"It makes Filch sound like a monstrous caricature," Albert noted, stifling a genuine laugh. The twins' description of the caretaker was exaggerated, reminiscent of the way his former Muggle students used to depict their strict, but ultimately harmless, housemistress as an ancient, cackling witch.
"No, Albert, everyone genuinely hates him," Fred countered, his expression unusually serious. "Even Percy—and that tells you something. He's such a stickler for rules, yet even he can't find a kind word for Filch. You can't dismiss that."
"What do you mean by 'someone like Percy'?" Albert teased, resisting the urge to complain about the typical sibling rivalry. "Isn't he your brother? Is it really alright to badmouth your own family?"
The twins just shrugged in unison, their identical expressions conveying a mix of weary acceptance and mild disdain. It was clear that Percy Weasley, the studious third-year Prefect, occupied a specific, universally agreed-upon status in the family hierarchy—the pompous rule-follower.
"Well, it's almost time," Albert said, taking out his mechanical pocket watch. The hands indicated 7:25 a.m. "Let's head down to the Great Hall for proper breakfast and then map out the lower floors."
This time, the four boys moved with a shared, purposeful stealth. The twins were already enthralled by the possibilities of the secret passage Albert had discovered behind the griffin carving. They took their time passing through the narrow, dusty tunnel, whispering about potential escape routes and shortcuts.
When they reached the massive, shifting marble staircase, they were lucky; the path connected almost immediately to the main landing, eliminating the need to wait for the capricious structure to align.
As they pushed open the heavy oak doors and walked into the Great Hall, they found it sparsely populated. A few scattered older students were eating silently at the long tables, but the lively morning bustle was still hours away. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the gloomy sky outside—a heavy, oppressive grey that hinted at more rain. The hall, usually a vibrant space, felt cavernous and subdued in the weak morning light.
"We're probably the first first-years up," George Weasley observed, carving a baked potato on his plate with excessive concentration. He glanced across the mostly empty hall. "I honestly can't remember the last time I was up this early for a full meal."
"Three years ago," Fred announced suddenly, not looking up from his plate.
George paused, knife hovering. "You... you actually remember that?"
Fred looked up, a sly, familiar grin spreading across his face. "Of course not! I guessed. You actually believed me for a second, didn't you?"
George sighed, returning to his potato. "It's exactly like this. Just impossible to tell with you."
Albert ignored their routine banter, pulling out his parchment and a familiar fountain pen—a sturdy, classic Muggle instrument, a birthday gift from his father.
"What are you drawing?" Lee Jordan asked, leaning over the table to see the scratchy lines appearing on the parchment.
"I'm documenting the places we just passed. I'm starting a Hogwarts Map," Albert explained, flipping the parchment so they could see the rudimentary sketch.
Fred's curiosity focused immediately on the pen. "I'm more interested in what that is. You've been drawing all morning, but you never dip it in ink. That's not normal."
"It's a fountain pen," Albert explained, handing it over. "It's what Muggles use to write. Quill pens aren't practical for carrying around or sketching on the go. This holds a reservoir of ink inside the barrel." .
"It feels a bit like a quill," Fred mused, turning the nib over in the light.
"The principle is similar. But the advantage is portability and longevity," Albert summarized, taking the parchment back and pointing out the landmarks. "We are here, in the Great Hall. Out those doors is the Entrance Hall. Up the marble steps is the moving staircase. Filch's Office is right nearby. From the Entrance Hall, the left door leads to the basement corridor, and that, in turn, leads to the Kitchen. The entrance is the portrait of the huge silver bowl of fruit. You tickle the big pear."
"You've recorded everything so thoroughly," Lee Jordan exclaimed, taking the parchment. He traced the route from the Entrance Hall to the Kitchen, his eyebrows rising. "I think I could find it easily now."
He handed the parchment to Fred. "So, what's the plan now?"
