They called it The Montségur Massacre. The news spread like a curse. Twenty of the most elite bounty hunters and Ministry enforcers — gone.
No survivors. No remains beyond charred ground and traces of uncontrolled elemental magic.
Witnesses from the nearby villages spoke of pressure that tore the clouds, of air turning to glass, of a figure standing alone among ruins glowing like a dying sun.
By dawn, the wizarding world had grown fearful because of one man.
His name?
Adrian Atlas.
The boy who defied Hogwarts.
The boy who faced the dark lord twice.
The boy who fought against two dozen of the best wizards in the world, yet still escaped.
The fugitive who escaped the Ministry.
The wizard who fought twenty armed booty hunters without a wand and won.
The entire world was in panic because they now know...
A monster has arrived.
\\\
In the heart of the British Ministry of Magic, deep beneath London, the air was thick with tension. Wizards from every major nation filled the round chamber — Aurors, diplomats, Unspeakables. The International Confederation's banners floated above them, flickering with spells of confidentiality.
At the head of the table stood Albus Dumbledore. He was older, wearier, and quieter than ever before. He waited as reports floated before him in glowing script. Each line was a death count.
Each paragraph — another failure.
"The French Ministry confirms total magical devastation over a ten-mile radius," said an Auror grimly. "Residual traces suggest wandless manipulation of gravity, elemental conjuration, and—"
Dumbledore's hand raised slightly. The room fell silent.
"Was he provoked?"
"Sir?"
Dumbledore's eyes lifted. The weight of decades of battles lay within them. "Did they attack first?"
No one answered.
The silence spoke for itself.
Dumbledore exhaled slowly. "Then Adrian chose the field himself. He knew they were coming. It was intentional slaughter."
One of the French representatives slammed a fist on the table. "You knew him, Albus! He was your student! What in Merlin's name have you unleashed?"
For a heartbeat, the great wizard said nothing. Then — in a low, measured voice — he answered: "I taught him to seek knowledge without fear. But I did not teach him where to stop. And that is my sin."
A murmur spread through the room.
Dumbledore continued, voice steady but soft. "He has crossed a threshold few ever reach. The power he wields now… is not normal. It is born of something far older, far darker. He will stop running, because he no longer believes he must."
"Then what do we do?" asked Kingsley Shacklebolt, his tone grave.
Dumbledore turned to face the assembled leaders. His eyes, bright yet unbearably sad, seemed to hold the weight of the world itself.
"We stop him," he said. "No matter the cost."
The words struck like thunder.
One of the older Aurors whispered, "So you mean, to go all out?"
Dumbledore's silence was his answer.
He looked down at the parchment once more — the official report labeled Montségur Casualties.
Twenty names.
None familiar, yet each a life.
And for a moment, the old man's hand trembled.
'What have I done?' He thought.
\\\
In a quiet corner of France, the Delacour household had become a place of mourning and disbelief. Every window was sealed. Every newspaper burned. But nothing could stop whispers from reaching their door.
"It was him."
"He killed them all."
Fleur sat on her bed, motionless. The light from the window fell over her face, but her eyes looked far away — as though watching something no one else could see.
Her mother stood in the doorway, hesitant. "Fleur… please. Eat something, my dear."
No answer.
Her father entered, holding the latest Prophet, his expression grave. "They confirmed it. The French Auror Division found traces of Adrian's aura at the scene. There's no doubt anymore."
Fleur's hands clenched slowly. "No."
Her voice was soft at first, then cracked like breaking glass. "He wouldn't do that. He couldn't."
Her mother stepped closer. "Fleur—"
But Fleur shot up, her eyes blazing. "He saved people! He was kind; he saved a girl from death once. Why—" Her words broke. She turned away, pressing a trembling hand to her mouth.
Her father's tone was gentle but firm. "People change, Fleur. Sometimes power changes them faster than they can understand."
Tears welled in her eyes. "But I saw him. I knew him. He did not want this."
Her mother wrapped her arms around her. "Then perhaps he believed destruction was the only way to do it."
Fleur shook her head, but her tears betrayed her—the world she had built around her love — her denial — cracked apart.
"I can still feel him," she whispered. "Every time I close my eyes. He's still here with me."
Her father exchanged a heavy glance with his wife. "Yes," he said quietly. "And that's what frightens us all."
\\\
That night, high above London, Dumbledore stood alone in his office at Hogwarts. The portraits around him pretended to sleep — but every painted eye watched in silence.
