The sunlight filtered softly through the Hufflepuff dormitory windows, casting warm, golden streaks on the stone walls. Most students still slept, breathing deeply after the late-night chatter and weekend excitement. The common room was quiet, save for the occasional creak of wood and the flicker of the low-burning fireplace.
Hadrian sat in one of the oversized chairs by the hearth, legs curled beneath him and a blanket draped over his shoulders. A book lay forgotten in his lap — not the magical one in his mind, but a mundane text on magical theory. His gaze had drifted from the pages to the fire, thoughts turning inward.
Their first year was slowly drawing toward its close. It had been full — full of discovery, laughter, daring steps, and subtle changes. And still, something tugged at him. A question, an absence.
The Philosopher's Stone.
Hadrian frowned, brushing his fingers against his temple. How could I have forgotten that?
He knew the story — canon Harry's first great adventure. The Stone hidden at Hogwarts. The tests. Quirrell. The end of a long, alchemic journey. But this timeline was different. Voldemort was dead. Quirrell had been gone before the Stone was ever in danger. Still, Hadrian doubted Dumbledore would have refused the Stone's protection. That meant Flamel had most likely given it to him. And that meant…
"They'll die," he whispered to the fire. "Just like that. Because their purpose is finished."
But must it end that way?
He closed his eyes, sinking deep into thought — into the quiet realm where the book in his mind waited, patient as always. He flipped to the section on the Stone.
With firm resolve, he made his change:
The Philosopher's Stone entrusted to Dumbledore was, in truth, a masterful forgery — an alchemical replica so expertly crafted that not even the greatest magical minds could distinguish it from the original.
The real Stone remained with Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel, hidden away with the truth known only to them.
But that was only the beginning.
Hadrian hesitated, heart beating a little faster.
Did they want to live forever? To remain anchored to a world where their time had faded? Or had they simply never had the chance to choose differently?
He made a final change:
Some months ago, the Flamels used the last of the real Philosopher's Stone to create a final potion — one not of immortality, but of rebirth. The elixir rejuvenated their bodies, restoring them to the vigor and strength of their early twenties. Shortly afterward, they faked their deaths in public records and quietly make plans to maybe cross the Veil of Death — not as an end, but as a beginning.
They could journey into the sanctuary world beyond the veil — a realm of ancient creatures, forgotten magic, and untouched lands. A new frontier for old adventurers.
The book in his mind rippled with a golden shimmer as the change took root.
Hadrian opened his eyes.
He hadn't made them go yet. He hadn't dictated their will. He had only given them the freedom — a choice, and a door. What they did with it was now up to them.
Somehow, that felt right, as if a bottom line hasn't been crossed.
A creak on the stairs brought him back to the common room. Iris descended slowly, rubbing her eyes and yawning, hair a tousled cloud.
"You're up early," she said, flopping into the armchair beside him.
"Couldn't sleep," he murmured, then smiled faintly. "Just tying up a few loose ends."
She gave him a curious look, but didn't press. "Dora's still snoring. Want to sneak some toast before the others wake up?"
Hadrian stood and stretched. "Absolutely."
As they wandered off to the kitchens, he felt lighter somehow — as if one of the last unseen weights of the past had been gently lifted.
Let the rest of the year unfold as it may. He was ready.