Hadrian Peverel: The Lord Of Haven

Chapter 3

Hadrian stood at the edge of the Shrieking Shack's clearing, his cloak blending into the shadows as he observed the group that had gathered before him. The air was crisp, thick with the quiet anticipation of those who had taken a risk by coming here.

The gathering was small but promising.

A dozen figures—men and women of varying ages, dressed in worn but well-maintained robes, their expressions a mixture of curiosity, caution, and hunger for something more. None of them were fools. These were survivors, people who had learned to navigate the underbelly of wizarding society, those who had been deemed unnecessary or untrustworthy by the Ministry.

Perfect.

Hadrian took a slow step forward, and immediately, the group tensed.

He let them. Let them feel the weight of his presence, let them wonder whether they had made a mistake in coming here.

Then, he spoke.

"You've all come here for different reasons," he said, his voice calm but carrying through the clearing like a blade cutting through the dark. "Some of you are tired of being hunted. Some of you are tired of being ignored. And some of you"—his gaze flickered over them, watching as a few shifted uneasily—"have realized that the world you've been forced to live in was never designed to let you win."

Silence.

Good.

"You've been cast out," Hadrian continued, stepping closer, his presence measured, unshaken. "By the Ministry, by society, by fools who think power is determined by birth rather than ability. You've been labeled criminals, undesirables, dangerous."

He stopped. Met their gazes one by one.

"They were right."

A flicker of surprise ran through the group.

Hadrian smirked. "You are dangerous. Every single one of you. Because you have survived in a world that wanted you broken."

The wind howled around them, the night closing in like a silent witness.

"I'm offering you something the Ministry never will. Freedom. Strength. A future not dictated by their fear."

A heavy pause.

Then—movement.

One of the figures stepped forward, a broad-shouldered man with rough features and sharp blue eyes. His robes were patched but reinforced with discreet protective charms, and Hadrian immediately recognized the military bearing in his stance.

A former Auror, then.

The man studied Hadrian. "You talk a big game," he said gruffly. "But I've heard speeches before. People who want power, who promise change." He folded his arms. "They never last."

Hadrian held his gaze. "That's because they didn't know how to win."

A flicker of something dangerous crossed the man's expression.

Hadrian tilted his head slightly. "You're an Auror," he said, as if it were merely an observation. "Or you were, before they decided you weren't useful anymore."

The man stiffened, just barely. Confirmation.

Hadrian continued, his tone almost conversational. "They trained you, molded you into a weapon for their cause. And the moment you no longer fit their perfect, obedient image, they discarded you." He took another step forward, just enough to ensure that he held the man's full attention.

"How long did you serve them before they cast you out?"

A tense pause.

"…Twelve years."

Hadrian nodded once, his expression unreadable. Then—

"Do you want revenge?"

The man's jaw tightened.

Not at the question.

At the fact that he did.

Hadrian watched him for a moment longer, then turned away. He had his answer.

"You're all free to leave," he said to the rest of the group, his back to them now as he paced toward the crumbling remains of the Shack. "Walk away now, and I won't stop you." He glanced back, green eyes gleaming with quiet certainty.

"But if you choose to stay? Then we build something stronger."

Another silence.

Then, one by one—they stayed.

Hadrian smirked.

The foundation had been laid.

And soon?

Soon, they would be unstoppable.

Hadrian studied the faces before him—twelve recruits, each one carrying the scars of a life spent in the margins. Cast-offs, exiles, and survivors. They weren't perfect, but they didn't need to be. They needed purpose. Direction.

He would give them both.

The former Auror—the tall, broad-shouldered man with sharp blue eyes—was still watching him carefully, arms crossed over his chest. Others shifted uneasily, exchanging brief glances, but none of them left.

Good.

Hadrian stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over them, measuring. "Names. Now."

A pause. Then, the Auror spoke first.

"Matthias Rowle."

Hadrian raised a brow at the surname. "Rowle?"

