One Week Later - Potter Estate, Northern California
The morning sun streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows like liquid gold, casting everything in the sprawling living room in warm, California light. What had once been called the Potter Estate was now simply home to the Black family—a designation that still made Hercules smile every time he thought about it.
He sat cross-legged on a meditation cushion that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent, noise-canceling earphones pumping Metallica directly into his enhanced hearing at volumes that would have deafened a normal person. Even with "Master of Puppets" blasting loud enough to rattle his enhanced eardrums, he could still hear absolutely everything happening within a three-mile radius with crystal clarity.
Sirius and Ted were on the back patio, and their conversation drifted through the house like particularly aggressive elevator music: "...don't give a flying hippogriff what MACUSA's filing procedures are, Ted. I want every single one of those Ministry bastards to know that if they so much as breathe in my son's direction, they'll be dealing with the full weight of Black family influence and about three centuries' worth of accumulated grudges."
In the kitchen, Remus was making breakfast while maintaining a steady stream of self-recrimination: "...should have been more careful, should have taken the Wolfsbane, shouldn't have let emotions cloud my judgment, poor Harry—Hercules—didn't deserve any of this..."
Upstairs in the study, Andromeda was reviewing her latest batch of medical notes with the focused intensity of someone writing the definitive guide to an entirely new species: "...cellular regeneration unprecedented, magical signature completely rewritten, physical enhancement beyond documented parameters..."
And that was just the immediate family. His supernatural hearing also picked up Mrs. Henderson three houses down having another blazing row with her husband about his gambling problem, a family of raccoons having a territorial dispute in the oak tree by the property line, and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below their estate.
"Breathe in for four counts," Hercules murmured to himself, following Andromeda's meditation instructions while simultaneously wondering if there was any such thing as magical therapy for sensory overload. "Hold for seven. Out for eight. Focus on the breath, not the fact that you can hear every bloody thing happening in a three-mile radius."
The glasses perched on his nose—plain glass lenses in stylish black frames that made him look like a young Clark Kent if Clark Kent had been built like a Greek statue—helped hide the serpentine pupils that still made people take involuntary steps backward. The prescription sunglasses he wore outdoors served the same purpose, though they also helped with the light sensitivity that came with eyes designed more for hunting in moonlight than dealing with California sunshine.
A gentle hand touched his shoulder, and Hercules looked up to see Andromeda Tonks settling onto the cushion beside him with the fluid grace of someone who'd spent years perfecting bedside manner for skittish patients. At forty-three, she was still strikingly beautiful in that particular Black family way—sharp cheekbones that could cut glass, intelligent dark eyes that missed absolutely nothing, and an aristocratic bearing that suggested she could command a hospital wing without raising her voice.
"How are the meditation exercises progressing?" she asked, her voice pitched low and professionally soothing. "You look considerably less like you're about to murder someone than you did yesterday morning."
Hercules pulled off the earphones and immediately winced as the full symphony of California morning sounds hit him like a physical assault. "Better, I think. Though I'm seriously considering investing in industrial-strength noise dampening charms for my bedroom. Did you know the Hendersons are having marital problems? Because I'm now intimately familiar with every detail of their relationship dysfunction."
Andromeda's mouth twitched with amusement. "Enhanced hearing can be rather like having the world's most unwanted subscription service. Though I must say, your control has improved dramatically. When you first arrived, you nearly put your fist through the wall when someone dropped a teacup in the kitchen."
"To be fair, it sounded like a bloody cannon going off," Hercules said with a rueful grin. "But the meditation is helping. And the music. Apparently, drowning out the background noise with intentionally loud noise is surprisingly effective."
"Sensory overload management is crucial for your long-term psychological wellbeing," Andromeda said, slipping effortlessly into her professional mode as she produced a leather-bound notebook from her robes. Hercules had learned that she documented absolutely everything with the thoroughness of someone planning to revolutionize magical medicine. "Speaking of which, how are you feeling physically this morning? Any new developments since yesterday's rather extensive testing session?"
Hercules stretched his arms above his head, marveling at the way his muscles moved with fluid precision under his skin. The physical changes from the adoption ritual had been dramatic enough—adding several inches of height and about thirty pounds of lean muscle—but the lingering effects of his transformation seemed to evolve daily in fascinating and occasionally alarming ways.
