Chapter Text
"The incantation for the transfiguration of an object into a matchbox?"
"Flintifors, with the wand held to the left."
"Very good, and the positioning of the wand has what effect?"
"It represents passivity and stability, holding the matchbox's stasis."
"Excellent! And which materials would be the best starting—"
A groan cut the wizard off from his questioning, and Warren Whitfield turned from his chalkboard to raise an eyebrow at the young boy under his tutelage. Bright green eyes met him evenly, widened ever so slightly in a pleading expression that Whitfield could not help but soften under. Three years with this brat, you would think I'd get used to all his conniving, he fretted, pushing his spectacles back up his nose as he peers down on the young Heir.
"Professor Whitfield, I've already covered these questions in last week's essay, please can't we cut class a little shorter today?"
The man gave a heavy sigh that would have sounded exasperated to anyone else, but the young wizard saw the fond smile sneak onto his tutor's face and grinned in victory.
"Very well, young Hadrian, since it's a special day for you. But two feet on fors suffix spells, I think, for next week's lesson, and do try to improve your citations from last week," he chastised, starting to clean up the sprawl of Transfiguration textbooks and notebooks he had brought for today's lesson.
The boy — Hadrian — winced at the slightly longer assignment, but at just shy of 11 years of age, he hadn't yet mastered the art of delayed gratification. And even if he had, well, his tutor was right — it was a special day. Why he had classes at all was beyond him — probably his mother's influence, because his father seemed even more excited than he himself.
Waving Whitfield a quick goodbye, Hadrian gathered his notebooks and quills before rushing out of the room, taking the stairs two at a time up to his bedroom despite knowing it would earn him a good lecture from his mother if she saw him behaving in such an undignified manner. Regardless, he took the risk of taking the stairs two at a time down as well, knowing that in the early afternoons of the summer, both his parents were probably...
Aha.
"Mom, dad!"
Two heads turned from where a witch and wizard sat in the backyard, cuddled next to each other underneath a tree on a picnic blanket.
Lily Potter was the first to untangle herself from her husband, amusement coloring her eyes as she opened her arms for her son to worm himself into. Casting a wordless tempus, she clicked her tongue disapprovingly.
"Hadrian. It's not 2 yet, is it? Did you convince Professor Whitfield to let you out early?" she questioned, though her tone indicated that she already knew the answer. Beside her, James Potter let out a boisterous laugh, ruffling his son's hair.
"Come now, Hadrian, it's not good to be skipping lessons," he scolded, though his voice held more amusement than any genuine berating should carry.
The young wizard huffed, wiggling away from his father's hand and attempting to smooth down the strands for a few seconds before quickly giving up. He kept himself neat and well groomed, thank you very much, as befitting a young Lord of his status. Merlin knew how his father managed to undo all that hard work in mere seconds.
"I don't skip lessons that often. Not like you did, dad," Hadrian scoffed, tipping his nose righteously into the air as his father laughed again in response.
"Very well, I suppose you have a point there — ow, Lily, alright, no skipping class here, I'm a perfectly good role model, thank you," the elder Potter said, wincing as he rubbed his side where his wife had just jabbed at him with her wand.
"Never mind that, is it here?" Hadrian interrupted, having finally given up on skirting around the subject.
"What ever could you mean, darling, you'll have to be more specific," James responded, mischief lighting his eyes again as his wife rolled her own. "I just have this, oh so unimportant paper," he started, drawing out an envelope with the familiar red seal of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, "addressed to one—" here, he pretended to peer closely at the letter "— Hadrian James Potter? Doesn't seem that important, perhaps I should toss it —"
Before he could get another word out, Hadrian was gasping, clambering over both his parents and grabbing the envelope for himself, much to their amusement.
Indeed, the letter was made out to one Hadrian James Potter, resident of the Potter Manor, Stinchcombe, Gloucestershire. The seal was pried off gently with shivering fingers, revealing his acceptance to Hogwarts in green ink. Hadrian released a rather unbecoming squeal, barely skimming it before looking back up to meet his parents' fond gazes.
"I got in! I'm going to Hogwarts!"
Lily Potter laughed, leaning down to press a kiss to her only son's forehead.
