Chapter 24
The primary instigator of unnecessary problems in Simon's life was Simon himself.
Yes, he was unlucky. Frankly speaking, he was very, very unlucky. But bad luck was only part of his rather... jagged life. Quite often, Simon simply created problems for Simon.
"Filch! Come on, Filch, just this once!"
"That is 'Mr. Filch' to you, you uncultured delinquent!" the caretaker spluttered, practically spraying saliva. "No. Magic. Period! If you approach me with such a request one more time, I shall report you to Professor McGonagall and she will extend your detention by another week!"
"What a sweetheart," Simon snorted, rubbing another trophy with a damp rag. "If only he weren't an old, crotchety, antisocial piece of shit..."
"WHAT DID YOU SAY?!" Filch turned purple with rage.
"I am saying," Simon pointed nonchalantly at a trophy that, judging by the date, had been sitting there for ninety years. "The person who won this cup has probably become an old, crotchety, antisocial piece of shit by now."
"That is the first trophy of Albus Dumbledore—the Headmaster!"
"Ah," Simon nodded. "I was wondering why the name sounded so familiar."
"GET BACK TO POLISHING! And keep your mouth shut!"
"I would rather shut yours with this lice-ridden rag," he muttered crankily.
"WHAT DID YOU SAY?!"
"I said: I would rather shut yours with this lice-ridden rag, you old fart!" Simon repeated louder.
Five minutes later, Professor McGonagall arrived to inspect the disciplinary process. Upon entering, she was struck speechless.
A thoroughly enraged Filch, mop in hand, was trying to reach the upper shelves, where a cursing Simon—using profanity far beyond his years and brandishing his middle fingers—was trying to fight him off.
"This is utterly disgraceful!" she raised her voice at Simon, who was now standing at attention before her. "In all my years of teaching, I have never encountered a more insolent, ill-bred student with such a blatant disregard for authority. In your first week, you have managed to land yourself a week of detention and lose nearly sixty House points!"
"Um..." Simon cautiously raised a hand. "But you were the one who took most of those points and sent me to detention..."
Professor McGonagall looked ready to spontaneously combust.
"So, it is my fault, Mr. Laplace?!" the Head of Gryffindor exhaled furiously. "My fault that you disrespect teachers, get into fights, and... fly into a classroom on a broomstick?!" She threw her hands up. "And to think, there isn't even a hint of positive change in your attitude! You even picked a fight with Filch!"
"Is it my fault he grumbles and moans constantly?"
"Yes, it is your fault! Admit finally that you are responsible for your current predicament and face it like a man!"
"I'm just..." Simon rolled his eyes. "I'm just a gifted genius, you know? All geniuses have a screw loose; mine just happens to rattle in several languages. People like me need special treatment!"
Professor McGonagall fell silent again.
She simply could not believe that a boy so shameless, arrogant, and self-satisfied could exist. Then again, shame and modesty were certainly not traits one associated with Simon.
"A genius?" She swept a skeptical gaze over him. "Mr. Laplace, the fact that your first spells have finally started working is no reason to consider yourself special. Even if that were true, we do not..."
"Professor Snape said I have talent."
The Professor fell silent once more.
"...Did he?"
Ordinarily, in such a situation, she would have put the student in their place. She had been about to say that no one receives special treatment at Hogwarts, but Simon knew how to catch an interlocutor off guard.
Evidently, the Terror of the Dungeons was a prominent personality even among the staff.
"That's exactly what he said," Simon shrugged, attempting a parody of Snape's baritone: "Laplace, I have never in my life seen such a genius genius. Looking good, babe!"
"He said that?"
"Well..." Simon's gaze shifted. "In slightly different words."
Professor McGonagall sighed and composed herself. Simon had succeeded in cooling his tireless Head of House's fervor.
"Mr. Laplace, you are aware this is a school?"
"Well, yes..."
"And a school has certain rules. We expect students to follow them, not ignore them. This is not your backyard to do as you please! If you... continue your outrages, I shall have to consider more serious disciplinary measures." Her voice dropped an octave. "Up to and including suspension and expulsion."
Simon tried not to show how much those words stung. But the threat was clear and tangible. It was hard to tell if the Professor was bluffing, but Simon had indeed been running wild lately.
"I understand, Professor," he sighed. "You won't get perfection out of me, but I'll try not to get caught anymore."
"Laplace, that is not what I want to hear from you!"
"At least it's honest!"
"And furthermore..." the Professor surveyed the mess in the trophy room. "Another week of detention."
"Ugh..."
---
A week had passed since the legendary "entry" into the Transfiguration classroom. Every evening, Simon had to either process ingredients or polish silver.
