As the golden plates cleared and the Great Hall buzzed with lingering conversations, the Ravenclaw first-years gathered near the end of the table, awaiting direction. A tall, older student with a gleaming prefect badge stepped forward, his posture straight and authoritative.

"First-years, follow me," he instructed, his tone crisp but not unkind. "Welcome to Ravenclaw. My name is Roger Davies, and this—" he gestured to a composed-looking girl beside him, "—is Penelope Clearwater. We'll be your prefects this year. Stick together, don't lag behind."

Hadrian exchanged a glance with Daphne before they moved with the group, weaving through the castle's towering corridors. The older students walked with practiced ease, but the first-years struggled to keep up, their heads swiveling as they took in the grandeur of Hogwarts.

Torchlight flickered against the high stone walls, casting shifting shadows that danced like whispers of ancient magic. Hadrian walked near the back, hands in his pockets, absorbing the castle's architecture. The air hummed with old enchantments, some of which he could almost feel thrumming beneath his skin.

"Ravenclaw Tower is the highest dormitory in Hogwarts," Clearwater explained as they ascended yet another spiral staircase. "You'll get used to the climb."

Daphne exhaled sharply beside him. "At this rate, we might need brooms just to get to bed."

Hadrian smirked. "Or a portkey."

The students chuckled, but their amusement was cut short when they reached a grand wooden door with a bronze knocker shaped like an eagle. The prefects turned to address them.

"Unlike the other houses," Roger said, "we don't use a password to enter. Instead, the eagle knocker will ask you a riddle. Answer correctly, and the door opens. If not—well, you wait until you figure it out."

As if on cue, the eagle's eyes gleamed, and it spoke in a smooth, knowing voice:

"I have cities, but no houses. I have mountains, but no trees. I have water, but no fish. What am I?"

Silence stretched over the group as the first-years glanced at each other. A few furrowed their brows in thought.

"A map," Hadrian said calmly.

The door swung open.

Roger looked faintly impressed but quickly masked it. "Well done. Inside you go."

The group hesitated before stepping through the threshold, entering the Ravenclaw common room for the first time.

The Ravenclaw common room was unlike anything the first-years had seen before.

The space was vast, with high arched windows that overlooked the darkened grounds, revealing the silver glimmer of the lake under the moonlight. A domed ceiling, painted with an enchanted sky full of shifting constellations, arched above them, casting a soft glow throughout the room. The walls were lined with towering bookshelves filled with tomes that looked older than Hogwarts itself, while cushioned seats and elegant blue-and-bronze tapestries adorned the circular room.

Daphne's gaze swept across the chamber, taking in the sheer sophistication of it. "At least all those stairs led to something worthwhile," she murmured.

Hadrian smirked slightly but remained quiet as Roger and Penelope stepped forward again.

"This will be your home for the next seven years," Penelope announced. "The boys' dormitories are up the staircase to the right, the girls' to the left. No trying to sneak into the other—Hogwarts itself will make sure you regret it."

Some students snickered at that, but Penelope simply raised an eyebrow before continuing.

"There are no strict lights-out rules, but don't disturb others if you're up late studying. And remember, if you can't answer the door's riddle, you'll be locked out until you do."

A few first-years looked uneasy at that, but Hadrian merely tilted his head in amusement.

"If you have any questions, find one of us," Roger added. "Otherwise, get some rest. Classes start tomorrow."

With that, the group began to break apart. Some students wandered toward the bookshelves, while others immediately climbed the staircases to their dorms. Hadrian took a step toward the boys' side, but a soft voice made him pause.

"You answered that riddle fast," Daphne noted, looking at him curiously.

Hadrian turned his gaze to her, his expression unreadable. "It wasn't a difficult one."

She studied him for a moment before giving a slight nod. "I suppose not."

There was something unspoken in the air between them—a recognition, perhaps. They were both Slytherin-minded in a house that prided itself on intellect. Whether that would be an advantage or an obstacle, time would tell.

Without another word, Daphne turned toward the girls' staircase, her blonde hair shifting as she ascended. Hadrian watched for a brief moment before heading toward his own dormitory.

He didn't need sleep. He needed time to think.

Because tomorrow, the real game would begin.

Albus Dumbledore sat alone in his office, fingers steepled beneath his chin, his piercing blue eyes fixed on nothing in particular.

The Sorting Feast had concluded, and yet his thoughts remained anchored to one student—one who should not have been there at all.

Harry Potter.

Or at least, that was what the world believed. But Albus knew better. The boy who had sat in the Great Hall, unnervingly composed and sharp-eyed, was not the child he had once left on the Dursleys' doorstep. That child had vanished without a trace. And in his place… stood someone else entirely.

Dumbledore reached for his goblet of wine, but paused before taking a sip. He had watched Hadrian closely during the feast. The boy had spoken little, his expression unreadable. When he had met Dumbledore's gaze, there had been no awe, no reverence—only silent, calculating assessment. That look was not one of a child who had spent years ignorant of the magical world.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair as Fawkes let out a quiet trill from his perch. "You see it too, don't you?" he murmured.

Fawkes tilted his head, his crimson and gold feathers shimmering in the candlelight.

Dumbledore exhaled slowly. Where had he been? That was the question that gnawed at him. He had known someone had taken Harry—of that, he had no doubt. But who? And why?

His greatest fear had always been that Voldemort's remnants had sought the boy out, intending to mold him into something dark. Yet there had been no sign of Voldemort's followers, no whispers of a hidden faction raising the Boy Who Lived in secret. Even Severus, who was ever watchful, had nothing to report.

And yet… something had changed.

Hadrian Potter had been raised outside of Dumbledore's influence. And now he was here, at Hogwarts, with secrets lurking behind those cold green eyes.

And then, of course, there was the Sorting.

Ravenclaw.

Dumbledore had expected Gryffindor—after all, both James and Lily had been placed there, and blood often carried its own echoes. But Ravenclaw was an enigma. It meant the boy valued knowledge and intelligence above all. It meant he would seek answers, perhaps in places Dumbledore would rather he didn't.

Another dangerous thought.

And what of Daphne Greengrass? That girl had been meant for Slytherin, yet she, too, had chosen Ravenclaw. Was that merely coincidence, or had she been drawn to Hadrian in some way?

Dumbledore tapped his fingers against the desk.

Tomorrow, he would begin gathering what information he could. If Hadrian had truly been taken by another power—perhaps an old one, outside of Voldemort's influence—then he needed to uncover it.

Before it was too late.

With a sigh, he rose from his chair, crossing the room to peer out the window. The night was quiet, Hogwarts peaceful. But peace was a fleeting thing.

Hadrian Potter had returned.

And that changed everything.

Hadrian woke with a start.

Not from a nightmare. Not from a sound.

It was something deeper—something within him. A pulse of magic thrummed beneath his skin, threading through his bones like an unspoken whisper. It wasn't urgent, but it was insistent. A calling, though to what, he didn't yet know.

He sat up slowly, the cold air of the dormitory meeting his skin as he shifted off the bed. The others were asleep, lost in dreams of their own. Hadrian moved soundlessly, his footfalls barely a whisper against the stone.

