Chapter 27
It had to be admitted: intensive spellcasting came with a price.
It wasn't that his muscles ached or that he was out of breath—except perhaps from the numerous blows he'd landed on the Slytherins—but there was a distinct fog in his head. It was that specific state of mind where even thinking felt like a chore, and every thought required a Herculean effort. It was moral exhaustion rather than mental.
But...
It was definitely worth it!
In a short span of time, Simon had used the Disillusionment Charm six times—a spell considered quite difficult to master and maintain. Granted, there was a downside: his invisibility didn't last more than five minutes while stationary and about two if he was actually moving. This limitation wasn't due to the spell itself, but rather his own lack of experience and skill.
Spells, in principle, didn't have unified standards. A "Lumos" cast by two first-years might look the same, but a "Lumos" cast by two adult wizards were two entirely different spells. The intensity of the light, the duration, the speed—every possible parameter could vary.
Roughly speaking, the power and reliability of a spell depended entirely on the wizard.
Harry's spell power, for instance, was almost a match for his own, with Hermione following close behind. The latter, by the way, seemed to have taken offense at Simon surpassing her and had started avoiding him. But Hermione could be dealt with another time; he had a primary objective to complete.
Having confirmed his mastery of the Disillusionment Charm, Simon decided it was finally time for the ultimate "reliability" check before heading to the Hogwarts Express.
"...The rogue simply upped and vanished!" Filch was practically screaming, his voice thick with fury. "I only turned my back for a second, and he evaporated! Professor McGonagall, I told you that a good horsewhipping is the only thing that works on his kind! Please, talk to Headmaster Dumbledore, ask for a permit..."
"Mr. Filch," the professor replied tactfully. "I'm afraid I must disagree. And have you forgotten that it was Professor Dumbledore who abolished corporal punishment? Now, let us look into..." Professor McGonagall finally entered the Trophy Room, and all she saw was Simon, diligently polishing the trophies. "Mr. Laplace?"
"Yes, Professor?" Simon asked, putting on a look of utter confusion.
"You..." She examined him closely. "You haven't run off?"
"Run off?" Simon asked, looking confounded. "What are you talking about?"
"He's lying!" Filch began to spray spit. "He disappeared just moments ago! Vanished the second I turned my head! Professor, you must punish him! He did it on purpose!"
Professor McGonagall found herself at a crossroads. On one hand, there was Filch, known for his hatred of all living things. On the other, there was Simon, a known troublemaker.
Whom to believe? Neither of them could be trusted!
"Perhaps Mr. Filch mistook my trip to the lavatory for an escape," Simon interjected smoothly.
"HE'S LYING, PROFESSOR!.."
"Mr. Filch, calm yourself!"
"He's lying," the caretaker wheezed. "I turned around for a second and he was gone. Evaporated right before my eyes! He did something!"
"Perhaps Mr. Filch is exhausted," Simon huffed with an air of wounded innocence, playing the role of the unfairly accused victim. "It's not surprising; the senses dull in old age. And Mr. Filch is very old. Very, very old. Very, very, very..."
"That is enough," the professor interrupted before Filch could explode. "Continue your work, Mr. Laplace. You wouldn't want to earn an extension on your final day of detention, would you?"
"Yes, ma'am!"
Professor McGonagall knew perfectly well that another of Simon's pranks was at play here—he likely wanted to pull a fast one on Filch. But proving it would be difficult, for one. She was one hundred percent certain of Filch's hatred for Simon, for two. And keeping Simon in detention for three weeks straight would be overkill, for three. Besides, Simon had been acting up less lately. He was still losing points steadily, of course, but no longer in industrial quantities.
There was progress, which meant it was time to loosen the reins and show him that decent behavior yielded positive results.
Professor McGonagall was second only to Headmaster Dumbledore in teaching seniority, and even that was a mere formal difference in years. In practice, there was no one in the magical world with such an immense wealth of experience dealing with problematic, rowdy children—there was a reason she was the Head of Gryffindor.
There was one exception—Professor Binns. But he... well, yes.
"Get to work."
"Yes, ma'am!"
It took Simon another hour to finish the final hour of his punishment.
"Ciao, Filch," he smirked brazenly at the caretaker. "I hope I never see you again."
Filch didn't miss a beat. He smiled back with his yellow teeth.
"We both know you'll be back in detention soon enough, you little su... wizard!"
Giving him the middle finger and quickly making a break for it, Simon couldn't suppress the grin spreading across his face.
The Disillusionment Charm had worked! Filch hadn't noticed him from three meters away and had immediately run off to complain to McGonagall!
What's more, the charm seemed to work... better on Filch!
Even if you stood perfectly still, if someone stared at a single spot long enough, they could notice a few flaws; he'd learned that much from experiments with Harry and Ron.
But either something was wrong with Filch's eyesight, or his nature as a Squib made him more vulnerable to such charms—either way, he hadn't seen a thing three meters away. A perfect turn of events for Simon!
He'd lucked out with the Slytherins, too.
