Quickly leaving the Ravenclaw common room, Adrian Blackwood made his way briskly toward the Quidditch stadium. Before he even reached the stone steps leading down to the pitch, the frigid air was already shaking with cheers from the Gryffindor section, punctuated by frustrated groans from Slytherin. The match was clearly in full swing.
The cold November wind bit at his robes as Adrian reached the Ravenclaw stand. Viewing a match as a spectator was an entirely different experience from flying on the pitch. The tension was still there, but it lacked the intensity of dodging Bludgers and feeling the pull of acceleration under a racing broom.
Across the stadium, the Gryffindor section was a sea of scarlet and gold, filled with shouting, chanting, and the occasional booming lion roar charm. Gryffindor House was loud, proud, and reckless—everything Ravenclaws generally were not. If it weren't for Ravenclaw's academic neutrality and disdain for unnecessary confrontation, Adrian mused, they would probably have had more frequent clashes with Gryffindor than with Slytherin.
"The Snitch still hasn't been caught, right?" Adrian asked, approaching Roger Davies, who was hunched over his enchanted clipboard, furiously scribbling match statistics with a Quick-Quotes Quill.
"Still no sight of it," Roger grumbled, brushing windblown blond hair out of his face. "I haven't seen either Seeker really shine yet. Gryffindor's got brute force this year, though. Especially their Beaters. The Weasley twins are practically mind-linked. Their synergy is something else."
Roger glanced toward the twins—Fred and George Weasley—who zoomed through the air with identical grins and perfectly timed Bludger strikes.
Then Roger arched an eyebrow at Adrian, voice dropping into teasing suspicion. "By the way… what kind of stomach trouble keeps you gone for two days straight? You vanished on Halloween! Honestly, you should ask Amos Diggory for a referral—he's famous at the Ministry for boasting about Cedric's… digestive resilience."
Adrian, who of course had been locked in a magical trial designed by Rowena Ravenclaw's soul fragment, dodged the topic. "They've lived together since birth, those two. It's not surprising they're perfectly in sync. But our Beaters are solid too. You did well in your first match—caught the Bludgers with style."
Roger straightened, puffing out his chest. "Obviously. I'm the best Beater Hogwarts has seen since Burdock Muldoon in 1675." The gleam in his smile nearly outshone the sun.
"Can I borrow your omnioculars?" Adrian asked.
"Brought three pairs. Take your pick." Roger handed one over without looking, eyes already back on the pitch.
Adrian raised the omnioculars and focused on a tiny figure circling high above the pitch—that had to be Harry Potter. He was cruising smoothly, eyes scanning for the elusive Golden Snitch.
Compared to what Adrian had just endured in Ravenclaw Tower—floating through time-warped space, conjuring elements, forging a Philosopher's Stone—this was peaceful. Almost too peaceful. The cold finally hit him, his limbs aching with fatigue. He suddenly longed for the warm embrace of his four-poster bed, wrapped in Ravenclaw blue silks, the soft hum of the enchanted canopy above him.
"Snitch!" Roger's voice cut through Adrian's daze, triggering a surge of adrenaline in the nearby Ravenclaws. "Potter's seen the Snitch!"
Adrian snapped the omnioculars into place just in time to see Harry dive, a blur of black and red plummeting toward the pitch. But then—
CRACK.
Marcus Flint, Slytherin's hulking Chaser, swerved hard and collided with Harry mid-dive. The move was textbook illegal.
"Foul!" shouted Lee Jordan from the commentator's podium, his voice shrill with outrage. "Flint just body-checked the Gryffindor Seeker—ARE YOU BLIND, REF?! That's a blatant foul!"
Despite the penalty, the damage was done. Harry lost momentum and the Snitch vanished into the sunlight.
While Gryffindor was granted a free penalty shot, the loss of a potential 150-point victory loomed large. And even as the crowd simmered with anger, something more alarming caught Adrian's attention.
"Something's wrong with Potter's broom," Adrian muttered, voice tight with concern.
Roger lifted his own omnioculars again. "You're right… Look! It's twitching."
Harry's Nimbus Two Thousand—which had flown flawlessly just moments earlier—was now bucking violently, nearly throwing its rider off. The crowd gasped as the first-year Seeker clung on by one hand, barely managing to swing his leg back over the broomstick.
Gasps and shrieks filled the stadium as Harry spiraled uncontrollably toward the Forbidden Forest.
Adrian narrowed his eyes and focused his omnioculars on the stands instead of the pitch—he was looking for someone. There, in the staff section: Professor Snape, standing and glaring intently at the broomstick… and just in front of him, Hermione Granger fighting her way through the crowd, wand in hand.
A flash of light.
Hermione had cast a fire charm. Snape's robes caught alight, and in his attempt to stamp them out, he broke eye contact.
Across the stand, Professor Quirrell, usually a quivering bundle of nerves, had collapsed in a heap, his turbaned head striking the ground at a strange angle.
As suddenly as it had started, the curse on Harry's broom ceased. He regained control and plummeted toward the ground—but instead of crashing, he slid off the broom and spit the Snitch out of his mouth.
The Gryffindor stands erupted. They had won.
Even with the 150-point bonus, their overall score remained modest—a win, but not a clean one. In the greater picture of the House Cup, this would benefit Ravenclaw significantly.
As Roger celebrated, Adrian remained quiet, mind spinning with what he had seen. That broom had been cursed, not jinxed. And the intent behind it had not been mischief—it had been malice.