Down the spiral staircase, past rows of towering bookshelves, into the common room. The enchanted ceiling above reflected the sky outside, a deep midnight blue dusted with stars. The torches flickered with cool, blue flames, giving the space an ethereal glow.

And there, curled in the largest armchair by the dying embers of the fireplace, sat Daphne Greengrass.

Hadrian stopped at the threshold, watching. She was wrapped in quiet solitude, her arms pulled around her knees, her gaze unfocused on the flames before her. But her expression wasn't blank. It wasn't composed.

It was lost.

The realization made Hadrian pause.

He hadn't seen her like this before. On the train, she was reserved but self-assured. In the Great Hall, she had been calm, unreadable. Even during the Sorting, when she made her unexpected choice, she had shown no hesitation.

Yet now, in the silence of the night, that certainty was gone.

Hadrian stepped forward.

"You're awake," he murmured.

Daphne flinched ever so slightly before turning her head. Her blue eyes met his, sharp and guarded, before she blinked and let out a slow breath. "So are you."

Hadrian didn't answer immediately. Instead, he moved toward the chair opposite hers and lowered himself into it, studying her in the flickering light.

Neither of them spoke for a long moment. The fire crackled, the torches flickered, and the shadows stretched along the walls.

"Couldn't sleep?" Hadrian finally asked.

Daphne exhaled softly, her gaze returning to the embers. "Not really."

Another pause.

Then, without looking at him, she admitted, "I don't belong here."

Hadrian arched an eyebrow. "In Ravenclaw?"

"In all of it," she murmured. Her fingers tightened slightly over the fabric of her robes. "I wasn't meant to be here. I was supposed to be in Slytherin."

Hadrian didn't immediately respond. He simply watched her, waiting.

Daphne let out a small, humorless laugh. "I don't know what I was thinking. I had everything planned—where I'd sit, who I'd talk to, the alliances I'd form. I knew exactly what was expected of me. And yet…" She shook her head. "At the last moment, I made a choice I hadn't planned for. And now I'm here."

Hadrian leaned back slightly. "And you regret it."

Daphne was silent for a long time before she answered, "I don't know."

Hadrian tilted his head. "Then what do you know?"

She let out a slow breath. "That I am alone in this house. That my family won't approve. That nothing about this path is familiar." Her voice was quieter now. "That I don't know what happens next."

Hadrian understood that feeling more than he cared to admit.

He considered her for a moment before saying, "If you had gone to Slytherin, would you have been happy?"

Daphne hesitated.

Then, softly, she whispered, "No."

Hadrian nodded slightly. "Then you made the right choice."

Daphne gave a short, bitter laugh. "Funny how the right choice still feels like the wrong one."

Hadrian studied her in the dim light, considering his next words carefully. "You don't regret choosing this house, Daphne. You regret losing what was safe."

Daphne turned her gaze to him, something flickering behind her eyes.

Hadrian held it. "You thought you knew what your future would look like. You had control. But now? Now you're here, and nothing is certain. That isn't regret. That's fear."

Daphne inhaled sharply, but she didn't deny it.

She turned back to the fire, watching as the embers glowed faintly. "Maybe," she admitted at last.

Silence stretched between them again. It was not awkward, nor uncomfortable. It was simply… understanding.

Then Hadrian spoke, his voice quieter this time. "You're not as alone as you think."

Daphne glanced at him. "Aren't I?"

Hadrian met her gaze evenly. "We're both out of place in our own way. And neither of us intends to be swept along by the expectations of others." His voice was calm, measured. "We could help each other."

Daphne studied him carefully.

Then, slowly, she asked, "Help each other how?"

Hadrian's fingers drummed lightly against the armrest. "You don't know how to navigate this house yet. You don't know who to trust, who to avoid, how to shape your presence here." He tilted his head. "But I do."

Daphne raised an eyebrow. "And what do you want in return?"

Hadrian's lips curved into the slightest smirk. "An ally."

Daphne hesitated.

"An alliance," Hadrian clarified smoothly. "Not just for now, but for the future."

A long pause stretched between them.

Then, finally, Daphne's lips quirked in something that was not quite a smile, but not far from it. "You're awfully confident for someone who only met me today."

Hadrian smirked slightly. "I have good instincts."

Daphne let out a breath, her expression shifting into something quieter. More certain.

Then, slowly, she extended her hand.

"Allies," she agreed.

Hadrian took it, his grip firm. "Allies."

Their hands lingered for a moment before pulling away.

For the first time since they'd sat down, Daphne's shoulders eased slightly, as if a weight had lifted—just enough to breathe.

And for the first time that night, she did not feel quite so alone.

The soft glow of dawn filtered through the enchanted ceiling of the Ravenclaw dormitory, casting faint beams of gold across the room. Hadrian stirred first, his mind sharpening the moment he opened his eyes. Last night's conversation with Daphne lingered, the memory of her vulnerability still present in his thoughts.

Slipping out of bed, he dressed swiftly, moving with the same quiet efficiency that had been drilled into him through years of discipline. As he adjusted the cuffs of his uniform, the curtains of the bed beside him shifted. Terry Boot groggily pushed them aside, blinking blearily at Hadrian.

"You're up early," Terry muttered, rubbing his eyes.

Hadrian merely gave him a slight nod before turning toward the dormitory door. He had always been an early riser, but today, he had another reason to wake before the others.

Daphne hadn't slept well.

The weight of everything—the Sorting, the unfamiliar house, the uncharted social landscape—had settled on her more heavily in the quiet hours of the night. She had spent so long knowing exactly where she would belong, only for that certainty to be torn away.

Yet… she didn't feel entirely lost.

Her mind kept circling back to Hadrian. His presence had been a strange sort of anchor in the chaos, steady and unwavering. Even now, as she dressed and made her way down to the common room, she found herself glancing around, hoping—

She spotted him instantly. He was leaning against the stone archway leading to the stairwell, his posture relaxed, yet his gaze keen.

"You're up early," Hadrian said lightly.

Daphne blinked. Had she just said the same thing to herself about him? She shook off the thought and stepped toward him, adjusting her robes. "So are you."

Hadrian smirked. "Anticipation for the first day, I suppose."

Daphne wasn't sure that was the whole truth. She had seen glimpses of something far deeper in him—layers he didn't easily reveal. But for now, she let it pass.

Without a word, they fell into step together, leaving the tower and heading down the winding staircases toward the Great Hall.

By the time they arrived, the Great Hall was already filled with a low hum of voices. Long tables stretched beneath the floating candles, laden with breakfast platters and goblets of pumpkin juice.

Hadrian's eyes moved subtly across the room, noting the small details—how the Gryffindors sat with their usual energy, how the Hufflepuffs clustered together in easy camaraderie, and how the Slytherins observed their surroundings with calculated wariness.

He caught sight of Malfoy at the Slytherin table, looking entirely at ease, surrounded by Crabbe and Goyle. Their eyes met for only a fraction of a second before Hadrian turned away, uninterested.

Daphne, however, had hesitated just slightly at the sight of the Slytherin table. He could tell—she had likely expected to be sitting there. But she didn't falter for long. Instead, she followed Hadrian as he made his way to the Ravenclaw table, slipping into the seat beside him without a word.

