Tom Riddle.
Voldemort.
Hadrian's first reaction was denial – complete and utter denial – as he stared at the man in front of him. He blinked, waiting for the image to dispel, because...this could not be real. There was no way this was happening. He had to be hallucinating.
Because nothing else made sense.
This had to be some sort of trick.
And yet, a part of him that he had developed and sculpted over the years – the part that always just reacted, not letting things like logic and facts hinder his movements – had already accepted this, and responded accordingly to the revelation.
Shackles erupted from the floor and ceiling and walls, heavy golden chains twisting their way around the man's body and pulling taunt until they were on the verge of slicing through him.
Threat temporarily neutralised, Hadrian finally allowed himself to stumble back.
Ridd – Voldemort was in his head. He had viewed his memories. He had seen his mother's face. He knew.
There was no way the man had not made the connection already. An idiot could have done it with all the information he had just uncovered, and Rid – Voldemort was no idiot.
The thought had fear ramming into him with the force of a sledgehammer.
Sweet merciful Morgana – he knows.
What was he supposed to do?
Could he even do anything?
They had plans in place for situations such as this, contingencies to eliminate any threat that could expose their secret; and he had always known that the day would come when Voldemort would discover who he really was. He just – never in a million years could he have prepared himself for this.
He was not supposed to find out so soon. He was not supposed to have entered his mind at all. None of their goals had been achieved yet, they still had years of work to do. This had all hinged on Hadrian's ability to keep their secrets safe, and now Voldemort had all but plucked the information right from him.
If only he was stronger. If only he had better protected his mind. If only he had not let himself be so grievously injured.
Everything was ruined.
There was no way he would survive the night. Voldemort would kill him the second he got free of his mind, and then he would go after his mother –
No.
Hadrian clamped his eyes shut. No, I refuse. This bastard won't touch her. I won't let him.
A delicate calmness settled over him, icy and dangerous, blanketing the panic.
Hadrian dropped his hand and turned his gaze on Voldemort.
Riddle stared back at him blankly.
He looked – different, somehow. His features more youthful, around his late thirties if he had to guess, which was much younger than normal and a far cry from what the Dark Lord was supposed to look like.
For a brief, pathetic moment, Hadrian entertained the thought that maybe he was wrong, that they were not the same person.
But the thick, potent magic slithering through his mind was undeniably that of Voldemort. He remembered the feel of it, imprinted on him ever since he had foolishly established that tentative connection so many weeks ago on his arrival at Hogwarts.
There was no use deluding himself.
He just did not understand how.
How had he not seen this? How had he been so fucking blind? He had always prized himself on his observational skills, and yet, somehow, he had missed this very important detail.
Oh Gods, how much had he said to Riddle over the weeks? How often had he joked with him, enjoyed his company, admired his talent and wit?
And every single time – every single time – it had been Voldemort lurking behind the amused smiles and words of praise.
He felt sick. He felt like a fool.
The only consolation was that he had managed to hide his identity from the other all this time as well.
He shoved the thought away. He had more important things to deal with right now.
Riddle, Voldemort – whoever he was, Hadrian could not let him leave his mind with the information he now possessed. Which meant he either had to try and venture into the man's mind and erase the discovery, or he would have to kill him.
Hadrian stared hard at the stationary figure – and was that not terrifying, that he had not so much as twitched this entire time? – contemplating his chances of actually crushing him before he could escape. He could do some serious damage to Voldemort's mind here, if he exerted himself.
But would it be enough?
His projection of himself was already unstable, and his vision wavered horribly every few seconds. His magic would not last much longer, and trying to restrain that Dark Lord when he was at full power would be borderline impossible. As he was now, it was a pipe dream.
He had to do something before he feel unconscious, had to at least try.
With his train of thought, the chains around Voldemort tightened minutely, jingling merrily in the silence between them.
Hadrian watched as the heavy links dug into his enemy, knowing that if this was the real world, bones would be creaking, and muscles bruised.
"Do you honestly think you can?" His eyes snapped to the man's, caught in the familiar blue the moment they connected.
"What?" he breathed.
"Do you honestly think you are in any way capable of hurting me?"
He just barely refrained from bristling at the condescending remark, this time wilfully tightening the chains.
However, instead of showing pain as he wanted, Voldemort smirked at him, looking utterly at ease despite his precarious position.
Hadrian hated him for it.
