look me in the eyes and burn

Hadrian was alone again; not that it was anything new. Like a shade, he wandered the halls of Hogwarts. Stares followed his every step and whispers picked up whenever someone spotted him.

The Prophet still reported about him — not that there was much they could do anymore about his reputation, not after they’d slandered his person all summer. People know knew where he was and what he was doing practically all day around. His falling out with Ron and Hermione — their confrontation in the courtyard, the raised voices and obvious split sides — had spread like wildfire, lightening up rumors and piquing everyone’s curiosity.

When asked, his answer stayed the same.

‘We had a disagreement,’ he’d simply say. ‘Not like it’s any of your business.’

Others laughed, all the while declaring loudly that ‘even Potter’s friends can’t put up with him anymore!’ Their friends either gave jolly agreement or uncomfortable looks; grimaces distorting their features while their eyes were not able to meet Hadrian’s.

There was one person however, one person that everyone eventually noticed had not said anything; neither loudly in front of a crowd nor hissed across the hallways and during classes.

Simply put, Draco Malfoy stayed silent. It unnerved those that realized it more than they wanted to admit. After all, when had Malfoy ever let a chance to harass Potter go?

Malfoy’s cronies were the same.

Sure, students who payed a lot closer attention to Hadrian and his going ons had seen the peculiar looks Nott and Zabini gave the nutcase, or Parkinson’s shrewd expressions. But Malfoy? Nothing.

He didn’t sneer at Hadrian, didn’t laugh or threaten to tell his father. When their paths crossed they exchanged amicable nods — amicable! — and fellow Gryffindor fifth years swear that the two of them had a peaceful — if short — conversation.

Peaceful!

Malfoy and Potter!

Malfoy and Potter!

Malfoy! Potter! Amicable!

The whispers and stares let up as much as they picked up.

Simply put, the students wanted to know what happened. They wanted to know what was going on, what was happening. Was the Prophet telling the truth? It would made sense. It would certainly explain some things. On the other hand though — was knowing what was going on really worth it?

No-one said anything. No-one did even hint at something (no-one dared to), but somehow, deep down, everyone was aware that something had happened. Something big. And it was still happening.

What it would change, what it would bring with it … maybe oblivion would be a mercy.

So the students stayed silent. Their gazes wandered, their attention suddenly caught by something in the other direction when they happened upon a head with white-blond hair opposite a person with suspiciously green eyes. (Wherever had his glasses gone? And why had he not done away with them before? — No, they did not need know.)

Brave brave souls dared to whisper in the dark, or follow the moves of the madman within their mids.

Braver souls even opened their mouths to question — what’s going? (“Whatever are you talking about?”) Why do you suddenly get along with Malfoy? He’s a Slytherin! (“And a student like you and I. We both grew up. He’s a Prefect now and neither him nor I have the nerve for pathetic brawls anymore.”) Is the Prophet telling the truth? (“What do you think? I’ll give you a hint: we have a dead student, a person who was there and knows what happened, and no investigation.”)

The questions mostly stopped after that.

No-one had expected their questions to get answered anyway, so no-one wanted to deal with the implications of the answers given.

(Potter was there when Cedric Diggory was murdered. He came back with his dead body.  So why was he not behind bars? Locked up tight in Azkaban and securely detained if he was the murderer? Because if he was here, in Hogwarts, mad and insane and unstable and free, then he was innocent.)

(Who killed Cedric Diggory?)

Students buried themselves in assignments and studies, gossip and drama and relationships and the hope that, soon enough, everything would go back to the way it was. Because this, whatever it was, was not normal.

It was an unspoken, unambiguous agreement the whole student body adhered to.

At least, it should be, but someone seemed to have forgotten to inform the first years of that. And of the millennia old feud between Slytherin and Gryffindor. And that once sorted, you stayed within your house. And —

Let’s just say that the school year promised to be as crazy as the last few, and it’s only been a few short weeks.

It could only get worse.

xXxXxXx

More and more first years flocked up to Hadrian, his friendly and non-condescending behavior pulling them in like moths to a flame.

Most weren’t afraid — why should they be? Almost none of them read the Prophet, and most of those that did, or heard from their parents about the danger he posed, had already met him — nice and helpful and funny.

Those things written about him couldn’t possibly be true. The person in the paper and the student they’d met were too different, there was no way they were the same person.

So, no, they weren’t afraid. Reserved, of course. Harry Potter was still a fifth year; so much bigger and more knowledgable and famous and older than them. But scared? Never.

He helped them with their problems and answered their questions and gave them tips for their assignments. Always. He never turned them away.

Especially Muggleborn, those who’d just entered this magical world, filled with wonders and fairytales, came to him. New as they were, even they had heard about the dislike Slytherins had for people like them, so they didn’t dare go to the Slytherin Prefects, even though they were nicer than expected.

The Boy-Who-Lived was simply so much more approachable.

And so, after Hadrian was approached by one too many new students — wether to this world or school, doesn’t matter — enough was enough.

He told the students to go and get their friends and acquaintances and in turn they should get their friends and acquaintances, those they knew had questions or simply a thirst for knowledge. They should all come to the room next to the Transfiguration classroom. There, he’d try to answer all their questions, he’d assist them in their assignments and tell them more about the wondrous world of magic they’d entered.

He would help and be there for them in whatever way they needed him to. (As though he didn’t need them just as much. As though they weren’t directly playing into his hands with their rapping, enthusiastic agreement.)

They’d been coming to Hadrian, again and again, more and more, and yet, when he told them to meet him on a nice afternoon in a dusty, old classroom, Hadrian had not expected the room to fill up quite this quick. Or for that many to appear.

Doing a quick headcount, there were about twenty little first-years looking at him with their big, expectant eyes. Twenty. Dear Merlin, was it really that bad that so many had simple questions about the Wizarding World? Or had the curriculum gotten harder?

Still, Hadrian would not back out now; not that he even wanted to.

With a few quick, useless swishes of his wand, the students marveled at how the tables flew and danced around the room, arranging themselves to Hadrian’s wishes.

