Time passed swiftly amidst Adrian's intense efforts. During this period, he focused diligently on the art of Occlumency. Although he lacked a partner for practical mind-to-mind sparring, Adrian trained his mental discipline daily with unwavering concentration. He practiced meditation, visualization, and emotional regulation, gradually building a mental fortress that could resist probing thoughts.
After taking the Potion of Magical Potential, Adrian noticed a staggering acceleration in the growth of his magical core. Despite its potency, the potion caused no instability or magical backlash—there were no surges or wild bursts. Instead, his magic flowed with a steady, enhanced rhythm. He could sense the arcane energy within him pooling faster, forming a denser and more refined reservoir than before.
Alongside his magical development, Adrian continued his MacLennan-style body training, a physical conditioning method inspired by magical martial disciplines. Thanks to his long-term efforts, he could now rotate his joints with fluid ease, and his fingers had become incredibly dexterous—surprisingly soft and flexible for someone his age. Each digit could move independently, executing delicate gestures without the slightest tremor or confusion. For a wizard, this skill had enormous implications: not only did it improve wandwork—enhancing the precision of spellcasting—but it also elevated his potential in potion-making, where minute physical control could determine the success or failure of a brew.
Of course, balance was essential. Immersing himself in study and training was necessary, but taking breaks to enjoy the world around him was equally important. When Adrian's father reminded him that they had invited Harry Potter to visit their home, Adrian agreed to set aside time to welcome the boy who had grown up in the Muggle world.
To prepare for Harry's visit, Mrs. Blackwood led a thorough cleaning of their home. Upon hearing from Adrian that Harry had been neglected at the Dursleys'—often denied proper meals—she was instantly concerned. With maternal instinct flaring, she sent her eldest daughter, Daisy, to purchase a wide variety of groceries and magical treats.
"This poor child has had such a hard life," Mrs. Blackwood said, her voice tinged with quiet indignation. "Everyone remembers him for defeating the Dark Lord, but no one considers what it's like to live under the thumb of people who despise you." Of everyone in the household, she was clearly the most sympathetic toward Harry.
Irving Blackwood, Adrian's father, observed his wife's passionate response and added thoughtfully, "Frankly, I think Dumbledore acted questionably. I can understand wanting to keep Harry hidden from the magical world while he was young, but I've never understood why he placed him with the Dursleys, knowing they loathed everything about magic—especially Harry. Even if there was some justification for the blood wards, surely the great Albus Dumbledore could've found a way to offer them compensation or pressure them. They're obsessed with appearances and money. Honestly, before I met Harry, I wondered if Dumbledore wasn't trying to forge him into a weapon. It's a miracle the boy's personality hasn't warped under such conditions."
Indeed, due to the incident with the Hogwarts letter—when dozens of enchanted letters flooded the Dursley home and culminated in Hagrid's dramatic arrival—Harry's relationship with his relatives had turned icy. The Dursleys now treated Harry like a ghost, barely speaking to him, refusing to look in his direction. Harry, in turn, immersed himself in the magical textbooks Hagrid had helped him purchase in Diagon Alley. Apart from the occasional owl post to Adrian, he spent most of his time alone in his room, reading and rereading his schoolbooks. It was a strange contrast—his summer had become lonelier than even his Muggle schooling, but also far more intellectually enriching.
One afternoon, while Harry was hunched over Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, a strong gust swept into the room as an owl flew through the open window with elegant force. Harry jumped up from the bed and rushed to the desk, where the sleek brown owl, Edward, landed gracefully and stuck out its left leg. Tied to it was a neatly folded piece of parchment.
Harry untied the letter and unfolded it, recognizing the tidy handwriting immediately. It read:
Dear Harry,
At ten o'clock tomorrow morning, I'll be coming to pick you up and bring you to my house.
Everyone in the family is eagerly looking forward to your arrival.
