Heir to the darkness, Lord of the flames

by Purple Lightning Strike

"from fire unholy and embers bright, A shadow rises, forged in light. Twice unmade, yet never broken, A name once feared, now reawoken. The heir of storms, the son of ash, Wields power lost in ages past. When purging flames consume the sky, The world shall kneel, or it shall die." Dark/grey Harry, eventual romance and lemon, powerful Harry, smart Harry, open to criticism

8. Chapter 7

The Great Hall was alive with the usual bustle of lunchtime—students gossiping, eating, and catching up with friends. Hadrian sat at the Ravenclaw table, his eyes occasionally flicking across the room as his thoughts seemed to wander elsewhere. Daphne sat beside him, her posture relaxed but her attention scattered, as usual. Over the past week, their friendship had taken root, and the silence that once felt awkward now seemed comfortable, familiar. She wasn't just the girl from Ollivanders anymore. She was someone he could talk to, someone who had proven herself capable of more than just the exterior she wore.

The noise around them barely reached his ears as he absentmindedly picked at the food on his plate. The flicker of something familiar brushed his senses—a subtle shift in the air, a faint stirring of something out of place. He didn't have to look up to know what it was.

A single sheet of parchment drifted down in front of him, landing softly on the table. The motion was so slight it almost seemed imperceptible, but Hadrian's fingers twitched instinctively, reaching for it.

Daphne glanced at him, brow furrowing slightly as she saw him grab the letter. "Another one of your mysterious letters?" she asked, her voice soft but edged with curiosity. She had seen him receive one of these before but hadn't pressed him on the matter.

Hadrian's fingers tightened around the parchment, almost as if to steady himself, though he was careful not to let it show. His gaze drifted over the neatly written words, the elegant script instantly familiar.

Without saying a word, he unfolded it, his eyes scanning the page.

---

Hadrian,

The time grows shorter now. You are standing at the precipice, but the choice is yours. Do not let others dictate your fate. Your true power lies in the path you carve for yourself.

Dumbledore suspects. He watches carefully. Do not trust the friendly gestures from those who would have you serve their purposes.

You are not alone, but I cannot act for you. You must decide.

Be prepared.

—Selene

---

Hadrian's jaw tightened slightly as he finished reading, the weight of the letter sinking into his bones. There was a strange chill that always accompanied Selene's words, something that made his thoughts feel sharper, more focused—but more dangerous, too. The message was clear, but there was no comfort in it.

Daphne studied him quietly as he tucked the letter into his robe. Her curiosity was evident, but she didn't push him to explain. Instead, she simply watched him for a moment, noting the subtle shift in his expression—a change she had grown more familiar with over the last week. "You know," she said softly, almost thoughtfully, "you don't have to do this alone."

Hadrian blinked, taken aback by her words. He met her eyes for a moment, his usual detached gaze softening just slightly. "I'm not alone," he replied, his tone barely above a whisper.

The sincerity in his words surprised Daphne, but she didn't comment on it. Instead, she turned her attention back to her meal, though her thoughts were far from her plate.

"You've got plans," she said, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Plans that don't involve telling anyone, I suppose."

Hadrian couldn't help the small smirk that tugged at his own lips, though his thoughts remained elsewhere. "Not everything needs to be shared," he said, the quiet wisdom in his words seeming to carry more weight than it should have.

Daphne raised an eyebrow, but there was no judgment in her gaze—only quiet acceptance. She had already figured out that there was more to him than anyone realized. And despite everything, despite her own sense of doubt and uncertainty, she found herself drawn to him even more.

The silence between them stretched on for a moment, comfortable and heavy with unspoken things. Hadrian finally broke it, his voice low but purposeful. "You don't have to worry about me. I've got this. I always do."

Daphne's gaze softened, and for a brief second, she almost wanted to ask what he meant by that. But something in her stopped her—maybe it was the way he said it, or the way his eyes held a thousand unsaid things. Whatever it was, she knew he wouldn't share more than he was willing to.

Instead, she offered a soft, unspoken agreement. "I'm not worried," she said, her voice gentle. "I just want to make sure you know you don't have to carry everything on your own."

For the first time in a long while, Hadrian felt something shift inside him—something like a slow, careful opening. He nodded slightly, his gaze lingering on her a moment longer than usual.

Daphne smiled, though there was still something bittersweet in the expression. "Well, for what it's worth, I've got your back too. Whatever you're planning."

Hadrian raised an eyebrow, a small, knowing smile forming on his lips. "I'll hold you to that."

She met his gaze with an unspoken understanding, and for once, he felt the weight of his plans—not quite as heavy.

For now, at least.

The corridors of Hogwarts had grown quieter as the day came to an end, the last of the students trickling back to their respective common rooms. The soft murmur of their voices seemed like a distant hum to Hadrian, who stood in front of a grand window that overlooked the sprawling grounds. His reflection stared back at him in the glass, a faint silhouette against the twilight.

Hadrian's fingers lightly traced the edge of the stone windowsill as his mind raced, turning over the plans that had been set in motion. His gaze drifted outside, where the dying light of the day painted the horizon with a wash of deep oranges and purples. The world seemed vast, infinite, yet he felt oddly small within it—a pawn, yes, but one with potential. Power. And he had a unique advantage: his bloodline. The legacy of Grindelwald flowed in his veins, a legacy that could either be his curse or his salvation.

But only if I control it.

He leaned against the stone wall, his thoughts spiraling into the darkness. He had learned a great deal since coming to Hogwarts. His control over magic, though not yet perfect, had grown significantly. He had seen enough to understand that the Wizarding World was far more fractured than he had ever imagined. The Ministry, the Houses, the bloodlines—all of it, a web of power and manipulation. Everyone was playing a game, even if they didn't know it.

But Hadrian had no intention of simply being a player. He would be the one pulling the strings.

The silence in the room pressed on him, the weight of it becoming palpable as his mind continued to churn. His next step was critical. He needed to begin building his power base, subtly, carefully. Manipulating the currents of influence, drawing the right people to him without them realizing they were being drawn in.

And yet… his thoughts drifted back to Daphne.

She had become a constant presence in his life, in a way that was far more than he had anticipated. From the moment they had met, there had been something… compelling about her. She was sharp, perceptive, and she had an awareness of the world that went beyond most people her age. But it was more than that. She was an enigma. She was not someone who simply followed the crowd. She was someone who could be molded—perhaps not easily, but it could be done.

But would it be worth it?

Hadrian's gaze turned inward, contemplating her as she had been over the past few days. Daphne had opened up to him in ways that were unexpected, revealing the cracks beneath her polished exterior. She was more than just a clever girl with a sharp tongue—there was a depth to her, a vulnerability that she kept hidden. But Hadrian had seen it.

And in a way, it made her even more valuable.

He exhaled slowly, his breath steady as his eyes narrowed, the decision weighing on him. He could use her. He could trust her to keep things between them, to follow his lead. But to what extent should he reveal his plans to her? She had already proven herself a reliable ally, but allies and friends were not always the same thing. He couldn't afford to show too much of his hand, not yet.

If I tell her, will she understand? Or will I lose her?

It was a risk, of course. But then, everything he did was a risk. And in his gut, something told him that Daphne might be the key to something greater. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that if he kept her in the dark, it would only create a barrier between them. He needed someone by his side who understood the weight of the choices he was about to make.

The question remained: how much could he reveal? Would it be wise to bring her into the fold now, or should he wait until he had more power to stand on?

He leaned forward slightly, staring into the deepening night beyond the window. His reflection stared back at him, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Time. I need more time to prepare, to manipulate, to control. But when the time is right, Daphne will have a place in this plan.

He didn't know exactly what that place would be yet, but he knew it would be significant.

The decision made, he stood up straight, his eyes cold and calculating once more. He wasn't in a rush. Patience was key, and he had plenty of that.

But something deep inside him whispered that, in the end, Daphne Greengrass would play an integral role in the destiny he was carving out for himself, and the world.

Daphne moved through the dimly lit corridor, her footsteps soft against the cool stone floor. The evening air carried the faint echoes of students still lingering in the Great Hall, but here, in the quieter halls leading back to Ravenclaw Tower, she was alone.

Or so she thought.

A sudden presence ahead made her stop.

Draco Malfoy.

Flanked by Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, he stood in the center of the hallway, arms crossed, chin lifted with an expression of barely concealed irritation. The smug confidence in his smirk was something she had seen all her life—arrogance ingrained from birth, polished by wealth and status.

Daphne immediately halted, her expression carefully neutral. She didn't tense, didn't flinch, but her fingers curled slightly at her sides, hidden by the folds of her robes.

"Greengrass," Draco drawled, tilting his head as though studying her. "Been meaning to have a word."

Daphne arched an eyebrow. "Then speak."

Draco's smirk twitched. He wasn't used to being addressed so coolly, even by those within his own social sphere. "I'll get straight to the point. Everyone expected you to be in Slytherin. I expected you to be in Slytherin." His pale eyes narrowed. "And yet, here you are, sitting with the mudblood-lovers and half-breeds."

Daphne's expression didn't change, but something cold coiled in her chest.

"My house is none of your concern," she said flatly.

Draco scoffed. "Of course it is. Your family is one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Your father certainly seems to think it matters." His smirk returned when he saw the way Daphne's lips pressed together just slightly. "Yes, I know about the letter."

Daphne clenched her jaw. Of course, he knew. Her father had made it abundantly clear that he expected her to align herself with the Malfoys, had all but demanded she stay close to Draco.

She should have expected that he'd be emboldened by it.

"I don't take orders from my father," she replied evenly. "And I certainly don't take them from you."

Draco's smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before his expression turned colder.

"You should reconsider that," he said, stepping closer. "Your father won't tolerate your… mistake. If you don't get your act together, you'll find yourself without a home to go back to."

Daphne felt a spike of something—anger, defiance, fear, she wasn't sure—but she didn't let it show.

"I don't respond to threats, Malfoy," she said, voice like ice.

Draco's lip curled. "This isn't a threat, Greengrass. It's a fact. Your father wants you to strengthen ties between our families. He wants you to prove your loyalty. If you keep playing at being something you're not, you'll lose everything."

Daphne swallowed, the weight of his words pressing down on her like a vice.

Then, before she could respond, another voice cut through the tension.

"That's quite a bold claim, Malfoy," Hadrian said smoothly.

Daphne's eyes widened slightly. She turned her head, her breath hitching just a little as she saw him standing at the mouth of the corridor, hands in his pockets, his presence effortless yet commanding.

Relief rushed through her, so strong it startled her. She hadn't realized how much she'd wanted someone to be there.

Draco turned, schooling his expression into something sneering. "Potter," he said, voice filled with contempt. "This has nothing to do with you."

Hadrian hummed, taking a step forward, unconcerned. His gaze flickered to Daphne—just for a moment, assessing—before settling back on Draco with quiet amusement.

"On the contrary," he said lightly. "It seems to me that you're quite invested in something that's none of your business."

