August 1991 felt like a slow, sticky dream. Charles lay back in the recliner in his room. The summer heat pressed against the window while a thin, merciful breeze moved through the curtains. He had started a small afternoon ritual: a book, a cold drink, and some tricks he could pull off himself. Tonight, a tiny flame danced on the tip of his left finger, flickering like a stubborn coin. It was more for show than power, but it gave him something to focus on.
It had been a year since he met Hermione. He called her "the little brown plush dumpling." Since then, Charles often replayed the memory of that alley and the sudden surge of electricity he had unleashed. After receiving his acceptance letter to Hogwarts, he did what any sensible, slightly obsessed fan would do—he tried to train himself. If magic existed, being prepared mattered. If you could practice, you should.
So he did. In private, with all the caution of someone trying not to set the house on fire, Charles shouted random words at the ceiling and waved his hands in grand, improvised arcs. He locked himself in his room for entire afternoons, pushing through routines, memorizing syllables, imagining wand movements, and willing something to happen. At first, the only results were a sore throat, frayed patience, and the understanding that spells were not things you could learn through osmosis.
He considered going to Diagon Alley early. The thought of sneaking into narrow shops, pulling out dusty spellbooks and forbidden texts, and flipping through pages filled with diagrams and ink-smudged notes was exciting. But every time he pictured it, the image splintered into chaos: a street where dragons sneezed into gutters, forgetful visitors collapsing into alleyways, and shopkeepers chasing errant cauldrons down the lane. The likely chaos, along with the embarrassment of being caught by an angry witch, kept pulling him back to reality.
So Charles gave up the idea of getting a head start on his magical education. He told himself that excitement could wait. At least he could build up his body and mind in other ways. He started a strict routine: fitness games that felt more like boot camp than fun, endurance training disguised as "practical preparation," and he promised himself—half joking, half serious—that if his magic didn't show up, he'd be fit enough to punch someone into next Tuesday. It was silly, but the silliness was comforting. A plan, no matter how strange, was still a plan.
Maybe that stubborn routine nudged fate. On the night of his eleventh birthday, he experienced the kind of sleep that would become legendary for him: strange, pleasant, and impossibly vivid. In his dream, he wasn't lying in bed but floating in a soft blue sphere, slippery and warm. Tiny lights spun around him, four colors, each a pinpoint of light that blinked and pulsed with his breath. They weren't precisely words, but he felt them—little moods pressing against his mind—curious, playful, and overwhelmingly affectionate. They fluttered around him like moths to a porch light, leaving a trace of warmth behind.
When he awoke, the memory of the dream was absurdly clear, like a film paused on a favorite frame. He could still feel the hum of that blue sphere in his chest, the cold thrill of the lights' tiny hearts. The sensation lingered under his skin all day—part wonder, part hunger. What was it? A leftover trace from whatever had hit him years ago, a prelude to something bigger, or just a wishful fantasy of a boy who had read too many stories?
Charles grinned at himself in the mirror that morning and allowed himself to feel delighted. Whatever it was, he didn't want it to be ordinary. He spent the rest of the day with his fingers twitching, imagining the four-colored lights dancing around his palms, trying not to flinch when the tiny flame on his fingertip trembled. For the first time in ages, the world felt like the kind of story he had always wanted to live in—and that was a feeling worth preparing for.
When Charles—sometimes calling himself "Ciel" in private, an old habit from childhood games—tried again the next night, lying on his back with eyes half-closed, something remarkable happened. He managed to feel them again. The tiny motes of light he had seen the night before weren't just figments of imagination; they shimmered faintly around him even while he was wide awake, their colors mixing in the air like watercolor on paper. For the first time, he sensed an emotion from them—pure, bubbling excitement, like a crowd of cheerful sprites clapping for him.
That discovery sent him tumbling headfirst into a month of experiments. Ciel barely left his room, except to grab food or sneak out for fresh air. He scribbled pages of notes, drew diagrams, measured distances, and even counted pulse rhythms to see if the lights reacted to his heartbeat. The conclusion he reached wasn't exactly scientific, but it felt right: these lights were elemental. The legends were true.