"Stronger," he said finally, flexing his hands experimentally. "Had to replace my toothbrush this morning because I accidentally crushed the handle while brushing my teeth. Also, when I helped Sirius move that antique bookshelf yesterday, it felt like moving a piece of parchment. I'm fairly certain I could bench press a small dragon at this point."
"Estimated strength levels?" Andromeda asked, her quill poised over the parchment with scientific eagerness.
"Well, yesterday I accidentally put my hand clean through a six-inch oak fence post when I was trying to steady myself," Hercules said with a grimace. "Just... straight through it. Like it was made of balsa wood instead of something that should have stopped a charging hippogriff."
Andromeda made rapid notes with the focused intensity of someone cataloging an entirely new form of life. "And the regenerative capabilities?"
Hercules held up his left hand, where a deep, jagged gash from that same fence post had been clearly visible yesterday evening. The skin was now smooth and unmarked, without even the faintest scar to indicate where the injury had been.
"Gone by dinner time," he said, rotating his hand to show the complete absence of any wound. "Though it itched like absolute hell while it was healing. Felt like having fire ants crawling under my skin for about an hour."
"Remarkable," Andromeda murmured, her quill scratching across the parchment like an excited mouse. "The cellular regeneration rate is unlike anything in the existing medical literature. Even phoenix-tear healing doesn't typically work at this speed or with this level of efficiency."
"Is that... well, normal? For whatever the bloody hell I am now?" Hercules asked, genuinely curious despite the slight chill that ran down his spine whenever he thought about how fundamentally he'd been changed.
Andromeda looked up from her notes, her expression thoughtful and slightly apologetic. "Hercules, there is no 'normal' for your condition because you are quite literally the first of your kind. The combination of magical forces that created your transformation—basilisk venom, phoenix fire, werewolf curse, all catalyzed by your pre-existing magical core and then stabilized by the blood adoption ritual—it's completely unprecedented in magical history. We're documenting everything because someday, this research might help someone else in a similar situation."
"Lucky me," Hercules said with dry British humor that could have withered flowers. "The first of my kind. No pressure there. Just casually redefining the boundaries of magical biology while trying to figure out how to live in a world that wasn't designed for someone with supernatural hearing."
"You're handling it with remarkable grace, considering," she assured him. "Though I do want to discuss the approaching full moon. We're less than two weeks away, and while you've demonstrated the ability to consciously trigger your Dracolycan form through focused anger, we have no data on how the lunar cycle might affect your transformative capabilities."
"Dracolycan," Hercules repeated with a slight smile that made him look like a particularly dangerous renaissance sculpture. "I still can't quite believe we settled on that name. It sounds like something you'd order at Starbucks."
"You specifically requested something connected to 'Draco' that wasn't associated with that platinum-haired ferret masquerading as a Slytherin," Andromeda reminded him with evident amusement. "And the draconic elements in your transformed state—the scales, the enhanced fire breath, the serpentine aspects mixed with lupine characteristics—they do suggest dragon heritage merged with lycanthropy. Hence, Dracolycan."
"Plus it sounds considerably more intimidating than 'weird wolf-snake-phoenix thing with anger management issues,'" Hercules added cheerfully.
"Scientific nomenclature isn't always about poetry," Andromeda agreed with a slight smile. "Though I must say, your father's suggestion of 'Sirius's Problem Child, Species Unknown' was remarkably unhelpful from a taxonomical perspective."
Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the hardwood floors—measured, careful steps that belonged to someone trying not to make noise. Remus Lupin appeared in the doorway carrying a breakfast tray that looked like it could feed a small army, his tall frame moving with the unconscious grace of someone who'd spent years trying to make himself invisible.
At thirty-three, Remus looked healthier than Hercules had ever seen him. The California sunshine and regular meals had filled out his naturally lean frame, putting much-needed weight on bones that had been too prominent for too long. His prematurely graying hair caught the morning light, and the stress lines around his amber eyes had softened considerably, though they never entirely disappeared.
"Good morning, you two," Remus said, setting the tray on the low table with the careful precision of someone who'd spent years avoiding unnecessary noise. "I made rather more than usual, since Hercules appears to be eating approximately enough food to sustain a small pack of wolves these days."