Once the tables and chairs were set so various little groups could be formed and the students slowly settles themselves, Hadrian smiled at them and turned, surveying the room. It was nothing special, just a normal classroom, but it appeared just a bit more friendly and relaxed with the way the afternoon sun shone through the windows and they faint chatter of happy students could be heard.

Maybe the kids would like it. Maybe, at the end of it, they’d want it to continue.

But for that to happen —

“Let’s get started!” Said Hadrian cheerfully. Plopping down onto the teacher’s desk, he let his gaze wander over the dozens of students staring at him, many of whom have come to him at least once before.

“I’ve already met a lot of you. A lot of you came to me with the same — or at least similar — questions and problems, so I thought, why not gather you all together and answer them as best as I can. This way everyone is on the same page and maybe even get answers to uncertainties you hadn’t thought of before. Additionally, I won’t have to say the same things over and over and over again.”

Small, grateful smiles stole themselves onto the young faces and Hadrian was helpless to match it with one of his own.

“So first off, I’m Hadrian,” he introduced himself — rather needlessly, but ehh. “You probably know me as Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived or other such hogwash. But in this room, in this capacity, I am just Hadrian. A fifth year who’s hoping to being able to help you in the ways I’ve never had anyone help me when I was new to all this.”

Hadrian then reached into his backpack and, pulling out a scrap piece of paper, transfigured it into a soft, brightly colored ball. Soft gasps echoed through the room.

Smiling, Hadrian threw the ball into the air. When he caught it again, it had a different, but no less bright, color.

“I know you probably won’t like this but spending this nice day stuffed away inside and listening to someone talk about boring things is not exactly something I wanna do right now. And I doubt you do either. So I’ll throw this ball to anyone in this room and you can either throw it to someone else, or you can say your name and any fact about you, or simply ask a question.

If you don’t want to talk, then don’t. Also, if all of your questions have been answered or you’re bored and don’t wanna be here anymore, you can go whenever you want. Or if you simply want to have someone here who can help you when you need it, but you would much rather ask the questions when they come up while studying, I can silence an area for you where you can do your work in peace and always come out to ask whatever it is you wish to know. That okay with you?”

Agreeing murmurs swept through the room and tangible excitement filled the air. Therefore, Hadrian did as he said — he silenced the area around a big table that had remained still empty as of now. Then he grinned.

“Okay, you already know my name. Now a little fact about me… mhh… ah — I really love treacle tart. If I could, I’d probably eat it all the time, instead of healthy food.”

Gestures, just as small and unimportant as this fact about him was, helped to lighten the mood. A few muffled snickers could be heard and by now, almost everyone, no matter the color of their tie, had a smile on their face.

Hadrian threw the ball.

A girl with freckles dotting her brown face and hair pulled back into a ponytail caught it in a secure grip. The color, now, a bright blue.

She stared at it in awe before shaking herself out of it and looking at Hadrian still perched upon the teacher’s desk.

“Uhm, I’m Olivia and I…” she trailed of in thought, her head titled as she seemed to think really hard on something to say. Then she simply shrugged. “I like to draw.”

She threw the ball — it was caught — the color was green.

“My name’s Araminta and I want to be a Beater for Montrose Magpies when I’m grown.”

“Ben. Is it true you can speak… speak Parseltongue?”

Smiling at the way Ben whispered that word, as though it was bad, Hadrian hissed. “Why yes, I do have that magnificent gift.”

It didn’t matter that no-one understood him, it answered the question either way. The gasps of awe and surprise were also a nice addition.

The boy gaped but eventually remembered to throw the ball to the next person, who simply threw it to the next without saying anything; which, as Hadrian had said before, was perfectly fine.

On and on it went.

“My name is Emma and my favorite color is green. But not a bright neon green, but rather a pine green.”

“I’m Charles, I’m part fay.” (This gathered some wondrous looks and some upturned noses.)

“Adam —”

“I’m Bella —”

“My name’s Tom and —”

“Sebastian —”

“I’m Nico. I prefer Quadpot over Quidditch.”

“What’s Quadpot?” A curious voice peeped in. Hadrian answered, as he had said he would.

“It’s the most popular game in America,” he explained. “It’s similar to Quidditch. There are eleven players on each team and the ball, a Quod, has explosive properties. The goal is to get the Quod into the pot at the end of the field before it explodes. But if it does explode before it reaches the pot, then the player who was in possession of it when it exploded must leave the field. But don’t worry, the explosions are not harmful in any way.”

The students nodded and the ball flew once more.

“My name is Natasha and my family has always been in Hufflepuff.” (Hadrian wasn’t the only one who noticed the distinct lack of yellow on her blue tie. It was reassuring to see that this fact didn’t seem to upset her.)

“I’m Peter. I’m the first wizard in my family.”

Hadrian’s sharp ears picked up a murmured ‘mudblood’. And, the way some kids exchanged glances and Peter hunched his shoulders, he was not the only one who heard it.

Sighing, Hadrian looked at the group. After all, Peter was hardly the only Muggleborn. Then, he spoke up. He might not know who it was that said this, but everyone should hear this. Needed to hear this.

“I’ve heard that word quite a few times now. Mudblood. Can any of you tell me its meaning?”

Those that knew, or at least had a hunch, shuffled uncomfortably but resolutely kept their mouths shut, others looked at each other questioning. Hadrian waited patiently. Eventually, someone spoke up.

“It means dirty blood.”

“But that’s not true, is it? Their blood is just as red as any other human’s,” Hadrian continued on. “So why would you call those with non-magical relations mudblood?”

Now this time, disgruntled, awkward, curious eyes met his. Hadrian raised an eyebrow.

“Do any of you know? Or have an idea as to why that is? No?” A sea of shaking heads was his answer. “Well, its quite simple: words change meaning over time.”

Obviously, no-one really knew what to say to that. Mudblood was an insult of the highest regard. Even those who had not heard it before could discern that much. Therefore the word couldn’t have been used that differently, could it?

Hadrian shrugged at the inquiring, if doubting, gazes.

