Time blurred for Alice.
But the world still whispered the same question:
Where did Adrian Atlas go?
No one found an answer.
She and Adrian moved like ghosts through the forgotten corners of Europe — mountains older than memory, valleys sealed, catacombs where even light felt foreign. By day, they studied; by night, they "trained".
Alice learned to quiet her magic until it answered with thought. Adrian taught her to feel the pulse of enchantments, to read the pattern in magic. She learned to fight beside him, to weave her spells through his like twin threads in the same current. In return, Adrian no longer drifted into silence for days. The warmth between them had become familiar, no longer fragile. They no longer needed to give it a name.
It was on the edge of summer, nine months since they'd vanished, when Adrian closed the worn book he'd been reading and said, "It's time."
Alice looked up from the maps spread before her. "For what?"
"To see Greg."
Her eyes widened. She remembered what Adrian had once said, a man with more potential than many.
"You think you can help him?" She asked.
Adrian stood, cloak folding around him like a shadow. "I don't think," he said. "I know."
He didn't explain further, and he didn't need to.
She packed in seconds. Her trust in him was absolute.
When dawn came, they left the cottage behind. The wind carried the scent of pine and rain; the forest whispered farewell.
The storm of New York was long over, but a new one was already forming — not of destruction this time, but of transformation. And at its center stood Adrian, ready to rewrite the limits of the soul itself.
The journey took them north, across frozen rivers and into a remote settlement near the northern fjords. The wind carried the scent of pine and salt, and somewhere in the distance, wolves howled against the dying light. They found Greg there, in a small cottage perched above a cliff.
When he saw Adrian, a rare smile crossed his face. "You actually came back."
"I said I would," Adrian replied, stepping inside. "You've been holding it together better than I expected."
Greg gave a dry laugh. "If you can call this 'holding it together'. The beast's still inside me — whispering, scratching. I can feel it every time during the full moon."
"That's why I'm here," Adrian said, his tone even, almost detached. "I've found a way to remove it."
Greg froze. "…Remove it?"
Adrian nodded once. "Not kill it — extract it. The Wolf's Spirit has bonded with your soul in a parasitic loop. It grants you strength in the night of the full moon, yes, but at the cost of clarity. It keeps feeding on your essence, anchoring you in that primal state. If I can remove the blookege on your soul and extract it… Believe me, my friend, there will be very few wizards whom you will not be able to take on."
He began drawing symbols across the wooden floor, runes glowing faint violet as they formed a precise circle. "If I cut the bond and repair the fractures, your soul will stabilize. Your magic will no longer be split between man and beast. You'll regain the power that had blocked you from accessing."
Alice watched from the doorway, uneasy. "Adrian… this kind of magic— it's soul surgery. If something goes wrong—"
He looked up, smiling faintly. "Then it won't."
That was all she needed to hear. "Do you need help?" She asked.
"Yes, go and prepare large quantities of food. Greg will need it after the surgery."
"How much are we talking exactly?" She asked.
"Enough to feed 20 starving men," Adrian replied apologetically.
"Sigh, nothing beats the easy jobs. I'll get right on it. "She replied.
As she was walking to the kitchen, Greg said," There's some food on the shelf."
Alice waved her hand and closed the door.
" Sh*t, man, since when are you so much popular with women?" Greg asked with a smile on his face.
Adrian chuckled, "You'll get to know one another later; now, there are more important matters at hand."
Greg studied him quietly. "You think you can heal me after you remove it?"
"I know I can," Adrian said. "The Wolf's Spirit isn't evil; it's the raw instinct of a wolf. But it doesn't belong to you. It's time to separate what you are from what it made you."
Greg hesitated only a moment longer before stepping into the circle.
"Then do it."
The circle pulsed now with a steady rhythm, Adrian's violet aura flaring and contracting like a heartbeat. He lowered himself back to his knees, fingertips hovering just above the floor, feeling the shards of Greg's soul resist his touch. It was not enough to merely guide them; he had to merge his own magic, fragile and volatile, with Greg's soul.
Adrian drew in a breath so deep it seemed to pull the very air of the cottage into his lungs. Pain, old and familiar, radiated through him. The runes shivered, the candles flickered, and the shadows on the walls twisted as though alive.
Greg cried out sharply, a raw sound of disbelief and agony, his body trembling as if pulled by invisible hands. Adrian did not flinch; his focus sharpened. He leaned forward, allowing his palm to brush the floor and the other to rest on Greg. Violet energy shot upward, arcing between his fingertips and the runes, threading into Greg like delicate tendrils of light.
