The neighbourhood where Simon lived was relatively quiet. Sure, every now and then you'd get the drunks shouting or the upstairs neighbours having another screaming match, but mostly it was peaceful.
Simon himself preferred thoughtful silence to blaring music. At a push he'd put on an audiobook or something calm.
Which meant the sounds from the stairwell came through loud and clear.
First came uneven footsteps, as though the person wasn't quite sure where to put their foot next. Then a wet cough, ending in a solid, filthy curse.
Finally the jangle of keys and the door creaking open.
"Fucking finally showed up…" Simon muttered, but he didn't get up from the sofa. He didn't even look away from his phone, pretending he hadn't noticed a thing.
Truth was, Simon had been hoping his father would never come back. Ever. For the past two days there had even been a faint, fragile hope—which, as always, amounted to nothing.
His father disappeared for long stretches. The record was about two months.
The man could probably outlast cockroaches in a survival contest—the only trait they shared. Though given the lifestyle of this forty-something wreck, a cockroach would have been long dead by now. Drank itself to death, smoked itself to death, overdosed itself to death, and a whole lot of other "-itself to death" endings.
Yet here his father was. Still breathing. Still functioning.
An alternate evolutionary branch where, in exchange for survival, intelligence, ethics, and pretty much everything else had been cheerfully sacrificed.
A lot of people probably wouldn't understand Simon's attitude.
Simon, how can you talk about your own father like that?
Well. Let's just say…
His father was a very, very particular kind of person. And Simon had never once felt ashamed of the opinion he held of the man.
"Hey, Pierre!" The drunken bellow rolled through the flat. "Pierre, you little shit! You in here?"
"FUCK YOU!"
"So you are in here…"
Scruffy stubble, filthy face, skeletal frame—everything about the man screamed complete indifference to his own appearance.
Simon only smeared his own face when he was going on a "job," to create a certain impression. In everyday life he tried to look presentable, even if his clothes were hanging on by their last thread and usually ruined the effect.
His father was just permanently scruffy. Always had been. Sunken brown eyes—unlike Simon's—threaded with burst capillaries, filled with the bone-deep exhaustion of permanent hangover. Textbook alcoholic.
The man shuffled into the room holding a pack of cigarettes. A pack he had obviously fished out of Simon's jacket pocket.
He grinned and lit one.
"You smoke absolute shit."
He staggered around the room, ignoring the boy sprawled on the sofa, and started rummaging through the furniture. Books lifted, nightstands shoved aside, like he was hunting for something.
"Where's the money?"
"Ain't got none!" Simon snarled, bristling. "Unfortunately I inherited your fucking genes—poverty runs in my blood!"
"Ha-ha-ha… hilarious!" His father forced a laugh, but the amusement was steadily draining from his eyes. "We can… we can do this the usual way. Sooner or later you'll slip up, I'll beat the shit out of you…"
And as though on cue, a bird slammed into the window glass.
Fortunately the pane held.
Unfortunately the vibration knocked over the already unsteady potted plant, which obligingly revealed its "secret" hiding place underneath.
"Whooo!" the man crowed. "Jackpot, bitch! Six hundred quid! You had yourself quite the little party!"
"Shit," Simon muttered darkly and finally pushed himself off the sofa.
His father was already shamelessly stuffing the cash into his own pocket.
"That's my money!"
"Now it's mine!" The man did a drunken little jig.
"Give it back, you fuck!" Simon dropped into a boxer's stance. "Or I'll stretch your eye socket over your arsehole!"
"Oho-ho! Look at him, for fuck's sake!" The man actually sounded delighted. "It's the reincarnation of Muhammad Ali! The God of Boxing! What was that Irish prick called… Ah, right! Conor McGregor, you son of a bitch!"
Simon didn't want to hear any more. With a growl he lunged forward and tried to bury a hook in the man's liver at the last second, but…
A lightning-fast counter smashed straight into his jaw with enough force to send him reeling.
The man hadn't held back at all. He'd hit an eleven-year-old boy at nearly full strength.
"Mark Bennett with the lightning jab, pow-pow!" The man started shadow-boxing the air theatrically. "Puts Conor Ali face-down in the dirt! And now, ladies and gentlemen! The illegal move!"
Simon had only just started pushing himself onto all fours, shaking the blur out of his vision, when Mark charged in and drove a boot into his stomach.
"AAAGH!"
The momentum of an adult man's kick collided with the concussed body of an eleven-year-old boy who weighed maybe a third as much. Naturally Simon was lifted off the floor and spun.