The Professor had not appreciated his flamboyant intrusion through the third-floor window, hence the week of detention and the loss of twenty points.
Detention with Snape was actually interesting—he had started trusting Simon with processing ingredients beyond the first-year curriculum. He felt like exploited free labor, of course, but it was far better than the alternative.
Simon had actually asked the Potions Master to take him for all his detentions, but Snape hadn't denied himself the pleasure of tormenting him by harshly shutting down the attempt to dodge Filch.
So, every other evening was spent in the monotonous polishing of cups under Filch's grumbling breath. Eventually, he had snapped and earned himself an extra week of punishment.
Just great.
But that was a drop of bitterness in a bucket of honey, because...
He finally managed the magic!
It was as if his subconscious had broken free from the shackles that had clamped down on his abilities.
Simon had already caught up to and surpassed his peers in spellcasting—especially in practice! His wand had stopped being a mere ornament and started doing its job. Even Professor McGonagall had to praise him in a recent lesson when he turned a wooden match into an iron cross.
The kettle in Charms danced to a jaunty tune, and the Lumos at the tip of his wand was pleasantly blinding. Without caveats, without "my head hurts," without "I'm not in the mood"—he cast magic whenever he wanted.
And he was absolutely thrilled about it.
In a recent Potions lesson, he had brewed a perfect Cure for Boils, with such a rich color and pleasant aroma that even Snape had raised an eyebrow in surprise.
However, the teacher's nasty nature still won out.
Gazing at Neville standing nearby, Snape said he was averaging their grade and gave them an "Acceptable," even though the other students' potions weren't even in the same league. Neville nearly cried with joy; it was their first grade that wasn't a "Troll." Simon didn't give a damn about the grade, as the physical result was undeniable.
Simon couldn't resist the urge to "sincerely" inquire how Hermione's potion was doing. She had received a higher grade—"Exceeds Expectations"—but even a blind man could sense the difference in quality. After his pestering and mocking questions, the girl looked like her head might turn into a boiling kettle.
It was fair to say that Potions was currently his most obvious and intuitive talent.
At this stage of basic spellcasting, it was hard to see much difference, other than the fact that Simon was noticeably faster than everyone else. His intuition warned him against experimenting with effects and other spell parameters for now. Apparently, it was too early and too dangerous. He wanted to desperately, but for now, he decided to strengthen his foundation and gain experience.
But Potions was a different story.
Simon would read a recipe once, memorize the approximate ingredients and the function of the future potion, and... yield to inspiration. It was as if he let go of control, relying purely on his senses.
He threw measurements and portioning out the window, and his processing methods were chosen on pure "gut feeling," but the results were so superior that even the Slytherins began looking at him with surprise. Though in Malfoy's case, his already substantial forehead looked ready to burst with envy.
Simon, by the way, hadn't forgotten the previous beating. For now, he was building his arsenal and waiting for his moment. And it would come.
Life had finally gained color, even with the downside of seeing Filch's face every other day. It was a radically different situation from the impenetrable darkness that had shrouded him before his "non-suicidal fall."
Nobody, incidentally, understood what Simon had actually done—they weren't crazy enough to assume a voluntary jump from such a height. They got no details from Simon, nor from Professor McGonagall, so they had to speculate for themselves.
According to the popular version, Simon had decided to play a prank and, taking a broom from the pitch, burst into class at full speed.
This act had consequences. Firstly, people began to respect him even more for his perceived total fearlessness—Gryffindors were particularly fond of that. Secondly, he got a nickname.
"The Mad Frenchman is here!" the twins flanked him on both sides while he was reading a Charms book in the common room.
"How many times do I have to tell you," Simon sighed. "Yes, I have a French name and surname, but it was a joke by my father. I am English, and like all English people, I don't like the French!"
"Oh, come off it," Fred patted his shoulder. "I'm actually jealous! First week—and a nickname! And such a Gryffindor one at that! Right, George?"
"I'm Fred, actually."
"Oh, sorry..."
Still, "The Mad Frenchman" was much, much better than "Squib."
"Hey, guys," a fourth-year student approached. "Mind if I join you?"
They simply shrugged.
Oliver Wood, the captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, had approached them, which automatically put him high up in the House hierarchy.
Quidditch was the favorite pastime of most wizards, young and old. Much like football in non-magical England. Quidditch players were respected and loved. Even the Weasley twins played as Beaters!
"I'm here... on a bit of business."
"Oliver," Simon tried to look broader and more imposing, putting on a serious face. "I appreciate the offer, but unfortunately, I don't have time for Quidditch..."
