Chapter Text
Hadrian followed behind Severus quickly later that night, only five minutes before curfew. Severus pushed open the door to his office, leading Hadrian inside. As soon as the door closed, Severus moved without hesitation, pulling Hadrian close and holding him tightly.
“You do not know how worried I was when I saw you tonight,” Severus said, his voice low and unsteady.
Hadrian tilted his head back, surprised to see the sheen of water in his professor’s eyes. “I am so sorry,” he whispered, fighting to hold back his own tears. “I didn’t mean to make you upset.”
Hadrian gently pulled away, tugging Severus with him toward the couch in front of the fireplace. The flames cast long shadows across the walls, warming the cold dungeon room. “I just had to protect my brother,” Hadrian murmured, meeting Severus’s eyes with unwavering honesty. “I would do the same for you.”
Severus’s expression hardened, his features settling back into the stern mask he showed the rest of the world. “You do not get to do that again. Ever,” he said firmly.
Hadrian leaned in once more, pressing his face against Severus’s shoulder, his arms tight around him. “I am sorry, Dad,” he whispered.
Severus stiffened at the word. It was not the first time Hadrian had called him that, but it was rare so rare that each time it happened he held on to it like something fragile and priceless. He never would have imagined himself in this role, yet the bond between them had taken root quietly, year after year, until Severus realized he no longer thought of Hadrian as simply a student.
From the moment he had truly looked at the boy really seen him it had been impossible to step away. Severus saw too much of his own youth in Hadrian. The way the boy tried to hide every wound, the way he shouldered burdens too heavy for someone his age, the way he endured a home that left him scarred. Each time Severus thought of what Lily and James had done to their eldest son, of how easily they cast him aside, he felt a bitterness he could never quite shake.
Over the years, Hadrian had come to him again and again, first with questions about lessons, then with unspoken needs for guidance and comfort. By second year, it was routine for Hadrian to appear in his office after class at least once a week, the conversations ranging from coursework to far more personal confessions. When Hadrian finally trusted him enough to reveal his alters and explain what they meant, Severus had made a silent promise to stand by him no matter what. And he had kept it.
Hadrian sat curled into the corner of the couch, the fire crackling low in the grate. His eyes were heavy, lids fluttering each time the warmth of the flames washed over him. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep here, not in Severus’s office of all places, but the exhaustion from the troll, the shouting, and the rush of adrenaline left his body aching for rest.
Severus watched him from the armchair opposite; quill paused over half–finished notes. The boy had drawn his knees to his chest, face tucked half into the sleeve of his robes like he was trying to disappear. There was something achingly familiar about it, the posture of someone too used to making himself small.
Before long, Hadrian’s head lolled sideways, cheek pressed against the worn arm of the couch. A faint murmur slipped from his lips words Severus could not catch, though the tone was raw, like pleading. The professor rose quietly, setting his papers aside. For a moment he stood over the boy, fighting the instinct to retreat behind the wall he always held. Then, slowly, he reached down, tugged a blanket from the back of the chair, and draped it over Hadrian’s shoulders.
The boy stirred, eyes half–open for only a second. “Thanks… Dad,” he whispered sleepily, and then he was gone, breath evening out into soft, steady rhythm.
Severus froze, throat tight, before sinking onto the couch’s edge. He allowed himself the smallest of touches, brushing Hadrian’s messy fringe from his forehead. “Rest, child,” he murmured so softly it would never carry. “You’re safe here.”
Severus walked over to the door that led into his personal potions laboratory, the space he trusted no one else to enter. With a quiet flick of his wand, he opened it and stepped inside, the familiar scent of herbs and simmering brews settling around him like a heavy cloak. His eyes immediately sought out the cauldron in the corner, the one he had set aside for the potion he was brewing for Hadrian.
It was proving to be more difficult than he had anticipated. Not impossible, of course. Severus knew he had the skill, the knowledge, and the patience to succeed. Yet this particular brew demanded more than precise cutting and careful stirring. The integration of runes into a potion altered every stage of the process. One wrong angle in a symbol, one rune inscribed too shallow or too deeply into the rim of the cauldron, and the entire mixture could collapse into nothing more than wasted ingredients. Worse still, it could turn volatile.
