The weight of the Black Manor pressed down on Hadrian like a suffocating fog, the faint hum of magic in the walls reminding him that he was far from home—not that Privet Drive had ever been one. His hand still tingled where Arcturus's magic had forced itself upon him and taken him from privet drive ,leaving his mind frayed and his sense of self unsteady.
The library was vast, its cold elegance accentuated by the flickering of candlelight against dark wood. Hadrian sat slumped in an armchair, fingers clutching the letter that had served as his portkey to this unsettling place. He wanted to burn it, but he wasn't sure what would happen if he tried.His head throbbed, not just from the weight of the knowledge but from the horrifying realization that he was no longer entirely himself and no longer in control of himself. It was enough make him feel that his veins were full of ice.
"A Gryffindor wouldn't dwell on it," the thought surfaced, tinged with bitterness. But who was he now? The brave boy of Hogwarts, or the vengeful heir of the Blacks, with generations of cunning and ruthlessness clawing their way into his consciousness?
He couldn't shake the memory of the goblin's laughter, their mocking gaze.
"Arcturus Black…" Hadrian muttered bitterly. "I hope you're rotting wherever you are. Even if its within him.
At the gates of Black Manor, Lyra Hadara Black paused, her sharp grey eyes scanning the towering structure before her. The heavy wrought iron creaked as the wards parted for her, a begrudging welcome rather than a warm invitation.
She adjusted her dark cloak, pushing stray strands of black hair behind her ear. Her posture was sharp, almost regal, but her lips twitched with something akin to disdain. "Typical Black theatrics," she thought as she stepped inside.
Lyra had received Arcturus's summons weeks ago, long before she'd heard the whispers of his supposed plans for reclamation of magic.
Her familiar, Pathos, a sleek raven perched on her shoulder, croaked impatiently.
"Yes, yes, I know," she murmured, stroking its dark feathers. "We're late. Arcturus was never one for punctuality anyway."
The gates creaked open at her whispered incantation, and the wards shivered but allowed her passage. Lyra felt the intense magic of the place crawl over her skin like a lover's touch. Old Albion magic, cold and demanding.
"Let's hope he's not too broken yet," she muttered before stepping through the grand threshold.
The library doors creaked open, and Hadrian's gaze shot up. His hand automatically darted for his wand.
Lyra froze in the threshold, surprised at how… ordinary he looked. For someone who bore the weight of so many prophecies and tragedies, he was just a boy, thinner than she expected, with shadows under his vivid green eyes.
For Hadrian, it was the silver-grey of her gaze that struck him.A tug in his chest, the one that had grown more insistent since Arcturus's intrusion. It wasn't the ward alarms—no, the magic recognized her, with a strange familiarity, like seeing a reflection not your own but somehow tied to you—a tether not of his choosing but unmistakably strong.
"Hadrian Potter," she greeted, her voice cutting through the silence."Or shall I call you a Black now?" She didn't wait for him to respond. "You've made a mess of things already, haven't you?
He narrowed his eyes, gripping the arm of his chair. "Who are you? What do you want?"
Lyra stepped inside, letting the doors close behind her. "Lyra Black. Your cousin, apparently."
Hadrian's jaw tightened. Of course, another Black. Couldn't Sirius have mentioned her? Or had he not known either?
"What do you want from me?" he asked again, his voice firm.
The magic in room was charged, the pull between them was volatile. Hadrian's Gryffindor instincts told him to trust her—she had an air of purpose—but the memories of Arcturus whispered warnings in his ears. A Black cannot be trusted, not fully, not even by another Black
Lyra tilted her head, studying him. "From you? Nothing. I'm here to figure out what Arcturus wanted with you. You've clearly taken on something you weren't prepared for."
Hadrian stood, trying to steady himself against the residual nausea from the ordeal. "I didn't ask for this," he snapped. "He forced it on me. And now I'm stuck here with… whatever he left behind in my head."
"Classic Arcturus," Lyra muttered. "Manipulative to the end. Let me guess—he didn't give you a choice? Just… bound you to his whims and left you to fend for yourself?"
Hadrian blinked. "That about sums it up."
She sighed, crossing her arms. "Figures. That old bastard loved his power plays. It's why I stayed out of his reach for as long as I could."
"Good for you," Hadrian snapped. "Staying out of his reach doesn't help me now, does it? So why are you here now?"
Lyra shrugged. "Because he's dead. And because someone needs to clean up the mess he left. You, evidently, are part of it."
Lyra moved to a nearby table, pulling out a chair and sitting uninvited. "Listen, Potter, I get it—you don't trust me."
She folded her arms. "Frankly? I wouldn't trust me either."
"Reassuring," Hadrian muttered, deadpan.
"But here's the thing," she continued, ignoring his sarcasm. "Arcturus didn't summon me out of the goodness of his shriveled heart. He wanted something, and now I want to know what. Whatever is in your head right now—it's part of that. So unless you want to drown under whatever game he's roped you into, I suggest we figure this out together."
Hadrian hesitated. Trust wasn't something he could give freely—not anymore. But the thought of tackling whatever had been done to him alone made his stomach churn.
Finally, he nodded stiffly. "Fine. But if you pull anything… Black family or not, I'll hex you."
Lyra smirked, rising. "Fair enough, cousin."
Their first steps toward understanding took them deep into the Black Library, where Lyra revealed a collection of ancient texts Arcturus had forbidden even his closest relative from touching.
"These are family grimoires," Lyra explained as they lit the room with glowing orbs. "They'll have records of every major enchantment and spell tied to the Black lineage. If Arcturus wanted you for something, it's here."
"Great," Hadrian muttered, opening a heavy tome. "More homework."
As they began sifting through pages of cryptic symbols and curses, a faint rumble echoed through the manor, followed by a chill that swept through the room.
Hadrian froze. "Did you feel that?"
Lyra nodded slowly, her hand drifting toward her wand. "The wards are shifting. Someone else is here."
The tension in the air thickened, and for the first time, they looked at each other not with suspicion, but with shared unease.