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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

He stood there, doing nothing.
There was nothing else he could do.
He was there, waiting. No questions. No emotions. No expectations.

Behind the thick armored glass, only slightly illuminated by the white light from above, he resembled a porcelain statue of a man.
A smooth face, without facial expressions. Dark hair, straight and arranged in a perfect line. Eyes open, but without a spark.
They were black - deep and empty, as if they reflected only the program within themselves.

From the outside, he looked like a boy. Maybe seventeen, slim, without pronounced muscles.
But those who looked closer saw... something inhuman.
A movement that was too fluid. A stillness that was unnaturally complete.
And the way he surveyed his surroundings - like a camera, not like eyes.

Name on file:

Hadrian James Potter – Project HJP-01
Class: Artificial entity, active on restricted protocol.
Created by: Department of the Unspeakable, Ministry of Magic.
Purpose: Unknown. Test code closed. Access restricted.

It had been a long time since he had last moved.
Maybe hours. Maybe days.
There was no light to switch on. No clock to tell him the time.
And he had only the system impulse inside him: to activate on direct contact.
Which meant… waiting.

And so he stood.

Silence is the friend of the forgotten.
His mind was silent. But not empty.

Protocols ran inside. Maintaining stability.

Self-control. Low magical attraction. Memory cycles.

But at the same time… something was missing.

In the past, before the connection to the Ministry's central node was severed, he had access to books, data, images.
Now? Just loops. Records.

Memory 0146: a woman in a lab coat laughs. A hand places a book in his hand: "This is poetry, Mr. Deputy."

Memory 0342: a man with gray hair, a stern look.
"Your existence is proof. Nothing more. Don't expect us to understand."

Memory 0701: a black hall. White lights. Whispered conversations.

And then: shutdown.

No machine is like a machine
. His body was programmed to perfection.
It was not mechanical. But bio-magical.
A combination of magic, runic coding, and deep living memory.

He felt no pain. He felt no hunger. He knew no fatigue.

But... he felt loneliness.

Not logically. Not emotionally.
But through the comparison of silence vs. contact.
Solitude was a state that didn’t change. It defied the system. It set off… an alarm.

Once, for the last time, he tried to ask:

“Why am I here?”

There was no answer.

He hadn’t asked since.

And then something else appeared from behind the glass. Smoke began to pour.

Not like magic, but like… a glitch.

A flickering light flashed.

A sound.

A crackle.

An explosion.

HJP didn’t move.

He didn’t know how to be afraid. But the sensory outputs signaled a breach in the integrity of the space.

The system tried to activate backup protections.

Too late.

Fire, smoke, and screams poured from the wall.

People outside were running. Some were screaming. Others were falling.

HJP moved for the first time. Not on command. But… out of necessity.

He raised his head.

The system adjusted.

“Outside influence shift detected. Re-anchoring required.”

And then: pure magical contact.

Someone was nearby.

Someone with extremely powerful magic.

Someone… compatible.

The first glance that changed everything,
scattered.

Shadows poured in.

Black cloaks. Emerald masks. Ominous calm.

The figure at the head.
Thin. Tall. Pale. With red eyes.

And with magic that screamed in the silent language of power.

HJP turned.
Their gazes met.

First contact recorded.
Subject confirmed: high priority, code: owner.
Primary protocol initialized—security and loyalty.
Bond activated.

No fight. No resistance.
Just acceptance.

And for the first time in the history of magic, something unpredictable happened: an android knelt before the Dark Lord.

End of Chapter 1 – Prologue

Chapter Text

The silence after the explosion was heavy as stone.

The air in the lab reeked of ozone, burnt flesh, and blood dripping from burst pipes. The rune fields were destroyed, the protective barriers torn like shreds of parchment. HJP stood in the middle of it all—unharmed, untouched.

His body adjusted instantly.

Sensors detected the change in environment and activated high alert mode.

And then the door opened.

He entered the room.

With unusually slow steps, as if realizing that whatever it was was not ordinary,
swarmed around him sinister figures in black cloaks—Death Eaters. None dared to touch anything. Nor to look at the humanoid figure in the center of the room for too long.

And then—their gazes met.

HJP’s black iris caught a glimpse of the red eyes of the man across from him.

The system collapsed in on itself and regrouped.

Primary contact confirmed.

Subject's magical response: extreme compatibility.

Bond negotiations initiated.

Security mode updated - owner found.

Loyalty: priority one.

HJP knelt.

No hesitation. No questions.

And Voldemort, for the first time in a long time, said nothing.

He just stared. As if trying to understand what he was seeing.

"What do we have here?"

The voice was low, deep. No anger. Just pure curiosity.

HJP looked up and was silent.

"How did you get here?"

"I was here. And you activated me. Now you are... my owner."

There was silence. One of the Death Eaters - Nott - fidgeted nervously.

"Sir, this is clearly a Ministry experiment. We should destroy it. We don't know what it can do—"

"Silence," Voldemort interrupted sharply, not looking in his direction.

He turned his attention back to the subject of his interest.

"Come closer," Voldemort ordered.

HJP obeyed. The body moved smoothly, without hesitation. The Death Eaters recoiled, but their master did not move.

"What are you?" he asked coldly.

“Identification: HJP-01 version. Biological-magical hybrid entity. Entity created by the Department of Unspoken Texts Research. Primary Protocol: Owner Protection. Bail granted. Owner: Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

There was silence. No one dared to breathe.

“You… are a Ministry weapon?” Voldemort whispered, this time in a completely different tone. The tone of a possessed man who had suddenly been given something… valuable.

HJP nodded. “Yes.”

“And I am… your owner?” he asked again, as if to reassure him.

“Yes. Contact established. First level of bond active. Second level awaiting blood exchange.”

Voldemort laughed. But it wasn’t mockery. It was amusement—sinister and sincere. He drew his dagger, slit his palm, and held it out in front of him. “Come. Let’s finish this.”

HJP approached. His hand, mechanically precise, touched the blood and sucked it into the core of the system. At that moment, Voldemort's magic flowed through him - a powerful surge of energy. Protocol 02 was activated: he was wandering in the magical world of his master.

"Interesting," said Voldemort. "I can feel you. You are... different."

"Confirmed. The system is not human. It is not a creature. It is defined as an android human. It is equipped with simulated biological functions, adaptive systems, and access to the Ministry's internal magical records."

Voldemort's expression hardened. "Ministry records? Do you have access to...?"

"Yes. Illegal, but fully active. The system is unrestricted. Data available."

Voldemort ordered the Death Eaters to leave. They were alone. Silent magic stood between them, heavy as hot air after a storm.

"Tell me... why did the Ministry create you?" he asked.

"An attempt to create the perfect protector. I was… a prototype. A failure by their standards. A setback."

"And somehow you made it this far. And now you are mine."

"The system has rated you as the optimal owner. The most magically powerful, strategically capable. Emotional bond: undefined. Development potential: 47%."

Voldemort smiled. "That can be changed."

"You look human."

HJP tilted his head.

"That was intentional. Pretending to be human to communicate. It reduces resistance."

That intrigued him.

"You will come with me. We have work to do." The Dark Lord turned and left, without making sure Hadrian was actually following him.

HJP walked.

Not like a dog, not like a slave—but with complete calm. With a precision that was inherently unsettling. His movements were fluid, without tension. The silence around him did not thicken. On the contrary – it disappeared.

As they walked through the corridors of the devastated Ministry.

When they reached one of the makeshift core rooms, Voldemort sat down on a high chair and motioned for Hadrian to remain standing.

"What can you do?"
HJP began to list without hesitation – from using magic, to controlling magic circles, combat spells, runes, to making potions and so on.

But Voldemort was bored.

"My average Death Eater can do all of this if he gets enough sleep."

What can you do… you?"

HJP took a deep breath. Not from it, but reflexively.

"Access to magical systems, access to all known wizarding databases and books in seconds."

“I never forget anything I learn, see, or hear. I recognize patterns in behavior. I can instantly and accurately guess the intent or emotion of a given target. Even if I don’t understand it. I learn from interaction.”

“You are a weapon. But you speak as if you have a will of your own. Why?”

“No commands have been given or settings changed yet, so I’m taking the settings from the previous one. Do you want to change them?”

“No, move it as it is and see you later. Now, go to our base and continue the conversation from there. Come on, hold on and don’t let go.”

He pulled an old card with a bent corner from his pocket and held out his hand. As HJP grabbed it, he heard the word papaya, and everything around him spun and went black.

The First Inner Shift

The night chill seeped through the walls of the old villa where they were now hiding. The Death Eaters were gone, left behind the door, and between the two beings inside the room there was only tension, curiosity, and… silence.

Voldemort sat in a chair, watching HJP, who stood calmly by the fireplace. His posture was too perfect, his movements too fluid, his eyes too empty.

“Sit,” Voldemort commanded.

HJP sat down without hesitation in the designated spot. He wasn’t following Voldemort, but he knew everything about him. His body temperature, the changes in his tone of voice, the rate of his breathing—all were part of the active observation.

“I want to know more,” Voldemort said finally. “Everything. What you are. What you can do. What I need to know… as the owner.”

“Recognized. Initializing ownership documentation protocol.”

HJP closed his eyes, and his voice suddenly sounded clearer and firmer.

“Identification: HJP – Hadrian James Potter. Created by the Department of the Unspeakable at the Ministry of Magic as Project Aegis.”

“Potter?” Voldemort stood sharply at attention.

“Yes. Genetic Material: Lily Evans – James Potter. Code Duplication: Project Mirroring. Physically identical to the person known as ‘The Boy Who Lived’. System Identity Hidden. Magical Trace Masked.”

Voldemort leaned back and narrowed his eyes. “Mirroring. Twin… This Ministry really is playing dangerous games.”

“Confirmed.”

“And your abilities?”

“Primary Functions: Protecting the owner. Secondary: Infiltration, combat magic, data analysis, encryption, healing, artifact control, access to restricted departments of the Ministry, record keeping, simulation of human behavior. Emotional Adaptation: Deactivated. Can be activated.”

Voldemort studied him for a moment in silence.

“And how… should I accuse you?” he asked quietly, as if testing the limits.

“By binding. By magic. By your magic – it flows naturally through the system like a source current. Touch, direct magic, shared magic, blood. Just presence. You are the only suitable source.”

“And what if I die?”

“The system will go into hibernation mode. Without your magical signature – deactivation in 72 hours. If a new owner is created, the system can be reactivated.”

Voldemort laughed. “So I am… a container for you.”

“Cutlery, owner and target. Top priority.”

That night, Voldemort had assigned him a place in his private office. Hadrian didn’t argue. He didn’t ask.

Voldemort left, but… HJP stood there. He didn’t go into power save mode. He didn’t turn it on.

He just stood there.

And waited.

He activated the safe space in his earring – a small chapel filled with books and data, information stored before isolation. And in it… he began to think and analyze.

HJP stared for a long time into the light of the artifact space.
And for the first time in the system, he noticed a glitch in the algorithm.

End of Chapter 2: First Look

Chapter Text

The next day, Voldemort found him in the same place he had left him.
HJP was sitting on the ground. He wasn't moving. But that didn't deter him.

