Chapter 5
"God…" Simon clutched his head and winced. The sour, foul aftertaste of vomit lingered in his mouth. "Please don't tell me we just… teleported…"
Stepping out of the alley, he immediately noticed the different urban layout and even the change in air humidity.
"…to London," he finished, dazed.
This… this fucking magic kept shattering his understanding of reality. No fanfare, no theatrics—just casually strolling past the laws of physics like they were yesterday's news.
And the main architect of this worldview chaos—Neville Longbottom—stood tactfully to one side, waiting for him to recover. So polite it was infuriating.
"I beg you, tell me you just knocked me out and pumped me full of drugs!" Simon pleaded dramatically to his professor. "I wouldn't even mind losing a kidney for this! Come on, say I'm lying in a tub of ice!"
"Kidney?"
The lack of a clear denial was answer enough…
Honestly, though, he was starting to get used to it. This time his brain rebooted faster.
"Rough distance from Liverpool to London—three hundred kilometres. Let's assume I wasn't a useless lump and actually timed it—say, one second. Absolute maximum speed—the absolute maximum—is three hundred thousand kilometres per second. Speed of light. So you, Professor Longbottom, just casually… reached one-thousandth of the speed of light?"
"Oh… well… lots of people can do it…" Professor Longbottom smiled, faintly flattered. "And Apparition isn't really… er… about speed," he added cautiously. "More like… displacement."
"Thank you, Professor," Simon said, sarcasm dripping. "That clears everything up. Here I was thinking we'd be discussing quantum topology, and you hit me with 'we just displace.'"
He couldn't hold back the frustration any longer and started furiously raking his fingers through his hair.
"Aaaargh! I just crossed three hundred kilometres in an instant without turning into a cloud of plasma or levelling half a city block!"
"I think you're exaggerating a bit," the professor said carefully. "I've never heard of Apparition causing consequences like that. Worst case is leaving a hand or foot behind…" His gaze flicked sideways. "…happened to some people I know."
Simon barely heard him. He gave himself a firm nod.
"Initial hypothesis was wrong. This isn't direct spatial translation—we didn't hit any obstacles or get flung out of the atmosphere because of Earth's curvature. It's more like… moving through space. Like wormholes! We got sucked somewhere, right? Relativity allows for such structures, but they require exotic conditions—almost impossible in nature!"
"Wormholes?" The professor stared blankly. "We recently had garden gnomes in the greenhouse…"
The clumsy attempt at conversation sailed right past Simon.
"Einstein-Rosen bridges, to be precise. Topological connections between distant regions of spacetime. But they…" Simon shook his head decisively. "…require either exotic matter with negative energy density or gravitational conditions only found near black-hole singularities. And we didn't turn into spaghetti—though it felt like it—no tidal forces, no becoming part of some new astrophysical phenomenon!"
Professor Longbottom's face had that familiar 'here we go again' expression.
"Look, Simon, I've seen plenty of Muggle-born witches and wizards try to connect Muggle physics with magic. They weren't as clever as you, but every single one failed. Want some advice? Study magic first. Then try building bridges."
"That's… surprisingly sensible advice," Simon admitted, genuinely surprised.
Professor Longbottom straightened slightly—then realised he'd just been complimented by an eleven-year-old and glared indignantly.
"And you're one hundred percent right about one thing, Professor," Simon smirked. "They weren't as smart as me."
Ignoring the professor's renewed freeze, Simon headed toward their destination. How did he know?
Hard to miss the old-fashioned, dark-painted pub that looked completely out of place next to the sleek glass-fronted shops. Like someone had copy-pasted it from another book entirely.
Even more astonishing—no one seemed to notice the anomaly. Which meant some form of cognitive interference had to be at work. Direct tampering with ordinary people's perception.
The theory was reinforced by the fact that wizards lived in secrecy, and magic wasn't exactly trending on the news.
Honestly, the ease with which wizards could manipulate minds was terrifying. You could live your whole life next to something impossible and never notice. Double nightmare fuel.
Standing by the door, Simon saw the wrought-iron sign overhead: a witch stirring a cauldron.
The Leaky Cauldron.
Marketing: solid F. Circled in red with a note for parents to come in.
The moment he pushed the door open, an entirely different world hit him in the face.
Warm, cosy heat. The din of overlapping conversations filled the place. Somewhere in the background, brass instruments played.
Dim lighting came from old-fashioned candles—some of which simply floated in mid-air.
