Chapter Text
What is the meaning of life, of death and fate and all the other aspects that shape and frame humanity? What does any of it truly mean, what does it serve to do other than weave a web of tragedy around those who are supposedly favored? There are not many of them, not many who have been so ‘blessed’ as to call themselves favored by Death and yet as Harry Potter, a man once heralded as the Savior and Chosen One, feels himself welcomed into the cold and soothing embrace of death he wonders what any of this means.
He had thought for so long that the only meaning in his life was to destroy Voldemort. It was all he knew, the only thing that he had ever been taught to the point where Harry had been settled in the knowledge that perhaps that was all he was born for. The one true purpose of Harry Potter’s life was to be a weapon, a sword wielded against the darkness of Voldemort.
When he had been finished with that purpose none of the world had known what to do with him and to be fair Harry had no idea what to do with himself. At first he was basically a god to the Wizarding World but then the shine of salvation had faded, the glory dimming in the eyes of the people as they slowly forgot just how much he had done for them.
Oh but how they had begged for his help when the world had turned in on itself and the Wixen were revealed to the muggles. Harry had always thought that purebloods were idiots for ignoring the very real threat and power muggles held. But he had been avenged- however bloody and horrible it was- when the bombs had fallen and no shield however strong it was could save them.
Humanity never did like anything it did not understand.
By Circe, when had Harry become this jaded? Standing here in the realm of Death with scorn twisting his lips and rage in his eyes he realized how much he had changed. When had the loving, fun, and Quidditch Obsessed Harry died only to be replaced with a cynic who rivaled even Snape in his bitterness.
Was it when Hermione was slaughtered and her only crime was trying to create peace?
Was it when Ron had fallen victim to a bomb, dying to try and save children? Children who had never made it and followed him into a shallow grave?
Or maybe it was when Godric’s Hollow, one of their last sanctuaries, had fallen and the graves of his parents had been obliterated. The last traces of Sirius, Remus, his mom, and his dad were gone in seconds.
Even when faced with the abuse of the Dursleys Harry had never once hated muggles as a whole. No, there were good ones he had thought. They cannot all be bad, it was just his poor luck in life that Harry had to be landed with the absolute worst ones. Even when Voldemort had spat about the madness of muggles Harry had defended them despite how much the words had applied to the Dursleys.
So why was it that Harry had to continuously face these things, continue to draw the shortest lot in life to the point where Harry realized he only had ever felt useful when on a battlefield? He was only ever alive when his soul burned with vengeance and his heart swelled with righteous fury. It was the sad truth of his life, an ugly thing that Harry knew.
The Savior had fallen, his wings now blackened and darkening with his soul. If Voldemort could see Harry now, no doubt the Dark Lord would be cackling at the irony that the great ‘Beacon of Light’ was now a certified muggle-hater.
“Perhaps you are only seeing the truth, my master,” Death spoke in what Harry assumed was supposed to be a comforting tone. Since Death only ever sounded cold, distant, and cruelly amused it fell short. Casting a glance to the side, taking in the sight of the deity gowned in black and white robes, black hair that matched Harry’s flowing in the winds that swept through the Realm of Death.
“The truth, Death?” he asked, not sure if he wanted the answer. Harry had had quite enough of being proven wrong lately and he had really had enough of being let down.
“The sad truth of humanity,” Death gave a casual shrug, looking out over his domain, one Harry would thankfully never step foot in until the day he decided. “One that fortunately keeps me in business.”
“Not so sad for you then,” Harry muttered, kicking a rock with all the childish energy he could possibly muster. It was hard to resist the urge to cross his arms and turn his back on Death.
Letting out that sharp laugh of his Death held his hands up like he had been caught. “It is depressing to watch but it can also be wildly entertaining. Humans never miss a chance to keep me on my toes.”
“It’s not so entertaining when you are a victim of their nature.”
Death clucked his tongue sympathetically. “You feel that way now because you are so young, Master. But after a few more lifetimes that will fade.”
“How comforting,” Harry bit out, tone caustic. A laugh escaped from death.
“Time will remove the sting.”
For a moment the pair were silent, content to just watch the comings and goings of the Underworld without conversation. Harry wasn’t ready to join the realm of Death, he knew that for certain. He wasn’t done living, he couldn’t just accept eternal peace after everything he had seen. There had to be something, anything, that he could do to help.
