September 1st, 1975 – The Great Hall, Hogwarts
The Welcome Feast unfolded with the usual cacophony of hundreds of adolescent voices echoing beneath the enchanted ceiling. Leo Bennett observed from the staff table, his modest seat wedged between Professor Aurora Sinistra of Astronomy and the Divination professor for the year—an ethereal woman named Calista Silverwood.
"So you're the new Muggle Studies professor," Silverwood remarked with a vague smile. "Fascinating. Muggles have their own methods of predicting the future, don't they? Palm reading, crystal balls…"
"Some do," Leo replied, delicately carving his roast lamb. "But my subject will focus more on how they understand the present."
Dumbledore rose at the center of the table, and the hall gradually fell silent.
"Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts," the Headmaster began, his gaze sweeping across the house tables. "Before our customary celebration, I have the pleasure of introducing a new member of our faculty." He gestured toward Leo. "Professor Leo Bennett, who will be taking up the post of Muggle Studies."
Murmurs rippled through the hall. At the Slytherin table, several students exchanged meaningful looks.
"Professor Bennett will not only expand our understanding of the non-magical world," Dumbledore continued, "but will challenge us to think about how we think—a skill I believe is just as vital as learning new spells."
Leo felt dozens of eyes upon him. Some curious, others skeptical, a few openly hostile. At the Gryffindor table, he spotted the group McGonagall had mentioned—the Marauders. James Potter, untidy and confident; Sirius Black, strikingly handsome with an air of defiance; Remus Lupin, dark circles beneath serious eyes; and Peter Pettigrew, watching the others with open admiration.
"And now," Dumbledore concluded, "let the feast begin!"
Plates filled magically with food, and the noise returned in full force.
September 2nd, 1975 – Classroom 11B, Third Period
Classroom 11B did not resemble a Hogwarts classroom at first glance. Absent were cauldrons, suspended skeletons, or potion jars. Instead, light wooden bookshelves lined the walls, filled with ordinary-looking books—though many bore titles that rearranged themselves when viewed from an angle. In the center, chairs were arranged in a semicircle rather than rows. At the front stood a simple blackboard, and above it, in golden letters:
"I know that I know nothing." — Socrates
The first students entered, glancing around suspiciously.
"Sit wherever you like," Leo said, standing near the lit fireplace. "There are no assigned seats."
The students complied hesitantly. The Marauders claimed the back, as expected. At the front, a red-haired girl Leo recognized as Lily Evans sat upright, curiosity radiating from her. Severus Snape took a seat a few places behind her, his dark eyes scanning the room skeptically.
When the bell signaled the start of class, thirty-two students filled the room. Leo stepped into the center of the semicircle.
"Good morning. I'm Professor Leo Bennett. Over the coming months, we'll explore how non-magical people—Muggles, as we call them—have tried to understand the world, themselves, and how one ought to live."
James Potter muttered something to Sirius, who smirked.
"But before we study Muggles," Leo continued, ignoring the interruption, "we're going to study ourselves. Follow me, please."
With a gesture, the chairs slid magically against the walls.
"Where are we going, Professor?" Lily Evans asked, her clear voice tinged with a northern accent.
"To the Trophy Room. Today's lesson will be practical."
Intrigued, the students followed him through the corridors. The Trophy Room lay on the third floor—a long gallery of gleaming cases displaying cups, medals, and plaques commemorating Hogwarts' achievements across centuries.
"Observe," Leo said, stopping before an especially grand case containing the House Cup, engraved with the names of past winners. "What do these displays celebrate?"
"Success," replied a Ravenclaw student immediately.
"Magical excellence," added a Hufflepuff.
"Victory over others," Sirius Black said from the back, his tone faintly disdainful.
"All valid answers." Leo paced along the cases. "And what makes an achievement worthy of being celebrated here?"
The students exchanged glances.
"That it's… significant?" Lily ventured.
"Significant how?"
"Well—winning the House Cup is significant because it shows teamwork, magical skill, dedication—"
"And because it's hard," James Potter interjected. "Not just anyone can do it."
"Ah." Leo stopped and turned to face them. "So we celebrate what is difficult. What requires effort. What distinguishes some from others."
Several students nodded.
"And what if I told you," Leo continued, lowering his voice almost to a whisper, "that over two thousand years ago, in a place called Athens, a man questioned precisely these ideas? He questioned what excellence truly is, what virtue means, and whether those we celebrate as great are actually worthy of celebration."
Remus Lupin, who had remained quiet until then, spoke up. "You're talking about Socrates."
"Exactly, Lupin. Socrates—a man who never wrote a single word, yet whose ideas echo across millennia." Leo resumed walking, the students trailing him like ducklings. "Socrates believed that the unexamined life is not worth living. That we should question everything—especially what seems most obvious."
He stopped before a particularly ancient case containing the cup from the first Triwizard Tournament.
"So today, we'll practice the Socratic method. I'll ask questions. You'll answer. And together, we'll see where it leads."
He sat on the floor, leaning against the glass. After a moment's hesitation, the students sat around him, forming a circle on the marble floor.
