August 31, 1975 – King's Cross Station, London
The fine September rain washed the Victorian bricks of the station in shades of gray as Leo Bennett crossed the main concourse. He carried two suitcases: one of worn leather containing clothes and dog-eared books, the other smaller, made of carved wood, which emitted a faint hum if one paid close attention. Inside it, his few magical books murmured to one another in whispers imperceptible to untrained ears.
Three years had passed since his graduation from Hogwarts, and he was returning now not as the timid student he once had been, but as a professor. Professor of Muggle Studies. The title sounded almost like an oxymoron in the magical community, where the subject was treated as a minor curiosity, a study of exotic customs—as though non-magical people were distant tribes to be catalogued.
But Dumbledore's invitation had been explicit:
"Not to teach how to exchange pounds for Sickles, Leo. To teach how they think. Why they think. What they have built with minds devoid of magic."
He paused between Platforms 9 and 10, watching magical families discreetly making their way aboard. A woman in a feathered hat pushed a luggage trolley that stubbornly refused to move in a straight line. Two freckled red-haired twin boys argued animatedly while their equally red-haired mother attempted, with limited success, to restrain them.
Leo smiled faintly. The Weasleys. He remembered Fabian and Gideon, the older twins who had been two years ahead of him at Hogwarts. These must be the younger ones.
Without ceremony, he stepped through the magical barrier.
The impact was, as always, breathtaking. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters exploded into color, sound, and movement that defied all Muggle logic. The Hogwarts Express, blood-red, exhaled steam that briefly formed shapes—dragons, phoenixes, hippogriffs—before dissipating. Owls of every color hooted from stacked cages. Students embraced after the summer apart, comparing growth spurts and newly learned spells.
"Leo!"
The familiar deep voice came from his right. Albus Dumbledore walked among the families, his silver robes contrasting with the surrounding chaos. Students respectfully parted, some whispering.
"Headmaster." Leo extended his hand, which Dumbledore clasped warmly in both of his.
"I am immensely grateful that you accepted, my dear boy—and even more grateful that you arrived early. There is much to discuss before the welcoming ceremony."
They walked alongside the train, away from the crowd.
"How is the Ministry reacting to your appointment?" Leo asked.
Dumbledore made a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. "With the customary mixture of curiosity and distrust. Bartemius Crouch fears you will teach the students to build those Muggle 'machines' that trouble him so. Some of the more… traditional members of the Board of Governors question the need to delve so deeply into non-magical thought."
"And what did you tell them?"
"That in times of growing tension, understanding other ways of thinking is not a luxury, but a necessity." Dumbledore stopped, his piercing blue eyes fixing on Leo. "You know why I truly chose you, don't you?"
"Because I was Muggle-born and earned a degree in Philosophy at Oxford before I knew I was a wizard."
"That is part of it." Dumbledore resumed walking, more slowly. "When you arrived at Hogwarts at eighteen, already formed by the non-magical world, you brought with you a unique perspective. I remember your essay on the ethics of Transfiguration, where you cited Kant and his categorical imperative. No student had ever made such a connection before."
Leo remembered the paper. He had written it during a bout of insomnia, doubting anyone would take it seriously. To his surprise, an owl from Dumbledore arrived the next morning with a simple note: Continue.
"The Vietnam War," Dumbledore continued softly, "you witnessed it as a correspondent before discovering your magical heritage. You saw what human beings are capable of without a single wand. That grants you knowledge few in our world possess."
"The knowledge that evil does not require magic to flourish," Leo finished, his voice rougher than he intended.
"Precisely." Dumbledore stopped again, this time before an empty compartment. "Come. We shall travel together. There is something I need to show you before we begin."
The compartment was ordinary, save for a faint vibration in the air that suggested privacy charms. Dumbledore closed the door with a gentle gesture and sat opposite Leo.
"You are aware of the… incidents of recent months?" the Headmaster asked, his fingers interlaced.
"Disappearances. Muggle-born witches and wizards—some of them children. The Ministry claims accidents, but the patterns…"
"Suggest something far more sinister." Dumbledore gazed out the window as the train began to move. "There is a movement growing, Leo. A cult of blood purity that for decades existed only as whispers in certain old families. Now it has found its voice."
"The man they follow… the name they whisper…"
"Lord Voldemort." Dumbledore spoke the name without hesitation, though Leo noticed a brief tremor in his hands. "Yes. He is recruiting. And his philosophy is simple: magical folk are superior; Muggle-borns are impure; Muggles are animals."
A chill ran down Leo's spine that had nothing to do with the compartment's temperature. "And my course?"
"It is one of our responses. Not the only one, but an important one." Dumbledore looked directly at him. "If we teach that Muggles are merely primitives who failed to evolve magic, we prepare the ground for their subjugation. But if we show that they built civilizations, philosophies, arts—that they created meaning without magic—then we teach that worth lies not in power, but in shared humanity."
The train gathered speed, the cityscape giving way to green fields.
"You will encounter resistance," Dumbledore warned. "From students raised in pure-blood families. From fellow professors who consider your subject inferior. Perhaps even more direct threats."
"I'm aware."
"Good." Dumbledore rose, seemingly rejuvenated. "Now, about your curriculum. You mentioned beginning with the pre-Socratics…"
The conversation drifted into academic matters, yet the weight of the earlier discussion lingered in the air. When Dumbledore left to greet other professors, Leo remained alone with his thoughts.
He opened the wooden case. Inside, among spellbooks and potions texts, lay a thin, ancient volume: Meditations, by Marcus Aurelius. A gift from his Muggle grandmother when he turned sixteen—before he knew of wands or spells. The book bore marks of heavy use, passages underlined.
