Chapter Text
The trainers or the boots?
In the glow of his night light, Simon lays both pairs of shoes out on the floor. He considers for a long time the first option: knock-off New Balance trainers he’s owned since he was sixteen, the original white scuffed by now to a mousy grey—from Auror Training, from the Tube, from London in general.
Then the second option: his new boots. Shiny and smart, with the silver-threaded laces, the vibrant magenta leather, the sturdy heel. And—his favourite part—the crystal studs that adorn the toes, as if they had been dipped into a pool of sparkling light.
It was the studs that caught Simon’s attention in the shop last week. He’d been about to duck out—overwhelmed by the racks of disco ball purses, the gold heels that streaked his hands with glitter—when they twinkled at him from a corner, and he found himself edging closer for a look. He had never worn anything like these boots. He gave his size to the gum-chewing, indiscriminately pierced sales assistant. Put them on and peeked into the grimy mirror. Blushed to imagine himself taking them home. What was he like, the person who’d own these boots? How would he carry himself? What fabulous company would he keep?
Now, kneeling on the floor in pajamas, Simon runs a finger over the thick laces, springy with newness. It occurs to him that he should have tried to break the boots in by wearing them around his room over the past week… at least he knows that his trainers are comfortable…
“Simon?”
There’s a knock at the door. Before he even has time to think, Simon shoves the boots under his bed. He rocks to his feet in an ungainly flurry of knees and elbows.
The door opens. It’s his mum. She has Simon’s new work robes draped over an arm, freshly ironed. “Sorry these are late. I wanted them perfect. Can’t have you showing up to work with creases in your collar.”
“Thanks, Mum.” Simon takes the robes, feeling their warmth and weight in his hands. “They are perfect.”
“Excited?” He nods and she smiles. “Me too—I’ll be up all night thinking about tomorrow! But anyway. Good luck, Auror Wong.”
“Ugh.” Simon makes a face. “‘Auror Wong’ sounds weird.”
“You best get used to it. And best go to bed.” She reaches up to tousle his hair. Normally he would protest, but her eyes glisten with such unusual brightness that he lets her.
After the door closes behind her, Simon digs the boots out from under his bed. He regards them a little ruefully. Sorry. I don’t know why I hid you. His mum probably wouldn’t have said anything even if she had seen them. She might have liked them, even...
Christ, he’s overthinking this. No one at the Ministry of Magic is going to care what shoes Simon Wong wears. They’re wizards, aren’t they? Wizards all dress campy as heck! Look what Mad-Eye Moody wears half the time. Aurors, of all people, have far more pressing concerns than people’s footwear. Don’t they?
Obviously, Simon answers himself. Aurors are real people with real business.
(And then there’s him, somehow allowed into their ranks. Auror Wong.)
That’s it. Simon stands, mind made up. Tomorrow is his first day of work, and he will wear his new boots. And no one will notice.
Which is fine. They’ll be just for him.
He packs away the trainers and moves the boots to the foot of his dresser, by his messenger bag and folded black robes and wand. Then he turns off the light and slides into bed. The usual nighttime noises creep in from other corners of the house—the porcelain clink of his mum’s teapot, Teresa Teng’s girlish whine on the stereo, his dad puttering around the bathroom.
Most nights these noises lull Simon to sleep. Right now, though, there’s an eddy of emotions in his chest: urgent and excited and, yes, a little bit scared.
Tomorrow is the start of the rest of his life.
And it’s closer than it’s ever been.