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Chapter Text

November 1st, 1981 - Dawn

Petunia Dursley, her dressing gown wrapped tight against the autumn chill. 

The street was eerily quiet. No cars, no neighbors heading to work despite it being a Friday morning. Even the birds seemed subdued.

Petunia shivered, and not from the cold. Something felt wrong.

Petunia opened the front door, expecting to find the milk bottles on the step.

Dudley would be awake soon, demanding his breakfast.

Instead, she found a basket.

A wicker basket with a pale blue blanket tucked around something. And from within came a soft, heartbreaking whimper.

Petunia's breath caught. Her hands trembled as she bent down, already knowing, just knowing, what she would find.

She pulled back the blanket.

A baby. A tiny baby boy with a shock of messy black hair and a lightning-bolt shaped wound carved into his forehead, the skin around it angry and red.

"No," Petunia whispered. "No, no, no..."

The baby, Harry, it had to be Harry, blinked up at her with eyes that were impossibly, devastatingly green. Lily's eyes. Her sister's eyes staring out of James Potter's face.

Tucked into the blanket was a letter. Petunia's hands shook so badly she could barely unfold it.

Mrs. Dursley,

Lily and James Potter were murdered last night by Lord Voldemort. The boy survived. He is famous now, and in great danger. Blood wards will protect him at your residence. He must stay with you.

Suitable arrangements have been made for his care.

- Albus Dumbledore

That was it. No explanation. No apology. No acknowledgment that Petunia had just lost her sister, her baby sister and been handed an orphaned child like a parcel left on a doorstep.

Petunia read the letter again, rage building in her chest alongside the grief.

Suitable arrangements.

He must stay with you.

Not we're asking you, not would you be willing, just... he must.

The baby whimpered again, and Petunia's fury evaporated. She scooped Harry up, blanket and all, holding him against her chest. He was so cold, shivering in the autumn air. How long had he been out here?

"Shh, sweetheart," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I've got you. You're safe now. I've got you."

Harry's tiny fist curled into her dressing gown, and Petunia felt something crack open in her chest, all the grief she'd been holding back since that terrible screech owl had arrived days ago with news that Lily was in danger.

Lily is dead.

Her sister was dead, and Petunia would never get to tell her she was sorry. Never get to bridge the gap that fear and jealousy had built between them. Never get to tell Lily that she'd loved her, even when magic had driven them apart.

But Lily's son.. Lily's baby was right here, alive and shivering and needing her.

"Vernon!" Petunia called, her voice sharp with urgency and grief. "VERNON!"

Vernon appeared at the door within seconds, his face creased with worry. "Pet? "What..?" He stopped, staring at the baby in her arms. His face went pale. "Is that..?"

"Harry," Petunia said. "Lily's son. They're dead, Vernon. Lily and James. They're dead and someone just.. just left him on our doorstep like.. like.."

Her voice broke. Vernon was down the steps in an instant, gathering both her and Harry into his arms.

"Inside," he said quietly. "Come inside, Pet. We'll figure this out."

They stumbled into the house. Petunia couldn't stop crying—great, heaving sobs that she'd been holding back for days. Vernon took Harry carefully, wrapping him in a clean tea towel to warm him while Petunia collapsed at the kitchen table.

"Call my father," she gasped. "Vernon, call Dad. He'll.. he needs to know.."

Vernon was already at the phone, dialing with one hand while he held Harry against his shoulder with the other.

"Marius? It's Vernon. You need to come. Now. It's... it's Lily. And her son."

Marius Evans nee Black arrived within the hour.

Petunia had known her father was a wizard—or rather, a squib born to a wizarding family—all her life. He'd raised her and Lily with both worlds, teaching them magical traditions even though he couldn't perform magic himself. He'd stood by them when Lily's magic manifested, and had helped Petunia process her own complicated feelings about having a magical sister.

Now he stood in her kitchen, staring at Harry with an expression of profound grief and rage.

"Albus Dumbledore," Marius said quietly, reading the letter Petunia had thrust at him. "That meddling, manipulative.." He cut himself off, looking at Harry. "Did he say anything else? Any other communication?"

"Nothing," Petunia said. "Just the letter. Just... suitable arrangements."

Marius's jaw tightened. "There's no such thing as suitable arrangements from Dumbledore. The man doesn't spend a knut he doesn't have to." He looked up at Vernon, who was still holding Harry. "May I?"

Vernon carefully transferred the baby to Marius's arms. The older man held Harry with practiced ease, his expression softening as he looked down at his grandson.

"Hello, little one," Marius murmured. "I'm your grandfather. I'm so sorry about your mother and father. So very sorry."

Harry blinked up at him with those green eyes, Lily's eyes, and made a small cooing sound.

Marius touched the lightning-bolt scar gently. "This is a curse scar. Dark magic. Very dark." He looked up at Petunia. "The letter said Lily and James were murdered by Voldemort. If Harry had a curse scar and survived... Tuney, your nephew did something impossible last night. Something that's going to make him very famous, and very vulnerable."

"What do we do?" Petunia asked, her voice small.

Marius was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "We raise him. We love him. We teach him everything we can about both worlds; magical and mundane. We prepare him for the day when people will come looking for the Boy-Who-Lived."

"Boy-Who-Lived?" Vernon asked.

"That's what they'll call him," Marius said grimly. "The boy who survived the Killing Curse. The boy who defeated the Dark Lord. They'll make him a symbol, a hero, a weapon. Unless we make sure he's a person first."

Petunia stood up, her grief hardening into determination. "Then that's what we'll do. We'll raise him. Harry will know he's loved. He'll know about Lily and James. And when the time comes, he'll be ready to make his own choices."

She looked down at Harry, at her sister's eyes in her nephew's face. "I couldn't save Lily. But I can save her son. I will save her son."

Marius smiled sadly. "Lily would be proud of you, Tuney."

Petunia felt tears sting her eyes again. "I hope so. I really hope so."

June 1982

Dudley and Harry were a matched set of chaos.

At twenty-four months and twenty months respectively, the two boys toddled around the house like tiny tornadoes, getting into everything. Dudley was bigger, louder, more physical. Harry was smaller, quieter, but surprisingly clever at figuring out how to open cupboards and drawers.

Petunia had worried, in those first months after Harry arrived, that Dudley would be jealous. That having another baby in the house would upset him.

Instead, Dudley had taken one look at Harry and announced "Baby!" with such delight that Vernon had actually laughed through his tears.

Now, they were inseparable. Dudley shared his toys (most of the time). Harry followed Dudley everywhere. When one cried, the other would toddle over to pat his head and offer comfort.

"They're like twins," Vernon said one evening, watching the boys play with blocks on the living room floor.

"Brothers," Petunia corrected softly. "They're brothers."

And they were. Not by blood, well cousins truly, but by love. By choice. By the family they were building together.

Marius visited every week, always bearing small gifts and big hugs. He'd started teaching both boys simple things; how to sit properly, how to hold utensils, basic manners that would serve them in both worlds.

"It's never too early," he'd say when Petunia protested that they were too young. "Magical children start learning etiquette from birth. Harry needs to know these things."
“Dudley too then” Petunia insisted. 

He was right, of course. Harry was magical. Already, there were signs; toys floating when he was happy, lights flickering when he was upset, his hair growing back overnight after Petunia tried to trim it.

Accidental magic, Marius called it. Normal for magical children.

But Petunia noticed something else: Harry's magic responded to Dudley. When Dudley cried, Harry's magic would reach out, trying to comfort him. When Dudley laughed, Harry's magic sparkled in the air like tiny stars.

"They're bonded," Marius said when Petunia mentioned it. "Not formally, but emotionally. Harry sees Dudley as his brother, his protector. The magic recognizes that."

"Is that safe?" Vernon asked. "For Dudley, I mean?"

"Safer than you might think," Marius said. "Harry's magic would never hurt Dudley. It loves him too much."

Samhain 1982

On the first anniversary of Lily and James's deaths, Petunia lit candles and taught the boys about Samhain.

"It's the night when the veil between worlds is thinnest," she explained, even though Dudley and Harry were far too young to understand. "The night when we remember those who've passed beyond. Tonight, we remember Harry's mother and father; Lily and James. They loved Harry so much. They died protecting him."

She showed them photographs; Lily laughing, James holding baby Harry, the two of them together looking so young and happy and alive.

Harry reached for the photograph with chubby fingers, touching Lily's face. "Mama," he babbled.

Petunia's heart clenched. "Yes, sweetheart. That's your mother. She loved you very much."

"Mama," Harry said again, then looked at Petunia. "Mummy?"

And there it was; the distinction Marius had told her would come eventually. Lily was Mother, the woman who'd given birth to him. But Petunia was Mummy, the one who fed him and changed him and rocked him when he cried.

"Yes, darling," Petunia said softly. "I'm your Mummy. And Lily was your Mother. You had two, isn't that special?"

Harry beamed at her and went back to looking at the photographs.

Across the room, Vernon caught Petunia's eye and smiled.

They were doing this. Against all odds, despite the grief and fear and uncertainty, they were doing this.

February 1983

Pandora Lovegood appeared on their doorstep on a cold February morning, carrying a bundle of blankets and wearing the most extraordinary hat Petunia had ever seen.

"Mrs. Dursley?" she said brightly. "I'm Pandora Lovegood. Your father contacted me, he thought you might need some assistance with certain... educational matters??"

Petunia blinked. "I'm sorry, who?"

"Garrick Ollivander's granddaughter," Pandora clarified. "Well, through my mother's line. Your father thought you're raising a magical child and might have questions?"

Understanding dawned. "Oh! Yes, please, come in."

Pandora swept into the house, her eclectic robes swirling around her. In her arms, a tiny baby with wispy blonde hair blinked owlishly at everything.

"This is Luna," Pandora said proudly. "Born just two weeks ago. I thought perhaps Harry might like a magical playmate as he grows?"

And just like that, the Lovegoods became part of their lives.

Pandora visited twice a month, always full of fascinating information about magical theory, creature care, and the proper way to celebrate wizarding holidays. Her husband Xenophilius, a Malfoy second son who'd happily married into the Lovegood family, came along sometimes, bringing copies of The Quibbler and wild theories about magical creatures.

They were odd, certainly. Eccentric beyond measure. But they were kind, and they were safe. They had no agenda, no desire to use Harry for fame or power. They simply wanted to help.

"Regulus Black," Pandora said quietly one afternoon, when the children were napping and the men were in the garden. "Marius told me. About Harry's papa."

Petunia froze. Very few people knew about Regulus. The tri-parent ritual was rare, private, and deeply personal.

"I knew him," Pandora continued. "Before he died. He was trying to stop Voldemort. Trying to make amends for his mistakes. He loved Lily and James very much. Loved Harry, even though he never got to meet him."

"How do you know this?" Petunia asked carefully.

"Regulus came to my grandfather before he died," Pandora said. "He asked him to make a special wand. One that could channel combined magical signatures. He was planning something dangerous, something that might cost him his life. He wanted to make sure Harry would have a legacy from all three parents, not just James and Lily."

Petunia felt tears prick her eyes. "Did he succeed? Whatever he was planning?"

"I don't know," Pandora admitted. "But I hope so. Regulus Black was many things, but in the end, he tried to do the right thing. That's what matters."

July 31st, 1985 - Harry's Fifth Birthday

Harry's birthday party was a cheerful affair. Sophie and Tommy from the playgroup were there, along with Piers (who'd become inseparable from Dudley).  Luna, now four and a half, wore a bright yellow dress with hand-painted butterflies that may or may not have been real.

"They're Billywigs," she explained seriously to Harry, who nodded as if this made perfect sense.

They played games in the garden, ate cake, and Harry blew out his candles without any accidental magic, he'd been working very hard on control with Marius's help.

After the other children left, the family gathered in the living room. Marius had brought gifts: a beginner's book on magical theory for Harry, and a matching one on magical creatures for Dudley (because "everyone should understand magic, even those who can't perform it").

Pandora and Xenophilius brought a journal—blank, with pages that would only show what you wrote if you tapped it with your wand three times. "For your private thoughts," Pandora said. "Every child should have secrets."

Vernon gave Harry a wooden toy train, beautifully crafted, with intricate details. "It's special," Vernon explained. "When you push your magic into it, just a little bit, it blows real steam and moves on its own. Marius helped me find it. It'll help you practice control."

Harry's eyes went wide with delight. He placed his small hands on the train, concentrated the way Grandpa Marius had taught him, and felt his magic flow gently into the toy.

Steam puffed from the tiny smokestack, and the train began to chug around the track Vernon had set up, whistling merrily.

"Brilliant!" Dudley exclaimed, clapping his hands.

And Petunia... Petunia gave Harry the photograph album she'd been compiling for five years. Photos of Lily and James, of Harry as a baby, of their family growing together.

"So you never forget," she said softly. "Where you came from. Who loved you."

Harry hugged her tightly. "I love you, Mummy."

"I love you too, sweetheart," Petunia whispered. "So much."

Summer 1990

The news came by owl in the early morning.

Pandora Lovegood was dead.

An experimental spell had gone wrong. She'd died instantly. Xenophilius and Luna were devastated.

Petunia and Vernon attended the funeral with the boys. Harry, now nine, held eight-year-old Luna's hand throughout the service, his face solemn and sad.

"She was nice," Dudley said quietly. "She always explained things so we could understand."

"She was brilliant," Marius said, his voice heavy with grief. "And kind. The magical world has lost something precious."

After the funeral, Luna came home with them for a few days while Xenophilius dealt with arrangements. She slept in Harry's room—the boys had separate rooms now, though they still spent most nights talking through the wall—and Harry made sure she had everything she needed.

"Mummy says death is just the next great adventure," Luna said one evening, her eyes distant and dreamy. "That Mother is probably discovering all sorts of fascinating things beyond the veil."

"I think so too," Harry said quietly. "My Mother and Father are there. Maybe they'll meet her. Keep her company."

Luna smiled at him, tears tracking down her cheeks. "That's a nice thought, Harry. Thank you."

July 30th, 1991

The night before Harry's eleventh birthday, Petunia couldn't sleep.

Tomorrow, everything will change. Tomorrow, the Hogwarts letter will arrive. Tomorrow, they would have to start making decisions about Harry's future, about whether he'd go to Hogwarts, whether he'd enter the magical world fully, whether he'd be ready for everything that would come with being the Boy-Who-Lived.

Vernon found her in the kitchen at two in the morning, staring at the calendar.

"Can't sleep either?" he asked, putting the kettle on.

"I'm terrified," Petunia admitted. "What if we've done everything wrong? What if we haven't prepared him enough? "What if..?"

"Pet." Vernon sat down across from her and took her hands. "Look at what we've raised. Harry is kind, brave, clever, and good. He knows about both worlds. He knows his heritage. He knows he's loved. Whatever comes next, he'll be ready because we've been ready."

"But Dumbledore.."

"Can't touch him," Vernon said firmly. "Not legally. Not when Harry has a family who love him. Not when he's been raised right. And tomorrow, we're going to make damn sure everyone knows it."

Petunia managed a small smile. "We're going to Gringotts?"

"August first," Vernon confirmed. "We'll celebrate Harry's birthday properly tomorrow, let him enjoy being eleven, and then the next day we go to Gringotts and get those wills read. Find out what Lily and James really wanted. Claim Harry's inheritance. Make sure the goblins know that Harry Potter-Black has a family who's looking out for him."

"Potter-Black," Petunia murmured. "Do you think the test will show Regulus?"

"I think it'll show everything," Vernon said. "And then the magical world is going to have to reckon with the fact that their Boy-Who-Lived isn't some orphan to be manipulated. He's a Potter. He's a Black through multiple lines. And he has a family."

Petunia squeezed his hands. "Thank you. For everything. For supporting me, for loving Harry, for.."

"He's our son," Vernon said simply. "In every way that matters. And tomorrow, we're going to make sure the world knows it."

July 31st, 1991 - Harry's Eleventh Birthday

Harry woke to the sound of tapping at the window.

He sat up groggily, rubbing his eyes. Through the curtains, he could see the silhouette of an owl, a beautiful snowy owl with amber eyes.

His heart began to race. He knew what this meant. He'd been expecting it.

Harry climbed out of bed carefully (Dudley was still asleep in the next room) and opened the window. The owl swooped in gracefully, dropped a letter on his desk, and then, to Harry's surprise, settled on his bedpost, clearly intending to stay.

The letter was addressed in emerald green ink:

Mr. H. Potter The Blue Bedroom 4 Privet Drive Little Whinging Surrey

Harry's hands trembled as he broke the wax seal bearing the Hogwarts crest.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...

Harry read the letter three times, his heart pounding.

It was real. All of it was real. Magic, Hogwarts, his mother's world—it was all real, and he had a place in it.

A knock at the door. "Harry?" Petunia's voice, soft and careful. "Did it arrive?"

"Yes, Mummy," Harry said, and he couldn't keep the excitement out of his voice. "It came."

Petunia opened the door, Vernon right behind her. They both looked nervous and proud and terrified all at once.

"Can I see?" Petunia asked.

Harry handed her the letter. She read it carefully, Vernon reading over her shoulder.

"Just the acceptance letter and supply list," Petunia said quietly, her jaw tightening. "No introduction to the magical world. No explanation of Diagon Alley or Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Nothing."

"Is that unusual?" Vernon asked.

"Very." Petunia went to the bookshelf and pulled down a familiar package, yellowed with age. "This is Lily's acceptance letter from 1971. Muggleborn students get a whole package; introduction to magical society, explanation of the wizarding world, guide to Diagon Alley, everything a Muggle-raised child would need to know." She held up Harry's thin letter. "Harry got none of that."

Vernon's face darkened. "He wants Harry ignorant. Easier to guide."

"Easier to manipulate," Petunia corrected, her voice hard. "Good thing Harry doesn't need it. He's been raised properly."

"What do you think?" Harry asked quietly. "Should I go?"

Petunia knelt down in front of him; he'd grown so much this year, but he was still her little boy, and took his hands.

"That's your choice, sweetheart," she said. "Grandpa Marius has taught you everything he can about magical culture and history. Pandora taught you theory before she passed. You've learned control over your magic. You're ready for Hogwarts if you want to go. "But Harry.." Her voice turned serious. "..if you go, you'll be entering a world that thinks it knows you. A world that will have expectations. You'll be the Boy-Who-Lived, not just Harry. Are you ready for that?"

Harry thought about it. About everything he'd learned over the past ten years. About his Mother and Father and Papa. About the family he had here; Mummy and Daddy, Dudley, Grandpa Marius, Luna.

"I want to go," he said finally. "I want to learn. I want to see where Mother and Father went to school. But I also want to come home. Here. To you. Can I do both?"

"Always," Petunia said fiercely. "You will always have a home here, Harry. Always. And if Hogwarts isn't right for you, if Dumbledore tries anything, we'll pull you out so fast it'll make his head spin."

Vernon nodded. "We're with you, son. Every step of the way."

"I know," Harry said, hugging them both. "I love you."

"We love you too," Petunia whispered. "So much. Now, come on, you've got a birthday to celebrate. Dudley's been up since five waiting to give you your present."

The birthday party was brilliant.

Luna arrived early, wearing a dress covered in star charts and carrying a hand-drawn card that showed Harry riding a Thestral. "For good luck at Hogwarts," she said seriously. "You can see them too, can't you? Most people can't."

Harry looked at the skeletal winged horse in the drawing and felt a strange flutter of recognition. He'd seen... something. Shadows at the edges of his vision sometimes. Shapes he couldn't quite explain. "I... I think so. Maybe?"

"You will," Luna said with certainty. "When you're ready to understand."

Dudley gave Harry a Muggle camera. "So you can take pictures of everything and show me. Since I can't go with you."

"I'll write to you every week," Harry promised. "Tell you everything."

"You better," Dudley said, trying to sound tough even though his eyes were suspiciously bright.

Sophie and Tommy gave him books (they always gave books). Piers gave him a box of Chocolate Frogs. "Got them from my older brother—he's starting third year at Hogwarts. Said you'd love the cards."

Marius gave Harry a small wooden box with the Black family crest burned into the lid. "This contains your father's, your Papa Regulus's, letters. He wrote them before he died, for you to read when you were old enough. I think you're ready now."

Harry held the box carefully, reverently. "Thank you, Grandpa."

Xenophilius and Luna gave him a subscription to The Quibbler. "So you stay informed about what's really going on," Xeno said with a wink.

And finally, Petunia and Vernon gave Harry a new trunk. Not magical yet, but strong and well-made, with plenty of room for books and supplies.

"For your Hogwarts things," Vernon said. "We'll go to Diagon Alley in a few days, get you properly kitted out. But tomorrow, Harry, we're going somewhere else first."

"Where?" Harry asked.

"Gringotts," Petunia said quietly. "We're going to get your inheritance test done and see your parents' wills. It's time you knew everything, Harry. Everything about who you are and where you come from."

Harry's eyes went wide. "Everything?"

"Everything," Marius confirmed. "You're about to learn that you're far more than just Harry Potter. You're a Black. A Flamel. A Peverell. You carry the blood of some of the most powerful magical families in Britain. And it's time the world knew it."

Harry looked around at his family; Mummy and Daddy, Grandpa Marius, Dudley, Luna, all the people who loved him, and felt a surge of courage.

"I'm ready," he said.

And he was.

Chapter Text

August 1st, 1991

Hadrian had never seen anything quite like Diagon Alley in daylight with proper time to look around.

The cobbled street stretched before them, lined with shops that seemed to lean against each other for support. Witches and wizards in robes of every color hurried past, some levitating packages, others deep in conversation. An owl swooped overhead, dropping a letter into someone's outstretched hand. A small child rode past on a miniature broomstick that hovered just inches off the ground, his mother chasing after him with an exasperated expression.

"It's brilliant," Dudley breathed, his eyes wide as he took in everything. "Absolutely brilliant."

Harry couldn't disagree. This was his mother Lily's world. His world. The place where he belonged just as much as he belonged at Privet Drive.

Marius walked beside them, his expression fond. "I remember the first time I brought both your mothers here. Lily was seven, Tuney was nine. Lily wanted to touch everything. Tuney wanted to organize it all into categories."

Petunia smiled despite her obvious nerves. "Some things never change."

Vernon's hand was steady on Harry's shoulder as they navigated through the crowds. Hedwig rode in her cage, which Harry carried carefully. She'd refused to be left behind, hooting indignantly until they'd relented.

And there, at the end of the street, towering over everything else in gleaming white marble, stood Gringotts.

Harry felt his stomach flutter with anticipation and nerves. Today, he would learn the truth. All of it.

As they approached the great bronze doors, Marius spoke quietly. "Remember what I taught you. Goblins value respect, directness, and honor above all else. We bow to acknowledge their authority in their domain. We speak plainly and keep our word. Never, ever insult a goblin's intelligence or integrity."

"Yes, Grandpa," Harry said.

They climbed the steps, past the goblin guards in their scarlet and gold uniforms. Marius stopped and bowed respectfully to the guards. "We seek entry to conduct business with Gringotts. May we pass?"

The guards inclined their heads, acknowledging the proper courtesy. "You may enter."

Inside, the grand marble hall stretched impossibly high above them. Goblins sat at raised desks, weighing coins, examining gems, making notations in massive ledgers. The sound of business—the clink of gold, the scratch of quills, the murmur of negotiations—filled the air.

Petunia approached the nearest desk and waited until the goblin looked up. Then she bowed slightly. "Good morning. My name is Petunia Dursley née Evans. This is my nephew, Harry Potter, and my father Marius Evans. We request an audience regarding the Potter accounts and inheritance."

The goblin's sharp eyes examined them carefully. Then he bowed his head in return. "Well met, Mrs. Dursley. One moment, please."

He gestured to another goblin, who disappeared through a door. Several minutes later, an elderly goblin in formal robes approached.

"Mrs. Dursley? Mr. Potter? Mr. Evans? I am Griphook. His Majesty King Ragnok has been expecting you. Please, follow me."

"His Majesty?" Harry whispered as they followed Griphook through marble corridors.

"Ragnok is the Goblin King," Marius murmured. "The fact that he's meeting with us personally is a great honor. It means he takes the Potter accounts very seriously."

They descended deeper into the bank, past heavy vault doors and armed guards, through corridors that grew more ornate with each turn. Finally, Griphook opened a massive door carved with runes and ushered them into a grand chamber.

The room was circular, with a high domed ceiling covered in constellation maps that moved and glittered. Shelves lined the walls, holding everything from ancient scrolls to crystal orbs that pulsed with soft light. At the center sat a large round table of dark wood, polished to a mirror shine.

And at the head of that table sat a goblin who radiated power.

He was broad-shouldered and fierce, his face sharp and intelligent, his eyes like chips of obsidian. He wore robes of deep purple embroidered with gold, and a circlet of silver rested on his brow. Scars crossed his hands and face—marks of a warrior as much as a king.

Marius bowed immediately, and the others followed his lead. "Your Majesty King Ragnok. We are honored by your audience."

Ragnok inclined his head regally. "Mr. Evans. You show proper respect, as your grandmother taught you. Be welcome in my hall." His gaze moved to Petunia. "Mrs. Dursley. You have been wronged by wizards who thought themselves above our laws. We will see justice done." Then to Harry. "And Mr. Potter. Heir to ancient houses, child of three bloods and five oaths. We have waited a long time for you to come."

Three other goblins sat at the table—advisors, Harry guessed, from their formal attire and the documents before them.

"Please, be seated," Ragnok said, gesturing to chairs that appeared with a wave of his hand.

Once they were settled, Ragnok's expression hardened.

"Mrs. Dursley," he said, his voice sharp with disapproval, "why have you not responded to our letters before now?"

Petunia blinked. "I'm sorry—what letters, Your Majesty?"

"We have sent correspondence to your residence seventeen times over the past ten years," Ragnok said, his tone clipped. "Requesting that you bring young Mr. Potter in for his inheritance verification, for guardianship confirmation, for trust vault access. Seventeen times, Mrs. Dursley. We received no response."

"We never received any letters from Gringotts," Vernon said firmly. "Not one, Your Majesty."

Ragnok's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Our correspondence is warded against interception by standard means. However—" His lips thinned. "—someone with significant magical authority could redirect them. Someone with Chief Warlock privileges, for instance."

"Albus Dumbledore," Marius said flatly.

"So it would appear," Ragnok said, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop. "The Chief Warlock has been interfering with Potter affairs for a decade. This explains much. Griphook, document this interference. It will be included in our formal complaint to the Wizengamot."

One of the advisors began writing rapidly on parchment.

"What exactly has Dumbledore been blocking, Your Majesty?" Vernon asked.

Ragnok consulted a ledger. "Notification of vault status. Confirmation of guardianship as listed in the Potter wills. Inheritance verification. Trust fund access. Educational fund disbursement. Communication regarding Mr. Potter's godparents' status. Essentially everything that would have informed Mrs. Dursley of her legal rights and responsibilities regarding Mr. Potter."

"He wanted us ignorant," Petunia said quietly. "Easier to control."

"Precisely," Ragnok agreed, and there was approval in his tone. "You understand the game, Mrs. Dursley. Good. You will need that understanding in the days to come." He turned to Harry. "Mr. Potter, are you willing to undergo an inheritance test? It will require seven drops of your blood on enchanted parchment. The magic will reveal your bloodlines, inheritances, and family connections. Be warned—what you learn may surprise you."

Harry looked at Petunia, who nodded encouragingly. "It's alright, sweetheart. We're right here."

"I'm ready, Your Majesty," Harry said, trying to keep his voice steady.

Ragnok produced a silver knife that gleamed with ancient magic, a piece of parchment that shimmered with golden runes, and a crystal vial. "Your hand, please, Mr. Potter."

Harry held out his hand. The knife pricked his finger.. a sharp sting, nothing worse.. and seven drops of blood fell onto the parchment.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the blood began to glow with golden light.

Script wrote itself across the parchment in flowing, elegant letters of gold and black. More and more appeared, lines branching out like a family tree. The parchment expanded, doubling in size, then tripling, then quadrupling. Information filled page after page that materialized from thin air.

The goblins leaned forward, their expressions shifting from professional interest to shock to fury.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the magic settled. The glowing faded. Seven pages of parchment lay on the table, covered in gold and black script.

Ragnok lifted the first page. Read it. His expression grew darker with each line. Then he set it down carefully and looked at Harry with barely contained rage.. not at the boy, but at what had been done to him.

"Mr. Potter," Ragnok said, his voice deadly quiet, "you have been grievously wronged. What I am about to read will anger you. It will anger your family. And I promise you.. Gringotts will seek restitution for every crime committed against you."

He turned the parchment so they could see.

INHERITANCE TEST RESULTS

PERSONAL INFORMATION

Name: Hadrian James Potter-Black

Date of Birth: July 31st, 1980

Place of Birth: St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, London

Blood Status: Pureblood (multiple Ancient and Most Ancient lines)

Harry—no, Hadrian—stared at his name. His real name. The name his parents had chosen for him.

"Hadrian," he whispered.

"A strong name," Ragnok said. "A name of power and history. It is yours, and you should use it."

Petunia squeezed his hand. "Hadrian. It's perfect, sweetheart."

Ragnok continued:

PARENTAGE

Father (Legal and Biological): James Charlus Potter (March 27th, 1960 - October 31st, 1981)

Mother (Legal and Biological): Lilith Elektra Potter née Evans (January 30th, 1960 - October 31st, 1981)
"Lilith?" Hadrian whispered. "I thought her name was Lily?" "Lily was her nickname," Petunia said softly, her eyes glistening with tears. "Like how everyone calls me Tuney. Her real name was Lilith. Mother named her after the night lilies that bloomed the evening she was born."

Sire (Biological): Regulus Arcturus Black (June 25th, 1961 - Status: Compromised/Missing) Status: Publicly reported dead December 20th, 1979. No body recovered. Actual fate unknown. Compromised.

Note: The child is a product of Tri-Parent Conception Ritual performed June 1980. All three parents willingly contributed to the child's conception and magical signature. Legal father: James Potter. Biological fathers: James Potter and Regulus Black. Biological mother: Lily Potter. All three parental signatures are woven into the child's magical core.

INVESTIGATION NOTE: Discrepancy detected between reported death date (December 1979) and participation in ritual (June 1980). Gringotts will investigate Regulus Black's true fate and whereabouts. Information to be provided upon completion of inquiry.

"Tri-parent?" Hadrian asked quietly. "So I really do have three parents?"

"You do," Ragnok confirmed. "It is a sacred ritual, rarely performed. It speaks of deep trust and love between all three. Your Father James and your Papa Regulus both contributed to your creation, while your Mother Lily carried and bore you. Their magic is part of you, Hadrian. All three loved you completely."

Tears pricked Hadrian's eyes, but he blinked them back. He would hear everything first. Grieve and celebrate later.

Petunia's hand flew to her mouth. "But Regulus was alive in June 1980? They said he died in December '79."

"The reports were false," Ragnok said grimly. "Regulus Black participated in the tri-parent ritual in June. He was present, willing, and contributed his magic to Hadrian's creation. Then, sometime after, he vanished. We have found no death certificate, no body, no record of what truly happened to him."

"He's one of Hadrian's fathers," Marius said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "And someone made him disappear."

"Could he still be alive?" Hadrian asked, his heart pounding. He had three parents, and he'd thought all of them were dead. But if Regulus...

"It's possible," Ragnok said carefully. "The inheritance test shows his magical signature in your core, Hadrian. It's strong, vital. If he were truly dead, there would be a... diminishment. A sense of loss in the magic itself. I detect none. Which suggests either he died very recently, or—"

"Or he's alive somewhere," Vernon finished, his expression grim. "Imprisoned? In hiding?"

"We will investigate," Ragnok promised. "Finding Regulus Black is now a priority for Gringotts. If he lives, he deserves to know his son. And Hadrian deserves to know his papa."

The tears Hadrian had been holding back finally fell. Another parent. Possibly alive. After a lifetime of thinking he had no one, he might have..

"We'll find him, sweetheart," Petunia said, pulling Hadrian close. "If he's out there, we'll bring him home."

Ragnok turned to the next page:

GODPARENTS AND MAGICAL GUARDIANS (Blood-Oath Bound)

Primary Godfathers (Bonded Pair, Shared Oath):

• Sirius Orion Black (November 3rd, 1959) Status: Imprisoned, Azkaban. No trial on record. Blood-oath prevents harm to godson. Compromised.
• Remus John Black née Lupin, born Riddle-Greyback (March 10th, 1960) Status: Born Greyback (hereditary lycanthropy). Son of Thomas Riddle and Fenrir Greyback. Blood-oath prevents harm to godson. Socially compromised. Living.

Secondary Godfather (Blood-Oath Bound):

• Severus Tobias Snape (January 9th, 1960) Status: Blood-oath bound as Magical Guardian. Former Knight of Walpurgis, Coerced into service, bound by Chief Warlock. Blood-oath prevents harm to godson. Compromised. No known spouse.

Tertiary Godfathers (Bonded Pair, Shared Oath):

• Thomas Marvolo Riddle (December 31st, 1926) Status: Lord Slytherin. Married to Fenrir Greyback. Leader of the Knights of Walpurgis. Blood-oath prevents harm to godson. Publicly vilified as "Voldemort" by Chief Warlock. Compromised/Missing.
• Fenrir Greyback (February 14th, 1923) Status: Alpha Greyback Pack. Married to Thomas Riddle. Blood-oath prevents harm to godson. Publicly vilified as "dark creature" by Ministry. Compromised/Missing.

CRITICAL NOTE: All five godfathers are blood-oath bound. They are MAGICALLY INCAPABLE of causing harm to the child. Any claims that these individuals harmed or attempted to harm the child are either false or the result of external magical compulsion. Blood-oaths cannot be broken, circumvented, or overridden.

The silence was deafening.

Then Marius spoke, his voice shaking with fury. "Thomas Riddle. The man Dumbledore calls Voldemort. He's Hadrian's godfather?"

"And he cannot harm Hadrian," Ragnok confirmed. "None of them can. The blood-oath makes it impossible."

"Then Dumbledore has been lying," Petunia said, her voice cold. "About everything. If Tom Riddle can't harm Hadrian, then he didn't attack Godric's Hollow. He didn't try to kill our boy."

"Correct," Ragnok said grimly. "If Thomas Riddle was present that night, he was there to protect Hadrian Potter, not harm him. The blood-oath would have compelled him to defend the child."

Vernon's face was thunderous. "Then who killed Lily and James?"

"That," Ragnok said, "is an excellent question. One we will be investigating thoroughly."

Dudley looked confused. "But wait.. it says Remus Lupin is the son of Thomas Riddle and Fenrir Greyback? And that Thomas is married to Fenrir? And Remus is married to Sirius?"

"Yes," Ragnok confirmed. "According to the blood test, Remus Lupin was born Remus Riddle-Greyback in March 1960. Thomas Riddle carried and bore him—male pregnancy through advanced magic. Fenrir Greyback is his other biological parent. The test shows hereditary lycanthropy, passed from parent to child, not curse-based lycanthropy from a bite."

"But..” Petunia's face had gone pale. "The official story is that Remus Lupin was bitten by a werewolf as a child. That Fenrir Greyback attacked him."

"Indeed," Ragnok said, his expression darkening. "That is what public records claim. However, blood does not lie. Remus Lupin carries the Riddle and Greyback bloodlines. His lycanthropy is genetic, inherited from birth. It is medically and magically impossible for him to have been 'bitten' and transformed. He was born this way."

The implications crashed over them like a wave.

"Someone took him," Marius said hoarsely. "Someone stole Thomas and Fenrir's child and renamed him. Made up a story about a werewolf attack to explain his nature."

"And if the public story says Fenrir Greyback attacked him..." Vernon's face was grim. "Then Remus thinks the man who 'bit' him is a monster. He has no idea Fenrir is actually his father."

"Or that Thomas Riddle.. the man everyone calls Voldemort.. is his other parent," Petunia added, horrified. "He's been kept from his real family his entire life."

"That is the logical conclusion," Ragnok agreed grimly. "The blood test shows parentage. Public records show a fabricated attack. Someone went to great lengths to separate this child from his parents and create a false narrative."

"Dumbledore," Hadrian said, his voice shaking with fury. "It was Dumbledore. He stole Remus from Tom and Fenrir. Just like someone stole Mother's grandmother, Azalea Flamel, and renamed her Rose Evans."

"It would appear to be a pattern," Ragnok said. "Stealing children with powerful bloodlines and hiding their true heritage."

"And Sirius?" Hadrian asked. "What about my other primary godfather?"

"Sirius Black married Remus Lupin after their graduation from Hogwarts in 1978," Ragnok explained. "They are soulmates and bonded mates. The werewolf mate-bond formed when the younger partner.. Sirius.. turned sixteen in 1975. They married formally three years later. Both share the primary godfather oath to you.. they are equally bound to protect you."

"And Severus Snape?" Petunia asked.

"Secondary godfather and magical guardian. The oath is slightly different.. he is bound not only to protect but to teach and guide. A very old form of guardianship oath."

"And what are the Knights of Walpurgis?" Hadrian asked quietly.

"Thomas Riddle's organization," Ragnok explained. "A group dedicated to reforming magical Britain's laws regarding creature rights, inheritance rights, and political corruption. They opposed many of Dumbledore's policies. Dumbledore labeled them 'Death Eaters' and claimed they were dark wizards bent on Muggle genocide. Our records suggest otherwise—the Knights of Walpurgis fought for reform, not murder."

"More lies," Marius said, his hands clenched into fists. "Dumbledore turned the entire wizarding world against them with propaganda."

Ragnok nodded grimly and turned to the next page:

LIVING BLOOD RELATIVES

Maternal Aunt: Petunia Carina Dursley née Evans (June 15th, 1958) Status: Living. Blood-bound to the child (unauthorized). Magical core bound (1960, unauthorized). Carrier of magical gene, suppressed witch.

Cousin: Dudley Dursley (June 23rd, 1980) Status: Living. Carrier of magical gene. Late magical manifestation probable. Recommend monitoring.

Maternal Grandfather: Marius Evans née Black (April 2nd, 1933) Status: Living. Squib. Left House Black voluntarily 1954 to marry Rose Evans (born Azalea Flamel)

Petunia gasped. "Magical core bound? I'm a suppressed witch?"

"It appears so," Ragnok said, his expression dark. "Someone has bound your magical core, preventing you from accessing your magic. This is highly illegal and requires your consent.. which you clearly did not give."

"Dumbledore," Petunia whispered, her face pale with fury. "He bound my magic so I couldn't protect Hadrian properly. So I'd be helpless."

"And Dudley might be magical?" Vernon asked, looking at his son.

"Late manifestation is rare but possible," Ragnok explained. "Some carriers don't show magic until puberty or later, often triggered by emotional stress or life-threatening situations. We recommend annual testing."

Dudley's eyes were huge. "I might get magic? That's brilliant!"

Despite everything, Hadrian smiled at his brother. "We could go to school together."

"Yeah," Dudley said, grinning. "Yeah, we could."

Ragnok continued through the deceased relatives section:

DECEASED BLOOD RELATIVES

Maternal Grandmother: Rose Evans (born Azalea Flamel) (July 14th, 1934 - May 3rd, 1975) Daughter of Nicolas Flamel and Pernelle Flamel, née Delacour. 

Paternal Grandfather: Charlus Fleamont Potter (August 27th, 1920 - February 18th, 1979)

Paternal Grandmother: Dorea Potter née Black (October 3rd, 1920 - September 2nd, 1977)

Sire's Father: Orion Black (September 1st, 1929 - October 1979)

Sire's Mother: Walburga Black née Black (1925 - September 1985)

"Flamel," Petunia breathed. "Mother was a Flamel?"

 "The Flamel line," Ragnok confirmed. "One of the most ancient and respected magical families in Europe. Nicholas Flamel himself is still living. He is your grandfather, Mrs. Dursley, and Mr. Potter's great-grandfather." Harry's head was spinning. "Nicholas Flamel is my... my great-grandfather?" "Indeed" 

"can he be contacted?"

Ragnok's expression softened slightly. "Nicholas Flamel is... complicated to reach. He has been in seclusion for many years, avoiding those who would seek the Philosopher's Stone or exploit his knowledge. However—" He paused meaningfully. "—Gringotts maintains a secure correspondence network with him. Given the circumstances, and the fact that you are his direct descendant, I believe he would wish to be informed."

"Please," Petunia said quietly. "If he's my grandfather... if Mother was his daughter... he deserves to know we exist."

"There is a conditional heirship listed," Ragnok noted, consulting the parchment. "Heir Flamel, pending Nicholas Flamel's acknowledgment and approval. This suggests your parents anticipated this connection, Hadrian. They may have hoped Nicholas would one day be part of your life."

Marius's voice was thick with emotion. "Rose never knew. She never knew who her real family was."

Ragnok's expression darkened. "That in itself raises questions we will investigate. How does a Flamel child end up with no knowledge of her heritage?" He looked at Hadrian directly. "I will send word to Nicholas Flamel immediately. What he chooses to do with that information will be his decision, but he will know of you, Hadrian. I give you my word."

 Then he turned to the bloodlines page:

MAGICAL LINEAGE

Paternal Lines:

• Potter (Ancient and Noble House)
• Peverell (Most Ancient House, direct descent from Ignotus Peverell)
• Gryffindor (Founder's Line, direct descent from Godric Gryffindor)
• Black (Most Ancient and Noble House, through Dorea Potter née Black)

Maternal Lines:

• Evans (Muggle name adopted by Marius Black and Rose Flamel)
• Black (Most Ancient and Noble House, through Marius Evans né Black)
• Flamel (Ancient European House, through Rose Evans née Flamel)
• LeFay (Founder's bloodline, through Flamel line from Morgan le Fay)
• Delacour (Ancient French House, through Flamel line)

Sire's Lines:

• Black (Most Ancient and Noble House, direct line through Regulus Black)

Godfather Blood-Oath Lines (Magically Inherited):

• Black (through Sirius Black's oath)
• Slytherin (through Thomas Riddle's oath)
• Greyback (through Fenrir Greyback's oath and Remus's oath)
• Prince (through Severus Snape's oath)
• Peverell (through Thomas Riddle's oath - note: Tom Riddle carries Peverell line but is not Lord Peverell)

Note: Godfather blood-oaths are so deep and binding that their bloodlines became the child's. In magical law, the child is as much their child as he is James and Lily Potter's child.

"I have all of them," Hadrian whispered, staring at the list. "All these families are part of me."

"You are a child of many lines," Ragnok said. "Born of three parents, claimed by five godfathers, carrying the blood of Founders and ancient houses. Your magical potential is extraordinary, Hadrian Potter."

He turned to the next page, and his expression turned murderous:

LORDSHIPS AND HEIRSHIPS

Current Active Heirships (Age 11-16):

• Heir Potter (Primary)
• Heir Black (through Regulus Black and Sirius Black)
• Heir Peverell (through Potter line)
• Heir Gryffindor (through Potter line)

Lordships Activated Upon Majority or Emancipation (Age 17 or legal emancipation):

• Lord Potter
• Lord Black
• Lord Peverell
• Lord Gryffindor
• Lord Slytherin (through Thomas Riddle's blood-oath and inheritance upon Tom's recognition)

Conditional Heirships:

• Heir Flamel (conditional upon Nicholas Flamel's acknowledgment and approval)

Seats on the Wizengamot Upon Majority:

• Potter (1 seat)
• Black (2 seats - Ancient and Most Ancient status)
• Peverell (1 seat)
• Gryffindor (1 seat - Founder's privilege)
• Slytherin (1 seat - Founder's privilege, conditional)
• Flamel (1 seat - Ancient European House, conditional upon Nicholas Flamel's acknowledgment)

Total potential Wizengamot votes: 7

"Seven seats," Marius breathed. "If Nicholas Flamel acknowledges him, Hadrian will control seven votes on the Wizengamot."

"Making him one of the most politically powerful wizards in Britain," Ragnok confirmed. "Dumbledore controls three proxy votes as Chief Warlock. With Hadrian under his control, he would have effective control of nine votes—more than enough to pass any legislation he desired."

Then Ragnok's expression became truly terrifying. He lifted the next page as if it personally offended him.

"And now we come to the worst of it," he said, his voice like grinding stone. "The violations. The crimes. The sheer audacity of what has been done to this child."

