When the nine o’clock bell chimed, Ethan finally heard the front door open downstairs.
He flew down the stairs like a gust of wind and spotted the beautiful woman changing her shoes in the doorway.
Sarah White—Ethan’s mother.
There was no question that Ethan’s lake-blue eyes came from her.
Beyond the eyes, his thick lashes, straight nose, soft eye sockets, and even the lines of his cheeks all bore a strong resemblance to his mother.
“Good evening, little Ethan!” Sarah beamed at the small figure before her.
“Good evening, Mum.
Is it just you?” “Someone dropped off a stack of rush orders about ten minutes ago.” Sarah gave a helpless smile and ruffled Ethan’s hair affectionately.
“But our little Ethan is about to start secondary school, so we’re more than happy to take on as many rush orders as we can get.” Ethan didn’t bring up the owl right away.
He took his mother’s hand, led her to the sofa, and chose his words carefully.
“Mum, do you know about wizards?” “Wizards?
Witches?
Of course Mum knows those stories.” Sarah fetched a can of beer from the fridge, her expression animated.
“Historically, Lancashire was a gathering place for witches!
A long time ago, there were even real witch trials here.” Ethan’s eyes lit up.
“Then do you believe wizards actually exist?
I mean real wizards—the kind who can do magic.” Sarah couldn’t help bursting into laughter, doubling over with it.
“Ethan, please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve always been so rational.
Ever since you were little, you’ve insisted on explaining everything you see with maths, physics, and chemistry.” “Your grades are outstanding too—even the famous Roger Secondary School sent you an acceptance letter!” “I never imagined you’d be interested in fantasy stories.
That’s absolutely adorable, sweetheart!” Ethan’s toes curled inside his shoes with embarrassment.
Sarah finally laughed herself out and turned serious.
“But Ethan, you must understand that fantasy and reality are two different things.
Take Father Christmas—haven’t you noticed he’s been getting fatter every year?” “Even Father Christmas is just Dad in a costume.
Wizards who can do magic are even less real.
Stories are just stories.” “Of course, if you’re interested in witch culture, the next time Old John’s circus comes to town, Mum can take you to meet their fortune-telling witch doctor.
That poor old wizard has been a bachelor his entire life.” Ethan fell silent.
So it was the same as Hermione’s situation—both parents were ordinary people with no magic.
He steadied himself, dropped the subject, and pivoted.
“Then over the years, have you ever felt there was anything… special about me?” “Of course!” Sarah said proudly.
“My little Ethan is even prettier than Mum was as a child!
You look just like a young Björn Andrésen!” “Besides looks?” “My little Ethan is brilliant!
In the entire town, only my little Ethan received an acceptance letter from Roger Secondary School!” Hearing the pride in his mother’s voice, Ethan could only scratch his head.
Sure, he’d gotten into a prestigious school, but he really didn’t think it was because he was clever.
The entrance exam had been somewhat difficult, true, but nothing beyond the scope of foundational knowledge.
For someone who in his previous life had clawed his way through the gauntlet of a top Chinese university, acing that kind of test was a piece of cake.
And his looks had admittedly given him an edge—fair skin, bright eyes—so the interview had been a breeze as well.
“Mum, what I mean is, have I ever done anything… out of the ordinary?” “Extraordinarily smart?
Child, from the age of two, you absolutely refused to sleep in the same bed as us.” “That’s because Dad’s snoring was too loud.
I couldn’t sleep.” “But Mum asked around, and other children at two were still just wetting the bed!” Sarah gave him a smug look and continued.
“And then on your fifth birthday, the Luma family came over with their daughter Amy, who’s the same age as you.” “Little Amy kept trying to share her rag doll with you, but you insisted on teaching her arithmetic.
To this day, Amy still refuses to visit our house.” Ethan had a vague memory of the platinum-blonde little girl.
He sighed.
“She was the annoying one.
I was studying, and she kept pestering me… Mum, I’m talking about something even more unusual.” Sarah looked equally helpless.
