Evan Potter had long stopped believing in fairy tale endings.
Once, when he was younger, he had imagined that good and evil were simple things. That the Dark Lord was a monster to be slain, and that those who stood against him would be rewarded with victory and peace. But peace had never come. And victory—if it ever did—felt like a distant, impossible dream.
The war had stretched on for years, bleeding the life out of both sides. The Order of the Phoenix was no longer the proud resistance it had once been. They had no headquarters, no steady supply lines, no Ministry backing them. Their forces were scattered, hiding in warded safehouses, moving under the cover of night. Their numbers were dwindling, cut down by betrayals, ambushes, and battles that were less like fights and more like massacres. The Ministry had fractured, its leadership gutted, leaving behind a husk of corruption. Technically, it still existed, but everyone knew it was just a battleground between Death Eaters and what few loyalists remained.
For every battle won, they lost two more.
Evan knew it. The Order knew it. And the Dark Lord knew it.
They were losing.
And then there was him.
Hadrian Potter. The Black Sheep. The traitor.
The man Evan had once called his brother.
The name left a bitter taste in his mouth, even now. The Order rarely spoke of Hadrian, and when they did, it was in quiet, hateful tones. The Potters pretended he didn't exist. To them, Harry Potter had died long ago, and what remained was something twisted and unrecognizable.
But Evan couldn't forget. He refused to forget.
Hadrian wasn't just Voldemort's right hand. He was his heir. His war dog. His executioner.
And worst of all, he was a genius.
Medusa's Misery had solidified his legend—a spell so horrific that even the Death Eaters feared it. At first, people had thought it was just a variation of the Killing Curse, but it was worse. Slower. It started as a cold, creeping sensation before spreading through the body like frostbite, turning the victim to stone before they crumbled into dust.
Gone. Without a trace. Without a corpse to mourn or bury.
It was a death sentence.
And no one had ever survived it.
Not a single person.
Evan had spent three years preparing himself, pushing his limits beyond exhaustion, because he knew he was the only one who could stop him.
He had to.
Evan was the Boy-Who-Lived.
He had spent years learning, training, studying magic until his hands bled from spellwork. He knew Voldemort could be beaten.
But Hadrian…
Evan had never faced anyone like him. He was a myth, a shadow, a phantom that walked through battlefields untouched. No one had seen him truly fight and lived to tell the tale.
And Evan knew, deep down, that his brother was more dangerous than Voldemort himself.
Hadrian had always been clever. But he had also been kind.
Not anymore.
The man Evan had once admired—the brother he had shared a home with—was gone. And if there was anything left of him, it was buried beneath layers of ruthlessness, deception, and that awful, awful spell.
The Order thought Hadrian was just another Death Eater. They didn't understand the depth of his treachery, the careful way he moved through the war, the way he positioned himself like a chess piece just out of reach.
Evan understood, though.
Because Hadrian didn't just fight battles.
He played the game.
And if Evan was going to win, he had to play it too.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
The candlelight flickered against the damp walls of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, casting long shadows across the scattered books and parchment strewn across Daphne's desk. The house was eerily silent at this hour, save for the occasional creak of the old Black family manor settling into itself. It should have been comforting—proof that, for now, they were safe—but instead, it only made her feel more alone.
She couldn't sleep.
Hadn't been able to in months.
Not since him.
Her fingers tightened around the quill she held, and she exhaled sharply, forcing herself to focus. There wasn't time for distractions. Not now.
Laid open in front of her were books that had no place in the hands of a proper war strategist—ancient tomes of Greek mythology, half-forgotten spells, dusty pages filled with the whispers of a long-dead civilization. She had long since exhausted every practical text, every curse-breaking technique, every counter-curse in the Hogwarts curriculum. None of it had worked. None of it even touched Medusa's Misery.
The Order feared it, called it Dark Magic of the worst kind, a horror born from a mind unshackled by morality.
She wasn't foolish enough to deny it.
Hadrian's spell was worse than any Killing Curse. It was deliberate. Methodical. Unstoppable. And worse, it was unknown. No one knew the exact mechanics of it. No one knew how to defend against it. And no one, no matter how skilled, had ever survived its grasp.
So she had turned to history.
To myths.
To Medusa.
She traced a finger over the inked illustration of the gorgon's face, her serpentine hair curling around her expression of frozen agony. A woman cursed by the gods. A glance that turned men to stone.
It was just a story.
But all stories came from something.
A slow, creeping thought had been forming in her mind for weeks now—one she barely dared to entertain.
Curses left traces. Even the Unforgivables left some kind of imprint, a magical residue. But Medusa's Misery left nothing. Just dust.
Daphne squeezed her eyes shut, fingers curling into the fabric of her sleeves as the memories crashed over her.
She had once been untouchable. The Ice Queen. Cold, composed, above it all. Daphne Greengrass never let anyone in. It was a reputation she had built with precision, a shield against expectations, against heartbreak, against weakness.
And then he had come along.
Hadrian Potter.
Gryffindor golden boy.
He had shattered her careful walls, slipping through the cracks before she had even realized she had left them open. His smile had been like fire against her ice, melting through her defenses one by one. He had been frustratingly arrogant, painfully stubborn, but brilliant—so brilliant it was almost unfair. And for all his sharp edges, his relentless determination, his natural talent in everything he touched, he had been warm.
She had fallen hard.
And he had too.
Or at least, she had thought he had.
Until the Third Task.
Until the night everything broke.
