CHAPTER FIVE: YEAR FOUR- A HISTORY LESSON. PART 4
The world twisted violently, and the ground vanished beneath their feet. The sensation was like being pulled through a storm — light and darkness spinning together, space collapsing and expanding at once.
When they landed, the impact was hard. Harry gasped, clutching his arm. Adrian rolled with the motion, his wand still in hand, then went completely still. His head struck a gravestone with a dull thud — convincingly — and he lay motionless, eyes closed.
They were in a graveyard.
The air was cold, unnaturally so. Mist coiled around the tombstones, thick and heavy, and the faint scent of decay lingered in the air.
Harry stood, trembling, looking around in confusion. "What—where are we?"
From the shadows, two figures emerged. Wormtail — pale, trembling, carrying a bundle — and behind him, the high, snake-like voice of Lord Voldemort hissed softly through the air.
Adrian remained still. His breathing slowed, his mind calm.
He listened. Watched. Waited.
The ritual unfolded just as he had foreseen: the bones, the blood, the dark chanting that filled the air with unholy resonance. Wormtail's scream tore through the night, and then — silence.
A moment later, Voldemort rose.
The Dark Lord stood reborn, pale and skeletal, his red eyes gleaming with cruel triumph. He looked down at Harry, smiling. "The boy who lived… came to die."
But before he could raise his wand, Adrian's eyes snapped open.
He rose slowly to his feet, brushing the dirt from his robes. His gaze met Voldemort's, calm and unflinching, the faintest trace of amusement in his tone as he spoke: "You've returned, then."
Voldemort's crimson eyes narrowed. "Ah… the other champion."
Adrian's voice was smooth, almost polite. "Quite the entrance, I must say."
"Stay back!" Harry shouted, panic and relief mixing in his tone.
Adrian didn't move. His eyes were fixed on the Dark Lord, analyzing every shimmer of magic in the air around him. His hand moved slightly, pulling Harry behind him with a silent flick.
"Stay behind me," he said quietly, his voice steady, unyielding. "And be ready."
Voldemort tilted his head, an amused smirk spreading across his lipless mouth. "You dare stand before me?"
Adrian's wand rose. "Would not be the first time."
The wind shifted — cold, sharp, heavy with power. Sparks of energy danced along the graves.
The duel was about to begin.
" Oh, I do not recall ever meeting you, yet you say we have fouled once?" Voldemort asked, his blood red eyes looking into Adrian's eyes, creating a tension that could force any brave man to their knees.
"Oh, have you already forgotten me, Tom? Sigh, here I believed we became 'good friends' after our friendly chat two years ago…" Adrian said, his tone arrogant and unbound.
"What are you saying?!" Said Voldemort, his eyes were barely able to contain his rage.
"Asrain, shut up, you're only provoking him more yo…" Harry said, his tone was barely a whisper.
"Oh, but why to Harry, come mate, there is no need to be shy about it. You see, Tom, the reason I said we meet before is because it did happen, perhaps not with the current you, but with the past you, hahaha.." Adrian smiled; his smile turned even more arrogant.
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, BOY?!! SPEAK" Voldemort was barely able to maintain his composure, and the ground beneath his feet began to heat up unknowingly, reacting to his rage.
"Now you get it, Tom, or do you need more pictures?" Adrian's voice echoed through the graveyard like silk drawn over steel. The projection of the diary — Tom Riddle's old, broken self — flickered and vanished into ash.
"Here I thought a Dark Lord was supposed to be smart… Sigh, life is indeed unfair. I guess one cannot have it all in life, right, Harry?"
Harry stared, speechless. The sheer confidence in Adrian's tone made even Voldemort hesitate — for just a moment.
Then came the explosion.
"CRUCIO!"
Voldemort's voice cracked the air like a whip. The curse screamed toward Adrian, blood-red and alive.
Adrian didn't flinch. His wand spun in his fingers — a smooth, almost lazy motion — and the spell collided with an invisible barrier. The energy splintered into a storm of golden sparks, harmlessly vanishing into the mist.
"Still the same tricks," Adrian murmured. "You really haven't evolved much since the diary."
Voldemort snarled. "You insolent—!"
"Protego Contra!" Adrian's voice cut through the air, not in defense, but in command. The shield expanded outward in a flash of deep violet light — and then bent, shifting like a living membrane. The curse Voldemort fired next bounced, curving midair and racing back toward its caster.
The Dark Lord twisted aside, the ground erupting where he'd stood. Stone and dirt exploded skyward.