Draco's pale eyes darkened. "I'm protecting her from making a mistake she'll regret."

Hadrian chuckled, the sound soft but edged with something sharp. "Ah, I see. And let me guess—you're the only one who knows what's best for her?"

Draco's fingers twitched, his temper fraying. "Her family—"

"—does not own her," Hadrian interrupted smoothly. He tilted his head, watching Draco with something close to amusement. "And you'd do well to remember that, Malfoy."

Draco's face twisted with something ugly. His fingers curled around his wand, and in one sharp motion, he yanked it from his robes.

Daphne tensed. Crabbe and Goyle shifted slightly, though it was clear they were waiting for Draco to make the first move.

Hadrian, however, didn't so much as blink.

His eyes flicked lazily to the wand, then back to Draco's face, and he exhaled through his nose as though the whole thing bored him.

"You're going to duel me in the middle of the corridor, Malfoy?" he asked, voice slow and mocking. "That's rather foolish."

Draco sneered. "Are you afraid, Potter?"

Hadrian's lips quirked, his hands still in his pockets. "I don't waste my time being afraid of people like you."

Draco's grip tightened. For a moment, it looked like he was actually going to cast a spell—his pride was screaming for him to—but then Hadrian took a single step forward.

And suddenly, the air changed.

It was subtle, something barely perceptible, but it was there—a weight, an unseen force that pressed down on the space between them. Hadrian's magic was restrained, coiled beneath the surface, but the promise of it was enough.

Draco hesitated.

He felt it.

Something dark flickered in Hadrian's gaze, something unreadable, and Draco finally seemed to think better of it.

His wand lowered slightly, but his sneer remained.

"This isn't over, Greengrass," he spat, before turning on his heel and storming off, Crabbe and Goyle close behind.

The moment he was gone, Daphne let out a slow breath.

Hadrian, meanwhile, was watching her carefully.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

Daphne hesitated, glancing at him, at the way he stood so at ease, as if none of this had even remotely unsettled him.

That feeling of relief from earlier hadn't faded.

"…I am now," she admitted.

Hadrian's lips twitched in something almost like a smirk. "Good." Then, after a moment, he added, "You handled him well."

Daphne let out a small, breathy chuckle, shaking her head. "Not well enough, apparently."

Hadrian hummed. "Better than most."

A silence stretched between them, and Daphne—who had spent years building walls, keeping everyone at arm's length—was surprised to find that she didn't want the silence to last.

"…Thank you," she said, softer now. "For stepping in."

Hadrian inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "Of course."

And for a brief moment, there was an understanding between them. A quiet, unspoken recognition of something that neither of them had put words to yet.

Then, Hadrian turned, gesturing for her to walk with him.

"Come on," he said. "Let's get out of here."

Daphne hesitated, just for a heartbeat.

Then she stepped forward, falling into step beside him

They walked in silence for a while, the tension of the encounter still lingering in the air like a fading storm. The corridors were emptier now, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows along the stone walls.

Daphne had been quiet since Malfoy left. Not in the way she normally was—not composed and guarded, but thoughtful.

Hadrian let her have the silence. He knew she would speak when she was ready.

And she did.

"My father wants me to bind myself to the Malfoys," she murmured, her voice almost distant. "Not just through friendship. He wants me to secure an alliance."

Hadrian's footsteps didn't falter, but his gaze flickered toward her.

"Marriage," he stated, because he already knew.

Daphne exhaled softly, nodding. "Betrothal." The word sat heavy on her tongue, like something foreign and suffocating. "Not immediately, of course. But the expectation is there. Father wants me to establish myself with Draco, to… fall in line."

She scoffed quietly, shaking her head. "As if I could ever stomach it."

Hadrian tilted his head slightly. "And if you refuse?"

Daphne hesitated. Then, finally, she answered.

"My family… they value strength, prestige, influence. If I reject their expectations, I become useless to them. And Greengrasses don't keep useless things."

Hadrian understood what she wasn't saying.

She would be cast aside. Disowned, maybe. Stripped of everything she had known.

It was a cruel reality, but Hadrian had always known the world was cruel.

Daphne let out a breath, turning her head slightly to look at him. "And what about you?" she asked, quieter now. "Would you still keep me, Hadrian? Even if I lost everything?"

Hadrian stopped walking.

Daphne took half a step forward before realizing he had halted, and when she turned to face him, she found him already watching her. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—deep and knowing—were steady.

"I don't care what name you carry, what status you hold, or what expectations are placed on you," he said, his voice low but certain. "None of that matters to me."

Daphne swallowed, the weight of his words settling somewhere deep in her chest.

Hadrian took a step closer, closing the small distance between them.

"You will never be alone," he told her. "No matter what happens, you will always have me."

Daphne's breath hitched.

She had always been surrounded by people—by her family, by those who expected things from her—but she had never felt like she belonged. Never felt like she could truly rely on anyone.

But with Hadrian…

The feeling was different.

She looked up at him, her lips parting slightly, words forming at the edge of her tongue. But in the end, she didn't need them.

Instead, she just nodded.

And for now, that was enough.

The Great Hall buzzed with its usual morning energy—chatter, the clinking of goblets, and the rustling of owl wings overhead as letters and packages were delivered. Hadrian sat at the Ravenclaw table, absently stirring his tea while Daphne sipped her pumpkin juice beside him. She looked more at ease now, though her eyes still carried traces of the weight from yesterday's conversation.

Hadrian hadn't brought it up again. He didn't need to.

As he picked up a piece of toast, a shadow fell over the table. He glanced up to see Professor Flitwick standing there, his usual cheerful demeanor present but slightly subdued.

"Mr. Potter," Flitwick said in his high-pitched voice, his eyes twinkling with curiosity. "The Headmaster has requested to see you in his office after breakfast."

Hadrian kept his expression neutral.

Dumbledore.

Of course.

He had expected this sooner.

Daphne subtly turned her head toward him, though she kept her focus on her plate. Hadrian didn't react immediately, simply setting down his toast and meeting Flitwick's gaze with practiced ease.

"Did he say why, Professor?" Hadrian asked, his voice as smooth as ever.

Flitwick chuckled. "Oh, no, nothing to be worried about! I'm sure the Headmaster is just eager to speak with you now that you've settled in."

Lies.

Hadrian could tell Flitwick didn't know the real reason either, but Dumbledore wouldn't call him for something as trivial as a welcome chat.

Still, he only nodded. "Of course. I'll go after I finish eating."

Flitwick beamed, pleased with the response. "Very good! Well then, enjoy your breakfast." With that, the tiny professor scurried off, leaving Hadrian and Daphne in a brief silence.

Daphne leaned in slightly, her voice low. "You knew this was coming."

Hadrian's lips curled into a barely-there smirk. "Naturally."

She glanced toward the staff table, where Dumbledore sat, engaged in conversation with McGonagall, though Hadrian knew the old man was aware of their exchange.

"What will you do?" Daphne asked.

Hadrian picked up his tea, taking a slow sip before answering.

"What I always do," he murmured. "Play the game."

Hadrian climbed the spiraling staircase to Dumbledore's office with slow, measured steps, his expression unreadable. He had known this meeting was inevitable. The old man had been watching him too closely at the feast, too intently during lessons. He wasn't just curious—he was searching.

The heavy oak door swung open before Hadrian even reached for it. Ah. An invitation.

He stepped inside without hesitation.

The office was grand, lined with shelves full of books, odd silver instruments clicking and whirring softly. The air smelled faintly of parchment, candle wax, and lemon drops. The portraits of past headmasters watched him, some feigning sleep, others openly curious.

And there, seated behind his desk, was Albus Dumbledore.

The old wizard's face was the picture of benevolence, his hands folded gently before him, blue eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles.

"Ah, Harry, my boy."

Hadrian suppressed the urge to sneer. Harry. He had never been Harry. That was a name crafted for him, one meant to shape him into something he was never going to be.

He gave a small nod. "Headmaster."

Dumbledore gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "Please, sit. I do hope your first week has been pleasant?"

Hadrian moved forward and settled into the chair, posture relaxed but perfectly controlled. "It's been… illuminating."

Dumbledore chuckled, as if sharing some private joke. "I imagine it has. A new world opening before you. Magic, knowledge, friendship… I trust you have been adjusting well?"

Hadrian gave a noncommittal hum.

Dumbledore's smile didn't waver. "I must say, I was rather surprised when the Sorting Hat placed you in Ravenclaw. I had thought you might end up in Gryffindor, or perhaps even Slytherin."

Hadrian tilted his head slightly. "The hat did consider both."

"Did it now?" Dumbledore's gaze sharpened ever so slightly. "And what made you choose Ravenclaw, if I may ask?"

Hadrian met the old man's eyes, his own gaze cool and unreadable. "I wanted to be where I belonged."

Dumbledore nodded slowly, his smile never fading. "A wise choice. Ravenclaws value knowledge above all else, and knowledge is power, wouldn't you agree?"

There it was. The first play.

Hadrian offered a small, knowing smile. "Knowledge is leverage. Power is something else entirely."

Dumbledore's fingers steepled slightly, his expression unreadable. "An interesting distinction."

Silence settled between them, the warmth in Dumbledore's tone lingering, carefully placed. But Hadrian knew better. This wasn't mere curiosity. It was an attempt to understand him—to test him.

"Tell me, Harry," Dumbledore said, his voice softening, taking on that grandfatherly warmth. "I have long wondered about you, ever since that fateful night. I hoped you would be safe, loved. But when you did not grow up where I had placed you, I feared the worst."

Liar.

Hadrian's expression remained neutral. "How kind of you, Headmaster. Though I find it curious that you never tried to find me."

Dumbledore sighed, a note of regret in his voice. "Oh, but I did, my dear boy. I searched for you tirelessly, but you had vanished without a trace."

Hadrian leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharpening. "Vanished? Or was I taken?"

The words were laced with an edge, and for the first time, Dumbledore's smile faltered just slightly.

"That is what I have long wondered," he admitted.

Hadrian let the silence stretch before speaking again, his voice smooth, measured. "Then let me ease your mind, Headmaster. I wasn't taken. I left."

Dumbledore studied him carefully. The twinkle in his eyes dimmed, just a fraction. The game was over.

"I see." The old man leaned back in his chair. "And what prompted such a decision?"

Hadrian didn't answer immediately. Instead, he let his gaze drift over the chess set resting on a nearby table. The pieces were frozen in an ongoing match, white and black locked in silent battle.

He exhaled softly, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his chair. "Chess is an interesting game, isn't it?"

Dumbledore followed his gaze, but he remained silent, allowing Hadrian to continue.

"A game of strategy," Hadrian murmured. "Where every piece has its role. Pawns move forward, sacrificing themselves for the greater plan. The knights and bishops manipulate the board, moving in ways others do not expect."

His eyes flickered back to Dumbledore, and for the briefest moment—so brief it could have been imagined—a flicker of blue flame danced through his irises.

Dumbledore's breath hitched.

The color. The exact shade.