The air had been thick with smoke and screams when she arrived at the edge of the maze, her heart pounding in her chest. The Triwizard Tournament was supposed to be a test of skill, of wit, of strength. But it had become a bloodbath.
She remembered the bodies first.
Alastor Moody, the grizzled Auror who had stepped in as that year's Defense against the Dark Arts Professor, his face frozen in shock as he crumpled to the ground, lifeless.
Katie Bell.
Merlin, Katie.
She hadn't even been part of it. Just there, in the wrong place at the worst time.
Hadrian had killed her.
Not with Medusa's Misery. Not with some elegant, unknowable curse.
He had cut off her head.
He had cut off her head.
Daphne had been too stunned to move at first. Too stunned to comprehend what she was seeing. The boy she loved, standing over the bloodstained grass, holding his wand with the same effortless ease he always had, expression unreadable.
But it was his last victim that made her shatter.
His hostage.
His message.
Astoria.
Her little sister.
Daphne had screamed, had begged, had pleaded for him to stop, but Hadrian hadn't even looked at her. Not until it was too late.
She had watched it happen, helpless, as Medusa's Misery consumed Astoria piece by piece.
At first, she thought it was petrification—a curse she could break, something she could fix. But it wasn't.
Astoria had known it wasn't.
Her little sister, barely fifteen, had turned to her with wide, terrified eyes. She had sobbed, she had begged, she had pleaded.
"Daphne, please—please, I don't want to die—"
Her skin cracked like marble, fractures spreading from her fingers, her cheeks, her lips. The light in her eyes faded before she even finished her sentence.
And then—
Dust.
Nothing left.
Like she had never even existed.
Gone.
The word haunted her. The absence of it. The finality.
Astoria wasn't just dead—she was erased.
It was this, more than anything, that drove Daphne into her obsession.
She had spent years combing through books, tearing through every ancient text she could get her hands on. Greek mythology, runic scripts, forbidden rituals—anything that could explain what Hadrian had become, anything that could help her stop him. To stop Medusa's Misery.
No one understood it.
Not the Unspeakables. Not the remaining Order members. Not even the Death Eaters who followed Hadrian in the shadows. No one could replicate it, counter it, or even sense it before it struck.
It terrified them.
It consumed her.
Daphne had been cold before, but after that night, she had become ice.
She remembered stepping into Grimmauld Place for the first time, empty and hollow, wearing her grief like armor. The Potters had been waiting for her, their faces pale, their eyes filled with the same disbelief that clung to her like a second skin.
They had all seen it.
Hadrian, their son, their brother, their friend—he had slaughtered Katie Bell. He had executed Astoria. He had stood before them, drenched in blood, and chosen to leave.
None of them could understand it. None of them could reconcile the boy they had loved with the man he had become.
Lily had cried, her fingers clutching a photograph so tightly it had crumpled under the pressure. James had been silent, shaking with a fury that had nowhere to go. Sirius had raged, throwing glasses, breaking furniture, demanding answers that would never come.
And Daphne—
Daphne had felt nothing.
She had sat beside Evan, who had been trembling in his seat, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned white. He had been barely fifteen at the time, still too young, still too naïve to understand the full weight of what had happened.
"Why?" he had asked her. His voice had been raw, desperate. "Why would he do this?"
Daphne hadn't known how to answer.
She still didn't.
But she had sworn that night—sworn to never let it happen again.
She would figure out Medusa's Misery. She would understand what had twisted Hadrian into the monster he had become. And when she did, she would be the one to stop him.
Daphne exhaled sharply, running a hand through her already-disheveled hair. The numbers didn't fit. They never did.
She had gone over the equations a thousand times, breaking them down, reconstructing them, searching for the flaw, the missing link. But there was none.
By all logical measures, Hadrian's work shouldn't be possible.
And yet, she had seen it. Lived it. Lost because of it.
Her quill scratched furiously against parchment as she tried once more, mapping out the magical equations behind Medusa's Misery. Arithmancy was structured, predictable. Magic, even in its most chaotic forms, still followed patterns, laws, limitations.
But Hadrian had broken those limitations.
She was so lost in her calculations that she didn't hear the door open.
Fleur's voice, soft and knowing, cut through the silence.
"Still haven't given up."
Daphne didn't look up. "Not yet."
Fleur sighed, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her. She was quiet for a moment, moving closer, peering over Daphne's shoulder at the scattered pages filled with runes, spell matrices, and fragmented theories.
Then, softly, she said, "He was brilliant."
Daphne stilled.
Fleur had known Hadrian in ways the rest of them hadn't. They had met when they were children, facing off in an Under-15 dueling tournament. Fleur had been fierce, Hadrian had been relentless. He had won.
And they had been friends ever since.
They had written to each other, visited during holidays, pushed each other to improve, to grow stronger.
A part of Fleur still mourned him.
"He didn't create it for this," Fleur continued. "Medusa's Misery, it wasn't meant to be a weapon."
Daphne tightened her grip on her quill. She knew where this was going.
"He designed it for medical use," Fleur said. "To stop infections. Curses. Venom. If a limb was beyond saving, it would turn to stone—contain the damage before it spread."
"I know," Daphne snapped. "I understand how he created it. But how it transformed into Medusa's Misery—how it became this—" She gestured at the mess of numbers in front of her. "That's what I don't understand."
That's what no one understood.
Hadrian had taken something meant to heal and turned it into something that annihilated.
How?
How had he twisted his own creation into something so absolute?
Fleur sighed behind her. "You've been up all night again."