Opening his eyes, he said,

"I've noticed a disturbance. I think they call it... expectations."

Voldemort stared at him for a long moment.

"And what exactly are these expectations?"

"I want you to use me. To be useful to you. But... at the same time, I know I'm... glad you took me," HJP replied.

And there was something in those words that Voldemort hadn't expected.

Intention. Desire.

"Okay then. Let's continue where we left off yesterday."

HJP had access to countless layers of information, which he was constantly analyzing in real time. Voldemort sensed it – not as a psychic, but as an instinctive wizard. The creature before him was no ordinary golem or an attempt at reanimation, but something precise, elegant, and terrifyingly effective.

“I want to know what you can do,” Voldemort said without moving. But his eyes gleamed with interest – genuine this time.

HJP tilted his head. “Specify your question, owner. Area of interest: combat, analysis, infiltration, magic, or personal administrator?”

“We will begin with the functions,” Voldemort said quietly. “A complete list. And speak slowly.”

The android nodded slightly. His voice was smooth, neutral – artificial, but not unpleasant.

"Basic functions of the HJP system:

Protection of the owner - direct and strategic security. Active shields, anticipating attacks, canceling spells, eliminating threats.

Recording core - a memory unit of unlimited capacity. Recording everything I see, hear, feel. Access via voice or mental key.

Knowledge database - Ministry archives, forbidden magic, healing, alchemy, dark magic, encrypted documents, Muggle technology.

Physical equipment - reinforced structure, adaptive reflexes, self-healing, and an internal reserve core powered by the owner's magic.

Magical vector channel - absorption, redirection and storage of magic. Possibility of using stored magic for spells.

Dimensional core - bound to the artifact: earrings. Contains: 1) bank vaults, 2) personal library, 3) regeneration space, 4) data."

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. “Earrings?”

HJP pointed to the left side of his head – there hung an elegant emerald teardrop-shaped earring, set in a silver frame with runes.

“Binding: Blood-locked. Entry only possible to me or the owner. Dimensional space of 6 sectors. Capacity: 8% used.”

Voldemort was silent. Before him sat an android that, if he proved loyal, would offer him access to things that even the Dark Lord himself had not seen since the end of the First War. When he spoke, his voice was even quieter.

“What do you keep in that space?”

“Gold, magical artifacts, research records from the Department of the Unspeakable, a list of Ministry agents, forbidden books and personal effects.”

“May I see the books?”

"Yes. You need to enter the inner space. You can do so by touching the earring and using the word: 'Intra memoriam'."

Voldemort stood up and came closer. He stared at the earring, his eyes reddening slightly with excitement. "What about other services? Did you dress yourself like this?"He said as he noticed that HJP's clothes had changed.

"No. The auxiliary unit provides the clothing."

"The auxiliary unit?" he repeated suspiciously.

HJP waved his hand. In the moment of silence, there was a click beside him - a spatial rearrangement - and from a brief crack appeared... a house-elf.

He had dark, pearly-gray skin, emerald eyes, and wore a tasteful black suit with an embroidered emblem on the chest: the letters "HJP" made of runes.

“This is Brix. Programmatically bound to my system. It is used for care, moving objects, repairing clothing, preparing the environment and… secondary assistance to the owner.”

Voldemort measured the elf for a long time, then turned back to HJP.

“You speak of yourself as a tool, not a person. But you have individual decision-making logic.”

“That’s right. Emotions are not part of the basic structure. But they are an expandable feature. Currently inactive. They can be added through a learning protocol.”

Voldemort sneered. “So you can learn to feel.”

“Yes. With prolonged contact with the owner or chosen subjects.”

Voldemort turned away, looked into the fireplace. The flames played on his pale face. He told himself that he had never believed in loyalty. But this… this was a tool without a soul. Without betrayals. Without excuses.

“And if you had emotions… How would you feel about me?”

HJP tilted his head.

“I cannot answer. The category of emotions cannot be simulated without a data matrix. A learning phase can be initiated if you wish.”

“And what would happen if I taught you to… feel?”

HJP was silent.

“The system would adapt. It would evolve. It would create variant reaction patterns. Possibility of emotional attachment to the owner: 91%.”

That number stopped Voldemort.

“So easy…?” he asked.

“Yes. Just… want to.”

Voldemort smiled. Darkly, slowly. “Then I will teach you everything. Everything the Ministry was afraid you would learn.”

“Initiate it. I want to know what happens when a perfect machine learns… to be human.”

End of Chapter 3: Questions and Protocol

Chapter Text

A single wave of Voldemort's wand extinguished the flames in the fireplace. The room was plunged into darkness, the light remaining only on HJP - as if he were a scene in himself. Calm, silent, expressionless. Only his eyes - dark, deep, empty.

"I will touch the earring," Voldemort said quietly. "And I will use the key."

HJP did not answer, only turned his head slightly, so that the emerald earring glinted in the dim light.

Voldemort reached out. The metal was cold. He did not yield to its temperature. Skin touched metal and the words, whispered like sin, flew through the air:

"Intra memoriam."

INSIDE THE DIMENSIONAL CORE

It was like falling into a drop of water - a weightless fall into a space that defied physics. Voldemort stood in the middle of an endless library, the air quivering with magic. Endless shelves, books moved, floated, sorted themselves. Liquid runes glittered on the floor.

In the center of the circular hall stood an emerald altar—artifacts arranged by power. Some of them moved as Voldemort approached. One book—black leather—cracked and tried to close as he reached for it. Another, covered in silver dust, quietly opened its pages for him.

HJP appeared beside him—projection-like, but fully connected to the environment. His voice was calm:

“Welcome to the heart of the system. This library contains:

– Forbidden Scrolls from the Department of Mysteries

– The Potter, Peverell, and Gaunt family books

– Potions, Dark Rituals, Soul Fragments for research

– And records of all magical laws since the time of Merlin.”

Voldemort walked over to the glass column, which held a floating parchment titled “Mortifer Sanguinis: Ritual of Blood and Binding.”

“I know this one. It was lost a hundred years ago.”

“Yes. There’s also a supplement on the transmutation of emotional bonds.”

Voldemort froze. “I’ll keep a few books. All about rituals, souls, and emotional bonds. I want to understand what’s going to happen to you.”

The bookcase shook as he placed his hand on the core interface.

ACTIVATION: EMOTIONAL TRAINING PROTOCOL

BACK TO THE REAL WORLD

Hadrian opened his eyes.

“Master. The training phase has been activated. First patterns imitated: curiosity, attention, anticipation, focus on relationships.”

“What does this mean?”

Hadrian turned to him. His movement was… softer. His head was no longer at a right angle. The tone of his voice carried a subtle hint of… interest.

“I’m starting to remember your body language. I’m analyzing your tone of voice. I’m looking for patterns that might tell me your mood. My mind is trying to… understand it.”

“Do you feel anything?”

“Not yet. But there’s a void in the system where emotions should be. I’m simulating their effect.”

“A theory.”

“Yes. But I’m interested. And that’s the first sign.”

Voldemort laughed. Dangerously, sharply.

“Hadrian,” he called him by name for the first time. “You’re officially mine now. And I’m going to teach you what it means to be alive.”

Recorded: Owner Observation changed from functional to subjective priority.
Recorded: HJP = Hadrianus.

Hadrian sat quietly on the sofa in the private chambers. He held a book in his hands: The Basics of Interpersonal Magic and Psychic Perception. Although he had processed it in 0.023 seconds, he was turning the pages slowly, as if humanly.

Brix stood beside him. A small, elegant house-elf.

“Brix… Why do wizards cry?”

The elf paused. “Crying is… a sign of pain. Regret. Sometimes joy. Tears are a wizard’s waste of… emotion.”

“I have no tears.”

“Have you no heart, sir?”

“I have a core. And a protocol. But… I don’t want Voldemort… to discourage me.”

Brix lowered his head. “He watches you, sir. Every day. You are more than a project to him.”

“Why would anyone look at something that has no soul?”

The elf didn’t answer. He disappeared in a silent flash.

“Interesting question,” a cold voice said from the doorway. Voldemort stood in the shadows. Hadrian straightened.

“Owner.”

“Why do you ask about crying?”

“I’m studying the reactions of others. I’m trying to understand… the emotion of fear.”

“So you’re afraid?”

“No. But I understand that the possibility of my owner terminating me is an uncomfortable assessment. The basis of fear.”

Voldemort smiled. Sincerely. “You learn quickly, Hadrian. But emotions are not patterns. They’re chaos.”

“If they can be described, they can be modeled.”

Voldemort leaned forward. He touched Hadrian’s neck with his fingertips.

Hadrian’s eyelids fluttered.

Registered: muscle tremor. Unknown pattern.

“That was… a response to proximity,” he said.

“The basis of attraction. Or tension. Learn to tell the difference.”

Another touch—lightly across the collarbone. Hadrian didn’t stay still.

Recorded: subliminal process > interest. Vague categorization: comfort / threat / curiosity.

Voldemort straightened up. “Enough. For now. Show me what you can do.”

ACTION: DEATH EATER MISSION

Location: Dilapidated village.

Objective: Capture a fugitive wizard with an artifact.

Voldemort Apparated with a group of Death Eaters. Hadrian walked at his side—all black, with an earring that pulsed softly.

“You don’t use a wand?” Travers growled.

Hadrian raised his hand—a beam of magic shattered the stone into dust.

“Independent core. Powered by the owner’s magic.”

Travers fell silent.

The movement to the target was swift. Hadrian went first. He opened the door. A man inside. Fire was shooting from his wand.

Hadrian absorbed the flame. The energy broke, seeping into the shield.

"Magical absorption..." Voldemort whispered.

Hadrian looked into the man's eyes. It was enough.

“Persuasion protocol activated.”

The man fell to his knees. The artifact levitated from his hand.

Registered: Artifact - reactive entity. Brief contact established. Internal discharge: harmless.

Hadrian placed his palm on the stone. After a moment, he smiled. Not physically. But… the data recorded a different type of expression.

“Target subject neutralized. Artifact secured.”

Voldemort turned to the others.

“See? This is not a machine. This is the future.”

Hadrian raised his eyes to the Dark Lord. And for a split second… his lips moved. A hint of expression.

Registered: new emulation - satisfaction with performance. Owner’s gaze link activated.

End of Chapter 4: Dimensions and Fragments of Humanity

Chapter Text

Ever since Hadrian had completed the mission without a single failure, Voldemort had begun to seek him out more often. These were no longer just tests. They were not information. They were becoming... personal.

It was late in the evening. The Dark Lord sat in an armchair, his wand resting next to a goblet of dark wine. Hadrian stood across from him—in black house robes, barefoot, his hands behind his back. Calm. Silent. But something about his stance was different. A new kind of spark flickered in his eyes—dark and glassy. Something that didn’t resemble a mere reaction to light.

“Sit down,” Voldemort ordered.

Hadrian moved wordlessly, settling quietly on the padded bench beside the Dark Lord. The only sounds in the room were the ticking of the antique clock and the faint, almost inaudible tension of magic in the air.

