Chapter 21
Magical literature was a source of pure agony.
"In 1752 AD, an event occurred that forever changed the relationship between wizards and magical beings—the Goblin Rebellions. By the way, why 'AD'? Why must we measure time by the birth of some bearded carpenter? I propose the wizarding world adopt a calendar dating from the birth of Merlin!"
Simon pulled his eyes from the text with an unreadable expression and turned the textbook over in his hand, hoping it was another joke by the twins. Finding no hidden trick, Simon returned to the page.
"So, regarding the Goblin Rebellions... personally, I can't stand the creatures! Want to hear a joke? A troll, a goblin, and a wizard walk into a bar..."
"Why the hell am I supposed to read this garbage?!" Simon shook the history book in his hand. "This isn't just 'fluff' in the text, it's... some kind of mental diarrhea manifested in letters!"
This was an official history textbook! Considering the sluggishness and general lack of urgency among wizards, this book likely served as a historical reference for several generations.
"What's the big deal?" Ron asked, looking genuinely puzzled. "Didn't you like the joke? I thought it was funny."
Simon looked at Ron with astonishment.
"Did you actually read it?"
Ron hesitated visibly.
"Well... I only read the joke."
"This is a total desecration of concepts like 'professionalism' and 'teaching'!" Simon snorted. "History isn't a collection of tall tales, and it's definitely not a stream of personal grievances from... this hack writer. History is about economics, demographics, resources, and balance. It should be a set of answers as to why the hell everything in magical society is so screwed up!"
"Is it really that screwed up?" Ron raised an eyebrow skeptically.
"Language!" Hermione frowned. "Simon, where did you even get the idea that magical society is... bad?"
"Look, suppose I make an assertion," Simon said, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "Let's say the politics of Magical Britain are a total mess."
"How would you know?" Harry asked, surprised. "Did you read it in the papers?"
"No," Simon chuckled. "A passing acquaintance with the legal structure was enough. For instance, the structure of the Wizengamot."
"What's that?" Harry asked, interested.
"The high court of law and parliament for Magical Britain," Hermione answered. "So, what exactly is the problem?"
"Hermione, you just spoke the main problem out loud," Simon smiled. "Legislative 'and' judicial body."
"Are you saying that... it's wrong for those functions to be combined in one place?"
"It is legally and ethically incorrect. It's an incredibly gross error that will almost immediately bear bitter fruit for society." Simon felt the weight of his own intellect again. Yes, he was a proud one. "The separation of powers is a fundamental principle of modern law. The legislative branch creates the rules. The judicial interprets and applies them, and the executive enforces them. Here, we have the Wizengamot writing the laws and then deciding how to interpret them themselves. You couldn't invent a more perfect breeding ground for cronyism and corruption."
"Seems alright to me..." Ron mused. "My dad works at the Ministry of Magic and he's never said anything like that. Grumbling about the price of lunch going up, though—he'll do that all day!"
"The law loses predictability, Ron," Simon said weightily, though internally he didn't expect his ginger friend to fully grasp it. "In a normal system, the court is bound by the law. If a law doesn't work, or works incorrectly, it's changed elsewhere. But what do we have? The Wizengamot can clarify a law 'retroactively' at any moment. The Wizengamot can interpret it however is most convenient for a specific trial. They can, for Merlin's sake, change the rules for a specific defendant! There's no appeal process to speak of!"
"Really?" Hermione looked even more surprised. "Is there truly no such concept?"
"Legally, it might exist, but in substance, it doesn't," Simon shrugged. "Because an appeal is a review of a decision by another independent body! The keyword is: another! But here? 'We reviewed our own decision and realized we were right!' Pffft! Formally, the procedure might exist. But functionally, there's no protection."
Simon's tone was so incredibly confident that Ron, who knew nothing of the subject, began to panic slightly.
"Simon, surely it can't be that bad?"
"I'll tell you why it's 'very' bad," Simon began ticking points off on his fingers. "Concentration of power in one place corrupts. When the same body decides what is right, decides who is guilty, and is accountable to almost no one, it inevitably starts protecting itself instead of society. Even without malicious intent, mistakes get covered up, reputation is placed above justice, and 'insiders' get perks. Such a system creates obvious pressure on minorities—they're harsher on the 'inconvenient,' softer on the 'elites,' and will always take it out on anyone who can't fight back, simply because there's no one to complain to. From a legal standpoint, the Wizengamot is a failure. From an ethical one, it's almost guaranteed injustice."
Everyone present in the common room fell into a stunned silence. It was clear Simon had dumped such a volatile stream of information on them that just processing it was a feat. Even wizards who had lived their whole lives in this society hadn't considered it before.
"I don't need to know the names of the people at the top to realize it's a mess," Simon chuckled. "Give me their code of laws and I'll tell you how screwed up everything is by the number of loopholes. And the Wizengamot is one giant, gaping loophole in itself. And that's without me even starting a detailed analysis..."
