Their raiding mission to the kitchens had been a resounding success. When the four boys finally emerged, their robes were suspiciously lumpy and their bellies pleasantly full of stolen treats. They were energized by the rich cream cakes and warm milk tea, and their pockets now bulged with contraband: buttery custard biscuits and savory meat pies courtesy of the incredibly generous house-elves.
"Curfew starts in less than ten minutes," Albert noted, consulting his pocket watch with a sense of urgency. "If we don't move quickly, we'll be losing more than House Points."
They strode quickly through the shadowed corridors near the dungeons. Unfortunately, their recent run-in with mischief had created a magnetic pull between them and the school's perpetually sour caretaker.
As they passed the end of the Grand Hall, a flash of yellow-eyed malice stopped them in their tracks. Mrs. Norris, Filch's skeletal cat, darted from the shadows, let out a low, gravelly meow of accusation, and swiftly disappeared. Moments later, Argus Filch materialized from the gloom, his face split by a reptilian, satisfied grin.
Fred and George instantly stiffened. The sheer audacity of their theft from Filch's office now made them feel profoundly guilty, a completely alien sensation. Fred instinctively shoved his hand into the right pocket of his robe, the rough, crinkled surface of the Marauder's Map a secret reminder of his transgression against the caretaker.
"You two," Filch hissed, his voice reeking of victory as he addressed the Weasley brothers. "Just the scoundrels I was hoping to intercept. Your detention is confirmed for seven o'clock tomorrow evening. You will be cleaning, polishing, and detailing every single trophy in the Trophy Room." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial sneer. "I sincerely hope this little lesson instills some sense of house honor in you, because Gryffindor's scores have plummeted straight back to last place, thanks to your recent stunts."
The four boys stood motionless, silently enduring the tirade. George, however, couldn't resist a final, muffled defiance, chewing conspicuously on a stolen custard biscuit, the crumbs puffing out slightly as a visual representation of his boredom.
"Now, return immediately to your Common Room," Filch warned, pointing a long, bony finger down the corridor. "Do not let me catch you wandering the castle after curfew. The punishment for that is far worse than a few hours of polishing." With that final, ominous threat, he spun on his heel and disappeared, trailed by the lingering smell of damp tweed and floor polish.
"What an absolutely nasty old fellow," George muttered, lifting his elbow to offer Filch's retreating back a universally understood rude gesture.
"You wouldn't let your own roommates face such a grueling punishment without a little magical help, would you, Albert?" Fred asked, turning to his friend with wide, manipulative eyes. "That Decontamination Charm or a simple Scouring Spell would make the whole ordeal fly by."
"It's far too late for me to teach you the charm, even if I wanted to risk performing magic right under Filch's nose," Albert replied, checking his watch again and walking quickly towards the next staircase.
"You couldn't learn it well enough to use it reliably in one day. Besides," he added, looking at the twins' pleading faces, "the Transfiguration Club is running tomorrow night, also at seven o'clock. I'm going to be teaching, not moonlighting as a clean-up service."
"He means, abandon your desperate struggle, lads!" Lee Jordan chimed in, putting a consoling arm around George's shoulder, though his tone held a definite note of malicious satisfaction. "You're only polishing silver; think of poor, hapless William, still scrubbing infected bedpans! This is actually a step up!"
"Get lost, you wicked git!" Fred snapped, glaring at Lee Jordan before turning back to Albert. "But surely you could spare five minutes, even with the club—"
"No," Albert interrupted firmly. "The club starts at seven. You're simply going to have to rely on brute force and elbow grease. At least there are two of you, so you'll be done twice as fast."
They reached the infamous moving staircase, which slowly began to ascend, carrying them up to the third floor. From there, they navigated a sequence of side passages, relying on a deeply ingrained sense of direction to bypass the main routes. After several winding turns, they emerged near the castle's eighth floor.
As they rounded a corner, they almost collided with a tall, heavy-set figure: Professor Budd Broad, the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.
"Good evening, Professor Broad," Albert said instantly, stepping back and offering a polite greeting.
Professor Broad's eyes swept over the four boys, his gaze lingering oddly on Albert. He had a strange, almost unsettling look of intense scrutiny, as if he were trying to determine the authenticity of a highly suspicious artifact. "Good evening, Mr. Anderson," he responded slowly, his voice raspy. "It is nearly curfew. I strongly advise you return to your Common Room immediately."
Once the Professor had passed and his heavy footsteps faded, Fred turned to Albert, his brow furrowed in genuine suspicion. "How could Professor Broad know your name? We've barely had three classes with him, and he knows everyone in the class. He was looking at you like he was trying to figure out a riddle."
"I'm not sure myself," Albert confessed, glancing back down the corridor, feeling a faint prickle of unease. His eyes swept over the massive, faded tapestry depicting the giant beating Barnabas the Barmy with a club. He noticed a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in the stone wall directly opposite the tapestry, something he hadn't seen before. It felt as if the wall itself had momentarily softened, then solidified.
