The wind whispered across the cliffs of northern Albania — sharp, cold, and eternal. Below, the ruins of an ancient fortress, half-buried in moss and stone, pulsed faintly with runes of his design. To the untrained eye, it looked like nothing more than the remains of a forgotten civilization. But to Adrian Atlas, it was his new sanctum — his laboratory, his temple, his silence.
He had left Britain quietly. No farewells, no letters, no traces. Just a void where his name once echoed. Dumbledore calculated, and Voldemort raged for revenge — but none could find him. Because Adrian no longer walked the same world as they did.
His studies had transcended the boundaries of ordinary magic. The world had become his classroom, his mind its only compass. In the ruins of forgotten temples and beneath the frozen catacombs of the north, he delved deeper into the nature of existence itself. He experimented not on bodies, but on souls.
At first, his focus had been on Horcruxes — the fractured soul of Tom Riddle, which he had long since extracted and contained. But now, he saw something grander. Every experiment, every observation led him to a truth both terrible and beautiful: that every living being — wizard or not — possessed within them a core, a source, a font of energy that sustained life itself.
Magic, he realized, was not unique to wizards. Only access was. Ordinary humans had it also, but fate denied them access… He discovered that the human soul was not merely a spirit but a vessel of power — the battery of existence. In wizards, that power leaked outward, manifesting as spells, enchantments, and charms. In ordinary humans, it remained dormant, sustaining only life itself. Until it could no longer…
He tested his theory ruthlessly. The stone altar before him bore silent witness to countless hours of study. Souls extracted from humans he captured, both Mugelle and Wizards. He observed, measured their light flickering in crystalline containment orbs. He watched as the energy within each soul pulsed in rhythm with its own internal current.
Every person, every being, had a different hue — a different frequency.
Some burned blue, calm and stable.
Others are red, erratic, and raw.
Some gold — rare, radiant, perfectly balanced.
Adrian watched, recorded, and experimented — mapping the very spectrum of existence. And through it, he found the flaw that haunted every living being: decay.
The soul, he discovered, was not eternal. It weakened over time, not through moral corruption or evil, but through imbalance. As the body ages, the energy(The Magic) from the source will increase, therefore placing a burden on the soul.
The magic within struggled to compensate. Over the years — decades — the harmony between the three pillars of life, the Trinity of Body, Soul, and Energy, began to collapse.
And when that harmony broke… the body withered. In other words, the person dies.
The soul, without its anchor, drifted.
And what lay beyond — remained a mystery.
Adrian wrote furiously in his journals that night:
"The trinity decays not by weakness of will but by saturation of existence. The energy(Magic) feeds the vessel and the soul until they can no longer contain it. Death is merely release — not punishment. Yet if one could stabilize the flow — maintain equilibrium between the three, immortality would not be a fantasy. It would be physics. The body and the soul are temporary vessels, the magic is eternal."
But one question burned deeper than all the rest: Could the soul be altered? Could its very nature be redefined by the vessel it inhabited?
Adrian theorized that: "If you can change the body and the soul to grow alongside the magic, as equals infinitely. You could achieve eternity. Since magic never stops growing and evolving, with the soul to grow alongside it as an energy source container of the mind, thoughts, emotions, feelings, and of the 'self' … And if the body grows alongside them, it can contain the immense energy of both soul and magic… Eternity is possible…"
The Horcrux fragments of Tom Riddle had given him the answer — and it was terrifying. Over months, Adrian transferred the fragment of Riddle's soul from one vessel to another — testing, comparing, studying. A crystal orb. A serpent. A silver mirror. A human corpse.
Each transformation changed the soul itself.
When placed in metal, it became cold, calculating, and rigid.
In an animal, it became primal, instinctive, chaotic.
In a living man, it began to learn again.
Until one day, it spoke. "Atlas," it hissed, the voice faint, echoing from within the orb. "You play with what you cannot control."
Adrian had smiled faintly at that. "Control is an illusion, Tom. What matters is understanding."
The fragment had grown… conscious. Not merely sentient, but aware — mimicking the personality of its original host. It was as if Riddle's essence, when granted enough vessels, rebuilt its own identity from memory.
And that discovery ignited a new question in Adrian's mind.
If the soul adapts to the vessel, and if the vessel defines the soul, what happens when the vessel itself transcends mortality?
He turned his gaze toward a single creature in magical history — the phoenix.
A being of rebirth, of infinite cycles — never dying, only transforming.
