Detention? No, devastation.
The afternoon went by quicker than expected. Hermione had ‘roped’ him into starting his coursework before Ron had enough and they left Hermione with her books, preferring to play some Exploding Snap. And, having noticed a few curious glances of awkward, lone lower years, Hadrian was quick to invite them over.
Eventually, Hermione also noticed the twins’ offer on the notice board and went to berate them. Ron, as a responsible Prefect and role model, had to join in, of course.
Hadrian could not understand Hermione’s extreme opposition and, quite frankly, severe stance against Fred and George. Sure, they loved a good laugh, but never at the expense of others’ pain or humiliation. And it’s not like what they did was dangerous or untested (even if they’d only tested their product on themselves).
From what Hadrian remembered and observed, they told the participants exactly what was in order for them and what could happen — no-one went in there having no idea what would await them.
Though, voicing his thoughts proved to be a mistake, as that only drew Hermione’s ire onto his person. And subsequently, he had to justify himself for his atypical behaviour. Apparently he had changed over the summer. Which was a surprise, seeing as he had been tortured, watched a classmate get murdered and was then abandoned by his best friends.
How and why he could have changed would forever remain a mystery.
Another dose of nasty nutrition potion and dinner followed soon after and, before Hadrian knew it, he was walking down the dungeons to Snape’s classroom.
The hallways were darker here. There were no windows to let in light, or to let a fresh breeze blow away the smell of old age.
There were alcoves though, with their walls charmed see-through, giving a unique and magnificent view of the Black Lake, of the life within. Comfortable couches and fluffy pillows were placed inside the half-circular space, thereby creating a breath-taking lounge.
Noticeable was also the lack of gossiping portraits in the dungeons, or any paintings. Instead, there were intricate patterns and swirls, lit up by the numerous torches in their opulent holders.
Ultimately, Hadrian came to a stop in front of a door like any other in the castle, even though this one seemed somehow more imposing; darker and more impenetrable. That was not the case, of course, but those were the feelings the whirred within when standing there.
Nevertheless, Hadrian’s hand came up and knocked two, three times.
And then there was the reason for feeling this way — small and insignificant, foreboding. The door creaked open on its own, revealing Severs Snape, resident Potions Master and infamous dungeon bat.
He stood tall and dark, even while sitting behind his desk, grading papers. His pale — almost gaunt — face (was he eating? Sleeping?) was framed by his midnight black, lanky hair. His dark eyes seemed to bore into Hadrian’s very soul, so intense and emotionless; it was only enhanced by the drawn up brow.
This man shrouded in darkness, sat in this quiet room in the depth of Hogwarts, surrounded by jars filled with eyes and hearts and gore and all kinds of things.
Severus Snape was a truly terrifying specimen. And he knew it very well.
Stepping in, Hadrian went to a desk in the front row, his backpack plopping to the floor while he remained standing.
“Good evening, Professor Snape,” he greeted the dour man politely. “What do you want me to do?”
Snape continued to silently look at him for another minute or two, his brow rising to new heights. Finally though, he simply pointed to the store cupboard.
“You will brew the Draught of Peace once more,” he drawled. “You may take all necessary ingredients from my stock. The recipe — as you were undoubtedly too incompetent to write it down — can be found in your book. Begin.”
And with that, he turned back to the papers in front of him, leaving Hadrian to his own devices. But he simply did as told; he skimmed over the instructions, got the ingredients, and set to brew the Draught again. This time, however, under the watchful eye of Snape, so he couldn’t cheat.
He didn’t need to cheat. Not anymore.
At least, Hadrian mused, he did not need to torture and bind himself to an oath written in his blood as punishment. This was loads better.
After a while, the sound of a quill furiously scratching on parchment trailed off, leaving only the soft sounds of the bubbling liquid and the steady chop chop chop of cutting the ingredients, to fill the room.
That was, at least, until knocking interrupted this serenity.
Snape did not take his eyes off of Hadrian while he imperiously called out for the person to enter.
Hadrian suppressed a smile.
“Professor Snape,” Draco Malfoy said, before his voice softened, “Severus, may we talk with you? Privately?”
And that eyebrow rose again. Nevertheless, after casting a scrutinising look at the quietly brewing Hadrian, he nodded once.
