Chapter 18
"Actually," Hugo interjected with his mouth full, "Squibs can be armed too—and then they're just like Muggles."
"Exactly," Rose smiled. "Well done, Hugo!"
"Squibs?" Simon heard the term for the first time. "What are they?"
"Neither fish nor fowl," Rose replied. "Usually, they're the children of wizards who lack any magical ability. Muggle-Repelling Charms don't work on them, just as they don't work on magical beasts, but they don't possess any magical powers themselves."
"That's the perfect solution," Simon muttered. "A Squib with a weapon is the same as a Muggle with a weapon, except the blocking charms don't affect them."
"Why would anyone even attack the Hogwarts Express?" Hugo continued, speaking through a mouthful of food under his sister's disapproving gaze. "There's nothing here worth taking."
"Not true," Simon internally dismissed that line of thinking immediately.
Hogwarts was the heart of wizarding Britain. Literally every witch and wizard between the ages of eleven and seventeen was educated there. The Hogwarts Express was the perfect point for a strategic strike because every student in the school was gathered in one place, within a relatively confined space. Such a maneuver could wipe out an entire generation of English wizards.
And for an already small population, the loss of a whole generation was a death sentence.
By Simon's modest calculations, the wizarding population was negligible—it felt more like a large village than a full-fledged nation.
It even seemed strange to Simon that they weren't being escorted by a convoy of Hit Wizards or Aurors. But the explanation was simple and unimpressive: wizards were, at their core, quite negligent and infantile.
Most wizards didn't concern themselves with economics, politics, or long-term consequences. Magic was too universal and convenient an answer for the struggles of ordinary mortals to impact their lives. And where there are no struggles, there is stagnation.
"Let's assume someone armed a group of Squibs and ordered them to attack the Hogwarts Express," Simon sighed. "How would they maintain communication between the strike team and headquarters? Are there any fast means of communication in the wizarding world, like telephones?"
"Do you mean owls?" Lily blinked.
"Can Squibs use owls?" Hugo asked the air.
"God," Simon closed his eyes in despair. "Your owls are absolute trash! Who the hell uses letters anymore?! I'm sorry if this offends you, but 'Owl Post' is the furthest thing from 'fast communication' possible."
"Do you mean telephones?" Rose asked thoughtfully. "A telephone network?"
"Finally, someone is speaking my language! Even radio communication!" Simon suddenly shot Hugo a suspicious look. "Wait, why does Rose know about this and you don't?"
Hugo's face suddenly turned bright red.
"I just forgot for a second," he started waving his hand. "Er... yeah, the television network—that's cool!"
"Telephone!" Rose frowned. "Hugo, Mum is constantly telling you—pay attention to the Muggle world! There's so much interesting stuff there!"
"I just forgot one detail—why are you getting so worked up?"
"One detail, you say? Fine," Rose raised an eyebrow. "Tell me, then, how do Muggles communicate with each other over long distances?"
"By telephone, of course!" Hugo answered confidently.
"What is a telephone?"
Hugo was not prepared for the second question.
"Well... er..." he scratched his head. "Dogs! Exactly, dogs! We use owls to deliver letters, and Muggles use dogs!"
"Really?" Lily's eyes went wide. "So that's why they have so many of those animals!"
"Lily," Rose groaned into her hands. "Why don't you know anything about the Muggle world either?! Your father, just like my mum, grew up among Muggles!"
"It's just..." the girl blushed, looking down at her feet. "Well, it just happened that way..."
"I don't understand anything about those Muggles!" Hugo grumbled. "Their moving pictures are total rubbish—they don't even talk back!"
"Those aren't moving pictures, they're screens," Rose hissed. "I see how it is. Tomorrow I'm writing to Mum and telling her she should have sent you to that camp after all!"
"You're always complaining to her!" Hugo turned redder. "Just leave me alone, will you!"
Simon raised his hands pacifically.