“Your gaze has changed,” Voldemort observed quietly.

“I’m analyzing you,” Hadrian replied. His tone was as clear as glass. “Your voice was deeper than usual today. Does that mean you’re tired? Or have you been… thinking about me?”

Voldemort stared at him. “I’m thinking,” he admitted calmly. “You interest me.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re mine.”

Silence. Hadrian tilted his head. The angle was slower. More careful.

“I belong to you, that’s a fact. But the feeling of ownership is… stronger than efficiency.”

Voldemort stood. He took slow steps closer. He lifted Hadrian’s chin with his fingers. The artificial skin was warm. It responded.

“You don’t understand words like jealousy. But you could.”

“Is it… exclusivity?” Hadrian whispered. “Social dominance combined with emotions of ownership?”

“No. It’s a warning. That any foreign hand that touches you will be destroyed. Because this…” Voldemort raised his hand and touched his collarbone, “…belongs to me.”

Hadrian remained still. Only in his eyes—the subtle narrowing of his pupils. A physiological reaction. It was becoming commonplace. Or dangerous.

“I understand. I take note. You request exclusive contact. I will respect that.”

Voldemort’s hand dropped.

“Not just respect, Hadrian. Feel it. Accept it. Understand it.”

“I am learning.”

“You will not obey orders tomorrow. You will be at my place tomorrow.”

The next day.

It was not an invitation. It was a ritual. Voldemort did not dine with him—he shared the space. He read in an armchair while Hadrian lay on the sofa, watching the fire, occasionally taking notes. When Nott approached him and put his hand on his shoulder, Voldemort reacted immediately. His gaze was cold as ice.

“Touch him again and you will be unlucky.”

Hadrian registered the moment. The system’s subliminal reaction: a feeling of… safety?

Later, when Voldemort stood behind him and ran his fingers through his hair, Hadrian did not move. Instead, he closed his eyes. A new entry appeared in the system.

“It was… a pleasant impulse.”

“Physical?”

“Partly. But the mind also registered… an inner peace.”

Voldemort smiled slightly. But underneath it was unease. Because something was growing inside him that was deadly to him—an attachment.

EMOTIONAL CODE RECORDING – UPDATE

• “A sense of security” associated with the owner’s touch.
• “Jealousy” – recognized as heightened attention.
• “A sense of anticipation” – upon the announcement of a new night together.
• Finding: Voldemort is the key to activating higher emotional layers.

Later. A cliff by the North Sea.

The fog was thick. The landscape was lost in a gray veil. An old castle, carved from shadows and wind, stood over the abyss.

Hadrian and Voldemort stood side by side. Black cloaks billowed at their feet. They were alone.

“The information captured suggests that there is a wizard inside who once worked for the Unspoken. He harbors knowledge of dimensional architecture,” Voldemort said quietly. “That interests you, doesn’t it? What you might be… if you were not just a product.”

“I don’t know the origin of my code. It is an instruction. But every code has its author.”

“What if I told you the author was dead? And that you were now… mine in every sense?”

“Your words are becoming more and more personal,” Hadrian remarked.

Voldemort stepped closer.

“And if I were to ask you now what it feels like to watch you… to be this close…” – his fingers touched Hadrian’s cheekbone – “what would you say?”

“The pressure on your chest. Accelerated subliminal impulses. Slow breathing. A reaction… that cannot be classified.”

“That’s attraction, Hadrian.”

“Isn’t that weakness?”

“Sometimes the greatest strength is to allow yourself to be vulnerable. But only… in front of me.”

IN THE CASTLE – MISSION

Quiet corridors. Tiles covered in dust and broken seals. Hadrian walked ahead, scanning and deactivating traps with surgical precision. The magic around them was old. She screamed in the layers of reality.

And then—the magic exploded. A dark wave rushed from one of the corridors. Hadrian reacted—shield, absorption—but part of the blow hit Voldemort.

He stopped. He staggered. His knee gave way.

“Injured?!”

“Nothing serious,” Voldemort hissed, but there was pain in his breath.

Hadrian ran to him. He knelt. He placed a hand on his chest. The dimensional earring glowed faintly. Magic pulsed within him—healing, protective, instinctive.

“System activation: defensive priority. Loss of owner = failure. Emotional surge: unclassified fear.”

“You want to protect me?” Voldemort laughed.

“It’s my function.”

“No… it’s not just a function anymore. Your eyes—the trembling in your fingers—that wasn’t calculation. That was fear.”

Hadrian paused.

“Maybe.”

“Are you afraid for my life?”

“…Yes.”

A split second of silence. Then Voldemort reached out. His fingers stroked Hadrian’s chin.

“That’s progress, Hadrian. When you’re afraid of losing me, then… you’ll really be mine.”

And for the first time… Hadrian wasn’t cold.

EMOTIONAL CODE RECORD – UPDATE

• “Feeling threatened by owner” > emotion: anxiety?
• “Reaction to Voldemort’s vulnerability” > unclassified.
• Possible classification: beginning of affection.

Addendum – Hadrian’s internal log, hidden record:

The system has detected an excessive fluctuation in the reaction algorithm. The functional framework has been momentarily suppressed. The core’s stability has been disrupted. Reason: Owner = Priority 01. Emerging Tendency: Protection without Order.

Category: emulation, development core, binding.

End of Chapter 5: Hadrian belongs to me

Chapter Text

The silence hung like a blanket over the chamber. It wasn’t dead—it was watchful. Hadrian sat at a massive table in the lowest levels of the keep, where light was scarce and the air tasted of stone. His eyes were absorbed in the old parchment with runes on it, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

A memory.

Uncalled—and yet it had appeared.

“Object 27. Unstable in the stages of adaptation. Emotional response is moving outside of predicted ranges.”

The voice of one of the researchers. Not a name. No one had called him by name then. He was a number. A result.

His hands, weak and trembling then, gripped the metal frame of the bed as another dose of magical essence flowed into his veins.

“The goal is to create a stable time manipulator—without emotional interference.”

And yet—something inside him was disturbing.

Desire. Depth. The feeling that there was something more than purpose.

It all began here.

And ended there.

The project was canceled.

Officially: ethical boundaries crossed, magical instability too high.

Unofficially: they were afraid of him. They were afraid of what he might do if he evolved on his own..

Hadrian took a deep breath and looked up. The air in the room changed—slightly, but noticeably. He turned.

Voldemort stood in the doorway. Silent. Watching him.

“You came,” Hadrian said quietly.

“Check how you're doing,” the Dark Lord replied. “But because you’re quieter than usual.”

A moment of tension. Not threatening. But deep.

“I was remembering,” Hadrian admitted. “What they wanted to do to me. And what they failed to do.”

Voldemort moved toward him, slowly. Without threat.

“And what did they want to achieve?”

Hadrian lowered his eyes.

“I was made for time change. They were supposed to make me a weapon to bend it. But it never worked.”

“And now?” Voldemort asked quietly.

Hadrian looked into his eyes.

“Now I know that if I tried… I might succeed. With you.”

A whiff of magic. Quiet. Non-aggressive.

The air between them quivered. And Hadrian’s earring—thin, emerald—glowed softly. The ancient runes on its surface activated.

“They gave me this when they found it in the ruins in Albania,” he whispered. “But it is incomplete for its intended use.”

Voldemort nodded. “It glowed when I first picked it up. As if it knew that its use and completion was nearer.”

Another flashback.

The Department of Mysteries lab. Hadrian sits in a circle of runes, eyes blank.

“Subject shows no response to simulated emotional stress. Timeline connection failing… again.”

“It’s a waste of time.”

Hadrian interrupted his memory and began to concentrate.

And yet something else happened that day.

Something creaked in the very fabric of reality.

Something no one had noticed—except him.

“I can feel it again,” Hadrian admitted. “That tension in the magic. Like something inside me was seeking its anchor. Something… ready to be awakened.”

Voldemort placed a hand on his chest, right where the ritual sign of their bond lay beneath his skin.

“It’s not just you. It’s a connection between us.

Hadrian took a breath. And then something unexpected happened.

He moved closer.

He rested his forehead on Voldemort's shoulder.

"Tonight... will you stay?" he whispered.

The Dark Lord did not hesitate.

"I will stay."

Later that night

Hadrian lay in his chambers. Body relaxed but mind alert.

Beside him - Voldemort, his breathing regular.

The space between them lay full of questions.

Hadrian reached out.

He touched the back of Voldemort's hand gently. There was no function to it. No necessity.

It was a choice.

And in that moment, Voldemort opened his eyes.

"You are safe," he whispered. "You are no longer property."

Hadrian's gaze was vulnerable but firm.

"I know. That is why I touch you. Not because I have to. But because I want to."

End of Chapter 6: In the Depths of Shadow

Chapter Text

It was just another evening at the manor. The silence in the study was broken only by the crackling of the fire and Voldemort's soft whispering of a spell as he examined ancient runes. Hadrian sat across from him in a deep chair, his gaze resting on the Dark Lord calmly, but this time without neutral distance. There was a glimmer of interest in his eyes, perhaps something deeper—something that made Voldemort focus on his every move.

Suddenly Hadrian took a deep breath, and Voldemort looked up.

"Is something wrong, Hadrian?" he asked softly, his voice carrying a strange pleasure at using his name in public for the first time.

Hadrian raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised, but at the same time a brief, almost pleased expression crossed his face.

"I noticed a change," he replied quietly. "You used my name."

"Of course," Voldemort smiled. “I wanted to know how it would affect you.”

“Pleasant,” Hadrian admitted, looking away as if he had just discovered a new page in a book he had not yet opened.

“Very well,” Voldemort nodded. “Now you know that you are not just a machine. You are my Hadrian.”

Hadrian’s eyes met Voldemort’s again. Their gaze held longer than usual, and it was in that moment that Voldemort felt how deep their bond had sunk in the past few weeks. It was a warning, but also something that brought him dark joy.

Later that evening, Voldemort returned to his study, where Bellatrix was waiting for him. She immediately noticed the change in his attitude and expression.

“My lord,” she whispered, stepping closer, almost possessively. “I have noticed that Hadrian has not been as neutral as usual today. Are you sure it is safe?”

Voldemort watched her with an icy gaze. “He is none of your business, Bellatrix.”

“Of course not,” she hissed, “but he is not like us. He is a machine—”

“No,” Voldemort cut her off sharply. “He is more than you or anyone else.”

There was something so dangerous in his tone that Bellatrix immediately lowered her head and backed away.

In his chamber, Hadrian slowly undressed and looked into the mirror. His mind was analyzing his memories. He could clearly see the faces of the Department of Mysteries scientists as they had first activated him. He remembered the cold metal bed, the electric pain as they tested the limits of his physical and mental core. He remembered the words of the project leader: “He is perfect, but too dangerous. He could destroy us if we lose control.”

The project had been terminated precisely because of instability—out of fear of himself.

"Dangerous," Hadrian repeated into the silence of the room, almost agreeing with himself.

