Chapter Text
⋆⸺⋆Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions⋆⸺⋆
Harry had entered a shop called Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions for his school uniform. Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve.
“Hogwarts, dear?” she said, when Harry started to speak. “Got the lot here — a young man and lady being fitted up just now, in fact.”
In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes. Madam Malkin stood Harry on a stool next to him, slipped a long robe over his head, and began to pin it to the right length.
“Hello,” said the boy. “Hogwarts, too?”
“Yes,” said Harry.
“Well met, I am Heir Draco Malfoy, accompanied by my parents though father is looking at some books and mother is helping my cousin, Lady Black pick some fabric. She’s quite particuluar about things like that.”
He had an aristocratic voice, sounding like the Queen on the radio but was warm and welcoming. Harry wondered how Dudley would react to Heir Draco Malfoy.
“Well Hello, I am Harry, I guess and I am here alone but the school sent Hagrid to help me shop for my stuff.” Harry meekly answered, feeling slightly stupid as he did not know what an Heir was, or how one picked fabric. Was the Lady Black black? If so, it would be rude to call her that, but she was also a lady.
“You guess you are Harry? As far as I am aware, the headmaster always sends the heads of the houses, That is Professors Snape, Sprout, Flitwick and McGonagal to inform and assist muggle-born students. What does this Hagrid teach? Do you know? I must ask mother.” The boy questioned and Harry felt himself flush.
“I am Harry Potter, and no Hagrid came to pick me up. Apparently he was the one who dropped me to my aunt’s place when i was a baby after my parents died.” Harry offered. His limited knowledge on the magical world left him with very few interesting things to say.
Looking down while he was measured by magical tape, he missed Heir Malfoy’s reaction to his confirmed identity.
“You are certain that you are Hadrian James Potter?” the blonde asked, almost accusingly and Harry turned to look at him replicating his wide eyes.
“Hadrian? The teacher told me my name was Harry in school. Who is James?” Harry asked curious. Was James the name of his father? Or his grandfather? Aunt Petunia never told him anything about his parents and he felt embarrassed asking his parents’ names from Hagrid.
The already pale blonde turned even more pale at his reply and shrieked in a way Harry was certain was out of character for him, “Mother, Reggie, I found him.”
⚜ 𝓗 ⚜
“Mother, Reggie, I found him.”
Harry blinked. He wasn’t sure what he had expected from the wizarding world—certainly not being found. That was something you said when you lost a pet or a book. Not a person.
Draco’s voice cracked up into the rafters, sharp and urgent.
Harry startled so hard the measuring tape snapped against his wrist and skittered away.
Madam Malkin looked up in alarm, but Draco was already marching to the side of the shop, toward a tall velvet curtain draped over an arched doorway Harry hadn’t even noticed before.
“Honestly, Draco,” came a voice from beyond the curtain, clipped but smooth as silk. “We are indoors.”
A moment later, the curtain parted and a woman who looked far too elegant to stand in a robe shop stepped in the room. Her hair was perfectly styled, her robes were sleek and expensive, and her gaze swept across the room like she owned the floorboards.
Right behind her, a girl about his age around his age who strode in with far less grace and far more purpose.
She stepped around Narcissa and stared directly at Harry.
Not like he was famous.
Not like he was strange.
Just like she knew him.
“You’re real,” she said.
Harry blinked. “I guess?”
She had dark hair, twisted into two neat braids, and her robes were already embroidered at the sleeves with some kind of crest. Her skin was pale, but her expression was flushed, her gold-silver eyes locked on Harry like she had something urgent to prove.
She stepped right up to the footstool he was standing on, chin tilted like she was preparing to deliver a speech.
“Are you Hadrian James Potter?” she asked, voice pitched more like a question than a challenge.
“Er… just Harry,” he mumbled. “I think. That’s what people call me. My name might be Hadrian? Maybe?”
The girl squinted at him. “You don’t even know your own name properly?”
“No one’s ever called me Hadrian before.”
She looked deeply offended.
“I wrote you letters,” she said. “Several! One every month since my fifth birthday. And you never wrote back. That’s incredibly rude, you know. I’m your cousin!”
Harry blinked.
“You… what?”
“Your cousin,” she repeated, crossing her arms. “And also your godsister.”
“I didn’t know, or get any letters,” Harry said quickly, guilt rushing in even though he didn’t know why. “I didn’t even know I was a wizard until last week. And my aunt and uncle—well, they don’t like magic. Or me.”
Her mouth dropped open. Then closed. Then opened again. Her frown turned into a full scowl, then twisted again into something Harry didn’t quite understand—her mouth trembled, and she suddenly looked really, really angry, but also… sad?
“I thought you hated me,” she said, quieter this time. “I thought you didn’t want me.”
“What? No—I didn’t know you existed!”
For a second, Harry panicked. Was she going to cry? Or yell?
But instead, she launched herself at him, arms wrapping around his middle with surprising force for someone so small.
Harry just… stood there. Startled.
No one ever really hugged him. Hagrid had clapped him on the shoulder once, and Mrs. Figg had sort of patted his arm. But this was a full hug. Like something out of a movie.
