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Chapter Text

Little Harry loved his mum. Flopsy was the best mum in the whole wide world. She always gave him cuddles when he was sad or hurting. She always gave him kisses when he was a good boy or did something amazing. She always heaped him in praises when he did good at his studies or did cool magic. She always told him why he was in trouble and why he shouldn’t do it again.

She was the best mum in the world, but he was sad and confused. He had seen himself in the mirror the other day, and he looked nothing like his mum or his kin. He looked more like the masters, and that was strange.

Floppy had grey skin, long pointy ears, and big shiny brown eyes. Whereas Harry had pink skin, rounded ears, and small green eyes. Harry had checked all his kin, and none of them looked like him. His mum told him not to worry though. She would always love him, no matter what he looked like.

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So, it turns out that Harry was not an elf. He was a human. Apparently, his parents were James and Lily Potter, the masters, and they were really busy, so Flopsy had been assigned to Harry’s care.

Harry had been in the library, making his way through the collection of books when a boy – who looked just like hi – had popped up beside him, and scared him so bad, he’d fallen off his chair.

“Who are you?” The boy had shouted.

“I…” Harry had stammered quietly, confused beyond reason. “I’m Harry. Who… who are you?”

“I’m Ben,” the boy stated loudly, puffing out his chest and putting his fists on his hips. “Why do you look like me?”

“I… I don’t know. Mum?”

Flopsy had appeared with a quiet pop, and Harry didn’t like what he saw. She looked between the boys, wringing her hands and bouncing from foot to foot. She was scared, and that made Harry want to cry. She had then explained how Harry and Ben were twins, and how a bad man had tried to hurt the family when they were babes. Their parents – yes, it turned out that Harry had a human mum and dad – had decided that they needed to focus on Ben and his training and had asked Flopsy to look after Harry. They had claimed that it was for his safety. Harry didn’t really understand it, but at least he had Flopsy.

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Harry was eight when he started to understand and began to resent his blood relations. He and his brother had known about each other for a little over two years and Harry had been watching.

Harry had joined the other elflings in their lessons: literacy, numeracy, elven runes, and basic magic. He wasn’t allowed to join the work related lessons and was instead sent to the library for most of the day to learn about the human world and human magic. As elves weren’t allowed – or needed to – use a wand to perform magic, they mainly used their fingers as foci.

It took Harry months to just start to feel his core, then several more months to feel the magic all around them, and then figure out how to manipulate both. It, apparently, came as naturally to elves as breathing, but as Harry was human, he could only affect the ambient magics of the world when he engaged his core first.

As always, his mum and his kin had been kind and patient with him. They consulted the library elf, Milly, and had come up with several methods to help Harry learn. Ultimately, it had been meditation and occlumency training that had helped.

Harry had spent hours meditating whilst focusing on his core and the ambient magics, drawing them inwards and then releasing them without shape. He created an area within his mind that looked like the library. All the knowledge he had gained was gathered there. At the end of the aisles were doors that led to areas that looked like the elf quarters of the manor, and there he left his memories.

One day, after having read it in a book, he conjured a door that led to his magic. Beyond a simple reddish brown wooden door was a dark void with a mass that burned like the sun. But it did not harm Harry. It made him feel safe and in control.

With his discovery came an understanding of his magic that made its deployment almost instinctual. Not like the elves, but similar. He would never truly understand how the elves wielded magic, but he was content with his mimicry.

They taught him how to levitate, summon and banish, conjure and vanish, transfigure and transform. It was when they taught him how to pop and hide that Harry began his spying.

Popping was hard to learn, but easy to do once he got it. He had to reduce his own contribution of magic to virtually zero before it worked. He had to wrap himself in ambient magic, make sure it covered him from head to toe, inside and out, and then will himself somewhere else. He had to believe he could do it and trust himself completely. Hiding was much the same. Drenched in ambient magic and an unwavering confidence that he would remain out of sight.

He had watched his blood relations and slowly came to realise that he had been discarded and forgotten. His blood parents hadn’t laid eyes on him since he was a babe. His brother was loud and boastful, and seemed to have forgotten him after their first meeting.

Harry simply put them out of his mind and continued to consume the library. He had access to it all. No ward nor charm could hide anything from him.

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When Harry received his Hogwarts letter, the elves had organised an amazing celebration. Banners and streamers littered the antechamber just off the kitchen. The elflings were squeaky and loud, the middle-aged elves supped on butterbeer and got louder as the evening progressed, and the elderly elves shared stories that seemed like fiction. There was laughter, and tears, and hugs, and wails. Elves were the best.

Flopsy had taken him to Diagon Alley for the first time to get his school supplies. They had both chosen to hide most of the day. Harry had never spent so much time among humans, and the sight and sound of them made him recoil.

It turned out that Harry liked the Goblins just as much as he like elves. They were awesome. Their little suits were just glamours over armour and weapons. With ambient magic constantly cycling through his eyes, he would see right through to the truth.

His lessons had included as many ‘creature’ languages as the Potter elves knew. So, addressing the Goblins in their native tongue had impressed the teller and then his account manager.

Harry found out that when he had been born, a trust vault had automatically opened for him with G2000 added to it. That had been a surprise. One that he had been grateful for. In the end, Harry had opened his own vault. His trust vault wasn’t able to accumulate wealth – the Goblin had told him with disgust – and was capped. So together with his account manager, Gorethrip, and Flopsy, they created an investment plan that would be funded initially by the trust. They then developed an investment plan that would help Harry when he came of age. As the second son, Harry was only entitled to a small stipend that was granted purely at the behest of the Lord of House Potter. Even at the age of eleven though, he knew he wouldn’t want to rely on the Potters any longer than was legally required. He would take his trust and make sure he was prepared.

Once he left Gringotts with a magically refilling money pouch, Harry and Flopsy had easily purchased all his supplies.

The last shop they visited was Ollivander’s to get a wand. It took a while, but Harry finally got one. It felt like it sang in his hand, warming his hand and sending tingles to his core. It demanded his attention and seemed to question his use of ambient magic, but when he began to channel the natural magics through the wand, he felt... acceptance, warmth, and a sense of wholeness. He smiled.

When he looked up at the old man, he almost stepped back at the look on the man’s face. It turned out that the man had thought the wand would choose Ben because its brother wand had chosen the Dark Lord.

Harry simply shrugged, putting the conversation out of his mind. It was none of his business, after all.

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Hogwarts castle was amazing. The humans, not so much, but the masonry, the magic, the elves; they were fantastic.

When he had crossed the wards over the lake, the information his mind tried to digest made him sway in his seat. The wards were complex and intrigued Harry. Their construction would require far more than a few words and a push of power. He couldn’t wait to see the library so he could parse them out. The Potter library didn’t have much of note on the topic.

The castle itself was like something out of the elders’ stories. Grand and imposing. The welcoming nature of her magic lessened any oppressive feelings he might have felt though. Her embrace was motherly and stepping across the threshold made Harry smile. Something was off though, and again Harry felt intrigued.

When the sorting hat had fallen over his eyes, the questions filled his mind completely unbidden. Was he created from purely charms-work or a combination of disciplines? Was the personality aspect intentional or accidental? Was the privacy considered ward-work? Was the hat – Geoffrey – Merlin’s or Godric’s? Did the hat possess pre-cognitive powers?

The hat had just laughed and called out “Ravenclaw,” telling Harry to learn and grow, and perhaps he would be able to answer his own questions.

His housemates had not liked it when he refused to answer questions about his twin. He did not want to be known as the brother of the Boy-Who-Lived, and he made sure they knew that from the outset.

Classes were boring. He already knew the theoretical bases for all his classes, the practical work was beyond easy, and the homework was a breeze. He spent all his free time in the library and was rather disappointed at the selection. It was limited and curated to one point of view, just like the Potter library. He had hoped for an objective seat of learning, but alas, what could he expect when the headmaster was the Light Lord.

At any rate, he was bored, and he told his Head of House just that when they had their initial meeting.

“I see,” Professor Flitwick had replied, looking at him inquisitively. “And what would you like to do about that, Mr Potter?”

“Harry, please,” he had replied, hating the use of his blood name. He wished Flopsy had a family name so he could use that instead. “Can I take other classes, like Arithmancy and Runes? I can study warding, enchanting, and spell weaving in my own time.”

“Typically, those subjects can only be studied by third years, Mr... Harry.”

“Can I skip first and second year then?”

His professor sighed, looking out into the distance. It took several minutes for him to formulate a response.

“Unfortunately,” he began, looking back at Harry. “First year must be completed in its entirety.” Harry’s shoulders slumped in disappointment.

“However,” his professor said around a tinkling laugh. “If you were to pass both first and second year exams at the end of term three, I will consider putting you with the third years next year.”

That had perked him up. Harry didn’t think it would take much work; his kin had schooled him well.

After thanking his Head of House and promising to get Exceeds Expectations and above, he left for his dorm to form a plan.

The core OWL – Ordinary Wizarding Level – subjects at Hogwarts included: Transfiguration, Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, Potions, History of Magic, and Astronomy. The electives he was interested in were Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures, and Muggle Studies. The Ministry available OWLs included: Warding, Enchanting, Spell Weaving, Dark Arts, Healing, Global Runes, and a variety of languages.

He could get the language rune implanted when he was of age, so he wouldn’t need to worry about those. He had heard that Muggle Studies and History of Magic were a joke, so he would have to self-study those subjects too. He would be able to take the core and elective exams in his fifth year – or fourth if he had his way – so he should aim to take the Ministry available OWLs in the summers up to that year. Then he could spend the next two years taking his NEWTS – Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests – so he was ready to leave just before his seventeenth birthday.

With a general plan in mind, he worked on the finer details, the day to day, so he would be able to study and consume the library in its entirety. Even if it was horribly biased, he still wanted to consume it all.

He penned a letter to the WEA – Wizarding Examination Authority – to ask for the requirements for all OWLs available through the British Ministry of Magic, including those available at Hogwarts. After sitting through a few classes with a ghost that droned on, repeated himself and included far too many details about irrelevant minutia, he knew he needed to create his own study schedule. And he didn’t even want to talk about Defence. The professor smelt terrible, stuttered a great deal, and didn’t reserve much time for practical application of defensive magic.

Potions was another interesting one. The professor had been quite contrary in the beginning. He spat the word ‘Potter’ like it was a curse and tried very hard to find error in Harry’s work. He had not found it and had instead been impressed with Harry’s diligence. He never rose to the bait, and always produced EE or above work. And why wouldn’t he? Flopsy had him in front of a cauldron as often as she could. The elves kept the Potter potions cupboard stocked, and it was one of the only areas Harry was allowed to help in.

By the end of the year, Harry had an O in all subjects for both first and second year exams and was pushed ahead a year.

Oh, and apparently Ben had had a confrontation with the Dark Lord or something. Harry didn’t rightly care, he would be taking Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, and Care of Magical Creatures the next year.

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Harry’s second year was much better. His schedule was packed with classes and the content was far more challenging. The only professor, other than Flitwick to express their surprise at his advancement was Professor Snape. He had actually demanded he remain after their first class of the year.

“Mr Potter,” the man drawled, not looking up from the paper on his desk.

“Harry, please,” he interrupted without thinking. He hated that name and grimaced. Snape must have caught it if Harry read the questioning look right.

“You don’t like your family name?” The man broached slowly; black eyes boring into Harry.

“I do not,” Harry replied curtly.

“Is there something I, or your Head of House, should know?”

It took Harry long seconds to parse his meaning. The professor was wondering about the status of his home life.

“Oh, no sir,” Harry told him cautiously. “I just want to be Harry, not another Potter, brother of the Boy Who Lived.”

Snape eyed him for a beat or two before saying, “I see.”

The two stared at each other for long seconds before the professor seemed to remember why he had asked Harry to stay. It turned out that he just wanted to make sure that Harry was prepared for the increased workload and harder content. Harry showed him a copy of his study schedule, particularly the Potions portion, and left behind a satisfied professor.

The year went by quickly. Harry was at least a quarter of the way through the library and was beyond satisfied with his classes. Alongside his classes, he prepared for his Global Runes, and Dark Arts OWLs he would be taking in the summer.

He had needed to special order the books he needed over the summer and purchase a trunk upgrade to add an internal library for the questionable books the Light Lord wouldn’t want in his school. Thankfully, Ravenclaws did not share a room, so he could disappear into his trunk for hours on end and no-one would miss him. Not that anyone would notice. The only friends Harry had made at Hogwarts were the elves. He took his meals in the kitchens and when he needed a break, he went down there to play with or teach the younglings. Flopsy came to help out in the kitchen often, so he never really felt lonely.

Harry was happy when the end of the year came. Apparently, a bunch of students had been petrified, and Ben had found out there was a basilisk in the chamber of secrets. Harry had just shrugged and continued memorising the Orkhon alphabet system.

By the end of the summer, Harry received confirmation of his first two OWLs. He received an O in both Dark Arts, and Global Runes. The elves had showered him in butterbeer, and they’d woken in a pile the next day.

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Harry’s third year went past in a blur. Professor Snape had warmed up to him more. The man was truly witty and sharp. Always ready with a biting comment about this or that, and he constantly invited Harry to help him with his stores, brewing and picking ingredients. Harry didn’t really know why, but the man was far more palatable than other humans, so he mostly accepted the invitation.

The content was a little more interesting and complicated, but Harry didn’t falter.

By the end of the year, Harry had managed to read a little over half of the library and was just about ready for his Spell Weaving and Healing OWLs.

On a side note, turns out that Ben’s best friend, Ronald Weasley, had been harbouring the criminal that attacked them as babies in the Gryffindor dorms. Harry grimaced and carried on walking.

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Fourth year came with far too much upheaval. It was OWL year for Harry, and some fool had decided to host a suicide tournament on the grounds of Hogwarts, and invited Beauxbatons and Durmstrang to watch and participate. The buzz of magic that accompanied the excitement of the students was distracting and aggravating. And to top it off, Beauxbatons had brought Veela. The pull of their natural magic was a constant irritation that made Harry want to strike out. It was that October in 1994 that Harry realised he was attracted to his own sex. The allure of the female Veela did not reach him, only the male. He had never really taken the time to notice such things, and the realisation came with a “huh” and a shrug.

An important meeting with Flitwick had resulted in a week straight of research, meditation, and tea with mum. When Harry broke through the haze, he decided he was going to be a Curse-Breaker for Gringotts. He would get to travel the world, learn about different magics and artefacts, and work with all types of beings. It almost made him giddy to think about. It would need more planning, more lists.

Again, Harry spent most of the year either in the library or in his trunk. Unfortunately, his time with the elves was cut, but the year passed in a flash so he could hardly complain.

It was only when Harry came out of his room one day in June that someone informed him that Ben had apparently been kidnapped and used as potions ingredients for the return of the Dark Lord. The callous, “is he dead?” was met with a blank stare, a long look, and an incredulous “no.” Harry had shrugged and walked away.

That summer, Harry became the proud owner of seventeen OWLs.

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It was in Harry’s fifth year that he developed his first crush. In Harry’s mind, it came out of nowhere and blindsided him. It wasn’t like he ever really spent time with humans, they were annoying, petty creatures that were hardly worth his attention. But... Professor Snape was one of his... was his favourite.

By that point, the pair spent every Sunday together. Harry would help the grading of lower year potions homework in the morning. He would then take inventory of the supply cupboard and fill in the requisite forms for refilling them. After lunch, the pair would brew. There was hardly any chatter, but the day filled up his need for human interaction to the point that he could be entirely silent for the rest of the week. Of course, unless he went to the kitchens and spent time with his real friends.

Nothing really came of his crush. He didn’t tell his professor, he didn’t change his behaviour, and he held no expectations. His realisation even came over a bubbling Pepper Up. He had been grinding the bicorn horn whilst watching his professor’s back through the steam of his cauldron when the man had turned around with a gleam in his eye. He had been experimenting with thunderbird tail feathers for several months, trying to make an animagus potion that would negate the ritual. He had scoffed at the idea of standing in a storm or muddling about with a leaf in his mouth for a month. “How absurd,” he’d said. And Harry couldn’t help but agree. He wholeheartedly concurred with his professor’s assertion of “Why would I bumble through a tiresome ritual when I can just design a potion?”

It was the last stage of the ritual he needed to replace, and he had finally done it. Soaking a mandrake leaf in twenty-eight drops of blood for twenty-eight days in a silver cauldron had replaced the first step. Adding the dew – no sunlight nor human feet have touched – and the chrysalis of a Death’s Head Hawk Moth to the base and leave in a dark place for a minimum of three days. Each day, chant “Amato Animo Animato Animagus” over the cauldron whilst pouring in a little magic. Then roast the tail feather of a thunderbird, grind to powder and sprinkle in before imbibing.

The testers had found that anywhere between three to thirty-six days after adding the moth to the base yielded the same results. And so, mid-December of Harry’s fifth year, he and Severus Snape became animagi. It was when he changed back and saw the look of awe in his professor’s eye that he realised that he wouldn’t mind seeing that expression – and others – on his professor’s face again. He had blushed and looked away.

It was around that time that Harry realised that the new – and incompetent – Defence teacher was trying to bait him. In their first lesson, the toad-like woman had asked him if he were lost and had confused him for Ben.

“My name is Harry, ma’am,” he’d told her quietly, indicating at the blue and bronze that showed him to be a Ravenclaw. His classmates had even confirmed it too. How nice of them.

“Regardless,” she chirped in an overly girlish tone. “You are a mere fifth year, and do not belong in my NEWT class.”

Harry had simply summoned his most recently updated transcript from the Ministry and handed it to the woman. She had flushed so brightly that she almost mirrored her horrible clothing. Harry had bowed, thanked the woman, taken back his transcript and headed back to his seat.

Ever since then, the woman had been very vocal about the supposed lie Ben had told about the return of the Dark Lord. Her eyes would find him, and a look of anticipatory glee would flick across her face. Harry would merely frown and look away. He couldn’t care less about that nonsense and had little to say on the matter. She was entitled to her opinion, as was Ben.

What did bother him was the woman’s awful teaching. The curriculum was worst than usual, and the lack of practical time was just ridiculous. It had taken him having a rational chat – throwing a tantrum – with his mum to discover an amazing place on the seventh floor where he could practice to heart’s content and perhaps learn more than he bargained for.

Harry ended up spending far more time in the Come and Go room that year than he usually did in the library. He had spent an hour drilling with one of the practice dummies when he had had stray thought about a new book he wanted to buy. A flicker of magic to his left and the book was there. Just... right there on a serving table, which had not been there a second prior. Another stray thought about a comfy chair, and then light touch at the back of his legs had him jumping forward, stinging hex flying at a deep forest green lounger. He could swear that the ripple of magic that went through the room was akin to tinkling laugh, but he couldn’t be sure.

If Harry willed it, then the room provided. He had had to get his schedules out and rework his lists. It was worth it. He had thought that he would have to wait to get his duelling certification after he graduated, and he still might wait, but the room provided texts he had not heard of, and equipment he could not have dreamt of. Obstacle courses, dodging racks, spell identifying quizzes, and the like. The elves had always made sure he was active, but the type of burn he felt after a session in the room made him feel more alive than he had in a long time.

The year rounded off with excitement for Harry – who knows what Ben did, something with the Ministry, or whatever. He had been with Professor Snape when one of the Inquisitorial Squad had demanded veritaserum for Ben’s interrogation. When the man returned, he had been pale and clearly in pain. He’d rushed through the classroom and to his office and made a fire-call. When he came back, he looked nauseous and on the verge of collapse. He’d tried to send Harry away, but there was no chance.

When Harry stepped closer, ignoring the vitriol with practiced ease, the man had finally fallen to his knees. Harry could feel the dark magic emanating from the man’s left forearm. It was so complex and yet not. Drawing more ambient magic to his eyes, Harry could see that the spell-work wasn’t in the standard Latin branch. The script was not one he had seen before, curly but open, like a cross between Hindi and Arabic. But he knew it was neither of those as whatever his eyes latched onto, it faded out like he could only read it sometimes. If he didn’t focus to much on the distinct characters, he could see that the magic was a leech, a locator, a trace, a communicator, a punishment, a brand. The layers spoke of different functions, and at that moment, it was sucking the life out of Harry’s crush.

Harry’s hands flew to the spot where he sensed the stain on Severus Snape, and with crossed eyes, Harry began to pick at the layers of the magic and unfurl them. The tendrils went deep within him, right down to Snape’s core. That was the first part to go. Harry unpicked each strand that held firm to the man’s magic and replenished his core with the abundant ambient magic in the castle. Once the leech was gone, Harry sunk right down to the source. The mark was bound by oath but had been broken on both ends. First by master, then by servant. Nothing held them together anymore, so once the tether to Snape’s mind and magic was unpicked, Harry ripped the rest out and watched as the phantom of a snake riding a skull faded from sight.

Harry seemed to snap out of his daze when he heard a rasped, “what did you do?”

“It...” He didn’t usually stammer anymore but Harry was shaken and drained. He shook his head, clearing the cotton from his mind. “It was draining your magic. It had to go.”

Snape pulled his sleeve up further and just stared for long minutes. That same look of awe mixed with shock on his face. Harry stared back; mind blank. The man looked younger when he didn’t scowl.

All Harry got for his trouble was a “thank you” before he was ushered out of the office for the night.

It didn’t matter though, Harry had exams to worry about – end of year and the upcoming NEWTS during the holidays. He didn’t see Snape again until the next year.

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Harry’s final year at Hogwarts was probably the worst. He spent most of his non-class time in the room, in his trunk, or in the library. Professor Snape had had to drag him from the library, even after Harry had applied a sticking charm to the chair and the book in his hand. The summer had been hard. The NEWTs were worst than he expected. He hadn’t received below an EE, but he wanted straight Os, and not getting them made him want to hex people. So, when the professor had told informed him that he had a detention for not showing up for Sunday brewing three weeks in a row, he had stuck himself to the chair and hunkered down like a dragon over its clutch.

It turns out that Harry had needed the break. He had been snapping at everyone around him, been curt to the point of rude in class, and Madam Pince was afraid for her books. He’d scoffed at that; he would never harm the books.

Regardless, he had felt lighter than he had in a long time, mindlessly grading, sorting, and brewing. Professor Snape’s smooth voice intermittently washing over him and sending shivers down his spine.

And yet another issue. Hormones. And that’s enough on that topic.

The year went by in a flash as Harry prepared to take the last of his NEWTs.

He was done by the first week of June, and there was only one person he wanted to see. He skipped down to the dungeons and made his way to the Potions’ classroom. He slowed down and came out of his blissful haze at the sound of voices. As he got closer, he recognised Professor Snape’s and... Sirius Black. His absentee Godfather. Recognition swept over him just as he reached the door and it slowly swung open.

There, standing in front of Snape’s desk, was the object of his affection and Black, engaging in a heated kiss. All Harry could do was stare as his stomach dropped out and his eyes warmed. He hadn’t had expectations. He hadn’t been holding onto any sort of hope. But the sight was still a kick in the gut, and Harry needed to leave. But he couldn’t. He was screaming inside his mind that he was just hurting himself, and he needed to turn around and runaway. He didn’t need to carry that image with him. One of the few people he could stand, with one of the bastards that had thrown him away.

It was at that point that Snape opened his eyes and stared at Harry over Black’s shoulder. Harry felt it. His shields went up, his face blanked, and then he popped away. His mum knew how to handle him when he was sad.

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He managed to avoid Snape for the rest of the term. There was no need to talk after that.

He made it back to Potter Manor and simply counted down the days. He had received his acceptance letter from Gringotts and would be joining the Curse-Breaker program in September. Before then, he would be provided a suite of rooms on Manus Island and would work in a clinic for their main mine until then.

All he had to do was wait until his majority, his seventeenth birthday, and he was free.

The days ticked by so slowly, but finally they were there.

His mum had given him the best present ever. She had led him into his trunk, and he had gasped at the sight before him. Simply because he had never seen his library so expansive. Apparently, the elves had worked to copy all the books in the Hogwarts and Potter library, and the Come and Go room, making the space in the trunk as wide and high as several quidditch pitches. He rubbed his hands together in glee. It would take him absolutely ages to get through all the books.

As soon as he left the trunk, Harry hugged his mum and headed to the Ministry to get his apparition licence.

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Flopsy be a good elf. Of course, she is. She looked after babies and worked in the kitchen and always did what the masters needed her to do without complaint and with a smile on her face. Even if the order made her want to smother her masters in their sleep, or put rat poison in their morning coffee, or leave dead things in their beds, or...

Anyway, Flopsy be a good elf. When mistress came to her and said that she needed Flopsy to look after young master Harry because the Dark Lord man tried to kill young master Ben, Flopsy be telling mistress that she got it wrong, Harry was the prophecy child. But mistress wasn’t listening and Flopsy be too polite to raise her voice. So, Flopsy be taking young master Harry and be treating him like all elflings and raise him good.

 He learnt how to do human and elf magic, he loved to read, and he always wanted to be the best. Harry was a good boy, and Flopsy hoped that if she really did have an elfling of her own one day, that they would be just as lovely as Harry.

So, when it was time for Harry to leave, Flopsy gave him a big hug and kiss, watched him floo away and went to mistress and master.

“Flopsy wants clothes,” she told them clearly.

“Wha... what?” Master mumbled out, shocked.

“Why Flopsy?” The mistress had asked softly.

“Flopsy time is done,” the little elf told them. “Flopsy wants clothes.”

It was breaking her heart to make the demand. Her mother would be so upset with her, but Flopsy could only send whispers through the veil and hope her mum understood she needed to stay with her elfling.

“Is it something we’ve done?” Mistress knelt down in front of her looking confused and almost hurt.

“Flopsy not be saying,” she told them. It wasn’t up to her to tell them they were naughty humans. She had tried to speak sixteen years ago, and the mistress had ignored her. She would not try again. “Flopsy wants clothes.”

It went on for about ten more minutes, but she held strong until she finally got a glove. Without a word, Flopsy went to find her elfling.

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Severus Snape was never an easy man to get along with. He had been a miserable youth, always in a poor mood due to the incessant harassment of his father and the spineless behaviour of his mother. He shook his head. He didn’t think that way anymore. His mother wasn’t spineless because she stayed. He would never understand, nor empathise, and it wasn’t for him to judge. But it had left him bitter.

Then, when he had arrived at his escape, he had immediately been set upon by uppity purebloods in his own house, and self-righteous fools in Gryffindor. The biased teachers never protected Slytherin students, and bullying had been rampant. The fact that that hadn’t changed disgusted him. So, when he had joined the teaching staff, only to hear the same ridiculous justification for allowing the harassment of his snakes, his bitterness had only grown.

That bitterness, however, had slowly melted away when he met a Potter, of all people. He hadn’t even known that Lily had had twins. The three – Lily, Potter, and Ben – were all over the Prophet most days and there had never been a whisper about a twin. So, when the hat called out the boy’s name, and he went into Ravenclaw house, it had been a surprise for most.

The boy himself was strange. Quiet and studious, unlike his father or mother. The boy made no effort to socialise with any of his peers and sailed through his schoolwork with straight O’s. When Filius informed the staff that the boy had tested out of second year in his first year, Severus had been impressed. Dubious, of course, but the more he observed the boy, the more he tolerated the boy.

His tolerance increased even further when, in a fit of whimsy, he invited the boy to brew. It would seem his benevolence knew no bounds it would seem.

The visits steadily increased in number until the boy visited weekly. They barely spoke and Severus found himself enjoying the visits more and more. He could hardly believe that the boy was Potter’s spawn. There were no similarities in the two at all. He had tried to pry information out of the boy, but he was more reticent than even Severus himself. He never talked about his home life, and if he was required to talk about his family, he only referred to his ‘mum’, and by the comments, he did not mean Lily. The curiosity was like acid in his gut. He burned to know.

It led him to follow the boy. He spent most of his time in the library, and then on the seventh floor, or in his dorm. For his meals, however, he ventured into the kitchen and often spent a few hours in there. Eventually, Severus had thrown on a disillusionment and watched as the boy spent time with the elves, opening up far more than he did around his peers and his teachers. He had animated conversations, smiled, and taught the young elves. It was baffling.

That was until a Potter elf appeared one evening and wrapped her little arms around the boy. He had called her mum and gushed to her like an excited son.

His suspicion had risen to confirmation as he watched their interactions. The boy was raised by elves and felt no attachment to humans.

Severus had agonised over what to do with the information. It didn’t really make a difference. Many pure bloods did the same. The boy was healthy, happy, intelligent, hard-working, driven. The elf had raised him well, and a little social awkwardness amongst other humans was only a trifling matter.

So, Severus watched, and in the end, he did nothing.

When, eventually, the Dark mark had begun to prickle, then itch, then burn, Severus thought that his life was coming to an end. He could feel his magic being drawn from him in waves. It felt like his organs were being sucked from him, like he had been thrust into the sun and dried like one of his ingredients.

The touch of the boy’s hand had been a soothing balm to his core. The relief had been immediate. His magic had quickly been replaced, and the burning sensation lessened until it was only coming from the mark. And then... and then it was gone. The pain, the mark, the stain on his soul. The mark was gone. The boy had removed his mark. He was... free.

He could even remember seeing the boy out. He hoped he had thanked him. But it didn’t matter. When his thoughts were clear, he would thank the boy profusely.

But then Black appeared. Finally over his schoolboy bullshit and ready to get into the pants of the man he had reviled so thoroughly for so long.

Severus had looked over the idiot’s shoulder and had seen far more in the boy’s expression than he ever had. Hurt being chief of all of them. He hadn’t even realised the boy had had a crush on him. There had been no indication of his affections, and bloody Black had chosen the last day of NEWTs to make his move. Severus was sure, from the boy’s expression, that it was less that he had caught him kissing someone, but more who he had been caught kissing. The anger and disgust had not been directed at Severus. No, Black had done something to hurt the boy deeply, and the realisation made Severus push Black violently from his office.

It would be years before he saw the boy again. And he realised that that was likely as soon as he registered that the boy had apparated within the walls of Hogwarts.  

It took a year for Severus to finally tender his resignation. He had been reluctant the year prior. Hogwarts was his home, and leaving its halls left him feeling like he was in the grip of a Devils Snare. But he did it. He passed Albus the letter and made plans to head to Munich and finally accept the Potions Guild’s offer of employment.

He thought about the boy over the year when he was gone. He’d heard nothing of him, and only got a tidbit from Filius. The boy had enrolled in the Curse Breaker program at Gringotts and worked as a Healer for a mine. He was, apparently, doing well, and was on track to complete his course within the minimum four years. Filius had said he lives amongst the Goblins and is accepted, almost kin. Severus wasn’t surprised, the boy never much took to humans.

So, when he saw the Potters, Black and Lupin at the graduation ceremony, he was surprised to be cornered by Lily.

“Severus,” his old friend called quietly as she approached. He simply looked at her, not understanding why she was trying to talk to him after so long. “Have you seen Harry?”

The question threw Severus. Why the hell would the boy be there? He had graduated the year before.

“Why would he be here?” Severus asked with a frown.

“The kids are graduating,” she replied with a proud smile. He just stared at her. A feeling of dread was curdling his stomach. He hoped what he suspected wasn’t true. He hadn’t thought it was that bad.

“What do you know of Harry’s first year?”

“What do you mean?”

“Answer the question Lily,” he growled, temper rising. She just stammered, mouth opening and closing.

“He took both first and second year end-of-year tests, and skipped ahead.”

He watched as shock and confusion marred her features. She hadn’t known. He shook his head.

“He graduated last year,” he told her, not hiding his distaste. “With seventeen NEWTs.”

He watched the colour drain from her face as she looked around for...

“Why didn’t McGonagall tell us?”

“And why, pray tell, would Minerva be responsible for informing you?” He shook his head, knowing the answer.

“His Head of House should...”

“He was a Ravenclaw,” Severus hissed, cutting her off. “How could you not know that, Lily?”

Again, she blanched, stammering and looking around wildly.

“When was the last time you saw him?” His eyes probably looked like slits as they bored into her.

“I... I...” Her eyes glazed and she looked nauseous. Tears began to slip down her face. “I don’t know.”

Severus shook his head and walked away. How the mighty have fallen.

He couldn’t believe it. He hadn’t really seen loneliness in the boy’s eyes, and when he’d watched the boy with the elves, he could understand why. He had a family, and Lily wasn’t part of it.

If his own mother didn’t realise he had graduated, didn’t know when she had last seen him, he probably found more comfort in the company of those he was accustomed to.

“What did you do to Lily?” James Potter’s accusatory tone interrupted his thoughts.

“Where’s your son?” Severus spat, lip curling into a sneer.

Potter just waved to the sea of red and gold absently, staring over Severus’ shoulder to his wife.

“The other one,” he growled, making Potter look at him sharply in confusion. After a minute of silence, Severus just shook his head and continued walking. “Perhaps you should go talk your wife.”

Cretin. The man was still an idiot.

Severus simply coasted through the ceremony, barely paying attention, and in a flash, it was over. He flew through the castle, giving his farewell to the few he gave a damn about, and then he was gone. Apparating away from his last prison.

Chapter Text

“Now, Apprentice Potter,” Master Hopkirk drawled. “I need you to speak as you work, explain your decision-making process, conclusions, and spell-work. Please start with the case details.”

Harry nodded his head and brought out the case file he had been given fifteen minutes prior. He opened it to the summary page and left it floating in front of him.

