Their last full day at home was golden in the way that only the end of summer could be—bright skies, slow hours, and the bittersweet tinge of something wonderful about to begin.
The Tonks house was a riot of misplaced socks, magical luggage, and half-folded robes.
"Oi! That's my cauldron!" Dora shouted from the hallway.
"You left it in the laundry room!" Iris hollered back, dragging it down the stairs.
Hadrian just smirked and flipped another page in Magical Drafts and Potions, lounging upside-down on the sofa.
From the kitchen, Andromeda's voice floated lazily:
"You three are getting along like a pack of Hufflepuffs."
She didn't mean anything by it. Just a musing. A fond little observation over tea and toast.
But Hadrian sat bolt upright.
Hufflepuff.
Huh.
He hadn't given it much thought, not really. He'd assumed Ravenclaw for Iris. Gryffindor for Dora, maybe. Himself? He wasn't sure.
But the three of them, together?
Something about it clicked.
The loyalty. The laughter. The shared jokes and sibling chaos and cocoa-fueled blanket forts.
It wasn't bravery that bound them. Or ambition. Or intellect.
It was devotion.
And for the first time in two lives, Hadrian wondered if the Hat could be steered.
In the Garden – That Afternoon
Ted took the three of them aside while Andromeda tried to coax their luggage into sorting itself. He led them to the back garden, to the little stone bench under the pear tree where he'd taught Dora her first levitation charm.
He cleared his throat, all mock-serious.
"I am obligated—by parental duty and Ministry guidance pamphlets—to deliver a last-minute wisdom speech," he said, hands behind his back. "So here goes: Be kind, don't duel in the hallways unless you're winning, and try not to transfigure your classmates into anything permanently sticky."
Iris laughed. Dora rolled her eyes. Hadrian smiled.
Ted's face softened.
"But really. Stick together. Hogwarts is big, and the world's bigger. But if you remember who you are—who you've become here—you'll do just fine."
Dora mock-saluted. Iris hugged him. Hadrian gave a quiet, firm nod.
That Evening – In Hadrian's Room
That night, while the house slept, Hadrian opened the Book again.
It buzzed faintly in his mind, waiting.
But this time, he didn't write.
Not yet.
The Book could change the past. And changing the past changed the future. But guiding the future?
That took care. Patience. Intent.
He pulled out a scrap of parchment and began scribbling thoughts, small ideas—how to nudge things. Friendships to seek. Conversations to spark. Traits to highlight if the Sorting Hat listened closely.
Because if he could get all three of them into Hufflepuff?
They could build something real. Unshakeable.
Not war. Not prophecy. Not isolation.
Just family. And warmth. And home.
He tucked the notes into his pocket and closed the Book.
Tomorrow was the train.