As soon as class dismissed, Anthony and Hector practically tripped over their own robes sprinting toward the Great Hall. They were absolutely buzzing to corner the Gryffindors and interrogate them about their very first flying lesson.
However, the moment they approached the Gryffindor table, they hit a wall of sheer gloom.
Ron was slumped over the table with his arms wrapped around his head, writhing as if suffering from a severe case of Dragon Pox. A few seats down, Neville's eyes were bloodshot and puffy. It was painfully obvious he had just been crying.
"Right then, what died?" Charlie asked, taking a seat opposite them.
"Harry Potter," Neville choked out miserably. "He is going to be expelled, and it is all my fault."
"Expelled? Harry Potter?" Charlie spread his hands in utter bewilderment. "What in Merlin's name actually happened?"
"It is entirely my fault," Neville repeated, burying his face in his hands.
"It is Malfoy's fault, you mean!" Ron's head snapped up, his face flushed with anger. "That slimy, arrogant little git."
Seamus immediately chimed in, and between his thick Irish accent and Ron's furious rambling, Charlie managed to piece the puzzle together.
After Charlie had left the grounds earlier, Madam Hooch had escorted a terrified, injured Neville to the hospital wing. Charlie could only shake his head in quiet amusement. He knew he could have spent exactly five minutes altering the fate of his friend's broken wrist, a completely worthwhile trade. Yet, the proverbial butterfly had flapped its wings, and absolutely nothing had changed. The sequence of events played out exactly as Charlie remembered from the original story.
"Well, that is a bit dull," Charlie muttered to himself, scratching his head. He looked back at the panic-stricken Gryffindors. "Why do you lot always jump straight to expulsion? Relax. I can guarantee you Harry Potter is not getting kicked out."
Frankly, if anyone else claimed they were getting the boot, Charlie might have believed it. But the famous Harry Potter getting expelled in his first week? As far as jokes went, it was a pretty decent one.
Seeing Charlie's unshakable calm, Ron hesitated, then slowly nodded. "I suppose we just have to hope for the best. You are right, though. If Hogwarts actually expelled people for breaking rules, Fred and George would have been chucked into the Black Lake years ago."
"Exactly," Seamus agreed, looking relieved. "Hogwarts is not that heartless."
"It is all Granger's fault, honestly," Ron grumbled, reaching for a bread roll. "She is the one who never shuts up about rules and expulsions. It gets into your head. Meanwhile, Malfoy is probably lounging in his dormitory, not caring one bit if he gets the sack."
"Forget him. Let us not dwell on it," Seamus said, patting Neville on the shoulder.
Neville sniffled and nodded. "Alright." He wiped his eyes, suddenly remembering something from earlier. He looked up at Charlie. "Oh, by the way, Charlie... was that you this afternoon? In the corridor?"
"It was," Charlie nodded.
"I was just heading to the loo, and I saw you flick your wand," Neville said. "You hit me with a Hover Charm, didn't you?"
"That was you?" Ron and Seamus both whipped their heads around to stare at Charlie.
"Just a passing favor," Charlie shrugged, casually deflecting the attention. He caught Anthony's eye. Anthony took the hint perfectly.
"Right, enough doom and gloom," Anthony announced. "Tell us about the flying class! What was it actually like?"
"A breeze, mate," Ron said, his confidence instantly returning. He puffed out his chest and launched into a highly exaggerated tale of his aerial prowess, painting himself as the uncrowned king of the Quidditch pitch.
Charlie tuned out the boasting. He rested his elbows on the long wooden table, pulled out a thick volume, and waited for dinner to be served. Two floating candles drifted over, casting a warm glow on his pages. Despite the chaotic chatter and the bustling students around him, Charlie was entirely absorbed in his book.
Half an hour later, the noise level in the Great Hall spiked dramatically, pulling Charlie out of his reading. Harry Potter had returned.
Unsurprisingly, the outcome was exactly as Charlie expected. Harry was punished with a simple deduction of points and a looming detention, a fate Malfoy would undoubtedly share. The crucial difference, of course, was that Malfoy was not getting secretly drafted onto his House Quidditch team as a first-year.
Naturally, Harry kept his mouth completely shut about the Seeker business. Professor McGonagall had sworn him to secrecy, and Oliver Wood was treating him like Gryffindor's highly classified secret weapon.
"Well, as long as you are not expelled, a bit of detention is nothing," Ron grinned.
"Charlie called it," Seamus cheered.
"Brilliant news, mate," Anthony added.
"Thanks, everyone," Harry smiled, looking utterly exhausted but relieved. Neville, meanwhile, was falling over himself to thank Harry for trying to defend his Remembrall.
***
Friday Afternoon
The highly anticipated Hufflepuff flying lesson had finally arrived. Admittedly, the chaotic events of the Gryffindor and Slytherin class the day before had severely impacted today's schedule.
