1
Shadows of Time
Chapter 1: The Veil
Between Worlds
The pain was exquisite.
Harry Potter had
experienced the Cruciatus Curse more times than he cared to remember, but
this—this was something altogether different. It felt as though every atom of
his being was being simultaneously ripped apart and crushed together. His
consciousness stretched and compressed, folding in upon itself like parchment
in a fist.
He should have been dead.
By all rights, he was dead. The last thing he remembered was
Dolohov's curse striking him squarely in the chest as the battle raged around
them. After fifteen years of war, after becoming the man they called the
Warlord of the Phoenix, after all the blood and sacrifice and loss, to fall to
Antonin Dolohov seemed a cruel joke.
But then, Harry Potter's
life had always been something of a cosmic jest.
The pain intensified, if
such a thing were possible, and Harry felt his mind begin to fragment. With his
last coherent thought, he reached for his Occlumency shields—not to protect
himself from intrusion, but to hold the pieces of himself together as reality
tore him asunder.
And then, suddenly, there
was nothing.
Nothing became something.
Air filled his lungs in a
violent rush as Harry's eyes flew open. He was lying flat on his back, staring
up at a night sky sprinkled with unfamiliar stars. No, not unfamiliar—he knew
these constellations. He had studied them in Astronomy class at Hogwarts, a
lifetime ago.
Harry sat up abruptly,
immediately regretting the action as his head spun and his vision swam. When
the dizziness subsided, he took stock of his surroundings. He was sitting in
the middle of a perfectly circular clearing in what appeared to be a forest. The
trees around him were ancient and massive, their trunks gnarled and twisted
with age. In the center of the clearing, directly where Harry had been lying,
was a strange symbol burned into the earth—a triangle enclosing a circle,
bisected by a line.
The Deathly Hallows.
Harry's breath caught in
his throat. He had united the Hallows once, briefly, before Voldemort's final
defeat. In the chaos that followed, he had kept only the Invisibility Cloak,
returning the Elder Wand to Dumbledore's tomb and dropping the Resurrection
Stone somewhere in the Forbidden Forest. But in the years of war that followed
Voldemort's defeat, as the Death Eaters regrouped under Dolohov's leadership
and the Ministry fell once more, Harry had been forced to reclaim the Elder
Wand. The Resurrection Stone had found its way back to him as well, appearing
one night on his pillow with no explanation.
For the past five years,
Harry had been the Master of Death once more. It seemed that title wasn't
merely symbolic.
Groaning, Harry pushed
himself to his feet. His body felt... strange. Not injured, exactly, but
different in subtle ways he couldn't immediately identify. With growing
apprehension, Harry conjured a mirror with a casual flick of his wrist—and
nearly dropped it in shock.
The face that stared back
at him was his own—his thirty-two-year-old face, complete with the collection
of scars earned in battle over the years. The most prominent remained the
lightning bolt on his forehead, though several newer additions competed for attention:
a jagged line along his right jaw from a cutting curse, a burn scar that peeked
above his collar, and the barely-healed wound across his left eyebrow from a
recent skirmish.
But something was... off.
His features seemed slightly softer, his body slightly less weathered than it
should have been. It was as though some of the hardness of war had been gently
smoothed away, leaving him looking younger than his years, though still
unmistakably an adult.
Harry's mind raced. He was
still himself—not merged with another, not transformed into someone else. But
where was he? Or perhaps more importantly, when was he?
"Tempus," he
whispered, tracing a complex pattern in the air.
Ghostly numbers
materialized before him: 24 June 1994, 23:47.
Harry's knees nearly
buckled beneath him.
The end of his younger
self's third year. The night his thirteen-year-old self and Hermione had used
the Time-Turner to save Buckbeak and Sirius. The night that had, in many ways,
set him on the path that led to war.
"I've been thrown
back in time," Harry murmured, his voice rough with shock. Not his
consciousness, not his memories, but his entire being—physically transported to
the past, to a time when his younger self still existed.
Where was his younger self
now? Still at Hogwarts, presumably, having just completed the adventure with
the Time-Turner. Blissfully unaware that a future version of himself had just
appeared in the Forbidden Forest.
Harry closed his eyes,
trying to process the implications. If he was here, in this time, as a separate
entity from his younger self...
He could change
everything.
But he couldn't do it as
Harry Potter. Even with the differences in his appearance, the resemblance
would be too obvious. Questions would be asked, questions he couldn't answer.
And the risk of paradox—of his younger self meeting him, of the timeline being
irreparably damaged—was too great.
No, if he was going to
remain in this time and change the future, he would need a new identity. A
permanent disguise.
Harry looked down at his
battle-worn robes, emblazoned with the symbol of the Phoenix Order—a stylized
phoenix rising from flames, its wings outstretched in defiance. They would have
to go. Nothing about him could suggest any connection to Harry Potter or the
future he came from.
With a flick of his wrist,
Harry transfigured his robes into nondescript Muggle clothing—dark jeans, a
plain t-shirt, and a hooded jacket. Then he turned his attention to his
appearance.
Harry concentrated,
focusing on his metamorphmagus abilities—a skill he had discovered and honed
during the long years of war, when disguise had often meant the difference
between life and death. It had been a revelation, learning that the ability had
always been within him, dormant until necessity and desperation had awakened
it.
His hair lengthened and
lightened to a sandy brown, with subtle hints of auburn that caught the
moonlight. His eyes shifted from vibrant green to a deep, midnight blue. The
lightning scar on his forehead—the one mark he had never been able to fully
disguise—faded until it was barely perceptible, just a faint, thin line that
most would mistake for an ordinary scar if they noticed it at all.
He adjusted his facial
features with careful precision—a slightly stronger jaw, higher cheekbones, a
straighter nose that bore no evidence of having been broken multiple times. His
height increased by an inch, his shoulders broadened slightly, and his posture
shifted subtly to something less reminiscent of a soldier constantly ready for
attack.
The man who looked back at
him from the conjured mirror was a stranger. Handsome, certainly, with an air
of quiet confidence and intelligence—but not Harry Potter. Not the Boy Who
Lived, and not the Warlord of the Phoenix.
A name. He would need a
name. Something that held no obvious connection to his true identity, yet felt
natural enough that he could respond to it without hesitation.
"Hadrian
Peverell," he decided aloud, his new voice slightly deeper and with a hint
of a different accent—not quite identifiable as belonging to any specific
region, but distinctly not the accent of Harry Potter.
It was a risk, using the
name of his ancestors, the original owners of the Deathly Hallows. But it was
also a name that carried weight in the wizarding world, a name that would open
doors that might otherwise remain closed. The Peverell line was thought to have
died out centuries ago—its blood continuing only through the Potter, Gaunt, and
a few other families. Claiming it might raise eyebrows among those who
understood the significance, but none could disprove his right to it.
With his new identity in
place, Hadrian took one last look around the clearing. The symbol of the
Deathly Hallows was already fading from the earth, leaving no trace of the
extraordinary event that had occurred there.
Hadrian took a deep
breath, centered himself, and with a soft pop, disappeared from the clearing.
He reappeared in a narrow
alley in Hogsmeade village. The streets were quiet at this late hour, but a few
shops still showed lights in their windows, and the Three Broomsticks was no
doubt still serving patrons.
Hadrian pulled his hood up
over his head and stepped out onto the main street, his mind working furiously.
He needed somewhere to stay, somewhere he could think and plan without being
disturbed. The Hog's Head would be the obvious choice—Aberforth asked fewer
questions than Rosmerta—but it was also potentially dangerous. If Aberforth
noticed anything familiar about him, despite the disguise...
No, he needed somewhere
more private. And he had the perfect place in mind.
With another soft pop,
Hadrian apparated to the outskirts of Hogsmeade, close to the mountains that
loomed over the village. He began to climb, following a path that existed more
in his memory than in reality. After about twenty minutes of steep ascent, he
came to a familiar cave entrance, partially hidden behind a jumble of rocks.
Sirius's cave. Or it would
be, in a few months' time, when his godfather returned to keep a closer eye on
Harry during the Triwizard Tournament.
Hadrian lit his wand with
a silent Lumos and entered the cave cautiously. It was empty, as expected, but
also cleaner than he remembered. Sirius had clearly not been living here yet.
With a series of complex
wand movements, Hadrian set about making the cave habitable. He conjured a
comfortable bed, a small table and chair, and several floating orbs of light
that hovered near the ceiling, providing a warm, steady illumination. A quick
trip outside allowed him to fill several conjured containers with fresh water
from a nearby stream.
It wasn't the Ritz, but it
would do for now.
Settling himself on the
edge of the bed, Hadrian ran a hand through his now-sandy hair and sighed
deeply. The enormity of what had happened—what was happening—threatened to
overwhelm him.
He was thirty-two years
old, a battle-hardened veteran of a war that hadn't happened yet, thrown back
in time to a period when his younger self was just thirteen, just beginning to
understand the dangers that lay ahead.
And he had no idea if he
could ever get back to his own time, or even if there was a "back" to
get to. For all he knew, his original timeline had ceased to exist the moment
he arrived here.
But dwelling on that
wouldn't help. What would help was action. Planning. Preparation.
Hadrian pulled his wand
from his sleeve—and froze, staring at it in shock.
It wasn't the Elder Wand.
