"So, where exactly should we start?" Anthony asked, dropping his left hand as he walked over to Charlie.
He had just been standing in the corner of the Room of Requirement, adjusting the grandfather clock.
Previously, Charlie had only ever set it to an approximate time. It turned out his internal clock was currently about forty minutes off from Anthony's standard time.
"If it were up to me, I'd suggest you two start by thoroughly reviewing every single spell you've learned so far."
Anthony and Hector exchanged a look, both visibly confused. "But we already know them all."
"I have no doubt you know them. But I imagine your knowledge is still fairly superficial."
Even though nearly every spell in the first-year curriculum—excluding the Fire-Making Spell and the Dancing Feet Spell—was a highly practical, everyday utility charm, Charlie firmly believed that Hogwarts students simply didn't have enough opportunities to actively apply them.
For the vast majority of spells, students plateaued exactly at the "I learned it" stage.
But there was a massive, gaping chasm between "learning" a spell and actually "using" it fluidly.
And bridging that gap was exactly what separated a decent wizard from a brilliant one.
"To know and not to act is to not truly know.
"Knowledge and action must be unified. If you cannot seamlessly and effortlessly cast a spell in your everyday life, then you haven't truly learned it.
"That's my personal philosophy."
"Right. So you're a hardcore, uncompromising pragmatist. Understood," Anthony noted.
Charlie smiled, spinning his wand between his fingers. "I suppose you could say that. After all, I've literally never received full marks on a single written assignment."
The highest marks in their year almost always went to Hermione. Her essays were so meticulously researched that not a single professor could find a flaw in them.
Charlie, conversely, received his essays back completely covered in aggressive red ink.
Your logic is flawed here. Your calculations are incorrect there. A more reasonable explanation would be this. A more accurate phrasing would be that.
Honestly, it was a massive blessing that every single professor took the time to grade his work so thoroughly.
Even Snape. No matter how much Charlie genuinely disliked the man, seeing the massive paragraphs of detailed corrections Snape left on his Potions essays always managed to instantly extinguish his anger.
Oh, except for Professor Quirrell, of course.
The man was spectacularly lazy. He literally never graded their assignments.
Assigning homework and collecting it felt exactly like a meaningless, robotic routine for him.
"Every time I start practicing a specific spell, I dedicate the first ten to twenty minutes to a complete 'spell-flurry' warm-up.
"I rapidly cast whatever random spells pop into my head, and I force myself to ensure every single one is a success."
With that, Charlie pointed his wand at a training dummy. "Wingardium Leviosa—"
He fired the incantation off incredibly fast, rattling it off like an auctioneer. The spell struck the dummy instantly, sending it hovering into the air.
Hector's mouth formed a perfect 'O' shape. A moment later, he nodded in profound agreement. "Right. I suppose that's what genuinely 'knowing' a spell looks like."
If he were being honest with himself, he knew for a fact he couldn't replicate that.
"You really do have a terrifying talent for easily convincing people," Anthony laughed, looking at Charlie.
"Perhaps my philosophy is just inherently more persuasive when I physically prove it?" Charlie offered modestly.
Hector stepped up to a dummy. He thought for a second, then attempted to mimic Charlie's rapid-fire casting. "Lumos."
Fzzzt—
A blindingly bright, aggressive spark violently erupted from the tip of his wand, looking exactly like a flare.
If he had been a complete beginner, achieving that level of brightness on his first attempt would have meant he was an absolute genius.
Unfortunately, he had officially 'learned' the Wand-Lighting Charm weeks ago.
Just as Charlie had said, if you couldn't control it effortlessly, you hadn't truly mastered it.
'Proficiency' wasn't an invisible stat that automatically leveled up in the background the exact second you managed to cast a spell successfully once.
Over the next half hour, Charlie stood back and carefully watched Anthony and Hector systematically cast every single spell they had learned so far.
After each cast, he patiently offered his own insights and shared the specific tricks he had discovered for each charm.
Once they were finished, he prepared to leave the Room of Requirement.
"You two keep practicing. I'm going to pop out to the corridor for a bit."
"Alright, mate," Anthony waved him off, already diving back into his wand drills.
Stepping out of the Room of Requirement, Charlie walked down the corridor toward a set of massive, towering windows.
