The castle doors creaked open, and out stepped a stern-looking woman clad in emerald-green robes.
Her gaze was sharp, her expression severe. Harry leaned towards Charles and whispered, "She looks tough… not someone you want to mess with."
But to Harry's surprise, Charles was beaming—wide-eyed and innocent, the picture of a perfectly well-behaved child.
Charles had good reason to play the part. His grandfather had warned him, in no uncertain terms, that if he ever made Professor McGonagall angry, he might as well go and reserve a cell in Azkaban himself.
Besides, the man had gone and custom-ordered a brand-new broomstick for Charles, then had it sent directly to Professor McGonagall for safekeeping. Best not to poke the dragon, especially when she was holding your broom.
Professor McGonagall led the group into the castle and ushered them into a small chamber off the entrance hall.
"We'll begin the Sorting Ceremony shortly," she said crisply. "Please tidy yourselves up in the meantime."
Charles had drifted off into thought until Harry elbowed him. "Hey, did you bring a comb?"
Around them, the first-years had begun to murmur nervously about what exactly the Sorting Ceremony entailed.
Hermione looked downright jittery. She reached out to tug on Charles's sleeve. "Do you know what we're supposed to do?"
Charles leaned in, lowering his voice to a suspiciously loud whisper. "I asked Mr. Ollivander. He told me the Sorting is tied to our wands—the core inside determines what kind of magical creature we have to fight."
Hermione's face went pale. "W-wait… really? My wand core is… a dragon…"
She trailed off in horror.
Gasps rippled through the nearby students. Everyone had seen Ollivander in Diagon Alley. If he said it, it had to be true.
"Dragons are incredibly powerful," Hermione whimpered. "I read about them. I'm going to fail. I'll never be accepted!"
"I can't even fly yet," Harry added, sounding just as panicked. "What if I get eaten?"
Charles ignored Harry and turned to Hermione, gravely serious. "It's all right. Dragons have a soft underbelly. When it lunges, you slide underneath with a quick dodge and hit it with a spell—right here." He tapped his own stomach.
And just like that, Ron witnessed a miracle—two nervous wrecks flipping into coordinated assault mode. Harry elbowed Charles in the ribs while Hermione gave him a swift kick in the shin.
Harry had known Charles since they were toddlers across the street. Hermione had survived being his classmate through primary school. Neither was a stranger to his nonsense.
"Ow!" said Harry.
"Hey!" said Hermione.
"That," Charles said coolly, "was a Shield Charm. You want to block better? Read the textbook."
His grandfather always said Hogwarts was dangerous—ten people a day tried to hex you just on your way to class. Best to keep your Shield Charm running at all times.
At that moment, a cluster of ghosts drifted right through the wall. A jolly-looking friar gave them a cheerful wave.
The arrival of the ghosts served as a helpful distraction, but the looming Sorting Ceremony still hung over everyone like a thundercloud. If Professor McGonagall hadn't spoken up, Harry might've clutched his comb all the way to the Sorting Hat itself.
After Hannah Abbott demonstrated the Sorting process firsthand, a collective sigh of relief rippled through the first-years.
Charles watched the Sorting unfold, noting that each student ended up in the house he remembered. But as Professor McGonagall finally called his name, a twinge of nervousness curled in his stomach.
The tattered Sorting Hat landed on his head—and without a moment's pause, it bellowed, "AZKABAN!"
Laughter erupted across the Great Hall. Everyone assumed the hat was joking. Even Dumbledore chuckled, his eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles.
"What's Azkaban?" Harry whispered to George Weasley beside him.
"It's the wizard prison," George replied.
"Our mum's always worried we'll end up there one day," Fred added cheerfully.
"Oh…" Harry nodded thoughtfully. "If Dudley were here, it might not be a joke."
Meanwhile, under the hat, Charles was deadpan. "Did I do something to offend you?"
The Sorting Hat gave a wiggle of its tip. "Life is drudgery, my dear boy. I must find joy where I can."
Then its tone shifted, solemn and grand: "But I can feel it… the weight you carry, the pain you bear. Such courage, such fireyou belong in Gryffindor!"
