Chapter 20
The remainder of the first week passed almost entirely without incident.
Well, packages still occasionally tried to nosedive into him—especially in the Great Hall when the post arrived—but in most cases, he managed to dodge at the last second or relied on the life-saving Wiggenweld Potion Madam Pomfrey had proactively provided.
The green potion, despite its relatively weak magical classification, was perfect for his situation. Due to his naturally sturdy constitution, broken bones were rare, but he was covered in bruises and abrasions; the Wiggenweld Potion wiped them all away in a mere half-hour.
As for the rest of daily life, Simon began to gradually grow accustomed to magic. For instance, in the morning, he would brush his teeth with just a water-soaked brush and then apply a "Magical Sparkling Powder," the health benefits of which were already visible. The slight yellowing common to most teeth—and especially smokers—had practically vanished. It wouldn't be long before Simon possessed a truly "Hollywood" smile.
The magnificent food became his new baseline; one gets used to the good life quickly. Now, Simon hadn't the foggiest idea what he would do during the holidays—a man cannot live on shawarma alone.
Slowly, his imaginary list of "things that absolutely must be studied" grew longer and longer. Various magical gadgets, jinx-protection, the light-hearted jesting spells exchanged by older students—he wanted to know and understand it all.
The lessons were... abysmal. No, seriously, he was failing at everything.
By the second Transfiguration lesson, Hermione—to the envious grinding of his teeth—had already managed to turn her needle into a match, and everyone else had at least made some progress toward the goal. Everyone except him. His match simply refused to obey.
The second Potions lesson was more of a breakthrough, if you could call it that. This time, Simon decided to change his approach and used Neville as his own pair of hands, trying to direct everything by intuition without touching the potion himself. Unfortunately, his permanent potions partner had one glaring, indisputable flaw: he was a bit of a klutz. This clumsiness was exacerbated by a nearly superstitious dread of the goth instructor, Severus Snape, who frequently loomed over the trembling future Head of Gryffindor as if on purpose—no, definitely on purpose!
A breakthrough did occur—after several attempts that came dangerously close to disaster, the potion was actually finished. The quality left much to be desired due to procedural errors, but it wasn't a total failure. Even though the experiment's purity was compromised by the human factor, there was some sort of result.
Snape, however, was not impressed. The Potions Master called Simon a coward who couldn't brew anything with his own hands and labeled Neville a talentless, lifeless puppet incapable of thinking for himself. He slapped a "Troll" grade on both of them, despite the fact that the potion technically worked, albeit with flaws.
And yes, wizards even had their own grading scale:
Outstanding.
Exceeds Expectations.
Acceptable.
Poor.
Dreadful.
Troll.
As many might guess, "Troll" is the lowest possible grade.
The rest of the classes were... mediocre.
Next was Charms, the discipline involving the casting of spells "on" objects. It was taught by the tiny, amusing Head of Ravenclaw, who was rumored to be part-goblin.
When Simon first saw him at dinner in the Great Hall, he couldn't help himself and blurted out:
"He looks like one of the Oompa-Loompas that worked for Willy Wonka!"
Unfortunately, no one appreciated his witty joke—wizards generally didn't watch movies, and the Muggle-borns likely hadn't seen it either. The new "Chocolate Factory" with Johnny Depp hadn't come out yet, and the old one was released back in the seventies.
Initially, Simon was a bit wary—he didn't like goblins. But in reality, Filius Flitwick turned out to be far more reasonable and kind than Minerva McGonagall or Severus Snape. The former was too strict, and the latter... basically hated people.
The Charms professor proved to be interesting and understanding, always ready to answer any question. The first spell they were meant to learn was a charm for... dancing. Literally, a charm that made objects, like a kettle, dance.
The benefits of this discipline for Simon ended right about there—his success was identical to Transfiguration: zero and fruitless.
And if Charms was the "analog" to Transfiguration, then Herbology was the analog to Potions. Meaning, Simon simply stuck close to Neville, who managed to help not only him but everyone else as well.
The Herbology teacher was Pomona Sprout—the future Deputy Headmistress and current Head of Hufflepuff, a plump, elderly woman with a kind face. As practice showed, the "fiercest" teachers were actually the Heads of Gryffindor and Slytherin. While the former was strict with everyone, the latter favored his own House and ruthlessly sank Gryffindor, without even attempting to create an illusion of fairness. Severus Snape was a peculiar character indeed.
But Herbology became something of a refuge, as wands weren't required in the first few lessons, and everything else, like safety procedures, could be memorized until it was second nature. Besides, "magical" plants are magical for a reason—they produced incredible fruits and each possessed some unbelievable quirk, like the "You Filthy Beast" that had recently taken up residence by his bed. For now, Simon just memorized their traits and watched Neville work with the plants, taking mental notes—he had no intention of being a burden and intended to become an expert in every discipline himself!
