Cast On
He wakes up with a splitting headache, and aims a scowl at the open window. The elf had been through, no doubt, to ‘freshen’ the room. Horrible habit, that.
Nobody in their right mind wants to see sunlight when first waking up, especially those who are unfortunate enough to have an east facing window.
Once again, he can’t recall what, exactly, he’d been dreaming about.
“Master Adam sir, Tippy be reminding you of the train today,” the elf chirps.
Harry groans, pulling a blanket over his head. He’d had a long day and late night negotiating with goblins, and needs at least two more hours sleep. After fourteen hours of trying not to start another rebellion, he was finally handed the horcrux from the Lestrange vault – after agreeing to work three curse-breaking or warding jobs for the bank.
“Later,” he mumbles, starting when the little shit popped out of his room with a deafening crack. He moans and pulls a pillow over the blanket already on his head.
Fucking goblins and their fucking alcoholic negotiations. And unsympathetic house elves: fuck them too.
He wakes again sometime later to furious hazel eyes two inches from his face.
Mumbling “Beat it,” he rolls over.
“I don’t want a brother,” a voice announces a moment later.
Harry opens his eyes to find that James had moved over to the other side of the bed. Probably so he could keep glaring at him properly. “Bully for you.”
“I’m supposed to have my party today.”
His ‘brother’s’ birthday is on Monday, and today is the first Saturday of the Easter holidays. He really, really wishes that the train took the long way for this journey too, but no such luck.
“It’s only one day,” Harry says, sitting up.
James ignores this, and keeps scowling.
“But I don’t want it tomorrow, it’s supposed to be today!” He isn’t sure, but he thinks that the kid stomps his foot to emphasize the point. Bloody hangover. Bloody goblins. “It’s all your fault!”
“Take it up with Mum,” he replies, standing up. “It was her idea.”
...
“But it’s your fault,” James insists. Harry – Adam – exits the loo to find his sort-of-brother sitting on his bed, arms still crossed. Apparently an extra-long shower and shave isn’t long enough after all.
“Were you going to watch me change?” he asks curiously after a pointed look at the towel around his waist. “I know we’re purebloods, but…” Smiling widely as the red-faced kid bolts from the room, he busies himself with getting dressed.
“I heard that you met James already,” Charlus says when Adam wanders into the kitchen.
Grunting an affirmative, he pulls out a mug and pours himself a cup of tea, before sitting at the table opposite his ‘father’. “He’s not fond of having a sibling.”
“No, I don’t imagine that he is. He’s rather upset with Dorea and I too.”
“Mmm. Have you told him about…” he trails off, and Charlus nods.
“The summer before Hogwarts is traditional.” He eyes Adam carefully, then sighs. “Have you… remembered everything?”
“Obviously not,” he mutters. He didn’t remember the age that Potters are told, after all. “I’m going to Diagon again today – do you need anything?”
“No. What did you need? I’m sure that…”
“I just wanted to pick up a broom,” he says quickly.
“You’re getting a broom?!” an excited voice interrupts from the kitchen doorway. “Dad, why does he get one and I don’t?”
“Because he’s paying for it himself.”
“Well, I was going to invite you along since it’s your birthday tomorrow,” Adam hedges, “but you don’t want a brother.”
In hindsight, he should have expected something like this to happen. They had bought a pair of brooms easily enough, and now James’ eyes are glued to the Evans family standing in front of a shop as they walk towards the apparition point.
Adam feels the anti-travel charms encompass the Alley a split second before a boom rattles the nearby windows, and swears as James darts across the lane without so much as blinking.
Towards Lily, of course.
Death Eaters stream from the alleys and doorways onto Diagon proper, with, it appears, no goal beyond wanton destruction.
“Wands out, shields up,” he hisses when he arrived. Lily is glaring at James, while her parents and sister seem much more concerned with the emerging battle around them.
“We can’t shield,” his brother says automatically, blinking at the street. “That’s…”
“Fourth year,” the girl supplies.
“Of course it is,” Adam mutters, surveying the street. “Disillusionment?” Two heads shake in unison, and he sighs again.