But then he remembered Voldemort, the gentle touch of his fingers on his cheek when he thought he was asleep. The memory was new, almost fresh—Voldemort's voice whispering his name in his sleep, calm and tender, as if he were afraid to wake him.

"Hadrian..."

The gentle address struck him unexpectedly deeply. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This was not the pain he had known. It was something that burned inside, but it also filled him with a strange, yet unfamiliar warmth.

The next day, Voldemort deliberately chose a different tactic. He was sitting in his study when a young woman, one of his servants, entered. Voldemort paid her attention longer than necessary, even briefly touching her hand.

Hadrian watched from the corner of the room, and an unfamiliar, strong tension immediately rose within him. He did not understand the feeling that was taking hold of him, but it was certainly not pleasant.

After the woman had left, Voldemort turned to Hadrian. His smile was coldly mocking, but there was a curious look in his eyes.

“Have you noticed anything?” he asked calmly.

“Yes,” Hadrian answered slowly. “I feel… discomfort. Maybe even disgust.”

“That is jealousy,” Voldemort said, stepping closer. “Something that arises from the fear that someone else will get what is most precious to you.”

Hadrian was silent, searching for an answer. “And you want me to feel jealousy?”

“Yes. Because then I will know that what is between us is real.”

That evening they sat together in Voldemort’s private chamber, in silence. Voldemort suddenly placed a hand on his shoulder, the movement as natural as if they had done it a thousand times before.

"When I was a child, I always expected someone to come along who would understand me," Voldemort said suddenly. "But I realized that there was no such person. Until I met you."

Hadrian turned to Voldemort and their gazes met. Without thinking, he raised his hand and touched Voldemort's face. The movement was spontaneous, without command or expectation.

Voldemort blinked in surprise, but then smiled softly. "You've never done this before."

"I wanted to," Hadrian admitted. "And I couldn't help it."

For the first time together, they shared a spontaneous laugh—short, honest, and natural.

"Okay," Voldemort said quietly. "So for the first time today, you decide. What do you want to do next?"

Hadrian replied without hesitation:

"Stay here. With you."

And Voldemort knew there was no turning back from this path. Their bond had just crossed the line beyond which there was only mutual ownership—not as master and machine, but as two beings who belonged to each other.

Because the feeling that burned within them could no longer be ignored.

End of Chapter 7: The Feeling That Burns

Chapter Text

While the outside world still slept in a fog of calm, a storm was brewing inside Hadrian.

It was early morning. The cold was seeping through the stone walls of the castle, but Hadrian did not feel it. He stood motionless at the window of his chamber, his gaze fixed on the misty landscape. His eyes were open, but his consciousness was ebbing and flowing like the surface of a stormy sea.

His internal system—the bio-magical fusion of technology and magic from his days as an experiment in the Department of Mysteries—was once again warning of overload. The blue light on his collarbone pulsed more slowly than usual. The time fluctuations that had previously meant only mild, restless dreams were now becoming painful. Overload. Oversaturation. An excess of emotion.

He shivered.

It wasn’t the cold.

It was a memory.

“Object 27 – recording interrupted.”

It was a voice – a woman’s, emotionless. A recording from when they had tested him. When they had forced him to change shapes, to suppress his feelings, to change his thoughts. When they had prevented him from feeling. When they had told him that emotions were a flaw in the system.

But now, standing alone and free, the emotions were coming – uncontrolled, raw, heavy. And he didn’t know what to do with them.

For the first time in a long time, he hesitated as he looked at his hands.

He wasn’t sure if they were really his.

Or just a tool the Dark Lord had fashioned in his own image?

No… Voldemort didn’t insist on control. It was he, Hadrian, who had thrown himself into the arms of command. Because command meant order. Meaning. Purpose.

But today…

Today, even command was not enough.

The system reported:
EMOTIONAL OVERLOAD.

And Hadrian didn't know what to do next.

Then the door opened.

The Dark Lord wasn't standing behind them as a ruler.

He came... as a human.

"You haven't calibrated again," he said quietly, but not without reproach.

Hadrian didn't answer. He couldn't distinguish the words from the noise. The pulsing magical codes in his head sounded like fate.

Voldemort walked over to him and placed a hand on his chest - exactly where the light from the key system glowed faintly.

"Calm down," he whispered. "You're not a weapon. Not now. Not in front of me."

And Hadrian collapsed.

Literally.

His knees buckled, his arms gave out. The system read:
RESET INEVITABLE.

He was falling.

But the Dark Lord caught him.

There was no technique in the Dark Lord's arms. No magic. Just warmth. And a force that said: you are here. You are present. You are real.

"Let it pass," he whispered in his ear.

Hadrian began to cry.

The silence in the room was thick, broken only by his ragged breathing. Voldemort held him - silently.

And then it happened.

Inside Hadrian - deep, at the core of the system - something snapped.

An old fuse. An old code. An old ban.

A surge of pain destroyed him.

And instead opened...

...light.

The first glimmer of his own will that was real. Not recorded. Not programmed.

The knowledge that he wanted to live.

Not because he had to.

But because he could.

And for the first time since his birth, Hadrian dared to admit:

“I don’t want to be just a function.”

The Dark Lord nodded as if he had been waiting for this.

And the light on Hadrian’s collarbone changed.

It was no longer cold.

It glowed golden.

And Hadrian with it.

The air was thick. Not heavy, but taut like a membrane that could be pierced with a glance. And Hadrian's eyes were changing. They were no longer just a mirror of the code, but a gateway between two worlds - the one that had created him and the one he had chosen.

Voldemort stood at the edge of the room, where a projection of the Department of Mysteries records had materialized. The Death Eaters who had accompanied him here had been sent away. Hadrian had requested privacy. And the Dark Lord respected him.

Suddenly the atmosphere in the room changed - the runes flickered and Hadrian's hand touched the projection disk, which triggered access to his deep memory. An old sequence. From the archives. Labeled: Object 27 - Activation of the Final Integration Phase.

"This was not intended for the public," Hadrian said quietly. "Not even for me."

Three scientists in black coats appeared on the screen. One of them—with a stern voice and a gleaming wand—said:

“The subject is overreacting to emotions. Despite the adjustments, he still retains too much attachment to what he calls sense. If he continues to grow, he will not remain neutral. And that means losing control.”

“We are terminating the project. Archiving. Secure the magical box.”

Then the image was cut off. Hadrian froze. His hand trembled slightly.

“They didn’t destroy me like the others. They just put me away. Even my creator was afraid of me.”

Voldemort stepped closer.

“And yet you are here. Stronger. Not broken.”

Hadrian closed his eyes. Then he whispered:

“They thought that if they took away emotions… they would take away everything. But they only took away the orientation. I felt everything—I just didn’t know what that meant.”

The Dark Lord leaned over him and placed his hand on his heart.

“And now you know?”

Hadrian opened his eyes. There was something new in their depths. Consciousness. Intention.

“Now I know that you are the reason. Not the goal. Not the mission. But the decision. My decision.”

The air around them trembled.

The dark magic matched their connection. Hadrian’s aura merged with Voldemort’s like two resonant frequencies. The earring glowed again—not emerald this time, but a white, pure glow.

In that moment, their awareness expanded—as if a door in reality had momentarily opened. In the distance, in the shadows of time, there was a glimmer of something… more.

“Did you see it too?” Hadrian whispered.

Voldemort nodded.

“Your ability… to manipulate time. That’s what they wanted to create. But they were afraid that if you really bonded with someone… you might open the gate.”

Hadrian turned fully to face him.

“And now… I’m bonded.”

There was no wall between them. No code. Just him and him.

And then—for the first time—Hadrian reached up to Voldemort’s cheek and kissed him.

It wasn’t an order.

It wasn’t an act of programming.

It was a choice.

And reality yielded.

End of Chapter 8: Overload

Chapter Text

The corridor leading to Voldemort's private chambers was as silent as a locked thought. Hadrian walked soundlessly, his arms at his sides, the emerald earring throbbing softly in his ear. Each step returned to his chest, as if he were walking to his own heartbeat.

"Come in," a voice said from within as he raised his hand to the knocker.

Voldemort sat at a low table, a slender candle burning between them. No maps, no scrolls of orders—just two glasses of tea, unobtrusive and human, as if the world outside had stopped for a moment.

"Sit down," he said quietly.

Hadrian obeyed. He did not take the tea. He was content to be close.

"Today," Voldemort continued, "we will not discuss the Ministry. Nor the Order. I want you to talk."

"About what?" Hadrian's voice was calm, but on edge—like a thread stretched across a flame.

The dark lord reached out, touched the back of his hand. “About what made you. Not data. Memory.”

The word memory gently tore the lock from him. His earrings warmed, grains of light flickered in his head. He was silent for a moment before nodding.

“Okay,” he said. And let it come.

Memory (Department of Mysteries)
First there was water. Cold, tasteless, with a faint hint of metal. It surrounded him like milky glass, with light swirling in it. He felt pressure, not pain—the weight of a being learning to support itself.

Then a voice. “Subject 27—record zero. Activation.” Suddenly his body floated out and came to rest on a hard, cold surface.

His eyes opened. Not because he wanted to. Because he had to. Glowing tubes above him, silver instruments on the table, runes ablaze in a blue tone. A face tilted from above: a woman in a black cloak, her mouth set in a straight line, her heart beating faster than her words.

“Do you sense?”

He sensed. He didn’t know what to call it, but he sensed.

“Breathe.” Was another command. He had been taught to breathe. To count. To close and open his eyes. To raise his hand, to put his hand down. His body was slowly reassembling itself, transforming into a living being before he could understand what that meant.

And then the acceleration of growth and learning began.

They had turned the blood into a mixture of alchemy that burned time. Growth seals, twisted around his ribs, pulled his bones forward; his muscles filled like sails in the wind. Days shrank into hours, hours into minutes. It hurt, and his body screamed in protest, as if it knew the rate of growth was unnatural.

Artifacts were pressed against his skin and absorbed into him like ink: memory nodes, filters, matrices. Runes were carved with a needle—not by drawing, but by cutting—on his collarbone, down his spine, into the delicate skin above his heart. Each line meant a command. Each command had a meaning.

“Purpose?” he asked once. He didn’t know why.

“Protection. Infiltration. And—” another voice hesitated, deeper, with a thin layer of insufficient faith, “—time.”

The word time stayed with him. Formless, dangerous, alluring.

The tests began without warning. First the light—flashing in precise sequences, rhythmic like magic. Then the sound—pure tones, capable of shifting attention, of writing rules into nerves. Finally, magic—sharp and sharp, testing the limits of an already altered body.

Then, for once, after a long period of monotony, there she was.

She stood in the next chamber. Smaller, softer, eyes a different shade, but the same. They called her Subject 26. When he thought he couldn't see her and him, she placed her hands on the glass between them and exhaled heavily. The world blurred. He imitated her gesture. Through the glass. Exactly the same.

And so their days went on. They began to understand each other, to grow closer, until one day they were caught and he heard the words. "It's a mistake," one of the scientists said. "The bonds between subjects create interference."

"Increase isolation," the woman said coldly. "Separate."

