In Felix's eyes, with the notable exception of Professor Quirrell for Defence Against the Dark Arts, the professors at Hogwarts were, without a doubt, individuals of profound magical expertise.
Even the perpetually gloomy and rather abrasive Severus Snape was, in Felix's estimation, undeniably a master of Potions. Snape's demanding nature and sharp critiques, while intimidating to many, spoke of a deep understanding and high standards for his craft.
The only classes Felix found truly difficult to endure were History of Magic and Defence Against the Dark Arts.
To him, History of Magic, taught by the ghostly Professor Binns, felt largely pointless. Memorizing the dates of goblin rebellions or the establishment of obscure magical laws seemed like a futile exercise with little practical application to his true interests. The drone of Binns's monotonous voice often had students nodding off within minutes, the classroom air thick with a soporific boredom.
As for Defence Against the Dark Arts, Professor Quirrell was not only remarkably inept but also clearly harbored some dark secret, his constant stutter and nervously twitching turban setting off all sorts of alarm bells in Felix's mind. Felix felt he could learn absolutely nothing of value from such a teacher, and the faint, unsettling aura that sometimes clung to Quirrell made him deeply uneasy.
Consequently, whenever these two classes appeared on his timetable, Felix would invariably find a reason to be elsewhere, usually seeking refuge in the quiet, knowledge-filled sanctuary of the Hogwarts library.
Professor Binns, naturally, remained entirely oblivious to Felix's absences. The ghost, having been lecturing for what seemed like millennia, had a very limited awareness of his individual students, often fumbling their names or even failing to notice if half the class was asleep or missing.
Professor Quirrell, on the other hand, was likely aware but seemed too timid or perhaps too preoccupied with his own burdens to say anything. His inherent cowardice, compounded by the malevolent presence Felix suspected was lurking beneath that ridiculous turban, made him perpetually anxious and unwilling to cause any trouble or draw undue attention to himself.
Beyond the academic realm, other aspects of life at Hogwarts were proving to be quite intriguing, if occasionally frustrating. The castle's staircases, for instance, were a marvel of magical eccentricity.
There were, by some counts, a total of one hundred and forty-two staircases in Hogwarts. Some were wide and sweeping, grand enough for a royal procession; others were narrow and rickety, swaying precariously underfoot. Some, with a whimsical disregard for routine, led to entirely different destinations on Fridays. Others had a disconcerting habit of featuring a vanishing step halfway up, requiring students to remember precisely where to jump to avoid a nasty tumble. Felix quickly learned to approach every staircase with a degree of caution and a prepared Levitation Charm, just in case.
Then there were the doors. Many of them wouldn't open unless you asked politely, in just the right tone, or prodded them in a very specific spot. Others weren't doors at all but merely solid stretches of wall cleverly disguised to look like them, leading to many a bumped nose for the unwary.
Remembering where everything was located was a significant challenge, as the castle itself seemed to be in a constant state of subtle, and sometimes not-so-subtle, rearrangement.
The figures in the portraits along the corridors were also a lively bunch, constantly visiting each other's frames for a chat or a game of cards, their painted eyes following students with unnerving interest. Even the suits of armor weren't entirely inanimate; they were known to creak, shift, and occasionally even wander off on their own mysterious errands.
For Felix, merely seeing these marvels on film in his previous life was an entirely different experience from navigating them daily. The moving staircases, which had seemed so charmingly whimsical in the books and movies, now presented genuine logistical challenges to his everyday movements, often adding unexpected detours to his trips between classes and the common room.
He suspected that anyone with even a slight lack of directional sense would find themselves perpetually, hopelessly, and perhaps even blissfully lost within Hogwarts' ever-shifting architecture.
The chatty portrait figures didn't particularly bother him, but as a polite individual, the sheer frequency of exchanging greetings with them as he passed through the corridors could be surprisingly tiring.
However, the figures who struck the most fear into the hearts of most young wizards in the original stories—Argus Filch, the caretaker, and his scrawny, dust-colored cat, Mrs. Norris—had, rather surprisingly, caused Felix no trouble at all.
This was partly because Felix was generally well-behaved and rarely broke any major rules. But another, more significant factor was the presence of Himari. The little white cat妖 (yāo - spirit/demon) seemed to exude an aura that Mrs. Norris found deeply unsettling. Filch's tattletale companion would invariably give Felix a wide berth, her lamp-like eyes narrowed with suspicion but also a clear reluctance to get too close.
Himari, as a cat yokai, had quickly established herself as the undisputed alpha among all the felines in Hogwarts. Every cat in the castle, even those with a dash of Kneazle blood, seemed to defer to her.
When Felix was in class or engrossed in his studies in the library, Himari would sometimes explore the castle on her own. No one ever harmed her; the students adored her, even notorious pranksters like Fred and George Weasley were known to offer her a friendly scratch behind the ears. Even Peeves the Poltergeist, who delighted in tormenting students and staff alike, seemed to instinctively avoid her, perhaps sensing her otherworldly nature.
Thus, it became a common and rather amusing sight to see a small white cat leading a diverse procession of other felines—large and small, ginger, tabby, and black—strutting through the castle corridors as if they owned the place. This feline parade quickly became one of Hogwarts' new, unofficial wonders.
Sometimes, the miniature Orianna would even be seen perched on Himari's back, the two of them embarking on their own tiny adventures through the vast castle grounds.
Beyond all these daily quirks and observations, there was one particular aspect of Hogwarts life that occupied a significant portion of Felix's thoughts.
It was a matter that filled him with a mixture of keen anticipation and profound, almost philosophical, reluctance.
That was the matter of broomstick flying.
In truth, Felix was genuinely looking forward to Madam Hooch's flying lessons. After all, flight had been a timeless dream of humanity. He himself had often fantasized about soaring freely through the skies, unburdened by gravity.
Given his current level of magical proficiency, unaided flight was still an impractical, distant dream—this was also because the Harry Potter magical system itself didn't seem to feature straightforward, personal flight spells for students, relying instead on implements.
But right before him lay a shortcut to achieving this dream: the flying broomstick.
To Felix, the concept of flight was undeniably cool. The act of riding a broomstick, however, struck him as utterly, irredeemably silly.
The coolness of sword-gliding in wuxia stories is directly proportional to the silliness of riding a flying broomstick, was his firm opinion. It lacked a certain aesthetic, a certain dignity.
Hermione, however, did not share this view. Perhaps it was due to cultural differences. Even Cho Chang, who had grown up in Britain but was of Chinese heritage, didn't seem to think riding a broomstick was anything particularly undignified or strange.
Ever since news of Neville Longbottom breaking his wrist during a flying lesson had reached Ravenclaw Tower, "Miss Know-It-All" had become even more anxious about their upcoming first lesson. She had borrowed Quidditch Through the Ages from the library and had been poring over it meticulously, rereading it several times.
In her spare moments, she would constantly mutter various flight instructions from the book under her breath. She also pestered Cho, who was known for her excellent flying skills, to repeatedly describe the sensation of riding a broom, much to the good-natured Cho's eventual exasperation.
The other young witches and wizards were also growing increasingly restless. As the date of their first flying lesson approached, discussions about flying and Quidditch became more and more frequent in the common room and at mealtimes.
Among the first-years, those from wizarding families would boast loudly about how they had played on toy broomsticks during the holidays, zipping around their gardens. The Muggle-born students could only listen with envy, their imaginations fired by these tales of aerial freedom.