"Of course you did, sweetie," she said, sitting back up only to grab Hadrian in another hug that James quickly joined.
"Another little lion in the family," he said affectionately, enclosing his family in a warm embrace.
Snug in his parents’ arms and glowing with their pride, Hadrian felt like he could summon a hundred Patronuses with that moment alone.
— // —
Diagon Alley was, of course, not unfamiliar to Hadrian, though this particular nook of it wasn't one he had ever entered before.
Madame Malkin's was scrawled in elegant pewter script against mahogany wood, a strip of parchment beneath the sign proudly proclaiming the store as the "Official Supplier of Hogwart's Robes." Hadrian himself had never stepped foot in Malkin's — the Potter's preferred Twilfitt and Tatting's, which supplied more traditionalist outfits of high quality (and high price, Hadrian supposed), and he had only gone a few times to be measured, his clothing then delivered back to the manor. But school robes from Malkin's — that, his father had declared, was an official Hogwarts rite of passage, and so Hadrian walked in with more excitement than he would usually grant robe shopping.
"Hogwarts, dear?" chimed the friendly voice of a stout witch currently surrounded by swatches of fabric. Other than the billowing of cloth and the soft undertones of a self-playing harp in the corner, there was no other sound, the shop seemingly empty — the lull before an afternoon wave, Hadrian was sure. "Have a seat, have a seat, I'll fit you both up right away."
Hadrian strode forward without hesitation, only processing the witch's words once he had drawn himself up next to another boy around his age, currently being assaulted by a magical measuring tape that switched its attentions to Hadrian as he came to a stop.
The two were polar opposites, he soon realized, the boy's slicked back, white-gold hair standing in stark juxtaposition to his own artfully messy fluff of black. A halfblood or a pureblood, it seemed, as he was also wearing casual day robes, and either a heir or a pompous brat (or both, Hadrian mused) judging from his posture. Pairing that with his hair...
"Malfoy. Draco Malfoy," the boy introduced, jaunting his chin up in a decidedly self-important manner before dipping his head in the casual manner reserved for a minor meeting a peer.
For a brief second, his eyes darted sideways to where he had left his parents, but they were outside — father had said going through Malkin's scrutiny and the chaos of her measuring tapes alone was also part of the rite of passage, he remembered — and he relaxed, nodding in return.
"A pleasure, Heir Malfoy. Hadrian Potter," he returned, and it was Malfoy's turn to dart his attention briefly to the entrance. Upon finding them alone in the shop, Malkin herself seemingly buried underneath the silks at this point, the blonde offered a tentative smile.
"The pleasure's all mine, Heir Potter," and then, "Are you excited for Hogwarts?"
Malfoy's pompous attitude leaked back into his words as he relaxed more, but Hadrian found that he didn’t mind too much, finding it more amusing than anything as the two boys fell into an easy, if not slightly jilted at first, rhythm of conversation. Both had heard of the other, of course — the Malfoy's were an old family and notably Dark-aligned, but still extremely powerful and wealthy even if they had ended up on the losing side of the war last time, while the Potter's had quickly ascended the political food chain as one of the most successful Light families, that recent notoriety coming partially for their role in fighting off Grindelwald. Draco knew that they ran in different circles — such different circles, in fact, that Potter should have probably turned away coldly upon realizing who he was, not initiate friendly conversation.
Before the blonde could think too deeply into it, however, Malkin was back again, one bright yellow tassel trying to attach itself to her hair as if it had separation anxiety. She brushed it away half-mindedly, knocking it back three shelves, and pushed two bundles of black cloth into the arms of the pair.
"Your three sets of plain school robes, one plain pointed hat, one winter cloak, and dragonhide gloves. The standard expenses have been billed to your families, of course, Heir Malfoy, Heir Potter. Enjoy Hogwarts, boys!" the cheerful witch chirped before flitting away once again.
Hadrian allowed himself a bemused smile before wincing slightly as he realized that Malkin definitely knew who they were and probably knew that they really shouldn't be talking, but she didn't seem particularly bothered by the fact so Hadrian wouldn't think on it too much either.
