CHAPTER 38

Adrian Blackwood was a proud Ravenclaw, but he was also someone with uncommon grit—particularly when compared to the more academic, less daring members of his House. Now, standing at the precipice of a strange magical trial deep within the Room of Requirement, which had reshaped itself into a celestial observatory, he felt the thrill of challenge coursing through him. Fear had no place here—not when the stakes involved unraveling a mystery that perhaps even Rowena Ravenclaw herself once dabbled in.

He gripped his wand—mahogany, eleven and three-quarter inches, with a phoenix feather core—and pointed it at the arcane tower model floating above the pedestal. His voice was calm but determined as he commanded, "Move." A ribbon of blue light unfurled from the tip of his wand and struck the model. From its center, a bronze twenty-sided die etched with Roman numerals and Latin incantations emerged, spinning with eerie grace before settling on "III."

The tower model responded. It jerked forward along a latticework of glowing tracks—three spaces ahead—and then, as if time itself reversed, the die retracted into the model. The model pulsed with arcane energy and shimmered like starlight.

"Rowena Ravenclaw invented this… did she command time magic? But wait, this looks exactly like the Mímisbrunnr Tower dice tower from the lost Gringotts alchemical records…" Adrian's thoughts churned. His eyes widened as the entire observatory began to shift. The walls dissolved into shimmering glass, and he found himself floating—suspended between the physical tower and its magical counterpart.

Through the gothic arched window, Adrian glimpsed a vast starfield—celestial bodies gliding by in slow, reverent motion. "Is Ravenclaw Tower really floating in the cosmos?" he whispered, his breath visible in the suddenly frigid air.

For a moment, he couldn't discern illusion from reality. Was this an enchantment of extreme realism or a transdimensional construct rooted in Arithmancy and spatial transfiguration?

The temperature dropped further. Frost bloomed on the tapestry lining the high ceiling. Adrian, shivering despite his layered Ravenclaw robes, raised his wand again and aimed at the hearth near the spiral staircase. "Incendio!" The fire burst to life with a crackle—but it offered no warmth. His enchanted robes, which boasted a thermostatic charm from Madam Malkin's elite collection, couldn't fully counter the cold. Frost clung to his pale-blond hair and brows, and the fire burned only with illusionary vigor.

He clenched his jaw. No matter the discomfort, he had to press on. This "space-shuttle game," as the Room had metaphorically framed it, demanded resolve. And yet, the unknown twisted in his gut. Adrian had faced cursed artefacts, Knockturn Alley's shadows, even the grasp of the Orb of the Goddess of Fortune—but never had the fear of the unknown gnawed so deeply.

Once more, he lifted his wand and struck the model. "Move!" The die clattered again and landed on "VII." Seven glowing tracks lit up, and the tower surged forward once more.

Reality warped. The actual tower he stood in mimicked the model's motion, gliding through the stellar grid. Then, it halted—abruptly. Now, instead of biting cold, sweltering heat engulfed the chamber. The outer enchantment groaned as crimson light bathed the windows, revealing a fiery nebula—or perhaps the outer edge of a sun.

The edge of the tower, even with the Room's protective charms, began to sizzle under the heat. Stone cracked. Without swift action, the magical structure might disintegrate. "Evacuate," he muttered to himself, but there was nowhere to flee—only forward.

He slammed another spell into the model. The die flipped again, this time revealing "VI."

"Oh no… the Goddess of Doom is laughing at me…" Adrian muttered.

The tower hurled itself into what resembled an asteroid belt. Shards of magical force struck the spires, denting the wards. Outer balconies cracked and fell away into the void. The impact of the rubble wasn't physical—not truly—but a projection so masterfully woven into the spellwork that it felt real. Real enough that Adrian didn't dare test its boundaries.

Then, just as he thought he'd reached the end of this arcane rollercoaster, the wall behind the hearth groaned and creaked. With a series of rotating runes and cogs, it twisted open like the entrance to a vault. Inside, a repository of luminous magical materials glittered—phoenix ash, basilisk scale powder, powdered starlight, goblin silver shards, and essence of gillyweed among others. At the center stood a massive alchemical furnace, glowing with potential.

The message was clear: To continue, the tower must be repaired.

But this wouldn't be as simple as whispering "Reparo." Adrian knew better. The tower had sustained real damage—entire segments were obliterated. Reparo, even in its more advanced forms like Restituere Structuram, required a physical remnant to rebuild from. It wasn't like fixing Harry Potter's glasses, where only a simple fracture was involved. This was magical architecture, infused with temporal and elemental energy. Parts had been erased from existence.

And more crucially, when it came to magical items with embedded power—like this living tower—the complexity multiplied. The more potent the artifact, the more resistant it became to standard restoration spells. Even N.E.W.T.-level students struggled with repair magic on cursed or enchanted objects.

Adrian was only in his first year, albeit with intellect and training far beyond his peers. But even so, not even he could fully mend something of this magnitude without raw materials and focused guidance. Fortunately, the Room of Requirement had provided both.

He exhaled slowly and steadied himself. "All right," he muttered. "Let's see if Ravenclaw left behind a blueprint for this madness."

