Chapter 6
"Have any of you ever heard of aerodynamics?"
Blank stares.
"Comfort?"
Still nothing.
"Good taste?"
The crowd around him showed no sign of catching on.
"Right. Little and not-so-little representatives of illogical fauna, allow me to explain my doubts," Simon snorted. "There are probably two possibilities here: either wizards reproduce by budding, or you've invented something that stops a rather narrow broom handle from permanently ruining any chance of reproduction. I'm still new to this, but I've already picked up on a few general trends. In situations like this you always fall back on the universal excuse: magic."
"What?"
Simon exhaled in irritation. Honestly, it looked like the group surrounding him might start drooling any second.
"Let me rephrase: when you fly—" for emphasis Simon clamped an imaginary stick between his legs "—why doesn't the broom between your legs turn your bollocks into scrambled eggs at high speed?"
"Ohhh…"
"Every Muggle-born asks that question!"
"Every single one!"
"But there are charms on the broom!"
"We're not idiots, are we?"
"You fly on an implement whose original—and until recently only—purpose was sweeping leaves off streets. Yes. You are idiots. Theoretically, a forward-pointing broom might help with acceleration, but it's hardly the most efficient shape. And comfort? Forget it. I could rattle off half a dozen ideas right now whose revolutionary nature would probably make your heads pop like popcorn."
Simon stepped closer to the display window where a polished, beautifully crafted broom hovered slowly. Thick bristles arranged in an aesthetically pleasing shape. Beautifully made—but still a broom.
"Let's establish the basic parameters. It flies. It has very flexible weight limits. It probably responds to instinctive control. We'll discard the alternate reality where all wizards switch to fixed-wing flight and the Wright brothers spin in their graves. Still! At the end of the day a broom is a whatever-works option!"
"Hey!" someone protested. "The Nimbus has been the best of its generation for three decades!"
"I'm not talking about the model. I'm talking about the con-cept!"
Simon raked irritated fingers through his hair, feeling like he was speaking a different language.
"I'd start with load distribution. Sitting to fly is already decent. Honestly I'm surprised you don't balance on the broom like a tightrope walker. Lying prone would be even better—centre of gravity closer to the body, less drag, higher stability. I'd have thought at least that much would occur to you. But all you've got is a pole, possibly a prayer—I still haven't figured out your theology—and hope for the best."
"But brooms are tradition!" someone squeaked.
"Tradition is when Granddad fucked up, Dad repeated the mistake, and you never even questioned it," Simon cut in sharply. "Next—controls. If you have charms that partially respond to intent, why grip with your hands? Free them up. Add stabilisation and damping. And for fuck's sake add a backrest! Just looking at this devil machine gives me osteochondrosis!" He shook his head. "Make it a platform. Or a chair. Hell, a flying sofa would be better! Strap in safety belts, add protective fields, give it proper aerodynamic shaping! Start with the basics! Don't lightning bolts ever hit you?"
"Depends on your luck," someone shrugged.
"Depends on your luck?!" The attitude grated on Simon instinctively—mostly because luck had never been on his side. "You're flying at altitude! The broom has metal components! You're basically an isolated target—a perfect lightning rod!"
"Well, get struck a couple of times—what's the big deal?"
"My uncle always said it brings good luck!"
"Who the hell are you to lecture us anyway? Two days ago you were a Muggle and now you're teaching us, smart-arse!"
"Have you ever even flown?!"
"Piss off!"
Simon was starting to boil.
"I swear I'll flatten the lot of you right here, you morons!"
An ever-present hand—Professor Longbottom's—reached through the crowd and yanked him out of the brewing fight.
The children around him, ready to prove just how wrong he was, suddenly went very quiet. Teacher. And Head of House for some of them.
"Why do you cause trouble every single minute? Can't you just… stand still and do nothing for once?!"
"No," Simon snorted, brushing off his jacket. "I can't stand it when the surrounding idiocy exceeds a certain threshold."
"Merlin's beard," Professor Longbottom groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Just… just stay close."
"Where are we going anyway?"
"Gringotts."
"What's that?"
"The bank. We'll get you a student loan to buy everything you need."
"I've got five hundred pounds on me. Will that cover anything extra?"
"Five hundred pounds?" Neville muttered. "Honestly, I don't remember the exchange rate for pounds."
"Wait. We're in Britain! You're telling me you still need a separate currency?!"
