Minor Paradoxes & Major Inconveniences

[MoonyNightShade]

Chapter 1: Is It A Bird? Is It A Plane? No, It's Harry Potter!

Disclaimer:

I don't own the characters or the world appearing in this story. They are creations and property of J.K. Rowling. I'm not sure if I can claim any OCs as my own, so I'll play it safe and dedicate them to her as well.

---

Author's Note:

Hi! Detailed notes are below, but I just wanted to quickly say a few things first. This fic is fully planned out and will most likely run about ~15 chapters. I've already drafted 9, so rest assured—I won't be dropping it.

Now with that done, dive in!

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The silence was the worst part.

In the months since the wizarding world had been saved—or what was left of it, anyway—silence had become a predator. It stalked the empty corridors of Grimmauld Place, crouched in the corners of his too-large bedroom, and feasted on the space between Ron's booming laugh and Hermione's exasperated sighs. They were trying so hard, both of them, to stitch the world back together with cheerful normalcy and plans for the future. He loved them for it, which only made him feel more like a ghost at their victory feast.

While they talked about Auror training and re-taking their N.E.W.T.s, Harry found himself wandering. He'd Apparate to the cliffside near Shell Cottage or pace the grounds of a Hogwarts still scarred by battle, the silence there thick with the memories of screams. Tonight, he had sought refuge in the one place whose silence was meant to be sacred: the Hogwarts library.

He was deep in the stacks, far beyond the sections any student—even Hermione—would bother with. This was the territory of forgotten theories and banned treatises, where books smelled less of parchment and more of dust and decay. Under the shimmering invisibility of his cloak, he ran a hand along a row of cracked leather spines, feeling restless and adrift. Kingsley wanted him for Ministry press events. Ron wanted him for games of Quidditch. Hermione wanted him to talk about his feelings. Harry wanted none of it. He wanted to feel like the war was actually over, but the quiet it had left behind was just a different kind of battlefield.

A loose flagstone caught the toe of his boot, and he stumbled, his hand shooting out to steady himself against a shelf. The entire section groaned in protest, and one heavy, unassuming tome was jostled free. It fell not to the floor, but backwards, vanishing into what should have been solid wall.

Curiosity, that old, treacherous friend, was the one part of him that hadn't died in the forest. He pulled the cloak tighter and peered into the gap. Behind the row of books was a dark, hollowed-out space, an alcove no bigger than a broom cupboard, clearly meant to be hidden. And inside, sitting on a small stone pedestal, was another book.

This one was different. It was bound not in leather but in what looked like polished obsidian, held shut by two interlocking silver clasps shaped like coiled serpents. Very clearly of Slytherin origin. There was no title, no markings at all. It felt ancient, heavy with the kind of magic that made the hairs on his arm stand up. He reached out, his fingers tracing the cold, smooth surface. It pulsed, faintly, with a cold, rhythmic beat, like a heart made of ice.

He lifted it. The weight was substantial. With a click, the clasps sprang open. Inside, it wasn't a book at all. There were no pages. Instead, recessed into the stone-like material, was a crystalline structure of breathtaking complexity. It looked like an insect, some kind of prehistoric beetle or mite, fossilized in flawless amber. But it wasn't amber. The crystal was humming, glowing with a faint, internal luminescence. And it wasn't a fossil. As he watched, a minuscule leg, thinner than a hair, twitched.

"A Chrono-Mite," he whispered, the name surfacing from an old Hermione rant, something she'd found in an obscure text. Not for travel. For observation. A temporal parasite that could, in theory, let one peer into the past. Insanely dangerous, catastrophically unstable. It was a containment device.

He should have closed it. He should have put it back, walled it up, and told Hermione where to find it. But he stared into the creature's crystalline prison, thinking of Sirius. Of his parents. Of Remus. Just one look. What would he give for just one, fleeting glimpse?

His grip on his wand, tucked into his robe's sleeves, loosened. It was a stupid, thoughtless movement. The wand slipped out, clattering onto the open device.

The reaction was instantaneous and violent.

The world wasn't torn, it shattered. A flash of blinding, white-hot light erupted from the device, swallowing the library, swallowing everything. The sickening lurch of Forced Apparition was a gentle nudge compared to this. His entire being was hooked and dragged through a non-space of screaming, agonizing friction. There was no air to breathe, only a torrent of pure, unrefined time rushing past him.

Images burned themselves onto the inside of his eyelids, too fast to comprehend. A younger Dumbledore, his beard auburn, arguing with a stern-faced man. The chilling sound of Bellatrix Lestrange's laugh, high and girlish. The flash of green light, seen not from his own eyes, but from his mother's. A girl with sharp, intelligent eyes and a contemptuous sneer he'd never seen before, turning her head. The roar of a crowd. The scent of rain on stone.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

For a moment, he knew nothing but the abrupt return of sensation. The overwhelming warmth of a thousand candles. The scent of roast chicken and potatoes. The deafening roar of hundreds of conversations crashing back into existence. And gravity. Gravity, which had been absent, now reasserted itself with a vengeance.

He was airborne. And then he was falling.

The Great Hall of Hogwarts looked exactly the same, yet completely alien. Hundreds of young faces, upturned, mouths agape. A sea of black robes, splashes of house colors. He saw a flash of brilliant red hair—Lily Evans, impossibly young and beautiful—her green eyes wide with shock. He saw a boy with untidy black hair and glasses—James Potter—mid-laugh, his jaw slackening in disbelief. A devastatingly handsome boy beside him, Sirius Black, pointed a fork at him, a wide, incredulous grin spreading across his face.

There was no time to process any of it. He was a human missile, trajectory pre-ordained by a magic he didn't understand. He wasn't aiming for the Gryffindor table, or the space between the benches. His arc was carrying him straight, unerringly, toward the sea of green and silver.

The pandemonium of his arrival was surpassed only by the sheer indignity of his landing.

He crashed onto the Slytherin table with a sound that was a sickening symphony of splintering wood, shattering porcelain, and wet, percussive squelching. A massive tureen of mashed potatoes erupted like a miniature volcano, showering the surrounding students in a hot, starchy rain. A silver jug of pumpkin juice spun through the air, drenching a sneering boy who looked suspiciously like a young Evan Rosier. Salad greens flew like confetti.

His momentum carried him forward, skidding through the culinary wreckage on his stomach. He was a human toboggan on a luge run of gravy and shattered hopes. He slid past a furious-looking Slytherin prefect, past a calm, assessing Severus Snape whose greasy hair was now flecked with parsley, and finally, mercifully, came to a halt.

His face was inches from the stone floor, his body half-on, half-off the table. A piece of wilted lettuce was stuck to his cheek. He was drenched, humiliated, and utterly, profoundly lost. He pushed himself up slowly, his muscles screaming in protest, the silence in the Great Hall now absolute and suffocating.

And that's when he saw her.

He had come to a stop directly in front of a girl who was the very picture of poised, aristocratic perfection. Her black hair was sleek and immaculate, her posture ramrod straight. Even amidst the chaos, she hadn't flinched. She'd been in the middle of a sentence, a delicate, long-fingered hand raised to emphasize a point to the boy beside her.

Now, her hand was frozen in the air. Her eyes, a sharp, piercing shade of grey, were fixed on him. He watched, as if in slow motion, as she tracked the trajectory of a single, thick droplet of brown gravy arcing through the air. It landed with a tiny, obscene splat right in the center of her pristine, perfectly pressed white shirt, just below the knot of her silver and green tie.

For a single, solitary second, her mask of composure vanished. It wasn't anger that flashed in her eyes. It was a flicker of pure, unadulterated disgust, the kind one might reserve for finding a slug in their salad. It was the deepest, most profound revulsion he had ever witnessed.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone. The shock receded, the disgust was locked away, and a new expression clicked into place with chilling precision. Her face became a perfect, beautiful mask of icy, impenetrable contempt. Her lips, which had been parted in surprise, pressed into a thin, dismissive line.

She didn't scream. She didn't shout. She simply looked down at the stain on her robe, then back up at him—this strange, pathetic boy covered in her dinner, panting on the floor at her feet.

"Unbelievable," she whispered, her voice low and laced with venom, meant only for him.

A sharp, authoritative voice cut through the stunned silence like a whip crack. "Mr. Filch, kindly clear this… mess." Professor McGonagall was on her feet, her face a thunderous mask of disapproval.

Dumbledore rose slowly, his own blue eyes no longer twinkling. They were sharp, piercing, and fixed entirely on Harry. There was no anger in his expression, only a terrifyingly intense curiosity.

Pinned by the collective gaze of the entire school, the disgusted glare of the girl in front of him, and the analytical stare of a Dumbledore he did not know, Harry Potter wished, for the first time since the war had ended, that Voldemort had just finished the job.

---

The walk from the Great Hall was a unique and excruciating form of torture. McGonagall led the way, a rigid black pillar of fury, while Dumbledore walked beside him, his expression one of placid, unnerving curiosity. Every single student and professor watched them go. The whispers followed them like a swarm of invisible doxies, nipping at his heels. He could feel hundreds of pairs of eyes boring into his back, a mixture of shock and amusement.

But the reaction from the Slytherin table, however, was a far more complex and chilling tapestry. There was derisive laughter from the edges, sharp and mocking, from those who enjoyed the chaos from a safe distance. Closer to the epicenter of the splash zone, where students were dabbing at ruined robes, the looks were of pure, disgusted disdain—personal, acute, and aimed directly at him. But from the older, more powerful students—a young Evan Rosier, a stony-faced Snape, and especially the girl whose robes now bore a prominent gravy stain—there was no amusement at all. Only a cold, reptilian assessment, the kind of stillness that precedes a strike. It was not simple loathing; it was a mixture of outrage, suspicion, and calculation, sizing him up as either a pathetic joke or a dangerous new variable.

As they passed the Gryffindor table, he risked a glance. James Potter wasn't even trying to hide his laughter, covering his mouth with a hand while his shoulders shook. Sirius Black offered him a dramatic, sympathetic wince that was completely insincere, followed by a double thumbs-up behind McGonagall's back. Even Remus Lupin, who looked weary beyond his years, had the ghost of a smile on his lips. Only Lily Evans looked genuinely concerned, her brow furrowed as she watched him pass. The sight of her kind face, so alive and so achingly familiar, was like a physical blow. He snapped his gaze back to the floor, focusing on the rhythmic tap of Dumbledore's boots on the flagstones.

He didn't need to be told where they were going. He knew the path to the Headmaster's office as well as he knew the path to his own dorm room. The gargoyle sprang aside at Dumbledore's crisp, "Fizzing Whizbee," and the moving spiral staircase carried them upward. The feeling of being back in this office, alive and yet not, was profoundly unsettling.

Everything was the same, but different. Brighter. Newer. The silver instruments on the spindly-legged tables whirred and puffed with more vigor. The portraits of previous headmasters were all present, though they feigned sleep with less practiced ease, their eyes cracking open to peer at the strange, gravy-spattered boy. And on his perch, preening a magnificent scarlet feather, was Fawkes. The phoenix met Harry's gaze, let out a soft, questioning croon, and blinked slowly. He looked exactly the same. An anchor in a sea of temporal madness.

"Please, sit," Dumbledore said, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk. Harry sank into it, acutely aware of his damp, sticky clothes and the faint scent of salad dressing that now clung to him. McGonagall remained standing, her arms crossed, looking as if she had personally discovered a troll attempting to teach ballet in her classroom.

Dumbledore settled into his own chair, steepled his long fingers, and peered at Harry over his half-moon spectacles. The twinkle in his eyes was gone, replaced by a calm, powerful intensity. This was not the familiar, eccentric headmaster who had guided him. This was Albus Dumbledore in his prime, a wizard who had defeated Grindelwald and commanded the respect of the entire world. He was terrifying.