Each pulse demanded a price. Adrian's own magic, raw and untamed, fought with the remnants of Greg's pain. He felt it claw at his mind — doubts, flashes of anger, tiny sparks of self-loathing — but he forced them into the circle, molding them into something coherent, usable. The energy burned in his veins, and sweat slicked his brow, but he did not stop.
He could not stop.
Minutes passed.
The room was filled with the low hum of magic, vibrating through wood, stone, and bone alike. Greg's body arched and twisted unconsciously, the soul fragments reforming painfully, unwilling to bend. Adrian's voice, when it broke the silence, was low and commanding, syllables infused with authority and compassion:
"Yield.
Let it breathe.
Let it heal."
The violet light intensified, spiraling upward in jagged, beautiful arcs. Adrian felt the strain in his chest, a constriction as though his heart itself were entwined in the work. Yet with every pulse, every trembling wave of energy, he drew closer to the fragile equilibrium he sought. The fractured pieces of Greg's soul shimmered, flickering like tiny stars, slowly aligning along invisible threads only Adrian could perceive.
Greg's cries shifted then — from agony to whispers, whispers to stifled gasps — and the cottage seemed to exhale along with him. Adrian's arms shook, fingers blistering with the strain of channeling, yet he pressed on, molding the broken fragments with precision, embedding himself in the work with the same ruthless logic that had defined every step of his own ascension.
Finally, the storm within the circle stilled. The violet aura dimmed to a soft glow, warm and steady. Greg lay on the floor, his chest rising and falling in a shallow but calm rhythm. His eyes fluttered open, wide and uncomprehending, meeting Adrian's gaze.
"You're not whole yet," he murmured, voice tight but controlled. "But you're stronger. In the coming days, the energy stored in your soul all this time will be released naturally."
Greg nodded weakly, words failing him, but the trust glimmered in his eyes. Adrian stood, shaking with the residual strain of the ritual, the edges of his vision tinged violet and then slowly turned brown.
The room fell silent, except for the slow settling of candles and the faint hum of the circle fading into memory.
Greg exhaled, the weight of the ritual pressing down on him, a tangible ache in his muscles and bones. And yet, beneath it all, satisfaction lingered, a quiet affirmation that even fractured souls, cursed, could be guided back toward light, if only one had the will and the strength to endure the fire.
As Adrian's servant, how could he not have the will?
"Rest now," Adrian said.
Greg did not need to be told twice.
He got up, barely, went to a nearby soap and fell asleep instantly.
Adrian sighed as he rested on a nearby chair.
Time passed, and both Adrian and Greg awakened. Just as Adrian predicted, Greg's appetite was rather large to say the least.
Both Adrian and Alice watched as the man, formerly a werewolf, now a wizard, ate like he were starved to death. Each bite seemed to affirm that he was alive — that his body was his own again. He devoured roasted meat, bread, and fruit as though every flavor anchored him back to reality.
Both looked at each other and smiled.
The days after the ritual were strangely calm.
The northern wind had softened, and the snow that once choked the settlement now melted into rivulets that glittered under weak sunlight. In one of the old stone cabins Adrian had claimed as his base, he sat beside Greg, observing.
Greg had regained his strength, his breathing steady and deep. His eyes, once haunted and feral, now held clarity— human clarity.
Adrian's quill scratched across parchment. "Good. Your magical source is stable," he murmured, more to himself than to Greg. "As I predicted, the ritual didn't just strengthen your body — it aligned it. Every current of magic flows naturally now."
Greg looked at his hands. Although he could not see magic like Adrian did, he could still feel the faint shimmer of energy beneath his skin, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. "Feels… different," he said quietly. "Like everything inside me was bad before. Now it's clear."
Adrian nodded once. "The ritual removed the obstruction that the wolf spirit caused. Its essence wasn't destroyed — only reverted. It returned to nature, as energy should."
He turned his gaze toward the frost-rimmed window. "A fitting end."
Greg said nothing for a while.
He could still feel something — a hollow warmth in his chest where the beast had once been. But for the first time in years, there was no voice whispering hunger, no claws scratching at his sanity.
Just silence.
Peace.
' It feels quiet… I could get used to it.' He smirked.