Simon had originally expected the pack of snot-nosed Slytherins to go crying to their ubiquitous and highly biased Head of House, but in reality, they only shot him venomous glares.
He highly doubted it was a returned favor. More likely, they were simply too ashamed to tell everyone that five of them had been laid out by a single Muggle-born.
Regardless, payback would arrive sooner or later—Simon was certain of that. Their looks were far too... specific.
Let them! Let them seek revenge!
He had his own business to attend to.
After waiting for curfew, Simon got out of bed and dressed, not forgetting his favorite wand. It had become an essential item that was always with him, much like a smartphone before he'd entered the school of magic.
Casting the Disillusionment Charm on himself, Simon cautiously slipped out of the Gryffindor common room and looked around.
One of the portraits near the Fat Lady opened its eyes for a second and pointed a finger toward one of the staircases.
"Thanks..." Simon whispered, barely audible.
Suspecting that Filch wouldn't leave him in peace so easily, Simon had pre-arranged a "lookout" with one of the portraits. The precaution paid off; Filch had indeed been here very recently and was hiding somewhere. The price had merely been acting as an intermediary to introduce him to a lady in a tea-party portrait on the sixth floor—a total trifle.
Treading carefully on his tiptoes in the opposite direction from Filch, Simon slowly made his way down, expecting a trap at any moment.
But this was where his luck decided to have its final say.
Suddenly, a torch from the upper floors fell a meter away from him and flared up.
The Disillusionment Charm had another weakness besides bodily motion. Dynamic background lighting—sharp flashes of light, for example—also made the figure stand out. It caused such massive interference that it was almost impossible to look away from the "chameleon" effect, as it turned into a sort of "disco ball."
"I KNOW THAT'S YOU!" Filch's enraged roar echoed, followed by heavy stomping. "YOU CAN'T HIDE!"
"Shit!" Simon cursed under his breath and ran for all he was worth.
Meanwhile, Filch could partially see his figure through the flickers of the nearby torches. Since he was running at full speed, the blur through which the torchlight pierced was visible even to Filch.
He smelled blood.
"You can't hide from me!"
Filch rounded the corner at full speed, where there was only one door separating two sections of the corridor.
He was already anticipating the moment he'd catch the boy and drag him to the Deputy Headmistress, when...
His body slammed into an invisible obstacle with a loud thud—specifically, the door that Simon had closed behind him, but rendered invisible.
It took Filch about three minutes to come to his senses and stand up with a groan.
Naturally, by that time, Simon had already left the castle and was heading toward the Quidditch pitch.
In the darkness of the night under the Disillusionment Charm, he felt perfectly safe. Yes, the little game with Filch had been a thrill, but the successful escape only brought joy. Everyone needs an emotional rollercoaster, and Simon—an adrenaline junkie—needed it more than most.
Following the familiar route to the broom cupboard, Simon couldn't help but raise a surprised eyebrow.
This time, there was a padlock on the cupboard, likely to keep out people like... well, just Simon.
"As if that's going to stop me," he shook his head and drew his wand. "Alohomora!"
The loud, distinct click was a reward to his ears.
As soon as he'd seen this spell, Simon couldn't suppress his "gypsy" blood and learned it instead of the "Stupefy" he was supposed to be studying.
A self-defense spell? Useful and vital, but...
A spell that opens any lock? Give me two! No, three! Fou-u-u-ur!
Casting the Disillusionment Charm on both himself and the broom, Simon once again immersed himself in the incredible sensation of flight.
Now Simon understood why wizards didn't care about the shape of their transport. Once you sat on and took off on this marvel, the positive charge of emotion instantly knocked out all thoughts of practical design—you just wanted to fly and fly without looking back.
Leaving the school grounds, to be honest, made his blood pump. He was used to breaking rules, of course, but even so, his heart thudmed excitedly in his chest. What if he got caught? What would the teachers' faces look like? What would happen to him afterward?
And yes, Simon loves risk. He simply can't live without it!
Consequently, he only increased his speed and reached Hogsmeade Station—which only operates once a year—in no time. Wizards from the village near Hogwarts—Hogsmeade itself—used the Floo Network, that thing where a person is swallowed by green fire and spat out of another fireplace. Thus, the station was largely ceremonial rather than practical.
All the better for him—there was no one at the station.
There was, however, a train, which Simon boarded with the help of another "Alohomora."
Conjuring a glowing orb on his wand, Simon nonchalantly read the carriage numbers until his feet led him to the fateful number "eight."
On the floor, he once again saw the inscription "3.141" that he had carved both recently and many years ago. Recovering from a surge of conflicting emotions, Simon took a nail from his pocket and scratched "E = mc²" next to it.
Einstein's iconic formula, which had once revolutionized humanity's understanding of the world, now looked almost defiant here—as if with this small, incomprehensible gesture, Simon was simultaneously challenging everyone and screaming about his own helplessness. Helplessness to support his idols. Helplessness to protect their legacy from magic.
"Mass is a form of energy..." Simon whispered, as if magic itself might hear him and decide to punish him for it.
