Adrian no longer paid attention to how the system handled the Diadem now stripped of the soul fragment. He swiftly left the Room of Requirement, seizing the chance to return to the statue of Rowena Ravenclaw and continue his investigation.
Before exiting the hidden chamber, Adrian recast the Disillusionment Charm—his last charge before magical exhaustion would force rest. The timing proved flawless. Not long after he slipped out, he caught sight of Professor Quirrell darting up the staircase, pale and visibly shaken.
The stammering, timid Defense Against the Dark Arts professor looked more nervous than usual. Adrian narrowed his eyes.
So he was the one who preserved the troll specimen in that grotesque cabinet, Adrian deduced. After all, it was no secret that something was off about Quirrell. Beneath the layers of garlic-scented cloth and trembling hands, the Dark Lord himself—Lord Voldemort—was parasitically latched to the back of Quirrell's head, hidden beneath his turban. While Voldemort's physical form had yet to be fully restored, Adrian had no doubt the concealed visage still had functioning senses. Which raised another question: If Voldemort had a nose in that form, how was he tolerating the stench of garlic every day?
Amused by the absurdity, Adrian banished the thought and returned swiftly to the Ravenclaw common room. Most of his housemates were still enjoying the lakeside masquerade ball. The tower was nearly silent—a rare opportunity. He retrieved the purified crown from his system storage, dragged a chair beneath the statue of Rowena Ravenclaw, and carefully placed the diadem atop her sculpted head.
At first glance, it seemed to fit perfectly. The arc of Rowena's carved curls and the form of the Diadem matched as if made for one another. But then—clink. The crown was repelled by a sudden magical force. It toppled from the statue's smooth stone head, bounced off the chair, and landed with a muffled clack on the plush blue carpet below.
Adrian's brow furrowed. What went wrong?
He jumped down and retrieved the crown. Its dull surface gave away its age, and yet, it remained inert in his hands. This diadem was definitely ancient, but despite the purging of the Horcrux, it didn't seem to react to the statue at all.
Raising his wand, Adrian tried several minor restoration spells.
"Reparo… Scourgify… Tergeo… Ornatis Novus!"
The Diadem remained dull, lifeless. Not a single rune glowed, not a whisper of ancient magic stirred. It was as if Rowena's enchantments had long gone dormant or were waiting for something else entirely.
Then it hit him.
The Orb of the Goddess of Fortune.
He'd recovered it beneath Borgin and Burkes on a prior quest—an ancient artifact infused with luck-altering magic. He'd used it once before to successfully dispel the lizard curse during the Knockturn Alley incident. Could it be the key? If the Orb could manipulate magical probability, maybe it could awaken the Diadem's enchantments or at least trigger a magical reaction within the statue.
His hand reached toward his satchel just as a sound broke his concentration—the distinct click of the Eagle Knocker outside the entrance door, followed by the soft hooting inquiry of another Ravenclaw riddle. Footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Adrian's eyes widened. The masquerade must have ended. They're returning!
Acting fast, he tucked the Diadem back into the system's storage and shoved the chair into its original place. There was no time to test the Orb or experiment further—any witnesses would raise questions he wasn't ready to answer.
He darted quietly up the spiral staircase and into the boys' dormitory. Within moments of settling at his desk, the sound of chattering students and laughter filled the common room below.
The bedroom door flew open.
Edward burst in, cheeks flushed from the cold and excitement, strands of blond hair sticking to his forehead. He looked genuinely surprised to see Adrian calmly seated, quill in hand.
"Adrian? You're already back?" he asked, unbuttoning his cream-colored sweater, now stained slightly with pumpkin juice and glittering dust from the fireworks. "I don't get it—you've got the instincts of a top-tier wizard, but instead of enjoying one of the coolest Ravenclaw events of the year, you're up here studying?"
Adrian arched an eyebrow.
Edward didn't wait for a reply. "I mean, if you really wanted to nerd out, you could've at least brought your books to the ball. There were plenty of girls doing readings by the bonfire. And some of the seventh-years charmed the lake to reflect star charts!"
Adrian gave a faint smile, not bothering to explain. The truth was far too complex to share—and far too dangerous to speak aloud.
Edward collapsed onto his bed with a contented sigh. "You need to loosen up, mate. You're missing all the fun."
