Hadrian Peverell: High Lord of Skagos

Chapter 7: Thirty Years of Solitude

Thirty years had passed since Harry Potter defeated Voldemort, but in many ways, it felt like another lifetime. The momentous victory that had shaped his young adult years seemed almost distant now, a blur of faded memories clouded by the weight of responsibility. What followed after the final battle was not the peace and happiness he had once imagined, but a slow and painful estrangement from the world he had fought so hard to protect.

The lordships had come unexpectedly, like an avalanche of titles and expectations. Potter, Peverell, Black, Gryffindor, and, by conquest, Slytherin. These ancient, powerful bloodlines carried responsibilities and influence Harry was unprepared to manage. His friends had tried to understand at first, but as the demands of high society and the politics of the old families pulled him deeper into a world of formalities, wealth, and power, he felt himself drifting away from the people he had once been closest to. They still wrote letters sometimes, polite and careful, but the easy, carefree friendship of their Hogwarts days had vanished. Harry found himself increasingly alone, isolated by the immense weight of his newfound legacy.

In that isolation, he turned to the one thing that had always brought him some solace: magic.

The first years of his travels were full of restlessness, a need to understand the ancient magic connected to his bloodlines. Harry had always been a capable wizard, but what he sought now was deeper, more profound—magic that had been forgotten by most. He journeyed from country to country, immersing himself in different magical cultures, learning from masters who had kept to the old ways. In Egypt, he studied ancient wards and rune casting under a reclusive spellcaster who lived near the Great Pyramid. In Japan, he spent years learning wandless magic from an elderly sorcerer who spoke in riddles and lived high on Mount Fuji. Harry found himself drawn to remote places, places untouched by the modern wizarding world, where knowledge was passed down in whispers and rituals rather than textbooks.

His appetite for knowledge became insatiable. He devoured ancient texts in forgotten libraries, studied under obscure wizards who practiced long-forbidden forms of magic, and learned of magical creatures who had all but disappeared from common folklore. His understanding of magical theory deepened with each new discovery, and for the first time, he realized that he truly enjoyed the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake. The structured, narrow lessons at Hogwarts had always felt limiting. Here, in the wild expanses of the world, magic had no boundaries.

His travels took him across continents and magical disciplines. In South America, he learned about nature magic, speaking with ancient wizards who could manipulate the elements themselves. They taught him how to command wind, rain, and even the earth beneath his feet. In Tibet, he sought out monks who had mastered the art of soul magic, guiding Harry through meditations that expanded his understanding of his own consciousness, helping him explore the limits of his magical core. It was during these travels that Harry found a deep satisfaction in theory—the intricacies of spell construction, the balance between intention and execution, the delicate interplay of forces unseen. His mind became sharper, his magical ability more refined. In solitude, he became something more than just the Boy Who Lived.

But there were mysteries that followed him, no matter how far he traveled.

The Elder Wand and the Resurrection Stone were burdens he had tried to leave behind. Harry had attempted to discard them countless times. He had thrown the Elder Wand into the deepest ocean trench and buried the Resurrection Stone in the thickest, most impenetrable forest. But no matter what he did, the artifacts always found their way back to him. Without warning, he would find the wand tucked into his robes or the stone resting in his pocket. Each time, a wave of dread washed over him, but also a strange sense of inevitability.

And then there was the aging.

As the years passed, Harry noticed a peculiar change. His body didn't seem to age. At first, it was subtle—small things like cuts healing faster than usual or his stamina remaining unnaturally high despite long days of exertion. But as the thirty years wore on, it became clear: while his former friends had grown older, Harry remained largely the same. His face was unlined, his hair unchanged, his body just as strong as it had been in his twenties.

At first, he brushed it off as a side effect of some of the obscure magic he had encountered. But as the years ticked by and he saw more and more familiar faces growing older, while his own remained untouched by time, Harry realized the truth—he wasn't aging. Whether it was the influence of the Deathly Hallows, his connection to the Peverells, or something else entirely, he didn't know. But the fact remained, he was no longer aging like a normal man.

To avoid suspicion, he began to use glamours to disguise himself. He added lines to his face, streaks of grey to his hair, even occasionally stooped his posture to mimic the slow wear of time on his body. It worked, at least for a while. He would move from place to place, changing his appearance and story often enough that people wouldn't notice how little he truly aged. But it was only a temporary solution. Deep down, Harry knew that at some point, the magical world would catch on. Wizards were long-lived, yes, but even they aged. He couldn't hide forever.

He was immortal, bound to a destiny he had never asked for. But how long could he continue to pretend he belonged among the mortal world?

The thought haunted him as much as the Hallows themselves.

So he began to hide.

He had found solace in the vast expanse of Gryffindor Castle, a secluded fortress hidden deep within the Scottish Highlands. After years of traveling the world in search of new magic and ancient knowledge, he had decided to settle more permanently in one of the many estates under his lordships. The castle had once belonged to his ancestor, Godric Gryffindor, and it was as much a part of Harry's legacy as the other holdings under the Potter, Peverell, Black, and Slytherin lines. Here, he could live in peace—if not in isolation—surrounded by ancient tomes, forgotten magic, and the loyal house-elves who served the castle.

Harry had moved all his possessions and magical artifacts to Gryffindor Castle, transforming it into both his home and a sanctuary of magical learning. The castle's libraries, stretching across entire wings, held untold volumes of forgotten spells and rituals. He could spend days in its quiet corridors, poring over books bound in dragonhide, or consulting the intricate magical charts left behind by his ancestors. The magic here was old, unyielding, and potent, and Harry immersed himself in it, determined to unlock its secrets.

The house-elves who served him had also made the move to Gryffindor Castle, each one of them loyal beyond measure. They took care of the castle's day-to-day operations, keeping the vast estate running smoothly while Harry dedicated himself to his studies.

With the elves managing the castle and its grounds, Harry was free to focus on the endless pursuit of magical knowledge. The libraries within Gryffindor Castle were far more extensive than he had initially realized. Shelves upon shelves of books, scrolls, and manuscripts lined the walls of several rooms, each one dedicated to a different branch of magic. The castle's main library was filled with spellbooks and enchanted objects, but there were also hidden rooms, accessible only through secret passages or forgotten incantations. Harry would spend hours uncovering these secret spaces, finding treasure troves of knowledge.

There was the Hall of Ancestors, where he had hung portraits of his long-dead forebears. Many of them were willing to share their knowledge, each portrait containing the memories and expertise of the individuals they depicted. They had seen centuries of magical advancement, and some even had direct ties to the founders of Hogwarts. Godric Gryffindor himself spoke to Harry often, guiding him through the castle's hidden mysteries. Salazar Slytherin's portrait, too, though it took longer to build a rapport, eventually shared some of the darker secrets of his magic.

In between his studies, Harry would take breaks in the vast gardens that surrounded Gryffindor Castle. These grounds had once been cared for by magical creatures, many of whom still roamed the estate. Hippogriffs and thestrals grazed in the meadows, and bowtruckles could be seen darting through the trees. It was peaceful here, far removed from the chaos of the outside world.

Yet, despite the beauty and tranquility of thecastle, Harry was always conscious of the isolation. Thirty years had passed,and though he had learned more than most wizards would in a lifetime, thesolitude had grown heavy. Even if he knew, that the world wouldn't accept himanymore as he was now.