Matthias's mouth curled into something bitter. "Not that Rowle," he muttered. "I was disowned the moment I took the Auror's oath."

Interesting. A disgraced pureblood, thrown out for choosing duty over blood loyalty. And now, a man without a cause.

Hadrian nodded. "Fine. Next."

One by one, the others followed:

• Jonas Flint, a lean, sharp-eyed duelist with the telltale arrogance of someone who had survived too many battles.

• Catherine Hale, a former Unspeakable—a rarity. She had been expelled from the Department of Mysteries for conducting "unethical" research into magical constructs.

• Milo Vance, a cursebreaker who had once worked for Gringotts before being blacklisted for "recklessness."

• Elena Travers, a half-blood potioneer with the last name of a Death Eater—likely another disowned pureblood.

And so it went. Twelve names, twelve lives discarded by the world.

When the last name was given, Hadrian let a weighted silence settle between them before speaking.

"You are not soldiers," he said. "Not yet. You are not a rebellion, nor a political faction. You are something better." His voice lowered slightly. "You are the beginning of an empire."

A flicker of something hungry passed through the group.

Matthias folded his arms. "What's your plan?"

Hadrian's smirk was slow, sharp. "Simple," he said. "We establish control."

Jonas scoffed. "Control over what?"

"Everything," Hadrian said smoothly. "The underground first. Resources, influence, power. We move in the shadows, quietly, until we are unshakable." His green eyes gleamed. "And then? We reshape the world as we see fit."

Catherine Hale exhaled, watching him with something like fascination. "You don't think small, do you?"

"No," Hadrian said. "And neither should you."

Another pause. Then, slowly, acceptance.

They were his, now. The first of many.

He would mold them, train them, turn them into something the wizarding world had never seen before.

But first—he needed to make something clear.

Hadrian's expression darkened slightly, his voice dropping into something colder.

"There will be rules."

A few of them straightened at that.

"First," Hadrian said, "you answer to no one but me. That does not mean blind loyalty—it means understanding that this is bigger than you. Bigger than any of us."

A murmur of agreement.

"Second," he continued, "you do not act without orders. This is not a free-for-all. We do not lash out like common criminals." His voice sharpened. "If you want chaos, if you want mindless rebellion—leave. Now."

No one moved.

"Good," Hadrian said. Then his gaze swept over them again, assessing, challenging. "And third—Peverell Haven will have no place for fools who believe in blood superiority."

That got a reaction.

Elena Travers stiffened slightly, but Matthias Rowle's jaw clenched.

Hadrian's expression didn't waver. "If you have a problem with working alongside Muggleborns, Half-bloods, or those labeled 'creatures' by the Ministry, walk away now."

Silence.

Then—Matthias exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "No objections from me," he muttered. "I've seen enough pureblood hypocrisy to last a lifetime."

One by one, the others nodded their agreement.

Hadrian smiled.

This? This was the foundation of something unstoppable.

Hadrian studied them, reading their body language with practiced ease. Acceptance, curiosity, determination. But beneath it all, something deeper—hunger.

These were people who had lost their place in the world. Now, they wanted one.

Hadrian would give it to them.

Slowly, he crossed his arms, his expression cool, assessing. "You've proven you're willing to listen. That's good. But willingness isn't enough." His voice sharpened. "If you're staying, you have work to do."

The tension in the air shifted—anticipation now, rather than uncertainty.

Matthias Rowle, ever the Auror, tilted his head. "You're talking about assignments."

Hadrian's lips curled. "Observant."

He let his gaze flicker over them again, mentally sorting them into roles. Strengths, weaknesses, personalities—it all mattered. A successful empire was built on structure.

His eyes landed on Matthias first. "You. You've led men before."

A pause. Then, Matthias nodded. "Yeah."

"You're now my second-in-command," Hadrian said. "You'll oversee training and combat readiness." His voice turned wry. "Unless you'd prefer to take orders from someone else."

Matthias smirked faintly. "Not bloody likely."

