CHAPTER FIVE: YEAR FOUR- A HISTORY LESSON. PART ONE
The sun set on the large green mountain, and the birds' voices sang beautifully.
On top of the green mountain, a young man, his dark hair tied in a short ponytail, his upper body was naked, exposing his broad shoulders and muscular body. Yet, strangely, the young man's body did not touch the ground; it hovered, as if by magic, a few inches above the ground. The man's eye opened, and his expression was tranquil as if nothing could bother him, or so it appeared.
He stood up, yet his body still did not touch the ground.
Darkness circled him, and a robe was conjured by him, as if it appeared from nowhere. The man looked backward, his eyes seemed to be looking for something.
He did not move for about ten minutes; he just stood. Finally, a change occurred, a smile formed on his lips as he said, " They are here."
FLASH.
The man disappeared, as if space itself sucked him into it.
///
At the bottom of the mountain, four men were walking with caution. All four wore purple robes, as if they all belonged to the same organization. In their hand, they each had a wand, except the man at the front. Not only did he have a wand in his right hand, but he also had a strange needle in his left hand.
"The tracks lead here. This is the last place he was in before he disappeared," said the man at the front with the strange-looking needle.
His campenitons were shaken; they quickly tightened their hands on their wands, appearing to be shocked: "W-ww-as he really here?" Asked the youngest among them. His eyes drifted from left to right, as if preparing to retreat in the moment of an attack.
"Relax, Tay, there is no one here. That guy probably got so scared by our reputation. When he heard that we were coming, he must have run off quite far, hhh…" said a tall and fat middle-aged man named Grt.
" Yes, kid, no need to be afraid, we get that it is your first time, but stuff like that happens all the time, all we have to do now is report it to the ministry, and an investigation will begin. Hmm, I'd like to see how this guy will hide from the Ministry's Aruor." Said the fourth member of their group.
Tay could not help but blush at his campenitions words. " Y-ees, I know, b-uut, still… This person stole too much from us, and we do not even know who he is. Not to mention the guards that he killed… I can't help but remember their bodies… It was horrible!"
The others were silent for a moment before saying, "That's business, young one, we steal, we sell, we make profit. It is what it is. And in businesses, like any other job, there are 'complications' that's our job to fix them, and if we can not, we use the ministry for us, after all, to many of those pure-bloods deepened on our goods for their own business."
"I say, this guy just provoked someone he should not have. Don't worry, this will be over quickly, right, cap?"
But their captain was unmoved; he didn't pay attention to his comrades' words, he just stared at the needle. This needle is an alchemy artifact capable of recording a person's magic and finding them. 'Something is wrong, it's as if, as if, the needle wants to find that person, as if it's own 'feelings' are in synchronization with that person.'
'But how can that be? It shouldn't have this strong reaction, unless…' The captain's eyes widened. He was about to warn his friends when a voice sounded in his mind:
" Very clever, but too late, you are already within range."
The tone of the voice was an arrogant one, but it was also very cold.
POOF.
The captain fell.
"CAPTAIN!!!"
POOF.
POOF.
POOF.
Silence, that was the only thing that remained there. Darkness began to swirl around, and a figure materialized. Adrian Atlas stood on the four unconscious bodies. He did not speak. With a flick of his hand, the view in the area changed. The terrain turned and changed, wards placed by him there began to display themself, as they shattered. Looking at the bodies of the men, Adrian transformed them into 4 needles and stored them. Next, he Apparate.
\\\
The late summer sun bathed Diagon Alley in a warm golden hue. The cobblestone streets were alive with chatter and color — merchants shouting, children laughing, and the clatter of cauldrons and broomsticks being sold. It was all so… mundane.
Adrian walked silently through the crowd, his dark hair tied neatly back, his long black coat swaying slightly with each step. His eyes, cold and measured, absorbed everything. The noise, the movement, the smiles — all of it part of a world that felt so far below him now.
He wasn't here because he needed anything.
He was here because people like him — people who attracted attention — needed to appear ordinary from time to time.
His wand had been destroyed months ago. Truth be told, he didn't need a new one. His command over magic had grown so instinctive, so absolute, that spells bent to his will without channeling. But a wizard without a wand drew questions, and questions drew eyes.
He preferred the opposite.
The sign above the door read Ollivanders — Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
As Adrian entered, the faint sound of bells chimed. Dust hung in the air, and the scent of polished wood and faint ozone filled the small shop. Mr. Ollivander appeared from between the shelves, his wide pale eyes lighting up with the strange delight of a man meeting something… unusual.
"Ah… Mister Atlas, isn't it? Yes, yes, I got your letter… I remember your first wand." He spoke softly, with a curious tone. "A shame, truly, when a wand meets its end. But then again, such things rarely happen without reason."