“Case number 4785962,” Harry began, reading from the sheet. “Customer: Lord Henry Broderic Blithe. Two days ago, Lord Blithe’s son and heir attended the Gringotts London branch, and was informed of the death of his great aunt, Mildred Blithe. Upon returning to the estate, Lord Blithe, along with his heir, attempted to enter the property and were severely wounded by the wards.” He flicked to the next page. “Gringotts has been tasked with gaining entry to the property and subjugating the wards.”

“Very well,” Hopkirk mumbled, scribbling on a floating parchment. “What are your first steps?”

Harry took a few steps to his left and then to his right, raising his hand and brushing them along the edge of the ward line. He could feel a tickling sensation at the tips of his fingers. He could feel the wards stretching towards him, seeking him out, attempting to leech a little of his magic to test his signature, no doubt.

The cottage was a fair size, two floors, six windows on the bottom floor, three on each side of the door, seven on the top level. The thatch on the roof looked supple and fresh, glistening gold in the July sunshine. The red bricks looked perfect in their imperfection, giving a quaint and homely feel. The brilliant white mortar stood out beautifully behind the creeping vines and deep violet flowers. A worn but well-tended path of large rough-hewn grey stone led through a colourful garden of fragrant flowers and shrubs. Harry loved it and wanted one for himself.

He stopped in front of Hopkirk and flicked his wrist to release his wand.

“First,” he began. “I’ll use Themal’s Ward Diagnostic to get a general overview.”

A twirl of his wrist had a lengthy sheet of parchment materialising from Harry’s wand. A pulse of his magic at the top right corner of the page had a small rune array inlayed in the parchment to prolong the conjuration. Flicking open the pouch at his left hip, Harry summoned a pot of ink and sent it floating next to the parchment. A stray thought had the cork out and floating next to its container. He then turned back to the wards and raised his wand. Seven sharp flicks of his wand, and a final coil had the ink streaming from the jar and scrawling notations on the parchment. Harry held the charm until the ink stopped imparting information, then cancelled the spell. He read for a few seconds before a quiet cough told him that he should be speaking.

“We have... a basic three pronged offensive custom ward... anchored in a black agate with... Nordic runes...” He hummed as he read through the sheet as he tried to summarise the contents. “The wards identify using a specific magical signature... there is only one recorded. The attacks are staggered... a repellent, a leech, and then...” He hummed again.

“I’m going to use Bridgerton’s Relay...”

“Full name, if you please,” Hopkirk interjected, not hiding his snicker. Harry was glad he was facing forward so the man didn’t see him roll his eyes.

“Bridgerton’s Runic Evaluation Layout and Assessment Yard,” he threw over his shoulder just a bit snarkily. “I’ll use it in the notation format, for now, to keep a record.”

With that, he conjured a larger piece of parchment and pushed the case file and diagnostic to float little to his right. The new parchment was roughly a metre squared and sat patiently for Harry to begin the charm.

This time it took twenty-seven flicks and sweeps to rip the design straight out of the ward stone and onto the sheet. It began with concentric circles forming, then others over the top, to the side and overlapping. Once they had settled, the runes began to draw themselves in tight groups within the smaller circles, and then the larger ones, until a multi-layered array sat in front of the pair.

Harry scrutinised the array for slightly longer this time before he was interrupted.

“The third attack is a bloodletting, constant piercing hexes that increase in power output until the would be thief either disconnects from the wards or dies.” Brutal. He snickered; the woman really didn’t want unexpected guests.

“Does the array tell you anything else about the ward that could potentially affect your intervention?”

Harry hummed as his eyes flicked over the array and dissected all eight sections. The pattern was familiar, seven circular clusters overlapped each other and the main cluster. As the diagnostic showed, it was fairly basic and quite old. The main cluster showed several redundant sections that had been simplified over the years. The three tri-point protection clusters were overshadowed by the larger three offensive clusters. Classic Scandinavian array formation from the 1700s. In the centre, Harry saw a container for the magical signature of the ward holder. He took in the cluster and saw that the diagnostic was indeed correct, there were no other identifiers. The stone was only connected to the holder’s magic, and as it functioned as a container, it was just a matter of emptying it. His eyes flicked back to the diagnostic to confirm a theory.

A small noise from the back of Hopkirk’s throat brought Harry back to the present. He explained what he had noticed and then began to explain his theory.

“I had thought this was one of Christensen’s.”

“Why?”

Pointing at the relevant section of the diagnostic, Harry explained. “The array is similar, the use of agate and Nordic runes, those clusters, the heavy focus on offense. But...”

“Yes?”

Harry twirled his wand in a tight circle with a small opening and enlarged the square sheet until the individual runes of the main cluster were roughly three inches long. He used his wand as a pointer and indicated the edges of the runes.

“The warder has used a similar calligraphy-like font for the runes, but by the looks of it, they weren’t etched with magic.”

Another twirl increased the runes to about six inches.

“The scribe was clearly a master, but a chisel will never etch like magic.”

“And so?”

It took about thirty seconds before the proverbial lightbulb lit up.

“It’s Sorenson,” Harry replied with excitement.

“Which means?” Hopkirk prodded with clear amusement.

“I’ll need to use Muramoto’s Runic Disruptor.”

“Why not Igwe’s or Aguilar’s?”

A sharp V of Harry’s wand saw the parchment returning to its original size and then shrinking to fit within the case file. He left it floating with the rest of the paperwork.

“I won’t use Aguilar’s because the client wants to reuse the stone, and using it would probably result in the stone turning into a lump of goop after we bring the wards down. And Muramoto’s is geared towards hand-etched runes, as opposed to magically-etched like Igwe’s. I only want to temporarily isolate and disrupt. Muramoto’s is more suited to my purpose.”

Harry took a deep breath. This was his first case as a solo apprentice. He believed he had done the best he could for the assessment stage. He needed to subjugate the wards, and he needed to do it well. Not to move forward. No, the Goblins would pass an apprentice as long as their wealth increased after a case was closed. If an apprentice did something to reduce their wealth, well, they would regret it. So, Harry rolled his shoulders and cleared his mind. He was a Ravenclaw, and his first case would show that.

Raising his wand, Harry flicked through the twenty-seven movements of the Relay and spoke as he worked. Instead of focusing the array through the ink, he projected it in the air. Pushing a touch more magic through, he enlarged the image so he could clearly see the individual runes. Locating the nine points of contact to the central cluster, Harry twirled his wand in a cursive ‘o’ shape and concentrated on the runes he wanted to disrupt. From the moment he connected his magic to the ward, he had seventeen seconds to push the previous holder’s magic out and replace it with his own.

Once he had a firm hold on the runes, Harry raised his left hand and began to force his magic through the ward and to the stone. Forcing a little more magic to his eyes, Harry watched as the colours of the world changed around him. He grimaced at the colour of the magic, everything beyond them looked like they were bathed in different shades of brown. Raising his eyes, he saw as a lilac shade of magic seemed to waft from the top of the dome. It took about eleven seconds for the wisp to dissipate, then he forcefully pushed his own magic into the container. It didn’t take too much but the sudden rush made his sight waiver. Taking a deep breath, Harry disengaged from the wards and stepped through.

The moment he breeched the perimeter, he felt as the stone connected with his magic. This time not only did his sight waiver, but his head felt light and his stomach roiled. He had never been a ward holder for a home. The practice stones were always much smaller. This, though, made him feel like he had spent the night chuffing on a dwarven chunga pipe again. It took long minutes for his vision and mind to clear, but when it did, he tightened his shields and assimilated the information the stone was sending him. He had subjugated the wards and could sense their boundaries. A small push of his will deactivated the defences and allowed Hopkirk to enter at his back.

“Very good,” Hopkirk praised, still scribbling away. “After you.”

Harry nodded his head as he continued to process the wards, absently getting his paperwork to follow along behind him. They made their way to front door, Harry’s mind consumed by the sensations at his core.

When he reached the door, Harry focused again, reducing the magic cycling through his eyes. Again, Harry raised his wand and sent it twirling through as many revealing charms as he could: human, beast, curse, jinx, hex, malevolence, magic. The first six came up empty, but the last zinged through Harry’s core. The house was clearly filled with the standard magical items most wizarding homes were full of, but none of it seemed intentionally harmful. Focusing on the door again, Harry saw that the wood was clearly sturdy and well maintained, but it had an aged look that added to the homeliness. A basic circle and a downward flick had the lock clicking, and a push of magic had the door opening.

Instantly, Harry twirled his wand and cast the bubble-head charm. The putrid stench of decay was immediately cut off as the rippling bubble latched onto his face. Harry grimaced and shivered. He had expected it, but it was still a shock to the system. The client had informed them that no-one had noticed Madam Blithe’s death. She was private, introverted, and withdrawn. It was only a random trip to Gringotts that had alerted her family to her passing.

Shaking off his disquiet, Harry stepped into the house. He trusted what he sensed from the wards, but his wand still twirled through the revealing charms, firing them off in all directions. The results remained the same.

Following the tug on his magic, Harry walked to the back of the house to the stone. Walking straight, Harry passed two doors on opposite sides of the hallway, a flight of stairs on his right, and then he swung left opposite them. At the end of the corridor, he found a patch of dense magic. A swoop, a twirl, and seven sharp flicks had a conjured parchment and a diagnostic conjured in front of Harry. It was a basic trap door that opened with a pulse of magic. Looking at the floor, he could see that it was flush and well hidden from the eye. However, a sensitive enough thief would be able to locate it in a flash. Perhaps she was content with the protections of the ward alone.

A pulse of his magic had the trap door slowly swinging open. The passage was wide enough for two people, and fairly clean. Pairs of torches lit up on each side of the stairs going down to the lower floor. When the revealing charms showed little of consequence, Harry descended.

Still talking as he went, Harry continued on his cautious walk down the sturdy stone steps. The same red brick of the external walls had been used to create an eerie but beautiful entrance to the ward and altar room.

On the left side of the stairs were a plush pair of deep emerald armchairs, with a low chocolate brown coffee table in between. Behind that were bookcases in the same shade of wood, a workbench, and an altar. Flaming torches sprang up to show the clean and clear room. Harry’s eyes flicked to the walls where, with a little push of magic to his eyes, he could see multiple arrays etched in magic. The room was well warded from outside influence and cycled used core and ambient magic out, and constantly brought in fresh. Filing the arrays away for later dissection, Harry turned to his right to see an intricately carved door in the same chocolate wood of the rest of the room.

As the revealing charms eased any potential anxiety, he walked to the door and used his wand to open it. No locks – physical or magical – so it swung open with the barest of touches.

Crossing the threshold, Harry swung his eyes from left to right, taking in and storing the arrays in the walls. Similar to the altar room, but the clusters were far more efficient and numerous.

In the centre of the room, sat an intricately carved stone basin with a large pure black agate. It shone with an internal light and thrummed with power. Stepping closer, Harry could see the array he had already studied studiously etched into the surface of the stone. Taking a few minutes, Harry checked the nine points of contact he had previously disrupted. He knew the charm was non-invasive, but he was better safe than sorry.

Once he was satisfied that the ward stone was in working order and ready for handover, Harry turned around and went back to the house. It took a little over half an hour for him to clear the house and ensure there were no harmful entities just lying around. When they were clear, the pair headed back outside and greeted Lord Blithe. They discussed what had been done, and what had been found. Once their conversation was over, a pair of healers were sent in to retrieve the poor woman in the workroom and the Lord and his heir followed Harry down to the ward room.

It took all of two minutes for Harry to hand over control of the wards, and then the job was over. Tapping on his broach, Harry portkeyed back to Gringotts.

Harry was in a world of his own as he walked back to Hopkirk’s office. He had completed his first solo case, and the clients had been happy with his speed and efficiency. He had just taken his first step to journeyman status.

“So,” Hopkirk began as he sat behind his desk and rifled through his notes. “Excellent work, Apprentice Potter. Your work was quick, and your charms work was superb. Your repertoire of ward breaking charms is impressive, and your cautious and thorough method exceeded my expectations. My final report with be added to your portfolio and the case notes by the end of the week.”

With a flourish of a signature, Hopkirk steepled his fingers and looked at Harry with a soft smile.

“Did you have any questions about the process now that we have completed your first ward-breaking case?”

Harry shook his head, still in a bit of a daze.

“Very well,” Hopkirk replied, shaking his head slightly. “You’ll be on the emergency roster for the next twenty-four hours. Where are you off to now?”

“Oh,” Harry started, shaking himself. “I have a shift in the mines this afternoon, so I’ll head straight there. I’m only auxiliary though, easily replaced.”

“Very well. Send me a patronus if you’re called, I’ll be ready.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry mumbled as he left the office. He was riding a high. Watching others ward-break had been aggravating by the end of his traineeship. He had so wanted to wrestle the wands from their hands as he watched, wanting to do it all himself. Now though, regardless of his shadow, he could complete his own cases and move towards the next step. He had a fair way to go: nine more ward-breaks, ten ward-creations, ten rituals, twenty-five item purifications, twenty-five item enchantings, and five item retrievals.

He had already spent a few hours in the cursed items cavern. He’d retrieved some interesting items to either fix or outright remove the spell-work. He was excited to rewrite the array on the shoes.

Heading to the floo chamber, Harry took the first available fireplace to the Manus mine clinic. Entering the smaller floo room, Harry headed straight to the door, headed down the corridor, took a right, and then walked to the receiving desk.

“Hi Mosslin,” Harry greeted cheerfully. The female Goblin’s head shot up and she growled welcomingly.

“Youngling,” she teased as she flashed her teeth. “How was your first case?”

Harry did not gush. No, he told his story in a calm and sedate manner. Yes, that’s what he did. It took all of ten minutes before he finished and drifted away. Mosslin knew he was available and where he would be.

Harry settled into his work, checking the amount of ingredients in stock, and their freshness. He checked the integrity of the stasis arrays of each container, and then prepared an order for what he found lacking. A wave of his hand saw any stray dust banished, and he moved on. In the potions’ storage room, he checked how many potions they had in stock and wrote out orders for more. Someone would be in the next day to brew, if no-one got to update the list, at least they would have it somewhat prepared. Looking at the top shelf, Harry saw they were nearly out of tears. He would need to pop over to Gorethrip before he went to work the next day. Once he had cleaned up the room, he headed to his booth and checked the potions stock. After he had refilled the potions of each of the booths and the three surgery suites, he went back to his booth and waited.  

Taking out a piece of parchment, Harry began to write up his report for the case file. He was interrupted only twice in the hour it took to finish it up. They were easy ailments, a large friction burn on a forearm, and a six inch gash across a shin. Both were human prisoners, so the patients’ magic didn’t fight his own.

Once he had squirreled away his case file, he brought out a fresh sheet of parchment to sketch all the arrays he had seen on the case for his own personal portfolio. Some of the clusters were unlike those he regularly used and could prove useful in his own creations. He was required to personally design no less than three rituals, two home ward stone arrays, and five item enchantments. Copying and compiling all clusters and arrays he came into contact with had become the norm over the last two years. He still hadn’t settled with which language he would use yet. There were advantages and disadvantages to all of them. He had time though. He would keep assessing what he found.

A collapse in one of the tunnels drew Harry out of his thoughts as a dozen patients demanded his attention. As an Aid, he generally stuck to the mostly superficial cases, but he had been working and learning from his co-workers for a little over six years and was trusted with tasks generally reserved for qualified Medi-Wizards. He had been encouraged to seek certification, but he knew that if he did, they would be able to demand more from him than he was prepared to give. He had four years to complete his apprenticeship, and he wanted to do it in less than one. He didn’t want to divide his time too much.

Harry stepped away from the wash basin and walked over to his final patient. The man, a brown skinned giant of a man, had had his leg crushed from the thigh down. He had been sedated and put under stasis upon arrival, so Harry didn’t need to rush. A twitch of his wrist had his wand in his hand in half a second. A twirl and a sheet of parchment materialised in front of him, a pulse and the conjuration was prolonged. Fourteen tight swirls and the mounted ink pot released its contents to convey the information onto the parchment. Harry could feel his magic connect with the prone man’s and felt as the relevant health information scrawled across the sheet.

The man’s general health was overall sound; however, his leg was an absolute mess. The bone was crushed; it had been reduced to shards. The skin was mangled, the muscles were ripped apart, the veins had collapsed, the nerves were frayed, and clots had already formed. Harry sighed; it wasn’t a pretty sight.

First, Harry summoned the potions he needed: blood replenisher, anti-infection, wound-cleansing, and skele-gro. He settled the potions on the tray next to him as he prioritised his next actions. Harry took a breath and concentrated on the leg. Drawing a curly zigzag with his wand, a downward slash and a tight focus caused the leg to deflate as the bones from the hip down vanished. A small, tight sweep had the flesh straightening out so the muscles were as aligned as they could be, and the skin was held together. Murmuring “vulnera sanentur”, Harry pushed his magic to each of the gashes and closed the skin. A gentle swish and flick saw the leg rising slowly and smoothly. More murmurs and concentration saw the skin on the underside of the leg closing up. Harry again flicked his wand and brought the wound-cleansing potion forward. He positioned it above the leg, uncorked it, and slowly poured the liquid out of the bottle. A pulse of unshaped magic had the liquid suspended in mid-air, held fast. Another pulse had it spreading out until it was stretched the length of the leg, and then all around. A small flick downwards and the liquid tightened around the leg until it settled over the skin like a fine film. It took about forty seconds for the potion to be absorbed and disappear. Another small downward flick had the leg settled back on the bed. Harry then focused on the next potion – the blood replenisher – and the man’s stomach, then four sharp flicks and the potion was in the man’s stomach. With a murmur of “tempus”, Harry waited the three minutes between potions and spelled the anti-infection potion, and then the skele-gro into the man’s stomach as well. Harry’s eyes looked to his right and focused on the stone on the third shelf. A small push of his magic had the stone soaring through the air towards him. An ‘s’ shape and an internal spiral had the stone cleaned and disinfected. Another push of his magic had the rune stone settled on the man’s chest. A pulse had the stone activated, putting the man into a coma. Finally, Harry touched the leg with a murmur of “finite incantatem”, and the stasis charm was removed.

Harry let out a breath and forced himself not to touch his own face. Without his input, Harry’s magic moved on its own and after one blink, two, there was a magic replenishing potion in front of him. He shrugged and took it. It was less the magic he had used, and more the concentration healing took. He was not made to heal, but he loved it. It was complex and demanded nothing but the best. He was lucky to find this position in the prison mine clinic. He didn’t need fantastic interaction skills to perform his duty, just magic and skill.

After the potion had settled in his gut and began to settle his turbulent core, Harry sat at the desk and began to write up his notes on the case. It took him just over an hour to write up the case notes for all the patients he had seen to, but then he was in his booth, pepper-up in his blood, coffee in his hand, and reclined back in his chair.

He was just snoozing when a pop interrupted him.

“Apprentice Potter,” came a rough voice from his side. Harry swivelled his head to see an unfamiliar Goblin next to him. “You are need on an emergency ward-break.”

The Goblin popped away as Harry sighed. He was excited, honestly, he was.

Chapter Text

After sending off his patronus, Harry informed Mosslin of the status of his patients, and that he had been called away. After a little teasing, Harry headed to the floo room and headed back to Gringotts. Hopkirk was there waiting for him like he had promised.

With a nod to Hopkirk, Harry flicked his eyes to Sharptooth and awaited his orders.

“Young...” the Goblin began with a flash of teeth, making Harry’s eye twitch. With a cough, Sharptooth continued. “Apprentice Potter. Seven minutes ago, the local Department of Law Enforcement sent a request for a Ward-Breaker. They have followed a suspect to Cardinham Woods and have encountered an earth based ward they are unable to break.” As he spoke, he handed over a file and a twelve inch length of rope. “We have been tasked with breaking the ward and gaining access to the site. The portkey leaves in... two minutes and forty-three seconds.”

With that, Sharptooth disappeared with the barest of pops.

As he opened the file, Harry flicked his eyes to Hopkirk, who gave him a sharp nod. With a thought, Harry cast a tempus and then fully opened the file to read the sparse contents. Not having to be prompted, Harry began to speak.

“Case number 4789733,” he murmured. “Customer: British DLME. Senior Auror Shacklebolt with his partner Junior Auror Tonks have been tracking a kidnapper alongside a liaison from Scotland Yard. They’ve tracked the suspect to a small private plot on the south-west corner of Cardinham Woods.” Eyes flicking to the tempus, Harry held out the rope for Hopkirk to take. “All they’ve been able to deduce about the wards is that they’re earth based. Their diagnostics are coming up as...” He laughed. “Gobbledegook, apparently. Illegible, I presume.”

The tickling in his naval caused Harry to pull in a deep breath, close his eyes and tightly grip the file before the hooking sensation dragged him from the floo chamber. As the pull lessened, Harry put his right foot forward, and when a slight pressure touched the underside of his foot, he stepped his left foot forward and began to walk. When the flow of magic receded, he came to a halt and took in his surroundings.

All around him, the forest was lush and smelt of life. He could see mostly coniferous trees – spruce, pine, and juniper – but he could see common birch, yew, and even hawthorn dotted around too. All around he could see shrubs of varying greens, with berries and flowers exploding in colour. His magic zinged at the fresh, vibrancy of the place... until he felt the taint. Whipping his head to the right, Harry filtered a touch of magic to his eyes and saw the issue. A dome of greens, yellows, and reds rippled and reached to the sky, and on the inside, he could see black tendrils of tainted magic lashing out as whatever... ritual was underway.

“Aah,” came a deep baritone, accented voice from behind him. “You must be the Curse-Breaker from Gringotts.”

Harry turned around and saw as a tall muscular, dark-skinned man in deep scarlet robes approached him with his hand held out. Surveying the man, Harry guessed he was probably somewhere above thirty. As magical humans could live up to two hundred, Harry guessed he was no more than fifty years. The tight lines around the man’s eyes were clearly only due to the situation and told Harry that he was anxious. He walked with a confidence and grace that spoke of power and exemplary physical health. Harry had no doubt that the man looked delicious under his robes. Banishing the thought, Harry looked into the man’s eyes. There was only mild recognition.

“Auror Shacklebolt, I presume,” Harry replied, firmly grasping the man’s hand. “Apprentice Curse-Breaker Potter.” He ignored the man’s confusion. “And this is my supervisor, Master Curse-Breaker Hopkirk.” Pretending to be ignorant of the man’s attempts at potentially prying questions, Harry looked away and kept speaking. “Can you explain what you’ve found please.”

It took the man a second, but he shook his head, clearly prioritising the case over his curiosity, and walked towards the large cluster of red robed men and women.

“At 18:35 this evening,” Shacklebolt began, walking at a fast clip. “A homeless man reported to the local police that ‘aliens’ had stolen his sleeping spot and were ‘up to no good’. When they attended the scene, luckily, one of the officers was a squib and noticed the barrier and the clear use of black magic inside. Knowing what to do in the event of cases needing to be re-assigned to Aurors, the officer called the twenty-third division of Scotland Yard, and the case was handed over to Liaison Jones and myself.”

When they reached the edge of the ward, Shacklebolt stopped and beckoned over a man of average height with brown hair and brown eyes. His suit showed him to be the liaison. The other was a short woman with bright pink hair and an air of contentment that seemed in opposition to the current events.  He introduced them both as Liaison Jones and Junior Auror Tonks, respectively.

“We arrived at approximately 22:30 and deduced that the fifteen kidnapped muggles we have been searching for are being held within the barrier. Our most experienced ward-breaker,” he said as he poked a thumb at a random man to his right. “Hasn’t been able to fully diagnose the ward, let alone break it. We need to get in there, yesterday.”

“Allow me,” Harry replied, stepping forward. In a moment of hesitation, Harry flicked his eyes to Hopkirk, who nodded and motioned for him to speak. After a nod of confirmation, Harry flicked out his wand and focused on the wards.

Stepping forward again, Harry let the file float to his left, then twirled his wrist and conjured a sheet of parchment, jabbing the top right corner to prolong the conjuration. As he did that, he brought out his ink pot and let it uncork and float alongside him. He let his mind drift as he spoke through his work. Seven sharp flicks and a coil of his wand had several lines of jibberish appearing on the parchment, confirming what he suspected. Two more twirls saw two more conjured sheets floating in front of him. Nine sharp flicks and a coil, then six sharp flicks and coil resulted in two more pages of more and less jibberish than the first. He labelled them – Themal’s, Azbeth’s, and Xiou’s – then sent them to float with the file.

Once he had proven that the diagnostics that used similar arithmantic formulae and runic arrays would garner similar results, Harry set his mind – and mouth – to parsing out why. Raising his left hand, Harry stretched out his magic to touch the ward and immediately recoiled, tamping down the urge to step back. The ward was extremely aggressive, and even the lightest of probes was enough to set off the defences. Taking a sharp breath, Harry explained that the taint of black magic was enough to make him feel nauseous. He needed to make haste.

So, if he couldn’t get an inkling with his magic, he had to think. Think. What could interfere with the diagnostic? Or... not interfere, render it unintelligible. The information was still being read and recorded, but the transcription was a mixture of alphabets, and nonsense symbols from all over the globe. It might be a code, but staring at the mess on the parchment, he found no similarities between the three results. If they had come out in English, they would have recorded similar words with slightly more or less than Themal’s. To him, it just looked like random nonsense, like...

“A confundus cluster,” he breathed, flicking his eyes to Hopkirk, who nodded in neither confirmation nor denial. Ingenious.

That meant that he needed to isolate and disrupt the cluster before he could diagnose it, but as he wouldn’t be able to use the Relay to pinpoint the cluster, he wouldn’t know if his disruption had worked without time intensive trial and error.

So... So... The confundus cluster would need to be tailored to interfere with the common ward diagnostic arrays. So, if the ward sensed the probe, it would confound the results. So... so... He needed to find an array so obscure – and potentially ancient – that the array didn’t identify it, and then confund it. He needed to choose one that used a completely different formula than the modern ones.

Harry began to pace in front of the barrier, searching through his mind. His mind palace had grown exponentially since he was a child. He had consumed libraries like a Toatie on a Tuesday. He knew this. He knew this.

M... Mat... No, no. Map... Mesopotamian, right? No, no, Babylonian. Yes, Babylonian. So... Duck... Yes, Marduk. That’s it. Harry sent a silent thanks to all the house-elves that graced the earth with their wonderful presence, as his mind briefly danced to his trunk library.

Conjuring another sheet of parchment, Harry twirled and flicked his wand through the forty-nine movements before jabbing his wand like fencer. A brief flash of sickly green essence detached itself from the barrier and slowly sunk into the sheet of parchment. Flicking his eyes from top to bottom, Harry was happy to see the lines, squares, and triangles of Cuneiform. Another sheet and three twirls showed Harry that he had been right as he translated the ancient script. The array was far too ancient for the confundus cluster to register. Now, if only he had an ancient version of the Relay to use. The basic array he got from Marduk’s diagnostic didn’t show the individual runes of each cluster, only a brief summary of the array formation and their functions.

“It’s an earthen barrier... with five,” he began walking to his left, parchment and humans trailing behind him. “External anchor points.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t say about intervals – I think it’s immediate – but the ward attacks are paralysis, leeching, and a stinging hex.” He frowned at the last defensive measure.

He came to a stop at a spot that did not want his eyes to remain in place. The slick feeling of a disillusionment and repellent were easy to notice if you were actively searching for them. Luckily, the charms weren’t anchored to the wards and were easily dispelled. Unfortunately, the rest of the anchor point’s defences were held by the wards. A physical barrier – magic manifest – with fire resistance.

Harry looked beyond the barrier to see a what looked like a braided knot of wood, steaked into the ground with a light shimmer around it.

“There are five of these points,” he told Shacklebolt, letting his thoughts run through his intervention. “I’ll have to break them one at a time, and you should be able to breach after the second is down.”

Shacklebolt left to organise his colleagues as Harry talked through his thoughts. He needed a way to see the array, so he could direct his magic to disrupt or destroy it. The array was clearly distributed between the anchor points, but there was no way to know which points held which clusters. In theory, the whole thing could go down if he destroyed the right anchor, but there was no way to tell which anchor held the main cluster without physically examining them – if they did at all. Luckily, the fool hadn’t used a stone on top of the five points, that would have just turned into an all out brawl. He had no doubt that he had the power to subjugate the wards through brute force alone, but he was no drunken hippogriff, and he certainly wouldn’t behave like one.

So... so... He tried the Relay, just to see, but all he saw was a jumble of random shapes and squiggles. As far as he could remember, he had only learnt about the Relay in class, and no-one had ever mentioned another. Bridgerton had been a leader in the field, and his Relay had been groundbreaking. Harry sighed as he realised he had a new project to add to his ever growing list. He did not want to run into a situation where he couldn’t assess the array because the warder was innovative enough to confound the results. Food for thought, for sure.

Right... so... He couldn’t throw a stone at the anchor, nor could he blast it with a fireball. His magic couldn’t breach the wards for a switch, but...

A sideways ‘S’ movement of his wand saw water pooling on the ground in front of the anchor point. Unfortunately, much like the stone, Harry saw the water make contact with the barrier and bounce right off. Keeping his right hand level, Harry pulled up chunks of earth from in front of the anchor with is left hand until he found the bottom of the barrier. Directing the water into the hole, he saw as it went past the ward line. His elation was quickly smothered when the water fizzled in bright green sparks. He sighed. Of course, the easy way wouldn’t work.

Harry looked over his shoulder and saw that Shacklebolt was still talking, he had time. He began to pace, brushing his magic tentatively along the ward line, barely touching the barrier.

He needed an assessor, but no matter how much he wracked his mind, he couldn’t think of anything. That meant that if he couldn’t use one that had already been created, then he either needed to create, or alter one. His eyes flicked to Marduk’s ward diagnostic charm, sliding over the array it had transcribed. Retreating to his mind palace, Harry dragged the ancient tome he had found on a collection of ward breaking charms from Mesopotamia. It had journal extracts, stone rubbings, and long remembered stories that had been passed down through the generations. Bringing the spell schema to the forefront of his mind, Harry blindly conjured paper and linked his magic to his trailing inkpot.

Falling into a trance, Harry sped through the clusters and broke them down by purpose. He then began discarding the sections he did not need and redrew the relevant ones. He kept the main cluster relatively the same, it had quite a number of redundant runes in it but without the time to be meticulous, Harry only had the time to discard a handful that wouldn’t destabilise the final array. He also needed to make sure that he extracted a more detailed version of the array. Once he was mildly satisfied, he gathered the three subordinate clusters that would remain: the probe, the extractor, and the translator. The first cluster seemed like it could stay the same; however, he would need to rearrange the placement of the runes due to removing the fourteen clusters he did not need or want. The second cluster received the same treatment, but the third needed more time. He didn’t want it to translate to Cuneiform, there was no need for that...

Pulling another text to the forefront of his mind, he pulled a Futhark translator cluster that was usually highly co-operative when mixing with other runic languages. A push of his magic had the main cluster, and the first and second subordinate clusters redrawn, with the probe and extractor at the top and bottom. He then lay the third cluster in the middle, overlapping the first and second, and then added the Futhark cluster in the centre of it all. It was quite basic; he had gutted the charm of most of its innards, but he preferred it that way really.

Taking the three minutes to ensure each of the clusters was stable proved vital. He had to rearrange the runes within the subordinate clusters four times before he was satisfied.

A brief glance around showed him that the Aurors were nearly done, and Hopkirk was staring avidly over his shoulder. He would apologise later for having gone silent, but the man didn’t seem particularly bothered. The brief respite from his workings made him aware of the knot that had been forming in his stomach. It had sat there at the edge of his senses, attempting to draw his attention to it, but he had ignored it. Those seconds, however, reminded Harry of how nervous he was. He knew he could do it, but the idea of multiple lives being on his shoulders was quite new to him. He had never much cared for those of his species, but he didn’t necessarily want them dead. It was more like he didn’t really care if they lived or not. But in that moment, he had been asked for aid, to save lives, and he had accepted. Job or not, their lives were on his shoulders, and he was honour bound to do his best. He took a deep breath before letting go of his introspection and getting on with his job.

Closing his eyes again, he brought fought his arithmantic converter tables for Sumerian, Futhark, and runic amalgams. It took six minutes to convert the clusters into their mathematical counterparts to determine the wand movements. He took a further minute and a half to check his workings, checked with Hopkirk, then took a breath to check if his charm worked.

Nine twirls, a flick and a jab saw a thin tendril of green essence rising from the barrier and scrawling a runic array in the air. A small laugh bubbled out of Harry’s throat. Damn, he loved his job. He glanced at the impressed sound that rumbled from Hopkirk’s throat, then settled and got to work.

Absently, Harry conjured a sheet of parchment and performed the charm again to make a copy for his file, as he scanned the ever-increasing array in front of him. It was large and overly complex. Disgusting. So many redundant clusters that either contradicted themselves or were simply inert. It was truly nasty too. The stinging hex was imbued with so much power it was basically a cruciatus curse. He didn’t understand why they didn’t just use the cruciatus cluster instead. Well, probably because it would have taken far more time to incorporate it into that mess of an array. Overpowering the stinging hex was much easier. Laziness then.

Scanning through the array, Harry finally found the external shields that protected the anchor points. It looked like it was a separate array that had been thrown on top of the main one.

