Chapter 3
He sinks into the soft material beneath him with a sigh, limbs going utterly limp. For the first time in his life he doesn’t have a care in the world. Just him, wrapped in a cocoon of sensation.
He hears a light chuckle from somewhere to the left of him, but the usual worry that accompanies people never comes. On the contrary, he relaxes more at the sound.
“Do you like that, Pet?”
Hadrian hums, turning towards the dark soothing voice, and stretching out. It's only when the silky cloth scrapes against his skin that he realises he's dressed in nothing but his underwear, and he sighs in contentment.
Another laugh, but this time closer. He can feel the bed dip slightly as the other climbs closer and he can feel himself tense at the proximity to another. The voice, apparently notices it too, and tisks in disappointment. “None of that, Pet.”
Hadrian flushes, feeling ashamed for a reason he can’t place. “Look at you,” the voice coos. “So good for me.”
A hand places itself on his head and Hadrian flinches, bracing himself for pain. But nothing happens, and slowly, he relaxes into it. In reward, the hand draws away slightly before pushing forward, getting tangled in his nest of hair and scraping along his scalp. Hadrian's entire body tingles pleasantly at the feeling and he leans into it desperately, a whine tearing from his throat.
“I could give you whatever you want, Pet. All you have to do is give in.” Hadrian frowns slightly in confusion, the words not making sense. Hasn’t he already given in? He must make some sort of noise, as the voice shushes him softly. “Easy Pet. You’re doing beautifully for me. All I want you to do is focus on your breathing.”
Breathing. He can do that.
“Good boy, Pet.” The voice praises. A hand trailing softly down his side causes him to gasp and wreath, the sensations becoming overwhelming.
BANG .
Hadrian bolts upright, abruptly torn from sleep and painfully hard. Hadrian groans in annoyance as he flops back down into the covers, rubbing at his face in annoyance. His skin is still tingling with the ghost of touches that weren’t even real, and he curses the fact his mind insists on torturing him with the one thing he can never have.
Touch is pain. Touch is bad.
But not with him , a traitorous part of his mind whispers. The feeling of cool, smooth skin, so soft and uncalloused, trailing along his cheek flashes through his mind, his skin alight with something other than pain for the first time in his life, before he slams up his occlumency shields. It was better for all involved if the memories of that night were forgotten.
BANG.
He jumps again, cursing as he untangles himself from the green cotton blankets. The faint sound of yelling drifts through the walls and Hadrian groans in annoyance once more. There went any hope of a quiet morning.
He’s uncomfortably aware of the fact that he’s still in his clothes from yesterday, but still feels like falling back into bed when he realises all of his stuff is downstairs somewhere. His eyes dart around the room for anything to wear that isn’t painfully tight jeans, and he ends up blinking dumbly at the room before him.
Right. Regulus was Heir Black, wasn’t he?
The room is much bigger than he’d thought it was last night and there’s not one speck of dust or signs of decay in a single inch of the long abandoned room. The black drapes hanging over the window have been brushed aside to illuminate the room without help of the wix lights strategically dotted around. His gaze briefly lingers on the photographs lining the wall over the kingsize bed before ultimately coming to rest on the far wall that seems to be doing its best at becoming a library.
There must be hundreds of books crammed onto the shelves, and Hadrian would bet his Gringotts vault that very few of them are Ministry approved. He can feel his fingers twitch at the knowledge that's quite literally been placed in front of him, but the motion draws attention to his bare skin and his throat tightens at the reminder.
Instead, Hadrian stumbles towards the grand mahogany wardrobe, intricately carved with magical creatures, and pulls open the doors with a silent prayer.
Jackpot.
The clothes are a little bit too big and have obviously been tailored to fit somebody else, but Hadrian is far too used to wearing clothes that are too big anyway. Compared to Dudley's old rags, these things fit like a glove. The only downside, if you could call it that, is that the clothing is fancier than anything Hadrian usually wears.
He leaves the room wearing a pair of black slacks and a loose emerald green shirt that's almost eerily similar to his eyes. Paired with the belt that looks like an ouroboros and he looks like a right Slytherin.
Hadrian is uncomfortably aware of his bare hands, shoving them into the pockets of his slacks as he wanders down to where he remembers discarding his jacket last night. Thankfully he doesn’t run into anyone, but his relief is short-lived when he notices that the bathroom is barren of any discarded clothing.
Someone must have moved them.