“Very well,” drawled Snape, motioning Draco towards his desk.
The blond stepped forward. However, once he reached the front row — right next to Hadrian — he stopped, standing still. Instinctively, a noise canceling and privacy charm rose to cover the room.
Hadrian finished his stirs, before drawing a glowing rune into the air above the cauldron, enclosing it in a dome of protection and stasis. Then he also turned his eyes towards Snape. Snape, who was looking at the two of them appraisingly. Although, he couldn’t quite hide his surprise. And suspicion.
“Well,” he then said, “that is certainly unexpected.”
Draco’s lips twitched. “You could say that.”
Snape looked completely unimpressed.
“And what, pray tell, do the two of you want to talk about? With me?” His eyebrow rose again. “I will not tolerate an insufferable scrabble of pointing fingers. Now, the two of you actually getting along and intelligent words passing your lips, that I doubt to witness.”
The corners of their mouths turned up. This time, neither of them tried to hide it.
And before Draco could open his lovely mouth and say something reasonable and thought-through, Hadrian beat him to it.
“Do you know what happens with memories when they are given away by crying — in the form of tears?”
The man sneered, his eyes roving over Hadrian’s still much too gaunt form judgingly.
A long, suffering sigh escaped the man and he lowered his head dejectedly.
Pinching the bridge of his hooked nose with a potion stained hand, Snape opened his mouth. He sounded… totally resigned. “What insipid thing have you done now, Potter?”
“I did nothing, sir,” said Hadrian, his eyes sliding to his professor’s neck for all but a second. His gaze met black voids, “you did.”
That seemed to do it.
Several things happened at once: Snape’s hand fell to his desk with a loud thud, his formerly sullen face contorting to anger, resentment, (fear). And next to Hadrian, Draco’s head fell in much the same manner as Snape’s before, a sigh escaping him.
“I do not know who gave you that idea, Potter, but I assure you — I would never do such a thing,” he snarled. “Giving memories away by crying — don’t be ridiculous.”
And Hadrian, still looking into Snape’s furious eyes, invited him in and brought the memory up front; the memory of Snape laying on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, rasping for air that would not come, half his neck gone and blood poisoned. Of his dark eyes, desperate but determined. Accepting.
The shimmering tears rolled down his cheeks. And Snape, with the last of his strength, gestured to them, his face distorted in agony.
“Take them,” he gasped, “t-take them… please…” His eyes fluttered, barely opened anymore. “Take them to the pensive.”
He stilled.
Professor Snape reeled back. His chair crashed to the floor in his haste to jump up, away from Hadrian.
Gasping he brought a hand up to his neck — whole and healthy — and stared at the two of them wide eyed, speechless.
“Do you know what you did?” Hadrian asked once more, urgency in his quiet voice.
Snape stared, horrified.
“What have you done?” He asked faintly, before his gaze sharpened.
It took naught but three long strides before he stood in front of the two boys — men — and he was grabbing Hadrian harshly.
“Do you have any idea —”
“I think we have a pretty good grasp on the whole thing, Severus.” Draco interrupted the fuming man, calmly. “He showed you your death, didn’t he?”
Snape head snapped up, fixating on Draco. “You know,” he breathed. And then he realised: “you’re in this together.”
The hands on Hadrian’s arms tightened.
“Time-travel has been banned for a reason, you nincompoops!” Their Professor all but seethed. “Do you know how dangerous that was? Have you imbeciles ever thought about the consequences of such actions?”
“We have. And I swear, I didn’t do anything this time.” Snape snorted.
Rude.
“So you don’t plan on changing anything?”
“Well… no, but —”
“Destroying the time-line is knowing the consequences, is it now? Erasing the place you came from, erasing yourselves and potentially purging the future into ruin, just because you weren’t satisfied with what you got?”
“No!”
“We will not be erasing ourselves, Severus,” Draco finally got in. His earnest, calm face not really reassuring the professor. After all, Draco had been a spoiled brat, blind to the world outside his perfect horizon.
He always thought he knew everything when he didn’t.
From Snape’s point of view, it could still be that way. He did not know Draco. Not anymore.
“There are three ways this could go,” he said. “We wouldn’t be able to change anything, because everything is already set in stone, no matter what we do; everything would still happened exactly the same way, despite our endeavours.