"An impressive, if somewhat unorthodox, arrival," Dumbledore began, his voice mild. "One might even say unprecedented. Now, perhaps you would be so good as to tell us who you are, and how, precisely, you came to apparate within the walls of Hogwarts?"

Harry's mind raced. He needed a story. A good one. One that was just strange enough to be plausible in a world of magic. Panic gave way to a cold, hard focus, a survival instinct honed over years of deadly confrontations.

"My name is Hadrian Thorne," he said, his voice a little hoarse. He cleared his throat. "And it wasn't Apparition. Not exactly. It was… an accident."

"Thorne?" McGonagall's voice was sharp. "I've taught every witch and wizard in this country for thirty years. I do not know any Thornes."

"My family values its privacy, Professor," Harry said, latching onto the lie and spinning it out. "We live in… isolation. On a small, unplottable island in the Shetlands." He hoped his geography was right. "We haven't had contact with the broader magical community for several generations."

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed slightly. "A self-imposed exile? That is a path few families choose. And your education?"

"I was tutored privately," Harry continued, gaining a sliver of confidence. The key was to keep the details sparse. "My magical education has been… unconventional. My practical skills have outpaced my theoretical knowledge, I'm afraid. I was practicing a complex transportation charm. An experimental one. I believe I overloaded it."

It was thin. Merlin, it was tissue-paper thin. But it was the best he had.

"An experimental charm that managed to bypass every ancient ward placed on this castle for the last thousand years," McGonagall stated flatly, her disbelief a palpable force in the room.

"Indeed," Dumbledore murmured, his gaze unwavering. "A truly remarkable feat of accidental magic. And your wand, Mr. Thorne? If I may?" He held out a hand.

Harry's heart hammered against his ribs. No. Not that. Never that. The holly and phoenix feather wand was a part of him, but worse, its twin feather belonged to the phoenix on the perch not ten feet away. It was a direct, irrefutable link to a future that shouldn't exist.

"I apologize, Headmaster," Harry said, trying to sound respectful rather than terrified. "But my father has strictly forbidden me from ever allowing another to handle my wand. It's a… a family tradition."

McGonagall made a sound of utter exasperation. Dumbledore, however, simply leaned back, a thoughtful expression on his face. The mental chess game continued in silence. Harry knew he was being evaluated, his story dissected for every possible flaw. He met Dumbledore's gaze directly, channeling every ounce of Occlumency Snape had ever tried to beat into him, creating a surface of calm, confused sincerity over the roaring panic beneath.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, Dumbledore spoke. "Well. It would seem we have a conundrum. A young man with no records, from a family we cannot contact, who has appeared in our school through means unknown. We cannot simply turn you out, Mr. Thorne. Until we can verify your story and make contact with your family, it seems the only responsible course of action is to have you join our student body."

Harry's stomach clenched. This was the last thing he wanted.

"Minerva," Dumbledore said, turning to McGonagall. "If you would be so kind as to retrieve the Sorting Hat."

McGonagall looked as though she'd been asked to fetch a basket of Blast-Ended Skrewts, but she gave a curt nod and swept from the room. A few moments later, she returned, holding the familiar, frayed, and filthy hat.

This was it. The one entity in this entire timeline that could shatter his fragile cover story with a single word. Dumbledore placed the Hat on the corner of his desk.

"After you, Mr. Thorne."

With trembling legs, Harry walked forward and picked up the hat. He sat on the stool McGonagall had conjured and placed the artifact on his head. It slipped down over his eyes, plunging him into familiar darkness.

A voice immediately echoed in his mind, sharp and clear. 'Well now, this is a turn up for the books. It has been a very, very long time since I have found a mind so… complicated. Full of echoes. Full of ghosts. And full of a future I should not be ableTo see. What have you done, Harry Potter?'

Harry's mental voice was a desperate, silent scream. 'Please. Don't tell them. You can't. It'll destroy everything.'

'Destroy what?' the Hat mused. 'This reality? Or the one you left behind? The threads of time are tangled around you like a nest of Fwoopers. It is a dangerous thing you are.'

'I didn't ask for this,' Harry pleaded, feeling tears prick at his eyes. 'I just want to go home. Please, just put me somewhere I can stay quiet. Hufflepuff. I'll be a great Hufflepuff, I promise. I'll work hard, I'll be loyal…'

The Hat gave a dry, mental chuckle. 'A Potter in Hufflepuff? My dear boy, you are many things, but you are not built for quiet. There is ambition here, oh yes, enough for Slytherin, if you had not already set your heart so firmly against it. There is a keen mind Ravenclaw would prize. But overriding it all… foolish courage. A recklessness that could level mountains. A talent for finding trouble that transcends even time itself. There is only one place for you. It has to be…'

"GRYFFINDOR!" the Hat shouted to the room.

Hadrian's heart sank like a stone. He pulled the Hat from his head, his hands shaking. Of course. Of course, it was Gryffindor. The universe truly did have a sick sense of humor.

McGonagall, looking profoundly unhappy about gaining another troublemaker, took the hat from him. "Very well, Mr. Thorne," she said, her voice tight with resignation. "Follow me."

The walk to the Gryffindor common room was a silent daze. When they reached the Fat Lady's portrait, McGonagall turned to him, her lips pressed into a thin, stern line. "Wait here."

She gave the password—"Fortuna Major"—and the portrait swung open to reveal a wall of noise and chaotic warmth. McGonagall stepped inside, her presence immediately commanding a degree of attention. "Quiet down!" she called out, her magically amplified voice cutting through the din of the party. The chatter and music sputtered to a halt.

"As some of you already have an empty bed in your dormitory," McGonagall announced to the suddenly silent room, "it will now be occupied. This is Hadrian Thorne. He is a new transfer student and will be joining you as a seventh-year. See that he is… acquainted with the tower." Her tone made it clear that "acquainted" did not mean "interrogated," though she must have known it was a hopeless request. With that, she gave a curt nod and stepped back out, gesturing for Hadrian to enter.

He took a deep breath and stepped through the portrait hole.

It felt like stepping onto a stage. The entire Gryffindor common room was packed, and every single person was staring directly at him. The boy who fell from the sky. The boy covered in gravy. He was already a legend for all the wrong reasons. A wave of whispers erupted through the crowd, his new name spreading like wildfire. Thorne. That's him.

Before he could even process the overwhelming sight of the familiar red and gold room, a crowd of curious older students began to converge on him.

"Is it true you landed right on Vexley's lap?" a tall boy he didn't know asked with a laugh.

"How'd you get through the wards?" another girl, who he vaguely recognized as Marlene McKinnon, chimed in, her eyes wide with curiosity. "No one can Apparate in!"

He was surrounded, a flurry of questions hitting him from all sides. He felt a wave of claustrophobia, his instincts screaming at him to find an escape route.

Then, two figures pushed their way through the throng with the easy, parting-of-the-waters confidence of people who owned the space they were in.

"Alright, give him some air, you lot," James Potter said, clapping Hadrian on the back with a familiarity that made him flinch. He had a proprietary grin on his face, as if he were laying claim to the most interesting new toy. "Can't you see the man's had a rough evening?"

"Thorne, is it?" Sirius Black said, coming to stand on his other side, his grey eyes alight with manic glee. "I don't know how you did it, but that was the best entrance I've seen in seven years at this school. Worth fifty points to Gryffindor, I'd say!"

"And the look on Snivellus's face when that potato hit him!" James crowed, picking up the thread seamlessly. "Pure poetry! You're alright, Thorne. A bit messy, but you're alright."

Harry couldn't form a sentence. He was standing in front of his seventeen-year-old father and his seventeen-year-old godfather, both so vibrantly, painfully alive it felt like staring into the sun. He managed a weak, noncommittal shrug.

"That was quite a fall," another voice said, softer this time. He turned to see Lily Evans approaching, her green eyes—his eyes—filled with genuine kindness. "Are you sure you're alright? You look a bit pale."

He opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. He was here, in this room, surrounded by ghosts. They weren't just alive; they were happy, carefree, their biggest worries being Quidditch scores and N.E.W.T. exams. They had no idea of the darkness gathering outside, of the fates that awaited them. And he, the sole survivor of their future, was trapped here with them.

The laughter of the common room, the crackling of the fire, the cheerful banter—it all faded into a dull, meaningless roar. He had never felt so completely and utterly alone in his entire life.

---

Author's Note:

Hello there, you brave brave soul.

So, you decided to pick up Minor Paradoxes & Major Inconveniences… I thank and wish you well. This is a sort of Marauders fic, a story where Harry Potter gets accidentally yeeted back to 1977. If you're expecting him to meticulously plan how to save the world, you might be in the wrong place. If you're expecting him to stumble into a vicious conflict with a brilliant, ambitious Slytherin that escalates from witty banter to questionable life choices in dark corridors... well then, welcome home.

I hope you're enjoying this story as much as I'm enjoying writing it.

Be warned: this fic might get explicit, contain sarcasm, bad ideas fueled by adrenaline, and an ending that might make you want to throw things. We're here for a good time, not necessarily a long time.

Buckle up. It's going to be a bumpy ride.

Just a quick note on what to expect: This is a short, completely planned story, and I'm aiming for about 15 chapters in total. My goal is to update weekly, with the next chapter planned for Friday, July 25th, 2025.

Thank you so much for your time and support!

---

You can find free illustrations for every chapter and read ahead over at my Patreon!

patreon.com/MoonyNightShade

 

[Maragas]

Looks to be fun. I have a soft spot for HP time travel stories. (I hope you are posting on other sites like Ao3, non-NSFW Creative Writing on this forum doesn't get that much attention)

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Looks to be fun. I have a soft spot for HP time travel stories. (I hope you are posting on other sites like Ao3, non-NSFW Creative Writing on this forum doesn't get that much attention)

Click to shrink...

Great, I love time travel fics as well! I am posting on other sites, including ao3 and ffnet, thanks a lot for the consideration.

 

[hacks]

I was NOT expecting that what an entrance! Also OC character? Romance maybe? Who knows anyways great writing!

 

[MoonyNightShade]

I was NOT expecting that what an entrance! Also OC character? Romance maybe? Who knows anyways great writing!

Click to shrink...

Spoiler maybe? There is romance. But not very straightforward... Well, you'll see.

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Chapter 2: Why Is It So Hard To Hold Back?

Disclaimer:

I don't own the characters or the world appearing in this story. They are creations and property of J.K. Rowling. I'm not sure if I can claim any OCs as my own, so I'll play it safe and dedicate them to her as well.

---

The first few weeks passed in a blur of managed paranoia. Harry—or Hadrian, as he was forced to constantly remind himself—adopted a simple mantra: Observe. Don't engage. Survive.

He became a ghost, a quiet presence at the back of classrooms and a silent observer in the boisterous Gryffindor common room. He was the weird, socially inept kid who appeared out of nowhere. It was a surprisingly effective camouflage. His initial, humiliating arrival had branded him as a curiosity, but his subsequent silence after made him boring, and in the bustling ecosystem of Hogwarts, boring was safe.

From his self-imposed exile on the fringes, he watched the world of 1977 unfold. It was a living, breathing historical document, and it was deeply, profoundly strange. He saw the dynamics he'd only ever read about or heard in passing stories.

In Charms, Lily Evans was a genuine marvel. While other students struggled with the precise, flicking wrist movements for an Impervius Charm, Lily's was effortless and perfect in just a few tries. Professor Flitwick positively beamed at her, holding her work up as the standard.

Then James Potter, from the other side of the room, would inevitably try to "help" someone nearby, performing the charm with an unnecessary amount of flair, making a grand show of it until he caught Lily's eye. She would give him a small, exasperated sigh and turn back to her work, a faint blush on her cheeks that was equal parts annoyance and something else Hadrian couldn't—and didn't want to—decipher.