Across from them, Padma Patil gave them a curious glance before returning to her toast. Terry Boot and Anthony Goldstein were deep in conversation about what classes they'd have first.

Daphne exhaled softly, adjusting the silverware in front of her. "So," she murmured just loud enough for Hadrian to hear, "are we going to discuss how unprepared half these first-years look? Or would that be too arrogant?"

Hadrian smirked, slicing a piece of toast with precise movements. "I would say it's merely an observation." His gaze flickered toward a group of Gryffindors loudly comparing their wands. "Most of them don't know what's coming."

Daphne followed his gaze. "Including her."

Hermione Granger was at the Gryffindor table, speaking animatedly to a freckled redhead—Weasley, if Hadrian remembered correctly. She gestured excitedly with her hands, no doubt explaining something in excessive detail.

Hadrian chuckled. "She's enthusiastic, I'll give her that."

Daphne hummed, sipping her pumpkin juice. Then, after a beat of silence, she said, "What's our first class?"

Hadrian glanced at the schedule they had received. "Transfiguration."

Daphne raised a brow. "With McGonagall?"

Hadrian nodded. "It should be interesting."

She smirked. "Let's see if Hogwarts can actually challenge us."

Hadrian only gave her a knowing look.

The day was only just beginning.

Hadrian and Daphne had just left the Great Hall, the murmur of breakfast still lingering behind them as they navigated the ever-shifting corridors of Hogwarts. The castle was alive with first-years scrambling to find their classrooms, some nearly colliding with moving staircases or vanishing steps.

Daphne walked with effortless grace, her expression cool as she glanced around, mentally mapping the route. Hadrian, on the other hand, was already accustomed to the flow of movement, sensing the undercurrent of social dynamics unfolding around him.

Then, just as they turned a corner leading toward their first class, a loud voice rang out.

"Oi! You!"

Hadrian came to a stop, already knowing who it was before he turned.

Ron Weasley stood at the intersection of the hallway, fists clenched at his sides, his expression twisted with barely contained frustration. Flanking him were Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, both looking uncertain but apparently willing to back their friend.

Daphne, standing beside Hadrian, let out a quiet sigh. "This should be entertaining."

Hadrian didn't respond—he merely regarded Weasley with detached amusement.

Ron stomped forward, his ears burning red. "What's wrong with you?" he demanded. "You're supposed to be in Gryffindor! You're Harry Potter!"

Hadrian's gaze remained unreadable, but something flickered behind his eyes. He tilted his head ever so slightly. "Am I?"

Ron faltered for a second, as if realizing he wasn't speaking to the same legend he had built in his mind. But then, his frustration surged forward again. "Yeah! Everyone thought you'd be in Gryffindor! Even my brothers said so! You're the son of—"

"Careful," Hadrian interrupted softly, his voice smooth as silk but laced with warning. "You're making a lot of assumptions."

Ron hesitated, but his stubbornness refused to let him back down. "Well, yeah! Because it makes sense! You—you're supposed to be brave, not some bookworm in Ravenclaw!"

Daphne scoffed, folding her arms. "So, by your logic, intelligence and courage are mutually exclusive?"

Ron blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"Never mind," she sighed, turning back to Hadrian. "Is this worth your time?"

Hadrian let his gaze linger on Weasley, studying the boy.

The redhead's anger wasn't truly about house placement—no, it was disappointment. He had imagined Harry Potter, the fabled Boy Who Lived, as a comrade, a friend, maybe even a hero to admire. And now, that image had shattered.

Hadrian allowed a slow, deliberate smirk to tug at his lips. "You don't know anything about me, Weasley."

Ron bristled, but Hadrian didn't give him the satisfaction of a prolonged confrontation. With a fluid turn, he walked past him, Daphne matching his pace without hesitation.

Ron stood there, glaring after them, his hands still balled into fists. Dean and Seamus exchanged glances, uncertain whether they should continue standing with him or move on.

By the time Hadrian and Daphne reached the classroom door, she glanced at him with mild curiosity. "You enjoy unsettling people, don't you?"

He hummed in thought. "Only when they make it so easy."

Daphne smirked. "Well, that was a waste of his energy."

Hadrian nodded. "And a confirmation of something useful."

Daphne raised an eyebrow, silently prompting him to elaborate.

Hadrian's gaze flickered with dark amusement. "People have already decided who I should be. That's their first mistake."

Daphne hummed in thought as they entered the Transfiguration classroom, the encounter already pushed to the back of Hadrian's mind.

He had far more important things to focus on.

Hadrian and Daphne stepped into the Transfiguration classroom, the soft murmur of first-years filling the air as they hesitated, unsure where to sit. The room was arranged neatly, rows of wooden desks facing a grand mahogany desk at the front, behind which sat an unassuming tabby cat with sharp, intelligent eyes.

Hadrian's gaze flickered toward the feline, and he immediately recognized what was about to happen. He and Daphne exchanged a glance before settling into two adjacent seats near the middle of the room.

The other students filtered in behind them, some whispering excitedly about their first class, others still discussing the Sorting the night before.

"Bet she'll be strict," one Hufflepuff boy muttered.

"Nah, she's not that bad," a Gryffindor responded. "My brother says she's brilliant but terrifying if you get on her bad side."

Ron Weasley trudged in last, shooting another glare at Hadrian before flopping into a seat beside Dean Thomas, who nudged him as if to say let it go.

The classroom door shut with a crisp click, and the tabby cat on the desk leaped down—except, mid-air, its body twisted and grew, limbs stretching as fur receded into fabric, and in the blink of an eye, the cat was gone.

In its place stood Professor McGonagall.

The murmurs stopped instantly.

Daphne raised an eyebrow. "That was… impressive," she muttered under her breath.

Hadrian smirked slightly but said nothing.

Professor McGonagall surveyed the class over the rims of her square spectacles, her sharp gaze passing over each student in turn. "Transfiguration," she began, her voice crisp and authoritative, "is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Those who do not take it seriously will leave my classroom immediately."

No one moved.

She nodded. "Good." With a flick of her wand, chalk began writing on the board behind her as she continued. "Transfiguration is the art of changing the form or appearance of an object or being. This requires not only skill but precise intent. Magic without control is nothing more than chaos."

Hadrian listened carefully. The philosophy behind the subject intrigued him—magic without control is chaos—a principle that he knew all too well.

McGonagall continued, gesturing to the desk where the cat had been moments before. "What you just witnessed was an example of Animagus transformation. This is among the most advanced Transfiguration one can achieve. Do not expect to be doing such magic anytime soon."

A Gryffindor at the front, a mousy-haired girl, raised her hand eagerly. "Professor, how long does it take to become an Animagus?"

McGonagall turned to her, considering. "Years of dedicated study, Miss Brown. Even the most talented witches and wizards must practice for a long time before mastering it."

Hadrian could feel the shift in the room—most of the students were enthralled, excited by the prospect of transformation, but he merely stored the information away for later.

The lesson moved forward, covering the theoretical basics before the students were each given a small matchstick.