"The crowd roars with raw emotion!" Mark bellowed, looming over the groaning boy. "The legendary Muhammad McGregor is being carried out feet-first! Mark Bennett takes the win while the little bitch whimpers helplessly! Damn…" He clicked his tongue in genuine admiration as he studied Simon. "Always amazed how tough you are! My own kid!"
And he finished with a brutal follow-up that smashed into Simon's temple and sent him teetering on the edge of a knockout.
"Dh-ha… wh-why…"
Simon really was tough. Countless falls, endless clumsy accidents—everything had trained his body to take punishment. Only years later did he start to realise he was noticeably more durable than other kids his age. Otherwise he would have died from yet another brick falling on his head. Literally.
And he could fight. More than that—he was good at it. Sometimes he slipped into a berserker state, punching far above his weight class, and he pulled it off regularly and successfully against older boys, but…
For some reason he could never enter that state against his father. And without that extra edge, no amount of endurance could bridge the gap in size.
So it was never a fight.
It was always a beating.
"Uff…" The man exhaled in satisfaction, grinning. "Come home and the mood just skyrockets! Got money and a workout in one go—good job, me!"
Still riding the high, Mark Bennett cast his gaze over Simon's few personal possessions, most of which were books.
He picked up one of the most worn and heavily thumbed volumes.
"A Brief History of Time, Stephen Hawking," he said, putting on a mock-intellectual face. "Well, well! Fancy book! 'The non-decrease of black-hole area points to the concept of entropy—a physical quantity that measures the disorder in a system. From a commonsense perspective, if nothing intervenes in the course of events, disorder tends to increase.'"
"Y-you…" Simon was slowly climbing to his feet, "…wouldn't have the brains… to understand…"
"Maybe you're right," Mark agreed easily. "You've got the brains—and look how much good it's done you."
He flung the book with pinpoint accuracy, smacking Simon square in the forehead. The boy winced but carefully picked it up and checked that the pages were still intact.
"Guns, Germs, and Steel, The Silk Roads, God Emperor of Dune, The Selfish Gene…" Mark slowly read off the titles on each spine. "You read all these clever books, and yet… still neck-deep in shit. So what's the difference between us, you fucking parasite?"
He leaned down, fixing Simon with a bleary, contemptuous stare that held neither sympathy nor guilt—only disdain.
"We're marginals, you little shit. Scum. Born in the gutter, die in the gutter. All your attempts to 'climb out'… pfft. They're laughable. Pathetic. Just like you."
"Bullshit…" Simon met his gaze—clear, fearless, refusing to bow. "Labour turned the ape into man. Science has long since proved that reason will always win out. And you, unemployed junkie, you're about to devolve back into a monkey. So why don't you fuck off—"
This time blood droplets hung in the air as Mark's fist smashed into Simon's face at full speed. This time there were no attempts to get up. He just lay on his back, squinting through the pain.
"Always think you're smarter than everyone—always putting yourself above other people," the man sneered. "And the result's always the same: lying there like a helpless bug, can't do a damn thing. Wonder what your precious Stephen Hawking would do if he was here?"
"He'd wreck you in two seconds flat," Simon replied calmly from the floor. "Run those ugly features over with his wheelchair like they were train tracks."
"Ha-ha-ha… Shit, I wouldn't even fight back! That'd be comedy gold!"
"You're wrong about one thing," Simon said, ignoring the mockery. "You keep mixing up causal-temporal categories with linguistic definitions—not surprising given your general level of erudition. Your favourite word 'never' is just an excuse for doing nothing. In my situation the correct term is 'yet.' And 'yet' is a phase of a process."
"Hah…" The amusement faded from the man's eyes. He seemed to size Simon up for another hit, then turned and walked out of the room with a careless wave. Verbal sparring was one battlefield where he couldn't compete.
Simon sniffed, wincing at the taste of blood in his sinuses. Groaning, he stretched from his position on the floor, reached the nearest nightstand, and pulled a fresh pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the bottom shelf. He lit up immediately.
He had barely started to come down from the beating, letting the tobacco smoke calm his nerves, when an insistent, maddening tapping started against the glass.
Frowning, Simon looked up—and blinked in surprise.
A bedraggled grey owl was pecking at his window. Feathers ruffled, clearly the same bastard bird that had crashed into the pane earlier and caused the whole disaster.
"What the fuck is banging?!" came the shout from the other room.
"Fuck off!" Simon replied with perfect politeness, then—overcoming his laziness—opened the window.
He didn't particularly want to touch a bird of unknown origin—microbes everywhere—but the species itself surprised him, and the letter tied to its leg raised even more questions.
As carefully as possible he untied the envelope and saw a crest: lion on red, eagle on blue, badger on yellow, serpent on green.
