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Chapter Text

He was tired. Harry was tired, exhausted, and wanted to go back to sleep. He snorted at himself—tired at twenty two, while the rest of his year mates were out surviving and thriving. He hasn't even spoken to Hermione and Ron in months, and the rest of the Weasleys were too busy rebuilding their lives and trying to find happiness after—after Fred—and Harry did not want to remind them of the war that took him from them.

He has Teddy though, for however long, since Andromeda blamed him for Tonks and Remus' deaths, and was wary of leaving Teddy to him for any period of time, so Harry resorted to crafting and sending gifts for Teddy with accompanying stories of his parents, few that they were. His current project was a bronze bracelet that he was enchanting with charms to mimic Remus' voice saying "I love you, son", that Harry had pulled from his memories when Teddy was newly born.

A few months after Fred's funeral, a week after the war ended, Harry's magic had become uncontrollable, almost like it had grown too quickly for him to keep up with. Bill had shown up unexpectedly and announced that Harry was to accompany him and Fleur to Gringotts for their next assignment.

"But I thought with…everything, you had given up that part of your job to stay in Britain? With your family?"

"Our family, Harry, don't be a prick. Besides, I actually love cursebreaking, and Fleur didn't get a chance to finish her training."

Harry ignored the jab about family, he loved the Weasleys, and he knew they loved him, but it was difficult spending time with each other when the grief of Fred's death hung like a weighted veil over the house, neither party blaming each other, nor knowing how to talk it through.

"Okay. What does that have to do with me though? It's not like I know anything about cursebreaking—I didn't take any of the actually useful subjects, like Runes, or Arithmancy." He realised that Divination was a fool's game for him since he had no talent for precognition that Luna, even sometimes Ron seemed to have, and bitterly regretted the fact that he didn't look further into his own talents, instead sticking to Ron.

Bill raked his hand through his hair, shifting restlessly. "I know this, but you can learn. I'm asking because Gringotts wants reparations for the dragon, but they understand that it was extenuating circumstances, and are willing to overlook it if you agree to two years of service instead of paying the fines for the damage caused."

Harry nodded slowly, translating that to mean that Gringotts did not want to be seen punishing the Savior for taking care of something that the bank had managed to overlook, considering their policies against Black Soul Magic in their vaults, and having him appear to be allied with Gringotts by working an assignment for the bank would benefit them greatly. It would also benefit him though, which is probably something that Bill managed to swing for him.

"Say I agree, which I am probably going to do, why am I accompanying you and Fleur? Wouldn't you want to be alone to…be together? Two years is a long time."

Bill snorted, then took on a surprisingly abashed expression, an excited, faraway look in his eyes. "We haven't told anyone this yet, but…Fleur's pregnant, we're not going to get any alone time soon, and even once she finishes her training, it will be a while yet before she can do any of the more dangerous jobs, so having your scrawny, overpowered arse as an assistant-apprentice would be helpful. Not to mention, the baby will have an uncle."

Harry was dumbfounded. He knew, logically, that babies existed, and would continue to exist, but it felt like his life had come to a screeching halt with the end of the war. To learn that Bill and Fleur were having a baby? That they wanted him around as an uncle for the baby? It felt like he was yanked back into the real world by his hair, and it humbled him more than anything. Sure, he had Teddy, but Teddy was his. Teddy was his in a way that no other child, other than his own hypothetical children, would ever be. He loved Teddy, and had been writing him letters every two days, since Andromeda refused to let him visit so soon after the war's end, citing the danger that his uncaptured enemies posed to his godson. Harry had not argued, since she had lost her husband, daughter, and son-in-law in a matter of weeks, and he knew she was grieving. But, he missed Teddy like it was a visceral ache in his chest. Breathing hurt for a while, remembering all the tragedy that he was responsible for because he didn't grow up fast enough ached, but the thought of Teddy kept him going, alleviated the ache, the guilt, and the numbness that constantly threatened to take him over.

He stared at Bill, who steadily looked back at him, unaware of the jarring realisation he had given Harry, or perhaps not, with the way his eyes gleamed, as if asking, 'Well?'

"Bill—you—oh Merlin! You and Fleur! A baby? Congratulations! A baby!" He crushed Bill in his arms, overwhelmed with joy for his surrogate brother and sister-in-law. They rocked from side to side, as Bill laughed, "Yes, a baby—you'll help us with it, won't you Harry?"

Harry looked up at Bill, green eyes gleaming with disbelief, "Of course I will! Of course, I will—you want me there, don't you? To help? With the cursebreaking and stuff…?

"Did I not just say that? I'll apprentice you, you'll learn on the job and assist me, get your ridiculously uncontrollable magic in check, and when Weasley Junior the First arrives, you'll help Fleur and I in taking care of it." Bill's tone brooked no arguments as they disentangled themselves and he placed a firm hand on Harry's shoulder, as if assuring him of the truth of his words.

As Bill said, that was how they carried on, for the next four years. Egypt changed Harry in ways he hadn't expected, starting with the obvious and moving inward like layers of sediment in an archaeological dig.

The first thing to change was his appearance. Bill had taken one look at Harry's perpetually messy hair—made worse by the desert wind—and declared it hopeless before dragging him to a local barber who spoke no English but understood the universal language of exasperation. Instead of the usual hack job Harry was used to, the man had simply trimmed the worst of it and let the rest grow. "Trust me," Bill had said when Harry protested. "The weight will calm it down."

He'd been right. After six months, Harry's hair had grown past his shoulders, the additional length finally heavy enough to tame his unruly curls into loose waves that he could tie back when working. It made his face look different—sharper somehow, more defined. Fleur had declared it "magnifique" and taken to braiding small sections when she was bored, weaving in bits of gold thread that caught the light. After the first year, she'd begun making some of the braids permanent, weaving them so tightly and refreshing the charms so often that they'd become a fixture—thin plaits threaded with gold that framed his face and caught the desert sun.

"You look like a proper curse-breaker now," she'd said approvingly, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "All mysterious and windswept. Very romantic."

"Fleur," Harry had protested, face burning, but she'd just laughed and ruffled the parts she hadn't braided.

The desert sun had been equally transformative, turning Harry's pale English skin a warm golden bronze that made his green eyes seem to glow like emeralds held to candlelight. But it was the modifications he'd made to himself that truly marked his transformation from the boy who'd left Britain to the man he'd become.

The first tattoo had been practical—a protection rune inked in special magical ink between his shoulder blades, a complex weaving of Algiz and Eihwaz that would deflect curses and strengthen his natural magical defenses. Bill had been skeptical at first.

"You sure about this, Harry? Magical tattoos are permanent. Not just the ink—the magic bonds with your skin, becomes part of you."

"I'm sure," Harry had replied, and he had been. The idea of carrying his own protection with him, woven into his very skin, had appealed to him on a level he couldn't quite explain.

The second had come a year later—a ward against mental intrusion spiraling around his left forearm in elegant Nordic runes, designed to prevent anyone from accessing his memories or thoughts without permission. After Snape's legilimency lessons and years of Voldemort's presence in his mind, the idea of mental privacy had been too tempting to resist.

The piercings had started as a dare from one of the other curse-breakers, an irreverent witch from Romania who'd bet Harry he wouldn't have the courage to get his ears pierced. He'd proved her wrong and found he actually liked the way the small hoops looked, the way they caught the light and made him feel slightly dangerous. From there, it had been a gradual progression—a few more studs up his ears, a hoop opposing an eyebrow slit, solely meant for fidgeting and calming himself down, and eventually snakebite piercings on either side of his lower lip that he'd enchanted to enhance his ability to taste magical residue in the air.

"You're going to give Mum a heart attack when she sees you," Bill had observed, watching Harry add yet another piece of enchanted jewelry to his collection.

"Good thing I'm not planning to see her anytime soon then," Harry had replied with a grin, admiring the way his new tongue piercing caught the lamplight. He'd enchanted that one too, to help him better pronounce the complex incantations required for some of the more advanced runic work.

Each modification had served a purpose, whether practical or personal. The jewelry he wore was all of his own creation, small masterpieces of enchantment that enhanced his magical abilities or provided protection against the various dangers of their work. He'd become quite proud of his growing collection, each piece a testament to his skill as both an artificer and a curse-breaker.

He'd always been thin, but four years of physical labor—lifting stone tablets that couldn't be moved with magic due to protective enchantments, hauling equipment across shifting sand, spending hours crouched in cramped tomb passages—had filled out his frame in ways that Quidditch never had. His shoulders had broadened, his arms had gained definition, but it was his legs that showed the most change. Years of coordinating ground excavation with aerial surveys, spending entire days on his broom mapping sites and checking for hidden passages, had built the kind of thick, powerful thighs that spoke of serious flying.

The physical changes were easier to catalog than the mental ones, but those had been just as profound. Working alongside Bill and Fleur had slowly drawn Harry out of the shell of grief and guilt he'd retreated into after the war. It helped that they treated him like family rather than a celebrity, teasing him mercilessly and including him in their banter without any of the reverent tip-toeing he'd grown to hate.

“Harry, mon dieu, you are going to give yourself wrinkles with all that frowning," Fleur would say whenever she caught him lost in brooding thoughts. "Here, 'old this while I finish the preservation charm." She'd thrust baby Victoire into his arms, and it was impossible to stay melancholy when faced with a gurgling infant who seemed determined to grab his nose.

Bill was even worse, in his own way. "You know, Harry," he'd said one afternoon as they worked to carefully extract a sealed canopic jar, "if you keep up that tragic martyred hero look, you're going to have every wix in Cairo throwing themselves at your feet. Very inconvenient for tomb work."

"Shut up, Bill," Harry had muttered, but he'd been fighting a smile.

"I'm serious! Look at you—all mysterious and scarred and brooding. Plus the whole 'savior of the wizarding world' thing. It's like catnip for a certain type of person."

"The type that has terrible taste?" Harry had shot back, and startling Bill into laughing so hard he'd nearly dropped the jar.

It was that kind of easy affection that had slowly coaxed Harry into relaxing, into remembering how to banter and flirt and be young. When Fleur complimented his growing competence with ward-breaking, he felt comfortable enough to quip back with, "Just trying to keep up with the master", alongside a theatrical bow that made her giggle, and when Bill grumbled about having to train someone so naturally gifted it made him look bad, Harry learned to counter with— "Maybe you're just getting old", and a perfectly innocent expression.

The work itself had been a revelation. Harry had always been good at Defense Against the Dark Arts, but runes and warding turned out to tap into something deeper—an intuitive understanding of how magic wanted to flow and bend that he'd never realized he possessed.

"The thing about Elder Futhark," Bill had explained during one of their early lessons, "is that it's not just an alphabet. Each rune is a concept, an intention, a way of channeling magical energy into specific patterns." He'd drawn Thurisaz in the sand with his finger, the angular lines stark against the pale ground. "This one means 'giant' or 'thorn'—destructive force, but also protection through strength. You can use it in offensive arrays, or..."

"Defensive ones," Harry had finished, already seeing the possibilities. "If you invert the energy flow and pair it with Algiz for divine protection..."

Bill looked at Harry sharply, an appraising glint in his eye,"Exactly. Most people take months to understand that kind of conceptual flexibility… Tell me, what would you do if you encountered Perthro singularly in a lock?"

“Perthro means luck, but it also depicts a sideways cup, waiting to be filled, or recently emptied–multiple possibilities…I’d overcharge it with my magic, and draw it back quickly.”

Harry had taken to it like he'd been born for it, moving seamlessly from Elder Futhark to the hieroglyphic wards they encountered in Egyptian tombs, then to the Celtic Ogham script Bill taught him for British excavations. Each system had its own logic, its own way of shaping magical intent, and Harry devoured them all with an enthusiasm that sometimes worried his mentors.

"You're obsessing again," Fleur had said one evening, finding Harry still bent over his notes by lamplight while she and Bill prepared for bed.

"I'm not obsessing," Harry had protested. "I'm researching. There's a difference."

"Mmm." She'd perched on the arm of his chair, reading over his shoulder. "And what exactly are you researching that cannot wait until tomorrow?"

"I think there's a connection between the Sanskrit yantra symbols we found in that merchant's tomb and the binding runes from the Nordic traditions. Look—" He'd pointed to his sketches, excitement making his voice animated. "They're both using geometric patterns to contain and direct energy, but the mathematical principles are almost identical. If I could figure out how to combine them..."

"Harry." Bill's voice had been gentle but firm. "It's past midnight. The runes will still be there tomorrow."

"But—"

"No buts. You're going to burn yourself out if you keep this up." Bill had plucked the quill from Harry's fingers with the ease of long practice. "Besides, some of the best insights come when you're not actively thinking about the problem."

He'd been right, as usual. Harry's breakthrough with three-dimensional runic arrays had come to him during a lazy afternoon spent flying reconnaissance over a potential dig site, his mind wandering as he soaked up the sun and the simple pleasure of flight.

The years in Egypt hadn't just changed Harry's appearance and magical abilities—they'd given him something he'd never really had before: time to simply exist without the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. For the first time in his life, he could wake up in the morning without wondering who might die because of his choices, or what fresh hell awaited him in the Daily Prophet.

The first year had been the hardest. Harry had thrown himself into the work with an almost manic intensity, desperate to prove himself useful, to justify Bill and Fleur's faith in him. He'd worked eighteen-hour days, studying runic theory by lamplight until his eyes burned, practicing ward-breaking exercises until his magic felt stretched thin.

"You are going to work yourself into an early grave," Fleur had observed one evening, finding him collapsed over his notes, ink smudged on his cheek where he'd fallen asleep on his parchment.

"I'm fine," Harry had mumbled, not lifting his head. "Just need to understand the binding patterns for the protective arrays. If I can figure out how they're anchored to the physical structure..."

"'Arry." Her voice had been gentle but firm. "When was the last time you ate something that was not conjured bread and water?"

He'd tried to remember and come up blank. "I had some of that dried fruit yesterday. Or was that the day before?"

"Mon dieu." She'd hauled him to his feet with surprising strength. "Come. You will eat, and then you will sleep, and tomorrow you will work like a normal person instead of a man possessed."

"But the ward matrices—"

"Will still be there in the morning. The tombs have waited three thousand years; they can wait one more night."

It had taken months for Harry to learn that lesson properly. Bill had been endlessly patient, never pushing when Harry's mood turned dark, always ready with a joke or a story when the silence stretched too long. Fleur had been more direct, physically dragging Harry away from his work when she deemed it necessary, plying him with French pastries and maternal scolding until he remembered how to smile.

The breakthrough had come during their second year, when they'd been working on a particularly stubborn tomb complex near Saqqara. The site was massive—a sprawling network of chambers and passages that had been sealed for millennia, protected by layers upon layers of increasingly complex magical defenses. Harry had been struggling with a particularly nasty piece of warding for weeks, a serpentine array that seemed to shift and writhe every time he thought he'd figured out its pattern.

"I don't understand," he'd said, frustration bleeding into his voice as he stared at the hieroglyphic sequences covering the chamber wall. "Every time I think I've mapped the energy flow, it changes. It's like it's actively trying to confuse me."

"Maybe it is," Bill had suggested, crouched beside him as they studied the glowing symbols. "The ancient Egyptians were masters of adaptive magic. What if this isn't just a ward—what if it's a test?"

Harry had blinked, the idea crystallizing in his mind like a revelation. "A test. Of course. It's not trying to keep people out—it's trying to see if they're worthy to enter."

He'd approached the problem differently after that, not as a puzzle to be solved but as a conversation to be had. Instead of trying to force his way through the ward, he'd begun to work with it, following its shifting patterns and responding to its changes with complementary adjustments of his own. It had taken days of patient work, but eventually, the serpentine array had stilled, its hostile energy settling into something almost welcoming.

"Bloody hell," Bill had breathed as the massive stone door had swung open with a grinding rumble. "Harry, do you realize what you just did? That ward was considered unbreakable. The Egyptian Department of Mysteries has been trying to crack it for decades."

But Harry had barely heard him, too caught up in the wonder of what lay beyond the doorway. The chamber within was pristine, untouched by time or grave robbers, filled with treasures that made his breath catch. Golden sarcophagi, jeweled canopic jars, scrolls of papyrus covered in symbols that seemed to dance in the lamplight.

"It's beautiful," he'd whispered, and for the first time since the war, he'd felt something other than grief or guilt or bone-deep exhaustion. He'd felt awe.

That had been the turning point. Harry had begun to approach his work with a different mindset, finding joy in the challenge rather than using it as a way to punish himself. He'd started to notice things he'd been too focused to see before—the way the desert light changed throughout the day, painting the sand in shades of gold and amber and rose. The sound of Bill and Fleur laughing together as they worked, their easy affection a balm to his wounded soul. The simple pleasure of a job well done, of a mystery solved, of ancient magic yielding its secrets to patient study.

By the third year, Harry had begun to understand why Bill loved cursebreaking so much. There was something deeply satisfying about the work—the way it combined intellectual challenge with physical danger, the thrill of discovery balanced against the need for meticulous preparation. Every tomb was different, every ward a new puzzle to unravel, every breakthrough a small victory against the forces of time and decay.

He'd also begun to develop his own reputation within the cursebreaking community. Word had spread about the young man who could draw runes with his bare hands, who approached ancient magic with an intuitive understanding that bordered on the mystical. Requests had started coming in from other Gringotts teams, asking for his assistance with particularly difficult sites.

"You're getting famous again," Bill had teased one evening as they sorted through yet another stack of consultation requests. "Pretty soon they'll be calling you the 'Rune Whisperer' or something equally ridiculous."

"Please don't give them ideas," Harry had groaned, but he'd been secretly pleased by the recognition, “Besides, it would be ‘Ward Whisperer’, just rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?”. The statement was accompanied by a cocky grin that had Bill reaching over to cuff him over the back of his head with a smile. 

It felt good to be known for something other than his scar, to have a reputation based on his own skills rather than his tragic history.

The fourth year had brought new challenges as Harry had begun to push the boundaries of traditional cursebreaking. He'd started experimenting with combining different runic systems, weaving together Egyptian hieroglyphics with Nordic runes and Celtic ogham in ways that should have been impossible but somehow worked. His innovations had revolutionized their approach to ward-breaking, allowing them to tackle sites that had been considered too dangerous to attempt.

"You realize you're completely rewriting the textbooks on runic theory?" Bill had said one afternoon as they watched Harry casually dismantle a ward that had been protecting a pharaoh's treasure chamber for three millennia. "The Department of Mysteries is going to have a collective heart attack when they see your methods."

"Good," Harry had replied with a grin that was equal parts innocent and wicked. "Maybe they'll finally stop insisting that magic has to follow their arbitrary rules."

It had been during that final year that Harry had truly come into his own, not just as a cursebreaker but as a person. The shy, traumatized boy who'd arrived in Egypt had been replaced by a confident young man who knew his own worth, who could laugh at himself and flirt with pretty witches and hold his own in conversations with the most brilliant minds in the field.

"Look at you," Fleur had said one evening as they sat around their campfire, watching the stars wheel overhead in the clear desert sky. "So different from the sad little boy who came to us four years ago."

"I wasn't that sad," Harry had protested, but without much conviction.

"Mon chéri, you were practically drowning in your own misery," she'd replied gently. "Always so serious, so worried about everything. Now look—you smile, you laugh, you make jokes. You are alive again."

And it was true. Harry had felt more alive in those four years than he had since before the war, perhaps more alive than he'd ever felt. The constant fear that had defined his childhood and adolescence had finally faded, replaced by a quiet confidence that surprised him sometimes. He'd learned to trust his instincts, to believe in his own abilities, to accept that he was worthy of love and friendship and happiness.

But beneath it all, there had always been the shadow of Teddy, the constant awareness that somewhere far away, his godson was growing up without him. Harry had thrown himself into his letters, writing long, detailed accounts of his adventures, including sketches of the tombs they'd explored and the artifacts they'd found. He'd sent photographs too—of himself and Bill and Fleur, of the desert landscapes that had become his second home, of the magical wonders they'd uncovered.

He'd hoped that somehow, through his letters and gifts, he could still be a part of Teddy's life, still be the uncle he'd promised to be. But as the years had passed and Andromeda's responses had grown shorter and colder, Harry had begun to understand that his absence was creating a gulf that letters alone couldn't bridge.

"He needs me," Harry had said to Bill one evening as they sat on the roof of their temporary quarters, watching the sun set over the pyramids. "I can feel it. Teddy needs me, and I'm not there."

Bill had been quiet for a long moment, choosing his words carefully. "Harry, you can't save everyone. You can't be everything to everyone. Sometimes the best thing you can do is trust that the people you love will find their way without you."

"But he's my godson," Harry had whispered, the words thick with pain. "I'm supposed to protect him. I'm supposed to be there for him."

"And you will be," Bill had said firmly. "When the time is right, when he needs you most, you'll be there. But right now, he has his grandmother. He has a home, he has love, he has stability. Maybe that's enough for now."

Harry had wanted to believe him, had tried to convince himself that his absence was for the best, that Teddy was better off without the complications that came with being associated with the Boy-Who-Lived. But the ache in his chest had never fully gone away, the constant awareness that he was failing in his most important duty.

"Potter. Harry . Listen! You used Hagalaz and Nauthiz in a diagonal, three-dimensional array! That was heptagonal in nature! Do you not understand that that's supposed to be impossible?"

"It's not impossible," Harry had replied mildly, not looking up from where he was carefully documenting the ward structure. "We just read a scroll describing it in the tomb of Thumari? Y'know, the Scribe of the kingdom?"

"You idiotic fool! That's where you got it from? That array was purely theoretical! As the scribe, Thumari notated everything—even the theoretical magicks!"

The man had stormed off, and Harry had exchanged an amused look with the rest of the team. It wasn't the first time his unconventional approach had scandalized the more traditionally-trained curse-breakers.

Bill had come up behind him, slinging an arm around his shoulders as he whistled appreciatively. "Should we tell them that you drew your runes using magic instead of having the pre-prepped parchments?"

Harry had considered it, then grinned—the kind of wicked expression that had been appearing more frequently as he'd grown comfortable with his abilities. "Nah. Let him figure it out on his own. Character building."

The distant sound of "WHAT!" followed by a thud suggested their newest colleague had indeed figured it out, or at least part of it.

"You're getting mean in your old age," Bill had observed with approval.

"I learned from the best," Harry had replied sweetly, batting his eyelashes in a way that made Bill snort with laughter.

It was that growing confidence, that sense of finally coming into his own, that made leaving so difficult. But Victoire was four now, walking and talking and calling him "Uncle 'Arry" in a voice that sounded heartbreakingly like her mother's accent. And somewhere in Britain, Teddy was growing up with only letters and gifts to remember him by.

"Bill, I love you, I love Fleur, and I adore little Victoire…but she's four now, and I cannot leave Teddy with only letters to remember me by. He's my godson, so he's my responsibility. He won't grow up like I did, I cannot and will not choose anything over him. I love him, he's my little Ted."

The confrontation with Andromeda came on a dreary Tuesday in October. Harry had Apparated to her cottage in Devon, armed with a new set of enchanted toys for Teddy—a dragon that could breathe harmless rainbow flames and a set of building blocks that would construct themselves into castles when stacked. He'd been working on them for weeks, pouring his magic and his love into every careful enchantment.

She met him at the garden gate before he could even reach the front door, her face a mask of fury and grief that had aged her beyond her years. Where once she had been beautiful like her sister Bellatrix, now she stood gaunt and hollow-eyed, her dark hair streaked with premature grey.

"You," she hissed, the word dripping with venom. "How dare you show your face here again."

Harry stopped short, the carefully wrapped gifts heavy in his hands. "Andromeda, please. I just want to see him. It's been months, and he's—"

"He's what? Your responsibility? Your precious godson?" Her laugh was bitter, broken. "You killed them, Harry Potter. You killed my daughter and her husband as surely as if you'd cast the curse yourself."

The words hit him like a physical blow, but Harry forced himself to remain steady. "That's not true, and you know it. Remus and Tonks chose to fight. They chose to—"

"They chose to die for you!" she screamed, her magic crackling around her in visible waves. "My Dora, my baby girl, she had everything to live for. She had a son, she had a husband, she had a future. But she threw it all away because she thought the great Harry Potter needed saving."