“It’s Futhark...” Harry muttered. “But the configuration of the clusters... Greek?”

Harry’s eyes went back to the top right quadrant. Ferryman... But why...? Harry snorted. He thinks he’s Orpheus. Harry shook his head and looked to Hopkirk before calling for Shacklebolt. The man had clearly just been waiting for him as he cut his conversation and joined Harry immediately.

“Ritual sacrifice,” Harry informed the man, eyes back on the array. “Knocking out two anchor points should get you in. I need someone at my back ready to destroy the anchor points as I hold open the wards. Someone who can wield fiendfyre, preferably.”

Looking over his shoulder, Shacklebolt called to an older male to join them. When the Auror stepped closer, Harry spoke again.

“I need a single creature manifested,” Harry told the people at his back. “I should be able to hold the gap for... about seven minutes, but we shouldn’t need that long.” He reached out with his magic, then flicked his eyes over the array again. “We need to apparate about 70 yards to our right once it’s done.”

The grunt of acceptance was all Harry needed to get to work. Raising his wand, Harry sent his mind inwards, grabbing a hold of his magic and forcing it into submission. He could usually just concentrate his will and his magic would do as it was told. But this time, he needed to perform two mastery grade charms simultaneously, and being a little forceful was more than necessary.

Nine twirls, a flick and a jab saw the thin green tendril twisting in the air above the group to show the array. Pushing a touch more magic into the charm, Harry increased the size of the projection then focused on the external shields. Concentrating hard on the disruption points, Harry twirled his wand in a cursive ‘o’ shape and pushed his magic to subjugate the shield. Unfortunately, as soon as he did, he felt the leech. Shit.

It took all his will to only let go of the disruptor, but he managed it, cursing up a storm. Harry felt Hopkirk move but raised a hand to waylay him. He had forgotten something crucial, and that moment was not the time for the man to interfere. He knew his mistake.

“Earth based ward,” Harry panted. “I’m an idiot.”

Raising to his full height again, Harry focused on the disruption points again, then gathered all the untainted ambient magic he could. There wasn’t as much around the site as he would have liked, but he managed to reach the right saturation with his own magic. Twirling his wand, Harry felt more than saw the small shield flicker before it vanished.

“Now,” he rasped, not taking his eyes from the array.

An intense heat rushed past his thigh as a small mammal of pure sentient flame leapt through the gap and consumed the anchor point. It took just under two minutes for the braid of wood to disintegrate. As soon as Harry saw a collection of clusters disappear from his floating assessor, he dropped the disruptor and collected his file and inkpot.

“Let’s go,” he called, twisting on the spot and disapparating to his new location.

He barely noticed his companions appearing with their own cracks as he let go of his burden and moved his wand through the nine twirls, a single flick, and a jab. As he waited for the tendril to draw up the array, he began to gather the ambient magic and filter his own through it until it was sufficient. When he was ready, he twirled his wand and disrupted the shield.

“Do it,” he ordered, breathing through the strain.

Another creature bounded past him and within two minutes, the main barrier began to writhe in its instability. Harry eyes remained fixed on the assessor, watching as another group of clusters flickered and disappeared.

“Shacklebolt,” Harry said, flicking his wand up and cutting off his charms. “You’re in. One more will disrupt the ritual. Four are already dead, fifteen completes it.”

Not having the magic, nor the mental faculties to accurately calculate the apparition, Harry marched off with Hopkirk and his Auror companion to destroy, hopefully, his last anchor. He picked up his pace, jogging around the barrier in just over a minute, reaching the next anchor point, two of the three puffing from the magical exertion. Harry flicked his eyes to the Auror, scanning him quickly and hoping the poor fool had enough left in him to cast the curse again. He was certainly feeling it. Trusting Shacklebolt, Harry raised his wand and began the process again.

It took four minutes that time for the braid to be reduced to ashes. As he watched his assessor, Harry let a small smirk grace his lips as the entire array began to quiver. As the projection slowly dissipated, Harry moved his eyes to the barrier to watch the breaking of the ritual. With a touch more magic to his eyes, Harry watched as the writhing tentacles of tainted magic seemed to pick up its squirming as gaps appeared in the barrier, frantic to find purchase and complete its task. A grim satisfaction swept through him as the tendrils breached the barrier and shrank back as if burnt. The ends that didn’t make it back within the ritual space in time simply turned into wisps and floated off in the grasp of the ever-present ambient magic to be cleansed.

It took another minute for the barrier to finally fizzle down to nothing, as the sacrificial magic broke apart and slowly faded.

Harry let his hand slip into his bag and called forth a pair of magic replenishing potions. He absently handed one to the Auror panting and sweating at his side as he watched the rest of the Aurors gather the nine remaining muggles away from the corpse of their suspect. The man took it blindly, making Harry look at him somewhat incredulously before shrugging his shoulders and looking at his floating sheets.

After he had organised his file, he searched for Shacklebolt. He found the tall man talking with the pink haired Auror and the man in a suit, near the centre of the ritual circle. Harry looked it over to ensure it was truly inert before heading over to the man.

“Auror Shacklebolt,” Harry called, shrugging off the weariness.

“Aaah,” the man said with a tired smile. “Good job Potter.”

Harry winced as he felt the eyes of numerous Aurors turning to him. Shacklebolt must have noticed, as he dismissed his colleagues and led Harry and Hopkirk to the edge of the circle, away from prying ears and eyes. As they worked through the requisite steps to sign off from the job, Harry felt the man’s need to invade his privacy. When the last signature had been placed, Shacklebolt cleared his throat to gain Harry’s attention.

“Harry,” the man rumbled sounding grave. “Your parents are searching for you.”

“And?” Harry replied gruffly, raising a single brow.

“They’re worried about you.”

“I’m fairly certain that those people haven’t laid eyes on me since I was a one year old.”

The man had nothing to say to that. He simply opened his mouth a few times before looking away. Harry waited. He wouldn’t stub the man, he was still a client, regardless of if their conversation was personal. He was no Goblin; he wouldn’t get away with being gruff and rude without some form of sanction.

“They’ve been searching for you for a few years now,” Shacklebolt tried again.

“Those people gave up the right to be involved in my life when they handed me to the elves and didn’t look back.” Harry sighed. “I understand that they’re what... friends of yours? But to me, they mean nothing. They made their choice, and now they have to live with it.”

“I understand,” he said after two minutes of staring into Harry’s eyes. Harry raised a brow.

“I understand,” he repeated as if saying it twice made more sense.

With a small smile, a pat on the shoulder and a “good job, Potter,” Shacklebolt walked back to his team.

Harry sighed, watching the man’s broad back as he walked away. The wind picked up carrying with it the stench of death and disappointment. The land would need a cleanse before all was well again.

With a shake of his head, Harry turned to Hopkirk, who simply nodded before apparating away. With a twist, Harry found himself squeezed through the eye of a needle and deposited back in the floo room of the Gringotts London branch. A look to his left found Hopkirk who motioned with his head to follow.

“Very good, Apprentice Potter,” the man began. “Your assessment was well reasoned, your creativity and ingenuity showed great promise, and your intervention was efficient. However,” he paused as he opened the door to his office. “Tell me about your error.”

“Well,” Harry replied, running his hands through his hair as he sat in front of Hopkirk’s desk. “I forgot a crucial piece of information that I had been informed of from the very beginning.”

Harry shook his head, dislodging the tiredness and the whispers of censure. Hopkirk just raised an eyebrow and motioned for him to explain further.

“They were earth based wards,” Harry continued at the prompt. “That meant that they were generated and maintained by ambient magic. As a result, any invasive intervention would require the Breaker to use no less than an 80% saturation of ambient to core magic.”

“So, what happened?” Hopkirk asked, leaning back in his chair.

“After all the excitement with creating an assessor, it just... slipped my mind.”

Hopkirk breathed out a small laugh. “Any other and it may have killed them.”

Harry hummed. He knew he was strong. His core density was in the upper echelons of the global scale. A mistake like that in someone else could have been fatal. If the accident in the mines had required him to treat more patients, he could have at least collapsed of magical exhaustion, and at worst ruptured his core. It had been a stupid mistake and no matter how he thought around the issue, he always ended up thinking that he was an idiot.

Another small laugh broke Harry from his thoughts. He looked up to see Hopkirk smiling at him indulgently.

“I would never have let you end up with long term damage, but you needed to fix your own error.”

“The Goblin way,” he mumbled.

“Indeed,” Hopkirk replied, smile never faltering. “It was an inspiring ward-break for an apprentice. Have no doubt of that. You’ll need to send the initial documents for the patent before you sleep. I’d like to add your new assessor to my arsenal.”

That finally made Harry smile. A small thing that still seemed to beam. He had developed something on the fly. Sure, he had used an old one as the base, but still. He had been rushed, and stressed, and throwing clusters together like a leprechaun in a vault. And it had worked. Just like that. He loved his job.

Harry nodded. They spoke for a few more minutes before Harry collected himself and headed for the floo room. With a call of “the Refuge”, Harry felt himself spin from the room and waited until he slowed. Bending his knees a touch, Harry braced for impact, then stepped from the grate to several squeaky calls of “Youngling!”

Chapter Text

Harry refrained from wincing at the loud squealing of “Youngling.” He didn’t want to insult his family, but damn did he feel drained.

Looking around, Harry first set his eyes on Flopsy. A quick scan saw that she was happy and healthy. After a small nod, he swept his eyes over the other elves. A small smile touched his lips as he looked over the group. They were different heights, different shades of greys, greens, and yellows, and in different states of health. He could see scars, ears at all levels of droopiness, and eyes far too haunted for his liking.

Stepping away from the grate, Harry dropped to the ground and enclosed his mum in a hug. He pulled back and saw the pride and happiness in her eyes. Once he had assured himself again that his mum was there and alright, he turned to the other elves to receive their welcomes. Some hugged him too, others simply touched him on the arm, head or back, and a few simply grasped his hand with both of theirs. It was a routine that Harry thoroughly enjoyed, and would always take the time to sit through, no matter how fatigued he felt.

When he had greeted each of his elven kin, Harry’s attention was drawn to an elf he neither recognised, nor sensed. The poor creature was the tell-tale grey that spoke of malnutrition, a frayed bond, and a lack of satisfactory work. Having noticed where Harry was looking, Flopsy went over to the new elf and drew the poor creature to the centre of the group. Harry let the smile turn compassionate as he waited to be introduced.

“Youngling,” Flopsy said softly. “This be Thatch. Thatch’s old master only be wanting Thatch to be nasty to.”

“I see,” Harry replied, knowing all too well what his mum wasn’t saying. Elves were symbiotic creatures that relied on a bond with humans who could actively use core magic. Without a healthy bond, they became sickly and eventually died. A well-treated elf could survive for hundreds of years, taking care of a family line, but those who were trapped under the thumb of abusers might only last for a handful of decades. It sickened Harry how elves were treated by some, but he didn’t let the murderous rage show on his face. If he had caught his mum’s meaning, then Thatch was probably like Dobby, taking the beatings for his kin. He didn’t need to see Harry’s anger.

“Welcome Thatch,” he told the twitchy little elf. “Would you like to join our family?”

The elf’s eyes widened in shock at the offer. Harry knew that all the elves would have told him repeatedly since they saved him that he would have a place with them, and yet the poor creature had probably not seen kindness in a long time.

After looking from Harry to Flopsy, then around the room, the elf looked back at Harry desperately, and whispered, “please.”

A push of Harry’s magic had a small cut open on the palm of his hand, allowing a few drops of blood to bubble to the surface. Slowly raising his hand, Harry placed his bloodied palm on Thatch’s forehead, resting his fingers between his droopy ears.

“I, Harry James Potter,” Harry spoke, lacing his words with magic. “Do claim you, Thatch, as my own, as my elf, as my kin, as my family. So I say it, so mote it be.”

Another little push of magic through the wound and Harry felt the new bond snap into place between himself and Thatch, and then with the others. Light gathered around his palm and shone brightly throughout the room as another soul joined their family. As it died down, however, Harry began to feel his earlier strain more than ever. Damn. He couldn’t tell if the now crushing fatigue was due to his long day, or too many bonds, but he thought it was the latter. Damn.

Pushing it all aside to do what needed to be done, Harry gave Thatch a bigger smile.

“Welcome Thatch,” he told the little elf, removing his hand and watching as the blood soaked into the elf’s skin. Looking into the creature’s eyes, Harry could see the wariness fading away as Thatch took in the bond. “First rule, there’s no such thing as a bad elf, only useless masters.” He chuckled at Thatch’s horrified look. “Second rule, this is your family, and you will behave accordingly.” A small smile of gratitude touched the elf’s lips. “And third, self-harm and harming your family is unacceptable.” Thatch’s shoulders seem to lose some of their tension. “Mum and the others will help you get settled. If you need anything, please ask. You won’t know if something is a stupid question until someone tells you it is. Ok?”

At the small nod, Harry tentatively put his arms around the elf and waited until he relaxed before holding him more firmly. He waited for Thatch to reciprocate before squeezing him tighter again. It took just under five minutes for the wails and tears to stop, and by that point, Harry was truly exhausted.

When Thatch was ushered out of the receiving room, Flopsy and Tippy helped Harry to his feet and guided him to his room. Harry’s head felt like it was full of cotton wool; his hearing was muffled, his speech was slurred, and his feet dragged. He barely took in his surroundings as he was led through the halls and then laid on his bed. His mum was talking the entire way, but he barely understood her. But then, he didn’t really need to. She always looked after him.

“It be time, Youngling,” mum was saying as if from far away. “We be saving eight more elves next week. It be time.”

Harry grumbled out a negative sounding groan, not wanting to comply.

“It be time, Youngling,” Flopsy said sternly as she clicked her fingers and switched his clothes with his sleepwear. “The bond be straining.”

Harry grumbled more, but he knew she was right.

“Yous be lucky yous offering was too much last week,” Flopsy sighed. “It be time.”

Harry sighed too and conceded with an affirmative grunt.

“Good, Youngling,” Flopsy squeaked happily. “Flopsy be telling Pep.”

Harry tried to speak, but was hushed when a spoon of... nutrient potion was forced down his throat.

“Yous not be worrying, Youngling,” Flopsy soothed. “Pep be finishing all yous work for tonight. Flopsy be knowing.”

As he was tucked into bed, Harry felt long fingers card through his hair, then a light touch on his forehead. As he drifted off to sleep, Harry smiled at the “so proud, Youngling,” he thought he heard in his mum’s voice.

-------------------------------------

A loud clanging noise dragged Harry from sleep. He sat up with a groan, quickly rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He felt surprisingly refreshed, but still reached out a hand and drank down the pepper-up from his bedside table when he stepped out of bed. Exerting his will, Harry watched as his leathers, mail shirt, underwear, trousers, shirt, boots, and weapons drifted from the walk-in cupboard. Grabbing the underwear, Harry threw his sleepwear on the bed and got dressed. He put on the trousers and shirt, then tied on his greaves and laced his boots. He threw on the mail shirt, and then latched on his chest plate, tasset, and pauldrons. As he strapped on his vambraces, Harry stepped towards his dresser and looked over the contents on top. Seeing his thigh wand holster, Harry grabbed it when he was done and strapped it to his right thigh. Lastly, he attached his weapons belt to his waist, his bow and quiver to his back, and his dagger inside his right boot. A pulse of magic detached his wand from his wrist holster and attached it to his person.

As he walked out of his room, Harry attached his pouch and marched to the receiving room. Along the way, he was met by a variety of elves in a mish mash of leather, plate, and chain armour. Harry shook his head when he saw Dobby. The strange elf was one of Harry’s favourites. Eccentric to the extreme, obsessed with bright colours, and far more tactile than most elves. Dobby’s armour made a chuckle bubble out of Harry’s throat. He had little greaves, vambraces, and gardbraces painted in bright yellow, orange, and green with large white polka dots. He wore a short breastplate of fluorescent pink, a tasset that reminded Harry of a daisy flowerhead, and an oversized galea with a bright scarlet comb. He looked utterly ridiculous as he bounced along with a two-handed war hammer strapped to his back, clattering on the floor with each step.

Harry shook his head and looked over the nine elves that would be accompanying him. He waited – steadily gathering ambient magic – until the last of them looked up and indicated they were ready.

“Stay safe everyone,” Harry warned before popping away.

As he appeared in the floo room of the Manus Island Main Barracks, Harry strode out of the door and made his way out to the yard. He nodded to the guards outside the floo room, then turned right and walked down the hall. Stepping through a door, Harry swept his eyes over the room and marched through. Everything seemed in order, the grey stone walls and chocolate wooden beams were well constructed, the room was tidy, and the shelves were stacked with miscellaneous detritus. Through another corridor, and another door, then Harry stepped out into the courtyard with his company. The clanging of armour and weapons greeted them, and the rough burr of Grontin could be heard from all corners of the area.

As the group emerged, Harry looked over his group and warned them to be careful as they parted ways and joined their own unit commanders. Harry, Dobby and two others made their way over to Rockfoot, whom they greeted him with a fist over their hearts, backs straight, and a short bark of “commander”. A curt nod was their only reply – as expected – leaving the four to join their unit. They talked to the others milling around, letting some of the tension dissipate before they were deployed.

It was another five minutes before Rockfoot and the other commanders congregated on the dais. A growl and a sharp “silence” had the division falling quiet and into ranks. Harry separated from Dobby and stood at the back of the group. Sweeping his eyes over the courtyard, Harry saw that nine units had been gathered; six infantry and three archer units. It made Harry wonder, either the threat was worse than usual or...

“Warriors of Manus,” Throg called out, quieting the most exuberant of the bunch. The old Goblin’s mere presence could be oppressive if he so chose it to be. It blanketed the units, demanding respect and assuring kinship. Harry felt his shoulders loosen a touch. “Our lands and our kin are under threat once again.” The growl that rumbled from his chest could be felt by all. A snap of his fingers and dense pulse of magic saw a replica of the island floating in front of him. Pointing his index finger made three points of light appear at different points of the coast. Throg jabbed his long sword at the three points when he continued.

“Approximately one hour ago, the external wards were breeched at these three spots, and upon inspection, scouts found roughly one hundred inferi at each location.” A wave of the hand saw the map moved to the side of the dais. “Units four, seven, and twenty-six will engage in the north-northeast. Units one, nine, and twenty-two will engage in the southeast, and units eleven, fourteen, and twenty-nine will engage in the west-southwest.”

Throg stepped forward, jamming his sword into the wood of the dais, a fierce scowl wrinkling his brow. A pulse of magic, rage, and protectiveness made Harry’s blood sing. Every eye was on their commander. The Goblin was fierce, and his emotions were infectious.

“These attacks are getting worse,” Throg growled, gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly his knuckles were wrinkle free and white. His accent had thickened so much, Harry had to squint to ensure he didn’t miss a thing. “This damn necromancer is attacking our land, endangering our people, and reducing our wealth. This shall not stand!” He stomped his foot and growled, eliciting a similar response from the amassed units. “We shall not be cowed. We shall not stand idly by. No blood of our kin shall be spilt tonight. We will show them... The Goblin Way!”

“The Goblin Way,” was cried out in response and echoed over the area in agreement. Harry felt as the adrenaline began to surge through him.

“Your commanders have their beacons,” Throg told the group when they had quieted some. “Move out.”

When he finished speaking, each of the Goblins on the dais popped out and responding pops could be heard from all over the yard as the units headed to their destinations. Feeling for his commander, Harry popped away with the rest and stepped back into formation as soon as he arrived at the beach.

In the twenty minutes they needed to wait for the oncoming hoard, Harry ran a mental check on his body, his mind, and his magic. As he and Dobby walked to their spot along the edge of the beach, he noted that he felt a little fatigued, but the pepper-up had done its job well. A flick of his fingers showed him that he had only slept for a little over five hours; more would be preferable, but enough to get by. His magic was tightly wound, compressed like a coiled snake ready to pounce. He slowly and steadily gathered ambient magic, taking it in and releasing it to keep his mind partially distracted from the wait. His mind was blissfully empty of ideas, theories, or plans. His to-do list was longer than his arm, and yet there was much more that he needed to think about. He had only just started his apprenticeship; only one day in fact, and he already felt tired.

As the encroaching thoughts snuck into his mind, Harry shook his head and glanced at Dobby. The elf was bouncing from one foot to the other, staring out to sea as the sky turned from navy to salmon to melon. It was as the first rays of sun broke the horizon that the gentle ebb and flow of the ocean was disrupted by multiple heads. Most of them were bald, and what hair they did have was thin and patchy. As the creatures emerged from the sea, Harry grimaced at the pale, emaciated frames that dragged themselves from the sea and onto the beach.

The creatures were strange. It was like they were under a strong imperius curse, where their will had been completely overridden, and the only thing they desired was to kill and maim. With a shake of his head and a roll of his shoulders, Harry steeled himself. He unsheathed his blades, holding them loosely at his sides, and pushed his magic through the hilts. Without looking, Harry sensed as his magic transferred to the runes embedded into the curved blades and began its transformation from raw energy to heat. He left it in that middle ground, ready and waiting for him to strike his enemies.

Harry watched, waited, and then listened for the command to advance. There was no use being impatient, fighting on the soft, dry sand would put them at a disadvantage. They allowed the halting creatures to make their way to cobbled path that ran around the coast before the call rang out. With a deep growl and shout, Harry launched forward.

Scanning his area of attack, Harry chose the creature a little to his right. Propelling forward, Harry raised his hands up, crossing his swords over his chest. Pushing a touch more magic through his right blade, he slashed his arm sideways, setting the creature ablaze. Making the choice to dart left, and repositioning his right arm, Harry listened for the thump of Dobby’s hammer as he smashed the blazing creature to pulp. A small smile that may have looked like a grimace crossed Harry’s face as he slashed the next creature and left it for Dobby to finish off.

On and on it went, dash, slash, thump. The creatures came, they were set ablaze, and then they were crushed into non-existence. It was a long morning and rather monotonous. He could see how inferi were dangerous, of course. For those who didn’t focus on physical fitness, they could quickly become overrun once their stamina dwindled. But for the seventh Unit of the Manus Barracks, the task as more of an annoyance.

Their unit was known for having the misfits of the nation. Originally, Manus was the main island for the Goblin Nation, and hosted most of their British population. Over time, non-human magicals had immigrated to the various Goblin isles and eventually began settling on Manus too. There was a colony of redcaps that lived close to the southern mines, a pair of orcs worked in the post office, a gaggle of leprechauns had claimed a small sections of one of the new gold mines in the west, a delegation of fae had opened a temple of the Wheel in the forest, a pack of wolf shifters and a sloth of bear shifters had recently leased some vacant land, and a herd of centaur had begun talks of occupying a new portion of land when it became available. Harry and Flopsy had been the first of their kind to immigrate, and Harry had quickly enlisted after graduation.

As more non-human magicals advocated for sanctuary, the Goblins had decided to increase the size of their islands using the same ritual that had created them in the first place. As such, all dwellers were required to offer a portion of their magic each week to fuel the growth. As house-elves were symbiotic beings that sought nourishment through their bond to a core dependent magical or their family magic, and their magic relied on the absorption and manipulation of ambient magic, they were deemed exempt from the donations. So, Harry had always provided more than was required, and it had become more of a strain as their little family had increased.

Dobby had been the first. He was an abused house-elf with a frayed bond and a lack of purpose. Dobby was a protector, a guardian, a fighter. He had a warrior’s heart and would give his life to protect those he called kin, regardless of his obsession with multi-coloured clothing. The Malfoys had not understood the nature of house-elves – nor cared to understand – and burned through the poor creatures every few generations. Dobby was barely a teen but had suffered more than his kin under their roof. He had protected the others by letting the master punish him more than the rest. When he had been freed, Flopsy had met him in the kitchens at Hogwarts and begun forming her plan for elf liberation. By the time Harry had moved to Manus, six elves had joined them after Flopsy and Dobby had bonded with Harry. After that, Flopsy had gone on a crusade to save as many house-elves as she could, going so far as to liberate entire households. As a result, Harry had bonded with just over fifty elves, and had been donating virtually all of his magic at the end of each day.

Some of the elves with similar aspirations as Dobby had decided to join them at the barracks. So, their unit included three house-elves, an orc, a few wolf shifters, a bear shifter, and an ogre. The rest of the unit was made up of goblins and Harry. They were a strange bunch, but they made it work.

One of the creatures slipped past his guard and tried to bite him. Luckily, he managed to jerk backwards and twist into a circular slash. Ducking a grab, Harry swivelled past the creature slashed at its abdomen and then dashed to the last one. Coming in too close, he pushed the inferius away with his right foot, then slashed it across the arm. After hearing the thump of Dobby’s hammer, Harry looked around to see that they had cleared their area. He looked out to sea, only to find the rhythmic sway of the waves, unbroken by the undead. Turning to his right, and then his left, Harry saw that the other pairs were done too.

A sharp whistle informed them that their unit had completed their task, so they returned to their commander.

“Warrior Potter,” Rockfoot growled as Harry approached. His eyes strayed to the goblin’s right, where a containment circle held a thrashing inferius. Strange. His brow furrowed a touch, wondering why they had captured the creature. “Each unit has been tasked with running diagnostics on the beasts. Get to work.”

Harry’s steps faltered. A myriad of questions ran through his mind. Why did they want to do this? Why him? Why had they not given him notice to do a little research beforehand? What diagnostics could he use? How would he define the inferius? Creature? Item? Human? Living? Dead? Uncoiling his magic, Harry let a trickle reach out for the creature, but recoiled as bile ran up his throat. The taint was just like the previous night. Black magic that defied the laws of nature, that soiled the Gods given essence.

Swallowing a few times, Harry tried again. Pushing through the nausea, Harry felt as the taint tried to both repel and consume his magic. It wanted to add to its strength, but also recoiled at the cleansing effect of untainted magic nearing its core. That gave Harry pause. It had a core. Sweat began to bead at Harry’s temple as he pushed harder in his search. The heavy weight of the oppressive magic was incomprehensible to him. He could tell that there were layers upon layers of intricate spellwork involved, but none of it made any sense. Harry knew next to nothing about necromancy, so he wasn’t surprised, but what did surprise him was how confused it made him. Usually, he was able to parse out at least something when he explored foreign magic, but it was almost like the magic was sentient. Like it knew he wanted to know and refused to allow him the courtesy.

After several minutes of struggle, Harry finally reached it. There, in the swirling darkness was a writhing essence, held firm by dark tendrils of black magic. Holding it in place and subjugating its will. Drawing out with a sharp breath, Harry looked at the creature with new eyes.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “It has a core.”

Harry felt more than saw as his companions recoiled. If the creature had a core, then it had a soul. There was a life inside the being, trapped but still there. Fuck. Was it considered alive, then? Or was the soul simply trapped in a corpse?

Pulling his wand from his thigh holster, Harry twirled it, conjuring a sheet of parchment. As he jabbed the right corner, his left hand descended into his pouch and summoned the ink pot. Uncorking and floating it, Harry ran his wand through the fourteen tight swirls and directed the ink onto the parchment. Unfortunately, it did nothing but leave a splotch on the sheet.

“Damn,” he mumbled, scratching his chin. “The other essense is interfering with the scan.”

Closing his eyes, Harry absently conjured another sheet, then reconnected with the creature. He probed deep, following the same route he took the last time, until he found the trapped soul. Drawing in as much ambient magic as he could, Harry dashed forward and lashed out, batting away the violent tentacles that tried to ensnare him. He felt a calming touch at his back, as the minutes of struggle went on. Then he felt Dobby’s magic join him in the battle, taking control of the fight so Harry could focus on reaching his goal.

Tightening the grip on his wand, Harry pushed his magic forward in a lunge, then moved his wand through the fourteen tight swirls again. It took all his concentration to maintain the connection long enough to complete the diagnostic. He couldn’t really tell, but it felt like hours passed before he felt the charm complete its task. With a cry, Harry pulled back viciously and fell on his bum, panting like he had been seconds from drowning.

Looking to his left, he saw that Dobby was in a similar state, but like usual, he was grinning madly. A small chuckle escaped Harry’s lips as he patted Dobby on the head and thanked him for the help.

“Dobby is always be protecting his youngling,” the elf cried, hugging Harry’s neck.

After a few more seconds to pull himself together, Harry rose and ran his eyes over the sheet of parchment. What he saw made his blood run cold, and sadness grip his heart. The creature was actually a thirty-five year old witch by the name of Margaret Thistle. Her health was critically poor, but she was alive. He did not know if she could be cured, but at that point, she was still living. That meant that each and every inferius he had slain had been a life he had taken.

Tears prickled at the corners of Harry’s eyes. He had slain hundreds of them. He had unknowingly murdered hundreds of witches and wizards, and he didn’t know how to handle it. His thoughts began to spiral as despair gripped his thoughts and blurred his surroundings.

A strong grip on his wrist brought Harry back to the present. He looked down to see Dobby’s grief stricken face.

“Later Youngling,” the elf murmured, reminding Harry of his duty.

It took a second, but Harry understood. He had a job to do, he could deal with implications of his findings afterwards. Looking around, he could see the rest of his unit handling the news in their own ways.

Shaking his head, Harry pointed at the ground next to the containment circle and retreated to his mind palace. He needed to assess the foreign magic, but it was too volatile to do so when it was part of the whole. So, he needed a siphon and a container. Transfiguration or conjuration? He wasn’t sure. His thoughts were sluggish. His attention was constantly wavering, and his decision-making capability was almost at nil. Come on.

He needed to contain magic. But the magic was almost sentient. Stone or mirror? Which would be better? Perhaps a combination of the two? Onyx? Obsidian?

Punching out a breath, Harry shook his entire body. He just needed to try. If he wasn’t able to think properly, he would just try and see if he failed.

Drawing up some sand, Harry applied pressure to it, until it was almost a single piece, then a few swirls saw the sand transfigure into a polished obsidian sphere. He then bathed it in ambient magic, purging it of his own, then drew it towards himself. Using a 97% saturation of ambient magic, he etched a containment array into the surface of stone, then bathed it in ambient magic again. After a visual check of the stone and the array, Harry looked back at the creature with sad eyes. The depravity of some was an utter disgrace.

With a slow breath, Harry let his determination take over. He had to take control, he had to have the will and the strength to complete his task. He could not waiver. The grip on his wrist kept him grounded, and the curling of Dobby’s magic around his core gave him the confidence he had momentarily lacked.

Raising his hand, Harry twirled his wand in constant tight circles as he reached out, once again, with his magic. This time though, he did not breach the surface, but enticed it towards him. It took a few seconds for the essence to take the bait, but fresh magic to be corrupted was clearly too much of a temptation. Without warning, a tendril lashed out and tried to grip onto the offering. Speeding up his circles, Harry and Dobby latched onto the magic and pulled with all their might. The battle became so intense that Harry had to widen his stance and dig his heals in. It was a mental battle, completely intangible, and unseen to outsiders. The fight occurred on a plain that was wholly non-existent and was merely a mental representation of will. But to them, it felt physical. Harry could feel as Dobby bared his teeth and squeezed his hand to the point of pain. Sweat ran down the sides of Harry’s face, running into his eyes, and down his collar. The entity tried to steal what was theirs, but in the end, the pair managed to attach it to the stone.

Harry had to squint his eyes as the stone began to glow, but he didn’t let up. The more they got, the more they could study. It took just over a minute, but eventually Harry felt as the stone reached capacity. Flicking his wand up, Harry broke the connection and put his hands on his knees, panting again.

When his breathing was steady, Harry went straight back to work. A conjured sheet of parchment, a jab for longevity, seven sharp flicks and a coil, and the ink came to life. The diagnostic showed the containment array, but the rest was incomprehensible. Not like the last time. There was no interference, no confundus cluster to skew the results. It was like the dark mark, but worse. His eyes could see the characters of the dark mark, and he could understand their meaning, but he had not known the runic language, nor had he been able to replicate it later. It was a conundrum he had long set aside. This, however, had clearly given a result in his native tongue, but no matter how long he stared at it, it was still incomprehensible. It made his head hurt. He couldn’t understand it, and he couldn’t understand why.

Another conjured sheet with a jab, and then twenty-seven flicks and sweeps saw one of the most complicated arrays he had ever seen. In the background was his futhark containment array, but within it was an incomprehensible mass. He could see the formation of circles on circles within circles, but no matter how much he enlarged the parchment, his eyes could not see, remember, nor understand the runic symbols. It was beyond frustrating and was at the point of driving him to insanity when he was pulled away.

Dobby just gave him a stern look, making him calm down and settle his thoughts. He pulled his hands out of his hair and realised that he had been pulling it so hard that the sting remained even after he had removed his hands. There was far too much to puzzle out; far more than he was capable of dealing with at that moment. He was tired, drained, and had little capacity for higher thought function. With a nod, he duplicated the notations and handed the originals to Rockfoot. A push of his magic moved the stone to his commander, who latched onto it with his own magic, and then he was dismissed.

A quick nod to the rest of his unit, and then the pair popped away. Again, Harry arrived in a daze, and was squeezed with love.

When his mum tried to tug him back to his room, he murmured “no” and pulled her to the right. He didn’t want to be alone; he needed his kin.

It felt like mere moments before he was ushered to the corner of the hall. He watched the room with a blank stare and muffled hearing as the elves bustled about for work or recreation. A pair in the far corner were sat in small rocking chairs as they knitted. A group to their left chattered as they whittled. On their right, Dobby was removing and then cleaning his armour, unusually quiet and solemn.