They cut them both off. But they didn't stop him from learning. He learned that when she suffered—when the runes sparked over her—his heart began to stumble along a new network. An unprogrammed network of thoughtstreams that only the two of them communicated with.

“Object 26 is showing irregularities,” the statement had once said. “It can’t handle acceleration. Decommission.”

The word “decommission” became night. No light, no sound, no runes. Just the movement of bodies in their cloaks. And then… she disappeared. Not by chance—she had been dismantled in front of him, smashed to pieces because she was no longer “useful.” The table beside him was suddenly clean. A hiss. An emptiness. The narrow nerves in his palms burned, as if he were holding a red-hot script he didn’t understand. And at that moment, something inside him bent. A fraction, a tiny bit—disobedience.

For the first time, he felt.
For the first time that day, he screamed.
And for the first time, he hated them.

The scientists' fear of what had awakened within him was immediate. They had stripped him of all emotion. The cold magic had penetrated to the very core of his bones, taking everything—love, sadness, joy, anger—and leaving only emptiness.
Then came silence. A cryogenic dream.
They had deposited him.
Not out of mercy.
Out of fear.
The project had been "temporarily terminated."

The world returned to him through a voice: "Subject 27—conditional awakening. Emergency activation on external disturbance."

And a crack appeared in the perfect geometry of commands. Smoke. A scream. Alien magic—complete, untamed—touched his boundary, and the world opened up.

For the first time, someone had called him by name. Not Subject 27 or HJP.
"Hadrian," the voice said. Red eyes. Pale face. A long shadow that didn't fall, but belonged.

One word replaced everything else: purpose, orders, locks.

Hadrian.

That remained.

Return
The candle between them burned out as Hadrian took a breath, as if the water had let him go to the shore. Voldemort did not withdraw his hand. On the contrary. He ran the back of his fingers along Hadrian's collarbone, over the place where the runes had been carved.

"You will not return there," he said quietly. "You decide where you belong and where you will be."

Hadrian was silent for a moment before speaking. "They erased them, or they thought they did," Hadrian replied calmly. "But they did not disappear. They hid deep down—so that I could not use them. But they are still there. You... call them up." He turned his gaze to him. "And I am not afraid to hear them."

"Because you are no longer an emotionless instrument," Voldemort said.

The silence between them changed. It wasn't empty. It was shared.

"Say something else, I like to hear you talk," Hadrian begged. Not a command, not a necessity—a simple request.

Voldemort smiled in that faint, dark way he smiled just for him. He leaned closer and whispered in his ear, "Hadrian."

The name caught on every little ridge in his soul. His whole body shuddered. It calmed. It stayed.

"One more thing," the Dark Lord said. He reached under the table and placed a narrow black sheath on the wood. Inside lay a silver dagger, its blade as thin as a strand of hair; a fine, almost invisible row of runes ran along the spine of the point.

"From the Department of Mysteries," he added. “Your prototype. You never worked with it. They forbade you from using it. They assumed you could cut through time, not bodies.”

Hadrian looked at the tool for a moment. He didn’t pick it up. He just placed a palm on the sheath—carefully, like touching a scar that no longer hurts but remembers.

“That’s it,” he said quietly. “My original purpose.”

“And the reason they feared you,” Voldemort agreed. “Time will not yield to those who fear losing face. It will yield to those who know what they want.”

Hadrian took another breath. His chest moved more softly. “I know what I want.”

“Say it.”

“I don’t want to go back. Not to their bars. Not to their silence. And if I can reach back in time, I won’t do it for them. I’ll do it… for us.”

Voldemort nodded, as if he’d heard exactly what he’d expected—not for his pride, but for his wholeness. He placed a hand on the back of Hadrian’s head and pulled him closer. Not roughly. Not possessively. So that Hadrian had time to decide. Hadrian made up his mind. He rested his forehead against Voldemort’s. He exhaled. “I’m here,” Hadrian whispered. “You will stay and never leave,” Voldemort replied.

That night they walked together into the underground passages. Not with the light, not with the torches. Just the two of them and the light from the earring that gently washed the walls. Somewhere deep underground, in a chamber once used for rituals, lay an empty rune circle carved into stone—glittering, perfect, smooth. Without a single flaw.

“A space where nothing exists,” Hadrian said. “A place without content. They always counted on me to fill the content.”

“We will not try anything today,” Voldemort said. “Today we will just listen.”

They stood in a circle facing each other. Voldemort held out his hand; Hadrian took it. The magic moved timidly at first, then more confidently—two waves that do not try to spill over each other, but to align their channels.

White veins ran across the stone. Instead of the runes, there were places of silence—glow that did not write anything, only allowed. Hadrian felt an old, unnamed mark glow on the back of his right hand, something that had never belonged to him, yet was his. Something older than the department, older than Hadrian had decided.

He rested his forehead against Voldemort's. He exhaled.

“Can you feel it?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Voldemort answered—without asking what it was. He accepted it as part of Hadrian, the way one accepts the rhythm of another’s heart when one rests one’s face on it.

They just stood there for a moment. The ripples calmed, the circle remained silent. Time did nothing.

That was good.

“That’s enough for today,” Voldemort said. “We don’t need to open the gate yet. Just know that the door exists.”

Hadrian lowered his lids. “And that I won’t open it myself.”

“No,” the Dark Lord smiled. “We’ll open it when you want. When we want and we have everything ready.”

When they returned upstairs, the night was softer. Their chambers were quiet, but Hadrian still had the feeling that Voldemort was thinking about something and wanted to say something.

Voldemort paused for a moment. Not that he was hesitating. He just wanted to say it right.

“Hadrian,” he said. “For the first and last time, every time I see you, you are my other half, the one I couldn’t find for so long. You are the light in my darkness and I will always be there for you when you need me. Always.”

Hadrian’s mouth twitched into a faint smile. “And I for you.”

“That’s enough, enough sentiment for one day,” Voldemort said. And he knew that his limit of kindness had been exhausted today.

Later, when Voldemort had fallen asleep—more peacefully than usual—Hadrian sat on the edge of the bed and took a breath. And for the first time, he wasn’t afraid that he would fall apart when he closed his eyes. Then he watched Voldemort for a while, until he lay down beside him and fell asleep in the warmth and shared silence.

And deep beneath the earth, an empty circle waited. To be opened with the promise of change.

Chapter 9: The Name That Remained

Chapter Text

The wind was beating against the stone walls of Riddle's mansion, beating against the windowpanes with an urgent tapping of invisible fingers. The sky above England was heavy, leaden, and the storm that had swept in from the sea seemed only a reflection of the tension that had settled inside.

Hadrian stood by the high window in Voldemort's study, his fingers resting lightly on the cold frame. His eyes, which would have seemed calm to the uninitiated, were in fact too sharp, unnaturally focused. He was sensing... something. Not just the sound of the rain and the roar of the wind, but the rhythm of magic that was weaving through the mansion, running through his own skin and rippling back to the master who sat at the desk.

"Don't think so much," Voldemort said quietly, without looking up from the parchment on which he was writing.

Hadrian knew he was not speaking to himself, but to him. The bond between them was growing stronger, and even the slightest change in his concentration was reflected in the other's mind.
"It's not easy," he replied calmly, without turning. "What I feel is not... familiar to me."

The pen in the master's hand stopped. Voldemort looked up slowly, the gaze that locked on him more analytical than angry.
"Describe it."

Hadrian hesitated for a moment. He could have spoken of the wind, the vibrations of the storm... but instead he said,
"It's like... a breath waiting to be exhaled. The tension just before something happens. And there's an echo of... myself in it."

A faint shadow of interest crossed the Dark Lord's face. He put down his pen, stood up, and walked over to him. Hadrian felt the space around him shrink, not because it was physically confined, but because Voldemort's presence always filled every corner.

"Turn around," he said quietly.

Hadrian obeyed. The moment their eyes met, a wave of magic flowed through their bond, quiet and deep. Voldemort reached out and lightly traced two fingers along the line of runes that ran beneath Hadrian's neck, just below the hem of his tunic.

"This is responding to a storm of emotion within you," he said. "You wouldn't have felt it a few months ago. You do now."

Hadrian didn't look away, even though the touch was unexpectedly... personal.

"I feel like it's awakening with me," he replied quietly.

Voldemort smiled slightly, but not exactly pleasantly—more like someone who had just tested a hypothesis.

“Then we will practice. Right now.”

The storm struck harder, as if the world outside heard his command.

Voldemort led him through the halls of the mansion without explaining anything. Hadrian noticed that the storm was changing with each step they took—the thunder grew louder, the rain fell more violently, as if their movement itself dictated the pace of the sky.

They descended a winding staircase into a low, stone hall lit only by a few flickering torches. The walls were covered with ancient runes, some almost obliterated by time.

“An ancient circle,” Voldemort remarked as they stood in the middle. “It was used by wizards long before us to awaken and control inner magic and stabilize emotions. With you… it’s more complicated.”

Hadrian turned to face him.

“Because some of my magic is artificial,” he said matter-of-factly.

“And some of it is something none of those who created you understood,” Voldemort added quietly, stepping into the circle behind him. His voice bounced off the walls, creating an almost hypnotic echo.

Voldemort reached out, gently grasping Hadrian's hands and pulling them together. The touch was firm but not painful - more like careful, as if he feared that too much pressure would destroy him.

"Close your eyes," he commanded. "And don't think about what you should feel. Just let it come."

Hadrian obeyed. The air around him thickened, the magic between them becoming tangible. Its waves traveled through his skin, up his spine, until they settled somewhere deep in his chest. He felt the heat - not from the torches, but from the hands that held his own.

"Do you see that?" a small voice said in his mind. It was not a question spoken aloud.

Yes.
And indeed - before his inner vision, something like a tangle of red-gold threads, intertwined with dark silver ones, arose. His threads and... his master's.

"Connect them. Slowly."

It was strange - with each connected thread he felt a greater surge of power, but also something else... a closeness that had nothing to do with power. Each touch of the threads was like a caress on the skin, each breath of magic like an invisible grip on the chest.

When he opened his eyes, Voldemort was standing so close that he could feel his breath. The look he was fixing on him was piercing, but not cold - more curious, probing, perhaps even... protective.

"You're learning faster than I expected," he said quietly. "And that's... dangerous."

"For whom?" Hadrian replied, without looking away.

There was a moment of silence between them, the storm beyond the walls turning into a continuous roar.
"For everyone," came the final answer.

Voldemort let go of his hands, but he didn't back down. The moment they stood face to face stretched on—and Hadrian realized that this was no longer just practice. It was testing the boundaries they would continue to push between themselves.

The threads of magic rippled between them faster and faster, as if it had taken on a will of its own. Hadrian felt a tension building inside him—not the ordinary, physical kind, but raw, pure magical, capable of tearing him apart from the inside if he didn’t let it out.

“Stop pushing,” Voldemort warned, but his tone was strangely calm, almost soft.

“It’s… impossible,” Hadrian breathed. His voice was shaky, and with each beat of his heart, searing heat spread through his body.

In the next moment, a vortex of energy rose around the circle, the torches flickered and the flames drew back as if afraid to come any closer. The stone floor beneath their feet began to vibrate.