The Marauders were a constant, chaotic force of nature. They were the undisputed beacons of Gryffindor Tower. James was the charismatic leader, Sirius the handsome-rebellious second-in-command, and Remus the quiet long-suffering conscience who always seemed to be fighting a headache. Peter Pettigrew trailed in their wake, laughing a little too loudly at their jokes, his watery eyes filled with a desperate, hero-worshipping admiration that made Hadrian's stomach turn.

However, Hadrian kept his distance, offering clipped, one-word answers when they spoke to him, an impenetrable wall against their casual offers of friendship. The pang of longing he felt watching them—this living memory of his father and his friends—was a physical ache he had to ruthlessly suppress. Engaging with them was a temptation he could not afford.

And then there was Cassandra Vexley.

He learned her name the day after his arrival. The one he had seen in the Great Hall, a picture of chilling composure.

Vexley never travelled with a gaggle of giggling friends like other girls. She moved at the center of a small, rotating court of serious-looking Slytherins. Evan Rosier, whose arrogance was a flimsy imitation of their once senior Lucius Malfoy's. Wilkes and Mulciber, who radiated a casual brutality. They didn't banter; they conferred in low, serious tones. She surely had the lead, not through force, but through sheer, undeniable intellectual supremacy. Her robes were always immaculate, her books were always pristine, and her sharp grey eyes missed nothing.

Whenever those eyes happened to land on him, a flicker of something—contempt, annoyance, a memory of gravy—would cross her face before she dismissed him as if he were a piece of lint on the castle's tapestry. Hadrian was sure. To her he must be the clumsy oaf who had ruined her favorite shirt. A footnote. An embarrassment. He was more than happy to keep it that way. The less the ambitious, eagle-eyed queen of Slytherin noticed him, the better.

His quiet existence, however, was predicated on one thing: mediocrity. And that was a problem.

He could fake social awkwardness. Though it didn't take much effort, really. But faking magical ineptitude was far more difficult. His ego wouldn't allow it.

In Defence Against the Dark Arts, he instinctively corrected the professor on the proper shield for a Bone-Breaking Curse.

Hadn't wanted to. But the mouth didn't listen.

In Transfiguration, he transformed a hedgehog into a pincushion with an ease that earned him a surprised, searching look from McGonagall. After having it drilled into him, Hadrian wasn't sure he could mess it up anymore. The muscle memory from seven years of life-or-death struggles didn't just vanish overnight.

For all his efforts, the true end to his anonymity came on a Tuesday afternoon in the Great Hall, which had been cleared to serve as a practice space for the newly resurrected Duelling Club. Professor Flitwick, standing on a stack of books to see over his lectern, was ecstatic.

To Hadrian, who had personally partaken in the club in his second year, it wasn't clear how many times the club had been resurrected only to be shut down.

"Welcome, welcome!" Professor Flitwick squeaked, his voice echoing in the vast space. "For too long has the noble art of formal duelling been neglected at Hogwarts! Today, we shall begin with a simple demonstration. A friendly exhibition between two senior students to showcase proper form and etiquette!"

A wave of murmuring went through the assembled students. Hadrian stood near the back with the other seventh-year Gryffindors, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.

"For our first duellist," Flitwick announced, "from the house of Slytherin… Mr. Mulciber!"

A burly, heavy-set boy with cruel eyes swaggered forward, cracking his knuckles. He was a known bully, skilled with the kinds of jinxes that left nasty boils and twitching limbs. A smirk was plastered on his face as he accepted the applause from his housemates.

"And for his opponent," Flitwick chirped, consulting his list, "from the house of Gryffindor… let's see… Professor McGonagall has made a special request to see what our newest student can do… Mr. Hadrian Thorne!"

A cold dread washed over him. This was a setup—Flitwick had admitted as much himself. McGonagall's sharp, assessing gaze was on him from the staff table. She didn't believe his story, not for a second, and this was his trial by fire.

"Go on, Thorne!" Sirius whispered, giving him a hard shove forward. "Show 'em what you've got!"

Every eye in the Hall was on him as he walked the long stretch to the duelling platform. The whispers followed him again. "The gravy-stain kid?" "Mulciber's going to turn him into a ferret."

He stepped onto the raised dais. Mulciber stood opposite him, his smirk widening into a predatory grin. "Try not to trip over your own feet, Thorne," he sneered, loud enough for the first few rows to hear.

Hadrian didn't respond. He focused on his breathing, the familiar pre-combat ritual settling over him. The sounds of the Hall faded away. The mocking faces blurred. It was just him, his opponent, and the space between them.

Flitwick gave them the rundown. "Wands at the ready! On my mark, you will bow, and then you will commence. The objective is to disarm, not to injure! We are practicing for sport!"

Hadrian's mind went cold and quiet. Sport. He hadn't fought for sport since his fourth year at Hogwarts. Every duel since then had been a desperate scramble for survival or in preparation for it.

He and Mulciber faced each other. Mulciber gave a theatrical, mocking bow, a flourish of his wrist that was pure arrogance. Hadrian's bow was a short, sharp nod, his eyes never leaving his opponent's. It wasn't a gesture of respect; it was an acknowledgement of a threat.

"On the count of three!" Flitwick squeaked. "One… two…"

Hadrian felt a familiar, ugly shift inside him. The scared, out-of-place observer receded, and the soldier he'd been forced to become stepped forward. This was a language he understood far better than small talk.

"Three!"

Mulciber didn't wait for the echo of Flitwick's count to fade. He lunged into motion, his wand whipping through the air in a vicious arc. "Furnunculus!" he snarled, a jet of ugly purple light shooting toward Hadrian.

It was a standard bully's hex, designed to cause a painful and embarrassing outbreak of boils. It was also sloppy and slow.

Hadrian didn't even bother with a Shield Charm. With a subtle twist of his body, he sidestepped the curse. It zipped past his shoulder and slammed into the stone wall behind him with a wet sizzle. Before Mulciber could even register the miss, Hadrian's wand was up. He didn't waste his breath. A non-verbal Impediment Jinx, cast with a flick of his wrist, shot from his wand.

Mulciber's second curse, a Leg-Locker, died on his lips. He froze mid-lunge, his body seizing as Hadrian's jinx hit him. His sneer was replaced by a look of shock as his momentum carried him forward in a slow, unnatural stumble.

The entire Great Hall, which had been buzzing with anticipation, fell silent. They had expected a flurry of spells, a back-and-forth exchange. What they got was a sudden, jarring halt.

Hadrian pressed the advantage. This wasn't about flashy magic after all, it was about ending a threat efficiently. As Mulciber struggled against the jinx, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated, Hadrian moved forward. Two quick steps, wand held low and steady. He didn't cast another spell. He didn't need to. He saw the opening Mulciber's clumsy form had created.

Another Slytherin in the crowd, perhaps Wilkes, yelled, "Get him, Mulciber! What are you playing at?"

But Mulciber wasn't playing. He was trapped. He finally broke free of the Impediment Jinx with a furious roar, swinging his wand around wildly. "Confringo!"

The Blasting Curse was a serious escalation, far beyond the bounds of a friendly duel. A flicker of genuine anger ignited in Hadrian's chest. This wasn't a game to him, and Mulciber's casual disregard for safety was an insult to everyone he had lost.

Instead of shielding, he dropped. He let his knees buckle, falling into a low crouch as the jet of fiery light passed harmlessly over his head, exploding against the wall with a deafening bang that made several students scream. As he rose, he swiped his wand sideways.

"Expelliarmus!"

The word was sharp, clean, and utterly commanding. A bolt of scarlet light, brighter and more concussive than any the students had ever seen from a simple Disarming Charm, slammed into Mulciber's chest. The Slytherin was lifted off his feet, flying backwards several feet before crashing to the dais with a loud, graceless thud. His wand flew from his hand, spinning high into the air.

With a flick of his own wand, Hadrian summoned it. The wood slapped neatly into his waiting left hand.

The duel was over. It couldn't have lasted more than ten seconds.

Silence. Utter, deafening silence. Hadrian stood on the platform, his wand held loosely at his side, Mulciber's wand in his other hand. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. The adrenaline receded, leaving him standing there under the gaze of hundreds of shocked faces. Mulciber groaned on the floor, trying to sit up.

Professor Flitwick broke the spell, scurrying onto the platform. "Mr. Thorne is the winner!" he squeaked, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and alarm. "A most… efficient demonstration of defensive and evasion principles! Ten points to Gryffindor!"

The Gryffindor table exploded in a roar of triumphant shouts and applause. James Potter was on his feet, yelling his approval. Sirius Black was howling with laughter, pounding the table with his fists. Even Lily Evans was clapping, a look of profound surprise on her face, her eyes fixed on Hadrian with a newfound respect. He had just publicly humiliated a notoriously nasty Slytherin, and done it with a terrifying economy of motion.

He walked calmly off the platform, tossing Mulciber's wand onto his chest as he passed. He ignored the glares from the Slytherins, a sea of hatred and disbelief. He had won, but he had also failed his own primary objective. He was no longer Hadrian Thorne, the weird, quiet kid. He had just painted a massive target on his back.

As he reached the Gryffindor side, James slung an arm around his shoulders. "Merlin's beard, Thorne! Where did you learn to fight like that? That wasn't duelling, that was… an execution! It was brilliant!"

"He didn't even sweat," Sirius added, his grey eyes shining. "You walk over, bam, thwack, done. Meanwhile, Mulciber's still trying to figure out which way is up. I owe you a butterbeer. A whole bloody keg of them!"

Hadrian shrugged off James's arm, feeling claustrophobic. "He was overconfident," was all he said, his voice flat. He retreated to the back of the crowd, the praise and cheers feeling alien and unearned.

Across the Great Hall, one person wasn't cheering.

Cassandra Vexley had watched the entire exchange without blinking. She hadn't been worried for Mulciber; he was an arrogant thug, useful for intimidation but ultimately expendable. Her focus had been entirely on Thorne.

Because for all his expendability, Mulciber was not incompetent.

She had dismissed Thorne. Categorising him as a clumsy, socially inept fool. A nuisance, but not a serious player. She had been wrong. Catastrophically wrong.

What she had just witnessed… It wasn't the norm. That much she could figure out. It did not adhere to the principles of formal dueling she had studied. Duels were about form, about the elegant exchange of spells, about establishing dominance through superior technique. They were a magical debate. What Thorne had just done was something else entirely.

There was no posturing. There were no flashy, extraneous wand movements designed to impress. Every step he took, every spell he cast—or, more accurately, didn't cast—was ruthlessly thought through. The sidestep, the Impediment jinx, the drop and finally the Expelliarmus. It was pleasing.

An Experlliarmus…? She was finding it hard to wrap her head around it.

His power was undeniable. But it was an instinctual application of it that was frightening. He fought without flair, without artistry. His magic lacked the beautiful, woven complexity of Lily Evans's spell-work; it was all straight lines and hard angles. It was pure, brutal function. And yet… it was lethally effective.

She watched as he was swamped by his jubilant Gryffindor housemates, his face a strange, detached blank. He didn't look triumphant. He looked… done. As if he had just completed a distasteful but necessary task.

He was no longer just the boy who spilled gravy on her. He was an anomaly she hadn't accounted for in her meticulous plans for dominating the school year. An unpredictable, chaotic force of power, now aligned with the Gryffindor idiots she so despised.

He wasn't a fool. He was dangerous. He was a threat not just to her rivals, but to the very order and predictability she relied upon to succeed.

Her perfectly manicured fingers tapped a slow, thoughtful rhythm on the cover of her textbook. The game had just changed. Hadrian Thorne had just moved from the "irrelevant" column on her mental ledger to the very top of the one marked "problem." And Cassandra Vexley always dealt with her problems.

---

Author's Note:

Thank you so much for reading. Please leave any and all feedback!

