In the early morning of the next day, Adrian Blackwood lay nestled in the soft embrace of Ravenclaw's four-poster bed, his half-lidded eyes barely open. The Ravenclaw dormitory was enchantingly cozy—too cozy, in fact. The rich, azure hangings around his bed, the gentle hum of wind outside the arched window, and the star-patterned ceiling above made him seriously consider going back to sleep.
But old habits honed from a disciplined life—both magical and physical—kicked in, and Adrian eventually forced himself upright. As he stretched, a folded parchment near the pillow caught his eye. It was sealed with the Hogwarts crest. Curious, he sat up and tore it open—it was the first-year timetable.
Adrian blinked, then glanced around. How had it appeared on his bed without waking him? Perhaps house-elves were behind it—quiet and efficient as ever. Or maybe Ravenclaw Tower simply had its own ancient enchantments that delivered such items.
He turned his head and noted that Edward Fox was still snoring softly under his covers. Unfolding the parchment, Adrian read over the schedule. This semester included Astronomy, Herbology, Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, History of Magic, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Flying Lessons. As expected, Astronomy was held at night atop the Astronomy Tower, while the rest were spread throughout the week—two blocks daily, each about two hours long. Most classes were shared with Hufflepuff, but some—like Potions—were with Slytherin. A curious arrangement, but perhaps strategic.
"No classes on Friday afternoon…" Adrian noted with a smirk. "And full weekends free. Excellent."
That meant extra time for his personal training: wand work, mental cultivation, and the sorcerer's body art passed down through the Blackwood lineage. The 9 a.m. start for classes left ample time in the mornings. The only problem was finding a private place to practice the more physically demanding aspects of his discipline.
He washed quickly in the dormitory bathroom, donned his Ravenclaw robes over light exercise clothes, and packed his books for the day. To avoid any delays from the talking bronze eagle knocker—especially at this hour—he brought everything he might need.
Adrian had read about a hidden room in Hogwarts: the Room of Requirement, also known as the Come and Go Room. According to magical lore, it would only reveal itself when someone was truly in need, and it always transformed to suit the seeker's purpose. Better yet, the room didn't appear on the Marauder's Map—making it ideal for privacy.
"Perfect."
Avoiding Edward's curious gaze—had he woken briefly?—Adrian activated the stealth enchantment sewn into the hem of his enchanted robe, a clever bit of self-charming he'd designed before arriving at Hogwarts. With quiet, fluid steps, he descended Ravenclaw Tower, moving like a shadow through the corridors.
By now it was past curfew but before dawn—technically a grey area in terms of rules. Better to avoid Filch, Peeves, or any other unnecessary attention.
Navigating by memory and a mental map of the castle, Adrian made his way up to the eighth floor, stopping across from a tapestry depicting Barnabas the Barmy being clubbed by trolls while attempting to teach them ballet. He stood still, focused on his desire: I need a place to train.
Then, pacing three times before the blank wall, he murmured inwardly, "I need a space to master body art. I need a space to hone magic and movement together."
A door appeared.
Slipping inside quickly and shutting the door behind him, Adrian took in the interior. It was a sprawling chamber resembling an ancient yet well-maintained training hall. Wizarding exercise equipment—some clearly derived from medieval magical traditions—lined the walls. There were enchanted dummies, a levitating dueling platform, and even a sand-filled pit for footwork drills. In one corner stood a blackened crucible with ancient runes etched into its surface and faint traces of blood on the edge—clearly a relic from some forgotten wizarding sport.
Adrian recognized it from one of his arcane history books: Crucible Overhead, a brutal broom-based contest dating back to 11th-century Scotland. Supposedly, Godric Gryffindor himself had once triumphed in such a match. It had long since been outlawed for its lethality.
"Good thing we have Quidditch now," Adrian muttered, suppressing a grin.
He practiced until sweat soaked his robes and his muscles burned with the satisfying ache of mastery. The room was intelligent—it summoned stretching mats, fresh towels, even a magically cooled bottle of pumpkin juice. There was a wardrobe in one corner stocked with fresh uniforms, and an adjoining washroom enchanted for quick post-training recovery.
Feeling refreshed and clear-minded, Adrian left the Room of Requirement. It vanished behind him without a trace.
He arrived at the Great Hall with just enough time to enjoy breakfast. Despite the early hour, many students were already seated, buzzing with excitement for their first day. The enchanted ceiling showed a brightening sky, streaked with rose and gold.
"Adrian! Over here, mate!"
It was Fraig Brown, the loud and good-natured Gryffindor he'd met on the train. He was waving from the Gryffindor table.
Adrian smiled, pointed to the Ravenclaw crest on his robe, and gave a rueful shrug. "House rules," his gesture seemed to say, before heading toward the Ravenclaw table.
Fraig looked sheepish and scratched his head, clearly forgetting house seating protocols.
Adrian took a seat beside Lisa Dupin, who offered him a small, grateful smile. Penelope Clearwater was already handing out some kind of announcement, probably reminders about class locations.
"First lesson's with Professor McGonagall—Transfiguration," someone whispered nearby.
Adrian nodded, devouring scrambled eggs and toast before adding a bowl of oats and dried fruit to the mix. As he glanced around, a vague unease settled over him. Something nagged at the edge of his mind.
