Charles strolled back into the Gryffindor common room with a dazed grin on his face, clearly riding high on something—though what exactly, no one was quite sure. He had, however, returned with a singular purpose.
"Where've you been these past few days?" Harry asked eagerly, scooting over on the couch to make room. "Need a hand? Same deal as always."
Hermione, who had been peacefully immersed in Magical Theories Rewritten, glanced up at Harry, then at Charles—who was scribbling away at top speed—and sighed.
"Harry, why don't I take a look at your homework for you?" she offered sweetly.
Harry, of course, was only too happy to hand it over.
"CHARLES!"
The roar that followed sent half the common room scattering like startled bowtruckles.
"You mean to tell me all your holiday homework was written by Harry?!"
Hermione stared at Charles as though he'd just told her that the entirety of her magical education had been a hallucination, and that she was now well enough to be discharged from St. Mungo's.
Charles, unbothered, replied smoothly, "What if I told you I was just practicing Harry's handwriting?"
"I knew it!" Hermione fumed, her teeth gritted. "I knew something was off about the penmanship!"
Charles couldn't understand why she was so upset. He sighed heavily and said, very solemnly, "You don't know how hard Harry's had it. Sure, he wasn't starving or freezing, but he wasn't exactly getting a decent education either. Bit daft, really. Even Tom was smarter."
(At this point, Ron leaned over and whispered, "Who's Tom?" prompting Dean Thomas to launch into an impromptu explanation of televisions and Saturday morning cartoons.)
Charles went on, "I thought—this can't go on. The poor bloke's not going to grow properly if he stays that thick. So I came up with a plan. Someone once said homework is just another way to study, right? So I made Harry do mine over the holidays. It was educational."
Hermione stared at the picture of innocence before her, then turned to glance at Harry—who looked rather touched, actually—and sat down in a huff. With the fury of a Niffler denied treasure, she began circling errors in Harry's homework with righteous vengeance.
Charles ignored the storm at his elbow and carried on writing. By the time he finished, the common room had emptied out. Even the Weasley twins had come and gone again, bringing him back a snack as a reward for whatever obscure chaos they assumed he'd been up to.
It was well past midnight when Charles finally stretched, arms above his head, and made for the dormitory. He was toying with the idea of slipping a little Veritaserum into Percy's tea—just enough to wring the prefects' bathroom password out of him.
There was a letter on his bedside table, along with a few neglected issues of The Daily Prophet. Must've arrived sometime in the last couple of days.
There was no return address on the envelope. Curious, Charles opened it and found another envelope inside. His brow furrowed when he read the name on the front.
Petunia Dursley?
He didn't recall ever speaking to her, let alone giving her a reason to write.
Drawing the curtains around his bed, he settled in and began to read.
The letter was oddly… sweet. A bit like a grown-up trying to talk to a small child. Petunia wrote of her husband's health—still as cantankerous as ever—and asked after Charles's life at Hogwarts. Was he eating enough? Was it terribly cold in the castle? She reminisced vaguely about things her sister had once said—the steam train to school, for instance. Did they still take that?
Charles read it once, then read it again, this time more carefully.
Because the questions were… specific. Too specific.
She asked about the scenery on the way to school. What it looked like at midday. At dusk. Then she wondered aloud whether there really was a lake at the end of the train ride—just like Lily had said. Was it as big as she remembered?
Next, she rambled a bit about the weather on Privet Drive, then circled back to whether Hogwarts was very cold.
And that's when it hit Charles: these weren't idle questions.
If someone were determined enough, all those details—sky at noon, lake size, temperature shifts—could help trace the train's route. Maybe even locate the station itself.
Toward the end, Petunia's tone softened further. She said she wanted to understand more about Lily's time at Hogwarts. Would it be possible, she asked, to speak to some of the professors about her sister?
Charles stared at the page, heart thudding.
Something wasn't right here.
And this letter, as peculiar as it seemed, felt less like nostalgia—
and more like reconnaissance.
If Charles answered Petunia's questions truthfully, she'd end up with quite the trove of information—how many professors worked at Hogwarts, what each of them taught, and how things had changed over the years. It wouldn't take much cleverness to piece together the school's staff history from that alone.
Charles folded the letter slowly and stared at it, his brow furrowed in thought. His gut told him this wasn't idle curiosity. Petunia wanted to know about Hogwarts—deliberately and quite methodically.
But why?
Was she simply trying to understand her sister's school days—those hidden years that had always been cloaked in silence? Or… was there a deeper motive?
He remembered that strange meeting between Petunia and Dumbledore, when she'd asked for the details surrounding Lily's death. Was she… planning revenge?
On whom, exactly?
And more importantly… was he supposed to help?
Unless—Charles allowed himself a moment of whimsical absurdity—unless she had a daughter who looked like McKenna Grace. That might at least make the whole affair more cinematic.
He turned it over in his mind, but the more he thought, the less it made sense. In the end, he shrugged it off and decided to sleep on it. He'd reply tomorrow when he wrote to the Headmaster about the centaur tribe anyway—he could answer Petunia's letter at the same time. If she asked, he'd answer. Simple as that.
After all, it wasn't him she was threatening to expose.
If she had the nerve to drive a car straight through the gates of Hogwarts and ram Quirrell in the back of the head—well, that was between her and the Defense classroom.
---
Monday morning brought Herbology class, and with it, a surprise inquiry from Professor Sprout.
"Those branches by the greenhouse door—did you bring those in?" she asked, peering over her spectacles with a smile that made it hard to tell if she was suspicious or amused.
"Oh, yes," Charles said brightly. "The centaur tribe helped me gather them. I was going to plant them in the patch by the wall."
Professor Sprout, who'd apparently heard the full story from Professor McGonagall over breakfast, gave him a look that suggested she'd seen right through to the bottom of his cauldron.
"And tell me, Mr. Charles," she said, almost teasingly, "did you pick glowing plants on purpose, so you'd have an excuse to lure your female classmates out at night to admire them?"
Charles blinked. His mouth opened slightly as if the idea had only just occurred to him—and, to his credit, he looked genuinely impressed.
"That's brilliant," he said, nodding solemnly. "Professor, you're a genius. I hadn't thought—ow!"
He yelped as Professor Sprout tapped him smartly on the head with her wand.
"Less nonsense, more gardening," she said briskly. "While the ground's still soft, you'd better get it ready. Once winter comes, it'll be all but frozen solid. You can start those clippings off in pots in Greenhouse Two—it stays warm enough in there for them to sprout during the winter. Come spring, you'll be able to transplant them easily."
She fished a small brass key from her robes and handed it to him.
"This opens Greenhouse Two. Go ahead and get those branches moved in now."
Charles thanked her sincerely, then bundled the bag of cuttings into his enchanted knapsack and followed her down the path toward the greenhouses.
The moment the door creaked open, a wave of damp, warm air rolled out, thick with the earthy smell of compost and greenery. This was the seedling house—rows of flowerpots lined the benches, some empty, some holding rich soil, and others already sprouting delicate green shoots.
Professor Sprout pointed out which pots were free, which piles of soil were best for rooting, and even Summoned a watering can from the far corner with a flick of her wand, explaining how much water and compost to mix for each batch.
Charles took careful note of it all. The branches wouldn't stay viable forever, and with the professor's permission, he resolved to come back that evening to get a head start.
Because when it came to magical plants—and glowing ones at that—time, like compost, waited for no wizard.
(End of Chapter)
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