Life resumed, as it always did, with mechanical indifference to tragedy.
Classes filled the week with rhythm: Potions on Monday, Transfiguration on Tuesday, Charms on Wednesday. Professors lectured with brittle cheer, as if louder words could drown out the silence left by fear.
In Potions, Adrian worked alone — his station immaculate, his hands steady as clockwork. Slughorn's booming voice echoed behind him:
"Exemplary, Mr. Atlas! I daresay, if you bottled focus, I'd buy a dozen!"
Adrian didn't look up. "Focus isn't for sale, Professor."
Laughter rippled faintly, uncertain whether it was safe to laugh.
In Defense Against the Dark Arts, the new professor — Snape.
Adrian sat at the back, silent. When called upon, he answered precisely, clinically, without emotion.
"Tell me, Mr. Atlas," Snape asked, his tone cold, "how would you counter the Cruciatus Curse?"
Adrian's violet eyes lifted. "You don't counter it. You endure it until the caster falters — or you make him bleed faster than you scream."
The room went dead quiet.
The students didn't know whether to laugh or to cry.
Professor Snape was stunned. "I… suppose that's one interpretation."
Adrian returned to his notes.
Nights in Slytherin were different that year. The usual arrogance had dulled into paranoia.
Letters arrived every morning by owl — some sealed in wax, others in blood. Faces grew paler. Arguments started in whispers and ended in silence. One evening, while Adrian sat by the fire reading a worn volume of Ancient Ritual Structures of the Roman Era, three older students approached. They wore the kind of confidence that came from family, not courage.
"Atlas," one said, voice smooth but calculated. "We've been watching you."
Adrian didn't look up. "I noticed."
"We're forming something," the second continued. "A new circle. For those who still understand the value of strength. You'd fit."
Adrian turned a page. "Strength doesn't need committees."
The third, irritated, stepped forward. "You fought him, didn't you? You faced the Dark Lord himself and lived. You could stand beside him — not beneath him."
Adrian finally looked up, his expression calm but sharp enough to cut.
"Stand beside him?" he repeated quietly. "Why would I stand beside a corpse that refuses to admit it's dead?"
The boy flushed. "You— you dare—"
"I do dare," Adrian interrupted softly. His tone never rose. But the temperature in the room seemed to drop. The green firelight reflected in his eyes, turning them faintly violet.
"Tell me," he said, "when your Dark Lord asks you to burn the world, will you do it — or will you finally realize he's already burning you?"
The three froze. The first opened his mouth, then shut it. The other two looked away.
Everyone in the room had gone silent.
'Whether born into Nobility or raised as Muggles, they are all merely souls adrift—clinging to illusions, awaiting the inevitable end. They inhabit a world not of truth, but of constructs—rules they themselves have authored and then blindly obey. By measuring their worth against others, some convince themselves they lead enviable lives. Yet this is but self-deception. Those who see themselves as aristocrats are ensnared by vanity, and those who deem themselves lowly suffer from a deeper delusion.' Adrian sneered in his heart.
"In the realm of magic, all wizards stand equal. All wizards have a chance to rise. So why should one kneel before another? The hierarchy you worship is but a shadow play—an echo of fear, not of truth." Adrian said, his voice barely a whisper, but somehow, it was heard by all. No one in Slytherin dared challenge him after that.
\\\
As autumn deepened into winter, Hogwarts wore a strange peace — too quiet, too fragile. The Black Lake froze, the Forbidden Forest whispered louder than usual, and the papers arriving by owl grew darker with each headline.
Adrian lived in rhythm. He studied, dueled in private, and brewed in secret. He spoke rarely, but when he did, people listened. Even the professors grew cautious around him, uncertain whether to praise or fear. And always, in the corner of his thoughts, there was that image of Dumbledore's fading aura — a candle burning lower each day. Sometimes, in the quiet between midnight and dawn, Adrian would wonder if Dumbledore's death would mark an end — or simply the clearing of the board for something greater.
He didn't fear it. He anticipated it.
Winter came early that year. Snow covered the courtyard in silence, muffling the sound of footsteps. Inside, the castle burned warm and bright, pretending the world outside didn't exist.
Adrian sat by the Slytherin fire, book open, violet eyes glowing faintly in reflection. Around him, his housemates laughed too loudly, studied too little, whispered too often. The air smelled faintly of damp stone and pride.
