October 9 — North Tower Archive Room (Restricted)
The archive smelled of old parchment and iron ink—a dry, quiet scent that Rowan found almost calming. He crouched by the base of a tall scroll shelf, brushing dust from the forgotten box he'd unearthed behind volumes on transfiguration theory.
The label on the front read:
FLAMEL, N. — ALCHEMICAL APPENDICES (UNFILED)
He opened it carefully. Inside were six scrolls, tied with gold thread. The first four were mostly notes—scribbled diagrams of magical geometries, formulas written in an elegant, looping French. But the fifth… that one sang.
A symbol marked the scroll's wax seal:
🜁 — Air. Thought. Breath. Riddle.
Rowan broke it open.
The Scroll of Breath
The scroll unfurled slowly, with an enchantment that guided his eyes along the text in a controlled rhythm—Flamel's writing style made to teach through pacing. It wasn't just a riddle—it was an initiation.
At the top, in shimmering ink:
The First Trial: The Gate of Breath
Where no door opens, speak the unseen way.
Where no light shines, name what makes shadow.
Beneath that, a stanza written like poetry:
Neither lock nor key holds what is sealed,
Yet only one breath may break the field.
Say not "open," say not "true,"
But name what sees the world through you.
At the bottom, a drawing—a room with no doors, no ceiling, no floor. A perfect cube. Floating at its center: a feather.
Rowan frowned. "A riddle-room."
He checked the other scrolls. The sixth one was blank… but bore a rune along the edge: ᚠ (Fehu)—associated with beginnings, wealth, and exchange.
A trade would be needed.
October 10 — Ravenclaw Tower
Rowan sat alone in the common room with his notebook open beside him, and the Flamel scroll spread across his lap. Across the fireplace, Luna Lovegood stared absently into the flames, humming to herself.
He didn't ask for help. But Luna turned toward him anyway.
"You're chasing an echo, you know," she said gently.
Rowan blinked. "What?"
"The Stone. The Mirror. All of it. They're just the sound left behind when something big tries to disappear."
He said nothing.
Luna tilted her head. "But echoes can still tell you which way the wind was blowing."
She reached into her satchel, pulled out a tiny bronze feather, and placed it on his scroll.
Rowan stared. "Where did you get this?"
"Had it since I was four," she said. "From a dream I had where a dying raven whispered riddles into a lake."
Then she stood and wandered upstairs, muttering about Nargles.
Rowan added the feather to his map.
The echo grew stronger.
October 11 — Hall of the Hollow Door
It took him hours to find the room.
It wasn't on the official map. It wasn't even beneath the school. It was inside a broken time-loop off the side of a first-floor passage that should have led to the Armory—but instead, if approached in silence, the stones rippled like water.
He stepped through and entered a chamber unlike any he'd seen.
A perfect cube. No walls—just dark, endless surface. One feather floated in the air. No doors. No sound. Just a sense of waiting.
He stepped forward.
The scroll's riddle echoed in his head.
Neither lock nor key holds what is sealed…
…But name what sees the world through you.
He looked at the feather.
Then closed his eyes.
And whispered:
"Breath."
The air shifted.
The room inhaled.
A low tone thrummed through the cube as if reality had been waiting for that single word. The walls shimmered—and one segment dissolved, revealing a door made of crystal-clear glass.
No hinges. No handle.
Rowan stepped toward it.
The Trade
On the glass was etched a single rune: Fehu.
Rowan remembered the blank scroll. Exchange required.
He pulled the scroll from his satchel and held it up to the door. It didn't react.
"What do you want?" he muttered.
Then, in the mirror's reflection, he saw it—the rune glowing softly on his wand.
His wand… not the scroll.
He hesitated. "You want magic. Mine."
Not all of it. Just a spark. A signature. A piece of who he was.
Rowan closed his eyes. He whispered "Praesto me."
A single strand of light flowed from his wand into the door. It flared, then vanished.
The door opened.
The Vault of Glass
The next chamber looked like it had not been touched in a century.
Books floated midair. Gears spun without connection. Light passed through water suspended above the floor, casting shimmering patterns across the walls.
In the center: a pedestal. Upon it, a cube of solid crystal. Inside the cube—suspended and unmoving—was a second object.
A gold ring.
Simple. No jewels. But marked with a sigil Rowan had only seen once before:
V.I.T.
He stepped forward, heartbeat thudding.
The ring wasn't just a token. It was a key.
To what, he didn't know. But its presence felt old. Heavy. Expected.
He reached toward it—
The mirror flashed.
Aurem.
In his mind, he saw it again—Dumbledore. The stranger. The whispered words:
"He must choose."
Rowan's fingers closed around the cube.
The entire room dimmed.
October 12 — The Headmaster's Office (Uninvited)
He didn't knock.
The gargoyle stepped aside the moment Rowan approached.
Dumbledore was seated behind his great desk, half-moon spectacles glinting as he looked up with quiet amusement.
"You found it," he said softly.
Rowan held up the cube.
"You left the scrolls unfiled. On purpose."
Dumbledore nodded.
"You wanted me to find the trial."
Another nod.
"Why?"
Dumbledore folded his hands. "Because while Harry must face his path… someone must understand it."
"And what is this?" Rowan held the cube higher. "What does the ring unlock?"
"A story that hasn't happened yet," Dumbledore said.
"That's not an answer."
"No," the Headmaster agreed. "It is an invitation."
He stood. Walked around the desk.
He placed a hand gently on Rowan's shoulder. "There are three trials. You have passed the first."
Rowan stared up at him. "And the second?"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled faintly. "Requires you to walk alone into a place even mirrors fear."
He turned back to the desk.
Rowan stood silently.
Then he pocketed the cube.
And left.
That Night — Back in Ravenclaw Tower
He stared at the gold ring resting in its glass prison.
The cube was warm against his fingers.
Aurem was silent.
But the dreams were not.
They returned—more vivid, more urgent.
The forest of silver trees.
The black sun.
And now—a voice behind him. Closer.
Calling his name.