“Where will I go now?” He finally asked, wary of the answer and hoping to persuade Death for another chance to save this world. He didn’t want to be reincarnated into some other universe. Harry wanted to save this one. He hadn’t died for it just for the Wizarding World to be wiped out. “Do you really expect me to move on like I have not just gone through all of that?”
Death looked out over his realm with satisfaction, clearly not understanding Harry’s emotional connections. “That is our nature.”
“Not mine,” Harry denied. This wasn’t where he belonged, this role didn’t belong to him. He had a saving people complex, not a wish to be a beacon of death. “I’m only your master by accident.”
“No,” Death replied fiercely, his pale fingers digging into Harry’s shoulders. “I have known you would be my master from the day you were conceived. I have watched you grow, I have been by your side.”
Harry met Death with a stare just as fierce. “Then you know me, you know I can’t just move on from what I’ve been through! This can’t be the end of it all!”
“You must move on,” the deity insisted, releasing Harry with a sigh.
“I won’t!”
Death threw his hands up in exasperation, muttering under his breath about how even Ignotus had not given him this much trouble. Harry rolled his eyes, honestly he was not the worst Master that Death had ever had. The deity was just being overdramatic like always. Years of having Death whispering in his mind had made Harry more than used to this sort of behavior.
Having known Harry since his birth though, Death knows a losing battle when he sees one. Harry- Immovable Object- Potter has put his foot down and Death has the distinctly bad feeling that if he doesn’t give his young master what he wants then the next few centuries are going to be a headache for him. Now, Death could give Harry exactly what he wants, he could send him back to his original timeline, allow Harry to make all different moves and probably save the Wizarding World with not too much trouble.
On the other hand…
Why make things so easy for his little menace of a master?
“I can send you back Master,” Death agrees slowly after some time. It was an honest struggle to keep the small smirk from his face. Let’s see how much his master wished to save the world when he was done with this little plot of Death’s. “I can send you back to a point in the timeline so that you can try to save this world.”
“You can?” Any sullenness disappeared from Harry’s countenance as he looked at Death with wide, hopeful eyes.
“Yes.” Death allowed a small, small smile. “If that is really what you want.”
“It is, it is,” Harry rushed to reassure like Death would change his mind. He wouldn’t, no now Death was dead set on this little idea. He hadn’t had the promise of this much entertainment in decades. “I want this Death, please.”
“Alright, alright. Don’t beg.” Death curled his lip a tiny bit. The motion prompting Harry to roll his eyes once more. Honestly the god was snobbier than Malfoy. “You are the Master of Death. We don’t beg.”
“Just let me do this,” Harry sighed. He and Death would always conflict a bit on their ideals but he truly did care for the Deity and the Deity cared for him as well. The fact that he was willing to even bend a little bit to Harry’s plea was hint enough of that.
“If you insist.”
And Death snapped his fingers and the world went dark.
The sensation of travelling through time was something akin to Apparition except you were being forced through an even smaller tube, coated in the sickening feeling of dampness, and forced to listen to the sounds of billions of souls screaming as you passed through each and every one of their times. The experience was not something Harry would rate highly and the idea that he would do this many more times in life did urge him to hang up the hat of Master of Death earlier than he previously thought. The search for a body was long and tedious, one Harry suffered through in this terrible feeling as Death found a way to manipulate souls, time, and reality to thrust Harry back into the light of life and the fabric of reality.
It would be worth it, Harry repeated to himself. It would all be worth it because he could save his family, his friends, hell he could save even the people in his world that he hated because surely they didn’t deserve what happened to them. There is nothing that Harry would not endure for his family, there is nothing he would not do and no line that he would not cross to save them. There has to be something he can do, something in those 15 years from where he entered Hogwarts to when everything came crashing down.
Like a punch to the stomach, air and light hit him and Harry is hurtled back into his body with an alarming amount of force. It was sickening, worse than the Gringotts cart and the need to hurl up the acidic contents of his stomach was strong. In the back of his head Harry could have sworn that he heard Death snickering at his predicament. The bed that he came crashing into made everything a bit better though.
Ringing through the room, Death called out like a herald: “Welcome to 1942, Master.”
