Chapter Text
EPILOGUE
With Dumbledore’s capture, Hadrian found himself drifting, unmoored in a way he hadn’t expected. His entire reason for coming back, for stepping into this timeline, had been fulfilled. The fight he had prepared for, the battles he had waged in the shadows, were now over. And yet, instead of relief, there was only a hollow uncertainty.
He kept himself busy—if only to avoid the gnawing question of what now? The International Confederation of Wizards had welcomed his expertise, and he threw himself into aiding them in the implementation of new magical education standards. It was good work, important even, but it didn’t ignite anything within him. He collaborated with Nicolas Flamel on a handful of projects, helping to refine alchemical theories and experimental enchantments, but even the excitement of discovery felt muted.
Most days, he kept moving because stopping meant facing the void left behind.
One evening, long after the lamps had been dimmed, Hadrian lay in bed beside Newt, staring at the ceiling as they spoke in hushed voices. It was one of those quiet, intimate moments where conversation flowed without effort, thoughts spilling out unfiltered between them.
“I don’t know what to do next,” Hadrian admitted, exhaling slowly. “I have the ICW changes, and the work with Nicolas... but none of it feels like mine .”
Newt turned onto his side, propping his head up on one hand as he studied Hadrian. “Well, what do you enjoy?” he asked simply.
Hadrian thought for a moment, his fingers tracing absent patterns over the blanket. “I like working with runes,” he said eventually. “Crafting rituals. I could spend hours on the theoretical applications, especially when I’m working with Nicolas and Lysander in the workshop.” His voice grew a little more animated as he spoke, the usual sharp edge of restlessness momentarily absent. “There’s something satisfying about the process, about creating something precise, something powerful, something... lasting.”
Newt hummed thoughtfully, watching Hadrian’s face shift with that flicker of excitement. Then, with the same casual ease he often spoke with when discussing magical creatures, he said, “If you love it that much, why not make it your job?”
Hadrian blinked, turning his head to face Newt fully. “What?”
Newt smiled, unfazed. “You clearly enjoy it. You could research, teach, create—do whatever you want with it. There aren’t many people with your expertise, and even fewer with the passion you have when you talk about it.” He shrugged, resting a hand over Hadrian’s. “Seems like a waste not to.”
Hadrian stared at him for a long moment, thoughts shifting and rearranging themselves in his mind. He’d never considered it before—not seriously. His entire life had been shaped by war, by duty. The idea of choosing something for himself, something that wasn’t tied to a greater battle, was foreign.
But the more he thought about it, the more the idea took root.
“…That’s not a terrible idea,” Hadrian murmured, more to himself than to Newt. His fingers twitched as if already itching to sketch out new runic sequences, to map out theories that had been sitting in the back of his mind for years.
Newt chuckled, pressing a kiss to Hadrian’s temple before settling back against the pillows. “I do have them occasionally.”
Hadrian huffed a quiet laugh, but his mind was already racing ahead, full of possibilities.
Maybe, just maybe, this could be the start of something new. Something his .
X
The wedding was nothing short of breathtaking.
Leta and Theseus chose the Winter Solstice for their union, a day steeped in ancient magic, marking the longest night of the year and the return of the light. The ceremony was held at the Scamander family estate, a grand and stately home nestled in the heart of the English countryside. Despite the crisp chill of the season, the solarium—where the ceremony took place—was warm and glittering with enchantments.
Glass walls and a domed ceiling allowed the pale winter sun to filter through, casting a soft, ethereal glow over the space. Candles floated in midair, their golden light flickering like fireflies, and delicate frost patterns swirled across the glass panes as if the very season itself had come to bear witness. Enchanted ivy and white winter roses adorned the space, woven between beams and draping elegantly from the ceiling.
Hadrian stood at Newt’s side, accompanying him as his guest, though the significance of his presence was not lost on the crowd. Newt was there in an official capacity—standing for Theseus as his second, a role of honor and deep trust. He had straightened his usual unkempt curls, donned formal robes in rich emerald and deep bronze, but Hadrian had still caught him nervously adjusting his cuffs before the ceremony began.