“Or, the moment we awoke in the past, here, a new timeline formed. The other still happened, obviously, because we lived it, but now we’re here, in the same place, but a new, split-off timeline; the other exists separately, still, continuing without us. Therefore, we could stop events from happening we are aware of and correct wrongs.”
“And the third?”
“The third…” Draco stole a glance at Hadrian, before returning his gaze to Snape, “this isn’t the first time this happened. We will slowly loose our memories. Everything will go back to how it was and go the way it already did. It’s a circle that cannot be broken.”
Snape stepped back, his hands finally releasing his time-travelling student, hanging limp at his sides, while he simply stared at them.
“You really thought about it,” he eventually said. Draco inclined his head.
“We may not have had anything to do with this, but we did contemplate it.” He sighed. “It was supposed to be a last resort.”
Snape needed time to process everything. The professor’s eyes were distant, retreated in his Occlumency as he was. Sometimes, his eyes flittered across the room, unseeing.
The two left him to it. They knew it would take time, not only to convince and calm him, but also for him to come to terms with it all, think everything through, and reach the logical — and probably true — reason for their being here. Get his Occlumency back up and running.
Honestly, dumping their Professor with their lot in life just like that, the way they did it, might not have been the best idea.
Ah, well, as long as it brought the desired results.
Hadrian turned his attention back to his potion. He lifted the stasis dome and stirred in the next ingredient.
Sometimes, Draco would give him pointers (“squeeze it before cutting it, to get the juice,”; “dicing this is better than slicing,” and so on), and Hadrian would follow him unquestioned, never contradicting him or arguing. He was not the Potions Master out of the two of them.
Normally Snape would probably see it as cheating, as he had accused him of before and was the reason they were currently here in the first place, but right now he didn’t even seem to notice. And even if he did, he now knew that Hadrian came form the future — it should be obvious that he wasn’t the same dunderhead as before anymore.
It took a while. But eventually, Snape snapped back out of his mind. His eyes cleared and, even though there was a hint of a sneer gracing his lips, it was minimal. He had seen his death, after all, had been confronted by time travelling enemies who suddenly got along.
Not to mention: time travel was a last resort. I didn’t do anything.
He stepped closer but kept quiet. Instead, he watched both Hadrian and Draco closely; especially close attention was payed to Hadrian’s hands working the potion and ingredients, and their behaviour towards the other, their closeness.
The silvery vapour now rose from the surface of Hadrian’s potion. Satisfied, he nodded and lowered the flames, stepping back — incidentally closer to Draco.
Neither reacted, but Snape finally opened his mouth.
“When you cry, you release endorphins. Those are chemicals that help ease pain; both physical and emotional. So when memories are ‘cried’, as you so aptly put it, they are also… released, you could say. You relieve yourself of the pain and of them. These memories are gone,” he smiled sadly, “they won’t come back.”
Hadrian swallowed, closing his eyes in realisation.
“The memories you gave me… they were memories of my mother. Of Lily and you growing up.” Snape gasped, quiet but there. “They were beautiful. Happy.”
Snape did not need to know about the other information he had given him. Not yet.
“She was my best friend. I killed her.” (My best friend. Your mother.)
“No, you didn’t,” Hadrian shook his head, grateful for Draco’s comforting arm around his waist. “They decided to fight in a war; they knew the risks. And the prophecy could have referred to a lot of people. There were no names mentioned, neither was a time. For all we know, the prophecy referred to a Dark Lord far, far in the future.”
Snape deflated, a defeated look in his eyes. “You know about the prophecy. The prophecy I delivered. It fits you perfectly.”
“Yeah, because they made it so.” Then he laughed, quiet and derisive. Snape arched a brow. “It doesn’t matter anyway. After all, apparently I vanquished the Dark Lord when I was fifteen months old. My part is done.”
And there, finally, something normal; Snape sneered. “At last, and here I thought you’d actually gotten less arrogant, considering you’re here when time travel was a ‘last resort.’”
Draco laughed. “If anything, then I am the one that’s arrogant. Come now, godfather, why would you think of Hadrian that way? He hasn’t done anything to imply such a thing.”