Daphne ignored her. "There's a missing step. Something he did, something he discovered that no one else has. There has to be a trigger, an equation that shifts it from preservation to destruction. If I can just—"
"Daphne." Fleur's voice was softer now. Measured.
Daphne turned, catching the way Fleur's expression shifted—hesitation, something unreadable behind those sharp blue eyes.
"What?"
Fleur exhaled, crossing her arms. "I was sent to bring you down."
Daphne frowned. "Why?"
"There's an Order meeting," Fleur said simply. "James wants everyone there."
Daphne's shoulders tensed. A meeting. Another discussion about their dwindling forces, about how every battle chipped away at them. How they had lost more than they had gained. How he—Hadrian—continued to haunt their every move.
For a second, she considered ignoring it. She wanted to stay buried in the numbers, to keep working. But she knew James Potter, and if he was calling them all together, it meant something important had happened.
With a reluctant sigh, she closed the book in front of her. The runes and calculations would still be there when she returned.
"Fine," she said. "Let's go."
The room was filled with the heavy scent of parchment, ink, and the lingering burn of firewhiskey from Sirius's glass. The tension sat thick in the air, pressing against Daphne's skin as she settled into her chair. Conversations buzzed around her, some hushed, others clipped and urgent. No one looked well-rested. No one ever was these days.
James leaned forward, fingers laced together on the table. "The raid at Diagon Alley took down two of Voldemort's inner circle. That's not nothing." His voice was steady, but there was no satisfaction in it.
"Not nothing?" Kingsley's deep voice cut in, low and measured. "We lost three Aurors, four more are in St. Mungo's, and Charlie and Remus are out of commission. We can't afford this kind of loss."
Tonks frowned, arms crossed over her chest. "We knew it would be bad. The Death Eaters had time to prepare. They knew we were coming."
"They always do," Sturgis Podmore muttered, rubbing at the dark circles under his eyes.
"They're getting better at anticipating our movements," Fleur said, her accent more pronounced in her frustration. "This is the third time they have set a trap for us."
"They're getting Ministry intelligence," Lily said, her green eyes sharp. "And not from just anyone. Someone high up."
Sirius scoffed from his spot against the wall. "You mean besides the fact that half the Ministry is already in You-Know-Who's pocket?"
Kingsley shot him a look but didn't argue. "We need to be more careful. If we keep walking into these ambushes, we won't have enough fighters left to push back."
"We're already stretched thin." Emmeline leaned back in her chair, exhaling sharply. "The Ministry's forces are divided. Scrimgeour's trying to keep the Aurors fighting, but every day, more of them defect or disappear. We don't have the numbers for a prolonged war."
Bill, who had been quiet until now, nodded. "It's not just the Aurors. Gringotts is under heavier surveillance. The goblins are restless, and some are starting to take sides."
"The wrong side," Fleur muttered.
Ron, sitting between Hermione and Evan, finally spoke up. "So what do we do? Keep going like this until we're all dead?"
No one had an immediate answer.
Daphne clenched her jaw. This was the reality of it. They weren't just fighting a war—they were losing one.
"We need more allies," Hermione said, pushing a stray curl behind her ear. "There are still people who oppose You-Know-Who but haven't joined the fight."
"Because they're afraid," Evan said, voice quiet but firm. "And with good reason."
Sirius let out a harsh breath. "We're all afraid. But if we don't start making some real plays instead of reacting, it won't matter how many are left standing."
James drummed his fingers against the table, his gaze never leaving the map. "What about Poppy's source?" he asked, looking up at Minerva. "Has there been any more word?"
McGonagall pursed her lips, her sharp gaze shifting toward the elderly healer standing at the far end of the room. Madam Pomfrey, ever the picture of composure, only shook her head.
"I told you," she said firmly, "I will not reveal his name."
James sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Poppy, I understand your need for secrecy, but if this person has been feeding us information, we need to know if he can be trusted."
"He's never given me reason to doubt him," Pomfrey replied, voice steady. "And you of all people should know that a secret kept is a life spared."
Lily, sitting beside James, exhaled softly. "We don't doubt you, Poppy. But this last tip—it wasn't enough. We walked into a slaughter."
Pomfrey's face softened, and for a moment, she looked far older than usual. "I know," she admitted. "And so does he. But he takes great risks to get us this information. If the wrong people find out about him, he's as good as dead."
"That's the problem, though," Kingsley said. "We're already losing people. We can't afford to trust blindly."
"I don't trust blindly," Pomfrey snapped, eyes flashing. "I trust where it is earned. He's given me more than enough reason."
James looked like he wanted to argue further, but Sirius leaned forward, cutting in. "Does he at least have more information? Anything that might tell us what's coming next?"
James looked like he wanted to argue further, his jaw tight and his brows furrowed, but before he could get the words out, Sirius leaned forward, cutting in with a sharp, questioning tone. "Does he at least have more information? Anything that might tell us what's coming next?"
She exhaled sharply, leaning forward. "The Dark Lord is upset at the loss of two of his inner circle. My source said that the Dark Lord would seek retaliation for the loss. They say he's planning something. Something huge."
The room tensed at the words, and several of the Order members exchanged looks.
"Something Huge?" James repeated, his voice laced with disbelief. "What do you mean by that?"
Pomphrey's lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze focused on the map laid across the table. "I can't say exactly what, but the attacks lately... they've been coordinated. Strategic." She turned her eyes to James. "Not like their usual style at all. Not like the last war."
