"What the… what the hell…"
It took a lot to surprise Simon. Getting any real emotion out of him was even harder.
As far back as he could remember, failure had been his constant shadow. Tripping over nothing, things falling out of the sky onto his head. Any plan, no matter how small, inevitably went sideways at the worst possible moment and collapsed entirely. The best-case scenario was when the whole thing fell apart before it even started.
Still—he'd survived it all somehow, hadn't he?
Let's just say life hadn't exactly handed Simon the sweetest deal. But instead of breaking him, it had forged him.
Bird shit on his head? Puddle water splashed in his face? Not a single muscle twitched.
That didn't mean he had no emotions. Quite the opposite. Years of bottling everything up against a constant background of elevated stress had produced some fairly unpleasant psychological side effects. But that was a story for another time.
Point was, rattling Simon took serious effort.
Yet here was a wizard who had appeared out of nowhere, calling himself a professor at some place called Hogwarts, and with one casual flick of a wand had literally shaken the foundations of Simon's entire picture of reality.
It wasn't that he'd never seen tricks before. Sleight of hand, misdirection—he knew them all. Hell, he'd pulled plenty himself. He regularly posed as a fortune-teller and could run circles around most people with basic cold reading and psychological hooks.
The rational part of his brain insisted magic couldn't exist. This was obviously a con artist, probably hired by his father in a rare fit of spite—or more likely by old man Misha.
Except his father couldn't afford a decent magician; Mark was flat broke. And anyway, the man didn't have the imagination to come up with anything this elaborate.
The old-Jewish-prank theory also felt weak. The effort-to-payoff ratio was abysmal. Even if Simon fell for it—what then? Misha would never waste that kind of money or energy; greed and laziness would strangle the idea before it even started.
Sure, there was always the possibility some rich classmate whose nose Simon had once broken had decided on elaborate revenge… but even that felt flimsy.
"Pierre, right?" Professor Longbottom asked awkwardly.
"Simon's better," he answered on reflex.
Only his father called him Pierre. The name alone dragged up memories of that vile voice.
"Simon," the well-mannered-looking man nodded. "Er… perhaps we should wait for your parents so I can explain everything properly?"
"Last time I saw my old man was a week ago," Simon said. After a brief pause he added, "Hoping it stays two weeks before the next sighting."
"And…?" The professor started to ask something, then stopped himself.
"No mum," Simon shrugged. "Never knew her, never saw her. No idea who she was or whether she's even still alive."
"I see," Neville Longbottom said, looking even more uncomfortable.
He gave the "room" a careful once-over. There was a certain tidiness to it, but the cracked ceiling, peeling wallpaper, and possibly even some mould screamed that the boy sitting in front of him came from anything but a comfortable background.
Unfriendly personality, unreliable father, absent mother, dire finances—quite the collection.
"I have to admit," Simon finally said, gathering his thoughts, "your tricks are impressive. Turning my bat into a bouquet of roses—and making it look that convincing? You shouldn't be messing with kids' heads. You should be headlining in Vegas. David Blaine would hang himself from envy."
"I really am a wizard. And so are you, Simon…"
"Ever thought about becoming a YouTuber? You could rake in serious cash from TikTok kids with this!"
Even someone as soft-hearted in appearance as Professor Longbottom apparently had his limits. He pulled out his wand again and pointed it at the bouquet of roses still in Simon's hands.
One second—the roses became an umbrella.
Another second—the umbrella returned to being roses.
It took Simon a full ten seconds to process what had just happened.
"Nonsense," he declared. "What did you do? This is…"
"Transfiguration," Longbottom answered calmly. "A branch of magic that deals with changing one object into another. You'll study it at Hogwarts. I'm actually Professor of Herbology, but I'll admit transfiguration is the most effective way to demonstrate real magic to Muggle-born children."
"That's impossible," Simon said flatly.
"Sorry?"
"Let's take two objects: a wooden baseball bat and a bouquet of roses. Your fairy tale already starts falling apart right there."
He lifted the bat—which moments ago had been an umbrella and before that roses—and gave it a couple of experimental shakes.
"The bat is maple. Approximate wood density six hundred kilograms per cubic metre. Mass around one and a half kilos, volume roughly two and a half litres. Dry wood consists of cellulose, lignin, and residual moisture. Structure: dead. Entropy close to zero."
Simon made an exaggerated "magic" gesture as though transforming the bat himself.