It was his original wand,
eleven inches of holly with a phoenix feather core. The wand he had lost years
ago, during the early days of the second war.
But that wasn't right. He
had had the Elder Wand when Dolohov's curse struck him. He had felt it in his
hand as the world dissolved around him.
Frowning, Hadrian held out
his other hand and concentrated.
The Elder Wand
materialized in his palm, as though it had been there all along, merely
invisible.
Hadrian blinked in
surprise. That was... unexpected. He concentrated again, thinking of the
Resurrection Stone.
It, too, appeared in his
hand, a small black stone with the symbol of the Deathly Hallows etched into
its surface.
And the Cloak? Hadrian
reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, not entirely surprised to find the
silky material of the Invisibility Cloak folded neatly inside.
So all three Hallows had
come with him. But his original wand had as well, which raised an interesting
question—was this a duplicate of the holly wand, or was it somehow connected to
the one his younger self currently possessed?
Hadrian cast a simple
Lumos with the holly wand, watching as light bloomed at its tip. It felt right
in his hand, responsive to his magic in a way no duplicate could be. But his
younger self's wand should feel exactly the same.
It was a puzzle, and one
that Hadrian didn't have enough information to solve. But the presence of the
holly wand alongside the Elder Wand suggested that the laws of magic were
bending in ways he didn't fully understand. Perhaps they were bound to him on a
level beyond simple physical possession.
Hadrian replaced both
wands in his sleeves—the holly wand on the right, the Elder Wand on the
left—and the Stone and Cloak in his pockets. Then he conjured a piece of
parchment and a quill, and began to write.
He listed everything he
could remember about the events of the coming year: Sirius's location, the plot
to enter Harry into the Triwizard Tournament, Barty Crouch Jr.'s impersonation
of Mad-Eye Moody, the ritual in the graveyard.
Then he continued,
detailing the events of what would have been Harry's fifth year: Umbridge's
reign of terror at Hogwarts, the Department of Mysteries, Sirius's death.
The sixth year:
Dumbledore's private lessons, the Horcruxes, the assault on Hogwarts,
Dumbledore's death at Snape's hands.
The seventh year: the hunt
for the Horcruxes, the Battle of Hogwarts, Voldemort's death.
And then the years that
followed, the years that shouldn't have happened: Dolohov's rise to power, the
second fall of the Ministry, the long, brutal war that had claimed the lives of
nearly everyone Harry had ever loved.
By the time Hadrian set
down his quill, the parchment had magically extended itself several times over,
filled with his cramped handwriting. He stared at it for a long moment, the
events of his life—his original life—laid out before him like a road map of
tragedy and loss.
Never again. He wouldn't
let it happen. Not here, not in this timeline.
With a wave of his hand,
Hadrian incinerated the parchment, watching as it curled and blackened before
disappearing entirely. He didn't need it written down. Every moment, every
death, every failure was etched into his memory with painful clarity.
What he needed now was
rest. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new decisions. Tomorrow, he would
begin to reshape the future.
As Hadrian lay back on the
conjured bed, closing his eyes against the soft glow of the hovering lights, a
thought struck him with the force of a physical blow.
Somewhere in the castle
below, his thirteen-year-old self was sleeping, exhausted from the night's
adventures with the Time-Turner. A boy who had just discovered he had a
godfather, who was looking forward to a summer that, while unpleasant with the
Dursleys, held the promise of something better to come.
A boy who had no idea of
the horrors that awaited him.
A boy who, if Hadrian had
anything to say about it, would never have to become the man that he had
become—the Warlord of the Phoenix, with blood on his hands and ghosts in his
eyes.
With that thought held
close like a talisman, Hadrian fell into a fitful sleep.
The Warlord's
Background: Harry Potter's Journey to Becoming the Warlord of the Phoenix
In the years following the
Battle of Hogwarts, the wizarding world enjoyed a brief period of peace. With
Voldemort defeated and most of his Death Eaters captured or killed, many
believed that the darkness had finally been vanquished. Harry Potter, hailed as
a hero, joined the Auror Department alongside Ron Weasley, while Hermione
Granger began her ascent through the ranks of the Department of Magical Law
Enforcement.
For three years, it seemed
as though the worst was behind them. Harry and Ginny married in a quiet
ceremony at the Burrow. Ron and Hermione followed suit six months later. The
nightmares that had plagued Harry since childhood began to fade, replaced by dreams
of a future filled with family and peace.
But the darkness had not
been eradicated—merely driven underground, where it festered and grew.
Antonin Dolohov, one of
the few Death Eaters to escape capture after the Battle of Hogwarts, had not
been idle during his years in hiding. A brilliant and ruthless wizard second
only to Voldemort himself in magical power and cruelty, Dolohov had spent his
time gathering the scattered remnants of Voldemort's followers and recruiting
new blood to their cause.
Unlike Voldemort, whose
megalomaniacal tendencies and obsession with Harry Potter had ultimately led to
his downfall, Dolohov was coldly pragmatic. He had no interest in grand
proclamations or elaborate plots. His strategy was simple: infiltrate, corrupt,
and then strike when least expected.
The first sign that
something was amiss came on a crisp autumn morning in 2001, when the entire
Wizengamot was found dead, their bodies arranged in a grotesque parody of a
court session. No magic could determine how the attackers had breached the
Ministry's defenses, nor how they had murdered fifty of the most powerful
witches and wizards in Britain without a single one raising an alarm.
The message was clear: no
one was safe.
The assassination of the
Wizengamot was merely the opening salvo. Within weeks, key figures in the
Ministry began to disappear, only to return as hollow shells of
themselves—clearly under the Imperius Curse, yet somehow undetectable by any
known means of identification.
By the time Harry and the
remaining Aurors realized the full extent of the infiltration, it was too late.
The Ministry had fallen from within, with more than half its employees under
Dolohov's control.
The second war began not
with a declaration, but with a systematic purge. Those known to have opposed
Voldemort were the first targets: surviving members of the Order of the
Phoenix, Dumbledore's Army, and their families.
The Burrow was attacked on
Christmas Day, 2001. Bill and Fleur Weasley died defending their daughter
Victoire. Charlie went down fighting, taking six Death Eaters with him. Percy
was tortured for information before being executed. George, driven mad by the
loss of his brothers, took his own life rather than be captured.
Mr. and Mrs. Weasley,
along with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, escaped only due to Harry's paranoia. He
had insisted on establishing emergency portkeys and safe houses years earlier,
a precaution that many had considered excessive in peacetime.
That night, as they
huddled in a magically-concealed cottage in the Scottish Highlands, Harry made
a vow. Dolohov and his followers would pay for what they had done. And Harry
would ensure that no Dark wizard ever rose to power again, no matter the cost.
The Phoenix Order was born
from the ashes of that terrible Christmas. Named in honor of Dumbledore's
original Order of the Phoenix, but with a harder edge born of bitter
experience, the Phoenix Order quickly became the primary resistance against
Dolohov's regime.
At its core were the
survivors: Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, and
a handful of others who had heeded Harry's warnings and escaped the initial
purge. They were joined by those who had fled the corrupted Ministry, by foreign
wizards sympathetic to their cause, and by an increasing number of ordinary
witches and wizards unwilling to live under tyranny.
For the first year of the
war, they fought defensively, focusing on rescue operations and sabotage. But
as Dolohov's control tightened and his atrocities multiplied, Harry realized
that a more aggressive approach was necessary.
It was Hermione who first
called him "Warlord." It started as a joke—a sardonic comment on
Harry's increasingly military mindset. But the name stuck, especially after the
Battle of Inverness, where Harry led a daring raid on one of Dolohov's strongholds,
freeing hundreds of prisoners and killing dozens of Death Eaters without a
single casualty on their side.
The Warlord of the
Phoenix, the papers called him. A title that Harry initially resented but
eventually embraced, recognizing its utility in rallying support and striking
fear into enemy hearts.
Five years into the war,
tragedy struck again. Hermione, seven months pregnant with her and Ron's first
child, was captured during a mission gone wrong. By the time Harry and Ron
found her, it was too late. The details of what had been done to her were too
horrific to dwell upon, but the result was clear: Hermione Granger-Weasley, the
brightest witch of her age, was gone, leaving behind a hollowed-out shell that
eventually succumbed to its injuries.
Ron was never the same
afterward. The easygoing, sometimes insecure boy had long since matured into a
formidable wizard and strategist, but the loss of Hermione and their unborn
child broke something fundamental within him. He became reckless, seeking death
in battle, until finally finding it during a raid on Dolohov's headquarters in
2008.
The losses continued to
mount. Luna Lovegood, whose unique perspective had so often provided solutions
where logic failed, fell to a curse that literally turned her inside out.
Neville Longbottom sacrificed himself to save a group of children, standing alone
against twenty Death Eaters while the others escaped.
And Ginny... Ginny's death
was perhaps the cruelest of all. Not from battle or torture, but from a wasting
curse that slowly drained her life over the course of a year. Harry watched
helplessly as the woman he loved faded day by day, her vibrant spirit dimming
until, on a quiet evening in 2010, she simply didn't take another breath.
Each loss hardened Harry
further. The idealistic boy who had once refused to use Unforgivable Curses,
who had tried to stun rather than kill, was gone. In his place stood the
Warlord, a man who made the hard decisions, who did what was necessary to win.