He approached the worktable and traced the faintly glowing runes he had already carved into the iron surface of the cauldron. The characters pulsed with quiet magic, threads of energy winding into the thick liquid inside. The potion itself shimmered a pale green, the surface restless, as though resisting his attempts to bind it. Severus narrowed his eyes. He had brewed countless complex mixtures in his lifetime, yet this one demanded more from him. It was not just a matter of skill, but of sheer willpower, focus, and endurance. For Hadrian, though, he would see it through, no matter how long it took.
OoO
The next Monday evening, Hadrian found himself wandering the corridors of Hogwarts long past curfew. He moved slowly, letting the quiet of the castle settle over him. The air was cool, and the soft creaks of stone and wood filled the silence like a lullaby. There was something comforting in walking halls that had stood for centuries, halls that he had learned better than most. He was not afraid of being caught. He knew the patrol routes of the prefects, the rhythms of their steps, the corners where one could melt into shadow until danger passed.
He had no particular destination in mind, yet that did not matter. Wherever his feet carried him was enough. These stolen moments of solitude had become his way of breathing again, of setting the weight of the day aside. The castle itself felt alive around him, whispering secrets through its drafty arches and flickering torches.
It was during this quiet wandering that he heard his name. A voice, smooth yet carrying that familiar stutter that did not fool him, cut through the stillness. He turned sharply, recognizing it at once. Quirrell.
“Good evening, Professor,” Hadrian greeted, his voice even.
“Ah, Hadrian,” Quirrell replied, though his tone carried none of the nervous quiver he showed to others. “What would a student like you be doing out of bed at such an hour?” His body language had shifted as well, calm, collected, almost measured.
“Just clearing my head after a long day,” Hadrian answered, offering no apology.
“Well then,” Quirrell said, turning smoothly down the corridor, “you will have no problem walking with me.”
Hadrian fell into step only a pace behind. For several moments, neither spoke. Their footsteps echoed across the stone floor, and Hadrian felt his curiosity gnawing at him until he could no longer hold back.
“I have to ask, Professor,” Hadrian began, studying the man’s careful movements. “I notice the way you act. The way you change. The way your voice and posture shift.” He hesitated, then asked quietly, “Do you have dissociative identity disorder?”
The question hung in the air. Quirrell paused for the briefest of moments, but his face betrayed nothing.
“Well, Hadrian,” he said at last, his voice softer than usual, “I never expected you to understand.”
He really is like us; Felix’s voice murmured warmly in Hadrian’s head. That thought alone made Hadrian’s lips curve into a smile he could not quite contain.
“Does this change the way you see me?” Quirrell asked, his tone serious now.
“No,” Hadrian replied firmly. “Not at all, Professor.”
“Good,” Quirrell said, a faint smile finally tugging at his lips. “Because I have something for you to learn. I had planned to wait until Thursday, but since we are here…”
“Of course, Professor,” Hadrian said quickly. Then he tilted his head slightly, curiosity flashing in his eyes. “Though, perhaps I should ask… what would you like to be called? Since you are not always Quirrell.”
There was a flicker of something dangerous in the man’s expression, followed by an almost regal calm. “You may call me Marvolo,” he said simply.
Hadrian’s smile widened, his eyes alight with an almost childlike brightness. “It is very nice to meet you for real, Marvolo.”
They turned down a quieter corridor, the kind rarely used except by ghosts or Filch on his endless prowls. Marvolo stopped in a shallow alcove where torchlight did not quite reach, shadows curling close around them. He lifted his hand slightly, a command without words for Hadrian to pay attention.
“There is magic,” Marvolo said, his voice smooth, deliberate, “that feeds upon will rather than technique. Power that answers not to careful gestures but to desire itself.” His dark eyes studied Hadrian carefully, as though measuring his very soul. “Such spells… can be dangerous. But I think you, more than most, can understand them.”
Hadrian felt a stir in his chest, like a note of music just waiting to be struck. His magic shifted, restless beneath his skin, sensing something it wanted before he even knew what it was.
“What spell is it?” he asked quietly.
Marvolo’s lips curved, not quite a smile. “Lacero,” he said, the word almost purring. “A spell meant to rend and tear. A crude cousin to more refined arts. But useful for one such as you… it listens only if you truly mean it.”