"If I embed the Horcrux fragment into a living phoenix," Adrian whispered one night, pacing before a circle of violet runes, "will the soul itself learn eternity?"
His notes grew more complex, filled with diagrams of avian anatomy, flame-based regeneration, and magical resonance theory. He crafted a containment charm capable of sustaining a soul's energy through a full rebirth cycle — a spell so precise that even the runes struggled to maintain it. "If it works or not, remains to be seen…"
Adrian's gaze turned to another object — the Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw.
For months, he had labored to restore it — the once-corrupted relic that now lay pure, untouched, shimmering faintly with a light of its own. Through endless trial, he had managed to extract every trace of Riddle's corruption and reforge it to its former glory.
Now, as it gleamed softly in the candlelight, the Diadem pulsed with calm brilliance — a relic reborn. Adrian held it in his hands and smiled faintly. "Knowledge without corruption… at last."
He placed it gently upon his head, the air humming with restrained reverence. His mind turned colder, thoughts flashed faster than ever before, "This will be handy." He smiled.
His gaze shifted then to the hovering Horcrux — a fragment of madness, hatred, and obsession.
The contrast made him laugh quietly, "This world is not divided by good and evil… But by understanding."
The flames dimmed, leaving only his silhouette against the runic glow. The wind outside howled across the ancient stones, carrying with it the scent of rain and distant thunder.
Adrian looked up at the storm, eyes glowing faintly violet. "The world fears what it cannot define," he murmured. "But I—I will define it all."
The candles went out.
The ruins fell silent.
And the night carried his name — in awe.
\\
The morning came softly, like a breath after a storm. Light spilled through the cracks of Adrian's secluded stone chamber, revealing lines of ancient runes and the faint shimmer of power that still lingered in the air. On the marble table lay the fruits of months of study — carefully drawn circles, vials filled with liquid light, and the repaired Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw.
It gleamed faintly, whole again at last. His fingers brushed over its edge with reverence — not for the artifact itself, but for what it represented. Knowledge. Perfection. Proof of mastery.
In the next instant, he vanished — dissolving into a thin shimmer of violet energy that cut through the quiet.
He appeared somewhere else entirely.
France.
The air was alive with color — fields of lavender stretching as far as the eye could see, the scent of salt and earth mingling with the sweetness of summer. Ahead, a large white villa stood by the hills, sunlight dancing across its windows. It was beautiful in a way his sanctum could never be — human, warm, alive.
He walked the stone path toward the entrance, his boots silent on the cobbles. Before he could knock, the door opened.
"Adrian!"
Her voice was clear and bright, like a song he hadn't heard in years. Fleur Delacour stood in the doorway, her smile radiant, her eyes shining with that unmistakable blue glow. Her silver hair caught the sunlight like threads of starlight.
He smiled faintly. "Bonjour, Fleur."
Her lips curved in amusement. "You remembered."
"I have a good memory."
She tilted her head. "I know. Come in."
The Delacour home was like stepping into another world. The air smelled of herbs and butter, the walls decorated with paintings and enchanted lights that glowed softly in the corners. Apolline Delacour greeted him with grace, elegance, and welcome. "Monsieur Atlas," she said kindly, "Fleur has told us much about you."
"I hope only good things," he replied, his tone calm but polite.
Fleur smirked behind her mother. "Mostly."
Her father joined soon after — tall and broad, with kind eyes and the easy confidence of a man who'd lived well. He shook Adrian's hand firmly. "Ah, the famous English prodigy! The one who faced You-Know-Who himself. My girl says you are far too serious for your age."
Adrian's mouth twitched in the faintest smile. "She may be right."
He laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Good! You have humor after all."
Dinner was served on the veranda as the sun began to set. The sky blazed orange and gold, painting the vineyard below in firelight. Dishes floated gently through the air — roasted duck, seasoned vegetables, fresh bread, and fine wine that shimmered in their glasses.
The conversation was warm and lively. Fleur's parents asked about Hogwarts, about Britain, about the battles he had faced. Adrian answered politely, never revealing more than he intended. Fleur teased him about his composure, about how he always seemed distant — a prince of cold intellect sitting among mortals.
"Do you ever relax?" she asked with a smile, resting her chin on her hand.
"Rarely," he said.
She sighed. "You are hopeless."
He looked at her, calm and amused. "Efficient," he corrected softly.
