The night sky was pitch black, with stars scattered like diamonds overhead. Waves crashed rhythmically against the jagged stone pillars, their sound soft and hypnotic.
At their usual spot for practicing magic, a charcoal stove sizzled with skewers of fire lizard. Charles was busy basting them with oyster sauce and sprinkling cumin powder.
Jack sat nearby in an old chair, staring up at the stars. His wine glass had been gently swirling in his hand for who knew how long.
"You're really going through with it?" Charles asked.
Jack knew what he meant. He replied calmly, "To be honest, I don't know."
Charles sighed and looked seriously at the old man. "You'd better think this through. You're not young anymore. If something goes wrong… it could kill you."
Not wanting to continue that topic, Jack took a sip of wine and changed the subject. "What about you? Got any thoughts on marriage?"
Charles plated the roasted fire lizards and brought them over to the table. He took a seat across from Jack, grabbed a skewer, and started eating.
Fire lizard blood had healing properties—often used in potion-making—but Charles didn't need a potion for the minor injuries from his training, so a good old food remedy would do.
He polished off half a skewer before answering, "Let's talk about that in the future. From what I've seen, there's no one at Hogwarts who's my type. Big world out there—no reason to hang myself on a single tree."
"Suit yourself," Jack said, "Just don't end up like me—over a hundred and still single."
"Oh, right," Charles said as he reached for a second skewer, "what about that two-prong socket situation? You stepping in or not?"
Jack chuckled. "Bunch of kids squabbling. Why would I get involved?"
"And you?" Charles raised a brow. "Gonna poke your nose in?"
"You moved to Privet Drive just to watch the show up close. I told Dumbledore everything on the first day of school. What else is there to see?"
Jack refilled his glass and stared up at the sky. "I'm not watching for fun. Maybe you feel like an outsider here, but I'm a local."
"I just want to see if Harry is worth investing in. Every era has its villains. In my day, I was lucky enough to stand at the center of the storm. Then came Dumbledore's era. And after him, someone powerful has to be ready to step forward when the time comes."
Charles twisted open a bottle of chilled soda, took a few gulps, and let out a satisfied burp. Then he asked, "What exactly did you do back at Hogwarts? There's nothing about your years in Hogwarts: A History. It just skips straight to A Brief History of Hogwarts."
Jack downed the rest of his wine and spoke slowly. "Let the past stay in the past. If trouble comes again, trust that the next generation will handle it."
Charles finished off the last skewer with a few swigs of soda. Full and content, he was just about to go wash up and head to bed.
He didn't see himself as some chosen hero destined to save the world. As far as he was concerned, doing what he could within his limits was enough.
His relationship with the old man was both family and a cross-generational friendship. Charles never used Jack's presence to do anything reckless, and Jack never forced him to do anything he didn't want to—except maybe see the dentist.
These days, one of them enjoyed watching the younger generation flail around, while the other was already thinking about how to bail when the time came. Neither had much interest in meddling with the current drama.
Contentment was key—and the two of them, old and young, were living quite happily.
Charles was just about to head off to bed when Jack called out to him.
"Here. Catch," said Jack, tossing over something dark and lumpy. "Happy birthday."
Charles grinned. It had been exactly eleven years since the old man had fished him out of a garbage bin.
"Thanks, Grandpa!"
He eagerly started examining the gift. It looked like a long rectangular, and made of some unfamiliar black fabric. It had three straps, likely for securing it to the arm.
"It's a carry-satchel," Jack explained. "You can store a lot of stuff in there. Keep anything important inside—it'll be safe."
"…Let's say I got it from a hooded wizard in Knockturn Alley, alright?"
Charles fastened the satchel to his left arm and, after figuring out how it worked, peeked inside—then froze.
With a simple flick, a wand flew out of the bag—Jack's wand.
"This is…" Charles blinked. "Your wand?"
He'd never really grasped the concept of wand length before. He used to think Jack's 16-inch wand (about 406mm) was fairly standard. But after visiting Ollivander's, he realized most wands were under 15 inches. Apparently, he and Jack both belonged to the "overcompensating" club.
Jack smiled faintly. "Go ahead and use it. Just don't let anyone else see it—especially not the ghosts and portraits at the castle. I'm hoping for a peaceful life, you know."
He sipped his wine and gazed into the star-speckled sky, as if replaying old memories in his mind.
Charles scratched his head. He was now fairly certain Jack had done something big—really big—back when he was at Hogwarts.
Later, when Charles returned to his room, he tried loading all the things he'd bought in Diagon Alley into the carry-satchel. It barely made a dent in the space.
The next morning, before his training session, he decided to run some experiments with pebbles. Turns out, the space inside was massive—almost the size of two full shipping containers.
Just then, a seagull flew past.
Charles raised his arm, aimed, and—whoosh—the seagull vanished into the satchel.
A few moments later, he let it out again. It was still alive… and it had pooped inside.
Apparently, when using the satchel, part of his consciousness slipped into the inner space to retrieve items—meaning he had to mentally see and touch what he wanted. Now he was stuck, grimacing as he magically flung seagull poop out into the sea.
"Didn't know you were into that sort of thing," Jack remarked as he stepped outside and witnessed the scene.
Charles nearly tripped over himself trying to explain. "How long can animals survive inside that thing?" he asked, shifting topics quickly.
Jack replied, "Not long. The space is too small—not like that suitcase Newt Scamander had. Eventually the air runs out."
Then his expression suddenly turned serious. "So listen—don't go stuffing pretty girls into that thing. They'll die. And if that happens, I will kill you and personally throw your body back into that trash can where I found you."
A cold shiver ran down Charles's spine. Jack wasn't bluffing—he meant it.
Back when he ran for Parliament, one of Jack's rivals had sent a few thugs to threaten him. The ringleader kicked over a chair during the confrontation and earned himself ten minutes of the Cruciatus Curse. After that, he and the rest were hit with the Imperius Curse and took a moonlit swim in the Thames.
"You think I'd go that far?" Charles huffed. "If I really wanted to impersonate someone, I'd just snip a few hairs and cook up a nice batch of Polyjuice Potion."
Jack went quiet for a moment, then sighed and patted his shoulder. "Alright, off you go to Azkaban. I know a few Dementors—I'll put in a good word."
(End of Chapter)