Hadrian did not return to the dormitory immediately. Instead, he moved silently through the castle's dimly lit corridors, his mind still fixed on the whisper that had called his name. The way the air had shifted, the cold touch against his skin—it wasn't a trick of his mind. Something had reached out to him.
He descended a winding staircase, his footsteps barely making a sound. Hogwarts was ancient, its walls thick with secrets, and he had no doubt that he had only begun to scratch the surface.
"Hadrian Peverell."
The whisper came again, and this time, it was accompanied by a flicker of shadow at the edge of his vision.
Hadrian whirled around, wand raised. The corridor stretched empty before him, but the shadows felt deeper, the silence heavier.
Then, from the darkness, something moved.
A figure, cloaked and hooded, stepped forward.
Hadrian tensed, his grip on his wand tightening. "Who are you?" His voice was steady, unwavering.
The figure remained silent, but Hadrian felt it—a pulse of ancient magic rolling off them, something both foreign and familiar at the same time.
Then, the figure spoke.
"You are not meant for this world as it is now, Hadrian Peverell."
A sharp chill ran through him.
"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice calm despite the tension in his chest.
The figure did not answer immediately. Instead, they raised a gloved hand, and the shadows around them deepened. The torches lining the corridor flickered, and for the briefest moment, Hadrian saw something beyond the veil of reality—a glimpse of something vast, something ancient.
And then, as suddenly as they had appeared, the figure vanished into the darkness.
Hadrian stood there, heart pounding, his mind racing with possibilities.
Who— or what— had just spoken to him?
One thing was certain.
This was only the beginning.
—