Charlie had seen plenty of pitiful people.
Folks always pictured them getting kicked around, scraping by on nothing. Morality and guilt pushed everyone to show them kindness.
But the truth hit different. Not every pitiful soul deserved sympathy.
Being down on your luck had zero connection to whether someone was good or rotten. Those were two separate things.
Charlie had seen his share of pitiful folks—and plenty of complete assholes too. Yeah, some bad people got forced into it because life beat them down hard.
But Charlie didn't give a damn. He had his own survival to worry about.
Running a little street hustle, pulling magic tricks for coins—you thought that kept trouble away? Even stray dogs fought over turf.
Fights came with the territory.
He didn't win every scrap. No one did.
Staying in one piece mattered more than scoring the knockout. That was why his first move in the duel with Anthony had been to dodge.
If it hadn't been Anthony, he might've gone full Chen He Gao—dropped him the second he bowed his head.
Watching Anthony's stunned face, Charlie couldn't help feeling amused.
"Why the shock?" Charlie shrugged. "In the wizarding world, with rules this loose, kids must scrap all the time, right?"
"Not really," Anthony shook his head hard. "Who would I even fight? I only see other kids at holiday parties."
"So you all stay pretty isolated?"
Charlie still didn't know where Anthony lived. Some wizards lived out in the sticks, like the Weasleys. Others hid in cities, like Sirius Black.
It made him wonder about Sirius as a kid—did his family ever let him mix with the Muggle kids down the block?
Purebloods hated Muggles yet lived right among them, awkwardly faking normal lives.
Charlie sometimes wondered what those old-school wizards kept in their heads.
He patted his knee, stood up, and hauled Anthony to his feet.
"Practicing spells now?" Anthony checked his pocket watch and reset the wall clock. "Looks like dinner's coming up."
"Let's eat first. I've still got a couple pronunciation spots to fix on this new spell. It feels off when I say it. Even without waving my wand, I can tell it's wrong."
Anthony fiddled with the time and glanced over. "Is that what they call spell sense?"
"Spell sense?" Charlie rolled the words in his head. Language intuition? Close enough.
Last time he'd heard that phrase was back in his old life grinding English—not his favorite memories. But all that work helped him slide into this world fast.
"Does magic actually have a 'feel' like that?" Charlie asked.
"Absolutely. One look and you know the wand movement. One listen and you know how to say the spell—not just copying the tone, but feeling where to place the emotion and desire in the rise and fall of the words.
Same instinct that lets you notice your own incantation sounds wrong the second you mutter it."
Anthony grinned. "Dad told me his old boss at the Auror office could do it."
"Who?"
"Mad-Eye Moody. Retired after You-Know-Who fell. Dad didn't love hanging around him—said the guy had a nasty temper. But he respected him. Moody hated Death Eaters so much he'd risk his own neck to take them down."
Charlie nodded. He caught the envy flashing in Anthony's eyes.
"You lucky bastard. Dad spent Christmas telling me about this stuff, and now I come back to find you've got the talent I always wanted."
"Not really," Charlie shook his head.
He knew this "feel" came from years of grinding practice, not some magic gift. Like absolute pitch—it could be trained.
Practicing Lumos was balancing a ball. Incendio was balancing a bowl. Leg-Locker Curse was balancing a baseball. The more you tried, the sharper you got. Swap in a golf ball and you'd still have the edge.
"Can it be trained?" Anthony's eyes lit up.
"At least the kind I'm talking about," Charlie said.
He headed for the club door. "Come on. Dinner."
Anthony glanced at the training dummy, reluctant. Charlie's words had him itching to start.
"Let's eat first. Nothing beats food," Charlie said, hands behind his head, strolling out.
Saturday. Alchemy workshop.
"Gela—"
Charlie cast the short spatial charm on a palm-sized cloth bag.
He slid the ruler back in. Still twelve inches deep. Perfect. The expanded space inside was stable.
He stared at the fist-sized bag. On impulse, he yanked it over his head.
The space twisted. His head plunged into darkness.
Suffocation hit fast.
He ripped the bag off.
Ventilation problem. Light problem.
Light was easy. But how the hell did you cycle fresh air in a sealed, long-term expanded space?
He hadn't forgotten his dream of a suitcase like Newt Scamander's.
Just a test.
He'd finished three bags total, each embroidered with the Moonlight Club crest in gold thread.
This whole week had been about that.
Bag in hand, he headed downstairs to the Great Hall.
Lunchtime. He spotted Anthony and Hector at the long table, no one else around.
Walking up from behind, he caught their conversation.
"So the prelims are locked in?"
Hector nodded. "Yeah. Easter. But just the first round."
"No rush. You'll crush it," Anthony said.
Hector had been wound tight lately. OLM was world-level. Not like the junior stuff back in London. He had to take it dead serious.
The competition would include older pros with years more experience.
Hector didn't want to blow this shot. Every spare minute he buried himself in the books he'd brought home for Christmas.
No one at school could touch him except Ron, so he holed up in the dorm pushing pieces around the board alone.
If Charlie had been the one drifting before, now it was Hector pulling away from both of them.
He was too damn anxious.