Chapter 29
"Attention! The train for Hogsmeade Station departs in five minutes. All students and staff, please take your seats! Relatives and chaperones, please do not obstruct the boarding process."
A female announcer's voice echoed across the entire platform, notifying students and parents that it was time to hurry. The already restless platform seemed to descend into even greater turmoil—people moved faster, the screech of suitcase wheels intensified, and tearful, sometimes panicked farewells rang out with renewed vigor.
It was a pleasant routine—a sort of chaos with a positive context that warmed the soul. The anticipation of the children, the hidden anxiety of the parents, the excitement of the upperclassmen—it all merged into an indescribable cocktail before the departure for school.
And because of that, the boy sitting on a bench in front of the train seemed all the more... "contrasting."
With a face turned completely pale and a gaze fixed on nothing, he gripped a smoldering cigarette with trembling fingers, oblivious to the ash burning tiny holes in his robes. It was unclear what stopped the adults from demanding an explanation for such unusual behavior—perhaps the brazen, unashamed cigarette, perhaps the look of a boy who appeared to have been dragged out of a manticore's maw, but most likely both. A distinct aura had formed around Simon, one that practically screamed "do not approach me!"
But the world is not without kind people. Or... curious ones? Or perhaps they simply found the sight offensive?
"Young man," an elderly man frowned disapprovingly. "Smoking at your age is..."
The man cut himself off sharply as the boy's lifeless eyes fixed on him. Slowly, focus returned to Simon's gaze, regaining color, showing that the owner was gradually processing his surroundings.
"What's it to you?" Simon snapped rudely, taking a pointed drag and exhaling a cloud of smoke. "I have a rare magical disease that requires lung cancer to keep it in check, you old goat! And it gets worse when I'm bothered by bored-off-their-ass old men!"
"T-that's..." The man froze in place, stunned, feeling the full "firepower" of Simon's foul mood.
"What are you, Captain America?! This is the second time you've come after me! Who do you think you are—the Pope?! Get the hell out of here!"
The man turned with jerky movements and walked away, seemingly trying to forget the entire encounter.
Simon merely exhaled smoke angrily, tossed the butt into a bin, and pulled out a fresh cigarette.
The paleness of his face and the faint tremor couldn't convey even a hundredth of that unbearable, searing, knife-sharp pain that refused to let go. His body was perfectly fine now, but the mere memory of his belly being ripped open filled him with a phantom agony that made him want to scream, cry, and curl into a ball.
In truth, Simon was quite tolerant of pain—accustomed to it, one might say. Beatings, bruises, even broken bones—he could endure it all and smirk defiantly in the face of the source.
But that excruciating pain that makes you want to die—that specific sensation of internal organs trying to spill out under the pressure of the wound while blood gushes as if from buckets—that pain was impossible to put into words.
His two previous "fatal" injuries had been shots to the head—quick and practically painless. But a disemboweled stomach was true torture, a pain simply beyond imagination.
Simon didn't even know if he was alive or dead in the past!
Even during his suicidal "dive" from the broom, he had suddenly realized with total clarity—death in the "past" would end in... death. No second chances, no nothing, no King's Cross station; there would only be... the end.
And with a normal level of medicine, even with rapid assistance, his wound had been... almost one hundred percent fatal. The ghostly creature's sharp claws had felt as though they went from one rib to the other—something like that simply shouldn't be treatable.
But he was "alive," wasn't he? And... he had heard the song. That clear, melodic bird's trill that seemed to grant him strength. And... the tears of a firebird.
And that bird, considering the wave of magical fire that had passed through him and incinerated the ghost, could only have been a phoenix.
Of course, Magizoology was still a relatively weak point in his knowledge, but he had studied the most "iconic" beasts known even to the Muggle world.
Phoenix—a bird born of fire and dying in fire. Conditions of birth: unknown. Conditions of reproduction: unknown. Lifestyle and habits can vary drastically from one individual to another. In the entire history of the magical world, no more than ten individuals have been recorded, and of those, only half showed any desire for human contact.