"But..." Hermione seemed to be trying to push away the pessimistic mood. Simon understood her; no one wants to live in what is essentially a lawless state. "Things aren't exactly perfect in Muggle England either."
"Hermione, I didn't say there's no corruption in other leading countries—there is, plenty of it. But when a person wants to break the law there, they are pushing against certain boundaries that serve as a deterrent. In the wizarding world... there are no boundaries, per se. Under the right conditions, knowing the right people, you can escape punishment even after the most severe crimes and full public exposure."
"Like Malfoy's dad!" Ron suddenly chimed in. "His dad was an open Death Eater, but when You-Know-Who was defeated, he was cleared as an Imperius victim!"
That was the upside to Ron: worldly wisdom and completely random flashes of brilliance.
"Let me guess: Malfoy's dad has a lot of money?" Simon smiled ironically.
"Well, yeah," Ron said with a sour face.
"In a system like this, if you don't have money or a name—good luck. You're guilty by default."
Ron scratched the back of his neck nervously.
"Listen, when you put it like that... it really does sound rotten."
"Because it is," Simon replied calmly. "It's not a 'conspiracy' or 'bad people in power.' It's a systemic error. Such a system will rot by definition, even if every participant was kissed on the forehead by Jesus."
Simon nodded toward the history textbook still lying on the table.
"And this," he tapped the cover lightly with his finger, "is a direct consequence. History is written by the winners. And in the wizarding world, the winners are also the judges, the legislators, and the archivists. That's why you don't have history, you have... whatever this mess is."
Hermione bit her lip.
"But... if it's really that bad... why doesn't anyone change anything?"
"This system has existed for a long time, which by definition means it has beneficiaries who grow stronger and wealthier every year. Maybe it's a lack of external pressure. Maybe because most wizards are infantile and don't care as long as it doesn't hit them personally. Most likely, it's all of the above."
"I've decided!" Hermione suddenly jumped up with a shout, making the three of them jump. "I'm going to change Magical Britain! I... I'll become Minister for Magic!"
"You?.." Ron asked, stunned, and then burst out laughing into his fist. "Sure, sure! We believe you!"
Given the irony of the situation, Simon's mind nearly reeled. Yet, he maintained a deadpan expression.
"You know what, Hermione?"
"What?" the girl asked guardedly, her face a bit flushed after her outburst of bravery.
"I believe you."
"Really?" she asked timidly.
"I think you could actually become Minister," Simon shrugged. "A premonition, let's call it that."
"Then..." Hermione smiled shyly. "I suppose I'll let you help me! You're... almost as smart as I am!"
"I changed my mind," Simon interrupted flatly. "You're delusional—you'll never amount to anything."
"Hey!"
Harry and Ron just laughed at Hermione's indignant face.
---
No matter how fun the hangouts with friends were, Simon never forgot who he was or where he came from.
Or what problems awaited him in his original timeline.
Even if he hadn't mastered magic yet, he couldn't leave everything to chance. He needed progress, some kind of momentum, or he would simply lose his mind from the constant cycle of total chaos.
He decided to take his first step on the night between Saturday and Sunday. But first, he needed to consult with... the recognized experts.
"Are you absolutely sure the Fat Lady won't rat me out?" Simon checked the facts for the umpteenth time.
"Look, you—"
"Don't sweat it!" the Weasley twins repeated their synchronized mantra.
"Fred," Simon persisted. "Look me in the eye and tell me the Fat Lady won't report my night outing and that she'll open the door for the password even if she's asleep."
"I'm not Fred, I'm George!"
"What are you feeding me?" Simon snorted. "You're Fred!"
The twins' mouths dropped open in unison.
"How did you know? Not even our mum can tell us apart!"
"Different freckle patterns and the shape of your ears."
"Merlin's beard!"
It was clear the twins were genuinely surprised that someone hadn't fallen for their oldest prank.
"Anyway, back to my question."
"Look, the Fat Lady doesn't care at all; she never says a word to the professors on her own! Even if a teacher asks her, she'll likely get it mixed up anyway! We always tell her our name is Percy Weasley, for instance!"
"The brotherly love is practically radiating off you."
"You bet!"
"Listen, Simon," George hesitated slightly. "Are you sure you want to go alone? Filch isn't as simple as he looks. We could take you next week—show you the ropes."
"I need to go now," Simon shook his head firmly.
His primary goal was to reach the Hogwarts Express, parked at Hogsmeade Station.
The issue was that the station was outside the school grounds, and students weren't allowed there until their third year and only with written parental permission.
Just yesterday, Simon had tried to sneak out the gates, but he was immediately turned back by an owl that appeared out of nowhere and started hooting loudly, as if drawing attention. Simon realized instantly: internal alarm system.