Hadrian's gaze shifted to Jonas Flint, the lean duelist with the cunning eyes of a man used to fighting dirty. "You? I need someone who can hit hard and disappear."

Jonas's grin was sharp. "Sabotage, then?"

Hadrian smirked. "Among other things."

Jonas chuckled. "I like you already."

He moved on. Catherine Hale, the former Unspeakable. Intelligent, analytical, unafraid of research others considered "dangerous." Perfect.

"You'll handle magical development," Hadrian told her. "Constructs, experimental spellwork, anything that gives us an edge."

Catherine's gaze gleamed with intrigue. "So I get to break the rules?"

Hadrian's smirk deepened. "I encourage it."

Milo Vance, the ex-Gringotts cursebreaker, was next. "You're going to reinforce our strongholds. Wards, escape routes, hidden defenses." Hadrian's gaze darkened slightly. "If an enemy sets foot in our territory, I want them dead before they realize they've made a mistake."

Milo gave a low whistle. "You don't do things halfway, do you?"

Hadrian simply raised a brow. "Should I?"

Milo barked a laugh. "No complaints from me."

Finally, his eyes landed on Elena Travers, the potioneer. She hesitated.

Hadrian noticed.

"Problem?" he asked, tilting his head.

Elena's expression was guarded. "No. Just… processing."

Hadrian watched her for a long moment before speaking. "You're a Travers," he said evenly. "You've been raised to believe in things I'm dismantling."

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

"But you're also here," Hadrian continued. "Which means you've already questioned those beliefs."

Elena exhaled. "I just—" She hesitated. "I don't care about 'blood superiority.' But creatures?" She shook her head. "That's… a lot."

Hadrian's expression remained impassive. "Then leave."

A flicker of shock crossed her face.

Hadrian shrugged. "No one is forcing you to stay. I will not waste time convincing you." His tone sharpened. "But understand this: Haven will not become another Ministry. If that makes you uncomfortable, go now."

Silence.

Then—Elena squared her shoulders.

"…I'll stay," she said finally. "I don't agree with it yet. But I'll see it through."

Hadrian nodded once. That was enough for now.

He turned back to the others. "That brings us to the next phase," he said smoothly. "Recruitment."

Jonas smirked. "I thought that's what we were."

Hadrian chuckled. "No. You're the foundation."

Catherine raised a brow. "And who, exactly, are we recruiting next?"

Hadrian's expression turned sharp, calculating.

"Muggleborns. Half-bloods. Purebloods." A slow pause. "And magical beings."

Matthias raised a brow, but didn't look surprised. Jonas just hummed. Catherine tapped her fingers against her hip thoughtfully.

But Elena?

She stiffened again.

"You're talking about goblins, werewolves—" She hesitated. "Vampires?"

"Yes," Hadrian said simply.

A beat of silence.

Matthias exhaled through his nose. "The Ministry will lose its mind."

Hadrian smirked. "Exactly."

He turned to Milo Vance. "Gringotts respects power," he said. "And I've already made a strong impression. We'll start there."

Milo's eyes flickered with interest. "You want goblins?"

"I want those willing to build something greater." Hadrian's gaze darkened. "And the goblins? They have resources the Ministry fears."

Milo grinned. "This will be fun."

Hadrian turned next to Matthias. "You'll find me the best werewolves."

Matthias raised a brow. "Werewolves?"

"They've been treated like vermin for too long," Hadrian said. "They have strength, skill, discipline. What they lack is security." His eyes gleamed. "We give them that, they will be loyal beyond measure."

Matthias considered. Then, finally, nodded.

Hadrian's gaze flickered over all of them once more. "We move carefully," he said. "Quietly. But we move quickly."

His lips curled into something dark, something victorious.

"The world isn't ready for what comes next."

Hadrian strode through the halls of Gringotts with the measured confidence of a man who belonged. He had been here before—twice, in fact, in this very timeline. First, when he claimed the Peverell vault. Second, when he commissioned the reconstruction of his estate.

