Chapter 28
A month had passed. A month of fruitless hopes for... his own failure.
Through trial and error, it had been established that simple loss of consciousness was not a prerequisite for time travel.
He had lost consciousness, yes. But either the intensity of the blow wasn't enough, or something else was wrong. He was crazy, certainly—crazy enough to literally run into a wall—but he wasn't ready for more "in-depth" experiments. Besides, he had achieved his goal: he lost consciousness, and nothing happened.
There had only been two instances of displacement so far.
First: a package falls on his head, knocking him out and sending him back to the future.
Second: he is struck by lightning, again knocking him out and sending him to the future.
Perhaps loss of consciousness was not the cause, but rather a byproduct of the displacement mechanism.
That left one single reason that could more or less fit all the given conditions:
An excessive spike in his irrational—most likely magical or mystical—ill fortune, which brought a loss of consciousness in its wake.
So, ironically, all he could do was hope for... his own bad luck.
And it didn't let him down. Or rather, it did. Or rather, it didn't let him down, but it let him down in a very harsh way.
At the one moment in his life when Simon WANTED—or rather, NEEDED—to spiral into an unconscious state, the incredible spikes of bad luck simply... stopped.
The misfortune simply ceased to cross a certain threshold, which was its own kind of bad luck. The mishaps seemed to slow down, but looking at the big picture, that was also a manifestation of ill fortune.
In short, things weren't actually that terrible, but the fact was, he didn't want them to be fine.
As always, the "perfect" goddamn outcome for him.
From the start, the chosen strategy was to sit tight and wait until someone or something kicked him twenty-seven years into the future. Given all the previous incidents, the plan was deemed solid, despite the passivity of the approach.
But after a month of fruitlessly sitting on his ass, Simon realized he had to do something. And in truth, he had a Plan B. For once, Simon cursed his own genius, because on paper, the plan should work almost every time, but he might not survive the consequences.
Yet after a month of stagnation, Simon realized he could wait no longer. Fear and doubt were cast aside simply because he didn't want to tread water. His mind demanded answers and more data, and his restless nature craved adrenaline-fueled adventures. After all, Filch had been downgraded from "final boss" to a mere "annoying NPC"—messing with his head during night excursions had already become boring.
So, bracing himself for another bout of madness bordering on suicide, Simon slowly chewed his breakfast, listening to his friends with one ear and scanning the surroundings with a disinterested gaze.
His eyes landed on Hermione "The Insufferable Know-It-All"—as her peers had dubbed her—Granger, who was preoccupied with rewriting an essay even during breakfast. Even when that specific essay wasn't due until next week!
By the way, that specific essay had been written by Simon just yesterday; he'd spent about forty minutes on it. It took that long only because his chicken-scratch hand hadn't quite adjusted to writing with a quill. And Hermione herself had written that essay long ago, he was sure of it; she just thought about it and... decided to rewrite it. No one dared underestimate the perfectionism of the future Minister for Magic!
In general, a month of steady studying and a sharp decrease in his point-losing activities was enough for those around him to change their opinion of him from "Complete Madman" to "Brilliant Madman."
Every homework assignment was completed meticulously and on time. In every essay, he utilized the full breadth of his erudition, making references not only to Muggle discoveries but to the magical world as well, complete with citations of specialized literature. In every lesson, his spells were performed faster and more accurately than anyone else's, and his potions consistently turned out to be of the highest quality. Granted, Simon and Neville still received a steady "Acceptable," simply because Snape couldn't bring himself to do otherwise.
Essentially, after nearly two months of school, Simon had developed a reputation as a genius with a motor up his ass and a sharp tongue he didn't bother to hold. This suited him perfectly; even Professor McGonagall had stopped looking at him as a guaranteed future resident of Azkaban—the local wizarding prison.
Now she looked at him as a *potential* resident of Azkaban. Progress, as they say, is progress!
"What are you fussing over now?" Simon asked Hermione with a seemingly friendly smile. "Want to copy mine?"
The question was pure provocation. The proud girl would never agree to such a thing, which she expressed with an angry huff, not even deigning to answer.
