Chapter 23
"...Magic obeys you perfectly and does exactly what you subconsciously expect it to do—which is to say, nothing..."
Professor Snape's words echoed in his mind over and over, making it impossible to focus on his favorite fried eggs.
If you asked any Hogwarts student what was required to cast a spell—what would they say?
Ninety percent would say this:
"Faith, a gesture, and a word."
But non-verbal magic exists—a sign of either a high level of magical education or a specific spell practiced to death.
So, the word is not mandatory.
By "gesture," they mean a specific pattern people repeat with their wand.
But wandless magic exists too, which, by the way, is also a sign of an extraordinary level.
So, the gesture is not mandatory either.
And "faith"? Can one use magic without faith?
Now, that is unlikely.
But what is meant by this "faith"?
Faith in oneself? Faith in the result? Faith in magic? Faith in Jesus Christ?!
Simon slowly ran his fork through the yolk, watching it lazily spread across the plate. He didn't feel like eating anymore; his thoughts were far more nagging than hunger.
After the evening detentions with Snape, Simon couldn't even sleep properly.
He felt he was on the very, very edge. The edge that would determine whether he became a wizard or remained a total failure.
Which meant he had to figure it out. Settle it once and for all!
"Can one cast spells without faith?" Simon thought distantly and pulled his wand from the inner pocket of his robes.
He flicked it a couple of times and produced the usual shower of sparks—the only valid sign that he wasn't some kind of Squib. A Squib couldn't do that.
But he was capable of nothing more.
Without faith, magic turned into... interesting gymnastics. A ridiculous theater.
"I... never really believed in the result, did I?" Simon began to meditatively and pointlessly rearrange the sausages on his plate.
There is a difference between "I believe I will succeed" and "I concede that something might happen now."
Throughout his time reflecting and analyzing his own motives, Simon admitted two possible reasons for his condition. And both were likely true to some extent.
First:
He never really believed in success. He hoped for it, rather. And not just in magic, but in general.
In normal school, he was the smartest, but the level of intelligence itself is not an indicator of success. Intelligence does not require risk. Intelligence is analysis, distance, and control. It is the need for those concepts, but success is determined by how you use that intelligence. And unfortunately, Simon had a sufficient level of intelligence to not take academic success seriously. So what if he surpassed his peers? What of it?
It was another thing entirely whether your strengths converted into something tangible.
Had he managed to get into the elite colleges he strove for? No—and that was an objective failure. Even if his portfolio was to blame rather than his mind.
Did he successfully read people and squeeze money out of them? But Simon was never proud of that occupation—he was actually ashamed of it. Being a charlatan was simply a vital necessity to keep from starving to death.
Failures had haunted him his whole life.
Shitty father.
Shitty financial situation.
Shitty behavior.
Shit, shit, shit...
He didn't give up, but... he had failed too often to truly believe in a miracle.
And magic is exactly that—faith in... something incredible. Something magical.
The second factor was his general attitude toward magic.
Was it fascinating? Of course.
Hogwarts was the most magical place he couldn't even have imagined in a dream. He wanted to walk the corridors for days on end and learn something new, seeking secrets that would thrill the mind.
But objectively... he didn't strive for magic. More accurately, magic had only ruined his life.
His whole life, he had striven for control under the pressure of irrational failure. He found solace in knowledge. In books. In physics, chemistry, law, science fiction... In places where laws are unchangeable and static.
And magic... destroyed that faith at the root. It was as if it grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and, laughing, dunked him into a muddy puddle.
The only thing he clung to had been destroyed.
It would be strange if, after such a thing, Simon immediately started casting spells left and right.
But... that was hardly the full reason. It was unlikely Simon was the only one whose life plans magic had ruined.
After all, how was it supposed to happen originally?
A skeptical boy gets on a train, then a boat, and... sees Hogwarts.
His heart is conquered forever. From that moment on, magic is a living miracle to him, because it is impossible to get this stone giant, which seemed to breathe wonder, out of his head. Slowly he lets go and begins to create wonders with his own hands.
That is what the path should be for even the most ardent skeptic.
But what happened to him?
Suppose up to a certain point everything went according to the script. The boy is surprised, the boy is indignant, but the boy still gets on the train. The boy makes friends with a girl, and then...
He is killed.
And magic moves him back twenty-seven years.
The boy is in disbelief—so strong that he begins to doubt his own sanity.
The boy sees Hogwarts and will never be able to forget it. Never.
But by a terrible coincidence, the boy returns to his own time again. The boy tries to solve everything his own way and... the world punishes him cruelly.
And the root of all these deaths, time travels, and paradoxes—is magic.
How, after that... can one believe in the best? Believe in a miracle? How, after that, can one not want everything that happened to be just another long, extraordinary dream?
All these factors combined led him to his current deplorable state.
