As they passed through the entrance doors, the immediate impression was one of overwhelming scale and impossible beauty. The Entrance Hall rose above them with the kind of architectural audacity that made cathedrals seem intimate by comparison. The stone staircase that dominated the space was wide enough to accommodate a small army, its steps worn smooth by centuries of students, and it split into multiple directions at various landings in ways that seemed to defy both logic and gravity.
"Oh my—" Madeline Watson breathed, her red hair catching the light streaming through the tall windows as she tilted her head back to take in the impossible height of the ceiling. "This is... this is actually impossible, isn't it? From an architectural perspective?"
"Most things here are impossible from various professional perspectives," Aurora replied with the kind of wry delivery that came from decades of watching people encounter magic for the first time. "The key is learning to expand your definition of possible."
Phillip Watson was already pulling out what appeared to be a small notebook, his hands moving with characteristic rapid-fire energy as he began sketching architectural details. "The load-bearing calculations alone should make this entire structure collapse, but clearly there's some kind of—oh, is that staircase *moving*?"
"The moving staircases are just ahead," Professor Dumbledore explained with patient enthusiasm, his voice carrying the warm authority of someone who had given this tour countless times but never tired of seeing people's reactions to the impossible. "Though I should warn you that they're somewhat temperamental today. We had a first-year get stuck between floors for twenty minutes yesterday because he tried to jump from one staircase to another while they were moving."
"Wait, wait, wait," Peter said, his voice cracking slightly with excitement as he bounded forward with characteristic Spider-energy. "Moving staircases? Like, actually moving? How fast do they move? What triggers the movement? Is it random, or is there a pattern? Are there safety protocols? What happens if someone falls? Is there like a magical insurance policy for—"
"Peter," May interrupted with fond exasperation, reaching out to grab his arm before he could launch himself at the nearest staircase for experimental purposes. "Maybe let's not test the safety protocols on our first day?"
"But May, this is *incredible*!" Peter gestured wildly with both hands, nearly knocking over a suit of armor in his enthusiasm. "Do you realize what the engineering implications are? The physics alone should make this impossible, but here it is, clearly working, which means there's some kind of force manipulation that we don't understand yet, and I *have* to know how it works!"
"They move at their own pace, according to their own mysterious logic," Dumbledore replied with evident amusement at Peter's scientific fervor. "Occasionally they seem to respond to the needs of the people using them, but more often they appear to move simply because they feel like it."
"So they're... sentient?" Gwen asked, her investigative instincts immediately engaged as she pulled out her own small recording device with practiced efficiency. "Are we talking about artificial intelligence, or some kind of genuine consciousness embedded in the architecture?"
"The castle itself has a certain awareness," McGonagall explained with crisp practicality, her Scottish accent giving weight to each word. "Seven centuries of magical education have left their mark on the stones. The building has developed... opinions... about how it should function."
"Opinions," George Stacy repeated flatly, his cop instincts clearly struggling with the concept of opinionated architecture. "The building has *opinions*."
"Dad, you're talking to people who traveled here via magical boot," Gwen pointed out with gentle logic. "I think opinionated buildings are within the realm of possibility at this point."
"The boot was just transportation," George muttered. "Buildings with opinions feels like a whole different category of weird."
As if summoned by this skeptical assessment, they heard a low rumbling sound from the staircase ahead, and watched as two different flights of stairs began rotating slowly toward new positions with the ponderous dignity of ancient machinery that had been enchanted to ignore the usual limitations of physics.
"That's..." Walter Hardy paused, his security consultant's mind clearly struggling to categorize what he was witnessing. His quiet intensity focused entirely on the mechanical impossibility before them. "That's genuinely impossible from an engineering perspective. The structural integrity alone should—"
"Dad," Felicia interrupted with a slight grin, her lucky-charm energy practically vibrating with excitement, "I think we passed 'structurally sound' somewhere around the magical boot."
"The boot had some kind of internal logic," Walter replied seriously. "This is just... architecture deciding to rearrange itself for no apparent reason."
"Maybe it has excellent reasons," Harry said quietly, his voice carrying that particular tone of nine-year-old wisdom that suggested he was processing concepts beyond his years. "Maybe the stairs know where people need to go better than people do."
Ben looked down at Harry with gentle attention, recognizing the particular quality of Harry's voice when he was working through something important. "What makes you think that, buddy?"
