Looking at himself in the ornate silver mirror that dominated one wall of his bedroom, Hadrian barely recognized the boy staring back at him. Where Harry Potter at eleven had been small, malnourished, and bearing the physical marks of neglect—too-thin limbs, hollow cheeks, and clothes that hung off his frame like sacks—Hadrian Arcturus Potter was everything the other boy should have been allowed to become.
He was tall for his age, with the sort of aristocratic bearing that spoke of generations of good breeding and proper nutrition. His shoulders were already beginning to broaden with the promise of the man he would become, and his face held classical features that would have looked at home on a Renaissance statue. The wild black hair was still unruly—apparently that was simply a Potter trait that no amount of good living could tame—but it had a certain elegant disorder to it now, as if it had been styled by the wind itself.
But it was his eyes that were the most dramatic change. Gone were the vivid emerald that had marked him as Lily Evans' son; in their place were storm-grey eyes that seemed to hold depths of intelligence and quiet strength. They were Dorea's eyes, he realized—the eyes of House Black, beautiful and piercing and capable of seeing straight through to a person's soul.
"Well, well," he murmured to his reflection, adopting the sort of crooked grin that had gotten him into trouble in his previous life—though it looked considerably more devastating on these aristocratic features. "Look what proper nutrition and parental love can do. Who knew?"
*This is what I could have been,* he thought with a mixture of wonder and old grief. *If I'd been wanted. If I'd been loved.*
He flexed his hands experimentally, marveling at the strength he could feel in them. These weren't the hands of a boy who'd spent years doing manual labor as punishment, or who'd been forced to cook meals while standing on chairs because he was too small to reach the stove properly. These were the hands of someone who'd been taught to hold a wand from the moment he could grip anything, who'd been encouraged to explore magic rather than having it beaten out of him by fearful relatives.
The memories of this life settled around him like a comfortable cloak, eleven years of being cherished and protected and prepared for greatness not through neglect and prophecy, but through patient teaching and unconditional love. It was overwhelming in the best possible way—like discovering you'd been living in a cramped cupboard when you could have had a palace all along.
His parents weren't just loving—they were legends in their own right. Charlus Potter and Dorea Black had been among the most formidable war wizards of their generation during the Grindelwald conflicts, working alongside Dorea's brother Arcturus Black in a partnership that had nearly ended the war years before Dumbledore's famous duel.
Hadrian could remember—or rather, this version of him could remember—countless evenings listening to his father and godfather recount their campaigns over brandy and chocolate biscuits, their voices mixing pride with old frustration as they described how close they'd come to capturing Grindelwald himself before political maneuvering and Dumbledore's ambition had sidelined them.
*"The problem with Albus,"* Arcturus had said during one particularly memorable evening when Hadrian was nine, gesturing emphatically with a half-eaten biscuit, *"is that he's always been more concerned with his own legend than with actually winning wars efficiently. Could have ended the whole bloody mess two years earlier if he hadn't been so concerned about getting all the glory."*
*"Now, now, Arcturus,"* Dorea had chided gently, though her grey eyes had sparkled with amusement, *"we mustn't speak ill of the great Albus Dumbledore. After all, the history books say he single-handedly defeated the most dangerous dark wizard of the age."*
*"History books are written by the winners, my dear sister,"* Arcturus had replied with a snort of disgust. *"And Albus has always been very good at making sure he's remembered as the winner, regardless of who actually did the work."*
Charlus had just smiled indulgently at his brother-in-law and wife, ruffling young Hadrian's hair with obvious affection. *"Never let anyone tell you that political power is more important than the power to defend what you love, son. Your uncle Fleamont understands the games of the Wizengamot, and that's valuable—essential, even. But sometimes, the only thing that matters is being so dangerous that no one dares threaten your family in the first place."*
And they had prepared him accordingly. Where Harry Potter had stumbled into Occlumency through Snape's brutal and ineffective methods, Hadrian had learned the art from Dorea herself—a woman who had been trained in the most sophisticated mental defenses House Black could provide. Her teaching had been patient, gentle, and thorough, building his mental shields like a master architect constructing a fortress.