Adrian's quill paused. "Your soul's energy has increased roughly threefold," he said, tone analytical. "With training, you'll surpass most Aurors. Alastor Moody, Bellatrix Lestrange — you could stand against either within weeks."
Greg's smirk faded; he was quick to raise an eyebrow. "That's… hard to believe."
Adrian smiled faintly. "Believe what your body tells you, not what your mind doubts. Power is measurable, Greg — and I measure yours."
The following weeks passed like fragments of ordinary life.
Alice spent mornings repairing the roof charms that kept the northern winds out, humming softly as she worked. Greg trained in the clearing behind the cabin, pushing his newly awakened strength — the air itself seemed to vibrate with his strikes.
One quiet afternoon. Alice and Greg were alone in the cabin. For a long time, neither spoke. Only the faint hiss of the kettle broke the silence.
"You don't have to look so tense," Alice said finally, glancing up from the table. "He doesn't bite."
Greg chuckled softly. "That's rich, coming from someone who's seen him tear through half a city and do soul surgery like nothing."
Alice smirked. "Fair. But you're different now."
Greg leaned back, thoughtful. "Different, yes… stronger, maybe. But it's strange — I can still feel him. Adrian. Like his magic left a mark on me."
Alice poured tea into two chipped cups. "Maybe it did."
"That's how he works. He doesn't take… he changes."
Greg studied her face. "Is that why you came to trust him?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "More than I trust anyone else. Which doesn't mean I understand him."
They both laughed quietly, the kind of laugh that comes from exhaustion.
Alice's eyes softened. "You know… before I met him, I thought strength was something else. Now I think it's about who you can become after he breaks you."
Greg sipped his tea. "He did that to you, too?"
"He does it to everyone who stays close," she said simply.
The silence that followed wasn't heavy. It was almost… warm.
The door opened with a whisper of cold air. Adrian stepped inside, snow dusting his coat, violet eyes faintly luminescent from the magic still coiling in his veins.
Alice looked up. "You found the herbs?"
"Most of them," he replied, removing his gloves. "And a few samples of northern crystal moss. I want to see how it reacts to condensed soul energy."
Greg smiled faintly. "You never stop experimenting, do you?"
Adrian looked at him — calm, unreadable, but faintly amused. "Curiosity is what separates us from the beasts. Or what made me remove yours?"
Greg snorted. "Then here's to curiosity."
Adrian poured himself tea, the faintest curve of a smile ghosting across his lips. "Indeed."
For a while, the three of them sat together — no grand plans, no rituals, no blood or thunder.
Two months had passed since the ritual.
The northern snows had thinned, giving way to pale skies and a brittle kind of spring. The mountains still breathed cold, but life had begun to return — small green threads pushing through the frost, streams thawing into motion again.
Adrian sat near the window of the stone cabin, a cup of steaming tea in his hand. The faint scent of herbs and ash filled the air. Behind him, in the open yard, Greg and Alice were sparring — flashes of magic cutting through the mist.
Alice's silver barrier shimmered for a heartbeat before Greg shattered it with a pulse of raw force that sent snow swirling in all directions. She landed lightly on her feet, eyes narrowed, and her wand was raised again.
Adrian barely looked up. His attention wasn't on them today. It was on the Daily Prophet spread open on the table before him.
The headline stretched in bold letters across the front page:
"THE BATTLE FOR HOGWARTS — HARRY POTTER TRIUMPHS OVER LORD VOLDEMORT."
The article beneath was almost reverent — a eulogy and a coronation disguised as journalism.
The Dark Lord has fallen, it said. Peace returns to wizarding Britain. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, now stands as the symbol of a new era — the savior of our world, the unifier of the broken.
Adrian's fingers tightened slightly around the porcelain cup. Steam curled up, catching the faint violet light that lingered in his eyes.
"Interesting," he murmured. "So Harry finally won. It's amazing, despite all my involvement in this world, the original plot still happens…Sigh, the power of fate, huh?"
He sipped his tea, unbothered at first — but his gaze lingered, scanning the rest of the page. The article glorified courage, unity, and sacrifice. It praised Dumbledore's legacy, hailed Potter as the inheritor of his ideals.
The words were familiar — the kind of empty rhetoric power used to justify itself.
Adrian's lips twitched in faint amusement. "Classic."
He turned the page idly. But then his eyes caught something in the lower corner of the second column — a smaller article, almost ignored by design:
"REMEMBERING GRINDELWALD — THE DARK VISIONARY."
