Chapter Text

Chapter One

Leather-bound pages piled hazardously upon the floor beneath booted heels. Ink coated parchments sporadically blanketing an old ottoman. The crackling of fire—herded within the confines of the architecturally impossible fireplace providing the dimly lit room with a comfortable warm glow—filling the silent backdrop of the library space as a soothing ambience.

Only a singular occupant—besides the numerous living paintings hanging across the walls, hidden away by closed curtains—bringing life to the space. A false brunette with startling green eyes—a color so often used to symbolize Life, yet perhaps it was better to say it represented Nature as a whole—those of his community associated with Death.

Leaning against the arm of a single-seated sofa with the fireplace to his back. Slender legs—those belonging to a runner—dangling over the opposite armrest in an undignified yet oddly charismatic fashion.

From its rest against the sofa’s arm, exposed to the heat of the fire his face warmed to a burn-like red, whilst he took in the upside-down view of the world and flickering flames glaring at nothing.

“Happy Birthday, Potter.” The room’s occupant—a rather recognizable Harry Potter—grumbled. Sixteen and unfortunately counting, as one twinkly-eyed bastard would say.

“What was it people say? One year older, one year wiser.” Harry scoffed at the notion. “What a bloody understatement.”

Certainly, another year celebrated with the traditional surprise ice bath of trauma, and a complementary leaky bucket of useless platitudes, left him brimming with wisdom—and utterly infuriated. All that was missing to carry on tradition was the screeching of his bitchy Aunt Petunia that was in no way comforting or caring but helped him feel just a bit less alone.

It wouldn’t come though. Not this year, not whilst in Number 12 Grimmauld Place, as he was left sitting alone within the famous Black Library. Only unlike last year, Harry hadn’t actually been invited.

So you know, as was tradition at this point, he was still struck hiding. Except it was from the very bastards, who proclaimed they’d protect him last year—bastards that shouldn’t even be allowed in this house.

Surprise, surprise! 

Dumbledore and his stupid Order, keeping the last things he had of his Godfather—or rather, Uncle—to themselves. 

Merlin’s saggy-balls, what Harry wouldn’t give to shred those bastards idling away downstairs apart. To tear into them with the claws they tried so tirelessly to trim and the vitriol they forced him to swallow.

He could visualize it now! Storming downstairs—like the hellish fury his mother was once described as—with the glorious sharp-toothed grinning snarl of a Goblin, the wildly unpredictable wrathful grace of a Veela, the smooth whip-like silver tongue of a Vampire, the vengeful-determination of a Werewolf, and the petrifying deadly glare of a Basilisk.

He could see himself, standing proud before the cowardly bastardized side of “Good”. He’d warm up first, taking advantage of their initial shock.

He’d keep his voice light, at least in pitch, with a deceptively cheery tone that left one sick his tone sickeningly cheery. Probably saying something along the lines of; “Oh, what a surprise to see all of you here! Remember me? Your kid saviour that you left rotting at his abusive relatives after the murder of his Uncle!”

And then as the shock wore off, he’d interrupt their triad of false concern and probing questions, by latching on with his fangs—vaguely alluding to or outright bringing up their darkest secrets—to rile them up imperceptibly injecting them with venom by striking them where it hurt. All the while prepping for the killing blow of ripping open their deepest wounds, where he’d leave them bare with salt and citrus, unable to heal as the living tissue was agonizingly eaten away by maggots and vultures. 

But instead, he restrained himself. It couldn’t be helped, as satisfying as their shocked faces would be in those first five-ten minutes of his reveal, their predictability would spoil any satisfaction left as they pushed forward stubbornly to gaslight him with steadfast denials of any wrongdoing and ever-looping lectures. He could practically hear the echo of their voices parroting the old-coot’s words, ‘Potter isn’t allowed to arrive for another month. He needs to remain with his family, to allow the blood-wards to replenish.’

“Hahahah.” The laugh that rumbled out from the depths of his chest could not be described as anything but a dark foreboding chuckle. A malicious sneer creeping up his face, as he glared at the fire. “More like one step closer to the grave. Sixteen years and I can already see my metaphorical coffin in front of me.”

Dumbledore ought to have informed his relatives of this plan of his. Especially considering the bint, Petunia was aware of the Magical World. Even if Tunie somehow hadn’t been aware—unlikely given Lily’s history of correspondence with her during Hogwarts—of the Black Family’s wealth, of inheritance rights, and heir ships. Even if Sirius hadn’t been…gone.

There was no longer any conceivable reason for the Dursleys to continue to entertain the thought of housing a Freak that had the resources to house itself. After all, the year prior the other Freaks had taken Harry away early, so there was no reason they couldn’t do it again.

Yet—due to the Old-Coot’s arrogance and tendency to overestimate the weight his authority held over others—at a little past midnight, the nearly sixteen-year-old Boy-Who-Lived found himself thrown out on the streets of London, and ordered to fend for himself. Wandering around for shelter, not an Order member in sight—despite the bastards claiming to keep watch over him 24/7—for what literal hours. By the time the sun came over the horizon, Harry had even been hoping for a Death Eater to show.

He’d gotten lucky though.

Kreacher, in the batty elf’s infinite wisdom, decided that the son—even an illegitimate half-blood one—of his favorite master could not live on the streets. Of course, this was only after he realized Harry’s situation. Originally, the elf had only shown up with the desire for the Heir to rid his home of the filth invading it.