"Of course," the professor shrugged. "We're wizards, aren't we? We need wizarding currency."
"That's not very logical," Simon frowned. "And what is this currency?"
"Galleon is the largest coin. One Galleon equals seventeen Sickles, and one Sickle equals twenty-nine Knuts."
"Wait—you still use a non-decimal system? Britain decimalised in the seventies! A non-decimal counting system is a financial crime! A nightmare for accounting, pricing, scaling, international trade, and basic human sanity!"
Simon started counting on his fingers.
"Seventeen is prime. Twenty-nine is prime. Did you deliberately pick the most inconvenient multipliers, or is this collective suicide of common sense?"
"You…" Neville looked at him with fresh astonishment. "You understand… economics, is that the word?"
"I'm a genius! I understand everything!"
"We… we're just used to it," the professor said uncertainly.
"Do you realise how impossible it is to count change quickly in that system? Every purchase is an adventure! You've basically built in a tax on thinking! Suppose I have two Galleons and seven Sickles. I buy something for one Galleon, nine Sickles, and three Knuts. How much is left?"
Neville blinked in confusion. He'd stopped being embarrassed when a student out-talked him. Mostly because this particular student was entirely too self-assured.
"Er… um… let me… calculate…"
"Exactly!" Simon raised a triumphant finger. "And that's just the beginning!"
"It's just… I've always been bad at sums…" the professor muttered under his breath.
"Wizards," Simon muttered along with him. "As astonishing as they are illogical! I hope having magic doesn't cause irreversible brain damage."
Even so, the stroll through the bustling streets pulled Simon out of his dark thoughts. On the familiar streets of Liverpool he'd have walked home on autopilot, but here every detail burst with colour and that mesmerising magic.
A stone statue of a girl danced fluidly on a small fountain—stone yet impossibly alive. She even winked at him!
Paper aeroplanes zipped past his ear in impossible trajectories!
A boy ran by clutching a box of red lizards that spat sparks from their mouths.
A clock in a shop window had hands spinning independently; one face counted time backwards.
A caramel cockerel bit a boy on the lip! His parents just laughed at his cries!
Even the moving fireworks exploding above shop signs stopped surprising him—they seemed to beckon him inside.
He wanted to… understand this world. To know why everything worked this way. To identify inefficient solutions and dazzle with intellect!
But it was so captivating that even his analytical mind surrendered.
He just wanted to watch. To absorb.
At some point Simon caught himself smiling. Not his usual smirk, not a grimace—a genuine, childish smile.
It vanished the moment they stepped into the snow-white building crowned with a massive stone dragon.
Behind towering counters sat small, ugly, wrinkled goblins—compensating for their stature with sheer presence—one of whom Simon had nearly fought only minutes earlier.
"Who are they?"
"Goblins. Master craftsmen and bankers. Gringotts is their creation," Neville said. Then, as though remembering something, he added, "They have… rather difficult personalities. Please, Simon… just stay quiet."
Simon shrugged. The fact that he hadn't verbally agreed didn't escape Neville.
With a mournful sigh, the professor led him to a free counter, where a goblin stared down at them.
"Here for a loan?" it asked without preamble.
"Yes, first-year student," Professor Longbottom replied as though he'd done this before.
"What's your minimum interest rate?" Simon couldn't help himself.
"Interest rate?" the goblin repeated. "What's that?"
Simon blinked. He'd expected a shocking answer—just not a shocking question.
"In-ter-est rate," he enunciated syllable by syllable. "You take my money. You hold it, use it to lend to others at a percentage. You return my money with interest."
"Oh, these Muggle-borns," the goblin rasped with laughter. "We keep your money and we're supposed to pay you? We charge a fee for storage and give no interest. All this interest nonsense—" he spat contemptuously "—Muggle invention."
"That's the foundation of modern economics! Money today is worth more than money tomorrow! Time is a resource! Risk is a resource! Capital must work, not sit dead weight!" Simon gasped in outrage. "This isn't a bank—it's feudalism with vaults! No interest means no incentive to invest! No investment means no growth! No growth means stagnation and death! Maybe that's why everything here is ancient and backward! Who the hell needs your bank?! Professor, take me somewhere else!"
"Somewhere else…?"
Simon lost the power of speech again.
"You're not saying… there are no other banks?"
"Gringotts is the only bank," the goblin grinned. "And that rule was set by the Ministry of Magic."
