The long, miserable siege of October rain finally broke, but the clearing sky brought no relief—only a drastic plunge in temperature. The atmosphere surrounding Hogwarts Castle was now brittle and sharp, signaling the abrupt, unyielding arrival of the Scottish winter.
The castle grounds were slick with frost in the mornings, and inside, the chill air clung stubbornly to the stone, forcing students to move closer to the fireplaces and pull their robes tighter.
In the warmth of the Gryffindor dormitory, shielded from the icy blast, a small domestic miracle was underway. Fred, humming a tuneless, cheerful melody, carefully measured water into a tiny copper kettle, his focus entirely on the line of flowerpots resting on the broad windowsill.
Within these pots, the garlic sprouts were thriving. Safe from the sodden ground and the punishing rain of the previous week, the plants had successfully pushed their slender green shoots up through the rich earth. They now stood proudly, each seedling about the length of a wizard's thumb—a small but hard-won victory in the Weasley twins' eccentric entrepreneurial pursuit.
"Honestly, Albert, I can't shake the feeling of sheer stupidity," George admitted, wrestling a thick, crimson, hand-knitted jumper over his head.
"We invested serious capital and sweat equity into that ridiculous, muddy clearing. We were focused on secrecy, but completely ignored practicality. Why did it take a flood for us to realize that pots are simply superior to a dangerous, exposed field?"
"Because you were overthinking the conspiracy and underthinking the horticulture," Albert replied smoothly, meticulously fastening the silver clasps on his own robe. "But now that you've succeeded, you need to manage them properly. Stop smothering them with attention and water, or you'll kill them with kindness."
Albert glanced out at the rare, pale winter sun trying to pierce the gloom. "Today is a precious, clear day. You two need to remember to get them out to the inner courtyard for sunlight exposure. They won't thrive long without it."
The cold, wet weeks of October had meant the potted crop had received almost no genuine sunlight, relying mostly on the soft, magical glow of the Common Room. They had been taken outside for only a handful of brief, hurried moments since they were transplanted.
As the four roommates descended the main staircase, carrying the pots gingerly to take advantage of the morning sun, they encountered the inevitable obstacle.
Just as they reached the Entrance Hall, they were suddenly intercepted by Argus Filch, the caretaker, who materialized from the shadow of a suit of armor, his stooped figure accompanied by the ominous, low glow of his lamp and the silent menace of his cat, Mrs. Norris.
"And just what in the blazes are you four skulking around with?" Filch's voice was a dry, rasping sound, laced with immediate, deep-seated suspicion. He pointed a bony finger at Fred's flowerpot.
"Good morning, Mr. Filch," Fred greeted him with irritating cheerfulness. "We're simply ensuring our school projects get adequate exposure. There's no rule against cultivating personal plants at Hogwarts, is there?"
Filch's eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. He craned his neck, scrutinizing the leafy green sprouts. "That is weeds. Do you take me for a senile old fool? Bringing in noxious greenery to foul up the castle!"
"Ah, but Mr. Filch, weeds are merely plants whose virtues have yet to be discovered by the masses," Albert intervened, stepping forward with an air of scholarly patience. He made a show of examining the garlic sprout with intense, scientific curiosity.
"And for the record, this particular species—Allium sativum, or Garlic—was considered a wild weed for millennia before its edible and medicinal properties were fully understood by civilization."
He continued, raising his eyebrows slightly. "Furthermore, the regulations are quite specific, are they not? They forbid dangerous, toxic, or magically unstable flora. I don't believe common garlic, despite its pungent aroma, falls into any of those categories. It is, in fact, a celebrated culinary ingredient."
Filch was thrown off balance. His rage, typically fueled by simple rule-breaking, faltered when confronted by an irritatingly logical and well-educated defense. He glared, his face tightening into a roadmap of frustration.
"Hmph. You better not let me find you doing anything underhanded with that rubbish," he snarled, turning away abruptly, dragging Mrs. Norris with him. The cat's glowing red eyes lingered on Albert for a long, unsettling moment before they vanished into the dim corridor.
"That creature is truly detestable," George muttered, giving the retreating back of the caretaker a crude, dismissive hand gesture.
"He certainly carries the weight of resentment well," Albert commented, a strange, thoughtful look on his face. "Perhaps when your crop matures, you could gift him a bouquet of fresh garlic. I hear cats despise the sharp, volatile compounds it releases. It would certainly add a unique fragrance to his office."
The mere suggestion of such a subtle, irritating form of mischief brightened the twins' mood instantly.
The atmosphere in the Great Hall during breakfast was buzzing, not with academic fervor, but with the focused, almost military discussion of the impending Hogsmeade trip.
The senior students, particularly the third-years, were exchanging plans and listing the places they intended to visit: Honeydukes, Zonko's Joke Shop, and the infamous Three Broomsticks pub.
Charlie Weasley, a sixth-year Gryffindor and Quidditch Captain, had canceled the intense weekend training sessions, giving his players a rare day of leave—a true testament to the importance of the trip.
