Charles spent the whole night turning things over in his head, but no matter how he tried, he still couldn't figure out why Voldemort would tunnel underground. The question gnawed at him into the next day, leaving him looking a little dazed and out of it.
During breakfast, Dumbledore glanced curiously in his direction. The boy had that faraway look in his eyes—was he perhaps experiencing a prophetic episode? If so, what had he seen?
Had the Headmaster known what Charles was actually thinking about, he might have choked on his marmalade toast.
After breakfast, Charles instinctively followed his classmates through the entrance hall and down to the dungeons, where the gloomy Potions classroom awaited.
This class was shared with Slytherin. Harry and Ron were chatting when a familiar, drawling voice sliced through the corridor.
"Oh look," came Malfoy's sneer. "The great and glorious Savior Harry Potter has deigned to grace us with his presence. Shouldn't we all step aside and bow?"
Harry barely had time to roll his eyes before Ron cut in, cheerful as ever: "Hey, Malfoy—your house fixed yet?"
Malfoy's expression darkened instantly. His family's manor had, quite mysteriously, blown up recently. The damage to their wealth was one thing; the damage to their reputation was far worse. It had become prime gossip in wizarding circles.
But Ron wasn't done.
"Heard the Aurors found something dodgy at your place," he added casually. "Was your family dabbling in dark magic again?"
That wasn't just idle talk—The Daily Prophet had run an article suggesting as much, penned by none other than Rita Skeeter.
Lucius Malfoy had issued a sharp rebuttal the very next day, calling the piece baseless slander. But given his Death Eater past, most people weren't entirely convinced.
The Gryffindors nearby started eyeing Malfoy in a whole new light.
Malfoy's voice cracked with fury. "There was nothing dark in my house! We were framed!"
Just then, a dreamy voice floated through the air:
"Liars go bald, you know."
Everyone turned toward the sound. It was Charles. Calm, offhand, and devastating.
Malfoy froze. This was the boy who'd casually predicted his house would explode—and then it did. If Charles said something now…
Malfoy's hand twitched upward, touching his perfectly combed hair.
That tiny gesture was all it took. Every onlooker assumed he'd just confirmed the lie himself.
Realizing his mistake a beat too late, Malfoy scowled and stalked into the classroom without another word.
Charles ignored him. He was still wondering whether Dumbledore had destroyed Voldemort's notebook. If so, he might be able to cruise through next year without too much fuss.
He was halfway into contemplating snakes, tunnels, and evil plans when Snape's sharp voice sliced through the haze. The man had finished roll call and was already singling out Harry.
"Potter," he said silkily. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry blinked. He hadn't memorized the entire textbook. He glanced around—Ron was frozen, Charles was staring off into space, and Hermione's hand was shooting skyward like a flare.
"I… I don't know," Harry admitted.
Charles snapped out of his thoughts. Ah, that part of the script. Time to watch the show.
Snape narrowed his eyes at Harry like a hawk who'd just spotted a particularly stupid mouse. If he knew Chinese, he'd probably have branded all reputation, no substance across Harry's forehead.
Next came a flurry of impossible questions—where to find bezoars, the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane…
Naturally, Harry had no idea. He had skimmed the textbook, but he wasn't Hermione.
"I don't know," Harry muttered. "Maybe Hermione does. Why don't you ask her?"
Hermione, beaming, rose halfway out of her seat, hand still raised with hopeful enthusiasm.
Snape didn't even glance her way.
"SIT. DOWN."
The words cracked like a whip.
Hermione dropped into her seat with a loud thump, eyes wide and stinging. In her first week at Hogwarts, she'd become accustomed to praise and house points from other professors for her brilliance. Naturally, she assumed Snape would be no different.
But his sharp tone and complete disregard hit her like a cold slap, leaving her blinking back tears.
Charles's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. The look he gave Snape was far from friendly.
Strictly speaking, what Snape had done was disgraceful. If Hogwarts had anything resembling a functioning education bureau, he'd have been booted out of the classroom ages ago.