"I mean..." Harry paused, his green eyes—so remarkably similar to his mother's—studying the moving staircases with intense focus. "It's like when you're looking for something you lost, and you check all the logical places, but then you find it somewhere completely different that somehow makes perfect sense. Like that, but with walking."
"That may be your magical heritage responding to the environment," Dumbledore said gently, his tone carrying the kind of attentive wisdom that suggested he rarely missed important conversations happening around him. "Hogwarts has been home to your family for many generations, Harry. It's possible that some part of you recognizes the magical signature of the place."
"Magical signature?" Peter asked immediately, his scientific curiosity temporarily overriding any concern about asking too many questions. "Like a magical fingerprint that's unique to specific locations? Are we talking about energy patterns, or actual measurable phenomena, or—"
"Something like that," McGonagall confirmed with approval for his perceptiveness. "Ancient magical buildings develop distinctive magical patterns over time. Students who are sensitive to such things often report feeling a sense of familiarity when they first arrive."
"It's like magical feng shui!" Ned exclaimed suddenly, his enthusiasm bubbling over as concepts clicked into place. "The building arranges itself for optimal magical flow and student navigation!"
"That's..." Phillip Watson paused, his rapid-fire analytical mind clearly spinning through possibilities. "That's actually not entirely illogical from a systems perspective. If the building has developed responsive intelligence over centuries of use, it would naturally optimize itself for user needs."
"Honey," Madeline said with gentle amusement, "you're trying to apply logic to a magical castle. Maybe just accept the wonder for a moment?"
"But the wonder *is* the logic!" Phillip replied with characteristic intensity. "Don't you see? This represents a completely new paradigm of architectural responsiveness that could revolutionize—"
"Dad," MJ interrupted with fond exasperation, her artistic sensibilities clearly torn between appreciation for her father's enthusiasm and embarrassment at his tendency to analyze everything. "Could you maybe marvel at the impossible magic castle *without* immediately trying to reverse-engineer it?"
"I'm not trying to reverse-engineer it, I'm trying to understand the principles that—"
"Same thing," MJ and Madeline said in unison, then looked at each other and laughed.
"It's like he's never met a system he didn't want to take apart and rebuild," Madeline explained to the group with affectionate resignation.
"Nothing wrong with curiosity," Aurora observed with diplomatic kindness. "Though perhaps we could satisfy some of that curiosity by actually experiencing the staircases rather than theorizing about them?"
"Excellent suggestion," Dumbledore agreed warmly. "Shall we proceed?"
They began climbing the main staircase, which thankfully remained stationary during their ascent, though several of the portraits lining the walls turned to watch their progress with obvious curiosity. Some of the painted figures whispered to each other behind their hands, while others called out cheerful greetings in accents that suggested they had been painted during various historical periods.
"Okay, that's definitely new," George Leeds observed with his characteristic blend of practicality and mild bewilderment. "Talking paintings. That's... that's a thing now."
"Everything here talks," Helen replied with gentle amusement at her husband's continued struggle with magical reality. "The hat talks, the staircases have opinions, why wouldn't the paintings talk?"
"Good morning, Professor Dumbledore!" called a portrait of a witch in Tudor-era robes who was apparently taking a break from reading a very thick book. "Lovely day for showing off the castle to new families!"
"Indeed it is, Dilys," Dumbledore replied with warmth, pausing to address the portrait directly with the courtesy of someone greeting an old friend. "Everyone, may I introduce Dilys Derwent, former Headmistress of Hogwarts and current resident of our portrait gallery."
"A pleasure to meet you all," the painted witch said with regal courtesy, her voice carrying the kind of authority that transcended the medium of oil paint. "I do hope you'll find Hogwarts as magical as it appears. The castle tends to grow on people."
"Literally, in some cases," added another portrait—this one of a wizard with an enormous purple hat who was apparently eavesdropping from the next frame over. "Remember young MacMillan in 1847? Got lost in the Room of Requirement for three days and came out two inches taller and speaking fluent Gobbledegook."
"The Room of Requirement?" MJ asked with immediate artist's fascination, her creative instincts immediately engaged by any room with such an intriguing name. "That sounds like exactly the kind of mysterious location I want to explore immediately."