Harry felt something cold and bitter settle in his chest, along with a familiar flash of irritation. "Right, because it's so much easier to blame me than to accept that your daughter made her own choices," he said, his voice sharp with the kind of cutting honesty that had gotten him in trouble since he was eleven. "Tonks wasn't some helpless little girl who got swept up in my wake, Andromeda. She was an Auror. A grown woman who chose to fight a war against a madman who would have killed her anyway for being a blood traitor."

"But they did, didn't they? They all did. Because you were just a child, weren't you? Just a poor, defenseless little boy who needed protecting." Her voice turned mocking, cruel. "Well, where were you when they were dying, Harry? Where was the great Boy-Who-Lived when my daughter was bleeding out on the castle floor?"

"I was dying too," Harry said quietly, and for a moment, Andromeda faltered. "I died, Andromeda. I went to Voldemort, and I let him kill me. I let him murder me because it was the only way to end the war. The only way to save everyone else."

But she wasn't listening, couldn't hear him past her own grief and rage. "Get out," she whispered, her voice shaking. "Get out and don't come back. I won't let you poison my grandson with your presence. I won't let you destroy him like you destroyed everyone else who ever loved you."

Harry stood there for a long moment, clutching Teddy's gifts, feeling something fundamental break inside his chest. "He's my godson," he said, and he hated how small his voice sounded. "Remus and Tonks, they chose me to—"

"Remus and Tonks are dead!" Andromeda shrieked. "Dead because of you! And I will not, I will NOT let you take my grandson too!"

She slammed the cottage door so hard that the sound echoed like a gunshot across the countryside. Harry stood there in the gathering dusk, alone with his gifts and his guilt, and tried to remember how to breathe.

He left the packages on her doorstep anyway. He always did.

The memories came in waves after that, crashing over him in the silence of Grimmauld Place like a tide of bitter regret. He'd retreated to the ancestral Black house not because he wanted to, but because it was the only place that was truly his, the only place where no one would look for him or expect anything from him.

The irony wasn't lost on him that he'd inherited it from Sirius, another person who'd failed him in the most fundamental ways.

He poured himself a drink—firewhisky, the same brand Sirius had favored—and let himself remember. Let himself relive the moments that had shaped him, the disappointments that had carved him hollow.

"Tell me about my dad," fifteen-year-old Harry had asked, sitting across from Sirius in the kitchen of this very house. It was Christmas Eve, and Remus was upstairs sleeping off a transformation, and for once, Sirius seemed almost sober. Almost present.

"James?" Sirius had smiled, that old roguish grin that made him look like the young man he'd never quite stopped being. "Your dad was... he was everything good about magic, Harry. Everything bright and brave and foolish."

"Foolish?" Harry had leaned forward, desperate for any scrap of information about the father he'd never known.

But Sirius's eyes had already gone distant, unfocused. "We were all foolish then. Thought we were invincible. Thought love would be enough to save us all." His hand had found a bottle—there was always a bottle—and his voice had slurred as he continued. "Should have been me, you know. Should have been me who died instead of him."

"Sirius, please. I just want to know what he was like. What they were both like."

But Sirius had been gone by then, lost in his memories and his guilt and the bottom of whatever bottle he'd found. Harry had sat there until dawn, watching his godfather hallucinate conversations with the dead, having to physically restrain him when he tried to leave the house to "find James and tell him the secret's safe."

Harry had gone to bed that Christmas morning more alone than when he'd started.

Harry drained his glass and poured another. The pattern had been the same with Remus after Sirius died—every attempt at connection met with withdrawal, every question about his parents or his godfather deflected or ignored entirely.

"I miss him too," Harry had said, finding Remus sitting alone in the Hogwarts staff room after another Order meeting. It was late in sixth year, and Harry was desperate for any adult who might actually talk to him, might actually see him as something other than a weapon to be directed or a symbol to be worshipped.

"Do you?" Remus had asked, and there was something sharp in his voice that Harry had never heard before—something bitter and broken that made him sound almost like Snape. He wasn't looking up from the plans he was shuffling and editing, but his knuckles were white where he gripped his quill. "I'm not sure a few stolen conversations and one ill-fated rescue mission qualify as knowing someone."

The words had cut deeper than Harry expected. "That's not fair," he'd said, trying to keep his voice level. "It's not my fault I barely got to know him. Maybe if certain adults had been honest with me from the beginning instead of keeping me locked away from everything—"

"Honest?" Remus had finally looked up, and his amber eyes were blazing with a fury that made Harry take a step back. "You want honesty, Harry? Here's some honesty for you: Sirius died because he was reckless and impulsive and couldn't bear to let you face danger without him. The same way he lived, the same way he died—the same way he always was. Some people never change, no matter how much you love them or how much you hope they will."

The bitterness in Remus's voice was like poison, and Harry realized with horrible clarity that the man wasn't just grieving Sirius—he was angry at him. Furious, in a way that spoke of years of disappointment and frustration.

"Then help me know him," Harry had shot back, his own temper flaring. "Tell me what he was really like, before Azkaban destroyed him. Tell me about him and my parents, because Merlin knows no one else will."

Remus had gone very still, and when he spoke again, his voice was quiet and careful in the way that meant he was barely holding himself together. "Some things are better left buried, Harry. Some memories are too painful to share."

"Painful for who?" Harry had demanded. "For me, or for you? Because I'm the one who has to live with not knowing anything about the people who died for me, and I'm getting pretty tired of adults deciding what I can and can't handle."

"You don't understand—"

"Then make me understand!" Harry had slammed his hand on the desk, making Remus jump. "I need to know who they were, who I come from. You're the only one left who can tell me, and you're just going to what—run away? Again?"

The words had hung in the air between them like a curse, and Harry had seen the exact moment they hit home. Remus had gone pale, his hands shaking as he gathered his papers.

"I'm sorry, Harry," he'd whispered, and there was so much pain in his voice that Harry almost regretted pushing. Almost. "I can't. I just... I can't."

And that had been that. Another adult who'd chosen his own grief over Harry's need for connection, for family, for any sense of where he belonged in the world. Another person who'd run when things got difficult, leaving Harry alone with his questions and his anger and the growing certainty that he was somehow too much for anyone to handle.

Harry's magic was reacting to his emotions now, making the lights flicker and the windows rattle in their frames. He should have been angry at them, he supposed. Should have raged at Sirius for his weakness, at Remus for his cowardice, at all the adults who'd failed him so spectacularly.

But mostly, he just felt tired. Tired and empty and unspeakably lonely.

At least he had Teddy. At least he could be for Teddy what they'd never been for him. At least he could break the cycle, could be the adult who stayed, who chose love over fear, who put a child's needs before his own pain.

At least he had that.

The owl arrived on a Wednesday. Harry almost didn't answer it—he'd been ignoring most correspondence for weeks, letting letters from the Ministry and various well-wishers pile up unopened on his kitchen table. But something about this particular owl's desperate tapping made him look up from his latest enchanting project, a mobile that would sing lullabies in Tonks's voice for Teddy's nursery.

He recognized the owl—it belonged to St. Mungo's. His heart began to race before he'd even broken the seal.

Mr. Potter,

It is with deep regret that we must inform you of the deaths of Andromeda Tonks and Edward Lupin. They were among the casualties of yesterday's attack on Diagon Alley. Ms. Tonks sustained fatal injuries while attempting to shield her grandson, who was also killed in the assault.

As young Mr. Lupin's designated magical guardian, you are requested to attend to the arrangements for his burial and the disposition of his remains.

Our deepest condolences for your loss.

Healer Miriam Strout  

St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries

Harry read the letter three times before the words sank in. Teddy. His Teddy, his little Ted with his bright eyes and his gift for changing his hair to match his moods. Gone. Just gone, snuffed out at four years old by some random attack that had nothing to do with Harry, nothing to do with the war, nothing at all.

The mobile fell from his numb fingers, crashing to the floor in a tangle of wire and broken charms. Tonks's voice, mid-lullaby, distorted into an electronic wail before falling silent.

Harry sank to his knees among the wreckage and screamed.

The days that followed passed in a haze of grief and alcohol. Harry arranged the funeral—a small, private affair attended by the few people who'd known Teddy. The Weasleys came, of course, their faces drawn with sympathy and worry. Hermione tried to talk to him, tried to get him to eat something, to please Harry, just talk to us, we're here for you.

But Harry couldn't hear her past the roaring in his ears, couldn't see past the image of Teddy's small body in the tiny coffin, couldn't think past the knowledge that he'd failed again. Failed to protect the one person who'd mattered most.

After the funeral, he retreated to Grimmauld Place and didn't come out. The letters piled up—from friends, from the Ministry, from Bill and Fleur in Egypt who'd heard the news and were begging him to come stay with them, to not be alone. But Harry ignored them all.

Instead, he drank. And when he wasn't drinking, he was working on Teddy's bracelet, the one he'd never gotten to give him. He poured his magic into it obsessively, layering charm after charm until the bronze gleamed with power, until Remus's voice saying "I love you, son" was so clear it might have been the man himself standing in the room.

"I love you, son," the bracelet whispered as Harry clutched it to his chest, tears streaming down his face. "I love you, son. I love you, son."

Over and over, the words echoed in the empty house, bouncing off the walls like a prayer or a curse. Harry closed his eyes and let them wash over him, let them fill the horrible silence where Teddy's laughter should have been.

He'd failed. He'd failed Teddy just like everyone else had failed him, and now his godson was gone and there was nothing left, nothing at all worth fighting for.

The bracelet grew warm in his hands as his magic continued to pour into it, wild and uncontrolled. "I love you, son. I love you, son. I love you, son."

Harry drifted off to sleep there on the sitting room floor, the bracelet pressed against his heart, Remus's voice whispering endlessly in his ears as the nightmares took him.

He was standing in a place that wasn't quite a place, surrounded by mist and shadows that seemed to breathe. The air tasted of copper and starlight, and when he tried to move, his feet found no purchase on ground that might not have existed.

"Hello, Harry."

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, ancient and patient as stone. Harry spun around, but there was nothing to see except the shifting gray that surrounded him.

"Who's there?" he called out, his voice echoing strangely in the non-space. "Show yourself!"

The mist began to coalesce, taking shape slowly like a photograph developing. The figure that emerged was tall and thin, draped in robes that seemed to be cut from the fabric of night itself. Its face was hidden beneath a deep hood, but Harry could feel its attention like a weight on his soul.

"You know who I am," it said, and its voice was the sound of wind through graveyards, of final breaths, of doors closing forever. "We have met before, though you may not remember."

Harry's heart began to race, but he stood his ground. "Death," he whispered.

"Yes." The figure inclined its head slightly. "I am Death. And you, Harry Potter, are mine."

The words should have terrified him. Should have sent him running, screaming, begging for his life. Instead, Harry felt something like relief flood through him. "Good," he said, and meant it. "I'm ready."

Death was silent for a long moment, studying him with attention that Harry could feel even if he couldn't see its eyes. "Are you?" it asked finally. "Are you truly ready to leave this existence behind? To abandon all hope of happiness, of love, of redemption?"

"What happiness?" Harry laughed, and the sound was bitter as wormwood. "What love? Everyone I've ever cared about is gone. Everyone who was supposed to care about me failed me. There's nothing left."

"Your friends—"

"Don't understand me. Can't understand what it's like to carry the weight of everyone's expectations, everyone's deaths. They see the Boy-Who-Lived, not Harry."

"The Weasleys—"

"Lost a son because of me. Because I wasn't fast enough, wasn't smart enough, wasn't good enough to end things before he died."

"Your godson—"

"Is dead!" Harry screamed, his composure finally cracking. "He's dead, and it's my fault! Just like Sirius, just like Fred, just like Remus and Tonks, just like everyone else who ever tried to love me! I destroy everything I touch!"

He fell to his knees in the strange non-space, sobbing with a grief so profound it felt like it might tear him apart from the inside. "Please," he begged, looking up at Death's hooded figure. "Please, just let me die. Let me be with them. Let me stop failing everyone."

Death watched him weep with infinite patience, waiting until his sobs had quieted to exhausted whimpers before speaking again.

"You believe yourself a failure," it said, and its voice was almost gentle now. "But what if I told you that you could have another chance? What if I offered you the opportunity to live a different life, to know the love and family that was denied to you in this one?"

Harry looked up, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "What are you talking about?"

"I am not merely Death, Harry Potter. I am Entitatum Death—the embodiment of endings and beginnings, of the space between what was and what might be. I have the power to manipulate time and reality itself, to create new possibilities from the ashes of old despair."

Death gestured, and the mist around them began to swirl and shift, forming images that Harry could barely make out. "I offer you this: a chance to return to your school years, but not as you lived them. A chance to be someone else entirely, in a world where the people you love most are alive and whole."

"I don't understand," Harry whispered.

"You would be Hadrian Evans," Death explained, and the images in the mist grew clearer. Harry could see Hogwarts, but different somehow. Brighter. Less touched by war and shadow. "A perfectly ordinary student from a perfectly ordinary family. Your parents—James and Lily Potter—would be alive, though they would not be your parents in this world. Sirius Black would be free and happy, unmarked by Azkaban. Remus Lupin would be whole, unashamed of his condition, surrounded by friends who love him."

Harry's breath caught. "They'd be alive?"

"All of them. Living the lives they were meant to live, free from the tragedy that marked your original timeline." Death paused. "Sirius and Remus would be together, as they should have been from the beginning. They would have a son, Orion Black, who would be your age when you arrive. And in 1997, they would welcome another child—Edward, born to Nymphadora Tonks as a daughter of House Black, carrying the child for them before Sirius blood-adopts him as his own son."

Harry's breath caught. Not only would they be alive, but they'd be happy. Together. The way Remus's grief-stricken bitterness had always suggested they should have been, if not for war and Azkaban and the cruel twists of fate that had kept them apart.

"Teddy would still be born?" Harry whispered.

"He would still be born, still be loved and wanted and cherished. But he would have two fathers to raise him, both alive and whole and present." Death's voice grew gentler. "Remus Lupin would not marry Nymphadora Tonks out of wartime desperation and grief for the man Sirius once was. He would be with the man Sirius always remained, in a world where love was allowed to flourish instead of being crushed by tragedy."

"There would be another Harry Potter in this world, of course," Death continued. "And Voldemort would still exist, still be a threat. But the burden of stopping him would not fall on your shoulders. Neville Longbottom would be the Boy-Who-Lived, the one marked by prophecy."

"And me?" Harry asked, hardly daring to hope. "What would I be?"

"As unassuming as possible," Death said, and Harry could hear something like amusement in its ancient voice. "A background character in your own story, free to forge relationships with these people not as the famous Harry Potter, but simply as yourself. Free to know them as they truly are, to love them and be loved by them without the weight of destiny pressing down on you."

It sounded too good to be true. It sounded like everything Harry had ever wanted and never dared to ask for. But...

"What's the catch?" he asked suspiciously. "There's always a catch."

"Perceptive," Death acknowledged. "The catch is this: it would not be your world. These would not be your parents, your godfather, your friend. They would be different people entirely, shaped by different experiences, different choices. The James Potter of this world might not be the man you've idealized. The Sirius Black might not need saving. The Remus Lupin might not welcome your friendship."

"But they'd be alive," Harry said softly.

"They would be alive."

Harry closed his eyes, trying to think past the desperate hope that was blooming in his chest. "And what about... well, me? How I look now?" He gestured vaguely at himself, thinking of the tattoos marking his skin, the piercings that had become such a part of his identity. "I'm not exactly the same person who left Britain four years ago."

"An astute question," Death acknowledged. "You would retain certain features, yes—the golden skin earned under the Egyptian sun, the longer hair with its permanent braids courtesy of Fleur's handiwork, some muscle definition appropriate for an active fourteen-year-old raised by explorer parents. But you must understand, you would be fourteen again. Your body would reflect that age, though healthier and stronger than you were at that age in your original life."

Harry blinked, trying to process this. "Fourteen? But I thought—"

"You thought you would return as you are now? No, Harry Potter. You would enter Hogwarts as a fourth-year student, aged fourteen as all the others would be when you transfer in, recently homeschooled, but newly orphaned with the death of your parents at the hands of a rogue death-eater cell, not particularly targeted, just…unlucky while you were making a rest stop in Britain." Death’s eyes gleamed as they repeated Harry’s thoughts about Teddy’s death in regards to his fake parents, making Harry want to scream once more, but still relieving him—he would not have to care for two strangers as parents, he does not know how to be a son. 

Death continued, fully aware of Harry’s inner conflict,"Think of it as your current self... compressed, refined to that age, but without the malnourishment and neglect that marked your original adolescence."

"And the tattoos—"

"Would not exist," Death said gently. "Your skin would be unmarked, as befits a fourteen-year-old boy. Your piercings would be limited to what might reasonably be expected—a few ear piercings perhaps, maybe an eyebrow piercing acquired during family travels with your unconventional explorer parents. Nothing more extensive."

Harry felt a pang at the loss, but pressed on. "And my face? People would recognize me as Harry Potter, wouldn't they?"

"Ah, but that is where the magic of this new reality becomes interesting," Death said, and Harry could hear amusement in its voice. "Your features would... shift, slightly. Nothing dramatic, mind you, but enough to distinguish you from this world's Harry Potter. Perhaps a more square forehead instead of rounded, a more aquiline nose rather than his straight one. Maybe fuller lips, more almond-shaped eyes instead of round ones, a sturdier chin, longer fingers. You would look similar enough that some might note a passing resemblance, but nothing remarkable—certainly nothing to write home about, as you might say."

"So I'd be me, but... not me?" Harry tried to wrap his mind around it.

"You would be Hadrian Evans—similar enough to Harry Potter that luck-of-the-draw genetics might explain any resemblance, different enough that no one would think twice about it. A fourteen-year-old boy with sun-kissed skin and longer hair threaded with gold, slight muscle definition from an active childhood, and the quiet confidence of someone raised by loving, if unconventional, parents."

The thought of losing his adult body, his tattoos, most of his piercings made him feel oddly vulnerable. But if it meant having his family alive, having a chance to know them as they truly were...

"The important changes would remain," Death continued, as if reading his thoughts. "The confidence you've gained, the skills you've learned, the man you've become. Those are not written in flesh or ink, but in the very essence of who you are. Your magical knowledge, your experiences, your growth—all of that would remain, compressed into the form of a fourteen-year-old boy who has lived a very different life."

"And Teddy? Would he be alive too?"

"Edward Lupin would exist in this world," Death said carefully. "But as Edward Black, raised by Sirius and Remus as their beloved youngest son. He would not be your godson—he would have no need of one, with two devoted fathers to love and guide him. He would grow up knowing he was wanted, planned for, cherished from the moment of his birth."

The words stung, but Harry found he could bear them. Better that Teddy should live and be happy without him than remain dead because of him.

"What about my friends here? Hermione and Ron, the Weasleys? What happens to them if I leave?"

"They continue on," Death said simply. "They grieve for you, as they would grieve for anyone they loved who chose to end their pain. But they heal, in time. They build lives worth living. They are stronger than you give them credit for."

Harry thought about that, about the relief that would probably come with not having to worry about him anymore, not having to watch him self-destruct and be unable to help.

Maybe it would be kinder to everyone if he simply disappeared.

"This other world," he said slowly. "Would I remember this one? Would I remember them, the people I'm leaving behind?"

"You would remember everything," Death confirmed. "The knowledge would be yours to carry, to learn from. But the pain... the pain would be distant, like an old scar that no longer aches."

That decided it. The thought of keeping his memories but losing the crushing weight of grief, of guilt, of endless, endless failure—it was more than he'd dared to hope for.

"I'll do it," Harry said, and his voice was steady for the first time in months. "I'll go."

Death nodded slowly. "Then let us begin."

The hooded figure raised one pale hand, and Harry felt power gathering around them like a storm. "Know this, Harry Potter," Death said, its voice growing distant as reality began to fracture around them. "This is not an escape from responsibility. This is not a chance to run from who you are. This is an opportunity to discover who you might have been, had love been allowed to shape you instead of loss."

"I understand," Harry said, and thought he might actually mean it.

"Do you? We shall see." Death's voice was barely a whisper now, fading like an echo. "Remember: you will be as unassuming as possible. That is both gift and curse, choice and consequence. Use it wisely."

The last thing Harry saw before the world dissolved into white-hot pain was Death's hood falling back, revealing not the skull he'd expected, but a face that looked remarkably like his own—older, sadder, but unmistakably familiar.

"Welcome to your second chance, Hadrian Evans," Death said, and smiled.

Then everything went dark, and Harry Potter ceased to exist.

Chapter Text

Hadrian Evans woke to unfamiliar sunlight streaming through windows he didn't recognize, in a body that felt both his and not his at the same time. The transition had been... jarring. One moment he'd been Harry Potter, twenty-two and broken, clutching Teddy's bracelet in the ruins of his life. The next, he was here—wherever here was—fourteen years old and staring at hands that were his but smaller, unmarked by the tattoos that had become such a part of his identity.

He sat up slowly, cataloging the differences. His skin was still the warm golden bronze he'd earned under the Egyptian sun, but it was stretched over a smaller frame now, the lean muscle definition he'd built over four years compressed into the body of an active teenager. His hair still fell past his shoulders in the waves that had finally tamed his childhood chaos, and when he reached up to touch it, he could feel the thin braids threaded with gold that Fleur had woven so carefully they'd become permanent fixtures.

The room around him was modest but comfortable—a small flat above what appeared to be a shop of some kind, judging by the sounds of commerce drifting up from below. Sunlight revealed dust motes dancing in the air, and the furniture had the worn, well-loved quality of pieces that had seen better days but were still perfectly serviceable.

On the nightstand beside the bed, a letter waited with his name written in unfamiliar handwriting. Not his name—his new name.

Hadrian Evans,

Welcome to your new life. You will find your Hogwarts letter, along with documentation establishing your identity as the son of Marcus and Helena Evans, deceased explorers and researchers. Your emancipated minor status has been legally established with both the Ministry and Gringotts Bank.

Your story, should anyone ask: your parents died in a curse-breaking accident in South America six months ago. You've been traveling, settling their affairs, and have only recently returned to Britain to attend Hogwarts as they always intended.

The rest is up to you.

—D

Hadrian—he supposed he'd need to start thinking of himself that way—read the letter twice before setting it aside. Beside it lay a familiar-looking envelope addressed in emerald green ink, and his heart gave a complicated twist as he recognized the Hogwarts crest. His Hogwarts letter. Again.

He dressed quickly in clothes that fit his new frame perfectly—simple muggle attire that someone had thoughtfully provided—and made his way downstairs to discover he was indeed above a shop. The proprietor, a elderly wizard with kind eyes, looked up as he descended.

"Ah, young Mr. Evans! I trust you slept well? Your... guardian... asked me to let you know that you're welcome to stay as long as needed, though I believe you'll want to visit Gringotts today to sort out your affairs."

Guardian. Right. The fake identity Death had mentioned. Hadrian nodded politely, accepting the simple breakfast the man offered, and within the hour found himself standing at the entrance to Diagon Alley, his new Hogwarts letter tucked safely in his pocket.

The first thing that struck him about Gringotts was how pristine it looked.

Hadrian stood before the towering white marble facade, watching witches and wizards stream in and out of the ornate bronze doors, and felt a stab of recognition so sharp it nearly brought him to his knees. This was Gringotts as it had been before the war, before dragon fire and battle damage and the reconstruction that had followed. The marble gleamed without a single crack or scorch mark, the intricate gold detailing that traced the building's elaborate architecture caught the morning light without any of the patches and repairs he remembered from his last visit in 1998.

He'd been here, in his original timeline, just after the war ended. Not as a customer, but as something approaching a diplomatic envoy, there to discuss reparations for the dragon they'd stolen and the damage they'd caused. The memory came flooding back as he climbed the marble steps—

"Mr. Potter," King Ragnok had said, his ancient face creased with what might have been amusement as Harry stood in the rebuilt throne room, Bill flanking him for moral support. "You present us with an interesting proposition."

The walls had still shown signs of the battle—hastily repaired stonework, new braziers replacing the ones destroyed in the fighting. Harry had tried not to think about the goblins who'd died, tried to focus on the future Bill was trying to secure for him.

"The arrangement would be mutually beneficial," Bill had interjected smoothly when Harry's nerves had threatened to overwhelm him. "Mr. Potter's talents would serve Gringotts well, and his association with the bank would demonstrate our... collaborative approach to post-war relations."

Ragnok's eyes had glittered. "Indeed. And you, Mr. Potter? What do you say to two years of service in exchange for the... considerable debt you have incurred?"