The psyche collapsed. The subconscious closed its eyes, covered its ears, curled into a ball, and began to loudly and hysterically deny the existence of magic.
And one cannot just... suddenly believe. The subconscious is one of the most unstudied things in the human psyche. The eternally hidden but most sincere "self" cannot simply be subordinated to one's own thought. Otherwise, there would be far fewer psychopaths, maniacs, and the mentally ill in the world.
The subconscious cannot be persuaded.
The subconscious cannot be forced.
It either agrees or it doesn't. And often this answer does not depend on need or motives.
It derives its own patterns, and it doesn't matter if they are correct, useful, or not.
"Any active action in magic is potentially deadly. The best spell is the absence of a spell."
That is why he could produce sparks. They were safe, harmless, and meant almost nothing.
There was a small glimmer when he first took the wand in his hands and made everything hover, but his "journey" had killed any hope for further development.
Magic was as if asking him:
"Are you sure?"
And his subconscious honestly replied:
"Get the fuck out of here!"
And magic went. It went far and for a long time. The subconscious hid in its bunker, and he took magic by the arm and walked away with it.
If... if he cannot run, walk, or crawl, then he is still lying down.
He needed to return to the very basics and start over.
"Neville, when did you cast your first spell?" Simon suddenly asked his friend, who had almost finished breakfast.
"Um..." the boy thought. "Probably when I opened the Charms textbook. Lumos is pretty simple, right?"
"It's not fucking simple at all!" Simon screamed to himself.
"I didn't mean that," Simon chewed his lips thoughtfully. "Well, what is it called? When a child casts magic unconsciously for the first time..."
"Accidental magic!" Ron said loudly.
"Yes, exactly," Simon snapped his fingers. "How was it for you?"
Ron answered quite readily. And in general, the topic was a pleasant one.
For everyone except Simon. He, for instance, didn't remember any strange incidents from his life when magic got involved.
"One time Fred and George hung me upside down from a tree branch," Ron snorted. "I got angry and just... wham! We swapped places, and Mum didn't even take the twins down until evening—she was happy my magic had shown up! I was... about eight years old then, I think. Ginny—my younger sister—'exploded' around that age too. Luna—her friend—had a scratch, Ginny started crying, and the wound healed itself!"
For the most part, Ron was quite... useless. No, rather he was uninterested or incompetent. Though in everyday life he was a good comrade.
But sometimes his usefulness was off the charts—and in the most unobvious moments. Like now.
His information only confirmed that only faith and desire were needed, while a wand and a word were not mandatory at all. Simon, of course, sort of understood this, but he had almost no concrete examples.
Neville was the next to speak out. More like venting; it was clear he wasn't very comfortable telling this, but the boy was too timid to refuse.
"Er..." Neville hesitated. "My first burst happened half a year before starting school—and that's a very late period. Gran, and the whole family, were really afraid I was a Squib. But my Great Uncle Algie..." Neville swallowed. "Said that in stressful situations, the probability of a burst is much higher. He... he took me by the leg and held me out the window—it was the second floor. And... accidentally let go."
Those around him were speechless.
"Well... I bounced off the ground like a rubber ball. It was scary, but everyone was happy," Neville grumbled with resentment in his voice.
"Maybe that's why you have a stutter?" Simon asked thoughtfully.
"I-I-I don't s-stutter!"
Simon turned his attention to Harry, who was listening with interest. He immediately caught and correctly interpreted his friend's look.
"I had things like that happen a few times," Simon's gaze filled with envy; Harry didn't notice. "I remember once I was running away from my cousin and suddenly ended up on the roof. And I released a snake by accident at the zoo once, just by making the glass vanish. And some toast got burnt once, but suddenly became like new. And..."
Harry Potter really was the chosen of the chosen, damn him!
He really felt like smacking that scarred forehead!
"Oh, shut up already! You're incredibly annoying!" Simon snorted and looked away. "Hermione?"
"I..." the girl hesitated and looked down. "I don't want to talk about it..."
"Fine," Simon sighed, understanding that the story there wasn't a pleasant one. "When is class?"
"Oh, right, class!" everyone suddenly became alarmed. "We have Transfiguration in five minutes!"
In contrast to his classmates who suddenly jumped up, Simon remained sitting in his place.
His hand, which still hadn't let go of the fork, was shaking, because he had an idea. And he wasn't used to putting off what could be done right here and now. Quite the opposite; putting off this specific task could only worsen the situation.
Standing up on trembling legs, Simon jumped on the spot a few times and exhaled loudly. Only determination remained in his eyes.
Leaving the Great Hall, he headed not for the Transfiguration classroom, but out of the castle. And he was heading for the Quidditch pitch.
The large field with perfect grass, which would be fit for football, was an epic sight. Instead of goals, there were three hoops at a great height, and around the stadium rose about fifteen towers where spectators usually sat. Quidditch is the most popular sport in the wizarding world, and Hogwarts always encouraged this passion.
