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A click . 
 
The world swims into focus with a single noise. 
 
The soft crackle of the radio, half a twisted voice slipping through the static grain, burning against the silence. 
 
A scent .
 
It’s pungent, acidic crawling through the air, catching in the back of his throat with a gag. Something warm trickles down his chin, and his arms are lead, struggling upwards, shuddering for strength. 
 
A blur . 
 
Everything is tinged with grey, and skewed at the edges, like a migraine breaking his vision. A splay of red hair, her trembling body and a croaking noise against the dying breath on her lips. Pus oozes from a wound in her leg. 
 
And her chest collapses inwards. 
 
Two babies, a murderer, the clash of vacant spells and - 
 
His vision starts to tunnel as the Dark Lord raises his wand . 
 
( ‘ we’ll do this together ‘ ) 
 
( ‘together?’ 
 
( ‘ until we’re six feet under ‘ ) 
 
An uttered spell, a wave, hot desperate magic pouring along his skin. Then it burns. 
 
Barty wakes up in chains. Wakes up alone, where they promised he would never be.

- circa 1986

The first time Neville truly understood the attacks, he was seven. There’d always been something absent resting in his heart, in his life, like a rustle of damp leaves clawing beneath his boots for air. There had always been something absent, even as his father’s hands brushed through his hair, one soft stroke at a time, and the lull of voices moved him to sleep.  At five; a toothy grin, thrusting a small leafy plant into his fathers face. “What’s this?” A soft chuckle, blue eyes crouching to his level.  They turned cloudy, deafeningly bright under the glow of light. He remembers the lace of his shoes trailing along the floor and the shake of warm hands cupped around his. He remembers a breathless whisper and kiss against his head and the name ‘ planty-ali’ echoing in the silent room.  He’s seven, when roots come crawling through his dreams until a crumbling stone breaks his screams. He’s seven, clinging to the arms rocking his body, hard enough to break skin. Drawing each breath, shaking, sobbing, burying his head away from the monsters at the end of his bed into a steady chest.  He’s seven when the monsters mould away, back into the shadows, and the grass is damp in the crisp air, as he stands in front of a stone. The stone . A hand rubs his back, and grips his shoulders tightly, the wind whistles through the air.  Guilt follows when he’s years older, that he was scared, scared to stand for too long in front of a stone with a name etched into its face. That the first time visiting that he could truly remember – for he was sure there had been more, but the edges were hazy and incomplete – and all he had wanted to do was leave.  The day was cold, fresh, prickling at his skin, and even the evening, tucked under a warm blanket with marshmallows in his hot chocolate, it didn’t feel right. So his legs swung back and forth, gently knocking into the sofa. There were two attacks, on October 31st 1985, and everything absent is bundled up in that one moment, as Alice Longbottom smiles against within the photos on the wall. Neville had known who she was, for as long as he could remember she’d been in every photograph, in soft stories over the fire, in watery laughs behind decorations.  He just hadn’t realised – absence, clinging to his skin, belonged to her.  
His mum. 
 Sometimes he dreams about her, from the pictures, wonders what she would say.  And then he meets Ronald Weasley.  Ron with a smudge on his nose and a lumpy sandwich, who bumps his shoulder when he’s sad, and they sit on the log in the gardens – fields , that bloom with the prettiest flowers – wondering when they can do the cool things.  Flying, or hexing clothes blue like Ron’s older brothers. Neville tried to grow his hair long once, after Bill Weasley. His Grandmother cut it, and his father just laughed, ruffling his hair. Ron talks about his mountain of a family, and Neville talks about the thin branch that is his, hoping his mum was as bright, and embracing as Molly Weasley.  And it’s Ron who tells him about the name ‘the boy who lived’, around strawberry stained hands in the fields (and if his father flinches, nobody says a word), popping out the green stems that Neville doesn’t mind chewing.  “Well, it’s cause of you isn’t it,” they trail their hands against the tall grassy weeds, Ron bites into another. “You defeated You Know Who.” His nose scrunches.  “I did what?” Ron stares at him.  Neville stares at his father.  He’s the Boy Who Lived. He defeated You Know Who. The curse rebounded. Everyone think’s he’s a hero. Except, he was a baby and he’s fairly sure he didn’t do anything? Frank Longbottom smiles, it’s a sad smile Neville recognises, one that thinks of the ghost, the pictures, his mothers laughter. It was the same smile that day at the graveyard, followed by endless words, some of which Neville couldn’t understand and isn’t sure he wanted too.  “No one really knows what happened, Nev,” and Frank smoothes a hand against his hair. It's nice, he leans into it. “But you survived, my baby, that’s more than anything in the world I could have asked for.” No one wonders how much he may resent that when he’s older.  But for now, that’s all that matters, and when he meets the Potters they share something in common. In one night, the world won, and both families lost.  Harry Potter has a scar on his forehead. It’s in the shape of a lightning bolt, faded, like a burnt-out flame. Neville thinks that’s pretty cool, thinks for a short while, they could be friends. He almost wants it, like a buzz, a vibration, humming against his skin. He’s eight, and he wants another friend.  But Harry Potter is twelve, crumpled down, and spends most of his time talking between Sirius Black and seven year old Ginny Weasley, debating quidditch. His respect for Ron’s sister notches up one, she was unafraid to bite back.  Harry Potter has a scar on his forehead, and there were four casualties that night. Barty Crouch Junior was arrested on the scene and died in Azkaban Prison. James Potter took a chunk out of Rodolphus Lestrange's hand, and Lily Potter survived by a thread.  
His mother did not. 
 Sometimes Neville wants to ask why. Why does Harry Potter's mother get to live and his has to die? When they both sacrificed themselves for their children? It becomes another question he learns to save for later, burrowed in a bubble of anger he doesn’t yet feel.  In the space of three hours, ‘Harry Potter's mother’ becomes ‘Bethany Potter's mum’, and then ‘Lily Potter, his godmother .’  They work on it slowly, and by the time the letter falls into his hand, ('- Hogwarts') the one he can scarcely believe, she’s pulling him close and kissing his head and he loves it.  Lily Potter .  There’s life in the air and somehow he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to it, the euphoria of being loved.

Two years; he’s going to Hogwarts and Harry Potter is still a mystery.  He remembers the bracelets on his wrist, leather, and threads tied together, drawn in different colours, different patterns. He’d fiddle with them, run them beneath his thumb when he was nervous.  Then, he went to the castle of Neville’s dreams, pulsing lights and bright stars, and he came back without them.  The name Hadrian rolls off his tongue like water.  Another summer passes, their bodies holed away from the heat with cool rags and shaded rooms, and Bethany scowls at the ceiling between mouthfuls of ice cubes that drip on the floor.  It’s too hot to be in the greenhouses. Neville resists the urge to check his plants again.  “I swear it’s like we’re not even there. He’s with Uncle Sirius all the time.” “What do they do?”  Bethany shrugs.  “Boring heir stuff, according to Cooper. But if it was that boring, wouldn’t Harry be bored?” He tries to think up a response.  “I .. what?”  She groans dramatically and waves a damp towel with exaggeration.  “They’re doing something , Nev, something cool I’ll bet.”  Ron barges through the door with a handful of bowls and thrusts them forwards.  “What if it is just boring heir stuff though?”  Bethany grabs a pumpkin pasty. Ron steals her wet cloth for his hair.  “Well what type of things do you do?” She manages, around a mouthful of food, and Ron coughs to hide a snigger.  Neville rolls his eyes.  “Not much. My dad doesn’t really care about that lot. My Nan made sure I know all the right cutlery though.” He pauses, and meets their unimpressed gazes with a shrug. “Yeah I can't exactly see your brother doing that either, but it’s all I’ve got. Bethany scowls once more, and chewing aggressively, goes back to glaring holes in the ceiling,  She’s not wrong though, Neville realises, Harry is around less - it’s hard not to notice, they spend so much time in each other’s pockets, three families twisted together in different homes.  Something happens in the next year, their bodies pressed to a wall with a glass to listen through the door and they get nothing, as Cooper drags them away. He doesn’t tell on them (“ it’s called an extendable ear, it’s a prototype” but the noise it’s too fuzzy to hear. )  The scar on Harry’s head seems fresher, more broken, and his eyes take in a look that’s a little too far to be present.  It rains more.  There’s a funeral halfway through August. Someone named Rosier.  His dad looks grim-faced, and James Potter purses his lips, the name snags something in the back of his head, enough to wonder - death eater?  Harry doesn’t say much, two buttons undone and hair windswept, water clinging to his eyelashes and dripping on the tiled floor of the kitchen. If anyone cares, they don’t say anything.  He walks away.  Neville watches him go over a glass of squash, and it settles uncomfortably in his stomach until an ache sets in.  There’s an odd sort of silence, it’s mangled, cold, shifting against the draft brought in from the cold. Then all at once there’s noise. Chairs scraping, a new hum of voices, James leaves the room, following, Neville presumes and Cooper decides to practice some rendition of sound that Neville thinks once was a song.  Bethany gets flour in his hair, and the game is afoot.  Afoot until they risk crashing head first into the grandfather clock in the foyer.  Panting breaths, wide eyes, laughs on the edge of their smiles, and banished to the living room to play something less destructible - as if tag is that dangerous. “According to my clock it is,”  James comments from the doorway with a frown, but his eyes sparkle with amusement.  “If you’ve finished destroying the house, everyone happy with pizza?”  Nevilles mouth waters.  They always go to the same place, a local restaurant. He vows to see if they do take out by owl to Hogwarts.  They don’t, and Ethel on the counter laughs as she slides over the boxes.  It’s warm, friendly with plants dotted along the windows, and a glow that seems to expand across the entire room. A sharp contrast to Harry; hands stuff inside his jacket, seeming to watch everything through lidded eyes.  When Ethel smiles towards him, he nods back.  Neville feels a little bad for her.  “Come on then, before we’re mobbed by ravenous children.”  Sirius Black smirks, grabbing the last three boxes.  Whilst they’d always been nice and welcoming, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin were never around all that long enough for Neville to feel entirely comfortable. At least not in the silence that follows their feet down the street, their path lit by street lamps and stars.  His hand rests on Harry’s back as they leave.   That’s a parental thing, and it makes him wonder how much time do they spend together.  Harry leans into it, their shoulders brushing as they walk, matching the man’s long strides.  That’s the last time he sees Harry Potter, and the last time he truly thinks of him, until his trunk is being shoved onto a trolly and their legs strain in a rush.  “We’re not late, Molly, they have time.”  “Honestly, you tell them to be ready by eight and they’re still only half dressed.”  Ron blushes, shrugging under Mrs Weasley’s softening glare, and takes the platform at a run. Neville follows, narrowly avoiding running over Coopers feet, and the redhead - who could probably pass a weasley if his hair were a shade or so lighter - yelps indignantly.  Fred and George grin, hooking their arms under each of his and frog marching him along the platform, floating trunks follow them.  “Wish I could do that,” Bethany stares mournfully after them, cheeks flushed red and breathing heavily.  “Oh look out,” Ron nods down the platform, and it’s easy to see who he’s pointing out. “Malfoy.” “Bugger, I forgot he was starting this year.”  “What was that, Bethany Minerva ?”  They jump, as Lily Potter stares them down.  “Ah I said - bummer, we forgot about malfoy.”  Ron snorts.  Lily isn’t impressed, arching an eyebrow. Neville has to give it to her, Bethany doesn’t back down, chest swelling up and back straightening.  “Use that language again and you can forget about Hogwarts , nevermind Malfoy.” Bethany’s ears flush.  “Sorry, mum.” An arm swoops around his shoulders, and Bethany shifts awkwardly with embarrassment and a familiar chuckle has him swinging round with a cry of “Dad!”  Still dressed in auror uniform, clearly just straight from work but Neville finds he doesn’t care in the slightest. He’d made it.   “Didn’t think you could leave without saying goodbye?”  His cheek smushed against his fathers chest without embarrassment, and a chin rests on top of his head with a vibration of a chuckle.  In truth, he thought his father wouldn’t have the time off - he’d left a note under his pillow. “I have to see my little man off to school.”  Here, he does blush, and somewhere behind him Ginny snorts.  “ Dad ,” he groans and Frank smirks widely, before it drops into a gentle smile.  “You’ve got Trevor yeah?”  “Uh huh.”  “Stay out of trouble okay? That includes tackling any suit of armours -“ “That was one time, and it wasn’t a tackle I fell .”  “My point still stands buddy, you got that one from your mum.” Something warm rolls down his back, and then his father is leaning down, brushing his forehead with a kiss.  “She’d be so proud of you, Nev.”  And here’s a weight on his chest that feels inexplicably light, as they pull away, and he grips the handle of his trunk with newfound vigour.  The determined look he was going for was halted by the scuff of his shoes along the floor as he almost trips, and Ron grabs the back of his shirt to keep him upright.  It’s only when Cooper appears, in that way that only he can do - with a random amount of speed, James once likened him to a jack-in-the-box - and hoists Bethany's trunk up for her despite her protests, does Neville realise someone is missing.  Until he’s not.  In an oddly formal attire, and robes that look like they’d come off of Lucius Malfoy's shelf, he slips up, Prefect badge glinting on his chest.  It leaves him wishing he could have a growth spurt.  Harry doesn’t leave without saying goodbye, it’s just, fleeting. A kiss to his mother’s cheek, and Neville catches his lips moving softly, quickly, before moving on.  He embraces James, Black and Lupin, grudgingly accepts one from Molly, and promptly disappears again.  No words, nothing.  Bethany peers after him curiously. Cooper scowls for a moment, before jumping off the train and to swing Ginny round in goodbye hug.  It takes awhile to figure it out, an itch in the back of his head as the world swims by, the rattle of tracks beneath their feet.  He waves goodbye, and Ron breathes a sigh of relief as they collapse against the train seats, staring around the compartment.  Bethany starts a game of exploding snap, and they meet Hermione Granger, who stares at their magical game like she can’t quite comprehend it, and disappears, which a longing Neville can’t place.  Fred and George come by, with talk of a tarantula. Coopers with them, but he looks distracted. It takes until the train is pulling in, until the sky has rained and darkened and settled the world in pitch, until Hagrid is carrying a lamp towards them with a smile.  Because there’s a figure off to the side, and his eyes swim over them, glassy, almost not there. Unmoving, just watching.  Like a click , Neville gets it, a familiar stone dropping against his stomach as they slip against the mud and leave everything else behind.  That’s what Harry is, absent .

