Transfiguration Class
By mid-morning, they found themselves in Professor McGonagall's class—a cathedral of discipline and quiet dread. The stern Scottish witch stood ramrod straight beside a desk upon which sat an unassuming matchstick.
"This," she said with solemn reverence, "is the most basic object you shall ever transfigure. And also, the most likely to humble you into magical submission."
She flicked her wand.
The matchstick turned into a silver needle with a satisfying metallic ping.
"Your turn."
Adrian stared at his matchstick. It stared back.
He whispered the incantation. Concentrated. Willed it.
The matchstick shuddered. Twitched. Then transformed into…
A very smug-looking toothpick with a monocle and a bowtie.
McGonagall blinked.
"Well, it is technically transfigured," she said, lips twitching. "Five points for creativity. And possibly for insult."
Adrian gave the matchstick-toothpick a nod. "He's upper management."
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(Daybreak - After 1 week)
Waking up in his Ravenclaw dormitory was like drifting back into a dream. Adrian blinked blearily at the tall, arched windows letting in a silvery-blue morning light, the kind that whispered, "You're far too important for morning breath."
His private room, one of Ravenclaw's finest traditions, was more of a compact sanctuary than a simple bedroom. The four-poster bed was draped in deep blue and silver velvet, bookshelves lined the walls—some whispering facts at odd hours—and a miniature chandelier dangled over his writing desk, flickering gently like a thoughtful candle. The private bathroom gleamed in hues of marble and bronze. It was all thanks to Rowena Ravenclaw's mastery of space magic, which had turned the entire tower into a luxurious pocket dimension for introverted geniuses.
He padded out toward the common room, where Rowena's statue stood tall in polished marble, quill in one hand, a tome in the other, and a look of eternal judgement Adrian had already labelled as "Mum Mode." The common room itself was a celestial dome of stars and constellations painted across the ceiling, plush armchairs in artistic disarray, and enchanted books floating lazily by the fireplace. It was both majestic and cozy—a bit like living inside a very posh observatory.
"Morning, Lovegood," chirped a fellow Ravenclaw named Aurelia Flint, bushy-haired and wearing a monocle purely for aesthetic reasons. "You look like you survived your first week. Pity."
Adrian raised an eyebrow. "Thank you, Miss Flint. I do pride myself on disappointing my enemies."
"Don't flatter yourself. I haven't decided if I like you yet."
"Ah, mutual confusion. How Ravenclaw of us."
Later that day, Adrian found himself in the Hogwarts Library, perusing the Restricted Section Not Yet Restricted Enough when he heard a familiar voice.
"Excuse me, but I believe that book on Occlumency is supposed to be off-limits unless you're trying to develop a split personality."
He turned, and there she was—Hermione Granger. Curly-haired, armed with seventeen books stacked precariously high, and looking at Adrian like she was both impressed and appalled.
"I assure you, Miss Granger," he said smoothly, "I already have several personalities. I just want them to be… compartmentalised."
She sniffed. "That's not how Occlumency works."
"Yet."
They ended up sharing a table. By the end of the hour, Adrian had borrowed three books (legally, much to Hermione's relief), engaged in a duel of wits over the efficiency of mind palaces, and made her laugh by comparing Professor Binns' teaching to necromantic sleep therapy.
Before she left, she hesitated. "You're odd, Lovegood. But you're not uninteresting."
"I'll put that on my tombstone."
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With his curiosity piqued and desire for rapid growth rising, Adrian began hunting for a certain fabled room. He had not forgotten the challenges that lay ahead, the troll, Quirrell and the exams and needed to prepare. After several nights of wandering and whispering oddly specific wishes—"a place to study and practice magic and forgotten treasures"—he finally struck gold. Or rather, the gold struck him.
As he paced in front of a blank stretch of wall on the seventh floor, his thoughts sharpened, his desire focused, and the wall melted into an ornate door.
The Room of Requirement had heard him.
He stepped in—and gasped.
The space inside looked like a dragon's hoard had been neatly organised by a particularly obsessive librarian. Mountains of Galleons glittered beside ancient jewellery boxes, a trunk practically humming with spatial enchantments, and a dusty Pensieve floating invitingly above a pedestal. The trunk alone was worth a squeal—it boasted three rooms and a kitchen (because power was important, but so were midnight snacks).