You can find free illustrations and read early drafts over at my Patreon!

patreon.com/MoonyNightShade

 

[Nicohals J Westerberg]

Pretty cool, can't wait for more.

Also did this Harry train more?

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Pretty cool, can't wait for more.

Also did this Harry train more?

Click to shrink...

Honestly, completely up for interpretation. I'd rather the readers have fun with it, y'know? Imagination running wild and all that jazz.

 

[hacks]

When he talks about lily potter it feels a little off like he says she's a marvel but I think I would freak out a bit more if I time traveled and saw my dead mom and dad in genreal it's still a good chapter just a little critique.

 

[MoonyNightShade]

When he talks about lily potter it feels a little off like he says she's a marvel but I think I would freak out a bit more if I time traveled and saw my dead mom and dad in genreal it's still a good chapter just a little critique.

Click to shrink...

Can see what you mean fr, honestly can write a whole story on just the freak outs. It's just I didn't want to dwell on it with this story, not the core point right?. Should definitely try in a future attempt...

 

[hacks]

Can see what you mean fr, honestly can write a whole story on just the freak outs. It's just I didn't want to dwell on it with this story, not the core point right?. Should definitely try in a future attempt...

Click to shrink...

Totally get that angst that takes to long is very annoying however emotions are what make us human and skipping over that can make it hard to relate and sympathy for a character you don't have to over do it but so far he's seeming kinda robotic this is just some advice good story so far!

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Chapter 2.5: Who is he?

Disclaimer:

I don't own the characters or the world appearing in this story. They are creations and property of J.K. Rowling. I'm not sure if I can claim any OCs as my own, so I'll play it safe and dedicate them to her as well.

---

The Gryffindor common room was a sea of triumphant red and gold. In the corner, James Potter and Sirius Black were performing a dramatic and wildly inaccurate reenactment of the duel for the younger years, using a bewitched sofa cushion as a stand-in for Mulciber. Each time James gestured dramatically, the cushion would let out a piteous squeak before collapsing in a heap. The scene was met with roars of laughter and applause. One small, particularly emotional boy was in tears.

Remus Lupin, sitting by the fire with a book open but unread in his lap, did not join in.

He, too, was replaying the duel, but his memory was sharper, colder, and far less amusing. He remembered the hush that had fallen over the Great Hall. He remembered the way Thorne had moved—not with the flashy arrogance of James, but with a fluid, terrifying economy. It wasn't a duel at all.

A prefect's duty was to maintain order and ensure student safety. What he had witnessed was a blatant, if efficient, display of overwhelming force that had technically ended with Mulciber attempting to use a Blasting Curse. But Remus was no fool. Mulciber had been trapped, panicked, and reacting. Thorne had been in control from the first instant to the last. He should have reported the incident to McGonagall—the sheer disproportionate skill of it. He should have been concerned.

And he was. But the part of him that was a Marauder, the part of him that had spent seven years watching Mulciber and his ilk hex first-years, felt a grim, undeniable satisfaction.

"He barely even moved."

Remus looked up. Lily Evans was standing there, her arms crossed, her brow furrowed with the same analytical concern he felt. She nodded toward the boisterous celebration. "They see the win. But the way he did it… that was frightening, wasn't it?"

"It was practiced," Remus said quietly, relieved to have someone else who saw it.

"He used a non-verbal Impediment Jinx, followed by a simple Expelliarmus that was powerful enough to knock a boy twice his size off his feet and into the air," Lily murmured, thinking it through. "I didn't know Expelliarmus could do that! Who is he?"

That was the question, wasn't it?

"Moony! Lily! Stop looking so glum!" Sirius bounded over, his face flushed with vicarious victory. "Thorne's a hero! Took ten points for it and everything! You should've seen Snape's face. Looked like he'd swallowed a bucket of slugs."

"It was a bit much, wasn't it?" Remus offered, trying to frame his unease in a way they would understand. "For a simple exhibition."

"Mulciber deserved it," James said, abandoning his theatricals to join them. He slung an arm around Remus's shoulder. "He's had it coming for years. Thorne just paid the bill. He's a good lad. Quiet, but a good lad. We need more Gryffindors with that kind of grit."

Remus looked from James's carefree, handsome face to Sirius's manic glee. They saw a victory. Lily saw frightening skill. But Remus, who lived with a violent secret coiled in his own bones, saw something else. He saw a kindred spirit.

He remembered the look in Thorne's eyes after the duel. Not triumph. Not relief. Just a hollow, weary emptiness, as if he'd been forced to unveil a part of himself he desperately wanted to keep hidden. Remus knew that look. He saw it in the mirror every morning after a full moon.

"I just think he's… carrying a lot," Remus said finally.

Sirius snorted. "Well, he can carry the House Cup for us if he keeps that up."

James laughed, clapping Remus on the back again before turning his attention back to Lily, his voice softening instantly. "C'mon Evans, admit it. It was brilliant."

Lily offered a tight smile but her concerned eyes met Remus's over James's shoulder.

Remus let it drop, turning a page in his forgotten book. He wouldn't report it. It wouldn't do any good. But he resolved in that moment to watch Hadrian Thorne. Not as a prefect watching a troublemaker, but as an outcast watching a puzzle. Because whatever Hadrian Thorne was running from, it was far more terrifying than a Slytherin bully. And for reasons he couldn't yet explain, Remus Lupin found himself wanting to be on Thorne's side.

---

Author's note:

I thought I'd include snippets that don't make the cut for the main chapter as interspersed mini ones.

---

You can find free illustrations and read drafts early over at my Patreon!

patreon.com/MoonyNightShade

 

[space turtle]

The wolf identifies another predator in its midst.
And it recognises that it might not be the scariest thing in the forest.

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Chapter 3: You Screw Me, I'll Screw You

Disclaimer:

I don't own the characters or the world appearing in this story. They are creations and property of J.K. Rowling. I'm not sure if I can claim any OCs as my own, so I'll play it safe and dedicate them to her as well.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

In the wake of the duel, Hadrian's carefully constructed wall of anonymity crumbled into dust. He was no longer Hadrian Thorne, the quiet transfer student. He was now Thorne, the guy who had flattened Mulciber in ten seconds.

This newfound reputation came with unforeseen consequences—the most immediate and worst of which was the relentless, gravitational pull of the Marauders.

His quiet corner of the seventh-year boys' dormitory was no longer a sanctuary. It had become mission control for a level of orchestrated mayhem he hadn't witnessed since the Weasley twins had run rampant through Hogwarts.

"The key," James Potter announced one Tuesday night, pacing between the beds with the frantic energy of a caged lion, "is maximum humiliation with minimum evidence. We need to hit the Slytherin common room. What do you think, Hadrian?"

Sirius Black, lounging upside down on his bed with his long hair brushing the floor, snorted. "Subtlety is for the Puffs, Prongs. I say we transfigure the entrance password into a five-minute-long aria about the moral failings of snakes. In a soprano. Right, Hadrian?"

"Too simple," James countered, waving a dismissive hand. "They'd have Slughorn fix it in an hour. We need something that lingers. Something… odorous. I'm thinking a series of Dungbombs linked to a perpetual Sticking Charm, right over the doorway. I know Hadrian agrees with me."

"Messy," came a tired voice from Remus Lupin's bed. He was lying on his side, a book propped in front of him, though his eyes were closed. "And Filch would have us scrubbing cauldrons until we graduate. If we don't get expelled first."

"Ah, Moony, you wound me!" Sirius declared dramatically, flipping upright. "Where's your sense of adventure? Come on, Hadrian, back me up."

"I think I left it in the Shrieking Shack last month," Remus muttered dryly.

Hadrian sighed, realizing they wouldn't leave him alone until he contributed. His brain—desperate for quiet so he could return to his own problems—dredged up a memory: a late-night conversation with Hermione during the Horcrux hunt. She'd been explaining how ancient castles like Hogwarts had a kind of rudimentary magical consciousness, how their enchantments were layered—more like an ecosystem than a simple lock and key.

"You don't have to break the door down, Harry," she had said. "You just have to convince the door it doesn't recognize you."

He channelled her logic, offering them the simplest, most effective solution.

"If you want to annoy them," he began, a distant echo of his friend's lecturing tone creeping into his own voice, "don't be loud or messy. Be inconvenient."

The three other conscious Marauders looked at him.

"Go on," James prompted, intrigued.

"The stone wall of the Slytherin entrance," Hadrian said slowly, thinking it through aloud. "It's not just a door; it's an enchantment that recognises a specific stimulus—the password. But it also has to recognise the speaker. You don't need to change the password. You need to confuse the enchantment itself." He tapped his temple.

"Cast a subtle, recurring Confundus Charm on the stone. You can probably key it to react to the unique magical signature of the Slytherin house crest on their robes. Every time a Slytherin says the correct password, the wall will receive a conflicting signal. It won't know what they said—only that it feels wrong. They'll be stuck outside their own common room, forced to get Slughorn to let them in, one by one."

He finished, the theory sounding surprisingly solid now that he'd said it aloud.

"It leaves almost no magical residue, it's nearly impossible to trace, and it will drive them absolutely insane within a day."

The room was silent for a moment. Remus had actually lowered his book, his eyes open and wide with a newfound respect. James's jaw was slightly slack.

Sirius was the first to speak, his voice a whisper of pure reverence. "That… is the most elegantly evil thing I have ever heard."

James's face broke into a slow, wolfish grin. "Thorne, you are a menace. I love it."

Hadrian had just wanted them to be quiet. Instead, by channelling the memory of his brightest friend, he had pushed himself even deeper into their chaotic little circle. He had been fully and irrevocably integrated.

He sank back against his pillows with a silent groan, the brief flicker of Hermione's memory making his solitude feel all the more acute.

His life was getting more complicated by the second.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The very next day, a world away from the Gryffindors' boisterous plotting, Cassandra Vexley held court in her usual corner of the library. It wasn't a gathering of friends; it was a staff meeting. Wilkes was there, looking sullen after his friend Mulciber's public humiliation. Evan Rosier was preening, polishing his wand. A sharp-eyed witch named Eleanor Frye had a stack of charts and timetables laid out.

"The final Charms essay is due in two weeks," Cassandra stated, her voice low and crisp. Her gaze fell on Frye. "Eleanor, I need your notes from Slughorn's advanced lecture. Compare them with mine. I want to be certain I haven't missed any nuances in the reading list for the theory section."

"Of course, Cassandra," Frye said dutifully.

"Evan," she continued, not looking at him. "Find out what extracurricular project Lily Evans has chosen for her Arithmancy NEWT. I need to know what she's focusing on."

Rosier smirked. "Trying to keep tabs on the competition, Vexley? Worried the mudblood will outshine you?"

Cassandra's grey eyes lifted from her notes and fixed on him. The temperature seemed to drop several degrees. "I am not 'worried,' Evan. I am thorough. Lily Evans is brilliant, popular, and has the unwavering approval of nearly every professor in this castle. That makes her my direct and primary competitor for the summer internship at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I will not secure it by underestimating her. I will secure it by being better prepared. Do you understand the difference?"

"Crystal," Rosier said quickly, his smirk vanishing.

"Good." She turned to Wilkes. "And you. Stop sulking. Mulciber lost because he's a cudgel. He was beaten by another cudgel. Brute force against brute force." She made a dismissive gesture. "That's not how real power works. Thorne's little victory is an irrelevance. The Gryffindors celebrate their muscle. We will celebrate our achievements." Her gaze swept over them, sharp and commanding. "The Vexley name may not mean much now. But when I am Head of the DMLE, it will. And I will remember who helped me get there. Don't forget that."

The message was clear. This was not about house points or schoolyard rivalries. This was about the future. Her future. And nothing, and no one, would be allowed to stand in her way.