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The air is cold, brittle on his skin, and seeping away the warmth of august like a dying moth, falling without a flame. There’s noise, a flurry of voices all meshed into one, half detached, vacant, and in the distance the stumbling figures towards the boats. They are already swallowed by the water.  Staring through ghosts.   Harry . Hadrian . Harry . Hadrian . It all felt salty on his lips. Not quite right, and the world shifts around his stature. He breathes, slowly, quietly, and lets the wind flutter against his cheeks.  Not quite numb, but getting there.  A hollow buzz, a beat, a beat, like magic slowly pulsing through the air.  (“ everythings changing “ restless, nervous gazes. ) “Potter!” For a second, the flick of air like a spark on his tongue, coiling, burning, the sharp urge to bite. “Coop!” And it sinks back into the shallow air. There’s a blur of red and gold, between the sea of awkward limbs and flurried cloaks, the splash of freckles, his brother slipping through the mud towards the carriages.  Flushed faces, filled with youth and pleasure and the cherry blossom of crushes blooming against their eyes. Reckless , and a body plants itself at his feet. Veiled by shadows, and the offset of train lights cast along the tree’s, until their path became submerged to the waiting carriages.  The child groans.  There’s another body at his feet.  
There's another - 
 A thwip against his ears, like a crack, breaking against his skin, drawing his body forwards into the present. His arm jerks ahead of his mind, and his fingers fist into the boys cloak, dragging him up.  Sharp, jagged - he breathes, and releases with more grace.  A boy's face plastered in mud, and wide blue eyes beneath the dirt.  “I-” “You might try walking, first?” A drawl, and something familiar slips into his weighted chest.  “Right. Thanks.”  The urge to laugh crawls up his throat, burning the soft tissue like acid. The Hufflepuff slips away, stumbling along the treeline. An echo of a shout, friends collide with friends.  When the night is not filled with rain, dripping steadily against his head, the stars are kind, gently following his way, in the wake of silence and the rustle of birds for company. He is a Potter, and his nails curl into his palm. He is a Slytherin. His hand crumples. And there is an eagle spread body never far from his eyes.  They were all ghosts.  So he would walk as slow as he liked, because time felt like nothing at all.  A shadow fell into step.   And because they needed to talk.  The dog nudges his foot, and the darkness moulds to a taller man. “Lo, Sirius.”  “You’ll miss the carriages.” They don’t change pace.  “You’re checking up on me.” “Am I not allowed?” There’s a pause, Sirius catches his wrist and he resists the urge to flinch.  “I know last year was hard for you,” a thumb rubbing over his skin, “the security has gone up, that won’t happen again.” “You’ve been stationed here?”  “For a couple of days,” Sirius’s voice is soft, gravelly but warm. “I wanted to give you this.”  In the haze of darkness, a badly wrapped package is shoved into his hands, something sharp within the brown paper. “Thanks.” He goes dryly “you shouldn’t have.”  Sirius snorts.  “You’ll like it, trust me.”  The rain drizzles, he glances towards the castle.  Sirius gets the message with a soft chuckle, and they move towards the light, the glow of a hanging torch where the carriages were stationed.  “Hold up,” his godfather raises a hand towards the stars, and the last carriage, halts, empty and damp. The thestral pulling it snorts.  He’d gotten used to seeing them.  “Stay safe, love.”  Hadrian swallows against the lump in his throat, the parental gesture, a hand catching the side of his face, pushing a lock of hair from his eyes.  And then, it was gone.  Sirius crosses his arms over his chest, wand in hand poking from beneath his elbow, and plants his feet in the grit, swinging round to face the darkness.  For a moment, the world was eerily silent. Danger was clinging to their breaths in the stolen air. For a moment, he thought there would be -  (“ duck ! “ a voice to his left yells )  He swings his body up, and the wheels rotate on, jerking his body along the path, as he settled in for the ride. His uncles would remain something of a mystery.  Sirius taught him love before all else, except he’d learn that sometimes it wasn’t enough.  Regulus, at his request, had taught him how to be . How to fit in with a cluster of people that had every reason to dislike him, except that he’d done nothing wrong but exist.  He’s reminded of that summer with the Dursleys.  ( hands around his neck, a yell, water, water, water ) That had changed things.  There’s a coldness in his chest that seeps on to his face, and somehow that’s easier, letting it smoothen into nothing at all. A blank wall. That was the easy part. Everything else was treading water, the political scene, trying not to drown.  And even that, after a while, became second nature, became comfortable.  Going back was where he struggled.  Sirius was always physical; hugs, hair stroking, forehead kisses, that was how he showed his love. And his parents, to a lesser extent, but they worried . They liked to talk, wanted to him to open up, to heal.  He’s not broken,  Regulus never asked him to talk, just to listen. They learnt, over texts of old words and runes, over tradition and pureblood teachings and critical thinking.  And if he happened to mention something, in the quiet of the room as the pages turn, soft background noises and rain on the windows, Regulus didn’t ask about it again, just let it disappear on the wind.  He didn’t mind their touch, their worry, but he couldn’t -  
Couldn’t be the child they remembered. 
 It’s like being in a crowded room, in a box inside box, one that’s half frozen and entirely silent with just the hum of faint noise from the outside.  The carriage jerks against the ground, and the thestral comes to a stop, leaving him to jump from the carriage, grateful to have worn boots beneath his robes, and greets Flich with a nod waiting by the doors.  The caretaker scowls.  The first years haven’t made it yet, as he steps into the sharply lit entrance hall, and Snape is waiting, with dark glittering eyes and an arched eyebrow.  “Time is not of the essence, Mr Potter.” “Of course not, my apologies sir.”  There’s a moment, they are both waiting, sizing the other up, and then  “As you were.”  That’s how they worked; danced around the edges of a fine line, overturning rocks for the briefest of moments, they are at a truce.  They do not hate each other.  Snape has one agenda, Hadrian has another, parallel but not opposites. If they respect each other the world moves smoothly on.  And Snape was the one to find him.  Falling, falling desperately through the air .  Smoky eyes needle into his, asking the question everyone wants to know. How far do you go before it becomes too dark to see the way out? Before you split like the tide .

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There's talent, my goodness, yes -- and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting.... So where shall I put you?" 
 
Harry gripped the edges of the stool. 
 
“You could be great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that.” 
 
Greatness? Wasn’t that what they always said - they were great people. 
 “Better be , Slytherin !”  — circa 1991

A scattered applause, and the glow of the candles flickering shadows along the walls. His palms move in time, a beat upon beat, steadily clapping. There’s a sea of green, as his gaze tracks over speckled faces, and the green is where eyes always go - first, immediate, and distinctly sour.  The silver tacks on at the end, lapping shores, they tread the silver lining, behind a veil of closed doors.  Sharp, alert eyes, and the hat calls.  Daphne Greengrass becomes the next Slytherin.  She walks like a pureblood, back straight, chin up, aloof and nonchalant. She walks as they all do, as though a hand is gripping their shoulders, digging nails against their backs.  There was a difference between a pureblood and a slytherin. First you teach them how to walk, and then they can stylise. He’d noticed that a long time ago, it had taken the others a while to catch up.  An echo of a clunk, and hasty whispers, a cluster of third years knocking over a jug of water, Hadrian resists the urge to roll his eyes. They scramble as best they can, awkward, sharp movements, trying not to move too much in a small space until their shoulder’s jostle against one another’s - a fourth year hisses “cut it out.”  Three heads snap round, and find his gaze. There's a pause in the hushed hall, of silent noise, and then their cheeks crease pink and drop their faces down. Monatgue smirks. “Longbottom, Neville.” As if on cue, all eyes sweep to the front of the bedraggled first year queue.  “Little short isn't he?” Warrington mutters.  Had they been elsewhere, he might’ve smiled.  Connections and relations were quite different. Siblings could be disliked, family members could be hated without cause, without consequence, without questions. Connections brought olive branches, alliances and eyes.   If there was one thing the papers got right; The Longbottoms and The Potters were connected. But Hadrian wouldn’t call him family.  So being careful was key.  “Gryffindor!”  The low murmur of groans from the table were drowned out by the red and gold, the lurch of bodies upwards, like tipping scales to a burst of noise.  “You’d think they’d won the lottery,” Richelle Malfoy stabs a cocktail stick into an olive. “A small one.” Pucey frowns.  “Where’d you get them?” “I have my sources.” She pops it in her mouth like a cherry.  “No, what you have is a house elf who knows a house elf.”  Carrow leans across the table and plucks one out of the small ceramic bowl, poorly hidden behind her goblet. His nose wrinkles in disgust.  Their faces smoothen out, eyes drawn back towards the front. “Malfoy, Draco.”  Richelle’s shoulders stiffen. “Slytherin.”  “Bollocks.” Sworn through half parted lips, and she leans backwards, relaxing her figure. A portrait of contrasting colours, and the line work begins with a smirk.  Draco Malfoy walks the same way as Daphne Greengrass - all pure, all worth, except his is complete with a swagger.  ( ‘arrogance is unbecoming of rich. ‘ regulus’ lips pinch into a frown . )  Lily Moon becomes a Slytherin and Richelle claps dutifully. A small ‘fuck you’ to the blonde boy with more ego than sense.  “Potter, Bethany.”  His face doesn’t move, and he doesn’t see the point. A little over, Cooper sits up, craning his neck forwards as if there were a poor view.  The hat falls against her hair, over her eyes till auburn tipped curls dangle over her shoulders, and the hall hums impatiently.  “Gryffindor!”   Cooper climbs on his seat to cheer, as the Gryffindor table lit up once more, blanketed under a sea of noise.  A slow thumping pinches at his skull.  Shadow clips his ear and a voice murmurs, cherry scented in the air, “you’re the real black sheep now, Potter.”  “Does that make me worthy, Evander?”  Harry replies softly, and deep sea eyes catch the light with a tip of his head. Pucey glances up.  “You know you’ve more than earned it.”  “I’m flattered you think so.”  It’s left there, like flat wine down their throats and subtle understanding. Morpheus Evander, halfblood, and their knuckles carved with rings that aren’t their own.  (“ half-bloods paved the way , the first true connections between our worlds “ ) Everything’s cold and icy when you’re in the front lines.  Bethany grins over as their eyes catch.  He looks away first.  Theodore Nott joins, they clap, and the boy hunches over the table with joints too stiff to be right. Snape watches too.  “Weasley, Ronald.”  The boy’s ears are as red as his hair, gripping the edge of the stool tightly, face a little green.  “If he pukes, I’m out.” Carrow turns away, white knuckled grip on his empty goblet.  The boy goes to Gryffindor, ‘ as if that house hasn’t got enough red ‘ Richelle remarks, except there’s a slow release of air, now the sorting was over. At least, attention was waning.  Then, finally, Blaise Zabini swung his legs over the bench. Montague hums appreciatively.  The Sorting was over.  Dumbledore stands to talk, and Carrow raises his eyes to the sky, to the candles dancing on tightropes from the ceiling, as if to say ‘give me strength.’  Damien Mendoza, elbow pressed against Hadrian’s own, kicks him under the table.  
Right Hand . 
  "Welcome," he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!" “Mad,” Pucey mutters, reaching for the gravy “totally crazy.”  He was inclined to agree.  Unlike the first years, they took their time plating, and whilst their meals were not small, they took what they knew they could eat and that was all.  Everyone had made the mistake of overeating on the first few days, though two of the first years,  Nott and Davis, are careful to wait - their worth is valued against the actions of others. Snape glances over, eyes submerged in a dark look. Greengrass and Zabini restrain themselves, which is more than some of the second years.  His own stomach grumbles, rain still dusting the top of his head under the glow of the light, and yet his appetite lay flat like dust in his mouth.  He swallows, takes a bite, swallows.  Mechanical. Damien eyes his plate with disapproval. As if it somehow mattered, thought he might waste away. Their elbows bump purposefully.  When it disappears, he breathes.  Richelle meets his eyes when he doesn’t move for dessert. Soft, cold, hints of blue like the sea, she doesn’t need to raise her eyebrow to ask. Are you okay ? An incline of his head, and their gaze breaks, as the others wait. His hand itches to gesture, to roll his eyes, something . “Eat.” He murmurs instead, and after a second hesitation, Rookwood takes point, and the rest follow.  The feast itself takes around an hour, and altogether usually at least another, just enough time for the food to settle, to make them too tired to be excited - avoids any first night escapades to explore the castle.  He wouldn’t care except it felt like forever.  Dumbledore rises and the first years look curious.  “I have a few start-of-term notices to give you. First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well." The Weasley twins smirk, and Pucey scoffs. "I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.” “Unless it’s a Gryffindor,” Montague breathes.  “No,” Azira Haldor cuts in softly, from Damiens other side, “unless he thinks they can be converted.”   “You make it sound like a cult.”  Hadrian clears his throat. Their eyes slip back to the front.  “Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch.” Sixth year, Cassius Warrington scowls.  "And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death." “I’m sorry, what ,” Richelle hisses, as his back straightens, something cold coiling in the pit of his stomach. The older years don’t look so worried, exam scattered brains already scheduling, an eye roll here and there. But the rest; a low hum of tension rolls down the table, and they’re not the only table to feel it. “God, what’s the old man done now? If he redecorated it like his robes it will be a painful death.” Fourth year, Avery exclaims, and a new breath of laughter escapes. The first years relax. Good kid.   “There goes my shortcut to charms.” “We could probably still cut through-“ “You couldn’t, ” low, sharp, but his voice carries, and the two sixth years freeze. “You don’t take unnecessary risks.”  There’s a pause, one swallows hard, the other seems to debate arguing in the furrow of her eyebrows. But they fall back, relax, sigh and finish scraping the last of their food.  A mental note to watch them.  He’s faintly amused, and largely relieved by the lack of participation from the Slytherin table as Dumbledore conducts the school song. Any hunger vanishes, to a vaguely sick feeling, as he watches the cracks in the table for some form of concentration rather than the shamble of voices regurgitated across the hall.  The Weasley twins finish to a funeral march, and his stomach flips at the echo of noise in his ears. A distant song and a box in a church. So he waits a few moments more, to shake the memory from his eyes, and to allow for the crowds of students to bustle from the hall.  The first years hadn’t got the memo, as the older students dispatch first and the Gryffindor prefects voice echoed over the chamber “first years follow me.” They hurry past like puppies to a bone, bumping through, as though one tall back will lead them through entirely. Support is always necessary for leadership.  Whilst the snakelets were slower to move, they aren’t thinking either.  But they were sizing the competition up.  “Come on, Davis. What use can Weasley be anyway?”  It’s a near snarl curled on Malfoy’s lips, a sneer too ugly to be intimidating and too young to be discreetly shifted. It’s the way he spits out her name in the knowledge she’s not one of them.  The pain in his head rolls. “Weasley can strategise.”  Several eyes, so many eyes, turn his way.  “There are branches to be stretched if you know where to look.”  Malfoy scoffs disbelievingly, and he’s set to leave it alone, dismiss the dismissible, except  “Potter, right?” The pointed chin gets higher “You would say that.”  Silence mellows over the table. The Prefect badge on his chest glints, he watches their eyes attract to it.  “I’ll bite,” Hadrian drawls, “why’s that?”  Malfoy blinks.  “Because you’re -“ His voice falters as his sister raises an eyebrow.  “You’re a Potter -“ He’s flailing to sound less lame. Pink flushes Malfoy’s cheeks.  “Move along,” soft but cold and Hadrian doesn’t care to see if Malfoy concedes.  “Wait by the first suit of armour outside the hall.”  Zabini bumps the boy’s shoulder and makes a show of stumbling, Malfoy gets the message. It’s not a request.  “Good luck.” Felix snorts, draining his glass and climbing to his feet.  Carrow turns away from the table, and the security of his back to meet any prying eyes, and his face smoothens out. Not in its entirety, the upturn of his lips a little too shark-like to be blank, but that was his mask. That was his shield, the smirk, of dancing roses in his palms and thorns ready to prick.A Carrow alone in the world, there were bound to be consequences.  Rookwood follows, and Azira Haldor rises, her fingers brush the edge of his arm. A silent come on, that is more of a request, but their eyes meet as equals and he does as asked.  The court was a complicated array of dynamics, but they were all built on friendship. They understood each other, and that was a necessary truth.  Trust.  Azira moves on as he dips down, working his jaw to murmur softly against Damien’s ear, a hand lingering against his shoulder.  “ Of course ” is breathed back on a whisper.  Hadrian nods to the remaining group, and draws away, into the trickle of students leaving. The halls are always cooler, and in the winter the lower you go the more you risk your lips turning blue. In classrooms this was fine, but the heating charms on the torches only roll so far along the walls,there are patches of chills that are impossible to cover - because nobody ever thinks of doing it.  Instead, they layer up.  It’s easier for the old money. Thick winter clothes purposefully made, years of following the seasons as they move, to visit family in the winter versus solitude in the summer. The old money knows what’s coming at all times.  The Potters were newer - not entirely, for their family had generations on most, and certainly more than the Malfoy’s, but enough , that their expanse of wealth was fresh in the eyes of Purebloods and therefore lesser.  That was the insult thrown about long before ‘mudblood’ entered their mouths.  It was also the quickest way to judge a person, he’d learnt. Not to judge them as a person, but whether they were inclined to lean one way or another. Old money means knowing the nuances, having an insight into the way things work before getting there.  Moon had goosebumps already, Zabini had gloves.  Davis’s robes were falling off her shoulders, Greengrass was centred.  It’s a subtle difference.  They were clustered in an odd divide, one that was almost unnoticeable, bridged by Nott shifting in the middle. Sides were being drawn, even unintentionally.  Azira was there, beckoning them down the corridor. There’s a shiver. It’s her stare, blank, sliding just over them, as if something on the wall catches her eye. He can see their faces twist nervously.  “The most efficient way to keep track of the route is the suits. The one you’ve just come from is obvious enough - there are four more. You’ll note each one of these have a carving on the base, most others don’t. That will help guide you to and from the hall.” Her voice runs sharp and cold, as they descend to the greyer walls, the wisp of potion fumes and the creak of the dungeons.  Nott pauses, faltering in step, eyes scanning the way, a pause just enough for them to slip out of sight.  One Prefect takes the front, the other takes the back. This was why.  The boy jumps as his hand slips on his shoulder, swallows and hurry’s on at his arched eyebrow.  Three lefts, two rights, a final suit of armour later.  “This is the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room. From here you can reach your dorms, and urgent access to our Head of Houses office. We are situated below the lake, if that is a problem for anyone let one of the Prefects know.”  It wouldn’t be the first time, a fear was a fear.  “If you look behind you - adjacent to the statue - you will see an exact replica. It will open if given the password, it will not lead outsiders anywhere. You only exit from behind that statue. The rest of the school believe that is the entrance, it will stay that way.”  Zabini looks mildly curious, casting an odd look at Haldor, who ignored it. But Hadrian recognised it, they had connections, family even.  “On the off chance that someone not in Slytherin does manage to get it from either side, our head of house, Professor Snape, and the Prefects will be alerted automatically.” They shift uncomfortably.  “The Password up until Christmas is Basilisk.”  The statue cracks open, revealing a hole, and Bulstrode raises her hand hesitantly.  “Why does it change?”  “Because we like to remain mysterious.”  His lips twitch.  “And one last thing, do not linger.” Azira remarks, and there’s a pause, before they hurry forwards. Malfoy looks back, as he closes the door behind them, a crunch against the stone as it seals and the seeping light from the common room glimmers against his hand.  “Is that -?”  Malfoy catches himself, tongue in cheek, eyes frozen on the ring and it’s dark stone. Hadrian knew what he thought, caught the confusion clouding his face.  “Is something the matter, Mr Malfoy?”   Mr, not heir. Titles make respect, not birth. If he notices, it doesn’t seem to register.  Grey gaze swims up to meet his. For a moment, it’s just youth shining back, frustrated, spoilt, youth. And a burgeoning shadow of a man he might be.  “That’s ..” mine . The silence bleeds .  “Eye’s front.” He murmured softly, and stepped past, into the swimming green of the common room.  The glow bloomed across most of the room, stone floors lit up purposefully by the fireplace and the cluster of sofas in the middle of the room. A piano off to the side, and only usable to those who could actually play, unless there were supervised practices in place. Above the fireplace, a breastplate, with the slytherin emblem engraved, glinting gently. There was pride in this room, and it showed.  There were steps down to the center, and at the bottom the first years paused, staring in bright eyes and smirks, or blank awe. Off to their left, under the shadows and next to one of two windows that brought streaks of light from the lake, a portrait.  A verified magical artifact, recovered by a Curse Breaker, seventy years ago.  The portrait of a young Salazar Slytherin.  Tradition finds, there can be only one magical portrait of a person in that time. A form of magic that’s borderline dark, the reference must use their magic to activate it.  The Picture of Dorian Gray sits on his shelf at home. It’s eerily similar to look at.  Purebloods have contingencies in place to protect this, should they die. That’s how it’s most often used, vials collected after death, to leave a piece of soulless legacy behind. But they can be made whilst alive.  “My name is Professor Snape, I am the Head of Slytherin House.”  Silky, velvet and dark, like rich liquorice, Snape speaks, and the first years flinch as one.  “We have very strict rules on how to behave, they will be learnt with time, but you will learn them.” A shiver, and the temperature seems to drop. Hadrian lets his eyes wander to the wall over their heads, tune the drawl out.  “You have been sorted here, that means you have a right to be here. That does not mean you are entitled to anything other than that. Slytherin House is a secure space, you will not disrupt that by assuming your opinion matters.”  Azira’s lips twitch.  “These are your Fifth Year Prefects, Miss Haldor and Mr Potter. They are your seniority. If you have a problem you will approach them or myself. What you will not do is interrupt their studies for grievances you can solve, you will not take up any more of their time than necessary and if you disagree with their actions you will come to me.”  “Whilst you wear that crest, you abide by the rules set out. Do not perceive yourself above these rules, no matter who you are. Do I make myself clear?”  There’s a nervous shuffle and a chorus of “yes sir”.  “The other houses will not take kindly to your sorting. Do not provoke them.” His voice drips with warning, and then Snape is gone, cloak billowing at his heels, leaving wide eyed children behind.  “As Professor Snape said, we are your Prefects.” Azira jumps in, clipped with practise ease and they jerk round like robots, or baby birds waiting to be fed.  “The notice board,” she gestures to the wall by a door on the opposite side of the room, that circles round to the exit “has a list of the rules. If any need clarifying, ask.”  “The only ones you need to know for tonight,” and once again their heads swivel round, as his voice follows on. “Curfew for first years is nine pm. If you are not in the common room by that time, you will receive detention. You are in dorm rooms, they up the stairs behind me, once again if there is an issue with our environment, let someone know. Whilst breakfast begins at seven thirty, we expect you down and ready by eight.”  A few subtly disgruntled looks, and a chuckle from elsewhere in the common room.  “We appreciate there might be issues over the next few days. However, once the week is up we ask that you try to solve them between yourselves, and come to us secondary, unless there is a serious issue.” Azira jumps in, and they’re bouncing back and forth like a game, if he had less composure he would have leant against one of the tables.  “Lastly,” quiet, but there’s a touch of a warning in his tenor. “Respect your peers.”  There’s a moment of silence. And then Azira rolls her eyes.  “You’re free to go, unpack, neither sex is allowed in the others dorm. This is not up for debate.”  And they scarper off to the dark staircase, the clamber against narrow, damp stone and a flurry of whispers that bounce off the walls.  “Reckon they’ll figure it out?”  He raises an eyebrow.  “Me neither.” Azira sighs.  It was just a case of wait and see. Some picked it up quickly, others had to be shown. They were lucky alertness was not a house trait.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“I can't - “
 
