Harry sat in his favorite chair, his eyes trained on the blazing fire occupying his hearth, His face was lax, no expression taking precedent. But his mind? His mind was running a mile a minute. Thought of anger, of betrayal, clouding his other senses. He didn’t even hear his front door open.
How could they? They used me! All this time. Has it been an act? How could they? HOW COULD THEY?! Did they think I wouldn’t notice? The shielded looks masking greed and gluttony and lust? Did they think me some sort of idiot? I may have been raised muggle, but I have common sense!
His thoughts were slowly making their way onto his tanned skin, disgust coloring his eyes. He sneered at the fire, his thoughts slowly turning back into the world around him. It was then he noticed the presence at his back.
He couldn’t even turn around before all he knew was swept away and swallowed by darkness.
-
“Mr. Peverell, please pay attention.”
Hadrian’s face flushed at the muted sounds of laughter. The last dregs of emotion draining from his body from the latest episode. He was getting mighty tired of these visions, They were never anything useful.
Hadrian’s acidic green eyes wandered up to the chalkboard, his quill scratching across his parchment, absently copying down notes.
“Hey, Peverell,” a voice whispered-yelled to his right.
Hadrian caught the professor’s lip twitch and frowned, keeping his mouth shut.
“Peverell!” a little louder this time.
When he didn’t respond, he felt a ball of parchment hit his head, but he didn’t budge from his spot. He hunched froward instead, his thick hair hanging down into his eyes like a mop.
“Narcissistic, self-important bastard, doesn’t have time from the rest of us.”
Hadrian viciously bit down on his bottom lip to the point where all he could taste was the metallic copper of coins and blood. He wished the other kids would leave him alone.
When the professor announced the end of class, Hadrian took his time. Slowly packing away his materials away into his bag. His inner voice praying that his bullies have left. High hopes, but valid, nonetheless.
“Oh, Peverell,” one of the boys sang out, his red and gold accented robes glinting in the dim lighting of the corridor.
“Please go away,” Hadrian tried as he approached them.
To Hadrian’s pleasant surprise, they moved to let him past. It was too good to be true. And it was.
The moment Hadrian passed into an empty part of the hallway; he was bodily shoved into the windows. The windows were spelled to be unbreakable; thank Merlin for small mercies. Hadrian slid down to the floor, glaring weakly up at his attackers.
“I can’t believe a Peverell could be so weak. God, you barely have enough magic to pass as a wizard.”
“I’m sure it would be soo easy to beat him in a duel.”
“I heard that in defense we’re doing duels. Perfect time to prove this worthless waste of space doesn’t deserve to be here.”
A chorus of laughs made Hadrian’s blood boil. I’ll show them. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw om Riddle staring with an air of disappointment and disgust around him. Hadrian held back a sneer.
Head Boy, my arse. Riddle only cares about himself and his pretty little following.
“We’ll see you soon, Peverell. Try not to cry when we clean the floor with you.”
-
Harry shook his head, his hands shaking from adrenaline and something else he couldn’t place. He tucked his hands into his pockets trying to warm them as best as possible.
“Harry, you did it! He’s gone!”
Harry wasn’t sure who was speaking, his mind now hyper-focusing on the fact that he killed Voldemort. Really got rid of him for good. No more pain in his scar. No more visions. No more running. No more purpose for the Boy-Who-Lived.
No more.
-
Hadrian found himself looking at his reflection in the mirror. Something isn’t right. My reflection is off. Hadrian kept staring.
His eyes were a shade darker than he remembered. His messy hair was now somewhat tamed, cut short and styled so it looked intentionally disheveled. With his hair out of the way you could see his high cheekbones and his eyes. And the lightning reminiscent scar that stretched from his hairline down to his right eye was also very visible.
“Huh, that’s concerning.”
And maybe Hadrian should be more worried that his reflection doesn’t reflect him but the man in his dreams. The one who occupies his thoughts during class. The one who makes his skin crawl and his brain scream that something is wrong. So yes, Hadrian’s reaction is very tame, but his curiosity is winning out against his self-preservation.
Hadrian cast out a wandless tempus and silently cursed at the time. He spun on his heel and left. He made it to the defense classroom mere seconds before the class began.
“Please take your seats. Today we will be dueling with wordless spells. I do not mean whispered, muttered under your breath, or even mouthed. SILENT and without moving your lips. Now, pair up with a partner from the opposite house.”
The moment everyone stood, all the tables and chairs were gone from the large room.
Within seconds, the brash and rude Gryffindor was at Hadrian’s side. That cruel smile back on his face.
“Ready to lose?” the boy taunted.
Hadrian kept his mouth shut and instead walked to an empty part of the classroom. Behind him he could hear the boy scoff and mumbled something under his breath. In no time at all, Hadrian was on the floor, a tripping jinx having connected with his back.
“That was dirty,” Hadrian muttered as he pushed himself back to his feet. He spun and took in the smug look on his partner’s face. Hadrian scowled but bowed, following etiquette.
He knew, objectively, that he would not win this duel. He was more squib than wizard, and if something about that suddenly changed, it would be a miracle. But maybe a miracle wasn’t that far off.
Every once in a while, Hadrian would get this tugging feeling deep in his sternum. The feeling comparable to someone pulling on your limbs and not stopping when you ask them to. Tugging ang tugging and tugging. And for once in his miserable and lonely life, Hadrian didn’t feel that tugging, but pushing. A surplus of lightning crackling under his skin. And then he remembered.