MAGICAL BINDINGS, BLOCKS, AND COMPULSIONS (UNAUTHORIZED)

Illegal Magical Guardian Designation: Placed October 31st, 1981. Signature: Albus Dumbledore. Effect: Albus Dumbledore fraudulently declared himself Magical Guardian of the child without legal authority or consent from legal guardian Petunia Dursley. Allows him to make medical, educational, and magical decisions for the child. Blocks all communications to legal guardians regarding the child's status and wellbeing.

Appearance Glamour (Permanent): Placed October 31st, 1981. Signature: Albus Dumbledore. Effect: Conceals the child's true appearance. Current glamoured appearance: messy black hair (James Potter), bright green eyes (Lily Potter), James Potter's facial features. True appearance unknown until glamour is removed. Prevents recognition by blood relatives and prevents the child from seeing his own true reflection.

Core Suppression: Magical core bound at 40% capacity. Placed October 31st, 1981. Signature: Albus Dumbledore. Effect: Prevents the child from accessing full magical power. Causes chronic fatigue, stunted growth, increased vulnerability to magical attacks.

Soulmate Bond Block: Placed October 31st, 1981. Signature: Albus Dumbledore. Effect: Prevents the child from sensing or bonding with destined soulmate. Will cause increasing physical and emotional pain as the child approaches sexual majority.

Parseltongue Block: Placed October 31st, 1981. Signature: Albus Dumbledore. Effect: Prevents the child from speaking or understanding Parseltongue despite carrying Slytherin bloodline. Blocks natural magical ability.

Were-Blessing Block: Placed October 31st, 1981. Signature: Albus Dumbledore. Effect: Prevents the child from accessing inherited were-traits from Greyback bloodline (enhanced senses, partial transformation, increased healing). The child retains only passive benefits.

Blood Ward Binding (on Petunia Dursley): Placed October 31st, 1981. Signature: Albus Dumbledore. Effect: Binds Petunia Dursley's life-force to protective wards without consent. Creates tracking mechanism. Includes compulsion to isolate the child from magical world.

Tracking Charms (multiple): Placed October 31st, 1981 and renewed annually. Signature: Albus Dumbledore. Effect: Allows tracking of the child's location at all times.

Ragnok set down the parchment, and when he spoke, his voice could have cut a diamond.

"Albus Dumbledore has committed no fewer than ten separate violations of magical law against a child under his supposed protection. He has fraudulently declared himself guardian, concealed Hadrian's true appearance, bound his magic, blocked his natural abilities, prevented his soulmate bond, illegally tracked him, and non-consensually bound his aunt. Each of these is a crime punishable by imprisonment in Azkaban. Combined, they constitute grounds for multiple life sentences."

The room erupted.

Marius was on his feet, roaring with fury. "HE CRIPPLED MY GRANDSON! HE BOUND PETUNIA'S MAGIC! HE—"

Vernon's face was purple with rage. Petunia was shaking, tears of anger streaming down her face.

Even Dudley looked murderous. "He hurt Hadrian. He hurt Mum. I'll—I'll—"

Hadrian sat very still, processing. All his life, he'd been smaller than other children. Weaker. He'd thought it was just how he was made. But no—Dumbledore had done this to him. Had crippled him deliberately. Had stolen his strength, his abilities, his very soulmate.

"Can you remove them?" Hadrian asked quietly, and the room fell silent at the cold fury in his voice.

Ragnok smiled—a terrible, sharp smile. "Yes. Gringotts employs the finest curse-breakers in the world. We can purge every one of Dumbledore's bindings. However—" His expression turned serious. "—the process will be painful. Your magic has been suppressed for ten years. When we release it, it will surge. Your body will need to adjust to its full power. The were-blessing will activate fully. Your senses will sharpen dramatically. The parseltongue ability will return. And the soulmate bond—"

He paused. "Once the block is removed, you will be able to sense your soulmate. However, soulmate bonds do not fully activate until sexual majority at age sixteen. Until then, you will only sense a pull, a connection. The bond will complete when you are ready."

"I want them removed," Hadrian said firmly. "All of them. Today."

"It will take several hours," Ragnok warned. "And the pain will be considerable."

"I don't care," Hadrian said. "I want back what Dumbledore stole from me."

Ragnok nodded approvingly. "Spoken like a true heir of ancient houses. Very well. We will begin the purge immediately." He turned to Petunia. "Mrs. Dursley, we will also remove your bindings—the blood ward compulsion, the tracking charm, and your magical core binding. You are a witch, Mrs. Dursley. Your magic has been suppressed, but it can be freed."

Petunia's hands trembled. "I'll have magic?"

"You always had magic," Ragnok corrected. "It was simply stolen from you. We will give it back."

Then his expression darkened further. "But there is one more matter. Perhaps the most egregious violation of all."

He lifted the final page, and his voice dripped with contempt.

MARRIAGE CONTRACT (FRAUDULENT)

Contract Between: "Harry Potter" and "Ginevra Molly Weasley"

Date Filed: November 5th, 1981 (four days after deaths of James and Lily Potter)

Filed By: Albus Dumbledore (Chief Warlock, Illegal Magical Guardian) and Molly Weasley (Ginevra's mother)

Terms:

• Marriage to occur upon Ginevra Weasley's seventeenth birthday (August 11th, 1998)
• Three children required, names chosen by Ginevra Weasley
• Ginevra Weasley retains right to extramarital affairs; "Harry Potter" does not
• Ginevra Weasley chooses "Harry Potter's" career and all major life decisions
• Albus Dumbledore gains control of all Wizengamot seats held by "Harry Potter"
• Albus Dumbledore gains seat on Hogwarts Board of Governors through Potter proxy
• NO divorce permitted under any circumstances
• Breach of contract results in loss of magic and forfeiture of all inheritances

Legal Status: FRAUDULENT AND VOID

Reasons for Invalidity:

1. Contract filed under name "Harry Potter" - child's legal name is Hadrian James Potter-Black
2. Contract signed by Albus Dumbledore - who has NO guardianship rights over child
3. Hadrian's legal guardian (Petunia Dursley) never signed or consented to contract
4. Contract violates multiple laws regarding consent, age of majority, and magical coercion
5. Soulmate bond, once recognized, automatically annuls ANY marriage contract per ancient magical law

Marius exploded.

"DUMBLEDORE SOLD MY GRANDSON INTO SLAVERY!" he roared, his magic crackling around him despite being a squib—sheer rage making the impossible possible. "HE TRIED TO STEAL HADRIAN'S SEATS, HIS MAGIC, HIS LIFE!"

Petunia looked like she might commit murder. "A marriage contract? For a baby? To control him for Dumbledore's benefit?"

"And she gets to cheat but Hadrian doesn't?" Dudley said, outraged. "She chooses everything? That's not marriage, that's—that's—"

"Slavery," Vernon finished, his voice deadly quiet. "That's slavery."

Ragnok's smile was vicious. "Indeed. And completely, utterly void. Dumbledore has no authority to sign such a contract. Mrs. Dursley is Hadrian's legal guardian, and she never consented. Furthermore, the contract was filed under a false name.. 'Harry Potter' does not legally exist. The child's name is Hadrian James Potter-Black. And even if all that were not true.. " His smile widened. ".. Hadrian Potter has a soulmate. Once that bond is recognized, any marriage contract is automatically null and void. Ancient magic supersedes wizard law."

"So it's worthless?" Hadrian asked, his voice shaking with fury.

"Completely worthless," Ragnok confirmed. "However, the fact that it exists at all is further evidence of Dumbledore's crimes. We will be presenting this to the Wizengamot along with all the other violations."

"Good," Marius snarled. "I want him in Azkaban. I want him to rot."

"We will seek justice," Ragnok promised. "But first, let us free Hadrian from Dumbledore's chains." He stood. "Hadrian, if you're ready, we'll take you to our curse-breaking division. The purge will take approximately three hours. It will be painful, but when it's done, you will be free. Truly free."

Hadrian stood, his jaw set with determination. "I'm ready, Your Majesty."

"Then let us begin," Ragnok said. "Griphook, escort young Hadrian to the purge chambers. Mrs. Dursley, you will be taken to a separate chamber for your own unbinding."

As they prepared to leave, Marius pulled Hadrian into a fierce hug. "You're strong, boy. Stronger than Dumbledore ever imagined. You'll get through this, and when you do, we'll make sure he pays for every single thing he's done to you."

Hadrian hugged him back. "I know, Grandpa. I know."

Petunia kissed his forehead. "We love you, sweetheart. So much."

"I love you too, Mummy."

Dudley grabbed his hand. "You're going to be brilliant, Hadrian. Properly brilliant. Can't wait to see Dumbledore's face when he realizes he failed."

Despite everything, Hadrian smiled. "Me too, Dud. Me too."

As Griphook led him away, Hadrian felt something settle in his chest. Fear, yes. Anger, absolutely. But also determination.

Dumbledore had tried to break him, control him, chain him.

But Hadrian James Potter-Black was the heir of ancient houses, child of three parents, claimed by five godfathers, and carrier of Founder's blood.

He was not so easily broken.

And by the time he was done, Albus Dumbledore would learn exactly what it meant to cross a Potter.

Chapter Text

Three Hours Later

Hadrian emerged from the curse-breaking chambers looking like he'd been through a war.

His clothes were soaked with sweat. His hands trembled. His entire body ached like someone had taken him apart and put him back together wrong. But his eyes.. his eyes were blazing with power.

Vernon caught him as he stumbled, steadying him. "Easy, son. Easy."

"I'm alright," Hadrian said, but his voice was hoarse. "It hurt. It hurt so much. But it's done."

Petunia emerged from her own chamber moments later, supported by a goblin healer. She looked pale and shaken, but there was wonder in her eyes.

"I can feel it," she whispered. "Magic. My magic. It's.. it's singing in my veins."

Marius pulled his daughter into his arms, tears streaming down his face. "Welcome back, Tuney. Welcome back."

They were led to a recovery room where comfortable chairs and glasses of water waited. A goblin healer.. stern-faced and efficient.. examined both Hadrian and Petunia carefully.

"The purge was successful," the healer announced. "All bindings, blocks, and compulsions have been removed. However, both patients will need time to adjust."

She turned to Hadrian. "Your magical core is now operating at full capacity. You will notice increased strength, stamina, and magical sensitivity. The were-blessing has fully activated.. your senses are now significantly enhanced. Smell, hearing, sight, all heightened. You may also find you can partially transform.. claws, fangs, increased speed and strength. This is normal for those carrying Greyback blood. You do not have the madness associated with the werewolf curse, as you inherited the blessing, not the curse."

Hadrian flexed his fingers experimentally. Even that small movement felt different. Stronger. More controlled.

"The Parseltongue ability has been restored," the healer continued. "You will now be able to speak to and understand serpents. This is a rare gift.. use it wisely."

"And the soulmate bond?" Hadrian asked quietly.

The healer's expression softened slightly. "The block has been removed. However, as King Ragnok explained, the bond will not fully activate until you reach sexual majority at age sixteen. Until then, you will sense a pull toward your soulmate.. a feeling of rightness, of belonging.. but the bond itself will remain dormant. When you meet your soulmate, you will know. The magic will recognize its match."

"Will it hurt?" Hadrian asked. "Until then?"

"Some discomfort, perhaps," the healer admitted. "A sense of incompleteness. But nothing like the pain the block would have caused as you approached your majority. Dumbledore's block would have torn your soul apart. You are very fortunate we removed it when we did."

She turned to Petunia. "Mrs. Dursley, your magical core is now unbound. However, you have not used magic in decades. You will need training.. a tutor to help you learn control. Raw, untrained magic in an adult is dangerous. We recommend you begin lessons immediately."

"I will," Petunia promised. "I want to learn. I want to be able to protect my family properly."

"Good," the healer said. "Now, both of you will experience some side effects over the next few days. Headaches, dizziness, increased appetite as your bodies adjust to the changes. This is normal. Rest, eat well, and return to Gringotts in one week for a follow-up examination. We need to ensure the unbinding has taken place properly."

"We will," Marius said. "Thank you."

The goblin healer handed Hadrian a mirror. "The glamour has been removed. You should see your true face now."

Hadrian took the mirror with trembling hands and looked.

The face staring back at him was familiar.. and yet completely different.

His eyes were still green, brilliant emerald, but now they held a golden gleam around the pupils.. a shimmer of the were-blessing and his multiple bloodlines merging together. The eyes were striking, otherworldly, beautiful in their intensity.

His hair was jet black, no longer the messy bird's nest he'd always fought with. Instead, it fell in soft waves with slight curls at the ends, framing his face elegantly. It looked touchable, manageable.. nothing like the wild mop the glamour had given him.

His face was delicate, fine-boned, with high cheekbones and a pointed chin. Androgynous in a way that made it hard to tell if he'd grow into masculine handsomeness or remain ethereally beautiful. He looked like a perfect blend of his three parents.. James's bone structure, Lilith's delicate features, and Regulus's aristocratic elegance.

At 130 centimeters tall, he was small for eleven, but there was a grace to him now, a fluidity of movement that came from the were-blessing. He looked fragile, almost fae-like, but his eyes held steel.

And no glasses. The glamour had given him false nearsightedness. His vision was now perfect.. better than perfect, with the enhanced senses from his Greyback heritage.

"I look.." Hadrian breathed, touching his reflection. "I look like me. Actually me."

"You look like a Black," Marius said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "You have Regulus's eyes.. well, with your mother's color. And that bone structure is pure Black aristocracy."

"You look like your mother too," Petunia said softly. "The delicate features, the way you hold yourself. Lily.. Lilith.. had that same ethereal quality."

"And James," Vernon added. "The smile. That's James Potter's smile."

Hadrian turned away from the mirror, his true face reflecting back at him. "This is who I really am. This is Hadrian James Potter-Black."

"Yes," Ragnok said with approval. "That is who you are. And no glamour will ever hide you again." The healer nodded and departed.

For a long moment, the family sat in silence, processing everything that had happened.

Then Dudley said, "So Hadrian's got super senses now? That's brilliant! Can you hear things really far away?"

Despite his exhaustion, Hadrian smiled. He closed his eyes and focused.

The world exploded into sensation.

He could hear conversations three floors below. Could smell the metallic tang of gold in the vaults, the leather of ledgers, the goblin-scent of magic and earth. Could feel the vibrations of cart wheels on distant tracks.

"I can hear everything," Hadrian breathed. "It's.. it's overwhelming."

"You'll learn to filter it," Marius said. "Greybacks are taught from childhood to control their enhanced senses. We'll find someone to teach you."

Hadrian opened his eyes and looked at his grandfather. Really looked. And gasped.

"Grandpa, I can see.. there's magic around you. Faint, but it's there. Silver threads, like.. like cobwebs."

Marius's eyes widened. "Squibs still carry magic. We just can't use it. You're seeing my magical signature."

"It's beautiful," Hadrian said softly.

He looked at Petunia next and saw blazing gold.. her newly freed magic, wild and untamed. At Vernon, who had silver-grey threads like Marius. At Dudley..

Hadrian sat up straight. "Dud. You have magic. It's faint, like it's sleeping, but it's there. Gold, like Mummy's."

Dudley's eyes went huge. "Really? I really have magic?"

"You do," Hadrian confirmed. "It's just dormant. Waiting."

"We'll have you tested regularly," Vernon said, squeezing his son's shoulder. "If your magic manifests, we'll make sure you're ready."

Ragnok entered the room, accompanied by Griphook carrying several ornate boxes.

"How do you feel, Hadrian?" Ragnok asked.

"Like I've been reborn," Hadrian said honestly. "Everything is different. Sharper. Clearer."

"Good," Ragnok said with satisfaction. "Then let us complete today's business. Griphook, the items."

Griphook set the boxes on the table and opened the first one.

Inside was a ring—silver with the Potter coat of arms carved into a shield-shaped crest. A stag leaped across the shield, proud and fierce.

"Your Heir Potter ring," Ragnok explained. "It marks you as the acknowledged heir of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter. Wear it with pride."

Hadrian slipped it on his right ring finger. The ring resized itself immediately, warming against his skin as it recognized his blood and magic. He felt a pulse of power—not overwhelming, but present. Welcoming.

"It's beautiful," Hadrian breathed.

"You are entitled to three more heir rings," Ragnok said, gesturing to Griphook, who opened the second, third and fourth box.

Inside were three more rings, each unique and magnificent:

A ring of white gold with the Black family crest—a shield bearing a raven in flight over a field of stars, with the motto Toujours Pur inscribed in elegant script. "The Heir Black ring," Ragnok announced. "Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. You inherit this through both your Papa Regulus and your godfather Sirius."

A ring of pale silver with an intricate symbol etched into its surface: a circle enclosed within a triangle, with a vertical line running through the center of both—the Deathly Hallows symbol. The coat of arms on the shield showed three cloaked figures representing the three brothers of legend.

Marius went very still, staring at the ring. "That symbol... Your Majesty, that's Grindelwald's mark. Why would the Peverell ring bear Grindelwald's symbol?"

"No," Ragnok said firmly, his voice hard. "It is the Peverell family symbol, stolen and corrupted by Gellert Grindelwald during his rise to power. The symbol represents the three Peverell brothers and the legendary Deathly Hallows—the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Invisibility Cloak. It has belonged to the Peverells for over a thousand years, long before Grindelwald was even born."

Hadrian looked between his grandfather and Ragnok, confused. "Who's Grindelwald?"

"A dark wizard," Marius explained, his voice tight. "He terrorized Europe in the 1930s and 40s, using that symbol as his mark. Killed thousands. Dumbledore supposedly defeated him in 1945."

"But why did Grindelwald use it?" Petunia asked, her voice sharp with suspicion. "Why would he use the Peverell family symbol?"

Ragnok's expression darkened. "An excellent question, Mrs. Dursley. One that has never been properly answered. Grindelwald claimed he was searching for the Deathly Hallows themselves—magical artifacts of immense power. But why he chose the Peverell symbol specifically, why he had such an obsession with Hadrian's family legacy... that remains a mystery."

"A mystery you suspect has an answer," Marius said quietly.

"I suspect," Ragnok said carefully, "that Grindelwald's connection to Dumbledore, and Dumbledore's subsequent defeat of Grindelwald, may not be the heroic tale we've been told. Gringotts has long questioned certain aspects of that narrative."

He looked at Hadrian directly. "If you wish, we can investigate. Gringotts has resources and records that predate the Ministry. We can look into Grindelwald's true motives, his connection to the Peverell line, and why Dumbledore seemed so intimately familiar with Grindelwald's plans. It may take time, but we will find answers."

"Yes," Hadrian said immediately. "Please. I want to know why Grindelwald used my family's symbol. And..." He hesitated, then continued. "And I want to know what really happened between Grindelwald and Dumbledore. If Dumbledore has been lying about everything else, maybe he lied about that too."

"A wise suspicion," Ragnok said approvingly. "We will add it to our investigations. Now, the Heir Peverell ring. You are the direct male-line descendant of Ignotus Peverell through the Potter line. This ring has been waiting for a worthy heir for centuries. Do not let Grindelwald's corruption of your family symbol diminish its importance. You have every right to wear it with pride."

Hadrian took the ring carefully. Despite the tainted history Marius had described, when he slipped it onto his left ring finger, it felt... right. The magic pulsed warm and welcoming, recognizing him. The symbol might have been corrupted by Grindelwald, but the ring knew its true heir.

"I'll reclaim it," Hadrian said quietly, looking at the interlocking triangles on his finger. "Grindelwald stole my family's symbol. I'll take it back."

"Spoken like a true Peverell," Ragnok said with a sharp smile.

A ring of deep crimson gold with a roaring lion emblazoned on a shield, surrounded by runes of protection and courage. "The Heir Gryffindor ring. Founder's line. You descend directly from Godric Gryffindor through the Potter bloodline. This ring has not been worn in over five hundred years."

Hadrian stared at the three rings, his hands trembling slightly. "I can wear all of them?"

"You can and should," Ragnok confirmed. "These rings mark your heritage, your bloodlines, your place in magical society. They will protect you, identify you to those who know the old ways, and grant you certain privileges and immunities under ancient laws."

"Where do I wear them?" Hadrian asked.

"Traditionally, the primary heir ring—Potter, in your case—goes on the right ring finger. The others can be worn on any finger of either hand. Some heirs wear them on chains around their necks. The choice is yours."

Hadrian carefully took each ring. The Black ring went on his right middle finger. The Peverell ring on his left ring finger. The Gryffindor ring on his left middle finger.

Each ring resized and settled, pulsing with warmth as it recognized him. He could feel the magic in them—old magic, powerful magic, protective magic. Together, the four rings created a harmonious resonance, their magics intertwining around him like a shield.

"One more thing," Ragnok said, his expression serious. "These rings are ancient and powerful, and you are only eleven years old. There will be those who seek to manipulate you, to use your heritage and political power for their own gain. The rings know this."

He gestured to the four gleaming bands on Hadrian's fingers. "Each ring contains protective glamours woven into the metal itself. To most people, they will appear as simple silver bands—pretty, but unremarkable. Only those with your explicit permission, or those of your direct bloodlines, will see them for what they truly are."

"So no one at Hogwarts will know?" Hadrian asked.

"Not unless you choose to reveal them," Ragnok confirmed. "You can lower the glamour with a thought, show your rings to those you trust. But until you do, they remain hidden. This protects you from those who would seek to control you through flattery, manipulation, or political pressure. You are a child, Hadrian. You should be allowed to be a child, to learn and grow, before the weight of four ancient houses falls fully upon your shoulders."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Hadrian said quietly, looking down at his rings. They shimmered for a moment, and suddenly appeared as simple silver bands, elegant but plain. Another thought, and they returned to their true forms—ornate, powerful, unmistakable.

"Practice that," Ragnok advised. "Learn to control the glamour with ease. And remember—just because others cannot see your heritage does not mean you should forget it. You are Hadrian James Potter-Black, heir to four ancient houses. Wear your rings with pride, even if only you can see them."

"When you reach your majority or are emancipated," Ragnok continued, "these heir rings will transform into Lord rings, granting you full authority over your houses, access to the full family vaults, seats on the Wizengamot, and the right to negotiate marriage contracts, declare feuds, and exercise all privileges of a Lord of the Ancient Houses."

"You may also receive a fifth heir ring," Ragnok added, "should Nicolas Flamel acknowledge you as his heir. The Flamel ring would be emerald and gold, bearing the symbol of the Philosopher's Stone. But that is conditional upon his response to our correspondence."

Hadrian looked down at his hands, at the four rings gleaming on his fingers. Potter. Black. Peverell. Gryffindor. Four ancient houses. Four legacies. All his.

"I won't let them down," Hadrian said quietly. "Any of them. I'll make my families proud."

"I have no doubt," Ragnok said warmly. "Now, let us continue with your parents' personal effects..."

The next box contained a small leather journal, worn with age. "Your mother Lily's personal journal. She wanted you to have it when you were ready."

Hadrian took it reverently, running his fingers over the cover.

The next box held a folded piece of cloth—scarlet and gold. "Your father James's Gryffindor Quidditch Captain armband. He was very proud of it."

Hadrian pressed it to his chest, feeling tears sting his eyes.

The next box contained a silver locket on a delicate chain. "From your papa Regulus. He always wore it. Inside is a photograph of the three of them—Lily, James, and Regulus—taken just after you were conceived."

Hadrian opened the locket with shaking hands. Inside was indeed a photograph—his three parents, younger than he'd ever seen them, laughing and holding hands. Lily was in the middle, James on her right, Regulus on her left. They looked so happy. So in love.

"They loved each other," Hadrian whispered. "All three of them."

"They did," Ragnok confirmed. "It was a rare thing. A beautiful thing."

The final and largest box, when opened, revealed a sleeping creature.

A cat-like creature. It was silver-grey with darker stripes, her fur sleek and elegant. Her tail was long and plumed. Even sleeping, she radiated intelligence and grace.

"A Kneazle," Ragnok said softly. "Your papa Regulus's familiar. She's been in stasis since 1979, waiting for you. Her name is Lyra."

Ragnok tapped the cushion three times, and the stasis field dissolved.

Lyra's eyes opened—brilliant amber, sharp and aware. She lifted her head, looked around the chamber, and then her gaze locked on Hadrian.

For a long moment, neither moved.

Then Lyra stood, stretched with feline grace, and leaped down from the box. She walked directly to Hadrian, circled him once, twice, three times, sniffing carefully with her enhanced Kneazle senses.

Then she sat at his feet and looked up at him with those intelligent amber eyes.

Hadrian knelt down slowly. "Hello, Lyra. I'm Hadrian. I'm... I'm Regulus's son."

Lyra made a soft chirping sound—not quite a meow, but something more complex. She butted her head against Hadrian's hand, and when he stroked her fur, she began to purr. The sound was deeper than a normal cat's purr, thrumming with magic.

"She accepts you," Ragnok said, sounding pleased. "The bond is forming. Lyra will be fiercely loyal to you, Hadrian. She'll protect you, guide you, and warn you of danger. Kneazles can sense dishonest intentions. She'll know who to trust."

Lyra suddenly made a different sound—mournful, questioning. She looked around as if searching for something.

"She senses an absence," Ragnok observed. "Kneazles mate for life. If Lyra had a mate before the stasis..."

"Crookshanks," Petunia said suddenly. "Lily had a cat. Part-Kneazle, she said. Ginger with a squashed face. She adored him."

Lyra's ears perked up at the name. She made an urgent chirping sound, her tail lashing.

"She recognizes that name," Ragnok said. "It's possible Lyra and this Crookshanks were bonded mates."

"What happened to him?" Hadrian asked. "Where is he?"

"I don't know," Petunia admitted. "After Lily died, Dumbledore handled everything from the magical side. He must have taken Crookshanks."

"Or abandoned him," Vernon said darkly.

Lyra made a distressed sound and pressed against Hadrian's legs, seeking comfort.

Hadrian scooped her up, and she allowed it, curling against his chest. "We'll find him," Hadrian promised. "If Crookshanks is out there, we'll find him. I swear it."

Lyra looked at him with those amber eyes, and Hadrian felt the bond between them solidify. She trusted him. She would help him. And he would help her find her mate.

Ragnok cleared his throat. "There are several more matters to discuss. First: the wills. Now that the inheritance test is complete, we can execute the Last Wills and Testament of Lily Potter, James Potter, and Regulus Black. Would you like to hear them now, or would you prefer to rest first?"

"Now," Hadrian said immediately. "Please. I need to hear them."

"Very well," Ragnok said. He gestured, and three sealed documents appeared on the table. "These wills were sealed by Dumbledore ten years ago. As of yesterday, when you turned eleven, those seals dissolved. We can now read them as they were meant to be read."

He lifted the first—sealed with Lily's signature in elegant script.

"The Last Will and Testament of Lilith Elektra Potter, née Evans," Ragnok announced.

He broke the seal, and Lilith's voice filled the room.

It was a magical recording, preserved in the will itself. Hadrian's breath caught. This was his mother's voice. His mother, speaking to him across a decade of death.

"If you're hearing this, then I'm dead. James is dead. Regulus has been gone for over a year. And Hadrian—oh, my precious baby boy—I'm so, so sorry. I'm so sorry we couldn't be there to watch you grow up."

Lily's voice was warm and sad and fierce all at once. Hadrian felt tears streaming down his face, but he couldn't look away, couldn't stop listening.

"But I need you to know something, Hadrian. You were wanted. So desperately wanted. From the moment we performed the tri-parent ritual, from the moment I knew I was carrying you, you were loved with everything we had. Your Father James, your Papa Regulus, and me—we would have given anything to keep you safe. And in the end, we did."

A pause. Then Lily's voice continued, stronger.

"This is my Last Will and Testament of Lilith Elektra Potter, née Evans—though everyone called me Lily—recorded June 15th, 1980, and updated October 30th, 1981."

"First, to my son Hadrian: I leave all my personal effects. My journals, my research notes, my photographs, my books, my wand. I want you to know me, Hadrian. Not the hero they'll make me out to be, but the real me. The woman who cried at sad movies and burned dinner and laughed too loud and loved too fiercely. I want you to know I was human, and flawed, and I loved you anyway. So much."

"Second, to my son Hadrian: I leave my share of the Potter fortune, to be held in trust by Gringotts until his majority. Use it wisely, my love. Use it to make the world better. Fight for those who can't fight for themselves. Be the light in the darkness."

"Third, to my sister Petunia: I leave my magical library, my research into blood magic and protection wards, and my personal grimoire. Tuney, I know you don't have your magic anymore—Dumbledore stole it from you when you were just a baby. I'm so sorry I didn't know sooner. I'm so sorry I couldn't fix it. But if you're raising Hadrian—and I pray you are—these books will help you understand magic enough to keep him safe. And Tuney—"

Lily's voice cracked with emotion.

"Thank you. Thank you for taking him. Thank you for loving him. I know you will. I know you're scared, but I also know you're the strongest person I've ever met. You'll protect my baby. You'll love him. And he'll grow up knowing he has a family who chose him, not just a family who was obligated to take him. That's the greatest gift you could give him."

"Fourth, and most importantly: guardianship."

Lily's voice turned fierce, powerful, utterly uncompromising.

"I name my sister, Petunia Carina Dursley née Evans, as Hadrian's magical guardian. She will have FULL legal authority over his upbringing, education, residence, and welfare. She will decide where he lives, where he goes to school, who has access to him, and how he is raised. Her word is LAW regarding my son. No one—and I mean NO ONE—has the right to override her decisions."

"I specifically, explicitly, and absolutely FORBID Albus Dumbledore from having any guardianship rights over Hadrian. None. Zero. If Dumbledore attempts to claim guardianship, if he tries to override Petunia's authority, if he tries to control my son's life in ANY way, I want it on record that he is acting against my explicit wishes and breaking magical law."

"Albus Dumbledore positions himself as a great man. A brilliant wizard. A war hero. But he's a manipulative bastard who sees people as chess pieces in his grand game for the 'greater good.' He kidnapped my husband. He bound my sister's magic when she was just a toddler. He's creating the very 'war' he claims to fight against. I will NOT let my son become his pawn. I will NOT let Dumbledore sacrifice Hadrian for his schemes."

"Petunia, if Dumbledore tries to take Hadrian from you, FIGHT HIM. You have the law on your side. You have my will. You have Gringotts. You have every right to keep my baby safe. Don't let anyone—ANYONE—tell you otherwise."

"Fifth: Hadrian's education. I leave the choice to Hadrian and to Petunia. If Hadrian wants to attend Hogwarts, support him—but watch Dumbledore carefully. If he wants to be homeschooled, or attend Beauxbatons or Durmstrang or any other school, support him. This is HIS life, HIS future, HIS choice. Don't let anyone force him down a path he doesn't want to walk. Let him choose his own destiny."

"Sixth: Hadrian's godfathers. I name five men as his godfathers, all bound by blood-oath to protect him. Sirius Black and Remus Lupin—my dear friends, bonded to each other and to my son. Severus Snape—complicated, brilliant, bound by oath and loyalty to protect what matters most. And Thomas Riddle and Fenrir Greyback—Tom is Remus's father, fighting for a better world, and Fenrir is his husband and Remus's other parent. They love my son as if Hadrian were their own."

"If I'm dead, it wasn't Tom who killed me. The blood-oath would have prevented it. If anyone claims Tom Riddle attacked us, they're lying. Dumbledore has been using Tom's name and face to create a fictional 'Dark Lord Voldemort' as a boogeyman to control the wizarding world through fear. Don't believe the propaganda, Hadrian. Find out the truth. Please."

"Seventh: to my husband James, if you survive and I don't—take care of our boy. Love him with everything you have. Teach him to be brave and kind and good. Teach him to stand up for what's right. And please, love, try not to get him killed with your reckless Gryffindor nonsense. At least wait until he's seventeen."

A soft laugh, sad and fond.

"Eighth: to my husband Regulus—my beloved, my heart, wherever you are."

Lily's voice broke completely, raw with grief and desperate hope.

"If you can hear this, if you're still out there somewhere, I love you. We miss you desperately. You told us before you went deep into the investigation—'If I disappear, if something happens to me, it's Dumbledore.' You were right. He took you from us in August, right after Hadrian was born. Our son was only three weeks old when you vanished."

"James and I have been searching. We've torn apart Britain looking for you. But Dumbledore has hidden you so well, and he has the full power of the Chief Warlock's office behind him. We can't find you. We can't reach you. And every day without you is agony."

"If I'm dead and you're alive—if you ever get free—please, my love, find our son. Protect him. Love him for all three of us. Tell him about the ritual, about how much we wanted him, about the family we built together. Tell him his Papa loved him before he was even born."

"And know this, Regulus: You are my husband. You are Hadrian's father. Nothing Dumbledore does can change that. Our bond, our magic, our love—it's eternal. I will find you in whatever comes after this life, and we will be together again."

"I love you, Regulus Arcturus Black. I love you, James Charlus Potter. And I love you, Hadrian James Potter-Black. You three are my world, my heart, my everything."

A shuddering breath.

"Ninth: to my sister Petunia once more: Tuney, I forgive you. For everything. For the jealousy, the fear, the distance between us. You were scared, and I understand that now. Dumbledore manipulated both of us—took your magic, drove a wedge between us. But you're my sister. My family. And I love you. I always have. I always will."

"Don't be scared of Hadrian's magic, Tuney. Don't let fear make you push him away. Love him. Protect him. Tell him about me—the REAL me. Tell him I snorted when I laughed really hard. Tell him I cried at happy endings. Tell him I sang off-key in the shower. Tell him I was human."

"Tell him about Regulus too. Tell him his Papa was brave and brilliant and loved him so much. Don't let Hadrian forget he has three parents who would have moved heaven and earth for him."

"I love you, Tuney. And I love you, Hadrian, my precious boy. My beautiful, perfect, wanted child. Be brave. Be kind. Be yourself. Choose your own path. And remember—you are so, so loved. By me, by your fathers, by your family. You are loved, Hadrian. Never forget that."

"Lilith Elektra Potter née Evans, signed and sealed October 30th, 1981. If I die protecting my son. I would do it again in a heartbeat. I love you, Hadrian. Always."

The recording faded.

The room was silent except for the sound of Petunia's sobbing. Hadrian was crying openly, Lyra purring against his chest in comfort. Marius had his face in his hands. Even Vernon was wiping his eyes, and Dudley looked shell-shocked.

"She loved you so much," Petunia whispered, pulling Hadrian into her arms. "She trusted me with you. Oh, Lily. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I let fear come between us."

"She forgave you," Hadrian said, his voice thick with tears. "She said so. She loved you, Mummy. She wanted you to raise me."

Petunia held him tighter. "And I will. I'll protect you. Always. I promise."

Ragnok waited respectfully before lifting the second sealed will.

"The Last Will and Testament of James Charlus Potter," he announced.

He broke the seal, and James's voice filled the room.. lighter than Lilith's, more casual, but with steel underneath.

"Right, so if you're hearing this, I'm dead. That's... that's really bloody awful, actually. I had so many plans. Wanted to teach Hadrian to fly, wanted to embarrass him in front of his dates, wanted to watch him kick arse at Quidditch and probably Transfiguration because he's definitely getting Lily's brains and Regulus's cunning. But if I'm dead, at least I died protecting my family. And honestly? There's no better way to go."

"This is my Last Will and Testament, recorded June 15th, 1980, updated October 30th, 1981."

"First, to my son Hadrian: Everything I own is yours, kiddo. The Potter fortune, the properties, the grimoires, the family artifacts, my Invisibility Cloak (which you are NOT allowed to use for pranks until you're at least thirteen), and my undying love. You're going to be amazing, Hadrian. I know it. You've got Lily's brilliance, Regulus's cunning, and my devastatingly good looks. You're going to change the world."

"Use the Potter fortune wisely. Our family has always stood for protecting those who can't protect themselves. Don't let that legacy die with me. Fight for the underdog. Stand up to bullies. Make the world better. Your Papa Regulus started that fight, and I want you to finish it."

"Second, to my wife Lily, if she survives and I don't: Everything is yours, love. Take care of our boy. Tell him his dad was roguishly handsome, occasionally heroic, and deeply, madly in love with both you and Regulus. Tell him we were happy. We were so, so happy."

"Third: guardianship. Lily and I talked about this for months. If we both die, Hadrian goes to Petunia Dursley. I know, I know—Petunia and I didn't always get along. She thought I was an arrogant git (she wasn't wrong, to be fair). But she's Lily's sister. She's family. And Hadrian needs family more than he needs anything else."

"I explicitly, categorically, and absolutely FORBID Albus Dumbledore from claiming guardianship over Hadrian. Dumbledore is brilliant. Dumbledore is powerful. Dumbledore has positioned himself as Britain's savior. Dumbledore is also the manipulative bastard who kidnapped my husband and has been creating the fake 'Voldemort' crisis to consolidate his own power."

"I won't let him have my son. I won't let Hadrian become a weapon in Dumbledore's political games. If Dumbledore tries to control Hadrian's life, fight him. Legally, politically, magically—whatever it takes. My son deserves to choose his own path."

"Petunia, if you're hearing this: please love my boy. I know magic scares you. I know you're angry that Dumbledore stole your magic when you were a child—Lily told me everything when we found out. But Hadrian is the best of all of us. He's Lily's compassion, Regulus's intelligence, and my charm (okay, maybe not the last one). Give him a chance. Let him be himself. And tell him his dad loved him more than Quidditch, which is really saying something."

"Fourth: Hadrian's godfathers. Sirius and Remus—you're primary godfathers. Teach Hadrian about loyalty, about found family, about love that transcends blood. Severus—you're his magical guardian. Teach him control, discipline, the importance of thinking before acting (Merlin knows I never learned that lesson). And Tom and Fenrir—teach him that the world isn't black and white. Teach him to question authority. Teach him that monsters are made, not born, and that Dumbledore is the real monster in this story."

"Yes, I named Tom Riddle as my son's godfather. And before anyone loses their minds—Tom didn't attack us. Couldn't attack us. The blood-oath prevents it. If I'm dead and people are blaming Tom, they're lying. Dumbledore created the 'Dark Lord Voldemort' myth to control Britain through fear. Don't believe his propaganda. Find the truth. Clear Tom's name."

"Fifth: to Sirius Black, my brother in everything but blood—I leave you my friendship, my trust, and my expectation that you'll help Petunia raise Hadrian right. Teach him the Marauder's Map. Teach him the pranks. Teach him that family is who you choose, not who you're born to. And Padfoot? Take care of Moony. He's going to need you. You both are."

"Sixth: to Remus Lupin, who I love like a brother—I leave you ten thousand Galleons and my library. The money is to help you until the werewolf laws are repealed (and they WILL be repealed, Moony, I promise). The books are because you're the only one who appreciates them properly. Tell Hadrian about the Marauders. Tell him we were idiots who loved each other fiercely. Tell him that found family is just as real as blood family."

"And Moony—we know. Lily figured it out last year. You're not Remus Lupin, attacked by a werewolf. You're Remus Riddle-Greyback, stolen from your parents as a baby. Tom and Fenrir are your fathers. Dumbledore took you from them and created a false story to explain your lycanthropy. I'm sorry we never got the chance to tell you the truth face-to-face. But you deserve to know: you have parents who love you. They've been searching for you for thirty years."

"Seventh: to Severus Snape, who I once bullied and who became a better man than I ever gave him credit for—I'm sorry. I was an arrogant arse to you for years, and you didn't deserve it. Thank you for protecting Lily. Thank you for taking the oath to protect Hadrian. Teach my son to be better than I was. Teach him that people can change. And Severus? Get out from under Dumbledore's thumb. You're stronger than he is. Don't let him control you anymore."

"Eighth: to Tom Riddle and Fenrir Greyback—thank you for loving our family. Thank you for accepting Hadrian as your own through the godfather oaths. Thank you for fighting for a better world against Dumbledore's tyranny. If I'm dead and Dumbledore is still pushing his 'Voldemort' myth, don't stop fighting. Expose him. Clear your names. And take care of my son."

"Ninth: to my husband Regulus—gods, Reg, I miss you so much."

James's voice cracked, all the casual bravado stripped away to reveal raw grief.

"It's been fourteen months since Dumbledore took you. Fourteen months of searching, of hoping, of praying we'd find you. Lily is updating her will today, and I'm updating mine, because we both know we're next. Dumbledore is closing in. We can feel it."

"If you're alive—if you ever get free—find our son. Please. Hadrian needs you. He needs to know his Papa. He needs to know that three people loved him enough to create him together, to bind their magic and their lives for him."

"You told us before you disappeared: 'If something happens to me, it's Dumbledore.' You were right. You were investigating him, gathering evidence, and he made you vanish. We tried to find you, love. We tried so hard. But he's too powerful, and we're running out of time."

"I love you, Regulus. You made me a better man. You made our family complete. And wherever you are, I hope you know that Lily and I never stopped looking. Never stopped loving you. Never stopped hoping."

"Finally: to my son Hadrian. Kiddo, you are the best thing I ever did. You made me want to be a better man. You made me understand what it means to love something more than your own life. I'm so proud to be your father. So honored that Lily and Regulus chose me to help create you."

"You have three parents, Hadrian. Don't let anyone tell you that's wrong or strange. Don't let anyone diminish what we had. We were a family—James, Lily, and Regulus. We were married, bonded, in love. And you were born from that love."

"Be brave, Hadrian. Be kind. Stand up for people who can't stand up for themselves. Question authority—especially Dumbledore's authority. Choose your own path. Fall in love—with whoever makes you happy, gender be damned, number be damned. Live a life that makes YOU proud, not what anyone else expects."

"And remember—your dad loved you. Your mum loved you. Your papa loved you. You were born from love, raised in love, and that love will never die. It's in your blood, your magic, your soul. You carry us with you always."

"I'm so proud of you, Hadrian. I can't wait to see the man you become. Oh wait, I'm dead, so I can't. Bugger. Well, I'll be watching from wherever dead people go, probably annoying your mum and missing your papa. We love you, kiddo. All three of us. Always."

"James Charlus Potter, signed and sealed October 30th, 1981. If I die fighting to protect my family. I’ll have no regrets. Well, maybe one—I really wanted to teach you to fly. And I wanted Regulus back. But mostly the flying thing."

A pause, then softer:

"Reg, if you're listening somehow—I love you. Come home."

The recording faded.

Hadrian was laughing through his tears. "He was so... so Dad."

"He was," Marius agreed, smiling despite his wet eyes. "Arrogant, reckless, but with a heart of gold. He loved you completely, Hadrian."

"They both did," Petunia said softly. "Both your fathers loved you so much."

Ragnok lifted the final will—sealed with Regulus's elegant signature.

"The Last Will and Testament of Regulus Arcturus Black," he announced quietly.

He broke the seal, and Regulus's voice filled the room. It was cool, cultured, controlled.. but Hadrian could hear the emotion underneath. The love.

"I, Regulus Arcturus Black, being of sound mind and body, do hereby record my final testament. If you're hearing this, then I am either truly dead, or my investigation has gone so wrong that I cannot return. I pray it's neither, but I must prepare for the worst."

"I'm faking my death, Hadrian. With Lily and James's knowledge and help, I 'died' publicly on December 20th, 1979. But in truth, I went into hiding to investigate something terrible: Albus Dumbledore's greatest lie."

"There is no Voldemort, Hadrian. No dark lord. No monster in the shadows. It's all fabricated—a boogeyman created by Dumbledore to consolidate power and control the wizarding world through fear."

"The 'attacks' are staged. The 'deaths' are murders committed by Dumbledore's agents and blamed on this fictional dark lord. The 'war' is theater designed to make Dumbledore the indispensable hero. He's stolen Tom Riddle's identity to create a villain, vilified the Knights of Walpurgis as 'Death Eaters,' and turned the entire magical world into his puppets."

"I have evidence. Documents. Testimonies. Proof that the attacks don't match Tom's magical signature. Proof that the timeline doesn't add up. Proof that Dumbledore benefits from every single 'Voldemort' action."

"But I need more. I need undeniable proof before I can expose him. So I faked my death, went underground, gathered evidence. If I'm truly gone when you hear this, it means Dumbledore found me first."

"To my husband and wife—I never thought I'd have those words. A Black, married to a Potter and a Muggleborn. My mother would have had an apoplexy. But you two saw past the family name, past the prejudices I was raised with, past all of it. You saw me."

"James, you're reckless and arrogant and you make terrible jokes at the worst times. You're also the bravest man I know. Thank you for loving me even when I didn't think I deserved it."

"Lily, you're brilliant and fierce and you never let anyone tell you what you can or can't be. You terrify me in the best possible way. Thank you for choosing me to help create our son."