And wasn’t that another wonderful, early birthday surprise! Not only had the Order been invading his rightful residence, but contrary to popular belief, James Potter was not his father.

Oh, and the slippery bastard that was Dumbledore knew.

Magic whipped angrily around the enchanted room. A whirlwind, that swept loose parchment away in a violent spiral. Howling in its unmeasurable rage.

Away from the furious yet controlled storm. A Black Family Tapestry bellowed in the back of the library, as if hit by a gentle breeze. The Family Tree appeared timeless, branches winding on and on, bearing names as though leaves or fruit. As it grew, however, those names suddenly thinned, some branches appearing as though cut abruptly or pruned unequally.

At the very tip, two lone branches reached out to the sky. Elegant characters dimmed to a lost grey, a show of status. One flickered softly between black and grey, as if it could not decide. The carefully cut inscriptions reading, Sirius Orion Black, and Regulus Arcturus Black, respectively.

Growing from the greyed name of Regulus Arcturus Black, and a precious red spider lily, was the singular name Hadrian Orion Black.

Back by the fireplace, Harry forced his magic to settle. Cringing at the slightly painful sensation.

The scowl on his face growing more pronounced. Harry had felt it, in his singular descent downstairs, the pathetic fourth year object glamour cast upon the Tapestry. Utterly reeking of Dumbledore’s slimy magic. Yet acting as if the secret wasn’t even worth hiding with such pathetically countered magic.

The goat was overconfident. To sure, in his own brilliance, with his head stuck up his ass. To even entertain the idea of his pawns having so little trust in him. That they would not trust his word.

Hypocrites . The lot of them. Dumbledore, and the rest of the Order. Breaking the laws he put in place, all to exploit a child . To control his little kingdom .

If only he had known. If he had known, in the early days of his childhood, Harry would have never allowed himself to be thrust into the war as a centerpiece. Had he learned the truth during any of the following years, he would’ve done everything possible to withdraw.

But against his better judgement, Harry had believed his Headmaster knew what he was doing, and would protect him. A mistake. There had been a line, a line which the goat had crossed without pause.

It seemed so foolish, having believed a man that had brought him nothing. Nothing but ever-present misery, encroaching danger, and inevitable death to not only Harry himself, but to his loved ones.

There was no question in his mind. If Dumbledore had just talked to him. Just acknowledged or discussed all the issues and concerns with Umbridge, Harry never would’ve been so brash as to break into the Department of Mysteries with his freaking classmates. 

Honestly, looking back on the ordeal, Harry didn’t know what he’d been thinking. Then again, he probably hadn’t been.

He’d been sleep-deprived from constant nightmares, paranoid from regular excessive detentions and sneaking around for the DA, not to mention stressed, both due to coming exams, making lesson plans, and being under near constant surveillance. Adding on the consistent torture of writing into his own bloody hand, and every adult he confided in brushing him off or telling him to suck it up…

Maybe before he could’ve tolerated and forgiven information being withheld from him, but no longer. Harry had learned his lesson. Especially since his failure recklessness resulted in the death of a loved one and threw countless others in danger too. A line needed to be drawn, if Dumbledore wanted to use him he needed to—in the very least—make it work with his temper, let alone dare to involve those Harry cared about. Harry doubted he could expect that much from the goat so he’d drawn the line at withholding or manipulating information.

For all his ambition, Dumbledore was no Slytherin, a fact that showed in his sloppy manipulations and crude ways. But that didn’t mean the man was stupid.

So late in the game, knowledge of Harry’s biological parents seemed inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. (It wasn’t, and any true Slytherin could tell you at least five ways such knowledge could be used to bolster support for the Order/Light or to attack the Dark and or the other way around.) Not to mention, at this point with all the ways Harry hindered him, Voldemort wouldn’t give a rats ass who Harry’s parents were. Well besides being furious over the betrayal of own of his inner circle.

The main problem lay in how it would affect Dumbledore. It was proof, after all. Proof of Dumbledore’s crimes. Which wasn’t new. The man considered himself above mortal law, but this time it changed the course of tens if not hundreds of people’s lives who steered the magical world. Allowing him to actively manipulate the magical world in the direction he thought best. 

To a Greater Good , that didn’t even exist.

“What bullshit.” He snarled. Fists clenching, his nails digging crescents into his palms.

Harry remembered simpler times. Sitting peacefully in the library with Hermione, a constant back and forth dialogue composed of long-winded ranting debates over Lily Potter’s lost sensibilities.

Like critics, they groomed the registry of his mother’s years in Hogwarts, calculating the desirability of the bachelors and even the bachelorettes of her years. Critiquing both the dead and living, as they piled together a list of reasonable suitors.

The result did not leave room for doubt. Whether it was temperament, appearance, or intelligence, James Charlus Potter was a nobody compared to his peers. Leaving much to be desired both as a husband and a father. 

(Admittedly, they’d always been harsh on James even when it was believed the spoiled Lord Potter was Harry’s father. In Hermione’s words, Harry was a complete momma’s boy.)

It was an impossibility that Lily would slink so low as to date James. But many say Love is blind. It was the only reason the two of them had given the often questionable Headmaster, and the rest of the living Wizarding World, the benefit of the doubt.

After all, Lily and James Potter truly did sound helplessly in love when people talked about them. Only a blind woman could sink so low as to marry someone like James, given their history. The thought that such a head-over-heels couple would cheat on each other was inconvincible as well.

