The days of waiting hung suspended, like a drop of water trembling at the edge of a leaf, refusing to fall.
The air in the Scott household was filled with a silence stretched to its limits.
Robert had abandoned all pretence of calm. He turned the attic upside down, opening old wooden chests one by one. Dust swirled in the shafts of slanting sunlight as he searched desperately for some tangible proof of that distant great-aunt's existence— a name, a date, anything that could anchor fantasy to reality.
But his efforts were in vain. It was as if that world had deliberately erased every path leading back to reality.
Carla's defences, by contrast, tightened further. She no longer displayed her anxiety outwardly but channelled it into a cold, methodical routine. She found excuses to call the community police station, her voice steady as she inquired whether there were any new scams targeting gifted children. Her words were careful, her reasoning logical, as though she were discussing a hypothetical case about a neighbour's child. The formulaic responses from the officer on the other end only deepened her unease.
Alan remained the sole anchor of the family. He still sat unshakably at his desk, pages of Olympiad problems spread open, his pen leaving calm, steady scratches across scrap paper. That letter from Hogwarts might as well never have torn into his life at all.
But this was only the surface.
Deep within his mind, the palace of thought was undergoing violent upheaval. In the sector marked Origin of Magic, countless logical nodes flashed, linked, and reorganised at breakneck speed. Theoretical models rose only to collapse an instant later. He tried to explain this potential unknown force with physics, biology, and information theory, only to discover every attempt was like measuring a three-dimensional object with a two-dimensional ruler — flawed at the level of dimension itself.
A week later, on an ordinary afternoon—
Ding-dong—
The doorbell chimed crisply, like a stone breaking the surface of stagnant water.
Carla's body tensed instantly. She stepped to the door but did not open it at once, instead peering through the peephole.
Outside stood a man — an extremely short man. The fisheye lens exaggerated his figure, lending it a faintly comical distortion. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored suit of tweed, the texture of the fabric sharply defined, every detail immaculate. Perched on his nose was a pair of small round spectacles, and behind the lenses his eyes shone with gentle good humour.
Yet this refined, almost excessively polished appearance set Carla's inner alarms screaming. Conmen were masters of disguise.
She drew a breath, adjusted her expression to one of polite reserve, and pulled the door open just a crack.
"May I help you?"
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Scott."
The man's voice was unexpected — not thin or reedy to match his frame, but resonant and clear, with the kind of projection one only heard from a lecturer addressing a hall.
"My name is Filius Flitwick, a professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I received your reply and have come to visit."
In the sitting room, Robert and Alan both caught the name.
No matter how many times they had rehearsed this moment in their minds, hearing it spoken aloud by a living, breathing man pressed reality upon them with crushing weight.
Professor Flitwick was invited inside.
He sat upright, hands folded neatly on his knees, his manners so impeccable that Carla could find no fault. He began introducing his school, his diction elegant, his tone measured.
"Hogwarts has a history of over a thousand years and is the most distinguished institution of magical education in Europe — indeed, in the world."
"Our graduates serve across every field of the wizarding world, from high-ranking officials in the Ministry of Magic to great inventors…"
To Carla, his words were indistinguishable from the polished brochures of the elite private schools she had once toured: sterling reputation, long history, illustrious alumni. She even began forming a more "reasonable" hypothesis — that Hogwarts was a wealthy and secretive aristocratic school, drawn to Alan's prodigious mathematical talent, and had contrived this fantastical "entrance test" as a way to recruit him.
Alan still did not speak.
All his senses were locked on the man before him. The central processor of his mind palace whirred at full speed, torrents of data cascading through its circuits.
[Target: Filius Flitwick]
[Heart rate: 72 bpm, steady.]
[Respiration: 16 breaths per minute, deep and even.]
[Micro-expression analysis: mouth corners consistently upturned, orbicularis oculi naturally contracted — genuine smile confirmed.]
[Gesture analysis: lifts teacup with steady hand, no tremor; little finger raised slightly — sign of long-cultivated elegance.]
[Conclusion: Target confident, composed, displaying no physiological indicators of malice or deception.]
"Professor Flitwick."
At last, Carla could no longer endure the finely choreographed exchange. Her voice carried a note of challenge she could not suppress.