"First question: what is courage?"
Several eyes turned toward James and Sirius, known for their reckless exploits.
"Facing danger without fear," James said confidently.
"Without fear?" Leo raised an eyebrow. "Then is a person who feels no fear—because of a charm, perhaps, or a magical condition—more courageous than someone who feels fear but acts anyway?"
James hesitated. "No… I suppose not."
"So courage involves fear?"
"It involves overcoming fear," Lily corrected.
"Good." Leo smiled. "Now: a wizard who faces a dragon is courageous. And a Muggle who faces a terminal illness with dignity?"
Silence.
Severus Snape spoke, his voice edged with contempt. "That isn't courage—it's resignation."
"Why?"
"Because there's no choice. Courage is choosing to face danger when you could flee."
"Interesting." Leo tilted his head. "So by your definition, Snape, a Muggle soldier advancing under fire is courageous, but a terminal patient enduring suffering is not?"
Snape flushed slightly but did not answer.
"Let's examine another virtue: wisdom." Leo looked toward Ravenclaw. "What is wisdom?"
"Knowledge," a Ravenclaw girl answered immediately.
"So the more one knows, the wiser one is?"
"Yes."
"Is a young wizard who has memorized every fifth-year spell wiser than an elderly wizard who knows only the basics, but knows when to use them?"
The girl frowned. "No… wisdom is knowing how to apply knowledge."
"Ah! So wisdom is practical, not merely theoretical." Leo paused. "And what if I told you that Socrates—considered one of the wisest men of his age—claimed his wisdom lay in knowing that he knew nothing?"
Murmurs followed.
"How can someone be wise if they know nothing?" Peter Pettigrew asked, his voice louder than intended.
"Because he's aware of the limits of his knowledge," Remus replied before Leo could. "He doesn't confuse knowing facts with understanding."
"Exactly, Lupin." Leo studied the boy more closely. There was a depth in his eyes that contrasted with his tired face. "Socrates compared himself to a midwife—he didn't give knowledge to others, but helped them give birth to their own ideas."
The metaphor drew a few smiles.
"Let's return to the cases." Leo stood, and the students followed. "According to the Socratic method, we should ask: who decides what belongs here? Which values are being celebrated? And what is being left out?"
Sirius Black regarded the cases anew. "Most of these are for Quidditch victories, spellwork, tournaments… things that show magical power."
"And what isn't here?" Leo pressed.
"No one wins a trophy for being a good person," Lily said softly. "For being fair. Or compassionate."
"Or for questioning the rules," Sirius added, irony glinting in his eyes.
"Exactly." Leo stopped before an empty display case. "Imagine if we had a case for 'Well-Asked Questions.' Or 'Quiet Acts of Compassion.' How different would this room feel?"
The class fell silent, looking around.
"The point," Leo continued, "is not that these achievements are unworthy. It's that a society—magical or otherwise—celebrates what it values. And what we value reveals who we are."
He turned toward the door.
"Socrates was sentenced to death for his questioning. The Athenian authorities deemed him dangerous—corrupting the youth, disrespecting the gods." At the threshold, he turned back. "Final question: in our world, which questions would be considered too dangerous to ask?"
No one answered at once.
"Which brings me," Leo added, "to your first assignment. Write one question you think you shouldn't ask. Something about our magical society, our values, our certainties. One page. Due next class."
The bell rang.
"Oh—and read the first chapter of this text," Leo said, distributing parchment copies of an excerpt from The Apology of Socrates. "By Thursday."
The students filed out, some whispering, others lost in thought.
At the back, the Marauders lingered.
"Well, that was… different," James said, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
"Boring," Sirius muttered, without much conviction.
Remus examined the handout. "Actually, it's interesting. Socrates says being questioned is a blessing—it stops you from thinking you know what you don't."
Peter frowned. "That doesn't make sense."
"It does if you think about it," Remus replied, already heading for the door.
Outside the classroom, Lily Evans caught up with Leo.
"Professor Bennett? That final question—about dangerous questions…"
"Yes, Evans?"
"Is it safe for us… to ask those things? To write them?"
Leo studied her serious face. "Education is never entirely safe, Evans. Real questions have real consequences. But not asking questions—that's far more dangerous."
She nodded, still concerned, but resolute.
As Leo returned to his classroom, he found Severus Snape waiting in the corridor.
"Can I help you, Snape?"
The boy stared intensely. "Why are you really doing this? Teaching Muggle philosophy?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Because it seems like a waste of time. Muggles never understood magic. How can they teach us anything?"
Leo smiled faintly. "An excellent Socratic question, Snape. Bring it to the next class. Perhaps we'll examine it together."
Snape looked startled, then nodded reluctantly and left.
Back in classroom 11B, Leo looked at the empty semicircle of chairs. The first step had been taken. The seeds were planted. Some would grow toward the light. Others might wither. And some… some might grow in unpredictable ways.
On the wall, Socrates' quote glimmered softly.
I know that I know nothing.
It was a beginning.