Harry had straightened his shoulders, trying to project more confidence than he'd felt. "I accept, Your Majesty. And... I'm sorry. For what we had to do. For what it cost."

The goblin king had studied him for a long moment before nodding slowly. "War makes enemies of those who might otherwise be allies, Mr. Potter. Perhaps it is time to forge new paths."

Now, four years later in a different timeline entirely, Hadrian pushed through the bronze doors into a Gringotts that had never known that particular war, that damage, that tentative rebuilding of trust between species. The main hall stretched before him in all its unmarred glory—soaring marble columns supporting a ceiling that disappeared into shadows, the floor polished to a mirror shine that reflected the warm glow of countless floating lights. Goblins in their neat uniforms moved between the high counters with crisp efficiency, their voices a constant murmur of business being conducted in at least three different languages.

It was beautiful. It was exactly as he remembered from his very first visit at eleven, full of wonder and terror in equal measure. But now he knew what to look for, could appreciate the subtle craftsmanship in the metalwork, the precise way the magical lighting was arranged to eliminate shadows without creating glare. This was goblin artistry at its finest, unchanged by war or time.

Hadrian made his way to one of the teller windows, noting the familiar faces that were now years younger, unmarked by the lines of stress and conflict he remembered. There was Bogrod, who'd been forced to help them break into the Lestrange vault, now simply a senior teller with no knowledge of betrayal or dragons. There was Griphook—his heart clenched—who'd died in the Battle of Hogwarts, now alive and arguing with a wizard about exchange rates.

"Next!" called the goblin at the window Hadrian approached—a female with steel-gray hair and sharp eyes that missed nothing.

Hadrian stepped forward and offered a respectful bow, not too deep but deeper than most wizards would bother with. "Honored teller," he said in serviceable Gobbledegook, the language feeling strange but familiar on his tongue. "I seek to discuss my accounts and establish my financial standing in your noble institution."

The goblin's eyebrows shot up, and he could hear the conversations at nearby windows pause slightly. An unaccompanied wixen child speaking their language with proper formal address was apparently noteworthy.

"Your name?" she asked, switching to English but with a notably warmer tone than she'd used with the previous customer.

"Hadrian Evans. I believe my parents established accounts here some years ago before their... unfortunate passing."

She consulted a ledger that appeared at her touch, scanning the entries with practiced efficiency. "Ah yes, Mr. and Mrs. Marcus Evans. Explorers and researchers, if I recall correctly. Tragic loss. You have my condolences, young Mr. Evans."

"Thank you," Hadrian replied quietly, surprised by the genuine sympathy in her voice. "I've recently been declared an emancipated minor and find myself in need of understanding my financial position."

"Of course. If you'll follow me, we can discuss your accounts in private." She gestured toward a door behind the teller windows. "I am Senior Account Manager Sharpclaw. Your parents' affairs were always handled with the utmost care."

As they walked through corridors that gleamed with polished stone and precious metals, Hadrian couldn't help but marvel at the differences. In his original timeline, his post-war meetings with goblins had been tense affairs, weighted with history and mutual wariness. Here, Sharpclaw treated him with the professional courtesy due to any legitimate client, with an added warmth that seemed to stem from his show of cultural respect.

"Your parents were most unusual clients," Sharpclaw said as she led him into a comfortable office lined with ledgers and magical calculators. "They insisted on learning our customs, our language. They treated us as equals rather than..." she made a dismissive gesture, "service providers."

"They raised me to understand that respect must be earned and given in equal measure," Hadrian replied, settling into the chair she indicated. It was the truth, even if the parents in question had never existed.

Sharpclaw smiled—a rare expression that transformed her severe features. "Indeed. Now, to your accounts."

What followed was both better and worse than Hadrian had hoped. The good news was that Marcus and Helena Evans had been successful in their careers, leaving their son with a respectable inheritance that would see him through Hogwarts and beyond if managed carefully. The concerning news was that 'respectable' was relative—he had enough to live comfortably as a student, but nowhere near the Potter fortune he'd grown accustomed to in his original life.

"You have approximately eight thousand Galleons in your main account," Sharpclaw explained, spreading out detailed ledgers that showed his parents' investments and expenditures over the years. "Plus various investments in curse-breaking expeditions and magical research ventures that bring in roughly two hundred Galleons per year. Your parents were careful with their money, but they spent considerably on their research and your education."

Hadrian studied the figures, doing quick calculations in his head. Eight thousand Galleons would cover his Hogwarts fees, basic living expenses, and some luxuries, but not much beyond that. If he wanted to pursue expensive interests like advanced magical research, or maintain the lifestyle he was planning to establish, he'd need to start earning money well before graduation.

"What were their typical annual expenses?" he asked, leaning forward with interest.

"Roughly fifteen hundred Galleons per year between your education, household expenses, and their research costs. They lived well but not extravagantly." Sharpclaw consulted her notes. "I should mention that your father was quite particular about ensuring you learned practical skills alongside your magical education. He often said he wanted you to be self-sufficient, not dependent on inherited wealth."

"That sounds like him," Hadrian replied, though the words felt strange referring to parents who had never existed. "Did he tell you about me? The sort of practical skills he emphasized?"

"Enchanting and artificing, primarily. Your parents told us about how they commissioned several pieces from local craftsmen over the years, always insisting you observe the process. Marcus was quite vocal about believing those skills would serve you well in any career path you chose."

Interesting. Death had clearly been thorough in establishing a background that would support his interests and abilities. "Did they leave any tools or materials for these pursuits?"

"Indeed they did." Sharpclaw made a note on her parchment. "There's a workshop setup in storage here at the bank—various tools, materials, reference books. Your father added to it regularly. Shall I arrange for it to be delivered to your accommodations?"

"Please. And I'd like to discuss the timeline for my financial independence." Hadrian pulled out his own parchment and quill, jotting down figures as he spoke. "If I maintain current spending patterns, how long will my inheritance last?"

"Through your seventh year at Hogwarts, with perhaps a year or two beyond if you're careful," Sharpclaw replied. "But you mentioned pursuing advanced magical research—that could significantly accelerate your expenses."

Hadrian nodded, his mind already working through possibilities. He had roughly three years to establish an income source, longer if he was frugal. But frugality wasn't really the point—he wanted to build something, to create value rather than simply manage a dwindling inheritance.

"I'm considering starting a small business while at school," he said, testing the waters. "Creating and selling enchanted items, perhaps jewelry with practical applications. Would Gringotts be interested in facilitating such arrangements?"

Sharpclaw's eyes brightened with unmistakable interest. "Oh yes, very much so. We have extensive experience helping young entrepreneurs establish themselves. What sort of items were you considering?"

"Protection pieces, mainly. Jewelry that could detect poisons, provide minor glamours, enhance clarity of thought, maintain personal scents—practical magic in attractive packages." The ideas were flowing now, built from his years of experience with enchanting and his understanding of what people actually wanted from magical items.

"Fascinating. There's certainly a market for such things, particularly among the well-to-do families who send their children to Hogwarts." Sharpclaw made several notes. "We could establish a separate business account, help with contracts and transactions. There are also several established businesses that might be interested in carrying such items—I believe there's a mail-order operation run by some Hogwarts students that's gained quite a following."

"Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes," Hadrian said, remembering Fred and George's budding enterprise. "I'd heard of them. Do you think they'd be interested in partnership arrangements?"

"Very likely. They have the distribution network, you'd have the specialized products. It could be mutually beneficial." Sharpclaw's enthusiasm was infectious. "Shall I research some preliminary numbers for you? Initial investment requirements, potential profit margins, that sort of thing?"

"That would be extremely helpful, thank you."

The conversation continued for another quarter hour, covering practical details of business establishment, tax implications, and the various services Gringotts could provide to support his entrepreneurial ambitions. By the time they concluded, Hadrian had a clear understanding not just of his financial situation, but of the path forward he wanted to pursue.

"One final question," he said as Sharpclaw prepared to escort him back to the main hall. "The workshop materials you mentioned—how quickly could they be delivered?"

"This afternoon, if you like. Where shall I send them?"

"I'll be staying at the White Wyvern in Knockturn Alley for the next two weeks. If they could be delivered there..."

"Of course. Knockturn isn't the most fashionable address, but Thomas Blackwood runs a respectable establishment. Your items will be safe there."

As they walked back through the gleaming corridors, Hadrian felt a familiar excitement building—the same feeling he'd experienced in Egypt when tackling a particularly challenging ward, or when he'd first understood how different runic systems could be combined for greater effect. He had a plan now, a way forward that would let him build something meaningful while establishing his independence.

"I'd also like to establish a guardian arrangement," he said carefully. "Something that would allow me to conduct business and make decisions without constantly having to prove my emancipated status to every shop owner and official I encounter."

Sharpclaw's eyes gleamed with understanding. "Ah yes. The wizarding world can be... difficult about young people handling their own affairs, regardless of legal status. We can certainly arrange a proxy guardian—a legal fiction that would satisfy most inquiries without actually restricting your autonomy."

"Exactly what I had in mind."

"Excellent. We'll establish 'Edmund Blackthorne' as your appointed guardian—a reclusive gentleman who travels extensively for business and has entrusted your day-to-day care to the appropriate educational institutions. Should anyone require verification, our records will show him as a legitimate guardian who simply prefers to manage your affairs from a distance."

It was perfect—exactly the sort of arrangement that would pass casual scrutiny without being able to withstand serious investigation. Hadrian doubted anyone would dig that deep into the background of a seemingly ordinary Hogwarts student.

"I'll also want to set up a banking card for larger purchases," he added. "And perhaps a standing arrangement for my school expenses?"

"Easily done. We can establish a card with spending limits appropriate to your age and status, and arrange for Hogwarts fees to be paid automatically each term."

With that done, Hadrian had his financial affairs in order, a respectable pile of coins in a new money pouch, and a sleek banking card that would save him from having to carry large amounts of cash. He also had a much clearer picture of his new life's constraints and possibilities.

"One more thing," he said as Sharpclaw walked him back to the main hall. "I'll likely be pursuing advanced studies in runic magic and artificing during my time at school. Are there opportunities for young entrepreneurs in those fields?"

"Oh yes," Sharpclaw replied with enthusiasm. "Gringotts always has need of skilled ward-crafters and enchanters. We offer apprenticeship programs for promising students, and commission work for those with demonstrated talent. Your parents' son would be most welcome to apply, should you prove capable."

Hadrian smiled, feeling a familiar spark of excitement at the prospect of real magical work. "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you for your assistance, Senior Account Manager Sharpclaw. Your guidance has been invaluable."

"Think nothing of it, Mr. Evans. It's been a pleasure to work with someone who understands proper protocol." She paused at the door to the main hall. "Your parents would be proud of the young man you've become."

The words hit harder than Hadrian had expected, carrying weight he hadn't been prepared for. In his original life, he'd never known if his parents would have been proud of him, had spent years wondering what they would have thought of his choices, his failures, his desperate attempts to live up to their memory. Here, he had a chance to earn that pride on his own terms, to become someone worthy of it without the crushing weight of everyone else's expectations.

"Thank you," he said quietly, and meant it more deeply than she could possibly know. "I certainly intend to try."

Armed with a clear understanding of his financial situation, a business plan, and the promise of his father's workshop materials being delivered that afternoon, Hadrian made his way back into Diagon Alley proper. His first stop would be a trunk—not just any trunk, but one that would serve as both storage and sanctuary for the next several years. He had specific requirements in mind, born from experience and the hard-learned lessons of a life lived out of temporary accommodations.

Malkin's Trunks and Traveling Bags occupied a narrow shopfront between Flourish and Blotts and a quill shop, its windows displaying an array of luggage from simple school trunks to elaborate magical constructions that seemed to bend the laws of physics. The shop's interior was larger than seemed possible from the outside, with trunks of every size and description arranged in careful displays throughout the space.

"Welcome, young sir!" The proprietor emerged from behind a counter stacked with leather goods and clasps that gleamed with magical enhancement. He was a thin, energetic man with prematurely gray hair and the sort of eager expression that suggested he genuinely loved his work. "I'm Malkin—yes, relation to Madam Malkin down the street, she's my sister—and I can see from your posture that you're a young man who knows what he wants in a trunk. What can I do for you?"

Hadrian smiled at the man's enthusiasm. "I need something substantial. Four compartments, each with different properties. And I need it today—I'll be doing considerable shopping this afternoon and need somewhere secure to store everything."

"Ah!" Malkin's eyes lit up. "A serious student, I can tell. Someone who understands that a trunk isn't just storage, it's a foundation for your entire magical career. Come, let me show you something special."

He led Hadrian deeper into the shop, past standard school trunks and travel cases, to where the truly impressive pieces were displayed. There, sitting on a pedestal like a work of art, was exactly what Hadrian had envisioned—a trunk of rich dark wood bound with bronze fittings that gleamed with protective enchantments.

"This," Malkin said with obvious pride, "is our Deluxe Scholar's Companion. Four compartments, each customizable to your specific needs. The first compartment is designed as a library—climate controlled, with expansion charms that can hold up to five hundred books while maintaining organization and search capabilities. Perfect for someone building a serious research collection."

He opened the first compartment with a flourish, revealing a space that was indeed much larger than the trunk's exterior dimensions suggested. Shelves lined the walls, already equipped with magical organization systems that would sort and catalog books automatically.

"The second compartment," Malkin continued, opening another section, "is configured for practical supplies. Tool storage, ingredient preservation, work surfaces that can be summoned as needed. Ideal for potions work, herbology specimens, or crafting projects."

This compartment was more utilitarian but equally impressive, with numerous small drawers and storage spaces that seemed to multiply as Hadrian watched. Everything was perfectly organized and easily accessible, with preservation charms built into the very structure.

"The third compartment is for clothing and personal effects—cedar-lined for moth protection, with humidity control and wrinkle prevention charms. It'll keep your wardrobe in perfect condition regardless of climate or duration of storage."

"And the fourth?" Hadrian asked, though he suspected he already knew.

"Ah, the fourth is our masterpiece." Malkin opened the final compartment with obvious pride, revealing not storage space but what appeared to be a small room. "Fully expanded living quarters. Bedroom, study area, kitchen facilities, and even a small bathroom. The window is enchanted to show the outside world, and there's a Floo connection for communication. Some students use it for studying, others for private meetings. I've even had a few customers use it as emergency accommodation during school holidays."

It was perfect. More than perfect—it was exactly what Hadrian needed. A private space where he could work on his planned jewelry business without observation, store his growing collection of magical knowledge, and maintain the appearance and lifestyle he was determined to establish.

"How much?" he asked, already reaching for his money pouch.

"For the full configuration? One hundred and fifty Galleons."

It was expensive—a significant portion of his available funds—but Hadrian didn't hesitate. This trunk would be his foundation, his mobile workshop, his sanctuary for the next several years. It was an investment that would pay dividends many times over.

"I'll take it," he said, counting out the gold coins. "And I need it immediately—I'll be carrying it with me for the rest of the day."

"Excellent choice! Let me just activate the security features and attune it to your magical signature." Malkin performed a series of complex wand movements over the trunk's bronze fittings, which began to glow softly as they responded to his magic. "There. It's keyed to you now—no one else will be able to access the contents. The weight-reduction charms are already active, so it should feel no heavier than a standard school trunk despite the expanded interior."

Hadrian lifted the trunk experimentally and found it surprisingly manageable. The magic built into its construction made it easy to handle despite its true size and complexity.

"You've made an excellent choice, young man," Malkin said, clearly pleased to have found a customer who appreciated his work. "This trunk will serve you well throughout your magical career and beyond."

As Hadrian left the shop with his new trunk, he felt a deep sense of satisfaction. He now had secure storage for everything he planned to acquire, a private workspace for his business ventures, and a sanctuary where he could pursue advanced studies without observation. The trunk was more than just storage—it was the foundation for the life he intended to build.

His next stop required more careful consideration. In his original life, Harry Potter had worn hand-me-downs and ill-fitting robes because that's all he could afford or access. But Hadrian Evans had different resources and, more importantly, different priorities. He'd spent years in Egypt learning to take pride in his appearance, understanding that how you presented yourself to the world mattered in ways both subtle and profound.

The boutique he'd noticed on his way to Gringotts occupied a corner building with large windows that displayed robes and formal wear with an artistic sensibility that immediately caught his attention. The sign above the door read "Thornfield Couture" in elegant script, and even from the street, he could see that this was a place that understood fashion as art rather than mere necessity.

The interior was even more impressive—a carefully curated space with high ceilings, gleaming hardwood floors, and displays that showed off each garment like a gallery piece. Rich fabrics in deep colors caught the magical lighting, and the overall effect was one of refined elegance without ostentation.

"Good afternoon!" The voice came from a young man who appeared from behind a curtain of measuring tapes and fabric swatches. He was perhaps nineteen, with perfectly styled auburn hair, sharp cheekbones, and the sort of aesthetic sensibility that was immediately apparent in everything from his posture to his precisely tailored vest. "I'm Sebastian Thornfield, owner and designer. How may I—" He stopped mid-sentence as he got a proper look at Hadrian, his eyes widening slightly. "Oh my. Well, aren't you a lovely surprise."

Hadrian raised an eyebrow, amused by the young man's unabashed assessment. "I need a complete wardrobe," he said simply. "I'm a fourth-year transfer student starting at Hogwarts in a couple of weeks—I was homeschooled previously. Money is not a primary concern, but quality and fit are non-negotiable."

"A transfer student," Sebastian repeated, his professional interest clearly piqued. "How fascinating. And someone who understands that clothing is armor, art, and statement all rolled into one." He circled Hadrian slowly, his professional eye cataloging measurements and possibilities. "That skin tone, those eyes, the gold in your hair—and you look far too sophisticated for fourteen. Private tutoring does wonders for deportment, doesn't it?"

"Among other things," Hadrian replied with a slight smile. "Though I should warn you, I'm not easily flustered by flattery. You look rather young yourself to be running your own establishment—what are you, twenty-five? Thirty?"

Sebastian laughed, clearly delighted by the response. "Nineteen, actually. I inherited the shop from my mentor last year and decided to make it my own. Most people assume I'm much older when they see my work."

"Impressive," Hadrian said, and meant it. "Starting your own business so young takes real talent and determination. I'm hoping to do something similar myself—I'm planning to start a small artificing and enchanting business while at school. Jewelry, mainly, with practical applications."

"Jewelry?" Sebastian's eyes lit up with genuine interest. "How wonderful! I work with accessories quite a bit—understanding how jewelry complements clothing is essential for creating complete looks. What sort of pieces are you considering?"

"Protection charms, mainly. Discrete pieces that could detect poisons, provide minor glamours, enhance mental clarity, that sort of thing. Practical magic in beautiful settings." Hadrian found himself genuinely enjoying the conversation—Sebastian's enthusiasm was infectious, and his appreciation for both beauty and function resonated strongly.

"That sounds absolutely fascinating. There's certainly a market for such things among the sort of clientele who can afford quality clothing." Sebastian pulled out a measuring tape that shimmered with magical enhancement. "Now, let's talk about what we're building for you. School robes first—they'll need to be black with the Hogwarts crest, but we can certainly work with better materials and superior tailoring. I'm thinking high-quality wool with subtle texture, impeccable cut, maybe some interesting details that don't violate school regulations."

"That sounds perfect. I want to look polished and put-together, but not ostentatious." Hadrian paused as Sebastian began taking measurements with practiced efficiency. "I never want to look like the sort of person who's been neglected or overlooked."

Something in his tone made Sebastian glance up from his work, his expression softening with understanding. "Recent loss, I imagine? I can hear it in your voice—that particular determination to never appear vulnerable again."

Hadrian blinked, surprised by the perceptiveness. "My parents died six months ago. I've been... adjusting to independence."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Sebastian said quietly, his professional demeanor shifting to something warmer and more personal. "Losing parents so young must be devastating. But you're handling it with remarkable grace—there’s strength in how you're carrying yourself." A keen eye flicked to his straight back and broad shoulders, clearly clocking his perfect, relaxed posture.

"Some days are better than others," Hadrian admitted, finding himself unexpectedly comfortable with the young designer's direct but kindly approach. "But they'd want me to make the most of the opportunities they gave me."

"Then we'll make absolutely sure you're dressed to conquer the world," Sebastian said firmly, his enthusiasm returning. "Beyond the school robes, I'm thinking formal dress robes in midnight blue or deep burgundy, casual wear that can transition from day to evening, and maybe some pieces that showcase your jewelry designs when you start creating them."

As Sebastian continued taking measurements and making notes, Hadrian found himself genuinely impressed by the young man's vision and professionalism. Each suggestion was thoughtful and practical while still managing to be distinctive and elegant.

"You know," Sebastian said as he worked, "I don't often meet people around my age who are serious about building something meaningful. Most of my clients are either much older or young people spending their parents' money without much thought. It's refreshing to talk to someone who understands the value of quality and craftsmanship."

"It's equally refreshing to meet someone who's achieved so much so young," Hadrian replied. "Running your own business at nineteen is remarkable. You must have incredible dedication."

"And very little social life," Sebastian said with a rueful laugh. "Most people my age are more interested in parties and Quidditch matches than discussions of fabric weights and color theory."

"Their loss," Hadrian said simply. "Though I imagine you have admirers—someone with your talent and... aesthetic appeal... must have people lining up."

Sebastian's cheeks flushed slightly, but his smile was pleased. "You're quite the charmer, aren't you? Though I have to say, most of my admirers are more interested in what I can do for their appearance than in actual conversation about the work itself."

"Then they're fools," Hadrian said with conviction. "Passion for one's craft is infinitely more attractive than mere physical appeal. Though," he added with a slight smirk, "you seem to have managed both quite nicely."

Sebastian laughed, clearly delighted by the banter. "Oh, you are dangerous, aren't you? Here I thought I was dressing a sophisticated student, and instead I find myself talking to someone who could probably charm the scales off a dragon."

"Only when the conversation is worth having," Hadrian replied, enjoying the way Sebastian's eyes sparkled with amusement and interest.

"Well then," Sebastian said, setting down his measuring tape and giving Hadrian his full attention, "in the interest of worthwhile conversation, would you be interested in continuing this discussion over dinner tomorrow evening? There's a lovely Italian place in Diagon Alley, and I'd love to hear more about your artificing plans. Consider it a celebration of two young entrepreneurs finding kindred spirits."

The invitation was perfectly pitched—friendly rather than overly romantic, but with enough warmth to suggest genuine interest. Hadrian found himself nodding before he'd consciously made the decision.

"I'd like that very much," he said. "Though I should warn you, I'm told I can be rather intense when I get excited about magical theory."

"I'll take my chances," Sebastian grinned. "Besides, intensity is vastly underrated. Shall we say seven o'clock? I should have most of your wardrobe ready for collection by then."

"Seven sounds perfect. And Sebastian?" Hadrian paused at the door, looking back with a smile that had once made Egyptian wixen write poetry. "Thank you. It's been a long time since I've had a conversation that felt so... natural."

Sebastian pressed a hand to his chest with theatrical flair. "Oh, you beautiful creature, you're going to be the death of me."

As Hadrian left the boutique, he realized that Sebastian had managed to do something remarkable—for the first time since arriving in this new world, he'd made Hadrian feel genuinely at ease, like he could be himself rather than constantly managing his cover story. The prospect of their dinner tomorrow filled him with an anticipation he hadn't felt in years.

With his major purchases arranged, Hadrian set out to explore the magical commercial districts he'd only glimpsed in his original life. Diagon Alley had been familiar, but the war had kept him from venturing into the other areas that served London's magical community. Now, with time and curiosity on his side, he intended to see everything.

Knockturn Alley he remembered, though it looked different in daylight with legitimate business being conducted alongside the shadier enterprises. The narrow, winding streets were still dimly lit and vaguely threatening, but he could see the shops that catered to the city's working magical population—cheap food, secondhand goods, services that didn't ask too many questions.

Vertick Alley was a revelation. The street was wider than Knockturn but less polished than Diagon, with a distinctly practical atmosphere. Here were the workshops of master craftsmen, the specialized suppliers, the places where serious magical professionals came for equipment that couldn't be found in the more touristy areas. He spotted a tattoo parlor with protective wards so complex they made his eyes water, a piercing shop that advertised "Magical Modifications and Enchantments," and several workshops where he could see apprentices learning their trades.

Horizont Alley proved even more interesting, with its focus on magical creatures and their care. Shops sold everything from unicorn hair to dragon scales, offered services for creature healing and training, and displayed exotic pets that made Hagrid's interests seem positively mundane. The residential areas were clearly middle-class, with neat terraced houses and small gardens protected by privacy charms.