Until it wasn’t. 

Mudblood. It all came down to that word. The final piece of the puzzle.

It was common knowledge that Lily Jane Evans had loathed James Potter and his friends. A group of malicious bullies—who didn’t even deserve the title of pranksters—obsessed with controlling her in the name of their “leader’s” infatuation.

It was her misfortune that James had organised a group which excelled at just that. A skittish, intelligent werewolf, a sniffling cowardly rat, and a desperate, abused hound. Led by an arrogant stag. The desire for acceptance amongst one’s peers is strong even so early in life for the isolated.

An isolation Lily quickly found herself enveloped in. A world of acquaintances without friends. If the “pack” did not approve of those she associated with; they’d find themselves targeted by cruel, humiliating attacks, disguised beneath the name of pranks.

And one by one, without fail, Lily would find herself held at a distance amongst her peers in their desperate attempt to escape retaliation.

The shining example of breaking the mould, Severus Tobias Snape. Holding his own against the cruelty of his peers, to firmly maintain his friendship with Lily. The very reason he found himself relentlessly targeted.

So early was he targeted. It could be nothing else. Not his placement in Slytherin, his potion greased hair, nor his dismal attitude. Not his heritage, blood-status, magic, or aptitude.

On September 1st 1971, Lilian Jane Evans was seated comfortably beside her childhood friend, Severus Tobias Snape, animatedly discussing Hogwarts: A History , within an isolated compartment. When one, James Charlus Potter, burst into their enclosed compartment looking for his minion friend, Peter Pettigrew.

Not even a word spoken. It was love at first sight for James Potter as his dim grey eyes locked upon the flaming red hair of Lily Evans. Only noticing Severus due to the boy’s annoyed dismissal of him. Seated so cosily beside what he determined was now his, Severus was deemed a pest which needed to be removed.

As for Snape, a special place existed in the hearts of the traumatised and abused. An unfortunate relationship, built upon by an unacknowledged knowledge of toxic relationships. As many would after him, he attached himself to the first person he determined worthy, the one that accepted him, that saw worth in nothing.

Snape ceased to exist the moment Lily adopted him. Unfortunately, not every child was lucky enough to latch onto someone like Lily. Someone who would help rebuild Snape, encourage independence, and cared to help him heal.

Harry James Potter and Sirius Orion Black were perfect examples of this. Sirius had attached himself to James, who was his extroverted and confident dorm mate. Meanwhile, Harry had done the same to Ron after his first year. Harry and Sirius ceased existing once they’d attached themselves. Nothing was too much to ensure they remained with the other, changing everything about themselves to fit within their orbit. They were willfully blind to the reality of what unlikable asses their friends had been.

Sticking to someone like glue, as it was the first time anyone had wanted to be their friend.

Harry wasn’t alone, however. No longer was he so desperate to latch on to Ron with reckless abandon and believe it was for the best. To latch on at the first sign of friendship, without even a care for how terrible of a person the other was.

Harry had Hermione, his beloved older sister. The intelligent first generation witch, who had quickly taken notice of the toxic attachment between Harry and Ron. Who spent the entire summer of Second Year and a portion of Third Year, researching psychology, and establishing therapy sessions to help him. Going as far as abusing the Time-Turner given to her by Dumbledore to ensure his recovery.

There was Neville, his younger brother. A true Gryffindor, who despite the bullying he experienced steadfastly, supported Harry through all his struggles. Who, against the odds and adversity, stepped forward in his defence when Harry had barely even acknowledged his existence. 

Not to mention Luna, his beloved little moon. The beautiful Ravenclaw, Harry adored his lovably ditzy, all-seeing younger sister. She was a ray of shining moonlight in the otherwise endless dark night that was Harry. 

Sirius wasn’t like Harry, though. So thoroughly isolated, he was. Publicly disowned, a Black in a house of `light families’, not to mention a prankster turned bully. The only redeemable friend he had was Remus, who was too preoccupied with his own problems to notice Sirius’.

Looking at it this way, Sirius was the most unfortunate of the three of them, even if he found comfort in the Potters. Sirius had never existed.

In the end, it was this knowledge that led him to the unnaturalness which stood out in the break between Lily and Snape.

There still existed several unhealthy aspects to their friendship, the proof littered in their history. From Snape’s past infatuation with Lily, putting her on a pedestal, and his radically different treatment of Petunia, based solely on her being inferior to Lily, despite the kindness the—now bitter—woman had given him.  

The abrupt ending of their eight-year friendship, which had survived the course of constant targeting by their own houses, over a derogatory name, retorted in a stressful situation. It was unnatural. 

There was more to the situation than met the eyes. Even within the eyes of the beholder. Plus, Harry had seen it, had heard it. Within the Pensive memory of the Potions Master. That word, Mudblood, had been spit in his mother’s face, masked by anger with an underlying tone of hurt, an overwhelming feeling of betrayal. 

There was no hurt in his mother’s eyes, not when such a cruel word was thrown at her from her childhood friend. There had been confusion, concern, followed by horrified understanding, and concern before finally settling into silent pleading.

Of all those feelings, only one had been directed at Snape. A look that had pleaded with him to understand, to give her a chance to explain herself. That had been the only thing directed at Snape.

The rest had been lost on someone hidden in the crowd of arriving Slytherins. Someone he now recognized.

Regulus Black. Best friend of Severus Tobias Snape. It only made sense if it was him. The betrayal which racked through Snape. 

