2

Shadows of Time

Chapter 4: First Moves

July arrived with

uncharacteristically perfect weather for Britain. Warm, sunny days stretched

into mild evenings, with just enough gentle rain to keep the countryside lush

and green. In Hogsmeade, the summer holiday meant fewer visitors, as the

student population of Hogwarts had dispersed across the country. The village

had settled into a peaceful rhythm that Hadrian found both strange and

comforting after years of war.

His cottage, which he had

begun to think of as truly his home, was now fully furnished and warded. The

study had become his primary workspace, with bookshelves filled to capacity and

a large oak desk positioned by the window overlooking the garden. He had spent

the past week preparing for the Hogwarts faculty colloquium, drafting a paper

on his theoretical approach to emotion-based spell modification that would

serve as his introduction to the academic community.

But today, Hadrian had a

different task in mind—one that required more delicate handling than academic

presentations. It was time for his first significant intervention in the

timeline.

Sirius Black, his

godfather, was currently in hiding somewhere in the tropics. In the original

timeline, he had remained there until news of Harry's entry into the Triwizard

Tournament had drawn him back to Britain. But Hadrian knew that Sirius's

presence—properly managed—could be a powerful asset in the coming conflict.

More importantly, he wanted to spare Harry the continued emotional hardship of

having a godfather he couldn't live with or rely upon fully.

The challenge lay in

contacting Sirius without raising suspicions or creating potential timeline

disruptions. A direct owl was too risky—the Ministry was still actively

searching for Sirius, and there was no guarantee that an unfamiliar sender

wouldn't be treated with immediate suspicion by the fugitive himself.

Hadrian had considered and

discarded several approaches before settling on one that utilized a connection

he had already begun to establish: Professor Lupin.

Remus Lupin had resigned

from his teaching position at Hogwarts following the events at the end of the

school year, just as he had in the original timeline. According to information

Hadrian had discreetly gathered from conversations in the Three Broomsticks,

Lupin was currently staying in a small cottage in Yorkshire, once again

unemployed and struggling to find work due to his lycanthropy.

Hadrian's plan was simple

but careful. He would approach Lupin with a legitimate professional

proposition—one that would provide the werewolf with much-needed income and

dignity. Through that professional relationship, he would gradually establish

trust, eventually reaching a point where he could introduce the subject of

Sirius Black in a way that wouldn't immediately trigger suspicion.

Dressed in simple but

well-made robes of deep green, Hadrian apparated to a small village in

Yorkshire, not far from where Lupin was reportedly staying. He had sent an owl

three days earlier, introducing himself as a spell-crafter interested in

consulting with Lupin regarding defense against magical creatures, citing the

former professor's excellent reputation from his time at Hogwarts. The response

had been cautiously positive, and they had arranged to meet at a quiet pub in

the village.

The Green Dragon was

nearly empty when Hadrian entered, just a few locals nursing pints at the bar.

In a corner booth, partially hidden in shadow, sat a prematurely aged man with

graying brown hair and a threadbare but clean set of robes. Remus Lupin looked

exactly as Hadrian remembered him from this time—tired but dignified, his

intelligent eyes reflecting both kindness and caution.

"Professor

Lupin?" Hadrian approached the booth with a friendly smile. "Hadrian

Peverell. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me."

Lupin rose, extending his

hand. "Mr. Peverell. A pleasure to meet you, though I must correct you—I'm

no longer a professor."

"Once a teacher,

always a teacher, in my experience," Hadrian replied, shaking Lupin's hand

firmly. "But if you prefer, Remus will do, assuming I may call you

that."

"Remus is fine."

Lupin gestured for Hadrian to take a seat. "And you prefer Hadrian?"

"Please."

Hadrian settled into the booth. "Can I get you another drink?"

"I'm fine for now,

thank you."

Hadrian signaled the

barkeeper for a butterbeer before turning his attention back to Lupin. "I

appreciate you taking the time to meet with me. As I mentioned in my letter,

I've recently returned to Britain after many years abroad and am looking to establish

professional connections here."

"Yes, you mentioned

you're a spell-crafter?" Lupin's tone was polite but reserved, his eyes

studying Hadrian carefully. "With a particular interest in defensive

magic?"

