"Damn it!"
An eleven-year-old boy caught the attention of the surrounding crowd as he literally fell out of a brick pillar. And he drew this attention not by the unnatural appearance of a living being from a solid wall, but rather by his loud, rather vulgar cursing, highly inappropriate for a boy of his age.
But they only distracted themselves with this spectacle for a second, immediately turning their eyes back to the waiting train, where children ranging from eleven to seventeen were waving to their relatives from the windows.
"Absolute clown show," the boy muttered resentfully, brushing off his robes and picking up his trunk.
"Attention!" a neutral female voice—the kind you ignore nine times out of ten—echoed over the PA system. "The train to Hogsmeade Station will depart in five minutes. All students and staff are requested to take their seats! Relatives and escorts, please do not interfere with the boarding process."
The boy let out an exasperated sigh.
He had actually left an hour and a half before boarding, but, as usual, everything had gone pear-shaped.
The taxi driver—whom he had actually splurged on for once, you could even say he "lived a little," seeing as it wasn't an everyday occurrence—was some Indian guy who understood maybe half the words in the English language. And as luck would have it, that half consisted exclusively of phrases that characterized the dialogue something like this:
"You know the place?"
"Of course, brother!"
What followed was a linguistic—and quite possibly intellectual—catastrophe, starting with a complete failure to understand the GPS and ending somewhere around blatant hints for a tip.
And, of course, let's not forget the platform that was literally hidden inside a stone pillar! His likely future Head of House possessed a rather pleasant disposition but an utterly forgetful nature, which was why Neville Longbottom had neglected to mention that he had to literally run into a wall! Run, no less!
Thank god the boy had the brains to pick out the most bizarrely dressed freak in the crowd—robes, a stupid hat, and a facial expression that suggested everyone else was dressed like a clown, not him—to ask where the hell Platform 9 3/4 was.
Oh yeah, sure! It was just so simple and intuitive that this so-called "3/4" meant the third pillar between platforms 9 and 10!
"Shit happens."
Marveling once again at the bizarre and convoluted inner workings of the entire magical community's collective brain, the boy hopped onto the train in one swift movement, not forgetting to scan the narrow corridor with a sharp eye.
Spotting a solitary boy of his own age holding a newspaper, he unceremoniously snatched the piece of paper from him and kept walking, as if nothing outrageous had just occurred.
His peer huffed indignantly. "But that's my newspaper!"
"It's mine now," the boy tossed back without turning around.
His gaze naturally began to skip over the bold headlines and the small windows of the compartment doors, counting the number of students inside.
Almost-full compartments were immediately discarded; the boy preferred peace and privacy.
Compartments occupied by older students—wearing color-coded House crests on their robes—were also skipped. The boy couldn't stand people who automatically considered him beneath them. And a newly admitted student was exactly that in the eyes of the upperclassmen.
Fortunately, the train was long, so a more or less suitable compartment was found quickly. Not ideal, of course, but a single girl his own age shouldn't be too much of a nuisance. At least, that was what he hoped.
The red-haired girl, about eleven years old, had just finished waving to her relatives as the train pulled away, which was exactly when he stepped into the compartment.
"Hi." She smiled confidently. "Are you a first-year too?"
"Yeah." He cast a disinterested glance her way, throwing his trunk onto the upper luggage rack.
The subsequent—and practically theatrical—unfolding of his newspaper was supposed to be a solid hint that he had no desire to continue the conversation.
Unfortunately, right at that moment, the train gave a violent lurch, causing the trunk on the opposite rack—obviously belonging to the red-haired girl—to tumble from its spot and land squarely on... his foot.
"Oh my god!" She jumped up from her seat. "I am so, so sorry!"
His lips were pressed into a tight, thin line, parting only occasionally in barely perceptible movements, either whispering prayers or cursing under his breath. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, opening them a second later with an expression of complete and utter serenity.
"It's fine." He shook his foot phlegmatically. "Shit happens."
He kept a tense gaze on the trunk as the girl shoved it back onto the rack. He sized it up, calculated something in his head, and shifted slightly to the side from where he had been sitting.
The embarrassed girl sat back down and began studying him with interest.
"My name is Lily Potter," Lily said, her voice turning a bit more cheerful. "And you?"
The girl's last name seemed to light up several bulbs in his mind. He began to examine Lily more closely, from head to toe.
