Silence.
The kind that presses on the chest until breathing hurts.
When Adrian woke, it was night again. Not the night of battle — this one was quieter, colder, and thick with the scent of smoke and ash.
He lay on the narrow cot in the safehouse, his skin slick with fever, his mind half-buried in pain and fragments of memory.
For a long time, he didn't move. He just listened — to the creak of old wood, to the hum of the wards Greg had cast outside, to the faint ringing in his ears that refused to fade.
When he finally sat up, every joint screamed. His shirt clung to dried blood.
Someone — Greg, probably — had bandaged his ribs, though the healing potions had already done most of the work. His body would recover. It always did.
His mind… will take time. The trauma was not small.
He pressed a hand to his face. The image of the Astronomy Tower burned behind his eyelids — Dumbledore's eyes, the Fiendfyre's glow, the collapsing lake, the cries of men.
He'd survived.
But never this kind of a battle, no, it was not a battle.
It was war.
He turned his head toward the corner of the room. There, by the stone hearth, lay a small patch of blackened ash. Kinnie's ash.
For a moment, the sight silenced even his breathing. He'd known the elf for years — one of Hogwarts' kitchen servants, a timid little creature who'd sneak him bread and pumpkin juice when he'd worked late in the library or forgotten to eat for days. He used to call him Kinnie because the elf's real name was too long and trembled on its own syllables.
Adrian had never meant to care about him. But Kinnie had been loyal, and loyalty — in Adrian's world — was a kind of treasure. And now, Kinnie was dead. Because he needed him to be.
He whispered, barely audible, "You did well, little one. Sorry, it had to be this way."
The words felt foreign in his mouth. Regret wasn't something he allowed himself often. But it sat there now, cold and sharp, like glass swallowed by mistake.
He stood slowly, his legs stiff beneath him, and crossed to the window.
Outside, dawn was breaking — pale and gray over the mountains. The wind carried distant echoes of owl calls, hundreds of them, carrying the same message across Europe.
The world knew.
Greg entered the room a few minutes later, eyes hollow from lack of sleep. He was holding a rolled newspaper — The Daily Prophet, but not the edition Adrian remembered. The front page glowed faintly, magically animated, with a photograph that made Adrian's chest tighten.
It showed the Astronomy Tower ruins, smoke still rising from the shattered stone, water flooding into the crater.
The headline screamed in burning letters:
"THE FALLEN PRODIGY – ADRIAN ATLAS, THE DARK HEIR OF HOGWARTS. BIRTH OF THE THIRD DARK LORD?"
Greg said nothing as he handed it over. Adrian took it, unrolled it carefully, and read. Dumbledore's words were printed across the first two pages — a detailed, formal statement to the Ministry and the International Confederation of Wizards. Every secret was laid bare: the rituals, the experiments, the killings, even his connection to Voldemort's research. There was no anonymity left.
The world had been told who he truly was.
Adrian read without emotion. Or tried to. But when he reached the last paragraph, something shifted behind his eyes.
"He was one of ours once," Dumbledore had said.
"A student of remarkable brilliance — and terrible hunger. He has turned his mind to the darkest branches of magic, believing himself beyond morality, beyond law. He is not Voldemort reborn, nor Grindelwald's heir — he is something new. Something colder.
And until he is stopped, no place, no soul, no truth in our world is safe."
The rest of the paper was worse. Lists of alleged crimes, sketches of his likeness, theories about his magic. Rumors that he could command death itself. The Ministry had declared him TOP Class Dangerous, an international threat.
The ICW had placed a bounty — one of the largest in wizarding history.
Every country, every paper, every wizarding channel repeated the same name.
Adrian Atlas.
He set the paper down slowly.
Greg spoke first. "They've sealed every portkey in Britain. The French and German Ministries are on alert. They're saying you killed people, destroyed the Astronomy Tower, and the lake… They've made you—"
"The villain," Adrian finished, voice soft but edged. "Of course they did."