“It’s true. If you haven’t noticed already, blood is really important in the Wizarding World. It makes you unique. It holds your lineage, your family and history, secrets and family magicks, it’s binding and undeniable. It’s who you are. So in a time before the Ministry, before the Lords and Ladies and Kings and Queens, it was your origin, your being, that counted.

“Now, what would you call someone who is convinced their creator, their god, made them out of clay. Mud.”

The looks of shocked surprise had Hadrian’s lips twitch. Realization dawned on their faces and furious whispers started.

Still, they, young as they were, weren’t as shocked by this information as Hadrian had been when he’d first found out.

“Mudblood,” someone eventually whispered, echoed by another and another; each one sounding just as unbelievable as the last.

“Exactly.” Hadrian nodded. “Mudbloods. It wasn’t an insult or anything, Magicals simply called Christians what they proclaimed themselves to be. Made of mud. It was only later that the word was spoken in contempt. When Christians started to enforce their religion on everyone, when they started hunting those with magic in the name of their god.

“Of course, most with magic were able to flee and protect themselves, but it was the fact that they were willing to do such things in the first place, to their own people no less, that really spurned the hatred and weariness of everyone without magic. It was around that time, the height of the witch trials, that those with magic had enough and left the non-magical world behind. The muggle world. Because they mugged them of their freedom and lives.

“Now, of course, the term ‘Mudblood’ isn’t used solely for Christians or Muggles anymore. Rather it is used to describe someone who comes from that world and expects us to form ourselves into a copy of the Muggle world because they’re intrinsically ‘better’. Essentially, the term ‘Mudblood’ is used for those who grew up in the Muggle world and then come here, happily enjoying the benefits and yet not respecting the magical world as its own entity, with its own religion, believes, traditions, rules and government.”

The class was in uproar; the Purebloods and magical raised Half-Bloods because that is usually how it goes, and the muggle raised because why had no-one told them! How could they be expected to know about all this when no-one ever told them?

A boy who had not yet introduced himself spoke up, his eyes wide.

“Wait, you’re saying the wizarding world is not a hidden part of the muggle world? I mean — it kinda makes sense, but I just… I assumed —”

“Yes,” Hadrian answered patiently. After all, that’s what he was here for — to teach them about the truths of the world that’d been kept hidden from him for far too long in an attempt to manipulate him further.

“Of course, there was a time when both worlds lived together intermingled with each other, but that was centuries ago. So long that Muggles don’t even remember magic ever being real.

“They’ve split ages ago. Both have evolved and progressed apart from another. Just because the British wizarding world aligns with its with muggle Great Britain doesn’t make it the same. Take the Mayan and Aztecs, for Muggles their civilizations ended centuries — millennia — ago, for us wizards they are still around, about the same place as Mexico; not exactly the same of course, but you get it. Just as there is no polish wizarding world, as Poland solely exists for Muggles.

“It’s been too long. Muggle and Magical — you can’t compare it anymore.”

Another person — Ryan — spluttered.

“But the Aztec Empire fell 1500 with the Spanish invasion!”

Tilting his head, Hadrian challenged the boy. Was he ready to accept this whole new world view? A world view that would question almost all that he’d learned in the Muggle world?

“Did it really fall? Or did they just vanish?”

This halted the boy and various other murmurs in their tracks.

“H-how do you k-know all this?” The boy finally burst out, his hands balled into fists and rested on the desk in front of him. “How — how do we know you aren’t a liar like everyone says you are?”

Long used to these accusations and almost expectant of them, all Hadrian did was shrug.

“It’s quite easy,” he told him and grinned. “Ask questions. Your Professors, your friends, your prefects. There are so many people you can ask if you don’t believe me. No-one is stopping you.”

And various people were already nodding their heads. They did not speak, but they were looking at the boy and nodding their heads.

‘Yes, the Aztecs and Mayan exists,’ they seemed to say. ‘He’s telling the truth.’

But before anyone got enough courage to actually say those words in front of all the others, the door to the classroom banged open and smashed against the wall. A black cloud of darkness and a student’s worst nightmare swept into the room.

“What,” Professor Snape drawled, “is the meaning of this.” His black eyes surveyed every student covering before him, feasting on their fear.

Then those eyes landed on Hadrian, who was smiling at the man innocently.

Snape’s eyebrows rose judgmentally; he had definitely noticed the mishmash of house colors.

“Poisoning the minds of impressionable fans, are we, Potter?” Snape sneered. “Given how your last detention went I had thought you’d learnt your lesson. It seems I was… mistaken.”

“Actually, I was just answering a few questions, Professor.” Hadrian, the utter idiot, talked back. “Nothing insanely stupid today, I’m afraid.”

The Professor’s eyes tightened and, subtly, ever so subtly, Hadrian could feel the presence of another person pressing against his Occlumency shields, against his mind and thoughts.

Stupidly he yielded. And okay, yeah, that was Professor Snape, alright. Imbecile.

The memories of the tutoring flashed before his eyes, cut into snippets and tinged with his thoughts and emotions. Connections and associations brought Snape in deeper, and Hadrian allowed it. He helped him even; helped him to understand, so see.

Hadrian — still Harry then — at nineteen, finding out the true meaning of blood and the power behind this unassuming substance.

His first Yule — how did he not know that the families of Old did not celebrate Christmas? Why had no-one ever said anything?

At eighteen, his first time far away from home and all alone, but utterly enamored with the magic and wonders flying around him in a place that shouldn’t exist; at least not anymore.

Another place the Muggles had declared dead. Imaginative.

A group of people different to all he’d met before.

A whole world before his eyes, revealed, now that he was looking and willing to open his mind to it.

There was — so much — so much more that he could have ever dreamt off. And the Muggles —

Suppress. Obey. Dangerous. Threatening. End it. Not for me. Destroy. Obliterate.

Hadrian hadn’t known. (It was no excuse.)

When Snape left his mind again — and there was no pain this time — naught but a few seconds had passed, but the memories expressed more than a thousand words could ever hope to convey.

“And you think I would not be able to answer such questions, why?” The first years — formerly so animated and excited — now kept quiet, lest their stern Potions Master everyone had warned them about, would turn his ire onto them. His question though, it made them wonder that maybe, just maybe —

“Your job, Mister Potter, is to hand in your assignments on time and to excel in your studies. Mine is to educate you. Not the other way around. If you have questions, you might as well ask me yourself.”

