Tensions were at a breaking point, wands nearly drawn, when Hermione's voice rang out in a panicked shriek that cut through the standoff like a slicing charm.
Everyone turned at once to stare.
Hermione had seized Charles by the sleeve, clutching it tightly as she whispered urgently, "You can't start a fight—if someone dies again, you'll end up in Azkaban!"
A hush fell over the crowd.
"Again?" someone mouthed silently, eyebrows raised.
Charles's face darkened at once. That was not a subject he wanted brought up. He yanked his sleeve from Hermione's grasp, his voice suddenly cold and sharp—eerily reminiscent of Snape.
"I don't need you to tell me what to do."
Hermione looked startled, blinking at him. It was the first time in all their years of knowing each other that she had seen him truly angry.
The rest of the students, however, didn't seem to take it too seriously. They assumed Hermione was simply being dramatic to stop a scuffle, and the two groups resumed shouting across the clearing with renewed vigor.
Charles, for his part, had no intention of fighting. Not really. He wasn't about to risk ruining the Flying class just to prove a point—especially not when he had to convince Madam Hooch he was ready for his own broomstick. A brawl would only get him grounded, metaphorically and literally.
He stepped forward, directly approaching a certain blond Slytherin. Malfoy, flanked as always by his cronies, didn't look nearly as confident with so many eyes on him.
Neither did the rest of the Slytherins, who eyed Charles warily. Several boys, including Goyle and Crabbe, were attempting to look threatening, shaking their fists like particularly dim trolls.
Charles ignored them all.
He stared straight into Malfoy's eyes, calm and focused, and said quietly, "You should think carefully. If you want a fight, you need to understand what you're walking into. You can insult Ron all you want—he probably won't win. You can insult me, and at worst I'll break your nose."
Then he pointed across the little brook to a scorched patch of earth.
"But if you mess with Seamus Finnigan... well, that's a different story."
A ripple of confusion passed over the Slytherins.
"You see that burnt patch?" Charles went on. "That's from one of Seamus's spells. Dumbledore said it was powerful enough to injure a dragon. Do you really think being named Draco makes you tougher than one?"
Malfoy opened his mouth—perhaps to argue, or scoff—but Charles wasn't finished.
"If you don't believe me," he added coolly, "go ask Professor Dumbledore. Or better yet, ask Professor Sprout and the students who were in the greenhouse nearby. Ask them if they saw the blue flames."
He turned to face the other Slytherins, sweeping his gaze across them.
"Any of you fancy trying to tank a spell that burns hotter than dragonfire? Go ahead. I'll personally order you a ten-foot-tall funeral wreath."
Seamus, catching the cue, stepped up beside Charles, wand in hand and grinning like a lad who'd just won the House Cup. He looked entirely too pleased with himself.
Ron, always eager to stir the cauldron, chimed in with a smug expression.
"Hmph! You lot don't know what you're dealing with. Seamus blew up our dormitory on his very first day!"
He looked so self-satisfied, it was easy to mistake him for the one who'd caused the explosion.
The would-be Slytherin brawlers faltered.
They were almost all from pure-blood families, and they knew enough about spells to read between the lines. The more they thought about it, the more unnerved they became.
Day one of school: explosion.
Week two: high-powered, dragon-scorching firestorm.
Still not expelled.
Dumbledore approved.
Even Voldemort hadn't racked up that kind of résumé so fast.
Some of the older students began whispering among themselves, and more than one seemed to recall a bit of history. Blue fire... Wasn't that the same type of spell Gellert Grindelwald once used in a duel?
The more they talked, the more nervous they became. A few were openly sweating now.
And just as the atmosphere hit peak unease, Seamus took one confident step forward, smiling like a boy who knew exactly how terrifying he appeared.
It worked.
The pressure was palpable. The Slytherins unconsciously shifted back a step, eyes wide, jaws tight. A few beads of sweat rolled down foreheads.
Seamus Finnigan had just become the most feared first-year at Hogwarts.
In that moment, Seamus Finnigan—wand out, grin wide—managed to singlehandedly intimidate every first-year Slytherin.
Just then, Madam Hooch returned, and was quite pleased to find all her students standing obediently in place, no signs of chaos in sight. Only a few Slytherins had beads of sweat forming on their foreheads, which she chalked up to nerves.
"No need to worry," she said briskly. "Longbottom's fall was an accident. I'll be flying with you for the rest of the lesson."
And so, the flying lesson proceeded without further incident.
Each student, in turn, rose into the air, managing to hover steadily above the grass before gliding forward a short distance. Afterward, Madam Hooch demonstrated how to turn, and the class formed a wide circle in the air, looping carefully above the field like a flock of oversized birds.
Eventually, they lined up into two neat rows behind Madam Hooch and began circling the castle itself. The pace increased, and soon enough they were flying higher than the turrets, the castle sprawling beneath them like a painting brought to life.
To Charles, flying on a broomstick felt oddly like riding a bicycle—you could read about it all day long, but you wouldn't really understand it until you actually did it. And once you got the hang of it, it became second nature. Ascending, diving, turning—it all came naturally now, like he'd been born with wings.
When the lesson ended, Charles was the last to return his broom. He gave a little flourish for Madam Hooch, performing a neat aerial "S" followed by a perfectly curved "B."
Madam Hooch gave him a long look, then let out a reluctant chuckle.
"All right, all right," she said, half-smiling. "I'll have a word with Professor McGonagall. Now go on, off to dinner with you."
Charles took the opportunity to slip away quickly. He wasn't sure if Neville's little mishap counted as a "teaching accident" or not—but if it did, he hoped Madam Hooch wouldn't end up with a pay cut because of it.
At dinner that evening, the Great Hall buzzed with whispers.
The name on everyone's lips was Seamus.
Charles managed to find an empty seat, settling in beside Parvati Patil, a cheerful Gryffindor from India. They exchanged a few light words before her twin sister, Padma, came hurrying over from the Ravenclaw table, her eyes wide with curiosity.
"Is it true?" Padma asked breathlessly. "About Finnigan? That there was a dragon outside the castle trying to destroy the greenhouses, and he burned it to ash with a single spell?"
Charles blinked.
Wait—what?
Where had that version of the story come from?
He'd barely finished half his steak before another girl approached.
It was Hannah Abbott, someone he recognized from a few library study sessions. They weren't exactly close, but they were on speaking terms.
"Smith," she said, eyes sparkling with interest, "is it true there was a dragon outside the castle, and it was about to eat you—but Seamus burned it alive and saved you?"
Charles nodded solemnly. "Yes. It was a close one. The dragon was already seasoning me with pepper. If Seamus had arrived even a moment later, I'd have been roasted and served with a side of potatoes."
Hannah gasped. "Wait—so, when the dragon peppered you, did you sneeze?"
Charles stared at her, then silently reached for an empty plate and began piling food onto it as if it were the most natural way to excuse himself from the conversation.
"Hey," he said after a moment, "can you do me a favor?"
"Sure!" Hannah replied eagerly. "What is it?"
He handed her a heaping plate of steak, bread, and vegetables, setting it down in front of her.
"My friend Neville got hurt during flying class today. He's still in the hospital wing. Could you bring this to him for dinner?"
"Of course!" Hannah said brightly, scooping up the plate with purpose.
And just like that, dinner continued—Seamus's legend growing by the minute, with Charles now rumored to be a near-victim of a pepper-wielding dragon.
(End of Chapter)
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