The first week also included lessons that only occurred once a week.
For example, Defense Against the Dark Arts—the discipline that studies means of fighting dark wizards and dark creatures. At first, Simon looked forward to this lesson, hoping to gain some defensive techniques, but the very first class put everything in perspective.
The DADA teacher was Quirinus Quirrell, a man in his thirties wearing a large turban that reeked of garlic from a mile away. As it turned out, the teacher had encountered a vampire just this summer and developed severe PTSD, resulting in a constant stutter and the tons of garlic Quirrell practically bathed in.
A self-defense teacher with PTSD from combat—it sounds cool, but in reality, it was complete rubbish. The professor didn't intend to touch his wand at all, simply stuttering his way through the textbook. At one point, Simon's disappointment reached its limit, and he loudly m-m-m-mocked Quirrell, for which he lost fifteen points.
If there was one area where Hogwarts really pinched pennies, it was History of Magic. It was taught by the ghost of Professor Binns, who reportedly died in his chair and, without even noticing, continued to drone on. He was so monotonous that your eyelids closed of their own accord, and any interest in history died a slow, agonizing death. At one point, Simon got bored and his face reflected thoughts on how to spice up the lesson, but Hermione, with the support of Harry and Ron, subdued him—they were just tired of losing points for nothing.
Flying lessons, which everyone had been anticipating without exception, were postponed to the following week due to bad weather, much to the collective groan of the students.
The only solace was Astronomy. Perhaps the only discipline that had something in common with his familiar world—for even magic couldn't take away a love for the stars; if anything, it fed it.
The stars, unlike fickle magic, didn't lie. They didn't know how to lie.
They hung there billions of years ago and would hang there for billions of years to come. Even in the wizarding world, space worked by the same cold and inexorable laws. Gravity didn't care if you were a wizard or a Muggle—it worked the same for everyone. Mass pulled toward mass, space curved, time flowed... sometimes faster, sometimes slower, but always by the rules.
And that was comforting.
Somewhere out there were giants millions of times larger than the Sun, tearing themselves apart and dying beautifully—exploding and leaving behind nebulae that became literal factories for new worlds. Somewhere, at incredible speeds, supermassive black holes accelerated cosmic dust around themselves, triggering reactions whose light outshone the Sun millions of times over—the true mastodons of space, quasars.
This celestial sincerity finally allowed Simon to feel a sense of control. These scales once again let him realize the insignificance of current events and the fact that neither magic nor physics had reached their limits.
Granted, his face couldn't help but twist when he learned the first topic of the lesson: compiling an astrological calendar. Specifically astrological, not astronomical. A sort of "pseudo-science" that studied the influence of celestial bodies on humans and the Earth—all those Capricorns, Libras, and goddamn Cancers.
The space enthusiast inside him wanted to loudly call them ignoramuses, presenting the scale of the universe and how little the stars cared about them, but...
This was magic, after all. And there was likely something to it, no matter how much Simon resisted.
In short, the first lessons... were a failure. As bitter as it was to admit—it was a fact.
Fortunately, social relations seemed to be developing successfully.
He usually hung out with Ron and Harry, exploring the castle and memorizing how everything worked. Ron, by the way, possessed a sort of worldly wisdom and knew the most about magic—from relatives, from life, and just through experience. Simon constantly asked clarifying questions, while Harry acted as a mediator, cooling Simon's enthusiasm or indignation.
He had built a good relationship with Neville, which wasn't exactly difficult. Neville was a completely harmless puffball whose magical "talent" was only slightly greater than Simon's, but at least in Herbology, the boy was an alpha male.
Things with Hermione were progressing as well as could be expected. Sure, she frequently annoyed him, and he often felt like putting her in her place, but in reality, he was the one being put in his place. No matter how impressive his theoretical foundation, in practice, he was a total zero—Hermione was a straight-A student. Nevertheless, they began to exchange words more often, sometimes even provoking debates in which Simon invariably won, though without being overbearing. For now, the girl hadn't warmed up to Harry and Ron—the latter generally tried to keep his distance from her due to their differing personalities—but Simon still harbored hope that sooner or later they would become those best friends. And truth be told, he wanted to be part of that formation himself.
Mostly, everything was... peaceful. "Peaceful" in the sense of "no time travel" peaceful. So far, he hadn't blacked out or been transported again—and he didn't exactly have the desire to. He simply wasn't ready for another attempt.
But Hogwarts was a school where more than just the three of them studied. It lived its own life, birthing new stories every day. Roughly seven hundred students meant not just peace, but conflicts.