"When we married in 1979—a formal three-way bonding ceremony at Potter Manor. Your grandparents Charlus and Dorea hosted it, along with our closest friends. It's an old form of magic, a triad bond, and it's beautiful. We said our vows, we bound our magic together, we became a family in every way that matters."

"The tri-parent ritual we performed last month—creating Hadrian together—it's the most sacred thing I'll ever do. Three parents, three magics, one perfect child. Lily, you're carrying our son right now as I record this. I can't wait to meet him. I can't wait to hold him and tell him how much we wanted him."

"If I don't make it back, please tell Hadrian about me. Not the prejudiced pure-blood I was raised to be. Not the Black family disappointment. Tell him about the man who loved his family so much he was willing to fake his death to protect them."

"You were born from love, Hadrian. Not obligation, not tradition, not political alliance. Love. Pure, complicated, beautiful love between three people who chose each other."

"Your Father James makes your Mother laugh until she snorts. Your Mother Lily keeps both of us grounded when we get too caught up in our own heads. And I—well, I like to think I bring a bit of cunning and planning to balance out James's recklessness and Lily's righteous fury."

"We work, Hadrian. Against all odds, we work. And you are the proof of that love."

This is my will, recorded June 20th, 1980. The formal terms:

First: To my son Hadrian, I leave my personal grimoire, my journals, and all my research into Dumbledore's crimes. Hadrian, I have documented everything I've discovered about the fake Voldemort myth. Use this evidence. Expose Dumbledore. Clear Tom Riddle's name and the names of all the Knights of Walpurgis who've been branded as terrorists for fighting for reform.

Second: I leave you my familiar, Lyra. She's a Kneazle, brilliant and loyal. She's been placed in stasis and will wait for you until you're ready. Treat her well, Hadrian. She loved me, and she'll love you too.

Third: I leave you my portion of the Black fortune. The family is toxic, Hadrian. Obsessed with blood purity and power. But you—you carry the Black name without the Black madness. Use the fortune to make the world less dark. Fight for those the Blacks would have crushed.

Fourth: I name Sirius Black as your educational guardian. My brother and I... we weren't close, in the end. I chose one path, and he chose another. But Sirius loves fiercely, and he'll love you. He'll teach you about our family—the good and the bad. He'll help you navigate Black politics. Trust him, Hadrian. He's better than I ever was.

Fifth: To James and Lily, if you survive and I don't—take care of our boy. Love him with everything you have. Teach him to be brave and kind and good. Teach him to stand up for what's right. And please, love, try to keep him away from Dumbledore's manipulations. Don't let our son become a pawn in that man's game.

Sixth: And if I'm right about Dumbledore—if he's the one manipulating events, creating the Voldemort myth, positioning himself as the savior—don't trust him. He's playing a game, and the cost is measured in lives. Don't let Hadrian become a casualty of Dumbledore's 'greater good.'

"My dearest Hadrian, I'm sorry I won't be there. I'm sorry I made mistakes that cost me the chance to know you. But I want you to know—I'm proud to be your papa. Proud that my blood runs in your veins. Proud that you'll carry the Black name and make it mean something good again."

"Be cunning, Hadrian. Be ambitious. Be determined. But also be kind. Be compassionate. Be the bridge between light and dark, between tradition and progress. Be everything the Blacks could never be."

"I love you, my son. Even though I may never meet you, I love you with everything I am. Be brave. Be brilliant. Be yourself."

"And remember—you're a Black, yes. But you're also a Potter and an Evans and so much more. You get to choose who you are. Don't let anyone—not even me—define you."

Regulus Arcturus Black, signed and sealed June 20th, 1980.

The recording faded.

Hadrian sat in stunned silence, his mind reeling.

Someone had stolen Tom Riddle's identity. Had created a fake "Voldemort" to frame him. Had made Horcruxes using Tom's research.

And Regulus thought it was Dumbledore.

"Your Majesty," Hadrian said slowly, his voice shaking, "Regulus said someone stole Tom Riddle's identity. That the 'Voldemort' terrorizing Britain isn't really Tom. Is that.. is that possible?"

Ragnok's expression was grim. "Polyjuice Potion can change one's appearance. There are dark rituals that can steal another's face more permanently. And if someone had access to Tom Riddle's research, his magical signature, they could potentially impersonate him for years."

"But who would do that?" Petunia asked. "Who would benefit from framing Tom Riddle as a dark lord?"

"Someone who wanted to control the narrative," Marius said quietly. "Someone who wanted to position themselves as the hero fighting the darkness. Someone who needed a villain to defeat."

They all turned to look at each other, the realization settling like ice in their stomachs.

"Dumbledore," Vernon said flatly. "Dumbledore created Voldemort. Created the villain so he could be the hero."

"We don't know that for certain," Ragnok cautioned. "But the evidence is.. concerning. Regulus Black was brilliant and meticulous. If he suspected Dumbledore, he had reasons."

"And Dumbledore has been lying about everything else," Hadrian said, his voice hard. "The godfathers, the guardianship, the bindings on me and Mummy. Why not this too?"

"We need proof," Ragnok said. "Accusations against the Chief Warlock require ironclad evidence. However.. " His smile was sharp. ".. Gringotts will be investigating. We will examine the records of the war, the timeline of attacks, the magical signatures. If Dumbledore created the Voldemort persona, we will find the evidence."

"And Tom Riddle?" Hadrian asked quietly. "My godfather. Where is he?"

"Missing," Ragnok said. "He and Fenrir Greyback disappeared on October 31st, 1981.. the same night your parents died. They have not been seen since. It's possible they're in hiding. It's possible they're imprisoned somewhere. It's possible they're dead."

"The blood-oath would tell us if they're dead, wouldn't it?" Hadrian asked. "I'd feel it if my godfathers died?"

"You would," Ragnok confirmed. "The fact that you feel nothing suggests they're alive but blocked from reaching you. Imprisoned, perhaps, or under powerful wards."

"We have to find them," Hadrian said fiercely. "We have to find Tom and Fenrir. And Sirius.. he's in Azkaban without a trial. We have to get him out."

"We will," Ragnok promised. "Gringotts has already begun the process of petitioning for Sirius Black's trial. With the evidence from your inheritance test.. the blood-oath, the proof that he couldn't have betrayed your parents.. the Wizengamot will be forced to grant him a hearing."

"How long will that take?" Vernon asked.

"Weeks, perhaps months," Ragnok admitted. "The magical legal system moves slowly, and Dumbledore has considerable influence. But it will happen. We will see Sirius Black freed."

"And in the meantime?" Petunia asked. "What do we do?"

"You prepare," Ragnok said. "Hadrian attends Hogwarts.. carefully, watchfully, with the knowledge that Dumbledore is not his friend. Mrs. Dursley learns to use her magic. Mr. Evans continues to train Hadrian in Black family traditions. And all of you remain vigilant."

He leaned forward, his expression serious. "Hadrian, you are now registered with Gringotts under your true name—Hadrian James Potter-Black. The four heir rings you wear mark you as a legitimate heir to Potter, Black, Peverell, and Gryffindor. When you attend Hogwarts, they will try to call you 'Harry Potter.' Don't let them. Your name is Hadrian. Use it. Own it."

"I will," Hadrian said firmly.

"Good." Ragnok stood. "Now, there is one final matter. Your vaults."

The cart ride deep into Gringotts was even more thrilling the second time. Dudley whooped with joy as they plummeted down shafts and whipped around corners. Hadrian held tight to Lyra, who seemed unbothered by the speed, her ears perked with interest.

They stopped first at the Potter trust vault.

"This contains fifty thousand Galleons for your education and living expenses," Ragnok explained as the door swung open. "Enough for seven years at Hogwarts, all your supplies, and considerable spending money."

Hadrian stared at the piles of gold, still overwhelmed by the sheer amount.

"The main Potter vault contains the full family fortune—approximately five million Galleons, plus properties, artifacts, and investments. You'll gain access upon majority or emancipation."

Five million. Hadrian couldn't even comprehend that number.

They filled several pouches with gold for immediate expenses—school supplies, books, anything Hadrian might need. Ragnok also handed him a Gringotts vault key.

"This key is keyed to your magical signature. No one else can use it. Keep it safe."

They descended deeper, to the Black family vaults.

"The Black vault contains approximately eight million Galleons," Ragnok said as massive doors carved with the Black family crest swung open. "Plus the collected wealth of a thousand years—artifacts, grimoires, cursed objects, you name it. Much of it is dangerous. Much of it is priceless."

The vault was enormous—a cavern filled with gold, with shelves of books and artifacts stretching into the darkness.

"As Heir Black, you have access to the secondary vault—the one for heirs and family members," Ragnok explained. "The primary vault, containing the truly dangerous artifacts, will open when you claim your Lordship."

On a pedestal in the center sat several items marked with tags: For Hadrian, from Regulus.

Hadrian approached reverently. There was a stack of journals—Regulus's personal diaries. A silver dagger with the Black family crest. A set of dark green robes with silver embroidery. And a small wooden box.

Hadrian opened the box carefully.

Inside was a wand.

"Your papa's wand," Ragnok said softly. "Yew and dragon heartstring, thirteen inches. He wanted you to have it, though you'll need your own wand as well. This one is too powerful for a child to wield safely. But when you're older, you may choose to carry both."

Hadrian touched the wand gently, feeling the echo of Regulus's magic thrumming through it. "Thank you, Papa," he whispered. "I'll make you proud. I promise."

They took Regulus's journals, the robes, and a small amount of gold from the Black vault. The wand, Ragnok suggested, should stay in the vault until Hadrian was older and trained enough to use it safely.

Finally, they ascended to the recovery area, where a goblin healer examined both Hadrian and Petunia one final time.

"The unbinding has taken well," the healer announced. "However, both of you need rest. Mr. Potter, your magical core is adjusting to full capacity. This will take several days. You'll experience fatigue, hunger, and possibly some magical fluctuations as your body stabilizes. This is normal."

"Mrs. Dursley, your magic is awakening. You'll need to begin training immediately to learn control. Gringotts can recommend tutors if you wish."

"Yes, please," Petunia said. "I want to learn properly."

"We'll arrange it," Ragnok promised.

He handed Hadrian a small leather-bound book. "This is a guide to your enhanced senses—written by a Greyback pack member who agreed to share the information with Gringotts. It will teach you how to filter stimuli, how to use your partial transformation abilities, and how to manage the increased physical needs. You'll need more food, more rest, and more physical activity than before. This is normal for those with were-blessings."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Hadrian said, bowing respectfully. "For everything."

Ragnok inclined his head. "You are most welcome, Hadrian Potter-Black. Gringotts is honored to serve you. We will continue our investigations and keep you informed. Return in one week for your follow-up examination."

"We will," Petunia promised.

As they left Gringotts, the sun was setting over Diagon Alley. Hadrian felt exhausted, overwhelmed, and simultaneously more himself than he'd ever been.

His name was Hadrian. He had three parents who'd loved him. Five godfathers bound by blood-oath to protect him. A family who'd raised him with love and care. And a destiny that was his to choose.

Dumbledore had tried to control him, chain him, break him.

But Hadrian James Potter-Black was free.

And he was done being anyone's pawn.

"Ice cream?" Dudley suggested hopefully. "I know we had some before, but that was hours ago, and this feels like another ice cream kind of day."

Despite everything, Hadrian laughed. "Yeah, Dud. Ice cream sounds perfect."

As they sat outside Florean Fortescue's, eating ice cream and watching the magical world go by, Lyra curled in Hadrian's lap and Hedwig perched on his shoulder, Hadrian felt something settle in his chest.

This was his world. These were his people. This was his life.

And no one—not Dumbledore, not fake Voldemorts, not anyone—was going to take it from him.

"Tomorrow," Vernon said quietly, "we will go shopping for school supplies. Get you properly kitted out for Hogwarts."

"And I want to visit Ollivander's," Hadrian said. "I need a wand."

"We'll go first thing in the morning," Petunia promised. "All of us together."

Marius raised his ice cream cone in a toast. "To family. To truth. And to Hadrian Potter-Black—the boy who will change everything."

They clinked their cones together, laughing.

And in that moment, despite everything they'd learned, despite the battles ahead, they were happy.

Because they were together.

And together, they could face anything

Chapter Text

August 2nd, 1991

Hadrian woke to the sound of everything.

The creak of floorboards three floors below. The hiss of water in ancient pipes. The rustle of newspaper pages turning in the pub downstairs. The clink of glasses. The murmur of a dozen conversations bleeding together into an incomprehensible wash of sound.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his palms against his ears, but it didn't help. The were-blessing had given him enhanced senses, and he hadn't yet learned to control them.

A soft chirp made him crack one eye open. Lyra was curled on the pillow beside him, her amber eyes fixed on his face. She butted her head against his chin, purring, and somehow—impossibly—the noise began to recede.

Not disappear. Just... soften. Like someone turning down the volume on the world.

"Thank you," Hadrian whispered, stroking her silver-grey fur.

She chirped again and settled against his chest, a warm, vibrating weight. With her presence anchoring him, Hadrian focused on what the goblin healer had told him yesterday. Filter. Choose what to hear. Let the rest fade into background noise.

He concentrated on the room around him. The sound of Dudley's soft snoring in the bed across from him. Vernon's deeper rumble from the room next door. Petunia's quiet breathing. Marius moving about, already awake.

The other sounds—the pub, the street outside, the distant conversations—gradually faded to a dull hum.

Better. Not perfect, but better.

Hadrian opened his eyes fully and looked around the small room at the Leaky Cauldron. It was shabby but clean, with two narrow beds and a window that looked out over Diagon Alley. His new trunk sat at the foot of his bed, already packed with yesterday's purchases from Gringotts—the journals, the locket, James's Quidditch armband, everything precious and irreplaceable.

Today, they would fill it with practical things. Wands. Robes. Books. Supplies.

Today, Hadrian Potter would truly become a wizard.

#¤#¤#¤

Breakfast in the Leaky Cauldron was an experience.

The moment they descended the narrow stairs into the pub, conversations stopped. Heads turned. People stared.

Tom, the stooped, toothless barkeeper, nearly dropped the glass he was polishing. "Bless my soul," he breathed. "Harry Potter. 'Ere at the Leaky Cauldron!"

"Hadrian, actually," Hadrian said politely, but his voice was drowned out by the sudden rush of people.

Within seconds, they were surrounded.

A witch in emerald robes seized his hand and shook it vigorously. "Mr. Potter! Such an honor! My name is Doris Crockford, I've always wanted to meet you—"

A wizard in purple robes muscled her aside. "Potter! Dedalus Diggle! We met once before, you wouldn't remember, just a baby—"

"Please," Petunia said sharply, stepping between Hadrian and the crowd. "My nephew needs breakfast. If you'll excuse us—"

"Nephew?" someone gasped. "You're Petunia Evans? Lily's sister?"

"Mrs. Dursley," Petunia corrected coolly. "And yes. Now if you'll kindly give us some space—"

But the crowd pressed closer. Everyone wanted to shake Hadrian's hand, to touch him, to say they'd met the Boy Who Lived. Hadrian's enhanced hearing picked up a dozen conversations at once:

"—so small, I thought he'd be bigger—"

"—those eyes, just like Lily's—"

"—living with Muggles, poor thing—"

"—defeated You-Know-Who as a baby—"

Vernon's hand landed on Hadrian's shoulder, firm and protective. "That's enough," he said in his no-nonsense voice. "The boy needs to eat. You've had your look. Now clear off."

The authority in his tone—the same voice he used to command respect at Grunnings—cut through the chatter. People backed away, muttering apologies.

Marius guided them to a table in the corner, away from the crowd. Tom hurried over with menus, still beaming. "Anything you want, Mr. Potter, on the house—"

"Hadrian," Hadrian said again, more firmly this time. "My name is Hadrian. Not Harry."

Tom blinked. "Oh. Right you are, Mr.—er—Hadrian. Hadrian Potter."

"Thank you."

They ordered breakfast—eggs, bacon, sausages, toast, and tea. Hadrian noticed people still glancing their way, still whispering, but at least they kept their distance.

"Is it always going to be like this?" Dudley asked quietly, looking worried. "People mobbing you?"

"Probably," Marius said. "Hadrian is famous. The wizarding world hasn't forgotten what happened ten years ago."

"Even if they don't know the truth about what really happened," Petunia added, her voice tight with anger.

Hadrian poked at his eggs. "I just want to be normal."

"You're not normal, sweetheart," Petunia said gently. "You're extraordinary. But that doesn't mean they have the right to treat you like a curiosity." She glanced around the pub with a sharp eye. "We'll manage it. We always do."

Vernon leaned forward. "Right. Now, today's plan. We need to get you properly kitted out for school. First stop—trunk. You'll need somewhere to store everything."

"Then wand," Marius added. "That's most important. Everything else can wait, but a wizard needs his wand."

"Then robes, books, supplies," Petunia said, consulting a list she'd made. "We'll be efficient. In and out."

"And we get the best quality," Vernon insisted. "I don't care what it costs. Our boy deserves the best."

Hadrian felt warmth bloom in his chest. "Thank you. All of you."

Dudley grinned. "Plus I get to see more magic! This is brilliant!"

Despite the staring crowd and the overwhelming noise, Hadrian smiled. He had his family. He had Lyra purring against his chest under his shirt. And today, he would get his wand.

Everything else would work itself out.

#¤#¤#¤

The trunk shop was tucked between Flourish and Blotts and a shop selling cauldrons, its window display showing trunks of every size and description. A sign above the door read: HORACE EXPANDABLE TRUNKS - IF IT WON'T FIT, WE'LL MAKE IT FIT.

Inside, the shop was larger than it appeared from the outside—clearly magically expanded. Trunks lined the walls, from small school trunks to massive steamer trunks covered in travel stickers from around the world.

A portly wizard with a magnificent mustache looked up from behind the counter. "Welcome, welcome! Looking for a school trunk, are we?"

"We are," Vernon said. "For my son. He needs something sturdy. High quality. With plenty of space."

The wizard's eyes sharpened with professional interest. "Ah, discerning customer! Excellent. And what sort of storage needs do we have? Standard school supplies, or something more... specialized?"

"Specialized," Marius said. "The boy loves to read. He'll need considerable space for books. Plus the usual—clothes, potion equipment, a broom eventually."

"And a hidden compartment," Hadrian added quietly. "For... something private."

The wizard's eyebrows rose, but he nodded knowingly. "Ah yes. Every young wizard needs a place for secrets. I understand completely." He rubbed his hands together. "I believe I have just the thing. Follow me."

He led them to the back of the shop, where a beautiful trunk sat on display. It was made of dark wood reinforced with brass corners and fittings, with Hadrian's initials—HJP—already etched into a brass plate on the top.

"Wait," Dudley said. "How does it already have his initials?"

The wizard smiled. "Magic, my boy. The trunk knows who it's meant for." He patted the lid fondly. "Now, this is our premium student model. Let me show you its features."

He opened the lid, revealing multiple compartments that seemed far too deep for the trunk's exterior dimensions.

"Compartment one: clothing storage. Automatically organized, wrinkle-free, climate-controlled." He tapped a brass button, and the interior shifted. "Compartment two: book storage. Expandable shelves, can hold up to five hundred volumes. Alphabetizes automatically if you wish, or you can organize manually."

"Five hundred?" Hadrian breathed. "Really?"

"Really." Another tap. "Compartment three: potion equipment and ingredients. Temperature-controlled, secure storage for volatile materials. Compartment four: broom storage—this one's long and narrow, padded, perfect for Quidditch equipment."

"And the hidden compartment?" Vernon asked.

The wizard's smile turned sly. "Ah, that requires a blood-ward key." He pricked Hadrian's finger with a silver pin—just a tiny drop of blood—and pressed it to a nearly invisible brass plate on the trunk's interior. The wood shimmered, and a fifth compartment appeared. "Only you can open this one, young man. Keyed to your magical signature and your blood. Perfect for... oh, staffs, family heirlooms, anything you'd rather keep private."

Hadrian's eyes widened. The compartment was exactly the right size for the staff he'd eventually receive.

"That's not all," the wizard continued proudly. "The trunk comes with a matched backpack." He held up a sleek leather backpack. "Magically linked. Anything you put in the backpack can be accessed from the trunk, and vice versa. Feather-light charm on both—you could carry an elephant and it would weigh no more than a feather."

"Wards?" Marius asked sharply.

"Naturally! Anti-theft ward—only the keyed owner can open it. Blood ward—if anyone else tries to force it open, they'll get a rather nasty shock. And anti-soak ward—completely waterproof. Your belongings will stay dry even if you drop it in the lake."

Vernon nodded, impressed despite himself. "Price?"

"Seventy-five Galleons for the set."

Vernon didn't even blink. "We'll take it."

"Vernon, that's expensive," Petunia started.

"I don't care," Vernon said firmly. "Hadrian needs the best. He's going to a new school, a new world. He'll have everything he needs to succeed." He looked at Hadrian. "You deserve it, son."

Hadrian felt his throat tighten with emotion. "Thank you, Uncle Vernon."

"Dad," Vernon corrected gruffly. "We've been over this. I'm your dad in every way that matters."

The wizard beamed. "Wonderful! I'll have it wrapped and ready in just a moment. Oh, and one more thing—" He tapped the trunk with his wand, and the brass fittings glowed briefly. "I've added a freshening charm. Anything stored inside will stay clean and fresh. No musty smell, no moth damage. Guaranteed for fifty years."

As they left the shop with the trunk shrunk down to pocket-size (to be enlarged later), Dudley whispered, "I want a magic trunk."

"When your magic manifests," Petunia promised, "you'll have one just as nice."

Hadrian slipped the tiny trunk into his pocket and the backpack over his shoulder. It felt right. Solid. Real.

He was ready for the next step.

#¤#¤#¤

Ollivander's stood narrow and shabby between two brighter shops, its peeling gold letters reading: OLLIVANDERS: MAKERS OF FINE WANDS SINCE 382 B.C.

A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

Hadrian paused at the door, suddenly nervous. This was it. This was where he'd find his wand—the tool that would help him access his magic properly for the first time.

"It's alright, sweetheart," Petunia murmured, squeezing his shoulder. "Just remember what Grandpa Marius said. The wand chooses the wizard."

Hadrian nodded and pushed open the door. A bell tinkled somewhere in the depths of the shop.

Inside was tiny, empty except for a single spindly chair. Thousands upon thousands of narrow boxes were piled to the ceiling on every wall, giving the impression of being trapped in a vertical tunnel of wandboxes.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice.

Hadrian jumped. An old man stood before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons in the gloom of the shop.

"Hello," Hadrian said carefully.

"Ah yes, yes, yes," the old man said. "I thought I'd be seeing you soon, Mr. Potter."

Hadrian blinked. "How did you—"

"I'll never forget a wand I've sold," Ollivander said, moving closer. His silvery eyes were unnerving, intense. "Your mother—Lily Evans. Willow, ten and a quarter inches, swishy. Nice wand for charm work. And your father—James Potter—mahogany, eleven inches, pliable, excellent for Transfiguration. I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every. Single. One."

He circled Hadrian slowly, studying him with those moon-like eyes.

"Most curious," Ollivander murmured. "Most curious indeed. You have your mother's eyes... but not quite. There's something else there. A golden gleam. And your bone structure..." He leaned closer. "Ancient. Very ancient. You carry more than just Potter blood, don't you, young man?"

Hadrian said nothing, but Lyra, hidden under his shirt, shifted against his chest.

"Ah." Ollivander's smile was knowing. "A familiar already. How delightful. And Kneazle, unless I miss my guess?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Now then, Mr. Potter, which is your wand arm?"

"I'm right-handed."

"Hold out your arm. That's it." Ollivander pulled a long tape measure with silver markings from his pocket. "Just stand still."

The tape measure began measuring Hadrian on its own—shoulder to finger, wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, even around his head. Ollivander flitted around the shop, pulling down boxes.

"Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave."

Hadrian took the wand, feeling foolish, and waved it—

The vase of flowers on the counter exploded in a shower of water and glass.

"No, no, definitely not!" Ollivander snatched it back. "Try this—maple and phoenix feather, seven inches, quite whippy—"

Hadrian barely touched it before Ollivander yanked it away.

"No. Oak and unicorn hair?"

No.

"Elm and dragon heartstring?"

No.

"Cypress and phoenix feather?"

The lamp beside them shattered.

"Dear me," Ollivander muttered, but he looked more excited than concerned. "You're a tricky customer, aren't you, Mr. Potter? Not surprising, given your... complexity."

He pulled down more boxes. Hadrian tried wand after wand, each one wrong, some spectacularly so. Scorch marks appeared on the walls. Books tumbled from shelves. At one point, the spindly chair burst into flames (Marius put it out with a quick Aguamenti).

"No, no, no," Ollivander kept muttering. "You are not a simple wizard, are you, young man? Not simple at all."

The family watched, increasingly worried. Dudley whispered, "Is it supposed to be like this?"

"No," Marius murmured. "Usually a wizard finds their wand within three or four tries. Hadrian's tried... how many now?"

"Thirty-seven," Ollivander said cheerfully, setting aside another failed match. "But don't worry! This simply means Mr. Potter is extraordinary. And extraordinary wizards require extraordinary wands." His eyes gleamed. "In fact... yes. Yes, I believe I know exactly what you need."

He disappeared into the back of the shop. They heard rummaging, things being moved, muttered comments. Finally, he emerged with a single, long box that looked far older than the others—the wood was dark with age, the brass fittings tarnished.

"I believe," Ollivander said slowly, reverently, "yes, I believe you require something special."

He opened the box.

Inside lay a wand of pale wood, elegant and sleek, exactly eleven inches long.

"Apple wood," Ollivander breathed. "For those who walk between worlds, who have great destinies, who are loved by those with high aims. Apple wood is rare, Mr. Potter. It does not choose often. And when it does..."

He lifted the wand carefully.

"The core," he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, "is basilisk venom. Extracted from a tooth of the King of Serpents himself. Dangerous. Powerful. Rare beyond measure. Only four wands in history have carried basilisk venom. This..." He held it out. "This is the fifth. I crafted it seventy years ago, and it has waited. Waiting for its match."

Hadrian reached out slowly. The moment his fingers touched the wood, he felt it.

Warmth. Power. Recognition. Home.

The wand seemed to sigh in his hand, and green and silver sparks shot from its tip, swirling around him in a spiral of light. The sparks formed the shape of a serpent for just a moment before fading.

"Oh, marvelous!" Ollivander clapped his hands. "Yes, yes, yes! Eleven inches, apple and basilisk venom, flexible. An extraordinary wand for an extraordinary wizard!"

Hadrian stared at the wand in his hand. It felt perfect. Like an extension of his own arm.

"Curious," Ollivander said softly. "Very curious indeed."

"What's curious?" Hadrian asked.

Ollivander's silvery eyes fixed on him. "Basilisk venom, Mr. Potter, responds only to Parselmouths. Only to those who can speak to serpents, command them, understand them. The venom recognizes the Speaker and the Speaker alone." He leaned forward. "Do you have that gift, Mr. Potter?"

Hadrian hesitated. The blocks had been removed. The Parseltongue ability had been restored. But should he admit it?

Marius gave a tiny nod.

"I... I might," Hadrian said carefully.

"Indeed." Ollivander's smile was knowing. "Most curious. A gift often associated with Slytherin's line, yet you are also a Gryffindor descendant. How... complex."

He turned away, humming to himself. "Seven Galleons for the wand, Mr. Potter. Though I suspect it is priceless, truly."

Vernon stepped forward with the coins, but Ollivander held up a hand.

"Wait. There is... one more thing."

He looked at Hadrian with those unnerving eyes. "You need more, don't you? I can feel it. A wand is not enough for you. You need something deeper. Older. Something that matches your... multiplicity."

"Multiplicity?" Petunia asked sharply.

"Three parents," Ollivander said calmly. "Five guardians bound by blood-oath. Founders' blood through multiple lines. Four ancient houses. The boy is not singular, madam. He is plural. He needs magic that reflects that."

He turned and walked to the very back of the shop, to a door Hadrian hadn't noticed before. "Come, Mr. Potter. Bring your family. They should witness this."

Uneasy but curious, they followed.

#¤#¤#¤

The back room was different from the main shop—older, more reverent. The walls were lined with glass cases containing not wands, but other magical implements. Staffs. Crystal orbs. Strange metallic instruments Hadrian couldn't name.

In the center of the room stood a pedestal, and on that pedestal lay something wrapped in ancient, yellowed cloth that seemed to glow faintly with its own light.

"This," Ollivander whispered, approaching it like a sacred relic, "has been in my family's shop for five hundred years. Passed down through twelve generations of Ollivanders, from master wandmaker to master wandmaker. My great-great-great-great-great-grandfather Gerbold Ollivander crafted it in 1491, but it never chose anyone. Not in five centuries."

He began unwrapping the cloth with reverent care.

"Gerbold was a genius," Ollivander continued softly. "He created it as an experiment, a masterwork, the pinnacle of his craft. Three woods woven together in perfect harmony. Multiple cores bound in balance. A focus stone of impossible rarity. He poured his life's knowledge into this single creation, then waited for its master to appear."

The cloth fell away.

A staff.

It was beautiful—no, it was breathtaking. Five feet tall, elegant and powerful, carved from three types of wood woven together in an intricate triple helix pattern. The woods seemed to flow into each other, merging and separating like braided hair.

"Rowan," Ollivander said, pointing to the reddish wood, "for protection and clarity. Red oak—" the darker, stronger wood "—for strength and courage. And acacia—" the palest wood, almost white "—for life and death, endings and beginnings."

The woods were not opaque. Transparent sections ran through them, and within those sections, Hadrian could see the cores.

"Thestral tail hair," Ollivander murmured, indicating the black, shimmering strands. "For those who have seen death, who understand loss, who can perceive what others cannot. And phoenix tears—" golden droplets suspended like amber "—for rebirth, for healing, for loyalty unto death."

At the top of the staff, where the three woods merged into a single point, sat the focus stone.

It was unlike anything Hadrian had ever seen—a sphere perhaps three inches in diameter, half deep green jade and half silvery-black hematite, the two stones fused together in a perfect yin-yang symbol. They seemed to swirl slowly within the sphere, never mixing but always moving, creating the illusion of eternal balance.

"The focus stone," Ollivander breathed. "Jade for healing, for life, for growth and balance. Hematite for grounding, for protection, for the strength of earth and stone. Fused together in perfect harmony—light and dark, life and death, healing and protection, all in balance. Gerbold spent twenty years creating this stone alone."

He lifted the staff carefully, holding it out toward Hadrian.

"This is not for everyday use, Mr. Potter. This is not for homework or practice or dueling your schoolmates. This is for ritual magic, for great workings, for times when a wand—no matter how powerful—is insufficient. You are a child of multiple bloodlines, bearer of multiple legacies, claimed by multiple guardians. You need magic that reflects that complexity."

Hadrian reached out slowly, almost afraid. The moment his fingers touched the wood—

POWER.

It surged through him like lightning, like fire, like the ocean crashing against shore. Every ward on his body flared to life—the protective magic Gringotts had woven into his very bones during the purge. The wards recognized the staff, welcomed it, amplified it.

Green and silver light exploded from the focus stone, filling the entire room. Hadrian heard gasps from his family, but he couldn't look away from the staff.

It was showing him things. Possibilities. Ancient magics. Rituals lost to time. The potential for healing, for protection, for—

"The wards!" Ollivander's voice was awed. "They're responding! They're—oh my—they're perfect!"

The light faded slowly, sinking into Hadrian's skin, into his bones, into his very magic. When it finally disappeared, Hadrian stood holding the staff, feeling utterly complete.

"Five hundred years," Ollivander whispered. "Five hundred years it waited. And now... now it has found its master." He looked at Hadrian with something like reverence. "The staff has bonded to you, Mr. Potter. It will never fail you. Your wards and its magic are now intertwined. It is yours, and you are its, until the end of your days."

"How much?" Vernon asked hoarsely.

"One hundred Galleons," Ollivander said. "Though I would give it freely, for the joy of seeing it finally home."

Vernon counted out the coins without hesitation. "Worth every Knut."

Ollivander wrapped the staff carefully in fresh cloth. "Keep it safe, Mr. Potter. And remember—the staff is for great magic, not small. Use your wand for daily work. Save the staff for when nothing else will suffice."

"I will," Hadrian promised. His voice came out steadier than he felt.

As they prepared to leave, Ollivander placed a hand on Hadrian's shoulder.

"You have great power ahead of you, Mr. Potter. Great trials. I sense... three parents? How extraordinary. And five guardians, blood-bound. Founders' blood. Ancient blood. The Peverell line. The Black line. Gryffindor and Slytherin both. You are a bridge between worlds, young man. Between light and dark, between old and new, between what was and what will be."

His silver eyes bored into Hadrian's.

"Be careful. Power attracts attention. Not all of it kind."

Hadrian nodded solemnly. "I'll be careful."

"Good." Ollivander smiled. "I expect great things from you, Hadrian Potter. Very great things indeed."

As they left the shop, Hadrian cradled both the wand and the wrapped staff carefully. He felt the weight of them—not physical weight, but the weight of responsibility, of destiny, of possibility.

Behind them, Ollivander stood in his doorway, watching them go, a small smile on his ancient face.

"Yes," he murmured to himself. "Very great things indeed."

#¤#¤#¤

Slug & Jiggers Apothecary smelled like a bizarre combination of rotten eggs, damp earth, cinnamon, and something Hadrian couldn't quite identify but suspected was dried beetle parts.

The shop was narrow and cramped, shelves stuffed with jars of bizarre ingredients. Hadrian spotted pickled slugs, powdered moonstone, shriveled beetles, and something that might have been dried tentacles. Dudley pressed his nose against a jar of preserved newt eyes, fascinated and slightly horrified.

"Wicked," he breathed.

Hadrian was examining a display of silver scales when he heard it—

CRASH

Several jars hit the floor, shattering. Purple powder exploded in a cloud. Something green and slimy oozed across the wooden boards.

"Honestly, boy!" The shop owner's voice was sharp with irritation. "That's the third time this week!"

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—" The voice was male, young, miserable.

Hadrian turned to see a round-faced boy about his age scrambling on the floor, trying to gather broken glass with his bare hands. He was shorter than Hadrian, stocky, with a face that looked like it smiled often but wasn't smiling now. His hands shook as he tried to clean up the mess.

Without thinking, Hadrian knelt beside him. "Wait, don't—you'll cut yourself."

The boy looked up, startled. His eyes were wide and anxious, light brown and kind despite the fear in them.

"Here," Hadrian said gently, pulling out his new wand. He had no idea how to cast a proper cleaning charm yet, but— "Um. Reparo?"

To his shock, it worked. The jars pieced themselves back together, the ingredients floating back inside, the purple powder returning to its container.

"Blimey," the boy breathed. "You can do magic already?"

"Lucky guess," Hadrian admitted with a grin. "I just got my wand an hour ago."

The boy smiled back—a real smile, warm and grateful—and something in Hadrian's chest went click.

Different from Theo. Not that instant intellectual recognition, but something softer. Gentler. Like finding someone who needed protecting, who deserved protecting, and knowing instinctively that you'd stand between them and anything that tried to hurt them.

"I'm Hadrian," he said, offering his hand. "Hadrian Potter."

"Oh!" The boy's eyes went even wider. "I'm Neville. Neville Longbottom." He shook Hadrian's hand hesitantly, like he expected Hadrian to pull away.

"It's alright," Dudley said, appearing beside them. "These bottles are really slippery. Not your fault."

Neville looked at Dudley curiously. "Are you starting Hogwarts too?"

"Not this year," Dudley said. "My magic hasn't manifested yet. Late bloomer, they think. But Hadrian's my brother—well, cousin, but brother really. I'm Dudley."

"Late bloomer?" Neville's face lit up with interest. "That's brilliant! My Gran says sometimes the most powerful wizards manifest late because their magic needs time to develop properly."

"Your Gran?" Hadrian asked.

Neville's face fell slightly. "She's... she's strict. Says I need to live up to my parents. They were Aurors. War heroes. And I'm..." He gestured helplessly at himself. "Clumsy. Forgetful. Gran says I'm a disaster waiting to happen."

"You're not a disaster," Hadrian said firmly. "You just dropped some bottles. I drop things all the time."

"Really?" Neville looked hopeful.

"Really. Just yesterday I nearly dropped my mother's journal. My uncle Vernon had to catch it."

They stood up together. Neville was taller than Hadrian—around 138 centimeters to Hadrian's 130—and stockier, solid where Hadrian was delicate. When they stood side by side, Neville looked down at him slightly, and something shifted in Neville's expression.

Hadrian was small. Fragile-looking, with those delicate features and fine bones. And something protective flickered in Neville's eyes—the same instinct Hadrian had felt moments before, but reversed.

They both felt it. That click. Not just friendship, but something deeper—a mutual need to protect each other. Hadrian saw Neville's worth when everyone else saw clumsiness. Neville saw Hadrian's vulnerability when everyone else saw fame.

Two boys who needed protecting. Two boys who would learn to protect each other.

"Are you getting potion supplies?" Hadrian asked, breaking the moment.

"Yeah," Neville said. "For school. Though I'm rubbish at Potions. Gran says I'll probably blow up a cauldron the first week."

"What are you good at?" Hadrian asked.

Neville's whole face transformed. "Plants. Herbology. I love working with magical plants."

And just like with Theo and the Ancient Runes, Neville lit up when talking about his passion.

He picked up a jar of dried dittany with reverent care. "This is for healing. You can grow it in greenhouses—it's finicky, needs specific temperature and humidity, but when it blooms it's beautiful. Silver-green leaves with pink flowers. And the sap..." He smiled. "It can heal almost anything. Even curse damage, if you're fast enough."

"You really know a lot about plants," Hadrian said, genuinely impressed.

"They make sense," Neville said quietly. "Plants don't judge you. They don't expect you to be someone you're not. You just... care for them properly, and they grow. Give them what they need—light, water, proper soil—and they'll thrive. It's simple. Honest."

The click in Hadrian's chest strengthened. Here was someone who found peace in simplicity, who understood that not everything needed to be complicated. Someone gentle and kind who just needed someone to believe in him. And someone who, despite his own insecurities, looked at Hadrian's small frame and felt the instinct to protect.

It was mutual. They would protect each other. Not now—Neville was still too unsure of himself, and Hadrian was still learning what it meant to have friends. But someday. Someday Neville would stand between Hadrian and danger without hesitation, and Hadrian would do the same for him.

"Could you teach me?" Hadrian asked. "About magical plants? I don't know anything yet, but I'd like to learn."

Neville's eyes went huge. "You... you want me to teach you?"

"Well, yeah. You obviously know what you're talking about."

"Oh!" Neville's face flushed with pleasure. "Yes! Yes, I could— There's so much! Venomous Tentacula—you have to be really careful with those, they bite—and Devil's Snare, it's dangerous in the dark but harmless in light. And Mandrakes! They're fascinating, their roots look like ugly babies and their cry can kill you, but they're used in Mandrake Restorative Draught for people who've been petrified—"

He was talking faster now, hands moving animatedly, all his nervousness forgotten in his enthusiasm.

Dudley leaned in. "Do plants really move? Like, walk around?"

"Some do!" Neville said eagerly. "Not walk exactly, but they can be mobile. Devil's Snare strangles things. Venomous Tentacula has vines that reach out and grab. And there are trees—the Whomping Willow—that actually swing their branches to hit people."

"Wicked," Dudley breathed, his favorite word of the day.

"NEVILLE!"

The sharp voice cut through the shop like a whip. They all turned to see a stern-looking witch in an emerald dress and a hat with a stuffed vulture on top. She was tall, imposing, with a face that might have been kind once but had hardened into permanent disapproval.

Neville immediately shrank. "Gran."

"What are you doing, boy? Bothering these people with your plant nonsense?"

"No, ma'am," Hadrian said quickly, stepping forward. "Neville wasn't bothering us at all. He was teaching me about magical plants. He's brilliant at it."

The woman—Augusta Longbottom, Hadrian realized—stopped short. Her sharp eyes fixed on Hadrian, taking in his appearance, his confident stance, the protective way he'd stepped in front of Neville.

"You're the Potter boy," she said.

"Hadrian Potter, yes ma'am." He held out his hand politely.

She shook it, her grip firm. "Augusta Longbottom. Your parents were good people, boy. James and Lily. Fought bravely in the war."

"Thank you, ma'am."

She studied him for another moment, then looked at Neville. "You've made a friend, it seems."

"Yes, Gran," Neville said quietly, hopefully.

Augusta's expression softened—just a fraction, but noticeably. "Good. You'll need friends at Hogwarts. Proper friends, not hangers-on trying to use your name." She looked back at Hadrian. "You seem like a polite young man. Well-mannered. Your aunt has done right by you."

"She has," Hadrian agreed. "And Neville was just telling me about Herbology. He really knows his subject."

"Of course he does," Augusta said, and there was pride in her voice now, however grudging. "The boy has a gift with plants. His mother did too. Alice could make anything grow." A flicker of pain crossed her face. "Neville takes after her."

"Maybe we could study together?" Hadrian suggested, looking at Neville. "Herbology. I could use the help."

Neville beamed. "Really? You'd want to?"

"Definitely."

"Well then," Augusta said briskly. "Exchange addresses. Neville, give Mr. Potter our information. And try not to drop anything else before we leave."

But her tone wasn't as sharp as before. She was... pleased. Hadrian had defended her grandson, had seen his worth, had treated him as an equal.

They exchanged addresses—Neville to Longbottom Manor in Cornwall, Hadrian to Privet Drive. Neville wrote in careful, slightly shaky handwriting, triple-checking each letter.

"September first," Neville said shyly. "On the train?"

"Definitely," Hadrian said warmly. "Find me on the platform. We'll sit together."

"Really?" Neville's face lit up with hope and relief. "You mean it?"

"Of course I mean it," Hadrian said firmly. "Friends stick together, right?"

Neville nodded, smiling properly now.

As they parted ways, Hadrian felt something settle into place. Neville was someone genuine, someone kind, someone who needed a friend as much as Hadrian did.

"Made a friend," Petunia said softly, watching Neville disappear into the crowd with his grandmother. "That's lovely, sweetheart."

"He's nice," Hadrian said simply. "Really nice."

"The Longbottoms are an old family," Marius said. "Respected. And Neville's parents..." He sighed. "They were tortured into insanity by someone after the war. They're in St. Mungo's permanent ward. Neville lives with his grandmother."

Hadrian's heart clenched. "He didn't mention that."

"He wouldn't," Marius said gently. "It's painful. But it explains why Augusta is so hard on him—she's terrified of losing him too."

Hadrian made a mental note to be extra kind to Neville. The boy had lost his parents just as completely as Hadrian had, just in a different way.

"Come on," Vernon said, checking his watch. "We've still got more shops to visit. And I believe someone mentioned wanting to visit a pet shop?"

Lyra chirped from under Hadrian's shirt, her ears perking up.

"Right," Hadrian said, feeling that familiar tingle of anticipation. "The Magical Menagerie. For Lyra's mate."

They headed off through the crowded alley, unaware that the next stop would be far less pleasant than the last two.

#¤#¤#¤

The Magical Menagerie was a cacophony of sound and smell.

Owls hooted from their perches. Toads croaked in glass tanks. Rats scurried in cages. Cats of every color prowled their enclosures. The air smelled of feathers and fur and something vaguely reptilian that made Hadrian's enhanced senses twitch.

Lyra had been restless all morning, but the moment they stepped through the door, she went completely still.

Then she made a sound Hadrian had never heard before—urgent, desperate, yearning.

She launched herself from Hadrian's shoulder, leaping to the floor and racing toward the back of the shop. Hadrian hurried after her, his family close behind.

Lyra stopped in front of a large cage near the back wall. Inside was a massive ginger cat with a squashed face, bottle-brush tail, and intelligent amber eyes that were staring at Lyra with the same desperate intensity.

The cat—Crookshanks, according to the nameplate—pressed against the bars of the cage. He was enormous, easily twice the size of a normal cat, with a face that looked like it had been smashed flat. His fur stuck out at odd angles, and his tail was plumed like a lion's.

"Kneazle hybrid," the shop owner said, appearing beside them. "Half Kneazle, half cat. Been here since... oh, 1981? Ten years now. Nobody wants him. Too ugly, they say. Too big. Too clever for their liking."

