look me in the eyes and burn

Alastor had used the Killing Curse before. He’d used it many, many times; it was unavoidable when being an Auror, especially during a war time.

There was just something humane to that specific Unforgivable, something none of the others had, that spoke to Alastor as it maybe shouldn’t. But if he had the choice between a Diffindo and the Killing Curse, then he would always go with the latter. It was quick, clean and painless, and it brought with it a certainty. The spell’s sole purpose was to kill, it didn’t fail. As far as Alastor was concerned, it was a good death.

So when this specific spell left the tip of his wand before he even realized, he didn’t feel too bad. Sure, he wouldn’t be able to interrogate the impersonator now, but at least he wouldn’t be a problem anymore.

Or at least, he shouldn’t be. If he had kneeled over dead as any sensible person would do when hit with the Killing Curse.

Instead, he kept standing, kept breathing, kept looking at him with eyes glowing in the same intense color as that of the curse that had taken innumerable lives.

It were the eyes of a monster that stared at him unblinking. The slitted pupils, the unearthly glint — it was like Death was looking at him from the eyes of a person masquerading as a child.

He could not look away, could not move, could not fight — why should he? He was laughably outnumbered. And something went through his head, again and again.

“The answers you seek will not be found in a battle,” — should he honestly believe this would not end in one?

Maybe he should. For once in his — maybe soon to be ending — life, Alastor decided to forgo his life’s motto.

He went lax, doing exactly that what would have had him sending his trainees to Saint Mungo’s to get their heads checked, should they have ever done something so insanely stupid.

Somehow he still had enough control over his paralyzed body to let his wand fall to the floor and transform his scarred face into something a little more friendly, a little more harmless. (There was nothing friendly or harmless about him.)

 In the silence the room had fallen into, his wand was loud when it clattered onto the floor, but there was certainly no noise when it rose again and flew off into the hand of Po— Malfoy Junior.

He had not spoken, had not moved. And it was that that touched on Alastor’s memory the most.

Back in Grimmauld Place, when he had talked to the Imposter the first time, the exact same thing had happened. He’d lost both his wands without any indication that the Imposter had done or said anything, just like now.

So was this actually the real Potter boy and he had been compromised? Or was he an imposter and every Death Eater was able to do this?

But then, how could he do this thing with his eyes? And the scar — Alastor had no need to come closer to be able to recognize it as a curse scar, and curse scars were unique, no two were the same, it just wasn’t possible. Just as it wasn’t possible to hide or fake them.

Nothing made sense anymore.

“Moody,” the compromised Potter boy and/or exceptional imposter said in that moment. It seemed to break something then, because all at once, the other people in the room — Malfoy Sr (Death Eater), his wife (Death Eater sympathizer) and Snape (traitorous Order Member/Death Eater) — lurched up, as though they had been caught in a trance before — maybe even the same paralysis Alastor was caught in. Although, he himself could still barely move. (It must be the Potter boy with his killing curse eyes and curse scar.)

The only one not reacting was Malfoy Jr (baby Death Eater). He just continued to stare at Alastor like he had done since the first moment he’d walked into his sure demise, Alastor’s wand held loosely in his hand.

Alastor didn’t move. Not even when Lucius Malfoy stepped in front of his son and lifted his wand. Not even when Severus Snape stepped in front of the Potter boy and lifted his wand. Not even when Narcissa Malfoy née Black moved towards the boy and declared him —

“Alive,” she said, shock coloring her voice. “You’re perfectly healthy.”

From his place at the door, Alastor could see the wands of the two men falter, whereas neither of the two boys moved. Neither of them seemed even surprised that the Killing Curse had not killed him.

Just what was going on?!

Finally, the Imposter cracked. Though, not in the way Moody had hoped for.

An amused smile lit up his face. "Well," he said, "I am the Boy-Who-Lived."

If that wasn't true. And apparently the name was more than a title, exaggerated to sell more books and bring people on the side of the Light. Merlin's soggy underpants, Alastor should have just stayed away.

Someone sighed; it would have been Alastor had he been able to move, but as he wasn’t, he was grateful someone did it for him. Even someone like the Malfoys and Snape.

Then the impossible imposter grinned like the devil he was. “Tell me, Moody, do you believe in Magic?”

Unwillingly, Alastor’s jaw clenched.

“Cut the crap, Potter.” Severus Snape glowered like it was his sole purpose. “Is it too much for you feeble-minded dimwits to take this seriously?”

As much as Alastor hated it, and if those were normal circumstances, he would agree with Snape’s assessment; this was certainly not the right time to goof off. As it was though, he was quite all right with it. Imbeciles always talked a lot, especially when running their mouths.

The boy smiled. “Oh, I most certainly am,” he assured the dour man. “But you’re right, ultimately it doesn’t matter if you believe in Magic or not; we all know we have magic. And what does magic take, if not conviction and that beautiful imagination — that sprinkle of fantastical eccentricity — to render impossibilities null and void?

“A child that survived the unthinkable, a boy who will not die. It’s a fairytale, a parent’s greatest dream, and at the slightest mention of this being possible, you put all your money on it. Obviously that tiny exaggeration would grow and fester in the peoples’ minds. That believe stroked by children’s books and propaganda until it didn’t even need that for everyone to see it as the truth.

“So why are you so surprised to see me alive now, when you already knew that magic acts on intent and wishes and conviction?”

If anything, the Imposter seemed honestly puzzled by that. Just as puzzled as everyone else was, seeing as no-one had ever thought about it like that. It didn’t even — why would it —

“You are immortal because we want you to be?” Once more, Alastor was quite happy that Snape deadpanned his exact thoughts.

Unconcerned, he nodded. “Basically, yes.”

Mentally, Alastor corrected himself, Albus could have been right in one regard — Alastor was wrong.

That boy, Harry Potter, might not be an impostor or compromised (though, the jury was still out on that one), but he was, quite certainly, delusional.

“You are not immortal, Potter.” Snape sneered, once more speaking on Alastor’s behalf. “No-one is.”

