Part Four: In which the final battle commences but the journey continues…
The faint sound of magic crackling filled the air as Hadrian stood in front of the enchanted door, his fingers trembling as he reached for the glowing, intricate lock. It was a complex charm, but he had studied it longs enough to know exactly how to unlock it. With a soft hum of power, the lock clicked, and the door creaked open.
On the other side stood Professor Ibriz, his face lined with concern. But before Hadrian could say a word, he was suddenly enveloped in a warm, tight hug. Damian's arms wrapped around him, his body shaking, his breath ragged. The relief, the overwhelming emotion in Damian's grip, hit Hadrian like a wave.
"You're alive," Damian's voice cracked, muffled against his shoulder. "I thought—I thought I lost you."
Hadrian stood frozen for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest, before he wrapped his arms around Damian, holding him close. His throat tightened, and for a long, quiet moment, neither of them spoke. The past three days had felt like an eternity—tension, worry, and isolation had weighed heavily on both of them. But now, with Damian safe in his arms, everything else seemed to fade away.
"I'm here," Hadrian whispered, his voice rough. "I'm not going anywhere. Not without a fight."
Damian clung to him harder, and Hadrian could feel the warmth of his tears seeping through his cloak. The raw emotion in Damian's touch broke something deep inside him. He knew how close they had come to losing each other. And for all the strength he tried to project, in that moment, he felt it too. The fear. The love. The overwhelming sense of needing each other.
"You don't have to fight alone anymore, Hadrian," Damian whispered, his voice barely audible, trembling with emotion. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere either."
Hadrian tightened his hold on him. "I'm not leaving you, Damian. Never again."
The next few weeks passed in a blur of research, strategy, and unspoken tension. The two of them—side by side—spent their days in the library, digging through old records, researching the dark histories of both Voldemort and Dumbledore. The weight of their findings hung heavy over them, but neither of them seemed willing to stop. They couldn't afford to stop.
Then, the news hit. Dumbledore, in an official announcement, had declared that Damian had been kidnapped.
Damian's parents, devastated and enraged, had no idea their son was even missing until the story made headlines in the Daily Prophet. James Potter was furious beyond belief—not at Hadrian, but at the fact that the wizarding world had been lied to. Damian wasn't kidnapped, and the truth had been hidden from them all. The betrayal stung.
As a way of coping, Hadrian slipped into the role of The Joker—the mysterious figure who had begun to make waves across the magical community for many years. The Deck was more active than before. His faction of war, though chaotic, was a release, a way for him to channel his frustrations and the built-up anger. He didn't care what people thought of him anymore. In fact, he enjoyed the unpredictability. The world could say whatever they wanted.
But the Ministry had a different view.
A reward was put out for The Joker, declaring him "undesirable number one." The accusation of kidnapping still hung over Hadrian's head like a dark cloud, and the Ministry's decree for his capture became a constant, nagging presence. They'd even made it clear that Damian was still to be captured on sight—an order that sent a wave of unease over both of them.
One morning, Hadrian sat at the table in the school's common room, sipping his coffee as he flipped through the Daily Prophet. The paper was filled with absurd stories about the Deck—the mysterious figures who were apparently wreaking havoc across the wizarding world—and, of course, about him.
"Ridiculous," Hadrian muttered with a half-smile, shaking his head. "They've got it all wrong. Again."
Damian, who had been pacing nervously nearby, stopped and glanced over at him. "They're not just making things up, Hadrian. This is getting out of hand."
Hadrian gave a nonchalant shrug, trying to brush off the mounting pressure. "Let them think what they want. It's easier that way."
But Damian wasn't convinced. The worry on his face hadn't gone away in days. "You're not... you're not going to keep doing this, are you?"
Hadrian met his gaze, his smile fading slightly. "I'm not backing down. Not now."
Damian looked like he wanted to say more, but the words stuck in his throat. He didn't know what else to say. He was afraid—afraid for Hadrian, afraid for everything they had left.
Then, the attack came.
Hogwarts was struck, and the damage was severe. Most of the injuries were minor, but it was Michael—Damian's and Hadrian's brother—who was taken. The news of his kidnapping sent shock waves through the school. The Death Eaters had made their move, and now Michael was in their hands.