On his desk lay a letter sealed with the sigil of the International Confederation…
"I hoped," he murmured.
He set it down beside the letter, opened the parchment, and began to write in his elegant hand.
To all commanding officers across Europe,
The fugitive Adrian Atlas is to be treated as an international threat of the highest order. Engage only under organized command. Use all authorized means to terminate. No independent pursuit shall be permitted.
—Albus Dumbledore, Supreme Mugwump.
He paused, the quill hovering over the page.
Then, he added, "Forgive me, Adrian. I did not teach you well enough."
The quill dropped from his fingers.
Outside, the storm began — rain tapping against the glass like the echo of footsteps long gone.
And as lightning flared over the castle's towers, Dumbledore whispered to the empty room,
"This is how legends end… and monsters begin."
\\\
Far away, hidden in some dark corner of the world, a young man stood before the fire, his silhouette framed by gold and shadow. He was quiet, his eyes distant, his thoughts unfathomable.
And though no one could hear it, he spoke softly into the night:
"Now they see."
The flames danced higher — as if bowing to him.
Adrian Atlas was done hiding. And the world had only begun to understand what that truly meant, crossing him.
Three weeks after Montségur, the world was still bleeding from the name Adrian Atlas.
Ministries met in secret.
Borders shimmered with new wards.
Every nation with a wand and a whisper was preparing for war — not against a country, but a single man.
And yet, through all the noise and panic, through every rumor of sightings and false alarms, Adrian himself had vanished.
No trace.
No sound.
\\\
Night.
Deep beneath the ruins of an abandoned cathedral near Prague, a spark of blue light flickered — and Adrian returned to the world.
Adrian stepped through the shimmer of his Apparition, eyes burning with silent intent. The underground chamber was vast and ancient — once a temple, now forgotten by both Muggles and wizards. He walked slowly through the dust, trailing his fingers along the old runes carved into the stone.
The first to find him was Greg, as always. He arrived two nights later, bruised but alive, carrying a pack and a bottle of cheap wine. He stopped short when he saw Adrian.
"You look like hell," Greg said quietly.
Adrian gave a small, tired smile. "Hell's been kind to me."
Greg dropped the pack. "I brought news. The bounty's doubled. There's a new task force led by the ICW— they're calling it Project Halcyon."
Adrian arched an eyebrow. "Poetic name for a man-hunt."
Greg hesitated, then added, "They've started recruiting more bounty hunters, smugglers, even assassins. Half the underworld's divided — some want the gold, others… well, others think you're a god."
Adrian looked away.
Greg studied him for a long moment. " You've done things no wizard's ever done, Adrian. No wand. No incantations. You turned magic itself into a weapon of will."
A silence hung between them.
"What is it that you ask of me? Speak your mind! You know I hate beating around the bush…" Adrian said his face was impatient.
"You could lead them, Adrian, become their leader, you could even—"
"Enough!" Adrian said his tone deep and silent tone.
"Do you really think I could be a leader… Do you really believe I have the nerve to deal with an organization of criminals?
To run it?
I have always been a lone wolf, Greg. It is not going to change anytime soon."
" You did become a leader, though… " Greg said. "You took me under you. You taught me, trained me, and you are an excellent leader, Adrian. I know it. Maybe you yourself do not even realize it."
Adrian looked at Greg; he really looked at him, and sighed as he said, "A decision I am starting to regret now." Greg smiled at that, then Adrian smiled. Soon, the two were laughing.
As the night passed, the two men, one master, one servant, began to speak each their hearts. They talked about their life, their stories, well, it was mostly Greg doing the talking and Adrian listening.
Both men held a bottle of alcohol, both drinking to their hearts' content, as if the entire world was not after one of them.
"So, what are we going to do now?" Asked Greg, his face sobered a bit as he looked at the campfire.
" The same we did until now. You will continue to be my eyes and ears outside, as for me, I still have my research to finish." Adrian said he, too, gazed upon the fire.
"You want us to separate again?"
"It will be safer for you, that way…" Said Adrian, his eyes looked at the sky outside.
"I can handle danger."
"I know you can, but you will be more useful to me out there than with me. Besides, it won't be long before no one can threaten me."
Adrian wasn't just boosting; he was telling the truth.
Soon, his body will reach the age of magical maturity, and then the ritual that he did many years back will finally be completed. By then, his magic will have suppressed anyone in this world.
' By then, I will have no equal.'
\\\
Across the continent, the Ministry's headquarters in London had become a fortress. Every department now revolved around one directive: contain Adrian Atlas.
