The Dark Slytherin (Trilogy)

Ch 25- The Attack

The morning air was crisp, filled with the scent of damp earth and pine, the sky above just beginning to brighten with the early light of dawn. The Forbidden Forest loomed dark and foreboding, but Hadrian Potter found solace in its seclusion. This was his sanctuary—a place where he could push his body to its limits without prying eyes, without judgment.

Hadrian stood shirtless in a small clearing, his breath coming in controlled bursts as he finished another set of pull-ups on the low-hanging branch of a sturdy oak tree. His hands, calloused from years of rough living, gripped the bark with ease, his muscles flexing as he lifted himself up and down in a steady rhythm. Each repetition brought a slight tremor to his arms, but he relished the burn, the pain a welcome reminder of his strength.

He dropped to the ground in a fluid motion, landing softly on the balls of his feet. The earth beneath him was cold, but Hadrian hardly noticed as he moved into the next phase of his routine. He lowered himself into a push-up position, his body parallel to the ground, and began the grueling task of pushing his body up and down. His muscles strained with each movement, his biceps and triceps bulging with the effort. Sweat dripped from his brow, tracing a path down his bare chest and over the defined ridges of his abs.

The routine was relentless—push-ups, squats, and lunges, all performed with military precision. Hadrian's breath came in sharp bursts as he worked through each exercise, his focus entirely on the physical challenge before him. The strain on his body was immense, but he pushed through the discomfort, driven by an inner fire that refused to be quenched.

After what felt like an eternity, Hadrian paused, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. He glanced at the nearby trees, their rough bark calling to him. Without hesitation, he moved toward one, his fists clenching as he began to practice his boxing technique. He threw punch after punch, his knuckles slamming into the tree trunk with a force that would have broken lesser men's hands. 

The bark cracked under the assault, small splinters flying off with each hit.

Hadrian's punches were methodical, each one delivered with precision and power. His mind was focused, his thoughts narrowed to the sensation of his fists connecting with the wood. He moved with a fluid grace, his body a blur of motion as he ducked, weaved, and struck again. The tree bore the brunt of his frustration, the holes in its bark growing larger with each successive blow.

But he wasn't done yet. Hadrian's routine wasn't just about strength; it was about control, about mastering his body in ways few others could. He took a step back, eyeing the tree with determination before launching himself into a handstand. His arms trembled slightly as he balanced upside down, the world turned on its head. He held the position for several seconds, his muscles quivering with the effort, before lowering himself into a handstand push-up.

Up and down he went, his body a testament to the countless hours of training he had endured. His arms burned with exertion, but Hadrian pushed through the pain, his mind focused on the task at hand. When he finally lowered himself back to the ground, he could feel the exhaustion creeping in, his muscles heavy with fatigue.

But there was one last challenge. The human flag—a feat of strength and balance that few could master. Hadrian approached the tree again, his hand gripping a low branch as he prepared himself. He took a deep breath and then pulled himself up, his body parallel to the ground as he extended his legs out in a horizontal line. The strain on his core was immense, every muscle in his body screaming in protest as he held the position.