"Your task," McGonagall instructed, "is to transform this matchstick into a needle. It is a test of precision and control. Those who succeed today will have proven their attentiveness."

Hadrian twirled the matchstick between his fingers, studying it. He could already sense how the magic should flow—transformation was about redefining the object's nature, not simply forcing change.

Beside him, Daphne frowned in concentration, tapping her matchstick with her wand. Nothing happened.

The classroom filled with quiet murmurs and occasional sparks as students tried—and mostly failed—to enact the transformation.

Hadrian exhaled softly, channeling his will into the spell. He flicked his wand with purpose.

The matchstick shimmered, its texture shifting, wood bleeding into metal as it elongated into a sharp, silver needle.

Daphne glanced over and narrowed her eyes. "Show-off," she muttered, though there was no real venom behind it.

Hadrian smirked slightly. "You'll get it."

She scoffed. "Oh, so now you're encouraging?"

Before he could respond, a shadow loomed over them.

Professor McGonagall had arrived at their desk, her eyes flicking to Hadrian's needle before landing on him with scrutiny.

"Well done, Mr. Potter," she said slowly, though there was an unmistakable sharpness to her tone.

He met her gaze evenly. "Thank you, Professor."

She studied him for a moment longer before moving on, offering quiet corrections to other students.

Daphne finally sighed in frustration. "Alright, how did you do that?"

Hadrian tapped his wand against the desk, considering. "Transfiguration is about understanding what something should be, not what it is. Focus on the nature of the needle, not the matchstick."

Daphne shot him a dry look. "That's incredibly vague."

Hadrian chuckled. "Then stop overthinking it."

She huffed, tried again, and this time—the matchstick half transformed, its tip turning metallic.

She let out a quiet, triumphant smirk.

Hadrian merely leaned back in his seat, watching the rest of the class struggle.

Most students couldn't manage more than a flicker of silver, their matchsticks stubbornly refusing to change. Across the room, Hermione Granger was furiously trying again and again, her expression determined.

Daphne, beside him, frowned at her half-transformed needle. "Alright, I get the theory, but how do you make it listen? I know what I want it to be, but it still resists."

Hadrian glanced at her and then at her wand. "Because you're still seeing it as a matchstick," he said idly, twirling his own needle between his fingers. "You're telling it to change, but you still think of it as what it is rather than what it should be."

Daphne rolled her eyes. "That's even vaguer than last time."

Hadrian smirked. "Alright. Close your eyes for a moment."

She gave him a suspicious look but did as he said.

"Now, forget the matchstick. Picture the needle—not as something separate from it, but as something inside it. The matchstick isn't changing, it's just… becoming what was already there."

Daphne furrowed her brow but took a steady breath. She raised her wand, flicked it lightly, and—

The matchstick shimmered and turned into a complete silver needle.

She blinked at it, surprised.

Hadrian let out a low chuckle. "See? You're not bad at this."

Daphne turned her head toward him, expression unreadable, then huffed. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to be helpful."

"Who says I'm not?"

She didn't respond, only giving him an appraising look before turning back to her needle.

Before the conversation could continue, McGonagall cleared her throat. "Since some of you are making progress," she said, glancing at Hadrian's work with narrowed eyes before moving on, "let's see what you already know about Transfiguration theory. Can anyone tell me the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration?"

Hermione's hand shot up before McGonagall had finished speaking. "You can't create food, money, life, knowledge, or love from nothing," she rattled off quickly.

McGonagall gave an approving nod. "Correct, Miss Granger."

Ron Weasley leaned over to Dean Thomas and muttered, "Show-off," under his breath.

McGonagall ignored him. "Now, can anyone explain why these exceptions exist?"

This time, there was silence. Even Hermione hesitated, her brows furrowing in thought.

Hadrian considered for a moment, then spoke. "Because Transfiguration is based on altering what already exists, not creating something from nothing," he said smoothly. "You can't transfigure something into something that doesn't have a base to begin with."

McGonagall turned to him sharply, eyes narrowing slightly in scrutiny. "An interesting answer, Mr. Potter." She clasped her hands behind her back. "And what does that tell you about the nature of magic itself?"

Hadrian tilted his head. "If Transfiguration is intent-based, wouldn't that logic apply to all magic?" He tapped his wand idly against the desk. "Spells don't force things to happen—they shape what already exists. The more control you have, the more seamless the magic becomes. That would mean magic isn't just about power, but about understanding the reality you're altering."

The room fell silent.

McGonagall studied him, her expression unreadable. For a moment, Hadrian thought she was going to challenge him, but instead, she gave a small nod.

"That is… a very insightful observation, Mr. Potter," she said slowly. "One many wizards take years to grasp."

Daphne turned her head slightly, giving Hadrian another unreadable look.

Hadrian simply smirked. "I suppose I'm a fast learner."

McGonagall's lips thinned, but she said nothing more on the matter. Instead, she turned back to the class. "We will continue working on basic object transformations for the next several weeks before moving on to more advanced theory. I expect all of you to practice, as Transfiguration is not a subject that allows for laziness."

The rest of the lesson passed with students struggling to turn their matchsticks into needles. Hermione, of course, managed it by the end of class, while Ron loudly bemoaned his inability to get past a faint metallic sheen.

As they packed up, Daphne nudged Hadrian's arm. "Alright, I'll admit it," she murmured. "You're not just all talk."

Hadrian raised an eyebrow. "I never am."

She rolled her eyes but smirked slightly.

Hadrian picked up his needle, rolling it between his fingers before slipping it into his pocket.

Magic isn't about power—it's about understanding.

That was something he would have to think about.

Hadrian and Daphne walked into the Charms classroom together, taking seats near the back. The room was smaller than the Transfiguration classroom, lined with shelves of enchanted objects that hummed softly with residual magic. At the front, standing atop a stack of books so he could be seen, was Professor Flitwick—an excitable, tiny wizard who radiated a different kind of authority than McGonagall.

"Welcome, welcome!" Flitwick piped up as the last students settled in. "Charms is one of the most fundamental and versatile branches of magic! It is the magic of creativity, precision, and—" He suddenly pointed his wand at the chalkboard, and elegant script wrote itself out, "Control."

Hadrian tapped his fingers against the desk, intrigued.

Daphne muttered under her breath, "At least he's enthusiastic."

Flitwick beamed at them. "Now, before we begin practical work, let's test what you already know. Who here can name a basic first-year charm?"

Predictably, Hermione's hand shot up before anyone else could react.

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"The Levitation Charm—Wingardium Leviosa," she answered, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Correct! Five points to Gryffindor!" Flitwick said cheerfully. "Now, who can tell me why some spells are considered Charms, while others fall into different branches of magic?"

There was a pause.

Hermione hesitated, then said, "Because Charms change the behavior of objects rather than their inherent nature?"

Flitwick clapped his hands. "Very good! Precisely! Transfiguration alters what something is, but Charms enhance or manipulate what is already there." He gestured to a stack of feathers on each student's desk. "Today, we will begin practicing the Levitation Charm, one of the most fundamental spells you will learn. The wand movement is a simple swish and flick—like so."

He demonstrated the motion, and the feather in front of him rose effortlessly into the air.

Hadrian watched carefully.