Now, he was here for something far more important.

The goblins watched him carefully as he passed, their sharp eyes assessing, calculating. Not hostile—no, not yet. They had not decided what he was to them.

Hadrian intended to decide for them.

The assistant behind the main desk—a younger goblin, shrewd but clearly lower in rank—straightened when he approached.

"Lord Peverell," the goblin greeted, his tone cautious but polite. "Gringotts is always pleased to serve its esteemed clients. What business brings you today?"

Hadrian did not waste time.

"I require an audience with Ragnok," he said smoothly. "Privately."

The goblin blinked. "A meeting with the Chief Cursebreaker?"

"Yes."

A pause. The goblin hesitated—not out of reluctance, but because a meeting with Ragnok was not a simple request. Goblins did not deal with wizards lightly.

Hadrian met the goblin's gaze. "Inform him that it is a business proposition of significant mutual benefit. He will understand."

Another beat of silence. Then, the goblin gave a slow, sharp nod. "Wait here."

Hadrian did not wait.

He moved to the side, leaning casually against a marble pillar, allowing his presence to settle. Letting them see him.

He was not a wizard who fidgeted, who paced in nervous anticipation of a goblin's decision. He was a man worth meeting.

And the goblins would understand that soon enough.

The summons came faster than expected.

Within minutes, another goblin arrived—this one older, clad in deep crimson robes, his expression unreadable.

"Lord Peverell," he greeted, his voice carrying the unmistakable weight of authority. "Chief Ragnok will see you now."

Hadrian nodded once. "Lead the way."

Ragnok's office was not in the public banking halls.

It was below, in the deeper levels of Gringotts, where only the most senior goblins conducted their true business.

The door was heavy, enchanted, carved with ancient runes that pulsed at Hadrian's approach. Not a single unnecessary decoration—goblins did not believe in excess for the sake of vanity.

Inside, Ragnok sat behind a massive stone desk, the room lined with maps, enchanted blueprints, and objects of significant magical power.

He did not greet Hadrian.

Instead, he studied him for a long, measured moment.

Then—he gestured to the chair opposite him.

"Sit."

Hadrian did.

Ragnok steepled his long fingers. "A private audience is not a common courtesy we extend to wizards, Lord Peverell. What do you want?"

Hadrian smiled faintly. "To change the world."

Ragnok's expression did not flicker. "An ambitious claim. Wizards are always trying to change the world. Most fail."

"Most are fools," Hadrian said smoothly.

A pause. Then, the slightest twitch of Ragnok's lips. Amusement.

"Speak plainly," Ragnok said.

Hadrian did.

"The wizarding world is a rotting corpse propped up by outdated laws and corrupt institutions," he said. "The Ministry is ineffective. The Order is weak. The Dark Lord is predictable."

Ragnok's black eyes gleamed.

"And you?"

"I am building something outside of their control." Hadrian leaned forward slightly. "A sovereign power. One the Ministry cannot regulate, one the Dark Lord cannot infiltrate, one that answers to no one."

A beat of silence.

Then—interest.

Ragnok tilted his head. "And where do we fit into this vision?"

Hadrian's smile was slow, sharp. "Wherever you choose."

A flicker of something old and calculating passed through Ragnok's expression. Curiosity. Calculation. Possibility.

"You understand, Lord Peverell," Ragnok said, his tone almost amused, "that goblins do not form alliances with wizards."

Hadrian smirked. "I'm not asking for an alliance."

A pause.

Then, Ragnok leaned forward slightly. "Then what," he murmured, "are you asking for?"

Hadrian did not hesitate.

"A partnership. A true one." His voice was smooth, even. "No Ministry taxes. No wizarding oversight. Your own banks. Your own businesses. The goblins answer to no one but themselves." He let the words settle. "A future that belongs to your people—not one dictated by a government that has never respected you."

Silence.

Then—the weight in the room shifted.

