While tension mounted in the Headmaster's office, the rest of Hogwarts Castle buzzed with the carefree energy of a Saturday night. The Great Hall was a sea of enthusiastic voices and laughter. The students, especially the first-years, were still marveling at their new home, exchanging stories about moving staircases that had led them to unexpected places, about friendly ghosts (and others not so much), and about the secrets promised by every corner of the fortress.
But above all, the topic dominating the conversation was the book. Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone had gone from a curiosity to a phenomenon. Groups of students huddled around a copy, their eyes shining as they turned the pages.
"Look, that's me!" exclaimed Marcus Flint, a sturdy second-year Slytherin with a mocking smile, pointing to an illustration where Harry gazed longingly at racing brooms in a Diagon Alley shop. In the background, an older version of the young Flint was looking dreamily at the new broom being advertised, the Nimbus 2000. "Blimey, they just released the Nimbus 1900, I didn't expect a new one in 2 years!"
At the Ravenclaw table, Miss Penelope Clearwater, a second-year girl with straight hair and impeccable posture, observed with raven-like curiosity an illustration of Platform 9 ¾. There, among the crowd boarding the Hogwarts Express, one could see her own figure, older but distinct enough to recognize herself; in the image, she was adjusting the strap of her trunk with an expression of determination. A group of her fellow Ravenclaws was debating heatedly.
"The anatomical precision and the capture of personal essence in motion is... impossible," declared one, rubbing his chin. "It's as if the artist had been seeing the future."
"It's disturbing," added another. "How can an anonymous author have sufficient knowledge of so many different people to represent them so vividly, even if they are drawn older?" However, when they tried to delve deeper into that line of thought, a mental fog took hold of them, diverting their attention to the quality of the pumpkin juice or Hogwarts' extensive library. The System's anonymity magic was doing its work.
In Gryffindor, the atmosphere was more festive. Bill Weasley, the popular seventh-year prefect and Head Boy with his long red hair but still without his dragon fang earring, was laughing heartily alongside his brother Charlie, a sixth-year whose love for magical creatures was already evident in his hands covered in small scars.
"Look at the little ones!"exclaimed Bill, pointing to an illustration where two tiny, red-headed versions of Fred and George were chasing a dark-skinned boy holding a box with a spider.
The Weasley twins,now first-years, pointed at themselves in the book, laughing uncontrollably.
"That's Lee Jordan!"said George (or perhaps Fred), slapping the boy in question on the back, who had been watching with a shy smile. "I didn't know you had a tarantula!"
"Her name's Aragne," replied Lee, perking up instantly. "Want to see her?"
The book's revelation had accelerated a friendship that, in another time, would have taken weeks to blossom. Meanwhile, Percy Weasley, sitting a little straighter than usual, couldn't hide a smile of pure satisfaction upon seeing himself in an illustration from chapter six, boarding the train with the prefect badge shining proudly on his robes. He looked, in his own judgment, "fantastically authoritative."
Most students had only managed to read five or six chapters. The book possessed a unique immersive magic; it didn't just tell a story, it transported you into it. You felt Harry's awe at seeing Diagon Alley for the first time, the thrill of knowing he was a wizard, meeting Ron on the train, the nervousness about which house he'd be in. It was an experience that consumed both time and emotions.
The turning point for the teachers, who until now had been, at best, curious about the books and the students' reactions, occurred when a small Ravenclaw approached Professor Quirrell.
"Professor, look," said the boy, showing an illustration of the "Leaky Cauldron." There, a version of Quirrell, pale and with a visible tremor in his hands, wore a large purple turban. "That's you, right? Where can I get a funny hat like yours?"
Quirrell, who had until then considered the book merely a curiosity, raised his eyebrows upon seeing himself depicted in one of the illustrations. That image... was too specific, too real. That very night, his curiosity piqued, an owl flew from his window with a purchase order addressed to Flourish and Blotts. Professor Babbling, of Ancient Runes, and Professor Vector, of Arithmancy, driven by a similar academic curiosity about the book's magic, as Professor Flitwick had been, did the same. Professor Hooch, however, shrugged; her world was Quidditch. And Professor Kettleburn, with a fresh new bandage on one arm, only had eyes for the dulce de leche pudding in front of him, dreaming of his next encounter with a hippogriff. The other professors and staff showed little interest in the books, while others like Professor Binns, being a ghost, didn't frequently leave his office or classroom, and Professor Trelawney didn't leave her tower room unless she needed more gossip material or something else.
At the Hufflepuff table, Virtus King observed the Great Hall with a serenity that contrasted with the bustle. He chatted calmly with Cedric and other first-year boys about their Monday classes, but his attention was divided. His eyes scanned the staff table, noting the key absences. Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, Sprout, Flitwick... they must be somewhere, reading, he thought. And as he did, a silent symphony resonated in his mind.