“Then tell me why I haven’t been able to die. Just now, you saw it; the killing curse hit me right in the chest, yet here I stand, alive and well.”

Before the two of them could argue further, Lady Malfoy stepped in.

“Does this have something to do with you, —“ Narcissa cut off, her eyes darting to Alastor for but a moment, before settling back on the boys meaningfully. “— being here?”

Malfoy Jr sighed. “Yes and no,” he seemingly answered for both of them. Again, a look was thrown at Alastor’s still frozen form, another at the alleged Boy-Who-Lived. “We had a lot of time to simply think about all kind of things, and just enough desperation and emotion to see quite a few of the more… fantastical ideas come to life. So yes, the manic believe in the Boy-Who-Lived is probably one of the reasons for his inability to die, though we also suspect some other things to be at play.”

Lady Malfoy arched a perfectly judging, calculating eyebrow. “What are the other things?” She simply asked, her voice calm and even. “And how do you come into play in all this, my son?”

Malfoy Jr looked at her just as evenly, and in that moment, the familial relations could not be denied. Neither could the fact that her son did not look like a child in that moment. This was a soldier if Alastor ever saw one. It was quite… unsettling, to see it on such a young face.

Running a hand through his overly long hair, Potter spoke up, a weary tone to his voice.

“Can we just… sit down first?” In the ensuing silence, the only sound was that of the rustling of fabric, as the two boys were the only ones who did as asked.

Eventually, the Death Eaters followed their example, meanwhile never quite taking their calculating gazes off of the two slumped figures in the loveseat.

Potter’s gaze found Alastor, and he waved his hand over to the armchair that appeared. “Everyone?”

Knowing he didn’t exactly have a choice, Alastor forced his impossibly stiff limbs to move and began the arduous hobble across the room.

Narcissa arched an elegant brow. “Are you sure this is a wise decision?” She asked skeptically. Potter shook his head.

“No,” he said. “But he won’t stop and he’s here already, so…” Potter shrugged when Narcissa’s second brow joined the first one. With his focus on Alastor and Narcissa, he fortunately did not have to see Snape’s or Lucius reactions to his ‘recklessness’.

Alastor looked at them all. Looked at the Death Eaters calmly and expectantly waiting for their Lord’s enemy to speak and clear up all this confusion. Looked at the young boy next to their alleged Savior, a boy who grew up on tales of the greatness of the Dark Lord Who Shall Not Be Named, and saw a man in his place, secure in himself and his position, his place in the world. 

Finally Alastor looked at the phantasmal boy himself, and just like with the Malfoy boy, he saw someone who was and was not a man. Someone real, someone tangible, who had outgrown the title given to him by the population and media. Someone who had grown beyond that childish wish.

No, Alastor realized with a start. He was not in a room with two kids with too much ego, a slippery spy and Dark Pureblood parents. He was in a room with soldiers; each and every one of them was a soldier.

But he could not fight, not now, not when he was so severely outnumbered, not when he finally got the answers he had been looking for.

‘The answers you seek will not be found in a battle,’ indeed.

With a last look shared between the boys, the stifling silence was finally broken.

“We’re from the future.”

The stifling silence was back.

Malfoy Jr let out tortured groan.

“That is,” he said, his head buried in his hands. “Why I do the talking and you do… whatever it is you do.”

Potter narrowed his eyes, glaring right back.

“Draco.” His voice was as posh as Draco’s. “I know you. —“ (And just when did that happen? Oh right, in the future!) “— Your explanation would have been a ten hour drama-thriller with a complicated plot and unnecessary details. It would have been more confusing than anything. Mine, on the other hand, was short, to the point, and we’re now all on the same page. You’re welcome.”

There were two groans this time.

“Potter, stop your squabbling,” Snape snapped. “Do leave the talking to someone other than yourself, or next we’ll each see our deaths.” — Their what now?

His magical eye spinning widely and the other one ripped wide open, Alastor swirled around. His hand grasped empty air where his wand should haven been and he was already reading himself with his second wand; then he caught sight of the unhinged grin on Potter’s face and thought better of it.

He took out his knife.

“I mean if you want to —“ the silencing spell no-one should have been able to cast as no-one had their wands or said anything, cut off Potter’s words.

“I want a divorce.”

Suddenly Lady Malfoy squealed, clapping her hands together.

“You’re bonded?” She asked excitedly, completely overlooking the fact that her son wanted to end said bonding. “Oh, I bet it was magnificent. I do hope I was invited. After all, you already said I knew.”

Malfoy Jr swallowed. “Of course you knew. And I would have loved having you at our bonding, it would have been a dream come true, but you were already… kind of… dead.”

Lady Malfoy slumped a bit at that, while her husband smiled on indulgently. “I can see why you’re bonded.”

Dear Merlin, could these Death Eaters stop being so relatable today?

“This is not working.” Scowling, Snape stood up. “You already told me the barest minimum, now I expect the extended version.”

He looked over to the time travelers. Malfoy Jr gave a short nod.

His gaze surveyed the room once more, just a quick sweep over everyone present, then he leant back, quite comfortably, into the embrace of his bonded.

“As Hadrian already said, we’re not the kids you know anymore. We’ve already been through all this; Hogwarts, Dumbledore’s and Riddle’s war, the public’s fickle believe in their ‘Savior’. —“ Alastor coughed at bit at the sheer amount of ridicule the blond managed to put into this one word. “We were more than done with it.”

From where he sat, Lucius furrowed his brow. Sure, he might not like that he would be dead so soon he wouldn’t even be able to see his child connect with someone so deep they would get bonded, but he wanted his son happy more than he needed to be alive. So if they were done with all this —

“Why did you return, then?” He questioned Draco. “I have no doubt that if you would have really wanted to, none of us would have figured out you’re from the future, which would mean you had to play pretend for years. What happened for you to do something so drastic?”

The look on his son’s face was haunted; he was haunted. His eyes lost and dead. 

