Hadrian Peverel: The Lord Of Haven

Chapter 2

Hadrian sat in the private office Gringotts had provided for high-profile clients, his fingers tapping against the polished ebony desk. The room was silent, save for the faint scratch of Ragnok's quill as he finished compiling the documents Hadrian had requested.

Stacks of parchment lay before him—records of Peverell holdings, old investments, land deeds dating back centuries. He had expected some inheritance, but this?

The sheer scope of the Peverell estate was staggering.

Ragnok slid the final document across the desk. "These are the complete records available to Gringotts. As of today, you are the sole inheritor of the Peverell wealth and properties."

Hadrian's gaze flicked over the contents, absorbing the details. Several properties stood out—some in Britain, others in Europe, a handful in more obscure locations. The one that immediately caught his attention, however, was an abandoned estate in northern Scotland, deep in the Highlands.

It had been untouched for over four hundred years. Hidden, unplottable, forgotten even by wizarding records.

Perfect.

Hadrian set the parchment aside and met Ragnok's gaze. "I want full control over all assets immediately. Liquidate anything unnecessary, consolidate accounts under a single private vault, and authorize expansion on the Scottish estate."

The goblin studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Efficient. Do you intend to occupy the property yourself?"

"Not immediately," Hadrian said smoothly. "I have plans for it, but I'll need to survey the land and determine its viability first."

Ragnok gave a sharp-toothed smirk. "Shall I assume this will not be a simple renovation?"

Hadrian's lips curled in amusement. "You assume correctly."

Ragnok nodded approvingly. "Gringotts offers discreet magical construction services. If you require wards, expansions, or security enhancements, we can provide them—for the right price."

Hadrian leaned back, considering. "I'll be handling most of the warding personally, but I may require reinforcement in certain areas." His fingers drummed once against the desk. "For now, I'll need transportation to the estate. Untraceable."

"That can be arranged." Ragnok made a note on a separate parchment. "I will prepare the necessary portkey."

Hadrian inclined his head. "Then we have an understanding."

Ragnok gave a sharp nod, then stood. "Welcome back to power, Lord Peverell."

Hadrian smirked. Power had never left him.

The portkey deposited him on the edge of a vast, untouched stretch of land, the cool Highland wind sweeping through the valley. The sky had darkened to a deep indigo, stars flickering like scattered diamonds across the heavens.

Hadrian straightened, his boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. The estate lay ahead—a structure long forgotten, shrouded in powerful, ancient magic.

Even from here, he could feel it.

A pulse.

The wards recognized him, stirring from centuries of dormancy. It was not a sentience in the way a cursed object might hold awareness, but it was old magic, woven so deeply into the land that it had almost become part of the earth itself.

He stepped forward.

The air shifted.

The ruins responded.

A whisper of recognition rippled through the space, and then—the structure came alive.

Where there had once been collapsed stone and overgrown ivy, walls reformed. The towers rose once more, dark silhouettes against the night. Glass repaired itself, runes reignited with power, and the ancestral Peverell Manor stood once more, fully restored.

Hadrian exhaled, taking it all in.

This place had been waiting for him.

His fingers ghosted over the black stone of the entrance. The doors opened without a single spell.

He stepped inside.

The manor was silent, grand yet untouched by time. High ceilings, dark wood, enchanted sconces flickering to life as he passed. The house did not resist him—it accepted him.

This was not just a home.

It was a fortress.

A foundation.

And soon, it would be so much more.

Hadrian smirked.

Let the world wait.

Hadrian moved through the halls of the restored manor, his fingers trailing over the smooth black stone. The castle-like structure was silent, but not dead. Magic pulsed beneath the surface, woven into the very foundation, responding to his presence like a sleeping beast stirring from slumber.

Good.

This place was more than a home—it was a sanctuary. A forgotten relic of old magic, untouched by Ministry law or modern wizarding politics.

He stood in the great hall, a cavernous chamber lined with ornate pillars, their carvings depicting Peverell ancestors long lost to history. A grand staircase curved toward the upper floors, and beyond it, towering arched windows overlooked the sprawling Highlands.

Hadrian took a slow breath. This was step one.

A base of power. A stronghold.

Now, he had to fortify it.

He strode toward the center of the hall, pulling magic from the very air, molding it with nothing but intent.