"That's correct. My

work focuses primarily on protective enchantments and counter-curses, though I

dabble in other areas as well. I've developed a particular interest in defenses

against magical creatures—not just the standard spells taught at Hogwarts, but

more specialized approaches tailored to specific threats."

The barkeeper arrived with

Hadrian's butterbeer, and he took a small sip before continuing. "Your

reputation from your time at Hogwarts precedes you. By all accounts, you were

the most effective Defense Against the Dark Arts professor the school has seen

in many years, with a particular talent for teaching practical applications

rather than just theory."

A faint smile crossed

Lupin's tired face. "I enjoyed teaching. It was... rewarding in ways I

hadn't anticipated."

"Which makes the

circumstances of your departure all the more unfortunate," Hadrian said

carefully. "I understand there was some... concern... about your

lycanthropy."

Lupin stiffened slightly,

his expression guarded. "News travels fast."

"In certain

circles," Hadrian agreed. "Though I should be clear—I'm aware of your

condition because I made it my business to be informed, not because it's common

knowledge. And I mention it not out of concern or prejudice, but because it's

directly relevant to what I'd like to discuss with you."

"And what might that

be?" Lupin's voice was even, but Hadrian could hear the wariness beneath

it.

"A consultation

arrangement, to start. I'm working on a series of specialized defensive spells

aimed at providing protection against various magical creatures. Your expertise

in both magical defense and—forgive me—your first-hand experience with lycanthropy

make you uniquely qualified to assist with certain aspects of this

research."

Hadrian paused, allowing

Lupin to process this information before continuing. "I'm prepared to

offer a very generous consulting fee, with flexible working arrangements that

would accommodate your... monthly considerations."

Lupin studied him for a

long moment. "That's... an unexpected proposal, Mr. Peverell."

"Hadrian,

please."

"Hadrian." Lupin

took a sip of his own drink. "Most wizards, upon learning of my condition,

are not inclined to offer employment opportunities. Quite the opposite, in

fact."

"Most wizards are

fools," Hadrian said simply. "They allow fear and prejudice to

override common sense and basic decency. I'm interested in competence and

expertise, both of which you possess in abundance."

Lupin's eyebrows rose

slightly at the bluntness of this statement. "You have rather strong

opinions for someone new to British wizarding society."

"Perhaps it's because

I am new—or rather, returned after a long absence—that I can see the

absurdities more clearly." Hadrian leaned forward slightly.

"Britain's treatment of werewolves is not just cruel, it's

counterproductive. By marginalizing those with lycanthropy, denying them

employment and dignity, the system creates the very dangers it claims to

protect against. Desperate people make desperate choices."

He saw recognition flicker

in Lupin's eyes—recognition of the truth in his words, and perhaps surprise at

hearing them spoken so plainly by a stranger.

"That's... a

perspective rarely voiced in policy discussions," Lupin said carefully.

"But one you share, I

think."

Lupin inclined his head

slightly in acknowledgment. "What exactly would this consultation

entail?"

"Initially, reviews

of my research and spell designs, with particular attention to the aspects

dealing with werewolves. Eventually, practical testing of defensive

measures—conducted under safe conditions, of course, and never during the full

moon. I'm developing alternatives to the standard silver-based repellents that

are both more humane and more effective."

"More humane?"

Lupin looked genuinely curious now.

"Standard defenses

against werewolves rely on causing pain or injury—silver, for example, burns

werewolf skin on contact. My approach focuses instead on disrupting the magical

aspects of the transformation and the heightened aggression that comes with it,

without causing unnecessary suffering to the human bearing the curse."

Hadrian had indeed been

working on such spells and potions in his original timeline, though the

research had been cut short by the escalation of the war. It was one of many

projects he hoped to complete in this new reality—not just for Lupin's benefit,

but for all those affected by lycanthropy.

"That would be...

revolutionary, if successful," Lupin said, a hint of hope creeping into

his voice despite his evident skepticism.

"It's still in the

early stages," Hadrian cautioned. "But I believe it has promise. And

your insights would be invaluable in refining the approach."

