In the spacious living room of the Strange mansion, where an antique but well-tuned piano stood, quick and somewhat uneven notes resonated. Stephen, feeling a strong irritation, was almost pounding the keys. This was unacceptable! The letter had clearly stated that the school representative would arrive "soon," and it was already July 29th. Classes started on September 1st, and he hated being late when it came to his studies. A delay meant wasted time that he could have spent on new ideas. He had already drawn up a schedule for mastering the fundamentals of magic, and this delay was ruining everything!
"Well, where is this representative? Do they think I'll wait forever?" Stephen fumed to himself. He was beginning to think it was all just a clever prank or someone testing his patience. Perhaps someone had learned of his abilities and decided to "play" with him by sending this strange parchment? He imagined some disheveled old man sitting and laughing at his confusion. Such a thought, though annoying, was still more reasonable than the existence of a secret magical world that couldn't even send its person on time. "Even a postman on a bicycle works faster!" he muttered, striking a complex chord.
Throughout the rest of the day, as he pondered the possible deception and the inefficiency of the magical service, his fingers flew across the keys, playing incredibly intricate melodies. He played Bach, then Chopin, and then his own, more unusual pieces, adding sounds that reflected his inner anger. Music was the only way to manage his growing impatience. Every note was precise, yet the music itself conveyed a hidden, childlike, but very strong resentment. He even deliberately made mistakes in key places a few times to show his displeasure.
In the midst of his rapid playing, as Stephen was finishing a particularly difficult passage, he heard a loud knock at the main door. He frowned, not breaking his concentration. The knock was too loud and insistent for an ordinary delivery.
One of the maids, elderly Mrs. Hudson, politely tapped on the heavy oak door of the living room.
"Mr. Strange, you have a... visitor. She says she's from Hogwarts," her voice sounded bewildered, almost frightened. "And she's... well, dressed very oddly."
Stephen raised an eyebrow, showing that he was calm, but abruptly stopped playing, leaving a single note hanging in the air.
"Very unusual for a school representative, Mrs. Hudson. I imagine her manner of communication is as strange as her attire. Finally! Show her in. And please, prepare tea, but without lemon. I won't tolerate poor execution even in something as simple as beverage preparation. Ensure the crockery is immaculate, otherwise I'll see to it myself!"
As Stephen entered the living room, his gaze, sharp and observant, immediately fixed on the visitor. She was a tall, severe woman with tightly pursed lips and a piercing gaze behind square spectacles. Her hair was neatly pulled back into a tight bun, and she wore a green robe that looked old-fashioned but, as Stephen noted, was of very high quality. He immediately scrutinized her, taking in every detail: her perfect posture, the fine lines on her face indicative of frequent contemplation, and... yes, there was an aura of power, which he could sense even with his still developing perceptions. He even felt a slight tremor in the air—that's how powerful magic felt.
"Mr. Strange, I presume?" the woman's voice was low and authoritative, leaving no doubt as to her gravitas. "Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
In response to her words, silence fell in the living room. Stephen didn't say a word. He just glared at her indignantly. His gaze, usually so intelligent, was now filled with clear, albeit childish, displeasure. He wasn't going to make it easy for her. Let her feel what it was like to wait. McGonagall seemed momentarily speechless at his bluntness and, even more so, at his complete lack of surprise, which was replaced by this strange, deliberate silence. Her eyebrows barely lifted, and a look of slight bewilderment appeared on her face.
"You... aren't surprised?" she finally said, her voice calmer, as if trying to understand him.
"Surprised?" Stephen tilted his head slightly, as if pondering the word itself, but a childish mischief crept into his tone. "Surprise is when you don't expect something or can't explain it. And I, as a rule, expect everything possible and explain everything inexplicable. Besides, your previous magical communication employees seem to have created a very good system if owls can find addresses without postal codes or GPS. I'm more interested in how they work, not just that they exist. But to the point. I'm ready to hear what exactly you're offering. And I hope your curriculum isn't as archaic as your... transport, and that it won't be so unpunctual in its scheduling. I had to wait a whole month for you, even though the letter said 'soon'! My time, you know, is quite valuable."