James called Damian on the mirror between the three of them. Damian stood rigid, his arms crossed tightly, his jaw clenched in frustration.
"I need you to help," Damian said, his voice steady but urgent, his eyes pleading. "Michael's blood, Hadrian. He's our family. You can't just sit here and do nothing."
Hadrian met his gaze, his own expression hardening. "I told you—I don't want to. I can't."
But Damian didn't back down. "You can. And you will. You've always fought for what's right, Hadrian. This time, don't walk away. I need you to help me get Michael back."
There was silence between them for a long moment, and Hadrian felt the weight of Damian's plea, the desperation in his voice. He closed his eyes, the decision weighing on him.
Later that day, Hadrian visited Marcus in his chambers nothing has improved, where he found Professor Ibriz standing over his brother's bed. Hadrian's expression was grim.
"I'm leaving," he said, the words final, as if they were the only ones that made sense.
Professor Ibriz looked up, his brow furrowing. "Hadrian, you can't... you've just gotten back. You've been through too much. We can do this as a team"
"I have to do this, I was destined to," Hadrian replied, his voice low. "Michael is blood—if anything. It's for Damian. I can't just leave him like this. I have to finish what Marcus and I set out to do."
Ibriz's face softened, though his worry was still evident. "And what about Damian? He's already been through so much. You leave, and he'll be lost. You know he is worried about you too."
Hadrian's gaze hardened. "He's not alone."
"I can't stop you," Ibriz said quietly, his voice tinged with sadness. "But Hadrian, just... promise me you'll keep your self safe."
Hadrian nodded. "You watch out over Damian while he's here."
"I will. Be back soon."
The next morning, Damian woke to find a letter on his pillow. The handwriting was unmistakable. Hadrian had left, the note telling him he was going to get Michael back.
Damian's heart sank, a cold, tight knot forming in his stomach as he read the words. He didn't really want Hadrian to go—not to risk himself for someone else. And definitely not alone. Not when so much was at stake.
But as much as he wanted to stop him, as much as he wanted to tell him not to go, Damian knew there was no stopping Hadrian once his mind was set.
He just hoped—he prayed—that Hadrian and Micheal would come back in one piece.
The moon hung high in the sky, casting pale light over the landscape. Hadrian stood motionless beneath the heavy cloak, the surrounding darkness swallowing up his figure as he surveyed the old manor before him. It was eerie—silent except for the faint rustling of leaves in the night breeze. He could feel the weight of the magic pressing against him, thick and oppressive, emanating from the building itself.
His fingers brushed the handles of the knives strapped to his belt, each one forged with a purpose—each one a reminder of the blood he had spilled to get this far. He checked the set once more, making sure everything was in place. His heartbeat was steady, but underneath the calm exterior, his mind raced with the gravity of what was to come. Michael was inside. He had to get him out.
With one last glance at the manor, Hadrian tightened his cloak around his shoulders and began to move, slipping into the shadows and towards the manor's entrance.
The manor's interior was cold and damp, the walls damp with the heavy scent of mildew and forgotten magic. Hadrian moved through the halls, every step deliberate, every sound muffled by the layers of his cloak. He was nearly invisible, blending seamlessly into the darkness, the only trace of him the faint flicker of power that swirled around his fingertips as he drew closer to the dungeon.
Inside, there was only the occasional creak of ancient wood and the echo of his footsteps as he descended into the depths. But soon, the dungeon's silence shattered with the sounds of distant curses and footsteps rushing toward him. He didn't hesitate.
In an instant, Hadrian let his magic burst forth, unleashing a storm of raw energy that tore through the dungeon like a tidal wave. The spell casters—Death Eaters no doubt—never stood a chance. Blasts of green and purple light splintered against the stone walls as Hadrian twisted and bent his magic to his will. Screams of surprise and pain echoed in the cold stone chamber, but they were silenced quickly, as Hadrian moved with a lethal grace, cutting down any who dared to approach.
The dungeon became a war zone—an extension of Hadrian's fury. He slashed with his knives, his magic slicing through the air with precision. Each person who tried to face him fell before him, the magic leaving nothing but scorch marks and lifeless bodies in its wake. It was all a blur, his mind focused solely on one thing: reaching Michael.
And then, finally, he saw him.
