September at Hogwarts was already proving to be chilly. By nightfall, the temperature dropped dangerously close to freezing, and the group of students gathered atop the Astronomy Tower were thoroughly regretting their life choices.
Harry shivered and nudged Ron. "Isn't there a spell or something to keep warm?"
Ron handed him a sweet. "Here. Fred gave it to me before class. Said it warms you up."
Astronomy wasn't the most disciplined of subjects. Professor Sinistra generally turned a blind eye to minor mischief.
Which was probably why, when Harry proceeded to breathe a spout of actual fire like a small dragon, she didn't deduct any points from Gryffindor.
"Pepper Imps again," she said with a wry smile, shaking her head. "Every year, there's always one first-year who falls for it."
Ron, whose face had been nearly singed off, was unharmed—just mildly traumatised.
"I'm going to murder him," Ron growled, wiping ash off his nose. "I knew Fred was up to something."
Charles grinned from the side. "Yeah, but are you warm now or not?"
Thankfully, the lesson was short. They were only meant to practise using their telescopes that evening. The moment class ended, the students poured back down the tower stairs in a rush of chattering teeth and chattering voices.
Only Charles remained behind, helping Professor Sinistra gather up the telescopes.
Once he had a good excuse to be apart from the others, he began his real objective for the night.
"I need a room to practise magic in…"
He walked back and forth three times in front of a blank stretch of wall on the eighth floor of the tower, murmuring as he went.
A door appeared, just as he hoped it would.
Inside, the Room of Requirement had taken the form of a spacious classroom, its walls lined with brightly burning candelabras, and several wooden training dummies stood in the centre of the room.
Charles knew well enough—charms and spells had to be practised. Just like a duellist never put down his sword and a musician never stopped playing, a wizard needed to rehearse.
---
The next morning brought Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall, and Charles arrived early.
Professor McGonagall was preparing a neat little row of matchsticks for the lesson when Charles approached her.
"Professor, may I help you?"
She smiled at him thoughtfully before replying, "The broomstick that arrived this morning was indeed yours. Mr Smith's note says I'm to decide when you're allowed to use it."
Charles gave her his most innocent, cherubic grin.
McGonagall continued, "Next Thursday afternoon, your flying lessons begin. I've spoken with Madam Hooch. If you perform well in class, then I'll allow you to use your personal broomstick."
Charles brightened immediately. "Thank you, Professor! I'll do my best!"
She smiled again. "It's a very fine broom—better than anything currently on the market. I admit, I'm a little jealous."
Charles's eyes lit up. "You can use it when I'm not in class," he said cheekily. "Think of it as a storage fee."
McGonagall chuckled and shook her head. "I'm past the age of soaring into the sky on wild, unruly brooms, fighting the wind. These days, I prefer a nice, steady sweep through sunshine."
Charles made a mental note: another letter to Grandfather might be in order.
As the other students began to filter into the classroom, McGonagall gave him a rather mischievous look.
"What you're about to see," she said, "is just between us."
And with that, she transformed into a tabby cat and perched primly atop her desk.
Charles fought the overwhelming urge to give her a scratch behind the ears.
Instead, he asked—very seriously—"Professor, do you like fish?"
And that was how he learned that even Meow-gonagall could roll her eyes.
Charles found a seat and sat down, wondering to himself whether it was time to try becoming an Animagus. If he pulled it off, maybe he could spend his days lazing around in a zoo, living off snacks and sympathy.
The trouble was, becoming an Animagus took ages—and the process was absurdly complicated.
First, he'd have to keep a mandrake leaf in his mouth for an entire month between two full moons—without swallowing it or spitting it out. Charles figured the only way he'd survive that was by living off glucose drips or a feeding tube.
Then, he'd have to bottle the leaf along with his own saliva in a crystal vial and expose it to moonlight. If a single cloud blocked the moon, he'd have to start over. Sahara Desert, he thought, might be reliable for that.
Next came adding a strand of his own hair and a silver teaspoon of dew—collected from a spot untouched by sunlight or human feet for seven straight days. That part sounded like it would require a trek to the Amazon.
After a few more ingredients, the vial would need to be stored in a quiet, dark place—untouched or disturbed—until the arrival of the next lightning-charged thunderstorm. Somewhere like Bogor in Indonesia, Lake Maracaibo in Venezuela, or Hainan during rainy season might do the trick.
Then came the easy part: every morning and evening, pointing a wand at his chest and reciting the appropriate spell. If everything went well, he'd eventually be ready to drink the potion and transform.
The whole idea was rather tempting… but Charles hesitated. What if he turned into an earthworm and got hooked on a fishing line?
He spent most of Transfiguration class pondering this, until Professor McGonagall passed by and said with gentle sternness, "Still needs a bit of work."
Charles blinked back to attention. McGonagall was now handing out matchsticks, instructing the class to transfigure them into needles.
His result… well, it sort of looked like a needle. It had a sharp point and a proper eye, but the end was flat—more like the head of a nail than the tip of a needle.
He couldn't tell whether he'd succeeded or not, so he glanced back at McGonagall's earlier instructions and kept practising.
After class, Hermione was all but glowing with pride. Just before she left the classroom, she gave Charles a little smug smile.
Ron scowled. "You'd think she invented a new spell or something, the way she's carrying on."
She had, in fairness, been the only one to transform her matchstick into a perfect needle. McGonagall even asked her to demonstrate for the class—and naturally, she earned a few points for Gryffindor.
Hermione had every right to be proud. But that didn't stop some of the others from finding it a bit grating.
Charles only chuckled. He'd been eleven once too. Words wouldn't make a difference.
And Hermione and Charles had been "rivals" for years anyway. They'd spent all of primary school locked in a silent war over top marks.
Ron, seeing Charles's non-reaction, nudged him again. "I think she was trying to provoke you. Aren't you going to do something?"
Charles looked amused. "Like what, exactly?"
Ron considered this. She was a girl, so wrestling her behind the Quidditch shed wasn't exactly an option. "You've got that Divination talent, right? Make up a prophecy—give her a good scare."
Charles shrugged. "What would scare her? Tell her she's destined to marry you?"
If it startled Hermione, it positively terrified Ron. He went pale—Malfoy-level pale—and looked at Charles with trembling lips. "Wait… was that a real prophecy, or were you joking?"
Charles slung an arm around Ron's shoulder and said, with mock gravity, "When someone else is better than you, the answer isn't to tear them down. That just makes you look small. All it does is put more distance between you and them. One day, they'll be so far ahead they won't even know you exist. And when that happens, no matter how hard you try, you'll always be the one chasing their shadow…"
Ron endured the full speech—from the Transfiguration classroom all the way to the Great Hall. He tried to wriggle free more than once, but Charles had him in a friendly but unbreakable hold.
He looked to Harry for help, but Harry could only offer a look of deep sympathy.
(End of Chapter)
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Just finished with the match. The pinnacle of sport - A match for the ages. The magic of yamal felt a bit short but nothing was gonna pierce through Sommer's wall, That was the end of flick's legendary saga this season, But There was Inzaghi — Resolute and Unshaken, from the night of Istanbul to the münchen , there is the final conviction for him and there is no way he is gonna fell short this time, finally, to claim the throne
And another Clasico awaits tomorrow — Enrique vs Arteta. The battle for the first-ever trophy.Who's gonna come out on top? Hit me up on Discord (meet101) — would love to hear your thoughts and comments on football.