“Join hands and make a chain. This’ll feel weird.” He taps each of the wide-eyed people on the top of the head with his wand. “It’s not true invisibility. It’s… more like what a chameleon has,” he narrates. “Now. Stay by the wall then and let’s go.” He points away from the Leaky and the larger concentration of magic.
“You aren’t going to fight?” James asks indignantly.
“Not unless we’re attacked, I’d rather keep an eye on you lot,” he snaps back. “Move!”
He herds his five charges down the first side street, then into a little blind alley between a flower shop and antique book store. It’s cramped and not all that clean, but it has three stone walls and it’s off the beaten path, however barely.
It also doesn’t smell too bad, all things considered.
He points his wand at the ground, and with a murmur etches a shallow circle approximately six feet in diameter into the cobbles. “Stand in the circle please, and I’ll erect a shield,” he orders, watching the alley’s entrance.
“But,” James begins, stepping forward.
“Now James or Mum’ll murder us both.” This seems to do the trick, and he takes a step backwards towards the Evans family. Nodding, Adam erects a bunker shield around them and then leans against the wall of the alley to wait.
It doesn’t take long before two men with black robes and shining masks peer down their little laneway, and aim their wands. A bombarda and what he thinks to be a bone-breaker curse bounce off the barrier Adam had placed at the entrance to the alley, and he smirks. Twirling his wand, he returns fire, and the pair of death eaters drop to the ground.
He returns to his slouching position against the wall, ignoring the whispering behind him.
Two more exceedingly one-sided battles later, a pair of Aurors arrive. Drawn, no doubt, by the collection of seven black-clad bodies at the entrance to the alley.
“Identify yourself!” the woman barks as the containment jinxes over the area crash down.
“Adam Potter. And you are?”
“Auror Prewett,” she snaps, her partner whispering in her ear. “You used deadly force?”
“Of course.” He points behind him with his thumb. “I have five disillusioned charges: my brother, and a muggleborn family. Both kids are in first year.” He indicates his wand. “May I?”
The Auror nods, and he wanders over to the etchings on the ground. Casting quietly, he dismisses first the bunker shield, followed by the disillusionments.
To Adam’s surprise, James wastes no time in pulling him into a hug. “That was awesome,” he declares, arms tight around his middle, and Adam ruffles his hair.
“They didn’t put up much of a fight,” he grins, and James squeezes harder.
“What kind of shield was that?” Lily asks, still standing in the circle, “and what happened?”
“Looked like a bunker shield, miss,” the male Auror announces. “As you saw, there was a coordinated attack on Diagon Alley by a terrorist organization this afternoon. Since deadly force was used, we need to get everyone’s statement.”
“Mr Potter, can you tell us what happened when the attack began?” the woman interrupts.
“Sure.” He outlines how James had ran off as the attack began, how he brought everyone to a defensible position, and then stood guard.
They then turn to James, who corroborates the tale with no small amount of excitement.
“Excellent.” Auror Prewett tucks her notes into a pocket, hardly glancing at the frowning Evans family, and nods. “We’ll be in touch.”
They wander off.
“Rude,” Lily mutters, before giving James a curious glance. “I’m Lily Evans. These are my parents Gale and Jack Evans, and my sister Petunia.”
“Adam Potter. A pleasure to meet all of you,” he replies, then pokes James. “I promise my brother really does have manners,” he adds, causing James to flush.
Lily’s eyebrows nearly hit her hairline. “Are you sure about that?”
“Fairly sure, yeah,” he says. “Do you lot want an escort back to the Leaky, or are you fine on your own?”
Jack Evans swallows roughly and takes a step forward. “Thank you for protecting my family, but we’ll manage from here.”
“Dad,” Petunia hisses, “wouldn’t it be better if…”
Tuning her out (while finding the adoration in her eyes highly entertaining), he eyes James. Who appears to be having a whispered argument with Lily. “Are you ready to go?” he says, walking over and putting a restraining hand on the young boy’s shoulder.
Lily looks triumphant when she says, “It looks like we’re leaving so…”
“Lovely to meet one of my baby brother’s friends,” he offers, snickering when James twists around to glare up at him. Grinning widely, he waves goodbye and side-alongs James home, not wanting to bother with the probable line at the designated apparition point.