He should not be so calm, so in control. Finding the memories must have shocked him on some level. Learning his true name should have garnered more than the initial widening of his eyes. He was – Voldemort had been searching for them for years.
His mother and he were fugitives. In the first several years after their disappearance, there had been literal manhunts for them, searches that only died down around Harry's sixth birthday.
He had expected anger when the truth was revealed. He had expected an attack. He had certainly expected more than this unruffled, tranquil figure in front of him.
"Honestly, Harry, we both know how weak you are right now."
"Don't call me that." He spat without thinking. It was just...wrong. Hearing that name from this man. Only his mother called him that. The way Voldemort said his birth name tarnished it somehow, violated something he held close.
"If you were in the condition to hurt me, you would have had no trouble keeping me out of your mind. Look at you," he sneered, "you're in shambles, Harry."
"I said don't call me that!"
"Why shouldn't I?" He asked, mocking and menacing. "It is your name, isn't it? Harry James Potter. Son of Lily and James. Heir to the House of Potter." The smirk on the man's lips twisted a little more. "The Prophecy Child."
Hadrian narrowed his eyes at the last title, having never heard himself referred to in that way before. He frowned, unsettled and unsure of how to proceed.
Voldemort stared at him, the intensity of his attention like a physical force. "I'm almost tempted..." the man murmured softly, the words having Hadrian freezing. "I do rather like the idea of wrapping my hands around your throat after this."
The threat should not have surprised him, but it did. The idea of being absolutely defenceless in front of this man made him nervous. Because what would stop Voldemort from doing exactly that once he got free?
Hadrian would be unconscious, and all Voldemort had to do was wait until he was alone, lying unprotected. His life would be snuffed out, while he was trapped inside his own head, unaware of the danger.
He swayed backwards a hair, but the miniscule movement revealed everything. Voldemort's eyes glowed in satisfaction, and Hadrian grit his teeth as another wave of pain hit him.
His projection flickered maddeningly, and shadows began to creep along the hallway they were in as his consciousness slipped further and further.
He held on valiantly, but the chains eventually evaporated, and Voldemort's presence ripped itself from his mind with all the strength of a hurricane.
Hadrian screamed, dropping to his knees, before he was submerged back into the darkness.
OoO
Draco watched silently as the mediwitches fluttered about the examination table, wands weaving and voices mingling as they rushed to stabilise Evans.
It had been peaceful, if a little tense, only minutes before.
He and Kaiser had been receiving their treatment for their own wounds. The burns along his back were thankfully numbed at this point, but he knew that in a matter of hours, he would be able to feel them.
The dragon had not been as difficult to deal with as he had feared, and other than that one hit, he had emerged otherwise fine.
Kaiser had been splattered with blood when she was ushered here, and teeth marks littered her body. But like Draco, she was relatively uninjured.
The two of them had sat in silence, listening to the eerie silence above them, eye flickering upwards whenever the crowds roared their approval. Draco remembered how both of them had flinched terribly when that piercing, inhuman shriek had echoed down to them.
Draco could admit that he actually held a good deal of fear towards Evans now – because anyone who was capable of making a manticore scream in pain was not someone he wanted as an enemy.
When he heard the rather familiar cheer of the crowd, signalling that Evans had won, he had let some of the tension drip from his body. He had watched the door, ready to greet the other and congratulate him.
But then there was more screaming, sounding more terrified than ever, and Draco had known something had happened.
He thought he was prepared for the worst when he first entered his name in the tournament, he had read the past accounts, he knew the stories. But he was still shaken, terribly so, when the Dark Lord and Augustus had emerged from the hallway, the bloodied form of his fellow champion cradled gently in the Unspeakable's grasp.
Never before had Draco seen so much blood.
Evans' side was shredded.
When the shirt had been removed, and his injury bared for all to see, even the mediwitches had hissed quietly under their breath. It was only the sharp order from the Dark Lord that had had them snapping to action, once it was safe to do so.
Draco's stomach rolled at just the thought of Evans' wound.
The gash was a vivid red, and Draco swore he could see his ribs in between the gaps of the rotating healers.
The stark white seemed completely out of place, and that might have been the most disturbing thing – if he could not also see the muscles still moving in time with Evans' sharp breaths. The way the pink flesh strained and bunched had bile rising swiftly to his throat.