And the clientele… was magical.
Professor Longbottom's robes might have been old-fashioned, but at least they looked elegant. Most of the wizards clearly didn't give a damn what they wore. Robes—more like dressing gowns—pointy hats, long beards on the old men, and every other stereotypical witch-and-wizard cliché imaginable. Compared to this lot, Longbottom was practically a fashion revolutionary.
One minute Simon was walking modern London streets; the next he stepped through a door and landed in another world—or a convention of deranged historical re-enactors.
A man in a long crimson robe and ridiculous hat walked past. A creature that looked like a cross between a pelican and a piranha clung to his outstretched arm. Utterly unfazed—and apparently unnoticed by anyone else—he approached the empty fireplace, took a pinch of strange powder, and green flames erupted.
"St Mungo's Hospital!" he called, then stepped straight into the fire and vanished.
At least he should have vanished, according to common sense. In reality he'd probably… teleported again?
These wizards and their casual physics-breaking daily routines were infuriating.
"Oi! The wide one!" a squeaky voice called—presumably at Simon.
It took him a second to realise it came from below.
The new arrival was a head and a half shorter than him, with comical proportions, an ugly face, long nose, and sharp teeth.
It stared up at him with small black eyes, clearly trying to hint that Simon was blocking the exit.
Simon wasn't fazed.
"Wider than you, that's for sure," he snorted with laughter.
"What did you say?!"
"Sorry, I don't speak infernal."
"You're asking for it, little wizard!" it snarled, baring its teeth.
"I'll be bigger than you too," Simon said, dropping into a boxer's stance just in case.
He knew most of the conflict was coming from him. But… that was how he'd grown up. Meet aggression with greater aggression. His personal rule.
"Amazing. Came to see the magical world and now I get to beat up an ugly gnome too. Two-for-one!"
"WHO ARE YOU CALLING A GNOME?! I'LL EAT YOU!"
"Sorry! So sorry!" Professor Longbottom's familiar voice cut in—he'd fallen a little behind. "Terribly sorry! We'll just be going!"
Grabbing Simon by the scruff of the neck and ignoring his outraged squirming, Longbottom marched him toward the bar, where a rather pretty blonde woman stood.
The rest of the clientele, disappointed at losing the potential fight, collectively groaned.
"Trouble student?" the woman asked with a smile.
"Gryffindor—practically official," Neville muttered in defeat. "Meet Simon Laplace, my future headache. Simon, this is Hannah Longbottom, my wife."
"Pleasure," Simon snorted.
The woman was clearly trying not to laugh.
"Here, have a butterbeer—on the house," she smiled.
"Thanks… wait, this isn't beer! It's some kind of toffee-flavoured soda!"
"So energetic," Hannah said, shaking her head. She smiled again when she saw her dejected husband—and poured him a glass of the same diabetes-inducing drink anyway.
"That's just how he is," Neville muttered.
Apparently the professor needed a short break. Well… Simon had always been a teacher's migraine. Nature of the beast.
"How's the Head of House thing going?"
"Mine or yours?"
"Professor Sprout, of course! Headmistress McGonagall can probably keep going for another fifty years. But Pomona's clearly ready for retirement. If you could step up as Deputy Head…"
"Headmistress McGonagall is unhappy with how I handle Gryffindor. No complaints about my teaching."
"Then why did you take Gryffindor Head of House?! They're nothing but trouble! I told you Hufflepuff would suit you best!"
Neville gasped indignantly.
"Hannah, I'm a Gryffindor! Even if I wanted to—and I don't!—I couldn't become Head of Hufflepuff. Tradition wouldn't allow it. You can't lead a house you never belonged to. And besides…" He glanced toward Simon, who was pretending very hard not to eavesdrop. "…let's talk about this later. I suspect…" He groaned in resignation. "…the next seven years are going to be spent trying to rein in these little terrors."
Every word was being recorded on the mental hard drive. Every word would be dissected once context arrived. It probably wouldn't change anything, but curiosity was a stubborn thing—especially when literally everything was unknown and any scrap of information might prove useful.
"Hi, Dad!" A girl of about sixteen with light hair emerged from the kitchen. "Escorting first-years shopping?"
"Hello, beautiful!" Simon winked. "Gotta say, you're the most magical thing I've seen all day."
"Oh… thank you," she said, blushing and smiling.
"Right," Neville darkened. "Come on, we don't have much time."