Actually, Simon himself never refused to help his friends with cheating. However, one instance with Ron was enough; Professor McGonagall had pointedly and loudly praised him, asking when the youngest Weasley had found the time to read third-year material. Hearing a hesitant bleat in response, the professor, not at all surprised, gave him a fat "Troll" grade and shot Simon a warning look. In short, Simon's homework always earned the highest marks—except in Potions—but it was so specific and characteristic that one couldn't even partially copy it.
Marveling once again at his own incredible exceptionalism, Simon asked Hermione another question.
"You're already getting top marks," Simon hummed. "So why are you still laboring over it?"
In the last month, Hermione had taken it quite hard that Simon had surpassed her in everything almost effortlessly. Formally they were equals—in fact, Hermione was ahead of him thanks to Potions!—but she spent most of her time on "merely" excellent results, while Simon was already studying advanced topics, aiming for "distinction."
The girl had withdrawn into herself a bit and poured all her strength into surpassing him. It was working... with mixed success.
But the reason for his persistent questioning was that lately, the girl had gone completely off the rails. Hermione was literally glued to her books and parchment twenty-four-seven!
"They're catching up to me," the girl reluctantly admitted with a dissatisfied grumble. "Breathing right down my neck!"
Simon hummed thoughtfully.
"So, 'third place,' then?"
Hermione's eyes bugged out.
"Well, if you're 'second,' then 'third' is catching up to you?"
It seemed her bushy brown hair was standing on end with rage.
"And you're 'second' because I'm 'first,' right?"
"I've had enough, Simon!"
The girl wanted to stand up and "slam the door," but Simon, with a conciliatory laugh, took her by the shoulders and sat her back down.
"I was just joking," he chuckled at the sullen Hermione. "So, who's catching up to you? Someone from Ravenclaw?"
The House of the blue eagles generally lived up to its reputation—a reputation for individualists with a pronounced drive for knowledge and good grades.
Their year was something of an anomaly, as the top two spots were held by Gryffindor students—one the teachers' pet, the other their curse.
Even the sweetheart Professor Flitwick, after another delighted exclamation, would specify that Simon should do nothing else and just stay in his seat!
"From Slytherin," Hermione whispered.
The chatter of the nearby first-years ceased. It was as if Hermione had uttered a sacred incantation that made any Gryffindor's blood boil.
Two months had been enough for all the first-year students to soak up the house spirit. An indomitable spirit, a sort of youthful romanticism centered around a thirst for adventure and... rivalry with Slytherin.
This conflict had been born literally at the founding of Hogwarts as a School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Two of the four founders—Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin—clashed over their visions for the future and politics of the wizarding world, and eventually had a final falling out. Salazar Slytherin simply left the school at some point, and the first Headmaster, Godric Gryffindor, also lost interest in their creation. Their conflict triggered the end of the four founders as a monolithic group of the greatest wizards of their time.
And this conflict trickled down to the house level, persisting through the centuries.
Upperclassmen competed with each other. Quidditch teams rivaled and constantly bickered. Even the first-years didn't lag behind; on the contrary, they only fanned the flames further!
Harry Potter, the "local celebrity and idol," Ron Weasley, a "legacy Gryffindor," and Simon Laplace, the "Reckless Frenchman"—none of them hid their rivalry with Slytherin or their personal dislike.
It was no wonder everyone else followed the lead of their "leaders."
Basically, seeing Draco Malfoy and any of that trio together right now without an argument was practically impossible. They began bickering at every opportunity.
One might wonder why Simon spent his precious time on such trivial, unrelated conflicts. Simon's answer would be simple and concise: it was fun. It was interesting, and the Slytherins with their arrogant faces annoyed him immensely. On the contrary, at every opportunity, Simon only fueled the conflict, like a madman tossing logs into a growing fire.
"Draco?" Ron asked in surprise. "Draco Malfoy is breathing down your neck? He's just a slug!"
"Nice one, Ron!" With an approving smile, Simon clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Give that slug hell!"
Generally, Gryffindors didn't much care who held what spot on the honor roll. Unless, of course, a Slytherin started surpassing a Gryffindor—then everyone would get involved and root for their own.