"Strategic isn't exactly their usual style," Sturgis muttered.
Ron, who had been unusually quiet up until that point, leaned forward, his hands resting on the table. His voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent of frustration in it. "Maybe that's because they've got someone like Hadrian helping them."
A wave of tension rippled through the room. Daphne felt it like a cold shiver down her spine. The mention of his name had that effect on people.
James, Lily, Sirius, and even Remus—who had been largely silent since entering—all stiffened at the sound of it. The air became thick with the weight of his absence, his betrayal, and the twisted path he had chosen.
Lily's face drained of color as she met Ron's gaze. "He's right," she said, her voice hollow. "Hadrian's ability to predict your next move was legendary." Her voice broke for a second as she continued, "The boy had been dueling since he could pick up a wand."
The silence that followed was thick with unspoken thoughts, and the room felt colder. Sirius gritted his teeth. "That's why it's been so damn difficult. He's not just another Death Eater; he's something else entirely."
James looked around the table, the flickering candlelight casting sharp shadows over his face. "Then we hit them first. Before they hit us."
Lily frowned. "James—"
"No," he cut her off gently. "We keep waiting for them to attack, and every time, we lose people. We have to take the fight to them. If we don't, we'll never stand a chance."
The silence that followed wasn't one of disagreement. It was one of understanding. Of resignation.
Daphne exhaled and leaned back, her gaze drifting to the map spread across the table. Red marks littered it, each one a battle, an attack, a loss.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
Hadrian sat at a desk, his back to her, hunched over a pile of parchment. His brow furrowed in concentration as he scribbled something down, his quill moving quickly across the page. Books lay scattered across the desk, open to various pages, but he didn't seem to notice anything other than the work in front of him. Daphne's heart tugged at the sight of him—so focused, so absorbed in his studies. He always was.
"Hadrian," she called softly, stepping toward him.
He didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on his work, his fingers tapping against the desk as if he was calculating something in his head. He was always like this when he got lost in his work. It was part of what she loved about him—the way he could immerse himself completely, the way he cared about everything so deeply, even the smallest details.
She crossed the room, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet, and leaned over his shoulder. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched him scribble, his expression intent and serious.
"Hadrian," she said again, this time a little louder, her hand gently touching the edge of his parchment. "You need a break."
He didn't even flinch at her touch, but after a moment, he finally looked up. His eyes—those dark, intense eyes—met hers, and for a brief moment, she saw the boy she once knew. The boy who would always make time for her, no matter how important his work was.
"I can't," he murmured, his voice low, distracted. "I'm almost done."
"Done with what?" Daphne asked, a hint of laughter in her voice. "It's just another assignment. You've been at it for hours."
Hadrian didn't answer right away. He just stared at her, as if weighing her words. Then, with a sigh, he leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. "I know," he said, sounding almost exasperated. "But it's important, Daphne. I have to get this right."
She leaned down to his level, her hands resting lightly on the back of the chair. "What's so important that you're willing to miss dinner? Or a chance to see me?"
Hadrian's lips twitched into a small, tired smile. "Everything. This is all I've got right now. You know that."
Daphne felt her heart twist at his words. You know that. There it was again, that same sense of distance. She knew he was always driven by something deeper, something that made him feel like he had to prove himself. But in that moment, she just wanted to take him away from it all. Pull him away from his work, from the weight he carried, from the endless striving that seemed to consume him.
She leaned in a little closer, her breath warm against his ear. "Then come with me. Let's just leave all this behind for a while. It's been too long, Hadrian. I miss you."
For a moment, he was silent, his eyes drifting back to his work as if he was tempted to say something. The tension hung between them, thick with unspoken thoughts. And then, finally, he sighed, setting his quill down.
"Alright," he muttered, turning toward her with a weary smile. "You win. We'll take a break."
Daphne grinned and pulled him up from his chair, her fingers wrapping around his wrist as she tugged him toward the door. She felt his resistance at first, but then, slowly, he let himself be pulled along. She had won—this time.
Daphne grinned and pulled him up from his chair, her fingers wrapping around his wrist as she tugged him toward the door. She felt his resistance at first, but then, slowly, he let himself be pulled along. She had won—this time.
"What was so important that you couldn't take a break for me?" Daphne asked, her voice teasing but warm, as they walked side by side down the corridor.
Hadrian rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. "It's not exactly the sort of thing you mention in passing," he replied, sounding a little embarrassed. "I was working on something for Madame Pomfrey."
Daphne's curiosity piqued. "For Pomphrey?" she echoed. "What kind of something?"
"A spell," he explained, glancing over at her with a touch of pride in his eyes. "It's still in the testing phase, but it's supposed to stop infections—curses, venom, and the like—from spreading by turning the affected area to stone. It's meant to stabilize the injury until we can do more."
Daphne blinked in surprise, her earlier teasing smile fading. "That's... incredible." Her voice softened with awe. "Why didn't you tell me? I mean, you're working on something like that and you don't say anything?"
Hadrian shrugged, his hands slipping into his pockets as they walked. "I wanted to keep it quiet," he said. "I didn't think it was ready for anyone else to know yet. Besides, I've been so caught up in the theory of it all that I haven't had much time to, well, explain."
"Caught up in your genius," Daphne muttered with a roll of her eyes. "You and your secrets. But seriously, Hadrian... that's brilliant."
He gave her a sheepish grin, his eyes glinting with something familiar, something that had always drawn her in. "You know how I get with projects. I just get lost in them. But I'll tell you more about it when it's finished."