*"Your mind is your castle, darling,"* she had told him during one of their early lessons, her crisp British accent warm with maternal affection as they sat in her private study surrounded by books on mental magic. *"And like any castle worth defending, it must be beautiful as well as strong. Never let anyone make your defenses into something ugly or cruel—that way lies only madness and pain."*
She had been absolutely right, of course. His mental shields now were works of art as much as defense—soaring towers of crystalline thought connected by bridges of pure logic, all of it anchored by the unshakeable foundation of knowing he was loved unconditionally.
The dueling training had been even more intensive. Charlus, Dorea, and Arcturus had taken turns teaching him everything they knew—not just the flashy spellwork that won tournaments, but the dirty, practical magic that kept you alive in a real fight. They'd used legacy wands from the Potter vaults, ancient focuses that had been wielded by his ancestors through generations of conflict, each one carrying its own particular strengths and quirks.
*"There's no such thing as an honorable death, Hadrian,"* Charlus had told him during one particularly grueling training session when the boy was ten. *"There are only people who come home to their families and people who don't. Never forget that."*
*"Your father's right, darling,"* Dorea had added, demonstrating a particularly vicious curse-breaking technique with the sort of casual competence that reminded everyone why the Black family had maintained their power for centuries. *"In a real fight, the only rule is that there are no rules. Use whatever works, and worry about propriety after everyone you love is safe."*
By the time he was ten, Hadrian could have held his own against most adult wizards in single combat. By eleven, he was already showing the sort of instinctive understanding of magical theory that marked the truly gifted. It was a far cry from the boy who'd arrived at Hogwarts knowing nothing about the magical world except what Hagrid had told him over a birthday cake.
But as he sifted through these new memories, standing in front of his mirror and marveling at the changes, Hadrian became aware of something else—knowledge that seemed to sit oddly in his mind, like books written in a different hand shelved among familiar volumes. Advanced ritual work, both Light and Dark. Arithmantic equations that could predict magical resonances decades in advance. Ancient Runic sequences that could alter the fundamental properties of matter itself.
"What the bloody hell?" he muttered, pressing his fingers to his temples as a particularly complex ritual diagram flashed through his consciousness—something involving lunar alignments and sympathetic magic that definitely hadn't been covered in any of his lessons.
This wasn't knowledge that belonged to either Harry Potter or Hadrian Potter. This was...
*Tom's memories,* he realized with a mixture of revulsion and fascination. *The soul fragment left behind traces of what he knew.*
It made a certain twisted sense, in the way that most magical phenomena did once you stopped trying to apply Muggle logic to them. When the Horcrux had been destroyed, the magical knowledge contained within it had been absorbed into Hadrian's own consciousness—not Tom Riddle's personality or corruption, thank Merlin, but the raw information he had accumulated over decades of study. It was like inheriting a library from a previous owner whose books you found morally repugnant but intellectually fascinating.
"Well, that's not disturbing at all," he said to his reflection with characteristic sarcasm, though his grey eyes held a calculating gleam that would have been familiar to anyone who'd known Harry Potter. "Nothing like having a Dark Lord's memories rattling around in my head to make the day interesting."
The implications were staggering, though. He now had access to magical techniques and theories that wouldn't be rediscovered for decades, if at all. Dark magic that could save lives if used properly, Light magic that had been forgotten because it required too much personal sacrifice to be practical for most wizards. The sort of knowledge that could change the course of a war—or prevent one entirely.
*I could use this,* he thought, turning away from the mirror to begin getting dressed in the formal robes his mother had laid out for him with her usual impeccable taste. *Not to become like him, but to protect people more effectively than I ever could before. Tom Riddle's greatest weakness was that he never understood love or loyalty—but I do. I can take his knowledge and use it for everything he wasn't.*
The robes were magnificent, of course—deep midnight blue with silver threading that caught the light like captured starlight. Dorea Potter had exquisite taste, and she'd made sure her son would look the part of a Potter heir when he went to Diagon Alley. No hand-me-downs or ill-fitting castoffs for Hadrian Arcturus Potter.