"A room that provides whatever the person entering it most needs at that moment," McGonagall explained with characteristic efficiency. "Quite useful for students who require specialized study space or equipment."
"So it's like... magical artificial intelligence?" Ned asked with bubbling excitement. "A room that can read your mind and create what you need? That's like the ultimate smart home technology!"
"More like a room with very good intuition about human nature," Dumbledore replied thoughtfully. "Though your comparison to artificial intelligence is not entirely inaccurate."
"But how does it know?" Peter pressed, his scientific mind clearly racing through possibilities. "Is it reading thoughts, or emotional states, or is there some kind of scanning technology that—"
"Peter," May said with gentle but firm maternal authority, "maybe save some mysteries for when you're actually a student here?"
"But May, don't you want to know how it works? Aren't you curious about the underlying mechanisms that—"
"I'm curious about getting through this tour without you accidentally triggering any magical experiments," May replied with fond exasperation.
As they reached the first landing, they were intercepted by what appeared to be a transparent figure floating several inches off the ground. The ghost was wearing robes that suggested he had died sometime in the sixteenth century, and his nearly-headless state was immediately apparent thanks to the fact that his head was connected to his neck by only a thin strip of ghostly flesh.
"Oh my God," Felicia breathed, her usual confidence momentarily replaced by genuine amazement. "You're actually a ghost. Like, an actual dead person who's still here and talking to us."
"Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, at your service!" the ghost announced with theatrical courtesy, attempting a bow that was complicated by his precarious cranial situation. "Though most people call me Nearly Headless Nick. Welcome to Hogwarts!"
The children stared in fascination, while several parents looked like they were reconsidering their understanding of what constituted normal social interactions.
"This is so cool!" Ned exclaimed with unabashed enthusiasm. "Are there other ghosts? Do you guys have like a ghost society? Is there ghost politics?"
"Oh, quite extensive ghost politics," Nick replied with obvious delight at finding someone interested in his supernatural social life. "The Headless Hunt alone has enough bureaucratic drama to fill several centuries of entertainment."
"Does it hurt?" Harry asked with the direct compassion that characterized his approach to other people's problems, even when those other people happened to be deceased. "Being nearly headless, I mean?"
Nick's expression softened with genuine warmth at the concern, clearly touched by Harry's immediate empathy.
"Not at all, young man. Though it can be a bit inconvenient when I'm trying to participate in the Headless Hunt. The other ghosts are rather particular about complete decapitation."
"That seems like arbitrary discrimination based on the specific circumstances of one's death," Helen Leeds observed with the kind of logical analysis she brought to particularly absurd bureaucratic situations.
"Exactly!" Nick said with enthusiasm, apparently delighted to find someone who understood his professional grievances. "I've been filing complaints for centuries, but ghost bureaucracy moves even slower than living bureaucracy, if you can imagine such a thing."
"Trust me," George Stacy said with weary cop humor, "I can imagine exactly such a thing."
"If you don't mind me asking," Walter Hardy said with polite curiosity, his security consultant instincts engaging even with supernatural entities, "why do you choose to remain here? At the castle, I mean, rather than... wherever it is that ghosts usually go?"
Nick's expression grew thoughtful, his nearly-severed head tilting at an angle that would have been alarming in a living person but seemed perfectly natural for him.
"Hogwarts is home," he said simply, his voice carrying genuine affection for the ancient stones around them. "Has been for centuries. The students, the professors, the daily rhythms of learning and growing and discovering who you're meant to become—why would I want to leave all of that?"
Something in his tone resonated with Harry, who was listening with the particular attention he gave to concepts that connected with his own understanding of belonging and home.
"Plus," Nick added with theatrical drama, clearly enjoying his audience, "someone has to keep an eye on the students. Especially the ones who think they're clever enough to explore the more... interesting... parts of the castle without getting themselves into trouble."
Peter and MJ exchanged a look that probably shouldn't have been as obvious as it was.
"Are there students who do that?" Peter asked with the kind of carefully innocent tone that fooled absolutely nobody.
"Every year," McGonagall replied dryly, giving Peter a look that suggested she already had his number completely figured out. "And every year, those same students discover that being clever and being wise are two entirely different things."
"What's the difference?" Gwen asked with systematic curiosity, her investigative instincts always engaged when it came to understanding systems and hierarchies.