“We did not exactly choose this. Sure,” he shrugged, unconcerned that they had been hurled into the past seemingly without choice. “We had thought of it, but I’m not sure if we would have really gone through with it. Even though where we come from…

“We had a son.” A hauntingly beautiful smile lit up his face. (It only worked to contrast his empty eyes.) “Teddy. He was incredible. The most perfect child you’d ever meet. He—”

His voice broke off. Understandable — Alastor had noticed the past tense. Having lost his girls, Alastor could relate.

Without words, Potter grabbed his bonded’s hand, his thumb drawing circles onto its back.

“Muggles found out about magic.” The silencing spell no-longer took Potter’s voice. And so he took over, blunt as before. “At first it was alright, but when they realized they would never have magic and could do absolutely nothing with it, well… they didn’t quite like it. We didn’t quite like them cutting open and genociding our people, et voilà — war.”

Snape blanched — he had grown up in the Muggle world, he knew what they were cable of and what their hatred of everything they considered abnormal could lead to. And Moody? He might not know much, might not have really been in the Muggle world before, but he did grow up in Germany — or at least what would have been considered Germany by the Muggle world.

So while he had not been there to see the beginning or reasons for their war, he had seen the death and destruction left behind by their tools.

This much destruction without a drop of magic and half a century in the past. What would they be capable of now?

Alastor shuddered at the very thought.

“Your son, Teddy, he— was he— did they?—“ Lucius put a comforting arm around his wife. She leaned into him gratefully, shedding the carefully crafted blank mask while retaining the unmistakable grace of a noble.

Looking at the pair, Alastor was quite disturbed to see them be so… human. They were people right now, parents, not adversaries in battle.

But the thought of an innocent, bright child being in the hands of Muggles?

“Teddy had a good death,” Potter tried to soothe them. (No surprise that it didn’t work.) “He was a happy child and we made sure they couldn’t hurt him, that they couldn’t get to him.”

Snape closed his eyes, while both Malfoy’s grieved their grandchild that once had been. Alastor though, he looked at the time travelers appraisingly. A good death, huh?

“Muggles saw Magicals as something not human, something less. Purebloods were treated the same as animals, while we Mixed-bloods were not taken seriously, as they saw our world and way of life and compared it to their own. Candles and quills and parchment to electricity and computers? They thought we still lived in the dark ages and nothing would convince them otherwise.

“It all came to a head eventually, and from then on there was no going back.”

There was a lot to unpack, like — “why would Purebloods be treated that poorly? I would have thought money and power meant something to Muggles?”

Confusion flittered through Potter’s eyes, before understanding dawned. “Purebloods, right… so you know how magical creatures can’t live without magic? Like, if they were to loose their magic they would die and their body disintegrate because they are literally made of magic?” At their nods, he shrugged, smiling. “Well, doesn’t that mean they are purely magic. With pure magic in their blood?”

“You are saying magical creatures are Purebloods and everyone just agreed with you?”

Another shrug. “I told you, we had a lot of time to think about things. There was literally nothing else to do. We weren’t the only ones who realized this. And it wasn’t like the people you consider Purlebloods were in the end any different to every other Magical.”

Sighing, Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. It did make sense, but the mental gymnastics they had had to do to reach this conclusion after being told something entirely different their entire lives…

“Look, we know this entire situation is far from ideal and had we actually planned for this, we would have done this differently from the start. As it is, we didn’t, we haven’t, and now we’re here, trying to do this as best as we can when pulling all this out our noses.”

Alastor was still confused. “Why not go to Albus?” Potter was Albus’ Golden Goose, something the Headmaster didn’t even try to hide. So why had they not gone to him? From what he’d been told, the Potter from before would have done so immediately.

Potter looked at him doubtfully. “And tell him his precious, harmless Muggles annihilated entire magic populations just because they could? On their own volition?”

The lad had a point. Albus was worryingly blasé about the very real danger the Muggles posed.

… And Potter was married to a Death Eater, right.

“And the Dark Lord?” Moody’s eyes rolled wildly in his socked, categorizing the expressions his question received. “He is notorious for his glee in ridding the world of them.”

“Yeah,” Potter said flatly, “them and everyone else.” Unimpressed eyes met his mismatched ones. “Mad-eye, that man lost his sanity long before he started to look like his scaly ancestor. While he might be brilliant, we honestly don’t need his crazy when we want peace.”

“And before you ask about the Ministry,” his blond companion added, “I don’t think we have to explain that.”

Naturally Alastor would not have asked about the Ministry. He’d worked there almost his whole life, he knew exactly what they were like. Just the thought of that notion was ridiculous.

“What are you going to do now?”

Malfoy Jr shrugged. “Ask for help?”

Potter nodded next to him, his earnest, nonchalant expression infusing Alastor’s sudden, unexplainable urge to strangle the both of them.

“You cannot,” Snape pronounced slowly; completely and utterly done. “Be serious.”

Almost instantly, the Potter boy opened his mouth.

“Don’t.” Snape stopped him before he could even say anything. And while it might have taken a moment, Moody did catch up with what the insufferable boy would have most likely said and mentally thanked the spy. He was so too done for that.

“Now Severus, asking for help is obviously not all they were doing.” It seemed Lucius had deemed it time for him to finally speak up. “I assume the land he’s having me buy could serve as a retreat. If they were to offer the Goblins some of it, then the price for appropriate warding should go down to a mere pittance. You did ally yourselves to them, did you not?”

His son nodded. “Obviously,” he intoned offhandedly, as if allying themselves with the Goblin Nation was a given. As someone who had spent maybe a bit too much time working for and with the Ministry, Alastor could confidently say that it was not. “They are cut throat when it comes to gold and their peoples’ lives.”

“They don’t care about who you are or what you are doing as long as it doesn’t harm them. Muggles finding out about us will harm them, so in this endeavor they are on our side. Make no mistake, the Goblins are not following our lead, they believed our word and will act accordingly; no more, no less.”

Potter nodded along. “I have been approached by the Centaurs. Pluto is moving further away.”

A sea of uncomprehending stares met his announcement. Lady Malfoy motioned for him to continue. Fortunately, he did.

