Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

𝐒𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐧 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞

The summer air hung heavy, thick with heat and the scent of stale pavement. It pressed against the small windowpane of a second-story bedroom on Privet Drive, blurring the view outside. But Harry wasn’t looking out. He lay curled on the thin mattress of his bed, eyes dull and unfocused, shoulders curled inward not from sleep—but from defeat.

He hadn’t spoken in days.

Not since that night.

Not since the dementors.

Not since he’d been expelled.

Expelled from Hogwarts.

From the one place he had ever thought of as home.

He remembered the cold first—sinking into his bones like icewater. The rattling, soul-sucking pull of despair. The sharp twist of fear as he watched Dudley collapse beside him, wheezing in horror. The panic. The instinct. The wand in his hand. The spell on his lips.

Expecto Patronum.

A silver stag—his father's stag—had erupted from his wand, majestic and defiant in the face of death.

And then, silence.

The letter came swiftly after.

Expulsion. Immediate.

Wand to be destroyed.

Trial pending.

The words replayed endlessly in his mind like the tolling of a funeral bell.

He blinked up at the cracked ceiling above him, feeling the weight of everything pressing down—his chest tight, throat raw from emotions he hadn’t dared to speak aloud. He’d saved his cousin’s life. He’d acted as any trained wizard would. And yet, the Ministry had turned on him without a second thought. Just a boy, thrown away like a stain on their precious laws.

But that wasn’t what hurt the most.

No, what shattered him was the silence.

He had waited—day after day—for a letter. A simple note. Anything from Ron. From Hermione. Even just a line. “Are you alright?” “We’re with you.” Anything.

But none came.

Not one owl. Not one word.

Not even from Dumbledore.

His name was now a circus act in the Daily Prophet—“The Boy Who Lied,” they called him. “Desperate for Attention,” “Unstable,” “Dangerous.”

Each headline twisted the knife deeper.

His wand sat in the drawer, untouched. He dared not open it—not with the Ministry breathing down his neck. Aunt Petunia had already thrown a fit after the third howler. Vernon refused to speak to him entirely. Dudley hadn’t even made eye contact since that night. He didn’t blame them. Not anymore.

He didn’t have the strength left to be angry.

He felt empty.

Alone.

And more than anything, he felt… betrayed.

Harry’s fingers curled into the thin bedsheet, his jaw trembling. He had faced Voldemort. He had fought a basilisk. He had nearly died countless times. And yet now—now, in the suffocating silence of Number 4 Privet Drive—he had never felt weaker.

Was this how it all ended? Cast aside by the world he had bled for?

A tear slid silently down his cheek, disappearing into the pillow. His emerald eyes stared blankly ahead, but inside, a storm was building. A quiet vow. A flicker of something old and deep and powerful awakening inside his chest.

If the world would cast him aside...

He would rise above it.

Not as the boy they betrayed—

But as the lord they would never forget.

---

The morning sun filtered weakly through the dusty blinds, casting pale lines across Harry’s unmoving form. He hadn't slept. Not really. His mind had been too loud, too heavy. But the soft rustle of wings broke the silence.

There, on the windowsill, sat six owls—each bearing thick envelopes sealed with various wax insignias. For a moment, Harry only stared. Letters? For him?

With trembling fingers, he reached for the first one.

---

The First Letter – Sirius Black

Harry,

My son,

I know everything feels broken right now, but I need you to know that I believe you. I have never doubted you. Not for one second. The Ministry can rot for all I care—they will answer for what they’ve done to you.

The trial is in motion. I’ve called in every favor I have. Once it’s over—and it will be over—you’re coming home with me.

Home. Not the Dursleys. Never again.

I’ve already taken up my title as Lord of House Black, and with that power, I will make sure no one ever hurts you again. You are not alone. You never have been. I should have taken you years ago, and that mistake won’t stand anymore.

You are my son in every way that matters. I will adopt you the moment I am able. And may the world tremble—because no one slanders a Black and walks away untouched.

You are loved, Harry. You are wanted.

You are mine.

– Sirius Orion Black

Harry clutched the parchment to his chest, his whole body trembling as the tears came fast and unstoppable. For the first time in weeks, he wept—not from pain or fear, but from the overwhelming realization that someone cared.

That he wasn’t alone.

---

The Second Letter – Remus Lupin

Dear Harry,

I hope Sirius’s letter reached you first—he insisted it must. He’s been ranting non-stop about “getting his pup back.” You should see him.

Harry, I know you must feel abandoned, but I need you to know we’re fighting for you. I’ve spoken with Sirius, and once you're free, you’ll be surrounded by those who love you. I’ll be right there too.

You’re not just James’s son to me. You’re yours. And you’ve grown into someone truly remarkable.

I’m proud of you.

Always, – Remus J. Lupin

Harry wiped his eyes again. He didn’t even realize how starved he’d been for these words—for the reminder that someone was still proud of him.

---

The Third and Fourth Letters – Walburga and Arcturus Black

From Walburga Black

To My Future Grandson,

Sirius has done nothing but speak of you since this ordeal began. He rages like a lion in a storm—but it is because he loves you. And so do we. We, the Ancient and Noble House of Black, do not forget those we claim as our own.

You are not even officially a Black, yet you are already ours. And no one—no one—tarnishes the name of a Black without paying the price.

I expect to meet you soon. Dress properly.

– Lady Walburga Black

From Arcturus Black

Young Harry,

A man’s worth is not in what the world says about him, but in how he endures when it turns against him. Sirius speaks of you with pride—and that alone is enough.

You will find House Black... protective of its own.

– Arcturus Black

Harry laughed—choked and teary. They didn’t even know him, and yet… they spoke of him like family. Like a prince not yet crowned, but already beloved.

---

The Fifth Letter – Severus Snape

Harry,

If this letter surprises you, I understand. You likely know me only as your stern and cold professor. But there are truths you must now learn.

Your mother, Lily, was my dearest friend. When she named me your godfather, it was an honor I never thought I’d be granted. When your parents died, I begged Dumbledore to let me raise you. He refused—said you’d be safer with your relatives.

He was wrong.

I was asked to keep you at a distance. To watch from afar. To pretend indifference—because Death Eaters who still watch me would have suspected otherwise. You see, Harry… I was never one of them. I never infiltrated their circle once. My loyalty, always, was to your mother.

Every time I’ve protected you—secretly, silently—it was for her.

And also for you.

I did not hate you. I never could.

You were her last gift to the world.

And now, I will no longer hide behind Dumbledore’s demands. You are my godson, and I will claim you as such.

– Severus Tobias Snape

Harry’s eyes burned as he re-read the letter again and again, each word turning everything he thought he knew on its head. All the sneers. The coldness. They had masked a broken loyalty, a silent vow. He didn’t hate me, Harry thought. He was protecting me. All this time.

And he wept for the man who had loved in silence.

---

The Final Letter – The Lady Rosier

To My Godson,

You do not know me yet—but you will. I am the Lady of the Rosier line, and your godmother. Your parents chose me, and that is all that matters.

The world is shifting, Harry. You will understand soon why blood and legacy matter. But more importantly, you will understand that you are not alone.

I will come for you.

– Lady E. Rosier

Harry sat there long after the letters had fallen silent, hands resting on parchment soaked in his tears. His chest ached—not with pain this time, but with something warmer, deeper.

Hope.

He was no longer just the Boy Who Lived.

He was Harry—godson, heir, and loved.

And soon, he would no longer be forgotten.

---

The night air was bitter and cruel as Harry sat by the open window, trying to chase away the echoes of the letters he’d read. They’d brought comfort—but also questions. Why hadn’t anyone else written? His so-called best friends? His mentors?

Suddenly, his breath caught in his throat.

The chill in the room deepened unnaturally, and the world dimmed.

Then he saw them.

Dementors.

Again.

Their grotesque forms floated above the garden, approaching swiftly, and Harry scrambled to draw his wand—but it wasn’t enough. He was too slow. Too tired. Too broken.

The first Dementor was nearly upon him.

“E-Expecto—!” he tried, but the wand shook in his trembling fingers.

And then—POP!

A loud crack split the air, and a small figure appeared between Harry and death.

“Master Harry is not being touched!” shrieked a voice. A fierce blast of elf magic exploded outward, knocking the Dementors back with a force they hadn't expected.

It was a house-elf, old and proud, with piercing eyes filled with fury and devotion. He raised his tiny hand and with another burst of power, the Dementors vanished into the night.

Harry barely had time to register what was happening before the elf turned and grabbed his hand.

“Master Sirius is wanting Harry home! Kreacher is taking you now!”

There was no time to protest. The world twisted, and in a whirl of color and light, Harry disappeared from Privet Drive.

---

When he landed, it was with a soft thud onto an ornate carpet inside an ancient drawing room: 12 Grimmauld Place.

Before he could stand, the sound of voices reached him—familiar ones.

Laughter. Talking. Footsteps. People.

He rose, shaken, and followed the voices down the corridor. As he reached the kitchen, his breath caught in his throat.

They were all there.

Hermione. Ron. The Weasleys. Even Dumbledore.

They were sitting, chatting, laughing—like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t been left to suffer alone.

For a long, still moment, Harry just stared.

Then his voice broke the room like shattered glass.

“You’re all here.”

Every head turned. Gasps rippled. Eyes widened.

“Harry!” Hermione stood up.

But Harry stepped back, his voice trembling with disbelief, rage, and grief. “You're all here. You’ve been here. And none of you wrote to me.”

“Harry, mate—” Ron began.

“Don’t,” Harry snapped, his voice ice. “Don’t you dare call me that.”

“Harry, we were told not to write,” Hermione pleaded, stepping closer.

He shook his head, stepping away. “Told not to? Told not to?! That’s your excuse? That Dumbledore told you not to?”

Silence.

“You called yourselves my family,” he whispered. “You said you loved me. And when I was expelled—called a liar—dragged in for a trial—attacked by Dementors in a place I was never supposed to be sent back to—none of you thought it mattered to even ask if I was alive?”

“Dumbledore said it was best—” Arthur began gently.

“BEST?!” Harry’s voice cracked, and his eyes blazed. “Best for WHO?!”

The room went cold.

He turned away from them all—his friends, his ‘family’—and began walking.

“Harry—where are you going?” Molly called.

But he didn’t look back. “To the ones who actually love me.”

And he walked straight toward the far doorway—where Sirius stood frozen, eyes wide, heart clenching.

“Harry—” Sirius whispered.

But Harry didn’t speak. He threw himself into Sirius’s arms like a lifeline, wrapping himself around the only person who had truly, truly come for him.

Sirius caught him like something sacred, burying his face in Harry’s hair and trembling. “It’s alright, pup. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Then Remus was there too, his hand on Harry’s back, his eyes shining with emotion.

Walburga Black stepped forward, her noble face streaked with tears, and gently cupped the back of Harry’s head. “You’re safe now, child. You’re with your family.”

Arcturus Black, ever composed, reached out with a trembling hand, resting it on Harry’s shoulder. “No one will ever abandon you again.”

Sirius kissed Harry’s forehead, again and again, as though trying to make up for every wound. “You’re home, son. You're home.”

And the others—Ron, Hermione, the Weasleys, even Dumbledore—stood frozen in stunned silence as they watched something none of them could claim.

True family. Real love. Unshakable devotion.

Harry didn’t look back.

Not once.

---

The kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place had never been so silent.

You could have dropped a wand pin and heard it echo.

All eyes were locked—glued—to the surreal sight in front of them.

Harry James Potter—the Boy Who Lived, the outcast of the Prophet, the supposed liar—was standing in the arms of the Black family. Not scolded, not feared, not kept at arm’s length… but embraced.

No—cherished.

Sirius Black, usually fierce and reckless, was currently rocking Harry back and forth like a mother might a newborn, whispering nonsense in his hair. Walburga Black—once thought a madwoman, feared even in portraits—was brushing back Harry’s hair with the softest of touches, her expression crumbling into rare gentleness.

And Arcturus Black—ancient, ruthless, calculating Arcturus—was holding Harry’s hand with something that looked terrifyingly close to tenderness.

“Oh my God,” Ginny whispered under her breath.

Hermione’s jaw had dropped halfway to the floor. “That’s… that’s Lady Walburga Black. Smiling. At Harry.”

Ron blinked rapidly. “I’m gonna be sick.”

Andromeda Tonks stepped in next, wrapping Harry in her arms, squeezing him with a warmth so bright it stunned even her own daughter. “Look at you, darling boy. Sirius wasn’t exaggerating—you’re brilliant.”

Harry blinked. “You must be—”

“Your cousin,” Tonks said brightly, ruffling his hair. “Well, second cousin. But cousin still counts.”

Then came Remus.

He approached hesitantly, but Harry reached out first.

“Uncle Moony,” Harry said softly.

It shattered Remus Lupin completely.

His knees buckled slightly and he grabbed Harry, pulling him into the tightest hug imaginable. “Cub,” he choked. “Oh, my cub—you don’t know what this means to me. You don’t—”

“I know,” Harry murmured. “I know now.”

Remus held him like he would never let go.

Molly had gone pale. Arthur was blinking behind his glasses. Fred and George looked like they'd seen a ghost tap-dance across the ceiling.

And Dumbledore?

Dumbledore was watching it all with a carefully guarded expression, but there was a crack in his mask. A deep one.

He hadn’t predicted this.

Not Sirius’s open declarations of fatherhood.

Not Remus’s sobs of joy.

Not Walburga Black—WALBURGA—looking at Harry as though he were the sun returned to her cold world.

And definitely not the quiet power radiating off Harry’s shoulders now, even as he was kissed again and again on the head by Sirius. 

It was a coronation without a crown.

And the rest of the room?

Frozen.

Shocked.

Staring as if Harry had grown wings and declared himself king.

He didn’t glance back at them.

Not once.

Because this time—finally—he was exactly where he belonged.

Chapter Text

Harry sat to the right of Sirius, flanked by Walburga and Arcturus Black, who radiated authority even in silence. Remus and Tonks sat nearby. The air around the Black family shimmered with restrained magic—powerful, elegant, ancient.

Across the table, awkward and out of place, sat the Order: Dumbledore at the head, flanked by Molly and Arthur Weasley, Hermione, Ron, and a few others. They barely touched their food, still reeling from the previous shock of Harry being pulled into the embrace of a family they'd spent years whispering about behind closed doors.

Tension clung to the room like smoke.

Then Sirius rose, his chair scraping softly as he stood tall, powerful in deep black robes with silver trim—the very image of a noble lord.

 “I have an announcement,” he said, voice firm and final. “I, Sirius Orion Black, Lord of the House of Black, will adopt Harry James Potter. I shall make him my heir. I will raise him as my son—from this day forth.”

Gasps erupted.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled no longer. “Sirius… this decision must be thought through carefully. There are political ramifications—”

“I have thought it through. For fifteen years,” Sirius interrupted coldly. “I am not asking. I am declaring. I failed Harry once when I let others decide his fate. I will not fail him again.”

“Harry belongs with the Light!” Molly Weasley burst out. “He’s our hope—our hero! You can’t make him a Black—”

“He already is,” Sirius snapped.

“You’ll taint him with your darkness!” Molly shouted, rising now, eyes burning with self-righteous fury. “The Black name is cursed! Dark, arrogant, corrupted! You think slapping your wretched name on him makes you family?! We’re his family! Not you snakes in velvet!”

The room went deadly still.

Walburga Black stood slowly, her face a cold, beautiful mask of pure disdain.

 “You dare insult this House… in our home?”

“I speak the truth!” Molly raged. “You people parade around in silks and ancient spells thinking you’re better than the rest of us—but you’re all twisted! You whisper in the shadows and poison everything with your pureblood filth—!”

“Enough.”

Remus Lupin’s voice shook the room. He had risen too, hands trembling—not in fear, but fury. His amber eyes burned.

“You left Harry to suffer. You let him rot while he cried alone at night thinking he had no one. You all sat in your comfort while he faced the Prophet’s lies, Dementors, and the threat of a trial—alone. And you think you have the right to call him yours?!”

“We followed Dumbledore’s orders!” Ron shouted defensively.

“And those orders nearly destroyed him!” Sirius thundered. His magic cracked like a whip across the room, the torches dimming and flickering wildly. “You think you know what’s best for Harry? I know what he needs. A family that fights for him. That chooses him. That never abandons him.”

“Dark magic doesn’t raise heroes,” Arthur muttered, trying to ease the rising chaos.

Arcturus Black slowly rose then, and when he spoke, it was with the weight of centuries.

 “Our family may have walked in shadows—but we have never once turned our backs on our blood. We protect our own. And now, Harry is ours. You insult him by insulting us. And we do not forget insults.”

“You’ve corrupted him,” Molly spat. “Made him cold and arrogant and—”

“We made him loved,” Walburga said sharply, standing protectively behind Harry. “And if you can't see the difference, you never truly loved him.”

“You’re ruining him!” Hermione cried. “He was ours!”

Harry finally stood.

His voice was quiet. But the silence that followed proved how deeply it struck.

“You only loved me when I was your perfect puppet. When I did what I was told. When I was broken, dependent, and desperate. You left me when I needed you most. But they didn’t. They found me. They held me. They fought for me.”

He looked at Sirius, who met his gaze with nothing but love.

“He’s my father now.”

And that was it.

The house groaned as ancient wards surged.

Sirius raised his wand, the ancestral Black wand flaring with ancestral fire. “You insulted our House. Our blood. Our son. And as Lord Black, I revoke your welcome.”

“No—” Molly reached out.

A powerful ripple of silver and emerald exploded through the dining hall. In a blink, the Weasleys, Hermione, and Dumbledore were pushed backward—gently but forcibly—through the doorway and into the front hall. The ornate doors slammed shut behind them with a deafening boom.

Locked. Sealed.

Outside, they stared in horror.

Inside, Harry turned to the ones who stayed.

Walburga drew him close, kissing his temple. “You are ours now. Forever.”

Sirius wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “You’re safe, pup. We’ve got you.”

Remus’s eyes shimmered with tears. “I always wanted to raise you. I won’t fail again.”

Harry didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

He simply let them hold him as the flames in the hearth burned brighter, casting shadows on the walls—shadows of an ancient House reborn, its newest son finally home.

---

The dining hall of Number 12 Grimmauld Place had never felt warmer.

The oppressive cold, so often etched into the Black ancestral home, was gone—dispelled not by magic, but by laughter. Real, unfiltered, echoing laughter. The table, which had once been a place of formality and fear, now glowed with candlelight, roast platters, silver goblets filled with pumpkin juice, and the sound of a boy—a son—smiling for the first time in what felt like forever.

Harry sat between Sirius and Remus, a warm fire dancing at their backs. Walburga and Arcturus sat to one side, their usual cold dignity softened into gentle amusement as they watched Harry chew contentedly. Tonks, wild-haired and bright-eyed, had just made her mashed potatoes look like a dancing hippogriff, making Harry snort into his drink.

"You should have seen Sirius in school," Remus was saying, chuckling as he sliced his roast. "The amount of times he was hexed by angry girls for leading them on—"

“Oi!” Sirius pointed a fork at him, mock-offended. “You wound me, Moony. I was a perfect gentleman.”

Harry laughed again, unable to help it. “You? A gentleman? You’re the one who tried to convince a first year that the Black Lake was a portal to Atlantis.”

“It was a bold theory!” Sirius insisted. “And that kid should be grateful. He can hold his breath for five minutes now!”

Tonks howled with laughter.

Walburga sipped her wine with a rare smile. “He also once tried to enchant the tapestry of the Black Family Tree so it would sing opera every time someone walked past it.”

“It was better than the screaming,” Sirius muttered.

“Barely,” Arcturus grumbled. “It took two full days and four curse-breakers to reverse it.”

Harry laughed so hard he choked on a green bean. Sirius clapped him on the back proudly. “That’s my boy.”

Harry’s heart swelled.

No one glared at him. No one was watching for him to break. No one was whispering about prophecies, saviours, or the Boy Who Lived.

They were talking to him.

Remus leaned over with a soft smile. “You remember when your mum caught your dad trying to charm the Slytherin robes pink in the middle of Transfiguration class?”

Harry blinked. “She what?”

“She hexed him so hard his eyebrows didn’t grow back for a week,” Remus grinned. “James said he fell in love with her right then and there.”

Harry’s throat tightened. “I wish I could’ve seen that.”

“You’re going to hear all the stories,” Walburga promised, reaching over to tuck a loose curl behind his ear. “Every single one.”

“I’d like that,” Harry whispered, eyes shining.

Tonks leaned over, smirking. “Want to hear how Sirius accidentally became King of the Gobstones Club for a week and didn’t know how to resign without causing a riot?”

“Oh shut up, Nymphadora,” Sirius groaned.

Tonks stuck out her tongue. “You’ll pay for that.”

The evening stretched long and golden, filled with embarrassing tales, magical accidents, prank stories, and quiet moments where Harry was reminded—again and again—that he belonged. He was wanted.

When dessert came—treacle tart, his favorite—Harry looked around the table, at the odd, proud, beautiful family that had claimed him.

 “Thank you,” he said softly, voice trembling. “For everything.”

Sirius pulled him close. “We’re just getting started, pup.”

And with the fire flickering behind them, and ancient portraits watching with unfamiliar warmth, Harry Potter smiled like a boy finally—finally—home.

---

The firelight flickered softly across the walls of the old drawing room, casting long shadows that danced in quiet anticipation. Harry sat tucked into a plush velvet settee, listening as Sirius paced before the hearth, his expression unreadable — eyes glinting with something ancient, something resolute.

“I won’t have you grow up surrounded by misery and dust,” Sirius finally declared. “You are not a relic, Harry. You are heir to a legacy. And legacies… deserve kingdoms.”

Before Harry could speak, Sirius drew an obsidian wand etched with sacred, ancient runes — its power humming in the air like a heartbeat. His voice dropped into a deep chant, one that made the floor tremble and the walls seem to breathe. The temperature shifted. Reality bent.

And then — everything shattered.

The very essence of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place crumbled with a violent hiss, sucked into a vortex of shimmering magic. Runes flared across every surface, glowing molten gold and crimson, carving themselves into the very bones of the building. Lightning cracked across the ceiling. A storm of raw, unfiltered magic engulfed the entire street.

