The cheerful bell above Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour chimed with welcoming warmth as their enlarged group entered the establishment, and Hadrian felt an unexpected wave of nostalgia at the familiar sight of the cheerful shop with its gleaming counter and endless array of magical ice cream flavors. In his previous life, Florean Fortescue had been an elderly man who had helped him with his History of Magic homework during the summer before his third year—but now he appeared as a man in his prime, with kind eyes and the sort of genuine warmth that made his establishment a natural gathering place for families.
"Arcturus!" came a delighted feminine voice from near the entrance, and Hadrian turned to see his mother—Dorea Potter née Black—approaching with obvious joy at the unexpected family gathering. Her elegant features radiated the sort of refined beauty that seemed effortless rather than calculated, and there was something unmistakably maternal about her presence that made everyone around her feel welcomed and cherished.
Behind her came Euphemia Potter, whose warm brown eyes and gentle features immediately explained where James had inherited his natural charisma and easy confidence. She moved with the sort of graceful authority that suggested years of managing complex social situations with diplomatic skill.
Following them were Melania Black—Arcturus's wife, whose aristocratic bearing was softened by genuine warmth—and the other family matriarchs who had clearly been coordinating their shopping expedition with military precision.
"Dorea!" Arcturus exclaimed with obvious delight, rising from his chair to embrace his sister with the sort of genuine affection that spoke of lifelong closeness, "Perfect timing. We've just concluded the most extraordinary wand selection in Ollivander's recorded history."
"So McGonagall told us," Dorea replied with maternal pride, her eyes immediately seeking out Hadrian with the sort of protective love that made him feel simultaneously grateful and slightly overwhelmed, "a custom wand with thestral hair core and runic stabilization—Minerva was practically vibrating with excitement about the theoretical implications."
Professor McGonagall herself appeared at that moment, her normally stern features softened by what could only be described as godmotherly satisfaction, though she maintained her characteristic air of professional authority.
"The wandlore involved was absolutely fascinating," she said with scholarly enthusiasm, "Mr. Ollivander believes it may represent a breakthrough in understanding powerful magical signatures and their requirements for proper channeling."
"And speaking of fascinating developments," Euphemia added with maternal warmth, her eyes twinkling as she watched James, Sirius, and Hadrian continuing their animated discussion about Quidditch strategy, "it appears that certain friendships are forming exactly as predicted."
As the adults settled themselves at a large table near the window, the children naturally gravitated toward their own space, though the seating arrangement revealed interesting social dynamics that hadn't been apparent in the formal atmosphere of Ollivander's shop.
James immediately claimed a central position with the sort of natural authority that made people automatically defer to his leadership, while Sirius settled beside him with obvious satisfaction at having found someone who could match his intellectual enthusiasm and strategic thinking.
"Right," James declared with passionate conviction, his hazel eyes bright with righteous indignation, "can either of you explain the complete unfairness of First-Years being prohibited from bringing broomsticks to Hogwarts? It's educational discrimination of the worst sort!"
"Absolutely barbaric," Sirius agreed with theatrical outrage, his storm-grey eyes flashing with the sort of rebellious energy that suggested he was already planning ways to circumvent this particular restriction, "How are we supposed to develop proper flying techniques if we're limited to whatever ancient school brooms they provide?"
"The policy is supposedly for safety reasons," Hadrian replied with diplomatic neutrality, though privately he remembered his own frustration with this particular rule during his first year, "to prevent first-year students from injuring themselves with equipment they might not be ready to handle responsibly."
"Safety reasons," James repeated with wounded dignity, "as if any of us haven't been flying since we could walk. I've been on a broomstick since I was three years old!"
"Four years old for me," Sirius added with competitive pride, "and I've never had a single serious accident that wasn't the direct result of experimental flying techniques designed to advance the theoretical understanding of aerial maneuvers."
"Experimental flying techniques," Hadrian repeated with amusement, "is that what we're calling nearly crashing into the Black family manor?"
"That wasn't a crash," Sirius protested with wounded dignity, "it was an unscheduled landing resulting from insufficient data about wind resistance variables at high altitude."
Meanwhile, at the other end of their table, a completely different drama was unfolding. Bellatrix—who was normally the most verbally explosive and enthusiastic member of any group—sat quietly with her dark eyes fixed on Hadrian with the sort of awed fascination that suggested she was struggling with unprecedented shyness.
