Then again, his dashboard couldn't possibly be a truncated version, lacking a map function. Albert was still in the mood to poke fun at his own golden finger. After successfully locating the Room of Requirent, his mood was decidedly buoyant.
There's no way, he thought, pulling his cloak tighter against the damp chill of the corridor. In the online novels I read before, the protagonist's built-in system was usually omnipotent. After turning on the scanning function, nothing could be hidden. Now, when he thought about it, the functions of his panel—a glorified skill tree and quest log—were pitifully sparse. In fact, he had nothing but sheer luck and pre-existing knowledge to thank for finding a room so few in the castle could locate.
"I rember the Headmaster's office is also on the eighth floor, near the Room of Requirent, though I don't know its exact location," Albert murmured.
Of course, he had absolutely no intention of venturing near the Headmaster's office. Getting noticed by old man Dumbledore—especially so early in his career—was a risk he couldn't afford. With hundreds of portraits acting as Dumbledore's eyes and ears throughout the castle, an unnaturally active first-year would quickly beco a pet project, making his life infinitely more complicated.
Albert turned two more corners and found a staircase leading downwards, but decided against it. He started wandering laterally across the floor again, determined to find a new path. He stopped abruptly in front of a section of wall where the stonework was intricately carved. The light from his wand flashed across an elaborate griffin carving. He reached out and knocked lightly. It was solid stone.
However, Albert's intuition flared. The carving of the griffin on the wall was too conspicuous, too ornate. In a castle this old, such detail almost always hid a concealed chanism or secret passage.
"Kid, what are you doing here?" Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington materialized abruptly from the stone wall right next to Albert, his spectral presence causing a sudden, sharp drop in temperature.
Albert physically jumped, his heart vaulting against his ribs. He took several deep, calming breaths, montarily furious at the ghost's startling lack of presence.
"Don't be so elusive, Sir Nicholas, you'll scare people half to death," Albert complained, rubbing his chest.
"My apologies, I didn't an to startle you," Nick replied, his spectral eyebrows raised in genuine confusion. "But what exactly are you doing, examining the stonework at this hour?"
"A walk," Albert answered truthfully.
"Walking at... five forty-five in the morning?" Nick looked genuinely baffled.
"Yes, a walk. Sir Nicholas, I was wondering if you might be willing to introduce Hogwarts to ? It's like a maze here. I've accidentally gotten lost several tis just taking a stroll." Albert put on his most charming smile. If the ghost was willing to share his centuries of knowledge, it would save him weeks of random searching.
"Oh, but I think exploring the castle is one of the great pleasures of being a freshman," Nick politely declined, waving a transparent hand. "Discovering its secrets is half the fun."
"You are absolutely correct," Albert conceded smoothly, not allowing the refusal to diminish his good humor. He gave the ghost a slight nod and turned back to the griffin painting, continuing to search for a seam or lever.
Nick, intrigued by the polite, strangely determined boy, paused before shimring away. "If you want to open that particular door," he whispered, gesturing to the carving, "the switch is on the claws of the griffin."
"Thank you!" Albert's eyes lit up. He reached out to the claw of the stone beast and gently pressed and knocked. With a low, grinding sound, the entire section of wall slowly receded and swung inward, revealing a dark, narrow, dusty secret passage inside. .
"See you later, Sir Nicholas," Albert called over his shoulder, stepping into the passage and raising his wand for light.
The passage was indeed narrow, only wide enough for one person. It was claustrophobic, but Albert's excitent outweighed any discomfort. He could feel himself descending rapidly. This wasn't just a shortcut; the discovery of its existence was a fundantal piece of good news. It confird his theory: the ghosts and portraits, having lived in the castle for centuries, were the true repositories of Hogwarts' secrets.
The passage ended behind an old, slightly mildewed portrait. Albert pushed the canvas aside, and the old wizard depicted in the fra glared at him unhappily, grumbling about being disturbed from his morning nap.
"Sorry to bother you!" Albert apologized quickly, moving past. He erged into a different, equally unfamiliar corridor. He felt he might be lost again, but at least he was lost on a completely new floor.
Suddenly, he found himself facing a massive, moving staircase.
The staircase was a magnificent sight, vast and ever-shifting. It disconnected from one landing and swung gracefully to align with another, following no discernible pattern. It was a dizzying, spectacular piece of ancient magic.