Adrian turned his gaze toward the window, where lanterns still floated gently in the night sky. Fun, he thought, can wait. But magic like this… this is something else entirely.
Edward didn't respond immediately upon entering the room. Instead, he leaned close to Adrian Blackwood's ear and whispered with a mischievous glint in his eye, "Mate, you really shouldn't have snuck off. Captain Penelope Clearwater asked about you more than once at the masquerade. She kept looking around and asking if anyone had seen you. Honestly, aside from that Ravenclaw duo—Cho Chang and the Patil twins—nobody comes close to her looks. I think she's got her eye on you."
"Don't be ridiculous," Adrian replied, waving off the idea as he pulled a book from his satchel. "She's older, taller, and far too sharp to be interested in me like that. Don't go getting stupid ideas in your head, or you'll earn a hex faster than a first-year touching a cursed cauldron."
Grinning, Edward pulled off his sweater, still flecked with shimmer from the night's magical decorations. "Well, suit yourself. But don't blame me if someone else swoops in first."
"Go wash up before bed," Adrian said dryly, "or you'll wake up crawling with frost-bugs from the enchanted linens again."
They both slept soundly through the night, but by the time Adrian descended to the Great Hall the next morning for breakfast, something was clearly off.
The moment he entered the hall, the usual hum of chatter dulled to a hush, then rose sharply into a cacophony of whispers. Heads turned in waves. Even some of the smaller first-years stood on tiptoe or craned their necks to get a better look. All eyes were on Adrian Blackwood.
It was different than before. Some of the older Ravenclaws—those who had once spoken to him with fond amusement as a gifted younger student—now approached him as equals. Their expressions held respect, curiosity, and in some, even wariness. His quick rise through the ranks of magical excellence hadn't gone unnoticed.
Amid the bustle, Harry Potter nudged Ron Weasley, both watching Adrian being surrounded by students.
"Looks like Hermione was right yesterday," Harry muttered. "But thank Merlin we didn't run into that troll. If we had, we'd be in the Hospital Wing right now—or worse."
Ron, still chewing on a sausage, didn't seem to share Harry's relief. "Honestly? I wish we had. Look at Blackwood. Everyone's talking about him. At home, I'm just another Weasley. Here, I can't even win a game of Wizard's Chess without someone like him outshining it." His tone was part admiration, part envy.
November had crept in with bitter cold. The distant hills around Hogwarts were cloaked in white, and frost coated every stone of the castle by sunrise. The Great Lake had taken on the dull sheen of iron, the surface stiff with early ice.
From the high windows of the Ravenclaw common room, Adrian often spotted Rubeus Hagrid—half-giant gamekeeper and Care of Magical Creatures instructor—trudging across the grounds. Bundled in a vast moleskin coat, thick rabbit-fur gloves, and enormous beaver-fur boots, he could be seen cheerfully defrosting the Quidditch brooms on the pitch, although the damp, frozen tip of his moleskin hood suggested he wasn't as warm as he looked.
Quidditch season was fast approaching.
Roger Davies, Ravenclaw's charismatic team captain, seemed to have caught a second wind—likely trying to match or outdo Gryffindor's Oliver Wood in sheer intensity. The training schedule leapt from three sessions a week to five. Rain or frost, Davies was relentless, dragging Adrian and the rest of the team to the pitch at dawn and dusk.
The professors, however, showed no leniency toward schoolwork despite the Quidditch fervor.
"A truly great wizard performs under pressure," declared Professor Snape one grim Monday, as he handed out an extra foot of essay on the uses of Moonstone in restorative draughts. Had Adrian not known better, he would have sworn the assignment was aimed at Ravenclaw specifically—though Snape's favoritism toward Slytherin remained obvious. The Gryffindors sharing Potions were already grumbling under their breath.
Adrian, however, had no time to complain. His schedule was relentless. Skipping Quidditch practice was out of the question—not with Davies watching like a hawk. Outside of lessons, Adrian woke early for physical conditioning, kept ahead of his coursework, and spent nearly every spare moment combing the library's restricted section for hidden knowledge and advanced potion lore. He couldn't afford to slip.
Not when the magic of the ancient world was watching him—and possibly testing him.