"Suppose I'm now holding roses…"
Longbottom, caught up in Simon's words, played along and with one flick turned the bat back into roses.
Simon's brain short-circuited for another second.
"…Anyway. Roses are living tissue. Roughly eighty percent water, sometimes more, sometimes less. Composition: cells, vascular system, sugars, chlorophyll, proteins. Density almost the same as water—one thousand kilograms per cubic metre. Already they don't even match in mass. But fine. Let's just suppose—for the sake of argument—that by some miracle they match in mass, one of the fundamental constants of the universe, by the way."
Simon gave a crooked smirk.
"First you'd have to rearrange an enormous number of atoms. An ENORMOUS number. We're talking something on the order of ten to the twenty-sixth at the very least. Then you'd have to break and reform something like… quintillions of chemical bonds. And then—best part—you'd have to perfectly recreate deoxyribonucleic acid structure! One of the most complex things we've ever studied!"
Simon rattled off term after term in near-hysterical fashion, each one sailing straight over Longbottom's head without leaving a trace.
"Energy! Energy, for fuck's sake! Average energy per chemical bond is a couple of electronvolts. Multiply by the number of bonds and you get… well…" He stared mesmerised at the roses in his hands. "…you get on the order of ten to the eighth or ten to the ninth joules. That's the energy of a lightning strike or a decent-sized explosion—hundreds of kilos of TNT!"
As if to prove the purity of his experiment, Simon stood up, methodically circled the entire room, and inspected Longbottom from head to toe, occasionally reaching out to check air temperature.
"No shockwave!" he said, clutching his head. "No thermal pulse! Not even a few degrees of temperature increase in the air! And do you know what that means?!"
Professor Longbottom shrank into his shoulders.
"What?" he asked cautiously.
"You've either violated the first law of thermodynamics, or the second, or you're pulling off tricks so good only fucking Arab sheikhs could afford them!"
Silence stretched between them, broken only by Simon's ragged breathing.
Longbottom couldn't believe an eleven-year-old could know so much. And the boy didn't sound like he was making any of it up—too confident, too precise.
Honestly, Neville hadn't understood half the words.
Electronvolts, some kind of acid, joules—everything had flown past without sticking.
But he'd grasped the main point.
Despite the questionable manners and language far too filthy for his age—or any age—despite the desperate circumstances, the boy in front of him was genuinely brilliant. Incredibly intelligent and self-aware for his years.
"And since the universe," Simon continued calmly, "doesn't like having its laws raped without permission, that leaves one last option."
"Merlin…" Neville muttered.
"You're lying."
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
"WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!"
*****
"Professor Longbottom," Simon said in an unnaturally calm voice, moving to the next topic. "There was one rather suspicious moment in your speech…"
It had taken him quite a while to recover after every object in the room—including the sofa he was sitting on—suddenly floated into the air.
But eventually he'd calmed down. As always. And started analysing again.
"You spoke as though I'd already agreed to attend Hogwarts. You didn't even consider the possibility that I might refuse?"
"Ahem," Neville cleared his throat. "You see, Simon, every young witch or wizard in Britain is automatically enrolled at Hogwarts. The main issue is that an untrained young magical person can suffer serious consequences from their uncontrolled magic. But don't worry! Hogwarts is the best magical school in the world. And the oldest, mind you!"
"What are the alternatives?"
"There aren't any."
"What?" Simon blinked. "None at all?"
"Not in Britain," Longbottom said firmly. "Hogwarts is the first magical school in the world. Over a thousand years old! Which means that for the last thousand years, every—I emphasise every—British-born witch or wizard has attended Hogwarts. You're not yet fully part of the magical world, but sooner or later you'll understand what a… special place this school holds in our hearts. I'd wager the vast majority of witches and wizards, when asked about the best years of their lives, would say their seven years at Hogwarts."
"And what about… those consequences? What happens if I just don't want to be a wizard?"
"There is a concept—rather taboo—called an Obscurus," the professor said in a solemn tone. "When young witches and wizards suppress their magic, when there's nowhere for it to go and nothing to channel it into… they turn into… bombs, you could say."
"And these Obscuri…"
"Let's not talk about that," Neville interrupted. "You're too young to know those details."
"What's the probability of becoming one?"
"Quite hi—"
"Then I accept," Simon said with a firm nod. "Hogwarts sounds great!"
If there was even a chance of the worst-case scenario, Simon would take the safer path. Becoming a living bomb held zero appeal.