"Bella," Narcissa said with sisterly amusement, her voice pitched just low enough to avoid attracting adult attention, "you haven't said a word since we sat down. Are you feeling quite all right?"
"I'm perfectly fine," Bellatrix replied with defensive dignity, though her cheeks had developed a distinct pink tinge that suggested she was anything but comfortable, "I'm simply... observing social dynamics and waiting for an appropriate conversational opening."
"Observing social dynamics," Andromeda repeated with gentle teasing, her warm brown eyes dancing with sisterly mischief, "is that what we're calling staring at Hadrian Potter with the sort of dreamy expression usually reserved for romantic heroines in Gothic novels?"
"I am not staring!" Bellatrix protested with explosive indignation, though her voice cracked slightly on the last word, "I am conducting careful social analysis of... of... magical compatibility indicators!"
"Magical compatibility indicators," Narcissa said with delighted recognition, "oh Bella, you have a crush! How absolutely precious!"
"I do not have a crush!" Bellatrix declared with passionate conviction, though her increasingly red cheeks rather undermined the credibility of her denial, "I simply find his magical signature fascinating from a purely academic perspective! There's nothing romantic about intellectual curiosity!"
"Of course not," Andromeda agreed with sisterly gentleness, though her eyes continued to twinkle with amusement, "purely academic fascination that happens to involve extensive visual attention and unprecedented shyness."
"I am never shy!" Bellatrix protested, "I am simply... strategically planning my conversational approach!"
While this sisterly drama unfolded, Hadrian found his attention caught by a familiar face sitting alone at the counter. Even at eleven years old, there was something unmistakably recognizable about the girl's gentle features and the sort of quiet strength that seemed to radiate from her posture. His memories from his previous life were fragmentary—he had only met her briefly at St. Mungo's during that horrible visit in his fifth year—but he was absolutely certain this was the girl who would grow up to become Neville Longbottom's mother.
"Excuse me, Mr. Fortescue," Hadrian called out politely, rising from his chair and approaching the counter with respectful curiosity, "could you tell me who that young lady is? She looks about our age, and I was wondering if she might be starting Hogwarts this year as well."
Florean Fortescue's face immediately brightened with familial pride, his kind features lighting up with obvious affection, "That's my niece, Alice Fortescue! Lovely girl, absolutely brilliant with Herbology and Charms work. And yes, she'll be starting at Hogwarts this September—first year, just like your group."
"Alice Fortescue," Hadrian repeated with genuine interest, filing away the surname difference while making a mental note to observe how she would eventually become Alice Longbottom, "would you mind if we invited her to join our table? It seems silly for a future Hogwarts student to sit alone when there's a whole group of first-years right here."
"Oh, that's wonderfully thoughtful of you!" Fortescue exclaimed with obvious delight, "Alice has been rather nervous about starting school without knowing any other students. Alice, dear!" he called out with paternal warmth, "these young people are all starting Hogwarts with you, and they'd like you to join their table!"
Alice looked up with surprise and something that might have been relief, her gentle features showing cautious hope. Even at eleven, there was something inherently trustworthy about her demeanor—the sort of person who would naturally become everyone's confidante and emotional support.
"Are you certain?" she asked with polite uncertainty, her voice carrying the sort of careful courtesy that suggested excellent upbringing, "I wouldn't want to intrude on an established group."
"Absolutely not an intrusion!" James declared with immediate authority, rising from his chair with natural leadership instincts, "We're all first-years together—we should stick together! James Potter, by the way."
"Sirius Black," Sirius added with characteristic charm, offering his most winning smile, "and we were just discussing the tragic unfairness of first-year broomstick restrictions. Do you fly?"
"A little," Alice replied with modest honesty, gathering her things with grateful efficiency, "though I'm much better with plants than with athletic equipment."
"Plants are brilliant!" Bellatrix suddenly exclaimed with explosive enthusiasm, her previous shyness apparently forgotten in the face of finding someone with interesting academic passions, "Are you planning to focus on Herbology? Because the theoretical applications of magical botany are absolutely fascinating, especially when you consider the intersection with Potions work and magical creature care!"
Alice blinked with surprise at this verbal explosion but smiled with genuine warmth, "I do love Herbology. My grandmother has extensive magical gardens, and I've been helping her with cultivation and care since I was very small."