Daphne shook her head with a soft laugh, nudging him with her shoulder. "You're impossible," she said, though the warmth in her voice betrayed her fondness. "Always hiding things like they're classified. I'm right here, you know. I can help."
"Maybe you'd make a better assistant than Pomphrey," he teased, nudging her back. "You've got the stubbornness for it."
She huffed in mock indignation. "I'm not stubborn," she protested, but it was half-hearted. "I'm just… dedicated."
"Oh, I know." Hadrian's grin widened. "Dedicated to making sure I actually get a break every now and then."
Daphne raised an eyebrow, her smile softening. "What about you, Hadrian? What do you want to do in the future? What's the big dream?"
Hadrian paused for a moment, his smile fading into something more thoughtful. He looked out ahead, his gaze distant, like he was picturing something far off in the distance. Then, without taking his eyes off the path ahead, he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer.
"Well, I want to get a career creating spells," he said, his voice more serious now, but filled with the passion she had always admired in him. "I want to spend my life designing new magic—something that can help people, protect them. You know, a legacy."
Daphne nodded, her head resting against his shoulder as they walked. She knew he had always been driven, but hearing him speak of it in this way made her heart swell with admiration. He was brilliant, that much was certain. But it wasn't just his intellect that captivated her—it was his vision, his desire to use that brilliance for good.
"And then?" she prompted, her curiosity piqued.
He shifted slightly, pulling her closer, and she could feel the warmth of his embrace. "Well," he said, with a small smile tugging at his lips. "I want to get married to the beautiful girl in front of me, of course." His voice was playful now, but there was sincerity in his eyes.
Daphne's heart skipped at the mention of the future. She glanced up at him, her lips curving into a smile. "Is that so?" she asked, pretending to be surprised.
"Absolutely," he said, his voice a mix of affection and conviction. "And then I'll take up my spot as Lord Potter in the Wizengamot, represent the family, and all that. You know, politics, rules, that sort of thing."
She laughed softly at his tone, the idea of him in the Wizengamot feeling so natural, so destined for him. But then, he turned a little more serious again, his expression shifting.
"And then," he continued, "I want to build a house. Not some grand estate. A little cottage by the sea, a place where I can just… breathe. For me, my wife, and our future children."
Daphne's heart swelled. A house by the sea? The image formed in her mind—waves crashing gently against the shore, a place of peace, just the two of them, building something together.
"Where would it be?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as though afraid to break the peaceful moment between them.
Hadrian paused, like he was weighing it in his mind, and then his expression grew more thoughtful. "Well, it would be on Lake Caelan, a mile west of the cliffs. It's not a very well-known spot, but it's beautiful. The sea is wild there, but calm, too. Not many people go there. It'd be the perfect place for us."
She looked up at him, her heart racing a little. "What would you call it?"
He smiled, the light from the hallway casting shadows across his face. "I think… I think I'd call it Sanctus Mare," he said softly. "It means 'Sacred Sea.' It'd be our place—our sanctuary."
The words hung in the air, and Daphne couldn't help the surge of emotion that rose in her chest. She could see it—Sanctus Mare, a place where everything was theirs. The idea of it filled her with a longing she didn't even fully understand, but it was there—real, undeniable, the promise of a future.
"You really do think ahead, don't you?" she whispered, leaning her head against his chest.
Hadrian chuckled softly, a quiet sound that made her smile. "Maybe a little," he admitted. "But you're worth it, Daphne. A place like that? It's for us. It's where we'll build our life."
For a moment, Daphne closed her eyes, letting the warmth of his words fill her, and the quiet possibilities of the future stretch out before her. The peace of the sea, the home they could have, the life they could share—it felt like a dream.
But as they walked on, hand in hand, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was shifting around them—something they hadn't yet seen coming. Still, for now, in this moment, she was content. Sanctus Mare was their dream. And for once, she let herself believe in it.
Daphne awoke slowly, her eyelids heavy as if they were made of lead. The room around her was dark, the only light coming from the soft glow of the moon filtering through the curtains. She lay there, unmoving for a moment, as the remnants of the dream clung to her like a shadow, refusing to fade. The memory of Hadrian, his arms around her, his voice. Everything felt right.
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes before she could stop them. She had been happy then—truly happy. And now… now everything had changed. It felt like that moment in time, the one where they had been full of hope, was just that: a moment, a fleeting dream that had slipped through her fingers.
How had things changed so much? Hadrian, the boy who had been her everything, had become Medusa's Misery—the one who turned her world upside down. He had been the brilliant strategist, the kind-hearted wizard she had once believed in so deeply, and now he was the very thing she had sworn to stop. He had taken everything, destroyed everything. She had lost him, and in doing so, she had lost a part of herself.
The tears came harder now, despite her best efforts to hold them back. She turned her head into the pillow, hoping the darkness would swallow her grief. How had we gone from dreams of a house by the sea to this nightmare?
She felt the weight of the world pressing down on her chest. The Order, the war, her sister's death—everything had spiraled out of control, and Hadrian had been at the center of it all. Medusa's Misery. The very name struck her like a curse, a wound that would never heal.
The dream, the life they had talked about, now felt like a cruel joke. How could she ever return to that girl she had been, the one who had believed so blindly in the future they would share? She wasn't sure she could. It felt impossible to bridge the gap between the past and the present, between the person she had been and the one she had become.