Yeah, nobody was so stupid as to take Snape up on his offer. He was vicious, and not known for his patience; he didn’t hold back.

But then, despite every cell in his body protesting and his rational mid screaming at him, Ryan — the boy from before — opened his mouth. Because he needed to know. He needed to.

“Sir.” Instantaneously, sharp eyes as black as a void snapped to him. They took him apart, piece by piece, thought by thought. They judged him and found him unworthy. Still, Ryan swallowed once and then squared his shoulders and stared at Professor Snape’s chest (he didn’t dare look into those judging eyes of his).

He wasn’t a Ravenclaw for nothing.

“The Aztecs — is it true they have magic? And that they still exist?”

The silence was heavy, the damning “yes” even more so.

“If you bothered to open a book you could even have that and more in writing, Mister Grey,” Snape said scathingly. “I trust a Ravenclaw such as yourself knows the way to the library once we’re done here.”

Ryan only managed a wordless nod while hunching in on himself. Hadrian laughed softly before finally hopping down from the desk and making a sweeping motion.

“The floor is yours, Professor.”

Predictably, a rather nasty sneer appeared on the man’s face. Hadrian’s grin only widened.

Oh, he was so easy to rile up. Maybe not the best idea, but it was funny.

“On the contrary, Mister Potter, the floor is yours. I am only here for the damage control.”

And with that Snape swept into the shadowed corner of the room, his cloak billowing behind him.

Grinning, Hadrian turned back to the petrified first-years who barely even dared to breath. And, just as he was about to continue, the velvety voice of their Potions Master sounded once more, sending shivers down every student’s back within hearing range.

“And it’ll be five points, Potter. For cheek.”

Hadrian could clearly feel Snape’s sharp gaze on his back while he desperately tried to swallow the laughter that wanted to escape. But damn, once you got over all that posturing the man did, he was hilarious.

xXxXxXx

Surprisingly, Snape actually stayed the whole duration of the — what was it? Q&a? Tutoring? — whatever it was, Snape stayed.

And once the shock of that wore off of everyone and the enthusiastic questions and discussions picked up again, his presence was almost all but forgotten. Or at least it was, until a brave kid went up to the stone-faced shadow and actually dared to ask him something. And then another, and another.

The questions they asked — they were good questions, Hadrian thought. And Snape seemed to agree, as he actually stepped out of his corner and settled down on a nearby group of tables.

In no time, he was swarmed by eager first years who had all seemed to have forgotten about the fear he normally inflicted upon them.

It was amazing. Hadrian wasn’t ashamed to admit that he had to turn around more than once to assure himself of the fact the he was not making this up. It wouldn’t surprise him if he did, though.

Wandering students who happened to catch a glimpse of the going ons in the room — as the door was still wide open — either choose to join them out of pure curiosity, or ran the other way the moment they laid eyes upon the Professor’s form. It was evenly split 10 - 90%

Once the whole thing was done and over with — when the participating students’ questions finally ran out or their brain felt like it had turned to mush with all the work they’d done and information they’d received in just one afternoon — they packed up their stuff, turned around to a perplexed Hadrian and asked when the next ‘lesson’ would take place.

As surprised as Hadrian was, Snape chose to answer for him with a very succinct, decisive, “Friday, 3 pm.”

So all had a time, a place, and a huge shock when Friday came around and with it the appearance of two Slytherin Prefects sitting at the teacher’s desk.

Hadrian’s hissed demand of “why didn’t you tell me?” only got a truly evil smirk in response.

The first years though, were simply happy to have more people help them find their way around a now wider range of topics and discussions.

Additionally, being ‘forced’ to work together for the tutoring lessons, Hadrian and Draco had to be ‘civil’ with each other, Pansy got to see a whole other side of the precious Golden Boy (and hoped that the weird almost nice relationship Draco and Potter had going on meant she would actually have to hear less about the boy), and the first years and every other participating student got to experience a lack of House restrictions.

xXxXxXx

It was late in the night and the sun had long since set. Yet, the bed of Ron Weasley remained noticeably empty. As, Hadrian could bet, was Hermione’s.

Rolling over in his bed, Seamus fixed his gaze on Hadrian, his face going through a barrage of different emotions, before eventually setting on puzzlement and something that could be curiosity.

“What’s going on with Ron and Hermione?” He asked. Looking up from the band Hadrian was inscribing with runes, he shrugged.

Over the past week, ever since their confrontation, he hadn’t really seen them.

Sometimes he catch them hasting down the hallways. Other times their eyes would bore into him that it was hard not to notice, but the moment he turned, they’d act as though they hadn’t been staring at him like crazy. As though they weren’t still talking about him.

They weren’t really as quiet as they thought they were. Or as subtle.

The whole week, without exception, even durning the weekends, Hermione and Ron would be holed up in the library.

The one time Hadrian had actually seen them there they were drowning in books, their pale faces glued to the paper and deep bags hanging under their tired eyes.

It wouldn’t be as unusual if it were just Hermione — that was normal for her. But Ron? Since when did Ron spend hours upon hours studying dry texts and not complain once?

It was no wonder people wondered what was going on.

“Your guess is as good as mine.” And with that, Hadrian went back to meticulously carving every tiny, little rune into the soft leather and infused with just a bit magic; no need to overpower the simple charm and drain himself, after all.

Surprised eyebrows rose and looks were exchanged. Dean could only shrug.

“Come on,” Seamus prodded. “You must have done something. They’re always looking at you like you might explode any minute. Or did they just realize that you’re not quite right in the head, at long last?”

Hadrian’s movements halted and his muscles tensed, the other boys in the dorm were almost expecting him to lash out now, just like he’d always done in the past. Instead, what probably surprised Dean, Seamus and Neville the most, Hadrian went lax again. His quill began scratching the leather once more.

He hadn’t reacted in any way. Or at least not in the way they expected and known him to.

“We had a disagreement,” Hadrian finally said, ripping his dorm-mates out of their flummoxed stares. All eyes returned to him and finally, he looked up.