Lupin fell silent, clearly

considering the offer. Hadrian waited patiently, allowing him time to think.

Finally, Lupin spoke.

"I'm... cautiously

interested. But I'd like to know more about you first, if you don't mind. You

said you've been abroad for many years?"

Hadrian had expected this.

Lupin had always been careful and thorough—qualities that had made him an

excellent teacher and a survivor in dangerous times.

"Yes, my family left

Britain generations ago. I was born and raised in Romania, in a small magical

community in the Carpathian Mountains. My education was primarily through

private tutoring, followed by an apprenticeship with a noted spell-crafter in

Budapest. I've spent the past decade traveling throughout Eastern Europe and

Asia, studying different magical traditions and their approaches to defensive

magic."

It was the same background

he had provided to the Ministry, carefully constructed to be both plausible and

difficult to verify. Romania's magical communities were notoriously private and

kept few records accessible to outsiders.

"And what brought you

back to Britain now, specifically?" Lupin asked.

Hadrian had prepared for

this question as well. "A combination of factors. I've reached a point in

my research where I need the resources and connections that Britain offers. The

Hogwarts library, in particular, contains texts unavailable elsewhere.

And..." he hesitated, as though deciding whether to share something

personal, "there were signs that suggested it was time to reconnect with

my ancestral homeland."

"Signs?" Lupin's

eyebrows rose slightly.

"Call it intuition,

or perhaps family magic." Hadrian smiled slightly. "The Peverells

have always had a certain... sensitivity... to magical currents and shifts in

the balance of power. I felt drawn back to Britain at this particular time,

though I can't fully explain why."

This explanation, while

vague, would resonate with someone like Lupin, who understood that old

wizarding families often possessed unique magical traits and traditions. It

also laid the groundwork for Hadrian to later claim "feelings" or

"intuitions" about coming events without immediately raising

suspicion.

Lupin nodded slowly.

"I see. And this research you're conducting—is it purely academic, or do

you have specific applications in mind?"

"Both," Hadrian

replied honestly. "I believe in knowledge for its own sake, but I'm also

practical enough to want my work to have real-world benefits. In uncertain

times, better protective magic benefits everyone."

"Uncertain

times?" Lupin's tone was casual, but Hadrian could detect the careful

probe behind the question.

"The world is always

uncertain, wouldn't you agree?" Hadrian replied smoothly. "But I've

found that periods of apparent peace often precede significant upheaval.

History has a way of repeating itself."

Lupin studied him

thoughtfully. "You sound like someone who's seen such upheaval

firsthand."

"I have,"

Hadrian acknowledged, allowing a hint of genuine grimness to enter his voice.

"The magical communities of Eastern Europe have experienced their share of

conflicts in recent decades. Less publicized than Voldemort's war here in Britain,

perhaps, but no less devastating to those affected."

He noticed that Lupin,

unlike most wizards, didn't flinch at Voldemort's name. It was one of the many

qualities that had made Remus such a valuable member of the Order of the

Phoenix.

"I see," Lupin

said after a moment. "Well, your research certainly sounds worthwhile. And

I must admit, the prospect of employment is... appealing."

"I thought it might

be," Hadrian said with a gentle smile. "Shall we discuss terms, then?

I believe in being generous with those whose expertise I value, but I'd like to

hear what you consider fair compensation for your time and knowledge."

The conversation shifted

to practical matters—payment, schedule, confidentiality agreements. By the end

of their meeting, they had reached an arrangement that seemed to satisfy Lupin

while giving Hadrian exactly what he wanted: regular access to one of his

godfather's closest friends.

"I believe this will

be a productive collaboration, Remus," Hadrian said as they prepared to

part ways. "I'll owl you the contract tomorrow, along with the first set

of research notes for your review."

"I look forward to

it," Lupin replied, extending his hand. As they shook, he added with a

hint of his dry humor, "It's not often that being a werewolf makes me more

employable rather than less."

"The world is

changing," Hadrian said. "Sometimes for the better."

With that, they parted

ways, Lupin heading back to his cottage while Hadrian lingered in the village,

ostensibly to visit a local bookshop but actually to give himself time to

process the meeting.