He drew his wand with slow precision and traced the motion in the air, sharp and cutting, like a blade drawn free of its sheath. The stone wall at the far end of the alcove groaned, a long, jagged slash carved across it, dust trickling from the wound.
Hadrian’s breath caught. The magic radiated from the mark as if the castle itself bled energy.
“Your turn,” Marvolo said softly, stepping back. “Do not think of the word as a command. Think of it as… permission. Allow your will to flow through it. Let the spell become what you desire.”
Hadrian lifted his wand, pulse quickening. He whispered the incantation “Lacero” and felt his magic rush forward so suddenly it almost startled him. It was not like other spells, neat and measured. This one demanded everything. The air thrummed, and a second jagged cut appeared beside Marvolo’s.
Hadrian’s entire body tingled. It felt as though his magic had finally woken up from a long sleep, stretching eagerly, hungering for more. He wanted to cast it again. He wanted to see what else he could do.
“Well done,” Marvolo murmured, voice warm with approval. “You feel it, do you not? The way the spell pulls at you… the way it answers when others do not.”
Hadrian nodded, almost breathless. “It’s… different. It feels alive.”
“Not alive, Hadrian,” Marvolo corrected gently, though there was something gleaming in his gaze. “It is you. Your magic, unbound. Most wizards never touch it. They fear it. But you…” He paused, letting silence weigh heavy. “You could make it yours.”
Hadrian swallowed, the rush of energy still thrumming under his skin. He wanted that again. More than that, he needed it.
Marvolo watched him closely, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as though satisfied. “Another time,” he said, sliding his wand away. “Enough for tonight. Power must not be rushed. It is best savored.”
The words felt like a denial, but also a promise. Hadrian nodded anyway, though part of him ached to keep going.
As they walked back through the shadowed corridor, Marvolo’s voice came low, almost tender. “You see now, Hadrian. Magic such as this does not wound you, it awakens you. And soon, you will wonder how you ever lived without it.”
Once Hadrian made it back to the common room, his eyes were already half-closed with exhaustion. Don’t worry, Hadrian. I’ll get us to bed, Ivy murmured gently from inside, his steady presence easing the tension from Hadrian’s body.
He stepped forward, shoulders loosening, posture softening into something more comfortable than Hadrian usually carried. As Hadrian drifted into the background, curling up with Felix in their shared headspace, Ivy guided their body to the stone wall and whispered the password. “Dominus.” The entrance opened, revealing the warm flicker of firelight inside.
Ronan and Callum were still by the hearth, both looking drowsy but refusing to leave. Ivy smiled faintly as he crossed to them, holding out his hands. “You two didn’t have to wait up for me,” he said quietly. “Come on, let’s go to bed. I’m tired.”
Each boy took his hand, and Ivy tugged them gently toward the dormitory. They fell into their nighttime routines, Ronan and Callum changing in the room while Ivy slipped into the lavatory.
When he returned, Ronan was already under his covers. Callum, however, was curled up in Hadrian’s bed instead of his own, wrapped like a cocoon in the blankets.
Ivy chuckled, walking over with a playful glint in his eye. “If you’re going to sleep here, don’t take up the whole bed,” he teased, leaning his weight against Callum to push him over.
Callum mumbled something half-asleep and unintelligible, refusing to budge. Ivy only shook his head, pulling back the covers and sliding in beside him. “Goodnight, Callum,” he murmured as he settled.
“‘Night, Ivy,” Callum mumbled back, shifting closer until their shoulders touched.
Ivy let his eyes fall shut, content in the warmth, and for once, everything felt safe.
OoO
The next morning, Ash was the first to wake, for the first time in what felt like years. Sleep had abandoned him, and his body would not stay still, restless with the gnawing need to search, to find. The library called.
He hated more than anyone else the way their reflection betrayed them, James’s face staring back, Lily’s eyes glaring too bright. Worse still, it was always him who stood in front when James raged, when anger needed a target. He bore that weight like armor, though it was more wound than shield.
Careful not to wake Callum, Ash shifted him gently aside and slipped from the bed. He picked through their wardrobe with brisk precision, tugging on clothes, forcing Potter hair flat only for it to spring rebelliously out of place. He muttered in frustration but pushed on, shutting the dormitory door behind him with practiced quiet.
