Chapter 12
Even mornings in Hogwarts felt magical.
For once the overcast clouds had cleared, and sunlight slipped through the tall glass windows, making Simon squint at the gentle tickle against his eyelids.
Outside came the distant crow of a rooster; from somewhere beyond the common room drifted the sounds of scuffling.
There wasn't even that sour, sleep-deprived ache that follows a blaring alarm. They had woken naturally—yet the simultaneous rising left no doubt they'd been roused somehow. And most likely by magic; how else?
Last night exhaustion had hit them all hard, so introductions had been perfunctory. That needed fixing. After all, they would be studying—and most likely rooming—together for seven years.
Speaking of rooms: there was no stale sock odour, no lingering sweat. Their school robes had already been washed and pressed while they slept. Service worthy of a five-star hotel, no question.
Food, sleep, service, atmosphere—ten out of ten. All that remained was learning actual magic.
The first to introduce himself was a lean black boy with tight curls.
"Dean Thomas," he said simply.
Next came an Irish boy with short hair.
"Seamus Finnigan."
The last—and by far the most interesting to Simon—was someone he felt like a scientist observing a particularly fascinating specimen.
"N-Neville L-L-Longbottom," the boy stammered. "P-pleased to m-meet you…"
Neville was completely different from his future self. For one thing he was noticeably pudgy, and his prominent front teeth gave him the look of a timid hamster. It was obvious the boy was painfully shy and barely dared meet anyone's eyes.
His future Head of House might have been kind—exactly the quality Simon had planned to exploit—but he was also quietly self-assured. Reasonably successful, if you thought about it: held a prestigious position, was married, and had at least one daughter.
Time really was the most powerful catalyst for change. Though what was there to compare? Eleven years old versus nearly forty—an entire lifetime separated those ages.
"Don't be scared, Neville!" Simon slung an arm over the boy's shoulder with easy familiarity. "We're all Gryffindors—we've got each other's backs!"
It was rather funny hearing that from someone who had been a "Gryffindor" for less than twenty-four hours. But Simon's innate confidence—or brazen cheek, to be precise—had always served him well, so no one remarked on it.
"Remember, Neville," Simon said with a grin. "We'll cover for you, and you'll always cover for us. Deal?"
Neville clearly didn't fully understand what Simon was driving at, but he nodded anyway.
"D-deal!"
And why not? So what if he was taking slight advantage of the situation and planting a few subconscious "hooks" for the future?
Fine—Simon felt a tiny bit guilty, but he promised himself he would never let Neville come to harm. Fair trade, so to speak!
He would protect Neville in this time, and Neville would protect… cover for Simon in the future. A win-win for everyone!
Six boys and four girls in Gryffindor first year. Roughly the same in Slytherin, about six each in Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw.
Thirty-two students per year, seven years total. Not every year had exactly the same number, but… the overall population trend gave Simon deeply unpleasant—downright revolting—premonitions. If Neville Longbottom was right and literally every British wizard attended Hogwarts…
But drawing conclusions like that required data. Far more reliable data before even basic statistics could be built.
And though Simon hated admitting it to himself, he struggled to imagine any previously unknown fact that would dramatically improve those grim projections.
Chatting lightly among themselves, they left their dormitory, descended two floors, then took another staircase down to the wide, cosy red-toned common room.
Rough layout: common room with two staircases at the far end—one tower for boys, one for girls. Each tower had multiple floors, each floor a dormitory for students of a specific gender and year.
"Look," Simon frowned, "I'm hardly an expert in ancient-castle architecture or layout, but this makes no sense! It's like… there's more space inside than outside. Completely inefficient—and above all illogical—design prioritising comfort over any pre-existing constraints."
"What?" Ron blinked blankly.
Simon studied the surrounding space more closely. The stone looked old but not dilapidated. The staircases didn't creak, the walls didn't press in, the ceilings were simply too high. Everything… seemed tailored to human scale. Not for defence, not for space economy, not for military necessity—for comfort.
Castles rarely looked the same inside as out. Usually the shell came first—built for protection—then someone scratched their head and wondered how to make the people inside survive, preferably in reasonable comfort.
"And… he's off again," Harry yawned, lazily leaning against the girls' staircase. "Just enjoy it…"
"I'm not complaining that I won't freeze against cold stone in winter or shit out a window," Simon snorted. "But that's just how I am—I need to understand everything about everything."
Suddenly—without warning—when Harry tried to sit on the step, the entire staircase tilted and flattened into a perfect ramp. Harry slid down it with a startled yell.
