In a vast, silent corner of the Room of Requirement, amidst a labyrinth of towering junk piles, Albert stood motionless. To anyone who observed him during these periods—a group that thankfully did not exist within this hidden chamber—he would appear lost in a profound, distant reverie.
Even he acknowledged this outward appearance of detachment. The truth, however, was far stranger: Albert was fully immersed in the silent, calculating world of his Panel.
Having successfully cataloged the "Fearless Challenger" task (a problem for his third year, clearly), Albert pulled his attention away from the ominous troll specimen.
He had finally secured a significant window of time in the empty castle, and he would not waste it. While he was here primarily to search for the Ravenclaw Diadem, he needed to continue his general exploration.
His memory of the Diadem's exact location was frustratingly vague: it was worn on the head of a plaster bust. In this sprawling, chaotic repository of history, such a description was nearly useless. Finding the Horcrux would be a genuine stroke of luck, a non-linear objective governed by serendipity rather than logic.
Yet, as soon as he resumed his cautious trek, his attention was violently seized by an object resting between a stack of broken chairs and an old bassoon. It was a massive, ornate mirror with a heavy, golden frame and two intricately carved, claw-shaped stands.
Albert quickly moved toward it, his heart giving a small, professional thump of recognition. He raised his wand, murmuring a powerful Descaling Charm, and the accumulated grime of centuries sloughed away, revealing a flawless, shimmering surface.
"The Mirror of Erised," he whispered, reading the familiar, backward-sounding letters on the frame. The legendary artifact that reveals "not your face, but your heart's desire."
He looked at his own reflection with intense curiosity. What did he, the reincarnated pragmatist whose life was governed by a digital system, truly desire most?
He expected the reflection to show a grand, material fantasy—perhaps himself standing atop a mountain of shimmering Galleons, flanked by the Elder Wand and a stack of completed Panel quests, or perhaps receiving an honorary degree in Transfiguration from Dumbledore himself.
Instead, the Albert in the glass was holding a simple, eagle-shaped crown—the very same Ravenclaw Diadem he was searching for.
"While I certainly desire the discovery of the Diadem, that's an objective, not a core desire," Albert mused, suppressing a twitch of annoyance. He wanted to understand the psychological significance. Did it reflect a deep, hidden thirst for knowledge? Or simply the desire to successfully complete the quest he had set for himself?
He shifted his gaze to the top frame, where a line of letters was engraved: erisedstraehruoytubecafruoytwohsi.
He silently spelled out the phrase backward: I show not your face but your heart's desire.
"Desire?" Albert grinned, the realization dawning on him. "I think the mirror is fundamentally limited in what it can visually depict. It can't reflect a pile of intangible Panel experience and skill points, can it?"
His most profound desire was not the physical relic itself, but the power, utility, and advancement—the sheer digital currency—that finding and utilizing the Horcrux represented. The Diadem was merely the high-value conduit to the XP and Skill Points he craved. In this strange, meta-sense, the reflection was profoundly correct.
"So, the Mirror of Erised confirms my quest is truly my highest priority," Albert concluded with a laugh, feeling a burst of renewed focus. He turned away, unwilling to risk the psychological entrapment the mirror was famous for.
Continuing his path through the twisting alleys of junk, Albert saw a winged object fluttering erratically ahead. It was a slingshot that had clearly been bewitched to fly. He targeted the toy with a quick, non-verbal Freezing Charm. The slingshot instantly stiffened and dropped from the air with a clatter.
Albert picked it up and examined the craftsmanship. A simple tug on the elastic confirmed it was magical. After testing it with a small pebble, he quickly understood its enchantment. "A Winged Slingshot," he muttered.
"Not just for flight, but for tracking." The projectiles shot from it seemed to possess a crude form of homing or tracking magic, allowing them to bypass minor obstacles to reach the target.
His mind immediately began to spin, skipping far beyond simple pranks. If this technique could be refined and applied to an arrow or, better yet, a high-velocity projectile from a Muggle firearm, an ordinary marksman could become a near-instant sharpshooter, capable of striking a target from a kilometer away, regardless of windage or minor cover. The magical principle was the true treasure.
He meticulously cleaned the slingshot with a Descaling Charm, polished it with his handkerchief, and tucked it securely into his inner robe pocket—a future object of study.