Time itself paused.

It held its breath, dared not interfere.

For the first time in centuries, a true Black heir was remaking his dominion — and the world had no choice but to bow.

The building groaned, shook, then surged outward with a blinding roar of power. Towers shot into the sky, shattering the clouds, stretching higher than any wizarding manor dared reach. Walls of enchanted obsidian and silver quartz burst upward from the earth, pulsing with ancestral might. The ground beneath rippled with pure magic, reality reshaping itself to kneel before the will of Sirius Orion Black.

Grimmauld Place was no more.

What stood in its place was Grimmauld Palace — a structure so glorious, so impossibly vast and ancient in aura, that even the concept of time itself hesitated at its gates, unsure if it was welcome.

It wasn’t just a manor. It was a kingdom born of magic, blood, and absolute defiance.

The gates were wrought of celestial metal, infused with warding magic so intricate that they shimmered like liquid starlight. The long driveway, paved with diamond-dust stone, twisted through a living maze of singing silver roses and whispering moonlilies. Crystal fountains erupted beside enchanted lantern trees that bore glowing fruit of eternal flame.

The palace loomed ahead, draped in enchantments that rippled with cosmic resonance — its towers kissed the stars, its windows reflected not just light, but memory. The exterior walls glistened with starlit obsidian veined in shifting silver, while the flag of House Black flew above with such force that even the wind seemed to obey it.

A hundred invisible wards locked into place, anchoring the palace outside the reach of ordinary time. Seasons would change beyond the gates, but inside, only the will of House Black would dictate the passage of hours.

No Time Turner could function within its walls. No Seer’s eye could pierce its veil. Even fate itself would knock before it dared enter.

Behind the palace, a full Quidditch pitch stretched majestically, lined with white marble and gold-leaf spectator stands. A swimming pool glistened beside a miniature enchanted beach under permanent enchanted sunlight. A vast glass conservatory held magical flora from across the world — and beyond. To the east lay an estate-sized field for magical creatures, protected by runes so ancient they whispered in the language of the stars.

Inside, the transformation was no less divine.

The entrance doors, each three stories high and enchanted to open only for the blood of the Black heir or those bound to him by love and oath, creaked open. Within lay a vaulted foyer of carved stardust marble, where staircases floated in midair and chandeliers rained glowing petals of gold.

The ceilings seemed to reach the heavens, painted with constellations that moved and shimmered in real time. Rich carpets of shifting silk sprawled across the floor like living galaxies. Tapestries of the House Black’s greatest moments came to life on the walls — not as memories, but as living dreams woven into reality.

Even the portraits of ancient Black ancestors, once silent and judgmental, bowed their heads as Harry entered — acknowledging not just his presence, but his belonging.

Harry stood frozen, his breath caught in his throat. His fingers clutched the edge of a velvet banister as he whispered, “This is… unreal.”

Sirius, standing beside him with an air of easy confidence and infinite pride, simply shrugged and said, “I told you I’d give you a home. Nothing less than heaven for my son.”

Then, his eyes softened, voice dropping just above a whisper.

“And tomorrow evening… we make it official.”

---

The night was still thick with magic, the kind that left the air humming like a low song only the powerful could hear. After a quiet moment spent watching the stars ripple against the charmed glass ceiling of the Grand Hall, Sirius placed a gentle hand on Harry’s shoulder and offered a rare, solemn smile.

“Come, pup. There’s something I want to show you before we rest,” he said softly, eyes gleaming with the weight of centuries and the light of love.

They walked through silent corridors lined with ancient Black heirlooms, portraits bowing their heads respectfully as Harry passed — not because of fame, but because of blood. Legacy. Future. Their footsteps echoed faintly on the obsidian-marble floors until they reached a set of grand, double doors made of moon-forged silverwood, etched with the crest of House Black and a burning constellation that pulsed faintly with Sirius’s magic.

He whispered a single word: “Sanctum.”

The doors opened inward without a sound, revealing a world Harry could barely comprehend.

It wasn’t a room. It was an entire wing — the Heir’s Wing.

A corridor stretched before him like a gallery from an enchanted dream. Velvet drapes of midnight blue framed tall windows that overlooked the Quidditch pitch and star-drenched sky. Enchanted torches floated silently, casting warm golden light against stone walls laced with protective runes and ancestral blessings.

Sirius watched Harry’s expression shift from awe to disbelief with silent satisfaction.

To the left lay his bedchamber, vast enough to house a small manor in itself. The bed was grand and regal, its four silver posts wrapped in ethereal veils of enchanted silk that shimmered like liquid starlight. The headboard bore the crests of the Blacks, Potters, and Evans lines—bound in gold and protection. The fireplace crackled with dragonfire beneath a mantle carved from onyx, and above it hung a portrait of Lily and James, painted in soft oils, smiling gently down at him.

To the right of the bedchamber, a pair of tall glass doors opened to a private walk-in wardrobe so large it had its own enchanted lighting system, enchanted tailoring station, and house-elves waiting to take measurements the moment he so much as considered new robes.

“This is just… for me?” Harry whispered, voice barely audible.

Sirius nodded. “Of course. You’re the heir of House Black. This is your birthright.”

Past the wardrobe came the personal drawing room — a luxurious, warmly lit space filled with velvet couches, deep reading chairs, a fireplace, a music corner with enchanted instruments, and walls adorned with family heirlooms and enchanted portraits of trusted ancestors. It was designed for hosting guests in the utmost privacy — should Harry choose to receive only those he deemed worthy.

The next door led into the heir’s private library — a room so vast it spiraled upward with floating staircases, domed ceilings enchanted with constellations, and thousands of rare, ancient tomes that hummed with time-forged wisdom. Every subject imaginable was housed here — dark and light, ancient blood magics, wandlore, Black family journals, rare magical creature studies, private letters between Merlin and Morgana, and books that even Hogwarts dared not keep on its shelves.

“This…” Harry breathed. “This isn’t just a room. This is a world.”

Sirius grinned. “Exactly.”

To the far end of the wing, nestled in a sunken alcove surrounded by glass walls that overlooked the palace’s moonlit gardens, lay a sanctuary of serenity — a private bathing chamber with enchanted hot springs, perfumed waters, obsidian floors, golden fixtures, and a charmed ceiling that mirrored the sky outside.

---

The corridors of the Heir’s Wing glowed gently under the spell-kissed torches, casting pools of golden light that shimmered across the dark stone floors like spilled starlight.

After the evening’s whirlwind — the grandeur, the astonishment, the transformation of Grimmauld Place into a palace of unimaginable beauty — Harry found himself surrounded by warmth, not of hearth alone, but of people who truly cared.

Sirius was the last to leave.

He stood at the threshold of Harry’s chamber, arms crossed but face unguarded — softer than Harry had ever seen. “Tomorrow changes everything,” he said, voice low, reverent. “You’ll be mine in every way that matters. You already are, but… blood will make it true.”

Harry nodded, unable to form words. Emotion had knotted in his throat.

Sirius stepped forward, drew him into a tight embrace, and pressed a kiss to his hair. “Goodnight, son,” he whispered — the first time he had said it aloud.

The words lodged in Harry’s chest like a blessing.

One by one, the others followed — Remus, who ruffled his hair and called him “cub,” his voice already thick with unspoken tears. Tonks, who threw her arms around him with a cheery “Sleep well, baby cousin,” and even Walburga and Arcturus, who bestowed formal nods and affectionate kisses on his forehead like a prince being seen off to bed.

They left with gentle smiles, flowing down the halls like a noble procession returning to their chambers.

And then he was alone.

The room was impossibly large, vast and stately, its ceiling enchanted to mirror the stars above. The moonlight filtering through the tall windows pooled over the obsidian floors like liquid silver. The fire whispered in the hearth.

Harry stood beside the enormous bed, still dressed in his soft green robe, staring at the massive pillows, the silken sheets, the weightless warmth of the magical down comforter. It was a bed fit for royalty — for a crowned heir — but as he sat on its edge, his heart sank under an invisible weight.

Sleep would not come.

He could feel it building already. The graveyard. The cold stone. The screams. The green light. The sharp stab of betrayal. The weight of Cedric's body. The return of Voldemort.

His hands trembled.

He rose silently, crossed the vast room, and touched the polished doorknob of his private library. It opened at his approach like it had been waiting for him.

Warmth greeted him — not physical, but ancestral.

The Heir’s Library was different at night. The floating lamps dimmed themselves to a soft glow. Shadows curled in corners like sleeping guardians. The scent of old parchment, ink, and dragonhide leather filled the air like incense in a sacred temple.

Harry moved quietly between the shelves, fingers trailing along ancient tomes until he found the one that called to him.

“𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘩 𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥: 𝘈 𝘛𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘴, 𝘌𝘵𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘓𝘢𝘸𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘉𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬.”

He returned to the fireplace, curling up in the plush chair of deep emerald velvet, knees drawn in and the book cradled in his lap.

Page after page opened his eyes to a world of ancient power: how the Blacks swore oaths in flame and starlight, how their heir was educated not just in spellcraft, but in diplomacy, magical theory, language, and court etiquette. There were codes of honor, of vengeance, of legacy and inheritance. There were hand-gestures for rituals and silent spells passed only to blood.

He read about the Night of Binding — the blood adoption ceremony. It wasn’t just legal. It was spiritual. Cosmic. A pact of family forged through soulfire.

Hours passed, and the fire grew low. But Harry stayed.

He could not sleep — not yet. But here, surrounded by silence, knowledge, and the echo of family he never knew he had, he did not feel afraid.

He felt… anchored.

For the first time, he understood: the Blacks weren’t just a house. They were a legacy. A fortress. A storm. And now, they were his.

---

The light of dawn slipped through the stained-glass windows like a whisper — soft, golden, reverent.

Curled in a throne-like armchair within the towering shelves of his private library, Master Harry blinked in surprise at the warm streaks of sun now spilling across the page. The fire had died down to glowing embers, the air rich with the scent of burnt cedar and aged parchment.

He looked at the stack of books beside him. Six thick tomes, each one bound in dragonhide and inked in gleaming silver or house green.

“Blackblood: The Ancient Pact.”

“The Ten Vows of the Noble House.”

“The Language of Shadows: Curses and Counters Exclusive to Black Heirs.”

“House Etiquette for the Pure and Powerful.”

“Ancestral Magic of the Thirteen Sacred Lines.”

“The Forbidden Histories: Black Affairs and Lost Sons.”

His eyes stung with fatigue. He hadn’t slept a second.

But his mind was ablaze — crackling with history, tradition, and the magnitude of the family he now belonged to.

He stood slowly, stretching his arms with a soft wince, and closed the final book. “I should get ready for breakfast,” he muttered to himself, brushing invisible dust from his robe.

But just as he turned toward the towering door, a loud crack echoed through the room.

Kreacher had appeared — but not with his usual sneering expression and muttered bitterness. No — the ancient elf fell to his knees before Master Harry with a sound between a gasp and a sob, forehead pressed to the floor.

“Master Harry!” he choked out in a trembling voice. “Noble Master Harry of House Black!”

Harry blinked, startled. “Kreacher?”

Kreacher lifted his head slightly, eyes bloodshot and wide with desperation. “Master Harry must save him! Kreacher begs you! Master Regulus must not be left behind!”

The name struck Harry like lightning.

“Regulus—?” he breathed, stepping closer. “Regulus Black?”

Kreacher nodded wildly, chest heaving. “Your uncle, Master Harry! Kreacher tried—tried so hard to obey—but the magic was too dark, the cave too cruel, and Kreacher could not save him—Kreacher failed, Kreacher is ashamed—”

Harry dropped to one knee, gripping Kreacher’s thin shoulders. “Kreacher. What do you mean? Regulus—he died. He’s—”

“No!” the elf wailed, eyes overflowing now. “Not truly! Not fully! Trapped, Master Harry! Left in the darkness! The Master still calls to the Inferi, and the lake still drinks the screams!”

Before Harry could ask another question, Kreacher’s hand darted forward — trembling, ancient fingers wrapped around Harry’s wrist.

And the world disappeared.

CRACK.

Chapter Text

They landed with a deafening silence.

A cavern so dark even shadows dared not move. The air was thick, unmoving, ancient — the very breath of the cave stale with suffering. Faint ripples rolled across the lake’s black surface as if it remembered every scream it ever devoured.

Harry stood at the edge of that cursed lake once more, but now, guided by Kreacher’s unwavering devotion, they had crossed the unseen barriers.

And there—on the cold, jagged stone of the island—lay a figure.

Regulus Arcturus Black.

But something was terribly strange.

He looked… young.

Too young.

His features were untouched by time — delicate yet strong, elegant even in agony. His face, though pale and bloodied, was unmistakably youthful. This was not the face of a man who had died a hero, but a boy — no older than fourteen. His hair, long and tangled, clung to his cheeks, and his chest rose in shallow, gasping breaths.

A pool of blood soaked beneath him — too much. Crimson darkened the stone, his slender fingers twitching faintly with each flicker of pain.

“Regulus—” Harry whispered, heart freezing in his chest.

Kreacher whimpered, dropping to his knees beside them.

Harry stumbled forward, falling to his knees, and reached out. His hand, trembling, pressed gently to Regulus’s chest.

And then— he screamed.

Agony. Fire. Collapse. Decay.

A flood of raw energy surged through him. But it wasn’t dark magic—it was life itself. Fading. Dying. And not just dying—being pulled, unraveled by forces even Voldemort would cower before.

Harry’s breath hitched. “I—I can feel his life,” he gasped. “I can feel it draining—how? How is this happening?!”

A rustle.

Then a voice. Cold, crisp, eternal.

“Because you are the Master of Death, Master Harry.”

Harry turned sharply, wand flying into his hand—but stopped.

Before him stood a creature not human, not mortal. It had no face—only a cloak of midnight woven from starlight and shadows, floating above the stone. Its presence did not oppress—it commanded reverence.

Beside it stood another.

Equally strange, but where the first was dark and still, the second shimmered like shifting sands in an hourglass. Time rippled off it like heat—its form impossibly fluid, a golden cloak trailing behind it like history unwinding in reverse.

“W-what?” Harry whispered.

“I am Death,” said the first.

“And I am Time,” whispered the second.

Kreacher bowed low, forehead to the stone, whimpering.

Death moved first, the air freezing in its wake.

“You feel his lifeforce because it is connected to yours, Master Harry. You are the Master of Death. And he—Regulus Arcturus Black—is chosen by Time.”

Harry’s mouth opened, heart racing. “But—but why does he still look so young? He’s supposed to be—he should be—dead! Long dead!”

Time stepped forward now, its voice both young and ancient. “Because I took him. In his final moment, when death called, I refused. I claimed him instead and cast him into my folds.”

Harry’s throat tightened. “Why?! Why him?!”

“Because he chose to die selflessly,” Time said. “He acted not for glory, not for vengeance, but to undo evil. He turned against fate—and I saw fit to preserve him.”

“But in doing so,” Death added, “Time disrupted what was meant to be. And so I, in balance, chose you, Master Harry. Much too early.”

Harry reeled. “So… I’m Death’s Master because Regulus became Time’s?”

“Correct,” said Death. “Your destinies are tethered. One cannot rise while the other falls. Time preserved his body, but his soul has been trapped between us ever since, bleeding out in an endless loop of near-death. Waiting for balance to return.”

Harry looked down at Regulus again—his breathing was slower now, a thin trail of blood at the corner of his mouth.

“I can’t let him die,” Harry whispered, “not after all this—he’s my family—he saved us all—!”

“You will not let him die,” Death agreed. “But to save him, Master Harry, you must claim your dominion fully. And accept the bond that joins your fates.”

Time hovered silently.

And Harry understood.

To save Regulus, he must fully awaken the ancient magic tied to both Death and Time—the magic that saw beyond mortality.

He reached out again, gripping Regulus’s hand firmly. This time, he welcomed the pull—the pain—the connection.

For he was no longer just Harry.

He was the balance between endings and eternities.

And Regulus… Regulus was not gone.

He would never be.

Not while Time and Death both claimed his name.

---

Light shimmered beneath Harry’s fingertips.

The dark cavern quaked ever so slightly—not with danger, but with something older than the earth itself. Time and Death stood silent, watching. Their presence pressed into the air like gravity made magic.

Harry held Regulus’s fragile, blood-soaked body in his arms. The boy’s chest barely rose now. The stone beneath him glowed faintly as Harry—Master of Death—called upon that title for the very first time.

“I accept it,” he whispered, voice unwavering. “If it means saving him… I accept.”

Death did not smile—it had no face—but the air softened, a silent acknowledgment.

Light, silver and golden, poured like ink from Harry’s fingertips into Regulus’s chest, drawn from both Death’s stillness and Time’s endless pulse. A golden thread snaked from Time’s hand, connecting with Regulus’s heart, and a sliver of obsidian light spiraled from Death, weaving around the boy’s form.

Regulus gasped.

A raw, desperate inhale—like one drowning who finally broke the surface.

Then stillness.

Then—

His eyes fluttered open.

And Harry froze.

They were the same eyes Sirius had. Storm-grey, cold and sharp, but in this moment… they were wide with confusion and fear.

Regulus blinked, weakly trying to sit up, his voice cracked and strained. “Wh–who are you?”

Harry hesitated, heart hammering. “Harry,” he said softly. “Harry James Potter. Son of James Potter and Lily Evans.”

Regulus’s brow furrowed.

“…That’s impossible,” he said, staring. “You’re… too old. You can’t be. James only just started—he’s only graduated—how can you be—”

“You were tossed forward, Master Regulus,” Time interrupted, its voice calm and melodic. “I brought you to the future. Far beyond your death. You were not meant to survive, but I refused that fate.”

Regulus blinked at the being. “Who… are you?”

“I am Time,” it answered simply. “And I have chosen you as my Master.”

Regulus stared—eyes wide in disbelief.

“…What?” he whispered.

Suddenly—pain.

He screamed.

His body seized and arched in Harry’s arms, his hands clutching at his head as if it were on fire. His screams echoed through the cavern, hitting the lake walls like crashing waves.

“Regulus!” Harry shouted, trying to hold him down.

Images tore through Regulus’s mind. The Inferi. The locket. Voldemort’s cold fury. The Dark Mark searing his arm. His choice. His betrayal. His death.

He remembered everything.

The tears came, sharp and fast. He wept without shame, choked and broken, sobbing like the child he now was again. “I—he—I died,” he gasped. “I died, I saw them—I left Kreacher—I thought I—!”

“Regulus.” Harry’s voice was gentle but firm. “It’s over. You’re safe. I’m here.”

Regulus looked at him—small, trembling, eyes red and haunted.

Harry pulled him close, arms wrapping tightly around the boy. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’re okay. I’ve got you now.”

The Master of Time broke down in the arms of the Master of Death.

Time and Death stood still, their chosen ones bound by fate, grief, and love. In the midst of ancient magics, in a cave long forgotten by the world, two boys from broken pasts clung to each other—one reborn, one already too old for his years—and for the first time since they had touched those cursed forces…

They were not alone.

---

The cavern had stilled. Regulus trembled in Harry’s arms, his sobs finally softening to ragged breaths. His chest ached, his heart hollow from everything he’d remembered — and from the fear of what awaited him next.

Harry gently brushed back Regulus’s damp hair, his voice low and warm. “Come home with me.”

Regulus tensed.

He pulled back slightly, shaking his head with raw panic in his wide eyes. “No—no, I can’t. I can’t go back. My brother—Sirius—he’ll hate me. I joined them. I wore that Mark. I—”

“Regulus,” Harry interrupted, firm but tender. “He won’t hate you. You tried to stop Voldemort. You died trying to destroy a Horcrux. You were braver than anyone ever gave you credit for. Sirius doesn’t know that yet… but he will.”

Regulus turned away, his voice cracking. “It won’t matter. I still chose the Dark. I still followed him. I—”

“No,” Harry said, taking his face in both hands so Regulus was forced to look at him. “You came back. You tried to undo your mistake. And Sirius—he’s not the same boy you left behind. He loves you. So much more than you know. You’ll see.”

Regulus trembled, eyes shining. “What if he doesn’t want me?”

“He does,” Harry said with unwavering certainty. “You’re family. And I’m not going to let you face any of this alone. You’ll come home. With me. And I promise… I won’t leave you, Regulus. Never. Not for a single day.”

Regulus’s lip quivered.

Slowly, like the first stretch of dawn after a long night, he nodded.

“…Okay.”

Harry exhaled with relief.

With a whisper to Time and Death, Harry summoned their return. The cave shimmered and twisted — and with a surge of ancient energy, the three figures and the boy vanished.

---

They reappeared in Harry’s private drawing room.

The moment Regulus opened his eyes, he froze in shock.

His knees nearly buckled.

“This is…” he breathed, staring around. “This is Grimmauld Place?”

No.

This was not the cold, suffocating, cursed manor he remembered. This was… a palace.

The chamber soared high, with silver chandeliers dripping crystal light. The floors gleamed obsidian and white marble in intricate mosaic patterns. Velvet drapes in deep emerald and pure black framed tall arched windows, where morning sun spilled through softly. The walls were adorned with enchanted oil paintings—some ancient, some newly commissioned—and there was not a trace of decay or shadow.

It was a home now. A beautiful one.

His voice was a whisper. “He… he changed it…”

Harry gave a small smile. “Sirius said he wouldn’t raise his son in anything less than heaven.”

Regulus looked at him again. “Son?”

Harry just smiled again and said nothing.

Then the doors burst open.

Walburga Black entered first, in full regal robes of midnight and silver, her steps elegant and precise. Arcturus followed, dignified and poised, holding his cane with Black authority. Remus stepped in beside a bouncing Nymphadora, and behind them…

Sirius.

He stopped mid-stride, eyes catching Harry—and then the boy beside him.

Everything froze.

Time might as well have stopped again.

Sirius’s mouth dropped open, his grey eyes wide. His wand fell to the floor with a hollow clatter. Walburga inhaled sharply, her painted lips parting. Arcturus’s cane cracked against the marble as it slipped from his grasp.

