Hadrian stood in front of the mirror, fastening the cuffs of his robes with slow, methodical movements. The fabric was rich, black with deep silver embroidery along the hems, the sigil of the Peverell family woven into the cuffs—a triangle, a circle and a line, representing the Hallows. It had been weeks since he first set foot in this timeline, and in that time, he had learned more than he ever thought possible.
His parents had been the best of their year. That much had been clear from the records and testimonies he had uncovered. His father, James Potter, had been a prodigy in Transfiguration and Quidditch, his mother, Lily Evans, a genius in Charms and Potions. Both were highly skilled duelists, intelligent and respected by their peers.
Hadrian had spent these weeks training tirelessly, refusing to allow himself to be anything less than exceptional. He absorbed knowledge like a sponge—his private study sessions focused on mastering spells well beyond N.E.W.T.-level, refining his combat magic, and diving deep into the Peverell family's legacy.
The Grimoire of Caelus Peverell had been his greatest treasure, teaching him not only the magic of his ancestors but their philosophies, their approach to war, politics, and power. The Peverells had been more than just the masters of Death—they had been warriors, strategists, and kings in their own right.
Now, he was about to walk into the lion's den—the Wizengamot.
Hadrian took a deep breath, straightening his posture as he adjusted the silver signet ring on his finger. Lord Peverell. The title carried weight. He would carry it well.
A sharp knock at his door snapped him from his thoughts.
"Come in," he called.
Tom, the barkeep of the Leaky Cauldron, stepped inside, nodding. "Your escort's waitin' for ya, Lord Peverell."
Hadrian gave a curt nod, picked up his wand, and tucked it into the holster at his side. As he strode past Tom, the older man gave him an approving look. "Give 'em hell."
Hadrian smirked. "Oh, I intend to."
The streets of London were bustling with Muggles as Hadrian stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron. He weaved through them effortlessly, heading toward the red telephone booth tucked into a side alley. The Ministry's public entrance had always amused him.
He stepped inside the booth, picked up the receiver, and dialed 62442.
"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic," a cool female voice intoned. "Please state your name and business."
"Hadrian Peverell," he said smoothly. "Here to claim my Wizengamot seat."
A pause. Then the voice responded.
"Identity confirmed. Please take your visitor badge."
A small silver badge clinked into the coin slot. He picked it up and read the engraving:
Hadrian Peverell – Wizengamot Induction
The booth gave a slight jolt before descending underground. The walls blurred as magic carried him downward, the hum of ancient enchantments whispering through the air. The descent lasted mere seconds before the doors slid open with a faint hiss.
The Atrium stretched before him, grand and imposing. The polished dark-wood floor gleamed under the golden light of enchanted torches. Ornate fireplaces lined both sides of the hall, green flames flaring as wizards and witches Apparated in and out. Above, the enormous enchanted ceiling mirrored a stormy sky, shifting with heavy clouds.
Hadrian stepped forward, his movements controlled, purposeful. As he walked past the enormous golden Fountain of Magical Brethren, his eyes flickered over the statues—wizards standing proudly, goblins and house-elves at their feet. He had always hated that monument. It reeked of arrogance.
Hadrian stepped into the corridor leading to the Wizengamot Chambers. The walls were lined with ancient banners, the symbols of noble houses woven in gold and silver thread—some long extinct, others still clinging to power. The hallway felt like a mausoleum of old bloodlines, a reminder of those who had shaped wizarding law.
His steps echoed against the polished stone floor.
At the far end stood two towering oak doors, engraved with swirling runes of power. They pulsed faintly as Hadrian approached, as if sensing his presence.
Two Aurors in deep-blue robes stood guard, their wands resting against their forearms.
One of them, an older man with a thin scar tracing down his cheek, spoke.
"State your business."
Hadrian met his gaze evenly. "Hadrian Peverell, Lord of House Peverell. Here to claim my seat."
The man stiffened slightly. His partner, a younger wizard with sharp features, inhaled as if to say something—then thought better of it. The silence stretched.
Then, with a single nod, the Auror stepped aside.
Magic crackled as the doors groaned open, revealing the chamber beyond.
Hadrian stepped inside.
0o0o0o0o0
Lord Charlus Potter sat in his place among the Faction, his sharp hazel eyes scanning the chamber as he adjusted his deep purple robes. His fingers drummed lightly against the polished wooden armrest of his seat, a habit he had picked up from years of war. At his side sat Arcturus Black, his brother-in-law and longtime friend, the head of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black.
The two of them had fought together in the war against Grindelwald, their wands cutting down the darkness side by side. Now, they fought on a different battlefield, one of laws and politics rather than curses and fire.
Charlus turned slightly toward Arcturus, who sat beside him in his usual rigid posture, his black robes embroidered with the sigil of the Black family. His cold grey eyes betrayed nothing, but Charlus knew him well enough to sense his interest.