His hands curl into fists as he stands staring at the bathroom blankly, the hallway feeling uncomfortably big all of a sudden. It’s possible that the twins found them this morning and moved them for him, he reasons, even as his chest tightens with anxiety and his hand start to shake. But, but what if someone else had found them? Moody seemed to be interested in them and there were Dark protections woven into them, so it's not out of the realm of possibility that the Auror who's notorious for hating the Dark had seen them laying around and confiscated them. Or even worse, Mrs Weasley, who's been going around the house to clean it up, could have noticed them and brought them downstairs to give them back to him, but that would mean going downstairs where there are people. People who don’t have the concept of personal space and will touch him even if they don’t mean to, brushing against his skin, and causing pain –
“Harry?”
He turns sharply, his shoulder banging into the doorway. The pain laces through him but he barely reacts, even as Ginerva winces in sympathy. She says something else but it sounds distant, as if he’s underwater, and he has to take a deep breath just to make sure he isn’t actually drowning, only to narrow in on the movement she makes as Ginerva steps closer and he’s not wearing his gloves.
He doesn’t think, he just moves. Spinning on a heel, Hadrian all but runs down the hall, his eyes darting back and forth in a vain attempt to find somewhere to hide. A door clicks open silently a few feet ahead of him and Hadrian lunges for the handle, throwing himself into the room and slamming the door behind him. The sound causes him to flinch, sending him right into the cabinet next to the door and subsequently knocking the whole thing over.
A deafening crash echoes throughout the room and he can barely hear Aunt Petunias yelling through his door as he scrambles to clean up his mess. Aunt Petunia is more forgiving then Uncle Vernon but even she will punish him for ruining her priceless china. He can feel the broken shards slicing into his hands as he fumbles to gather all the pieces, despite knowing he’d never be able to hide this in time.
He chokes on a sob, and his hand flies up to loosen the belt around his throat in vain, only to find it's not there. And yet he still can’t breathe.
Air suddenly fills his lungs as his entire body relaxes, his panic draining into nothing. Hadrian’s head spins and he narrowly avoids collapsing with the pure relief that flows through him, the burn shooting through his hands grounding him. He’s not at Privet Drive. He drops the broken shards without even thinking, wincing at the gashes on his hand. A glint of gold catches his eye and he looks to see that the fine china he’s just destroyed had been hiding something inside; a locket by the looks of it.
A locket dripping with protections and smeared with Hadrian's blood. He slips the locket over his head without thinking, the magic washing over his skin like an invisible shield, as comforting as his invisibility cloak, and he takes a moment to just breathe as his magic works to knit his skin back together.
A knock at the door startles him into moving, a wandless “ Tergeo ” syphoning the blood off of his borrowed clothing before he vanishes. After a moment of hesitation he slips the locket under his shirt and out of sight. He’s yanking the door open a second later, slipping back into the hall before the person can come in and see the mess he made.
He turns around, intent on finding one of the twins and demanding their assistance, only to run straight into Ginerva. She squeaks, flailing to catch herself, and Hadrian resists the urge to reach out and catch her. He’s not wearing gloves.
“Oh, Ginny! I didn’t see you there,” Hadrian laughed awkwardly, absently rubbing the back of his neck. His magic sparks, but there are no runes to light. But it doesn’t matter, the locket had done its job. He didn’t even feel the pressure of her hitting him, as if she hit an actual shield around his skin.
“Harry,” the redhead greets, looking concerned as she gathers herself. “Are you alright?”
“Ya. Ya, course,” he grins at her.
‘Way to go, Potter’, a voice that suspiciously sounds like Theo snips in his head. ‘Now she definitely knows something’s wrong.’
“Right. It’s just. Well. You look a bit out of it, that's all.” He blinks as the girl stutters, her ears going red. He has a vague memory of Fred teasing him about his sister's crush on the Boy-Who-Lived and sighs silently.
“I’m fine, Ginny. I think it was just something from the twins room, is all.”
Understanding and sympathy fill the girl's face as she nods, undoubtedly having faced some horrors at the hands of her well-meaning, trouble making brothers.
“Do you want me to show you to the kitchen?” Ginerva asks, turning to leave. Hadrian debates for a moment, his palms feeling sweaty and exposed, but nods. The twins are probably both down there anyway and the locket's magic is practically forming a physical barrier around him.
He’ll have to study it later.
They walk in silence, Ginerva fidgeting the entire time. It’s only when they reach the stairs that she finally speaks, shivering slightly as she eyes the mounted heads of the house elves. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”
“Pardon? Oh, ugh, I suppose.”