He walked outside, Malfoy on his heels, smiling eagerly at where his parents were conversing on a bench in the shade. James noticed him first, grinning back. "Look at you, got your shopping all done by yourself," he teased lightly, reaching out to ruffle his son's hair before spotting the second boy behind him and freezing.
"And who's this, Hadrian?" Lily Potter spoke up, though judging by how her usually open expression had frosted over, she had her suspicions.
Hadrian winced under the scrutiny, swallowing before trying to introduce Malfoy, but was miraculously saved as two well-dressed blonde wizards approached them. Then again, judging by how the mood had tensed even more, perhaps it wasn't quite a relief.
"Lord Potter, Lady Potter — I see you've made acquaintance with my son, Draco," Lord Malfoy drawled, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. Narcissa Malfoy stood slightly behind him, expression hooded and unrevealing as she cast a cool, assessing glance over the other family.
"Quite," Hadrian's father returned evenly as he drew his own son closer. "It seems the boys met in Malkins."
"So it seems," Lucius Malfoy said, a disdainful sniff following the words before tense silence fell upon the two families once more.
"Well. Draco, we must be getting home, I'm sure you'll have more than enough time to chat with your...friend once you're at Hogwarts," Lucius finally said, once it became clear that neither of the Potter's were going to say or do anything else.
Draco acquiesced quietly, shooting a briefly apologetic look towards Hadrian that was returned before turning to follow his parents. The trio disappeared in a pop, disapparating from the street, and James and Lily turned their attention to their son.
"Are you alright? You know how dangerous it is to be with their kind," Lily was already chiding. "He didn't try anything, did he?"
Already, Hadrian felt the familiar sense of shame mingling with anger at his parents' words. He hated disappointing them in anything, and in this most of all, because it should be simple. Don't trust Dark wizards. Don't interact with them. Don't let them interact with you. The lectures had been increasing in frequency in the couple days since he had received his Hogwarts letter — of course Hadrian would be Sorted into Gryffindor, where no Dark wizards had managed to step foot in for years, as his parents had been, and his fathers' parents and their parents and the whole Potter line had been. But it was inevitable that he would meet Dark wizards — and of course, he was an Heir, he would not stoop so low as to bully or persecute them, but his parents had impressed on him that he must be ready to defend himself from them at any moment.
The fissure between Dark and Light mages hadn't always been there. Magic was meant to be united, to be balanced. But ever since the Dark Lord Gellert Grindelwald had tried taking over the world using black magic and threatening to reveal the wizarding world to the Muggles, only to be stopped by the equally powerful Light wizard Albus Dumbledore (the Hogwarts headmaster, and, Hadrian was proud to say, a close friend of their family), things had changed.
Even over half a century after the War, Dark wizards were viewed with mistrust. The old families had enough wealth and power to keep their stations and avoid arrest, but even they were under heavy scrutiny, their actions eyed with suspicion by the general public. In the years closely following the war, they had been subjected to impromptu raids that seized old heirlooms, moneys, and property. Young Dark wizards without such connections frequently had to seek patronage from Light families, or suffer through long years of clawing up the ranks, constantly having to prove themselves and unable to make one misstep. It was only through Headmaster Dumbledore's compassion and goodwill that Dark wizards were still allowed at Hogwarts, where the curriculum had shifted to help protect students against the Dark Arts.
Sometimes, Hadrian found it unfair — it was a shame that a birthright (for Dark and Light alliance was determined only by a child's magical core at birth, and could sometimes, rarely, stray from that of the child's family) could hold such heavy sway over one's life, but his parents were right — the Dark was dangerous, and he ought to be more careful, no matter how much he wanted to make a new friend.
And so Hadrian bowed his head, the disappointment of his parents serving a heavy punishment for his lapse in judgment.
"I'm sorry, mom. I didn't say anything to him, I promise, and I'll be more careful from now on," he said.
A sigh, and then he was wrapped in a hug.
"It's alright, darling. We just worry, you know? Considering who you are... Just be more careful," his mother said, squeezing him tightly before releasing him.
"Well," she said, aiming for normalcy. "Let's move on, shall we? I think Flourish and Botts, next."