“Oh,” he said. “Erm. Okay.”
She squeezed once more, then let go as if nothing had happened, straightening her little robes with exaggerated dignity.
“You are not very good at giving hugs.”
“No ones ever hugged me.”
She bit her lip so hard it turned white.
Narcissa moved like she might intervene, but stopped when Regalia took a sharp step forward.
“You didn’t even look like your photos,” she said, looking at him properly now. “You’re so… small.”
Harry flushed, ducking his head.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“Don’t be sorry,” she snapped, and then—just like that—she hugged him, again.
No ceremony. No warning. She just grabbed him, arms tight and shaking a little, burying her face in the scratchy black robe he was being fitted for like she was trying to glue the universe back together.
Harry froze.
The shop was quiet. Madam Malkin had tactfully vanished. Even Draco looked unsure.
Harry didn’t know what to do. The hug didn’t feel like something you could brush off. It was too… real. Like she'd spent years imagining this moment and suddenly didn’t know how to let go.
“We’ll fix it,” she declared. “The rest of your shopping. You’ll come with us. And you can stay with me this summer. It’s ridiculous that no one told you anything.”
“Right,” Harry said, because he didn’t know what else to say.
But when she grabbed his hand and tugged him gently off the footstool, he didn’t let go.
⋆⸺⋆The Hogwarts express does reservations⋆⸺⋆
The platform was chaotic—families crying, owls screeching, trolleys nearly crashing into one another—but in the middle of it, three children moved like they were above it all.
Like they were meant to be watched.
Regalia Black moved first, chin high, robes tailored in sharp emerald, one gloved hand holding Hedwig’s cage as if she were escorting a crown jewel. Her braid was double-twisted and pinned with a green enamel snake, and she did not break stride.
Draco Malfoy followed, walking like someone who'd practiced his casual smirk in the mirror all summer and perfected it just that morning.
And between them—protected, flanked, radiant in his own solemn way—walked Hadrian James Potter.
In high-collared robes newly tailored by Narcissa. In boots that actually fit. With his hair somewhat tamed (thanks to elf oil), and cheekbones that seemed sharper now that he wasn’t living in a cupboard.
The platform went quiet for a second.
A whisper started.
“That’s Harry Potter—”
“No, they’re calling him Hadrian now—”
“Why’s he with the Malfoys?”
“And is that Regalia Black?”
None of the trio responded. Regalia turned one sharp look toward the whisperers and they evaporated.
🚂 Inside Compartment 3C
The compartment was cool and quiet, shielded from the chaos outside by layered wards and pure ancestral spite.
Hadrian sat in the center bench, hands folded in his lap, gaze flicking between the enchanted window and the sealed door—where vague outlines of red hair came and went like storm clouds made of shame.
Draco had returned and was now carefully unpacking a lacquered box of pastries Narcissa had packed.
Regalia sat across from them, legs crossed like a young matron judging the world. She hadn't blinked since Ron Weasley first threw himself at the door like it might change its mind out of pity.
Attempt One:
Percy Weasley knocked, checked the enchanted reservation parchment, and cast a confirmation charm to ensure the wards held. The door pulsed green.
It did.
He nodded professionally and left.
Attempt Two:
Fred and George attempted three unlocking spells, two prank curses, and a Runespoor's Whisper charm. The wards shimmered, snorted softly (Harry swore), and refused entry.
It did.
They left laughing—but slightly confused.
Attempt Three:
Ron Weasley, full of righteous indignation and the kind of blind loyalty that comes from reading about Harry in the Daily Prophet for years, grabbed the handle and yanked.
Nothing.
He knocked. No answer.
He called out, "Harry? Harry, mate—it’s me—Ron!"
No response.
He whispered, "Don’t worry, I’ll get you out of there."
Then attempted a Disarming Charm. On a door.
It did.
Ron stomped down the corridor, face burning red.
The stupid bloody door wouldn’t open.
He’d tried everything—knocking, calling, even a charm or two that Fred said worked on Aunt Muriel’s liquor cabinet (though that had ended in a mild explosion). But this one just sat there like it was laughing at him.
Behind it sat Harry Potter.
His future best friend. Probably. Hopefully. Definitely—if the stories were true.
Except Harry was sitting with them.
With Malfoy. With that girl—the Blackspawn.
Regalia. What kind of name was that? Sounded like a dress shop in Knockturn Alley.
And the way she looked at him through the glass, like she was too good to speak. Like he was the odd one for trying to be nice to Harry-bloody-Potter.
Ron kicked the nearest seat when no one was looking.
“Backstabbing Black,” he muttered under his breath.
“Evil Git Malfoy.”
“Harry must’ve been cursed or something.”
He knew the stories. Everyone did.
The Malfoys were rich, snaky little prats who bought their way out of every Death Eater accusation.
And the Blacks? Mad. Bellatrix was one of them. And that girl—Regalia or Regina or whatever—walked around like she was queen of the castle already.
