The next morning began with the usual hustle and bustle in the Great Hall. Hundreds of students scurried between tables, filling the space with the hum of voices and the clatter of cutlery. At the Ravenclaw table, whispering animatedly, sat Cho with her friends. She laughed, adjusting a strand of hair, her eyes sparkling with lively interest in the latest school gossip.
At that moment, Stephen entered the hall. As always, he looked sleepy, his hair sticking up in all directions, and his eyes slightly narrowed from lack of sleep, but the usual intense glint was there. Ignoring the general din, he purposefully headed to the Ravenclaw table and, without hesitation, chose a seat next to Cho, barely noticing her friends. He sat down quietly, automatically selecting the optimal amount of food to restore his energy balance, while his mind was already processing the colossal amount of data obtained from the Restricted Section and his recent revelation.
"Good morning, Strange," Cho said softly. "I hope you got at least a little sleep? We have a busy day today."
Stephen slowly nodded, not looking up from his plate. "Sleep? I think there's too much information in this school to waste time on such a banality. Sleep is for the weak."
Cho chuckled. "Well, we'll see how you fly on a broomstick. They say today is the first flying lesson for first-years."
Stephen merely grunted vaguely, lost in his thoughts. He pretended to eat, but his brain was already entering deep analysis mode.
At that moment, a whirlwind of owls burst into the hall. Dozens of birds circled under the enchanted ceiling, delivering mail. One large owl, with gleaming eyes, dropped a package right onto Neville's lap, who was sitting at the Gryffindor table.
"Look, Neville got something!" someone shouted loudly.
Neville seemed to shrink under the weight of the huge box. He opened it with trembling hands, and a glass orb filled with white smoke rolled out.
"It's a Remembrall!" Hermione exclaimed. "It glows if you've forgotten something!"
The orb in Neville's hands immediately flashed a bright red light. Neville nervously muttered, "I... I forgot what I forgot."
Stephen, who had only been observing the scene distantly until now, suddenly froze. His brain, usually operating with cold logic, suddenly caught something. "Remembrall... Neville... Forgotten things..." Something clicked in his memory, but the picture was blurry, as if he was trying to recall a dream. He felt like he was missing something, some very important information.
After breakfast, the first-year students gathered on the large lawn behind the castle, where their broomsticks and their instructor, Madam Hooch, awaited them—a short woman with short gray hair and sharp yellow eyes.
"Alright, everyone by your broomsticks!" she commanded briskly. "Stretch out your right hand over your broom and say clearly: 'UP!'"
Stephen, following the instructions, focused on the broom. He didn't believe in chance, only in the precise application of force and intent.
"UP!" he said clearly and measuredly.
To the surprise of many, including Madam Hooch, Stephen's broom instantly flew into his hand, smoothly and without the slightest tremor. It lay perfectly still, as if it had always been a part of him. Next to him, Harry also managed to lift his broom on the first try. Ron, puffing, tried in vain to lift his; it barely budged or flipped over completely.
"Excellent, Mr. Strange! Mr. Potter! Not bad for a start!" Madam Hooch nodded approvingly. "Now that your brooms are in your hands, I want you all to mount them."
The students awkwardly settled onto their brooms. Stephen sat effortlessly, as if he had been doing it all his life. Ron slid off a bit, and Neville barely held on, looking deathly pale.
"Alright, everyone, when I blow my whistle, you'll push hard off the ground with your feet!" Madam Hooch explained. "Keep your brooms straight and hover above the ground, and then..."
Suddenly, before Madam Hooch could finish whistling, Neville's broom, as if maddened, jerked. Neville, with a scream of terror, tried to grab onto it, but to no avail. He shot up several feet, then plummeted down.
"Mr. Longbottom!" Madam Hooch cried, but it was too late. Neville plummeted towards the ground like a stone.
Stephen, reacting with a lightning speed he hadn't expected from himself, whipped out his wand. "Leviosa!" he pronounced loudly, pointing it at the falling Neville.
Neville's fall slowed, he hovered a few inches above the ground, and then gently lowered. Madam Hooch ran to him, her face pale.
"Longbottom, are you alright? What, Merlin's beard, did you do?!" She immediately bent down, examining Neville, then turned to Stephen. "Mr. Strange! That was very... unusual. You saved him, but unauthorized use of spells in this context is forbidden! However... for saving a life, I cannot but thank you. Ravenclaw gets 10 points for your quick thinking and bravery, Mr. Strange. And now I must escort Mr. Longbottom to the hospital wing. As for you..."
