At Hogwarts, wandering the castle at night past curfew usually meant points deducted and detention. But with Percy the Prefect leading the way—and an official note from Dumbledore himself—even Filch could do nothing more than grumble as he let them pass.
Percy was only there to guide him; once the headmaster's office door opened, he turned around and left.
Charles stepped inside, curious and a little anxious. What did Dumbledore want with him? Did the Sorting Hat report that he actually belonged in Azkaban? Was it about wanting to plant things in the dirt? Or—worse—did this have something to do with Harry Potter?
The office was far livelier than expected. The portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses lined the walls, and every one of them had turned to stare at him with clear interest.
Dumbledore smiled warmly and gestured to a seat in front of his desk. Then he pushed over a dish piled with cockroach-shaped candies and asked cheerfully, "Would you care for one?"
"Thank you," said Charles, picking one up and popping it into his mouth. A cockroach-shaped sweet? He'd had worse. That strange liquid for cuts back home had tasted like spoiled broth.
But the reason for the meeting caught him by surprise.
"Charles," Dumbledore said kindly, "may I ask something personal? I've heard you have a certain… gift for Divination?"
So it was that. Charles relaxed a little and replied, "It's true, kind of. Sometimes I just zone out a bit, like I'm dreaming while awake. I see little flashes of things."
"But usually it's just boring stuff—like what the weather's going to be like tomorrow."
Dumbledore looked genuinely intrigued. "And do these visions always come true?"
Charles shook his head. "Not always. Once I saw one of our neighbors getting hit by a car the next day. But that night, his wife slipped in the bathroom and hit her head. He ended up at the hospital with her for a few days, and Harry and I had to feed their dog."
Dumbledore gave a thoughtful nod, then waved his wand and poured Charles a cup of tea. "Malfoy mentioned you predicted something terrible happening to his home?"
Ah. So that had caused a stir. Apparently, the Malfoy Manor explosion had gotten some serious attention—enough to dig into this detail too.
Charles scratched the back of his head, a little embarrassed. "Well… I didn't know it was his house at first. Just a couple of minutes before he walked into the train compartment, I saw this really beautiful mansion get blown up. There was this middle-aged man standing in the rubble looking furious."
"Then Malfoy came in, and I thought he looked a lot like that guy… so I figured the house must be his."
"Of course," he added, "if Malfoy had just looked like my neighbor instead, I might've been way off."
Dumbledore had been listening quite attentively, but at that last line, the corner of his mouth twitched.
"What an extraordinary talent," he said. "I think it's time for you to begin formal Divination studies with Professor Trelawney."
But Charles shook his head firmly. "No, thanks. Divination causes way too much trouble. There was a time we were getting twenty-six phone calls an hour at home just asking about the weather."
He wasn't sure Dumbledore even knew what a phone was, so he gave a better example: "It's like having an owl show up every three minutes."
That did the trick—Dumbledore laughed but didn't press him.
"I quite agree with what Mr. Smith once said," he replied. "In life, there are many crossroads. Just because we older folks think one path is right doesn't mean it's the right one for you. But if you ever change your mind, or find yourself uncertain, you're welcome to come and talk to me."
"And if you ever see something that confuses or troubles you… I hope you'll tell me."
Charles promised he would.
With that matter settled, Dumbledore moved on. "Professor Sprout tells me you're interested in cultivating a bit of land?"
"Yes!" Charles brightened immediately, nodding enthusiastically. "I think growing magical plants sounds really fun."
Dumbledore gave him a serious look. "It can also be dangerous. I trust Professor Sprout mentioned that?"
"She did," Charles replied. "And I've seen it in the books, too. I'll be careful, I promise."
"I read about a plant called Moondew. Can I try growing that?"
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, then smiled. "Ah… did you happen to read about what it's used for?"
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Charles gave a slightly sheepish grin.
Moondew, aside from being used in uplifting potions and other brews, could also be added to make an especially sweet version of Butterbeer. He didn't have a clue how to actually brew potions at his current first-year level, but making Butterbeer taste better? That he could do. And honestly, for kids his age, something sweet and fizzy was way more exciting than potion ingredients.
Dumbledore seemed to take him for what he appeared to be—a curious first-year from a Muggle family, enchanted by the magical world around him. Hogwarts saw plenty of students like that. He didn't read too much into it and simply said, "No matter what you'd like to plant, you'll need Professor Sprout's permission first."
Charles nodded enthusiastically. With the headmaster's support, the rest would be easier to handle.
But then Dumbledore brought up something that made Charles tense up. "You seem to have… quite an appetite?"
Charles straightened nervously. "Headmaster, are you going to ask me to pay extra for meals?"
"Oh no, no!" Dumbledore quickly waved it off. "There's nothing wrong with having a good appetite. I just wanted to discuss a possibility. Are you hungry now?"
Charles shook his head twice—and then, a little embarrassed, nodded. "A little. I had some food saved from dinner."
Dumbledore thought for a moment, then said lightly, "Your situation is unusual, yes, but not a cause for worry. As far as I'm concerned, anything that can be solved by eating more is hardly a real problem."
Charles frowned a little. "So… how long do I have to keep eating like this?"
Dumbledore didn't hesitate. "I don't know."
Charles blinked. He'd honestly expected Dumbledore to know everything.
The headmaster gestured to the teapot in front of him. "A wizard's magic is like the water in this teapot. When it's not full, it needs refilling. Your 'teapot' is much larger than the average wizard's—perhaps even larger than mine. That's why you burn through energy faster, and need more food to make up for it."
Charles finally understood: if most people were teapots, he was basically a water barrel.
Then a strange thought occurred to him. He asked cautiously, "Is it possible that… I'm leaking?"
If he couldn't fill up, maybe it wasn't just that his 'barrel' was big—maybe there was a hole somewhere and some little gremlin named "Greedy Gus" was secretly draining him from the other end.
Dumbledore fell silent, deep in thought, which only made Charles more nervous. Was he actually a leaky magical sieve?
Not wanting to interrupt, Charles let the headmaster think and began glancing around the office.
The portraits on the wall were all chattering away, quite clearly debating whether he was a giant jug or a cracked colander.
Fawkes the phoenix perched on a high shelf, eyeing Charles suspiciously, as if expecting him to burst into magical sparks at any moment.
After a while, Dumbledore finally spoke. "You have a point—but I believe it's unlikely. If you were leaking magic, we'd see all sorts of strange phenomena happening around you."
Charles sighed in relief. As long as he wasn't a leaky kettle, he could handle needing seconds… and thirds. Especially since the headmaster wasn't asking him to cover the cost.
Dumbledore reached for a piece of parchment, scribbled something down, and handed it over. "If you're ever feeling hungry, you may go to the kitchens for something to eat. Ask the Weasley twins how to get there."
Charles accepted the note with a beaming smile. Now he had the perfect excuse for any future midnight wandering—he was just lost on the way to the kitchens.
(End of Chapter)
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