"That's wonderful!" Andromeda said with immediate interest, "I've been reading about the relationship between magical plants and magical healing—are you familiar with the theoretical frameworks for botanical medicine?"
As Alice settled into their group with obvious relief at being welcomed, Hadrian found himself observing the social dynamics with fascination. Even at eleven years old, Alice possessed the sort of natural empathy and gentle strength that made people automatically trust her—qualities that would later make her an exceptional Auror and a devoted mother to Neville.
"So," Narcissa said with elegant curiosity, "Alice, what other subjects are you most excited about studying? Beyond Herbology, I mean."
"Defense Against the Dark Arts," Alice replied with surprising firmness, her gentle features showing unexpected steel, "I think it's important to be able to protect yourself and the people you care about."
"Excellent attitude," Sirius said with obvious approval, "though I suspect the real education in Defense will come from practical experience rather than classroom theory."
"What makes you think that?" Alice asked with intelligent curiosity.
"Family discussions," Sirius replied with meaningful gravity, "there are... concerning developments in the magical world that suggest we'll need to be prepared for more than academic challenges."
Hadrian felt a chill of recognition at Sirius's words, remembering that even at eleven years old, the Black family would have been aware of Tom Riddle's growing influence and the political tensions that would eventually explode into open warfare.
"Concerning developments?" Alice repeated with the sort of careful attention that suggested she understood the significance of political undertones.
"Nothing that should worry us right now," James said with diplomatic authority, clearly recognizing that this wasn't an appropriate topic for their first social gathering, "we're eleven years old and about to start the greatest magical education in the world. That's what we should be focusing on."
"Absolutely right," Hadrian agreed with relief at James's mature perspective, "we'll have plenty of time to worry about complex political issues later. Right now, we should be excited about learning magic and making friends."
"Speaking of making friends," Bellatrix said with renewed courage, her dark eyes bright with the sort of passionate intensity that characterized all her interests, "Hadrian, I wanted to ask you about your wand selection experience. The magical resonance was absolutely extraordinary—I've never felt anything like it."
Hadrian looked at her with genuine curiosity, recognizing that her fascination seemed to go beyond simple academic interest or even the crush her sisters had been teasing her about.
"What exactly did you sense?" he asked with careful attention, "I'd be very interested in your perspective."
"It was like..." Bellatrix paused, searching for words to describe something clearly profound, "like standing near a powerful magical storm, but instead of feeling threatening, it felt... familiar. Ancient and powerful, but somehow comforting rather than frightening."
Alice looked between them with growing fascination, "You can sense magical signatures that distinctly? That's quite unusual for our age."
"It runs in the Black family," Andromeda explained with gentle pride, "we tend to be naturally sensitive to magical auras and energy patterns."
"What about you, Alice?" Hadrian asked with genuine curiosity, "can you sense magical signatures?"
Alice considered the question with careful thought before nodding slowly, "Sometimes. Not as clearly as Bellatrix seems to, but there are definitely... impressions I get from different people."
"What impression do you get from me?" Hadrian asked with interest.
Alice studied him with gentle attention before smiling with obvious warmth, "Safety," she said simply, "like someone I could trust completely, even in dangerous situations."
The table fell silent for a moment at this unexpectedly profound statement, and Hadrian felt a complex mix of emotions at being recognized—even at eleven years old—as someone trustworthy and protective.
"That's... actually quite accurate," James said with impressed recognition, "I've only known him for a few hours, but there's definitely something about Hadrian that makes you want to trust his judgment."
"Agreed," Sirius added with uncharacteristic seriousness, "it's like he has more experience than the rest of us, even though we're all the same age."
Hadrian felt a moment of panic at this perceptive observation, but before he could formulate a response, their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of their ice cream orders—an elaborate collection of magical flavors that provided the perfect distraction from potentially dangerous insights into his unusual maturity.
As they dug into their various selections—James had chosen something called "Quidditch Champion Surprise" that occasionally sparkled with golden light, while Bellatrix had opted for "Midnight Mystery" that shifted colors as she ate it—Hadrian found himself genuinely enjoying the simple pleasure of sharing ice cream with friends who had no idea of the darkness that would eventually touch all their lives.