As the war dragged on,
Harry's reputation grew increasingly complex. To his followers, he was a beacon
of hope, the only wizard powerful and determined enough to stand against
Dolohov's darkness. To his enemies, he was a figure of terror, ruthless and implacable.
And to those caught in between, he was something of a mythic figure—a modern
Merlin or Gryffindor, whose very name inspired both awe and fear.
The Warlord's magical
abilities had grown exponentially over the years. Necessity forced Harry to
explore branches of magic he had once avoided—not Dark Arts per se, but magic
that stretched the boundaries of what most considered ethical. He delved into ancient
texts, studied forgotten rituals, and pushed his natural talents to their
limits.
Harry discovered his
metamorphmagus abilities during a particularly desperate mission in 2007.
Trapped behind enemy lines with a team of injured Phoenix Order members, he had
found himself wishing desperately that he looked like anyone other than Harry Potter—and
to his shock, his features had begun to shift. The change had been subtle at
first, and difficult to maintain, but with practice, he had mastered the
ability to alter his appearance at will.
His Parseltongue
abilities, which he had thought lost with the destruction of Voldemort's soul
fragment, returned stronger than ever. Harry speculated that the ability had
always been his, dormant in his bloodline, merely awakened by his connection to
Voldemort.
Most significant, however,
was Harry's reconnection with the Deathly Hallows. The Elder Wand had been the
first to return to him. During a particularly brutal battle in 2006, Harry had
found himself disarmed and at the mercy of a Death Eater. In that moment of
desperation, he had felt a sudden warmth in his empty hand, and the Elder Wand
had appeared, seemingly from nowhere, allowing him to turn the tide of the
battle.
The Resurrection Stone had
followed a year later, appearing one night on his pillow with no explanation.
Harry had been tempted, so tempted, to use it to call back Ginny, Ron,
Hermione... but he remembered the tale of the second brother, and resisted. Instead,
he kept the Stone as a reminder of what he fought for—and what he stood to
lose.
The Cloak, of course, had
never truly left him. Even during the darkest days of the war, it had remained
one of Harry's most valued possessions, a connection to his father and a tool
of immeasurable worth.
With all three Hallows
once again in his possession, Harry found his magical abilities amplified
beyond anything he had previously experienced. He could perform feats that left
even his closest allies in awe: wandless magic of incredible complexity, spells
of his own creation, protective enchantments that could shield entire
settlements from detection.
But with this power came
isolation. Few could truly understand the burden Harry carried—not just the
responsibilities of leadership, but the weight of so much death, so much loss.
He became increasingly reserved, sharing his thoughts and feelings with only a
handful of trusted confidants.
By 2023, the war had
reached a stalemate. Dolohov's forces controlled most of wizarding Britain, but
the Phoenix Order had established several strongholds—pockets of resistance
where people could live in relative freedom. Harry's tactical acumen and magical
prowess prevented Dolohov from achieving total victory, while Dolohov's
superior numbers and ruthless strategies kept Harry from reclaiming the
country.
The breakthrough came from
an unexpected quarter. One of Dolohov's inner circle, a witch whose identity
remains unknown even to this day, approached the Phoenix Order with
information: the location of Dolohov's personal sanctuary, and a temporary
weakness in its defenses.
It was almost certainly a
trap. But it was also the first opportunity in years to end the war with a
decisive stroke.
Harry made the decision to
lead the assault himself, taking with him only his most trusted and powerful
fighters—those who, like him, had little left to lose. The plan was simple:
breach the sanctuary, eliminate Dolohov, and deal with the aftermath as it
came.
What Harry didn't
know—what the informant either didn't know or deliberately concealed—was that
Dolohov had spent years developing a new curse. Not merely to kill, but to
erase—to remove an enemy from existence so completely that even the memory of
them would fade from the world.
The assault on the
sanctuary began well. Harry's team breached the outer defenses with minimal
losses and fought their way to Dolohov's inner sanctum. But there, everything
went wrong.
Dolohov was waiting,
surrounded by his elite guard and protected by magical barriers unlike anything
Harry had ever encountered. The battle that followed was cataclysmic, with
magic of such intensity that the very air seemed to burn.
One by one, Harry's
companions fell, until only he and Dolohov remained, circling each other in the
shattered remains of the sanctum.
"You've lost,
Potter," Dolohov said, his voice cold and triumphant. "You've always
been going to lose. Because you fight for others, while I fight only for
myself. And in the end, that makes me stronger."
Harry, bleeding from a
dozen wounds and exhausted beyond measure, merely smiled. "You're wrong,
Antonin. Fighting for others has given me something you'll never understand:
something worth dying for."
With that, Harry launched
a final, desperate attack, pouring every ounce of his remaining strength into a
barrage of spells that forced Dolohov onto the defensive for the first time in
their duel.
For a moment, it seemed as
though Harry might prevail. Dolohov's shields began to crack under the
onslaught, his expression shifting from confidence to concern.
And then Dolohov cast the
curse—the spell he had spent years perfecting. A jet of light neither green nor
red nor any color Harry had seen before struck him squarely in the chest.
The pain was exquisite,
beyond anything Harry had ever experienced. He felt his very being begin to
unravel, to dissolve into nothingness.
With his last conscious
thought, Harry reached for the Deathly Hallows, drawing on their power in a
final act of defiance.
He should have died. By
all rights, he was dead.
Instead, he woke up in a
forest clearing on June 24, 1994, with the symbol of the Deathly Hallows burned
into the earth beneath him.
And thus began the second
life of Harry Potter—or rather, the first life of Hadrian Peverell.
Shadows of Time
Chapter 2: A New Beginning
Hadrian Peverell awoke to
sunlight filtering through the cave entrance, momentarily disoriented before
the memories of the previous night came flooding back. He sat up sharply, his
hand automatically reaching for the wand beneath his pillow—a habit ingrained
by years of war.
For a moment, he simply
breathed, allowing reality to settle around him. He was in the past. His
younger self was still alive, still innocent, still unaware of the horrors that
awaited him. And Hadrian had a chance—perhaps his only chance—to change everything.
But first, he needed to
establish himself in this time. He couldn't simply appear out of nowhere and
start interfering in events. He needed a history, credentials, resources—a life
that would withstand scrutiny.
Hadrian rose from the
conjured bed and with a wave of his wand, transfigured his clothes into
something more suitable for public appearance: a set of simple but well-made
robes in a deep midnight blue that complemented his now-blue eyes. Another wave
freshened his appearance and cleaned his teeth—small comforts of civilization
that he had learned to appreciate during the long years of war, when such basic
amenities were often luxuries.
He would need money.
Fortunately, that was easily solved. As Master of the Deathly Hallows, Hadrian
had certain... abilities that extended beyond ordinary magic. With careful
concentration, he conjured a small pouch of galleons—not created from nothing, which
would violate Gamp's Law, but summoned from forgotten hoards and lost
treasures, places where the coins would never be missed.
It wasn't something he did
lightly. Even in his darkest moments during the war, Harry had maintained
certain principles. Theft had never been among his crimes. But these were
extraordinary circumstances, and he would use the money wisely.
Satisfied with his
preparations, Hadrian stepped out of the cave into the bright morning sunlight.
The view from the mountainside was spectacular—Hogsmeade village nestled in the
valley below, Hogwarts castle rising majestically beyond it, and the Forbidden
Forest stretching into the distance. It looked so peaceful, so untouched by the
ravages of war that had been Hadrian's reality for so long.
"Never again,"
he murmured to himself, a vow and a promise.
With a silent turn,
Hadrian disapparated, reappearing in a secluded alley in Diagon Alley. The
magical shopping district was bustling with mid-morning activity, witches and
wizards going about their business under a perfect blue sky. Hadrian lingered
in the shadows for a moment, overwhelmed by the normality of it all. The last
time he had seen Diagon Alley, it had been a smoldering ruin, the once-cheerful
shops reduced to rubble in the wake of one of Dolohov's more vicious attacks.
Shaking off the memory,
Hadrian pulled up the hood of his robes and stepped out into the street. His
first stop would be Gringotts. He needed to establish himself financially in a
more legitimate manner than conjuring galleons as needed.
The goblin bank stood as
imposing as ever, its white marble façade gleaming in the sunlight. Hadrian
climbed the steps with measured confidence, nodding respectfully to the armored
goblins standing guard at the doors.
Inside, he approached an
available teller, lowering his hood as he did so.
"Good morning,"
he greeted the goblin politely. "I wish to open an account."
The goblin peered at him
through narrowed eyes. "Name?" he asked curtly.
"Hadrian
Peverell."
The goblin's eyebrows rose
fractionally—the name had been recognized, as Hadrian had expected. The
Peverell family was ancient and respected, even if it was believed to be
extinct in the male line.
"Peverell, you
say?" The goblin's voice held a hint of skepticism. "That is a very
old family."
"Indeed,"
Hadrian agreed calmly. "My branch has been... abroad for some generations.
I have recently returned to Britain and find myself in need of banking
services."
"I see." The
goblin studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. "Very well, Mr.
Peverell. If you would follow Griphook, he will assist you with the necessary
paperwork."
Another goblin, one that
Hadrian recognized with a pang of memory, led him to a private office off the
main hall. The process of opening an account was straightforward, if tedious.