Flitwick smiled. "Now, let's see how you all do!"

The classroom erupted into muttered incantations and exaggerated wand movements. Most feathers trembled in place, some hopped an inch off the desk, while others—like Ron Weasley's—caught fire due to sheer forcefulness.

Hadrian glanced at Daphne, who was frowning at her feather.

"Having trouble?" he asked.

She huffed. "No. I just don't see the point in talking to a feather."

Hadrian smirked. "It's not about talking to it—it's about convincing it. Gently." He demonstrated, his wand moving in a fluid swish and flick. "Wingardium Leviosa."

His feather lifted smoothly, hovering in midair without a single tremor.

Daphne rolled her eyes but mirrored his motion. "Wingardium Leviosa."

Her feather twitched before lifting shakily. She stared at it, slightly surprised.

"See?" Hadrian said. "Not so hard."

"You're enjoying this," she accused.

"Of course I am."

She shook her head, but there was the faintest smile tugging at her lips.

At the front of the room, Flitwick clapped his hands. "Excellent work, Mr. Potter! Ten points to Ravenclaw! And Miss Greengrass—wonderful control! Five points to Ravenclaw!"

Hadrian leaned back in his chair, satisfied.

Ron, a few desks away, scowled at him. Hermione, however, had finally managed to levitate her feather and was practically glowing with pride.

Flitwick nodded approvingly. "Very good for a first lesson! Now, remember, control is the foundation of all Charms! Without it, your magic will lack refinement. Keep practicing!"Hadrian tapped his fingers against the desk, his gaze thoughtful. "Professor," he said suddenly, drawing Flitwick's attention. "If control and intent are the foundation of Charms… wouldn't that apply to all magic?"

Flitwick blinked, then adjusted his tiny spectacles. "How do you mean, Mr. Potter?"

Hadrian twirled his wand between his fingers. "Well, Transfiguration is intent-based—one must intend for something to change, or it won't work properly. Charms, as you said, are about enhancing or altering something that already exists. But in both cases, control is crucial." He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "So why do wizards classify magic into Light and Dark, when in the end, magic is just… magic?"

The classroom had gone quiet. A few students turned to stare.

Flitwick studied him, an intrigued expression crossing his face. "An interesting perspective, Mr. Potter. Many scholars have debated this very question over the centuries."

Hermione, who had been listening closely, frowned. "But Dark magic is inherently dangerous—"

"Is it?" Hadrian asked smoothly. "Or is it dangerous because wizards lack control when using it?"

Flitwick made a small humming noise, considering. "A thought-provoking argument," he admitted. "In truth, many spells labeled as 'Dark' do rely on stronger intent and emotion, which can make them volatile. But whether that makes them inherently evil... well, that is a question of philosophy rather than spellwork."

Daphne glanced at Hadrian, then back at Flitwick. "So, in the end, magic is just a tool?"

A fair interpretation," Flitwick said with an approving nod. "One's intent and control determine its use."

Hadrian smirked slightly. "Then it seems wizards spend far too much time trying to define what should or shouldn't be used, rather than mastering what they can."

Flitwick chuckled. "Perhaps, Mr. Potter. Perhaps."

The bell rang, signaling the end of class. As the students packed their things, whispers followed Hadrian and Daphne as they walked toward the door.

"That was an odd thing to say," Daphne murmured under her breath.

Hadrian smirked. "Maybe. But it's true."

She didn't argue. Instead, she simply fell into step beside him as they made their way to the next lesson.

The dungeons were cool and dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of herbs and something faintly acidic. As Hadrian and Daphne stepped inside the Potions classroom, they quickly realized the atmosphere was vastly different from their previous lessons. The rows of desks faced a long, imposing blackboard, and glass jars filled with preserved ingredients lined the shelves along the walls. Shadows flickered from the torchlight, giving the room a foreboding feel.

Students settled in hesitantly, their chatter quieter than before. At the front of the room, Professor Snape stood with his arms crossed, his dark robes billowing slightly as he turned his piercing gaze on the first-years. His expression was unreadable, but the way his eyes lingered on Hadrian made it clear that he had already formed an opinion.

Hadrian met his gaze with calm indifference.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," Snape began, his voice barely above a whisper yet carrying through the room with sharp clarity. "As there is little foolish wand-waving in this class, many of you will hardly believe this is magic."

Some students shifted uncomfortably. Snape's gaze flickered over them before continuing.

"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even—" his voice dropped lower, silkier, "stopper death—if you aren't the bunch of dunderheads I normally have to teach."

The tension in the room thickened. Some students, like Hermione, sat straighter, clearly eager to prove themselves. Others, like Ron Weasley, were already scowling.

Snape's dark eyes flicked back to Hadrian.

"Potter," he said suddenly, his voice smooth but with an edge to it. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

There were a few startled glances. It was a trick question, clearly meant to put him on the spot.

Hadrian didn't hesitate. "A Draught of Living Death, sir."

Snape's lips pressed into a thin line. He hadn't expected him to answer so quickly. "Correct," he said, though there was no praise in his tone. "Let's see if that was mere luck. Where would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?"

"In the stomach of a goat," Hadrian replied evenly.

A murmur went through the class. Snape's eyes narrowed slightly.

"And what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

"There is no difference," Hadrian said without missing a beat. "They are the same plant, also called aconite."

For a moment, there was silence.

Then Snape's lip curled. "Clearly, not all of your fame is undeserved."

Hadrian's expression remained impassive, though he felt Daphne shift slightly beside him. He had a feeling she was watching him just as closely as Snape was.

"Five points to Ravenclaw," Snape said at last, his voice begrudging. "Now—let us see if the rest of you can keep up."

With a flick of his wand, instructions appeared on the board, and the class was thrown into their first brewing attempt.

Daphne leaned over slightly, keeping her voice low. "That was impressive."

Hadrian smirked. "It was expected."

She huffed lightly in amusement before focusing on their cauldron.

As they set to work, Hadrian couldn't shake the feeling that Snape's gaze lingered on him just a little too long.

Hadrian and Daphne worked in sync, each movement precise as they measured out ingredients for their Boil-Cure Potion. The instructions on the board were clear, but as Hadrian glanced around the room, he could already tell that several students were struggling.

Hermione, of course, was moving with meticulous precision, though her partner—a nervous-looking boy—kept second-guessing her instructions. Weasley, on the other hand, was already scowling into his cauldron, his concoction taking on an ominous shade of brown instead of the expected deep purple.

"Crush the snake fangs into a fine powder before adding them," Hadrian murmured to Daphne, who nodded, expertly grinding the brittle fangs with the flat of her silver knife.

As she did, Hadrian carefully added the dried nettles, stirring counterclockwise exactly five times before lowering the heat with a precise flick of his wand. Their potion shimmered, a promising sign.

Across the room, an unfortunate Gryffindor—Seamus Finnigan—let out a curse as his potion began bubbling aggressively, hissing as smoke poured over the rim. He barely had time to step back before it exploded, drenching him and his desk mate in foul-smelling green sludge.

The class erupted into startled exclamations as Snape swept over, his expression dark with displeasure.