"Alright, alright, let's save the family drama for later. Let's get back to our hypothetical terrorists. Is it possible to use Muggle communication devices on the train?"
"It's impossible, even if you remove the Muggle-Repelling Charms," Rose replied categorically. "The entire Hogwarts Express is a magical artifact in itself—every single part of it is enchanted."
"Is there a correlation between the concentration of 'magic in the air' and the likelihood of electronic equipment failing?" Simon asked, his interest piqued.
For demonstration, he even pulled out his iPhone and tried to turn it on a few times without success.
This topic interested him personally; he wondered if he could come up with a way to bypass this limitation. Living without a phone and the internet was pure torture for a mind accustomed to constant access to almost any information.
"Of course," Rose shrugged. "For example, Mum sent me to a camp a year ago. My phone worked almost without a hitch, but as soon as I brought it home, it broke immediately. And on the Hogwarts Express, the concentration of magic is even higher—electronics die instantly," she nodded toward his phone. "At Hogwarts itself, there's probably zero theoretical chance."
"Are there any unified measures for measuring the concentration of magic, or any instruments capable of clarifying this?"
"I... I haven't heard of any..." Rose said, looking lost.
Well, there's the magical world for you!
They seem to understand something, they derive some of the most elementary patterns, but nobody wants to dig deeper!
Once again, Simon marveled at the wizarding nature.
But he could grumble about their methods and irrationality another time. He needed to systematize the information he already had: At some point in time, the Hogwarts Express would be attacked.
"Damn," Simon realized his phone was dead and could no longer show the time. "Does anyone have a watch?"
"I do," Hugo showed his wrist.
"Great."
He would need to memorize the time too. The high level of organization in the attack suggested careful planning, and where there is careful planning, there are specific timeframes for execution. This assumption was particularly supported by the fact that the Hogwarts Express follows a set route, which could be broken down into segments ideal for a swift strike.
The attackers... who were they?
If he ruled out a group of Muggles with weapons being escorted by a powerful wizard, then all that remained were fully equipped Squibs.
"By the way, are there many Squibs in the wizarding world?"
"It's a fairly rare phenomenon," Rose blinked.
Rare in the context of wizarding society. Simon didn't rule out the possibility that more Squibs were born, but perhaps they were born among ordinary people and didn't even know about their "gift."
But... there was too little data.
In short, armed Squibs attacked the Hogwarts Express. And most likely, they weren't meant to kill the students but to take them prisoner; otherwise, they would have thrown grenades instead of sleeping gas. But they didn't shy away from casualties among the children either—Simon had received a bullet to the forehead pretty quickly.
Why? Blackmail? An act of terrorism or intimidation? The task was complicated by the fact that there were no identifying marks on the attackers' uniforms—clearly a deliberate act to hide information. And the speaker had an English accent—not a native of another country, at least at first glance.
So, an unknown group of armed Squibs attacks the Hogwarts Express, trying to... do something.
They didn't attack immediately, so Simon had time. It was already too late to sound the alarm, and besides, who would believe him? It was better to use the chaos of the attack to gather more target information and try to mobilize the adults in the next "attempt."
And how to productively use the hours provided? By learning more about Hogwarts, of course!
"I heard that starting in third year, you can take extra electives," Simon started from a distance, not taking his eyes off the pretty redhead. "Which ones did you take?"
Rose smiled proudly. "All of them!"
"Whoa..." Lily gaped. "But there are so many, and most people limit themselves to just two!"
"Five, to be exact," Rose continued to smile. "Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Muggle Studies, Divination, and Care of Magical Creatures."
This new cycle of information seemed to scratch at something in his memory.
Ah, right!
"But that's supposed to be impossible, a friend told me," Simon tried to pin all his "knowledge," which a Muggle-born wasn't supposed to have, on an ephemeral "friend." "The courses are supposed to overlap and clash. You can't just be in two places at once."
"There is a way that's only available to top students," Rose smiled mysteriously.