It had gone well—better

than he had dared hope. Lupin, while cautious, had responded positively to both

the professional opportunity and to Hadrian personally. The foundation had been

laid for what Hadrian intended to develop into a genuine friendship—one that

would eventually provide a bridge to Sirius Black.

The bookshop proved to be

a quaint establishment specializing in Muggle literature, with a small,

carefully hidden section of magical texts at the back. Hadrian browsed idly,

selecting a few novels by Muggle authors he had enjoyed in his previous life. As

he paid for his purchases, the elderly shopkeeper commented on his selections.

"Dickens and Hugo—not

many wizards appreciate the Muggle classics," she said with an approving

nod. "You have good taste, young man."

"Thank you,"

Hadrian replied with a smile. "I find that Muggle authors often capture

the human condition with remarkable insight, despite their limited

understanding of the wider world."

The shopkeeper gave him a

shrewd look. "A refreshingly open-minded view. You're not from around

here, are you?"

"Recently returned

after many years abroad," Hadrian confirmed. "Hadrian Peverell."

"Margaret

Wilson." The old woman's eyes widened slightly at his surname.

"Peverell? Now there's a name with history. Welcome back to Britain, Mr.

Peverell."

"Thank you. It's good

to be home."

With his books packaged

and shrunk to fit in his pocket, Hadrian left the shop and apparated back to

Hogsmeade. The day was still young, and he had another important task to

complete before evening.

Back in his cottage,

Hadrian changed into more formal attire—robes of deep blue with subtle silver

embroidery at the cuffs and collar, appropriate for a meeting at the Ministry.

Today marked the deadline for submitting his intent to claim the dormant Peverell

seat on the Wizengamot, if he wanted to be included in the July 31st session.

After careful

consideration, Hadrian had decided that the political influence offered by the

seat outweighed the increased public exposure. Control of a vote on the

Wizengamot, particularly one of the original Thirteen Seats, would give him

leverage to affect legislation that might otherwise enable Voldemort's agenda

once the Dark Lord returned.

More immediately, it would

place him in regular contact with the political elite of wizarding Britain,

providing opportunities to gauge alliances, identify potential allies and

enemies, and perhaps even influence key figures like Amelia Bones or Bartemius

Crouch before critical events unfolded.

The Ministry of Magic was

quieter than on his previous visit, with many employees already departed for

the weekend. Hadrian made his way to Level Two, where the Wizengamot

Administration Services office was located in a small suite next to the

Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

A bored-looking witch in

her fifties sat at the reception desk, filing her nails with her wand while

magical memos folded themselves into paper airplanes behind her.

"Good

afternoon," Hadrian greeted her. "I'm here to submit a claim for a

hereditary Wizengamot seat."

The witch looked up, her

expression shifting from boredom to surprise. "Hereditary seat? Those

don't come open very often. Which family?"

"Peverell."

Her eyes widened.

"Peverell? That seat's been dormant for... well, I don't even know how

long."

"Since 1291,

according to the Department of Magical Genealogy," Hadrian supplied

helpfully.

"Merlin's

beard." The witch put down her wand and pulled a thick ledger from a

drawer. "You'll need to fill out Form WG-7, 'Petition for Recognition of

Hereditary Right,' and provide evidence of your lineage."

"I've taken the

liberty of preparing the necessary documentation." Hadrian placed a

leather folio on the desk. "You'll find Form WG-7 completed in triplicate,

certification from Gringotts confirming my blood connection to the Peverell

line, and a formal statement from the Department of Magical Genealogy regarding

the dormant status of the seat."

The witch blinked, clearly

impressed by his thoroughness. "Well... that's very efficient of you,

Mr.—?"

"Peverell. Hadrian

Peverell."

She opened the folio and

began examining the documents with greater care than her initial demeanor might

have suggested. After several minutes of cross-checking against the ledger and

making notes with a charmed quill, she looked up.

"Everything appears

to be in order, Mr. Peverell. The claim will need to be reviewed by the Chief

Warlock and the Minister for Magic, but with this documentation, I anticipate

no issues. You'll receive official notification by owl within the week, and

assuming approval, you'll be formally installed at the July session."

"Excellent. Thank you

for your assistance."