Class officially began at three-thirty in the afternoon. By the time they actually straddled their brooms, an hour and a half had passed.
Madam Hooch was in a spectacularly strict mood. With her sharp, hawk-like yellow eyes darting across the lawn, she paced back and forth, drilling safety warnings into the students' heads.
"You do not leave the ground until I blow my whistle. Is that understood?" she barked. "Flight is not a trivial parlor trick. You are suspending yourselves high in the air. One momentary lapse in judgment, and you will be introducing your skull to the bedrock."
She kept a white-knuckled grip on her wand the entire time. Only after every single student had successfully commanded their broom to jump into their hand did she allow them to line up for individual takeoffs. She refused to let the next student mount their broom until the previous one was hovering safely in the air.
"Charlie Wonka, you are up," Madam Hooch called out.
Charlie carried his broom to the designated starting line by her side.
"Let the broom feel your intent," Madam Hooch instructed, her voice softening just a fraction. "You must be absolutely clear that you want to rise, and you must know exactly how high you intend to go. It is much like crossing the barrier at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Fear will muddy your thoughts and confuse the broom. Are you ready?"
"I am ready, Professor," Charlie nodded.
"Push off the ground firmly. If your mind is focused on landing before you have even left the grass, you will go absolutely nowhere."
She raised her hand and placed the silver whistle between her lips. Charlie mounted the broom, his muscles tense and ready.
A sharp, shrill note pierced the afternoon air. Her hand dropped.
Charlie kicked off the ground. The enchanted wood beneath him surged upward, carrying him swiftly toward the scattered clouds.
"Watch your altitude, Mr. Wonka!" Madam Hooch shouted from below.
Charlie felt the crisp air rushing past his ears and gently eased back, feeding the broom a steady command to level out. While Madam Hooch was distracted correcting Anthony's grip, Charlie subtly nudged his broom a few feet higher.
The sun was beginning its descent. The western horizon was painted in a breathtaking gradient of deep bruised blue and vibrant, fiery orange. Below him, the Forbidden Forest was a vast sea of dark green, the edges of the canopy glowing with a golden halo from the setting sun. Flocks of birds darted through the twilight, and the Black Lake shimmered like a polished onyx gem set into the earth.
In the distance, the streets of Hogsmeade looked relatively quiet, likely missing the bustling presence of Hogwarts students.
A sudden gust of wind swept past him. In that exact moment, Charlie felt a profound, chilling sense of desolation wash over him.
Wind? he thought.
No, this was not just a regular breeze. This was the true essence of autumn. It was the wind that blew only when the sun surrendered to the encroaching night.
Curiosity piqued, Charlie slipped his wand from his sleeve and pointed it straight into the rushing air.
During the summer holidays, he had experimented tirelessly with capturing natural elements. He had tried to bottle regular wind, but it had always failed. Wind was formless and erratic, infinitely more elusive than lightning, sunlight, or morning dew.
But today felt entirely different.
A few seconds later, a faint, shimmering ribbon of gold curled around the tip of his wand.
He had actually caught it!
Whenever he had tried to catch ordinary wind in the past, it would instantly disperse like air escaping a popped balloon. Those little elemental wisps had been entirely disobedient. But this time, woven into the desolate autumn draft, there seemed to be a heavier, more conceptual magic. It gave the wind enough substance for Charlie to grab hold of it.
Damn it, Charlie mentally kicked himself. I did not bring a phial.
After a brief moment of hesitation, he made a bold choice. He would absorb the wisp directly into his own magical core. He pressed the tip of his wand, glowing with the golden autumn wind, gently against his chest.
Right then, Charlie thought, lowering his wand. Let us see what you can do.
He glanced down at the grounds, incredibly pleased. A perfect flying lesson with a magical breakthrough as a bonus! The only downside was the phantom cushioning charm on his school broom. It felt like sitting on a lopsided bicycle seat that wobbled every time he shifted his weight. The footrests were terribly loose, and the wooden handle was dangerously splintered.
"These old Cleansweeps are supposed to be durable, but they are absolutely dreadful to ride," Anthony complained, drifting over to Charlie.
Anthony was flying one-handed. He held his left hand out flat, using his right thumb and forefinger to desperately pinch at his palm.
"Did you get a splinter?" Charlie asked.
"Yeah, and it is throbbing," Anthony winced. "I flew over to ask if you know any healing spells."
Charlie shook his head. "Fixing a scratch is easy enough, but pulling a splinter out from deep under the skin is tricky."
"I will just have to go down and bother Madam Hooch, then," Anthony sighed.
"Hold on, let me try a Hover Charm," Charlie suggested, his eyes gleaming with an idea.
"What good is making a splinter float?" Anthony asked, looking thoroughly confused.
"Floating is not the goal. I just want to use the charm's mechanics to get a grip on the wood."
"Oh?" Anthony looked intrigued and extended his hand palm-up. "Alright, give it a go." Despite the stinging pain, he was terribly curious to see if Charlie could actually manipulate something so small.