"Idiots," he sneered. "Perhaps you'd like to spend your evening cleaning cauldrons without magic, Finnigan? If you survive that long without melting your own hands off."

Seamus turned red but nodded quickly. Snape waved his wand, vanishing the mess with a sharp crack, before turning his gaze elsewhere.

At the Slytherin table, Pansy Parkinson let out a high-pitched giggle, whispering something to Draco Malfoy, who smirked in amusement.

Hadrian ignored them, focusing instead on their own potion. He picked up his knife and began slicing his horned slug with steady precision. Daphne added the porcupine quills right as the instructions dictated, and together, they watched their potion deepen into the perfect shade of rich purple.

Snape prowled through the aisles, scanning the students' progress with his usual look of contempt. When he finally reached their table, his gaze flickered over their cauldron before narrowing slightly.

"Perfect color," he admitted begrudgingly. "At least some of you can follow instructions."

Hadrian held back a smirk as Snape turned, docking points from several other students for their errors.

Then, suddenly—

CRACK!

A second explosion tore through the room, and this time, the source was Ron Weasley's cauldron. The potion within had turned a sickly yellow-green before combusting, showering the area in a pungent, smoking mess.

Weasley let out a strangled sound as Snape loomed over him.

"You boiled the porcupine quills before removing the cauldron from the heat?" Snape's voice was dangerously low.

Ron, still blinking rapidly from the stinging fumes, coughed. "I—erm—"

Snape's lip curled. "Ten points from Gryffindor. And detention. Perhaps I'll have you sorting through flobberworm mucus to teach you the importance of proper instructions."

Snickering broke out from the Slytherin side of the room.

Daphne leaned in slightly, whispering to Hadrian, "He really doesn't hide his favoritism, does he?"

"Hardly," Hadrian murmured back, though his eyes were sharp as he observed Snape.

With the potion disasters handled, the class eventually finished their brewing. As they bottled samples and cleaned up, Snape made a final round, taking stock of their work. When he reached Hadrian and Daphne again, he inspected their potion closely before speaking.

"Acceptable," he finally said. "Ten points to Ravenclaw."

Hadrian caught the way Snape's expression twitched ever so slightly—perhaps it irritated him that he had to award points to anyone but Slytherin.

As the class ended, students gathered their things, murmuring about the lesson. Weasley was still grumbling about his bad luck, and Hermione, despite earning points for Gryffindor, looked slightly put out that she hadn't brewed the best potion.

Hadrian and Daphne exchanged a glance as they packed up their supplies.

"Not bad for the first day," Daphne said lightly.

Hadrian smirked. "Only if the rest of our classmates survive the week."

She let out a soft chuckle as they stepped into the corridor, the dungeons' chill following them out.

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the headmaster's office as the professors gathered around Dumbledore's grand desk. The air was thick with quiet murmurs and the occasional clink of teacups as the first day of lessons was discussed.

Professor McGonagall, as always, sat straight-backed, hands folded neatly in her lap, while Snape leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Flitwick sat atop his customary stack of cushions, beaming at the successes of his first-year students, while Sprout hummed approvingly about the enthusiasm shown in Herbology.

"The new batch of students shows promise," Flitwick was saying, his voice cheerful. "Some of them have already begun grasping the fundamentals of spellwork quite well—Miss Granger, for instance. Sharp mind, that one."

"She's a bit overeager," McGonagall noted, though there was approval in her tone. "But I expect she'll find her place soon enough. The Gryffindors as a whole seem to be adjusting well, though I do worry about young Neville Longbottom. The boy lacks confidence in himself."

"He lacks competence as well," Snape drawled, earning a sharp glance from McGonagall.

"Now, now, Severus," Dumbledore said with a light chuckle, stroking his beard. "We mustn't be too quick to judge. Growth takes time."

There was a pause as the conversation shifted toward the Slytherins, with Snape offering clipped observations on who showed promise and who needed work. The other professors gave similar reports on their respective houses, exchanging notes on which students had stood out.

Then, after a moment of quiet, Dumbledore finally steepled his fingers and asked, "And what of Harry Potter?"

A stillness settled over the room.

"He prefers to be called Hadrian," Flitwick corrected gently.

Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled behind his half-moon glasses, though the look was contemplative. "Yes… quite curious, that. But tell me—how has he fared on his first day?"

McGonagall was the first to respond, her voice carefully measured. "He carries himself far differently than I expected. Not at all like the boy I thought I would meet. He is… composed, precise in his words and actions. Reserved, yet perceptive."

"A natural talent in Transfiguration," she added begrudgingly. "He questioned the very fundamentals of the subject—quite insightful for a first-year."

Flitwick nodded. "The same happened in Charms. He questioned the nature of magic itself, deducing that if control and intent shape spellwork, then magic itself does not truly have a moral alignment. A remarkable mind."

Dumbledore hummed, fingers tapping lightly against his desk.

Snape finally spoke, his voice low. "He is not reckless. He is not arrogant. But he is watching everything."

McGonagall turned to Snape sharply. "What do you mean?"

Snape exhaled through his nose, his dark eyes unreadable. "He is observant to a fault. Every action, every word spoken—he absorbs it all without giving anything away. There is no childish bravado in him, no naïve wonder. He is deliberate."

Dumbledore's gaze sharpened slightly. "And how was he in your class?"

Snape's lip curled slightly. "Flawless. Not a single misstep in brewing. His partner, the Greengrass girl, was equally competent." He tilted his head. "But he does not act as others expected. The other students, particularly the Gryffindors, assumed he would be one of them. Weasley was particularly vocal about it."

McGonagall sighed. "Yes… I had to step in when young Ronald confronted him. He did not take the sorting well."

"And how did Hadrian respond?" Dumbledore asked softly.

"He was… calm," McGonagall admitted. "Collected. He did not rise to anger. If anything, he dismissed Weasley with sharp logic and detached amusement."

Dumbledore was quiet for a moment, staring into the candle flames. His fingers tapped against his desk again in a thoughtful rhythm.

"Fascinating," he murmured at last. "The boy is… different than I had anticipated."

"He is nothing like his father," Snape said bluntly.

McGonagall frowned at the implication, but Dumbledore merely nodded. "No, it seems he is not."

The room fell silent, the weight of unspoken thoughts settling over them all. Finally, Dumbledore smiled, though there was something distant in his gaze.

"Well," he said lightly, "it seems young Hadrian will be a most interesting student indeed."

The flickering candles cast long shadows as the conversation moved on, but the thought of Hadrian Potter lingered in the air.

The soft crackling of the fire was the only sound in the now-empty office. Dumbledore sat in his high-backed chair, gazing at the flickering flames as his fingers rested against his temple. The conversation with his staff still played in his mind, each observation fitting into the ever-growing puzzle that was Hadrian Potter.

He exhaled slowly, his usual twinkle of amusement absent as he stared into the hearth. This was not the boy he had envisioned—the lost child returned to the world he belonged to, wide-eyed and eager, filled with the bright courage of his parents. No, this child—this Hadrian—was something else entirely.

McGonagall's words echoed in his mind. Composed. Precise. Reserved, yet perceptive.

Snape's assessment was even more telling. He is not reckless. He is not arrogant. But he is watching everything.

