Night had fallen, and under the soft glow of starlight, the centaurs held a grand feast in the central clearing of their forest tribe—an offering of gratitude to Charles, the boy who had saved young Twilight.
Charles had expected perhaps some berries and leaves, maybe a bit of bark if they were feeling fancy. What he hadn't expected was the impressive spread laid out before him. There were gathered fruits of every hue, mushrooms roasted to a golden crisp, and vegetables that, surprisingly, looked rather edible even after being boiled. The most astonishing thing of all? Hard-boiled eggs.
Only adult centaurs who served as hunters or guards were allowed to eat eggs. For gatherers like Twilight, who was still considered a large child, it took extraordinary effort and extra work to earn such a luxury.
There was even fruit wine—fermented, no doubt, with great enthusiasm but questionable technique. Charles took one polite sip and set it down immediately. Far too many impurities. That was the sort of drink that promised a headache even before you finished it.
So, from the depths of his bag, he retrieved a secret weapon: his stash of fizzy cola.
At first, the elder, Ronan, and Twilight stared suspiciously into their cups, watching the bubbles rise with wide eyes, as if Charles had just handed them a potion brewed by Merlin himself. But after the first sip, all control went out the window.
Ronan, usually the picture of stoic dignity, downed a cup and promptly collapsed onto the table, wailing about how unfair it was that his own fallen child had never known the joy of such a delicious drink.
Twilight took a tiny sip, squeaked, and dashed off to share it with the other younglings.
As for the elder… he began dancing. Right there, in the middle of the feast, twirling and stomping as he sang praises to the stars for sending down such divine sweetness.
When Twilight came scampering back to ask for more, Charles did the only thing he could—he gave up the rest of his precious stash and watched the centaur tribe descend into a frothy frenzy of joy.
One burly centaur with a thick beard, who introduced himself as Bane, patted Charles on the back after downing two full bottles and declared in a booming voice, "If anyone at Hogwarts ever bullies my brother Charles, just bring them to the Forbidden Forest. I'll make sure they regret it."
Ronan, eyes still misty, leaned in and asked if he could name his next child "Charles" in honour of this momentous day.
At last, the elder stood tall and announced to the tribe, "Charles is henceforth our brother of two legs!"
This was, to be perfectly honest, a bit much for Charles, who hadn't quite anticipated such a wild reaction to fizzy drinks.
As the excitement simmered down and everyone returned to their meals, Charles noted that all remaining bottles had mysteriously migrated to the hands of adult centaurs like Ronan and Bane.
The elder, now happily alternating bites of roasted mushroom and sips of cola, turned to Charles and said, "Sweetness brings strength. And only those with strength survive. Here in the Forbidden Forest, sweet things—fruit, honey—are rare treasures."
Charles nodded, chewing thoughtfully. "Elder," he said, "I don't know much about your customs or traditions. If I ever say something out of line, please do correct me. I'll do my best to learn."
The elder inclined his head, approving of the boy's respect.
Charles hesitated, then asked, "Do you trade with Hogwarts? Say, herbs for sweets? Sugar, maybe?"
The elder answered slowly, "We trade only with those we trust. Like Dumbledore… or Hagrid. If you have things to offer, we may consider you as well."
Charles pushed a little further. "Even if the goods are made by Muggles?"
The elder smiled faintly. "Muggles and wizards… both walk on two legs."
That told Charles all he needed to know. The centaurs had deep-rooted traditions, likely hardened by survival, but the pressure of the times had made their boundaries flexible. Bane and Ronan—who, in Charles's "memories," had once erupted in fury over Firenze allowing Harry Potter to ride on his back—were now sitting quietly, clearly contemplating the joy of having more sweet water to share.
And really, Charles thought, if humans can make compromises for vengeance or love, why shouldn't centaurs do the same for sugar?
He glanced at the elder again. "What kind of supplies do you need the most right now?"
"Sweet," said the elder simply. "And salty. Food, ideally."
"Sharp arrowheads," added Bane immediately.
Ronan nodded.