"Are you ready for 4 hours of blithering nonsense?" Charlus murmured, keeping his voice low.
Arcturus exhaled slowly. "Aye, I have lots to do before summer's end." His gaze did not waver from the door.
The Grey Faction, composed of the few Lords who refused to align strictly with either the Light or the Dark, had long fought to keep power balanced.
It was an unknown variable. A dangerous one.
He glanced toward the Light Faction, where Dumbledore sat at the highest seat as Chief Warlock. His blue eyes were calm, unreadable, but Charlus knew better. The old man was calculating, always moving his pieces across the board.
And then, there was the Dark Faction, the other noble families, those who clung to blood purity and tradition. Many bore the silver serpent of House Malfoy, the bone-white sigil of House Avery, and the dark green crest of House Rosier.
The murmurs in the chamber quieted as Albus Dumbledore rose to his feet, his deep purple robes catching the light of the enchanted torches that lined the walls. His expression was calm, unreadable, though his blue eyes swept across the gathered Lords and Ladies with quiet authority.
"Esteemed members of the Wizengamot," he began, his voice carrying effortlessly through the grand chamber. "I thank you all for assembling today. We have much to discuss, including a matter of great significance regarding an ancient and long-dormant House."
Charlus Potter sat with his hands clasped before him, his expression neutral, but his mind was sharp with curiosity.
Beside him, Arcturus Black remained impassive, his sharp features betraying nothing, though Charlus could tell that the old war veteran was watching everything carefully.
Across the chamber, the Light Faction sat with wary interest. Lord Prewett leaned slightly toward Lord Bones, whispering something under his breath. The Lords of House Abbott and House McKinnon exchanged cautious glances. The Peverells were a legend, not a living House—until now.
And then there was the Dark Faction, the staunch defenders of blood purity and the old ways. House Malfoy, with Abraxas sitting stiff-backed, his silver cane resting against his knee. House Avery, with their cold, calculating expressions. House Rosier, their dark green crest displayed proudly on their robes. These were families who despised uncertainty, and an unknown factor like Hadrian Peverell was an uncertainty none of them welcomed.
Dumbledore gave a slight pause, allowing the weight of his words to settle. Then, with the faintest of smiles, he continued.
Dumbledore gave a slight pause, allowing the weight of his words to settle. Then, with the faintest of smiles, he continued.
"I ask the young Lord to enter."
The heavy double doors groaned as they swung open, and the sound of firm, measured footsteps echoed through the chamber. The gathered Lords and Ladies turned toward the entrance, their eyes narrowing as they took in the figure that strode confidently into the room.
Hadrian Peverell walked with purpose, his dark robes flowing behind him. His presence was commanding—calm, yet unyielding. His striking features, the messy raven hair, and piercing green eyes caused murmurs to ripple through the assembly.
Arcturus Black, ever the watchful tactician, furrowed his brow as he studied the young man. Leaning slightly toward Charlus, he muttered under his breath, "Is that James?"
Charlus, his own gaze locked onto Hadrian, shook his head slightly. "It looks like him," he admitted, "but it is not."
Dumbledore's voice rose over the whispers, clear and steady.
"Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot, I present to you Lord Hadrian Peverell of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Peverell."
The name sent a shockwave through the chamber. Some gasped aloud. Others exchanged wide-eyed looks, their previous conversations forgotten in an instant. The Peverell name had not been spoken in this hall for centuries, yet here stood a young man claiming it as his own.
Charlus turned to Arcturus once more, his voice low. "Peverell?"
Arcturus's expression darkened. "I thought they were all dead."
From the Dark Faction, a tall, stern man in deep emerald robes rose to his feet. Lord Avery's sharp gaze fixated on Hadrian, his voice laced with skepticism.
"The Peverell family went extinct seven hundred years ago," he stated. "No known heir has ever been documented since."
Hadrian turned to face him, his expression unwavering. His voice, though measured, carried the weight of undeniable authority.
"The Peverell Family magic has claimed me as its heir and Lord."
He lifted his right hand, displaying the heavy black ring upon his finger. The sigil of the Peverell family shimmered in the dim torchlight, an undeniable testament to his claim.
The chamber filled with hushed whispers once more. A Lord from the Light Faction, Lord Macmilian, a silver-haired man seated near the center, stood next.
"And is this boy even of age?" he asked, eyes narrowing with suspicion.
Hadrian met his gaze without hesitation. "I will be seventeen in five days."
Another Lord scoffed, rising from his seat. "Then you are not of age. A boy cannot sit in this chamber."
Hadrian's gaze swept across the room, sharp as a blade. "There is no law restricting my entry because of age," he countered smoothly. "I am the last of my family. I am Lord Peverell. My seat has remained vacant for too long, and I will not allow another day to pass without reclaiming my family's place in this chamber."