Medusa's Misery had taken everything. And now, all she had left was a memory—a beautiful, painful memory she wasn't sure she could live with anymore. She closed her eyes tightly, willing herself to forget, to bury the pain. But no matter how much she tried, Hadrian's face, his smile, his promises, kept haunting her, a reminder of what had been lost.
Tears slipped down her cheeks silently, but no sound escaped her. The dream had been a world away, and now all that remained was the cold, harsh reality of the war. And the part of her that still ached for the future they could have had.
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Hadrian's boots echoed through the cold, marble halls of Malfoy Manor as he walked, his black robe billowing out behind him like a shadow. The gleam of his golden mask caught the flicker of torchlight, its design intricate, covering only half of his face—a mark of his rank, a signal to those around him that he was not just any Death Eater. His steps were measured, deliberate, as if every movement he made was calculated, though inside, something gnawed at him.
He paused for a moment, his chest tightening. The air seemed heavier in this corridor, a stale, oppressive weight that clung to him. A sudden cough caught him off guard, sharp and ragged, and he felt something warm and coppery spill into his mouth. Blood. His vision blurred for a split second, the taste bitter and metallic.
Leaning against the cold stone wall, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, clearing away the evidence of his weakness. His body had been failing him for months now. The curse—the one he had inflicted upon himself, in an attempt to forge something greater—was taking its toll. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep up this charade. The time was coming, though. He could feel it. The darkness inside him was growing stronger with each passing day. And yet, there was always that question, that burning curiosity at the back of his mind—how long would he last?
He straightened up, forcing himself to stand tall, his spine rigid as if he were standing before the Dark Lord himself. The last thing he could afford now was to show weakness—especially not here, not in this house, where every glance and every whisper could turn against him. Malfoy Manor had its eyes on him, waiting for him to fail. They all were.
His golden mask, which had been carefully designed to reflect both his heritage and his authority, shimmered under the low torchlight. It was a part of him now, a symbol that set him apart from the other Death Eaters. His entire life had been crafted to embody that mask—an heir to the Dark Lord's power, a loyal servant, a force to be reckoned with. And Hadrian had played the role to perfection.
But even he wasn't immune to the consequences of his own actions.
He inhaled deeply, pushing the pain in his chest aside, focusing instead on the path ahead. The manor was quiet tonight, as it often was. Only a handful of servants, the occasional masked figure, and the occasional murmur of voices drifting from the study or the dining hall. The walls themselves seemed to whisper of dark secrets and ancient power.
Hadrian's footsteps slowed as he approached the door to his master's chamber. He could feel the oppressive weight of the air pressing down on him, thick with tension. The golden mask he wore seemed to burn into his skin as he steeled himself for what was to come. His chest ached, but he ignored it, focusing instead on the task at hand. He had no time for weakness.
The heavy wooden door creaked as he pushed it open, stepping inside with deliberate grace. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering flame of a few candles placed strategically around the space. The Dark Lord's presence filled the room, a palpable, suffocating force that seemed to bend the very air around him. His voice, deep and sinister, echoed in the silence.
"Hadrian."
The tone was sharp, laced with irritation, and Hadrian felt a shiver run down his spine. He did not flinch. He would not. Instead, he dropped to one knee, his head bowed, his posture rigid.
"I apologize for my tardiness, Master" Hadrian's voice was steady, filled with respect, but it carried an undercurrent of quiet resolve. He was one of the few who dared to meet the Dark Lord's gaze directly, and tonight, his words were sincere, though his mind raced with thoughts of the clock ticking against him.
The room was filled with Death Eaters, their figures draped in dark robes, their eyes fixed on him. They watched, silent and expectant, waiting for the Dark Lord's judgment. Hadrian could feel their gazes like weights, but he paid them no mind. They were nothing compared to the force that loomed before him.
The Dark Lord's cold, red eyes locked onto him, and there was a dangerous pause. It was as if he were assessing Hadrian—measuring his worth, his loyalty. The silence stretched on until it felt suffocating.
"You are late, Hadrian." The Dark Lord's voice was low, but there was an unmistakable edge of displeasure. "You know the importance of punctuality, especially when I summon you."
"I understand, my Lord." Hadrian's words were deliberate, each one chosen carefully. He would not lie. There was no room for lies in his world. Not now. "I miscalculated the time. It will not happen again."
The room remained eerily quiet as the Dark Lord regarded him, his crimson gaze unblinking. Hadrian did not move, did not speak again unless spoken to. He knew that any misstep could lead to consequences that he could not afford. He would not let his personal struggles with the curse affect him here. This was bigger than his own pain.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the Dark Lord spoke again, his voice colder now, but with a hint of grudging approval. "See that it doesn't, Hadrian. You are too valuable to be delayed. The plans I have for you… they require precision."
Hadrian nodded, his mind already turning. The Dark Lord had never been one to tolerate failure. Every step, every action, had to be flawless. And Hadrian, for all his talents, knew this truth intimately. He had long since realized that there was no room for error. Not if he wanted to claim the power that awaited him.
"As you wish, my Lord," Hadrian replied, his voice unwavering, despite the storm of thoughts crashing in his mind.
The Dark Lord's attention shifted, his gaze sweeping over the other assembled Death Eaters. Hadrian stood, keeping his head low, never breaking the ritualistic silence that filled the room. The other Death Eaters—each one a shadow of power in their own right—shifted slightly, their eyes watching, waiting for the Dark Lord's next move. Some were familiar faces, others new recruits, each one seeking to prove their worth.