“You’re right you're not ready and that’s okay. So choose a regent.” 
 
He blinks, and they’re watching as his eyes weave across the room. What person would he trust enough with this. judgejudgejudge 
 
Deep breath in. 
 
“Why can’t he be the regent?” A nod towards the portrait, and it smirks into the silence. 
 
Deep breath out.
 
“You’re panicking, Potter.” The Portrait murmurs. 
 
“But I’m not wrong. You’re slytherin’s portrait. You’re the most qualified.” 
 
Silence, thoughtful eyes, surprise, and then a sharp laugh. 
 
“That’s why you’ll make a good king,” Rosier claps his shoulder with a squeeze. “You’re not pretending to be something you’re not.” 
 
the irony . - circa 1993

The lament of Theodore Nott .

The first thing that had mattered in his life had been his mother. The soft rose of her perfume, the beat of her heart beneath his ear.  She hung stars on the ceiling because the dark had never been his favourite.  Then she’d died, and he stood in the gardens on the frostbitten ground, where the edges crunched underfoot, until he could hardly feel his fingers. The snow was for better and worse. It was bright, and sharp, and a different type of light, but it was her favourite.  Now, nothing was ever enough ( get away get away ).  She always spoke of Slytherin, of the dancing lights reflecting on the walls, of the windows to the streaks of sun through the lake and the silhouettes of merpeople. She spoke of the oil painting, the magic it breathed and how words were dripping like honey from tongues.  It was all there, from the silk sheets brushing his skin and the billow of curtains falling from the frames of their beds to the glass in the wall overhead, spinning an array of shapes along his bed.  But there was an odd silence that rolled over the room, as they climbed between the sheets and stared at the ceiling. No scratch of the branches against his bedroom window, the soft patter of rain or the brush of leaves, and they aren’t woken by the sun, but a knock on the door and a voice calling in.  It’s all odd, strange, crawling like goosebumps or bugs over his skin.  They’re estranged within a room of faces and names they’d all known for years - because you shove acquaintances together and they don’t know how to react.  And Draco Malfoy was quieter when asleep, not the obnoxious snorer he was expecting, so that was something.  But there's a moment of silence as they come too in the groggy undergrowth of sleep, and a rush of pulling back curtains, they all wait for a moment on the ends of their beds. A smirk, that falls into a low chuckle from Zabini, and the room relaxes.  “Draco.” “Blaise.”  They share a nod, and Zabini grabs his towel, heading towards the showers.  Grey eyes meet his.  They had been good friends until Theodore’s mother had died, or, good friends in the way that any of them were - entitled, rich, still not good at sharing toys. And just like before, like any time they had crossed paths in the alley, his fathers hand on his back, Draco’s eyes were clouded with confusion.  But they do not linger, and he thinks that’s what the problem is.  They are bred to be self centred, but they are also bred to be alert, Malfoy hadn’t quite mastered the other. “Nott.” He swallows, because that shouldn’t hurt. It hadn’t hurt before, in tight robes and cravats curled around his neck, a single appearance in a year on sore legs and fumbling for words at a yule party. But here, in this room, formality is not a given ( so it hurts ).  “Malfoy.” And then he nods towards Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle too, who send hesitant smiles back and shift closer together.  It’s not until they’re all struggling hazily through shirts and ties, does Draco lean over with a conspiratorial glance and offer to the room “The prefects.” He’s glad he’s not the only one that looks confused. “It’s too early to keep up, nobody knows what you’re on about.” “ Merlin , the prefects, what do we think?” Draco matches Zabini’s exasperated glance with an eye roll.  “I thought ..” Goyle starts hesitantly “we’re not supposed to have an opinion.” “You caught that?” Zabini drawls appreciatively, and his eyes linger on them with newfound interest, fingers moving back to his tie with ease, sharp, fluid movements.  “You will not disrupt that by assuming your opinion matters.” Crabbe recites softly. “Oh that,” Draco grins, and it’s less snobbish, softer, and punctuated by the triumphant smirk that follows, “that was just Professor Snape being Snape.” Of course, connections.   Something uncomfortable drops into his stomach.  There was a rumour that Severus Snape was Draco Malfoy’s Godfather, a scoff from his father’s less than sober lips. A scratching sensation grappling at his skin, the urge to pinch, and his fingers fumble with the silk knotted around his neck.  Dark eyes watch him through the mirror.  After a moment, Zabini turns around and takes the tie in his hands silently.  “Thanks.” A twitch of the others lips, a nod and Theodore wonders if he’s making fun of him. But Zabini makes no other mention of it, so it drifts on, and the conversation falls back on his ears.  “-I’m just saying, Haldor may be a pureblood family, but the Potters are essentially blood traitors.” From there the talk trails off to a quiet shuffle of silence, and a different type of tension forming in the air.  They make it down the stairs just after eight. The girls were already there, as were the Prefects, lips moving softly from where they stood in the frame of the dim firelight, and didn’t seem inclined to stop. But they did, after a few minutes, blank expressions, and Theodore wishes they would crack, let something through, something human.  “You’re late.” The girls smirk. Draco opens his mouth to retort.  “I don't care why,” Haldor gestures to the notice board. “These are the general rules, as Professor Snape said you will learn them." Goyle squints.  “Firstly, any quarrels or arguments stay inside these walls, we show a united front. Understand?” Theodore already expected this, but it was interesting they lead with that, unless they thought there was a risk of that happening? “Second, as you will have heard last night, the forest is out of bounds and there is a no-magic-in-the-corridors policy. However, you will not be punished for self defence unless it exceeds proportionate force, is that clear? You will see older students ignoring this rule, do everyone a favour and don’t get caught.”   There it was - there’s a policy, most people don’t follow it, we will not punish you unless you’re caught doing it .  “Lastly, in order to teach you punctuality,” Potter murmurs, and Draco’s cheeks flush pink but he says nothing. Learning. “You will meet here at six this evening. If you can manage that, we’ll tell you the rest. If not, you’ll learn it in your own time.”  Parkinson straightens up from leaning against the table.  This would almost seem silly, except that it was important. What you know will get you places.  If there was one thing his father had taught him, in a haze of soft silvers and her scent, a hand stroking through his hair, had been this; ‘if you’re lucky, slytherin will have a king in place. If you’re not, there will be a fight for it.’  If you’re lucky.  The unspoken rule was simple. The outsiders don’t get to know.  Generations upon generations of Slytherins follow this rule, Theodore had seen it, once at his father’s work. A man had leant in with a whisper of a king, and he’d been sent out of the room.  If you don’t know, you don’t know.   And there’s never a guarantee you’ll be a Slytherin at nine years old. He’d learnt from a young age, there's never a guarantee of anything at all.  They follow the route back up to the Great Hall, and this time both Prefects lead from the front.  Two seventh year Gryffindors hover inconspicuously by the stairs to the dungeons - except now that ‘ outsiders outsiders outsiders ’ rings around his head, they weren't inconspicuous at all.  “Move along Weasleys.” Potter orders, and neither Prefect stops to make sure they’ve listened.  “We’re minding our own-” “Then take your business elsewhere, or get detention.” Haldor doesn’t call persay, her voice is sharp enough to flow backwards. “It’ll satisfy Professor Snape’s morning, I’m sure.” He glances back to catch their sour faces, mischief lingering in the blues of their eyes, and they trail back down an adjoining hall, off talking in low, disgruntled voices. There was something powerful, like magic breathing through their lungs but better.  “The rest?” Parkinson murmurs,  “You know, the rest .” Greengrass frowns, as they slip into seats and reach for the cereal, taking in each of their faces.  “Lily and Tracey I can understand, how do you not know? ” Draco sighs.  “My father did mention once that he was a member of a court.”  “A court?” Millicent asks, Tracey Davis leans forwards.  They’d known each other as long as Theodore had known Draco, but the difference between the Bulstrodes and the Malfoys, is that their daughter would jab him in the ribs if he took too long to write back, not just grudgingly accept his existence when he was allowed to show up.  He thinks for a moment about speaking up.  Greengrass appraises them silently and turns to her meal. Davis nudges her and they make eye contact. But he knew she would say nothing.  It’s a know or you don’t situation.  “Oh? Does this place have secrets?” Zabini has a spark in his gaze that’s a little unnerving. Parkinson gives a disgusted scoff and scoots away from him. Dark eyes harden. The secrets of the Zabini family weren’t so secret but more allegations no one could prove. Seven husbands, one child and six fatal accidents.  “You have a problem, Pansy?” Her lip curls but it lacks the spite Theodore expected.  “Oh please, don’t look like that, Blaise. It’s your obsessiveness that’s off putting.” He relaxes, and Theodore tries to mask the confusion. They eat in relative silence for the rest of the meal, talk simmering to some semi-awkward ‘pass the butter’, until Professor Snape stops by their end of the table. He wears a similar blank expression to the Prefects, except, his eyes, dark pools that seem almost pleased by something.  “Here are your timetables. Don’t be late.” “Useful.” Theodore breathes, and Draco’s eyes snap to him.  “Nott?” They’re judging him, and suddenly his clothes stick to his skin.  “He says don't be late like we know where we’re going.” “That’s what the Baron is for,” a second year leans over, and they jump. “The ghosts like being helpful, no matter what the other houses might say about the Baron, ask and he’ll take you. Just don’t talk about the blood.” And the older girl gestures towards the ghost in the middle of the table, where silver blood was frozen in a permanent drip along his robes, matching the steeley unseeing gaze of his eyes. Her friend smirks at their hesitant faces, and joins the conversation.  “Hey don’t be put off, he’s the only one that can control Peeves - the poltergeist - and that comes in real handy sometimes. If the Lions give you grief, at least our ghost has his head intact.” As if on cue, they glance over, and the term Nearly Headless Nick thrown about the night before made a lot of sense. A hole, and the thread of skin holding on to the head, any appetite he’d had before was gone.  “What the-”  “Enjoy your breakfast.” The second years grin at their horrified faces. A hum of sniggers up the table, and even Prefect Haldor looks amused. The question is whether to press back, or laugh like it doesn’t matter ( until it does ).  It’s a test.