“If you must know, they didn’t quite like it that I stopped antagonizing Malfoy, after all it brought me the last years was a loss of house points, detentions, and unneeded annoyance. They also didn’t like that I told them I felt like they abandoned me after not writing the whole summer.”

Seamus scoffed, but the ruffling of cloth from Neville’s side of the room drew all eyes to him. Looking uncertain, the boy shrugged.

“W-well,” he stuttered out. “You’re not wrong. If my friends had done that with all the Prophet wrote about you, I’d feel abandoned too.”

Dean and Seamus nodded.

“Yeah,” Seamus admitted, “even though the Prophet has some good points, it’s still not acceptable. They’re your friends.”

At that, Hadrian scoffed before he could stop himself. Some friends they were.

“Please, if I knew what the Prophet wrote about me, I would have sued them for slander and defamation of character months ago. Not just when someone finally deigned to give me the gossip rag to warn me just before returning to Hogwarts.”

Hadrian waved of the gasps of surprise going around the room dismissively. It was true. Had he returned sooner — and had he not been so clueless and stupid the last time — he would have gotten that damn lawyer a lot sooner, that was for sure.

Merlin be damned, he really had been an easy puppet.

Not like it mattered anymore, he would do better now. He already did. The Prophet, the author of all the fictional books depicting the Life of the Boy-Who-Lived Harry Potter and the Ministry were in for a nasty surprise.

“Yeah, doesn’t matter. Anyway, back to your original question, no, I have no idea what Ron and Hermione are up to. If it wasn’t obvious enough, they’re avoiding me and I’m not too keen on talking to them either, right now.”

And that was it.

Uncomfortable silence settled around the room while everyone got ready for bed. No other word was spoken about the hot topic that was the Golden Trio’s fall out, the Prophet’s accusations or anything else, really.

Wait — what was that about Draco Malfoy?

Seeing Hadrian once more absorbed in the weird leather bands he had been carrying around all day and everyone else equally preoccupied, Seamus decided that it wasn’t worth it at the moment. Sighing, he opened his DADA book and set to finish Umbridge's essay.

‘Defensive Magic is bad and should only be used by Ministry approved and trained wizards and witches —‘

What total hogwash.

xXxXxXx

Later, when everyone was already fast asleep and it was way past curfew, Ron sneaked into his bed.

His head pounded with the amount of reading he had been doing the last few days and all the information he and Hermione had found which, admittedly, wasn’t that much. They wouldn’t be able to get much further without knowing exactly what runes and ritual was used to control Harry.

Alas, Harry wasn’t talking to them. He even had the audacity to ignore them. After all he did!

But — Ron calmed himself. It wasn’t Harry’s fault. He wasn’t himself, not with the runes dictating his every move and clouding his mind from reason.

He just needed to get him to show him the runes. Which shouldn’t be too hard, seeing as he was Harry’s best mate and Harry would do anything for him.

xXxXxXx

Meanwhile in London, in a grandiose, hidden townhouse, a man with black, shaggy hair stood trembling and with no small amount of disbelief radiating from his body.

Clenched in his hands was a rumpled letter with the Impossible in writing. Again, magic washed over it, willing the letter to reveal its secrets or change its meaning, to detect something, anything, but there was nothing. Nothing but the same words in the same sequence, with the same meaning as before the hurdle of spells impacted with the parchment.

The content didn’t change.

To the esteemed Lord Sirius Black, Lord of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, it read.

We have received new evidence, it continued, verified by our Unspeakables and the Goblins of Gringotts both…

The memories are authentic… blood cannot lie… great injustice… unimaginable crime…

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has… the Minister will… reimburse… should never have happened…

Meeting… time… place…

But…

You, Lord Sirius Black, Lord of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, have been found innocent for the murder of Lily and James Potter, Peter Pettegrew and twelve Muggles, on the accounts of terrorism, vandalism, torture, as well as fleeing justice.

All Sirius could hear was the rush of his blood in his ears, his too fast heart thundering in his chest and this flutter of… something. Sirius couldn’t name the feeling, didn’t know how to describe it, but he felt… he was… he didn’t know.

He couldn’t do anything. And his head was getting kind of fuzzy, his sight all blurry and dancing with black dots, his eyelids heavy — heavier by the minute.

Still, Sirius could not tear his gaze away from the letter, from the damning words he had dreamt about so often.

Innocent.

Short, labored gulps of air and the sound of crinkling paper were almost as loud as the thumping of his heart. His hands shook so bad the letter got ripped in some places. Faintly, Sirius worried he would rip it in two, but —

Innocent.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and whirled him around. It was only by luck that Sirius didn’t face plant into the floor, as his limbs were much too heavy to move right now.

Moody was moving his mouth and somehow, Sirius acknowledged that he was saying something, something he couldn’t hear because —

“I didn’t kill Lily and James,” he mumbled.

Moody stopped talking. His magical eye was running in circles and, despite the heavy scaring and stoic demeanor, rendering the man almost unreadable, his concern was as heavy as the hand still on Sirius’ shoulder.

“I didn’t kill Lily and James,” Sirius said again, louder, but no less breathless.

He stared at Moody with wide open, unseeing eyes, imploring him to understand.

“I didn’t kill Lily and James.”

Moody’s eyes flickered to the rumpled parchment, clutched tightly in his hands. A moment later, the steadying weight left Sirius’ shoulder and instead, the hand reached for the letter.

Sirius’ letter.

Sirius’ freedom.

Sirius’ innocence.

Sirius’ acknowledgement.

He clutched the letter tighter to his chest. No-one could take this from him. No-one would.

Gulping in too little air, Sirius straightened his back and lifted his chin.

“I didn’t kill Lily and James,” he told Moody steadily. “I’m innocent,” he said while looking directly into his eyes. “I’m free.”

Moody narrowed his good eye. When he stepped forward, his prosthetic thumped on the floor. Sirius blinked.

“I know you didn’t kill them, Black,” Moody growled out. Once more, Sirius blinked, because finally — people knew. Everyone would know. “But you are still a convict. You can’t leave the house or we won’t be able to help you.”