The room darkened as raw power coiled around him. He lifted his hand, and ancient wards flared to life, burning silver as they spread through the walls.

One by one, layers of protection unfurled like a great web, covering the estate in barriers even the most skilled wizards would struggle to break.

• Bloodline Wards – Only those he permitted would pass beyond the main gates. Any intruder would be repelled or, if they forced their way in, unmade at a molecular level.

• Anti-Apparition & Portkey Shields – No one would come or go unless he allowed it.

• Magic Concealment – The estate would not register to Ministry tracking spells. As far as the outside world was concerned, Peverell Manor did not exist.

• Hostile Detection – Any intent of harm would be felt before an attacker could even lift a wand.

The final ward, a signature enchantment of his own design, bound the land to him completely.

As long as he lived, no one—not the Ministry, not Dumbledore, not even Voldemort himself—could claim dominion over this place.

A pulse of finality echoed through the manor.

It was done.

Hadrian exhaled, lowering his hand as the last threads of magic settled into place. The estate was his now, fully awakened, fully secured.

But this was only the beginning.

He turned, striding toward a hidden passageway that had revealed itself near the hearth. The magic of the manor had accepted him as its master—and with that came access to knowledge long forgotten.

His footsteps echoed as he descended into the underground levels, where the air grew heavier, thick with age-old enchantments.

The chamber that awaited him was massive. Walls lined with ancient tomes, enchanted armor standing at attention, artifacts humming with stored power. A vault of knowledge and weapons, passed down through the Peverell line.

Hadrian's gaze flicked across the spines of the books. Some were older than Hogwarts, detailing forgotten branches of magic, alchemy, wardcraft, blood rituals—spells that had never been recorded in modern wizarding texts.

His lips curled into a smirk.

This was what the Ministry feared.

Not just power, but independence. Knowledge beyond their control. A force that did not answer to them.

He picked up a worn leather-bound tome, flipping through its pages.

His world had fallen because the wizards who should have protected it had hesitated. Had refused to act until it was too late.

This time, he would not wait.

Hadrian would build something greater.

And no one—not the Ministry, not the Order, not even Voldemort himself—would be able to stop him.

Hadrian stood in the heart of the underground vault, surrounded by the remnants of a forgotten age. The Peverell legacy was far more than just gold—it was knowledge, artifacts, power that had been sealed away for centuries.

Now, it belonged to him.

And he would use it.

His fingers skimmed over a heavy tome bound in dragonhide, the ancient runes on its surface flickering as they reacted to his touch. He had no doubt that many of these books contained spells and enchantments long lost to time.

Magic beyond what the Ministry allowed. Beyond what even Dumbledore had likely ever studied.

He smirked.

With access to this knowledge, he could accelerate his plans—not just for Peverell Haven, but for reshaping the entire wizarding world.

But first—he needed people.

No empire was built alone.

He had seen firsthand the failure of relying on a single force—the Order of the Phoenix had been too reactive, too fractured. The Ministry had been too corrupt, too incompetent. Voldemort's forces had been too dependent on fear, too unstable.

Hadrian would not make their mistakes.

His people would be loyal.

His people would be strong.

And his people would be utterly incorruptible.

He turned on his heel, leaving the vault behind. He had work to do.

The first phase of recruitment would be silent.

Hadrian needed capable individuals, but he could not simply walk into wizarding society and announce his intentions. He needed people who would not betray him, who would see his vision and follow it without hesitation.

His first stop? Knockturn Alley.

The streets were dark, damp, and filled with whispers. Knockturn Alley was a place of secrets, where power was hoarded and sold to the highest bidder.

Hadrian moved through the shadows effortlessly, his presence unnoticed. He had learned long ago that the best way to navigate dangerous places was to become part of them.

The people he was looking for wouldn't be found in grand wizarding institutions. They wouldn't be Ministry-trained Aurors or idealistic Order members. They would be outcasts, mercenaries, and the forgotten.

People who had nothing—and thus, would be willing to build something greater.

His path led him to a small, unmarked establishment, tucked between a potion shop and a rune-crafting stall. The sign above the door was barely visible, its runes designed to ward off anyone who didn't belong.

He belonged.

Pushing the door open, he stepped inside.

The inn was dimly lit, filled with the scent of old parchment, spiced firewhiskey, and something vaguely metallic. The clientele was exactly what he expected—wand smugglers, cursebreakers, rogue potion masters, and magical specialists who had been cast out of "respectable" society.