"Forgive me, but everything you've described sounds far too… incredible. Could you prove to us that this 'magic' you speak of truly exists?"
Professor Flitwick smiled, setting his teacup gently back onto its saucer. The porcelain gave a soft, melodious clink. He looked utterly unsurprised — as though he had been waiting for this question all along.
"Of course, madam. Seeing is always the best way to dispel doubt."
From the inner pocket of his finely tailored tailcoat, he drew out an object.
It was a slender stick of wood, smooth to the touch, its surface glimmering with a soft sheen — clearly well cared for.
A wand.
He uttered no incantation, not even a movement of the lips. He merely lifted his wrist, gave the wand the gentlest flick in the air — a gesture elegant and precise, carrying the rhythm of a conductor poised to begin a grand symphony.
And in the very next moment—
A miracle descended upon the ordinary living room with unreasonable certainty.
At the centre of the table, the delicate porcelain teacup filled with Earl Grey slid one inch to the left, then gave a small shake, as though stretching its limbs.
The room fell into stunned silence.
Then the milk jug's lid flipped open on its own and tilted slightly toward the teacup, like a gentleman tipping his hat. The silver sugar bowl gave two little hops, its contents colliding with a cheerful clatter-clink. Even the heavy silver forks and knives rose unsteadily to their feet, as if pulled by invisible strings.
They had been given life.
It was as if unheard music began to play in the air. The teacup led the dance, spinning lightly across the tablecloth in a graceful arc. The milk jug and sugar bowl followed, chasing, closing, parting again. Forks and knives crossed paths, tracing silver trails through the air. The clink of cup against saucer became no longer noise, but a clear, rhythmic chime.
Together, they whirled into a lively, joyous waltz across the tabletop!
"Ah!"
Lilia let out a short squeal, instantly clapping both hands over her mouth — but her wide eyes brimmed with pure delight and feverish wonder.
Robert's face froze, his eyes bulging like copper bells. He rubbed them hard with both fists, only to open them again and see the impossible dance still whirling on. He knew now it was no hallucination. He was not mad.
Even Carla, who had armed herself in layers of scepticism, found herself struck utterly speechless. All her logic, common sense, and caution were crushed into dust before this impossible performance.
Within Alan, it was not a tidal wave but a cosmic explosion.
Inside his mind palace, the immutable laws of classical physics — Newton's three laws, universal gravitation, the second law of thermodynamics — all flashed red with glaring "EXCEPTION" labels. Alarm bells shrieked in his consciousness.
This was not stage magic.
He could see it — an unprecedented field of energy enveloping the entire table. It was no chaotic radiation but a network of extraordinary precision, control down to the micrometre. Every movement of every utensil, every rotation, every collision, was governed with flawless accuracy.
This was real. Unimpeachable. Artful. Magic.
And it conquered every heart in the room.
"I…"
Robert's voice rasped, as dry as sandpaper.
"I owe you an apology, Professor, for our earlier doubt."
Professor Flitwick gave a refined wave of his wand.
In an instant, all the dancing cutlery froze, then slid back silently to their proper places, as though the grand ball had been nothing more than a shared hallucination.
"No apology necessary, Mr. Scott. To approach the unknown with caution — that is wisdom."
Alan finally spoke.
His voice was calm, but in his obsidian eyes burned a fire never seen before. It was the fire of a scholar stumbling upon a new continent, of a physicist glimpsing the final truth of the universe.
"Professor, I accept Hogwarts' invitation. Please — what must we do to prepare?"
Carla looked at her son. Her final line of defence crumbled. She still feared for the dangers of the unknown world awaiting him, but she knew now there was no force on earth that could stop what was to come.
After explaining how to enter Diagon Alley, listing the items on the shopping list, and agreeing on a time, Professor Flitwick rose to take his leave.
At the doorway, he turned back with a smile at the family.
"Then, we shall meet again at Hogwarts."
As his last words fell, his figure twisted violently, like a towel wrung tight. Light and space around him warped unnaturally.
With a sharp, compressed crack, he vanished into nothing.
Only empty air remained, carrying the faint tang of ozone.
This final display struck the Scotts like a hammer blow, leaving them rooted in place, dazed and shaken long after the professor was gone.