"Not Draco," Hermione rolled her eyes as if insulted. She lowered her voice and said in a practically solemn whisper: "...it's Daphne Greengrass."
For a second, a stunned silence hung over the table until Simon broke it:
"...Who?"
Harry, equally confused, didn't stay silent either:
"I don't remember her either. Does she actually go to Slytherin?"
"Are you serious?" Hermione asked, aghast at the total blankness in their eyes. "We've been going to classes together for two months! Even the dullest troll would remember their peers! She's—she's a beautiful blonde, every bit the aristocratic blue-blood, the 'Ice Queen'! How can you forget or not notice her?!"
"Ah..." Ron nodded wisely. "I think I remember... yeah, Daphne..."
"Even Ron remembers her!"
"What do you mean 'even'?!" followed indignantly from Ron.
Simon rolled his eyes with a sigh and turned to his friend:
"Ron, do you remember that short, fat blonde from Hufflepuff? The one with dragon wings, rabbit teeth, and he farts rainbows."
"Do you take me for an idiot?" Ron asked suspiciously.
"You don't remember?!" Simon acted "sincerely" shocked. "How could you not remember him?! Rainbows, Ron! Rain–bows! Right, Harry?"
Harry tried to suppress a burgeoning smile.
"Yeah, Ron, how could you?"
"A-a-a-a-ah!" Ron suddenly "remembered" sharply. "So that's who you mean! I didn't get it at first!"
Simon turned with a smile to a resigned Hermione and shrugged, as if to say: "See?"
"I don't understand..." Hermione muttered, stunned. "Do you even know anyone from Slytherin besides Draco?"
"I remember Pansy—she's got a big mouth."
"Millicent! The chubby one!"
"We know all the blokes!"
"Yeah, we know all the Slytherins! Don't take us for fools, Hermione!"
"And Daphne Greengrass?" Hermione looked hopefully at those around her.
Empty stares were her only answer.
"Hermione," Simon placed a hand on the girl's shoulder with an awkward smile. "You don't need to make up excuses and invent imaginary rivals. We all know how much you love studying, and there's nothing wrong with that..."
"Do you seriously think I made up Daphne Greengrass?" Hermione asked, her tongue barely moving.
Sympathetic looks were her answer.
"Fine, I'm going to the common room to do homework," Hermione stood up like a robot. "Madhouse."
Smiling at another day in Gryffindor, Simon rose from his seat and took a deep breath, bracing himself for business.
"Where are you going, Simon?" Harry asked, surprised. "We have class starting in the second period..."
"I wanted to consult with someone," Simon said with a vague shake of his head. "I'll be at the lesson... probably."
---
The Divination classroom was located almost at the very top of Hogwarts' North Tower.
Incidentally, perhaps one reason why all the students didn't turn into butterballs with such heavy meals was the constant stairs. A sort of alternative to aerobics.
The classroom itself was a strange sight. Simon felt like he was at a fortune teller's; specific knick-knacks were hanging everywhere, like dreamcatchers and other "mystical" amulets. The light was dimmed by thick curtains, and a specific scent of incense hung in the air.
Professor Trelawney herself wasn't there, and entering without permission was technically rude, but... where ethics ended, Simon began.
There was one specific way to trigger a sharp spike in bad luck—he had to use his Gift. The Gift of Simon the Prophet, whose existence he was one hundred percent sure of. Last time, from a simple palm reading—chiromancy—he had been struck by lightning in the middle of an open field.
And while Simon had internally decided the Gift wasn't worth it... that changed today.
He was tired of standing still, constantly waiting and hoping for a trap. He loathed the loss of control, so he decided to take matters into his own hands.
Initially, he wanted to wait for Professor Sybill Trelawney's arrival, but as soon as he spotted the crystal ball on the teacher's desk, those thoughts vanished.
He suddenly realized with total clarity that unlike all the other junk, this crystal ball with the swirling mist inside was real. And... it was as if it were calling to him. As if it were begging him to touch it.
Simon swallowed hard and fought back the goosebumps crawling over his skin. His intuition was conflicted: on one hand, it demanded he use the crystal ball and show everyone the magnitude of his Gift; on the other, it screamed profanities about the necessity of being on the other side of the planet from this thing.