On a more personal note, Charles—thanks to his mental age—had always seen Harry, Hermione, and the others as juniors. And if someone bullied the young ones, it was only natural to call in the older ones.
Of course, Charles had no intention of confronting Snape directly. He had the power of money on his side—why brawl when you could bankroll?
That said, Charles happened to be sitting right between Harry and Hermione, which made eye contact with Snape inevitable.
Snape caught the flicker of anger in Charles's eyes. Noting his position between Potter and Granger, his irritation tripled. He gave a cold, mocking smile.
"Not daydreaming anymore, Mr. Smith?" Snape said with a sneer. "Perhaps the Sorting Hat was right. You should've gone straight to Azkaban. I can't imagine what sort of idiot it takes to raise one like you."
"Are you craving the spotlight like Potter? Then allow me to indulge you. Answer the question he failed."
Charles stood up. His usual goofy expression made Snape flinch ever so slightly.
With perfect calm, Charles replied, "Asphodel is a plant from the lily family. Its root powder, when mixed with wormwood, is used to brew the Draught of Living Death…"
He deliberately emphasized certain words—lily, living death—in a way that made Snape's face twitch, as if someone had squeezed his heart.
In that moment, bezoars and monkshood suddenly seemed far less important.
Snape couldn't tell if Charles had done it on purpose or not. After a tense few seconds of staring into those mildly mocking eyes, he told both boys to sit down—and then deducted five points from Gryffindor, blaming Harry for "talking back to a professor."
The lesson continued. Students paired off to begin brewing their potions.
Not long after, Neville managed to mess something up—badly. His potion, highly corrosive, spilled everywhere.
Charles and Hermione were busy getting nitpicked by Snape, who was combing through their work as if hunting for a bone in a boneless chicken. So when the green smoke started wafting up, Charles only just remembered what scene he was in.
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
With barely a second to spare, Charles hit Neville with a levitation charm, lifting him just in time to avoid a faceful of boiling sludge.
"Protego!"
He followed up with a shielding charm to protect the surrounding students, saving several pairs of shoes from tragic, molten ends.
Snape stormed over, bellowing, and glared up at the floating Neville. "You didn't even take the cauldron off the fire before adding the porcupine quills!"
Neville, pale and shaken, nodded.
Then Snape turned his wrath on Harry, who was standing near Neville's table. "Potter! Why didn't you stop him? Do you think his failure makes you look better? Another five points from Gryffindor!"
Harry's fists clenched, and Ron had to pull him back before he lunged.
Snape then turned to Charles, who was at the adjacent table. His voice was laced with poison. "Smith, since your spellwork is so impressive, you can clean up this mess. No one leaves until every drop of potion is gone. That shouldn't be difficult, should it?"
Charles just smiled and reached into his bag, pulling out a few empty fizzy drink bottles. After checking that the potion didn't melt them, he cast a Summoning Charm to gather the corrosive fluid into the bottles, screwed the lids on tight, and stashed them away neatly.
Potion that could melt cauldrons? Definitely worth keeping. Might come in handy.
Snape, who had grown up in the Muggle world and recognized the bottles immediately, twitched at the sight of them.
At the end of class, Snape came up with a flimsy excuse to make Charles stay behind to clean and sort all the supplies.
Charles did the job swiftly, then turned to Snape with a serene smile. "Professor, did you ever finish paying off your mortgage?"
Snape blinked, caught off guard. "I don't have a mortgage."
Charles tilted his head. "Might want to consider one. Earlier, when I was zoning out during roll call—it was because I saw you standing beside a house that had been blown up. Just like I saw Malfoy's place before that happened."
Bloody hell. Calling Charles an idiot might earn you a sock to the jaw. But insulting the old man who raised him? Well, you were lucky your house still had foundations. That was mercy.
Snape's expression darkened to storm-cloud black.
Malfoy Manor's mysterious explosion had already stirred rumors across the wizarding world. And the only real clue so far… was that Charles had "seen it" beforehand.
Without another word, Snape swept from the classroom, off to request a meeting with Dumbledore.
(End of Chapter)
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