"Just one more

thing," the witch added, looking slightly embarrassed. "There's a...

well, a tradition, I suppose you'd call it. When a dormant hereditary seat is

reclaimed, the claimant typically hosts a small reception for current Wizengamot

members. It's not an official requirement, but it's considered good form."

Hadrian had expected

something like this. The wizarding world, particularly its upper echelons, ran

on tradition and social niceties as much as on laws and regulations.

"Of course," he

said with a nod. "I'd be happy to observe the tradition. Should I arrange

this for before or after the formal installation?"

"Before would be

best. It gives the current members a chance to... get to know you, as it were,

before voting on your formal acceptance."

In other words, it gave

the political establishment a chance to assess whether he would be a useful

ally or a potential problem. Hadrian had anticipated this as well.

"I'll arrange

something suitable. Would one week from today be appropriate timing?"

"Perfect," the

witch replied, visibly relieved that he wasn't going to make difficulties about

what was, essentially, a political hoop-jumping exercise. "I'll make a

note in the file."

With the paperwork

submitted and the reception tentatively scheduled, Hadrian left the Ministry,

his mind already turning to the logistics of hosting an event for the most

powerful and influential witches and wizards in Britain. His cottage, while

comfortable, was hardly suitable for such a gathering. He would need to secure

an appropriate venue, arrange catering, send formal invitations...

But first, he had a more

immediate concern: the Hogwarts faculty colloquium was only a week away, and he

needed to ensure his academic credentials were as impeccable as his political

ones.

The next days passed in a

blur of activity. Hadrian divided his time between preparing his presentation

for the Hogwarts colloquium, drafting detailed research notes to send to Lupin,

and making arrangements for the Wizengamot reception. For the latter, he

secured a private dining room at The Golden Phoenix, an exclusive wizarding

restaurant in London known for its discretion and impeccable service.

The formal

invitations—elegant parchment embossed with the Peverell family crest, a design

Hadrian had found in the vault—went out five days before the event. Each was

personalized with a brief note that demonstrated some knowledge of the

recipient's interests or recent accomplishments, a touch that would distinguish

Hadrian's approach from the standard political formalities.

To Amelia Bones, Head of

the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, he mentioned his interest in her

recent reforms to Auror training. To Bartemius Crouch, he expressed admiration

for his linguistic abilities, particularly his fluency in Mermish. To Lucius

Malfoy—a man Hadrian despised but whose political influence could not be

ignored—he noted a recent donation to St. Mungo's Hospital that had been

reported in the Daily Prophet.

Each message was carefully

calibrated to establish Hadrian as well-informed, politically savvy, but not

overtly aligned with any particular faction. He presented himself as a scholar

and researcher first, a political figure second—someone whose interest in the

Wizengamot stemmed from a desire to contribute to society rather than to

advance a specific agenda.

The day of the Hogwarts

colloquium arrived bright and clear. Hadrian dressed with care in semi-formal

academic robes, dark gray with subtle green accents, and apparated to the

school's main gates shortly after noon. Professor Flitwick was waiting to escort

him and several other invited guests to the castle.

"Mr. Peverell,

welcome to Hogwarts!" the diminutive Charms professor greeted him

cheerfully. "Professor Snape mentioned you might be joining us. I'm Filius

Flitwick, Charms Master."

"A pleasure to meet

you, Professor." Hadrian shook the offered hand, careful to hide the surge

of emotion he felt at seeing the man alive again. "Your reputation

precedes you—your work on reality-altering charms is fascinating."

Flitwick beamed. "Oh

my, you're familiar with my research? How delightful! We must discuss it

further over refreshments."

The group made their way

up the path to the castle, Hadrian deliberately hanging back to take in the

sight of Hogwarts—whole, undamaged, peaceful. The last time he had seen the

castle, it had been partially in ruins, the aftermath of a brutal battle that

had claimed dozens of lives. The contrast between that memory and the serene

structure before him now was almost overwhelming.

"First time at

Hogwarts, Mr. Peverell?" asked a tall, elegant witch walking beside him.

"Yes," Hadrian

replied truthfully, for Hadrian Peverell had indeed never set foot in Hogwarts

before. "It's even more impressive than descriptions suggest."