“He was perfectly safe, Mum.”
Dorea stops her ranting with a click of her teeth to glare at Adam. “You can’t guarantee that!”
“Mum.”
She swallows, reminding herself that she’s talking to The Potterer – not a twenty-something year old stranger masquerading as her child. “James, go to your room. I need to talk to your brother,” she hisses, and the kid bolts from the parlour like his arse is on fire.
Shrugging, Adam flops down into a chair then waves a hand at the doorway.
“Privacy jinx,” he explains. “And yes, I absolutely can guarantee it. The idea that one of my sons could die in my presence is absurd.”
“From what I’ve heard, those terrorists where handing out killing curses like candy while you were busy protecting a family of mudbloods!”
Adam’s eyes narrow. “You married into this family and Charlus is fond of you, so I’ll forgive your scepticism,” he states, his voice flat. Bringing his magic to the fore, he shoots to his feet as Dorea falls to her knees, gasping. “So tell me: why wouldn’t James be safe with me? He’s my blood,” Adam finishes with a snarl.
Crouched on the floor, she pales further as his aura just keeps on increasing – a nauseating strength that pulses around her, filling her nostrils with the scent of decaying leaves, and it feels like the air itself is strangling her as it presses her further into the floor. She had felt Albus Dumbledore, who is widely considered the strongest magic user in Europe, in a temper and he has nothing on the ancient thing masquerading as her son.
She puffs out a strangled breath as the magical pressure suddenly vanishes, and looked up to find Adam no longer looming over her but rather slumped in a chair.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly, “but you need to remember who I am. What I am. James’ soul won’t leave his body unless I wish it to.”
She stumbles to her feet and flees.
It’s the next day, and he’s standing in the field behind the house, leaning against a tree, and staring at the river below when Charlus works up the nerve to talk to him. He could feel when the decision was made, could feel the tendrils that link them ease and relax as he wanders closer and sighs.
He hadn’t meant to lose his temper, but he’s been on edge ever since he…
It’s still an odd feeling that the first thing he always remembers is saying goodbye to Ron and Hermione. But, he never really said goodbye, did he? And there’s less than a decade left and he can’t help but feel lost because, for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t know what to do.
For the first time in a long time he’s about to be alone.
“You really scared her, Sir.”
Sir. He holds back a snort and glances at the man beside him. “She implied that I couldn’t keep James safe. She needed to know.”
“She wants you to leave.”
Adam hums. “She also insulted the girl that James is liable to marry.”
“Oh? And who is that?”
“A little new-blood named Lily Evans.”
“New blood?” His voice is curious.
“Muggleborn, I think they’re called now. Where their family’s magic has been dormant for so long that the connection’s lost?”
“She’s not a fan of muggleborns, no.” Charlus pauses. “Marriage?”
“It’s likely,” he says, grinning. “I’ve seen the signs often enough.”
“We Potters do seem to fixate on somebody when young, don’t we?” Charlus says cheerfully.
“Yeah. You at least waited until you were thirteen to start stalking Dorea. James has been at it since the train last September.”
“It’s odd,” Charlus eventually says, “that you know so much about us.”
Adam shrugs. “Who else would I dream about if not family?”
“Comments like that are a bit odd too. I, erm, have a compromise in mind.”
“Oh?”
“The school’s defence instructor was killed in Diagon yesterday.”
“Yes?” Adam already knows this as he’s the one who killed the man, but…
“I’m on the Hogwarts board. How do you feel about teaching until the end of term?”
It’s not a terrible idea, he decides, as there might be marked death eaters among the older students. As he can’t seem to track down Riddle through a horcrux – even if he managed to destroy them all through the cup – so he agrees.
Back to Hogwarts it is. Hopefully the dark mark will prove to be a better connection than a piece of severed soul.
James’ party that afternoon goes well, and the newly minted twelve-year-old is happy to blather and brag about his brother all day long, and Adam is tickled to see him interact with his friends.
The Marauders before they’re the Marauders, with friendships that are still new and shiny and untarnished by war are a hoot, and he offers up his new broomstick so that James can race them properly around the back garden.