A slow, dangerous smile crossed Ragnok's face.

"Interesting," he murmured.

Hadrian smirked. He had him.

Ragnok's black eyes gleamed with something far older than amusement. Something sharp, dangerous—opportunity.

Hadrian recognized that look.

It was the same expression he had seen in the faces of warlords and politicians in his past life—the moment they realized they stood at the edge of something new, something that could not be ignored.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with implications.

Then—Ragnok leaned back slightly, fingers still steepled.

"You speak boldly," he said. "But wizards have spoken boldly before." His voice sharpened. "And they have all failed to deliver."

Hadrian smirked. "Because they were trying to bargain with you from a position of power."

A slow, considering pause.

"And you?" Ragnok asked.

Hadrian tilted his head. "I'm doing something different."

Ragnok studied him. "You are offering independence."

"I'm offering the means to take it."

A pause. Then—Ragnok laughed.

It was not a kind sound. It was a goblin's laughter, sharp-edged, amused in a way that held no warmth. But it was not dismissive.

Hadrian had piqued his interest.

"Tell me," Ragnok said smoothly. "If I were to entertain this… proposal—what, exactly, would that entail?"

Hadrian leaned forward, resting his elbows on the heavy stone desk.

"You keep your banks," he said. "Your businesses. Your autonomy. Haven will not tax you, will not regulate you, will not dictate how you run your people." His green eyes gleamed. "Unlike the Ministry, I do not fear what I cannot control."

Ragnok's lips twitched. "Flattering. But hardly enough to earn my investment."

Hadrian's smirk deepened. "Then let's talk real incentives."

He reached into his coat and withdrew a single piece of parchment.

Ragnok's gaze flicked to it.

Then—he stilled.

The language was old. Ancient. A set of runes not seen in public for centuries.

Ragnok's eyes snapped back to Hadrian.

"Where did you get this?" His voice was low, dangerous.

Hadrian's smirk didn't waver. "The Peverell vaults hold more than just gold, Chief Ragnok."

A beat of silence.

Then—realization.

Ragnok slowly leaned forward, gaze locked onto Hadrian's. "You have access to ancient goblin metallurgy," he murmured.

"I do," Hadrian confirmed. "Techniques long lost to the Ministry. Techniques that Gringotts would do well to reclaim." He let the words settle. "And I am willing to share them."

Silence.

Then—Ragnok smiled. Sharp. Vicious. Hungry.

"You," he said, "are a very dangerous wizard."

Hadrian's smirk never faded.

"You have no idea."

The negotiations lasted hours.

Ragnok was not foolish—he tested Hadrian, questioned him, prodded at every potential weakness. Goblins did not trust easily, and Ragnok? He was one of the shrewdest minds in Gringotts.

But Hadrian was not any wizard.

He knew how to deal with goblins. He did not try to appease them, as the Ministry did. He did not try to threaten them, as Voldemort's forces might.

He offered them something real.

A true partnership.

By the time they were finished, the foundation of a powerful agreement had been laid.

The goblins would have a place in Peverell Haven.

✔ Full financial independence—no Ministry control.

✔ Exclusive metallurgical rights to rediscovered Peverell techniques.

✔ A seat in Haven's economic council.

In exchange?

✔ Hadrian would have discreet access to goblin craftsmanship.

✔ Haven's financial infrastructure would be independent of Gringotts but allied with it.

✔ Any magical being seeking refuge in Haven would be evaluated by both goblins and wizards.

A true power balance.

By the time Hadrian rose to leave, Ragnok's expression was unreadable.

But his final words were not.

"You are not like other wizards, Lord Peverell," he murmured.

Hadrian smirked. "I know."

Ragnok inclined his head slightly. "Then let us see if you are as clever as you believe."

Hadrian chuckled, stepping toward the door.

"Trust me, Chief Ragnok," he said smoothly. "I never believe. I know."

And with that—the first alliance was forged.

End of Chapter 3.