Lyra was making sounds Hadrian had never heard—chirps and trills and desperate little cries. Crookshanks answered, his deep voice resonating through the shop.

"They're mates," Hadrian breathed. "This is Crookshanks—he belonged to my mother. We've been searching for him."

The shop owner's eyes widened. "Your mother? Lily Potter?"

"Yes." Hadrian was already reaching for the cage latch. "He's Lyra's bonded mate. They've been separated for ten years."

"Well then," the shop owner said warmly. "Let's get them reunited, shall we? That'll be five Galleons."

Vernon already had his money pouch out. "Done."

The transaction took only moments—Vernon counting out the coins, the shop owner making a note in his ledger, producing a small bottle of Kneazle-safe flea potion and a care guide. "He's healthy, well-fed. Just been waiting for the right person."

"He's been waiting for family," Hadrian corrected softly.

The shop owner handed Hadrian the cage key. "He's yours now, Mr. Potter. Take good care of him."

Hadrian opened the cage, and Crookshanks didn't hesitate. He launched himself into Hadrian's arms, nearly bowling him over with his weight. The massive cat was purring so loudly it sounded like a motor, pressing his squashed face against Hadrian's chest where Lyra immediately appeared, the two of them nuzzling and chirping and making sounds of pure joy.

"There we are," the shop owner said, smiling. "That's a proper reunion, that is. Ten years is far too long."

Hadrian was cradling Crookshanks, tears pricking his eyes at the sheer happiness radiating from both Kneazles, when—

"WHAT? NO!"

A shrill voice cut through the shop. A bushy-haired girl came running from the front of the store, her face flushed with anger.

"That's MY cat!" she shouted. "I've been looking at him for weeks! I was going to buy him!"

Hadrian blinked at her, confused. "I... I've already bought him. He belonged to my mother—"

"I don't care!" The girl—about his age, with bushy brown hair, large front teeth, and brown eyes blazing with fury—grabbed at Crookshanks. "Give him to me! I saw him first!"

She literally tried to rip Crookshanks out of Hadrian's arms.

Crookshanks yowled in protest, claws out, struggling violently. Lyra hissed and launched herself at the girl's face. The girl shrieked and stumbled back.

"What are you doing?!" Hadrian demanded, holding Crookshanks protectively. "You can't just—he's already been purchased!"

"I don't care!" the girl cried. "I wanted him! You already have a cat!"

"She's a Kneazle," Hadrian said, his voice tight with anger. "And this is her mate. They're bonded. They've been separated for ten years since my mother died."

"That's just—just superstition!" the girl sputtered. "Magical tradition! There's no scientific proof that Kneazles have 'life bonds'! It's probably just instinct!"

"Young lady," the shop owner said sharply. "The cat has been sold. To Mr. Potter. The transaction is complete."

"But I wanted him!" she insisted, her voice rising to a shriek. "I've been coming here for weeks! I read all about Kneazle hybrids! I was going to buy him today!"

"Then you should have bought him weeks ago," Vernon said coldly. "Instead of just looking. The cat is purchased and paid for. This discussion is over."

"It's not fair!" The girl's face was red with fury and tears. "You're just using your name—the famous Harry Potter—to steal things from people!"

"Steal?" Hadrian's voice went dangerously quiet. "I paid for him. Before you even got here. He belonged to my mother. He's been waiting for family to find him. I'm not stealing anything—you're trying to steal from me!"

"And my name is Hadrian," he added coldly. "And this has nothing to do with fame. Crookshanks is family."

Petunia stepped forward, her voice sharp as glass. "Young lady, you are attempting to steal property that has been legally purchased. That is theft. I suggest you leave before we call the authorities."

"You can't—" the girl started.

"We can and we will," Marius said, his voice like iron. "You have no claim to this animal. He has been sold. You are now attempting theft and harassing a paying customer. Leave. Now."

The girl—Hermione Granger, according to the name tag on her shopping bags—looked around wildly, as if seeking support. The shop owner was shaking his head. The other customers were watching with disapproval. Her parents, standing near the front, looked mortified.

"This isn't fair," she said, but her voice had lost its fire. Now she just sounded petulant. "I wanted him. I've been planning... I read all the books..."

"Reading about something doesn't give you ownership," Vernon said. "Payment does. The cat is paid for. This conversation is finished."

Hermione's eyes filled with tears—of rage, frustration, humiliation. "You're just like everyone said," she spat at Hadrian. "Using your money, your name, your fame to get whatever you want. Taking things from people who actually earned them!"

"I earned nothing," Hadrian said quietly. "My mother died. That's how I 'earned' my fame. And Crookshanks is my mother's cat. That's not taking—that's family."

But Hermione had already grabbed her bags and stormed toward the door, her parents hurrying after her with apologetic glances.

The bell above the door clanged violently in her wake.

Silence fell over the shop.

"Well," the shop owner said finally. "That was... unfortunate."

"She tried to steal from us," Dudley said, outraged. "She literally tried to steal Crookshanks!"

"Some people," Marius said darkly, "believe that wanting something badly enough entitles them to it. That girl has a lot to learn about how the world works."

Hadrian looked down at Crookshanks, who was purring so loudly he vibrated, with Lyra curled against him. They looked... complete. Happy. Home.

But he still felt sick.

"I didn't want to make an enemy," he said quietly.

"You didn't make an enemy, sweetheart," Petunia said firmly. "That girl made herself one by trying to steal from you. You did nothing wrong."

"She'll tell people I stole from her," Hadrian said. "She'll twist it around."

"Let her," Vernon said. "Anyone with sense will see she's lying. You paid for the cat before she even approached you. You have witnesses. The shop owner has records. She has nothing but her tantrum."

The shop owner nodded. "I'll note in my records exactly what happened, Mr. Potter. If anyone asks, I'll tell them the truth—you purchased the cat legally, and Miss Granger attempted to take him by force."

"Thank you," Hadrian said softly.

The shop owner provided a proper traveling basket, lined with soft blankets. Crookshanks and Lyra immediately curled up together inside, purring in harmony.

As they left the Magical Menagerie, Hadrian carried the basket carefully. Inside, the two Kneazles were finally, finally reunited after a decade apart.

But Hermione Granger's words echoed in his mind: You're just like everyone said.

He wondered what, exactly, everyone said about him. And whether any of it was true.

More importantly—he wondered what Hermione would tell people at Hogwarts. Would she tell them he'd stolen from her? Would she paint herself as the victim?

Probably.

"Don't worry about her," Marius said quietly, reading his expression. "The truth will come out. It always does."

Hadrian nodded, but he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that Hermione Granger was going to be a problem.

A big one.

#¤#¤#¤

Flourish and Blotts was chaos.

The bookshop was packed with families buying school supplies, students arguing over which books to buy, parents trying to corral excited children. The smell of parchment and leather and ink filled the air—a smell that would normally make Hadrian's heart sing.

But after the encounter with Hermione Granger and her sharp words—"You're just like everyone said"—Hadrian felt off-balance. Cautious.

"Heaven," Dudley said dryly, watching Hadrian scan the crowded shop with wary eyes instead of his usual enthusiasm.

"Usually," Hadrian murmured.

Marius noticed immediately. "What's wrong?"

"That girl. Hermione. She said I was 'just like everyone said.' What does that even mean? She doesn't know me."

Petunia's expression darkened. "People talk, sweetheart. Especially about you."

"Let's split up," Marius suggested gently. "Petunia, Vernon, and Dudley can gather the required texts. Hadrian and I will browse the advanced sections. We'll meet at the counter in twenty minutes."

They separated into the crowd. Hadrian made his way toward the back, where a sign read ADVANCED STUDIES. Fewer people here—most first-years stuck to the required reading. His shoulders relaxed slightly.

His eyes scanned the shelves. Intermediate Transfiguration. Defensive Magical Theory. A Guide to Advanced Potion-Making. And there—Ancient Runes: A Beginner's Guide.

Hadrian reached for it at the same moment another hand closed around the spine.

"Oh, sorry—"

"No, you can have it—"

They both paused, hands still on the book, and looked at each other.

The other boy was tall for eleven—nearly 145 centimeters—with ash-blond hair that fell across his forehead and serious grey eyes that studied Hadrian with careful intelligence. He was thin, almost delicate, dressed in expensive but understated robes.

Something just clicked.

Hadrian couldn't explain it. It was like... like finding the other half of a pair. Like recognition. Like oh, there you are.

The boy's eyes widened slightly, and Hadrian knew—knew—he felt it too.

"You're interested in Ancient Runes?" the boy asked softly. "It's not a first-year subject."

"I like to read ahead," Hadrian said, some of his caution easing. "Learn more than just what's required."

The boy's entire face transformed when he smiled. "Me too. Most students think I'm odd for it. They just want to pass their exams, not actually learn."

"I know exactly what you mean."

They stood there, still both holding the book, grinning at each other.

Finally, the boy released it. "You should take it. I've already read it twice anyway."

"Twice?" Hadrian's eyes widened. "Is it good?"

"Brilliant. Professor Brocklesby really explains the foundational principles before diving into the actual runes. Makes it much easier to understand." He tilted his head. "You're Hadrian Potter. The one who survived."

Hadrian's smile faltered slightly—still cautious after Hermione's words. "I'm just Hadrian. I don't remember that night."

The boy nodded, accepting this without question. "Fair enough. I'm Theodore Nott. Call me Theo."

"Nott?" Hadrian frowned. "I feel like I've heard that name..."

Theo's expression shuttered slightly, and became guarded. "My grandfather Thaddeus was... well, he fought in the war. On the 'wrong' side, according to most people. He was a Knight of Walpurgis."

Hadrian's eyes sharpened with interest, not judgment. "The Knights of Walpurgis fought for creature rights and magical reform, didn't they? Against corruption in the Ministry?"

Theo froze. "You... you know that? Most people just call them Death Eaters. Dark wizards. Terrorists."

"I've learned," Hadrian said carefully, "that history isn't always what we're told. The victors write the history books. That doesn't make them true."

For a long moment, Theo just stared at him. Then, very quietly: "My mother Medea died when I was five. Giving birth to my sister Tabitha. My father Theoden... he died last year. When I was six. Grief. He couldn't..." His voice cracked. "He couldn't live without her. It's just me, Tabitha, and Grandfather now."

"I'm sorry," Hadrian said gently. "I lost my parents too. I know it's not the same, but... I understand."

The click between them strengthened, solidified. Two boys who'd lost their parents. Two boys who loved learning. Two boys who understood that the world wasn't as simple as good versus evil.

"What subjects are you interested in?" Theo asked, and just like that, the tension broke.

They talked. And talked. And talked.

Theo loved Potions—the precision, the artistry, the way ingredients combined to create something greater than their parts. He wanted to study Arithmancy and Ancient Runes when he was old enough. He'd already read half the second-year Transfiguration text because he was curious about Animagus transformations.

Hadrian was fascinated by Transfiguration—the idea that you could change one thing into another, that reality was malleable if you understood the underlying magical theory. He wanted to learn Defense Against the Dark Arts properly. He loved Charms because they were practical, useful, the kind of magic that made life better.

They discovered they both despised History of Magic (Professor Binns was supposedly the most boring teacher in Hogwarts' thousand-year history). They both thought Astronomy sounded interesting but weren't sure about getting up at midnight for lessons. They both agreed that Herbology seemed useful even if plants weren't their passion.

"I'll be in Slytherin, probably," Theo said eventually. "Family tradition. Every Nott for six generations has been Slytherin."

"I don't know where I'll be sorted yet," Hadrian admitted. "I've got... complicated heritage."

"Wherever you go," Theo said firmly, "we can still be friends. House rivalries are stupid. My grandfather says they're just another way to divide people who should be working together."

Hadrian grinned. "Agreed."

They'd somehow accumulated an enormous stack of books between them. Hadrian had Ancient Runes: A Beginner's Guide, Magical Theory, A History of Magic (even if Binns was boring, the subject was fascinating), and One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. Theo had grabbed Advanced Potion-Making, Numerology and Grammatica, and three books on magical creatures.

As they made their way toward the front of the shop, arms laden with their selections, Hadrian's steps slowed.

There, on a prominent display near the entrance, were dozens of books. All with garish covers. All featuring artistic interpretations of a small boy with a lightning bolt scar. And every single one bore the same author name: Wulfric B. P. WhiteBee.

The Boy Who Lived: A History

Harry Potter and the Dark Lord's Downfall

Savior: The Harry Potter Story

Growing Up Potter: Secrets of the Chosen One

Harry Potter: Destiny's Child

The Chosen One: Harry Potter's First Year

Prophecy's Child: The Harry Potter Legend

Harry Potter and the Power of Love

The Lightning Scar: Understanding Harry Potter

Young Hero: The Early Years of Harry Potter

And more. So many more.

Hadrian stopped dead. "What... what is all that?"

Theo followed his gaze and his expression shifted—understanding dawning, followed by sympathy. "Oh. You didn't know about those."

"Those are about me?" Hadrian's voice came out strangled. "All of them by the same person?"

"Your biographer," Theo said quietly, his tone laden with meaning. He carefully set down his stack of books on a nearby table and picked up one of the titles, flipping it open. His voice took on a mocking tone as he read: "'Young Harry Potter, barely a year old, faced the Dark Lord with courage beyond his years. Witnesses say the brave child laughed in the face of danger—'" He snapped it shut with obvious distaste. "It's all like that. Every single book. Speculation. Fantasy. Outright lies. All from the same author."

"I was a baby," Hadrian whispered, setting his own books down with shaking hands. "I didn't... I couldn't have..."

"Obviously." Theo returned the book to the display with clear disgust. "But that doesn't sell copies. The truth is you survived something that should have killed you, and nobody knows why. So this... author filled in all the blanks with whatever made the best story." He gestured at the extensive display. "Different books, different angles, different age groups. There are children's picture books, young adult adventures, academic analyses, biographical accounts. All by the same person. One person has written your entire public narrative."

Hadrian felt sick. The room seemed to spin slightly. "That girl. Hermione. She said I was 'just like everyone said.' She's read these."

"Probably multiple ones," Theo agreed, watching Hadrian's face with concern. "Everyone has. These books are everywhere—in every bookshop, every library, every magical household in Britain. Some families own the complete collection. People have been reading about 'Harry Potter the Hero' for ten years, building up expectations based entirely on what this one author decided to write."

"Not what she expected," Hadrian finished bitterly. "Because I'm not whatever character this person invented."

"Exactly." Theo studied him carefully. "A lot of people are going to have expectations, Hadrian. They think they know you because they've read these books—maybe all of them. They've built up this complete image of the Boy-Who-Lived in their heads, and it's all based on one person's version of events."

Hadrian stared at the display, his mind working through the implications. One author. One voice. One person controlling the entire narrative about his life, his parents' deaths, his survival. That wasn't random. That wasn't just opportunistic publishing.

That was deliberate.

"What else do they say?" he asked quietly, voice barely above a whisper. "About me? About... about that night?"

Theo hesitated, then pulled down one of the books with a more scholarly cover. "This one focuses on magical theory. But it still speculates about your parents' last moments." His voice gentled with genuine sympathy. "About whether your mother used some kind of ancient magic to save you. About what your father might have done to buy her time. This author has written about your parents' deaths from every possible angle across all these books."

Something twisted painfully in Hadrian's chest. His mother. His father. This stranger—this one person who'd never known James and Lily Potter—had written entire volumes about their deaths. Had theorized about their final moments in book after book. Had turned their sacrifice into a multi-volume publishing empire.

Hadrian looked at the display again, really looked at it. He counted the titles. There had to be at least twenty different books, possibly more. A decade of work. A comprehensive library of lies, all designed to shape how the entire wizarding world saw him.

"I want them," Hadrian said suddenly, his voice hard with determination.

Theo blinked in surprise. "Which ones?"

"All of them."

Theo's eyes widened. "All of them? Hadrian, that's... that's got to be at least twenty books. Maybe twenty-five."

"Every single one," Hadrian said firmly, his jaw set. "If Dumbledore—if this author—spent ten years building this narrative across two dozen books, I need to see the complete picture. Every lie, every contradiction, every piece of the story he's constructed. I'm not going into Hogwarts blind to what everyone thinks they know about me."

"That's..." Theo paused, then his expression shifted to something like admiration. "That's actually brilliant. If you have all of them, you can cross-reference. Find where the narrative shifts, where he contradicts himself, where the lies are most obvious."

"Exactly." Hadrian began pulling books from the display. "And I need to understand not just what he wrote, but how he targeted different audiences. What he told children versus what he told adults. What the 'academic' versions say versus the storybook ones."

Theo joined him, helping to gather the books. "This is going to be heavy reading. Some of these are quite long."

"We have all summer," Hadrian said. "And you offered to read them with me, right?"

"Absolutely," Theo said without hesitation. "Though I have to admit, I'm morbidly curious now. Twenty-plus books about one event, one person, all by the same author? The inconsistencies alone should be fascinating."

They systematically removed every single Wulfric B. P. WhiteBee book from the display. Picture books clearly aimed at young children. Adventure novels for young readers. Serious biographical works. Academic analyses. Poetry collections—apparently someone had written an entire book of poems about the Boy-Who-Lived. Historical accounts. Even what looked like a cookbook: Magic and Meals: Recipes from the Potter Family Kitchen.

"A cookbook?" Hadrian said incredulously, holding it up.

"'Close family friend,' remember?" Theo said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Apparently this family friend knew your parents' favorite recipes. Which I'm sure are completely accurate and not at all invented."

By the time they finished, they had a stack of twenty-three books. Twenty-three separate volumes, all by Wulfric B. P. WhiteBee, all about Harry Potter.

"This is insane," Hadrian muttered, looking at the pile.

"This is comprehensive narrative control," Theo corrected. "This is someone who wanted to make absolutely sure that every possible angle, every possible audience, every possible interpretation of your story came from him and only him."

Hadrian picked up one of the books—Growing Up Potter: An Intimate Portrait—and stared at the author name on the cover.

"Wulfric," he said slowly. "That's one of Dumbledore's middle names."

Theo went very still. "Yes. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. How did you know that?"

"Grandpa told me," Hadrian said, his mind working through the pattern. "He said knowing someone's full name can be important in the magical world. That names have power." His eyes narrowed. "Wulfric is right there in the pen name. And B. P.—could that be Brian Percival? His other middle names?"

"Merlin," Theo breathed. "And WhiteBee..."

"'Albus' means white in Latin," Hadrian said, his voice tight with controlled fury. "And 'Dumbledore' is an old English dialect word for bumblebee. Grandpa mentioned it when we were talking about magical names and their meanings."

Theo's face went pale. "White. Bee. He didn't even try to hide it. He just translated his own name and published an entire library about you under it."

"Twenty-three books," Hadrian said, his voice deadly quiet. "Twenty-three books about me, written by Albus Dumbledore using a barely-disguised pseudonym. He's been controlling what people think about me since I was one year old. Controlling the entire narrative. Every version, every audience, every angle—all him."

"That's what Dark Lords do," Theo said, his voice shaking. "Create personas. Control narratives through manipulation and misdirection. Grandfather says Voldemort's entire name was constructed—'I am Lord Voldemort' from Tom Marvolo Riddle, an anagram. Even if they aren't the same person, this is the exact same tactic."

"So the Leader of the Light uses the same methods as the Dark Lord," Hadrian said flatly. His hands trembled as he looked at the massive stack of books. "He's been writing my story since before I could talk. Making me into whatever hero he needed me to be. And he was so thorough about it that he created an entire publishing career, an entire false identity, just to make sure no one else could tell my story. Only him."

Theo looked at the pile of twenty-three books, then back at Hadrian. "If he went to this much effort... if he wrote this much, spent ten years building this comprehensive narrative... What is he preparing you for? What role does he need you to play that requires this level of control?"

The question hung between them, heavy with dark implications.

"I don't know," Hadrian said quietly. "But I'm going to find out. And taking these books is the first step."

"We should check if there are copies in the back," Theo said, looking at the now-empty display stand. "This might be the entire shop's stock."

"Good," Hadrian said grimly. "Let someone else reorder them. I want these specific copies—the ones that were on display, that people have been looking at, that have been sitting here shaping expectations about me."

They gathered the massive stack—twenty-three books plus their original selections—and made their way to the counter. The pile was so large that the shop's helpful charms kicked in, levitating the stack to follow them to the counter..

At the counter, the clerk processed the purchase efficiently, though her eyebrows rose when she saw the quantity.

"The entire WhiteBee collection?" she asked. "That's quite comprehensive. Are you a collector?"

"Something like that," Hadrian said neutrally, pulling Galleons from his moleskin pouch.

"That'll be sixty-eight Galleons, seven Sickles," she said, tallying the total.

Hadrian counted out the coins without hesitation. It was a significant sum, but worth every Knut to understand the scope of what he was facing.

The clerk shrunk and packaged everything with practiced wand movements, and soon they had neat bundles ready to transport.

They found Hadrian's family near the door, Marius holding another impressive stack of books, while Petunia, Vernon, and Dudley had managed the required textbooks.

"Made a friend?" Marius asked, his eyes twinkling as he noticed the easy way Hadrian and Theo stood together.

"Yeah," Hadrian said, genuine warmth breaking through the anger from his discoveries. "Theodore Nott. His grandfather is Thaddeus Nott."

Marius's expression softened with recognition and approval. "Ah. Thaddeus is a good man. One of the original Knights, fought for what was right even when it wasn't popular. His grandson Theodore is in excellent hands." He studied the way the boys looked at each other. "And you like him."

"I really do," Hadrian admitted without hesitation.

Theo ducked his head, pleased. "We're going to write over the summer. Compare notes on what we're reading."

"And analyze the complete works of Wulfric B. P. WhiteBee," Hadrian added, his tone edged with dark humor.

Petunia's expression sharpened. "Complete works?"

"Twenty-three books," Hadrian said, patting one of his packages. "All about me. All by the same author. All complete lies. We bought every single one the shop had."

Vernon's eyebrows shot up. "Twenty-three books? About you?"

"Apparently one person has been controlling my entire public narrative for a decade," Hadrian said. "Writing books for every audience—children, adults, academics, everyone. Making sure that every version of my story came from him and only him."

"The author calls himself Wulfric B. P. WhiteBee," Theo added with a meaningful look.

Marius's eyebrows rose sharply. "WhiteBee? That's rather—"

"Obvious, once you know what to look for," Hadrian said. "We figured it out."

Understanding and approval flickered across Marius's face, though he didn't elaborate in the crowded bookshop. "We'll discuss this at home. All of it." He turned to Theo with a warm smile. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Theodore. Any friend of Hadrian's is welcome at our home, should you wish to visit over the summer."

"Thank you, sir," Theo said with formal politeness. "That's very kind."

"We should exchange addresses," Hadrian said, looking around for something to write with.

Petunia immediately produced a small notepad and pen from her handbag. "Here, sweetheart."

Theo pulled out an elegant piece of parchment and a silver pen from his robes, looking slightly amused at the Muggle stationery.

They wrote carefully:

Theodore Nott Nott Manor Yorkshire

Hadrian Potter-Black Number Four, Privet Drive Little Whinging, Surrey

Theo raised an eyebrow at both the Muggle address and the lined notebook paper, but made no comment, carefully tearing out Hadrian's page and tucking it into his robes. Hadrian folded Theo's parchment and slipped it into his pocket.

"I should find Grandfather," Theo said reluctantly. "He's probably wondering where I've gone. He gets worried if I disappear for too long."

"And we should continue our shopping," Hadrian said, equally reluctant to part ways.

They stood there awkwardly for a moment, neither quite wanting to leave.

"September first," Theo said finally. "On the Hogwarts Express. We'll meet up, yeah? Save a compartment together?"

"Definitely," Hadrian agreed immediately. "I'll look for you on the platform. And Neville too - the boy I met at the Apothecary. I think you'd like him."

"Longbottom?" Theo considered. "His parents were Aurors. Fought in the war. His grandmother is formidable." He paused, then nodded. "If you like him, that's good enough for me."

"First thing," Theo promised. "And I'll start reading the WhiteBee collection as soon as I get home. We can compare notes in our letters."

"I'm starting with the children's books," Hadrian decided. "I want to see what five-year-olds are learning about me."

"I'll take the academic ones," Theo said. "See how he's justifying his narrative to scholars."

They grinned at each other—a shared mission, a shared understanding.

Theo smiled—a real smile, warm and genuine—and Hadrian felt that click one more time. Like finding a missing piece of himself he hadn't known was lost.

"See you soon, Hadrian," Theo said softly.

"Soon," Hadrian echoed.

As Theo disappeared into the crowd, Petunia touched Hadrian's shoulder gently. "He seems lovely, sweetheart."

"He is," Hadrian said, still watching where Theo had vanished. "He understands. About the books, the expectations, the manipulation. He gets it."

"Because he's dealing with his own version," Marius observed quietly. "The grandson of a Knight of Walpurgis. He understands being judged for something you didn't choose."

"Exactly," Hadrian said. "We just clicked. From the first moment."

"Sometimes magic brings the right people together at the right time," Marius said warmly. "True friends are rarer than gold. Cherish that, Hadrian."

"I will," Hadrian promised.

Vernon looked at the packages containing twenty-three books. "That's a lot of reading, son."

"It's necessary," Hadrian said firmly. "If Dumbledore spent ten years writing my story, I need to understand exactly what he's written. Every version, every lie, every manipulation."

"We'll help you," Petunia said. "Go through them together. Document the inconsistencies."

"Build a counter-narrative based on truth," Marius added. "Show people who you really are, not who he's decided you should be."

As they left Flourish and Blotts, stepping back into the bustling chaos of Diagon Alley, Hadrian felt the weight of the packages in his moleskin pouch—not just physically, but symbolically. Twenty-three books. A decade of lies. An entire false narrative about his life.

But now he had them. Now he could study them, analyze them, and understand them. And most importantly, he could dismantle them.

Dumbledore had been writing Hadrian's story since before he could remember. Creating a comprehensive narrative across multiple books and formats, building expectations, crafting a hero to suit his purposes, ensuring that every magical person in Britain learned the same carefully controlled version of events.

But Hadrian was going to write his own ending.

And it would start with the truth.

Chapter Text

After a quick lunch at a small cafe in Diagon Alley—where Hadrian picked at his sandwich, still thinking about the twenty-three books now weighing down his mokeskin pouch—they made their way to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

The shop was warm and smelled of fabric and lavender. Bolts of cloth in every color lined the walls, and several enchanted measuring tapes zipped through the air, taking measurements of various customers standing on stools.

"Good afternoon!" A squat witch with a kind face bustled over. "Hogwarts, dear?"

"Yes, ma'am," Hadrian said politely.

"Wonderful! First year? Come, come, up on the stool. Let's get you fitted properly."

Hadrian stepped onto the stool, and immediately one of the enchanted measuring tapes began flying around him, measuring his arms, legs, shoulders, and chest. Madam Malkin herself began pinning black fabric around him, muttering measurements under her breath.

"Such a slim build," she commented. "We'll need to make sure there's room for growth. First years always shoot up like weeds."

The bell above the door chimed, and Hadrian glanced up in the mirror.

A woman entered first—tall, elegant, with long golden-blonde hair that fell in perfect waves down her back. She wore expensive dark blue robes that screamed old money, and her face was a study in aristocratic beauty: high cheekbones, a straight nose, and cold blue eyes that seemed to assess everything they touched. She moved with the kind of grace that came from generations of breeding.

Behind her came a boy about Hadrian's age. Platinum blond hair, pale pointed face, grey eyes that held a sharp, calculating quality. He was dressed in robes that probably cost more than the Dursleys' monthly mortgage.

"Ah, Lady Malfoy!" Madam Malkin said warmly. "And young Master Malfoy. Here for Hogwarts robes as well?"

"Indeed," the woman said, her voice cool and cultured. "Draco's first year."

"How wonderful! Two first years at once." Madam Malkin gestured to the stool next to Hadrian. "Up you get, dear."

The boy—Draco—climbed onto the stool beside Hadrian and gave him an appraising look. His mother moved to stand near the window, her attention seemingly on the bolts of cloth, but Hadrian noticed her eyes kept drifting back to him.

"Hogwarts too?" Draco asked, as another measuring tape began working on him. "First year?"

"Yes," Hadrian said simply.

"I'm Draco Malfoy." The boy's chin lifted slightly, as if expecting recognition. "What's your name?"

"Hadrian Potter."

Draco blinked, then frowned slightly. "Potter? You mean... Harry Potter? The Boy Who Lived?"

"It's Hadrian, actually," Hadrian corrected. "Not Harry."

Draco's eyes widened, and his entire demeanor shifted from casual interest to intense excitement. "But you're him? The Boy Who Lived? The one who defeated You-Know-Who?"

"I don't remember that night," Hadrian said quietly. "I was a baby."

"Still brilliant though!" Draco looked genuinely thrilled, not dismissive or mocking like Hadrian had half-expected. "Father has told me all about you—well, about Harry Potter, I suppose. You must have grown up learning all the best magic, studying with private tutors, living in one of the old estates. Learning proper wizarding ways from the start."

Hadrian went very still. The books. Of course. Draco had read the books, or at least heard about what was in them. Everyone thought Harry Potter had been raised in luxury, surrounded by magic and tutors and wealth.

"It wasn't quite like that," Hadrian said carefully.

"Oh, of course you're modest," Draco said, waving this off as proper behavior. "That's the right way to be—Father always says the truly powerful don't need to boast. But really, we should be friends! The Malfoys are one of the oldest families, and Father says you're from ancient lines too. We could rule Hogwarts together! You, me, maybe Zabini and Nott—the best families, the proper sort—"

"I don't know about ruling anything," Hadrian said, increasingly uncomfortable. This was wrong. Draco was making assumptions, building a friendship on a foundation of lies from those damned books.

"I understand," Draco said, nodding knowingly. "That's proper. But really, you should be careful who you make friends with. Some wizarding families are better than others. Blood matters, you know—"

"Draco."

The single word cut through the shop like a blade. Cold. Sharp. Final.

Draco's mouth snapped shut. He looked at his mother, confused. "But Mother—"

"I said enough."

Narcissa Malfoy had gone completely still, her eyes fixed on Hadrian with an intensity that made his skin prickle. Her hand flew to her mouth, as if holding back a gasp. She moved forward slowly, her gaze never leaving his face, studying him with the focus of someone seeing a ghost.

She was looking at his profile, Hadrian realized. The angle of his cheekbones, the line of his jaw, the way he held himself. Her eyes traced over his features with something like shock, something like recognition.

Then her gaze dropped to his hands—to the rings on his fingers. The glamours shimmered slightly under her scrutiny, and her eyes widened fractionally.

She could see through them. Or at least, she could tell they were there.

"Forgive my son," Narcissa said quietly, still staring at Hadrian. "He... lacks perspective."

"It's alright, Lady Malfoy," Hadrian said politely, though his heart was racing. The way she was looking at him—she knew something. Saw something.

"You..." Narcissa took another step closer, her voice barely above a whisper. "You look very much like someone I once knew."

Hadrian's throat tightened. "I'm told I look like my mother."

"Yes. Lily Potter." Narcissa's gaze swept over him again—his eyes, his hair, the delicate bone structure of his face. "But also... there's something else. Something in the way you carry yourself. The shape of your features." Her voice dropped even lower. "You look like a Black."

The shop seemed to hold its breath.

Draco stared between them, completely confused. "Mother, what are you—"

Narcissa held up one hand, silencing him without even looking. Her attention was entirely on Hadrian, and now she was studying Marius, who had moved protectively closer.

"Your grandfather," Narcissa said, her voice still quiet but carrying clearly. "He's Marius... Evans, they call him now?"

Marius stepped forward, placing himself slightly between Narcissa and Hadrian. "Yes."

Narcissa's hand flew to her mouth again, this time holding back what might have been a sob. "You were Marius Black. You left the family in 1954. I was told you were dead."

"I left," Marius said, his voice like ice. "I chose a different path. The family chose to forget I existed." He paused, then added more quietly, "Except Dorea. She never forgot."

"Dorea," Narcissa whispered. "Aunt Dorea. She never spoke of you, but sometimes... sometimes I saw her looking sad, like she'd lost something precious." A tear slipped down her cheek. "I didn't know. They never told me the truth."

Her gaze returned to Hadrian, and now he could see her mind working, putting pieces together. The Black features. Marius's presence. The glamoured rings. The way the Dursleys stood protectively around him like family.

"And you..." Narcissa's voice was barely a whisper now. "Hadrian Potter... you carry Black blood."

Hadrian said nothing. Across the shop, Petunia had gone tense, and Vernon had shifted into a protective stance. Dudley looked worried.

Narcissa's eyes moved to the rings again—really seeing them this time, despite the glamours. "You're not just Potter," she breathed. "You're... Regulus. You're Regulus's child."

The shop was utterly silent. Even the measuring tapes had stopped moving.

Narcissa swayed slightly, as if the realization had physically struck her. She reached out—towards Hadrian, towards something, anything—then stopped herself, pulling her hand back.

"He was my cousin," she said, her voice breaking just slightly. "Regulus. We were... we were close, when we were young. Before the war. Before everything went wrong." She blinked rapidly. "We thought he died in 1979. The family said he drowned. That his body was never recovered."

"I know," Hadrian said quietly.

"Does Sirius know?" Narcissa asked, her composure cracking further. "About you? That Regulus had a son?"

"Sirius is in Azkaban," Hadrian said, his voice hard. "Without trial. Without justice. He's been there for ten years for a crime everyone says he committed, but no one bothered to prove."

Narcissa went pale—deathly pale. "I know. I... I tried to help. After the war. But Dumbledore..." She stopped, pressing her lips together. "There was nothing I could do. Voldemort's followers were being hunted. Anyone who spoke up for Sirius would have been suspect."

She said the name. Voldemort. Not "You-Know-Who" or "the Dark Lord." The actual name.

Hadrian's eyes sharpened. She wasn't afraid of the name. And she'd just revealed something—that she knew things about Voldemort, about what really happened.

"So he rots in hell," Hadrian said flatly, watching her reaction carefully.

"Yes." Narcissa's voice was barely audible, and now she looked like she might be sick. "I'm sorry. I should have done more." Her eyes met his, and there was something in them—guilt, yes, but also understanding. She knew. She knew Hadrian knew something was wrong with the official story.

"Mother," Draco said, his voice uncertain and confused. "What's happening? What are you talking about?"

Narcissa finally looked at her son, and Hadrian saw her visibly pull herself together, the aristocratic mask sliding back into place. But when she looked back at Hadrian, there was something fierce in her eyes.

"Why do you hide what you are?" she asked quietly. "The Black heir ring—you wear it, I can feel it, but you hide it behind glamours. Why?"

"I'm eleven," Hadrian said simply. "People would try to use me. Control me. Use my name and my blood for their own purposes."

Understanding flickered across Narcissa's face. "You're right. Hide it. Hide everything until you're strong enough to claim it properly." She took a breath. "But know this, Hadrian Potter-Black. You are Black. You are family. And the Blacks protect their own."

She turned to Marius, and her voice softened slightly. "I carry the weight of our family's legacy. The choices they made, the people they hurt, the traditions they twisted into something cruel." She looked directly at him. "I was not born when they cast you out. I had no say in what they did to you for loving someone they deemed unworthy. But I am here now, and I am telling both of you—" she looked between Marius and Hadrian, "—that if you ever need anything. Anything at all. You are my blood. You are my cousin's son. And I will help you."

The words hung in the air, heavy with promise and meaning.

"His family," Marius said, his voice still cold but slightly less hostile, "kept him safe when yours cast me out."

"I know," Narcissa said. "And I am grateful. Truly." She looked at Hadrian again. "You were protected. You were loved. That's more than many Black children can say."

Hadrian studied her—this elegant, cold woman who had just shattered her own composure at the sight of him. Who had recognized him not as Harry Potter the Hero, but as Regulus Black's child. Who was offering help, protection, family.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "Lady Malfoy."

Narcissa's eyes were suspiciously bright. She nodded once, sharply, then turned to her son. "Draco. We're leaving. Now."

"But I haven't finished—" Draco gestured at his half-pinned robes.

"Now," Narcissa said, her voice steel.

Draco scrambled off the stool, looking completely bewildered. "But Mother—"

"We will discuss this at home," Narcissa said firmly. She looked at Madam Malkin. "Please send the finished robes to the Manor. We'll return another day to complete the fitting."

"Of course, Lady Malfoy," Madam Malkin said, looking just as confused as everyone else.

Narcissa moved toward the door, then paused. She turned back to Hadrian one more time.

"Your father," she said softly. "Regulus. He was... he was caught up in things beyond his control, like we all were. But in the end, he tried to do the right thing. He tried to stop the darkness." Her voice caught. "You look like him. You have his eyes—the gold in the green. His grace. His bearing." She smiled, just barely. "He would have been so proud of you."

Then she was gone, sweeping out of the shop with Draco hurrying after her, looking back at Hadrian with a mixture of confusion and dawning understanding.

The shop was silent for a long moment.

Then Madam Malkin cleared her throat. "Well. That was... dramatic. Shall we finish your fitting, dear?"

But Hadrian barely heard her. His hands were shaking.

Marius was beside him immediately, steadying him. "Breathe, Hadrian."

"She knew," Hadrian whispered. "She figured it out just by looking at me."

"The Blacks always know their own," Marius said quietly. "We carry our blood in our bones, in our features. Narcissa was raised to recognize family, even through glamours and time."

"Will she tell people?" Petunia asked, her voice tight with worry.

"I don't think so," Marius said slowly. "Not yet. Narcissa Malfoy is many things—proud, ambitious, cunning—but she spoke truth. Blacks protect their own. And she sees Hadrian as family."

"She called him her cousin's son," Vernon said, processing. "That makes her... what, his cousin once removed?"

"Something like that," Marius agreed. "More importantly, it makes her an ally. Potentially."

"But she's married to a Malfoy," Petunia pointed out. "Didn't Lucius Malfoy follow Voldemort?"

Narcissa went very still at that, Hadrian remembered. And she'd gone pale when he'd said the name Voldemort without fear.

"Lucius claimed the Imperius Curse," Marius said slowly, watching for Hadrian's reaction. "Said he was controlled, not willing."

Hadrian's mind raced. The Imperius Curse. Controlled. And Narcissa had gone pale when he'd mentioned Voldemort—not with fear of the name, but with something else. Knowledge. Guilt. Horror.

What if it was true? What if Lucius really had been controlled?

"But Narcissa is not her husband," Marius continued. "She's a Black first, a Malfoy second. She'll do what's best for her family."

"Is she safe?" Hadrian asked, finally finding his voice. "From Dumbledore?"

Marius's expression turned grim. "Narcissa Malfoy is one of the most powerful witches in Britain. And one of the most careful. She survived a war by knowing exactly when to speak and when to stay silent, when to act and when to wait. If anyone can navigate Dumbledore's machinations, it's her."

"And she thinks Hadrian is family now," Dudley said.

"She knows he is," Marius corrected. "And that changes things."

Hadrian looked down at his hands—at the glamoured rings that Narcissa had seen through with barely a glance. The Black signet ring. The Potter ring. The evidence of who he really was, hidden beneath magic.

"She said my father would be proud of me," Hadrian said softly. "She knew him. Really knew him."

"Regulus and Narcissa were close," Marius said gently. "Before the war divided everything. She would have known him well."

"Did she..." Hadrian hesitated. "Did she know about my mother? About Regulus and Lily?"

"I don't know," Marius admitted. "Regulus kept that secret carefully. But Narcissa is clever. She might have suspected something."

Madam Malkin cleared her throat again, more insistently this time. "I really do need to finish these fittings, dears. We can't have you going to Hogwarts in improperly fitted robes."

Hadrian took a shaky breath and nodded. "Right. Sorry."

As Madam Malkin resumed her work, pinning fabric and taking measurements, Hadrian tried to process what had just happened. In the space of a single day, he'd discovered that Dumbledore had written two dozen books controlling his narrative, met Theodore Nott and formed an instant friendship, and now been recognized by Narcissa Malfoy as Regulus Black's son.

His quiet summer of learning to control his enhanced senses seemed very far away.

"At least we know one thing," Vernon said, trying to lighten the mood. "Your father's family isn't all bad. That Narcissa woman seemed genuinely concerned about you."

"The Blacks are complicated," Marius said. "They can be cruel and they can be kind, sometimes in the same breath. But they value family above almost everything else. Narcissa seeing Hadrian as Regulus's son... that's powerful. That's protection."

"Will Draco tell people at school?" Dudley asked. "About Hadrian being a Black?"

"He doesn't understand what he heard," Marius said. "He's eleven and confused. Narcissa will explain things to him carefully—what he can say, what he can't, who Hadrian really is. She'll control that narrative."

"Another narrative," Hadrian muttered. "Everyone's writing my story except me."

Petunia touched his shoulder gently. "Then we'll help you write your own, sweetheart. Starting with the truth."

Madam Malkin stepped back, surveying her work. "There we are! A perfect fit. Now, you'll need three sets of school robes, one set of dress robes for formal occasions, three sets of everyday robes for casual wear, and a traveling cloak. Everything will be ready by next week. Should I send them to...?"

"Number Four Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey," Petunia said firmly.

Madam Malkin's eyebrows rose—a Muggle address—but she simply nodded and made a note. "Very good. That will be twenty-two Galleons, please."

As Vernon paid—insisting on the best quality fabric and workmanship—Hadrian looked at himself in the mirror. In the black Hogwarts robes, with his dark hair and green-gold eyes, he could see what Narcissa had seen. The Black features. The aristocratic bone structure. The evidence of his father's blood written in his face.

He looked like a Black. He looked like Regulus.

And now someone else knew his secret.

"Come on, son," Vernon said, placing a hand on Hadrian's shoulder. "Let's get the rest of this shopping done. Then we'll go home, have some fish and chips, and figure out what all this means."

"Together," Petunia added firmly.

"Together," Hadrian agreed.

But as they left Madam Malkin's and stepped back into the bustling street of Diagon Alley, Hadrian couldn't help but look back—half expecting to see Narcissa Malfoy still standing there, studying him with those knowing blue eyes.

The street was empty. But Hadrian had the distinct feeling that this wouldn't be the last time they met.

And he wasn't entirely sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

#¤#¤#¤

They were walking past Quality Quidditch Supplies when Hadrian stopped, his attention caught by the window display.

A Nimbus Two Thousand hung suspended in mid-air, rotating slowly in the afternoon sun. The polished wood gleamed, the perfectly aligned twigs seeming to shimmer with barely-contained speed. It was beautiful—sleek and powerful and elegant all at once.

"That's gorgeous," Hadrian breathed.

"The Nimbus Two Thousand," Marius said, admiration in his voice. "Top of the line. Fastest broom on the market right now."

"Can first years even have brooms?" Dudley asked, equally mesmerized.

"First years can't play on House Quidditch teams," Marius explained. "But there's no rule against owning one. Many students bring brooms for recreational flying."

Hadrian stared at the broom, something in his chest yearning for the freedom and joy that flying must bring. The idea of soaring through the air called to something deep inside him.

"We could look inside," Petunia suggested. "Just to—"

A loud, whining voice cut through the air from inside the shop.

"But MUUUUM! I NEED a Nimbus 2000! How else am I supposed to impress Harry Potter?"

Hadrian's enhanced hearing caught every word clearly, even through the shop window. He froze.

Inside, visible through the glass, was a red-haired boy about Hadrian's age. Tall, gangly, covered in freckles, wearing robes that had clearly been handed down multiple times. He was standing in front of the Nimbus Two Thousand display, gesturing dramatically at the broom.

Beside him stood a plump woman with the same red hair, looking harried and exhausted.

"Ron, we can't afford a Nimbus 2000," the woman said, her voice tight with stress. "We've been over this—"

"But I'm going to be his BEST FRIEND!" the boy—Ron—insisted, his voice rising. "He'll expect me to have nice things! He's famous and rich, and he'll want a friend who's cool! I can't show up on some rubbish broom!"

"Ronald Weasley—"

"I need to make a good impression!" Ron continued, whining. "What if he thinks I'm a loser? What if he doesn't want to be my friend because I'm on a terrible broom? He's Harry Potter! He's going to be the most popular kid at Hogwarts, and I need to be his friend so I can be popular too!"

Hadrian felt his stomach turn over.

"A CLEANSWEEP?!" Ron's voice cracked with horror at something his mother had just said. "That's so embarrassing! What if Harry Potter sees me on that? He'll think I'm poor!"

