Chapter Text
The tapestry was scratchy against Orion Black's cheek, its ancient threads carrying the musty scent of preservation charms and centuries of history. He'd discovered this hiding spot three years ago, during one of his father's more memorable tirades about the declining standards at Hogwarts. The alcove behind Raczidian's tapestry was perfect – just deep enough to conceal a fifteen-year-old boy, with a convenient gap in the weaving that offered a clear view of his father's study.
Tonight, Arcturus Black III was in rare form.
"Absolutely unconscionable!" Another crystal tumbler met its end against the mahogany paneling. Orion wondered idly if they'd run out of glasses before his father ran out of rage. "First that meddling old fool has the audacity to become a professor, and now this?"
Lightning split the sky outside, illuminating the study in harsh white flashes. The storm had been building all evening, as if nature itself was attuning to his father's mood. Through the gap in the tapestry, Orion could see the latest issue of the Daily Prophet crumpled on his father's desk, its headlines barely legible from this distance. Something about Grindelwald's forces pushing further into France.
"The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black." Arcturus's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Nine centuries of pure magical lineage. And Dumbledore expects us to take in some... some stray?”
A particularly violent crack of thunder rattled the windows. Orion pressed himself further into his hiding spot, grateful for the noise covering the sound of his breathing. His father was working himself into one of his legendary rages, the kind that usually ended with the house-elves spending days repairing damaged furniture and replacing shattered artifacts.
"Peverell," Arcturus spat the name like a curse. "Claims to be of the Peverell line, does he? That line died out centuries ago. Everyone knows that."
Orion's ears perked up at this detail. The Peverells were legendary – every pureblood child grew up hearing tales of the three brothers and their dealings with Death itself. His own mother had a particular fascination with the story, often claiming that the Blacks must have some connection to the second brother's bloodline, given their affinity for soul magic.
"And the timing!" Arcturus was pacing now, his dragon-hide boots wearing a path in the Persian rug. "Just as Grindelwald's forces approach Britain's shores, this mysterious boy appears? A ward of Dumbledore's, no less?" He barked out a harsh laugh. "Does the old man think me a fool?"
The study fell silent save for the storm's fury outside. Orion held his breath, straining to hear over the rain lashing against the windows. His father's silences were often more dangerous than his shouting.
"My own son," Arcturus said finally, his voice low and bitter. "Forced to share his home, his space, with this... charity case." He moved to his desk, bracing his hands against its polished surface. "Dumbledore claims the boy needs protection. That housing him is vital to the war effort." Another harsh laugh. "As if the House of Black has any interest in this meaningless conflict between lesser wizards."
Orion shifted slightly, his legs beginning to cramp from holding still for so long. He'd learned early that moving during these moments was dangerous – the slightest rustle of fabric could give him away.
A knock echoed through the manor.
Orion froze. His father's head snapped up, grey eyes narrowing at the study door.
The knock came again, more insistent this time, barely discernible over a fresh crash of thunder. For a moment, no one moved. Then—
Crack!
Kreacher's appearance in the entrance hall carried clearly through the manor's halls. Orion heard the ancient door's hinges protest as it opened, followed by the sound of rain becoming louder and then muffled again as it closed.
"I believe I'm expected." The new voice was young but carried an unmistakable weight of authority. Something about its tone made the hair on the back of Orion's neck stand up. "Hadrian Peverell, at your service."
Curiosity overcame caution. Moving as quietly as possible, Orion extracted himself from behind the tapestry. His shoes made no sound on the thick carpet as he crept to the grand staircase, positioning himself where he could observe without being immediately noticed.
The figure standing in the entrance hall was not what he'd expected.
Water dripped steadily from the boy's traveling cloak, forming a growing puddle on the marble floor. He couldn't have been much older than Orion himself, and yet... there was something about him that seemed ancient. His posture was perfect despite his sodden state – shoulders back, chin lifted just enough to convey dignity without arrogance. But it was his eyes that caught and held Orion's attention. They were an impossible shade of green, bright as the killing curse.
"Master Black is being in his study," Kreacher announced, his tennis ball-sized eyes fixed disapprovingly on the spreading puddle. "Kreacher will be showing you—"
"I'll show him." The words left Orion's mouth before he could stop them. Both Kreacher and the newcomer looked up, and Orion felt those green eyes examine him with an intensity that made him want to fidget. But something in the stranger's face softened almost imperceptibly, and Orion found himself straightening under the attention.