'Children playing war,' he thought again. 'And the real war hasn't even begun.'
He closed the book, leaned back, and listened to the crackle of the flames. The year was young. But the end had already begun the moment Riddle came back.
\\
"I hate snow." Said Adrian with a sigh.
The castle awoke one morning to a world turned white — snow clinging to the towers, draping the Forbidden Forest in silence. Even the lake had stilled, its surface frozen into a black mirror that caught the reflection of the moon.
Hogwarts, for all its ghosts and secrets, looked almost innocent beneath the snow.
Almost.
Adrian stood by the window of the Slytherin dormitory, his reflection ghosted against the glass. The frost outside webbed like veins, each pattern branching perfectly — too perfectly. He traced a finger over the glass, melting a small circle, watching how the warmth distorted the cold geometry. A student behind him muttered something about Quidditch practice being canceled. Another complained about the cold. Ordinary noises. Mundane. But beneath it all, there was tension — the kind of silence that follows a wound before the bleeding starts.
Classes continued, though no one seemed to care much about them. Professors forced smiles, pretending as though laughter and essays could disguise what everyone already knew. The world outside was shifting, and every owl that arrived in the morning brought whispers of it.
Adrian, as always, adapted easily. Routine was safety; order was armor.
He woke early, before the others stirred, and studied alone in the common room while the rest of Slytherin still dreamed of better times. The underwater light turned the room into a slow-moving prism — green shadows and refracted silver, the soft hum of magic pressing through stone. Sometimes, when he was alone, he felt the heartbeat of the castle itself — an ancient, slow rhythm. Hogwarts was alive, in its own way, and like all living things, it remembered.
At breakfast, the Great Hall was colder. Fewer students laughed now. The Gryffindors clustered together, whispering about missing people and strange attacks. Even the Hufflepuffs — eternal optimists — had grown quieter.
Adrian ate in silence, reading the Daily Prophet from beneath his hand. Another "accidental" disappearance. Another lie printed as reassurance.
The Slytherins had changed, too. They smiled less, argued more. Some tried to act unaffected, bragging about family connections, pretending the Dark Lord's return was just another game of politics. But Adrian could feel the fear in their minds like static.
He began to notice small things — subtle divisions forming among them. Those whose families had sworn loyalty to Voldemort gathered together, whispering at night near the fire. Others — mostly younger ones, or half-bloods — avoided them.
Adrian didn't belong to either side. He was his own.
When they whispered about him, they did so carefully — half awe, half fear. No one forgot what he had done last year. The memory of him facing the Dark Lord — surviving it — had become legend among the students.
He didn't encourage it, but neither did he deny it.
Legends were useful.
But little did Adrian know how wrong he was…
\\\
Sometimes, after classes, Adrian would walk alone through the snowy courtyard. The air was sharp enough to sting his lungs. He liked that — the purity of pain that wasn't moral, emotional, or philosophical.
Just cold.
Simple.
He watched the snow gather on the gargoyles, the icicles bending the light, the owls sweeping low over the trees. Hogwarts in winter felt like an illusion of peace — the kind you almost believe until you remember it's built on graves.
Once, near the covered bridge, he saw two younger students practicing dueling spells. Their technique was poor — sloppy stances, overextended arms — but there was something earnest about it. Something almost admirable.
He stood in silence for a while, then stepped closer.
"Your wrist," he said simply.
The boys froze, realizing who had spoken.
"Sir—" one began nervously.
"I'm not a professor," Adrian said. "Again."
They obeyed immediately. He corrected their positions, their focus, and the timing of their counters. Within ten minutes, their movements were twice as sharp.
When they bowed awkwardly and thanked him, he only said, "Discipline before power," then turned and left.
They stared after him like they'd met a legend. But to Adrian, it had been nothing — just a small correction in a world that preferred mediocrity.
\\
The Slytherin common room during winter was a study in contrasts. The fire burned emerald green, reflections dancing across black marble and wet stone. The air smelled faintly of smoke and ink, and the muffled sound of water pressing against the enchanted windows filled every pause between sentences.
Adrian sat most evenings in the far corner, reading. Not textbooks — never textbooks — but old grimoires, stolen manuscripts, and notes written in his own hand. Around him, others played chess, gossiped, or argued in whispers about politics they didn't understand.