“He hasn’t? He just said he’d vanquished the Dark Lord. If that’s the case, then who, pray tell, is currently hiding in the shadows?”
“Oh no, Voldy is back, we all know that. But the word ‘vanquished’ does not mean death or that it’s permanent.” Hadrian shrugged lightly. “How else do you think I got the Slytherin and Gaunt Lordship if not through the right of conquest. Even if it was really my mother that did it, she’s dead. So the title went on to me.”
Snape blinked. And he blinked again. Finally, “why are you telling me all this?”
Hadrian smiled a small smile, grateful and melancholic and not something Snape wanted to see.
“Because I owe you,” he told him. “And I’d like to believe I can trust you. You’re Draco’s godfather, could have been mine if things had been different. Hell, you swore an Unbreakable Vow to protect me. If we can’t trust you, then I don’t know who to trust.”
And that was the truth. They knew it, each and every one of them. Although, considering Snape’s pinched and drawn face, he did not want to accept it.
Still staunch in his stance to win Snape over, to give the man actually something worth to fight for, Hadrian opened his mouth once more. He would convince Snape. He would turn him over to them. He would —
“Finish your potion,” said Draco quietly. “I’ll talk with him. You, stay quiet. Just for a moment.” Closing his mouth, Hadrian looked at Draco with narrowed eyes. Especially so when Draco removed his arm from around his waist, his perfect body and heat leaving him.
However, he could concede that their chance of winning the Potions Master over was exponentially higher if Draco did it. Didn’t mean he had to like it, though.
Therefore, sending one last look at the dour man, Hadrian completed the last few steps of the potion in silence. The quiet murmur of voices was a steady constant that slowly filled the background with noise.
Somehow, Hadrian was content like this. Having something to do, calm voices in the background, no sense of danger or hurry, the knowledge that Draco was near. It almost let him forget where he was. When he was.
It was nice.
And true, potions would never be his favourite thing to do. Standing in a dark, cold underground room not his favourite place to be. But right now? That didn’t matter.
Because Draco was there. Because he was safe. Because there was no-one hurting. Because Snape was there (Snape, who had always kept him safe, even when he didn’t know it, even when he hated him).
Sudden, violent magic clashed against his own. It let the jars tumble down, one by one, crashing to the floor and spilling their horrifying content.
The chairs and Snape’s desk, everything not protected by heavy charms and runes was vaporising one after the other.
And the magic — it was everywhere. It whipped around uncontrolled, raw, driven by unadulterated fear and anger, sadness and betrayal.
It was oppressive and resonating. It pressed on Hadrian’s body, but drew out his magic. And Hadrian’s own magic? Why, it sought out this force, ready and willing and happy to help, to contribute to the chaos. To resurface memories with feelings and emotions that would only goad this ultimate destruction.
The room shook.
A wind whirled.
Moonstones and fey wings and hearts were flying about —
He had lost control. His magic was more, so much more. Without his input, it whipped around in crashing waves, invisible to the naked eye, only the destruction left in its path a testament to its existence. Its rage. Its joy.
Crying out, Hadrian clutched at his chest. His muscles strained and his legs wanted to give in, give out.
His veins burned. His magic was too strong, too fast, too emotional to want to listen. It did not matter what he did, what he tried, his magic was too captivated by the other force to be reigned it.
And why wouldn’t it be? Such magic — stricken with emotions and cries for help — had never portrayed peace. Situations which brought forth these intense feelings — wether in himself or others — had always been handled by his beloved magic (and if not handled, then at least helped).
When Dudley and his gang were chasing him when they were children, panic and fear clogging his brain, the only thing on his mind run run run, don’t get caught, run; then it was up to his magic to protect him. Protect him from what he could not protect himself from.
— He’d blinked and found himself standing atop the roof of the school, far out of Dudley’s reach.
Humiliation and pain had throbbed through his little body when Petunia had shaved his hair, leaving only a thick fringe to hide his scar and bloody spots on the rest of his head.
His magic had taken care of that too, had soothed his pain and regrown his hair.
Later, when he had long grown used to running (be it from bullies, terrorists or Muggles) and kept a clear head, his magic carried out his wild ideas and made them even better, bigger.