The image sparked no recognition, yet his hands suddenly trembled with inexplicable excitement. Breaking the seal, Simon realised with a jolt that the letter was addressed to him.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmistress: Minerva McGonagall
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Senior Member of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Laplace,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Pomona Sprout
Deputy Headmistress
A second page was attached.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Uniform
First-year students will require:
Three sets of plain work robes (black)
One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)
Please label all clothing with the student's name.
Books
All students should have a copy of each of the following:
The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk
A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander
The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble
What to Do If You're a First-Year but a Bad-Smelling Dark Wizard Wants to Kill You: Defence Against the Dark Arts for Dummies by Harry Potter
Students shall also require:
1 wand
1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
1 set of glass or crystal phials
1 telescope
1 set of brass scales
Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad.
PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST-YEARS ARE NOT PERMITTED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS.
"Ahem…" Simon coughed. Then… "Ha-ha-ha-ha!"
He burst out laughing at full volume.
"God! This is pure gold, you absolute legend! Old man Misha, ha-ha-ha!"
Strangely, though, his intuition was screaming at him to take the letter seriously.
But he wasn't some gullible animal who fell for every "what if."
Simon genuinely admired the old Jewish man's ingenuity. Renting an owl, training it to hit this exact window, inventing this whole ridiculous fairy tale!
The owl hooted indignantly, unable to tolerate Simon's laughter.
The boy just snorted and slammed the window shut. And strangest of all—he could have sworn he saw genuine offence in the eyes of what had turned out to be a remarkably intelligent bird.
"Unbelievable… ha-ha…" Simon started crumpling the letter into a ball of ruined paper. "School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, ha-ha-ha!"
"What the hell are you cackling about?! Go get some beer!"
"I'm busy shitting!"
There was, of course, one upside.
Free toilet paper.
*****
The persistent knocking at the door refused to let Simon watch videos on his "brand-new" iPhone X in peace.
The unusually determined visitor had been hammering away for a solid twenty minutes.
"Sorry!" came a loud male voice from the other side. "But I really do need to see Mr. Laplace! It's extremely important!"
Simon tried to refocus on the screen, but the knocking became so maddening it felt like it was happening inside his skull.
He never opened the door. Ever. No one decent or safe ever showed up at their flat.
It was either police, social services, police again looking for his dad, or people his father owed money to. In none of those cases was opening the door a good idea.
True, this one was asking for him specifically, but… Simon didn't get "good" visitors either. He understood that perfectly.
Still—what kind of stubborn bastard was out there?!
"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?! I'M A SATANIST, I DESPISE VACUUM CLEANERS, AND I DON'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT ECOLOGY OR MIGRANT PROBLEMS! I'D SHOOT THE LOT OF THEM! IF YOU'RE POLICE, PLEASE DON'T ARREST MY DAD—HE USUALLY HANGS OUT AT THE RED PRIDE PUB BY THE EMBANKMENT FROM EIGHT AT NIGHT TILL NINE IN THE MORNING!"
Silence. A bewildered, almost offended silence.
"Er… I'm a professor from the school…"
"There are no professors in schools, smart-arse," Simon sighed, standing by the door and picking up a wooden baseball bat. "There are teachers. Professor is an academic title that implies university-level or research work. So either you've got the wrong kind of school or you're using words wrong."
"I-I'm sorry…"
"Piss off!"
"I'm from Hogwarts!"
"What the fuck is Hogwarts?!" Simon frowned in genuine confusion.
"School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?"
"Are you asking me or telling me?!"
"School of Witchcraft and Wizardry! A letter should have arrived! We waited for your reply but never received one! I'm here to inform you and help you adjust to the wizarding world!"
Simon scowled deeply. After a moment's thought he remembered the old Jewish man's prank from a month ago—the one he still hadn't admitted to. A sequel?
Honestly, he wasn't in the mood to play along…
With a sigh he opened the door.
Standing there was a fit-looking man in rather old-fashioned clothing. The man had the oddly boyish look of someone who still carried a piece of childhood inside him—and right now that childlike surprise was fixed on the baseball bat in Simon's hand.
"See this?" Simon swung it for emphasis. "Piss off while your kneecaps are still attached!"
The man took a deep breath. Under Simon's wary stare he reached inside his coat and drew out a crooked wooden stick.
One flick and…
The baseball bat became a bouquet of roses.
Simon's eyes went glassy.
"N-no—no—no…" he stammered, touching the velvety petals. "N-not a bad t-trick!"
"Mr. Laplace," the man said with a sigh, gathering himself. "Let's start over properly. My name is Neville Longbottom. I am Professor of Herbology and Head of Gryffindor House at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Pleased… er, probably… to meet you. And yes—I didn't come here for no reason. You're a wizard, Pierre."