And then Sirius whispered.

“Regulus…?”

The boy turned, slow and hesitant, terrified.

“Hi…” he rasped. “I… I don’t know how I’m here but… I’m back.”

Sirius took one shaky step forward. Then another. And another.

And then—he ran.

He pulled Regulus into his arms with such force it nearly knocked them both to the ground. His laughter was wet with sobs, his voice ragged. “You little idiot! You bloody idiot—I thought you were dead!”

“I was,” Regulus whispered.

But Sirius only held him tighter. “You’re not now.”

Walburga had to sit down, hand over her mouth, tears streaming silently.

Arcturus let out a strangled breath and turned away, shoulders stiff with emotion.

And Harry… stood quietly beside them, watching, a soft smile on his face.

Time stood behind him, invisible to all but Harry and Regulus, its presence calm. Death beside it, dark and still. They made no sound. They only watched as their chosen found a family they were never meant to live long enough to have.

And for the first time, in Grimmauld Palace—a place where even Time dared not trespass without invitation—there was nothing but light.

---

The Black family sat gathered in the resplendent drawing room of Grimmauld Palace, a chamber so grand it rivaled the throne halls of ancient kings. The ceiling stretched high above them, enchanted with a softly swirling night sky, though outside it was morning. Flames crackled in a silver-veined fireplace. Tall windows bathed the room in amber light. The long obsidian table in the center shimmered with breakfast untouched.

But no one was eating.

Sirius sat on a velvet chair beside Regulus, gripping his brother's hand as if letting go would shatter the spell. Regulus, wrapped in an emerald velvet blanket, sat stiff and overwhelmed, eyes still wide from awe and disbelief.

Walburga, silent but teary-eyed, sat regally across from them with Arcturus, whose sharp, ancient gaze flickered between the two brothers like he still couldn't believe what he saw. Nymphadora was quiet for once, holding Remus’s hand, watching in fascination and sympathy.

Harry stood at the hearth, hands folded behind his back. The black and silver robes he wore shimmered faintly in the firelight, his presence commanding yet calm.

It was Sirius who broke the silence.

“How…?” His voice was low, reverent. “How is this possible, Harry?”

Regulus was staring into the fire, pale, still shaken. Harry glanced at him gently, then faced the room.

“It started when I couldn’t sleep,” Harry began softly. “I spent the night reading about the House of Black. I wanted to understand… you. All of you. Your legacy, your honor, your traditions.”

That made Walburga blink and sit a little straighter.

“I was about to come down for breakfast,” Harry continued, “when Kreacher appeared. He… bowed to me and begged me to save Master Regulus.”

Sirius gripped the chair arm. Arcturus’s eyes flickered.

“Before I could ask anything, he Apparated us away,” Harry went on. “We appeared in a dark cave, and Regulus… he was lying there. Bleeding. Barely breathing. And then—” he paused “—there were two creatures with him.”

Walburga’s lips parted. “Creatures?”

Harry nodded. “One called itself Death. The other, Time.”

The room fell silent again. Even the fire seemed to hush.

“Death?” Arcturus echoed, voice grave. “Are you certain?”

“They weren’t just creatures,” Harry clarified. “They were forces. Entities older than magic. They called me… the Master of Death.”

Arcturus rose slightly in his chair, eyes flaring.

“And Regulus…” Harry turned to look at his brother. “Time said he is its chosen Master. Time brought him to our time—tossed him into the future—and that… disrupted the natural order. Death was forced to find its Master far earlier than it should have.”

Sirius was staring at Regulus now, stunned.

“So you didn’t survive the cave,” Sirius murmured to Regulus. “You died. But Time… brought you forward.”

Regulus nodded slowly, voice hoarse. “I drank the potion to retrieve the locket. I was dying. But before the Inferi could take me, I saw the creature—Time. It… touched me. And I woke up, bleeding, but alive. Everything else, I don’t understand.”

Walburga leaned forward, voice thick. “Why would Time choose you, child?”

Harry answered for him. “Because he tried to change fate. He died trying to right a wrong. Time must’ve seen that… and chose him. But because of that interference, Death chose me. And now…”

He looked around the room, carefully.

“…we’ve been brought together.”

Silence followed. Until a quiet sob cracked it—Regulus. He curled his arms around himself.

“I didn’t think I deserved to be loved anymore,” he whispered. “I thought I’d ruined everything. That even if I came back, it wouldn’t matter.”

Sirius stood abruptly and pulled him into a tight embrace.

“You idiot,” he choked. “You’re my brother. You’ll always matter. You came back. You’re here. That’s all I care about.”

Regulus sobbed into Sirius’s shoulder.

Walburga stood next, regal and trembling. She moved toward her son—her youngest, now a child again in her eyes. She brushed a hand through his dark curls, her fingers trembling. Her voice broke.

“You’ve come home, Regulus. That is all that matters.”

Arcturus did not speak, but he gave a small, imperceptible nod—his eyes glimmering with a kind of proud pain.

Harry looked on, silent and content. Time and Death hovered quietly behind him, unseen to the others.

For the first time in many, many years, the House of Black was whole.

And from the ashes of the past, beneath the ancient stars of the enchanted ceiling, a new legacy was about to begin.

---

The morning sun filtered through the towering windows of Grimmauld Palace, casting golden rays on the marble floors that gleamed like starlight. The walls of the corridor shimmered with embedded runes and silver threadwork, whispering ancient protection charms as if the palace itself had awakened from a long slumber.

Regulus stood in the center of it all, eyes wide, his mouth agape. He turned slowly in place, trying to take in the sweeping arches, the cathedral-high ceilings, the floating black crystal chandeliers that sparkled like constellations above.

“This…” he breathed, “this was Grimmauld Place?”

Sirius chuckled beside him, one arm draped fondly over his little brother’s shoulders. “Was. Past tense. Now—this is Grimmauld Palace.”

Regulus blinked. “What in Merlin’s name happened to it?”

“I did,” Sirius said smugly. “I transformed it. Rewove the ancestral wards, rebuilt the foundation with Black family magic, and made it a proper sanctuary. Somewhere safe. Somewhere worthy of you. Of Harry. Of all of us.”

“Worthy?” Regulus echoed, stunned.

“Don’t be dramatic, Reg,” Sirius grinned. “I only meant to raise my heir in heaven, not a haunted mausoleum.”

Harry trailed behind the pair, smiling softly. “You succeeded, Sirius. This place feels… alive.”

Remus chuckled. “Alive and grander than Malfoy Manor.”

Nymphadora added, “Honestly, compared to this? Lucius lives in a broom cupboard.”

The corridor opened to a massive inner courtyard—where gleaming obsidian fountains danced, surrounded by silver rose gardens. Beyond the archway, Regulus could see the stretching green expanse of a full Quidditch pitch. On the other side, a wide field with magical creature habitats and enchanted trees glimmered under charm-light.

Regulus stared, frozen. “This… isn’t real.”

Walburga stepped beside him, holding her chin high and voice calm. “It is very real, Regulus. This is the new seat of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black. And you are its son.”

Regulus turned to look at his mother, her proud face softer than he remembered, her eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to love.

“This wasn’t what I imagined… coming back would feel like,” he murmured.

Harry stepped forward, smiling gently. “No one ever does.”

They spent the morning walking the halls. Regulus gasped at the transformation of his former bedroom—now a regal chamber in emerald and silver, with a glass balcony that overlooked the rear gardens. He wept silently when he saw the Black family portrait newly enchanted—his name restored, his face redrawn, beside Sirius and Harry.

When they returned to the great dining hall for lunch, Regulus had to pause at the threshold. The table stretched across a field of black marble. The walls glowed with star-maps of Black ancestors, etched in silver. House elves in fine livery scurried respectfully through the shadows.

Kreacher appeared beside him and bowed so deeply his nose nearly touched the floor. “Welcome home, Master Regulus.”

That broke him again.

But the truest moment came not with spells or formalities—but with the way Sirius tugged Regulus into a rough, bone-deep hug in the hallway before dinner. The kind that told him he was missed. The kind that said without words: You are forgiven.

---

The dining room of Grimmauld Palace—no longer just a house, but a veritable kingdom of elegance—was alive with warmth and laughter. The chandeliers sparkled like stars, casting a golden glow over the long mahogany table covered in platters of mouthwatering food. Sirius was dramatically carving a roast beast, Walburga was daintily sipping wine like a lady reborn, and Arcturus was in the middle of a passionate monologue about the superiority of Black heirloom wine when—

FWOOSH!

The emerald flames of the Floo roared to life, startling everyone in the room. Conversations died mid-sentence. Cutlery paused mid-air. All heads turned.

And there, stepping out from the hearth with his usual dour expression and dark robes swirling behind him like a brewing storm, stood none other than—

“Severus Snape.”

Everyone blinked. Stared.

Everyone… except Sirius.

But it was Regulus who spoke first, eyes wide as if he’d just seen a niffler in a three-piece suit.

“Sev?” he gasped, standing so quickly his chair clattered to the floor. “What are you doing here?”

Severus gave a sharp nod. “Regulus.” Then his eyes flickered to Harry, and finally to Sirius—

And in a whirlwind of utter insanity, Sirius Black leapt across the dining room like a man possessed by Cupid himself.

“YOU’RE EARLY!” Sirius shouted joyfully.

And then—

HE KISSED HIM.

He kissed Severus Snape. Full-on. In front of everyone.

Time stopped. The world cracked. Universes collided.

Remus choked so violently on his roast beef that Tonks had to start pounding his back like a deranged drummer.

Walburga Black let out a shriek, clutched her pearls, and swooned dramatically—only to be caught mid-faint by a very stunned Arcturus, who looked like someone had poured cold pumpkin juice down his spine.

Tonks gave a strangled gasp, pointed at the pair in horror, and collapsed into Remus’s arms, knocking his goblet over as he instinctively caught her. He stared at the couple, jaw hanging, clearly rethinking every life decision that had brought him here.

Arcturus Black stood half-bent, still holding his fainted wife with wide eyes, his lips twitching like a broken marionette puppet.

And then—

“PFFFFTTTHHHHHH!”

Both Regulus and Harry, who had just taken sips of their pumpkin juice, sprayed twin jets through their noses, soaking the table, their own clothes, and Theo’s pristine shirt.

“WHAT THE BLOODY—” Regulus gasped, wiping his face as Harry coughed beside him, both of them looking at Sirius like he’d grown antlers.

“SIRIUS ORION BLACK!” Walburga shrieked weakly, coming to in Arcturus’s arms, fanning herself with a bread plate. “YOU… YOU JUST… WITH SNAPE?!”

Severus, looking utterly unbothered, raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Lady Black. I kissed your son. Again, I might add. For the fifth time today.”

That did it.

Regulus slapped a hand over his mouth. “You’re dating Sev?! Like Professor Snape? Sev Severus Snape? Greasy git Sev?!”

Sirius beamed like the sun incarnate, dramatically tossing an arm around Severus’s shoulders. “My Sev, thank you very much. And you better get used to it, baby brother.”

Harry was wheezing. “I-I thought I’d seen everything—dragons, Voldemort, Death—but this—this—”

Severus glanced at him. “You’ve yet to see Sirius try to dance in the rain while serenading me.”

Regulus threw a napkin in the air and declared, “I’m moving to the moon.”

Sirius grinned devilishly. “You’ll be doing it from your room, because I’m not done yet.”

He twirled Severus (who rolled his eyes with resigned amusement), dipped him backward dramatically, and gave him another lingering kiss.

“SIRIUS ORION BLACK I WILL NEED A SECOND WINE,” Walburga shouted as Arcturus helped her back to her seat.

“I NEED A MEMORY CHARM!” Remus cried as he gently laid Tonks across a chaise and wiped sweat from his brow.

Harry just clutched his chest and laughed so hard he thought he’d explode.

Grimmauld Palace, once haunted and bleak, now echoed with life, chaos, affection… and a whole lot of soap opera-worthy drama.

And if Sirius Black had his way?

There’d be a lot more kissing yet to come.

---

Chapter Text

The dining room of Grimmauld Palace still shimmered with the aftershocks of chaos.

Regulus sat slack-jawed, hands limp in his lap, eyes staring unblinking at the scene as if expecting it to vanish if he waited long enough.

Harry was bent over the table, still howling with laughter, wheezing between snorts and half-sobbed giggles.

Walburga and Nymphadora were caught mid-swoon, slumped on their chairs like wilted flowers, fanning themselves dramatically with whatever was within reach—napkin, bread plate, serving spoon.

Arcturus remained frozen, hands still gripping the back of Walburga’s chair, his mouth open in a horrified O, while Remus stood stock-still beside him, blinking rapidly like someone coming out of a very vivid hallucination.

Sirius was grinning, arms still around Severus like he’d just dropped the greatest prank of the century.

Then—

Click.

Something in the atmosphere shifted.

Severus Snape, with his black robes rippling behind him like storm clouds on the march, stepped away from Sirius.

Harry was still chuckling, gasping out, “I–I can’t breathe—this is the most ridiculous—” until he caught sight of Severus striding directly toward him.

The laughter died in his throat.

Instantly.

His back stiffened. The air went still. Even the candles seemed to flicker quieter.

Severus stopped just before him. His dark eyes, so often cold and calculating, now held a storm of emotion—controlled, but fierce. Protective.

And then, without a single word—

He bent down…

And pulled Harry into an embrace.

Gasps. Audible, sharp, scattered across the room like broken glass.

Regulus’s mouth dropped open further, if that was even possible.

Walburga dropped her wineglass.

Harry didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

He sat, stiff as a statue, frozen in utter disbelief.

Then Severus gently pressed a kiss to his forehead.

And the world, for a moment, held its breath.

Severus straightened slowly, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet—but filled with a weight that demanded to be heard.

“Sirius and I,” he began, his words falling like stones into still water, “have been together since our fifth year at Hogwarts.”

Harry blinked up at him, lips parted, breath shallow.

“We were young. Stubborn. But we found something… unexpected. Something real.”

His gaze flickered across the table—at the stunned family, at Sirius’s soft smile—and then returned to Harry.

“We planned to tell the world. We were going to go public. But then…” He exhaled, and the shadows in his eyes deepened. “The war began. And everything fell apart. There was no room for love in that kind of blood-soaked madness.”

A pause.

“Then Sirius was imprisoned. And I was left alone… again. Separated by bars and time and grief. But I never forgot.”

Harry’s heart pounded in his ears.

“And now,” Severus continued, his voice firmer now, “after everything we’ve lost… we’ve finally found each other again.”

He took a deep breath.

“We want to build something new. Not as fugitives. Not as ghosts of what could’ve been. But as family.”

Harry’s lips trembled. His hands, which had been resting on the edge of the table, curled tightly.

“We want to get married,” Severus said, eyes meeting his. “And we want to adopt you.”

Silence.

Utter, soul-piercing silence.

“We want to give you a name. A home. Rights. Love. Not out of obligation—never that. But because we choose you. Because we love you. You, Harry. And Regulus, too.”

Regulus choked, his voice coming out as a strangled whisper, “Me?”

Sirius came forward now, taking Severus’s hand in his. “Yes, Reggie. You. We want to build a new life. A new name, if we must. A family, forged not in blood or war—but in choice.”

Harry was still frozen, staring at the man who had once haunted his dreams, now offering him a future.

A home.

Love.

Severus knelt before him again.

“You’ve been through hell, Harry,” he said gently. “You’ve survived. And it’s time someone chose you for once. Not because you’re the Boy Who Lived. Not because you were Lily’s son. But because you are you. And I am proud of you.”

A tear slipped down Harry’s cheek.

“I… I don’t…” He tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. The boy who had slept in a cupboard. Who had never been chosen. Never been claimed.

Sirius knelt beside Severus. “You don’t have to say anything now. But know this—whether or not you accept, you are our son. And nothing will ever change that.”

Regulus was crying quietly, hands trembling as he leaned forward, whispering, “I thought… I thought I was just extra. A shadow. But you want me too?”

“Always,” Sirius said softly, reaching out to take his hand.

And just like that—

The palace shifted again.

No longer a house of ghosts.

But a home. Loud, chaotic, dramatic, imperfect—

And full of love.

---

The Black Palace was hushed. The flickering sconces lining the ancient stone walls dimmed one by one as the family moved through the quiet halls, until only the soft sound of footsteps remained—leather against marble, velvet brushing ancient stone. A quiet reverence settled over them like a sacred veil.

Harry walked at his fathers’ side, Regulus beside him, the four of them adorned in formal black robes trimmed in silver thread and midnight emerald, sigils glowing faintly across their chests. Their destination loomed ahead: the Ritual Room, a vaulted chamber veiled in shadow and starlight, enchanted to reflect the sky even in the heart of the manor.

The doors opened without a sound.

Inside, the air shimmered with old magic. Runes older than Hogwarts carved themselves into light across the obsidian floor. The four ancestral thrones of the House of Black stood empty and watchful on the dais beyond, flanked by heavy tapestries bearing the Prince and Black crests woven together by silver thread.

Walburga stood beside Arcturus, both regal and still. Remus and Nymphadora waited near the archway, subdued in the presence of such sacred power.

Sirius took Severus’s hand.

---

The runes flared as Sirius and Severus stepped into the center of the circle.

A silvery wind rose from nowhere, swirling around them, lifting the edges of their robes like the breath of the house itself. In one hand, Severus held a ceremonial blade — not to harm, but to offer a drop of his blood. Sirius held an obsidian ring box, carved with the Black family seal.

They faced one another.

“Do you, Sirius Orion Black,” Severus began, voice deep and resonant, “bind your soul to mine, in love, in magic, in life and beyond it?”

“I do,” Sirius replied, eyes shining. “Freely and forever.”

Severus took the blade, pricked his finger, and let a drop of blood fall into the glowing runes. Sirius did the same. As their blood touched, the light surged upward in a column of silver flame.

“Let our bond be witnessed by blood and spell,” Sirius intoned. “I name you not only my beloved, but my bonded.”

He slipped the obsidian ring onto Severus’s finger.

“I accept,” Severus whispered, and slipped the matching ring onto Sirius's hand.

The flame around them burst into soft starlight and then vanished. A single bell tolled from deep within the Palace. They were wed—not by Ministry, but by ancient blood and unbreakable vow.

---

Harry and Regulus stepped forward in silence. Severus and Sirius each took one of their hands. The ritual blade hovered once more, now in Sirius’s grip.

“We call you sons,” Severus said. “Not by accident, but by choice. Not by obligation, but by love. Not by blood—yet—but by intent.”

Sirius looked into Harry’s eyes. “I claim you, Harry James Potter, as my son.”

Severus added, “And I claim you as mine.”

He brought the blade to his palm and let it bleed over Harry’s heart. Sirius did the same, over Regulus’s. Then the boys, without flinching, placed their hands over their chests.

“Blood to blood,” they spoke in unison.

The room groaned. The air shimmered. Magic twisted through the room like music and storm.

The runes surged gold, then red, then silver-white.

A voice—ancient, deep, and resonant—spoke from nowhere and everywhere:

“So it is spoken. So it is sealed.”

Their names were burned into the air in flame:

Hadrian Severus Prince-Black.

Regulus Sirius Prince-Black.

The magic recognized the change. It was not adoption—it was rebirth.

---

Now, all four stepped into the final circle—each clasping hands. Hadrian between Severus and Regulus, who held Sirius’s hand.

They raised their joined hands to the ancestral thrones.

“We are family by oath,” Sirius spoke, “but now we ask to be family by magic.”

“By the will of the House,” said Severus, “by the legacy of Prince and Black…”

“By the love we have chosen,” said Hadrian.

“By the blood we now share,” whispered Regulus.

The ancestral magic ignited.

The thrones lit with white fire. The floor rippled with enchantments that had not stirred in centuries. Runes swirled, surged, and climbed into the air, circling the four of them in spiraling constellations.

A final incantation echoed from the walls themselves:

“Blood to name. Name to love. Love to legacy.”

The magic engulfed them. When it faded, each of them bore a new sigil over their hearts—two entwined crests, Prince and Black, joined eternally by a third rune: Unity.

They opened their eyes as one.

Family.

Forged.

Not in name alone, but in soul and spell and sacred blood.

---

From the edge of the room, Walburga let fall a single tear.

Arcturus bowed his head.

Remus smiled with quiet awe, and Nymphadora held his hand tightly, trembling.

No words were spoken. None were needed.

The House of Prince-Black had risen.

And the world would never be the same.

---

The Black family drawing room shimmered with warmth and golden candlelight. The air smelled of cinnamon tea and orange blossom biscuits. Every antique piece hummed quietly, as if even the furniture had finally exhaled after years of holding breath.

Hadrian sat curled into one corner of a plush chaise, Regulus beside him with a cup of spiced tea. Across the room, Walburga and Arcturus sat like dark thrones come to life, while Remus and Dora shared a couch in casual sprawl.

At the center—side by side, stiff with pride but too close to deny—Sirius and Severus sat together, both aware they were now the subject of their family’s amused scrutiny.

It was Walburga who broke the quiet first, sipping delicately before scoffing, “You mean to tell me you two were lovers in secret while hexing each other in the middle of Grimmauld Place during the Order meetings?”

“Oh, we remember,” Dora said with a wicked grin. “You two were feral. Sirius accusing Severus of being Voldemort’s personal apothecary, and Severus calling Sirius a washed-up mutt with too much bark and no bite.”

Arcturus leaned forward with a raised brow. “You mean those weekly screaming matches over dinner weren’t genuine?”

“They were,” Severus said, with a sharp glare at Sirius. “I meant every word.”

“Same here,” Sirius said casually. “Except when I said I wanted to shove him into the Black Lake. I just wanted to shove him into bed.”

Regulus sputtered. Hadrian’s eyes widened.

“You’re telling me,” Hadrian said slowly, “that while the Order thought you two would duel to the death, you were—what? Sneaking off for midnight kisses?”

Remus gawked. “You were literally snarling at each other across the drawing room floor, and then what—making out in the basement afterward?”

“Not quite,” Sirius said with a faint smile. “We had to be smarter than that. Subtle.”