And it just so happened that he had ended up in Gryffindor. And Gryffindor had held a fundamental rivalry since time immemorial, bickering at every opportunity. Harry and Ron had almost fatefully clashed with the Slytherins right before the Sorting.
You could say that Gryffindor and Slytherin were the main rivalry not just of Hogwarts, but of all Wizarding Britain. After all, Wizarding Britain is a product of Hogwarts, no matter what anyone says.
And... Simon also loved conflict. He couldn't live without it, to be honest.
It happened on Saturday, one of the two days off.
Simon was idling through the corridors, memorizing them for the future on one hand, and trying to find something... amazing on the other. And Hogwarts was full of wonders.
Except he didn't stumble upon another strange thing to stare at with an open mouth, but rather... a manifestation of the rivalry.
Five of their peers were crowded around a trembling Neville Longbottom—only their robes bore green insignia.
"I thought the Longbottoms had lost their political influence long ago," smirked the leader of the first-year Slytherins—Draco Malfoy. "But look at this: they've managed to sneak their own Squib into a magic school!"
The Slytherins laughed collectively, preventing Neville from escaping the circle.
"G-guys..." the boy's voice shook. "Let me through..."
"You aren't asking sincerely enough, Longbottom," Malfoy sneered nastily.
"P-please..."
"Hey, you fucking degenerates!" Simon's voice rang out from behind them. "Get the hell away from him!"
The Slytherins turned to him with surprised smiles. They suddenly burst into collective laughter, pointing fingers at him.
"Look at this!" Malfoy was nearly crying with laughter. "One Squib coming to the aid of another Squib!"
"The Squib Alliance!"
Simon's eyelid twitched with irritation. The level of rage in his blood spiked to the limit.
Malfoy's insult had hit the bullseye—his weakest point.
"He's lost his tongue," Malfoy chuckled. "Don't you know what a Squib is? It's a talentless hack without a magical gift—just look in a mirror and you'll understand."
"Why you bastards..."
"C-calm down, Simon..." Neville managed to break out of the circle and quickly grabbed Simon's shoulder, trying to pull him away. "There's a whole bunch of them!"
"I don't give a damn," Simon smiled. A dangerous smile.
With one movement, he broke free of the grip and charged into the crowd at full speed while their faces were still elongated in shock.
The first blow landed right on Malfoy's nose, making him groan. Before the others could recover, he grabbed either Crabbe or Goyle—he made a point of not remembering their names—and landed a stinging slap that sent the boy to the ground.
He took out the third with a hard kick to the thigh.
And that's where his luck ended. The odds were too great.
It seemed Nott pulled out a wand and quite skillfully pointed it straight at Simon.
"Stupefy!"
The spell took effect instantly. His limbs and torso suddenly turned to stone and stopped obeying.
The Slytherins took advantage of his incapacitated state and began to retaliate. Malfoy shoved him to the ground, and the others began to kick Simon.
He didn't know how long the beating lasted, but the Slytherins suddenly realized Neville had run for help, so they beat a hasty retreat.
Simon woke up from the Petrification Charm somewhere in the middle of the beating, but he couldn't get back up—he only covered his head with his hands.
When the Slytherins ran away, he simply crawled to the nearest wall and leaned against it, staring at nothing.
"What has happened here?!" Professor McGonagall's formidable voice echoed off the stone walls of the corridor.
"P-professor!" Neville stuttered. "It was Slytherin! They... look what they did to Simon!"
"Merlin," the professor leaned toward him with concern, seeing the bruises on his face and the dust on his clothes. "Mr. Laplace, you..."
"I fell," he said calmly.
"What?"
Neville and Professor McGonagall blinked in unison, not immediately processing what he had said.
"I said: I fell," Simon rose with a groan, leaning against the wall. "No one hit me—there was no fight. I was just walking... and I fell."
"You...!" Professor McGonagall grew angry but quickly regained her composure upon seeing the injuries. "You need to go to the Hospital Wing."
"B-but... Simon!"
"It's fine, Neville," he smiled with a split lip. "You just imagined it."
When Madam Pomfrey finished patching up his injured face, which healed quickly under the influence of potions, and an angry Professor McGonagall left after failing to get any details from him, Neville asked a question.
"But... why?"
It was clear the boy felt incredibly guilty. It was as if he had left his friend to be devoured by a pack of jackals. Neville found it difficult to even look him in the eye.
"I've always handled problems of this sort myself; a teacher would just solve it for me," he said melancholically, touching a bruise that had almost disappeared but still ached. "I've never been afraid of pain—I'm used to it."
"Just... just because of pride?!" Neville whispered, stunned.
"Pride is all I've got," Simon smiled ironically.