*This is what childhood should be like,* he thought with deep satisfaction, *magical ice cream, new friendships, excitement about starting school, and no knowledge of the wars and losses that lie ahead.*
But as he watched Alice laugh at one of Sirius's jokes and saw the way Bellatrix's eyes continued to return to him with that disconcerting mix of fascination and recognition, he couldn't shake the feeling that some aspects of fate might be harder to change than others.
The afternoon sun streamed through Fortescue's windows, painting their table in golden light that seemed to promise endless possibilities and adventures ahead. For now, that was enough.
—
Just as James was attempting to sneak a spoonful of Sirius's color-shifting "Midnight Mystery" ice cream under the guise of "academic sampling"—his hazel eyes dancing with mischief as he tried to look scholarly while clearly stealing dessert—the bell above Fortescue's chimed again with a bright, musical chime that somehow commanded attention without being demanding.
"Oi!" Sirius protested with wounded dignity, clutching his bowl protectively against his chest like a treasure, "That's not academic sampling, that's daylight robbery! If you want to study my ice cream, you need to submit a formal research proposal!"
"I was conducting a comparative flavor analysis," James replied with mock seriousness, though his grin rather undermined his scholarly pretensions, "for the advancement of magical dessert science."
"Magical dessert science isn't a real field of study," Narcissa observed with crystalline precision, her platinum hair catching the afternoon light as she spoke with the sort of superior tone that suggested she found their entire interaction mildly entertaining but intellectually beneath her.
"It should be," Bellatrix declared with passionate conviction, her dark eyes sparkling with sudden enthusiasm, "Think of all the theoretical applications! Flavor transmutation, texture modification, temperature regulation through magical means—"
"Bella," Andromeda interrupted with gentle amusement, her elegant features showing fond exasperation, "you're getting that look again. The one that usually precedes detailed lectures about subjects nobody else has considered."
"What look?" Bellatrix asked with defensive innocence.
"The look that says you're about to revolutionize ice cream through pure force of intellectual passion," Alice supplied with warm humor, having quickly learned to recognize her new friend's characteristic expressions.
"There's nothing wrong with intellectual passion!" Bellatrix protested, though her cheeks had developed a slight pink tinge.
"May I have everyone's attention, please?" Charlus Potter's voice cut through their playful argument with the sort of smooth authority that could command armies or soothe crying children with equal effectiveness. He stood with the easy grace that people automatically associated with heroes in storybooks—tall, broad-shouldered, and radiating the kind of calm strength that made others feel safe simply by being in his presence.
His presence filled the space around him like a warm, reassuring blanket, and there was something undeniably heroic about his bearing that suggested he had faced genuine danger and emerged not just victorious, but fundamentally unchanged in his essential goodness. When he smiled, it was with the sort of genuine warmth that reached his eyes and made everyone around him feel valued and important.
Beside him, Dorea Potter embodied elegance so naturally it seemed effortless rather than studied. Her emerald robes brought out the starlight quality in her dark eyes, and there was something unmistakably maternal about her presence that suggested she could handle any crisis with unflappable grace while still maintaining her essential warmth and compassion.
"Today has been about Hogwarts preparations," Charlus continued with paternal warmth, placing one hand lightly on Hadrian's shoulder with obvious pride and affection, "but let's not forget the other reason we're all gathered here together."
Hadrian blinked with genuine surprise, his grey eyes widening as he realized he had become so caught up in the excitement of wand shopping and making new friends that he had completely forgotten about the calendar.
"In all the excitement about wands and ice cream and new friendships," Dorea said with a radiant smile that could have lit the entire parlour, her voice carrying the sort of delighted warmth that suggested she had been looking forward to this moment all day, "we seem to have overlooked a rather important celebration."
"What celebration?" James asked with immediate curiosity, his natural leadership instincts making him alert to any social occasion that might require his attention.
"Today," Dorea announced with maternal pride that seemed to radiate from her very being, "is Hadrian's eleventh birthday."
The parlour exploded into spontaneous applause and enthusiastic cheers. Sirius let out what could only be described as a genuinely wolfish howl of celebration—the sort of sound that suggested he approached even birthday acknowledgments with dramatic flair—before being promptly elbowed by Regulus, who muttered with characteristic dry precision, "You do realize you're not actually a dog, right?"
"How do you know?" Sirius replied with wounded dignity, his storm-grey eyes flashing with rebellious humor, "Maybe I'm a secret Animagus who just hasn't figured out the transformation yet."