After his armour mysteriously disappeared, he was pushed onto a low couch and handed a bowl of something aromatic. He blindly shovelled the food down his throat as a wash of his mum’s magic cleaned him up. He really needed an actual shower. Eventually, the bowl was taken from him, and he reclined on the couch and drifted to sleep with the sounds of his kin soothing his passage to the land of dreams.

Chapter Text

Harry slowly woke to a pressure and a gentle prickle on his chest. It took mere moments for him to realise what it was – or rather who it was – before he relaxed. Raising his hand, Harry plunged his hands into the soft down of his familiar and scratched the shoulder joint of her right wing. The soft responding hoots caused Harry to open one of his eyes to see Hedwig pulling her head from under her wing. The beautiful snowy owl caught both his eyes as he opened the other one and stared deep into his soul. He amber eyes seemed to glow as they assessed him. He could feel her probing their bond, ascertaining his health no doubt, and he let her. It was easy enough to set aside the other bonds attached to his magic, so he could focus on only her.

She was a strange bird. She’d shown up around a week after they’d moved to Manus, and had just moved in. Harry had gone over to her that morning, expecting to find a letter attached to her leg, but had instead been pecked and bonded to. He had watched open mouthed as the bleeding wound on his hand had healed itself with a golden glow, then felt the familiar bond snap into place. The owl had just stared at him defiantly, as if he would contest the bond, but he had just shrugged and welcomed her to the family. She had nodded imperiously as if to say, “of course,” and then went off with Flopsy. After his shift in the mine, he had headed to the Eeylops Owl Emporium in Diagon to get what he needed to care for an owl, and had found out that she had escaped her cage the night before. The store clerk claimed she was a miserable bird that hated humans, but Harry suspected it was more like she was just selective. After all, most people were idiots.

As he stared into her bright eyes, Harry felt as she drew out his experiences, his feelings, and his troubles. She judged him, his actions, his thoughts, his conclusions. The gentle caress of her probing was a familiar one. Hedwig was much like Flopsy. She had come into his life and had taken to caring for him like a mother would. She groomed him, warmed him in sleep, and chastised him when he was being a fool. And apparently, she believed he was doing just that.

Harry heard startled squeaks from all corners of the hall as the screeching hoots woke the entire room, but he did not look away. He may not understand her exact words, but the emotions and impressions that flooded the bond were loud and clear. She would not let him waste his time on unnecessary guilt. He had not known what the creatures were – he still didn’t know – and the safety of Manus was their priority and their duty. As she shrieked, she began to pace left and right across his chest, flapping her wings and rotating her head sporadically. She let him know that the lives of their clutch mattered far more than undead strangers, and she punctuated the push of emotions with a death glare and a pinch of her talons. She informed him that mice needed to be eaten, and there was no use crying over their loss. The superior stand at the top, and it is sometimes necessary to kill to survive. For how could they live their lives without mice? It was absurd; a life without mice was no life at all. She squawked as she stared off into the distance. How could he ever suggest such a thing? Sometimes their talons needed to be bathed in the blood of their prey in order for them thrive. And who could deny the pleasure of a still beating rodent heart for lunch? Fools, that’s who. She shook her head in disgust, then looked back at him for confirmation that he had understood and was now over it.

He nodded vigorously, then wrapped his arms around his beautiful familiar. Of course, he was not ‘over it’, but he wouldn’t let himself be consumed by guilt. He had disassociated the night before; disconnecting from himself to hide from his errant emotions. He wouldn’t be that person. He was a Ravenclaw. He would research and find a solution for his problem. He had not created the inferi, he had not sent them to attack Manus, and he would choose the citizens over the creatures any day of the week. Hedwig was right. Well... somewhat. He chuckled as he sensed her still obsessing over rodent entrails.

When he let go, she ruffled her feathers and flew to the open window. When she looked back at him, he understood.

Reaching for his core, Harry sought out the animal within him and brought it forward. He sequestered his human self in his mindscape and felt himself shift form. His body reduced in size, his legs shrank, his feet turned to talons, his hands disappeared, and his arms became wings. His vision and hearing sharpened, his neck cricked as he stretched, onyx feathers sprouted all over his body and wings, and a fire raged at his core. As if on reflex, Harry trilled out a song for his family; communicating his joy at their presence, his satisfaction with his life, his confusion over his revelations, and his annoyance at being thrust into an existential crisis.

When his message had been sent, he flapped his wings and soared over the heads of the elves and joined Hedwig on the sill. Turning his head over his shoulder, he surveyed the room. His mum was smiling brightly at him from the sofa he had been sat on, Dobby was bouncing on an armchair next to the sofa, a group in the far corner were watching him from their mattresses, a few heads were poking from the little rooms along the back wall, and breakfast was being brought in from the kitchen.

The room was large and rectangular. The walls were a mixture of open brick, off-white mortar, and reddish-brown beams. It would comfortably house all of their family, and was regularly used for both socialising and sleeping. Most of the elves desired a nest in a small space, but there were times when they acted like crups and loved nothing less than to sleep in a pile. He presumed that they had congregated thanks to him. It made him trill again.

Facing the window, he sent an accord to Hedwig, them flapped his wings and took off out the window.

The rush of air around his smaller body, and the freedom of flight sent an exhilarated rush through him. Hedwig’s excited hoot elicited a quickening in his flaps, pushing him higher into the sky. The lilacs and pastel pinks of the early morning tried to force the non-existent muscles of his avian face to smile. Instead, he trilled with elation as he flitted past Hedwig and received an indignant squawk for his trouble. He trilled in response the banked sharply to the left, tucking in his wings and plummeting towards the ground. He could sense his familiar behind him; he could sense her joy at the freedom of flight. He could even sense her pleasure at being able to share the gift with her chosen human. He trilled again as he sensed an updraft and opened his wings to catch it. When his upwards thrust began to slow, the muscles in his wings tensed and he began to flap. The strain was glorious as he rose higher and higher into the sky. He rose high enough to see the entire island. As always, the sight was beautiful.

He saw the expansive mountains in the north. The main mine of Manus was truly magnificent for a Goblin-made creation. The original ritual’s purpose had been to create a home and a source of income. The northern mountain range – yet unnamed as it was deemed unnecessary – was vast, plentiful, and resplendent as it was bathed in the early morning light. The diverse range of ores and minerals found within its depths had seen the Goblins rise from the downtrodden servants to a prideful race of crafters, warriors, and hoarders of wealth. The surrounding lands were rich in a variety of minerals and ancient organisms, allowing for food to be grown in abundance, and rendering the island wholly self-sufficient. The later mines in the west and in the south were equally beautiful but smaller. They had been raised from the depths of the ocean, and then land masses had been added to form a larger island. Two forests had been planted, and then magically aged over generations to create an environment that would accommodate magical organic life. Eventually, nyads, driads, nymphs, wood elves, and other sentient magical beings had petitioned to join the different Goblin isles, alongside the naturally migrating magical creatures. It had taken the council just over a month of assemblies to decide on the matter. They had aided in the migration of creatures, but the beings was another matter altogether. In the end, it was agreed that humans – magical or otherwise – were fools, and indebting the various other beings by harbouring them from the prejudice of the humans was a wise and potentially profitable choice. And after a few generations, it was. Over the last decade, the council had opened Manus to migrants as their other islands had flourished, and the results could be felt just as intently from the sky as from the ground.

Harry inhaled through his nasal passage and feasted on the thick ambient magic that poured from the island. It was invigorating. Rejuvenating even. He almost felt his feathers tingle as the balance of nature and magic cried out its pleasure. He trilled as he and Hedwig twirled around each other and dove once again towards the centre of the island.

Sharp eyes watched as the earth came closer at a dizzying speed. Setting his sights on the temple spire, Harry opened his wings and slowed. The jarring of his muscles at the abrupt change was thrilling. Untucking his talons, Harry landed lightly on the jutting finial as he folded his wings.

Taking a deep breath, Harry closed his eyes and sang to the dwellers of Manus. It spoke of protectiveness, of kinship, of strength. It was sad but triumphant. It felt helpless but enduring. Harry trilled his feelings into the morning and felt as the ambient magic reacted. He sang of resilience and vigour, of the unending certainty of their perseverance. He sang of pride and might, and he felt as the ambient magic settled on the dwellers of the isle. It swelled their hearts and bolstered their inherent magic. They understood and for those few minutes were unequivocally understood. They were connected by song, and the growls, hisses and cheers that joined him from the updraft helped Harry close his morning song with a note of pure joy.

It didn’t take long for Harry and Hedwig to make their way back to the Refuge after he had finished. He greeted his little family with a smile on his lips as he nigh on ran for the bathroom. He would have a proper wash before another crisis or other distracted him.

Thirty minutes later, Harry emerged from the bathroom feeling refreshed. Without much thought, he headed to the meditation room. It had been some time since he had fortified his shields and practiced improving his magic. Surveying the room, Harry found that it was empty. Letting out a relieved breath, Harry felt calmed by the soft blues and greens of the walls and felt as his breaths slowed. Heading to a cushioned area of the floor, Harry sat down and closed his eyes.

Sinking deep into his magic, Harry concentrated and felt out his shields. They were as strong as they could be without an opposing legilimency probe. Looking through his library mindscape, Harry marvelled at the sight of all the books. It had grown over the years, and his next downtime would only increase it further.

Resisting the urge to rub his hands together and cackle, Harry stepped into the room with his magic. It sat there, twisting and writhing in a convoluted and yet controlled manner. It was as warm and comforting as always. Sitting down in the space, Harry split his focus between the tangible and intangible, and twisted his wand through the revealing charms: human, beast, magic, and malevolence. Upside down, open key shape, semi-circle with a swirl, open ‘R’ shape, and a tight circle with a diagonal flick down and to the right. Again and again, he ran through the movements, foregoing the words as per usual.

For simple charms, his occlumency afforded him with enough concentration to only need to focus on the shaping of his magic – the wand movements. His will was usually strong enough that words were generally unnecessary; they were merely a focus. The movements, on the other hand, shaped and directed the magic so it would perform the task it needed to. Simple charms could usually be performed wandlessly when a caster had performed the charm enough for the shaping and intention to become intuitive. For more complex charms, it took deep meditation, heightened occlumency, and a great deal of practice and patience to be able to perform the charms wandlessly.

So Harry ran through the charms over and over until he felt that he had memorised the form his magic needed to take, and then opened his eyes. With a push of his will, Harry ran through the revealing charms a handful of times until he was satisfied that he could perform them wandlessly.

Jumping up, Harry stretched and felt like a weight had lifted somewhat from his shoulders. He still didn’t know how he felt about the fact that he had unintentionally ended lives, but Hedwig was right... to a certain degree.

Heading out of the room, Harry walked down the corridor to the home office and opened the door. Inside he found three house-elves at appropriately sized desks for their stature either reading or scratching away at parchment. Only one glanced at him and ushered him over. He chuckled, anyone that preferred submissive, docile house-elves was a fool.

These elves – along with a few others – sought self-actualisation through administrative tasks. They loved organisation, research, and problem-solving. Pep, the head administrator of their kin, was knee-deep in various tomes, forms and self-writing quills.

Without a word, Pep clicked his fingers and sent a small hillock of parchment to the human-sized desk in the right hand corner of the room. Rolling his eyes, Harry sat himself behind the desk and got to work.

First, he laid out the scribblings from his assessor charm. He needed to go over the array to perfect it and ensure that it was different enough from the original charm to be considered his own. It took a little over an hour to put the final touches on it. He had had to alter the Futhark translator cluster to ensure that the translator was intuitive. After all, it would not do, for instance, for an Asian magical to have to translate the results from English. Once he was satisfied, he signed the documents Pep had provided him and sent it back to the elf.

He then moved to his portfolio. He now had two ward-breaks completed, and an original charm he may be able to use for his Charms mastery. It took about thirty minutes for him to write up the most recent report for the latest ward-break and for the charm. He retrieved parchment from one of the many drawers in the desk and transferred the ink from the case notes and allowed the conjured parchment to dissipate. He then copied the necessary documents from the case file to his portfolio and submitted the case files via his Apprentice Badge. When he was done, he set aside his portfolio and looked to his next task.

He spent the next few hours going over the runic arrays for his latest personal project. He wanted to put a television in the hall, but as electronics would literally explode in an area so saturated in ambient magic, he needed to enchant a devise that would replicate the functions of a television with only magic.

It had taken him months to read a variety of books to understand how the entire network functioned. In essence, a camera converts images and sounds into a signal, a transmitter sends the signal through the air, and a receiver captures the signal and transforms it back into images and sounds.

It had been easy enough to find a large sheet of glass he could use as the display, but creating an array that projected the images off the surface of the mirror had been difficult. He had only been able to throw a few clusters together before he realised that he had tackled the problem backwards. He needed to understand the nature of the signal more before he could see to the projection. He had been thinking like a wizard and treating the mirror like an enchanted painting. Muggles didn’t – and couldn’t – treat their problems in such a manner. Magic was almost like a cheat when one considered the plight of muggles.

So, he had ventured back to a bookshop in central London for more books on the subject. It had been quite jarring to see how a video was made. With wizarding pictures, the device – camera – used an array that captured a time within a space. It memorised aspects of a certain time and trapped them within a complex array embedded in treated parchment or canvas. On the other hand, the muggles took a series of still images that flicked past so fast, it gave the perception of life by tricking the brain. It was ingenious and horrifying at the same time.  The head bashing issue though was the transformation of light to an electronic signal. A continuous electrical wave of data is sent through wires from a camera to a receiver, and somehow, Harry needed to convert the signal into something that wouldn’t be mangled by the time it reached his receiver on Manus.

He had thus spent six months of his spare time trying to understand the properties of analog data transference, and had eventually developed a theoretical arithmantic formula that converted the movement of electrons between atoms to a magical charge. During the entire process, Harry cursed the old fool that lorded over Hogwarts and his pathetic take on wizarding education. The subjects available in some of the other schools, and in muggle schools in particular, would have been helpful in his youth. His understanding of the natural sciences would have helped during his OWLs and NEWTs, and during his curse-breaker studies.

He had then moved on to design an array for the conversion. As a European wizard – and as it was one of his first complex arrays – Harry had stuck with the old favourite, Elder Futhark, using the standard Scandinavian configuration and translations. He broke the array into seven parts. The main cluster gave an overview of the array’s function: to catch, to transform, and to release. The purpose of the six subordinate clusters were to capture, to contain, to dissect, to understand, to convert, and to send. None of it was easy. He had searched Britain, France, Egypt, and Bulgaria, and yet he hadn’t found a similar device he could use to stimulate ideas. He would be heading to the Colonies eventually, but his failure in his hunt was not a deterrent.

He had completed the first two subordinate clusters and had tested them on a variety of different stones, crystals, and metals, and had landed on a small sphere of tungsten inside a piece of rose quartz. Once an intricate array for a cooling charm was physically etched into the quartz, the tungsten retained its shape, and the current held.

His next task was to create a cluster, or a collection of clusters to dissect the signal. So, the following hours were spent puzzling out the correct group of runes that would break down the signal without destroying it for the next stage. It was almost like composing a poem. Each individual rune had a handful of meanings that altered depending on whether it was reversed or not, depending on the combinations of other runes connected to it, and again depending on other combinations a combination was connected to. It was like a poetic puzzle, and Harry lost himself to it, letting go of all other thoughts. It worked almost as well as meditation.

Almost too soon though, Harry had to set aside his project and move onto the last lot of documents would change the status quo of his life. He had been born Harry James Potter, and if he went through with his mum’s crazy scheme, then he would be Harry James Potter no longer. It wasn’t like he was particularly attached to the name his birth parents had given him, but it had still been his. It was definitely better for him to take the step early on in his apprenticeship. The majority of his works would be labelled with his new identity, and he would prefer that. But... But it was the only link left to his birth family. He felt like holding onto that last remaining link with a death grip, but on the other hand, he was all too willing to shatter the bond with the ferocity of a threatened nundu. The Potters had thrown him away, basically labelling him as worthless. They had forsaken their magic blessed gift of parenthood by desecrating the family bond, and he didn’t know why he was feeling so emotional about doing the same to them. He had long since closed his heart to the Potters, and yet, there he was, agonising over a signature. Yes, a signature that would irrevocably change his name, his magic, his life, but still...

Harry sighed, then looked to his right. There she was.

Flopsy had laid her long fingers on his forearm, and was looking up at him with her big, bright eyes.

“You be loved, Youngling,” she whispered, stroking his arm with patient kindness. Harry felt all the eyes on him, but he didn’t look away. He knew all the elves were feeling his emotions through the bond. They knew he was sad and elated, morose and overjoyed, pained and yet determined. They had done this to him, not the other way around. If things had been different, he would probably never have even considered rejecting the Potter magics, but there he was. He had a new family, and if they were to continue, he needed to a head of house. He needed to control the family magics of at least an ancient house in order to sustain their house-elf refuge. The strain was becoming too much, and soon it might kill him.

Harry sighed again. They did this. They had given him up, and now he needed to take responsibility for his new family.

With one last glance at his mum, Harry signed his new name on the form in his blood, and watched as the words scratched themselves across the back of his hand. The pain was welcome, so too was the wash of healing magics that followed. It signified his life, and the changes he had made with his own hands. It showed the constant cycle of pain and healing he had experienced. It represented his resilience. As the words disappeared, he said goodbye to Harry James Potter. As the documents flashed and disappeared, he welcomed Hadrian Florence Peverell.

Chapter Text

After shaking off the shock of his actions, Hadrian looked up to see that the little room had been expanded to fit their entire family. Fifty-three house elves and an owl sat or stood in front of him. Each of them stared, waiting for his emotions to settle. The bond he shared with them sang as he felt their support and caring. It made him smile. Taking a deep breath, Hadrian nodded.

“It’s done,” he told them unnecessarily, trying to catch as many eyes as he could. “Hopefully, by the end of the day, we will be assessed and accepted by the family magics.”

Letting the cheers calm him, Hadrian watched and felt the relief from his kin. The bond was strained, and he was haemorrhaging magic. He knew it, and they most certainly did. If his magic hadn’t been so dense, he no doubt would have been a squib or a vegetable by now. But signing the forms had begun the process. The inheritance test had confirmed his eligibility, and the contract had begun the transference of family magics. It was practically a done deal. All he needed to do was take the headship ring for the final assessment, and he would become a new – old – line.

“You’ll all need to prepare yourselves,” he continued when they calmed. “We can’t know how different the magics will be from the Potter’s. Make sure you’re safe and comfortable when the signal is sent. You need to be prepared.”

The excited chatter held none of the apprehension he felt. It was all determination, encouragement, and hopefulness. He wasn’t sure if that was merely the innate optimism of house-elves, or something more. Regardless, Hadrian let himself be overwhelmed by the feelings. He let the negativity wash away, understanding that what will be, will be.

---------------------------------------

The following morning, after a shower and a hearty breakfast, Hadrian flooed to the London branch of Gringotts, and then onwards to the St Mungo’s receiving hall with Hopkirk. The room was smaller than the atrium at the Ministry, less gaudy and far more functional too. The large hall was coloured in soft blues and off-whites, housed half a dozen fireplaces large enough to permit a nuclear family plus their dog. Stretchers sat stacked between the floo points along with cabinets filled with a plethora of potions. Hadrian could sense the powerful security measures on the cabinets and smiled at the foresight. Human magicals were often unthinking fools after all. At the end of the hall, Hadrian saw a woman standing by the double doors.

“Healer Chesson,” Hadrian greeted tentatively, raising his right hand.

“That’s me,” the woman chirped in reply with a warm smile. “Apprentice Curse-Breaker Potter, I assume.”

After nodding in confirmation, Hadrian turned to his supervisor and introduced him. The man simply nodded and faded into the background.

“I’m so excited,” she gushed. “I’ve heard about the prowess of the Gringotts apprentices. I can’t wait to get started. How many cases do you foresee working on? I was so chuffed to be chosen to pair up. Three of my colleagues have already begun. There are at least seven patients...”

Hadrian chucked as the woman prattled on. She was petite, fair in complexion with light blond hair and large azure eyes. The way she bounced as she walked through the halls and clearly suffered from verbal diarrhoea was so reminiscent of Dobby that he instantly felt his usual distrust of humans slip slightly.

Motioning through the door to the stairs, Hadrian followed after the healer. The woman chattered the entire way, barely taking the time to breathe, let alone allowing him a chance to respond.

Her name was apparently Hayli Chesson – yes, spelt with an ‘i’ – and she was a muggleborn Ravenclaw who had graduated two years before Hadrian. She remembered the reclusive and mysterious Potter child that refused to acknowledge his twin. She had entered the Healer program straight out of Hogwarts and had flown through her studies like a woman possessed. The program was administered with a heavy emphasis on ethical decision-making and impeccable integrity, lest their graduates drop dead from their oaths before greeting their first controversial patient. As such, all the bias, prejudice, and discriminatory behaviours are beaten from the trainees with a proverbial stick within their first six months. Then constantly reinforced over the years of the program, and then prodded at during annual seminars. They had learnt their lesson during the multiple wars that, regardless of oath, people were foolish enough to fall prey to the sweet words of whichever smarmy dunce was vying for power and were liable to commit suicide by oath if they were not reminded regularly of their obligations.

Healer Chesson had been thoroughly impressed with the methods employed that reversed the damage of the House system at Hogwarts, and the bias of both sides of the wars. During Grindelwald’s rampage, the Light affiliated Healers refused to treat the dark aligned patients and vice versa. It was absurd. Healers were meant to heal, all else was irrelevant. And so, the adoption of a Hippocratic type oath in Magical Britain became a requirement of all Healer- and Medi-programs. Unfortunately, the people still hadn’t learnt their lesson by the time Riddle stood up to Dumbledore and his ilk. Metaphorical battle lines were drawn and again a slew of fools had forsaken their oaths to their own detriment. It became obvious that humans were forgetful idiots and only constant reinforcement would help them overcome their own stupidity.

As the Healer rambled on about the history of British Medicine, Hadiran took in as much as he could. It was his first time in St Mungo’s. He had never been sick enough to warrant a stay at the institution; the elves were more than capable to tend to his sniffles, mend his scratches, and brew his inoculations. So, it was with wide eyes that Hadrian took in the strange mixture of old and new. The base of the building was clearly something akin to a millennia old church but with much larger windows and a great deal more glass. The previously rough hewn stone had been smoothed to a sheen, and the floors had been buffed to a shine. The place felt like an annotated maze; the corridors branched off at sporadic angles and members of staff in lurid lime green robes marched about with purpose.

Their first stop was on the second floor, the Lena Melville transitional ward for curse and spell damage. Crossing the threshold was unpleasant. The wards at the entry point were invasive and made Hadrian feel a little violated. He shivered at the feeling of a cheese grater getting a little too friendly with his skin. It was promising though; he hadn’t noticed any spell residue on his person, but he could definitely feel as the cleansing ward refreshed him.

In the centre of the circular room sat a ‘c’ shaped desk with aids, medi-wix, and healers milling about. Three doors led away from the room at incomprehensible angles, and Hadrian could sense the runic work embedded in the walls, shifting the space in intriguing and unseen ways.

At their approach, the barest of introductions were given before the staff indulged their excitement and began nattering away and exchanging files. At Hadrian’s look of confusion, Hopkirk explained that July was usually a promising month for difficult cases. The graduates from the Gringotts Curse-Breaker programs were set free upon the world and were usually eager to get their numbers up. The vigour and enthusiasm they usually showed meant that some of the more complex cases were seen to faster than usual, and at a lower cost than hiring a journeyman or a master.

Hadrian hummed as Healer Chesson bounced back to the pair brandishing several files. She took a few minutes to explain which patients were in need of their attention, then left it to Hadrian to decide which he thought he could help and then in what order they would attend to them.

When the decisions were made, they headed through the right door from the reception to the first case, taking the second door on the left. Stopping in front of the door, Hadrian took the appropriate file and talked through the notes.

“Patient Junior Auror Bollard,” he mumbled. “Attended a raid with the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts and Obliviation departments to investigate a supposed ‘hag’ who provided ‘mystical’ artefacts that pleased and displeased the residents of an isolated Welsh village in equal measures.”

He rifled through a few more pages before speaking again.

“When clearing a room of said ‘hag’s’ manor, the Auror was caught in a compulsion and activated the curse on a hairbrush. Preliminary findings suggest the Auror is... ‘doomed,” he rolled his eyes at the notation. “... to brush his hair to death’.” He could only wonder at the folly of some enchanters.

All the mirth he felt at the idea of someone being cursed to brush the hair until they reached brain was immediately quashed at the image that surfaced. He shuddered as he looked through the window into the room. Healer Chesson had touched a panel on the wall beside the door, removing the frosting over the glass, allowing them to see the statuesque man in the middle of the room, frozen mid-brush. The terror gripping his features was palpable, leaking from him and filling the room. Hadrian’s eyes flicked up to the young man’s hand where he could only see the tip of the bright golden handle. The little he could see didn’t look menacing, gaudy perhaps, but certainly not deadly.

Resisting the urge to filter more magic to his eyes, Hadrian turned away and spied the subdued air coming from Chesson, and the blank readiness coming from Hopkirk. Flicking out his wand, Hadrian swept the tip from head to toe in a cleansing charm.

“The Auror was first immobilised by spell, then by rune stone upon arrival.”

Feeling two similar pulses of cleansing behind him, Hadrian stepped forward and opened the door. The tingle of cleansing, scouring, and detection wards washed roughly over his skin, making him twitch as he crossed the threshold. The bizarre picture in front of him was slightly unnerving. The man’s skin was grey and the terror on his face became even more haunting as he approached.

Stopping a metre away from the Auror, Hadrian reached out with his magic as he usually did. The man’s magic felt sluggish and subdued, struggling under the weight of the immobilising rune. It was evidently trying to probe and reverse the effects to no avail. Directing the trickle of his magic towards the brush, he felt his gorge rise with revulsion. The magic was quite insidious, like sweet lies that lure the innocent to their death. The caster had left far too much of their signature and intent for a proficient occlumens to be enthralled, but it led Hadrian to presume that multiple compulsions were layered within the brush. He would need a more precise probe.

Idly moving his wand through multiple conjurations of parchment and the magically etched longevity array, Hadrian blindly groped around for his inkpot and let it all float. The fourteen tight swirls of the health diagnostic directed his magic to the Auror and then filtered the results through the ink and onto the page.

It didn’t take long before he was able to cut off the flow of his magic and flick his eyes to the parchment. He briefly spoke through the basic information: name, age, height, weight, recently imbibed potions, and current health status. It was all quite mundane. He had taken a pepper-up that morning and had a few scrapes on his head. He would need a more in-depth scan.

“I’ll need to use Lepson’s Detector,” he mumbled as his wand twisted and flicked through the seventeen movements of the charm. The twist in his magic felt foreign as he had only used that particular charm a few times in the mine clinic, in his second year of the program, and then another few times in his last months. Human curse-breaking was a niche add-on in the program he had enrolled in. The trainees in his program mostly dealt with inanimate objects. Curse-reversal and ritualism had their own separate programs or were optional additions to his particular program that the Ravenclaw in Hadrian’s soul couldn’t ignore. As a result, the associated charms were practiced far less than the rest.

He felt as his magic reached out to the Auror and scanned him from base to tip, front to back, and then inside out. It took a little over ten seconds before the magic fled with its information towards the inkpot and then the parchment. Snatching the sheet from the air, Hadrian threw his eyes over the parchment to take in what he could before recitation.

“He has some standard Auror fair on his person,” he informed his audience as he twirled through two more parchment conjurations. “Port-keys, Auror badge, wand, Gringotts key, protection amulet... an extension charm on his trouser pocket, basic garment charms, a foe-watch, and a few odds and ends that shouldn’t interfere with the next steps.”

He let go of the parchment and sent it over to Hopkirk for a thorough examination. The second pair of eyes was warranted, as an error on his part could prove fatal.

Looking up, Hadrian realised he needed a different angle, so he moved around the Auror. As most of the furniture had been pushed to the back wall, he had plenty of space to walk and float his bits and bobs about his person.

After declaring his intention, Hadrian sharpened his focus, narrowed his eyes minutely and stared at the visible parts of the brush. His sight tightened to the point where everything else faded away. He gripped his wand, feeling the smooth wood beneath his fingers. He curled his magic tight, ready to push it through his wand. He saw nothing but the head and small patch of the handle.

The three consecutive horseshoes and the clockwise swirl of the itemiser made his magic jump forth like a striking snake. It slowed when it was close to the brush, then caressed it before heading to the inkpot. When he cut off the charm, he moved straight into the twenty-seven flicks and sweeps of the Relay. He felt as the second charm caressed the item, stealing its secrets with the barest of touches before heading to the inkpot to scribe the array upon the metre squared sheet. Floating both sheets in front of him, Hadrian first looked over the basic diagnostic.

“Befuddlement charm,” he murmured. “Multiple compulsions, sticking charm, warming charm... a leech... There’s a progressional transfiguration charms set on the brush... nasty.”

Setting the diagnostic aside, Hadrian focused on the array. It had two overlapping circles, one smaller than the other like a disproportionate figure eight. The larger circle showed a variety of charm clusters that latched onto the holder of the brush: befuddlement, compulsions, wakefulness, magical leech, sticking, super-sensory, and a partial transfiguration. The smaller circle of charm clusters was for the brush: warming, sticking, and the transfigurations. It looked like the compulsions and befuddlement activated as soon as a person’s gaze landed on the brush, drawing them in to activate the artefact’s curse. Once grasped, the sticking charm on the person and the brush prevented it from being relinquished, the leech absorbed the holder’s magic to replenish the brush’s reserves, and the warming charm would begin to steadily increase in temperature. As soon as the person began to brush, the bristles would begin to change to steel, the hand began to fuse with the brush, and then the bristles would lengthen. If at any point the process was interrupted by an external magical source, the charms would accelerate to a fatal speed.

The bristles had already been transfigured, and the lengthening was just about to activate. The sticking charms were active, but the fusing had not begun. The warming would probably be unbearable, and the man’s senses and fear were most likely intense. Whatever was to be done, needed to either happen whilst the runes were still active or within... three seconds of deactivation.

After curbing the impulse to run his hand through his hair, or scratch the back of his neck, or scrub his hand over his face, Hadrian resolutely clenched his fists by his thighs and looked over the array again.

Neither invasive nor overly flamboyant destruction could be used without the rune stone activated. The number of counter charms he would need to fire off in quick succession was far too great; the acceleration would kick in almost immediately, killing the Auror without pause.

He would have liked to keep the brush, slowly picking apart the interwoven charms and puzzling out their secrets. The array seemed so simple at first glance, but the complexity lay within the interconnection of the clusters and the relay clusters that linked them; they could be activated by the former or held back by the latter. It was like dominoes, falling at the right time to complete the brush’s goal. He would have to satisfy his curiosity with just a copy of the array.

Forcing out a breath, Hadrian realised that he needed to cut the power, then snickered at all the muggle expressions he had begun to think in since his obsession with the television began. The brush was leeching the man’s magic to keep itself active, and if he couldn’t use invasive magic, then he needed to drain it and cut off its supply.

Conjuration or transfiguration; it’s always the question. Obsidian, of course. It would drain the magic from the brush quickly and efficiently. Transfiguration would have imperceptible imperfections, traces of its previous form, reducing its effectiveness. Conjuration, on the other hand, required a concentration on par with a master occlumens. He could do that. Of course, he could. As for the rune stone... Kyanite? Morganite? Something blended with howlite perhaps? Yes, a blend of the three with a magic suppressant array covering them all.

He stood silently for well over three minutes, rifling through his mindscape and devising a plan of action. The room remained quiet as he gathered his thoughts and decided how to help the Auror. When he was ready, he spoke. A glance to Hopkirk, and a curt nod in reply was all it took for him to move forwards.

First, he conjured the obsidian. He could see the composition he had memorised, the silicon dioxide with zero impurities. The perfect black glass that could scarcely be found in nature. He only needed a small piece, hardly a blip in his well of magic. The pebble materialised in front of his eyes, two inches in diameter and half an inch in depth. It took mere moments to etch a powerful leeching array into the stone before he bathed it in ambient magic and set it aside. He then turned his mind to the more complex conjuration. Each stone needed to be brought into existence on their own. Aluminium silicate; the blue, grey, and white shards of kyanite burst into existence before him. Pure beryllium-aluminium silicate; the smooth rose crystal of morganite formed next to its partner. Calcium boron silicate hydroxide; the choppy white and black veined rock of howlite circled the other two and bound them all with a twist. The suppressant array was inlaid with more care than the last. It was checked, double checked, and finally triple checked before being bathed in ambient magic and sent to Hopkirk for a final inspection.

Once his pieces were assembled, he spoke through his actions so both his supervisor and partner healer were aware and consented to his plan.

Three, two, one... He shot both rune stones to their targets – the leech stone to the brush and the suppressant stone to the Auror’s chest – and waited. And waited. It was an agonising six seconds. It felt like an hour, like an eternity, but it wasn’t. It was only a few seconds until the brush crumpled into dust and floated to the floor like it had never been a malicious artefact lusting after lives. Hadrian vanished the motes without a second thought, barely comprehending his success.