Abilities:
Conditional immortality—when a phoenix reaches a terminal age, it bursts into flame and is reborn.
Unlimited teleportation via magical fire.
Magical fire itself, which is highly effective against dark creatures.
The phoenix's song can drive away fear and inspire courage.
Phoenix tears heal even terminal wounds.
Following that logic, he... he shouldn't have died, right? The phoenix wept, didn't it? That means he's... alive?
But Simon had traveled through time, hadn't he? What if he died there and could never return? Meaning, would a bullet to the head now lead him not twenty-seven years into the past, but straight to the afterlife?
How could he even test that? And did he need to?
Frankly, his peculiar "habit" of dying in his home timeline was definitely not normal. He should be striving NOT to die, for God's sake! Magic is magic, but Simon didn't know all the rules and limitations. What if, at some point, an invisible "life counter" simply hit zero and he didn't even feel it?
The image of himself meeting another bullet with a proud, fearless face and then staying dead for good was so absurd that even the phantom pains from his ripped belly subsided.
Simon gave a raspy chuckle and closed his eyes.
"Three minutes until departure!" the announcer rang out again.
The roar grew. Suitcases bumped against each other, owls flapped their wings nervously in their cages, someone sobbed especially loudly. Life was teeming all around him. Normal, vibrant, warm life with its everyday problems.
So why did all this... abnormal shit fall specifically on his head?
Yes, he didn't want a mundane life—he wanted a successful, risky, bright one, but not a mediocre one. But he hadn't asked for these prophecies, terrorist attacks, and constant death threats!
"Three minutes..." Simon muttered thoughtfully. "Do I even need this?"
What awaited him on the train? Another check of his time markers? Another—already the third—meeting with Lily? Another knockout gas canister and a bullet to the brain?
"Maybe to hell with it..." escaped him unconsciously.
"You should board the train soon, young man."
This time, the voice didn't carry the notes of a grumpy old man. It was distinctly male, but not too deep, and it seemed to deliberately ignore the cigarette in his mouth.
Simon slowly looked up and saw a familiar face—those ridiculous glasses and the faded lightning-bolt scar on his forehead.
This year, Harry Potter had turned thirty-eight.
Literally an hour ago, Simon had been talking to his eleven-year-old self.
The years had been... kind to Harry. It was clear the man was in his late thirties, but there were no prominent wrinkles or other stark signs of aging—wizards, after all, live much longer than Muggles. From a scrawny, thin boy, he had transformed into a man—quite fit, without any excess weight. He didn't reek of that proverbial "aura of power," but there was plenty of confidence in his movements.
Not surprising.
The Harry Potter of eleven years ago was a boy who didn't really grasp his own influence. His own history, which had affected the lives of every wizard around him. In principle, there was nothing strange about that; Harry had "taken out" Voldemort as a near-infant. If he'd even done it at all.
But the thirty-eight-year-old Harry Potter was a successful man with three children and a staggering career, with the Minister for Magic on speed dial. And he was the savior of the wizarding world—twice! And the second time, his involvement had been entirely conscious, meaning any applause had moved from the category of "questionable" to "well-deserved."
His mental exhaustion helped him hide any glint of recognition in his eyes. To him, this Harry Potter was just some random guy.
"What's it to you, man?"
"Man?" Harry shook his head with a laugh, searching Simon's face closely. "Haven't we met before?"
Simon's heart skipped a beat.
Carefully scanning his surroundings, he tried to spot any oddities. Nothing seemed to be happening, but his intuition began to whine softly. Simon was currently on very, very thin ice.
"Piss off, four-eyes!" Simon tried to dismiss him quite rudely.
"So, have we met or not?"
"Can you shut the hell up?!" Simon roared. "I'm seeing your stupid face for the first time!"
A strange expression settled on Harry's face. It was as if he realized he should probably be angry, but for some reason he wasn't; he seemed more amused than anything.