But it was also the blood that continued to leak out of his body, stopped only when one of the healers tried to staunch the flow. He had not known that one person could hold so much blood in them, and grew worried the more he saw because that was supposed to be inside the body, not outside.
Draco had grown up knowing he would one day be a Death Eater, it was just another expectation in the long list that ruled his life. He had been surrounded with stories of his father's less-classified missions, and any number of the visitors they entertained had never shied from revealing their own deeds to him.
His aunt, in particular, seemed to enjoy recounting her more gruesome actions whenever he had the pleasure of her company.
Draco loved Bellatrix – truly, he did – but the way her dark eyes positively glowed when she spoke of peeling away layers of skin, or explained the intricacies of how to cut out someone's eye without killing them, disgusted him.
He was perfectly aware that he would likely never be able to stomach that side of the 'job'. He would prefer to just be in the background honestly, in that aspect of his life.
Ambition was a Slytherin's trait, most certainly, but it was tempered by self-preservation, and Draco very much wished to keep living. In their world, staying under the radar typically meant a longer life.
Seeing Evans like this – when only an hour ago they were standing beside one another, joking and laughing – was twisting something inside of him.
His aunt had caused similar wounds on others, his father had as well, and any number of other people he had known his entire life. They enjoyed inflicting pain, they enjoyed the rush of power they got from having someone else at their mercy.
Draco had no idea how anyone could enjoy inflicting something like this on another.
Evans' skin – the bits not covered in bright crimson at least – was startling pale.
Across his chest, black veins crept.
The venom, he knew, but it was not as dark as he would have expected. Clearly someone had attempted to remove it before they brought him here.
Desperate to see something other than the gruesome sight, Draco drew his eyes back to Evans' face, and consequently, the Dark Lord's, which hovered just above.
Neither had blinked in the long minutes since the Dark Lord had entered the boy's mind, and the stillness between them was unnatural.
Draco was well aware of legilimency, and knew that the Dark Lord was a master of the art. He had never been subjected to it – to his knowledge – and was grateful for that.
Curiosity prickled at him though. He wondered what was happening inside Evans' mind.
The layers differed from person to person, and from his personality, Draco figured that Evans' mind would be a very interesting place to visit.
What concerned him more though, was how Evans would take this invasion into his privacy. No one would dare reveal what the Dark Lord had done, but Evans' vicious protest still rang in his ears.
He wondered just what had motivated the Dark Lord to do this. There were plenty of ways to subdue a person's magic that did not involve entering their mind.
He felt uneasy all of a sudden.
Was it because of his...fascination with Evans? Draco was almost certain that his defence professor was truly the Dark Lord, though he would be more content to just ignore all the signs he had accumulated over the years. He knew Hermione had picked up on some things as well, but thankfully his foster-sister had enough sense to not poke at that topic.
Evans and Professor Riddle had an odd relationship, which meant that the Dark Lord was at least intrigued by Evans enough to get close to him in his other persona.
Draco let his eyes drift between the two, knowing this was a rare opportunity to study them when their attention was wholly occupied with something else.
So still they were, that when the Dark Lord leaned back sharply, everyone flinched.
There was burning rage in those red eyes, and every ounce of it was aimed at the unconscious boy in front of him.
The man ignored the mediwitches when they hesitantly began their work again.
He ignored Augustus as the Unspeakable sidled closer and whispered something in his ear.
He ignored everything happening around them.
His gaze was fixed on the thin pale hand latched around his wrist.
Draco held his breath as he watched the Dark Lord's eyes slowly follow the limb up to Evans' lax face, pain and exhaustion etched into the boy's youthful features.
The Dark Lord's fingers twitched outwards, then curled.
He pried the hand off of him, and without a backwards glance, he left the room.
OoO
Claire sat silently by his bedside, one hand softly resting on Hadrian's limp one. Her eyes studied him passively, her shoulders drooping under the weight of her emotions.
She had never seen him in such a state, so motionless before. His skin was deathly pale, and if it were not for the slight movement of his chest, she would have thought him dead.
Her throat convulsed and she closed her eyes tightly, desperately trying not to recall just how lucky he was.
It had been over a week since he had been whisked off of the arena floor and treated, and he had not stirred once during that time.
The healers said it was a combination of his magical exhaustion and the physical trauma from the wound on his side, still heavily bandaged even with the extensive amount of treatment.
Claire thought it was more than that.