It took time for him to come out of the reverie. Again, he had had a life in his hands, and he had succeeded in keeping the soul on this plane. He had been trusted, and he had prevailed. A person had been on the verge of death, and he had saved them. He could barely hold in the giggle. It was exhilarating.

A hard squeeze on his shoulder promptly brought him back to the present.

“Well done, Apprentice,” Hopkirk told him, looking him in the eyes and grounding him. It only took a few moments for the presence to remind him that he had a job to do before he stepped down from his elation and watched as Healer Chesson removed the immobilising rune and healed the scant few scratches on the Auror’s head. The pair left the room as she worked.

Hadrian turned to the paperwork, duplicating his diagnostics, and writing up a quick summation of his efforts for the patient chart.

“How did you know it was a transfiguration?” Healer Chesson asked with visible excitement.

“I didn’t,” Hadrian replied, tamping down his own joy.

“Then how could you have known... It didn’t matter, did it? Transfiguration, conjuration, it was simply an enchantment. Without magic, it was just a brush... or dust, really.”

Her eyes sparkled, and she honest to Merlin bounced on the spot. She really needed to meet Dobby. He just nodded at her words before handing over the file and indicating they move onwards. She bounced and chatted, and he let his mind wander as she let her thoughts fall out of her mouth. It wasn’t until she paused and glanced at him that he focused.

“Sorry?”

“Where did you get the crystals?”

“Oh,” he replied, taking in the new hallway as they left the reception area again. “Conjuration.”

She stopped, a small frown marring her bright face.

“But Gamp’s law...”

“Was disproven in 87.”

“What?”

He flicked his eyes to Hopkirk, who simply smiled and stopped his eyes mid-roll.

“But,” she stammered. “It’s the foundation of transfiguration study. Those laws have defined how we practice transfiguration for...”

“You’re a British mage,” he told her around a chuckle, sobering at her confusion. “The British – in general – seem to believe they’re the only mages on earth and tend to be oblivious to the findings outside their borders.”

He ushered her forward as he continued.

“Mages outside of Britain tend to branch out from tradition, from stagnant thinking, from their own circles to seek knowledge in fresh and innovative ways. It was actually due to the advances of muggles – their knowledge and their technology – that advanced the field of transfiguration.”

This time it was Hadrian that prattled on about muggles and their discovery of atoms, about the molecular structure of rocks, crystals, and minerals. He told her about microscopes, the periodic table of elements, and basic molecular structures. He spoke of learning chemistry, biology, and geology. He explained how it had been determined that complex structures could only be conjured or transfigured by those that had memorised the molecular structure of the items themselves. He even laughed at her befuddlement when he mentioned looking at a transfigured wood chip under a microscope, and relaying how different it looked when the caster was unfamiliar with the molecular structure.

“But, but,” she stammered with a little frown, bouncing as she walked. “They still teach transfiguration the old way in Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall...”

“Is a spectacular Transfiguration Mistress,” he cut in, smiling at the girl. “However, she does not have ultimate say over the curriculum.”

“Dumbledore?”

“Indeed.”

Their arrival at the door of their next patient ended their conversation as Healer Chesson handed over the next case file.

“One Jeremiah Peters was struck simultaneously by two unknown curses, by two unknown casters, resulting in an unknown affliction.”

Hadrian turned the sheet over resisting the urge to laugh incredulously. Surely, the writer could have simply written I know nothing and walked away feeling accomplished. He simply hummed and prepared to enter, swishing his wand in a cleanse. Stepping inside, he absently conjured parchment as he probed the man under stasis. He immediately recalled his magic after finding nothing he could parse out.

He ran his wand through the health diagnostic, and the magical detector, listing the bland and the relevant details. It was all quite ordinary.

Taking out a sheet of parchment from his bag, Hadrian bathed it in ambient magic for several long seconds before placing it on the man’s bare chest. He let out a breath before descending into a semi-meditative state. He needed all his focus on the man. There were no movements, nor words for the particular diagnostic he needed. As per usual, it was non-invasive, but required a tight leash on one’s magic and a focus to attract the magic of another in just the right amount to interact with the charmed parchment in a productive manner.

When he was ready, Hadrian touched the tip of his wand to the man’s forehead and waited. He sent a trickle of his own magic down to the tip and tenderly stroked the barrier at the man’s skin. He was sure that if the man had been conscious, he would have felt pins and needles on the offending area, but he did not even twitch. It took half a minute for the man’s magic to react appropriately, understandable given the stasis rune, but eventually he could feel the man’s essence following along as he moved the tip of his wand to the top of the parchment.

He repeated the action four more times at both hands and feet. When done, he cycled a little magic to his eyes and saw the tendrils of magic attached to the edges of the parchment. Satisfied with his accomplishment, he looped his wand through three inward, triangle shaped spirals before tapping the parchment at the five points of contact. It only took a few seconds for the parchment to activate allowing the scrawling script to display the charms upon the man’s person. It worked just like the Relay would have if it worked on animate objects, showing a handful of clusters afflicting the man.

From the moment the parchment completed its task, it took only a few glances to see that the man had been hit by two intermingled curses. The way they overlapped suggested they had clashed midway to their targets, then veered off towards the unsuspecting victim in a mutated form of both curses. A blood boiling and a blood freezing curse, it seemed. Both curses were working in opposition to one another making the poor chap’s blood fluctuate from searing to frigid, pushing him rapidly to his end. It was probably luck that the man had been put under stasis when he had.

Letting the parchment float over to the pair behind him, Hadrian conjured more parchment to design a counter-curse. He drew out the counter-curses for both the boiling and the freezing curses, then plucked the relevant runes from the clusters and combined them to reverse the effects of the intermingled curses. It took barely five minutes for Hadrian to be satisfied before he used the arithmantic conversion tables to calculate the necessary wand movements. Once he had checked – double and triple – he showed his workings to a satisfied Hopkirk and ordered Healer Chesson to disengage the stasis rune after a count of three.

It took longer for Healer Chesson to deal with the aftermath of solving the case than the last time. The curses may have been lifted, but the resultant affects had been severe. In the meantime, Hadrian wrote out and copied his notes.

The last case made Hadrian actually roll his eyes. A woman had walked in on her five year old son playing with her wand and had been hit by an unknown charm that made her flicker from invisible to visible and back at indeterminable intervals. The healers and medi-wix had tried multiple counter-charms and nullifying charms to no avail. Hadrian suggested they let the child do it. After calming the squalling boy and teaching him to pronounce “finite incantatem”, it took barely ten minutes for the woman to be back to normal and on her way.

After shaking too many hands and receiving undue thanks from the remaining staff at the reception, Hadrian made his way out of the ward and followed Healer Chesson – call me Hayli – to the Janus Thickey ward for permanent spell damage.

On the way there, Hadrian contributed more to the conversation than their last journey, enjoying the woman’s chatter as he superimposed Dobby’s face onto hers.

It didn’t take long before they were entering a similar reception space, although there were less staff, and they seemed less harried. The patients were mostly there to be cared for rather than cured, after all.

This time they simply visited the rooms and read the case notes to see if there was anything Hadrian thought he could do to help the patients. He found several cases that he wanted to mull over. It wasn’t until he reached the third group ward that something of interest occurred.

There was a light tug on his core that made Hadrian falter in his steps and lift his hand in an aborted attempt to swat a fly. When it happened again, it made him look over his shoulder to find out where the... tugs were coming from. Indeed, it was definitely more than one.

Closing his eyes, Hadrian checked the intent and found that it was actually his magic that was drawing him somewhere rather than the other way around. Like was calling like, no matter how faint the tug and the likeness was.

Letting all else fade away, Hadrian followed the tug until he came to a fork. One tendril of his core was being drawn to the door on his right, and another was urging him to carry on. Ignoring the latter, Hadrian turned to the puzzled faces of Chesson and Hopkirk before mumbling about a pull and opening the door.

Inside, the room was similar to the others. Eight beds, four on each side. Tall, glazed windows on all four walls, enchanted to show different views on each. The grey stone and dark wood of the room was immaculately clean with intricately carved wainscoting adorning the walls. Patients and staff milled about the room, absently or with purpose.

Hadrian followed the pull towards the two occupied beds on the far left. He focused on the pair, taking in the vacant expressions and unconsciously filtering more magic to his eyes. The oppressive taint was wafting off them both, repelling and attracting him in equal measure. It was a perversion, a desecration. The reason he knew that was beyond his understanding, but he knew it was... corrupted. He could tell by the sight, the feel, the way his magic thrashed to correct the blatant mistake in the natural flow of essence. But regardless of the way his skin crawled, the magic was twisted in a way it never should have, and it made his blood sing. He wanted to fix it, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t equipped to. He wasn’t ready to. He wasn’t sure how. He felt like he was on the cusp of knowing, and it was like an aborted sneeze, like standing in an unmoving queue, like watching someone cough without covering their mouth. It made him want to scream and scratch his brain out.

The frustration welled up from his gut, writhing and twisting inside him like coiled snakes ready to strike. He could feel the jitters making his legs vibrate and his heart thrum. Spikes of pain riddled his body, and his eyes began to tear up as he watched the squirming mass trap the couple inside their own minds.

It wasn’t until he felt the familiar protective magic and the insistent tugging on his elbow that Hadrian jerked out of the trance. Looking down to his left, large bulbous green eyes stared up at him imploringly, reminding him to remain in the present and to let go of his hair. He winced at the pain in his skull and the cramp in his fingers. He had obviously been staring into the abyss for far too long.

“Sorry Dobby,” he breathed, relaxing his muscles, and laying a hand on the elf’s head. “And thank you.”

“You is being more careful,” the little eld scolded, stomping his foot in a clear display of disapproval. “You is being waiting.”

That made Hadrian pause, making a memory of a similar dismissed comment of Dobby’s briefly surface.

“Wait for what, Dobby?”

“Family magics,” he replied, looking at Hadrian like he was an idiot.

He would have asked for more information if Dobby hadn’t popped away, and Healer Chesson and Hopkirk had not come into view with twin looks of concern.

“Apologies,” he told the pair in slight embarrassment, a dusting of pink warming his cheeks. “The magic is... aggravating.” It was the only word that fit in the moment.

“What magic?” Healer Chesson chimed in only a little frantically, looking between Hadrian and the patients.

“Whatever is afflicting those two,” he replied as he pointed at the pair.

Chesson simply frowned.

“That’s Frank and Alice Longbottom,” she informed the pair. “They’ve been here for over twenty years for prolonged exposure to the cruciatus curse.”

Hadrian frowned as he took the charts. That did not sound right. Whatever happened to the couple seemed far more malevolent than a simple pain curse. The magic almost seemed sentient.

The case notes were woefully bereft of relevant information. The pair had had multiple potions, cleanses, mind links, rituals, counter-curses, and the like thrown at them, and yet they had remained the same. A curse-breaker had attempted to diagnose the pair only once upon their arrival and had claimed that the results of their efforts were illegible. It sounded familiar. He was reminded of the strange characters of the dark mark, and the unknowable runic array of the inferius. He was missing something, and it felt like he was moments from deciphering it.

He informed his companions that he thought that the diagnosis and the Auror investigation notes were incorrect. He told them that he was currently incapable of formulating a coherent conclusion, but he would need to record his findings and take a sample of the mystery magic radiating from the pair.

It didn’t take long to lay the patients down to place the detector sheets on their chests to draw out the information about the curse. Unfortunately, both results produced the same maddening runic arrays that hoarded its secrets like a nesting dragon.

After copying both sheets and taking a sample of the magic, Hadrian allowed the other tug to pull him out of the room and right down the hall to another door. Inside, he found four more ‘victims of the cruciatus curse’. Again, it didn’t fit the noxious black magic shroud smothering them all.

After further probing, it seemed that the four had been found in the same alleyway as the Longbottom couple. Somehow, they had all ‘crucio’d’ each other into insanity, even though that made no logical sense. No wands had been found on them, no spell residue had been found in the area, no core depletion had been found in the group to show that they had been in battle. It was either sloppy Auror work, or a conspiracy. None of that was his problem though. He just wanted to solve the riddle.

Gritting his teeth, Hadrian simply performed the charms required to gather information, took samples of the magic, and promised to explore the new mystery after his meeting that afternoon.

Chapter Text

Hopkirk reclined in his chair, staring over his glasses at a fidgeting Hadrian. From just a glance, Hadrian saw confusion and concern with a touch of curiosity on the older man’s face. He was uncertain what his next move should be. He wanted to keep his secrets; he had only really trusted one human when he was in Hogwarts after all. He usually kept to the non-human magicals and had yet to be betrayed. The issue, however, was that the problem overlapped both his personal and professional life, and he had not been given leave to discuss the matters of Manus with non-residents. But then again, Hopkirk was his supervisor and a longstanding employee of Gringotts. He was up to the gills in secrecy vows, oaths, and contracts, his words would not slip. Regardless, Hadrian was required to divulge any information that could interfere with his work. And really, if he needed Dobby to intervene when he was working, then he definitely needed to tell Hopkirk.

“I’m changing my name,” Hadrian told him after a long sigh, looking up from his hands to see that he had Hopkirk’s full attention. His only response was a raised eyebrow. “Hadrian Florence... Peverell.”

The older man’s other brow joined its sibling in the hairline as Hopkirk tried to decipher his ramblings.

“I’ve seen that type of magic before,” Hadrian informed him, staring into the memories of the inferius. “I was tasked with assessing an inferius. The magic...” His eyes flashed to Hopkirk’s in silent warning before sliding away again. The man’s mouth closed before any questions could be asked.

“The magic was... is... incomprehensible... Was.” He nodded. “It was different in Mungo’s, though. It was compelling. Not like the charm, just...” Hadrian stopped, he knew, or he thought he knew what he was talking about, but just like what he sensed, his words were coming out as jibberish.

“Like calling like,” he murmured as he caught the man’s eye. “I’m not just taking the name. I’ve tested for headship and my claim has seemingly been accepted. The process began this morning.”

The light of understanding shone in Hopkirk’s eyes as Hadrian’s words settled between them.

“You believe the rumours to be true then?”  The older man’s enquiry held nothing but curiosity, no disbelief nor ridicule as Hadrian had expected.

“I should know by the end of the day.”

They let the silence stretch as they both absorbed the information.

“How does this relate to the cases?” Hopkirk finally asked.

Hadrian lent back and relaxed as he thought back to Longbottoms, the LeStranges, and Crouch, languishing in a long-term care ward without an accurate diagnosis. He shuddered thinking about how they might feel, trapped in their own minds for over two decades.

“It was the same,” he told the older man, meeting his eyes. “Look...”

The man’s magic reached out immediately, slipping past Hadrian’s barriers, and latching onto the relevant memory. He showed Hopkirk the breach of the inferius, the feeling of consuming darkness suffocating the poor soul of that woman. He showed his perception of the six patients in St Mungo’s, of the domineering presence, the virtually sentient black magic oozing from them. Hadrian was fairly certain the affliction were the same, but he could not truly confirm his hypothesis just yet.

Hopkirk spent more than five minutes observing Hadrian’s memories, leaking only a touch of curiosity throughout the process. When he retreated, Hadrian focused back on the older man, waiting for him to collect is thoughts.

“It’s rather...” Hopkirk began haltingly, a deep frown marring his brow. “Unsettling to know that that... presence was in the room with us, and I was unaware.”

Hadrian had no words for a reply. He would feel the same if he were in Hopkirk’s situation. What truly weighed on his mind was the fact that none other had recognised, nor even sensed the taint. He knew his elven kin would have; his Goblin curse-breaker colleagues would have too. Thinking about it, Hadrian surmised that most non-human magicals would have known that something other than a few cruciatus curses had incapacitated the five. Hadrian focused back on Hopkirk as the older man looked back.

“Let’s revisit this conversation after you have accepted the Headship,” Hopkirk finally told him as a light seemed to brighten his eyes. “Amara asked for you to drop in tomorrow morning if I can spare you.”

After Hadrian nodded, he continued.

“She’ll want you to participate, no doubt, and she’ll sign you off.”

It only took a further half an hour for them to go over the cases that Hadrian had solved, and the other cases from the long-term ward before they parted ways.

Hadrian headed to the floo room to use the facilities to get home. The cry of “Youngling” made a grin creep over his face. He surveyed the group, then sank to his knees to receive his greetings. He paid special attention to Thatch, ensuring he knew that Hadrian was open to whatever he was comfortable with. The point of the activity was to show his kin that he was happy and thankful for their presence and their efforts; that they were welcome and valued members of the family.

Lunch was a boisterous affair, with only a little bit of food ending up in Hadrian’s hair; Dobby had been properly chastised by mum and Turnip. The elflings hid behind Dobby, letting him take the blame for their antics as per usual. It left Hadrian in stitches as he watched Dobby masterfully direct and redirect the ire of the two headstrong female elves like the little pro he was.

After the dishes had been clicked to cleanliness and the tables had returned to armchairs and sofas, Hadrian took Pep to the floo room. Ensuring his companion had all he needed, the pair made their way to the bank.

Although Gringotts was a vast and sprawling maze of tunnels deep underneath Greater London, the way the enchantments bent space and read intentions meant that it only took ten minutes for Hadrian and Pep to reach Gorethrip’s office. The section of tunnels they walked down was adorned with honey coloured wood panelling on the lower half of the wall, and polished stone at the top. Lanterns lit the space, banishing shadows and the unconscious oppression guests may feel from being deep underground.

It only took a knock and gruff “come” for the pair to enter and sit. Neither of them spoke, waiting respectfully for Gorethrip to finish his business. After less that two minutes, the Goblin took a handful of vials from one of his drawers and placed them on an empty space on his desk. His pointed glare had Hadrian huffing out a laugh before transforming and settling on the desk.

It was a strange act, crying as a phoenix. All emotions – positive or negative – were expressed through song. If a person had ever experienced a phoenix in mourning, the elicited melancholy could stay with them for days, if not weeks. As true empaths, a phoenix can sense, redirect, and even manipulate the emotions of others through their melody. Tears, therefore, had absolutely nothing to do with how they felt. Their tear ducts were activated by intent and magic. A strong desire to heal, and a minute push of magic engaged the ducts to produce an elixir with unparalleled healing properties. The most potent of poisons, the most severe curses, and even the most savage lacerations would fizzle away with a mere drop of phoenix tears.

Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on one’s philosophy, only a finite amount of the elixir could be produced before it lost its potency; a lesson Hadrian had learned quite quickly when he tried to give too much in the beginning. He could offer three vials every two to three months depending on how much strain he was under, how depleted he let himself get, and of course, how extreme his emotion had been in the preceding months. It had been four months since his last offering, and Hadrian knew that regardless of Gorethrip’s gruff expression, the Goblin was worried about his wellbeing. He could taste the tension in the air. Both the Goblin and the elf in the room had been pushing him, alongside mum and the others, to take up the headship of one of his ancestral lines for over a year by that point. The stretching of his offering times was only one piece of evidence that it was long overdue. So, even if Hadrian had come to earlier to donate tears, Gorethrip probably would have contrived some excuse to refuse him.

Regardless, it was amazing, the shift from man to bird. From human to being, from core-dependent to elemental. The rush of ambient magic was heady. As a creature of pure magic, a phoenix did not possess a soul – and thus a core – in the way some other beings did. They were, in essence, manifestations of magic itself. Fire brought to life in a similar but quite opposite way to fiendfyre. The cursed flame was naught but wrath and gluttony. Negative emotions coalescing in a plane parallel to our own, itching for a pathway to cross over through incantation so they could consume as much as they could before they were forced back by magic or core depletion of the caster.

Phoenixes, on the other hand, were a gift, from whom, no-one could truly say with certainty, but still it was known. They were the embodiment of nature, of creation, of rebirth, of life. They could be fierce, protective and nurturing, and Hadrian let the natural magics feed the flames of his being before directing it to his purpose. The flames of life were giddy to lend him their aid. It was so strange, the magic seemed almost sentient when he was in his altered form. Or perhaps like there was another hand guiding the flow. His mind slipped from the idea, just like it usually did, and the thoughts were smoothly replaced with his task.

The three vials were soon filled and whisked away by Gorethrip, whilst Hadrian hopped off the table and shifted back to his natural form. In another fluid motion, he slipped back into the chair and waited for his account manager to give them his attention.

It took a further ten minutes for the ritual dagger, ceremonial bowl, headship ring, and a small mountain of parchment to be convened on the freshly cleared and cleaned desk. The stack of parchment was promptly squirreled away by Pep, and when Hadrian blinked in his direction, the elf was sitting at a desk and scratching away without even a ‘by your leave’. Luckily, Gorethrip was well accustomed to the elf’s sly expansion charms and conjurations in the far corner of his office, so the Goblin didn’t even blink.

A few gruff words and jab of the Goblin’s finger saw Hadrian letting 100ml of blood into the bowl as Gorethrip’s practiced hands added measured drops of this, that, and then something else. The infusion within the bowl changed from wine, to scarlet, to burgundy, and finally to black. Curls of silver and violet wisps danced across the top of the surface before slipping up and over the edge of the bowl and into nothingness.

As Gorethrip’s harsh, guttural chanting began to rise in pitch, Hadrian raised his hand and began to pour a trickle of his magic into the bowl. He gave the part that reflected his Potter heritage. It was old, but not older than that which he was hoping to be accepted into. The Potters had once been considered a branch of the Peverells, after all. Iolanthe Peverell, granddaughter of the third brother of legend, Ignotus Peverell, through unfortunate circumstances became his sole heir and inevitably ended the name of his branch through her marriage to Hardwin Potter. As had become the norm with the dwindling number of British magicals, the Potters had only persevered through the centuries by absorbing lines as their sires birthed predominantly males. Gryffindor was one such name they had absorbed through marriage, alongside Blume, Oggspire, and Ruthwick.

Not all the lines they had absorbed had been ancient enough to generate family magics, nor had they been noble enough to warrant a place within the seat of power. The Peverell name, however, was both ancient enough and noble enough to have both. Hadrian, being linked by both blood and magic, knew that he was compatible to take control of the family magics and when he had grasped the family stone, it had neither killed nor harmed him in anyway, so he felt quite secure as the ritual progressed. He couldn’t be sure if Ben was eligible for the Headship though, his father certainly hadn’t. For that matter, no Potter had taken primary headship of the Peverell line in at least five generations. He would need to ask Pep for more detailed information to see if there was a particular reason as to why. He had not looked far into the lines of the other two brothers of legend, but he knew their lines had passed on the name longer than Ignotus’ had.

Focusing back on his magic, Hadrian felt the change in the air, and began to push through an older, colder part of his magic. It was small, well hidden at the centre of his core. It had taken him a few years to find it and another few to ignore it. It took until he had performed an ancestry and inheritance test for Pep, Gorethrip and Hadrian to figure out that that part of him was the family magics of another ancient line.

He pushed that hidden part of his magic through to the ritual bowl and felt as the magic of the claiming latch onto him with the enthusiasm of a crup pup, causing Hadrian to sway on his feet. As the feeling intensified, Hadrian was forced to slam his shields into place to ensure he stayed on his feet and maintained his focus. It turned out to be a smart move, as a few moments later there was swell of magic so strong that the items in the room began to rattle. As the ritual reached its crescendo, a sharp push of magic came from seemingly everywhere, but most likely, it only came from the bowl. It barrelled into Hadrian, taking his breath clean away. The magic was cold, and crisp, like one was standing atop a cliff watching as all the power of the ocean reshaped the earth. It was vast and boundless, crying out to be shaped and given purpose.

With a deep breath and a slightly manic chuckle, Hadrian pulled on the magic, sucking it into his core with all the elegance of starving dugbog. Wincing at his gracelessness, Hadrian felt as his core became saturated in the new magics. It overpowered his transfiguration loving Potter magics, his curse happy Gryffindor magics, his mind focused Slytherin magics, and all the other touches of family magic that were granted to him due to the prolific inbreeding of British purebloods. Where before, Hadrian’s magic consisted of equal parts of his ancestor’s gifts, he could feel as the magic of the Peverell line was brought to the forefront of his core, and added to what was already there, overshadowing, but not obliterating the rest. It was awe-inspiring, intoxicating even. He had truly been chosen.

The magic finally cut off with an audible snap, draping itself over his shoulders like a cloak that had been left outside overnight.

Opening his eyes, Hadrian bared his teeth to Gorethrip, showing the Goblin his triumph. His account manager growled toothily in kind, then nodded his head to the bowl. Flicking his eyes down, Hadrian spotted the black ring glinting innocently at the base of the now empty bowl. After a beat, Hadrian reached for the ring and felt the prickle of power dance over his skin.

With a grin, Hadrian eagerly slipped the ring on his right middle finger. The magic instantly settled, flowing even deeper into his core until all felt normal again. Smiling, Hadrian admired the craftmanship of the... tungsten. How odd. Cycling through his mind, Hadrian was sure that the muggles hadn’t discovered the metal until the late 1200s, long after the establishment of House Peverell. Forcibly pushing the inquisitive thoughts to the back of his mind, Hadrian ran his thumb over the grooves carved into the centre of the ring. He recognised the three runes: sowilo, uruz, and hagalaz. It took but a second for Hadrian to understand the meaning of the recurring trio of runes; the strength to overcome the impossible. Twisting the ring, Hadrian saw that the carvings went all the way around and sang with the power and mental fortitude for interminable resilience.

Feeling the sharp crack of magic, Hadrian looked back at the desk to see all the evidence of the ritual vanished. Sitting down, Hadrian considered what he needed to talk to Gorethrip about. However, before he could speak, another pile of parchment was pushed his way.

“The last of the signatures needed to inform the ministry and affected parties of your ascension to Lord,” Gorethrip informed him.

Before Hadrian had even thought to raise his hand though, Pep’s magic had latched onto the pile and floated it away. Ignoring the administration lover until he was summoned, Hadrian waited to see if Gorethrip had anything else to say before he voiced his own queries.

“Your wealth has significantly increased,” Gorethrip told him with a sharp toothed smile, handing over even more parchment. “Three new vaults will be keyed to your signature within the hour, and your blood will be keyed in upon your first visit.”

Gorethrip shuffled through similar looking sheets before speaking again.

“The first vault – 78 – holds your gold,” he continued. “And, as pre-arranged, your personal vault will be merged with the older one.” Gorethrip scanned the last two sheets, handed the lot over, and then continued.

“Vaults 79 and 80 hold accumulated books and artefacts, and family related books and artefacts respectively.”

Once Hadrian had finished looking over his new assets, a tug saw the sheets flying out his hand and over his shoulder to Pep. Rolling his eyes, Hadrian just focused back on Gorethrip. More parchment was handed to Hadrian, and then pinched by Pep.

The Peverell ancestral home would come out of stasis once Hadrian passed the ward line. The other eleven properties owned by the family were currently under lease, and the management of them had been passed to Gorethrip. The shares and businesses the Peverells had stakes in were few, so they took an hour to discuss investment options.

“I have received a threat of dismemberment due the persistent requests for a meeting,” Gorethrip told him casually.

Hadrian sighed. “The Potters?”

“Mainly Albus Dumbledore.”

That made Hadrian frown. What would the old man want with him?

“I advise you to arrange a meeting before tellers take up arms and initiate another war,” Gorethrip said blandly, picking his nails with a dagger.

“Very well,” Hadrian agreed around a huff of laughter. The fools would only annoy everyone until he agreed. Looking over his shoulders at Pep, Hadrian looked back when he received a nod. A small smile touched his lips when he saw that the knife was gone and Gorethrip only held parchment once again.

This time, Hadrian couldn’t wait.

“Did you get it?” Hadrian asked, almost bouncing giddily in his chair.

Gorethrip’s features twisted in a complicated mixture of disdain, exasperation, offence, and fondness. Hadrian had seen it plenty over the years and ignored it easily. The Goblin had acted more like an uncle to Hadrian than an employee. They were both well used to each other.

Without a word, Gorethrip handed over three sheets of parchment. On the first was the contract, transferring the ownership of the runic array to Hadrian. The second sheet was the array itself; beautifully complex and jampacked full of rune clusters. Hadrian’s glee did naught but rise as he raked his eyes over it; he couldn’t wait to take it home, take it apart, male it better. The third sheet was a compliment of notes about the materials needed in the production of the cabinets; luckily, no one material seemed to be a necessity.

“Did she fight?” Hadrian asked as the parchment was tugged from his fingers.

“Unfortunately for Madam Blake,” Gorethrip informed him with little remorse in his tone. “Her forebearers never trusted the Nation with their investments, to their detriment, of course. She was quite satisfied to be offered such a generous amount of gold for her family’s patent. Now the Nation no longer needs to confiscate the majority of her assets.”

The grin on Hadrian’s face broadened. Gorethrip’s tone may have been bland, but Hadrian could see the gleeful pride in the eyes of his account manager. As Hadrian signed the parchment Pep sent him, he replied.

“Milly might vibrate herself to death when gets the plans.”

Gorethrip chuffed, letting both his distaste and reluctant fondness be known to the room’s occupants. His eyes then went to Pep.

“I already have interest for the cabinets,” he said through his teeth.

Hadrian hummed and then chuckled as the Goblin and the elf discussed how they would proceed, the estimated length of time it would take for the first vanishing cabinets to be produced, the locations where they would be sold, and the rate they projected they would be produced and sold. It may have been Hadrian’s capital that started the furniture company, but it was Milly who ran the production side of the business, Pep ran the financials, and Gorethrip handled the marketing. Their store in Fantastic Alley attracted a fair amount of foot traffic, but Gorethrip couldn’t help but find the most obscure individuals to peddle their wares too. Hadrian could hardly complain, he too loved to see his wealth increase.

As the pair spoke, Hadrian was handed a thick wad of parchment to sign and bleed over.

“Have you narrowed down the candidates?” Hadrian asked Pep as he passed back the last of the documents.

“Pep is having three candidates for the Youngling,” the elf replied distractedly. He summoned the wad of parchment and banished it to who knows where before picking up three folders. They floated to Gorethrip’s desk and laid down, opening so the first sheet of each could be seen.

“Dowager Lady Augusta Longbottom,” Pep droned quietly.

Picking up the folder, Hadrian read through the notes. Light-leaning neutral. Waivers on financial matters. Rarely votes for budget increases; prefers to stay the course. Avidly against adopting the ICW’s human rights bill. Somewhat disdainful of being rights. No.

He set the file aside and picked up the next.

“Lord Halden Fawley,” Pep informed him.

Dark-leaning neutral. Advocates for increases in the law enforcement, obliviation, and muggleborn oversight offices. Apathetic towards human-based polices, but loud of being rights. Better, but not quite.

“Lord Cyrus Greengrass,” Pep said slightly more enthusiastically, giving away his preference as Hadrian retrieved the last folder.

Extremely vocal when it matters. Highly social and puts forward multiple bills with about an 85% pass rate. Pro being and human rights, in equal measure. Supreme Mugwump candidate. Usually votes for budget increases across the board. Always votes against limiting magic and education.

Flicking his eyes to Pep, Hadrian saw the rare spark of excitement in the old elf’s eyes. Pep was generally more subdued than the average elf. He was well-suited to his occupation. He was organised, meticulous and studious. However, whenever the opportunity struck, Pep graced his kin with the standard bubbliness that most house-elves displayed so openly. He was a curious character. He could switch from elf-speech to grammatically correct English on a whim, and had actually been the one to explain why elves tended to double the being verb in the their sentences, and somewhat explained why they tended to stick with the perfect continuous tense.

“Elves is being creatures of magic,” Pep had told him as he scratched away with his quill. “Our bodies is being magic. Our words Is being magic. When we is talking to our masters, we is needing to be sure. We is being showing our commitment from before to after. What we is saying is like oath magic. We is meaning it. We is committing past, present, and future with action and word.”

It had taken Hadrian an embarrassingly long time to mull over Pep’s words. It made sense, but it also didn’t. Clearly, the state of being verb meant more to elves than it did to humans. The way Pep had emphasised their connection to magic – body and word – meant that language wasn’t just a method of communication to them. It was another way to show their devotion to their bonded; it could be wielded like any other foci. Hadrian had wanted to explore more but had always been redirected to this task or that. He had eventually let it go. If his kin wanted him to focus on something else, then he would.

With Pep’s endorsement, Hadrian asked Pep to initiate contact with the Greengrass Lord.

The meeting was rounded off as Gorethrip mentioned a few tidbits about the Peverell artefacts, and the library. He may have signed something, and it may have flashed as he did so, but at the mention of books and the number that now belonged to him, Hadrian’s mind had gone blank, and he may have drooled a little.

Before Hadrian and Pep could leave, Gorethrip’s tone dropped to an irritating growl.

“Five interfering elements have been inconveniencing the tellers of this branch,” he told Hadrian more clearly this time, not looking up from his desk. The fact that he was repeating himself clearly told Hadrian that the problem was worse than he had initially thought. “Now you are Head of House Peverell, I suggest you meet with them, sooner rather than later, to inform them of your desires, lest fines begin to be issued.”

Hadrian seethed and grunted in assent. He knew the Aurors would let slip his location, but by reading between the lines, Hadrian could only assume that his stalkers had been harassing the tellers to the point that the complaints had been escalated up the chain of command. It simply wouldn’t do to allow it to continue. Surely, it had only been – what? – a day? Two? He had thought he’d have at least a week.