"Bathsheda Babbling,

Ancient Runes professor," the witch introduced herself. "I understand

you're a spell-crafter? Any interest in runic magic?"

"Significant

interest," Hadrian confirmed. "I've found that integrating runic

elements into conventional spell structures can create more stable,

long-lasting effects, particularly for protective enchantments."

Professor Babbling looked

delighted. "A man after my own heart! Most modern wizards dismiss runic

magic as outdated and cumbersome."

"To their

detriment," Hadrian said. "The ancient methods may be more

time-consuming, but the precision and durability they offer can't be matched by

purely wand-based approaches."

They continued their

conversation as they entered the castle, making their way to the staff room

where the colloquium was to be held. The room had been magically expanded for

the occasion, with comfortable chairs arranged in a large circle and a refreshment

table along one wall.

Several Hogwarts

professors were already present: Minerva McGonagall, engaged in conversation

with a wizard Hadrian didn't recognize; Pomona Sprout, arranging a display of

what appeared to be rare herbological specimens; and Severus Snape, standing

somewhat apart from the others, a cup of tea in his hand and his characteristic

scowl firmly in place.

At their entrance,

McGonagall looked up and approached, her posture as straight and dignified as

Hadrian remembered.

"Welcome to

Hogwarts," she greeted the newcomers. "I'm Minerva McGonagall, Deputy

Headmistress and Transfiguration professor."

Introductions were made

around the circle. In addition to the Hogwarts faculty, there were several

visitors: a representative from the Department of Magical Education, two

researchers from the Continent, and an elderly wizard introduced as a retired

Unspeakable, whose specific area of expertise was not mentioned.

Notably absent was Albus

Dumbledore. When Hadrian casually inquired about the Headmaster's presence,

McGonagall explained that he had been called away on "urgent ICW

business" but sent his regrets.

The colloquium began with

a presentation from one of the Continental researchers on recent advancements

in transfiguration theory. It was interesting enough, though not directly

relevant to Hadrian's work. He used the time to observe the others in the room,

particularly Snape and McGonagall, noting their reactions and comments.

When his turn came,

Hadrian moved to the center of the circle and began his presentation on

emotion-based spell modification. He had carefully designed it to be impressive

without being revolutionary—to demonstrate genuine expertise and original

thinking, but not to suggest any magical breakthrough that might draw undue

attention or skepticism.

"The standard model

of spellcasting, as taught at magical institutions worldwide, focuses on three

primary components: precise wand movement, correct incantation, and clear

visualization of the intended effect," Hadrian began. "This model is

effective for teaching purposes and serves most practical applications well.

However, it fails to account for a critical variable that experienced casters

intuitively understand: the emotional state of the wizard or witch performing

the spell."

He went on to outline his

theoretical framework, using examples from common spells to illustrate how

emotional intensity affected magical outcomes. The Patronus Charm, requiring

happiness and hope to combat creatures that fed on despair. The Cruciatus Curse,

powered by the caster's genuine desire to cause pain. Even simpler spells like

Lumos showing variation in brightness depending on the caster's emotional

state.

"What I

propose," Hadrian continued, "is not merely acknowledging this

emotional component, but actively harnessing it through intentional spell

design. By integrating emotional resonance frequencies into the arithmantic

equations that underlie spell creation, we can develop more efficient, more

powerful magical tools—particularly in the realm of protective magic, where the

desire to shield oneself or others already provides a strong emotional

foundation."

The presentation

culminated in a practical demonstration: a variation on the standard Shield

Charm that Hadrian had developed. Unlike the conventional Protego, which

created a fixed barrier in front of the caster, this version established a

dome-like protection that automatically adjusted its strength based on the

caster's emotional investment in protecting those within its radius.

"Observe,"

Hadrian said, drawing his wand—the holly wand, not the Elder Wand—and motioning

for Professor Flitwick to assist him. "Professor, if you would be so kind

as to cast a series of minor jinxes at me, increasing in power?"

Flitwick nodded eagerly,

drawing his own wand. Hadrian cast his modified shield with a circular motion

and the incantation "Protego Affectus."