"Enhanced metabolism," Andromeda explained with clinical detachment, though her eyes sparkled with affection. "The increased muscle mass and accelerated healing processes require significantly more caloric intake than a normal adolescent. I estimate he's burning through approximately four thousand calories per day just at baseline metabolic function."
"Which explains why I'm perpetually starving," Hercules said, already reaching for what appeared to be half a dozen eggs, several strips of bacon, enough toast to feed a Quidditch team, and a stack of pancakes that defied several laws of physics. "It's like having the appetite of a teenage boy multiplied by whatever supernatural coefficient governs magical creature metabolisms."
"Remus," he added, pausing mid-reach to fix the older man with a look that carried surprising authority for someone who was technically still a teenager, "you can stop apologizing every time you bring me food. Or every time you see me, for that matter. Or every time you think about me, which I can hear you doing from the kitchen. The bite wasn't your fault."
Remus's expression grew pained, his amber eyes taking on the haunted quality they got whenever anyone mentioned that night. "Hercules, I nearly killed you. If your transformation hadn't been so... extraordinary... if the magical forces hadn't aligned in such an unprecedented way..."
"If my transformation hadn't turned me into something that can apparently incinerate Dementors with my bare hands, regenerate from serious injuries in a matter of hours, and bench press small buildings," Hercules interrupted firmly, his voice carrying the kind of quiet confidence that made people listen. "Remus, look at me. Really look. Do I seem like someone who's been damaged by what happened that night?"
Remus studied him carefully, taking in the confident way he held himself, the obvious physical improvements, the steady gaze that no longer held the haunted, defeated look of an abused child flinching from the next blow.
"You seem..." Remus paused, choosing his words carefully. "Stronger. And not just physically. You move like someone who's finally comfortable in his own skin. Someone who's discovered exactly who he was meant to be."
"Because I am," Hercules said simply, his voice carrying absolute conviction. "For the first time in my entire life, I feel like I'm exactly what I'm supposed to be. The bite didn't ruin me, Remus. It freed me from being Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, Symbol of Everything I Never Wanted to Be. Now I'm just Hercules Black, and that's exactly who I want to be."
Before Remus could launch into another round of guilt-ridden apologies, Sirius's voice drifted in from the back patio, raised in what sounded like a particularly animated discussion with Ted Tonks. The sound carried easily through the house, since Sirius had never learned to modulate his volume when he was passionate about something.
"...don't care how many bloody forms we have to file with MACUSA, Ted! I want every single one of those Ministry bastards to know that if they so much as think about harassing my son—MY SON—they'll be dealing with the full weight of Black family influence, unlimited financial resources, and about three centuries' worth of accumulated political grudges!"
Ted's response came in the patient, measured tones of a lawyer who'd spent years dealing with clients who had more money than sense and significantly more vindictive creativity than was probably healthy: "Sirius, you cannot actually threaten to buy the Ministry of Magic and fire everyone who ever looked at Hercules sideways. Though I admit, your financial position does give us considerable leverage in these negotiations."
Hercules grinned—a expression that transformed his already handsome features into something that belonged on magazine covers—and finished his breakfast with supernatural speed that would have been alarming if anyone had been timing him.
"Right," he said, standing and stretching in a way that made his muscles ripple under his shirt like something carved from marble. "I should probably go save Ted from Dad's latest revenge fantasy before he actually does try to purchase the British government out of pure spite. Which, knowing the Black family history, he might actually be able to manage."
"That would be remarkably inadvisable," Andromeda said dryly, though there was definite amusement in her voice. "Though I suspect Sirius's threats are more therapeutic than serious. He's processing thirteen years of helpless rage at a system that destroyed his life and stole everything that mattered to him."
"Plus he's having the absolute time of his life being able to actually protect his family for once," Hercules added, his enhanced hearing picking up the sound of Ted shuffling through what sounded like enough legal documents to reforest Scotland. "After thirteen years of being powerless to help anyone, he's gone a bit mad with the ability to throw money and influence at problems until they disappear."
He paused in the doorway, looking back at Remus and Andromeda with an expression of such genuine affection that it made both adults' hearts clench slightly.
"You know what the absolute best part about all of this is?" he asked, his voice carrying a warmth that Harry Potter had never possessed. "For the first time in my entire life, I'm surrounded by people who actually want me around. Not because I'm famous, not because I'm useful for their plans, not because I'm some symbol they can point to for inspiration. Just because I'm me. Just because you love me for who I am, not who you need me to be."