But it was Mor and Vizhu Alleys that truly captured his attention. These interconnected streets served the magical community's diverse cultural and religious needs, with temples and shrines to various pantheons, bookshops specializing in ancient traditions, and craftsmen who worked in styles that predated modern magical Britain by centuries.

In Mor Alley, he found a shop called ‘Northern Lights’ that specialized in Norse magical traditions. The proprietor, a elderly woman with ritual scars on her arms and runes tattooed on her fingers, looked up from a display of runic tablets as he entered.

"Afternoon, young one," she said in accented English, her pale eyes sharp and knowing. "You have the look of someone who appreciates the old ways."

"I've studied runic magic," Hadrian replied carefully. "Elder Futhark, mainly, though I'm interested in learning other systems."

"Ah, a scholar." She smiled, revealing teeth inscribed with tiny protective runes. "We have few young people these days who understand that magic is more than wands and pretty spells. I am Astrid Eriksdottir. And you are?"

"Hadrian Evans. My parents were researchers—Marcus and Helena Evans. They died recently in an expedition accident."

Astrid's expression shifted immediately, surprise and sorrow mingling in her weathered features. "Marcus and Helena? Oh, child, I am so sorry for your loss. They were good people, truly good people."

"You knew them?" Hadrian asked, his heart skipping slightly at this unexpected connection to his fictional past.

"Knew them? Your father saved my nephew's life in Iceland three years ago. A ward failure in an ancient burial site—Marcus threw himself between Bjorn and a curse that would have killed him instantly." Astrid's voice grew thick with emotion. "We owe the Evans family a debt that can never be repaid."

The weight of this fabricated history was strangely moving. Death had created more than just documents and bank accounts—entire relationships, moments of heroism and sacrifice that gave Hadrian's cover story depth and emotional resonance.

"He never mentioned it," Hadrian said quietly, which was true enough in its own way.

"That sounds like Marcus. Never one to boast about his good deeds." Astrid moved from behind her counter, approaching him with the careful respect reserved for those who had earned it. "Helena wrote to me about you, you know. Said you had inherited their gifts for the old magics, that you could feel the flow of runic power like they did."

"I try to honor what they taught me," Hadrian replied, finding the words came easier now.

"Show me," Astrid said simply, gesturing toward a set of practice tablets covered in Elder Futhark inscriptions.

Hadrian approached the tablets cautiously, extending his senses toward the carved runes. They were well-crafted, each symbol precisely formed and imbued with potential energy waiting to be activated. He placed his hand over the central tablet and let his magic flow into the carved channels.

The runes blazed to life under his touch, glowing with silver-white light that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat. But more than that, he could feel the interconnections between the symbols, the way each one modified and strengthened the others in patterns that spoke of sophisticated magical engineering.

"Remarkable," Astrid breathed, watching the display with obvious admiration. "You have your parents' gift, but something more. There's a depth to your magical signature that speaks of hard experience. What have you seen, young Hadrian, to give you such gravitas?"

The question was more perceptive than comfortable. "Travel changes you," he said carefully. "My parents took me to many places, showed me things most people never see. Some beautiful, some... less so."

"Yes, I can see that in your eyes. The weight of knowledge beyond your years." Astrid nodded slowly, then moved to a locked cabinet behind her counter. "Your parents commissioned something from me, shortly before their last expedition. They said it was for you, for when you came of age. I think perhaps, instead,  that time is now."

She withdrew a small wooden box, aged and worn smooth by handling. Inside, nestled in soft wool, lay a pendant unlike anything Hadrian had ever seen. It was carved from what appeared to be fossilized wood, inscribed with runes so tiny and intricate they seemed to shift and dance in the light. The craftsmanship was extraordinary—this was clearly the work of a master runesmith with decades of experience.

"Protection against mental intrusion," Astrid explained as Hadrian lifted the pendant carefully. "But not crude blocking, like most such charms. This one creates false layers, confusion spells, misdirection. An attacker would find memories, but not necessarily the right ones. Your parents were very specific about the design."

The implications were staggering. In his original timeline, such a device would have been invaluable against Voldemort's mental intrusions, against Snape's legilimency lessons, against anyone who might try to probe his mind for secrets. Here, it would protect not only his memories of his previous life, but also any knowledge that might mark him as more than he appeared to be.

"They paid for this?" Hadrian asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

"With their lives, in the end. They died protecting others, as they lived." Astrid's voice was heavy with grief and respect. "Marcus specifically requested that I give this to you if anything happened to them. He said you would understand its importance when the time came."

Hadrian fastened the pendant around his neck, feeling the subtle tingle of protective magic settling into place around his mind. It was beautifully crafted, practically invisible beneath his clothing, and represented exactly the sort of foresight he would have expected from parents who truly cared about their child's welfare.

"Thank you," he said simply, meaning it more deeply than she could possibly know. "This means more than I can express."

"Think nothing of it. Your parents were good friends, and you are clearly their worthy heir." Astrid smiled, then returned to business. "Now, what can I sell you? I suspect you didn't come here just for family history."

What followed was a lengthy discussion of runic theory and practice, with Astrid proving to be not just knowledgeable but genuinely excited to find a young person who shared her passion for the ancient arts. She recommended several books, sold him a set of carving tools that had belonged to her late husband, and shared stories of her own travels throughout the Nordic magical communities.

"When you're ready for more advanced study," she said as he prepared to leave, "I have contacts throughout Scandinavia. Masters who would be willing to teach someone with your potential and your parents' reputation."

The offer was generous and clearly genuine, another door opened by the fictional history Death had so carefully constructed. As Hadrian left Northern Lights with his arms full of books and supplies, he reflected on how thoroughly his new identity had been woven into this world's fabric.

In Vizhu Alley, he encountered a similar warmth at ‘Emerald Traditions’, a shop specializing in Celtic magical practices. The proprietor, a soft-spoken Irish wizard named Cormac O'Brien, greeted him with immediate recognition.

"Hadrian Evans! I'd have known you anywhere—you have your mother's eyes and your father's stubborn chin." Cormac's smile was warm but tinged with sadness. "I heard about the accident. Terrible loss, terrible loss indeed."

"You knew my parents well?" Hadrian asked, settling into what was becoming a familiar conversation.

"Helena and I studied together at Trinity College in Dublin, back before she met your father. Brilliant witch, absolutely brilliant. Always said she'd change the world one day." Cormac's expression grew wistful. "And Marcus—now there was a man who understood that magic is about more than power. They made a good team, those two."

"They complemented each other," Hadrian agreed, finding the words came more easily each time he spoke them.

"That they did. Helena always said you'd inherited the best of both of them—her intuition for magical theory and his practical application skills." Cormac studied him with keen eyes. "Are you planning to continue their work?"

"In my own way, yes. I'm starting at Hogwarts soon, but I'm also hoping to establish a small business creating enchanted items. Jewelry, mainly, with practical applications."

"Ah, following in your mother's footsteps then. She was always fascinated by the intersection of beauty and function in magical objects." Cormac moved toward a display case filled with intricate Celtic knot work. "She bought several pieces from me over the years—study aids, mainly, items that would help her understand the mathematical relationships underlying traditional Celtic ward patterns."

He pulled out a silver bracelet covered in interwoven spirals and handed it to Hadrian. "This was one of her favorites. Said the pattern helped her visualize complex magical flows. Consider it a memorial gift—she'd want you to have it."

The bracelet was beautiful and clearly valuable, but more than that, it represented another connection to the parents he'd never had. As he fastened it around his wrist, Hadrian felt a complex mix of gratitude and grief for people who had never existed but whose memory was clearly treasured by those who had known them.

"Your parents always said you had remarkable potential," Cormac continued, returning to his usual business manner. "What sort of items are you planning to create?"

"Protection pieces, mainly. Things that could detect dangers, provide mental clarity, offer discrete magical assistance. I want to combine practical function with attractive design."

"Smart approach. There's always a market for well-made protective items, especially among families who can afford quality." Cormac's expression grew thoughtful. "Your mother used to say that the best magical items were those that people would wear or carry regularly, that became part of their daily lives rather than sitting in a drawer somewhere."

"That's exactly what I'm hoping to achieve," Hadrian said, pleased to find his fictional mother's philosophy so closely aligned with his own plans.

The conversation continued for another half hour, covering Celtic magical traditions, the mathematics of knot-work spells, and the practical challenges of establishing a small magical business. Like Astrid, Cormac proved to be not just knowledgeable but genuinely interested in sharing that knowledge with someone who could appreciate it.

At ‘Anvaya’, a shop specializing in Indian magical traditions, he met Priya Ranganathan and her apprentice, Kavya. Both greeted him with the sort of warmth reserved for family friends, and soon he was hearing stories of his fictional parents' visits to India and their fascination with the mathematical precision of Sanskrit magical formulae.

"Your father was particularly interested in how yantra patterns could be incorporated into runic arrays," Priya explained, showing him a collection of geometric designs that made his head spin with their complexity. "He said he thought there were fundamental connections between different cultural approaches to the same magical problems."

Kavya, who appeared to be about twenty-one and clearly gifted, demonstrated several techniques while explaining her own research into cross-cultural magical synthesis. "Each tradition has its own strengths," she said, tracing an intricate pattern that hummed with contained energy. "But when you combine them thoughtfully, the results can be extraordinary."

It was exactly the sort of insight Hadrian had come to appreciate during his years in Egypt, and he found himself genuinely impressed by the young woman's understanding and enthusiasm. Here was someone who shared his passion for pushing beyond traditional boundaries, for finding new ways to apply ancient knowledge.

By the time he finished his tour of Mor and Vizhu Alleys, Hadrian's trunk was laden with books, supplies, and artifacts from half a dozen different magical traditions. His money pouch was considerably lighter, but his mind was buzzing with possibilities and connections he'd never considered before. More importantly, he now understood the scope and depth of the history Death had created for him—not just documents and bank accounts, but relationships, debts of honor, and a reputation that opened doors throughout London's diverse magical communities.

His final stop was a small bookshop in Diagon Alley that specialized in advanced magical theory. The proprietor, a middle-aged wizard with ink-stained fingers and the distracted air of a true scholar, barely looked up when Hadrian entered.

"Help you?" he mumbled, not lifting his eyes from a manuscript covered in complex arithmantic equations.

"I'm looking for advanced texts on runic magic and ward-crafting," Hadrian said, setting down his other purchases to free his hands for browsing. "Theoretical works, practical applications, anything that goes beyond the standard curriculum."

That got the man's attention. He looked up, really seeing Hadrian for the first time, and his expression sharpened with interest.

"Advanced studies for someone your age? Most students don't move beyond basic theory until sixth year at the earliest."

"I'm not most students," Hadrian replied with the quiet confidence he'd learned in Egypt. "I've been studying independently for several years. My parents believed in early exposure to complex concepts."

The shopkeeper—his nameplate read "A. Clearwater, Proprietor"—studied him for a moment longer, then nodded slowly. "Right then. Follow me."

What followed was a treasure hunt through the shop's back rooms, where the truly valuable texts were kept. Clearwater proved to be knowledgeable and discriminating, recommending works that would challenge and expand Hadrian's understanding while warning him away from texts that were either outdated or dangerous for solo study.

"This one," Clearwater said, pulling down a thick volume bound in dragonhide, "is Macedonian's Comprehensive Theory of Multi-Layered Ward Construction. Dense reading, but essential if you want to understand how complex protective systems actually work together."

"And this," he continued, selecting another book, "is Blackwood's Analysis of Cross-Cultural Runic Applications. Brilliant work comparing how different magical traditions approach similar problems. Published just last year, incorporates some fascinating research from curse-breakers working in Egypt."

Hadrian's heart skipped a beat at the mention of Egypt, but he kept his expression carefully neutral. "That sounds exactly like what I'm looking for."

By the time he left Clearwater's shop, he had accumulated the foundation of a serious magical library—texts that would support advanced study and original research well beyond what Hogwarts would provide. Combined with the cultural materials from Mor and Vizhu Alleys, he had the resources to pursue magical knowledge at a level that would have been impossible in his original timeline.

As evening approached, Hadrian made his way back to Thornfield Couture to see how Sebastian was progressing with his wardrobe. The boutique's windows glowed warmly in the gathering dusk, and he could see movement inside—someone working industriously despite the late hour.

Sebastian looked up as the door chimed, his face lighting up with genuine pleasure. "Hadrian! Perfect timing. Come see what I've accomplished."

The shop had been transformed into a workspace, with partially completed garments hanging from every available surface and Sebastian's work table covered with fabrics in various stages of cutting and assembly. Despite the apparent chaos, there was a clear method to the organization—everything sorted by project and stage of completion.

"You weren't kidding about working through the night," Hadrian observed, impressed by the sheer volume of work in progress.

"When inspiration strikes, I follow it," Sebastian replied, looking pleased but slightly frazzled. "Besides, I want everything to be perfect for tomorrow evening. I have a reputation to maintain, and you'll be a walking advertisement for my work."

He held up a nearly completed school robe in regulation black, the fabric rich and substantial with the Hogwarts crest embroidered in gold thread on the left breast. Even unfinished, Hadrian could see the superior cut and fit that would distinguish it from standard school robes.

"The material is a high-grade wool," Sebastian explained, holding up the robe for inspection. "It drapes better than the usual canvas-weight fabric they use for standard robes, and the tailoring will make all the difference. You'll look like you belong in advanced classes, not first-year remedial work."

"Try this on," Sebastian instructed. "I want to check the shoulder line and make sure the proportions work with your frame."

The robe fit perfectly, transforming Hadrian's appearance in ways that went beyond mere clothing. The superior tailoring gave him a presence and authority that belied his fourteen years, while the quality of the fabric made it clear that this was not standard student wear.

"Magnificent," Sebastian breathed, circling him with a critical eye. "Absolutely magnificent. The way you carry yourself—it's like you were born to wear quality clothing."

"My parents always emphasized the importance of presentation," Hadrian replied, adjusting the hang of the sleeves with practiced ease. "They said first impressions matter, especially when you're trying to establish yourself professionally."

"Smart people. You know, most of my young clients either slouch or preen when they try on formal wear. You just... inhabit it naturally." Sebastian made a few minor adjustments, pinning areas that needed slight modifications. "How does it feel? Any restrictions when you move?"

Hadrian went through a series of movements, testing the robe's flexibility and comfort. Sebastian had clearly designed it for actual use rather than mere appearance—the fabric moved with him, the cut allowed for full range of motion, and the weight felt substantial without being cumbersome.

"Perfect," he said honestly. "This is exactly what I wanted."

"Excellent. And speaking of tomorrow evening," Sebastian's expression grew hopeful and slightly nervous, "I've made reservations at Romano's for seven o'clock. I hope you don't mind—I took the liberty since you seemed genuinely interested in continuing our conversation."

"Not at all," Hadrian smiled, pleased by Sebastian's initiative. "I'm looking forward to it. It's been a long time since I've had the chance to talk shop with someone who shares my appreciation for craftsmanship."

"The feeling is entirely mutual. I can't wait to hear more about your jewelry designs—I've been thinking about how they might complement some of my clothing concepts." Sebastian's eyes lit up with professional enthusiasm. "There's so much potential for collaboration between our fields."

"I couldn't agree more. Quality recognizes quality, after all."

As Hadrian prepared to leave, Sebastian caught his arm gently. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For treating me like a peer rather than just some young upstart playing at being a designer. Most people my age don't take my work seriously."

"Then they're missing out," Hadrian replied firmly. "After a point, age is just a number—talent and dedication are what matter. You've clearly got both in abundance."

Sebastian's smile was warm and genuine. "Seven o'clock tomorrow. Don't stand me up, Evans."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Thornfield."

His last task for the day was finding accommodation until school started. The White Wyvern in Knockturn Alley wasn't the sort of place most Hogwarts students would choose, but that was precisely why it appealed to Hadrian. It was a place where people minded their own business, where questions weren't asked and appearances weren't always what they seemed.

The inn occupied a narrow building squeezed between a pawn shop and a dealer in questionable potions ingredients. Its painted sign showed a white wyvern breathing silver flames, and the windows glowed with warm but subdued light that suggested comfort without ostentation.

The common room was exactly what Hadrian had expected—dimly lit, populated by individuals who clearly valued privacy, and presided over by a landlord who looked like he'd seen everything and been surprised by none of it. The man behind the bar was perhaps fifty, with graying hair, careful eyes, and the sort of stillness that suggested he could handle trouble if it arose.

"Evening," he said as Hadrian approached, setting down the glass he'd been polishing. "Looking for a room?"

"If you have one available. I'll be here for about two weeks, and I prefer quiet accommodations."

The landlord—his nameplate read "Thomas Blackwood"—studied him with the practiced assessment of someone who made a living reading people. "You've got the look of someone who can take care of himself," he said eventually. "And you're polite, which counts for a lot around here. I've got a room on the second floor, quiet and private. Five Galleons a night, includes breakfast if you want it."

It was more expensive than student accommodations, but the privacy would be worth it. "I'll take it."

"Right then. Name for the register?"

"Hadrian Evans."

Blackwood paused in the act of writing, his pen hovering over the ledger. "Evans? You wouldn't be Marcus and Helena's boy, would you?"

The question caught Hadrian off-guard, though he was becoming accustomed to his fictional parents' apparent ubiquity in London's magical circles. "Yes, sir. Did you know them?"

"Know them? Your father pulled me out of a curse-trap in Peru fifteen years ago. Saved my life, and probably my sanity." Blackwood's expression softened considerably. "I heard about the accident. Terrible loss, terrible loss indeed. Your parents were good people."

"Thank you," Hadrian said quietly, finding the repeated condolences both touching and slightly overwhelming. "I'm still... adjusting."

"Of course you are. Losing parents at your age—no one should have to go through that." Blackwood set down his pen and gave Hadrian his full attention. "Listen, son, I know we just met, but if you need anything while you're here—anything at all—you just ask. I owe your family more than I can ever repay."

The genuine warmth in the man's voice was unexpectedly moving. "I appreciate that, Mr. Blackwood. Really."

"Tom, please. None of this 'mister' business." He finished writing in the ledger, then reached under the counter. "Speaking of which, I've got something for you. Gringotts delivered a package this afternoon—said it was workshop materials from your father's collection. Been keeping it safe behind the bar."

The package was larger than Hadrian had expected—a substantial wooden crate secured with multiple locking charms and bearing the official Gringotts seal. The weight of it suggested considerable contents, and he could feel the subtle tingle of preservation magic emanating from the wood.

"Heavy piece," Tom observed, helping him maneuver it onto the bar. "Whatever's in there, your father took good care of it. These are professional-grade preservation charms—the kind you use for valuable magical materials."

"He was always particular about his tools," Hadrian replied, running his fingers over the sealed locks, the words getting pulled from somewhere outside his body, similar to what had been happening throughout the day–likely Death helping him seem connected to his fictional parents. "Said that craftsmanship started with proper equipment."

"Smart man. Here, let me help you get this up to your room." Tom hefted one end of the crate with surprising ease. "Been in the hospitality business long enough to know how to move heavy luggage."

As they carried the crate upstairs, Tom continued the conversation. "Your father mentioned you were interested in his work—enchanting and such. Planning to follow in his footsteps?"

"In my own way, yes. I'm hoping to start a small business while I'm at school. Nothing too ambitious, just quality pieces for people who appreciate craftsmanship."

"Good for you. Takes courage to start your own enterprise, especially at your age." Tom paused outside the door to room seven. "You know, I get all sorts through here—traders, craftsmen, people making their own way in the world. If you ever need connections or advice about the business side of things, I might be able to help. Got friends in a lot of different trades."

The offer was generous and clearly sincere. "Thank you, Tom. I'll keep that in mind."

"Right then." Tom handed over an old-fashioned iron key. "Room seven. No noise after eleven, no visitors without clearing it with me first, and no dangerous magical experiments in the rooms. Other than that, your business is your own."

"Understood. And Tom? Thank you for looking after the package. I know my father would have appreciated it."

"Think nothing of it, lad. Your family's always welcome at the White Wyvern."

The room was small but comfortable, with a narrow bed, a writing desk, and a window that looked out onto Knockturn Alley's twisting streets. It wasn't luxurious, but it was private and secure—exactly what Hadrian needed for the next two weeks.

He set the crate carefully on the desk and began the process of opening the various locking charms. Each seal dissolved under his touch, recognizing him as the rightful heir, until finally the lid swung open to reveal the contents within.

What he found took his breath away. This wasn't just a collection of tools—it was a complete artificer's workshop compressed into portable form. Sets of precision instruments for metalwork and gemcutting, bottles of rare magical inks and oils, tablets of various precious metals and stones, reference books on enchantment theory, and dozens of small components and materials he could use for his planned jewelry business.

Everything was of the highest quality, the sort of equipment that represented years of careful acquisition and considerable expense. There were tools here he recognized from his time in Egypt, others that were completely unfamiliar but clearly sophisticated in their construction and magical enhancement.

A letter lay on top of the materials, written in handwriting he didn't recognize but somehow felt he should:

My dear son,

If you're reading this, then Helena and I are no longer with you, and I'm sorrier for that than words can express. We always hoped to be there to guide you through your first independent projects, to share in the joy of creation that has driven our family for generations.

These tools have served me well over the years, and I hope they will serve you equally well. Remember what I always taught you: magic is not about power, but about purpose. Create things that matter, that make people's lives better, that bring beauty and protection into the world.

You have gifts, Hadrian—gifts for understanding how magic wants to flow, for seeing possibilities that others miss. Trust those instincts, but temper them with patience and care. The best work is never rushed.

We love you, and we're proud of the man you're becoming.

Your father, Marcus

The letter was exactly what such a communication should be—loving, wise, and entirely appropriate to the relationship it represented. But reading it, Hadrian felt a complex mix of gratitude and grief that surprised him with its intensity. These weren't his real parents, but the love they represented felt genuine in a way that moved him deeply.

As he settled in for the night, unpacking his purchases and arranging his new books alongside his father's workshop materials, Hadrian reflected on everything that had changed in just one day. This morning he had been Harry Potter, broken and desperate. Tonight he was Hadrian Evans, with a future full of possibilities, relationships that mattered, and the tools to build something meaningful.

Outside his window, Knockturn Alley settled into its nighttime rhythms—quieter than Diagon Alley but never truly asleep, a place where London's magical community pursued business that required discretion and privacy. It wasn't where most people would choose to stay, but for Hadrian, it felt like exactly the right place to begin again.

Chapter Text

Hadrian woke before dawn, his internal clock still attuned to the rhythms he'd developed during his years in Egypt. The room was still dark, illuminated only by the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the window, but he felt more rested than he had in months. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he'd slept without nightmares, without the crushing weight of guilt and failure pressing down on his chest.

He lay still for a moment, cataloging the differences in his body, the strange sensation of being fourteen again but with the knowledge and experience of someone much older. His limbs felt lighter, more compact, but underneath the youthful frame he could feel the strength he'd built in Egypt—compressed, refined, but not lost.

Rising quietly so as not to disturb the other guests, Hadrian made his way to the small washbasin in the corner of his room. The mirror above it showed a face that was becoming more familiar each time he saw it—his features subtly altered from his original appearance, but unmistakably still him. The golden tan looked healthy against his fourteen-year-old features, and the thin braids threaded with gold caught what little light filtered through the window.

After washing and completing his morning ablutions, Hadrian moved to the center of the small room and began the exercise routine he'd developed during his time as a curse-breaker. He wasn't willing to lose the physical conditioning he'd worked so hard to achieve, even if it was now compressed into a younger frame.

He started with dynamic stretching, working through each muscle group methodically. His body moved with the fluid precision he remembered, though he had to adjust for his smaller size and the different proportions of adolescence. The movements felt strange at first—familiar but not quite right, like wearing clothes that almost fit.

"Come on, Harry, at least try to keep up."

The memory hit him suddenly—Dudley's mocking voice during one of the rare occasions when he'd been allowed to participate in a school sports activity. He'd been eleven, small for his age, still wearing Dudley's cast-off clothes that hung loose on his skinny frame. The other boys had laughed when he'd struggled with the exercises, too malnourished and weak to manage what came easily to them.

"Maybe if you ate less, Potter, you'd be quicker on your feet," Dudley had sneered, earning laughter from his cronies.

Harry had said nothing, as always, just endured the humiliation in silence. But privately, he'd promised himself that someday he'd be strong enough that no one would ever laugh at his weakness again.