Michael lay in the far corner, unconscious, his body beaten and bruised. His limbs were shackled to the stone floor, and the sight of him, battered and broken, sent a rush of anger through Hadrian's veins.
He rushed to Michael's side, ignoring the throbbing pain in his own body as his magic pulsed through him, rippling outwards. With a flick of his wrist, the chains around Michael's wrists and ankles disappeared into mist. Hadrian gently cradled his brother's face, feeling the heat of his skin, the shallow breaths that spoke of pain and exhaustion.
"Michael," Hadrian whispered urgently, trying to wake him. "Wake up."
It took a moment, but eventually, Michael's eyelids fluttered, and he groggily stirred. When he opened his eyes and saw Hadrian's face, confusion flickered there. His lips trembled, his words barely a whisper.
"You... came?"
Hadrian gave a tight nod, a rare, soft expression crossing his face. "I'll always come for you. Don't you ever doubt that."
With a careful hand, Hadrian placed his magic over Michael, the warmth of it slowly spreading through his limbs. The healing was slow—his legs especially were in a bad state, but Hadrian's magic worked steadily to restore them. Michael's eyes closed for a moment, overwhelmed by the sensation of the healing, his breath catching as his legs slowly regained some strength.
"Hadrian... I don't..." Michael's voice cracked, but Hadrian shushed him.
"Not now. We don't have time for this." His voice was firm, even though his heart ached for his brother. He couldn't afford to waste a second. "We need to get out."
They made it to the dungeon's exit, but the moment they stepped into the hall, they were not alone. Death Eaters surrounded them from every angle, their wands drawn, their eyes cold and predatory.
"We've got company," Hadrian muttered, his expression darkening.
Without missing a beat, he threw up a shield to block the first barrage of curses that flew toward them. He grabbed Michael's arm and began to run, leading the way through the darkened halls of the manor, weaving in and out of shadows.
As they fought their way out, Hadrian's magic flared with each spell he cast. He moved with a ferocity that matched his brother's pain, the weight of it all driving him to be merciless. They killed and incapacitated Death Eaters as they went, using every ounce of power they had to carve a path through the chaos. But no matter how fast they ran, it was clear they were being herded toward a singular destination.
Then, they broke into the main room—Voldemort's domain.
The doors slammed shut behind them, and they were trapped.
Hadrian's breath came in short bursts, but his posture never faltered. He stood tall, fists clenched at his sides, ready for the fight of their lives. And then, the dark lord himself appeared—Voldemort, his eyes glowing red, his form looming and ominous.
"You think you can escape me, Hadrian?" Voldemort hissed, his voice a low growl. "You are foolish to think so."
Hadrian's eyes narrowed, his heart racing as he prepared for what came next. "I didn't come here to beg for my life, Tom," he sneered, a dangerous smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I came here to take what's mine."
Voldemort's cold gaze flickered toward Michael, who was still recovering from the ordeal. His lip curled in disdain.
"Then you will die for it," Voldemort spat, and with a flick of his wand, a blast of dark magic shot toward them.
Hadrian immediately shielded Michael, the blast hitting his shield with a force that shook the entire room. He staggered but didn't fall. This was it. The battle they had been preparing for.
There was no turning back now.
The room was thick with tension, the air heavy with dark magic as Voldemort's figure loomed in front of Hadrian and Michael. The walls of the chamber pulsed with power, reverberating with the dark energy the Dark Lord exuded. Voldemort's eyes narrowed as he studied them both, amusement flickering in his cold gaze.
"You think you've won, don't you?" Voldemort's voice slithered across the room, venomous and mocking. "But I've seen this before."
Hadrian's hand gripped his wand tighter, his senses on high alert. He could feel Michael's presence beside him, though his brother was still recovering from the fight. Voldemort's taunting tone struck deep, but Hadrian wasn't about to show weakness—not now.
Voldemort's lips twisted into a cruel smile. "I remember the night so well. The night I tried to kill the Boy Who Lived. Only it wasn't the boy who lived, was it? It was you, Hadrian. You, the older brother, the one who took the curse meant for him."
Hadrian's breath caught, and his eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and regret. The memory of that night, so long ago, flooded back to him—the cold, the fear, the way he'd stepped forward to protect Michael. He'd done it without a second thought, without hesitation. But it wasn't a memory he wanted to revisit.
