"Charlie, is the meat done yet? I'm starving—absolutely famished!" The girl's voice, clear and piercing, carried easily from across the room.
Inside, Charlie was tending to a large clay mound roasting over the fire. He called back, "Almost! Just a little longer!"
With a flick of his wand, he adjusted the flames, then added, "Why don't you take a bath first, Puxi? By the time you're out, dinner should be ready."
"Alright! My clothes are torn—give me a new set."
The girl strode in, demanding fresh clothes as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Charlie knew by now that Puxi wasn't rude—she simply had no concept of what "politeness" even meant.
At first, talking with someone so utterly unfiltered had been a shock. Puxi never bothered with subtlety. She'd blurt out, "Charlie, you look really handsome," or suddenly ask, "Charlie, why are you staring at my legs?"
The first made Charlie blush to the tips of his ears; the second nearly sent him running for the nearest wall to bang his head.
But he'd learned that when Puxi said these things, she meant them exactly as they sounded—no hidden meaning, no suggestion, just pure, straightforward honesty.
If she said he was good-looking, it was because she genuinely thought so. If she wondered why he was looking at her legs, she was simply curious.
Once he'd managed to collect himself, Charlie would thank her for the compliment and explain—awkwardly—that he'd only been admiring the strength in her calves. It wasn't a lie, exactly, but it wasn't the whole truth either.
"I can tell you're a bit nervous when you say stuff like that, but I don't think you mean any harm," Puxi had once observed, as blunt as ever.
All Charlie could do was laugh it off. He would die before admitting what he'd really been thinking. Some things were better left unspoken.
Still, after a few rounds of this, he'd grown used to her candor—and a little less flustered each time.
These memories flashed through his mind as he rummaged for the new clothes he'd set aside for her: a red pullover sweater, a matching knee-length skirt, all in her favorite bright red. He'd even picked out underwear, a pair of black knee-high socks, and shiny black lace-up shoes—an outfit that looked a bit like a schoolgirl's casual uniform.
He'd agonized over the choices for ages, unsure if Puxi would like them. Fashion wasn't exactly his area of expertise—Mrs. Weasley hadn't passed down much in the way of style.
"Do I really have to wear this?" Puxi asked, frowning at the underwear.
"...It's probably best if you do," Charlie managed, lips twitching with embarrassment.
"Okay, I'll give it a try. If I can't figure it out, you'll have to help me." With that, she scooped up the pile of clothes and disappeared into the tiny bathroom, where a magical shower waited.
Left alone, Charlie was torn—should he hope she'd need help, or hope she wouldn't?
Suddenly, panic struck. "Oh no, my chicken!"
He dashed to the roasting rack, waving his wand and incanting, "Incendio!"
A controlled burst of flame flared to life, wrapping the clay mound in even heat.
Watching the fire settle perfectly around his creation, Charlie let out a sigh of relief. Please let this turn out edible, he prayed.
If Professor Flitwick could see him now, he might be proud of Charlie's precise control of the Flame Charm—or he might be mortified that such a useful spell was being used to barbecue dinner.
Thankfully, Flitwick was thousands of miles away and blissfully ignorant.
…
Puxi was the super-strong girl Charlie had met at the Romanian dragon reserve. She could punch out a wild boar or dislocate a dragon's jaw with a single blow, yet she trained every day, rain or shine.
She claimed she needed to grow even stronger—to fulfill her mission.
What mission? That was a secret, she'd said, and Charlie had learned not to press.
Since they'd met, Puxi had made Charlie's place her post-training pit stop, dropping by for food, a shower, and sometimes a nap. She'd grown so comfortable here that it was almost routine.
She took her usual lightning-fast bath—less than ten minutes later, the bathroom door swung open.
She emerged, tugging at the new clothes under her red sweater. "Not sure if I put it on right. Charlie, want to check for me?"
Charlie gulped, his throat suddenly dry. "As long as it's not backwards or inside out, you should be fine," he stammered.
She felt around, then nodded. "No, it's not… but it feels weird. Like someone's hands are holding me up."
Charlie groaned inwardly. Puxi, do you have to describe everything in such detail?
But her attention quickly shifted.
She spotted the blackened clay mound on the rack, her eyes lighting up. "Is that meat?"
"That's right! It's a new dish I learned—Beggar's Chicken!" Charlie announced proudly.
"Mmm, Beggar's Chicken. So it's for me? I'm the beggar!" she said, utterly unbothered by the name.
"Uh, actually, it's just an old Eastern name—it doesn't mean you're a beggar," Charlie tried to explain, even though he knew she didn't care.
"So… does that mean I can't eat it?" Her only concern was whether she'd get the meat.
"You can! It's all for you—Puxi's roast chicken!" Charlie surrendered, giving her the answer she wanted.
"Great! I want it!" she cheered.
"Alright, sit tight. I'll get it out."
He pulled on oven mitts, lifted the heavy clay ball off the rack, and set it on the floor. With a wooden stick, he cracked the shell open.
Inside, two layers of lotus leaves unfurled, releasing a wave of mouthwatering aroma.
When Puxi tore off a drumstick and started devouring it, showering him with praise, Charlie felt that four hours of effort had been worth it.
He made a mental note to thank Qin Yu for the recipe. In their recent letters, Charlie had mentioned meeting a friend who loved meat, and Qin Yu had sent him the instructions for Beggar's Chicken. Charlie had gathered all the ingredients, even finding fresh lotus leaves and clean yellow clay.
Cooking with mud was odd, but the result was a triumph.
"This drumstick is for you!" Puxi tore off the other leg and handed it over.
"Thanks!" Charlie accepted it gratefully.
Then Puxi scooted sideways, clutching the rest of the chicken protectively—staking her claim to every last bite.
Charlie couldn't help but laugh at her antics.
He took the opportunity to study her new outfit. The red sweater and skirt suited her perfectly, highlighting her sunny, energetic spirit. The black knee-high socks hugged her strong calves, a strip of tanned skin visible between skirt and sock…
"Charlie, did I put my socks on wrong?" Puxi asked, her face shiny with chicken grease.
Here we go again…
"They're fine. I just… think you look great. That outfit really suits you," Charlie said, surprising himself with his own candor.
"Really?"
Puxi lifted her foot toward him, flexing it a couple times as if to give him a better look. Maybe she overdid it—a couple of times, her shoe brushed against Charlie's leg.
"…I'll go get you a handkerchief!" Charlie blurted, jumping to his feet to find something to wipe her mouth.
"Oh, then when you get back, you can keep looking," Puxi replied matter-of-factly.
After all, if he thought she looked nice, it was only fair to let him look a little longer—especially after he'd cooked her such a delicious meal. That was just how trades worked, right?
Meanwhile, Charlie was left regretting his outspokenness, silently scolding himself: Some things are better left unsaid…
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
The story isn't over...
🤔 Want to know what happens next to the characters?
🤫 Eager to explore the untold secrets of this world?
✍ Ready to read more of my wildest stories?
✨patreon.com/GoldenLong