Moving into bodyweight exercises, Hadrian began with push-ups, his muscles protesting slightly as they adjusted to the unfamiliar demands. Sweat began to bead on his forehead as he worked through set after set, his breathing becoming more labored with each repetition.

This time would be different. This time, he wouldn't be the scrawny, overlooked boy who ate scraps and slept in a cupboard. Hadrian Evans had been raised by loving parents, had access to proper nutrition, had been taught to value himself and his abilities. The difference in his baseline health was remarkable—even at fourteen, this body was stronger and more capable than his original had been at seventeen.

He moved to squats, feeling the burn in his thighs as he pushed through multiple sets. The thick muscle he'd built through years of flying and physical labor was still there, compressed but not diminished. Salt stung his eyes as sweat began to flow more freely, and he could taste it on his lips as his breathing grew heavier.

"You're so weird, Potter. Why are you always by yourself?"

The voice belonged to a Hufflepuff girl whose name he'd never learned, but the dismissive tone was one he'd heard countless times throughout his school years. He'd been sitting alone in the library, as usual, working on an essay while Ron and Hermione argued about something trivial at another table.

"I'm not by myself," he'd protested weakly, gesturing toward his friends.

"They're not really with you though, are they? They're too busy fighting to notice you're even there."

She hadn't been wrong. Even surrounded by people who claimed to care about him, Harry had often felt profoundly alone, like he was watching life happen to other people while remaining forever on the outside.

Transitioning to burpees, Hadrian felt his heart rate spike as the exercise demanded more from his cardiovascular system. The movements were fluid now, his body remembering the rhythm even in its altered state. Sweat dripped steadily onto the wooden floor as he pushed himself through set after set, his lungs burning with the familiar ache of serious exertion.

He would cast a wider net this time. Instead of clinging desperately to the few people who showed him kindness, he would make an effort to connect with everyone around him. Ron and Hermione would still be his friends—he owed them that much, and genuinely cared for them—but he wouldn't rely on them to be his entire social world.

"Harry! There you are." Luna's dreamy voice carried across the castle grounds as she approached where he sat alone by the lake, the year weighing heavily on all their shoulders. The war was escalating, and everyone knew it was only a matter of time before Hogwarts became a battlefield.

"Hello, Luna," he'd said, making room for her on the stone where he'd been brooding. "Shouldn't you be at dinner?"

"The Nargles were being particularly insistent about something near the Whomping Willow. I thought you might know what they were trying to tell me." She settled beside him with the fluid grace that had always made her seem otherworldly. "Besides, you looked like you needed company."

"I'm fine," he'd lied automatically.

"No, you're not. You're carrying too much again, trying to protect everyone by keeping secrets." Her pale eyes had fixed on him with that unnerving perceptiveness she'd always possessed. "You don't have to be alone in this, you know. Some of us are stronger than you think."

He'd wanted to tell her everything then—about the Horcruxes, about what Dumbledore had told him, about the growing weight of responsibility that threatened to crush him. Instead, he'd just put an arm around her shoulders and held her close, this strange, wonderful girl who'd somehow become one of his dearest friends.

"I know you are, Luna. I just... I wish I could protect you from what's coming."

"And I wish you'd let me help protect you," she'd replied simply, leaning into his embrace with the trust of someone who'd never doubted his fundamental goodness.

This time would be different. This time, he'd gather Luna up early, before the bullying in Ravenclaw could isolate her completely. He'd be the big brother she'd never had, someone who valued her unique perspective and protected her fierce, gentle heart from those too blind to see her worth.

Moving to mountain climbers, his breath came in sharp pants as his core engaged to stabilize his rapidly moving legs. The taste of salt was strong now, sweat streaming down his face and soaking into his shirt.

"You're mental, you know that?" Neville had said, grinning as they crept through the corridors toward the Room of Requirement. It was sixth year, and they were sneaking out to practice defensive spells that Snape certainly wasn't teaching them in Defense class.

"Says the boy who's following me on this 'mental' expedition," Harry had replied with matching humor. "Besides, someone has to keep you from accidentally blowing yourself up with those experimental spells you've been working on with your plants."

"Those spells are perfectly safe! Mostly." Neville's face had been flushed with excitement and exertion as they dodged Mrs. Norris around a corner. "Gran would have my head if she knew I was sneaking around the castle after curfew."

"Your gran would probably be proud. She raised a fighter, Neville, even if it took us all a while to see it." Harry had clapped his friend on the shoulder, marveling at how much Neville had grown—not just physically, but in confidence and determination.

"Race you to the tapestry?" Neville had challenged, and they'd spent the rest of their journey trying to outpace each other while stifling laughter.

The memory of Neville's joy, his growing confidence, the easy friendship they'd finally found in their later years at Hogwarts—it made Hadrian's chest ache with longing. This time, he'd be there from the beginning. This time, he'd be the brother Neville had never had, someone who saw his potential before the rest of the world caught up.

Moving to mountain climbers, his breath came in sharp pants as his core engaged to stabilize his rapidly moving legs. The taste of salt was strong now, sweat streaming down his face and soaking into his shirt.

"You know," Fred had said, cornering Harry in an empty corridor after a particularly disastrous Potions lesson in sixth year, "George thinks I'm being obvious."

"Obvious about what?" Harry had asked, though something in Fred's tone had made his pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with exertion.

"About this." Fred had stepped closer, close enough that Harry could smell his cologne and see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. "About wanting to do things that would probably scandalize my dear mother."

Harry's breath had caught as Fred's hand had come up to trace the line of his jaw, gentle but decidedly not platonic. "Fred..."

"I know. Wrong time, wrong place, wrong everything." Fred's smile had been rueful but fond. "But after the war, Harry Potter... after we've all survived whatever's coming... maybe we could revisit this conversation?"

"Maybe we could," Harry had whispered, and Fred had leaned in just close enough to brush their lips together—barely a kiss, more promise than contact.

"Something to look forward to, then," Fred had said with that grin that had always made Harry's stomach flip in ways he'd never quite understood.

But there had been no 'after the war' for Fred Weasley, and Harry had carried that brief, shining moment of possibility like a wound in his chest for years afterward.

This time, Fred would live. This time, there would be an 'after' where they could explore whatever that moment had promised. Hadrian would make sure of it.

For his final set of exercises, Hadrian moved to the floor for core work—planks, leg raises, bicycle crunches. His entire body was slick with sweat now, his muscles trembling with fatigue but still functional.

"Right, so the Whizzing Worms are brilliant for distraction," George had been explaining, gesturing enthusiastically as he and Fred walked Harry through their latest prank innovations in the Room of Requirement. "But we need something with more... oomph for the grand finale."

"Something that'll have Umbridge questioning her career choices," Fred had added with a wicked grin. "We're thinking Portable Swamp, but bigger. Much bigger."

"How much bigger?" Harry had asked, fascinated despite himself by their elaborate planning.

"Well," George had said conspiratorially, "we've been working on a way to flood an entire corridor with swamp water that can't be vanished or drained by conventional means."

"It would take a specialist curse-breaker to remove it properly," Fred had continued. "Someone with real skill and considerable time."

"You're going to turn the fifth floor into a wetland," Harry had said, torn between admiration and horror.

"Only temporarily!" George had protested, though his eyes had been dancing with mischief. "It's perfectly harmless to humans. Well, mostly harmless. There might be some minor skin irritation if you're allergic to bog moss."

The three of them had collapsed into laughter at the mental image of Umbridge wading through knee-deep swamp water, her perfect pink cardigan ruined and her authority completely undermined.

"You two are absolutely mad," Harry had gasped between fits of laughter.

"Thank you," Fred and George had said in unison, taking it as the compliment it was meant to be.

Those moments of joy, of shared mischief and laughter in the midst of darkness—they were what had kept them all sane during the worst of times. This time, Hadrian would be part of that from the beginning, would help them build something lasting instead of just surviving from crisis to crisis.

"Cedric's got a good heart," Harry had overheard Professor Sprout saying to McGonagall during his fourth year, when the Triwizard Tournament had consumed everyone's attention. "Sometimes I worry he's too trusting, too willing to see the best in people. In times like these, that kind of goodness is both precious and dangerous."

"He has the makings of a true leader," McGonagall had replied thoughtfully. "The sort of person who inspires others to be better than they thought they could be. But you're right—he needs to learn to be more cautious, more aware of the darker possibilities."

Harry had agreed with both assessments. Cedric had been genuinely kind, fair, honorable in ways that seemed almost naive. He'd deserved to live, to become the leader Professor McGonagall had seen in him, to inspire generations of students with his example of quiet integrity and genuine compassion.

Instead, he'd died in a graveyard, murdered for the crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Harry had never forgiven himself for being unable to save him.

This time, Cedric would live. This time, Harry would find a way to prevent the Triwizard Tournament from becoming a death trap, or at least ensure that Cedric wasn't caught in Voldemort's web of schemes.

"Nobody wants to be around you, Harry. You're too intense, too complicated. People get tired of dealing with your problems."

He couldn't remember who had said those words—they might have been his own thoughts, born from years of watching friends grow distant when his life became too dangerous or demanding. But the sentiment had lodged itself deep in his psyche, a constant whisper that he was too much trouble to be worth caring about.

For his final set of exercises, Hadrian moved to the floor for core work—planks, leg raises, bicycle crunches. His entire body was slick with sweat now, his muscles trembling with fatigue but still functional. This was what he'd missed during those dark months after Teddy's death—the simple satisfaction of pushing his body to its limits, of proving to himself that he was still capable, still strong, not like he was at fourteen.

The thought of this made him think of his alternate self, making him pause mid-crunch, a complicated knot of emotions forming in his chest. What would it be like, meeting another version of himself? Would they be similar, or had the different circumstances of this world shaped him into someone completely different? The idea was deeply uncomfortable, but also fascinating. He supposed he'd have to play it by ear when the time came.

"Don't you ever get tired of being the hero, Potter? Of always having to save everyone?"

Draco Malfoy's voice, dripping with disdain, echoing in the depths of Hogwarts during one of their countless confrontations. At the time, Harry had bristled at the accusation, denying that he sought out danger or deliberately put himself in harm's way.

But looking back now, he could see the truth in Malfoy's words. He had been driven by an almost compulsive need to save people, to put himself between others and danger even when it wasn't necessary or wanted. It had been less about heroism and more about guilt—the crushing weight of survivor's syndrome that had colored every choice he'd made.

This time, he would channel that protective instinct more carefully. Instead of throwing himself recklessly into danger, he would focus on guidance, on being a steady presence for those who needed it. Ron and Hermione wouldn't have to struggle with their insecurities alone—he could see now how his absence and secrecy had contributed to their problems. He would be more present, more honest about his own struggles, more willing to ask for help when he needed it.

And the twins... The thought of Fred and George brought a sharp stab of pain that made him pause in his exercises, his breath catching as the image of Fred's lifeless body flashed behind his eyes. He wanted to connect with them deeply this time, partly for the business opportunities they might provide, but mostly because he couldn't bear the thought of losing Fred again. Maybe if he was closer to them, if he was paying attention instead of being consumed by his own problems, he could prevent the tragedy that had destroyed so many lives.

The Slytherins were another priority. In his original timeline, he'd written them off as Dark wizard spawn, too consumed by old prejudices and fresh hurts to see them as the children they were. But they had been children—scared, pressured, often as trapped by their circumstances as he had been by his fame. Maybe an extended hand now, a willingness to look past house colors and family histories, could prevent some of the tragedy that had torn their world apart.

And Luna... sweet, strange Luna who had seen the world with such clarity despite being dismissed as mad by everyone around her. He wanted to find her early this time, to gather her up gently and protect her from the bullies who had tormented her. She deserved better than to face her struggles alone.

Cedric. The name brought another sharp pang of loss and regret. Cedric Diggory, who had died because of Harry's choices, because of a plan he'd had no knowledge of and no part in making. This time, maybe Hadrian could save him. Maybe he could find a way to prevent the Triwizard Tournament from becoming a death trap, or at least ensure that Cedric wasn't caught in the crossfire of Voldemort's schemes.

He wanted so many things—to do better, to be better, to become someone worthy of the second chance he'd been given. Hadrian Evans would not make the same mistakes as Harry Potter. He would be smarter, kinder, more aware of the people around him and their needs. He would use his knowledge and experience to build something positive instead of merely surviving from crisis to crisis.

Finishing his workout routine, Hadrian lay flat on his back for a moment, chest heaving as he caught his breath. His entire body was slick with sweat, his muscles pleasantly fatigued but still responsive. This was what strength felt like—not the desperate, panicked energy of someone fighting for survival, but the steady, reliable power of someone who had taken the time to build something lasting.

After a quick cleaning charm to deal with the sweat and a proper wash at the basin, Hadrian dressed in the simple robes he'd purchased as temporary measures—basic black wool that fit reasonably well but lacked the quality and style he was planning to establish as his norm. They would suffice for today's errands, but he was looking forward to picking up his completed wardrobe from Sebastian later.

Downstairs, the White Wyvern's common room was already bustling with early risers finishing breakfast before heading out to their various businesses. The smell of eggs, bacon, and fresh bread filled the air, making Hadrian's stomach growl as he realized how hungry his morning exercises had made him.

"Morning, lad," Tom Blackwood called from behind the bar, where he was polishing glasses with practiced efficiency. "Sleep well? I thought I heard movement upstairs early this morning."

"Very well, thank you," Hadrian replied, settling onto a stool at the bar. "I hope I didn't disturb anyone with my morning exercises. Old habits from traveling with my parents—they always said staying in condition was essential for our work."

"Smart people, your parents. No complaints from the other guests, and even if there had been, a bit of industry never hurt anyone." Tom set a plate of food in front of him without being asked—eggs scrambled with herbs, crispy bacon, toast with proper butter, and fresh fruit that looked like it had been imported from somewhere considerably warmer than London in September.

"This looks wonderful," Hadrian said, genuinely appreciative. The food was simple but high-quality, prepared with care and presented attractively. "Thank you."

"Eat up. You've got the hollow look of someone who's been pushing themselves hard. Growing boy needs proper nutrition, especially one who's dealing with as much change as you are."

The casual kindness in Tom's voice was unexpectedly moving. This was what family breakfast might have felt like, Hadrian supposed—comfortable conversation, good food, the sense of being cared for without conditions or expectations.

"I'm planning to do some shopping today," Hadrian said between bites. "I need to acquire a wand, among other things. Are there any recommendations you might have for craftsmen who value discretion and quality over reputation?"

Tom's expression grew thoughtful as he considered the question. "Depends what you're looking for. Ollivander's the obvious choice, but he's got a tendency to remember every wand he's ever sold and discuss them with anyone who asks the right questions. If you're looking for something more private, there's a place in Vertick Alley called 'Armrót'—run by someone who values their customers' privacy as much as their coin."

"That sounds promising. Thank you for the recommendation."

"Think nothing of it. Your father always said the right tool for the job was worth ten times what you paid for it. I imagine that applies to wands as much as anything else."

The casual reference to his fictional father's philosophy was becoming familiar, though it still created a complex emotional response. It was comforting to have this constructed history, these relationships and memories that gave weight and context to his new identity. But it was also somewhat overwhelming to realize how thoroughly Death had integrated him into this world's fabric.

After finishing his breakfast and exchanging a few more pleasantries with Tom, Hadrian set out for Vertick Alley with his new trunk slung easily over his shoulder. The morning air was crisp and clean, with just a hint of the autumn chill that would deepen as the season progressed. London's magical districts were already bustling with activity—shopkeepers opening their establishments, early customers making their purchases, the complex dance of commerce and community that kept the wizarding world functioning.

Vertick Alley in daylight proved even more interesting than his brief exploration the day before had suggested. The street was wide enough for comfortable navigation but narrow enough to maintain an intimate atmosphere, lined with workshops and specialized shops that catered to serious practitioners of various magical arts. Here were the people who made the tools and components that kept the wizarding world running—craftsmen who valued skill and quality over flashy marketing or prestigious addresses.

Armrót occupied a narrow storefront tucked into a small side alley, its simple wooden sign bearing only the name in elegant script. No advertising, no window displays full of shiny merchandise—just the quiet confidence of a business that relied on reputation and word-of-mouth rather than foot traffic.

The interior was unlike any shop Hadrian had ever seen. Instead of the cluttered, cramped feeling of most magical establishments, this place felt organic, alive. Vines and branches seemed to grow directly from the walls and ceiling, creating natural shelves and display areas that showcased various wands and magical implements. The lighting came from softly glowing flowers rather than traditional lamps, giving everything a warm, ethereal quality that was both beautiful and practical.

Behind the main counter, a figure was bent over a workbench, completely absorbed in some delicate process that required precise hand movements and whispered incantations. They were tall and willowy, with skin that had a faint greenish tint and hair the color of autumn leaves. When they looked up at the sound of the door chime, Hadrian could see that their eyes were the deep brown of rich earth, with pupils that seemed to shift shape slightly in the changing light.

"Good morning," the craftsperson said, their voice carrying a musical quality that seemed to harmonize with itself. "I am Eivar. How may I assist you today?"

"I'm looking for a wand," Hadrian replied, approaching the counter carefully so as not to disturb their work. "Something... personalized. I was told you might be able to help with that."

Eivar's expression grew more interested, and they set down their tools with careful precision. "Personalized wands are my specialty, though they require considerably more time and effort than standard constructions. May I ask what brings you to seek such a thing?"

"I'm starting at Hogwarts in a few weeks, but I've been studying independently for several years. My parents believed in learning from multiple traditions, and I've found that standard wands don't always... accommodate... the variety of magical techniques I've been taught."

"Ah, a fellow student of diverse traditions. Excellent." Eivar moved around the counter, studying Hadrian with keen interest. "Most wandlore taught in Britain is terribly narrow—three cores, perhaps a dozen commonly used woods, very rigid ideas about compatibility and function. My own heritage allows for a much broader palette."

"Your heritage?" Hadrian asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

"Half-dryad, half-human. My dryad relatives provide wood from trees that have never known axe or saw, preserved and prepared using methods that predate human civilization. And my connections to the natural world allow me to source cores and focus elements that Ollivander wouldn't even recognize, much less understand how to use properly."

The explanation made perfect sense given the shop's organic atmosphere and the craftsperson's ethereal appearance. Hadrian found himself genuinely impressed by the setup—this was exactly the sort of innovative approach he'd been hoping to find.

"That sounds like precisely what I need," he said with growing enthusiasm. "What would the process involve?"

"First, I need to understand your magical signature—its qualities, its preferences, its natural rhythms." Eivar gestured toward a crystal orb sitting on a pedestal near the workbench. "If you would direct some of your magic into that sphere, I can begin the assessment process."

Hadrian approached the orb with some uncertainty. He'd never heard of such a technique, but Eivar was clearly the expert here. Placing his hands on the smooth surface, he allowed his magic to flow into the crystal, watching in fascination as it began to fill with... something.

What appeared in the orb was unlike anything he'd expected. Instead of simple light or color, his magic manifested as a constantly shifting substance that seemed to exist in multiple states simultaneously. Sometimes it appeared liquid, flowing and pooling like mercury or molten metal. Other times it seemed gaseous, swirling and billowing like smoke or mist. And occasionally it solidified into shapes that reminded him of crystalline structures or geometric patterns, only to dissolve and reform moments later.

The colors were equally complex—deep emerald green that shifted to silver, then to gold, then to a rich crimson that reminded him of fresh blood. Occasionally, flashes of other hues appeared—the deep blue of midnight skies, the warm brown of fertile earth, the stark white of fresh snow.

"Remarkable," Eivar breathed, their eyes wide with genuine amazement. "I've never seen a magical signature quite like this. The complexity, the depth—you have the magical maturity of someone decades older than you appear."

"Is that... unusual?" Hadrian asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

"Extremely. Most fourteen-year-olds have simple, straightforward magical signatures—clear colors, consistent patterns, relatively predictable responses. Yours suggests deep experience, multiple magical traditions, and..." Eivar paused, studying the orb more closely. "Trauma. Significant magical trauma that has been processed and integrated rather than simply endured."

The perceptiveness was unsettling, though not entirely surprising. "My parents traveled extensively for their research. I've been exposed to more than most people my age."

"Indeed. Well, this certainly makes the selection process more interesting." Eivar lifted the orb carefully, cradling it like something precious. "Would you follow me? The selection chamber is in the back."

They led him through a curtain of living vines that parted at their approach, revealing a space that took Hadrian's breath away. The chamber was cylindrical and stretched impossibly high—so high that the ceiling disappeared into shadows despite the soft illumination provided by glowing moss and flower clusters. The walls were lined with shelves from floor to whatever distant ceiling might exist, and those shelves contained hundreds, perhaps thousands, of containers and jars filled with what could only be magical materials.

"This is where I keep my collection," Eivar explained, moving to the center of the circular room. "Woods from trees that have grown in magical forests for centuries, cores from creatures that exist nowhere in mundane taxonomy, focus stones gathered from places of power around the world. Everything organized according to magical compatibility rather than simple alphabetical order."

They raised the crystal orb above their head and began to chant in what sounded like Old Norse, their voice taking on harmonics that seemed to resonate with the chamber itself. As the chanting continued, Hadrian watched in amazement as containers began to detach from the shelves and float gently down to circle around Eivar on the floor.

The vines that formed the doorway seemed drawn to him as well, wrapping loosely around his arms and torso, toying gently with his hair in a way that felt curious rather than threatening. He stood still and let them explore, sensing no malice or danger in their touch—just the natural curiosity of plant life encountering something unusual.

When Eivar finally concluded their chant and looked down at the containers surrounding them, their expression was one of obvious surprise.

"This is... unprecedented," they said slowly, counting the various jars and boxes. "I offered a sample of your magic to the chamber and asked for compatible materials. Usually, I get perhaps a dozen responses for even the most complex clients. But this..."

Hadrian looked around and counted at least thirty containers of various sizes, each glowing softly with different colored lights that seemed to respond to his presence.

"Is that a problem?" he asked, though he was secretly thrilled by the implications.

"Not a problem, precisely, but it does complicate things. While it's theoretically possible to create a wand—or more appropriately, a staff—using this many components, it's not practical. Different materials channel magic at different speeds and pressures. Too many elements create interference rather than harmony." Eivar moved among the containers, studying each one thoughtfully. "For a functional wand, we need to narrow this down to perhaps two woods, two cores, and possibly a focus stone or runic enhancement."

"How do we do that?"

"Magic calls to magic. Spread your power out heavily—imagine it as a weight pressing down on everything around us. The materials that are merely compatible will return to their shelves. The ones that are truly meant for your wand will remain."

Hadrian closed his eyes and reached deep into his magical core, then began to push outward with as much force as he could safely manage. The sensation was like flexing a muscle he rarely used, and he could feel his magic spreading through the chamber like a heavy blanket of power.

The response was immediate. Container after container began to float upward, returning to their positions on the high shelves as his magic dismissed them as merely adequate rather than perfect. The process continued for several minutes, his magical pressure growing more intense as the selection narrowed.

When the movement finally stopped, only five items remained on the floor: two pieces of wood, two small vials that presumably contained core materials, and... nothing else.

"Interesting," Eivar murmured, kneeling to examine the remaining materials. "I expected a focus stone to be part of your configuration, given the complexity of your magical signature. The absence of one suggests..."

"Suggests what?"

"That you already have an iron-clad understanding of your magic. Not control, precisely, but understanding. You know what it is, how it behaves, what it's capable of. Most wizards need focus stones to help them channel and direct their power effectively. You apparently don't require that assistance."

Eivar picked up the two pieces of wood, examining them in the soft light. "Instead, your wand will likely incorporate runic enhancement—not for focusing, but for protection and... other purposes that will become clear as we work."

"What are the materials?" Hadrian asked, genuinely curious about what his magic had chosen.

"Alder for the base—a wood associated with protection, guidance, and strength of purpose. And cedar for the body—creativity, healing, protection of what you hold dear." Eivar lifted the two small vials, swirling their contents thoughtfully. "The cores are more... dramatic. Shaved xolotl rib soaked in ashwinder venom."

"That sounds ominous."

"Not ominous—symbolic. Your wand screams of death and rebirth, endings and new beginnings. The xolotl is a creature from Mesoamerican mythology, a dog-like being that guided souls between day and night, life and death. And the ashwinder is a serpent born in flame and destined to die in flame, representing the cycle of destruction and renewal." Eivar's expression grew thoughtful. "Combined with your woods, this suggests someone who leads with power, integrity, and open-mindedness, but who will protect those they care about with fierce loyalty. Someone who has experienced profound change and is prepared to guide others through similar transformations."