He must have found out about Lily and Regulus’ relationship that day. The knowledge that your best friend, who likely knew of his “crush” on his childhood friend, was in fact in a secret relationship with said childhood friend, wouldn’t have been easier to handle. 

Given Snape’s home life, he probably felt threatened, his natural coping method often anger, but he’d also try to be understanding because they were his only friends. However, he was never given the chance to cool down after learning this information.

Going from such a shocking revelation to being an unwilling participant in a targeted humiliating “prank” directed at him solely because he stayed beside his childhood friend would be extraordinarily stressful.

He was probably already at his breaking point when Lily came to defend him. Seeing her so soon was likely what triggered his angry outburst.

After all of that, Lily probably gave him space so he could come to terms with her and Regulus’ relationship, which was mistaken as hurt by others. However, Harry didn’t believe that they never reconciled. 

Harry wouldn’t be surprised if he was told Severus’ acquisition of the dark mark was done at the request of Lily. A shared wish for someone to protect Regulus who’d been forced to take the mark while still in Hogwarts. 

No matter how she may have wanted to, Lily was out of the question as a muggleborn. Severus, on the other hand, not only was a grudgingly accepted half-blood, but he was skilled in spell-crafting and a Potion Master to boot.

As for why, his mother would marry James Potter, someone she hated, instead of staying single, occasionally sneaking away with Regulus?

Without the protection of Hogwarts, Muggleborns could do little to nothing against the Noble and Ancient Houses. With how controlling James had tried to be within Hogwarts, Harry would not be surprised if his mother had been backed into a corner and forced to marry James. 

He especially wouldn’t be surprised if it had something to do with the trial which took place about a muggleborn using the Cruciatus Curse on a Noble Lord. 

Without support, Lily would’ve probably been thrown into Azkaban, though she likely would’ve preferred that to marrying James and being forced to sleep with him too. However, Harry also found a Black Family spell which allowed the caster to manipulate and implant memories into another person on a level not even Oblivate could compare. 

With how utterly possessive Blacks seem to be towards their person of interest, Harry was sure his actual father had taught it to his mother, and that his mother had rather happily abused it. 

Of course, this was all Harry’s own speculation of what transpired up till his birth, even if he had pieces of evidence. The only way of knowing the truth was to ask the only true living witness, Severus Snape, who was rather unfortunately out of his reach at this given moment. 

Resigned, he sighed as he gazed into the now dying fire. Calling toward his magic, like an extension of himself, it wrapped around a log, dragging it through the air. Chucking it within the fire, a devious grin spread across his face.

“ Bombarda .” His green eyes danced with delight as the wandless spell hit the dying fire, the soft quake of the walls as the controlled explosion brought the fire roaring to life.

The thrill of setting something alight sent a shiver down his spine. This newfound obsession of his ought to be worrying. But it was hard to resist the sweet temptation of destruction in the face of his newfound control over his magic.

Hermione, in her countless hours of research, believed that he had collared his magic, chaining it within him subconsciously to only allow a small amount out to match Ron. Now that Ron wasn’t the centre of his world, however. There was no reason for his magic to obey a now unreasonable standard of regulation.

Of course, the sudden surge in his magical prowess wasn’t great for his impulsiveness. Harry attributed his more violent tendencies to his mother, however. From the countless stories of vicious retribution against Snapes’ bullies to her fiery temperament.

The entertaining report and trial on the use of the Cruciatus Curse upon a Noble Lord said enough. Specifically, the elegantly dramatised words scrawled across the official apology letter, “Oh! The sorrow! My only regret is, I didn’t leave it on long enough. ”

The script delightfully matching that of the inspiring notes hidden away within the Black Library signed L.J.E.B .

Oh, Harry could only daydream of trying out the things she had written. It made him crave stories of his father as well. The man who somehow fell in love without a wild, fiery whirlwind. Riding the soothing winds instead of fighting to tame the fury.

He knew little of his father. Once a trusted member of Voldemort’s inner circle, only to disappear shortly after his graduation from Hogwarts. Still a kind man, Harry could see it in the way Kreacher adored him. The man’s hidden brilliance was like a blanket laid across the Black Compound.

The sullen look of regret which seeped from Sirius’ face not matching the annoyance and dislike in his voice. The pain in Snape’s own eyes whenever he mentioned the Black Family. It was laced within the hearts of many.

The pride in the eyes of his grandfather, Orion Black, as Harry dove with eagerness into the Dark Arts, embracing his heritage with jubilant glee. The delight in the eyes of his great grandfather, Arcturus Black III, as he lectured Harry on the numerous holidays of the Old Ways, and the history of magic.

The acceptance of bigots like his grandmother, Walburga Black, towards the lesser blood of her daughter-in-law, and grandson in the face of her love for her son. Even if it had arrived far too late to do her child any good, already marked like cattle to service an insane Lord.

Harry—no, Hadrian’s father was a member of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. Raised to understand the importance of his heritage and encouraged to celebrate the wonder of his gift. Who, contrary to popular belief, was not instilled with hogwash about lesser, and pure blood. That was merely a belief instilled within Walburga in her own youth.

It was without question in his mind that a love of the Dark ran through his veins like the wild, fiery, untamable fury (wind) that dwelt within his heart and soul. It was his heritage, the legacy of his parents. And he’d be damned if he abandoned it.

