Chapter 9
Time spent talking with new people who are just as fascinated by magic as you are passes quickly and unnoticed.
Before Simon knew it, the world outside the train window had gone dark and the faint rocking had stopped. Only the dull ache in his backside reminded him they'd been travelling for quite a while.
He was already wearing his robes—he'd changed on the "future" train, which, by the way, added yet another contradictory detail to his displacement. Hermione had changed right at the start, while Harry and Ron had pulled theirs on in the corridor.
His first impression of meeting the future pillars of the magical world was contradictory. To everyone else they were just ordinary children, but Simon had read about them in the newspapers of that future!
One of them—Minister for Magic! And a Muggle-born at that, which already hinted at certain difficulties!
The second—Harry Potter! Famous in the future and even now! The born hero, for fuck's sake!
The third… well, Ron. No matter how hard Simon tried to remember, nothing much seemed to have been written about Ron, yet Lily had unambiguously called him "Uncle." And it wasn't clear in what sense—"uncle" as Dad's best friend, or "uncle" as actual family. Harry apparently had no siblings or surviving parents, while Ron had—according to his offhand remarks—a younger sister.
So what—Harry had broken the bro code and started going after his mate's sister? Nice one, Harry!
You could say Simon had witnessed with his own eyes the birth of some political bloc that would one day stand at the head of the magical world. Or perhaps he'd even become part of it! What if he never returned to his own time?! At least this way he'd hedged his bets! People didn't usually survive a bullet to the head, did they?
Unlike second through seventh years, first-years had a separate route to the castle. Apparently some old tradition.
That was why the last ones off the train were the noisy flock of eleven-year-olds who would soon begin to unravel the mysteries of magic.
"Hm…" Simon felt the dampness almost on his skin. "Scotland? I suppose there was no point expecting Bali."
"We're in Scotland?" Hermione asked in surprise and began looking around. Naturally, in the pitch-black surrounding forest she saw nothing. "What are you making up?! A History of Hogwarts clearly states that the school's location is secret! You couldn't possibly know it's in Scotland!"
Hermione was a clever girl. The kind who always got honour certificates while her parents were buried under praise.
But she was also infuriatingly insufferable when she tried to prove she knew more than everyone else.
This time, though, she'd run into someone smarter—and someone even more irritating.
Simon gave the most condescending snort he could manage and straightened his collar. The outraged look on Hermione's face made it clear the gesture hadn't escaped her.
"'Secret' doesn't mean 'turn your brain off'."
Harry and Ron held their breath as though a battle was about to erupt. Simon felt a little ashamed to admit it, but on the train he'd actually been slightly intimidated by the girl—not because she'd managed something he couldn't! Now he was ready to unleash the usual restrained superiority he'd held back earlier.
"First—" Simon raised a finger "—time. We left London in the morning. It's been dark for ages, and we arrived right on schedule for dinner. We've been travelling roughly eight hours—that already suggests a long distance."
"The train could have gone in circles!" Hermione snorted. "And then… I don't know… teleported!"
"How much do you have to hate children to stick them on a train until their tailbones fall off and their stomachs glue themselves to their spines from hunger—just to 'confuse' them? And then teleport them anyway?!"
For a second Simon remembered all the madness he'd seen earlier. He briefly doubted his own reasoning.
"…let's assume they're not that sadistic and there's a celebratory dinner waiting at school, all right? Second—humidity. Constant high humidity, but no sign of recent rain. I hope you can at least see there are no drops on the branches?" While Hermione sucked in an outraged breath, he continued: "The ground is cold but not frozen, and the air feels heavy—that happens either near the sea or in the north with frequent precipitation."
"High humidity doesn't prove anything!" Hermione grumbled. "The whole of Great Britain is in the same geographic zone! Conditions are similar everywhere!"
Simon didn't react to her attempt to poke holes in his logic. He wasn't finished.
"Third—the sky. Low clouds, but there are breaks. See—over there?" He pointed upward. "Stars."
"I… don't know astronomy," she admitted with shame.
An eleven-year-old girl wasn't really supposed to. But she and Simon shared one trait—they both hated having their competence questioned in anything.
"No problem," Simon said, apparently softening, though he made no effort to hide the triumph in his eyes. "Anyway—look right up there. That's the North Star—my old friend! In Liverpool it hangs noticeably higher than in London, and here it's even higher than in Liverpool."
"Noticeably" in his terms meant holding up his little finger and using it to gauge the degree difference.
"But…" Hermione frowned. "The difference is tiny!"
"You just don't know what you're looking at," Simon said condescendingly. "Bottom line—add up travel time, climate, humidity, and star position, and the simplest, most logical conclusion is that we're north of England."
"'North of England' isn't the same as Scotland!"