She looked around the class, her gaze settling on Draco, who had picked up the Remembrall that had fallen from Neville's hands.
"If anyone dares to get on a broom while I'm gone, they will be expelled from Hogwarts!" Madam Hooch threatened, leading Neville away.
Draco, smirking, held up the Remembrall. "Look at this beauty. He probably dropped it when he fell." He tossed the Remembrall high into the air. "I'll put it on the tallest tree, and let Longbottom try to get it!"
Harry, without thinking, jumped on his broom and chased after Draco. Stephen, watching them, felt something click definitively in his brain.
When Harry deftly caught the Remembrall, Stephen stood motionless, his eyes wide open. At that moment, as events unfolded exactly as he had seen them before, like images from a distant dream, an epiphany struck him.
He remembered. In his previous life, even before he became Stephen Strange of this world, he... had read these events. He had seen them on a screen, on the pages of a book.
"Harry Potter and the..." the words surfaced in his mind. "...Philosopher's Stone."
The entire sequence of events, all the names, all the details he had previously perceived as new input, now aligned into a logical, already known sequence. Snape, Hagrid, the mysterious prohibitions, the three-headed dog Fluffy, Devil's Snare, the flying keys, Ron's chess game, Hermione's potion riddle, the Mirror of Erised, even the details of the Restricted Section he had studied—all of it was part of something larger, a much grander plan.
The Philosopher's Stone. An artifact capable of granting immortality and transmuting metals into gold. An artifact that, according to the book, was to be hidden at Hogwarts, and Voldemort (or what was left of him) was trying to obtain it.
Stephen instantly analyzed the situation. If everything was going according to the "script," the stone was in the castle. And, likely, someone, or rather Quirrell, under Voldemort's influence, would try to steal it. And that meant he had a unique advantage: knowledge of the future.
He looked at Harry, who returned glowing with the Remembrall. The unwitting hero. And Stephen wanted to obtain the Philosopher's Stone. Not to use its power, but to study its principles, to understand its nature, to prevent a possible catastrophe. It was a perfect object for research, a source of unprecedented knowledge.
"How to get the Philosopher's Stone?" he whispered to himself, his brain already entering intensive planning mode. "I need to analyze how it was protected, predict what the opponent will do, and figure out how to get in and take it. This will be the most difficult and interesting task."
Now that the whole picture began to come together, Stephen felt a surge of energy he hadn't experienced since his arrival in this world. The game had begun, and he, Stephen Strange, was going to win.
That same evening, Stephen sat in the Ravenclaw common room, completely engrossed in his thoughts. He replayed the "remembered" events over and over, comparing them with the reality of Hogwarts. Every detail, every character, every spell—all of it was part of a giant puzzle that he could now assemble.
His former desire for knowledge, for the systematization of magic, now acquired a concrete, understandable goal. The Philosopher's Stone was not just an artifact; it was a living textbook on the most powerful aspects of alchemy and magic. To study it, to understand its principles, would be the greatest scientific achievement.
All this information descended upon him not as a chaotic flood, but as a perfectly structured database. His brain automatically built cause-and-effect relationships, analyzed weaknesses in the defenses, and predicted Quirrell's actions.
"So, the goal is the Philosopher's Stone," Stephen mumbled to himself, his eyes scanning invisible lines of mental text. "It grants immortality and can turn metals into gold. Voldemort needs it to resurrect himself. It's currently somewhere in Hogwarts. The protection is multi-layered, using different types of magic."
Unlike Harry, Ron, and Hermione, Stephen had no moral obligation to "save the world" or protect the stone for its creator. He was driven by a thirst for knowledge, scientific curiosity, and a desire to prevent the chaos that could arise if the stone fell into the wrong hands. He wasn't going to share his plans with anyone, understanding that his "knowledge of the future" would be perceived as madness. He would act alone, using his analytical abilities and newly acquired magical skills.
"This will be the most challenging experiment of my life," he said quietly, a slight smile playing on the corners of his lips. "And I intend to succeed."
Thus, within the walls of Hogwarts, where ordinary students dreamed of Quidditch and sweets, Stephen Strange, the man who knew the future, prepared for a solo mission where something more than just victory was at stake. The very world of magic was at stake, and he was the only one who saw the whole picture.