"We ARE poor, Ron!" his mother snapped, her patience clearly fraying.

"But HE doesn't need to know that!" Ron protested. "I need to look good so he'll want to be my friend! Everyone says Harry Potter grew up rich and pampered, learning magic from private tutors. He's going to expect his friends to be... you know... proper! Not riding around on ancient hand-me-down brooms!"

"That's enough, Ronald," his mother said sharply. "You'll be grateful for what we can afford. The Cleansweep will serve you perfectly well. Now stop this nonsense about Harry Potter. You don't even know the boy!"

"I don't need to know him!" Ron said. "Everyone knows about Harry Potter! And when I'm his best friend, everyone will know about me too! I'll be famous! Girls will like me! Maybe I'll even get into Gryffindor's good graces because I'm friends with a celebrity!"

Hadrian took a step back from the window, his face going cold.

Marius had heard it too—his expression was troubled. Vernon's face had darkened with anger, and Petunia's mouth was pressed into a thin line.

"That's Arthur Weasley's youngest son," Marius said quietly. "Arthur's a good man. Works in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. The family struggles financially, but Arthur has integrity." He paused. "The boy... needs guidance."

"That boy," Vernon said, his voice low and dangerous, "wants to use our Hadrian."

"He doesn't even know Hadrian," Petunia said, her voice sharp with protective anger. "He's planning to befriend him for fame and popularity. Like Hadrian is a... a commodity."

Hadrian felt sick. This was worse than Hermione judging him based on the books. This was someone who wanted to use him, who saw "Harry Potter" as a ticket to popularity and status. Who didn't care about who Hadrian actually was, only what his name could do for Ron Weasley's social standing.

"I have no interest," Hadrian said quietly, his voice hard, "in someone who wants to be my friend for my name."

"Good," Vernon said firmly. "You deserve better than that."

"We should go," Petunia said, touching Hadrian's shoulder. "We don't need to go in there."

But Hadrian hesitated, looking at the Nimbus Two Thousand one more time. He wanted to see the brooms. He wanted to learn about flying. Why should Ron Weasley's opportunism drive him away from something he was interested in?

"No," Hadrian said, lifting his chin. "I want to see the brooms. We'll just... avoid them."

Marius smiled slightly, approval in his eyes. "Very well."

They entered the shop, and Hadrian immediately moved to the far side, away from where Ron and his mother were still arguing near the Nimbus display. A different shop assistant—a young witch with enthusiasm written all over her face—approached them.

"Welcome to Quality Quidditch Supplies! First year at Hogwarts?"

"Yes," Hadrian said.

"Wonderful! Looking for a broom? We have everything from beginner models to professional racing brooms."

They spent twenty minutes looking at brooms, the assistant explaining the differences in wood, bristle configuration, and enchantments. Hadrian tried to focus, tried to recapture his earlier excitement, but he kept hearing Ron's whining voice in his head.

"He's famous and rich, and he'll want a friend who's cool!"

"When I'm his best friend, everyone will know about me too!"

It made him feel hollow. Used. Like he wasn't a person, just a stepping stone to popularity.

"The Nimbus Two Thousand is our top model," the assistant was saying. "It's expensive—one thousand Galleons—but it's the finest broom available. Responds to the slightest touch, incredible speed and handling."

"We'll take it," Vernon said.

Hadrian blinked. "Dad—"

"You want to learn to fly, don't you?" Vernon asked.

"Yes, but—"

"Then you'll learn on proper equipment," Vernon said firmly. "Not on some hand-me-down that's falling apart. You deserve the best, Hadrian. And you're getting it."

"That's very generous, sir!" the assistant beamed. "I'll get that packaged up for you right away, along with a complementary care kit."

As the assistant went to prepare the broom, Hadrian became aware that Ron's whining had stopped. He glanced over and saw Ron staring at them—specifically at the assistant boxing up the Nimbus Two Thousand.

Ron's eyes went wide. Then they narrowed, calculating. He started to move toward them, his mother calling after him.

"Come on," Marius said quietly, guiding Hadrian toward the counter. "Let's complete the purchase and go."

But Ron was faster than he looked when motivated. He appeared at Hadrian's elbow, slightly out of breath.

"Hi!" Ron said brightly. "I couldn't help but notice you're getting a Nimbus 2000! That's brilliant! I'm Ron Weasley." He stuck out his hand. "Are you a first year too?"

Hadrian looked at the offered hand but didn't take it. "Yes."

Ron's smile faltered slightly at the cool tone but he pushed on. "Great! We'll probably be in the same year then. Maybe even the same House! I'm hoping for Gryffindor—whole family's been in Gryffindor. You'll want Gryffindor too, obviously. It's the best House. None of those slimy Slytherins or boring Ravenclaws or—"

"Ronald!" His mother had caught up, looking mortified. "I'm so sorry, he's very forward—"

"It's fine, Mrs. Weasley," Hadrian said politely but coldly. "We were just leaving."

"Oh, but—" Ron started, looking between Hadrian and the boxed Nimbus. "I mean, maybe we could—"

"Ronald, leave the boy alone," Mrs. Weasley said, grabbing her son's arm. "Come on, we still need to get your cauldron."

As they were pulled away, Hadrian heard Ron hissing at his mother: "But Mum, he's rich! Did you see that broom? If I'm friends with him—"

"Ronald Bilius Weasley!" his mother snapped, and whatever else she said was lost as they disappeared into the back of the shop.

Vernon completed the purchase in tense silence. The assistant carefully packed the Nimbus Two Thousand into a long, slim case with the Quality Quidditch Supplies logo embossed on it. Vernon tapped it with his wand—one of the few spells he'd learned—and it shrank down to fit easily in Hadrian's school trunk.

When they finally left the shop, Hadrian felt drained.

"That was..." Dudley started, then stopped, not sure what to say.

"Calculating," Marius finished. "The boy overheard us, saw the expensive broom, and immediately tried to make friends. Not for who you are, but for what you have."

"Just like he was planning to do with 'Harry Potter,'" Petunia said, her voice tight with anger. "Use you for fame and popularity."

"He doesn't even know me," Hadrian said quietly. "He has no idea who I am. But he decided I'd be useful."

"And that," Vernon said firmly, "is why you stay away from him. Anyone who wants to be your friend for your name or your money isn't a real friend."

"Theo and Neville," Hadrian said, more to himself than anyone else. "They didn't know who I was. Theo just... we clicked over books. And Neville was kind and scared and real. They wanted to be my friend because of me."

"Exactly," Marius said gently. "Those are real friends. That boy in there?" He gestured back at the shop. "He's looking for a meal ticket."

As they walked away, Hadrian felt the weight of the day settling on him. First Hermione, judging him based on the books Dumbledore had written. Then Narcissa, recognizing his Black blood and adding another layer of complication to his identity. Now Ron Weasley, planning to use "Harry Potter" for popularity and social climbing.

The magical world was turning out to be just as complicated as the Muggle one. Maybe more so.

But he had Theo. He had Neville. He had his family.

That would have to be enough.

"Come on," Petunia said, squeezing his shoulder. "Just a few more quick stops, then we'll head home."

"And fish and chips," Vernon added. "Don't forget the fish and chips."

Despite everything, Hadrian smiled. "I won't forget."

The trunk now held a Nimbus Two Thousand—not to impress anyone, but because his family loved him and wanted him to have the best.

The difference mattered.

#¤#¤#¤

The rest of the shopping passed in a blur of efficiency. After the emotional weight of the bookshop, the emotional encounter with Narcissa, and the uncomfortable encounters with Granger and Weasley, the practical supply shopping felt almost refreshing in its simplicity.

Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop

The quill shop was narrow and cramped, with shelves reaching to the ceiling and filled with every type of writing implement imaginable. The scent of ink and parchment filled the air.

"You'll need proper writing supplies," Marius said, consulting Hadrian's supply list. "Quills, ink, and parchment. Lots of parchment—you'll be writing essays constantly."

The shopkeeper, an elderly wizard with ink-stained fingers, helped them select quality quills—standard eagle feather quills for everyday use, plus two self-inking quills that would save time during lectures.

"These are brilliant," Dudley said, watching in fascination as a demonstration quill wrote by itself when the shopkeeper spoke near it. "It just... writes!"

"Voice-activated," the shopkeeper explained proudly. "Very popular with students who need to take notes quickly. Though I must warn you—they write exactly what they hear, so keep them capped during personal conversations!"

They also purchased several bottles of black ink, one bottle of red for corrections, and a stack of parchment rolls that the shopkeeper assured them would last the term.

"You can always owl-order more if you run out," he added helpfully.

Vernon paid, and they left with packages that smelled pleasantly of paper and possibility.

Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment

This shop was larger and more organized, with clear sections for different types of equipment. They made their way through systematically:

Cauldron: Pewter, standard size 2, as specified on the equipment list. The shopkeeper confirmed it was the proper thickness and would withstand standard potion-making processes.

Scales: A set of brass scales for measuring potion ingredients. Hadrian tested them carefully, making sure they balanced properly.

"Precision matters in potions," Marius explained. "The difference between a perfect potion and an explosion can be a single gram."

"Noted," Hadrian said seriously, double-checking the scales one more time.

Phials: A set of glass phials in various sizes for storing potion samples. The shopkeeper threw in a small carrying case for free.

Telescope: This was where Dudley's eyes lit up. The brass telescope on display was beautiful—polished to a shine, with intricate engravings around the barrel.

"That's for Astronomy class," Hadrian explained, seeing his cousin's interest.

"Can I look through it?" Dudley asked.

The shopkeeper, amused, set up the telescope to point out the shop's window. "You won't see much during the day, but you can get a sense of the optics."

Dudley peered through the eyepiece and gasped. "Everything's so close! That's amazing!"

"Magically enhanced lenses," the shopkeeper said proudly. "You'll be able to see Jupiter's moons clear as day with this."

"That's so cool," Dudley said wistfully. "I wish I could take Astronomy."

Hadrian felt a pang for his cousin. Dudley had been so supportive, so excited about magic, and yet he'd never be able to experience it himself.

"Maybe I can show you what I see," Hadrian offered quietly. "When I come home for holidays. We could set up the telescope in the garden."

Dudley's face brightened immediately. "Really? You'd do that?"

"Of course."

Vernon clapped both boys on the shoulders, looking suspiciously emotional. "Right then. Let's get this paid for before your mother accuses me of going soft."

They left Wiseacre's with all the remaining items from Hadrian's supply list, everything neatly packed and shrunk for easy carrying.

Potage's Cauldron Shop (Quick Stop)

They'd already purchased a cauldron at Wiseacre's, but Petunia insisted on stopping at Potage's to compare quality.

"We paid good money," she said firmly. "I want to make sure we got value for it."

The proprietor of Potage's examined their pewter cauldron and nodded approvingly. "Wiseacre's always stocks quality. This is solid work—should last you through all seven years if you care for it properly."

Satisfied, they moved on.

Slug & Jiggers Apothecary (Additional Ingredients)

They made a quick return to the apothecary to purchase some of the optional ingredients that Neville had mentioned earlier. Marius suggested getting a head start on ingredient collection, since many potions required obscure components.

"Better to have them and not need them than need them and not have them," he said, selecting several jars of dried herbs and powdered minerals.

The total for the day's shopping came to nearly fifteen hundred Galleons—a staggering sum that made even Vernon wince slightly. But he paid without complaint, determined to make sure Hadrian had everything he needed.

As they finally left the last shop, the sun was beginning to sink lower in the sky, casting long shadows across Diagon Alley. Hadrian's trunk was now filled with everything on his supply list and more—robes, books, cauldron, telescope, quills, and a Nimbus Two Thousand.

"One more stop," Marius said, checking his pocket watch. "Gringotts. There's some business we need to handle."

"What kind of business?" Hadrian asked.

"Account management," Marius said carefully. "Since you've activated your Black inheritance, there are some... arrangements to be made. The goblins were very insistent."

Hadrian nodded, remembering Ragnok's words about the Black accounts and properties. There was always more to handle, more complications to navigate.

But for now, he was simply tired. It had been a very long day.

"After Gringotts," Petunia promised, "we'll go home and have a proper meal. Fish and chips, just like Vernon promised."

"And then you can organize all your new things," Dudley added, grinning. "This is going to be brilliant, Hads. You're going to love Hogwarts."

Hadrian managed a smile. "I hope so."

As they made their way back toward the gleaming white marble of Gringotts, Hadrian took a moment to appreciate what the day had brought: new friends in Theo and Neville, uncomfortable truths about Dumbledore's manipulation, an ally in Narcissa Malfoy, and a clear picture of people like Granger and Weasley who would judge or use him.

The magical world was complicated. But he was learning to navigate it.

And he wasn't alone.

That was what mattered most.

#¤#¤#¤

The white marble steps of Gringotts gleamed in the late afternoon sun as the Dursley family climbed them once more. Hadrian felt the weight of the day—both literally in his now-full trunk, and figuratively in everything he'd learned.

The bronze doors opened before them, and they entered the vast marble hall. A goblin at the nearest desk looked up as they approached.

"We're here to see Account Manager Griphook," Marius said. "Regarding the Potter accounts. We have some... concerns that need addressing."

The goblin's eyes sharpened with interest. "Your name?"

"Marius Black, acting as magical guardian for Hadrian Potter-Black."

The goblin made a note. "One moment." He gestured to another goblin, who disappeared through a door behind the counter.

They waited only a few minutes before a different goblin appeared—not Griphook, but one Hadrian didn't recognize.

"Mr. Black? The account managers are currently in conference regarding Heir Potter-Black's accounts. If you'll follow me, they can see you immediately."

"Conference?" Vernon asked, surprised.

"The Directors deemed it necessary to coordinate, given the... complexity of the heir's holdings." The goblin's tone suggested this was unusual but not unwelcome. "This way, please."

They were led through the marble halls, past the main cart stations, and into a quieter section of the bank. The goblin stopped before an imposing wooden door with brass fittings and knocked twice.

"Enter," came a familiar gravelly voice—Ragnok.

The goblin opened the door and gestured them inside.

The conference room was impressive—paneled in dark wood with a long table made of what looked like solid gold. Maps covered one wall, showing properties and holdings across Britain and beyond. And around the table sat five goblins, all of whom looked up as the Dursley family entered.

Hadrian recognized three of them immediately: Ragnok, with his scarred face and sharp gold eyes; Sharptooth, who managed the Black accounts; and Griphook, his Potter account manager. The other two were unfamiliar—one with a distinctly grimy appearance and suspicious eyes, the other more polished and professional-looking.

"Heir Potter-Black," Ragnok said, rising from his seat. The other goblins followed suit—a sign of respect that made Hadrian uncomfortable. "This is... unexpected. We were not scheduled to meet."

"I apologize for the interruption," Hadrian said, remembering his goblin etiquette. "But something came to my attention today that I felt you should know about immediately."

Ragnok's eyes glinted with interest. "Indeed? Please, sit."

Additional chairs appeared around the table—clearly conjured by goblin magic. Vernon, Petunia, Dudley, Marius, and Hadrian took their seats across from the five goblins.

"Perhaps introductions first," Ragnok said. "You know myself, Sharptooth, and Griphook. These are two of your other account managers." He gestured to the grimy-looking goblin. "Grisou handles the Flamel and LeFay accounts."

"Bonjour," Grisou said, his voice rough and heavily accented. His eyes were sharp and distrustful as they assessed Hadrian. "The Flamel accounts, they are old. Very old. Very valuable. C'est une fortune." He said this with an air of someone who'd said it many times before.

"And Rachid," Ragnok continued, indicating the more polished goblin, "manages the Delacour account, which you inherited through your connection to Perenelle Flamel, née Delacour."

"A pleasure, Heir Potter-Black," Rachid said smoothly, his accent more refined than Grisou's. "The Delacour family will be most interested to learn of your existence. After Perenelle's daughter Azalea disappeared as an infant in 1934, the family searched for decades but found no trace. Madame Delacour and her daughter Apolline—Perenelle's closest living relatives—have been asking after the account for years, hoping for any news. Apolline has two daughters: Fleur, who is fourteen, and young Gabrielle, who is eight. They assumed Azalea's line had ended. To discover she lived, married, had children and grandchildren—even though she herself passed in 1975—and that her bloodline continues through you... this will bring them both joy and grief. You have family in France, Heir Potter-Black. Cousins who will want to meet you."

"I didn't know I had a Delacour account," Hadrian admitted.

"It is not large compared to your other holdings," Rachid said diplomatically. "Perhaps fifty thousand Galleons and some properties in France. But the family connection is significant."

"We were discussing," Ragnok said, drawing attention back to the matter at hand, "the various accounts and how best to manage them during your minority. The Flamel accounts in particular require careful attention—Nicolas and Perenelle left very specific instructions for their heir."

"Which we will discuss," Grisou said firmly. "But later. When there is time. Pas touche until you understand the alchemy!" He looked almost offended at the idea of rushing such an important discussion.

"However," Ragnok continued, "you said something came to your attention. Something that required immediate notification."

Hadrian took a deep breath. This was it. He reached into his trunk—which Marius had helpfully shrunk and placed beside his chair—and pulled out one of the books. The one titled Growing Up Potter: An Intimate Portrait by Wulfric B. P. WhiteBee.

He placed it on the golden table.

All five goblins stared at it.

"This," Hadrian said quietly, "is one of twenty-three books written about me. About my life, my parents' deaths, my supposed childhood. All by the same author."

Griphook reached for the book, his long fingers tracing the cover. "I am aware of these publications. They are quite popular in the wizarding world."

"Did you know," Hadrian asked, his voice hardening, "that this author—Wulfric B. P. WhiteBee—is actually Albus Dumbledore?"

The silence in the room was absolute.

Ragnok's eyes went very, very sharp. "Explain."

Hadrian did. He explained about the bookshop, about discovering all twenty-three books by the same author, about working out the name with Theo's help. Wulfric—Dumbledore's middle name. B. P.—Brian Percival, his other middle names. WhiteBee—White for Albus, Bee for Dumbledore.

"He's been writing books about me since I was one year old," Hadrian finished. "Controlling the entire narrative. Making sure everyone in the wizarding world knows exactly the version of Harry Potter that he wanted them to know. And he's been profiting from it."

"Profiting," Griphook repeated, his voice dangerous.

"Twenty-three books," Sharptooth said slowly. "Over ten years. Popular books, widely distributed. That would be..."

"Substantial royalties," Ragnok finished. His smile was not pleasant. "Griphook. Pull the publishing records. I want to know exactly how much money these books have generated, and where those Galleons are going."

Griphook rose immediately and moved to a cabinet in the corner, pulling out what looked like a ledger and a small mirror. He spoke into the mirror in Gobbledegook, rapid and sharp.

"This is fraud," Rachid said, picking up the book and examining it with a professional eye. "Unauthorized biography. Use of a minor's name and likeness for commercial gain without guardian permission. In France, this would result in substantial penalties."

"In Gringotts," Ragnok said coldly, "we take unauthorized use of our clients' assets very seriously. And your name, Heir Potter-Black, is an asset. One that has been exploited without your knowledge or consent."

"Can we do anything about it?" Vernon asked. "Stop the books? Sue him?"

"We can do many things," Ragnok said. "The question is which course of action serves our client best."

Griphook returned to the table, his expression grim. "The publisher is Flourish and Blotts. The books have generated approximately two hundred and thirty thousand Galleons in royalties over the past ten years."

Hadrian felt sick. Two hundred and thirty thousand Galleons. From his life. From his parents' deaths.

"Where is the money going?" Marius demanded.

"Into an account," Griphook said, consulting his notes, "registered to one Wulfric B. P. WhiteBee. Which, given what we now know, means Albus Dumbledore has been depositing these royalties into a false account under a pseudonym."

"That's illegal," Petunia said sharply. "Even in the wizarding world, that has to be illegal."

"It is tax evasion at minimum," Rachid confirmed. "Possibly fraud, depending on how the account was established."

"And," Ragnok said, his smile growing sharper, "it is theft from a Gringotts client. The books are about Heir Potter-Black. The royalties should flow to his accounts, not to Dumbledore's secret vault."

"We will pursue this," Sharptooth declared. "The Black family does not tolerate theft."

"Nor does the Potter family," Griphook added.

"C'est inacceptable!" Grisou burst out. "He steals from an heir? From a child? This Dumbledore, he is—" He launched into what sounded like very creative French cursing.

Ragnok held up a hand. "Grisou. Control yourself."

The French goblin subsided, muttering darkly.

"Here is what we will do," Ragnok said, his tone brooking no argument. "First, we will file a formal complaint with the Ministry regarding the unauthorized biographies and demand immediate cessation of publication. Second, we will pursue recovery of all royalties paid to date—with interest. Third, we will investigate the false account and pursue charges of fraud and tax evasion against Dumbledore."

"Will it work?" Hadrian asked quietly.

"Dumbledore is powerful," Ragnok admitted. "He has many allies. But he has also made a critical error—he has stolen from Gringotts. And we do not forget. We do not forgive. And we always collect our debts."

The five goblins around the table all wore identical expressions of predatory satisfaction.

"In the meantime," Sharptooth said, "we should discuss the matter of your accounts more generally. You have activated multiple inheritances. This requires coordination."

"Indeed," Rachid agreed. "The Delacour family will want to meet you. I will write to them immediately. They deserve to know that Azalea's bloodline lives on."

"And Nicolas," Grisou said, less grumpily now. "He should know. He and Perenelle, they had only one child—Azalea. To learn she lived, even if she is gone now... to learn her blood continues... He will want to meet you. To teach you, perhaps."

Hadrian's mind was spinning. The Delacours. Nicolas Flamel. These were people from legend, from history. And they were apparently his family.

"Nicolas Flamel is still alive?" Dudley asked, eyes wide.

"Oui," Grisou said. "Very much alive. Six hundred and sixty-five years old, and still practicing alchemy. He and Perenelle, they live in France. Quiet life. But they will want to know about you." He looked at Hadrian. "I will write to them. Tell them what has happened. They will respond, I think. Quickly."

"Is that all appropriate?" Petunia asked carefully. "Just... telling people about Hadrian? Given everything with Dumbledore?"

"The Flamels and Delacours," Ragnok said, "are not under Dumbledore's influence. Nicolas Flamel is one of the most powerful wizards alive, and he owes Dumbledore nothing. The Delacours are a prominent French family with no ties to British politics. They are safe contacts."

"And they are family," Grisou added firmly. "Family protects family. This is goblin way. Should be wizard way too."

Marius nodded slowly. "I agree. Nicolas and Perenelle would have wanted their heir to know his heritage. And the Delacours... Lily would have wanted Hadrian to know his mother's family."

"Then we are agreed," Ragnok said. "Grisou will contact the Flamels. Rachid will contact the Delacours. The rest of us will pursue the matter of the stolen royalties." His smile was sharp and cold. "Dumbledore will learn that it is unwise to steal from Gringotts clients."

"Thank you," Hadrian said quietly. "All of you. For... for caring about this. For helping."

"You are our client," Ragnok said simply. "And more than that—you are heir to five of the oldest houses in Gringotts, with claims to the Flamel and LeFay lines pending acknowledgment. We protect what is ours. And you, Heir Potter-Black-Peverell-Gryffindor-Slytherin, are decidedly ours."

The formal recitation of all his titles made Hadrian want to sink through the floor, but he nodded.

"Now," Sharptooth said, pulling out several documents, "there are some papers you should sign. Nothing major—just authorization for us to act on your behalf regarding the book matter, and some standard account coordination agreements."

They spent the next twenty minutes reviewing and signing documents. The goblins explained each one carefully, making sure Hadrian understood what he was agreeing to. Vernon and Petunia read everything twice, asking sharp questions that the goblins answered with obvious approval.

Finally, as the sun was setting and painting the conference room in shades of gold and amber, they were finished.

"We will be in touch," Ragnok said as they rose to leave. "Expect correspondence from the Flamels within the week. The Delacours as well, I suspect."

"And we will have updates on the Dumbledore matter soon," Griphook added. "Gringotts moves slowly, but we move thoroughly. He will not escape justice."

"C'est une bonne journée," Grisou said with satisfaction. "We catch a thief, the Flamels will be pleased."

As they left the conference room and made their way back through Gringotts' marble halls, Hadrian felt oddly lighter despite everything. Yes, Dumbledore had been stealing from him for ten years. Yes, there would be a fight to get that money back. Yes, his life was even more complicated than he'd thought this morning.

But he also had allies. Powerful allies. Five goblin account managers who were personally invested in protecting him. Potential family in France who didn't even know he existed yet. And a bank full of people who were now very, very angry at Albus Dumbledore.

That had to count for something.

#¤#¤#¤

"Fish and chips time," Vernon announced as they stepped out into the cool evening air of Diagon Alley. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I need some proper food after all that."

"Hear, hear," Marius agreed.

The family made their way back through the Leaky Cauldron—Tom the barkeeper waving cheerfully as they passed—and out into muggle London. The transition from magical to mundane always felt slightly jarring, but tonight Hadrian welcomed it. The familiar sights and sounds of the city were grounding after the overwhelming day in Diagon Alley.

Lyra and Crookshanks were curled together in a travel basket that Petunia carried, the two Kneazles content and purring softly. Hedwig perched on Hadrian's shoulder, her talons gentle through the fabric of his shirt—her cage was safely packed in the shrunken trunk in Hadrian's enchanted backpack.

They took the Tube back to Surrey, squeezing into seats during the evening commute. Around them, muggles went about their ordinary lives, completely oblivious to the magical world that existed alongside theirs. Hadrian found himself studying them with new eyes—wondering how many of them had magical relatives they didn't know about, how many children would receive Hogwarts letters in the coming years.

"Quite a day," Vernon said quietly, his voice low enough that only the family could hear over the rumble of the train.

"That's putting it mildly," Petunia replied, her hand resting protectively on the travel basket in her lap.

Dudley was practically vibrating with excitement despite his obvious exhaustion. "Did you see that telescope? And the racing broom? And those goblins were brilliant—especially when they got all angry about Dumbledore stealing from you, Hads. I thought that one French goblin was going to explode."

"Grisou," Hadrian said, a small smile tugging at his lips despite everything. "He was... passionate."

"That's one word for it," Marius said dryly. "French goblins have a reputation for being particularly protective of their clients' assets. Dumbledore just made himself five very dangerous enemies."

"Good," Petunia said firmly.

The Tube rattled on through the tunnels, and Hadrian found his mind wandering over the events of the day. So much had happened. So many people met. So many complications added to his already complicated life.

"That girl," he said suddenly, his voice tight. "Hermione Granger. She was so... mean. About Crookshanks. Like she knew better than everyone, like the rules were more important than..." He trailed off, struggling to find words.

"Than compassion," Petunia finished gently. "Than kindness. I saw it too, sweetheart. That girl has a cruel streak, and she hides it behind rule-following and knowing the 'right' way to do things."

"She'll be trouble," Marius said, his tone grave. "Mark my words. That kind of rigid thinking, that inability to see beyond what's written in books... it's dangerous. Especially in someone so young and so convinced of their own righteousness."

"And that boy," Vernon added, his expression darkening. "That Weasley boy. What he said about wanting to be your friend so he could look good..." He shook his head. "That's not friendship. That's using people."

"I know," Hadrian said quietly. "I heard him. Every word." His enhanced hearing had picked up Ron's whining from outside the shop, and the memory still made him feel slightly ill. "He doesn't even know me. He just wants to be friends with 'Harry Potter' the famous person. Not... not me."

"Then he doesn't deserve your friendship," Dudley said loyally. "You've got Theo and Neville. They're brilliant. They actually like you for you."

That brought a genuine smile to Hadrian's face. "They are brilliant, aren't they? Theo's so smart and funny, and Neville's so kind. And they didn't care about my name or my fame. They just... wanted to be friends."

"Good friends," Petunia agreed. "The kind of friends worth having."

"And Lady Malfoy?" Vernon asked carefully. "Should we be worried about her?"

Marius was quiet for a moment, considering. "Worried? No. Cautious? Yes. Narcissa Malfoy is one of the most powerful and intelligent witches in Britain. She recognized Hadrian immediately, saw through the glamours on his rings, figured out his connection to Regulus." He paused. "But she also offered help. Protection. She called him family."

"Do you trust her?" Petunia asked.

"I trust that she believes what she said," Marius replied carefully. "Narcissa is a Black. We protect our own—it's bred into us, burned into our very blood. She sees Hadrian as Regulus's son, as her family. That means something to her."

"But?" Hadrian prompted, hearing the hesitation in his great-grandfather's voice.

"But she's also a Malfoy," Marius said. "Married to Lucius, mother to Draco. She has her own agenda, her own loyalties. She won't betray Hadrian—I truly believe that. But she may have... complicated reasons for wanting to help him."

"Politics," Vernon said with distaste.

"Always politics," Marius agreed. "But for now, I think she's more ally than threat. And having Narcissa Malfoy as an ally is not something to dismiss lightly."

Hadrian nodded slowly, processing this. The day had been full of revelations, complications, new friends and potential enemies. His head was spinning with it all.

But overall... it had been a good day. A very good day.

They emerged from the Tube station in Surrey as the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The familiar streets of Little Whinging stretched before them, ordinary and peaceful and home.

"Right," Vernon said, checking his watch. "The chippy should still be open. Marius and I will grab the food. You three head home and get settled."

"Are you sure?" Petunia asked.

"Absolutely," Vernon said firmly. "You've had a long day. Get the animals settled, get comfortable. We'll be right behind you."

#¤#¤#¤

By the time Vernon and Marius arrived home with steaming packages of fish and chips wrapped in newspaper, Petunia had already released Lyra and Crookshanks from their basket—the two Kneazles were curled together on Marius's usual armchair, content and purring. Hadrian's trunk had been restored to full size and unpacked, with Hedwig now settled on her perch by the window. Hadrian and Dudley had changed into comfortable clothes and were sprawled in the living room, exhausted but happy.

Vernon and Marius distributed the packages.

The living room had never looked more welcoming. Petunia fetched drinks for everyone while Vernon and Marius distributed the fish and chips, and soon they were all settled in their usual spots—Vernon in his armchair, Petunia on the sofa, Marius in the other armchair, and Hadrian and Dudley sprawling on the floor with their backs against the sofa—eating directly from the newspaper wrappings.

It was a family tradition, eating chips from newspaper in the living room. Something they only did on special occasions, when something important had happened that needed to be marked and celebrated.

"To Hadrian," Vernon said, raising a chip like a toast. "Who handled today with grace and wisdom beyond his years."

"To Hadrian," the others echoed, and Hadrian felt his cheeks heat with embarrassment and pleasure.

They ate in comfortable near-silence for a while, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up with all of them.

"We need to find you proper tutors," Petunia said suddenly, a gleam in her eye. "Now that my magic is unbound, I need someone who can teach me to use it properly. And Hadrian needs to learn to control his enhanced senses."

"And before you can properly use that staff," Marius added seriously, "you need to understand ritual magic and magical protections. That staff is ancient and powerful—wielding it without proper knowledge could be dangerous. We'll need to find someone qualified to teach you."

"The goblins might have recommendations," Petunia suggested. "They seem to know everyone."

"True," Marius agreed. "And there's the possibility that Nicolas Flamel might be willing to teach you himself, once he learns of your existence. He's one of the greatest magical theorists alive."

"And wand work," Dudley pointed out. "You got a wand too. Don't you need to practice with that?"

"Not until I get to Hogwarts," Hadrian said. "Underage magic restrictions. I can't use my wand outside of school yet."

"That seems silly," Dudley grumbled. "How are you supposed to learn if you can't practice?"

"That's what Hogwarts is for," Marius explained. "Though I suspect once you're there, you'll have plenty of opportunities to practice."

They finished their meal in good spirits, the weight of the day's concerns lifting slightly in the warmth and safety of home. This was what mattered, Hadrian thought. Not the politics or the complications or the enemies he might have made. But this—family, love, safety, belonging.

Eventually, exhaustion won out. They cleaned up the newspaper and plates, made sure the animals were settled, and headed up to bed.

#¤#¤#¤

Hadrian's room had never felt more like a sanctuary.

His staff leaned in the corner, emanating a faint warmth that he could feel even from across the room. His wand rested on his desk, carefully placed in its box. The magical trunk sat at the foot of his bed, perfectly organized with all his new school supplies, robes, cauldron, and books.

Lyra and Crookshanks were curled together on his bed, a tangle of silver and ginger fur, both purring in their sleep. They'd found each other again after so long apart, and the contentment radiating from them was palpable.

Hedwig was perched on his headboard, her head tucked under one wing, already fast asleep.

Hadrian looked down at his hands. Four rings gleamed on his fingers, still glamoured but he could feel their weight. Potter. Black. Peverell. Gryffindor. Four houses, four legacies, all resting on his shoulders. And potentially two more—Flamel and LeFay—if Nicolas Flamel chose to acknowledge him.

His Hogwarts letter sat on his desk, the Hogwarts crest gleaming in the lamplight. One month. Just one month until he would board the Hogwarts Express and enter a world he barely understood.

So much had changed in just two days. Two days ago, he'd been Harry Dursley, a small, weak boy with glasses and a quiet life. Now he was Hadrian Potter-Black, heir to ancient houses, bearer of powerful magic, wielder of a wand and a staff.

He'd made friends—real friends. Theo Nott with his quick mind and warm humor. Neville Longbottom with his gentle kindness and hidden strength. Even Draco Malfoy, after his mother's revelation, might become an ally.

He'd made enemies too. Or at least, encountered people who would likely become problems. Hermione Granger with her rigid adherence to rules and her cruelty disguised as propriety. Ron Weasley with his transparent desire to use Hadrian's fame for his own benefit.

And then there were the complications. Narcissa Malfoy, who knew his secret and had offered protection. The goblins, who were now actively pursuing Dumbledore for fraud. Nicolas Flamel and the Delacours, who would soon learn of his existence.

It was overwhelming. Terrifying. Exciting.

But he wasn't alone. He had his family—Petunia, Vernon, Dudley, and Marius. He had his familiars—Lyra, Crookshanks, and Hedwig. He had his new friends. He had five goblins at Gringotts who were fiercely protective of him.

And he had himself. His magic, unbound and growing stronger every day. His staff and wand. His intelligence and determination.

Whatever came next, he would face it.

Hadrian changed into his pajamas, carefully placing his glamoured rings in a small box on his nightstand—they'd reset automatically in the morning. He slipped into bed, careful not to disturb the sleeping Kneazles, and pulled the covers up to his chin.

Tomorrow, training would begin. He would learn to control his enhanced senses, to wield his staff properly, to master his magic. He would read those damned books Dumbledore had written about him, documenting every lie. He would prepare for Hogwarts, for the challenges that awaited him there.

But tonight, he would sleep. Safe. Loved. Home.

Lyra stirred slightly, opening one amber eye to look at him. Then she chirped softly—a sound of contentment and protection—and closed her eye again, curling tighter against Crookshanks.

Hadrian smiled, feeling the warmth of his familiars' magic mingling with his own. His enhanced hearing picked up the sounds of the house settling for the night—Dudley snoring softly in the next room, Petunia and Vernon's quiet conversation downstairs, Marius moving about in the guest room.

All was well.

For now, that was enough.

Hadrian closed his eyes and let exhaustion pull him under, into dreams of ancient staffs and flying through starlit skies and a castle on a hill waiting for him.

One month.

He was ready.

Chapter Text

August 3rd, 1991

Hadrian woke to sunlight streaming through his bedroom window at Privet Drive, and for a moment, he couldn't quite remember why everything felt different.

Then it hit him.

He was free. His magic was unbound. His appearance was his own. His family knew the truth, and they loved him anyway. He had a wand. A staff. Familiars curled on his bed. And in exactly twenty-eight days, he would board the Hogwarts Express.

Twenty-eight days to prepare for Dumbledore's territory.

Twenty-eight days to become ready.

Hadrian sat up carefully, mindful of Lyra and Crookshanks sleeping on either side of him. The Kneazles stirred but didn't wake. Hedwig hooted softly from her perch on his headboard, her amber eyes watching him with quiet intelligence.

"Morning," Hadrian whispered to her.

She clicked her beak in response, then settled her head back under her wing.

The house was quiet. It was early—barely past seven—but Hadrian's enhanced senses told him that Marius was already awake downstairs, probably making tea. Vernon and Petunia were still asleep, their breathing steady from their room. Dudley snored softly from across the hall.

Two exhausting days in Diagon Alley had left everyone drained. Yesterday at Gringotts, discovering the extent of Dumbledore's crimes, had been emotionally devastating. And then yesterday's shopping, meeting new people, encountering Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, learning about the propaganda books...

Too much. All of it too much, too fast.

But necessary.

Hadrian slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb the familiars, and padded downstairs in his pajamas. His bare feet made no sound on the carpet—another gift of the were-blessing. Enhanced stealth, enhanced awareness, enhanced everything.

He found Marius in the kitchen, indeed making tea, a book open on the table before him.

"Morning, Hadrian," Marius said without looking up. "Sleep well?"

"Well enough." Hadrian slid into a chair. "You're up early."

"Old habits." Marius poured two cups of tea, sliding one across to Hadrian. "I've been thinking about your training schedule."

"Already?"

"We have less than a month," Marius said seriously. "Twenty-eight days to prepare you for Hogwarts. That's not much time, but if we're strategic, we can cover what's essential."

Hadrian wrapped his hands around the warm mug. "What do I need to learn?"

"Everything," Marius said bluntly. "Magical theory. Black family history. Pureblood etiquette. Political awareness. Runes. Proper quill technique—you'll be expected to write with a quill at Hogwarts, and it's harder than it looks. Physical conditioning to help you manage your enhanced abilities."

"That's... a lot."

"It is." Marius's expression softened slightly. "But you're not alone in this. We'll get you help. I can teach you history and theory. We'll need to arrange tutors for etiquette, political awareness, ritual magic perhaps, and—"

"Mum needs a wand," Hadrian interrupted suddenly.

Marius blinked. "What?"

"Mum. Her magic is unbound, but she doesn't have a wand. She can't train properly without one." Hadrian set down his mug. "We need to take her back to Diagon Alley. Today, probably. Ollivander's."

Marius stared at him for a moment, then started to laugh—soft, genuine laughter that lit up his weathered face. "Hadrian, you're absolutely right. Here I am planning your entire education, and I completely forgot your mum needs the most basic tool. You're already thinking more clearly than I am."

"It's important," Hadrian said firmly. "If she's going to protect me—protect us—she needs to be able to use her magic. And that means a wand."

"You're absolutely right." Marius took a sip of his tea. "We'll talk to Vernon and Petunia when they wake up. Vernon can take her to Diagon Alley this morning while you and I start planning your schedule properly."

"And Dudley?"

"Can help you with something important," Marius said, his expression turning grim. "Those books. The Whitebee books about you. You need to read them, Hadrian. All of them. Document every lie, every inconsistency, every manipulation. Build a comprehensive understanding of the narrative Dumbledore has created."

Hadrian's stomach churned at the thought. "I don't want to."

"I know." Marius reached across the table and squeezed Hadrian's hand. "But knowledge is power. You need to know what people believe about you, what they expect. You need to understand the hero Dumbledore has invented so you can choose how to dismantle that fiction."

"Will Dudley really want to help with that?"

"Are you kidding?" Marius smiled slightly. "Your cousin is furious on your behalf. He'll love tearing apart Dumbledore's lies with you."

Hadrian managed a small smile. "Okay. Then that's what we'll do today. Training schedule, letters, and reading propaganda."

"Perfect." Marius pulled a piece of parchment toward himself. "Now, let me show you what I'm thinking for your schedule..."

#¤#¤#¤

By the time Vernon and Petunia came downstairs an hour later, Hadrian and Marius had sketched out a rough training plan—ambitious, intense, but manageable if they stuck to it.

"Four weeks," Marius explained, showing them the parchment. "We'll divide each day into segments. Mornings for magical theory and academic subjects. Middays for physical training or specialized lessons. Afternoons for practical skills and political education. Evenings for reading and research."

"That's a lot," Petunia said, frowning at the schedule.

"It is," Marius agreed. "But Hadrian needs to be ready. Hogwarts is Dumbledore's territory. The staff loyalty is split, the students don't know the truth, and Hadrian will be walking in as the famous 'Boy-Who-Lived' that Dumbledore has spent ten years building into a legend."

Vernon grunted. "Our boy needs every advantage we can give him."

"Exactly." Marius tapped the parchment. "But there's something else we need to address first. Petunia, you need a wand."

Petunia blinked. "I—oh. Oh, you're right. I can't exactly practice magic without one, can I?"

"Not safely," Marius said. "Raw, uncontrolled magic in an adult is dangerous. You need a focus. Which means Vernon needs to take you back to Diagon Alley today."

"Today?" Vernon asked. "Is that safe? After yesterday?"

"Safer than waiting," Marius said. "The sooner Petunia has a wand, the sooner she can begin training. And the sooner she can help protect this family properly."

Vernon nodded slowly. "Right. Right, of course." He looked at his wife. "What do you say, Tuney? Ready for your wand?"

Petunia's eyes were bright with emotion. "I never thought I'd have one. I spent so long thinking I was broken, that I was less than Lily because I couldn't do magic. And now..." She pressed a hand to her mouth. "Now I get to learn. I get to be a proper witch."

"You were always proper," Vernon said gruffly, taking her hand. "Magic or no magic. But I'm glad you're getting this chance, love."

"We'll go right after breakfast," Petunia said, squeezing his hand. "Ollivander's, then straight home. I don't want to spend any more time in Diagon Alley than necessary. Not after yesterday's chaos."

"Agreed." Marius turned to Hadrian. "While they're gone, you and Dudley will start on the Whitebee books. I'll write letters—one to Fenrir Greyback, requesting a meeting and training assistance. We need his expertise for your combat education and were-blessing control."

Hadrian nodded. The thought of meeting Fenrir—one of his godfathers, Tom's mate and Remus's father—was both thrilling and terrifying. What would Fenrir think of him? Would he see James and Lily and Regulus in Hadrian's face? Would he be angry that Hadrian hadn't been raised by his godfathers as intended?

"Don't worry," Marius said gently, reading Hadrian's expression. "Fenrir will be happy to meet you. You're his godson. His pack. That bond matters more to werewolves than almost anything else."

"Okay," Hadrian said quietly. "Then I'll be ready when he comes."

"Good lad." Marius smiled. "Now, let's have breakfast. We've got a busy day ahead."

#¤#¤#¤

Vernon and Petunia left for Diagon Alley shortly after nine, taking the Floo from the fireplace that Marius had connected to the network yesterday. The green flames swallowed them both, and they were gone.

Hadrian stood in the living room with Dudley and Marius, staring at the pile of books on the coffee table.

Twenty-three books. All with garish covers. All featuring artistic interpretations of a small boy with a lightning bolt scar. All written by "Wulfric B. P. WhiteBee"—Dumbledore's pseudonym.

"Right," Dudley said, cracking his knuckles. "Let's tear these apart, shall we?"

They settled on the floor around the coffee table, each taking a book. Hadrian grabbed The Boy Who Lived: A History, the first and apparently most popular of the series. Dudley took Harry Potter and the Dark Lord's Downfall. Marius selected Growing Up Potter: Secrets of the Chosen One with a skeptical expression.

For a while, the only sound was pages turning.

Hadrian read with growing horror and disgust.

The book painted a picture of a perfect, tragic hero. "Harry Potter"—not even his real name—was described as a miracle child, born to defeat the Dark Lord Voldemort. His parents were brave Aurors (a lie—they were never Aurors) who died protecting him from Voldemort's evil (partially true, but missing so much context). The "love magic" that saved him was described in mystical, almost religious terms, as if Lily's sacrifice alone had been enough.

No mention of the three-parent bond. No mention of Regulus. No mention of the Knights of Walpurgis or Dumbledore's manipulation. No mention of Tom Riddle being innocent of creating "Voldemort."

Just a simple story: Evil Dark Lord attacks. Brave parents die. Heroic baby survives. The End.

"This is rubbish," Dudley announced after twenty minutes. "Complete rubbish. Listen to this: 'Young Harry Potter, with his distinctive lightning-bolt scar and brave green eyes, represents the triumph of good over evil. He is a symbol of hope for all of wizarding Britain, a reminder that love conquers all.' What kind of propaganda nonsense is that?"

"The effective kind," Marius said grimly. "Dumbledore has spent ten years building Hadrian into a symbol. Not a person. A symbol. Something people can project their hopes and fears onto."