Adrian's expression changed — curiosity flickering like a spark. He lowered the cup, unfolding the paper fully.
The article was short.
Too short for the man it spoke of.
It summarized his life in cold sentences: Born in Europe. Once a friend of Dumbledore. Dreamed of reshaping the magical world. Defeated and imprisoned. Died in New York decades later, to Adrian.
But at the bottom of the column, the text shifted.
Recent revelations suggest Grindelwald's final legacy ended not within prison walls, but in a hidden confrontation somewhere in the north.
' Sigh, even in this world, people still vie for wealth, can't they give an old man peace in death?' Adrian sighed, but he was not going to intervene; he owed Grindelwald nothing.
But the next line froze Adrian's breath for a moment.
Beneath the last paragraph, the editors had chosen to print a symbol — small, black, elegant.
A triangle, enclosing a circle, is split by a vertical line.
The mark of the Deathly Hallows.
Adrian stared at it, the faint tremor of surprise cutting through his otherwise perfect composure.
He blinked once, slowly.
Then a small, dry chuckle escaped him. "Of course… They just had to dramatize it… so— "
But as his eyes retraced the symbol — as the faint shimmer of the ink seemed to shift under the light — something in him stopped.
A sharp pulse rang behind his temples. The room seemed to tilt, sound fading to a dull, distant echo.
His pupils dilated. His fingers went rigid against the table.
The world around him — the cabin, the fire, the training outside — all blurred for a single, impossible instant.
A vibration, deep and ancient, reaching across time. A whisper that didn't belong to memory, or to reason, seemed to appear in Adrian's head.
The Deathly Hallows.
Adrian's breath caught — his mind flooded with thoughts.
He dropped the cup.
Porcelain shattered across the floor.
Alice turned mid-duel, startled. "Adrian?"
He didn't answer. His eyes were open — too wide, glowing faintly with violet light. His hand trembled as it hovered above the page, the symbol burning in his vision.
The air around him thickened. The candle flame on the table flared high, bending toward him as if drawn by an invisible force.
Greg froze, sensing it instantly. "What the hell—?"
Adrian exhaled shakily — almost a gasp. His voice came out low, hollow.
"…This mark… it's not… How… But..."
Alice moved closer, hesitant. "What do you mean?"
He looked up at her, eyes still wide — the calm, unshakable Adrian gone for the briefest, terrifying moment.
The wind howled outside, rattling the windows.
And for the first time in years — the man who feared nothing, who dissected even death with logic — felt the faint, electric taste of shock.
Real, undeniable shock.
In the world of Harry Potter, there existed an old legend taught to children; Adrian was the same, he thought of it as a children's book.
And the artifacts themselves?
Adrian believed he could, with time, create something even better. He had believed that they were nothing more than powerful artifacts made by strong wizards of old…
"But it seems I was wrong…" Adrian said the shock in his eyes didn't quit, but now, it was mixed with something else— Curiosity and Anticipation!
"What is it, Adrian? What did you understand?" Asked Alice.
Adrian calmed down, and with him, the flash of desire in his eyes also died down.
"I need to go." He said flatly.
"That's it? Are you going to go out just like that?" Alice demanded.
Adrian did not answer with words; he rose from his chair and gently kissed Alice on the lips.
"Greg!" He said coldly.
"Yes, master?" Greg asked.
"Protect her until I come back. And no matter what happens, do not let her out of your sight."
FLASH!
He teleported.
"What do you think happened to him?" Alice asked Greg.
Greg bent down and picked up the paper that Adran read. He read it, and read it. But he still did not understand. He sighed, "Who knows, but whatever it is, I know he'll be safe."
"How can you be sure?" She asked worryingly.
" Because he is my master." He said his tone held utmost confidence in Adrian.
FLASH.
Far away, Adrian appeared. In front of him stood one of his safe houses — silent, forgotten, hidden between two cliffs where the forest met the mist.
From the outside, it looked abandoned: stone walls darkened by rain and time, windows half-covered by ivy, the roof sloping under the weight of years. The place carried the quiet stillness of things erased from memory. Only those who could feel the subtle hum of magic would sense the intricate wards woven into the ground — protection layered upon protection, each pulsing faintly with his signature.
Adrian stepped forward, his boots pressing against the damp earth. The wards recognized him instantly; faint ripples of violet light shimmered across the surface of the air before dissolving. The heavy wooden door creaked open with a sound like an exhale after years of silence.