A soft knock at his door interrupted his contemplation, followed by Dorea's melodious voice carrying that crisp, upper-class accent that could cut glass when she was displeased but sounded like honey and silk when she was happy.
"Hadrian, darling, your uncle and aunt have arrived with James. They're all quite eager to wish you a happy birthday and accompany us to Diagon Alley. Though I should warn you, your cousin appears to be practically vibrating with excitement. I fear he may actually explode if we don't leave soon."
Hadrian grinned at that—a real smile, not the polite expressions he'd worn as Harry Potter when dealing with adults who didn't understand him. James. His cousin, who in another timeline had been his father. They had corresponded by owl while Hadrian lived in America, developing the sort of friendship that could only exist between boys who understood that they were destined to be more than just family—they were going to be partners in whatever adventures awaited them.
James's letters had been everything Hadrian had hoped for and more: funny, intelligent, filled with the sort of mischievous plans that reminded him strongly of the Marauders he'd learned about in his previous life. The boy was clearly going to be trouble in the best possible way.
"Coming, Mother," he called back, straightening his robes with the automatic precision that eleven years of aristocratic upbringing had ingrained in him. "Tell James I'll be down in a moment, and try to stop him from bouncing off the walls. We can't have him injuring himself before we even get to Diagon Alley."
Dorea's laughter rang out from the hallway, warm and delighted. "Oh, darling, I'm afraid that's entirely your cousin's natural state. Fleamont swears the boy hasn't sat still for more than five minutes at a time since he learned to walk. You're going to have your hands full with that one."
"I'm looking forward to it," Hadrian replied honestly, and realized he meant it. For the first time in either of his lives, he was going to have a best friend who was also family—someone who would understand the weight of the Potter name without being awed by it, someone who would challenge him and support him and probably drive him completely mad on a regular basis.
As he reached for the door handle, Hadrian caught sight of himself one more time in the mirror—tall, confident, aristocratically handsome in a way that would probably cause problems at Hogwarts, and prepared for whatever lay ahead. This time, he wouldn't be the Boy Who Lived, stumbling through challenges with nothing but courage and luck to sustain him.
This time, he would be ready. He had the love of parents who'd raised him to be strong, the training of some of the finest wizards of their generation, and—however disturbingly—access to magical knowledge that could give him advantages his enemies would never see coming.
"Right then," he said to his reflection with the sort of confident smirk that was going to get him into trouble for years to come. "Let's go meet the family properly. Time to see what this new life has in store for us."
---
The moment Hadrian opened his bedroom door, he was nearly bowled over by a whirlwind of messy black hair, hazel eyes, and barely contained enthusiasm that could only be James Potter.
"HADRIAN!" James practically shouted, launching himself at his cousin with the sort of reckless abandon that suggested he'd been physically restraining himself for the past several minutes. At eleven, James was all sharp elbows and knees, with the kind of infectious energy that made everyone around him feel more alive. His hazel eyes sparkled with mischief and genuine affection, and his grin was so wide it threatened to split his face in half. "Finally! I was beginning to think you were going to spend your entire birthday getting ready like some kind of prat!"
"Good to see you too, James," Hadrian replied with a laugh, steadying himself against the doorframe as his cousin proceeded to examine him with the intensity of a Quidditch scout evaluating a potential Seeker. "And here I thought you'd grown some patience since we last corresponded. Clearly I was mistaken."
"Patience is for people who don't have anything interesting to do," James declared with a grin that was equal parts charming and absolutely mischievous. He bounced on the balls of his feet like a coiled spring ready to launch. "Besides, do you have any idea how long I've been waiting for this day? We're finally going to Hogwarts together! It's going to be brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! We're going to have adventures, and pranks, and—"
"Breathe, James," Hadrian interrupted with fond amusement. "You'll pass out if you keep talking without taking in oxygen."
"Breathing is overrated when there are important things to discuss," James replied without missing a beat. "Like the fact that you've grown! Merlin's beard, you're nearly as tall as I am now!" He stood on his tiptoes, trying to measure their relative heights. "That's not fair—I'm older!"