According to what he remembered from Hogwarts lore—and the novels—each color lined up perfectly with the traits of the four houses: blue for Ravenclaw's wind; red for Gryffindor's fire; yellow for Hufflepuff's earth; and pale silver, flowing like liquid mercury through his fingers, for Slytherin's water.
It all fit so beautifully that he nearly laughed himself breathless. For a moment, he stood in front of the mirror and saluted his reflection. "As a proud young man under the Red Flag," he muttered to himself, half serious, "even if I've landed in the capitalist heart of England, I'll still pursue the principles of experimentation and validation!"
And so he did—diligently, absurdly, and with all the earnestness of a child scientist in his secret lab. One by one, he tested his theories, and to his surprise, some of them held up. The colored lights responded to his will, faintly shifting and rippling when he called. They were real. Whether they truly matched the four houses remained a mystery—the Sorting Hat's secrets were still beyond him—but at least he confirmed they were genuine.
Of course, being Ciel, he couldn't just settle for quiet appreciation. If he could use the elements, why not train? Why not become something new—not a wizard tied to a wand, but an elemental mage, like characters he used to play in video games? If Hogwarts didn't have one yet, he could be the first.
The next few weeks were filled with excitement and failures. Every morning, Ciel would stretch, breathe deeply, and focus on the air around him. The result? A slight puff of wind that could ruffle his hair but not much else. His proud "Wind Element" ended up being a glorified handheld fan. It barely moved a piece of paper.
He didn't give up. He moved on to Fire.
The fire element was more willing to cooperate—but not in a helpful way. After a week of focused practice, Ciel could finally create a steady flame at his fingertip, bright enough to light a candle or scorch his skin. At best, it worked like a lighter; at worst, it was a self-inflicted burn hazard. He joked it came with a "flame resistance buff," though it was a small one since prolonged use still hurt a lot.
Every failure meant more notes, more sketches, and more mumbling. His room started to smell of burnt air and melted plastic. Yet the excitement never faded. The little motes still danced for him every night, swirling like confetti as he drifted toward sleep, whispering that something was coming—that this was only the beginning.
As for the other two elements—earth and water—they were disappointing. The earth element turned into little more than extra dust, much to Mrs. Williams's dismay. Every time Charles tried to "channel" the power of solid ground, a fine layer of dirt covered every surface within five meters. The broom became an extension of Mrs. Williams's arm, and the phrase "Charles Lancaster, clean this up immediately!" was shouted often enough to count as a daily mantra.
The water element was no better. It turned out to be somewhat useful outside—if, for instance, one was lost in the forest and very thirsty. Charles could speed up the collection of condensed water in his homemade filter. What once took an hour now took fifty minutes—or, on a good day, maybe forty-five. This didn't scream chosen hero of destiny; it screamed helpful wilderness intern.
Charles felt down about it for days. The dream of becoming an elemental archmage turned into being a fancy camping gadget.
Still, not everything was a loss. His daily exercise and magic practice had changed him—his body was stronger, and his face sharper. He no longer looked like a fragile doll; now he resembled the "handsome young boy" from a British boarding school drama. Mrs. Williams often bragged that her son would grow up to be a genius or a heartbreaker. Possibly both.
And then, of course, there was Hermione. Being next-door neighbors made things too easy. Their parents' friendship meant they were always together—study sessions, weekend projects, and little adventures that often led to scolding. Together, they learned much more than any ordinary Muggle curriculum. By primary school, both were known for being the kids who corrected the teacher's math and finished homework during recess.
Naturally, this led to constant, dramatic bickering. Ciel teased Hermione about her "encyclopedic brain." Hermione shot back that he was an "incorrigible troublemaker." Somewhere along the way, those nicknames stuck—Miss Know-It-All and Mr. Naughty Guy.
Their parents found it amusing. The Grangers treated Ciel like an adopted son; the Williams spoiled Hermione as if she were their daughter. Two houses, one extended family, and an endless soundtrack of chatter and laughter—sometimes genuine, sometimes exasperated, but always warm.
If Ciel had a system, he thought dryly, it would have notified him by now: [Achievement Unlocked: Childhood Sweethearts].
He was thinking about that lazy August afternoon, sprawled out on the couch like a beached seal, when a sharp knock at the door interrupted him. Before he could answer, the door creaked open, and a familiar little brown-haired head popped through.