Hadrian felt heat rise in his cheeks. "I don't have any desire to lead anyone," he protested. "I just want a fresh start after... after losing my parents."

"Well, well. How delightfully appropriate."

The voice in his head was amused, familiar, and completely unexpected. Hadrian managed not to jump, but he could feel his eyes widen slightly as Death's presence made itself known in his mind. 

“You’re…in my head. You’re in my head now. Is this just something we do now?”

Death ignored him, "I must admit, I'm impressed by the craftsmanship here. This wand will serve you well, though I hope you realize it will complement rather than replace our previous arrangement."

"What do you mean?" Hadrian thought back, trying to keep his expression neutral while Eivar continued working with the selected materials.

"The Elder Wand remains yours, of course. It will appear when you need it, when you call for it, when the situation demands power that no ordinary wand can provide. But this new creation will be better suited to your daily needs, less conspicuous, more personal."

"You couldn't have mentioned this earlier?" Hadrian's mental voice was dry with mild exasperation.

"Where would be the fun in that? Besides, discovering the nature of your magical compatibility through this process provides valuable information about how you've changed, how this new reality has shaped you."

"Are you alright?" Eivar asked, looking up from their work with concern. "You seem... distracted."

"Sorry," Hadrian said quickly, refocusing on the conversation at hand. "I was just thinking about what you said regarding runic enhancement. What sort of runes would be incorporated?"

"Protection, primarily. Runes to prevent the wand from being summoned away from you, or from your holster. Additional runes to reinforce the wood, protecting it from being snapped or damaged through normal use." Eivar moved to a different workbench, where various carving tools were laid out in precise order. "The specific runic chain will depend on how the materials respond during the crafting process, but the general purpose will be to ensure this wand remains yours and yours alone."

"How thoughtful. Almost as if the universe itself is conspiring to ensure you're properly equipped for whatever challenges await."

"Are you finished being cryptic?" Hadrian thought with fond exasperation.

"For now. I'll leave you to your wand-making, but I'll be around should you need guidance or simply wish to chat. This new reality is proving quite entertaining."

Death's presence faded from his mind, leaving behind only a sense of amused affection and the promise of future contact when needed.

"There is one final consideration," Eivar said, looking up from their preparations. "Would you be willing to bond this wand to yourself permanently?"

"What would that involve?"

"A blood bond, using a few drops of your blood worked into the final construction. It would ensure that the wand will cast for no one else, ever, and it would mark the piece as a potential family heirloom—something that could be passed down to your children or other blood relatives, should you choose to have a family in the future."

The idea was appealing on multiple levels. Not only would it provide security against theft or misuse, but it would also create something lasting, something that could outlive him and serve future generations.

"What safeguards would be in place regarding my blood?" Hadrian asked, displaying the caution that any sensible magical person should show when discussing blood magic.

"I would swear a magically binding oath that your blood would be used solely for the bonding process and destroyed immediately afterward. Blood magic is dangerous precisely because of its potential for misuse—any reputable craftsperson takes such precautions as a matter of course."

"Then yes, I'd like to proceed with the bonding."

"Excellent. The crafting process will take several hours. There's a comfortable chair in the front room, and I have an extensive collection of books on wandlore and magical theory if you'd care to read while you wait."

Hadrian spent the next few hours absorbed in a fascinating text on the historical development of wand-making techniques across different cultures. The book was far more comprehensive than anything he'd encountered during his original Hogwarts education, covering traditions from every continent and explaining how local magical flora and fauna had influenced regional wandlore.

Occasionally, he could hear soft chanting from the back room, along with other sounds that suggested delicate, precise work being performed. The process was clearly complex and time-consuming, requiring both magical power and considerable skill to execute properly.

When Eivar finally emerged from the crafting chamber, they looked tired but satisfied, carrying a wand that seemed to pulse with contained energy. It was 12.5 inches long, with a beautiful grain pattern that showed the different woods worked together in harmony. Along its length, tiny runes were carved so precisely they seemed to have grown there naturally rather than being added by human hands.

"Alder and cedar, flexible, with a core of shaved xolotl rib soaked in ashwinder venom," Eivar announced formally. "Enhanced with protective runes and bonded to your magical signature. I believe you'll find it quite responsive to your needs."

Hadrian reached for the wand, and the moment his fingers closed around the handle, he felt a surge of... rightness. This wasn't the overwhelming power of the Elder Wand, but something more subtle and personal. The magic flowed through him smoothly, naturally, like finding the perfect key for a complicated lock.

"It's perfect," he said quietly, genuinely moved by the craftsmanship and the care that had gone into its creation.

"I'm pleased you're satisfied. The final cost is eighty Galleons—higher than a standard wand, but considerably lower than what such work would cost from most custom craftspeople."

Hadrian paid without hesitation, knowing he was getting exceptional value for the price. This wand represented more than just a magical tool—it was a symbol of his new beginning, crafted specifically for his needs and bonded to his very essence.

His next stop was a leather goods shop that specialized in practical items for working magicals. The proprietor, a middle-aged witch with callused hands and shrewd eyes, helped him select an unenchanted thigh holster made from black dragonhide with gold trim. The construction was solid and attractive, designed to hold a wand securely while allowing for quick draws when needed.

"Planning to add your own enchantments?" she asked as he examined the holster's construction.

"Eventually, yes. Protection charms, quick-draw assistance, that sort of thing."

"Smart thinking. Better to customize it yourself than trust someone else's work for something that important. That's quality dragonhide—it'll hold whatever enchantments you put on it for decades."

With his new wand secured in its holster and hidden beneath his robes, Hadrian made his way back toward Diagon Alley as the afternoon wore on. The weight of the weapon against his thigh was reassuring, a constant reminder that he was better prepared for whatever challenges this new life might bring.

Thornfield Couture was empty when he arrived, though the door was unlocked and soft music played from somewhere in the back. On the central display pedestal sat a neatly wrapped package that had clearly been shrunk for easy transport, along with a note written in Sebastian's elegant handwriting.

Hadrian,

Your wardrobe is complete and, if I do say so myself, absolutely magnificent. I've included detailed notes about each piece and suggestions for various combinations, along with care instructions for the more delicate fabrics.

I finished everything early this morning and have been sleeping off the exhaustion from my all-nighter, but I'll be fresh and charming for our dinner tonight. I've made reservations at Romano's for seven o'clock—please don't be late, as I'm quite looking forward to seeing how my creations look on you in proper lighting.

For tonight, I suggest the deep red robes with gold detailing—the color will be stunning with your complexion and the gold will complement those threads in your hair beautifully. The matching trousers and bronze boots should complete the look perfectly.

Until this evening, Sebastian

Hadrian smiled as he read the note, amused by Sebastian's attention to detail and genuine excitement about his work. It was refreshing to interact with someone who shared his appreciation for quality and craftsmanship, even in a completely different field.

The package expanded to its full size when he touched it, revealing an impressive collection of robes, trousers, shirts, and accessories, all carefully organized and labeled. Everything was exactly as they'd discussed—high-quality materials, expert tailoring, colors and styles that would establish him as someone of substance and taste without being ostentatious.

Back at the White Wyvern, Hadrian greeted Tom with a wave before heading upstairs to prepare for his dinner with Sebastian. The suggested outfit was indeed stunning—deep red robes that seemed to glow with inner fire, cut to emphasize his lean frame while allowing for complete freedom of movement. The gold detailing was subtle but eye-catching, and the matching trousers fit like they'd been painted on.

For his hair, he chose a half-up, half-down style that showed off the permanent braids while allowing the loose waves to frame his face. The sharp-framed glasses he'd selected complemented the gold studs and dangling earrings in his ears, creating a coordinated look that was sophisticated without being overdone.

Looking at himself in the small mirror, Hadrian had to admit that Sebastian's work was exceptional. He looked poised, more than most fourteen year olds, polished and confident in a way that would command respect without seeming to try too hard. This was the image he wanted to project—someone worth knowing, worth listening to, worth taking seriously.

Romano's occupied a prime location in Diagon Alley, its warm lighting and elegant décor creating an atmosphere of refined intimacy. The maitre d' led him to a table near the back, where Sebastian was already seated with his back to the entrance.

Moving quietly, Hadrian approached from behind and gently clasped Sebastian's shoulders, causing the young designer to startle slightly before turning around with laughter already bubbling up.

"Hadrian! You beautiful creature, you nearly gave me a heart attack!" Sebastian's delight was infectious, his face lighting up with genuine pleasure at seeing his friend. "Though I have to say, the dramatic entrance rather suits you."

Taking his seat across from Sebastian, Hadrian had a moment to appreciate how good his friend looked. Sebastian had clearly taken as much care with his appearance as Hadrian had—his auburn hair perfectly styled, his sharp cheekbones highlighted by subtle cosmetic charms, his clothing cut to emphasize his lean, elegant frame. He looked like exactly what he was: a young artist who understood the importance of presentation and had the skill to execute his vision flawlessly.

"You clean up rather well yourself," Hadrian observed with appreciation. "Though I have to say, seeing you in your own designs gives me even more confidence in your abilities."

"Flatterer. Though I suppose I can't complain about being complimented by someone who wears my work so beautifully." Sebastian's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Seriously, you look absolutely stunning. The color is perfect with your skin tone, and the way the gold catches the light in your hair... I may have to compose poetry about it later."

"Please don't. I'd never live down being the inspiration for bad romantic verse."

"Who says it would be bad? I'll have you know I'm quite talented with words when properly motivated."

Their conversation flowed easily from there, moving between playful flirtation and serious discussion of their respective crafts. Sebastian proved to be an engaging storyteller, regaling Hadrian with tales from his apprenticeship and the early days of establishing his own business.

"My siblings think I'm completely mad," Sebastian confided over the appetizer course. "Julian—he's my older brother—keeps writing letters asking when I'm going to get a 'real job' in the Ministry. And Vivian, my sister, seems to think fashion is some sort of frivolous hobby rather than a legitimate career."

"Where are they now?" Hadrian asked, genuinely interested in understanding Sebastian's family dynamics.

"America. Both of them work for MACUSA—Marcus as an Auror, Sarah as a clerk in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. They've been there for about three years now, ever since they finished establishing themselves in the British Ministry."

"That must be difficult, having family so far away."

"It is, sometimes. But we write monthly letters, and they send money when they can, even though I don't really need it anymore." Sebastian's expression grew thoughtful. "They love me, I know that. But there's such an age gap—Marcus is twelve years older than me, Sarah is ten years older—and they don't really understand what I'm passionate about. They see clothing as something functional rather than artistic."

"What happened to your parents?" Hadrian asked gently, sensing there was more to the story.

"Car accident when I was thirteen. They were both half-bloods who worked in the muggle world as 'homeopathic' healers—really, they were brewing low-level healing potions and passing them off as herbal remedies. It was good work, helped a lot of people, but they had to maintain the charade of being muggles while they were at their clinic."

Sebastian's voice grew quieter as he continued. "They were driving back from a late appointment when it happened. Drunk driver ran a red light. The irony is that if they'd been in the magical world, the accident wouldn't have been fatal—but they were maintaining their muggle cover, so they couldn't use magic to protect themselves or heal their injuries."

"I'm sorry," Hadrian said quietly. "Losing parents when you're that young... it changes everything."

"It does. Marcus and Sarah wanted to take custody, but they were both struggling to establish their careers and barely making ends meet. When Master Thornfield offered to take me as a full apprentice with room and board, it seemed like the best solution for everyone." Sebastian smiled wryly. "I think my siblings were relieved, honestly. They loved me, but a thirteen-year-old is a lot of responsibility when you're trying to build your own life."

"But you've done incredibly well for yourself. Most people don't establish successful businesses at nineteen."

"Thank you. It wasn't easy, especially the first year after Master Thornfield died, but I was determined to honor his legacy while making the shop my own." Sebastian's expression brightened. "But enough about my tragic backstory—tell me about your adventures! I want to hear about these exotic locations your parents took you to."

What followed was a detailed discussion of Hadrian's fictional travels, though this time he drew from a slightly different well of experiences. Instead of focusing solely on his own adventures in Egypt, he wove in stories that positioned his fictional parents as the primary researchers while he played the role of interested observer and occasional assistant.

"My father—well, my adoptive father—was particularly brilliant at ward-breaking," Hadrian explained, thinking of Bill's patient instruction and genuine enthusiasm for the work. "He had this way of approaching ancient protections like they were puzzles to be solved rather than obstacles to be overcome. I learned so much just by watching him work."

"And your mother?" Sebastian asked, clearly fascinated by the tales of exotic adventures.

"She was the theoretical genius of the pair. Could look at a runic sequence and immediately understand not just what it did, but why the original crafters had chosen that particular approach." Hadrian smiled, drawing from memories of Fleur's sharp intellect and intuitive grasp of magical theory. "She taught me that magic is as much about art and intention as it is about raw power. That the most elegant solutions are often the most effective ones."

Sebastian nodded approvingly. "That philosophy applies to design as well. The best clothing doesn't just look beautiful—it serves the wearer's needs perfectly while making them feel confident and comfortable."

"Exactly. And that's what I want to achieve with my jewelry work—pieces that are beautiful enough to be worn as art, but practical enough to serve real purposes in people's lives." Hadrian paused, then made a decision. "Actually, I should show you something."

He stood and moved slightly away from the table, lifting the hem of his robes just enough to reveal the black dragonhide holster strapped to his thigh. The leather gleamed in the restaurant's warm lighting, the gold trim catching the candlelight elegantly.

Sebastian's eyes widened with genuine appreciation. "Oh, that's gorgeous work. The craftsmanship is exceptional, and the proportions are perfect for your frame." He leaned forward slightly, studying the piece with professional interest. "Dragonhide?"

"Black dragonhide with gold trim. I purchased it unenchanted so I could add my own protective and functional charms." Hadrian settled back into his seat, pleased by Sebastian's obvious admiration. "It's meant to hold my wand, but I'm planning to enchant it for quick-draw assistance, protection against summoning charms, that sort of thing."

"Brilliant. And the aesthetic is absolutely perfect—dangerous but elegant, practical but beautiful." Sebastian's expression grew thoughtful. "Though I have to say, your current robes don't quite accommodate it properly. The cut is lovely, but it's not designed to work with a thigh holster."

"I hadn't considered that," Hadrian admitted. "Most wizarding clothing assumes you'll carry your wand in your sleeve or an interior pocket."

"Exactly. But someone who wears a holster like that—someone who values quick access and secure retention—needs clothing designed around that choice." Sebastian's eyes were already gleaming with creative possibilities. "I could design you a set of robes specifically cut to work with the holster. Maybe a split in the side seam that closes with hidden fastenings, or panels that can be pulled aside without disrupting the overall line of the garment."

"That sounds incredible. You'd really be willing to create something so specialized?"

"Are you joking? A chance to design functional fashion for someone who actually understands quality and craftsmanship? I'd be insulted if you took the commission elsewhere." Sebastian grinned. "Besides, I suspect there's going to be more demand for that sort of thing in the coming years. The political climate is... unsettled, shall we say. People are going to want to be prepared."

The casual reference to the growing tensions in their world was sobering, a reminder that even in this altered timeline, conflict was brewing. But it also represented an opportunity—if Sebastian was already thinking about practical applications for fashion, he might be more receptive to discussions about protection and preparedness than most people their age.

"You're probably right about the demand," Hadrian said carefully. "My parents always taught me that it's better to be prepared and not need something than to need it and not have it."

"Wise philosophy. And it opens up interesting possibilities for both our businesses—jewelry that provides real protection, clothing that accommodates practical needs without sacrificing style." Sebastian leaned back in his chair, clearly energized by the creative possibilities. "We could be pioneers in functional magical fashion."

"I like the sound of that. Partners in bringing practical beauty to the magical world."

"Partners," Sebastian repeated with satisfaction. "I do like the sound of that."

They spent another hour discussing potential collaborations, sharing stories from their respective fields, and simply enjoying each other's company. Sebastian proved to be an excellent storyteller, regaling Hadrian with tales from his apprenticeship and the early days of his business, while Hadrian found himself opening up about his own experiences and aspirations in ways that felt natural and comfortable.

"You know," Sebastian said as they lingered over coffee, "most people my age either treat me like some sort of curiosity—'look at the teenager playing dress-up'—or they're so intimidated by my success that they can barely hold a conversation. It's refreshing to talk to someone who understands the challenges of building something meaningful at our age."

"The feeling is entirely mutual," Hadrian replied sincerely. "It's been too long since I've had someone to share ideas with, someone who appreciates the intersection of beauty and function."

"To partnerships, then," Sebastian said, raising his coffee cup in a mock toast. "Both professional and personal."

"To partnerships," Hadrian agreed, clinking his cup against Sebastian's with a warm smile.

As the evening wound down, they lingered over coffee and continued conversation, neither quite ready to end the pleasant interlude. When they finally left the restaurant, it was with mutual reluctance and promises to continue their friendship.

Outside Romano's, Sebastian pulled Hadrian into a brief embrace, complete with the lingering cheek kisses that were common among close friends in certain magical circles.

"Thank you for tonight," Sebastian said quietly. "It's been months since I've had a conversation that felt so... natural. Most people around my age are either intimidated by my success or dismissive of my interests."

"The feeling is entirely mutual," Hadrian replied. "I haven't felt this comfortable with someone new in longer than I can remember."

They parted ways with genuine warmth and affection, Sebastian heading toward his shop and Hadrian making his way back to the White Wyvern. As he walked through the quiet streets of Knockturn Alley, Hadrian reflected on how much his life had changed in just two days. He had resources, relationships, purpose, and for the first time in years, genuine hope for the future.

Back in his room at the White Wyvern, Hadrian changed into comfortable sleeping clothes and settled into bed, feeling pleasantly tired from the day's activities. As he was drifting off to sleep, he felt a familiar presence returning to his consciousness.

"Well, well. It seems you're settling into this new life quite nicely."

Death's voice in his mind was warm with affection and mild amusement, like a fond older relative commenting on a child's progress.

"It's... different than I expected," Hadrian replied, not bothering to open his eyes. "More complicated, but also more... hopeful."

"Good. That was rather the point, you know. This reality offers you opportunities that your original timeline never could—the chance to build relationships based on choice rather than desperate necessity, to create something positive rather than merely surviving from crisis to crisis."

"And you'll be around to... what, exactly? Offer guidance? Cryptic commentary?"

"Both, as needed. But mostly, I'll simply be here should you require assistance or wish to discuss the various challenges and opportunities this new life will present." Death's presence felt pleased, almost proud. "You are my friend, Hadrian Evans, not my master or my servant. I want to see you thrive, to become the person you were always meant to be when not crushed under the weight of prophecy and others' expectations."

"And if I need help? If things go wrong?"

"Then you call for me, and I will answer. But I suspect you'll find yourself quite capable of handling whatever this new reality might offer. You're stronger than you know, wiser than your years suggest, and finally free to make choices based on your own desires rather than external pressures."

The conversation was comforting in a way that surprised Hadrian. In his original life, Death had been a constant specter, a threat always lurking at the edges of his awareness. Here, Death felt more like a guardian angel—protective, supportive, genuinely invested in his wellbeing and happiness.

"Sleep well, Hadrian Evans. Tomorrow brings new possibilities, and I'm quite looking forward to seeing how you choose to embrace them."

Death's presence faded gradually, leaving behind only a sense of warmth and security that helped Hadrian drift off to sleep with a smile on his face. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he was genuinely excited about the future, about the person he might become and the life he might build.

As sleep claimed him, his last conscious thought was a promise to himself: he would do better this time. He would be better. Not just for the people he hoped to save, but for himself—for the chance to finally discover who Hadrian Evans might become when given the freedom to choose his own path.

Chapter Text

The remaining weeks before term began fell into a comfortable rhythm that Hadrian found deeply satisfying. Each morning brought fresh opportunities to explore the magical districts of London, to deepen his understanding of the world he'd been thrust into, and to begin building the network of relationships that would serve him well in the years to come.

Unlike his original childhood, when he'd been rushed through Diagon Alley on a single overwhelming shopping trip, Hadrian now had the luxury of time and independence. He became a familiar figure in the winding streets and hidden alleys, always impeccably dressed in Sebastian's creations, always carrying a notebook or research text, always ready with a charming smile and intelligent conversation.

"Back again, young Mr. Evans?" Astrid Eriksdottir would call out whenever he appeared in Northern Lights, her weathered face creasing into a pleased smile. "What mysteries are you puzzling over today?"

"Actually, I was hoping you could help me understand the interaction between Nordic protection runes and Celtic binding knots," Hadrian would reply, settling into the comfortable chair she'd designated as 'his' near the back of the shop. "I've been working on a pendant design that combines both traditions, but I'm not sure if the magical resonances will complement or interfere with each other."

These conversations became the highlight of many afternoons. Astrid was a font of knowledge about northern magical traditions, but more than that, she was a teacher who delighted in finding an eager student. Under her guidance, Hadrian's understanding of runic magic expanded far beyond what he'd learned in Egypt, incorporating techniques and perspectives that were centuries old.

"Your magical signature continues to intrigue me," she said one afternoon, watching him trace practice runes on a slate tablet. "There's such depth to it, such complexity. Most young people your age have simple, straightforward magical patterns, but yours suggests someone who has seen and experienced far more than their years would suggest."

"My parents believed in... comprehensive education," Hadrian replied carefully, which wasn't entirely untrue. "They thought sheltering me from the realities of the magical world would do more harm than good."

"Wise people. Though I suspect there's more to your story than you're telling." Astrid's pale eyes were knowing but kind. "No matter. We all have our secrets, and yours have clearly shaped you into someone worth knowing."

Similar scenes played out throughout the various districts. At Emerald Traditions, Cormac O'Brien taught him the mathematical principles underlying Celtic knot-work, showing him how the endless loops and spirals weren't just decorative but functional, designed to trap and redirect magical energy in precise patterns.

"Your mother had the same intuitive grasp of these concepts," Cormac observed, watching Hadrian successfully trace a complex binding pattern on his first attempt. "She could look at a knot-work design and immediately understand not just what it did, but why it was the most elegant solution to the problem it was designed to solve."

At Sanskrit Sutras, Priya Sharma and her apprentice Kavya introduced him to the geometric precision of yantra-based magical systems, where every line and angle served a specific purpose in channeling and focusing magical energy.

"The beautiful thing about Sanskrit magical traditions," Kavya explained, her teenage enthusiasm infectious as she demonstrated a particularly complex pattern, "is how mathematical they are. Everything follows strict geometric principles, which means you can predict how different elements will interact before you actually combine them."

"That's incredibly useful for enchanting work," Hadrian replied, making careful notes in his ever-present notebook. "Most of the traditions I've studied rely more on intuition and experience than mathematical prediction."

"Exactly! And when you combine the mathematical precision of Sanskrit techniques with the intuitive approaches of other traditions..." Kavya's eyes lit up with creative possibilities. "Well, the results can be extraordinary."

These daily conversations and informal lessons were invaluable, but they served another purpose as well. Word spread through the interconnected magical communities about the polite, intelligent young man who asked thoughtful questions and treated everyone with genuine respect. Shopkeepers began looking forward to his visits, and other customers started recognizing him as a regular fixture in the various districts.

"Oh, you're Hadrian Evans!" a middle-aged witch exclaimed one afternoon in Flourish and Blotts, where he was browsing advanced texts on magical theory. "I've heard so much about you from Astrid and Cormac. They say you have quite a talent for runic magic."

"I'm still learning," Hadrian replied with appropriate modesty, though he was secretly pleased by the recognition. "There's so much knowledge in these communities that I feel like I could spend years just scratching the surface."

"Such a polite young man," the witch murmured approvingly. "Your parents raised you well. Such a tragedy, what happened to Marcus and Helena. They were good people, truly good people."

These interactions became more frequent as the weeks passed. Hadrian found himself greeted by name in shops he'd visited only once or twice, invited to join conversations about magical theory and current events, treated as a respected member of the community despite his youth. It was a heady experience for someone who had spent most of his original life either ignored or treated as a celebrity rather than a person.

But perhaps most satisfying were the moments when his natural charm and intelligence won over people who might otherwise have dismissed him as just another teenager playing at being grown-up.