"It's disgusting," Hadrian said, his hands shaking as he turned another page. "He's writing about me like I'm not real. Like I'm just... a story character. A tool."

"That's exactly what he's doing," Marius said. "He's created a narrative where you're the Chosen One, the Boy-Who-Lived, the hero who will save wizarding Britain from the darkness. Never mind that 'the darkness' he claims to fight against is actually made up—Voldemort was his invention, not Tom Riddle's. Never mind that you were supposed to be raised by your godfathers. Never mind that you're a real child with real trauma and real needs."

"People believe this," Hadrian whispered. "Everyone we met yesterday—they all believe this story."

"Not everyone," Marius reminded him. "Narcissa Malfoy knows better. Theo Nott's family knows better. The Longbottoms are learning. And you'll find others—people who question, who dig deeper, who refuse to accept Dumbledore's version of events."

"But most people believe it," Hadrian said flatly.

"Yes," Marius admitted. "Most people do. Which is why you need to read these books, understand them, and document every lie. When the time comes to expose Dumbledore, you'll need evidence. You'll need to be able to point to specific claims and refute them with facts."

Dudley pulled out a notebook and a pen. "Right. I'll take notes. We'll make this systematic. Book by book, lie by lie."

"Good idea," Marius said approvingly. "Make it thorough. This is important work."

They read for another hour, filling pages with notes. Hadrian felt sick by the end of it, but he pushed through. This was necessary. This was survival.

Finally, Marius set down his book. "Enough for now. You've made a good start. Let me write that letter to Fenrir, and then we'll have lunch."

Hadrian nodded, setting aside The Boy Who Lived with relief. His eyes ached from reading the lies, his stomach churned with anger, but he felt grimly satisfied too. Knowledge was power. And he was gathering knowledge.

He would not be Dumbledore's pawn.

He would not be the hero of a story someone else had written.

He would be himself. Hadrian Potter-Black. And he would write his own ending.

#¤#¤#¤

Vernon and Petunia returned just after lunch, both flushed and excited.

Petunia clutched a long, slim box in her hands like it was the most precious thing in the world.

"I got one," she breathed. "I actually got one."

"Let's see it, Mum," Dudley said eagerly.

Petunia opened the box with trembling fingers.

The wand inside was beautiful—pale wood that seemed to glow faintly in the afternoon light. Hadrian could feel its magic humming, even from across the room.

"Vine wood," Petunia said softly. "Ten inches, swishy, with a phoenix feather core. Mr. Ollivander said..." Her voice caught. "He said the wand had been waiting. That it knew I was coming."

"What did he mean?" Hadrian asked.

"I don't know," Petunia admitted. "But when I touched it... Hadrian, it felt like coming home. Like finding a part of myself I'd lost." She looked at Vernon. "He said something else too. He said, 'The wand has been patient, Mrs. Dursley. It has waited thirty-one years for you to reclaim what was stolen. Use it well.'"

"Thirty-one years," Marius said quietly. "Since Dumbledore bound your magic. The wand knew you were meant to be a witch."

"How is that possible?" Vernon asked.

"Ollivander's wands are more than just tools," Marius explained. "They're semi-sentient. They choose their witches and wizards. And sometimes, they wait."

Petunia wiped her eyes. "I cried in his shop. I couldn't help it. He was very kind about it."

"Of course he was," Marius said warmly. "Garrick Ollivander is a good man. He understands what it means to find your wand after all that time."

"Can you use it?" Hadrian asked. "Does it work?"

"I think so." Petunia held the wand carefully, as if afraid it might break. "I haven't tried any spells yet. I don't know any."

"We'll teach you," Marius promised. "Starting tomorrow. For now, just get used to holding it. Feel its magic. Let it attune to you properly."

Petunia nodded, clutching the wand close. Vernon put his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into him.

"I'm so proud of you, love," Vernon said quietly.

"I'm proud of me too," Petunia said, and laughed—a sound of pure joy. "I'm a witch, Vernon. After all these years, I'm finally a proper witch."

Hadrian smiled, feeling warmth bloom in his chest. His aunt deserved this. She deserved her magic back, deserved to be whole again, deserved to be able to protect her family properly.

Dumbledore had stolen so much from so many people.

But they were taking it back. Piece by piece. Day by day.

And in twenty-seven days, Hadrian would walk into Hogwarts ready to face whatever came next.

#¤#¤#¤

August 4th, 1991 — Sunday

The owls arrived at breakfast.

Hadrian was halfway through his eggs when he heard the flutter of wings outside. He looked up just as four owls swooped through the open kitchen window, landing on the table with various levels of grace.

A large eagle owl—elegant and imposing.

A smaller tawny owl with intelligent eyes.

A sleek barn owl that looked expensive.

And a massive, scarred grey owl that landed with a thump and fixed Hadrian with an intense golden stare.

"Four letters," Marius said, looking surprised. "All at once."

Petunia set down her tea carefully. "From whom?"

Hadrian reached for the letters, checking the seals. His heart hammered in his chest.

"Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel," he said, holding up the first letter—sealed with what looked like an alchemical symbol in gold wax. "Apolline and Fleur Delacour." The second letter had a silver seal with a swan. "Narcissa Malfoy." The elegant barn owl's letter bore the Black family crest. "And..." He looked at the grey owl, whose eyes hadn't left his face. "Fenrir Greyback."

"Open them," Vernon said gruffly. "Let's see what they have to say."

Hadrian broke the Flamel seal first, his hands shaking slightly.

The letter was written on thick, cream-colored parchment, and two distinct handwriting styles flowed across the page—one elegant and precise, the other flowing and artistic.

Dear Hadrian, Petunia, Dudley, and Marius,

We hope this letter finds you well. Grisou, our account manager at Gringotts, has informed us of recent events, and we find ourselves overwhelmed with emotion.

We never knew our Azalea had daughters. She was stolen from us as a child, hidden away, her identity erased. We mourned her, searched for her, and finally accepted that she was lost. To learn that she married, that she had two daughters—Lilith and Petunia—and that both girls found love and had children of their own...

Forgive us. We are old, and we have learned to guard our hearts, but this news has shaken us to our core.

We have missed everything. Azalea's life. Her daughters' lives. Her grandchildren's lives. All stolen by whoever took her from us. We do not know who did this terrible thing, but we will find out. And they will answer for what they have done.

But more than our anger, we feel hope. Because you are alive. Because we have family we thought we'd lost.

Marius—you married our daughter without ever knowing her true heritage. You raised two girls and loved them both. You are our son-in-law, and we regret deeply that we never had the chance to know you. We hope to remedy that now.

Petunia—our granddaughter. You grew up not knowing your mother was a Flamel, that you carry our blood. You deserve to know your heritage, to understand where you came from. We have so much to tell you about your family.

Dudley—our great-grandson. Grisou tells us you carry the Flamel blood as well, though your magic may manifest later than most. You are ours by blood and by bond. We look forward to knowing you.

Hadrian—our great-grandson. Grisou mentioned that you have green eyes. The LeFay green. My mother had those eyes. I have those eyes. It is a mark of our family, passed down through certain bloodlines. I suspect we will recognize each other on sight. We have missed your entire life. We hope to know you now.

If you are willing, we would like to visit. We can arrive August 10th and stay for two weeks, if that suits you. We have much to discuss—alchemy, family history, ritual magic, and most importantly, we wish to simply know you. To be family.

Please respond at your earliest convenience.

With hope and affection,

Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel

Hadrian stared at the letter, his eyes burning with tears.

Great-grandparents. He had great-grandparents who wanted to meet him, who cared about him, who saw him as family and not as a symbol or a tool.

"They want to come here," he said, his voice rough. "August 10th. For two weeks."

"Then we'll have them," Vernon said immediately. "Family is always welcome in this house."

"You have the room?" Marius asked.

"We'll make room," Petunia said firmly, wiping her own eyes. "My grandparents. Oh, Hadrian. We have grandparents."

"The LeFay eyes," Hadrian murmured, touching his own face. "He said I have them. That we'll recognize each other."

"The green is a family trait," Marius confirmed. "Your golden gleam is from the were-blessing, but the green itself—that's pure LeFay. Nicolas will know you on sight."

Hadrian set the letter down carefully and reached for the next one.

The Delacour letter was warm and maternal, written in elegant French-accented English.

Dear Hadrian, Dudley, Petunia, and family,

Rachid has informed us of your existence, and we are overjoyed. To learn that our dear cousins Lilith and Petunia had children—that our family continues through you—is a blessing we did not expect.

We grieve that we never knew Lilith. We grieve that Azalea was stolen and hidden. We grieve for all the years we lost.

But we celebrate that you are here, alive, and that we can now be family.

Unfortunately, our youngest daughter Gabrielle has contracted wizard flu. It is not serious, but it is contagious, and we cannot risk exposing you or your family. Therefore, Gabrielle must remain home.

However, my eldest daughter Fleur and I would very much like to visit. We can come for two weekends—August 16th to 18th, and August 23rd to 25th. This will give us time to know you properly, and I would like to offer my services as well.

I am a Potions Mistress, Hadrian. If you are amenable, I would be honored to teach you potion preparation during our visits. It is a valuable skill, and one that I suspect you may have natural talent for, given your heritage.

Please let us know if these dates work for your family.

With affection and hope,

Apolline Delacour

PS - Maman is too formal. I will tell you what I told her: you are not just my cousin, you are my brother. You and Dudley both. Family is who we choose, and I choose you both. I cannot wait to meet mes frères. —Fleur

Dudley grinned. "We have a French sister now? That's brilliant."

"Two French sisters," Hadrian corrected, smiling despite his overwhelming emotions. "Fleur and Gabrielle, once she's better."

"And a Potions Mistress willing to teach you," Marius said, looking impressed. "That's invaluable, Hadrian. Snape will be teaching Potions at Hogwarts, but having private instruction beforehand will give you a significant advantage."

"August 16th," Petunia said, checking the calendar on the wall. "That's two weeks from now. And they'll come back the following weekend too. That's perfect—gives us time to settle in with the Flamels first."

Hadrian reached for the third letter—Narcissa's elegant script on expensive parchment.

Dear Hadrian and Family,

I hope this letter finds you well. It was a pleasure to meet you yesterday, despite the chaos of Diagon Alley.

I am writing to extend several invitations.

First, I would very much like to meet with you privately before our larger gathering. Would Wednesday, August 7th suit you? We could meet at your home or at a neutral location, whichever you prefer.

Second, I am hosting a gathering at Black Estate on Thursday, August 15th. Several families will attend—the Longbottoms, the Notts, the Lovegoods, and others. I believe it would be valuable for you to meet these families before Hogwarts begins. Consider it an introduction to your political allies.

Third, and finally, we are hosting a "Farewell to Summer" ball at Malfoy Manor on Saturday, August 24th. This is a traditional event for families sending children to Hogwarts. Many of your future classmates will attend. I think it would be wise for you to meet them in a controlled, friendly environment before the chaos of the Hogwarts Express.

Please let me know which, if any, of these invitations you would like to accept.

Yours in alliance,

Narcissa Malfoy

PS - Draco has asked me to tell you he looks forward to seeing you again. He was quite impressed by you, and I believe he genuinely wishes to be friends. —N

"Three invitations," Hadrian said faintly. "A private meeting, a gathering at Black Estate, and a ball."

"Accept all of them," Marius said immediately. "These are important opportunities, Hadrian. Narcissa is offering you a chance to build alliances before Hogwarts—to meet families, make connections, and establish yourself as more than just the 'Boy-Who-Lived.' You need this."

"A ball," Vernon said, looking uncomfortable. "That's quite formal, isn't it?"

"Extremely," Marius confirmed. "But it's also valuable. Hadrian needs to learn how to navigate pureblood society. A formal event with allies watching his back is the perfect place to practice."

"Then we'll accept," Petunia said firmly. "All three invitations. Hadrian needs every advantage we can give him."

Hadrian set down Narcissa's letter and picked up the last one—Fenrir's.

The parchment was rougher, the handwriting less elegant but carefully formed. Hadrian could tell that whoever wrote it had taken their time, making sure every word was legible.

Hadrian,

Got your grandfather's letter. About bloody time someone told me where you were.

I'm your godfather. Remus is too, though the poor cub doesn't remember his own name right now. Someone buried his memories deep, and we're working on fixing that. But me? I remember everything. The oath I took when you were born. The promise I made to James, Lilith, and Regulus. The pack bond that makes you family.

You're pack, cub. My godson. And I've been looking for you for ten years.

I'm coming by Tuesday, August 6th. Midday. I want to meet you, see that you're healthy and safe, and talk about training. Your grandfather says you need combat instruction and help controlling your were-blessing. I can teach you both.

Don't be scared. I know I'm not... pretty. Scars, rough edges, all that. But I'm your godfather, and I'm pack, and I will protect you with my life.

Also, I'm worried about Remus. He deserves to know the truth—who he is, who his parents are, who you are. But we need to be careful. His mind is fragile right now. We'll talk about it when I see you.

Looking forward to meeting you, cub.

Fenrir Greyback

Hadrian felt his chest tighten with emotion.

"He's coming Tuesday," he said quietly. "He wants to meet me. He wants to train me."

"That's good," Marius said gently. "Fenrir is rough around the edges, but he's loyal to his pack. And you're pack, Hadrian. He'll be a good godfather to you, once you get to know him."

"He called me 'cub,'" Hadrian murmured, tracing the word with his finger.

"Pack term of endearment," Marius explained. "Werewolves call their young 'cubs.' It means he's already accepted you as family."

"Remus doesn't remember," Hadrian said, his voice breaking slightly. "His memories are buried. Someone hurt him, stole his identity, just like they stole Azalea."

"Dumbledore's work, most likely," Marius said grimly. "Another crime to add to the list."

"We'll help him," Petunia said firmly. "Once we know how, once it's safe, we'll help Remus remember. He's family too."

Hadrian nodded, setting down Fenrir's letter with the others.

Four letters. Four families reaching out. Four connections forming.

He was building a network. Building alliances. Building a future that wasn't controlled by Dumbledore's lies.

"We need to respond to all of these," Marius said, pulling out parchment and a quill. "Accept the Flamels' visit. Accept the Delacours' visits. Accept all of Narcissa's invitations. And tell Fenrir we're ready to meet him."

"Right," Hadrian said, taking a deep breath. "Then let's write back."

Twenty-six days until Hogwarts.

And suddenly, those twenty-six days were going to be very, very busy.

#¤#¤#¤

August 5th — Monday

Week One: Training Begins

The alarm went off at six in the morning, and Hadrian groaned.

"Too early," he mumbled into his pillow.

Lyra chirped in his ear, insistent. Crookshanks batted at his face with a large paw. Hedwig hooted loudly from her perch.

"Alright, alright, I'm up," Hadrian grumbled, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

His first day of proper training.

Marius had laid out the schedule yesterday—a comprehensive four-week plan with different lessons each day. Today, Monday, would start with magical theory in the morning, then Black family history at midday, followed by physical training in the afternoon. The foundation—understanding his magical core, learning basic theory, beginning the process of becoming a proper wizard.

No pressure.

Hadrian dressed quickly, splashed water on his face, and headed downstairs. Marius was already in the dining room, books spread across the table, looking far too awake for six in the morning.

"Good morning," Marius said cheerfully. "Ready to learn?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not really." Marius gestured to the chair across from him. "Sit. We'll start with magical theory—understanding your core, how magic flows, why control matters. This is the foundation everything else builds on."

Hadrian sat, stifling a yawn. "Will Mum join us?"

"She will," Marius confirmed. "She'll be down shortly. I want her learning alongside you—it'll help her understanding and give you someone to practice with."

As if summoned, Petunia appeared in the doorway, looking nervous but determined. She clutched her new wand carefully, as if afraid it might disappear.

"Morning," she said, sliding into the seat beside Hadrian. "I'm ready."

"Excellent." Marius pulled a thick book toward himself—Magical Theory: Fundamentals by Adalbert Waffling. "Let's begin with the basics. What is magic?"

For the next two hours, Marius taught them about magical cores, about how magic was generated and channeled, about the importance of intent and willpower and control. He explained why wands worked as focuses, why some spells required specific wand movements, why emotional state affected casting ability.

Hadrian took notes furiously, his mind racing to absorb everything. Petunia asked questions constantly—intelligent, thoughtful questions that showed she'd been thinking about magic for years, even when she couldn't access it.

"Your magical core is like a well," Marius explained. "It refills naturally, but it can be depleted if you cast too many spells too quickly. For Hadrian, your core is now at full capacity—one hundred percent, unbound and powerful. For Petunia, your core is awakening. It's like a muscle that hasn't been used in decades. It'll take time to strengthen it, but with practice, you'll regain full capacity."

"How long?" Petunia asked.

"Months, probably," Marius admitted. "But you'll see progress quickly. The first few spells are the hardest. After that, it gets easier."

By the time they broke for lunch, Hadrian's head was spinning with information. But he felt satisfied too—he understood more about his own magic now. He could feel his core, a warm, thrumming presence in his chest. He could sense its boundaries, its potential.

After lunch, they moved to the back garden for physical training.

"Run first," Marius instructed. "Two miles. Use your enhanced senses—let them guide you. Don't fight them."

Hadrian and Dudley set off together, jogging through the neighborhood. Hadrian focused on his were-blessing, on the enhanced awareness that let him sense everything around him—the rhythm of Dudley's breathing, the distant sound of a lawnmower, the scent of flowers in someone's garden, the warmth of the sun on his skin.

It was overwhelming. But it was also exhilarating.

By the time they returned, sweaty and breathless, Hadrian felt more in control of his senses than he had since the unbinding.

"Good," Marius said approvingly. "You're learning to filter. That's essential. Now, swim. Twenty laps in the local pool."

Vernon drove them to the public pool, where Hadrian and Dudley swam until their muscles ached. The water felt incredible against Hadrian's skin—cool, soothing, perfectly textured. His enhanced senses made every sensation sharper, but he was learning to manage it.

That evening, after dinner, Hadrian and Dudley returned to the Whitebee books.

"Harry Potter and the Dark Lord's Downfall," Dudley read aloud, flipping through the pages. "Listen to this: 'The Dark Lord Voldemort, most evil wizard of the age, sought to kill the Potter family for their defiance. But young Harry's mother gave her life to save her son, and her love created a magic so powerful that Voldemort was destroyed, leaving only the lightning-bolt scar as proof of the encounter.'"

"Oversimplified," Hadrian muttered, making notes. "No mention of my three parents. No mention of the real circumstances. No mention of Dumbledore's manipulation."

"It's propaganda," Dudley said flatly. "Pure propaganda. And people eat it up."

They read until their eyes ached, documenting lie after lie.

By the time Hadrian fell into bed that night, he was exhausted. But satisfied.

Day one: complete.

Twenty-five days to go.

#¤#¤#¤

August 6th — Tuesday

Fenrir Arrives

Hadrian woke with a knot of anxiety in his stomach.

Today, Fenrir Greyback would arrive. His godfather. One of the most feared werewolves in Britain, according to Dumbledore's propaganda. But also Tom Riddle's mate and Remus's father, and bound by blood-oath to protect Hadrian.

Morning lessons passed in a blur. Marius taught them about Ancient Runes—the alphabet, the meanings, the power of written magical languages. Hadrian tried to focus, but his mind kept drifting to the upcoming meeting.

What if Fenrir didn't like him? What if he was disappointed? What if—

"Hadrian," Marius said gently. "Stop spiraling. Fenrir will be fine. You'll be fine. Trust the bond."

At noon, there was a knock on the door.

Vernon answered it, and Hadrian heard a low, gravelly voice: "I'm here to see my godson."

Hadrian stood in the living room, his heart hammering.

The man who entered was... intimidating.

Fenrir Greyback was massive—easily six feet nine inches tall, with broad shoulders and a powerful build. His face was heavily scarred, crisscrossed with old wounds that told stories of violence and survival. His hair was long, grey-streaked, and wild. His eyes were amber-gold, sharp and predatory.

He looked dangerous. He looked feral.

And then he saw Hadrian, and his entire expression softened.

"Cub," Fenrir breathed.

He crossed the room in three long strides and dropped to one knee so he was at Hadrian's eye level. Up close, Hadrian could see that despite the scars, despite the rough edges, Fenrir's eyes were warm. Concerned. Protective.

"Let me look at you," Fenrir said quietly, reaching out slowly—giving Hadrian time to pull away if he wanted.

Hadrian didn't pull away.

Fenrir cupped Hadrian's face gently, his large, scarred hands impossibly careful. He studied Hadrian's features with an intensity that made Hadrian's breath catch.

"You have Lilith's eyes," Fenrir said, his voice rough with emotion. "The green. And James's nose and ears. And Regulus's delicate bones. I see all three of them in you, cub. All three of your parents, right there in your face."

"You knew them?" Hadrian asked quietly.

"Knew them. Loved them. Protected them when I could." Fenrir's thumb brushed gently across Hadrian's cheekbone. "They were pack. And you're pack. My godson. I took an oath when you were born—to protect you, guide you, teach you. And I'm here now to keep that oath."

Hadrian felt tears prick his eyes. "I thought you'd be angry. That I wasn't raised by you, that I—"

"Not your fault," Fenrir said firmly. "Dumbledore's fault. That manipulative bastard stole you and hid you away. But you're here now. You're alive. You're safe. And I'm not going anywhere, cub. You're stuck with me."

Hadrian laughed wetly. "Okay."

Fenrir smiled—a flash of sharp teeth that should have been frightening but somehow wasn't. "Good. Now, let me meet the rest of your family properly."

Introductions were made. Vernon was wary but polite. Petunia was cautious but welcoming. Dudley was fascinated. Marius was respectful, treating Fenrir as an equal.

They sat in the living room, tea served (which looked absurdly delicate in Fenrir's massive hands), and talked.

"Remus," Hadrian said eventually. "Your letter said he doesn't remember. What happened to him?"

Fenrir's expression darkened. "Someone buried his memories. Deep. He doesn't remember his name, his parents, anything before age six. We've been trying to help him, but it's delicate. Push too hard, and his mind could break entirely."

"Who did it?" Marius asked.

"Don't know for certain," Fenrir admitted. "But given what we know about Dumbledore? I'd bet anything it was him. Steal a child, erase his identity, create a new narrative. It's his pattern."

"Can we help him?" Hadrian asked desperately.

"Maybe. Eventually." Fenrir set down his teacup carefully. "But we need to be smart about it. Remus doesn't even know you exist, cub. Telling him he has a godson, that his mate Sirius is innocent, that his papa Tom is innocent, that his entire life has been a lie—that's a lot to handle all at once."

"So what do we do?"

"We wait. We prepare. And when the time is right, we bring him in carefully." Fenrir looked at Hadrian seriously. "You're about to go to Hogwarts. That's going to bring you into Dumbledore's territory. We need you safe, trained, and ready. Remus's recovery can wait a few months."

Hadrian nodded reluctantly. "Okay."

"Good cub." Fenrir's expression lightened. "Now, let's talk about your training. Your grandfather says you need combat instruction and were-blessing control. I can teach you both."

"Starting when?" Hadrian asked.

"Next week. Monday, Wednesday, Friday mornings. Two hours each session. I'll teach you how to fight—not with magic, but with your body. How to use your enhanced senses, your speed, your strength. How to defend yourself even without a wand." Fenrir's smile turned fierce. "By the time I'm done with you, cub, you'll be able to take down a full-grown wizard with your bare hands."

"Really?" Dudley asked, impressed.

"Really," Fenrir confirmed. "The were-blessing is powerful. Most people don't train it properly. But Hadrian will. And he'll be deadly."

"I don't want to hurt anyone," Hadrian said quietly.

"You won't," Fenrir said. "Not unless they deserve it. But you'll be able to protect yourself. Protect your family. Protect your pack. That's what matters."

Hadrian took a deep breath. "Okay. Then teach me."

"I will." Fenrir stood, towering over them all. "I'll be back Monday morning, cub. Six o'clock sharp. Wear comfortable clothes you can move in. And be ready to work."

"I will be," Hadrian promised.

Fenrir ruffled his hair—a gentle, affectionate gesture that made Hadrian's heart squeeze. "Good cub. I'll see you soon."

After Fenrir left, Hadrian stood in the living room, feeling overwhelmed.

His godfather was a werewolf. A massive, scarred, dangerous-looking werewolf who smelled like forest and stone and wild magic.

And he was kind. Protective. Affectionate.

He called Hadrian "cub."

"Well," Vernon said eventually. "That went better than I expected."

"He's lovely," Petunia said firmly. "Intimidating, yes. But lovely."

"He cares about you," Marius said to Hadrian. "You could see it in every word, every gesture. That's pack bond, Hadrian. That's family."

Hadrian nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.

He had a godfather. A real, present, caring godfather who wanted to train him and protect him and be part of his life.

Twenty-four days until Hogwarts.

But for the first time, Hadrian felt like he might actually be ready.

#¤#¤#¤

August 7th — Wednesday

The Malfoys Arrive

The morning lesson on quill-writing was frustrating. Hadrian's hand cramped, ink blotted, and his letters looked like a child's scrawl compared to Marius's elegant script.

"This is impossible," Hadrian muttered, glaring at his parchment.

"It takes practice," Marius said patiently. "You've been using ballpoint pens your whole life. Quills are different—lighter, more delicate. You'll get the hang of it."

"When?"

"Eventually." Marius smiled. "Keep practicing. By the time school starts, you'll be proficient."

At noon, the Malfoys arrived.

Lucius Malfoy was imposing—tall, elegant, with long platinum hair and cold grey eyes. But despite the aristocratic bearing, there was something unexpected in his expression. Calculation, yes. But also... respect?

Narcissa was as poised as ever, her greeting warm but formal.

And Draco—Draco looked less like a pompous peacock and more like a nervous boy trying to make a good impression.

"Mr. Potter-Black," Lucius said, inclining his head. "Thank you for receiving us."

"Of course," Hadrian said, remembering his etiquette lessons. "Please, come in."

They settled in the living room. Petunia served tea with practiced grace. Vernon watched the Malfoys with barely concealed suspicion. Marius observed everything with sharp intelligence.

"I'll get straight to the point," Lucius said, setting down his teacup. "My wife has informed me—quite firmly—that our family's survival depends on adapting to changing circumstances. And those circumstances include you, Heir Potter-Black."

"Lucius," Narcissa said warningly.

"I'm being honest, my dear," Lucius said mildly. "The boy deserves honesty." He turned back to Hadrian. "You are not what Dumbledore has claimed. You are not the simple, heroic Boy-Who-Lived. You are complex, intelligent, and politically valuable. My wife has informed me that you are not only Heir Potter, but Heir Black as well. And you have her protection, which means you have mine as well."

"I don't understand," Hadrian said carefully.

"What my husband is trying to say," Narcissa said smoothly, "is that we would like to be allies. True allies. Not simply using you for your name, but genuinely supporting you as you navigate the political landscape of Hogwarts and beyond."

"Why?" Hadrian asked bluntly.

Lucius smiled—sharp and cold. "Because Dumbledore is a problem. For you, yes. But also for families like mine. He controls too much, manipulates too freely, and punishes those who question him. If you're going to stand against him—and I think you are—then you'll need allies who understand the game."

"And you want to teach me that game."

"I want to offer instruction in political strategy," Lucius corrected. "How to navigate pureblood society. How to identify allies and threats. How to use your influence without being used in return. These are valuable skills, Mr. Potter-Black."

Hadrian looked at Narcissa. "And you approve of this?"

"I do," Narcissa said. "Lucius is brilliant at politics. He's manipulative, yes, but he's also loyal to those he considers family. And Draco needs friends who will challenge him, not simply follow him."

Draco, who had been silent this whole time, finally spoke. "I want to be friends," he said quietly. "Real friends. Not just... not just because of your name. Mother explained things to me. About how I've been acting, about how I need to change. And she's right. I've been a git."

"You have been," Hadrian agreed.

Draco winced. "Yeah. I'm sorry. I'm trying to be better."

"Okay," Hadrian said after a moment. "Then... okay. I'll accept your father's offer to teach me politics. And I'll give you a chance to be a real friend, Draco. But if you start acting like a pompous arse again, I'll call you on it."

Draco smiled—genuine and relieved. "Fair enough."

Lucius inclined his head. "Excellent. Then I'll visit twice a week to teach you political strategy. We'll begin next week."

"And I'll continue etiquette lessons," Narcissa said. "Wednesday evenings until you leave for Hogwarts. Five lessons should be sufficient to cover the essentials."

"It does," Hadrian confirmed.

That evening, Narcissa taught him about formal greetings, proper modes of address, and the subtle art of reading social cues in pureblood society.

"When someone extends their hand palm-down, you kiss the air above their knuckles—you don't actually make contact unless you're intimately familiar with them," Narcissa explained. "When someone inclines their head exactly fifteen degrees, they're acknowledging your status as equal. Less than that, they're being disrespectful. More than that, they're deferring to you."

"This is incredibly complicated," Hadrian said, his head spinning.

"It is," Narcissa agreed. "But you'll learn. And once you understand the rules, you can use them to your advantage."

By the time the Malfoys left that evening, Hadrian felt both exhausted and energized.

He had allies. Real allies. People who understood the political game and were willing to teach him how to play it.

Twenty-three days until Hogwarts.

The pieces were falling into place.

#¤#¤#¤

August 10th — Saturday

The Flamels Arrive

The week had passed in a blur of training. Magical theory with Marius. Physical conditioning. Runes lessons. Quill practice. Reading the damned Whitebee books and documenting every lie.

But Saturday was different.

Saturday, the Flamels were coming.

Hadrian paced the living room nervously, unable to sit still. Petunia was in the kitchen, stress-baking. Vernon was cleaning things that didn't need cleaning. Dudley lounged on the sofa, watching Hadrian pace with amusement.

"You're going to wear a hole in the carpet," Dudley observed.

"I can't help it," Hadrian said. "They're our great-grandparents, Dudley. What if they don't like me? What if—"

"They're going to love you," Dudley interrupted. "They wrote us that letter, remember? They want to know us. They're excited to meet us. Stop panicking."

"Easy for you to say," Hadrian muttered.

At exactly noon, there was a knock on the door.

Hadrian froze.

Vernon answered it, and two figures stepped inside.

The man was tall and elegant, perhaps in his sixties in appearance though Hadrian knew he was over six hundred years old. He wore a well-tailored royal blue suit that spoke of quiet wealth, his bearing aristocratic in the formal Muggle clothing. His hair was auburn fading to grey, his face lined but handsome.

And his eyes—

His eyes were pure emerald green. The exact same shade as Hadrian's.

The woman beside him was shorter, with blonde hair going silver-grey and kind blue eyes. She wore an elegant deep violet dress, her bearing graceful in the Muggle attire.

Nicolas Flamel stepped fully into the living room, and his gaze landed on Hadrian.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other.

Green eyes met green eyes.

"The LeFay eyes," Nicolas breathed.

He crossed the room quickly and dropped to his knees in front of Hadrian, just as Fenrir had done. But his expression wasn't fierce or protective—it was simply overwhelmed with emotion.

"You have them," Nicolas said, his voice breaking. "The LeFay green. My mother had those eyes. I have those eyes. And now you—our great-grandson—you have them too." His gaze shifted slightly, taking in the golden gleam that overlaid the green. "And you are were-blessed, such a gift. Golden-green. Extraordinary."

Hadrian's vision blurred with tears. "I do?"

"You do." Nicolas cupped Hadrian's face gently, his thumbs brushing just below Hadrian's eyes. "Oh, child. You're beautiful. You're perfect. The LeFay magic manifests in you—I can see it in your eyes, feel it in your presence. You carry our legacy."

"I never knew," Hadrian whispered. "I didn't know about any of this until a month ago."

"I know." Nicolas pulled Hadrian into a careful hug. "I know, and I'm so sorry. We should have known you. We should have been here. But we're here now. We're here now, and we're not going anywhere."

Perenelle had moved past them, her eyes fixed on Petunia with an intensity that made the room hold its breath.

"Oh," Perenelle said softly, reaching out to touch Petunia's face with trembling fingers. "Oh, my dear. You have the Delacour coloring. That beautiful blonde hair—" Her voice caught. "My hair was that exact shade when I was young. And those pale blue eyes. You're so beautiful. You look like your mother as a baby, before she was stolen from us."

Petunia's tears spilled over. "I never knew. I spent my whole life thinking I was broken, that I wasn't good enough because I didn't have magic like Lily. I didn't know I came from this. From you."

"You were never broken," Perenelle said fiercely, pulling Petunia into her arms. "You were stolen from, just as we were. Your magic was bound, your heritage hidden, your birthright denied. But you were never, never less than. You are our granddaughter. You are perfect exactly as you are."

"I have magic now," Petunia said through her tears. "It's been unbound. I'm learning."

"I know, darling. And we will help you." Perenelle pulled back, studying Petunia's face with wonder. "You're so beautiful. I wish—I wish we could have known your mother. Known you as you grew up. But we're here now."

Nicolas had released Hadrian and turned to Dudley, who stood awkwardly to one side, clearly uncertain of his place in this reunion.

"And you," Nicolas said warmly, his gaze traveling over Dudley's features with obvious recognition. "Dudley. Look at you. You have that beautiful blonde hair from the Delacour line, and those blue eyes—ocean blue with a ring of grey. Striking."

"I don't have magic though," Dudley said quietly, his usual confidence wavering. "Not like Hadrian or Mum. I'm just—"

"You are our great-grandson," Nicolas interrupted firmly. "By blood and by bond. You carry LeFay blood, Delacour blood and features. That makes you ours, Dudley. Magic or no magic, you are family. Never doubt that."

"Really?" Dudley asked, his voice small in a way Hadrian rarely heard.

"Really," Perenelle confirmed, moving to embrace him. "Family is who we choose, yes. But you are also family by blood, by heritage, by right. We choose you, Dudley. And we are so very glad to know you."

Dudley's face crumpled slightly, and he hugged Perenelle back fiercely.

Nicolas turned then to Marius, who had been standing quietly, his own emotions carefully controlled.

"Marius," Nicolas said, and his voice held profound respect. "Our son-in-law. The man who loved our daughter without knowing who she truly was. The man who raised two daughters with devotion and care. The man who has protected this family and taught them well." He extended his hand. "We are honored to meet you."

Marius shook his hand, his own eyes suspiciously bright. "I loved her," he said simply. "Rose. Azalea. Whatever her name was. I loved her with everything I had."

"We know," Perenelle said gently. "We can see it in the family you've built, the children you've raised, the care you've taken. You are a good man, Marius. And you are our family now."

Finally, Nicolas turned to Vernon, who stood stiffly near the doorway, clearly overwhelmed.

"Vernon Dursley," Nicolas said, studying him carefully. "Squib-born, yes? I can sense it—the magic that never quite manifested, the potential that remained dormant."

Vernon nodded warily. "Yes, sir. My family... they weren't kind about it."

"Then they were fools," Nicolas said bluntly. "You have built a good life despite their cruelty. You married a woman you love. You raised a fine son. You have embraced your wife's magic, your nephew's heritage, your family's complexity. That takes strength, Vernon. That takes character. We respect that greatly."

Vernon blinked, clearly taken aback. "I—thank you, sir."

"No 'sir,'" Nicolas said, smiling. "We're family now. Nicolas and Perenelle, please."

For the next hour, they talked—sharing stories, filling in gaps, learning about each other. Nicolas explained the LeFay bloodline, the gift of clear sight that came with the green eyes, the connection to ancient magic that ran through their family. Perenelle spoke of Azalea as a baby, before she was stolen—bright-eyed, curious, reaching for everything magical.

"She loved transformation even as an infant," Perenelle said quietly. "Anything that changed—clouds moving, water flowing, seasons turning. She was fascinated by it all. I always thought she'd follow Nicolas into alchemy."

"I wish I could have known her," Nicolas said, smiling sadly. "Seen the woman she became."

"She would have been proud to know you," Petunia said softly. "Both of you. To know where she came from."

That afternoon, Nicolas began teaching Hadrian the basics of alchemy, demonstrating simple transformations and explaining fundamental principles. That evening, Perenelle taught Hadrian a basic ritual—creating a protective circle, channeling intent, grounding his magic properly.

By the time dinner rolled around, everyone was exhausted but happy. Petunia had outdone herself with the meal—roast chicken, vegetables, fresh bread, and an elaborate dessert that made even the centuries-old Flamels exclaim with delight.

After dinner, they moved to the living room, settling into comfortable chairs and sofas. The evening light filtered through the windows, golden and warm.

Nicolas cleared his throat gently. "Before the evening grows too late, Perenelle and I would like to give each of you something. Small tokens, really. Nothing grand."

"Small to you, perhaps," Marius said with amusement. "You're the creator of the Philosopher's Stone. Your definition of 'small' might be different from ours."

Nicolas laughed. "Fair point. But truly—these are things we believe each of you should have. Things that felt... right." He exchanged a glance with Perenelle. "We value family and knowledge above all else. These gifts reflect that."

He reached into his robes and pulled out a slim volume bound in dark leather, offering it to Marius first.

"For you, Marius. The LeFay family history. Comprehensive records going back seven centuries, compiled by every generation. Your wife's true heritage, her lineage, her family's story. You've been teaching this family their history—now you can teach them hers as well."

Marius took the book with reverent hands, his fingers tracing the embossed LeFay crest on the cover. "This is... Nicolas, this is priceless."

"It's knowledge," Nicolas said simply. "And knowledge should be shared with family. There's also this." He pulled out a small box, opening it to reveal a signet ring—gold, with the Flamel crest beautifully wrought. "You are our son-in-law, Marius. You married our daughter, raised our grandchildren, protected our line. This ring marks you formally as part of House Flamel. Wear it with pride."

Marius's hands shook as he accepted the ring, sliding it onto his finger. It fit perfectly, gleaming in the lamplight. "I don't know what to say."

"Say nothing," Perenelle said warmly. "Just know you're family. Truly family."

Nicolas turned to Vernon next, pulling out an elegant wooden case. "For you, Vernon. First, this." He opened it to reveal a magnificent pocket watch—gold, with intricate mechanisms visible through a crystal face. "This is from the Muggle world. London, 1891. We've collected items from both worlds over the centuries, and this felt appropriate. You've built success in the Muggle world despite being squib-born, despite your family's rejection. This watch represents time, patience, and the value of building something lasting. We thought you should have it."

Vernon accepted the watch with careful hands, opening it to examine the craftsmanship. His expression was awed. "I've never owned anything this fine."

"You deserve fine things," Perenelle said firmly. "You're a good man, Vernon Dursley."

"And this," Nicolas continued, pulling out a leather tool roll. He unfolded it to reveal a complete set of precision tools—wrenches, drivers, measuring instruments, all gleaming with subtle enchantments. "For your work. These are charmed for durability, precision, and efficiency. They'll serve you well in your drilling company. We respect the work you do, Vernon. These tools honor that."

Vernon touched the tools reverently, his rough hands gentle on the enchanted metal. "This is... thank you. Thank you both."

Perenelle turned to Petunia next, her expression tender. "For you, my dear granddaughter. Something that should have been your mother's, but was never given because she was stolen as a baby." She pulled out a jewelry box—antique, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Opening it revealed a complete set: necklace, earrings, bracelet, and ring, all matching. Delicate gold work set with pale sapphires and moonstones. "This was set aside for Azalea's dowry. Traditional Delacour practice—every daughter receives a set when she comes of age. Your mother never got hers. You should have it."

Petunia gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "It's beautiful. I can't—this is too much—"

"It's exactly right," Perenelle said, lifting the necklace and fastening it around Petunia's neck herself. "It was meant for your mother. Now it's meant for you. Her daughter. Our granddaughter. You were denied your heritage for so long, Petunia. Let this be a reminder that you belong. That you always belonged."

Petunia touched the necklace with trembling fingers, tears sliding down her cheeks. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

Nicolas moved to Dudley next, kneeling so they were eye-level. "For you, Dudley. Something to remind you that you are loved and accepted, exactly as you are."

He held out a stone—rose quartz, beautifully polished, about the size of a tennis ball. It gleamed with soft pink light, warm and welcoming.

"This is rose quartz," Nicolas explained. "It symbolizes unconditional love and acceptance. In our family, we give it to those we cherish most. You are cherished, Dudley. You are our great-grandson. You belong with us completely."

Dudley accepted the stone carefully, cradling it in both hands. "Just for being family?"

"Just for being family," Perenelle confirmed, resting her hand on his shoulder. "That's all you need to be, dear boy. You are ours, Dudley. You always will be."

"Thank you," Dudley said, his voice thick. He clutched the stone close to his chest. "Thank you."

Finally, Nicolas turned to Hadrian.

"And for you, our great-grandson with the LeFay eyes. The one who will walk into Hogwarts carrying the weight of so many expectations, so many lies." He pulled out a book—ancient, leather-bound, with a clasp that gleamed with magic and bore the LeFay crest. "This is the LeFay Grimoire. It's been in my mother's family for over a thousand years, passed down through those who carried the green eyes. It contains alchemy, ritual magic, family history, and knowledge accumulated by generations of our ancestors."

Hadrian reached for it, and the moment his fingers touched the leather, the clasp glowed brilliant green and clicked open.

"It's blood-bound to LeFay magic," Nicolas explained. "Only those with the LeFay magic can open it, can read it. The green eyes are a manifestation of the magic, Hadrian." He smiled slightly. "I suspect this will frustrate certain people at Hogwarts who believe all knowledge should be freely accessible. But some knowledge is meant only for those the magic chooses."

Hadrian opened the grimoire carefully, staring at the flowing script inside—some in English, some in Latin, some in languages he didn't recognize. The pages seemed to shimmer with contained magic.

"I don't know what to say," Hadrian whispered.

"Say you'll use it well," Perenelle said gently. "Say you'll learn from it, grow with it, and pass it on someday to your own children. That's all we ask."

"I will," Hadrian promised. "I'll take care of it. I'll learn everything in it."

"We know you will," Nicolas said, reaching out to cup Hadrian's face one more time, green eyes meeting green eyes. "You carry our legacy forward, child. The LeFay magic lives in you. Learn from it, grow with it. We'll help you however we can."

Nicolas stood, reaching into his robes one final time. "And lastly, for all of you. A family gift."

He pulled out a small wooden box and opened it to reveal five pendants—simple silver chains with small crystals that gleamed with protective magic.

"These are keyed to your family," Nicolas explained. "Wear them, and they'll alert you to magical danger, deflect minor hexes, and provide a measure of protection. One for each of you—Vernon, Petunia, Dudley, Hadrian, and Marius. Family should be protected."

Vernon moved to distribute the pendants, fastening one around each person's neck with careful, reverent movements. The crystals warmed against their skin, settling into place as the protective magic recognized its wearers.

The family sat together in the warm lamplight, each person wearing or holding their gifts, feeling the weight of family and heritage and love.

Petunia couldn't stop touching her necklace. Dudley clutched his rose quartz like a lifeline. Marius kept glancing at his signet ring, his expression awed. Vernon examined his pocket watch with wonder, the enchanted tools resting carefully beside him. And Hadrian held the grimoire close, feeling its magic hum against his chest.

"Small tokens," Marius said eventually, his voice wry. "You called these small tokens."

Nicolas laughed. "To us, they are. We've lived over six hundred years. We've accumulated wealth, knowledge, magical items beyond counting. But these—" He gestured to the gifts. "These are meaningful. These are about family. And family, dear Marius, is the only thing that truly matters in the end."

"So mote it be," Vernon said gruffly, raising his teacup in a toast.

They all raised their cups—tea for some, wine for others.

"To family," Petunia said.

"To family," they echoed.

And in that moment, sitting together in the warm living room at Privet Drive, surrounded by the evidence of their connection and heritage, they were complete.

#¤#¤#¤

After the gifts had been admired and the emotional intensity had settled into comfortable warmth, Nicolas leaned forward in his chair.

"There's something we need to understand," he said gently. "About Hadrian. About his heritage. Grisou's letter mentioned that the situation was... complex. But we don't have the full story."

Marius and Petunia exchanged glances.

"It is complex," Marius said quietly. "Very complex. And you deserve to know the truth."

"Hadrian," Petunia said, reaching out to squeeze his hand. "Would you like to tell them? Or should we?"

Hadrian took a deep breath. "I'll tell them. They should hear it from me."

He looked at Nicolas and Perenelle, their matching expressions of patient curiosity, and began.