Hadrian might have been injured, but he was also one of the most stubborn individuals she had ever met. He was not the type to crumble like this. He should be awake by now, moaning about his boredom, demanding homework from his classes, and arguing with the Hogwarts' healer on every little topic he could get away with.
She remembered fondly how the exact same thing had happened in their fifth year, when Hadrian had taken a bludger to the shin and was forced to remain in the hospital wing for three whole days before he was released.
He should be awake by now, even if only for a few seconds. It was not right that he had not even stirred, or that there was still an underlining sense of pain to his face. Why would he be in pain unless there was something else troubling him?
She tightened her grip on him, frowning at nothing.
She wanted nothing more than for his eyes to flutter open right now; to just hear his voice would be a blessing.
It was as if all the excitement and joy wilted the longer Hadrian remained in this state. None of them were eager to celebrate his win, when their champion was bedridden and unconscious.
Claire returned her gaze to his face hopefully, expression closing off when he did not stir.
"Please wake up soon." She murmured, brushing some of his unruly hair from his forehead.
She combed the wild black strands back, fighting a smile at the sight. She had never really noticed just how uncooperative Hadrian's hair truly was, he was forever styling it and keeping it in line with products.
She kind of liked how it was now – a mess of locks spread in every direction, utterly untameable.
He should wear it like this more often, she mused, huffing a laugh. It made him look younger, and it somehow suited his boyish charm more than the neatly tussled look he went with typically.
I will have to tell him that when he wakes up.
"Any change?"
Claire swung around to see Amelia Evans standing just behind her, watching her curiously.
The woman was every bit as lovely as her son, even exhausted as she was. Claire was momentarily jealous at how effortlessly the two seemed to carry their looks, before she realised that maybe they were not that similar after all.
Unlike his mother, Hadrian became a train-wreck the longer he went without proper sleep. She had seen it time and again whenever Hadrian dove into his studies with vigour, heedless of the signals his body gave him.
The thought of a tired Hadrian almost made her smile, before her mind was brought back to the question, and the decidedly not funny situation.
"No Madame." She answered softly, hand still loosely wrapped around Hadrian's.
Amelia's eyes – Hadrian's eyes – drifted to their joined hands, and a small, sad smile pulled at the corners of the woman's mouth. "You are Claire, yes?"
Claire nodded, "Yes, we never have had the pleasure of meeting."
Amelia swept closer, arms slack at her sides, face open. "I've heard plenty from Hadrian, he is quite fond of you, as I'm sure you know."
She did, but it still felt nice to hear someone else confirm it. Claire straightened her back, her manners surging. "Would you like to sit -"
Amelia stopped her before she could finish. "That won't be necessary, though thank you for the offer." The woman instead perched herself on the edge of the hospital bed, eyes scanning over her son critically.
Claire watched silently as Amelia slowly reached out and traced her son's cheek. Her eyes were dry, but Claire could see they were red-rimmed. She did not say anything to Hadrian, merely sat there watching him with a patient expression.
"He will be alright." Claire piped up, disliking the silence between them. It merely reminded her of Hadrian's state. Amelia dragged her eyes away from Hadrian to smile at her again.
"Oh, I know," she agreed, some of the tightness leaking from her features. "I never had any doubt that he would pull through. He is young, and exceptionally healthy and strong. Hadrian has never truly let me down before, and I don't think he will start now." Amelia's eyes crinkled in amusement, and Claire mechanically smiled back.
That last line had just been...a touch wrong.
But who was she to judge this woman? They had only met officially a few moments ago, and that was hardly enough time to get a firm grasp over her personality.
"He did well in the challenge," she tried next, "using a doppelgänger was so unexpected. I did not even know he knew that branch of magic. He had never seemed interested in anything remotely Dark before."
And now that she had said it, she realised how true it was. While doppelgängers were only considered 'Dark' if they involved a sacrifice, even the simplest versions still lingered in the murky area of Grey magic.
She had never even seen Hadrian touch a book about anything other than Light magic, unless it was for an assignment. And even then, he never really tried to expand passed what he needed to know.
To see him use a doppelgänger was both shocking and a tad concerning. Because if she had missed him somehow researching such a branch of magic – which most definitely was not on their curriculum – then it begged the question of what else he knew.
Claire shook her head lightly, frowning.
It was none of her business what Hadrian researched in his own time, she reasoned. As long as he played it safe she was happy to let him learn whatever caught his fancy.