Dorea is still frightened, even knowing that he’ll be gone soon and (probably) won’t harm her, but her acting is accomplished enough that James doesn’t realize that anything is wrong.
So the boys roughhouse, and try (and fail) to gang up on him, and then it’s time for dinner and cake and…
Darkness had fallen hours ago, and his little ‘adoptive’ family is in bed, and he visits the Hogsmeade graveyard. Wandering between the stones, he takes the long way around, until he reaches a bare patch.
He remembers when it wasn’t bare. When it was littered with the names of loved ones, when…
He gulps and sinks to his knees and a pair of arms embrace him from behind, encircling his neck. Resting his cheek on a cool hand, he tries and fails to keep the tears at bay, and a second set of arms hug his middle from the side.
“It’s almost time,” he says, his voice rough. “I shouldn’t have… I’ve been so selfish.”
“Harry.” The voice is soft as a cool breath tickles his ear and he blinks furiously. “It’ll be okay. No matter what you decide.”
“Still have seven years, mate,” the other voice says. “Well, six and a half for Miss Technically, but you know.”
“You’ll forget me, and I...”
“No matter what,” she interrupts him and kisses his cheek. “You’ll always look after us, no matter what. You promised us, and we trust you Harry.”
It’s Thursday, and he’s sitting in the Headmaster’s Office at Hogwarts watching a rather young Dumbledore with bemusement. The other man is annoyed that he used ‘deadly force’ when protecting James and Lily – and killed the man he’s replacing in the process – but Charlus has the Board well in hand and anyway: where else are they going to find a replacement professor on such short notice?
Besides – it’s only until June. It’s only three months.
The students that stayed on over the Easter Hols watch him curiously as he’s led to his rooms and shown his classroom, and the whispers begin. “That’s a Potter,” they say, “where’d another Potter come from?”
He’s cornered on Sunday evening by a set of red-headed twins and his heart aches. But Fred and George haven’t been born yet, and Charlie is only a couple months old, and their uncles are still alive. And if he has anything to do with it, the Weasley twins will grow up with Fabian and Gideon spoiling them rotten and, in turn, being absolutely rotten role models that make Molly prematurely go grey.
“Mister Potter,” one of them says, “the rumour mill is working overtime…”
“…Seems to think that you’re the one who offed Mr. Goyle,” the other finishes, and they stare at him expectantly.
Adam smirks. “You can’t trust every rumour you hear, especially in a boarding school. Gentlemen.” He nods and resumes walking into the Great Hall, taking a seat at the head table for the first time.
Finding his brother and his friends chattering enthusiastically at the Gryffindor table, he winks at James, then turns back to Flitwick and his questions.
“You never said!” James is trying to be furious – and failing miserably – when he tracks down Adam after the meal.
“I said that I’d see you again before you knew it,” he replies.
Sirius elbows him in the ribs then whispers in James’ ear, and the scowl vanishes. “Can we see your room?”
“Later,” Adam promises, “I’m still trying to sort out the lessons. Mr Goyle left a bit of a mess.”
“He was rubbish,” James announces.
“I noticed – you ran headlong through a battle without bothering to look around first, after all.”
“Yeah, but I had my big brother there to save me,” he replies cheekily and Adam rolls his eyes when the younger boy leaps forward to hug him.
“Prat,” he says, and wraps an arm around his brother and gives him a noogie. James squirms, escapes and bolts, while Sirius and Remus and Pettigrew all laugh.
He’s been teaching for nearly a week before he remembers that he has errands to run while at Hogwarts. Basilisk, dark mark, curse.
But not in that order.
The curse should be dealt with first, as it’ll be years before the Basilisk is at risk of being freed, especially with the diary already destroyed, and he doesn’t feel like dealing with Riddle today, and Albus Dumbledore appears in the doorway when he’s examining the school’s anchor stone.
“How did you get in here?”
Adam shrugs, and keeps walking around the stone. It’s a large quartz resting on a pedestal, and intricately carved with various runes. It’s also a contradictory disaster.
“There’s a rumour that the Defence position is cursed, so I’m taking a look,” he says instead, tracing a cluster of bind runes.
“I’m afraid it’s just a rumour: the stones have all been examined thoroughly by the best curse-breakers in the country, as well as by the Unspeakables.”