"You saved him, but you didn't save yourself, did you?" Voldemort sneered, clearly enjoying the torment he was inflicting. "It was always you, wasn't it? The heir to something much greater than you could understand." His laugh was hollow, echoing through the chamber. "And yet here you are, trapped, just like you were before."
Hadrian's jaw tightened. He couldn't deny it. He was trapped, caught in a situation where there was no easy way out—no way to reverse what had been set in motion years ago.
Voldemort's eyes flickered to Michael, who stood slightly behind Hadrian, still visibly recovering from the fight. "And the Boy Who Lived—you truly think he is free of me, don't you?" Voldemort's lips curled into a cruel smile as he glanced down at Michael.
At the moment Voldemort turned his gaze from Hadrian, Michael, ever the strategist, pulled something from his pocket—a small, unassuming object. Hadrian's heart skipped a beat as he realized what it was.
A Portkey.
Michael's hand pressed the Portkey, and in an instant, he was gone, vanishing from the room. Hadrian's eyes widened as his brother disappeared, leaving him standing alone, trapped with the Dark Lord.
Voldemort's cold laugh echoed through the room, filling the space with an unsettling chill. "Ah, how typical. The Boy Who Lived runs when it's time to fight. Leaving his older brother to take the fall." Voldemort's cruel smile widened. "The one raised to defeat me runs away, and the one destined to destroy me remains. How fitting."
Hadrian's teeth gritted together, his magic surging beneath the surface. He couldn't believe it—Michael was gone, and now the full weight of what he had to face settled onto his shoulders.
But Voldemort's mocking words only fueled the fire inside him.
"Funny," Hadrian said, his voice ice-cold, "You think you've won." His hand gripped his wand as the surrounding air began to shift, crackling with a dark intensity. "But I'm not done yet."
Suddenly, Hadrian unleashed his magic in a violent wave. His power surged outward, crackling like lightning as he released it all at once. The air in the room seemed to shudder as the spell hit every Death Eater in the chamber, knocking them out one by one. The ones bearing the Dark Mark fell in an instant, their bodies crumpling to the floor without a sound.
For a moment, the world seemed too still. Silence enveloped them, and Hadrian stood there, his chest heaving, the remnants of his power still crackling in the air.
And then, there was only Voldemort.
Voldemort's eyes blazed with fury as he took a step forward, his wand raised, the tip glowing with dark magic. "You think you can defeat me, Hadrian? I am eternal. You can't kill me."
Hadrian's lips curled into a tight smile. "We'll see about that."
The two locked eyes, and in that instant, the room seemed to pulse with an unseen force, the magic in the air vibrating like a taut string ready to snap. Hadrian's magic was growing, shifting, responding to the duel like a beast hungry for destruction. His heart raced as he reached deep within himself, calling upon the power that had always been within him—power that had never truly had a name until now.
The fire. The raw elemental force that had once consumed the halls of Hogwarts.
Voldemort raised his wand, releasing a jet of dark, green magic toward Hadrian, but with a fierce determination, Hadrian raised his hand. In a single, fluid motion, he summoned the fire, a torrent of flame that surged from his body, twisting into a massive, engulfing storm.
The fire clashed with Voldemort's magic. The Dark Lord's spells fizzled against the inferno, his power unable to stand against the heat and force that was now devouring the room.
Hadrian, his eyes glowing with an otherworldly light, focused his magic further. The flames surged forward, swirling around Voldemort, absorbing his very life force as it crawled over him like a hungry predator. Voldemort screamed in agony as the fire consumed him, draining the last remnants of his immortality.
The Horcruxes were gone. And so was Voldemort.
With one final, forceful push, the flames consumed the last traces of Voldemort's dark magic. The Dark Lord fell to his knees, his body withering and aging rapidly before collapsing completely, a lifeless husk.
Hadrian stood, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his brow. His magic was still thrumming, but the weight of what had just transpired was heavy on him. He slowly approached Voldemort's body, looking down at the Dark Lord with a mixture of triumph and finality.
"You thought you could make me a puppet," Hadrian said, his voice cold and resolute. "But I'm not your tool. I never will be."
As he stood over the defeated Voldemort, Hadrian's face hardened. "I will always be the heir of the six. The heir of Merlin. The heir of the bloodline you tried to twist for your own purposes."