Charlie drew his wand again and stared intently at Anthony's palm. A jagged wooden splinter, roughly a centimeter long, was buried deep in the flesh, a tiny bead of blood forming around the entry wound.
"Wingardium Leviosa," Charlie chanted softly, giving his wand a precise swish and flick.
Unsurprisingly, the standard charm did absolutely nothing.
"You cannot use a Hover Charm on a person," Anthony deduced. "The spell is probably confused because the wood is inside me."
"Then I suppose I am just not skilled enough yet," Charlie nodded in agreement. But he kept his eyes locked on the splinter.
Suddenly, under Anthony's wide-eyed stare, the tiny piece of wood began to twitch. It wriggled like a live worm before slowly sliding backward out of his flesh.
"Your spell caught it!" Anthony gasped.
Charlie frowned slightly, keeping his silence.
A gentle breeze swept between them. As the splinter hung suspended in the air, it rapidly began to turn gray. Within seconds, it dissolved completely, turning into fine ash that was instantly carried away by the wind.
"Brilliant! How did you manage that?" Anthony beamed.
"I honestly have no idea," Charlie lied smoothly, shaking his head.
It was the autumn wind.
When he had focused on the splinter, a whisper had brushed against his mind, sounding remarkably like the rustling of dry leaves: I can help you. He had simply let that new elemental power flow outward.
But the most shocking part was that the wind had turned the wood to ash.
Determined to test this, Charlie dropped his altitude and hovered near the canopy of a tall oak tree. He plucked a broad, glossy green leaf from a branch. Under normal circumstances, this leaf would have remained vibrant for weeks.
Wind, Charlie called out silently within his mind.
The autumn breeze answered, bringing with it a profound sense of ancient sorrow. As the invisible current swept over the leaf in his hand, a dry rustling sound filled the air.
Right before Charlie's eyes, a spot of sickly yellow bloomed at the center of the leaf and rapidly spread to the edges. In a matter of seconds, the glossy green foliage transformed into a brittle, dead husk. The wind continued to blow, and the dead leaf cracked, shattered, and turned to dust, scattering into the sky.
Did the wind accelerate time? Or did it simply strip away the life force?
This desolate autumn breeze possessed a terrifyingly potent magic. Because it blew exactly as the sun surrendered to the dark, it carried the conceptual power of endings.
Charlie sat frozen on his broom. A normal student like Hermione would immediately rush to the library or interrogate a professor for answers. But who could possibly explain this to him? This was an entirely foreign branch of magic.
A sudden wave of deep despair crashed over him. He felt heavy, defeated, and entirely joyless.
Wait...
No!
Charlie shook his head violently. What in the world am I thinking? I have always figured out my elemental magic on my own. Why am I suddenly feeling so hopeless? The wind... the wind is affecting my mind!
He quickly angled his broom down, hovering just a few feet above the grass, pacing his broom back and forth in agitation.
The autumn wind brings decay, and it is infecting my mood. The wisp of magic I absorbed is acting like a bridge. I can summon the wind, but every time it blows, it sweeps through my own mind, leaving behind that dreadful, dying energy.
The more he thought about it, the more certain he became. So, how could he fight off magical depression?
Charlie sat up straight. After a moment of thought, he gave his sleeve a sharp flick. A small square of rich chocolate dropped perfectly into his palm.
Sweetness was the natural enemy of despair.
He popped the chocolate into his mouth. As the rich cocoa melted on his tongue, the heavy, Dementor-like gloom was violently banished from his mind. His grim expression melted away, instantly replaced by the fiery, bubbling excitement of discovering a brand-new magical ability.
He yanked the handle of his broom upward. He shot into the sky, rocketing past the eighth-floor windows and soaring straight toward the tallest towers of the castle.
The wind howled around him, and the sun was now half-swallowed by the horizon. Charlie threw his arms wide open. His heart was pounding with the fierce, unstoppable energy of a sunrise. The wind battered against his chest, making his school robes snap and his hair whip wildly in the chill air.
"The sun is always setting somewhere," Charlie shouted into the wind with a triumphant grin, "but it is also always rising! Your gloom cannot put out my fire!"
***
Behind the glass of an eighth-floor tower window, a wizard with a long, silver beard stood bathed in the fading light. He watched the young boy in the sky with twinkling blue eyes.
He had seen the eleven-year-old throw his arms open to embrace the chill of the dying day.
"The sun is always setting somewhere, but it is also always rising," Albus Dumbledore repeated softly. He murmured the words slowly, savoring the philosophy behind them like a piece of finely crafted candy.
Looking at Charlie Wonka soaring above the grounds, Dumbledore could not help but see a reflection of his own youth. There was a time, long ago, when he too had embraced the world with that exact same burning, undeniable passion.
Thinking of those days, the old Headmaster let out a quiet, joyful chuckle that echoed warmly around his circular office.