She laughed, and the sound of it was bright enough to make even him forget, for a moment, the world outside this small haven.
When dinner ended and the sky turned indigo, Fleur suggested a walk. "Come. Paris is beautiful at night. You will see."
He didn't argue.
She Apparated them near the Seine, the sound of the river greeting them instantly. The city glowed with lanterns and streetlights, reflections dancing across the water. Music drifted faintly through the streets — violins, laughter, the clink of glasses.
They walked side by side in silence for a while, their footsteps echoing softly on the bridge. The moon hung low, silver and full.
Fleur looked at him, her hair swaying in the night breeze. "So tell me, Adrian… you chased knowledge and power — all these impossible things. What is it you really seek?"
He looked toward the river, his eyes calm, violet light flickering within them. "Truth," he said.
"Truth?" she repeated.
"The kind that doesn't change when people die," he answered quietly.
For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, softly, she smiled. "You sound like an old philosopher."
"You don't know how right you are, " he said, his voice almost a whisper.
They found a café by the river, half-empty, its windows glowing with amber light. Fleur ordered two coffees and insisted on paying, brushing his protest aside with a grin. They sat by the window, watching the water flow under the bridges. It was the first time in years Adrian let himself relax. The warmth of the cup in his hand, the music drifting through the night, the way Fleur's eyes caught the candlelight — it all felt almost unreal. When they returned to the villa later that night, the house was quiet. The stars shimmered above them, and the cicadas sang faintly from the trees. Fleur led him to her room — a soft space filled with books, faint perfume, and a single enchanted candle glowing blue on the desk.
She turned to him, smiling gently. "You don't have to go yet," she whispered.
He didn't.
They talked for a while — about Hogwarts, about the future, about nothing and everything. At some point, words stopped being necessary. The night softened around them, and as the candle burned low, they became one again, the world beyond their walls momentarily forgotten.
\
The next morning came quietly. Light poured through the curtains, washing the room in gold. Fleur stirred first, her hair spilling across the pillow like silk. She looked at Adrian — still half asleep, calm, unguarded — and smiled faintly.
Downstairs, her father was already awake. "You are leaving today?" he asked when Adrian came down, his tone kind but watchful.
"Yes," Adrian replied. "I have… places to be."
He nodded. "I could take you to the airport — Apparate you there myself. It's no trouble."
Adrian shook his head lightly. "Thank you, but I'll manage."
He exchanged a few quiet words with Apolline, who wished him safety, and then turned to Fleur. She stood by the door, her arms crossed, trying to hide the sadness in her eyes.
She smiled faintly, stepping closer. "At least promise me you'll come back."
He hesitated for the briefest moment, then said, " I will."
She reached up and kissed him — light, brief, like the whisper of a spell. "Be safe," she said quietly.
He smiled, his expression unreadable. "I'll do my best."
And with that, he turned, stepping into the sunlight. To the world, it looked as if Adrian Atlas was heading to the airport — another traveler leaving France behind.
The air in France was clean — unnaturally so. The kind of air that carried the scent of wildflowers even in winter, tinged faintly with frost. Adrian stood at the edge of the Delacour property, his travel cloak drawn tightly around his shoulders, eyes fixed on the horizon.
Behind him, the elegant manor was a gleaming silhouette under the setting sun. Fleur's family had been polite — charming even — but beneath their courtesy, he sensed the usual wizarding pride, the quiet hierarchy that dictated the world. They smiled with grace, but they measured by worth.
'It was always the same. In this world or in my first.'
Adrian's expression was calm, but his mind burned with purpose. There was still work to be done, knowledge to refine — and certain potions that required preparation for his next plans.
That meant returning to Britain. To the shadows.
The moment he reached the small path beyond the vineyard, his body shimmered faintly with violet light. The air folded around him, and in a flash, he was gone. Back to Britain. Back to the path of power, discovery, and destiny. The air rippled once, bending to his will. A heartbeat later, the French countryside vanished, replaced by the familiar gloom of Knockturn Alley.
\\
The stench hit first — damp stone, stale blood, and the faint coppery tang of old magic. The cobblestones glistened under a drizzle that never seemed to end, and somewhere in the distance, a woman's laughter broke into a scream before fading into silence.
Adrian adjusted his cloak, unbothered. His appearance was different now — a slight alteration of features, his usual sharp cheekbones softened, his dark hair shortened to an ordinary brown. He moved quietly through the crooked alleys, his presence swallowed by the fog.