Hadrian provided the galleons he had "acquired" for his initial
deposit, signed the necessary documents, and gave a sample of his blood to key
the vault to his magical signature.
If there was any doubt
about his claim to the Peverell name, the blood test dispelled it. The goblins'
magic recognized him as having Peverell blood—which was true enough, through
the Potter line. What it didn't reveal, to Hadrian's relief, was his specific
connection to the Potters or his status as a time traveler. The magical world
had no reliable means of detecting such temporal displacement, and the goblins'
magic was concerned only with bloodlines and legitimate claims to wealth and
property.
"Your vault is number
six hundred and thirteen, Mr. Peverell," Griphook informed him, handing
over a small golden key. "Is there anything else Gringotts can assist you
with today?"
Hadrian considered for a
moment. "Yes, actually. I am in need of lodgings and was wondering if
Gringotts maintains a registry of properties available for lease or
purchase?"
"We do indeed,"
the goblin replied, his tone becoming more respectful now that Hadrian had
established himself as a legitimate client. "For a small fee, we can
provide you with a list of available properties that match your requirements."
"Excellent."
Hadrian nodded. "I'm looking for something modest but private. Preferably
in Hogsmeade, though I would consider other locations if they offer sufficient
seclusion."
Griphook made a note on a
piece of parchment. "Any particular reason for your interest in Hogsmeade,
Mr. Peverell?"
The question was casual,
but Hadrian recognized it for what it was—information gathering. The goblins
were nothing if not thorough in learning about their clients, especially new
ones with old names.
"Professional
interest," Hadrian replied smoothly. "I'm a spell-crafter and
independent researcher. After years abroad, I find myself drawn to the academic
environment that proximity to Hogwarts might provide. The school's library is
unparalleled, and I hope to eventually establish professional relationships
with some of the faculty."
It was a plausible
explanation, and one that would account for any unusual knowledge or abilities
he might display. Spell-crafters were rare and highly respected in the
wizarding world, and their work often required esoteric knowledge and
extraordinary magical talent.
"I see."
Griphook made another note. "We will have a list prepared for you by
tomorrow morning. Will there be anything else?"
"Not at present,
thank you."
With the banking taken
care of, Hadrian returned to Diagon Alley, his hood once again pulled up to
shadow his face. His next priority was to establish a paper trail—documentation
that would support his new identity. For that, he would need to visit the Ministry
of Magic.
But first, he needed to
eat. The physical strain of whatever magic had brought him to this time,
combined with the emotional toll of realizing his situation, had left him
ravenous. He made his way to a small café near the entrance to Knockturn Alley,
one that he remembered as being both discreet and excellent.
The café—Morgana's
Rest—was exactly as he remembered it: dimly lit, with private booths separated
by privacy charms, and a clientele that minded their own business. Hadrian took
a seat in a corner booth with a good view of both the entrance and the back exit,
another habit from the war years.
A waitress approached, her
expression politely neutral. "What can I get for you, sir?"
"Whatever soup you
have today, fresh bread, and a pot of strong tea, please."
As the waitress left to
place his order, Hadrian found himself relaxing slightly for the first time
since his arrival in this timeline. The familiar ambiance of the café,
unchanged from his memories, was oddly comforting. It reminded him of happier
times—brief moments of respite during the early years of his Auror career, when
he would sometimes meet Ginny here for lunch.
Ginny. The thought of her
sent a sharp pang through his chest. In this timeline, she was still alive—a
vibrant twelve-year-old girl recovering from the trauma of her first year at
Hogwarts. She had no idea who Hadrian Peverell was, and if he had his way, she
never would. At least, not in the way she had known Harry Potter.
The waitress returned with
his food—a thick mushroom soup, a loaf of crusty bread still warm from the
oven, and a steaming pot of tea. Hadrian thanked her and began to eat, forcing
himself to do so slowly despite his hunger. As he ate, he continued to plan.
After establishing his
identity at the Ministry, he would need to find more permanent lodgings than
the cave. The Gringotts property list would help with that. Then he would need
to establish himself professionally—perhaps publish a paper or two on spell
theory to support his cover as a researcher.
But most importantly, he
needed to begin addressing the threats that loomed on the horizon. Voldemort's
resurrection was less than a year away. Peter Pettigrew was already on his way
to find his master. Barty Crouch Jr. would soon escape his father's control, if
he hadn't already. And the Triwizard Tournament—the event that had set so many
tragedies in motion—was already being planned.
Hadrian's hand tightened
around his spoon. He could prevent it all. He knew where each Horcrux was
hidden. He knew the players and their plans. He had the power, the knowledge,
and now the opportunity to stop Voldemort before he ever returned to a body.
But he would have to be
careful. Changing too much too quickly might alert powerful figures like
Dumbledore or Voldemort that something was amiss. And there was his younger
self to consider. Harry Potter needed to grow, to learn, to become strong in
his own right—just not in the crucible of war and loss that had shaped Hadrian.
Finding the right balance
would be delicate work. But Hadrian had not survived fifteen years of war
without learning patience and strategy.
He finished his meal, paid
with a generous tip, and made his way back out into Diagon Alley. The Ministry
of Magic awaited, and with it, the first real test of his new identity.
The visitor's entrance to
the Ministry was as shabby as ever—a battered red telephone box in a dingy
London street. Hadrian dialed 6-2-4-4-2 and waited as a cool female voice asked
his name and business.
"Hadrian
Peverell," he stated clearly. "I'm here to register my return to
Britain with the Department of Magical Immigration and Naturalization."
A silver badge slid out of
the coin return slot: "Hadrian Peverell, Immigration Registration."
Hadrian pinned it to his robes as the telephone box began to descend into the
earth.
The Atrium of the Ministry
was bustling with afternoon activity. Witches and wizards hurried to and fro,
interdepartmental memos fluttered overhead like pale purple birds, and the
golden statues of the Fountain of Magical Brethren gleamed ostentatiously in
the center of it all.
Hadrian approached the
security desk, presenting his wand for registration. The bored-looking security
wizard placed it on a brass instrument that resembled an old-fashioned scale,
which vibrated briefly before producing a small strip of parchment.
"Twelve and
three-quarter inches, phoenix feather core, been in use for... hm, that's
odd." The wizard frowned at the parchment. "The reading's unclear on
how long you've had this wand."
Hadrian had been prepared
for this. The Elder Wand remained safely hidden, but the phoenix feather wand
existed in this time in two forms—one in his possession, and one in the
possession of his younger self. The magical signature would be confusing to the
Ministry's instruments.
"It was my
father's," Hadrian explained smoothly. "It chose me after his death,
so perhaps that's causing the confusion. The wandmaker who examined it for me
suggested that the wand might have recognized me as its true master even before
it came into my possession."
"Huh." The
security wizard didn't seem particularly interested in the explanation.
"Well, everything else seems in order. The Department of Magical
Immigration is on Level Four, along with the Department for the Regulation and
Control of Magical Creatures. Take the lift to your right."
"Thank you."
The lift was crowded with
ministry workers ending their day, but Hadrian managed to squeeze in. As the
lift clattered and rattled its way up, he studied the faces around him,
searching for any he recognized. There was a younger Dirk Cresswell, who would later
die fleeing the Muggle-born Registration Commission. Near the back stood
Mafalda Hopkirk, who had survived the war only to die in one of Dolohov's
purges. And there—Hadrian's breath caught—was a young Kingsley Shacklebolt,
tall and imposing even then, his gold earring catching the light as he nodded
politely to a colleague.
So many dead, walking and
breathing and living their lives, unaware of the fate that awaited them—a fate
that Hadrian was determined to change.
The lift stopped at Level
Four, and Hadrian stepped out into a corridor lined with doors. Signs directed
him to the Department of Magical Immigration and Naturalization, a small,
cluttered office staffed by a single witch with steel-gray hair pulled back in
a severe bun.
"Good
afternoon," Hadrian greeted her. "I'm here to register my return to
Britain."
The witch looked up from
her paperwork, assessing him with shrewd eyes. "Name?"
"Hadrian
Peverell."
Her eyebrows rose
slightly. "Peverell? That's an old name."
"Yes," Hadrian
agreed. "My family left Britain some generations ago. I was born and
raised abroad, but recent events have drawn me back to my ancestral
homeland."
"I see." She
pulled a thick form from a drawer. "You'll need to fill this out. It
requires details of your lineage, education, and purpose for settling in
Britain. Do you have any documentation from your previous place of
residence?"
This was the tricky part.
Hadrian had anticipated the need for documentation, but creating it
convincingly would be difficult. Fortunately, he had a plan.
"I'm afraid much of
my documentation was lost," he said, allowing a hint of genuine regret to
color his tone. "I was living in a small magical community in Eastern
Europe when Grindelwald's remaining followers staged a resurgence. There was an
attack... many were killed, and many records destroyed. I escaped with little
more than my wand and the clothes on my back."
The witch's expression
softened slightly. Grindelwald's reign of terror had ended decades ago, but the
wounds it had left on the European magical community still ran deep, and
periodic flare-ups of violence from his remaining supporters were not unheard of.
"I am sorry to hear
that, Mr. Peverell. Such events are most unfortunate." She pulled another
form from her drawer. "In cases of lost documentation due to conflict or
disaster, we have alternative procedures. This form will require a magical oath
verifying the truthfulness of your statements, and we will need to conduct a
lineage verification charm to confirm your claim to the Peverell name."