Charles considered. Food wasn't hard to buy, and even arrows could be custom-made. The tricky part would be transport. He could ask the old man for help, but Dumbledore was bound to find out. And if that happened, well—if the old man's identity got out, even Voldemort might show up on Privet Drive with a fruit basket and a tin of tea for holiday greetings.
After much deliberation, Charles came to a decision. When in doubt, ask Dumbledore. The man had more connections than the Hogwarts House-Elf grapevine and even fewer scruples about bending a few rules when necessary.
A new thought struck him. With careful phrasing and no small amount of diplomacy, he asked, "Forgive me if this is rude… but do you grow your own food?"
From what he could tell at the feast, the centaurs likely kept chickens—but everything else seemed to be foraged.
Bane's brow furrowed at once. He stiffened, jaw tight with restrained fury. "We are not mules," he said coldly. "We do not plough fields."
"My apologies," Charles said at once, bowing his head in genuine regret. He had stumbled right over a cultural landmine.
It became clear, then, that centaurs took great offense at being likened to beasts of burden. They would not haul goods or till land—perhaps a holdover from darker times when wizards had treated their kind more like livestock than sentient beings.
But Charles wasn't quite done. "What if it's not… farming?" he ventured again, cautiously. "More like… throwing away pumpkin seeds in spring, and then—whoops—come autumn, oh look, a whole patch of ripe pumpkins."
That gave them pause.
Not just Bane—Ronan, the elder, and a few nearby centaurs all looked mildly stunned. Throwing things around like that? Even a mule wouldn't think of it.
"I'll let you think that over," Charles said diplomatically, giving them space to internally debate the ethics of accidental agriculture. "In the meantime, I can provide sugar and salt. What would you like as a staple?"
"Oats," said the elder promptly. "And a bit of olive oil, if possible. Some tools too—axes, saws, hammers, nails, and a few good cooking pots."
Charles nodded, noting it all down in his enchanted little notebook. "I'll bring samples in a few days. You can look them over and decide what suits you best."
The elder raised his cup of fizzy joy and said warmly, "Many thanks. You may take as many herbs from our stores as you like."
Charles grinned. "Don't mention it. We're family, aren't we?"
"Oh—one more thing," he added, suddenly remembering.
Around the village, he'd spotted several plants glowing softly in the night. Some resembled moonflowers—closed during the day, but at night, their red blossoms lit up like coals. Others bloomed in clusters, twinkling like stars gathered in a bouquet.
There were even more varieties—some planted in front of huts as natural lanterns, others potted in wooden boxes to be taken indoors. Curious, Charles asked if he could take a few home to plant.
The elder chuckled. "Take as many as you'd like. Tell the foals, and they'll dig some up for you."
Charles beamed. He'd definitely come back for those. His little plot of land was going to look absolutely magical. It never occurred to him to ask how to deal with the so-called "fire dragon fruit" if it ever actually bore fruit… but the elder was too busy gulping down bubbly cola to remember to mention that detail.
As night truly settled over the forest, the centaurs wrapped up their meal. There were no nightcaps or stories by the fire; the centaurs, it turned out, had no nightlife. When dinner was done, they simply went home.
"Wait—what?" Charles blinked. "I'm staying at Twilight's place?"
"Of course," Ronan said, as if it were obvious. "She's got space. Lives alone."
Charles hesitated. "Could I stay at your place instead?"
"No," said Bane flatly, crossing his arms. "Ronan's busy tonight. He's working on making more foals."
Charles scratched his head. "But… Twilight's a girl."
There was a beat of silence. Then several centaurs burst into hearty laughter.
One particularly jolly centaur uncle leaned over and asked with a grin, "How many legs do you have, boy?"
Charles raised two fingers, baffled.
The centaur laughed harder. "You've only got two! What's there to worry about? It's not like your kind mates with creatures who have more legs than you—or none at all!"
Charles fell silent.
The simple honesty of the centaurs hit him square in the chest.
They, on the other hand, were deeply, profoundly moved by his sudden solemnity.
(End of Chapter)