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The design that appeared in front of Charlie was an upper crescent moon with two horizontal lines across the middle and an abstract eye right in the center.
"Is that eye supposed to be abstract, or is it a side profile you just didn't finish drawing?" Charlie asked. Side view, front view—classic abstract style.
"Side eye," Hector explained. "I was thinking of drawing an old man in the moon. The whole badge is circular. On the right side of the crescent, in the empty space, we put a wand, a chess piece, and a piece of candy."
"Hmm," Charlie hummed, studying it.
Hector came back in and saw Charlie holding the parchment. "Well? What do you think?"
"Feels too rough," Charlie said after a second, choosing his words carefully. "And a little too flashy."
"Maybe we replace the stuff on the right with stars," he suggested. "That way, if more people join the club later, we can just add more stars whenever we want."
"Like the American flag," Hector laughed. "Alright, I'm with you. Four-pointed stars?"
"Yeah. Make them thinner, use negative space for the 'light.'"
"Ugh, I don't get any of this," Anthony groaned, shaking his head. "Whatever. It's all you, Charlie. You're the professional."
"Leave it to me." Charlie spun once on his stool and immediately bent over the paper, pencil flying.
Anthony and Hector were about to tell him to get some sleep, but Charlie had already disappeared into the work. They just looked at each other and climbed into bed.
Thump thump.
Anthony patted the rug. "Flash, come here."
Charlie's hand jerked so hard he almost tore the paper. He whipped around to stare at Anthony lying on the bed. "What did you just call him?"
"Flash. Why? He's slow as hell, but that gem on his back is flashy as fuck. Perfect match." Anthony looked pretty pleased with himself.
"Actually… not bad," Charlie muttered, turning back to his drawing. "Sounds like a guy who plays basketball, has a cheerleader girlfriend, drives a beat-up muscle car, and likes to bully people."
"Pfft—"
Even without looking, Charlie knew Hector was laughing on his bed.
Once Flash trotted over to Anthony's bed, Alice hopped onto Charlie's lap, then jumped up onto the desk. The little gremlin flopped down on a tiny patch of empty space, all four legs splayed out like a melting ice cream cone.
Charlie gently scratched her back. A soft, happy purr immediately filled the air. He smiled and went back to his pencil.
Night fell.
Lely returned.
"How's it going?"
"Whew. Finally got a break." Lely wiped her forehead.
Do paintings even sweat when they're tired?
"Sounds busy."
"It is. Every half hour or so, someone shows up," Lely said.
Charlie remembered how excited she'd been about the job a few days ago. Back then she barely came back to the dorm, even at midnight. She preferred staying inside the chocolate shop. He'd figured paintings didn't get tired.
Turns out she'd just been bored during the empty holiday.
"It's fine. If you get too swamped, just close the window and stop taking customers," Charlie told her.
"No need, sir. I can always rest at midnight anyway." Lely smiled. "Speaking of which, my bag is full of Galleons now. I should probably hand some over to you."
Charlie had completely forgotten about the money. His material desires were basically nonexistent—not because he was born that way, but because he genuinely didn't know what he'd even buy. He didn't crave gold. He wasn't about to hoard every coin like some dragon.
All the earnings from the last few days were still sitting in Lely's bag.
"Perfect timing. I'll take the money out and stuff more chocolate into your pouch while I'm at it."
Lely nodded quickly, then complained, "I can't even imagine what it'll be like when business really takes off. One bag with hundreds of chocolates and hundreds of Galleons? Flipping through it is gonna be a nightmare."
"Yeah, that's on me," Charlie admitted. "Why didn't I think of that earlier?"
"We didn't have this much money back then either, did we?" Lely gave him a sideways smirk.
Charlie smirked right back.
"Anyway, the painting's already activated. We can't change it now."
"Can't I just paint a new pouch in another frame and bring it into the shop to swap them?" Lely asked.
"No. If I paint a new pouch in a different frame, that pouch's 'soul' belongs to that new painting forever. Remember? The two spatial bags in the shop right now belong to you—your original family. If I paint another one outside and you bring it in, it still won't belong to you. You won't be able to open it."
Charlie had already figured that part out completely.
"Oh… I see. So my original family—"
"Hmm?"
Charlie noticed Lely was getting more lively, more playful by the day.
"Sounds like you made a lot of friends running around the shop."
"Yes, Mr. Wonka. How did you know?"
"You don't need to worry about how I know." Charlie grinned, then started listing rules like a worried dad. "First rule: no bars. Second, don't make friends with drunks. Third, don't listen to anything those old noble paintings tell you—"
He went on for nearly two full minutes, then clapped his hands lightly. "You're only three months old, kid. You can't be listening to the smooth talk of paintings that are decades or centuries old."
A sudden thought hit him: Since when do you put a three-month-old to work?
Oh right. I'm British. Never mind, then. It's our proud tradition.
"Alright, Mr. Wonka, stop lecturing and just give me the money already!" Lely urged, cheeks puffed out.
It was the first time she'd seen Mr. Wonka ramble like this.
Charlie nodded and stopped talking. He quickly dumped everything out of the little pouch.
Eighteen Galleons. And over a hundred Sickles.
He let out a long breath.
Who the hell came up with this system—seventeen Sickles equal one Galleon?! And they couldn't even be bothered to mint five-Sickle or ten-Sickle coins?
What the fuck is paper money supposed to be? Some weird Muggle thing?
Counting all those silver Sickles was already giving him a headache.
He'd deliberately set the prices at ten Sickles for one chocolate and two Galleons for two—basically bribing people to use Galleons instead of Sickles.
And still he ended up with this ridiculous pile of silver.
Thank God he hadn't gone full decimal like nine Sickles and twenty-eight Knuts or something. One Sickle was twenty-nine Knuts. If he'd actually priced things that way, even giving Lely a calculator wouldn't have saved her from going insane at the register.