Hadrian nodded, accepting
the forms. The lineage charm didn't concern him—his blood did contain Peverell
ancestry, diluted though it might be through the Potter line. And the magical
oath was carefully worded to verify only that he believed his statements to be
true, not that they were objectively factual in all respects. It was a
distinction that would allow him to navigate the situation without committing
magical perjury.
He spent the next half
hour carefully filling out the forms, crafting a background that was detailed
enough to be convincing but vague enough to be untraceable. According to his
new history, he had been born to expatriate British parents in a small magical
community in Romania, educated through a combination of tutoring and
apprenticeship rather than at a formal magical school, and had spent his adult
life traveling and studying ancient magic before the attack that prompted his
return to Britain.
When he finished, the
witch reviewed his forms, performed the lineage charm (which produced a faint
golden glow, indicating a legitimate though distant connection to the Peverell
line), and administered the magical oath, which Hadrian spoke without hesitation,
his wand tip glowing softly as the magic took hold.
"Everything seems to
be in order, Mr. Peverell," she said, stamping the forms and filing them
in a cabinet behind her desk. "You are now officially registered as a
resident wizard of magical Britain, with all the rights and responsibilities
that entails." She handed him a small card embossed with the Ministry
seal. "This serves as your identification until your official documents
arrive by owl in approximately one week."
"Thank you for your
assistance," Hadrian said, pocketing the card.
"Before you go, Mr.
Peverell, I should inform you that as someone with a recognized ancient family
name, you may wish to visit the Department of Magical Genealogy on Level Three.
They maintain records of all old wizarding families and can provide information
on any unclaimed hereditary positions or properties that might be associated
with your lineage."
Hadrian hadn't considered
this possibility. The Peverell line was indeed ancient, predating even the
founding of Hogwarts. It was possible that there might be forgotten assets or
even titles that he could legitimately claim, which would further cement his
position in this time.
"That's excellent
advice. I'll do that right away."
The Department of Magical
Genealogy proved to be even smaller than Immigration, consisting of a dusty
office crammed with ancient tomes and scrolls, presided over by an elderly
wizard with spectacles so thick they magnified his eyes to owlish proportions.
"Peverell, you
say?" the wizard wheezed after hearing Hadrian's inquiry. "Haven't
had anyone claim that name in centuries. Let me see, let me see..."
He disappeared into the
stacks, returning some minutes later with a massive leather-bound volume that
looked as though it might crumble to dust at any moment. With exquisite care,
he laid the book on a reading stand and began to page through it, muttering to
himself.
"Peverell,
Peverell... ah, here we are. The most recent recorded male-line Peverell was
Ignotus Peverell, died 1291. The line continued through his daughter, who
married into the Potter family, and through his brothers' descendants, who
eventually became the Gaunt family, now extinct in the male line as well."
He glanced up at Hadrian. "You claim descent through which branch?"
Hadrian had prepared for
this question. "A cadet branch descended from Ignotus's younger son, who
left Britain after a dispute with his sister's husband. The line has continued
abroad, largely disconnected from British wizarding society until now."
The genealogist peered at
him skeptically. "No record of a younger son here."
"The dispute was...
significant," Hadrian improvised smoothly. "From family lore, I
understand that his sister's husband had him stricken from the family records
in Britain. But the line continued, maintaining the Peverell name and traditions
in eastern Europe."
"Hmmm." The old
wizard didn't seem entirely convinced but turned back to his book. "Well,
if you are indeed of Peverell blood, as the lineage charm suggests, there might
be something... yes, there is an entry here regarding unclaimed assets. It
seems that Ignotus Peverell established a vault at Gringotts with provisions
that it could only be accessed by a true Peverell of direct descent, verified
by blood and magic. The ministry has no jurisdiction over such arrangements—you
would need to speak with the goblins."
This was unexpected but
potentially very useful. Hadrian hadn't known of any such vault—it had never
come up during his time as Harry Potter. Perhaps the knowledge had been lost
over the centuries, or perhaps the vault had been claimed and emptied by some
forgotten ancestor.
"I appreciate the
information," Hadrian said. "Is there anything else associated with
the Peverell name that I should be aware of?"
The genealogist considered
for a moment. "The Peverells were renowned for their magical
innovations—particularly in the areas of enchanted objects and protective
magic. There are references to a family grimoire of considerable power, though
its location, if it still exists, is unknown." He adjusted his spectacles.
"There is also the matter of the family seat on the Wizengamot."
Hadrian carefully
controlled his expression. A Wizengamot seat would provide political influence
that could be invaluable for his plans. "Family seat?"
"Indeed. The Peverell
family held one of the original Thirteen Seats on the Wizengamot, established
at its founding. Those seats are hereditary and cannot be abolished or
reassigned, only left dormant when a family dies out or fails to claim them. The
Potter family currently holds one of the Thirteen, as does the Malfoy family,
among others. The Peverell seat has been dormant for centuries, but if you can
prove direct descent, you would be entitled to claim it."
"And how would I go
about proving such descent to the satisfaction of the Wizengamot?"
The genealogist closed the
massive book with careful hands. "The process is ancient and somewhat...
archaic. You would need to present yourself before the full Wizengamot during a
formal session, provide evidence of your lineage—which the goblins' verification
would help with—and then submit to a magical testing using the Wizengamot's own
means of verification. If accepted, you would be immediately seated as a full
member with all voting rights and privileges."
Hadrian considered this
carefully. Claiming the seat would give him significant political power and
legitimacy, but it would also place him squarely in the public eye. It would
make enacting certain plans more difficult, as his actions would be more scrutinized.
On the other hand, it would position him to influence legislation and policy in
ways that might prevent some of the legal failures that had enabled Voldemort's
and later Dolohov's rise to power.
"Thank you for the
information," Hadrian said at last. "I'll need to consider my options
carefully."
"Of course, of
course," the old wizard nodded. "These are significant matters not to
be undertaken lightly. The next formal session of the Wizengamot, should you
decide to proceed, is scheduled for July 31st."
July 31st—Harry Potter's
birthday. The coincidence wasn't lost on Hadrian. It felt almost like fate, or
perhaps a cosmic joke. But it did give him over a month to prepare, should he
decide to claim the seat.
Leaving the Ministry,
Hadrian found his mind whirling with possibilities. His plan to establish
himself in this timeline was proceeding more smoothly than he had dared hope.
Between the Gringotts account, the Ministry registration, and now the potential
for both an ancestral vault and a Wizengamot seat, his new identity as Hadrian
Peverell was rapidly becoming not just plausible but powerful.
As evening approached,
Hadrian made his way back to Hogsmeade, choosing to apparate to the outskirts
and walk through the village rather than returning directly to the cave. He
needed to get a feel for the place as it was now, peaceful and untouched by war,
and to begin establishing himself as a presence in the community.
The Three Broomsticks was
doing a brisk evening business when he pushed open the door. The familiar
warmth and bustle of the pub washed over him, bringing with it a flood of
memories—some pleasant, others less so. Madam Rosmerta stood behind the bar,
laughing at something a customer had said, her curly hair gleaming in the
lamplight.
Hadrian took a seat at a
small table in the corner, ordered a meal and a butterbeer, and settled in to
observe. End of term had come for Hogwarts students, so the pub was free of
teenagers, filled instead with local residents and a few visitors. At a large
table near the center, Hadrian recognized several Hogwarts professors enjoying
an evening out—Flitwick, Sprout, and Vector, along with Hagrid, whose massive
form dwarfed his chair.
The sight of them—alive,
happy, relaxed—brought a lump to Hadrian's throat. Flitwick had died defending
Ravenclaw students during the Battle of Hogwarts. Sprout had survived that
battle only to fall victim to one of Dolohov's purges years later. Vector had
simply disappeared one day during the second war, her fate never discovered.
And Hagrid—loyal, brave Hagrid—had died in Hadrian's arms after a raid gone
wrong, using his last breath to make Harry promise to take care of Fang.
Promises. So many promises
made to the dying. So many vows of vengeance, of remembrance, of change. And
now, Hadrian had the chance to ensure those promises would never need to be
made in the first place.
"You're new around
here, aren't you?"
The voice startled Hadrian
from his thoughts. Madam Rosmerta had approached his table, a fresh butterbeer
in hand. She set it down with a smile, her curious eyes taking in his
appearance.
"Just arrived,"
Hadrian confirmed, returning her smile. "Hadrian Peverell."
"Rosmerta." She
extended her hand, which Hadrian shook. "Peverell? That's an old
name."
"So I keep being
told," Hadrian said with a wry smile. "My family has been abroad for
generations, but I've recently returned to Britain and am considering settling
in Hogsmeade."
"Well, you've chosen
a lovely village," Rosmerta said. "Are you looking for property to
buy, or just to rent for now?"
"To buy, I think. I'm
waiting on a list from Gringotts, but if you know of anything suitable, I'd be
interested to hear."
Rosmerta considered for a
moment. "Old Madam Wilkins passed away last winter, and her cottage at the
edge of the village has been sitting empty. Her nephew inherited it but lives
in America and has no interest in keeping it. It's a bit isolated—backs right
up to the forest—but it's a charming place with good protections."
