Author's Note: I had this story bugging me, so I let it bite

Hadrian Riddle and the Crimson Lance

The Beginning

The Hermit Reads a Strange Book

Harry Potter fulfilled his destiny, and the wizarding world was at peace. But he isn't. Hermione says that he's haunted by the war. Ron has no idea. Ginny can't bring herself to understand. Professor McGonagall is still wholeheartedly glued to the "eventuality of his acclimatization to a perfectly normal life". But Harry knows, on a deeper level, that he isn't haunted by the war. He misses it. That constant state of fight or flight, and something else entirely, it felt as if a very part of his being is gone- and it is the part which made him feel alive.

So in search of happiness, true fulfilment, Harry read. Which is absolutely not a thing that would have came to mind, but with the maddening press looming over every public space, the dark corners of a gloomy Grimmauld Place was what Harry found refuge in. After the first few months, his outings became sparser and visits became rarities. Books were his dusty companions, and he was lulled comfortably the more gory they got by volume. There was such an odd comfort he took in the violent pages of rituals, curses, hexes, bindings, chant circles, and more archaic magic. After moving past reading it took a much shorter time for Harry to become a practitioner. With outside interactions often ranging from three to eleven times a month, Harry had much time to himself. He familiarised himself with basic Dark abilities and spell casting and delved into a strange magic.

Theory.

Theory was a very touchy subject for most witches and wizards. A dead Art, most called it. Theory was something that Harry fell into love with. Theory is your connection to any world, an earthly plane. Well, it's finding your connection. Theory speaks of different worlds like we are interacting with them every day unknowingly, due to the magic flowing in our very beings. Theory is the magic of warping literal reality. This is no mere illusion. The worlds that are around us every second are reachable through the magic in us. With the art of Theory, your magic can do anything to the fabric of existence.

Well, that was Harry's books had told him. And he was hooked. It sounded so- well, magical. He felt so right reading it, it was like it was left there just for him. Of course, that means it needs some exploration.

A year after the Final Battle of Hogwarts, Harry is practically a hermit and dabbling with any magic that suits his fancy. A small part of him misses his friends. A very small part. He is too disconnected, and something isn't alright inside with him. A yearning is what triggers him to follow through with his plan, that and the feeling of unadulterated 'yes'. He finishes drawing the markings into his skin with a pen (because this is the modern ages and it is unnecessary to do it with a knife, that is mildly dramatic). The stage is set and he begins his night vigil after downing the various herbal concoctions he had stirred per the instructions of this ritual. He closes his eyes but must stay awake, and easily can due to anticipation. After a time would could be hours or minutes or seconds or days, Harry feels like the light of sun is starting the fall upon his face and he smiles and thinks it is over and then he remembers he is inside-

and it is burning.

Welcome to 1971, in an alternate universe where Harry Potter doesn't exist. Hadrian Riddle however, does. Perhaps a bit of a hastily concocted alias, but it was the first thing that came to mind, and certainly the least of his problems.

Chapter 1

Bloody Hibbledingers

"Shut up."

"Uh, I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking, it's annoying."

"What the hell, are you serious right now?"

"For your own sake, and my sanity, I hope to God that wasn't a pun."

"A pun? I'm always serious!"

"Are you fucking with me right now? Do not push me-"

"Is that a threat, or is this your own sick way of flirting? Haven't got to Slytherin to any chicks? "

"Both of you, goddammit, please just shove it," The third member of their party whispered as sharply as one could while whispering.

"Oi! He's the one going off about 'hearing me think'! It's utter bollocks!"

"Oh, apologies. I know that actually using that thing in your skull must've been a nice change but it was physically hurting me, feeling you try to achieve at something in your life. Like being able to process a fucking thought." The aim of this ire rolled his eyes.

"You definitely aren't getting any. A lot of pent up frustrations there, buddy."

"I swear to Merlin aren't you fucking twelve-"

"-eleven-"

"Put a sock in it! If the two of you don't stop going off, Filch will catch wind of us! Or worse, a professor!"

"I feel like someone here is very familiar with socks."

"-you really don't need to chime in, I think I recommended silence-"

"Nice one."

"I aim to please."

"The both of you, little shits-"

A soft click echoed over their heated whispers, and this particular fifth floor corridor fell silent. The shadows were heavy and hung to hide the small frames. The only light was the moon shine pooled under a narrow window in the end of opposite hall, and it produced an eerie quality that danced on the still figures of armour.

The boys took refuge in this particular hallway because it lacked any paintings, which was not a common occurence in the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Regardless of their earlier banter, there was a steady fear coming from the crouched boys, brought out stronger by paranoia. Was that just the sound of an old castle? Or was this the thing that would bust them? They were growing worried for their futures and their missing member, when almost on cue a soft patter of footsteps began to reach their ears. For precaution, no one moved. Only once the person was revealed by the soft moonlight did anyone speak.

"What's happening?"

"We've got a bit of a problem," the newcomer bit out. "Tracked as far as Hogsmeade, so Hogwarts is being searched as we speak. We have exactly 13 minutes to dispose of our evidence and be in our separate dormitories, fast asleep. Be ready for a cursory investigation, simple questions by a rookie, first thing in the morning."

"Man, I can't go to Azkaban, I wouldn't make it a damned day."

"I think I would rather face a dementor than my father."

"I hate to be the one to interrupt, but can someone fucking acknowledge we have now 12 bloody minutes to get ride of this thing?"

"Burn your clothes too, or find someway to be rid of them."

"I am more fucking focused on the body we schlepped here for fucking nothing! The fucknut is dead!"

"That is not our fault!"

"Yeah, well how's it gonna look lined up next to the other crimes we committed tonight? We have motive!"

"10 minutes people."

"We should bury him properly."

"I say who gives a f-"

"Put him in the armour."

"What?"

"What?"

"What?"

"Unfortunately not the weirdest situation I have faced today."

And yes this is the total revamped version as an explanation if it's looking a wee bit entirely different.

Hugs and kisses -

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