For half a second, he was no longer in his office. He was decades younger, standing in the ruins of a once-great fortress, staring at another man whose eyes burned with the same unholy blue.

Grindelwald.

The image was gone as quickly as it had come, and Dumbledore forced himself to focus. Hadrian's expression had not changed, but something in the air felt charged.

"Of course," Hadrian continued, "then you have the king. The most important piece. The one the game is built around." His lips curled slightly. "Funny, though, isn't it? The king is the weakest piece on the board. He can do almost nothing for himself."

Dumbledore met his gaze, and this time, the warmth in his eyes was carefully constructed. "And tell me, Hadrian, which piece do you see yourself as?"

Hadrian smiled, slow and knowing. "That depends on the game, doesn't it?"

Silence stretched between them once more, heavier this time.

Dumbledore studied the boy before him, the mind that lurked beneath that composed exterior. He had suspected that Hadrian Potter was different, but this… this was something else entirely.

"You are an extraordinary young man," Dumbledore finally said, his voice carefully measured.

'You have no idea' Hadrian thought.

The old wizard sighed. "I only ever wanted to ensure you were safe."

Hadrian stood, smooth and deliberate. "I have always been safe, Headmaster. But not because of you."

Dumbledore watched as Hadrian turned toward the door, pausing with his hand on the handle.

"But I will tell you this," Hadrian said without looking back. "The pieces are already moving. You might want to pay attention to the board."

And with that, he stepped out, closing the door behind him.

Dumbledore sat still for a long time, the flicker of blue flame burned into his memory, stirring something deep and long buried.

For the first time in years, he felt something close to unease.

The midmorning light streamed through the enchanted windows, casting a soft glow over the Ravenclaw common room. The place was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of parchment and the scratch of quills. Most students were either lost in books or chatting in low voices, minds already occupied with the day ahead.

Hadrian sat in his usual chair near the fireplace, one leg crossed over the other, fingers idly tapping the armrest. His gaze was fixed on the flames, though his mind was elsewhere—replaying his meeting with Dumbledore, analyzing every word, every glance, every unspoken implication.

The old man had tried his best to weave a web of grandfatherly concern, but Hadrian had seen through it. And then there had been that flicker of something—when Dumbledore hesitated, when he recognized something in Hadrian's eyes.

The blue flames…

Hadrian's fingers stilled. That moment had meant something. He would find out what.

A presence at his side pulled him from his thoughts. He turned his head slightly, already knowing who it was before he even saw her.

Daphne.

She sat down across from him without a word, her movements smooth and deliberate. She had been watching him more closely over the past few days—he'd noticed. There was a growing curiosity in her eyes, a silent question she hadn't yet voiced.

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Something on your mind?"

Daphne leaned back, crossing her arms. "You tell me. You've been thinking about something since this morning."

Hadrian smirked slightly. "Haven't I always?"

"You know what I mean."

He tilted his head, studying her. She wasn't wrong—he had been thinking more, planning more. Dumbledore's attention was a sign. A warning. The time to start weaving his own web was approaching.

Daphne rested her chin on her hand, tapping a finger against her cheek. "I've known from the start that you have plans," she murmured. "But the longer I'm around you, the more I realize how little I actually know about them."

Hadrian remained silent, letting her speak.

"I don't need details," she continued, her voice quieter now. "I just… I want to understand. You see the world differently than everyone else. You think differently. And I know you're building something—even if you're not saying what."

Hadrian's smirk faded into something more thoughtful. "And what makes you so sure?"

Daphne gave him a look. "Because I watch you, Hadrian. I see you. You play the game so well, but you're always two steps ahead of everyone else. I don't think you even see things in terms of houses or school rivalries. You see the bigger picture."

Hadrian exhaled through his nose, looking into the fire for a moment before meeting her gaze again. "And if I am?"

Daphne didn't hesitate. "Then I want to know where I fit into it."

There it was. Not a demand, not an ultimatum—just an honest admission.

Hadrian studied her carefully. He had expected this curiosity to grow, but not this soon. Not with this level of intensity.

"You already do fit into it," he said at last.

Daphne's brows furrowed slightly, searching his expression. "Then tell me what that means."

Hadrian leaned forward slightly, his voice low and measured. "It means that the world isn't as simple as it seems. It means that the structures in place—the traditions, the expectations, the rules we're supposed to follow—are nothing more than illusions. And it means that, one day, I intend to break them."

Daphne's breath hitched just slightly, her fingers curling against the fabric of her robe. But she didn't look away.

"Why tell me this now?" she asked.

Hadrian considered his words carefully. "Because I know you're going to keep asking." A small smirk tugged at his lips. "And because, despite everything, I trust you."

Daphne blinked, her lips parting slightly in surprise. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn't that.

Trust.

Hadrian wasn't sure why he had admitted it. Maybe because it was true. Maybe because he saw something in her—a kindred spirit, a sharp mind, an ally who wasn't bound by blind loyalty but by understanding.

And perhaps… something more.

Daphne swallowed, regaining her composure. "That's dangerous," she said quietly.

Hadrian's smirk widened just slightly. "Perhaps. But then again… so am I."

A silence stretched between them, charged with something unspoken. Then, finally, Daphne exhaled, shaking her head with a wry smile.

"Fine," she murmured. "I won't push. Not yet." Her gaze softened slightly. "But when the time comes, don't shut me out."

Hadrian inclined his head. "I wouldn't dream of it."

And for now, that was enough.

October settled over Hogwarts in a cascade of golden leaves and crisp autumn air. The Great Hall was alive with its usual midday bustle, the clatter of silverware against plates blending with the low hum of conversation. Overhead, the enchanted ceiling reflected the grey skies beyond the castle walls, hinting at an impending storm.

Hadrian and Daphne sat together at the Ravenclaw table, an arrangement that had long since stopped being notable. A month into term, and it had become an unspoken fact—they were a pair, bound by something neither had yet named.

Daphne had long since abandoned any pretense of keeping her distance. It had been subtle at first—sitting beside him in lessons, walking with him between classes, gravitating toward him at meals. But now? She was simply there, an ever-present fixture at his side, like a force of nature drawn to something she couldn't quite define.

And she hated that she couldn't define it.

She wasn't naive. She knew what admiration was, knew what it meant to respect someone's mind, their strength, their ambition. And Hadrian—he was all of that. The way he carried himself, the way he could turn a room's attention toward him with the simplest of gestures—it was infuriating. He didn't even try, and yet people listened.

Yet somehow, the fact that she listened frustrated her most of all.

And that wasn't the worst part.

The worst part was the way she had caught herself watching him when he wasn't paying attention. The way she noted the sharp cut of his features, the quiet intensity in his eyes, the way his lips quirked in amusement when he was toying with someone in conversation.

It was a problem.

A serious problem.

Because she didn't get attached. Not like this.

Not to anyone.

And yet—here she was, sitting beside him, feeling an irrational sense of ease in his presence, and—Merlin help her—a warmth she couldn't explain.

She forced herself to focus on her food, but her thoughts remained tangled in an irritating loop, her own mind betraying her.

Hadrian, meanwhile, seemed oblivious to her internal war. He sat relaxed, one hand idly tracing patterns against the rim of his goblet as he stared off in thought, clearly distracted.

She nudged his arm. "You've been quiet."

Hadrian blinked, pulled from his thoughts, and turned his head to her. His expression was unreadable, though his sharp eyes studied her for a moment before he smirked. "You say that as if I'm usually loud."

Daphne rolled her eyes but tilted her head slightly. "You're thinking about something."

His fingers tapped once against the goblet before he spoke. "A letter."

Daphne straightened. Selene? She didn't know much about the mysterious sender, only that Hadrian trusted her more than anyone. And that fact alone made Daphne increasingly curious.

"What did it say?" she asked, keeping her voice casual.

Hadrian studied her for a moment before answering. "It was about a place within the castle. A room of sorts—one that appears only when you have need of it."

Daphne frowned. "That sounds like a fairytale."

Hadrian's lips twitched in amusement. "Hogwarts itself is a fairytale, if you think about it."

She huffed, but the idea intrigued her nonetheless. "And what exactly would you need a secret room for?"

His gaze turned thoughtful, fingers drumming against the table again. "That depends on what I find."

Daphne narrowed her eyes slightly. He was deflecting. But then—Hadrian always deflected when it suited him.

Still, she had learned to read the small shifts in his expression, and the look in his eyes told her he wasn't merely indulging in a curiosity—he was planning something.

And that made her pulse quicken, though she refused to dwell on why.

Before she could press further, a group of Ravenclaw third-years at the end of the table caught her attention. They were whispering amongst themselves, eyes flickering toward Hadrian. She caught snippets of words—his name, praise for his mind, murmurs of how even seventh-years had started to take notice of him.

It wasn't surprising. Hadrian had quickly become a name whispered in corridors, an anomaly in the social order of Hogwarts. He was the kind of person others gravitated toward without knowing why. And she could see it happening even now.

Hadrian, however, seemed utterly unaffected.

"You don't even try," she muttered, shaking her head.

Hadrian raised a brow. "Try what?"

She gestured slightly. "This. The way people watch you. The way they talk about you."

Hadrian smirked, taking a slow sip from his goblet before answering. "I don't have to try."

Daphne scoffed. "Modest as ever."

But even as she said it, her own thoughts betrayed her once again.

Because the truth was, she liked being at his side.

She liked the way she felt in his presence—safe, yet challenged. Grounded, yet constantly questioning. He was an enigma, and Merlin help her, she wanted to understand him.

But she couldn't afford to be reckless.

She had been raised in a world where every emotion had consequences, where attachment was weakness unless it could be wielded as a weapon.

And yet—when she looked at him, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was standing at the edge of something dangerous.

Something she wasn't sure she could walk away from.

And the worst part?

She wasn't sure she wanted to.

The halls of Hogwarts were quieter after meals, the majority of students still lingering in the Great Hall or making their way to common rooms. Hadrian walked alone, his footsteps echoing faintly against the stone floors as he ascended the winding staircases toward the seventh floor.

Selene's letter had been precise. Seventh floor. Walk with purpose. The castle listens.

He intended to test that claim.

His hands were tucked into his robes, his stride slow but deliberate, eyes tracing the ancient architecture around him. Hogwarts had always intrigued him—not just for its history, but for the power that thrummed beneath its very foundations. Magic lived in these walls, breathing, shifting, watching.

And now, it was watching him.

His mind turned to his plans, each piece slowly aligning in a greater design. A power base had to be established. Connections needed to be cultivated. Influence, carefully spread like roots beneath the surface, unseen but unshakable.

His reputation had already begun to form. He saw it in the way students watched him, in the way even older years observed with something between curiosity and wariness. He was spoken about in hushed tones—admired, envied, feared, though no one could yet explain why.

Good. Let them wonder.

But even with all the potential, all the moving pieces, one name kept resurfacing in his mind.

Daphne.

His lips pressed together as he exhaled softly, fingers tapping against his sleeve in thought.

