Chapter 21- The First Kill
Hadrian Potter had tried to push it out of his mind—the conversation with Dumbledore—but it gnawed at him like an unsolved riddle. He sat at the edge of his bed in the Slytherin dormitory, staring blankly at the stone wall opposite him. The room was quiet, save for the occasional crackling of the enchanted fire in the hearth. His mind, however, was a storm.*How had Dumbledore known?*
The thought had been plaguing him ever since their meeting. It was as though the headmaster had glimpsed something from Hadrian's past, something he had never spoken of to anyone. The time with the gang. The dirty streets of London. The feeling of being utterly alone but somehow finding a home among a band of criminals. No one knew about that. No one except Sirius, and Sirius wasn't the type to divulge Hadrian's secrets. Not willingly, not to someone like Dumbledore.
*Then how?*
The conversation replayed in his mind, each word magnified by his lingering suspicion. Dumbledore had been calm, his eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles, but there was an unsettling weight to the way he spoke to Hadrian, as though he already knew too much. His questions had been subtle, but sharp, pricking at Hadrian's carefully constructed walls of secrecy.
*"I understand you spent some time with a group of... rather unconventional caretakers"*The words had been a dagger, striking deep and without warning. Dumbledore hadn't said much more, just enough to leave Hadrian wondering. The headmaster had known. But how? The question festered in his mind like a wound that refused to heal.
Hadrian clenched his fists, the knuckles turning white. His heart thudded louder, a pulsing rhythm in the quiet dormitory. Dumbledore was too powerful, too omniscient. He had eyes and ears everywhere, yet the idea of the old man knowing about Hadrian's life before Hogwarts was unnerving. It wasn't just unsettling—it was impossible. Unless...
Hadrian's eyes narrowed, his gaze darkening as he considered the possibilities. Dumbledore had sources, people who worked for him. He had connections that ran deeper than anyone knew, even within the shadows of the wizarding world. Hadrian couldn't shake the feeling that somehow, somewhere, someone had sold him out.
But who?
Hadrian stood abruptly, his chest tightening with unease. His pacing began, quick, sharp steps across the cold stone floor. He ran a hand through his messy black hair, his mind spiraling with unanswered questions.
*What did Dumbledore know? How much did he know? And who had told him?*Hadrian stopped, his eyes fixating on the small window across the room. Outside, the darkening sky was a blanket of heavy clouds, the late autumn chill creeping in through the cracks.
His heart raced as the sense of being watched crept over him. Someone had betrayed his past to the headmaster. Someone had revealed his darkest secrets, his hidden life in the alleyways of London.
---*Months earlier, Knockturn Alley...*
The narrow, crooked streets of Knockturn Alley were bathed in shadows, the dim light from flickering streetlamps barely illuminating the path. It was a place of darkness, both literal and figurative, where the air was thick with a stench of rot, decay, and something far more sinister. The kind of place where no self-respecting wizard, especially not one of Albus Dumbledore's stature, would dare tread.
But tonight, Dumbledore had cloaked himself in anonymity.
His form was draped in a long, dark hooded cloak, his face obscured by a mixture of glamours and enchantments. He could have disillusioned himself, of course, but Knockturn Alley was a crowded place, and bumping into someone while invisible would have raised far more suspicion. No, Dumbledore needed subtlety tonight. He was not here as the venerable headmaster of Hogwarts, nor as the powerful leader of the Order of the Phoenix. He was here for information, and that required discretion.
The headmaster's boots clicked softly against the cobblestones as he moved swiftly down the dark alleys. His sharp blue eyes, concealed by the glamour, darted left and right, scanning the shadowed figures lurking in doorways and around corners. Knockturn Alley was a cesspool of dark dealings, and though many feared Dumbledore, they were also smart enough not to cross him openly. At least, not without reason.
Dumbledore turned down a particularly narrow side street, his pace quickening as he approached his destination—a small, battered house that sat at the end of the alley. The windows were cracked, and the door hung loosely on its hinges, but the building was more secure than it appeared.
A faint, familiar magic pulsed from within. Midnight, the elusive contact Dumbledore was meeting tonight, had taken great care to ensure that his hideout was well protected.
The headmaster frowned beneath his hood. Midnight should have installed a Floo system by now, he thought with irritation. The old man hated these late-night ventures into the underbelly of the wizarding world. A simple Floo connection would have made things far easier.
As he approached the door, Dumbledore's hand brushed against his wand, ever cautious. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he rapped his knuckles against the splintered wood three times. The door creaked open, just wide enough for Dumbledore to slip inside unnoticed.