That resolve was tested two days later, deep in the Restricted Section.

Hadrian had, after much effort, convinced Madam Pince that his "specialised homeschooling" had left him lacking in certain areas—gaps that required access to advanced texts. In truth, he was hunting for one thing: a way home.

He needed books on temporal theory, paradoxes, anything that mentioned Chrono-Mites.

He finally found what he was looking for on a high, dusty shelf: a massive, iron-bound book titled The Chronomancer's Codex.

His heart leaped. He reached for it, his fingers brushing the ancient leather. At the exact same moment, another hand—pale, with perfectly manicured nails—shot into his view and clamped onto the spine.

He turned. It was Cassandra Vexley.

Of course.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice tight. "I was about to take that."

"Were you now?" she asked, her voice dripping with cool amusement. She tugged the heavy book from the shelf with surprising strength. "A bit advanced for you, isn't it, Thorne? I would have thought you'd be more comfortable with books that have pictures."

"What do you want it for? Planning to club someone to death?" He said, his temper flaring. "In that case, might I suggest 'talking'. When done by a Slytherin, it's especially poisonous—I've heard."

"Funny," she replied, tucking the book under her arm. "The seventh chapter contains a fascinating, though largely theoretical, discussion on meta-morphic transfiguration as it relates to temporal entropy. Crucial for my final essay. I'm afraid you'll have to wait until I'm finished with it. Try not to hurt yourself lifting anything else."

With a flick of her immaculate black hair, she turned and walked away, her heels clicking softly on the stone floor. Hadrian stood there, fuming, his hands clenched into fists. The battle lines had just been drawn.

He found his chance for revenge the next afternoon. He saw her at her usual table, the Codex open in front of her. She was called away for a moment by Madam Pince. It was all the time he needed. He moved swiftly, pulling out his wand. He didn't want to damage the book, just… inconvenience its reader. He whispered a quiet, complex charm at the open page, one he remembered Fred and George using on Percy's prefect manuals.

Later, he watched from a distance. He saw her sit down, her brow furrowed in concentration. He saw her lean in, re-reading a passage. He saw her blink, then shake her head slightly, as if to clear it. He saw her read it again, her lips moving silently. Then, a faint line of pure, unadulterated frustration appeared between her perfect eyebrows. The charm was working. Every time her eyes passed over a key phrase, the letters would momentarily, almost imperceptibly, rearrange themselves into gibberish before snapping back into place. It was the magical equivalent of a fly buzzing in one's ear—maddening, but almost impossible to catch. He allowed himself a small, vicious smile.

His victory was short-lived. The next day, he went to retrieve his own research book, Applied Paradoxical Theory, from a nook where he had hidden it. He opened it to his bookmarked page.

Instead of a strip of parchment, a small, bright yellow rubber chicken sat between the pages. As the book opened, it let out a magically amplified, ear-splitting squawk.

"THORNE IS A DIM-WITTED, GRAVY-STAINED TROLL!"

The magically projected voice echoed through the entire silent library. Every head turned to stare at him. Madam Pince's face was a mask of pure fury. Hadrian slammed the book shut, his entire body burning with a humiliation so profound it eclipsed even his initial arrival.

He looked across the room. Cassandra Vexley was watching him, a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised. A slow, cold, utterly triumphant smile spread across her face.

Oh, it was war.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The burning humiliation of the rubber chicken incident did not fade. It settled deep in Hadrian's gut, a hard, hot coal of resentment. Cassandra Vexley had not just retaliated; she had made a public spectacle of him. She had turned his own desire for quiet anonymity into a weapon and used it against him. In the silent, bitter war of the library, she had just dropped a magical bomb. He knew, with absolute certainty, that a commensurate response was required.

For two days, he did nothing. He watched her from a distance, observing her routines, her habits. He saw the way she organized her notes, the specific brand of ink she favored—Selwyn's Ever-Black, for discerning potioneers—and the meticulous way she laid out her supplies before beginning her work. She was a creature of precision and order. He decided, then, that his revenge would not be loud. It would be an insidious corruption of the very order she revered.

His opportunity came during a crowded study period. He saw her inkpot sitting on her table while she was briefly conferring with Eleanor Frye a few rows away. Under the cover of a dozen other conversations, and with a swift, almost imperceptible movement of his wand beneath his desk, he cast a highly complex, multi-layered charm. It was a piece of chaotic magic the Weasley twins would have been proud of, refined with his own combat-honed precision.

The effect was not immediate. He waited. He watched. He saw her return to her desk, dip her quill, and begin to write. For half an hour, nothing happened. Then, he saw her pause. Her quill hovered over the parchment. She was writing her Transfiguration essay, arguing a point about the fundamental ethics of human-to-animal transformation. He knew the charm he had set was keyed to specific emotional triggers—arrogance, ambition, condescension. As her thoughts sharpened into a particularly cutting turn of phrase, a formulation designed to showcase her intellectual superiority, the magic took hold.

The pristine, Ever-Black ink that flowed from her quill momentarily flashed a brilliant, garish Gryffindor scarlet and gold. The word "inferior," in reference to a rival theorist's argument, blazed on the page like a tiny, triumphant sunset before slowly, begrudgingly, fading back to black.

Cassandra froze. Her eyes were glued to the page. She blinked, her expression one of utter disbelief, as if the parchment itself had betrayed her. She dipped her quill again, tentatively, and wrote another sentence. Again, as she formulated a particularly self-aggrandizing point, her signature phrase "a predictably pedestrian conclusion" shimmered with audacious Gryffindor colors.

A slow, dark flush crept up her neck. This was an attack on her very thoughts. It was intimate, insulting, and utterly infuriating. He watched as she took a deep, steadying breath, her knuckles white where she gripped her quill. With a visible effort of will, she attempted to write a simple, declarative sentence, devoid of opinion. The ink remained black. She tried again, adding a slight intellectual flourish, and was met with another defiant flash of red and gold.

Her control finally snapped. With a low hiss of pure rage, she made a sharp, angry stroke across the parchment, meaning to cross out the offending sentence. The volatile charm, agitated by the spike of furious magical intent, reacted. The inkpot on her desk gave a violent shudder and then exploded, sending a geyser of Ever-Black ink all over her meticulously written essay, her notes, and the front of her robes.

The soggy splat echoed in the relative quiet. Every head within a twenty-foot radius turned. Madam Pince materialized at the end of the aisle, her face a mask of apocalyptic fury.

"Out! Both of you! OUT!"

Cassandra was on her feet, her face pale with rage, her robes and priceless essay ruined. Hadrian was already gathering his things, a mask of innocent surprise on his face. Their eyes met across the ruined table, and in that instant, there was no more subtext. This was no longer a game. It was a declaration of total war.

The next day, a note arrived for Hadrian via a grim-faced first-year Gryffindor. "Mr. Thorne. You and Miss Vexley will report to the vacant Charms classroom on the third floor after dinner tonight. Do not be late." It was signed by Remus Lupin, with his looping, neat script and the small prefect's badge stamped at the bottom.

Hadrian felt a knot of dread tighten in his stomach. The war had drawn official attention.

He arrived at precisely seven o'clock. The classroom was empty save for three chairs arranged in a triangle. Remus was already there, looking profoundly weary. Cassandra Vexley stood by the window, her arms crossed, staring out into the twilight. She had changed into fresh robes, but she still radiated an aura of barely contained fury.

"Sit," Remus said, his voice quiet but firm. He didn't sound like their classmate; he sounded like the adult he was so often forced to be.

Hadrian sat. After a moment's hesitation, Cassandra turned from the window and took the other chair, her movements stiff and angry. She refused to look at Hadrian, keeping her gaze fixed on Remus.

"Right," Remus began, running a hand through his sandy hair. He looked as if he would rather be anywhere else in the world. "Madam Pince has lodged a formal complaint against both of you. Professor McGonagall has asked me to… mediate… before this escalates to official detentions and a loss of house points for the rest of the term. So, I am going to ask you both a simple question. What is going on?"

Cassandra spoke first, her voice like ice chips. "I was attempting to study. Mr. Thorne's persistent and clumsy presence was a distraction. His oafishness resulted in an accident which destroyed my Transfiguration essay."

Hadrian scoffed. "My 'oafishness'? I was fifty feet away from you. Unless I can now project clumsiness, I fail to see how that's my fault. Maybe your equipment was faulty."

"My equipment," she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper as she finally turned her glare on him, "is of the highest quality. Unlike, it would seem, your personal hygiene. Perhaps a lingering bit of gravy was attracted to my inkpot."

"That's enough," Remus cut in, holding up a hand. "Veiled insults are not going to solve this. Look, I don't know what the feud is between you two, and frankly, I don't care. But it is disrupting the entire library and has resulted in property damage. It stops now."

"There is no feud," Cassandra stated coolly. "A feud would imply a degree of equality between the parties involved. This is merely a pest-control issue."

"And I suppose you're the exterminator?" Hadrian shot back, his temper rising. "Funny, I thought you were the pest. The one who thinks library books are personal property."

"Are you accusing me of something, Thorne?"

"Are you?"

"Enough!" Remus's voice was sharper this time, with an edge of the authority he rarely used. "This is ridiculous. You're both seventh-years. You're supposed to be setting an example. Instead, you're acting like first-years fighting over a Chocolate Frog card." He sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Let's try this again. I am not going to ask who charmed whose ink or who hexed whose book. I am simply going to state that the hostilities will end. From this moment on, you will occupy opposite sides of the library. You will not interact. You will not speak to each other. You will not acknowledge each other's existence unless a professor forces you to. Is that understood?"

Hadrian looked at Cassandra. Her jaw was tight, a muscle fluttering in her cheek. He could see the fury in her eyes, but also the sharp, calculating intelligence. She knew, as he did, that Remus was offering them an out. No detentions, no lost points. Just a forced ceasefire. Continuing their fight here, in front of a prefect, was pointless.

She gave a stiff, almost imperceptible nod. "Understood."

Remus looked at Hadrian. "Thorne?"

Hadrian grit his teeth. He hated backing down. But he wanted, more than anything, to be left alone. "Fine," he bit out.

"Fine," Remus echoed, looking relieved. "Then we're done here. Shake on it."

It was the last thing either of them wanted to do. For a moment, neither moved. Remus just waited, his expression expectant and unyielding. With a low hiss of frustration, Cassandra stood and held out her hand. It was a clear challenge.

Hadrian stood and took it. Her hand was cool and firm. His was warm and strong. Their grips were tight, not a handshake but a contest of wills. For a tense second, they stood there, hands clasped, green eyes locked on brown. The air between them crackled with unspoken animosity. It was a truce in name only. What they were really agreeing to was a change in the rules of engagement. The lines had been drawn in the sand, and now, they were being forced to retreat to their respective sides. But the war wasn't over. It had only just been officially declared.

"Excellent," Remus said, blissfully unaware of the silent declarations being made. "Now get out of here. Both of you."

They dropped their hands as if burned and turned, walking toward the door. They left without another word, on opposite sides of the corridor, the space between them a tangible, humming no-man's-land.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Author's note:

This one was so much fun to write, just pure joy. I think I might be a bit of a sadist.

I've seen some lovely comments from you all, and I'm hoping to keep getting feedback. I'm currently posting a fluffy Hermione/OC romance too—please check that one out if you haven't already!

Alright, that's all for now. See you guys next week, I've got to go watch the Budapest Qualifier. Piastri FTW!

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You can find free illustrations and read early drafts over at my Patreon!

patreon.com/MoonyNightShade

 

[Nicohals J Westerberg]

The feud begins

 

[Godfire]

This seem unnecessarily petty for a person who went to 'war' and survived it. Imagine having a vendetta with a child.

 

[space turtle]

grey eyes locked on brown

Click to shrink...

