The white void gradually solidified back into the ethereal King's Cross, though now it felt different—more real somehow, as if Harry's conversation with this impossible woman had anchored it in place like a ship finding safe harbor after a terrible storm.
Mother Magic watched him with those piercing eyes that seemed to hold the weight of galaxies, waiting for his questions with the patience of someone who had shepherded countless souls through their darkest hours. There was something regal about her bearing, something that reminded Harry of the portraits of great queens he'd seen in textbooks—commanding yet compassionate, terrible in her power yet infinitely kind.
"I don't understand," Harry said finally, his voice hoarse from the screaming he'd done in those final moments before Avada Kedavra claimed him. "What do you mean my timeline is defunct? How can an entire reality just... stop working?"
Her expression softened slightly, though her bearing remained magnificently regal. When she smiled, it was the sort of smile that could launch a thousand ships or end a thousand wars—patient, knowing, and touched with genuine fondness.
"Sit, child. This will take some explaining, and I suspect you've had quite enough of standing in ethereal train stations for one afterlife."
Two chairs materialized from nowhere—comfortable wingbacks upholstered in deep burgundy leather that reminded Harry painfully of the Gryffindor common room. He sank into one gratefully, his legs suddenly feeling weak as the adrenaline of his final battle finally began to fade. Mother Magic settled across from him with fluid grace, crossing her legs elegantly and regarding him with the sort of attention that made him feel like the most important person in any universe.
"Tell me, Mr. Potter," she began, her voice carrying the cultured tones of someone who had been educated in the finest schools and had centuries to perfect her diction, "what do you know of the Multiverse? And please, don't give me some textbook definition. I want to know what you understand about the nature of reality itself."
Harry's chest tightened at the memory, so sharp and fresh it might have happened yesterday instead of months ago. "Hermione explained it to me once. During... during the Horcrux hunt. When we had nothing but time and each other's theories to keep us sane in that bloody tent." He rubbed his forehead, where his scar had once resided. "She said there were infinite realities, infinite possibilities branching off from every choice made. Every time someone chooses tea instead of coffee, or turns left instead of right, reality splits. She used to joke that somewhere there was a universe where I'd been sorted into Slytherin and become best friends with Draco Malfoy."
"Miss Granger was, as usual, quite brilliant." Mother Magic's tone held genuine admiration, the sort of respect one scholar gives another. "That girl's mind was truly magnificent—analytical yet creative, logical yet capable of great leaps of intuition. What she couldn't have known, being mortal and limited by the constraints of linear time, is that some of those branches are more... stable than others. Your timeline, Mr. Potter, has become what we call a 'terminal branch.'"
"Terminal?" Harry leaned forward, his emerald eyes flashing with concern. "That sounds ominous. Are you telling me everyone I know is going to die?"
"Not die, precisely." Mother Magic waved one elegant hand dismissively. "More like... fade. Become incorporated into a more stable configuration. You see, recently—though 'recently' for a being like me spans decades in mortal time, rather like how a single day might feel to you—I was assigned a most remarkable soul." Her eyes grew distant, almost fond, like a mother remembering a particularly precocious child. "A woman named Natasha Romanoff."
The name meant nothing to Harry, and his confusion must have shown clearly on his face because Mother Magic chuckled—a sound like wind chimes in a gentle breeze.
"Of course you wouldn't know her," Mother Magic continued, settling more comfortably into her chair. "She came from an entirely different universe—one without magic as you understand it, but with its own forms of wonder and horror. Technology that defies comprehension, beings of immense power, heroes who could level city blocks with their bare hands. She was what they called a 'spy,' though that word hardly encompasses what she truly was."
She gestured, and the air between them shimmered like heat waves. Images began to form—hazy at first, then growing clearer. Harry saw a woman with striking red hair and eyes like winter steel, moving through shadows with lethal grace. She was beautiful, but it was the kind of beauty that warned of danger—like admiring a blade just before it cut you.
"A warrior," Mother Magic said softly, watching the images with obvious affection. "A protector. A woman who spent her entire life trying to wash red from her ledger, to prove that she was more than the weapon she'd been made into. And in the end, she chose to sacrifice herself for her friends to defeat a villain who would have destroyed half of all life in existence."
Harry felt his breath catch. The parallels were uncomfortably, intimately clear. "She died for them. For everyone."
