Chapter 11
Amid all the leaps spanning twenty-seven years, Simon hadn't even realised how hungry he was. And credit where it's due—the first Hogwarts feast really was excellent.
The tables literally groaned under the weight of food. Gleaming, golden-roasted chickens and turkeys practically begged to be eaten. Drumsticks topped with small mounds of fruit baked in their own juices. Roast potatoes and fragrant bread, mashed potatoes swimming in butter and cheese—any side dish for any taste. Nearby stood small bowls of thick sauces, served with tiny ladles. Pies—both meat and sweet—stood apart from one another, each looking as though it could solve all of life's problems.
Dessert began appearing on the tables almost imperceptibly—literally materialising from thin air. Puddings, soufflés, cakes, caramel apples…
Simon's eyes literally shone with anticipation and hunger. Part of him wanted to dive in and devour everything; part of him just wanted to sit and savour the sight.
But one glance at Ron—darting in every direction like an octopus—and Simon lost control. He attacked the spread like a starving wolf.
"You all right?" Hermione asked from across the table, sounding worried. "I was swimming behind you—there was this awful thud…"
"I'm f—fine…" Simon mumbled through a full mouth. "Awesome!"
"At least chew!" the girl huffed indignantly. "You and Ron are… completely uncivilised!"
Ron and Simon paused for a second, mouths stuffed, and looked at each other. Cheeks bulging, they grinned, then dove back in.
Apparently Hermione didn't appreciate being so blatantly ignored.
"And what was that stunt you pulled?!" she snapped, glancing toward the centre of the room where the Sorting Hat now lay. "What kind of show was that?"
"Come on, Hermione," Harry said placatingly. "It was brilliant!"
The boy was doing his best to pretend he didn't notice the constant stares directed his way—they were far too persistent.
"Nothing brilliant about it!" Hermione snorted. "It was far too… ostentatious! And completely against the rules!"
"Which rules exactly?" Simon asked without lifting his head from his plate. "The unwritten ones or the ones you just invented?"
"Any normal rules!" she fumed. "The Sorting is an important, solemn ritual! And you turned it into… a circus!"
"Sorry for ruining your special moment," Simon replied acidly. "I'm just the help—not fit to stand in the presence of fine ladies like yourself."
"I'm normal!"
"What do your parents do?"
"They're ordinary dentists…"
"Stop." Simon raised a hand. "You can stop right there."
"Dentis… what?" Ron blinked in confusion. "Who's that?"
"Teeth doctors," Simon said calmly. "Very prestigious profession. High annual income."
"Why bother when there are potions?"
"Normal people don't have potions," Simon snorted. "And unlike most medical fields, dentistry has steady demand and reliable repeat customers—teeth don't just grow back."
"They do, actually," Ron blinked.
"Let me guess—because of potions?" After Ron nodded, Simon continued: "Well, we don't have potions. Bottom line—dentistry is medicine without night shifts, without constant death, and almost always with high guaranteed income. People don't care about global crises, climate collapse, or wars—when a tooth hurts, they pay. And they pay well."
"So what?" Hermione frowned.
"So," Simon replied evenly, "your parents belong to a very narrow group of people who are simultaneously useful to society, respected by society, and financially secure. That's called 'upper middle class'."
Ron slowly shifted his gaze from Simon to Hermione.
"So…" he mused, "…you're rich?"
"I'm not rich!" the girl flared. "We just… live comfortably!"
"Exactly," Simon said. "And that's the key point. The rich complain they don't have enough. The poor complain about what they lack. People who live comfortably are convinced it's supposed to be that way. That's the most stable and secure category."
Harry shifted uncomfortably on the bench, clearly feeling like a third wheel in this conversation.
"So," Simon shrugged and returned to his food, "don't pretend you're some oppressed commoner offended by my shouting. You grew up in a family of people who know how to earn with their heads—and it shows. That's why you lose it whenever something doesn't go according to plan."
Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it. It was clear she wanted to protest, but the arguments had suddenly dried up.
"I…" She faltered. "How did you… twist everything! That's not what I meant at all! I just wanted to make a remark!"
"You revere rules so much because they've always worked in your favour. They haven't in mine. That's the whole difference."
Hermione's face flushed and her eyes glistened slightly. At that moment Harry intervened:
"Why are you two going on about this? It's dinner! Simon—look at this amazing soufflé!"