Harry stumbled backward, his heart hammering. "What—what is happening—?"
Adrian didn't answer. His eyes — now glowing a bright, otherworldly violet — narrowed slightly. For the first time, he allowed the ability he had awakened to reveal itself.
He could see it now — the flow of magic itself. To see magic itself, to anticipate it, to predict it, and to manipulate it–Those were the Magic Eyes of Adrian Atlas!
Voldemort's spells weren't colorless anymore; they were streams of pure, pulsating energy, each vibrating at a different frequency. The graveyard shimmered in that spectral sight — ancient runes carved in the stones, ghostly veins of old enchantments beneath the soil, the faint, flickering auras of death itself.
He lifted his wand again, tracing invisible sigils through the air, each motion graceful, deliberate, ancient. "Let's even the playing field, shall we?"
He whispered a word Harry didn't understand. The ground answered.
Chains of shadow burst from the soil, swirling around Adrian before streaking toward Voldemort like striking serpents. The Dark Lord slashed his wand, shattering two of them — but the third wrapped around his arm, glowing with purple fire. Voldemort's scream split the night.
Then, with a snarl, he broke free, his aura flaring crimson. "ENOUGH!"
The next moment, a storm of curses flooded the air — flashes of green, red, and blue light crossing and colliding in midair. Adrian moved like a phantom, his coat snapping behind him as he stepped, twisted, ducked — every motion timed perfectly with each spell's pulse.
Voldemort roared. The curse sliced forward, a wave of invisible blades.
Adrian raised his wand horizontally — a single gesture — and the energy folded in half, collapsing into a single glowing point that dissipated into harmless embers.
"You created this spell, didn't you?" Adrian asked, tone coldly amused. "Elegant. Brutal. But sloppy. It leaves your left flank exposed."
Before Voldemort could respond, Adrian flicked his wrist. The air itself shuddered. A pulse of energy — like the beat of a heart — rippled outward. The trees surrounding the graveyard bent as if pushed by a gale.
Voldemort's eyes widened.
Adrian stepped forward, his voice low, reverberating with restrained power.
"You think fear gives you strength, Tom. But fear… makes your magic loud. Predictable."
He raised his wand. "I see everything."
A wave of violet light surged from his wand, arcing into the air before splitting into a dozen tendrils. They twisted around Voldemort's spells, dissecting them mid-flight, tearing them apart molecule by molecule.
For a moment, Voldemort staggered back — overwhelmed, unbalanced.
Then he laughed. A sharp, cold sound. "You are impressive, boy. But you are not me."
He raised both hands, and the sky screamed. Black fire erupted overhead — Fiendfyre, in the shape of serpents and skulls. The heat was suffocating.
Harry shouted, "Adrian!"
But Adrian was already moving. His eyes flashed, and he thrust his wand into the ground. The earth beneath them trembled — and a massive sigil ignited, glowing with patterns. The Fiendfyre slammed into it — and stopped, frozen midair, writhing like a chained beast.
Adrian's voice was calm, almost reverent:
"In front of my eyes, all tricks are meaningless."
With a snap of his wrist, the Fiendfyre imploded — collapsing into a single spark of black light that vanished into nothing.
The world went silent.
Voldemort stared at him, hatred burning through the cracks of his calm. "You—what are you?"
Adrian's smile returned, faint and maddening. "Something you'll never comprehend."
Their wands rose again — both pointed, both trembling slightly from the intensity in the air. The tension stretched, impossibly thin.
And then—
"Avada Kedavra!"
"Avada Kedavra!"
Green light collided in the center of the graveyard, the explosion lighting up the night like the birth of a star. The shockwave hurled Harry backward into a tombstone.
Adrian slid a step, his wand arm steady even as the earth fractured beneath him. His violet eyes glowed brighter, burning through the swirl of dust and light.
For an instant, the two were locked — equals in raw power, opposites in philosophy.
Voldemort — born of fear and hatred.
Adrian — forged by pain and knowledge.
The air screamed. The sky tore open.
Adrian took a deep breath, whispered something. Adrian raised his hand, the violet light now blazing through his pupils.
The words resonated, ancient and final.
A pulse of pure energy surged outward, slamming into Voldemort with the force of a thunderclap. The Dark Lord was thrown back, his wand flying from his grasp. He crashed into a gravestone, the ground beneath him cracking like glass.
Adrian lowered his wand slowly, smoke rising from the scorched earth. The air still vibrated with the echo of his spell.