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. That alone would not have been so concerning. Observant children existed. Intelligent children existed. Even guarded children existed. But Hadrian was all three—to an extent that did not fit the narrative of an abandoned boy raised in the muggle world.

He should have been uncertain, overwhelmed by magic's return to his life. He should have been struggling to adjust, clinging to familiarity, seeking guidance. But instead, he had entered Hogwarts with a quiet certainty, as if he had long since accepted and prepared for this world.

Who prepared him?

Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly, his thoughts circling back to the one question that had haunted him for years. Someone had taken Hadrian from the Dursleys. He had searched, he had investigated, but all his attempts to locate the boy over the years had led to nothing.

And now, after a decade, Hadrian had returned. Not lost. Not confused. But with knowledge and control that no ordinary upbringing could provide.

His eyes flickered toward the small silver instruments on his desk, the ones he had long attuned to Harry Potter's magical signature. They had remained silent for years, unable to track him. And now, when they finally worked once more, they told him something deeply unsettling.

Hadrian's magic was not as it should have been. It was controlled, yes, measured, but there was something beneath it. Something old. Something powerful.

And the way he had spoken in class…

"If Transfiguration is intent-based, wouldn't that logic apply to all magic?"

"If Charms require control and intent, then wouldn't all magic? That would mean magic itself isn't inherently dark or light—only how we use it."

Dumbledore opened his eyes, his gaze sharpening. That was not the reasoning of an untrained eleven-year-old. That was the logic of someone who had been taught—someone who had been guided to question, to analyze, to understand the true nature of magic.

The question was… by whom?

And why had Hadrian not revealed anything about them?

Dumbledore sighed and stood, moving to the window that overlooked the vast Hogwarts grounds. The night was quiet, but his mind was not.

For now, he would watch. He would wait.

But the boy was a mystery.

And Albus Dumbledore did not like mysteries he could not solve.

The common room was quiet, save for the low crackling of the fireplace. The soft glow of the enchanted flames painted the stone walls in flickering gold, casting long shadows that swayed with the fire's rhythm. Most of the other Ravenclaws had long since retired, but two figures remained.

Hadrian sat by the tall arched window, fingers idly twirling his wand. His magic was restless tonight again, and once again, it led him to the same person.

To her.

Daphne sat curled in a chair near the fire, a book open in her lap, though she wasn't reading. Her eyes flicked across the page too quickly, fingers drumming absentmindedly against the cover. She was waiting. Or perhaps just thinking.

Hadrian finally broke the silence. "You're awake late."

She glanced up, as if pulled from her thoughts. "So are you."

He smirked slightly. "Couldn't sleep."

Daphne gave a quiet hum, closing her book with a soft thud. "Neither could I."

Silence settled between them again, but it wasn't awkward. If anything, it felt… natural.

After a moment, Daphne tilted her head slightly. "Do you think it's strange?"

Hadrian raised a brow. "What?"

"That we ended up here." She traced a finger along the spine of her book. "That we met before Hogwarts. That we were sorted into the same house. That we keep…" she hesitated, then exhaled, "...ending up in the same place."

Hadrian leaned back against the window frame, considering her words. "Do you believe in fate?"

Daphne scoffed lightly, but not dismissively. "I believe in cause and effect. But some things… defy logic."

Hadrian smirked. "A very un-Ravenclaw answer."

She arched her brow. "Is it?"

He tapped a finger against his wand. "Logic dictates that everything has an explanation. If something seems unexplainable, then you simply lack the right information."

Daphne watched him for a moment, then said, "Then tell me, what's your explanation?"

Hadrian was silent for a beat. Then, quietly, he admitted, "I don't have one."

That seemed to amuse her.

Another stretch of silence, this one more thoughtful. The fire flickered, its glow casting golden streaks across Daphne's features. Eventually, she sighed, shifting slightly in her seat.

"I don't think I've ever had a real friend before," she said, so casually it almost felt like an afterthought.

Hadrian stilled. He hadn't expected that.

"No one?" he asked.

She gave a small shrug, gaze drifting to the fire. "I've had acquaintances. People I spent time with because it was expected. But a friend?" She shook her head. "Not really."

Hadrian didn't respond immediately. He had never thought much about friendship before. Solitude had always been his reality—until now.

"Do you want one?" he asked.

Daphne's lips quirked slightly. "I think I already made a deal for one."

Hadrian smirked. "And here I thought you were just in it for the alliance."

She smirked back, though there was something softer beneath it. "It was a very practical arrangement."

"Indeed."

A pause. Then, Daphne exhaled, her voice quieter when she spoke again. "This… feels different."

Hadrian held her gaze, something unspoken passing between them. "It does."

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, Daphne leaned back into her chair. "But if you start getting sentimental, I will hex you."

Hadrian chuckled, low and quiet. "Duly noted."

She settled in, more at ease than before. And as Hadrian watched the firelight dance in her eyes, he knew, without needing to say it aloud—

This was something neither of them had ever had before.

And for once, he didn't mind it.

As Daphne and Hadrian walked through the quiet aisles of the library, the air around them seemed to settle, thick with the unspoken words they hadn't yet exchanged. Daphne couldn't help but feel oddly at ease with him. But there was still a part of her, buried deep within, that couldn't fully let go of the expectations that had been placed upon her. She couldn't shake the weight of her father's letter that had arrived two days after she'd set foot in Hogwarts.

Her thoughts slipped backward, drawn to the memory like a thread pulling her unwillingly toward a place she'd rather not go.

Flashback: The Second Day at Hogwarts

It had been an ordinary morning—sunlight filtering through the windows of the Ravenclaw common room, the promise of a new day ahead. Daphne had been sorting through her things when she noticed an owl perched by the window, its dark eyes fixed on her. The letter was sealed with her father's family crest, and the weight of it was like a stone in her stomach.

Father's letter. She hadn't been able to open it for hours, dreading the words that awaited her inside. Her father's anger was a force she could feel even without seeing him, and now, that invisible force was tugging at her.

When she finally worked up the courage to open it, the letter felt heavy in her hands, the weight of her father's disappointment settling in before she even read the first word.

Letter:

Daphne,

I hope you're enjoying your time at Hogwarts, though I have no delusions that you've learned much of importance. I expect you to focus, not on nonsense like friendships, but on the future I've outlined for you. Your duty. Do not make the mistake of disregarding what I have planned for you.

It's come to my attention that you've been associating with certain people whose status in the wizarding world is, quite frankly, beneath you. I expect you to remedy this immediately. I will not have my daughter throwing away the opportunity I have secured for her.

Most importantly, you are to forge a closer relationship with Draco Malfoy. You will make sure that the two of you are seen together. I expect you to cooperate fully with this arrangement, as you well know it's in your best interest. There is no room for refusal here, Daphne.

I trust you'll make the right decision.

Your Father

Daphne had reread the letter several times, but the message never changed. She was to follow the path her father had set for her, no questions asked. The words forge a closer relationship with Draco Malfoy were burned into her mind. She'd never met Draco beyond fleeting glances at family gatherings, and now she was being told she was supposed to not only be friends with him but to forge a relationship that would, ultimately, lead to a betrothal.