“They are with us and ready, waiting for our word and spreading the message along the Purebloods under the stars.” Potter exchanged a brief glance with his alleged bonded. “If we were to orient ourselves to the future timeline, then we should have a little more than ten years before it gets really bad.

“Through the fast technological advances of the Muggles the rift between us and them grows exponentially. Technology is like their magic and, just like our magic to them, it is absolutely useless to us. For whatever reason, these two don’t mix. Like, at all. That is actually what made it so easy for them to find us, just put an unassuming piece of technology somewhere and look which person or even area makes it fizz out. Incidentally, exactly this also worked for us, because they obviously couldn’t use something like this to hurt us.”

For a moment, no-one was able to say anything. The boys each seemed to be lost in their own thoughts, unaware of the way they clung together.

What they had revealed, what they spoke about — it was crazy. A madman’s fever-dream. There was no way Alastor was actually thinking about this, was there?

Looking at the others — at the Death Eaters… Snape already believed them, his earlier accusation proved that much. The Malfoy’s seemed equally unwilling to doubt their son und apparent son-in-law.

Moody huffed. “What exactly is it you two expect?” He rumbled, his magical eye categorizing the non-reaction his presence brought. Normally he’d be either catered to or written off was a lunatic. This nonchalance of his being here, this ignorance  — it was concerning.

“The Dark Lord is preparing his armies as we speak. The Ministry is sticking their heads in the sand and dragging both you and Albus through the mud. Albus won’t get out of this situation with his reputation intact should the truth about the Dark Lord not come out. It is and will remain to be in shambles if there is no glorious war in which he can restore it, otherwise he would never risk it.”

Alastor sat and watched as Potter nodded along, watched as his bonded closed his eyes and rested his head against his shoulder and Potter put an arm around him in that unconscious way that spoke of long time intimacy.

In Alastor’s long line of duty he had learned to listen to his gut. Right now, he did not necessarily want to deal with the implications of what his gut was telling him.

“Dumbledore must go,” Potter said with a simplicity this sentence did not deserve. Alastor liked to pretend he did not stare. Malfoy Sr shifted a bit where he sat, his wife cleared her throat delicately. Snape was, as always, infuriatingly unreadable.

Potter continued unconcerned. “Riddle too, of course. But maybe we should wait a bit for that, let him create a bit unrest. People are more likely to change if they see that the way they’re going about everything now simply breeds his kind of people. The Ministry, with the right convictions, can actually be useful. Similarly, it can be just as much of an annoyance. The general populace, from what I remember, are all perfectly little sheep already, trained to follow whoever without much thought.

“As you said, Dumbledore is already doing great in destroying his image, making it appear as though he succumbed to the stress or some illness should be no problem. He already looks ancient, even though he is only a bit over a hundred years old, it is not far off to believe he has that disease which ages the body way faster that it normally would.”

Alastor conceded the point about Albus appearance — it was weird. But that they were so blasé about killing someone off they didn’t need — don’t get him wrong, he could understand this and had done the same in the past, but they were fifteen. Or at least appeared to be.

Lord Malfoy let out a long sigh. “I will, of course, be gracious enough to offer money and connections,” he told his son. “You have the students here, I have the Ministry and the Purebloods— ehem, the Mixed-bloods (?)”

“Thank you, father.” Malfoy Jr grinned at him.

“Seeing as you have been kind enough to include me in your… terrific plan, I suppose I shall return that favor. If only to stop you from ending up on the wrong side of the killing curse again.”

For some reason, neither Potter’s nor Malfoy Jr’s smiles dimmed at the cutting tone of the Potions Master.

Moody grumbled and flexed his hand, the knife still held tight.

“That is all well and good, laddies,” he said, reluctantly impressed, cutting into the deeply touching moment between the new-found family. Or not that new found, if he went with their time travel story. “But how do I know you didn’t do something to the real Potter and this isn’t an animated doll, following your directions? It would explain the whole ‘surviving-the killing-curse’ much better than your ego inflating wish-thinking.”

Malfoy Jr snorted.

“Sorry,” he said unapologetically. “It’s just, a doll.” And he continued wheezing. “I am not that desperate, Moody!”

“And how,” Snape asked sardonically, “would Albus not realize his precious Savior is a ‘doll’? Do you think he wouldn’t make sure the boy acted and breathed as he wanted to?”

‘Not really,’ was Moody’s first thought. ‘After all, he’s sent me to watch him, and then didn’t listen when I told him of my suspicions.’

Instead of that however, he said, “I have yet to see proof, it’s not like I knew the boy beforehand. All I have heard are hard to believe words and accusations and plans to overthrow the government.”

Potter huffed. “How are we supposed to prove time travel?” He asked. “It’s not like we can Apparate to the battles or show you your corpse—“

Once more, he was silenced. Thank Merlin.

“Shush, doll,” said Malfoy Jr, his grip on Potter’s hand looking rather tight as he gave the boy a sharp look. “The real people are talking—“ He cut off. Brilliant, golden flames erupted in front of him. However, instead of moving away and protecting himself from the flames, he watched with wonder in his eyes.

"Fawkes," he breathed reverently. He reached out unflinchingly. Instantaneously, as though he himself were responsible for it, his hand was enveloped by the flames.

The fire did not seem to burn him as if travelled up his arm, not even when his shirt caught on fire and Malfoy Jr finally, finally, flinched, looking uncertain. It did not really further Moody’s reluctant believe in their ridiculous story when his bonded did not come to his help.

What did help however, was that when the flames finally receded, it actually was a Phoenix that perched on the blond’s shoulder. And not just any Phoenix, but, as he had said, Fawkes; Albus’ familiar. Or at least, Alastor had thought so.

A wondrous melody filled the room as Malfoy Jr gently soothed the Phoenix gleaming red and yellow feathers.

The others, all equally shocked, watched the proceeding with wonder. Fawkes trilled happily and bent over to groom Potter’s wild hair. The boy leaned back with a silenced laugh, which, in hindsight, he maybe shouldn’t have done, as Fawkes then instantly chased after him and ended up pecking his shirt — it went up in flames.