And Potter just sat there. Between them. Quiet. Pale. Looking too small to know better.
"He probably doesn’t even know they’re evil," Ron mumbled.
"They’ve got him all brainwashed. Look at them, dressed like they're going to the Wizengamot, not school."
He crossed his arms and scowled out the window.
"He’ll come to his senses," Ron told himself. "He just doesn’t know yet. I’ll show him. Soon as we get to Hogwarts. He’ll see who his real friends are."
But deep down, Ron couldn’t shake it—
Harry hadn’t even looked at him. Not once.
⚜ 𝓗 ⚜
Inside, Hadrian watched all of this with an expression somewhere between dread and confusion.
His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve.
“He thinks I’m… trapped,” he said finally.
“You’re not,” Regalia replied without looking up from her book. “You’re seated.”
“He keeps calling me Harry.”
“Then he’s either willfully ignorant or functionally illiterate,” Draco said. He passed Hadrian a lemon tart. “Eat something. You sulk more aesthetically when you’re full.”
Hadrian took the tart. Bit it. Chewed slowly.
“Should I feel bad?”
“No,” Regalia said, flipping a page. “You’re not obligated to perform gratitude for strangers.”
“But he’s supposed to be—”
“Your friend?” she finished for him. “Based on what? A tabloid headline and a sense of entitlement? Please. If he truly wanted to be your friend, he’d have knocked.”
“He did knock.”
“Yes,” Draco said, “and then he tried to hex the door.”
Regalia glanced toward the hallway where Ron had finally given up and stormed off, muttering something about "evil snakes and mind control."
She sniffed. “Honestly. For a family named after arachnids, the Weasleys are remarkably bad at weaving nuance.”
Hadrian chuckled around the last bite of tart.
Just a little.
But Regalia smiled at the sound.
Draco leaned back with satisfaction.
The train chugged on—compartment 3C, sealed and silent, carried three names with blood on their legacy, ghosts at their backs, and the calm certainty of people who had chosen each other.
While they had been talking, the train had carried them out of London. Now they were speeding past fields full of cows and sheep. They were quiet for a time, watching the fields and lanes flick past. Around half past twelve there was a great clattering outside in the corridor and a smiling, dimpled woman slid back their door and said, "Anything off the cart, dears?"
Before Hadrian could respond, Draco smiled his, ‘I am Heir Draco Malfoy’ smile and politely said no, wishing the lady a good day.
Hadrian hadn’t had breakfast.
Technically, he’d been offered some at Malfoy Manor, but the idea of eating anything the morning he was being shipped off to a place full of strangers had made his stomach twist. So now, hours later, the emptiness was starting to ache. He was reminded of his hunger by the Lady in the trolley but Draco had sent her away. Harry frowned slightly at that.
Draco, of course, noticed.
He opened a polished darkwood box, charmed with House Malfoy’s crest and a cooling spell, and began to unpack the contents onto the table between them. A second box followed—this one bearing the Black crest—and beside it, a paper-wrapped bundle from Andromeda with faint floral wax seals.
Within minutes, the little table was filled with perfectly arranged food:
- Hand-folded pumpkin pasties with star-shaped crusts
- Miniature cauldron cakes with chocolate sigils
- Fruit slices charm-glazed in gold
- Small pastries filled with cardamom, coconut, almond—from Harry’s father’s side, Regalia said
- And, in a dramatic flourish, two wrapped parcels of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, already sorted into separate jars marked Acceptable, Adventurous, and Regret
Hadrian blinked at the spread.
“You packed… all of this?”
Draco looked mildly offended.
“Of course. You think I trust Hogwarts food on day one?”
Regalia passed him a tart.
“Eat. You sulk louder on an empty stomach.”
He took a bite. Closed his eyes.
It was warm. Not just the tart—but the moment. It didn’t feel like indulgence. It felt like being expected. Like people had planned for him to be here.
“These are amazing,” he muttered.
Draco nodded smugly. “Mother does everything in tiers. Even her snack boxes.”
Regalia flicked her wand to levitate a jar of beans closer to Hadrian.
“We’ve pre-sorted. You’re not allowed to eat anything from the Regret jar until at least October.”
“Is pepper in ‘Adventurous’ or ‘Regret’?”
“Pepper is in ‘Are You Kidding Me.’ It’s its own category.”
Hadrian laughed. Actually laughed.
He reached for a pale gold bean. Nibbled the edge.
“Cardamom,” he said, surprised.
“Correct,” said Draco, with professor-like pride. “You’re already better at this than Crabbe. He bit into a lint-flavored one last year. Said it ‘tasted like dust and authority.’”
They worked their way through pasties and sweets in between commentary, mock-judging jelly beans like seasoned connoisseurs. Draco popped one in, chewed, and immediately scowled.
“Oh. Turnip. That’s offensive.”
Regalia, utterly unfazed, selected a violet one.
“You should try the green-glittered ones. They’re hexed to mimic emotional instability for twenty seconds”
“So the pair of you when you cant find a sock pair?” Hadrian teased and Draco blushed while Reggie pouted.
