In His World

The ritual was over. The silence that followed was almost sacred. They returned to the manor quietly—too quietly. The corridors no longer echoed in the same way. Harry felt it with every step: something had shifted. Not just in him. In the house. In the air. Not Harry anymore. Hadrian. He still wasn’t used to it. But he would get used to it. He had to. — He was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice they had turned down a different corridor—one that didn’t lead to the room he had been staying in. His heart gave a jolt. “We’re sharing a room now?” he asked, flatly. Marvolo leaned against the doorway, arms folded across his chest, calm and unreadable. “It had to happen eventually,” he said, voice smooth and low. “We need to start understanding each other.” Hadrian swallowed. His throat felt dry. They hadn’t spoken much about what would happen after the ritual. And truthfully, he hadn’t thought much about it himself. He’d been scared. After everything—after sacrificing himself—he still wanted to live. He was just seventeen. No one could fault him for that. But now, it seemed he’d reached the moment where reality demanded answers. “I won’t touch you,” Marvolo said after a pause. “It’s just the chambers. We’re sharing space. Nothing more.” The pressure between them, heavy and unsaid, seemed to ease slightly at those words. Okay. You can do this, Harry—no, Hadrian. Hadrian. Remember that. You’re the partner of Marvolo, in whatever way this strange world defines it. It would’ve happened eventually. And he said it’s only sharing the bed. Nothing more. “I have nightmares,” Hadrian murmured suddenly without thinking, almost ashamed to say it out loud. Marvolo looked at him—not with pity, but something oddly soft in his eyes. “It’s alright. I’ll hold you. I promised through the vows, didn’t I?” So that was it. It was decided. They got ready separately. When Hadrian stepped out of the bathroom, Marvolo was already in bed, robe loosened, a book resting on his chest. He looked completely unbothered, as though nothing about this was unusual. And maybe it wasn’t—for him. I certainly couldn’t say the same. Hadrian slid under the covers beside him. The bed was wide enough that they didn’t touch. No shared warmth unless they chose it. But Hadrian couldn’t sleep. His thoughts swirled, jagged and sharp. How did he know I’d fade? How long has he known? Am I the first? What happened to the others? Did he lie—when he said I couldn’t return home? His heart was pounding. No. Stop. Marvolo had said it himself—this world was different. The people were different even if their souls were the same. Still... what happened to them? Not tonight. He’d ask later. He turned his head and stared into the darkness, watching Marvolo’s profile. Sharp cheekbones. Relaxed lips. His eyes flickered steadily across the page—focused, steady. A ruler, even in rest. That night, Hadrian didn’t sleep peacefully. But it wasn’t the ritual keeping him awake, though the magic still thrummed beneath his skin like a second heartbeat. And it wasn’t the bed—too soft, too warm, too full of someone else's presence. It was the nightmares. He tossed beneath the blankets, haunted by restless visions of Ron, Hermione, the Weasleys, Remus, and others. All of them staring at him with betrayal in their eyes, accusing him for leaving them behind. The weight of it all pressed on him, thick and suffocating. The very walls of the room felt like they were holding their breath. He sat up slowly, his bare feet brushing the cold stone floor. Across the chamber, Marvolo stood by the tall window, his robe loose at the throat. “You're awake,” Hadrian said. “I rarely sleep through the night,” Marvolo replied without turning. “Because of me?” A pause. “Not entirely.” Another silence. Hadrian’s fingers twisted in the sheets. “How did you know I’d fade without a bond?” At that, Marvolo turned. His eyes weren’t cold—but they were impossibly old. “I didn’t,” he said quietly. “Not at first.” Hadrian’s brows drew together. “So... someone else?” Marvolo didn’t speak. But that silence was too loud. Too telling. He moved toward the fire, conjuring a glass of something dark. The flames flickered across his face, casting sharp shadows beneath his eyes. He stared into the glass as if it held memories instead of drink—like he was looking through it, into something far away. “There were... incidents,” he said finally, voice low and heavy. “Two. Years ago. They came through the portal. Unstable. The kind of unstable you can’t fix with potions or grounding spells. Like they didn’t belong here… and the world knew it.” He paused, lips pressed tight, eyes narrowing. His voice dropped further. “Neither lasted. Within months, they began