Harry did not even have a chance to process that particularly distasteful piece of information. In a flash, memories of a false life, histories, stories, and everything Harry could ever need to perfectly construct a new life flooded into his mind. A father he never actually had but could tell endless stories about, a mother who Harry had never seen and yet could remember cradling his face so tenderly. It was dizzying to be inundated with so much information. Hadrian his name became, regal and Roman in the tradition of their culture. Ignotus for their noble ancestor by whose blood they descended, a middle name this false father apparently shared. Black hair from his mother, green eyes that were a gift from magic now as Lily Potter had yet to exist and could lay no claim to Harry’s blood.
Black, like her name, Lycoris Black, his gentle mother that did not belong to him. Perhaps it was because he never got to have his real parents but Harry could not help the reluctant affection swelling in his chest as his mind reeled with these crafted moments between them. If she were alive would Lycoris still play his mother? Would she dote on him like he truly was her son? It was soothing to have a Black as his mother, a connection to Sirius that continued in this rebirth. A Black as a Godfather, a Black as a mother. It was nice.
But it was his father’s name that Harry would carry. Hadrian Ignotus Peverell the son of Angeras Ignotus Peverall, the very last of their line before the Potters became the sole continuation of the family. Shaggy brown hair and a roguish smile, that was what Harry saw in this false father. A man of adventure not too unlike James Potter and who soared through life with so much power that life seemed to bow at his feet. Or it had, until Angeras fell victim to the greed of Grindlewald and his obsession with their family.
Harry would process that later, he could come to terms with another mad Dark Lord hunting him in a little bit. For now he had bigger problems.
“A pureblood?” Harry choked, his very first words in this new life. “I’m a pureblood?”
“Congratulations,” Death responded dryly. “You are the pureblood every pureblood will wish to be. Your blood practically screams magic.”
“I don’t want it,” Harry whined, eyes cracking open to take in the sights around him- of wherever he had landed. A soft bed at his back and a gilded ceiling left Harry with the distinct impression that he was in a very nice house.
“Too bad, I had to send you back into someone of the Peverell line and giving you Lycoris Black as a mother was too fitting to pass up.”
“You are being difficult on purpose,” the Master of Death grumbled, shifting to stand from the bed. His knees were weak, trembling with the stress of rebirth (or was it just plain time travel?)
“I live to serve, Master.”
“Oh I’m sure you do.” Moving to the bedroom door, Harry looked around wildly. The door opened to reveal a grand hall to what had to be some sort of palace. “Where did you put me? And why the hell am I in 1942?”
Death appeared by Harry’s side and gave a magnanimous wave of his hand. “You wished to save the wizarding world. So here you are.”
“This is not what I meant!” Harry hissed, fairly certain that Death knew that and was deliberately doing this as some sort of grand scheme.
“Anyways!” Death continued, like Harry had not even spoken. “You currently reside at Peverell Castle which is not too far from Godric’s Hollow. This house and quite a few others now belong to you. More importantly however, both Hogwarts, Gringotts, and the Black family via Gringotts have been alerted to the fact that your mother passed and that you have returned to England after your parents' untimely demise in Europe.”
“Murdered by a Dark Lord yet again?”
“For continuity,” Death confirmed, guiding Harry through the estate.
“Of course.”
“Your school begins in three days, so I would advise you to prepare, Master.” Harry nodded, his mind racing with the influx of information. He would need school supplies, gods he didn’t even have a letter! Would Hogwarts be sending one? By the looks of it money was no concern but Harry would have to stop by Gringotts anyways. “It is there that you can begin your mission. I have jested about the circumstances I have given you but hear me when I say this Master:” Death paused, turning to look at Harry with an expression more serious than Harry had ever seen on the god’s face. “I have sent you to the best possible time to save the Wizarding World. It is here and now that you can make the changes needed. You are needed here , not back in your time.”
“I can save them- Hermione, Ron, Ginny, all of them- if I change things here?” The idea makes Harry breathless with hope. He cannot help it, this is his nature, this is the monster that Dumbledore groomed him into. Harry is a sacrificial lamb, a man with a savior complex- or rather boy, if the mirror on the wall is anything to go by.
“It is possible,” Death confirms, allowing a small nod. He maintains a calm tone, not wishing to give Harry too much hope should he fail. “I shall always be with you Master, if you need me you only need to make the call.” Now the deity speaks gently, like a father to his beloved son and Heir. “I have granted you your Hallows as well, as they are rightfully yours, and you maintain your immortality.” That reassurance oddly took a lot of weight off of Harry’s shoulders, relieving some of his fear about being thrust back into a war time.