The whole day felt like a test. Like one giant test set by all the teachers,on how they can write, talk, on whether they can take simple instructions - which, he supposes, isn’t a bad idea, after watching Crabbe spill a bottle of ink and attempt to mop it up with his sleeve as they’re leaving a Transfiguration.  Professor McGonagall just flicks her wrist and banishes the mess, leaving Crabbe with a stained sleeve and red face.  A groaning Draco became a growling one, fire against fire that has nothing to do with Ronald Weasley’s hair but his rising defensive hackles over the Boy Who Lived.  He’d almost forgotten about Longbottom.  That seemed to become progressively harder as the day went on. They’d had double Transfiguration, Herbology, and then double Charms. Finding the greenhouses and getting back had been hard enough. Whilst the day was warm and dry, the grounds were as big as they’d first appeared and everyone seemed to be following everyone else. The lesson itself had been hot, in a room where every crevasse was etched in dirt and Parkinson seemed the type to combust if she broke a nail. Except she answered every question correctly, to a Gryffindor girl’s frustration - Granger , a muggleborn, he thought.  And although McGonagall did not stop at Longbottom name, Sprout did, eyeing him with appreciation over the top of the parchment.  “I heard you’ve got a knack for plants?” “Yes ma’am.”  Longbottom nodded, blushing, but that was definitely an accurate statement. Parkinson appeared to be trying to outdo the other girl, whereas Longbottom was fluid and natural in his answers, talk that breathed experience not textbook.  He could see his classmates forming their judgments, as the boy knocked into a stool on the way out, and that’s all Lunch seemed to be; whether the Boy Who Lived was as good as the papers suggested.  But Theodore didn’t have an opinion on it.  And he was almost certain Longbottom didn’t either, answering the barrage of questions from his own housemates with as much fluidity as fish out of water, awkward, scrambling against the truth and things they’d like to hear.  He hadn’t thought about that family for years, much less read the Prophet, they were so far off his radar he’d hardly realised the boy was in front of him until they were jostling shoulders outside Charms.  They both stumble. Another girl - Potter - catches Longbottom arm and Weasley makes a sound of protest, shoving his hand in his pocket as if to go for his wand. Theodore wanted to scoff except he was too busy throwing his own arm out to let the wall catch him, and Millicent’s hand grabs his shoulder.  The eloquent argument that followed seemed to go in one ear and out the other.  “-maybe if Longbottom knew how to walk -“ “oh like you could do anything with that, Malfoy -“ “- who asked you again, Brown?”  It ended, when Professor Flitwick arrived at the door and ushered them in. He left the room with the distinct impression they had somehow created enemies by just tripping up. But then, the Gryffindor-Slytherin house rivalry was almost as legendary in the Hogwarts grapevine as the schools inability to keep a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.  They’d seen Quirrel at the sorting, they wouldn’t have a lesson until Wednesday, though he wasn’t sure Quirrell seemed like the type to be able to handle an entire year at Hogwarts, let alone after. Nobody seemed to want to talk much about the years before. Finally, finally , the day ended.  Half relieved, half strangely disappointed, bag hanging loosely between his fingers, Theodore joins Millicent as they head into the common room.  “Hullo, Theo.”  Her voice is quiet, more hesitance than secrecy, and he swallows the urge to jerk round in surprise. The coals in his chest lit like a burner.   Theo .  The - o  His shoulders relax, and it’s nice. It had been a long time since anyone called him that.  “Hey, Millie,” he tries, and she smiles slightly  “How are you?”  “Alright. You?” They were always good with keeping the talk short. Short but comfortable.  “Yeah. The sofas by the fire are occupied by the fifth years, so they manage to squeeze into a gap between the wall and a small table with an abandoned chess board.  It’s uncomfortable, they’re aren’t sure where they’re allowed to sit let alone if there are free spaces, so they sit back and try to remain invisible. “Do you want to play?”  He blinks, as Millicent gestures to the board.  “Uh, sure.”  They restart, lining up all the pieces, and his hand lingers on the knight. ( ‘ it’s not about being noble, it’s about having something worth fighting for ’ ) “White moves first.” Millicent grins.  Because that’s how they had begun, two children forced across in a smoke filled room, where pipes were puffed between men’s lips.  Nervous glares, and then she’d spoke, as if he didn’t know how to play chess - he didn’t .  They play for awhile, focusing on the black and white squares rather than the trickle of students in and out of the room. That is until a hand knocks into their play, and the pieces fell.  Draco smirks, leaning against the table.  “Oops, I slipped.” “If you slipped you’d cry for your father.” Millicent snaps, and both their heads jerk round in surprise. A low “ooh” echoes from somewhere behind them, and Draco’s face twists.  “What’s that supposed to mean, Bulstrode?”  “It means don’t give it if you can’t take it.”  Davis interjects, leaning against the back of Millicent’s chair, and Greengrass follows her down looking uninterested, as the other first years arrive. “You are quite right, Miss Davis,”  He’s starting to wonder if his heart will ever stay in his chest, as it beats sharply to the sudden voice behind him, and for the second time that day they jump in surprise.  Hadrian Potter smirks.  There’s something cold, amused and appraising in his face all at once, as if balancing all three and none at all. His eyes scan each of them, and Theodore notices Lily Moon is missing, everyone else has made it for six sharp.  “Follow me.”  Once again, and it feels like they have a habit of doing this, Potter walks away and doesn’t look back to see if they follow. They do, like moths to a flame. They pile into a room that reminds him of the places his father would conduct business in the manor; dark wooden floors, dreary walls and a long desk with chairs like a cabinet meeting.  There were stacks of books around the edges, and a few seemingly unnecessary armchairs, with dim lighting that brightens up a bit as the door closes. Haldor perches on the edge of the desk, pulling back dark hair from her face and gestures to them to sit. Zabini takes an armchair first, a leg crossed over like a lord. Someone who has power and knows it. Greengrass stays standing, wand poking beneath her sleeve and Davis stands at her side.  It feels like this too is a test. As if this determines how they’re viewed.  Draco pulls up a chair and flops into it, like some attempt at grace that isn’t really ingrained. Haldor purses her lips.  So they weren’t supposed to touch those chairs then.  Millicent glances at him, and then lowers herself to the floor, leaning back against the edge of Zabini’s armchair whose eyes dance with sparks that have yet to become flames, yet to be deciphered.  Crabbe and Goyle hesitate, before standing behind Draco’s chair, as if they cannot figure out a place they can sit to be themselves. Except no one is really themselves here.  Potter leans against the wall, a hand on the frame of the door, closed behind them. He’s curious, looking for something.  “Can I sit?”  Theodore asks quietly, and both prefect’s eyes latch on to him.  “You may.” Haldor answers. So he does, on a stack of books that he regrets almost immediately, but remains stiff and still in his decision. Ruining property or being indecisive - either could be worse depending on the day.  “You are sat in what we like to call the chamber. You can use this room on the condition that anyone already in here at the time allows it.”  Potter speaks, falling in beside Haldor, leaning against the edge, and managing to look sharp enough that it’s not relaxed, nor stiff.  Focused, attentive.  “If you want to survive in Slytherin, those rules on the board are a minimum. For now all you need to worry about is how your conduct affects the House as a whole.”  Potter and Haldor share a glance, she takes over.  “But as you saw this morning, Slytherin will not make it easy for you.” “What do you mean?”  “Worth needs to be proven, Miss Davis.” “We’re supposed to prove our worth to the entire house?” Zabini sits forward, affronted.  “Whilst you may come to do that in time, no. As a whole you need to prove you have what it takes to uphold Slytherin values.” Crabbe and Goyle wear matching expressions of bemusement.  “There’s a very specific policy in Slytherin. We have a hierarchy-“ “Like a court?” Draco interrupts, and Haldor clicks her tongue.  “Yes, like a court.” Potter answers before either one can rile up. “Exactly like a court.”  “Then we can debate?” Greengrass asks carefully.  “You may have a vote.”  “Snape said our opinion doesn’t matter.” “Oh it doesn’t,” Potter smirks “you’re first years, the court don’t care to hear what you have to say. But in particular matters you may be offered a year group vote that would require a unanimous agreement from each of you.”  And suddenly, of all the changes weaving in their lives, this is the one that Theodore dislikes the most.  This irritates him.  “How does it work?” He asks, before anyone else can throw in a question “the court, I mean.”  “How any court would, I imagine.” Potter replies loosely, and this serves to irritate him more.  “As I was saying, we have a very specific hierarchy, it’s an old tradition that the other houses disbanded years ago.”  Haldor picks up smoothly.  “As we have said, the Court is not something you need to worry about. You answer to Professor Snape and ourselves, not the Court.” “But who is in the court?” “And what do they do?”  Greengrass and Zabini’s voices overlap, but hey share a determined nod.  “Like we said, you do have to prove yourself. To this, it means we will not disclose the members of the court unless they themselves do so. If you happen to be around when a meeting occurs that is nobody’s fault.”  “The Court works under the King or Queen,” Potter takes over, voice soft. “Everyone’s court is a little different, but the main aim is to advise.”  For some reason, Theodore was expecting more.  “To advise .. not to control?”  Millicent asked cautiously, and Haldor actually smiles. It’s just as cold, but it loosens her face to something a little more - welcoming.  “The Court will do as they see fit to protect the King, but first and foremost they will advise.” Zabini relaxes a fraction, Draco doesn’t.  “How do we become a member?”  Potter’s lips twitch.  “You don’t. And you don’t go to them, they come to you.” Haldor answers, giving Draco a look.  “So it’s a dictatorship.”  Theodore mutters, and once again their eyes flicker to him. “No, the Court will not control your behaviour, but they will enforce the rules. There are loopholes to everything, never forget that.”  “But what are the rules? You know, other than breakfast at eight and respect your peers.” Draco sneers, borderline sarcasm dripping from his lips.  Haldor stiffens, and Potter arches an eyebrow.  “You think you’re above those rules, Mr Malfoy?” Draco raises his chin.  “I think it’s pretty melodramatic,” he agrees.  “Then you’ll have a hard time fitting in.”  Haldor’s voice is somehow colder, as if before it had been natural and now it was chilled, offended.  “It’s alright,” Potter tilts his head to the side “Mr Malfoy just wants to know the dynamics.”  There was a pause.  “You’re first years. You’re the bottom of the food chain. No one cares about your parents money or your blood status because it doesn’t matter. If a third year gets to a seat before you, it’s theirs. If a fourth year tells you to get something, you do it.” Theodore is sure he’s not the only one mildly horrified by this.  And then, Potter rolls his eyes.  “Slytherin House is your safe space, but it is also theirs. Nobody enforces those dynamics strictly, that’s what you have to look forward to if you screw up badly enough. But the point is they’re there, and you’ll pick them up as you go along. If I just told you everything you’d only retain half of it.” Greengrass takes a breath, and for a moment, looks nervous, before asking “What about if we have a problem with an older student?” “You tell us.” Haldor answers, instantly “Although my partner is right in saying your money and status doesn’t matter right now, that doesn’t mean the older years can say or do whatever they like. Like we said, you’ll pick up the nuisances, and they’ll wind you up in order to do it but Slytherin House does not tolerate bullying, or discrimination, is that clear?”  He finds himself nodding without even realising it.  “For example, that’s three points from Slytherin for that display in the common room, and five points to Slytherin for Miss Davis defending her peers.”  Davis blushes, and Malfoy does too, as his eyes narrow in anger.  “We could have had this conversation last night or this morning, or out there in the common room. Does anyone know why you were brought in here?” Haldor asks.  “You were testing our punctuality and listening skills.” Millicent offers, and Haldor nods.  “Anything else?” “Showing us the importance of privacy and being discreet.”  Her lips twitch.  “Giving us an example of how to behave?”  “Yes to most of that,” Potter steps in, faintly amused, “and yet you missed the most obvious thing of all.” Theodore frowns, shifting against the hard books beneath him, and catches Zabini’s eye. He shrugs flippantly, but there’s interest in his eyes.  “What?” “We gave you a time to see if you could follow instructions, we gave you a place to see if you’re any good at actually listening to them, we brought you in here so we could talk privately, and not one of you asked us why?” A frown tugs at his lips, still not following.  “It didn’t occur to any of you that this wasn’t some sort of test?” Nope, still nothing.  Haldor laughs, a breathless chuckle.  “Look around, at each of you, how on earth do you think you’re going to get through seven years if you don’t trust one another? Slytherin House has its rules and it’s politics, but you’re eleven . It’s your first full day, why on earth would we be testing you?” Some sinking sense of relief folds along his shoulders.  “The point of this is to prove you’re going to be treated the same, as a whole. This house is trusting you with its secrets, you need to learn to do the same with us.”  The words are still ringing in his head when they leave, ten minutes later, and still utterly confused by the whole affair. Greengrass disappears looking troubled, and the girls follow, leaving them awkwardly hovering by the stairs.  A few hours ago they might’ve sat down, attempted to join in, now they tread against the sidle lines unsure of whether to go.  And then, the second year from breakfast, lounging on the sofas looks over and laughs.  “Had that talk then?” Their smirk relaxed into a softer smile, something warm and friendly. “Don’t worry we’re not going to bite.” Despite the fact they were then herded on to the seats themselves, and challenged to games of exploding snap, Theodore couldn’t help but wonder if that were entirely true.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“What do we call you?” A second year asks hesitantly, fiddling with a loose thread.

Harry stares.

“My name?”

- circa 1993

“Potter,” Damien arrives at his shoulder with a huff of air and a fixed scowl. 
 
“If the wind changes that’ll stick.” 
 
It gets deeper. He resists the urge to smirk.  
 
“You dropped off the Quidditch team?” 
 
Hadrian sighs, and falls back against the bedsheets, rubbing a palm against his temple.
 
“That was quick, who told you?” 
 
“Pucey, Montague and Warrington. All at once.” 
 
“Brilliant.” A mutter through clenched teeth, and the mattress jostles as Damien pushes him over. There’s a faint rustle, as their movement knocks his homework to the floor, lying side by side staring at the ceiling. 
 
There's a thin silence lapping against the walls.
 
“Why’d you quit?” 
 
“I didn’t quit.” 
 
Damien gives him a look. Soft waves of dark hair fall against his face. 
 
“I stepped back.”
 
“

Potter

..” 
 
There it is; what Snape has successfully kept from his voice when Hadrian had told him of his decision, the look that doesn’t leave his parents eyes, like heat prickling at his skin all summer. 
 
Pity. 
 
He tears his eyes away, and finds the familiar cracks in the stone, the threads hanging from the drapes, forcing the swelling anger down.
 
( ‘

anything you have , you use

’ ) 
 
He smoothes it across his face, something static beneath his skin, steadily filling in the cracks. His eyes harden into the silence, and whilst his jaw relaxes, it remains resting place. 
 
“I didn’t mean-“
 
“I know what you meant.” 
 
Not even cold, just blank. 
 
Damien’s eyes track into the side of his face, looking, waiting, releasing a sigh into the fallen silence and shifting upwards until he’s resting against the headboard. 
 
“Word has it your sister has flying class tomorrow, what if she breaks your record?”
 
“My record?”
 
“As the youngest player to make the house team.”
 
“Unless they were ten I don’t see how.” Hadrian rolls his eyes, and leans over the side of the bed to grab his work. 
 
“How what?” Richelle asks for the doorway of the dorm. 
 
“Potter pulled out of quidditch and now he’s scared of losing his record.” 
 
Damien scrambles out of reach of the stinging hex sent his way, bashing his hip into the edge of the bedside table, swearing. Richelle looks unconvinced, leaning on the bedpost as Hadrian slips his wand back up to the holster in his sleeve. 
 
“Why

have

you pulled out?” 
 
Damien groans. 
 
“I asked that.” 
 
“I just have a lot going on this year,” Hadrian frowns, and it’s a little more open, mellow green eyes gazing at the blotted parchment in his hands - conflict . 
 
He’s glad when neither of them point out it’s the same as last year, with one difference. No Rosier. 
 
Instead, Richelle rubs a thumb and forefinger over her temple. 
 
“Then you’re about to have more,” at their curious glances, she elaborates “Draco noticed your ring.”
 
The Black Family Ring gleams on his left hand, dark stone glinting against the light, against

all

light, like dark liquorice swirling in it’s depths. 
 
“So what?” Damien raises an eyebrow “it’s not like it belongs to him.” 
 
“That’s the thing, Draco

does

believe that.” She winces, “it’s what my parents taught him to expect.” 
 
They stare. 
 
“That’s fucking stupid,” Damien sneers “they’re setting him up to fail.”

Taught him to believe

“But not you.” Hadrian murmurs, and Richelle blinks. He glances down at the parchment for a moment, and then back up, face closing off, absently slipping back into the blank wall of a mask. 
 
“If your brother has something to say, let him say it.” Softly spoken, but still a command in place. The shift is smooth, quick but familiar, as the two highest members of the court share a glance behind his stiffening back. 
 
“I have Ancient Runes in an hour, does anyone know where Rookwood is?”
 
At their shaking heads he nods stiffly. 
 
“I’ll be back later. Keep an eye on Highworth and Travers, they have Charms later.” 
 
Whilst confused, they don’t bother to bat an eye at the request, as Hadrian shoulders his bag, homework slipped carefully between his books to avoid any more stains, and follows him out of the door. 
The sixth years are sat near the exit hallway, failing to play chess, something foreboding sits in his stomach, but he strides on past. 
It wasn’t that he didn’t trust them - and trust was key - it’s that, he’s sure he would find a loophole too if he could, because it’s what they’re taught to do. The

risk

of heading into the third floor when the Headmaster stated the danger doesn’t bode well for them or for the house. 
 
He finds Rookwood on the edge of the forest, cutting up weeds with a penknife. 
 
“Knotgrass,” Tarquinius (

‘call me tar, not quin’

) offers as a way of hello, as he leans against a tree and watches curiously. “Good for Polyjuice Potion and Knotgrass Mead.”
 
Not a weed.
 
“Recreational or professional?”
 
He glances up, soft grey eyes, and his mouth twists mischievously. 
 
“Both.” 
 
Hadrian smirks. 
 
“Fair enough.” 
 
Rookwood shifts, placing the knotgrass into vials that clink in the bottom of his bag, and stands, dusting off dirt from his knees, and it lingers like ash against the flop of blonde hair. 
They walk in a comfortable silence as the autumn wind catches their cheeks in pale flushes, until the entrance steps. Rookwood was the quietest of their dorm, and probably the most sentimental. But that’s what made him dangerous. And the thing was, Hadrian could see himself in there, if he’d chosen another path to walk.
 
“My father wanted me to transfer this year to Durmstrang.” 
 
Hadrian almost stops. 
 
“Why?” It comes out sharper than he intended, something catching in his chest. If Tarquin notices, he doesn’t say, just shrugs. 
 
“Possibly because of Rosier? At least that’s the excuse he’s using.” 
 
He doesn’t shy away from saying the name, that’s refreshing. 
 
“You don’t believe him?” 
 
“I think something is going to happen sooner or later, whether we want it to or not.” 
 
Blunt is good, useful, better than riddles. Whilst Hadrian and Morpheus are made from the same cloth, Tarquin reminds him of the little that he’s seen of Millicent Bulstrode. 
 
“So you aren’t flying anymore?” 
 
If he had any less composure Hadrian would have groaned. But he couldn’t, as they slip between groups of students in the milling hallways, and instead settled for shooting him a dark look. 
 
“Oh please, if Rosier couldn’t fly away in time, what hope does Potter have on a pitch?” 
 
Cormac McGlaggen’s voice rings abruptly, catching the end of their conversation as he loops round them to lean against the upcoming suit of armour. Rookwood’s face hardens. Behind them, a sharp breath of air from passing students, and a small crowd of first years look round with interest. 
 
There would be no use trying to explain that

flying hadn’t been an option

. Heat grows at his collar, precipitation on his palms. And the way Mclaggen looks, with an easy smirk that’s not quite malicious, but bordering contempt - like Clarke, like Lestrange, and a wash of cold runs down his back.
 
“Unlike you, half a brain and actual skill.” 
 
He drawls, tight grip on the strap of his bag, and though his mouth was dry, his face did not change. Mclaggen straightens, gaze darkening with irritation, pushing off of the wall to step forwards. 
 
Neither Slytherin bothers to move, they don’t need to, their stance is clear and their bodies are touching, they have defence and attack. Mclaggen does it all for them, drawing up a couple of inches taller, jaw clenched, wand in hand. One comment can tip the scales. Two years younger and he might have done the same thing. 
 
“What did you say?”
 
“Just that some of us have talent.” 
 
“You couldn’t even save yourself.” 
 
“And yet

you

couldn’t save a goal if it smacked you round the face.” Hadrian murmurs, and it takes his entire willpower not to show hand; go for his wand, clench his fists (

punch him in the mouth

), do anything. 
 
A wand jabbing into his chest. Rookwood takes a step forward. 
 
Hot, uncomfortably hot, tension crawling along the walls, hands itching to defend. 
 
“Move along, Mclaggen”

If you know what’s good for you,

he breathes. 
 
Gryffindor’s Keeper sneers, white knuckled grip. Nobody moves. 
 
Waves folding in his ears. A hole burning through his shirt. 
 
“What's going on here?” 
 
Professor Babbling arrives, and Hadrian takes a step back -

don’t get caught, don't get caught

- as Mclaggen drops his hand. A wisp of smoke drifts between their gazes. 
 
