"No time, I'm playing Civilization I."
Charles read the owl-delivered letter several times, just to be sure. Yep, it was from the old man. Then he scratched his head, brow furrowed.
The letter had three points.
First, the centaur business—his grandfather agreed to help. Once the money arrived and Dumbledore arranged transportation, they'd get started.
Second… well, that was confusing. The old man insisted Charles must come back to Privet Drive for Christmas to have a "good talk" with Aunt Petunia.
Charles immediately got worried. What if the old guy wanted him to start calling Petunia "Grandma" and Dudley "Uncle"?
The third item was borderline magical in itself: the old man had bought a computer recently, gotten completely hooked on Civilization I, and declared that unless it was life or death, no one was allowed to disturb him.
Charles couldn't help but picture it: a BBC reporter standing in front of 3 Privet Drive, broadcasting the tragic story of a grandfather and grandson who starved to death, too obsessed with Civilization to eat.
Still, part of him was relieved. Princess Maker had just released this past May, but luckily it wasn't being sold in the UK yet. Otherwise… if his grandfather got addicted to that and decided to play the real-life version? Disaster.
Charles pondered whether he should introduce the old man to simpler games—maybe Candy Crush, Zuma, or Plants vs. Zombies—you know, for safety.
A commotion nearby pulled him back to reality.
Charles figured Harry owed Neville's gran a fruit basket and a case of milk every holiday from now on. If she hadn't sent Neville that Remembrall, Harry might've never gotten to play Quidditch.
To Charles, Quidditch wasn't all that thrilling. He was far more interested in dogfighting—preferably with rockets strapped to brooms that left flaming trails behind them.
As they left the Great Hall after lunch, Harry and the others were visibly nervous about the upcoming flying lesson.
Charles, meanwhile, had a burning question for the twins.
"You guys know any spells or potions that can cause explosions? Big ones. Like, very intense explosions."
Fred gave him a wary look.
"What… exactly are you planning?"
If it was just for pranks, sure. A little boom here and there, nothing serious. But intense explosions? That was another story. The strange blue flash near the greenhouses yesterday had already scared the wits out of half the students.
George added, "If it's just for getting back at someone or pulling a prank, we've got ideas. But anything too dangerous—those are the kinds of spells that get you a cozy room in Azkaban."
Charles wasn't planning to go full confessional about his dealings with the centaurs. He just wanted to see if any high-power magical firepower could help take down giant spiders later. If the twins thought he was going rogue, fine. He'd just stick to propane tanks. Or chlorine gas—weather permitting.
He didn't realize that Professor Quirrell was standing not far behind him, quietly listening.
---
At 3 PM, half an hour before class, Charles was already standing outside the broom storage room, beaming innocently.
Madam Hooch looked at him with an expression caught somewhere between fondness and exasperation.
"Madam Hooch," Charles said, his smile as warm as a spring morning, "I thought I'd help bring the brooms out for class."
Faced with such a well-behaved offer, Madam Hooch couldn't bring herself to say no.
As they walked to the training grounds, she said, "Professor McGonagall told me about your situation. Strictly speaking, it's against the rules—but let's be honest, not many students actually follow that one."
Charles figured as much. After Harry showed his talent, McGonagall had practically gifted him a brand-new, top-of-the-line broom.
Madam Hooch continued, "If you can demonstrate solid control, fly a proper S-curve, and loop like student B does—you'll get your broom."
Charles's eyes lit up.
All he had to do… was pass a practical exam with a deathstick between his legs. Easy enough, right?
Charles got the message—if he could fly like a proper student (and not like a rock), he'd be allowed to use his own broomstick.
Then another thought struck him, and he asked Madam Hooch,
"So… when do people usually fly broomsticks? I mean, outside of Quidditch matches?"
By then, Madam Hooch had already led him to the grassy lawn outside the castle, right next to the Forbidden Forest, just across a stream from that patch of land.
"Most people fly in the spring and summer of the second term," she said, pointing to the ground. "It's too cold right now, don't you think?"
Fair point. Flying up in the air with the winter wind in your face wasn't exactly anyone's idea of fun—it was more like voluntary torture.
After Charles helped line up the brooms, Madam Hooch began inspecting them one by one.
Since Charles was already there, she took the opportunity to explain the structure, theory, and common issues with flying brooms.
A flying broom had two main components: the broomstick shaft and the broom bristles. During flight, the shaft provided lift along the vertical axis, while the bristles provided horizontal propulsion.
Aside from the lift-generating enchantments, the shaft also featured a Cushioning Charm, which didn't look like anything was there—but trust her, it kept one's butt from getting bruised. Without it, it'd be a chorus of "oofs" and "owws" from both boys and girls.
The bristles were a complicated bit. Each individual twig contributed propulsion, and syncing all those micro-forces into a unified thrust was a technical art. You had to align the collective force precisely with the center of the shaft—otherwise, the broom would veer off-course.
Madam Hooch knew some basic maintenance spells, but the more advanced enchantments were proprietary knowledge kept by broomstick manufacturers. She could only do upkeep—not full recalibration.
Yes, the school brooms at Hogwarts were old. Some leaned to one side, others vibrated like mad. But at least they were safe. You wouldn't just randomly fall out of the sky mid-flight.
When she finished her inspections, Madam Hooch noticed Charles standing there, deep in thought.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked.
Charles wasn't about to say, "Oh, just trying to figure out how to adapt vector thrust to broomsticks."
Controlling the tail end would probably require something like a self-adjusting auto-quill spell, and he'd need to rewrite the entire control logic. Not exactly a weekend project.
But there was something else he could work on—like what was in the broom closet.
He asked, "Do the school still use those old broom shafts and bristles in the storage room?"
Madam Hooch seemed to read his mind. She smiled.
"You're thinking of making your own broom?"
He wasn't the first. A lot of students had the same idea. Crafting your own custom flying broom? Extremely cool—and possibly profitable too.
Most could barely match the school's ancient brooms, but if a student made something truly impressive, broom manufacturers would swoop in and try to recruit them on the spot.
Hogwarts actually supported students experimenting like this. It helped prevent the "ambitious-but-deluded" types from secretly building what looked like flying devices but were actually airborne death traps.
So Madam Hooch said, "If you want to make your own broom, I can give you a reading list. Once you know enough, I'll help you gather some materials."
"But remember—you must let me inspect and approve the broom before you ever fly it. Got it?"
Charles wholeheartedly agreed. The last thing he wanted was to launch himself on some homemade contraption and end up tracing a ballistic arc like a space rocket.
Of course, what he really wanted to make wasn't a broom at all—it was a remote-controlled floating turret.
But that would have to wait. There were too many things on his to-do list right now. Not even counting the mysterious second spell his grandfather had left with the centaurs or his botanical experiments, even broom development had tons of prerequisites he had to unlock first. No rushing it.
As for Voldemort and the Philosopher's Stone?
That was Harry's problem.
(End of Chapter)