She had become a constant in his life. Not a liability—no, far from it. If anything, she had proven herself sharp, composed, and insightful. But that wasn't what unsettled him.

It was her presence.

The way she had slowly woven herself into his life, moving past his carefully placed barriers with quiet persistence. The way she questioned him, pushed him—not with force, but with a steady, unrelenting curiosity.

And the way she lingered in his thoughts even now.

It was unfamiliar.

Uncomfortable.

Dangerous.

He didn't form attachments. Not truly. Relationships were tools, connections were strategic, alliances were necessary.

But Daphne Greengrass was becoming something else entirely.

He had seen it in her eyes at lunch—the way she had watched him, studied him. And he had felt it too, in the way her presence no longer felt like an intrusion, but a fixture—an unspoken understanding between them that neither had dared name.

Hadrian slowed his pace, standing before a stretch of bare stone wall as he gathered his thoughts.

Could he trust her?

The rational part of him said no—trust was a dangerous thing. But another part of him, the one that had led him to pull her into an empty classroom when she had been on the verge of breaking, the one that had promised her she would never be alone, whispered a different answer.

She was already inside his walls.

Perhaps it was time to decide whether to let her stay.

But first—he had a room to find.

Hadrian took a slow breath, setting aside his thoughts of Daphne for the moment. There were more immediate matters at hand.

Selene's letter had been cryptic but firm. Seventh floor. Walk with purpose. The castle listens.

The castle listens.

He turned back to the stretch of bare stone wall and narrowed his eyes. There was no door. No marking, no hidden crevice to suggest an entrance. Just ancient stone, worn smooth by time.

So, it required more than just location—it required intent.

Hadrian began to walk.

One step. Two. Three.

He focused, shaping his thoughts like a whispered command. I need a place to plan. A place to learn. A place hidden from prying eyes.

His pace was even, his intent unwavering.

I need a room that will serve me.

He turned—

And the stone rippled.

A shiver of magic passed through the air, subtle but unmistakable. Before his eyes, the smooth wall twisted, stone shifting as if reality itself were bending to his will. The outline of a door emerged, carving itself from nothingness, until with a soft click, a handle appeared before him.

Hadrian's lips curled ever so slightly.

So the castle does listen.

He reached forward, fingers brushing the cool metal before pressing down. The door swung open without a sound, revealing the darkness beyond.

Stepping inside, he found himself in a dimly lit chamber, the flickering glow of enchanted torches lining the stone walls. The room was vast yet intimate, its design shifting subtly in response to his presence. Dark wooden bookshelves lined one side, empty for now but waiting. A single desk stood in the center, polished and pristine, accompanied by a high-backed chair of deep green leather.

Against the far wall was something that gave him pause—a massive, ornate mirror, framed in blackened silver, its surface rippling like liquid starlight.

Hadrian took a step closer, his reflection sharpening into view. His own eyes, cold and unreadable, stared back at him. But then—

The image shifted.

The torches dimmed. The air grew heavier.

And suddenly, it was no longer his own face staring back at him.

A man stood in the mirror—a man with pale, angular features, a neatly trimmed silver beard, with spiky hair of the same color. His attire was immaculate, a 3 piece suit ending with a long trench coat.

Hadrian froze, breath catching in his throat. He had seen this exact man a hundred times, through memories and photos at Numengard Castle.

Gellert Grindelwald.

Not a faded memory. Not a vision lost to time.

He stood there as though he had never left.

The reflection was not static; it breathed. Grindelwald's posture was relaxed yet commanding, his presence filling the glass like a force of nature. His gaze was locked onto Hadrian's, piercing and expectant, as if he had always been waiting for this moment.

Hadrian's fingers twitched. The back of his neck prickled with something unnameable.

Then Grindelwald tilted his head ever so slightly—an unspoken acknowledgment.

A test.

Hadrian swallowed down the sudden weight in his chest, forcing himself to meet that gaze, to hold it. He refused to blink, refused to waver.

The world felt smaller. Tighter.

Then, without warning, Grindelwald's lips parted. A whisper of breath stirred the surface of the mirror—

And the image was gone.

Hadrian's own face returned, impassive and sharp, but for just a flicker of a second, his pupils burned ice-blue, as though the ghost of something ancient had passed through him.

Silence stretched in the room, thick and absolute.

Hadrian exhaled, slow and controlled, then took a step back.

His great-grandfather's presence was not mere history. It lived in him. It watched. It waited.

And if he wanted to shape his future, it was time he started claiming what was his.

Turning from the mirror, Hadrian let his gaze sweep over the room once more. Yes—this would do. This would be his place, his sanctuary, where his plans would take shape and the world would begin to bend.

The first true step had been taken.

Now, it was only a matter of time.

As Hadrian stood in the center of the Room of Requirement, his wand gripped tightly in his hand, the sheer potential of the space filled him with awe. This place—this space—was more than just a room; it was a canvas, a playground for his limitless magic. Yet, before he could begin any serious work, he had to test its boundaries.

"Expluso!" he barked, his voice firm as he pointed his wand toward the nearest wall. The words sliced through the air, and a jet of white-hot energy shot forth from the tip of his wand. The moment it hit the stone wall, a deafening burst of light and sound erupted, followed by a shockwave that rattled the room, vibrating deep into his bones. His ears rang from the explosion, the heat from the burst scorching the air. Yet, to his surprise, the wall stood untouched, unscathed by his immense power.

Hadrian's lips curled into a grin. The room wasn't as indestructible as it seemed.

He released his excitement in a flurry of spells, each one building upon the last. "Impedimenta! Incendio! Bombarda!"

Each spell fired off with such intensity, shattering the stillness of the room. Brilliant explosions and bursts of magic filled the space, streaks of light cutting through the air. Yet, despite the chaos he was unleashing, the room remained perfect, unmarred by the fury of his magic.

He paused, his heart racing from the thrill of the chaos, but his body was still, not even winded. Hadrian's mind sharpened, thoughts turning inward as he assessed what he had just learned.

A slow smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he whispered to himself, "No time like the present."

With a deep breath, he steadied himself, focusing. His resolve hardened. It was time to push his magic further than he had ever done before. Taking another breath, he raised his wand higher, the air around him seeming to thrum with anticipation. His voice rang clear and commanding as he roared, "Protego Diabolica!"

In an instant, a wave of blue fire surged from the tip of his wand. The flames, bright as the heart of a star, erupted around him in an unstoppable burst. They tore through the room with a fierce hunger, spiraling outward as if alive, their light flickering with an almost sentient desire. Hadrian could feel the fire's power coursing through him, a wild energy that pulled at the edges of his consciousness, demanding to be set free.

The blue flames writhed like living serpents, their heat intense enough to scorch the very air around him. They leapt and spun in a chaotic dance, their light casting long shadows across the room, turning it into a place of swirling chaos. Hadrian's heart pounded in his chest as the flames began to encircle him, filling the room with a savage, oppressive heat.

For the first time since he had discovered the power of the Flames of Purgatory, Hadrian felt a resistance. The flames, wild and untamed, fought back against him, as if they were trying to break free of his control. It was as if they had a will of their own, an insatiable thirst that could not be contained.

His breath hitched as he struggled to assert his dominance over the magic. It was not like the gentle flickers of blue fire he had summoned before, the controlled bursts he had used to test his strength. This... this was power beyond anything he had ever felt. The fire was vast, hungry, and untamed.

'Obey me,' he thought fiercely, his command clear and unyielding.

For a brief moment, the flames hesitated, their ferocity waning. Hadrian's grip on his magic tightened, and he began to feel the tide turn in his favor. But only for a moment. The flames roared back with renewed vigor, thrashing against his will like a tempest. The fire became a living entity, pushing, pulling, straining to escape from his grasp.

It was a battle of wills—a test of mastery—and Hadrian could feel himself losing ground. The flames surged around him, hot and wild, as though seeking to consume everything in their path. They flickered, twisted, and writhed with violent energy.

His control, once ironclad, was now slipping, and the weight of the magic threatened to crush him.

'No,' Hadrian thought, his jaw clenched in concentration. 'I will not be defeated by this magic. I will master it.'

His fingers tightened around his wand, the wood pressing into his palm as if it could help steady him. With a forceful command, Hadrian pulled his will tighter, focusing every ounce of his attention on the fire that threatened to overwhelm him.

Gradually, the flames began to bend, their violence slowly subsiding, responding to his growing control. With a final push, Hadrian managed to lock the flames into place, their once chaotic motion now contained in a sphere of blue fire that swirled gently around him, licking at the air but no longer threatening to escape.

Panting, his heart still racing from the effort, Hadrian allowed himself a brief moment of relief. The flames, though potent, were now his to command. But that sensation of resistance—of power beyond his control—still lingered at the edge of his mind.

For the first time, he realized the extent of the challenge ahead of him. These flames, as much as they were a part of him, were also something greater, something unpredictable.

And Hadrian, for all his power and intellect, was not yet ready to fully wield them.

Daphne sat beside Hadrian in the Great Hall, idly pushing the food on her plate with her fork. Around them, the usual lunchtime chaos buzzed—students chattering, cutlery clinking, owls swooping down to drop letters and packages. But she barely noticed any of it.

Her focus kept drifting—toward the boy beside her.

It had been a month since that night in the empty classroom, when he had told her she would always have him, no matter what. A month since she had first realized just how much she had come to rely on him. And in that time, Hadrian had only cemented himself further in her life, becoming not just her closest friend but something more.

Something she couldn't quite name.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He was reading a book, completely at ease despite the noise of the hall, his posture radiating the same quiet confidence that had drawn her to him in the first place. The candlelight above flickered against his pale skin, casting soft shadows across his face. The sharp angles of his cheekbones, the storm-like intensity in his green eyes—even when relaxed, he carried an edge of something untouchable, something… powerful.

The strangest part was that he had never once asked her for anything in return. No demands. No expectations. No veiled threats like the ones she had grown up with.

Just him.

It was unsettling, how much she trusted him.

And yet…

Daphne's fingers clenched around her fork.

Her father's letter still lingered in her mind, its words burned into her thoughts no matter how much she tried to ignore them. You will conduct yourself as is expected of a Greengrass. You will form the necessary alliances. You will not embarrass this family.

She knew exactly what he wanted from her. To align herself with Malfoy. To fall in line with the other Slytherin heirs and the expectations placed upon her at birth.

Yet here she was, sitting with Hadrian Potter—Hadrian, who had done nothing but encourage her to think for herself, who never treated her like she was just a piece in some game. And she knew, without a doubt, that her father would hate that.

Why do I feel like I'm betraying something that was never mine to begin with?

A voice pulled her from her thoughts.

"You're staring."

Her breath caught in her throat. Hadrian was still reading, his eyes never leaving the page, but there was the faintest trace of amusement in his voice.

Daphne rolled her eyes, forcing herself to smirk. "Maybe I was just making sure you weren't falling asleep."

Hadrian hummed, finally closing the book and turning to look at her fully. "A poor excuse, but I'll allow it."

His gaze met hers, and for a moment, she forgot how to breathe.