"GRYFFINDOR!" it proclaimed.
Charles calmly removed the hat and set it down, a serene smile on his face as he walked to the Gryffindor table.
The moment he arrived, two identical redheads—Fred and George Weasley—grabbed him by the arms and plunked him down between them.
"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Smith," said one.
"Oh! Another Charles—just like our second eldest brother. I'm sure we'll get on famously," said the other.
"Charlie's working with dragons in Romania now," Fred (or maybe George) added proudly. "He used to be Gryffindor's Quidditch captain. You know Quidditch? We're on the house team. We can teach you."
"Chocolate Frog? Great pre-dinner snack."
"…or maybe some Every-Flavour Beans?"
The twins volleyed back and forth so quickly it made Charles's head spin. The prefect watching them from down the table gave a content little nod—clearly pleased to see everyone getting along so well.
Charles, however, wasn't fooled. While he kept smiling and nodding, his brain screamed red alert. The Weasley twins were being too nice.
And just as he feared, the real conversation began.
Fred leaned in. "We heard you've got a Bottomless Bag."
"And you handed Potter a comb from it earlier," George added casually.
So that was it. Charles remembered now—Ron had mentioned on the train that his brothers had once tried to invent a magical bag, but gave up when they couldn't afford the materials.
Oh, this was going to be fun.
"Yeah, I do have one," Charles said nonchalantly, no point in hiding it. He knew it was impossible to conceal.
Fred's eyes lit up immediately. "Can we see it?"
George, always the eager one, added, "We'll even help you with your homework."
Charles grinned. "Sure, you can help with homework later, but not here. We'll talk about it in the dorm."
The twins exchanged an excited glance and immediately started sharing stories about the prank gadgets they'd made.
Charles, now genuinely impressed, listened as they talked. It was clear that their mastery over magic was way beyond what most kids their age could do.
Before long, the Sorting Ceremony wrapped up, and Ron made his way to the Gryffindor table. Dumbledore gave his usual speech, and suddenly, a grand feast appeared on the tables.
Hogwarts was big on old traditions, and it definitely showed in the food—still as fancy as it was before Archduke Ferdinand met his untimely end.
Charles went for the big stuff: a massive slice of roast beef, two pork chops, and three boiled potatoes. He also grabbed some pea shoots and carrots for good measure, before generously slathering his potatoes with tomato ketchup.
George, staring at the mountain of food in front of Charles, raised an eyebrow. "You gonna eat all that?"
Harry, sitting next to George, spoke up. "He's been eating more than everyone since he was a kid."
Across from them, Hermione chimed in, "He had to pay for three people's meals back in primary school."
Charles shot her a look. "I'll be sure to tell Mr. Granger about how many peppermints you've been sneaking, Hermione."
Hermione immediately shrank back. Her family was pretty strict about candy—she wasn't supposed to eat too many sweets for the sake of her teeth.
Charles then turned his attention to Harry's plate. "Don't forget to eat your vegetables, Harry."
Harry's shoulders slumped. He wasn't about to argue.
Just then, Nearly Headless Nick drifted over. He wanted to warn Charles about leaving too much food on his plate, but considering the way Charles was demolishing his meal, Nick figured there probably wasn't enough food left to care about the points.
"Oh, and there's pudding later," Nick said reluctantly.
"Thanks for the heads-up," Charles replied, taking a sip of pumpkin juice. "I know my limits when it comes to food."
While munching, Charles struck up a conversation with Nick. Nick, though a bit unwilling, gave them a quick demonstration of the delicate relationship between his head and neck.
Charles had seen Nick before in Dumbledore's memories—he'd helped the old man out at one point—but Nick, for whatever reason, had never quite made it into the Headless Horseman's Club.
Soon enough, Nick floated off, and the puddings appeared on the table.
As Charles chatted with the others about his family, he took the opportunity to down two apple pies in quick succession.
Dumbledore, who had been quietly observing Harry all this time, couldn't help but notice Charles's steady, uninterrupted eating pace. He wondered—would he have to start charging Charles a meal plan fee?
(End of Chapter)
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