The morning came quietly. Golden light crept through the curtains, catching the dust that floated lazily in the air. Adrian sat at the edge of his bed, fully dressed. His wand lay across his lap, the familiar black notebook resting on the desk before him. He smiled, remembering how he first created it. The pages were full — every theory, every spell, every discovery he had made in a lifetime that now felt impossibly long. He did not need it anymore, but he still kept it. Human beings were like that; they gave meaning to things, refusing to let go. Adrian was no different.
He reached out, closed the notebook carefully, and traced the worn edges with his thumb.
"This is it," he murmured. "The last thing I'll leave behind."
Outside, the wind stirred. His cloak fluttered once, brushing against his boots. Everything he needed for the journey ahead was packed — the enchanted satchel, the final components of his plan.
But before he could go… There was something left undone.
Magic shimmered faintly in the air.
And in a blink, he was gone.
France— The Delacour house.
Dawn hung over the valley like a silver veil. The estate rose in elegant silence, its marble walls reflecting the first light of morning. Mist curled lazily between the trees, wrapping the gardens in a dreamlike haze.
Adrian appeared at the edge of the property, the wards humming faintly in his presence.
Ancient magic wove through the air — complex, beautiful, carefully crafted — but to him, it was little more than music.
He tilted his head, listening to the rhythm of the enchantments, and smiled faintly.
"Very clever, Amile," he said softly. "But not clever enough."
His fingers brushed the air, and the wards parted like silk. The house didn't even notice him entering. He moved through its corridors as a shadow, silent, invisible, untraceable. The world seemed to hold its breath around him.
And then, he found her.
Fleur Delacour slept in her room, bathed in soft morning light. Her hair spilled over the pillow in waves of silver and gold. The rhythm of her breathing was calm, steady, peaceful in a way Adrian hadn't been for years.
He stood in the doorway for a long time before approaching. Each step felt heavier than the last. When he finally sat down in the chair beside her bed, the old wood creaked quietly beneath his weight.
Hours passed.
He didn't move. He simply watched.
The first woman he had ever allowed into his heart in this world. Her presence was like a wound he couldn't close. And yet, even now, even knowing how it would end, he couldn't look away.
Nearby, she began to stir.
At first, it was small — a shift beneath the sheets, a murmur. Then, words. Quiet, trembling, barely audible:
"Adrian… he's not evil… he's not…"
He froze.
The world seemed to stop around him. For a brief, fragile heartbeat, something flickered across his face.
Then, slowly, he leaned back in the chair, exhaling. "Even now," he whispered, "you're still defending me."
He sat there until she fully woke. The sun climbed higher, painting the room with light. When Fleur's eyes finally opened, confusion flashed across them — and then recognition.
Her breath caught. "A–Adrian?"
He smiled faintly. "Good morning."
She screamed — startled, disbelieving — but no sound left the room. Invisible wards shimmered faintly around the walls, muffling every vibration, every breath.
"No one can hear you," Adrian said calmly. "I made sure of it."
He smiled faintly. "Did you miss me?"
Something inside her cracked. She crossed the room before thought could stop her, flinging herself into his arms. The tears came fast, hot, and soundless. Adrian held her wordlessly, his hand gently brushing through her hair.
Minutes — maybe hours — passed before she spoke again.
Her hand trembled as she lowered it from her mouth. "How… how are you here?"
He gave a quiet laugh. "I'm the most powerful wizard alive, Fleur. Breaking into your home wasn't exactly difficult."
But she didn't laugh. Her expression darkened. "That's not funny."
"Sorry," he said softly.
The silence stretched between them. Then she spoke again, voice fragile:
"Is it true? What they say about you — the killings, the rituals, the blood?"
Adrian's eyes didn't waver. "Yes."
She flinched, as if struck.
"Why?" she whispered. "Why would you do that?"
He met her gaze steadily. "Because it was the only path forward. Power demands sacrifice. I made mine."
"That's not power," she said sharply. "That's cruelty."
He shook his head. "It's reality. Morality is a story people tell themselves to feel safe. Good, evil — those are just words for the strong and the weak."
Her eyes filled with tears. "You're wrong."
"Maybe," he said quietly. "But I'm free."