She could deny it all she wanted, but something about Hadrian drew her in.

The way he carried himself. The way he spoke with such quiet, controlled confidence. The way he understood her in a way no one else ever had.

It was dangerous.

And yet, for the first time in her life, she wasn't sure she wanted to be careful.

"You've been quiet today," he remarked, watching her.

Daphne hesitated, then sighed. "Just thinking."

"About?"

She debated for a moment. How much should she say? How much could she say?

"Everything." It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the full truth either.

Hadrian studied her, his eyes sharp, piercing—as if he could see through every wall she put up. She braced herself, half-expecting him to call her out on it.

But instead, he just gave a small nod. "Thinking too much can be dangerous."

She let out a soft laugh. "And yet you do it constantly."

Hadrian smirked. "I never said I was safe."

Daphne shook her head, but the tension that had settled in her chest felt… lighter. He always did that. How does he do that?

Her thoughts were getting too messy, too tangled.

She needed to figure this out before it became something she couldn't control.

Before he became something she couldn't control.

Hadrian walked through the dimly lit corridor leading toward the Great Hall, his mind idly turning over the details of Selene's latest letter. The Room of Requirement had proven invaluable, and while his control over the Flames of Purgatory was still imperfect, he had made significant strides. More time. More refinement. Soon…

He turned a corner—and stopped.

A group of Slytherins stood before him, a half-circle of green-clad figures blocking his path.

Draco Malfoy stood at the center, his pale face twisted into a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. Pansy Parkinson hovered nearby, arms crossed, looking far too pleased. Behind them, a few older Slytherin students loomed, ones Hadrian recognized as loyal to the Malfoy name.

Hadrian exhaled softly through his nose, utterly unbothered.

"Malfoy," he greeted coolly. "If this is another recruitment attempt, I'm afraid I'm still uninterested."

Draco's smirk twitched. "Oh, it's not a recruitment attempt, Potter." He sneered his surname as if it left a foul taste in his mouth. "It's a warning."

Hadrian tilted his head, amusement flickering in his gaze. "A warning?"

"You think you can just do whatever you want?" Draco's voice rose slightly, his anger barely restrained. "That you can waltz in here, take whatever you like—whoever you like—without consequence?"

Ah. So that was it.

Hadrian had suspected Draco's jealousy toward him had been festering, but it seemed Daphne was the catalyst for his unraveling. Predictable.

"Let me guess," Hadrian said, his voice smooth as silk. "You don't like that Daphne prefers my company over yours?"

Draco's face reddened instantly. "She's a Greengrass. Our kind. She belongs with us, not—"

"Not me?" Hadrian interrupted. "Ah, right. Because I don't kneel before your father, is that it?"

Draco's grip on his wand tightened.

"I don't need to kneel to get what I want," Hadrian continued, stepping forward just slightly, his presence pressing against the space between them. "Daphne makes her own choices. If she wanted to stand beside you, she would." He smiled, but it was razor-sharp. "And yet, she doesn't."

The words struck true, and Hadrian saw the fury flash across Draco's face, his bruised ego finally cracking.

"Shut up!" Draco snarled, yanking his wand out.

Everything happened at once.

Draco fired off a hex—one of the older students moved, a flicker of motion—Hadrian didn't so much as flinch.

His own wand snapped up with effortless precision.

"Expelliarmus!"

Draco's wand shot from his hand before he could even register what had happened, clattering uselessly to the floor. The Slytherins flanking him hesitated—just long enough.

Hadrian moved.

A silent Stupefy took out the first.

The Slytherin recovered, wand raised, but Hadrian was faster—he pivoted, deflecting the curse before responding with a Petrificus Totalus that sent the boy crashing to the floor, body stiff as a board.

Another spell was fired from behind him—Hadrian ducked at the last second, spinning smoothly as he flicked his wand. A wave of force blasted into Pansy, sending her sprawling into a stone pillar.

Draco, eyes wide with disbelief, stumbled back. "What—"

Hadrian turned toward him fully, his emerald gaze burning with something cold, something unreadable.

"You started this," Hadrian said, his voice low but carrying through the now-silent corridor. "Now I'll finish it."

Draco scrambled for his wand on the ground, but Hadrian flicked his wrist lazily.

"Flipendo."

The force knocked Draco off his feet, sending him crashing onto his back, winded and stunned.

Silence.

A crowd had gathered. Dozens of students now lined the hall, eyes wide, mouths slightly agape. The scene before them was unmistakable: Hadrian Potter standing completely unscathed, surrounded by the unconscious and groaning bodies of Slytherins who had dared to challenge him.

Then, somewhere in the crowd—

A single cheer.

And then another.

It spread like wildfire. Whispers turned to murmurs, murmurs to laughter, and then—cheering.

Hadrian simply pocketed his wand, stepping over Draco's fallen form as if he were nothing more than an afterthought. He cast one last glance down at the boy who lay panting at his feet, his once-proud arrogance shattered before the entire school.

"Next time," Hadrian murmured, so only Draco could hear, "bring more people."

And then, with a final smirk, he walked away—leaving only the stunned silence of those who had just witnessed the moment Hogwarts realized:

Hadrian Potter was untouchable.

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the walls of Albus Dumbledore's office, the air thick with the scent of aged parchment and lemon drops. Behind his desk, the old wizard sat, fingers interlaced, his expression composed yet thoughtful.

Severus Snape stood before him, his black robes billowing slightly as he leaned forward, his voice low and sharp.

"This level of violence is unacceptable."

Dumbledore listened in silence, watching as Snape's dark eyes gleamed with barely restrained fury.

"Five students, Headmaster," Snape continued. "Two unconscious, three requiring immediate medical attention. A duel in the middle of the corridor—hardly a display of proper decorum." His tone turned venomous. "And all at the hands of Potter."

Dumbledore exhaled slowly, eyes twinkling faintly behind his half-moon glasses. "I assume young Mr. Malfoy and his… associates had no hand in instigating this conflict?"

Snape's expression tightened, but he did not immediately respond.

"Ah," Dumbledore said softly. "I see."

Snape's lip curled. "Regardless of who started it, Potter's actions cannot go unanswered. I demand—"

A new voice interrupted him.

"Expulsion, Severus?" Professor Flitwick's calm but firm voice carried across the room as he stepped inside, looking between the two wizards. "Rather drastic, don't you think?"

Snape turned to him, eyes narrowing. "You think nothing should be done?"

Flitwick sighed, shaking his head. "I think we should consider the full picture before we ruin a student's future. I have already questioned several eyewitnesses." He gave Snape a pointed look. "Draco Malfoy gathered a group of students to confront Hadrian Potter in a clear attempt at intimidation. It was they who initiated the conflict."

"Yet he was the one who left them unconscious," Snape snapped back.

"Indeed," Flitwick acknowledged. "And rather effectively, I might add. But as I understand it, he did not attack first. Malfoy drew his wand, and Potter defended himself. There is a difference."

Snape's lips pressed into a thin line. "It wasn't self-defense. It was a display of power."

Flitwick folded his arms, his small frame emanating an unexpected authority. "Perhaps it was. But would you have reacted this strongly had the outcome been reversed? If Potter had been the one hexed unconscious by a group of Slytherins?"

Snape's expression darkened further. "That is irrelevant."

"Oh, but it is very relevant, my dear Severus."

Both men turned to look at Dumbledore, who had remained silent until now. The Headmaster's expression was unreadable, but his eyes held a distant, knowing gleam.

"This incident… it is important," Dumbledore murmured, as if speaking more to himself than anyone else. He steepled his fingers. "The way the students responded. The way they cheered."

Flitwick nodded solemnly. "It is clear, Headmaster—Hadrian Potter is not just another student. His presence is shifting the balance of the school."

Dumbledore exhaled. "Indeed."

Snape's scowl deepened. "You will let him go unpunished, then?"

Dumbledore finally stood, moving to the window, staring out over the castle grounds. The weight of old memories flickered behind his ancient gaze.

"No," he said at last. "There must be discipline, lest we invite chaos." He turned back, expression firm but not unkind. "Ten points from Ravenclaw for dueling outside of club regulations."

Snape scoffed. "Ten?"

"And twenty from Slytherin," Dumbledore added smoothly, "for instigating the incident in the first place."

Snape's fists clenched, but he said nothing.

Flitwick, on the other hand, gave a satisfied nod.

"This is dangerous," Snape warned. "He is already too powerful for his age. If you do not contain him, he will—"

Dumbledore turned back toward the window, his voice quiet but firm.

"That, my dear Severus, is what I intend to find out."

The Ravenclaw common room was quieter than usual that evening. The usual hum of academic discussions and idle chatter had dulled, replaced by hushed whispers and stolen glances in Hadrian's direction. Word had spread fast—faster than he expected, even in a school fueled by gossip.

Hadrian sat in a high-backed chair near the window, his posture as relaxed as ever, fingers laced together as he gazed at the night sky beyond the enchanted glass. The stars burned bright against the dark, but his mind wasn't on them.

Draco had been an inevitability.

It had been a test—one Hadrian had passed with ease. And now? Now, things would start shifting in his favor.

He felt her presence before he saw her. Daphne slid into the chair across from him, arms crossed, her sharp blue eyes watching him carefully.

Hadrian smirked. "Come to scold me?"

Daphne exhaled through her nose, shaking her head. "No," she admitted. "I expected something like this to happen."

Hadrian leaned back, tilting his head slightly. "And yet, you look... irritated."

"I am," she said flatly. "Not because you fought him. Because you enjoyed it."

His smirk didn't fade. "Would you rather I let him and his goons walk all over me?"

"No," she answered immediately. "But you could have de-escalated. You chose not to."

Hadrian hummed. "Draco would have taken that as weakness. This was the more effective solution."

Daphne studied him for a long moment. Then, to his surprise, she huffed out a short, quiet laugh. "You're impossible."

Hadrian's eyes gleamed with amusement. "You're just realizing that?"

Daphne leaned forward slightly, her expression shifting—still guarded, but softer. "I heard it was a crowd," she said, voice quieter now.

He nodded. "Quite a few onlookers, yes."

She hesitated, then exhaled, glancing down. "…I was looking for you when I found out."

Hadrian stilled for a fraction of a second. "Oh?"

Daphne's lips pressed together before she shook her head. "Never mind."

He watched her carefully, his mind turning over her words. She had been looking for him. And when she found out what had happened… she had been worried.

Why does that feel… different?

Hadrian wasn't accustomed to people caring about him—not in a way that wasn't rooted in expectation or obligation. But Daphne… she had no reason to care. No reason to worry. And yet, she had.

Something about that settled in his chest, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

He leaned forward, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "I'm not going anywhere, Daphne."

Her gaze snapped to his, and for a brief moment, her walls cracked—just enough for him to see the emotions she wasn't ready to name.

Neither of them spoke. The unspoken weight of the moment sat between them, charged with something neither was ready to acknowledge.

Daphne was the first to break it. She let out a soft scoff, shaking her head. "Just… try not to get expelled."

