the corridor throng, Tom fell into step beside him—Abraxas and Rosier flanking, making it a group.
"Vanishing spells—do you favor the theoretical approach? Intent-driven, or more... structural?"
Hadrian considered, voice even. "Both. Intent shapes the magic, but understanding the object's essence ensures permanence."
Tom's eyes gleamed. "Interesting. Most here lean one way or the other."
Again, truthful but barren—no revelation of deeper knowledge, no hook for further exploitation.
Hadrian observed the patterns in return.
Tom never touched certain topics: Muggle-borns directly, though his circle's conversations skirted them with disdain; his own orphanage origins, deflected with charming vagueness; emotion, always masked behind intellect. In Defense Against the Dark Arts with Professor Merrythought—a stern witch with iron-grey hair pinned severely—Tom dominated discussions on inferi, his knowledge encyclopedic.
But when Hadrian subtly corrected a minor point— "Inferi are vulnerable to fire, yes, but sustained heat disrupts the necromantic binding more than bursts"—Tom's jaw tightened imperceptibly. A flash in those dark eyes, gone instantly behind a nod of agreement.
"Peverell's right," Tom said smoothly to the class. "Precision matters."
Yet Hadrian noted the quill gripped a fraction too hard afterward, ink blotting the parchment.
Tom hated being second, even when he pretended indifference—smiling graciously when Slughorn praised Hadrian's Draught of Living Death in Potions ("Flawless, my boy! A Slug Club invitation soon, mark my words!"), but his conversation turned sharper that evening, probing Hadrian's "luck" with ingredients.
Professor Dumbledore's attention sharpened too. In the library one afternoon—vast shelves towering under Madam Pince's hawkish gaze, air thick with dust and vellum—Hadrian researched warding theory, cross-referencing texts on ancient blood magics without delving too deep.
Dumbledore passed his table, pausing. "Mr. Peverell. Fascinating choices—Peverell lineage drawing you to ancestral protections?"
"A general interest, Professor," Hadrian replied respectfully.
Those blue eyes lingered. "Knowledge is a powerful ward in itself. And sometimes... a burden."
Later, in Transfiguration, Dumbledore's gaze flicked between Hadrian and Tom more than once—Tom animating teacups into tortoises with elegant efficiency, Hadrian matching seamlessly.
The key moment came during a rare free period in the Slytherin common room, snowstorm raging outside, reducing the lake light to murky gloom. Fires crackled in multiple grates, students bundled in extra robes. Tom orchestrated it masterfully: suggesting a group discussion on "philosophical magics" to Avery, Nott, and Druella Rosier (a sharp fourth-year with Black family ties), drawing Hadrian in naturally.
They sat in a loose circle near the central fireplace, flames casting serpentine shadows on stone walls. Conversation meandered: soul magic's ethics (taboo but tantalizing), the Ministry's blood registry proposals.
Then Tom posed it casually, eyes on the fire but voice carrying.
"Do you believe some people are simply... lesser? Born without the spark that elevates others? Muggle-borns scraping by on borrowed magic, perhaps."
The group leaned in—Abraxas nodding eagerly, Avery smirking.
Hadrian met Tom's gaze steadily across the flames. Neutral, measured.
"Potential isn't inherited neatly," he said quietly. "Magic manifests unpredictably—brilliantly in unexpected places, dimly where one might assume strength. Judging 'lesser' presumes we understand the full measure of a soul's capacity. History shows that's... presumptuous."
Not agreement—implying arrogance in such judgments. Not challenge—framed as observation, unsettling in its detachment.
Silence stretched. Tom's smile remained, but his fingers stilled on his goblet.
"Presumptuous," he echoed softly. "An interesting word."
The conversation shifted after—Abraxas blustering about purity, but the moment lingered.
That evening, as Hadrian retired early, feigning a headache from the storm's pressure, he reflected in the dormitory's quiet. Tom had probed repeatedly, assessing alliances, weaknesses, threats. The moral question was a test—gauging ideology, loyalty.
Tom saw him now not as another follower, but as something unknown. A potential rival. A threat.
Dumbledore watched both, piecing patterns perhaps too early.
Yet Hadrian acted on none of it. Observation only. No interference. The rules held ironclad.
He lay in the dark, listening to Tom's even breathing across the room—too controlled for true relaxation.
Patterns were forming. Habits revealed.
The game deepened, but Hadrian remained the perfect shadow—watching, waiting, untouched.
For now.