Hadrian leaned back, full for the first time in a while, warmth blooming in his chest that had nothing to do with pumpkin or sugar.
This was different.
He wasn’t being spoiled. He wasn’t being impressed.
He was being cared for.
And for the first time in a long time, he let himself believe maybe—just maybe—he was allowed to have this.
The countryside now flying past the window was becoming wilder. The neat fields had gone. Now there were woods, twisting rivers, and dark green hills.
The knock was soft, but not timid. Hesitant, yes—but not without dignity.
The door to Compartment 3C slid open just a fraction, just enough to let in a round face framed by windswept hair, and eyes that flicked first to Hadrian, then to Regalia, and widened.
“Oh. Apologies—I didn’t realize…” His voice caught. “Lady Black. Heir Potter.”
Hadrian blinked. He’d expected the usual: stammering, maybe awe, definitely confusion.
But this boy looked… nervous, yes, but steady. And he’d said Heir Potter. Not Harry. Not the Boy Who Lived. It took Hadrian a full second to realize who he must be.
“Neville,” Regalia said, standing smoothly and gesturing toward the open door. “You look flushed. Come in.”
Neville stepped inside, clutching a toad box in one hand and visibly trying to remember his posture lessons.
“Trevor’s gotten loose. Again. I’m sorry to interrupt.”
“You’re not interrupting,” Regalia replied. “You’re exactly on time.”
She turned to Hadrian and Draco, perfectly poised for a formal introduction.
“Hadrian, Draco—this is Neville Longbottom. Son of Auror Frank and Healer Alice Longbottom. Our cousin, godbrother, and heir to House Longbottom.”
Draco gave a nod, polite and nonchalant.
Hadrian stood, awkward but sincere. “I’ve heard about you,” he said. “I think we were both supposed to… you know.”
“Grow up together?” Neville offered. “Yeah.”
There was a strange warmth in his voice. Like grief that had cooled, just enough to be safe to carry.
They shook hands.
“Trevor’s probably in a luggage rack,” Draco said. “Toads love enchanted woodwork.”
“Thank you,” Neville said, ducking his head a little. “And… if you find him, please don’t hex him.”
“Only mild curses,” Regalia assured. “Character-building ones.”
Neville gave a startled little laugh and bowed, not entirely sure what to do with himself.
“I’ll see you at the feast,” he said, and turned to go.
As he left, Hadrian exhaled.
“He knew us.”
“Of course he did,” Regalia said. “He’s a Longbottom. Not a tabloid reader.”
The compartment door had not yet clicked shut before it slid open again—without a knock.
That alone earned Regalia's glance, sharp and slow, over the edge of Social Structures in Magical Britain, 1892–1991 (Annotated)—the look of someone trained to catalogue etiquette violations before she could read.
A girl stood in the doorway, bushy brown hair already frizzing from the train’s heat, new Hogwarts robes slightly wrinkled, expression bright and desperate to impress. Behind her trailed Neville, looking quietly mortified.
“Has anyone seen a toad? Neville’s lost one,” she said, voice brisk and clipped—breathless with the effort of making herself belong.
“We’ve already told him we haven’t,” Regalia said coolly.
“Oh, excuse me—are you doing magic? Let’s see it, then!”
Draco’s fingers paused mid-spin over his teacup. One brow arched.
Regalia didn’t respond.
Hadrian pulled his tea closer, instinctively shrinking into his seat.
“Are you sure that’s a real spell?” the girl asked, as Draco flicked his wand lazily and conjured a flicker of silver over his tart. “It’s not very good, is it? I’ve tried a few simple ones for practice and they’ve all worked for me—”
Regalia closed her book. Very softly.
“No one asked for your audit,” she said.
The girl blinked.
“I just meant—! I’ve been practicing! I’ve memorized all our course books, of course. It’s just—I’m the first in my family, and it was all a surprise, but I’m ever so pleased to be here. Hogwarts is the best school, isn’t it? I’ve read—”
“We know what school we’re on a train to,” Regalia interrupted. “Do you also recite menus to chefs?”
“Er—no?”
“Good. Then don’t recite Hogwarts to heirs.”
The girl flushed but pressed forward, thrusting out a hand.
“Heirs? None of my books mentioned that. Who are you?”
Regalia did not rise. Did not take the hand.
Hadrian blinked. Draco gave a quiet, amused cough.
The hand lingered—awkwardly—before the girl pulled it back, clearly confused.
“You didn’t offer your name,” Regalia said, voice smooth and unforgiving. “You made a demand. Touched your wand. Crossed a warded threshold without invitation. And then reached—without title, introduction, or permission. That’s three breaches of conduct and two security risks in thirty seconds.”
“I—I didn’t mean—” the girl stammered.
“Intent does not negate tradition,” Regalia said. “Nor propriety.”
“I was just trying to be friendly,” the girl muttered.
“So was Gilderoy Lockhart,” Draco said, buttering a scone. “He caused seven diplomatic incidents.”
“What does diplomacy have to do with us? We’re all just students!” the girl snapped.
Hadrian intervened—softly but firmly.