"Just a peek..." Simon whispered, slowly reaching out his hand. "Just one..."
His trembling fingers nervously touched the cold surface, and before Simon's wide eyes, the mist inside began to swirl and change color.
...until a bright flash struck.
"DAMN IT!" Simon roared, clutching his eyes. "What the hell?!"
The black spots faded after a minute, but the painful squint and bloodshot eyes didn't vanish so quickly.
"Hey..." Simon's face changed abruptly. "I didn't see anything."
A wave of irrational fear washed over him again. Much, much more terrifying than last time.
"I didn't—I didn't see anything... There was just a flash of light..." Simon said in a trembling voice to the empty classroom. "I..."
I have to run!
With all possible speed, he ran out of the classroom, feeling the weight of impending misfortune on his shoulders. But he froze instantly when he saw an "obstacle" before him.
"Sir Nicholas?" he called out to the familiar ghost, his voice laced with fear.
The house ghost didn't answer.
The normally smiling, grey man began to flicker and twitch uncontrollably. Sensing a threat, Simon decided to act pre-emptively.
"Stupefy!"
The spell passed through the ghost and hit the wall behind him.
"Hey..." Simon began to walk, pressing himself against the wall. "Easy... easy..."
"A-A-A-A-AH!"
A piercing scream struck his eardrums and caused such terror that Simon froze for a second.
The screaming ghost, with black voids where its eyes and mouth should be, extended long claws and headed straight for Simon with incredible speed.
And at the moment when he was mere centimeters from being torn apart, a previously motionless suit of armor—a piece of decor—suddenly thrust out its halberd.
With a loud clang, the monster's claws collided with the iron halberd.
The simple suit of armor had suddenly come to life and stood between the ghost and Simon.
"Thanks!" Simon said hurriedly and ran on.
But at the next turn, they were waiting for him. Several ghosts, resembling Sir Nicholas, had turned into shrieking monsters whose primary goal was simple and clear: to tear Simon to pieces.
And this time, he was saved again.
A colorful spirit stood before the ghosts—a stout flying man with a ridiculous hat and the outfit of some kind of clown. Simon immediately knew who had come to his aid. The most hated spirit of Hogwarts—Peeves. Unlike other ghosts, he didn't just annoy students; he could manipulate objects—practically every student at Hogwarts had been a victim of his nagging pranks at some point.
The Weasley twins had complained to Simon many times, but he hadn't yet had the chance to meet him.
"Run!" Peeves shouted loudly and began to fight off the ghosts quite vigorously with a mop. He turned to Simon. "Run faster! Hogwarts will help you!"
"T-thanks..." Simon muttered and ran toward the stairs.
When he saw them, he once again couldn't contain his surprise. To the screams of startled students, the stairs broke their usual movement pattern and synchronized into a straight path from his floor to the very bottom. The torches on the stairs blinked like lights on a runway, as if hinting that he should follow exactly this route.
And just as Simon hoped he could escape...
A ghostly monster's hand reached out from a nearby wall and simply ripped open Simon's stomach with its claws.
Simon screamed in agony, clutching the bleeding wound. Strength left his body all at once, as if foreshadowing the end. He felt life itself leaving his body.
Before death, the world seemed to freeze, or slow down to negligible speeds. He saw the ghostly monster slowly crawling out of the wall, its long sharp claws reaching to tear apart the already dying Simon.
He cried from the sharp, unbearable pain and groaned at his own helplessness. His trembling lips were pale from blood loss, and a wet, sticky red puddle seemed to flow around his dying body.
He felt death approaching...
...until he heard a beautiful bird's trill, which made even death itself pull back its limbs.
A wave of searing heat passed through him, not singeing a single hair, but incinerating the ghost in a matter of moments.
A second later, the most beautiful of all existing birds landed on his chest. Red, burning, with intelligent eyes that seemed to look right into his soul.
"I... h-hurt..." Simon whispered in a voice that was trembling and growing weaker by the second. "I... hurt... so much..."
The bird replied with a mournful trill and... it wept.
And its tears drove death away.
And Simon's mind... fell into a saving sleep.