"You're a little charmer, aren't you?" an elderly wizard chuckled one afternoon in Knockturn Alley, where Hadrian had struck up a conversation about the man's collection of rare potion ingredients. He'd been explaining some of the uses he'd learned for various components, drawing on his Egyptian experiences while adapting them to fit his cover story.

"I prefer to think of myself as genuinely interested in what people have to teach," Hadrian replied with a slight grin that was equal parts innocent and mischievous. "Though I suppose charm is a useful side effect of paying attention."

"Ha! Diplomacy too. You'll go far, young man. Mark my words."

These encounters were building something valuable—a reputation as someone worth knowing, someone who could be trusted, someone who understood and respected the various traditions that made up London's magical community. It was exactly the foundation Hadrian needed for the plans he was beginning to formulate.

By his second week at the White Wyvern, Hadrian had established a workshop in the expanded compartment of his trunk, spending his evenings and early mornings crafting the jewelry pieces that would form the basis of his business venture. The materials from his fictional father's collection had proved invaluable—high-quality tools, rare components, and detailed reference texts that guided him through increasingly complex enchantments.

His first successful pieces were relatively simple: rings that could detect common poisons in food and drink, earrings that provided minor protection against mental intrusion, bracelets that could maintain a loved one's scent for comfort and emotional stability. But as his confidence grew, so did the complexity of his work.

"Hadrian, my boy!" Tom Blackwood called out one evening as he emerged from his room, looking slightly frazzled after a particularly challenging enchanting session. "You look like you could use a proper meal. Been working too hard again?"

"A bit," Hadrian admitted, settling at the bar where Tom had already begun preparing a plate of food. "I've been trying to perfect a protection pendant that can deflect minor hexes while also providing emotional stability for the wearer. The magical interactions are more complex than I anticipated."

"Sounds impressive. Your father would be proud—he always said the best magical items were those that served multiple purposes elegantly." Tom set the plate in front of him with a concerned expression. "But don't forget to take care of yourself in the process. All the talent in the world won't help if you work yourself into an early grave."

The gentle reminder was exactly what Hadrian needed to hear. Tom had become something of a father figure during his stay, providing not just accommodation but genuine care and guidance. It was a relationship he'd never experienced in his original life, and he found himself treasuring these moments of casual affection.

"You're right, of course. I suppose I got a bit carried away with the creative process." Hadrian took a bite of the excellent food, feeling some of his tension ease. "I'm planning to reach out to some potential business partners soon, so I wanted to have a solid collection of samples to show them."

"Business partners? At your age?" Tom's eyebrows rose with interest. "That's ambitious."

"The Weasley twins—Fred and George. They run a mail-order business selling prank items and novelties. I'm hoping they might be interested in adding some of my pieces to their catalog."

"Ah, the Prewett heirs. Good lads, from what I hear, though with a reputation for mischief that keeps their poor mother up at night." Tom's expression grew thoughtful. "That could be a very profitable partnership, if you can convince them to take you seriously."

"That's the challenge, isn't it? Proving that a fourteen-year-old transfer student has something valuable to offer experienced entrepreneurs." Hadrian smiled ruefully. "I suppose I'll find out soon enough whether my work speaks for itself."

"If it's anything like what your parents created, I suspect you'll have no trouble at all."

The letter to Fred and George took him the better part of an evening to compose. It needed to strike exactly the right tone—professional enough to be taken seriously, but with just enough personality to intrigue two notorious pranksters. He drafted and redrafted several versions before settling on one that felt right.

To the Joint Heirs Prewett,

Allow me to introduce myself: I am Hadrian Evans, son of the late Marcus and Helena Evans, researchers and explorers who recently perished in an expedition accident in South America. I am writing to you at the suggestion of Senior Account Manager Sharpclaw of Gringotts Bank, who indicated that your mail-order business might benefit from the sort of products I create.

I am an artificer and enchanter specializing in practical magical jewelry—pieces that combine aesthetic appeal with genuine protective and enhancement properties. My current inventory includes items that can detect poisons, provide minor mental shielding, enhance clarity of thought, maintain emotional stability, and offer discrete magical assistance in various situations.

From what I understand of your business model, you have successfully established a distribution network for magical novelties and practical items that serve the needs of students and young adults throughout magical Britain. I believe there would be considerable market demand for high-quality protective jewelry, particularly pieces that are discrete enough to be worn in formal settings without attracting unwanted attention.

I am proposing a partnership arrangement whereby I would provide a selection of my creations for inclusion in your catalog, in exchange for access to your distribution network and a modest percentage of the profits from sales of my items—perhaps twenty percent, though I am certainly open to negotiation on this point.

I should mention that my expertise lies primarily in runic magic and multi-traditional enchanting techniques, drawing from Nordic, Celtic, Sanskrit, and Egyptian magical systems. This allows me to create pieces with unusual properties and exceptional stability, though I suspect the technical details would be better discussed in person or through more detailed correspondence.

Given that I will be entering Hogwarts as a fourth-year transfer student this September, I thought it might be beneficial for all parties if we could establish some preliminary correspondence before term begins. This would allow us to determine whether we might be compatible as business partners, and if so, to begin planning how such a partnership might function in practice.

I am well aware that my age and relative inexperience might give you pause, and I would welcome the opportunity to demonstrate both the quality of my work and the seriousness of my intentions. Should you be interested in pursuing this discussion, I would be happy to provide samples of my work for evaluation, references from established craftspeople who can vouch for my abilities, or any other information you might require.

I look forward to the possibility of working with you, and remain,

Most respectfully yours,                                                                                                                         Hadrian Evans                                                                                                                                           Fourth Year Transfer Student, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Reading through the finished letter, Hadrian felt reasonably satisfied with the result. It was formal enough to demonstrate that he understood business etiquette, but the underlying personality came through in the careful word choices and structure. More importantly, he'd laid out the potential benefits clearly while being honest about his limitations and inexperience.

The White Wyvern maintained a small owlery for guest use, and Tom was happy to let Hadrian borrow one of the inn's birds for his letter to the twins. The owl—a sensible brown creature with intelligent eyes—accepted the message with professional indifference and departed into the London evening without ceremony, as most postal owls did.

But borrowing owls wasn't a sustainable solution for someone planning to conduct regular business correspondence. The next morning found Hadrian making his way to Diagon Alley's Magical Menagerie, intent on acquiring a permanent postal solution.

The shop was exactly as he remembered it from his original timeline—cramped, noisy, and filled with the sounds and smells of dozens of magical creatures in various states of agitation. Owls hooted from perches along the walls, cats prowled through floor-level enclosures, and somewhere in the back, something large was making rhythmic thumping sounds that suggested considerable size and strength.

"Good morning!" the shopkeeper called out from behind a counter stacked with cages and feeding supplies. "Looking for anything particular today?"

"A postal bird," Hadrian replied, moving carefully through the narrow aisles. "Something reliable for regular correspondence, preferably with good flight range and... personality."

"Ah, business correspondence then. You'll want something that can handle long distances and won't get distracted by every shiny object it sees." The shopkeeper gestured toward the owl section. "These are all good birds—tawny owls, barn owls, a few screech owls if you prefer something with a bit more attitude."

Hadrian spent the better part of an hour examining the various owls on offer, but none of them seemed quite right. They were all perfectly adequate birds—healthy, well-trained, capable of handling postal duties—but there was no spark, no sense of connection that suggested a deeper partnership.

"Is this everything you have?" he asked, completing his circuit of the owl displays.

"Well..." the shopkeeper hesitated. "There is one more bird, but it's not exactly what most people are looking for in a postal owl."

"Oh?"

"Big raven in the back. Beautiful bird, intelligent as anything, but ravens aren't traditional postal birds. Most people find them a bit... intimidating."

Intrigued, Hadrian followed the shopkeeper toward the rear of the store, where larger enclosures housed the shop's more unusual residents. And there, in a spacious cage near the back wall, was the most magnificent raven he'd ever seen.

The bird was enormous—easily twice the size of a standard postal owl, with feathers so black they seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Its eyes were pools of endless darkness, and when it turned its head to study him, Hadrian felt an immediate sense of recognition and kinship.

"Well, well. How delightfully appropriate."

Death's amused voice in his head was almost expected at this point, though Hadrian managed not to jump.

"Ravens have such rich associations with death and prophecy in human mythology. Odin's ravens, Huginn and Muninn—thought and memory. The ravens of the Tower of London, whose departure would herald the fall of the kingdom. Edgar Allan Poe's raven, croaking 'nevermore' to a grieving man."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Hadrian thought back, approaching the cage slowly.

"Immensely. Though I should point out that ravens are also associated with wisdom, intelligence, and the bridging of different worlds. In many traditions, they're psychopomps—guides between the realm of the living and the realm of the dead."

The raven cocked its head, studying Hadrian with obvious intelligence. When he extended his hand toward the cage, the bird moved closer without fear, allowing him to stroke the sleek feathers of its neck.

"He likes you," the shopkeeper observed with surprise. "That's unusual—he's been here for months, and he's never shown interest in anyone before. Magnificent bird, but too clever for most people's comfort. Ravens are problem-solvers, you see. They get bored easily, and a bored raven can be... destructive."

"What would he need in terms of care and housing?"

"Space, mainly. Mental stimulation. Ravens are social creatures—they need interaction, conversation, challenges to keep them engaged. This one's been trained for message delivery, but he's capable of much more complex tasks if you're willing to work with him."

Hadrian looked into those bottomless black eyes and felt a sense of rightness that reminded him of finding his wand at Armrót. This wasn't just a postal bird—this was a partner, a companion who could grow with him as his needs evolved.

"How much?"

"Fifty Galleons. I know it's steep for a postal bird, but ravens are rare in the trade, and this one's exceptional."

It was expensive, but Hadrian didn't hesitate. "I'll take him."

The paperwork took only a few minutes, and soon Hadrian was walking back toward Knockturn Alley with an enormous raven perched on his shoulder, drawing curious and sometimes alarmed looks from other shoppers.

"I think I'll call you Poe," he murmured to the bird, who responded with a soft croak that somehow managed to sound approving. "After Edgar Allan, though hopefully with better associations than death and despair."

"Though death need not always mean despair," Death's voice whispered in his mind. "Sometimes it simply means change, transformation, the end of one chapter and the beginning of another."

Back at the White Wyvern, Hadrian was settling Poe into a corner of his room when something in the common room caught his attention. Tom was reading a newspaper, his expression grim, and the headline visible from across the room made Hadrian's blood run cold.

"SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP"

The memories came flooding back—Death Eaters in masks, the Dark Mark burning green against the night sky, the panic and chaos as families fled through the woods. He'd been so focused on his new life, on building relationships and establishing his business, that he'd completely forgotten about the timeline of events that led up to his fourth year.

If the Quidditch World Cup riot had happened, then Voldemort's return was already in motion. Barty Crouch Jr. was probably already impersonating Mad-Eye Moody, preparing to manipulate the Triwizard Tournament. Neville Longbottom—the Boy-Who-Lived in this reality—would be entered in the competition, would face the same dangers and challenges that had nearly killed Hadrian in his original timeline.

But more immediately, the Weasley family had been at the Cup. All of them, including Fred and George. The riot had terrified everyone present, and Arthur Weasley had been mentioned by name in the Prophet's coverage as one of the Ministry officials who had responded to the crisis.

Hadrian's carefully composed business letter suddenly seemed callously inappropriate. How could he have written about partnerships and profit margins when the twins had just survived a terrorist attack?

"Bad news?" Tom asked, noting his expression.

"The Quidditch World Cup riot. I... I'd been planning to write to some potential business partners, but their family was there. Their father's mentioned in the article." Hadrian ran his hands through his hair, frustrated with himself. "I should have been paying more attention to current events."

"Don't blame yourself, lad. You've been focused on your studies and your work—that's exactly what a young man your age should be doing. But you're right that this might complicate your business plans."

"I need to write another letter," Hadrian said, already moving toward the stairs. "Something more appropriate to the circumstances."

"Good lad. Shows character, that you're thinking of their wellbeing before your business interests."

The second letter was much shorter and came from the heart:

Dear Fred and George,

I must apologize for the timing of my previous correspondence. I had only just seen the news about the riot at the Quidditch World Cup, and I realized how inappropriate it was to write about business matters when you and your family had just experienced such trauma.

I saw your father's name mentioned in the Prophet's coverage of the Ministry's response to the attack. I hope that all of you are safe and well, and that the experience hasn't caused lasting harm to anyone in your family.

Please consider my previous letter withdrawn until such time as you feel ready to discuss business matters, if indeed you ever do. Your wellbeing and that of your family is far more important than any potential partnership.

This letter is being delivered by my newly acquired raven, Poe, who is trained for postal duties and will wait for a reply if you wish to send one.

With sincere concern for your welfare, Hadrian Evans

He tied the letter to Poe's leg, giving the intelligent bird careful instructions about waiting for a response and treating the recipients with appropriate respect. The raven listened with obvious understanding, then launched himself into the night with powerful wingbeats that carried him quickly out of sight.

At the Burrow, Fred and George were huddled together in their shared bedroom, ostensibly working on product development but actually trying to process the events of the previous few days. The World Cup had been everything they'd hoped for—incredible Quidditch, amazing atmosphere, the chance to see the best players in the world competing at the highest level.

And then the Death Eaters had appeared, and everything had gone to hell.

"Still can't believe it really happened," George muttered, fiddling with a prototype Whizzing Worm that wasn't whizzing properly. "Death Eaters, at the bloody World Cup. Dad's been working eighteen-hour days trying to deal with the aftermath."

"Mum hasn't stopped fussing since we got home," Fred added, though his tone suggested he found their mother's hovering more comforting than annoying. "Can't say I blame her. Seeing those masks again, the Dark Mark in the sky... brought back a lot of memories she'd probably rather forget."

"At least no one was seriously hurt. Could have been much worse."

"Could have been. But the fact that it happened at all..." Fred shook his head. "Dad thinks it's just the beginning. Says there've been signs for months that something was building."

"Which means we need to be more careful about our business operations. Can't have owls carrying suspicious packages if the Ministry's going to be investigating everyone and everything."

"Good point. We should probably—"

They were interrupted by a tapping at their window—the gentle but persistent rap of a postal owl seeking entry. George opened the window to admit a sensible brown bird carrying a letter tied with unfamiliar ribbon.

"Not one of ours," Fred observed, eyeing the bird cautiously. "And not Dad's either."

"Should we get Mum? Strange owls showing up right after a Death Eater attack..."

"Let's check it first. If there's anything suspicious about it, we'll call for help."

George carefully untied the letter while Fred cast detection charms on both the parchment and the owl itself. The spells revealed nothing harmful—just ordinary writing materials and a perfectly normal postal bird.

"It's clean," Fred announced, and the owl immediately took flight, disappearing into the night without waiting for a response.

"Strange. Most postal owls wait to see if there's a reply." George unfolded the letter, scanning the header quickly. "It's addressed to 'Joint Heirs Prewett.' What do you suppose that's about?"

"Haven't got a clue. Prewett was Mum's maiden name, wasn't it? But joint heirs?" Fred frowned. "Read it out."

George cleared his throat and began reading the business proposal aloud, his eyebrows rising higher with each paragraph. By the time he finished, both twins were staring at the letter with expressions of mingled surprise and confusion.

"The goblins know about our business," Fred said slowly. "How do the goblins know about our business?"

"More to the point, how do they know enough about it to recommend us to potential partners?" George reread sections of the letter, looking for clues. "We've been careful to keep everything small-scale, unofficial..."

"Apparently not careful enough. Though I suppose if Gringotts wanted to shut us down, they would have done it already rather than sending us potential collaborators."

"True. What do you think about this Hadrian Evans character?"

Fred took the letter from his brother, reading through it more carefully. "Well-written letter. Professional tone but not overly formal. Knows enough about our business model to make a coherent proposal."

"And the magical techniques he's describing sound impressive. Multi-traditional enchanting? Most adult wizards can barely manage single-tradition work."

"He could be exaggerating his abilities."

"Could be. But why reach out to us specifically if he didn't have something real to offer? There are plenty of established businesses he could approach if he just wanted distribution."

"That's a fair point." Fred set the letter down, looking thoughtful. "What bothers me is the 'Joint Heirs Prewett' thing. How does some fourteen-year-old know about family inheritance we don't even know about?"

"We should ask Mum about that. She's never mentioned anything about Prewett family wealth or titles."

"Definitely. But what do we do about the letter itself? Ignore it? Respond with questions? Agree to meet him?"

George was quiet for a moment, considering their options. "I'm inclined to be cautious. We don't know this person, and the timing is suspicious—reaching out right after the World Cup attack, when everyone's on edge."

"On the other hand, if his offer is legitimate, it could be exactly what we need to expand our business properly. Professional-quality enchanted items would give us credibility with older customers, not just students."

"True. And the profit-sharing arrangement he's proposing is reasonable—he's not trying to take over our business, just add to it."

"Plus he's being honest about his age and inexperience. Most people trying to run a con would oversell their qualifications."

They sat in comfortable silence for several minutes, both mulling over the implications of the unexpected correspondence. Finally, George spoke up.

"What if we don't respond directly to the business proposal, but open a dialogue? Get to know him a bit before making any commitments?"

"You mean treat it as a potential friendship first, business second?"

"Exactly. If he's genuine, he'll appreciate the caution. If he's not, he'll probably get impatient and reveal his true motives."

"I like that approach. Besides, he did say he was hoping to get to know us before term starts."

"Right. We can ask questions about his background, his interests, what he's hoping to get out of Hogwarts. Normal getting-to-know-you conversation."

"And if we like what we hear, we can always revisit the business discussion later."

Before they could begin drafting a response, however, another tapping came at their window. This time it wasn't the gentle rap of a postal owl, but something more assertive and demanding.

"That's different," Fred observed, moving to open the window again.

"Very different," George agreed, watching as an enormous raven landed on their windowsill with unmistakable dignity and presence.

The bird was magnificent—easily twice the size of a standard postal owl, with feathers so black they seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Its eyes were pools of endless darkness, and when it turned its head to study them, both twins felt a momentary chill of recognition, as if they were looking at something far older and more significant than a simple messenger bird.

"Bloody hell," Fred breathed. "That's not a normal raven."

"Definitely not," George agreed, approaching the window cautiously. "Should we...?"

The raven extended one leg, revealing a second letter tied with the same ribbon as the first. But unlike the postal owl, this bird showed no signs of departing quickly—it settled onto the windowsill with the patient air of a creature prepared to wait indefinitely for a response.

"Detection charms first," Fred said, though he felt slightly ridiculous casting defensive spells on such a clearly intelligent creature.

As before, the charms revealed nothing harmful. George carefully untied the letter, noting that this one was much shorter than the first.

"Same handwriting," he observed, unfolding the parchment. "But a different tone entirely."

He read the second letter aloud, and both twins felt their expressions soften as they processed the sincere concern and immediate withdrawal of the business proposal.

"Well," Fred said after a moment of silence. "That changes things considerably."

"He saw the Prophet's coverage and realized his timing was terrible," George added. "Then took the time to write an apology and ask after our wellbeing."

"Even though he doesn't know us from Adam."

"And withdrew his business proposal without being asked, just because he was concerned about our family's wellbeing."

"Plus he introduced his raven properly. Poe—that's a literary reference, isn't it?"

"Edgar Allan Poe, I think. The poet who wrote about ravens." George looked at the magnificent bird still perched on their windowsill. "Rather appropriate, given the circumstances."

They looked at each other, both thinking the same thing. In the aftermath of the World Cup attack, most people had been focused on their own concerns, their own fears about what the return of Death Eater activity might mean. Very few had spared a thought for the families who had been directly affected, and fewer still had taken the time to reach out with genuine concern.

"I like him," Fred said simply. "Anyone who puts people before profit is worth knowing."

"Agreed. And anyone who owns a raven like that clearly has excellent taste in companions."

"So we respond positively?"

"Definitely. Though I think we should be more personal in our reply—match his tone in the second letter rather than the business formality of the first."

"Good thinking. And we should definitely ask about his background, his interests, all the normal getting-to-know-you questions."

"Right. Save the business discussion for later, assuming we decide we like him well enough to pursue it."

The letter they composed was considerably longer than Hadrian's second message, and much more personal in tone:

Dear Hadrian,

Thank you for your concern about our family's wellbeing. We're all safe and largely unharmed, though the experience was certainly more excitement than any of us bargained for. Our father has been working around the clock to help the Ministry deal with the aftermath, and our mother has been in full protective mode ever since we got home, but we're managing.

We were impressed by your immediate concern for people you've never met, and your decision to withdraw your business proposal shows a level of consideration that's rare in someone so young—or any age, really. That alone makes us interested in getting to know you better.

Your business proposal was actually quite intriguing, though we have to admit that some of the terminology went over our heads. Runic magic isn't exactly our specialty—we're more inclined toward creative applications of existing spells and charms than inventing entirely new magical techniques. The sort of multi-traditional enchanting you mentioned sounds fascinating, but also far beyond what most fourth years would be capable of. Color us impressed.

As for the "Joint Heirs Prewett" thing—we have no idea what that's about, though we suspect it has to do with our mother's side of the family. We'll have to ask her about it, assuming we can pry her away from her current obsession with making sure we're all still in one piece.

You asked about getting to know each other before term starts, and we think that's an excellent idea. Since you're transferring in as a fourth year, it might be useful for you to know something about Hogwarts and what to expect. The houses are Gryffindor (brave, reckless, prone to charging into danger without thinking), Hufflepuff (loyal, hardworking, unfairly dismissed as boring by people who don't know better), Ravenclaw (clever, creative, sometimes too caught up in theoretical knowledge to notice practical applications), and Slytherin (ambitious, cunning, unfortunately associated with Dark magic though that's not entirely fair).

We're Gryffindors ourselves, sixth years with a reputation for... creative rule interpretation. Most of our friends are in Gryffindor as well, though we get along reasonably well with students from all houses. The younger years seem to find us particularly entertaining for some reason.

As for your business—we'd love to hear more about how someone barely into their teens managed to develop such advanced magical techniques. Most fourteen-year-olds can barely manage a proper Cheering Charm, and here you are talking about multi-traditional enchanting like it's child's play. Either you're remarkably gifted, or there's more to your story than meets the eye. (We're hoping for both, honestly.)

We're also curious about your background. Growing up with researcher parents who worked with curse-breakers and rune-masters sounds like it would produce someone rather... unique. What was it like, being educated by people who clearly knew their business? And more importantly, what's a sophisticated young man like yourself hoping to find at a place like Hogwarts?

Poe is magnificent, by the way. We've never seen a postal bird quite like him. Very impressive, and clearly intelligent. Ravens are supposed to be clever enough to hold conversations, aren't they? We might have to test that theory sometime.

We started our own business because we love making people laugh and because we wanted to prove that magical innovation doesn't have to be serious and stuffy all the time. There's something to be said for bringing a bit of chaos and joy into the world. What drives your interest? Is it purely practical, or is there something more personal behind your choice to focus on protection and enhancement?

We look forward to continuing this correspondence and to meeting you properly when term starts. Something tells us you're going to make Hogwarts considerably more interesting.

Fred and George Weasley (Apparently Joint Heirs Prewett, whatever that means) (P.S. — If you're half as intriguing in person as you are on parchment, the castle is going to have its hands full with you.)

They tied the letter to Poe's leg, both somewhat surprised when the large bird allowed them to handle him without protest. Most postal birds were strictly business—deliver the message, collect the response, return to sender. This raven seemed more like a partner than a servant.

"Safe travels," George told the bird seriously. "And tell your fascinating young correspondent that we're very much looking forward to making his acquaintance."

Poe fixed him with one dark eye for a moment, seeming almost amused, then launched himself into the night with powerful wingbeats that carried him quickly out of sight.

August 31st dawned bright and clear, with just enough crispness in the air to herald the approaching autumn. Hadrian woke with a sense of anticipation that had nothing to do with his usual morning routine—today, he was planning to venture into Diagon Alley with a specific mission in mind.

He remembered from his original timeline that Augusta Longbottom typically brought Neville to do his last-minute school shopping on the day before term began, preferring to avoid the worst of the back-to-school crowds that descended on the Alley throughout August. If that pattern held true in this reality, today would be his best chance to encounter Neville in a casual, seemingly accidental way.

After his morning exercises and a hearty breakfast with Tom, Hadrian dressed carefully in one of Sebastian's more understated but still elegant outfits—forest green robes with subtle gold threading that brought out his eyes without being ostentatious. He wanted to look approachable but well-bred, someone who would fit naturally into the same social circles as the Longbottom family.