"By three months," Hadrian pointed out with a smirk that made his grey eyes dance with mischief.
"Three months and two weeks," James corrected seriously. "That's practically a lifetime in boy-years. I should definitely be taller." He stepped back to get a proper look at his cousin, his expression shifting to something more appreciative. "And what's with the fancy robes? Trying to show me up on my own turf?"
Hadrian glanced down at his midnight blue robes with their intricate silver threading that caught the light like captured starlight. "These are hardly fancy by Potter standards," he replied with mock offense, straightening his robes with exaggerated dignity. "Mother insisted I look 'presentable for such an important occasion.' I believe her exact words were that she wouldn't have any son of hers looking like he'd been raised by wolves."
"Wolves might have been more fun," James said with a theatrical sigh that would have done justice to any stage actor. "Do you know what my mother made me wear?" He gestured to his own robes with the sort of long-suffering expression typically reserved for great tragedies. His robes were admittedly quite fine—deep forest green with gold threading that brought out the warm flecks in his hazel eyes. "I look like I'm going to a Ministry gala, not shopping for school supplies. She actually made me practice walking 'with proper deportment' this morning. Me! Can you believe it?"
"The horror," Hadrian replied with completely false sympathy. "However did you survive such cruel and unusual punishment?"
"Barely," James said dramatically, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead like a swooning maiden. "I may never recover from the trauma of having to walk normally instead of at a proper run."
"You look like a Potter," came Dorea's amused voice from behind them, rich and warm with a hint of refined authority that could command attention in any room. Both boys turned to see her approaching with the sort of elegant grace that made it clear why Charlus Potter had been willing to defy half the Wizengamot to marry her.
She was stunning in the way that mature women could be—not the flashy beauty of youth, but something deeper and more commanding. Her dark hair was styled in soft waves that framed her face perfectly, and she wore robes of deep burgundy silk that complemented her storm-grey eyes beautifully. There was intelligence in those eyes, and warmth, and just a hint of the sort of steel that had made House Black one of the most powerful families in magical Britain for centuries.
"Aunt Dorea," James said, his entire demeanor shifting into something more respectful as he offered her a proper bow—though his eyes still sparkled with barely contained mischief. "You look absolutely lovely, as always. Thank you for letting us accompany you today. I promise I'll try not to break anything expensive."
"Oh, you charming boy," Dorea replied with obvious affection, reaching out to straighten James's collar with maternal efficiency. Her voice carried the sort of warmth that made it clear she adored both boys completely. "As if we could possibly leave you behind on such an important day. Besides, I have a feeling you and Hadrian are going to need each other at Hogwarts." She looked between them with knowing eyes. "Potter boys have a tendency to get themselves into the most remarkable sorts of trouble."
"Mother," Hadrian protested with mock horror, pressing a hand to his chest in wounded dignity, "are you suggesting that James and I might not be perfect angels at school? I'm deeply offended by the implication."
Dorea's laugh was like silver bells, bright and musical and completely delighted. "My darling boy, you are many wonderful things, but an angel has never been one of them. I've seen you practicing your dueling forms in the garden—you have entirely too much of your father in you for angelic behavior." She reached out to ruffle his perfectly arranged hair with maternal fondness. "Not to mention that little smirk you do when you think you're being clever. That's pure Black, that is."
"And entirely too much Black for common sense," added a new voice from down the hallway, warm with familiar affection and carrying the sort of aristocratic authority that commanded immediate attention.
Arcturus Black appeared around the corner with the sort of dramatic timing that suggested he'd been waiting for the perfect moment to make his entrance. He was an imposing figure even in his sixties—tall and elegant with silver-streaked dark hair that he wore swept back from his face, and the piercing grey eyes that marked him as Dorea's brother. His robes were impeccably cut and clearly expensive, but it was his bearing that truly commanded attention. This was a man who had faced down Dark wizards and emerged victorious, who had held political power for decades through sheer force of personality and strategic brilliance.