"Because," Regulus said with the sort of patient logic that suggested he had extensive experience managing his older brother's more creative theories, "Animagi don't work that way, and you've been making wolf noises since you were seven years old."
"Practice makes perfect," Sirius declared with unrepentant satisfaction.
"You're completely mad," Narcissa observed with elegant amusement, though her tone suggested she found his madness rather entertaining.
"Madness is just creativity that hasn't found its proper outlet," Sirius replied with philosophical gravity that seemed oddly profound coming from an eleven-year-old.
Mr. Fortescue emerged dramatically from the back of his shop at that moment, levitating an absolutely magnificent three-tiered cake that seemed to defy several laws of physics and possibly good taste. The entire creation was covered in crimson frosting decorated with gold rune-work that glowed with gentle magical light, while miniature chocolate hippogriffs flew in precise circles around the top tier, occasionally diving through the frosting only to emerge perfectly clean and continue their aerial display.
"Courtesy of the house," Florean announced with obvious pride, offering an elaborate bow that would have done credit to a theatrical performer, "Wouldn't dream of letting a Potter birthday pass without a proper magical celebration."
"That's absolutely magnificent!" Alice exclaimed with genuine wonder, her gentle features lighting up with the sort of awe that suggested she had never seen anything quite so elaborate, "The hippogriffs are actually flying!"
"Standard birthday magic," Fortescue replied with modest satisfaction, "though I did add a few personal touches. The runes are programmed to play 'Happy Birthday' in harmony when the candles are blown out."
"Make a wish!" Sirius commanded with the sort of dramatic authority that suggested he considered himself personally responsible for ensuring proper birthday protocol was followed, "And make it a good one—birthday wishes on magically enhanced cakes have a higher success rate!"
"And if it's about world peace or ending hunger or something similarly noble and boring," James warned with theatrical seriousness, "I'll personally hex you into next Tuesday. Birthday wishes should be about pranks, Quidditch victories, or getting out of homework assignments."
"That's a terrible attitude toward humanitarian concerns," Alice protested with gentle firmness, though her eyes showed amusement at his obviously exaggerated stance.
"Birthday wishes are personal," James replied with dignity, "they should be about things that will make you specifically happy, not about fixing the entire world."
"What if fixing the world would make him happy?" Bellatrix asked with passionate curiosity, her intellectual instincts clearly engaged by the philosophical implications.
"Then he's a better person than the rest of us," Sirius declared with cheerful acceptance, "and we should probably follow his example after we finish being eleven."
Hadrian found himself laughing—a genuine, startled sound of pure joy that seemed to surprise him as much as anyone else. The warmth of candles flickered across his face as he closed his eyes, feeling the weight of generations of magical families watching him with fond attention and genuine affection.
*Let this moment last,* he wished desperately, *let these friendships survive whatever's coming. Let them all stay exactly as they are right now—bright and hopeful and untouched by darkness.*
He blew out the candles with careful deliberation, and the runic inscriptions immediately burst into harmonious song while the chocolate hippogriffs performed an elaborate aerial ballet that drew applause from the entire gathering.
As slices of the magnificent cake were distributed with ceremonial precision and a growing pile of wrapped presents began accumulating beside Hadrian's chair—including a rather large and ominously rattling box from Sirius that bore a tag reading "USE OUTDOORS ONLY, PREFERABLY ON UNSUSPECTING SLYTHERINS OR PEOPLE WHO DESERVE IT"—Dorea tapped her crystal glass gently with a silver spoon to reclaim everyone's attention.
"Before we get too carried away with presents and sugar consumption," she said with maternal authority tempered by obvious excitement, her eyes twinkling with barely contained delight, "there's one more surprise we wanted to share."
"More surprises?" Hadrian asked with genuine amazement, "I think I've reached my capacity for surprises today."
"Nonsense," Charlus replied with paternal confidence and the sort of commanding presence that suggested he had considerable experience managing complex family celebrations, "you can never have too many surprises on your birthday. Well, you can, but we're nowhere near that limit yet."
"This particular surprise," he continued with growing enthusiasm, "comes from your mother and me, with considerable input and financial contribution from the entire extended family—Potters, Blacks, and all the other delightfully dramatic relatives who wanted to ensure you have everything you need for success at Hogwarts."