“Nothing, Professor.” 
 
“Just a misunderstanding.” 
 
Their voices echo across each other. Babbling looks unconvinced, appraising them coolly, lips pressed together. 
 
“Ten points from Gryffindor for the use of magic in the corridors.” 
 
“Professor-“
 
“Unless you’re implying Mr Potter burned his own uniform? In which case I would applaud the accuracy of that.” 
 
Mclaggen grinds his teeth, a hand balled into a fist, Babbling’s eyes zero in with a touch of displeasure. There were some perks to having extra tuition with her last year then. 
 
“I suggest you get to your next class Mr Mclaggen.”
 
An acidic look, sour face and Cormac stalks away, dragging a classmate with him. Hadrian had visions of a meeting later, Mcgonagall’s eyes pinched with an oncoming lecture.
 
“The display is over. Everyone inside, go on.”
 
There’s something strangely humoured glittering in her eyes, as Babbling ushered the queue of students forming behind them into the classroom. 
Tarquin nudges his shoulder. 
 
“We’ve got an audience.” 
 
Because it’s not just their classmates; Neville Longbottom is recognisable down the corridor, between Weasley’s tall stature and his sisters wide eyes. But it’s Cooper, frowning at the back that catches his attention. 
 
“Come on.” 
 
Hadrian moves to head into the classroom, strap sliding off his shoulder into his palm.
 
“Potter, a word?” 
 
Babbling gestures to stay, and they wait for a moment as the rest of the class filters through the door as expected, except he’s well aware that Cooper is still hovering further down the corridor. 
 
“What was that all about?” Dark eyes fix him with a sharp glance. 
 
“A misunderstanding, Ma’am.” 
 
“That's not quite what I heard.” She crosses her arms over her chest. 
 
“I’m unaware as to what you heard?” He pauses, “therefore, how could I answer-”
 
“

Potter

.”
 
“Professor.” His voice remains balanced, and she sighs, voice softening. 
 
“If someone is giving you a hard time there’s no shame in asking for help.”
 
“With all due respect, I can handle Mclaggen.” 
 
A scrutinising glance. He keeps his shoulders straight. Professor Babbling had a colder disposition, if her eyes narrowed, wore displeasure and irritation like a veil. Whilst Snape kept his emotions entirely in check, Babbling had no problem biting back, especially if her standards were not met. 
 
A woman of tradition, but not unfair. 
 
“He had some sort of rivalry with Mr Rosier did he not?” 
 
“I wouldn’t know.” 
 
“I highly doubt that, Mr Potter. As I recall you spent a lot of time together.” 
 
“If I remember anything I’ll let you know.” He offers a blatant lie. 
 
After a moment, she frowns, and gestures back towards the classroom with a clipped

‘see that you do’

. The flash of half a smile, fixed, fake, but more often than not, Babbling was not someone he could fool. 
 
He slips back into class, their eyes bounce off his skin until he slides in next to Rookwood with a low sigh. 
 
Hadrian had known two Rosier’s in his life. Felix was a prefect in his first year, sharp but never unkind. Thomas ‘ call me Tommy on pain of death ’ Rosier had been the second. 
 
Who would've heard the gasping breaths of

‘Tommy’

from Hadrian’s own bruised chest before he died. Blood and mud and Rabastan Lestrange holding a wand to his head.
 
Felix called him Tommy at the funeral. 
 
Thomas would’ve loved that, from his brother and only his brother. The rest had just been words, vacant, empty words. 
 
Felix was nice, but he wasn’t

Rosier

. And that’s how Hadrian knew him, as Rosier, the first upper year who didn’t look at him like he didn’t belong, who didn’t ask why he was there. The one who tossed an arm over his shoulder, called him Potter, and tugged him away from prying eyes as his throat got caught in his chest. The one who sat when the dust settled an elbow apart, and let him take shaking breaths into the silence. 
 
Rosier had made it a home before his friends had, even if he didn’t know it.

‘It’s not Ancient Runes if you don’t question your ability to pass the exam at least once a week’ was the general rule of thumb, and whilst Hadrian excelled in DADA, this was a little more of a sore spot. 
 
There are sheets scattered with symbols, things he can identify, under the dimming lighting of the library, it’s the writing that makes no sense. Half pieced together scraps of Latin they had to translate into full sentences, in order to understand the magic traditionally used to activate a set of runes. 
There were phrases that bled onto the page through his hand without much thought, and then fractions that could be any number of things and

none

of them seemed to make sense. Three hours, glaring at the sheets of paper, slowly, cautiously filled, around the haze of chatter that slowly dwindled to a soft background noise. His eyes hurt. 
 
Tarquin had disappeared off to Divination, and whilst he didn’t envy the hot classrooms and scents that made his nose burn, Hadrian did wish Rookwood was around to help. 
 
The chair squeaks as he gets up to check the shelves in the restricted section for anything to help ( or something else to do ), thumb running over the spines. Old tombs, thick with dust, or lighter ones. Darker magics, and one that reads Secrets of the Darkest Arts. It’s almost ironic, as he tugs it out to inspect, that
Dumbledore
of all people would allow this. 
 
He makes it as far as the contents page, skimming silently, before a whisper grabs his ear. 
 
“No, no, that won’t do.” Professor Quirrell, murmuring, stuttering in the next aisle over. The headache that had been building behind his eyes all afternoon is thrown into force, thumping against his skull. It’s not Quirrell however, that catches his attention. 
 
It’s the bump of a shoe knocking against the wood, and a wisp of the air that doesn’t look quite right.
 
“I hope you have a pass to be in here.” 
 
He drawls. 
 
There’s a pause. 
 
Another bump, someone taking a step back, and a groan. Cooper doesn’t reveal himself, and Hadrian doesn’t call him out, just raises an eyebrow in the general direction. 
 
He can’t take away points on a technicality - that he knows who's under it, but without evidence he cannot prove. 
 
“Walk away or hand over the cloak.”
 
A scoff in response. 
 
His face closes off, if nothing else than to comment on the stupidity of saying anything at all unless his brother

wanted

to be recognised by his voice. 
 
“You have five seconds.”
 
The cloak slips from Cooper’s shoulders as he grabs a book from one of the shelves that Hadrian can’t get a look at, but he does manage to snatch the silver cloth from the air. Distantly, an echo of a door slamming, an angry Madam Pince and his father’s invisibility cloak lay in his hands.
 
It’s softer than he expected. 
 
He knows the Weasley twins gave Cooper a map - The Marauders Map, if he’s right, and it would explain his brother's sudden newfound ability to not get caught when the rest of his plans had always gone horribly wrong. 
 
But he’s not sure how Cooper got ahold of the cloak, he’s fairly certain his father kept it for missions until he was upgraded to Head Auror. And even then, his parents had always been big on sharing, if they had wanted them to have it, they would have shared it with all three of them. 
 
Unless they assumed Bethany was too young to risk the danger of sneaking out, and he would use it for something dark; which may not have seemed so likely a few months ago, except now he’s not sure what they think of him. 
 
Cooper would have made the obvious choice. Mischief, no harm no foul. 
 
He tries to stop caring. 
 
A tired exhale, folding the cloak up into his bag and he sinks back into the hard chairs to make some headway. 
 
Or not. 
 
“That was out of order!” Pucey hisses, sliding into the seat next to him. Madam Pince looks up, eyes narrowed.
 
“Mclaggen had no right, no

goddamn

right.” 
 
Word always travels fast in Slytherin. 
 
“That’s true.” He agrees quietly, eyes roaming the fragmented words of old texts, restricted pass in hand. 
 
“I mean to even bring up Thomas, to suggest that-“
 
“Quiet.” 
 
Madam Pince snaps and Adrian’s jaw clicks shut, warm skin scattered ever more golden in the light of the torches. The sixth year grits his teeth, and then slowly relaxes. Hadrian watches him for a moment. 
 
“I apologise.” 
 
“Excuse me?” 
 
“You were his closest friend, if anyone should get to defend him-“ 
 
“And with the greatest respect,” Adrian whispers sharply, leaning forwards. “As his closest friend, I’m telling you to shut the hell up.” 
 
He swallows, and meets Pucey’s narrowed eyes with a blank look. 
 
“Thomas wanted you to succeed… to do better, to make things better. So, Mclaggen

doesn’t get to talk.

Alright?” Their knees bump under the table, and Adrian stares until their eyes meet, until he receives a curt nod. 
 
“Good. I’ll sort it out.” 
 
“And what will you do? Because whatever it is-“
 
“It cannot link back to Slytherin,

I know

. I have been doing this longer than you, Potter.” Adrian smirks, and then it softens. 
 
Pucey was the only chaser on the Slytherin team to have never committed a foul, a little more accepted by the other houses, Pucey was the reliable one. Hot, too. That probably helps.
 
“Look you should know,” dark eyes pulling him in, like rain down the glass, heads ducked together, close, almost touching “you meant a lot to him.”
 
Hadrian glances back down at his work, grip tightening around his quill. 
 
“And if the older years didn’t agree with your status, we wouldn’t be listening to you now.”
 
That catches his attention, frowning. Adrian shrugs, leaning back, somehow managing to look both as relaxed as the Weasley twins watching a prank unfold, and yet as unapproachable as the Slytherins strive to be. It was a different type of intimidating, like watching someone popular in one of those muggle films his mother would play.
 
“So don’t take it too hard, alright? You’ve proven your worth.”
 
It’s an echo ringing in his ears, as Pucey leaves, and with it the warmth. The library is doused in a chill, as the shadows creep closer in.
 
“An interesting book you picked up, Mr Potter.” 
 
Hadrian almost jumps, catching himself on the table in time. Quirrel stands a safe distance away, looking uncomfortable but inquisitive. 
 
“Just browsing, Sir.” 
 
Although the reply was smooth, he had the feeling Quirrel didn’t believe him in the slightest, and that put his teeth on edge. Dark eyes looming into him, looking for something, hard, focused. 
 
And then, Quirrel relaxes, like a release of air, and mumbles an unsure “very good”, before slipping off.
 
Had he seen? 
 
There was a reason they needed permission for the restricted section. If Babbling thought he was looking at books like the Secrets of the Darkest Arts, even contemplating reading that, he’d never step foot in the library again. 
 
Because everyone was always quick to take the bait. 
 
He couldn't risk going to check the book again, not now, not that he was even looking for anything in particular but - hadn't Regulus said, knowledge is power? Hadn’t he said, books can be your best friend or your biggest mistake?
 
He was a Slytherin - where meagre curiosity would be aligned with potential to become dangerous. Ravenclaw weren’t afforded the same scrutiny but they weren’t too far behind. Too much intelligence can be a bad thing, apparently. 
 
Which is why he found it highly amusing to spot a seventh year Hufflepuff tucking a tomb of herbal affinities and

poisons

into his bag. How much would the teachers worry if they saw that then?
 
Lead astray,

poor child

, wouldn’t they whisper. 
 
He manages silence for a few more minutes, bar the shift of students towards the door and their prolonged whispers, the scraping of chairs. His quill scratches along the parchment; once, twice, a third time before he reaches for more ink. 
 
There are eyes on him. He can feel them, something hypersensitive crawling against his skin. But Hadrian is well aware that more often than not there aren’t any eyes at all, so he chooses not to look. 
 
Other than a small glance.
 
A Gryffindor first year on the table across, dark bushy hair framing her face. She watches with curiosity that borders aggressiveness, something determined burning in her eyes. 
 
“If you have something to say, don’t just gawp.” 
 
The child’s breath catches in surprise, and he can’t deny the rush of amusement in his chest. 
 
(

‘ power isn’t all about control’ regulus frowns ’)

There’s another moment of silence, the words on the page finally clicking together in his head, and his quill is back to scratching on the paper. A flutter of pages, then a soft thud of a heavy tomb closing, and the Gryffindor takes a deep breath.
 
“How do you do that?” 
 
“Do what?” He’s sure if he were less bored he wouldn’t bother to answer.
 
“

That

!” the girl sits forwards with a frustrated gesture. “Make people listen.” 
 
Her tie was perfect, collar too, dead centre but here that meant nothing. After all, the other houses didn’t bother to check status. But he’s not looking for power here, just identify. 
 
It’s the pen on the table next to her, ballpoint, so muggleborn at least. 
 
“You cannot force people to listen.” 
 
“But you do,” the girl argues, “I’ve seen it.” 
 
Hadrian stares, unimpressed. 
 
“That is speculation, not proof.”

“I’m not mad

.” She snaps, and then shrinks back, cheeks flushed with youthful frustration, battling with sudden embarrassment. 
 
“No,” he agrees calmly, “but you’re not right either.” 
 
“I-“
 
“It’s proper etiquette to know one's name before you begin an argument.” Half ready to tune her out, except her back straightens and with more courage than she seemed to realise she possessed, bites back.
 
“But your proper etiquette doesn’t account for equality?”
 
There’s a pause. She’s not asking, almost sneering. And he doesn’t doubt she’s well within her right. 
 
“I was actually talking about manners. How can I address you if I do not know your name?” 
 
Here, she blushes.
 
“Hermione Granger.” 
 
“We have very different ideas on what proper etiquette means, but it has nothing to do with blood status, Miss Granger.”
 
Granger falters, stiff and unsure. She takes a deep breath. 
 
“Doesn’t ‘proper etiquette’ go both ways?”
 
“True. Hadrian Potter.” He introduces, resisting the urge to smirk. She’s smart then, picks things up quickly.
 
“Oh,” She blinks in surprise “

you’re

Bethany’s brother?”
 
Not a huge filter though. 
 
“Mmh.” 
 
Uncommitive, but Granger doesn’t get the dismissal for what it is, and after a moment's hesitation, takes a second plunge. Metaphorically - he would

not

be saving her from any body of water. 
 
“But with Professor Quirrel you just-“
 
“The Professor was clearly finished with the conversation, Granger,” he sighs “otherwise I’m sure he would have pressed the matter.” 
 
Once again, she flushes, and slips a little further back in her seat. There was something surprisingly resigned in her posture, curls falling across her face. 
 
“The Slytherins listen to you.” It’s a soft mutter, as her eyes become suspiciously bright in the light, one that rings alarm bells in his head, and drops a stone in his gut with realisation. 
 
She was lonely. 
 
“Have you tried listening to what others say before jumping in?” He drawls, taking a stab in the dark. 
 
Her eyes duck downwards. 
 
Not a bad stab then. 
 
“Listening is a choice not a command,” he offers, though the words taste like dust on his tongue, dry and empty, too old for his face, no matter how tall his body has grown. “It comes with trust.” 
 
Her expression narrows, confused, but not entirely out of the game. Because that was everything these days, a game of words. 
 
“Quirrel doesn’t trust you.” She puts in, and his lips twitch,

nice

. “And you say he was finished with the conversation but he wasn't convinced. If it were Professor McGonagall she would have pressed the matter.”
 
“Would she?” He sits forward, clasping his hands on the table, Granger falters. “It’s been just over two weeks do you really know what McGonagall would do?”
 
She opens her mouth, but he moves swiftly on. 
 
“Quirrel was simply guessing, that’s why he let the matter drop. There are a great many books in the restricted section, and not all of them are appropriate.”
 
Her shoulders square in retaliation, chin jutting out. 
 
“Right, but like you said -

I’m not wrong.

The Slytherins do listen to you. Malfoy practically squirms when you walk by.” Triumphant, eyes flashing with smugness. She wears her emotions too much upon her face, Hadrian decides. 
 
“If you recall, I said you were not right either. Your classmates listen because I am their Prefect.”
 
The badge glints on his chest, and something crestfallen rolls over her face. He realises, she likes a debate and she likes to win, a good combination. But it’s more than that, he garners, unable to quite figure out what. 
 
“The term is Occam's Razor. Often, the simplest answer is usually right. Don’t overthink it, Granger.”

Don’t overthink it. Be yourself.

Those eyes follow him out; bright, brown and wet that he was glad enough to disappear from, into the cool breeze of the halls. An absent fleeting thought, if he were some years younger maybe they would have been friends. It’s gone before the torches catch his shadow. 
 
Sometimes talking with other houses felt strange. Like bugs crawling over his skin, when they watch him, frowning, wondering why he was trying too hard. Hadrian has respect in Slytherin but it amounts to little outside, translates into fear instead, intimidation as his eyes cloud over into darkness beneath the shine of the prefect's badge.

Mcglaggen would make a snide comment about too much power, but

god

they didn’t know the half of it.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Please, I need you to teach me.”

Harry begs, and Regulus sighs.

“You have to understand, you could just lose yourself along the way.”

“Good,” Harry swallows and straightens out. His mask isn’t terrible, but not so solid, filled with cracks that couldn’t be improvised.

“I need this.”

And Regulus doesn’t doubt that.

-circa 1992

They meet on Thursday’s, when the sun is just reaching the tree line. They like to take an abandoned classroom on the west, where the light can pool through the windows and drape along the tables.

“The first years are already fighting.”

Sometimes they talk, bent over a desk, sometimes they don’t.

“It’s been less than a month?”

Cedric stares at him, soft bronze specks glittering in the rays. The Head Boy badge pinned to his chest shines.

“You know how it is,” Hadrian shrugs.

“Not really, the most we get is homesickness and the odd rivalry.” An amused snort, and Cedric brushes pencil sharpenings off the table with a flick of his hand.

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” he mutters, “we get Neville Longbottom and Draco Malfoy attempting duels.”