All these magical tricks clearly suggested that physics was not omnipotent. That it might even be fundamentally wrong.
But deep down, Simon rejected the idea that physical laws were worthless. That magic could violate them without regard for the consequences.
He wanted to believe that sooner or later, he—Pierre-Simon Laplace—would show the world another way. A path where neither magic nor physics contradicted each other.
Or perhaps they could depend on and coexist with one another.
And it didn't matter how: through efficiency, power, or the beauty of the method, his approach would force even the wizards most stagnant to change to understand—one must move only forward. Forward and no other way, for that is the path of evolution and progress—concepts whose truth Simon certainly didn't doubt.
Yes, the existence of physics was called into question. It would be utter foolishness to deny that fact after all the contradictions he'd seen.
But in progress as a way of life, as the only path for a person, a nation, and a society—he never doubted that.
The number "π"—a number that cannot be fully expressed.
E = mc²—a formula that links things that seem different.
And both were about the same thing.
Embracing the infinite.
Suddenly, Simon chuckled, looking at the ceiling while lying on the cold floor of the carriage.
"An eleven-year-old Liverpool urchin living on credit is trying to create a Theory of Everything with a straight face."
And suddenly Simon laughed, with such force that tears pricked his eyes.
It was unclear if the laughter improved his mood or, conversely, added to the melancholy.
In any case, his work was not finished.
The return journey went without any problems. Except that a downpour started outside with such force that Simon felt as if he might simply drown on that broomstick.
Nonetheless, he reached the cupboard, carefully snapped the lock back into place, and even managed to get to the common room without running into Filch on the way.
"Caput Draconis," Simon whispered.
The Fat Lady was snoring as loudly as ever.
"Caput Draconis!" he said a bit louder, startling the nearby portraits.
"Eh?" The Fat Lady looked around with a sleepy squint until she noticed a floating hand in front of her. "Do you know what time it is?! What is your name, rulebreaker?!"
"Percy Weasley."
"I shall remember you, Percy Weasley!" the Fat Lady frowned menacingly. "Be assured, Professor McGonagall shall hear of your nightly wanderings. Er... what was it again?"
"Draco Malfoy."
"Right, right! Draco Malfoy, have you no conscience? Portraits need sleep too, and here you are with your..."
Simon's nerves finally snapped.
"JUST OPEN UP, FATTY! How much longer are you going to nag me?! Do your damn job and open the door!"
The lady in the portrait huffed indignantly but opened the portrait hole nonetheless, and Simon lunged through at full speed. His outburst of anger echoed through the floors and woke more than just the Fat Lady.
Constant tension is exhausting, no matter how thrilling the process.
Simon had originally planned to go up to his room and go to sleep, but the sofa and the blazing fire in the common room seemed to hypnotize him, calling to him.
Sitting down in front of the crackling fire, Simon relaxed his shoulders and tried to ignore his wet clothes.
But suddenly, a thought occurred to him...
He was no longer helpless.
He could do magic!
He had finally come to his senses after the previous shocks! A positive charge of emotion really does wonders for the psyche and self-confidence.
And that meant he could go back and... try. Do at least something. Gather information, get a grip, and finally call Harry for help, do something!
Check his "inscription" on the Hogwarts Express, at the very least! That would show whether Simon was a puppet of fate or if he could change anything in principle!
Except...
The mechanism for crossing into another timeline wasn't exactly comfortable.
With a loud, resigned sigh, Simon stood up from the sofa and took a sprinter's stance facing the wall. He needed a good head of steam, as his head was sturdy and used to taking damage.
Closing his eyes at his own stupidity and recklessness, Simon immediately broke into a sprint and slammed his head into the wall with all his might.
Fortunately, it was a solid hit.
He lost consciousness immediately.
---
"Hey, Simon!" A familiar voice woke Simon up. Someone began to lightly slap his cheeks. "Simon, are you alright? Why are you sprawled out in the common room?"
"Huh?"
Simon realized with surprise that Harry was standing over him, and he was lying on the red rug.
Gazing intently at the young face, Simon couldn't help but ask:
"Why aren't you a skoof?"
"What's a skoof?"
"That's you in thirty years!"
[Translator's note: "Skoof" (скуф) is a popular Russian internet slang term used to describe a specific archetype of a middle-aged man. It typically refers to a man over 30 who has neglected his physical appearance—often characterized by being overweight, balding, and looking older than his actual age.
Beyond looks, the term implies a sedentary lifestyle, "uncool" conservative views, and hobbies like drinking beer, watching TV, or playing World of Tanks. It is similar in energy to the "British Gammon" or a less aggressive version of the "American Boomer/Redneck" trope, often used in a self-deprecating or mocking way to highlight a lack of self-care and modern relevance.]
The clarification didn't help Harry understand, but such inexplicable phrases from Simon were par for the course.
Simon stood up with surprise and winced at the bump on his head. He pulled out and downed some Wiggenweld Potion automatically.
"Righ-h-ht," he looked around in bewilderment, not knowing what he was looking for. "So... how do I get back then?"