Rumble—
The torrential rain was absolutely hammering against the glass, accompanied by deafening cracks of thunder. A harsh, freezing draft howled through the slightly open window, violently whipping a mist of rainwater into the corridor.
Standing right by the window, Charlie felt exactly as if he were standing outside in the storm.
He looked up into the sky. There wasn't even a fraction of moonlight visible. The oppressive, pitch-black thunderclouds hung suffocatingly low over the Scottish Highlands.
The freezing wind aggressively sapped his body heat. He pulled his robes tighter around himself and pulled out his Material Vial.
Lightning didn't literally only exist in the exact fraction of a second a bolt struck the ground.
When a massive thunderstorm violently rolled across the sky, the entire atmosphere was essentially saturated with volatile, microscopic lightning elements.
He raised his wand, instantly activating his magical extraction.
A faint, brilliant streak of blue-purple energy, constantly crackling and popping in the air, was drawn directly toward the tip of his wand.
He uncorked the vial, and the raw, shimmering lightning essence slowly began to spool inside.
Harvesting material essence was an agonizingly slow process. By the time he had managed to fill the vial slightly past halfway, he was completely drenched, looking exactly like a drowned rat.
Rubbing his freezing face and violently shaking the excess water from his hair, he pocketed the vial and headed back toward the Room of Requirement.
Seeing his absolutely wrecked state, Anthony and Hector naturally burst into hysterical laughter.
...
Once their practice session wrapped up and they returned to Ravenclaw Tower, Charlie immediately bolted for the showers. He stood under the scalding hot water for ages before changing into dry clothes and practically gluing himself to the fireplace in the common room.
He wasn't physically made of iron.
If he caught a cold, he'd be absolutely miserable.
Meanwhile, up in their dormitory.
A grey-brown owl was currently perched patiently on the windowsill outside.
"Oh, it's Mr. Vent," Anthony noted, spotting the bird.
He quickly unlatched the window and let the owl in. Mr. Vent was clutching a heavily waterlogged letter and a medium-sized parcel in his talons.
Anthony picked the letter up and gave it a sharp flick. A built-in magical charm instantly activated, and the soaking wet, wrinkled parchment immediately smoothed out and became bone dry.
"Is that a spell?" Hector asked.
"Yeah. It's a specialized weather-resistant envelope. You can buy them at Flourish and Blotts," Anthony explained.
"They're a bit pricey, though. It's definitely from my parents, but I have absolutely no idea why they're writing to me right now."
Generally speaking, Anthony, Hector, and Charlie only wrote to their families on the weekends.
They'd send a letter off on Friday night, summarizing the events of the week.
Of course, last weekend had been the exception. Last week, Halloween had fallen on a Thursday, so Anthony had sent his letter off a day early.
Hector watched Anthony's owl, Mr. Vent, shake the rain from his feathers.
"Maybe I should buy an owl for my parents. That way they can easily get in touch with me whenever they want."
"Brilliant idea," Anthony said, tearing open his envelope.
Dearest Anthony,
We heard a deeply concerning rumor that there was an incident at Hogwarts. Apparently, a fully-grown mountain troll somehow broke into the castle on Halloween night.
We are absolutely desperate to know if you are alright. Were you anywhere near it? Were you terrified?
Please write back to us immediately; your mother is sick with worry. I repeatedly assured her that with Albus Dumbledore in the castle, absolutely nothing genuinely terrible could ever happen.
But she stubbornly insists that if Dumbledore truly is omnipotent, a bloody troll shouldn't have been able to wander into a school filled with children in the first place.
(A quiet word of advice from your old man: you definitely need to explain exactly why you didn't proactively write to tell us about this.
The incident happened on Halloween. We absolutely should have received a letter detailing the event by Saturday or Sunday at the latest.
The fact that you didn't tell us immediately has made your mother incredibly angry.
You need to invent a very, very good excuse, you little brat.)
With November officially here, the weather is going to turn bitterly cold. We've sent you some new clothes.
Your mother genuinely wanted to pack an entire steamer trunk, or use an Undetectable Extension Charm on a bag the size of a house, to literally send your entire winter wardrobe.
I managed to talk her down. She settled on buying you a few new items instead.