Poe perched on his shoulder as he made his way through the London streets toward Diagon Alley, the magnificent raven drawing admiring glances from the magical folk they passed. The bird had proven to be an excellent companion over the past few days, intelligent and responsive in ways that went far beyond typical animal behavior. Hadrian suspected there was more to Poe than met the eye, but then again, the same could be said for most things in his new life.

Diagon Alley was bustling with pre-term activity, though not yet at the frantic levels it would reach later in the day. Families moved through the shops with last-minute lists, students compared new books and supplies, and the various merchants were doing brisk business in everything from quills to cauldrons.

Hadrian made his way toward the magical plant nursery—Verdant Wonders, according to the elegantly carved sign above the door. It was exactly the sort of establishment that would appeal to someone with Neville's passion for Herbology, and if he remembered correctly, Augusta often included a stop there during their shopping expeditions.

The shop was larger than it appeared from the outside, with glass-roofed sections that allowed natural sunlight to reach the more delicate specimens. Plants of every description filled the space—some he recognized from his Hogwarts Herbology classes, others that were completely foreign to his experience. The air hummed with magical energy and the subtle sounds of growing things.

"Magnificent collection," he murmured to Poe, who responded with a soft croak of agreement.

He was examining a particularly interesting specimen—something with silver leaves that chimed softly when touched by the breeze from the shop's ventilation charms—when he heard familiar voices approaching from deeper in the shop.

"Now, Neville, we'll need to be quick about this. I want to finish here and get to Flourish and Blotts before the afternoon rush."

"Yes, Gran. I just wanted to look at the advanced Herbology texts. Professor Sprout mentioned some new developments in magical botany that might be covered in the upper-year curriculum."

Hadrian's heart gave a small leap of recognition and anticipation. There was Neville—taller than Hadrian remembered him being at fourteen, but with the same round face and earnest expression. He looked healthier than his original timeline counterpart, more confident, though he still had that slightly nervous energy that came from being constantly in the public eye.

Augusta Longbottom was exactly as Hadrian remembered her—stern, imposing, dressed in severe black robes with her infamous vulture-topped hat. Her sharp eyes missed nothing as she surveyed the shop and its other customers, clearly cataloging everyone present and assessing them for potential threats or opportunities.

This was his moment. Hadrian positioned himself so that he appeared to be deeply absorbed in studying the silver-leafed plant, but actually angled so that Neville would pass close by on his way to the section of the shop that housed the more advanced botanical texts.

When Neville moved past him, focused on scanning the shelves for the books Professor Sprout had recommended, Hadrian took a careful step backward as if to get a better view of the plant from a different angle. The movement brought him directly into Neville's path, and they collided with a soft thump that sent both boys stumbling slightly.

"Oh! I'm terribly sorry," Hadrian said immediately, reaching out to steady Neville, who had staggered backward from the unexpected contact. "I wasn't paying attention to where I was going—are you hurt?"

"No, no harm done," Neville replied, though he looked slightly startled by the collision. As Hadrian helped him regain his balance, Neville found himself taking in the other boy's appearance with growing curiosity.

The stranger was about his own age, maybe a year younger, with striking golden-tanned skin that spoke of time spent in warmer climates than Britain typically offered. His hair was longer than most wizarding boys wore it, falling in loose waves past his shoulders with thin braids threaded through with actual gold that caught the light. His clothes were expensive—not flashy, but the sort of quality that spoke of real wealth rather than new money trying to impress. And perched on his shoulder was the most magnificent raven Neville had ever seen, easily twice the size of a normal owl and regarding him with intelligent dark eyes.

But what struck Neville most was the boy's demeanor. Despite the collision and the fluster of apologies, there was something remarkably calm and controlled about him. Not cold or distant, but like someone who was used to being in charge of situations, who expected things to go his way. And yet there was playfulness there too, a spark of mischief in his green eyes that suggested he didn't take himself too seriously.

"I was just... wait." Neville's eyes widened as a thought occurred to him. "You're not... I mean, you don't seem to be reacting to..."

"To your fame?" Hadrian asked with a slight smile, releasing Neville's arm once he was steady. "Should I be? I mean, I've heard of Neville Longbottom, obviously—anyone who's spent time in the magical world has heard of the Boy-Who-Lived. But I've been out of the country quite a bit with my parents' research work. The whole thing doesn't have quite the same impact when you're hearing about it secondhand from Egyptian curse-breakers and Scandinavian rune-masters."

Neville blinked, clearly not sure how to respond to someone who knew who he was but wasn't either fawning over him or treating him like a dangerous celebrity to be avoided. There was something refreshing about the casual way this stranger acknowledged his reputation without making it the center of attention.

"Egyptian curse-breakers?" he asked, his natural curiosity overcoming his surprise. "That sounds fascinating. What sort of research did your parents do?"

"Archaeological expeditions, mainly. Uncovering lost magical sites, documenting ancient spells and rituals, that sort of thing." Hadrian's smile became more genuine as he saw Neville's interest. "They died recently in an expedition accident, but they'd always planned for me to complete my education at Hogwarts rather than continuing with private tutoring."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Neville said quietly, and Hadrian could see the genuine sympathy in his expression. "That must be incredibly difficult."

"It is. But they'd want me to make the most of the opportunities they gave me." Hadrian paused, then made a decision. "I'm Hadrian Evans, by the way. And I owe you a proper apology for nearly knocking you over. Would you let me buy you some ice cream to make up for it? I have to admit, I'm rather hoping to make some friends before school starts—I'm transferring in as a fourth year, so I don't know anyone yet."

As Hadrian spoke, Neville found himself genuinely intrigued. There was something magnetic about this boy—the way he carried himself with quiet confidence, the playful glint in his eyes, the casual mention of exotic travels and advanced magical education. He seemed like someone who had stories to tell, someone who might actually be interesting to know.

"You want to be friends with me because you bumped into me?" Neville asked, though his tone suggested more amusement than skepticism.

"I want to be friends with you because you seem like a decent person, and because I'd rather spend my remaining time before Hogwarts talking to someone interesting than wandering around London alone." Hadrian's smile became slightly mischievous. "The fact that you're famous is actually a bit of a drawback—I was rather hoping for a quiet school experience."

That got a laugh out of Neville, the first truly relaxed expression Hadrian had seen on his face. "Good luck with that. Hogwarts isn't exactly known for being quiet, especially not lately."

"So I've heard. What do you say about the ice cream? There's a vendor just outside, and I promise not to ask you about defeating Dark Lords or any of the other things people probably bother you about constantly."

Neville felt a flutter of something he hadn't experienced in a long time—genuine anticipation about making a new friend. There was something about Hadrian that drew him in, a combination of confidence and playfulness that made him want to know more. This wasn't someone who would treat him like a famous artifact or expect him to live up to impossible standards.

"I'd like that," Neville said, though he glanced toward where his grandmother was examining a display of rare orchids. "But I should ask my grandmother first. She's... protective."

"Of course. Shall I introduce myself properly?"

Neville nodded, and they approached Augusta together. As they drew near, Hadrian shifted subtly into a more formal demeanor—straighter posture, more precise diction, the sort of respectful bearing that someone of Augusta's generation and social standing would both notice and appreciate.

"Lady Longbottom," he said, offering a respectful bow that was precisely calibrated to show appropriate deference without being obsequious. "I am Hadrian Evans, son of the late Marcus and Helena Evans. I must apologize for drawing your grandson away from your supervision—I bumped into him quite clumsily while admiring your excellent taste in plant specimens. I've offered to buy him ice cream by way of apology, if you would permit it."

Augusta studied him with sharp eyes that missed nothing—the quality of his clothes, the confidence of his bearing, the respectful but not servile way he addressed her, the magnificent raven that watched her with obvious intelligence.

"Evans," she repeated thoughtfully. "I knew your parents by reputation. Marcus and Helena were well-regarded in certain circles—competent researchers and honorable people. I was sorry to hear of their passing."

"Thank you, my lady. They spoke highly of the Longbottom family as well, and always intended for me to complete my education at Hogwarts alongside the finest young witches and wizards of our generation."

"Did they indeed?" Augusta's expression warmed slightly at the compliment. "And you're starting this year?"

"As a fourth-year transfer student, yes ma'am. I was homeschooled previously due to my parents' extensive travel schedule, but they believed strongly in the value of a traditional Hogwarts education for developing both magical ability and social connections."

"Homeschooled?" Augusta's eyebrows rose with interest. "That's quite unusual. What sort of curriculum did they provide?"

"Comprehensive magical theory with particular emphasis on runic magic and cross-cultural magical traditions," Hadrian replied easily. "They believed in learning from multiple sources rather than limiting myself to any single national approach. I've had the privilege of studying with practitioners from across Europe, North Africa, and the Nordic countries."

"Impressive educational foundation. And you're hoping to befriend my grandson?"

"I'm hoping we might become friends, yes ma'am. I'll be honest, Lady Longbottom—I'm hoping to make several good friends before school starts. Being a transfer student can be isolating, and I'd rather begin with some established connections than try to navigate the social landscape entirely alone."

Augusta nodded approvingly. This was exactly the sort of practical, forward-thinking approach she could respect, and the boy's honesty about his motivations was refreshing compared to the usual approaches Neville received.

"Very sensible. And you understand that friendship with Neville comes with... complications?"

"You mean the fame and public attention?" Hadrian's expression grew thoughtful. "I understand that it's part of his life, but I'm more interested in who he is as a person than in his reputation. I've seen enough of fame's effects during my parents' work to know that it's often more burden than blessing."

"Wise perspective for someone your age." Augusta's approval was becoming more evident. "Very well, Mr. Evans. You may take Neville for ice cream, but don't wander far from the main thoroughfare, and have him back within the hour. We still have several more shops to visit before the day is through."

"Of course, my lady. Thank you for your trust."

"Don't disappoint it," she said firmly, though her tone had lost its initial edge.

Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlor was doing brisk business in the warm afternoon, but they managed to secure a small table slightly away from the main crowd. Neville ordered an elaborate chocolate and caramel creation that looked like it could feed three people, while Hadrian chose something more modest—vanilla with berry compote that reminded him of desserts he'd enjoyed during his fictional travels.

"So," Neville said, settling into his chair with obvious relief at being away from the curious stares that seemed to follow him everywhere, "homeschooled by research parents who worked with curse-breakers and rune-masters. That sounds... incredible, actually."

As they talked, Neville found himself increasingly drawn to his new acquaintance. Hadrian had a way of making conversation feel effortless, asking questions that showed genuine interest while sharing just enough about himself to maintain intrigue. There was something almost hypnotic about the way he moved and spoke—controlled but not rigid, confident but not arrogant. It was like talking to someone much older who had chosen to inhabit a teenager's body.

"It was certainly educational," Hadrian replied with a grin that transformed his face from merely handsome to genuinely charming. "Though I have to admit, I'm looking forward to having classmates my own age. Most of my education came from interacting with adults, which is useful for learning advanced theory but not exactly conducive to developing normal social skills."

"I wouldn't worry about that too much. You seem plenty social to me." Neville paused, then asked the question that was clearly bothering him. "You really don't care that I'm... you know. The Boy-Who-Lived?"

"It's part of who you are, I suppose, but it's hardly the most interesting part." Hadrian's expression grew more serious, and Neville caught a glimpse of something deeper—wisdom, perhaps, or experience beyond his apparent years. "I imagine it must be exhausting, having people constantly react to your reputation rather than to you as a person."

"It can be," Neville admitted quietly, surprised by how easily he found himself opening up to this near-stranger. "Most people either want to be my friend because of the fame, or they avoid me because they think I'm too much trouble to be around. Or they expect me to be some sort of heroic figure instead of just... me."

"And what are you like, when you're just you?"

Neville's face brightened considerably at the question. "I love plants. Herbology is my best subject—I can spend hours in the greenhouses just watching things grow and learning how different species interact with each other. Gran thinks it's not a suitable interest for someone of my 'station,'" he made air quotes around the word, "but Professor Sprout says I have real talent for it."

"Your grandmother doesn't approve of Herbology?"

"She thinks I should focus on Defense Against the Dark Arts, or Transfiguration, or other 'warrior' subjects. Things that would be more appropriate for someone who's supposed to be a great wizard." Neville's voice carried a note of frustration that Hadrian recognized all too well. "But I'm much better with plants than I am with combat magic."

"There's nothing wrong with that. Some of the most powerful magic I've encountered has been plant-based—healing potions, protective barriers, enhancement elixirs. The Druids built entire magical traditions around working with growing things."

"Really?" Neville's eyes lit up with genuine excitement. "I've read about Druidic traditions, but most of the books available at Hogwarts are pretty basic. Did your parents encounter any practicing Druids during their research?"

"A few, particularly in Ireland and the Scottish Highlands. They had incredible knowledge about the magical properties of different plants, and some of their techniques for enhancing natural growth patterns were extraordinary."

They spent the next twenty minutes discussing magical botany, with Neville proving to be far more knowledgeable and passionate about the subject than most people twice his age. Hadrian found himself genuinely impressed by the depth of understanding the boy had developed, and more importantly, by the quiet confidence he displayed when talking about something he truly cared about.

"What about your other friends?" Hadrian asked eventually. "You mentioned you weren't completely isolated at Hogwarts."

"Ron and Hermione," Neville said immediately, his face brightening even further. "They're my best friends—we've been through quite a lot together over the past few years."

"Adventures?"

"You could call them that." Neville launched into edited versions of some of their experiences—the search for the Philosopher's Stone during first year, the Chamber of Secrets mystery in second year. "Second year was particularly scary—students were being petrified left and right, and everyone thought the monster was going to kill someone. Hermione was one of the ones who got petrified, actually. Ron and I were beside ourselves with worry."

"That sounds terrifying. How did you solve it?"

"Well, it turned out the monster was a basilisk, and it was being controlled through an enchanted diary that belonged to You-Know-Who when he was at school. We managed to destroy the diary and save everyone, but it was touch and go for a while." Neville's expression grew more serious. "Ron got hurt pretty badly in the process—we had to split up to cover more ground, and he ended up facing down the basilisk's reflection in a mirror. Could have been killed."

Hadrian listened with genuine interest, noting the differences from his own timeline while enjoying Neville's animated storytelling. The absence of any mention of Sirius Black was telling—in this world, Sirius had never been imprisoned, never escaped, never been a threat to students.

"It sounds like Hogwarts is every bit as eventful as I'd heard," Hadrian observed when Neville finished describing their encounter with Dementors during a Quidditch match in third year. "What were Dementors doing at the school in the first place?"

"The Ministry stationed them around the grounds after there were some security concerns—reports of suspicious activity in the area, people asking questions about students and schedules. Nothing came of it in the end, but having those creatures nearby made the whole year miserable." Neville shuddered. "Horrible things—they make you relive your worst memories just by being near them."

"That does sound unpleasant. But you managed to learn how to deal with them?"

"Professor Lupin taught me the Patronus Charm. Mine's a toad, which Ron thinks is hilarious, but it works." Neville grinned. "Hermione's is an otter, and Ron's is a terrier. They're all quite proud of managing corporeal Patronuses in third year."

"Impressive. Most adult wizards struggle with that spell."

"Professor Lupin is brilliant at Defense. Best teacher we've had for that subject, though that's not saying much considering our track record." Neville's expression grew fond, then somewhat troubled. "He's got a son our age, actually—Orion Black. Well, adopted son. It's... a difficult situation."

"Oh?" Hadrian tried to keep his voice casual, though his heart rate picked up at the mention of Remus and Sirius's son.

"Orion's had a rough time of it at school. There are some people who... well, let's just say they don't treat him very kindly." Neville's voice grew quieter, and Hadrian could see genuine distress in his expression. "He mostly keeps to himself these days, or hangs around with Harry Potter."

"And you don't get along with this Harry Potter?"

"Not particularly," Neville admitted, his discomfort becoming more apparent. "He's... well, he's been spoiled rotten since birth. His parents are lovely people, don't get me wrong, but they've never really learned how to say no to him about anything important. Plus everyone expected us to be friends because we're both 'famous'—him for having parents who survived You-Know-Who, me for actually defeating him. But we just don't mesh."

"What's he like?"

"Arrogant, mostly. Expects everyone to fall in line with whatever he wants to do, gets nasty when things don't go his way. He's got some pretty horrible opinions about certain types of people, and he's not shy about sharing them." Neville's expression grew deeply uncomfortable, and he fidgeted with his ice cream spoon. "The way he treats Orion... it's not friendship, not really. More like he keeps him around to have someone to push around, and Orion just... takes it."

Neville's voice grew smaller, more troubled. "I know something's wrong with the whole situation. I can see it in how Orion flinches sometimes, or how he goes quiet when Harry starts in on one of his rants. But I don't know how to help, or even if Orion would want my help. And I feel terrible about it, but I also don't want to get dragged into whatever mess they've created between them."

He looked up at Hadrian with genuine distress in his eyes. "Does that make me a coward? Watching someone get treated badly and not doing anything about it?"

Hadrian felt a surge of protective instinct toward this earnest, caring boy who was clearly struggling with his conscience. "It makes you human," he said gently. "Sometimes the most well-intentioned interference can make things worse, especially when you don't understand all the dynamics involved."

"But I should be doing something, shouldn't I? I'm supposed to be the Boy-Who-Lived, the one who stands up to bullies and protects people." Neville's frustration with himself was palpable. "Instead I just... avoid them both and pretend I don't see what's happening."

"What's the situation with sharing a dormitory?" Hadrian asked, steering the conversation toward practical details while filing away everything Neville had revealed about his character—the empathy, the moral compass, the tendency to blame himself for not fixing problems that weren't really his to solve.

"It's tense. We're all in Gryffindor—Orion probably wanted to follow in his fathers' footsteps, make them proud, though I'm not sure it's done him any favors being stuck with us." Neville sighed heavily. "I try to stay out of their drama, but it's hard when you're living in the same space. Sometimes I hear things... arguments, or just the way Harry talks to him when he thinks no one's listening. It makes me sick, but I don't know what to do about it."

Hadrian could see the weight Neville was carrying—the guilt of inaction, the helplessness of not knowing how to fix a situation he could see was wrong. It was exactly the sort of moral complexity that would make him an excellent partner, someone who would balance out Hadrian's more pragmatic tendencies with genuine compassion and ethical considerations.

"Maybe the answer isn't trying to fix their relationship," Hadrian suggested carefully. "Maybe it's just making sure Orion knows he has other options, other people who might actually want to be his friend without expecting anything in return."

"You mean like..." Neville's eyes lit up with the beginnings of hope. "You think I should try to befriend him directly?"

"I think you should follow your instincts. You clearly care about doing the right thing, which is more than a lot of people can say." Hadrian smiled encouragingly. "Besides, you'll have backup soon. I have a feeling I might end up in Hufflepuff—they value loyalty and fairness, don't they? That would put me in a perfect position to befriend Orion without any of the Gryffindor house politics getting in the way."

Neville blinked, clearly not having considered the inter-house angle. "That's... actually brilliant. If you approached him as someone completely outside the situation, someone who hasn't been influenced by all the drama..."

"Exactly. A transfer student with no preconceptions, just looking to make genuine friends. It would be very public too—everyone would see that Orion has options beyond just putting up with Harry's treatment." Hadrian's expression grew more thoughtful. "Sometimes the best way to help someone is to show them they're worth more than they think they are."

The relief and gratitude in Neville's expression was unmistakable. "Really? You'd want to get involved in house drama before you've even been sorted?"

"I'd want to help a friend who's trying to do the right thing," Hadrian corrected gently. "That's what friends do, isn't it?"

Hadrian absorbed this information with growing concern. It sounded like this world's Harry Potter had developed some deeply troubling attitudes, and poor Orion was caught up in what sounded like an abusive dynamic.

"That sounds... complicated," he said diplomatically.

"It is. I try to stay out of their drama, but it's hard when you share a dormitory." Neville's expression brightened again. "But enough about them. Ron and Hermione are brilliant—you'll like them, I think. Ron's funny and loyal, though he can be a bit hot-headed sometimes. And Hermione is probably the cleverest person in our year, maybe in the whole school. She can be a bit intense about studying, but she's also incredibly brave when it matters."

"They sound like good friends to have."

"The best. I don't know what I would have done without them, especially after some of the things we've faced." Neville's expression grew more serious. "It helps, having people who care about you for who you are rather than what you're supposed to represent."

"I can imagine. And they'll be in fourth year as well?"

"Yes, same year as us. You'll like them, I think. Ron can be a bit... well, he doesn't always think before he speaks, but his heart's in the right place. And Hermione will probably want to quiz you about your educational background and compare notes on different magical traditions."

"That sounds wonderful, actually. I've been looking forward to having conversations with people my own age who share similar interests."

As they continued to chat, Neville found himself increasingly drawn to this intriguing new acquaintance. There was something almost magnetic about Hadrian—the way he listened with genuine attention, asked thoughtful questions, and managed to make even ordinary conversation feel significant. More than that, there was a sense of understanding between them, as if Hadrian somehow grasped the challenges of living up to other people's expectations without needing lengthy explanations.

For the first time in months, Neville felt like he was talking to someone who might actually become a real friend—not because of his fame or his family connections, but because they genuinely enjoyed each other's company.

"Speaking of which," Neville said, leaning forward with curiosity, "what made your parents decide to focus on runic magic? That's quite specialized."

Hadrian considered how much to reveal, then decided on a version of the truth that would satisfy curiosity without raising too many questions. "They believed that most modern magical education had become too narrow, too focused on spell-casting and potion-making while ignoring the theoretical frameworks that underlie all magical practice. They thought understanding runic magic—the mathematical and symbolic foundations of magical energy manipulation—would give me a broader base to build on."

"That makes sense. I've always wondered about the theory behind some of the spells we learn. Like, why does 'Wingardium Leviosa' work? What makes those particular sounds and wand movements cause objects to float?"

"Exactly the sort of questions they encouraged me to ask. The answer, incidentally, involves resonance patterns between the verbal incantation, the physical gestures, and the caster's magical signature, but that's probably more detail than you want right now."

"Actually, that's fascinating. Maybe you could explain it properly sometime when we have more time?"

"I'd be happy to. It's nice to meet someone who's interested in the 'why' behind magic, not just the 'how.'"

Their conversation was interrupted by Augusta's approach, her expression carrying a mixture of approval and mild impatience.

"Time to go, Neville. We still have Flourish and Blotts, and I want to visit Gringotts before they close."

"Of course, Gran." Neville stood, though he looked slightly reluctant to end the conversation. As he rose, he felt a moment of uncertainty—should he ask to see Hadrian again? It felt presumptuous, but at the same time, he really didn't want this connection to end here.

"Thank you for the ice cream, Hadrian. And for... well, for treating me like a normal person."

"Thank you for excellent company and fascinating conversation." Hadrian rose as well, offering another respectful nod to Augusta. "Lady Longbottom, thank you for permitting me to monopolize your grandson's time."

"Think nothing of it, Mr. Evans. You've been a perfectly appropriate companion." Augusta's tone was warmer than it had been during their initial meeting. "I trust we'll see you at Hogwarts tomorrow?"

"Indeed you will, ma'am. I'm looking forward to it."

"Excellent. Neville, we really must be going now."

"Right, Gran." Neville turned back to Hadrian, decision made. The afternoon had been the most genuinely enjoyable social interaction he'd had in months, and he wasn't ready to let it slip away into uncertainty.

"I don't suppose... that is, would you like to sit with us on the train tomorrow? Ron and Hermione will want to meet you, and it might be nice to have some familiar faces for your first journey to Hogwarts."

The invitation felt natural, right in a way that surprised him with its intensity. Something about Hadrian made him want to extend the connection, to bring this intriguing new person into his circle of friends.

"I'd like that very much," Hadrian replied sincerely, and Neville felt a warm glow of satisfaction at the genuine pleasure in his voice. "Thank you for the invitation."

"Brilliant. Look for us around the middle of the train—we usually find a compartment somewhere around there."

As the Longbottoms made their way toward their next destination, Hadrian felt a warm glow of satisfaction. The encounter had gone better than he'd dared hope—not only had he successfully made contact with Neville, but he'd managed to establish what felt like the beginning of a genuine friendship rather than just a strategic alliance.

Tomorrow would bring new challenges and opportunities, but for now, he was content to have taken the first real step toward building the life he wanted in this new reality.