"Well," Remus said with the first genuinely unguarded smile Hercules had seen from him all week, "you are remarkably difficult to get rid of, I'll give you that. We've all tried at various points, and you just keep showing up anyway."
"Speak for yourself," Andromeda said with mock severity, though her eyes were twinkling. "I find having a research subject who regenerates from injuries quite convenient for testing my more experimental healing techniques. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find volunteers for cutting-edge medical research?"
"Gee, thanks," Hercules said, though he was grinning broadly enough to show teeth. "Nothing quite like being valued primarily for my ability to survive increasingly creative forms of medical experimentation."
As he headed toward the patio to rescue Ted from Sirius's increasingly elaborate schemes for Ministry-based revenge, Hercules reflected on just how dramatically his entire existence had changed in the space of two weeks. From the scared, abused boy who'd lived in a cupboard under the stairs and flinched every time someone raised their voice, to someone who felt genuinely confident in his own skin—literally and figuratively.
The transformation hadn't just changed his body, giving him strength and speed and resilience he'd never imagined possible. It had fundamentally altered his relationship with the world around him, made him into someone who could stand his ground instead of cowering, someone who could protect the people he loved instead of being a burden they had to protect.
But most importantly, it had brought him here—to this sun-drenched California morning, surrounded by people who'd risked everything to be with him, who'd thrown away their own safety and security to help him build something entirely new from the ashes of Harry Potter's impossible legacy.
Outside, the California sun was warm on his face as he stepped onto the patio, and he could smell the ocean breeze mixed with eucalyptus and the faint scent of the jasmine that grew wild along their property line. His enhanced senses picked up the sounds of his chosen family—the rustle of legal documents, the scratch of Andromeda's quill on parchment, the quiet sounds of Remus cleaning up in the kitchen—and for the first time in his life, the word "home" actually meant something.
It was, Hercules decided, a remarkably good trade.
---
On the back patio, Sirius Black was in full magnificent bastard mode, pacing back and forth like a caged panther while gesticulating dramatically at Ted Tonks, who sat behind a table that looked like it had exploded legal documents across its surface.
At thirty-three, Sirius had filled out from the skeletal wraith he'd been immediately post-Azkaban, though he still carried himself with the dangerous grace of someone who'd once been considered among the most formidable wizards of his generation. His dark hair had grown out past his shoulders, and the California sun had given him color that made his gray eyes even more striking. He was wearing muggle clothes—jeans and a black t-shirt that showed off the lean muscle he'd rebuilt—but he carried himself with the unmistakable bearing of wizarding aristocracy.
"Ted, my dear brother-in-law," Sirius was saying with the kind of smile that had probably gotten him detention every other week at Hogwarts, "you seem to be laboring under the misapprehension that I care about proper legal channels when it comes to protecting my son."
Ted Tonks looked up from his paperwork with the patient expression of someone who'd spent years married into the Black family and therefore had extensive experience managing their more destructive impulses. At forty-five, he was still handsome in a bookish, professorial way—auburn hair graying at the temples, intelligent hazel eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, and the kind of precise movements that spoke of someone who thought carefully before acting.
"Sirius," Ted said with the careful tone of someone explaining basic concepts to a particularly volatile toddler, "threatening to buy controlling interests in multiple Ministry departments and then fire everyone who's ever filed a report you don't like is not actually a legal strategy. It's barely even a revenge fantasy. It's more like... elaborate financial terrorism with a side of political chaos."
"Your point being?" Sirius asked with genuine curiosity, as if he couldn't see any particular problem with elaborate financial terrorism.
"My point being that MACUSA generally frowns on new citizens who immediately announce their intention to destabilize foreign governments," Ted replied dryly. "It makes them nervous about your long-term intentions regarding American political stability."
Hercules cleared his throat as he stepped onto the patio, immediately drawing both men's attention. "Good morning, gentlemen. Plotting the downfall of Western civilization, are we?"
"Just British civilization," Sirius corrected cheerfully, his entire demeanor brightening as soon as he saw his son. "American civilization can stay exactly as it is, thank you very much. They've been remarkably hospitable to political refugees fleeing Ministry stupidity."
