Hadrian Potter

12 Grimmauld Place

The hallway stretched before them, dimly lit and suffocating, as if the walls themselves were closing in. Each of Hadrian's footsteps seemed to echo endlessly, though the creak of the wooden floorboards was the only sound that dared to break the oppressive silence. The air was thick and heavy with the scent of home-cooked food that drifted lazily through the narrow corridor. It was a cruel contrast to the tension that coiled like a spring inside his chest. 

Neville, walking beside him, glanced around, his eyes sharp but guarded. The brothers moved as though drawn forward by invisible strings, though neither was in any hurry to reach the door at the end of the hall.

Hadrian could feel the hand at his back, guiding him, urging him toward the grey door ahead. His body was taut, every muscle coiled with the effort of restraint. It would be so easy to turn, to break that hand, to shatter the bones beneath his grip and watch the blood run down his fingers. The thought was fleeting, a whisper of violence that simmered beneath his skin, but it stayed there festering.

The door loomed closer, the light spilling from beneath it soft and warm, but it only made the darkness inside Hadrian feel colder. With each step, he fought the growing urge to lash out, to destroy the room beyond before anyone had a chance to say a word. He could feel the weight of his power humming just beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed.

Without a word, they were shoved inside. The moment the door clicked shut behind them, Hadrian's fists clenched. The tension in his jaw tightened, his teeth grinding as he forced himself to remain still. He didn't look at Neville—he didn't need to. He could feel the same anger radiating from his brother, a slow, burning thing that mirrored his own. But where Neville's rage was ice, cold, and sharp, Hadrian's was molten, a smouldering fire that threatened to consume him from the inside.

The room was crowded, the air thick with unspoken judgment and fear. Hadrian felt their eyes on him—dozens of them, all watching, all waiting. They had no idea what they were looking at, none of them. If they did, they wouldn't be so calm. Hadrian's lips twitched into something that might have been a smile, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

Rough hands grabbed at him, pulling his chin upward with a force that was meant to subdue, to control. His sunglasses were snatched from his face, the harsh light from above stabbing into his eyes like needles. Pain rippled through his skull, but it was nothing new. He'd felt worse—so much worse.

He blinked against the brightness, letting the sting wash over him, letting it ground him. When his vision finally cleared, he lifted his head slowly, deliberately, taking his time. His gaze swept over the room, cold and detached. The faces blurred together at first, insignificant, but then he saw them. Sirius Black. Remus Lupin. And there, watching from the corner like a hawk, was Albus Dumbledore.

For a moment, something like amusement flickered through Hadrian's dark green eyes. He tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into a mockery of a greeting. "Dumbledore." The word slipped out, slow and venomous, as if tasting it on his tongue for the first time.

Dumbledore's expression shifted, momentarily thrown by the cold indifference in Hadrian's voice. His tired eyes flickered with something unnameable before he regained his composure. "Hadrian Potter. Neville Longbottom." He said the names carefully, as though testing their weight.

Neville's gaze didn't waver as he stared at the old man. When he finally spoke, his voice was as cold as Hadrian's had been. "Yes, in the flesh. You wanted a chat?"

Hadrian didn't bother to speak again, his silence more dangerous than any words he might offer. The room felt smaller with every passing second, the tension thickening like fog. And yet, beneath the surface, there was something almost playful in the way the brothers held themselves. A dark game was being played here, one they had no intention of losing.