Adrian gave a polite nod. "As I have written. It broke. I need a replacement. Something functional."
His voice was calm, steady — neither cold nor warm.
Ollivander's eyes flickered with something almost like recognition — or perhaps unease. "Functional, yes… but the wand chooses the wizard, as they say. Let's see, shall we?"
The process took less than ten minutes. Wands tested, rejected, replaced. Shelves whispered faintly as he moved. Finally, one was handed to him — Yew wood, phoenix feather core, ten and a half inches.
When Adrian touched it, a faint breeze moved through the shop. Not power — not explosion — simply a quiet resonance, like air sighing through empty halls. The old wandmaker tilted his head, studying him.
"Curious," he said softly. "Very curious indeed."
Adrian said nothing. He simply paid, turned, and walked out.
To him, the wand was a mask — nothing more.
A prop to maintain the illusion.
Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was alive with motion. Steam hissed from the scarlet train, owls hooted, and families exchanged hurried goodbyes.
Adrian stood apart from the crowd, leaning lightly against a pillar. His eyes swept the platform — noting the familiar faces, the laughter, the constant energy that seemed to overflow from the young witches and wizards.
He carried no trunk. A small enchanted satchel hung at his side — large enough to hold everything he needed. Which, in truth, wasn't much.
When he finally boarded the train, he chose a quiet compartment near the back.
The journey passed in near silence. Occasionally, students glanced through the door window, whispering about him —
"That's him," "He's in Slytherin," "He's… strange."
He ignored them all.
Instead, his gaze lingered on the shifting landscape beyond the glass — hills, forests, lakes — the world passing by like fragments of a dream he had already lived a thousand times.
As night began to fall, the familiar outline of Hogwarts Castle rose in the distance, its towers glowing in the mist.
A faint smile crossed Adrian's face.
He had been away, yes — but he had never truly left.
The Great Hall shimmered under candlelight. Floating candles cast warm light over the four long tables and the enchanted ceiling above, painted in stars.
The chatter was deafening — laughter, gossip, the thrill of a new year.
Adrian sat at the far end of the Slytherin table, silent as usual.
Around him, the others talked excitedly about… Their words tumbling over one another with energy and speculation.
He didn't join them. He simply listened — not to the words themselves, but to the rhythm of the room. Energy, emotion, curiosity. It all flowed like a river he could step into or out of whenever he pleased.
Dumbledore's voice cut through the noise. "Welcome! Welcome to another year at Hogwarts!"
His speech was warm, filled with the usual blend of humor and wisdom. The older students half-listened; the younger ones beamed. Then came the announcement — the Triwizard Tournament would return, hosted here at Hogwarts.
The room erupted into applause.
Even some of the professors smiled.
Adrian, however, merely took a slow sip of pumpkin juice. His eyes, half-lidded, watched the Headmaster with a detached interest.
A competition between schools, limited by age and rules… It sounded more like a game for pride than a true test of power.
But power often hid in plain sight. 'A tournament, huh?' A sly smile formed on Adrian's face.
\\\
Autumn settled thickly over the Scottish Highlands. The air grew colder, sharper, as the castle prepared for its rare honor: hosting the Triwizard Tournament.
By October's end, excitement pulsed through Hogwarts like a living thing. Students whispered in corridors, decorated banners with house colors, and speculated endlessly about the challenges to come.
One gray afternoon, as the lake rippled under a clouded sky, a deep rumble echoed from its depths.
From the black surface, a great ship burst upward, water cascading down its sides. Its hull gleamed with frost and iron. The students gasped as it anchored itself silently, a ramp lowering to the shore.
From the mist emerged the Durmstrang students, cloaked in heavy furs. They marched with perfect coordination, every step echoing discipline. At their head walked Viktor Krum, silent, focused, his dark eyes scanning the castle.
Then the sky changed. A shimmer of gold broke through the clouds, and with a sound like thunder, a massive blue carriage drawn by winged horses descended gracefully from the sky.
The Beauxbatons students stepped out, elegant in silken blue, laughter soft as windchimes. Madame Maxime followed, towering and proud.
The courtyard buzzed with awe. Adrian stood apart, watching without expression.
While others cheered and whispered, he observed the visitors as if reading a text.
Days later, the Goblet of Fire was unveiled in the Great Hall. It stood tall upon a marble pedestal, flames flickering blue and white. Dumbledore's voice carried over the chatter:
"The age restriction will be strictly observed. Only students seventeen and older may submit their names. Anyone younger who attempts to do so will find themselves quite unable."
Students murmured with disappointment. A shimmering golden line appeared around the Goblet — the Age Line, cast by Dumbledore himself.