The moment he reached the bottom, the stairs snapped back to normal.
Simon tilted his head, trying to process what he'd just seen.
Ron blinked.
Harry rubbed his backside.
"Virginity shield!"
"What?" Harry muttered in shock.
"I said—there's a boy-repellent charm on it!" Simon pointed at the girls' staircase. "We should test it!"
"What?!"
Simon was already moving. Under his year-mates' stunned stares he charged up the stairs at full speed. But the moment he cleared the tenth step the staircase turned slick again and launched him back down.
He hit the floor with enough momentum to keep sliding, spinning like a top before slamming—hard—into a wooden side table with a thud that made everyone wince in unison.
"Owww… fuck…" Simon groaned, sitting up and rubbing his head.
"My turn," Ron announced suddenly.
"No—me!" Dean Thomas shouted.
"Out of the way, short-arse!" The Weasley twins shoved past and sprinted up the stairs.
The scene repeated. Only this time the twins didn't take the hit—Simon did.
The first twin crashed into the still-rising Simon's legs, flipping him into the air; the second slid right over the top of the sprawled boy.
"Shit…" Simon stared at the ceiling.
Their noisy antics hadn't gone unnoticed. But the moment a crowd of older boys gathered around the staircase, the prefect intervened—Percy Weasley.
"What are you lot playing at?! Breakfast—now—if you've got nothing better to do!"
The Gryffindors groaned collectively while Percy hauled Simon to his feet.
"Completely lost the plot, have you? Merlin's beard?"
To emphasise his displeasure Percy cuffed Ron lightly on the back of the head.
"What'd I do?!"
"So you won't get ideas!" Percy huffed, then pulled a folded parchment from his robes. "Here—your timetable."
Instantly a knot of boys formed around Simon and the parchment.
Monday through Friday: lessons, times, classrooms.
Two periods of Transfiguration, two of Potions, two of Charms, two of Herbology, and one each of History of Magic, Astronomy, and Flying.
With each lesson lasting an hour and a half…
"Sixteen and a half hours a week," Simon muttered. "Why so little?"
"Little?!" Ron protested genuinely. "We've got lessons every day except weekends!"
"Same as everyone," Simon gave him an odd look. "Normal schools our age run seventeen-hour weeks minimum. And there's no literacy, no mathematics, no PE, no… proper history—our country's history. I can forgive the lack of physics given wizarding living conditions, but I still don't approve. Strange—I expected a more comprehensive curriculum from Britain's best—probably only—magical school."
"That's normal!" Ron insisted. "We're learning magic!"
Another note on Ron Weasley—he wasn't exactly studious. Though that was normal; Simon himself was something of an academic beast.
"Exactly," Simon said, lifting his gaze. "Only magic."
He tapped the parchment.
"Look: no writing, no rhetoric, no logic, no mathematics—even basic. Not even rudimentary natural science!"
Ron scratched the back of his head.
"But we already know how to read and count…"
"How to read? How to count?" Simon sighed, slipping into lecturer mode. "Reading syllable-by-syllable isn't the same as understanding what you're reading and why. Counting two-plus-two and stopping there is pathetic. You should at least reach differential equations—that's the bare minimum!"
Harry, Seamus, and Dean gave him strange looks. They'd attended normal schools and had never heard of differential equations.
"Magic is a tool—a very powerful one. A tool in the hands of someone without fundamentals isn't progress—it's a clearly readable catastrophe."
"What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I said." Simon folded his arms. "Imagine a world where people can set things on fire with their eyes, reshape matter, influence minds… but they can't analyse cause and effect. Don't know ordinary human history. Don't understand economics. Can't handle numbers. Aren't used to questioning authority or asking the right questions. That's sheer madness!"
Simon blinked and looked around. He deflated slightly.
"…and there's nothing to imagine."
He received no understanding or sympathy from his new classmates on this point. Eleven years old wasn't the age for pondering the long-term societal consequences of a unified curriculum.
"Too much free time!" Simon grumbled. "I hope they at least compensate with decent homework!"
…absolutely no understanding. Even usually neutral Harry looked at Simon with faint disapproval.
Breakfast in the Great Hall wasn't as lavish as the previous night's feast—when the tables had practically groaned under the weight—but it still commanded respect.
Various porridges, eggs, bacon and sausages, fresh-baked bread, butter and jams. And instead of that signature vile pumpkin juice, a cup of black or green tea.
And it all tasted divine!