“You’re joking,” Cedric’s jaw drops, eyes bright with disbelief and glittering with wild laughter that doesn’t translate to his voice “what on earth were they thinking?”

“Clearly, they weren’t,” he sighs, leaning back into the chair to watch a flock of birds grace the sky. “ Azira overheard them at breakfast. Malfoy challenged Longbottom to a duel, Weasley jumped in and accepted as his second.”

“I have never seen her move her wand so fast to silence anyone,” Hadrian grins, and it’s looser, freer than anything he’d slathered on to face the teachers. Cedric chuckles.

“Ironic they’re all purebloods really, you’d think those families of all people would explain the dangers of duelling.”

He hums softly in agreement.

There was a reason there were duelling masters, there were circles of shields that surrounded the platforms and referee;s to oversee matches. There’s a reason wording had to be precise when the duel was formed.

If two eleven year olds had said the wrong thing, had it become a real duelling challenge, whilst they may not have done any serious damage in the duel itself, it could have cost them if the duel went without being engaged for too long. Or if they missed it.

“The son of an auror and the son of a death eater.” A shake of his head, and Cedric shoots him a sharp look.

“So it’s true?”

Hadrian blinks, and taps the table with his pencil.

“It’s not as if it was ever a secret,” he pauses thoughtfully, “they still have the transcripts of the trials stored at the ministry, they don’t guard who accessed them.”

“Have experience do you?”

A dry remark, and Cedric’s eyes glitters within amusement, inclined for an explanation.

“Just pearls of wisdom from my godfather.”

“That’s Sirius, right?”

“Mmh.”

There’s the sound of pencil scratching paper, as they fill the parchment in front with soft sketches, a blaze of charcoal.

Cedric’s nose wrinkles at the smudges on his hands, sweeps up his forearm, and the glaze of freckles along the bridge of his nose seem more apparent.

They are entrenched for the moment, hidden from the world that passes by, two shades of golden traipsed in the light. Diggory, shades of bright, lustful jewels, a crown, like glitter on his lips - polished, “pretty boy”, the would whisper.

He’s the duller gold, the scratched edges, closer to a steel, flecks of paint falling away.

Gold is what draws people in, and though his turns silver in the wrong light, they reach for it, ever so curious, until they’re engulfed with no escape.

Not so deadly as that

Until it was .

Cedric was the frame they hung on the wall with the oil painting of a Greek God or a young Earl ( an Achilles heel for one and all ). Except in that room he’s been known to snap quills in a flurry of anger and watch the ink explode against his cheeks with a watered down laugh. He’s been known to down a glass of something stronger and stranger than water until the air breathed intoxication of their lungs.

The difference though, Hadrian noted, and it was something easy to see for they had known each other a long time - Cedric wore his heart upon his sleeve.

So each smile was a flicker of reality, sincerity, his eyes wide and brimming with genuine emotion. Sometimes it was a wonder he didn’t burn alive.

Cedric wore his heart upon his sleeve but was capable of retracting it.

They’d call him pretty boy and he’d laugh it off until the nails digging into his palms broke the skin. He’d smile, in all that realness, sympathetic, until the sadness swallowed him up. He still rose a little higher when the chant of his name echoed around the pitch.

They called him the best of us all, and wasn’t that addicting. There was darkness under his painted skin, bronze hair and dancing smirk, gold dust sprinkled on his cheeks.

“So now I know Lucius Malfoy is a Death Eater,” Cedric twirls the pencil between his fingers “won't there be repercussions?”

“From what?”

“Revealing trade Slytherin secrets,” The Hufflepuff teases.

Hadrian scoffs lightly, and it’s nicer than he cares to admit, to feel his muscles loosening around his face.

“What parents wish to do in their spare time is their business, we may not like a scandal but death eater rumours have been around far longer than most of us. “

“Wouldn’t it bother Malfoy?”

“Which one?” He drawls.

“Both,” Cedric snorts, leaning back in his chair.

“It won’t if you don’t mention it,” Hadrian quirks an eyebrow, and then the message is clear without the need for a warning. “And I would hardly call it a trade secret.”

Cedric watches him closely for a moment.

“You know,” he starts slowly “I learn more about how Slytherin works sat here with you than watching them for three months across the Great Hall ever could, and even then it’s like tiny scraps of information.”

Hadrian stiffens, eyes sharpening,

“I would think,” he speaks coolly, “you would be smart enough to forget anything you might have heard.”

Relaxed, to closed off within seconds. For a moment, Cedric wonders what he might do, as both their hands inch towards their wands. The air had curdled, as the light began to fall away from the window with the night crawling in closer.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he may be Head Boy, may have more official authority than the Slytherin, but if there’s one thing Cedric did know, it was that they were far more likely to attack when threatened than even the Lions.

And truly, he hadn’t meant it like that.

“Just that it’s funny, really. How much you guys are oblivious like - in three weeks I've learnt that there are ways to get dessert brought to you first at dinner, apparently the way you tie your tie is important and Lucius Malfoy is as much of a scumbag as I already thought he was.”

“It’s really little things,” he shrugs, “we don’t care about the type of stuff in Hufflepuff you see. You could walk in the common room and find a group lap dancing … I actually did, just the other day.”

“Right.” Hadrian murmurs, a scratch in his voice. “Sorry - lap dancing?”

It was a strange thing, to enjoy the company of this particular Potter, when their every move seemed scrutinised. Maybe that was the point, they had a lot in common.

And although bemusement seeps into his voice, suddenly Cedric got the impression it didn’t ring right, didn’t seem as genuine as before. His walls were up, without being so closed off, another layer stripped and another pulled up.

A pang of guilt simmers in his chest.

“Oh yeah, some fourth years, god knows what Sprout would have said if she walked in.”

They fall back into a steady rhythm, but Hadrian can’t escape the distraction of his thoughts, the sharp twinge in his back, and the precipitation on his palms.

It wasn’t that he thought Diggory of all people would betray his trust, betray whatever thing they had going on, in fact he was fairly sure ( ‘ but not certain ‘ ) the boy wouldn’t. But it was an entirely different year from the last.

Different from their first introduction on the pitch, back in third, and then kind smiles in fourth, ones that he’d never been sure what to do with until Rosier assured him that was low-key for the Hufflepuffs. Bit of a stereotype, but some of them had to fit the rule.

“You know,” Cedric starts after a moment, just as he’s beginning to pack away.  “Just because you’re not playing Quidditch doesn’t mean you can’t fly.”

“Is that an offer?”

Something dances between them, despite the hardness of his voice, despite the fact he couldn’t quite loosen anymore, drawn back into the shell of his thoughts.

Cedric doesn’t mind, he realises.

“If you want it to be?”

The Hufflepuff shrugs, with a soft expression in place, before adding.

“and we don’t need to book the pitch for that.”

Hadrian raises an eyebrow, shouldering his bag. Cedric’s lips form a smirk and it’s positively Slytherin.

“I heard the Lions hate it when their space is ‘invaded’.”

A laugh blooms in the back of his throat, swallowed in time to release a surprised breath of air, and Cedric grins.

“See you around, Potter.”

“You too, Diggory.”

And it’s with an inward smile and a weight loosening from his chest - how does he do that ? - that he joins the empty corridor where the flames flicker pleasantly along the walls, more shadows than not.

“You can’t close yourself off entirely,” Regulus had murmured, as the rain swept along the windows, pattering in gentle noises. He’d felt safe there, in the dark gloom of it all, as he plucked some strange sticky string from his hair, the result of a prank.

A harsh blue glow settled in the wake of the storm. When he was little the tower scared him.

“If you try you’ll only ever be disappointed.”

“This doesn’t feel like a teaching moment,” he had grunted, gritted teeth, trying to stop the well of tears against his eyes, nails digging into his skin.

They had all laughed .

“Harry, listen to me,” and Regulus crouched in the graceful descent only he seemed to manage, catching his white knuckled hands.

“You’ll fail, if you do that.” It reverberates across the room. “You’ll fail because one day you’ll hurt too much and it will have nowhere to go. Your emotions can be a weakness - but they are necessary.”

Slender hands slip between his callous, yet warm.

“You cannot survive this world without them.”

The tears spilled over his cheeks, a hand pressed to his cheek, and he sunk into it, following the rain as a sob left his lips.

The halls feel colder in the wake of the memory, pursed lips, shadowed eyes. There’s a rustle, as he makes it to the fourth floor, a whisper of voices, seemingly coming from behind a painting. With the security of knowing only the portraits could see - he rolled his eyes.

“-look I’m telling you, I know what I saw.”

“We don’t know what we saw, alright? And who do you plan to tell anyway, Snape would kill us if he knew we’d been anywhere near-“

ah .

Nell Travers and Mathias Highworth.

“-well if we were told that was there maybe we wouldn’t have.”

A sigh, and he leans over, tapping lightly on the portrait. “Wouldn’t have what?”

A frozen silence follows, and then a scramble of limbs, and after a moment of breathless whispers he couldn’t make out, the door to the passageway swung open.

“Potter,” Highworth nods, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Travers glared, leaning against the edge of the hole.

Technically, formal addresses were supposed to be adhered to, on Sytherin’s orders. By tradition, as High King, disrespect wasn’t tolerated. But this situation was different. The last three who took up the mantle of King or Queen had been at least sixteen. He’d been told at thirteen, despite not adorning it until recently, his status remained that of power.

The older years didn’t have to like it.

But he had made sure that nobody felt the need to address him differently. Potter was the least formal, and most commonly used inside and outside the walls of their house.

“Wouldn’t have what?” He asks again, and Travers jumps down , wand in hand, a scowl in place .

“With all due respect,” her voice declared anything but, and though his back stiffened he swept it aside “that’s none of your business.”

Travers grabs Highworths wrist , and turns them both away.

“Did you make it to Charms any quicker?”

He calls after them, but makes no move to stop them, almost flippantly. Travers was right , whilst he could press the matter,  it would only be suspicions without proof, he could not call out any lie they might tell. So until then it was none of his business.

The thing was, Hadrian knew exactly why Travers hated him.

He was the one who came back alive.

Most of Rosier’s friends had warmed up, but Nell was the one who didn’t trust him.

As much as Snape would have his ass if he knew, Hadrian didn’t want to give Travers another reason to dislike him. It wasn’t personal until it was. So he’d wait for proof, certain it would come. Their curfew was eleven, so he couldn’t call them out on that front either, as his watch read nine, and sighed into the empty space.

Empty until -

“The croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.”

One voice, two smirking faces leaning beside a statue. A breathless chuckle, he turns round, arms crossing over his chest.

“Shakespeare?”

“Good guess,” Sierra snipes “is that the only writer you can think of?”

“How was summer camp?” He retorts.

“Better than yours, I’ll say.”

Oh low blow. Serafina smirks.

They fall into step by his side, and the term ‘Earl’ rattles around his head. Each member of the court brought something new, something fresh. The Yaxley twins were no different, and whilst they were two separate forces of nature to contend with, like the Weasley twins, there was a distinct style across the board.

Serafina was older, by three minutes. She was the tower, the bridge you could not cross, wore a dark glare like a shield and drove it against their faces. Sierra was the ‘softer’ one, if you could call it that, and Hadrian did not like too - she was a knight, the lesser spoken, the lesser breached. She might smile but it was hardly warmer than her sister’s ice.

“If you must know,” Serafina pauses, as they descend into the depths of the dungeons and the cool air flattens against their cheeks. Her lip curls in disgust “It was .. fun.”

Hadrian’s eyes sparkle.

“Did that hurt?”

Her lips twist into their natural scowl.

“Fuck you.”

“Watch it, Yaxley,” Damien warns, roaming free from the shadows as they near the entrance to the common room.

“Bite me, Mendoza.”

And whilst the two engage in a silent battle of dark eyes and warm tension buzzing between them, Sierra catches his eye. Exasperation. He bit the inside of his cheek to stop a smile.

This was all Diggory’s fault.

You were caught off guard, his brain supplies helpfully, whose fault is that?

So he leans into the cold at the edges of his mind, like a shield draped around his thoughts, occlumency without the bother of the hard parts. It soaks his skin, and his muscles relax, like threads pulling his expression torte, blank, composed. Static noise lingers in his ear. Afloat, detached.

They were all learning mind magic, for defensive purposes, but being self taught is a long process, particularly between studies and other responsibilities. Still, it was something.

“What did you need?” He asks quietly.

Damien meets his eyes.

“Professor Snape would like a word.”

“Very well,” Hadrian turns to the twins. “I’ll catch up later.”

Serafina nods stiffly, and moves on, leaving Sierra to follow, whose hand lingers on his arm for a brief moment.

“Something going on there?”

Damien raises an eyebrow, murmuring the moment they are out of sight.

“What?”

“You and Sierra.”

A blink.

“We’re friends.” He drawls, and it’s not a word he would use lightly, not now, not ever. Each one of his court, they are his friends. Damien straightens a little, letting the matter drop.

“What does Snape want?”

“We did catch Travers and Highworth entering the third floor.” His Right Hand remarks quietly, pushing open the door to Snape’s office.

“Indeed,” smooth, silky, depthless eyes meet his.

“Is there something you wish to explain, Mr Potter.”

Hadrian is careful to keep his chin up.

There is very little difference between Snape’s office, and any other Professor’s. It’s larger, but he’s always suspected that was Snape’s doing, to make room for the shelves of books and the stacks of cauldrons along the walls that remains a safe distance away, should anything fall. Everything is wood or stone, it lacks the grandeur of the Headmasters office and, like the Professors in their offices above ground, there too is a window to the light of the lake, and a silk curtain to take it away again. What sets the Potions master apart, is the lack of personality.

McGonagall has a biscuit tin, and Gryffindor pride in the banner along the left wall. She has hard wooden chairs facing her desk, but balanced with a throw along the back, to soften the texture. Babbling always has a fire lit, to match the rings of warm light from the setting sun, and a soft rug taking up most of the space along the floor - her room felt inviting in a way most others did not, but god forbid your posture matched.

Snape had little, between the dark walls and low lit candles, where the shadows could creep in and out as they pleased, and nothing that was practical. No ornaments or banners, anything that could be considered bias. His difference was that he chose to have chairs to the left of the desk, and a sofa, of all things, to the right. The only true piece of furniture with colour, in a shade of dark green, and the rumour was, the sofa was so relaxing that Snape could actually kill you and you wouldn’t know it.

Exaggerating, sure. But there was an element of truth.

The door shuts behind them, and Snape is a familiar, cold ice behind the desk.

“This morning I requested members of my court to keep an eye on two students. I had overheard a comment about choosing to use the third floor as a shortcut to charms and advised them against it.”

Damien just behind his shoulder. If it was anyone else it might feel like a guard , a judge to keep him in.

“But you suspected they would try anyway.” Snape raises an eyebrow.

“Yes Sir,” his eyes to the darkness above the Potion Master's head.

“After being given a warning by both yourself and the Headmaster.”

“Yes,” he swallows, “Sir.”

“Please therefore explain why you did not bring this to my attention, Mr Potter.”

Snape’s voice is smooth, deceptively neutral. But Hadrian knows how this works. A trick, possibly, to try and relax him into thinking this is not a lecture, not a ceremony of sorts, a judgement, to seep doubt into his head. He knows what Snape thinks, under the surface, that had been made clear in his first year. In the end, he doubted there was anything truly that would change it.

But still, he pauses before answering.

“I did not think -“

“That is quite obvious.”

He lets the chill of the room weave into his bones, uses it, drawing soft breaths. Blank blank blank.

“I did not think it was necessary at the present time, afterall one cannot be punished for something they have not done.”

And his voice is slipping into a safety net, the brush of Damien’s knuckle against his back, brief, and almost instantly gone. But they hear it, the language, as if he’d been raised his entire life reading ‘How to speak the proper tongue; Pureblood Etiquette’ ( something he’d actually seen in Grimmauld Place ) or, somehow transported to the 1910’s.

Snape’s eyes narrowed.

“Yet you were already in doubt of their word,” dark eyes glitter under the light. “”you suspected.”

“And I acted accordingly upon them-“

“You failed to bring it to my attention and therefore failed to act correctly,” Snape murmurs, and it takes every inch of him not to flinch. “You’re the Slytherin Prefect, Potter. You have a duty-”

“Sir, with the greatest respect, he told us.”

Damien cuts in, and those dark eyes snap to somewhere past his shoulder. Hadrian doesn't dare turn to look.

“We did the same thing you would have done, that is, follow to see if they would go through with it. The only difference is we don't have the authority to stop them.”

“Mendoza,” Snape’s eyes narrow, and his voice is just as silky, just as crawling along his skin, goosebumps prickling the surface. “You've just earned yourself a detention.”

Damien exhales softly, but doesn’t twitch.

“And whilst that is true you do not have the authority to stop them” - the silent ‘publically’ lingered in his pause. “Mr Potter is a Prefect for a reason.”

That was true, there was no way around that, had he - or Snape - been there at the time they wouldn’t have had the choice but to obey or risk some form of punishment. Not that a loss of house points is a particularly big deal until the race for the house cup picks up.

“So,” Snape’s eyes meet his. “How should I deal with this?”

He had the distinct impression it was a rhetorical question, yet a long silence began to stretch, as the Potions Master turned away and moved back round his desk. Damien clears his throat.

“Sir?”