And even when he was unconscious, all the while wishing to be safe, to be loved, to be home, his soul made sure that he knew he was. He was safe. He was loved. He was home.
Nothing would touch him. No-one could inflict pain. It did not matter if it was a conscious thought or not — his magic knew.
So now, being faced with a Magick’s terror in close vicinity, his magic would obviously make sure that Hadrian was safe and the threat annihilated.
No-one could touch him. No-one could hurt him. He was loved. He was safe.
He was safe.
He was safe. There was no threat, no enemy to fight against.
His magic did not listen.
It happily coiled around the destructive force slashing through the classroom.
It aided in the destruction cheerfully.
No matter that Hadrian’s mind screamed that there was nothing — that all was fine, all were fine.
Well, a compromised mind would think all those things also, never mind that in reality everything broke apart around him. It would not be the first time this happened.
But this time… this time everything really was fine. And it hurt. His magic hurt him in its endeavour to keep him safe.
It burned his veins and seemed to drain all energy out of him. It was fighting against him, desperately trying to remain in control and unhindered.
Hadrian fell to his knees, his legs finally giving out.
It was too much. Snape did not calm down, did not occlude and get his emotions and magic under control. Hadrian’s magic supporting his didn’t make it any easier, either. Not that he seemed that concerned about it anyway. From what little Hadrian got, Snape was too caught up in his emotions, doubts and fears, his past and guilt, to notice anything going on.
Finally, under the pressure of two wild, unstoppable magics, even Snape’s hardwood desk succumbed and fell into a thousand pieces, the few things still on it crashing to the floor, participating in this disaster.
Hadrian flinched. He bowed his head, wishing desperately for it all to stop.
It was too much.
Too loud, too strong, too familiar.
And then — his soul yearned. It stretched and longed for this beautiful, calming melody.
It was soothing, the calm in the storm.
Everywhere around them, jars and broken furniture were still flying around, crashing into the walls and the ceiling and the floor. It still filled the room with noises too loud and jarring, but in this moment — this very moment — everything was fine.
This melody sung, it aligned with their souls and vibrated within their very magic and everything just… stopped.
Everything.
Stopped.
Suddenly. At once. Instantly.
Hadrian’s magic crashed down all around him. Some tiny, feeble strands still seemed to reach out, trying to get to this… this beacon, but it was for naught.
The fight was gone — all energy sucked right out of the man.
If Hadrian had not already kneeled, then he would have crumbled to the floor, just like a certain Potions Master did.
Snape’s legs folded, just like that. He hit the ground and moved no more.
Hadrian could do nothing but watch it all happen not three feet away from him.
Everything was muted, somehow, everything but this wondrous melody, this stricken lament of terrible beauty.
It was like nothing else — nothing would ever be able to compare to it. He did not hear it as much as he felt it.
His breath stuttered, his hands shook. Somewhere in the depth of his mind, his brain noticed the soaking robes clamming to his skin, raising goosebumps and sending shivers through his body, but as it was, Hadrian was not aware of any of this.
His magic was… agitated still. Jumpy and ready for a fight, but lethargic and depleted at the same time.
Still, every time it reached out, looking for… anything, this magnificent melody drew it in. It soothed its frayed edges and brought with it a sense of calm and belonging. Of safety and home.
Hadrian was home. This, his magic knew with no doubt. Whatever this magic was, wherever it came from, it was where Hadrian belonged. There was no other place. He was safe. Loved.
His knees ached something fierce and his muscles screamed in agony, but that was alright. The fight was over. His wounds would be gone soon, cared for and soothed by this magic.
Hadrian’s magic coiled around him softly now, curling ever so slightly with the song — showing it where to go, where to help — and pumping along his veins in soothing waves, asking for forgiveness and resounding in quiet assurance.
Hadrian closed his eyes for a moment, his forehead coming to lay on the cool, damp ground of the classroom.
Silent, ragged breathing filled the room. Everything was quiet. And for this moment, this tiny, little second, Hadrian let the darkness overcome him. Everything vanished; every pain and itch and shiver and thought and burden.
In this moment, everything was good.
Here he was, enveloped in warmth and safety, reassurance and home, warm arms and a beating heart. There was nothing else.
The next time Hadrian opened his eyes, light danced before his eyes.