The Dark Lord's eyes lingered on Hadrian, his crimson gaze narrowing slightly. The silence in the room stretched, heavy with anticipation. The Death Eaters shifted, the air thick with the unspoken command that Hadrian was to speak. No one dared to break the tension. Hadrian stood tall, even though the weight of their eyes felt like a thousand pounds. He would not falter.
Voldemort's voice, cold and deliberate, cut through the stillness. "What have you learned, Hadrian?"
The question was simple, but the weight behind it was far more profound. Hadrian, ever the disciplined servant, stepped forward. His voice was unwavering as he addressed his master.
Hadrian began, his tone measured, confident. "The Ministry's defenses are crumbling. The raid two days ago dealt a significant blow to their morale, but they are far from broken. Their response has been scattered, each raid forcing them into more desperate measures, but they continue to regroup quickly. They're more resilient than we anticipated."
He took a breath, his thoughts gathering as he relayed the information. The room remained deathly quiet, each word Hadrian spoke weighing heavily on the other Death Eaters.
"Their Aurors are scattered, but they are adapting. We have seen a rise in their countermeasures—new enchantments, stronger wards. They're anticipating our moves, which means they're starting to understand the pattern of our strikes. They're more prepared for us than we'd like, but their overall strength is waning. The Order is keeping them from disintegrating completely. But even they are stretched thin. We should strike now while they're divided."
Hadrian's eyes flicked briefly to the other Death Eaters in the room. He could feel their restless energy, the constant striving for approval. It was almost a game to them—the ruthless competition to win the Dark Lord's favor. But Hadrian didn't need their approval. Not anymore.
He refocused his gaze on Voldemort, whose red eyes were locked onto him, filled with an inscrutable, chilling intensity. The Dark Lord's voice was low, calculating. "And the Order? What of them?"
Hadrian's expression hardened. He had not forgotten the significance of their enemy. He had not forgotten the weight of Daphne's face when she looked at him, the betrayal in her eyes, the way she had turned her back on everything they once shared.
"The Order is divided," Hadrian continued, his voice steady. "But they remain a threat. We've lost some of their key figures, but the remaining leaders are still formidable. They are cautious. No longer reckless. But they, too, are stretched thin. Every attack weakens them. They're starting to lose focus, but they're still holding together. The Potter bloodlines remain an obstacle. We need to be prepared for them."
The room murmured with quiet approval, the Death Eaters recognizing the truth in Hadrian's assessment. Some faces, like Bellatrix's, remained unreadable. Others, like Rabastan Lestrange, looked eager for blood.
"Their plans?" Voldemort's voice broke the silence again, a sharp command that cut through the murmuring.
Hadrian stood tall, resolute. "The Ministry will fight back, but they are already losing ground. The aurors' presence in the field has diminished since our raid, and they're relying on a mixture of defensive measures and offensive sabotage. They're trying to slow our momentum with misinformation. But their lies are falling apart. Their best efforts are futile."
The Dark Lord's gaze shifted, narrowing on Hadrian with a sharp, calculating intensity. Silence fell over the room, as the Death Eaters waited, their eyes flicking between their master and Hadrian. Voldemort's voice was a low, measured hiss. "What would you do, Hadrian?"
Hadrian met his gaze without hesitation, his posture as stiff as the stone walls surrounding them. "The Ministry will fight back, but they are already losing ground. The Aurors' presence in the field has diminished since our raid, and they are relying on a mixture of defensive measures and offensive sabotage. They're trying to slow our momentum with misinformation, but their lies are falling apart. Their best efforts are futile."
The room was still, tension hanging heavy in the air. Voldemort leaned forward slightly, his red eyes glinting as he absorbed Hadrian's words, before he asked, "And what do you suggest we do?"
Hadrian's mind worked swiftly, calculating the best course of action. "They will expect us to strike where we have before—Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. But those areas will be heavily guarded, especially after the failed attempt. Diagon Alley is already suffering from a sparse population; too many are afraid to go there. As for Hogsmeade, Professor McGonagall has opened the wards of Hogwarts to let the villagers seek refuge inside. The people are protected."
Lucius Malfoy, sitting nearby, sneered, "Then what do you suggest, Hadrian? Attack empty streets? That would be a waste of resources."
Hadrian turned his gaze back to Voldemort, his voice unwavering. "The Ministry. They are already scrambling to defend their own. If we strike there, we will break their defenses. This would send a message: The Ministry cannot protect its people. The Order cannot protect their own."
There was a murmur of agreement from some of the Death Eaters, but Lucius Malfoy raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. "If we attack the Ministry directly, they will slaughter us. The defenses are formidable."
Hadrian's eyes locked onto Lucius, the flicker of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Not if they don't know we're coming," he said, his voice steady and filled with confidence. "We will draw their attention elsewhere. We send small forces of 30 to 40 men to Godric's Hollow, Diagon Alley, and Hogsmeade. Each force will cause a distraction. The Ministry will divert resources to protect those locations, thinking we're trying to reclaim the areas. But in reality, their forces will be split. And that is when we strike."
Lucius' lips twisted in a sneer, scoffed. "How can you ensure they won't know we're coming? We work there, remember?"
Hadrian's gaze shifted briefly to Rabastan before he answered, his voice steady and controlled. "We don't give them a chance to trace our movements. We make our forces appear disjointed, fragmented. If we're careful—if we time our moves right—they won't know where the main force is headed. They'll focus on the distractions, not realizing the true threat until it's too late."