"First, I need to find the exact location of my classrooms so I don't get lost before the lesson even starts," Albert said, carefully rolling the map and tucking it away. "After that, we'll see if we can locate any more secret passages along the way. They're usually hidden behind tapestries, carvings, or even certain portraits."
"If they're always hidden behind something suspicious, finding them shouldn't be too hard," Fred suggested, already eager for the hunt. He quickly finished the last bite of his baked potato.
"No, that's where the challenge lies," Albert clarified, shaking his head. "The clue is the visual anomaly, but the mechanism is the secret. Some passages need a specific touch, a password, or a spell. I only found the Kitchen because that fruit painting was so out of place in a stone corridor, and I knew from... reading that the pear was the trick."
"Why did you think a picture of fruit held a secret?" A clear, strong girl's voice suddenly chimed in from beside him.
Albert turned his head to see Angelina Johnson, a fellow Gryffindor first-year, standing next to the table, assembling a simple breakfast. Albert recognized her immediately from the sorting and their brief chat in the common room last night.
"Because it was too suspicious," Albert replied matter-of-factly. "That painting of a mundane silver bowl of fruit is almost the same size and placement as the Fat Lady's portrait—a massive, elaborate guard for a secret entrance. If the architects put a piece of art that large there, it's not for aesthetics. It's a literal signpost screaming, 'There is a secret passage here.'"
Angelina, Fred, and George all paused, staring at him. Albert's logic—a strange fusion of structural analysis and common-sense deduction—made perfect, unsettling sense, even if it wasn't how most people approached the castle's mysteries.
"Oh," was all Angelina managed.
"You can actually remember my last name," Angelina then said, her surprise evident. Most people, even her roommates, hadn't yet learned to connect names to faces after only a day.
"I have a reliable memory," Albert said with a friendly smile. "This is Lee Jordan, and the twins are Fred and George. Of course, please don't ask me to tell them apart, I haven't mastered that trick yet."
"I'm George, George Weasley," one twin immediately volunteered with a wink.
"No, no, no, I'm George, and he's Fred," the other twin instantly retorted, looking offended.
"Classic twin maneuver," Albert chuckled, then pointed to himself. "I'm Albert Anderson."
"Anderson, aren't you going to eat?" Angelina asked, gesturing to his empty plate as she buttered a piece of toast.
"I just finished a second breakfast, courtesy of the Kitchen staff," Albert explained, stroking his owl, Sheila, who had just landed neatly on the table, looking for a treat. He picked up a piece of crust and fed it to her. "I need to send a letter home. I need to get this evidence of the magical world to my parents this weekend."
Sheila hooted softly, stretching a wing to signal she understood the upcoming task.
Just as Albert finished feeding his owl, another, much larger owl swooped into the hall. It missed its mark, dropping a copy of the Daily Prophet onto the table. It barely skimmed the edge of George's pumpkin porridge, which only Fred's quick, preemptive sweep saved from disaster.
"Can I borrow that?" Angelina asked, quickly snagging the paper. "I need to check the Quidditch scores."
"Oh, absolutely," Albert replied.
"You like Quidditch, too?" the twins asked in perfect unison, their eyes lighting up. Quidditch was clearly a passion they shared.
"Of course, I do! But the absolute tragedy is that we can't participate in the tryouts during our first year," Angelina said, the disappointment evident in her voice.
"That's just a rule," Albert observed with a shrug, collecting his camera prints from the table. "They say first-years can't try out, but there are always exceptions, right? Rules are meant to be broken, or at least bent, if you can find a convincing enough argument or a desperate enough Professor McGonagall."
Angelina looked skeptical. "Oh, I doubt I could change Professor McGonagall's mind about anything. I've heard the Gryffindor Chaser position is opening up next semester when the current player graduates. I plan to sign up and try then. What about you two?"
The twins immediately puffed out their chests, speaking in powerful unison: "The Beater position is much more suited to our particular talents."