Inside, the house was dim, but clean. Dust had gathered on the shelves, yet the space held an order that was unmistakably his. Books lay stacked with precision on a long oak table — journals filled with notes, diagrams of rituals, sketches of magical arrays. A single chair stood before the table, untouched since the last time he had been here.
The walls were lined with shelves holding potion vials, scrolls, and a few artifacts sealed within glass — one of them a shard of crystal that glowed faintly with inner light. On the far side, a fireplace waited cold and empty, yet the air carried the scent of herbs and ink.
Adrian closed the door behind him and stood still for a moment. The silence pressed against his ears — heavy, almost comforting.
He crossed the room slowly, fingers brushing across the back of the chair before he sat down. The wood creaked softly beneath his weight.
The table before him still bore faint scorch marks from old experiments — reminders of the countless nights spent dissecting the nature of magic itself. He reached into his coat, pulling out a folded newspaper — the same Daily Prophet he had kept since that morning. The mark of the Deathly Hallows stared back at him from the page, black and sharp against the yellowed paper.
Adrian leaned back in his chair, eyes unreadable, the faint glow of his magic reflecting in their depths. The wind outside howled softly through the cracks of the old house, and somewhere deep within, the wards pulsed once — as if the building itself recognized the return of its master.
For a long time, Adrian sat in silence, his gaze fixed on the mark. Then, almost imperceptibly, he whispered:
"Deathly Hallows… the Master of Death, hmm..."
'Long ago, in the earliest days of wizardkind, when the boundary between life and death was still thin and uncertain, three brothers set out upon a lonely road at twilight.
They were traveling together, skilled in the magical arts, and came to a river too deep and dangerous to cross. But the brothers, being wise and powerful, simply raised their wands and conjured a bridge of magic.
Before they could take another step, a figure appeared before them — cloaked, tall, and ancient.
It was Death himself, cheated of three new victims.
Yet Death was cunning.
He greeted them courteously and congratulated them on their cleverness.
He said: You have escaped me, but every victory deserves a reward. Choose, and I shall grant you each a gift.
The eldest brother, a man who loved combat and sought to prove his superiority, asked for a wand that would make him invincible — a weapon more powerful than any in existence. Death smiled and fashioned a wand from an elder tree standing nearby.
The second brother, proud and longing for what he had lost, demanded the power to recall the dead. So Death took a smooth stone from the riverbank and gave it to him, saying that with it, he could summon souls from beyond the grave.
The youngest brother, humble and wary, did not trust Death's generosity. He asked only for a way to leave that place without being followed. Death hesitated — and then, with a thin smile, handed over his own cloak of invisibility.
So Death stepped aside, and the three brothers went on their way.
The first traveled to a distant village and sought out a rival with whom he had quarreled. Brandishing the Elder Wand, he struck down his enemy with a single blow, boasting of the unbeatable weapon he possessed. But his arrogance betrayed him — that very night, another wizard stole the wand from his hand as he slept, and slit his throat for good measure.
Thus, Death took the first brother for his own.
The second brother returned to his home and turned the Resurrection Stone thrice in his hand. At once, the form of the woman he had once loved appeared before him — pale, cold, and sorrowful. Though she spoke softly, she belonged to another world and could not truly return. Maddened by longing, the brother took his own life to join her.
And Death claimed the second.
Only the third brother remained. For many years, Death searched for him but could never find him — for the young man hid beneath the Cloak of Invisibility. Only when he had grown old and his time had come did he remove the cloak and give it to his son.
Then he greeted Death as an old friend and went with him gladly, as equals.
And so, from that night on, the three objects passed into legend —
The Elder Wand.
The Resurrection Stone.
And the Cloak of Invisibility.
Known together as the Deathly Hallows.
Those who seek to unite them, it is said, shall become the Master of Death.'
Adrian thought about the story… His eyes closed.
Flash— they opened.
"The wand. The stone. The cloak. I see now, I understand…"
His mouth opened, and a laugh escaped it.
It was small at first, but then it got louder, stronger, until it did not resemble the laugh of a human.
It was— diabolical!
"I now know what I must do." He said his face held clarity that it never had before, and why wouldn't he?
For years, Adrian was searching for an answer; now he has found it.
Why would it not have clarity?
" I need time to prepare tomorrow, then I depart."
His goal?
Death himself!