Intelligence divisions tracked faint magical disturbances across Europe, most of them false alarms — but the pattern was unmistakable.
Wherever rumors of him surfaced, strange things followed.
Shifts in ley lines.
Disruptions in spellcasting.
As if the fabric of magic itself was beginning to respond to his presence.
As if Adrian was turning the world into his leb.
Dumbledore sat in silence as these reports piled before him. His once-vibrant office had turned into a war room, filled with maps, magical traces, and coded correspondence.
Minerva McGonagall entered, her face pale. "Albus," she said softly, "they've sighted him again — eastern Europe."
Dumbledore's eyes closed briefly. "What happened?"
"Unknown. But the physical evidence says more than 1000 people disappeared, 50 out of them are wizards. It has Confederation on its toes."
He nodded once. "Then it begins."
McGonagall frowned. "You sound as though you expected this."
"I did."
He rose slowly, the weight of age pressing on his shoulders.
"I only hoped I would not live to see it."
\\\
Far away, in the cold stone of Nurmengard, Gellert Grindelwald sat in his cell, the letter from Dumbledore still open before him. When the silver phoenix appeared again, he smiled faintly.
The bird dropped a new letter onto the table and vanished. Grindelwald unfolded it, reading slowly — Dumbledore's elegant handwriting trembling slightly in the ink:
He's kidnapping people for his experiments, Gellert. He wants knowledge beyond morality. I fear he is walking the same path we once did.
For a long while, the old conqueror said nothing. Then he laughed — softly, genuinely. "Of course he is, Albus. What else do you expect from a child raised in your shadow?"
He dipped his quill in ink and began to write back, each word deliberate:
Albus,
You call it a tragedy. I call it proof that your ideals still breathe. The boy does not fear the dark — nor worship it. He seeks to master it. You and I feared too much, hesitated too long.
If you truly wish to stop him, you will have to become what you fear most: ruthless.
But we both know you never could.
—G.G.
He sealed the letter, smiling faintly at the irony of it all. Outside, thunder rolled across the mountains.
Grindelwald leaned back.
\\\
Back in the cathedral's underground hall, Adrian sat alone by the flickering fire.
Adrian's experiments in soul theory had taken him further than any wizard alive. Yet now, after months of work, he stood before his diagrams in silence. The ink had long since dried, and the air was heavy with power.
He had dissected the nature of the soul, the body, and the source(magic)—but there was still a gap. Something hidden between them, something he could not define.
He stared at the silver runes glowing faintly on the stone floor. "The trinity of existence," he whispered. "Body. Soul. Source. Three aspects bound by something I can't see… a law… or perhaps an illusion?"
His notes spoke of a perfect harmony—if the wizard's soul could fully attune to his magical core, his body would stop decaying. Life and energy would flow in unison, and aging would become meaningless. Immortality not through division… but through unity. The wizard could still be killed, but not through ordinary means. Things like hunger and thirst will not kill him, age will not kill him, and diseases will not kill him...
It was within reach, but he could not reach it.
Each attempt to merge the energies left him exhausted, his magic trembling on the edge of collapse. His calculations were flawless—yet the truth refused to yield.
For the first time in this world, Adrian closed his book and admitted, "I've reached a wall."
The admission did not sting—it intrigued him. Failure, after all, was only truth not yet understood.
So he made a decision: "I'll stop forcing it," he murmured.
"Knowledge is everywhere. If I cannot find the answer here, I'll find it elsewhere."
He vanished
Months felt like years as Adrian drifted through the magical world—silent, observing, learning. He studied runes with the shamans of the Far North, where they carved spells into ice. He meditated with monks who could separate consciousness from flesh for a few precious minutes. He traveled through the ruins of Alexandria, unearthing scrolls that spoke of "the inner sun" of magic, an ancient notion of the soul's resonance with creation. And in each place, he grew stronger—not just in magic, but in perspective.
He began to see a pattern: in every culture, magic was described as life breathing itself.
The soul and the body were not meant to fight for control—they were reflections of one another.
"The source is within," he realized one night beneath foreign stars. "It is you. The separation is an illusion born of ignorance."
Still, the exact key—the final alignment- remained elusive.
And so he wandered on, letting time blur…
..
The world had not forgotten him.
After Dumbledore's public revelation of Adrian's existence and his defiance, the wizarding world had turned fearful. The newspapers called him The Little Dark Lord, The Shadow Scholar, The Boy Who Escaped Dumbledore.