"…you have a fucking monopoly enshrined in law! What kind of idiot came up with that?! Your economy is complete chaos! Fixed money supply—one! No credit multiplier—two! Capital literally sits dead in vaults—three! No wonder there's no minimum interest—who needs it? This is hell for any entrepreneur!"
"Wizards don't need entrepreneurship," the goblin replied indifferently. "They need wands, a roof over their heads, and… not to be killed."
"That's a survival economy, not a developing one! No investors, no startups, no scaling! Any innovation is either small-scale or needs state patronage! No interest equals no accumulation through investment. Which means wealth is mostly inherited, not created. God…" Simon shot Neville a wary glance. "You've got one privileged class lording it over the rest here, don't you?"
"How did you…" Longbottom gaped. "How did you figure that out?"
"Economy is born from politics, and politics from economy. Social mobility here is probably a disaster…"
"It's much better now! Hermione became Minister for Magic, didn't she?!"
Simon had already tuned him out. He seemed to have retreated inside himself.
"…you're all just herring in a jar! You've preserved yourselves—and you're happy about it! You're two hundred years behind, for fuck's sake! You just haven't grown up enough for real change!"
"Merlin's sodding pants," Longbottom groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Let's just… go buy you a wand or something."
"…not to mention I restrained myself from the obvious joke. Love money, hooked noses… fine, no jokes like that today."
*****
" makers of fine wands since 382 B.C." read the gold lettering on the peeling shop Professor Longbottom led them into.
Inside, the air carried the steady scent of different woods. The shop had a light layer of organised chaos—thousands of narrow boxes stacked floor to ceiling, most recently pulled out and shoved back with casual disregard.
Behind the counter stood a man in his forties with clever silver eyes.
"Professor Longbottom, what an honour! Thirteen inches, cherry, unicorn hair, correct?"
"As always, spot on, Mr. Ollivander," Neville murmured, then quieter: "…just like two hundred years ago."
"Heh-heh, forgive my habit. I believe Muggles call it professional deformation! Now then—who do we have here? A young wizard come for his wand?"
"Simon Laplace," he nodded politely. "What have you got, Mr. Ollivander? Any recommendations?"
"Oh-ho-ho, wrong question, Mr. Laplace!"
"Then what's the right one?"
"Which of them will choose you!"
With a flick of Mr. Ollivander's own wand, measuring tapes flew from the counter and began taking every dimension of Simon—including the distance from nose to lip.
"Every wand is a unique piece, handmade! Each has its own character and preferences! No two wands are alike—just as no two unicorn hairs are identical!"
"By that logic you could say no two fur coats are alike, and no two minks…"
Mr. Ollivander ignored the remark. He quickly pulled a completely random box—no labels anywhere in this logistical nightmare!—and withdrew a black wand.
Correctly reading Simon's puzzled look, he said:
"Go on—give it a wave!"
Simon obeyed.
Nothing happened.
"Pine is definitely not you."
"Pine definitely isn't me!"
"How about this one?"
Zero reaction.
"This! Definitely this!"
Nothing.
"I'd stake my professional reputation on this one!"
He didn't follow through on the lost bet…
"Dear me," the man smiled. "What a choosy customer!"
"More like something wrong with the salesman…" Simon muttered.
They'd been standing in the dusty shop for nearly half an hour. Not a single wand had reacted. Not even slightly!
Professor Longbottom was the first to panic.
"Simon is a wizard, right?"
"The Quill of Acceptance never errs," Mr. Ollivander said firmly. "It's simply…"
"Simply—" everyone jumped at the old, phlegmy voice "—a very choosy customer."
"Grandfather!"
"Mr. Ollivander!"
Both men straightened as an ancient—practically crumbling—man emerged from the back rooms. His face was so wrinkled it was hard to connect the features to his "grandson," but the eyes were identical.
"Ahh, Professor Longbottom, how time flies," the elderly voice rasped. "Seems only yesterday you came to my shop for your wand. Cherry, thirteen inches, unicorn hair, I believe…"
"Your memory is as sharp as ever, Mr. Ollivander," Neville smiled, genuinely pleased this time.
"And even before you started at Hogwarts I told Augusta that no borrowed wand would ever be your true friend. It took you several years to find your own…"
"My father's wand served me… admirably. It was magnificent…"
"But in the end you use your own, yes?"
The professor could only smile sheepishly.
"What even is a 'wand'? Why the hell do I need one?"