Moments later, tucked into a corner, he found a dilapidated Quidditch equipment box. Inside, the contents were mostly shattered: broken bats, a ripped leather Bludger, and a deflated Quaffle. But his eyes settled on a small, glittering sphere: a Golden Snitch. It was badly tarnished and missing one of its delicate wings, leaving it unable to fly normally, but otherwise intact.
Albert picked it up, marveling at the complex mechanism. The allure of the Snitch wasn't its value, but its unique magical engineering. The Snitch has physical memory, he recalled from his reading. It remembers the touch of the first person who caught it, so a referee can later determine the winner.
He stood still, the implications washing over him. Physical memory. If that magic could be isolated and applied to a container—say, a small, heavily protected box—then only the true owner could open it. It was a brilliant, uncrackable security mechanism.
This was how he could create a truly impenetrable secret vault for his most valuable possessions—a vault whose existence and key were tied to his unique touch alone.
"This place isn't a garbage dump," Albert corrected himself, a wide, excited grin stretching across his face. "It's a Treasure House! A historical repository of magical utility and forgotten genius."
His adventure, his treasure hunt, was immediately interrupted.
He stopped dead, all levity instantly drained from his expression. He held his breath, straining his ears. Faint, unsettling whispers were emanating from the twisting, cluttered passages ahead. They were too vague to discern words, but they carried a sharp, magnetic quality—a pull of corruptive magic.
At that moment, Albert felt a chilling, deep-seated vibration—a somatic tremor that resonated in his very soul. The external world seemed to recede, replaced by his own heavy, measured breathing. The whispers grew closer, more insistent, weaving a subtle web of temptation.
It's close. Very close.
The Horcrux wasn't just waiting to be found; it was actively luring him. Albert knew the danger. He knew the story of Quirrell, who had allowed the soul fragment to corrupt and ultimately kill him. This was the dark magic of Voldemort attempting to draw him in, to promise him the very thing the Mirror of Erised had reflected: ultimate wisdom and power, at the cost of his soul.
He fought the instinctive urge to rush forward. Instead, he forced himself into extreme vigilance. His wand was drawn, but not for combat—yet. He slowly circled the surrounding objects, carefully tracing the sound to its source. The whispers promised clarity, genius, and a path to power unmatched.
Finally, he saw it.
Resting precariously atop a rickety, blistered wardrobe stood a cracked, pockmarked plaster bust of an anonymous, dusty wizard, crowned with a frayed, silver-and-blue Diadem. The relic was old, faded, and looked thoroughly worthless, yet it hummed with malevolent energy.
That was it. Rowena Ravenclaw's Diadem. Voldemort's Horcrux.
Albert felt a jolt of raw triumph mixed with profound caution. The whispering emanated directly from the crown, attempting to breach his mental defenses: Wear me. Put me on. You will know all. You will be wise.
He instinctively took a step forward, his hand beginning to rise, then he slammed his arm down, gripping his wand so tightly his knuckles turned white. He burst into a short, almost hysterical laugh.
"Brilliant," he murmured, his voice slightly shaky but utterly self-possessed. "An ordinary, ambitious student would be lost. Who could resist a guaranteed, instantaneous intellectual upgrade? The Horcrux doesn't just promise power; it promises the means to power."
He took several deliberate steps back, putting distance between himself and the corrupted object. He raised the camera from his neck and snapped several photographs of the bust and the Diadem, ensuring he captured the exact spatial coordinates and surrounding landmarks. Proof. Coordinates. Evidence.
He retreated a dozen paces, his face regaining its customary calm. Only when he was safely outside the immediate, corruptive radius of the Horcrux did he pull out his Panel and check the flood of new tasks.
Evil WhispersYou heard whispers that attempted to seduce you into corruption. The whispers were revealed to be a sinister object of dark magic. You recognize the extreme danger and successfully identified the source.Reward: 10,000 Experience Points, and a random unmastered magic.
"Confirmed," Albert whispered. "Voldemort's Horcrux." Merely identifying the corrupted nature of the object had yielded a significant prize. He checked the box for completion but did not claim the rewards yet.
He scrolled through the astonishing list that followed, his inner financial calculator whirring at high speed:
Return the RelicsYou accidentally found the Ravenclaw's Diadem that was lost thousands of years ago. As a Hogwarts student, you should return the Ravenclaw's Diadem to the school.Rewards: 30,000 Experience Points, 3 Skill Points, Dumbledore's Favorability +10, Ms. Grey's Favorability +30.