“But the elder wand belongs to Grindelwald right now and the ring should be with the Gaunts,” Harry pointed out. The Hallows symbol was carved into a grand archway, looming over them like a warning. “What about the cloak, isn’t that with the Potters?”
“I am sure they will get good use out of their fakes,” Death gave an unsettling mischievous smile. “The false Hallows will die with them so you needn’t worry about being accused of being a thief.”
Harry stood there silently, running his fingers over his holly wand. No longer in the form of a long, knobby wand the Death Stick maintained a form that was welcome to Harry- his trusted holly wand. Granted, the power of the Elder Wand was one with Harry now, not just in the wand but in Harry’s veins. The ring on his finger and the wand in his hand emitted a sort of comforting hum that Harry had gotten used to over the years. It was grounding, centering Harry even when Death swept away and left Harry alone in a strange place and time. The title of Master could not be taken from him, both earned and inherited; it was Harry’s until he chose to pass.
But Harry would do this over and over again until he succeeded. It didn’t matter how many times it took, he would gladly live and fail a thousand times over until he finally managed to give his friends the life they deserved.
Looking around Peverell Castle with grim determination, Harry set his jaw and got to work.
Sitting in the middle of the Slytherin table in the Great Hall it was clear to anyone with eyes that Tom Riddle had successfully cemented himself as the undoubted Slytherin King. It was a spot Tom had undoubtedly earned both in his raw power and his name. The inheritance test that Abraxas had paid for had revealed a practically royal legacy in the name of Slytherin. Tom Riddle the once sneered upon ‘mudblood’ was the heir of one of the Founding Houses, older than almost any other in Britain, and he had more power than any of these spoiled little pureblood heirs combined.
They all sat around him like faithful disciples hanging on to his every move and word as if he spoke the gospel itself. The idea that only two years ago they had scorned him was almost unthinkable given the way they acted now. But Tom did not forget, he never would. It only added to the pleasure of having his knights kneel at his feet and beg for his favor.
At his right hand sat Abraxas, smug and pompous as every Malfoy was but preening with pride at being Tom’s closest friend. Let it never be said that Tom did not reward loyalty for Abraxas would have highest honors in Tom’s circle, honors that would only grow with the power Tom would one day gain in the Wizarding World. To his left was Orion Black, the most powerful and influential of any of the Knights with a legacy and name that every Slytherin (even Tom) would kill for.
However Orion was clearly distracted, not preening or simpering but instead talking amongst his cousins and sister as they all cast suspicious glances at the doors to the Great Hall. The sheer amount of Blacks that currently occupied Hogwarts meant that this whispering group made up a fair portion of the Slytherin Table. Tom had long since begun ignoring whatever Xenos was saying to focus on what Cygnus and Orion could possibly be discussing. There were no young Blacks expected to join Hogwarts this year so what interest did they have in the first years?
Tapping his long and pale fingers on the table one, two times Tom cleared his throat and in a low voice he called: “Orion.” He may have spoken quietly but the Knights all heard and Orion immediately turned to Tom, ducking his head in a subtle bow. The Black Heir knew what Tom wanted and leaned close to explain with eager and excited eyes.
“My father received news that a cousin of ours has returned to Britain and is expected to attend Hogwarts this year.” Orion’s eagerness was reflected in the rest of his family and only grew Tom’s curiosity. Maintaining an almost emotionless expression Tom tapped his finger once more.
“A cousin,” he prompted, sounding bored and disinterested despite his peaked curiosity.
“Mm. My aunt Lycoris ran off to Europe a while back. It was quite the scandal according to Mother as none of us ever knew who she married.” Of course, just another pureblood running from their pampered life, not realizing how fortunate they were. It was hard for Tom to not grit his teeth. “But apparently she married very well. And she had a son. Father was of course thrilled and told us to make cousin Hadrian feel as welcome as possible.”
“Who did she marry?” Romulus Lestrange inquired. Dorea leaned across the table, a sparkle of ambition in her eyes. It was the look of a Pureblood who had just won the high ground over everyone around them- a dangerous look for a Black to have given the status they already lorded over everyone.