Greg hesitated. "Well… It's not… all lies."
Adrian didn't respond.
Greg was right.
He simply turned back to the window. His reflection in the glass looked almost unrecognizable — pale, hollow-eyed, his hair matted with dried blood, the faint violet ring still glowing around his pupils. The Magic Eyes.
He spoke after a long silence. "They'll come. Dumbledore won't stop here. He'll want to see me dragged into Azkaban, if not worse."
"Then we move," Greg said quickly. "I've packed what we can. Potions, food, the grimoire, maps—"
Adrian raised a hand. "No."
Greg froze.
"Not yet," Adrian said. "Let them hunt shadows. Let them think I'm dying. I want them to believe I'm gone."
He turned, eyes sharp again despite the exhaustion. "We'll stay hidden for now. Then we rebuild. I still have work to do."
"Work?" Greg repeated. "Adrian, the entire world wants you dead!"
Adrian's lips curved faintly. "Then it's a good thing I've never cared much for the world."
He moved back to the table, sitting carefully, every motion deliberate. His fingers brushed the ring — the same one that had saved him. For a moment, the silence between them deepened. The sound of the wind outside filled the space where guilt might have lived.
Adrian looked again toward the ashes where Kinnie had been.
He murmured, almost to himself, "Power never comes free; it always demands something in return. The real question is how much we're willing to sacrifice. But that's no reason to stop reaching for something greater. Excuses are for those who've already given up. Even through tears and struggle, I'll keep moving forward. That's what makes life meaningful."
Greg said nothing. He just stared at him, now sitting in the flickering light with eyes that no longer looked entirely human.
Adrian leaned back, closing his eyes. The exhaustion finally began to pull him under again.
As sleep claimed him, his thoughts circled one truth: The world had chosen its side.
And so had he.
' The hunt is beginning.'
\\\
The Gryffindor common room was silent. The crackling fire reflected off Harry's glasses as he stared into the flames, trying to make sense of what he'd read, the article that had spread like wildfire through the wizarding world.
Adrian Atlas, "wanted for crimes against the Ministry, dark magic, and human experiments, murder, kidnapping…"
Ron sat nearby, pale and speechless. Hermione's lips moved soundlessly, eyes wide, her logical mind refusing to accept it. But Harry… he felt something deeper. Something that burned.
"He saved me," he whispered at last. "Back in the Chamber. He saved me."
Ron glanced up. "Harry… mate, people change—"
"No," Harry said sharply, his voice breaking. "Not like this."
He rose from the armchair, pacing. "He wasn't evil. He fought for what he believed in. He wanted knowledge, yes, but he wasn't like Voldemort. He wasn't."
Hermione's voice trembled. "Dumbledore himself confirmed the reports, Harry."
The room went still again.
Harry's hands curled into fists. "Then maybe Dumbledore's wrong."
He looked up, his green eyes burning with the same fierce conviction that had carried him through every battle. "Adrian isn't lost. Not yet. If he's out there… then I'll find him. I'll bring him back before anyone else does."
And then, quieter — to himself: "...and if I am wrong… then I'll make sure he answers for what he's done."
The fire popped loudly, scattering embers across the hearth — as if punctuating the vow.
\\\
In the depths of a shadowed manor, the air was thick with the scent of incense and fear. Death Eaters stood in rigid silence as Lord Voldemort read the morning's Prophet, the headline burning in his crimson eyes.
Adrian Atlas: The Fallen.
He folded the paper slowly. The sound of the parchment crackling was louder than the breath of a dozen followers.
"So… he survived," Voldemort murmured, almost to himself.
Bellatrix laughed nervously. "My Lord, this boy, this pretender, he cannot possibly—"
"Silence."
Her laughter died instantly.
Voldemort's gaze lingered on the flickering fire before him. His voice was calm, thoughtful, but it carried a chill that sank into bone.