"Clever students find secret passages," Nick explained helpfully, floating closer with obvious enthusiasm for the topic. "Wise students make sure they can find their way out of those passages again."
"Good advice," Ben said firmly, looking directly at Peter with paternal authority that brooked no argument. "The kind of advice that suggests some students haven't always been wise about their exploration activities."
"Hey, I'm totally wise about exploration," Peter protested with wounded dignity. "I always have backup plans!"
"Your backup plans usually involve calling me for help," May pointed out with fond exasperation.
"That's called utilizing available resources!" Peter replied with characteristic enthusiasm for his own logic.
"That's called getting in trouble and making your aunt worry," May corrected gently but firmly.
"Well," Dumbledore said with evident amusement as he guided them away from Nick's cheerful haunting, "shall we continue with the tour? The Great Hall is just ahead, and I believe the house-elves have prepared a welcome lunch that should give you some sense of the culinary standards you can expect during your time here."
The Great Hall, when they entered it, was even more magnificent than the glimpses they had caught through the entrance doors. The space was vast enough to comfortable accommodate several hundred people, with four long tables arranged parallel to each other and a head table positioned perpendicular at the far end. The ceiling appeared to be completely open to the sky, showing drifting clouds and patches of blue that moved with natural grace overhead.
"Holy—" MJ started, then caught herself and continued with artistic appreciation, "The ceiling! It's not really open, is it? It's some kind of illusion? The light patterns are too perfect, and the shadows don't match the supposed sky position, but it *feels* completely real."
"Enchanted to mirror the sky outside," McGonagall confirmed with approval for her perceptiveness. "It makes the space feel less enclosed during long meals."
"How long are the meals?" Ned asked with practical concern, because meals that required architectural illusions to prevent claustrophobia sounded potentially challenging for someone with his particular eating habits and social anxieties.
"Variable," McGonagall replied with what might have been amusement. "Though the food itself is quite exceptional."
"Define exceptional," George Leeds requested with the cautious tone of someone who had learned to be wary of British cuisine in general.
"You'll see," Aurora replied with mysterious confidence.
As if summoned by this mention of food, the tables suddenly filled with an elaborate lunch spread that appeared with the kind of magical efficiency that made ordinary catering seem ridiculously complicated. Platters of sandwiches, soups, salads, and dishes that none of them recognized but all of which smelled extraordinary materialized along the length of the tables.
"Okay, that's just showing off," Felicia said with delighted appreciation, her luck-based instincts apparently extending to recognizing when the universe was providing excellent food. "I don't even know what half of this stuff is, but it all smells amazing."
"House-elves," Aurora explained to the amazed parents with the tone of someone who had long since adjusted to magical efficiency. "The magical staff responsible for meals, cleaning, and general castle maintenance. You'll rarely see them, but their work is extraordinary."
"Invisible magical housekeeping staff," George Stacy said with the weary tone of someone adding this to a growing list of impossible things he was learning to accept. "That's... actually not the strangest thing we've encountered today."
"Dad, we traveled here by magical boot," Gwen pointed out with gentle logic. "I think invisible housekeeping staff is relatively normal at this point."
They seated themselves at one of the long tables, the children naturally clustering together while their parents arranged themselves nearby with the kind of protective positioning that had become second nature when dealing with magical situations. The food was every bit as extraordinary as advertised—sandwiches that seemed to contain combinations of ingredients that shouldn't have worked together but somehow created perfect flavors, soups that were exactly the right temperature despite having appeared moments before, and desserts that seemed to know exactly what each person was hoping to taste.
"This is incredible," Madeline Watson said with genuine amazement as she tasted something that appeared to be a cross between pumpkin soup and liquid sunshine. "How do they know what everyone likes? Is there some kind of magical preference detection, or—"
"Magic," Dumbledore replied with a slight smile, clearly enjoying the continued amazement of his guests. "Though I suspect the house-elves have also developed excellent intuition about human preferences over the centuries."
Peter, who had been systematically sampling various dishes with scientific thoroughness, looked up with fascination and a slight orange mustache from what appeared to be magical pumpkin juice.
"Professor Dumbledore, is all the food here magical? Like, does magic make it taste better, or is it just really good cooking? And what's the nutritional profile? Are there magical vitamins? Enhanced protein synthesis? Improved digestive efficiency?"
