As the first of September dawned, Jasper Allister found himself seated aboard a long red locomotive—the Hogwarts Express.
Outside the window, clouds of steam curled in the morning light. Inside, voices echoed through the corridors: students laughing, dragging trunks, owls hooting from cages, and the distant whistle of the conductor preparing for departure.
Jasper sat calmly in a compartment near the middle of the train, notebook open, wand resting on the seat beside him. His hair was its usual carefully messy sweep, his eyes still bright from the morning's... detour.
To be honest, despite arriving at King's Cross by 9:00 a.m. sharp, Jasper hadn't boarded the train until well after 9:40.
Why?
Because Platform 9¾ had broken his brain in the best possible way.
The moment he'd stepped through the magical barrier and found himself on the hidden platform—with the gleaming red engine, steam billowing from its pipes, and enchanted trolleys rolling by—he'd immediately turned around and walked back through the wall.
Then again.
And again.
Back and forth. Over and over.
He walked sideways. Backwards. With eyes closed once. He threw a coin halfway through. Measured the time delay between entry and reappearance. He even marked the bricks with his wand and watched the pattern vanish each time he passed through.
He would've gone on for hours—except a very tired man with two suitcases and a grumpy cat finally snapped at him:
"Kid, you're blocking the bloody entrance! Move!"
Jasper blinked, glanced at his pocket watch, and sighed.
"Forty-three minutes. Hm. Acceptable. For now."
He'd reluctantly boarded the train and settled into an empty compartment, still scribbling observations about "trans-dimensional gate compression, non-linear spatial anchoring," and "illusionary masking logic."
Now, as the train gave a low whistle and began to pull from the station, Jasper looked out the window one last time, then muttered to himself:
"The wall deserves further study."
He snapped his notebook shut and leaned back.
"But first—Hogwarts."
The train moved steadily now, cutting through the English countryside. Most students were chatting, laughing, trading Chocolate Frog cards, or marveling at their first glimpses of moving magical landscapes.
Jasper, however, sat alone in his compartment, sketchpad balanced on one knee, pencil in hand. His wand rested idly on the windowsill, forgotten for now.
He was drawing.
Yes—you heard that right.
Jasper Allister wasn't just a man of science. He was a man of art.
When he wasn't unraveling mysteries of the universe or asking impossible questions, he drew. Or painted. Always with the same intensity and focus he gave to equations and theories—but for a different reason.
Art emptied his mind.
It slowed the thoughts. Calmed the questions. Brought the infinite noise of genius down to a steady hum.
He had taken up the habit after reading about Da Vinci, Newton, and Einstein—how many of the greatest minds had also turned to lines and colors in moments of rest. He tried it once. Then again. By the third time, he was hooked.
Now his pencil danced across the page, capturing the movement of steam from the engine, the way it coiled and curved like a living creature. He shaded softly around the edge, tilting his head.
But something was missing.
He paused. Frowned.
Then sighed.
"Music," he muttered. "I need music."
Back in the Muggle world, he would've had his battered MP3 player, or even his old record player—one of his foster father's better gifts. But here?
"Magic scrambles Muggle tech," he grumbled. "It's not fair. How am I supposed to survive without Queen? Bowie? Even Bowie's low-tempo stuff would help right now!"
He glanced toward the train ceiling and muttered sarcastically:
"Oh, Merlin, how will I live without Bohemian Rhapsody?"
Then, a thought flickered in his eyes. He grabbed his notebook, flipped it open, and jotted a line across the margin:
"Magical interference on analog vs digital systems—possible workaround? Charms to shield frequency disruption?"
He stared at it for a second, then underlined "possible workaround" three times.
"I'll find a way," he said aloud. "No force in the universe will separate me from rock or pop forever."
With that, he returned to his drawing—adding a burst of spiraling motion to the steam like the curve of a guitar riff—and for a moment, all was quiet.
Except in his mind, where the drums of "We Will Rock You" played on.
Some hours later, the Hogwarts Express hissed to a stop.
Jasper stepped off the train and was instantly surrounded by a sea of black robes, all of them buzzing with nervous energy and chatter. Some were already waving goodbye to friends and older siblings. Others clutched pet cages or adjusted their cloaks with trembling hands.
Jasper's expression, as always, remained calm.
Internally, though, he was wondering one thing.
"How exactly do they intend to sort us?"
He'd asked Dumbledore during their shopping trip—multiple times, actually—but the old man had simply smiled and said,
"Oh, that's part of the fun."
"It's also a deliberate withholding of critical information," Jasper had muttered at the time.
"You're all suspiciously committed to secrecy."
Now, trudging through the thick crowd, Jasper tried to observe everything—scanning faces, mapping movement patterns, estimating how many students might be in each house based on badge clusters on older robes. Logic. Patterns. Signs.
But then...
He saw him.
Standing near the edge of the platform was what could only be described as a white Shaquille O'Neal with a beard—a massive man towering well over 10 feet tall, wearing a thick coat that looked like it had once been a bear. His beard was wild, wild black hair, and his voice—
"FIRS'-YEARS THIS WAY! C'MON NOW, FIRS'-YEARS! DON' FALL BEHIND!"
It echoed across the platform like someone had plugged a foghorn into a mountain.