"What?" Oliver blinked in confusion. "Oh... no, I didn't come to ask you onto the team."
Simon's facade instantly deflated. The Weasley twins burst into loud laughter, not forgetting to annoyingly poke him in the cheeks.
"You really thought he'd take you on the team?!"
"Make way for the new God of Quidditch!"
"Oh, fuck off!" he shoved the laughing twins aside. "What do you want, Wood?"
"See, Simon..." Oliver hesitated. "Have you looked at the House point containers lately?"
He was referring to the four glass hourglasses in the Great Hall that visually displayed the points earned. Simon realized things were about to get heated.
"You're a reckless guy, no doubt," Wood smiled, impressed. "I've never seen... anything like it, probably. And we love that. We're Gryffindor!"
The whole common room roared solemnly, supporting one of the House leaders.
"But..." Wood tilted his head noncommittally. "Could you please hold your horses? We're trailing the other Houses right now. We're trailing by a lot."
"Oh, come on, Wood!" Fred snorted in support. "They're just points, what's the big deal!"
"Yeah, Oliver, lighten up!"
"You two shut it!" Wood pointed a finger at them. "You're second and third after Simon for points lost. And you've done it consistently for three years straight!"
"Is this an interrogation?" Simon frowned. Something in the air shifted irrevocably.
"Whoa, whoa, easy, hot-blooded French boy..."
"I'm from Liverpool, damn it!" Simon switched into "chav" mode. "And if you call me a Frenchman one more time, I'll show you how Merseysiders settle their problems!"
Wood and Simon stood up simultaneously and stared each other down with hostile glares. They looked quite comical together, as the age difference was significant. But Simon didn't flinch.
The tension in the common room spiked.
"I wanted to do this the nice way," Oliver scowled. "I approached you with a request and spoke in a respectful, calm tone."
"I don't give a shit!"
"When I was a first-year, the upperclassmen spoke to us differently..."
"I don't give a shit!"
"Why you little—!"
Just as Wood and Simon were about to clash, the Weasley twins stepped between them, joined by Ron and Harry who had rushed over to help.
"Sorry, Wood!" Fred began to apologize hurriedly. "He's just... um, mental. You know, 'Mad,' right?"
"He understands!" Harry said bravely, shielding Simon with his arms. "He understands, and we'll keep an eye on him!"
Oliver sighed and shot Simon a cautionary look. Simon smirked defiantly in return.
"Well..." Wood shook his head. "Anyway, you get it."
"I don't give a sh—!"
The twins managed to cover his mouth with their hands and hold him until things in the common room calmed down.
"Are you out of your mind, Simon?" Harry asked in a loud whisper.
"He didn't even do anything to you!"
Simon just shrugged awkwardly. His defense mechanisms had kicked in on their own. He had conflicted with his peers and elders so often in the past that he had begun to snap back at objectively sound speech and requests almost instinctively.
He felt awkward himself, but he wasn't going to apologize. Objectively, he was in the wrong, but... he just wouldn't, that was that. His apology quota had run out somewhere around Hermione and would only open back up for conflicts with friends.
Yes, he was very proud and often subjective. So what? And he couldn't stand authority figures. So what?
"Fine, alright," he raised his hands pacifically. "I get it, I need to calm down."
Simon sat back in the armchair and tried to focus on the text again. But the unpleasant aftertaste prevented him from switching back into a study mood.
"You really are like a Fire Salamander—ready to explode at any moment," Ron said quietly, sitting down opposite him. "I'd have been pissed too if I were Wood."
"I lose my edge sometimes," Simon replied phlegmatically.
"Just sometimes?" Harry asked skeptically.
He knew that Wood, for the most part, was right. Points weren't just abstract numbers without meaning. Points were House prestige, and losing that many points in literally the first two weeks was excessive.
Simon had expected some loss, of course, but not this much. Like it or not, people were going to look at you sideways. To him, points were a mere formality. To them, they were one of the most obvious measures of competition.
Gryffindor historically didn't win the Cup often—recklessness and blind courage were too highly valued within these red walls. But it still hurt to see such a massive gap, especially with their arch-rivals, Slytherin, in first place.
"I'm not promising to be a golden boy," he said honestly, looking past them. "And I'm certainly not going to stop getting into trouble. But..." he winced, choosing his words, "I'll try at least not to sink the House every time I'm in a bad mood."
"Better than nothing," Harry smiled cautiously.
He was a good guy, Harry Potter. He always came to Simon's aid and looked out for everyone else. Simon still remembered that Harry was the first to dive in to pull him out of the Black Lake when that package had clobbered him on the head.
He promised himself he would definitely return the favor.
After all... it was good to have friends.