"Hey!" Sirius protested with wounded dignity, "We are delightfully refined and sophisticated, thank you very much. We just express our refinement through creative channels."
"You tackled a pigeon this morning because you thought it was giving you disrespectful looks," Regulus pointed out with the sort of calm precision that suggested he found his older brother's behavior predictably entertaining.
"That bird had aggressive intentions," Sirius replied with passionate conviction, "I could see it in its beady little eyes. It was planning something, and I took preemptive action to protect innocent bystanders."
"It was eating bread crumbs," Regulus continued with relentless logic.
"Menacingly," Sirius added with dignified insistence.
"You can't eat bread crumbs menacingly," Narcissa observed with elegant skepticism.
"You can if you're a pigeon with attitude problems," Sirius maintained with unshakeable confidence.
"Anyway," Charlus interrupted with fond amusement at the family dynamics he was observing, "we thought it was important that Hadrian have something truly special as he prepares to begin his education at Hogwarts. Not just any school, mind you, but the greatest magical institution in the world—a place where you learn not just magic and academics, but how to discover who you really are."
"And if you're exceptionally fortunate," Dorea added with maternal wisdom, her voice carrying the sort of deep understanding that came from years of observing magical development, "you might even find a companion who chooses you as much as you choose them."
She gestured gracefully toward the window with obvious satisfaction, "Which is why, across the street at the Magical Menagerie, you'll be selecting a familiar to accompany you through your magical education."
The table erupted into a chorus of excited exclamations and jealous protests.
"No fair!" Sirius wailed with theatrical despair, throwing himself back in his chair with dramatic flair, "I got stuck with a three-hundred-year-old owl who actively hates sunlight, loud noises, and my face specifically!"
"At least your owl has both eyes," James muttered with resigned acceptance, "Mine is part barn owl, part harbinger of apocalypse, and entirely convinced that I'm personally responsible for all the world's problems."
"What's wrong with having a slightly eccentric owl?" Alice asked with gentle curiosity.
"Nothing, if you enjoy being woken up at three in the morning by accusatory hooting," James replied with bitter experience, "or having your mail delivered with obvious disapproval and occasional attempts at violent correction of your grammar."
"Your owl corrects your grammar?" Bellatrix asked with fascinated delight, "That's actually quite impressive!"
"It's terrifying," James corrected, "there's nothing more demoralizing than being lectured about proper sentence structure by a bird with anger management issues."
"Why do you get a familiar?" Regulus asked with the sort of direct curiosity that suggested he was genuinely interested in the theoretical framework behind gift-giving protocols, his ethereal features showing intelligent analysis of the situation.
"Because it's my birthday?" Hadrian replied with logical simplicity.
"Valid reasoning," Regulus conceded with dignified acceptance, "though I reserve the right to petition for similar consideration when my birthday arrives."
"Your birthday isn't for three months," Sirius pointed out with mathematical precision.
"I believe in advance planning," Regulus replied with characteristic thoroughness.
Meanwhile, Bellatrix—who had been listening to this exchange with growing excitement—suddenly leaned closer to Alice with the sort of conspiratorial intensity that suggested she had been struck by inspiration.
"Alice," she said with passionate enthusiasm, her dark eyes sparkling with intellectual curiosity, "what kind of creatures do you think would make the best familiars for different magical specializations? I mean, if someone wanted to focus on Herbology, would they want something that could help with plant care, or something that complemented their abilities in other ways?"
Alice considered the question with the sort of thoughtful attention that suggested she found theoretical discussions genuinely engaging, "I think it would depend on the individual," she replied with gentle wisdom, "Some people might want a familiar that shares their interests, while others might prefer one that helps them develop skills they lack."
"That's fascinating!" Bellatrix exclaimed with explosive enthusiasm, "So it's not just about magical compatibility, it's about personal growth and educational development!"
Watching this interaction, Hadrian felt that familiar twist of complex emotions—here was Bellatrix, bright and passionate and genuinely interested in helping others develop their magical abilities, forming what appeared to be a genuine friendship with Alice Fortescue. In another timeline, this same Bellatrix would be personally responsible for torturing Alice into permanent insanity.
*How does this happen?* he wondered desperately, *What transforms someone so full of intellectual curiosity and genuine care for others into someone capable of such cruelty?*
"Ready to choose a magical companion, oh Future Master of Arcane Arts?" James asked with theatrical grandeur, though his grin suggested he was mostly teasing.