"Indeed. And her sacrifice created what we call a 'resonance.'" Mother Magic's voice took on a more serious tone, like a professor explaining a particularly complex theorem. "An echo across realities that demanded... adjustment. You see, when someone makes a sacrifice of such magnitude—choosing death not for glory or revenge, but out of pure love—it sends ripples through the very fabric of existence. I rewrote her into your world as Ramonda Natalia Evans—though she much prefers simply 'Natalia.' She became your mother's twin sister, living a parallel life, making similar choices."
"My mother had a sister?" Harry's voice was barely a whisper, his emerald eyes wide with wonder and pain.
The images shifted, showing two young girls who looked nearly identical except for their coloring—one with brilliant red hair and eyes like spring leaves, the other with darker auburn hair and eyes like storm clouds. They were laughing together, arms linked, sharing secrets in the way only sisters could.
"In this new configuration, yes. And when Natalia made her own sacrifice—dying to protect her friends and help defeat a megalomaniac named Thanos—it created a divergence point so significant that your original timeline became unsustainable. It began to... unravel, like a tapestry with a crucial thread pulled loose."
The words hit Harry like physical blows, each one landing with devastating precision. "You're saying my entire world is falling apart because of some woman I've never met? That everyone I love, everything I fought for, is disappearing because of cosmic... what, accounting?"
"Not falling apart, child." Mother Magic's voice remained gentle but firm. "Transforming. Evolving into something new and more stable. Think of it as... renovation rather than demolition. The foundation remains the same, but the structure becomes stronger, more beautiful."
She leaned forward slightly, her expression intensely compassionate. "But yes, your original timeline—the one where you just died in my Forbidden Forest—that reality is dissolving even as we speak. I'm sorry, truly. I know how much those specific people meant to you."
Harry stared at her for a long moment, his jaw working as he tried to process the enormity of what she was telling him. When he spoke again, his voice was tight with barely controlled emotion.
"Everyone I know... everyone I love... Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Luna, Neville... they're all going to cease to exist?"
"They will exist in the new reality," she said gently, her tone carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "Different, perhaps. Their lives changed by the ripples Natalia's presence created. But still themselves, still alive, still fighting the good fight. Still capable of love and joy and all the things that made them precious to you."
"But not... not the same people. Not my people." Harry's hands clenched into fists on the arms of his chair. "Not the Hermione who punched Malfoy in third year, or the Ron who played chess like a master, or the Ginny who could hex someone into next week if they crossed her family."
"No," Mother Magic admitted with obvious regret. "Not exactly those people. Though I think you'll find the differences less significant than you fear. The core of who they are—their souls, their essential nature—that remains unchanged. A soul is a soul, regardless of the circumstances that shape its vessel."
Harry was quiet for a long moment, staring down at his hands as if they held the answers to questions he wasn't even sure how to ask. When he looked up again, his emerald eyes were bright with unshed tears but fierce with determination.
"You said you brought me here for a reason," he said, his voice steadier now. "You didn't just drag me into this cosmic waiting room to deliver bad news. What do you want from me?"
Mother Magic smiled then, and for the first time since he'd met her, it seemed entirely genuine—not the smile of a cosmic entity managing realities, but the smile of a woman who had found something that truly delighted her.
"I want to offer you a choice, Harry Potter. You've earned that much, I think. After everything you've endured, everything you've sacrificed, you deserve to decide your own fate."
She gestured with one graceful hand, and the air between them shimmered again. New images began to form—warmer this time, filled with golden light and laughter. Harry saw a comfortable house with a red door and ivy climbing the walls, warm light spilling from mullioned windows like honey from a jar. He saw a man and woman, both in their thirties, both bearing familiar features that made his heart ache with recognition.
The man was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair that caught the light and kind eyes that crinkled at the corners from years of laughter. The woman was elegantly beautiful, with soft brown hair and grey eyes that sparkled with intelligence and warmth. They were standing in a garden, the woman's hand resting on the man's arm as they watched something off-screen with expressions of pure parental pride.
"Charlus Potter and Dorea Potter née Black," Mother Magic said softly, her voice carrying the same tone one might use to introduce beloved friends. "Your new parents, should you choose to accept them. They lost their first child, Henry, to Dragon Pox when he was barely a year old—a tragedy that nearly destroyed them both."
The images shifted, showing the same couple in darker moments—the woman weeping silently while the man held her, both of them staring at an empty nursery with the sort of grief that carved permanent lines in a person's soul.