Hadrian chuckled, the tension easing just slightly. "I'll do my best."

Daphne rolled her eyes, but there was a trace of a smile there. "Good. I'd rather not have to deal with Ravenclaw without you."

With that, she stood, casting him one last look before heading toward the girls' dormitories.

Hadrian watched her go, his expression unreadable.

He had expected a fight today. He had expected to win.

What he hadn't expected… was her.

The Slytherin common room was dimly lit, its greenish glow casting long shadows along the stone walls. A fire crackled in the hearth, but it did little to warm the tension hanging in the air.

Draco Malfoy sat in one of the high-backed chairs near the fireplace, his jaw tight, hands clenched into fists. Around him sat the students who had once unquestioningly followed his lead—the sons and daughters of old blood, heirs to the most prestigious families in the wizarding world.

And yet, for the first time, there was hesitation in their eyes.

Blaise Zabini sat lazily on a leather couch, legs stretched out, but his sharp gaze was fixed on Draco, calculating. Beside him, Theo Nott leaned forward, hands clasped together, his face unreadable. Pansy Parkinson hovered nearby, arms crossed, her expression a mixture of concern and frustration.

It was Theo who finally spoke. "You got humiliated, Draco."

Draco's head snapped toward him, eyes flashing with anger. "I was outnumbered."

Blaise snorted. "No, you were the one with the numbers. And yet, somehow, Hadrian Potter is still standing, while you were left unconscious on the floor."

Draco's lips curled in a sneer. "You weren't there, Zabini."

Blaise lifted a brow. "No, but the entire school is talking about it. And the way I hear it, you didn't even put up a fight."

Draco shot up from his seat, his face reddening. "He got lucky!"

Theo exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Luck had nothing to do with it. He's smarter than you, Draco. Stronger, too."

Draco's face twisted with fury. "He's a half-blood! He has nothing—"

"That half-blood just made you look like a fool," Blaise cut in smoothly, watching Draco's anger with detached amusement. "And now? People are talking. Slytherins are talking. Some of them are wondering if they backed the wrong horse."

Draco paled slightly.

Pansy finally stepped forward, her voice quieter but no less firm. "Draco… this is bad. The way people look at you now—it's changed."

He turned to her sharply. "You're supposed to be on my side."

Pansy crossed her arms, frustration clear in her expression. "I am on your side, but I can't just pretend this didn't happen. Neither can you."

Silence fell.

Draco clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. He could feel the weight of their gazes—judging, questioning, doubting.

Theo leaned back in his chair, his gaze thoughtful. "Maybe," he said slowly, "we should stop underestimating Hadrian Potter."

Draco scowled, but Theo wasn't finished.

"I'm not saying we follow him, but if he keeps rising like this… we might need to reassess where we stand."

Blaise hummed in agreement. "Personally, I like to back winners."

Draco whirled on him. "I am the heir of the Malfoy name! Do you seriously think I'll let some nobody—"

Theo's voice was quiet, but it cut through the room like a blade. "Then prove it."

Draco froze.

Theo met his gaze evenly. "Prove you deserve that loyalty, Draco. Otherwise…" He shrugged. "People might start looking elsewhere."

Draco stared at him, breath quick and uneven.

The room was silent.

Then, with a sharp turn, Draco stormed out, slamming the common room door behind him.

The remaining Slytherins sat in silence for a long moment.

Then Blaise chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "This year just got interesting."

Theo didn't smile. His gaze remained locked on the door Draco had left through, deep in thought.

Hadrian Potter was no ordinary first-year.

And if Draco didn't start realizing that soon…

He wouldn't just lose face.

He'd lose everything.

In the back of his mind he started to develop a plan.

The warm glow of candlelight flickered against the stone walls of Dumbledore's office, casting long shadows across the many strange trinkets and artifacts that lined the shelves. The air smelled faintly of old parchment and lemon drops, a deceptive comfort in a room where so many fates had been decided.

Minerva McGonagall stood near his desk, arms crossed tightly over her chest. The lines of her face were drawn in a way that suggested a sleepless night, or perhaps simply the weight of too many concerns. Across from her, Dumbledore sat with his fingers steepled, eyes distant as he gazed past her, lost in thought.

"You're worried," McGonagall stated, her tone clipped but knowing.

Dumbledore blinked, slowly bringing his attention back to her. "I am concerned, Minerva," he admitted. "There is a difference."

McGonagall gave a sharp sigh. "Hadrian Potter is making a name for himself faster than I think any of us anticipated. Even Filius—who I remind you is rather difficult to impress—has remarked that the boy is already surpassing students well above his year."

Dumbledore nodded, but said nothing.

McGonagall hesitated for only a second before continuing. "And then, of course, there is the… incident with young Malfoy."

The Headmaster's expression remained unreadable, though his fingers tapped absently against the armrest of his chair. "Yes, I heard Severus was rather insistent about expelling him."

"Expulsion," McGonagall scoffed, shaking her head. "A ridiculous notion. He defended himself, Albus. I won't condone excessive violence, but I refuse to punish a child for refusing to be walked over."

Dumbledore exhaled softly, as if weary. "It is not the incident itself that worries me, Minerva. It is the pattern."

McGonagall stiffened slightly. "Pattern?"

Dumbledore turned his piercing blue gaze onto her. "Hadrian is not like most children his age. He does not react—he calculates. He does not stumble—he moves with purpose. Everything he does, everything he allows others to see, is measured."

McGonagall frowned, and for a moment, a hint of something troubled flickered across her face. "That is not necessarily a bad thing, Albus."

Dumbledore studied her carefully before responding, "No, not inherently." He sighed, leaning back in his chair. "But I find myself wondering, Minerva… where did he learn to be this way? What shaped him into the boy he is now?"

McGonagall hesitated. "The Dursleys—"

"No," Dumbledore cut her off gently but firmly. "This is not the work of mere neglect or cruelty. This is something else entirely."

A silence fell between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts.

McGonagall pursed her lips. "What are you truly asking, Albus?"

Dumbledore's fingers steepled once more, his expression grave. "I am asking if Hadrian Potter is becoming something none of us can control."

The words lingered in the air, unspoken fears woven into them.

After a long moment, McGonagall inhaled deeply, her voice softer than before. "And if he is?"

Dumbledore's gaze flickered with something unreadable. "Then I can only hope that when the time comes, he will choose the right path."

McGonagall watched him carefully, sensing the weight of what he wasn't saying.

She exhaled slowly. "Or… you mean to ensure that he does."

Dumbledore did not answer.

And that, in itself, was the answer.

Hadrian walked through the dimly lit dungeon corridors, his expression unreadable. Beside him, Daphne kept pace, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her robes. She didn't ask why he had chosen to wander down here instead of celebrating with the rest of the school. She already knew.

Halloween meant something different to him. It wasn't a night for feasts and laughter. It was the night his parents died.

"I don't understand why everyone finds this night so exciting," Daphne muttered, her voice echoing softly against the stone walls. "It's all just—"

A scream cut through the corridor, high-pitched and raw with terror.

Both of them stopped.

A moment later, a deafening crash.

Hadrian's head snapped toward the sound. Without a word, he strode forward, his steps quick, purposeful. Daphne hesitated for half a second before following.

They rounded a corner—and stopped dead.

A troll.

A hulking mountain of gray flesh stood hunched over, its beady eyes focused on a splintering wooden door. A girl's scream rang from inside. Hermione.

The beast raised its club.

Hadrian moved.

His wand was already drawn before he spoke, "Depulso."

A blast of force struck the troll square in the chest. The creature staggered backward, its club smashing into the stone floor with a resounding boom. It blinked stupidly at Hadrian, as though confused that something so small had dared to strike it.

Hadrian did not give it time to recover.

"Glacius."

Ice erupted beneath the troll's feet. It lurched, its balance failing—

"Expulso."

The force of the explosion sent the troll crashing backward, its head slamming into the solid stone floor. The impact echoed through the corridor.

It twitched once. Then went still.

Silence.

Daphne exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "You—" She blinked, staring at the unmoving troll. "That was—"

Hadrian wasn't paying attention to her. He was already stepping into the ruined bathroom, where Hermione Granger sat pressed against the wall, shaking.

She flinched when he approached, but when she saw him—really saw him—her breath hitched, and she scrambled to her feet.

"You—you saved me," she stammered, staring at him like he was something unreal.

Hadrian merely extended a hand. "It's over."

Hermione hesitated for half a second—then, before he could react, she threw her arms around him.

Hadrian stiffened.

Daphne snorted behind him, crossing her arms. "Oh, now that is funny."

Hadrian shot her a dry look over Hermione's shoulder before awkwardly patting the girl's back once.

Before anything else could be said, a sharp voice sliced through the moment.

"What is the meaning of this?!"

McGonagall, Snape, and Quirrell stormed into the corridor, their robes billowing behind them. McGonagall's eyes widened at the sight of the massive troll sprawled across the floor, its club lying a few feet away. She took in the wrecked bathroom door, the trembling Hermione, and then—Hadrian and Daphne standing completely unscathed.

"Explain," she demanded, her tone sharp.

Hadrian didn't even blink. "We heard a scream. We came to investigate. The troll was already here, trying to break in. We stopped it." His voice was even, calm. As if discussing nothing more than a class assignment.

McGonagall gaped at him. "You stopped it?"

"Yes," he said simply.

Daphne, still standing beside him, watched the professors carefully. She was still trying to process what she'd just seen. Hadrian had been faster, stronger, and more precise than anyone their age had any right to be. He hadn't hesitated, hadn't fumbled, hadn't shown even a flicker of fear.

It wasn't normal.

And yet… she found she wasn't frightened by it.

Snape's dark eyes narrowed as he swept over the scene, his expression unreadable. His gaze flickered between Hadrian and Hermione. Then the troll. Then back to Hadrian.

"This was reckless," Snape murmured, his voice smooth but cold. "Foolish."

Hadrian turned to him, his emerald gaze steadfast, unwavering. "Would you rather we had done nothing?"

Snape's jaw tensed slightly, but he said nothing.

Quirrell, still visibly shaken, stammered weakly, "B-but how did you manage it? T-trolls are f-far beyond first-year capabilities—"

McGonagall interrupted before Hadrian could answer. "That's what I'd like to know," she said sharply. "What spells did you use?"

"Depulso to knock it back," Hadrian answered smoothly, as if reciting from a textbook. "Glacius to freeze its footing. Expulso to finish it off."

McGonagall looked stunned.

"A first-year performing a Freezing Charm and a Blasting Curse," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. "With that level of efficiency…"

Hadrian said nothing.

Hermione suddenly spoke up, her voice still trembling but determined. "It's true. If they hadn't come, I—" She swallowed thickly. "The troll would have killed me."

McGonagall's lips thinned.

"You two should not have gone after the troll on your own," she said severely. "That was reckless and dangerous. You could have been seriously injured."

Hadrian inclined his head slightly. "We weren't."