The Dark Lord's SecretYou accidentally discovered the secret of Voldemort's immortality. You can choose to remain silent or share this secret with others.Reward: 1,000 Experience Points, +20 or -20 Favorability towards the target (depending on reaction).
Ms. Grey's RemorseYou found the Ravenclaw Diadem, but this relic from the Big Four was contaminated by powerful dark magic. Purify the dark magic on the diadem.Reward: 10,000 Experience Points, 2 Skill Points, Ms. Grey's Favorability +30.
Destroy the HorcruxIt is everyone's responsibility to destroy the Dark Lord. Since you have discovered Voldemort's weakness, you must devote yourself to the great cause of fighting against the Dark Wizard. Destroy or assist others in destroying the Horcruxes.Reward: 30,000 Experience Points, 3 Skill Points, and +10 Favorability towards the person you assist.
The Dark Lord's DownfallYou've stumbled upon Voldemort's ultimate weakness. Eliminate this century's most evil dark wizard.Reward: 100,000–1,000,000 Experience Points, 10 Skill Points, Magic World Reputation +100–10,000, Bounty 100,000 Galleons.
"Magnificent," Albert breathed, a pure, unadulterated pleasure washing over him. "He truly is worthy of the title 'Final Boss.' The rewards are... staggering."
The total experience potential was easily over 170,000 XP and a dozen Skill Points, not even factoring in the ultimate Dark Lord's Downfall mission, which promised the kind of wealth that would set him up for life.
He analyzed the tasks quickly. The Ms. Grey tasks were interesting. The Grey Lady, Helena Ravenclaw's ghost, was famously remorseful; a +60 Favorability could potentially grant him an incredible advantage or, as he joked, maybe even a powerful wish.
More practically, the final two missions did not require him to be the one to strike the blow. He only needed to assist or set the events in motion.
Why confront the noseless monster head-on when the saviour Potter is genetically engineered to do it? Albert thought with cool calculation. Potter is the designated firepower; I am the quartermaster and tactician.
He gave his cheek a gentle slap, resetting his composure. He exited the Room of Requirement, the secret door vanishing silently behind him. He walked through the castle corridors with an almost unnerving lightness in his step. He even exchanged a genuine, if slightly manic, smile with Peeves the Poltergeist, who simply stopped his latest mischief to stare after Albert with a genuinely baffled expression.
Albert bounded into the Common Room, his smile infectious. Fred, George, and Lee Jordan were still slumped over their Transfiguration essays, their faces pale with academic misery.
"Albert, you look like you've just won the lottery," George groaned, rubbing his eyes. "What happened? You can't tell me a few landscape photos can produce that level of euphoria."
Albert stopped and clapped his hands together, his eyes shining. "Euphoria? No, George, this is the look of a successful financial investor who has just seen his high-risk, long-term portfolio finally yield dividends."
"Dividends?" Fred repeated, confused. "Is this about the garlic? Did a sprout suddenly grow a Galleon?"
"It's about far more than garlic, my friends," Albert said, his voice lowering with dramatic intensity. "It's about the economy of effort. For the last few months, I have been dedicating myself to building the foundational architecture—the infrastructure, if you will—for future, massive success. I've been laying the groundwork, collecting data, and creating proprietary systems."
He leaned in conspiratorially. "Today, I was given the initial profitability forecast. And let me tell you, that forecast is excellent. All those tedious hours spent, all that quiet, thankless work? It is about to pay off in spades, exponentially, and repeatedly. I now know, definitively, that the future rewards are worth ten times the current misery of, say, writing a single essay."
Lee Jordan blinked slowly, steam still rising faintly from his hair. "You mean… you found a profitable scheme that makes your homework look easy?"
"I mean I found a scheme so profitable that it makes the entire curriculum look like an administrative formality," Albert corrected, giving them a pointed, yet encouraging look. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go to the dormitory. I have quite a bit of data to process and a strategy to finalize."
He winked and disappeared, leaving the three roommates staring at each other, their quills motionless above their parchment.
"He's either discovered the secret to alchemy," George muttered, picking up his quill, "or he's just realized how much he can charge us to 'tutor' us through the rest of the year."
"Either way," Fred sighed, turning back to his essay. "If Albert is this happy, our academic problems suddenly seem... secondary."