In another life, there would be fewer struggles. Pulled from his depression, Kreacher would seek the apparent illegitimate son of his beloved master earlier. Brought before his living great grandfather, Arcturus and grandmother, Walburga, Harry James Potter would cease to exist. Rather, it would rightfully be Hadrian Orion Black, raised under the guidance of his own blood, to embrace his heritage, prestige, and the legacy of his parents in the Dark.

In such a life, Hadrian would grow in an unbiased world of Grey. Deciding his own course of actions, which side to join, which side to destroy, or even create. It would be up to him. In such a world, he would’ve dived into his heritage beyond the Black family more, desired to uncover the manipulation of Dumbledore, experimented with history and modern politics, empathised for the stagnant Wizarding World, and resolved to bring change.

Whether that be through acting as a companion of sorts to Voldemort, helping bring back the genius that was Tom Marvolo Riddle. Tossing away the crippling hogwash of blood supremacy and welcoming vibrant new blood. Erasing magic classification bans and leading the Magical World to a new era of progress.

Or he simply watched in delight as the Magical World went up in alluring flames of destruction and chaos. The fall of Light and Dark in the emergence of Grey. The mantis stalks the cicada, unaware of the oriole behind. He would leave the pathetically overconfident and arrogant fools that were Voldemort and Dumbledore to fight amongst themselves, wholly unaware of the predator waiting to strike at their weakness.

As for the prophecy? It was total bullshit. A self-fulling nightmare that could only possibly exist and enact the outcome desired by Dumbledore on an infinitely small margin of chance. A chance that had been obliterated the moment Dumbledore failed to keep his pawns in check from even before the Queen had been established.

It was a miscalculation on Dumbledore’s part, faulty confidence. Allowing for there to be any level of relationship between Lily Evans and Regulus Black. His failure to indoctrinate the muggle-born under his thumb, to twist their views into a black and white elitist world of fake sentiment and freedom.

There was a sneaking hunch in the forefront of Hadrian’s mind. That the outcome Dumbledore desired would only have transpired within a world where Harry James Potter was absolute . A world where James Charlus Potter—as much as the thought disgusted him—was his biological father. Where Lily Evans, the rare blank slate and grey skies she was, adopted a world of black and white. Never noticing the grey world which embraced her, nor the silvery green eyes of Regulus.

A world where Snape failed to hold on, to protect, and educate his Hope. Where, in a moment of weakness, James Potter snatched a thread of her heart and pulled her undone. Leaving her blind to the reality of her once grey world now splintered in black and white.

By the whims of the Great Albus Dumbledore, Naïve little Harry Potter would be chained to the concept of family, tossed like trash to the gutter that was the habitat of his distasteful relatives. Battered and bruised, beaten down with every excuse, and minor infraction, answering to the call of Freak. Any knowledge of Magic he was permitted censored.

A pipe dream of escape presented as a wondrous castle and a kind , grandfatherly great wizard. Hadrien wasn’t foolish enough to believe Dumbledore was unaware of the cruel treatment. Not with the existence of the good-for-nothing squib , Arabella Figg.

His thoughts took a dark turn. Minutely, he fantasised. The joy it would bring him, seeing her slowly cooked alive within her fur covered home. Or to see her watch helplessly as her beloved cats were cooked alive before her. He paused, a frown crossing his features. ‘That’s a bit cruel’ , he thought. Despite how little affection he held for the wenches’ beasts, harming an innocent animal struck his nerves.

Hmmm. Rather, instead, he would gather the beasts up. Having them overlook the wench, as she was slowly burned alive in a controlled environment, while he pampered the felines. Awarding treats as they looked at the roasting flesh that would be their main course.

A devious grin returned to his face at the thought. It was a wondrous idea. It also made him wonder. As the wench looked up at her beloved cats, gazing down on her as if she was nothing but an insect, what kind of expression would she make?

Would it be one of awe and worship twisted in pain? As was her general response regarding any mention or form of her beasts. Or would her face morph into delicious horror? Watching as the beasts she spent her life spoiling turned their back on her without a care in the world.

No matter, he only hoped her face wasn’t morphed solely in pain. Being the waste of oxygen that she was, she in the very least ought to be useful in fanning the brilliant flames of Hadrian’s fury.

For all the wench swore to protect him, to save him, eating out of his palms in her guilt, as he broke down within her shaking arms in his youth begging to be saved. The wench had no excuse. She held no stakes in the other world, the Magical world.

A squib, she herself had been tossed to the wolves, barred access to the very world in which she’d been born. Yet she’d ignored the abuse, condoned it, condemning a child to it. All at the order of a single man. A man who did not even advocate for people like herself, who did not even grant her a legitimate place in the world she desired.

In terms of hatred, the wench was second only to Dumbledore. Hadrian had gotten on his hands and knees, his arm twisted oddly, and bruises littering his skin, believing his name to be Freak, and begged her. Yet all he got were worthless whispers of false comfort and guilty apologies. Told that she was as helpless to help him as he was himself.

How foolish of her. Hadrian was fully capable of helping himself. He’d done it time and time again, getting a teacher to notice, crafted word-slips to doctors and nurses, speaking with the police, pulling the hearts of strangers. He got so far, but then, like a fever dream, he would wake up and it was as though months of investigations never happened.

Police Officers, he spent hours talking to, suddenly not remembering his name, thoughtful teachers suddenly fired or transferred away. His treatment halted by doctors and nurses, stating nothing was wrong with him despite the bruises littering his skin. And kind strangers who had offered to take him in, suddenly suspicious of him and murmuring about delinquents.