Adrian danced a little jig. "Thank you, Hogwarts. I promise not to burn you down. Probably."
He eyed a shimmer in the far corner—Rowena's Diadem, unmistakable in its elegance and quiet power. He stared at it, gulped, and bowed slightly.
"Respectfully, I'm not suicidal yet. See you in fifth year, maybe."
He began cataloguing the room's contents:
Seven full chests of gold: at least 5,000,000 Galleons, untouched for centuries, quietly accumulating like a very smug vault.
Enchanted jewellery and heirlooms: about three dozen, some magical, some simply exquisite.
A cache of rare ritual ingredients: unicorn hair, moonstone dust, phoenix ash, mandrake root.
Dozens of antique tomes, some in Old Runic.
A pristine Pensieve, gently glowing.
Now, as Adrian studied a particularly temperamental tome on ward theory, he muttered, "Could use a snack, honestly."
With a soft pop, an unexpected guest arrived.
A tiny elf with floppy ears, wide eyes, and a robe made from old tea cozies appeared, balancing a tray of sandwiches.
"Quillik brings food, sir!" he squeaked, nearly dropping the tray. "Room said someone needed snacks!"
Adrian blinked. "You're… a house-elf?"
"Yes, sir! Quillik is! Was helping in kitchens, but Room called Quillik right to you, sir!"
"You're not bound to anyone?"
"No, sir! Old master went boom! Quillik helps around Hogwarts now. But... Quillik likes clever wizards. You reads lots! Even when you snore on books!"
Adrian chuckled. "I do that, yes." Then, thinking fast, he pulled a Ravenclaw-blue ribbon from his pocket.
"Quillik, would you like to stay with me? I'm offering. No orders—just… a partnership."
Quillik gasped, clutched the ribbon like a holy relic, and nodded furiously. "Yes! Quillik is honoured! Quillik swears loyalty and snacks and bedtime tucks and maybe some sock-folding!"
A soft shimmer danced between them. The magical bond formed—subtle, ancient, warm.
But just as the euphoria settled, Adrian remembered something important—something chilling. Not all things at Hogwarts were friendly. There were whispers, strange movements, and the nagging intuition that danger was creeping closer.
He had to be ready.
Thus began the training arc.
Quillik, naturally, created a schedule that made Hermione blush. Mornings were for spellwork: master-level charms, hexes, and defensive manoeuvres. Adrian tore through incantations, wand movements, and magical theory like a starved quiz champion at a buffet.
Afternoons were for Occlumency—constructing a mind palace brick by agonising brick while enduring mental bombardments from enchanted relics (he named one "The Screaming Snitch" for good reason).
Progress was swift. The Room seemed to respond to his drive, crafting perfect simulations, offering feedback in glowing runes, and even handing him a sarcastic training manual titled "You're Not Dead Yet: Congratulations!"
By the time Halloween approached, Adrian Lovegood wasn't just a bookworm with potential.
He was a bookworm with bite.
And Hogwarts? Hogwarts had just awakened its most unpredictable student yet.
Adrian's schedule was brutal:
Spellwork Mornings:
Protego Maxima
Expulso
Ventus
Fianto Duri
Arresto Momentum
Glacius
Obscuro
He wasn't just casting spells. He was dissecting them. With his mother's knack for experimental enchantments, Adrian dabbled in spell theory—tweaking incantations, modifying wand movements, and inventing harmless charms to start.
Occlumency Afternoons: His mind palace was a gothic library nestled on floating islands under moonlight. Books of memory floated and flew, locked behind riddles and illusions. Defensive layers grew daily. Emotional control followed.
Combat Evenings: Animated dummies, shifting platforms, obstacle courses, and Flitwick's private lessons turned him into a magical gymnast.
"Bravo, Mr. Lovegood!" Flitwick would cry. "Such flourish! Such focus!"
Flitwick grew fond of Adrian. "You make an old professor proud. Ten points to Ravenclaw for innovation... and for not setting yourself on fire."
Between training, Adrian still crossed paths with Hermione and the trio. In the library, they exchanged quips. At meals, he sat near enough to overhear Potter's usual chaos.
One morning, Hermione passed him a book on magical theory.
"You might find this useful. It's obscure, but detailed."
Adrian smiled. "Is this a Granger endorsement?"
She rolled her eyes. "Don't let it go to your head."
He didn't. Not yet.
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