HOGWARTS: ISOLATION AND THE DEGENERATION OF RPGs

The leaden September sky over Hogwarts seems heavy and low, as if it were about to crush the castle's ancient towers under its own weight. The Great Hall greeted you with a resonant, muted echo and hundreds of wary glances. For the British magical community, which has stewed in its own juices for centuries behind an impenetrable wall of bureaucracy and protectionism, your appearance is not just a rare event, but a real irritant. They are categorically unaccustomed to outsiders. For nine out of ten local wizards, the rest of the world is just a foggy, semi-wild province, the kind of thing that gets written about in the less-than-flattering articles of the Daily Prophet.

You walk between the long oak tables, feeling the full weight of the local wariness. The contrast is stark. Where you come from, magic is a living discipline, requiring a strict knowledge of vectors, physical laws, and the perfect circulation of force through the body's internal channels. This practice naturally strengthens the body, reflecting in an upright posture, healthy skin, and natural attractiveness. Here, among the high Gothic vaults, you are surrounded by stooped figures, pale faces, and tenacious fingers convulsively clutching the only tool they have come to rely on—wooden wands.

“Silence, please,” Albus Dumbledore’s soft but booming voice instantly silenced the whispers at the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables.

The Headmaster stands at the professor's desk. His tall figure is slightly hunched, his blackened right hand hidden in the wide sleeve of his embroidered robe, and his piercing blue eyes gleam behind half-moon spectacles. Beside him, frozen like a black, predatory shadow, stands Severus Snape, his heavy gaze sliding over you with a caustic squint, as if assessing the "unknown variable."

"Welcome our exchange guest," Dumbledore says with a smile that hints of gentle snobbery. "Tell me... what is your first impression of Hogwarts?"