— // —
His parents didn't let him out of sight during their trip to the bookstore, but Hadrian quickly pushed down any feelings of annoyance. It had been his own fault, after all, and he was enjoying the shopping trip with his parents at any rate. They let him try to find all the books, simply following him around with a look of fond amusement on their faces, and tell the cashier (who looks very much in awe of the picturesque Light family) to charge their Gringott's account for the purchases.
They briefly stop at a wizarding equipment shop to get his potions equipment and telescope, and though the latter is added to the growing pile of school supplies and shrunk to fit inside his bag, his mother tsk's at the quality of the cauldrons and finally leads them out with a promise to get Hadrian's potions kit from a specialty shop instead.
Their second-to-last stop is Eeylops Owl Emporium. The shop is small and rather dark, likely to facilitate the comfort of the owls they house. His parents follow him as he walks by each owl, wide-eyed like the animals themselves and reaching out with his magic, waiting and hoping for the wonderful feeling of meeting a familiar that just clicks with him magically. He's drawn to a large, darkly-colored great-horned owl that stares at him serenely before his father stops him with a hand on his shoulder, pointing his attention to a snowy owl that positively glows in the darkness of the shop.
Hadrian draws in a breath as he turns, slowly reaching up to stroke the owl's chest with his forefinger.
"Beautiful," he whispers.
Her name is Hedwig and she's his, their magic dancing together beautifully as she accepts a perch on his shoulder. His parents pay while he's busy cooing and greeting his new friend, feeding her a treat. He gives her an empty parchment with the address to the manor — like any other magical owl, she's able to find wizarding addresses with ease, and he doubts she would want to suffer through the last leg of their shopping trip in the bright summer day.
And with his companion chosen, their last stop is the one Hadrian is most excited and most nervous for.
Ollivanders proudly announces itself as Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C., even as it seems to squat underneath the weight of the two residential stories above the storefront. The interior is old-fashioned and slightly dusty, with shelves upon shelves of wands lining the sides, arcing ominously in as if about to fall over at any second.
Hadrian, who has never been claustrophobic in his life, feels slightly queasy.
Perhaps it's because of the wands. Even unclaimed, they tingle with potential, tendrils reaching out as if their master will walk in at any minute. It's the feeling one would get if they were being stalked by a large predator, Hadrian thinks, and he's distinctly discomfited before he even meets Garrick Ollivander.
The elderly man's eyes seem almost like liquid silver as they pass over the Potter family, nodding slightly to acknowledge the Lord and Lady before beckoning to Hadrian.
"Mr. Potter, I have been expecting you. Come, come, I was just getting started with Mr. Riddle here, I'll get you both set up at the same time," Ollivander says in a croaking voice.
Hadrian sneaks a glance back to his parents before taking a deep breath and walking over, taking in the other boy as he did so. Riddle, the man had said. He's wearing Muggle clothes that don't seem to be in such great condition. A Muggleborn, then, and Hadrian relaxes slightly because Muggleborns are almost always Light, even if the boy didn't know it yet.
"Your wand arm?" Ollivander prompts, and Hadrian stretches his right arm out easily before sneaking another glance at the Muggleborn.
"Hadrian Potter," he introduces, and when Mr. Riddle finally turns to him, it's like staring into his twin. Not so much physically, because while both boys have dark hair and dark eyes, the Muggleborn's ragtag clothes and a face gaunt from starvation rather than the careful breeding of magical lines distinguish them well enough. No, not physically, but his eyes hold just as much assessment and sharpness, judging Hadrian just as much as he had judged him. And beneath them, just a tinge of darkness, of danger, of thirst and ambition that's almost challenging before it gives way to a placid, welcoming expression.
"Tom Riddle," he returns, after Ollivander has finished measuring their arms and has bustled into the backroom.
"It's a pleasure, Riddle. You're Muggleborn?"
A pause.
"Yes."
"I don't judge, don't worry. Must've been quite a shock, huh?"
"Not really. More like...the puzzle pieces clicked. A lot of unexplainable things happened in my childhood."
Hadrian feels his interest pique at that, because while many Muggleborn children displayed bursts of accidental magic, for it to happen often enough that they could start piecing together their inheritance...that was the mark of a powerful wizard indeed. Well, either that or Riddle was trying to play cool.