Dumbledore nodded approvingly before speaking once more. "Then let it be known that Lord Peverell may claim his seat amongst the other Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot."
Hadrian turned, his expression impassive as he walked toward the empty, long-forgotten chair that bore the sigil of his ancestors. The murmurings did not cease, nor did the wary stares cast in his direction.
Charlus exhaled slowly as Hadrian turned and strode toward the empty chair that had sat dormant for centuries. There was something unsettling about watching the young man take his place among them, something about the way he moved, the way he spoke, the way he seemed utterly unfazed by the storm of whispers that followed him.
Hadrian Peverell was an enigma.
Charlus knew bloodlines better than most. He knew history. And he knew that no one simply claimed a name as powerful as Peverell.
Which meant only one thing—this boy was exactly who he said he was.
0o0o0o0o0
The session had finally come to an end, yet the tension in the chamber lingered like a specter. The Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot had spent the better part of the gathering either staring at him in shock or murmuring amongst themselves, no doubt already plotting how to use his reappearance to their advantage.
Hadrian had no interest in their schemes.
The moment Dumbledore adjourned the session, Hadrian turned on his heel and strode toward the grand double doors, his movements fluid and purposeful. He could feel the weight of countless eyes pressing against his back, but he ignored them. He had said what he came to say. He had made his stance clear.
Yet, escaping unnoticed was a fool's dream.
A dozen figures moved toward him, some with cautious curiosity, others with the veiled interest of politicians who saw an opportunity. The Lords of the Light and Dark alike sought to speak with him, to test his intentions, to gauge just what kind of player he would be on this vast political board. He easily sidestepped a few who reached out, dismissing polite inquiries with nothing more than a nod or a well-placed step to the side.
But two men he could not avoid.
"Lord Peverell," came a deep, measured voice.
Hadrian stopped, sighing internally before turning to face them.
Lord Charlus Potter stood before him, a man whose very presence commanded attention. His dark auburn hair was streaked lightly with silver, a testament to both age and experience, but his hazel eyes were sharp and assessing. Beside him, equally imposing, stood Arcturus Black, his noble features carved from cold stone. Dressed in immaculate black robes embroidered with the silver crest of House Black, he exuded the kind of quiet authority that few dared challenge.
Hadrian inclined his head slightly, acknowledging them.
"Lord Potter," he greeted, his tone neutral. His gaze flickered to Arcturus, whose eyes studied him with unnerving intensity. "Lord Black."
Charlus Potter offered a small, wry smile. "You move quickly for someone so new to the political stage."
Hadrian returned the smile, though his did not quite reach his eyes. "One must move quickly when reclaiming what has been left to gather dust."
Charlus chuckled at that, though Arcturus merely watched him, impassive.
"My brother-in-law and I wished to make your acquaintance," Charlus continued, gesturing toward Arcturus. "I imagine you already know who we are, but for formality's sake, allow me to introduce Lord Arcturus Black, head of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black."
Hadrian turned fully to Arcturus and inclined his head once more. "An honor, Lord Black."
Arcturus did not immediately respond. He studied Hadrian in silence, his dark eyes sharp, calculating, peeling away at the layers of the young Lord before him. Hadrian met his gaze unflinchingly, unwilling to be the first to look away.
Finally, Arcturus gave a single nod. "Astonishing," he murmured, almost to himself.
Hadrian arched a brow. "Pardon?"
Arcturus's lips curled in something that was not quite a smile. "You share many similarities with the Potter heir. You have his look, but your eyes are different."
The statement was simple, yet there was something weighted beneath it, something Hadrian could not yet decipher. He did not let the uncertainty show.
"So I've been told," Hadrian replied smoothly.
Charlus hummed in approval. "A sharp tongue and quick wit—James would have liked you."
Hadrian did not flinch at the mention of James Potter, though something cold and sharp twisted inside him. He did not answer.
Charlus exhaled slowly, his sharp hazel eyes watching Hadrian with something unreadable. "The entire world believed the Peverell line had ended," he said, voice measured, as though weighing every word. "Whatever remained of your family's legacy was believed to have been inherited by the Potters, centuries ago."
Hadrian met his gaze, expression impassive. "Apparently, the name survived."
A flicker of something—perhaps amusement, perhaps intrigue—crossed Charlus's face, but it was Arcturus who spoke next.
"Why did they leave?" Arcturus's voice was lower, colder, pressing just enough to imply that he expected an answer.
Hadrian kept his posture straight, composed, though inwardly, he knew the answer to that was a mystery he had yet to solve himself. "I don't know why."
Charlus frowned slightly, glancing at Arcturus before looking back at Hadrian. "Surely your parents told you something?"
There was a brief silence, stretched taut between them. Hadrian did not break eye contact as he answered, his voice as calm as ever.