"Atlas," drawled Theodore Nott one evening, sliding into the seat across from him. "You're quieter than usual. That's saying something."
Adrian didn't look up from his book.
Nott smirked faintly. "You ever tire of pretending to be above us?"
"I don't pretend. I am." Adrian still didn't look up from his book.
Nott chuckled, though it sounded forced. "You know, some of us are trying to do something real. To prepare. To take sides before it's too late."
Adrian turned a page. "And which side do you think is winning?"
Nott hesitated. "You-Know-Who has—"
"—a talent for theatrics," Adrian interrupted. "He's not immortal, Nott. Just efficient at living."
The smirk faded. "You talk like you've already seen the end of everything."
'I have.' Adrian said to himself, eyes still on the page. "It wasn't nearly as dramatic as you think."
Nott stared at him for a long moment, something like unease flickering in his gaze.
Then he left, muttering under his breath. Adrian closed his book.
The sound echoed faintly in the water-slick walls.
\\\
Snow deepened in December. The castle grew quieter still. Christmas decorations went up — cheerful on the surface, but hollow beneath.
Most students left for the holidays. Adrian stayed. The castle was almost empty then, filled only with the hum of the wards and the faint echo of wind through the corridors.
He liked it that way.
The silence of Hogwarts in winter felt alive — like something ancient stretching its limbs after centuries of sleep. He wandered sometimes, unhurried, hands tucked into his cloak. He visited the library, the Astronomy Tower, and even the dungeons beyond the usual boundaries.
He thought, as he often did, of Greg — training somewhere in one of his safehouses, growing stronger.
The thought was oddly grounding. Loyalty was rare; loyalty born from choice, rarer still.
One evening, in the stillness of the Great Hall, he stood before the enchanted ceiling, now pale with reflected snow. He wondered how many winters this castle had seen, how many masters and monsters had called it home.
'Nothing lasts,' he thought.
One day, Adrian was reading in the Astronomy Tower. He was tracing a pattern with his finger when a shadow fell across the page.
"Fascinating text," came the soft voice behind him. "Though I hope you're studying it out of curiosity, not ambition."
He did not turn immediately. "Curiosity is ambition, Albus."
Dumbledore's chuckle was quiet, dry. "You sound like someone I once taught."
Adrian looked up. The old man stood before him, robes the color of midnight and dust, his hand — the cursed one — hidden within the folds. His blue eyes still carried their impossible light, though behind it, Adrian could see fatigue. The curse was spreading faster now; his aura was dimmer.
"Mr. Atlas," Dumbledore said, "it has been some time since we spoke."
Adrian closed the book carefully. "I assumed you were too busy dying."
The words were not cruel; they were merely true. Dumbledore's smile did not falter. "Ah. Honesty. How refreshing."
He gestured toward the opposite Adrian's. "May I?"
Adrian inclined his head slightly. "If you insist."
The Headmaster sat with the slow grace of an old man pretending not to be old.
For a while, neither spoke.
The Tower's silence stretched between them, filled only by the rustle of wind and the faint pulse of magic.
Finally, Dumbledore said, "You have a rare gift, Adrian — to see the patterns beneath the surface of things. But gifts have shadows. Do you ever wonder where yours will lead you?"
Adrian's voice was calm. "Understanding is a choice."
Dumbledore's eyes softened, though a glimmer of sadness passed through them. "You remind me of Tom when he was your age."
"I expected you'd say that."
"And what do you think of the comparison?"
Adrian met his gaze evenly. "That you never learned the difference between a man who craves power and one who simply refuses to be powerless."
The air between them thickened for a heartbeat. Then Dumbledore smiled again — genuinely this time. "Perhaps not. Perhaps I am still learning."
He rose slowly. "Tell me, Adrian — when the time comes, will you stand with the world, or against it?"
Adrian thought for a moment, a smile formed on his lips, "Of course, I would rather let the world down than be let down by the world!" After that, Adrian simply laughed…
Dumbledore chuckled as well, the sound both weary and fond. "Then I hope, for all our sakes, that you remember compassion when you reach that height."
"Are you done?" Adrian asked, his tone and face were as cold as the weather outside. Gone the fakeness, and remain the truth.
"Done with what, Adrian? "Dumbledore asked, his face a perfect mask.
" You need me to spell it out for you… Very well, you can come out now, I know you are there." As he said those words, Adrian turned to look at the well behind him.