“Very well,” he replied through gritted teeth, grateful that the Goblin had told him plainly. He looked to Pep. “Arrange it and inform me when.”

With an aggrieved sigh, Hadrian marched out of the meeting room as sparks of magic rippled across his skin, a visible sign of his agitation.

Chapter Text

At an intersection, Hadrian waved goodbye to Pep and made his way to the carts. He had a new vault to peruse.

It only took ten minutes for his feet to eat the distance to the caverns. He kept his mind blessedly blank, all stray thoughts about his blood relatives, a nosy Headmaster, an absent Godfather, a pitiful werewolf, and oh, his twin, were cast to the back of his mind. He had no doubt that he would need to interact with the lot of them in the weeks – or days – to come, and he really, really didn’t want to.

Shaking his head, Hadrian let the encroaching thoughts slip from his mind again as he stepped up to the ferrier.

“Griphook,” he greeted with a toothy grin.

“Youngling,” the young Goblin replied with just as much teeth. Hadrian just rolled his eyes. “Vault number?”

“Seventy-nine, and then eighty,” he replied and grinned wider at the Goblin’s surprise. He could see all the questions brimming and bubbling at the corner of Griphook’s mouth like froth, before they were sucked back in. Ooh, the power of a well-organised mind.

“What will Tish be making for Lughnasadh?”

The rejoinder was anything but smooth, but Hadrian latched onto the topic change, and it occupied them all the way down to the lower caverns.

As it was the first time Hadrian would access the vault, he was required to lay his ring hand on the door so it could sample his blood, his magic, and his Headship ring. After ten gruelling and painful seconds, the door began to creek open.

Stepping inside, Hadrian let his mouth fall open at the vast chamber filled with loot. It took at least two minutes for his mind to re-engage at the history and the wealth before his eyes. A battle raged inside him; he wanted to pick through each and every piece of treasure he had inherited. But he couldn’t. He had too much to do. But the treasure. But... work. Treasures...

“Yona,” Hadrian called out with a huff. A pop to his left told him she had arrived. “Can you catalogue everything in the vault?”

A frantic nod and an excited squeak were all the confirmation he needed.

“Ensure you diagnose and assess each item. Ask for any help you need.”

With a frantic nod, the two parted ways. Hadrian’s eyes had been drawn towards a circular table about five yards from the entrance of the vault. Upon it lay a three artefacts, and they emitted such strong familial magic that Hadrian could hardly think of anything else.

There was a black pebble that glowed with an inner light. It spoke of the past, of history, of memories. It told him that what was lost could still be known. Next to it sat what looked like a lump of solidified water. The... fabric shimmered and sparkled like a fresh stream carving down a mountainside. It spoke of concealment and safety, of protection and comfort. It told him he could be unseen at a whim, and only a rare few from the beyond could penetrate its safeguards. The last item was clearly the most dominant. On the table lay a long stick with six knobs on it. A wand, and an old one at that. It spoke of power and endurance, of persistence and might. It told him that what was to come could be overcome with a mere twist of the wrist.

Hadrian let a long breath out of his mouth and took a step forward. They were so alluring, so tempting. They called to him. He belonged to them, just as they belonged to him. He was enticed, consumed by them. At the back of his mind, he barely noticed that one step had been followed by another, and the table seemed to be getting closer to him.

And then an all too familiar rustling sound came from his right, instantly stealing his attention. Hadrian whipped his head to the side and his eyes gleamed. Quick steps took Hadrian to a pedestal with a large book on it. Light fingers traced over the thick black leather cover. A long intake of breath through the nose told Hadrian it was mule hide. How odd. The indentations pressed into the leather depicted half of a great oak tree, trunk along the spine and branches fanning across the cover. He could imagine that the other half of the tree was adorning the back of the book. When he picked it up and turned it over, his hypothesis was confirmed. Peering closer, he thought he could sense a soft breeze rustling the leaves, but after a blink, all was still.

Stroking the spine, Hadrian let the book fall open and saw that it was the Peverell grimoire. A giddy giggle broke through Hadrian’s lips as he hugged the book to his chest. Oh, oh, the knowledge. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard a squee from somewhere in the room.  

Cuddling his new acquisition, Hadrian chirped a farewell to his kin and skipped out of the vault, all else forgotten.

All he received from Griphook was a raised eyebrow before loading a glazed-eyed Hadrian to the next vault.

It took but a minute for Hadrian to donate his blood and magic to the security measures of his vault before the door opened with a creak.

If Hadrian hadn’t been such a bibliophile, he probably would have dropped the grimoire and fainted dead on the floor. But he was a true book lover, and as such, his protective instincts kicked in, causing him to squeeze the grimoire protectively to his chest as his knees weakened and he swayed. In front of him lay what looked like an endless cavern full of books. Rows upon rows of lovely, wonderful, beautiful books. The giggles that escaped him was more than a little manic that time. He was such a lucky boy. Who knew?

A clearing of a throat drew Hadrian’s attention to Griphook.

“These are the originals,” Griphook informed him, looking away from Hadrian with a shake of his head. “The manor holds copies of the entire collection.”

Hadrian thought he replied. Probably an acknowledgement, perhaps more, but he couldn’t be sure. He knew that Yona set a cataloguing charm in the vault for him and would add it to his current one when she had the time. But he certainly couldn’t remember requesting it. Flashes of the cart ride, and the walk towards the floo room were all he knew until he was engulfed in green flames.

His mind cleared as he stepped out of the floo. He greeted the few of his kin that came to welcome him, and it only took a single look at Flopsy for her to redirect her questions to Pep.

After only a few minutes, Hadrian was headed through the hall and out the back of the house towards the workshops. There he found an excited Milly bouncing between elves hard at work. Hadrian swept his eyes from station to station, examining the wares. There were tables and chairs, beds and vanities, sofas and armchairs. There were music boxes and chests, jewellery cases, and cabinets. He saw cauldrons and stirring rods, tiered shelving and bookshelves, cold boxes and pantries, hearths and fireplaces.

Hadrian marvelled at how far Milly had taken their little furniture business. It had started with tables and chairs sold in the magical and muggle world. It had been their first money-making enterprise, and when Milly had joined them, she had taken control and made it her mission to take their little carpentry business to new heights.

Currently, they sold their wares from their own stores across the UK, France, Bulgaria, the US and Australia. Hadrian refrained from rubbing his hands together in glee at the gold they had amassed over the years.

“We got it, Milly,” Hadrian informed his kin.

A pop right in front of his face made Hadrian step back with a chuckle.

“Yes, Youngling,” Milly chirped, throwing her arms around his neck in a tight squeeze. Hadrian returned it, laughing more. Once satisfied, Milly lightly landed on the floor, clasped one of Hadrian’s hands in hers and dragged him to a back corner of the workshop.

Hadrian smiled at the elves they distracted along the way, but ultimately followed Milly through the double doors to the storage room. In a far corner, he found the oddest looking cupboard. The two doors met in the middle at an outward angle. The dark wood was rough and aged, and in-laid upon the surface was an intricate cast iron design. A quick sweep of his eyes told Hadrian that it was purely aesthetic. It would have been a novel way to inlay runes into the cupboard, but Hadrian could sense neither magic, nor identify any within the curves and spirals. It was a ratty looking thing, worn from age and rough handling.

Flicking his eyes slightly to the right, Hadrian found its twin and marvelled at the difference. The cabinet sparkled from polish and tender care. The magic gently thrummed, whereas the other spluttered and choked as it attempted to maintain its purpose.

Rubbing his hands together, Hadrian turned to Milly’s sparkling blue eyes. The excitement sloughed from her, mirroring his own.

“You is being giving Milly the array,” she demanded with a wide grin.

Hadrian pulled out the file with a huff of breath. He desperately wanted to spend a few days pouring over the complex array, but he had promised. This was Milly’s project. He would probably not see her during the time it took for her to fix and polish the cabinet. He would have to ask Flopsy to force her out of the workshop before she began production of the new models, but until then, he would simply watch as she indulged in her purpose: creation.

The evening was one of celebration. After Hadrian left Milly, he had popped to the centre of the growth ritual. The guard had simply rolled his eyes at Hadrian and waved him inside. He had only spent a scant few hours at st Mungo’s that morning, Hadrian had magic to spare.

When he arrived back at the Refuge, Hadrian was confused when no-one appeared in the floo room to greet him. Following the tug on his magic, Hadrian made his way to the hall and allowed himself to jump when his kin shouted their congratulations.

It was a great evening of butterbeer, dancing, cake, and cuddling.

-------------------------------------

As the sun touched the window of Hadrian’s bedroom, a corresponding buzzing sounded from Hadrian’s bedside table. It took a few long seconds for an arm to poke from beneath the sheets to send a pulse of magic to halt the interruption from a good night’s rest. The sound meant one thing: back to the norm.

After numerous grumbles and curses, Hadrian threw his legs off the side of the bed and wandered into his wardrobe. An absent flick of magic saw his clothes and leathers bobbing into his chambers. Mindlessly, Hadrian changed into his underthings, clothes, leathers, blades, and wand before heading down to the hall. After greetings, a quick snack of bacon sandwiches and a gulp of coffee, Hadrian, Dobby, and a few others made their way to the floo room before popping over to the northwestern barracks.

Hadrian grumbled his way through the greetings from his unit and didn’t really come out of his sleepy haze until he was halfway through the five mile run through the forest. It was on a long inhale that Hadrian truly opened his eyes to the normalcy of running with his unit that caused a smile touched his lips.

The following hour saw Hadrian finish his run, spar with Gunther the orc, then run through several sets of weight training. Before he could leave, his commander took him aside and informed him that he would be required to attend a fact finding session about the nature and magic of inferi. He would be required to undergo some preliminary research to contribute to the meeting and was asked to bring his breaker gear for live testing.

Scratching his head, Hadrian popped away, rearranging his schedule as he went. He would need to cut his personal project time for some intensive research. The directive was both an honour and a pleasure. He had never had the cause nor the desire to investigate such black arts, but he would relish the challenge. He knew that the Potter and Hogwarts main library would likely only hold tomes that uttered cautionary tales of such evil magics, but the come and go room might have a few rare gems that were useful. He had a feeling that he might have to visit his new ancestral manor earlier than planned. He would need to find Yona when he returned to see how the library index was coming along. If all else failed, he would head off to Alexandria for an afternoon perusal of the best library in the world. Hadrian’s paradise.

Hadrian threw himself through a shower and breakfast before heading off to the Academy.

Landing in the floo room, Hadrian steadily walked through the halls of the cavernous space, absently watching the students and instructors on their way to or from classes. It was a vibrant space, humming with ambient magic. Underground it may have been, but the high ceilings, wide passageways and bright lighting banished the pressure of the dirt above their heads.

Running his fingers along the fingers along the finely polished sandstone of the walls brought the fresh memories of merely a fortnight ago. Rushing from class to workshop to amphitheatre. Reading, memorising, incanting, enchanting, diagnosing.

Hadrian had thoroughly enjoyed his time at the academy. The classes could be absolute madness at times. The Goblins accepted any magical being of adequate intelligence into their large array of programs, meaning that the charmswork wasn’t simply performed with and wielding magic users. Hadrian had seen staffs, rings, necklaces, and even tattoos used as foci. In place of wand movements, he had seen floating runeswork magically etched in the air, clumps of visible magic laden with intent, and even familiars acting as conduits to spellwork. It was crazy. Even through all that he had read, Hadrian hadn’t even guessed at the width and breadth of variety in the practice of magic. He sent another ‘damn you, old man’ into the aether at his woeful primary education.

It only took fifteen minutes for Hadrian to reach Amara’s theatre. He walked past the first door and headed to the one at the end of the corridor. Placing all items imbued with magic into the drop box by the door, Hadrian then placed his hand on the left panel of the wooden door and pushed a little of his magic into it. A few heartbeats passed before a pair of amber eyes greeted him with a nod. Luke, a ritualism student a year below Hadrian, handed him a clipboard with the case notes on it.

It was a simple cleanse and refresh. A journeyman breaker had been exposed to too much tainted magic, and it needed to be extracted from his system. Hadrian was assigned to controlling the room’s runic arrays, maintaining the flow of ambient magic within the chamber. He was the designated recycler.

Hadrian simply nodded as he handed the notes back. His part was relatively easy, for him at least. He was a sensory magical and could enhance his perception with a touch of magic to his eyes, as well. He was well suited to his task.

Heading to the far wall on his left, Hadrian filtered a little magic to his eyes to brighten the magically etched runic arrays on the walls. Taking a deep breath, Hadrian sensed that he would only need to make a minor adjustment to the ratio of ambient to core magic in the room. Focusing on the wisps of magic, he could feel the impression of floating, of illumination, of summoning, of cutting, of conjuration. The amount was minimal; however, the intents were innumerable.

As Hadrian waited for Luke’s signal to begin the extraction of used core magic, he focused on the window on his left. Through it, he could see an auditorium full of a mixed bag of students. He could see a variety of ages, nationalities, being status, socioeconomic status, and evidently by attire, occupation. The summer courses provided by the Academy were still clearly quite popular.

Zeroing on the solitary figure in the centre of the raised dais, Hadrian instead at the back of Amara Dominguez. She was quite tall, perhaps five foot ten, her chocolate waves fell silkily down her back, her dark grey pantsuit showed her blatant dismissal of Britain’s insistence of following a Tudor-like fashion trend, her confident walk and strong voice showed her proficiency and expertise in the subject matter.

“Let us review,” Amara called out, flicking her hazel eyes over her shoulder. “Ritualism is one of the most complex disciplines in the study of magic. It's comparable to the like of alchemy or dimensionalism. The practise involves the combination of a variety of disciplines to produce multifaceted and intricate outcomes.”

Taking a breath, Amara walked as she summarised her practise.

“As with most feats of magical creation, we must begin with the desired outcome,” she jabbed her thumb over her shoulder as she spoke. “Let us consider our test case. Our patient’s core has been saturated in the used core magic of another, and a standard purge has not completely rid them of the taint. Thus, we have been tasked with devising a ritual to produce the desired outcome of cleansing our patient’s core.”

“But why a ritual, you might ask? When the outcome we desire cannot be achieved by consecutive applications of whichever treatments are required, we must instead devise a method that can apply the treatment concurrently.”

Amara turned around, fully smiling and nodding towards Luke, who indicated to Hadrian and three others to commence their tasks. Walking over to the array on each of the walls, Hadrian pushed a little of his magic into the runes, taking control of them. It took only a handful of heartbeats for the impression of the arrays to settle into his core, allowing him to walk into the corner of the room and activate them remotely. He began the process slowly, drawing the traces of used core magic from the room and replacing it with fresh ambient magic from wherever it was drawn from. It didn't take long, but Hadrian made sure to lock the room down as soon as the saturation was high enough.

Once Hadrian’s task was complete, for the time being, he focused an ear back on the lecture whilst he watched the other participants in the room.

“So, let's use this case to see how we might break it down. Our patient was given a purging potion, and a magic replenishing potion, every four hours over a twenty-four hour period. In cases such as this, if the treatment was unsuccessful, the patient is usually scheduled for a depletion. Yes,” she nodded solemnly at the gasps. “For a case such as this, the patient would be rendered a squib in order to save their life.”

She let the heavy silence hang for a few moments before continuing.

“So where should we begin?” She pointed to the wall just left of the viewing window. “Why runeswork, of course. One that defines the goals of the ritual and guides the different parts.”

“Firstly, we must consider that our patient needs to be purged, but when doing so, their core must never be depleted to less than 8.7%, lest we rupture their core.”

She waved at the wall again, no doubt highlighting the relevant portions of the array.

“That being said, the purging portion of the ritual occurs via three different methods: runeswork, potions, and incantation. The patient ingests Marksman's variation of the grade four purging solution and... This runic cluster – along with the potion - are both activated by simultaneous incantations.”

“This... cluster here monitors the patient’s core abundance level, and alerts the caster when the patient reaches critical levels –  so, 11% – and shuts down the drain completely at 9.5%.”

“Alongside this, we must not only purge our patient, but we must also replenish. Thus, this... cluster draws in the ambient magic with the aid of a grade five Magic Replenishing draught. No variations needed, simply a fast acting one with no more than two drops of dragon's blood. This time only the array will be activated by incantation due to the potion being intuitive. It needs no intervention to know when enough is enough.”

Amara took a sip of water on the lectern before explaining further.

“Now we must consider the taint. Simply absorbing used core magic should never have immobilised nor sickened our patient to this extent. Indeed, they would have been drained and bedridden for a few days, but this reaction is quite extreme. What we found was that whomever laid this heinous trap for our patient had dabbled in the blacker of the arts. Those which corrupt our Goddess given gift. Which arts matters not, only that the intent was so vile that it forced the healers to put our patient under stasis until a solution could be found.”

“So, what can we do with this tainted magic, you ask? It must be isolated and contained, of course. Thus, we introduced Transfiguration and in this instance conjuration. We cannot simply remove the taint and let it be cleansed by the natural ambient magics of the world. No, the intent would simply draw it to a new host. Instead, we must employ a Master occlumens to subdue the will of the original caster to transform the tainted magic into something tangible for later destruction. In this instance, the tainted magic will be transformed into wooden balls that will immediately be sent through the disposal shoot to be incinerated.”

“Next, we need a general healer to constantly monitor our patient, who will introduce healing based charmswork and runestones. Their job is clearly self-explanatory, so let us discuss our final participant.”

She indicated to the other wall by the viewing screen this time.

“As you can see,” she called out. “These two arrays will be managed by the recycler. Their job will be to ensure that the ritual space maintains the requisite ambient magic saturation. I'm sure you've deduced by now that this ritual will involve a high amount of drawing on ambient magic. Thus, an independent recycler will be critical to ensure that the ritual can be undertaken efficiently and effectively. They'll need to constantly draw out the used core magic with this array... and bring in fresh ambient magic with the other. It's delicate, precise work, which involves remotely controlling both arrays simultaneously whilst sensing the entire space.”

Amara walked to the window and smiled at all the occupants, indicating with two fingers that they were mere minutes from commencing. She twirled around to her audience to summarise.

“So, we have runeswork, rune stones, charmswork, healing arts, transfiguration, potions. Now some of you may say, why can't the healers simply do all that? And I would say, we can't all be immensely talented and cohesive like our brethren at St Agnes. I mean, if any of you have had the pleasure of experiencing care in such a prestigious hospital such as the one in New Orleans, then you may be confused about the average healer team in most hospitals.”

She chuckled, but Hadrian saw that the joke fell flat. Clearly most did not know what she was talking about. St Agnes hospital had a team of devoted ritualists on staff, and their training methods ensured that their general healers were talented enough to fill in when necessary. Most other hospitals left such tasks to others.

“Regardless, we have a patient, and he needs our help. We are Ritualists, and so we help our way. Let us begin.”

-------------------------------------

Hadrian wiped the sweat off his brow as he exited the ritual chamber. It had taken just shy of three hours to cleanse the poor bugger of the taint, and they'd almost lost him half a dozen times. The poor fool’s heart kept stopping and the defibrillating charm needed to get it started again, left such a mess of magic in the room, Hadrian had to scramble to suck it all out and replace it. By the fourth time, Hadrian had floated a magic replenisher over to the healer because he was lagging.

He had thought it was supposed to be an easy case with an easy ritual. One brought specifically to show the summer Ritualism course students how they were accomplished. It didn't matter, though. It had been quite invigorating. Each of the participants had done their job well. Hadrian absolutely hated team assignments, especially when his coworkers were incompetent or lazy. That had certainly not been the case that day.

“Potter,” Someone called from his left as he collected his belongings from the drop box. It was Amara.

“It's Peverell now,” he told her with a small smile.

“Congratulations,” she replied with a toothy grin that slipped off her face all too quickly. “I need your help again, Peverell.”

That was a surprise. If Hadrian didn't know any better, he would think the day's ritual was a lure. He hummed for her to continue.

“I have a student,” she gushed as they walked towards the floo chamber. “Brilliant girl. Bright, passionate, powerful, driven.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Hadrian saw the flash of a ring foci, then felt the telltale weight of a sound muffling charm.

“But,” she continued solemnly. “She was cursed when she was young. Imperius. For a full year. She was forced to do horrible things, so her mind has fractured. She has never dealt with the trauma, simply secreted the events behind a shield.”

“Has she not visited her mind healer?” Hadrian asked incredulously, how careless could her parents be?

“Family couldn't afford it,” Amara confirmed with a sigh. That made more sense. “And she will not be able to afford it until she completes the course.”

Hadrian thought for a few long seconds. What would that have to do with him? How would he be of aid to Amara or the girl? He was no mind healer and if he was reading between the lines then her trauma was blocking her path to completion, which most likely meant occlumency. Amara ran meditation and occlumency sessions, alongside heading the Ritualism courses. And unless Hadrian was mistaken, no other class – unless it was one of the gory healing classes – would probably be a trigger for the girl. Which brought him back to... what did it have to do with him?

“Occlumency?” Hadrian broached tentatively.

She hummed in response before stopping next to a fireplace.

“I've developed a ritual that reduces the effects of trauma in patients with PTSD. I'm in the trial phase and have performed it three times already. I'd like to help this girl, but my master occlumens has come down with dragon pox and is now being treated in Australia. He won't be back for another month, and the ritual was scheduled the following Tuesday. Will you help me?”.

Hadrian couldn't see why not, but he didn't have any details on his role or the ritual as a whole, so he could neither confirm nor deny on the spot.

“Send me the contract, then the ritual notes,” he told her. “I'll need three days from receipt to decide.”

She was a mix between annoyed an elated, but he could see her acceptance of his decision. She surely didn't think he would say yes without knowing what was required of him. Surely not, he was a Ravenclaw, after all.

Chapter Text

Hadrian made his way through the Refuge, greeting his kin along the way. He needed to add a few upcoming events to his calendar, and Pep would scold him something fierce if he wasn’t informed.

When he entered the office, he reciprocated the muted greetings before settling at his desk. He began writing up his notes from the ritual, detailing the case notes, then describing his role, the mishaps, the corrective measures, the overall outcome, and his observations. A press of his Breaker badge saw a copy heading for his main portfolio at the Academy, and another to Hopkirk.

Next, he flicked his eye to a pile of envelopes. How strange. He rarely, if ever, got mail. Especially mail that Pep actually let him answer.

The first was from Healer Chesson, a ponderous mix of professional inquiry and personal ponderances. He took a few moments to consider the manner of his response before simply answering her questions and tentatively asking a few of his own.

Setting the finished letter aside, he picked up the next. It would seem that the Greengrass Lord was rather eager to meet and define terms for his potential role as proxy. Hadrian would have to endure an afternoon meeting with the man, and then a dinner with his family. He sighed, then wrote an appropriate reply. He rolled his eyes and grimaced; he was becoming more and more social by the day.

It was then that Pep drew his attention from the remaining correspondence.

“Youngling,” he rasped. “Is you be wanting to open the troublemakers’ mail this time?”

No, Hadrian did not. So, without having to say a word, Pep spirited it all away.

The two discussed the upcoming appointments, Hadrian’s assignments, projects, and part-time work. His schedule would no longer be something he could easily predict. He and Hopkirk picked up cases as they came, or as they fancied, and he was relegated to Auxiliary in the clinic until his day to day stabilised, or he achieved journeyman status. He wasn’t too upset with the turn of events. He had known it was coming, and so long as he worked at least twice a week, he would be satisfied as his skills would not wane.

Pep was still awaiting a response from the Potters, the wolf, Black, and the old man. Hadrian informed him of the meeting in two days with Lord Greengrass, and the notes on route from Amara. He skirted around Hadrian’s birthday with the finesse of practiced parental figures, then discussed their Lughnasadh contributions.

Pep then went on to tell Hadrian about a meeting request from the Belladonna pack Alpha that he thought Hopkirk should be drafted to accompany him to. Pep would handle the parchmentwork – such a mouthful, paperwork – to allow his supervisor onto Manus. That, then, reminded Hadrian of his commander’s research assignment. Pep gave him a sharp look, telling him in no uncertain terms that he was to spend the rest of the evening devouring the Peverell grimoire.

Apparently, he was to read it in its entirety before endeavouring to familiarise himself with any new familial magics. Without giving Hadrian a second to respond, he’d called for Yona and asked her to bring the new catalogue along with the grimoire. With a snap of his long fingers, Hadrian was encased in a privacy bubble with the dark tome hovering in front of his face. He had been told.

-------------------------------------

Hadrian barely noticed as the rest of the evening passed. He followed Pep’s instruction to simply read and take in, rather than linger and obsess over the veritable treasure trove of new information.

He had, in fact, been right. The Peverells had been a long line of soul-mages, but what he had assumed of what that meant was slightly different from the reality. Hadrian, like most, had thought that they were something like necromancers or mind-mages of some kind. And although he may have been right to a certain degree, it was more than that.

A soul-mage was able to manipulate all aspects of living beings, be it body, mind or magic. From what he read, it seemed like the soul-mages of old laid the foundations for several other branches of magic; although not all, there had been a lot of pioneers through the generations that did not have the insight of a soul-mage. They had achieved innovation through trial and error, and through blood and tears. The grimoire was enlightening him to a common misconception in the lay mages’ knowledge as well as in academia.

Hadrian had presumed it was his months of meditation that had allowed him to so freely manipulate ambient magic. He knew that children managed it unconsciously due to heightened emotions. Accidental magic was a common and thoroughly researched topic, after all. He knew that even some adolescents and particularly powerful adults experienced bouts of accidental magic too. There had been an interesting article in Maficae Doctrina about the common misconception that accidental magical outbursts beyond childhood were a precursor to performing magic without a foci. The theory had been thoroughly debunked, but conclusions as to the nature of the outburst were still inconclusive. Some suggested that strong emotions affected ambient magic, in a similar fashion to the casting of dark magic. Others talked of auras affecting ambient magic, and others talked of mediums as guides and helpers in crisis. Hadrian liked the Sidhe’s theory that magic was at least semi-sentient and aided the innocent when they were in great need. Regardless, according to the grimoire, very few human magicals were capable of freely manipulating the ambient magics of the world so freely, and those few who were, were the only individuals capable of becoming soul-mages. His ancestor wrote that the average person usually took years, if not decades, to reach the level of proficiency he had at the age of seven. He would need to research such a bold claim, however.

Furthermore, if he were not naturally gifted in mage sight, the grimoire described methods of artificially granting a wix the ability, much like the way he did when directing magic to his eyes, or failing that, using an enchanted object. It went into detail about how to bypass the barrier of the meat suit to gaze upon a core – a soul – and then how one might manipulate it.

The branches one might use the talent for were numerous: healing, curse-breaking, offensive and defensive magic, necromancy, mind-healing, animate transfiguration, and even some forms of warding that were anchored to a person. The ways in which a soul-mage could manipulate a person was numerous and varied, but Hadrian wasn’t sure how helpful that would be to him in his current profession just yet. Perhaps the warding and healing aspects would be useful. He would see.

What really pulled Hadrian’s attention though was the script he found meticulously noted in the centre of the tome. It had been alluded to a few times, but any sign of them had either been avoided, or obscured, and Hadrian finally had his answer to why.

In order to move forward into the nitty gritty, tasty tidbits of wonderful knowledge he wanted to acquire, he would need to take a pledge. Apparently, without having done so, he could neither comprehend, nor move forward in the grimoire.

He didn’t even take a breath before words were falling out of his greedy mouth.

“I, Hadrian Florence Peverell,” he spoke, magic automatically lacing his words. “Do so swear on my magic and my life that I will use this gift to uphold the will of magic, using the gift for the betterment of magic and magic alone. So I say it, so mote it be.”

A flash of light and then three blinks of the eye was all there was until fifty angry house-elves and an owl pounced on Hadrian whilst calling him an idiot.

-------------------------------------

It took over an hour for his family to finish berating him most severely, and the excuse ‘but the knowledge’ was shot down so harshly that his ears were still ringing over an hour later.

It would seem that he had somehow bound himself to a cult of sorts. Flopsy had said something about being an agent of magic, like he was now a spy for some intangible force. Hadrian had wanted to scoff, but mum wouldn’t lie, so that just meant one thing: research. But he was already busy, so it went on the to do list. He would get to it, honest.

Once he had settled back down, it was like a portion of his mind was unlocked. Several phantom clicks sounded in the background as his eyes swept the first page.

The script, a logogram, was most unusual. However, before he investigated his mind for similarities, he made sure to take in each of the symbols for a few seconds each.

They were tightly drawn, but clearly distinguishable. They had been noted in a precise printed format, that showed no cursive like quirks. It consisted of parallel lines – vertical, horizontal, and diagonal – ovals, circles, dots, hooks, and semi-circles. The characters combined the shapes to form increasingly complex combinations and meanings.

From what he could tell, it was a form of proto-writing that showed similarities to Isthmian and Olmec scripts. So, he deduced that the origins were perhaps pre-classic meso-American, although what he held in his hands was more refined, compact, and simplified than other examples from that place and time. Not much was written about the script other than it was the primary system for soul-mages.

As with all runes, it was a written system where each symbol had a single or few meanings. When the characters were linked to others, the meanings became more complex and expressive. When infused with magic, the runes would – hopefully – produce the outcome desired.

Hadrian took a full hour to memorise the characters, meanings and basic combination meanings. Once again, he gave a silent thanks to the elves for enforcing such rigorous and regular meditation sessions during his childhood, lest his proficiency in occlumency not be sufficient to undertake the task. He was thankful that there was only 276 characters. Learning the 2,136 standard kanji, and even worse, the roughly 8,000 simplified Chinese characters had been horrific. They had already been discarded as his primary runic system, but there was no chance on earth that he wasn’t going to add the knowledge to the hoard in his mind.

Once he was satisfied that he held the characters in his mindscape, Hadrian put the grimoire down to have dinner in the hall.

He didn’t speak much, mind still back in the family tome, letting the new knowledge settle. He floated from the hall to the bedroom, and after a quick shower, he took his prize to bed.

From what he could tell, a soul-mage’s primary target was the living. If the talent was matured appropriately, there was virtually nothing a mage couldn’t do to another.

He spent a further hour getting through the last of the tome before slipping into sleep.

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After training the next morning, Hadrian wandered to the library to see if Yona had returned from her task. She had not.

“Yona,” he called, standing in the entrance. She came to him with a slightly impatient pop, foot tapping and eyebrow twitching wildly.

“What is the Youngling needing?” The little grey elf grumbled.

“I have a research project for the Core,” he informed her, barely restraining his twitching lips. There was no need to further annoy a working elf partway through their task. “Is the catalogue ready?”

“New one is being ready,” she told him, settling down a little after his explanation. “Youngling is being waiting for combination.”

As she spoke, Hadrian watched her fingers click the new catalogue into being next to the old one. It was done without much thought, almost careless really, the way the young elf materialised the thick tome from who knows where, and casually enlarged the lectern holding the current catalogue. Hadrian could never fathom why others did not marvel at wonder that was the house-elf.

It took profuse ‘thanks’ for the sparkle to return to the large blue eyes. It seemed that the Peverell collection of bric-a-brac was not only extensive, but varied, and the enchantments on a large number of the pieces was complicated and bizarre. One of the elflings Yona was training had been particularly overzealous, and had nearly been cursed to be earless by what looked like a bejewelled top hat of all things.

Yona was both ecstatic and bewildered by what she had found in the vaults. The first held currency, a variety of precious metals, gems of different sizes and colours, and ornamental items reserved for selling or trading. The second was far more varied. The vault held clothing, furniture, jewellery, artwork, time pieces, cookware, pet or familiar accessories, potion-making wares, boating paraphernalia, an assortment of seeds, and all other types of bric-a-brac known to man.

As Yona zipped around the library, clicking her magic about like a mad elf, Hadrian kept half an ear on the little elf’s ramblings as she quickly cleaned her domain before heading back to the vault.

Gathering his magic into his fingertips, Hadrian laid his right hand on top of the catalogue. With a little push, he called out “inferius” and then waited for a few seconds. When he deemed it ready, he opened to the first page and swept his eyes down the list of books. He eliminated the fictional tomes, and saw that of the staggering 256 books, he had only read two and had only heard of 25. That meant that he needed to at least skim 100 books that morning.

Without further ado, Hadrian headed to the rarely used front door. Once he had crossed the ward line, he focused on his headship ring and called out “Peverell Manor”. The expected tug behind his naval was just as disorientating as it usually was, but he still stepped his foot forward and landed with a quick march towards the front door.

When his momentum slowed, and Hadrian was able to stop, he spun around the entrance hall, taking in the grandeur. Dark woods lined the double staircase, the wainscoting and low panelling. There were marble looking pillars, and an intricately carved ceiling. An ornate table sat in the centre of the room with the largest bouquet of flowers that Hadrian had ever seen. Before he could investigate the type of flowers used though, loud pops announced the arrival of half a dozen house-elves.

“Master Peverell,” a terribly wizened house-elf croaked as he bowed far too low.

Hadrian did not wait.

“Mum, Marie,” he called as the other elves copied the actions of their elder.

Flopsy appeared with Marie on her heals, only to abort the action of speaking when she saw their company.

“Flopsy be taking care of everything, Youngling,” she informed him with a shooing motion. “Youngling be waiting in the library.”