His name was whispered like a ghost's.
And in the halls of Hogwarts, Harry Potter carried that shadow with him.
The sixth year was under dark clouds. The war had returned; fear was no longer rumor—it was presence. Yet Harry's life had changed in quieter ways. His nights were spent in Dumbledore's office, studying the past of Tom Riddle, tracing his trail.
He had become harder.
Focused.
The months that followed were preparation for war disguised as lessons.
Harry grew strong—no longer a boy with a scar, but a soldier in training. He learned to command his magic with discipline, to fight with purpose rather than emotion.
Dumbledore seemed to learn from his past with Adrian, he thought Harry. Under Dumbledore's quiet but relentless training, he learned to duel not just with instinct, but with strategy. His spells grew sharper; his mind steadier.
It was Slughorn, though, who held the key to Riddle's secret. Harry's task was clear: win his trust, get the memory, and understand what Voldemort is. And so Harry played his part, smiling through dinners and laughter, slipping Felix Felicis into his plans when needed.
He succeeded—and when the memory finally played before his eyes, the truth solidified.
"Seven pieces," the old man said quietly. "Seven fragments of soul. Six remain."
"How can you be sure?"Harry asked.
"Because Adrian has one of the fragments. I suspect he studied it, and when he was done… He must have destroyed it."
Harry stared back at the shimmering memory. "Then he's not immortal… he's broken."
Dumbledore's eyes were sad, but resolute. "Exactly."
And then came the night of the cave. The beginning of Harry's journey, and the end of Dumbeldoore.
The sea crashed against the cliffs as they approached the dark entrance. The air smelled of salt and death. "Professor… are you sure?" Harry asked quietly.
Dumbledore smiled faintly. "I have been sure of very little in my life, Harry. But this—yes."
They entered. The cavern shimmered with enchantments. A lake of black water stretched endlessly, the center glimmering with a faint, green light.
The potion burned Dumbledore's throat, and Harry held him as he screamed, forcing the old man to drink until the cup was empty. Then came the Inferi—pale corpses rising in silence, hundreds of them, their hollow eyes fixed on living flesh.
Harry's voice broke as he cast spell after spell. "Incendio!" The fire erupted, golden and furious, but Harry was still mistaken for one thing… There is no place for hesitation in combat.
Then the old Dumbledore stood up despite being at death's door, and, being poisoned, he stood up, showing the young Harry the might of the old man. His hand rose once, light surging like dawn, fire raged in ways Harry did not know were possible, the heat? Burned the very water and stone, reducing all to ash.
Then they escaped.
Soaked, trembling, the locket clutched in Harry's hand.
Hogwarts slept beneath the stars that night, unaware that doom was already inside its walls.
The Dark Mark flared above the castle. Harry froze as Dumbledore whispered, "Go. Hide. Do as I say."
Death Eaters in the corridors, spells exploding, the air thick with smoke and fear.
At the top of the Astronomy Tower, time seemed to stop. Dumbledore stood cornered, hands lowered, eyes calm.
"Severus… please." He said.
And Snape, his expression unreadable, raised his wand.
Avada Kedavra.
The green light swallowed everything.
Harry watched it all, hidden, frozen in disbelief. The world tilted, and the Headmaster's body fell like a broken star from the tower.
\\\
The castle was quieter than ever before. The laughter was gone. Even the ghosts seemed to mourn.
Harry sat beside Ron and Hermione in the empty common room. Dawn bled through the windows.
"It's over," Ron muttered, staring into the dying fire.
"No," Harry said softly. "It's just beginning."
But when they opened it later, the truth struck.
A note, not a soul: "To the Dark Lord — I have taken the real Horcrux…"
The false locket gleamed with cold mockery. They were silent for a while. The future loomed heavy and uncertain.
Then Harry stood. His face was pale but resolute. "We'll find them," he said. "All of them. And when we do… we end it."
Hermione nodded slowly.
Ron sighed, rubbing his eyes.
As they left the room, the portrait door swung closed behind them.
Outside, beyond the hills of Hogwarts, a figure watched from afar—a man cloaked in black, eyes calm and distant, a faint smile on his lips.
Adrian Atlas turned away as dawn broke. "The world is moving again."
\\\
The news came wrapped in silence.
No owl.
No messenger.
Just a whisper that crossed borders faster than parchment — Dumbledore is dead.
In the white fortress of Nurmengard, where the snow never melted and the air hummed faintly with wards older than empires, Gellert Grindelwald stood at the window.