"Heir Black," Hadrian said, offering a bow that was masterfully executed – just deep enough to show respect for Orion's position without suggesting subservience. "You have my thanks."
Orion descended the stairs, forcing himself to move with the measured grace his mother had spent years instilling in him. Each step was an exercise in controlled momentum, just as she'd taught him. Never rush, never dawdle. A Black moves with purpose. "Welcome to Black Manor, Mr. Peverell." The formal greeting fell from his lips as naturally as breathing, years of etiquette lessons serving him well. "Though I must admit, you've chosen quite the dramatic entrance."
A flash of something – amusement? nostalgia? – crossed Hadrian's face. "The storm wasn't my doing, I assure you. Though I've found life rarely gives us the luxury of perfect timing."
There was something in his voice, something both familiar and foreign that Orion couldn't quite place. It was like hearing an echo of a song he'd never learned, or remembering a dream he'd never had. Before he could examine the sensation further, his father's study door flew open with enough force to rattle the frames of nearby portraits.
Arcturus Black filled the doorway like an oncoming storm, his dark robes billowing in a way that seemed to defy the laws of nature. His grey eyes – so similar to Orion's own – fixed on their visitor with the same calculating disdain he usually reserved for discussing muggleborns at dinner parties.
"So." The word fell like a stone into the silence. "You're Dumbledore's... ward."
"Temporarily, yes." Hadrian met Arcturus's gaze without flinching. Something shifted in the air between them – a subtle tensing of magical energies that made the fine hairs on Orion's arms stand up. "Though I prefer to think of myself as my own person, Lord Black. I understand this arrangement is... unconventional. However, I assure you, I have no intention of being a burden to your noble house."
The boy's magic tasted like lightning – sharp and clean and dangerous. Orion found himself holding his breath, watching his father's face for the telltale signs of impending explosion: the slight twitch at the corner of his left eye, the way his fingers would curl toward his wand.
But something unexpected happened instead. Arcturus tilted his head slightly, reassessing. "We shall see." He turned sharply, robes snapping. "Orion, show him to the east wing guest room. The one next to yours." He paused, adding almost as an afterthought, "And do ensure our... guest... is properly attired for dinner. Seven o'clock sharp."
The dismissal was clear. Orion nodded, gesturing for Hadrian to follow him up the grand staircase. As they climbed, the portraits of long-dead Blacks tracked their movement with undisguised interest. Great-Great-Aunt Elladora actually abandoned her usual frame to race ahead through neighboring portraits, no doubt eager to spread gossip through the house.
"Your father seems charming," Hadrian commented quietly once they'd reached the first landing. His tone was dry enough to rival the Sahara.
A startled laugh escaped Orion before he could stop it. "That was him being polite, actually."
"Wonderful." Hadrian's lips twitched. "I look forward to seeing him at his worst."
It wasn't proper, Orion knew, to find humor in disrespect toward his father. His mother would be horrified. But something about Hadrian's quiet irreverence felt... right. Like finding a crack in a perfectly polished facade and discovering fresh air behind it.
They passed the gallery of family tapestries, their golden threads gleaming in the lamplight. Orion noticed Hadrian's eyes lingering on the newest addition – the one showing the current generation of Blacks.
"This will be your room," Orion announced, pushing open the heavy oak door to reveal one of the manor's finer guest chambers. The space was elegant but austere, decorated in the traditional Slytherin colors his mother preferred. Emerald curtains framed tall windows that looked out over the manor's east gardens, and dark wooden furniture gleamed with generations of polishing charms. "Mine's just through that door." He pointed to the connecting door in the far wall.
Hadrian surveyed the room with an expression Orion couldn't quite read. There was something almost wistful in it, as if he were seeing something – or someone – else entirely. "Thank you, Heir Black."
"Orion," he corrected, surprising himself again. His mother would definitely disapprove of such casual familiarity with a stranger, ward of Dumbledore or not. "Just... just Orion is fine."
Those green eyes focused on him with an intensity that made Orion feel like he was being x-rayed. Then Hadrian smiled – a real smile this time, small but genuine. "Then I'm just Hadrian."
Thunder rolled outside, softer now, like the storm was moving away. But standing there, something told Orion that an entirely different kind of storm was just beginning.
Dinner was an exercise in carefully maintained tension.
The family dining room seemed smaller than usual, despite its considerable size. Perhaps it was the way the storm's darkness pressed against the tall windows, or how the floating candles cast longer shadows than normal. Or perhaps it was simply the weight of unspoken words hanging heavy in the air.
