The acquisition of power in any complex system—be it a video game or a magically-enhanced reality—ultimately revolves around a simple equation: risk versus reward. When encountering a major antagonist, or "boss," the calculus dictates that a successful defeat should yield a corresponding bounty of experience and valuable loot.
The vital prerequisite, of course, is surviving the encounter.
How to successfully convert a Dark Lord into a surge of experience points without sacrificing one's own life is undeniably a high-level strategic challenge. Quirinus Quirrell served as a perfect, unfortunate counter-example.
That talented young wizard was fatally naive, conceiving the hubristic idea that he could learn powerful magic directly from Voldemort, only to become a temporary, doomed vessel for the Dark Lord's remnant soul.
For Albert, tackling the lingering specter of Voldemort—which currently hid in some unknown corner of the world—was entirely too high-risk. A far simpler, more effective way to systematically gain experience was to target the Dark Lord's Horcruxes.
Of these, the one easiest to locate, if not to retrieve, was the lost Ravenclaw Diadem, believed to be concealed within the boundless clutter of the Room of Requirement.
Albert was confident that the mere act of successfully locating the Diadem would trigger multiple Panel tasks, ensuring a healthy influx of both experience and skill points.
After reaping the initial digital rewards of the quest, he could pivot his strategy to securing material gains—specifically, gaining a considerable favor from Albus Dumbledore, the wizard who had lived for a century and controlled an immense network of magical resources.
The key lay in crafting a flawless explanation for Dumbledore.
It had to be simple, relatable, and, crucially, woven out of a tapestry of half-truths that only amplified its plausibility. He would present the discovery as a low-probability, high-impact random event.
The narrative would begin with the Weasley twins. Albert would explain that during a late-night adventure—perhaps evading Filch after an ill-advised trip to the kitchens—Fred and George had accidentally stumbled upon the Room of Requirement. Intrigued by the sudden appearance of a secret door, they would then involve Albert in repeated, focused attempts to understand and map the mysterious chamber.
This was the believable Gryffindor angle: reckless curiosity turning into obsessive experimentation.
Albert would claim that during one of these systematic tests of the Room's capabilities, he stumbled upon a dark magical resonance or heard faint, unsettling whispers emanating from deep within the mountainous piles of junk. Following this spectral clue, he would claim to have found a tarnished, slightly disturbing item that resembled historical depictions of the Ravenclaw Diadem.
The rest was a simple matter of delegation. He would present the evidence to Dumbledore, claiming he found an item that "felt wrong" and looked vaguely like the lost artifact. Then, he would lead the Headmaster directly to the exact location.
Albert genuinely believed Dumbledore would swallow the story whole. Why? Because every single component was based on truth.
Dumbledore undoubtedly knew the Room of Requirement existed—he had mistaken it for a bathroom years ago—but he had never once considered that the Horcrux would be hidden among the detritus, perfectly disguised by the chaotic nature of the chamber itself.
A story composed of true elements, stitched together by a simple lie of circumstance, was always more convincing than pure fiction.
The only true difficulty lay in the timing. Presenting the evidence to Dumbledore at the exact right moment would be critical for maximizing his own leverage.
But first, Albert reminded himself, stepping further into the immense chamber, there must be a crown to present.
Albert took a slow, deep breath. The air inside the Room of Requirement was heavy, thick with the musty scent of ancient dust, stale magic, and decaying wood. The scene was breathtaking in its sheer, uncontrolled magnitude. He raised his camera and snapped a photograph, the flash briefly illuminating the scene.
"My photography skills are certainly benefiting from the wealth of unique subjects here," he murmured, pocketing the camera.
He began moving slowly and carefully. The floor was uneven, winding like a dry riverbed between mountainous piles of furniture, broken magical objects, and generation upon generation of discarded items. It was a chaotic, visual cacophony—a graveyard of Hogwarts' failures and lost secrets.
He paused near a low, dusty table and picked up a corroded, spiked disc: a Wolf-Fang Flying Saucer. It was utterly inert now, its magical propulsion mechanism having long since sputtered into a pile of rust. After years of abandonment, its innate enchantment had completely leached away, turning it into little more than a piece of harmless, medieval-looking litter. He gently replaced the artifact.
His eyes then fixed on a slightly more organized pile of books. He walked over and pulled out a particularly worn volume. The title, barely legible beneath a coating of grime, read: Magical Pharmacy and Potions.
As Albert flipped through the pages, his lip curled into a subtle smile. On the first page, beneath a clumsily drawn sketch of a bat, was the definitive inscription: "Professor S.S." The book was filled with greasy smudges, hasty annotations scribbled in tight, spidery handwriting, and numerous pages that were dog-eared or even torn.