Vehemently, Sirius shook his head.

“They do. They know it wasn’t me. I’m free.” A manic grin spread across his gaunt face. “Harry —” not James. James was dead. But he didn’t kill him. He didn’t! “Harry said I could try sending my memories. It worked for him.”

Not noticing, or simply not caring about the way Moody’s eye narrowed once more when his godson’s name was mentioned — or the way he suddenly seemed far too interested and suspicious, Sirius let his gaze fall back onto the damning letter. The words were still there, same as before, unchanged: innocent. Not guilty.

“I’m free,” Sirius reiterated once more, as though he could scarcely believe it himself. He almost didn’t dare to believe it, it was simply too surreal. “Amelia Bones and Rufus Scrimgeour and the Unspeakables and the Goblins verified my memories as well as my written statement. I didn’t kill Lily and James. They know.”

Finally his eyes widened and his grin stretched impossibly wide across his face.

Now, now Sirius could place the feeling in his chest, in his stomach.

He wanted to run and jump up and down, scream from the rooftops and dance in the rain because —

“I am free!” Not even Moody’s stoicism could dampen his exhilaration. “By Circe, I’m actually free! And Harry did it! My godson!”

And standing in the gleaming living room of his hated childhood home, filled with pure elation and vibrating with happiness, Sirius almost felt like a kid again — as though the last thirteen years had not happened, as though he was still blissfully unaware of the dark side of his family and had his little adoring brother right next to him, just as happy as he himself was.

He could almost see it — Reggie as he had been the last time he saw him, dressed as any proper child of the prestigious Black Family should be, but his black hair in disarray and an unbecoming, glowing smile on his face.

And Reggie would grab him as he always did when they were kids — one hand clutching Sirius’ robe and the other his forearm, while his eyes would shine like his constellation, his upraising not able to stop him from jumping with happiness; even dead as he was.

It was like he was actually here, with Sirius, rejoicing over his big brother’s freedom.

As if all it took for Reggie to stay, for it to become reality, was Sirius reaching down and clamping his hand over his little brother’s.

Wait —

“That’s good news, I guess,” Moody grumbled, successfully interrupting the moment.

“No—!” but it was too late. Reggie was gone again as though he had never been here. And how could he be? He’d been dead for longer than Sirius had been in Azkaban.

Shrewd eyes seemed to take apart his very being before Moody wrote him off as… something. Sirius could hardly be considered sane after all he’d been through, after all.

“The House of Black will be a strong thorn in You-Know-Who’s side. We can use the popularity this will bring to sway more people to our side. And,” Moody looked at him intensely, judged him, and found him wanting. “You’re much less of a security risk. Good work, Black.”

Then he hobbled away without a backwards glance, leaving Sirius happy and lost and alone back in the living room.

His little brother was nowhere to be seen.

xXxXxXx

Lucius dutifully followed his beautiful wife as they swept through Hogwarts’ dark hallways vigilantly. Curfew would be soon, so the possibility of encountering some students were low, but not improbable.

It hadn’t really been a hardship to get through Hogwarts’ wards undetected — they hadn’t graduated top of Hogwarts to just sit around and look pretty, after all.

Still, it was worrying how easy it had actually been; his son was supposed to be safe here, protected from the Dark Lord and his followers, as well as other unsavory folks.

Also, the idea of being caught as known Dark supporters inside of the stronghold for the strongest Light Advocate, well… it probably needn’t be said that it would be rather bad.

Still, when his wife had come to him and kindly asked him to explain his recent purchases of a lot of empty lands, all spread throughout the Isles, he, of course, answered her promptly and thoroughly.

Not that there was much to say. Draco had written him and asked for it. And why would Lucius deny his son such simple requests?

Arranging a meeting with the Goblins and subsequently buying a few acres of meadows, farm lands, forests and abandoned villages, Lucius was now waiting for the confirmations of his purchases so he could send a copy of the list to his son. Whatever he needed them for.

As it was, Narcissa now wanted to go talk to Draco forthwith and dragged Lucius along with her.

She was mad, he knew she was. Lucius couldn’t believe he had been so… so silly.

He had given his wife Draco’s missive with his request, and once Narcissa read the letter, she’d asked, her voice icy, “And you didn’t think to ask what exactly our son had in mind when he asked for ‘a bit of land’?” She tsk’ed. “That won’t do.”

Because while they both breathed the motto ‘what Draco wants, Draco get’s’, Narcissa would never stand for her son to have something less than perfect and to his exact wishes and expectations. Especially now that this… this madman lived inside their home and had the gall to curio her baby.

Decisive, Narcissa had stood up and summoned her outer robe, then she’d held our her had and beckoned. “Come here, Lucius.”

Even in his slightly confused state, he had moved towards her with alacrity. Which led to now: creeping through Hogwarts’ darkened halls in a quest to get to the Come and Go Room without being seen so they could call their son to meet with them. It was no child’s play, no matter how easy Narcissa made it seem.

Fortunately, before long they reached their destination. Unfortunately, the room seemed to be already occupied. Even more unfortunately, the door to the room opened just as they were standing before it. Surprisingly, it was actually Draco that stepped out, stopping short when he saw them.

Immediately, Narcissa whole face light up in delight. “Draco, darling, what a wonderful coincidence.”

Softy she kissed his cheeks before pulling their surprised son into her arms. Draco returned her embrace, if hesitatingly, and threw his father a questioning look.

“What are you doing here, mother?”

“What, don’t you want to see us, love?”

Shaking his head, Draco embraced his father as well. “Of course I want to see you,” he said. “I just didn’t expect it.”

“Well, you should have.” And with that, Narcissa swept into the room her son had just been leaving.

With the precision and speed that revealed his position as Slytherin’s Seeker, Draco’s hand shot out and grabbed his mother’s arm, effectively shocking his father. Why would he —?

“Mother, don’t,” Draco said, but it was already too late. Narcissa had stopped not three steps into the room, blinking at the scene in front of her flummoxed.

The room, a comfortable looking sitting room with a wide, empty expanse warded for a duel — if the dummies were anything to go by — was not as empty as she had assumed.