McGonagall exhaled sharply, pressing her fingers to her temples. "Twenty points to Ravenclaw for sheer bravery, but do not make a habit of endangering yourselves in such a manner. Next time, find a professor."

"Of course, Professor," Hadrian said smoothly.

Snape's eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he remained silent.

McGonagall turned to Hermione, her gaze softening slightly. "Are you alright, Miss Granger?"

Hermione hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, Professor. Thanks to them."

McGonagall gave her a firm nod. "Then return to your dormitory at once. This night has been eventful enough."

With a final glance at Hadrian and Daphne, she turned on her heel and strode away, motioning for Quirrell to follow. The nervous professor all but scurried after her.

Snape lingered a moment longer, eyes still locked on Hadrian.

"Interesting," he murmured at last, before sweeping away, his robes billowing behind him.

Hadrian remained still until he was gone. Then, finally, he let out a quiet breath.

Daphne looked at him sidelong, eyes still filled with something akin to wonder.

"You know," she mused, "I don't think I've ever been more impressed by you than I am right now."

Hadrian gave her a faint smirk. "Enjoy the show?"

Daphne scoffed. "Oh, immensely."

And with that, the two of them turned and walked away—leaving the wreckage of the night behind them.

The flickering light of the many candles in Dumbledore's office cast long shadows across the walls. Fawkes, his magnificent phoenix, sat silently on his perch, his golden eyes half-lidded as if observing the room's tension.

Minerva McGonagall stood rigidly before Dumbledore's desk, her hands clasped behind her back. Severus Snape was beside her, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp with something bordering on suspicion.

"It was not just luck, Albus," McGonagall said, her voice tight. "Nor was it mere talent. That boy did not stumble his way into felling a fully-grown mountain troll. He knew exactly what to do."

Dumbledore, seated behind his grand desk, steepled his fingers and peered at her over his half-moon spectacles.

"Elaborate, Minerva," he said softly.

McGonagall inhaled deeply, then continued.

"Hadrian Potter used a sequence of spells—powerful ones, well beyond his year. Depulso to knock the troll back, Glacius to freeze its footing, and Expulso to finish it off. His execution was flawless, his reaction immediate. There was no hesitation."

Dumbledore's expression remained calm, unreadable.

"A rather…advanced approach," he mused.

McGonagall's lips thinned. "Albus, a first-year should not be able to perform such magic with such precision. Even a talented second or third-year would struggle to react so quickly and decisively."

Dumbledore nodded slightly but said nothing, prompting Snape to step forward.

"There's more," the Potions Master murmured. "The way he spoke. The way he carried himself. Not a trace of fear or uncertainty. When I confronted him, he didn't stammer or seek excuses. He simply stated what had happened, as if it were nothing."

McGonagall gave a sharp nod. "Even Quirrell was at a loss for words. That alone should tell you something."

Dumbledore exhaled quietly, tapping his fingers against the polished wood of his desk. "And what do you believe this means?"

McGonagall hesitated for a brief moment before saying carefully, "I think… I think he has been trained, Albus."

A silence fell over the room.

Dumbledore did not react immediately, but McGonagall saw it—the faint flicker of something in his eyes. Something knowing.

"You suspected this already," she accused, her voice quieter.

Dumbledore's fingers stilled. He gazed at her for a long moment, before offering a slow, contemplative nod. "I did."

McGonagall's breath hitched slightly. Snape merely narrowed his eyes.

"I do not yet know who trained him, nor to what extent," Dumbledore admitted, his voice heavy. "But it was clear from the moment he stepped into this castle that he was…different."

"Different?" Snape echoed, an edge to his voice. "He's far beyond that, Headmaster. That kind of reaction time, that kind of control—that is not natural for an eleven-year-old, no matter how skilled."

McGonagall swallowed. "Then the question becomes: who trained him?"

Snape exhaled through his nose. "I would wager it was not the Ministry, nor any Hogwarts professor. No one in Britain would dare."

Dumbledore remained silent, his gaze distant.

McGonagall's brows furrowed. "If he has been trained, then that means someone—perhaps multiple people—have had access to him since infancy. The question is… why? And for what purpose?"

Dumbledore's voice was quieter than before when he finally spoke.

"That," he murmured, "is what we must discover."

Snape's jaw tightened. "You should have discovered it already," he said coolly. "The boy has been here for months. What exactly are you waiting for?"

Dumbledore's blue eyes met Snape's darker ones. For a long moment, there was silence.

Then, with a soft sigh, Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting toward the softly glowing embers in the fireplace.

"I am waiting," he said at last, "for him to make his next move."

A silence stretched between them.

McGonagall shifted uncomfortably. "And what if his next move is something we cannot control?"

Dumbledore's fingers pressed together once more.

"Then," he said softly, "we will have to control it."

The flickering candlelight reflected in his ancient blue eyes, and for a moment, the room felt just a bit colder.

Months later

Daphne woke with a quiet groan, the heavy weight of the morning seeping into her bones as she stretched and reached for her bedside table. Christmas morning, she thought with a sigh. The only day of the year she might have gotten some reprieve from her parents' suffocating expectations.

The light outside was still dim, but it was the time she always woke, the early hours before the common room became crowded with students. The perfect moment to enjoy a little peace. As she sat up, her eyes landed on the small stack of letters she had left unopened from the night before. Her heart skipped a beat as her gaze fell upon one that was unmistakable—her parents' handwriting.

Her stomach churned.

Sighing deeply, Daphne reached for the letter, the heavy paper practically trembling in her hands. She didn't want to open it, already knowing what it would say. She was used to it, the cold and calculating tone that had been her parents' default for years. They never once thought of her as a daughter, always as a tool. As a means to an end.

Breaking the seal, she unfurled the letter and began to read.

Daphne,

We trust you've given thought to our previous conversations. You have one final opportunity to follow our instructions. Your association with that boy will bring nothing but ruin. Make the right choice, or we will be forced to make our own decisions. There are consequences for failure, as you know.

Do not disappoint us again.

Mother and Father

Her breath caught in her throat as she reread the words. The empty threat of "consequences" echoed in her mind, each syllable as cold as ice. Her parents' love was conditional, as always—given only when she was useful, and withdrawn the moment she failed them.

The letter slipped from her fingers, floating to the bed beside her as she stared blankly at the walls, the weight of it all pressing on her chest. She knew the path they wanted her to walk—the path they had been trying to force her onto for years. Marry into power, serve the family, follow the legacy of the bloodline.

But she was tired. So tired of pretending, tired of being a pawn. Tired of never having a choice.

In the quiet of the room, her gaze drifted to the window, the gray sky outside almost a perfect reflection of the storm swirling inside her. It felt wrong to be alone, to face the consequences of all her decisions without anyone to lean on. Her parents' threats didn't scare her as much as the realization that they could break her, and she'd be alone in the wreckage. Alone with nothing but their judgment and disdain.

She took in a shaky breath and stood up, pushing the darkness aside, if only for a moment. The idea of spending Christmas alone with that feeling gnawing at her insides was unbearable.

The quiet creak of the door startled her, and she looked over to see the head of a small parcel sitting on her desk. A small note was attached to it, written in a familiar, careful script.

For Daphne. Merry Christmas. – H.

Hadrian's handwriting.

Daphne's heart skipped a beat at the sight of it, the softness of the gesture completely unexpected. She hadn't been prepared for this—a gift, from him. No family expectations, no hidden meaning. Just… something given freely. Something kind.

Her fingers lingered over the paper before carefully unwrapping it. Inside was a small silver necklace, a simple yet beautiful pendant with a design she'd never seen before—two interlocking flames, one blue and one gold. It was understated but undeniably meaningful. It reminded her of the connection they shared, of the unspoken understanding between them.

A gift like this… had to be a symbol. A reminder that not all people were like her parents. That there were still people who saw her, who cared about her, without strings attached.

She held the pendant between her fingers, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself. For the first time in a long while, she didn't feel completely alone.

With a soft breath, she slipped the necklace over her head, the pendant resting against her chest. She didn't care that it wasn't grand. The act itself, the thought, was more than enough.

With a quiet determination, she wiped the stray tear from her cheek, pushed the letter from her parents aside, and prepared to face the day.

Christmas wasn't just a day for the family she was born into. It was for the family she was choosing. The people who had her back.

And she would make her choice—just as Hadrian had.

She didn't know where that path would take her. But for the first time in a long while, it felt like she might actually have a choice.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting flickering golden light across the otherwise dimly lit Ravenclaw common room. Most students had either gone home for the holidays or were still asleep, leaving the space eerily quiet.

Daphne stood near the window, arms wrapped around herself, as she stared out at the snow-covered grounds of Hogwarts. The letter from her parents was still burned into her thoughts, but the weight of it wasn't as suffocating as before.

Because of him.

Her fingers drifted up to the silver pendant resting against her collarbone. She hadn't taken it off since she found it—Hadrian's gift, a small but powerful reminder that she wasn't alone.

A familiar presence entered the room, his footsteps impossibly light, but she knew it was him before she even turned.

"Daphne." Hadrian's voice was smooth, composed as always, but there was something softer in it this time. Maybe it was the quiet of the morning, or maybe… maybe he just knew.

She turned to face him, taking in his usual unreadable expression, but there was something different about the way he looked at her. His sharp, piercing gaze wasn't searching for weakness or calculating his next move. It was simply watching her, as if assessing something only he could see.

She swallowed, pushing away the emotions swirling inside her. "You got me a gift."

His head tilted slightly, a knowing glint in his eyes. "I did."

Daphne hesitated for only a moment before stepping toward him, her grip tightening on the pendant. She had never been one for grand displays of affection—not with her family, not with anyone. It wasn't how she was raised. But something about this moment, about Hadrian himself, made her drop the carefully built walls she had spent years maintaining.

Without another word, she closed the distance and wrapped her arms around him.

For a moment, he didn't react. His body remained still, as if the concept of someone embracing him so freely was completely foreign. But then, slowly, she felt him shift. His arms came around her, not forcefully, not possessively—just there, solid and steady, like an anchor.

She hadn't realized how much she needed this.

Daphne closed her eyes, breathing in the faint scent of parchment and something darkly warm, something uniquely him. He didn't speak, didn't ask her what was wrong, didn't demand explanations. He simply let her hold on.

"Thank you," she murmured, barely above a whisper.

His hand briefly brushed her back, light, almost hesitant. "You don't have to thank me."

She pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. "I do." Her voice was firmer now, more certain. "You don't understand what this means to me."

His expression didn't change, but she could see the way his gaze lingered on her, as if trying to decipher something even he couldn't fully grasp. "Maybe I do."

Daphne didn't question it. She didn't need to. Because right now, in this moment, she wasn't alone.

As the warmth of Daphne's embrace faded, Hadrian stood still in the quiet common room, his mind strangely blank. He wasn't sure what he had expected when she stepped toward him, but certainly not that—not the way she had held onto him, not the way he had instinctively returned the gesture.

His hands still tingled where they had rested against her back.

It had been… nice.