"Phew," Neville exhaled. "That's probably the hardest 'recruitment' I've ever done—and I've been doing this for years! You're definitely Ravenclaw material. Tricky personality, sure, but plenty of brains!"
"Ravenclaw? What's that?"
"You remember the Hogwarts crest?"
"Four animals?"
"Gryffindor, lion—for the brave. Slytherin, serpent—for the cunning. Hufflepuff, badger—for the loyal. Ravenclaw, eagle—for those who hunger for knowledge."
"Can I find out the differences in curriculum before I decide?"
"Curriculum?" The professor blinked in confusion, then understood. "All houses follow the same curriculum. The sorting is more about grouping people with similar temperaments."
"Then not Ravenclaw," Simon said decisively.
"W-why not?"
"Being in a different house won't stop me from seeking knowledge." He pointed at the wall. "But I'd rather live surrounded by familiar colours. Courage? Works for me!"
Professor Longbottom followed Simon's finger and froze.
A huge poster hung on the wall: the red emblem of a bird.
"Been supporting Liverpool since I was in nappies," Simon grinned. "Red's my colour."
Real panic flickered in Professor Longbottom's eyes.
"W-wait! Th-that's not rational! Ravenclaw is definitely your house! Y-you were practically born for it!"
It was clear the man had suddenly realised he might be stuck with this particular personality for the next seven years.
"Ravenclaw's colour is blue," Simon sneered. "Can't stand Everton."
"The students don't choose!" Neville's voice cracked.
Simon gave a patronising smile.
"Then why are you panicking so much?"
The panic gave way to utter resignation.
"What's the next step in this cultural enlightenment? I need to buy all that magical junk from the list, right?"
"Diagon Alley," Professor Longbottom answered dully, staring into space.
"Can we go now?"
"If you're ready," Neville replied like a zombie.
"How much money will I need?"
"As much as you can get. But for students who can't afford supplies, there's an interest-free loan from Gringotts…"
"Perfect! Then I need to crack my dad's hiding spot and shake out everything he's got!"
No wonder he'd spent the last six months pretending not to notice the loose radiator panel. Worth every second.
"Huh?" The professor blinked. "What?"
*****
"Where is it?"
"In London."
"In London?" Simon frowned in confusion. "We're going to London right now?"
Neville Longbottom suddenly vanished.
No, seriously—he just disappeared. As though he'd been sucked into a miniature black hole.
Simon stared around in bewilderment, even carefully patting the empty air where the professor had stood moments earlier.
"Professor? You still here?" he called into nowhere.
For a second Simon wondered whether some especially gifted prankster had dumped a bag of drugs into the communal water supply—and whether that hit had gone straight into his bloodstream, producing an extremely convincing hallucination of a Hogwarts professor waving a wand and promising to whisk him away to a magical land in a blue helicopter.
"You… WHAT THE HELL?!"
And he reappeared. With a loud crack Professor Longbottom materialised again in front of him. His face wore the guiltiest expression imaginable.
"Sorry," he said, sounding genuinely remorseful. "I forgot to take you with me!"
"Where to—hey!"
Another crack.
This time Neville Longbottom didn't forget to grab Simon's hand.
Once Simon had seen a video of a disturbed girl shoving her cat into a washing machine. Never in his life had he felt such sympathy for that unknown animal. Right now he felt exactly like that poor cat—trapped in the hands of a maniac.
Whatever Professor Longbottom had just done was awful. Words couldn't describe how unnatural it felt—like riding a four-dimensional rollercoaster. As though he'd been compressed into a tiny ball and then used in a game of interdimensional ping-pong.
Light exploded in every colour imaginable. Space folded itself into knots. His body turned to jelly, incapable of any resistance.
Thankfully, it ended as abruptly as it began.
They appeared in some nondescript alleyway.
And naturally, everything in Simon's stomach immediately demanded to come back out.
"BLUUUURGH!"
"Apparition," Neville shrugged, completely unsurprised by Simon's state. "First time's always rough."
"You couldn't warn me?!" Simon spat bile onto the ground.
The guilty expression returned to Longbottom's face—looking almost comical on a grown man. In general, this Professor Longbottom was a strange sort of adult: outwardly fit and composed, yet radiating unreliability from a mile away. Still, there was no dishonesty in him, which balanced out the flaws.
"…I forgot."
For some reason… for some reason Simon suddenly had serious doubts about whether Gryffindor was the right choice after all.