After questioning the Weasley twins, Simon learned that magical owls weren't nocturnal predators but purely diurnal, sleeping soundly at night. A strange quirk of biology, but apparently, that's what constant feeding does to natural night birds.
Essentially, that "defense" didn't exist at night, but then again, not many people had the desire to slip out of the school after dark. It was creepy!
Well, Simon was basically fearless—mostly—and there was a necessity.
So, after thinking it over, he decided to start making night excursions to get used to this peculiar game of hide-and-seek. For this reason, he had memorized almost every corridor and staircase—which led where.
"You're a desperate one," Fred said, shaking his head impressively.
"We didn't work up the nerve for a night outing until the end of our first year, after hearing all the 'Filch horrors,' and you're doing it at the end of the first week..."
"I'm a Gryffindor, after all," Simon smirked, and patting the twins on the shoulders, he went to his room to wait for curfew.
The twins exchanged a look and shook their heads in unison.
"He's toast."
"Filch won't even have to chew him."
---
Hogwarts changed completely at night.
The eternally active portraits, who were equally happy to chat among themselves or with students, went to sleep just like everyone else. Painted knights set aside their swords and halberds and lay down in extremely uncomfortable positions wherever space allowed. Barons and counts snoozed loudly and unrefinedly, while noble ladies donned silly sleep masks.
The activity of the moving staircases slowed, and even the torches glowed with less intensity, as if on a dimmer switch, though they were fueled by magic.
It was actually a bit... eerie.
The usually noisy corridors, which echoed with children's voices, grew silent, leaving an almost total stillness broken only by an occasional particularly loud bout of snoring.
Simon swallowed, reminding himself for the hundredth time to look around. A light breeze drifted through the corridor, triggering a swarm of goosebumps.
At night, faculty activity didn't cease entirely. As it turned out, Heads of House sometimes patrolled with Prefects to catch any stray lambs like Simon.
So, in his current situation, there were several potential threats—professors, Prefects, and...
Filch.
The most hated man in Hogwarts.
He was the old Squib caretaker whose primary job was cleaning and maintaining order during the day, as well as at night.
He was famous for a fierce hatred of any form of rule-breaking, many of which he had lobbied for himself. He acted as though he hated everyone and everything.
According to all the stories circulating among students, Filch was the primary threat to any nighttime stroll. Professors might forgive, Prefects might look the other way, but Filch... Filch never lets anyone go.
"Come on, that's rubbish..." Simon snorted, trying to bolster his courage. "He's a lame old man—how's he going to catch me?"
And suddenly...
...he heard footsteps. Quiet, almost inaudible during the day, but sounding like artillery fire at night.
They stopped.
Simon looked around guardedly, paying special attention to every turn and corner.
"Just my imagination," Simon muttered to himself and quickened his pace.
And suddenly the footsteps repeated. Simon stopped again. The footsteps ceased.
It couldn't be an echo; he wasn't mentally deficient...
"Right," he whispered. "This isn't funny anymore."
He spun around.
The long corridor, devoid of doors or alcoves, was empty.
No imaginary pursuer. No. One.
Simon let out a breath.
"Nerves, paranoia," he laughed nervously. "Classic."
And at that exact moment, the torch behind him went out. No hiss—it just went out.
He froze again.
Behind his back came a dry:
"Heh... heh... heh..." The breathing was uneven, like a wheeze. "Who do we have here, eh?"
Simon bolted for all he was worth. He reached a speed he hadn't even used to run from the police. The stone floor echoed loudly under his feet, his breathing broke, and his heart began to pound wildly.
Behind him came:
"THINK YOU'RE THE ONLY SMART ONE, DO YOU?!" The voice was raspy, cracked, and unexpectedly loud. And the footsteps... the other footsteps quickened.
Simon looked back as he ran—and for the first time, he saw him fully.
Filch wasn't running. He was moving with that insufferable, clumsy, hobbling gait, but... he was catching up, damn him! He was moving at an incredible speed! More accurately, he moved in jagged bursts, each one closing the distance between them.
"THINK I'M JUST A LAME OLD MAN, EH?! THEY ALL THINK THAT! DECADES OF THE SAME THING!"
Simon ducked into the first corridor he saw and turned pale instantly.
The corridor was a dead end.
"Crap, crap, crap!"
Simon spun around with all his speed and stood aghast.
Filch had disappeared.
The footsteps were no longer audible.
Absolute silence.
And then...
...a bitter whisper sounded right by his ear:
"They all think they can hide. I catch them all."
"AAAAAAAGH!"
The next morning, he was asked if he had heard the panicked screeching of some girl who sounded like she was being skinned alive.
Simon put on a stone face and answered unequivocally that there had been nothing of the sort.
He told no one about the detention assigned by Professor McGonagall.
Except those wretched Weasley twins, who kept snickering nastily at him.