The description sounded
perfect for Hadrian's needs. "That does sound promising. Do you know who's
handling the sale?"
"Jenkins at the
estate office, just up the street. Tell him I sent you, and he might even offer
you a fair price." She winked conspiratorially.
"I appreciate the
tip," Hadrian said, raising his butterbeer in a small toast. "To new
beginnings in Hogsmeade."
"To new
beginnings," Rosmerta echoed, before returning to her duties behind the
bar.
Hadrian finished his meal
slowly, savoring both the food and the peaceful atmosphere. Tomorrow, he would
visit Jenkins about the cottage and continue establishing his presence in the
village. But for tonight, he allowed himself to simply exist in this moment, in
this time before everything went wrong.
As he walked back to the
cave later that evening, the stars bright overhead and the distant lights of
Hogwarts twinkling in the darkness, Hadrian felt something he hadn't
experienced in years: hope. Not the desperate, clinging hope that had sustained
him through the darkest days of the war, but a genuine belief that things could
be different this time.
And they would be. He
would make sure of it.
Shadows of Time
Chapter 3: Foundations
The cottage at the edge of
Hogsmeade exceeded Hadrian's expectations. Nestled among ancient oak trees,
with the Forbidden Forest looming behind it and a small, clear stream running
alongside, it offered both seclusion and strategic positioning. From the upstairs
windows, Hadrian could see Hogwarts castle in the distance, its towers and
turrets gleaming in the morning light.
Jenkins, the estate agent,
had been surprised by Hadrian's immediate interest.
"Most folks find it a
bit too isolated," the portly wizard had explained as he unlocked the
front door. "And being so close to the Forest puts some people off.
Strange noises at night, you understand."
Hadrian had merely smiled.
After what he'd faced in his life, the natural sounds of the Forbidden Forest
were practically a lullaby.
The cottage itself was
modest but well-built, with thick stone walls and sturdy oak beams. The ground
floor consisted of a cozy sitting room with a large fireplace, a kitchen with
an old-fashioned wood-burning stove, and a small study lined with empty bookshelves.
Upstairs were two bedrooms and a surprisingly modern bathroom—Madam Wilkins had
apparently enjoyed her comforts.
"The price is quite
reasonable," Jenkins had said, naming a sum that was indeed fair for such
a property. "Madam Wilkins' nephew just wants it sold quickly."
"I'll take it,"
Hadrian had replied without hesitation, handing over a pouch of galleons as a
deposit.
That had been three days
ago. Now, as Hadrian stood in the study of his new home, surrounded by boxes of
books he had purchased to fill the empty shelves, he felt a sense of
satisfaction. The cottage was his, the protective wards had been reinforced and
expanded according to his exacting specifications, and he had begun to
establish himself as a presence in the village.
The locals had accepted
his story without much question—a researcher and spell-crafter returning to
Britain after years abroad, looking for a quiet place to continue his work. His
name raised a few eyebrows, but most wizards and witches were too polite to pry
directly. Hadrian had been careful to be friendly but not overly familiar, to
show enough wealth to explain his purchase of the cottage but not enough to
attract undue attention.
In short, he was
positioning himself exactly as he needed to be: a respectable, modestly
successful wizard with an ancient name, interesting enough to be remembered but
not so interesting as to be closely scrutinized.
With a wave of his wand,
Hadrian sent a stack of books flying to the shelves, arranging themselves
alphabetically by subject and author. Most were standard texts on magical
theory, potions, and defense—the kind of books any serious researcher might
own. But hidden among them, disguised with subtle magic to appear as innocuous
academic works to anyone but Hadrian, were grimmer volumes: detailed analyses
of Voldemort's first rise to power, accounts of the Death Eater trials, and
personal journals that Hadrian had begun keeping, documenting everything he
remembered about the future he was determined to prevent.
A soft tapping at the
window interrupted his thoughts. A regal-looking owl perched on the sill, a
letter tied to its leg with the official Gringotts seal.
Hadrian opened the window,
allowing the owl to hop inside. He untied the letter, offered the bird a treat
from a bowl he kept ready for such deliveries, and broke the seal.
The letter was brief and
to the point:
Mr. Peverell,
We are pleased to inform
you that your claim to ancestral Vault 13 has been verified by our records and
blood-magic protocols. As the first legitimate claimant in seven centuries, you
are entitled to full access to the vault and all contents therein.
Please present yourself at
Gringotts at your earliest convenience to complete the necessary documentation
and receive your key.
The inheritance ritual
will require approximately two hours and must be conducted between sunrise and
sunset.
Yours in financial
partnership,
Ragnok Senior Accounts Manager Gringotts
Wizarding Bank
Vault 13. One of the
original Gringotts vaults, established when the bank was first founded. Hadrian
hadn't known of its existence—another piece of family history that had been
lost before it could reach Harry Potter. The vault number itself suggested significance;
the lower the number, the older and typically more prestigious the vault.
Hadrian checked the time.
Just past eleven in the morning—plenty of time to reach Gringotts and complete
the ritual before sunset. He quickly changed into more formal robes, secured
his wands in their holsters, and apparated to Diagon Alley.
Gringotts was bustling
with mid-day activity, but Hadrian was immediately approached by a goblin who
seemed to have been waiting for him.
"Mr. Peverell? Ragnok
is expecting you. This way, please."
Hadrian was led not to one
of the standard meeting rooms but deep into the bank, through corridors he had
never seen before, even during the infamous break-in he had orchestrated with
Ron and Hermione. The walls here were adorned with intricate gold and silver
inlays depicting what appeared to be scenes from goblin history.
Finally, they reached a
massive door made of what looked like solid gold, engraved with the Gringotts
crest and protected by two armored goblin guards. At a nod from Hadrian's
escort, the guards stepped aside, and the door swung open silently.
The chamber beyond was
circular and dimly lit, with a domed ceiling that seemed to reflect the night
sky despite it being daytime outside. In the center of the room stood a raised
dias, upon which sat a goblin much older than any Hadrian had seen before, his
wrinkled face bearing the marks of great age and wisdom.
"Hadrian
Peverell," the goblin's voice was surprisingly deep and strong. "I am
Ragnok, Senior Accounts Manager and keeper of the Ancient Vaults. You have come
to claim your inheritance."
It wasn't a question, but
Hadrian answered anyway. "I have, Master Ragnok."
The goblin's eyes narrowed
slightly at the respectful address, but he gave a small nod of acknowledgment.
"The Peverell vault has remained sealed for seven centuries, its existence
known to few outside the highest echelons of Gringotts management. Its opening
is not a small matter."
"I understand,"
Hadrian said. "I admit I was unaware of its existence myself until
recently. Family knowledge has been... fragmented over the generations."
"Indeed." Ragnok
gestured to the stone floor before the dias, where Hadrian now noticed an
inlaid pattern—the symbol of the Deathly Hallows, he realized with a start.
"Please stand at the center of the mark. The verification process will require
a sample of your blood and magic."
Hadrian stepped forward,
positioning himself at the center of the triangle. Ragnok produced a small,
silver knife and a stone bowl that appeared to be carved from a single massive
ruby.
"Three drops of blood
into the bowl, followed by a demonstration of your magic that reflects your
truest self," Ragnok instructed. "Choose carefully—the magic you show
here will be bound to your access to the vault."
Hadrian took the knife,
made a small cut on his palm, and allowed exactly three drops of blood to fall
into the ruby bowl. The blood didn't pool as expected but seemed to be absorbed
into the stone itself, causing it to glow from within.
Now for the magic. His
"truest self." Hadrian considered carefully. Not combat magic—though
that had been a significant part of his life, it didn't represent his core. Not
the specialized spells he had developed as the Warlord, which were too dark,
too tied to war and suffering.
No, his truest magic had
always been about protection. About standing between those he loved and harm.
Hadrian raised his holly
wand—the Elder Wand would be too conspicuous here—and moved it in a complex
pattern, murmuring an incantation in ancient Celtic that he had discovered in
his original timeline. A soft, golden light emanated from the wand's tip, expanding
outward in concentric circles. Where the light touched the walls, floor, and
ceiling, it briefly illuminated hidden runes and protective enchantments
already built into the chamber.
It was an ancient form of
the Shield Charm, but vastly more powerful and nuanced. Rather than simply
deflecting offensive magic, it created a sanctuary within its boundaries—a
space where harmful intent could not manifest, where wounds would heal more quickly,
where fear and despair were muted. It was magic that Harry had developed during
the darkest days of the war, refined and perfected as he tried desperately to
carve out safe places for survivors.
The golden light continued
to expand until it filled the entire chamber, then slowly faded, leaving behind
a lingering sense of warmth and safety. Even the goblins seemed affected, their
perpetually stern expressions softening almost imperceptibly.
Ragnok's eyes had widened
slightly, the only indication of his surprise. "Sanctuary magic," he
murmured. "The ancient art of creating hallowed ground. Few wizards in any
age have mastered such spells." He studied Hadrian with new interest.
"The Peverells were known for their protective magic. It seems that gift
has not been lost, despite the passage of centuries."
The ruby bowl had begun to
glow even more brightly, pulsing in rhythm with Hadrian's heartbeat. Suddenly,
the light shot upward in a brilliant column that enveloped Hadrian completely.
