October 1 — Evening, Library Annex
The moment Rowan stepped into the annex, he knew someone had tampered with the wards.
They weren't broken—but they had been rewritten. Bent. Like a song re-pitched to sound almost right. He pressed his fingers against the doorframe and let the ambient magic pass through him.
The ward had been altered… by someone clever.
He stepped forward quietly, brushing dust from the stone floor. This section of the library was unfrequented, a winding series of alcoves and forbidden scroll drawers where only upper-years or staff were permitted.
And tonight—someone had been here who shouldn't have.
Near the back, a desk was askew, a few stray pages flung outward, as if from a sudden gust of wind. One bore a single name, stamped with a library tracking rune:
Potter, H. – Restricted Review Request: "Magical Barriers and Ancient Guardian Systems"
Rowan frowned.
"Harry's digging into protections," he murmured.
The Philosopher's Stone wasn't just hidden.
It was guarded.
And someone else was looking for it.
That Night — Gryffindor Tower (uninvited)
"I told you, it was just a book," Harry muttered. "I was curious."
Rowan stood at the edge of the common room like a shadow, hood drawn over his raven-black curls. Ron paced behind him, worried. Hermione sat upright with folded arms, eyes narrowed.
"You don't request a title from the Restricted Section by accident," Rowan said flatly.
Harry's jaw tensed. "Someone told me about the traps. About… something being hidden here. I didn't mean anything by it."
"Who told you?" Rowan asked.
Harry hesitated.
"Snape?" Hermione guessed. "No—he wouldn't. Hagrid?"
Harry looked away.
Hermione's brow furrowed. "Wait—was it that Defense professor? Quirrell?"
Harry said nothing.
Rowan exhaled sharply. "Of course."
"Hang on—Quirrell?" Ron blinked. "That stammering bloke? He couldn't trap a rat."
"He doesn't need to," Rowan said. "If he's not what he appears."
Hermione's eyes widened. "You think he's—what, trying to steal the Stone?"
Rowan nodded. "And he's testing Harry. Baiting him toward something dangerous."
October 3 — A Warning Ignored
The day was wet and overcast, clouds hanging heavy over the grounds. But classes pressed on. Transfiguration in the morning, Herbology after lunch, and then Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Professor Quirrell stood hunched at the front of the room, twitchy as ever, chalk trembling between his fingers as he scrawled the theory of ward disruption onto the board.
But Rowan saw it.
The glint.
Behind the tremble and stutter, there was precision. He wasn't writing nervously. He was calibrating.
After class, Rowan approached.
Quirrell stiffened.
"Yes—Mr. Weasley?" he asked, voice faintly breathless.
"I've read your thesis," Rowan said quietly. "The one you submitted to Durmstrang in 1987."
Quirrell blinked, the twitch in his eye vanishing for half a second.
"You proposed a theory about anchoring dark magic to living bodies. Temporary possession through ritual talismans."
Quirrell stared.
"That theory was banned," Rowan continued. "The Ministry sealed the papers."
"…How did you read it?"
"I don't wait for permission."
A long silence.
Then Quirrell said, very softly, "Curiosity is dangerous, Mr. Weasley."
Rowan stepped closer. "So is underestimating me."
He turned and walked away.
But he felt the cold follow him out.
October 6 — The First Trap
The chessboard corridor on the third floor was not supposed to exist.
Yet Rowan had found it by accident the night before—mapped in a footnote in The Enigma of Shifting Architecture, where a diagram depicted "a sealed chamber designed for trials of intellect and sacrifice."
He returned tonight—alone—and found something new.
Ash.
And a thread of blood.
A small cut. Recent. Likely a finger nick.
Someone had been here.
He pulled out his wand. The protective wards on the hall were disarmed, but another magic layered underneath remained. Faint. Hidden.
He muttered, "Praetego Revelare."
Light shimmered over the floor.
A glyph appeared—twisted, serpentine, etched in deep purple fire.
Dark magic.
A delayed detonation glyph, wrapped in a veil. Triggered by a magical signature—not just anyone's. It had been tuned.
To Harry.
A trap.
October 7 — The Intervention
Rowan waited near the corridor at sunset, perched behind the statue of Phorcys the Eyeless. A glamour charm veiled him, invisibility woven into illusion—one of his own inventions, adapted from Disillusionment.
Sure enough, Harry appeared just after curfew. Hermione followed close behind, clearly nervous. Ron trailed, carrying a half-eaten chocolate frog.
"You're sure it's this hallway?" Harry asked.
Hermione nodded. "According to Hogwarts: A History, the third floor once housed a logic trial—something Flamel helped design—"
"Flamel," Rowan whispered.
Of course.
The corridor lit faintly under Harry's presence.
Rowan saw the glyph pulse.
He drew his wand.
Now.
"Silencio."
His voice struck like a whispering wind. The trap glyph dimmed—but it fought back. Runes lit up beneath the corridor. The trigger began to unfold—
"Diffindo!" Rowan slashed the floor with force, cutting the magic pattern.
The spell resisted.
"Vinctus! Fracto!"
Two rapid strikes. The dark glyph shattered.
The hallway fell quiet.
Harry spun. "Who's there?!"
Rowan stepped out of the shadows.
Hermione gasped. Ron dropped his frog.
"Are you mad?" she hissed. "You followed us?"
Rowan glared. "I saved you."
Harry frowned. "What—what was that spell?"
"A trap," Rowan said. "Not ancient. Modern. Delayed hex. Dark glyph matrix. It was tuned to you, Potter."
Harry paled.
"Quirrell?" Hermione whispered.
Rowan nodded. "He's testing your path. One trap now. More soon. He's watching how far you'll go. What you'll risk."
Ron stepped forward. "But why Harry?"
"Because Harry has something he wants."
"His fame?" Hermione asked.
"No," Rowan said. "His blood."
They stared.
Then Rowan turned to Harry.
"You have to stop chasing this."
"I can't," Harry said. "Someone has to stop him."
Rowan sighed. "Then you'd better stop doing it alone."
Later That Night — Astronomy Tower
Rowan stood at the highest point in Hogwarts, the wind tugging at his cloak. The stars burned above like cold fire.
He knew now: the Stone was real. Quirrell was probing. The headmaster was watching but not intervening.
And Harry—brave, reckless, foolish Harry—was walking into a war he didn't understand.
But Rowan was no bystander.
The map in his notebook glowed softly under moonlight.
More paths had appeared.
More rooms.
More trials.
He traced a new name in the center:
Flamel.
The Philosopher's Shadow was long.
And Rowan was now standing at its edge.