Her stomach had churned with the thought of it. A marriage between Draco and I? Her whole life, her choices, her future… everything was mapped out, and none of it had room for her to decide for herself.

The letter left her feeling empty, trapped between the life she'd always known and the one her father was forcing on her.

Daphne's breath hitched as the memory took root in her mind, and she blinked hard, fighting back the lump in her throat. She had barely noticed the way Hadrian had slowed down, his steps aligning with hers.

Suddenly, she felt a cold tear slip down her cheek.

She wiped it away quickly, but it was too late.

"Daphne?" Hadrian's voice, soft and concerned, cut through her haze. He stopped walking, his gaze falling to her face, where the telltale sign of vulnerability was already there. He noticed the shift in her—her shoulders had sagged, and her eyes were distant. He'd learned enough about her over the past week to know that something was wrong, something deeper than the day-to-day discomforts of being a first-year.

Daphne didn't respond immediately, afraid that if she spoke, the rest of the tears would follow. But it was too much. The pressure, the fear, the endless demands from her father—all of it came crashing down in that moment.

And then it happened. The tears she'd kept hidden finally spilled over, falling one by one down her cheeks. She didn't know why she'd kept them in for so long, but there it was: a rawness she couldn't hide anymore.

Hadrian was already reaching out, his hand steady as he placed it gently on her shoulder, guiding her away from the students milling around in the library. He said nothing, just led her toward a small, empty room just off the corridor. It was a quiet, out-of-the-way place that seemed to exist for moments like this—when the world outside was too much, and the pressure became unbearable.

The door closed softly behind them.

Daphne sank against the wall, trying to steady her breathing, but the sobs came in shaky waves, too overwhelming to contain. She didn't want to cry—not in front of him. But Hadrian didn't move away. Instead, he remained there, his presence solid and steady as she fought to regain her composure.

"Daphne…" His voice was low, calm, as if offering her the space to feel everything without judgment. "You don't have to hide it."

She wiped her eyes hastily, but the tears kept coming. She looked up at him, eyes wide and vulnerable. "I don't know how to do this, Hadrian," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I don't know how to be who they want me to be."

Hadrian's expression softened, and he stepped closer, his hand resting on her arm in a gesture that was both gentle and reassuring. "You don't have to be anything you don't want to be," he said quietly. "You're allowed to choose your own path, Daphne. You don't owe anyone anything."

Daphne shook her head, her thoughts spinning. "But I do owe them. My father… he's set all this in motion. My life is already decided. And I—I have no say in it." Her words were desperate, a quiet plea for understanding.

Hadrian stayed silent for a moment, then stepped forward, his voice unwavering. "You do have a say. It's just that, for now, you need someone to remind you of that. You don't need to walk this path alone." He leaned down slightly to look at her more directly. "I've got your back, Daphne. And if it's not enough to remind you, I'll say it again: You can choose. It might take time, but you can choose."

Daphne let out a shaky breath, her hand gripping his sleeve as if it were the only anchor left. She didn't know why, but she found herself believing him—believing in him.

For the first time in a long while, she felt a little less lost.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice fragile.

Hadrian gave her a small, understanding smile, his eyes never leaving hers. "Anytime. You're not alone in this."

Daphne took in a shaky breath and nodded, wiping the last of her tears away. She knew it wasn't going to be easy, but with Hadrian there, maybe she could find her way. Slowly, but surely, maybe she could find the courage to choose her own future.

And, somehow, she knew that with him by her side, she wouldn't have to face it alone.

Hadrian stood there, watching Daphne as she wiped away the last of her tears, her breath still unsteady. His hand remained gently on her arm, though he could feel the subtle tension in her muscles, as if she was unsure whether to pull away or let herself lean into him. He didn't rush her. He just waited, the quiet pressure of the moment settling between them.

His thoughts, however, were anything but still.

It was strange, really.

He barely knew her—a week of shared classes, whispered conversations, and stolen moments, all of it barely enough to scratch the surface of who Daphne Greengrass truly was. And yet, here he was, standing in an empty room, watching her crumble in front of him, and something deep inside him shifted. Something he hadn't expected.

Compassion.

It wasn't an emotion Hadrian was accustomed to feeling for others. Sympathy had always seemed like a weakness—something to be used, but never something to feel deeply. Most of the time, people's troubles and desires were so... predictable. He had learned early on that the world was made of those who controlled, and those who were controlled. And he preferred to be the former.

But Daphne...

Daphne was different.

Her vulnerability, the rawness in her eyes as she let down her walls, pulled something from him he couldn't quite name. It wasn't pity—no, he didn't feel sorry for her. That wasn't it at all. He didn't see her as fragile or weak, but as someone in need of something deeper: understanding. Something he didn't fully know how to give, but found himself willing to try.

It was frustrating, if he was honest with himself. He didn't do empathy. He didn't even really want to feel it. But, damn it, he did.

He had seen people in pain before, and he had seen it used as a tool—something to manipulate, to control. His own past had been littered with those who had shown vulnerability, only for it to be taken advantage of. But Daphne... she wasn't like the others.

She wasn't like anyone.

It was easy for him to see her as just another student—another part of his game. After all, she was an ally now, someone he could use in his larger scheme. But standing there, feeling the weight of her sorrow in a way he didn't expect, he realized just how real she was. No, he wasn't going to abandon his goals—he couldn't afford to—but part of him wanted to protect her. To shelter her from the harshness of her own world.

She wasn't weak, but she was lost. And maybe, just maybe, Hadrian found something in that. It felt like an opportunity, but also... a responsibility.

He wasn't sure why he felt this pull to help her. Was it pity? No. Was it a sense of obligation? Perhaps. Or was it something deeper, a flicker of something more complicated that he hadn't yet unpacked?

He wasn't ready to label it, and he wasn't sure he would ever be. But in that moment, with her tear-streaked face and quiet sobs, he felt more than just a fleeting concern. He felt a commitment—a drive to make sure she didn't fall apart, not if he could help it.

"Daphne," he said again, his voice calm but insistent, "You don't have to do this alone."

It was strange. Hadrian had never been one to open himself up, even to those closest to him. Yet, there was something about her that made him feel like maybe... maybe he didn't have to stand apart. Maybe it wasn't just her who needed saving.

Maybe they both did.

And the idea, as unsettling as it was, didn't scare him as much as it should. Because, in a way, he felt like he had to help her. He wasn't just giving her something; he was gaining something too. A chance to change the way he had seen the world. To rewrite the story of himself that he'd been telling for years.

He wasn't sure if she would ever see him in the way he saw her, but for now, that didn't matter. He would be here. He would make sure she didn't let the weight of her family's expectations crush her, even if it meant something unexpected for him.

With one last glance at her, he lowered his hand from her arm, giving her the space to breathe, but he didn't move away. He didn't let her retreat into isolation again.

"I'll be here, Daphne," he said softly, firmly. "You don't need to do this by yourself."

And, for a moment, he saw the tiniest flicker of something shift in her expression—something like hope.

A strange, unfamiliar feeling lodged itself deep within him, and, for once, Hadrian didn't fight it.