"If we haven't met, we haven't met," Harry hummed thoughtfully. "The train leaves in two minutes; don't you want to get on?"
"Nope," Simon replied flippantly, almost yawning. "To hell with Hogwarts. And to hell with you, four-eyes."
Harry's eye twitched.
Somewhere deep inside, he knew he should be angry. The boy sitting across from him, the same age as his daughter, had a character so bold and insolent that Ginny, who was pretending not to eavesdrop, was already grinding her teeth. The normal reaction to such rudeness from a small boy was anger.
But the words of this brat didn't make him angry so much as they annoyed him. And the irritation felt... nostalgic, somehow?
Harry knew he should just... leave. Perhaps leave a comment, or at most threaten him with his authority, but he felt a pull to help this boy. No, Harry was used to helping even strangers—that was just his nature. But here... but here, it was something deeper. As if his inner self had grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and was forcing him to "help."
Besides, the boy's appearance, cigarette aside, left much to be desired. He looked tired and... resigned, perhaps?
"Are you Muggle-born?" Harry tried another angle.
"What's it to you?"
Harry didn't look away.
"I'm just trying to see if you need help," he replied calmly.
"Soft stubbornness—typical Harry," Simon thought distantly.
Simon took a slow drag and blew the smoke directly toward Harry.
"Help?" he smirked. "Who even are you? A social worker? A pastor? A secret agent for saving lost souls? A vacuum cleaner salesman?"
"Harry," the man introduced himself briefly.
"Just Harry, for God's sake!"
Simon couldn't suppress a chuckle.
"Modesty—that's part of his character too. You don't change a damn bit, Potter, even if you put on a more expensive jacket."
"Thanks, Harry," Simon drawled lazily. "Now I have some useless information."
Somewhere to the side, Ginny took a sharp breath. Harry just tilted his head slightly, as if studying him.
"At moments like this, it's customary to introduce yourself."
"I don't give a shit," Simon cut him off instantly.
"Young man, show at least a grain of resp—"
"I don't give a shit."
"We can talk calmly—"
"I don't give a shit."
This time, Harry's hands began to shake. This time, it was definitely out of anger.
And just as he drew breath for a furious tirade, the Hogwarts Express let out a loud whistle and a puff of smoke. Parents and children screamed out together in joy, as if in some peculiar ritual of departure.
"Merlin," Harry muttered. "You've missed the train!"
"And I-I-I-I don't give a shi-i-i-i-it..." Simon sang out.
The savior of the wizarding world shifted an irritated gaze from the train to Simon and back again several times, as if trying to figure something out. Many things were on his mind. A multitude of questions. But at the forefront was...
"Why don't you want to go to Hogwarts?" Harry asked in genuine bewilderment. "Are you afraid? It's always scary the first time..."
"Yeah," Simon replied emotionlessly. "Yeah, I'm afraid."
"Afraid of dying."
"Could I..." Harry pointed to the spot next to Simon. "...sit down?"
"No," Simon replied laconically. "Get lost."
Harry nodded and simply sat down.
"You know, Simon..." Harry hesitated. "In my first year, everything seemed... strange. New. Suddenly, your whole life turns upside down, you don't know what to do, where to go..."
Simon didn't interrupt Harry, as the latter had expected. Surprisingly, he was listening intently. Harry exhaled and smiled slightly, like a man remembering something warm.
"You know... Hogwarts isn't just a school," Harry began calmly. "It's a place where life starts to play with new colors. Colors you've never seen before and can't even describe. But you can't imagine your life without them anymore."
Simon raised a skeptical eyebrow.
"Not the person your parents think you are. Not the person you pretend to be to survive. But the real you," Harry continued. "There, you find people who become more than just classmates... they become family."
He paused for a second, clearly remembering something.
"A boy from a cupboard can become anything—whatever his soul desires. You will choose, you will make mistakes, you will fall, but Hogwarts will always support you."
Simon smirked.
"Nice pitch."
Harry didn't take offense.