"Heartbroken and desperate to escape the memories that haunted every corner of their ancestral home, they fled to America when they discovered they were expecting again," Mother Magic continued. "They wanted to protect their second son from the darkness that was growing in Britain, from the whispers of war and the prejudice that had claimed too many of their friends."
The images shifted again, showing the couple boarding a ship, the woman's hand protectively over her rounded belly while the man's arm encircled her shoulders. There was hope in their faces, fragile but growing stronger with each mile they put between themselves and their grief.
"But now," Mother Magic said, her voice warming with obvious approval, "with their son approaching his eleventh birthday, they've returned to England. They want Hadrian Arcturus Potter to attend Hogwarts alongside his cousin James, to learn about his heritage, to understand what it means to be a Potter."
Harry's breath caught, his emerald eyes widening. "James would be my cousin? Not my father?"
"Indeed. Fleamont and Euphemia Potter—James's parents—are Charlus's brother and sister-in-law. You and James would be the same age, born mere months apart. James was born March 27th, 1960, while you would have been born July 31st, 1960."
More images flowed like water through sunlight: a boy who looked remarkably like Harry—but different somehow, more aristocratic in his features, taller and broader even at a young age—running through the halls of a grand house. He was chasing after another boy whose hair was just as wild and whose grin was achingly familiar, their laughter echoing off ancient walls lined with portraits that called encouragement and warnings in equal measure.
Harry watched these phantom children causing havoc at family gatherings, getting into trouble that would have made the Marauders proud, supporting each other through childhood scrapes and adventures with the sort of easy intimacy that spoke of unconditional love.
"You would grow up together," Mother Magic said, her voice soft with emotion. "You, James, and eventually Sirius Black and Remus Lupin. The Marauders could form naturally, organically, without the shadow of war hanging over your friendship. You could be children together first, before you had to become soldiers."
"And Lily?" Harry's voice was barely audible, thick with longing and hope and fear.
"Ah, yes. Lily Evans." The image shifted again, and Harry felt his breath catch in his throat.
There she was—red hair like flame, green eyes like spring grass, that brilliant smile that had launched a thousand daydreams. But she wasn't alone. Beside her stood another girl, nearly identical in build and bearing but with darker auburn hair and eyes like winter steel. Where Lily radiated warmth like a hearth fire, this other girl seemed to hold the promise of lightning—contained but crackling with barely leashed energy.
"She would have grown up with her twin sister Natalia," Mother Magic said, watching Harry's face carefully. "Their dynamic would be... fascinating, I think. Fire and ice, heart and mind, passion and pragmatism, working in perfect complement to each other. Lily was always fierce in your timeline, but imagine how much more formidable she would be with a sister who could match her step for step."
Harry stared at the images, his heart hammering against his ribs like a caged bird. "This Natalia... she would know, wouldn't she? About her past life, about what she did?"
"Gradually, yes." Mother Magic nodded solemnly. "Her memories would return as she matured, just as yours would remain intact should you choose this path. She would remember everything by the time she turned eleven—her sacrifice, her friends, the weight of the choices she made. You two would be the only ones who truly understood the burden of living with the memories of death and rebirth."
The images began to fade, but not before Harry caught one last glimpse: himself—but not himself, this new version with grey eyes and aristocratic features—standing beside the dark-haired girl. They were older in this image, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, and there was something in their shared expression that spoke of deep understanding, of two souls who had found kindred spirits in each other.
"The choice is yours, Harry Potter," Mother Magic said solemnly, her regal bearing returning as she settled back in her chair. "You can pass on to whatever lies beyond—rejoin those you've lost, find the peace you've earned through so much suffering. Sirius is there, and Remus, and your parents, and Dumbledore. They're all waiting for you, ready to welcome you home."
"Or?" Harry prompted, though he thought he already knew the answer.
"Or you can go back," she said simply. "Start over. Try to save more people this time, armed with the knowledge of everything that went wrong before."
"Not just save them," Harry said slowly, understanding beginning to dawn like sunrise after the longest night. "Live alongside them. Experience the childhood I was denied, the friendships that were complicated by war and secrets and the weight of prophecy."
"Precisely." Mother Magic's smile was radiant with approval. "You could be a normal boy who happens to be extraordinarily brave, rather than a symbol carrying the fate of the world on his shoulders from the moment he could walk."
Harry looked down at his hands again—still marked with scars from his battles, still trembling slightly from the echo of Killing Curses and Cruciatus Curses and all the other horrors he'd endured. Then he looked over toward the bench where that pitiful, broken thing that had once been Voldemort still whimpered in the shadows, reduced to something less than a ghost.