“Potter!”

For the first time that night, Snape lost his posture. His eyes wide and already stepping closer, the dour man drew his wand on one of the lightest creatures there were — or rather, Alastor corrected, Pureblood. Potter and Malfoy Jr had said they were the true Purebloods and had magic they, as wizards, would be unable to comprehend.

It must be true, as both boys had been enveloped in blazing flames and neither was hurt.

Alastor had to be mad to even contemplate it. And his eye broken, as there was no way for both of them to still be alive with the rune-circles on their chests faded to resemble faint scars, instead of strong lines, pulsing with every beat their heart gave.

They should be dead. The both of them should be long gone.

“This is a soul bond.” Lucius stared at his son with awe, Narcissa with tears in her eyes.

“How is this possible?” Alastor heard Snape whisper. He could only nod his head in agreement. Because it shouldn’t be, it shouldn’t be possible. Not even Fawkes' soothing tones were enough to quell the cold settling into the room, the unease beating in their hearts.

Sighing, Potter closed his eyes. And maybe, Alastor mused, they actually were telling the truth, they actually were from the future — murdering Muggles and unified magic and all. After all, it was just like Potter's curse scar — bonding runes were equally impossible to fake, and once there, they were forever.

"They have looked like this ever since we came back here," Malfoy Jr admitted. “We got bonded as soon as we could… while the Muggles were slaughtering us en masse. Before you judge us for that, remember that Hadrian is immortal.” And oh… right.

Narcissa gasped, a hand covering her mouth in shock and… sadness. Even Alastor could say that there was a tiny sting in his cold dead heart.

“You were ready to stay alive during all this? For him?” Her voice shook with repressed emotion.

Her son squirmed, unable to meet his mother’s eyes. Potter cleared his throat softly.

“It was more like that we were hoping that I would be able to die with the soul bond,” he admitted quietly. “Seeing as it quite literally makes two souls into one — kill one get both.”

“Doll.”

“I know…” Potter lowered his head, ceasing to speak.

“Is that how you ended up here?” Snape asked into the ensuing silence. “Because you…? And you can’t…?”

All at once, Potter was back to his lively, unconcerned self, almost knocking Fawkes off of his bonded’s shoulder. “No,” he said, waving Snape off. “Luna sacrificed herself because she didn’t like me being all alone.”

xXxXxXx

Staying awake late at night was not something Hadrian had ever particularly enjoyed.

Maybe it was still a left over from his early ‘childhood’ with the Dursleys; having to prepare breakfast well before the occupants of the house awoke, so they would already have a feast waiting for them, required him to stand up quite early.

Going to bed late and consequently oversleeping — which was swiftly corrected to never happened again — was not something Hadrian did if he could help it.

Yet, having to explain that ‘yes, I mean last time last time; we time traveled, whoops’, ‘I’m fine, calm down, the killing curse doesn’t really stick, I’m the Boy-Who-Lived, remember?’ And ‘no, I’m not an imposter or Death Eater, stop staring at me like that!’ Took a bit longer than he really wanted.

Yet, it was the headache and lethargic that bothered Hadrian the most, not inattentiveness. Being inattentive in a time of war was the worst thing one could do — even when one was immortal. Immortality might refuse him the sweet release he so yearned for, but it certainly did not stop him from feeling pain.

Therefore, when Ron plopped down next to him with the grace of a Hippogriff, Hadrian was not surprised.

“Hey mate,” the unconcerned red head grumbled tiredly as he began to load his plate. “Why did you just leave? You could have at least waited for me and woken me up. Now I barely have any time to eat,” Ron whined.

Okay, that actually had Hadrian surprised now.

Casting a judging look at Ron stuffing his face with all sorts of breakfast foods, Hadrian asked, “how was I supposed to know you weren’t ignoring me anymore?” Ron didn’t react. “You’ve been studiously overlooking my existence all week.”

"We didn't ignore you, mate, " Ron said through a mouthful of food, tiny pieces flying in every direction.

Well, Hadrian wrinkled his nose, it seemed it was a good thing he had already eaten, even if he had been eying the chocolate pudding for a while now.

"Hermione is trying to find a way to...well, you know— it's not important," he hastily finished. "I'm helping her. Or at least trying to. I don't really understand half of what she's saying, not that we ever have. She's the smartest witch there is. You simply wouldn't be able to keep up with her, so we didn't want to bother you."

Okay... Hadrian was terribly tempted to shoot a few diagnostic spells at the red head, in case he had hit with is head somewhere or eaten some suspicious test-substances from the twins.

"Are you alright?" he asked instead, slightly hesitant. Ron nodded unconcerned.

"Of course, why wouldn't I be?" Finally, he looked at Hadrian. Ron's gaze swept over him, stopping in his face. Hadrian's brows were pulled back into a frown.

"Oh," Ron said swallowing. "You're still hung up about our disagreement. It's all right, mate, you couldn't help it. But I'm not mad anymore, it was stupid anyway."

'That it was,’ Hadrian thought darkly. 'And yet you still don't get it.’

Opening his mouth to respond — how though, Hadrian wasn't quite sure — he was saved from answering by the post arriving.

Hundreds of post owls fluttered into the Great Hall, their frantic fluttering and wild search for their wizard companions leading conversation to a halt.

A beautiful white owl detached herself from the flock and landed gracefully by Hadrian's side, her leg sticking out with a letter attached to it.

"Thanks, Hedwig." The snowy owl let her human pet her as he removed the parchment. However, the moment her boy saw who it was from, his attention was solely on the letter. Noticing this, she merely groomed a strand of his wild hair, helped herself to a piece of bacon, and flew off once more.

Hadrian had not really had that much contact with Sirius since he came back, and the few missives they'd exchanged had looked vastly different to the one he was holding now.

For one, the writing, while still a bit shaky, looked much better than anything Sirius had managed to produce before. For another, well, it was signed as Sirius Black, your forever grateful godfather.