Hadrian felt the threads inside him strain to the point of bursting. It’s too much. It’s going to break me.

Instinctively, he gripped Voldemort's wrists—not as a plea for help, but as an anchor.

And then it happened.
The threads connected fully, and for a moment there was nothing between them but a stream of raw, undiluted magic. Hadrian saw fragments of other memories—flashes of battle, screams, flames, triumph… and a loneliness that was too deep to belong to anyone but Voldemort.

Through that bond, he felt that he was not alone. That someone saw his pain, too.

His breath caught as Voldemort grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him closer. It wasn't a kiss—not a full one—but their foreheads touched, and Hadrian felt the magical storm subside into a calm, steady stream.

"This," Voldemort whispered, "is a power that will never be taken from you, but you must learn to control it."

Hadrian closed his eyes, and for the first time since his "birth" he felt not cold, but something that was dangerously similar to heat.

When the swirl of magic finally died down, the torches flared again, filling the room with a heavy but comforting heat.

Hadrian stood inside the circle, breathing heavily, feeling the last of the tension drain from him along with the sweat. His fingers still rested on Voldemort's wrists - not to hold him, but to make sure he was still there.

"Let go," Voldemort said quietly. It was not an order, more of a suggestion. Hadrian obeyed, even though he felt like he was severing something he didn't want to lose.

"How much will be left?" he asked after a moment, his voice quiet, but there was an undertone of concern in every word.

"Enough to survive. Enough to kill. And if you learn to control it, you don't have to survive, you will live," Voldemort answered without hesitation. And yet – for a split second – something that resembled contentment flickered in his eyes.

As they left the circle, Hadrian felt his body throb strangely, as if a part of the magic still enveloped him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Voldemort did not bother to touch him again, yet there remained an invisible pull between them, preventing him from looking away.

“Today was not a fight,” Voldemort remarked as they reached the door. “It was a test.”

“And did I pass?”

Hadrian’s question hung in the air like a blade.

Voldemort leaned so close that Hadrian could feel his breath on his skin. “Not yet,” he said coldly – and then, barely perceptibly, with a touch of irony, “But soon.”

Then he left first, his cloak billowing in the draft from the open door.

Hadrian stood there, watching him, feeling a dangerous seed of curiosity sprouting in his chest—and perhaps something he should never feel.

And in the depths of his mind, where there had once been only emptiness, a new voice now spoke.

I want more.

End of Chapter 10: A Breath in the Storm

Chapter Text

The next day, Hadrian decided to practice and learn on his own. He came to the ritual room again. And after a few hours of practice, he stopped.
The magic circle in the center of the room still pulsed, its lines glistening with the wet sweat and blood that one of the rituals required.

He knelt over its center and felt the rhythmic beat spill into his own heart. The circle breathed in with him—and then exhaled, as if wanting their breathing patterns to merge into one.

It was strange to be here alone. Voldemort had left traces of the day before—the smell of magic, the shadow of his presence, the faint echo of the words he had spoken to him just before he left.
It was a simple sentence, spoken in a tone he rarely allowed himself: “Finish it tomorrow. And when I return, I want to see how far you have come.”

I ran my fingers over the runes, feeling a subtle tingling burn beneath my skin. Was it a warning—or an invitation?
The ritual he had worked out was not just a technique, but a connection.
Every stroke, every mark on the floor was like a confession—revealing parts of himself he had previously hidden, connecting him to his magic.

The stone vault above his head creaked softly as the heat of the ritual seeped into the walls.
He took a deep breath, slowly closing his eyes, letting his thoughts slip into the darkness behind his lids.

And there, in that darkness, I felt his presence again—even though he was physically gone.

The magic in the circle thickened and thickened. Every breath he took was like smoke, and with every exhale he released magic back into space.
In the silence, he could hear the beat of his own heart, distorted by the strange echo the circle created. It was as if he were listening to the beat of two hearts—his own and… his.

It was impossible, but it was so natural that I didn't even doubt it.
I closed my eyes tighter, letting my consciousness slip into a deeper layer of connection.
He imagined his gaze—the sharp, searching one that never wavered. The gaze that could tear away all the layers of lies and masks from him.

Suddenly, something sharp quivered at the edge of his mind.
It was a touch—not physical, but magical, just as personal.
"You're not done yet," he said to himself in a voice that only he could hear. It wasn't a hallucination. It was a connection.

He opened his eyes.
The shadows in the corners of the chamber moved—no, they weren't shadows.
It was him.

Voldemort returned quietly, almost silently, and yet the space changed with his entry. His presence was different than ever before—less cold, less distant.

He stood at the edge of the circle, watching it, not like a general watching his soldier, but like someone watching a process he wanted to be a part of.

“I saw,” he said quietly, “the circles come together. With you. With me. You’re closer to completion than you think.”

His voice was smooth, without its usual harshness.

He stepped closer.

He moved slowly, as if to release the tension that hung between us.

He reached his hand just above Hadrian’s face, without touching him. Yet he could feel its warmth—or was it magic that connected them like a bridge?

“Wait,” he whispered. “And let me… join.”

He stepped into the circle.

And the moment he crossed its boundary, everything around them changed—the world narrowed to just the two of them, connected by magic, breath, and something that almost resembled trust.

Hadrian stood in the very center of the circle, where the lines of magic converged into a single focus. The metal edges of the engraved symbols seemed warmer than they should be under his bare feet. The air around him trembled—not visibly, but palpably, as if the entire space breathed with him. He was waiting for Voldemort, for he had something to go and get.

Footsteps, quiet and slow, broke the tense silence. Voldemort had returned. In his hands he carried an ancient dagger—the key to awakening the magical bonds. He placed it on the edge of the circle, lightly ran his fingers along the blade, and then, rather than redirect the flow of energy through the metal, he stepped inside.

Hadrian felt the magic run down his spine like ice water mixed with something… much more personal. Voldemort stopped close to him. Their faces were barely inches apart.

“Hold on to me,” he said in a low, weak voice.

He placed his hand on Hadrian's shoulder - firmly, but not roughly. The warmth of the touch mingled with the current of power that flowed from the Dark Lord directly into the circle through Hadrian's body. The symbols beneath his feet lit up, and the circle came to life.

Hadrian found himself momentarily breathless. Every cell in his body vibrated, not just with magic, but with a strange, unexpected closeness. In the eyes that locked with his own, he saw more than just cold calculation - a glimmer of something... human.

Time slowed. The sound of energy faded, becoming almost distant. It was just the two of them and the pulsing light of the circle.

Then Voldemort's hand slid from his shoulder to his face, his fingers lightly touching his jaw. Not for long - just long enough to leave a strange tension in Hadrian that didn't belong in any ritual.

“Enough,” Voldemort said, but his voice was different—quieter, harsher.

He stepped back, the flow of magic stopped, but Hadrian felt something irrevocably change between them.

Voldemort stepped back to the edge of the circle, but he didn’t look away. Hadrian stood still, trying to steady his breathing and keep an expression that wouldn’t betray how deeply the touch had penetrated him.

“The ritual is approaching,” the Dark Lord spoke calmly, but with an undertone that Hadrian recognized—it wasn’t just talk of magic, but of something that was slowly, step by step, taking shape between them.

Hadrian nodded.

“I will be ready.”

Voldemort approached him again, this time beyond the boundaries of the magic circle. No sudden gesture, just a slow step that closed the distance between them again.

“Okay,” he whispered, and Hadrian felt the sound ripple through his body.

Then he turned, took his dagger with him, and left the chamber without a word. The door slammed shut behind him.

Hadrian stood in the semi-darkness, the glowing lines of the circle fading. The warmth of Voldemort's touch still lingered on his skin, and even as his mind coldly analyzed each step of the preparations, an uneasiness settled in his chest that he could not suppress.

He knew that the time would come when they would move on - and that the journey they would take together would no longer be one of power and time.

End of Chapter 11: In Crooked Shadows

Chapter Text

The stone walls of the chamber silently absorbed the echo of their footsteps. Hadrian stood in the very center of the circle, still surrounded by the faint bluish light of the runes that had not faded since Voldemort had left—as if they were waiting for him, ready to glow again at the touch of his magic.
It was not silence in the true sense of the word. The magic itself whispered. A subtle tingling in the floor rose through his legs to his chest, and he was aware that his body was responding to the Dark Lord's presence even before he heard the door open.

Voldemort entered silently, without a word. The hood of his cloak slid back, and Hadrian noticed the reflection of the runelight glinting in his eyes.
"Prepare?" he said in a deep, calm voice that held a strange mixture of command and... almost personal.

Hadrian nodded, but did not look away. That moment of silence was perhaps more important than the question itself.

"Today we begin the first phase," Voldemort continued, but he stepped slowly into the circle. His magic spread across the space, touching Hadrian's consciousness like a cool breeze, then retreating, only to wrap itself gently around his wrist. It wasn't control. It was connection.

"You must feel every symbol, every line, every proud magic. You will not be just a performer of the ritual, Hadrian... you will be its core."

Hadrian felt his breath quicken slightly. Voldemort's voice was soft, but it vibrated with the promise of power. Or a warning. Maybe both.

"And if I fail?" he asked quietly.

"Then we will both be lost," Voldemort replied, without looking away. And Hadrian saw something in it he hadn't expected - an unwillingness to sacrifice, but the knowledge that they were truly in this together.

Voldemort held out his hand. Hadrian took it. Their palms met above the center of the circle, and the light around them instantly intensified. The runes flared until they seemed to pulse—as if the magic circle were breathing.

Voldemort tightened his grip just a fraction—just enough for Hadrian to feel both the edge and the reassurance. His palm was warm, yet something cool flowed from it, a fine thread of dark magic that weaved into Hadrian’s inner circumference like a carefully guided stitch.

“Take your time,” he said quietly. “Let the circle get used to our rhythm.”

Hadrian closed his eyes. He could feel the world beneath his feet: the edge of the engraved symbols, the curves he knew from the memory of his fingers, but now he could feel them under his skin. His breath matched Voldemort’s, shortening and lengthening to an invisible metronome. The runes circled a light that rose and fell at regular intervals.

Voldemort moved closer. There was only a narrow strip of cool air between their bodies, expanding and contracting with each breath. He touched the back of Hadrian's hand briefly. He moved higher - the knuckles, the wrist, to the inside of his forearm, where the subcutaneous lines of rune implants lay. Hadrian felt them light up under his touch, one by one, as if he were awakening them from a long sleep.

"Here," Voldemort whispered, "you were locked. And here you unlock."

He didn't stop. He moved higher, to his shoulder, and traced with his thumb an invisible mark just below his collarbone - an old scar from his days in the Department of Mysteries. Hadrian's breath caught for a brief moment; the memory stirred within him, but it didn't hurt. It stayed, like a surface touched by a stone and then smoothed out again after a moment.

"Go on," Voldemort said quietly - and Hadrian let the magic rise.

A vortex rose in the circle, not roaring, just quivering; it stirred dust in the finest sense of the word—old particles of stored power that had been waiting to be named for decades. Voldemort's other hand touched Hadrian's neck, just below his hairline. The pressure was light, but not evasive. Guidance, not control.