"Excellent question, Mr. Laplace!" the old man smiled. "A wand is a conduit. A focuser, if you will. In some ways—an amplifier."
"Can I…?"
"You can—and sometimes must—cast without a wand! But the results are usually unpredictable, crude, and often dangerous. Long before our era, shamans embedded their ancestors' teeth in staves to create the 'best' conduit for their magic."
"So the sign outside isn't bullshit? You've really been making wands for two thousand years?"
"Of course not—it's complete nonsense!" the old man laughed cheerfully. "My great-grandfather opened the shop, but wands are deeply personal and important—no one wanted to buy from a complete newcomer, so he invented that…"
"Marketing ploy," Simon smiled.
"Precisely!"
Old Ollivander definitely appealed to Simon. Kind disposition, cheerful curiosity.
"In other words: you are the river, the wand is the channel. If the channel is wrong, the water either refuses to flow or tears the banks apart."
"So why is it so hard for me to find a suitable wand?"
"Not quite the right phrasing," the old man said slowly, groaning as he lifted dusty old boxes from under the counter. "Why don't the wands choose you? Simple answer: they don't like you!"
Simon's face froze.
"But that's normal—a wand is for life," Ollivander smiled, peering intently into Simon's eyes. Simon didn't look away. "Mind—extraordinarily sharp mind—and passionate temperament! What a fortunate combination! Try this."
This time Simon felt the change almost instinctively.
The moment his fingers closed around the wand, candlelight began to flicker. Every object in the room—including the people—lifted gently into the air.
"Astonishing! Ha-ha-ha!" Old Ollivander floated, laughing. "First try! I knew I was right!"
They dropped as suddenly as they'd risen. Most landed on their feet—except Professor Longbottom, who hit the floor with an awkward cough, quickly stood, and brushed off his robes.
"You know, Mr. Laplace," the old man said dreamily, "my father made and sold a wand to Albus Dumbledore. I did the same for You-Know-Who and for Harry Potter. When I passed the shop to my grandson I retired from the craft—but fate brought you here. This wand is special."
Mr. Ollivander gazed at the wand in Simon's hand with childlike delight.
"Thirteen and a half inches—very long—made of elder, with a phoenix feather core."
"Phoenix?" both the professor and young Ollivander said in surprise.
The old man answered Simon rather than them.
"Fifty years ago the most popular cores were unicorn hair, dragon heartstring, and phoenix feather. But for the last twenty years—maybe more—phoenix-feather wands have simply stopped being made. Sparky and Pyra grew tired of giving feathers, and Britain's main supplier—Fawkes—vanished after the death of his dearest friend…"
Everyone except Simon seemed to understand instantly who was meant.
"Perhaps he followed him to the other side," the old man said with sad fondness. "We don't know how phoenixes are born or how they die. They are among the most mysterious creatures in the magical world, Mr. Laplace. Treasure what you hold."
"So what does all this mean?" Simon gave the wand a careful wave; sparks burst forth. "What do the materials and core affect?"
"Elder is very rare wood—few wands are made from it because it suits so few. The wood symbolises 'the threshold.' Threshold of life and death, of what was and what will be. And the phoenix symbolises rebirth and death—the endless cycle. Owners of such wands are destined for either a glorious life or a glorious death, Mr. Laplace. But do you know what is most remarkable?"
"What?"
By his usual standards Mr. Ollivander was talking complete nonsense—yet somehow Simon enjoyed absorbing the information. Perhaps experience, perhaps something deeper lay in the words…
"In 1991 inspiration descended upon me and this wand was born. I was absolutely certain it would find its master quickly—but no one came." He smiled melancholically. "And now, twenty-seven years later, here you are—the true owner. I cannot recall a single case where a wand found its master after so long. That, Mr. Laplace, is what we call Magic."
"I don't understand…"
"Doubt is in your eyes. Fear of the unknown—and that is normal. But remember one thing, Mr. Laplace: Magic is about everything, and Magic is forever."
A strange anticipation settled in Simon's chest. The sense that something was coming.
"Welcome to the world of magic, Mr. Laplace—with the official purchase of your wand," old Ollivander said warmly. "I hope to live long enough to see you realise your potential. I have no doubt whatsoever that you will—eventually."
*****
For the twentieth straight minute Simon stared at the wand without blinking.
Beyond the train windows the landscapes of old, familiar England rushed past at high speed.
"Harry," Simon finally said. "Have you ever believed in time travel?"