By the time he reached the library, it was still deep in the night, the hour hand barely past four. Of course, the doors were locked, the wards humming faint and steady. Ash drew his wand without hesitation, fingers cold around the wood. A few whispered words, a focused twist of intent, and the wards rippled. He pressed and pressed until, at last, a gap shivered open, barely wide enough for him to slip through.
Inside, the library smelled of dust, ink, and secrecy. He whispered, “Lumos,” and pale light spilled from his wand-tip, stretching shadows between the shelves. His steps carried him to the rune section, where he prowled row after row, hungry-eyed, until at last a single tome seemed to hum in his hand.
Ash carried it to his favorite corner a shadowed alcove that most students avoided because of the chill that seemed to seep there, a draft from the stone walls that whispered like voices if you lingered too long. He liked it. No one bothered him there.
The book opened heavy in his lap. What had looked like five hundred pages at a glance unfolded to nearly three thousand within, words stretching deeper with every turn. He pressed the tome closer, greedy, and dove into the first chapter: “On the Changing of Forms: Runes to Alter the Nature of Beasts.”
Two hours later, footsteps echoed across the flagstones at the front of the library. Too steady, too sure.
“Shit,” Ash breathed, snapping the book shut and cancelling his Lumos. The wards were shifting, loosening Madam Pince was about to open.
He yanked his wand up, whispered a disillusionment charm, and felt the shimmer crawl down over his skin. Not perfect, but enough. Moving fast and silent, he slipped through the back door as its wards shivered and dropped. The corridor beyond was cold and empty. He hurried down it, circling the long way around, careful to keep his footsteps swallowed by the stone.
By the time the great front doors creaked open, Ash was walking up the main hall, expression calm, book tucked innocently under his arm. Madam Pince stepped inside, sharp-eyed as always.
“Morning,” Ash said, giving her a little wave, as if he had just arrived and not broken half a dozen rules to be inside for hours already.
She sniffed but nodded, muttering something under her breath about “early risers.” Ash slipped past her and back into the stacks, his corner waiting, his book reopening to page two hundred fifty.
This section spoke of animal runes, inscriptions designed to sharpen fangs, toughen claws, twist bone and hide until rats became beasts. Close… but wrong. He needed something permanent, something that worked on humans.
In the mind space, Ash felt Hadrian stir, Ivy waking beside him.
How long have you been up, Ash? Hadrian’s voice was soft, still fogged with sleep.
Not long enough to find anything useful, Ash replied, eyes never leaving the page.
Hadrian didn’t argue. He only looked, drifting through the memories of Ash prying open wards at four in the morning, of turning pages feverishly, only to collapse inward at another dead end. Ash felt the sadness ripple through him, heavy and familiar.
And he hated it. He hated the way Hadrian folded under the weight of failure. He hated that it was his sadness now too.
Ash clenched his jaw. He had always found a way before. He would again. Whatever it cost, he would not let Hadrian stay broken.
Thirty minutes later, Ash felt the familiar tug in his chest the quiet thread that always told him when Callum and Ronan were near. They slipped into the library without a word, no questions about where he had been. The past month had made it clear: none of them cared about explanations, only about finding information.
They each pulled books from the shelves, settling beside him. The silence was easy between them, broken only when Ash’s head snapped up at the sound of a too-loud voice cutting across the rows.
“It’s Snape, I’m telling you,” Julian hissed, his voice slicing through the hush of the library. “He went after the trapdoor on Halloween.”
Ash froze, listening. His brother. His little brother, the one who never came to the library before class, the one who was always late to breakfast. A second voice whispered a sharp hush, but Ash was already leaning forward, straining to catch more.
Across the rows he could make out Julian, sitting with the redheaded boy and the bushy-haired girl from Halloween. They were bent close over a table, whispering like conspirators.
Ash rose to his feet. Callum and Ronan both shot him questioning looks, but he only smiled faintly as he crossed the aisle.
“Hello, little brother,” Ash greeted when he reached their table. Julian and Ron both jolted in surprise. The smile curled sharper on Ash’s lips.