You have power over your mind—not external events. Realize this, and you will find strength.
He closed his eyes, remembering: the roar of helicopters in Vietnam, the smell of gunpowder and fear. Conversations with soldiers on both sides, each convinced of their own righteousness. And then the shock of discovering an entire hidden world—where bones could be mended with a wand, where people flew on broomsticks, where lifespans stretched into centuries.
In his first months at Hogwarts, he had been enchanted by magic, yet also perplexed. Why had wizards who could cure diseases with potions not eradicated the plague? Why had those who could fly not visibly conquered the skies? The answer, he discovered, lay in a mixture of fear, pride, and above all, a narrow vision of what truly mattered.
A light knock interrupted his reflection.
"Come in."
It was Minerva McGonagall, her expression as stern as ever, though with a glint in her eye Leo had learned to recognize as approval.
"Professor Bennett," she greeted formally. "Welcome back to Hogwarts. Or should I say, welcome to the faculty."
"Thank you, Professor McGonagall. At times I still feel like a student."
"Nonsense." She sat, her dark-green robes contrasting with the red upholstery. "Dumbledore showed me your curriculum proposal. It is… ambitious."
"Are there objections?"
"Objections? No." She adjusted her glasses. "Concerns. You intend to teach Nietzsche to third-years. Schopenhauer to fourth-years. These are complex concepts."
"No more complex than Human Transfiguration or Advanced Potions," Leo argued. "And more urgent. These ideas shaped the non-magical world. Some led to great achievements; others to unimaginable horrors. Our world is not immune to such ideas—it merely expresses them with wands instead of tanks."
McGonagall studied him for a moment. "You believe teaching Muggle philosophy can prevent… magical excesses?"
"Not prevent. But provide tools to recognize them, name them, resist them." Leo leaned forward. "Professor, when a student learns the Imperius Curse, they are also taught how to resist it, are they not?"
"Of course. It is part of the Defense Against the Dark Arts curriculum."
"Philosophy is an antidote to imperious ideas—those that seek to control minds not through spells, but through persuasion, fear, and seduction."
She nodded slowly. "There is one group in particular that will need your lessons. The sixth-years—some of them from families sympathetic to these… new ideas."
"The future Death Eaters."
McGonagall neither confirmed nor denied it, but her silence was answer enough.
"And then there are the others," she continued. "The group calling themselves the 'Marauders.' Brilliant, but arrogant. James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew. They need to learn humility as much as others need to learn courage."
He noted the names mentally.
"And Severus Snape," she added, her voice a shade lower. "Exceptionally talented in Potions and the Dark Arts. But raised in difficult circumstances. His loyalties… are still forming."
The train began to slow. Outside, jagged mountains and dark lakes filled the view.
"We're nearly there," McGonagall said, rising. "Your first class is tomorrow, third period. Students from all houses, third through seventh year. An intentional mix—Dumbledore believes debate between differing perspectives is part of learning."
"I wholeheartedly agree."
At the door, she hesitated. "Leo… be careful. Your classroom, 11B, is near the History of Magic classroom. Professor Binns will notice nothing, but others will. Your lessons will be… observed."
"I hope so," he replied with a faint smile. "What is a teacher without an audience?"
When she left, Leo looked out the window. Hogwarts' towers rose in the distance, imposing against the gray sky. He felt a pang of nostalgia—for his student years, for discovery and friendship. But also apprehension. He was about to teach in dangerous times, dangerous ideas.
He opened Meditations again, turning to a passage near the end:
The task of life is to learn to be a worthy human being—and that means mastering the art of living in community. None of us is an island; we are all connected, like the stones of an arch, which would fall individually but remain standing when joined.
He closed the book. The train entered the gorge leading to Hogsmeade Station. In a few hours, he would stand before his first class. In a few hours, he would begin an experiment he hoped would change not only how wizards viewed Muggles, but how they viewed themselves.
Students began passing his compartment, laughing, jostling, brimming with the energy of return. Leo watched them, trying to guess their houses, their stories. Among them were future heroes, future villains, future indifferent souls.
All of them, in some way, searching for answers. And he would be there to show them that sometimes the best answers came in the form of better questions.
The train halted with a final hiss of steam. Hogsmeade's platform bustled with carriages without horses—or rather, with horses only some could see. Leo gathered his luggage and disembarked.
"New professor?" asked a short, broad man—Hagrid, the gamekeeper, recognizing Leo.
"Leo Bennett. Muggle Studies."
"Ah, yes! Dumbledore mentioned you. Studied with Muggles before coming here, didn't you?"
"Something like that." Leo smiled. "It's good to see you again, Hagrid."
"You too, Professor!" Hagrid helped load the bags onto a carriage. "You'll like your classroom. Got a nice view of the lake. And shelves that rearrange themselves—handy for books that won't stay put!"
The carriage climbed the winding path toward the castle. Leo looked back at the shrinking station, at the train unloading hundreds of students. Somewhere among them were those who would shape the future of the magical world.
And he would play a small but crucial role in preparing them.
The castle loomed ahead, its windows glowing like constellations against dark stone. Hogwarts. Home. And now, a classroom.
The carriage passed the iron gates, the statues of magical creatures, the carefully tended grounds. When it stopped before the great oak doors, Leo took a deep breath.
You have power over your mind—not external events.
He stepped down, gathered his bags, and entered the castle. The Entrance Hall was exactly as he remembered: vast, the ceiling enchanted to mirror the night sky, torches flickering in iron brackets, staircases shifting in unpredictable patterns.
And at the center, waiting, stood Albus Dumbledore, wearing a smile that seemed to contain every secret the castle held.
"Welcome home, Professor Bennett," he said, eyes twinkling. "Your journey begins now."
And so it began.