“Subtle?” Arcturus said, eyes narrowing. “You called him a ‘sallow-faced dung bat’ in front of McGonagall.”

Severus folded his arms. “And he retaliated by charming my chair to collapse during breakfast.”

“And yet,” Dora said gleefully, “no one ever thought you might be secretly in love!”

“That was the point,” Sirius said. “We weren’t ready to be known. Not to the Order. Not even to ourselves.”

Severus’s voice was lower now, almost an echo. “We couldn’t afford softness. Not during the war. Not then.”

“But you still loved him?” Hadrian asked, soft, sincere.

Severus turned his eyes to Sirius—quiet, tired, unflinching. “Always.”

There was a silence, almost reverent.

Then Sirius added, smirking slightly, “Though I did threaten to hex his eyebrows off once.”

“And I very nearly poisoned his pumpkin juice,” Severus replied without emotion.

Remus howled. “You two are mad.”

“Maybe,” Sirius said, nudging Severus with a knuckle, “but we’re together.”

“And we survived,” Severus finished, voice barely audible. “Somehow.”

Walburga sniffed, trying not to show emotion, but her hands trembled slightly as she refilled her teacup. “Well… it seems love does grow in the most hostile soil.”

Arcturus nodded slowly. “War does strange things to hearts. But if it’s real, it endures.”

Dora raised her teacup. “To hexes, hatred, and hiding behind insults.”

Remus added, grinning, “And to finally kissing in peace.”

They all laughed, warmth pooling in every corner of the room.

Hadrian looked between his new family, his lips curled in quiet joy. Regulus nudged him with a smirk.

“You see why no one figured it out?” Remus whispered. “They fought worse than Draco and Potter.”

“I was Potter then,” Hadrian replied.

“Exactly.”

And across from them, two men who had fought wars—inside themselves, against each other, and beside each other—sat with their shoulders touching, no longer needing to hide behind fury.

They were free now.

Laughter still echoed through the grand drawing room, lingering like magic in the air.

Remus had just finished recounting the time Sirius, in a fit of pettiness, enchanted Severus’s entire wardrobe to sing Celestina Warbeck’s love ballads each time he opened a drawer. Dora was nearly in tears from laughing, Walburga looked mortified, and even Arcturus wore the ghost of a smile.

In the midst of the easy joy, Hadrian leaned back against Regulus, head tilted, a rare, unguarded smile on his lips. For the first time in years—perhaps ever—he felt not like a weapon, not like a burden or a prophecy. Just… a son. A brother. A boy surrounded by love.

Then Severus spoke.

“I want you to know something, Hadrian.”

The room quieted. Hadrian looked up, green eyes clear, curious.

Severus set his teacup down and shifted forward, his voice low but full of quiet conviction. “I was hard on you for years… whether out of bitterness, guilt, or grief, I was cruel. But now… now that you're truly my son, I want you to understand this: I intend to spoil you senseless.”

Hadrian blinked. “Spoil me?”

“To excess,” Severus said seriously. “I’m going to make up for every moment you went without, every day you felt unloved. New robes, books, your own lab, your own vault… the works.”

To Hadrian’s surprise, Sirius nodded firmly in agreement.

“Damn right we will,” Sirius said. “We owe you the world, pup. Severus is right—we’re going to give you everything you’ve been denied.”

Then, smirking slightly, he added, “But after that, we’ll make sure you’re strong enough to defend all of it. You and I both know what’s coming. So, Hadrian—”

“Hadrian,” the boy said softly, almost reverently.

Sirius smiled proudly. “Hadrian. We’ll train you. Daily. I want you faster, sharper, deadlier. No one gets to hurt you again.”

Hadrian grinned, fierce and bright. “I was about to ask the same thing.”

Regulus gave him an approving nudge. “That’s the spirit.”

“Then it’s settled,” Severus said, already mentally creating a schedule. “I’ll craft your magical regimen. Sirius will handle the physical. Remus can help with focus and nonverbal casting. And Dora can teach you Auror evasions.”

Dora grinned. “I do love throwing myself off buildings.”

Remus sighed fondly. “And you wonder why I worry.”

Arcturus raised his glass. “A proper Black heir in training.”

Severus’s gaze softened as he looked at his son. “Also, tomorrow morning, we go to Gringotts.”

Hadrian tilted his head. “Why?”

“Because I will be claiming the Prince Lordship officially,” Severus said, his voice cool and commanding. “And you will receive your Potter Lordship—as the last heir, it belongs to you now. And… your Prince-Black Heirship, which comes with its own responsibilities and protections.”

Walburga gave a regal nod. “The goblins will present you your rings. One for House Potter. One for House Prince. One for House Black. You will wear them with pride.”

Regulus beamed. “You’ll have more titles than the Minister of Magic.”

Sirius ruffled Hadrian’s already-messy hair. “And you’ll still be my pup.”

Hadrian rolled his eyes, but his smile lingered. “Do I have to bow when I enter a room now?”

“Only if I’m in it,” Sirius said smugly.

Severus flicked a cushion at him with his wand.

They all laughed again, joy and pride flooding the room.

Then Severus cleared his throat and added, “Now, regarding your training. It won’t just be duelling and running drills.”

Hadrian straightened, intrigued.

“I will personally train you in Potions,” Severus said, “and advanced spellcraft—including the ones the Ministry won’t teach you. You will learn to duel, both formally and for survival.”

Remus leaned forward. “And I’ll handle Arithmancy and Runes. You’ll need those for warding and advanced magical theory.”

Dora wiggled her eyebrows. “I’ll teach you how to move like an Auror. Dodge, strike, vanish, reappear, confuse. You’ll be a bloody ghost when I’m done with you.”

Walburga gave a prim nod. “Regulus and I will instruct you in etiquette—how to command a room, how to speak as a Lord, and how to maintain proper presence. You will not embarrass our House.”

Regulus smirked. “Think of it as polishing a very fancy, very dramatic sword.”

Then Arcturus spoke, his voice low, ancient, and weighty. “And I will teach you what most will never know—our family’s true legacy. Our rituals. Our blood magics. And the secrets passed down only to the true heirs of the Black line.”

Sirius leaned in, his eyes dancing. “And I’ll teach you the nastier spells. The ones they only whisper about. You’re my heir too, pup—there are things you should know, spells that can end a war or win one before it starts.”

Hadrian’s heart thundered in his chest, but not from fear. From excitement. From the rising swell of something powerful and ancient and his. He had a family. A future. A legacy. And he would earn it.

Laughter burst again, this time louder, freer, warmer. The flickering fire crackled like applause for the blooming joy in the room.

Hadrian closed his eyes for just a moment and breathed it in.

Peace. Family. Magic.

Tomorrow, they would go to Gringotts. He would step into his destiny, not as a boy alone, but as Hadrian Severus Prince-Black, son of magic and fire, heir of three ancient houses… and above all, loved.

Chapter Text

The morning air was crisp as the Black family stepped through the massive wrought-iron doors of Gringotts Wizarding Bank, their polished boots echoing against the cold white marble.

Inside, goblins looked up—some with narrowed eyes, others with the faintest flicker of recognition or even respect. But no one dared interfere.

Sirius Black strode ahead like royalty, his arm lightly around Severus, who walked with a regal, composed grace. Behind them, Hadrian Severus Prince-Black, freshly adopted and clothed in tailored emerald robes with silver threading, walked shoulder to shoulder with Regulus Sirius Prince-Black, exuding the kind of presence that silenced even the proudest goblins.

They were flanked by Walburga, draped in mourning silks befitting a matriarch returned to power, Arcturus, walking like the shadow of old kings, and Remus and Nymphadora, whose aura of magic and quiet might made them stand taller than any Auror or professor.

As they approached the deepest hall lined with ancient gold and obsidian goblinwork, a figure stepped forward.

“Lord Severus Prince-Black.” The goblin bowed his head respectfully. “Welcome. I am Ragnok, Director of High-Security and Heir Affairs. We have prepared for your visit.”

Severus gave a slight nod, regal and cool. “Then you know why I’m here.”

Ragnok's sharp eyes gleamed. “Of course. You are here to formally claim your inheritance as Lord Prince, and to acknowledge your son as Heir Prince-Black and Lord Potter.”

He turned his gaze to Hadrian, who met it without flinching. “And I presume the young heir is ready for what is owed to him?”

“I am,” Hadrian replied smoothly.

Ragnok gave the faintest hint of a smile. “Then we shall begin. A simple Inheritance Ritual will suffice. We require a drop of blood on this parchment.”

He gestured, and a scroll of enchanted black vellum with silver-gold runes appeared on a pedestal between them. Severus stepped forward, unsheathing a ceremonial dagger that gleamed with magic. With calm precision, he pricked his finger and let a drop of blood fall.

The runes blazed white, then gold.

The parchment glowed as ink curled across it like summoned smoke. A deep hum filled the room—the sound of ancient magic awakening.

The scroll shimmered to life, revealing the full magical inheritance and identity of the man now fully recognized as a Lord.

---

 INHERITANCE OF LORD SEVERUS TOBIAS PRINCE-BLACK 

Full Name:

Severus Tobias Prince-Black

Titles Held:

– Lord of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Prince

– Consort to the Lord of the Most Noble House of Black

– Potions Master of Britain

– Master of the High Arts (Recognized by Gringotts)

– Lord of House Snape (Dormant by choice)

Magical Signature:

Bound by blood to the Houses of Prince and Black

Consort:

Sirius Orion Black (Bonded via Ancient Blood Magic)

Heirs:

– Hadrian Severus Prince-Black (Heir of House Prince, Heir of House Black, Lord of House Potter)

– Regulus Sirius Prince-Black (Second Heir of House Black)

Vaults Registered:

– Prince Legacy Vault (Main): ₲ 4,000,000,000

– Prince Artifacts Vault

– Prince Potions Archive

– Black Joint Vault (with Consort)

– Restricted Vaults: [Access level: Lord Only]

---

The silence that followed was heavy with awe.

Hadrian blinked. “Four... billion?”

Severus calmly wiped the blood from his finger. “Investments. Potions patents. Property. I lived… modestly.”

Sirius barked a laugh. “Modestly, he says, while owning half the wizarding world’s medicinal supply.”

Even Ragnok inclined his head. “Lord Prince’s vault is one of the top ten in magical Europe. Only the Black, Slytherin, and Paverell rival such wealth.”

Walburga looked smug. “As it should be.”

Regulus muttered, “Can I marry my way into this vault?”

Severus flicked his wand at him without looking. Regulus yelped.

Ragnok cleared his throat. “Shall we proceed to the next Inheritance Test, for Lord Hadrian Severus Prince-Black?”

Hadrian stepped forward without hesitation.

“Of course,” he said. “Let’s finish this.”

As Severus stepped back, all eyes turned to Hadrian—tall, composed, his emerald eyes glinting like polished curses beneath long dark lashes.

Ragnok raised the ceremonial dagger again. “And now… the heir.”

Hadrian took it with steady fingers, sliced his palm with an elegant flick, and let three drops of blood fall onto the scroll.

The parchment reacted violently.

The runes ignited in a cascade of blinding gold and deep green fire, the air humming so intensely that a gust of wind blew through the ancient room despite there being no windows.

Even Ragnok stepped back, eyes wide. “This… this is not normal.”

Hadrian stood still, unbothered, as if born for this.

The scroll blazed with light—then unfurled itself with magical force, shimmering like fire in its final form:

---

 INHERITANCE OF LORD HADRIAN SEVERUS PRINCE-BLACK 

Full Name:

Hadrian James Potter → Now Recognized As:

Hadrian Severus Prince-Black

Blood Status:

Pureblood (By Ancestral Rite & Magical Blood Adoption)

Titles Held:

– Lord of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Potter

– Lord of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Peverell

– Lord of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Slytherin

– Heir of the Most Noble House of Prince

– Heir of the Most Noble House of Black

– Heir of the Most Ancient House of Rosier

Recognized Magical Marks:

– Master of Death (Unclaimed)

– Blood of the Three Brothers (Peverell Line Confirmed)

– Parselmouth (Slytherin Line Confirmed)

– Magically Bound to House Prince & Black (Adoptive Blood Rites)

Vaults Registered:

– Potter Legacy Vault: ₲ 3,000,000,000

– Slytherin Vault: ₲ 2,000,000,000 (includes rare artifacts, enchanted relics, and blood-bound spell tomes)

– Peverell Vault: ₲ 1,000,000,000 (location unknown to all but goblin magic)

– Black Heir Vault: ₲ 900,000,000

– Prince Heir Vault: ₲ 800,000,000

– Rosier Heir Vault: ₲ 100,000,000

---

There was a deafening silence.

Walburga clutched Arcturus’s arm with trembling fingers, eyes wide with tears. “He’s… all of them.”

Arcturus whispered in awe, “The Heir of the Founders… the line of Peverell… and Slytherin… he carries them all.”

Remus’s jaw was slack. “No wonder the veil didn’t take him… he is Death’s kin.”

Nymphadora just blinked, then grinned. “I always knew he was terrifyingly cool.”

Regulus looked at his brother, then their newly bound family. “Well. We’ve adopted the apocalypse.”

Sirius gave a bark of a laugh. “And I regret nothing.”

Ragnok, finally regaining his composure, stepped forward and cleared his throat, bowing low—lower than he had even for Severus.

“Lord Hadrian Severus Prince-Black,” he said solemnly. “Gringotts honors you. Your titles have been verified. Your bloodlines are ancient beyond reckoning. And your magical holdings surpass that of any one wizard since… perhaps Merlin himself.”

With a wave of his clawed hand, a goblin aide approached, bearing a velvet tray upon which sat six ancient, glowing rings.

“By right of blood and inheritance,” Ragnok intoned, “I present to you your birthright.”

He gestured to each ring as he named them:

The onyx and platinum ring of the House of Potter, engraved with the stag and sword.

The serpentine emerald ring of Slytherin, coiled in basilisk scales and shimmering with ancient runes.

The ebony and silver Peverell ring, crowned with the Hallows symbol.

The obsidian Black heir ring, inset with starlight diamonds.

The amethyst and silver Prince heir ring, simple but sharp.

And the delicate, coiled Rosier heir band, darkly floral and heavy with old magic.

Hadrian reached for them slowly, reverently.

Each one slid onto his fingers and glowed the moment they touched his skin, sealing to him with a pulse of ancestral power.

His magic shimmered visibly in the air, golden and green, swirling around him like a storm held in check.

Ragnok stepped back. “All accounts have been unlocked. You are now recognized in Gringotts and the Wizengamot as Lord Potter, Lord Peverell, and Lord Slytherin… with the rights and privileges such titles command.”

Hadrian inclined his head, his voice calm, but carrying like thunder.

“Thank you, Director Ragnok.”

Sirius grinned and ruffled Hadrian’s hair, whispering, “Couldn’t just be rich. Had to be terrifying, too.”

Severus smirked. “He’s my son. Of course he’s terrifying.”

The moment Hadrian’s final ring — the Lord Slytherin ring — slid onto his finger, a surge of ancient, bone-deep magic roared to life.

A sudden pulse of raw power burst through the chamber. The Gringotts walls thrummed. Torches flickered. And then, from somewhere deep beneath the earth, a bell — heavy, ancient, and foreboding — tolled once. A sound of power being recognized, restructured.

Everyone flinched.

Even the unshakable Ragnok, manager of the VIP vaults, stumbled back a step, wide eyes locked on the magical medallion around his neck that had begun to glow red-hot.

“...The signal rune,” he whispered. “From the Wizengamot seats...”

Without a word, a massive black ledger, chained in silver and enchanted with founder-level locks, manifested in midair beside them and forced itself open with a sound like tearing lightning. Runes burned across the page as it registered the changes in real time.

Ragnok read aloud:

 WIZENGAMOT POWER STRUCTURE — ALERT: BLOODLINE CONSOLIDATION 

House Black — Ascends to First Most Powerful Seat, ranking highest in wealth, lineage, magical force, and inheritance consolidation.

House Prince — Second Most Powerful, unified through magical bonding with House Black.

House Potter — Rises to Third Most Powerful, now recognized as fully pureblood with ancient backing.

House Slytherin — Fourth Most Powerful, restored as a Founding House through rightful heirship.

House Peverell — Fifth Most Powerful, bearing Death’s Lineage, now awakened and active.

 Title Consolidation:

“Most Ancient and Most Noble Houses of Black, Prince, Potter, Slytherin, and Peverell.”

 Magical Consequence:

“These houses are now protected under Founders’ Law, immune to Ministry decrees, surveillance, or punishment.

Any attempt to harm or undermine them will result in irreversible magical retaliation and international condemnation.”

A long, stunned silence followed.

The room felt smaller, charged. Even the air shimmered.

Then Ragnok — proud and ancient goblin — slowly bowed, this time with absolute reverence, beard touching the marble floor.

 “Lord Hadrian... on behalf of Gringotts and the Goblin Nation, we pledge our full alliance. Your House now leads the magical world. You hold the oldest oaths, the greatest wealth, and the highest bloodlines.”

Sirius looked visibly emotional for a split second, before he smirked.

“Well,” he drawled, nudging Severus. “Guess who's back at the top?”

Severus gave a thin-lipped smirk. “House Black was always at the top. It just needed... a new heir.”

Remus choked. “Sirius, I don’t know whether to salute or beg you to behave.”

Tonks grinned at Hadrian. “Does this make you the magical equivalent of a crowned emperor?”

Hadrian lifted his hand and watched the six glowing rings shimmer in tandem, and said softly, “It makes me... protected.”

Arcturus, solemn and iron-voiced, added, “It makes us a family that no one can ever separate again.”

Ragnok gestured behind them. “Your vaults await, Lordships. And I warn you... ancient magic has awoken. You may find that some of the artefacts within now respond to you alone.”

The moment they stepped out of the inheritance chamber, the entire hall of Gringotts seemed to shift.

Every goblin they passed paused in place — their quills stilling mid-scroll, their eyes following Hadrian like shadows tracking a rising god.

The six rings on his hand — glowing with deep, pulsing magic — shimmered like constellations. At his sides stood Severus and Sirius: one shadowed, elegant and lethal; the other radiant, sharp-jawed, and terrifyingly smug.

Behind them followed Arcturus and Walburga, walking like ancient monarchs returned from exile, and beside them were Remus and Tonks, whispering to each other in stunned disbelief.

As they walked down the marble corridor, whispers followed like falling snow.

 “Is that him?”

“That’s the new Lord Potter... and Slytherin... and Peverell...”

“The one who unified Black and Prince.”

“He’s the youngest billionaire in the world. A magical sovereign.”

A news-carrying raven nearly fell from the sky as it dove to report.

Even the enchanted portraits of ancient founders and goblin kings turned their heads, watching silently as Hadrian passed.

---

Ragnok personally escorted them to the Potter Family Vault, a vast underground chamber glittering with stacks of ancient Galleons, shelves of tomes, swords of Goblin-wrought silver, and enchanted artefacts humming with golden energy.

 “Value estimate,” said Ragnok proudly, “Three billion Galleons. Conservatively.”

Sirius whistled. “Well, Evans family, wherever you are... you married well.”

---

Deeper still, they reached the vault of Salazar Slytherin.

The magic here was cold, calculating, and ancient. Silver serpents coiled along the walls, watching, testing.

Hadrian stepped in — and the vault awakened. Statues bowed. The giant crest of Slytherin above the doorway glowed with a thunderous hiss.

“Two billion Galleons in value,” Ragnok said reverently. “And priceless relics. That circlet over there may command the Basilisk's loyalty.”

Hadrian’s eyes gleamed.

---

The vault of the Peverell line felt... quiet. Hollow. As if Death itself watched.

Black stone, veined with silver, marked every surface. An empty pedestal sat in the center — likely where the Resurrection Stone once was.

“One billion Galleons,” Ragnok whispered, eyes shining. “But the true value here is... eternal legacy.”

---

The Prince Vault was elegantly austere. Potions, rare alchemical metals, ancient scrolls.

“Eight hundred million Galleons,” Ragnok intoned. “Only Severus and Hadrian may command it.”

The Black Vaults? A kingdom.

Towers of treasure. Vaults within vaults. Blood-stained tomes. Thrones carved from dragonbone.

 “Nine hundred million Galleons, and rising daily. With this, House Black now officially ranks first in the Wizengamot.”

Arcturus stood tall, smiling coldly. “As it should.”

---

The Rosier Vault — sleek, feminine, deadly.

Fine jewelry that could kill, parchment spells laced with old, Fae-touched magic. One hundred million Galleons in perfectly arranged cases.

Hadrian touched the ring gently, feeling a bittersweet pride for the mysterious godmother who’d protected him all these years.

---

As they made their way back to the surface, Ragnok turned to them, still pale from the magnitude of what had occurred.

 “There are heirlooms in each vault that should only be delivered once acknowledged by the vaults’ magic. They include family crests, waxes, signet seals, quilts, necklaces, bracelets, and watches embedded with lineage tracking enchantments.”

He bowed to Hadrian.

 “They shall be gathered by hand and delivered to the Black Palace within the next twenty-four hours. They are ancient. They are yours. And they will answer to no one else.”

Hadrian nodded once, regally.

Sirius smirked. “Well, son... ready to buy things as the richest magical heir in history?”

Hadrian smiled — and this time, it was no longer the smile of a boy. It was the poised, devastating smile of a lord.

“Let’s go buy it all.”

---

Chapter Text

The moment they stepped out of the Gringotts doors and into the golden cobblestone of Diagon Alley, the world changed.

People froze.

Wizards dropped teacups. Witches gasped. Even the brick walls of the alley seemed to lean in closer to watch.

Hadrian Severus Prince-Black walked forward flanked by the most dangerous and noble escort the world had seen in a century. The sunlight caught his jet-black hair and the shimmer of six glowing rings — Potter, Peverell, Slytherin, Black, Prince, and Rosier — resting with majestic finality on his fingers.

His family followed:

Severus, tall and shadowed in regal emerald black, radiating elegance and danger.

Sirius, effortlessly radiant, draped in pureblood nobility, smirking like he owned the world.

Arcturus and Walburga, walking like kings and queens of old, heads held high.