A shimmering dome of

blue-white light surrounded him, similar to a standard Shield Charm but with

subtle differences in coloration and texture. Flitwick began with a simple

Knockback Jinx, which the shield absorbed without visible effect. He progressed

to stronger spells—a Stinging Hex, a Blasting Curse—each causing the shield to

glow more brightly but none penetrating it.

"Now," Hadrian

said, maintaining the shield, "I'll demonstrate the emotional

component." He glanced at Professor McGonagall. "Professor, would you

mind stepping into the protected area with me?"

Looking intrigued,

McGonagall joined him within the dome. Hadrian focused his intent not just on

maintaining the shield, but specifically on protecting McGonagall from harm.

The shield's color shifted subtly, deepening to a richer blue with threads of

gold where it curved over the Transfiguration professor.

"Continue, Professor

Flitwick," Hadrian instructed.

Flitwick cast another

series of spells, this time targeting the area where McGonagall stood. The

shield intercepted each spell with increased intensity, the blue-gold section

flaring brightly with each impact.

"As you can

see," Hadrian explained to the rapt audience, "the shield

automatically prioritizes protection based on my emotional intent. The stronger

my desire to protect a specific person, the more power the spell diverts to

that section of the shield."

He ended the demonstration

to enthusiastic applause. What followed was a lively discussion, with questions

and observations from nearly everyone present. Flitwick was particularly

excited by the implications for dueling applications, while Babbling wanted to

know if the emotional components could be anchored in runic form for permanent

protective barriers.

Even Snape, typically

reserved in such settings, contributed a thoughtful question about whether

negative emotions could be similarly channeled for defensive purposes—a

question that revealed more than perhaps intended about the Potions Master's

understanding of dark magic.

By the time the colloquium

broke for tea and more informal discussions, Hadrian had established himself as

a serious magical researcher with innovative ideas and impressive practical

skills. Several of the professors sought him out individually to continue

specific aspects of the conversation, and by the end of the afternoon, he had

received invitations to use the Hogwarts library for his research, collaborate

on a paper with Professor Babbling, and return for a specialized demonstration

for the seventh-year Defense Against the Dark Arts students once the school

year began.

It was Professor

McGonagall who surprised him most, however, as he was preparing to depart.

"Mr. Peverell,"

she said, drawing him slightly aside, "I must say your work is extremely

interesting, particularly in its potential applications for protecting

vulnerable individuals. I wonder if you might consider meeting with a... special

research group... that shares similar interests?"

Hadrian knew immediately

what she was referring to. The Order of the Phoenix—or at least, the beginning

of its reformation. In the original timeline, Dumbledore hadn't begun

reassembling the Order until after Voldemort's resurrection, but it appeared

that preparations were already underway.

"I would be honored,

Professor," he replied carefully. "Though I should note that my

research is still experimental, and I make no claims about its efficacy in,

shall we say, non-controlled environments."

McGonagall's lips twitched

in what might have been a suppressed smile. "Understood, Mr. Peverell. I

believe the, ah, research coordinator would still be most interested in your

perspectives. I'll be in touch to arrange a suitable time."

With that promising

development, Hadrian took his leave of Hogwarts, his mind already turning to

the next item on his agenda: the Wizengamot reception. But as he walked down

the path toward the gates, a familiar figure emerged from the greenhouses, and

Hadrian felt his heart skip a beat.

Albus Dumbledore,

resplendent in robes of deep purple embroidered with silver stars, was making

his way toward the castle. The Headmaster's long silver beard gleamed in the

late afternoon sunlight, and his half-moon spectacles flashed as he turned his

head to observe a bird taking flight from a nearby tree.

Hadrian hadn't expected to

encounter Dumbledore today, given McGonagall's explanation of his absence. For

a moment, he considered trying to avoid the meeting—he wasn't fully prepared

for a one-on-one interaction with the brilliant and perceptive wizard who had

been his mentor, his manipulator, and ultimately, in Hadrian's eyes, a

tragically flawed hero.

But it was too late.

Dumbledore had spotted him and altered his course to intercept. Straightening

his shoulders and reinforcing his Occlumency shields, Hadrian prepared to meet

the man who had shaped so much of Harry Potter's life.