"You're right—but I'm not done," Simon shrugged and crouched to examine the soil. "See the colour? It's darker—much darker than at home—and it's not clay or loam. That kind forms under constant moisture and low temperatures. Farther south it's lighter and drier. Here the water drains slowly, so organic matter builds up over years. Next—sounds. Almost no insect noise—in England in this weather they'd be screaming. And the trees—bloody hell! They're wider and shorter, like they've been bent! That happens where wind is a constant factor—steady and persistent."
"Wow…" Harry looked around. "I didn't even notice the differences until you said it!"
"Now put it all together! Long journey, steady humidity, peaty soil, wind, North Star, and that constant cold feeling."
Simon spread his arms.
"I can't say with one hundred percent certainty that we're in Scotland, but we're definitely somewhere close. And if I were betting…" He grinned. "…I'd always put my money on Scotland!"
Hermione stared at him for several seconds, then said quietly:
"Even if that's true… you still can't be sure. You just can't!"
She huffed indignantly, turned her back on them, and disappeared into the crowd.
"Er… don't be upset," Harry tried to console him. "I think it sounded logical and cool! Like Sherlock Holmes!"
"I didn't understand a word," Ron muttered blankly.
Simon looked at Harry like he was an idiot.
"I'm not upset. I know it was brilliant and probably correct."
"Uh-huh…"
"And Simon Laplace scores from the free kick—equaliser! Liverpool goal! Woo-hoo!"
Simon's celebration was rather rudely interrupted.
"Harry!" A cheerful bass boomed right beside them. "Harry—hello!"
"Bloody hell," Simon gaped. "You're three metres something! You'd tear the NBA apart! Next to you Shaquille O'Neal looks like a toddler!"
"Well…" The giant smiled shyly into his beard. "Just how I am! What's the NBA?"
"Hagrid—hi!" Harry greeted his friend happily. "These are my new friends—Ron and Simon!"
"Hagrid" turned out to be a tall, bearded man with long black hair, dressed in a brown coat. Correction—he was VERY tall and broad-shouldered. If you stacked Harry, Ron, and Simon together, Hagrid would still be wider! In his hands the giant held an oil lamp and towered over the first-years like a baobab among bushes.
"First-years—follow me!" he boomed and led them down a path.
As it turned out, Hagrid was their escort and—according to Harry's offhand remarks—his friend who'd taken him to Diagon Alley. He was the local gamekeeper who—again according to Harry—loved magical creatures very much.
But Simon's thoughts about why Hagrid's knees didn't turn to dust under his own weight were quickly cut short when they reached the shore of the Black Lake—the famous body of water beside Hogwarts.
"Three or four to a boat!"
But it took the first-years more than one try to realise what Hagrid had said. Because on the opposite shore stood their obvious destination.
Hogwarts—the most magical place in all of Britain, according to British wizards themselves.
Its beauty was impossible to convey. Even Simon froze in awe, unable to speak.
The word "castle" felt too mundane and impersonal to capture what this place truly was.
Hogwarts didn't simply stand on high ground—it was the high ground itself, drawing every eye upward.
Hundreds of windows glowed with warm golden light, as though someone lived and waited in each one. That light reflected on the dark surface of the Black Lake, shattering into thousands of glints, making the castle seem to float between two skies—one overhead and one drowned in water.
Several towers reached skyward, reinforcing the impression of something grand yet never ostentatious or vulgar. It felt right. The walls looked ancient—worn by wind and rain—yet carried no weakness, no decay. On the contrary—they radiated calm, assured strength.
Their boat glided quietly across the water, but they didn't speak—they couldn't tear their eyes from the literally magical sight.
Even Simon couldn't find words to fully describe Hogwarts.
He felt the age of the place in every pore—every era this castle had witnessed.
Hogwarts seemed to breathe antiquity and monumentality.
Yet it didn't feel distant.
Quite the opposite—Hogwarts seemed to invite them inside, tempting them to uncover all its inner secrets.
Now Simon understood why no British wizard could ever forget this place.
He certainly never would.
Just the sight of this ancient organism, this magical structure, was worth everything his previous life had thrown at him. It was absolutely worth it.
But his awe—like so many times before—was shattered by one unforeseen circumstance. A very familiar one, and therefore no less infuriating.
Namely—a thick, blunt object striking him squarely on the crown of the head.
"Merlin's beard!" Ron exclaimed. "You all right, Simon?!"
"I…" His eyes began to close as dull pain swallowed his consciousness. "We're… in the bloody… lake… where…"
"Simon!" Harry cried in panic as he started to tip sideways.
Straight into the Black Lake.
His consciousness faded right before water flooded his mouth.
*****
"FUCK!"
People around turned toward the rather loud curse that burst from the mouth of a boy who'd stumbled out of the column.
They glanced at the rising child, then returned their attention to the Hogwarts Express, from whose windows their own children were still waving.