The wench was not helpless. She had consciously chosen to condemn Hadrian to hell. Such obvious abuses of magic. There was no way that his precious Headmaster was unaware of the abuse, that the wench had never informed him of Hadrian’s ventures towards escape and freedom.

It made it all the more infuriating. How severely sloppy the man’s manipulations are, fumbling here and there. An obvious generic, thoughtless Gryffindor, allowing his overconfidence and arrogance to lead him. Any true self-respecting Slytherin,—no, honestly, even a stray muggle would have to be a complete dumbass to not see the blatant manipulations and be fooled.

Regrettably, the Wizarding Populace only appeared to be made of such dumbasses. It added even more allure to the idea of setting the Wizarding World aflame. Watching as the embers grew into a fiery torrent of destruction living only ashes behind, where society would be reborn like a phoenix.

Unfortunately, Hadrian was not so narcissistic to believe himself impervious to such blatant manipulations by Dumbledore, at least not in every world. He was certain poor naïve Harry James Potter had followed the pull of the man’s leash, even at the end. The fool probably thanked the bastard for it as well. Too far gone in a smothering rain, his fire put out. Harry James Potter would never be himself .

Not so entirely surrounded by the idiotic Order of Fried Chicken. The so-called Order filled to the brim with bias and ignorance, mixed into a deadly cocktail of arrogant naivety and false righteousness.

Pleading to common sense, it would be hoped that should Hadrian merely inform his fellows of the truth, they would see brilliant grey skies of change, and if not support him, in the very least would leave him alone. However, at the present moment, caught between a rock and a hard place, he was infected with an unfortunately predictable plight.

Did he even feel inclined to put his life on the line? His heritage, legacy, and dreams? Was he prepared to risk those? The answer was an immediate no. Not after he had just found himself. Not so soon. That brought up the thought; Telling them the truth. Would it even be worth it? Now or later?

What was left of his naïve First Year self wanted to believe in the Order. Believed that if they were made aware of Dumbledore’s true face, they would support Hadrian. Allowing him to spread his wings, which had been clipped. They would encourage his independence, celebrating his heritage and magic. Shielding him from a world which coveted that which he could not, nor wished to provide, as he learned to take flight.

A foolish hope. From a foolish boy. The Order did not differ from the world. Coveting their saviour , not another evil, dark wizard. An outsider would hold more sympathy for Hadrian than the members of the Order.

He’d seen firsthand how they treated Sirius. Acting as if the man was a common criminal, despite being fully aware of his innocence. Molly Weasley had been the worst of them.

She was steadfast in Dumbledore’s pocket just by her unwavering views that dark equaled evil. Her motherly tendencies overbearing and yet not even those could bring pause to her belief that Dumbledore knew best.

The moment he revealed his existence, Molly Weasley would be up in his grill, skimming over the how and cutting straight to the where. Pleased with his appearance but worried and disappointed, he disobeyed Dumbledore. She wouldn’t humour any nonsense about Dumbledore, and even if she tried to be happy for Hadrian, it wouldn’t prevent her from attempting to correct and straighten him out.

If she ever discovered the Black Family Library, she’d be demanding they clean it out of anything dark. Leaving no choice but for the other adults to support her, and if he refused, Dumbledore would grow suspicious of him.

Hadrian wouldn’t put it past the old coot to obliviate him. Wanting his Queen to be malleable, and dependent, lost without a guiding hand.

In the present day, he was too tightly held beneath Dumbledore’s thumb to risk it. Any attempt to make an escape without the threat of Dumbledore hanging over his head, followed by the obsessive fury of Voldemort. Paranoia would cling to him as he was forced to consider all methods that Dumbledore would enact to retrieve him.

It was far too late in the game. The public, still mending the wounds and carrying scarred trauma of the last war, now aware of Voldemort’s return, clung to the great Albus Dumbledore over the measly teen saviour. So desperate for protection from the misery that was the last war, Hadrian’s words would be ignored by the majority, holding no sway. The simple cry of Dumbledore that, ‘the saviour had gone rogue fearing for his own life.’

Hadrian would have nothing to stall for time as he searched for a way to eliminate the threat of the man. A duel was out of the question. Hadrian had none of the supposed ‘‘Gryffindor Honor’’. He wasn’t stupid enough to put himself at a disadvantage by openly duelling a hundred-year-old wizard. Even if the Goat was old , with dimmed reflexes, and fragile flesh and bones. The Goat was a hypocrite from a time the Dark Arts were not severely regulated.

There wasn’t a chance in the world that Hadrian would play fair, and he certainly did not expect the Goat to either. So behind in magical experience and knowledge compared to his opponent, Hadrian would not risk it.

It would be wiser to play his strong suits against the other’s weaknesses. Such thoughts sling-shot Assassination to the top of the list. It was highly probable that an attempt would succeed, even if Hadrian would not escape unharmed.

The man was arrogant, overconfident in his hold upon the minds of others. He often underestimated others. Especially so for those he trusted—his pawns.

A well-timed levitation charm, tripping jinx, simple water spell, or Accio , all would do wonders with a set of stairs. As would an equally simple, Avada Kedavra , from a hidden location. Lacing a package of his beloved Lemon Drops with poison held promise as well. Hadrian would need to check if the Goat claimed the Dumbledore Lordship, and consistently wore the Lord Ring, as well as any other jewellery or the like which may detect poison.