She stared at him, trembling. "Do you even hear yourself? You sound like a monster."
"I became what I had to," he replied. "The killing, the rituals— they were just a means to an end. If I could, I would have chosen a different way, but there wasn't."
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then, her voice broke. "Do you regret it? Any of it?"
Adrian was silent. His gaze drifted to the sunlight spilling through the window. When he finally answered, his tone was steady, almost gentle. "No."
That one word shattered her.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. The tears that had gathered finally fell — slow, quiet, unstoppable.
"When did you become this?" she whispered.
He looked at her then. "I've always been this. You just refused to see it."
Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. "And what about me? Was any of it real?"
"Yes," he said, without hesitation. "Every moment."
"Then why—?"
"Because love doesn't change what I am," he said simply. "It never did. It never will."
She shook her head, stepping back. "But you love yourself more."
Adrian didn't answer.
His silence told her everything.
Her next words came out broken. "And if one day I stood against you… If I were your enemy?"
He met her eyes — violet light flickering faintly in his pupils. "Then I'd do what I must."
Her heart sank. "You'd kill me."
"Yes."
The word was quiet, final.
For a moment, all she could do was stare. Then she whispered, "I don't know who you are anymore."
Adrian stepped closer, his expression unreadable. "I didn't come for forgiveness," he said softly. "I came to say goodbye."
Her breath hitched. "Goodbye? What do you—"
He raised a hand, brushing his fingers gently against her temple. "Don't fight it."
His eyes glowed violet. A soft pulse of light flowed from his fingertips into her mind — not erasing, not destroying, but reshaping. Her fear faded first, then the pain, then the ache of memory that had clung to her for so long. He filled the void with something else — peace, hope, the faint illusion of healing.
When he spoke, his voice trembled for the first time. "You'll live. You'll love again. You'll find someone who can give you what I never could."
When it was done, she was still. Her breathing slowed.
He caught her as she swayed, lowering her gently back onto the bed. For a moment, he only looked at her — the faint smile now resting on her lips, the warmth in her expression that he had given her one last time.
He bent down, kissed her softly on the forehead. Then, after a pause, on the lips.
"Goodbye, Fleur, I am sorry for the pain I caused you," he whispered. "This is the last time we'll ever meet."
And then, as the light shifted through the window, Adrian Atlas — the man who had defied the world— vanished.
Days passed.
From a shadowed hill overlooking the valley, he watched her.
Fleur walked through the gardens again, sunlight catching the white of her dress. She looked lighter — free, almost happy. Her mother was beside her, talking gently, smiling. And beside them walked a young wizard Adrian didn't know — blond-haired, soft-spoken, his aura clean and unguarded.
Adrian reached into the man's mind with Legilimency. ' Kind. Honest. The sort who'd protect her.' He sighed.
Then he smiled sadly. "She'll be safe with you."
The wind moved through the trees, carrying the scent of rain.
Adrian turned away. His cloak stirred as he spoke, half to himself, half to the world. "Sometimes, to love someone… is to let them go."
And with that, he disappeared into the mist — leaving behind only the faint echo of his magic.
\\\
The fire burned low in the staff room.
The walls still bore faint scorch marks from the last battle — reminders of the night Voldemort fell.
Around the table sat what remained of the professors: Professor McGonagall, her face thinner but her spirit unbroken; Horace Slughorn, who had returned from hiding to help rebuild the potions wing; Professor Filius Flitwick, his silver hair dim under the lamplight, but his eyes still sharp as ever.
Harry sat among them, not as a student, but as an equal. They had been meeting every week since the war's end, talking about restoration, safety, and the children who would soon return to the school that had nearly become a tomb.
"It must feel strange," McGonagall said, glancing at him from across the table, "to see this place whole again."
Harry smiled faintly. "Strange… but right. Hogwarts deserves peace."
Slughorn poured himself a small glass of brandy. "As do you, my boy. After all, you've done more than anyone could have asked."
Harry didn't respond. His gaze had drifted to the window, where the reflection of the moon gleamed faintly across the dark waters of the lake.
Peace.
He wanted to believe it.
But the Elder Wand hummed faintly in its case, like it could sense something approaching, or someone...
The days that followed, life at Hogwarts returned, piece by piece.