“Child, you have to understand—a five-year-old voluntarily studying maths is already unusual enough!
If we’re talking about something even more special… let me think.
It was probably when you were seven—Old Jarnon’s hunting dog attacked you, but you actually beat it to the ground.
Now that I think about it, that really was incredible.” Ethan’s eyes lit up at once.
Sarah went on.
“Old Jarnon left town with the dog soon after.
If it weren’t for the fact that he was a decent enough fellow, the townspeople would never have let that dog go on living.” Ethan had no memory of the incident himself.
But a seven-year-old knocking down a hunting dog was extraordinary by any measure.
His resolve solidified.
It was time to lay his cards on the table.
He cleared his throat, picked up the dozen or so sheets of paper beside him, and presented them to his mother with great solemnity.
“Mum, I’ve found a very good boarding school.
They use a seven-year integrated curriculum.
After graduation, there’s the opportunity to stay on as staff, or you can take a position in a relevant professional department.” “As you know, the recession has been brutal.
There are more unemployed university graduates out there than cattle on a ranch.
From that perspective, I believe this school would be a better choice than Roger Secondary School.” Sarah’s eyes went wide.
She wanted to argue, but after a moment’s thought, she really couldn’t.
In recent years, unemployment in manufacturing had indeed remained stubbornly high.
The government had scrapped subsidies for many traditional industries and allowed all sorts of enterprises to privatize.
Countless factories had closed, layoffs were spreading across every sector, and this year they’d passed something called the Competition and Service Act—apparently intent on abandoning manufacturing altogether.
Clever little Ethan clearly had no intention of slaving away for a company his whole life.
What a damnable state of affairs!
She waved the papers in her hand with some irritation.
“What is this?” “Essays.” “On what?” “The first discusses the most promising career paths in an England where manufacturing will continue to shrink over the next decade.” “The second is a brief exposition of my personal philosophy.” “I wrote them in three hours,” Ethan said.
“There are plenty of shortcomings, but the general ideas should be clear enough.
This is only the beginning—I’ll write more on the subject going forward.
I’m confident you’ll come to understand.” “I want to attend that seven-year school.” Sarah stared at him blankly.
She touched her own forehead first, then Ethan’s, and for a long moment sank into deep self-doubt.
An eleven-year-old child had produced two essays in three hours?
Were children nowadays really being forced to learn essay writing?
Dear God!
This country was absolutely doomed… Sarah suppressed the strangeness she felt and silently began reading the first essay.
It opened with a concise summary of recent news, followed by an analysis built on a string of real data—complete with detailed trend charts.
The prose was clearly rough around the edges, but given that the author was an eleven-year-old, that rawness was more endearing than alarming.
The essay focused on the decade ahead, after England’s pivot from manufacturing to the service economy, and the major impact that shift would have on individuals.
Only in the second half did it turn to practical advice: which career choices would be wisest given the current landscape.
For each option, little Ethan offered remarkably sound analysis and personal commentary.
The formatting was off throughout, but the arguments were methodical, each point building on the last, the logic airtight… It was genuinely persuasive.
Even Sarah found herself drawn in as she read, her expression shifting between sudden comprehension and acute regret.
If she’d seen an essay like this when she was in school, perhaps she wouldn’t be just the owner of a little cake shop now.
She looked up, her gaze extraordinarily complex as it settled on little Ethan.
She sighed.
“The formatting’s a bit off, but the data is accurate, so the essay as a whole is reasonable and worth considering.” Every data point was annotated with a detailed source.
She didn’t doubt its authenticity.
Ethan felt a wave of relief.
He had, of course, made it deliberately clumsy.
Otherwise it would have been too conspicuous.
Sarah moved on to the second essay.
The theme was brief but profound: *I Will Try Anything Once*—Ethan’s Guide to a Happy Life in Magic.
For reasons she couldn’t quite name, something deep in Sarah’s heart trembled.