"Attention!" a neutral female voice announced across the platform. "The train to Hogsmeade Station departs in five minutes. All students and staff—please take your seats! Parents and escorts—please do not obstruct boarding."
"What?" Simon spun around, staring at the familiar scene.
He… had returned through time.
More precisely—returned to the future. More precisely—returned to his present.
And even within the journey he'd managed to "time-travel" again! He'd come back exactly to the moment he'd fallen out of the Platform Nine and Three-Quarters column!
Simon checked his belongings. Trunk—present! Wand—present! iPhone in place!
"Is this a hallucination?" he muttered, looking around and noting every detail, growing more convinced he was back in two thousand and eighteen. "No… I wouldn't have the imagination to invent the grandeur of Hogwarts. No time—shit!"
Swearing again, Simon sprinted with all his strength and leapt onto the train.
He checked carriage numbers until he found the cherished number eight.
Inside, the familiar red-haired girl was already sitting and waiting.
"Hello, Lily!" he shouted as he ran.
"Hello," she said uncertainly, watching him. "Do we know each other…?"
"I'll explain later!"
Ignoring the girl's strange look, Simon dropped flat on the floor and peered under the seat.
His eyes lit up instantly.
There it was, scratched into the surface: "3.141"! The number pi—the special mark he'd deliberately left in the "past"!
"First experiment confirms direct connection between the two time periods!" Simon exclaimed joyfully. "This isn't a parallel reality! It's cause and effect! Well… I still can't confirm whether this is madness or not."
"What?" Lily stared at him with round eyes.
"But this is only the first part of the experiment!" Simon's excitement flared. "If I go back to the past, I need to leave another mark next to it to understand—does my time travel follow Novikov's self-consistency principle, and are any changes possible at all?! Lily!"
"Yes?!" the girl squeaked in fright.
"Where's your father?!"
"He's…" Lily pointed out the window. "…standing there… waiting. Are you a fan?"
Simon didn't hear her questions anymore. He bolted back, bursting out of the train in under a minute and sprinting toward the man with the already-faded scar on his forehead.
In the future Harry looked roughly his age—around thirty-five. The skinny boy had never become a bodybuilder, but he was a confident, wiry man. Beside him stood a red-haired woman—probably his wife.
"Harry! Harry—I need help!"
Of course he wasn't going to handle the attackers alone! He wasn't an idiot?!
In this situation the most logical move was to "tell an adult." And if that adult was the head of law enforcement—and your friend—even better.
"Harry—someone's going to attack the train! They're loaded with gear and they've got automatics! Probably Muggles—I didn't see any magic!"
"Sorry?" Harry gave an awkward smile—his characteristic one. "Do we know each other?"
"What?" Simon blinked. "Right—twenty-seven years have passed! You've probably forgotten! My name is Pierre Simon Laplace! On the first of September, nineteen ninety-one, we rode the Hogwarts Express together!"
"You've got something mixed up," Harry smiled cheerfully. "I rode with Hermione and Ron—there's no way you could have been there…"
Harry winced as though from a sudden headache.
Simon's eyes lit up.
"Remember, Harry!" he pressed insistently. "I'm from Liverpool! Hermione and I argued! I called Ron ginger and his useless rat useless!"
"Harry?" his wife asked worriedly. "Are you all right?"
The man suddenly grimaced; blood began trickling from his nose.
And then…
…Harry went pale.
"Simon…"
Simon smiled joyfully—the tone made it clear Harry recognised him.
"…you shouldn't have told me that."
Harry's head exploded in a fountain of blood, drenching Simon from head to toe in fragments.
With a trembling hand Simon wiped blood from his cheek and held it up to his eyes.
"Oh g-god…" he muttered hysterically. "I killed Harry Potter!"
Another bloody explosion.
The red-haired woman didn't even have time to scream before her head turned to red mist, just like her husband's a second earlier.
Simon jerked around in horror-filled spasms, seeing people torn apart again and again.
Including the children inside the Hogwarts Express. Windows were painted red from the inside over and over.
They didn't even have time to scream—they simply burst.
Unable to find words to describe the bone-chilling phenomenon, Simon noticed one more anomaly.
The light began to flicker. Not the platform lights—no…
…the sky.
Under Simon's even more shocked gaze, the Sun and Moon began swapping places. And they did it in mere seconds. The sun replaced the moon—they traced paths across the sky as though the entire world had been put on fast-forward. Day swapped with night, happening dozens of times per second.
His knees gave way. And not only from shock—his hands were turning into wrinkled sponges.
Simon began to age, gaining decades in heartbeats.
When leaning on his arms no longer helped, Simon collapsed helplessly to the ground. His face was etched with deep wrinkles; grey hair fell out in clumps. Even his eyes faded, unmistakably blind.
"What… the hell… is happening…"
His consciousness slowly clouded until…
…his body turned to dust.