“And what’s this? A group of first years in the library so early. That’s strange.” His eyes flicked from one to the next. “One who doesn’t care about his grades.” he nodded at Ron, “and one who thinks fame is enough to pass classes.” His gaze fixed on Julian, who glared back at him. Ash turned finally to the girl. “And you. I’ve seen you here before, mornings. You at least know the value of studying.”
He offered his hand, voice cold. “I am Heir Hadrian Potter. And you are?”
Julian made a sharp, angry sound at the word Heir, but the girl ignored him and shook Ash’s hand.
“Hermione Granger,” she said firmly.
“Pleasure,” Ash replied smoothly, then looked back at the boys. “Now. What is this I hear about Professor Snape and a trapdoor?”
Hermione’s eyes widened. “I told you, you talk too loud,” she whispered fiercely to Julian, but it was too late.
Ash’s smile widened. He enjoyed the way they all scrambled under his calm stare. “Anyone care to explain?” His tone was polite, patient, but unyielding.
Ron’s ears went red. “Why would we tell a snake like you anything?” he snapped.
Ash kept his face utterly blank; his eyes fixed on Julian. “Was that supposed to hurt me? That little insult?” He chuckled, low and humorless.
“I would think you’d want to know if your Head of House was up to something, wouldn’t you?” Ash pressed, directing his gaze at Hermione. He knew she was the one who would break.
She looked down, torn, before finally lifting her chin. “We… we believe that Professor Snape wants whatever is being kept on the third floor.”
Ash feigned surprise, but anger twisted sharp and hot beneath his skin. How dare they accuse Severus. Hadrian yells in his mind.
“Very well,” he said at last, his voice clipped. “But whatever is hidden there, three first years should stay out of it.” He turned on his heel, cloak snapping behind him, and walked back to Callum and Ronan.
By the time he sat back down, a laugh was spilling from his lips. “Can you believe that? They think Severus is after whatever’s hidden on the third floor.”
Ronan nearly choked on his own laughter. “Hold on, they actually think Snape would steal something from the school?”
Callum laughed with him, shaking his head. The three of them kept chuckling as they packed up their books, the echoes of first-year foolishness following them out of the library and down toward the Great Hall for breakfast.
The scratch of quills hushed as Professor Babbling swept into the room, her robe hem brushing the stone floor. With a flick of her wand, runes began etching themselves across the blackboard, twisting into a tangled array that filled nearly half the board.
“Good morning, class. Today we’ll examine a binding array commonly used in containment wards,” she announced, tapping the center rune with her wand. The symbol pulsed faintly, as if alive. “But you’ll notice, if constructed in this exact order, the array collapses. Tell me why?”
The room went silent. Ravenclaws squinted at their parchments, Slytherins looked unimpressed, and a few Gryffindors were clearly just trying to copy the shapes down correctly.
Inside Hadrian’s head, Callix’s calm voice stirred. We’ve seen this array before. Nordic Anchors of Power, second volume. Page ninety-four, lower margin. The flaw is in the sequencing stability before containment.
The page bloomed in Hadrian’s memory, as if Callix was holding the book open just for him. His quill hovered, and before he could think better of it, his hand shot into the air.
“Yes, Mr. Potter?” Professor Babbling arched an eyebrow.
Hadrian rose slightly in his seat. “The collapse happens because the stability rune is set before the containment rune. Stability can’t hold without a barrier to lock it in it’s like trying to build walls on air. If you reversed the order, the runes would weave correctly, and the array would hold.”
A pause then Professor Babbling’s mouth twitched into a rare smile. “Excellent, Mr. Potter. You’re quite right, 5 points to Slytherin.” She flicked her wand and the runes shifted, glowing brighter as they realigned. “Very few fourth years would catch that so quickly.”
Callum, seated beside him, leaned over with a smirk. “Show-off,” he muttered under his breath, though the pride in his tone was unmistakable.
Callix hummed in quiet satisfaction. And you remembered perfectly. You didn’t even stumble this time.
Professor Babbling moved on, sketching a fresh sequence on the board. “Now, for your assignment: identify three flaws in this array and correct them. Work in threes.”
The classroom filled with groans and muttering as students shuffled together. Ronan dropped his head dramatically onto the desk. “We’re doomed.”
