Harry Potter: The Idle Wizard Chapter 95 95: The Vault of Desires

In a vast, silent corner of the Room of Requirent, 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 detachnt. The truth, however, was far stranger: Albert was fully imrsed 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 specin.

He had finally secured a significant window of ti 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 mory 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 resud 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 fra 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 gri of centuries sloughed away, revealing a flawless, shimring surface.

"The Mirror of Erised," he whispered, reading the familiar, backward-sounding letters on the fra. 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 shimring 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 sa 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 fra, 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 fundantally 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 advancent—the sheer digital currency—that finding and utilizing the Horcrux represented. The Diadem was rely the high-value conduit to the XP and Skill Points he craved. In this strange, ta-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 entrapnt 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 confird it was magical. After testing it with a small pebble, he quickly understood its enchantnt. "A Winged Slingshot," he muttered.

"Not just for flight, but for tracking." The projectiles shot from it seed to possess a crude form of homing or tracking magic, allowing them to bypass minor obstacles to reach the target.

His mind imdiately 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 beco a near-instant sharpshooter, capable of striking a target from a kiloter away, regardless of windage or minor cover. The magical principle was the true treasure.

He ticulously 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.

Monts later, tucked into a corner, he found a dilapidated Quidditch equipnt 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 chanism. The allure of the Snitch wasn't its value, but its unique magical engineering. The Snitch has physical mory, he recalled from his reading. It rembers 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 mory. 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 chanism.

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 imdiately 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 mont, Albert felt a chilling, deep-seated vibration—a somatic tremor that resonated in his very soul. The external world seed to recede, replaced by his own heavy, asured 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 fragnt 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 extre 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 humd 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 ntal defenses: Wear . Put on. You will know all. You will be wise.

He instinctively took a step forward, his hand beginning to rise, then he slamd 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 ans to power."

He took several deliberate steps back, putting distance between himself and the corrupted object. He raised the cara 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 imdiate, corruptive radius of the Horcrux did he pull out his Panel and check the flood of new tasks.

Evil Whispers You heard whispers that attempted to seduce you into corruption. The whispers were revealed to be a sinister object of dark magic. You recognize the extre danger and successfully identified the source. Reward: 10,000 Experience Points, and a random unmastered magic.

"Confird," Albert whispered. "Voldemort's Horcrux." rely 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 Relics You 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 Secret You 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 Remorse You 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 Horcrux It 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 Downfall You'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 Requirent, 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 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 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 tis the current misery of, say, writing a single essay."

Lee Jordan blinked slowly, steam still rising faintly from his hair. "You an… you found a profitable sche that makes your howork look easy?"

"I an I found a sche 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 , 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 parchnt.

"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."