"Peter," MJ said with fond exasperation, "could you maybe eat the magical food without immediately trying to analyze its molecular structure?"
"But this is fascinating!" Peter protested, gesturing with a sandwich that seemed to be some kind of meat and cheese combination that definitely shouldn't have worked but absolutely did. "The flavor profiles alone suggest enhanced ingredient interaction that could revolutionize food science!"
"Both," Dumbledore replied thoughtfully to Peter's original question. "The house-elves are exceptional cooks by any standard, but they also incorporate minor magical enhancements that improve flavor, nutrition, and presentation."
"Magical nutrition?" Phillip Watson asked with immediate interest, his rapid-fire analytical mind clearly spinning through possibilities. "What kind of nutritional enhancements? Are we talking about magical supplements, or modifications to the food itself, or some kind of metabolic optimization—"
"Dad," MJ interrupted with gentle firmness, "maybe save the scientific cataloging until after we experience the magical food?"
"But the anticipation is fascinating from a research perspective—"
"Phil," Madeline said with the practiced ease of someone who had spent years managing her husband's tendency to analyze everything, "let's experience the magical specimens first, analyze them second."
"Subtle improvements to digestive efficiency, enhanced vitamin absorption, and occasionally remedies for common student ailments," McGonagall explained with crisp efficiency. "Nothing dramatic, but quite helpful for maintaining health in a population of growing magical children."
"So the food is actually medicinal?" Helen Leeds asked with practical parental interest.
"Preventatively medicinal," Aurora clarified. "The castle takes quite good care of its students."
"This place really is like a magical boarding school utopia," May observed with wonder, though her protective instincts remained clearly engaged. "Food that keeps you healthy, architecture that responds to your needs, staff that anticipates everything..."
"Don't forget the talking paintings and opinionated ghosts," Ned added helpfully around a mouthful of what appeared to be the most perfect sandwich in existence.
"And moving staircases that might strand you between floors," Walter Hardy added with characteristic attention to potential security concerns.
"Dad, you're such a pessimist," Felicia said with affectionate exasperation. "This place is amazing!"
Harry, who had been unusually quiet during this meal, was examining the Great Hall with that particular absorption that suggested he was processing something important. His eyes moved from the floating candles to the enchanted ceiling to the house banners hanging along the walls, taking in details with methodical attention that seemed almost like recognition.
"Professor Dumbledore," he said finally, his voice carrying that particular tone of nine-year-old seriousness that made adults pay attention, "where did my parents sit when they were students here?"
The question created a moment of gentle silence as all the adults recognized the weight behind Harry's curiosity, the deep need to connect with parents he had never known through the spaces they had inhabited and loved.
Dumbledore's expression softened with obvious affection and what might have been remembered sadness, his eyes focusing on specific locations with the clarity of vivid memory.
"Your mother preferred the Gryffindor table, third seat from the end on the left side, where she could see the entire hall and keep track of everything that was happening," he said gently, pointing to a specific location with precise accuracy. "She had a gift for knowing when someone needed help, even across a crowded room."
"And my father?" Harry asked quietly.
"Your father usually sat directly across from her at the same table, where he could make faces at her during meals without the professors noticing," Dumbledore continued with evident fondness for the memory. "Though he was rarely as subtle as he believed himself to be."
"They sat across from each other?" Harry asked with the kind of romantic fascination that nine-year-olds rarely admitted to having. "Like, on purpose?"
"Every meal," Dumbledore confirmed with gentle humor. "Your father claimed it was coincidence, but your mother was far too clever to believe that particular fiction."
"Gryffindor table?" Peter asked with immediate interest, his scientific curiosity immediately engaged by new categorical information.
"Each table represents one of the four Hogwarts houses," McGonagall explained with crisp efficiency. "Students are sorted into houses during their first evening, and those houses become their primary social groups throughout their time here."
"Like magical fraternities?" MJ asked with curiosity tinged by slight artistic skepticism about institutional social structures.
"More like magical families," Dumbledore corrected gently. "Houses provide community, support, and healthy competition. They become home within home."
"Competition between houses?" Gwen asked with investigative interest, her systematic mind immediately engaging with social dynamics and potential conflict. "What kind of competition? Academic? Athletic? Social?"