Remus and Tonks, proud and protective, their postures screaming loyalty.

And Regulus, now Regulus Sirius Prince-Black, sharp-eyed and proud beside his brother.

The whispers began instantly.

 “That’s him. That’s Lord Hadrian.”

“Heir to Black and Prince — and the youngest billionaire in the wizarding world.”

“Did you hear? He’s now the Most Ancient and Most Noble Lord of six Houses!”

“They say the Ministry can’t even touch him.”

---

 First Stop: Gladrags Elite Couturiers 

A new, hidden branch of Gladrags existed behind a shimmering archway — only accessible to nobles and billionaires. It was called Gladrags Éternité.

The moment they entered, the atmosphere changed. Elven tailors bowed. Robes folded themselves. Every mirror shimmered with magical adjustments.

A goblin manager wearing spectacles and fine purple robes bowed deeply.

 “Lord Hadrian Prince-Black,” he said, trembling. “We are... honored.”

For Hadrian, they brought out hand-stitched formal robes from dragonhide silk, woven with runes for magical defense, aesthetic glamour, and family enchantments. He chose robes in:

Midnight green with silver embroidery for Slytherin.

Jet black threaded with crimson for Prince-Black.

Regal navy and gold for Potter.

Pure starlight silver for the Peverell line.

Severus selected robes with rune-laced cuffs, perfect for a master duelist. Sirius picked sleek leather stormcoats lined with fine fur. Even Walburga and Arcturus joined in — Walburga demanding, of course, robes that reminded everyone that she was once the most terrifying woman in Britain.

Regulus chose robes to match his brother’s.

---

 Second Stop: Marquess Marchand: Noble Accessories 

This boutique catered only to Wizengamot families. Inside were:

Cufflinks forged from meteorite steel.

Pocket watches that could store memories.

Family crest signet rings made with blood-bound diamond cores.

Wandsheaths enchanted to hum with protective spells.

Hadrian was gifted a multi-purpose noble crest ring that could seal, protect, and command magical contracts. Ragnok had sent word ahead to place it on display.

Sirius gifted Hadrian a Black family timepiece—pure obsidian with emerald veins, only given to direct heirs.

Severus slipped a Prince potion vial necklace around Hadrian’s neck — enchanted to store emergency antidotes, hidden from all eyes.

---

 Third Stop: Footfalls & Phantom: Shoes of Status 

Shoes that whispered when walking on stone. Boots that clicked with intimidating finality in court. Slippers that shimmered only under moonlight. Hadrian was fitted with an entire collection, including:

Charms-imbued battle boots.

Velvet-silenced court shoes.

Ritual shoes for magical duels and House ceremonies.

---

 Fourth Stop: Maison de Nocturne (Optional Only for Lords)

The last boutique was known only by name. No signs, no windows. It appeared only for the Most Ancient and Most Noble — a place where heirlooms were awakened.

They were offered:

Custom magical watches inscribed with the magical heartbeat of their bloodline.

Bracelets with rune protections etched by wandless masters.

Family crest pendants that shimmered with bloodline light.

Hadrian accepted them all, regal and silent, eyes burning with power.

---

As they left Diagon Alley, their arms loaded with enchanted bags and boxes, an entire crowd had gathered.

Some bowed.

Some stood in silent reverence.

But none could deny it — the world had shifted.

The Prince-Black family had risen — and at its heart stood a fithteen-year-old boy, once forgotten, now a billionaire noble lord with six bloodlines behind him.

And the world would never be the same.

---

The Black Palace—Grimmauld Place no longer, but something older, grander, and far more sacred—shimmered beneath a veil of enchantments that would make even Merlin pause in reverence.

The wards thrummed with living magic. Arcturus had spent days reforging them with ancient spells passed only through whispered lines of Black lords. Sirius had bound blood and magic into the very stones, fusing the walls with raw protective enchantments, while Severus added layered occlusion, defense, and obscurity protections. Together, they had forged a new sanctum.

Today, Hadrian would begin his training.

The boy who once lived in a cupboard was now the heir of power beyond reckoning, standing in a ritual dueling courtyard of marble and silver, glowing softly under enchanted moonlight — though it was mid-morning outside.

He wore new dueling robes: deep black with platinum and emerald threading, and a snake-shaped clasp over his heart. His hair, slightly tousled, fell in elegant waves as he stood calmly in the center of the courtyard.

The entire family stood around the edges, some sipping enchanted tea, others watching with interest.

Sirius stepped forward, his arms folded behind his back like a true Lord General. “Listen closely, pup. Because we’ve done something the Ministry wouldn’t dare dream of.”

He turned slightly to gesture to the palace itself.

 “Grimmauld Place is now a realm of its own,” Sirius declared with an almost smug reverence. “Our wards have been empowered by the combined blood of the Black line, the Rosiers, the Princes — and now even the magic of Peverell and Slytherin runs through the stones. The house itself breathes with family magic.”

Arcturus nodded, stepping forward, his voice heavy with ageless authority.

 “Within these walls, time bends to our will,” he said. “You see, Hadrian, when a Lord of Black commands the wards, they obey. And now… you are not just heir — you are blood-bound through Severus and Sirius both. The magic accepts you.”

He turned, flicking a single silver-gloved finger.

The air shimmered.

A great clock emerged midair, its hands spinning impossibly fast.

 “One week outside… is now seven months within. And within these seven months, my boy, we shall make you unrecognizable.”

Sirius laughed, clapping Hadrian on the back. “I told you, didn’t I? You’ve barely scratched the surface of what it means to be a Prince-Black.”

Hadrian’s lips curled into a slow, delighted smile.

 “Good,” he said simply, voice like velvet laced with steel. “Because I was just about to ask when training would begin.”

---

 The Schedule

Arcturus stood tall, parchment appearing in his hands.

 “You will be trained as the next Grand Lord of this House. As such, we will not be gentle.”

He handed the parchment to Hadrian.

Arcturus Black

Instruction in: Ancient Black Rituals, Family Magics, Dark Arts, Tactical Warfare, and Wizengamot Politics.

“You are not just a noble, Hadrian. You are a King among lesser lords.”

Sirius Black

Instruction in: Dueling, Advanced Charms, Combat Hexes, and Stealth Offensive Magic.

“I’ll make sure you can duel with a smirk and still win.”

Severus Prince-Black

Instruction in: Potions Mastery, Spellcraft, Mental Defense, and Combat Spell Innovation.

“You will surpass me. That is not a suggestion—it is my promise.”

Walburga Black & Regulus

Instruction in: Etiquette, Language of Nobility, Noble Presence, and The Weaponization of Grace.

“You will not bow. Others will learn to.”

 Arcturus 

Instruction in: Obscure Magic, Forgotten Rituals, Bloodline Magic, and Black House Lore.

Remus Lupin

Instruction in: Arithmancy, Runes, and Theoretical Spell Interactions.

“Magic responds best to those who understand its mathematics.”

 Nymphadora Tonks

Training in: Auror Combat, Field Spells, Disarming, and Disguise/Deception.

“I’ll make sure you could fool the devil himself while hexing him.”

Hadrian read the parchment once, then rolled it up.

“Let’s begin.”

---

They trained until the moon rose.

And though only a few hours had passed outside the wards… within the sacred walls of the Black Palace, Hadrian Severus Prince-Black had already begun to become something far beyond mortal nobility.

He was no longer just a boy of six noble lines.

He was becoming a legend.

---

The moment Sirius sealed the Grimmauld Palace wards, bending time so seven months would pass in only a week outside, a storm began to build within those sacred walls. It was not made of thunder or wind—but of discipline, magic, legacy, and divine destiny.

Hadrian Severus Prince-Black, heir to ancient magic, stepped forward… and the world, even hidden from him, began to shift.

---

Before the first lesson began, a swirl of emerald fire roared within the Grand Hearth, and from it stepped Minerva McGonagall, regal and unbending as a Highland cliff. Her tartan robes rippled with quiet magic, and her face was composed—but her eyes burned with emotion.

She crossed the marble floor swiftly, and her voice cracked as she whispered, “My dear boy…”

Hadrian, stunned, rose—feeling his throat tighten.

“Professor...” he asked, his voice far smaller than he intended.

Minerva knelt and placed her hands gently on his shoulders. “Yes, child. I was named your godmother. Your mother asked me… and I failed you once. I will never fail again.”

They embraced—tight, trembling, and healing.

From that moment, she became his second shadow.

Under her strict, brilliant guidance, Hadrian mastered Transfiguration at a level beyond his peers. He could turn parchment to stone, breath to glass, ideas into form.

By the end of the second month, he could transfigure without a wand or chant, shaping the world with a glance, a thought, a whisper.

---

At Arcturus's command, Hadrian knelt before the Circle of the Bonded, where five ancient House Elves awaited: Dobby, Nimbley, Tikki, Marn, and Thistle.

Draped in deep green silks, the elves touched their palms to his. Their eyes glowed with blue flame as ancient power flowed between them.

Elven Magic is not cast. It is felt. Sung. Breathed.

And Hadrian learned it all.

He could vanish through space in non-Apperition slips, repair broken magic with soul-light, even commune with trees and stones.

The earth whispered to him, and the elves bowed, declaring him:

"High-Bonded Lord of Light and Shadow, Guardian of the Eternal Circles."

---

At night, when even Sirius and Walburga slept, the air in his chamber would chill. Shadows would stretch unnaturally. Candles would bow and die.

And from the darkness would step Death.

Not skeletal, not cruel—but ancient and wise, a shrouded figure made of memory and silence.

“You bear the Hallows. You are mine… but you are not yet worthy.”

Death trained him in silence. He taught Hadrian how to walk the veil without falling, how to read the soul, how to command the very force of Endings.

From Death, Hadrian learned to:

Dispel curses with a whisper.

Channel soulfire into spells that bypassed all shields.

Communicate with the dying.

Fold himself into the space between life and death, evading even the most powerful magic.

No spell could touch him now—not without his permission.

---

By the third month, Tonks—playful and deadly—had taken over combat training. She pushed him past every limit, bruised him, hexed him, screamed at him until his magic burst without his wand in sheer willpower.

“You’re stronger than every Auror I’ve ever met,” she told him on the training mat one night, breathless, bleeding, and laughing. “I’d say Kingsley would faint if he saw what you just did.”

Hadrian, now able to:

Duel with two wands, or none at all.

Cast non-verbal, wandless, and chantless magic on instinct.

Summon anything he could picture with channeler’s force.

Shatter shields with a pulse of energy.

Disarm and hex in under half a breath.

…was no longer a boy.

He was a myth in motion.

He practiced channeler’s magic, shaping energy directly. He could conjure flame in his palm, turn water to crystal, float through meditation, and manipulate the gravity of a room just by aligning his core.

---

Even as he trained, Hadrian read.

Every moment. Every break. Every breath.

He devoured the entirety of his personal library by month two, often reading five tomes at once, pages fluttering through magical memory capture.

He conquered the main library, including the Restricted Vaults, and read every volume of:

Ancient Spell Theory

Magical Warfare and Strategy

The Philosophers of Wandless Will

Emotional Alchemy

Goblin Treaties and Blood Contracts

Ritual of the Sanguine Throne

He read so fast, he developed a photographic recall—could quote any law, curse, historical battle, or transfiguration theory word for word.

Sirius, amazed, whispered once, “You’re not just smart, you’re terrifying.”

Even Arcturus admitted, “The last wizard with this kind of intellect wore a crown made of stars.”

---

By the end of the seventh month, Hadrian stood at the highest balcony of Grimmauld, clad in royal black trimmed with blood-gold thread. His eyes gleamed emerald and eternity.

The world around him bent subtly, the atmosphere shimmering with reverence.

He was no longer simply a Lord.

He was something more.

Bonded to five elves.

Trained by Death itself.

Disciplined by Walburga.

Mentored by Arcturus, Sirius, Severus, Dora, and Minerva.

Master of magic in every form—light, dark, divine, elven, deathborn.

Reader of worlds.

Warrior of thought.

Prince of silence.

Death’s chosen master.

---

The stars dimmed.

The clouds parted in reverence.

And the earth itself held its breath.

For tonight… Hadrian Severus Prince-Black—scion of six ancient bloodlines, son of legendary lords, master of magics both sacred and forbidden—was to make his debut.

Not into society.

No—into immortality.

---

Gaunt Manor: A Palace of Lineage and Power

Once a ruin of madness and curses, the Gaunt Manor had been resurrected into an architectural spell circle of shadowed grandeur. Its ballroom, forged of veined obsidian and starlit crystal, pulsed with ancient magic. Enchanted ceilings showed constellations from the night of the first blood-oath ever sworn.

Every heir was there.

Every family sent their finest.

And yet none dared speak loudly.

They were waiting for him.

---

And Then—The World Tilted

A thunderclap. A tremor through the foundations.

The candles died.

The music choked.

The air turned metallic.

And the grand doors, warded by spells older than Hogwarts, peeled themselves open in silent surrender.

Not with a groan—but a bow.

For they knew—

He was coming.

---

Walburga Black, regal and terrifying, arrived first—draped in shadows and crowned with the fury of her ancestors.

Regulus Black, the boy-prince reborn, glided in with solemn serenity, his black-and-silver robes glimmering like bottled moonlight.

Arcturus Black, so powerful the ground beneath him seemed to harden in fear, followed with fire in his veins.

Lord Severus Tobias Prince, elegant and deadly in silent poise, walked like a curse with purpose.

Lord Sirius Orion Black, magnificent and wild, strolled in with starlight woven into his cloak, exuding the pride of a father and the wrath of a king.

And then—

Hadrian.

---

The Black Star Descends

The world stilled.

The room dimmed.

The ancient, whispering magicks of the Gaunt line shivered—then knelt.

Hadrian Severus Prince-Black had entered.

His steps were soundless, his cloak floating like prophecy.

He wore black velvet threaded with silver runes, stitched in the tongues of the dead. His boots shone like dragon-scale. His posture—divine. His every movement—intentional, regal, untouched by mortal flaw.

His face, framed in cascading curls, was beauty carved into sharp marble. His eyes? Emeralds forged under celestial fire. No cologne dared mask him—his scent was ancient forest, burning parchment, and starlight after a storm.

And his hands bore six rings—each one glowing faintly with layered enchantments and bloodline authority:

Lord of the Houses Potter, Peverell, Slytherin.

Heir to the Houses Rosier, Prince, Black.

Their power whispered to the world:

> This is not a boy. This is destiny made flesh.

---

The Room Reacts

Pansy Parkinson nearly dropped her fan, her painted lips trembling. “Oh sweet Morgana…”

Daphne Greengrass gripped Astoria’s hand in silence, awe flooding her calm.

Blaise Zabini exhaled like a man seeing the sun rise for the first time.

Theo Nott just whispered, “That’s not a student. That’s a crowned legend.”

Draco Malfoy was rooted, silver eyes wide. “He’s not real. He can’t be.”

And the Riddle brothers?

Even they—descendants of darkness and ambition—stood stunned.

But then—

Tom Riddle the Third smiled. It was slow. It was delighted.

“Finally,” he murmured to his brothers. “Someone worthy. Someone perfect. He could rule everything.”

Matheo Riddle exhaled, nodding reverently. “He’s more than pure. He’s power born beautiful.”

Theodore Riddle grinned. “I would follow him into the storm.”

---

The Voice of Command

Hadrian reached the center.

A silent hush fell like snow.

He lifted his chin, cloak billowing with ancestral wind.

And then he spoke—

Calm. Clear. Perfect.

“Well met, ladies and lords,” he began, his voice low and smooth like velvet thunder.

“My name is Hadrian Severus Prince-Black—

Son of Lord Sirius Orion Black and Lord Severus Tobias Prince-Black.

Lord of the Most Ancient and Most Noble Houses of Potter, Peverell, and Slytherin.

Heir to the Most Ancient and Most Noble Houses of Rosier, Prince, and Black.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

A beat.

And then—

Magic bloomed above him.

The House crests lit in silent, slow-burning reverence:

Potter.

Peverell.

Slytherin.

Black.

Prince.

Rosier.

They circled his head like a celestial crown.

---

They Did Not Clap—They Revered

No one screamed.

No one cheered.

They clapped in reverence. As if welcoming a god. As if acknowledging a new pillar of their world.

Even the enchanted suits of armor along the walls knelt.

Even the portraits of ancient Lords bowed.

Hadrian stood untouched, unmatched, and utterly adored.

---

The music drifted once more through the gleaming, charmed halls of Gaunt Manor — but this time, it was not merely music.

It was the prelude to history.

The air shimmered with reverence, as if even the Manor itself held its breath. Standing tall, posture immaculate, bearing the weight of a thousand ancestral oaths, Hadrian Severus Prince-Black approached the core of Slytherin nobility.

He bore six rings — three declaring lordship, three claiming heirship. The weight of them did not bow him — they elevated him. Adorned in robes darker than midnight, embroidered with runes stitched in platinum thread, Hadrian radiated lineage and legend.

And before him, the blooded nobles of the new age stood waiting — eyes wide, shoulders unconsciously squared, backs stiffened in anticipation of meeting a myth incarnate.

---

They stood like a painting of imperial youth:

Heir Draco Lucius Malfoy, gleaming in pearl and serpentine silver.

Heiress Pansy Desdemona Parkinson, a vision of elegance with her onyx tiara and moonstone gloves.

Heir Theodore Gideon Nott, cold as sapphire, ever the scholar of spells and secrets.

Heir Blaise Atticus Zabini, lounged with predatory grace, golden embroidery catching the firelight.

And beyond them:

Mr. Tom Marvolo Riddle III, the Heir of House Gaunt, standing in silent calculation, dark and commanding.

Mr. Matheo Lucien Riddle, sleek, smiling, with charm honed like a blade.

Mr. Theodore Elias Riddle, poised and quiet, yet pulsing with magic just beneath his noble exterior.

---

Hadrian’s Salute

As he approached, Hadrian gave a low, exact bow — neither too deep to imply subservience nor too slight to suggest arrogance. His tone, when he spoke, was noble velvet:

 “Heir Malfoy. Heiress Parkinson. Heir Nott. Heir Zabini. Heir Gaunt... Mr. Matheo… Mr. Theodore. A pleasure.”

They bowed and curtsied in return — perfectly rehearsed, but their expressions cracked with awe, curiosity, and something far deeper.

Draco stepped forward first, his voice reverent.

 “Lord Prince-Black. It is an honour. Your arrival tonight was… spellbinding.”

 “We’ve heard stories,” added Pansy, her voice like perfume. “Rumors, whispers... But no one imagined this.”

 “You are…” Theo Nott began, then stopped, carefully choosing his words. “You are exactly what the heir of six ancient Houses should be.”

 “And perhaps more,” said Blaise with a slow, respectful smile. “Your presence has already commanded the room.”

Tom Riddle the Third — ever silent, ever severe — finally spoke.

 “You have the bearing of a sovereign. Your House names are heavy… yet they sit upon you like feathers. That is rare. And worthy.”

Hadrian merely inclined his head.

 “You honour me with your words, gentlemen. But I am merely a son fulfilling his blood’s expectation.”

The Slytherins exchanged subtle glances — admiration growing like wildfire.

---

Pansy, still poised, turned slightly toward him.

 “And here I thought you’d arrive cloaked in mystery, say nothing, and leave us chasing shadows. But you’ve revealed not just your name, Lord Prince-Black — you’ve revealed what it means.”

 “Indeed,” murmured Theo Nott, folding his arms. “It means standards have been restored. We’ve waited for someone among us who remembers the old ways.”

Hadrian smiled faintly, posture still untouched, arms at his back.

 “Well met, then, heirs of the Most Ancient Houses. I do believe we’ve long been due this gathering — one bound not by school halls, but by blood, fire, and inheritance.”

The words struck a chord. Pansy’s eyes gleamed. Draco nodded slowly, as if realizing something grander.

 “Are you attending the Gala in Avignon tomorrow, my lord?” asked Blaise, voice now softened with warmth.

 “Of course,” said Hadrian. “I’ve been asked to perform — violin and piano. And I do so look forward to observing which House heir dares challenge me on the dance floor.”

That sparked a burst of delicate, noble laughter among them — the kind that echoed through ancestral halls and crystal chandeliers.

---

From Titles to Names

Only after laughter passed like honey between them — light and sincere — did the formality gently fade.

Draco spoke first, with a respectful tilt of his head.

 “If it pleases you… may I call you Hadrian?”

 “Only if you permit me the same, Draco.”

They shook hands — not like schoolboys, but like Lords.

The spell was broken.

Titles softened, and names were exchanged:

“Hadrian.”

“Pansy.”

“Theo.”

“Blaise.”

“Matheo.”

“Theodore.”

“Tom.”

And then — a moment of stunning humility and power — Tom Riddle III, whose pride had felled lesser men, extended a hand.

 “Hadrian, it brings me no shame to say this: We have waited for you. For far too long. We saw a boy gifted in magic but crushed in rags. Now… we see a sovereign.”

Hadrian took his hand.

 “I am glad I am Hadrian now,” he said, his voice serene and powerful. “Harry Potter is no more. And that boy, manipulated and shamed, shall never be seen again.”

The room fell silent for a beat — not out of shock, but awe.

And then Draco, ever the noble wit, broke it:

 “Well, thank Merlin for that. I nearly died every time I saw you in those Weasley jumpers.”

The laughter that followed was so rich, so genuine, so pureblooded — it echoed like thunder in crystal halls.

---

The laughter slowly softened, settling into a warm, elegant hush beneath the twinkling chandeliers of Gaunt Manor. The young heirs, surrounded by swirling gowns and golden goblets, leaned ever so slightly inward — not out of suspicion, but curiosity.

Heir Theodore Nott was the first to breach the silence, his voice low but earnest.

 “Hadrian… if I may ask something forward?”

 “You may,” Hadrian answered with a composed nod, regal yet welcoming.

Theo’s tone remained polite, yet there was a thread of confusion in it.

 “Why… why did you stay with them? The Weasleys. Granger. You… you were always one of us. You had the magic. The mind. The blood. Why endure their world when you belonged to ours?”

A hush descended.