"I'm not... I'm not the son of just two parents," Hadrian said. "I'm what's called a tri-baby. I have three parents. Three biological parents, bound together by a very rare magical ritual."

Nicolas's eyebrows rose. Perenelle leaned forward, fascinated.

"Three parents," Nicolas repeated. "A triad bond. Those are extraordinarily rare. I've only read about a handful in all my centuries."

"My parents were James Potter, Lilith Potter née Evans—who was actually Lilith Evans, daughter of Azalea—and Regulus Black," Hadrian continued. "They performed the bonding ritual because they loved each other, all three of them equally. And I was born from that bond."

"That's why you have such a complex heritage," Perenelle said softly. "The Black features, the Potter traits, the Evans—the LeFay—green eyes. All three bloodlines mixed together in you."

"Yes," Hadrian confirmed. "James Potter gave me his determination and his hair color—the black chaos. Lilith gave me the LeFay green eyes, the magical sensitivity. And Regulus Black gave me the bone structure, the aristocratic features, the cunning."

"And the were-blessing?" Nicolas asked.

"According to Fenrir, the were-blessing was given ritually at Mabon, shortly after Hadrian's birth," Marius explained. "Both Fenrir and Remus, as his godfathers and werewolves, performed the ceremony under moonlight—a traditional Pagan blessing for protection and honor. Seven of them were there together—James, Lilith, and all five godfathers: Sirius, Remus, Severus, Tom, and Fenrir. Regulus was already missing by then, disappeared just weeks after Hadrian was born. Hadrian is blessed twice over, once by each werewolf godfather. A blessing is a gift." His expression turned pained. "Now, Fenrir remembers that sacred night clearly. But the others—three months later, James and Lilith were dead. Sirius was imprisoned, his mind possibly tampered with—we don't know yet, we're working on getting him out. Remus's memories were stolen entirely—he's with Fenrir now, who is trying to help him. Tom went missing. Severus was compromised—we're not sure how, just that Hadrian's inheritance test said so. And Hadrian, who was at the center of it all, has no memory of the family who loved him enough to bind themselves to him with blood-oaths."

Nicolas sat back, processing this information. "So you carry Potter, Black, and LeFay bloodlines all mixed together. That's... Hadrian, you're probably one of the most magically complex children born in centuries."

"That's what everyone keeps telling me," Hadrian said with a weak smile.

"And all three of your parents died protecting you from this Voldemort creature?" Perenelle asked gently.

"Yes," Hadrian said, his voice thick. "All three of them. They loved me enough to die for me. And I never got to know any of them."

Perenelle moved to sit beside Hadrian, pulling him into a gentle hug. "Oh, child. I'm so sorry. But you know what? You carry all three of them with you. In your face, in your magic, in your very being. They live on through you."

"That's what Marius says," Hadrian murmured.

"Because it's true," Marius said firmly.

Nicolas was quiet for a long moment, his green eyes thoughtful as he studied Hadrian. "The LeFay sight," he said eventually. "The clear sight that comes with our green eyes—it's probably even stronger in you because of the tri-bond. Three magical bloodlines, all powerful in their own right, all combining in ways that have never been seen before. You're unique, Hadrian. Truly unique."

"Is that good or bad?" Hadrian asked.

"It's powerful," Nicolas said. "And power is neither good nor bad—it's what you choose to do with it that matters. But you need to be careful. People will want to use you, control you, shape you into what they want you to be."

"Dumbledore already tried," Hadrian said bitterly. "He's been building me into the 'Boy-Who-Lived' for ten years. A symbol, not a person."

"Then you'll have to prove him wrong," Perenelle said gently. "Show the world who you really are. Not the symbol he created, but the boy—the young man—with three parents who loved him, with family who supports him, with gifts and talents all his own."

"That's what we're trying to do," Petunia said. "Prepare him. Give him the tools he needs to face Hogwarts, face Dumbledore, and survive with his identity intact."

"And you'll have our help," Nicolas promised. "For the next two weeks, we'll teach you everything we can. Alchemy, ritual magic, family history. And when you go to Hogwarts, you'll have the grimoire. You'll have knowledge that Dumbledore can't touch, can't control, can't manipulate."

"Thank you," Hadrian said quietly.

"Family helps family," Perenelle said simply. "That's what we do."

They sat together in comfortable silence for a while, the weight of revelations settling over them like a warm blanket.

Finally, Vernon cleared his throat. "Right then. I think that's enough heavy conversation for one night. How about we have some of Petunia's dessert and talk about happier things?"

"Excellent idea," Nicolas said, smiling. "I want to hear about Dudley's interests. And Marius, I'd love to know more about your work as a solicitor. We have two weeks together—let's use them to simply be family."

And so they did, moving back to lighter topics, sharing stories and laughter, building the bonds that would carry them through the difficult times ahead.

The Flamels had found their lost family.

And the family had found their history, their heritage, their place in a world much larger and older than they'd ever imagined.

Together, they would face whatever came next. 

#¤#¤#¤

August 12th — Monday

Combat Training Begins

Six in the morning came far too early.

Hadrian dragged himself out of bed, pulled on comfortable clothes, and stumbled downstairs. His muscles still ached from the weekend's physical training, and the thought of two hours of combat instruction made him want to crawl back under the covers.

But Fenrir was waiting in the back garden, and godfathers didn't accept excuses.

"Morning, cub," Fenrir said cheerfully. He looked disgustingly awake. "Ready to work?"

"No," Hadrian admitted.

Fenrir laughed. "Honest. Good. Come on, let's see what you can do."

For the next two hours, Fenrir put Hadrian through his paces.

Assessment first—testing his reflexes, his speed, his strength, his awareness. Then basic combat positioning—how to stand, how to move, how to use his enhanced senses to track an opponent.

"You're thinking too much," Fenrir said, demonstrating a defensive stance. "Your were-blessing gives you instincts. Trust them. Let your body move without your mind getting in the way."

"I don't know how," Hadrian said, frustrated.

"Then we'll teach you." Fenrir moved suddenly, striking—

Hadrian's body reacted before his mind could process it, ducking under the blow and rolling away.

"There!" Fenrir said triumphantly. "That's it. Your body knows how to move. You just need to stop overthinking."

They practiced. And practiced. And practiced.

By the time Fenrir called a halt, Hadrian was soaked with sweat, his muscles trembling, but he felt exhilarated.

"Good session, cub," Fenrir said, ruffling Hadrian's hair. "You've got good instincts. We'll refine them. By the end of the month, you'll be dangerous."

"Promise?" Hadrian asked, panting.

"Promise." Fenrir grinned. "See you Wednesday."

The rest of the day passed in a blur—ritual magic with Perenelle, etiquette with Narcissa (who arrived that evening for his lesson), more Whitebee books (twelve down, eleven to go), and finally, blessed sleep.

#¤#¤#¤

August 15th — Thursday

The Black Estate Gathering

The Floo flared green in the grand entrance hall of Black Estate, and Marius stepped through first, his expression carefully neutral despite the tension in his shoulders. Petunia followed, then Vernon, then Dudley—all of them dressed in their finest, courtesy of Madam Malkin's excellent work. 

Hadrian came last, his heart pounding. 

The entrance hall took his breath away.

Black Estate was... magnificent. Ancient. The kind of place that whispered of centuries of magic and power. The entrance hall soared three stories high, with a grand staircase of black marble sweeping upward. Portraits lined the walls—generations of Blacks watching with interest. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their light warm and welcoming despite the formal grandeur.

The floor was polished obsidian inlaid with silver—the Black family crest repeated in an elegant pattern. Tall windows let in afternoon sunlight that made everything gleam.

"Merlin," Dudley breathed.

"Language," Petunia murmured automatically, but she was staring around with equal awe.

Vernon looked impressed despite himself. "Well. They certainly don't do things by halves, do they?"

Marius said nothing. His face had gone pale, his hands trembling slightly. Hadrian realized with a jolt that his grandfather hadn't been in a Black family property since 1944. Forty-seven years. Nearly half a century.

"Grandpa?" Hadrian said softly, touching Marius's arm.

Marius drew a shaky breath. "I'm alright, lad. Just... memories."

Before anyone could respond, another Floo flare announced the Flamels' arrival. Nicolas and Perenelle stepped through with the ease of people who'd traveled via Floo for centuries, both dressed in elegant formal robes that somehow managed to look both ancient and timeless.

"Marius," Nicolas said warmly, moving to clasp his son-in-law's shoulder. "Breathe. You belong here. You always did."

"I'm not sure about that," Marius said quietly.

"I am," Nicolas said firmly. Then he turned to survey the entrance hall with obvious appreciation. "Beautiful home. The Blacks have always had excellent taste."

More Floo arrivals followed in quick succession.

The Longbottoms—Augusta Longbottom in her signature vulture-topped hat and formal green robes, Neville beside her looking nervous but determined. He caught Hadrian's eye and managed a small smile.

The Notts—an elderly wizard with sharp grey eyes and elegant bearing (Thaddeus Nott, Hadrian assumed), followed by Theodore, who grinned when he saw Hadrian. Theo's ash-blond hair was neatly combed for the formal occasion, his light eyes bright with excitement. Behind him came his sister Tabitha, tall for a six-year-old at nearly Hadrian's own height, with the same ash-blond hair as her brother and curious pale eyes that took in everything with wonder.

The Lovegoods—Xenophilius in robes that seemed to shimmer with strange patterns, his silvery-blonde hair wild, and Luna, who met Hadrian's eyes and smiled her dreamy smile. Hadrian felt himself relax slightly. Luna was familiar, comfortable. They'd known each other since they were mere babes.

And finally, Garrick Ollivander, the ancient wandmaker, his silvery eyes shrewd and knowing as he stepped through the Floo with surprising grace for someone who must be well over a hundred years old.

"Well," Ollivander said, his voice soft but carrying. "Quite the gathering."

A door at the far end of the entrance hall opened, and Narcissa Malfoy swept in, elegant and composed in deep blue robes that complemented her pale beauty. Lucius followed, aristocratic in black with silver accents, and Draco beside him—nervous but trying to hide it.

"Welcome," Narcissa said, her voice warm despite the formality of the setting. "Welcome to Black Estate. Lord Black will join us momentarily. Please, come through to the sitting room."

A ripple of tension passed through the group at those words. Lord Black. Momentarily. The man who was supposed to be dead—or at least, that's what the world believed—was about to walk through that door.

Hadrian saw Marius's hands clench briefly at his sides. Petunia reached for Vernon's arm. Even Augusta Longbottom straightened slightly, her expression sharpening with interest.

She led them through an archway into a room that was somehow both grand and comfortable. The sitting room was circular, with tall windows looking out over manicured gardens. Deep sofas and chairs were arranged in a conversational circle. More portraits lined the walls, and a massive fireplace dominated one side, though it wasn't lit—the August day was warm enough without it.

Petunia's breath caught as she took in the space. Vernon nodded approvingly at the quality of the furnishings. Dudley pressed close to his mother, eyes wide as he stared at the moving portraits.

"Beautiful room," Augusta Longbottom commented, settling into one of the high-backed chairs with the ease of someone accustomed to formal settings.

"The Black family has always known how to live well," Thaddeus Nott agreed, his sharp eyes taking in every detail.

Luna drifted to one of the windows, gazing dreamily at the gardens. "The Wrackspurts don't like it here," she announced. "Too much old magic."

Xenophilius beamed proudly at his daughter.

House-elves appeared silently, offering glasses of chilled wine to the adults and juice to the children. Everyone accepted, making small talk, but Hadrian could feel the tension in the room. Everyone knew who was supposed to join them. Everyone knew the significance.

Arcturus Black III.

Lord Black.

Supposed to be dead—or at least, that's what most people thought. But he was alive. Recovered. And about to make his entrance.

Hadrian glanced at Marius, who stood very still, wine glass untouched in his hand. His grandfather's face was carefully blank, but Hadrian could see the tension in every line of his body.

The door opened.

The room fell silent.

And Arcturus Black III walked in.

He was tall—not as tall as Vernon, but tall enough, with the kind of presence that made him seem larger. His hair was iron-grey, his face lined but handsome, his bearing aristocratic and commanding. He wore robes of deepest black with silver embroidery at the collar and cuffs—the Black family crest picked out in silver thread.

But it was his eyes that caught Hadrian's attention.

Grey. Storm-grey. Sharp and intelligent and... kind. There was kindness there, beneath the aristocratic reserve and the weight of lordship.

Arcturus's gaze swept the room, taking in each guest with careful attention. When his eyes landed on Marius, he stopped.

For a moment, neither man moved.

Then a single tear ran down Arcturus's cheek.

He pulled himself together quickly, blinking rapidly, drawing himself up with visible effort. But the emotion had been there, raw and undeniable.

Then Arcturus moved forward, crossing the room in measured strides, and pulled Marius into an embrace—brief but fierce.

"I missed you, cousin," Arcturus murmured, his voice low enough that only Marius could hear. "More than you know."

Marius's breath hitched, but he returned the embrace.

Arcturus pulled back, his hands gripping Marius's shoulders for just a moment before he released him. His composure settled back into place like a cloak, though his eyes still gleamed with emotion. He drew a breath and turned to face the room.

"Forgive me," he said, his voice steady now. "Family reunions after forty-seven years are... profound. But we shall have time to speak properly later." A slight nod to Marius. "Much to discuss in private."

He moved through the room then, greeting each guest with care and attention.

To Nicolas and Perenelle: "Master Flamel, Madame Flamel. It is an honor to have you in my home. Your wisdom and your age command great respect."

To Augusta: "Lady Longbottom. Your mother-in-law Callidora was a credit to our family. I'm glad her legacy continues through you and your grandson."

To Thaddeus: "Thaddeus. Old friend. I'm glad you're here. You knew Orion and Dorea both—they would have been pleased to see you."

Thaddeus nodded gravely. "I miss them. Both of them were good people."

To Xenophilius: "Xenophilius. Your father Abraxas was a dear friend to my son Orion. I'm glad to see you here, and I hope we can maintain that bond between our families. Welcome."

To Garrick: "Master Ollivander. The Black family has purchased wands from your establishment for generations. It's an honor."

To Lucius and Draco: "Lucius. Draco. Thank you for being here." A pause. "And thank you, Narcissa, for organizing this gathering. You've done well."

Narcissa inclined her head gracefully.

Then Arcturus turned to Petunia and Vernon.

"Mrs. Dursley," Arcturus said, studying Petunia with obvious appreciation. "You must take after your mother—you're quite lovely. Welcome."

Petunia flushed, pleased despite her nervousness. "Thank you, Lord Black."

"Mr. Dursley." Arcturus extended his hand to Vernon, who shook it carefully. "I understand you've built quite a successful business. Grunnings, is it?"

"Yes, sir," Vernon said, clearly surprised Arcturus knew. "Drill manufacturing."

"Honest work," Arcturus said with a nod of approval. "There's honor in building something with your own hands and mind." He paused, studying Vernon more carefully. "Narcissa mentioned you came from a magical family yourself?"

Vernon stiffened slightly, but nodded. "Squib-born, sir. My family... didn't take it well."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Arcturus said quietly. "Family should support family, regardless of magical ability. We'll speak more later—I'd like to hear your story properly, if you're willing to share it."

Vernon looked startled, but nodded slowly. "I... yes. Thank you, sir."

He moved to Dudley next, kneeling so they were eye-level.

"And you must be Dudley," Arcturus said warmly. "What beautiful coloring you have—that blonde hair, those blue eyes. Handsome young man."

Dudley clutched something in his hand—a stone of some kind—and nodded shyly. "Thank you, Lord Black."

"I hope you'll be comfortable here," Arcturus said gently. "This is your family's home too, now."

Finally, Arcturus turned to Hadrian.

For a long moment, they simply looked at each other. Arcturus studied Hadrian intently—taking in the emerald eyes with their golden gleam, the jet-black wavy hair, the delicate aristocratic features, the small stature.

"Hadrian Potter-Black," Arcturus said softly. "Heir Black. The Boy-Who-Lived." His voice thickened with emotion. "I'm so very glad to finally meet you."

Hadrian felt his throat tighten. "Lord Black."

Arcturus reached out, touching Hadrian's shoulder gently. "We have much to discuss, you and I. A great deal to discuss." A meaningful look. "But that can wait until we have privacy. For now..." He smiled warmly. "Welcome."

"Thank you, sir," Hadrian whispered.

Then he straightened, addressing the room again.

"Now," he said, his voice returning to its normal aristocratic composure. "Let us move to the dining room. Luncheon is served, and we have much to discuss."

#¤#¤#¤

The dining room was as magnificent as the rest of the house. A long table of polished dark wood dominated the center, already set with Black family china—white with silver trim and the Black family crest. Crystal glasses gleamed. Silver cutlery sparkled.

House-elves moved silently, efficient and professional, pulling out chairs.

Arcturus sat at the head of the table, Narcissa at the foot as hostess. He gestured for Nicolas to sit on his right—the place of honor—and Marius on his left. The others arranged themselves according to hierarchy and family connection.

On Arcturus's right side, descending: Nicolas, Perenelle, Neville, Augusta, Tabitha, Thaddeus, Theodore, and Garrick beside Narcissa.

On Arcturus's left side, descending: Marius, Hadrian, Petunia, Dudley, Vernon, Lucius, Draco, Xenophilius, and Luna beside Narcissa.

The meal began with quiet efficiency. House-elves brought out perfectly poached salmon with honey and dill sauce, accompanied by roasted potatoes and buttered asparagus. The adults received chilled white wine; the children, water or apple juice.

For several minutes, everyone ate in relative silence, the tension slowly easing as good food and comfortable surroundings worked their magic.

At the head of the table, Arcturus, Nicolas, and Marius formed a natural conversational triangle.

"The situation with Albus has become... complicated," Arcturus said quietly, his voice pitched low enough that only Nicolas and Marius could hear clearly. "I've been following the reports from the Wizengamot investigation."

"Complicated is an understatement," Marius said, his tone bitter. "The man held guardianship over my grandson for a decade and never once verified his welfare."

"And the blood wards he claimed were protecting the boy?" Nicolas added, his ancient eyes sharp. "They were examined by three independent ward specialists. All three confirmed the wards were never properly anchored to the child. They protected the house, not Hadrian specifically."

Arcturus's expression darkened. "So he knowingly placed the boy in danger while claiming protection that didn't exist."

"It appears so," Nicolas said. "The Wizengamot is building a case, but these things take time. Dumbledore has many allies."

"And many who owe him favors," Arcturus agreed. "But the truth is coming to light. Slowly, but inevitably."

Hadrian, seated beside Marius, listened quietly while appearing to focus on his food. He could hear every word, and each one made his chest tighten. They still didn't know the full truth. They didn't know about Regulus.

Beside him, Petunia touched his hand briefly under the table—a silent comfort.

Further down the left side of the table, Lucius and Vernon had struck up an unexpected conversation.

"Drills, you said?" Lucius asked with genuine interest. "What precision tolerances does your manufacturing achieve?"

Vernon, clearly surprised by the question, straightened slightly. "We can achieve tolerances within two-thousandths of an inch for our precision models. The key is proper calibration of the machinery and quality control at every stage."

"Fascinating," Lucius said thoughtfully. "Magical manufacturing often relies too heavily on spellwork and not enough on proper mechanical principles. There's something to be said for the mundane approach to precision."

"Well," Vernon said, warming to the topic, "magic is all well and good, but if you want something done reliably, repeatedly, and to exact specifications, you need proper engineering."

"I couldn't agree more," Lucius said. "Perhaps we could discuss this further after the meal. I have some business interests that might benefit from your expertise."

Vernon looked genuinely pleased. "I'd be happy to."

Dudley, seated between his parents, listened to his father's conversation with interest while occasionally glancing at his mother, who was speaking quietly with Hadrian on her other side.

Near the foot of the table on the left side, Draco and Xenophilius had fallen into discussion.

"Father mentioned you publish The Quibbler," Draco said politely. "I've read a few issues. Your articles on rare magical creatures are quite thorough."

"Thank you, nephew," Xenophilius said, beaming. "We pride ourselves on covering topics the mainstream press ignores. Speaking of which, have you given thought to your potion studies at Hogwarts?"

"I have," Draco said. "Mother says Professor Snape is brilliant but demanding. I've been reading ahead in the first-year text."

"Excellent initiative," Xenophilius said. "Potions is a delicate art. Did you know that The Quibbler recently published a piece on alternative uses for standard potion ingredients? Luna helped with the research."

Luna, seated beside her father near Narcissa, looked up at the mention of her name but said nothing, her dreamy gaze focused on something only she could see.

Narcissa, noticing Luna's distraction, spoke gently. "What are you thinking about, Luna dear?"

"The gardens," Luna said softly. "There are Nargles in the rose bushes. Happy ones. They like it here."

"I'm glad they approve," Narcissa said with a slight smile. "The gardens have been in my family for generations. It's important that all creatures—seen and unseen—feel welcome."

"You understand," Luna said, pleased. "Most people don't."

"I'm not most people," Narcissa replied.

On the right side of the table, Perenelle and Neville had discovered a shared passion.

"Tell me, young man," Perenelle said warmly, "what are your interests? What calls to you magically?"

Neville flushed but answered. "I like plants. Herbology. They make sense to me. You care for them properly, and they grow. It's... simple."

"Simple, but profound," Perenelle said. "I've been working with magical plants for over six centuries, and I still discover new things. Have you studied any of the more temperamental species?"

"Gran has a small greenhouse," Neville said, enthusiasm creeping into his voice. "We have Dittany, Fluxweed, and she's trying to cultivate Venomous Tentacula, though they're tricky."

"Very tricky," Perenelle agreed. "The key is maintaining consistent soil acidity and never overwatering. I've found that adding crushed dragon scales to the soil helps stabilize their temperament."

Neville's eyes widened. "Really? I never thought of that. Could I—would you mind if I wrote to you about it? After I get to Hogwarts?"

"I'd be delighted," Perenelle said. "Nicolas and I would love to mentor a promising young Herbologist."

Beside Neville, Augusta listened with obvious pride, occasionally adding her own observations to the conversation.

Further down, Augusta turned her attention to the small girl beside her.

"And what is your name, young lady?" Augusta asked in the kindly but no-nonsense tone she'd perfected over decades.

"Tabitha Nott," the girl said solemnly. "I'm six."

"Six is a fine age," Augusta said. "What do you like to do, Tabitha?"

"I like reading," Tabitha said. "And I help Grandfather in his study. And I want to go to Hogwarts too, but Grandfather says I have to wait five more years. That's forever."

Augusta's lips twitched. "It seems like forever now, but it will pass more quickly than you think. And in the meantime, you can prepare. Are you learning your letters?"

"I can read already," Tabitha said proudly. "And I'm learning about magical history. Grandfather teaches me."

"Excellent," Augusta approved. "A well-educated witch is a powerful witch. Keep studying, and those five years will fly by."

Tabitha beamed under the praise.

Her grandfather Thaddeus, seated beside her, smiled slightly as he listened, then turned his attention to his grandson Theodore on his other side.

Theodore, however, was deeply engaged in conversation with Garrick Ollivander.

"—and the wand chooses the wizard, yes," Theodore was saying, "but how does it know? What is the mechanism of selection?"

Garrick's silvery eyes gleamed with interest. "Ah, a theoretical question. I like those. The truth is, Mr. Nott, no one knows entirely. Wandlore is one of the deepest and most mysterious branches of magic."

"But there must be principles," Theodore pressed. "Patterns. You've made thousands of wands—surely you've observed correlations between wood type, core, and wizard temperament?"

"I have," Garrick said. "And I keep detailed records. But magic is not mathematics, young man. It's art as much as science. A wand may choose a wizard for reasons that seem contradictory—yet prove perfect in practice."

"Fascinating," Theodore breathed. "I'd love to study wandlore properly someday."

"Then I suggest you pay very close attention in Charms," Garrick said. "Professor Flitwick is a dueling champion and understands wand magic better than most. Learn from him."

Theodore nodded eagerly, filing away the advice.

Around the table, other conversations continued in murmurs—Petunia speaking quietly with Hadrian and Dudley, Thaddeus occasionally interjecting into his grandchildren's discussions, the adults at the head of the table maintaining their careful political dialogue.

Dessert arrived—light lemon tarts with fresh berries and cream—and the conversations continued, the initial tension of the gathering having melted into something warmer, more comfortable.

When the last plates were cleared away, Arcturus stood.

"The children," he said, "will take afternoon refreshments in the conservatory. The house-elves have prepared a spread, and the gardens are open for exploration. Narcissa, would you be willing to supervise?"

"Of course," Narcissa said gracefully.

"The adults," Arcturus continued, "will adjourn to the sitting room. We have matters to discuss privately." He smiled at the children. "No offense intended."

"None taken," Draco said. "We know when we're being dismissed."

Lucius raised an eyebrow at his son's tone, but Arcturus chuckled.

"Perceptive, young Malfoy. Very well then—to the conservatory with you all."

#¤#¤#¤

The conservatory was beautiful—all glass and greenery, with comfortable chairs arranged around low tables. House-elves had indeed prepared a full afternoon tea spread: delicate sandwiches (cucumber, smoked salmon, egg and cress, ham), fresh scones with clotted cream and jam, elegant cakes (Victoria sponge, lemon drizzle cake), and petit fours. A full tea service steamed gently, ready for pouring.

Narcissa settled into a chair near the door, giving the children privacy but remaining present as chaperone. She pulled out a book—some political treatise, by the look of it—and began reading, clearly content to let them talk among themselves.

Hadrian, Dudley, Draco, Neville, Theodore, Luna, and little Tabitha arranged themselves around the tea table. Hadrian and Draco automatically began serving—pouring tea, passing sandwiches, making sure everyone had what they needed. It was automatic, the manners drilled into them by etiquette lessons.

"Well done," Narcissa observed from her chair, a hint of approval in her voice as she watched Hadrian and Draco manage the tea service with practiced ease. "Your grandfather and aunt laid an excellent foundation, Hadrian. I've merely refined what was already there."

"You've all taught me well," Hadrian said. "Grandpa and Aunt Petunia started it, and you've helped me understand the nuances."

"That's what matters," Narcissa said. "Understanding not just the actions, but why they matter in our society."

For a few minutes, they ate in comfortable silence. Then Luna, as was her way, tilted her head and spoke dreamily.

"The Nargles say you have three parents," she said to Hadrian, as if this were the most natural observation in the world.

Hadrian froze, teacup halfway to his lips.

Draco, Neville, and Theodore all stared. Even Tabitha looked confused.

"Luna," Narcissa said warningly.

"It's alright," Hadrian said quietly. He set down his teacup carefully. "Yes. I do. My father James, my mother Lily, and my papa Regulus. They performed a tri-parent conception ritual. All three of them contributed to making me."

"That's... that's really powerful magic," Draco said slowly. "Mother said you were special. She meant that, didn't she?"

"Yes."

"Does that mean you're more magical than most people?" Theodore asked, fascinated rather than judgmental.

"Maybe," Hadrian said. "I don't know exactly how it works. But yes, I have... a lot of magical heritage. From all three parents."

Neville was quiet for a moment, then said softly, "That must be lonely. Knowing all three of them loved you enough to create you together, but they're all gone."

Hadrian's throat tightened. "Two are gone for sure. My papa Regulus might still be alive. We're looking for him."

From her chair by the door, Narcissa's book slipped from her hands, hitting the floor with a soft thud. Her face had gone pale, her eyes wide and stunned. "Regulus?" she whispered. "You said... Regulus?"

Hadrian nodded, suddenly uncertain. "Yes. Regulus Black. My papa."

Narcissa's hand went to her mouth, tears springing to her eyes. She stood abruptly, crossing to Hadrian in quick steps, and knelt before him. "He's your father? Truly?"

"Yes," Hadrian said softly. "I'm sorry, I thought you knew—"

"No one told me," Narcissa said, her voice breaking. "Regulus was... he was my cousin. I loved him dearly. To know that he had a son, that you're his..." She reached out, touching Hadrian's face gently. "You have his eyes. I should have seen it. The shape of them, the expression. Oh, Hadrian."

"I hope you find him," Neville said quietly, after a respectful pause. "Everyone deserves to know their parents."

"Thanks, Nev."

Dudley, who'd been uncharacteristically quiet, spoke up. "Hadrian's the best person I know. I don't care if he has three parents or five or twenty. He's my brother, and anyone who has a problem with that can answer to me."

Hadrian felt warmth flood through him. "Dud..."

"I mean it," Dudley said fiercely. "You're my brother. That's what matters."

Draco studied them both for a moment, then nodded decisively. "Hadrian's our friend. The tri-baby thing just makes him more interesting."

"And more powerful," Theodore added. "Which is going to be really useful when we get to Hogwarts and have to deal with, you know, everything."

"The Nargles say you'll need friends," Luna said dreamily. "Powerful ones. Smart ones. Brave ones. You're collecting them."

Hadrian laughed despite himself. "Am I?"

"Yes." Luna smiled her serene smile. "We're your friends, Hadrian. All of us. We'll help you when things get hard."

"Even me!" Tabitha announced. "I'm too little for Hogwarts, but I'll help anyway!"

"Thank you, Tabby," Hadrian said, genuinely touched.

They spent the next hour talking more freely—about Hogwarts, about Houses (would they all be in the same one? probably not, but they'd still be friends), about magic and lessons and what to expect. They talked about Quidditch (Draco was obsessed, Theodore interested, Neville terrified of heights). They talked about subjects (Theodore was most excited about Transfiguration, Hadrian about Ancient Runes, Draco about Potions, Neville about Herbology).

Eventually, they moved outside into the gardens. The grounds were extensive, beautifully maintained, with hedge mazes and flower beds and even a small pond with fish. They explored, laughing and talking, while Narcissa followed at a discreet distance.

At one point, Draco pulled Hadrian aside.

"I wanted to tell you," Draco said quietly, "Fleur Delacour will be at the ball on the twenty-fourth. She's... well, she's related to both Luna and me. Third cousins. Luna's grandmother and my grandmother were sisters. And Fleur's grandmother was their aunt."

"So we're all connected," Hadrian said.

"Everyone in pureblood society is connected somehow," Draco said wryly. "But yes. The Delacour connection is important. Especially for you—your great-grandmother is a Flamel, and the Flamels are connected to the Delacours through Perenelle."

"It's all very complicated."

"Welcome to pureblood politics," Draco said with a grin. "It's always complicated."

They rejoined the others, and the afternoon passed pleasantly. By the time a house-elf appeared to summon them back inside, Hadrian felt genuinely happy. These were his friends. His allies. His support network.

Whatever Hogwarts threw at him, he wouldn't face it alone.

#¤#¤#¤

The sitting room felt different now—more intimate, more serious. The adults arranged themselves in a loose circle, drinks in hand but mostly untouched. Arcturus sat in a high-backed chair, his expression grave. Nicolas and Perenelle were to his right, Augusta Longbottom to his left. Thaddeus, Garrick, Lucius, Xenophilius, Petunia, and Vernon filled out the circle.

Marius stood in the center, his face pale but determined.

"There are things you need to know," he said without preamble. "About Hadrian. About what was done to him, and what Albus Dumbledore has hidden for ten years."

Arcturus leaned forward. "Go on."

Marius took a shaky breath. "Hadrian is a tri-baby. A child of three parents. James Potter, Lily Potter, and..." His voice broke as he looked at Arcturus. "And your grandson. Regulus Arcturus Black."

The room exploded.

"Regulus?" Arcturus was on his feet, his face white. "Regulus had a son?"

"The ritual was performed in early 1980," Marius said, his voice raw. "James, Lily, and Regulus. They loved each other. All three of them. They bonded in 1979. And they wanted a child together—a child who would carry all three bloodlines, all three magics."

"Tri-parent conception," Nicolas said softly. "One of the rarest rituals in existence."

"They created Hadrian," Marius said, his hands shaking. "My grandson. Regulus's son."

Arcturus looked faint, his face draining of all color. He gripped the arms of his chair as if they were the only things keeping him upright. "Regulus had a son," he whispered. "I have a great-grandson through Regulus. Through my boy."

"There's more," Marius said. "Sirius Black—Regulus's brother, one of Hadrian's godfathers—has been in Azkaban for ten years. Without trial. Dumbledore knew. He was Chief Warlock. He could have demanded a trial. He didn't."

"Without trial?" Augusta's voice was sharp with outrage. "That's illegal!"

"It's more than illegal," Thaddeus said, his face grim. "It's a violation of every principle of magical justice. Sirius Black is Lord Black's heir. To imprison him without trial—"

"Is to effectively strip the Black family of its heir," Arcturus finished, his voice dangerously quiet. "Deliberately."

"Dumbledore did it deliberately," Marius confirmed. "Because Sirius would have fought for custody of Hadrian. Would have exposed the truth about the tri-baby conception. Would have searched for Regulus."

"Regulus," Arcturus said hoarsely. "You said 'would have searched.' Is he—do you think he's alive?"

Marius met his cousin's eyes. "Hadrian was tested. Recently. A blood affinity test. It measures the magical connection between blood relatives—parent to child, sibling to sibling. The strength of the bond indicates whether the relative is alive or dead."

"And?" Arcturus could barely breathe.

"James Potter's line showed dead. Lily Potter's line showed dead." Marius's voice shook. "Regulus Black's line showed alive. Weak, but alive. Somewhere, somehow, your grandson is still breathing."

The room was utterly silent.

Then Arcturus made a sound—something between a sob and a gasp. He put his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. "He's alive. Regulus is alive. My boy is alive."

Nicolas moved to Arcturus's side, gripping his shoulder. "We'll find him. Now that we know he survives, we can search properly."

"Hadrian has five godfathers," Marius continued, his voice thick with emotion. "Blood-oath bound. James, Lily, and Regulus chose them carefully, binding them with oaths that prevent any harm to their son."

He took a breath, steadying himself.

"The primary godfathers are a bonded pair—Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, now Remus Black. Sirius has been imprisoned in Azkaban for ten years without trial. The blood-oath prevents him from harming Hadrian, yet Dumbledore saw fit to lock him away anyway."

"Without trial," Arcturus repeated, his voice dangerous. "My heir. Imprisoned without trial."

"Remus is Sirius's husband," Marius continued. "Born a werewolf—hereditary lycanthropy. His birth name was Riddle-Greyback. He's the son of Thomas Riddle and Fenrir Greyback."

That caused another ripple of shock through the room.

"The secondary godfather is Severus Snape," Marius said. "Blood-oath bound as Magical Guardian. He was a Knight of Walpurgis—" he noted the confusion on some faces, "—not a Death Eater. That name, 'Death Eaters,' was Dumbledore's propaganda. Snape was coerced into service at Hogwarts, bound by the Chief Warlock himself. The blood-oath prevents him from harming Hadrian, yet Dumbledore uses him as a tool."

"Coerced," Lucius said quietly. "I suspected as much."

"The tertiary godfathers are also a bonded pair," Marius continued. "Thomas Marvolo Riddle—Lord Slytherin—and Fenrir Greyback, Alpha of the Greyback Pack. They're married. Thomas led the Knights of Walpurgis. Dumbledore publicly vilified him as 'Voldemort,' painted him as a dark lord to justify his own power grab."

"And they're both missing," Nicolas said softly. "Along with Regulus."

"Yes," Marius confirmed. "Though we've recently made contact with Fenrir. He's searching for his husband Tom. As for Regulus and the others..." He paused. "Remus is with Fenrir's pack—we don't know the full circumstances of how or why yet. But what we do know is that Remus has no memory of his past. None. It's as if his mind has been completely wiped. He doesn't remember Sirius, doesn't remember being a godfather, doesn't even know that Tom and Fenrir are his parents. He was stolen as a babe, and whatever was done to him... he remembers nothing. Twenty years of his life, gone."

The room went deathly silent.

"Memory magic," Nicolas said grimly. "On that scale... it would take immense power. And considerable cruelty."

"Fenrir is searching for his husband Tom and for Regulus," Marius continued. "All three disappeared around the same time—late October 1981, right after Hadrian's parents were murdered."

"Five godfathers," Perenelle said quietly. "All bound by blood-oath to protect the child. And yet every single one has been neutralized—imprisoned, compromised, vilified, or disappeared."

"That's not coincidence," Thaddeus said grimly. "That's deliberate."

"Dumbledore," Arcturus said, his voice cold with fury. "He systematically removed every protection Hadrian had. Every guardian who could have challenged his control."

"Exactly," Marius said.

"There's one more thing," Marius said. "Hadrian has a staff. An ancient staff. From Ollivander's."

Every eye turned to Garrick, who had been silent throughout, his silvery gaze thoughtful.

"The staff," Garrick said softly, "has been in my family's shop for five hundred years. My ancestor Gerbold Ollivander crafted it in 1491—passed down through generations of Ollivander wandmakers. It never chose anyone. Not in five centuries." He paused. "Until Hadrian walked into my shop on August second."

The room was silent, absorbing this.

"The staff is five feet tall," Garrick continued. "The woods are Rowan, Red Oak, and Acacia—braided together by Gerbold himself. The core contains Thestral hair and Phoenix tears. The focus stone is jade and hematite combined."

"Thestral hair," Augusta breathed. "The boy can see death."

"Within time he will," Garrick confirmed quietly. "And Phoenix tears for renewal and hope. The staff waited five hundred years for the right wizard. It chose Hadrian."

"And his wand?" Thaddeus asked.

"Eleven inches, apple wood with basilisk venom core, flexible," Garrick said. "Also chose him immediately. Two ancient, powerful foci for one child. I've never seen anything like it in over a century of wandmaking."

"He's were-blessed too," Petunia said quietly. "The wolves recognized him. Called him pack."

"Of course they did," Nicolas said. "Tri-baby children carry the blessing of creation itself. Magic recognizes them. Creatures recognize them. He'll be powerful beyond measure, if he's properly trained and protected."

"Then we protect him," Arcturus said firmly. "All of us. This room—we're his family, his allies, his shield. Dumbledore won't touch him again. Not while we breathe."

"Agreed," Thaddeus said.

"Agreed," Augusta echoed.

One by one, every person in the room voiced their agreement.

Arcturus stood, his face set with determination despite the tears still wet on his cheeks. "Then let's discuss specifics. We have a ball in nine days, a boy starting Hogwarts in three weeks, and a war to prevent. We have work to do."

#¤#¤#¤

The evening feast was magnificent. The dining room had been transformed—two tables now set up instead of one long formal table. The adults' table near the windows, the children's table closer to the fire. Both were laden with an abundance of food that spoke of celebration rather than formal politeness.

It began with Irish stew, rich and hearty, served in elegant bowls. Then came the main courses: braised lamb chops, perfectly cooked and seasoned, and Scotch collops (thin slices of veal in a savory sauce). The sides were abundant: boiled potatoes with herb vinaigrette, roast potatoes with garlic and rosemary, and glazed carrots that gleamed with honey and butter.

For dessert, there were three options: treacle tart (dark and sweet and sticky), chocolate éclairs (light and perfect), and custard tart (smooth and rich).

The adults drank wine—red this time, to complement the heartier food. The children had water and apple juice, though no one complained.

The atmosphere was lighter now, more casual. The serious discussions were done, the alliances made, the support pledged. Now it was simply time to enjoy good food and good company. The two-table arrangement let the adults reminisce while the children could be themselves without worrying about formal manners.

At the adults' table, Arcturus seemed more relaxed than he had all day. He told stories—about Orion as a boy, about Dorea and her sharp wit, about Marius's childhood before things went wrong.

"You were brilliant even then," Arcturus said to Marius, who sat beside him. "Squib or not, you had the sharpest mind in our generation. You could argue circles around anyone."

"I learned from you," Marius said. "You never treated me as lesser."

"Because you weren't," Arcturus said simply. "You aren't."

Thaddeus chimed in with his own memories. "Dorea once hexed a seventh-year for bullying a first-year. Put boils all over his face. Didn't get caught either."

"She was fierce," Marius said, smiling at the memory. "Looked like an angel but had the temper of a dragon when provoked."

"Sounds like someone else I know," Nicolas said, glancing toward Petunia at the other end of the adults' table, who flushed.

"I don't hex people," Petunia protested.

"No, but you have that same 'don't mess with me or mine' energy," Nicolas said with a grin.

At the children's table, the atmosphere was equally warm but far less formal. Draco was explaining the finer points of Quidditch strategy to Neville, who looked overwhelmed. Theodore was telling Luna about a book he'd read on magical creatures, and she was interjecting with facts about Nargles that may or may not have been accurate. Tabitha was chattering at Hadrian, who listened with patient amusement. Dudley was happily demolishing his third helping of lamb chops.

"When I go to Hogwarts," Tabitha announced, "I want to be in your House, Hadrian. Whatever House you're in, that's where I want to be."

"You might not have a choice," Hadrian said gently. "The Sorting Hat decides."

"Then I'll tell it I want to be with you," Tabitha said with the absolute confidence of a six-year-old.

Theodore rolled his eyes affectionately. "She's decided you're her hero. There's no talking her out of it."

"I could have worse heroes," Hadrian said, making Tabitha beam.

As the desserts were cleared away and the evening drew toward its close, Arcturus stood at the adults' table.

"Before we part ways," he said, his voice carrying to both tables, "I'd like to make a toast." He raised his wine glass. "To family—found and rediscovered. To friendship and alliance. To truth in the face of lies. And to the future—may it be brighter than the past."

"To family," everyone echoed, raising their glasses.

"To friendship," Draco added from the children's table.

"To truth," Augusta said firmly.

"To the future," Hadrian said quietly.

They drank, and for a moment, everything was perfect.

#¤#¤#¤

After the feast, as families began to gather their things and prepare for departure, Arcturus caught Marius's eye.

"A word," he said quietly. "In the library."

Marius nodded, following his cousin out of the dining room and down a corridor lined with more portraits. The library, when they reached it, was exactly what one would expect of the Blacks—floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, comfortable reading chairs, warm lighting, the smell of old paper and leather bindings.

Arcturus closed the door behind them, sealed it with a privacy charm, and for a moment, the two men simply stood there, facing each other.

Then Arcturus moved forward and pulled Marius into a tight embrace—not the brief, controlled one from earlier in front of the guests, but something deeper, rawer. His shoulders shook.

"I looked for you," Arcturus said, his voice breaking. "For years. I hired investigators, called in favors, used every resource the Black family had. And you were right there. Dorea knew. My own cousin. Your own sister. And I never asked her."

Marius's own arms came up, returning the embrace. His voice was thick when he spoke. "Why didn't you ask her?"

"I don't know," Arcturus said, pulling back to look at Marius directly. "I... Merlin, cousin, I don't know. I thought you'd cut ties completely. I thought if you wanted contact, you'd reach out. I didn't realize Dorea was in touch with you. We were close, she and I, but we never..." He closed his eyes. "I was a fool. A blind, arrogant fool. I spent years searching everywhere except the most obvious place."

"Forty-seven years," Marius said, and tears ran down his face. "Forty-seven years, Arcturus. My daughters could have known their heritage properly. Azalea died when they were so young—if I'd come home, Lily and Petunia could have grown up with family, with the Black name openly, instead of hidden away. Petunia could have had her magic from childhood. Hadrian could have had family from the beginning. But I thought... Mother said no one cared. She said I was a shame and an embarrassment. She said the family was glad to be rid of me."

"She lied," Arcturus said fiercely, gripping Marius's shoulders. "Everything Violetta told you was a lie. I wanted you home. I wanted you found. I never, never cast you out. You were my cousin—family. Losing you hurt, Marius. It hurt for decades."

"But you didn't ask Dorea."

"No." Arcturus's voice broke completely. "I didn't. And I will regret that failure for the rest of my life. If I had just asked—one simple question—we could have had forty-seven years together instead of apart. Your daughters would have known me. I would have known them. And Regulus..." His voice caught. "If I'd found you sooner, if we'd been in contact, maybe Regulus would have told me. Maybe I could have helped. Maybe he wouldn't be missing now."

"You can't know that," Marius said quietly.

"No. But I'll always wonder." Arcturus drew a shaky breath. "I'm sorry, cousin. I'm so very sorry. For not asking. For not finding you. For all the years we lost."

They stood in silence for a long moment, both men struggling with emotion.

Then Marius said, quietly, "I'm angry. At you. At Mother. At this whole cursed situation. But I also... I also see you, Arcturus. I see that you're telling the truth. You really did search. You really did care. You just didn't think to ask the obvious person."

"That doesn't excuse it," Arcturus said.