"I have fought him. I have felt his magic. He wields something beyond the comprehension of children. His will forged through pain reminds me of my own youth."
He leaned back in the throne-like chair, fingers tapping the armrest.
"He used ancient rituals, the kind even I would not risk lightly. That night, when he faced me, he did not fear death. He welcomed it."
The Death Eaters shifted uneasily.
"Lucius," Voldemort said softly.
"My Lord?"
"If he resurfaces — anywhere — you will not pursue him. Not yet."
Lucius blinked in confusion. "But, my Lord, surely—"
Voldemort's voice cut through the air like a knife. "He is not to be trifled with. Should any of you find him, you will report — and retreat."
He paused, a thin smile creeping across his lips. "Because when the time comes… We will let Dumbeldoore deal with him personally."
And beneath that soft, serpentine whisper was something rare — fear.
But that was normal; sometimes the things that we fear the most remind us of ourselves...
\\\
In a sunlit kitchen in southern France, Fleur Delacour sat frozen at the table, the Prophet trembling in her hands. Her mother's soft voice broke through the stillness.
"Fleur… you must eat something."
"It's a lie," Fleur said, her voice raw. "They lied about him before — they will do it again. Adrian would never—"
Her father sighed heavily. "My baby, this is not like before. This time, it is Dumbledore himself who has confirmed it."
The paper slipped from Fleur's fingers. She rose abruptly, anger flashing in her eyes. "No! Dumbledore is wrong! They are all wrong!"
Her mother reached out to calm her, but Fleur's fury boiled over. "You don't know him! You don't know what he means for me!"
The words cracked like thunder through the room.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then, with a single, sharp movement, her mother struck her cheek.
The sound was small.
The silence that followed was enormous.
"Enough," her mother whispered. "You will calm yourself."
Fleur's breath came in shaking bursts. Her mother stepped forward, wrapping her in a trembling embrace. "We know you care for him. But you must listen now — the Ministry has contacted us. The British Aurors want to speak with you. Dumbledore himself asked for your testimony."
Fleur's father added quietly, "They believe you knew him better than anyone. They… want to understand how he became what he is."
Fleur's eyes were red. "Then they will hear the truth. All of it."
Her mother tightened her hold. "Will you go?"
Fleur's voice was faint, but resolute. "Yes."
A single tear slipped down her cheek.
"Because if there is even a chance he's still the man I loved… I have to know."
\\\
Deep within the stone heart of Nurmengard, Gellert Grindelwald sat in his narrow cell, his silver hair gleaming faintly in the torchlight. The years had broken him and carved wisdom into his face.
When the letter arrived, carried by a silver phoenix, his lips curved in a knowing smile.
He broke the seal — the familiar script of Albus Dumbledore flowing across the page:
"Gellert, if he cannot be found within two months, I must ask for your help.
You know the kind of power he wields — and you know what it means if it remains unchecked.
If you find him, capture him if you can… destroy him if you must."
— Albus.
Grindelwald read the words twice, then leaned back, chuckling to himself.
"So, Albus… you've found a new prodigy."
His pale eyes glimmered with something between admiration and regret. "Another boy who walks the line between Dark and Light."
He folded the letter carefully and set it beside him. "You never change, old friend. You fear what you cannot control."
Then, after a long silence, he whispered to the empty cell, "But this Adrian… perhaps he is not a monster to be slain. Perhaps he is the inevitable consequence of our age — the proof that your world still breeds those who dare to reach."
The torch flickered, casting his shadow against the wall — the shadow of a man who once wanted to change the world.
Grindelwald smiled faintly.
"If he truly walks the path of knowledge… then when the time comes, Albus, I may or may not stop him."
\\\
The world had turned against him.
Every morning since the Battle in the Tower burned, new headlines had painted him darker, crueler, more monstrous.
"DARK PRODIGY AT LARGE — MINISTRY OFFERS GLOBAL REWARD."
