Hadrian Peverel: The Lord Of Haven

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Chapter 1: A World Unbroken

Hadrian's first breath in this new timeline felt wrong.

The air was too crisp, too fresh—untainted by the lingering scent of war and decay that had permeated his lungs for over a decade. Gone was the acrid stench of blood, smoke, and the raw, metallic bite of magic that had been burned into his senses.

Instead, he smelled rain. Earth. The faintest trace of parchment and ink, carried on a cool evening breeze.

His fingers curled against damp grass, his palms pressing into solid ground—a sensation he had not felt in years. In his own time, the world had been cracked, broken, with magic leaking through its wounds like an open artery. But here, it thrived.

He opened his eyes.

The sky stretched above him in deep hues of blue and violet, the last remnants of sunset bleeding into the horizon. Tall trees loomed in the distance, their darkened silhouettes unfamiliar, but the quiet hum of magic in the air told him what he needed to know.

Scotland. Hogwarts' wards are nearby.

He pushed himself up slowly, muscles coiling in preparation for a fight that did not come. His magic surged instinctively, ready to lash out, but there were no enemies here. No Death Eaters lurking in the shadows. No Ministry operatives tracking his every movement. No desperate survivors waiting for him to lead them into another hopeless battle.

Just silence.

Hadrian exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair. It was longer than he remembered, reaching just past his shoulders, though it was still the same inky black. He could feel the smoothness of his face—no battle-worn scars, no hardened lines from years of war. His body was as strong as ever, honed to perfection, but there was something new beneath the surface.

Magic crackled at his fingertips, more potent than before, more refined. His connection to it felt different—sharper, deeper, as if the very air around him responded to his presence.

Time travel was dangerous, unpredictable. The magic involved was unstable at best and catastrophic at worst. Hadrian had not intended to use it, but the artifact in the ruined Ministry had chosen him, ripping him from his dying world and hurling him here.

The past.

A time before Voldemort's reign of terror. Before the fall of the Ministry. Before everything had crumbled into dust.

Hadrian let out a slow breath, his mind already shifting into calculation.

If he was truly in the Marauders' Era, he had time. A rare, precious advantage that had been denied to him before.

He would not waste it.

His gaze flicked toward the distant castle, its towers faintly illuminated against the darkening sky. Hogwarts. A place that had once been his home, now untouched by war.

A familiar tug of nostalgia pulled at him—but he crushed it before it could take root.

I am not Harry Potter anymore.

Harry Potter was a relic of a future that no longer existed. A broken soldier who had spent too long fighting a war that had cost him everything.

He had no use for that name here.

Here, he was Hadrian Peverell—heir to the oldest and most powerful bloodline in wizarding history.

The world had yet to break.

Hadrian moved with purpose, his steps silent against the damp earth. His mind was already working through the necessities—where he would establish himself, how he would navigate this world, and most importantly, how he would do it without attracting unnecessary attention.

For now.

The first step was identity. His true name was out of the question—he had no idea how much the Potters were known at this point in time, but it was a risk he would not take. He needed something powerful, something that would grant him both respect and authority.

The name Peverell was his birthright, a lineage so old that few still claimed it. But it was also a name wrapped in legend, and legends had power.

Hadrian Peverell.

It would be enough.

A flick of his hand transfigured his war-ravaged robes into something suitable—deep, elegant black, with silver embroidery along the cuffs. He conjured a heavy cloak, enchanted against detection, and pulled the hood over his head. His magic hummed beneath his skin, shifting and layering itself as he wove a glamour—not one of disguise, but of presence.

He would not be seen as a stranger to be questioned. He would be someone important, someone whose existence was simply accepted without suspicion.

It was a subtle manipulation of perception, an old trick he had mastered in the war. People were less likely to ask questions if they instinctively believed they already knew the answers.

His path took him toward the nearest settlement—Hogsmeade.

The village was alive with soft, golden light spilling from shop windows and the chatter of wizards enjoying a peaceful evening. Hadrian kept to the shadows, his gaze sweeping over the familiar sights—the Three Broomsticks, Honeydukes, and the looming, crooked silhouette of the Shrieking Shack in the distance.

For a moment, he simply stood there, drinking in the sight of a world untouched by the horrors he had left behind.

Then he moved.

He needed information, a base of operations, and—most importantly—he needed documentation that would allow him to exist in this time without interference.

The best way to accomplish all three?

Gringotts.

The goblins were the only ones who dealt in true records, beyond the reach of the Ministry or any wizarding power. If he could establish himself there, secure a financial foothold, and plant the necessary documentation to solidify his presence, he would be untouchable.

He slipped through the streets unnoticed, his presence blending into the background of the bustling village, until he reached the apparition point. With a silent command to his magic, he vanished.

He reappeared in Diagon Alley, the familiar cobblestone streets nearly deserted at this late hour. A few stragglers wandered between the dimly lit shops, but the real prize stood at the far end of the alley—Gringotts Wizarding Bank.

The great white building loomed, its bronze doors gleaming in the flickering torchlight. Goblin sentries stood guard, their sharp eyes following his approach with practiced wariness.

Hadrian did not slow. He walked with the same quiet confidence he had once used when negotiating with warlords and magical leaders alike.

Hesitation meant weakness.

Weakness meant exploitation.

He reached the doors, and the goblins stepped aside without question.