“She married a Peverell,” Dorea shared, delivering the news like a trump card. All those surrounding gaped or gasped in a quite impolite manner. The sound and reaction grated on Tom, just another show of how he was raised by filthy muggles. His line was superior to all of theirs and yet here he sat, unknowing of whatever societal knowledge they all shared that had them acting like unmannered, mudblood fools.
As if sensing his growing temper, Abraxas leaned closer to Tom and whispered so that none of the others could hear. “They are a family that is older and richer than the Founders. They are rumored to have… odd powers as well. And they are strangely powerful, it’s why there are people who think the Tale of Three Brothers is true. The Peverells have always been a bit mysterious.” Now that was something that truly did attract Tom’s attention, though he managed to show interest in a calm manner unlike the heathens around him. With a slightly raised brow Tom motioned for Abraxas to continue. “Well, the last Peverell that actually attended Hogwarts was about two hundred years ago and he was rumored to be a genuine Seer.”
“Some are rumored to practice necromancy,” Walburga added, catching the thread of conversation now that Abraxas spoke a bit louder. “They are a very gifted family and now they are combined with our own line.”
Lestrange rolled his eyes and leaned into Avery. “A Black and a Peverell, Merlin help us all.” Avery snickered, the pair ignoring the glares that Walburga and Dorea directed at them.
A Black a Peverell, now there was a thought. Gifted, rich, powerful and with blood older than a founder. It was a delicious thought, like a warm meal being waved in front of Tom’s face while he starved in the orphanage. Slughorn’s prodigy that he was, Tom was a collector and the idea of collecting someone who had the Purebloods in this much of an uproar was something Tom could not pass up. What if this ‘Cousin Hadrian’ was a seer as well? How valuable would it be to have a Seer in the court of the future ruler of Wizarding Britain?
The doors of the Great Hall slowly heaved open and in marched the newest class, a group of around a hundred students. None of the Blacks seemed to hold much interest in the first years so Tom assumed that their cousin was older, perhaps a transfer taking refuge here.
“How did his parents pass?” Tom drawled, trying to ignore the gnawing hunger in his stomach. He had not had much to eat this summer and the prospect of dinner being so close yet so far was almost as cruel as Tom was.
“They were killed,” Orion shared with pursed lips. It was an insult to him, no doubt, that someone thought to kill a member of the House of Black. “Father would not tell us why but perhaps Hadrian will.”
“Hufflepuff!” The Hat announced and applause burst through the room once more, pulling Tom’s attention back to the sorting. So far it seemed like Slytherin was behind in numbers, lagging behind Ravenclaw who had the majority of the first years. At least it wasn’t Gryffindor with the most, the idea of more of those idiots roaming the halls was sickening.
“We only have ten first years,” Cygnus sighed. His lips pursed as he spoke to his brother. “How embarrassing.”
“Well we don’t want just anyone,” Alphard sniffed.
“Oh that one is my little cousin!” Xenos hissed, pointing subtly to a blonde haired bow with an arrogant look. Oh yes, Tom could see the family resemblance on his pointed, too sharp to be attractive features. “He’s guaranteed to be one of us.”
“Cressida Blishwick!” Dumbledore called and a short, thin black haired girl stepped forward.
“Slytherin!” The Hat called, having barely touched her head. Clapping politely, Tom nodded to one of the girls to make the new Slytherin feel welcome.
“I thought for sure she’d be a Ravenclaw,” Abraxas tsked, passing a galleon to Cassius Warrington. “Blishwicks usually are.”
“Her grandmother is a Black,” the older boy pointed out, pocketing the coin with satisfaction. Abraxas frowned, looking disappointed with himself.
“True.”
Thankfully the sorting came to an end before too long with Slytherin House gaining a grand total of 18 new students. Most were purebloods but a few half bloods were thrown in the mix, most clearly raised by their pureblood parent given the way they held themselves. Sadly Ravenclaw had indeed won out on who got the most First Years which meant that they would be unbearable for a few weeks. No matter, Tom alone could outdo any Ravenclaw and he and his knights ensured that the House Cup never strayed from their hands. The Cup had sat on their mantle for four years now, that would not stop just because Ravenclaw got a large new class.
