Chapter 15
To say he was disappointed by his first day at Hogwarts would be a massive understatement.
It wasn't just disappointment—it was anguish. A dull, viscous, sticky sort of misery that didn't strike all at once but slowly crawled under the skin, squeezing the organs and making every movement feel slightly heavier than the last.
Only yesterday, Hogwarts had been a miracle he couldn't tear his eyes away from. It felt as if magic was everywhere you looked, waiting to be studied. The very air felt different—enchanted, somehow. Moving staircases, talking portraits, magic that just... existed. A world where the laws of physics were merely footnotes scribbled in the margins.
Simon hadn't exactly felt like he belonged right away, but to say he didn't want to be part of this place would be a lie. The world was far too fascinating to simply walk away from. He could be snarky or complain, but a burning desire to study and understand cannot be faked.
He didn't want simplicity—he wanted a challenge. He wanted distant horizons that no one had ever reached. He wanted discoveries and the truth, and he wanted to be the first one to find them. The secrets of magic, of power, of human potential—he craved it all.
And he never expected it to be easy.
He expected resistance, complications, and for it to be goddamn hard!
But Simon was not prepared for total impotence.
The very first day had ruthlessly dragged him down from the clouds and slammed his face into the stone floor, pointing out a simple truth:
All of his experience, all of his accumulated knowledge and skills—they were worth nothing.
How had it been in a normal school?
He grasped things faster, thought broader and deeper, and saw further. While others were cramming and memorizing, he was comprehending. While his peers were just learning the rules, he was already figuring out how to bypass them.
Simon had plenty of problems in life. Poverty, a shitty father, bad luck, trouble with fights—but academic failure had never been on that list. Intelligence was perhaps the only thing that comforted him. His success in learning new things had always served as a sanctuary, helping him stay sane amidst his mounting problems.
He annoyed people, angered them, and frustrated them beyond measure—but he always, invariably, surpassed them. Not with a thick wallet or a comfortable life, but with his mind.
But here... NOTHING worked.
Transfiguration—zero.
Potions—zero.
Rational approach—zero.
Formulas, models, logic—useless.
On the other hand, it had only been one day, and it was technically too early to panic, but...
Simon began to compare himself to his peers. Not everyone was perfect—most were closer to "no" than "yes"—but there was at least some result. For him, there was no reaction at all. He had pinned his hopes on Potions, but the brew had suddenly decided to self-destruct for no reason.
Quite the irony, wasn't it? Before, comparing his own success against others helped him stay afloat. Now, comparison was the very source of his misery.
People aren't robots, even if they try to act like them. Humans need emotional compromises and outlets; they need to vent their emotions, even under the guise of envy, jealousy, or hidden superiority. Even if unspoken, one small comparison can quiet the mind.
Yes, he didn't give a damn about the opinions of others.
...As long as he surpassed those "others" and considered them beneath him.
But what happens if he is "below" everyone else?
"Ugh, Ron!" Harry's face twisted in irritation. "What is that?!"
They were sitting in the spacious Gryffindor common room. Here and there, different years had gathered into small groups on the numerous sofas and armchairs. Right now, Harry, Ron, and a withdrawn Simon were sitting near the roaring fireplace—and strangely enough, they weren't hot.
Ron held a small, brownish ball in his hand that smelled of dampness and rot from a mile away.
"A Dungbomb," he introduced the artifact proudly, pinching his nose with his other hand. "George gave it to me."
"What are they for?" Harry asked skeptically.
"What do you mean, what for?" Ron asked, genuinely surprised. "To throw at Malfoy's feet so he reeks of dung! Or any other bully, so they leave you alone!"
"Malfoy?" Simon muttered, slowly drifting back to reality. "The slicked-back blonde from Slytherin? The one who tried to buddy up with Harry before the Sorting?"
Simon had been in the Hospital Wing at the time, but Ron had already talked his ear off about this Slytherin—how arrogant and bold he was, and how he was a total slimy git.
"Yeah," Ron shrugged. "He's got a face like everyone owes him a hundred Galleons!"
"Well, I don't know..." Harry hesitated. "Malfoy is nasty, sure, and he's always snickering and picking on people, but..."
It was clear that with every argument he made, Harry was starting to realize that a Dungbomb was actually a pretty good idea!
"What if we throw a Dungbomb into the fire?" Simon suddenly sat up straight.
Ron and Harry didn't notice how Simon's fingers began to tremble uncontrollably.
"Great idea!" Ron cheered. "We'll toss it into a torch near Malfoy and the Dungbomb will explode! That snake will just melt while he's... hey, Simon, what's up with you?"