I don't remember Harry hiding his eye colour. And I feel the headmaster would have seen right through any subterfuge.

Metamorph?

 

[MoonyNightShade]

I don't remember Harry hiding his eye colour. And I feel the headmaster would have seen right through any subterfuge.

Metamorph?

Click to shrink...

Nah, that's a typo. Thanks for catching it.

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Chapter 3.5: An Inconvenient Wall

Disclaimer:

I don't own the characters or the world appearing in this story. They are creations and property of J.K. Rowling. I'm not sure if I can claim any OCs as my own, so I'll play it safe and dedicate them to her as well.

——————————

The corridor leading to the Slytherin dungeons was cold, damp, and according to Sirius Black, "in desperate need of redecorating, preferably with something explosive." It was well after midnight, the castle silent save for the distant snoring of a suit of armor. Under the shimmering, silvery folds of the Invisibility Cloak, four figures were huddled together, smelling vaguely of nervous sweat and treacle fudge from a recent raid on the kitchens.

"Are you sure about this, Hadrian?" James Potter whispered.

"Loud is easy to trace. Messy is easy to clean. Inconvenient... that's a wound that festers." Hadrian murmured.

Sirius muffled a snort. "I love it when he talks like a retired Auror. It's adorable."

Hadrian ignored him. He peeled back the cloak just enough to expose his wand hand. The entrance to the Slytherin common room was a blank, damp stretch of stone wall. He didn't cast a spell. Instead, he placed his palm flat against the cold surface, closing his eyes. The others watched, confused.

He channeled the memory of Hermione's voice, explaining how ancient enchantments were layered like an ecosystem. He murmured a complex string of incantations, the words too low for the others to catch. It wasn't a single charm but a delicate, woven sequence. First, a charm to make the stone hyper-aware of magical signatures. Second, a charm to associate the Slytherin house crest with a state of absolute error. Finally, a binding charm to link the two, timed to reset every ten minutes. It was, he had to admit, a rather brilliant piece of work. When he was done, he pulled his hand back. The wall looked exactly the same.

"Is that it?" whispered Peter, who had been nervously chewing on the sleeve of his robes. "Did it work?"

"We'll see," Hadrian said, pulling the cloak back over himself. "Now we wait."

The wait was not long. A pair of hulking fifth-year Slytherins rounded the corner, boasting loudly about a jinx they had successfully used on a Hufflepuff. One of them stepped confidently up to the wall.

"Pureblood," he said, the password dripping with arrogance.

Nothing happened.

The boy frowned. He leaned closer, as if the wall were hard of hearing. "I said, Pureblood."

The stone remained stubbornly stone.

His friend snickered. "Can't even do this, you dunce?" He shoved the boy aside. "Let me show you how it's done. Pureblood!"

He, too, was met with impassive silence. Within five minutes, a small, increasingly furious crowd of Slytherins had gathered. Accusations flew. Prank theories were debated. Mulciber tried to cast a Blasting Curse on the wall, only to have it fizzle out harmlessly.

Under the cloak, it was pandemonium. Sirius was practically vibrating, his hand clamped over his mouth to stifle his howls of laughter. James was shaking so hard the cloak rippled. Their joy was infectious, and despite himself, Hadrian felt the corner of his mouth twitch into a small, satisfied smile. It was the flawless execution that pleased him, the quiet success of a complex theory put into practice.

The true moment of glory arrived twenty minutes later, in the form of Professor Slughorn, wearing a ridiculously opulent emerald green nightgown and a tasselled cap. He looked profoundly put-upon as he individually vouched for each student, tapping the wall with his wand to grant them temporary access. "Yes, yes, very well, in you go, Rosier. Honestly, the wards on this castle..."

The prank was a roaring success. It should have ended there.

"Okay," James whispered, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes as Slughorn finally retreated. "New plan. Let's make it worse."

"How could it be worse?" Sirius hissed gleefully. "That was perfect!"

"The password itself," James said, a manic grin spreading across his face. "We add another layer. Every time Snape says the password, the wall makes him sing it. In a soprano."

Sirius froze, his eyes widening in a whisper of pure reverence. "Prongs... you are a menace. I love it."

"It's too much," Hadrian warned, a knot of unease forming in his stomach. "It's a more complex charm. It'll be easier to detect."

"Don't be a spoilsport, Thorne! You did the clever part, let us do the fun part!" James insisted.

Before Hadrian could protest further, James and Sirius were shuffling forward, their wands out. But in their giddy excitement, they were careless. As they tried to add their own clumsy, overlapping enchantments, they failed to notice the faintest flicker of a candle from the far end of the corridor.

"An impressively recurring Confundus. Though perhaps," a calm, familiar voice echoed in the silence, "it has now served its purpose."

All four of them froze. The temperature in the corridor seemed to drop by ten degrees. Standing not twenty feet away, his blue eyes twinkling with an infuriating mixture of amusement and disappointment over his half-moon spectacles, was Albus Dumbledore. He wasn't even looking directly at them, but at the empty space where he knew they stood.

The Invisibility Cloak suddenly felt as thin as tissue paper.

"Headmaster," James squeaked, his voice an octave higher than usual.

"Mr. Potter. Mr. Black," Dumbledore said, his gaze finally settling on their location. "And I presume Mr. Pettigrew and Mr. Thorne are joining you in this... late-night study of architectural magic. Ten points from Gryffindor. For being so clumsy as to be discovered." He offered a small, weary smile. "Now, I believe it is your responsibility to undo your handiwork. I shall wait. It is, after all, a rather long way back to the Headmaster's Tower."

There were no grand punishments, no lengthy detentions. Just the quiet, soul-crushing humiliation of having to dismantle their perfect, elegant prank under the twinkling, all-knowing gaze of the Headmaster. As they trudged back to Gryffindor tower, the thrill of victory had vanished, replaced by a shared sense of sober defeat. The prank had been brilliant. But their consequences, as always, had found them.

——————————

You can find free illustrations and read early drafts over at my Patreon!

patreon.com/MoonyNightShade

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Chapter 4: An Extremely Swampy Mess

Disclaimer:

I don't own the characters or the world appearing in this story. They are creations and property of J.K. Rowling. I'm not sure if I can claim any OCs as my own, so I'll play it safe and dedicate them to her as well.

——————————

The fragile, prefect-mandated peace lasted exactly two weeks. It was a cold war, fought with icy glares across the Great Hall and a deliberate, pointed ignorance in the corridors. Hadrian found it blessedly quiet. He kept to himself, the Marauders, and his fruitless research. Cassandra kept to her court, her ambition radiating from her like a palpable aura. It was a stable, if tense, equilibrium.

Then came the announcement for the final Hogsmeade weekend of the term.

For most students, it was a promise of sunshine, butterbeer, and a welcome respite before final exams. For James and Sirius, it was a call to arms. The truce they'd honored after the Slytherin common room incident had expired. It was time, they declared, for their magnum opus.

"This won't be a prank, Thorne," James explained with the gravity of a general planning an invasion. They were in the dorm room, gathered around a large, crudely drawn map of Hogsmeade. "This will be a symphony of chaos. A masterpiece."

"It's a new product from Zonko's," Sirius added, his eyes gleaming with mad inspiration. "It's called 'Instant Swamp.' Comes in a box no bigger than a book. You activate it, and—presto!—ten-foot radius of muck, enchanted fog, and a dozen highly irritable horned toads."

"Our target," James said, tapping the map where 'The Three Broomsticks' was scrawled, "is the entire Slytherin Quidditch team. They're celebrating their win over Ravenclaw. We walk in, drop the box, and walk out. Maximum sogginess, maximum humiliation."

Hadrian felt a familiar sense of weary dread. "This sounds like a catastrophically bad idea."

"Which is why it's brilliant!" Sirius insisted. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"We get expelled," Remus offered from his bed, not even looking up from his book. "Or Madam Rosmerta bans us for life. Or one of the toads eats a first-year."

"Minor logistical hurdles," James dismissed. "Come on, Thorne. You owe us. That wall prank was clever, I'll give you that, but it was quiet. We need some of that battlefield grit. You can be our lookout."

Hadrian didn't want to go. He wanted to spend the day in the library with his nose buried in a book about temporal paradoxes. But James was relentless, and Sirius was persuasive, and somehow, by Saturday morning, he found himself trudging toward Hogsmeade, the cursed box tucked securely in Sirius's bag.

——————————

Cassandra Vexley was not thinking about butterbeer. She stood in front of the mirror in her dormitory, her expression one of intense, critical focus. Today was not a holiday. Today was, quite possibly, the most important day of her young life.

Through a series of carefully worded letters and a judiciously leveraged family connection so minor it barely counted, she had secured an informal meeting. It wasn't just with any Ministry official. It was with Bartholomew Nott, the austere, notoriously hard-to-impress Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's Recruitment Board. He was visiting his nephew, a seventh-year Slytherin, and had agreed to a brief, ten-minute chat at the Three Broomsticks.

Ten minutes. That was all she would get to prove she was more than her name, more than her NEWT scores. She needed to be brilliant, witty, respectful but not sycophantic. Her robes were the finest she owned, transfigured to a sharp, professional dark grey that was almost black. Her notes on proposed revisions to the Wand-Weighing Statute were memorized. Her hair was pulled back in a severe, elegant knot. She was not a student today. She was a prospective colleague. She was an asset.

"He'll be impressed, Cassandra," Eleanor Frye said from the doorway.

"He'd better be," Cassandra replied, her voice taut. "Lily Evans has probably been having tea with him once a week since she was fifteen. I don't get that luxury. I get one shot."

She smoothed down her robes one last time, took a deep breath, and hardened her expression into one of cool, unassailable confidence. Her future started today. She would not allow anything—or anyone—to derail it.

——————————

The Three Broomsticks was bustling. The air was warm and smelled of honeyed ale and woodsmoke. Madam Rosmerta was expertly sliding tankards down the bar, and every table was filled with laughing students.

Cassandra found Bartholomew Nott at a quiet table in the corner, partially obscured by a potted Fanged Geranium. He was a stern-looking wizard with a severe haircut and robes that screamed 'important.'

"Mr. Nott," she said, her voice perfectly modulated. "Cassandra Vexley. It is an honor."

"Miss Vexley," he grunted, gesturing to the chair opposite. "You have ten minutes. Impress me."

She did. She launched into her prepared points, speaking with a clarity and intelligence that soon chipped away at his gruff exterior. She saw a flicker of genuine interest in his eyes as she discussed international magical law. He asked a sharp, probing question, and she answered it without hesitation. This was working. She could feel it. She was winning.

At another table across the room, Lily Evans was laughing at something Marlene McKinnon had said, her bright red hair a beacon in the crowded pub. Lily glanced over, saw Cassandra in deep conversation with the important-looking wizard, and offered a small, genuinely encouraging smile. Cassandra met her eyes for a second and gave a curt, dismissive nod in return before focusing back on Nott. She didn't need the Golden Girl's charity.

At that moment, the door to the pub swung open, and the four architects of chaos entered.

Hadrian immediately felt a sense of unease. James and Sirius were trying to look casual, but they radiated a mischievous energy that was anything but. Remus looked resigned to his fate. As they found a table, Hadrian's eyes did a quick, almost instinctual sweep of the room—a habit learned from years of war where every crowded space was a potential ambush site.

His gaze flickered over the celebrating Slytherin Quidditch team, the intended targets. He saw Lily and her friends laughing near the bar. He noted a few older students who looked vaguely familiar from the Duelling Club. Then his eyes passed over a corner table and paused. He recognized Vexley instantly. She was leaning forward, speaking with a quiet intensity to a stern, important-looking wizard whose robes screamed high-level Ministry. This was clearly not a casual butterbeer. A cold knot of general dread tightened in his stomach; this prank was about to unfold in a room full of oblivious, and in some cases very important, people. The potential for collateral damage was immense.

