Chapter 14
"They say Snape's a brutal teacher," Ron whispered loudly before their second lesson. "Fred and George told me—he's the one person you really don't want to piss off."
The second lesson of the day—and the first proper one after lunch—was Potions.
As it turned out, the Potions Master and Head of Slytherin had a reputation that was anything but stellar.
If Slytherin was considered Gryffindor's sworn enemy in principle, Snape was their undisputed leader.
"D-does he shout?" Neville stammered.
"He… stares," Ron answered as though recounting a ghost story. "Gives you one look and your heart drops into your boots! And he's always angry about something! Takes points for the tiniest thing!"
Suddenly every boy—and several nearby girls—turned to look at Simon, who was calmly drinking tea. He made a titanic effort not to tell them all to fuck off forever.
Hogwarts had deliberately fostered a competitive atmosphere between Houses—which made sense. Beyond the universal childish urge to cause chaos, there was another urge: to stand out.
The most visible measure of that competition was the points system—four enormous glass hourglasses in front of the Great Hall, each filled with gemstones of the corresponding House color.
Points were awarded for academic success and deducted for breaches of discipline and decorum. The power to award or deduct lay with the teachers and—to a very limited extent—with prefects and the Head Boy or Girl.
At the end of the year, the House with the most points won.
Slytherin had enjoyed a winning streak for the last four years while Gryffindor usually languished near the bottom. Well… Gryffindors!
Simon himself couldn't have cared less about the points.
He compared the glass reservoirs full of colored gems to the number of likes under a social-media post—occasionally interesting, but carrying zero emotional weight. He perfectly understood the system's purpose, yet without any real privileges beyond the so-called collective honor—which would be forgotten in two days—the points mechanic failed to stir his motivation.
But there was a difference between privately not giving a damn and publicly not giving a damn. He would still get up to mischief and still lose points—it was inevitable—but openly declaring his indifference would bring the full weight of collective outrage down on him. Such behavior could turn even the apathetic into sudden defenders of House honor.
In short: act like everyone else—ignore the points—but always publicly cheer, "Go Gryffindor!"
Social mimicry was useful. Vital, even, if you didn't want to become an easy target for group irritation. Simon understood exactly how such groups worked: as long as you're "one of us," you're forgiven a lot. The moment you mark yourself as "the one who doesn't care," you suddenly become the cause of every defeat, every lost point.
Not that it wasn't true.
Theoretically, he could tell them all to fuck off—he'd done it more than once—but doing so now would be counterproductive. He still didn't grasp all the unwritten rules, hadn't yet settled into this world, genuinely needed friends, and his "future" was inextricably tied to certain special students.
In short: no need to change his behavior, but he had to publicly support Gryffindor—even while privately "sinking" it during lessons.
Apparently Simon had set some kind of record for the fastest deduction of fifteen points. Achieved on the first day—once—and such a large amount—twice. Technically he'd earned back three, but… that wasn't nearly as interesting gossip.
And yes—discussing other people's lost points was far more entertaining than earning them. Social hypocrisy in its purest form.
At least the social dynamics were familiar to Simon. If wizards behaved in some fundamentally inhuman way, he would have seriously considered whether they were an alternate version of humanity or actual aliens from another world.
"What are you all staring at?" Simon finally snapped. "Nothing better to do?"
"We were just…" Harry faltered. "Er… worried…"
That you'd lose all the points… went unsaid.
"It'll be fine," Simon snorted. "Actually, I've got a secret tactic that'll get us through this unscathed."
Every first-year turned to look at him with apprehension.
They hadn't known each other long, but such a colorful character was impossible to miss. And the hardest thing about Simon was figuring out when he was serious and when he was just taking the piss.
His speech bore no resemblance to his age. It was packed with vulgar jokes, profanity, and overwhelming cheek, layered with post-irony, sarcasm, scientific terms, and social manipulation.
Simon was a singular conversationalist. Undeniably interesting—but there was a high probability you simply wouldn't be able to respond; you'd lose the power of speech.
"The tactic is simple—stick close to Harry."
"Close to me?" Harry blinked. "Listen, we've all seen Professor Snape, and he… looked at me kind of heavily."
"You imagined it," Simon dismissed the doubt confidently.
Why was he so sure?
Because the name of Harry's second son was Albus Severus Potter! Named after two Hogwarts headmasters!
Simon didn't know most of the details, but even that context was enough. First—naming your son after someone was the ultimate sign of respect. Second—no one became Hogwarts headmaster by accident. Which meant this teacher's reputation was probably exaggerated and didn't match reality.
There was simply no way he could be wrong!
---
Simon was wrong.
Very, very wrong.