Even Draco, who had once asked this question with venom years ago, now watched with open, vulnerable eyes.

Hadrian straightened his shoulders — already perfect — and raised his chin, his voice both sharp and soft, like a violin’s finest string.

 “I didn’t stay because I felt at home, Heir Nott. I stayed because… I didn’t know what home felt like.”

A slow breath swept the room.

 “I was raised,” Hadrian continued, gaze distant, “in a house where love was conditional. Where silence was survival. My cousin — a boy not unlike the caricature Draco once projected — used to throw his fists at me for sport. My uncle… well. Let’s say I grew familiar with bruises.”

Pansy’s hand fluttered to her heart. Theo blinked once, gaze flickering with stunned pity. Blaise looked down, jaw clenched.

Hadrian’s voice remained calm — too calm.

 “So, when I came to Hogwarts… and saw Draco — with his smirk, his fine robes, his proud voice — I did not see a boy like me. I saw my cousin. I saw danger.”

He turned gently to Draco, voice lowering in weight.

 “No offense was ever meant, Heir Malfoy… but my fear clothed you in my past. I now realize how deeply unfair that was. I owe you a sincere apology… for the disrespect I offered you by treating you like a ghost of someone who hurt me.”

The room held its breath.

And then — slowly, with grace learned from Lucius himself — Draco stepped forward, his hand outstretched.

 “Apology accepted, Lord Prince-Black. And perhaps… I should thank you. Because from that fear was born the legend of you. And now, I see the man. Not a myth. Not a victim. A Lord.”

Hadrian took his hand. A mutual bow.

The circle breathed again.

---

Blaise chuckled then, breaking the moment.

 “Merlin help us, you even apologize like a royal decree.”

Laughter returned, this time gentler, more familial. A circle of equals.

It was then that Tom Riddle the Third, who had watched in silence, finally smiled — a rare, slow curve that suggested the birth of something ancient and powerful.

 “You know…” he said thoughtfully, “I often wonder what it would’ve been like… had you been in Slytherin.”

Every heir paused — the question blooming like silver fire between them.

Hadrian turned, and for the first time since arriving, allowed a true smile to touch his face — elegant, wistful, filled with something almost like regret.

 “I nearly was.”

Gasps were subtle, but present.

 “The Sorting Hat,” Hadrian said, “wanted to place me there. Said I’d be great. Said I belonged. But… I was eleven. I saw Draco as a threat, and I saw Ron and Hermione as safe. I begged to be placed anywhere else.”

 “And he listened?” asked Pansy, eyes wide.

 “He did,” Hadrian murmured. “But he also warned me I’d regret it. And I do.”

Draco sighed dramatically, hand over his chest.

“We could’ve ruled Hogwarts by second year.”

Theo Nott, arching a brow, added:

 “Imagine the academic duels. The alliances. The elegant chaos.”

Tom stepped forward then, his voice calm, but rich with purpose.

 “But you are here now. With us. That is all that matters.”

 “Indeed,” Matheo said smoothly. “The stars align when they must.”

 “And now that you’ve claimed your place…” Theodore Riddle added with a grin, “we have the power to remake everything.”

Hadrian gave a regal nod, posture never faltering, elegance seeping from his very bones.

 “Then let it be known,” he said calmly. “Harry Potter died in the arms of a crumbling world. Hadrian Prince-Black rose from its ashes — and he will never bow again.”

A beat of silence. Then applause — slow, reverent, genuine.

And within that moment, the pureblood heirs stood not merely as classmates… but as heirs to a new age — forged not in shadows, but in shared truth.

---

The silver light of Gaunt Manor shimmered across crystal goblets and enchanted chandeliers as the heirs of the Noble Houses, clustered like stars in orbit around Hadrian, continued their conversation—now not as strangers, but as curious equals, slowly unraveling the boy behind the legend.

Matheo Riddle, languidly swirling his goblet of starlight elixir, cast Hadrian a sidelong glance. His voice, smooth as lacquered obsidian, cut through the quiet hum of conversation.

“I must say, Lord Prince-Black… I’ve heard whispers. Dark ones. About expulsion… the Wizengamot… and the Prophet dragging your name through the filth. Surely, none of that can be true?”

The mood shifted again—tense, poised.

Theodore Riddle scoffed, brushing nonexistent dust from the velvet lapel of his midnight jacket.

 “Disgraceful. Even for the Prophet. They treat you like a criminal, when you’re the only one who deserves a crown.”

Draco, with far more weight in his voice than usual, nodded.

 “It’s an outrage. We were furious. The Prophet should’ve been shut down for slander the moment they dared speak against a Prince-Black.”

Hadrian’s lips quirked, amused and unshaken, as though the entire topic bored him.

 “Then I suggest you come to the trial.”

All three froze, expressions unreadable.

 “I promise you,” Hadrian continued smoothly, a glint in his emerald eyes, “it will be… memorable. I rather suspect it will be the talk of not just Britain, but the continent.”

Matheo arched a brow, grinning like a dragon at the scent of fire.

 “Oh, we wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Theodore leaned in.

 “Front row seats, naturally. And champagne afterward to toast their humiliation.”

Draco smirked. “We’ll cheer when they fall on their knees to beg forgiveness. Honestly, Hadrian, do leave a few of them standing. Somebody has to report your triumph properly.”

 “I’ll try,” Hadrian said, feigning a weary sigh, “but I make no promises.”

Laughter rippled again—softer now, knowing. The laughter of nobles who had found one of their own.

---

Just then, a new presence approached—refined, poised, and eerily familiar.

Regulus Arcturus Black, dressed in obsidian green robes embroidered with House Black’s sigils, strolled toward them with the grace of a prince born under starlight. His hair was perfectly combed, his gloves flawless, and his expression calm yet brimming with pride.

 “Forgive my intrusion,” he said with perfect manners, giving a courtly bow. “But it seems my brother is hogging all the company worth speaking to.”

The heirs turned.

Hadrian's eyes gleamed, and with a graceful gesture, he turned slightly and rested a hand on Regulus’s shoulder.

 “Ah, allow me the honor of introducing my brother.  Regulus Sirius Prince-Black formerly known as Regulus Arcturus Black. Yes—that Regulus. And no, the stories do not do him justice.”

Gasps flickered. Pansy actually clutched her necklace. Theo blinked twice. Tom Riddle’s head tilted in interest, and Matheo let out a low, impressed whistle.

 “The Regulus?” asked Theodore, stunned. “The one who vanished? Who infiltrated the Dark Lord’s circle and lived to whisper about it?”

Regulus smiled modestly.

 “Rumors are quite flattering. The truth is always messier.”

 “Nonsense,” Hadrian cut in warmly, “Regulus is a legend. And now, he’s my brother in name, bond, and magic.”

Draco, clearly shocked and delighted, offered a bow to Regulus.

 “Mr. Black. It is an honor.”

Regulus bowed in return. “The honor is mine, Heir Malfoy.”

They made room for him in the circle, and soon, conversation bloomed anew—faster now, filled with eager questions and shared secrets.

They spoke of the trial, of politics, of upcoming soirees in Paris and the Rosier summer gala in Florence. Laughter bloomed like rosebuds. They used titles for a while—Lord Nott, Heiress Parkinson, Heir Gaunt, Lord Riddle—until, in between a cascade of silken laughter over a particularly cheeky comment from Theo about enchanted shoes, someone slipped.

 “Merlin, Matheo—”

And just like that, titles fell away, and first names were born.

Hadrian. Regulus. Draco. Tom. Matheo. Theodore. Blaise. Pansy. Theo.

Not children of war. Not pawns of prophecy.

But royalty rising.

A court in the making.

---

Chapter Text

The morning broke with a whisper of thunderclouds, as if even the heavens dared not shine too brightly upon the day the world would witness the reckoning of Hadrian Severus Prince-Black.

The courtroom of the Wizengamot had never seen such preparation. Banners of ancient families fluttered faintly above their thrones of obsidian and silver. Every seat was occupied. Lords and Ladies, Heirs and Heiresses, even Ministers and Ambassadors gathered in anticipation. This was no ordinary trial. This was a spectacle.

And then—the chamber fell silent.

A booming chime echoed as the doors opened, and in strode Lord Sirius Orion Black, resplendent in tailored midnight robes lined with stardust thread, House Black crest pulsing on his chest. Beside him was Lord Severus Tobias Prince-Black, cloaked in deep garnet and obsidian, his gaze as sharp as a viper's fang.

They moved with terrifying purpose. The air bent around them.

Trailing behind them was the heir of legends.

Hadrian Severus Prince-Black.

He entered as though he owned the very marble beneath his feet. Six rings adorned his fingers: three Lordship rings for House Potter, House Peverell, and House Slytherin, and three Heirship rings for House Black, House Prince, and House Rosier. His robes shimmered in enchanted black velvet etched with silver threading that danced like ink in moonlight. A ceremonial cloak of House Peverell draped across one shoulder, a nod to his mastery over Death.

His posture was immaculate, his steps precise, the very embodiment of grace taught by Walburga Black, drilled in discipline by Arcturus, and perfected by Regulus.

His hair curled in raven waves, styled to perfection by Nymphadora, his face an elegant blend of his parents' finest traits—sharp cheekbones, intelligent green eyes unmarred by spectacles, and a noble jawline.

He looked like royalty.

He was royalty.

Gasps rippled across the courtroom.

"Is that..."

"He’s beautiful."

"By Merlin, is that the same boy who wore rags?"

Draco Malfoy, seated among the noble children, smirked in pride. Tom Riddle the Third leaned forward, eyes gleaming with unrestrained awe.

"There enters the man who will rule us all," Matheo Riddle murmured.

Hadrian paused as he reached the center of the room. With a slow, elegant bow, he addressed the Wizengamot:

> "Well met, Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot. I am Hadrian Severus Prince-Black, son of Lord Sirius Orion Black and Lord Severus Tobias Prince-Black, and Lord of the Most Ancient and Most Noble Houses of Potter, Peverell, and Slytherin, and heir to the Houses of Rosier, Black, and Prince. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

A stunned silence.

And then—a thunderous chorus of murmurs, awe-struck gasps, and even a few standing nobles offering bows.

Minerva McGonagall, seated with the observers, wiped away a tear.

The world had not just seen a boy.

They had seen a legend.

The trial was about to begin.

And the world would never be the same.

---

The silence in the Wizengamot chamber was suffocating as the verdict was read.

“Not guilty.”

The words echoed like a gong across the ancient halls, meant to be a relief, but instead—

Hadrian Severus Prince-Black stood.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t bow. He didn’t sigh in relief.

He was furious.

He stepped forward, shoulders straight, spine aligned like a blade, clad in the deep emerald-and-gold formal robes bearing the crests of the Most Ancient and Most Noble Houses of Potter, Peverell, and Slytherin—his heir rings of Prince, Black, and Rosier glinting like holy relics on his fingers. The very magic around him shimmered, distorted by the pressure of his fury and presence.

“Then tell me,” he said, voice calm but cutting like winter steel, “why was I dragged here?”

The chamber shivered.

“Why was I expelled from Hogwarts? Paraded through the mud by your papers? Mocked by your citizens? Humiliated by your court when I was never guilty to begin with?”

Several of the Ministry officials visibly flinched. Magical pressure pressed down on the entire courtroom, heavy and suffocating. Even the enchanted torches flickered low, as if cowed.

Amelia Bones rose shakily. “My lord, I—”

“You dared,” Hadrian interrupted. “You dared to expel the Lord of Three Most Ancient and Most Noble Houses. You dared to summon the son of Lord Sirius Orion Black and Lord Severus Tobias Prince-Black—heir of Rosier, Black, and Prince—without proper cause. You accused a noble without proof. Do you understand what you have done?”

One of the senior judges trembled. “W-We had to follow protocol—”

“Protocol?” Hadrian hissed, but never raised his voice. That made it worse. The composed rage of a true noble echoed louder than any scream. “Your ‘protocol’ just nearly ignited war with six Houses, five bloodlines, and the very name of Death itself.”

There was a pause—until Walburga Black stood in the gallery above, expression regal and deadly. “You have insulted House Black, House Prince, and House Peverell. Are you prepared to pay the price?”

Sirius stood beside her, arms crossed, power coiled in his stance. Severus was pure ice. Arcturus radiated ancient wrath.

The Minister of Magic, who until then had tried to stay seated, stumbled up from his chair and fell to his knees.

“We beg your forgiveness, Lord Hadrian! Please, accept the Ministry’s deepest apologies!”

Within seconds, the entire Wizengamot followed. Every. Single. One.

They knelt. The Ministry, who once humiliated him, now bowed before him.

“We will reinstate your record, publicly clear your name, and pay reparations,” Madam Bones declared, flushed and trembling.

Hadrian raised a single, gloved hand to silence the panic.

“Then listen well,” he said with princely disdain. “You will not only compensate me—you will also publicly acknowledge every lie, every article, every insult spread by your press. I will see The Daily Prophet burned to the ground. I will sue everyone—and I mean everyone—who defamed me. I will demand blood money from those who spit on my name. I will have apologies written in gold, and signed with blood if necessary.”

The Slytherin delegation in the gallery—Draco, Blaise, Theo, Tom Riddle III, Matheo, and Theodore Riddle—all stood and applauded.

Blaise leaned back, whispering, “He just made the Ministry bend the knee without a wand.”

Tom Riddle III, eyes gleaming, said lowly, “We are witnessing the rise of a king.”

And so, the Ministry—those who thought they could control the boy once known as Harry Potter—were now reduced to groveling before the Lord Hadrian Severus Prince-Black, ruler of legacy, heir to death and magic itself, billionaire, aristocrat, warrior, and the most dangerous wizard of his age.

He turned his back to them without another word.

They bowed lower.

---

Daily Prophet – Special Edition (Front Page)

“HADRIAN SEVERUS PRINCE-BLACK MAKES THE MINISTRY KNEEL”

Son of Lords Sirius Orion Black and Severus Tobias Prince-Black, Lord of the Most Ancient and Most Noble Houses of Potter, Peverell, and Slytherin, Heir to Rosier, Prince, and Black—WRONGLY EXPELLED AND DRAGGED TO TRIAL—Declared NOT GUILTY. The Wizengamot issues formal apology and compensation for defamation. Lord Prince-Black publicly vows to sue every publication and individual who dared insult his name.

---

 Malfoy Manor – Morning, Grand Parlour

Lucius Malfoy folded the Prophet slowly, his silver eyes gleaming.

“Finally,” he murmured, voice smug and low, “the Ministry bows to someone worthy.”

Narcissa smiled, serene and deadly. “They trembled at the mere mention of his full name. As they should.”

Draco chuckled, proud. “And he didn’t even raise his voice. Just stood there—posture perfect, jaw like a statue, and made the Wizengamot look like grovelling fools.”

Lucius stood, voice heavy with aristocratic satisfaction. “Hadrian Prince-Black has reminded them what true power is.”

---

Greengrass Estate – The Morning Room

Daphne tossed the newspaper onto the coffee table, looking radiant.

“I want that photo of the kneeling ministry printed on silk,” she announced. “To frame.”

Lady Greengrass hummed in approval. “Let the world learn. One does not disgrace a Prince-Black without consequence.”

Astoria popped her head in, eyes alight. “He's suing everyone. Mother, he's starting with Skeeter—she’ll vanish into dust by Tuesday.”

Laughter danced across the sunlit room like the music of revenge.

---

Gaunt Manor – Study

Tom Riddle III sat languidly in a tall green velvet chair, the newspaper floating before him.

He didn’t speak at first, just smiled—slow, sharp, proud.

“I told you,” he murmured. “Hadrian was born to rule. The moment he stepped into that courtroom, the world shifted.”

Matheo gave a low laugh. “He didn’t just win. He made it theatre.”

Theodore grinned. “The Ministry looked like they’d rather drown in dragon dung than face him again.”

Tom’s voice turned cold and amused. “Let them fear. We know what it means to stand beside royalty.”

---

 Rosier Château – Private Sitting Room

The Rosier crest shimmered faintly on the wall behind her. Lady Minerva McGonagall—hidden no longer—sat in her tartan-trimmed robes by the fire, glasses perched neatly on her nose, her wand set gently across her lap.

She had read the article aloud to herself twice.

Then, smiling with quiet, fierce pride, she whispered, “My lion... no—my serpent has roared.”

The firelight flickered as a letter hovered beside her—her own response, bearing the wax seal of Rosier. A missive not of congratulations, but of recognition. For her godson. Her heir. Her legacy.

“Let them bow, Hadrian,” she said. “Let them crawl if they must. But never let them forget who taught you to rise.”

---

Nott Manor – Hall of Mirrors

Lord Nott read the headline with a polished grin. “Glorious,” he said simply.

Lady Nott nodded once. “Worthy of a Prince. And of a Black.”

Theodore smirked. “I wonder how many editors soiled themselves this morning.”

---

Black Family Drawing Room – Prince-Black Estate

Sirius was cackling, doubled over the armrest of a sofa, while Severus sat elegantly with a glass of firewhisky, smirking.

Walburga and Arcturus stood like proud statues, regal and pleased.

“He made them kneel,” Sirius wheezed. “And he was polite about it!”

“Which is worse,” Regulus noted with a grin, lounging with one leg draped over the couch arm. “Because it was intentional.”

Severus lifted his glass. “To our son. May his enemies crumble, and their ink run dry.”

---

The air was thick with tension, so sharp it could cut.

Molly slammed the Daily Prophet onto the table with such force the ink on the front page shimmered.

“‘Ministry Kneels to Hadrian Prince-Black’?!” she shrieked. “This is madness!”

Arthur cleared his throat, awkwardly folding his paper. “Well... it does say he's the Lord of three Houses, Molly.”

“And suing everyone who said a bad word about him!” Fred added with a wide, amused grin.

George nodded. “We’re probably already on the list.”

“He has lordship rings now,” Ginny said softly, stunned. “Potter… I mean, Hadrian…”

“He’s dark,” Ron spat venomously, face flushed redder than his hair. “He’s dressing like Malfoy, like some royal peacock, he made the Ministry kneel, and now he’s threatening the press?!”

Hermione bit her lip. “That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s dark, Ronald.”

Ron turned on her like a hissing boil. “Are you actually defending him? He abandoned us! He left us to play pureblood prince with his Death Eater father!”

“Severus Snape was never convicted,” Bill said quietly from the corner.

“Neither was Sirius,” Fleur added delicately. “And I zink zat is not ze face of a boy going dark. ‘E is proud. Not evil.”

Tonks stood, pacing. “I’ve seen him. At the Prince-Black estate. He walks like a King. The nobles don’t just follow him—they revere him.”

Kingsley, arms folded, voice deep and composed, added, “He stood before the full Wizengamot, alone, and made them kneel with nothing but words and presence. That’s not darkness. That’s power.”

“But he’s… he’s not Harry anymore,” Ron growled. “That’s what he said! ‘Harry Potter is no more.’”

“Maybe,” Hermione whispered, looking down, “maybe that’s what we did to him…”

Silence fell. Heavy. Suffocating.

---

The Longbottom Estate

Augusta Longbottom, regal in her vulture hat, stared at the headline, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached for her teacup.

“Well,” she finally said, “the boy did what none of us dared. And he did it with style.”

Neville stared at the page in awe. “He looks… like he belongs on a throne.”

His grandmother nodded. “He does.”

---

The Prewett Parlour

Fabian and Gideon sat across from one another, the Prophet between them, snickering.

“This is a disaster for the Ministry,” Fabian said.

“Disaster?” Gideon grinned. “This is a Renaissance.”

---

Molly fumed. “He’s being spoiled. Someone needs to bring him back down to Earth.”

“No,” Kingsley said firmly. “He’s above Earth now. He’s orbiting the stars—and dragging the rest of wizarding society with him.”

“He’s going to be trouble,” Alastor Moody muttered, eye scanning the paper. “Not dark. Just too damned smart. They hate that even more.”

---

And in the deepest corner, Ron Weasley sat alone.

His fists clenched so tightly the skin turned white.

He had mocked him. Belittled him. He had called him Harry, mate, idiot, lucky.

But now?

Now, the world called him Lord Prince-Black.

And the world was kneeling.

---

The Ministry of Magic had not slept.

Not once.

Since that trial—the trial that had become legend before the ink even dried on the court record—the very walls of the Ministry trembled with the name Hadrian Severus Prince-Black. It was no longer a name.

It was a sentence.

A sentence of reckoning.

And today… that reckoning arrived.

The courtroom’s ornate doors burst open with such force that even the enchanted chandeliers above flickered nervously.

He had arrived.

Hadrian.

No longer a boy. No longer a whisper in robes too big and shoes too small. He glided—not walked—into the chamber, flanked by the titans of noble wrath.

On his left: Lord Sirius Orion Black, Head of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, a smirk carved into his face like marble.

On his right: Lord Severus Tobias Prince, head held high, eyes sharp enough to cut through steel, his robes of midnight velvet swirling with quiet fury.

Behind them like twin storm clouds cloaked in elegance, stood Lord Arcturus Black and Lady Walburga, walking like two forgotten deities, summoned back to remind the world what real bloodline power looked like.

And walking beside Hadrian, smirking as though born for drama, was Regulus Sirius Prince-Black, no longer a ‘Black sheep,’ but a prince in full command of his rebirth.

The court fell utterly, utterly silent.

Hadrian's boots echoed like war drums across the marble.

He wore black trimmed in ancient silver thread, every inch embroidered with magical heraldry. Six rings glittered on his fingers like stars crowning a constellation: Lord of House Potter, House Peverell, House Slytherin. Heir to Rosier, Black, and Prince.

His hair was obsidian silk. His posture divine. His expression?

Utterly, imperially bored.

He took his seat with the grace of an emperor and adjusted his cufflinks as though the Ministry itself wasn’t quaking beneath him.

“Lord Prince-Black,” stammered Minister Shacklebolt, his normally deep voice struggling to find footing.

Hadrian inclined his head, regal and smooth. “Minister.”

“And… um… your—families…”

The nobles behind him simply stared.

And then the thunder rolled.