Melania, Orion's mother, had outdone herself in presenting the perfect pureblood facade. Her dark hair was immaculately styled, her robes were formal without being ostentatious, and her smile held just the right amount of cool civility as she presided over the meal. To an outsider, she would have appeared the perfect hostess.
Orion knew better. He recognized the slight tightness around her eyes, the way her fingers gripped her wine glass a fraction too firmly. His mother was not pleased with their new arrangement.
"Tell me, Mr. Peverell," she said, her voice carrying the precise intonation she reserved for social interrogations, "how did you come to be in Professor Dumbledore's care?"
Hadrian, now dressed in borrowed formal robes that fit him suspiciously well, took a measured sip of his soup before answering. "A series of unfortunate circumstances, Madam Black. My previous guardians were... lost... to Grindelwald's forces."
"How convenient," Arcturus muttered into his wine glass.
"Indeed," Hadrian agreed, his tone pleasant but his eyes sharp. "I find that war rarely concerns itself with convenience."
The soup spoon in Orion's hand trembled slightly. No one spoke to his father that way. Not if they wished to remain in Black Manor – or conscious – for long.
But before Arcturus could respond, Hadrian continued smoothly, "I must compliment you on the protection wards around the property, Lord Black. The layering of intent-based barriers with traditional blood wards is quite impressive. I particularly noticed the subtle integration of Norse runic sequences in the southeastern corner – quite innovative."
Arcturus paused, his wine glass halfway to his lips. "You can sense the ward structure?"
"Of course." Hadrian's tone suggested this was perfectly normal for a fifteen-year-old wizard. "Though I admit, I'm curious about your decision to use Elder Futhark rather than Anglo-Saxon runes for the binding sequence. Was that a deliberate choice to enhance the connection with the Black family's Norman roots?"
What followed was a detailed discussion of ward theory that left Orion's head spinning. His father, surprisingly, seemed to forget his suspicion in the face of Hadrian's genuine interest and apparently extensive knowledge. Even his mother's perfect mask slipped slightly, revealing glimpses of reluctant impression as Hadrian demonstrated a thorough understanding of ancient magical theory.
It wasn't until much later, lying in bed and replaying the evening, that Orion realized what had happened. Hadrian had masterfully redirected the conversation every time it strayed toward his background, all while presenting himself as exactly the type of magically gifted, well-educated young wizard the Blacks would respect.
The question was: was it manipulation, survival instinct, or both?
The screaming woke him just past midnight.
Orion sat bolt upright in bed, his heart hammering against his ribs. For a moment, he was disoriented – had he dreamed the sound? But then it came again, raw and desperate, muffled by the wall between their rooms.
"No – Sirius, please – take me instead—"
The words were barely distinguishable through the wall, but something about them made Orion's chest ache. Without conscious thought, he found himself crossing to the connecting door, his bare feet silent on the thick carpet.
He hesitated with his hand on the doorknob. This wasn't proper, entering another's room uninvited. His mother's voice echoed in his head, lecturing about propriety and boundaries and the dignity of the House of Black.
Another cry shattered his hesitation.
The room was dark save for strips of moonlight filtering through gaps in the heavy curtains. They fell across Hadrian's bed in silver bars, illuminating a scene that made Orion's breath catch. Hadrian was tangled in the sheets, his body twisted as if trying to escape invisible bonds. His face, usually so composed, was contorted in a rictus of terror and grief.
"Not them," he was muttering, his voice broken in a way that made him sound much younger than fifteen. "Please, not them – I'll do anything—"
"Hadrian?" Orion approached cautiously, remembering how his cousin Cygnus had once hexed him for waking him from a nightmare. "Wake up, you're dreaming—"
Green eyes snapped open, and Orion found himself staring down the business end of a wand. The speed of the movement was startling – one moment Hadrian had been thrashing in his sheets, the next he was half-crouched on the bed, wand steady despite his ragged breathing. His magic filled the room like static electricity before a lightning strike, making the hair on Orion's arms stand up and the air taste of ozone.
For a terrifying moment, those green eyes were empty of recognition, filled instead with the kind of haunted desperation Orion had only seen in photos of Azkaban inmates. Then awareness flickered across Hadrian's face like dawn breaking. The wand lowered immediately.
"Orion." His voice was hoarse, as if he'd been screaming for hours rather than minutes. "I... I apologize. You shouldn't have..." He ran a shaking hand through his sweat-dampened hair, and Orion caught a glimpse of something on his forehead – a scar? But Hadrian turned away too quickly for him to be sure.