He exhaled, calm once more. "I told you, Tom," he murmured. "It wouldn't be the first time."
The air was thick, charged, humming with a pulse that vibrated through every stone and every blade of grass. Adrian's violet eyes scanned the field, every ripple of magic visible to him, every shimmer in Voldemort's aura a thread he could manipulate.
Voldemort advanced, not speaking, only radiating menace, rage, and humiliation. Energy snapped from his wand like jagged bolts of black lightning, slicing the air toward Adrian.
Adrian moved first, his body flowing like liquid. He didn't cast; he commanded. The currents of magic twisted, bent, and folded around him, and the first strike of death energy skimmed past his shoulder, leaving the air scorched.
The duel escalated instantly. Both of them fired again — torrents of lethal power, raw, unrestrained, invisible in nature yet visible to Adrian through the aura of the magic itself. The graveyard erupted. Tombstones shattered, soil exploded, and the ground cracked under the violent energy that tore through the night.
Adrian pivoted, the violet glow of his eyes tracing the streams of magic. He didn't block in the traditional sense — he bent the spells, twisting their trajectory so that they barely grazed him while scattering fragments into the surrounding gravestones. Sparks and embers rained down.
Voldemort's fury built into a crescendo, his body pulsing with power. Another wave of energy struck — this time aimed with surgical precision. Adrian stepped into it, letting the deathly surge brush past him, then flicked his wand subtly. The energy veered to the side, colliding into a tomb and detonating with a shockwave that leveled half of the graveyard.
The destruction was absolute. Trees splintered, graves collapsed, statues toppled. The air was thick with smoke and dust; even the moon seemed to waver behind the haze of raw magical force.
Voldemort hissed, recognizing the trick, and aimed again. This time, it was Avada Kedavra, pure and instantaneous — a streak of green cutting through the night.
Adrian's reflexes were precise, honed by his visions of magic. He allowed it to almost strike — then twisted its trajectory at the last possible moment. The curse slammed into the soil, detonating in a fiery column that demolished a row of gravestones and sent earth flying in every direction.
'It is time to go.' He could not overpower Voldemort this time, not like in the past — he knew better than to challenge that power head-on.
'It's still too soon for me. I achieved my goals. It's time to leave.'
Voldemort snarled, his eyes burning with hatred, and gestured. A dark command spread across the ruins:
"Wormtail, bring them!"
Adrian's mind snapped. The command was for the Death Eaters to arrive — reinforcements. He couldn't wait.
Without hesitation, he grabbed Harry, placing him behind his shoulder. Sparks of violet light streaked from his wand, a dazzling flash that drew the Dark Lord's gaze for just a heartbeat. The illusions of energy twisted in the air, dancing like a thousand fragments, confusing Voldemort.
In that fraction of a moment, Adrian flicked the Portkey — the Triwizard Cup — toward him. He activated it with a touch, sending it leaping toward his hand. The cup glowed, humming, and its pull anchored him to the location.
"Hold on!" Adrian hissed, pressing Harry to him. The cup grasped them both in a gentle but firm pull, lifting them just as Voldemort's dark command began to take effect.
Behind them, the graveyard exploded into chaos. Magic, unleashed without restraint, tore apart tombstones, trees, and mausoleums alike.
The Death Eaters surged forward, disoriented by Adrian's diversion and the sudden flash of the Portkey's activation.
Adrian didn't look back. The cup's pull strengthened, dragging them through the air with a rush of wind and light. He felt Harry tense, but he whispered: "I've got you. Be ready for the landing."
The world twisted, shredded by magical force, until the last remnants of the graveyard disappeared in a flash of violet energy. And then — they were gone.
They reappeared at the Triwizard grounds. Dust and sparks lingered in the air. Harry staggered but was unharmed; Adrian released him, placing a hand briefly on his shoulder, steady, reassuring. The Portkey released its grip with a crack of thunder, and the two figures tumbled onto the dewy grass. For a moment, there was only silence — the night air thick with confusion and disbelief. Then, a collective gasp rippled through the gathered crowd.
Dumbledore was the first to reach them.
"Harry… Adrian… what happened?" His voice carried that rare mixture of calm and urgency that only he could manage.
Harry looked up, his eyes glassy and haunted. "He's back… Voldemort's back. I saw it, he's alive again!"
Gasps erupted around the stands. Professors exchanged worried glances. Students clung to one another.
