Chapter 20- Secrets of the Forbidden Forest
Hadrian Potter sat in the quiet solitude of the library, surrounded by towering shelves filled with ancient and dusty tomes.
The golden light of the autumn afternoon streamed through the high arched windows, casting long shadows across the stone floors. He sat hunched over a thick, worn book, its leather binding cracked with age, the pages yellowed but still intact.
The book was ancient, its title barely legible: *Magicks Moste Darke and Forbidden*. He had brought it from Grimmauld and had sneaked it into Hogwarts to read. Reading it in the Common Room was far too risky, better to read it here.
To anyone else, the content would have been too complex—an overwhelming labyrinth of ancient curses, charms, and arcane incantations. But to Hadrian, it felt strangely simple. His emerald eyes skimmed over the dense text, absorbing every word as if they were written in a language he had known all his life.
Every line made perfect sense, every spell clicked effortlessly in his mind.
He furrowed his brow, feeling an unease creeping into his thoughts. Why did it feel so natural? Hadrian had barely been at Hogwarts for a few weeks, yet everything came easily—almost too easily. His mind drifted, the words on the page blurring as a series of disjointed memories flashed before his eyes.
He remembered standing in the dingy basement of Grimmauld Place back in London, watching Sirius brew a rudimentary potion. The ingredients, the steps—they had fascinated him. He had memorized everything, despite never having been taught. When he tried it himself later, the result had been flawless, leaving Sirius stunned.
"Natural talent," he had called it. But it was more than that, wasn't it? It was like he had known how to do it all along.
Hadrian shook his head, his hand twitching slightly as he absentmindedly rubbed the scar on his wrist, a reminder of his time on the streets. He forced his attention back to the book, tracing the elegant lines of a particularly dark curse. Again, the words seemed to settle in his mind with an ease that was both comforting and unsettling.
Why? Why did it all come so easily? Even the most complex potions or obscure spells seemed to flow through him as if they were part of his very being. He glanced at the clock in the corner of the library, its hands ticking softly, the silence almost deafening.
It was something he couldn't shake—the feeling that he wasn't learning, but rather... remembering.
A sudden noise snapped him out of his reverie. A faint rustling sound, followed by the scrape of a door opening. Hadrian quickly closed the book, pushing it away as he stood up. His heart thudded slightly faster as he gathered his belongings. As he walked out of the library, his mind buzzed with thoughts. Something was off, and he was determined to figure out what it was.---Meanwhile, in the headmaster's office, Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk, a thoughtful expression on his face. The room was cluttered with an array of odd magical artifacts, each humming softly with latent energy. Fawkes, his phoenix, let out a soft trill from his perch, sensing the headmaster's reflective mood.
Suddenly, the door creaked open, and Argus Filch, the surly caretaker, stormed in. His eyes were wild, and his hands twitched with barely contained fury.
"Dumbledore!" he growled, his voice filled with irritation. "It's those blasted Weasley twins again! Made a mess, they did—one of the worst yet!"
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in faint amusement. "Ah, Fred and George," he mused, steepling his fingers. "What did they do this time, Argus?"Filch scowled, his face twitching in anger.
"They flooded the third-floor corridor with green foam, and it smells worse than a troll's backside! Took me hours just to clear half of it!" His hands clenched into fists, knuckles whitening. "And that's not the worst of it—there were charmed balloons, too! Burst over the students' heads. Left them with bright pink hair for hours!"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled mischievously, but he quickly masked it with a look of mild concern. "I see," he said softly. "Quite the creative prank, though unfortunate for those caught in the crossfire."
Filch sneered. "Creative?! It's chaos, Headmaster! And while I was cleaning up their mess, I found this." He reached into his robes and pulled out a small piece of parchment, waving it in front of Dumbledore's face. "Tried to open it, but all I got was 'No Squibs or Muggles allowed!'" He spat the words with venom, his lip curling in disdain.
Dumbledore leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took the parchment from Filch's trembling hands. "Thank you, Argus. I'll take it from here," he said kindly, his voice soothing.Filch huffed, clearly still agitated. "They need to be punished, Dumbledore! If I catch them again, I swear I'll—"
"Yes, yes," Dumbledore interrupted, his tone placating. "I will speak with them, Argus. Rest assured, proper measures will be taken."
Filch muttered something under his breath before storming out, the door slamming shut behind him. Dumbledore sighed and glanced down at the parchment in his hand. His eyes gleamed with curiosity.
He flicked his wand gently, checking the parchment for any hidden enchantments or curses. Nothing. It was clean, apart from the defensive charm Filch had mentioned. He frowned slightly and murmured a soft word of release, expecting the parchment to reveal itself.