Severus stood. “We are here today to begin full legal proceedings against the Daily Prophet, the Evening Prophet, Witch Weekly, The Quibbler, and all 37 minor publications that dared print libel, defamation, or manipulation regarding my son.”

Sirius added smoothly, “We are also suing several freelance journalists, columnists, and their editors for slander, character assassination, and gross misconduct of the public narrative.”

“The charges include,” Arcturus boomed, voice echoing across the rafters, “illegal misuse of juvenile records, unlawful trial leaks, insult to noble titles, and—”

“—emotional and psychological damage sustained,” Walburga added with lethal elegance, “from years of uncorrected falsehoods."

A parchment nearly six feet long unfurled with a snap. Each charge glowed red with magical ink.

Reporters outside fainted just looking at it.

The Minister paled. “Surely, we can negotiate—”

Hadrian rose.

The entire room held its breath.

He moved like a blade drawn from silk. Calm, deadly, beautiful.

“Negotiate?” he asked, voice as smooth as aged wine, yet colder than the vaults of Gringotts. “I was dragged before this court like a criminal. I was humiliated, expelled, and defamed. And now… now, you dare speak of negotiation?”

No one spoke. No one breathed.

“Your Honor,” Hadrian continued, “I request public reparations, a formal retraction from every paper, and a Ministry-sealed declaration of innocence and recognition of noble status, to be published in every wizarding outlet by sunrise tomorrow.”

“And if we—” a trembling junior clerk started.

“You won’t refuse,” Severus cut in sharply. “You dare not.”

Even the portraits on the walls whispered amongst themselves.

Sirius tilted his head with mock curiosity. “I wonder what the international courts would say if Britain were found in violation of the Nobility Protections Accord…”

“I’m sure the French Ministry would be delighted to take our case,” drawled Regulus with a grin.

In silence, the Minister rose.

He turned to the court.

“We… the Ministry… extend our public apology to Lord Hadrian Severus Prince-Black and his noble houses. We will comply.”

The entire courtroom bowed.

Bowed.

Quills shattered.

Truths were rewritten.

Hadrian stood at the center of it all—unsmiling, unreadable, untouchable.

And behind him, the storm of nobility smiled.

The boy the world once called Harry Potter was gone.

In his place stood the Master of Retribution.

---

Location: All Across Magical Britain – One Morning Later

The morning owl post arrived like a tempest of war.

They came not in trickles but in an avalanche. Thousands of owls, flocks so thick they blocked out the sun over Diagon Alley, Knockturn Alley, and even the newsroom towers of the Daily Prophet itself. The skies wept feathers. Journalists screamed.

From the Ministry of Magic’s High Legal Offices, sealed scrolls flew like arrows loosed from a battalion. Each parchment bore a flaming scarlet seal—a legal enchantment known only to the ancient noble families. The enchantment was ancient, sacred, and feared.

It was the Mark of Sovereign Litigation.

Sirius Black’s seal shimmered with the constellation of Canis Major.

Severus Prince’s seal bled molten silver and emerald.

And then, Hadrian Severus Prince-Black’s—a new, divine seal forged from the magic of three Most Ancient Houses—arrived like a falling star.

When touched, each letter shrieked with magic:

> “You are hereby summoned to answer for defamation of a sovereign noble, violation of ancient blood protections, illegal juvenile targeting, and insult to the honor of Lord Hadrian Severus Prince-Black, Lord of the Most Ancient and Most Noble Houses of Potter, Peverell, and Slytherin, Heir to the Rosier, Prince, and Black dynasties.”

> “You have 24 hours to prepare your public retractions, groveling apologies, and offer of reparations before proceedings begin. You may retain legal counsel—if you think it will help.”

> “May the mercy of the Most Noble Houses spare you—because we will not.”

Newsrooms exploded into chaos.

The Daily Prophet's Editor-in-Chief fainted into her third cup of Firewhisky. Rita Skeeter reportedly screamed so loud her enchanted quill burst into flames and stabbed her in the eye. St. Mungo’s refused her entry. “You brought this on yourself,” Healer Samwell muttered.

At Witch Weekly, employees tried to escape via brooms, but the Howlers intercepted them in mid-air. Each one screamed the charges for all to hear:

> “LIBEL!”

> “CHARACTER ASSASSINATION!”

> “UNLAWFUL DEFAMATION OF A LORD!”

In the chaos, a second wave of owls descended — these ones golden-plumed, each carrying Ministry-issued formal apologies, hastily written in trembling script.

One read:

> To the Esteemed Lord Hadrian Severus Prince-Black,

The Ministry of Magic formally and unequivocally apologizes for the wrongful accusations, unlawful expulsion, and unjust public trial you were subjected to. We accept full responsibility for the grievous error and offer reparations, diplomatic restoration of titles, and unrestricted reinstatement into Hogwarts and noble society.

> We acknowledge your status as Lord of Three Ancient Houses and heir to three more, and we humbly request your forgiveness.

> Please do not sue us.

—Minister Barty Crouch Sr.

(Signature shaky, ink smudged by sweat)

At Gringotts, entire vaults began trembling under the incoming fines. The goblins, cackling in delight, began preparing transfer ledgers. Reporters’ families started selling off family heirlooms to afford legal defense. It was already too late.

And in the great halls of Black Palace, where the scent of dark roses mingled with expensive parchment and firelight, Hadrian lounged in his private drawing room, sipping tea with effortless grace, dressed in ink-black robes that shimmered like obsidian moonlight.

Sirius chuckled darkly as he tossed a Prophet article into the fireplace. “That’s the fifth editorial apology today.”

Severus, arms crossed but smirking, added, “They misspelled your name again in one—‘Prince-Back’.”

“Should we sue them again for illiteracy?” asked Regulus with a dramatic sigh, flopping onto the velvet couch.

Hadrian didn’t answer immediately.

He simply took another sip of tea.

Then, calmly, voice a melody of silk and blade, he murmured:

> “Let them kneel in ink and ash. Let them understand that to speak my name in vain… is to speak ruin into existence.”

The family laughed, sharp and regal.

And as owl after owl smacked into the palace’s enchanted wards, begging to deliver apologies, groveling offers, and desperate pleas—

Hadrian Severus Prince-Black smiled.

For the first time in his life…

The world would learn his name.

And never forget it again.

---

Chapter Text

Location: Château de Lumierre, France – Grand Winter Gala

The ballroom of Château de Lumierre was a cathedral of chandeliers and stardust. Centuries-old magic shimmered on every pillar, the marble floors veined with enchanted silver. The most elite of the European wizarding world had gathered—dukedoms of the Alps, old magic from Spain and Italy, veela princesses from Bulgaria, and dragons' heirs from the East. Their garments shimmered in midnight silks, fine spell-spun lace, and moon-thread embroidery.

But no matter how radiant they were, they were all waiting.

Waiting for him.

The air shifted. The crowd hushed. Time, it seemed, held its breath.

And then—

He entered.

The double doors exploded open, not with sound, but with presence. The soft echo of his polished boots on marble resounded like fate arriving. A gale of glamour swept into the ballroom, as if elegance itself had grown legs and chosen a human form.

Hadrian Severus Prince-Black.

Hair like liquid obsidian fell in perfect waves against his shoulders. His robes were deep emerald velvet embroidered in gold sigils of the Houses of Peverell, Slytherin, and Potter—each glimmering faintly with ancient enchantments that hummed against the senses like thunder wrapped in silk. A ceremonial mantle swept behind him like the shadow of a crown, and on his slender hands—six rings gleamed:

The Lordship Rings: Potter, Peverell, Slytherin.

The Heirship Rings: Black, Prince, Rosier.

Each ring pulsed faintly with raw, ancestral magic—proof of the weight he carried, and wore effortlessly.

His posture was a portrait of royal bearing, chin lifted, spine impossibly straight, a walking monument to elegance and power. The gasps came like waves.

> “That’s him—”

“He made the Ministry kneel—”

“They say he sued the Prophet into ruin—”

“He’s... beautiful.”

Behind him walked his noble entourage: Lord Sirius Orion Black, impossibly handsome in black and silver. Lord Severus Tobias Prince-Black, commanding in black with serpentine embroidery. And lastly, Regulus Sirius Prince-Black, cool and aloof, exuding danger and poise.

The music slowed. Conversations died. Champagne froze mid-sip.

And then, like a spell breaking—

The Slytherins approached.

They came like a constellation of noble-born stars:

Heir Draco Lucius Malfoy, graceful and proud in platinum-trimmed robes.

Heiress Pansy Parkinson, radiant in sapphire veela silk.

Theodore Nott, sharp-eyed and classically poised in dark navy and silver.

Blaise Zabini, sinfully elegant, golden rings glittering on dark fingers.

And most notably—

Heir Gaunt, Tom Marvolo Riddle, enigmatic and composed, a pureblood prince in black and emerald.

Matheo Riddle, smirking, bold, his very presence intoxicating.

Theodore Riddle, cool and amused, eyes always calculating and far too knowing for his age.

They bowed or curtsied with noble precision.

Draco spoke first, voice smooth with reverence:

> “Lord Prince-Black. France is truly graced by your presence.”

Pansy curtsied low. “My lord, you eclipse the stars themselves.”

Hadrian offered a regal nod, eyes glittering beneath the soft chandelier light. “Heir Malfoy. Heiress Parkinson. Lord Zabini. Lord Nott. Lords Riddle. It’s good to be among equals again.”

A few heartbeats of mutual reverence passed… and then—

Hadrian turned slightly, and offered a hand to Pansy, voice silk and fire:

> “May I have this dance, Heiress Parkinson?”

She nearly melted. “I would be honored, my lord.”

They danced, a perfect picture of courtly poise—his every movement the embodiment of restrained power and divine grace. He didn’t glide—he commanded the floor.

When the music shifted, he bowed and turned to Daphne. “Lady Greengrass. Might I?”

“Of course, Lord Prince-Black,” she said breathlessly, cheeks flushed with delight.

With Astoria, it was gentler—a princely dance, his eyes warm, his grace still lethal. Her laughter rang like bells.

The room spun around them, but Hadrian was the center.

He did not just dance.

He reigned.

---

Later: The Corner of the Ballroom – Velvet Lounges, Golden Wine

The Slytherins gathered around Hadrian, flutes of starlight-infused champagne in hand, their laughter rich and wicked.

Matheo Riddle leaned forward, grinning. “I still can’t get over it. You walked into the Wizengamot, made them tremble, and sued the Ministry itself.”

Daphne laughed behind her hand. “They made the Prophet kneel. They had to run retractions for five whole pages!”

Theodore Nott shook his head with a smirk. “Honestly, watching them stammer on live broadcast was the highlight of the decade.”

Blaise raised a glass lazily. “I've never seen the French nobles applaud someone for suing the British Ministry before.”

Theodore Riddle added, amused, “Even Grandfather sent wine when he read about it. That’s as close as we get to a standing ovation.”

Hadrian, relaxed and divine in his throne-like seat, let out a low, elegant chuckle. “If they dare to twist a story, they must be ready to pay the price. Truth, like justice, should wear a crown.”

Tom Riddle, silent until now, finally smirked. “You’re not just a storm. You’re prophecy wrapped in velvet.”

Draco raised his glass. “To Lord Hadrian, the storm in velvet, the end of ignorance, and the beginning of nobility’s return.”

Everyone toasted. Glasses clinked.

Then Regulus joined them, grinning lazily. “Did you see the Minister’s face when the trial was dismissed? He nearly soiled his robes.”

Laughter echoed again—sharp, noble, and dangerous.

Hadrian only smiled. A lion’s smile. A king’s smile.

> “Let them learn that darkness is not evil. That elegance is not weakness. That nobility is not silence.

Let them learn that Hadrian Severus Prince-Black has arrived.

And that he never bows.”

---

The grand ballroom had faded into memory, but the afterglow of the night shimmered still. The enchanted lounge room was hushed in golden light, velvet seats shaped like blooming lilies and floating crystal decanters pouring rare elixirs into whisper-thin goblets. A fire of bluebell flames danced in the hearth.

Hadrian sat reclined upon an emerald chaise, his formal cloak exchanged for a silver-silk robe embroidered with black thorns and phoenix feathers. Around him lounged the most infamous and beloved serpents of Hogwarts:

Draco Malfoy, sprawled like a prince bored of lesser courts.

Daphne and Astoria Greengrass, curled like orchids sipping enchanted strawberry wine.

Pansy Parkinson, her heels off, sighing dreamily as she recounted compliments.

Blaise Zabini, shirt unbuttoned just enough, eyes half-lidded.

Theodore Nott, sharp as a blade in repose.

Regulus Sirius Prince-Black, legs crossed elegantly, sipping elderflower brandy with the air of someone who had never once considered being less than superior.

Tom Riddle, Matheo Riddle, and Theodore Riddle, leaning near Hadrian like the darkly golden triad of a fallen empire reborn.

The topic?

Galas.

More specifically—

> “The Berlin Gala is next week,” Blaise drawled, swirling his drink. “Hosted by the Von Drachenstein family. It’s being held in the Reichshalle—twelve floors of moving marble, anti-apparition chambers, and a glass ceiling that shows the constellations of all known wizarding worlds.”

> “They’re releasing ancient Thestral-blood orchids to bloom during dinner,” Theodore added lazily. “They only bloom once every seven centuries.”

Daphne sighed. “I’ve already sent for my midnight frost gown. Apparently, everyone will be wearing war-era regalia. Formal military meets court fashion.”

> “And after that,” Draco said, lifting a brow, “comes the Egyptian Winter Solstice Celebration.”

Tom Riddle smirked faintly. “That one’s being held at the Temple of Osiris. Literally. They’re bringing it back from the veiled sands with temporal magic for one night only.”

> “With real Pharaoh enchantments,” Regulus murmured, eyes glinting. “And golden scarabs that serve wine.”

> “The Indian Gala,” Pansy chimed in, “is themed ‘Empire of Mirrors.’ Held in the Palace of the Moon. Every guest has an illusion counterpart and every step in the hall changes the scene to show visions of past glory and future fate.”

Astoria whispered, delighted, “They say one mirror shows your truest desire. I wonder what Hadrian’s will show.”

> Hadrian just smiled—mysterious, calm, devastating. “I already know what I want.”

Silence, then laughter.

Blaise leaned forward. “China’s next, isn’t it?”

Theodore Riddle nodded. “In the Forbidden Pavilion. Only thirty invited nobles. The invitations are sealed with Eastern dragon flame.”

> “Korea follows,” Matheo murmured. “A masked ball under the sea. Enchanted silks, kelpie-pearls, and moonstone boats. Every mask holds a curse or a blessing. You won’t know until midnight.”

Pansy squealed. “I want to go just to see what curse Draco ends up with.”

> “I’ll be sure to find a way to transfer mine to you,” Draco replied dryly.

Laughter sparkled again.

Then all eyes turned to Hadrian as Blaise whispered reverently:

> “But the crown jewel… Japan.”

A hush. Even the fire seemed to pause.

> “The Moon Court’s Grand Heirloom Gala,” Draco intoned. “Held once every fifty years. In the Imperial Veil Palace—floating in the clouds. No outsiders have been invited in over a century.”

> “But they sent an invitation,” Daphne said slowly, turning to Hadrian. “Didn’t they?”

Hadrian leaned back, lifting a hand. A folded parchment shimmered into existence—white as snow, sealed in black jade and marked with a crimson lotus.

He cracked the seal. The air shimmered. The parchment unfolded on its own, releasing the scent of moon blossom and starlight.

> “To the Honorable Hadrian Severus Prince-Black, Lord of the Houses of Peverell, Potter, and Slytherin, and Heir of the Ancient Bloodlines of Black, Rosier, and Prince—

> It is with boundless reverence that the Imperial Moon Court of Japan invites you and your esteemed entourage to attend the Heirloom Gala…”

Draco exhaled. “You are rewriting the world, Hadrian.”

> “Good,” Hadrian murmured. “It needed a rewrite.”

A silence followed. Reverent. A moment stretched across time.

And then Regulus chuckled, raising his glass.

> “Let them whisper. Let them plot. Let them burn with jealousy. While we dine on starlight and dance on clouds.”

They raised their goblets.

> “To Hadrian.

The boy who made the Ministry kneel.

The heir who sues nations.

The serpent king who turned trials into triumphs.”

And the room echoed with silken laughter and quiet thunder.

---

Title: The Serpent King’s Reign Across Continents

They came in cloaks of smoke and starlight.

They came as kings and queens of the ancient world, as if plucked from legends and wrapped in velvet flame.

And every nation turned its eyes to them.

---

Berlin, Germany – The Reichshalle Gala

The marble floors gleamed like storm-polished ice. Twelve floors of sorcery shimmered under a ceiling of magically-suspended constellations. The Von Drachenstein family, one of the oldest Germanic bloodlines, stood by the massive arched entry—waiting.

And then, the doors opened.

Hadrian entered like a prophecy fulfilled.

He wore black and silver, robes dipped in dragon-scale embroidery, a formal mantle bearing the crests of six Houses—Slytherin, Peverell, Potter, Black, Rosier, and Prince—each burning with enchanted sigils. Behind him walked his court:

Draco Malfoy, radiant in white and green.

Daphne and Astoria, dressed in celestial frost.

Pansy, veiled in emerald lace and arrogance.

Blaise Zabini, gold-threaded midnight robes.

Theodore Nott, like a raven king.

Regulus Sirius Prince-Black, wearing House Black's ancestral heirloom circlet.

Tom, Matheo, and Theodore Riddle, in regal blood-red and obsidian.

The German nobles bowed. The press froze. A whisper rippled:

> "Der Herr der Häuser kommt…"

(The Lord of the Houses has arrived.)

The evening ended with Hadrian conjuring a Patronus so radiant it sang—a basilisk of light that soared across the starry ceiling as applause thundered through the marble tower.

---

Cairo, Egypt – Temple of Osiris Gala

Under a sapphire sky and rising moon, the buried temple rose, stone by golden stone. The Pharaohs had returned, if only for a night.

Hadrian arrived in robes of white and gold, his black hair braided with strands of pure sunstone. His wand tucked into an obsidian holster shaped like an ankh.

The nobles bowed. The High Priest of Sekhmet fell to his knees.

> “You wear the blood of Ra,” he murmured.

Hadrian merely smiled.

A sphinx bowed to him.

A sandstorm stopped at his step.

The stars bent just slightly over his throne.

---

Rajasthan, India – The Empire of Mirrors

Held in the Palace of the Moon, with walls that shimmered like melted diamonds, the Indian gala was a masterpiece of illusion.

For each guest, a magical mirror was conjured. But Hadrian's? It fractured into six—each showing a House he held. Each glowing with untouchable legacy.

> “He holds the past, present, and future,” the Maharani whispered. “In one gaze.”

His mirror showed fire and crowns. Snakes and phoenixes. Severus and Sirius standing behind him, proud. The others gasped.

---

Beijing, China – The Forbidden Pavilion

The Pavilion had never opened its gates for foreigners. Until now.

Hadrian entered dressed in enchanted silk robes, ink-black with moving dragons stitched from star-fire. His steps were silent. The pavilion lights dimmed when he passed, as if the world bowed by instinct.

He bowed to the Empress of the Jade Circle. She bowed back.

> “Hadrian Prince-Black,” she whispered in Mandarin. “龙之主子…The Dragon’s Master.”

And then she raised his goblet herself.

---

Seoul, Korea – The Masquerade Under the Sea

Masks glittered. The ocean ballroom glowed with enchanted kelp chandeliers and drifting moon coral.

Hadrian wore a mask of silver water and serpentine filigree. He danced first with Pansy, then Astoria, then with Regulus—each step casting ripples of magic that altered the entire ballroom.

At midnight, when the curse-blessing reveal began, Hadrian removed his mask.

No curse. Only a glowing lotus on his forehead, symbol of divine power. The crowd gasped.

> “He is not to be cursed,” a spirit whispered. “He is the one who curses others.”

---

Kyoto, Japan – The Imperial Veil Gala

Held once every fifty years.

The palace floated in the clouds. Literally. Only those chosen by Imperial magic itself were invited. A silver bridge of moonlight appeared only to the blessed.

Hadrian did not walk the bridge. He floated.

The guards fell to their knees. The Heir of the Moon Court, a silent boy dressed in twilight, stepped forward and gave Hadrian the Imperial Blossom, a sign that no outsider had ever held.

Hadrian placed it on his robe without a word.

Later, when he bowed for the first dance, the Imperial Princess curtsied to him.

---

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil – The Sunfire Carnival

In contrast to Japan’s solemnity, Brazil was ablaze with magic, song, and gold dust. The carnival took place on a floating sky-ship above the Amazon.

Hadrian arrived in tropical black, with enchanted feathers of the rarest phoenix species fluttering behind him like a living cape.

He didn’t just dance. He commanded the rhythm.

The music bent to his heartbeat.

The stars danced for him.

---

Final Scene – A Quiet Balcony in the Skyship

The Slytherins stood together under a sky littered with stars from every hemisphere.

> “We have ruled the world this month,” Blaise said, sipping skyberry wine.

> “They bow to us now,” Pansy purred. “Every continent. Every court.”

Hadrian chuckled, resting his arm over Regulus’s shoulders. “Good. Let them remember it. Let them write poems about it. We are not just Slytherins. We are storms in silk.”

Tom Riddle lifted his glass.

> “To the world tour of legends.

To Hadrian.

To the serpent king who made the Ministry kneel…

And now, made the world dance.”

They drank as the wind wrapped around them—golden, warm, and eternal.

---

The Slytherin common room was cloaked in that warm evening hush—firelight flickering against serpent-green velvet curtains, and the low hum of whispered gossip melting into the bubbling calm of luxury and triumph.

Hadrian lounged on a chaise near the enchanted fireplace, clad in an emerald silk dressing robe trimmed in silver. Regulus lay sprawled at his feet, flipping through a wizarding fashion journal, and Blaise poured himself a glass of Elven red. The others—Draco, Theo, Daphne, Pansy, Astoria, and the three Riddles—gathered around, their voices eager with curiosity.

Draco smirked. “So,” he drawled, “how goes your ‘expulsion,’ my Lord?”