"Pass that little troublemaker over here!"
Simon happily let himself be distracted by the blatant subject change. Honestly, he was starting to feel awkward himself—he could see he'd upset the girl, and apparently over something trivial.
It was just… who he was. He couldn't stand being told what to do or forced into anything, so his mouth activated without mercy and struck every sore spot it could find.
While Simon enjoyed dessert, two rather colourful red-haired twins introduced themselves to the group. Their colour came from the hair.
"I'm Fred!" said the one on the right.
"I'm George!" said the one on the left.
"…Weasley!" they finished in unison.
Simon glanced at Ron. Ron nodded.
"They're my older brothers—third year," he said quietly. "Unfortunately."
Simon smiled politely.
"So you're the twins who finish each other's sentences?"
"Of course!" Fred grinned.
"Banana!" George grinned.
A long, awkward silence stretched.
"Bloody hell, George!"
"Piss off, Fred!"
Under the surrounding laughter the twins began mock-fighting, grabbing each other's robes and shoving back and forth.
Simon smiled, watching the chaos. He even compared the other tables across the Houses. Gryffindor was definitely the loudest. Hufflepuff came second, then Ravenclaw, and Slytherin last.
His gaze lingered on Slytherin.
In his short time here Simon had already realised several things.
First—Hogwarts was the most famous place in all of magical Britain. And why? Because every wizard had studied there!
Second—the four Houses were far more than a formal division of students into four "classes." Perhaps something else was originally intended, but over time the phenomenon had developed its own unique character. And very often House affiliation was hereditary.
Not through some genetic transmission of personality traits, but through upbringing. It was simply accepted that if your parents were in Gryffindor, you should aim for Gryffindor too.
Even if parents didn't actively push their children toward their own House, a single offhand remark—"We had such wonderful times in Hufflepuff!"—could imprint on a future wizard's mind and shape their perception of the decision. And students arrived at Hogwarts at eleven—an age when going against your parents just because wasn't yet appealing. Shift the age to sixteen or seventeen and the picture might reverse entirely.
So the pattern emerged: the same people met for life and likely projected that friendship across generations. Their children inevitably met each other and looked to their parents as examples. Then those children arrived at Hogwarts and—perhaps unconsciously—gravitated toward the "right" House.
The rules weren't always fair and there would always be exceptions, but… the Houses had become representatives of certain social strata.
Ordinary logic, nothing more.
And Slytherin made it most visible.
The Slytherin table looked different. Not quieter—different.
"Elitist" was the correct word for the atmosphere above that table.
There were no explosions of laughter, no wild arm-waving, no mass destruction of food. Conversation happened in low voices, often with heads leaning close together. When laughter occurred it was brief and precise, as though pre-calculated. No one rushed—neither toward dessert nor toward introductions. Apart from a few exceptions, everyone at that table understood exactly where they were.
Simon slowly chewed his soufflé and thought.
Back in Gringotts he had already concluded that the magical world was, at its core, archaic. And archaic systems have certain patterns. One of the main ones here was the transmission of most wealth through inheritance. And where there is inheritance, there is a privileged class that does everything possible to prevent ordinary people from rising to their level. Not because they're evil, greedy, or cruel—but because that's human nature.
"Predictable," Simon snorted to himself.
People preserve their privileges not out of innate malice—they do it out of fear.
Fear of losing control.
Fear of losing the feeling that the world turns according to rules that benefit them first.
Such things are drilled in from childhood. And if you grew up in a system where you were told from the start that "this is right," then anyone suggesting otherwise automatically becomes a threat.
And that's normal. Or rather—that's human nature.
It was no surprise that—according to the brief chapters in the first-year History textbook—Slytherin became the main stronghold of Voldemort's supporters. In opposition to a changing world, Voldemort offered not just stability—he offered even greater control. Control that benefited them first, of course.
But…
Progress is relentless and merciless.
"Slytherin is definitely something that needs to be studied inside and out," Simon muttered, savouring the utterly revolting pumpkin juice. "It's practically a living example of how social dynamics shift in a microscopic society under the pressure of progress."
Simon didn't know all the details of the coming and previous conflicts, but he'd pieced together enough fragments.
And in the coming confrontation, the biggest loser wouldn't be Gryffindor or Slytherin.
It would be Magical Britain as a whole.