Ron and Harry watched in bewilderment as Simon stood up abruptly and snatched the Dungbomb. With a completely stony expression, he turned and...
...threw the Dungbomb directly into the fireplace.
The reaction was instantaneous.
"DEMENTORS TAKE ME!"
"What is that smell?!"
"LET'S GET OUT OF HERE!"
Dozens of Gryffindors jumped from their seats at once, screaming. Some looked like their eyes might pop out of their heads from the foul stench that instantly blanketed the entire common room.
The lucky ones sitting far from the fireplace fared the best. Seeing the panicked, green faces, they quickly grabbed their things and were the first to flee the scene.
Naturally, the three hapless first-years at the very center were the unluckiest of all...
"Simon, that was for Malfoy!" Large tears rolled down Ron's face, brought on by the unbearable odor. "Not for us, Simon! NOT US!"
Harry simply couldn't speak—he was trying to hold back the vomit that was threatening to burst out.
Simon, his face deathly pale, tried to grab his friends by the arms and drag them out of the epicenter of the catastrophe.
"...Sorry, guys."
---
It took some time for the older students to clear the foul smell from the common room using numerous spells.
Fortunately, by the time they started looking for the culprits, the boys were already sitting in the Great Hall doing their homework.
George and Fred were howling with laughter, unable to believe what they were hearing.
"That was... ha-ha-ha..."
"So brilliant..." Fred laughed between breaths. "...that we aren't even mad! Just tell us: why, Simon? We won't tell them it was you!"
Harry and Ron shot furious glares at the boy, who was looking uncharacteristically embarrassed.
"It just... happened," Simon shrugged. "Things happen, you know?"
"No, we don't know!" Harry hissed in a loud whisper. "You threw that... that biological weapon right in front of our faces into the fire! You were the first one to take the stench! Why?!"
"Aaaaah!" Simon groaned and started frantically running his hands through his hair. "Look, this happens to me, okay? Something just snaps inside and I can't control my actions! It's like... Tourette's Syndrome!"
None of those present knew what this "syndrome" was.
Simon took a deep breath, as if chasing away the tension and embarrassment.
Don't look guilty, and others won't demand apologies.
"What you witnessed," Simon began nonchalantly, "is called an impulsive discharge of accumulated cognitive-emotional tension. In layman's terms—I snapped."
He paused, trying to gauge their reaction. There was none. Excellent.
"When a person lives in a state of constant failure for a long time," Simon continued, "but tries to keep themselves composed and level-headed, the body starts looking for bypasses to vent stress. It's like... pressure in a closed cauldron, you see? A psychological compromise that helps you stay afloat."
"So you like..." Harry calmed down significantly, apparently deciding it was some kind of illness. He wasn't entirely wrong in his assumptions. "You black out and then come to?"
"I am perfectly aware and I understand everything," Simon shook his head categorically. "It's just... a madness enters my head, you understand? At first, I reject it, but then... the thought starts to grow until it completely consumes me. Physical nervous tics start, bordering on psychosis, until I realize it's just better to... do it."
"Whoa," Ron smiled awkwardly. "Does that happen to you often?"
"Occasionally," Simon replied tactfully.
"What's the craziest thing you've ever done?!" Fred and George asked in unison, eyes shining.
"Once I tried to steal a police car, but I couldn't get very far because I could barely reach the pedals," Simon smiled tensely. "I was put on probation after that."
The eyes of everyone around him nearly bulged out of their sockets.
"You tried to steal a police car?!" Harry muttered in horror.
"Well, the guy was just writing a ticket," Simon coughed into his fist. "I saw the door was open, the keys were in the ignition, and then... it became impossible to control myself."
George and Fred burst into a sort of stunned laughter. It was funny, but their gaze held a look of: "You could do that?!"
"Okaaay..." Ron said, stunned. "I mean, I thought you were weird. But this... even for wizards, that's a bit much!"
"Yeah, I tried," Simon replied dryly. "Nobody even smokes here. I used to use nicotine as a stress buffer..."
He had even tried drinking once but realized immediately that it was a dead end.
"You should try to bum one off Trelawney," George chuckled. "The fog in her place is so thick, it's obvious she smokes like a chimney."
"And probably not just tobacco," Fred added, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. "Given the things she says. Imagine, she predicted I'd die much sooner than George!"
"And we agreed to die on the same day!" George chimed in.
"Is that an elective you have?" Simon asked, interested. "Predictions or something?"
"Divination," George corrected him, spreading his arms dramatically. "We're going to study... the future!"
From the third year onwards, additional courses are added to the Hogwarts curriculum. Divination is one of them.
Previously, Simon would have stated with full confidence that Divination was utter bullshit.