Behind him walked a vision of continental elegance—Melania Black was the sort of woman who could stop conversations simply by entering a room. Her dark hair was arranged in an intricate chignon that emphasized the classical beauty of her Italian heritage, and her midnight blue robes were cut in a style that was both sophisticated and subtly alluring. She moved with the fluid grace of someone who had been trained in deportment from birth, but there was warmth in her dark eyes as she looked at the gathered family.
"Uncle Arcturus!" Hadrian said with genuine warmth, moving forward to embrace his godfather with obvious affection. "I wasn't expecting to see you today. And Aunt Melania! You look absolutely radiant."
"Hadrian, *caro mio*," Melania said in her melodious voice, the slight Italian accent making everything sound like music. She embraced him with genuine maternal affection, her elegant hands gentle as she smoothed his hair back from his forehead. "You have grown so handsome, so tall. Soon you will be breaking hearts all through Hogwarts, I think."
"Did you really think I would miss my godson's first visit to Diagon Alley? Perish the thought," Arcturus added, returning Hadrian's embrace with the sort of paternal pride that made it clear why Dorea had chosen him as her son's godfather. His voice carried the refined accent of someone who had been educated at the finest schools and moved in the highest circles of society. "Besides, someone needs to make sure Fleamont doesn't bore you to tears with his political theories before you've even had your first Butterbeer of the day."
"I heard that, you impossible man," came another voice from downstairs—warmer, more jovial than Arcturus's aristocratic tones, but carrying its own brand of authority and intelligence. The voice held a hint of theatrical flair, as if the speaker were equally comfortable addressing the Wizengamot or performing Shakespeare.
"Mum, Dad!" James called out, practically bouncing on his toes with excitement. "Come see how tall Hadrian's gotten! I swear he's been drinking growing potions! It's completely unfair—I demand to know his secrets!"
"Perhaps he's simply been eating his vegetables," Melania suggested with a knowing smile, her dark eyes twinkling with amusement. "Unlike certain young men who prefer to survive entirely on Chocolate Frogs and Bertie Bott's beans."
"Those are perfectly nutritious!" James protested with wounded dignity. "Chocolate has... chocolate in it! That's practically a food group!"
The sound of footsteps on the stairs announced the arrival of Fleamont and Euphemia Potter, and Hadrian felt his breath catch slightly at the sight of them. Fleamont moved with the sort of fluid grace that spoke of excellent breeding and natural athleticism, his silver-touched hair catching the morning light. His face was aristocratic but warm, with laugh lines around his eyes that spoke of a man who found joy in life despite—or perhaps because of—his serious responsibilities. There was something almost theatrical about his presence, as if he were naturally inclined toward grand gestures and eloquent speeches.
Euphemia was elegant in the way that true ladies always were, with warm brown hair styled in soft waves and eyes that held depths of kindness and intelligence. She moved with careful grace, and when she smiled, her entire face lit up with genuine warmth. There was something almost ethereal about her beauty, as if she were a character stepped out of a romantic novel.
But they were alive, and happy, and looking at both boys with the sort of unconditional love that made Hadrian's chest tight with emotion he wasn't quite prepared for.
"Hadrian, my dear boy," Euphemia said softly, her voice carrying a musical quality that made even simple words sound like poetry. She reached out to cup his face in hands that were gentle but surprisingly strong, studying his features with the sort of maternal attention that catalogued every change since she'd last seen him. "Look at you. You're the very image of your father at that age, though I suspect you've got quite a bit more of your mother's sense about you."
"Not to mention her talent for getting into the sort of trouble that looks entirely innocent until someone ends up in the Hospital Wing," Fleamont added with a grin that was distinctly reminiscent of James at his most mischievous. His voice held the sort of warmth that made everyone feel included in the joke. "Happy birthday, nephew. Ready to follow in the family tradition of giving Hogwarts professors premature grey hair?"
"I'll do my best, Uncle," Hadrian replied with a matching grin that made his grey eyes sparkle with mischief. "Though I suspect James will be doing most of the heavy lifting in that department."
"Hey!" James protested, though his hazel eyes were practically dancing with amusement. He struck a pose of wounded innocence that fooled absolutely no one. "I'm a perfectly well-behaved student. Ask anyone who's not a professor, prefect, or authority figure of any kind!"