"Alright," Sirius whispered, leaning in. "Target acquired. I'll make the drop on my way to the bar. Prongs, you create a minor diversion. Moony, Thorne, look natural."

"This is a mistake," Hadrian whispered back, his gaze flickering between the oblivious Slytherin team and Vexley's dangerously important-looking meeting. "There are too many variables."

"Nonsense," James grinned. "It's performance art."

James stood up and loudly proclaimed he was going to demonstrate his new bat-bogey hex on a nearby suit of armor. As all eyes turned to him, Sirius sauntered casually toward the bar, passing right behind the Slytherin Quidditch team's table. With a movement as smooth as a card trick, he let the small box slip from his bag. It landed on the floor beneath their table with a soft, innocuous thump.

Sirius reached the bar, ordered four butterbeers, and turned back, giving them a triumphant wink. Mission accomplished.

Hadrian's focus was glued to the small, innocent-looking box under the table, his sense of impending doom growing with every passing second. He felt like he was watching a Muggle bomb with a lit fuse. Nothing happened for a moment. Then, a thin wisp of green smoke curled up from under the table.

What happened next was not a symphony. It was a cacophony.

The box didn't just activate; it exploded. The floor in a ten-foot radius instantly turned to thick, bubbling green sludge. Two dozen large, warty amphibians, far bigger than mere toads, burst from the epicenter, hopping wildly in every direction. Simultaneously, a volley of shrieking, sparkling fireworks shot toward the ceiling, ricocheting off the wooden beams and raining down on the panicked patrons. One firework fizzled and plunged directly into the Slytherin Quidditch captain's drink, causing it to erupt in a fountain of purple foam.

The pub descended into absolute chaos. Students were screaming and scrambling onto chairs to avoid the swampy floor and the horde of angry frogs.

From his vantage point, Hadrian saw his worst fears realized. The chaos wasn't contained. The Ministry wizard he had noted earlier had leaped to his feet, his expression one of apoplectic rage. His severe robes were splattered with green muck, and one of the larger, angrier frogs had landed squarely on top of his head, its slimy feet tangled in his hair. Then his eyes found Cassandra. She was standing frozen beside the enraged official, her face a perfect, crystalline mask of utter horror. Her composure, her confidence, her ambition—it had all shattered in an instant, replaced by the raw, agonizing sight of whatever important future she had been planning dissolving into a swampy, frog-filled nightmare. The meeting wasn't just ruined. It had been annihilated.

——————————

The chaos in the Three Broomsticks was immediate and absolute. It wasn't just a prank; it was a magical ecosystem failure. The enchanted frogs, imbued with the aggressive territoriality of their horned cousins, began croaking with a deafening volume, their throats puffing out to the size of small melons. The swampy water level rose with alarming speed, creeping over the floorboards and swallowing chair legs. The fireworks continued to pop and whiz through the air, their sparks reflecting off the slimy surfaces. It was glorious, magnificent pandemonium.

"Subtle, you said!" Remus yelled at James over the din, looking utterly horrified.

"I may have underestimated the product description!" James yelled back, though his eyes were alight with a thrill that bordered on ecstasy.

Sirius, meanwhile, was laughing so hard he was doubled over, tears streaming down his face. "A frog! On his head! Moony, did you see it?"

Hadrian wasn't laughing. His mind was racing, cataloging the disaster, the sheer, unadulterated stupidity of it all. He watched Bartholomew Nott, sputtering with rage, finally dislodge the frog from his hair. He saw the official glare at Cassandra as if she herself had personally summoned the amphibious plague before storming out. And he saw the look on Cassandra's face, a terrifying, hollow emptiness. He recognized that look. It was the look of someone whose entire world had just turned to ash. A familiar, sickening certainty settled in his stomach: she would blame the source of the chaos. She would blame them. She would blame him.

But he had no time to process this, because the situation was rapidly deteriorating. One of the Zonko creations was not a frog. It was significantly larger, a bristling, badger-like creature with six legs and glowing red eyes, clearly the alpha of the swamp. Irritated by the screams and flashing lights, it let out a furious snarl and fixed its gaze on the closest source of bright color: Lily Evans's vibrant red hair.

"Lily, look out!" Marlene McKinnon screamed.

The creature charged. Lily, caught by surprise, stumbled backward, her wand half-raised. She was cornered against a wall, her path blocked by an overturned table.

James saw his chance. This was the moment for heroism. "Evans, get back! I've got it!" he shouted, vaulting over a table with athletic grace. He landed in front of her, pointing his wand at the charging creature. "Stupefy!"

The jet of red light hit the creature squarely on its bristly flank. It had absolutely no effect, other than to annoy it further. The beast let out another roar and swiped at James with one of its six clawed paws, forcing him to leap back clumsily to avoid being disemboweled. His dramatic rescue had failed. He was a hero without a working spell.

Hadrian didn't think. He reacted.

The part of his brain that had been screaming about the timeline, about staying hidden, about not engaging, went completely silent. All he saw was Lily Evans, his mother, cornered and in danger. The same primal, protective instinct that had driven him to face Voldemort took over.

He moved with a speed and economy that made James's vaulting look like clumsy theatrics. Three quick steps, a sidestep around a hopping frog, and he was there. He didn't even raise his voice. His wand movement was a short, sharp jab, a gesture of pure intent. He didn't use a Stunner. He used something quicker, more definitive. A silent, concussive force spell, designed not to knock out, but to simply… stop.

A barely visible shimmer of air, like heat haze, shot from his wand and struck the six-legged badger. The creature's charge halted instantly, as if it had run into an invisible brick wall. Its legs seized, its red eyes dimmed, and it keeled over, twitching once before lying perfectly still.

It was over in a second. Clean. Effective. Silent.

The pocket of chaos around their table fell quiet. Lily Evans stared at the incapacitated beast, then up at Hadrian, her green eyes wide with a mixture of shock, relief, and something that looked a lot like awe.

"Thank you," she breathed, her voice a little shaky. "I… that was incredible."

James Potter stared from the stunned creature to Hadrian, his heroic moment completely stolen. The frustration and jealousy on his face were so plain they were almost comical. His swagger had vanished, replaced by the glower of a leading man who had just been upstaged by the quiet stagehand.

Hadrian barely registered any of it. He was looking at Lily, his heart hammering in his chest, an irrational flood of relief washing over him. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice rougher than he intended.

"I am now," she said, her smile warm and genuine. "That was… well, that was brilliant, Hadrian."

The use of his first name, the warmth in her tone—it was too much. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of guilt. He had no right to be here, no right to her gratitude. He mumbled something unintelligible and took a step back, needing to put distance between them.

His retreat was cut short. A figure stormed through the swampy muck, pushing past a startled Sirius. It was Cassandra Vexley. Her face was no longer empty; it was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. The icy composure was gone, burned away by rage. She marched right up to Hadrian, ignoring Lily, ignoring James, ignoring the chaos still unfolding around them.

"You," she spat, her voice low and trembling with anger. She poked him hard in the chest with her finger. "You did this."

"What are you talking about, Vexley?" Hadrian said, taking a step back. "It was a prank."

"A prank?" Her laugh was a sharp, ugly sound. "Do you have any idea what you just did? Do you have any idea what you just cost me?" Her voice rose, cutting through the general din. Heads began to turn. "You and your pack of brainless, laughing hyenas! You think this is a game? Turning the pub into a toilet for your own amusement? Some of us are actually trying to build a future! Some of us have things that matter!"

"It was just a bit of fun, Vexley, calm down," James interjected, stepping forward to defend his new friend.

Cassandra rounded on him, her eyes blazing. "Don't you dare speak to me, Potter! You are the worst of them! You waltz through this castle like you own it, with no thought for the consequences, because you know your name and your money will protect you! Well, some of us don't have that luxury! Some of us have to fight for every single opportunity!"

Her tirade came to a halt as her furious gaze swung back to Hadrian. He was the one who had integrated himself with them, the one whose duelling prowess had given the Gryffindors a new swagger. He was the catalyst. He was the problem.

"I hope you're proud of yourself, Thorne," she hissed, her voice shaking with the effort of not screaming. "I hope your little moment of glory was worth it."

With that, she turned on her heel and shoved her way through the panicked crowd, leaving a stunned silence in her wake. Lily looked shocked at her outburst. James looked furious at the insult. Sirius looked torn between amusement and alarm.

And Hadrian just stood there, the center of it all. He had Lily's awestruck gratitude, James's newfound jealousy, and the full, focused, cataclysmic rage of Cassandra Vexley directed squarely at him. His plan to observe and not engage was in ruins. Things had just become infinitely and catastrophically worse.

——————————

You can find free illustrations and read early drafts over at my Patreon!

patreon.com/MoonyNightShade

 

[space turtle]

Ribbit.

6 legged death frog. I wonder what magic exactly its immune / resistant to? Could you enlarge one? 0.o
Can they be ridden? War toads!

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Ribbit.

6 legged death frog. I wonder what magic exactly its immune / resistant to? Could you enlarge one? 0.o
Can they be ridden? War toads!

Click to shrink...

Damn... You've put so much thought into this, and I wasted it on a plot device . Death frog will get its due, in some other story perhaps, but definitely!

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Chapter 5: Let Us War In The Sky

Disclaimer:

I don't own the characters or the world appearing in this story. They are creations and property of J.K. Rowling. I'm not sure if I can claim any OCs as my own, so I'll play it safe and dedicate them to her as well.

——————————

The air in the Gryffindor changing room was thick enough to chew. It was a humid cocktail of nervous sweat, wood polish from the broom handles, and the lingering, faint scent of the Instant Swamp that seemed to cling to James and Sirius like a second skin. Outside, the stadium was a living beast, its roar a constant, pulsing beat that vibrated through the floorboards.

This was it. Gryffindor versus Slytherin. The final, most brutal match of the season.

James Potter, his captain's badge gleaming on his chest, was pacing in the center of the room. He was trying for inspiring, for rousing. What he was achieving was a bit too loud, a bit too frantic.

"Alright, listen up!" he barked, clapping his hands together. "This is it. We know how they play. They're dirty, they're vicious, and they've got a pair of Beaters who think the Quaffle is a human head." A nervous chuckle went through the room. "We play smarter. We fly faster. We hit harder. We know what we're capable of. We're a unit. We fly as one."

As he spoke, his eyes kept flickering, almost unconsciously, toward the corner where Hadrian was quietly checking the strap on his gauntlet. The rivalry wasn't just with Slytherin anymore; a new, unspoken tension had wormed its way into their own ranks. Since the Hogsmeade incident, Hadrian was no longer just 'Thorne, the weird transfer'. He was 'Hadrian, the guy who saved Lily's skin.' And James, the would-be hero, couldn't stand it. Hadrian's quiet competence had become a mirror reflecting James's own desperate need for flashy approval, and he didn't like the reflection.

"Every single one of you needs to give one hundred and ten percent today," James continued, his voice rising in volume as if to compensate for his insecurity. "No mistakes. No hesitation. We leave everything we have out on that pitch!"

Hadrian felt a grim sort of detachment. He wasn't thinking about house pride or winning a cup. He was looking at this for what it was: a high-speed, three-dimensional conflict with lax rules and very real physical consequences. It felt more honest, more familiar, than any party or study session. He pulled his gloves on, the familiar ritual calming the frantic energy in the room to a single, cold point of focus in his mind. This, he understood.

The walk out onto the pitch was a wall of noise and wind. The stands were a churning kaleidoscope of house colors: a sea of red and gold on one side, a vast, sneering expanse of green and silver on the other, with Ravenclaw blue and Hufflepuff yellow sprinkled between them like neutral observers at a coming war.