to fade—forgotten. Their magic slipped away as if it was never theirs to begin with.” Hadrian’s voice came out low, almost a whisper. “You remember them.” “I always remember.” Marvolo’s voice held an edge now—angry as if no one can make him forget anything, raw. “Even when the world scrubs them from existence, it cannot erase them from me. No one else recalls their names. Their faces. Not their new friend from here. Not even this manor holds their echoes.” He looked up, eyes heavy with a weight beyond words. “But I remember the moment they arrived. That pull. That strange, uncanny familiarity. Like I was meant to understand them. Like some piece of them was... mine.” Marvolo stopped here as if he didn’t want to say that. He took a slow sip of the drink, then lowered it without breaking eye contact. “I didn’t understand it then. Not fully. But I felt it. And I swore, if it ever happened again… I wouldn’t let it slip through my hands.” And he looked at Hadrian with his eyes burning more than he ever saw He didn’t say it aloud, but Hadrian could feel it: You’re different. ----- This one’s different. He hadn’t expected the boy to carry the soul with such strength. The others… they had all been Harry too. Different shades, different timelines. It all began with the ritual I crafted—a delicate, dangerous weaving meant to draw lingering magic from beyond the portals. To draw power inward. To seal the fragile breaches threatening our order. That was when the first fracture occurred. And of course, I sought its cause. Two others stumbled through the portal, like broken strings of fate unraveling the moment they arrived. I didn’t summon them. They answered the torn veil’s pull, drawn like moths to a flame. Those boys had crossed while still alive. The transition pulled at their anchors—magic fractured, souls unrooted. This world couldn’t hold them. No one remembers them now. Magic erased them—scrubbing their existence from this world, from every mind but mine. It couldn’t touch what's mine. I pored over the ritual’s design, hunting the flaw that allowed such chaos to bloom. I worked to close the breach, to seal the veil tight again—this time, finally. But before I could finish, Hadrian appeared. He was the last spark to emerge from the ritual I performed. Unlike the others, he had not wandered in by chance. He was drawn—called forth by my magic. But Hadrian had died before coming through. He arrived empty of his world’s hold. No anchor to pull him back. Except for the dark wound left by the Horcrux—fragile, bleeding across dimensions. The horcrux didn’t shatter when he died, Marvolo thought. It bled. Poured out across dimensions. What they tried to remove in his world left a hole, and through that hole, I reached and removed any ties that could have helped him return if he tried. We are tied in every world, Marvolo thought. Even here. Even now. That connection remains. The Horcrux bound us, in part, even if it wasn’t fully mine before. But this time... this time it is different. Because this time, I took the lead. His counterpart from Hadrian’s world lost his grip on the soul—the boy slipped through the cracks. But I caught him. Pulled him through the portal. Completed the ritual. Made sure he would stay. Because now, he has no chance of returning back, even if he tries" A new bond was forming, the wedding ritual taking hold—quietly, slowly. A low thrum stirring through their shared space. Mine. And this time, it would work. This one will last. This one will be mine. ----- The fire cracked softly, casting fleeting shadows across the chamber. Marvolo’s expression hadn’t changed, but something in his eyes gave him away—distant, reflective, as if his mind was still wrapped around the thoughts he hadn’t said aloud. For a heartbeat, Hadrian saw it—something behind those eyes, a flicker too sharp, too deep. A memory? A decision? The silence stretched, just long enough for Hadrian to wonder what exactly Marvolo saw when he looked at him—and what haunted him so deeply that he didn’t speak it aloud. Hadrian stared at him, unsettled. “Did they die?” Marvolo’s voice was low. “No. They... vanished. As if the world itself rejected them.” His tone carried no sorrow, no regret—flat and detached, as though their disappearance had long since ceased to matter to him. Hadrian’s chest tightened. Was that indifference? Or something darker lurking beneath? He wanted to ask more, to demand answers, but the weight of unspoken truths filled the room like thick smoke, choking the words on his tongue. So Marvolo had been preparing all along. Watching. Calculating. And maybe... waiting. Not necessarily for him… But for someone who would last. And now, Hadrian wasn’t sure what that meant for him at all.