The first thing he usually paid attention to during a deep analysis was clothing.
The robe, folded off to the side, bore no obvious trim of the four House colors. Conclusion: the girl hadn't been to Hogwarts yet. But that much was obvious anyway.
The fabric of the black robe was thick and heavy, gleaming in all the right places. The material was head and shoulders above his own mass-produced garbage. The seams were straight, the hem wasn't frayed—meaning it was either rarely worn or impeccably maintained. More accurately, it was bought right before the start of the school year. But the quality was still on a much higher level than his own. Something like silk or cashmere.
Conclusion: Lily came from a wealthy family.
Next came the more personal details.
Her fingers were clean, nails neatly trimmed without a single hangnail. This was a highly telling detail, since children's hands—even girls', at least around this age—usually looked completely different. They certainly didn't look like those of a woman accustomed to taking meticulous care of herself.
Conclusion: she either maintained them regularly, had access to high-end cosmetics, or some form of household magic was involved, if such a thing even existed. In any case, this didn't scream "we barely make ends meet."
The next detail practically cemented his theory that Lily was from a magical family.
Her teeth were perfect. Clean, practically snow-white, and perfectly straight. You could achieve something like that with surgeries, braces, or regular trips to a private dentist, but certainly not at this age.
Conclusions:
A wealthy family. And, with a ninety percent probability, a magical one.
He couldn't gather much more without engaging in dialogue, simply because he wasn't thoroughly familiar with the magical world. In other words, he was "out of context," meaning any deduction, even the simplest one, could end up in the trash bin at any given moment.
"Is Harry Potter your father?" he asked out of nowhere.
"Huh?" Lily looked a bit taken aback. "Well, yes... Are you a fan?"
"Not exactly." He calmly unfurled the front page of the newspaper. "I read about him."
Splashed across the entire width of the front page of this magical, motherfucking, moving newspaper was the headline:
The Boy Who Lived Heads the Department of Magical Law Enforcement!
Following Arthur Weasley's retirement, it was widely speculated that the department would most likely be headed by the Head Auror, Harry James Potter, Order of Merl...
Lily grew even more flustered, but then gave an indignant huff.
"You still haven't introduced yourself!"
"Pierre-Simon Laplace," he said without a hint of shyness. "You can just call me Simon. Pierre sounds a bit... pretentious, doesn't it?"
"Are you from France?" Her eyes lit up.
"No, my dad's just a drunk," Simon stated deadpan, completely ignoring her dropped jaw. "Didn't want people tracking him down through me or whatever. Oh, and he's an idiot, too. Fortunately or unfortunately, his imagination only stretched far enough to glance into some mathematician's textbook and steal his name. But honestly..." Simon shrugged. "I don't really mind."
"That's... you..." Lily had no idea how to respond to his little speech. Apparently, his apathetic trash-talking of his own parent had triggered some deep-seated "good daughter" default settings within her. So, she just let out a sad sigh. "My aunt said that I'd most likely find my lifelong friends right here on the train to Hogsmeade."
"We just left." Simon shrugged indifferently and buried his face back in the paper. "You can walk around and find someone a little more agreeable."
"But it's a tradition! And tradition is a kind of magic in itself! You could even say it's destiny!.."
Now, this part intrigued him. Over his month of self-study, Simon had utterly failed to grasp the secrets of this... wizardry. Irrational, supernatural, and entirely incomprehensible.
Throughout all his years in primary school, Simon had never encountered any learning difficulties. On the contrary, he was years ahead of his peers.
But magic...
For the first time in his strictly scheduled life, Simon faced a hurdle that couldn't be broken down into variables and solved. In other words, the problem itself flew in the face of his very life postulates.
Perhaps getting to know someone—especially a "native" of the local fauna—would be useful. And Lily, acting as a sort of representative of the elite, fit the bill perfectly.
"Where are you from?"
"From London," Lily replied with a brief hesitation. "From Islington, to be exact..."
"That's a district in North London, hm?" Simon smiled thoughtfully. "Arsenal or Tottenham?"
"Uh..." Lily blinked in confusion. "What?"
"Yeah, makes sense." Simon nodded in agreement, smirking. "Same difference, huh?"
Judging by the bewilderment in her eyes, Lily didn't appreciate the joke. But soon, she seemed to recall something.