"What about him?" he asked quietly, nodding toward the pathetic remnant of Tom Riddle.
Mother Magic followed his gaze, her expression hardening into something that could have frozen the sun. "Tom Marvolo Riddle made his choices long ago, child. His soul is so fractured, so corrupted by his own actions, that there is no path back for him. He will remain here, in this liminal space, until even the memory of him fades from existence like morning mist."
"That seems..." Harry struggled for the word, his innate sense of justice warring with his desire for revenge. "Harsh. Cruel, maybe?"
"Merciful," Mother Magic corrected firmly, her voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "He destroyed himself pursuing immortality, tearing his soul apart piece by piece in his arrogance. This half-existence is all that remains—not punishment, but the natural consequence of his choices. In the new timeline, his actions will be... different. Still evil, still destructive, but not quite so thoroughly damaging to the fabric of reality itself."
Harry nodded slowly, accepting her judgment. Then he stood and began to pace, his mind racing through the implications like a Seeker chasing the Snitch. The movement felt good, helped him think, helped him process the magnitude of what she was offering.
A chance to save Sirius properly this time—to prevent him from falling through that bloody veil, to see him live to be the godfather he'd always wanted to be. To keep Remus from dying alone on a battlefield, to watch him find happiness with Tonks and raise their son in peace. To help James and Lily live full lives, raise their son, grow old together surrounded by grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
To prevent Hermione from ever needing to Obliviate her parents, to keep her from the trauma of watching friends die in a war she should never have had to fight. To save Fred Weasley, and Colin Creevey, and Lavender Brown, and so many others whose deaths had haunted him in the dark hours before dawn.
But it also meant giving up the people he'd known in their specific incarnations. His Hermione—brilliant and bossy and brave to the point of recklessness when it came to protecting the people she loved. His Ron—loyal and funny and braver than he ever gave himself credit for. His Ginny—fierce and independent and capable of hexing anyone who threatened her family into the next century.
They would exist in this new timeline, but they wouldn't be exactly the same people who had fought beside him, loved him, shaped him into who he was.
"If I choose this," he said finally, stopping his pacing to face Mother Magic directly, "would I be able to change things? Prevent the wars, save lives, maybe find a better way?"
"Within reason," Mother Magic replied carefully, her expression thoughtful. "The major events—Voldemort's rise, the first war, the prophecy that bound your fates together—these are what we call 'fixed points.' They must happen in some form or the timeline becomes unstable again, like a house built without proper foundation stones. But the details, the smaller tragedies, the personal losses... many of those could be prevented by someone with foreknowledge and the courage to act on it."
"And I'd be eleven again? Starting at Hogwarts with James and the others, but with all my memories intact?"
"Your eleventh birthday, July 31st, 1971. You'd wake up in your new body—and it would be rather different from your old one, I should mention. Proper nutrition and loving care do wonders for a child's development."
Mother Magic gestured, and an image appeared of a boy who was clearly Harry but... more. Taller, broader, with aristocratic features that spoke of generations of good breeding. Instead of wild black hair, this boy's hair was still unruly but had a certain elegance to it, and instead of emerald green eyes, his were the soft grey of storm clouds—beautiful and striking in a way that would make people stop and stare.
"The Potters are an old family," Mother Magic explained with obvious amusement at Harry's expression. "And the Blacks are known for their beauty. Combine that with proper nutrition from birth and the love of devoted parents, and... well, you'll find yourself rather more impressive physically than you were in your first life."
Harry stared at the image of his potential new self, hardly recognizing the aristocratic young man as having anything to do with the scrawny, underfed boy he'd been at eleven. This Hadrian Potter looked like he could have stepped out of a painting of noble wizards—all classical features and quiet confidence.
"Why me?" he asked suddenly, tearing his gaze away from the image. "Why offer this to me specifically? Surely there are other people who've made similar sacrifices, other heroes who've earned second chances."
Mother Magic's smile returned, soft and almost maternal, like a mother looking at a child who had finally asked the right question.
"Because, my dear child, you were already destined to become the Master of Death. Not through conquest or ambition, but through sacrifice, through choosing love over power, through facing death without fear and with your humanity intact." Her eyes sparkled with something that reminded Harry intensely of Dumbledore himself. "You've earned that title in the truest sense possible."