"We're definitely not calling me that," Hadrian replied with firm dignity.
"You're extremely lucky," Andromeda observed with elegant envy as they began to move toward the door, her refined posture carrying natural grace, "Most of us had our familiars chosen for us by well-meaning relatives who think naming a cat 'Lucifer' represents the height of sophisticated humor."
"It is sophisticated," Narcissa replied with cool precision, smoothing her platinum hair with practiced elegance, "Classical references demonstrate cultural literacy."
"Classical references to fallen angels are not appropriate names for house cats," Andromeda countered with gentle firmness.
"Says who?" Bellatrix demanded with passionate conviction, "If your cat has a dramatic personality, it deserves a dramatic name that reflects its essential character!"
"Our cat sleeps eighteen hours a day and is afraid of butterflies," Andromeda pointed out with logical accuracy.
"Exactly!" Bellatrix declared with triumphant satisfaction, "A fallen angel who has embraced domestic tranquility! It's poetic!"
"Girls," Druella interrupted with maternal authority, her refined voice carrying just enough warning to prevent further escalation, "perhaps we could continue this philosophical discussion after we've helped Hadrian select his familiar?"
Her elegant features showed the sort of diplomatic patience that came from years of managing passionate daughters with strong opinions about everything from pet names to magical theory.
Across the street, the Magical Menagerie beckoned like something out of a fairy tale—its windows filled with enchanted glass enclosures containing creatures that seemed to embody every possible combination of beauty, danger, and magical wonder. Glittering scales caught the afternoon light, iridescent feathers shifted through impossible colors, and eyes of every conceivable hue watched the approaching children with expressions that ranged from curious interest to predatory calculation.
Orion Black stood near the entrance in conversation with Florean Fortescue, his presence commanding immediate respect through sheer force of understated authority. Every aspect of his bearing suggested natural leadership and considerable worldly experience, from his perfectly tailored robes to his strategic positioning that allowed him to monitor multiple conversations simultaneously.
"The selection process should be entirely natural," he was saying with characteristic precision, his dark eyes bright with analytical intelligence, "Familiar bonds cannot be forced or artificially created—they must develop organically through mutual recognition and compatibility."
Beside him, Walburga maintained her characteristic expression of aristocratic disapproval, as if she found the entire concept of children selecting their own magical companions personally offensive to her refined sensibilities.
"I still maintain that allowing children to choose their own familiars is an invitation to chaos," she declared with crystalline precision, "Proper familiar selection requires careful analysis of magical compatibility, personality assessment, and consideration of long-term educational goals."
"Mother," Sirius called out with cheerful irreverence, "we're eleven years old, not establishing international trade agreements. I think we can handle picking out a magical pet without requiring committee oversight."
"Your track record with decision-making suggests otherwise," Walburga replied with the sort of cutting precision that could slice through steel, "particularly regarding creatures that might pose threats to family property or personal safety."
"That incident with the Cornish Pixies was completely unforeseeable," Sirius protested with wounded dignity.
"You brought them to a formal dinner party," she pointed out with ruthless accuracy.
"For entertainment purposes!" he explained with passionate conviction, "How was I supposed to know they would interpret 'formal dining' as 'opportunity for aerial food fights'?"
"Common sense?" Regulus suggested with gentle sarcasm.
"Common sense is overrated," Sirius declared with philosophical conviction, "True innovation requires the willingness to challenge conventional assumptions about appropriate behavior."
"Don't touch anything without protective gloves," Walburga commanded as they approached the menagerie entrance, her sharp features showing genuine maternal concern beneath her aristocratic disapproval, "and maintain safe distances from any creatures that appear to be plotting."
"How do you tell if a creature is plotting?" Regulus asked with genuine curiosity.
"The same way you tell when your brother is plotting," she replied with maternal wisdom, "they get that look in their eyes that suggests they're calculating how much trouble they can cause before anyone notices."
"I resent that characterization," Sirius protested, though his storm-grey eyes were dancing with exactly the sort of mischievous calculation his mother had described.
"Your aura has demonstrable intent, child," Walburga continued with aristocratic authority, "I can sense it from here."
"My aura is perfectly innocent," Sirius declared with wounded dignity.
"Your aura is actively planning something that will require extensive explanations to various authority figures," she corrected with cutting accuracy.
---
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