Hermione Granger—his personal sunshine and tormentor—walked in with a folder under her arm, looking as if she had come to deliver justice. Her curls bounced with each step.
"I knew it!" she exclaimed, placing her hands on her hips. "You're doing magic tricks again, aren't you? And no matter how many times I ask, you never tell me how they work!"
Charles blinked at her from the recliner, still caught in a daydream. The little flame on his fingertip flickered nervously before vanishing. He glanced at the papers in his lap, sighed, and smiled.
"Good afternoon to you too, Miss Know-It-All."
"Get up and take a look already! I think the school results should be out by now." Hermione's voice came from the doorway, a mix of impatience and excitement. She held a small folder, her face reflecting anxiousness and frustration.
"Honestly, Charles, you've been saying 'just wait a little longer' for weeks. I think Eton Middle School would've been great! But it's already August—August! If we don't check soon, we might not have a school at all next year!"
Charles didn't flinch. Still relaxed in the recliner, he lifted a lazy hand in her direction without opening his eyes. "Relax, Hermione. Someone will invite us. Trust me."
That calm, annoying tone made Hermione puff up her cheeks like an upset hamster. She was moments away from marching over and giving him a little bite when a sudden flutter and rush of air filled the room.
Two tawny owls swooped in through the open window, circling once before landing neatly on the edge of Charles's desk. Each carried a letter tied to its leg, the parchment glowing softly in the sunlight.
"See?" Charles said smugly, finally sitting up and stretching. "Told you—the invitations have arrived."
He walked over with a grin and carefully untied the envelopes. The paper was thick and creamy, the ink a rich green, and each had a vivid red wax seal with an ornate crest—the Hogwarts coat of arms.
"Here," he said, handing one letter to Hermione. "This one's yours. Don't just stand there—open it! I'll write a reply once you're done, then we'll go tell our parents together."
Hermione stood frozen for a moment, wide-eyed. She had seen letters delivered by post, by courier, even by the school headmistress herself—but never by owl. It was strange, wonderful, and a bit unreal.
With Charles's encouragement, she tore the envelope open with trembling fingers. Her eyes scanned the first few lines—and her jaw dropped.
---
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class; Grand Sorcerer; Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards)
> Dear Miss Hermione Granger,
>
> We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Enclosed you will find a list of all necessary books and equipment for your first year.
>
> Term begins on September 1st. Please send your confirmation by owl no later than July 31st.
>
> Yours sincerely,
> Minerva McGonagall
> Deputy Headmistress
---
Hermione's heart raced as she read the words again, making sure she wasn't imagining them. It was real. It was actually happening.
When she looked up, Charles was already holding his own letter, smiling as if he had known it all along.
Hermione finished the letter and blinked twice, ensuring she hadn't misread it. Then she looked up—just in time to see Charles finishing his reply. He tied it neatly to one of the owl's legs with a piece of string, gave a satisfied nod, and stepped back.
The two owls hooted softly, as if acknowledging the delivery, then spread their wings and vanished into the summer sky.
Hermione stared after them, mouth slightly open. "Ciel… School of Magic? Are you serious? You expect me to believe that magic—real magic—actually exists?"
Charles turned toward her, a smug grin on his lips. "Of course it does. Haven't I been showing you little tricks all this time? I told you it was magic, but you never believed me."
Hermione crossed her arms, caught between disbelief and fascination. "That's not the same! You can't just—"
"I've already written back," he interrupted, waving the ink-stained quill for emphasis. "I told them we'd both attend Hogwarts. I even asked if a professor could come by tomorrow morning to explain everything in person. So, no need to panic."
He paused, smiling slyly. "Come on. Let's tell our parents. If it's true, we'll find out tomorrow morning, won't we? And if you stay over tonight, it'll be easier—we can both hear the explanation together. No need for you or the poor professor to run back and forth."
Hermione opened her mouth to protest but found herself being gently guided toward the door. Her mind was racing—magic schools, flying letters, professors visiting the house—it was too much, too fast.
By the time they reached the stairs, she was still in a daze, muttering under her breath. "Who am I? Where am I? What is happening right now…"
Charles chuckled quietly, tightening his grip on her hand. "Relax, Miss Know-It-All. Tomorrow morning, all will be revealed."