It took naught but a second for him to bolt upright, his eyes taking everything in.
He was in a bed. His bed. In Gryffindor Tower.
Dear Merlin, he had passed out; completely and utterly and not for merely a second.
There was no denying it, his magic formed the numbers right in front him, bold and not able to miss.
It was morning.
Hadrian groaned. That’s certainly not how he had envisioned last night to go.
Circe, they were supposed get Snape out, not to get him to pass out.
With heavily protesting muscles and a pounding headache, Hadrian stumbled out of the red-golden bed and into the bathroom.
Immediately, the bright light there scorched his eyes, worsening his headache and his general mood.
He still could’t believe it; how could he just loose control like that? Like he was but a useless bystander in his magic’s raging might, not able to do anything, just watching and waiting for it to end.
A dull thud echoed brokenly through the bathroom as his head collided with the shower-wall.
Yesterday couldn’t have gone worse.
xXxXxXx
“Hey Harry,” Hermione greeted him bright and cheery the moment he ungracefully plopped down on the couch across her. He murmured something incomprehensible in response. His eyes were squeezed shut and a grimace distorting his face — holy fire, even just sitting sent waves of pain through his body.
Seriously, what had he done?!
“Harry?” Hermione’s concerned voice sounded, incredibly loud to his pounding headache. “Are you hurt? Is it your scar? Did you have a vision? Do you need to see Dumbledore? Why didn’t you —”
“Silence,” he interrupted her before she could get any more worked up. Her worry was touching, it really was, but — “please, just… detention with Professor Snape was worse than I thought and I feel like I haven’t slept at all.”
Hermione cringed apologetic. “Sorry. But are you sure you’re alright? You know Dumbledore will want to know if it’s your scar.”
“Yes, Hermione, I’m sure. I just haven’t slept well and a raging headache. It’ll pass.”
The girl still looked like she would rather bodily drag him before the aged wizard, but held herself back. She worried her lower lip and kept casting him looks every few minutes or so, but otherwise went back to reading the old tome on her lap.
Relieved, Hadrian let his own eyes slip close once more.
Slowly, the mindless activity of the Gryffindor common room grew quieter and quieter. All chatter and sounds muted, his own thoughts along with them. Eventually, all that was left was blissful silence.
If he wanted to, he could hear the soothing melody resonating through his mind, his soul; so faint but oh so present. So familiar.
The ache in his muscles — reaching deep deep down, right into his bones and along every vein — dulled, until there was but a little discomfort.
Everything just fell away.
And then, when his mind was quiet and pain spent, a rough hand grabbed his arm tightly, shaking his whole body and him out of this calm and quiet.
Someone screamed and he could hear his not-name repeated in clear panic.
Hadrian’s eyes flew open. And before he even knew what was going on, what was happening, why his magic had not warned him of danger, he was standing — his feet were secure on the ground, his hands raised and magic ready to lash out.
And then, the same moment his eyes took in Ron and Hermione’s shocked expressions and he realised there was no danger there, the pain hit his body like a sledgehammer.
Hadrian gasped. Then cursed.
“Bloody hell mate,” Ron exclaimed, so bloody loud. “We really need to get you to Dumbledore. You were all unconscious and everything!”
“He’s right Harry, something must be wrong.”
Closing his mouth before opening it again, Hadrian prayed for patience. These two had done nothing wrong; they still behaved the same way they had for the last few years, he was the one that was different now; who was the problem.
“I was sleeping,” he said curtly. “I wasn’t unconscious, I took a nap. Because I was tired, as I haven’t slept well during the night.”
A blush dusted Hermione’s face, but her previously worried gaze only deepened.
Ron only snorted amused. “Wish I could still sleep. Alas, I’m hungry and we’re not allowed to skip lessons in favour of missed breakfast.” Theatrically, he raised his fist, his pose all heroic and exaggerated. “Off we go to the magnificent feast that awaits us in the Great Hall.” And off he strode.
Hermione glanced at Hadrian and shook her head, fond amusement curling her lips upwards. Still, she set to follow the red-head, the huge tome cradled in her arms and overflowing backpack on her back.
A few first years, which where once more gathered in an out of the way corner of the room, giggled but then slowly but surely followed as well.