Fudge, who had been standing by the judges' table, went pale, then scoffed loudly. "Nonsense! What kind of absurd story is this? The Dark Lord—"
Adrian's voice cut through him, calm but edged with steel. "—has returned."
All eyes turned to him. His expression was unreadable, but his words carried the weight of someone who knew. "I saw him. I fought him. And if it weren't for me, the boy standing next to me would be dead."
Fudge turned red. "You dare—"
"I dare state facts, Minister." Adrian's gaze sharpened, the faint glow in his eyes returning. "You can choose not to believe them, but your denial will not change what has already happened."
Adrian's Eyes flashed purple, his magic cast upon the crowd, but targeting only the fake Moody.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the torches seemed to flicker uneasily.
Then — a scream.
"HE'S ATTACKING!" shouted one of the Aurors, pointing toward the crowded section.
Moody was staggering forward, his wand raised. His movements were erratic, his expression feral. Dumbledore raised his wand instantly, but Adrian moved first. His wand hand flicked with mechanical precision — not a word spoken — and shimmering violet bindings erupted from the ground, coiling around Moody like living chains.
"Step back," Adrian ordered softly.
McGonagall hesitated. "Adrian, what are you—"
"Something's wrong with him." Adrian's voice was low but certain. His eyes pulsed faintly, scanning the magical residue around Moody's form. 'His aura is fragmented… distorted. Polyjuice.'
Dumbledore's eyes widened; he saw that too. "Veritaserum, now!"
Snape arrived, expression grim. Moody — or whoever wore his face — struggled violently, eyes wild with panic. The truth serum worked fast.
"—I'm not Moody," the voice cracked. "The real Moody's in the trunk — in my office…"
The air turned frigid.
Dumbledore's expression darkened. "Who are you?"
The man's form began to twitch, flesh shifting, the illusion unraveling. Before their eyes, the false Moody dissolved into a pale, gaunt figure with sunken eyes and a twisted grin.
"Barty Crouch… Junior," Dumbledore breathed.
Murmurs of disbelief spread through the onlookers. Adrian didn't move; he only watched. His expression didn't change — not surprise, not disgust, only quiet understanding.
Crouch Jr.'s eyes darted toward Adrian, hatred burning there. "You— you ruined everything. He was supposed to rise unchallenged, to kill Potter—"
Adrian took one step forward, his presence alone enough to make the Death Eater flinch.
Crouch spat, "He'll come for you, you arrogant brat, now that he is back—"
'I hope he does.'
Adrian's words were soft but heavy. "When he does… I'll be ready."
Later that night, in Dumbledore's office, the atmosphere was grave. The portraits on the walls whispered among themselves; the air was thick with tension. Harry sat across from Dumbledore, still pale. Adrian stood by the window, silent, watching the storm gather outside.
"Harry," Dumbledore said, voice heavy. "Tell me everything."
Harry did. Every detail — the graveyard, the ritual, the return, the fight. Dumbledore listened without interruption. When the boy's voice finally broke, it was Adrian who spoke.
"He's telling the truth," he said quietly. "I was there too. Voldemort's rebirth was it was a ritual. Precise, ancient, and powerful. I felt it."
Fudge, sitting stiffly in the corner, slammed his hands on the table. "This is madness! There's no proof! No witnesses, a boy fighting The-Dark-Lord, you can not—"
Adrian turned to him slowly, eyes glowing faintly. "You want proof, Minister?" He raised his wand and murmured something under his breath. A faint image shimmered into being in the air — a memory projection, perfectly stable and clear. The ritual. The rebirth. Voldemort's first words.
Everyone stared. Fudge went pale.
"You may bury truth," Adrian said softly, "but it will still rot through the ground."
Days turned into weeks. Rumors spread like wildfire. Students whispered of Adrian Atlas — the boy who fought Voldemort and lived. Some said he had inherited Merlin's wisdom.
The "Adrian Club" — a ridiculous fan group started by Hufflepuffs — began distributing enchanted badges that glowed violet. Adrian found it mildly irritating, though Fleur teased him mercilessly about it.
One afternoon, sitting by the Black Lake, Fleur leaned against his shoulder, laughing softly. "You realize, mon amour, that half of Hogwarts now worships you?"
Adrian smirked faintly. "A foolish use of faith."
She tilted her head. "And the other half fears you."
He looked toward the reflection of the castle on the water. "That's better. Fear is honest."
She sighed. "You always say things like that. That scares me."
He turned to her, a rare softness in his eyes. "Because I've learned that people are honest only when they are afraid. It reveals what they value most."