The Great Hall was full again, laughter spilling between the long tables. Ron had taken a post as a temporary Defense instructor, though his lessons tended to collapse into dueling contests that McGonagall called "utterly inappropriate."
Hermione, meanwhile, was coordinating the Ministry's Reformation Committee, splitting her time between London and the castle.
Ginny trained daily for the games and still managed to drag Harry into broom races he never won.
At night, they would gather by the fire, old friends trying to remember how to live. They'd speak of things that once terrified them: the war, the horcruxes, the years of running.
Now they spoke of them almost gently, as if by naming the horrors, they could finally put them to rest.
And yet, sometimes, when the laughter faded and silence crept back in, Harry would find himself looking out the window, toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest. There was something there.
A pull — not of fear, but of inevitability.
'What are you trying to tell me?" He asked, his eyes fell upon the Elder wand.
\\\
One gray morning, Harry decided to visit Hagrid.
The forest was quiet when he entered, the smell of pine and wet earth thick in the air. The canopy above filtered the light into shifting patterns of gold and shadow. Hagrid's hut stood where it always had, half-buried in moss and surrounded by pumpkins that had somehow survived the war. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney.
Harry smiled.
He hadn't realized how much he'd missed this place.
He knocked once.
The door swung open almost immediately, and there stood Hagrid, his great beard streaked with gray, his beetle-black eyes lighting up like lanterns.
"Arry! Merlin's beard — it's good to see yeh, lad!"
Harry was already in his arms before he could answer. The hug nearly broke his ribs, but he didn't care. For the first time in months, he laughed — a deep, real laugh.
They sat outside afterward, on the grass near the pumpkin patch. The forest rustled around them like an old friend. Hagrid handed Harry a mug the size of a bucket.
"So," Hagrid said after a while, his voice soft. "Still got that fancy wand, do yeh?"
Harry nodded. "It's safer with me than it would be in the ground."
"Yeh always were responsible," Hagrid chuckled. "But… sometimes, it's good ter use what we've got, eh?"
Harry smiled faintly — then drew his wand. "Actually, that's why I came."
He placed another wand — a sturdy oak one — across Hagrid's hands. "I wanted to show you something. You've done so much for me, Hagrid. I thought… maybe it's time you learned this."
Hagrid blinked down at the wand, his eyes wide. "Me? Magic like this? Nah, I couldn't—"
"Of course you can," Harry interrupted gently. "You've always had it in you. It was just denied to you by— well, you know… "
He guided Hagrid's hands through the motions, his voice low and steady. "Concentrate on a memory — something that makes you feel safe, warm. Something worth protecting."
Hagrid frowned, brow furrowed, and then — the air trembled.
A burst of silver light erupted from the wand's tip, wild and uncertain at first, then forming shape — feathers, wings, motion — until before them stood a glowing owl, bright and ethereal, soaring in a circle before landing softly on Hagrid's shoulder.
Harry's breath caught.
It was Hedwig.
The same gentle tilt of the head, the same wide, wise eyes.
She blinked once at Harry, her glow flickering like a heartbeat.
Hagrid turned to look at him, his face full of wonder. "'Arry… is that—?"
Harry nodded, unable to speak.
The tears came without warning. His throat closed, his hand trembling. He reached out — the silver light brushed against his fingers, warm and soft — and for a moment, he could almost hear the rustle of wings from another life.
Then the Patronus faded, drifting away like mist.
Harry wiped his eyes quickly, but Hagrid was also crying.
"Blimey," Hagrid murmured, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder as he stuffed his tears. "She'd be proud, yeh know. Proud o' what yeh've become."
Harry nodded silently. "Yeah," he whispered. "I think she would."
They sat there for a while, not speaking. The wind moved gently through the forest, carrying the smell of pine and memory.
Later, he left as the sky turned amber.
Harry decided to walk the perimeter of the grounds before heading back. The stones of the castle glowed in the fading light, the sound of laughter echoing faintly from the halls.
He felt — for the first time — content.
Whole.
But good things rarely last long.
And then —
A voice, smooth as glass, from behind him: "Hello, Harry. It's been a long time."
Harry froze.
Every nerve in his body went cold.
