Starting at Hogwarts, Logging into Elden Ring

The little wizards’ first lesson ended quickly.

Hermione declared it a wonderful classroom experience—especially since whenever she was confused, her cousin beside her could answer any question at once.

But for our dear Harry and Ron, their first day at Hogwarts was far less enjoyable.

First, they overslept, skipped breakfast, and rushed to class—only to get lost in the staircases and arrive late anyway. Then they were scolded by Professor McGonagall, and no matter how much they waved their wands in Transfiguration, their matchsticks remained stubbornly unchanged.

All in all, it was a disastrous start.

"Professor McGonagall is terrifying. I felt like I couldn’t even breathe standing in front of her," Ron groaned.

"That’s what you get for waking up so late—and being late to class on top of it," Arthur rolled his eyes.

Ron protested, "Well no one woke us up!"

Hermione arched her brow. "Mm-hmm, but I heard from Seamus that he did call you."

Ron’s jaw dropped. "That wasn’t a dream?!"

Harry muttered, "And those staircases kept moving around. We got completely lost. Took forever to find the classroom—if not for that, we wouldn’t have been late."

At the word lost, Hermione instinctively glanced at Arthur.

Arthur noticed, and quickly shot her a warning glare—Don’t you dare mention my own sense of direction.

Hermione wrinkled her nose, made a silly face at him, and said nothing—neither agreeing nor refusing.

"I recall the school handed out a timetable of staircase movement patterns. Didn’t you two read it?" Hermione asked.

Harry and Ron shook their heads in unison.

Arthur could only think: serves them right. He might be directionally challenged, but at least he had studied the chart and memorized the patterns. And still, he got lost. That was just... a personal problem.

And so, life at Hogwarts began.

Hermione spent her days in utter fulfillment—either buried in the library, or at Arthur’s side peppering him with questions.

As for Arthur? He was thoroughly enjoying himself.

Sometimes he wondered if he had been transported back to his university days: class, cafeteria, dormitory—life reduced to three simple points of routine.

As a first-year, the schedule wasn’t heavy. Only a few lessons each day, with the whole of Wednesday left free.

His days were split between two activities: gaming and... gaming.

During the day he accompanied Hermione to the library, and in class he casually played Plants vs. Zombies. After all, he had already mastered the first-year curriculum. At night, he farmed Runes in the Lands Between and consulted Master Sellen on alchemy.

Meals, laundry, and cleaning were all handled by the house-elves. He couldn’t help but suspect that the reason wizards enslaved elves in the first place was exactly this: shove all the menial chores onto them, and free themselves to focus entirely on magic.

Harry and Ron were also living happily: attending classes, playing wizard chess in their spare time, or lounging in the common room chatting away.

But their carefree days wouldn’t last.

For the next lesson was none other than Professor Snape’s Potions class.

At exactly nine o’clock in the morning, a black-robed figure swept into the classroom.

Snape strode in with long, wind-like steps, his robes billowing behind him like dark wings.

He could have been a strikingly cool, brooding middle-aged man—if not for the fact that his perpetually unwashed hair gleamed with a slick, oily shine.

Over the past days, Arthur had seen this professor at the staff table, always in the same outfit. He couldn’t help but wonder—did Snape skip bathing altogether, relying only on Scourgify for hygiene? Or did every set of his clothes look exactly the same? Had he dressed like this since his student days?

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making."

"As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic."

"I do not expect you to truly appreciate the beauty of a simmering cauldron, its delicate fumes, the power of liquid that creeps through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses..."

"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you are not as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

No matter how many times Arthur heard this iconic monologue, accompanied by Snape’s unique cadence, he still thought it was incredibly cool.

Snape ascended the dais, face expressionless, and fell silent. His black eyes swept over the students—until they landed on Harry.

He stared for several seconds, then opened the roll book and began calling names.

His voice was low and cold, unhurried, as though nothing in the world could stir his emotions—yet, if you listened closely, there was always a faint trace of mockery hidden in the tone. 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝘦𝓌𝑒𝑏𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝘭.𝒸𝘰𝑚

At last, he paused on the name that drew his attention.

"Oh yes," Snape drawled, "Harry Potter."

Across the room, Draco Malfoy’s lips curled in satisfaction at his godfather’s words. Ever since Harry had spurned his offer of friendship, Draco had grown hostile toward everything connected to him.

"Mr. Potter! Tell me: what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry froze, utterly lost.

Asphodel? That’s... a flower, isn’t it? People make potions with flowers? Wormwood... What, somebody got wormed and juiced it?

He stared blankly at Snape. Beside him, Hermione had her hand raised high.

Arthur, enjoying the show, casually pressed her hand down. Hermione looked confused, but said nothing—she trusted her cousin must have a reason.

Arthur considered: Harry’s silence was simple—he didn’t know. But why didn’t Snape immediately explain? Was it because... those green eyes reminded him of someone?

"You don’t know? Then let me ask you another."

"Where would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?"

"I... don’t know, sir."

"What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

"Don’t know, sir." By now Harry realized—this professor wasn’t really quizzing him. He was targeting him on purpose.

"A pity. Clearly, fame isn’t everything," Snape sneered. The words were meant as a warning not to let reputation cloud his mind—but his tone was so cutting that only Arthur caught the hidden meaning.

Snape leaned forward, intending to provide the answers himself, and perhaps... to take a closer look at those familiar eyes.

But then he noticed the boy sitting beside Harry—eyes glazed over, clearly spacing out.

"Mr. Arthur! Do you know the answers to these three questions?"

Of course Snape recognized Arthur. In the last few days, he had heard colleagues whisper about two remarkable new Gryffindor students.

Arthur blinked, caught off guard. Great, dragged into it by association. Looks like I’ll need to keep my distance from Harry during Potions class.

Recovering, he answered smoothly:

"The root of asphodel combined with wormwood makes the Draught of Living Death, a powerful sleeping potion. A bezoar can be found in the stomach of a goat. And monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant—aconite."

He even smiled kindly at Snape afterward.

But to Snape, that smile looked like open provocation.

"Daydreaming in class—five points from Gryffindor."

Arthur’s smile froze. He was not a man to let grudges linger. Even if it meant losing points, he resolved to strike back.

"Professor Snape," he said lightly, "asphodel is a type of lily. Its flower meaning is ’My regrets follow you to the grave.’ Wormwood stands for ’absence’ and ’bitter sorrow.’ Was there perhaps a deeper significance in your choice of plants?"

Snape’s breath hitched. He did not reply.

"If you wish to study flower language," he finally said coldly, "I suggest you consult the Divination teacher. This is my Potions class. Discussing irrelevant topics will cost Gryffindor another five points."

Then he swept his gaze across the room.

"And why are none of you writing this down? Do you think your pea-brained skulls can remember it all?"

The class trembled under his acid tongue.

Arthur, satisfied enough, chose not to push further. He listened quietly as Snape continued lecturing—interspersing the lesson with frequent jabs at Harry and the occasional deduction of Gryffindor points.