Adrian Blackwood
Harry immediately sat down at the desk, dipped his quill into the ink, and wrote a quick reply to Adrian. For days, he'd been yearning for someone to rescue him from this prison—even if only temporarily. The thought of finally leaving Number Four, Privet Drive, filled him with relief.
Early the next morning, Harry packed his belongings with uncharacteristic care, folding his clothes neatly and arranging his school supplies just so. He had no idea how Adrian would arrive, but he hoped—fervently—that it wouldn't be in a magical whirlwind like Hagrid crashing through the door or owls flying through the chimney. Something normal, like a car or public transport, would be wonderful for once.
As the clock's minute hand ticked closer to the hour, Harry sat rigidly on the edge of his bed, clenching Adrian's letter like a lifeline. Downstairs, Uncle Vernon was adjusting his tie, inspecting himself in the hallway mirror when his eyes flicked toward Harry. "Boy," he grunted, "you're sure someone's coming at ten o'clock sharp to collect you?" But before Harry could reply, Vernon immediately regretted having acknowledged him and added curtly, "We're going to Aunt Marge's. I expect your… strange friends arrive on time."
Harry bit back the urge to snap, Adrian isn't a weirdo—you are. But freedom was just minutes away, and he wasn't about to ruin his chance by mouthing off.
When the long hand finally landed on twelve—ten o'clock sharp—the doorbell rang.
Without waiting for his uncle's permission, Harry bolted down the stairs, took the last few steps two at a time, and flung open the door with one hand.
Adrian and his father, Irving Blackwood, stood at the threshold.
Irving held two elegantly wrapped boxes and stood confidently in a tailored cloak-and-suit ensemble that radiated old money and polish. Even his dragonhide boots gleamed. He nodded politely to Uncle Vernon with the faintest of courteous smiles.
Vernon narrowed his piggy eyes at Mr. Blackwood, scanning him from head to foot. But the moment he glimpsed the gleaming silver Mercedes-Benz parked at the curb, his entire demeanor shifted. His face stretched into a broad, almost grotesque smile.
It wasn't hard to understand why. The shining car, with its sleek logo catching the sunlight, and Mr. Blackwood's aristocratic bearing—wizard or not—hit all the right Muggle social cues. His clothing, despite its slight wizarding flair, could easily pass as bespoke designer wear. The fact that the car had suffered a coolant leak a few streets away and needed some quick spellwork disguised as mechanical repair was, thankfully, not something Vernon would ever guess.
Having received a "thank-you" gift wrapped in fine parchment and accompanied by a faintly glowing sealing rune (courtesy of Adrian), Uncle Vernon eagerly invited Mr. Blackwood into the house. Adrian shot a knowing glance at Harry. He had guessed correctly—Uncle Vernon was the type to respect wealth and image long before people themselves. It was no surprise. That's how the world worked in many places, magical and Muggle alike.
Adrian also had no desire for his father to be sneered at by the Dursleys. Mr. Blackwood, who'd agreed to come precisely to make a positive impression and score some goodwill with Harry, played his part effortlessly.
"Upstairs," Adrian said quietly, and both boys bounded up the steps, Harry moving so fast he nearly tripped on the landing.
Less than a minute later, they were back down again—Harry carrying Hedwig's cage, and Adrian levitating the rest of Harry's things behind them with silent wandless magic. Harry gaped at the ease with which Adrian handled multiple floating bags. The control and finesse—it was the kind of thing you'd expect from a trained adult wizard, not a fellow first-year.
Adrian just grinned. "Dad's been running me through magical theory drills since I was five."
As the Mercedes pulled away from Privet Drive, Uncle Vernon stood at the doorstep, waving stiffly, his forced smile still plastered across his face. He murmured something about "good breeding" and "fine manners," wholly convinced that Irving Blackwood couldn't possibly be a wizard—no decent man with a car like that and shoes that clean would be mixed up in something so unnatural.
Clearly, Vernon thought, it must be some tragic twist of fate that saddled such a fine gentleman with a freakish son.