Amelia hummed in response, eyes once again on Hadrian. "Yes, he did do rather well." Pride licked at the edges of her tone. "And he has always been rather well-rounded with his studies. He likes to read a lot, and I try not to discourage his interests too much. As long as it is not too dangerous, I do not see the issue with him at least understanding the theory behind something."
Claire nodded, a little pleased that his mother shared her own opinion.
Amelia glanced at her from the corner of her eye, "I think that the more you know, the better prepared you can be for future events."
Hadrian had said something similar to her once, she believed. At least now she knew where it had come from. In fact, the longer she spent with Hadrian's mother, the more she could see just how close they must be.
It was clear Hadrian adored the woman; it was in the way they spoke, with similar inflections on words, and that they shared the same philosophies.
Claire did not know if it was disconcerting, or cute, how much Hadrian emulated his mother.
"Don't you have classes, Claire?"
Amelia's soft inquiry broke through her thoughts, and Claire blinked at the woman in momentary confusion. "Oh, well, I am on my lunch break right now. Raina and I like being here with him whenever we can spare the time, just in case he wakes up."
Hadrian's mother tilted her head at her. "And what of your other friends? I have not seen Jacob around here."
Claire shifted uncomfortably. Should she...?
"I am afraid Jacob and Hadrian had a...falling out." The girl ducked her head down, missing the sudden sharpness in those green eyes. "Just a little after Hadrian was named champion. They do not speak anymore."
"I see," Amelia said after a beat. "and do you know the cause of this fight?"
"No," some frustration crept into her voice. It hurt her, having two of the people she regarded the most no longer on speaking terms. Hadrian, her closest friend, and Jacob, whom she had liked for almost a year at this point. "I haven't the faintest idea."
Was it my fault? She thought suddenly, breath leaving her. Hadrian and I spoke about his relationship with Jacob, and right after they completely broke off their friendship.
She bit her lip and felt guilt plague her. Did I cause this?
"Well, I thank you for your consideration with Hadrian, but I doubt he would enjoy hearing that you spent all your free time hovering over him in worry, when you could be out eating with your friends." Amelia shooed her good-naturedly. "Run along dear, I'll sit with him. You get out of this drab place and get yourself a proper lunch."
Claire hesitated, not wanting to just leave.
Amelia reached out and brushed her shoulder. "Please. Allow a concerned mother some time with her son?"
Well, there was no way she could say no without appearing completely heartless. Claire dipped her head in a nod and levelled the woman with a tiny smile. "I will be back later on then, thank you."
Then, because Hadrian was her friend and she missed him, she leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead.
You had better wake up soon, you idiot.
OoO
Opening his eyes took a herculean effort, and he only managed to see the barest sliver of light before they fell closed again.
His eyes watered, and he groaned pathetically when his limbs refused to obey his command to move.
What happened?
He tried to remember, but it was all a horrible blank, and his head was throbbing like someone was beating a drum inside his skull.
His nose picked up on a familiar scent, but for the life of him he could not place it.
Where am I?
His fingers twitched, and his legs shifted, and he felt like smiling in relief. Only for that emotion to be obliterated by pain as it burned through him with a vengeance.
"Oh fuck me." He hissed, tensing to brace for the next wave that hit him. Moving anything felt like a very bad idea, as his nerves cheerfully reported that everything was on fire.
He whined low in his throat and his body collapsed into the mattress even though he had barely moved in the first place.
He panted harshly, face screwed up as he waited it out.
"I would rather not, to be perfectly honest." Someone commented airily from beside him, the words followed by the obnoxious crinkling of paper. The familiar voice took a moment to register, and when it did Hadrian wanted nothing more than to raise his hand and give his guest the finger.
"Why are you here?" he croaked, jaw clenched. He finally pried his eyes open enough to make out the blurry figure of Albert lounging in the seat beside him.
The dark skinned boy tittered at him, eyes not moving from the newspaper he was reading. "I'm on guard duty this afternoon – watching over our fallen champion, praying feverishly for his next awakening."
"What...?"
Albert finally looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "You woke up for the first time yesterday, were lucid for approximately twelve seconds, before you fell back asleep. Since then there has always been someone lurking next to you for every minute. Lucky for you, this time you got to wake up to my gorgeous face, rather than the crotchety old healer."
He did not remember that, but right now, he hardly cared.