"FUGITIVE WIZARD SUSPECTED IN MULTIPLE DEATHS."
"APPREHEND ALIVE IF POSSIBLE — DEAD IF NECESSARY."
Adrian read those words in a tavern in Prague before setting the newspaper down quietly and vanishing into the mist.
He hadn't slept properly in days.
Not since the first bounty posters appeared — his name scrawled across the magical underworld in fire and gold.
Now, everyone was hunting him.
Aurors from Britain.
Hit-wizards from France.
Curse-breakers from Egypt.
And worst of all, mercenaries from the black market. Greed made even cowards bold.
He and Greg moved constantly — never staying in one place for more than a night. One day, they slept in a crumbling monastery above the Alps, surrounded by silent stone angels.
The next, in the shadow of the Carpathian forests, where fog muffled even their own breathing. When the fog grew too thick, they Apparated into rain — always rain — falling over rooftops, deserts, and foreign shores.
Greg, ever loyal, followed Adrian without question. He fought when needed and carried what remained of their supplies.
Every safehouse became a battlefield.
In Berlin, they were ambushed by five bounty hunters posing as street preachers. Adrian had burned through a dozen defensive wards before a single cutting charm slit the last man's throat.
In the mountains near Delphi, a team of Ministry operatives trapped them inside a mirrored cave, using seal Apparition on them. Adrian dismantled the field from within — by overloading it, nearly tearing his own arm apart in the blast.
And in Venice, under a blood-red sky, he faced an assassin from the Russian branch of the Dark Market, a witch with twin daggers and magic that stank of Darkness. That night ended in fire, the canal boiling as her corpse sank beneath the black water.
By the twenty-first day, he had fought forty-two separate confrontations, some lasting seconds, some hours.
He'd been shot, cursed, burned, stabbed, and twice poisoned.
Five times, he had come within a breath of death.
Once, in the ruins of an old chapel, a lightning curse shattered the altar and threw him through a wall — his ribs cracked, blood flooding his lungs. Greg dragged him out while Adrian conjured spells mid-collapse to keep himself alive.
Another time, in a rain-soaked valley in Austria, an ambush nearly ended him. A bounty hunter disguised as a dying man stabbed him through the stomach. Adrian killed him with a burst of transfigured glass, sealing the wound seconds before passing out.
There was a duel near Bucharest where he fought blindfolded, thanks to a curse that prevented him from using his sight, his magic reacting purely to movement, instinct, and emotion. The man who challenged him in the field was left without a head.
And yet, despite everything — despite pain, exhaustion, and the constant echo of pursuit — Adrian persevered.
Every fight honed him further. Every near-death moment stripped away what weakness remained. He was learning, adapting, evolving.
It was night
The wind was quiet. Greg found Adrian sitting on the edge of a cliff, staring into the dark.
Greg said softly, "You don't have to keep fighting, you know. We can disappear — go somewhere magic doesn't reach."
Adrian didn't look up. "There is nowhere magic doesn't reach," he said. His voice was calm, almost detached. "And nowhere I could ever belong now."
He rubbed a scar along his wrist — a fresh one, still faintly glowing with healing magic.
"They think I'm a monster," he murmured. "They will never let me go."He said it as a fact.
Greg exhaled through his nose. "And are they wrong?"
Adrian smiled at Greg's words. In the time they spent together, he had grown fond of this servant of his; he came to view him more like a comrade.
"I did what I had to do to survive, acquire power and knowledge," Adrian replied flatly. "In this world, the weak are at the bottom, while the strong are at the top. I refuse to be weak."
"Prepeps, I am a monster. But it is better to be a monster than to be prey." Adrian's eyes turned toward the horizon, cold and bright. "You of all people should understand, right…"
Greg did not answer him; he did not need to. Adrian already knows the answer. He rose, wand glinting faintly in the pale light. "Then let them learn why they fear what they don't understand."