And Professor Broad's gaze... it was definitely unsettling. Like he was examining a specimen, Albert thought. He knew the tapestry corner well, and knew what lay opposite it, though his friends did not.
"Come to think of it, there's no secret passage behind that tapestry," Lee Jordan observed, pointing at the tapestry itself. "I spent a good few minutes checking it out this afternoon, just in case."
Lee Jordan was, ironically, looking in the wrong place. The secret was not behind the tapestry, but opposite it, on the seamless stretch of stone that housed the Room of Requirement—a secret that usually only revealed itself when someone desperately needed it.
Finally, they reached the corridor leading to the portrait of the Fat Lady. They were surprised to find her humming a tune that sounded vaguely like a wounded banshee.
"Honestly, 'Nonsense'! Open up, woman, it's freezing out here!" George commanded, using the current password.
The Fat Lady didn't move. She merely continued her appalling, breathy humming, clearly enjoying the temporary power trip of being able to torture them with her lack of musical talent.
"Ugh, 'Nonsense'!" Fred repeated, exasperated.
The Fat Lady glared at them, clearly annoyed at being disturbed from her tuneless performance, but reluctantly swung her portrait inward to reveal the hole leading into the Common Room.
"I dare say she has absolutely zero talent for singing," Albert complained as he scrambled through the entrance.
A few students were still up, scattered around the room attempting to finish homework. Charlie Weasley, wearing a worn set of pajamas, came over to them immediately.
"Where have you two been?" Charlie asked the twins. "Quidditch training starts tomorrow afternoon. You need to be down at the pitch by six-thirty. I'm only giving you half an hour of intensive speed practice before the full team practice."
"Sorry, Charlie, we won't be there," George said, his voice flat with disappointment.
"Why not?"
"Filch got us," Fred confessed glumly. "Detention. Tomorrow night."
Charlie sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Forget it, then. Lee, you'll have to come with them next time. If you want any hope of officially joining the Quidditch team next year, you need to practice now. A little edge will help you immensely against the competition."
Not long after Charlie left, Percy Weasley, stiff and starched even in the late hour, emerged from the direction of the boys' dormitory, his homework finished and his air perpetually self-important.
"Don't start, Percy," George groaned before his older brother could speak. "We've already been lectured by Charlie."
"You need to stop provoking Filch! It reflects terribly on our house!" Percy declared, his glasses practically steaming with indignation. "You've caused us to fall all the way to last place in the House Cup! If you continue this reckless naughtiness, daring to wander the castle after curfew, I will write a detailed letter home to Mum!"
George mimicked Percy's voice in a high-pitched whine as soon as Percy was out of earshot: "'...If you continue to act naughty like this, I will write a letter to Mum...'" He turned to his roommates, his eyes narrowed in contempt. "And honestly, Gryffindor hasn't won the House Cup in years. Are we seriously supposed to believe that forty points lost by us is the reason?"
"Look, let's be realistic," Albert chimed in seriously, settling onto a threadbare armchair. "When was the last time Gryffindor actually topped the scoreboard? Five years? It's practically the standard now. We're consistently mediocre on points, Percy, and one detention isn't the root cause."
"Wow, you actually see it that way too," George said, a surprised smile spreading across his face, as if finding a kindred spirit in cynicism.
"It's just the truth," Albert shrugged. "Unless the Quidditch team manages to win three matches and haul in a massive number of points, the House Cup will remain a very distant dream. We're relying on one source for all our success, and it's not working."
"That's exactly it! Percy knows this, but he just wants an excuse to give us one of his infuriating, self-righteous lectures!" Fred snorted in disdain.
As the argument faded, Albert's inner vision suddenly flashed, showing a brand-new notification from his Wizarding Panel.
[New Quest Unlocked]
Quest: The Glory of Gryffindor
Description: Gryffindor House has failed to win the House Cup for five consecutive years. Your housemates rely on the Quidditch team, but true victory requires consistent effort across all fields. It is time to assert your academic and magical strength and help Gryffindor secure the House Cup victory this year.
Reward: 1 Skill Point.
Albert couldn't help but twitch his mouth. Is this seriously a task that I'm supposed to complete? The sheer difficulty of overturning the academic and disciplinary habits of an entire house, especially against the competitive Ravenclaw and the organized Hufflepuff, felt almost impossible.
Well, there's no time limit, it seems, Albert realized with a small, cynical smirk. I could simply wait for the actual Saviour, Potter, to arrive on the scene and do the heavy lifting for me.
That's a much better idea, he concluded, relaxing back into the chair.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Do you think the best strategy for Albert to help Gryffindor win the House Cup is indeed to focus on his own skills and grades, or should he try to organize the other first-years to study more effectively?