Others, still hesitant and unsure, hung back. So, just like the day before, Hadrian smiled at them friendly, and motioned them to come along. Then, putting on a brave face and hoping that it didn’t reflect the pain he felt, he set off walk the long and winding hallways through Hogwarts.
Today, he felt, would be a very long day indeed.
xXxXxXx
Truly, the first day was bad. Classes dragged on and, while he managed to tune out the aches when siting still, they would return ten-fold the moment he moved without thought, having momentarily forgotten about them.
Hadrian was also obviously not the only one to feel the ‘after-effects’ of the previous night. Nor was he the only one in a bad mood because of it.
Gryffindor managed to lose a total of one-hundred and a few points that day.
That way… Snape obviously made sure he wasn’t suffering alone.
Draco’s apologetic/concerned/amused face was also one he had not had the pleasure of seeing before.
Eventually though, he had to force his agonising limbs to take him to Umbridge’s horrendous pink lair. There he spent the next hour torturing himself with a quill that’s only meant to be used in binding agreements and contracts.
(To say he had been furious when he’d found out about that tidbit would be an understatement. This outburst even put the one in Dumbledore’s office back — forward? — in fifth year to shame. Luckily, he’d never liked lying — a by-product from growing up never knowing the truth.
And oh, the fun he sometimes had, trying to find things to say when the scars on his hand actively prevented every lie.)
At the very least he barely felt the pain it inflicted — overshadowed as it was.
And so, with torture and in pain, the day ended and the next began, starting the whole circle anew, before passing with the same agonising efficiency.
The only highlights were the toad’s face every time he didn’t rise to her baits and remained perfectly polite.
She did not manage to assign him another detention. At least for now; there was no doubts that her questionable opinion and view on things would find some fault in his behaviour sooner rather than later.
However, trying to get Snape proved itself to be just as hard as assigning Hadrian detentions. He was just never there. And when he was, then it was with so many people present that Hadrian couldn’t talk to him without raising suspicions.
Draco had unfortunately as much luck as he had in this endeavour.
The only upside was that Snape knew better than to go to Dumbledore with this. If he did… Hadrian was sure that the old man would do everything he could to make sure things would go exactly the way he wanted to. Sure, he would want to know everything about the future and listen to them, but ultimately, his opinion on things was right.
He was Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, after all, and he knew best.
Sure.
Having seen the man’s ‘best’, Hadrian doubted it was also anyone else’s best.
It’s not that the Headmaster was evil or anything, but he was just a man. A man with his own faults and shortcomings and prejudices and problems.
That, and Hadrian could not stand to be in close proximity to Dumbledore. Not anymore. Not after all he had and hadn’t done.
xXxXxXx
Before Hadrian knew it, a week had passed and everyone had slowly gotten back into a routine. Even he’d managed this; despite all the stares and whispers following his person. More than one student even turned to walk the other way when they’d seen him walk down the same corridor.
Ah well… he work on that.
The first years had also tentatively started to make friends and explore the castle. The best thing was that, while prejudices obviously still remained, the few he had lead to the Great Hall various times and those from Slytherin were more open to inter house friendships than the others.
They had also roped Hufflepuffs (quite friendly fellows, who quickly set to do the same) and a fair few Ravenclaws into their mingling. Upper years who’d noticed this anomaly, looked confused from time to time, but ultimately didn’t care.
What had they to do with ickle first years and how they choose to spent their free time?
Needless to say, while still a lot needed to be done, it was a start. Tiny but not insignificant.
So, as it was, Hadrian, instead of sleeping on his soft bed in Gryffindor Tower, was fitting through the castle. He sprang down stairs and squeezed through long forgotten, secret passageways, eventually stepping out into the dark and deserted Slytherin common room.
The torches and fireplaces were extinguished; only some candles were still burning idly.
The moonlight lit water let ever changing shadows wander through the room, soaking it in its infamous green glow and spookiness.
Despite being the only one there, Hadrian remained in the shadows, his silent feet following the pull of his magic and carrying him to his phoenix.
Draco mumbled something incomprehensible when he crawled under the warm duvet, but settled quickly, his head burrowing in Hadrian’s chest and breath evening out. Surrounded by warmth and quiet, it did not take long for Hadrian to follow.