“You suppose?” The redhead stresses, her eyes narrowing. “They cut off the heads of those that served them and mount them on the wall like trophies. It’s barbaric.”
“Yes, I know. I’m just a bit tired, Ginny.”
Understatement. He hasn’t even been awake for an hour and he already wants to crawl back into bed and sleep for the rest of the month.
She blushes again, but doesn’t have the chance to continue talking as the kitchen door flies open and someone Hadrian doesn’t immediately recognize comes striding out. It’s only when they walk straight into an umbrella stand and their hair bleeds bright red that Hadrian realises it must be –
“ TONKS! ”
“I’m sorry!” wailed Tonks, who was floundering to her feet. “It’s that stupid umbrella stand, that’s the second time I’ve tripped over —”
But the rest of her words were drowned by a horrible, earsplitting, bloodcurdling screech. The moth-eaten velvet curtains Hadrian had dismissed earlier had flown apart, but there was no door behind them. Somehow, it’s the sheer amount of spell work that catches his attention first. Layers and layers of runes are spun together so intricately that Hadrian would have no hope of ever unwinding them or recreating them, all wound together so perfectly to create – Hadrian blinked. A life-sized portrait. Albite, the most realistic (and certainly most unpleasant) that he had ever seen in his life.
The women had the air of crazy that Hadrian was coming to associate with the Black family and it was damn impressive that the oil painting managed to capture it so well. The women was old, jaw hanging wide as she screamed louder then someone under torture and waking up the other portraits that lined the hall. They too began to complain of the noise, even as Sirius and Lupin ran out of the kitchen to help pull the thick curtains closed again. Hadrian didn’t really notice. He was more concerned with making sure his ears weren't actually bleeding. However, he could have sworn that just before the curtains swung close, the woman's piercing brown eyes widened in shock as they landed on him, leaving deafening silence behind.
“Morning Pup,” Sirius panted, still trying to catch his breath. “See you’ve met my mother.”
“That was your mother?” Hadrian asks as he descends the rest of the stairs. He’s peripherally aware of Ginevra following her mother back into the kitchen while Lupin turns to wait for both him and Sirius. His passing thought from last night once more crosses his mind and a sickening suspicion is starting to take root in his brain. Never left alone.
Of course, that could just be his paranoia talking.
“Dear old mum,” Sirius sighs. “We’ve been trying to get her down for a month but we think she put a Permanent Sticking Charm on the back of the canvas.”
“Isn’t Bill a curse breaker?”
“Albus has got him –”
“ – Sirius .”
“Got him working on something that doesn’t really leave him time to get rid of the portrait, unfortunately.” Sirius continues to speak over Lupin. “Common Moony, give me some credit.”
“I remember last time I ‘gave you some credit’,” Lupin grins. Sirius barks out a laugh, before quickly grabbing the velvet curtain before it can fly open again. After a few moments he hesitantly releases his death grip, gesturing for them to move towards the kitchen.
If there is one thing Hadrian will never complain about its Mrs Weasley's ability to cook. The table is full of food, all of the Weasleys being present, plus Hermione. Sirius and Lupin are quickly pulled away by Mr Weasley, leaving Hadrian to slot himself into the chaos next to the twins. Fred is quick to push a plate of food in front of him, while George drops something into his lap. The lingering tightness in his chest eases at the sight of his gloves, and he’s quick to slip them on.
As a thanks he doesn’t say anything when he sees them spike Ron’s drink. Not that he would have anyway, but it’s the thought that counts.
Half an hour later they’re all being hustled out the kitchen by Mrs Weasley and led up to one of the many drawing rooms that need cleaning. Just before the kitchen door swings shut behind them he sends Sirius a pleading look, hoping for that promised rescue.
Hadrian's not at all surprised when Mrs Weasley refuses to leave them alone as she cleans, forcing them to join in with clothes tied around their noses and spray bottles in hand. Hermione and Ron stick close together as they banter back and forth like an old married couple (and that is not an image he wants in his head) while sorting through the bookshelves that don’t actually house any books, but rather a collection of strange trinkets that Hadrian is just itching to get his hands on. Ginerva is trying her best to sneak out unnoticed, but that quickly gets her sent over to the thick drapes that cover what must have once been a window but is too mucked up to see out of, and therefore makes a great home for doxies. Fred and George, as is becoming a habit, are stuck close to Hadrian as they are all sent to work out what's living in the writing desk that's been shoved up against the wall.
“I’m pretty sure it’s a Boggart!” Fred finally announces to the room, George's grip on his twin the only thing stopping him from climbing onto the desk as though it was a stage.