But he had recently learned about the existence of magic, started studying said magic, and had even skipped through time a couple of times.
In principle, he was something of a seer himself, since he knew the future.
Simon couldn't help but be interested.
"So what do you actually do?"
George and Fred smirked.
"It might look like we're just drinking tea..."
The twins pointed to the tea set sitting before them. Unlike all the other students who were doing homework, they really were just drinking tea.
At least, that's how it seemed.
"But we're actually doing our homework!" they finished in unison.
"Your homework is drinking tea?" Ron muttered with envy in his voice. "I definitely have to take Divination in third year. If only Transfiguration were like that..."
"And what's with the tea?" Simon blinked. "Do you add some kind of hallucinogens to send your mind into the 'astral plane'?"
Gryffindors not involved in the conversation began to steal glances at him.
"Um, no," George replied after a pause. "It's Tasseomancy—the art of reading tea leaves."
"...What?"
"We drink the tea," Fred took a loud sip from his cup for emphasis. "We pass them to each other—and we start guessing what's in there!"
"What a load of rubbish," Simon laughed loudly. "I thought you had some Voodoo rituals or ancestral summoning, but you're literally telling fortunes based on tea dregs! What's next? Predicting fate by the shape of someone's dandruff?"
The twins laughed.
"Well, it does sound stupid, but at least it isn't stressful!"
"It isn't true?" Harry tilted his head, confused. "But... the teacher said so."
"That's Sybill Trelawney," Fred rolled his eyes. "She's a total fraud. For example, it's a known fact that she predicts someone's death every year. Look, this year I'm the 'lucky one'."
"Let me guess," Simon smiled. "She speaks in a very 'solemn,' hushed voice, looks you right in the eye, and drops some startling facts?"
"How did you know?" the twins asked, surprised.
"That's my bread and butter, damn it!" Simon wanted to shout, but he held back. To be honest, Simon was a bit embarrassed by his "side hustle."
"It's an absolute classic," Simon smiled confidently. "There's no magic or prophecy here—it's simple psychology and manipulation. Let's start with the basics; there's a thing called 'cold reading.' You know nothing about a person, but you create the impression that you know 'everything'."
Fred leaned in, interested.
"Oh, great prophet!" the twin smirked. "Tell us your secrets!"
"Look," Simon continued. "You walk into a classroom—you see kids. Teenagers. And that already tells you more than you need. Why? Because teenagers are all about anxiety, doubt, the fear of being 'wrong,' and a simultaneous desire to be special. What does a scammer do first? First, they make a vague statement, like: 'You are a person of great potential, but you often doubt yourself.' Bam, you've hooked the victim! Because there are few teenagers in the world who judge themselves soberly, and even fewer who are confident in life."
Fred and George nodded slowly and thoughtfully. Ron even gave a frightened little gasp; he already felt like a victim, having visualized the whole thing.
"That's the Barnum Effect. People tend to accept general descriptions as personal if they are told they are unique. Second—observation. For example, posture, gaze, clothing, reaction to words. You say something—and the person flinches slightly? Great, let's dig there. They don't flinch? We carefully change the vector as if that was the plan all along. And finally..."
Simon injected drama into his voice.
"Showmanship!"
Everyone snapped out of it, realizing Simon was just messing with them.
"A mysterious tone, dim lighting, incense, strange clothes—we create the image of a person who a priori... 'knows' more. And people want to believe someone who looks confident, even if they're talking complete nonsense. It's almost impossible to convince a person of something they don't believe, but a person will willingly follow someone who confirms what they've already accepted. We want to believe in our own ideas; we'll grab at any straw or explanation because it confirms our own assumptions. That's the whole secret."
While the others sat with their mouths open, trying to process what they had heard, Simon snatched Fred's cup with a mock-serious expression.
"Fred Weasley, you slurped your Earl Grey so loudly that your fate has been imprinted in these goddamn tea dregs! So let me, Nostradamus, tell you your fa—"
Simon suddenly went silent.
His eyes widened.
It was as if a powerful blast of air had erupted from the teacup directly into his face.
He felt sunlight on his skin and the unmistakable scent of greenery after rain.
Simon felt the tickle of grass on his toes and cold dew that seemed to trickle down his foot.
And suddenly his entire field of vision was filled with a single plant that he couldn't take his eyes off of.
"...Simon!"
"I actually believed him for a second!" George laughed. "He had such a shocked face, like he really saw something!"
"Simon!" Harry shook his shoulder. "Are you okay?"
Simon shifted his stunned gaze from the tea dregs to Harry, and then to Fred.
"...A four-leaf clover. Congratulations, Fred, you'll be having some good luck soon."