Leta stood at the altar, radiant in a gown that shimmered like the night sky. Dark silk, embroidered with silver thread and scattered with tiny enchanted gemstones, made it seem as though she had wrapped herself in constellations. Her veil, delicate as mist, trailed behind her like a wisp of twilight.
The guest list was extensive, filled with lords and ladies from across the wizarding world. Diplomats, esteemed scholars, and members of noble houses all attended, their presence a testament to the standing of the Lestrange and Scamander families. It was a gathering of power and prestige, one that had been anticipated for months.
And yet, amidst the opulence of it all, it was another revelation that had the guests whispering behind their gloved hands and jeweled fans.
It happened during the reception, held in the grand ballroom, where chandeliers of enchanted crystal cast a kaleidoscope of light across the floor. As guests mingled, a murmur rippled through the crowd, heads turning toward Hadrian and Newt. It wasn’t until a sharp-eyed society matron caught the glint of the engagement ring on Hadrian’s finger that the realization fully took hold.
Word spread like wildfire.
Hadrian Peverell and Newt Scamander—engaged.
There had been speculation before, of course—furtive glances exchanged between the two, the way Newt’s fingers always seemed to find Hadrian’s absentmindedly, the quiet, steady presence they were for each other. But now, it was fact.
Newt, oblivious to the growing gossip, simply smiled as he leaned into Hadrian’s warmth. Hadrian, ever the observant one, caught the subtle shifts in expression, the widening eyes, the exchanged glances—but he merely smirked, raising his glass in silent acknowledgment before turning his attention back to Newt.
Let them talk.
Tonight was about Theseus and Leta, about love and new beginnings.
And soon enough, it would be their turn.
X
Hadrian and Newt were married in the heart of the ancient forest on the Peverell estate, beneath the silvered light of the moon, at the stroke of midnight on Beltane. The air thrummed with magic, thick with the scent of earth and blooming wildflowers, alive with the warmth of the bonfire crackling at the center of the sacred grove.
It was a celebration of old magic, of life and love intertwined with nature itself. There were no stiff formal robes, no grand ballrooms—just the whisper of the wind through the trees, the soft press of bare feet against moss, and the flickering glow of firelight dancing against bronze masks.
Hadrian and Newt stood at the heart of it all, surrounded by only those closest to them—friends who had become family, family who had become something even more. Each guest bore a bronze mask, uniquely crafted and chosen for them by the couple. Some were simple, smooth and elegant, while others bore intricate etchings of runes, leaves, or creatures that held meaning. The masks shimmered in the firelight, adding to the dreamlike quality of the night.
Dressed in loose linen, sleeves rolled up, hair tousled by the evening breeze, Hadrian and Newt looked nothing like the stately figures some might have expected. And yet, in this moment, amidst the wild beauty of the forest, they had never looked more themselves.
The pagan officiant, draped in dark robes, stood before them, speaking in the old ways, calling upon the elements to bear witness. The bonfire roared, sending sparks spiraling into the sky, as the ceremony unfolded with quiet reverence.
Newt’s hands trembled slightly as he reached for Hadrian’s, their fingers twining together as the officiant wrapped their joined hands in a length of silk ribbon. Handfasting, an oath not just of marriage, but of souls bound together.
Hadrian’s voice was steady as he spoke his vows, low and intimate, meant only for Newt but carried by the wind nonetheless.
“I bind myself to you, in all seasons, in all things. In the warmth of the sun and the quiet of the night. In adventure and in stillness. I am yours, as you are mine.”
Newt swallowed, eyes shining like the stars above as he whispered his own.
“I have loved you in every lifetime I have known you, in every way I have known how. And I will love you in every lifetime still to come. In the spaces between, in the moments unseen—I will always find my way back to you.”
The binding was tied, sealed with a kiss that tasted of smoke and summer rain, as the forest seemed to hum in approval. The gathered guests cheered, some whooping in celebration, others wiping at quiet tears behind their masks.