"Anyone except your tutors, you mean," Charlus said as he appeared at the top of the stairs, looking distinguished and handsome in deep blue robes that complemented his silver-touched dark hair perfectly. He moved with the sort of quiet confidence that came from being genuinely comfortable in his own skin, and his smile was warm enough to melt glaciers. "Good morning, brother. Euphemia, you look lovely as always—that shade of rose brings out your eyes beautifully."
"Flatterer," Euphemia replied with a pleased blush, though her smile was radiant.
"Arcturus," Charlus continued with a nod toward his brother-in-law, "try not to corrupt my son any further before we even get to Diagon Alley. I'd like him to at least pretend to be innocent for a few more hours."
"No promises," Arcturus replied with a completely unrepentant grin that made him look decades younger. "Corruption builds character. Besides, the boy's already got more sense than either of us did at his age."
"*Mio caro*," Melania said with fond exasperation, swatting her husband lightly on the arm, "you are terrible. Do not listen to him, Hadrian—he will have you believing that mischief is a virtue."
"Isn't it?" Hadrian asked with such wide-eyed innocence that everyone burst into laughter.
"That's not saying much about our sense at that age," Dorea observed dryly, moving to stand beside her husband with practiced ease. She slipped her hand through his arm with the sort of natural affection that spoke of a marriage built on genuine partnership. "If I recall correctly, you two once tried to hex a dragon because you thought it would be 'educational.'"
"It was educational!" Charlus protested with wounded dignity, his eyes sparkling with the memory. "We learned valuable lessons about magical creature behavior, the importance of proper planning, and the surprisingly rapid healing properties of burn salve."
"And that dragons have excellent reflexes and very little sense of humor," Arcturus added cheerfully, his aristocratic composure cracking to reveal the mischievous boy he'd once been. "Not to mention impressive lung capacity. Who knew they could roar that loudly?"
"And that Healers at St. Mungo's ask entirely too many questions about 'how exactly did you manage to singe your eyebrows off?'" Fleamont contributed with a theatrical shudder. "I've never been subjected to such intensive interrogation. You'd think we'd committed some sort of crime."
"Attempting to hex a dragon isn't a crime?" James asked with fascination. "That seems like an oversight in the law. We should write to the Ministry about it."
"James Potter," Euphemia said with fond exasperation, "do not get ideas. I absolutely forbid you from attempting to hex any dragons, regardless of their supposed educational value."
"What about smaller dragons?" James asked hopefully. "Baby dragons? Dragon eggs?"
"No dragons of any size, age, or state of development," Euphemia said firmly, though she was fighting a smile.
"You're no fun, Mum," James said with a theatrical sigh. "How am I supposed to build character without proper corruption and dragon-hexing?"
"I'm sure you'll find other ways," Dorea said dryly. "Potter men are remarkably creative when it comes to finding trouble."
Hadrian looked around at his family—at these people who loved him and teased each other and had been waiting eleven years for this moment—and felt something settle into place in his chest. This was what family was supposed to feel like. This was what he'd been missing his entire first life without even knowing it.
The easy banter, the way they all genuinely enjoyed each other's company, the way the adults treated both boys as people worth listening to rather than children to be managed—it was everything he'd dreamed of and more.
"Right then," he said, clapping his hands together with decision. "Shall we go get me a wand? I have a feeling it's going to be an interesting day."
"Oh, my darling boy," Dorea said with a smile that held more than a hint of knowing mischief, her grey eyes sparkling with the sort of anticipation that suggested she knew exactly what lay ahead, "I have a feeling 'interesting' doesn't begin to cover what lies ahead for you."
"Especially," Arcturus added with a grin that would have made his Slytherin ancestors proud, "if Ollivander is still as... eccentric as he was when we got our wands."
"Eccentric?" James perked up immediately. "What kind of eccentric? The fun kind or the 'we might end up cursed' kind?"
"With Ollivander," Charlus said thoughtfully, "it's often difficult to tell the difference."
---
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