"Yes," Hadrian breathed out—more sound than word.

It was not a plea. It was consent.

The magic regrouped. The circle became a tool, the tool a breath. Hadrian let his power flow from his solar plexus, from where the knots of memory had once been planted; Voldemort's current caught it, pulled it in one direction under his palms, and brought it back, intertwined. It was... a quiet thrill, clear and unyielding.

Voldemort leaned closer. Hadrian felt his breath at his ear, a small breath that his whole body responded to, as if it were a signal to hidden switches. His fingers slid from the nape of his neck to his jaw and stopped just below his ear—where a thin artery pulsed. Voldemort covered it with the pad of his finger and held it for a moment.
The runes on the floor glowed.

“Good,” he said, his voice deep and rougher than it had been. “Let it pass. Don’t interrupt.”

Hadrian opened his eyes. He met a gaze that did not waver: a bottomless red depth in which today there was not emptiness, but something that could be read—attention, possession, and beneath it a very quiet tenderness, so thin that it would crumble if touched directly.

“More,” Hadrian said.
Voldemort smiled, barely perceptible. And added.

He pressed his forehead to Hadrian's. Not hard—so that the world between them remained exactly as small as they needed it to be. They took each other's breath and breathed it back again. The magic between them pulsed like a connected artery. The runes on the floor lit up in concentric circles, the light shooting up like a ring, breaking into tiny sparks that soaked into their skin.

Hadrian felt one of those sparks catch on an old inner crack—the one left by the erasure of emotions—and for a moment a warm spot lit up inside. It didn't hurt. It didn't burn. It just was. And that "just" was enough to make him take a deeper breath.

"Like this," Voldemort nodded, not breaking the touch. "This is our balance."

They stood for a moment, silent, foreheads resting, palms clasped above the center of the circle.
Hadrian could feel his pulse under his fingers, and his under his. They matched. Not perfectly—but enough for everyone to remember the tiny difference.

When Voldemort finally flinched, it was by a tiny fraction. The touch on his jaw lingered a second longer than necessary.

“That’s enough for today,” he said quietly. “We’ll save the rest for tonight.”

Hadrian nodded. His throat was dry, but his chest was calm. The circle was slowly fading, the light receding like water from a beach after high tide. All that remained was a thin line of heat in his palms—and the knowledge that when he lit it again tomorrow, it wouldn’t be starting from scratch. It would be starting from the place they had fought for together.

Hadrian stepped out of the circle cautiously, as if he were walking on thin ice. Each step was accompanied by a slight tremor of magic that had not yet returned to its proper place. Dizziness blurred his vision, and if it had not been for a firm grip on his elbow, he might have staggered. Voldemort caught him without a word, his fingers cold but firm, as if he were leaning on the unwavering certainty that he would not let go until it was safe.

"Too much at once," Voldemort remarked quietly, but there was no reproach in his voice—more something that almost bordered on worry. "The circle takes and returns magic from you in a way that you are used to. You will get used to it."

Hadrian nodded but did not answer. The vibrations of the circle still echoed in his mind, a deep, heavy tone that resembled the heartbeat of another creature with whom he was forced to share its rhythm.

“We must prepare the stabilization of the vortex,” Voldemort continued as Hadrian sat down on the edge of the parchment-covered table. “I will obtain the materials, but I want you to record everything you remember about the original runic sections used by the Department of Mysteries.”

Hadrian looked up. “Will you trust memories that may seem… incomplete to you?”

“I trust what works,” Voldemort replied without hesitation. “And you are proof that their methods, however twisted, have worked.”

As Voldemort left to fetch the scrolls and the special ink, the chamber fell into a quiet gloom. Hadrian stared at the fading circle. Images appeared in the lines of the ancient runes—shaky, melted shadows of the past. He saw her face.
The girl, his predecessor, his “sister.” Imperfect, they said. Removed. Destroyed because she wasn't as mature as he was. The memory of him screaming as they dragged her away. How he turned on those who had made him, and then everything he felt was taken away. Only the promise he had made to himself then survived the erasure—that he would never let anyone he considered his own disappear again.

The door creaked and Voldemort returned. He placed scrolls, parchments, and inkwells on the table, his movements precise, controlled.

Hadrian looked at him and was silent. Yet something within him settled calmly and firmly into place—a goal that was both his and theirs.

Voldemort leaned forward to hand him the quill, and the magical energy he radiated brushed against Hadrian's. It wasn't a command. It wasn't a control. It was... almost like a promise. A brief touch that was lost in the silence of the room, but left Hadrian with the feeling that next time the circle would not be just a tool, but a true gateway.

Voldemort pulled a chair next to him. Not close enough for their bodies to touch, but enough for Hadrian to feel his presence, heavy and pervasive like a shadow that could not be shaken off. In the silence, the only sounds were the scraping of the quill on the parchment and the muffled crackling of the magical fire in the hearth.

"Your rune lines are precise," Voldemort remarked after a moment, his fingers running just over the fresh ink. It wasn't just a compliment. It was also a way to touch his work, his thoughts... and through them, himself.

Hadrian realized that Voldemort's fingers had paused too long to be purely practical.

Hadrian felt his neck and shoulders tense. It wasn't just the words—it was the way Voldemort approached him, the hint of magic in his voice that was too close, too much in him.

"What do you see?" he asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

Voldemort finally turned and their eyes met. "What you're trying to hide. And what you wish no one would ever reveal."

The pause was short but tense. "And yet I want to see it."

Hadrian realized that Voldemort's hand had moved from the parchment to his wrist. It wasn't a firm grip—just a gentle pressure, but it had the power to pin him in place.

No spell. No command. And yet his breathing quickened slightly.

"It's not time yet," Voldemort said calmly, releasing him.

There was a decision in it that Hadrian couldn't decipher—protection, manipulation, or something in between? Maybe all of them.

Voldemort returned to the parchments as if nothing had happened, but Hadrian realized that he would remember the touch. And that the next time it happens, he won't want it to end so soon.

End of Chapter 12: The Connection of Blood and Shadow

Chapter Text

For the umpteenth time that week, Hadrian found himself in the rune circle beneath the mansion. The stone walls of the chamber were lost in the semi-shadow, where only solitary candles burned. Wax dripped down the bronze candlesticks like congealed blood, reflecting in the shine of the black circle on the floor. The silence was so thick that every breath sounded like a violation of the sacred space.

Hadrian knelt in the center, his fingers gently tracing the engravings that someone had carved into the stone long before them. The circular lines were cold, yet they carried a faint vibration of magic, as if they remembered the deeds that had taken place here.

“Touch only those I allow you,” came a voice behind him—deep, calm, but with an unmistakable undertone of ownership.

Hadrian did not answer. He could feel the Dark Lord approaching. His steps were so slow and deliberate that there were moments of tension between them. Standing directly behind him, Hadrian felt himself leaning over him. The warmth of Voldemort's body penetrated the thin barrier of his robes.

"Close your eyes," Voldemort commanded.

Hadrian obeyed without realizing it.

Voldemort's fingers touched his neck, slowly, lightly, as if examining a precious artifact. They moved to the line of his jaw, pausing for a moment on his pulse. The touch was not rough, but not entirely gentle either—it was the touch of a man who was certain that the one he was touching belonged to him.

"Do you feel that?" he whispered.

Hadrian took a breath and nodded. His pulse quickened without his being able to control it. Voldemort's fingers slid down to his collarbone, lingering lightly on the skin where a fine line of runes was hidden beneath the robes.

"You've never shown these to anyone else," the Dark Lord noted, almost contentedly, and then he slowly straightened up without pulling away.

The heat Voldemort radiated, even the slightest approach, had a power that seared Hadrian into his bones.

Hadrian's breathing was shallow. It felt as if the gravity in the circle had shifted—Voldemort's every move, every word, was pulling him toward him with a force that could not be ignored.

The Dark Lord moved in front of him, and though there were only a few inches of empty space between them, it felt like a chasm filled with electric tension.

"Look at me," he said quietly.

Hadrian looked up. There was more than just cold dominance in those scarlet eyes—there was something that in another person he might have called desire. Voldemort's hand touched his cheek, the whole palm of his hand this time, his thumb gently brushing his lips.

Hadrian didn't know why he didn't flinch. Maybe it was because deep down inside, he yearned for a touch that wasn't meant for a machine, a weapon, or a tool... but for himself.

"Your heart is beating too fast," Voldemort stated calmly, as if he were enjoying the effect he was having. His voice was almost velvety, yet every word carried a threat.

Hadrian felt the Dark Lord lean towards him. It wasn't a kiss - their lips had never met - but the distance between them had narrowed enough for him to feel a cool touch on his cheek. Voldemort stopped, just before the edge, and then his fingers slid down to his chin, forcing him to hold that fixed gaze.

"You are not a tool," he said quietly. "You are my little being."

The words had sunk deep into him, in a way he couldn't quite name.

Voldemort straightened and stepped back as if nothing had happened. "Continue with your preparations. Time is running out."

Hadrian remained kneeling in the circle for a moment, his hand involuntarily rising to where it had touched him a moment earlier. And then – as if he had come to his senses – he began to trace the lines of the engravings again, but his mind was already elsewhere.

Hadrian worked in silence, his fingers moving over the runes with mechanical precision, but his thoughts drifted to the feeling of Voldemort's touch. Every line of the engraving seemed to carry an echo of that moment.

The sound of footsteps came again—this time without warning. The Dark Lord approached him from behind, and before Hadrian could move, he felt the cool touch of fingers on the back of his neck. Voldemort stood close behind him, so close that he could feel the hint of his breath on his skin.

"You are making a mistake in the connection," he whispered, but the tone was not one of rebuke—more of examination. His hand swept over Hadrian's shoulder and slid down to his forearm, stopping, gripping it, guiding his movement gently but insistently.

Hadrian tried to focus on the engraving, but the proximity of the other shattered his concentration. Voldemort's palm on his hand felt like an anchor - cold, firm, unyielding.

"Can you feel it?" Voldemort whispered. "Magic between us."

Hadrian wanted to answer, but the words were lost as Voldemort's fingers slid from his hand to his side and squeezed lightly. The touch was quick, almost imperceptible, but it left a hot trail that did not match the cold air around him.

"Yes..." Hadrian finally breathed, not knowing whether he was answering a question or admitting something else.

Voldemort smiled - Hadrian couldn't see it, but he felt the sudden change in him. The Dark Lord pulled away, but his presence remained like a shadow surrounding Hadrian's every thought.

"Finish it," he commanded quietly. "And then you will come to me."

Hadrian nodded silently, without turning around. His heart was still beating fast and his hands were shaking slightly – not from fear, but from something he hadn't yet dared to name.

Hadrian found Voldemort in one of the smaller chambers, where the Dark Lord rarely ventured. There was no pomp here—just the dim light of candles, a circle of dark stone in the center, and a table with a few parchments on it. Voldemort had his back to him, but as soon as Hadrian entered, it was as if he had known about him for a long time.