He looked down at the crumpled body, his voice unwavering. "And now, your nothing. Your magic is gone, and so are you. I am the one who will help shape the future."
Hadrian turned, his magic still swirling around him, the aftermath of the battle heavy in the air. But he knew, deep down, that this was the end. The prophecy had been fulfilled, but not in the way Voldemort had imagined. The line had been broken, and Hadrian had been the one to end it.
Last heir of the six had claimed his destiny.
The death of Voldemort had rippled across the magical world like a thunderclap. The darkness that had loomed over everything for so long was suddenly gone. But as Voldemort's final breath left his body, something else shifted. The wards, carefully crafted over years to keep the Dark Lord's influence intact, disintegrated in an instant.
In the same moment, the sound of Apparition filled the air, and several Aurors appeared in the now-empty room. Their wands drawn, they quickly assessed the situation, eyes darting from Voldemort's lifeless form to the lone figure standing at the center of the chaos: Hadrian. His body was shaking, his breath shallow, the last remnants of his magic flickering out of him.
Before anyone could speak, a familiar, authoritative voice broke through the tense silence.
"Hadrian." Dumbledore's voice was calm, but the weight of it carried a warning.
Hadrian's eyes were still glowing with the aftershock of the battle, his energy depleted from the final release that had obliterated the Dark Lord. He didn't even have the strength to stand properly, his body sinking to the floor, knees buckling as he fell to his hands.
The Aurors advanced, their wands aimed at him, but Dumbledore raised his hand, halting them.
"Michael killed Voldemort, not Hadrian," Dumbledore said, stepping forward, his eyes never leaving Hadrian's exhausted form. "He Portkeyed out before he could be killed by The Joker."
A murmur of disbelief ran through the room, but the Aurors didn't question their headmaster. They had their orders. And now, with Voldemort gone, they had a new problem.
The battle was over, but the world was still divided.
Dumbledore's voice turned steely. "We will subdue him for now. He must be taken to Azkaban until a fair trial can be arranged. We cannot afford to ignore the law."
Hadrian's body was thrown into the cold, damp cell, and the heavy metal door clanged shut behind him with a finality that sent a shiver down his spine. The darkness in the room was suffocating, the air thick with the chill of despair. He could hear the eerie, shuffling footsteps of the Dementors as they floated nearby, waiting to feast.
A low, eerie moan echoed in the distance—the unmistakable sound of Dementors searching for their next victim. The moment the Dementors saw him, they descended. Their presence was overpowering, filling the room with a crushing sense of hopelessness.
Hadrian's chest tightened as the cold darkness pressed in on him, and the memories began to flood back.
The orphanage. The loneliness. The cruel laughter of children who had been taught to mock him, to degrade him, to treat him like an outcast.
His heart pounded as his body was thrown into the same old hallways, the air filled with the bitterness of old wounds. The whispered taunts, the harsh words, the abuse from the adults who were supposed to protect him.
"Freak." "Worthless." "You'll never amount to anything."
The cruel faces of the orphanage staff loomed over him, their eyes full of disdain as they watched him struggle, a helpless child without any hope of escape. He could see their eyes even now—feel their cold, judgmental gaze burn into him. Every cut, every bruise, every broken piece of his past resurfaced.
It was as though the Dementors could taste his pain, feeding off it, drawing it out of him as his thoughts spiraled further into despair.
He gasped for breath, his mind whirling, trapped in a cycle of past trauma. The sound of whispers in the dark mixed with the rattling of chains, and the world blurred around him.
Elsewhere, in the Headmaster's office Dumbledore sat behind his desk, facing both Minister Fudge and Amelia Bones, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The mood was tense, the air thick with political maneuvering.
Fudge was fidgeting with his glasses, his face flushed with agitation. "Albus, this is madness. The public demands justice for what happened. The Joker can't just be allowed to walk free, especially not after—" he gestured vaguely toward the incident, "—everything he's done."
Amelia Bones, ever the more level-headed of the two, sat quietly, her gaze sharp as she studied Dumbledore.
Dumbledore's eyes were thoughtful, his hands steeped in front of him. "I understand your concerns, Cornelius, but we must not act rashly. We cannot forget that Hadrian deserves a fair trial. Michael's story may seem unbelievable to many, but I know it to be true."