Simon rolled his eyes internally but was more willing than unwilling. He was fully aware he was doing this on purpose—he desperately wanted to see this famous Diagon Alley, apparently the main shopping street of magical Britain.
The moment the brick wall folded itself open, Simon realised the magical world wasn't going to disappoint him.
He might go insane from all this fucking irrationality.
He might even lose faith in logic and scientific progress.
But magic itself would never disappoint.
The instant the bustling, almost overflowing street revealed itself, Simon understood he really had entered another world. A world as bizarre as it was archaic. A world so strange it was hard to even imagine.
The smells hit first. Warm bread, something spicy, sweet smoke, the unmistakable scent of parchment, animal fur, and faint traces of ozone after a storm. The air felt thicker, yet somehow cleaner.
The sounds were just as overwhelming. Chaotic vendors shouting, laughter from small robed children, the croaking and chittering of utterly fantastical creatures that would give leading biologists heart attacks. Human noise, old—almost medieval—but saturated to the brim with… life. Fussy, illogical, but bursting with vibrant, chaotic life.
And the colours and architecture seemed deliberately designed to break every mental template. Bright, almost poisonously vivid hues chosen specifically to catch the eye. No consumer psychology here—just honest, clumsy desire to be noticed. The buildings themselves flowed like waves. Rounded in places, protruding here and there, blending into one another as though each was trying to outdo the last in a never-ending story of one-upmanship.
"Incredible," Simon breathed, unable to stop himself.
It would be an exaggeration to say the mere existence of magic delighted him. Who enjoys having their entire model of reality not just questioned, but outright declared nonsense—with irrefutable proof?
But the moment he stepped onto Diagon Alley, the small, naive child buried long ago beneath layers of cultivated cynicism woke up and started looking around with wide, shining eyes.
Even Neville Longbottom gave a relieved smile when he saw the reaction. No matter how grown-up Simon tried to act, he was still just a child.
Of course… there were always caveats.
"Ow-ow-ow!" Simon hopped in place and yanked his hand out of his pocket.
A small leather pouch had latched onto his fingers with genuine teeth—and was now aggressively barking while spitting out gold coins!
"Get off me, you hellspawn!" he tried to shake the vicious little thing loose.
"Stupefy!"
One spell was enough to make the purse release its surprisingly sharp… teeth.
With a sigh, Neville picked up the growling pouch, gathered the scattered coins, weighed them in his hand, and fixed Simon with a piercing stare while the boy suddenly found the ground very interesting.
"Did you steal these?"
"Found them," Simon snorted. "Finder's keepers."
"Why would you do that?"
"What do you mean 'why'?" His voice was steady, but he still avoided eye contact. "Why does anyone steal? To live better!"
"You…" Neville sighed in defeat. "We have a lot of work ahead of us. A very great deal of work."
"Good luck," Simon snorted.
"I'll ask Hannah to return them. And you—" He tried for a stern glare. It worked about half the time. "—stay right here and wait!"
"Fine, whatever," Simon shrugged. But he couldn't resist drifting toward the shop window where every nearby child—and plenty of adults—had gathered.
"Nimbus 2100! God, I'd give anything for that broom!"
Simon blinked in genuine confusion. People were actually losing their minds over a broomstick. Yes, beautifully made—but still a broom.
"What, guys—no plans to sit your GCSEs?" he smirked under the puzzled stares. "Proper long-term alternative life planning!"
The nearest boy—about fifteen, dressed in normal shirt and jeans instead of robes—answered first. Probably another Muggle-raised kid like him.
"Brooms are for flying, not… sweeping."
"Flying?" Simon blinked. "Why?"
"Flying's cool!"
Everyone around nodded enthusiastically.
"No, you don't get it! Why brooms specifically?!"
Everyone frowned, puzzled again.
"Why not brooms?"
"Maybe he prefers mops?"
"Muggles fly on mops?!"
"I heard they fly on things called 'aeroplanes'."
"Like our paper aeroplanes?!"
"How big a sheet of paper do you need to fit a person?!"
"Typical Muggles—always overcomplicating things!"
"Don't see why bother when you've got brooms."
"WHY THE HELL WOULD ANYONE FLY ON BROOMS, YOU IDIOTS?!"
"He's actually a mop fanatic!"
"What a pervert!"
Yeah…
Another fact…
Wizards and logic were fundamentally incompatible.
And Simon would be reminded of that truth for many, many years to come…