"It's not just a fairy tale. It's a place where you face the worst in yourself... and the best. Where you're taught not just spells, but responsibility. Friendship. Courage."
Harry watched the departing train and the trail of steam it left behind.
"You know, my years at Hogwarts weren't actually peaceful," Harry smiled. "I'd love to lie, but no—they were even dangerous to some extent. But... I wouldn't trade those years for anything. Those years of a youth that wasn't exactly carefree, but was unique. Hogwarts is about everything, and Hogwarts is forever."
"Magic is about everything. And magic is forever," the words of old Ollivander echoed inside him.
Simon's face turned to stone.
He could curse his ill fortune. Its unpredictability. He could scream bloody murder at the stupidity of those around him and all the trials that had somehow fallen specifically to his lot.
But Hogwarts—with its moving staircases, its portraits, and magic in every speck of dust—was an enchanting place that was impossible to forget. In one of his bouts of self-pity, he had allowed himself small fantasies of never having been a wizard. But Hogwarts was worth it. Magic was worth it. Even if all his plans for life had gone to hell.
Simon took a deep breath. Resolve flowed through his veins once more. The gloom receded.
"Well, what am I supposed to do now?" Simon threw his hands up theatrically. "The train's already gone while you were busy talking my ear off!"
Harry's eye twitched again.
"We can use the Floo Network. I'll help you."
"No-o-o-o-o!" Simon yelled. "I WANT TO BE ON THE TRAIN!"
"But it's already gone..."
"EITHER THE TRAIN OR I JUMP IN THE THAMES!" Simon shrieked like a spoiled child. "Mister, you told me yourself that Hogwarts is a magical place."
"Well, yes," Harry muttered, bewildered. "Hogwarts, not the train..."
"And the name of the train is: the Hogwarts Express! Harry, you're an adult, think of something! Help me, please! Get me on that train somehow! Come on, four-eyes, use your brain!"
Harry wanted to refuse, truly. Encourage the boy and go about his business; someone would surely help him—the station staff, for instance. But... for some reason, he couldn't refuse this boy. He just couldn't. His subconscious was telling him: you can't abandon him.
With a sigh, Harry turned to his wife. The red-haired woman sighed irritably and rolled her eyes.
"You never change, Potter," Ginny shook her head and walked off in the other direction. Home, presumably.
After an awkward goodbye, Harry took a wooden ring off his index finger, which transformed into a broom under Simon's surprised gaze.
"The latest model," Harry boasted proudly, adjusting his glasses. "A portable broom! You... aren't afraid of flying, are you?"
"Are you kidding? Brooms and I are on a first-name basis!"
A minute later, amidst the surprised cries of parents, Harry and Simon took flight together toward the departing Hogwarts Express.
It took them a mere three minutes to land on the roof of the moving train. Harry had taken the precaution of charming their shoes with a Sticking Charm, but standing on a speeding train was still unnerving.
Some carriages had hatches leading to the roof, and Simon and Harry approached one of them.
"Alohomora," Harry muttered, opening the hatch. "Lucky no one's inside. Explaining this would be... difficult."
"Um," Simon swallowed pointedly, looking into the empty compartment. "Harry, could you... go down first and catch me?"
"Catch you?" Harry muttered in surprise. "It's not that high..."
"I'm afraid of heights!"
Harry blinked.
"I didn't notice that on the broom, somehow..."
"I'm afraid of falling! Just help me, four-eyes!"
"Fine," Harry shrugged and jumped down first.
A second later, he watched in surprise as Simon jumped down after him.
"I thought you were afraid—"
"OH MY GOD!" Simon screamed in panic, pointing behind Harry. "WHAT IS THAT?!"
Blinking in confusion, Harry turned around...
"STUPEFY!"
...and froze like a wooden post, landing on the seat a second later with a thud.
"Always were a naive idiot, and you still are," Simon clicked his tongue, covering Harry with a Disillusionment Charm. "You really don't change, Potter!"