"But I don't have the Elder Wand," Harry protested, confusion clear in his voice. "Voldemort took it from Dumbledore's tomb, used it to try to kill me..."
"Ah, but did he truly possess it?" Mother Magic's eyes twinkled with mischief and wisdom in equal measure. "Think, child. Think carefully about the events atop the Astronomy Tower. Who disarmed Albus Dumbledore before Severus cast the killing curse?"
Harry's emerald eyes widened as understanding dawned like sunrise after the longest night. "Draco. Draco disarmed him before Snape... before the killing curse. But that would mean..."
"Indeed. And though Severus cast the killing curse, the wand recognized Draco Malfoy as its new master. The wand's allegiance had already changed hands before Albus died."
"And then at Malfoy Manor," Harry whispered, his voice filled with wonder and dawning comprehension, "when I took Draco's wand from him..."
"You became the Elder Wand's true master, yes. Combined with the Resurrection Stone you carried unknowingly for so long and the Invisibility Cloak you've possessed since your first Christmas at Hogwarts, you are indeed the Master of Death." Mother Magic's voice carried a note of profound respect. "That power transcends timelines, transcends realities. It's why I can offer you this choice—because you've already proven yourself worthy of it."
Harry sat back down heavily, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what she was telling him. The Master of Death. He'd always thought it was just a story, a legend from Beedle the Bard meant to teach children about the dangers of trying to cheat death.
"I could save them," he said quietly, his voice filled with tentative hope. "Not just defeat Voldemort, but actually save the people I love. Give them the lives they deserved to have."
"Many of them, yes. Though remember—they would be different people, shaped by different experiences. The James Potter who grows up as your cousin and best friend will not be identical to the father you never truly knew. The Lily Evans who has a warrior sister will face different challenges than the one who grew up as a lone magical child in a Muggle family."
"But they'd be alive."
"They'd be alive. And you'd have the chance to know them, truly know them, not just love the idealized memory of parents who died when you were a baby."
Harry closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the decision settling on his shoulders like a familiar cloak. It was strange—he'd carried the fate of the wizarding world for so long that making a choice just for himself felt almost foreign. When he opened his eyes again, his expression was resolute, filled with the quiet strength that had seen him through seven years of increasingly impossible challenges.
"There's just one thing I need to know," he said, his voice steady and determined. "This Natalia Evans—Natasha Romanoff—will she remember her sacrifice? Will she understand why I made mine?"
Mother Magic nodded solemnly, her expression grave with the weight of shared understanding. "She will. And I believe you two will find you have much in common. Two souls who chose to die for love, given a second chance to live for it instead."
Harry stood up slowly, straightening his shoulders in a gesture that had become unconscious over years of facing impossible odds. It was a movement that spoke of courage earned through trial by fire, of a young man who had learned to stand tall even when the world seemed determined to break him.
"Then I accept," he said firmly, his emerald eyes blazing with determination and hope. "I choose to go back. I choose to try again. I choose to live."
Mother Magic rose as well, her expression radiating pride and deep satisfaction. "I hoped you would say that, Harry Potter. I truly did."
She waved her hand with theatrical flair, and the world around them began to shift and blur like watercolors in the rain. Harry felt a strange pulling sensation, as if he were being drawn backward through time and space, through layers of reality and possibility.
"Remember," Mother Magic called out as her voice began to fade, becoming distant and echoing, "you cannot prevent every tragedy, cannot save every life. But you can change the shape of the story. Use your knowledge wisely, trust in love above all else, and perhaps this time, the ending will be kinder to all involved."
The last thing Harry saw was her knowing smile—regal and maternal and infinitely wise—and then everything dissolved into warm, welcoming darkness that felt like coming home after a very long journey.
---
When consciousness returned, it came slowly and sweetly, like surfacing from the deepest, most peaceful sleep of his life. Hadrian—and it was crucial he think of himself as Hadrian now, Hadrian Arcturus Potter, beloved son rather than unwanted burden—became aware of several things at once.
He was smaller, much smaller than he'd been when he died in the Forbidden Forest, lying in an unfamiliar but incredibly comfortable bed that seemed to have been made specifically for him. The mattress was perfect, the sheets were soft as silk against his skin, and the pillow cradled his head like a mother's embrace. Someone nearby was singing softly, a woman's voice gentle and melodious, humming what sounded like an old lullaby that spoke of love and protection and dreams coming true.