"I'm blessed," he snarled, eyes falling shut again, but refrained from falling back into the comforting darkness. "think you can make yourself useful and get me something to deal with the overwhelming pain I'm in – or is your only function sitting there looking pretty?"
"If you are well enough to snark, maybe I won't give you this then." Albert leaned over him, a corked potion in his hand. "This was on your bedside table, the healer said to make sure you drank it when you were coherent enough to understand what I'm saying. This is a numbing potion, it will dull the pain in your body, but you are not allowed to move too much, are not allowed to leave your bed, and are not allowed to use magic. Do you understand?"
Though Albert's tone was joking, his words were serious. Hadrian nodded slowly. "Just gimme it already. My body feels like one big bruise."
"That's because you are one big bruise." Albert commented, "Now say 'please'."
"Albert I swear to the fucking Gods if you don't give me that potion -"
The bottle was pressed to his lips, and Albert tilted his head enough so he could swallow. The other boy snickered quietly, and if he were not as run-down as he was now, he would have glared.
His annoyance evaporated the moment the potion hit him, and he sighed in relief, sinking back into his pillow.
"Thanks." He said, as sincerely as he could manage through the haze.
"No problem, boy-who-lived."
Hadrian cracked his eye open and stared at Albert incredulously. "What?
Albert smirked, fingering the newspaper in his hands slyly. "Oh, it's nothing." He rocked back in his seat, somehow making the horribly stiff chair look comfortable. "Just introducing you to your new title, is all."
With flourish, Albert flipped the newspaper to face him, showing off the bold headline.
Hadrian Evans: The Boy-Who-Lived!
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me." He snapped, trying to reach for it, but Albert pulled it out of his range, expression gleeful. "Give it here, you arse."
"No. You are not allowed to strain yourself, and reading all the lovely things Ms. Skeeter wrote about you will raise your blood pressure."
"You raise my blood pressure. What does it say, exactly?"
"Just that you are so clearly one of the luckiest people alive, surviving a direct hit from a manticore, and then recovering in such a timely manner. How you gallantly removed the poison from your system, "at great risk to himself", just to give the healers more time to save you."
Albert glanced at him from over the top of the newspaper. "You're quite the celebrity, apparently. Congratulations."
He eventually relinquished the paper to Hadrian's grasping hand, watching smugly as the other skimmed through the article, his face darkening with each line.
"Wait a minute – they just told her all of this information?" He asked, voice brimming with annoyance. "She mentions things that happened during my immediate treatment! How did she even get half of this?" He turned accusing eyes on Albert, as if he were the source of all of this.
Albert shrugged, reclining back and seemingly bored now that Hadrian's brain was functioning normally. "Not a clue. Madame Maxime and the Minister are frothing at the mouth over the lack of security. Which is just adding onto the already big mess of you being hurt in the first place."
Hadrian made note of that, but disregarded if for now. "There's an investigation?" He asked, eyes reaching that section of the article.
"You seem surprised."
"Not surprised, just...I would have thought that they would have solved the situation as quickly as possible so it did not," he gestured with the newspaper, "escalate into this."
"One of the champions almost died because of someone's mistake. Some of the councilmen are out for blood. Something about 'righting this terrible wrong' and 'avenging' this attack on you. Personally, I think they just want to stir trouble with Britain."
Hadrian snorted, tossing the newspaper back to Albert. "I've no doubt that is exactly what they are trying to do. But this whole thing is unnecessary. I already know what happened."
"You have been unconscious since you were brought here a week ago." Albert pointed out.
Hadrian shrugged, "Manticores are a largely unknown species. Everything we have on them is more theory than anything. Whatever they subdued it with, it must have built up an immunity to it over the decades – not entirely surprising."
He rubbed his hand through his hair, absently grimacing when he was met with tangles. "The manticore knew what the task was, and knew that when I reached the box it would be injected. When I wounded it, it wanted revenge – again, not surprising. So it waited until I lowered my guard, believing I was safe. Then it struck."
"And you figured that all out in the ten minutes you have been conscious?" Albert sounded amused.
"Yes?" Hadrian drew the word out uncertainly. "Why? Have they still not looked at it from that angle? Honestly, it's not that big a leap in logic." Another thought came to him. "Why not just ask the manticore? It's not like it would bother lying."
Immediately, Albert's eyes darted away from his. Hadrian cocked his head.
"Albert," he called sweetly, "why can't they just ask the manticore?"