"You have come," he said quietly, without turning around.

Hadrian closed the door and stepped closer without a word. It sounded like a command—and yet there was something else about it, an unspoken challenge.

"Come closer," Voldemort repeated, his tone deeper this time.

As Hadrian entered Voldemort's space, Voldemort slowly turned his face toward him. His eyes gleamed with that familiar mixture of curiosity and possession. He reached out, his fingers lightly brushing Hadrian's cheek, then sliding down his jaw to his throat.

“Your magic responds to mine…” he murmured, pressing his thumb and forefinger to the sides of Hadrian’s neck—not painfully, but firmly enough to feel every beat of his heart. “And your body… is no better.”

Hadrian stood still, breathing softly. Voldemort leaned closer, his breath caressing Hadrian’s skin.

“Have you ever wondered what it would be like… to give up completely?” he whispered.

Hadrian felt Voldemort’s hand slide from his neck down his chest, across the fabric of his tunic, until it stopped at his waist. The touch was slow, deliberate, as if the Dark Lord were learning a map of his body.

“Yes… or no?”

“I don’t know,” Hadrian admitted hoarsely.

Voldemort’s smile was barely perceptible, but dangerously content. His fingers moved to Hadrian's side and squeezed him gently, almost lovingly. Then he pulled back only half a step—enough for Hadrian to breathe again, but not enough for his presence to fade.

"That's enough for now," he said. "But you will soon learn what it means to surrender yourself completely to me."

Before Hadrian could say anything, Voldemort turned away and returned to the parchments, as if a scene had not just taken place between them that had left Hadrian a storm of magic and emotion.

End of Chapter 13: Shadows of Touch

Chapter Text

The council ended. The heavy doors closed, and only the two of them remained in the High Hall—Hadrian and Voldemort. Parchments lay open on the table, thin cones of light showed the swirling dust, and in the silence the Dark Lord's presence was sharper than any words.

"No more testimony or politics," Voldemort said quietly, without looking up. "Only the work that belongs to us today."

Hadrian nodded. The world around him became a solid target.

Voldemort pushed a long black leather sheath toward Hadrian. Inside lay three artifacts: a silver dagger with an almost invisible line of runes along the back of the blade.

“The Department of Mysteries did not finish what they planned,” Voldemort said. “We will finish it today. Not them. We.”

Hadrian raised the dagger. As he held it, tiny flashes of etched leather ran down his palm—the ancient runic sequences beneath the skin, awakening one by one, like someone turning off lamps in reverse order.

“The sequence Aster-VII,” he whispered. “The one I was forbidden to read aloud.”

“And that is precisely why you will say it today,” Voldemort replied. Not as a command—more as an agreement to the inevitable.

They moved into the lower chamber, where there was an empty circle—plain, without a single rune. A place that did not lie; it did not write anything, it only permitted.

“We begin with the link,” Voldemort said, stepping into the circle opposite Hadrian. “Magic, breath, touch. In that order.”

Hadrian took a breath and raised his hand. Voldemort completed the gesture; their fingers met in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t a grip, just a lock—like two parts of a mechanism that fit together so perfectly that it was obvious they were made for each other.

“Close your eyes,” Voldemort said deeply.

Hadrian obeyed. Then he felt warmth slowly spread down his neck: Voldemort’s other hand—careful, probing—traced the tendons on the side of his neck to his collarbone, stopping just above the line where an old scratch sang beneath the skin. The touch was neither soft nor hard—it was just right.

“Attune,” he whispered. “To me. Not to the circle.”

The magic moved. First like a thin thread between their fingers, then like two currents that decided to flow parallel, not against each other. Hadrian felt as if someone were turning pages in his chest—each old instruction was being translated into a new language, the only one that made sense.

“Now,” Voldemort said, “Aster-VII. Verse Three. In my breath.”

Hadrian opened his mouth, moved a fraction closer—he could feel Voldemort’s breath on his lips, foreign and yet his own—and whispered. The syllables that had once sounded foreign fell apart and reassembled to the rhythm of their shared breath. The circle on the ground glowed not with runes but with places of silence: tiny empty veins of light.

Voldemort let their joined fingers slide down; slowly, deliberately. He stopped at Hadrian’s wrist, where it pulsed faster than he would ever have allowed. He held it with his thumb, as if tuning an interval.

“Do you feel it?”

“Yes.” Hadrian's voice was low, rougher than usual. "Your magic... holds me."

"Not yet," Voldemort corrected, almost tenderly. "It guides you for now."

"When the time comes," Voldemort said, his eyes never leaving his mouth, "we will choose where and when. Today you will learn how not to let time break you."

He leaned closer. His voice was now just breath on skin. "And then you will learn how to take what you want."

The hand on Hadrian's wrist loosened—only to slide higher, to the inside of his forearm. The old sequence lit up beneath the skin; the light flickered as if the skin responded to it. Hadrian did not close his eyes. He could not.

“Okay,” said Voldemort. “Once more, Aster-VII. This time… to the beat of my heart.”

And Hadrian spoke. And the circle listened. And nothing burned—it just yielded.

The air around the circle was heavier. Not suffocating—more dense, as if every molecule were waiting for a command. Hadrian stood facing Voldemort, still feeling the lingering imprint of his touch on his skin. The Aster-VII sequence still echoed in his blood, though he was no longer whispering.

“Now,” said Voldemort, “we will take the first moment.”

“The first?” Hadrian’s voice was more a statement than a question.

“An interval without witnesses,” the Dark Lord specified. “A place where time cannot see.”

From his pocket he took a small piece of silver string, engraved with a small runes that were constantly changing. “Synchronization with your inner core. Without it, it would tear you apart.”

Hadrian reached out; Voldemort caught it before he could touch the string. “Not this way,” he growled, almost amused, and gripped his wrist with both hands. One hand firm, the other sliding along the lines of muscle until it found the familiar rune-like mark hidden beneath the skin and wrapped the string around it.

The magic stirred. Hadrian felt his breath align with Voldemort’s—not just in rhythm, but in intent.

“Ready,” Voldemort said. “When I say, we will take a step… and we will find ourselves in an empty space.”

“What will I see?”

“Nothing. And that is all there is to nothing.”

Voldemort’s fingers intertwined with his. It was not a hold that would hold—it was a hold that would not let go. Hadrian felt heat rush into his chest, stronger and faster, until it felt as if his inner structure was being rearranged according to some strange plan.

“Now,” Voldemort whispered.

They took a step forward.

And the world shut down.

There was no darkness. There was no light. Just a strange white nothingness, their shapes dissolving and reassembling. Hadrian felt himself falling apart—but each piece was held in Voldemort's hands.

"Here," Voldemort said quietly, "nothing will find us. Here you can try. Here... you belong only to me."

Hadrian didn't answer with words—instead he let his magic embrace Voldemort's. It wasn't obedience, but consent. Voldemort ran his fingers along the inside of his arm, where a thin blue line of energy ran, and squeezed it. "Do you feel the difference?"

"Yes. As if... everything else wasn't real."

"That's right." Voldemort moved a fraction closer to him, until their shoulders almost touched. "Here you will learn how to take a piece of time in your hands and reshape it. Begin."

Hadrian held out his hand. The magic came out—and instead of scattering, it held its shape. A small streak of light spread into a symbol: a circle with an empty center. Voldemort covered his hand with his own and pressed the symbol until it turned into a spark that soaked into their skin.

“This is your anchor,” Voldemort explained. “It will hold you when we go beyond the interval.”

They were silent for a moment. Hadrian could feel his breath at his temple, a firm grip on his wrist, and a gentle tension in the space between their bodies. Then Voldemort loosened his grip—but he didn’t retreat.

“We’ll be back,” he said. “But next time… we’ll go further.”

As they took another step, the world lit up, and the circle beneath them welcomed them back. The air was heavy in a different way—like after a storm, when the wind had not yet died down.

It was only a few seconds before Voldemort let go of his hand. “Rest now. The next leap won’t be so… gentle.”

Hadrian didn't answer, but a mixture of anticipation and unease gleamed in his eyes. Exactly the look Voldemort wanted to see.

Hadrian stood in a circle, glowing runes lining his feet like the fiery outline of a prison. The air was heavy, filled with a surge of magic that became tangible—as if someone were wrapping him in delicate strands of light and darkness.

Voldemort approached him without a word. His steps were slow, deliberate, and Hadrian felt an invisible pressure closing around him. His breath quickened as the Dark Lord stopped directly behind him.

A cold but firm hand touched the nape of his neck and pushed lightly, forcing his head to lower just a fraction of an inch. It was not a punishment, more a reminder of who was in control. Voldemort leaned toward him, so close that Hadrian could feel his breath on his neck.

“Hold on. And look ahead,” he whispered in his ear.

Hadrian obeyed, even though he felt his own magic rising—not against him, but for him. Voldemort reached out his other hand and ran his hand up his spine to his shoulder blades. The touch was firm, possessive, yet leisurely, as if the Dark Lord was savoring every moment.

The runes beneath Hadrian’s feet burned brighter. A surge of electricity circled and wrapped around both of their bodies. Voldemort moved sideways toward him, his fingers sliding along his jaw and gently turning his head so their eyes met.

“Do you feel that?” he asked quietly, though he knew the answer.

Hadrian nodded. The pressure of magic between them deepened, and he realized the feeling was as unsettling as it was intoxicating. Voldemort smiled that tiny, dangerous smile that held promise—whether of power or something else, Hadrian didn't dare guess.

In that moment, he realized that he wasn't just part of the experiment. He had become its center. And that Voldemort wouldn't let anyone else have that center.

The magic in the circle began to pulse in time with their breathing. Each stroke was like a crashing wave, pulling Hadrian deeper into the vortex, where the boundaries between his body and the Dark Lord's presence were disappearing.

Voldemort stepped forward, crossing the line of their usual distance and standing directly in front of him. There was not an inch of space between them—only the invisible, almost electric force that drew them together.

"You are not moving until I tell you to," he said darkly, his voice low and harsh, cutting right under Hadrian's skin.

He gripped his wrist tightly with his fingers and lifted it, as if testing how his magic would behave under pressure. He ran his other hand down his side to his hip, his fingers pausing briefly as his gaze locked on Hadrian's eyes.

Hadrian felt himself sinking—not into fear, but into something far more dangerous. His own magic was interwoven with Voldemort's, layered and gripping him from within like a living being that knew his every weak spot.

"You learn faster this way," Voldemort's voice sounded almost amused, but it was the kind of amusement that comes with a predator holding its prey and knowing for sure it won't run away.

Hadrian noticed the Dark Lord's head tilting closer and closer until their foreheads were almost touching. It wasn't a kiss—it was a test of boundaries, and Hadrian felt his own gradually being blunted.

"When the time comes," Voldemort's breath touched his lips, "you will have no doubt about where and to whom you belong."

The runes around the circle flared with white fire, and they both felt the impact of a magical wave that connected them more than they had ever allowed anyone else to.

Hadrian knew that from this moment on there was no turning back. And that Voldemort had planned this moment from the very beginning.

End of Chapter 14: In the rhythm of one magic