Also, regarding your two roommates, Charlie and Hector.
Your mother insisted on buying Charlie a set of clothes as well. Based entirely on the things you've written about him, she absolutely adores the boy.
I specifically remember the last time we received a letter from you, she actually teared up. She said, 'Oh, what an incredibly strong, resilient child. Growing and thriving despite being caught between a rock and a hard place.'
So, included in the parcel are three brand-new, premium winter school robes.
One for each of you. Consider it a slightly belated Halloween gift.
(Though I fully trust you aren't foolish enough to do this, I must explicitly warn you anyway, just to ensure the thought never even crosses your mind.
These are gifts from your mother. They are not gifts from you. Do not, under any circumstances, use this to act arrogant or superior over them.
Naturally, I've also slipped a few extra Galleons into the parcel. If you genuinely wish to buy them gifts yourself, you can use your own money to do so. (laughs))
Love you always,
Dad and Mum
Looking at the bracketed paragraphs, Anthony knew instantly that his dad had sneaked those in after his mum had finished writing.
"Bloody hell, he really thinks the absolute worst of me. Why on earth would I act arrogant about a gift?!" Anthony grumbled, rolling his eyes.
He let out an exasperated sigh. This was exactly his father's parenting style. He constantly felt the need to play the strict educator, but he never wanted to come across as entirely overbearing.
So, every single time he delivered a stern lecture, he always immediately followed it up with a gentle joke or a laugh.
Case in point: he couldn't even write a letter without sneaking in a lecture, only to immediately soften the blow with a 'laughs' at the end.
His mother, conversely, was the exact opposite. She was unapologetically the deeply caring, maternal figure.
Tucking the letter safely into his desk drawer, Anthony turned his attention to the parcel sitting on his bed.
The exact second he untied the string, the parcel violently ballooned outward like an inflating tire.
Whoosh— A massive pile of heavy winter clothing violently exploded out of the packaging.
Hector, who had been sitting on the bed next to it, jumped back in shock. "Bloody hell! Honestly thought you were defusing a bomb for a second."
Anthony stared at the absolute mountain of thick jumpers, trousers, heavy coats, hats, and scarves. He slapped a hand to his forehead in defeat.
"I bloody knew it. My mum definitely packed this."
His eyes quickly locked onto three distinct, neatly folded packages wrapped in brown waxed paper.
"What did your folks say?" Hector asked curiously.
"Oh, you know. They somehow caught wind of the Halloween troll incident and wrote in an absolute panic to make sure I wasn't dead."
Hector nodded in complete understanding. "Right. There was absolutely no way a story that massive was going to stay a secret."
"I guarantee the busybodies at the Prophet are already using it to violently question Dumbledore's competence again," Anthony added.
"They always do. Whenever Dumbledore actually does something, they immediately print: 'Dumbledore's Mind Failing', 'Dumbledore's Reign Over', 'Dumbledore Losing His Touch'.
"And if he doesn't make a public statement, they immediately pivot and print: 'Dumbledore Bedridden in Hogwarts Office'."
"Really? Is it actually that bad? Honestly, I don't know much about Dumbledore's politics."
"Don't worry, you'll figure it out eventually. Dumbledore's resume is absolutely terrifying. The man literally just has to stand in a room to completely paralyze a horde of Dark Wizards."
Hector nodded, then looked at Anthony, a trace of uncertainty in his eyes.
"So... do you reckon I should write to my parents and tell them about the troll? Maybe it'd be better if they heard it straight from me? I could pitch it as a thrilling, once-in-a-lifetime adventure."
The dormitory door clicked open, and Charlie walked in.
He had caught the tail end of Hector's question and immediately offered his advice. "I highly suggest you don't."
"Really? Why not?" the two boys asked, turning to look at Charlie, who was currently aggressively towel-drying his hair.
Charlie answered with a single, brutal truth. "Because your mum can't actually do anything to help you, but she will absolutely spend every second worrying."
Hearing that, Hector sucked in a sharp breath.
His expression instantly sobered. He thought about it for a long moment before giving a heavy, decisive nod. Charlie had highlighted an angle he genuinely hadn't considered.
"Yeah. You're entirely right, Charlie."