He swung his leg over his borrowed school broom – a competent but unremarkable Cleansweep Seven – and kicked off the ground. The acceleration was a welcome jolt, the wind whipping at his face, clearing away the claustrophobic tension of the changing room.

He took his position alongside the other two Gryffindor Chasers. Across the pitch, the Slytherin team was a formidable sight. Their uniforms were a darker, more intimidating shade of green, and they flew with a predatory cohesion. And there, in the center of their Chaser line, was Cassandra Vexley.

She sat on her broom with an unnerving stillness, her posture perfect, her grey eyes already fixed on him. There was no trace of the fury from Hogsmeade, no sign of the library rivalry. All of that had been distilled down into a pure, cold resolve. Her expression was a promise. Today, there would be a reckoning.

Madam Hooch's whistle was a piercing shriek that cut through the roar of the crowd. "I want a clean game, from all of you!" she bellowed, her eyes lingering for a moment on the Slytherin Beaters, Mulciber and Wilkes. It was a warning everyone knew would be ignored.

The Quaffle was tossed into the air.

The game began not with a play, but with an explosion of mutual aggression. It was immediately, shockingly violent. A Gryffindor Chaser made a grab for the Quaffle and was instantly slammed from the side by a Slytherin who took the ball and sped off. There was no grace, no sportsmanship. This was a grudge match from the first second.

Hadrian ignored the initial scramble for the ball. His focus was singular. He saw Cassandra break from the pack, her flying style a marvel of elegant precision. She moved like a hawk, all sharp, efficient angles and controlled bursts of speed. She caught a pass from her teammate and was instantly heading for the Gryffindor goalposts.

He didn't try to outmaneuver her. He didn't have her finesse. So he used what he did have: raw power and a complete disregard for conventional flying. He put his broom into a steep, reckless dive, coming at her not from the side, but from above and behind, using gravity to build terrifying momentum.

She must have heard him coming, the whistle of the wind through his robes. She banked sharply to the left. He anticipated it, shifting his weight, his flight path less like a hawk and more like a falcon, a scrappy, instinctual predator. He didn't go for the Quaffle. He went for her.

He closed the gap and flew directly into her path, his shoulder brushing hers with a jarring thud that was just shy of a full-blown foul. It was a physical statement. I'm here. I see you. And I am not backing down.

The move forced her to check her speed, her rhythm broken. The Quaffle wobbled in her grip for a split second. It was all the opening his teammate needed to swoop in and steal it. Cassandra shot him a look of pure venom. He gave her a blank, emotionless stare in return. This was their new language. No insults, no witty banter. Just the brutal physics of their bodies and brooms colliding at fifty miles an hour.

Before he could even register the success of the maneuver, he heard the sound he had been half-expecting, the murderous hiss of a Bludger cutting through the air, aimed directly at his head.

"Thorne, watch your six!" Sirius screamed from his position across the pitch.

Hadrian's reflexes, honed by years of dodging curses, took over. He dropped into a corkscrew spin, the iron ball missing his ear by inches. The wind from its passage buffeted him. He leveled out, his heart hammering. He looked over and saw Mulciber, the Slytherin Beater, grinning maliciously, already swinging his bat for another go. Their mission was clear. Take out Thorne.

The game devolved. It wasn't about scoring anymore; it was about survival. Every time Hadrian touched the Quaffle, a Bludger would materialize, sent his way with deadly intent. He was forced to fly erratically, making sharp, unpredictable turns, using every bit of instinct he had to stay in one piece.

From his vantage point high above, James Potter was having a terrible game. He was supposed to be looking for the Snitch, but his eyes were constantly drawn to the drama below. He saw Hadrian's reckless, brilliant flying. He heard the crowd roar every time Hadrian pulled off a death-defying dodge and managed to get a pass off. He saw Lily Evans in the stands, her hands clenched, her eyes following Hadrian's every move. And James, fueled by a bitter, competitive jealousy, tried to compensate. He started performing flashy, unnecessary dives, executing Wronski Feints when there was no Snitch in sight, all in a desperate attempt to recapture the crowd's attention.

The score was twenty-ten to Slytherin. Gryffindor was being bled. Cassandra received a pass, clear of any immediate defenders. She streaked toward the goalposts. She was a blur of green and silver. Hadrian saw it. He was fifty yards away, with a Bludger closing in on him fast. There was no time for subtlety.

He did the only thing he could. He put the Cleansweep into a full-speed, headlong charge directly at her, ignoring the Bludger, ignoring everything else. He was a human missile. Cassandra's eyes widened as she saw him coming. She had a split second to choose: score the goal, or brace for impact.

She chose to score. She threw the Quaffle.

At the same instant, Hadrian wrenched his broom sideways, not hitting her, but coming so close their knees almost touched. His hand shot out, not to block the Quaffle, but to hook her arm. For a fraction of a second, his fingers closed around the fabric of her sleeve. It was just enough to spoil her aim. The Quaffle sailed wide of the goalpost by a few scant inches.

The Bludger slammed into the back of his broom.

The impact was a violent, splintering crack. The Cleansweep bucked like a wild animal, its tail-twigs shattering. He was thrown forward, clinging on for dear life as the broom went into an uncontrolled death spiral. The ground rushed up to meet him. This was it. This was how his ridiculous second life would end – a footnote in a school Quidditch match.

The world became a nauseating, spinning vortex of green grass and grey sky. The roar of the crowd warped into a high-pitched whine in Hadrian's ears. His hands were locked on the bucking, splintering handle of the Cleansweep, his knuckles white, his arms screaming from the strain. He was a passenger on a dying machine. The instincts that had served him so well in the air were useless against the simple, brutal laws of gravity.

He heard shouts, screams, a collective gasp from the entire stadium. He was vaguely aware of other brooms streaking past him, Madam Hooch's whistle shrieking a frantic, continuous blast. None of it mattered. There was only the wind tearing at his face and the ground getting closer with terrifying speed.

Just as he braced for the bone-shattering impact, another body slammed into his from the side. For a wild moment, he thought it was another Bludger coming to finish the job. But this was different. An arm, wrapped in a red and gold Quidditch uniform, hooked around his chest, hauling him bodily from his dying broom.

It was James.

His father, with an expression of intense, desperate concentration on his face, had abandoned his hunt for the Snitch entirely. He grunted with the effort, his own broom groaning under the double weight, but his grip was like iron. He pulled Hadrian clear just as the shattered Cleansweep hit the pitch and exploded into a cloud of kindling. James stabilized his broom, fighting the momentum, and managed a rough, stumbling landing in the middle of the field.

He let Hadrian go. Hadrian staggered, his legs feeling like jelly, and collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

The game had come to a complete halt. Players from both teams were landing, circling the scene like vultures. Madam Hooch was sprinting across the grass toward them.

James stood over him, breathing heavily. "What in the name of Merlin's saggy left–" he began, his voice a mixture of relief and fury, but he was cut off by Sirius and Remus landing beside them.

"Harry– Hadrian! Are you alright?" Sirius asked, his face pale with shock under his usual bravado.

"I'm fine," Hadrian managed to rasp, pushing himself to his feet. His entire body ached. He looked up, past his concerned friends, past the other players, his eyes searching the sky.

He found her instantly. Cassandra was hovering fifty feet up, her flight arrested, watching him. Her expression was unreadable, a perfectly composed mask. But he could see it in the rigid set of her shoulders, the way she held her broom in a white-knuckled grip. In her own way, she was as shocked as he was. Their private war had just escalated to near-lethal consequences, right in front of the entire school.

Madam Hooch finally reached them, her face apoplectic. "Thorne, you're out! Potter, what were you thinking? And you two!" she shrieked, pointing up at the Slytherin Beaters, Mulciber and Wilkes. "That was a deliberate, targeted assault! I'll have you both scrubbing trophies with your toothbrushes for a month!"

"But Professor–" Mulciber began.

"Not another word!" she roared. "The game will resume! We'll finish this if I have to tie you all to your brooms myself! Gryffindor, get your reserve Chaser!"

Hadrian was escorted off the pitch, the concerned shouts of his teammates fading behind him. He didn't go to the infirmary. He just sank onto the bench in the empty changing room, his head in his hands, the adrenaline slowly draining away, leaving him feeling hollow and shaking. He had been reckless. Stupidly reckless. He'd let his animosity toward her override every bit of common sense. He had almost died for a meaningless school game.

He could hear the roar of the crowd starting up again, the game resuming without him. The sounds were distant, muted. After ten agonizing minutes, a final, deafening roar signaled the end. The door burst open and the rest of the Gryffindor team stormed in, their faces a mixture of exhaustion and grim fury.

They had lost. James had managed to catch the Snitch, but Slytherin had racked up so many goals in the final minutes, while Gryffindor was still disorganized, that the hundred and fifty points weren't enough.

The atmosphere was thick with resentment. No one was looking at him. James threw his broom into its rack with a loud, angry clatter.

"You alright, mate?" Sirius asked quietly, sitting down next to Hadrian.

"I'm fine," Hadrian repeated, not looking up.

"Don't listen to him," Sirius muttered, nodding toward James. "He's just angry because you were brilliant and he almost wasn't."

The tension was broken by the door creaking open again. It was Lily Evans, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with concern. She walked straight over to Hadrian, ignoring everyone else.

"I saw what happened," she said, her voice soft. "That was the bravest, most reckless thing I've ever seen. You could have been killed." She looked over at James, and her voice hardened. "And you. That was an amazing catch. And a truly noble rescue." Her praise felt calculated, an attempt to smooth over the fractured ego of her would-be boyfriend.

The attention, the praise, the looks – it was all too much. Hadrian stood up abruptly. "I need some air," he mumbled, pushing past her and heading for the exit, desperate to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the room.

He walked out into the cool evening air, his borrowed robes feeling heavy on his shoulders. He didn't know where he was going, just away. He rounded the stands, heading for the path back to the castle, when a voice stopped him.

"Thorne."

It was Cassandra. She was standing there, still in her Quidditch uniform, her broom in her hand. Her perfect hair was windswept, a few strands escaping her usually immaculate ponytail. She looked… disheveled. Human.

He stopped, facing her. The noise of the departing crowd was a distant buzz. Here, in the shadow of the stands, it was just the two of them.

"What do you want, Vexley?" he asked, his voice weary. "Come to finish the job?"

She ignored the jibe. She took a step closer, her grey eyes searching his face, all traces of her on-pitch fury gone, replaced by a raw, unsettling intensity. "You were going to let that Bludger hit you," she said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement. "You had a choice between stopping me and saving yourself. You chose to stop me."

"You were going to score," he countered, his voice flat. "My job is to stop you from scoring."

"Don't play games with me," she snapped, her voice low and sharp. "Not now. Why?"

It was a question he couldn't answer. How could he explain that her scoring a goal was an abstract concept. How could he explain that in that moment, she, Cassandra Vexley, had become the physical manifestation of every rivalry, every fight he had ever been in, a singular focus for all his pent-up frustration?

"Maybe I just don't like seeing you succeed," he said, the words tasting like acid.

A flicker of something – hurt? Confusion? – passed through her eyes before being replaced by her familiar, icy mask. "Right," she said, her voice brittle. "Of course."

The space between them crackled with unspoken things: the Hogsmeade disaster, the duel, the library incident, and now, this. A fight that had nearly killed him. A conflict that felt less and less like a game and more like a shared, dangerous obsession.

The final whistle hadn't ended it. They were still hovering, breathing heavily, locked in a furious, hateful stare. It wasn't over. It had simply moved from the sky back down to the earth, where the stakes were somehow even higher. Without another word, she turned and walked away, her straight-backed posture a clear sign that whatever had just happened had only hardened her resolve. He watched her go, a cold certainty settling in his stomach. Oh no, this was far from over.

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Author's note:

What do you think? Is Cassandra getting any more human? How about James' jealousy mixed with heroism? Lots happening, huh?

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