But to his surprise, it didn't.
Instead, the faded lines of the parchment shimmered, as if trying to reveal themselves but hesitating, like a whisper not yet spoken aloud. Dumbledore's fingers traced the edges of the parchment, curiosity burning in his sharp, blue eyes.
He knew this wasn't any ordinary piece of magical material. The defensive charm, the specific insult to Squibs and Muggles—it spoke of something older, something more personal.
He cast another charm, something more intricate, a faint thread of magic unfurling from the tip of his wand. As the enchantment settled over the parchment, words began to emerge slowly, as though they were reluctant to surface.
His breath caught slightly as he read aloud, softly, the scrawled message that appeared:
*Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs...*
Dumbledore's eyes widened, just for a fraction of a second. The names were familiar. Very familiar. His brow furrowed as he leaned in closer. The Marauders—James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew. He whispered the names quietly to himself, connecting each of the monikers to their owners with ease. His mind was a finely tuned instrument, piecing together the fragments of memory and deduction with practiced efficiency.
*Padfoot, Prongs, Moony, and Wormtail.* A map. It had to be.
The Marauders' Map—he had heard rumors about it during the First Wizarding War. The group of troublemakers had been notorious for their antics at Hogwarts. Dumbledore felt a flicker of amusement, but it was quickly overshadowed by the heavy weight of realization.
A map this powerful, this sophisticated, in the hands of those boys... and now, left behind for Filch to find.
His expression remained calm, but his mind raced as he traced his wand lightly over the map's surface again, murmuring a spell to unveil the enchantments.
The parchment rippled slightly under the magic, and in an instant, the entire castle appeared before him—floors, corridors, classrooms, and every hidden nook revealed in stunning clarity. Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, fascinated by the precision and scope of the enchantment.
And there, moving like tiny, glowing dots, were the names of every person inside the castle.
He winced as his eyes swept over a few names in less-than-dignified locations—students hidden in broom cupboards, behind statues, places that even the most permissive headmaster would frown upon. A flicker of humor creased the lines around his eyes, though his expression remained largely impassive. Still, this wasn't what intrigued him.
He continued to scan the map with careful diligence. Students were moving through the halls, clustered in classrooms, some in the common rooms of their houses, but it wasn't until his gaze fell upon the library that something truly captured his attention.Hadrian Potter.
The name, etched in tiny, cursive letters, moved slowly away from the library's table, drifting toward the exit of the grand chamber.
Dumbledore felt a pang, a mixture of sorrow and curiosity. The boy was intelligent, clearly—far more so than he should have been. He had seen signs, subtle but unmistakable, of how quickly Hadrian absorbed knowledge. But that was not what made Dumbledore's breath catch in his throat.
There, hovering directly above Hadrian's name, was another.
*T.M.R.*
It was small, almost insignificant, yet the letters stood out against the background like ink spilled across parchment. Dumbledore's heart raced. His fingers tightened around his wand, and for the briefest moment, his usually composed demeanor cracked. His mouth formed a thin line as his thoughts whirled in a storm of possibilities.
*Tom Marvolo Riddle.*
How? Why was that name there? The boy who had become Lord Voldemort, the darkest wizard of their age. And now, his name appeared above Hadrian's—was it a coincidence, a mistake? Dumbledore furrowed his brows, his thoughts spiraling deeper into suspicion.
Dumbledore's hand hovered above the map as his mind raced, dissecting the meaning behind this. Why would the map show Riddle's presence? Was it a lingering trace of something darker still tied to Hadrian? Or was this an entirely different enigma, one that could point to Voldemort's continued influence in ways he hadn't yet imagined?
He knew that Voldemort had left his mark on Hadrian's life, but he had believed that influence had been distant, disconnected. Now, the map was showing something far more direct.
He stood abruptly, his expression darkening. Fawkes let out a soft, uneasy trill from his perch, sensing his master's unrest. Dumbledore's eyes flicked toward the phoenix before returning to the map, his gaze lingering over the small name of *T.M.R.*, still hovering above Hadrian's.This was no coincidence.
He folded the map carefully, a determined look crossing his face as he tucked it into his robes. His movements were steady but filled with purpose. He had much to ponder—and more importantly, investigate.
As he left his office, his mind churned with questions. Hadrian's brilliance, the ease with which he grasped complex and dangerous magic, and now the presence of this ominous name above his own—it all fit together, but how? The connection was not yet clear, but Dumbledore knew that he had to get to the bottom of it. Whatever it was, it couldn't be ignored.