If he was lucky, a few tests would reveal a failure to account for muggle toxins. Hadrian would admit his inclination towards more muggle means of assassination. Using a dagger, or even a simple kitchen knife, an unexpected slash across the throat followed by a pierced heart. Even better, the use of a gun, pistol or the like, a well-aimed shot to the head and it was over. A shield charm is not faster than a bullet. Nor would any freezing spell be able to lock on to the small bullet quickly enough, especially if it was unexpected. Measures taken to ensure the man stayed dead, unable to be healed in time, whether by others or himself.

But even in the face of near certainty, Hadrian was aware of his own faults. Such a painless death was not deserved by the Goat. It was too good a death for the Goat to leave the world as anything but a vilified criminal.

There were, of course, hundreds of other plans spiralling within his mind. An uncountable number of options to go about obtaining what he desired.

Throwing caution to the wind, Hadrian could go claim his heirship. Using the power within it to toss the Order from his home. This could be done secretly or publicly, but either way would tip off the Goat.

He could draft a letter of surrender to Voldemort, praying the man retained the sensibilities to see the benefits of such a thing. If he needed to seduce the serpentine man, could allow Hadrian to protect the few he cared for. However, he did not wish to put Neville in such a tight spot.

Another approach, similar to the last, would be to use his political prowess as leverage. Listing a follower of Voldemort’s as Proxy for his seats in the houses. Unfortunately, there was the matter of Dumbledore being his magical guardian.

If he tried, Hadrian was sure he could persuade the Goblins to find a loophole to emancipate him. But that would take a bit of time, at least to be acknowledged by the Ministry.

So many plans he could use. But there were just as many risks. Too many things could go wrong that would immediately leave his life forfeit. Which would be fine if he was alone, but he no longer was alone. Any action he took would directly affect the lives of those he loved. Failure was not something he could tolerate, not at the cost of his friends’ lives.

He couldn’t afford to be reckless. Far too much was at stake.

So for now, he would play it safe. Acting as if he’d never arrived, while Kreacher covered his tracks. In a month’s time, Kreacher would take him back to the Dursleys where he’d await relocation .

Even if the thought of being cooped up within the confines of the library for a month was driving him insane. The books would entertain him. The Magical Portraits of his relatives keeping him company together with his magic, not to mention Kreacher. If that wasn’t enough, Hermione should be arriving with the Weasley Family next week according to Kreacher. She’d be ecstatic about the library, finally able to read about the Dark Arts that were locked away from them.

Her presence would help reign in his more violent impulsivity and temper. Tossing another pleasing Bombarda at the fire, Hadrian tried to reign in his genocidal fantasies.

Pop! An acute pop startling him from his twisted musings. “Ah, Kreacher!” Hadrian grinned brightly as the grouchy elf made itself known in front of his face, before the fire. “How are you?”

Levelled with an unimpressed stare, the House Elf looked unamused by Hadrian’s improper posture, as the Heir to Black Family grinned impishly at him from an upside-down visual. Despite his misgivings, the elf answered. “Kreacher be doing well. Filthy Blood Traitors be demanding things, refusing to leave.”

Hadrian’s lips twitched as the elf’s gravelly yet high-pitched voice graced his ears. “How unfortunate. If it ever gets too much, I would love to be graced with your lovely presence.”

Unheard, the elf muttered something along the lines of, “Poor Master… Stupid Blood Traitors imprisoning him.. Must be punished…”

Not deeming it worthy of a response, and secretly looking forward to the punishments to be dished out, Hadrian simply continued to grin at the old elf, blinking innocently. Eyeing him, the elf straightened. “Kreacher found mail addressed to the Master. Master must eat his Dinner first, however. ”

With the snap of his small fingers, a large plate of food appeared within the room, balanced on Hadrian’s up-turned chin. Freezing, he stared dumbstruck at the mischievous grin spreading across the lips of the elf in front of him, as it popped away.

Carefully lifting the plate from its precarious placement, Hadrian grinned at nothing. The old elf’s humour took him by surprise. He didn’t know the elf had it in him. If it was commonplace, Hadrian didn’t feel the next week of near isolation would be difficult.

Chapter Text

Hadrian would not be ashamed to admit Kreacher had the best cooking he had the pleasure of partaking in during his unremarkably short life. A simple dish of cooked cod and steamed vegetables.

He nearly moaned as the taste flooded his mouth. An overwhelming desire to have the old elf teach him, his clearly perfected techniques in cooking. It was clear Hadrian had much to learn from the grouchy caretaker.

Not even his negligible appetite raised a fuss as he elegantly stuffed his face. Presented the brilliant opportunity to practise his etiquette while savouring the delicacy placed before him. The promise of his mail long forgotten.

“Thanks for the meal!” Pleasantly full, he allowed himself to sink back into the sofa, a wade of parchment between his fingers. Dropping them atop his stomach, he pulled an envelope randomly.

It was from Ron…

A frown slipped into place along his lips. Carefully ripping it open, his emerald eyes scanned it, narrowing as they fell further and further down the parchment.

Happy birthday...Sorry for not being there...it’s not your fault...Dumbledore...bla blah blah…

He scowled, tossing the wasted parchment into the fire. Good mood ruined, as he regretted opening the damn thing. The monotone beginning, followed by the endless ranting toward his family, and the absolute unfairness. Ron really couldn’t be bothered to act like he actually cared, writing what was obviously nearly word for word one of Mrs. Weasley’s ranted instructions.