"Do you know the constellations?" The words tumbled from Orion's mouth before he could think better of them.
Hadrian blinked, clearly thrown by the non sequitur.
"What?"
Instead of answering, Orion moved to the window and drew back the heavy curtains. The storm had cleared completely, leaving behind a sky scattered with diamonds on black velvet. The moon was a thin crescent, perfect for stargazing.
"My father taught me all of them," he continued, pretending not to notice how Hadrian's hands were still trembling. "That one there? That's Canis Major – the Great Dog." He traced the pattern with his finger against the glass. "See how those stars form a sort of diamond shape? That's Sirius, the Dog Star. Brightest star in the night sky."
He glanced back and found Hadrian watching him with an expression of such raw grief that it stole his breath. But it was gone so quickly he might have imagined it, replaced by something softer, almost wondering.
"The Ancient Egyptians called it Sopdet," Hadrian said quietly, moving to stand beside him at the window. "They believed its appearance before sunrise marked the beginning of their new year." His voice grew distant, as if reciting a half-remembered lesson. "The Dog Star was a guide, leading souls through the darkness."
There was a weight to his words that Orion didn't understand, but he sensed it was important somehow. "Tell me more about the stars?" he asked, making it a question rather than a demand.
Hadrian's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Actually... would you mind telling me? About the constellations, I mean. Your version."
So Orion did. He pointed out Cassiopeia's chair, the great bear of Ursa Major, the twisting length of Draco. He recounted the tales his father had taught him – of Perseus saving Andromeda, of Orion the hunter and his faithful dogs, of gods and monsters painted across the heavens.
As he spoke, he watched Hadrian from the corner of his eye. The older boy's breathing gradually steadied, his posture softening from its defensive rigidity. But there was something almost hungry in the way he listened, as if he were memorizing every word, storing them away like precious treasures.
Neither of them mentioned the tears that had dried on Hadrian's cheeks, or the way his hand had shaken when he'd lowered his wand. They didn't speak of the name he'd called out in his sleep – Sirius, like the star – or how his eyes seemed to linger on that particular point of light in the sky.
Instead, they stood in comfortable silence, watching the stars wheel slowly overhead. The quiet between them felt ancient somehow, like the space between heartbeats or the moment before dawn.
"Thank you," Hadrian said finally, so softly Orion almost missed it. "For... for not asking."
Orion just nodded, understanding somehow that this moment – this quiet understanding between them – was the beginning of something important.
Something that transcended the usual boundaries of guest and host, of pureblood propriety and family obligation.
He didn't return to his own room that night. Instead, he transfigured one of the stiff-backed chairs into a more comfortable armchair, positioning it by the window. Hadrian raised an eyebrow but didn't comment, simply summoning a blanket from the bed and draping it over Orion's shoulders.
They stayed that way until dawn painted the sky in shades of pink and gold, washing away the stars one by one. Just before the sun breached the horizon, Orion glanced over to find Hadrian had fallen into a peaceful sleep, his face finally relaxed in a way it hadn't been since his arrival.
In the growing light, Orion could see what he'd glimpsed earlier – a curious scar on Hadrian's forehead, partially hidden by his dark hair. It was shaped like a bolt of lightning, and something about it made Orion's skin prickle with unease.
But that was a mystery for another time. For now, he was content to maintain his vigil, watching over his strange new friend as the night gave way to morning, and wondering what other secrets those ancient green eyes held.
Morning arrived with the soft pop of a house-elf apparition. Kreacher materialized near the window, already opening his mouth – presumably to announce breakfast – when he caught sight of the unusual tableau. His huge eyes widened further, darting between Orion in the transfigured armchair and Hadrian's sleeping form.
Orion pressed a finger to his lips. After a moment's hesitation, Kreacher nodded, his expression unreadable. Instead of his usual loud announcement, he simply snapped his fingers, causing a small table to appear between them laden with tea, toast, and various breakfast pastries. Another snap, and the curtains adjusted themselves to let in just enough light for comfortable dining without disturbing the room's other occupant.
The elderly elf cast one more inscrutable look at the scene before disappearing with a pop that seemed deliberately quieter than usual.
Orion reached for the teapot, only to freeze when Hadrian's voice, rough with sleep, broke the morning silence: "Your house-elf is surprisingly considerate."
"You're awake." Orion tried not to sound startled. "How long have you...?"
