The grand Entrance Hall of the castle, now less grand and more intimidating in the grey, rainy dawn, served as the nexus for Albert's continued exploration. It was here, near the massive marble staircase, that the main flows of life—and often, trouble—began.
Albert paused, his eyes sweeping the periter. To one side of the staircase were two sturdy doors. One, he knew, led down to the dungeons and the Hufflepuff common room corridor, which was also the path to the Kitchen. The other, slightly recessed and looking permanently grim, was Filch's office.
He didn't have to wait for the caretaker to appear. The atmosphere had already tightened. Filch's familiar, dark-grey cat, Mrs. Norris, was sitting directly in front of the office door, its large, luminous yellow eyes locked onto Albert with the single-minded malice of a surveillance drone. .
Albert bent down slightly. "What is your na, little one?" he asked the cat, in the gentle tone he usually reserved for his own Tom.
The cat only hissed, a dry, rattling sound, before turning its head sharply toward the office door.
A mont later, the door flew open and Argus Filch erged, his face a roadmap of scowls and his oil lamp flickering nervously. He scooped up Mrs. Norris, pressing the cat to his chest like a prized, slightly moldy trophy, and shot a suspicious look at Albert.
"Up to no good, are we, first-year?" Filch demanded, his voice thin and accusatory.
"Good morning, Mr. Filch," Albert responded cheerfully. "Just waiting for breakfast. I'm an early riser."
Filch retreated into the sanctuary of his office, slamming the door shut. He hadn't answered the question, but his possessive movent suggested a profound and perhaps pathological attachnt to the animal.
"Probably jealousy," Albert muttered to himself, reflecting on the caretaker's known status as a Squib—born into a magical family but without magic himself. It struck Albert as utterly illogical. If he were a Squib, he'd flee the wizarding world and imrse himself in the comfort and opportunity of the Muggle world, rather than remain in a place that constantly mocked his lack of power, turning his bitterness into a source of constant, painful employnt. Why choose continuous, self-inflicted unhappiness?
Now that the annoying overseer was gone, Albert faced the strategic choice of direction. He needed to find the corridor leading to the Kitchen. He could choose the right side of the staircase, which led to the House Cup hourglasses and the general public path, or the left side, which was less traveled.
"Heads for the left, tails for the right," Albert decided, pulling a shiny, Muggle coin from his pocket. He tossed it high into the air. It glittered briefly in the dim light before clattering onto the marble floor. Heads.
Albert headed to the left side of the staircase, pushing through the heavy wooden door there. Behind it was not a grand chamber, but a set of simple, unadorned stone steps leading down.
As he descended, the ancient magic of the castle recognized his presence. One by one, the torches set into the walls of the stone corridor ahead flared to life with a crackle, bathing the walls in a warm, flickering amber light. He realized the corridor walls were decorated with dozens of ticulously detailed carvings and paintings of various foods: roasted ats, dripping pastries, and exotic fruit arrangents—an appropriate visual prelude to the castle's engine room.
"Good luck indeed," Albert murmured, feeling a rush of satisfaction at his coin toss. He soon spotted the large, familiar still-life painting of a huge silver bowl overflowing with fruit. . This was it.
He approached the painting. The secret to the Kitchen was well-known to him: it lay with a specific piece of fruit. Albert reached out a finger, locating the large, vibrant green pear in the bowl. He gently, almost reverently, tickled the painted surface of the pear.
The pear imdiately began to wriggle in the painting, let out a tiny, stifled giggle, and transford its texture and form, suddenly protruding from the canvas as a real, gleaming, silver door handle.
"It's here, just as expected. My luck holds." The successful discovery of the Room of Requirent and the Kitchen within hours of each other solidified his belief that his focused intention was actively shaping the castle's response to him.
Grasping the cool, newly-ford handle, he pulled the painting open. He stepped through, leaving the silent, cold stone corridor behind, and entering the Kitchen.
The sensory shift was imdiate and intense. The air, previously damp and cool, was now thick with warmth and a spectacular dley of aromas: baking bread, sizzling ham, lting butter, and sweet caral. The room was colossal, mirroring the size of the Great Hall directly above. Instead of students, however, the space was dominated by hundreds upon hundreds of tiny, scurrying figures—the House-Elves.
The kitchen contained four long, polished wooden tables, corresponding exactly to the locations of the four House tables in the hall above. Portions of freshly prepared food—early breakfast—were already arranged on these tables, ready for the magical teleportation when the official alti began.
"Sir! Is sothing the matter, sir?" A diminutive House-Elf, no taller than Albert's knee and wrapped in a clean tea towel bearing the Hogwarts crest, sped toward him, its large eyes filled with worried urgency.
"Nothing is wrong at all," Albert assured him with a gentle smile. "The hall isn't open yet, so I ca down to see where all the amazing food cos from. I wanted to see the magic in action."
"Oh! The young master wishes to see our magic!" The elf's worry instantly transford into pride. "Please, sir, co! You must sit!"