"Dad," Hercules said with fond exasperation, "you can't actually buy the Ministry of Magic just to fire everyone who annoyed you. I mean, technically you probably could, but it would be rather excessive even by Black family standards."
"Watch me," Sirius replied with the kind of grin that suggested he was only about half-joking.
Ted looked up from his legal documents with the expression of someone who'd just realized his morning was about to become significantly more complicated. "Please tell me you're not actually considering this."
"I'm not not considering it," Sirius said airily. "The Blacks have been influencing British politics for centuries, Ted. We've just never been quite this direct about it before. Usually we prefer working through intermediaries and shell companies and carefully placed bribes. But desperate times, and all that."
"This is not desperate times!" Ted protested. "This is 'your son is perfectly safe in another country while you contemplate elaborate revenge schemes because you have too much money and too much free time!'"
"Ted, my dear boy," Sirius said, settling into a chair with fluid grace, "you seem to think I'm joking about this. Let me be perfectly clear: I spent thirteen years in Azkaban for a crime I didn't commit while my godson was being systematically abused by his relatives. If you think I'm going to let that slide just because we're now safely out of their reach, you've seriously underestimated both my capacity for holding grudges and my willingness to use unlimited financial resources to pursue them."
Hercules settled into a chair beside his father, marveling at how naturally the family dynamic had developed. "What's the latest from the legal front? Please tell me Dumbledore hasn't tried anything actually illegal yet."
"Define illegal," Ted said grimly, shuffling through his papers until he found the relevant documents. "Because technically, filing false missing person reports with multiple international magical governments is merely unethical rather than actively criminal."
"He's still trying to find Harry Potter?" Hercules asked, though his tone suggested he found the entire concept more amusing than concerning.
"He's filed formal requests with MACUSA, the ICW, and the Australian Ministry asking for information about your whereabouts," Ted confirmed. "He's claiming that a minor under his legal guardianship has been kidnapped and taken out of the country against his will."
The temperature around Sirius seemed to drop about twenty degrees, and his gray eyes took on the kind of cold fury that had once made him legendary among Aurors. "He's calling it kidnapping."
"Technically, yes," Ted said carefully. "Though fortunately, the blood adoption documentation provides absolutely ironclad legal proof that Harry Potter ceased to exist when the ritual was completed. As far as magical law is concerned across three separate jurisdictions, Dumbledore is filing missing person reports for someone who never existed."
"But he's not going to give up," Hercules said. It wasn't a question—he'd known Dumbledore long enough to understand the man's complete inability to accept that other people might have different ideas about what constituted 'the greater good.'
"Almost certainly not," Ted admitted. "Though his legal options are extremely limited. The adoption was performed according to ancient goblin law, witnessed by senior Gringotts officials, and has been formally recognized by the magical governments of Britain, America, and the International Confederation. Even if he wanted to challenge the adoption legally, he'd have to prove coercion, which would be..."
"Impossible," Hercules said firmly. "That blood adoption ritual was the single best decision I've ever made in my life. I'd do it again tomorrow if I had to."
"Still," Remus's voice came from the doorway as he appeared with a fresh pot of coffee and additional cups, "we should probably prepare for the possibility that he'll attempt more direct approaches. Albus has never been particularly deterred by legal obstacles when he's convinced that the greater good requires immediate action."
"Let him try," Sirius said, and there was something in his voice that reminded everyone present that he'd once been considered one of the most dangerous wizards of his generation, before Azkaban had temporarily broken him. "This time, he's not dealing with a scared eleven-year-old who doesn't know he has options, or a grieving best friend too destroyed by loss to think clearly. He's dealing with someone who has unlimited resources, powerful allies, and absolutely zero patience for his manipulative, controlling bullshit."
"Language, Dad," Hercules said automatically, then paused with a slight grin. "Actually, no, that was probably the exact right word for the situation. Carry on."
"See?" Sirius beamed with paternal pride. "You're learning proper Black family vocabulary already. Soon you'll be cursing like a true aristocrat."
"I can provide comprehensive instruction in traditional family profanity," Andromeda's voice came from behind them as she appeared on the patio, still carrying her ever-present medical notebook. "We have approximately three centuries' worth of creatively insulting language to choose from, refined across generations of dealing with political enemies and social climbers."