The realization unsettled him.

Hadrian had never been one for physical affection. His childhood had been void of it—no comforting arms, no reassuring touch, nothing but cold distance and unspoken expectations. The Dursleys had only ever laid their hands on him in anger, and even when he had left them behind, he had never sought out anything different. He hadn't needed to.

And yet, when Daphne had hugged him, something within him had stilled.

She had been warm—solid in a way that wasn't suffocating, but grounding. It hadn't been a fleeting gesture of politeness, nor an act of obligation. She had wanted to hold him. She had wanted him.

And he had liked it.

That was the part that disturbed him the most.

Hadrian clenched his jaw, inhaling slowly as he forced himself to move, to push past the lingering feeling that still curled around him like an echo.

Daphne was important. He had already decided that much.

But was she becoming something more?

He exhaled sharply, dismissing the thought before it could take root. It didn't matter. She was his, whether she realized it or not.

And for the first time in his life, someone had chosen him.

Hadrian wandered the empty halls later that night, his footsteps nearly silent against the cold stone floors. The castle was draped in shadow, the torches flickering dimly as if barely holding onto their flame. He told himself he was merely clearing his mind, but even as he walked, his thoughts strayed.

To her.

The memory of Daphne's embrace still lingered—not just the warmth of it, but the ease. The way she held onto him like it was natural, like it had always been this way. It unsettled him, but not in the way most things did. It was something else entirely.

Hadrian exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He tried to focus on his plans for the rest of the year—his power base, his slow but inevitable rise, the steps needed to control the game unfolding at Hogwarts. Yet, no matter how much he pushed, his mind kept drifting back to her.

How did she worm her way into my life this deep, this fast?

And, perhaps more disturbingly… Why didn't I mind?

Before he could contemplate further, a faint glint in the darkness caught his eye. A door—slightly ajar. Not one of the usual classrooms. There was something about it, something that called to him.

Curiosity stirred, and without hesitation, he stepped inside.

The room was nearly pitch black at first, but the moment he crossed the threshold, torches ignited along the walls, casting a flickering glow across the stone. Dust swirled in the sudden light, disturbed from years of neglect. At the center of the room stood a massive mirror, its golden frame intricate and curling like vines frozen in time. The inscription at the top was written in a strange, twisting script.

Hadrian narrowed his eyes, lips moving silently as he deciphered the words.

"Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi."

Then he muttered the translation aloud.

"I show not your face, but your heart's true desire."

A mirror that reflected one's deepest longing. How… quaint.

His curiosity piqued, Hadrian stepped forward until he was directly in front of it.

And then he froze.

The reflection staring back at him was… himself. And yet, it wasn't.

He was taller, older. His raven-black hair was gone, replaced by sleek, silver waves styled in a sharp, effortless sweep. His features were sharper, his presence even more commanding. A high-collared trench coat rested upon his frame, its fabric swaying slightly as if caught in an unseen breeze.

Hadrian's breath hitched. He knew what this was.

The mirror did not lie—it had shown him the embodiment of his deepest wish. Not just power. Not just influence. He wasn't simply standing on the shoulders of legends.

He was becoming him.

Grindelwald.

Hadrian's fingers clenched into fists as he stared, the weight of the vision pressing down on him. He had always known, somewhere deep within, that this path was inescapable. It wasn't just about reclaiming a legacy. It was about fulfilling it.

The flames of purgatory were his birthright. And now, the mirror showed him what he was destined to become.

And yet, the mirror was not finished.

The image shimmered, distorting like ripples in water. And then…

Someone else appeared beside him.

His eyes darted to his side in reality, but the space was empty. Yet, in the mirror, she was there.

A woman, draped in an aura of both warmth and ice. Platinum-blonde hair cascaded down her back, contrasting against her piercing, almost ethereal blue eyes. Her expression was one of amusement, of quiet understanding, her lips curling ever so slightly.

Daphne.

Hadrian's breath stalled as he took in the sight of her reflection. She stood beside his older self, her arm draped over his mirror-self's shoulder as though she belonged there. There was something deeply intimate about it—not just in proximity but in the quiet certainty in her expression.

She was his.

Not as a pawn, not as an asset.

She was standing beside him as an equal. As something more.

Hadrian's pulse thundered in his ears. He had expected the mirror to show him power, dominance, perhaps the world bowing at his feet. But this…

He turned away, shattering the vision before it could sink further into his mind.

Daphne Greengrass had carved her place into his life far deeper than he had realized. And perhaps, he was beginning to understand why.

Hadrian took a step back from the mirror, composing himself. The lingering images burned into his mind—the future it showed him, the reflection of the man he would become. And Daphne, by his side. He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to smother the strange warmth curling in his chest.

Then, a quiet sound.

Not the rustling of the torches. Not the wind pressing against the castle's ancient walls.

Footsteps.

Hadrian didn't turn immediately, though every muscle in his body tensed. Someone was there. He had been so caught up in the mirror's vision that he hadn't noticed another presence approaching. That was unacceptable.

"Curious, isn't it?"

The voice was calm, wise—too measured to be surprised by Hadrian's presence. And as the footsteps came closer, Hadrian already knew who it was.

Albus Dumbledore.

Hadrian finally turned, schooling his features into an expression of polite intrigue. The old wizard stood a few feet away, his long robes flowing slightly as he moved. His blue eyes, so often twinkling with that infuriating knowingness, now held something quieter.

Dumbledore studied the mirror for a moment before shifting his gaze to Hadrian. "The Mirror of Erised," he said, voice almost nostalgic. "It has a way of captivating those who stand before it."

Hadrian tilted his head slightly, his wand still loosely gripped in his hand, though he made no move to draw it. "I gathered as much."

Dumbledore stepped closer, just enough for the torchlight to illuminate the deep lines of his face. "I see you have already discovered its inscription. Tell me, Hadrian, what did you see?"

Hadrian gave a slow blink. "Isn't that rather personal, Professor?"

Dumbledore chuckled softly, though there was something deliberate in the way he watched Hadrian. "Indeed, indeed. But one can learn much from what they desire. The mirror does not show us simple dreams, you see—it reveals the deepest yearnings of our hearts. What one sees in the mirror… is often more telling than words could ever be."

Hadrian didn't respond. He knew what the old man was doing. Dumbledore was always searching, always prodding, always attempting to peel back layers that weren't his to uncover.

"Most who look into the mirror see their loved ones returned to them," Dumbledore continued. "Family lost, mistakes undone. A longing for what once was." His voice dropped, almost as if speaking to himself. "I have stood before this mirror in my youth… and I know its dangers well."

Hadrian watched him carefully. Dumbledore has seen something here before. That was interesting. The headmaster was rarely this open, even in vague hints.

"It's dangerous, then?" Hadrian asked.

"It can be." Dumbledore looked at him again, and there was something too observant in his gaze. "Men have wasted away before this mirror, entranced by visions they can never truly grasp. That is the danger of desire, Hadrian—it is a flame that, if left unchecked, will consume you whole."

For the briefest moment, Hadrian thought of his flames—of the inferno he had nearly lost control of during training. Of the power that raged inside him, demanding to be harnessed.

But he wasn't a fool.

"The mirror is only a reflection," Hadrian said smoothly, his expression unreadable. "A vision, nothing more. It has no power over those who know what they must do."

Dumbledore tilted his head, as though trying to peer deeper into him. "Wise words, especially from someone so young."

Hadrian gave a small, meaningless smile. "I've been told I'm an old soul."

A flicker of amusement passed through the headmaster's gaze. "That you may be."

They stood in silence for a moment. The air between them was measured, a game of observation and patience.

Finally, Dumbledore let out a soft sigh. "It is best that you do not return to this mirror, Hadrian."

Hadrian raised a brow. "Oh?"

Dumbledore's expression was unreadable. "It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live."

Hadrian stared at him for a long moment. Then, with deliberate ease, he turned and stepped away from the mirror.

"Wise words, Professor," he murmured as he passed him, stepping into the corridor. "But not all of us can afford to live without a dream."

Hadrian sat in his usual chair by the fireplace, staring into the flames, though his mind was far away. The image in the Mirror of Erised had not left him. The silver-haired man who wore his face, the woman who stood at his side—it was as if the mirror had peeled back the layers of his soul and shown him the inevitable. The future. Or at least, the one he craved most.

Daphne had not been in the common room earlier, but now she appeared, her steps quieter than usual. She hesitated for only a moment before walking directly toward him, stopping just in front of his chair.

"You've been avoiding me," she said without preamble.

Hadrian blinked, dragged from his thoughts. "Have I?"

Daphne crossed her arms, her gaze sharp. "Don't try that. I know when you're dodging something." She took a slow breath. "I've been thinking about the troll."

Hadrian's expression remained unreadable. "And?"

Daphne pursed her lips, then sat down in the chair across from him. "You took it down like it was nothing," she said quietly. "Not just fast—effortless. Not even upper years could have done what you did. And before that, you knew exactly how to act with the duel against Draco and the Slytherins. I've been watching you, Hadrian. You're not just gifted." She leaned forward slightly, her blue eyes filled with something unreadable. "You've been trained."

Hadrian tilted his head, observing her carefully. He could see it in her face—she wasn't accusing him, nor was she afraid. She was curious. And she wanted answers.

He considered his response. He could deflect, lie, or steer her away. But Daphne had been the one person who had never tried to use him, never looked at him with ulterior motives. The mirror had shown her at his side.

So, he made a choice.

"Yes," he said simply.

Daphne blinked, clearly not expecting him to confirm it so easily. "You're admitting it?"

Hadrian gave a small smirk. "You asked, didn't you?"

Daphne exhaled, shaking her head. "Who trained you?"

Hadrian's smirk faded. "That's not something I can tell you. Not yet."

She frowned but didn't argue. Instead, she asked, "Why?"

He leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping against the armrest. "Because I had to be ready."

"For what?"

Hadrian's emerald gaze met hers. "The future."

Daphne studied him for a long moment, as if trying to decipher his words, but then, after a pause, her posture shifted. A different kind of determination filled her face, and she hesitated before speaking again.

"Then…" she started, looking almost uncertain for the first time. "Could you teach me?"

Hadrian's brows rose slightly. "You want me to train you?"

Daphne nodded. "I've thought about it a lot. If you've been preparing for something bigger, then I—" She cut herself off, exhaling sharply. "I don't want to be weak. I don't want to be left behind."

Hadrian stared at her for a long moment.

She was serious.

More than that—she trusted him.

After everything, after all his secrets, she still wanted to stand beside him.

He thought about the woman in the mirror, the way she had rested her arm over his shoulder like she belonged there. He looked at the real Daphne now—determined, unshaken, waiting for his answer.

"…Alright," he said at last. "But if I do this, you'll have to keep up."

A small, knowing smile crossed Daphne's lips. "I would expect nothing less."

Sorry for the late update, I was having a lot of problems with my docs. I also apologize if this chapter might seem a bit all over the place, I'm still learning how to segway. Hope you enjoyed though!