The room quieted, waiting.

Hadrian raised one brow, lips curving with amused disdain. “Ah. That.”

He took a delicate sip of starflower tea before answering.

“Dumbledore sent a formal letter.”

The silence that followed was delicious.

Theo blinked. “Formal?”

“He addressed me properly,” Hadrian said, almost lazily. “Lord Hadrian Severus Prince-Black, Heir of Rosier, Peverell, and Slytherin. The wax seal was gold, the handwriting was a little… shaky.”

Pansy grinned like a cat who’d eaten the phoenix.

“What did it say?” Daphne prompted, scooting closer.

Hadrian set his teacup down with precision. “He formally invited me to return to Hogwarts... under the guise of a ‘special international transfer student initiative.’”

Laughter erupted instantly.

“Oh, that is brilliant,” Blaise said between wheezes. “You’re not just being begged back—you’re being paraded like foreign nobility.”

“Wasn’t that always the case?” Regulus muttered, flipping a page. “They just finally admitted it.”

Draco nearly choked on his drink. “He can’t say ‘I was wrong,’ so he makes it a diplomatic issue!”

“Exactly.” Hadrian’s voice was calm, but that glint in his eyes shimmered with cold, triumphant amusement. “Apparently, Hogwarts has decided to ‘reacquire me’ as a representative of the French Magical Delegation.” He tilted his head. “Even used the phrase ‘ambassadorial reintegration.’”

Astoria gasped through a laugh. “He made it sound like you’re a visiting royal!”

“I am,” Hadrian said simply.

The room dissolved into laughter again, but there was pride in every gaze—ferocious and loyal. This was their Lord. Their Serpent King. And the world now danced to his rhythm.

Tom Riddle leaned forward, his tone laced with wicked amusement. “And your response?”

Hadrian’s smile sharpened.

“I said I would consider it... as long as proper reparation, groveling, and restoration of honor were guaranteed. And that he should prepare a new Common Room. Because I refuse to share space with anyone who once called me ‘traitor.’”

Blaise raised his glass. “To diplomatic slaps in silk gloves.”

“To serpents in thrones,” added Matheo.

Regulus chuckled. “To the Headmaster who now must bow with parchment and seal.”

They all drank.

And as the flames danced behind Hadrian’s poised, regal form, the laughter of the serpent court echoed through the dungeon halls—a symphony of victory, power, and perfectly executed revenge.

---

The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix was uncharacteristically silent that morning. The dining table was laden with half-finished tea, untouched toast, and the latest issue of the Daily Prophet—its headline in gold-foiled ink, practically glowing under the chandelier light:

> "LORD PRINCE-BLACK STUNS THE WORLD: From Egypt to Japan, the Crowned Serpent Dances in Silk and Flame"

Beneath it was a photograph that almost radiated magic. There he was—Hadrian Severus Prince-Black—in shimmering obsidian robes laced with green-gold embroidery, mid-dance in a grand marble ballroom in Japan. His hair gleamed like black diamond, eyes piercing like enchanted emeralds, and his expression? Regal. Untouchable. Divine.

Another photo showed him stepping out of a flying carriage in India, greeted by a priest kneeling with a silver lotus crown.

Another, in Berlin, shaking hands with magical royalty.

Another still, from Brazil, showed a stunned crowd parting like water as he walked, back straight, head held high, robes flowing like royal banners.

Ron dropped his toast.

“What the hell—he’s dancing? In Japan? Priests kneeling? Is that—” he squinted. “A prince giving him a lotus flower?”

Hermione, silent for once, was scanning the article. “…It says here he was the guest of honor at six separate galas. That he outdressed every single royal. That his elegance ‘surpassed even the enchanted statues of Versailles.’ And—wait—the Chinese Magical Assembly just gifted him a dragonbone hairpin carved with his crest.”

Ron sputtered. “Are they mad?! That’s Harry! He was one of us! He used to wear Dudley’s old shirts! He used to eat leftover toast!”

Across the room, Remus Lupin stared at the page proudly. There was a picture of Hadrian laughing in a garden with the heirs of Slytherin, draped in fine brocade, the sun illuminating his sharp cheekbones and soft smile. His cub looked healthy. Thriving. Loved.

Molly gasped. “They’re calling him ‘the Serpent Emperor.’ Merlin preserve us, even the Japanese Imperial family sent him an enchanted kimono!”

Ron flailed. “AND THEY SAY HE’S ‘TOO BEAUTIFUL FOR PAINTING’? That’s mental! That’s not even normal language!”

Kingsley, reading over the rim of his teacup, added, “They say the Egyptian High Priest called him The One With a Crowned Soul.”

Ron grumbled under his breath, face red. “He’s just acting. All those titles are made up. He’s still Harry. Just… just because he wore shiny clothes and got a dragon pin doesn’t mean he’s special!”

Tonks arched a brow. “Ron, he is the Lord of three Ancient Houses and the heir to three more. His family made the Ministry kneel. And the whole world’s throwing parties in his name.”

Ron’s face contorted. “He’s a show-off!”

Hermione, quietly, replied without looking up. “Or maybe he’s just finally being seen as he always should’ve been.”

Sirius’s picture from a side column showed him smirking proudly beside Severus, both in matching formal wear, flanking Hadrian at the Berlin gala. The caption read:

> “Fathers of the Serpent King: The Bond of Black and Prince.”

A strange silence settled in the room.

“He doesn’t look like our Harry anymore,” Molly whispered.

Remus finally said, “Maybe he never yours to begin with.”

And Ron? He just glared at the photograph—the elegance, the power, the adoration that surrounded Hadrian—and felt the bitter rot of envy gnawing at his stomach like a parasite.

Because the truth was unavoidable.

Harry Potter was gone.

And in his place stood Lord Hadrian Severus Prince-Black, a being of myth, magic, and majesty.

And the world? It had already chosen who it would kneel to.

---

The sun had only just begun to rise, casting a molten gold shimmer over the eastern cliffs of the Black Estate. Mist rolled lazily over the emerald grass, curling around obsidian statues and enchanted flora. The land, soaked with ancestral power, breathed softly beneath a thick silence—a silence born not of absence, but of reverence.

Down the winding marble path, past the blood-warded gates and under the protective dome of enchantments older than any Ministry law, walked Hadrian Severus Prince-Black.

Alone.

His cloak trailed behind him like liquid shadow, embroidered in silver with the seals of the Houses he bore — Prince, Black, Potter, Peverell, Slytherin, and Rosier — all resting silently over his proud shoulders. He walked with neither haste nor hesitation, his hands behind his back, his emerald eyes soft yet piercing as they scanned the horizon.

He wasn’t here for inspection.

He was here for silence.

For peace.

For his beasts.

They sensed him before he even crossed the final arch.

The air shifted.

And then the world knelt.

With fluid grace, the dragons lowered their enormous heads — four of them: Valtherion, the silver-winged sky-burner; Nyxarion, the midnight-scaled guardian of the north gate; Aelion, the bronze desert storm; and Celesthira, the white queen with eyes like moonlight. They curled their wings and exhaled in slow, soft rumbles of greeting.

He did not command them. He nodded, and that was enough.

From beneath the obsidian pillars slithered Seraphyx, the great Basilisk, scales dark as onyx with veins of green fire pulsing beneath them. His head lowered, and he pressed the tip of his snout to Hadrian’s boot in an ancient sign of allegiance. The boy merely scratched behind its massive jaw, a low chuckle escaping him.

“Stop pretending you're terrifying,” he murmured fondly. “You cried when I forgot your nightly patrol last month.”

A deep, affectionate rumble echoed from the beast's chest.

Above, the Phoenixes, Aurelion and Noctis, wheeled once in the sky before descending, landing lightly on the twin shoulders of the obsidian throne that sat at the center of the courtyard — his throne. They bowed their fiery heads low.

The Unicorns, Thestrals, and the skeletal-winged Nightmares that prowled the shadows all gathered quietly, watching. From the treeline came the Griffins, their gold eyes filled with something older than pride — something that bordered on worship.

Even the Nundu, slumbering for hours near the enchanted pond, raised its head and gave a soft, chuffing growl of affection before rolling back with the lazy confidence of a lion whose god had returned.

Hadrian stopped at the center of the courtyard.

A wave of heat swept outward — not hot, but powerful. Magic bled from his very presence, swirling visibly in the air like threads of green and silver light. The earth pulsed once beneath his feet.

Seven months.

Seven months since he walked into the forbidden heart of the estate, since he offered blood and bond and silence. Seven months since every creature had recognized him—not as a master, but as something more.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

They felt him. They always did.

And in the quiet, a white stag emerged — antlers glowing faintly, hooves silent on the stone path. It did not bow this time.

It stood at his side.

Because it had never once knelt.

It was not a beast to him. It was part of him — his Patronus, his fate, his magic, made flesh.

“I’ll be leaving again soon,” Hadrian said softly to them all, his voice calm and calm and deep like the tide. “Back to Hogwarts. Back to noise and titles and politics.”

He exhaled slowly.

“I needed… a reminder. Of who I am. And who I’m not.”

The Phoenix cried once — a long, echoing sound like a hymn.

Behind him, the air shimmered.

The protective wards pulsed in time with his heart.

And every creature, from the smallest fairy moth to the mightiest dragon, lowered their heads once more—not in obedience.

In recognition.

Because they knew what the world did not.

Magic did not serve Hadrian.

It walked beside him.

---

The Hogwarts Express exhaled great plumes of white steam, scarlet and majestic as it stood waiting at Platform 9¾ like a royal steed of iron. Excitement and chaos filled the station, children rushing, parents waving, trunks levitating above heads, and owls screeching in impatience. But in the very heart of the train, where quiet reigned and enchantments softened the world, one compartment stood untouched.

Inside, seated as though they were princes aboard a royal procession, were Hadrian Severus Prince-Black and Regulus Sirius Prince-Black.

The brothers sat in silence, each cloaked in robes not of fabric, but of legacy. Dark velvet and silver embroidery shimmered in the light — robes custom-crafted by the finest goblin weavers and imbued with enchantments passed down from ancient lineages. Their posture was flawless: backs straight, legs crossed with poise, gloved hands turning pages of thick tomes with the quiet dignity of emperors. Not a wrinkle on their robes, not a strand of hair out of place. Regal. Immaculate. Untouchable.

Their compartment, unsurprisingly, was empty — save for them — protected by subtle wards and an aura of sheer power. No student dared intrude.

Until, of course, they did.

The door slid open with an irritating screech. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger stepped inside as if they owned the very train. No knock. No greeting. No permission. Just shamelessness in human form.

“Finally found an empty compartment,” Ron muttered, flopping onto the seat opposite Hadrian as if he were at the Burrow’s dinner table.

Hermione sat with her usual bossiness, immediately pulling out a notebook, nose in the air as though she were doing everyone a favor by existing.

Regulus didn’t lift his eyes from his book.

But his voice cut through the air like a blade of ice.

“How shameful.”

Hermione blinked. “Excuse me?”

Now Hadrian looked up — slow and calm, gaze unreadable — as Regulus finally set his book aside with the grace of a nobleman unsheathing a sword.

“You enter the private cabin of the Lord of three Ancient and Noble Houses—uninvited—and you do not even greet him? You dare speak first as if you are equals? Disgraceful. You dishonor your own Houses—if you have any.”

“Oi, what’s your problem?” Ron snapped. “We’ve known him longer than you have—”

“And you still do not understand how to address him. Pathetic,” Regulus sneered.

The tension was thick. Hermione bristled. Ron’s ears turned red.

But before a full argument could erupt, the door slid open again. This time, it was gentle. Almost… reverent.

Luna Lovegood stood in the doorway.

She was ethereal, pale as moonlight, her wand tucked behind her ear and her robes a dreamy shade of silver-blue. She blinked slowly at the scene before her, dreamy eyes soft with curiosity.

“My deepest apologies for interrupting,” she said serenely, then gave a delicate, formal curtsy. “My Lords Prince-Black. May I request entrance?”

Regulus smiled faintly and gave a small approving nod.

“That,” he said coldly to Ron and Hermione, “is how you greet nobility.”

Ron muttered something under his breath, furious, but it was drowned out by Hadrian’s voice — velvet and amused.

“Miss Lovegood. A pleasure,” he said smoothly, standing from his seat and taking her hand in his gloved one. With princely elegance, he bowed low and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “But we both know—all three of us—that you are our cousin. Do not be so formal. Please… address me as such.”

The world froze.

Ron choked. Hermione’s eyes went wide. “Cousin?!”

But Luna smiled. Bright. Happy.

“Of course, cousin,” she said dreamily, taking the seat beside him. “I suppose I should have worn the Rosier pin, but it kept slipping off because of the Wrackspurts.”

Ron groaned. “She’s mental.”

Hadrian’s lips twitched. “Yes. Wrackspurts tend to dislodge magical insignias, especially when they’re near enchanted train engines.”

Luna beamed, delighted.

“And don’t get me started on the Nargles,” she said, tone full of mystery. “They’ve been especially disruptive around Platform 9¾ — likely attracted to Ministry lies and unresolved lawsuits.”

Hadrian laughed, light and clear.

“Quite right. Vile little opportunists. They’re drawn to guilt and sensational journalism. The Daily Prophet must be positively infested.”

Ron and Hermione stared at them as if they had grown wings.

They kept speaking.

About magical creatures that walked in dreams, spirits of frost that whispered forgotten prophecies, and phoenixes that only sang under lunar eclipses.

Luna’s eyes shone with joy.

Hadrian? He looked at peace.

He looked home.

And across from them, Regulus returned to his book, smirking like a dark prince watching the peasants fumble with politics far beneath them.

---

Ron and Hermione sat frozen, as though time itself had turned to stone around them.

They had come into this cabin without invitation, without greeting, and now sat awkwardly—out of place, out of their depth, and outclassed in every possible sense.

Before them sat Hadrian Severus Prince-Black, cloaked in calm authority, and beside him the dreamy, otherworldly Luna Lovegood, whose strange words and soft voice now carried the weight of bloodline truth and magical reverence.

Luna and Hadrian continued their murmured conversation — about Thestrals that whispered through moonlight, of horned frostfoxes said to only appear to those bound by unbreakable oaths. Every word from Hadrian’s lips was elegant and smooth, like old magic drifting on air. Luna listened, rapt, glowing with happiness to be heard—truly heard—by someone as untouchable and exalted as he.

Occasionally, Regulus would join the discussion with his own commentary, eyes sharp with wit and amusement. His tone was low, cultured, and cutting whenever he glanced at Ron or Hermione, who sat rigid and confused.

Just as Ron opened his mouth to speak, the door to the compartment slid open once again.

The reaction from the redhead and the bushy-haired girl was instant—confusion became stunned disbelief.

There, at the door, stood Draco Malfoy, flanked by none other than the Riddle brothers — Heir Tom Riddle, regal and chilling, his younger brothers Matheo and Theodore Riddle trailing like shadows of power. With them was Theodore Nott, Blaise Zabini, and standing proudly beside Draco, her expression cool and sharp, Pansy Parkinson, dressed in immaculate emerald green with the Parkinson sigil in silver thread at her collar.

They all bowed.

Bowed.

Every single one of them lowered their heads with sincere reverence.

To Hadrian.

“Lord Prince-Black,” Draco said, voice smooth, clear, and formal. “Forgive the intrusion. Might we be permitted entry?”

Ron made a strangled sound, as if the very laws of reality had shattered before him.

Hadrian gave a slight nod, one elegant hand lifting in quiet permission. “Of course. Make yourselves comfortable.”

The Riddle brothers stepped in first, silent and regal, followed by Draco and the others. Pansy entered last, pausing only to offer Hadrian a graceful curtsy and a fond smile.

“Your Lordship,” she said softly. “As radiant as always.”

Hadrian gave a slight tilt of his head. “Lady Parkinson.”

They filed in with practiced ease, conjuring soft cushioning charms with elegant swishes of their wands.

Not one of them acknowledged Ron or Hermione.

Draco leaned forward, eyes glittering with pride.

“You would’ve laughed, my Lord,” he said. “The look on Fudge’s face when the Rosier documents were presented was worth every second of the gala. The Prophet's ink hadn’t dried before the Ministry dropped to its knees.”

“Oh, and the French Gala,” Blaise chuckled, reclining. “The way the Veela Princess bowed! Even my mother was stunned—and that’s saying something.”

“And the Berlin ball,” Tom added softly, his voice like velvet over steel. “The way the High Priest actually knelt. I’ve never seen it in my life.”

They burst into light laughter, elegant and practiced, their voices mixing like a private symphony. Hadrian smiled faintly, sipping conjured tea with quiet amusement.

“And don’t forget Japan,” Pansy added, smirking. “The Imperial Court barely breathed when you walked in, Hadrian. That silk haori they gifted you was practically blessed.”

And then—

Hermione’s voice cut the air like a blunted blade.

“What is going on here?” she snapped.

All heads turned.

Every Slytherin went still.

Draco’s pale brows rose, and his lips curled in offense. “Miss Granger,” he said icily, “That is a deeply disrespectful tone to use in the presence of a Lord and heir—especially while interrupting a conversation between nobles.”

“It’s Had—Harry! He’s Harry!” Ron sputtered. “You lot are treating him like—like some prince or—”

“Because he is,” Regulus cut in coldly, his voice laced with warning. “You may have once known the boy beneath the name. But that does not give you the right to speak out of turn in the presence of Hadrian Severus Prince-Black, Lord of the Ancient and Most Noble Houses of Prince, Black, and Peverell.”

Hermione flushed, indignant. “He’s still a student—he’s one of us! This is all… it’s all so—so ridiculous!”

“No,” Theodore Riddle said calmly, his expression blank. “What’s ridiculous is the idea that you believed you could walk into a room of titled heirs and behave like you were owed familiarity.”

“You disgrace yourselves,” Matheo added. “You’re not in a Gryffindor common room. You’re in the presence of bloodline authority and magical precedence.”

Ron surged to his feet. “He was our friend!”

“And then you mocked him. Betrayed him. Called him names. Doubted him. Lied about him. Nearly let him be destroyed,” Regulus snarled, rising too, wand flicking out with a speed that made Ron pale. “You do not speak his name here. Not unless permitted.”

The compartment buzzed with silence.

Then Hadrian sighed softly, as if bored.

“Enough,” he said with quiet command.

The air calmed instantly.

He turned his eyes to Ron and Hermione, voice gentle but final.

“You may stay or you may leave. But you will not speak over my companions again.”

And just like that, he returned to his conversation with Luna, as though the storm had passed and the sunlight had returned. Luna, ever bright, picked up without missing a beat.

“Do you think the cloud-whales will migrate early this year?” she asked softly.

Hadrian smiled. “Perhaps. There’s a pressure in the air. I felt it when I left the Creature Sanctuary last week. They always sense the change before we do.”

Ron sat there, dumbfounded.

Hermione looked like she might explode.

And the Slytherins? They laughed softly again, as though the past five minutes were no more than an entertaining interlude.

---

The way he sat—spine straight, legs crossed, robes falling like molten shadow over his frame—was the posture of kings. He did not slouch, fidget, or react. His every movement was deliberate, as though every breath he took had been practiced beneath ancient chandeliers and ancestral scrutiny.

The golden sunlight filtered through the train window, catching the glint of the Prince crest at his collar and the faint shimmer of spell-thread embroidery on his cuffs. The book in his gloved hands was in an old tongue—runic, possibly, or druidic—and he turned each page with reverent silence, as though the book itself had once belonged to Merlin.

Beside him, Regulus mirrored the same poise. His dark hair caught the light with a glossy sheen, and his violet-black robes bore the twin crests of Black and Prince over his heart.

Across the compartment, the other Slytherins were equally silent, either reading or quietly speaking among themselves in crisp, composed voices.

Ron and Hermione sat stiffly, out of place, like ink blots on a scroll of calligraphy.

Hermione fidgeted, casting glances at Hadrian as though trying to find an opening.

Ron looked like he had bitten into a lemon.

Finally, Hermione cleared her throat and said, with forced calm, “Harry—I mean, Hadrian, I was wondering if you—”

“Do not interrupt him,” Draco said coolly, without even looking up from his book.

Hermione blinked, startled. “I—I was just asking—”

“And that alone is presumptuous,” Pansy added without lifting her head. “You did not request permission to speak. That’s rather undignified, Granger.”

Blaise chuckled softly. “They still haven’t realized this isn’t their world anymore.”

Hermione flushed.

Ron scowled. “You all are just kissing up to him because he’s—what—famous now?”

Tom Riddle’s gaze lifted slowly. “He is not famous, Weasley. He is powerful. He is titled. He is bound by magic older than your House’s last clean broom.”

“And most of all,” added Theodore Nott, “he earned our respect by surviving what none of us could have and emerging stronger, while you sat in Gryffindor tower believing the Prophet’s lies.”

Silence fell again.

Hadrian hadn’t said a word.

He simply continued reading, as though the argument hadn’t occurred. It was his silence that reigned—not passive, but commanding. He didn’t need to raise his voice or join the conflict. The Slytherins enforced his authority like loyal knights circling their sovereign.

Minutes passed. The compartment was filled only with the soft rustle of pages and the occasional clink of a spoon against porcelain as Pansy sipped her conjured tea.

Hermione tried again, voice gentler this time. “Hadrian… I just wanted to say that I—”

“No,” Regulus cut in sharply, not even looking at her. “You do not get to just anything.”

Hermione shrank slightly, eyes wide.

“Let them,” Hadrian murmured suddenly, his voice smooth as velvet, but distant—as if echoing from a throne. “Let them speak, if they must. But they’ll find no answers that satisfy them.”

The words were not cruel. They were simply true.

Ron fell silent, biting his cheek.

Hermione nodded once and looked down at her lap.

And that was how the rest of the ride passed: in measured calm, regal elegance, and unreadable silence. The Slytherins conversed in their refined circle. Luna smiled quietly, sketching the likeness of a Snorkack in her journal. And Hadrian, like a crowned serpent coiled in moonlight, read beneath the shifting shadows, his very presence a declaration:

He was no longer theirs.

He belonged to something greater.