"All of the above," McGonagall replied with what might have been pride. "House Cup points are awarded for academic achievement, exemplary behavior, and success in inter-house competitions. Quidditch matches are particularly... spirited."
"Quidditch?" Ned asked with immediate enthusiasm. "That's the flying sport, right? With the broomsticks?"
"Indeed," Dumbledore confirmed with obvious fondness for the subject. "A complex game involving four balls, seven players per team, and quite a lot of aerial maneuvering."
"That sounds terrifying and awesome," Felicia said with the kind of fearless enthusiasm that worried her father and delighted everyone else.
"What are the houses?" Gwen asked with systematic interest, her investigative instincts clearly engaged by the social organizational structure.
"Gryffindor, for the brave and daring," McGonagall began with crisp efficiency and obvious house pride. "Ravenclaw, for the clever and curious. Hufflepuff, for the loyal and hardworking. Slytherin, for the ambitious and cunning."
"How do you know which house you belong to?" Felicia asked with genuine curiosity. "Is there like a personality test? A magical aptitude exam? Some kind of compatibility algorithm?"
"The Sorting Hat," McGonagall replied, as if this explained everything.
"The what?" several people asked simultaneously, creating a chorus of confusion that might have been funny if the concept of a decision-making hat weren't so inherently absurd.
"A magical hat that reads your personality and determines which house suits you best," Dumbledore explained with evident fondness for this particular piece of magical tradition. "It's been making these decisions for a thousand years."
"A hat," Ben said slowly, his paternal common sense clearly struggling with the concept, "makes decisions about where students live and study."
"A very wise hat," McGonagall added with dignity that brooked no argument. "It's rarely wrong."
"But what if you don't like the house it picks for you?" Ned asked with practical concern born of social anxiety about fitting in and belonging. "What if you end up somewhere you don't want to be?"
"That almost never happens," Dumbledore replied reassuringly. "The Sorting Hat doesn't just assess your current personality—it also considers your potential, your values, and the kind of person you're capable of becoming. Students almost always find that their house becomes exactly where they belong."
"Almost always?" Walter Hardy asked with characteristic attention to qualifying terms and potential security risks.
"There have been a few requests for re-sorting over the centuries," McGonagall admitted with academic honesty. "But they're extremely rare, and usually based on misunderstanding rather than genuine incompatibility."
"What if we all get sorted into different houses?" Harry asked with sudden worry, his voice carrying the particular anxiety of a child who had finally found a group of friends and couldn't bear the thought of losing them. "What if Peter and MJ and the others all end up separated and can't be friends anymore?"
The question hung in the air with the weight of real fear—the kind of deep-seated anxiety about belonging and connection that came from too much early experience with loss and separation.
"Harry," MJ said firmly, reaching across the table to take his hand with sisterly authority that brooked no argument, "we're going to be friends no matter what houses we're in. Houses are just where you sleep and do homework. Friendship is bigger than that."
"Way bigger," Peter added with logical confidence, his natural enthusiasm extending immediately to reassurance. "Besides, we'll see each other in classes, at meals, in common areas. The house system creates new friendships, it doesn't destroy existing ones."
"And," Felicia added with a slight grin and the kind of confidence that came from a lifetime of things generally working out in her favor, "if my luck magic works the way I think it does, we'll probably end up in compatible houses anyway. The universe seems to like keeping good friends together."
"Though it would certainly be interesting from a social dynamics perspective if you were distributed across different houses," Gwen observed with analytical curiosity, her investigative mind immediately engaging with the research possibilities. "You could provide unique insight into inter-house relationships and social integration patterns."
"Gwen," Ned said with gentle exasperation tinged by genuine affection, "could you maybe not treat our potential separation as a fascinating research opportunity?"
"Sorry," Gwen said with mild embarrassment, clearly recognizing that her investigative instincts had momentarily overridden her friendship sensitivity. "Professional hazard. Dad's rubbing off on me."
"Hey," George Stacy protested with mock offense, "my professional hazards are much more practical. Like assuming everyone's probably guilty of something."
"That's not better, Dad," Gwen pointed out with fond exasperation.
As lunch wound down and they prepared to continue their tour, the Great Hall began to feel less like an impossibly grand space and more like a place where real people gathered to share meals and conversation. The magical elements—floating candles, enchanted ceiling, food that appeared by magic—were still extraordinary, but they were beginning to feel like normal parts of a magical world rather than impossible impossibilities.