A small smile stole itself on Hadrian's face. He might not have read the letter yet, but he had a hunch. It seemed his advise had born fruit.

At the same Time Hadrian got his godfather's letter, many other students and professors got their own mail, including their subscription of the Daily Prophet.

Within seconds, horrified gasps rang throughout the hall and furious whispers picked up.

Hermione, being one of them, hastily stood up. She had to show Harry; he would be over the moon.

Grabbing the newspaper, she marched over to her two friends and squeezed herself next to Harry. Some younger year night have complained, but they would understand that this was much more important than them sitting next to the 'Savior of the Wizarding World’.

Still, Hermione shot them an apologetic look before finally focusing all her attention on her still friend.

Poor Harry, he must be so overwhelmed right now. Sirius probably hadn't warned him that this was happening and now he was completely blindsided. Especially now that more and more eyes turned to look at him.

Hermione placed a comforting hand on his tense shoulder. "Have you seen the Prophet? I haven’t had the chance to read it yet, of course, but it’s great, isn’t it?”

She looked at Hadrian carefully. “Oh, how are you feeling, Harry?" Gasping, she realized something. "Sirius didn't warn you, did he? Don't be mad at him, you know how he can be sometimes. But this is good news."

She stopped for a breath when spotted the letter held loosely in Hadrian's hand and spoke over him before he even had a chance to comprehend it all.

"What's this? Did Sirius send it to you?" She made to grab it. "What did he say? Do you know how he did it?”

Ron snorted out a laugh. “Calm down, ‘Moine. He can’t answer you when you don’t let him speak.”

Hermione sighed, but finally conceded. “Anyway, Dumbledore surely found a way he hadn’t thought of. — Harry? Come on, show me."

Instead of showing her, however, Hadrian constantly moved the letter out of her reach. “I wouldn’t know, Hermione,” he finally snapped, staring at her heatedly. “I haven’t had the chance to read it before you forced your way in here.”

Hermione’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click. Ron frowned.

“That’s not reason to talk to her like that, mate!” he growled. And yeah, Hadrian could admit that it may have been a bit harsh, but what else did they expect after ignoring him completely and suddenly bouncing back as though nothing ever happened, all the while treating him like an incompetent child?

In the end, Hadrian pursed his lips and said nothing, instead opting to simply read the letter. Simultaneously, he also tried to block out the eating feast on his left and the rustling and gasping to his right as Hermione, of course, twisted herself in order to read the letter over his shoulder.

His already short patience finally snapped when she honestly had the nerve to loudly criticize Sirius about not thinking of sending in his memories sooner, and in the same breath scold Hadrian for not telling her about what he’d done.

The cherry on top was finally Ron butting in again while still having no idea what was actually going on, preoccupied with eating as he was.

“Could you please give me some space?!” Hadrian ground out through gritted teeth. “And stop reading my mail! Or do you see me reading yours?”

For a while, neither of the two beside him said anything, they only kept looking at him with wide eyes. Then Hermione huffed affronted and pointedly turned away, finally reading the article about the false imprisonment of Lord Sirius Black and the Ministry’s failing in the paper.

Ron, following her example, returned his attention to his still full plate, leaving Hadrian quietly counting down from ten in between them.

During all this, none of them spared the head table a single glance, or they would have seen Dumbledore pursing his lips while reading the same article everyone would be gossiping about today. Equally unseen went the murderous rage in Umbridge’s blotchy red face, seeing as her own article, declaring her the High Inquisitor, had been reduced to a mere side piece.

Not that it stopped Hermione from seeing it anyway, gasping outraged and making a huge scene.

xXxXxXx

Just minutes before the bell rang, signaling the end of breakfast, another red head came to a stop where the Golden Trio was sitting.

Ginny sat down in an empty seat, a smile lightening up her freckled face.

"Hey guys," she greeted them, her eyes catching sight of the newspaper in Hermione's hands. "You saw it too, then? I'm sure everyone is ecstatic. Sirius really didn't like that he had to stay in that horrid house without being able to help.”

Hermione nodded to Ginny’s assessment, but the red head’s attention remained primary on Hadrian.

“Hey Harry, do you want to go to the next Hogsmead weekend with me? We could see if we find anything good for Sirius to celebrate his innocence.” She smiled at him hopefully. “I could keep all the annoying people away from you. It’d be no problem.”

Hadrian smiled at her consideration. It was really nice of Ginny to offer that, but seeing her hopeful eyes, he knew he couldn’t accept. She would probably see it as something other than it was for him — romance instead of friendship.

So he shook his head ruefully. “Thanks Ginny,” he told her earnestly. “That’s really nice of you, but that’s not necessary. Sirius and I are good.” Or at least as good as they can be, seeing as Hadrian had no need nor want of a godfather anymore and Sirius continued to see him as an extension of James.

Ginny’s smile wilted and the spark in her eyes lessened at bit before renewed determination seemed to rake root.

She straightened up, smiling once more. “Alright, Harry. I just had something in mind that Sirius might have liked and thought we could give it together. I’ll just send it to him anyway.”

It was then that the bell finally echoed through the Great Hall. The last few stranglers packed up their things and made to leave, Hadrian, Ron, Hermione and Ginny alongside them.

Backpack slung over one shoulder, Harry turned back to Ginny, smiling. “You’re great, Gin,” he told her. “See you!”

Hermione jogged up behind him before slowing to the same tempo, her brow furrowed.

“Why didn’t you accept, Harry?” Her tone, while confused, also held a note of accusation. “She just wanted to do something nice with you. And be there for Sirius.”

Hadrian cocked his head. “And she can,” he told her. “I just don’t need her to keep anyone away from me.”

Hermione looked at him in disbelief, then she sighed, smiling. “Oh Harry,” she murmured, shaking her head in exasperation.

Well, whatever she was thinking, Hadrian thought with a quizzical frown, it was probably wrong. 

xXxXxXx

Later that day, the windows rattled in their frames as Filch embedded the first of many educational degrees inside the ancient walls of Hogwarts.