And with wand in hand, he stepped toward the alchemical forge.

But it seemed that the Ravenclaw founder who devised this trial hadn't truly tested the difficulty of the puzzle from a practical standpoint. As if responding to Adrian Blackwood's silent frustration, a slim, leather-bound booklet materialized on the stone table before him. The title gleamed in embossed runes: Atlas of Structural Design of the Celestial Tower.

Adrian picked it up, flipping through the fine parchment pages. Despite the ancient script, the diagrams were astonishingly detailed—far beyond what any first-year Hogwarts student would be expected to decipher. A part of him couldn't help but scoff inwardly. Did Rowena Ravenclaw expect a normal young wizard to grasp this level of magical architecture?

He ran a hand through his pale blond hair, exhaling. Thankfully, his nearly eidetic memory, sharpened through both Ravenclaw study and his system-enhanced mental training, gave him an edge. But even with that, the complexity of this design bordered on absurd. For any other student—even an older one—who hadn't studied ancient runes, magical construction, and spatial alchemy in extracurricular pursuit, this challenge would have been an insurmountable wall.

"Murphy Ravenclaw?" Adrian muttered with dry sarcasm, referencing the obscure younger brother of Rowena from historical footnotes—an eccentric theorist of magical games and brain challenges. Was this really about testing wit, or just showing off how clever you thought you were?

Still, he knew better than to waste time overanalyzing the intent. The first priority was collecting the necessary restoration materials. Suppressing his sigh, Adrian entered the glowing materials chamber, comparing the blueprints in the atlas with the damage outside the tower. Bit by bit, he aligned the schematics with the broken sections of the spire.

From his enchanted storage pouch—linked to his system inventory—he retrieved a faded but invaluable tome: The Restoration Principles of Master Jebo, an ancient alchemist whose work Adrian had once encountered during a system quest in Knockturn Alley. Settling cross-legged on the runic floor, he flipped it open and began reading with urgency, cross-referencing the methods with the structural design.

Applying what he learned, Adrian carefully ignited the alchemical furnace using Incendio Maxima, channeling just enough flame to heat the materials without warping their magical integrity. Through a mix of wand movements and directed willpower, he began reshaping raw materials—goblin-forged metal, enchanted basalt, and memory-crystal fragments—into the required architectural units.

Meanwhile, cracks in the tower exposed the supposed "outer cosmos," which Adrian now suspected was not real at all, but a sophisticated illusion or spatial simulation conjured by the Room of Requirement. Still, erring on the side of caution, he cast Caput Aeris, a modified Bubble-Head Charm he'd engineered for longer durations, to ensure oxygen while operating in the "vacuum."

Using Wingardium Leviosa combined with Mobilicorpus and the fine control of Arresto Momentum, Adrian began maneuvering the materials outward through the shattered archways. The absence of gravity beyond the tower's threshold made the task delicate, as even a small misstep could send pieces spiraling beyond the magical shield.

Manipulating materials in this void was taxing. He could feel the magical pull sapping his strength. To stabilize, he summoned his Nimbus Tempest 2001—a customized broom given to him by the system for completing a Quidditch-linked side quest. Straddling the broom, he floated between the tower's fragments like a craftsman in orbit, wand flicking rhythmically as he guided slabs and supports into their proper places.

With focused precision, Adrian channeled Reparo Totale, one of the most advanced structural mending charms available to students, augmented by his system-learned alchemy. As the spell merged with the materials, they slid into place like pieces of a celestial jigsaw. Each restored segment shimmered slightly brighter than the original stone, indicating the infusion of newly processed magical essence.

Despite the strain, Adrian didn't falter. He returned repeatedly to the tower's depths to retrieve more supplies. At one point, floating amid reconstructed spires, he even conjured a floating tea set from his storage. With the flick of his wand, he summoned a steaming cup of strong black tea—no milk, just as he preferred it. Resting briefly in zero gravity, he floated with legs crossed, sipping as stars whirled beyond him.

It felt less like a game and more like a master's trial. But in the end, the work paid off.

One final spell—Structura Perfecta—sealed the last of the reconstructed pieces in place. The tower pulsed with returning energy, and the furnace within dimmed. Adrian wiped his brow and descended back through the spiral core, lungs burning from effort.

He steadied his breath, calmed his racing heartbeat, and raised his wand again toward the model. "Move."

This time, the twenty-sided die spun slowly, almost reverently—and landed on the large double-X rune etched in gold. The tower did not move. Nor did the model.

Instead, a translucent shield of light enveloped Adrian, cutting him off from the rest of the chamber. His wand hand twitched instinctively, but there was no danger. A moment later, a cold, feminine voice echoed in the chamber, emotionless yet regal—like a portrait of Rowena Ravenclaw come to life.

"Fortune still walks ahead," the voice intoned.

"You may now choose: Leave with wealth, and you shall never return to this place again. Or continue forward, and risk leaving with nothing at all. You have three minutes to decide."

Adrian stared at the floating dice, then at the flickering tower. The weight of the decision settled over him like a curse—and an invitation.