Fleur watched him quietly for a moment. "And what do you value most?"
Adrian didn't answer immediately. The wind rippled through the surface of the lake. Finally, he said, "Freedom. To be more than what the world expects."
She smiled faintly. "Then I suppose you've already achieved it."
He didn't smile back — but the look in his eyes said enough.
\\\
The Great Hall was quiet.
Too quiet.
Where there should have been laughter and chatter, there was only the faint clinking of cutlery against untouched plates. The enchanted ceiling reflected a sky veiled in clouds, the moon's pale light filtering through like a ghost.
Students sat in uneasy silence. Fear hung over the hall like fog. They all knew something had happened in the maze—something terrible—but only a few understood what.
At the head table, Dumbledore rose. The murmur died instantly. His face was calm, yet behind that calmness was a deep, weary sorrow.
"This night," he began, "marks the end of the Tournament. Yet I fear we do not gather here in celebration."
His gaze swept across the hall, resting momentarily on Adrian, then Harry. "For darkness has returned to our world. Lord Voldemort has risen again."
A collective gasp broke the silence. Some students flinched at the name; others shook their heads, unwilling to believe. The younger ones looked to their professors for reassurance, but even they sat frozen, their eyes heavy with dread.
He turned again to the students. "You may hear lies in the days to come. The Ministry will deny what happened. But remember this—those who witnessed it know the truth. The Dark Lord is alive. And we must stand united, or we will fall divided."
His words echoed through the hall, lingering like a spell that refused to fade. Adrian's eyes never left Dumbledore's. The old wizard's calmness intrigued him—how could one carry such a burden and still stand tall? Yet in that calm, Adrian sensed calculation. Dumbledore was already moving pieces on the board.
When the feast ended, few had eaten. Students walked out in silence, their faces pale, their voices hushed. The torches dimmed one by one until only the soft hum of magic filled the empty hall.
The castle was asleep, but Adrian was not.
He stood atop the Astronomy Tower, the wind tugging at his cloak, eyes scanning the endless forest below. The moon cast its light over the lake, painting it silver, and in the reflection, he almost saw himself—calm, sharp, and yet… fractured.
He closed his eyes. He could still feel it—the pulse of Voldemort's killing curse, the vibration of their magic colliding, the air tearing apart as if the world itself had screamed.
He had deflected death, not conquered it. That thought lingered like poison.
"You were close," he whispered to himself. "Closer than ever before."
Behind him, soft footsteps echoed. Fleur's voice followed—soft but firm.
"You haven't slept."
"I don't need sleep," he murmured, his tone distant.
"You say that every night," she replied, stepping closer.
He turned to her then, his eyes reflecting the moonlight—calm, but filled with storms. "I think better when the world is quiet."
Fleur moved beside him, her gaze following his toward the forest. "You think about him, don't you?"
Adrian's jaw tightened. "Voldemort?" He smiled faintly.
"He is not invincible."
"No," Adrian said softly, almost to himself. "But neither am I. And that's what makes this interesting."
Fleur looked at him, her tone careful. "What will you do?"
Adrian's lips curved slightly. "Finish what he started."
For a long moment, the two stood in silence. The wind carried the smell of rain, the promise of another storm.
\\
Fawkes sang softly, his mournful tune echoing against the ancient stone walls. Dumbledore sat by the window, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The flickering light from the phoenix cast long shadows across his face.
McGonagall stood near the desk, arms crossed. "The students are frightened. The Ministry's already trying to cover it up."
"I expected as much," Dumbledore said quietly. "Fudge fears panic more than he fears the truth."
Her eyes narrowed. "And the boy?"
Dumbledore's gaze drifted toward the dark horizon outside. "Adrian is… complicated."
"Do you trust him?"
Dumbledore's eyes softened, but his tone remained thoughtful. "I trust that he seeks knowledge—and that he will do whatever he must to obtain it. Whether that is good or ill…" He trailed off.
Fawkes let out another quiet note, and the flame at the tip of Dumbledore's wand dimmed.
\\
The Hogwarts grounds were wrapped in silver.
The carriages waited beyond the gates, their lanterns flickering like stars caught in the mist. The lake shimmered faintly under the moon, and the castle stood behind them — ancient, silent, watching.
Most of the students were already gone, their laughter and chatter fading into the distance. Only a few lingered near the shore. Among them stood Adrian and Fleur, apart from the rest.