Hector's mind instantly flashed back to the day he had boarded the Hogwarts Express, and the sheer, unadulterated terror and worry plastered across his parents' faces.
Of course they were terrified.
He was eleven years old, entirely alone, stepping onto a train bound for a completely alien, magical world.
And honestly, it wasn't just his parents who were terrified. When he had been dragging his trunk down the corridor of the train by himself, he had been absolutely petrified too.
Not everyone was like Hermione—buzzing with excitement, eagerly exploring the train, and overflowing with romanticized dreams of magic.
And not everyone was like Harry—desperate to violently escape a family that treated him worse than a stray dog.
Kids like Hector were the vast majority.
And now he was going to write a letter telling his parents a literal monster had broken into the school?
It would do absolutely nothing but cause them agonizing, completely unnecessary stress.
"Hey, hey!"
Anthony clapped his hands to break the heavy silence. "Right, enough of that. Look at this."
He tossed the three waxed-paper packages onto the bed.
"Open them up. Gifts from my mum."
Hector and Charlie unwrapped their packages. Inside were heavy winter school robes.
The fabric felt incredibly thick and luxurious, draping perfectly over the hands, yet it weighed practically nothing.
Clearly, advanced magic had been woven into the material, perfectly balancing the heavy aesthetic with weightless comfort.
The exact second Charlie touched the fabric, his brow furrowed.
The gift was entirely too expensive.
If he was being honest, his first instinct was to—
Anthony's voice cut straight through his thoughts.
"My mum is entirely stubborn about gifts. You literally cannot return them. No one has ever successfully returned a gift to my mother."
Hearing the pre-emptive defense, Charlie couldn't help but laugh.
"Thanks, mate."
"Like I said—"
Anthony casually strolled over to Charlie's desk, reached into the open sweets jar, and pulled out a piece of chocolate.
"Just let me nick two pieces of chocolate, and we'll call it even. My mum spends the Galleons, and I get to reap the rewards. It's a remarkably brilliant deal for me."
Charlie's smile widened. He knew exactly what Anthony was doing; he was actively framing the situation so the 'debt' of the gift fell entirely on his mother, perfectly alleviating any pressure Charlie might feel.
As for the sweets jar, the chocolate inside was explicitly meant for the dorm.
Hector and Anthony had open permission to grab a piece whenever they wanted.
On the other side of the room, Hector was deep in thought.
Growing up in a fiercely traditional business family, his immediate instinct upon receiving a high-value gift was to calculate exactly how to return the favor with something of equal or greater value.
It was the absolute baseline for maintaining social equilibrium.
His father had violently drilled that principle into his head his entire life.
But... if he proactively bought Anthony a massive return gift, it would instantly make Charlie's lack of a return gift incredibly awkward.
Right. I've literally never just accepted a gift without strings attached before. I suppose there's a first time for everything.
He shook out the heavy winter cloak and pulled it over his shoulders.
A profound, deeply soothing warmth instantly enveloped his entire body.
"Is this enchanted?" Hector asked in sheer surprise.
"Definitely," Anthony nodded. "Self-cleaning, breathable, and permanently temperature-regulated. The works."
Anthony popped the chocolate into his mouth and tore open his own package.
The three boys stood in the center of the dorm, all wearing identical, premium winter cloaks. They looked at each other.
"I feel like we're officially missing something," Anthony noted.
"You're not suggesting we need a group name, are you?" Hector asked, reading his mind perfectly.
The two boys locked eyes, identical smirks creeping onto their faces.
"How about the Dead Poets Society?" Hector suggested. "Charlie, I know you get the reference."
"I get it, yeah. But in the magical world... that—"
"Sounds exactly like a Dark Arts cult," Anthony finished for him. "Yeah, definitely sounds like we're plotting to murder someone in the dungeons. Not a brilliant look."
"What? No it doesn't! It's an incredibly profound, artistic name!" Hector argued.
"If you ask me, we should call ourselves... uh... the..."
Right. Anthony stammered for a few seconds, completely failing to produce a single idea.
He dropped his head in defeat. "Honestly, ever since the branding debate, I've accepted my fate. I am absolutely, hopelessly terrible at naming things."
He looked up at Charlie. "Got any brilliant ideas?"