The rest of the night was spent in revelry, in laughter and lightness. The bonfire burned high as music filled the clearing—soft melodies from enchanted instruments, feet stomping against the earth as they danced. There was no formality, no rigid traditions—only joy, only love, only the feeling of being utterly free beneath the endless sky.
And as the night stretched toward dawn, Hadrian and Newt remained close, fingers still intertwined, hearts still bound—forever, as they had vowed.
X
Hadrian and Newt settled permanently at Peverell Manor in France, much to Lysander and Nicholas’s joy. They spent months converting the sprawling, centuries-old fortress nestled deep in the countryside, hidden by powerful enchantments that had only grown stronger under Hadrian’s careful work. The manor, once cold and imposing, had transformed into something alive—a sanctuary not only for them but for those in need.
Newt continued his travels, rescuing creatures across the world, but now he had a place to bring them—a true haven. With Hadrian’s help, they converted a vast portion of the property into an animal sanctuary. The lower levels of the castle itself had been magically altered to house creatures that required close care. Entire chambers were molded to mimic natural environments—humid, dense jungle for tropical beings, icy caverns for those that thrived in the cold, expansive underground burrows for creatures who feared the open sky. The land surrounding the castle was enchanted for protection, sprawling fields and dense forest providing safety for those strong enough to roam.
Hadrian, meanwhile, had carved out a purpose of his own. Across France, Germany, and Britain, he opened shops dedicated to advanced runic crafting, producing enchanted items that went beyond simple convenience or decoration. His creations ranged from self-repairing clothing woven with protective runes to intricate prosthetics, designed to restore mobility, strength, and even sensation. Magic could do many things, but it could not regrow limbs—not fully. Hadrian's work allowed people to feel whole again, to reclaim something that had been lost.
Some sought his work for defense, for security in a world that had been shaken by war. Others simply wanted to be able to hold a quill again, to run without feeling incomplete. Hadrian understood that desire more than most.
To manage his growing enterprise, he hired Red, trusting him with the logistics of it all. He was unsurprisingly adept at the business side, having spent years planning and managing missions with Hadrian. But it was more than just a business. Hadrian made a point to employ those who had been injured in the war against Grindelwald and other battles—wizards and witches who had been cast aside, who could no longer return to the lives they once had. He gave them purpose, a future beyond the pain.
Back in London, Hadrian left his townhouse in the hands of Queenie and Jacob. They moved in with an enthusiasm that was infectious, filling the space with warmth and laughter. Jacob finally opened his dream bakery in Diagon Alley, a charming little shop that became an instant favorite among wizards and witches alike. The scent of fresh bread and sweet pastries often drifted down the cobbled streets, drawing in customers who left not only with treats but with smiles.
Queenie, ever ambitious, took a job writing for Witch’s Weekly , though she was already considering something greater—her own women’s magazine, one that wasn’t just about gossip and beauty but empowerment, independence, and all the things witches were too often told not to concern themselves with.
As for Tina, she had found her own place within the Aurors, working closely with Theseus as he took on his new role as Head Auror. Last they had heard, she was thriving, tackling cases with her usual determination. She was also dating a fellow Auror, a wizard who seemed to make her genuinely happy, something Hadrian and Newt were both relieved to hear.
Life had settled into something steady, something full. Their paths had diverged, but in a way that allowed them all to flourish.
And as Hadrian stood on the balcony of Peverell Castle one evening, watching the soft golden lights of the sanctuary below, listening to the distant sounds of creatures finding safety at last, he realized—this was exactly where he was meant to be.
X
Thomas Polaris Black stood before the grand, imposing manor, its towering spires cutting into the cold, star-speckled night. Shadows stretched long across the frost-laden ground, the glow of lanterns casting flickering gold against the stone walls. The air smelled of pine, burning wood, and the crisp bite of winter. He shifted uncomfortably, pulling his heavy cloak tighter around himself.
He had never been here before, and the sheer magnitude of the estate only amplified his uncertainty. Why had his parents insisted he attend this solstice dinner, hosted by a family friend he barely knew?