Under one of the stands was an old dusty cupboard containing several battered brooms. They were so old they were only used for training first-years.
His hands trembled again. But they closed around the magical artifact anyway.
He carefully threw a leg over and felt what seemed like a soft cushion beneath him, which provided protection from castration.
Pushing off slightly from the ground, Simon hovered.
Fear began to intensify.
Suddenly thoughts appeared that this could be done another day. He could choose another way. He could finally use his brains!
But Simon did not descend.
"Fight fire with fire!" Simon hissed through clenched teeth and pointed the broom almost perpendicularly upward.
The broom had its own magic, so there were no problems with the first flight. Except it was difficult to control, but Simon didn't need complex maneuvers. Only one direction—straight up.
The subconscious is something deep. It is almost impossible to influence. One cannot simply take the subconscious by the scruff of the neck and shove its nose into arguments.
But even it has obvious mechanisms, because subconscious activity occurs precisely in stressful, psychologically heavy situations. He needed to put his subconscious on the edge. Put everything on the line. Put himself on the line.
Because the essence of the subconscious is fear. Desire. A deep, crude, ungraceful desire.
Simon looked down for a second and almost lost consciousness from a bout of terror. The huge stands seemed like mere midgets, and the castle, though it remained majestic, was too far away.
Simon felt the cold wind hitting his face and creeping under his clothes, causing uncontrollable goosebumps—either from the cold or from fear.
Once, Simon had found himself in a situation similar to Neville's. He too had fallen from a second floor.
But because of his sturdy build, he had gotten off with bruises and a slight fright. Back then it seemed like a fluke.
Now it seemed like a curse.
His heart was pounding like crazy. But suddenly, anger was added to the wave of all-consuming fear.
Primarily at himself. At his own fate. At his deplorable situation and the fact that he hadn't come up with anything better.
Anger at his helplessness and a hellish desire to finally get out of... this puddle of shit.
To influence the subconscious—the deep "fight or flight" instinct—he had to put himself on the very edge, where there were only two outcomes and no alternatives.
The subconscious could not be deceived, just as one cannot deceive oneself.
Therefore, he was gaining height from which there would be no other chances. There would be no way out but to win.
Simon had already flown past the clouds when a new wave of fear hit him. Only this time it had a different nature—more mystical.
A bout of intuition suddenly became a literal megaphone, whose alien nature could not be confused with a "simple hunch."
It was his innate gift. And that innate gift right now was saying clearly and plainly:
YOU MUST NOT DIE IN THIS TIME!
Suddenly a wave of realization hit him: in this time, there would be no "second" chances. Death was death and nothing else. It was as clear and understandable as sunrise and sunset, as clouds, as rain—it simply was.
"I-I-I..." Simon's throat cramped. "I... w-won't... die!"
With teary eyes, he looked down, his trembling hands clutching the broom handle.
"I won't... die," he repeated as if in a trance and...
...opened his legs and let go of the broom.
Simon was swallowed by the sensation of freefall. Falling from a height of about two thousand meters.
His body began to move uncontrollably in bouts of terrifying panic.
Because of this, he began to spin. Every second, clouds flashed by, then the approaching castle, then clouds again, then the castle again.
"I..."
Tears began to flow from his eyes, either from the speed or from the rush of emotions.
"I WILL NOT DIE!" a piercing scream rang out through the wind.
The time of falling lasted what seemed like an eternity and one insignificant moment.
His body met the stonework.
And...
The most inappropriate sound of bouncing rubber rang out.
The ground beneath Simon, who was hurtling at an incredible speed, simply bent like a skillfully made trampoline. For a second, the ground enveloped him on all sides, stretching several meters down and...
Thrust his body back up.
"SON OF A BI-I-I-ITCH!" Simon yelled again, but this time because of the rapid ascent.
And he was lucky. Though, it depends on how you look at it...
The rapid flight ended with his body meeting a glass window. The glass window lost, and Simon flew inside, somewhere on the third floor.
After rolling several times with a curse, Simon jumped up like he'd been stung and began frantically feeling his own body.
And suddenly he realized he was standing in the middle of a crowded classroom, every student of which was sitting with wide eyes and a dropped jaw.
"Mr..." Professor McGonagall murmured, stunned. "...Laplace? How did you get in here?"
"Sorry I'm late," Simon said with a stone face and suddenly smiled, noticing an object on the teacher's desk. "May I?"
And without waiting for an answer, Simon pulled out his wand and pointed it at the matchstick.
One flick.
One gesture.
One intent.
...and the matchstick turned into a metal needle.
"YE-E-E-E-A-H! WHO'S YOUR DADDY?! I'M THE DADDY, AND MY SUBCONSCIOUS IS MY BI-I-I-TCH!"
The ecstatic scream rang out in the middle of the stunned, silenced classroom.