Did I forget something…?
He scanned the hall once more, trying to recall what exactly was missing.
As he rushed through the castle corridors, he passed a yawning fifth-year Ravenclaw witch, who was just stepping out of the common room. She blinked in sleepy confusion at the sight of Adrian dashing past, but before she could ask anything, he slipped through the still-open entrance.
Back in the dormitory, Edward was, unsurprisingly, still snoring.
"Edward! Get up! We're going to be late!" Adrian's urgency was met with absolutely no reaction. Finally, with a resigned sigh, Adrian pulled out his wand and murmured, "Aguamenti."
A gentle but firm jet of water sprayed Edward square in the face.
"Mmph—Adrian? Morning already?" Edward groaned, still half-buried under the covers. He didn't seem bothered by the water in the slightest.
Adrian wondered wryly if anything short of a fire-breathing Hungarian Horntail would actually jolt Edward fully awake.
By the time the two finally made it to the Transfiguration classroom on the first floor, most of the seats had already been taken. The room buzzed with chatter as students, believing the professor hadn't arrived yet, relaxed and joked freely. At first glance, the only occupant of the classroom appeared to be a stern-looking tabby cat perched on the teacher's desk.
"Let's sit in the back," Edward whispered. "Less chance of being called on—Ow! What was that for?"
Adrian had discreetly nudged him in the shin.
"Don't speak carelessly," he murmured, inclining his head slightly toward the cat. "Watch her eyes."
Edward blinked, then looked closer. "Wait… are those—glasses markings?"
Adrian nodded. "That's Professor McGonagall. She's an Animagus—one of only seven registered in the 20th century. Her Animagus form retains the same distinctive spectacle-like pattern around her eyes."
Edward immediately straightened in his seat, suddenly much more alert.
Adrian gave a small, respectful bow in the cat's direction before settling in quietly. His subtle gesture didn't go unnoticed—McGonagall's tail twitched.
Just then, a bushy-haired girl—Hermione Granger—entered the classroom and moved toward the desk, clearly intending to pet the cat.
Before her fingers could make contact, the tabby leapt gracefully from the desk and transformed mid-air into Professor Minerva McGonagall, clad in tartan robes and an expression that could curdle milk.
Hermione froze, mortified.
Adrian winced in sympathy.
"Oh, wow! That was brilliant!" shouted Ron Weasley, who had just barreled into the classroom alongside Harry Potter and Fraig Brown.
The three Gryffindors looked around in relief—until they saw McGonagall.
"Good morning, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Potter, Mr. Brown," she said crisply. "Late on your first day. Five points from Gryffindor—each."
The classroom fell quiet.
"And thank you for the commentary, Mr. Weasley," she added, glancing over her glasses. "Perhaps if I transfigured you or Mr. Potter into pocket watches, we might finally have one student in Gryffindor who understands punctuality."
The trio slunk to their seats, faces flushed with embarrassment.
McGonagall's sharp gaze moved through the room. Then she paused, and her eyes landed on Adrian.
"Mr. Blackwood," she said, her tone more neutral. "It seems you're the only first-year who correctly recognized my Animagus form. Five points to Ravenclaw."
Adrian inclined his head respectfully, but kept his expression composed. He was already familiar with McGonagall's reputation for fairness and her dislike for showing off.
"Transfiguration," she began, pacing the front of the room, "is one of the most complex and dangerous branches of magic you will study at Hogwarts. Anyone found fooling around in my class will leave—and not return. Consider this your only warning."
With a practiced flick of her wand, she transformed her lectern into a sleek, black pig. Another flick—and it turned back.
Gasps of amazement filled the room. Then came the rapid scribbling of notes as the students tried to keep up.
After a short lecture on the theory of elemental transfiguration and the difficulty of altering both form and material, she distributed matchsticks to the class.
"Your task," she said, "is to begin the transfiguration into needles. Don't expect success today—this takes practice."
Many first-years struggled to produce any visible effect.
Adrian, however, tapped the match with precise control of his intent and wand movement. The matchstick shimmered and narrowed—its wood darkened into glinting silver. Though not yet sharp, it now clearly resembled a needle.
Professor McGonagall passed by, then paused.
"Well done, Mr. Blackwood," she said, sounding genuinely impressed. "Very few students succeed on the first day, even with prior training. Five more points to Ravenclaw. Would you care to demonstrate?"
Adrian nodded and repeated the process in front of the class with calm precision. The transfiguration was smooth and stable.
By the end of the lesson, only a handful of Ravenclaws—and Hermione Granger from Gryffindor—had managed even partial transformations.
Outside the classroom, whispers spread quickly among the first-years. Adrian Blackwood had not only recognized McGonagall's Animagus form but had also transfigured his match almost perfectly.
It wasn't just in Transfiguration, either. In nearly every class that followed, Adrian distinguished himself—quietly, efficiently, but undeniably. Whether it was Charms, Potions, or History of Magic, he earned points for Ravenclaw and drew attention without seeking it.
Before long, the name Adrian Blackwood had become a familiar one among the Hogwarts first-years—and not just in Ravenclaw.