“Most students at Hogwarts come from long familial and political histories. It affects how we interact. There’s a social hierarchy—like British aristocracy, if that helps. My cousins, Lady Black and Heir Malfoy, conduct themselves accordingly.”
Draco smiled, pleased.
“Well said, Cousin. I’ll return the courtesy. May I introduce my cousin, Heir Hadrian Potter Black.”
The girl’s eyes went wide. Her cheeks flamed.
“Hermione Granger,” she managed, like the name had slipped out without her.
“Are you really—? I knew it! You’re in all the books. Modern Magical History, The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century—I read them all, of course—”
“Delightful,” Regalia murmured.
“You must be so famous. I’d have tried to find out everything about myself if it were me—”
“That explains a great deal,” Regalia said, her smile as sharp as broken glass.
“I was just wondering what house you think you’ll be in! I hope it’s Gryffindor. That’s Dumbledore’s house, of course, and it just sounds the best—though Ravenclaw might be alright—”
“You must be very powerful,” Hermione rushed on. “Do you also have a dragon heartstring core? I read it produces the strongest—”
The silence snapped like a wand under pressure.
Regalia looked up.
“You are not entitled to ask about someone’s wand core,” she said softly—but with lethal precision. “That information is guarded. It is shared only with family. Or with friends. Of which, forgive me, you are neither.”
Hermione opened her mouth. Closed it. Looked at Neville—who was pointedly not getting involved—and took a shaky breath.
“I just thought—well, I read—”
“Then I suggest you read more widely,” Regalia said.
The moment stretched. Then, mercifully, Hermione backed out of the compartment.
Silence reclaimed the space.
Hadrian sipped his tea.
“…I think she memorized me.”
“She attempted to fact-check your existence,” Regalia said. “She’s a walking bibliography with boundary issues.”
Draco bit into a chocolate. “Ravenclaw. Or tragedy.”
Regalia exhaled with exquisite drama. “Tragically Ravenclaw.”
Hadrian still looked unsettled. Regalia softened—barely.
“Perhaps Lady Magic will be kind and ensure we’re not sorted with her. Don’t take it personally, cousin. She memorized you from books. It may take her longer to realize… you’re a person .”
⋆⸺⋆The Hat and the Hall and the House He Chose⋆⸺⋆
Sometime later, after brunch and tea, Regalia disappeared into her trunk to change into her robes. The boys gave her privacy, and Draco insisted on making sure Hadrian’s robes were sharp, fitted, and thoroughly presentable—as if the Sorting Hat might deduct points for poor tailoring.
Outside the compartment, voices were rising in pitch and urgency—first-years growing restless in the corridor.
Hadrian peered out of the window.
The sky had deepened into a rich violet. Shadows stretched across jagged mountains and thick forests. The train was slowing, brakes humming underfoot.
“We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes’ time,” echoed a voice. “Please leave your luggage on the train. It will be taken to the school separately.”
Hadrian's stomach twisted—not painfully, but with the quiet certainty that something irreversible was coming. The kind of shift you can feel in your bones.
Regalia emerged from her trunk in perfect green-trimmed robes, her expression unreadable. But she pressed something into Hadrian’s palm—ginger candies, wrapped in pale silk.
“For nerves,” she said. “And sugar helps with vision magic.”
Draco reached over and tugged at the sleeve of Hadrian’s robe, fussing.
Regalia took his other hand and squeezed, her grip firm, grounding.
Together, they waited for the crowd to thin, then slipped into the corridor. Regalia led the way with Hadrian following close, and Draco a step behind, creating a neat flanking line of heirship and solidarity.
They stepped onto a small stone platform lit by sparse lanterns. The night air curled around them—cool, damp, filled with the scent of forest and water. Hadrian was silently grateful for the warm traveling cloak Narcissa had insisted he wear.
A glow bobbed through the darkness.
“Firs’ years this way!” came Hagrid’s booming voice.
Hadrian blinked—he hadn’t seen the half-giant since Diagon Alley. He was older than Hadrian remembered, or perhaps just less mythical. Still kind. Still broad as a cupboard.
Their eyes met. Hadrian offered a small, uncertain smile. Hagrid’s eyes crinkled with warmth.
“Mind yer step now! Firs’ years, follow me!”
The path was narrow and steep, edged by thick trees and roots that coiled like sleeping snakes.
It was dark.
Very dark.
Hadrian felt something brush his hand and looked over to see Regalia, casting a discreet lumos—a small ball of silver light drifting at their feet.
“Watch the roots,” she said quietly, her voice steady. “The castle doesn’t like careless feet.”
Behind them, Neville Longbottom stumbled with a soft gasp.
Hadrian turned back and offered him a hand without thinking.
“I’ve got you.”
Neville blinked, surprised—but took it. And held on, just until his balance returned.
“Thanks,” he muttered.
“No trouble,” Hadrian said, almost automatically. But his fingers curled afterward. Like they remembered warmth.
“Ye’ll get yer first sight o’ Hogwarts in a moment,” Hagrid called over his shoulder.