Within the light, he felt a strange sensation—as though something were
examining him, not just his blood or his magic, but his very essence, his
intentions, his soul.
For a moment, he feared
that the ancient magic might somehow recognize him as Harry Potter, might
reject his claim or reveal his true identity. But then the light changed color,
shifting from ruby red to a deep, burnished gold, and Hadrian felt a sense of
acceptance, of recognition—not of his false identity, but of his rightful
connection to the Peverell line.
The light receded, leaving
behind a small golden key floating in the air before him. Hadrian reached out
and took it, feeling a slight tingle of magic as his fingers closed around the
cool metal.
"The vault has
accepted you," Ragnok stated, a note of respect in his gravelly voice.
"You are acknowledged as the True Heir of Peverell."
Hadrian inclined his head.
"I am grateful for the recognition."
"The inheritance
ritual is now complete." Ragnok gestured, and two younger goblins appeared
at a side door. "Griphook and Gornuk will escort you to your vault. As
this is your first visit, I should warn you that the contents have remained untouched
for centuries. You may find items of both significant value and significant
danger."
"Thank you for the
warning," Hadrian said. "Is there anything else I should know before
I proceed?"
Ragnok considered for a
moment. "Only this: the Peverell vault is bound by different rules than
most. It exists... not entirely within the normal confines of Gringotts. Time
moves differently there. Do not be alarmed if your visit seems to take longer
than expected."
With that cryptic
statement, Ragnok dismissed him with a nod, and Hadrian followed the two
goblins through the side door and into a narrow stone corridor. Unlike the cart
tracks that served most Gringotts vaults, this passage seemed designed for
walking. The walls were lined with ancient-looking torches that lit themselves
as the small party approached and extinguished themselves after they passed.
The passage descended
steeply, winding ever deeper beneath London. Hadrian estimated that they had
been walking for about fifteen minutes when the corridor abruptly ended at a
massive stone door. No keyhole was visible, only a small indentation in the shape
of a hand at the center of the door.
"Place your hand and
the key in the impression," Griphook instructed. "The vault will do
the rest."
Hadrian did as he was
told, laying his palm flat against the cold stone with the key pressed between
his hand and the door. For a moment, nothing happened. Then he felt the key
grow warm, almost hot, before seeming to melt into the stone. The impression beneath
his hand began to glow with the same golden light that had enveloped him during
the ritual.
Slowly, silently, the
great stone door sank into the floor, revealing a chamber beyond that took
Hadrian's breath away.
The Peverell vault was not
merely a storage room but a vast, cathedral-like space with soaring ceilings
supported by intricately carved columns. Soft, ambient light filled the
chamber, though Hadrian could see no obvious source. The walls were lined with
bookshelves, weapon racks, and display cases, while the center of the room
contained several large tables and comfortable-looking chairs, as though
designed for study or contemplation.
And everywhere—along the
walls, stacked on tables, arranged in neat piles on the floor—were treasures.
Gold and silver coins in quantities that would make even the Malfoys envious.
Jewels of every size and color. Weapons and armor of obviously magical craftsmanship.
Ancient scrolls and leather-bound tomes. Artifacts whose purpose Hadrian
couldn't begin to guess.
"We will wait
outside," Gornuk stated. "Take as much time as you need. When you are
ready to leave, simply approach the door and place your hand upon it once
more."
The goblins withdrew, the
stone door rising again to close behind them, leaving Hadrian alone in the
vault of his ancestors.
For several minutes, he
simply stood there, overwhelmed by the significance of the moment. This vault
and its contents had been waiting for seven centuries, preserved by magic
beyond his understanding, for a true Peverell to claim them. And now, through the
strangest of circumstances, that Peverell was him—a time traveler from a future
that would never come to pass, a war leader without a war, a man living under a
false identity that was, paradoxically, truer to his heritage than the name he
had been born with.
Eventually, Hadrian shook
himself from his reverie and began to explore. The gold and jewels, while
impressive, were of less immediate interest than the books and artifacts. He
approached one of the bookshelves, running his fingers along the spines of ancient
tomes with titles in languages he recognized—Latin, Greek, Celtic—and others he
did not.
One volume in particular
caught his attention: a large book bound in what appeared to be black dragon
hide, with the symbol of the Deathly Hallows embossed in silver on its cover.
Carefully, Hadrian removed it from the shelf and carried it to one of the tables.
The book opened at his
touch, its pages turning of their own accord until they settled on what
appeared to be a family tree. Unlike the tapestry at Grimmauld Place, this
genealogy was clearly magical in a more active sense—the names and lines
shifted and rearranged themselves as Hadrian watched, zooming in on particular
branches, highlighting connections, responding to his focus and interest.
Tracing the lineage
forward from the three Peverell brothers, Hadrian found what he expected:
Ignotus's line leading eventually to the Potters, Cadmus's to the Gaunts and
ultimately to Tom Riddle. But there was something else, a faint golden line
extending from Ignotus's name to another branch that Hadrian had never known
about—a second son, Iolanthe, whose existence had apparently been obscured or
forgotten by history.
This, then, was the basis
for his claim: a real historical figure whose line had indeed continued
separately from the main Potter branch, eventually disappearing from British
wizarding records. It was as though the universe itself was conspiring to legitimize
his false identity, providing him with an actual historical foundation that he
could build upon.
Hadrian spent what felt
like hours examining the book, learning about generations of Peverells he had
never known existed. The text seemed to anticipate his questions, pages turning
to relevant information without him needing to search. When he finally closed
the volume, his mind was buzzing with new knowledge about his ancestral family.
Setting the genealogy
aside, Hadrian continued his exploration of the vault. In a glass case near the
center of the room, he found something that made his heart skip a beat: three
wands, laid side by side on a cushion of deep purple velvet. A small plaque
beneath them identified them as the original wands of the three Peverell
brothers—not the Deathly Hallows, but the ordinary wands they had used before
obtaining those legendary items.
Next to the wands was a
sealed letter, yellowed with age but perfectly preserved by the vault's magic.
It was addressed simply: "To the True Heir of Peverell."
With careful hands,
Hadrian broke the wax seal—impressed with the now-familiar symbol of the
Hallows—and unfolded the parchment. The handwriting was elegant but
unmistakably ancient, the ink still as black as the day it was written.
To the one who opens this
letter,
If you are reading these
words, then the magic of our vault has recognized you as a true descendant of
our line, one who carries not merely our blood but our spirit and purpose.
Know this: the Peverell
family has never been merely what the world believes us to be. Behind the
legends and tales that have no doubt grown around our name lies a deeper truth
and a greater purpose.
We were Guardians—chosen
protectors against threats that the wizarding world at large has never fully
comprehended. The Deathly Hallows, which feature so prominently in the stories
told of our family, were tools created for this guardianship, weapons against a
darkness that exists beyond the veil of ordinary reality.
This darkness stirs in
cycles, returning to threaten the balance between the realms of life and death.
When the signs appear—when the barriers between worlds grow thin, when magic
itself seems to sicken and turn against its wielders—then a Guardian must rise.
I cannot know what age you
live in, what form the threat may take in your time. But if you have been
called to this vault, if our blood and magic recognize you as worthy, then the
need has arisen once more.
Within this vault you will
find the knowledge, tools, and resources necessary for your task. Use them
wisely. Trust in the magic that has guided our family for generations. And know
that you do not stand alone—those who came before you stand with you still, in
ways you may not yet understand.
The path of the Guardian
is not an easy one. It demands sacrifice and courage beyond ordinary measure.
But it is a sacred duty, one that we of the Peverell line have never shirked.
Ignotus Peverell
Hadrian read the letter
three times, his hands trembling slightly. Guardians. A darkness beyond the
veil. Cycles of threat and protection. It sounded like something from a fantasy
novel, and yet...
And yet it resonated with
his own experiences in ways he couldn't ignore. The Master of Death. The
Hallows choosing to follow him across time itself. The strange circumstances
that had brought him here, to this precise moment in history, when Voldemort was
poised to return and the wizarding world faced destruction.
Was it possible that his
arrival in this time was not an accident? That some deeper magic, some ancient
purpose tied to his very bloodline, had pulled him back to this critical
juncture?
Hadrian carefully refolded
the letter and placed it in an inner pocket of his robes. He would need time to
process its implications, to reconcile this new information with what he
already knew and what he had planned.
Turning his attention back
to the vault's contents, Hadrian began to systematically examine the artifacts
and books, looking now for anything that might relate to this
"Guardian" role or the threats mentioned in Ignotus's letter. He
found several trunks filled with journals and research notes from various
Peverells throughout the centuries, each apparently documenting their own
encounters with the "darkness beyond the veil."
Some described creatures
that sounded like more powerful versions of Dementors. Others spoke of rifts
opening between realms, of the dead walking among the living, of magic itself
becoming corrupted and unpredictable. Each generation of Guardians seemed to
face a different manifestation of the same underlying threat—a fundamental
disturbance in the balance between life and death.
And each time, a Peverell
had stood against it, using the Hallows and other tools of their lineage to
restore the balance.
If this information was
accurate—and Hadrian had no reason to doubt it, given the vault's powerful
authentication magic—then it cast his own life and struggles in an entirely new
light. Had Voldemort's obsession with cheating death, his creation of Horcruxes,
his very existence as something neither truly alive nor dead, been part of this
ancient cycle? Was Hadrian himself not merely a time traveler hoping to change
history, but a Guardian called to restore a balance that had been disrupted far
more profoundly than he had realized?