Hadrian didn’t know why they even bothered to try and force it. He ignored the slight quiver of his fingers, focusing more on his desire to set something aflame.

It still stung to see the extent at which his first friend truly cared. It was so obvious as well. He loathed the fact he’d been so desperate he fell for it. While he’d gotten over the brunt of it, Hermione said it would take time for the hurt to heal.

His anger soothed at the thought of his older sister. His best friend.

She’d grown from the socially awkward, insecure Know-it-All of first year. So full of anxiety and a desperate desire to belong. Honestly, who hadn’t been?

Introduced to a hidden world much different from her own, a place where she could escape the overbearing weight of her parents’ expectations, if only for a moment. Hermione had a lot riding on her first year at Hogwarts, as Hadrian would later learn. If her parents received even the smallest of complaints, or she failed to keep up in her muggle studies, she would be pulled from the school to focus on more promising and normal avenues.

Hermione led a life of toxic compliance in the face of academics. Her parents controlling every aspect of her life. She was to exceed far above her peers and anything less would be met with severe disappointment.

Clinging to their muggle common sense, the discovery of her magic had essentially meant all the hard work her parents had done to set her up for success spiralled down the drain. Hermione, herself, had been terrified it would be the last straw.

Her honesty helped Hadrian open up about his own home life. Pressured to do worse than his idiot cousin in academics. The realisation that if he was going to be punished either way, he might as well do his utmost to excel.

Unaware that this precious mindset of his was crushed beneath his desperation to be friends with Ron.

His admittance to seeking help only to receive none enhancing Hermione’s own quivering distrust towards adults, especially in the face of the bullying she faced.

It went without saying that the two of them bonded extremely quickly under the nose of Ronald. Both faced with similar crushing pressures and expectations towards similar extremes. 

As adventurous as they were, they both had their priorities. The biggest of which was remaining alive. Thus, leading to wild goose chases to occupy Ronald, such as Nicolas Flamel and his precious stone. Even an isolated child like Hadrian knew of the man.

Desiring quality time with a kindred spirit, Hadrian often found himself joining Hermione between stacks of books within the Hogwarts library to read, or debate in the common room after dark. Admittedly, whenever he managed to slip away from the high maintenance redhead.

This had the unfortunate result of people shooting them knowing looks as they got older. Not that they knew anything. The two viewed each other as nothing beyond siblings. Not to mention, it quickly became apparent that their interests lay elsewhere …

Merlin, how delightful puberty was when one is friends with a homophobic git. It physically pained him to remember the disaster that was fourth year in regards to their sexuality.

It had been a blessing when Hadrian found himself freed from Ronald’s constant homophobic words. His ridiculous attitude after Hadrian’s name was called from the Goblet, only making it worse. But it was the Despair of the Yule Ball that had brought about the first congress to discuss murder between Hermione and him.

The absolutely swimming plans devised by the two of them to ask out their respective crushes, crashing in a hellfire whirlwind because Ronald suddenly decided to buddy up with them again.

Pressured and hesitant from the daily homophobic gits remarks. They watched helplessly as the person they liked was taken.

Hadrian could get over it, his person of interest being the Heart Throb, Cedric Diggory. While he hadn’t exactly been expecting rejection, due to the not so subtle flirting the boy did, he wouldn’t have been devastated if he was. He’d been attracted to the boy, his kind personality, but there was a passivity to him that turned Hadrian away.

A part of him was even grateful to Ronald’s selfish actions. Cedric’s death as a friend had already been difficult to handle. Hadrian didn’t want to consider what it would’ve been like if he’d been in a relationship with the other. From the whole ordeal, he at most suffered from some minor public humiliation, when Ronald pressured him into asking Cho out. Bless magic, that she seemed to realise that and rejected him, or so he believed.

The disgusting wet kiss they shared in fifth year said otherwise, however. And a rather awkward date with the Patil twins. Bless the hearts of those girls keeping Hadrian company even as Ronald made them all miserable.

Hadrian could get over it, though. What he could not get over was the git, Ronald breaking Hermione’s heart, no matter how unknowingly he had done it. Unlike Hadrian, Hermione had actually been in love with her planned date.

The Ice Queen of Slytherin, Daphne Greengrass. Hadrian thought they’d make an amazing couple. And from the snooping he did, the other girl was definitely interested. But the git had ruined her chance at every turn with his pathetic attempts to ask Hermione out.

Pulled aside by Barty, Hadrian wasn’t there when she ended up cornered by Durmstrang students and pressured into accepting Krum’s proposal. Hearing about it just about made him want to set the bastards aflame and send an overpowered Bombarda on their ship as they slept.

They both wanted to strangle the git and curse him to hell, especially Hadrian. Having spent the night holding Hermione in his arms, as she sobbed. The week that followed had been the biggest show of self-control Hadrian had ever and probably would ever possess. News of the engagement between Draco and Daphne reaching the castle. The urge to Crucio everyone who so much as mentioned it around Hermione, so strong he could barely resist.

If he had stooped so low as to secretly work with Pansy Parkinson to devise ways to devolve the engagement, no one but the two of them needed to know.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, he searched the pile for his beloved older sister’s letter. Pausing as he took in an ominous, thick, black envelope.

Lifting it to the fire, he could barely make out the glimmering gold text across its front.

It was from Luna.