"Are you talking about football? I just prefer Quidditch!"
Simon tried his best not to show how much it jarred him that Lily hadn't immediately recognized these legendary teams.
He could accept that a girl her age wasn't into football, but failing to even recognize the names? In England? In London?!
This clearly pointed to some form of isolation of the magical community from the "wider" world. Which, in principle, aligned with his initial observations. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing remained to be seen. Though, if he really thought about it, what good could possibly come of it?
A sharp divide between two independent systems was, a priori, a division into factions. And two factions frequently had misaligned interests. And a conflict of interests inevitably leads to actual conflict.
There were no "wizards of London" and "wizards of, say, France."
There were only "wizards" and "non-wizards." And within those categories, there were even more numerous subdivisions.
"...and Uncle Ron actually supports the Chudley Cannons! And they, by the way, play in the third division! They're practically an amateur team! Oops!" Lily seemed to catch herself, blushing awkwardly once more. "Sorry, I get a bit carried away sometimes! It's just that my mum is a former Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies! And now she's a sports correspondent for the Daily Prophet! And my dad was the Seeker for Gryffindor! Why, even Albus and James... oops!"
The girl clamped her mouth shut in embarrassment, realizing she had gotten carried away again.
"It's fine," Simon smiled amicably. "I'm actually curious about what this Quidditch thing is. Will you show me at Hogwarts?"
"Of course!" Lily nodded fervently. "It's just a shame first-years aren't allowed their own brooms! Otherwise we could... aw, man!" The girl shook her head again, as if trying to dispel the heat of the discussion. "Which House do you want to be sorted into? I'm definitely going to Gryffindor! My dad, my mum, my grandparents, my aunts, and my uncles—they were all in Gryffindor! Only Albus—my older brother—is in Slytherin! But dad says that he was offered a spot in Slytherin back in his day too, and that there's nothing wrong with it, even though James—my oldest brother—and Uncle Ron are always joking about it..."
Lily was a good kid. Sweet, lively, interesting, and completely unspoiled, especially considering her father held one of the highest posts in the Ministry of Magic.
It was just that she was so damn talkative, it was a nightmare!
Simon wasn't against making friends with her, it was just... well, he hated it when people continuously babbled in his ear! Well, he hoped it wouldn't be like this forever.
"I want to be in Gryffindor, too."
"Really?!" Lily beamed.
"Well, their color is red, and I..." Simon smirked. "I'm from Liverpool!"
Lily blinked in confusion again.
"Long story short, red is my favorite color. Professor Longbottom, the one who took me to Diagon Alley, already told me about the different Houses. I'm fine with Gryffindor's colors, and having a Head of House like Professor Longbottom isn't a bad deal either..." He then clarified. "...even if he is sometimes... um, not very reliable."
"Uncle Neville is like that," Lily nodded awkwardly. "But you can always rely on him—he's very kind! Well... maybe not always..."
Lily cast a curious glance at the phone Simon was twirling in his hands. But no matter how hard he tried, the device refused to turn on.
"What the hell?" he muttered. "Did that old Jew actually mess something up inside it?!"
"Is that... a smartphone?"
"iPhone X," Simon nodded. "I think the new one is coming out in September, but this one..." Simon tried to turn on his phone, but to no avail. "Damn it, I just charged it this morning!"
"But why?" Lily blinked. "How were you planning to charge it at Hogwarts?"
"Well..." Simon gave Lily a weird look. "...using a wall socket?"
"But there are no wall sockets at Hogwarts..."
"Then how do you charge your phones? Some kind of magic? Don't tell me you have high-speed Wi-Fi, too?!"
"What's Wi-Fi?"
"Right..." Simon squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. "Just... just don't tell me that you can't charge a phone at Hogwarts, and that there's no Wi-Fi..."
"Electronic devices don't work in places with high concentrations of magic," Lily giggled. "A wizard and a phone are two things that simply cannot coexist. That's why your phone died—the train is magical too, you know."
"No..." Simon stared at Lily in sheer horror. "Tell me you're joking! It's two thousand and eighteen, how am I supposed to survive without a phone or the internet?!"
Lily giggled again, this time with a hint of malicious glee.
"Like all wizards do: get your news from the Daily Prophet, and send your messages via owls."