This definitely wasn't an ordinary school canteen—it felt more like a hotel restaurant buffet! Delicious, unlimited, and incredibly filling! Long live Hogwarts!
They finished breakfast quickly and—on Simon's initiative—decided to search for the correct classroom together.
At first they had no idea where to go, but Simon decided to use his wits.
"Hello, ladies!" he smiled at the women taking tea in a painting. "Could you point us toward Professor McGonagall's classroom?"
"Third floor!"
"Sir, excuse me—"
"Down the corridor and left!"
"Oi, Mr. Horse! Could you point with your muzzle where—"
The horse snorted obligingly.
Simply wandering Hogwarts made it impossible to count all the magical oddities that seemed part of the castle's ecosystem.
Ghosts chased each other down corridors, suits of armour polished themselves and saluted, countless living portraits added details that together created something close to sensory overload. More and more things begged to be watched! At one point Simon wanted to pull a notebook from his pocket and start scribbling everything down just to avoid missing a single detail.
"This isn't a school," he muttered, turning his head in every direction. "It's an interactive museum, circus, and psychedelic quest rolled into one!"
"It's brilliant!" Ron muttered; the others nodded enthusiastically.
"No doubt," Simon agreed calmly. "Nothing in the world is cooler…"
They turned a corner where two suits of armour were clanging away in a heated argument about whose sword was longer and who had "in their day" held a bridge against an entire battalion. At least that was how Simon interpreted the silent but extremely expressive sword-comparing.
Seamus tried touching one of the shields and received a sharp rap across the knuckles from a metal gauntlet; he yelped and leapt back.
"That's definitely not pre-recorded scripts," Simon murmured thoughtfully, studying the armour that continued its mute but highly emotional "contest."
"What scripts?" Harry asked.
"Well…" Simon hesitated half a second, searching for words suited to their age. "Imagine you have a set of phrases you repeat in the same situations. Like: 'Hello,' 'Turn left,' 'Don't touch the shield.' It's… like a wind-up toy. Press the right button and it plays the right line. In this case it would be stimulus-response. Touch—get hit. Look—trigger animation. Activate action. But here…"
Simon nodded toward the armour.
"…that's definitely not a toy. It assessed intent. It reacted not to the action but to the context. There's a difference between 'If someone touches the shield—hit their fingers' and 'If someone behaves arrogantly—intervene.' The second requires understanding what's happening."
He took a few steps, examining the portraits. One old man noticed the attention, ostentatiously turned away, and pretended to sleep. Another winked and rustled his book page louder on purpose.
Simon narrowed his eyes.
"If you think like a Muggle," he said quietly, "this resembles… a distributed system."
"A what?" Harry and Ron asked in unison again.
"A… lot of tiny 'minds' instead of one big one." Simon waved toward the corridor. "Portraits, armour, ghosts, staircases… Each one is a separate agent. And each handles its own small task."
He paused so they could digest it.
"The interesting part: when you have enough agents, together they produce behaviour that looks intelligent. As though the castle is alive. When in reality… it's just very well tuned."
"Wait—you're saying someone… er, 'tuned' Hogwarts?"
"No," Simon rejected the idea flatly. "That's just a distant guess. And in the context of a magical environment, I'd bet the objects in the castle possess rudimentary cognitive functions—even if that sounds more fantastical to me. But in my short time in the magical world I've learned that the more fantastical answer is usually the correct one."
"G-guys…" Neville went pale. "I think we're late! Class started three minutes ago!"
"Shit!" Simon swore.
*****
"Have you lost your minds?!" Hermione exclaimed loudly the moment they burst into the classroom. "First lesson and you're already late!"
"Calm down, Hermione," Simon panted. "No teacher—lesson hasn't started."
He settled into a chair as comfortably—borderline insolently—as possible and began curiously studying the room, noting the cat on the teacher's desk.
"Anyone got a smoke?" he asked automatically, feeling the sudden relaxation.
"No smoking," came a cold, stern voice.
Simon froze, slowly turning his head. Where the cat had been moments earlier now stood Professor McGonagall, fixing him with an icy stare.
"I was… I was joking!" Simon laughed mechanically; it came out rather poorly.
"Gryffindor—minus five points for tardiness and minus five points for that appalling 'joke'!" Professor McGonagall continued coldly. "And pray, Mr. Laplace, that it really was a joke. Otherwise…"
Even Simon felt a flicker of genuine fear at that "otherwise." Not serious fear, but a definite momentary chill.
The craving for a cigarette intensified.