"True?" Fudge's voice rose in disbelief. "The boy's a criminal! He killed the Dark Lord and fled, leaving his brother behind!"
"Michael did leave, yes," Dumbledore replied calmly. "But that does not absolve Hadrian of responsibility. And it does not make him guilty of what he has been accused of. We must ensure justice is served—not for the sake of appeasing the public, but for the sake of truth."
Amelia Bones nodded, her expression serious. "I agree, Albus. He deserves to be heard. But we must proceed carefully. The public opinion is volatile, and the Ministry must act in accordance with the law."
Dumbledore's gaze darkened slightly. "Justice is not about popularity, Amelia. It is about fairness. Hadrian's actions may have been influenced by his own sense of justice, but they must be judged by law. If we rush to conclusions now, we may set a dangerous precedent."
Fudge shifted uncomfortably. "So you intend to leave him in Azkaban until the trial?"
Dumbledore's eyes flickered with a quiet sadness. "Until the trial, yes. But I trust that we will find the truth before long. And when we do, I hope we will act with wisdom, not fear."
As Dumbledore sat back in his chair, the weight of the conversation settled around them like a heavy fog.
Night of the battle- Before Aurors Apparated into Voldemort's manor
The weight of the last few days hung heavy in the air. The dark, quiet house of the Potters seemed to reflect the tension inside. Michael stood at the kitchen table, eyes downcast, barely able to look anyone in the eye. He was still processing everything that had happened—Voldemort's death, the chaos that had followed, and the guilt that gnawed at him from the inside.
James and Lily stood in the doorway, their expressions a mixture of concern and relief. Michael had returned home safely, but there was something off about him. His hands trembled as he clasped them together, his mind racing with thoughts of Hadrian—his brother, who was now in Azkaban.
James broke the silence, his voice low but full of a father's worry. "Michael," he began softly, "you've been through a lot. But... where's Hadrian?"
Michael's heart stuttered. The words tasted bitter on his tongue. He had seen Hadrian fight with everything he had, had witnessed the way Hadrian had poured out his magic to destroy Voldemort, knowing it could cost him everything. And now Hadrian was imprisoned, alone, for something that was beyond his control. But Michael wasn't sure if he could tell the full truth—not yet, not with the guilt still suffocating him.
"He... he didn't make it out in time," Michael said quietly, forcing the words through his clenched jaw. "I... I had to leave. Hadrian stayed behind to fight."
James looked at Michael for a long moment, his brow furrowing in confusion and concern. "You left him behind?" His voice was almost a whisper, as if trying to reconcile what his son had just said. "Michael, he's your brother—you should have stayed with him."
Michael's breath caught in his throat. The guilt was overwhelming. He wasn't sure what was worse: the fact that he had abandoned Hadrian, or the lie he was about to tell. His mind flashed back to the moment when Voldemort fell, when Hadrian's magic had surged, and when Michael, seeing the chaos, had seized the opportunity to Portkey out of the danger.
"Michael?" James asked again, softer now, his eyes full of pain. "Where is he? Where's Hadrian?"
Before Michael could answer, Dumbledore appeared at the door frame, his presence as calm and steady as ever. His eyes met Michael's for a brief, knowing moment. He had his suspicions, but Dumbledore was a man of wisdom and restraint.
"James, Lily," Dumbledore began, his voice warm but filled with an undertone of caution. "I regret to inform you that Hadrian is in Azkaban, awaiting trial."
"What?!" Lily gasped, her voice trembling. "What do you mean? He killed Voldemort—he saved us!"
James, too, looked taken aback, his face clouding with disbelief. "Azkaban? Why? What happened?"
Dumbledore glanced at Michael, his gaze heavy but patient. "Hadrian used his magic to destroy Voldemort, but in doing so, he exhausted himself. He was caught by the Aurors shortly after the battle ended. The Ministry has labeled him as the main suspect, due to his association with the Joker persona. They've already imprisoned him while awaiting trial."
Michael's heart sank. He knew that was a lie—at least part of it. The Aurors hadn't caught Hadrian after the battle. It had been Michael, and only Michael, who had escaped. He didn't have the courage to tell James and Lily the full truth—not yet.