"Since Kreacher arrived." Hadrian sat up slowly, running a hand through his disheveled hair. The lightning bolt scar was more visible now in the morning light, but Orion forced himself not to stare.
“Most house-elves I've known would have announced breakfast at full volume, proper decorum and all that."
There was something odd in his tone when he mentioned house-elves, a sort of fond exasperation that seemed at odds with the usual pureblood attitude toward serving creatures. Before Orion could question it, Hadrian continued.
"You didn't have to stay, you know." He wasn't looking at Orion, instead focusing on pouring himself a cup of tea with careful precision. "After I fell asleep."
"I know." Orion buttered a piece of toast, taking his time to find the right words. "But I wanted to."
Hadrian's hands stilled on his teacup. "Why?"
It was a loaded question, heavy with things unsaid. Orion considered his answer carefully, aware that this moment felt important somehow. "Because," he said finally, "sometimes the worst part of nightmares isn't having them. It's waking up alone afterward."
Something flickered across Hadrian's face – surprise, perhaps, or recognition. He took a slow sip of tea before responding. "You sound like you're speaking from experience."
"The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black has its own share of ghosts." Orion kept his tone light, but they both knew he wasn't talking about the actual spirits that haunted the manor's halls. "Though I suspect they're rather different from yours."
"Your father would say that's because the Black family has nothing to fear." There was a hint of irony in Hadrian's voice.
"My father says a lot of things." The words came out more bitter than Orion had intended. He busied himself with his toast, avoiding Hadrian's too-perceptive gaze.
"Hmm." Hadrian selected a pastry from the breakfast tray, examining it with careful attention. "You know, I noticed you have quite a collection of books on Defense Against the Dark Arts in your room."
The sudden change of subject was obvious but welcome. "You can see my bookshelf from the connecting door?"
"I might have taken a peek earlier." Hadrian's slight smile suggested he knew exactly what he was admitting to. "I hope you don't mind. I find you can learn a lot about a person from their book collection."
"And what did mine tell you?" Orion found himself genuinely curious.
"That you're fascinated by defensive magic, but someone's been directing your studies toward the more... aggressive applications." Hadrian's tone was carefully neutral. "The ratio of attack-focused texts to protective magic is rather telling."
Orion shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His father's opinions on what constituted proper magical education were well known in certain circles. "The Black family has certain... expectations."
"Expectations aren't always right." Hadrian set down his teacup with a soft clink. "Would you like to know something interesting about defensive magic, Orion?"
"What?"
"The best duelers I've ever known focused on protection first. Shield charms, deflection, evasion – mastering those makes your offensive spells twice as effective, because you're not splitting your concentration between attacking and trying not to die." His green eyes took on an intense gleam. "But more importantly, it means you get to choose your battles. Real power isn't about how many curses you know. It's about having the ability to walk away from fights you don't believe in."
The words hung in the air between them, weighted with meaning. Orion found himself holding his breath, sensing that Hadrian was offering something more than just magical theory.
"I..." Hadrian seemed to catch himself, shaking his head slightly. "I noticed you have some summer homework on defensive spells. If you'd like, I could help you with it. Show you a few different approaches?"
"You'd do that?"
"Of course." Hadrian's smile turned slightly mischievous. "Though I might insist on teaching you proper shielding before we get to the more exciting hexes. Can't have the Heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black getting himself cursed because he was too focused on offense to dodge."
The gentle teasing in his tone made Orion laugh despite himself. "When can we start?"
"After breakfast. But first..." Hadrian's expression grew serious. "Thank you. Again. For last night. For not..." He gestured vaguely, encompassing everything they weren't talking about – the nightmares, the tears, the name called out in sleep.
"That's what friends do, isn't it?" The words slipped out before Orion could consider their implications.
He tensed, suddenly uncertain. They'd known each other less than a day, after all, and his father's warnings about getting too close to Dumbledore's ward rang in his ears.
But Hadrian's face softened into something genuine and almost vulnerable. "Yes," he said quietly. "I suppose it is."
They finished their breakfast in comfortable silence as sunlight slowly filled the room. Outside, birds were beginning to sing in the manor's gardens, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Orion noticed how Hadrian's head tilted slightly at the sound, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
Later, he would remember this as the real beginning – not the dramatic arrival in the storm, but this quiet morning of shared tea and unspoken understanding. The moment when Hadrian stopped being a mysterious intruder and became something else entirely: a friend, a teacher, and perhaps, though neither of them knew it yet, the catalyst that would change everything.