The shadows in the corridor deepened as Dumbledore walked swiftly toward the library, his thoughts dark and heavy. He knew one thing for certain—this mystery was far from over, and it was only the beginning of something much larger, something that could change the course of everything.
Just as he turned the corner, the parchment shifted slightly inside his robes. His heart clenched as he wondered: how much of Hadrian's life had already been shaped by forces beyond his control? And how much more would be revealed by the time this was all over?
For the first time in years, Albus Dumbledore felt a flicker of genuine fear.
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The door to the library loomed ahead, but in the darkness behind him, something far more sinister stirred.Months into his first year at Hogwarts, Hadrian Potter had already established a routine that set him apart from the rest of the students. Every morning, before the castle awoke, he would rise at four a.m., lace up his worn but sturdy running shoes, and head out into the crisp morning air. The routine was familiar, a remnant of his days with the gang, and it gave him a sense of control amidst the chaos of his new life at Hogwarts.
But as the weeks turned into months, a restlessness grew within him. The vastness of Hogwarts held secrets and mysteries that called to him, none more so than the Forbidden Forest. Each morning, as he sprinted through the grounds, his eyes would linger on the dark silhouette of the forest. The trees, tall and ancient, seemed to whisper secrets in the wind, and the shadows between them promised both danger and discovery.
There was something about the forest that drew him in, a magnetic pull that he found increasingly difficult to resist. He knew the tales—of deadly creatures, of students who had wandered too far and never returned. But those stories only served to heighten his curiosity. Life, as he had learned early on, was inherently dangerous. What was the point of living if one didn't seek out its edges?
One morning, as the sky was just beginning to lighten, he made his decision. Today, he would venture into the Forbidden Forest.
The twilight hour cast the forest in a surreal glow. The deep blues and purples of the early morning sky bled into the dark greens of the trees, creating a hauntingly beautiful tapestry of shadows and light. The air was thick with the scent of pine and earth, and every sound—the rustle of leaves, the distant hoot of an owl—was magnified in the stillness.
Hadrian's footsteps were nearly silent as he crossed the boundary from the school grounds into the forest. The transition was almost imperceptible; one moment he was surrounded by open fields, and the next he was enveloped by the dense foliage. The trees loomed above him, their branches twisting like the gnarled fingers of ancient giants, and the ground beneath him was soft and damp.
As he moved deeper into the forest, the light dimmed, and the shadows grew longer. Despite the darkness, there was an undeniable beauty to the place. The way the moonlight filtered through the canopy, casting silvery beams onto the forest floor, made the entire scene look like something out of a dream. But there was a tension in the air as well, a sense that the forest was watching him, waiting.
Hadrian's heart pounded in his chest, not from fear, but from the thrill of the unknown. Every step he took was a defiance of the warnings he'd heard, and he reveled in it. The further he went, the more he felt alive.
But then, a sudden prickle of unease ran down his spine. He halted, instinctively lowering his stance, his senses heightened. There was something behind him, he was sure of it. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and a chill ran through him despite the warmth of his exertion.
Slowly, he turned, his emerald eyes scanning the darkness. At first, he saw nothing, just the thick trunks of the trees and the play of shadows. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of something—a movement, subtle but deliberate. His breath caught in his throat as he focused on the spot.
A pair of eyes, glowing faintly in the darkness, stared back at him. They were unlike any eyes he had ever seen—pale and luminous, with an otherworldly intensity that seemed to pierce through the shadows. As the creature stepped into the thin beam of moonlight, Hadrian's breath left him in a quiet gasp.
A thestral.
The creature was both terrifying and beautiful, its skeletal frame covered in leathery black skin. Its wings, folded at its sides, were vast and bat-like, and its mane was long and matted. The thestral's face, though horse-like in structure, was elongated and gaunt, with a pair of long, white fangs protruding from its upper jaw. But it was the eyes that held Hadrian's attention—their depth, their ancient sorrow, their piercing gaze that seemed to see right through him.
Hadrian's pulse quickened as he stared at the creature, a mixture of awe and unease washing over him. Thestrals were said to be harbingers of death, visible only to those who had witnessed it firsthand. The sight of it should have terrified him, but instead, he felt a strange sense of kinship. As if this creature, in all its eerie beauty, understood him in a way no one else could.
Suddenly, a voice echoed in his mind. It was not spoken aloud, yet it resonated within him, deep and ancient. *"You are not afraid."*
Hadrian's eyes widened, his breath catching. He had heard of magical creatures communicating, but this was different. The voice was not a gentle whisper but a forceful presence that seemed to emanate from within him, as though the thestral's thoughts were merging with his own.