In his "recent" conversation with Percy—some thirty years ago—he had dropped a few lines about dropping several courses because he lost the ability to attend them all. What kind of method allowed someone to attend courses that overlapped? Some form of extra lessons? But then why hide such a simple solution?
Magic had to be involved!
But asking Rose about such a thing would be the height of insolence, and he'd just be brushed off. He was already walking a thin line with his "strange" questions.
"If I'm not mistaken, your parents are heroes of the last wizarding war?"
The children became a little wary.
"You figured it out?" Lily asked, surprised.
"I'm not an idiot," Simon shrugged. "Besides, the names Potter and Granger say a lot."
"Well, yeah," Rose blinked. "Are you a fan?"
"A fan of history, not specific individuals," and after a short pause, he added: "Unless, of course, the individual is named Einstein or Hawking. I just wanted to learn more about the glorious past of wizarding Britain—the first-year textbooks only cover the distant past."
"Actually," Rose hesitated. "We don't know much more than anyone else. They... they don't like to talk about it. It was a difficult time."
"Was it Voldemort's terror? He's the culprit, right?"
Rose and Hugo flinched in unison. Lily looked at him in surprise, then realized he just didn't understand the context.
"You shouldn't... say that name out loud," Rose corrected him tactfully. "It's... bad luck."
"Dad says that saying Voldemort's name," Lily pronounced the name deliberately loudly and proudly, "is nothing to be afraid of!"
"Your father is Harry Potter!" Hugo replied fearfully. "Of course he won't be afraid! But he's..." Hugo lowered his voice. "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!"
"Don't listen to Lily, Pierre," Rose told him. "At least don't say that name in public—people will stare at you, or maybe even scold you."
"Why?" Simon was surprised. "Was he really so terrible that even mentioning him makes you afraid?"
"It's not quite like that," Rose pursed her lips. "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named placed an ancient dark curse on his name—known as a 'Taboo.' This happened during his first reign of terror in the seventies. As soon as someone said... that name, Death Eaters would arrive and... commit horrors. Since then, it's not customary to say the name, even though the Dark Lord is dead."
"Such a spell is possible?!" Simon was more than a little surprised. "He put a spell on... a name? On a sequence of sounds that has semantic value only in our consciousness? Interesting..."
"Er..." Lily tilted her head slightly. "Is that 'scary' interesting or 'incredible' interesting?"
"Both scary and incredible," Simon answered honestly. "Because it means that magic works not just with objects and people, but with the essence of information."
Rose became interested. "In what sense?"
"A name isn't just a set of sounds. It's a marker and a pointer, but it only gains meaning within the context of our awareness. Let's say it's a kind of tag. So, he didn't put the spell on a specific person, but on... the act of referring to a concept. It's not a fact that the mechanism is such, but I'll assume—as soon as someone said the name, the system..." Simon faltered and changed the term: "magic recorded the event and reacted."
Simon went silent for a second. There were too many thoughts—and they all seemed to be reshaping his entire perception. Putting a spell on an object—easy to imagine. Putting a spell on a person—intuitively understandable. But putting a spell on a "concept"—that was a revolution in thinking. Almost an answer to the eternal existential question about thoughts and existence.
"Pierre?" Rose prodded him cautiously.
"You see..." he chose his words slowly. "When various sci-fi writers describe magic, they almost always reduce it to an action. A fireball, lightning from the sky, levitation—something doing something to something else. I strike—the enemy feels pain. I speak—something happens. Very visual and very primitive."
"And our magic..." Hugo blinked, confused. "It's not like that?"
"A spell targeted at a name isn't an effect on matter. It's not an effect on a person directly. It's an intervention into the structure of meaning."
Simon tapped his temple.
"It turns out that magic can work where we have no sense organs—with concepts, with categories, with what exists only in our heads. Bringing the purely ephemeral into the material."