"It's dead." The other admitted bluntly. "The Dark Lord killed it using the metal you had gotten in its eye – exploded the head from the inside."
"What?"
Albert winced, looking particularly uncomfortable when confronted with Hadrian's harsh gaze and frigid tone. "It was killed." Then, softer, "I'm sorry. I know how much you...like magical creatures."
Hadrian breathed out flatly, hands curling into the blanket. "Voldemort killed it." He said, not for clarification, but just to have the words out in the open. He ignored the look Albert sent him at the casual use of the man's name.
Gods, he just wanted to punch something.
How dare he kill a creature so magnificent? How dare he take it upon himself to lay out his own twisted version of justice? What gave him the right?
Albert was speaking quickly, voice a buzz in his ears, no doubt trying to distract him from what he had just told him.
"You have not missed much in class, only a little bit of homework, but I think all the professors are willing to let you off the hook for any missed work."
He killed it.
"- council is on Malfoy's arse about this -"
Why? Because it was on a rampage?
"- and the Minister -"
Because it hurt me?
"- Riddle also said -"
"Riddle?"
Hadrian's skin chilled drastically, and his stomach lurked.
Just the mention of the man's name had everything rushing back to him. The legilimency. His secrets. Harry James Potter, in a voice so steely.
"Woah, are you okay?"
"I'm going to be sick." He whispered, and Albert barely managed to summon a bucket before Hadrian was retching.
His throat burned as he threw up nothing, his stomach empty from the days without food. His back and arms trembled, and he started to shiver as he sucked in quick bursts of air.
A hand rubbed his back soothingly, and Albert's fingers pulled through his hair so it was out of his face. The other boy was murmuring something softly, but he could not hear.
His mind was stuck on a loop.
Riddle. Voldemort. Riddle. Voldemort.
He curled around the bucket more, panting as panic clogged his throat.
I can't believe...all this time.
Hadrian retched again.
I slept in his room.
"Better?" Albert asked, not unkindly. Hadrian breathed deeply, body shuddering uncontrollably. He looked down at his trembling hands as if confused about why they were shaking so much.
No.
"Yeah," he said, voice hoarse. "I'm good." Albert vanished the bucket.
"Hadrian?"
The call drew their attention, and Hadrian felt his throat constrict again at the sight of his mother standing there.
"Maman..." His arms lifted unconsciously, and all of a sudden she was there, her arms latching onto him and yanking him into her chest. He closed his eyes and sunk into her warmth, fingers digging into her clothes.
"Harry," she breathed, her lips barely forming the word, and it was lost in his hair. She peppered him with kisses, never once releasing him from her grip. "I'm so happy you're awake, darling." Her hands framed his face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks tenderly.
"I'm so happy you're safe."
His chest throbbed at her words, because they were not. Not now. And never would be again because Voldemort knew who he was – who they were. They were done for.
He knew he should tell her, she needed – deserved – to know of the new level of danger. But...
She looked so happy, her smile threatening to burst off of her face. It had been so long since he had seen her so genuinely ecstatic about something. No – him. It had been forever since she had looked ecstatic about him.
He wanted to bask in that for a little while longer, even if that made him a terrible person for risking them so.
Lily pulled away from him, hands vainly and absently trying to smooth over his hair. Hadrian spotted the wistful glint in her eyes, and his heart ached when he realised she was seeing James again.
When his hair was tamed with products, the resemblance between he and his father was lessened greatly. It had further removed the possibility that someone might have made the connection between them.
But there was another reason that he always kept his hair neat. It was so his mother did not get that look in her eyes. There was nothing he hated more than reminding her of her dead husband, because no matter how she tried to hide it, he knew it hurt her.
Hadrian would do anything to protect his mother, even from himself.
He loosened his grip on her, and felt no embarrassment at Albert witnessing this. He had almost died. He would like to see any of his classmates go through what he had and not reach for their parents in desperation.
He looked into his mother's eyes, slumping forward in exhaustion. She smiled at him slightly, leaning forward to press their foreheads together.
"I'm so proud of you." She whispered, and his chest warmed at the praise, devouring it like a flower drank in sunlight. "Rest, Hadrian." She coaxed, pushing him gently until he was laying on his back again.
She tugged the blanket up around his chin and pressed a sweet kiss to his cheek. He closed his eyes tiredly.
I need to tell you.