“Better have Remus take care of it then,” said Sirius, who had only just entered the room. “Just our luck that mother will have hidden a bloodhound in there instead.”
“Right you are, Sirius. Perhaps Mad-Eye could take a look first.” Molly suggests. Hadrian can see Sirius stiffen slightly, but writes it off as his godfather relaxes a second later.
“Sure thing.” He catches Hadrian's eye and tips his head to the door deliberately. Hadrian doesn’t need telling twice. Sirius hangs back a moment to say something else to Molly before slipping out and joining him in the hall.
“Thanks for the save,” Hadrian grins.
“Don’t mention it kiddo.” Sirius reaches out to ruffle his hair and Hadrian narrowly avoids banging his head into the wall as he ducks to avoid the arm, laughing it off with the hope that Sirius won’t mention it. He can see his godfather narrow his eyes but chooses to instead focus on the lazy grin painted on his face. It makes Sirius look younger, he thinks. More like the old photographs.
“So, any plans? Or did you want to hang out with your cool godfather?”
Hadrian blinks innocently. “I have a cool godfather?”
Sirius squawks in outrage, and Hadrian bursts into laughter at the pure shock on the older man's face. “I’ll have you know I am the coolest of cool godfathers! I am the epitome of coolness!”
“Sure you are,” he nods in mock seriousness. “Because as every cool person knows, you have to claim it in the dorkiest way possible and therefore destroy even the smallest amount of ‘coolness’ left.”
“AHAH! So you admit I am cool!”
“Padfoot,” Lupin suddenly sighs as he approaches the pair. “You lost any right to ‘being cool’ when you –”
“ – Alright! Alright! Merlin, Moony, just destroy my reputation, why don’t you?”
“What reputation?” Hadrian mocks, ducking out the way of Sirius’s arm as he starts running down the hall laughing. He can hear his godfather chasing him, but Hadrian has always been light on his feet and it takes less than a minute to lose him, ducking in and out of rooms as he goes.
He wonders if the lock Mrs Weasley apparently used on ‘everything’ doesn't work on those of Black blood, because he’s quite sure that some of these rooms would have been at the top of the ‘dangerous’ list. He’s quite sure there was a dragon skull stored in one of them, and he definitely saw more than one ritual dagger laying around (and if he pinches one than nobody’s going to notice).
Eventually, he ends up back in Regulus’s room even though he never actually went up the main staircase. He really needs to explore this house in depth, maybe the famous Black Library that Theo has mentioned is hidden around here somewhere.
He pulls out the ritual dagger he’d nicked, tracing the runes on the sheath curiously. From what he knows it’s best to store daggers in a contained environment where they can’t be contaminated by outside magic, and should have cleansing rituals performed on them between each use. However, ritual daggers will eventually become attune to whatever magic is being poured into them so much that they can no longer be used for certain rituals. For instance, if you’re constantly using the same dagger for blood rituals then it’s probably best not to then use it for the animagus ritual.
But this dagger is practically dripping with necromantic magic, the bone white handle no doubt carved out of actual bone. It’s why he had grabbed it out of the dozens in that room, the chill seeping through his glove when he’d first gripped it. Now however, it tingles pleasantly in his hand, practically begging to be used.
But that wasn’t the only thing he’d acquired today.
He lifts the locket that's hanging around his neck in curiosity, taking a moment to study it. The chain is gold, and hums with a pleasant warmth as it hangs around his neck, and the pendant is just as opulent as Hadrian has come to expect from anything Slytherin or Black. The giant snake made of glittering green gems gives away its origins, though he wonders if it’s the actual Slytherin's locket or if the Black’s had gotten a replica made in honour of their house. He doubts they would proclaim a fake as the real one. Blacks have more pride than that.
Curiously, he tries to open the locket interested to see what might be hidden inside. He frowns when the latch refuses to move, having been jammed shut at some point. Without even thinking about it he grabs his new dagger and slips off the sheath to try to use it to pry the locket open.
The tip has barely touched the locket before a sharp shriek pierces the air and the locket burns his hand through his glove.
“Fuck.”
Right.
So the magic locket isn’t a fan of necromantic magic being used on it.
Message received.
“Sorry,” he mutters. He almost expects a response after that reaction and is slightly disappointed when the locket gives no other signs of being sentient. He drops it with a sigh, feeling the chain bounce against his chest, before he turns his attention to the hundreds of books in front of him.
Might as well kill some time.