Hadrian took three steps before coming to a halt; he had no idea where he was going. Flicking his wrist, Hadrian flattened his palm and pushed a little magic to his wand with a strong desire to find his way. When the wand rose to float an inch in the air, it simply flicked to the left, then right, and then left again. So, he tried again, increasing his intent by drawing up an image of a large cluster of books. His wand waved about again, indicating that there were at least three different groupings of books, rendering the charm useless. He looked over his shoulder and locked eyes with the twinkling ones of his mum.

She popped in front of him, tapped him on the forehead, and then popped right back. He shook his head as he heard the gasps and perhaps a scream from the Peverell elves. It must be quite bizarre for them, no elf would usually be permitted to touch their master, let alone implant information into their minds. He shrugged. He trusted his family without reservation; they would come to understand eventually.

He escaped to find his favourite room in the house as his mum and Marie enlightened the Peverell elves on the way things would be from that moment on.

It didn’t take long; the library was merely up a set of stairs and down the left hallway. The same theme of dark woods, creamy walls, and fancy wainscoting. The walls were covered in large landscapes of varying scenes: waves that rolled across beaches, trees that swayed within forests, or thick rolling fog over crystal lakes. Hadrian liked them a lot, they were almost like windows. He preferred them to the talking portraits.

When he reached the large ornate double doors, a moisture began to gather at the corners of his mouth as a sweet and delicious sight met his eyes. Rows upon rows of books, of lovely lovely books. It really hit different to see two and, in parts, three floors of library shelving. The cavern of tomes in Gringotts had disappeared into the gloom, and simply didn’t do the books justice. In the light of day, it was truly magnificent.

With a wave to the right, a left half wave, a downward wave, and then a sharp flick upwards Hadrian heard a faint crack as his new library catalogue materialised. The Tibetan summoning charm was really amazing. It was on his ‘to do’ list to learn how to perform the charm without the crutch of his foci. He knew, though, that it would be a long and arduous endeavour. Regardless that there were few movements to the charm, the shaping of the magic was complicated. It didn’t matter though, he had a task to complete before he left for work.

The catalogue was the size of Hogwarts, a History; it was roughly twenty inches by twelve, covered in treated dragonhide leather. Yona had embossed a vaguely human shape with innumerable vaguely elf shapes around it. It made his lips twitch as he gently opened the cover of the floating book and laid his right palm on the first page with the initial list.

He barely felt the minute drain on his magic as he maintained the hovering charm. It was quickly overshadowed by the draw that was elicited when the catalogue activated with an even deeper search. After having thought more on the topic, he added to his initial search of ‘inferius’, and focused his mind on thoughts of the undead, on death magics, on soul magics, and more specifically on necromancy.

Opening his eyes, not realising they had closed, Hadrian saw the now staggering number of books that fit his criteria. There were probably over five hundred books that contained at least a paltry reference to one of his five themes. He felt both excitement and annoyance at the results. He would gladly consume that many tomes, if only he had the time. The meeting was the day after tomorrow, but he still had a shift in the mines the following evening, he needed to go discuss a ward-design with a new client after lunch, he needed to steadily intensify his training, he needed to repair at least three enchantments from his stash by the end of the week, and whatever else he was overlooking in the moment.

His breath hitched at the realisation. His stomach churned at the weight of his self-inflicted burdens. He swiped his face briefly as he fought not to be overcome by dread and despair. Dread that he would fail, and despair that he was incapable. He had put the expectations on his own shoulders, and to top it all off, he was now a Lord of the Realm. He would have eyes on him; there would be whispers and enquiries. He would have to listen to people talking nonsense and keep up to date on – shudder – current events. People would want things and expect him to be polite. And he knew that he couldn’t just set mum and Dobby on them to make them leave him to his books and his breakings.

It took a sharp breath and a tug of his hair for Hadrian to calm himself. He could do this. He was a Ravenclaw, an Apprentice Curse-Breaker of Gringotts, and a powerful Mage. He was Hadrian Florence Peverell, and he would not allow life to crush him.

With as much determination flowing through his veins as he could muster, Hadrian looked back at the daunting list and began to eliminate those he recognised that would be irrelevant. The fictional tomes, and those from authors he knew were idiots. Jebediah Smith, Wilbert Slinkhard, and the likes of Gilderoy Lockhart were but a few to be culled.

He summoned the rest his first chunk and sat down to get to work.

Chapter Text

Hadrian was annoyed. He had returned to the Refuge in time to throw back a pepper-up, throw himself into the shower, and throw himself through the floo. He had arrived at Gringotts, only to find six angry Goblins demanding he attend a meeting at 16:00 as the Potters and Dumbledore had refused to leave the bank until they got to see him. The bastards had forced his hand, and he just did not have the time to deal with them. He had so much to read for his two upcoming meetings with the Greengrass Lord and the commanders. He didn’t know nearly enough about the current political climate to not sound like an absolute idiot in the meeting the next day, and he had barely scratched the surface of the available literature from the Peverell estate. He had found that most of the tomes were not relevant for his purposes. They talked about the topics, but did not delve into them academically. There was a lot of philosophy, ethics, journals, biographies, religious texts, odd manifestos, artistic and poetic anthropologies, and cautionary tales. He needed to know how an inferius was created, how they were maintained, what kind of essence was used to sustain them, why it appeared that the human was still alive after turning, and whether he could reverse the effects or not. He did not have the time to cater to the whims of veritable strangers.

He growled loudly as he stomped up the path to meet his clients. Luckily Hopkirk had not said a word to him since they had portkeyed to the edge of the property, he was in a foul mood and…

Hadrian came to an abrupt stop. He was working, he couldn’t behave like that. He sat on the ground and crossed his legs, taking a deep breath. He retreated to the room with his magic and sat there just breathing in his essence, allowing it to smooth his ruffled edges. He wasn’t a teenager anymore. He had spent his time in Hogwarts learning not just to wield his magic, but also to control his errant emotions. He had always burned hot. It took a great deal for him to reach a fit of pique, but once he got there, he erupted and burned hotter than a curse-tier incendiary charm. The meditation had helped him ease those moments, and he simply knew better now.

It had been easy, he had spent four years in the Academy, studying much like he did in Hogwarts. He didn’t isolate himself quite as much, as most of his peers were like-minded people. They studied hard to get into the Academy and would continue to study hard to obtain their Mastery certification. The Goblins would not accept anything less. His grades had to remain high, lest they throw him to the streets and seize his vaults. Well, that was just a rumour, but Hadrian wouldn’t underestimate the fine print in his academic contract. He had studied shoulder to shoulder with his peers, furiously trying to remain afloat whilst working and maintaining an ever-increasing number of bonds.

It was almost a relief when he entered his year of traineeship. He had shadowed a different journeyman and master curse-breaker each week, and he had watched them tackle their cases in standard and unique ways. Knowing that his exams were over had been a relief for all of three weeks before he had wanted to strangle someone from the sheer boredom. Having to watch but not cast had been more frustrating than he thought he could handle, but he had done it. He had lasted a year, and in hindsight, he was thankful for it. They had given him ideas for how he would and, in some cases, how he would not complete his assignments. Like that idiot Phillips. He had claimed to have known Ben and Harry, as he had been in Hogwarts when they had attended. He was four years their senior and had been in Slytherin. His parents had been neutral in the previous war, but he believed that muggleborns should be sent to a different school. Hadrian had learnt all that nonsense within the first ten minutes of meeting the idiot, and he really didn’t care. He had just grimaced at the fool and stared at the ward to be broken. It had taken “Roy, Journeyman Phillips is too much” three hours to subjugate the wards, and he’d melted the stone in his efforts. It had been an absolute embarrassment, and Hadrian had been afraid to ask what happened to him. He got over it, of course, and asked Gorethrip the very next day. The idiot served a month in the mines for his troubles and then disappeared from the roster. He wouldn’t be able to use his craft for the following decade, as per his contract with Gringotts. How unfortunate for him. A little giggle burst from Hadrian’s lips as he remembered the look on the idiot’s face when they walked into the wardroom and saw the molten mess he had made of the G50,000 ward-stone.

Thankfully, the levity broke the tension at his core and Hadrian could finally focus on the present without wanting to scorch the earth and elicit an eruption. His heart rate had fallen to almost manageable levels as he calmed down. He thought back to that morning, knowing that thinking about is ever-expanding family would calm him further. He had only managed to screen about one hundred books in his time in the Peverell library. He had found six books to put in his ‘absolutely useful’ pile, there was a couple dozen in his ‘perhaps’ pile and a score in his ‘not sure’ pile. The majority of them went into the ‘definitely not’ pile. He had eventually come out of the haze, only to find Mum, Marie, and half a dozen elves staring at him patiently, excitedly, warily, and whatever else.

“Youngling,” mum said gently, clearly for the benefit of the other elves. “This is being Foster. Foster is being head Peverell elf. They is needing bond.”

Hadrian just nodded, placing the six books in his pouch before slowly walking over to the wrinkly old elf. There was fear in the elf’s eyes, but there was also a strength. The elf clearly had a bit of defender’s purpose, Hadrian liked that kind of elf. When he was a foot away, Hadrian fell to his knees and softened his face.

“Will you accept our family?” Hadrian ignored the gasps; he knew that mum had would have explained the family rules and dynamic to them.

It had taken roughly twenty minutes for the six elves to bond and weep and accept their new life. They would remain mostly at Peverell Manor, but would go to the Refuge at least once a day for a shared meal with the entire family. The manor would be locked down whilst they were all away, but mum wouldn’t compromise on it. She thought that they should move to the Refuge permanently for a little while, but the elves were inconsolable at even the thought of giving up their duty, even for a short period of time. Hadrian had left them bickering to get a quick bite, shower, and potion.

With a sigh, Hadrian rose. He was glad that the Goblins weren’t mad at him; they could be quite vindictive when their ire rose too high. There was that at least, but he would still need to see them when he had been trying to push it for at least a week. Shaking it off, Hadrian began to walk, glancing at Hopkirk as he went.

“I’m sorry about that,” Hadrian began but he was cut off.

“Don’t worry about it,” Hopkirk soothed. “You have every right to feel whatever you feel. I’m just glad you reigned it in.”

His words were humorous, but Hadrian could still sense a tendril of fear behind them. Checking himself, he realised that his magic had been flaring wildly in his rage.

He looked sheepishly over at Hopkirk as he sucked his magic back into his core, feeling eight years old again after having watched the Potters for the afternoon as they played board games and laughed without care.

He looked around, taking in the bare field. He pulled out the case file he had shoved in his pouch and looked through it after having plotted the space with his eyes. The field was about a hectare, covered in several inches of button grass. There were buttercups and sorrels dotted about, splashing golden yellow and a rusty tint throughout the land. A light breeze caused the wildflowers to sway and waft the lightest of aromas. Fluffy clouds drifted steadily across the horizon as the bright July sun kissed the ground.

“Case number: 4669153,” Hadrian intoned. “Customers: Gregory and Vincent Crabbe-Goyle. Last week, the bonded couple attended the London Gringotts branch to request a quote for a ward-design for their new business. The pair claimed they were building a breeding sanctuary for vulnerable and endangered magical creatures.”

Hadrian’s eyes widened as he looked at the details of the project. His eyes immediately flicked over to Hopkirk who was clearly suppressing a grin. The project would be absolutely huge; it would likely mean he needed to develop at least a dozen different arrays, and they would all need to be semi-independent. They would all need to be controllable by the main ward-stone. And as he flipped the page, he saw that on top of building individualised habitats, he would also need to tie it all into the wards of a newly built cottage. His mouth had steadily fallen open, and he had actually come to a stop. Hopkirk had chosen quite the case for his first design, but it was perfect for his masteries. He might be able to fulfil the requirements for the ward-creation portion of his Warding Mastery. He had already completed two official ward-breaks, so he only needed to subjugate or dismantle eight more. The fifty enchantments – twenty-five purifications and twenty-five creations – were the parts that were going to take the longest. But that didn’t worry him, he just needed to focus on the current case.

“Well met,” came the deep voice of a towering behemoth. Hadrian’s mouth opened a touch as he bent his neck back to look up at the rounded face of a vaguely familiar man. “Vincent Crabbe-Goyle, please call me Vince.”

The man held out his hand to shake like a muggle, but Hadrian didn’t begrudge the man’s preferred greeting. He was wearing denim trousers and a black button down. His hand shake was firm and his smile was warm. Hadrian didn’t know what to make of him. And then his attention was drawn to an even larger man who seemed to have been borne of lumberjacks. His shoulders were broad, his arms were like trunks, and his expression was hard. His voice though, changed Hadrian’s sense of foreboding in an instant.

“Hi,” the lumberjack chirped quite merrily, hard face barely twitching. It did twitch though; his lips were quivering as if they didn’t know what they were supposed to do with their host’s mirth. “M’ Greg Goyle-Crabbe, call me Greg.”

Hadrian shook his hand too and had to hold back the wince at the squeeze. The man clearly didn’t know his own strength and that was abundantly clear when he slung an arm over his slightly less large partner and one of… Vince’s knees twitched.

“Good afternoon,” he said, keeping his thoughts to himself. “Apprentice Curse-Breaker… Peverell, and this is my supervisor, Master Curse-Breaker Hopkirk.”

“Peverell?” Greg exclaimed, eyebrows twitching and looking mildly confused. “Aren’t you a Potter?”

The irritation came and went in moments. The man’s hard face showed no maliciousness. He was merely curious; his eye gave away his intent quite clearly.

“No longer,” he replied with a small smile at the pair. He flashed his headship ring as further explanation and nodded when the two men bowed their heads respectfully. It was rather contradictory; they seemed to have adopted a few muggle customs, unlike many in Wizarding Britain. Regardless, they were a puzzle he intended to decipher over the following however long the project lasted.

They spent the next two hours wandering around the property as the two men explained what they envisioned for their new property. Apparently, the pair of them were both second sons of second sons, and had been allowed to bond as their older brothers were wed, with heirs. Neither of them were natural bearers, and but the potion might be an option for Vince. Hadrian didn’t know why he needed to know of any of their personal history, but it turned out that Greg was quite the chatterbox. His expression barely changed but his excitement radiated from him in waves.

They had used their inheritance to buy a plot of land and have it erased from the muggle records. The Goblins had been employed to complete the redaction as the British Ministry had claimed they would not debase themselves by funding training in ‘muggle nonsense’. It didn’t matter much to the Goblins, they made good coin from the endeavour, and had made some very lucrative innovations due to their close ties to the muggles. Hadrian had even heard some bizarre rumours of the Goblins snatching up squibs for nefarious purposes, but he would guess that if it were true, they probably trained them to be the face of their muggle enterprises. But they were just rumours, and Goblins could use excellent glamours, so Hadrian couldn’t be sure of what the truth was.

The men were apparently creature fanatics, and had been devastated to learn that so many magical creatures were either endangered or were vulnerable of becoming so. As a result, they wanted to create a safe space for an intensive but humane breeding program. They wanted it to be a habitat, and an attraction for everyone to see so that they could share the experience with their fellow mages. When Hadrian asked if they meant that they wanted to make a zoo, the pair had been aghast at the question, but eventually confirmed that yes, it would be a zoo. Hadrian saw that his words had hurt the pair for some reason, and informed them that it was more like a safari or wildlife park. When he described them, they both seemed to perk up, and explained that they wanted the creatures to feel like they were at home rather than caged. Hadrian understood and softened slightly to the gigantic but adorable pair.

As a group, they wrote a list of the creatures the pair intended to acquire, they drew up rough plans for the enclosures, and they discussed what necessary information Hadrian would require to design the warding schema. Hadrian explained the requirements for the enclosures to have individual open-air expansions with varying weather and terrain-based charms, containment charms, and security charms to protect the creatures and the visitors. The pair would need to have a rough idea of what to discuss with the architects and builders for their property. Hadrian would need to attend a meeting with the company or companies they employed for the task, but that would come once more information was gathered.

The meeting ended quite productively, and Hadrian could only feel excited with the coming project.

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Lily Potter walked down the oppressive corridors of Gringotts bank with a pinky finger in her mouth, chewing frantically on the nail. It was a nasty habit that she had never truly been rid of. She had been a biter when she was young, and it had abated at times, like after she had met Severus. The strange things that happened when her emotions ran wild had always caused her stress. Especially when Tuney called her that horrible word. Her parents had always tried their best to console her, but sometimes, she thought that her sister might be right.

Then she met Severus. He was thin, unwashed, dressed in rags, with horribly greasy hair. She had been wary at first, until he too made a flower bloom and fly around them to join her own. It was one of those things that she could do that she had always thought was beautiful, flowers did not bloom in the blistering cold of winter. Colour was bleached from the world as the flora was rendered dormant due to the chill. Forcing splashing of vibrancy to dance about her secret meadow always raised her spirits.

Severus, who she soon learnt rarely smiled, softened in a way that she did not see often in the years that followed. He explained to her that she was a witch and that there was an entire society of other magicals who used their magic for all sorts.

She had held off biting whilst Severus taught her everything he knew. They had spent the years whispering at the back of the classroom, running in the fields around Cokeworth, and finding ways they could use their magic without a wand. When the time for the Hogwarts letters were to arrive, she had begun to bite more, and then less until she was sorted into Gryffindor and Severus was sorted into Slytherin. When she heard the vile things spouted by her housemates, she had bitten again, and fought desperately to preserve her friendship with her best friend.

It wasn’t until she was bonded to James that the horrid truths about their school years came out. Her husband was a bastard that had manufactured the dissolution of her friendship with Severus, because the idiot thought that Severus was a heterosexual. She had actually punched him, and the idiot had slept in his study for a month. She had been too embarrassed and ashamed of herself to approach Severus for an apology, but it had made her re-evaluate herself.

So, there she was, walking with her head down, finger in her mouth, teeth attacking the nail and cuticles, feeling as pathetic and useless as she had back then. Six years ago, she had realised yet again what a despicable person she was.

She hadn’t known what to do after that fateful Halloween night. Their son had been targeted, their friend had betrayed them, and their lives would be one of constant danger. Or, at least, that is what the headmaster had claimed. They had expected to be the focus of errant Death Eaters, constantly on the lookout for the next attack. Albus had suggested that they send the boys away for their protection. She had almost cut him with the kitchen knife she was using when he even hinted at it. He had then suggested that they send one of the boys away, first Ben and then Harry. Both suggestions had been rejected, but when Harry’s name was thrown out there, both she and James had been slightly less adamant. Albus had latched onto that and had suggested that they could hand Harry’s care over to the elves, hiding his existence to ensure his safety.

It had taken a few weeks, but the more they thought on it, the more they talked about it, the more it made sense. They expected to be hunted just as much as before the attack on Halloween, and the elves would protect Harry with their lives. She had delivered the boys at home, and the only people who knew about the twins was Poppy, Sirius, Remus, and the headmaster. He would be safe, and she could focus on preparing Ben for the inevitable return of Voldemort.

That was how it was supposed to be. But things had turned out slightly differently. The Death Eaters had been rounded up, except for those that paid their way out, of course. The rabid ones like the LeStranges, Dolohov, Crouch, Wilkes, and the like were off the street, and the others had crawled back to their holes and pretended that they had never been child murdering animals. As a result, their lives were far more quiet than they had expected. They had rightfully been on edge, for years, but the anticipated attack never came. They strengthened the wards at Potter Manor, asked Flopsy to care for Harry like he was her own, and trained Ben with a fervour that she regretted as he aged.

So many regrets. She had so many regrets. Her life seemed like one misstep after another. She had made so many mistakes, and there she was, feeling like she was walking to her doom so she could face one of her biggest regrets.

They had forgotten. She had forgotten. She had pushed the feelings of guilt to the furthest recesses of her mind so that she could focus on her day-to-day activities. It had been crippling in the beginning, so she had locked the memories and their resultant emotions behind the most powerful shield within her mind. She knew now though, that she had done it magically and that had been a mistake. On the boys’ supposed graduation day, she had expected to see two boys clad in red and gold, ready to step out into the world as men. But that was not what happened. She had approached her old friend, hoping for a chance at reconciliation as she floated on a cloud of pride and jubilation. The meeting had not gone as she imagined. In fact, it had been quite disastrous.

She had approached Severus and asked him about the whereabouts of her second child, only to have her shame thrown in her face and laid bare. His questions had caused her to release some of her memories so she could answer his questions, and that had been another mistake. She found out later that she should have released them privately, during meditation, over an extended period of time. She had a decade and a half of guilt and sorrow pouring through her mind without filter. She had crumpled to the floor, clutched her head, and sobbed uncontrollably. She had wilfully ignored and forgotten her own son, and he had left for parts unknown. Severus’ words had dripped with scorn, and she had deserved every single blow.

When she had woken the next day, James had explained to her what they had found out. Harry had been a Ravenclaw, he didn’t seem to have any friends and had graduated the year before. He was the top of his class, had achieved the most OWLS and NEWTS of anyone in over one hundred and fifty years, and had the highest results overall in a little over fifty years. Their son had been a prodigy, and no-one had informed them. When she had asked why they hadn’t been informed, James had told her that Filius had, in fact, sent a plethora of letters to them, and they had been replied to by someone named Flopsy. So, the elf had taken on his care, as requested, but had taken it further than either of them had expected. When she asked how that was legal, James had muttered something about magic accepting her claim. It didn’t make sense to her, but James had simply said that the Hogwarts consent forms were magical, and they would be automatically rejected if they were forged. Something broke inside her as the implication that the forms, Hogwarts, and magic had accepted the elf’s guardianship. She deserved it, really.

They had talked late into the night, crying and holding each other as they realised how far into the darkness that they had fallen. It was unacceptable, and they needed to fix it.

James had found out that Harry had left the wards on his coming of age. They had been in a flurry to host a lavish celebration for Ben’s seventeenth birthday and had completely ignored that they had another son in the house. He had gone to test for his apparition licence and had never returned. It had been that day that Flopsy had demanded clothes, and they hadn’t put the pieces together until it was too late. Her bond to the family magics had snapped and they had no way to contact her.

They had sent letter after letter to their lost son, but they always returned unopened. Sirius and Remus had done the same and the letters had been in a similar state when returned to them. Neither man had agreed with them but had come to accept the reality of their lives with a quiet anger. Their relationship had never recovered, but it was all kept a secret from Ben. They visited just as much as they always had, spoiling Ben like the doting uncles that they were, but things were cold when Ben was tucked into bed.

It had seemed like a miracle when James had gone to work one day, only to return with the first touches of hope in his eyes. Kingsley Shacklebolt, a fellow Senior Auror, had found their boy. He worked for Gringotts as a Curse-Breaker and had apparently been integral in saving the lives of several muggles. She expected nothing less, given his exam results.

Unfortunately, the Goblins had not been forthcoming, not that she had expected anything less. They had accepted the rejection but had intensified the letters they sent. And when Albus found out, he had agreed to help them with their plight. They had truly been grateful, especially after… that night, and all that had happened to Ben since.

Lily shook her head and winced at the stinging pain from her finger. She had gone too far and caused a bead of blood to well up at the junction of her nail and cuticle. She surreptitiously cast a mild healing charm, a nail growing charm, and then a nail colouring charm. Lily really hated the purebloods sometimes. They had charms for everything and anything, and they scorned anyone who did things the ‘muggle’ way. It was hardly her fault that McGonagall hadn’t informed her that there were a series of charms for hygiene, grooming, and even just for dressing. When she had confronted the thin-lipped witch, she had been told that muggleborns generally didn’t want to use such day-to-day charms, so she didn’t usually inform them. Lily hadn’t known what to say and had simply ordered a few books for herself. She then promised herself to explore Flourish and Blotts more thoroughly the next time she visited.

The meeting room they entered was bright, clearly bathed in more than just the few sconces of torches. The reddish-brown table in the centre of the room, and even the room itself, seemed to expand before her eyes as more people entered the room. It was a subtle and amazing charm, and the part of her that still felt like a muggle marvelled at the sight and feeling.

As she took her seat in the intricately carved and polished wooden chair, her nerves made her finger move back to her mouth. Before she could start the process of destroying her finger again, a warm hand pulled her hand away gently and a warm mouth kissed her on the side of her head. She breathed a sigh of relief as her husband offered her the comfort she so dearly needed. They would see their son today. He would be in the same room as them for the first time in… Her breath hitched as she stopped herself from thinking of the number. It was simply too long. Far longer than any mother should accept.

To distract herself, she looked around the room and studied the expressions of the occupants. James sat next to her with a deep frown marring his brow. Lily knew that expression, it hid his pain from those who did not know him well. Albus sat next to James, serene as always. Remus came next, shoulders stooped and sadness plainly in his eyes. Sirius sat next to Remmy, scowling something fierce. And to her left sat her precious Ben. The boy looked as depressed and weary as she did.

According to Ben, he had known about Harry since he was six or seven years old. They had met in the library, and Ben had just let himself forget. He felt awfully guilty at having left his own twin alone all these years. He had been riding the high of the Boy-Who-Lived madness, and didn’t want to share his parents with someone else.

Lily sighed again as she stared at the door. She wanted to see Harry. The beautiful baby she just wanted to keep safe.

The door opened with a crash, quieting the room instantly. In walked a tall sneering man that she barely recognised. Of course, he looked like Ben, like James even, but she did not know this man. The realisation sent a surge of grief through her heart, and she felt derision directed solely at herself. The man was dressed in fitted black trousers and a navy button-down shirt. His feet had a pair of dark brown dragon hide boots. They stomped on the floor, expressing their owner’s unfavourable emotions quite clearly. A pouch sat at his hip, and Lily guessed that it had an extension charm on it as he didn’t have anything else on his person.

“Harry,” she mumbled with reverence. Her son was a beauty to behold. He looked tall, strong, and self-assured. All feelings of pride, however, quickly slipped away as vivid emerald eyes turned to her. The sneer on his lips was so pronounced that she almost mistook him for Severus’ child.

A squeak drew her eyes away from her son and to an all too familiar elf.

“Flopsy?” She asked, feeling confused at the presence of the former Potter elf.

The elf just tutted in response, surprising the room’s occupants. Flopsy clicked her fingers to pull out the chair and hopped up lithely. She briefly touched the shoulder of a visibly fuming Harry who seemed to slump at the action.

The scraping of another chair drew the eyes of the room to the far corner. There sat another elf, older than Flopsy, who was sitting at a small desk that hadn’t been there before. Lily felt confused at her son’s company.

“Harry, my boy,” Albus began, taking control as he always did with a small comforting smile on his lips. Harry’s sneer came back in full force, so it obviously did not do its job.

“Firstly,” Harry growled. “I no longer go by that name. Secondly, you and I are not so close that you have the honour of using my first name, or claiming me as your… boy.”

The room was silent at the declaration. No-one they knew would talk to the headmaster like that. Everyone respected him, and let go of his foibles.

“You will address me as Lord Peverell, Mr Peverell, or simply Peverell,” Harry snarled. “Do I make myself clear?”

The headmaster’s shock was plain, but it soon melted into a soft smile.

“Of course, of course,” the old man replied with a small laugh. “Forgive an old man his quirks.”

“No,” Harry replied sharply, looking away and dismissing the man as if he were an unwashed peasant. Lily felt slightly indignant on the headmaster’s behalf, but she kept it to herself.

“Now,” Harry said sharply, looking to James. “What do you want?”

“We…” James began, clearly processing what he was seeing and hearing. “We’ve been looking for you.”

Lily thought that was a bit of an understatement, but she just nodded.

“And?” Harry asked, sneer fixed upon his lips.

“You’re our son, Harry,” James cried, not understanding Harry’s question, just like Lily.

“I may have been born to the likes of you,” Harry spat. “But you have not been my parents since you threw me away to the elves.”

Harry’s words were like a slap to the face. She knew that they were true, and that Harry had every right to feel the way he did, but it didn’t half sting. And when Flopsy laid her long-fingered hand on Harry’s arm, a spike of jealousy raced through her veins like acid.

“Harry…” the headmaster began as he raised a placating hand.

“Are you deaf or is this evidence of early onset dementia?” Harry quipped, a single brow rising to join the sneer.

“Don’t be rude, Harry,” James reprimanded automatically.

“I will behave however I damn well choose,” Harry growled back at his father. Lily’s heart sank; the meeting was not going well at all. “Either you people do as I requested, or I leave and file an injunction against the lot of you.”

The battle of wills between father and son lasted for more than a minute, but Lily knew, even before it began, that James would not win. He was clearly just as shaken as she was.

“Harry,” Ben tried when James looked away with a sigh. Lily glanced at her older son, only to see bewilderment and hurt on his face. “Why are you so angry?”

“I knew you weren’t that bright,” Harry replied with no small amount of disgust. “But to ask me such a stupid question only lowers the IQ of the room. Perhaps you should remain silent before you make any more of a fool of yourself.”

Lily really wanted to defend her son, but in a small part of her mind, she agreed. Not at the lack of intelligence, but at not understanding Harry’s rage. She had hoped he would forgive them, but it didn’t seem likely.

Before anyone could speak further, parchment came bobbing from the back corner, eliciting a brief look of resignation and fondness from Harry. A small frown soon took over Harry’s face as he read through whatever document he had been passed. After a small breath, Harry placed the document on the table and slid it over to James.

“Lord Potter,” Harry spoke, shoulders squared and back straight. “As the magical and legal head of House Peverell, I offer you the chance of reconstitution.”

Harry’s gaze was steady, and Lily could recognise the determination from when she had seen it on Ben’s face. She just wished she knew what that meant, James looked positively livid.

“You can’t mean that,” James spluttered, looking at the parchment.

“Oh, I am quite serious,” Harry purred, smirking a little as he leant forward. “You have two options, Lord Potter. Either voluntary reconstitution, or forceable separation.”

James, Albus, Sirius, and even Remus gasped at Harry’s words, and Lily felt small not understanding what was being said.

“Young man,” Albus exclaimed, sounding quite grave. “You cannot mean to do this to your family.”

“I don’t know who you think you are, old man,” Harry stated incredulously after a moment’s silence. “But you are not a Potter, thus, this is none of your concern.”

“What is it, James?” Lily asked, not wanting to remain ignorant.

“He wants us to legally sever our tie to the Peverell line,” James said morosely. “Otherwise, he intends to magically disown us.”

Lily looked at Harry sharply. She knew that disinheriting and disowning were highly stigmatised in Magical Britain, and doing so would only see more disgrace heaped upon their family. She looked over to Sirius, the man usually couldn’t last too long without saying something outrageous. The man was wide-eyed, but pensive. His eyes roamed over Harry’s face with a hunger that was laced with pain. She looked away, James had told her that the bond had been stretched to the point of pain, but without prompting, she rarely remembered. He had vowed to support their wishes to protect Harry and Ben, and he had borne the pain of their decision for about two decades. Shame almost choked her as she thought on all the ways that she was a failure as a friend, as a person, and most importantly, as a mother.

“Now see here,” Albus tried again, sounding stern.

“Lord Potter,” Harry spoke over the headmaster, not even sparing him a glance. “My presence is not required for you to make your decision. If I hear nothing from my Account Manager within the week, then I will assume that you prefer that your family is forcibly separated from my line.”

The look in Harry’s eyes scared her. This man clearly held no fond or hopeful sentiments for them.

“Make no mistake,” Harry growled. “I care not a whit about the repercussion on your family. I simply want the ties to you people gone forever.”

Lily felt the tears before she was conscious of their trek down her face. The words were spat with so much venom that she knew she deserved, but it hurt so very much. The silence lasted far longer this time. Harry simply stared at his father, waiting but clearly not expecting a response. Lily held Ben’s hand, squeezing it and being squeezed in return. The lines of Harry’s face were nothing she was used to. James who smiled and laughed constantly. Ben who was usually confident and buoyant. It was only in the past few years that the weight of their mistakes had caused frown lines to appear on their collective faces.

“Was there a reason you forced me to be here?” Harry finally asked.

“Yes…” The sneer on Harry’s lips made Albus trail off and re-evaluate what he was about to say. “Mr Peverell. It has recently come to our attention that Ben was not in fact the child of prophecy.”

Albus paused, ever the dramatics. Lily wanted to roll her eyes. It helped clear up her tears. The old man only continued when Harry’s eyebrow rose to his hairline.

“We have determined,” Albus informed him gently. “That the Dark Lord chose you on that fateful Halloween night. That he marked you, as was stated in the prophecy told to me just before your birth.”

Both Harry’s eyebrows descended into a befuddled frown, the more Albus spoke. It was the kind of look you give to someone who is delusional. He clearly didn’t believe the headmaster.

“Show me,” Harry demanded curtly.

“It is sensitive information that should not be so freely…” Albus tried, Lily was used to the way the old man convinced others to remain ignorant. She generally accepted it as Albus usually had a valid reason for his beliefs.

“Either show me,” Harry interrupted with a flash of annoyance in his eye. “Or I’ll head down to the Department of Mysteries to see it for myself.”

Lily could see the determination in her son’s eyes and wondered what he looked like when he got his Hogwarts letter. What expression did he make? Was he happy? Excited? Scared? Or did he display the same level of determination to succeed. Her eyes strayed to Flopsy, whose hand was still resting on Harry’s arm, and whose eyes were already staring at her with a flinty glare. The size of her eyes only made it more pronounced, and Lily found herself looking away quickly. The judgement was too much for her to take.