"Jesus..." Simon paled. "I thought sending letters by owl was some kind of fat joke! Like... an intentional archaism that everyone made fun of! What a nightmare?!"
"You'll get used to it quickly..."
"No!" Simon yelled categorically over Lily's laughter. "I refuse to get used to this! I've changed my mind about being a wizard, take me back to civilization!"
"It's not like you have a ch—"
BOOM!
This time, the train didn't just lurch; it nearly flipped over. The emergency braking sent Lily flying out of her seat straight toward Simon. Only his timely reaction prevented the girl from getting injured.
"Why did we stop?"
"I don't know..." Simon replied tensely. "But I have a bad feeling about this..."
"Expelliarmus!"
"PROTEGO!"
"Use the Bubble-Head Charm! Don't breathe in the gas!"
Lily and Simon went on high alert, hearing the shouts of a struggle from another part of the train. And judging by the voices, at least the upperclassmen were fighting back.
"What's going on?"
"I don't know..."
The window of their compartment shattered, and before they could even react, a small cylindrical object flew inside, immediately spewing out a thick blue gas.
"Lily!" Simon yelled in alarm. "Don't breathe it in!"
Too late.
The girl instantly lost consciousness, and Simon's eyelids fluttered shut right after hers.
The next moment, a man in full tactical gear and a gas mask breached the window. A muffled voice came from beneath his mask.
"Compartment eight, two first-years. Clear."
"Compartment eight, clear. Copy that," a voice echoed from his comms.
"Hold on." The unknown operative peered closely at the girl's face. "We've got Harry Potter's daughter here."
"She is a priority target," came the immediate reply. "Secure her first, then resume your current objectives."
"Copy."
"And they said electronic devices didn't work..."
"What the— URGH!"
Simon's small body, the tiny frame of an eleven-year-old weighing barely forty kilograms, pulled off an impossible feat. He slammed into the fully geared soldier—who weighed three times as much as he did—and... shoved him backward with unbelievable force. The man flew right back out the window he had just smashed.
"Always was a tough bastard..." Simon said with absolute calm, completely ignoring the gas filling the room. "Otherwise I would've just dropped dead from the latest brick falling on my head. Shit happens..."
But he wasn't given a second to catch his breath. The very next moment, another operative burst through the window, aiming a very real assault rifle straight at him.
"Sorry, kid. Orders are orders."
"Damn."
A gunshot.
Darkness.
---
"Damn it!"
Once again, that sickening, god-awful feeling of running full speed into a solid wall, not knowing how or where to place your feet.
"What the hell?!" Simon screamed.
Looking around, he found himself back on Platform 9 3/4. Only... something in the air had inexorably changed.
Simon carefully patted down his body but didn't find any extra holes, even though for a split second, he had been absolutely certain his heart had been shot clean through.
Scanning the area, Simon locked onto his first target. Marching up to a scrawny boy about half a head shorter than him, he snatched the newspaper right out of his hands.
"That's mine, actually... oh, whatever, I was done reading it anyway..."
"Yeah, thanks for understanding..." Simon replied on autopilot.
But the next second, his eyes practically bugged out of his skull.
"Do you see this?!" Simon pointed aggressively at the top right corner of the front page. "Do you see it?!"
The unknown bespectacled boy nodded fearfully.
"Is that... the date?"
"Don't you see anything weird about it?!"
"Well... the paper is definitely weird—the people are moving, and the text changes sometimes..."
"No, damn it! What's wrong with the date?!"
"What's wrong with it?"
"Read it!"
"September first."
"The year!"
"Ninety-one..." the boy shrugged. "What's the big deal?"
Simon closed his eyes in doom, swearing under his breath. He opened them again and swept his gaze over the relatives seeing their children off. Wizards would always be freaks, but the small contingent of normal people stood out with their distinctly different clothing. The cuts, the fashion, the combinations.
It wasn't easy to distinguish the fashion trends of two consecutive years, but what if there were entire decades between them?
"Twenty-seven years..." Simon muttered, looking the boy up and down once more. "Sorry, have we met?"
"I-I don't think so..." The boy timidly held out his hand. "My name is Harry Potter. N-nice to meet you..."
"Oh, crap..." Simon's breathing became rapid and erratic. "THIS SHIT HAS CROSSED EVERY DAMN LINE!"