"As I said in the chamber, I am the last Peverell," he said. "My parents were murdered when I was a babe. I know nothing of my ancestors, besides what little has survived in recorded history."
Charlus's frown deepened, and for the first time, there was something almost regretful in his eyes. Arcturus, however, remained unreadable, his gaze assessing as if peeling apart Hadrian's words and searching for cracks in his armor.
Charlus tilted his head, as if gauging his reaction, before continuing. "I imagine many will wish to speak with you in the coming days. You've made quite the entrance today, Lord Peverell."
"I have no interest in political games," Hadrian said evenly.
"That's where you're wrong," Arcturus finally spoke again, his voice like steel wrapped in silk. "You entered this chamber today and claimed your seat. You made a declaration. Whether you wish to play the game or not, you are already a piece on the board. And pieces that do not move are removed."
Hadrian studied the older man carefully, reading between the lines. It was not a warning. It was a fact.
Charlus, sensing the shift in mood, clapped a hand on Hadrian's shoulder. "We'll speak again soon, I'm sure. But for now, we won't keep you any longer. You've had quite the day."
Hadrian nodded once before turning on his heel and continuing toward the exit.
Even as he left, he could still feel their eyes on him.
0o0o0o0o0
That night, Hadrian sat by the dim glow of his enchanted lantern, the heavy tome resting on his lap. The grimoire's ancient pages were rough beneath his fingers, the ink faded with age yet still legible, carrying the weight of a history long forgotten. He turned the page carefully, eyes scanning the spidery script that detailed the legacy of Hephaestus Peverell, one of the last great War Mages.
"Hephaestus Peverell strode onto the battlefield alone, his presence like a storm given human form. Where others carried steel, he wielded only his magic—terrible, unrelenting, and absolute. The enemy numbered in the thousands, yet they feared him more than an army of ten thousand spears. They whispered his name like a curse, knowing that when he raised his hands, death followed. The sky darkened, the air crackled with power, and in an instant, the battlefield became a graveyard. He did not need wands or weapons. His magic flowed through him like the river of time itself, unshackled, untamed. One War Mage was worth two hundred men, and Hephaestus was worth an entire legion."
Hadrian's fingers tightened around the edge of the page. The sheer scale of power described here was staggering. Magic so raw, so primal, that it could shape the battlefield itself.
"But even War Mages were not invincible. Time eroded their numbers, their knowledge fading as the world turned to simpler magics, to structured spells and incantations that fit within the fragile framework of modern wizardry. The last of them fell, their secrets buried with them. Their power became legend, their spells myths lost to time."
But not all.
Hadrian's eyes flicked to the bottom of the page, where more text had been carefully inscribed in a different hand, centuries later.
"Some of their knowledge endures within these pages. My father before me struggled to master them. As did his father before him. To wield this magic is to walk the path of death itself, to grasp at power beyond comprehension. Few can endure it. Fewer still can claim it as their own. But if you are reading this, if you bear the blood of Peverell, then perhaps… perhaps you may yet awaken the old ways."
Hadrian exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the words settle deep within him. He turned the page.
And began to read.
He exhaled slowly, centering himself. Battle magic wasn't like the structured dueling spells he'd learned at Hogwarts. It was raw, instinctive, and meant for survival. He had to be precise—powerful without being reckless. The last thing he needed was to set fire to his bed.
A conjured barrier of superheated air that absorbs and reflects attacks. If struck, the shield dissipates in a burst of embers, temporarily blinding and distracting nearby foes.
Hadrian rolled his wand between his fingers. A shield spell that doubled as an offensive maneuver—perfect for someone like him, who couldn't afford to waste a single movement in battle. More importantly, it was subtle. Fire-based magic was usually destructive, but this spell was controlled, contained. It wouldn't burn the whole building down… probably.
He stood, bracing himself. With a steady breath, he flicked his wand in a tight arc. "Scutum Ardoris."
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, shimmering heat rose in front of him, distorting the air like summer haze. It wasn't a solid shield, more like an invisible barrier laced with flickering embers, hovering just in front of him. Carefully, he reached out—his fingers passed through harmlessly, though the warmth prickled his skin.
Encouraged, he turned toward the small desk in the corner, where an empty glass goblet sat. With a muttered incantation, he sent a nonverbal Flipendo at it. The jinx hit the shield—and instantly, the barrier collapsed with a whoosh, sending a spray of red-hot embers outward. The goblet rattled and tipped over, rolling onto the floor.
Hadrian grinned. The spell worked. It wasn't too strong, but Hadrian hadn't done the Peverell ritual yet. After he did that, he would consume every bit of knowledge the Grimoire had to offer.
0o0o0o0o0
Short little chapter here, but don't worry, I'm just getting started. Check out my other story "The Gorgon's Grief.
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