"Harry Potter," Severus Snape drawled. "Our new celebrity!"
The joint lesson with Slytherin took place in a dark, damp dungeon lit only by dim torches and flickering burners.
Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, filled with ingredients of varying degrees of repulsiveness—from assorted animal parts to their various secretions. At least that was Simon's assumption after reading the entire first-year textbook and compiling a rough table of possible ingredients.
Severus Snape was far more intimidating than rumor suggested. In his dark robes, greasy hair, and hooked nose, he surveyed them all like microbes unworthy of his attention.
He glided between the desks in an almost floating stride—impossibly quiet—yet his black cloak seemed to trail shadows. Any student who accidentally met his piercing dark gaze immediately dropped their eyes.
Neville—sitting beside Simon—went pale and trembled violently, as though he hadn't come to a lesson but to his own execution.
The silence in the classroom was deafening—no one dared utter a word in the presence of this living nightmare.
After a brief—and outrageously pompous—introduction, Severus Snape began roll call. The moment he reached Harry Potter, something seemed to snap. His expression didn't change, but his voice dropped lower and his syllables stretched.
"Tell me, Potter," the professor said calmly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
A hand shot up instantly. Hermione's.
Harry hesitated only a few seconds before shaking his head.
"You don't know," Snape stated. "Let us try again. Where, Mr. Potter, would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?"
Hermione's hand rose even higher, but Snape appeared not to notice—though half the class was now giving her sideways glances.
"I don't know, sir," Harry answered.
"What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
"I don't know, sir…"
"Pity," Snape said in a perfectly even tone. "Fame clearly isn't everything…"
The Slytherins began to snicker quietly at the performance. Under that accompaniment, even Simon couldn't hold back a chuckle.
He poked Harry in the back with his quill and grinned.
"Harry—you a masochist?"
How else to explain naming his son after the man? Maybe Harry hadn't wanted a second child?!
"Last name!"
Professor Snape's loud voice instantly silenced everyone—including the Slytherins. All eyes suddenly turned to Simon.
"Laplace," he said, trying to hide his smile—but judging by Snape's narrowed eyes, it hadn't escaped him.
"Where are your textbooks, Mr. Laplace?"
Suddenly everyone noticed he had no book. Also that he was using a quill borrowed from Neville, sharing one ink bottle between them, and working on parchment Neville had torn off for him. He looked exactly like the student who'd brought absolutely nothing to class.
"Got lost," Simon shrugged.
Like an Amazon order delayed by about thirty years.
"Got lost," Snape repeated with sarcastic amusement. "And how exactly do you plan to study, Mr. Laplace?"
"I've got a good memory."
"We shall see. Powdered root of asphodel and an infusion of wormwood—what do I get?"
"A rather classy funeral cocktail," Simon shrugged. "Or the Draught of Living Death."
"Laplace, I did not ask you to demonstrate your—already meager—wit. Answer questions briefly and to the point," Snape snapped instantly.
"I'd argue about 'meager wit'…"
"Five points from Gryffindor for backchat! Answer the questions. Briefly. And to the point."
"Understood," Simon rolled his eyes.
"Where would you look for a bezoar?"
"In the stomach, sir," he answered as levelly as possible. "In the stomach of certain animals. Usually ruminants."
Snape wasn't satisfied.
"Which animals, Mr. Laplace?"
"Goats, cows, sheep. Generally herbivores with large digestive tracts where food can clump and compact."
He noticed Snape didn't interrupt. So he could continue.
"A bezoar is essentially a mineral-organic mass. A concretion of hair, plant fibers, sometimes sand and salts… that the stomach can't expel normally. It can form over years."
"And… what is it used for?"
Simon raised his eyebrows slightly.
"As a broad-spectrum antidote, sir. The mechanism…" He paused, trying to connect inputs to outcome without visualizing the exact process. "…probably sorbent. A porous mass that binds the toxin and reduces absorption—similar to activated charcoal, only… for magic?"
Snape gave the faintest smirk. A mocking smirk.
"In future, leave your Muggle fantasies outside this classroom. Your unconvincing attempts to appear clever only make you look more ridiculous."
The Slytherins began to snicker quietly.
Simon's nerves began steadily climbing.
"Then where am I wrong? Why isn't the toxin-neutralization mechanism written in the textbook?"
"Everything you are required to know at your… level," Snape said with sarcastic amusement, "…of knowledge—is that a bezoar is an excellent antidote. Further knowledge you are not ready for—it would simply vanish into the void between your ears."
"Then tell me the mechanism now and fill that void!"