They rounded a bend.
Gasps echoed all around them.
Hadrian stopped walking.
There it was.
Hogwarts.
Not a building. Not a school. A cathedral made of starlight and shadow, perched atop a black mountain. Its windows glowed like embers. Its towers reached so high they blurred into the stars.
He felt his breath catch.
“This is where they lived,” he whispered.
“Who?” Regalia asked.
“My name,” he said softly.
Draco didn’t say anything. But he took Hadrian’s elbow gently and steered him toward the boats.
“No more’n four to a boat!” Hagrid called, gesturing toward the water.
Regalia stepped in first, with the grace of a girl who had been raised to never wobble in silk shoes. She held out her hand.
Hadrian took it, clambered in without tripping, and deemed the lack of splash a success.
He offered his hand to Draco, who accepted it with a smirk that somehow made things easier.
Neville joined them silently.
“Everyone in?” shouted Hagrid from his own boat. “Right then—FORWARD!”
The boats surged forward, silent as breath.
The water was like glass. The castle above was endless. No one spoke.
For the first time in days, Hadrian let the silence settle inside him without resistance. He wasn't hungry. He wasn't hiding. He wasn’t being watched for scars.
He was arriving.
They ducked beneath a curtain of ivy and were carried through a dark tunnel, the boat rocking softly beneath them, until they reached a small harbor carved out of stone.
“Oy—this yer toad?” Hagrid called, holding something damp and indignant.
“Trevor!” Neville beamed, reaching for him.
Hadrian smiled faintly. Small things mattered.
They followed Hagrid up a steep passage of wet rock and emerged onto dew-slick grass, the castle towering above them now like a waiting sentinel.
Stone steps. Oak doors. Silence.
“Everyone here? You there—still got yer toad?”
Hagrid raised a massive fist and knocked.
Three booming echoes.
The door opened.
And Professor McGonagall stood there—green-robed, iron-backed, and sharp-eyed.
Hadrian didn’t flinch.
But he suddenly understood why his father had made a career out of bothering her. It must’ve been irresistible.
“The first years, Professor,” Hagrid said.
“Thank you, Hagrid,” McGonagall replied. “I’ll take them from here.”
The castle doors yawned open.
And they stepped inside.
The entrance hall swallowed them whole.
Stone walls stretched so high that the ceiling disappeared into shadow. Flames flickered in iron sconces, casting long, regal light. Hadrian stepped through the doorway with his shoulders drawn tight and his eyes wide—not with childish wonder, but with something older. Recognition. And mourning.
This is where they walked. My parents. Their friends. Their enemies. All of them walked through this door as children.
So why do I feel like I’m breaking in?
The floor beneath him was black stone, worn with history. At the top of a grand marble staircase, torches shimmered like starlight. To their right, voices buzzed behind tall double doors.
Professor McGonagall guided them into a smaller chamber—dim, echoing, meant to unsettle. It succeeded.
The first years crowded close. Most of them whispered. Some simply stared. No one approached the trio at the back—Hadrian, Regalia, and Draco, who stood just far enough apart from everyone else to be noticed.
“Welcome to Hogwarts,” said Professor McGonagall. “The Start-of-Term Feast will begin shortly. But first, you must be sorted into your houses.”
Her voice was firm, elegant, and entirely without indulgence. Hadrian instantly liked her.
“Your house will be your home. You will study, sleep, and spend your free time with them. Triumphs earn house points. Rule-breaking loses them. The house with the most points wins the House Cup at year’s end.”
Hadrian listened, every line pressed into his memory like a crest into wax.
A house means loyalty. Identity. Legacy. And risk.
I was born into one. And now I must be chosen by another.
He glanced at Draco, who stood like he was being presented to a throne.
Then to Regalia, who didn’t just stand—she commanded the space, chin tilted like a young queen.
And then back at the others. Some pale with nerves. One whispering quickly to herself.
“I suggest you all smarten up while you wait,” McGonagall added, eyes flicking briefly to a boy’s undone cloak and a redhead’s crooked wand.
She didn’t even glance at the Black-Malfoy-Potter cluster. She didn’t have to.
She left.
The moment she was gone, tension shattered like glass.
Whispers erupted.
“That’s him—he’s here—Potter—”
“No, not just Potter—Black, too—didn’t you see her ring?”
“And Malfoy’s with them. What is this? Is he Dark?”
Hadrian didn’t look at them. He looked at the floor. At Regalia’s hand still wrapped calmly around her wand. At Draco’s slight smirk.
And then—
Ghosts.
They streamed through the back wall in a shimmer of pearlescent white. One of the first years shrieked. Another ducked.
Hadrian merely stepped back—surprised, not frightened.
They drifted past, arguing faintly.
“Forgive and forget, I say—”
“Peeves is not a ghost, Friar—he’s a menace—”
The Fat Friar turned and smiled at them.
“New students! Hope to see you in Hufflepuff—my old house, you know!”
Hadrian inclined his head politely. Regalia didn’t blink.
The ghosts drifted off.
Professor McGonagall returned.