"Good

afternoon," Dumbledore called genially as he approached. "You must be

Mr. Peverell. I was most disappointed to miss your presentation today."

"Headmaster

Dumbledore," Hadrian acknowledged with a respectful nod. "A pleasure

to meet you. And please, call me Hadrian."

"Hadrian, then."

Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled, but Hadrian felt the subtle probe of

Legilimency like a gentle pressure against his mental shields. He maintained

his pleasant expression, allowing the Headmaster to see only what he wished to

be seen: genuine respect, scholarly interest, and the carefully constructed

surface thoughts of Hadrian Peverell, returned expatriate and magical

researcher.

If Dumbledore noticed the

resistance to his probe, he gave no sign of it. "I understand from

Professor Flitwick's message that your work on emotion-based spell modification

made quite an impression. I would very much like to hear more about it, when

time permits."

"I would be delighted

to discuss it with you," Hadrian replied. "I've long admired your

work on the twelve uses of dragon's blood—particularly the ninth use, which has

fascinating implications for amplifying emotional resonance in certain potions."

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose

slightly. The ninth use was not widely discussed outside specialized academic

circles, and Hadrian's reference to it was a calculated move to establish his

scholarly credentials.

"Indeed," the

Headmaster said, his expression thoughtful. "Few make that connection. You

have an interesting mind, Hadrian Peverell."

"Thank you,

Headmaster. Coming from you, that's high praise indeed."

Dumbledore studied him for

a moment longer, then smiled. "I understand you've recently returned to

Britain after many years abroad. How are you finding it?"

"Changed in some

ways, unchanged in others," Hadrian replied honestly. "There's a...

tension... beneath the surface that reminds me of similar patterns I've

observed elsewhere. A calm that feels somewhat artificial."

It was a risky

statement—suggesting awareness of undercurrents that the average wizard might

not perceive—but Hadrian wanted to position himself as perceptive and

potentially useful to Dumbledore, who he knew was already concerned about signs

of Voldemort's potential return.

The Headmaster's

expression remained pleasant, but his eyes sharpened slightly. "An

interesting observation. You have traveled extensively, I understand?"

"Throughout Eastern

Europe and parts of Asia, yes. I've had the opportunity to observe several

magical societies during periods of transition or... unrest."

"A valuable

perspective." Dumbledore nodded. "Perhaps we might continue this

conversation another time? I find myself most curious about your experiences

abroad, and how they may relate to your observations here."

"I would welcome

that," Hadrian said. "As it happens, I'm hosting a small reception

next Friday for members of the Wizengamot—a formality related to my claim on

the dormant Peverell seat. If your duties permit, I would be honored to have you

attend."

"Ah, so the rumors

are true," Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "A Peverell returns to claim

an ancient seat. How fascinating. I shall make every effort to attend, schedule

permitting."

They parted with cordial

farewells, Dumbledore continuing to the castle while Hadrian proceeded to the

gates. Once beyond the anti-Apparition wards, he disappeared with a soft pop,

reappearing in his cottage in Hogsmeade.

Only then did he allow

himself to release the tightly controlled emotions that the encounter with

Dumbledore had stirred. Seeing the Headmaster alive—vibrant, powerful, his mind

as sharp as ever—brought back a flood of complicated feelings. Respect and resentment.

Gratitude and anger. Love and profound disappointment.

In his original timeline,

Hadrian had eventually come to understand Dumbledore's actions, even to forgive

the manipulations and half-truths that had shaped Harry Potter's journey toward

his confrontation with Voldemort. But understanding did not mean he intended to

allow history to repeat itself.

This time, things would be

different. Hadrian Peverell was not Harry Potter, naive and desperate for

guidance. He was a man with his own power, his own knowledge, and his own

plans.

As Hadrian prepared for

bed that night, his mind turned to the coming days. The Wizengamot reception

would be a critical milestone in establishing his position in this new

timeline. And beyond that...

Beyond that lay the

Quidditch World Cup, where in the original timeline, the first public act of

the resurgent Death Eaters had occurred. A warning sign that too many had

ignored or dismissed.

Not this time. This time,

Hadrian would be watching. And this time, he would be ready to act.