The implications were
staggering. And yet, in a strange way, they also brought clarity. If his
purpose here was greater than simply preventing the tragedies of his own
timeline—if he was part of an ancient lineage of protectors against forces that
threatened the very fabric of magical reality—then he had all the more reason
to succeed in his mission.
After what felt like
several hours of reading and exploration, Hadrian began to select items to take
with him. The vault was his now, and he could return whenever he wished, but
some things would be immediately useful. He chose several books on advanced protective
magic, a collection of small enchanted objects whose purposes were clearly
explained in an accompanying journal, and a modest quantity of gold and gems to
supplement his financial resources.
He also took one of the
three wands—Ignotus's own, a beautifully crafted piece of elder wood (though
not the Elder Wand itself) with a core that the accompanying note identified as
"freely given unicorn blood, crystallized in moonlight." Such a core
was unheard of in modern wandmaking and suggested magical properties that might
prove useful.
As a final item, Hadrian
selected a pendant from a display case near the vault's entrance. Made of
platinum and set with a small, perfectly clear diamond, it bore the symbol of
the Hallows etched in its surface. According to the small card beneath it, the
pendant served as a focus for Peverell family magic and would help its wearer
channel the protective powers that were their birthright.
With his selections
carefully packed away in an expandable pouch he had found among the vault's
contents, Hadrian made his way back to the entrance and placed his hand upon
the stone door. It sank into the floor as before, revealing the two goblins
still waiting patiently in the corridor.
"You have concluded
your business?" Griphook asked.
"For today,"
Hadrian confirmed. "Though I expect I will return in the future."
The goblin nodded.
"As is your right. The vault is now keyed to your blood and magic. You may
access it directly in future visits, without the need for the inheritance
ritual."
The walk back up the
corridor seemed shorter than the descent had been, and soon they were emerging
into the main area of the bank. Hadrian was surprised to see that the light
streaming through the high windows indicated it was still early afternoon—despite
feeling as though he had spent many hours in the vault.
Ragnok's warning about
time moving differently there had been accurate, it seemed.
As he left Gringotts,
stepping out into the bright sunshine of Diagon Alley, Hadrian felt a profound
shift in his understanding of his situation. He had come to this time intending
to prevent a war, to save lives, to rewrite a history of suffering. Those goals
remained unchanged.
But now he understood that
there might be deeper forces at work, ancient magics and cyclical threats that
extended beyond Voldemort and his Death Eaters. The letter from Ignotus
suggested that the disruption of the balance between life and death—precisely
what Voldemort had achieved with his Horcruxes—was part of a recurring pattern
that the Peverell family had been combating for centuries.
If that were true, then
Hadrian's presence here was no accident. He had been called back, across time
itself, to fulfill his role as a Guardian. And he would not fail.
With renewed purpose,
Hadrian made his way through Diagon Alley, stopping at Flourish and Blotts to
browse the latest publications on magical theory. His cover as a spell-crafter
and researcher needed to be substantiated with actual work, after all, and he
genuinely enjoyed magical innovation. During the war, necessity had driven him
to create and adapt spells at a remarkable rate—skills that could now be put to
more constructive use.
As he was examining a
newly published treatise on the interaction between runic arrays and wand-based
magic, a familiar voice nearby caught his attention.
"...absolutely
ridiculous prices for standard potion ingredients. I'll have to make a trip to
the apothecary in Hogsmeade instead."
Severus Snape stood at a
nearby bookshelf, speaking to a salesman who looked increasingly nervous under
the Potions Master's disdainful gaze. He looked exactly as Hadrian remembered
him from this time period—sallow-faced, with greasy black hair and a perpetual
sneer, dressed in his customary black robes despite the summer heat.
Hadrian's breath caught.
Snape. Alive. The man who had protected Harry Potter for years while treating
him with contempt, who had loved Lily Evans until his dying breath, who had
played a double agent with such skill that he had fooled even Voldemort himself.
In Hadrian's original
timeline, Snape had died in the Shrieking Shack, killed by Nagini on
Voldemort's orders. His final act had been to give Harry his memories,
revealing the truth about his loyalties and the fact that Harry himself was a
Horcrux that needed to be destroyed.
Now, here he was—alive,
irritable, and completely unaware of the future that awaited him. A future that
Hadrian intended to change.
Without conscious
decision, Hadrian found himself moving closer to the Potions Master,
positioning himself within conversational distance while pretending to browse a
shelf of books on experimental charms.
"...will check back
next week to see if the new edition has arrived," Snape was saying, his
voice clipped with annoyance. He turned from the cowed salesman and nearly
collided with Hadrian.
"My apologies,"
Hadrian said smoothly, stepping back. "I was too absorbed in my
reading."
Snape gave him a cursory
glance, clearly ready to dismiss the interaction, when his eyes fell on the
book in Hadrian's hands: "Theoretical Approaches to Spell Modification: A
Comprehensive Analysis of Matrix-Based Adaptations."
It was an advanced text,
one that few wizards outside of professional spell-crafters or Unspeakables
would have any interest in. Snape's eyebrow raised slightly.
"An unusual choice of
reading material," he commented. "Most wizards find Arthimius's
theories on spell matrices incomprehensible."
Hadrian allowed himself a
small smile. "Most wizards don't take the time to work through his
mathematical models properly. His approach to breaking down spell components
for selective modification is quite elegant, once you understand his framework."
Now he had Snape's
attention. The Potions Master was, above all else, an intellectual, and he
rarely encountered anyone who could discuss advanced magical theory at his
level.
"You're familiar with
Arthimius's work, then?"
"And its
limitations," Hadrian replied. "His model fails to account for the
emotional component of spellcasting, which becomes increasingly significant as
you move from simple utilitarian spells to more complex magical effects. I've
been working on an adaptation that integrates emotional resonance as a
quantifiable variable."
It wasn't a lie. During
the war, Harry had indeed developed such a model, working with Hermione and a
team of theoretical magic specialists to create spells that could break through
Death Eater defenses by leveraging the caster's emotional state.
Snape's eyes narrowed
thoughtfully. "An interesting approach. There have been attempts to
incorporate emotional factors into spell-crafting theory before, but the
subjective nature of emotions makes them difficult to quantify reliably."
"That's been the
traditional stumbling block," Hadrian agreed. "But I've found that
it's not the specific emotion that needs quantification, but rather its
intensity and the caster's ability to channel it constructively. By treating
emotional energy as a raw power source with measurable amplitude and frequency,
rather than trying to categorize the emotions themselves, much more consistent
results can be achieved."
Despite himself, Snape
looked intrigued. "You're a spell-crafter, then?"
"Among other things.
Hadrian Peverell." He extended his hand, which after a moment's
hesitation, Snape took.
"Severus Snape,
Potions Master at Hogwarts School."
"A pleasure to meet
you, Professor Snape. I've recently taken up residence in Hogsmeade and am
looking forward to establishing connections with the academic community at
Hogwarts."
"Peverell,"
Snape repeated, recognition flickering in his dark eyes. "An old
name."
"Indeed. My family
has been abroad for generations, but I've recently returned to Britain."
Snape's expression
remained neutral, but Hadrian could see the calculations happening behind those
shrewd eyes. The Potions Master was assessing him—his name, his apparent
knowledge, his purpose in being here.
"Your work sounds...
potentially valuable," Snape said finally. "If you're interested in
discussing magical theory further, the faculty at Hogwarts occasionally hosts
informal colloquiums during the summer months. The next is scheduled for July
12th."
It was an invitation,
albeit a cautious one. Hadrian inclined his head. "I would be delighted to
attend, Professor Snape. Thank you for the information."
Snape gave a curt nod and
turned to leave, his black robes billowing behind him as he strode toward the
exit. Hadrian watched him go, a complex mixture of emotions churning within
him. Snape had been many things in his life—a bully, a victim, a Death Eater, a
spy, a protector, a hero. Now he might become something else entirely: an ally.
The encounter had been
brief but significant. Hadrian's academic cover was already bearing fruit,
providing him with a natural entrée into Hogwarts circles. The colloquium would
be an opportunity to meet other faculty members, perhaps even Dumbledore himself,
in a context that wouldn't raise suspicions.
With a satisfied smile,
Hadrian purchased the book he'd been discussing with Snape, along with several
others on related topics. His new identity was taking shape, his foundations in
this timeline growing stronger by the day.
As he left the bookshop
and made his way back toward the Leaky Cauldron, Hadrian's thoughts turned to
his younger self. Harry Potter would be returning to the Dursleys soon, if he
hadn't already—back to Privet Drive for another summer of neglect and isolation,
unaware that his life was about to change in ways he could never imagine.
Not yet, Hadrian decided.
It wasn't time to interfere directly in Harry's life, not when his own position
was still being established. But soon—very soon—he would begin the delicate
process of reshaping the boy's future.
For now, he had a cottage
to finish arranging, books to study, and plans to refine. The pieces were
falling into place, and Hadrian Peverell, newest resident of Hogsmeade,
spell-crafter, researcher, and unknown to all, Guardian of the Balance, was
exactly where he needed to be.