So much had changed. Since returning from the tower, Adrian could feel magic vibrating in the back of his mind—sharper, more attuned. The Diadem of Ravenclaw, now hidden beneath an enchantment in his pocket, seemed to hum in resonance.
And he had seen something in Quirrell—something not human—in that fall.
Adrian Blackwood clenched the omnioculars tighter.
The game was only just beginning.
"We're pretty lucky to be leading the other three Houses by a solid margin, but in any case, Gryffindor has a promising first-year player this year—they're shaping up to be a formidable opponent," Roger Davies said, snapping his notebook shut with a loud clack as the book lock sealed itself with a click. His face, usually relaxed, now radiated competitive zeal.
"For the rest of the Houses, we're the ones they should be worrying about most." Through the cheers echoing across the pitch, Adrian Blackwood offered Roger an encouraging smirk. "Gryffindor—see you on the battlefield."
One crisp morning in mid-December, Hogwarts awoke beneath a thick quilt of snow several feet deep. The Black Lake was frozen over, its icy surface glittering under the pale winter sun. The air outside was sharp, but Adrian's mood sparkled like spring. He had just completed a major system quest in the library, unlocking the Tome of Verto, a rare volume authored by the ancient Potion Master himself. Within were meticulous records on the crafting of ancient magical elixirs—some long lost to time.
Although many of the ingredients detailed had since vanished—such as coins once clutched by the dead or the spit of a lying witch—others hinted at complex theories that modern potion-brewers often disregarded. Adrian, however, found himself more enthralled the deeper he studied, humbled by the sheer breadth of forgotten knowledge and reinvigorated by the mysteries waiting to be uncovered.
Most Hogwarts students, however, had long since abandoned academic pursuits. Their thoughts drifted instead toward the rapidly approaching winter holidays.
Despite the enchantments placed on the Ravenclaw common room by Professor Flitwick to maintain warmth, and the blazing fires roaring in the Great Hall's hearths, the draughty stone corridors became veritable wind tunnels. The classroom windows rattled under the howling wind, frost creeping across their panes.
The worst location for students was arguably the dungeons—home to Professor Snape's Potions classroom. With the ambient chill so biting, students huddled close to their cauldrons, grateful for any warmth they could muster. In contrast, Adrian, having recently acquired Verto's Tome, now approached Potions with a new intensity. Even when Snape returned to his usual cold, sneering demeanor, Adrian paid it little mind. The depth of contrast between the ancient and modern theories fueled his desire to refine his fundamentals, and he was finally beginning to understand not just how potions worked—but why.
Snape, a master of his craft, had clearly taken notice. Adrian's technique had evolved. He had begun to experiment with brewing methods far beyond those typically expected of first-years—and without ever saying a word, Snape's attitude toward him changed. Though the Potions Master still wielded his trademark sarcasm and acerbic tongue, Adrian found that he was now receiving targeted instructions during class, and had yet to lose a single House point in Snape's domain.
This newfound "favor" did not go unnoticed. Other students were stunned that a Ravenclaw—one not even in Slytherin—could evade Snape's wrath. His classmates watched in disbelief as Snape not only overlooked Adrian's deviations from the textbook, but occasionally offered additional insights—something he never did for even the best Gryffindors.
But this made life even more difficult for others. The chasm between Adrian's performance and his peers only deepened Snape's contempt for those who floundered. Neville Longbottom, in particular, became the primary victim of Snape's icy cruelty. Despite brewing fairly well, being paired with Seamus Finnigan often turned Neville into a scapegoat for their failures. Snape's punishments, coupled with the freezing dungeon air, made the class especially torturous for them.
Outside Potions, Adrian continued to impress across all subjects. His grasp of magical theory and spellwork left many older students both awed and quietly jealous. But unlike Gryffindor, where overachievers like Hermione Granger were sometimes ostracized, Ravenclaw fostered a more curious, competitive spirit. As such, Adrian remained relatively unbothered by resentment, though Hermione herself still doggedly pursued the top spot in the year.
With final exams approaching, most assumed that Adrian would easily place first. Hermione Granger, firmly holding second, still competed fiercely in lessons and House activities, clearly hoping to edge out the Ravenclaw prodigy. Meanwhile, others simply set their sights on third.
Of course, being a top student came with its drawbacks. Professors often leaned on Adrian as a classroom assistant. On this particular day, just before the Christmas holidays, Professor Flitwick had summoned him to help decorate the Great Hall. Alongside a few older Ravenclaws, Adrian stood on tiptoe, guiding sparkling golden bubbles from his wand to float gracefully onto the branches of a massive pine tree recently hauled in by Hagrid.
With everyone working together, the hall took on a majestic, almost enchanted glow. Ribbons of holly and mistletoe twined along the walls. Twelve towering Christmas trees dotted the space, each one uniquely adorned—some with enchanted icicles that never melted, others with floating candles that bobbed gently in place like will-o'-the-wisps.
As Adrian stepped back to admire their handiwork, the Gryffindor trio—Harry, Ron, and Hermione—entered the hall in Hagrid's wake. They didn't notice Adrian behind the tree, partially hidden beneath the lowest pine boughs. He was about to call out when he heard Harry's voice.
"Ever since you mentioned Nicolas Flamel," Harry was saying to Hagrid, "we've been trying to figure out who he is…"
Adrian paused, his eyes narrowing. Flamel? That name again. It seemed Harry and his friends were chasing after something big—something tied, perhaps, to the Philosopher's Stone. The same object detailed in Verto's Tome and touched upon during Ravenclaw's trial. Adrian remained silent, eyes glinting with quiet understanding.