“The Sorting Ceremony is about to begin. Line up, please.”
They followed her back through the entrance hall. Up to the great doors.
And then—
The Great Hall.
It opened before them like a cathedral of fire and sky.
Floating candles hovered above endless tables, their flames dancing in unseen wind. The ceiling shimmered with the stars and clouds of the true sky. Gold plates gleamed in the torchlight. Ghosts hovered like forgotten memories, and at the head of it all—the staff table, where legends watched silently.
Hadrian didn’t look up right away.
He looked down the line of first years. He felt eyes. Hundreds of them.
They’re all looking at me.
And then he looked up.
The ceiling wasn't painted. It wasn’t even enchanted in a way he could describe. It simply... was.
Sky. Indoors. Wrapped in spell and silence.
“It’s enchanted,” whispered a voice near him—Miss Granger. “To look like the sky outside. I read about it in Hogwarts: A History.”
Hadrian didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. His silence was a boundary.
At the front of the hall, McGonagall placed a small, three-legged stool. On it, she placed a hat.
Old. Frayed. Patched. Hadrian tilted his head, waiting. Then the hat twitched. A rip near the brim opened—and sang.
Oh, you may think I’m tattered,
Just patchwork, old and grey—
But I’ve watched the threads of legends
Since the Founders walked this way.
I’ve seen the lion’s roaring heart,
The kind that leaps before it learns—
It’s noble, bright, and burning red—
But oh, how often it gets burned.
I’ve felt the badger’s quiet pride,
Who shields what others would ignore—
The loyal hands, the patient strength—
The ones who always hold the door.
I’ve held the eagle’s gilded mind,
That soars through storm to distant stars—
They build with logic, light, and ink,
But bleed just like the rest of ours.
And yes—there are the serpents,
Where secrets sleep in stone,
Where cunning is survival,
And ambition stands alone.
But do not scoff at silver—
It takes more than blood to lead.
A sharp mind with a softened edge
Can plant the future like a seed.
So try me on, and trust me—
I see through mask and skin.
The path is yours to walk, my child…
But choose the house you’ll be in.
Names were being called. Voices echoed through the Hall. First years walked forward one by one, legs trembling or overconfident, met by polite applause or expectant whispers.
But Hadrian stood in silence. And in that silence—he realized something.
The Sorting Hat would have sat atop his father’s head. And his mother’s. And perhaps even his grandparents’ before them. It had known James, who grinned through every duel. Lily, who burned brighter than the stars. Sirius, who laughed through fire. Regulus, who walked straight into it.
The Hat had seen them all. And now it would see him.
But it wouldn’t see the boy from the cupboard who once flinched at footsteps on the stairs.
And it wouldn’t see Harry Potter, the name written in books by strangers with pens made of pity.
And it wouldn’t see Heir Potter-Black, with rings on his fingers and politics stitched into his new robes.
It would see—Hadrian.
No more. No less.
Just Hadrian. The boy between worlds.
The boy rebuilding himself from scratch.
A child of war. A child of legacy.
A child with a choice.
And for the first time in days, he felt… safe.
Because the Sorting Hat had no family name to protect. No prophecy to fulfill. No war to win.
It just wanted to see who he was.
Hadrian jolted back to the present when he heard, “Regalia Marlene Black” be called. He squeezed her hand, improper as it may be before she made her way from the end of the line to the chair with the hat. Around them, whispers grew louder, and Hadrianc caught some words in the wind.
Sirius Black’s daughter.
Betrayer’s bloodspawn.
Black killed her mother’s family after her birth to remove any influence.
Hadrian’s fist clenched but a tapping of a finger against his fist as he focused on Draco reminded him to breathe in and let go. Reggie’s battles were hers to win. Hadrian would have her back no matter what.
The sorting hat took its time with Reggie, not that Hadrian could blame it. His cousin was brilliant and given the sheep-mentality of most of the gossiping children around them, he was certain it was starved for good conversation.
“Slytherin” the hat yelled out and Regalia got off, before subtly curtesying at the hat who somehow winked at her, as she made her way to the Slytherin long table.
Hadrian stood near the end of the line, shoulders back, arms folded neatly in front of him. Regalia had told him to appear calm, even if he wasn’t. No fidgeting. No muttering. Just presence.
So he focused.
Abbott. Bones. Boot.
Those were names he’d seen in the family registers Regalia made him study—long-standing wizarding lines. Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. Not surprising.
Brocklehurst, Brown, Bulstrode.
Bulstrode made him look up. He’d read the name in passing, she was a half-blood like him from part of the old Slytherin branch, possibly connected to the Lestranges through marriage. She went to Slytherin.
Crabbe sorted Hufflepuff and Draco let out a relieved sigh next to him.
Davis, probably a muggle-born sorted Slytherin which raised some eyebrows.
Finnigan, Finch-Fletchley...
He hadn’t read those names before. Likely Muggleborn or newer families. Still, the Hat sorted them swiftly: Gryffindor and Hufflepuff.
He was starting to see the rhythm of it. Not always blood. But often patterns.