Shops here didn't welcome customers — they tolerated them.
Dimly lit windows revealed silhouettes hunched over counters, bartering for powders and blood vials that no one dared to name.
Adrian stopped before a rusted iron door marked only by a symbol — ten serpents coiled around a skull.
He knocked once.
A small hatch slid open, revealing a pair of bloodshot eyes.
"Password," a voice rasped.
Adrian's lips curved faintly. "There is none. Tell your master that 'the man with the red scarf' has returned."
The eyes widened slightly — recognition. The hatch slammed shut, and after a moment, the lock clicked open.
Inside, the air was thick with incense and secrecy. Shelves sagged under the weight of bottled shadows — liquids that seemed to move of their own accord, powders that breathed faintly when uncorked. Behind the counter stood a hunched man with silver hair and yellowing fingers.
"Well, well… Mr. Wick returns," he croaked. "Thought you'd vanished for good."
Adrian's gaze drifted across the shelves. "You know I prefer discretion."
"Always did. What'll it be this time? Poisons? Hearts? Maybe a few—"
Adrian cut him off with a glance sharp enough to silence him. "You'll find the list here."
He slid a folded parchment across the counter. The shopkeeper took it, eyes flicking nervously down the lines — and then, his face blanched.
"...These are difficult to obtain," he murmured. "Dangerous, even."
Adrian's expression did not change. "And?"
The old man swallowed. "Nothing, nothing. Just — you'll have to wait an hour. Sit, if you like."
Adrian moved to a shadowed corner, lowering himself onto an old wooden chair. He said nothing, his mind elsewhere — already calculating the combinations of potions he intended to brew.
Time passed.
When the shopkeeper returned, he carried a small black case sealed with layers of protection charms.
"Everything you asked for," he whispered. "No record, no trace."
Adrian stood, examined the box, and with a flick of his hand, bound it with his own spell-lock.
"Good." Hw put a bag field with gold and turned to leave. "Pleasure as always."
The man exhaled shakily only after the door shut behind him.
Outside, the drizzle had turned to cold rain. Adrian slipped through the alley like smoke, his footsteps soundless. He had just reached the main crossing when a noise caught his attention — the sharp crack of splintering wood, followed by muffled cries.
His head turned slightly. Down a narrow passage to his right, torchlight flickered erratically, and the sound of boots echoed against the walls.
Three men — cloaked, their faces half-hidden — surrounded another figure on the ground.
Adrian paused. Observed.
The victim was in his early thirties, rough-looking but strong. Mud-streaked coat, torn shirt, hands calloused from hard work. Brown hair clung to his face, and his blue eyes blazed with stubborn defiance. One of the assailants kicked him hard in the ribs.
"Thought you could walk here without paying, mongrel?" sneered one of the wizards.
The man on the ground spat blood. "Go to hell."
A second blow sent him sprawling, but when one attacker tried to wrench his satchel away, the man surged up with surprising strength. With a grunt, he drove his elbow into the wizard's face — bone cracked audibly. Then, with a brutal twist, he threw another aside.
Adrian's eyes narrowed with faint amusement. 'No wand. But efficient.' He thought.
The third wizard snarled and raised his wand. "Crucio!"
The curse struck.
The man's scream tore through the alley, raw and unending. His body convulsed, fingers clawing at the stones.
The others laughed — high, cruel laughter echoing in the rain.
Adrian stood still, watching. His expression was unreadable. For nearly a minute, he didn't move. The cries filled the air, shrill and jagged.
Then he sighed softly.
"Hey," he said, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. "Enough already. His screaming's ruining the acoustics."
The three wizards froze, turning sharply.
The tallest sneered. "And who the hell are you supposed to be?"
Adrian stepped closer, his hood casting shadows over his face. "Someone with a headache."
"Get lost. This doesn't concern you."
Adrian's lips curved in a faint smile. "No. But your existence is starting to."
The insult took a second to register. Then wands rose. "Arrogant little—"
They never finished.
A pulse of energy rolled through the air — silent, invisible. For an instant, their bodies stiffened, eyes widening as if realizing too late that the world had turned against them.
Then — boom.
Blood misted the rain. Three shapes collapsed into formless ruin, the cobblestones hissing under the heat of raw magic. Adrian didn't even glance back. His eyes, glowing faintly violet, dimmed again as he stepped past the corpses, boots splashing through the bloodied puddles.
Behind him, the wounded man groaned, struggling to rise.