They moved again the next morning — south, toward the coast. Adrian used illusion wards to alter their faces daily. Sometimes he appeared as a gray-haired scholar, sometimes a young woman, sometimes nothing at all.
But every disguise eventually burned away. His power left traces — fluctuations in ambient magic, distortions in ley lines, echoes of wards shattered. The most skilled trackers could sense him like a storm approaching.
'It didn't matter.' He thought. Because each encounter taught him something new.
From the Egyptian bounties, he learned how to counter blood magic. After all, he did leave a lot of blood back then when fighting Dumbeldore.
From the French curse-breakers, he studied the weaknesses in hex matrices.
From the Russian assassins, he understood the fragility of human will when faced with death.
He was fighting for survival — but he was also learning faster than ever before.
"Learning by actions is indeed faster. I seemed to have forgotten that." Adrian said to himself as he was carving runes into stone, whispering formulae to the dark, his hands trembling but his mind alive. "Thinking back to my first life, when I learned how to fight, it was the same. I trained the basics and my body to the limit. Then, I simply fought, and learned by experience…"
"This isn't running," Adrian concluded, eyes blazing. "This is evolution."
By the end of the third week, his name had become a legend and a curse alike. Posters shimmered on every magical street corner. Reward totals exceeded half a million Galleons.
But the rumors, the rumors were his blade and shield.
As time passed, the world sent more and more wizards after him: some were after the money, some were after his secrets, some were after justice.
All of them had one thing in common— they were all dead!
And that sent a chill into the heart of ordinary wizards. A 16-year-old boy can fight the world's most trained killers and still survive…
As time passed, Adrian's reputation increased a lot. Many in the underworld even idolized him, claiming he was the next Dark-Lord; some even want as far as to carry favor with him, saying that they would not send their men after him…
As for the man of the hour himself?
He ignored all of it.
What mattered wasn't what the world said. Every time he fought, every time he survived, the darkness inside him stirred just a little easier.
And he wondered, not with fear, but curiosity, whether the world's greatest danger was not that he might be captured…
But that he might stop running.
\\\\
Wind howled through the broken spires of the fortress in Montségur.. Once a stronghold of the old Wizards, it was now nothing more than stone and shadow, perched high above the world. Adrian stood at the edge of the cliff, cloak whipping around him, eyes fixed on the endless horizon. For weeks, he had been hunted like an animal.
For weeks, he had survived.
But tonight — he was done running.
Behind him, Greg approached quietly, his boots scraping the gravel.
"We can still move east," he said. "Romania, maybe. It's lighter there. We'll disappear for a while."
Adrian didn't turn. "Disappear?" He let the word linger, as if testing its weight. "I've hidden long enough. And what did it give me? Pain. Scars. Sleepless nights."
He slowly raised his hand. A faint hum pulsed through the air — the vibration of layered enchantments peeling away one by one. The runes etched into the ground flared, then dissolved.
Every concealment spell, cloaking charm, and veil that kept him unseen… fell silent.
The mountain seemed to exhale, as though the world had suddenly remembered he existed.
Greg's eyes widened. "Adrian, what are you doing?"
"Inviting them."
Greg took a step forward. "They'll come for you!"
"I know."
Adrian turned at last. His eyes — once brown — now shimmered faintly violet, fractured with lines of light that pulsed like molten glass. The Magic Eyes were awake.
He placed a hand on Greg's shoulder. "You've done enough. Go."
Greg's voice trembled. "I won't leave you."
Adrian's expression softened for the first time in days. "Then you'll die. And I won't have that on my conscience."
He looked past him, toward the descending mist. "Go back to the underworld. Tell them of my whereabouts, but be careful."
Greg hesitated, but something in Adrian's voice — the calm authority of inevitability — left no room for argument. With a silent nod, he Disapparated.
The wind grew cold again. Alone now, Adrian sat upon a fallen stone, hands resting on his knees, and closed his eyes.
Night fell.