The interior of the house was as decrepit as its exterior—dusty, dimly lit, and filled with the musty smell of damp wood. But Dumbledore's focus was on the figure standing in the far corner of the room. The man was tall, cloaked in shadows, his face hidden beneath the hood of a tattered robe. There was something distinctly unsettling about him, though Dumbledore was not easily intimidated.
Without a word, Dumbledore approached, his hand extending out in a silent greeting. The man grasped it firmly, his grip cold and unyielding.
"Midnight," Dumbledore said quietly, his voice low and measured. "You have information for me."
The hooded figure nodded slowly, his head tilting slightly as though assessing the man before him. There was a tense silence before the figure spoke, his voice low and gravelly, tinged with a thick Russian accent.
"He has survived an attack," the man murmured, his words deliberate. "By the hitman of the Order of the Shadows. One of their most dangerous assassins."
Dumbledore's eyes flickered with something unreadable, but his expression remained impassive. His fingers twitched slightly, the only outward sign of the thoughts racing through his mind. The Order of the Shadows was not to be trifled with, and if the boy had survived an attack from one of their assassins, it meant they were watching him. It meant they considered him a threat.
"Tell me about his childhood," Dumbledore said softly, his voice betraying none of the tension that coiled within him. "Everything you know."
The figure shifted slightly, his hands hidden within the folds of his cloak. "He was raised by a gang in London," the man said after a brief pause. "Abandoned by his family, left to fend for himself in the streets. For years, he lived among thieves and criminals. And now..." The man's voice lowered, almost to a whisper. "He is under the care of Sirius Black."
Dumbledore's expression didn't change, but the way his eyes narrowed ever so slightly suggested a deeper concern. He had suspected as much, but hearing it confirmed only complicated things. The boy was dangerous—far more dangerous than anyone realized. The streets had hardened him, shaped him in ways that would make him a force to be reckoned with. But it also made him unpredictable, and that was something Dumbledore could not afford."And what else?" Dumbledore pressed, his voice calm but insistent.
The man hesitated for a moment, his hands twitching slightly at his sides. "Everything," he murmured, his tone a mixture of caution and reluctance. "I have told you everything I know. The boy is... resourceful. Dangerous. And..." His voice trailed off for a moment before he continued, "It is rare that we are tasked to spy on children. Our assignments usually involve older men. Men of power. This... this is different."
Dumbledore nodded, his expression thoughtful as he digested the information. "I see," he said quietly. "Thank you."
The man's eyes, hidden beneath the hood, seemed to flicker with something—regret, perhaps, or maybe just weariness. He extended his hand once more, and Dumbledore grasped it tightly, his grip firm but brief.
Without another word, the hooded figure turned and disappeared into the shadows of the house, his form melting into the darkness as though he had never been there at all. Dumbledore watched him go, his mind already racing with thoughts of what this new information meant.*Hadrian Potter was becoming a problem.*
With a sigh, Dumbledore turned and made his way out of the house, stepping back into the cold, damp streets of Knockturn Alley. The night air bit at his skin, but he barely noticed. His thoughts were consumed with the boy—the one who had survived an assassination attempt from the Order of the Shadows, the one who had been raised by a gang of criminals, the one who was now under the care of Sirius Black.
Hadrian Potter was no ordinary child, and Dumbledore knew that whatever future awaited the boy, it would be one fraught with danger.As he walked away from the battered house, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the alley, Dumbledore's eyes flickered with an unreadable emotion.
This was only the beginning.
Hadrian Potter's memories of his childhood were a tangled web of darkness and survival, the kind of past that had no place in the sanitized corridors of Hogwarts. While most children his age would have tales of innocence, Hadrian's recollections were steeped in violence, fear, and a constant fight for survival.
The memory that haunted him the most, however, was not of a death he had witnessed, but of the one he had caused.
It was a night much like any other in the underbelly of London—a world of shadows where the weak were prey and only the ruthless survived. Hadrian had been with the gang, his makeshift family, on one of their more daring heists. They had planned everything meticulously, down to the last detail, but as with all things, the streets had a way of twisting the best-laid plans into nightmares.
The target was a small-time dealer who had been skimming off the top of the bigger gangs. He operated out of an abandoned warehouse, a decrepit structure on the edge of town, where the walls were damp with rot and the air thick with the stench of decay. Hadrian, despite his young age, had been a crucial part of the plan. His small stature and quick reflexes made him the perfect infiltrator, able to slip in and out without detection.
But that night, things went wrong.