-
Deep in the Forbidden Forest, Harry stood in front of a soft pile of dirt. A small mound with wildflowers scattered about was the only indication of the unmarked grave.
“I’m sorry, Tom,” Harry whispered to the soft sounds of the forest. “I’m sorry that I was played. Manipulated. And I’m sorry that it happened to you too. And you had no support, not like I did. And I wish with every bit of my being that I would have helped you. But I can’t. Not anymore. I can’t help anyone, not even myself. I’m useless without you. What am I meant to do without you fighting for a cause that is ultimately better than the one I was forced to protect?”
Harry fought a sob. After the death of his prophesized enemy, the truth came out as Harry watched the world around him decline. Magic began to leave Magical Britain. Harry finally did his own research and came to his own conclusions and it hurt. A world where he finally fit in, and he destroyed it at the words of an old man too old to keep up his own heroic act.
He wanted to fix things. Gods, how he wanted to fix things.
His cries fell on deaf ears as tears dripped down his face leaving glossy tracks in their wake. Harry dropped to his knees and pressed the heel of his palms to his eyes. He couldn’t stop the tears even if he wanted to.
In the silence of the night, Harry’s gasp was loud and echoed through the dense expanse of trees.
A warmth settled over his shoulders like a bear hug. Gentle whispers of inaudible words calmed Harry more than he thought possible. And with that, Harry knew everything would be okay. Not perfect, but the cracks would be filled, in a way.
-
A spell, green in nature, burst forth from his opponent’s wand and was met by a shield of static bursting forth from Hadrian’s core. His face twisting into resignation.
Hadrian lifted his wand and with his—Harry’s—favorite spell, expelliarmus disarmed his opponent. The base of his skull throbbing with pain. Hadrian let out a hissed breath as he brought a hand to the back of his head when pain shot through his scar. He wasn’t aware that he let out a noise let alone a scream of pain.
When he came back to his senses, he was greeted by the stark whiteness of the Hospital Wing.
Hadrian knew because of exactly how many times he had been in here. No, not Hadrian—Harry. Harry had been in here more often that Hadrian if only because the former couldn’t take care of his injuries on his own and his injuries usually happened in the public eye.
“Are you awake? Yes? Good, good. How are you feeling?”
Hadrian opened his mouth to speak, but no words would come out. Frustration began mounting and his magic suddenly lashed out, filling the room making the air feel heavy and sticky. Like moving through mud. It invaded his senses, filling his nose and mouth and ears. Trying to plug holes that shouldn’t be plugged.
He glanced around and snatched up a glass of water, he drank it slowly despite the instinct to guzzle down the water.
Slowly, his magic drains from the room, soaking into the walls of the castle, leaving his trace on the school.
“Oh dear, was that your magic Mr. Peverell? I was under the assumption you were…” the medi-witch trailed off, her eyes darting around the room, not looking in Hadrian’s direction.
“I was under that assumption as well,” Hadrian murmurs softly, his voice hoarse. His eyes trained on his balled-up hands.
“Well, are you in any pain? If so, I can get you a low-level pain potion.”
“No, I should be good.”
“Well, if you need anything, let me know. Get some rest, young man.”
The witch left the room. Left Hadrian alone to himself and his thoughts. His memories that weren’t his memories. Harry felt like a lifetime away. Hadrian laid down, staring up at the ceiling. He tried to get his thoughts in order, square away memories that are unimportant. Keep others from trying to pry into his mind.
“That was an interesting display in class.”
Hadrian doesn’t jump. His magic had reached out, alerted him to a guest. A powerful guest.
Tom Riddle.
“Was it? I wouldn’t know. I did pass out near the beginning,” Hadrian whispered, not wanting to raise his voice above a certain noise level.
“You’re powerful. Much more so than I thought. How ever did you fly under my radar whilst in Slytherin, Hadrian Peverell?”
Hadrian decided at that moment that he would never be used to Voldemort—No, Tom Riddle—saying his name whether in this life or the next. He hated the way that it got under his skin. The way it forced butterflies into his stomach. The dull ache in his sternum. He missed Tom and he hates that he missed him because now he has him here, here and alive and breathing. And Harry hates this feeling.
“How indeed?”
Hadrian wanted to condemn the man who stood by and watched as he was beaten down by other students. But Harry wanted to rejoice in the fact that the man who owned a piece of his soul was there.
His magic was reaching out again. Trying to connect, trying to dance with Tom’s magic. The magic he kept close to his skin. The magic he never displays until he wants to intimidate. Wants to feel powerful.
He looked at the man who stood at the end of his bed. Perfectly styled dark hair. Dark eyes that shine red in the bright light. Immaculate uniform without a wrinkle in sight.
Hadrian wants to hate him. Harry wants to reach out to him. To give himself in.
”I am yours. I share a shard of your soul."
The words left his mouth in soft hisses before he can police them. But he likes to think that the look of shock and anger on his face was a nice reward for his misstep.
”A shard of my soul… A…”
”Horcrux.”
Harry finished for him, his acidic green eyes greedily taking in the form of the boy before him.
Hadrian noticed the possessive look that begins to form on the face of his fellow Slytherin. He inwardly sighs, his resignation leading to cheerful acceptance at the hands of his memories. The memories of a young boy exorcised and ostracized in a muggle orphanage.
And Hadrian knew that he would belong to Tom Riddle for the rest of his eternal life. Whether in this body or another’s.