Damian, who had been quietly standing by the door, stepped forward. He had been listening closely, and his sharp eyes were filled with suspicion as he studied Michael. He had seen the way Michael's jaw clenched, how his gaze flitted nervously toward the door when Dumbledore had mentioned the Aurors.
"Michael," Damian said coolly, his voice like ice. "That's not what happened, is it?" His eyes locked onto Michael's with a piercing intensity. "You didn't leave him behind. You ran."
Michael froze. The words hung in the air, heavy with accusation. Everyone's eyes turned to Damian, then to Michael, waiting for an answer.
James and Lily, oblivious to the tension building in the room, exchanged confused glances. "What do you mean, Damian?" Lily asked.
Damian stepped closer, his tone sharp. "Michael Portkeyed out of there. He left Hadrian to face Voldemort's followers alone. Hadrian was the one who killed Voldemort—not Michael. Hadrian fought, and he stayed behind. He never ran."
James's eyes narrowed as the truth sank in. He turned to Michael, his face hardening. "Is that true, Michael?" His voice was quieter now, but the disappointment was unmistakable.
Michael opened his mouth, but no words came. The guilt choked him. He could see the truth in Damian's eyes, could feel the weight of it on his shoulders. He had abandoned his brother, and now, because of him, Hadrian was in Azkaban. The guilt of leaving him behind—when Hadrian had done everything to save him—was eating him alive.
"I didn't leave him there," Michael finally whispered, barely able to breathe the words out. "I couldn't save him. I—I left, so I could try to get help, but by the time I got out, he was already captured by the Aurors. It... it wasn't supposed to happen this way."
James stepped back, a shadow crossing his face. "You left him, Michael. You left him to fight alone."
"I didn't—" Michael started, but his voice broke. "I didn't want this. I couldn't—couldn't risk losing you too."
The words felt hollow, like an excuse that didn't really explain anything. He could see the disappointment in his father's eyes, the weight of the choice Michael had made crashing down on him.
Lily, unable to hold back her own emotions, whispered, "You should have fought for him, Michael. You should have fought with him."
Damian stood in the corner, watching it all unfold. He had known Michael long enough to see when the truth was being twisted. He wasn't going to let it slide this time. Hadrian's sacrifice, his fight—none of it was going to be buried under lies.
With a sigh, Damian shook his head, his voice cold and steady. "We'll get him out. We'll make sure he gets a fair trial. But Michael..." He paused, locking eyes with him one last time. "You need to own up to what you did. You left him. And that's something you'll have to live with."
The room was silent, the weight of the truth hanging heavily in the air. Michael stood there, the guilt gnawing at him, as Damian's words echoed in his mind.
In the cold, shadowed halls of Azkaban, the cell door creaked open. Hadrian was lying on the cold stone floor, his hands shackled, his head heavy with exhaustion. Three Aurors stepped into the cell, their faces cold and unreadable. Without a word, they shackled his wrists and yanked him to his feet, the harsh metal clanging as it dug into his skin.
The journey to the dock was silent, the clatter of their footsteps the only sound echoing through the dank corridors. Hadrian's mind wandered, his thoughts a blur. He had fought for so long, given everything he had to bring Voldemort down, but in the end, all of it felt meaningless. He was now the prisoner. He could only wonder what would happen to him next. Would they execute him? Would they really give him the Kiss?
Damian stood in front of the mirror, his fingers trembling as he straightened his clothes, trying to ignore the storm of emotions brewing inside him. The house was too quiet. The news had reached them. Hadrian had been arrested. He knew his brother—Hadrian hadn't done any of this. He couldn't have.
His mind replayed the conversation with Professor Ibriz earlier. The professor had shared a cryptic message, one that had sent a chill down Damian's spine. "We have a plan for Merlin's heir." But Damian wasn't sure what that meant—why the plan? Was it about Hadrian, or was there something more at play? He couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.
As Damian stood there, lost in thought, James stepped into the room, his hand gently resting on his son's shoulder.
"Damian," he said softly, his voice heavy with worry, "We have to go. We'll get all the answers at the trial. You know Hadrian the best. He had his reasons."
Damian nodded slowly, though his mind was still racing. They can't do this to him. They won't.
James led him to the floo room in the house where the rest of the family waited. James started the fire and went in first followed by Micheal and Aries. Damian was tense, he looked up to his mom who placed a comforting hand on Damian. Together they stepped into the fire all heading into the unknown.