He opened his eyes—grey eyes now, he remembered, not the vivid emerald that had marked him in his previous life—to find himself staring at a ceiling he'd never seen before. It had been painted with moving constellations that sparkled and danced in the morning light, each star twinkling with its own inner fire. It was beautiful, magical in the way that spoke of parents who wanted their child to fall asleep every night looking at wonder.
The singing was coming from somewhere to his left, and Hadrian turned his head toward the sound, feeling his breath catch in his throat at what he saw.
A woman sat in a chair by the window, and she was quite possibly the most beautiful person he had ever seen—not in the flashy way of magazine covers, but in the way of classical portraits that captured grace and intelligence and deep, abiding love. Her soft brown hair caught the sunlight streaming through the windows, and her grey eyes—so like his own now—sparkled with warmth and gentle humor as she worked on some kind of elaborate needlepoint. She was humming under her breath, completely absorbed in her work, and there was something so peaceful about the scene that Hadrian felt his heart clench with an emotion he'd rarely experienced.
This was what safety looked like. This was what home felt like.
When she noticed him watching, her face lit up with a smile so full of love and joy that Hadrian felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes. It was the smile of a mother who had waited by the bedside for her son to wake up so she could be the first to wish him on his birthday. It was the smile of a mother who treasured every moment of his existence like the precious gift it was.
"Good morning, my darling boy," she said softly, setting aside her needlework with careful precision to come sit on the edge of his bed. Her voice carried the cultured tones of aristocracy, but warmed with genuine maternal affection. "And happy birthday, my beautiful son. How does it feel to be eleven years old?"
This was Dorea Potter née Black, his new mother, and despite everything—despite the strangeness of the situation, despite the enormity of what lay ahead—Hadrian found himself smiling back with genuine happiness.
"Different," he said honestly, his voice higher and younger than he was used to, but somehow right in a way that his old voice had never been. "But... wonderfully different. Like waking up from a bad dream into something perfect."
Dorea's laugh was like silver bells, musical and bright, and she reached out to run her fingers through his hair with the casual affection of someone who had been doing it for eleven years. "Well, that's perfect, my love, because today is going to be very different indeed. Your Hogwarts letter arrived this morning—delivered by a rather imperious owl who seemed quite offended that we made him wait for his treat—and your father is practically bouncing off the walls with excitement."
As if summoned by her words, the door burst open with tremendous enthusiasm, and a tall, distinguished man with kind eyes and dark hair shot through with silver strode in. His face was beaming with pride and joy so intense it could have powered the lights of London, and when he spoke, his voice boomed with the sort of happiness that came from years of dreaming of this exact moment.
"Hadrian! My boy! My brilliant, wonderful boy!" Charlus Potter's voice carried the refined accent of old wizarding families, but it was warmed through with genuine paternal love. "Happy birthday, son! Eleven years old and already showing signs of being twice as clever as your old man and three times as handsome!"
Being swept into this man's embrace—into his father's arms, his father who loved him and was proud of him and had spent eleven years waiting for this day—Hadrian felt something deep inside him finally begin to heal. The embrace was strong and warm and completely encompassing, the sort of hug that said 'you are safe, you are loved, you are home.'
For the first time in either of his lives, Harry Potter—no, Hadrian Arcturus Potter—was truly, completely home.
"Now then," Charlus said, pulling back just enough to look at his son's face, his hands still resting protectively on Hadrian's shoulders, "what do you say we get you dressed in your finest robes and head to Diagon Alley? We have a very important list to fulfill, and I believe a certain Mr. Ollivander has been waiting quite some time to meet you."
Dorea stood gracefully, smoothing down her morning dress with practiced elegance. "Indeed we do. Though I suspect James has been pouting because Fleamont won't let him go to Diagon Alley until you got your letter as well."
"James?" Hadrian asked, though of course he knew exactly who she meant.
"Your cousin, darling," Charlus explained with a grin that held more than a hint of mischief. "Fleamont and Euphemia's boy. Born just a few months before you, and quite convinced he's the most important Potter in the family. I suspect you two are going to get along famously—or drive each other completely mad. Possibly both."
As his parents began bustling around the room, gathering clothes and chattering about the day ahead, Hadrian lay back against his pillows and smiled.
He was home. He had parents who loved him, a cousin who would become his best friend, and a whole new life stretching ahead of him—one where he could use everything he'd learned to protect the people he loved while actually getting to enjoy being young.
The game, as Sherlock Holmes might have said, was afoot.
---
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