McGonagall narrowed her eyes slightly but quickly composed herself. She was accustomed to surprise, delight, or outright disbelief, but not to such a cold, logical reaction mixed with a childish but evident demand for equal treatment.
"Mr. Strange, as you already know from the letter, you have been accepted to Hogwarts. Your magical ability has manifested, and we are obligated to offer you an education. We are here to help you prepare for your enrollment."
"My magical ability?" Stephen interrupted her, raising an eyebrow. A sharp, questioning look flickered in his eyes. "What is that? And..." he leaned forward, crossing his arms over his chest, "...how do you intend to prove that this 'magical ability' exists? I don't believe in fairy tales. I need facts. Evidence."
McGonagall froze for a moment. Her thin lips tightened into an even narrower line. She was clearly not used to being so directly challenged.
"Evidence, Mr. Strange?" her voice turned icy. She sharply drew her wand from her sleeve—thin, dark, looking in her hand like an extension of her own strong will. Stephen intently watched her every move. McGonagall flicked her wand sharply towards an empty vase sitting on the mantelpiece.
Golden sparks erupted from the tip of her wand, and the vase immediately transformed into a living cat, which, blinking its yellow eyes, instantly jumped to the floor and settled regally at McGonagall's feet.
Stephen stared at the cat, then shifted his gaze to McGonagall. His eyes, previously full of doubt, were now wide with genuine astonishment. The vase was perfectly ordinary, porcelain; he saw it every morning. And now... a cat. A living cat. He even forgot to blink for a second.
"Hmm," he finally uttered, regaining his usual composure, though a subtle note of surprise was audible in his voice. "Transfiguration. Interesting. So, it's not just a change of substance, but also, apparently, the creation of life in some form. Or is it just an optical illusion that projects something directly into the viewer's brain? No, the cat seems real. It moves, it breathes. In that case, how much energy is required for such a transformation? And how long does it last?" He looked at McGonagall again, his gaze now holding a new, even more demanding challenge. "That was impressive, Professor. But one demonstration doesn't make you a teacher. How can I be sure that you are indeed a witch capable of teaching me all this, and not just a conjurer with one well-practiced trick? I need a mentor whose abilities are beyond all doubt. Professor McGonagall, prove that you are worthy of being my instructor. I expect good results from all my efforts. And yes, you can just call me Stephen."
McGonagall, clearly at the end of her patience, glared at Stephen. Her gaze, usually just stern, now pierced right through him, a flash of steel in its depths. She didn't bother to wave her wand or even move. Simply her aura seemed to thicken, become heavier, and even the air in the room seemed to condense around her. Suddenly, the cat that had been a vase a minute ago yawned and stretched lazily.
"My abilities, Mr. Strange, have been proven by years of teaching at Hogwarts, not by one-off demonstrations," her voice was low and even, but an unmistakable threat resonated within it. "I am the Deputy Headmistress of this school and the Head of one of the houses. My job is to teach you, not to entertain. Now, if you are finished with the analytical questions you were obviously never taught, let us move on to the list of required items."
"Diagon Alley?" Stephen thoughtfully repeated, tilting his head slightly. "Sounds like a place where one can find something truly valuable, not just textbooks. And, I hope there's something more interesting than ordinary magical items. Perhaps rare materials for my own scientific research. Well, Professor, you've almost convinced me. Show me your world. But be warned: I expect this to be not just a school, but a good place for my continued intellectual and magical development. Also, do you have any home delivery service there, or will I have to deal with noisy crowds? I don't much care for crowds. My focus suffers in a crowd."
McGonagall just sighed heavily. This boy would clearly cause a lot of trouble for the entire teaching staff. But his power... it was almost palpable. And she knew that such talent, even if it was very arrogant, could not be missed.