“You may go, Mendoza.” it’s not a request, and the room turns colder. Or maybe he’s imagining it, clenching his jaw against a shiver, imaging the grass beneath his feet, the water trickling along his cheek, imagining the mist beginning to settle in the air and those bright  eyes-

“Yes Sir.”

There’s a brief flicker of hesitance, and then it’s gone as the door is shut, and Hadrian swallows thickly, resisting the urge to rub his arm. A habit Rosier had been trying to break (‘do you always do that when you’re nervous?’), a habit he had broken, unless you knew where to look. And Snape’s eyes catch the brush of his thumb, as he’s gestured to take the seat opposite, before his sleeve bunches into his hand and falls below the desk. Out of sight, out of mind.

“Relax, Potter.”

Or not.

“Diggory will spend Saturday re-going over the Prefect rules and privileges with, and you will make sure your judgement is not clouded again. Do you understand?”

Here, it’s impossible not to flinch - judgement clouded , a lump clinging to his throat. It's a will that keeps his expression straight, a will that Snape sees right through. The fireplace holed in the darkness lights up, sweeping a gentle warmth along his skin, ruffling the edge of his robes.

“Yes Sir.” Hadrian breathes when his voice is steady.

“Do you understand why this is important? Why I said that?”

“To avoid clouded judgement, Sir.”

If his voice is clipped, the Professor doesn't seem to take it personally. Instead, Snape sits forward, hands intertwining upon the desk, dark eyes searching into the swells of his.

“Potter I will say this once, and only once. You do not owe them anything. You owe them no belief, you owe them no repent. What happened with Thomas was not your mistake, do you hear me?”

His jaw clenches. Them - all of them, the world looking in, the insiders looking out, his friends, god Rosier’s friends. He looks them in the eye when he needs to hurt, and can’t quite hate when it’s reflected back.

“That was not why I-”

“Potter,” Snape's voice softens briefly, there’s something not so harsh, more - imploring. They both know it was. There’s a sigh. “You are not relaxed.”

“Professor?” It’s an abrupt change, catches the edges of his guard.

Dark eyes seem to swallow him whole, before moving away, and with a flick of Snape’s wrist, a steaming mug was pushed towards him.

“I am aware I was your harshest critic, but you are a member of Slytherin house, therefore whilst in this castle I have a duty of care,” They share a brief glance of something sour, and Snape’s lips twitch.

Hadrian sips the drink, and earl grey tea warms his stomach. A calming draught too, if he catches the touch of salt in the air.

“I am telling you, do not make the same mistake again.”

“Yes Sir-”

“But I am not telling you this to be cruel.”

“But,” he pauses. “My judgement is clouded?”

“It was,” Snape agrees. “And that is a mistake anyone can make - and do frequently. I myself am an example.”

For a moment, he smirks. Because the strange, twisted rivalry between his parents and the Potions Master never seemed to end. His father, content with being civil until driven up the wall, his mother finding the fire in the fight, and Snape equally happy to insult every member of their family apart from her. Oh, he had heard the rows.

“You let them challenge you, and I suspect Travers knows it.”

“I will never convince her -“ ( that Rosier’s death was not my fault )

“You’ve never tried.” Snape replies simply, as Hadrian leans back in the chair, resisting the urge to run his fingers through his hair. Dark eyes glitter in his direction, as he slips the mug back onto the desk.

There’s a beat of silence.

“Should I?”

It falls out, soft, quiet, almost vulnerable like glue in his throat and his eyes fix to a point a little past Snape's head, air shuddering in his chest .

“I cannot decide that for you.”And the lump falls with some semblance of disappointment , like a stone crushing in his stomach, cold and icy. He had hoped, as foolish as it felt, that Snape might offer him something here , that he might actually care enough to give him an answer.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“You should know,” Regulus’s voice, nimble hands adjusting the tie around his neck and swerving him to face the mirror. “Appearance is key.”

It’s green and silver, and it feels so right but so wrong.

“I haven't even been sorted yet.”

He mumbles tugging at the itchy fabric of his sweater.

“But you will be , and you need to be prepared to disappoint.”

“My parents?”

“No,” Regulus pauses, a soft streak of cold light slips along his face from the old window. His eyes are shadowed, curious. His voice softens . “Yourself.”

“I don't understand.”

— Circa 1991

The irony was, he

had

been prepared to disappoint his parents. That did not scare him, or maybe, it should’ve scared him more than it did. But he wasn't sure what they wanted, wasn’t sure what he wanted, so he knew that would come easy. 
 
Afterall, how else do you answer

“do what feels right for you, sweetheart”

with anything other than, “yes mum.”
 
( Mum , Mother , Mo-ther ) His vowels used to constrict, used to falter, used to ache just a little, like a pin prick as he practised in the mirror. Regulus’s shadow not so far behind, the turn of a page, a quiet murmur, ‘lift your chin a little more, place more emphasis on the

th

, do not fall into the trap of replicating the accent, that will get you nowhere other than mocked’.
 
Nothing felt right, that is how he knew he’d disappoint them. There were no pranks with the scent of smoke still lingering beyond the walls, no running through the corridors and slipping on the stairs, no late nights crossed legged on beds that became a fort for pillow fights and dodging sweets. Their voices were always filled with a certain wistfulness, paired with a tenderness he couldn't understand. Or he could, knew, had it been different, he

would

have seen it all himself.
 
Instead of teasing remarks that strove for boundaries and comfort, fond exasperation from teachers that

children would be children

, instead of stashing food away for midnight feasts in his bag; it was the sandwich that hadn’t been soaked by a bag knocking into his cup of juice. It was the sweets he hid in the bottom of his trunk until it was strewn all over his bed just before inspection. It was midnight feasts where they snuck

away

from him and the room was left cold, achingly silent, a mingled laugh muffled by the walls. 
 
And it was comments that hurt. Snide, sharp, smirks that never made it easy, never made anything easy. Either he was a Potter so he did not belong, or, he was a Potter so why wasn't he

better.

Better at magic, better at potions, better at anything. 
 
It was never his parents that he cared about disappointing because that was inevitable, when all’s he could feel was a hollow cave of loneliness gripping his chest, clawing its way through every barrier and bitter swallowed drink. They just wanted him to be happy -

just

, as if it were easy. 
 
And now, it is the fine art of balancing how they see him and how he acts. It was easier and harder to have the backing of a magical portrait that for all intents and purposes should have no sway in their world and yet , here they were. Easier, for they did not have to like him but they could not hurt him without cause. Harder, because now he wasn't just proving his worth to his yearmates, but any Slytherin who walked through those doors and he could not afford to slip up.

Can not.

“You are a terrible liar.”
 
Richelle sneers, his chest constricts, eyes flicker up as they walk, from the candles on the stone floor to her gaze pinned on Felix. Something loosens as quickly as it arrives, and his shoulders remain steadfast in place; no hunch, no release, he ignores the ache in the back of his neck that tells him to move his head. Shouldn’t have slept so awkwardly, shouldn’t bother giving it away. 
 
(

he's not a terrible liar , relief , relief , relief .

)
 
“Maybe I'm really good at pretending to be a terrible liar.”
 
Felix smirks, twirling his wand between his fingers. Richelle makes a noise in her throat close to something unbecoming, and steps just close enough to catch him under the ribs with her wand. He grunts, jerks away, scowling, and they never falter in step just a few paces in front. 
 
“Uncalled for.” Felix mutters, massaging his side, hand dropping as they move into view of the double doors looming in the entrance. 
 
A flurry of sound echoes valiantly between the walls, for a moment he wants to close his eyes, to stand still, take a breath, take a

minute

, and stay just outside of it all forever. But his feet do not stop their pattern of echoes along the floor, a bare, shallow breath tugs between his lips as they step into the hall of bright candles and hanging pumpkins and

so much fucking noise.

His lips purse at the edges, spine stiff, and he seeks his place at the table with a haze that doesn’t quite lift until he’s clambering over the bench. 
 
It comes naturally now, the sway of elegance in his movements, from the vigorous, unrelenting

will

, it looks natural but he still has to think. Where to look, where to reach, what to choose first, who to speak to first, every question scraping at his throat and bared up like wolves snarling teeth in his head. This time, he picks tea, for nothing more than indulgence. 
 
That’s his focus, watching the deep amber liquid pour into the cup, not bothering with the milk, it gives him a solid thirty seconds to adjust. And when he glances up, they are carefully not watching, but he knows they want too, the flicker of their eyes just slightly off, too composed, too manufactured. A sigh slides past his lips, into the tea as he touches the rim of the cup to his mouth and tries not to flinch as it burns his tongue. 
 
“What do you suppose is the chance of Dumbledore not coming?” Tarquin is the first to break the silence around them - not uncomfortable, not peaceful either - as Felix turns away to peer at the other tables, searching for food. 
 
“About as small as Carrow’s di-”
 
“Don’t you dare.” 
 
Felix’s head snaps back round, shooting a dark look in Richelles direction. Her smirk mollified as she pushes the ever present bowl of olives down the table towards him. His eyes narrow, squinting in cold suspicion, before it drops away into his signature smirk, and he stabs at a green olive with a cocktail stick. 
 
“I did not need to imagine that, thanks.” Damien grimaces. 
 
“That would imply you have an imagination, Mendoza.” 
 
Azira remarks, brushing by his shoulder as she slips down on the bench next to him, successfully barred from Damien’s reach as his hand twitches towards his wand. A low hum of warning vibrates in his throat,

reign it in

, and Azira sends a wink to his Right Hand, who flicks a middle finger back. 
 
“So,” he rests the cup down in the place of the empty plate, their eyes snap to him. “What is Felix lying about?”
 
“Flitwick didn’t believe me when I said I lost my essay.” Felix scowls, spearing another olive. “I

told

him, owls are liable to steal your essay on manipulating the featherweight charm, especially when you are questioning its effectiveness on creatures with wings.”
 
“That’s not lost, that's theft,” Damien grins “via an owl.”
 
“That’s what he said.”
 
“I haven’t checked but I'm fairly certain the Ministry holds no legal stance on thieving owls.” Sierra comments, sitting down on Damien’s right side. Diagonally, Serafina smirks, beside Richelle with an odd, heavy glance her way. 
 
He clocks it, that is all that is needed. 
 
“He said that too.” Felix mutters. 
 
“I wasn’t aware Owls could read papers on ()-”
 
“Why is no one on my side?” 
 
Hadrian would call that a pout, as Felix  crosses his arms over his chest, scowling down at his silver plate, and Sierra gives him a consoling, condescending pat on the arm. Richelle grins. 
 
“Because you’re a terrible liar.”
 
He can’t quite bring his lips to smile, thumb grazing the rim of the cup, he breathes slowly, letting the air fill his lungs, and slip away like dust. For no matter how natural it felt, the heightened noise of the hall breaks any sense of safety under his skin. He knows it shouldn’t, that really it makes a perfect guard to their voices, the attention peeled away to pumpkins and floating candles and excitement. Relaxing should be so simple. 
 
But sometimes he just

couldn’t

. 
 
A bump against his knee, and he glances up, catching soft eyes between feathered hair, and Tarquin tilts his head slightly. 
 
“What tea is that?”
 
Hadrian clears his throat. 
 
“English breakfast, I believe.”
 
Tarquin hums in acknowledgment, eyeing the cup for a moment, before his hand on the table  shifts, the loose fist raising a single finger just enough to catch his gaze.

One leaf?

A fraction shake of his head, and Tarquins hand drops. They don’t talk about it, Rookwood’s ability with plants and just how far that extends. They trust him enough to know, if he offered, it wouldn’t hurt them. It was just another unspoken thing. Don’t ask, don’t tell. 
 
If the others were interested they do not show it, as the arrival of the Headmaster brings the noise to a steadier lull, and bright twinkling eyes scan the hall with a strange mesmerising quality that never fails to make him feel slightly sick. 
 
So, Hadrian pushes it out, letting the words fade to a soft buzz, like an itch he can’t quite reach, but can just about ignore. Half aware, going through the motions, a step ahead that’s automatic to keep their clouded eyes at bay. Tuned in just enough to know if they were speaking to him or not. But they don’t, not directly, just a careful quip dancing back and forth between their lips, a choice to join the fray. 
 
He eats with the knowledge he cannot afford not to, but hardly remembers doing it.  
 
The scrape of the fork on his teeth, the clink of the knife against the plate, the tea, hot, to warm, to a final drop in the bottom of his cup trailing down his throat. Once again, he resists the urge to close his eyes, to press his hands to his face, dig his palms deep into the sockets and block out the rest of the world.

He wishes-

A crackle of air, static, burning, the sharp

bang

of the doors and a full body flinch pursuing his spine, a stinging pain pulsing in his tailbone. He sucks in a faltering breath, swallows hard, and forces his grip on the bench edge to slack, wood pressing indents into his fingers. 
 
Damien caught it, a twitch of his wrist, grazing just slightly into his shirt, an almost touch, missing, breathless (

gone, gone gone )

and he looks up with effort to keep his movements uninterested. 
 
“Toll in the Dungeons !” 
 
A beat of silence. And then flesh hitting stone as Quirrel slumps in a dead faint, a dead faint that prickles in all sorts of

wrong

on his skin, but he’s forced to swallow past the bile in his throat as the hall lights up, a deafening noise that has even Azira flinching. 
 
“Silence!” Dumbledore's voice thunders over the noise, and the bodies lurching up from the other tables, rushing for the door. The young snakes too, scrambling up from their seats, even some of the third years jerking, knocking over goblets, wide, frightened eyes. 
 
They are careful to stay seated, tense, every muscle wound up in a sharp friction, but still nonetheless. 
 “Prefects will lead their Students back to their dormitories, calmly. Teachers will follow me to the dungeons. ”  
Hadrian’s jaw clenches. 
 
They don’t notice. They don’t notice anything wrong with that, the other houses, already filtering through their young, red and gold, Percy Weasley’s voice sharp and fine tuned over the rest. For a moment the red is bloody, seeping, dripping along the floor in a thick haze and his fingernails pinch into his palms.

They don’t fucking notice.

“You heard the Headmaster,” Pucey rises to his feet with a resigned sigh, Prefect badge on his chest for once. “Stay calm-”
 
“Wait.”
 
Those warm firepit eyes snap to his, Adrian’s voice falling away. 
 
“Nobody leaves, not yet.”

He murmurs, watching the rapidly draining tables, and he searches for Snape, skin prickling, thrumming with adrenaline. He stands up, and his court rise around him. 
 
“But the other houses-”
 
“Professor,” He ignores the exclamation from Malfoy, letting his expression fold, like cooled out lava settling into stone, and strides towards the Head table. Something swirls in those obsidian eyes as he reaches the cluster of Professors with a bitter downturn of his lips. 
 
“I suspect the Headmaster misspoke,” it's an effort to keep his voice steady, inhaling carefully though his nose, catching the attention of the other Professors. “An easy mistake to make in the current chaos.”
 
Snape already knows. A quicker, sharper mind than his, narrowed on the door closing dutifully behind those deep purple robes, and steps in before an affronted looking McGonagall can break the tenacious peace he’s trying to keep. 
 
“You are quite right of course, Mr Potter.” 
 
It shouldn’t be enough, but is it, the slow silk of Snape’s voice relaxing the strain in his shoulders. 
 
“Slytherin House will remain in the Hall until the Dungeons have been searched, I will see to it that the Head Boy and Girl are left in charge. No one is to leave this room until my return.”
 
He can see the moment clarity dawns on Professor McGonagall's face, her lips thinning, one might almost call

disapproval.

And for once he suspects it is not aimed at them. 
 
“Yes sir. Thank you, Professor.”
 
Hadrian murmurs, a dip of his head in succession, submission, letting the order soothe the fraying edges of his nerves. His gaze does not linger, cannot linger, shirt pressed to his skin like an iron, he swings round, a soft echo of footsteps in his stride back up to the middle of the table. 
 
“We are to wait here until the Dungeons have been cleared.” 
 
There’s something dim in those warm eyes as Pucey swallows hard, as the soft chime of words roll over their heads, undeterred by Professor Sprout leaning over Quirrell and the choked noise of his subsequent revival. He sees a flutter of hands, a jerk of failing limbs that still - coming around, coming to sense,

not dead.

His gaze flickers back to Pucey.

Guilt?

“Of course.” Adrian nods, voice thick in his throat and he resolves to discuss it later with his own curt nod. The Seventh Year Prefect, Talia Abrahm, frowns. 
 
“What are we to do in the meantime?”
 
“I know what

I’m doing

.” Felix breathes, falling back into his seat with a heavy exhale, and picks up a slice of pumpkin pie. Serafina covers a snicker with a cough and picks up her goblet. 
 
“Eat,” Hadrian confirms quietly, “if the troll was seen in the Dungeons we have little to worry about up here. Diggory and Marlow will arrive shortly.”
 
There’s a pause, a shimmering pause where the candles seem to merge together in his eyes and fall away in flakes of gold, before the rustle of bumping limbs cleared his gaze. They are hesitant, he can see that, can understand why - this was different, they were exposed, this was change they weren't prepared for. It doesn't matter that they’re alone in the hall, they are no longer masked by the normality of the Halloween feast, or any feast, and it rings true in their quiet chatter. 
 
The first years even more so. 
 
“Surely the Professors wouldn’t let the troll get up there, though?” Davis frowns, and her voice mid conversation travels up the table, quickly submerged. 
 
“The Dungeons are a big place, Davis. They can’t be everywhere at once.”
 