"Really? My mother is Muggleborn. She never really put it together until her friend told her — he's a halfblood, you see — and even then, she didn't really believe it until the letter came."
Before Tom could respond to that, Ollivander was back, holding two boxes in his hands.
"For Mr. Riddle, 11 inch poplar, dragon heartstring, and Mr. Potter, 11 and three quarters hazel, unicorn hair," he presents.
Hadrian reaches for the honey brown wand, but before he gets the chance to pick it up, white sparks shower from where Riddle had just brushed a finger against the poplar wood. Riddle had jolted back, wide-eyed, and Hadrian can't help but mirror the expression. Wands could be volatile, but that had certainly been a violent reaction.
Ollivander seems to agree, quickly withdrawing the wand and frowning at Riddle. "Well, you certainly won't be Light," he mutters underneath his breath, and Hadrian stiffens, though Riddle seems not to hear.
"Mr. Potter, your wand," the wandmaker draws his attention back to where the hazel wood lay untouched.
Jolting himself out of his reverie, he takes the wand hesitantly (it doesn't reject him at first touch, which is promising) and gives it a swish. A gust of air flows through the room, knocking a book off the table and a cloud of dust into his face. Ollivander is grabbing the wand out of his hand before he finishes sneezing, turning and muttering underneath his breath as he goes to find more wands for the pair. They wait in silence for a few seconds, then —
"What did he mean, that I won't be Light?"
Ah, so he had heard after all. Hadrian cast a look behind him nervously; he doesn't want to make the same mistake twice, but his parents are busy in conversation and, well, there's a difference between making small talk with a Dark Heir and simply educating a potentially-Dark (though Hadrian doubts Ollivander is wrong — the wandmaker rarely is) Muggleborn.
"Every witch and wizard is born with a Light or Dark core. It effects how well you perform certain magics, and how certain magics interact with you. The wood, for example — I think poplar is quite picky, and works best with Light wizards," he explains.
Tom cocks his head, apparently thinking over the fact.
"What are you, then?"
"Light," the information rolls easily off his tongue. "My whole family's Light, has been for generations on my father's side — er, it's quite possible for a Light family to have a Dark wizard and vice versa, just a bit rare, no one really knows how one's core is decided," he adds. "Most Muggleborns, in the past few decades at least, have ended up Light," and he can't help the slight disappointment in his voice, because Riddle seems interesting and powerful and it's not fair that he has a second potential friend torn away just like that.
And Riddle's observative, too, eyes narrowing as he clearly picks up Hadrian's tone, because he asks, his own voice stilted and defensive, "Is there something wrong with being Dark?"
Hadrian quickly backtracks because yes, it's a bit difficult for Dark wizards, and yes, his parents would rather him stay away from them, but he won't feed into the feud and the discrimination and he hopes he hasn't just ruined Riddle's opinion of him and Light wizards, drawing lines even deeper in the ground between them.
"No! Well. There was a war, at the beginning of the century," he says uncomfortably. "A Dark Lord tried to take over the world, and almost exposed the wizarding world to the Muggles in the process. Ever since then, there's been a general...mistrust of Dark magic. And I guess it's carried over to Dark wizards in general. My parents are...pretty overprotective in that regard," he winces, eyes darting away again — his parents are still wrapped up in their own little world, phew — briefly.
Riddle is still frowning. "But...what's the difference? Between the magic. Is one stronger, or something?"
Before Hadrian can answer, Ollivander is back with two more wands. He doesn't narrate, this time, but Hadrian's pretty sure that his is redwood, and Riddle's is beech.
Riddle manages to pick up his wand without it throwing a fit this time, and the two wave their hands in synchrony. Riddle's wand spits out some lavender smoke that looks pretty but doesn't do much, and it quickly fades, leaving an ashy scent behind. Hadrian's sends a stack of papers into the air violently, and he winces before Ollivander flicks his own wand to rectify the damage. He's eyeing Hadrian suspiciously now, though, and he shifts slightly in discomfort before the wandmaker whisks away into the backroom once again.