Granger, Hermione.
Granger by itself was not a magical name, but there was a Dagworth-Granger family that had some potion-related business with his great-grandfather. Perhaps Hermione was a squib descendant. The family had been Ravenclaw. The Hat sent her to Gryffindor immediately—Hadrian suspected the Hat was simply eager to get her talking out of its metaphorical ears.
Greengrass sorted green, while Goyle, another of the Malfoy’s associates joined his friend at the Puffs.
Longbottom, Neville.
That name he knew. Potters and Longbottoms were the original light mages. They had intermarried several times as well. He felt the tension crawl up his spine. Not fear—just pressure.
Godbrother. War-born. Heir to a house as old as mine.
Neville stumbled, but the Hat took its time. When it shouted “Gryffindor!” the applause was loud. Loud, but not cruel.
He’ll be alright, Hadrian told himself. He’ll find a place there.
He turned his thoughts inward again.
MacDougal. Malfoy. He knew those, too.
Draco’s sorting was instant. The Hat didn’t even hesitate. Slytherin, as expected. The table clapped respectfully. No surprise there. Draco seated himself with grace and a satisfied tilt of the head.
That’s two of us, Hadrian thought. Three, if they’ll take me.
Then came—
Nott. Parkinson. Patil, Patil. Perks.
Nott was old magic. His father was a known Death Eater—but a brilliant Arithmancer. He joined Slytherin as if slipping into the place carved for him.
The Patil twins were interesting. Twin daughters of a diplomat. One to Ravenclaw, one to Gryffindor. Split—but not broken.
Perks, Sally-Anne sorted Gryffindor.
Then—
“Potter-Black, Hadrian.”
The Hall went silent.
Not “Harry.”
Not “Boy Who Lived.”
Not “The Chosen One.”
But Hadrian.
And as he walked forward, every pair of eyes followed.
I am not a story, he thought.
I am not a legacy.
I am simply Hadrian. And I am choosing who I will become.
He sat on the stool.
The Hat descended.
And the world disappeared.
A breath. A silence. A voice, old as magic itself:
“So here you are.”
It wasn’t mocking. Not surprised. Just… certain.
Hadrian exhaled through his nose.
“You sorted them all, didn’t you?”
“I did. James. Lily. Regulus. I remember the shape of every fire they carried. And I see the embers of all three in you.”
“Tell me.”
The Hat chuckled, soft and deep.
“James… ah, he was all thunder and charm. Loyalty like wildfire. Loud, brave, foolish—but he would’ve torn the world apart to protect someone he loved. I sent him to Gryffindor because he couldn’t sit still. Even his ambition was noisy.”
Hadrian smiled faintly. That tracked.
“Lily was quieter—but sharper. She thought in layers. Her mind was a blade wrapped in compassion. She could’ve gone to Ravenclaw or Slytherin—her ability to see people was exceptional—but she chose to stand in the fire. She chose Gryffindor.”
A pause.
“And Regulus…”
Hadrian stilled.
“He didn’t ask for greatness. But he carried it anyway. A boy who walked into death’s mouth to undo the sins of those before him. He could’ve ruled. But instead, he chose to die quietly. For a cause, he could not explain. And a brother who never heard him.”
“He’s not forgotten,” Hadrian whispered. “Not anymore.”
“No. Not with you and the girl he left behind.”
“Regalia,” Hadrian said softly. “She’s… more than a cousin. She’s like a second skin. Like I was missing a part of me until she found me.”
“Ah, the Heir Black. Fire encased in silver. She’s brilliant, that one. Too smart for her age. Too angry for her own peace. She’ll try to bear it all alone.”
“She won’t have to,” Hadrian said.
“And Sirius?” the Hat asked, gently. “The ghost you carry that hasn’t even died yet?”
That hurt.
But he let it.
“He was supposed to be there. For both of us. And he wasn't. I don’t know if I’ll forgive him. But I want to understand why.”
“You will. And that will be harder than hating him.”
Hadrian didn’t speak for a moment.
He sat in silence. Letting everything stretch between them.
His parents. His cousin. His future.
“Gryffindor gave my parents a place to shine,” he finally said. “But I don’t think I want to shine. Not yet.”
“Ravenclaw is tempting,” he admitted. “But I already know how to be alone.”
“Hufflepuff… that one hurts the most. Because I want that safety. But it is also cowardice..”
“You deserve it,” the Hat said, voice quiet. “But perhaps not yet.”
“Slytherin,” Hadrian whispered. “Not because of blood. But because it teaches me what I need to survive. It’s a place that will teach me how to fight back with rules, not rage. With structure.”
The Hat was silent.
Then:
“Yes. You’ll do well there. You’ll rattle their bones and build a new table from the rubble.”
“Then do it,” Hadrian said. “Put me where I’ll matter.”
“So be it. Better be—”
“SLYTHERIN!”
Hadrian got off the chair and placed the hat back on it, bowing lightly, thankful for the advise and made his way to sit between his cousins. The Great Hall was completely silent, even his footsteps echoed but he held his head high and made his way to his family.