It's said that the moving staircase and the Room of Requirent were both the work of Rowena Ravenclaw, Albert recalled. I wonder if I can ever reach that level of mastery?
He paused, a new, exciting thought striking him. If Ravenclaw created the Room of Requirent... could she, like Slytherin, have hidden a secret of her own inside it? The idea of a lost, magical chamber within the Room of Requirent was tantalizing. Sothing intellectual, perhaps, instead of a monster. Next ti I'm in the Room, I'll definitely give it a try. Maybe I can unearth so Ravenclaw secrets.
It took Albert nearly ten minutes to descend the chaotic staircase system. At one point, a section of the stairs he was standing on abruptly pulled away from the wall and refused to connect to the next landing for a full two minutes, forcing him to stand still and wait. He ntally offered a quick thank you to rlin that the delay was short.
As he finally stepped off onto a lower floor, he was imdiately drawn by a low, slinking shape: a cat.
The creature was thin, with dull, dark grey fur, and possessed unnervingly bulging, lamp-like yellow eyes. It was utterly unlike his plump, majestic Muggle cat, Tom.
Albert instinctively bent down to offer a friendly gesture, but the cat reacted with lightning speed, arching its back, hissing low, and bolting away down the corridor, disappearing around a corner in a flash of grey.
Albert knew instantly what that ant. Mrs. Norris.
He couldn't recall the cat's full na (sothing he dismissed as unimportant 'extra' detail), but he knew this was Argus Filch's beloved, and equally miserable, companion. The cat ran off, probably to call for help, Albert reasoned. He wasn't worried; it was 6:15 AM, the ti of day worked in his favor, and the light outside, though dim due to the rain, technically made it 'morning.'
Just as Albert began to walk toward the general area of the Great Hall, a muffled, shuffling sound preceded the appearance of the man himself.
Looming into the corridor, holding a flickering oil lamp that cast huge, grotesque shadows, was Argus Filch, the caretaker. He was sowhat elderly, wearing only a threadbare dressing gown over his clothes, and he was clearly still half-asleep. Yet, a peculiar, greedy smile was stretched across his face—the undeniable smile of a man who believed he had caught a student red-handed, breaking the rules. .
"Kid, what are you doing out of bed!" Filch rasped, his eyes gleaming with malicious intent. He lunged, his long, bony fingers reaching to grab Albert's shoulder.
Albert sidestepped the grab with the practiced ease of soone who had ntally rehearsed avoiding confrontation. He casually pulled his pocket watch from his robe pocket.
"Good morning, Mr. Filch," Albert said, his tone utterly cheerful and polite, as if eting a neighbor on the street. "It's a bit damp out, isn't it?"
Filch froze, his hand hanging in the air.
Albert made a subtle motion with his wand tip, focusing the Lumos light directly onto the face of the watch, presenting the precise ti to the squinting caretaker.
"It's already 6:16 AM, Mr. Filch," Albert stated clearly, allowing the ti to sink in. "I got up early for a morning walk. Can you tell when they serve breakfast in the Hall?"
Filch's triumphant expression utterly collapsed. The smile vanished, replaced by the deep, bitter disappointnt of a man whose long-awaited prey had slipped away due to a technicality. The joy of catching a student out-of-bounds, a genuine violation of the nocturnal rules, was replaced by the sour taste of a legal loophole. His deanor was that of a child whose Halloween candy had just been canceled.
"Seven o'clock," Filch grumbled, his shoulders slumping. He shuffled away, defeated, muttering angrily under his breath: "You'd better not let catch you..."
Albert didn't catch the last few words, nor did he care. Filch had been neutralized by the simple truth of the ti.
He watched the caretaker shuffle off, a flicker of genuine pity mixed with strategic calculation. Filch truly hates the students, doesn't he? He lives for the opportunity to catch soone and use those old chains and torture devices he keeps in his office.
This confird an essential point: Filch's Office was a treasure trove of banned items, confiscated goods, and the location of the Marauder's Map. The caretaker's bitter vigilance was the only real obstacle.
Albert pushed open the heavy doors to the Great Hall. It was dark, cold, and utterly silent. The suspended candles were extinguished, and the vibrant life of the feast was gone, leaving only the massive, empty space. He quickly left. The Hall wasn't the target anymore. His next, and final, destination for the morning was the Kitchen.
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