Headmaster Dippet stood, garnering attention and silencing the hall as he stood at the podium with a hand raised. Before we begin, I have an announcement,” the older man spoke with a loud, solemn voice as he looked out over his students. “This year Hogwarts will play host to a new student who has arrived from France due to the war. This student has endured plenty and I hope that you shall all be welcoming and kind to this young man and show him a true Hogwarts welcome.” Moving his hand to gesture towards the great doors, Dippet swept them open with an effortless wave of wandless magic. “Now, please join me in welcoming Hadrian Black-Peverell!”
All heads turned to watch as a short boy- no taller than 5’5- strode through the Hall with the confidence of someone who had been there before and was used to all eyes being on him. Like a man on a mission Hadrian Peverell stalked his way towards the Sorting Hat, not so much as sparing a glance to anyone. It was only when he was seated on the stool, Hat on his head, that Tom was able to truly look at this mysterious heir.
Peverell had the black hair that the blacks were famed for, a windswept mop of it gracing the top of his head. His skin was milky white, face delicate and fine like a well bred aristocrat though his eyes gleamed with a hint of mischief and this odd look like he knew something no one else did. And those eyes, Tom could not help but be drawn in by Peverell’s eyes that gleamed in a way that could only be magical for no mortal’s eyes should ever be that… vibrant. His eyes mixed with the intoxicating power that seemed to roll off of him in waves came together to make Hadrian Peverell a captivating entity.
The Slytherin table was full of chatter, low voices talking nonstop as they watched the sorting. The boy seemed to be talking with the Hat in a casual manner, not at all bothered by the sentient piece of clothing and they seemed to be having an animated discussion.
“Quiet.” Tom ordered in his sibilant voice. The entire table fell silent in a heartbeat, the only sound coming from the Slytherins being that of their breathing. He could not prevent the other tables from talking but at least those nearest to Tom were not silent under his order, allowing Tom to watch the boy with eyes like a hawk.
There was something captivating about him, something hooking Tom in a way that he could not look away. Was it the eyes? Was it this promise of power that Tom could feel but could not yet taste? He wanted desperately to taste it, to see if this boy had this ‘legendary’ Peverell Power that everyone seemed convinced of. Was this the hope of having an equal? Was this Tom’s penchant for obsession? Whatever it was, Tom could not bring himself to look away from Hadrian.
And then, as if he had heard Tom thinking about him, Hadrian’s head slowly turned, eyes scanning the hall until they came to rest on the Slytherin table. On Tom.
By Circe his eyes were so much more enchanting when they pierced directly into you and Tom found himself leaning in, matching the emerald gaze with a burning ruby one of his own. But where Tom was burning with curiosity, with a yearning to know what secrets this powerful boy held, Hadrian stared back with something far more powerful. Something unexpected.
Hadrian Peverell was staring at Tom Riddle with a mix of distaste, loathing, and smug superiority.
It was the way Tom looked at everyone else.
And he hated it.
Sitting there, waiting for the Sorting Hat to come to its conclusion on where to put Harry was a surreal experience. Given that Harry had seen Hogwarts brought down to nothing but rubble he never thought he would walk these halls again let alone speak to the sorting hat. Frederic- apparently that was his name- was amused to meet Harry once more, leering at his secrets and pushing his way through Harry’s mind. Unfortunately it was sitting on this stool, staring at these students who had been adults or dead by the time Harry was born, that it came to Harry like the greatest revelation and the worst nightmare.
He had been sent to 1942.
At Hogwarts.
Slowly turning his head to look at the Slytherin Table Harry prayed that he was very much wrong and had a shoddy memory. Maybe he was delusional and overthinking things. Maybe he remembered things wrong and this was in fact not the year that he had been shone all those years ago by his fellow Horcrux the Diary. ‘Let him be gone and graduated, please let me be wrong’ Harry prayed and yet Death remained suspiciously silent and Harry’s stomach dropped.
This was just like Death, to give Harry a gift and tack on a ‘fun’ little surprise alongside it. ‘Oh you’re Master of Death! Surprise, that means you get to watch everything and everyone die around you but not you!’ or ‘Here you can see your parents! Oh wait, it can only happen once a blue moon and you are only ever seeing reflections of them!’ Death was fun like that. As soon as Harry died and got to the Afterlife he was going to strangle Death to… well… Death. Because there, sitting at the Slytherin Table with perfectly coifed hair and a mask of polite interest that Harry knew was faker than Dumbledore’s Grandfatherly act, was Tom fucking Riddle.
Harry was going to kill Death.
Harry was going to kill Death.