"There's no difference," he says, picking up the conversation from where they left off. "In strength, that is. But Dark magic tends to be more...dangerous. More demanding, and very addictive. The very darkest of it requires human sacrifice, and can splinter souls." Hadrian shivers at the very thought. "It also tends to cause the most destruction. But that's in the most extreme case. Most magic is rather...grey, to be honest, and there are Light spells that can cause just as much chaos," he admits.
Riddle looks thoughtful.
"So it's just...lingering fear, mostly, from the war," he says with a frown, and Hadrian nods in agreement.
"That's what I think. Well, I guess it's justified in some part, because Dark magic really can do some awful things," he says, then winces as Riddle's expression sours. "But yeah, a lot of it has to do with politics."
Somehow, Riddle perks up at the mention of politics, and he asks after the structure of the wizarding government with an interest Hadrian thinks is completely psycho for an 11-year-old. Even so, Hadrian fields the questions easily — as an Heir, he's destined for a life in politics, and fortunately for him he's rather interested in the topic, even if he's nowhere as enthralled as Riddle — launching into a description of the Ministry of Magic.
Ollivander returns six more times with unsuccessful wands, and Hadrian's mother wanders over looking slightly concerned, though the wandmaker waves her off. "Just two difficult customers, it seems," he says, and Hadrian introduces Riddle as a Muggleborn from London due to start Hogwarts with him before she relaxes and returns to his dad.
Sometime between their discussion of the position of the Sacred 28 in the Wizengamot and Hadrian's summarizing of a new bill passed that registers the use of aconite, "Riddle" becomes "Tom." Their conversation is easy yet thought-provoking, and Hadrian finds his fascination in this Muggleborn wizard growing.
Ollivander returns in the middle of Tom asking Hadrian after the alignment of each of the Sacred 28 with a strange look in his eyes that has both boys falling silent. The two wands he holds look vastly different, one a long, deathly white thing while the other is dark and polished, shorter but still elegant. Looks aside, though, Hadrian can already tell that the wands feel very similar. Magically, it's as if they were siblings — perhaps not twins, but brothers. Ollivander offers him the darker one, but he gets the feeling that he could just as easily pick up the other.
"I wonder..." the old man mutters as he offers the pair the wands, but doesn't bother enlightening his thoughts upon the two children, and Hadrian and Tom exchange a wary look before picking them up and giving the perfunctory swish.
Hadrian can already tell there's something different about this wand, because the second his hand makes contact, the wood is singing with a song that resonates so deeply within him it's as if he's discovered a whole new body part. With a small gesture, both wands are releasing golden light, a gorgeous performance of song and dance that flits about the room before returning to their new masters. Tom looks more uncomposed than he had been during their entire conversation, eyes glazed with wonder, finally looking his young 11 years of age. Hadrian is beaming and for once, can't find it within him to take issue with how childlike he must seem in that moment.
His parents have come up behind him, expressions just as bright and happy as he feels, congratulating him on finding his wand at last.
Ollivander, however — Ollivander looks upon the two with an expression that is almost grave but mostly inquisitive.
"Curious, very curious... Mr. Riddle, Mr. Potter, the two wands you hold are quite special indeed. I remember every wand I make, and those two wands...they seemed destined to be made. Never have I had an easier time getting the wood to accept the core, they fit together as if they were meant to be... Mr. Riddle — 13 and a half inch yew with phoenix feather core. Mr. Potter — 11 inch holly with phoenix feather core. And the core...
"I procured the cores of both wands from the same phoenix, a most unusual event, but he seemed eager that I should take two of his feathers, no more, no less. It seems you both have a great destiny ahead of you, entwined with each other, or perhaps parallel."
Ollivander's voice faded off to muttering as he turned and returned behind the counter, picking up a book and writing in it. Hadrian gaped in stunned silence, but before he could muster up a proper question, Ollivander was shutting the book and looking back up, expression cleared of the dark look he had been giving the two boys as if nothing had happened.
"Well. Seven galleons for each wand, then. Enjoy Hogwarts, boys, enjoy Hogwarts indeed..."
—//—
Hadrian went to sleep that night thinking about a gaunt, dark-haired Muggleborn with eyes that seemed to pierce his soul.