"Ten points from Gryffindor!" Snape's voice rose. Neville beside Simon looked ready to faint. "You—a magical tourist—do not tell me the order in which learning will proceed! Sit down!"
Simon gave a pointed snort that did not escape Snape's furious gaze, but he sat anyway. He even offered Neville a handkerchief—the boy was practically foaming at the mouth from tension.
"Merlin's beard, Simon," Ron muttered in shock. "Thirty points on your first day—that's definitely a record."
The rest of the lesson passed in a brief safety briefing and a superficial introduction to a recipe that—in full detail—appeared on the board anyway.
Their first potion: a Cure for Boils.
They worked in pairs—Simon was paired with Neville. From the boy's first movements, it was obvious he had zero practical experience. Same as Simon.
"Too high a temperature," Simon corrected instantly and turned the flame down under the cauldron.
"S-sorry…" Neville apologized and glanced nervously at the board again. He blinked in surprise and looked back at the cauldron. "But the temperature's exactly what it says on the board!"
"It's not optimal," Simon answered automatically, beginning to sort porcupine quills. "Better drop to medium now, then lower to slow on the next stages—and do that a couple more times."
"How do you know? Did you read it in the book?"
Simon froze.
Wait…
Why was he so certain the temperature wasn't ideal for this step?
He looked down at the ingredients in his hands with surprise. His fingers had already processed half the porcupine quills as though he handled them nearly every day, but…
He had never done anything like this before!
He was simply… certain of his actions.
As though his animal instinct had suddenly gone berserk and seized control. Sometimes he would inexplicably step aside just before something fell where he had been standing.
Perhaps his only connection to magic—apart from his sturdy physique—was intuition.
Simon felt an unprecedented surge of excitement. Maybe he wasn't a complete dud after all?!
So he decided to surrender completely to that inner premonition.
"Take five snake fangs—not three," Simon said, fighting revulsion as he began processing horned slugs. "And stir clockwise—never counter-clockwise!"
"B-but Simon," Neville was on the verge of tears. "Th-that's c-completely against the r-recipe. Snape will k-kill us!"
And as though to prove the theory…
"Brown—can you count to three?! Count for me now! Perhaps I'm mistaken and you have an incurable brain condition!"
"Finnigan—why is your potion sparking?!"
"Potter—do you have hands? Then use them!"
"Granger—perhaps you could do some work instead of asking questions?"
"You have a hidden talent, Weasley. Keep hiding it."
The difference in treatment was noticeable—and not small. But Snape was doing his job.
"Zabini—start over!"
"Malfoy—do you ever look at what you're picking up? Those are North American porcupine quills—you need African!"
"Parkinson—stop daydreaming and get on with it!"
And then Neville Longbottom's worst nightmare came true. Professor Snape stopped directly behind them, watching every movement intently.
Neville was about to add two more snake fangs when Simon swiftly caught his wrist.
"Just trust me."
Neville wasn't listening anymore. Judging by the boy's rolled-back eyes, he was already halfway to the other side of the world.
Simon simply shrugged and began crushing three snake fangs. And the most astonishing thing—Snape said nothing. He merely gave a small huff and moved on to other students. While Neville tried to recover, Simon accelerated.
He sank fully into a process he didn't even understand. He caught himself no longer hearing the classroom.
Snape's shouts, the hissing of cauldrons, Neville's nervous whimpers—all of it faded into the distance. Only the cauldron, the flame, the smell, and the color remained.
He moved unhurriedly but with certainty. And never once felt he'd made a mistake.
Simon lowered the flame another quarter despite nothing like that being on the board. He waited not by sand timer but by the deepening of color he'd seen for the first time. He added ingredients not strictly in order but with pauses—as though letting the mixture "acknowledge" and "adjust" to each new element.
Their cauldron barely smoked. The color shifted from a soothing dark green to near-blue; every bubble stayed within expected bounds.
For the first time that day, Simon smiled—without sarcasm, without irony—just a simple, joyful smile.
He added the final ingredient and—with surgical precision—lifted the cauldron from the flame. He stepped back—almost reverently—and waited for perfection.
But suddenly the potion… exhaled.
It didn't flare or explode—it simply… sank. The color dulled, the surface rippled, and in moments the perfect texture collapsed into a gray-brown viscous sludge. The absence of bubbling seemed to indicate the complete cessation of breath. The patient was dead.
While Simon tried to process yet another irrational, causeless failure, Snape approached.
He looked at the sludge and—for once—didn't sneer. He merely sighed. With one wave of his wand, he vanished the cauldron's contents and delivered the blow that hurt Simon most:
"Pointless sludge. Lesson over—out!"
Neville found the strength to half-carry, half-drag Simon from the dungeon on trembling legs.