"No," Marius agreed. "It doesn't. But it helps me understand. And I... I forgive you. Not completely yet—that will take time. But I'm choosing to forgive you, because you're my cousin. Because you're family. Because Hadrian needs his great-grandfather, and I won't let my anger deny him that. And because Regulus is alive, and when we find him, he'll need his grandfather too."

Arcturus's breath caught. "Regulus. My grandson. Alive."

"The test was clear," Marius said. "Weak but alive. We'll find him, Arcturus. We'll bring him home."

"We will," Arcturus said fiercely. "I swear it. On my magic, on the Black family name—we'll find him."

"Together," Marius said firmly.

"Together," Arcturus agreed.

He extended his hand formally, and Marius took it. They shook—and then Arcturus pulled him into another embrace.

"Welcome home, cousin," Arcturus whispered.

"It's good to be home," Marius replied, his voice rough with emotion.

When they emerged from the library, both men were red-eyed but composed, walking side by side with the tentative ease of two people beginning to rebuild something broken.

#¤#¤#¤

Arcturus found Hadrian in the entrance hall, where the Dursley family was waiting to depart. He gestured for Hadrian to follow him, and they slipped into a small study off the main hall—private, quiet, with a desk and two comfortable chairs.

"Sit," Arcturus said gently, and Hadrian did.

For a moment, Arcturus simply looked at him. Really looked. Now that he knew—now that he understood this was Regulus's son, his own great-grandson—he could see it so clearly.

"You have his eyes," Arcturus said softly. "Regulus's eyes. The shape of them, the expression. I should have seen it immediately, but..." He shook his head. "I wasn't looking for it. I thought my grandson was dead."

Hadrian swallowed hard. "I'm sorry you had to find out the way you did. In front of everyone."

"Don't apologize," Arcturus said firmly. "Marius was right to tell us all together. These are our allies—our family. They needed to know." He paused. "But I wanted this time with you. Just us. Great-grandfather and great-grandson."

"I never knew I'd have a great-grandfather from the Black side," Hadrian admitted quietly. "Someone who wanted me because I'm Regulus's son."

Arcturus's expression cracked slightly. He reached out and touched Hadrian's face gently—a brief touch to the cheek, reverent and wondering, as if confirming he was real.

"You look like all three of them," Arcturus said, his voice thick with emotion. "Regulus's bone structure and eyes. Lily's delicate features and that striking green—emerald with golden gleam, though I suspect the gold comes from your were-blessing. James's determination in the set of your jaw, and his ears and nose. You're a perfect blend of all three of your parents."

Hadrian didn't know what to say to that.

"Regulus was..." Arcturus's voice wavered. "He was brilliant. Cunning, yes, as all Blacks are. But also kind. Thoughtful. He cared deeply about doing what was right, even when it was hard. Even when it cost him everything." He closed his eyes briefly. "He was my grandson. Orion's son. And when he disappeared... when we thought he was dead... it broke something in this family. In me."

"I wish I'd known him," Hadrian said quietly. "I wish all three of my parents had lived."

"So do I," Arcturus said. "But you carry them with you, Hadrian. In your magic, in your blood, in who you are. They live on through you."

He reached into his robes and pulled out a small velvet box.

"I have something for you," Arcturus said. "For protection."

He opened the box. Inside was a pendant—a small disc of polished silver on a delicate chain. The Black family crest was engraved on one side, and on the other, a complex runic array that Hadrian didn't recognize but could feel humming with magic.

"This," Arcturus said, "is a direct emergency portkey keyed specifically to me. If you're ever in danger—if you're trapped, if you're cornered, if Dumbledore tries to isolate you—pour your magic into this pendant. It will send me an alert, and I will come. Immediately. Wherever I am, whatever I'm doing, I will come for you." He paused, meeting Hadrian's eyes seriously. "And if you put blood on it and say 'Toujours Pur,' it will bring you directly here, to Black Estate. A true emergency escape."

"Really?" Hadrian breathed.

"Really." Arcturus fastened the chain around Hadrian's neck himself, his hands gentle. The pendant settled against Hadrian's chest, warm with protective magic. "Dumbledore is dangerous, Hadrian. He's manipulative, and he believes the ends justify any means. He will try to control you. Don't let him isolate you. Don't meet with him alone. And if you're ever trapped—use this. I'll come."

"Thank you," Hadrian whispered, touching the pendant with reverent fingers.

"You're my great-grandson," Arcturus said. "Regulus's son. Protecting you is my duty. My privilege. My honor."

He sat back, studying Hadrian with fierce affection.

"At Hogwarts," he said, "you'll face challenges. People will have expectations—the Boy-Who-Lived, the symbol, the legend. Don't let them box you in. Be yourself. Make your own choices. Choose your own path."

"What if I make the wrong choices?" Hadrian asked.

"Then you'll learn," Arcturus said simply. "Mistakes are how we grow. As long as you're true to yourself, as long as you remember who you are and where you come from, you'll be fine."

"Who am I?" Hadrian asked, the question that had haunted him for weeks spilling out. "I've been so many things. Harry Dursley. The Boy-Who-Lived. Hadrian Potter-Black. A tri-baby. Were-blessed. Heir Black. I don't... I don't always know who I'm supposed to be."

"You're Hadrian," Arcturus said firmly, leaning forward. "That's all you need to be. Just Hadrian. My great-grandson. Regulus's son. A boy who's smart, kind, brave, and more powerful than he realizes. That's enough. That's more than enough."

Hadrian felt tears prickling his eyes. "I'll try."

"I know you will." Arcturus smiled—warm and genuine. "And I want weekly letters from Hogwarts. Every Sunday, without fail. I want to know how you're doing. What you're learning. Who your friends are. Any problems you're facing. Everything."

"I promise," Hadrian said with a small smile.

"Good." Arcturus stood, then moved around the desk and knelt so they were eye-level. "I'm so glad to know you, Hadrian. So very glad. And I'm proud of you—of the boy you are, of the man you'll become. Your parents would be proud too. All three of them."

"Thank you, Grandfather," Hadrian whispered, using the private name for the first time.

Arcturus's eyes gleamed with emotion. "You're welcome, my child."

He pulled Hadrian into a careful hug—mindful of the boy's small size, but warm and genuine nonetheless. Hadrian buried his face in his great-grandfather's shoulder and let himself be held—let himself feel safe, protected, wanted.

When they finally pulled apart, both had suspiciously bright eyes.

"Now," Arcturus said, his voice slightly rough, "your family is waiting. But remember—you can call me anytime. Write to me. Ask for help. You're not alone anymore, Hadrian. You'll never be alone again."

When they emerged from the study, Hadrian felt lighter than he had in weeks. He had family. Real family. People who cared about him, who would protect him, who believed in him.

Whatever came next, he could face it.

#¤#¤#¤

The departures were gradual. Each family took their turn at the Floo, saying goodbyes and making promises to stay in touch.

The Longbottoms left first, Augusta nodding regally to Arcturus. "We'll see you at the ball, Lord Black."

"I look forward to it, Lady Longbottom."

Neville gave Hadrian a quick hug. "See you on the train," he said.

"See you, Nev."

The Notts were next. Thaddeus shook Arcturus's hand with obvious respect. Theodore pulled Hadrian into a quick hug. "Don't forget to write," he said.

"I won't."

Tabitha wrapped her arms around Hadrian's neck in an enthusiastic hug. "You're my favorite," she whispered.

"You're mine too, Tabby," Hadrian whispered back, making her giggle.

The Lovegoods departed with their usual dreamlike quality. Luna hugged Hadrian, then stepped back and tilted her head.

"The Nargles say you'll be brilliant," she said. "And they're never wrong."

"Thanks, Luna."

Garrick Ollivander simply nodded to Hadrian as he left. "Your wand and staff serve you well, I trust?"

"Perfectly, sir."

"Good. Very good."

The Malfoys lingered slightly longer. Lucius shook Arcturus's hand formally. "Thank you for hosting, Lord Black. This was... enlightening."

"Thank you for coming," Arcturus replied.

Narcissa kissed Hadrian's cheek gently. "Be safe at Hogwarts," she said. "And write if you need anything."

"I will."

Then they were gone, and only the Dursleys and Flamels remained.

Nicolas and Perenelle approached Arcturus. The two men studied each other for a moment—Nicolas, ancient and wise; Arcturus, younger but no less formidable.

"Lord Black," Nicolas said.

"Master Flamel," Arcturus replied.

"Today was important," Nicolas said quietly. "For Hadrian. For Marius. For all of us."

"It was," Arcturus agreed. "And I'm grateful you were here to witness it. Hadrian speaks highly of you both."

"We found each other only recently," Perenelle said warmly. "But already he's dear to us."

"As he is to me," Arcturus said. "We'll be in touch. The boy will need all of us in the months ahead."

"Agreed," Nicolas said. "We'll see you at the ball."

"I look forward to it," Arcturus said.

The Flamels said their goodbyes to Hadrian with hugs and promises to write, then stepped through the Floo.

Finally, it was just the Dursley family and Arcturus.

"Thank you," Petunia said, "for today. For everything. For accepting us."

"You're family," Arcturus said simply. "That's all the acceptance you need."

Vernon shook his hand. "You've given us a lot to think about. And a lot of support. We won't forget it."

"See that you don't," Arcturus said, but he was smiling.

Dudley stepped forward, looking uncertain. "Lord Black," he said quietly. "Thank you for today. For making me feel welcome even though I'm not... even though I don't have magic."

Arcturus's expression softened. He knelt down to Dudley's level. "Dudley Dursley. You are Hadrian's brother in all the ways that matter. You are Marius's grandson. That makes you family, magic or no magic. Never doubt that you belong."

Dudley's eyes filled with tears. "Thank you, sir."

"Just Arcturus, when we're in private," Arcturus said gently. "Or if you prefer something more familial, you may call me Great-Uncle. We're connected through Hadrian, and that's a bond I honor."

Dudley nodded, a small smile breaking through. "Thank you, Great-Uncle Arcturus."

Arcturus stood and ruffled Dudley's hair affectionately before the boy stepped through the Floo.

Marius clasped Arcturus's shoulder. "I'll write," he said. "Every week, just like Hadrian."

"Good," Arcturus said. "We have forty-seven years to catch up on."

"We do," Marius agreed. Then he too stepped through the Floo.

Petunia and Vernon followed, leaving only Hadrian.

He looked up at Arcturus—his great-grandfather, his ally, his family.

"Thank you," Hadrian said. "For everything."

"No thanks needed," Arcturus said. "Just write to me. Every week. And be safe."

"I will," Hadrian promised.

"Good." Arcturus touched Hadrian's face gently, one last time. "Now go home, great-grandson. And remember—you're not alone. You'll never be alone again."

Hadrian nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.

Then he stepped into the Floo, called out "Privet Drive," and vanished in a swirl of green flames.

Arcturus stood in the entrance hall for a long moment after everyone had gone, staring at the empty fireplace.

Then he smiled—small, but genuine.

His family was rebuilding. His great-grandson was safe. Allies had been made. Plans were in motion.

Whatever came next, they would face it together.

And that, Arcturus thought, was more than enough.

#¤#¤#¤

August 16th — Friday

The Delacours Arrive

The week continued its relentless pace. Combat training Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Alchemy with Nicolas. Ritual magic with Perenelle. Political strategy with Lucius. Black family history with Marius. Physical conditioning every afternoon. Whitebee books every evening.

Hadrian was exhausted. But he was also stronger, smarter, more capable.

And on Friday evening, the Delacours arrived for their first weekend visit.

Apolline was elegant and maternal, with silvery-blonde hair and striking blue eyes—the unmistakable mark of her Veela heritage. She embraced Hadrian immediately, holding him close. 

"Our cousin's son," she said softly. "Our nephew. Oh, Hadrian, we've waited so long to meet you." 

Fleur was fourteen, already showing the stunning beauty she'd grow into, with the same silvery-blonde hair and blue eyes as her mother, her Veela heritage evident in every graceful movement. But more than her beauty, she radiated warmth and protectiveness beyond her years.

"Mon frère," she said, looking at Hadrian seriously. Then she turned to Dudley. "Both of my brothers."

And then she was hugging them both, fierce and affectionate, and Hadrian felt tears prick his eyes because this—this was what family felt like.

"Gabrielle sends her love," Apolline said, once everyone had been introduced. "She's devastated that she couldn't come. The wizard flu is mild, but we couldn't risk exposing any of you."

"How old is she?" Dudley asked.

"Seven," Fleur said, smiling. "And already a terror. She's going to adore you both."

That evening, Apolline set up in the kitchen and began teaching Hadrian potion preparation.

"The knife technique is everything," Apolline explained, demonstrating how to properly slice a root vegetable. "Thickness matters. Consistency matters. The magic responds to precision."

Hadrian followed her instructions, his enhanced senses helping him judge the exact thickness, his careful hands producing uniform slices.

"Excellent," Apolline said, impressed. "Natural instinct. That's the Flamel blood combined with your were-blessing—your senses are helping you."

They prepared ingredients for an hour—roots, leaves, powders, all stored carefully in properly labeled vials.

"Next time, we'll actually brew," Apolline promised. "But preparation is the foundation. If your ingredients aren't perfect, the potion will fail."

That night, at dinner, Fleur regaled them with stories of Beauxbatons, of French magical culture, of her plans to compete in an upcoming tournament.

"There's talk of bringing back the Triwizard Tournament," Fleur said, her eyes sparkling. "If they do, I'll compete. I want to prove myself."

"That sounds dangerous," Petunia said worriedly.

"It is," Fleur admitted. "But I'm strong. And I'm stubborn. I want to show people that Veela are more than just pretty faces."

"You'll be brilliant," Hadrian said confidently.

Fleur smiled at him. "Merci, little brother."

The next morning, they all went swimming together—Fleur demonstrating her natural water affinity, Hadrian using his enhanced abilities, Dudley splashing everyone indiscriminately.

That afternoon, Apolline taught Hadrian more potion preparation while Fleur told them about Veela history—the culture, the magic, the misconceptions.

"People think we're just seductresses," Fleur said, frustration evident. "They don't see the strength, the loyalty, the fierce protectiveness. Veela magic is about emotion, yes, but also about protection. We defend our family with everything we have."

"Like you're defending us," Hadrian said quietly.

"Exactly." Fleur reached over and ruffled his hair. "You're family now. Anyone who hurts you will answer to me."

Sunday evening, as the Delacours prepared to leave, Apolline pulled Hadrian aside.

"You have remarkable instincts," she said seriously. "Natural talent for potion preparation. I'm very proud of you."

"Thank you," Hadrian said. "For teaching me. For accepting us."

"Oh, child," Apolline said, her eyes bright with tears. "Thank you. For existing. For being here. For giving us family we thought we'd lost."

After they left, Hadrian stood in the living room, feeling overwhelmed.

He had French cousins now. A sister who called him 'frère.' An aunt who was teaching him invaluable skills.

His family was growing.

And with each new connection, he felt stronger. More ready.

#¤#¤#¤

August 21st — Wednesday

LeFay Legacy

The week passed in its now-familiar rhythm. Combat training with Fenrir (Hadrian could now hold his own in sparring for almost five minutes before Fenrir took him down). Alchemy with Nicolas. Ritual magic with Perenelle. Political strategy with Lucius (learning to read power dynamics, identify allies, recognize manipulation). Physical conditioning. Reading.

But Wednesday afternoon was special.

Nicolas had asked for that time specifically, saying he wanted to teach Hadrian about the LeFay legacy.

They sat in the back garden, just the two of them, the afternoon sun warm on their faces.

"The LeFay bloodline is ancient," Nicolas began. "It goes back to Morgan le Fay herself—yes, the Morgan le Fay from Arthurian legend. She was real, Hadrian. And we are her descendants."

Hadrian stared. "But your name is Flamel?"

"It is now," Nicolas said quietly. "When I was a child, the Catholic Church was beginning its persecution of anything they deemed heretical. The Inquisition was spreading, witch hunts were starting. Being called LeFay—bearing the name of the most famous sorceress in history—would have painted a target on our backs. So my family changed our name. We became Flamel, and we survived." He paused, his ancient eyes sad. "By the time the Malleus Maleficarum was published in 1486, a lot of wizarding families were lost. The rest went into hiding. We were fortunate—we'd hidden our true name over a century before."

"So we're really LeFays," Hadrian said softly.

"By blood, yes. By name, no. But the legacy remains." Nicolas smiled. "The green eyes are her gift to us. They appear in every generation, marking those who carry her power."

"What power?"

"Clear sight," Nicolas said. "The ability to see truth beneath lies. To perceive what others miss. To understand the fundamental nature of things." He tapped his temple. "It's not mind-reading. It's not divination. It's clarity. When you look at something—really look—you can understand it on a deeper level than most people."

"I don't feel like I have that," Hadrian admitted.

"You do," Nicolas said gently. "You just haven't learned to recognize it yet. Tell me—when you met Fenrir, what did you see?"

Hadrian thought back. "I saw someone dangerous. But also... protective. I saw the scars, but I also saw the gentleness in how he touched me. I saw who he was beneath what he looked like."

"Clear sight," Nicolas said. "You saw past the surface to the truth underneath. That's the LeFay gift. It's subtle, but powerful."

"How do I strengthen it?"

"Practice. Observation. Trust your instincts." Nicolas reached over and gently touched Hadrian's face, tracing just below his left eye. "These eyes see more than most people's, Hadrian. The emerald green is Morgan's legacy—the golden gleam is your were-blessing enhancing what was already there. Together, they make you formidable. Trust them. When someone lies to you, your instincts will know. When someone is dangerous, you'll sense it. When someone is truly good, you'll recognize that too."

"Is that why I knew Narcissa was being honest?" Hadrian asked. "When she offered protection?"

"Probably," Nicolas confirmed. "You saw her truth. You recognized her sincerity."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, then Nicolas said, "My mother had these eyes. My grandmother. My great-grandmother, going back generations to Morgan herself. And now you. You carry her legacy, Hadrian. Use it wisely."

"I will," Hadrian promised.

"Good." Nicolas stood, pulling Hadrian up with him. "Now, let's practice some alchemy. I want to teach you about transmutation circles before you leave for Hogwarts."

That evening, after Lucius's political strategy lesson, Hadrian stood in front of his mirror, looking at his own reflection.

Green eyes. The LeFay green, with the golden gleam of his were-blessing. A legacy stretching back over a thousand years to Morgan le Fay herself.

He'd spent eleven years not knowing who he was, what he came from, what he was capable of.

But now he knew.

And he would use that knowledge. That clarity. That sight.

He would see through Dumbledore's lies.

And he would protect the people he loved.

#¤#¤#¤

August 24th — Saturday

The Malfoy Ball

"I can't believe we're going to a ball," Dudley said, adjusting his formal robes for the hundredth time. "An actual ball. Like in fairy tales."

"It's not quite like that," Hadrian said, though his own nerves were jangling. "But close enough."

The whole family was dressed formally—Hadrian in his emerald and silver robes, Dudley in deep blue that Narcissa had provided, Petunia in elegant lavender, Vernon in formal black, Marius in Black family colors, Nicolas in shimmering gold, and Perenelle in deep purple.

Even the familiars seemed to sense the importance of the occasion. Lyra had groomed herself until her silver fur gleamed, and Crookshanks looked almost dignified.

They Flooed to Malfoy Manor just after sunset.

The Manor was breathtaking.

The entrance hall was enormous, with white marble floors and a grand staircase. Crystal chandeliers floated overhead, casting rainbow light across everything. Doors opened to the gardens, where hundreds of floating lanterns created a magical twilight.

Narcissa greeted them personally, elegant in midnight blue robes.

"Welcome," she said warmly. "I'm so glad you could all come."

"Thank you for inviting us," Petunia said graciously.

"Come, let me introduce you to the other families," Narcissa said, leading them into the ballroom.

The ballroom was filled with people—adults clustered in conversation groups, children gathered in corners or on the edges of the dance floor. Hadrian recognized some faces from the Black Estate gathering, but there were many new ones too.

"Hadrian! Dudley!" Draco appeared at their elbows, grinning. "Come on, everyone's been asking about you both."

Hadrian glanced back at Dudley, who nodded encouragingly but stayed close beside him as they approached the group.

With a deep breath, Hadrian allowed Draco to lead them toward a cluster of children near the refreshment table.

Theo was there, of course, and Neville. Luna stood slightly apart, swaying gently to music only she could hear. But there were others too—and they were all watching him with varying degrees of curiosity and calculation.

"Everyone," Draco said with a flourish, "this is Hadrian Potter-Black, and his brother Dudley Dursley."

The reaction was immediate. Some eyes widened. Others narrowed. A few whispers. Several glances at Dudley—curious, some assessing, a few openly surprised to see a non-magical person at a pureblood gathering.

A girl with dark blue eyes and golden blonde hair pulled back to mid-back stepped forward first. "Daphne Greengrass," she said, her tone carefully neutral. "This is my sister, Astoria." She gestured to a younger girl beside her, perhaps eight or nine, with similar features but softer eyes.

"House Greengrass maintains neutrality in most political conflicts," Daphne continued, studying Hadrian like he was a puzzle to solve. "But we respect intelligence and strategy when we see it."

"I'm not sure I have much of either yet," Hadrian said honestly.

Daphne's expression shifted slightly—not quite approval, but interest. "Honesty is rare. That's something, at least."

Astoria smiled shyly. "I think you seem nice."

"Astoria," Daphne said warningly, but there was no heat in it.

An earnest-looking boy with light blue eyes and mouse brown hair stepped forward next, his posture stiff and formal. "Ernie Macmillan, Heir to House Macmillan." He studied Hadrian carefully. "Melania Black was sister to my grandfather. I understand you're connected to the Black family through your godfather Sirius. That would make us... very distant relations, I suppose."

"I didn't know about the connection," Hadrian said, surprised.

"House Macmillan values loyalty and honest work," Ernie continued. His tone was measured, cautious. "We don't rush into alliances. But we honor family connections." He paused. "Even distant, complicated ones. Though I admit I'm curious how you became Heir Black. Through Sirius Black, I assume?"

"Something like that," Hadrian said, not wanting to explain the complicated truth publicly. "The details are... family business."

Ernie's stiff posture relaxed slightly. "I can respect that. We'll see how you conduct yourself at Hogwarts. That will tell me what I need to know."

Fair enough, Hadrian thought.

A girl with thoughtful grey eyes and chestnut-red hair flowing to her waist spoke up next, her voice soft. "Morag MacDougal. My family doesn't have the... prominence of some others here." She glanced at Daphne and Ernie. "But we're old blood, and we value substance over show." She met Hadrian's eyes directly. "What happened to your godfather—imprisoned without trial for ten years—it's an injustice. Anyone who stands against that kind of corruption has my respect."

"Thank you," Hadrian said, feeling warmth at her straightforward acceptance.

A sharp-eyed girl with brown eyes and brown hair pulled back in a high ponytail nodded in agreement. "Tracey Davis. Half-blood, but my mother's family is ancient. We know what it's like to be underestimated." She grinned. "I like that you don't fit into neat boxes, Potter-Black. Makes you interesting."

"I'm glad someone thinks so," Hadrian said wryly.

A cheerful girl with blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and red hair in pigtails to her chest bounded forward. "Susan Bones! My aunt's the Head of the DMLE—that's the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She's been watching everything with your godfather Sirius's case." Susan's expression turned serious. "What they did to him—imprisoning him without trial—it's wrong. Aunt Amelia's furious about it. She'll make sure he gets justice."

"Thank you," Hadrian said, his throat tight. "That means a lot."

Susan smiled brightly. "We're going to be great friends. I can tell."

The energy shifted then, becoming less formal. A boy with dark skin, elegant features, and striking purple eyes leaned against the refreshment table, watching with lazy interest.

"Blaise Zabini," he drawled. "My mother's told me about you. Said you're either going to be the most interesting person at Hogwarts or a complete disaster." He smirked. "I'm betting on interesting."

"I'll try not to disappoint," Hadrian said with a slight smile.

"Please don't," Blaise said. "I'd hate to be bored."

A bright girl with yellowish eyes and white hair practically bounced forward. "Lily Moon! I'm so excited to meet you! Is it true you have a Kneazle? I've read all about them—they're so intelligent, and they can sense untrustworthy people, and—"

"Yes," Hadrian said, smiling at her enthusiasm. "I have two, actually. Lyra and Crookshanks."

"Two Kneazles!" Lily's eyes went wide. "That's amazing! Can I meet them sometime?"

"Of course."

Twin girls with blackish-brown eyes and black hair flowing to their waists stepped forward together, moving in perfect synchronization.

"Padma Patil," said one.

"Parvati Patil," said the other.

"Our family's Indian," Padma said proudly. "Old magical bloodline, but not British pureblood in the traditional sense."

"We don't fit neatly into their boxes," Parvati added, glancing at some of the other children. "People don't always know what to do with us."

"Then we're alike," Hadrian said. "I don't fit neatly either."

The twins exchanged glances and smiled.

"We're going to get along," Padma said decisively.

A large girl with grey-blue eyes and short dark blonde hair had been hanging back, but now she stepped forward, chin raised, her posture defensive. "Millicent Bulstrode. Everyone judges me because I'm big and I look mean. Don't do that."

"I won't," Hadrian promised. "I know what it's like to be judged for things you can't control. I'm small for my age. People make assumptions."

Millicent's defensive expression softened slightly. "Good. Because I'm actually nice. Mostly."

"Mostly is good enough," Hadrian said with a grin.

There was one person who hadn't introduced herself yet—a girl with perfectly styled dark hair cut to just below her ears, muddy brown eyes, expensive robes, and an expression of barely concealed disdain.

"Pansy Parkinson," she finally said, her tone making it clear she considered this introduction beneath her. Her eyes swept over Hadrian dismissively, then landed on Dudley standing beside him. Her lip curled slightly. "Is that... a Muggle?"

The temperature in the group seemed to drop.

"That's my brother," Hadrian said, his voice cold. "Dudley."

"Your brother is a Muggle?" Pansy's lip curled. "How... unfortunate."

Daphne stepped away from Pansy slightly, her expression shuttering. Tracey's eyes narrowed. Even Blaise looked uncomfortable.

"Dudley is my family," Hadrian said quietly, but with steel in his voice. "He's worth ten of most people here."

"I'm sure you believe that," Pansy said with false sympathy. "But really, Potter—"

"Potter-Black," Draco interrupted sharply. "Heir Black, actually. Perhaps you should remember that before you insult his family, Pansy."

Pansy's expression flickered—realization, then calculation. "Heir Black?" She forced a smile. "I didn't realize. That's... quite impressive, actually."

"It doesn't change anything," Hadrian said flatly. "Dudley is still my brother, and anyone who has a problem with that can leave now."

Pansy opened her mouth, seemed to reconsider, then said, "Of course. I meant no offense." But her eyes were calculating now, measuring, planning.

The tension was thick enough to cut when—

"Mes frères!"

Everyone turned.

Fleur Delacour swept into their group, stunning in pale blue robes that seemed to shimmer with Veela magic. Her silvery-blonde hair caught the light, her blue eyes warm with genuine affection.

She pulled Hadrian into a hug, then did the same to Dudley, who was standing right beside him. Then she turned to Luna and Draco with a warm smile. "And my cousins," she said, pulling them both into the embrace. "It's been too long since I've seen you both."

"Hi Fleur," Luna said dreamily, returning the hug.

Draco looked slightly embarrassed but pleased. "Good to see you, Fleur."

"I'm so glad you're both here," Fleur said, holding them close.

The other children stared, speechless.

"Who..." Daphne finally managed.

"My sister," Hadrian said firmly. "Fleur Delacour."

"Your sister?" Pansy said, her voice sharp with disbelief. "But she's—"

"French, yes. My cousin, and my sister by choice." Hadrian looked around at all of them, meeting each gaze directly. "Family is who claims you and who you claim back. That's what matters. Not blood purity. Not magic or lack of it. Choice and love."

Silence fell over the group.

Then Luna drifted forward, her dreamy voice cutting through the tension like a silver bell.

"The Nargles say Hadrian speaks truth," she said serenely. "Family is choice." She tilted her head, looking at Fleur with interest. "My grandmother Medea was a Delacour before she married Abraxas Malfoy. She's Draco's grandmother too—my father and Lucius are brothers. And Medea's older sister Céline was Heir Delacour—now Fleur is." She smiled. "So Fleur, Draco, and I are all second cousins. Just like Hadrian is our cousin through different lines. We're all family, really. All connected."

"The Lovegoods are related to the Delacours?" Blaise said, eyebrows raised.

"And the Malfoys share the same grandmother," Luna confirmed. "Delacour blood connects us." She looked around at the group serenely. "We're all connected in different ways. That's what makes us special."

The revelation hung in the air. Then Parvati started laughing—not mockery, but genuine amusement.

"So basically, everyone in the British magical community is related to everyone else?"

"Pretty much," Tracey said with a grin. "Welcome to pureblood society. It's complicated."

"And incestuous," Daphne added dryly, which made several people snort.

The tension broke like a soap bubble popping.

But Pansy wasn't done. She sidled closer to Hadrian, her expression shifting to something she probably thought was charming.

"Heir Black," she purred. "I'm sure we got off on the wrong foot. Perhaps we could start again?" She batted her eyelashes. "My family has significant holdings, and a betrothal between our houses would be quite advantageous..."

"No," Hadrian said flatly.

Pansy blinked. "I... what?"

"I'm eleven," Hadrian said. "I'm not interested in betrothals. And even if I were, it wouldn't be with someone who insults my brother."

"But I apologized—"

"You calculated," Tracey said coolly. "There's a difference."

Pansy's face flushed red. She opened her mouth to retort, but Daphne cut her off.

"Let it go, Pansy. You've embarrassed yourself enough for one evening."

Pansy looked around at the group—at the closed expressions, the judgment in their eyes—and seemed to realize she'd miscalculated badly. With a final glare at Dudley, she turned and stalked away.

"Well," Blaise said into the silence. "That was entertaining."

"Is she always like that?" Hadrian asked.

"Unfortunately," Daphne said. "The Parkinsons are... traditional. And not in a good way."

"She'll learn," Susan said charitably. "Or she won't, and she'll be alone. Either way, not our problem."

Fleur squeezed Hadrian's shoulder. "You handled that well, mon frère."

For the rest of the evening, they talked—really talked. About Hogwarts, about houses, about expectations and fears and hopes. They danced (badly, mostly, except for Fleur who was graceful as water). They ate fancy food that Dudley declared "weird but good" and that made Millicent laugh so hard she snorted, which made everyone else laugh too.

They bonded.

Blaise and Draco argued good-naturedly about Quidditch teams. The Patil twins taught everyone a traditional Indian dance, which resulted in chaos and laughter. Morag and Neville discovered a shared love of Herbology. Tracey and Daphne debated politics with surprising passion. Susan and Lily Moon became fast friends, chattering about everything and nothing. Theo discussed wandlore with anyone who would listen.

And Hadrian, standing in the middle of it all with Dudley beside him and Fleur nearby, felt something shift in his chest.

These were his people. His friends. His allies.

Not because of his fame. Not because he was the Boy-Who-Lived.

Because they'd chosen each other.

As the evening wound down and families began to depart, Narcissa pulled Hadrian aside.

"You did well tonight," she said quietly. "You built genuine connections. That's more valuable than any political alliance."

"Thank you," Hadrian said. "For hosting this. For helping me."

"We protect our own," Narcissa said simply. "And you're one of ours now."

#¤#¤#¤ 

August 25th — Sunday

Farewells and Promises

The Flamels departed that morning, their two weeks at Privet Drive coming to an end.

It was emotional. Hadrian had grown used to Nicolas's patient alchemy lessons, to Perenelle's gentle ritual instruction, to the shared green eyes across the breakfast table.

"We'll write every week," Nicolas promised, hugging Hadrian tightly. "And we'll visit for Yule vacation. You're stuck with us now, great-grandson."

"Good," Hadrian said, his voice muffled against Nicolas's robes. "I don't want to lose you again."

"You won't," Perenelle assured him, cupping his face. "We've found our family. We're not letting go."

Then Nicolas turned to Dudley, who had been standing quietly to the side, trying not to look too disappointed.

"Dudley," Nicolas said, kneeling so they were eye-level. "Just because Hadrian is going to Hogwarts doesn't mean we're abandoning you."

Dudley's eyes widened. "You're not?"

"Absolutely not," Perenelle said, moving to stand beside her husband. "You're family too. And family teaches family."

"We'll come on weekends," Nicolas said. "Not every weekend—we're old and we tire—but regularly. Once or twice a month. I'll teach you alchemy theory, mathematics, philosophy. The foundations of magical understanding, even if you can't cast spells yourself."

"And I'll teach you about magical history, about the old families, about ritual theory," Perenelle added. "Knowledge is power, Dudley, whether you have magic or not. And you're a clever boy. You deserve to learn."

Dudley's face lit up. "Really? You'd do that for me?"

"Of course," Nicolas said. "You're our great-grandson through your mother Petunia, just as Hadrian is through his mother Lily. You're both our blood, Dudley. Both our family."

Dudley launched himself at Nicolas, hugging him fiercely. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

Perenelle joined the embrace, and for a moment they stood there—ancient alchemists and a non-magical boy, bound by choice and love.

When they finally pulled apart, Petunia was crying happy tears, and Vernon looked suspiciously misty-eyed.

"We'll see you in two weeks," Nicolas promised. "First weekend after Hadrian leaves for Hogwarts. We'll bring books."

"Lots of books," Perenelle added with a smile.

After they left, the house felt emptier for a moment.

But the Delacours had been there all weekend for their second visit, and they rejoined the family after giving them privacy for the Flamel goodbyes, bringing warmth and energy and laughter back to the house.

Apolline continued Hadrian's potion preparation training, this time moving beyond basic cuts to teach him about ingredient preservation, proper storage methods, and the importance of timing in preparation.

"Some ingredients must be prepared immediately before use," Apolline explained, demonstrating with a particularly volatile root. "Others need to age for days or weeks. Knowing which is which can mean the difference between a perfect potion and a dangerous explosion."

As they worked, Apolline said, "I'm sorry we didn't get to actually brew this weekend. The ball took up so much time, and you needed to rest after."

"It's alright," Hadrian said.

"No, it's not," Apolline said firmly. "Preparation is essential, but you need to understand the full process. "So I'll come back Friday—two days before you leave for Hogwarts. We'll brew together. Actually complete a potion from start to finish. Would you like that?"

"Yes!" Hadrian said eagerly. "That would be perfect."

"Then it's settled," Apolline said with a warm smile. "Friday afternoon. We'll make something useful—a simple healing potion, perhaps. Something you can be proud of."

Fleur told more stories—about Beauxbatons, about magical France, about her dreams for the future. They swam, they talked, they built their sibling bond stronger.

"Hogwarts in six days," Fleur said on Sunday evening, looking at Hadrian seriously. "Are you ready?"

"I think so," Hadrian said. "I've trained. I've learned. I've made friends and allies. I'm as ready as I can be."

"Then you'll be fine," Fleur said confidently. "And if anyone bothers you, you write to me immediately. I'll come to Hogwarts and hex them into next week."

Hadrian laughed. "I will. I promise."

"And write to Maman too," Fleur added. "She'll want to hear how you're doing. She worries, you know. That's what mothers do."

"She's not my mother," Hadrian said softly.

"No," Fleur agreed. "But she loves you like one. We all do. You and Dudley both. You're our family now."

Hadrian felt tears prick his eyes. "I love you too. All of you."

Fleur pulled him into a hug. "Bon. Then everything will be fine."

#¤#¤#¤

August 30th — Friday

Potion Breakthrough

The final week of August was a whirlwind.

Combat training with Fenrir every Monday, Wednesday, Friday. By the end, Hadrian could hold his own in sparring for nearly ten minutes, could track movement by sound alone, could move with enhanced speed and grace.

"You're ready," Fenrir said on Friday morning, looking proud. "Not a master yet—that takes years. But you're deadly enough. You can defend yourself. Protect your pack."

"Thank you," Hadrian said, breathless and sweaty. "For teaching me."

"My honor, cub," Fenrir said, ruffling his hair one last time. "Write to me from Hogwarts. Tell me everything. And if you need me—if you need me—I'll come. Pack protects pack."

The week had been filled with final lessons. Magical theory. Runes. Black family history. Traditions. Etiquette. Political strategy. Writing with quills (Hadrian's hand no longer cramped). Everything he'd need for Hogwarts.

And Friday evening—the Delacours' last night—Apolline had a special lesson planned.

"We're going to brew a proper potion tonight," she announced, setting up the kitchen like a proper laboratory. "A Wit-Sharpening Potion. It's N.E.W.T.-level, so don't feel bad if it doesn't work perfectly. But I want to see what you can do."

Hadrian nodded, his stomach fluttering with nerves.

For the next two hours, he prepared ingredients with absolute precision. Knife work perfect, measurements exact, timing impeccable. His enhanced senses helped him judge when ingredients were ready, his careful hands ensuring consistency.

The potion simmered. Hadrian stirred—three times clockwise, two times counterclockwise, pause, three times clockwise again. Exactly as the instructions specified.

The liquid began to change color. Bronze to copper. Copper to gold. Gold to silver-blue.

Perfect.

Apolline gasped. "Hadrian. That's... that's perfect. That's N.E.W.T.-level work."

The family had gathered in the doorway—Petunia, Vernon, Dudley, Marius, Fleur. Everyone staring at the perfect potion.

"How did you do that?" Fleur breathed.

"I don't know," Hadrian admitted. "It just... felt right. I could feel when to stir, when to add ingredients, when to stop."

"That's natural talent," Apolline said, her voice thick with emotion. "Combined with multiple bloodlines working in harmony. Black precision, LeFay intuition, Potter determination, and your were-blessing giving you enhanced sensitivity to magic. All of it together, making you naturally brilliant at this."

Petunia started crying. "I'm so proud of you, sweetheart."

"My brilliant little brother," Fleur said, hugging him fiercely.

"You'll do well at Hogwarts, son," Vernon said gruffly.

"Your mother would be so proud," Marius added quietly.

That night, after the Delacours had left, Hadrian lay in bed feeling accomplished.

One month of training. One month of learning. One month of building alliances and skills and confidence.

He'd read all twenty-three Whitebee books, documenting every lie.

He'd learned combat from Fenrir.

He'd studied alchemy with Nicolas, ritual magic with Perenelle.

He'd learned political strategy from Lucius, etiquette from Narcissa.

He'd absorbed Black family history from Marius.

He'd mastered potion preparation with Apolline.

He'd made friends. Real friends. Allies who cared about him as Hadrian, not as the Boy-Who-Lived.

Two days until Hogwarts.

He was ready.

#¤#¤#¤

August 31st — Saturday

The Last Day

Hadrian woke early on his last day at home, the weight of what was coming settling over him like a heavy blanket.

Tomorrow morning, he would board the Hogwarts Express.

Tomorrow, everything would change.

He spent the morning packing carefully. His trunk was already mostly organized, but he double-checked everything. Robes, books, supplies, his wand in its holster, his staff carefully stored in the hidden compartment. Lyra and Crookshanks would travel in their carriers. Hedwig would fly.

Petunia helped him pack, her hands trembling slightly.

"I'm terrified of letting you go," she admitted. "You've only been truly ours for a month. And now I have to send you into Dumbledore's territory."

"I'll be okay," Hadrian said, though his own stomach churned with anxiety. "I'm prepared. I have allies. I know what to expect."

"I know," Petunia said. "But you're still my nephew. My sister's son. And I love you so much."

"I love you too, mum."

They hugged, both crying a little.

Lunch was a family affair—everyone gathered around the table one last time. Vernon told terrible jokes. Dudley recounted his favorite moments of the month. Marius shared one last story about Lily when she was young. Everyone laughed and talked and tried not to think about the goodbye coming that evening.

Dinner was Hadrian's favorite—fish and chips from the local chippy, eaten in the living room while sitting on the floor, just like old times.

"This is nice," Hadrian said quietly, looking around at his family. "This moment. All of us together."

"We'll have more moments like this," Vernon promised. "Yule break. Summer holiday. You're not losing us, Hadrian. We're just letting you go for a bit so you can learn and grow."

"I know," Hadrian said. "But I'll miss you anyway."

After dinner, they each pulled Hadrian aside for private goodbyes.

Marius first: "Your mother would be so incredibly proud of you, Hadrian. Everything you've become, everything you're capable of—she dreamed of this for you. Not fame, not glory, but confidence and knowledge and love. You have all three. And you have us, always. We're your family, and we're not going anywhere."

Petunia: "You will write every week. Every. Single. Week. Or I will come to that school and drag you home for dinner. And if Dumbledore tries anything—anything—you tell us immediately. You are my nephew, my sister's son, and I will burn Hogwarts to the ground before I let him hurt you."

Vernon: "You're a good lad, Hadrian. Smart, kind, strong. You'll do brilliantly at that school. Show them what you're made of. And remember—you're not just some wizard. You're a Dursley too. We don't give up, and we don't let anyone push us around. Make us proud, son."

Dudley: "You're my brother, Hads. Best brother anyone could ask for. Go kick some magical arse. And if that Ron tosser bothers you, hex him. Or write me and I'll come up there and punch him myself. Brothers stick together."

Hadrian hugged each of them, feeling overwhelmed with love and gratitude and fear.

"I'll make you proud," he promised. "All of you. I'll be careful, I'll be smart, and I'll come home for Yule break."

"We know you will," Petunia said, stroking his hair. "We love you so much, sweetheart."

"I love you too," Hadrian whispered.

That night, alone in his room, Hadrian sat on his bed and took stock.

His trunk was packed and waiting by the door.

His staff leaned in the corner, thrumming with quiet power.

His wand rested on the desk, warm with his magic.

Lyra and Crookshanks were curled on his pillow, Hedwig perched on her stand.

His four heir rings rested on his fingers, their protective glamours making them appear as simple silver bands to any who might look—Potter, Black, Peverell, and Gryffindor, marking who he truly was.

He picked up the locket from his nightstand—the one with his three parents' photo inside. James, Lily, and Regulus, young and happy and in love.

"I wish you were here," Hadrian said softly to the photo. "I wish I'd known you. But I promise—I'll make you proud. I'll expose Dumbledore. I'll clear your names. I'll be the son you would have wanted."

He set the locket down carefully and climbed into bed.

Lyra chirped softly and curled against his neck. Crookshanks sprawled across his legs, purring. Hedwig hooted gently, a sound of reassurance.

Tomorrow, everything would change.

Tomorrow, he would board the Hogwarts Express and enter a world that thought it knew him, that had spent ten years building expectations based on lies.

Tomorrow, he would walk into Dumbledore's carefully constructed trap of fame and prophecy and manipulation.

But he wouldn't walk in blind.

He wouldn't walk in alone.

He wouldn't walk in weak.

One month of preparation. One month of transformation. One month of gathering strength.

He'd learned combat from Fenrir, his godfather, and could now defend himself with lethal efficiency.

He'd studied alchemy with Nicolas, understanding the fundamental nature of transformation.

He'd practiced ritual magic with Perenelle, learning to channel intent and power.

He'd absorbed political strategy from Lucius, understanding how to read people and situations.

He'd mastered etiquette with Narcissa, learning to navigate pureblood society.

He'd learned his family's history from Marius, understanding where he came from.

He'd achieved mastery in potion preparation with Apolline, proving his natural talent.

He'd read all of Dumbledore's propaganda, documented every lie, understood the narrative he was supposed to fulfill.

And most importantly—he'd made friends. Real friends. Theo, Neville, Luna, Draco, Daphne, Blaise, Susan, and so many others. People who would stand beside him at Hogwarts. People who saw him as Hadrian, not as a symbol.

He'd gained family. Nicolas and Perenelle, his great-grandparents with the matching LeFay green eyes. Apolline and Fleur, his French cousins who called him brother. Fenrir, his fierce godfather who called him 'cub.'

He'd built a network. Allies across multiple families. Protection from people like Narcissa who understood the political game. Support from the goblins at Gringotts who were pursuing Dumbledore for his crimes.

Tomorrow, Hadrian Potter-Black would go to Hogwarts.

And he would be ready.

Sleep came slowly, pulled him under into restless dreams of ancient castles and manipulative old men and games of chess played with living pieces.

But through it all ran a thread of certainty:

Whatever Dumbledore had planned, Hadrian was no longer the pawn he'd intended to create.

Tomorrow, the real game would begin.

And Hadrian intended to win.