“You’re fine,” Hadrian said, already turning his parchment toward Callum and Ronan. His quill scratched across the page with easy strokes, Callix whispering bits of memory and theory that slid effortlessly into place.
Within minutes, the trio had the first flaw corrected. Ronan stared at the neat runes Hadrian had written, then let out a low whistle. “Okay… maybe I’ll just copy your notes forever.”
Hadrian allowed a small smile, though inside his chest there was a quiet hum of warmth.
By Thursday afternoon, the week had stretched long, and most students slumped into Arithmancy as though it were torture rather than magic. Hadrian, though, walked in alert, quill and parchment ready. Numbers meant patterns, and patterns meant order something that always gave him a sense of calm.
Professor Vector didn’t waste time. She turned from the blackboard; equations scrawled across its surface. “We’re moving to predictive number sequences. Magic, as you should know, follows its own rhythm but rhythm can be calculated.” Her sharp gaze flicked over the class. “Tell me. What happens when a magical projection repeats the series two, four, eight, sixteen?”
Hands stayed down. A Ravenclaw girl bit her lip. Someone muttered, “Multiplication?”
Hadrian leaned forward, studying the numbers. They stretched outward like branches, each doubling. A pattern of growth but unchecked growth. Dangerous.
“It’s exponential,” he said aloud when Vector called on him. “It shows rapid magical expansion, usually unstable. Wards written on this progression will burn themselves out because the energy grows faster than the runes can contain.”
Vector’s eyes narrowed approving, not scolding. “And the correction?”
Hadrian thought quickly, his quill tapping his parchment. Not from memory this time, but from instinct. “You’d have to introduce a limiting series. A divisor. Something like… two, four, eight, then back to four. Balance expansion with collapse.”
Professor Vector paused, then gave a curt nod. “Yes. An elegant answer.”
Ronan leaned back with a low whistle. “Of course you’d think of that on the spot.”
Callum smirked, elbowing him. “That’s because he actually listens in class.”
Hadrian only half-heard them. His mind was still humming with the possibilities magic as numbers, numbers as rhythm, rhythm as power. He felt it in his chest, that pull, as though the castle itself whispered its hidden mathematics to him.
By the time class dismissed most students were dragging their feet toward the door, groaning about the “impossible” assignment Professor Vector had just handed out. But Hadrian left with a different energy, notes neat, thoughts sparking with new connections. This wasn’t just classwork to him. It was a glimpse into how magic itself breathed.
Not bad, Callix murmured in the back of his mind, warm approval in his voice. You didn’t need me for that one.
Hadrian smiled faintly to himself as he followed Callum and Ronan out into the corridor. “No,” he whispered under his breath, “I didn’t.”
That evening Hadrian made his way down the torchlit corridor toward Quirrell’s office, footsteps steady, breath caught between anticipation and dread. Thursday nights had become the axis of his week, the one time he could taste the edge of magic without a leash around his neck. No professors hovering. No whispers about Julian, the celebrated Boy Who Lived. Here, in this secret space, Hadrian was not a shadow. He was a storm waiting to be unleashed.
Ash stirred immediately when Hadrian’s hand touched the office door. He always came forward on Thursdays, greedy for what they learned here. Power gave him a weight that none of the others could touch. It made him feel real in a way that nothing else did.
The door creaked open, and Quirrell’s office was no longer cluttered with scrolls and books. It had been transformed into an empty chamber. A single practice dummy stood in the center, its blank face catching the candlelight.
Marvolo turned slowly from the desk, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “Good evening, Hadrian,” he said, his tone smooth, deliberate. His eyes tracked him like a hawk’s. “Punctual. That tells me you are different. You are not content with crumbs like the others.”
Hadrian’s throat tightened. He swallowed, nodding. He stepped inside, the air heavier than it should have been, charged like a storm gathering.
“Tonight we take another step forward,” Marvolo continued, laying a steady hand on Hadrian’s shoulder. The touch felt both guiding and possessive. He moved him toward the center of the room. “The spell I will show you is older than most men can imagine. It is dangerous, yes, but only to the weak. It is magic that can consume those without strength of will. But you are not weak, are you, Hadrian?”