“I just don’t see why I have to be here,” the thirteen-year-old muttered, his voice tinged with exasperation. His breath puffed out in the cold air, dissolving into the night. He only had three precious weeks of holiday, and he certainly did not want to spend an evening at a stiff, formal dinner with his parents’ acquaintances. He’d much rather be playing Gobstones with Timothée or immersing himself in his new book on magical creatures.
His mother, Helene Black, turned to him with a soft, knowing smile. She cupped his cheek, her fingers warm despite the evening chill. “Because your presence was requested, my star,” she said, her voice gentle yet firm. “Lord Peverell is a very dear friend, and we owe him much. Please, mind your manners.”
Thomas swallowed down a retort. He had no desire to disappoint his mother. Her warmth, her affection—it was something he never wanted to sully. With a small nod, he exhaled. “Yes, Mother.”
Her eyes shone with pride as she looped her arm through his, guiding him and Phineas Black up the long, winding lane. The manor doors, enormous and made of dark oak, loomed before them. They waited only a moment before they creaked open with an eerie grace. A house-elf, dressed impeccably, stood in the threshold, its large, round eyes peering up at them with a mixture of professionalism and welcome.
“Mr. and Mrs. Black,” the elf greeted with a bow before turning to Thomas. “Young Mister Black.” Another bow, this one deeper, more reverent. Thomas grinned in response, fascinated by the little creature.
“You are expected. The masters are in the drawing room with the other guests. Please, follow me.”
The elf led them through a grand foyer, where their cloaks, hats, and scarves gently lifted from their shoulders and drifted toward the coatroom, as if guided by invisible hands. The manor was breathtaking. Traditional solstice and Yule decorations adorned every inch of the space—garlands of evergreen draped over the sweeping staircase, enchanted icicles glittering like diamonds from the chandelier, and candles floating lazily in the air, casting a golden glow against the dark wooden paneling.
Thomas had never seen anything so magnificent.
They paused outside the drawing room as the elf pushed open the grand double doors, stepping inside to announce them. “The family Black, Master Peverell.”
The moment the name was spoken, a figure at the center of the room straightened. He had been deep in conversation with two other men—one so pale he appeared almost ghostly. Now, his attention shifted, and Thomas found himself staring at a man who radiated sheer presence.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and though his face was lined with faint scars, there was an undeniable elegance to him. His black, wavy hair was swept to the side in an effortlessly regal manner, but it was his eyes that captivated Thomas most—vivid green, burning like emerald fire. There was something ancient in them, something powerful, something knowing.
“Ahh, Phineas, Helene!” The man’s lips curled into a warm smile as he strode toward them, arms outstretched. “I am so pleased you could make it.”
“Lord Peverell,” Phineas greeted, clasping the man’s hand with jovial familiarity. “Our greatest thanks for the invitation. It has been too long since our last gathering.”
The green-eyed man, Hadrian Peverell, turned his attention to Helene next, pressing a chaste kiss to both her cheeks before finally settling his gaze on Thomas.
The intensity of that stare sent a shiver down the boy’s spine, not of fear, but of something deeper, something he could not quite name. It felt as though the man were peering straight into his soul.
“And this,” Hadrian murmured, his voice warm yet laced with something unreadable, “must be young Thomas.”
Helene, still holding her son close, nodded. “Yes… this is our Thomas.”
Hadrian studied him for a moment, a strange mixture of emotions flickering across his features before he finally spoke. “Thomas… I can’t tell you how happy I am to finally see you again.” His voice softened, almost as if the words carried a personal weight. “I have heard so much about you.”
Thomas blinked, confusion knitting his brow. “You know me?”
His father nodded solemnly, placing a firm hand on his son’s shoulder. “Yes, my son. Hadrian here… he is the one who secured your place with us.”
Helene smoothed Thomas’s hair, her touch soothing. “He brought you to us, my star.”