Hadrian had just pocketed the stash—a collection of rare and valuable items—when he heard the creak of a door behind him. His heart leaped into his throat as he spun around, his muscles tensing instinctively. In the dim light, he saw a figure looming in the doorway—a thug, his face twisted into a sneer, his eyes cold and calculating.
The man was large, his shoulders broad, and his fists clenched into knuckled fists that had seen more than their fair share of violence.
Hadrian's first instinct was to flee, but the thug blocked his only exit. The man's gaze flickered over him, assessing, calculating, and Hadrian could see the moment he decided that this boy was no threat.
"Thought you could rob me, eh?" the thug growled, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down Hadrian's spine. There was a cruel glint in his eyes as he took a step closer, his fists tightening. "I'll teach you a lesson, you little rat."
Hadrian's mind raced, searching for a way out, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The thug was larger, stronger, and more experienced in the brutal dance of the streets. But Hadrian had something the thug didn't—a fierce determination to survive, and a power within him that he was only just beginning to understand.
The thug moved suddenly, lunging forward with the speed and precision of a predator. Hadrian barely had time to react, but his instincts kicked in. He ducked under the man's arm, his small frame allowing him to move quickly and unpredictably. With a swift kick, he aimed for the thug's knee, hoping to disable him long enough to make his escape.
The thug grunted in pain as Hadrian's foot connected, but the attack only seemed to enrage him further. He lashed out, his fist catching Hadrian in the ribs, sending him sprawling to the floor. Pain exploded through Hadrian's side, but he gritted his teeth and scrambled to his feet, his eyes darting around the room for anything he could use as a weapon.
In the corner of the room, Hadrian's gaze landed on a rusty pipe, discarded and forgotten. He dove for it, his fingers closing around the cold metal just as the thug reached him again. The man's hand wrapped around Hadrian's arm, yanking him back with a force that made him gasp. The thug's face was a mask of rage, his sneer deepening as he raised his fist, ready to deliver a crushing blow.
But Hadrian was faster. He swung the pipe with all the strength he could muster, the metal connecting with the side of the thug's head with a sickening crack. The man staggered, his grip loosening, and Hadrian didn't hesitate. He kicked out, his foot connecting with the man's stomach, forcing him to double over in pain.
It was in that moment, as the thug faltered, that something deep within Hadrian snapped. A dark, primal instinct took over, one that had been nurtured by years of living on the edge of society. His magic, always simmering just below the surface, surged forth with a ferocity he had never experienced before.
Without thinking, without hesitation, Hadrian raised his hand, his fingers curling as he willed his magic to obey. There was no incantation, no wand—just raw, unbridled power. The air around them crackled with energy, the shadows deepening as Hadrian focused on the thug before him.
And then it happened.
The thug's body jerked violently, his eyes widening in shock as blood began to seep from his pores. It started as a trickle, a thin line of crimson that ran down his cheek, but within moments, it became a torrent. Blood gushed from his nose, his mouth, his eyes, soaking his clothes and pooling on the floor around him.
Hadrian watched, frozen in place, as the man's body convulsed, the life draining from him in a horrifying display of violence. The blood seemed to have a life of its own, swirling around the man's body like a living entity, before suddenly bursting forth in a spray of red. The thug's body crumpled to the floor, lifeless, as the blood continued to pour out, staining everything in its path.
For a moment, the room was silent, the only sound the steady drip of blood onto the cold, hard floor. Hadrian stood over the body, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his heart pounding in his chest. He should have felt horror, disgust, even fear—but all he felt was a strange sense of calm.
The sight of the blood, so vivid and bright against the darkness of the room, mesmerized him. It was beautiful in its own way, a perfect shade of red that drew him in, made him feel powerful.
It was only when the last drop of blood had fallen, when the thug's body lay still and lifeless at his feet, that Hadrian realized what he had done. He had killed a man, taken a life with his own hands—and he felt no remorse.
In that moment, something inside Hadrian changed. He had always been different, always felt the pull of darkness within him, but now it was something more. He had embraced it, accepted it as a part of who he was.
And it was this moment, standing over the body of the man he had killed, that Hadrian knew he would never be the same.
The days following the incident were a blur of confusion and disbelief. The gang, those who had become his family, never spoke of what had happened. They knew better than to question the darkness that had taken hold of Hadrian, the power that had been unleashed. And Hadrian himself, though haunted by the memory, found a strange sense of peace in it. He had survived, he had won, and he had discovered a side of himself that he had never known existed.
But it was more than that. It was that day, that moment of death and blood, that Hadrian obtained the ability to see thestrals.