His voice wrapped around the boy like velvet, a question that was not really a question.
Hadrian hesitated, searching for words, but before he could speak Marvolo leaned closer, lowering his voice until it was almost a whisper in his ear. “The Entrail-Expelling Curse.”
The syllables struck him like stones.
Inside, his system erupted. Felix whimpered and fled deep into the recesses of their mind, unwilling to witness what was coming. Ivy’s voice rose in a rush of horrified whispers, frantic and broken. Callix’s voice cut through cold and relentless, laying fact after fact bare, reciting every warning, every gruesome note he had ever read about the curse. It required cruelty, he said. It demanded intent sharpened like a knife.
Ash, however, surged forward, curiosity laced with hunger. His heart pounded in Hadrian’s chest. This was not safe. This was not sane. But it was powerful.
Hadrian stumbled back a step, eyes flicking from the dummy to Marvolo’s face. “Professor… that kind of magic…” The words crumbled on his tongue.
He began pacing, hands tugging at his sleeves, muttering under his breath as if he could drown out Callix’s steady litany. “Stop. Stop. Let me think,” he cried, louder than he meant.
Marvolo’s expression did not shift, though his eyes gleamed brighter. He had seen it before, the strange fracture in Hadrian’s mind. When he had tried Legilimency on their first lesson, he had found nothing but labyrinths. Different identities locked behind walls of broken glass. Unreadable. Uncontrollable. But in those fragments he had seen potential. Not a hero, not a pawn of prophecy, but something purer. A weapon.
The shift came suddenly. Hadrian’s posture straightened, spine rigid. His eyes darkened, sharper than before. His lips parted in a slow breath, and his head tilted with a precision that was not Hadrian’s.
“Teach me,” Ash said, voice low, steady.
Marvolo studied him, smile deepening. “And who are you then?”
“Ash,” came the answer, clipped and certain.
Inside, Ivy screamed in fury, begging him to stop. Callix’s disappointment spread cold as frost. Hadrian trembled with fear, his presence curling back but refusing to vanish. Felix stayed buried, silent. Ash ignored them all.
Marvolo stepped back with a flourish. “Very well. Watch closely.”
His wand lifted, movement sharp and deliberate. First an initial jab forward, then a hook upward, finishing with a violent outward flick. His voice was clear, purposeful. “Expulso Viscera.”
The dummy convulsed as the curse hit. Fabric tore with a sickening rip. Stuffing burst outward in thick streams, splattering across the stone floor in a grotesque imitation of flesh.
Ash inhaled sharply. His stomach knotted, not with revulsion but with anticipation.
“You are ready,” Marvolo said. It was not a question.
“Yes,” Ash whispered.
He gripped his wand tighter. He pictured James his father sneering as he so often did, looking at him with disdain while Julian basked in glory. The hatred came like fire in his veins, raw and unyielding.
“Expulso Viscera!”
The curse ripped out of him, and the world shattered.
Magic surged through him like a living thing. It roared in his blood, coiling around his ribs, racing through his arms and throat until it burned at the edges of his vision. It felt alive. It was intoxicating, dangerous, a wild creature that had been locked in chains for too long. Ash’s knees hit the floor. A broken moan slipped out before he could stop it. He could not get enough.
The dummy split wide, its insides scattered in ruin across the stones.
Ash’s chest heaved, eyes wide, pupils blown. He turned to Marvolo, who stood smiling, the satisfaction in his face sharp as a blade.
Inside, Hadrian shuddered. Ivy’s fury trembled on the edge of tears. Callix’s silence weighed heavier than any scolding. But Ash only felt the rush, the rush that was too strong to deny.
“Again,” Marvolo commanded softly.
Ash obeyed.
“Expulso Viscera!”
The room shook with the impact. Stuffing exploded across the floor. Again. The words spilled from him like a prayer. Again. Each strike stronger, hungrier. His body shook with the force, but still he raised his wand, forcing more and more power through it.
Until the magic consumed him.
The wand slipped from his fingers. His vision blurred, black pressing at the edges. He collapsed onto the cold stone floor, the curse’s echo still buzzing in his veins like a fever.
The last thing he saw before the darkness swallowed him was Marvolo’s face. Smiling. Triumphant.