He knew that voice — its calm rhythm, its quiet authority, the dangerous ease behind every word.
He turned slowly, his hand already on his wand.
"Adrian," he said coldly.
The man before him looked unchanged except for his height; he was ageless, almost unreal. His cloak rippled faintly in the wind, eyes glowing with that unmistakable violet light.
"What?" Adrian said with a faint smile. "Is this how the savior of the world welcomes an old friend?"
Harry's grip tightened. "You don't have any friends here." His voice shook with fury. "Not after what you did. Not after Moody. Not after the people you killed while fighting against Grindelwald."
Adrian laughed — softly, like a man amused by a child's anger. "Always so dramatic, Potter. Tell me… when will they arrive?"
Harry frowned. "What are you talking about?"
Adrian tilted his head. "The others, of course. When you first heard my voice, you wandlessly sent an alarm curse with your left hand."
His eyes flared brighter — violet fire, cutting through the dusk. "You see, nothing hides from these eyes. Isn't that right, Professors?"
Harry froze.
The shadows behind Harry stirred.
From the trees stepped Professor Flitwick, wand raised. Slughorn and McGonagall followed, faces grim. With them were Molly Weasley, Ron, Ginny, and more. Ministry men, Adrian thought, their expressions a mix of fear and determination.
"Adrian Atlas," McGonagall said sharply. "You're under arrest by order of the International Confederation of Wizards."
"Arrest?" Adrian repeated, smiling. "Oh, Minerva. You should know better. I am an innocent man, haven't you heard they put down all the arrest warrants on me?"
"Stand down!" Ron shouted. "You're surrounded!"
Adrian looked around, amused. "Surrounded?" he echoed, as if tasting the word.
Then his expression changed — his smile turning colder, sharper.
"I think you've all forgotten," he said quietly, "Who I am— "
The air around him rippled — and then exploded.
A wave of raw telekinetic force surged outward, invisible but devastating. The ground cracked; trees bent and snapped like twigs. Everyone was thrown backward — professors, Weasleys, all of them — tumbling through dirt and magic.
Only Harry remained standing, barely, his wand raised. The Elder wand burned in his hand, the shield around him trembling under the sheer weight of Adrian's power.
Adrian's eyes gleamed with delight. "Impressive," he murmured. "I see you've been practicing, Harry. Shall we test how far you've come?"
He raised his hand — and the world itself seemed to bend.
Harry's shield shattered. The force struck him square in the chest, sending him crashing into a tree. His vision blurred, breath leaving him in a single ragged gasp.
Adrian's steps were soundless as he approached.
He knelt beside Harry's motionless body, studying him with faint, almost sorrowful amusement. "You've done well," he said softly. "Better than I expected."
Then he placed two fingers against Harry's temple.
"Sleep."
With a sharp crack, the forest folded in on itself — and they were gone.
\\\
'It's warm.'
That was the first thing Harry felt.
Not the comfortable kind that came with sunlight through castle windows, but the heavy, suffocating heat that pressed against his skin like a living thing. The air tasted of sand and iron. When he opened his eyes, he was lying on the cracked ground of a desert. The horizon shimmered endlessly, gold bleeding into white. The world was silent, there was no wind, no birds, no magic hum of life—just bloody heat.
And in front of him sat Adrian.
He looked entirely out of place — calm, composed, as if the desert existed for his comfort alone. A large parasol cast a neat circle of shade over him, and beneath it, he sat in a simple chair, legs crossed, a faint breeze swirling lazily around him.
Before him, on a low table of conjured stone, lay the Deathly Hallows:
The Elder Wand.
The Resurrection Stone.
The Invisibility Cloak.
Adrian was turning the stone over between his fingers, lost in thought, sunlight flashing across the smooth surface.
Harry pushed himself upright, his head spinning. His hand went instinctively to his pocket — empty.
His wand was gone.
Panic clawed briefly at his chest, but then he saw the faint shimmer in the air around them — layers upon layers of protection wards—ancient, precise, unbreakable.
Without his wand, he wasn't leaving this place.
He swallowed hard, forcing his voice steady. "Why did you bring me here?"
Adrian didn't look up.
Harry stood, brushing sand from his robes, his eyes narrowing. "I said, Why?"