Adrian, watching from the Slytherin table, felt the faint hum of the enchantment. It was elegant — complex, interwoven — but not beyond comprehension.
Later that night, when most slept, he approached the Hall alone. The torches had dimmed. The Goblet burned softly, throwing cold light across the floor.
He stood at the edge of the Age Line, eyes half-lidded. He didn't grin or whisper an incantation. He merely raised a hand, traced the air once, and stepped forward.
The barrier didn't resist — it parted, just slightly, recognizing something beyond its measure.
He placed his name upon the parchment, dropped it into the Goblet, and turned away without a word.
The Night of the Selection. The Great Hall shimmered with candlelight and tension.
Every seat was filled; every eye fixed on the Goblet of Fire. The flames danced high, casting long blue shadows on the stone walls.
Dumbledore's voice rang clear: "When the Goblet chooses, it binds the name in flame. Once chosen, there is no turning back."
The moment stretched. Then — a burst of scarlet fire shot from the Goblet.
A piece of parchment fluttered down. Dumbledore caught it.
"The champion for Durmstrang — Viktor Krum!"
Applause thundered.
Moments later, another flare.
"The champion for Beauxbatons — Fleur Delacour!"
Cheers followed.
Then — the final burst of blue flame.
Dumbledore's smile vanished. The Goblet spat out another parchment. He caught it carefully, eyes narrowing. For a moment, he said nothing. Then:
"…Adrian Atlas."
The hall fell utterly silent.
Adrian rose slowly from the Slytherin table. Every eye followed him.
He didn't look surprised. When he placed his name in the Goblet, this was all according to his expectations.
He walked down the aisle with perfect composure, his steps measured, his face calm.
When he reached the front, Dumbledore looked down at him, curiosity flickering behind the calm.
"Mr. Atlas," Dumbledore began gently, "you are aware that students under seventeen were not permitted to—"
"I am," Adrian interrupted quietly. His tone wasn't disrespectful — only factual. "And I am also aware that your Age Line relied on temporal distortion wards layered with consent-binding magic. I tricked both before submitting my name."
A murmur ran through the hall — shock, disbelief, whispers of he's lying and that's impossible.
Dumbledore's eyes studied him — searching, weighing. "You… circumvented the enchantment yourself?"
"Yes." Adrian's voice remained steady. "I understood the rules. I broke none. The Goblet accepted my entry willingly. That, Headmaster, makes me a valid champion."
Madame Maxime and Karkaroff exchanged glances.
Karkaroff gave a small, amused shrug. "If the boy managed it himself, perhaps he deserves his place."
Maxime nodded slightly, unconcerned. "He is… what, fourteen? It will be a short tournament for him."
A faint smile ghosted across Adrian's face — so brief it might have been imagined.
Dumbledore's gaze lingered another moment, then he nodded slowly.
"Very well," he said quietly. "The Goblet has chosen. You will join the others in the antechamber."
Adrian inclined his head. "Understood."
He turned and walked toward the chamber door, calm as a shadow in motion. The whispers followed him like wind — admiration, confusion, envy, fear.
He didn't care.
\\
The antechamber glowed with soft candlelight. Fleur and Krum turned as Adrian entered.
He gave them a polite nod — nothing more — and leaned quietly against the far wall.
Fleur's eyes narrowed slightly, intrigued by his calm. Krum simply grunted, unimpressed.
Then, suddenly, the muffled roar of voices came again from beyond the doors.
The Goblet had flared once more.
Moments later, the door opened and Harry Potter was ushered in, pale and bewildered. The air in the room seemed to tighten.
The champions stared.
Adrian's expression didn't change — but for an instant, something passed through his eyes. Not surprise — recognition, quiet, and knowing.
While the others questioned, argued, and demanded explanations, Adrian stood silently in the corner, arms folded.
He had already accepted the truth: Two champions from Hogwarts.
Two anomalies.
But only one of them had chosen it.
Harry Potter stumbled inside. He looked lost, pale. Behind him came Dumbledore, followed by the other headmasters.
Adrian didn't move. He only observed.
Dumbledore's gaze flicked first to Adrian, then to Harry.
"It seems," he said quietly, "Hogwarts has been chosen twice."
Karkaroff's face twisted in mock outrage. "Twice? Impossible! Unless—"
"Unless the Goblet wanted it," Adrian interrupted evenly.
All eyes turned to him. His tone carried neither arrogance nor apology—only certainty.
"I told you, Headmaster," Adrian continued, his voice calm, controlled. "I placed my name myself. I breached your wards consciously. The Goblet accepted it. That makes me a rightful champion. As for Harry…" His gaze drifted toward Harry for a brief moment. "I can't say."
The silence that followed was taut.
Madame Maxime raised a perfectly shaped brow. "You admit it so… simply."