The interior of Gringotts was unchanged—marble floors, chandeliers casting cold light, and the ever-present scent of parchment, ink, and wealth. A handful of wizards conducted late-night transactions at the counters, but Hadrian ignored them, heading directly for an official-looking goblin stationed behind an ornate desk.

The goblin, dressed in fine robes, looked up, his sharp features neutral but assessing.

"Name and business?"

Hadrian met his gaze without flinching.

"Hadrian Peverell. I am here to claim my inheritance."

Silence fell.

For the first time since arriving in this world, Hadrian allowed himself a smirk.

A name had power.

And his would shake the foundations of this era.

The goblin's quill stilled over parchment. For a moment, there was no reaction—no visible shock, no immediate challenge. But Hadrian knew better.

Goblins were creatures of control. They would not show surprise. They would assess, measure, and decide how best to respond.

And he had just dropped a name that should not exist.

"Peverell?" the goblin finally repeated, his voice carefully neutral. His black eyes studied Hadrian with an intensity that would have unnerved a lesser wizard. "That is… an unusual claim."

Hadrian let the words hang between them, allowing the weight of his presence to fill the silence. The trick was to act as if you belonged. Any doubt, any hesitation, would invite scrutiny.

"The Peverell line is ancient," Hadrian said smoothly, keeping his voice even, measured. "Most believe it to be extinct. They are wrong." He leaned forward slightly, letting his magic pulse beneath his skin—controlled, deliberate, a whisper of something vast and unknowable. "Would you like to test me?"

A challenge.

The goblin stilled again. Then, after a long pause, he set his quill aside and reached for a polished silver bell. A sharp ring echoed through the hall.

Within moments, another goblin arrived—this one dressed in deep crimson robes, the markings of a high-ranking official. He was older, with a sharp, foxlike face and long fingers adorned with rings that shimmered with ancient enchantments.

The goblin behind the desk inclined his head. "Ragnok, this wizard claims inheritance to the Peverell legacy."

Ragnok.

Hadrian recognized the name—in his time, Ragnok had been the leader of the goblins during the war, a strategist with little patience for wizards but enough cunning to maneuver entire battles in his people's favor. That he was already in a position of power meant Hadrian had chosen his moment wisely.

Ragnok studied him for several long seconds, then gestured sharply.

"Follow me."

Hadrian did.

They walked through the deeper halls of Gringotts, descending below the main banking floor where the real business was handled—private affairs, sealed records, and vaults untouched by time.

Hadrian kept his movements relaxed, his gaze impassive, but he was cataloging everything. The guards. The enchanted doors. The wards woven so deeply into the stone that even he would struggle to bypass them.

Ragnok led him into a small, heavily warded chamber, illuminated only by the pale glow of enchanted crystals embedded in the walls.

A stone pedestal stood in the center, its surface carved with intricate goblin runes.

"Blood verification," Ragnok stated. "No wizard has successfully claimed Peverell heritage in recorded history." His sharp gaze met Hadrian's. "If you are lying, the consequences will be… severe."

Hadrian smirked. "Then I have nothing to fear."

Without hesitation, he withdrew a dagger from his sleeve—a finely wrought blade, one of the few things he had carried through time. He sliced across his palm, allowing three drops of blood to fall onto the pedestal.

The reaction was immediate.

The runes blazed to life, golden light surging through the chamber. Ancient magic stirred, waking from its slumber, wrapping around him in recognition. The air vibrated, thick with power.

The Peverell legacy had been acknowledged.

Ragnok's expression remained unreadable, but Hadrian did not miss the way his grip tightened ever so slightly on the edge of the pedestal.

"…Interesting," the goblin murmured.

The golden glow faded, but the weight of acknowledgment remained. Hadrian had been accepted.

And now?

Now he would take what was his.

Ragnok did not waste time.

"Follow me," he said briskly, leading Hadrian deeper into the underground complex. The air grew heavier with magic, and Hadrian recognized the feeling—this was where the oldest vaults resided, the ones built before the Ministry even existed.

They stopped in front of a vault unlike any other.

The doors were black stone, veined with silver, carved with runes so ancient that even Hadrian could not read them all. They pulsed, reacting to his presence.

"Vault 0," Ragnok said. "Peverell's Vault."

Hadrian tilted his head. "It was never claimed?"

"No wizard has had the right to claim it," Ragnok replied. His gaze flicked toward Hadrian. "Until now."

A pulse of his magic, a single step forward—

The vault unlocked itself.

The doors swung open, revealing a treasury untouched by time. Gold, certainly—but more importantly, artifacts. Scrolls bound in dragonhide, enchanted armor humming with power, weapons that whispered magic into the air.

And books.

Hadrian stepped inside, his fingers ghosting over the spines of tomes that predated even Hogwarts. Here lay knowledge lost to the world, hoarded by the Peverells, preserved by the goblins.

This was more than wealth.

This was power.

He turned back to Ragnok.

"I will be requiring access to all records related to this vault," Hadrian said smoothly. "Any existing properties, businesses, or holdings associated with the Peverell name."

Ragnok studied him. "You mean to use them."

"I mean to restore them," Hadrian corrected. His smirk returned. "And expand them."

A pause. Then, slowly, Ragnok nodded.

"I will have the records prepared."

Hadrian inclined his head. "Then we have business to discuss."

He had resources now.

A foundation.

And soon?

Soon, the world would know the name Hadrian Peverell.