Hogwarts was a true trial for new students; it held a total of one hundred and forty-two staircases.
And the staircases moved—as did several of the floorboards. One corridor seemed to twist halfway through, and by the time you reached the end, you were walking on stone while the ceiling above you was carpeted. Some passages led to different places every Friday. On others, a step would suddenly vanish halfway up, and you had to remember exactly where to jump.
There were countless doors, too, and they never opened unless you asked politely—or prodded the correct spot. And if you tried asking a portrait for directions, the answer was usually something like, "Turn around—left, right, down, down, right, left, right, up, then left again, and you'll be there."
Kevin Goldsmith was certain that if any student failed to appear within thirty minutes of breakfast, the school ought to launch a search-and-rescue mission immediately.
Then there was Peeves, who could swoop down at any moment, pestering you until you were late. Worst of all, after decades of students using Peeves as an excuse, the teachers no longer accepted "encountering Peeves" as a valid reason for tardiness.
Every day, Kevin found himself navigating shifting corridors, hidden traps, and the occasional random ghost ambush. He felt as though he'd been dropped into an early, unforgiving RPG—one without guides or walkthroughs.
Their first class was History of Magic. Professor Binns droned slowly through events the students neither knew nor wished to know, and half the room was asleep in minutes. Kevin spent the entire lesson puzzling over ways to alter a person's sense of humour—eventually deciding he would need to start with soul-magic that affected the mind.
Next came Charms with Professor Flitwick, which was fairly manageable. Kevin didn't truly master the Levitation Charm by the end of class, but by pretending to wave his wand while secretly using his spectral spell-hand to lift a feather, he earned extra points—and a resentful glare from Hermione.
Hermione had never encountered a classmate who finished a task before she did, whether at her old school or this magical one.
Transfiguration presented Kevin's first real crisis. Although he took detailed notes under Professor McGonagall, they seemed to offer him no practical help.
When Professor McGonagall handed each of them a matchstick and instructed them to try transforming it into a needle, Kevin was utterly lost.
Even his "cheat system" was no help. True Transfiguration was eighth-tier magic—far above what he could manage. He concentrated, waved his wand until his hand ached, attempting to cast something—anything—but the result was still nothing.
Hermione's matchstick, meanwhile, had already turned silver. Kevin finally resorted to a small conjuring trick, coating his matchstick in a superficial metallic sheen.
But when Professor McGonagall lifted it, the weight was wrong. She let it fall; it hit the desk with a flat, wooden thud. She fixed him with a cool, disapproving stare.
"Painting a match silver is quite different from actually transforming it, Mr. Goldsmith. If you keep trying to be clever, you will only lose Gryffindor points."
She then examined Hermione's matchstick. It clinked like metal and one end gleamed to a sharp point.
"Excellent work, Miss Granger! It has been years since I've seen someone come so close on their first attempt. Five points to Gryffindor!"
Hermione flushed with pride. After Professor McGonagall moved on, she cast Kevin a triumphant look and whispered that he could partner with her during later group practice—if he needed help.
Potions, held in the castle's cold subterranean classroom, felt even more foreboding. Glass jars lining the walls held floating, pickled creatures, and Professor Snape—despite claiming he could teach them how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death—gave every impression of being far more accomplished at inspiring dread.
Even Hermione put it delicately: Snape disliked Gryffindor, especially Harry. Others were blunter: he didn't dislike Harry—he hated him.
Snape seemed determined to make Harry's life miserable. Kevin suspected there was more behind it, but didn't have time to dwell on the matter. He followed the textbook with laboratory precision—three clockwise stirs, one and a half counter-clockwise—but nothing happened.
Neville's cauldron melted, hissed, or burst into flames; Seamus's sometimes exploded outright. Kevin's potions were weak, watery concoctions with bits floating in them. (Kevin privately considered them "functional," since they proved useful for dousing the other boys' fires.) Fortunately, Snape focused entirely on Harry whenever Harry faltered—even slightly.
After class, Kevin lingered behind. Though he hated admitting it, he felt painfully out of place, like a husky lost among wolves. He had been gifted a "D&D mage cheat code," not the innate wizardry that Hermione possessed.
Other students thought they simply excelled at some subjects more than others. Kevin knew he was working with an entirely different system of magic. His success depended on finding D&D-style spells that conveniently resembled whatever Hogwarts was teaching that day. How was he supposed to bridge that gap?
First, he needed to understand how wizards here actually cast spells. Was it driven by emotion? (Harry's mother's protective magic certainly suggested so.) Or bloodline? If so, then these people were closer to sorcerers than wizards.
Second, he needed to make himself find the idea of being a sorcerer amusing—then drink another can of joke tea to test the effect. But for reasons he couldn't articulate, Kevin had no desire to drink it now, nor even take it out.
Lost in thought, Kevin became aware of someone approaching. He looked up to see Hannah.
"It's not a big deal if your potion didn't work," Hannah said kindly. "At least it didn't injure anyone. Think of Neville and Seamus. I don't mean they're wrong, of course. Our next Potions lesson is in pairs—shall we work together? I'm not as good as Miss Granger, but I think I can still help."
Her cheeks pinked slightly as she spoke, and she didn't seem to realise how cool her tone had become when she mentioned Hermione.