However, instead of his friends milling around, it was Severus who was reclining on the couch, a look on his face Narcissa hadn’t seen in years.

He was… she didn’t know how to describe it. Resigned but also determined? Dubious but believing?

Narcissa didn’t know. Her son would, though, and so would the other boy in the room.

His black, curly hair was in desperate need for a cut — it was such a length were it was too long to look anything but unkept and too short to genuinely call it long. His clothes seemed to be of good quality and his posture proper and expected of those from good standing.

Narcissa did not recognize him. Not at first. He must be a new friend of her son… or maybe more, she thought wily. Why else would he and Draco be here with her son’s godfather if not to meet him.

A new smile growing on her face, Narcissa gently unclamped Draco’s hand from around her arm and stepped closer.

That’s when the boy turned. Brilliant green eyes met hers — the most prominent feature on the boy’s face — but it weren’t the eyes that kept her attention. Instead, her eyes were drawn to the angry red scar on the boy’s forehead.

Sowilo, her mind supplied. This was Harry Potter, her Lord’s greatest enemy.

‘The greatest, most powerful wizard of all time, bested by a mere baby. Pathetic. He ought to be ashamed.’

But… why was her son with the notorious Boy Who Lived, the walking Light Propaganda, and Severus who, while his godfather, was a known spy for both sides with no-one knowing for sure who exactly he was actually loyal to.

Sighing, Narcissa turned back around. Draco was looking at her like he always did when he was a child and had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have.

“Draco,” Narcissa said, her mild tone doing nothing for the expression on her son’s face. “Are you siding with Dumbledore?”

While not exactly happy with the Dark Lord right now, it still felt like a weight lifted off of Narcissa’s shoulders when, even though not saying anything, the vicious sneer overtaking his features spoke for itself.

Lucius might have even breathed a quiet, “thank Circe.” But that was neither here nor there.

“Well met, Heir Potter,” Narcissa said instead, for now choosing not to analyze the identical sneer gracing his features, as it was quickly smoothed out again with a smile taking its place, albeit a confused one.

Smoothly, the boy stood up and bowed his head, his flat hand laying strangely over his heart.

“Lady Malfoy,” he greeted her, then turned to her husband. “Lord Malfoy.”

Echoing the greeting, Lucius finally entered the room as well. He swept a last, searching look through the hallway, making sure they had not been seen, and then took his place beside his wife; the guiding hand on his son’s back made sure he would not stay standing at the door like some inundated nitwit.

The Potter Heir didn’t look that much better, Lucius noted. At least Severus knew to hide it properly.

Finally Draco seemed to come back to himself. He closed his slightly gaping mouth — very unbecoming for the future Lord of the Ancient, Most Noble House of Malfoy — and straightened his lacking posture.

“Mother… father… what?” Well, seemed like he still stammered like some rural. Narcissa could only shake her head. Honestly, did he really have to be so surprised?

“Draco, please,” Narcissa interrupted his mortifying stuttering. “I am your mother. Did you really think I wouldn’t know something was going on?”

Letting his head fall for a moment, Draco took a few quiet breaths before he looked at her with his beautiful, warm eyes and shrugged acquiescently.

“I knew something happened when you burnt down your room in the manor and then proceeded to look at me as though I was a ghost.” Narcissa softly caressed her son’s arms. Slowly she could feel the tension drain out of him, just as it always did. “I just thought it would be better to let you come to me — us — in your own time and not force you to something you weren’t ready for.”

“Thank you,” he said smiling. Then, taking her hands in his and giving them a gentle squeeze, he went over to the Potter Heir, who still stood quietly and quite effectively managed to not draw any attention to himself, and intertwined their fingers.

Narcissa smiled delighted.

“I told you she knew,” she heard her son whisper to his friend. How adorable.

“Mother, father, this is Hadrian, my partner.”

Yes!

Narcissa’s delighted smile grew while her eyes twinkled dangerously. She could barely wait to properly get to know the boy who had managed to capture her son’s heart. — As soon as the problem with the impending war was solved, that is.

Ah well, if their Lord would dare to make her son unhappy…

Lucius meanwhile, exchanged an imploring look with Severus. Sadly, he was not of much help, so he turned back to the two boys in front of him.

He raised an expectant eyebrow. “Should we act surprised?” He asked considering. Which was obviously the wrong thing to say, if the heavy sigh was any indication.

“Why,” Potter — Hadrian (he had granted Draco the use of his real name!) — implored, his voice tight. “Is it that everyone from your side is always expecting this, but my friends are convinced I’m cursed or somehow controlled when I just mention to be civil to each other?”

Draco’s laugh twinkled like bells in Narcissa’s ears. Severus, however, frowned.

“You told your friends?”

“No. It’s just that, apparently, we aren’t the best at… uhm… staying hidden.”

Lucius gasped, delightfully scandalized. “They found you two together?”

Immediately, Draco back-paddled. He shook his head. “It’s not like that—“

“That,” Harry interrupted hastily, a petulantly tone to his voice, “is not the point. You were more surprised the last time!” He cried exasperatedly.

Lucius halted and Severus’ slow blink conveyed more than enough.

Titling her head, Narcissa scanned the boys. “The last time?” She asked shrewdly, expectantly.

It was a moment, in which Draco and Harry seemed to have a silent conversation and Narcissa wondered just what her son had gotten himself into this time, before they answered, a stubborn tilt to their chins but their smiles never wavering.

“Yes,” Draco simply said, “the last time.”

Oh dear.

xXxXxXx

The Halls of Hogwarts were deserted when Alastor Moody swiftly hobbled down the staircase from the Headmaster’s office. The meeting had been as fruitless as ever. No-one did anything to stop the past from repeating itself, not even Alastor could do as he so itched to.

Without the Ministry officially acknowledging the return of the Dark Lord and the coming together of the darkest wizards of the Isles in their delusion to purge the world, the Order had to move carefully. One wrong move and they would be picked up from the streets and thrown into Azkaban for joining a vigilante group and conspiring to coup the Ministry of Magic.