It was almost impossible to reconcile this brutally handled textbook with the severe, meticulously controlled image of Severus Snape. It offered a small, unsettling glimpse into the Potions Master's student days—a time of hurried study, focused experimentation, and perhaps, a level of passion and recklessness he now fiercely suppressed.
Moving past the books, he encountered a line of rusted, rickety suits of armor. Just as he began to pass, a sudden, sharp motion caught his attention. A small, dark-blue, iron-wrought creature, resembling a miniature, aggressive gargoyle, quickly scuttled out of the visor of the nearest suit.
It was a Doxy, sometimes called a Biting Fairy, though its wings were momentarily clipped, giving it the look of a tiny, malevolent imp. Its tiny, metallic eyes fixed on Albert, and it began to furiously beat the vestigial wings on its back.
Before the creature could fully orient itself, Albert's wand was out. A quiet, precise red light—a simple stunning charm—flickered briefly in the gloom. The unfortunate creature instantly tumbled back into the dark interior of the suit of armor, where it hit the ground with a soft, metallic thunk. Albert calmly pocketed his wand.
He continued his systematic observation of the passage. He passed weapon racks holding swords scarred with rust and a surprisingly clean, blood-stained axe—the history of which he wisely did not attempt to dwell upon. He wound his way through the mountains of broken chairs, ancient, unwanted newspapers, and tattered school robes, each piece a potential story.
He noted burnt cauldrons and broken glass bottles containing solidified, petrified potions. However, he also observed a few small, wax-sealed bottles that still emitted an unhealthy, faint evil green light, suggesting their contents—whatever they were—remained magically potent and potentially dangerous.
The chaotic corridor of junk eventually gave way to a larger, more open space. Albert stopped abruptly, his eyes widening at the imposing sight ahead of him.
Standing sentinel at the intersection of two towering piles of discarded magical items was a monstrous specimen: the taxidermied figure of a Mountain Troll.
It was truly enormous, its shadow consuming the limited light. The sheer bulk of its body conveyed an inexplicable, primordial sense of oppression, even in its preserved state.
The crudely carved wooden club clenched in its fist looked incredibly lethal; a casual strike would be more than enough to crush bone and end life instantly.
Albert considered the reality: a live troll was a genuinely terrifying adversary, and though he had mastered sufficient magic to handle one, the danger was absolute.
He also considered the professor or wizard who had meticulously managed to kill, drain, disinfect, preserve, and mount such a colossal specimen, wondering about the immense effort required to stabilize a body that large. Whoever undertook this task must have been either immensely bored or frighteningly obsessive.
As Albert's gaze lingered on the giant's stony face, his Panel immediately activated with a chiming notification, cutting through his thoughts:
A Fearless ChallengerYou have encountered the preserved specimen of a Mountain Troll and felt the oppressive weight of its immense body. As a brave Gryffindor student, you are tasked with demonstrating your House's renowned courage and fearlessness by successfully defeating a living Mountain Troll. Reward: 3000 Experience Points.
Albert stifled a frustrated groan.
"Where, precisely, am I supposed to 'find' a Mountain Troll?" he muttered under his breath. And more philosophically, he questioned the nature of the task: Why must I prove 'Gryffindor's bravery' by tackling this creature? He had always viewed Gryffindor's courage as being dangerously close to pure recklessness.
He dismissed the existential complaint. Every reader views Hamlet through a different lens, and every wizard views courage differently. His opinion was irrelevant; the Panel was the ultimate arbiter, and it had set a challenge. Activating a task that offered a substantial 3000 XP was excellent news, regardless of the philosophical implication.
I will not miss out on a valuable task.
He calculated the timetable. The only instance of a troll appearing at Hogwarts in the near future, according to the timeline, would be during Harry Potter's first year—precisely two years from now.
I can simply wait for the troll to show up in the third grade and then 'borrow' it for a quick duel, he concluded, marking the task for future completion.
With the troll specimen cataloged and the panel task noted, Albert returned his focus to the matter at hand: the Diadem. He needed to begin the systematic search and, more urgently, he needed to solve his current logistical problem. He needed the Developing Potion formula and the rare ingredients, and he couldn't do both simultaneously.
The Diadem search has begun, and the "A Fearless Challenger" task is on hold. Albert still needs to secure the means to brew the Developing Potion for his Magic Photos quest. Should he prioritize getting the precise potion formula from the heavily guarded Restricted Section, or risk a daring raid on Professor Snape's private storeroom for the rare, necessary ingredients?