“With that attitude it seems pointless to ask where you would like to go,” Frederic muttered into his mind.
“I was in Gryffindor last time,” Harry replied, teeth gritted as he stared at the budding Dark Lord. Red eyes that were terrifyingly familiar stared back, burning with an obsession Harry knew too well.
“But it did not suit you.”
“I thought it did,” Harry snipped back, eyes still on Riddle. The other man/monster/boy leaned in and Harry allowed distaste to come over his face. Scorn easily slid into his eyes and a slight curl of his lip appeared with an easiness the Dark Lord had always prompted.
“Look at your nature, look at what you later became,” Frederic insisted, pressing deeper into Harry’s mind. “Look at you today. Do you truly think so?”
Now Harry was not able to argue that point, thinking back on the last 15 years of his life. The schemes, the bloodlust, the darkness that had poured out of him effortlessly, like it was what Harry was always meant to do. “Maybe not,” he conceded. A small smirk curled on his lips. “You could send me to Ravenclaw.”
“You certainly know more than any of them now. It could work.” But the way the Hat said it gave Harry the real answer.
There was only one place that was fitting for him now. And try as he might, Harry could not deny the amusement he felt at being a Slytherin alongside Tom Riddle. He thought he was special; Parseltongue, Heir of Slytherin, a grand and shadowy figure of mystery. But Harry knew him, Harry knew his playbook. Maybe he could rid the world of Voldemort and save it from inevitable doom and destruction. Harry could certainly hang up his hat on something like that.
“But you won’t do it,” Harry murmured.
“No, it is not fitting. It is not where you truly belong.” The ache of Harry’s mind being pushed through disappeared as the Hat readied to make its announcement. “I let you sway me last time- or is it next time- but this time you will go where you belong, Harry Potter.”
The Hat had been conversing with Peverell for several minutes now, and the boy had yet to look anything but arrogant and distasteful. It was truly annoying but Tom couldn’t find it in himself to look away.
“Slytherin!” The Hat pronounced with gusto. In a show of House Pride and the great victory of having one of the eldest Pureblood heirs joining their hallowed house, the Slytherins cheered loudly. Tom himself clapped, watching as Hadrian walked over to their table, no longer focused on Tom but instead staring at Orion with an almost pained look.
“It was never a question!” Orion yelled, with that arrogance all Black family members possessed. Tom barely resisted the urge to give an undignified eye roll. Had Charis and Callidora Black not both been Ravenclaws during their time here?
“He’s a Black alright!” Avery laughed, shaking his head as the Black children shifted around to greet their newest cousin. Orion immediately stood, gesturing for Hadrian to sit between him and Alphard which Hadrian did, nodding his head to them both.
“Cousin Hadrian, it’s an honor to finally meet you!” The Black Heir greeted. Hadrian gave a start, eyes scanning the other boy’s face fervently like he was searching for something.
“Harry, please,” Peverell rasped, sounding pained. Perhaps Orion looked like Hadrian’s mother. Sentiment, how weak. “You must be Orion.”
Orion nodded, pleased. “Yes, and that is Alphard. Over there are Cygnus, Lucretia, and Walburga. Next to Lestrange over there is Dorea.” Hadrian nodded to each of them, giving each of them the offer to call him by a nickname. It seemed that the Blacks were closing ranks around their cousin quicker than sharks in bloodied waters. They were staking their claim on him, imbedding themselves into the life of this boy who would undoubtedly hold the greatest influence.
“His blood is so pure he makes you look like a mudblood,” Abraxas snickered to Avery. “It’s almost enough to make one jealous.”
And that was it, Tom had to know Hadrian, had to collect him and make him subservient. In the minute he had been here Hadrian already threatened to destabilize Tom’s carefully won power. He refused to let that happen, not after everything he had done. He would have Hadrian Peverell as a knight or Hadrian Peverell would be rid from this world.
Tom cleared his throat, barely audible but enough to give Orion a start. With an apologetic look that begged for forgiveness for a clear lack of respect Orion waved to Tom. “Hadrian,” Peverell, turned brows raised. “This is our 5th Year Prefect, Tom Riddle. Tom, this is Cousin Hadrian.”
Lips slowly curling into a well practiced, charming smirk Tom tilted his head up. “Cousin Hadrian,” he purred, tapping his finger on the table. “Welcome to Slytherin House.”