When they stepped out of the floo at the Ministry of Magic, they were greeted by a sea of reporters, cameras flashing, questions shouted from all directions. The Potters pushed through the throng, their faces set in grim determination, making their way to the courtroom.
Damian looked around the grim room it was the one he and uncle Sirius broke into. There was a different feel to the room it was less oppressed. The trial commenced in a hush. Hadrian was brought in, shackled to a chair, his face pale and drawn, but his eyes sharp. He glanced over at his parents, James and Lily, who were sitting in the front row, their eyes brimming with tears. They were visibly shaken. Michael sat beside them, his face tight with guilt, avoiding eye contact with Hadrian. Damian sat next to Aries holding her hand. Damian shot occasional, cold glances at Michael, his disappointment evident.
Hadrian's hands were bound tightly to the chair, and he barely moved. He was under Veritaserum, forced to tell the truth, but Damian could tell it wasn't going to be easy. The questions began—about the murders, about the Joker, and about his actions during the war.
As each question was asked, Hadrian's answers were careful, but the words felt wrong. They had been carefully worded to incriminate him, to fit the narrative they wanted to hear. Yes, he admitted to some killings—but he didn't elaborate on the context. How could he, when the questions were framed in such a way that it made him look guilty?
Damian clenched his fists, watching helplessly as the trial dragged on. It felt like the walls were closing in around Hadrian. Every word he spoke was twisted into something darker. The truth seemed irrelevant in the face of the carefully crafted story the Ministry wanted to tell. It was clear: the decision was already made. Hadrian was going to receive the kiss.
When the judgment was mentioned, Dumbledore stood up, speaking with calm authority, presenting the facts. He refuted the accusations of the killings, explaining that most of those labeled as victims of the Joker were actually Death Eaters or Voldemort supporters. He highlighted the fact that Damian had left Hogwarts on his own accord, stating that he reported it wrong, following his brother, not the other way around.
Still, the verdict seemed inevitable. Hadrian looked toward Michael, his gaze steady, but Michael's eyes dropped to the floor, guilt written all over his face. He didn't say a word.
Suddenly, an explosion shook the courtroom. Dust and debris fell from the ceiling, and panic spread like wildfire. Minister Fudge ordered the Aurors to investigate. The fog rolled in thick and fast, filling the room with a haze that made it hard to see. The chaos allowed for a moment of confusion—an opening.
Hadrian was quickly taken by the Aurors, dragged out of the courtroom, his chains still clinking. But as they moved down the corridor, the guards suddenly collapsed, one by one, as if struck by an invisible force.
Standing at the far end of the hallway was The Deck—the mysterious group that had always stayed in the shadows. They had come for Hadrian.
Without a word, Hadrian was unchained. A cloak was draped over his shoulders, and he was free once more, at least for the moment.
Professor Ibriz appeared at his side, offering a grin. "Do you remember when you used to get in trouble for sneaking out as a kid?" he asked with a wink.
Hadrian let out a breathless laugh. "I thought I was done with that."
But the humor didn't last long. The two of them joined the battle, dodging hexes and curses, fighting their way through the chaos to escape.
News of the courtroom explosion spread quickly. Reports were filled with images of the chaos, the injured, the destruction. But what captured the most attention was the escape of The Joker. The manhunt was now in full swing, with authorities scrambling to find Hadrian and bring him back to Azkaban. But for now, he was gone, safe.
As the day wound down, Hadrian found himself standing at the platform at his school, surrounded by the students and professors who had helped him get this far. He raised a hand to silence the room, his voice firm as he addressed them.
"This school, these friends colleagues, those sitting next and across from you, there is always a bind that binds us together. That is Magic. Morgana wanted a school to study magic at its core that not many can do. She and Merlin also created a society that has many names through the centuries but today it's the Deck. I wanted to say thank you for supporting not only your headmaster but me as person. Some of you have seen me grow up while others are just learning about me. I thank you for your support to the school and to the cause. One thing we know and stand by is when blood and magic calls when blood calls, we answer. And we will always stand together. To another year of Magic and discovery!"
The students cheered, their loyalty clear, as Hadrian stood there, a man with a new purpose—and a new identity. The battle wasn't over, but he had taken the first step in reclaiming his future.
Up next: Epilogue