Perfect.

He made his way to the bar, where the barkeep—a grizzled wizard with a missing eye and a wary gaze—watched him approach.

"You're new," the man grunted.

Hadrian lowered his hood just enough to meet the man's gaze. "Not for long."

The barkeep's expression remained unreadable. "What are you looking for?"

Hadrian took a slow breath, letting a fraction of his magic pulse through the air. Not enough to cause alarm—just enough to demand attention.

"I'm looking for talent," he said. His voice was calm, deliberate. "People with skills, people who know how to work outside the Ministry's reach. People who are tired of being hunted, restricted, or ignored."

The barkeep's fingers tightened on his glass. Around the room, a few conversations stilled.

Hadrian leaned in slightly.

"I'm building something," he said softly. "And I'm offering something no one else in this world can."

The barkeep raised a skeptical brow. "And what's that?"

Hadrian's smirk was razor-sharp.

"A future."

Silence hung in the air.

The barkeep studied Hadrian for a long moment, his lone eye glinting with a mixture of suspicion and intrigue. Around the room, the pause in conversation stretched just a little too long, the kind of hushed, measured silence that only came when dangerous men were listening.

Good.

He had their attention.

The barkeep snorted. "A future, eh? Sounds like a politician's promise."

Hadrian's smirk didn't fade. "Politicians lie. I don't."

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a single golden galleon—but unlike any ordinary wizarding coin, this one hummed with power. The runes etched into its surface pulsed faintly, as though drinking in the magic around them.

A test. A signal.

He placed the coin on the bar between them.

The barkeep's eyes flicked to it, then back to Hadrian. He didn't touch it. "And what's that supposed to be?"

Hadrian tilted his head. "An invitation."

A shift in the air. Interest. Uncertainty.

From the far end of the tavern, a low chuckle sounded. A man detached himself from the shadows, stepping forward with an easy, dangerous grace. He was lean, sharp-featured, dressed in dark, well-worn robes, and the moment Hadrian met his gaze, he recognized the type.

A killer.

Not just any killer—a professional.

"That's an old trick," the man drawled, his voice smooth, unimpressed. "Come into a place like this, toss around some vague talk about opportunity, and hope the right people bite." His gaze flicked over Hadrian, assessing. "Usually, it's Ministry spies or Dark Lord lackeys. Which one are you?"

Hadrian smiled—sharp, cold, predatory.

"Neither," he said. "I'm what comes after."

The man stilled.

Something flickered in his expression—not fear, not yet, but the realization that Hadrian was not playing the same game as the others.

The barkeep exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "You're serious about this, then?"

Hadrian leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping just enough to ensure that every single person in the room heard him.

"I'm building something outside the Ministry's control. Beyond Dumbledore's restrictions. Beyond the Dark Lord's corruption. A place where the strongest rule, where innovation is unrestricted, where the future is shaped by those who have the will to claim it."

A slow beat of silence.

Then—interest.

The man in dark robes watched him carefully. "A bold claim," he murmured. "And what exactly do you need from us?"

Hadrian sat back. "Loyalty," he said simply. "Skill. And a willingness to step outside the old world's limits."

The man raised a brow. "And what do we get in return?"

Hadrian smirked.

"Power. Protection. And a future where you answer to no one but yourselves."

A murmur rippled through the room.

The barkeep let out a slow breath, eyeing Hadrian with something bordering on reluctant admiration. "Haven't heard something like that in a long time."

"You haven't heard it because no one's been capable of making it happen," Hadrian said smoothly. "Until now."

A pause. Then, the barkeep reached out, picked up the enchanted coin, and rolled it between his fingers.

"You've got my attention," he admitted. "Where do we go from here?"

Hadrian stood, adjusting the sleeves of his coat. "Spread the word. Not openly, not yet. Those who are curious, those who are tired of being hunted or leashed—send them to Hogsmeade, three nights from now. The Shrieking Shack. They'll receive further instructions."

The barkeep raised a skeptical brow. "And if the wrong sort shows up?"

Hadrian smiled. "They won't make it past the door."

The man in dark robes laughed. "Now that, I believe."

As Hadrian turned to leave, he felt the shift in the air—the beginning of something.

A single step in a long game.

And soon?

Soon, the world would know the name Hadrian Peverell.