Jasper blinked. Stared.
"What in Newton's flaming apple..."
The man was waving enthusiastically, herding the wide-eyed first years like ducks. Some children flinched at his booming voice. Others stared with open mouths.
Jasper simply walked toward him, quietly muttering:
"Genetic anomaly? No, magical growth enhancement? Possibly partial giant heritage? Strength-to-height ratio must be insane…"
He fell into step with the others, still scribbling notes in the margin of his sketchpad.
The giant man looked down and grinned.
"Name's Hagrid! Keeper o' Keys an' Grounds at Hogwarts! We'll be takin' boats fer the last bit—jus' follow me!"
Boats.
"Of course it's boats," Jasper muttered. "Why wouldn't the world's greatest magical institution also include a nautical ritual for dramatic effect?"
The dirt path narrowed, winding down through thick trees until it opened suddenly onto the shore of a vast, still lake.
The Black Lake.
It stretched out into the mist like a giant sheet of obsidian, perfectly smooth under the starry sky. And there—rising in the distance like something torn from the pages of myth—was Hogwarts Castle. Towering spires. Gleaming windows. Light spilling like golden silk down ancient stone.
The first years gasped and murmured in awe.
Jasper just blinked.
"Staged."
He didn't say it aloud this time—but the thought formed with mechanical precision. The lighting, the slow reveal, the reflection in the water. Whoever designed this was either a dramatic genius or a deeply committed aestheticist.
He crossed his arms and muttered just loud enough for himself:
"Angle of approach, lighting symmetry, controlled environment… they want us to feel like we're entering a legend. Psychological manipulation via architecture and controlled scenery. Impressive."
"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid's voice thundered across the shore.
The first years scattered, clambering awkwardly into the waiting boats.
Jasper stepped into one with careful precision, keeping his balance with ease. He glanced down at the boat's structure—simple, old wood—but it vibrated faintly with magic beneath his shoes. He could feel the hum.
No oars. No rudders. Autonomous navigation—spatial binding? Hydromancy? He tucked the theories away for later.
Three others joined his boat. One girl sat hugging her knees. A boy tried to act brave by pretending he wasn't shivering. The third gave Jasper a sideways glance but said nothing.
Jasper sat still, fingers tapping soundlessly against his leg.
Then—
"FORWARD!" Hagrid bellowed.
The boats jerked and began gliding across the lake of their own accord. Ripples shimmered behind them, but the water in front remained smooth—like the lake knew better than to disturb the show.
The closer they drew to the castle, the more grand it became. Its turrets scraped the stars, and great winged statues lined the outer towers.
"Okay," Jasper admitted to himself, "that's... not unimpressive."
A cold breeze danced across the water.
He sat silently, watching the way moonlight danced on the lake's surface, patterns of reflection and shadow shifting in real time like a living painting.
The other students stared forward, stunned by the sight of Hogwarts.
Jasper leaned forward slightly, expression unreadable.
And the boats glided on.
The boats glided smoothly into a small cove beneath the castle. As they approached the dock, torches flared to life along the stone walls—magic again, Jasper assumed, timed for theatrical effect.
Hagrid helped each student out one by one. Jasper stepped onto the stone dock with calm, sure footing, his sharp blue eyes immediately scanning their surroundings: natural cave walls… recent reinforcement… likely enchanted to prevent flooding.
"Underground dock. Controlled access point. One entrance. Fortified. Tactical positioning…"
"Alrigh', this way now!" Hagrid called, guiding them up a narrow stairwell carved into the cliffside.
They climbed in near silence, the only sounds being the echo of footsteps, dripping water, and one first-year occasionally wheezing from too many snacks on the train.
Finally, the stairs ended—and they emerged onto solid ground within the castle's inner courtyard.
And in front of them stood a massive door.
Twenty feet tall. Iron hinges. Ancient wood darkened by time and magic. Surely the main entrance to the legendary Hogwarts Castle.
Jasper stared at it with a faint frown.
"Classic architectural intimidation design. Massive scale to disorient children and instill reverence."
And waiting just in front of that door, standing perfectly upright with the precision of a soldier, was a stern-looking witch in emerald robes, her black hair pulled into a tight bun. She held a parchment in one hand and wore square spectacles on her nose. Her eyes scanned the group with calm authority.
Jasper didn't need to be told her name.
"Finally," he muttered under his breath, "someone who looks like she'll give me an answer."
Hagrid smiled at her.
"Brought 'em, Professor McGonagall."
She nodded sharply.
"Thank you, Hagrid. I'll take it from here."
She turned to face the first-years.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," she began, her voice clipped, efficient, but not unkind. "In a few moments, you will enter the Great Hall to be sorted into your houses. Your House will be your home while you are here—it will be the people you study with, eat with, and represent as part of our school."
Jasper leaned forward slightly.
Now we're getting to it... finally.
"The four Houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin," she continued. "Your Sorting will take place shortly, but first—compose yourselves. I expect quiet and order when we walk in. Follow me."
As the doors creaked open with a slow, ominous groan, revealing the flickering torchlight of the castle's interior, Jasper stepped forward with the others.
"Finally," he whispered, eyes sharp as steel, "let's see what you've all been hiding."