Nothing.
His patience cracked. "Adrian!! Why did you do this? Why take me?!"
At last, Adrian looked up — slowly, deliberately. His expression was unreadable.
Then, with a flick of his hand, the three Hallows rose into the air. They hovered for a heartbeat, spinning once like coins caught in sunlight, and then drifted gently back toward the ground near Harry's feet.
Adrian's voice was calm, almost absent. "I wanted to see if the legend was true." He said.
"The so-called 'Master of Death'… and the artifacts that made him. But it seems the tale was exaggerated. The Hallows are no more than the creations of powerful wizards. Nothing divine about them."
It was a lie. Harry could feel it — the way the Hallows pulsed faintly, reacting to something deeper— they were trying to tell him something about Adrian— what exactly?
Harry could not tell. But Adrian's tone left no opening.
He stood and stretched lazily, a glass bottle of juice appearing in his hand with a casual flick. "Would you like some?" he asked lightly, as if they were old friends sitting under the summer sun.
Harry's stomach turned. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he snapped. "You murder people, experiment on them, and now you kidnap me just to… talk and offer me juice?!"
Adrian tilted his head. "Talk?" He smirked faintly. "No, Harry. I wanted to see you."
Harry's anger flared. "You think you're some kind of philosopher now? You're a murderer. You slaughtered thousands!!! You let down the people who trusted you, people who looked up to you!"
Adrian sipped calmly from his bottle. "And you're different?"
"I'm nothing like you!" Harry shouted. "I protect people. I fought to save lives, not destroy them! You kill for your own gain — you don't care about anyone but yourself! You're a selfish, twisted—"
Adrian laughed — a quiet, genuine laugh that chilled Harry more than any shout could have. "You're right," he said simply. "I am selfish."
He took another sip before meeting Harry's eyes. "But tell me, Harry — when you killed Voldemort, did that make you selfless?"
Harry froze.
"That's not the same," he said, his voice low.
"Isn't it?" Adrian asked softly. "You killed a man because he threatened what you valued. I kill those who stand between me and what I seek. The difference is only scale — and honesty."
"You're insane," Harry hissed.
" Insanity is the mark of a genius, is it not?" Adrian chuckled. He turned around, and for a moment none spoke.
Adrian smiled faintly again. "Perhaps you are right, maybe I am insane. But tell me, then — if good and evil are so clear to you, why do you look so much like me when you're angry?"
"I fight for what's right."
"And I fight for what's mine."
Adrian's tone hardened just slightly. "Good, evil — two sides of the same coin, Harry. The truth is simpler: we both do whatever it takes to win. You strive for your world. I strive for my own goals."
Harry's hands clenched into fists. "At least my goals don't cost innocent lives."
Adrian's laughter echoed faintly across the dunes.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, quietly: "Tell me, Harry — why do you think I brought you here? If I wanted your Hallows, I could have killed you in your sleep and taken them. So why?"
Harry's breath hitched.
He hadn't thought of that.
He stared at Adrian, the realization creeping into his mind like ice. "You… you want more subjects for your experiments. While we're here— your people— they're taking Hogwarts students." His voice hardened. "Aren't they?"
Adrian didn't answer — but his smile told him enough.
"You've grown sharper, Potter," Adrian said softly. "At least now you think before you act."
"Shut up!" Harry's shout cracked the air. "If you lay a finger on them I—"
"You'll do what, Harry?" He asked. "Kill me? Please, we both know you are too much of a coward to do so. As if you could ever match me, no, at most, you are an entertainment for me. As my men are now taking your 'Precious Friends', hahahah…" Adrian mocked.
Harry clenched his teeth.
"Just what do you think you could hope to do against me, huh?" Each word was like a magical blade into Harry's mind. And each insult was like salt added to it.
"Shut up!!" He growled.
Fury, raw and bright, rose in his chest — not just anger, but grief, betrayal, rage at everything Adrian represented, at everything he did.
He drew the Elder Wand from the ground into his hand in one swift motion.
Adrian sighed. "So predictable."
Sand swirled violently around them, the heat trembling in waves as Harry's magic surged outward.
"You won't hurt them," Harry said, voice trembling with fury. "You won't touch anyone else. I WILL STOP YOU!"