As long as the Ministry did not officially declare a time of war, the actions of the Order fell very firmly in the same category as those of the Death Eaters, even though they were out to help the people, to make sure they were safe and protected. It was Alastor’s job. His life.

Back, when he had first joined the Aurors, he had pledged his life to uphold the law and stop any and all criminals. Back, in the first war with the Dark Lord, he had pledged his loyalty to the Order of the Phoenix to further protect all life. Back, when he had lost his bonded and his little girls, he had pledged to let no-one else experience what he had.

Now he might be old and retired, a paranoid curmudgeon, but he had yet to be killed, yet to be brought down, yet to be broken. Alastor had yet to break any of his vows.

He did all that he could to stop the spread of evil, but there were moments when Alastor feared that it wouldn’t be enough.

Sometimes, in the deepest parts of his own thoughts, he wondered if everything he did, if his life’s work, was really worth it; he wondered if he was on the right side.

And now, with the Potter boy not acting at all like he had been led to believe he would, and Albus not heeding his warnings, Alastor could no longer ignore his doubts creeping up in him.

Albus’ laidback attitude didn’t sit well with him — it also hadn’t back in the first war, but then he had worked in the Auror Corps and thought that maybe Albus simply kept him out of a few things as to not compromise and overwhelm him. Now though…

His fears of Potter being an imposter or even compromised were swapped away with nary a thought and a patronizing smile.

“My dear boy, Harry is as he always was. You need not worry. Sometimes reality is just different from what we imagined it to be.”

Alastor gritted his teeth. When he’d pointed out the fact that there were people who had no problem acting the part — Harry included — Albus had the gall to chuckle, as though Alastor’s legitimate worry was in anyway ridiculous.

“Who would dare to impersonate him, my friend?” Albus had asked. And on the top of his head, Alastor could think of quite a few people who would; fanatics, the Dark Lord, Death Eaters, paid actors, and many more. “Voldemort wants him dead, and knows that with Harry’s death, many would lose the will to fight, he would not hide it. Even if he did, when would he have had the chance to get to the boy? We have been watching him. Harry Potter is not gone.”

Sometimes, Alastor would really love to just shake the old man until he finally came to his senses.

“Something is wrong with the boy, Albus. Something —”

“Differences of habit and behavior are nothing at all if our aims are identical and our hearts are open, Alastor. The boy is fine. It is our prerogative to keep it like that. He will win this war for us.”

‘But then why do you not tell us anything!’ Alastor wanted to scream. ‘Why are we not training him? Why must we rely upon a child to safe us? Why him?’

He didn’t say those things, of course. Alastor knew better than that. Albus had always liked to keep his secrets; to keep his cards close to his chest.

It didn’t sit well with him. It didn’t still well with him at all. This whole situation, the boy he’d met, the boy who wore Potter’s face but wasn’t him. The man who pretended to be the child they put all their money on…

Something was seriously wrong. And if Albus wouldn’t tell him anything, then he would figure it out himself—

Alastor stopped short. His magical eye swirled in its socket and it took mere seconds for him to see the other person in the corridor, partially hidden behind a tapestry of someone teaching a horde of trolls how to dance ballet.

The person’s wild hair let shadows grow in the dark of the hallway, while her beetle eyes were huge behind her glasses and seemingly looking right through Alastor, as though he was not even there.

Stepping closer carefully, the seasoned Auror could make out the mumblings of the person.

“I could have sworn… right here…”

And perhaps he would have written her off as a drunk, a lunatic, if not for one tiny little fact.

Her eyes — glazed over and vacant — suddenly zeroed in on him, intense and predatory and empty.

Her eyes were empty.

“Alasdair Alfred Friedrich Moody.” She knew his name. His full name. His real name.

No-one knew his real name. Not anymore. To the world he was just Alastor Alfred Moody, the son of the German Auror Alfred Moody, who brought his family to the safe coast of the Isles while Grindelwald and Hitler waged his war all across Europe.

That someone who did not belong to his family knew his name should be impossible. All different kind of things could be done with such knowledge.

So how did she know?

Drawing his wand, Alastor stepped closer. However, the woman was already turned away again, her far-away gaze roaming the wall opposite the tapestry.

“A Phoenix…” she mumbled, her words distorted, echoing. It was as if she was simultaneously in front and beside and behind him. Her voice was loud in the silent corridor, but Alastor had a feeling that no-one but him was privy to her words. “Behind the door… the answers you seek will not be found in a battle… ready yourself.”

The grip on his wand tightened, the familiar texture grounding him. The Seer — because that’s what she was, a Seer delivering him not a prophecy but a warning, an answer to his questions — titled her head in unnatural ways. She did not blink.

Moody did.

She was gone, tumbling down the darkened hallway; Alastor was left standing alone in front of a weird tapestry and a door.

A door which had not been there a minute ago. A door which should not exists.

Scurrying into the shadow of the tapestry, the words of the seer still reverberated in his head.

“Behind the door” Alastor readied himself.

“The answers you seek will not be found in a battle.” He exhaled forcefully. His wand arm lowered slightly and his eye swirled in his socked.

He was ready.

Stepping forward, he steeled himself, grasped the handle and heaved open the heavy wooden door.

The Killing Curse flew from his wand before he could stop himself. Colliding dead center, the Potter boy looked at Alastor calmly, his killing curse green eyes glowing with an unearthly light that froze Alastor in his steps, paralyzing him where he stood, severely outnumbered.

He was not ready.

xXxXxXx

Grinning from ear to ear, Regulus celebrated his big brother’s regained freedom with him.

He reveled in the renewed spark he could see in his brother’s eyes, in the spring he could see in his steps and the easy way he held himself, as though a heavy weight had been lifted off his shoulders. It was like they were kids once more and had successfully sneaked by their parents and into the kitchen, raiding the cookie cabinet.

Regulus wanted to hug him, to jump on Sirius' back and cling so tightly as they would race back up the stairs and into their rooms.

That was the past though. He would never again get to feel his brother shaking with stifled laughter, or his warm hand settling over his mouth to kept him quiet.

His big brother couldn’t see him. And Regulus couldn't touch him; he kept phasing through.