He managed to stand, swaying slightly. "Wait… wait!"
Adrian kept walking.
"Stop!" the man shouted hoarsely.
Adrian's pace slowed, then stopped. He turned his head slightly, expression cool. "What do you want?"
The man staggered forward, then fell to one knee. "Please—"
Adrian raised a brow. "If you're going to thank me, don't. I didn't do that to save you."
"My name is Greg Thompson," the man said quickly, voice trembling not from fear but intensity. "I'm— I'm a werewolf."
Adrian's gaze turned impatient. "And?"
"All my life," Greg continued, "I've been hunted. Shunned. I never belonged anywhere. But today… today I saw something I never thought I would. I saw a wizard—" he swallowed hard, "—stand up for a man like me."
"I didn't stand up for you," Adrian said flatly. "Your screaming was annoying."
Greg smiled faintly, though his eyes glistened. "Maybe. But you still stopped them. And that's more than anyone's ever done for me."
He lowered his head to the ground, rain splattering across his torn coat. "Please. Let me serve you. I have nothing — no home, no family. Let me be useful. I swear on my life, I'll follow you until death."
Adrian stared at him for a long time, silent. The rain fell harder, drumming against the stones.
Finally, he spoke, voice low. "You want to be a servant? To someone who just killed three men without blinking?"
Greg met his eyes. "You're powerful. And you didn't kill me."
Adrian's expression didn't change, but something flickered behind his gaze — curiosity, perhaps. "You're desperate enough to bind yourself to a stranger. Pathetic."
"Maybe," Greg said quietly. "But I've seen power today. The kind that doesn't come twice in a lifetime. I won't waste this chance."
Adrian tilted his head slightly. "You're willing to bind yourself with a magical vow?"
"I am."
The faintest smile ghosted across Adrian's lips. "Interesting." He stepped closer, and as he did, the illusion that masked his face shimmered away. His true features emerged — youthful, sharp, beautiful in a way that seemed almost unnatural.
Greg's eyes widened. "You… you're just a boy?"
Adrian's tone was cool. "Appearances deceive. Shouldn't you know that better than anyone, wolf?"
Greg bowed lower. "All the more reason. My loyalty doesn't depend on age."
For a long moment, the only sound was rain.
Then Adrian said softly, "Very well. But understand this — if you betray me, there will be no second chance."
"I swear it," Greg said fiercely. "By magic itself."
Adrian drew a circle in the air — lines of light forming runes that pulsed with faint silver. "Then we seal it." He spoke the ancient formula — words drawn from the lost tongue of binding. Greg repeated them, voice shaking but resolute. The runes flared, wrapping around his arms, etching glowing marks that sank slowly into his skin.
When the light faded, Adrian's eyes gleamed faintly. "It's done."
Greg exhaled, almost trembling. "Thank you… Master."
Adrian gave a faint snort. "I prefer 'Adrian.' But call me whatever you wish. Now, come. You need a wand."
He turned, motioning for Greg to follow.
Minutes later, they entered another narrow alley — darker, quieter. A small shop stood at its end, the sign above it nearly invisible through the rain. Inside, rows of old wands rested behind glass, each humming faintly with restrained power.
The shopkeeper, a gaunt man with silver eyes, looked up sharply as they entered.
"Another stray?" he asked dryly.
'Something like that, ' Adrian said: "He needs a wand that won't reject him."
The man eyed Greg skeptically but reached for a box. "Werewolves aren't known for compatibility."
Adrian's gaze hardened. "Try."
The first wand sparked — failed. The second hissed. The third vibrated violently in Greg's hand before suddenly glowing faint blue. The light steadied.
The shopkeeper blinked. "Rowan wood, dragon heartstring… resilient. A rare match."
Adrian dropped several Galleons on the counter. "We'll take it."
Outside again, Adrian turned toward the darkened street. "Hold on."
Greg barely had time to react before the world twisted — a rush of wind, a flash of light — and then silence.
They stood in a vast hall of black marble and runic wards carved into the walls — one of Adrian's hidden sanctuaries.
Greg looked around in awe. "Where are we?"
Adrian glanced back at him, eyes calm. "Home. For now."
He moved toward the far side of the hall, where faint light from blue flames danced over polished stone. "Rest. Heal. Tomorrow, we begin."
Greg hesitated. "Begin what?"
Adrian didn't answer. He simply smiled — cold, knowing.
"Your new life."