"Education is so important," Ted observed to no one in particular, his tone suggesting he'd given up on trying to keep this family's conversations focused on practical matters. "Though perhaps we could concentrate on the legal aspects of creative revenge rather than just the linguistic components?"
"Where's the fun in that?" Hercules asked with a grin that made him look like a particularly dangerous renaissance prince. "Besides, if we're going to drive Dumbledore to distraction, we might as well do it with style."
"Now you're thinking like a proper Black," Sirius said approvingly. "Though I have to say, your instincts for psychological warfare are already quite impressive. It must be genetic."
"Or learned from thirteen years of surviving the Dursleys," Hercules said dryly. "Nothing quite like systematic psychological abuse to teach you how to read people's weaknesses and exploit them for survival."
The comment created a moment of uncomfortable silence as everyone processed the casual way he'd referenced his childhood abuse. Andromeda broke it by settling into a chair and opening her notebook with brisk efficiency.
"Speaking of adaptation strategies," she said, clearly changing the subject to something more immediately practical, "I'd like to discuss your upcoming transformation timeline, Hercules. We're twelve days away from the full moon, and while you've demonstrated remarkable control over your voluntary changes, we need to prepare for the possibility that lunar influence might override your conscious control."
"Right," Hercules said, immediately focusing on the more immediate concern. "What exactly are we preparing for? Complete loss of human consciousness? Uncontrollable rage? An overwhelming urge to howl at the moon and chase rabbits?"
"Unknown," Andromeda admitted. "Traditional lycanthropy results in complete loss of human consciousness and replacement with wolf instincts driven by hunger and aggression. However, your condition is so far removed from standard werewolf physiology that we can't assume normal patterns will apply."
"The draconic elements might provide some protection," Remus offered thoughtfully. "Dragons are intelligent even in their fully transformed state. If your consciousness can maintain some connection to that aspect of your nature..."
"Then I might retain enough self-awareness to avoid accidentally incinerating half of Northern California," Hercules finished. "Well, that's reassuring."
"We should probably prepare a secure location," Ted said practically. "Somewhere isolated, heavily warded, and preferably fireproof. Just in case your control isn't as complete as we're hoping."
"Already ahead of you," Sirius said with satisfaction. "There's a reinforced underground chamber about a mile into the property—built by the previous owners for dangerous magical research. It's warded against everything short of a direct dragon attack, and even then, it would probably hold."
"Probably?" Hercules asked with raised eyebrows.
"Well, we've never tested it against a Dracolycan," Sirius admitted. "But the ward specifications look pretty comprehensive. Fire resistance, impact absorption, magical containment, sound dampening—the works."
"How comforting," Hercules said dryly. "My father's contingency planning includes the possibility that I might accidentally destroy our house during a full moon transformation."
"That's not contingency planning," Sirius corrected cheerfully. "That's just responsible parenting when your son happens to be a completely unique magical creature with unknown capabilities and potentially uncontrollable transformative responses to lunar cycles."
"When you put it like that, it sounds almost reasonable," Hercules mused.
"The Black family has always been practical about managing dangerous relatives," Andromeda added helpfully. "We have centuries of experience with family members who were prone to... explosive reactions to various stimuli."
"Plus, if you do accidentally level half the estate, we can afford to rebuild," Sirius said pragmatically. "One of the advantages of being obscenely wealthy is that property damage becomes more of an inconvenience than a catastrophe."
Ted looked up from his legal documents with an expression of someone who'd just realized he was going to need entirely new categories of insurance coverage. "I should probably look into magical property insurance that covers 'acts of son' as well as 'acts of god.'"
"Good thinking," Hercules agreed solemnly. "Though you might want to be vague about the specific nature of the potential son-related acts. I suspect 'possible accidental incineration by hybrid dragon-werewolf during full moon transformation' might be a bit too specific for standard insurance policies."
As his chosen family dissolved into their typical mixture of practical planning, affectionate banter, and slightly alarming contingency preparation, Hercules felt that familiar warm certainty settle into his chest. Whatever challenges lay ahead—lunar transformations, Dumbledore's interference, the complexities of being a completely new form of magical creature—they'd face them together.
For someone who'd spent most of his life feeling fundamentally alone in the world, that made all the difference between surviving and actually living.
Outside, the California sun climbed higher in a cloudless sky, and Hercules Black settled more fully into his new life with the confidence of someone who'd finally found his place in the world.
---
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