She came to as the headmaster explained that he would need to arrange another meeting so that he could bring his pensieve. Harry just looked at him like he was a foolish child and tapped on the table. The lips of a bowl slowly emerged from the centre of the table. The inside was smooth, but the external side of bowl was intricately woven with runes and other patterns. When it was about two inches from the surface of the table, the colour changed from the reddish brown of the wood to a gleaming silver. Lily marvelled at the sight and wondered how it was done.

She watched as Albus took the wand he had been using recently to his temple and pulled out a shimmering tendril of memory and placed it within the bowl. She frowned when Albus told Harry to enter the memory alone and frowned deeper when the headmaster was ignored. She wanted to finally see what she considered the catalyst to their family’s downfall, and she found it hard to see anyone disrespecting the headmaster. The dissonance in her mind made her head ache very briefly, but she let it all go to finally see the memory.

A few taps of Harry’s fingers made the image of a shabby sitting room rise from the depths of the bowl, the woods of the floor and rafters were light and untreated, the furniture was mismatched and unpolished, and the two occupants seemed somewhat out of place. Albus was sat before Sybil Trelawney, the professor of Divination at Hogwarts. The woman’s many shawls swamped her small frame, and her bottlecap glasses gave her the visage of a demented house-elf. Albus looked like his usual benign self, lilac robes flowing around his legs, elbows resting on the armrest, and chin resting on his clasped fingers. The scene magnified to a greater and greater degree until the seated figures were about a yard high.

She watched as Sybil spoke of her ancestors, and her gift with the Sight until her eyes rolled back in her head and her mouth fell open. Her back arched and her arms twisted at unnatural angles. Her head moved from left to right, and her feet lifted about an inch off the floor. Her breathing became ragged, and the room in the memory began to rattle. It was an eerie sight, and Lily wondered if it was like that for all seers.

“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches,” the woman rasped out through a voice quite dissimilar to her own. “Born to those who have thrice defied him. Born as the seventh month dies. And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal. But he will have power the Dark Lord knows not. And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives. The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies.”

The image was abruptly cut as Sybil sagged back into her seat.

“I am a Master Occlumens,” Harry informed the headmaster coldly, confusing her, Ben, James and Remus but not Sirius it seems. Sirius looked angry.

“I don’t see how that applies, my boy,” Albus replied, stroking his beard.

“It means that I trained under a master and attained certification in the mind arts,” Harry said as he narrowed his eyes at Albus.

“I don’t understand,” Ben muttered, mirroring her thoughts. Harry’s sharp eyes looked over at Ben with disappointment and a touch of disbelief.

“Yes,” Harry drawled. “It’s well known that Albus Dumbledore likes to keep his pets ignorant. Look what he’s done to Hogwarts.” The last sentence was murmured, but the quiet of the room meant that everyone heard it. The strange thing was that no-one disagreed with Harry, they just waited for his explanation, as they knew they wouldn’t get one from Albus.

“What it means, Mr Potter,” Harry informed his own twin with too much dispassion. “Is that I am well versed in recognising memory manipulation, alteration, and fabrication, and that tripe the old man showed us was riddled with all three types of mnemocraft.”

“I merely ensured that the correct information was presented,” Albus placated, moving his hands to emphasise his words.

“You may use such excuses on your sycophants,” Harry told the man with a disgusted look. “But I neither like nor trust a man like you. Either show me the unedited version or I will assume you are a liar.”

Remus huffed at Harry’s words, making Harry look sharply at the man. His lips curled into an even more pronounced sneer as he stared at Remus, and Lily could hardly understand why.

“The prophecy is real,” Albus insisted, ignoring Harry’s words. “It became evident on the night that Voldemort attacked your family.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry asked, baffled once again.

“Halloween, 1981,” Albus replied gravely.

“The Dark Lord did not attack us on Samhain,” Harry said, looking at each person in turn. When he saw that everyone was either confused or did not believe him, he unceremoniously flicked Albus’ memory into the man’s face, and replaced it with one of his own. Lily watched in fascination – only a trace of indignation at the action – as the shimmering non-liquid seeped back into Albus’ mind through the corners of his eyes. She wondered how Harry knew that it would do that.

Her attention was quickly stolen by the memory that rose from the pensieve. It was the twin’s nursery in Potter Cottage in Godric’s Hollow. The walls were the light blue they had painted it when they had found out they would be having twin boys. The fireplace was crammed with boxes of nappies, wipes, and a few other odds and ends that babies need. There were toys scattered about, and the two pine cots lined the left wall. The room was mostly cast in shadow as a waxing moon could be seen from the skylight in the slanted roof. The boys were clearly not asleep as they held hands through the bars of their cots. They babbled to each other as the stuffed toys in Harry’s bed danced around. Ben giggled and clapped his hands as he watched the performance, and Lily felt her heart clench at the scene. The boys had been so close before that night. She hardly remembered Harry’s casual use of magic at such a young age. People claimed that accidental magic occurred from around four years old, so she thought it was just her imagination. But clearly, her memories had been true.

“How does it have so much clarity?” Remus asked quietly.

“Master Occlumens,” Harry replied curtly, clearly thinking that explained it all.

Suddenly, the door to the room in the memory creaked open and in stepped Peter Pettigrew, their former friend and betrayer. The stooped man was muttering to himself as he made his way over to the twins, who simply looked curiously at a man they had known since birth. What followed was extremely confusing for Lily. Peter set up a ritual of some kind in front of the twins, placing down a mat with a pre-drawn runic circle. He laid out candles, herbs, stones, and dripped blood in places. He chanted in a language she did not even recognise, let alone understand. The room seemed to build up in a fog or mist or pressure of some kind, and the twins began to cry. No, Ben began to cry, Harry just stood up and watched Peter as he did whatever it was that he was doing.

Eventually, Peter stood up and pointed his wand at the space just between the twins. A spark of greenish light, similar but different to the killing curse, shot out of his wand and connected with the boys’ heads. They both cried out in pain and Lily had to forcibly remind herself that it was a memory. That it had long since occurred and there was nothing that she could do to change what she was seeing. She let out a sharp breath and forced her bum to reconnect with the chair.

Out of nowhere, a brightly coloured block, or the shape toy the boys had, came flying across the room and smashed into Peter’s head. The short man cried out in pain and his wand fell to the floor, cutting off the spell. The shaped blocks soon followed the main toy in pelting Peter until he had rolled over his ritual circle. The disruption in the ritual – she thought it must be – seemed to cause the room to shake and rumble. The kids were wailing now, clutching their foreheads. Ben was sat in his cot, whereas Harry was still standing, one hand on his head, tears streaming down his face, and his other hand holding him up. More toys rose into the air as little Harry’s eyes narrowed, but they did not connect. No, they didn’t have a chance. Lily gasped as the room seemed to explode from the point where the ritual was. The boys were both pushed backwards just as the memory went dark.

“That is…” Albus mumbled, visibly shaken from what he had seen. “The Dark Wrath… The soul piece…”

“Excuse me,” Harry growled as he put his memory back in place. “Soul piece?”

“Not to worry, young man,” Albus tried pulling himself together, but his usually serene smile was a definite grimace. Lily was even more confused by the exchange than by the realisation that they had been wrong about that night.

“You assumed there was a soul piece somewhere?” Harry could clearly ignore what he didn’t want to hear, just as Albus could.

Albus’ lips thinned as he stared at Harry in disapproval. He obviously wasn’t used to being disobeyed so thoroughly.

“I assumed the scar…” Albus began but was cut off again.

“Well,” Harry drawled as he drew out his wand and turned to Ben. “You should know what they say about those who assume.”

Lily’s lips twitched as she watched her son’s wand twirl through charm after charm. Sheet after sheet of parchment was placed on the table as Harry mumbled to himself. He looked at Flopsy and asked her to scan Ben too. That was strange, house-elves weren’t capable of such magic. Why would he ask that of her?

“Ben is being having same darkness as Youngling is having as babe,” Flopsy informed Harry.

“Idiots,” Harry muttered none too quietly, and Flopsy nodded her head in agreement.

“He needs a full cleanse,” Harry told the group, pushing the documents over to James. “You left the residue from the ritual inside the scar for two decades. What is wrong with you people?”

“We thought there was nothing we could do about it,” James replied defensively, glancing at Albus before he looked through the parchments.

“And you were informed of that by a medical or ritualism professional?” Harry asked lightly.

James looked up, ashamed, but he did not reply. Harry just huffed out a breath and was about to speak when Albus interjected.

“I believed Voldemort’s quest for immortality had been disrupted,” Albus said as if all the world’s knowledge was on his shoulders.

“You thought,” Harry spat, eyes sparking with fire. “That my twin had been made into a phylactery, and you advised your pawns to let it be?”

“There was no other choice,” Albus replied defensively.

“There are at least seven other choices that I can think of in the moment,” Harry replied venomously. “You are neither educated nor knowledgeable in the curse-breaking arts to determine what is right for such situations.”

“I have seen much,” Albus tried, clearly getting annoyed.

“You are neither educated nor knowledgeable in the breaking arts to determine what is right for someone else’s child. Or is your ego so large, you would put the health of a child at risk so you can hide your ignorance?”

“How dare you?”

“How dare I?” Harry actually raised his voice, but it was back to the cold tones laced with venom by his next words. “You are a master of Transfiguration, but your certification expired well over thirty years ago. And your honorary Mastery is due to expire within the next two years. You hold no certification in healing, curse works, ritualism, ancient studies, or any other related field. You are an amateur with no standing within those disciplines, and your hubris sickens me.”

Harry’s words cut through the group like the poisoned blade it was. Lily hadn’t known those things, she hadn’t thought about those things, and she didn’t even consider what was best for her children at the time. She had left something dark and dangerous in her son’s head, and even an elf was rebuking her choices.

“Surely,” Remus tried after the silence dragged. “It can’t be that bad.”

Harry looked at the man incredulously.

“See,” Harry said to Albus. “These are the kind of idiots that are made in that pathetic excuse of a school of yours.”

He looked back at Remus sharply.

“What do you know of magical taint?”

Remus just shook his head, shoulders drooping.

“The likelihood is that the taint has compromised Ben’s core, and he will probably never reach his potential.”

The silence stretched again, and Lily wondered if Harry got a sick pleasure out of telling them that their foolishness had cost their son his magical growth.

“I have nothing to say to you people,” Harry informed the group as he rose. “Do not contact me. Do not pester the Goblins. Do not seek me out.”

As he turned, Albus rallied with one more query.

“Mr Peverell,” Albus attempted politeness, but it clearly failed. “A number of Potter items have disappeared since you took the new name, would you kindly return them.”

“If they were taken,” Harry replied, not looking back as his party walked towards the door. “They were Peverell artefacts. If you wish to contest the magical retrieval performed by the Goblins, then it is they whom you need to confer with.”

Lily watched as her son walked out of the door, and out of their lives. She had been so hopeful when they decided this course of action. Now, everything was even more of a confusing mess than she originally thought it was. You-Know-Who didn’t attack them that night. Peter had performed a strange ritual on the boys. Harry had saved them both with flying toys. Albus was hiding something about the prophecy. Harry was probably never going to forgive them. She sighed as she felt her muscles loosen. Tears were streaming down her face as she sagged into James’ side. They had messed up so badly, and they might have done so to their remaining son too.

Chapter Text

Hadrian stomped down the corridor, breaths coming out harshly and sorely needing to shed blood. He could not believe the unmitigated gall of those people. Their stupidity beggared belief. They didn’t take their children, who had just been attacked – supposedly by the Dark Lord himself – to see a medical professional. He could only imagine them finding the pair of them in the vortex of destruction that had been their nursery, bleeding, drained of their magic, delirious from their ordeal. He had no recoverable memories from the days that followed that night. His next coherent memory was of Flopsy and the other elves cleansing his forehead of the taint. He would need to ask Flopsy for a clearer picture of the timeline after that night. He knew his mum was rather headstrong for a house-elf, there was no doubt in his mind that she had tried to speak to the Potters about their questionable decision-making capabilities.

He let out a harsh breath as streaks of lightning arched from his shoulders and fingertips, scorching the solid stone walls of the tunnel-come-corridor. He had to reign it in; he needed to calm down. He knew that the meeting would be aggravating. He knew that those people were only worthy of his contempt, but he hadn’t realised how fucking stupid they were. He almost felt sorry for Ben…

“Harry…” came a shout from behind him. “Please… I don’t know what… please…”

Hadrian turned around sharply, ready to eviscerate everyone in existence. His magic halted its twist into the related curse as Sirius Black slid, on his knees, to Hadrian’s feet.

“Please,” the grown man cried, hands clasped as if in prayer, tears brimming at the corners of his eyes. It was unnerving and made all Hadrian’s everything pause; his rage, his magic, his words, his movements all seemed to hesitate.

“I’m so sorry,” the man sobbed, tears leaking from his tightly squeezed eyes. “Please, I submit to your judgement.”

Hadrian’s breath hitched, surely the man couldn’t mean…

“I submit to a rendering,” Black’s words tumbled over one another, seeming to race from his mouth as if they wouldn’t get the chance to escape his throat. “Full mind-rendering. Please, Harry, I put myself at your mercy.”

He continued to beg and plead, but Hadrian wasn’t listening, his eyes had flicked up and away from the pitiful sight before him. But up was no better than down. Before him was his broken looking twin and a tainted werewolf. The sight of the former sent a burst of pity and hurt coursing through Hadrian’s veins that he did not want to examine, and the sight of the latter made his stomach curl in disgust. The two magics inhabiting the wizard were competing for primacy, and Hadrian could see in the greying flecks of hair and the premature wrinkles that the creature would not live as long as he should.

“Very well,” Hadrian declared roughly as the anger left him in a rush. His magic retreated beneath his skin just after the sharp snap of a repairing charm fixed the result of his tantrum. “Come.”

He turned around without another word and marched down the corridor only allowing a small portion of his mind the freedom to sense his entourage. He needed to calm himself if he was going to render the man’s mind. He couldn’t let his emotions leak; he didn’t actually want to harm them.

He made his way through the tunnels, heading towards the domain of the Breakers. Technically, he needed to get from under Charing Cross to under Dalston, but with seven left turns, three to the right, a straight and another right turn, he emerged from the compact mudstone to a lighter sandstone. It seemed to phase from one to another until the ripple of space-based runes-work sloughed from his skin. Orienting himself, Hadrian took another left and headed to his office. The space was sparce of any personal effects – he tended to work in his home office amongst the scratching and breathing of his kin – and held only a few breaker-related tomes for reference. As the three annoyances entered his office, three chairs materialised to accommodate them. Hadrian almost wished he could shut down the runes out of spite.

“Harry,” Ben broached hesitantly.

“Sit,” Harry said to Sirius, dragging a chair to sit opposite the man. Harry could see that Black was sure, there was no hesitation in his eyes or his body. As soon as he sat down, Hadrian sank into his mind.

Sirius Black ran down the street barely taking in the people, the houses, or even the weather. His bond was tugging on his soul; his charges needed him. Thoughts of the worst situations ran through his head, causing bile to rise from its place to sit uncomfortably in his throat. What could have happened to Peter? He was the secret keeper, he was supposed to be babysitting the boys, he was supposed to be safe.

His heart jumped into his throat at the sight before him. There was a hole in the roof, right where the boys’ room was. It was the worst thing Sirius had ever seen, and that included watching Dorcas get her head blown off by Mulciber. The nasty piece of filth had regretted his life choices though; Sirius had made sure of that.

Pushing through the gate and his memories, Sirius ran up the stairs to find a screaming Lily and shouting James, and an obscenely calm Albus.

“What the fuck…?” Sirius rasped, dragging in several harsh breath.

“Sirius, my boy,” Albus greeted jovially as if they were at a fucking afternoon tea on a balmy Tuesday. Sirius wanted to punch him. Instead, he marched over to Harry’s crib grabbed his godson out of the splintered furniture.

“What the fuck happened here?” Sirius’ voice cut through the noise and silenced the others in its obvious need for blood.

“Pete,” James rasped, eyes flashing in equal rage. “He must have…”

“Now now,” Albus tried to soothe. “We cannot be certain…”

“Fuck, Albus,” James shouted, not taking the old man’s shit. “He should have been safe inside the fucking wards, babysitting the kids. If someone got in, then the little rat let them in.”

Albus sighed, but Sirius turned away from the argument and ran his wand over his godson. Lily was doing the same with Ben, but for some reason, no-one had done so for Harry. As far as Sirius could tell, the little guy was exhausted, he had a few cuts and bruises, but he would need to see someone for them to be sure. He made his way to the door with his precious cargo.

“Where are you going, Sirius,” Lily called out.

“Where do you think?” Sirius’ retort was sharp and without patience. “To fucking Mungo’s. The boy’s need expert care.”

“We can’t…” Lily tried.

“What the fuck are you on about?” Sirius was not in the mood for idiots and kept walking. “If what Albus says is correct, the boys need a damned healer.”

“Sirius,” Albus called as he made his way out of the room.

“Padfoot,” James called, he did stop at that. It cut through the fog of desperation in a way that only James could. “It’s not safe.”

“Prongs,” Sirius replied, tightening his hold. “None of the Order can give the boys what they need right now.”

“Pads. It’s not safe.”

“James is correct,” Albus interrupted their staring contest. Sirius was not convinced. “We can have Poppy look them over.”

“Look them over?” Sirius asked incredulously. “She’s a bloody medi-witch; they need a damned Healer.”

“Please calm down, my boy,” Albus replied, calm as ever. “I have examined them, and I fear there is not much to be done.”

Sirius could only watch on with a growing sense of disbelief and anger. It was like Lily and James had lost all self-confidence and common sense. They just let their decisions be controlled and suited to Albus’ designs. Sirius felt all his respect for the three fall away as they determined what to do for the children without bothering to think about their health or happiness. Sirius felt like the following weeks were a blur of suppressed rage and disgust. He was coerced into following their directives due to the type of oath he had given. He had vowed to back their parenting plays, and that seemed to mean even when their actions were not in the boys’ best interest.

Sirius stood in the hidden space behind the kitchen, watching as little Harry babbled and played with the other elf children. He was animated, waving his hands and arms around as he floated soft bundles from one little elf to another. The elves would grab it with their own magic, giggling and floating in their mirth, and then it would be sent off to someone else. It made Sirius feel relief. He was truly grateful that Harry was happy and safe where he was, but that relief was quickly tainted by a now familiar rage. His bond was an aching thrum in his chest that he could only soothe by checking in on his charge. It was the bare minimum that he could do, given the constraints. But since little Harry was being treasured and raised well, he could not intervene. As much as he hated it, the elves treated Harry like he was precious, so he had no grounds to go against the Potters. He could only watch.

Sirius watched as little Ben bounced out of the front room in his bright green pyjamas, waving enthusiastically as his mother took him to bed. The strained smile that made his cheeks ache fell as soon as the door closed. Without much care, he let it fall as he stood up and headed towards the fireplace.

“Pads,” James called out, rising as well.

Sirius didn’t stop; he just kept walking. He had nothing to say to a man that would throw away his own child, that would reduce his supposed best friend to such daily agony. A thrum in his chest made his feet falter and his breath hitch. His mind drifted to little Harry so often that the pain was ever present. But that didn’t matter so much to Sirius. He wouldn’t forget. He wouldn’t let it go. He would endure it so that the little boy he had shed blood for in oath always had at least one person that ached for his presence.

“Sirius please,” James’ voice was quite pitiful, but he didn’t stop. He reached out for the floo pot on the mantel just as it slipped past his hand. He looked sharply over his shoulder, glaring at a man he had once called brother.

“Can we just talk?” James pleaded, his face scrunched.

Sirius just looked away in disgust, not willing to waste his breath anymore. He had tried. For the first few years, he had screamed and raged and thrown things at the Potter parents until he was hoarse and wrung out. But they did not relent. Lily seemed almost confused at his words, and James stood behind the old man’s word as if Dumbledore’s mere presence negated immorality. It was sickening. He had punched James so many times now that he would never know the number. Not that James just took it. No, he would fight back, calling Sirius ‘unreasonable’ or ‘short-sighted’. By the time it got to the point that they had hospitalised each other at least twice, Sirius had promised Remus that he would keep his mouth shut and only project his disdain with his eyes.

With a bitter anger churning through his stomach, Sirius retrieved the stash of floo powder from his pocket and twirled away from James’ irrelevant cries.

Sirius stood in his hidden spot as he watched his godson glow over his Hogwarts letter. He had spent years coming and going from that same spot so he could watch over his charge. That day was a special one though, one with photos and cuddles and celebration. Well, for usual families. Sirius’ mother had just sneered at him and said, “at least you’re not a squib.” He had gone to Diagon with that wretched elf Kreature making it a truly miserable experience. The damned elf had long since been ordered to punish him for everything and anything, making the horrible thing just as bad as his mother. Sirius hated him just as much as the old bint.

He had managed to find Minnie, luckily, in Hogsmeade, on a little shopping trip, and she had informed him of letter day. He had been dreading having to go up to the castle. He did not want to run into the old bastard. Minnie had told him the exact date that the acceptance letters were sent out. Sirius had been elated. He wanted to be there at the exact moment that his godson touched the thick parchment of the letter. The moment it was confirmed that a child was a mage with enough core density to attend the premier school in Britain.

And he hadn’t been disappointed. Sirius had watched as all the little elves crowded around Harry with bright shining eyes. They chirped and wiggled in a way that he had never seen Kreature do. They cuddled and bounced about as Harry stood in the centre of it all with a look of sheer wonder on his chubby little face.

Sirius had long become accustomed to the feeling of his knees being locked for anywhere up to hours at a time. Regardless though, he had never felt like he couldn’t take it. It had been a pleasure and a joy to be able to, at least, indirectly experience Harry’s growth.

As Harry and his mum, Flopsy, started to prepare to leave, Sirius started to turn. But just as he looked back one last time, Flopsy was looking directly at him. The lovely elf winked a giant brown eye at him just before she clicked the pair of them away.

The Hogs’ Head pub was a filthy mess. The swaying stone and wood building radiated a sullen gloom that mirrored its inhabitants. The grimy bar stretched along the entire right hand wall and was only occupied by only two figures: a hunched and hooded person, and none other than Severus Snape.

Sirius had hated the man for so long that he could hardly think straight at the sight of him. He had seen the shabby, hunched, wary-eyed urchin first on the platform of the Hogwarts Express. The boy had spoken not a word to anyone but Lily Evans, and his gaze was suspicious towards anyone that approached the pair. It was, quite frankly, unnerving. Throughout Hogwarts, Snape had been the same all the way until fifth year when James had cacked Snape in front of a whole group of students. Sirius had been there and had even laughed along with everyone. He had found the whole thing absolutely hilarious. Snape’s undies had been a shade of grey that Sirius, in his life of financial privilege, had never seen before. And Snape’s new distance from Evans was just icing on the cake.

It wasn’t until a year later when Peter had dobbed to Evans about Snape’s near miss with Moony that things had begun to change. Sirius had thought that Snape already knew that Moony was a werewolf. As the best potioneer in the school, the idiot should have had the lunar cycle memorised, and as one of the top students in the year, Snape should have realised that going to see Moony on that night was nothing but a death sentence. But somehow, bloody Snape had apparently lost all his intelligence and went marching straight into a werewolf’s den on a full moon night. Luckily, James had been running late as Evans had needed to go to the hospital wing for something or other, so he had managed to jump in front of the git when Moony sniffed him out in the tunnel leading towards the school.

When Evans found out that Snape had been hurt and Peter, the little rat, had spilled a bunch of nonsense about Sirius intentionally sending Snape to his death as a prank. As if. Sirius was a selfish prick in his youth, but he wasn’t a bloody murderer. Evans had been livid, screaming and carrying on as if her words mattered. Sirius hadn’t bothered to defend himself because he owed the whiney bint nothing. Sirius thought that it was the first crack in his and James’ relationship. James knew him, after all. But instead of defending him, James had just whimpered like the whipped little suck up he had turned into.

It had rounded off with a shouting match in the old man’s office between Sirius and Snape. Dumbledore had been babbling about life debts and responsibility and secrets, but Sirius hadn’t really listened. He had been gagging for a fight since that night. He couldn’t stop thinking about Snape. It was always like that. The git was always close to the surface of his mind, meaning that whenever he saw him, his emotions would burst from him in cutting words or tripping hexes. That few days of James’ pouting, Evans’ huffs, Moony’s fear, and Peter’s quiet smugness had rubbed Sirius’ nerves raw. So, as he sat in the round office of the headmaster, painted eyes glaring down at him, the old man’s patronising smile, and Snape’s sullen silence, he had snapped.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Sirius had bitten out, standing up in a rush, causing the ornately carved wooden chair to teeter but not fall. He was panting like Padfoot and blind with swirl of confusing emotions. His fists clenched so tight by his thighs that pain shot up his wrists. “Why the hell would you go there?”

Snape had been silent for a while, his expression bouncing from surprise and annoyance in an almost amusing slide.

“You degenerates needed to be held accountable,” Snape had spat back as he rose from his chair in a graceful move that made Sirius’ stomach squirm in a way he knew it shouldn’t.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Sirius had shouted back, ignoring the headmasters’ calls for decorum or calm. “You’re one of the smartest students in this bloody school, and you thought going to see a werewolf on a full moon night was the right thing to do?”

Sirius did not miss the cute… the blush climbing up from his tightly buttoned shirt collar and into his porcelain cheeks. It was a distraction that caught Sirius off guard. Well, until the sharp-tongued boy spoke again.

“I wouldn’t have…” Snape replied through gritted teeth. “…if I had known that I was about to face that monster.”

That shocked Sirius. He was sure that Snape had known. Why wouldn’t he know. Evans knew. She had known for years, and Snape was smarter than her by yards. Of course he knew. The git always knew everything about them. There was no way that he didn’t know.

“Of course you do,” Sirius shouted, and in hindsight, it was completely irrational. His image of Snape was a stuck up, all knowing fiend that lived to haunt him. “You know everything.”

The flush intensified on Snape’s cheeks, but from rage or from embarrassment, Sirius couldn’t tell.

“What are you blathering on about?” Snape retorted as he stepped back.

Sirius didn’t actually know the answer to that question. He was just seething. Snape should have known. He shouldn’t have put himself in that situation. He could hardly hear anything other than his own confusing thoughts.

“Werewolf, full moon, your brain,” Sirius had ground out as he took a single step forward. “You got hurt because you were being an idiot. You’re not an idiot. What the hell Snape?”

Snape’s eye had started to twitch. He had straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and sneered. Sirius knew that the squirm he felt was wrong. It didn’t make any sense.

“There is no debt,” Snape growled at the headmaster, dismissing Sirius in an instant. “I will not vow.”

Sirius had barely paid attention after that. He had slumped into his chair and let the events play out around him as he tried to muddle through his jumbled thoughts.

So, seeing the straight backed, sneering man again after so many years, Sirius knew exactly what had been wrong with him as a child. He snorted at himself; his wilful blindness, his pitiful crush, and his pigtail pulling antics.

“Snape,” he said as he took the stool beside the man. “Firewhiskey.”

After Abe went off to get his drink, Sirius angled his body and his attention on the man. He was the same but taller, broader, more refined, sharper angled, and clearly deadlier. It sent an unmistakeable shiver down his spine. Even after all these years, the man made his blood pump and his…

Shaking his head, Sirius moved his eyes away from the thin-lipped sneer and to the cold black eyes of Severus Snape.

“Black,” the tall man spat with venom.

“Hi,” Sirius replied, resting his cheek on his palm and grinning like a fool. “How you been?”

The sneer stretched in a way that Sirius knew he would never be able to imitate. He sometimes wished he could. Some of the trainees of the Hit Wizard Squad would tell quiet stories of Snape’s escapades in the locker room. How he could render a Hufflepuff first year to tears with just a stare, how his detentions left students reeking of filth that no charm nor shower could remove, or how his robes were possessed by the spirit of Vlad Dracul. They each had the man’s cutting barbs memorised, his instances of heinousness remembered, and his animagus form pegged. But through it all, when pressed, they were grateful for his skill. Sirius had checked. The man had the lowest records for injuries with zero fatalities during his tenure, and though his graduating students were fewer, the overall results were higher and steadier. The man was clearly a bastard, but he got the job done. Sirius didn’t think there was much the man could do that would turn him away. The idiot had got himself branded by the Dark Wanker and Sirius still wanted him, after all.

Snape’s only response was a raised eyebrow.

“You’ve…” he continued, eyes drifting over the man from head to foot and back again as he sipped on his whiskey. “…gotten tall.”

Those eyebrows descended, this time, into the barest of frowns as the man’s inky black eyes bored into Sirius as if they could physically wound him.

“What is it you want Black?” Snape asked blandly, cold and neutral in a way Sirius did not like.

He straightened, thinking of something that was long overdue.

“Severus Tobias Snape,” he said in a low and steady tone. “I, Sirius Orion Black, would like to formally apologise for my conduct during school. It was behaviour unbecoming of an heir to an ancient and noble house. As recompense, I grant you a boon of your choice. If it within my power, I shall bestow it upon you.”

Snape was obviously gobsmacked; his eyebrow had risen fairly high, higher than the last time. But his silence didn’t last long, magic wouldn’t allow it.

“Your favour is accepted,” the man replied quietly.

“Then,” Sirius proclaimed, feeling gleeful. “So, I say it. So, mote it be.”

Sirius felt the weight of the vow settle onto his shoulders and almost purred at the tie to Snape. He couldn’t be sure if Snape would ever use the favour, given the man’s pride.

“So,” Sirius repeated, hoping to get at least something from the man. “How you been?”

Of course, it did not work, Snape left in a swirl of possessed robes, not uttering a single word.

Sirius had made his visits to the Hog’s Head a regular affair until he knew Snape’s schedule. The man was a creature of habit, so his schedule was easy to figure out. It changed by term, but soon enough, Sirius knew what to expect, or how to learn what he wanted.

Snape barely uttered a word to him for the longest time, until Sirius’ persistence caused the stoic man to explode in a fit of pique. Sirius loved it. He had always enjoyed riling Snape up until he started cursing with his mouth and his wand. Sirius had long since realised a few unsavoury things about his own tastes, but none of that bothered him. He just enjoyed his twice weekly meetups with the man.

It wasn’t until a year into Sirius’ stalking that he finally drummed up the courage to ask about Harry.

“The brat is abnormal,” Snape had growled one evening, six tumblers in. “He forgets nothing, ignores everyone, and is bound to break a record or three.”

Sirius had been overjoyed at the man’s words. He learned more from Snape than he had in the previous decade. And when Snape took Harry under his wing and nurtured his brilliance in the silent and supportive way that only the stoic man could, Sirius knew that he was gone for the other man.

Hadrian eased his way out of the man’s mind with a heavy heart. He didn’t know what to think. The thought of the vow his godfather had taken that bound his life and his actions to the Potters’ unhinged plan of action made him shudder. They hadn’t just thrown him away; they isolated him from anyone who could have loved him. They actively prevented his oath sworn Godfather from fulfilling his honour bound duty. Hadrian shuddered again from the intense feelings of longing, dread, and melancholy that elicited repeated instances of nausea, due to the strained godfather bond. Sirius Black had not abandoned him intentionally, and every day he had felt the regret.

He looked up at the muffled murmuring of his mum. Flopsy was rubbing her long-fingered hand along Black’s arm and handing him a… pain relieving potion. She spoke words that seemed to ease the man just as much as the concoction did.

“You knew,” he stated as he met the large brown eyes of his mum. She just nodded and smiled. He wanted to ask why she hadn’t told him, but he already knew. He wouldn’t have accepted it. He would have shut the conversation down, believed the man was full of excuses, and ignored the situation until it went away. He was predictable in that sense. He harboured a lot of resentment for being abandoned, not that he was unhappy with his life, but he had read enough to know that what the Potters had done was at the height of disgraceful.

He let it go and stood up.

“I’ll read your owls,” he allowed, staring Black down. He wasn’t ready to open up just yet, but he wouldn’t close the door either.

The three other men all stood up, knowing their presence was no longer welcome. The broken wolf almost spoke, but Hadrian wasn’t in the mood. He held up a hand and raised his wand. The cross-plane summoning charm spilled into the space before him, bringing with it a tome that the broken creature before him needed quite desperately.

“Read this,” Hadrian ordered as he handed the book to Lupin. “I will also read your owls.”

“Harry,” came a quiet voice similar to his own. “Am… am I dying?”

Hadrian’s brow furrowed. Is that the impression he had left on the group?

“It’s Hadrian,” he confirmed. “And no, you are dying as fast as any mortal life form is.”

“But,” Ben replied, confusion wrinkling his brow. “I thought… the taint?”

Hadrian sighed before flicking his wand and retrieving a few sheets of parchment. He handed them over with a terse and concise explanation as he ushered the trio out of his office.

“Will you do it?” Ben asked weakly.

“What?”

“Will you help me?”

Hadrian stared. His brother had always been so full of extrovert energy, pores leaking confidence with a touch of superiority. The comparison to this meek, subdued creature was… distasteful. Hadrian didn’t like it. He didn’t want to see it. But, on the other hand, he did need to get his ritual numbers up, and if he could craft Ben’s cleanse…

As he pushed them out the door, he indicated where Ben would need to write his and Hopkirk’s name if he had a preference for particular Breakers or Ritualists.

When the door finally clicked closed, he sank down onto the floor and just breathed through the storm. Flopsy sat next to him, clinging to his arm as if she could ease the tide of memories and grief with her cuddles alone.