Harry Potter: Mad Genius

It was 6:30 a.m., and Hogwarts was dead quiet.

Most students were still asleep, drooling into pillows, blissfully unaware of the approaching responsibilities of the day. Classes didn't start until nine, after all.

But Jasper Allister was already awake, dressed, and walking through the long corridors with his hands in his pockets,bag on his shoulder and dark blue eyes wide open.

Not because he was eager.

Not because he was responsible.

But because he was cursed.

"5:07," he muttered to himself. "Always. Bloody. 5:07."

That number was etched into his soul like a brand. He didn't need a clock. He could feel it.

Why?

Because for nine years, the room next to his at the orphanage had been home to a boy who believed—truly believed—that he was destined to become a jazz legend.

Armed with nothing but ambition and a saxophone, that boy would begin practicing—every single morning at exactly 5:07.

Not 5:00. Not 5:15.

5:07.

"And he only knew two songs," Jasper muttered as he passed a stained-glass window. "Both of them war crimes."

No matter what spells Hogwarts had, nothing could exorcise that memory from his nervous system. Unless he hadn't slept in several days, Jasper's body still jolted awake at the exact time that first honk used to pierce his eardrums.

And so, like clockwork, here he was—alone in a sleeping castle with nothing but his thoughts, his questions, and an underlying bitterness toward jazz.

As Jasper Allister went through the massive doors of the Great Hall, the quiet murmur of early morning greeted him.

The enchanted ceiling was painted with soft strokes of dawn, clouds lazily drifting across a lightening sky. The long house tables were nearly empty, save for a few scattered students — the kind who either rose with discipline or hadn't slept out of pure academic anxiety.

At the staff table, the four Heads of House were already seated.

Professor McGonagall sat rigid as always, sipping her tea with military precision.

Professor Flitwick was half-hidden behind a tall stack of toast and a thick book, eyes dancing behind his spectacles.

Professor Sprout looked warm and rumpled, humming softly as she peeled a pear.

And at the far end, cloaked in an aura of contempt and caffeine, Professor Snape stirred something dark in his cup like he was plotting its demise.

Jasper gave them all a passing glance, absorbing the details with a detached interest.

"All four Houses accounted for. How very diplomatic," he thought.

He walked to the Ravenclaw table and took a seat, placing his notebook beside his plate. The moment he settled, the air shimmered briefly and food appeared in front of him — eggs, toast, a spoonful of baked beans, and a perfectly poured cup of black tea.

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

"No request, no verbal command. The castle responds to… intention? Proximity?"

He picked up the toast, inspecting it absently as he began to eat. From across the hall came the occasional clink of silverware and the soft rustle of parchment. Quiet, calm, and precisely what he needed.

As he sipped his tea, he flipped open his notebook and began to jot a new heading:

Observational Notes: Hogwarts' Response to Presence-Based Magic Triggers

Underneath it, he scribbled:

Food appears instantly, proportionate to appetite?

Likely a localized field — charm woven into table surface?

Castle may assess individual magical signature or subconscious need?

He paused mid-sentence, glanced again at the staff table.

Dumbledore wasn't there. Not yet.

"Odd. He strikes me as the type who wakes up with the moon."

He looked back down at his plate, shrugged, and kept eating.

After all, he had two hours before class started. Plenty of time to investigate one or two mysteries before the rest of the castle woke up and ruined the peace.

While chewing thoughtfully on a piece of toast, Jasper flipped a page in his notebook and began scribbling down a new set of questions under a messily underlined title:

"Speculative Magical Mechanics — Hypotheticals"

If Apparition is a form of teleportation, it likely relies on spatial manipulation.

Therefore: Is space itself subject to magical control?

If space can be bent, torn, or traversed magically — what about time?

Is there such a thing as Temporal Magic?

If both time and space are mutable through magic… are we dealing with a magical interpretation of relativity?

If so, who created those rules? Do wizards understand what they're doing, or are they just poking ancient systems with shiny sticks?

-Was Jesus a wizard?

He paused at that last one, pen hovering above the page.

"…Turning water into wine, walking on water, resurrection… suspicious."

He underlined it. Twice.

He tore off another bite of toast as his eyes roamed the Great Hall again, this time scanning for anyone remotely interesting. Still quiet. Still peaceful. Still entirely his.

"So many questions, and only seven years here…" he muttered.

Then he smirked faintly to himself.

"Better start early."