A ripple of murmurs swept through the room, the Death Eaters processing his plan. Dolohov, leaning back with an air of superiority, spoke up. "And once the Ministry is struck, what's our message?"
Hadrian's eyes flicked to the table, his voice filled with chilling certainty. "This will be a message that they can't stop us. The Order and the Ministry cannot protect the people, or themselves. Their illusions of safety will shatter."
Voldemort's lips curled into a thin, malevolent smile, his eyes glinting with approval. "A bold plan," he murmured. "Who will lead these attacks?"
Hadrian straightened his back, his voice ringing with command. "The Lestranges will lead the attack on Godric's Hollow. Their presence there will be enough to draw attention, especially with the history of that place. Dolohov will lead the attack on Diagon Alley. It's the heart of their commerce, and we can create chaos there easily. As for Hogsmeade, the Carrows should take the lead. They're well-versed in manipulating fear, and the village is isolated enough to strike without immediate reinforcements."
A nod of agreement spread across the room, each Death Eater murmuring their consent to the proposed leaders. But when Voldemort's piercing gaze turned back to Hadrian, there was a lingering question in the air.
"And who will lead the attack on the Ministry?" Voldemort's voice was sharp, filled with a subtle challenge, as though testing Hadrian's resolve.
Hadrian stood tall, unflinching. His eyes locked with Voldemort's, and for a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. "If it pleases you, Master," Hadrian said smoothly, bowing his head slightly in deference, "I ask that you lead the final assault. Your presence will strike fear into their hearts. It will be a mark of finality, a blow that will break them for good."
The silence in the room thickened. Voldemort stared at Hadrian for a long moment, as if weighing the offer, his eyes unreadable.
Finally, Voldemort spoke, his voice a soft, deliberate hiss. "What will you do, Hadrian?"
Hadrian straightened, his face betraying no hint of fear or hesitation. "I will destroy the light's morale. I will break their will to fight." His voice rang with the cold certainty of his words, every syllable infused with an unshakable resolve.
Anton Dolohov, sitting nearby, sneered. "How do you intend to do that?"
Hadrian's lips curled into a small, deadly smile. "By killing the Boy-Who-Lived."
The words hung in the air like a dark promise, and for a moment, the room was still, all eyes on Hadrian. But then, without warning, Voldemort's red eyes flared with fury, and he waved his hand with a sharp, imperious motion.
"Crucio!"
Pain. It tore through Hadrian like an unstoppable force, crashing into him with a violence that made his bones feel like they were being shattered from the inside out. His body jerked, his muscles seizing as the curse took hold, and he collapsed to the floor, unable to fight against the onslaught of excruciating agony.
His breath came in gasps, a strangled sound as he writhed in the grips of the curse, but his mind remained focused. He would not beg. He would not yield.
The Dark Lord's voice, cold and unfeeling, reached him through the pain. "The Evan Potter is mine to kill, and only mine."
Hadrian could barely lift his head, his vision blurred with tears of pain, but he managed to speak through gritted teeth. "My lord… the Potter bloodline... I carry it. Only someone with their blood can enter the wards of Potter Manor. I am a Potter."
Voldemort's eyes narrowed, his expression one of barely contained rage. He lifted his wand, lifting the curse with a flick of his wrist. The pain abated, but Hadrian's body still trembled with the aftereffects, sweat slicking his brow.
"You think you can use your bloodline to make me tolerate this insolence?" Voldemort's voice was a low, dangerous growl. "No matter. If you're right, and the Potter bloodline grants access, then I will take it for myself."
A ripple of anticipation stirred through the room. "What do you propose, Hadrian?" Voldemort asked, his voice now dangerously calm.
Hadrian slowly pushed himself up, his legs unsteady beneath him, but his resolve unshaken. "They are hiding behind the wards of Potter Manor. The only way to break in is through blood. I have the blood, and I will use it to get to Evan Potter."
Voldemort's gaze was sharp as he processed the information. His lips curled into a cruel smile. "You will kidnap him," he said, his voice a hiss of triumph. "Bring him to me. And kill anyone who dares to stand in your way."
Hadrian hesitated for a moment, his mind calculating the risks. "It will be difficult, master. The wards are strong, and Potter's protection is fierce. Kidnapping him will not be simple. It may be more effective to kill him in his home. The wards will not protect him from the Killing Curse."
Voldemort's expression darkened with thought, and he nodded slowly, clearly pleased with the suggestion. "Do it," he ordered. "You have my permission. Make sure it is done in a way that shows no one is safe. We will send a message they cannot ignore."
Rodolphus Lestrange, standing beside Lucius, spoke up, his voice laced with cynicism. "If you use your damned spell, no one will ever know. There will be no proof."
Voldemort's lip curled at the suggestion, but then he considered it, his gaze flicking to Hadrian. "No," he said slowly, a smile creeping across his face. "We will make it seen. We will make sure the world knows that the light cannot protect its heroes. There will be witnesses, and it will be with the Killing Curse. Let them watch as their precious savior falls."
Hadrian gave a low, obedient bow. "It will be done, my Lord. As you command."
Voldemort's eyes gleamed with dark satisfaction. "And when the Boy-Who-Lived is dead, the light will falter. The Order will crumble, and their morale will be shattered. The world will finally see the truth."
With that, the room erupted in murmurs of approval, the Death Eaters eager to carry out their master's will. Hadrian stood tall, his heart pounding in his chest as the weight of his mission settled upon him. He would fulfill this task with precision. He would kill Evan Potter, and the world would burn.
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