It’s not so much as sneer anymore, but the bite is still there, still buried deep with those young pointed features, and a low sigh crawls out of his throat. 
 “They can if they’re logical about it.” Greengrass puts in, almost nonchalant. “Pair off, cover more ground. Trolls aren't logical beasts.” 
“Clearly,” Draco shoots back, and that

is

a sneer. “But splitting up would make it harder to take down the troll.”
 
“Do you

ever

stop arguing?”
 
Avery groans, and the first year's heads snap round, leaving a bright blush on Tracey Davis’s cheeks. 
 
He clocks it, the moment Cedric arrives, the Head Girl Marlowe suspiciously absent, as the yellow and black tie licks like a flame around his neck, handsome features mulishly serious. Their eyes meet almost instantly, a tight, terse smile on Diggory's lips before it falls away.  
 
“It’s a healthy debate.” Malfoy frowns, not quite a whine, but there's a hint of something in his voice that suggests he doesn't like the interruption. Richelle stiffens. 
 
“Healthy for who?” Avery mutters, draining his goblet. “No one whose listening, that's for sure.”
 
“Why is it that you are allowed to-”
 
“Enough, Draco.” Richelle cuts in, eyes tight, a flicker of irritation as the first year opens his mouth yet again.

“Enough.”

Hadrian doesn’t need to look to know the sharp hiss of pain was likely courtesy of one of the boy’s yearmates kicking him under the table. Sometimes that’s what it took in order for the message to sink in. 
 
“It is not about having a debate, it is about

how

you debate.”
 
Cedric’s voice separates the room, like a freeze swirling in from behind the double doors, but warm in temperament and the first years freeze, their eyes jumping back and forth between the gold badge pinned to his chest and each other. 
 
“For example,” The Hufflepuff strides forwards, ignoring the stiffness of the lower years as he arrives at Nott’s shoulder and addresses Bulstrode. “If I said dogs were better than cats, what would you say?”
 
There’s a muffled groan from a seventh year that has Damien smirking, and his own lips twitch. It sounds

too

simple, very Hufflepuff, not enough Slytherin. But if there was one thing he had learnt it was never underestimate Cedric Diggory. 
 
“Cats are better.” Bulstrodes response is immediate. 
 
Cedric grins. 
 
“Okay, now we’ve established two sides of the debate. But if I said to you you’re wrong, because dogs are

clearly

the superior species, how could you ever love a cat? How does that sound to you?”
 
Bulstrode frowns. 
 
“That’s insulting, not debating.”
 
“Exactly,” Cedric’s expression loosens, it's warmer, softer, “but if I said I prefer dogs because they’re more likely to come back..”
 
“You’re just adding to the debate.” Nott mutters.
 
“See?” Cedric grins, “it’s about

how

you say something.”
 
“We aren’t five,” Zabini frowns, “we don’t need an oversimplified explanation as if our brains can’t handle it.”
 
Cedric’s smile shifts, until it’s almost a smirk, chiseled against his jaw. 
 
“Then act like it.”
 
He would have agreed with the sentiment of the first years, except they fall into a quiet, contemplative lull that grows Cedric’s smirk wider, and

that

he cannot fault. There was a reason they made Diggory head boy, and it wasn’t just fairness or his kindness.

The Dungeons are cooler than usual, a sharp draft pressing into his cheeks and tickling down his neck. Hadrian doesn’t mind the shift, letting it waver like a hand through his hair until the first years had disappeared into the Common Room. They are the last to pass through, returning to a soft chatter, he watches the statue close and turns towards the dimmer candles, passing through the lonely halls.
 
A year or so younger and he might have been worried of what lurked behind the next corner, an irrational fear biting at his heels, he might have felt like one of his mothers horror movies, trapped in the walls that are always watching, never able to escape. 
 
Now he searches for the silence, the peace, shoulders slumping slightly in the absence of anything else. He’s careful to square them back up, as he knocks on the dark wood, and listens for the call of

‘Enter’

into the familiar space.
 
“I trust there was no trouble?”
 
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” he matches Snape’s murmur with a quiet hum, letting his eyes adjust to the darker shadows of his office. “The first years are ..

rowdy.

”
 
“Indeed.” Snape agrees. 
 
“They are picking up on little things, mannerisms, but nothing political as of yet. I hope that is a good sign rather than a bad one.”
 
That’s a lie

, he doesn’t hope.

“It means they are not obsessing over what cannot be controlled,” dark eyes narrow his way, a heavy pause pressing into his skin that he defaults to ignore. “They are still children.”
 
He hears what is not said, he hears the

unlike you,

feels the shiver that curls along his spine and resolves to take a deeper breath next time, as this one shudders in his throat and loses itself in his lungs. He hesitates for a moment. 
 
“They do not think.” 
 
“Your sister is no exception.”
 
That catches Hadrian off guard. 
 
“Sir?”
 
The man leans back in his chair, and gestures to the one across from his desk. Something thick fills up his throat, without balance or order, unwilling, and he swallows hard, trying to push it away. The wood creaks beneath his bones. 
 
“Whilst I am sure this information will not be secret by the morning, I would advise you not to discuss it until it’s made its way through the Houses lest they think you are making up rumours.”
 
“Yes sir.”
 
Snape surveys him for a moment. 
 
“There was a Troll in the Dungeons, however it was found in the Girls Bathroom on the first floor.”
 
Something about that did not sound right. His head tilts slightly, thoughtfully, eyes dropping to the edge of the desk, narrowing. 
 
“It was discovered by four first year Gryffindors, including the resident Boy Who Lived.”
 
Hadrian’’s gaze jerks back up, exhaling sharply, he looks away, letting the dark edges coolen out his mind, sinking back behind the shimmering bands of occlumency until the cool air in his lungs abates the buzzing in his ears. 
 
“I suspect I can guess who the other three were.”
 
Snape gives a silent gesture of his hand. 
 
“Weasley, Potter and..” he hesitates for a moment “Granger?”
 
“Correct.”
 
“And by discovered you mean..?”
 
Dark eyes flicker, lips pursing and Snape sighs. 
 
“Granger is adamant that she went looking for the troll, and whether or not I'm inclined to believe it, your sister, Longbottom and Weasley did successfully take down a Mountain troll.”

God

, he spends his whole life wanting to close his eyes. 
 
“Successfully.”
 
“There were no injuries, except to the Troll and the bathroom.”
 
Snape clarifies, dark eyes watching him carefully. It’s there, again, tightening in his chest, for a second, just a second the eight is a spell breaking the bones of his ribs, and his skin is cracked in mud, bearing down into the grass. For a second his breath is a wheeze. 
 
“Good.”
 
Tongue heavy in his mouth, a distant metallic sting, and he swallows thickly, resting his palms carefully in his lap. 
 
“Quite.”
 
A beat. 
 
He latches on to something else, letting the words spill from his lips to soothe the sweat on his palms that had no right being there. 
 
(

no right , because he should not care

)
 
“The Headmaster-”
 
(

but he does care

,

is that a failure ? )

“Is regretful he misspoke.” Professor Snape cuts smoothly over his voice, adjusting the papers on the desk. 
 
“But it did not occur to him, did it, Sir?”

This

is something he could do, something he could fight without fear - this was for them, fuel dripping down his skin, a soon to be passionate anger. 
 
(

‘ control is key , you have to know yourself ‘ the irony brings bile to his throat

,

there was nothing left of himself to know .

)
 
“

Mr Potter

,” there's a warning now, a current seeping into the air. “The situation is being dealt with.”
 
“Is it?” Hadrian breathes, “I have yet to see the Headmaster ever

actually

change. Slytherin house needs to be sure that the staff will at least think about us when there's danger. We will not settle for less than, Sir.”
 
“I would not expect you to. But be aware of who you are talking to, Potter.”
 
“Of course Professor, I meant you no disrespect.”
 
Snape’s lips twitch, for they both know he had not been referring to himself in that comment.
 
“You may return to your dorm.”
 
The dismissal is simple, painless, refreshingly clear cut and Hadrian cannot pretend he is not glad of it, as he tilts his head in a nod of respect and vacates the seat as quickly as he had come - or as quickly as standard would allow, just as any formal function might, he is careful to restrain his movements. 
 
“Has Professor Quirrel been a cause for concern?”
 
Snape’s dulcet tones follow after, and Hadrian pauses, the brass handle cold on his palms. He turns back, shifting away from the crack of light seeping beneath the door, brow furrowing. 
 
“Should he be?”
 
Snape’s lips purse. 
 
“Goodnight, Mr Potter.”
 
“Goodnight, Professor.”
 
He murmurs softly, and takes the hint like a small nook in the back of his head.

Not yet

was left hanging in the air like frost. 
 
The door falls shut behind him and the cool corridor narrows and wides and narrows and widens like a mirror maze twisting with his eyes, until his palm braces against the wall with a heavy breath and his head throbs. It’s a prickling sensation that stings, like soft sparks threaded into his scar, a simmering buzz beneath his skin.
 
Nausea licks at his heels and the cold stone is a relief against his skin, pressing his forehead against it for a short moment. He’s not sure if it’s from the stinging in his scar, the stress that seems forever present in sweeping adrenaline, or plain tiredness. 
 
“Hadrian?”
 
Damien hesitates, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hand half stretching out towards him. 
 
“What is it?” he murmurs into the wall. 
 
A beat of silence, and he tugs his eyes open properly. Damiens hand brushes his wrist lightly, he’s closer, brow furrowing. “Are you ..”
 
“I’m fine.” 
 
Hadrian clears his throat, pushing away from the wall. They were alone, he could breathe. 
 
“Did you need something?”
 
“It’s..” Damien hesitates, eyes slipping along his skin, it doesn't feel as

judgmental

, more like clean water soothing the sweat from his palms, more like how Cedric looks at him, more like Sirius. “It’s Malfoy.”
 
He knows they aren’t referring to Richelle. 
 
“What did he do?”
 
“It’s more what he’s

talking

about doing.”
 
“I-” Hadrian sucks in a low, frustrated breath. The fingers drop from his wrist, he rubs a hand down his face. “Just explain it Damien.”
 
“Right.” 
 
He doesn’t understand the awkwardness, something thuds in his head.

( he wants it back , touch , it almost felt normal )

“Draco Malfoy wishes to challenge you.”
 
“Challenge me?” his voice chokes on laughter in his throat, vehemently pushing it back down until it feels more like bile. “What for?”
 
“That’s all we heard,” Damien admits “but I don’t think he’s figured out your position, so I’d assume it’s the ring thing.”
 
“The ring thing.” He sighs. 
 
“The ring thing.”
 
He closes his eyes, inhaling slowly. 
 
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
 
‘Just…” he exhales. “Fine. Alright, let's sort this out now. I wanted to speak to him anyway. There have been reports of bullying.”
 
“From the first years?” Damien asks sharply, falling into step as they head down the cold hallway. 
 
“No, some of the fourth years have mentioned it.”

Avery

, in passing. But it was enough. 
 
“Tarquin called him into the Chamber.”
 
“How did he take it?” Hadrian asks, glancing curiously towards Damien, who raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘

how do you think.’

“With a swagger.”
 
“Noted.”
 
A murmur of the password to the statue, and they enter the common room passing through. Felix rises up from one of the sofas to join them, a low ‘Oooh Malfoy’s getting a talk.” resonates from somewhere behind and he doesn't have the energy to respond. 
 
The Chamber was as dark and cool as the corridor pleasantly, no fire alight behind the head of the table. One of the side chairs was pulled out, and the younger Malfoy was sprawled out, one might even suggest slouching, until they arrived, small body straightening up. Azira was leaning beside the door, book in hand shifting absently through the pages, and Richelle was scowling from behind the chair. A quick glance found Tarquin in his seat on the other side of the table, writing in a thin, black journal. Their eyes meet briefly, a fraction shake of his head, and Rookwoods shoulders relax, returning to his notes. 
 
Damien shuts the door behind them. 
 
Rather than taking his place at the Head of the table, Hadrian strides forward and pulls out the chair beside the first year, angling his body to fall into it with some equal measure of grace. 
 
“Mr Malfoy,” he clears his throat. Sharp eyes stick to him like glue. “As you can imagine there are better ways that we could be spending this time, therefore I would like to keep this as efficient as possible. Do you have any idea why we may have called you in here today?”
 
Draco blinks, narrow face made all the more pointy by his pursed lips. 
 
“You have some vendetta against me, I’d imagine.”
 
The boy is trying to sound like his father, but there’s no rich drawl behind it, no quiet contemplation, he is a far cry from the grandeur and grace of Lucius Malfoy, nor that same slippery temperament — he is just a child playing at being

great .

Born to fail . 
 
“You are mistaken.” Is all he bothers to justify on the matter . “You’re here because of

your

attitude towards your classmates and Slytherin house.”
 
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Draco frowns, poise slipping like water from his face. “My whole family have been in Slytherin-“
 
“I do not care.” 
 
He interrupts calmly. Malfoy baulks. 
 
“It’s not about how long your family have been in this house, this is not about your family, this is about

you

.” 
 
A pink flush is rising on Malfoy’s cheeks. 
 
“I

am

my family-“
 
“Mr Malfoy,” he raises a hand, and the boy's jaw clicks shut. Even Draco seems surprised. 
 
“I care about your

attitude

. So explain to me why you think you’re above the rules.”
 
“I don’t …?”
 
“Is that a question?”
 
“No!” Malfoy frowns, indignantly, and Richelle gives his shoulder a warning flick. 
 
“So what part of we do not tolerate any form of bullying or discrimination did you not understand?”
 
It rests low, and dark, funnelling through the shadows of the low lit room.
 
“I haven’t bullied anyone,” Draco scoffs, but his voice lacks confidence. “Whose being saying-?”
 
“No one.” Hadrian cuts in coolly. “But once again your attitude-“
 
“I don’t know who you think you are,

Potter

, but my father-“
 
“Will do nothing.” Richelle snaps, and her brother's scowl deepens as she grips his shoulder. 
 
Hadrian pauses, watching his pale cheeks flush with splotches of pink that would go well coming out of one of Sirius’s Victorian novels. This approach was not working, all the boy was doing was getting defensive. Childish behaviour, but then, a chide reminder, Draco Malfoy was a child.  
 
He inhales softly, slowly, almost imagines the tip of a cigarette caught between his lips, and exhales in hope that it would be. 
 
“You must know of course, that our families are distantly connected.”
 
His flicks his wrist upwards to draw the candle on the table a little closer, and with it, exposes the jaded ring of the Black Family on his hand. Malfoy nods, frowning, but sufficiently silent - caught of guard by the sharp change in conversation. 
 
“I suspect by now you realise there has been some error of communication. A mistake, if you will.”
 
Richelle frowns, and for the first time since the conversation began, Tarquin looks up.

Mistake.

Not a word to be taken lightly, not for them at least. After all the King and his Court cannot be seen to make mistakes. Or so says history. 
 
“I am going to make you a challenge, Mr Malfoy.” He murmurs, drawls, watching the boy's eyes snap round. “If you can last two weeks without saying a cruel word to any of your classmates, or

about them,

then I will grant you an audience with me, on my time, and whatever questions you have I will answer honestly.” 
 
Grey eyes latch on to the ring on his finger. He knows it will work, because above all else, Slytherins are curious creatures when they cannot get what they desire. And no matter how much power you have, even Purebloods cannot escape the want for

more

.
 
A thready silence follows. Draco clears his throat. 
 
“Set a date, then.”
 
And there it is, trying for power within their play, such a fickle conflict for him, and likely the most Draco has ever played. He inclines his head slightly, letting it feed the triumph in the boy's eyes. If he thinks he’s winning he’s going to

want it more.

“You will receive a note tomorrow morning once I have checked my schedule to determine the date.”
 
Draco smirks and nods, reaching out a hand to shake on it. Hadrian arches an eyebrow, amusement glinting in his eyes, and takes it, with a single shake. 
 
“Let’s hope you learn something from this.”
 
Draco’s smirk falters at the clear dismissal, as Richelle grips his shirt and tugs him up out of the seat.
 
Hadrian doesn’t look round to check if he leaves as the door shuts with a creak, massaging his brow with a low sigh. Felix drapes down in the seat just vacated and shoots him an odd look. 
 
“Why’d you bother? He’ll learn eventually.”
 
“Because he’s overconfident and impulsive and doesn’t think consequences apply to him and that makes him a threat

to all of us.”

Azira answers, and for a moment he forgets they’re there, eyes closed, soft heat fluctuating from the candle, coiling light along his jaw. He tugs them up, and Felix is watching him carefully.
 
A warm hand brushes along his shoulder, muscles stiffening sharply, but a thick tiredness crawls heavily between his eyes.

Not sleeping does that

. 
 
“Do you think it’ll work?” 
 
He glances towards Tarquin. 
 
“If he can grow, he has potential.”
 
“He’s eleven,” Richelle points out, “potential for what?”
 
His eyes gaze distantly, twisting the ring on his finger, lips pursed. He’d been asking that question since he was eleven , not bothered to answer then ,

oh why oh why oh why

do you perceive me in such a twisted way ? Why can you not decide who I should be ? How you think of me ? What do I have to prove ? Why is it always riddles ?
 
“Living.”
 
Because they had one certainty, one thing each and every one of them could be sure of. There was a war coming, maybe not just yet, maybe they had some time but it was short and turbulent and they would not all survive. 
 
So they had to live right , they had to make it count . For themselves .

(

for rosier

) the shadows whisper.