Albus walks further into the room, watching Adam curiously.
“I’m surprised that you’re bothering with it though: I had thought that you focused on spell-based protections.”
“I do,” Adam acknowledges with a nod, his fingers moving to another cluster, “but having a mastery in one method doesn’t preclude knowledge in another.”
“True enough.”
Adam continues his walk around the stone, and it’s Albus who once again breaks the silence. “Have you found anything?”
“Probably. I’ll need to check the cornerstones to be sure, but it seems accidental: this stone is a mess.”
“Oh?”
Adam waves him closer, and when the Headmaster is standing next to him he points at a cluster. “This bindrune set is designed to prevent attacks on teachers: it’s an early form of what will become a standard array that’s meant to safeguard the head of a family from treachery whilst in their own home.”
He walks around the stone after Albus nods, and points to another set of markings. “But it’s how it interacts with this one that’s causing the problem.”
“Yes, we can’t make heads nor tails of most of the ogham inscriptions,” Albus replies, and Adam shakes his head.
“That’s because they’re not Gaelic – they’re Pictish.” He traces the anchor line softly, then turns back to his employer. “The two scripts are related, but rather different in usage. You see, this is the base mark for the stone: the one that the rest are linked to. This one was carved first, and is responsible for powering the stones by drawing in ambient energy from the castle’s inhabitants. But it’s Pictish, and that cluster for the teachers is Anglo-Saxon. Those two scripts do not play nice together, and it’s getting worse as time goes on.”
“Oh, that’s fascinating.”
They’re in the staff room, and Adam is watching the Ancient Runes professor and his apprentice pour over the drawings he made of the keystone.
“So, you’re saying that there isn’t an intentional curse… but that the protective enchantments are essentially fighting each other?” Arthur Selwyn is less enthusiastic than his student, Adam decides.
“Absolutely. A pissing match via glyphs, and if it isn’t corrected it’ll spread to more positions: at the moment it’s focusing on defence simply because…” he struggles for a moment for the correct word, gesturing with his hand, “defence is classified as a protector,” he decides.
“I don’t know that I’m following you,” Babbling says.
“Traditionally, if the castle is attacked, the defence of the castle would be coordinated by the most experienced defence instructor. I would imagine that the post of headmaster would be in jeopardy next as the school only has one employee for that subject.
“All of the base inscriptions on both the Keystone and the Cornerstones are in Pictish, and it’s a finicky magic that has a bone to pick with many of the invading cultures. Anglo-Saxon is one of many that it would react badly with. Thankfully there aren’t too many runic additions.”
“I’m not familiar with Picti Magi… nobody is. What, exactly, do you recommend we do?”
“The Potters have several spells and a few properties protected in that script,” he lies, “so I can translate them. I’d suggest we remove the futhorc additions and replace them with more Pictish. Barring that, it would have to be something neutral to the Picts. Some variety of cuneiform perhaps? Or Etruscan?”
“Do you have a list of the clusters that need replacing?”
The wards are corrected over the following month with the replacement of four clusters on the keystone and two on each cornerstone. And in the process...
He takes Apprentice Babbling – Beth – out to dinner for the first time in early June.
The attraction surprises him, even as it makes his companions laugh and smile and, in one case, squeal with glee. James is less impressed, as is Dorea when she finds out, even if they’re for rather different reasons. Charlus, on the other hand, just offers the not-young man a knowing smile and a pat on the shoulder: The Potterer will be sticking around longer than is usual then.
It had been so long since he had taken a wife, and nearly eight hundred years since he had children of his own. Perhaps...
The papers called it a ‘Whirlwind Romance’ between the elder Potter son and the second daughter of a minor house, and they are wed in the first weeks of 1974.
It is Abraxas Malfoy, in the end, that allows him to finish things. He’s collecting a fifth year Lucius from King’s Cross while Adam himself is picking up a freshly fourteen year old James for the Easter holidays, and the stench of the mark reaches him from across the platform.
It’s blood magic, and parselmagic, and soul magic all twisted together into the dark mark: a perversion that makes his lip curl in disgust. There isn’t much, after all, that irritates him as much as wizards playing with souls.