The letter lay open on his desk, the words simple, final, impossible.
He read it again.
And again.
Until the ink blurred under the weight of memory.
The wind outside howled through the shattered upper spires. His reflection in the glass looked older than he remembered — not broken, but carved by time and regret.
"Dead…" he whispered, the syllable tasting wrong. "After all this time, you let yourself be killed, Albus."
His fingers clenched around the letter until the parchment tore. The fragments drifted to the floor like ash.
For a long while, he said nothing. Only the sound of his boots against stone echoed through the empty halls. Nurmengard — once his prison, now his sanctuary — felt suddenly too small.
It was then that he remembered.
Two months ago.
Dumbledore had come to him.
Not as an enemy. Not even as a friend. But as a man with the weight of inevitability in his eyes.
"Gellert," Dumbledore had said softly, "there is a boy. Brilliant. Dangerous. He walks paths even we feared to tread. His name is Adrian Atlas."
Grindelwald had laughed then — a dry, humorless sound.
"You come to me after all these years to discuss a boy?"
"Not just a boy," Albus had answered. "A mind without boundaries. And a will untouched by fear. If he lives unchecked, the world will face a darkness it does not understand. I can no longer contain it… Perhaps you can."
Grindelwald remembered the faint tremor in his old friend's hand — the way his wand never left his sleeve. He had thought it was a pity.
He now knew it was farewell.
Back in the present, the old wizard turned from the window, fury flickering behind his pale eyes.
"You knew you would die," he muttered bitterly. "You knew, and you left this burden to me."
He struck his cane against the floor — the runes of Nurmengard flared alive, reacting to his will. Chains that had lain dormant for decades broke apart, one by one. The prison trembled as if exhaling after years of restraint.
From the shadows, robed figures emerged — followers who had never truly abandoned him. Some were old and scarred, others young and eager, all kneeling at his feet.
Their eyes burned with fanatic light.
"Lord…" one whispered. "Is it true? Dumbledore is dead?"
Grindelwald's voice was low, controlled.
"Yes. The world has lost its balance."
He raised his hand slowly, and the air shimmered — the silver emblem of the Deathly Hallows appearing behind him like a phantom crown.
"But we shall restore it."
A murmur ran through the crowd.
The old fire was back.
He descended into the war room — a vast chamber carved beneath the fortress. Maps floated in the air, glowing with enchantments. Red marks traced the borders of Europe, while golden lines represented magical ley paths.
And there, across half the map, a single name burned faintly in runes: Adrian Atlas.
"Track him," Grindelwald commanded. "The boy moves across nations. He studies, learns, and hides. Every library that opens to him, every witch or wizard who shelters him— they are to be marked."
He turned, his gaze cold as winter steel. "Any who aid him will share his fate."
The German authorities — the remnants of the old magical regime — had little choice. By morning, their Ministries were flooded with Grindelwald's envoys. His influence spread like wildfire through the underground of Europe: in Berlin, Vienna, Prague, and even the cold alleys of St. Petersburg.
He spoke not of conquest this time — but of containment. "Adrian Atlas is a threat to the very fabric of magic," he told them.
And they believed him.
It's not like they could refuse, right?
\\\
Weeks passed.
Aurors vanished in the Alps. Whole libraries were sealed under government order. Rumors spread of Grindelwald's banners once again flying from the towers of Nurmengard.
His army — the Silver Guard, as they once were called — had reformed. Men and women who had once sworn oaths to a vision of magical unity now gathered again under the old creed.
But this time, their mission was not liberation — it was extermination.
In the heart of the war room, Grindelwald stood alone before the map. Small crimson dots pulsed across Europe — sightings, traces, whispers of Adrian's presence.
"Power without moral," he said quietly. "Knowledge without restraint. You are everything Albus feared I would become… and now I must destroy you to prove him wrong."
He closed his eyes, and for a moment, his expression softened — grief flickering beneath the armor of command.
Then it was gone.
The general had returned.
"Prepare the Guard," he ordered. "We march at dawn."
'One final battle, for you, Albus. Then I will join you.'
"For The Greater Good, huh?" He smirked.
As the fortress of Nurmengard erupted with life — banners unfurling, spells sparking, soldiers returning to rank — the old world began to stir again.
The shadow that had once fallen across Europe was rising anew.
And somewhere, far beyond their reach, Adrian Atlas opened his eyes in the candlelight and whispered,
"So, he finally wakes…"