The loud, foreboding bangs echoed through the halls, drawing curious students to the spectacle.

Confused kids stood around the cranky man, watching the proceedings askance. The newest wall ornament received the same look, with quite the amount of ridicule thrown in.

Dolores Umbridge stood by with a dimpled smile. A slight blush dusted her cheeks a perfect, radiant pink as she looked upon the proof of her power.

She was the High Inquisitor of Hogwarts, at the Minister’s orders and with his explicit, pleased approval.

It was high time Hogwarts remembered its glorious days, and her tutelage would ensure it did. She, and she alone, would see to it that Dumbledore finally came off his high horse and wouldn’t succeed in taking over the ministry with his army. Dolores would make sure of that.

No-one would be able to stop her.

She hummed happily, the feeling of triumph sending pleasant tingles through her body. Even the parents saw the need to intervene; they were all enthusiastic in their support of the Minister’s determination to end this mind controlling game and return the proper order.

In reverend silence, the adorable… cute… little… vermin walked off to no doubt spread chaos and no good in her school. Soon, Umbridge knew, she would have corralled them in. Their mommies and daddies would come to her in tears, praising her for properly teaching them how to behave.

Everything was turning out great—

Something collided with her perfectly coiffed skirt; a crawling sensation slithered down her spine.

Looking down, a delightful set of terrified eyes started up at her. Umbridge plastered a waxy smile on her pink lips.

“You insolent!— Hem hem.  Mister Axton,” she tittered, her voice tight. “Fifteen points from Hufflepuff. And I expect you in my office no later than seven tonight. You’ve just earned yourself a nice evening of detention.”

Chuckling, she brushed imaginary dust off her rose cardigan and waddled off, already planning her next course of action. After all, while she might have Dumbledore’s throne now, she was still no further in getting the infuriating Potter boy to stop his rioting ways. His lying was harming her and the Minister’s jobs, creating unnecessary upheaval in the whole Ministry.

And now she knew with certainty that he must be planning something. Someone like him wouldn’t be so… so polite, other wise. It already baffled her that he could do even this.

xXxXxXx

As so often, Hadrian found himself creeping through Hogwarts' quiet dungeons. Moonlight threw delightful, moving plays of light against the walls and partly hidden alcoves.

It was a quiet night, with many students already hidden away in their common rooms instead of enjoying the colorful plays of nature outside or all the niches hidden throughout the castle. The fear of being found by Umbridge and subjected to another torture session because of the most stupid reasons had them staying away.

After what they'd heard from the Daily Prophet and their Professors, how enthused their parents were with the pink demon and the teachers unable to do anything, well... What should they — as kids — be able to do?

Hiding wasn't cowardly when their tormentor had more power and more evil in their pink cat porcelain than He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at the height of his terror raging reign during the war.

Thus, creeping through the halls was laughably easy. All Hadrian had to watch out for was the unmistakable clack clack clack of Umbridge’s horrendous shoes. Which, considering her hurried excuses and badly hidden trembling when faced with Snape, made "sneaking” through the dungeons even more easy.

That didn't mean Hadrian wasn't careful and ready for every eventuality. So when he hard quiet sniffles coming from a lounge to his left, he first assured himself that nothing and no-one was waiting to ambush him and then went to investigate the heartbreaking cries.

Huddled in a corner of the big sofa, swapped in his robes and soft candle light crystallizing the tear tracks down his cheeks, sat a little boy.

"Hey," Hadrian said softly. He had not wanted to scare the child, but it was for naught. As though he had been caught in an unnamable crime, the boy jumped. He stared at Hadrian with big, watery eyes and humiliation etched onto his features.

He scrambled back when Hadrian came closer and quickly wipped his tears as he kneeled down.

"Hey," Hadrian repeated, his voice soft. "What's wrong?"

The child just shook his head, not saying anything as he sunk deeper into the cushions.

"Is there someone I could get for you?" he tried again. Another shake of the head. "Could I help you with anything?"

But the boy stayed silent. Tears still pooled in his eyes, but he caught them before they could fall.

Hadrian sighed quietly. "Luis, you know you can talk to me. It's okay."

The boy looked around, at anything and everything that wasn't Hadrian. There wasn't much to look at. The walls at this particular part of the castle were simple stonewalls, and the lake behind the charmed windows was dark and empty.

Finally, Luis' eyes found Hadrian's, and the moment they did — finding sympathy and concern warring within — the tears spilled over once more.

Silently, he held out his hand. His hand which was wrapped in the boy's red tie. No — the tie was blue, not red. But the copious amounts of blood, flowing out of the boy's hand without lessening, was staining the fabric this haunting color.

Grinding his teeth as to not lash out and loose his already tight grip on his magic, Hadrian carefully reached out and unwrapped the boy's hand.

Sharp, cutting lines, surrounded by irritated skin greeted him. Luis hissed through clenched teeth, the sting of the wound sending a few more tears into his honey-brown eyes.

Gentling his hold, Hadrian let his magic wash over the wound, cold and soothing on the angry skin.

From the looks of it, the curse wound was already on a good way to an infection and so it wouldn't take long until a scar would take its place.

How could he have let it get this far? Hadrian wondered.

He had wanted to get a detention, to get Umbridge’s most beloved way to discipline ‘unruly’ students. Instead he had… what? What had he done instead? Nothing.

This unjust torture of students could have ended weeks ago if only he had finally acted on his own words. Instead he had sat back and been a perfect model student, not giving Umbridge any reason to give him a detention. Meanwhile the toad had continued to torture those she, in her god-like position, considered lesser — deserving.

Hadrian closed his eyes, counted to ten, and once he opened them again, he'd shoved all his irritation and self-hatred deep, deep inside of him.

“Is this better?” The child nodded. He took his hand back and cradled it close to his chest, his eyes shone with gratefulness.

Hadrian shifted until he was sitting next to him in the couch, instead of crouching in front of him.

“Umbridge did this to you, didn’t she?”