And so, he brings James home, and helps him settle, and joins him for a fly and then he’s back in Diagon to follow the tracking charm he had tossed on Abraxas the day before.
He finds the man at Gringotts, and Adam’s smile is positively deranged as he follows the man and goblin down a side hall. The goblin, of course, knows that he’s there and he stalls when they reach their destination.
Adam does not. Striding forward, he grabs the elder Malfoy by the arm and pulls up the sleeve. The snake and skull is etched into the man’s flesh, and he ignores the other man’s struggling, and curses, and shouting, as he calmly traces a finger over the tattoo. “Got you,” he says, and Abraxas pales when Adam unleashes his too-wide smile upon him. Grabbing the blond under the chin, he tilts the death eater’s head up to catch his eyes. “But what am I going to do with you?”
Abraxas’ eyes narrow and he opens his mouth to spew invective, and Adam’s smile broadens when no sound comes out. “Oh,” he says, delighted, “that’s excellent. Off we go then.”
He uses the magic of the mark, the binding of soul subservient to soul, to appear before Voldemort. With a thought, Abraxas collapses onto the ground, and he ignores the spells impacting with his body as he walks to stand before the self-proclaimed Dark Lord.
“Tom Marvolo Riddle,” he says, stroking the man’s cheek as he flinches away. “Try as you might, you can’t escape Death’s grasp.”
“I am immortal!” the man says, but the effect is lost in the voice’s desperation, in the look on the man’s face.
“You’re not,” Adam purrs, voice low, “and you can’t hide from me. Not anymore.”
He releases the hold on his magic and, unlike that day years ago when he showed himself to Dorea, he does not keep it contained to a single room. He does not mute it, or protect anyone from its effects. His green eyes shift to black as Riddle and his followers are forced to their knees. Their breath fogs as gooseflesh spreads across their skin and hoarfrost erupts from the floor, and to a one their eyes widen in terror.
Riddle’s soul, corrupted and twisted and frayed from foul magic is ripped from his collapsing body, and Adam’s arms open wide as it hovers before him. Then his eyes narrow, and the nearly-ruined soul is torn asunder and devoured.
Never to be judged.
Never to pass into the Beyond.
Never to be reborn.
It’s simply gone.
Then he too vanishes from sight, leaving the inner circle of the Death Eaters weeping on the floor after their close encounter with Death himself.
Ignotus is born on the seventh of November, 1976 with a shock of black hair and bright blue eyes that wasted no time at all in shifting to green. Dorea had started, at last, to fear Adam less, helped along by his doting on James and Beth.
It is a difficult thing for her, a Black by blood, to imagine him not using or abusing his power. To imagine him playing a mild mannered Potter, a firstborn son without hope of inheritance through a quirk of family magic, who is content to be married to a (in her opinion) nobody, and hold a job, and give her grandchildren.
And yet... He was mild mannered. Affable, and friendly, and not above a prank but truly kind and good-natured. He cared about people.
She didn’t think he would.
His sons? Of course. But her? Random strangers on the street? Of course not.
He’s in the Hogsmeade graveyard again, his eyes closed, stretched out on his back in the damp grass. The war ended years ago, and there will not be a second, and the graveyard never felt the desperate need to expand.
No children will be buried in the earth under his feet. Not today, not in ten or twenty years. Hopefully, not ever.
He was mistaken all those years ago: he wasn’t travelling through time. He wasn’t going to go back, and fix things. Instead, he went sideways.
It’s not quite a time branch, and not quite an alternate dimension… more of a course correction, he decides.
And, on that night in the Little Hangleton graveyard, so very long ago, he pushed the spell further than his friends thought it could be pushed. Because he knew something that they didn’t, something that they wouldn’t understand.
The whole ‘Potterer’ thing was rubbish.
Well. It’s not rubbish now, but it certainly was then.
The whole thing was a mess of twisty logic that made his head hurt. Which, he decided, was amusing since it was his twisty logic.
He is Death. Always was, always will be.
And he’s kept Hermione and Ron with him for far too long, because, while he ‘released’ them millennia ago… he still brought them along.
But it’s time to let them go.