As Jasper continued scribbling notes and muttering half-formed theories into his tea, he suddenly felt it — that subtle shift in air pressure, the way the back of his neck tingled like a storm was thinking about forming.

A presence.

He didn't look up.

"Quite a lot of questions you have here, young Allister."

That voice — calm and old — floated down from behind him l.

Jasper blinked once and finished the sentence he was writing:

—if Jesus was indeed a wizard, what school did he attend, and was turning water into wine a spell or a potion trick?

He turned slowly, eyes lifting to meet the gaze of Albus Dumbledore, who stood beside him with his usual serene smile and eyes that sparkled like they knew too much and weren't sorry about it.

"Questions are just curiosity with direction," Jasper said, closing his notebook. "Wouldn't you agree?"

Dumbledore chuckled, folding his hands behind his back.

"Indeed I would. Though not all questions are meant to be answered. Some exist only to stretch the mind, like staircases that go nowhere but still teach you how to climb."

"A waste of steps," Jasper replied dryly. "But I get your point."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.

"I must say, I'm intrigued. Apparition as spatial manipulation, time as a magical axis… and this bit about Jesus. Ambitious thinking for your first week."

"I like patterns," Jasper said, sipping his tea. "And inconsistencies annoy me. Magic bends natural laws, so it must follow some kind of logic—either it's its own framework, or we've simply misunderstood the existing one."

Dumbledore tilted his head slightly.

"And what would you do if you found magic's framework?"

Jasper paused.

Then smirked.

"Who know maybe master it then rewrite it."

The headmaster gave a soft laugh, eyes twinkling brighter now.

"Careful, Jasper. That sort of thinking either makes great men… or very dangerous ones."

"Is there a difference?"

Dumbledore looked at him for a long moment. Not unkindly. Not with judgment. Just… looking.

Then he nodded once.

"Enjoy your breakfast."

And with that, the headmaster turned and walked away, leaving Jasper staring after him with narrowed eyes.

He flipped open his notebook again.

Under his last note, he scribbled:

Dumbledore: cryptic. Possibly deliberately evasive. Either knows the answers or enjoys watching others chase them. Unclear if mentor or chessmaster.

He underlined the word unclear, then returned to his tea.

Jasper finished his breakfast in relative silence.

A few students trickled into the Great Hall, yawning or rubbing their eyes, but none bothered him. Good. He wasn't here for conversation.

He scribbled one last thought in his notebook:

"If Apparition is spatial manipulation, does time respond similarly to will? Hypothesis: space ≠ time, but both are mutable with enough magical force."

He closed the book with a soft snap, stood up, and walked out of the hall with purpose.

The castle corridors, however, had other ideas.

Hogwarts was a maze that seemed to enjoy being confusing. Staircases shifted mid-step. Doors appeared where walls had been. A tapestry of trolls attempted to give him directions, then argued among themselves and forgot what they were saying.

Jasper was not deterred.

Every wrong turn was recorded in his notebook. He began sketching his own crude map as he walked, noting where stone felt warmer, where the paintings whispered, and where the floor tilted just slightly—as if nudging him somewhere else.

"Reactive architecture," he muttered. "Possibly semi-sentient. Either that or the place is possessed."

He stopped at one intersection and stared at three identical hallways.

He closed his eyes. Listened.

A breeze came from the left. Paper? He turned that way.

Moments later, he stood in front of a pair of massive oak doors carved with old runes and vines. A silver plaque above read:

"Herein lies the mind's sanctuary. Tread with purpose."

Jasper smiled faintly.

"Found you."

He pushed open the doors to the library.

Inside, silence reigned. Towers of books stretched toward enchanted ceilings. Scrolls floated gently in display cases. A few enchanted ladders clicked quietly along the rails.

And near the front desk stood a thin, severe woman who looked like she could silence a howler just by glaring.

Madam Pince.

She noticed him instantly.

"You are?"

"Jasper Allister. First year."

"Rules," she said sharply, "are not optional. No food. No loud talking. No enchanted scribblers. No touching magical ladders. No access to the Restricted Section without a signed note from a professor."

"Understood."

She gave a slow, suspicious nod… then turned and disappeared into the shelves.

Jasper exhaled.

"Finally," he murmured, stepping forward, eyes scanning rows of ancient tomes. "Someplace in this castle where the chaos sits still."

He ran his hand across the spines of books older than most countries and whispered to himself with satisfaction:

"Let's see what secrets magic has been hoarding."