The superintendent of the Dragon Patch was Amira Dragomir, a frightening woman with draconine features, frozen in a perpetual scowl. The job had been more or less dropped on her, being the youngest and unmarried, and if she was feeling just a little resentment about this, her sadistic jackbooting of workers was the first hint.
Bitter though she was, Charlie had a feeling she was actually quite passionate about her job and dragons in particular. A string of events convinced him of that.
Three months had passed since he first stepped through the shimmering barrier. Morgan had showed him the ropes and explained his responsabilities, before Amira found out he'd been late about it and assigned him to shovel dragon dung for a week. Morgan had been lighthearted about the punishment. He'd winked and told Charlie his turn would come soon. Something about his attitude reminded the Weasley of Fred and George.
In three months, Charlie had: learned to wake up before dawn, shoveled dung with Morgan twice, been severely burned three times and spent a total of three weeks in a makeshift hospital for various injuries (burns, scratches and that one time he was seduced by a water fey and nearly drowned). He adjusted quickly and he could swear he heard Amira mumble one day under her breath that he wasn't completely useless (he found out that this statement was, more or less, her equivalent of a compliment).
Sometimes, the Ministry came and inspected the grounds. Uptight Ministry officials jutted things down on their scrolls. Sometimes they talked for Amira briefly and asked to visit the manor.
While the Dragomir household wasn't a manor per se, it was an imposing house just one hillside away from the camp. It seemed unfair that Charlie, Morgan and the other workhands had to sleep in shacks while such a big house stood unoccupied.
He found out later that the house wasn't exactely unoccupied, but Amira's grandmother lived there. After meeting the woman just once, he understood why Amira gave up the comfort of the house to live campside.
The old woman was scary.
It was mid-autumn when she visited for the first time. Morgan had warned Charlie to smother her with politeness. "Hopefully she'll choke on it," he'd added darkly.
Ariadne Dragomir was white-haired and wrinkly, as well as slightly hunched over. She looked as ancient as some of the dragons there and Morgan's theory was that she scared death away. Dressed in expensive red robes, she hobbled through the camp gates and scowled at a young volunteer that tried to help her.
Charlie had just gotten back from feeding the drakelings, so his clothes were full of dirt, soot and blood (he'd only seen it done once, so he had no idea that delivering a large dead deer to three little lizards could end with him being dragged all around the pen and effectively humiliated). Bumping into Mrs. Dragomir wasn't the smartest thing he could have done.
"Watch where you're going, boy!" she screeched in heavily-accented English.
"Sorry, ma'am," he said, slightly annoyed by her patronising tone.
"Not very smart, are you?" she scoffed.
Before Charlie could utter a reply or even realise how insulting the woman was, Amira's voice bellowed, "Weasley! Get your broomstick and fire-proof robes!"
And that was all Charlie needed to form an opinion about Amira's family.