It’s December of 1978 when Hermione leaves them, and Ron’s turn comes the following June. He’s fairly sure that Ron doesn’t understand the timing, but…
In October, a new soul will be sent to Lily Potter’s womb, and ‘Adam’ still remains. Not that James, or Lily, or Charlus, or Beth, or Iggy want him to go. Dorea, on the other hand, would very much like him to fuck right off and die, and he can’t help but wonder what Lily will think of him when she’s told. What Beth would think.
He wonders if he should tell James to stop, to let the secret die.
It’s all going wrong.
Doug Granger passes away in a car accident and now? Now? Now his pregnant wife is getting an emergency C-section, and she’s dying and the baby’s at risk because she isn’t due until the middle of September and it’s barely August and...
He frets in the back of the room because she’s going to die. She’s supposed to die, and Hermione will be orphaned and he can’t do anything about it. Because of a drunk driver that he’s already had words with, who thankfully also died. Even if he didn’t suffer nearly enough.
But Hermione Jean Granger is born at 2:06 am on 4 August, 1979 instead of 19 September, and less than ten minutes later Mary passes into the beyond.
He waits for her in the usual place, a grassy meadow that stretches as far as the eye can see save for one ancient tree and she immediately falls to her knees, wracked by tears.
After a while, or perhaps it takes no time at all, she calms herself enough to look around. Her eyes meet Adam’s, and he gets up from his place against the tree.
“Mary Jane Elizabeth Granger, I’m sorry.”
“Who... where am I?”
“Just a pit-stop along the way... though you’re welcome to stay with me and mine, of course.”
“What...” She blinks away a fresh influx of tears, examining her surroundings with unseeing eyes.
“I have a special place, a different place, for those that are dear to me,” he tells her, his voice soft. “I’ve already dealt with the man that caused this, but I couldn’t interfere and prevent your deaths.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Certain souls are more precious to me than others, and one was entrusted to you. I will take your daughter, and she’ll want for nothing. She’ll have siblings and cousins and grandparents and aunts and uncles that will adore her and a father that would see the world burn just to make her happy. The woman she once was was like a treasured sister to me, my best friend in the world.”
He smiled sadly. “I promised her, before I sent her soul to your womb, that I would always take care of her. And I will.”
And he does. That very morning, before her mum’s body has even cooled, he takes the new-born premie into his arms and presses a kiss onto her forehead. “My Hermione,” he croons, sending his power into the child. Shaping, and guiding her as she sleeps.
Paperwork files itself as he moves home to Anglesey and the home he shares with his wife and son, and he sits on the side of his marriage bed whilst still holding the child close.
“Beth, we need to talk.”
She’s bleary-eyed from Iggy’s fussing after a nightmare, but had been waiting for him to return nonetheless. After all, he had shot awake, cursing heavily before disapparating without comment or explanation. She eyes the bundle in his arms, and nods.
“You’ll want to talk with Charlus and Dorea to confirm, I’m sure,” he sighs but he haltingly explains himself to his wife and then introduces her to Hermione.
“She will be mine,” he states, his voice firm and unflinching. “I promised her, you see, and I’ve already started changing her DNA. By morning, neither magic nor science will be able to tell that she wasn’t always my daughter.”
He watches Beth’s lips purse. “I can make her yours too,” he adds softly. “Yours by blood, and magic, and nobody will comment on the fact that you never carried her or birthed her yourself.”
“You can affect memories?” she asks carefully. Fearfully.
He sighs. “Can and will are two different things. But yes, love. There are rules, but there isn’t much that I can’t do.”
She fidgets on the chair, and he closes his eyes. “Go talk to Charlus and Dorea.”
“Your parents.”
“My descendant and his wife,” he corrects her softly, and he’s still sitting on the side of the bed holding his best friend when she walks out of the room.
Beth takes the floo to Linfield House, and Tippy is waiting in the study as she steps out of the fire.
“Mistress Potterer, I be getting Charlus and Dorea and tea. Sit,” the little elf orders before popping away.
She can’t sit, however, and is still pacing the floor when her in-laws sweep into the room in dressing gowns. Dorea is scowling deeply, and Charlus is the first to speak. “What happened?”