“No,” Luis said quietly. “Well,” he then amended. “She made me write with this quill she gave me.   But every time I wrote, the same words would appear on my hand. It hurts.”

“Of course it hurts,” Hadrian seethed. “Everything you do with that quill is written in your blood, carved out of your body. Do you remember what we discussed during our last tutoring?"

"You mean that blood is binding and we should never give it away?" he asked hesitantly. Hadrian nodded, his face serious.

“Exactly,” Hadrian said. Once more he gently took Luis’ wounded hand in his. The boy let it happen docilely. “When you sign — or write — something with your blood, then it’s binding. Otherwise really bad consequences can happen. But when you ‘promise’ to do something, over and over again, until it scars, then you won’t be able to not adhere to it. Whatever you wrote will be your new reality.”

“No,” Luis whispered. His wide eyes were filled with horrified realization. “That’s not… she can’t!…”

He ripped his hand out of Hadrian’s, staring at the blaring red writing on his white skin.

I must not run in the corridors.

It was still bleeding.

“I’m bound by this?” He cried in a wrecked voice. “But I’m… I didn’t even…”

“Not yet,” Hadrian assured the aghast boy. “You aren’t bound yet. As it is, you might trip when you try to run or you will feel sluggish and winded, but it’s not permanent. Not yet.

“Now, can I take you to Professor Snape? Or would you prefer your head of house?”

Almost catatonic, the boy just shrugged and let himself be pulled along. He did not deny Hadrian like he had at the beginning.

On the way to Snape’s office — as they were already in the dungeons anyway and he would surely have something to stop the bleeding — Hadrian supported Luis. He might not know how long these detentions have been going on for him, but it wouldn’t surprise him if he suffered from blood-loss as well as an infection and shock.

The Professor had taken one look at Hadrian, then the catatonic child next to him, and immediately given him a calming draught. Then, with his thunderous feelings carefully hidden behind a blank mask, Snape treated Luis’ still bleeding hand and sent him of to Madam Pomfrey.

Incidentally, he’d also told them “our hands are bound by the Ministry, Mister Axton, Mister Potter, yours, however, are not.”

When they left again, Luis’ shot Hadrian a confused look. “What did Professor Snape mean with that?” He asked. Hadrian smiled bitterly.

“It means that when the Professors go to the Ministry with accusations of Umbridge torturing students, —“ Luis protests of it not being torture quickly died in the light of Hadrian’s glare. Satisfied, Hadrian continued as if nothing happened. 

“— Then they’ll also accuse the Minister himself, as he was the one to choose her and support all her decisions. The Professor will then be  charged of conspiring against the Ministry and fired.”

“But... They can't do this!"

Hadrian looked at him, pursing his lips. "They can and they will.” Luis swallowed heavily.

“McGonagall told me to keep my head down to avoid further detentions. But this will only make every thing worse, I expect."

“Why?” questioned Luis. There was confusion in his young voice and a certain naïveté that Hadrian doubted he ever had. “If we don’t do anything and stay away from Umbridge, then she can’t do anything to us, can she?” Hadrian sighed.

"Think about it.” Tilting his head, Luis looked up at him questioning. “If we don't do anything, then Umbridge will think her torture is working and continue on as she is. Would you want that? And would your family want that happening to you? Would they be okay with a Ministry — and Minister — who encourages torture and mutilation as discipline?"

Immediate, frantic head shaking was his answer.

No, his family would not stand for this. Neither would the families of a dozen more students — of hundred more students.

After all, just because the students weren't at home didn't mean they were now left hanging, alone and on their own.

They arrived at the infirmary before anything else could be said, and to say Madam Pomfrey was infuriated with what they told her would be an understatement.

The kind old woman cursed Umbridge to hell and back, her insults growing more creative and vicious by the second.

In the end, she gave both Hadrian and Luis a doctor’s note that decried that they, under no circumstances, be left alone with Madam Dolores Umbridge, as it could mean a rapid decline in their mental and physical health.

Another thing Hadrian found out that he'd never even thought of before, was that as a healer, Madam Pomfrey was obligated to send their medical reports to their guardians in case of a serious injury.

Smiling for the first time that night, no matter how small or devilish it might be, the two students set out to their last destination: Professor Flitwick’s office.

The part goblin was just starting his rounds when they found him. After a quick explanation of the situation, Madam pomfrey's note, and the pictures of Luis' wound before it's been tended to — as wounds made with a magical objects could rarely be healed instantaneously or completely like broken bones — Flitwick readied for war.

Furious magic swirled around him as the small man marched into the Ravenclaw common room and called everyone present together.

The then reveal of anyone who had a detention with Umbridge where they had to use her ‘special quill’ was mayhem.

 Flitwick was frothing at the mouth. As someone who grew up with the Goblins instead of the cowardly Ministry, he knew of the uses and dangers of blood quills.

Students from either influential or known pure blood families were yelling in shock; they had not been targeted and while they all knew this toad to be evil, they could have never imaged her doing something as horrendous as that, and with the Minister’s approval, no less. Those from traditional families were even more outraged. After all, they had still learned of the power such innocuous objects could hold.

They ran — ignoring the looming curfew — and hoped against hope that their friends from other houses had not been targeted.

Those who had gone through the same barbarous detentions as Hadrian and Luis had, had frozen in shock, their hands tingling in remembrance, mocking them and their ignorance.

Hurriedly they were brought to the infirmary, with more and more students from other houses joining them. They had been told by their friends what those detentions actually meant and wasted no time in getting to Madam Pomfrey.

Other Professors joined them after getting over the fact of something so horrendous happening right under their noses without them being aware of it. But how should they have been? After all, they had not been the only ones not daring to go against the pink ministry toad.

In between all the chaos Hadrian had accidentally created — after all the chaos he had also accidentally created the other night and the other other night too — the woman responsible for the shockwave of fury raging through Hogwarts’ ancient halls, and a few hours later through the whole of Britain, slept soundly in her pompous bed; a smile still played on her lips after the great day and nice detention she’d had.