Thomas’s breath hitched, his mind whirling. Pieces of bedtime stories, whispered words of an enigmatic figure who had once changed their lives, slotted together in his head. His eyes widened as realization struck.
“You’re the man from the stories,” he breathed, awe creeping into his tone. “The ones my parents told me as they put me to bed. You’re the great wizard!”
Hadrian chuckled, the sound rich and amused. He ruffled his dark locks in a boyish manner, shaking his head. “Great might be an exaggeration, but I do play a mean game of Exploding Snap.”
Thomas lit up, all semblance of teenage reluctance vanishing in an instant. “Would you play with me, sir? And—could you tell me the story about how you rescued the Jarvey from the swamp?”
Hadrian’s laughter deepened, full of warmth. “Only if you promise to let me win at least once.” He gestured toward a small table in the corner, already pulling out a deck of cards.
As Thomas eagerly followed, a quiet presence lingered behind—the final guest having slipped in unnoticed.
Newt Scamander stepped up beside Phineas and Helene, watching as their son animatedly conversed with Hadrian. His voice was hushed but affectionate as he murmured, “You know… he was quite worried about this meeting.”
Phineas cleared his throat. “I never understood why he was so reluctant. The boy is everything we could have hoped for.”
Newt’s gaze softened as he observed his husband, whose attention was wholly captured by the boy he had once saved. “Hadrian carries scars from his own childhood,” he admitted, his voice heavy with unspoken history. “He was afraid that seeing Thomas might bring it all back.”
Helene nodded, sympathy etched into her delicate features. “We were so surprised when he requested Thomas’s presence tonight… but I’m glad he did. Our son has always wanted to meet the man who helped make our family whole.”
Newt smiled, his heart swelling as he watched Hadrian and Thomas—one teaching, one learning, both healing. “So has he.”
X
A decade had passed since the fall of Grindelwald and Dumbledore, and life had settled into something resembling peace—at least within the walls of their home. Hadrian and Newt knelt in the garden, guiding small, chubby hands as their son carefully pressed a seed into the soil. The boy, just three years old, wrinkled his nose in concentration, his curls bouncing as he glanced between his fathers for approval.
Hadrian smiled, though a faint thrum of anxiety coursed beneath his skin. The world outside their sanctuary was changing, darkening. The war that had begun with whispers and skirmishes was now roaring to life beyond their doorstep. He knew what was coming. The weight of history pressed against his shoulders, but he had made his decision. He would not be a part of this fight.
Their son had been with them for two years now, ever since he’d been found alone in the wreckage of his family home—one of the first casualties in what would soon become the Second World War. Hadrian could still recall the way the boy had clung to him, wide-eyed and silent, too young to understand the loss he had endured. They had saved him that night, and in a way, he had saved them too.
Hadrian ran a gentle hand over the child’s dark hair, exhaling softly before speaking. “Let’s take a trip,” he murmured, his voice almost lost to the evening breeze. “Go away for a few years.”
Newt chuckled, not looking up at first, assuming his husband was simply musing aloud. “A trip, hm? That does sound nice—” He lifted his head, but the easy humor in his voice faded when he saw the intensity in Hadrian’s eyes.
Newt straightened, studying him carefully. “You’re serious.”
Hadrian nodded, glancing toward their son, who was now occupied with a curious bug crawling across his fingertips. “The Peverell Foundation can run itself,” he continued, voice quieter now, as if speaking the plan aloud might solidify it. “I’ll still get all the official documentation anyway. Red is brilliant at managing things—”
Newt silenced him with a kiss, firm but tender, his hands resting lightly on Hadrian’s cheeks. When he pulled back, there was a knowing softness in his gaze. “I’ve been meaning to do some traveling anyway,” he admitted, lips curving into a small smile. “I think my book could use an update.”
Hadrian blinked at him, something like wonder flickering in his expression. Newt always had a way of grounding him, of understanding without asking for lengthy explanations.
“Yeah,” Hadrian breathed, resting his forehead against Newt’s for a lingering moment. Then he pressed a kiss to his husband’s lips, slow and certain.
“We can do that.”