Percy Weasley, sitting a few feet away, was lecturing a group of his prefect friends, meticulously detailing the architectural history and administrative peculiarities of the village shops, his voice a droning counterpoint to the more exciting plans being shared around him.
Albert found it profoundly amusing that no one suspected he and his own cohort had already explored the village in detail, thanks to their earlier discovery of a secret passage. The mystery was gone, and with no real gold to spend, the day trip held little appeal for him.
At nine o'clock, the main gates opened, and the procession began. Filch, standing in the middle of the entrance hall like a vigilant, gargoyle-like sentry, held a vast, curled list. He checked off names, his wrinkled face peering suspiciously at each student, wary of any younger child attempting to sneak into the privilege reserved for the older students.
Once the crowd of departing students thinned out, Albert and his friends retreated to the Gryffindor Common Room. It was blissfully quiet. Only a scattering of first and second-years, and a few jaded seniors who were too comfortable to brave the cold, remained.
"Still plugging away at that essay, George?" Albert asked, observing his roommate's intense, focused expression—a rare sight.
"Nearly done. Just about an inch short of the required length for the Transfiguration paper," George replied, stretching his stiff fingers.
"I'm finished," Albert announced, patting George encouragingly. "Stay strong, lads. I'm going to take a walk. I plan to get a few photographs while the castle is empty and then work on my Developing Potion formula." He raised his ever-present camera. "Anyone keen to join me for a quiet tour?"
"Thanks, but I'd rather face a Blast-Ended Skrewt than Professor McGonagall's detention," Fred lamented, shaking his head. The weight of the impending Transfiguration deadline was too heavy.
The others also politely declined. They needed to perfect their application of the Levitation Charm, a critical component of the upcoming assignments.
"As expected. I'll venture out alone then," Albert said, waving a dismissal as he reached the portrait hole.
"Hey, Albert, just before you go—let us borrow your completed homework! Just to... compare methodologies," Lee Jordan suggested quickly, flashing a cheeky grin.
"Absolutely not. Do you think Professor McGonagall became an Animagus by missing obvious attempts at plagiarism?" Albert retorted, disappearing through the portrait hole with a final, mischievous wave. "You'll just earn yourselves a week of cleaning trophies!"
The castle was silent. The familiar echoes and bustling noise were gone, replaced by a profound, reverent quiet that magnified the subtle sounds—the distant rumble of a chimney fire, the rustle of a drafty tapestry. For Albert, this was the moment he had been waiting for.
He made his way directly to the seventh floor, stopping before the familiar, dusty tapestry that depicted the futile efforts of Barnabas the Barmy to teach trolls ballet. He set his camera down on a nearby ledge, raising it to snap a quick photograph of the tapestry—a small, necessary cover for his real intent. After ensuring the corridor was utterly deserted, he closed his eyes and began his familiar, purposeful stride.
I need a space to store things... a place to hide things... I need a place to hide items that must never be found...
He passed the empty stretch of wall three times. On the third pass, the smooth stone shimmered, then began to dissolve and warp. Intricate, archaic patterns of a massive, heavy door began to bloom on the wall, and the Room of Requirement opened for Albert.
He pushed the door inward and stepped through.
"Success," Albert whispered, raising his hand in a subtle, affirmative gesture. Despite his rational, methodical approach to the world, a faint thrill of excitement always accompanied his entry here. This was no mere room; it was a physical manifestation of concentrated, latent magic—a literal vault of the school's forgotten history.
The space stretched out before him, vast and cathedral-like, far larger than the corridor could possibly contain. It was illuminated by high, arched windows that channeled thin, cold ribbons of sunlight onto towering hills of discarded furniture, broken instruments, rusted weaponry, and generations of forgotten detritus left behind by thousands of past Hogwarts occupants.
The floor was an uneven path winding between the peaks and valleys of junk, a veritable graveyard of magical and mundane artifacts.
The Ravenclaw's Diadem is somewhere in this labyrinth, Albert thought, his eyes already beginning to scan the overwhelming landscape. The protagonist of every Harry Potter fan fiction, including my own, comes here to find a Horcrux and embrace the heroic burden. They view it as their solemn, noble duty to save the world.
Albert, however, harbored no such grand, self-sacrificing ideals.
I am a supporting character in this narrative, he thought with detached clarity. It is not only unfair, but strategically unsound, to steal the limelight from the designated protagonist. Potter was born with the Aura of the Protagonist—the ultimate plot armor.
When he faced a life-and-death crisis, the universe bent to save him. Albert, by contrast, possessed no such infallible defense. To engage in a fight to the death with the "Noseless Monster" would be the height of irrationality.
But Voldemort is not just a problem for Potter. He is a high-value, high-risk, high-reward target.
Albert's ultimate loyalty was to his Panel, the cryptic system that had governed his second life. In the system of the Panel, everything—magic, knowledge, and even existential threat—was a resource to be leveraged.
He did not mind assisting in the Dark Lord's inevitable demise; in fact, he would happily accelerate it, provided the process was efficient and, most importantly, profitable for him.