He swallowed, his voice trembling slightly as he spoke aloud, "Who... who are you?"
The thestral's gaze intensified, and the voice returned, this time laced with a bitter edge. *"I am Elara, the First Thestral. I have seen the birth of empires and their inevitable fall. I have watched mortals cling to life, only to wither away into the dust from whence they came."*
Hadrian's heart raced as he processed the thestral's words. Elara, the First Thestral? The very idea was mind-boggling. His eyes flickered with curiosity, tempered by the realization of the gravity of the encounter. "Why can I hear you?" he asked, his voice steadier now, though still laced with awe.
Elara's skeletal frame shifted slightly, and Hadrian noticed the subtle tension in the creature's muscles, as though it were testing him, gauging his reactions. *"Because you, child, are different. You walk the path between life and death, your soul tethered on both sides of the veil. You carry the marks of those who have passed, and your connection to the darkness is stronger than you know."*
Hadrian's mind raced, his thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and fascination. His gaze darted to the thestral's wings, noticing the way they twitched ever so slightly as if reflecting the creature's own agitation. There was a weight to Elara's words, a sense of inevitability that made his skin prickle with unease.
"What do you mean?" Hadrian asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His mind was filled with questions, each one more pressing than the last, but the thestral's presence was so overwhelming that he struggled to find the right words.
Elara's eyes, cold and distant, bore into his. *"You have already seen death, young one, even caused it, but your journey has just begun. There is darkness within you, a shadow that stretches far beyond your understanding. It will guide you, shape you, and one day, it will consume you. But in that darkness, you will find power, power that others can only dream of."*
The thestral's voice, ancient and bitter, sent a shiver down Hadrian's spine. He could feel the weight of the words pressing down on him, the truth of them resonating deep within his soul. There was a part of him that wanted to run, to escape the foreboding prophecy that Elara was weaving, but another part of him—a darker, more curious part—wanted to know more.
"Why are you telling me this?" Hadrian asked, his voice shaky but determined. His eyes, usually so calm and guarded, were wide with anticipation. He took a step closer to the thestral, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Elara's eyes flickered, the faintest hint of amusement crossing them before it was replaced by the same cold, detached stare. *"Because you must be prepared. The path you walk is fraught with danger, and you will need allies in the shadows. I have watched you, Hadrian Potter. I know the darkness that lingers within you, and I see the potential it holds."*
Hadrian's heart pounded in his chest, the words sinking in with a terrifying clarity. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions—fear, curiosity, determination—but above all, there was a sense of purpose that he had never felt before.
He took a deep breath, his gaze locking onto Elara's.
"What do you want from me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. The question was loaded, a challenge and a plea all at once.
Elara's eyes narrowed, the intensity of the gaze almost unbearable. *"I want nothing from you, child. But you will come to me again. You will seek answers, and when you do, I will be waiting. Until then, remember this: the darkness is not your enemy. It is your greatest ally."*
Hadrian's breath hitched, his mind reeling from the weight of the encounter. But before he could respond, Elara's form began to blur, fading into the shadows as if she had never been there at all. The forest, once so full of mystery and foreboding, now seemed even darker, the weight of Elara's words lingering in the air like a thick fog.
As the first lightof dawn began to break through the trees, Hadrian stood alone in the clearing, his thoughts racing. The encounter with Elara had left him shaken, but it had also ignited something within him—a burning desire to uncover the secrets that lay hidden in the shadows. There was a darkness within him, yes, but there was also power, and he would not shy away from it.
But as he turned to leave the forest, one final, chilling thought crossed his mind. Elara had called herself the First Thestral, an ancient creature that had seen the rise and fall of empires, and now she had set her sights on him. What did that mean for his future? And what darkness lay ahead?
And as Hadrian stepped out of the forest, the weight of Elara's words still heavy in his mind, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was only the beginning. The First Thestral, the darkness within him, the power he was yet to uncover—it all loomed over him like a storm on the horizon. Hadrian didn't know what awaited him, but he knew one thing for certain: his life would never be the same again.
And as he walked back to the castle, the first rays of dawn casting long shadows on the ground, he couldn't help but wonder what other secrets the Forbidden Forest—and the darkness within him—still held.
The sound of Elara's voice echoed in his mind, a final, haunting reminder: *"I am Elara, the First Thestral. I have lived through eons, child. I have seen empires rise and fall, mortals die, and darkness reign. And I will see it all again."*Hadrian's steps faltered, a shiver running down his spine. The prophecy hung heavy in the air, unanswered questions swirling in his mind. But there was no turning back now. The darkness was calling, and Hadrian knew that, sooner or later, he would answer.