"There is no reason not to," Adrian replied. "You said it yourself—the Goblet's magic is binding. It wouldn't choose someone unworthy of the task."
Karkaroff gave a cold little laugh. "A boy of fourteen calls himself worthy?"
Adrian's eyes met his, unflinching. "If the spell recognized me, age is irrelevant."
That silenced him.
Dumbledore said nothing for several seconds. He studied Adrian the same way one studies a puzzle missing a single piece. Finally, with a sigh that held equal parts curiosity and caution, he nodded.
"The Goblet's decision is final. So be it."
He turned to the others. "Our Hogwarts champions: Adrian Atlas and Harry Potter."
The words fell heavy in the air.
Adrian gave a single nod and stepped back. He didn't celebrate. Didn't smile. Didn't even glance toward Harry.
He simply stood there, composed, as though this was inevitable.
Hogwarts buzzed with rumors. In every corridor, whispers of two champions spread like wildfire. Most mocked the idea—some pitied Harry, others doubted Adrian had truly outsmarted Dumbledore's magic.
Adrian walked through it all in silence. The noise meant nothing. He had no interest in proving himself through argument. Power didn't need witnesses; it only required results.
He reached the Slytherin common room late, the emerald glow flickering over his face. Several students turned as he entered—some smirked, others looked uneasy. Adrian passed through them wordlessly, went straight to his corner table, and unrolled a sheet of parchment.
Somewhere above, the castle slept.
Adrian didn't. "Tonight," he said.
The R.O.R. waited for Adrian as he set foot into the room; the area changed, becoming a lab for his experiments.
On the floor, there was a big pot, almost 2 meters high. Inside the pot, bubbles twitched, liquid stirred, and moved at high speed. A magical circuit was drawn on the ground below the pot, and the symbols of Runes lit the room with a red and green light. The Runes were connected to three other Rune circles. On each circle, there lay a man; their faces were pale, as their magic, life force, and souls were used as fuel.
Those were the same people that Adrian captured some time ago.
And now? It was finally time for them to be useful.
Adrian waved his hand, and the ritual intensified. Soon, some time later, there was no trace of the existence of those men; their essence was completely absorbed into the ritual.
With a snap of his fingers, three bottles appeared in his hand:
The first was his own blood.The second was also his own blood, only in his Animgus form.The third was the blood of the basilisk he obtained in his second year.
From the bottles, each, a drop of blood, flaw inside the pot.
Adrian traced intricate patterns in the air with his fingers, and the liquid inside the enormous pot responded, rising and swirling with a life of its own. Sparks of light danced across the room, following the curves of his gestures. The runes around the floor pulsed in synchrony, their glow brightening as if recognizing a master of their craft.
A low hum filled the air, vibrating through the stone walls, through Adrian's bones. The pot trembled violently, sending waves through the liquid, which now seemed almost sentient, twisting and stretching like a living thing. Adrian's eyes were fixed on it, unblinking, his expression perfectly calm.
He whispered a series of soft, untranslatable words, and the bottles in his hand floated upward as though drawn by invisible strings. Each drop of blood fell into the churning liquid with a soft hiss, sending ripples across the surface. The colors shifted immediately, deepening into shades of crimson and green that seemed to pulse with their own heartbeat.
The room's air thickened, dense and warm, carrying a metallic scent. Adrian moved his hands faster now, orchestrating the flow of energy, guiding the currents of magic that swirled around him. Tendrils of light shot from the runes toward the pot, connecting in a web of arcs that sparked where they met the liquid, leaving faint scorch marks on the floor.
The hum became a low chant, a rhythm that seemed to pulse in time with Adrian's own heartbeat. Shadows gathered in the corners of the room, drawn toward the energy, twisting and stretching toward the ritual like curious observers.
The liquid began to rise higher, almost to the rim of the massive pot, while inside it, smaller vortices appeared, spinning like miniature whirlpools. The colors shifted again, becoming darker, more vibrant, alive. Adrian's hand hovered above the pot, fingers trembling slightly — just enough to suggest focus, not effort.
A sudden flash of light shot from the liquid, bouncing off the walls, and the hum grew into a resonant vibration that shook the floor. Adrian's lips moved silently as he whispered commands to the energy, bending it, shaping it, forcing it into patterns that seemed impossible.
The runes flared one final time, their glow so bright it threatened to blind the eyes. The liquid surged, spinning rapidly, and then… it stilled, calm and impossibly smooth. A single, pulsating orb floated above the pot, suspended in the air, radiating heat and light, the air around it shimmering like a mirage.
A bottle appeared in his hand, and the liquid fell inside.
"It is done. The first step is now complete. " Adrian said.
"I should get going right now, it's getting late." He yawned.