[+15 Impact Points received from Marcus Flint]
[+22 Impact Points received from Penelope Clearwater]
[+40 Impact Points received from Fred Weasley]
[+40 Impact Points received from George Weasley]
[+30 Impact Points received from Percy Weasley]
[+180 Impact Points received from Rubeus Hagrid]
...
The points flowed constantly, a soft hum of power accumulating. The more they read, the more immersed they became, the stronger the emotions. And with each notification, a warm, satisfying emotion grew in his chest. More. The more, the better. Soon I'll be able to spin the Gacha and see what I can get from it.
---
Far from the castle's bustle, in the dark grounds near the Forbidden Forest, a very different scene unfolded in Hagrid's hut. The only light came from the crackling fire in the hearth, illuminating a chaotic but cozy room. Hams and pheasants hung from the beamed ceiling, and the oak table, marked by years of use and bites from unruly puppies, was covered with giant teacups, plates with rock cake remnants, and the open book.
Rubeus Hagrid, the gamekeeper, was a sea of emotions. Deep, trembling sobs shook his enormous frame. He wiped his tears and nose with a rag the size of a blanket, unable to contain the torrent of feelings the book had unleashed.
"Poor little tyke..."he muttered between tears. "My little Harry... in that cupboard..."
At his feet, Fang, the droopy boarhound with black fur and a permanently worried expression, rested his heavy head on Hagrid's lap, emitting a soft whine of confusion. In a corner, Fluffy, the three-headed puppy, was enthusiastically gnawing on the leg of the oak table. Each head pulled in a different direction, but the wood, accustomed to such abuse, held firm. Both animals were bewildered by their master's incessant crying.
Suddenly, the sobs transformed into a snort of rage that made both Fang and Fluffy alert.
"Those ruddy Dursleys!"roared Hagrid, clenching his fist so hard the rag squeaked. "Under the stairs! When I see that walrus-faced Vernon, I'll pull his mustache out with my fists!"
He kept reading, and his mood changed again. A smile broke through his tears when Harry spoke to the snake.
"Good on yeh,bein' able to talk to the little creatures..." he whispered with a hint of envy, which quickly turned into a shudder. "But... snakes... that.. that's not possible… only He could do that..." A moan of fear escaped his lips, but he shook it off, shaking his shaggy mane. "Bah! Little Harry never. Not with Dumbledore watchin' over him."
For Hagrid, the book had ceased to be fiction from the first page. Anything that could evoke his memories and feelings with such fidelity could only be the truth. He made a mental note to visit Dumbledore first thing to ask to go see Harry and make sure he wasn't sleeping in that "horrible cupboard."
He laughed heartily at the Dursleys' increasingly desperate attempts to avoid the letters, but anger bubbled up again when they called him a "freak" and said his parents were too.
"Lily and James!They were the best!" he roared, making the cups on the shelf rattle.
And then, the scene of his arrival, telling Harry he was a wizard, giving him the cake and congratulating him on his 11th birthday. The tears returned with a vengeance when Harry confessed it was his first birthday present.
"I swear,Harry," he muttered, his eyes bright, "that punch to that horrible Dursley's face will become real."
The lie about the "car crash" infuriated him again. However, the last straw was the insult to Albus Dumbledore.
"A cracked old fool?"he bellowed, jumping to his feet and making Fang retreat, frightened. "He's the greatest wizard in the world! I'll meself...!"
He stopped, breathing deeply. With a hand still trembling with rage, he grabbed a handful of rock cakes from a plate and stuffed them into his mouth. The crunching calmed him a little. By then, both Fang and Fluffy had decided their master's emotional rollercoaster was too much for them. Fang curled up in his basket with a resigned sigh, and Fluffy's three heads tangled with each other before collapsing into a deep, snoring sleep.
The visit to Diagon Alley filled him with a warm, nostalgic happiness. Seeing the excitement in Harry's eyes (in the vivid illustrations) was a balm. But the mere name Voldemort made him shudder, yet Hagrid soon swelled with joy again when he reached the moment he gave Harry the snowy owl, Hedwig.
"First thing tomorrow,I'm goin' to the Owl Emporium," he promised quietly. "See if she's there already. I'll buy her and... find a way to give her to him."
Finally, finishing the fifth chapter, he felt exhausted but happy. He wanted to continue, but a glance at the pendulum clock startled him.
"Past midnight!"he exclaimed.
Closing the book with a loud "thump!" that made Fluffy's three heads jerk up (only to fall asleep again instantly), he carefully placed a wooden bookmark he had carved himself, shaped like a crude but lovingly made Acromantula. He changed quickly, putting on his enormous magenta flannel pajamas, a gift from Dumbledore from last Christmas. With a final sigh, he extinguished the fireplace with a gesture of his umbrella and climbed into his large bed, where sleep overcame him almost immediately, dreaming of cakes, owls, and the definitive punch to a walrus mustache.
The first stone of Virtus King's chaos had fallen into the pond, and its ripples were already reshaping the world, one sob, one laugh, and one impact point at a time.