"Oh?" Adrian's voice was light, mocking. "You think you can stop me? Shall I tell you what I'll do after this? I'll use your friends, Harry — your clever Hermione, your loyal Ron, your dear Luna…"
"Stop," Harry warned, his wand trembling in his hand.
Adrian smiled wider. "Or perhaps your Ginny. I remember her well. The little redhead who couldn't stop staring when I saved her from that basilisk, while you were too busy screaming for help. Does she still think of me? Does she still have wet dreams about me? Or does she picture you as a cheap replacement for me?"
Harry's breath broke — and then something inside him snapped.
For the first time in his life, Harry Potter's fury drowned out his restraint. The Elder Wand pulsed violently, recognizing his intent — a storm of raw, uncontrolled magic spilling into the air.
Adrian saw it and smiled — that cold, knowing smile.
'You really are still a child. Everything is according to plan,' he thought.
Harry raised his wand, his voice shaking with rage.
"Avada Kedavra!"
Green light erupted from the wand's tip, a flash of pure, lethal will.
Adrian's smile deepened.
"Thank you, Harry. For being so bloody predictable."
But Harry did not hear him.
For the first time in his life, he wanted to kill someone.
For years, he has lived in Adrian's shadow, even before the truth about him was exposed by Dumbledore. Adrian has long known about the savior's secret jealousy of him. But he did not care.
Why would he?
It was normal for people to feel jealous of others. Now? He simply used what was already there.
He raised his hand, no wand needed. His voice was low, steady — a mirror echo, "Avada Kedavra."
A flash of green came from his right hand.
The desert exploded with light.
Two streams of emerald light collided in midair, tearing the silence apart. The dunes trembled, sand lifting in whirlwinds as the sky itself seemed to split.
For a heartbeat, the two lights struggled — a storm of power, life, and death locked together.
Then the balance shifted.
Adrian's magic pressed forward, inch by inch, swallowing the light before it and then — BAM!
Adrian's curse won.
Harry's corpse fell. Wand at his side.
Adrian approached. He bent his knees, eyes still violet, and he sighed. Two fingers were raised, closing Harry's eyes— Harry Potter was now truly dead.
"I do not regret my actions. But if there was any other way… Know that I would have chosen it. I hope that in death you can take comfort in that, and if not…"
Adrian stood alone within the circle of ruin, the echo of the duel still humming faintly through the wards he had set. The magic here was dense, metallic, charged with the residue of two wills that had collided for a heartbeat.
He looked at Harry once more, and within his heart stirred a quiet revelation.
Loyalty, so often praised as a virtue, is in truth a subtle form of bondage. To be loyal to others is to betray oneself. To betray others, that is to remain loyal to the self.
Society cloaks loyalty in the language of honor, binding us to family, nation, and cause. But beneath the surface, what it demands is— submission.
To serve another's will, to die for dreams not born of your soul, to abandon your own path for someone else's vision — this is not noble. It is surrender. An inslavment.
Each act of devotion to another chips away at the self, until the soul is but a shadow cast by obligation. But when one dares to sever those chains, to cast off the mask, and walk guided only by inner truth — then, and only then, does freedom begin.
'I choose self over everything and anything else. My loyalty is not given to others, nor to their expectations. It is reserved for the one who walks my path: me.'
He let the silence settle before moving.
With a quiet gesture, the Elder Wand lifted from the sand and drifted into his right hand, vibrating faintly with recognition.
The Cloak followed, whispering across the air until it rested across his shoulders, folding into invisibility. Vibrating faintly with recognition.
The Stone rose last, cold and heavy in his other palm, its surface dark as night. Vibrating faintly with recognition.
Adrian looked down, eyes half closed. A faint silver haze still floated above the ground, where two spells had met and shattered. He reached out. The air crackled against his fingertips as he drew in a single thread — the blood of Harry Potter.
It coiled into his palm and then was stored in a jar before vanishing into the folds of his ring, preserved, contained.
"That will be enough," he murmured.
He traced a sigil in the air; the wards collapsed inward, sealing the site in radiant light.
Then the world folded around him. When the glow faded, the desert was empty once more.
Only the ghosts of battle were unknown to mankind.