The elf tugged Albert's hand, pulling him toward a small, side work table. In seconds, half a dozen other elves materialized in a flurry of activity. They hustled to the table, carrying a large silver tray that appeared almost comically oversized next to them. On the tray was a complete, individualized breakfast service: a steaming pot of milk, perfectly crisp ham slices, fried eggs, thick-cut toast, a vibrant fruit salad, and a small tureen of creamy pumpkin porridge.
"Thank you, little ones," Albert said, genuinely touched by their enthusiasm and speed. He poured himself half a cup of milk—a habit he'd cultivated since childhood for its nutritional benefits, contributing to his noticeably above-average height and strength compared to his peers.
"It is our great honor, sir. Our greatest honor!" The elves bead, bowing repeatedly. The sincere gratitude in Albert's voice, a courtesy so rarely extended to their kind, seed to light them up.
Albert ate heartily: the ham was savory, the eggs perfect, and the pumpkin porridge a comforting contrast to the cold outside. By the ti he finished the last bite of toast and a small portion of the fruit salad, he was completely full. He glanced down at his wrist, checking his exploration progress one last ti. It had ticked up significantly. 7.3%.
"I really must go now. Thank you again for the most wonderful breakfast," Albert said, standing up.
Before he could reach the door, the elves descended upon him again, their enthusiasm boiling over. They chattered excitedly, thrusting packages, little foil-wrapped items, and small pastries into his hands. "Take snacks, sir! For later! For the long Saturday!"
"That is more than enough. Thank you," Albert laughed, gathering four plump, savory at pies and stuffing them into a large brown paper bag he retrieved from his pocket, then tucking the bag securely into his robe. "These are for my roommates."
A chorus of sharp, delighted little voices bade him farewell as he opened the fruit door. The house-elves crowded the opening, watching him until the pear handle dissolved and the painting swung shut. The knowledge that he had found a permanent, friendly source of sustenance and a potential information network was imnsely satisfying.
Albert followed his earlier route back to the Gryffindor Tower in re minutes, the pie-filled bag feeling warm against his chest. The Common Room was still empty; the ghost lady had departed, leaving the fireplace to slowly die down.
He walked into the dormitory. The twins, Fred and George, were still cocooned in their beds, but Lee Jordan was sitting up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, staring out at the clearing sky. He looked up, startled, as Albert entered.
"Where on earth did you disappear to?" Lee Jordan asked, stretching languidly.
"A walk and an early breakfast!" Albert grinned, extracting the warm brown paper bag from his robe. "And I brought gifts."
George, woken by the ntion of the word 'gifts,' sat bolt upright on the right-hand bed, his hair a ss. "What gift?"
"Pies," Albert announced, pulling out a pie, taking a confident bite, and passing the bag to Lee Jordan. "One for each of us. Fresh from the source."
"The source being...?" Fred asked suspiciously, slowly erging from under his hangings. "You found the Kitchen without us?"
"Wow, you actually found it!" George exclaid, grabbing a pie.
"Don't you want to brush your teeth first?" Albert suggested, stifling a smile.
"Oh, right, sanitation," George mumbled, dropping the pie montarily before rushing out.
Lee Jordan took a bite of his pie. "This is incredible. How on earth did you find it? And how did you get past the security?"
"Pure luck and a tickle," Albert chuckled, then continued, relating his encounter with Filch and Mrs. Norris. "That cat is a natural security system, but Filch is easily defeated by the fact that the sun eventually rises. He was so frustrated he looked like he might burst."
The twins, returning freshly scrubbed and biting into their pies, found this hilarious.
"I bet he was livid!" Fred cackled. "He lives to catch students. He practically keeps a torture chamber full of old shackles in his office."
"Bill and Charlie said the castle is full of secret passages," George said, finishing his pie quickly.
"But they never told us where any of them were," Fred complained, wiping his mouth.
"Maybe they wanted you to find the secrets yourselves. It's certainly more rewarding," Albert agreed, rembering Nick's advice.
"I suppose so," Lee Jordan conceded.
"Oh, I almost forgot this," Albert said, walking back to the dormitory door. He took out his Muggle cara and, while the common room was still blissfully empty, took a few quick, flash-lit photos of the round room and the portrait of the Fat Lady.
"Taking pictures again?" Fred asked.
"I'm going to send a letter ho. Everything in the magical world is strange to Muggles, and my parents will need proof this is real," Albert explained, checking the photo printouts. The cara was more than a novelty; he had found he'd quietly acquired a related skill on his panel: Muggle Photography (Lv. 1).
"I heard from Charlie that Filch is the biggest risk in the castle," George stated, his tone suddenly serious. "He knows dozens of secret routes and loves to sneak up on students. He'll dock you fifty points for stepping on a clean floor."
"Most students who wander around at night get caught by him," Fred added, leaning in conspiratorially. "And end up losing house points and serving nasty detentions. He's the single biggest threat to unauthorized movent."
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