"Ahem!" Another red-haired boy pulled Simon from his thoughts. "First-years—don't wander off after dinner. As prefect, I'll be escorting you to the common room. Name's Percy Weasley, by the way. Ask if you need anything!"
"Too many Weasleys," Simon snorted. "And they're all too bloody ginger!"
"Hey!" Ron protested. "There aren't that many of us! And being ginger isn't so bad!"
"How many are there?"
"Bill and Charlie—my older brothers—already graduated," Ron shrugged. "Percy's fifth year and just became prefect—nagged us all summer! Fred and George are third year, I just started, and Ginny—our only sister—starts next year."
"Ginny?" Simon murmured.
He remembered the red-haired woman standing beside Harry. And the shade of her hair was exactly the same as all the Weasley brothers'.
So what—they weren't just childhood friends; they'd married into the family too? This was practically a mafia clan pulling their own into positions of power!
Though… maybe it had just happened naturally? He should be happy for his friends, not trash them for no reason!
"Nice one, Harry," Simon laughed, clapping his friend on the shoulder.
"What?" Harry asked in confusion.
"Just keep it up!"
Harry never did understand what Simon meant.
The rest of the celebratory dinner passed in similarly trivial conversation. Even Hermione thawed toward the end, and she and Simon talked about fairly neutral topics—though they occasionally wanted to argue. But whenever that happened Harry stepped in as peacemaker.
The Gryffindor table was never boring. Everyone seemed to compete over who could tell the most outrageous holiday story. Sometimes details flew that left Simon unsure what to think. Did wizards really have imaginations that wild, or had someone actually flown a broom into an aeroplane's cockpit and out through the turbine?
By the end of dinner, when most teenagers were stuffed, the long journey and fullness took over. Sleep became irresistible after such an exhausting day. For Simon it was doubly justified.
There was, however, one incident that jolted the drowsy audience—mostly the first-years—back to alertness.
Ghosts flew into the Great Hall.
Literally.
With cheerful shouts, grey semi-transparent spirits dressed in ridiculous old-fashioned clothing began soaring around the room. To the laughter of older students they passed straight through terrified first-years.
"What the hell…" Simon muttered. "Does the afterlife actually exist? Bloody hell!"
Right in front of him a grey head with curls emerged from a half-eaten turkey.
"Allow me to introduce the ghost of our House!" Percy smiled. "Nearly Headless Nick!"
"How 'nearly'?" Hermione asked.
Nick immediately demonstrated. Amid squeals from first-years he grasped his own hair and pulled—revealing an ancient cut across his neck. His head hung by a thin strip of skin.
"Fun," Simon said nervously.
The dinner ended amid similar cheerful—and occasionally terrifying—incidents.
Percy Weasley gathered the first-years, checked his list, and led them out of the Great Hall through the winding corridors of Hogwarts, where every door led somewhere. He guided them until a large door opened before them, revealing what felt like another world.
A vast space—seemingly larger than most of the castle—with moving staircases! Almost every wall held moving portraits whose inhabitants calmly hopped between frames, mimicking some bizarre genre crossover.
"Hey—you!"
"Me?"
One of the paintings—a knight—caught his attention.
"Yes, you!" The knight on the canvas lifted his chin. "I challenge you to a duel!"
"Piss off!" Simon laughed and flipped the portrait the middle finger, ignoring the outraged tirade about dishonour and cowardice.
So far Hogwarts impressed. Impressed so deeply words failed. With its illogic—but above all—with magic in every stone brick.
And it settled on the soul not only for Muggle-borns like him, but for children from magical families too. It became clear that on the scale of "magic," Hogwarts occupied its own unique category.
"Moving staircases are cool," Simon snorted, carefully following the flock of his year-mates. "But couldn't they just install a lift?"
That was the essence of wizards' strange reasoning.
It has to be cool!
It has to be magical!
It has to somehow work!
Everything else—whatever.
The impressions came so thick and fast they blurred into one continuous stream of images.
The password to the Gryffindor common-room door, guarded by the Fat Lady.
The warm, wide common room with its blazing fireplace, everything in red tones—just as he liked.
The cosy boys' dormitory for their year with enormous four-poster beds.
And such a soft, sweet pillow…
And such precious, lifesaving sleep.
Sleep in which Hogwarts and its magic flickered from beginning to end.