“Your son isn’t yours, is he?” she demands, finally sinking into a chair. “He showed up tonight with a babe in his arms claiming that he had promised the child’s shade that he’d care for her. The babe was orphaned, and he took her. He says... he says he’s your ancestor.”
Charlus sighs and rubs his forehead. “Yes,” he admits, taking the cup of tea his elf hands him. “The Potter family... legends say that The Potterer, the first Potter, started our line centuries ago. That he’d return when our family was in need, that at first his memory would be faulty. It would be... missing pieces, that he wouldn’t truly understand who he is, not at first.”
“I found him at Gringotts,” Dorea says, picking up the narrative. “He had just woken up, and I overheard him speaking to a goblin, and a goblin speaking to him. I had heard the stories when they were told to James not even a year earlier. We welcomed him into our home, as is expected of us and he stayed, masquerading as our elder child.”
“He knows about us, all of us. Our hopes and dreams and desires – our history, and our actions. It’s said that when he doesn’t walk among us that he dreams of us instead.”
“He isn’t human,” Beth says and Dorea flinches.
“No, he isn’t,” she affirms quietly. “I... irritated him, once. He had taken James to Diagon Alley and it was attacked and I raged that he didn’t take James home immediately, that he allowed my son to stay and be in danger. He... objected to the idea that any of ‘his sons’ would be at risk of harm around him. He...” She swallowed roughly at the memory. “He showed me part of his power, his aura, and it left me gasping on the floor.”
She takes another sip of her tea whilst wishing for something stronger before continuing. “Beth? Your husband is ancient, and I felt like less than an ant before him. But he loves you, and he loves his family and he would do anything to keep us safe and happy.”
“He woke up swearing earlier,” Beth admits, “and vanished from bed without a word. And not ten minutes later he’s back with a newborn babe in his arms and he’s telling me that the child is now his and that’s that. That, if I wanted, the child would be mine as well... and that nobody would argue that I never birthed her.”
“Memory charms?”
Beth shrugs. “I don’t even know him... do I? Not really.”
Charlus gets up and sits beside her, wrapping an arm around his daughter-in-law. “I think that he wants you to know who he really is. I think that, if he didn’t, you wouldn’t be here – you’d be at home celebrating the birth of your second child.”
“Charlus, that doesn’t help,” Dorea says with a glare before turning back to Beth. “Hon, talk to him.”
“But can I even trust what he says? Trust my reactions? Is he... Can he...”
“Adam, get your arse over here,” Charlus snaps, interrupting Beth’s monologue. Her shocked eyes dart over to him, then to her husband now sitting in a previously empty chair, a bottle in hand to feed the bundle in his arms.
“You rang?” he quips, an unreadable expression on his face.
“Talk to your wife,” Dorea orders, standing up. Then, holding out her arms, she adds, “But first, introduce me to my newest grandbaby.”
“This is Hermione Jean,” he says fondly, passing over the bundle. “Once upon a time, she was my best friend and a sister in all but blood. When I let her go to be born again, I promised I’d keep an eye on her. That I’d keep her safe.”
He twisted in his seat to gaze at his wife, and his voice is steel when he continues. “Her parents died this morning, and she was born six weeks premature – she should have been born on 19 September. I will not allow her to go to an orphanage, or be raised by her foolish grandparents, or be at the mercy of muggle healers and neonatal care.”
To be raised in a potentially hostile home, like he once was, went unsaid.
“How long ago...?”
“Did she die?” he asks, finishing Dorea’s unsaid question. “It’s been thousands of years since she last lived... and months since I sent her soul to her mother’s womb.”
“Adam? Who are you really?” Beth’s voice is quiet, concerned.
Thousands of years. Sent her soul...
“I’m your husband. A father, grandfather, son and brother. Soon, I’ll be an uncle. And that’s all I’ll be when I’m here, while you live.”
“And... after?” The door quietly closed behind Charlus and Dorea as they left the room.
“After... I’ll meet you in the beyond to welcome you to my kingdom.”
“Adam...”
“Beth, I love you. I didn’t expect to come here, to this place, and meet you. I thought it would be like the last dozen or so times I’ve walked this earth: I’d take care of a threat to those who call me grandfather, and then I’d leave. Instead, I met you.”