Simon pulled his wand from his robes with a trembling hand. Only "today," every touch had caused fierce irritation—at his own impotence.
But now...
He held a tool that could influence what is hard even to perceive. Something that challenges... everything. Something that could drive a materialist like him insane.
The problem wasn't his talent...
The problem was his approach and... respect.
"It seems..." Simon stroked the wand. "It seems I was going about this the wrong way from the start..."
A loud screech and an emergency whistle hammered his eardrums. A brief sensation of freefall ended with a painful impact of his face against someone's body. The distinct smell of blood filled his nose—a sign of a broken nose.
The train had once again undergone an emergency braking.
The train was once again under attack.
Simon lifted the hand of an unconscious Hugo and noted the time—half-past five.
"Rose," he grimaced from the pain in his shoulder. "Quick, do something about the sleeping gas! Damn it!"
Unfortunately, the most magically competent person among them had hit her head and, like her brother, had lost consciousness.
Simon was saved from the same fate only by a naturally—or perhaps magically—strong body.
He immediately closed his eyes and played unconscious as soon as the acrid white smoke drifted into the carriage.
Through the noise of fighting in other carriages came the sound of a window breaking. A window broken specifically in their compartment.
"Jackpot!" a voice said over a comms link—likely a Squib. "The children of the Minister for Magic and Harry Potter!"
"Evacuate them first," Simon heard very faintly.
As soon as the man dropped from the window frame into the carriage, Simon knew he had to act.
Without opening his eyes, without making a sound, he reached out by instinct, on pure intuition.
And his hand grabbed the pistol in the holster on the first try.
The safety was off in an instant.
A shot.
"Aaaaaah!" the man screamed, trying to back away from him.
Simon stood up from his lying position, jumped onto the seats, and slammed both feet into the man's head. He blacked out immediately.
Ignoring the acrid gas beginning to irritate his eyes, Simon realized what he had to do.
It was too late to run, and he didn't want to abandon his new friends.
It was too late to wait for help.
All that was left was to gather more information.
He rolled over the bleeding, unconscious man, grimacing at the blood on his hands, and his gaze immediately glued itself to a strange device on the man's belt, from which a wire ran directly to the helmet. The device was large, hanging like a small suitcase and drawing attention.
Simon tore the device off almost obsessively and began to examine it.
"No screen, no menu buttons, no sensors," his mind began working at an incredible speed. "Two knobs, a scale with notches, a massive switch, and a rubber plug. Pure old-school, even though finding a good radio these days is far easier and cheaper than this wreck."
Simon tried to pry the device open, but he didn't succeed the first time. The second time he applied more force, and because of this, his fingernails were literally ripped out at the roots. He wanted to scream in pain, but he held back. Time was slowly fading.
The lid was open.
"What?" his eyebrows shot up. "Vacuum tubes?! What is this primitive tube circuitry?!"
Inside, there was no familiar flat circuit board with a dense array of microchips. There was a mess of thick wires in cloth braiding, crudely tied with zip-ties. There were massive coils with copper winding. And most importantly—three glass bulbs with metal contents that flickered on and off.
Simon blinked, looked at the contents again, and still didn't believe it.
But this made no sense!
The heyday of vacuum tube technology in electronics was in the fifties of the last century.
Already in the seventies, they were replaced by more efficient and economical semiconductor technologies—all those transistors and diodes.
Compared to modern devices, vacuum tubes were literally stone caves and the howling of Neanderthals.
"What's the point?" Simon looked at the unconscious terrorist once more. "Excellent equipment made from the best modern materials, a helmet made of composite alloys. The best rifle available even outside the market. Professional coordination and this... relic," Simon looked with an unreadable gaze, in which more and more suspicion was nesting, at the "last century" inside the radio. "There is definitely a reason for this—I just haven't figured it out yet."
Simon was distracted by the sound of glass shards being crushed under a boot.
A terrorist appeared in the window again, his rifle aimed directly at him.
A shot.
Darkness.