"Ready to see the rest of the castle?" Dumbledore asked warmly, rising from the table with the grace of someone who had been navigating these spaces for many decades.
"Definitely," Peter said with enthusiasm that had entirely overcome his earlier nervousness. "Can we see the library? And the laboratories? And maybe some of the classrooms? Are there magical textbooks? What about laboratory equipment? Do you have like magical microscopes?"
"All of those and more," McGonagall promised with what might have been amusement at his rapid-fire curiosity. "Though I should warn you that the afternoon tour includes some areas that are not for the faint of heart."
"Such as?" May asked with maternal vigilance that had been heightened rather than diminished by the morning's magical revelations.
"The Potions dungeon, for one," McGonagall replied with what was definitely amusement now. "Some parents find the preserved specimens... unsettling."
"Define unsettling," George Leeds requested with practical concern born of his engineering background and general preference for understanding potential problems before encountering them.
"Nothing dangerous," Aurora assured them quickly with diplomatic efficiency. "Just... educational materials that can be somewhat intense for those unaccustomed to magical preservation techniques."
"Magical specimens," Phillip Watson said with fascination that immediately overrode any concern about unsettling preservation techniques. "What kind of specimens? Are we talking about magical creatures, or magical plants, or some kind of hybrid magical-biological systems that—"
"Dad," MJ interrupted with fond exasperation that carried genuine affection beneath the embarrassment, "maybe save the scientific cataloging until after we see them?"
"But the anticipation is fascinating from a research perspective—"
"Phil," Madeline said gently, reaching over to squeeze his hand with the practiced ease of someone who had spent years managing her husband's tendency to immediately analyze everything new, "let's experience the magical specimens first, analyze them second."
"Plus," Peter added with characteristic enthusiasm, "if they're really that unsettling, maybe we want to go in prepared to focus on the cool science parts instead of the gross parts?"
"Everything's a cool science part if you approach it with the right mindset," Phillip replied with the kind of irrepressible intellectual enthusiasm that made him simultaneously endearing and exhausting.
As they prepared to leave the Great Hall for the afternoon portion of their tour, Harry looked back once more at the space where his parents had shared meals and friendships and the daily routines that had made this castle feel like home. His expression carried that particular mix of wonder and longing that came from trying to connect with people he had never known through the places they had loved.
"Dad," he said quietly as they walked toward the massive doors, his voice carrying the weight of important thoughts, "do you think they would be proud? Of Peter and MJ and the others coming here, I mean? Of me having friends who care enough to do something this crazy?"
Ben stopped walking for a moment, crouching down to Harry's level with the kind of paternal attention he gave to Harry's most important questions—the ones that touched on belonging and worth and the deep fears that came from starting life with so much loss.
"Harry," he said with quiet certainty that carried absolute conviction, "I think your parents would be absolutely delighted to know that you have friends who care about you enough to travel across the ocean to make sure you're not alone when you finally come to the place they loved so much."
"Really?" Harry asked with the kind of vulnerability that reminded everyone present that beneath his remarkable composure and magical heritage, he was still a nine-year-old boy trying to understand his place in the world.
"Really," Ben confirmed with paternal authority that brooked no doubt. "I think they would be proud of the family you've chosen, and the family that's chosen you."
Harry nodded solemnly, apparently satisfied with this assessment, and rejoined the group as they headed toward the afternoon's adventures—potions laboratories, libraries full of magical knowledge, and classrooms where their children would soon be learning to transform the impossible into the everyday.
Behind them, the Great Hall settled back into its usual afternoon quiet, sunlight streaming through the enchanted ceiling and floating candles casting warm light over empty tables that would soon be filled again with students beginning another year of magical education.
And for the first time since this extraordinary journey had begun, the magical world felt not just amazing, but genuinely welcoming—a place where children could grow and learn and discover who they were meant to become, surrounded by the kind of ancient wisdom and lasting friendship that made any place feel like home.
"So," Ned said as they walked through corridors lined with more talking portraits, "what are the chances that the afternoon tour is going to be even weirder than the morning tour?"
"Given our track record today," May replied with resigned fondness, "I'd say approximately one hundred percent."
"Excellent," Peter said with irrepressible enthusiasm. "I love weird."
---
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