Hours turned into days. By the third dawn, the silence broke.
First came the hum of enchanted metal. Then the faint shimmer of spells broke the fog.
Twenty figures emerged through the mist, silhouettes of bounty hunters and dark mercenaries from every corner of the world. Some wore Auror armor, others dragon-hide coats lined with runes, and one — their leader — carried a silver staff marked with the sigil of the Continental Enforcers.
Adrian didn't move.
"Adrian Atlas!" the leader shouted, his voice echoing across the stones. "By order of the International Confederation of Wizards, you are under arrest for the use of dark sorcery and mass murder. Surrender peacefully, and we'll make it swift."
Adrian opened his eyes.
The air changed.
Magic rippled outward like the surface of a disturbed lake — silent, invisible, suffocating. Even the hunters felt it.
"Surrender?" Adrian repeated softly. "You came all this way for that?"
The leader's jaw tightened. "Last warning."
Adrian smiled, a dangerous smile. "Then stop warning."
They attacked first.
Twenty spells screamed through the air — lightning, flame, and shadow converging into a single blinding inferno.
Adrian didn't flinch. He raised his hand, and the world itself bent.
The storm of curses froze midair, each spark and ray suspended, twisted, then turned back upon its casters. Half the hunters dove aside too late — explosions tore through the formation, scattering bodies like ash in the wind.
Adrian rose slowly from the stone. His eyes glowed brighter in violet, fractal patterns swirling like galaxies. Each hunter that met his gaze felt reality shatter. Their magic faltered, their own spells turning traitor.
"Wandless combat," one of them whispered, horrified. "He's doing it without a wand—!"
A flick of Adrian's wrist sent the earth itself surging upward — stone rising like spears, slicing through armor. One man screamed as he was impaled midair.
Another tried to Apparate. Adrian merely looked at him —Legitimacy, mind invention, in Adrian's hands, it's no different than telepathy. The spell collapsed mid-cast, crushing the man's body into the space itself.
Flames filled the sky.
Water roared through the cracks of the mountain.
It was not a duel; it was a massacre.
One of the older bounty masters raised a ward of. Adrian extended his hand, muttered something under his breath — the sound of a word older than language — and the ward shattered like glass.
A sphere of gravity slammed into the group, hurling men across the ruins. The leader staggered to his feet, blood streaming from his temple.
"Mon—monster!" he shouted.
Adrian's violet eyes cut through the chaos. He swept his hand outward — and the land responded.
Ancient stones rose, rotating around him like planets. From them, wards ignited, forming a halo of living geometry. When the next barrage came, the wards absorbed it — fed on it — and unleashed it tenfold.
Screams echoed across the valley.
One by one, the bounty hunters fell — disarmed, burned, erased.
Until only the leader remained, kneeling, his wand shaking.
The man gasped. "I do not want to die, please…" But Adrian did not stop; his heart was unmoved.
"If you kill me, they will hunt you down 10 times greater than now." The man begged.
Adrian stepped closer, his silhouette framed by swirling dust and dying embers. His eyes reflected the trembling man.
" The dead tell no stories," Adrian said. And with a simple gesture, the man collapsed — his magic imploding from within, snuffed out like a candle. "At least, that's what they say, right?" Adrian chuckled to himself.
Silence returned to Montségur. The air was heavy with magic and smoke, the ground scorched in patterns of perfect symmetry. Adrian stood at the center, surrounded by the remains of twenty elite hunters — broken, scattered, lifeless.
For a long time, he said nothing. Then, he looked at his hands — faint traces of light fading from his veins.
He raised his gaze to the dawn breaking over the Pyrenees. The light touched his face, golden and calm.
"I am done", he said. "No more running. "
He turned away from the corpses, from the smoke, from the blood. Every step he took, the earth hummed faintly — as if the mountain itself bowed in acknowledgment.
The massacre was over.
Adrian had stopped fleeing the world.
'Now, the world would learn to flee from me.'