Neither spoke for a long while. The wind played with Fleur's hair, sending strands of silver-gold drifting across her face. Adrian watched her quietly, his eyes tracing every detail — the way the moonlight caught the blue of her robes, the faint line of exhaustion around her eyes, the way her presence still somehow radiated light.
"You're leaving tomorrow morning," he said finally. His voice was calm, steady, but there was a faint undertone — something rare for him.
Fleur nodded, her gaze drifting toward the water. "Oui. Beauxbatons is leaving at sunrise."
Her accent softened the night air.
Adrian's hand brushed against the small black ring on his finger — a silent, habitual motion when his mind was busy. "And France awaits," he said. "You'll be… far from all this madness."
Fleur turned to him, her expression unreadable. "Do you wish you were coming with me?"
He smiled faintly. "I don't belong in your world, Fleur."
A pause. The air thickened with words neither of them wanted to say.
"You'll be safer there," Adrian continued. "Far from the storm that's coming."
Fleur's eyes met his — sharp, defiant. "Do you think I care about safety?"
He looked at her, really looked — the fire beneath her elegance, the stubborn will that had always fascinated him. "No," he said softly. "I think you care about me."
Fleur took a step closer, her breath visible in the cool night. "You always say everything as if it's part of some plan, Adrian. Even this. Even us."
"Because everything is," he said simply. "Except you."
She blinked, unsure whether to smile or cry. "You are impossible."
"Probably."
For a brief moment, they just stood there, the world shrinking to the space between them. The lake was still, the air humming faintly with the remnants of magic that always followed Adrian.
"You'll fight him, won't you?" she asked suddenly, her voice quieter now. "Voldemort."
Adrian's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. "Eventually."
"And you'll win?"
He tilted his head slightly. "Winning isn't the right word. Surviving is more… realistic."
For a long heartbeat, neither moved. The air between them was electric — soft, sad, inevitable. Fleur's eyes shimmered with unspoken words.
Then she leaned forward, her hand finding his. "Then do it," she whispered.
Adrian didn't answer — not with words.
He leaned down, and their lips met in silence, the world around them falling away. The kiss was slow, deliberate — not a goodbye, but a memory. The kind that lingered even when everything else burned.
When they finally pulled apart, Fleur's voice trembled. "Will I see you again?"
Adrian's eyes softened. "The world is small, Fleur. Too small for us not to."
She wanted to believe him — and maybe she did.
As she turned toward the waiting carriage, she stopped once more, glancing back. Adrian stood where she had left him, his cloak swaying in the wind, the moon painting his silhouette in silver.
He didn't move. Didn't wave. Didn't smile.
But when she looked into his eyes one last time, she saw it — a promise he hadn't spoken, yet somehow kept.
The carriage began to rise, its wheels leaving the ground, and Fleur was gone.
Adrian stood alone by the lake, the ripples of magic slowly fading from the water's surface.
"Goodbye," he murmured — not as a farewell, but as a vow.
'Would you still feel the same way you do if you knew I am no better than Voldemort?'Adrain thought, he shook his head,
"Only time will tell."
And when he turned toward the castle, his shadow stretched long across the moonlit grass — a reminder that the storm was coming, and he was already walking straight into it.
The Hogwarts Express rumbled through the countryside, its rhythmic clatter echoing faintly in the compartment. The air was heavy, as if even the train carried the weight of what had happened.
Harry sat by the window, staring at the passing fields. Across from him, Adrian sat quietly, a small book in hand—though his eyes weren't moving over the words.
Hermione and Ron whispered, their faces pale, their voices low.
After a long silence, Harry finally said, "Do you think people will believe us?"
Adrian didn't look up. "They'll believe what they're told to believe."
Harry frowned. "You sound like Dumbledore."
Adrian finally closed the book. "Dumbledore understands the truth of power. It isn't about strength—it's about perception. The one who controls what others see, controls what they think."
Hermione shivered. "That's a dangerous way to think."
Adrian smiled faintly. "It's also true."
For a while, no one spoke. The fields outside glowed gold under the setting sun, peaceful and deceptive.
Then, almost to himself, Adrian said, "Wars don't start with armies. They start with lies… and fear."
The others said nothing. They didn't need to. The truth of his words lingered in the air, quiet and undeniable.
Outside, thunder rolled faintly in the distance, like the first breath of a storm.
And inside that small compartment, four young wizards sat in silence—each carrying the weight of what was coming.
The world had changed. And none of them could ever go back.
'War is coming.'