Seamus spent the entire dinner proudly recounting his glorious moment until he was back in the common room, frowning over homework like the rest of them. It turned out, after all, that vanquishing a dragon with a spell was easier than vanquishing a Potions essay. Homework, it seemed, was fiercer than fire-breathers.
Meanwhile, Charles was sitting stiffly in Professor McGonagall's office, enduring a solid thirty-minute lecture on the dangers of hurling magic around like it was confetti at a celebration.
"For that, Gryffindor will lose five points," she said sternly, lips pressed into a thin line. "This was a very serious mistake, and I expect it won't happen again."
Charles nodded so quickly it nearly became a bow. "Yes, Professor. Absolutely."
McGonagall adjusted her glasses and continued, "You'll also be serving a month's detention. Professor Quirrell has requested your presence every evening from half-past seven to half-past eight. I've agreed."
Charles blinked. Once. Twice. Had he heard that right? Quirrell? The same one with You-Know-Who clinging to the back of his head like a particularly evil parasite?
Well. That escalated.
Still, after a moment's thought, he wasn't too worried. Voldemort, in his current sorry state, still needed to drink unicorn blood just to get out of bed in the morning. As long as Charles didn't bring a unicorn to tutoring, he'd probably be fine.
Still, the next month's schedule was going to need some rearranging. Evening herbology sessions were out—lunchtime raids on the greenhouse it was, then.
Professor McGonagall, having finally finished her lecture, brought out a long wooden case and placed it gently on her desk.
"Madam Hooch believes you've shown excellent broom-handling ability," she said, her tone softening slightly. "You may now use your own broomstick."
Charles lit up instantly, his earlier doom forgotten. He opened the box with reverent fingers, revealing a sleek, stunning broomstick made of a deep, purplish-black wood. Intricate lines of dark red inlay curled along the shaft and even along the bristles like flames caught mid-dance.
"Every time I see it, I'm amazed," McGonagall murmured, almost to herself. "The seamless fusion of two different woods… it's unlike anything I've seen. We've no idea where it was made."
"My grandfather probably found out while wandering Diagon Alley," Charles replied, running a finger down the broom's length. "He's been a regular there ever since he figured out how to get in, and he loves chatting with Ollivander."
He paused, cast a Scourgify on his hands—not once, but three times—then finally, reverently, lifted the broom. It gave a faint shudder as if sizing him up.
"A difficult broom," McGonagall warned with a sigh. "Unless you can master it, it won't perform any better than the school brooms."
Charles resisted the urge to say something snarky about the quality of school brooms—though he mentally awarded her points for acknowledging the truth.
He studied the broom more closely. The shaft was longer than the school's models, the bristles more uniform, the balance perfect. And right at the top of the handle, embedded in red wood, was the broom's name: EYJAFJALLA.
Charles raised an eyebrow. A volcano?
There was a manual tucked in the box, and as he read through it, his face darkened with each paragraph.
The broom had… LED lights. Its tail could emit "flames." The faster it flew, the more dramatic the "eruption." At top speed, it would resemble a volcanic blast, complete with sound effects and glowing embers.
Brilliant. Subtlety clearly hadn't been part of the design brief.
As he flipped through more pages, he discovered an extra feature. Beneath the first layer of the box was a compact storage rack that could be affixed to the broom's handle—perfect for carrying luggage.
"Hmm…" Charles mused. "Ideal for long-distance travel."
McGonagall chuckled. "It's a rare design."
Charles was already itching to take it for a spin, but alas, that would have to wait. McGonagall handed him a book list from Madam Hooch on DIY broom customization, then promptly sent him off toward Professor Quirrell's office.
By now, the hum of daytime had faded from Hogwarts. Most students were back in their common rooms, although quite a few couples were still enjoying their moonlit strolls. Charles passed three of them on the way.
He muttered under his breath, "So much dog food, and not a single dog in sight…"
The corridors weren't completely empty yet. A few students still wandered about, lugging stacks of books back from the library. Some of the younger Gryffindors waved cheerfully to Charles, asking whether the dragon had bad breath—clearly the important questions were on everyone's mind.
As for the older students from other houses, Charles hardly recognised any of them, save for one particularly distinctive face—Cho Chang. She was impossible to miss.
At last, he arrived outside the Defence Against the Dark Arts office. Charles took a deep breath. Then another. Then one more, just in case. He mentally prepared to whip out an Avada Rainbow—his own unofficial spell of mass confusion—if things got dicey.
He knocked once. The door creaked open on its own.
"Ah, Smith, there you are," Quirrell said, as though he'd been pacing for hours. Which, judging by the scuffed floor, might actually be true.
He gestured toward a corner table. "You can sit over there. Professor McGonagall told me what happened. A bit careless of you, flinging spells around like that. Luckily it wasn't a dark curse, and no real harm was done."
Charles managed a sheepish smile and cautiously asked, "Er—this task isn't going to involve anything dangerous, is it, Professor?"
He half-expected Quirrell to lob a few dark hexes at him and call it "practical coursework." Sure, the Dark Lord currently didn't have much more than a face, but that didn't mean he couldn't cause trouble.
"Nothing difficult," Quirrell assured him, pointing to a rather large stack of books. "Just need you to look up some spell information for me."
Charles breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Bookwork, he could handle.
Quirrell handed him a chart covered in names of curses—nasty ones. The sort that got you a one-way ticket to Azkaban. Charles's task was to find the effects, casting methods, and counter-curses for each. Educational, in a dark and mildly terrifying way.
The stack of reference books towered ominously. Titles included Potions of Power, The Most Toxic Magics, and Advanced Secrets of the Dark Arts—the kind of texts one would expect to find deep in the Restricted Section, chained to shelves and possibly whispering at night.
Charles had landed in detention for recklessly casting spells, so making him transcribe the theory behind the most dangerous ones seemed, somehow, like poetic justice. A little educational punishment with a dash of moral enlightenment. Even Dumbledore would probably nod in approval.
Except—Quirrell had told Dumbledore he'd only make Charles copy the curse effects and defences. You know, proper Defence Against the Dark Arts curriculum. Harmless stuff.
As Charles sat down and opened a book, he glanced over and asked innocently, "Professor, are these from your personal collection?"
Quirrell was still pacing, like he was trying to break a Hogwarts record for daily step count.
"They're from the Restricted Section," he replied vaguely. "I hadn't looked through them until recently, but now I need them. Students aren't allowed access without permission."
He paused mid-step, then turned to Charles. "I recommend you read through all the tables of contents first. Write them down. Makes the rest much easier."
Charles blinked. That was… a surprisingly logical suggestion.
Then again, Quirrell had been in Ravenclaw. Academic common sense wasn't out of the question.
So, Charles got to work, flipping pages and jotting down the contents of the towering tomes. After a few minutes, he asked casually, "Professor, why is the Restricted Section only protected by a rope? I mean, couldn't someone just sneak in and take a peek?"
It had been bothering him for ages. The rope felt more like a polite request than a security measure. And let's be honest—anyone interested in forbidden knowledge usually wasn't too concerned about politeness.
Quirrell didn't even glance up. "It's always been that way."
"Huh," Charles muttered, resting his quill. "Maybe it's not the real Restricted Section. Maybe the real one's hidden somewhere else, with tens of thousands of legendary grimoires—like The Grand Church of Saint George, The Book of Aeibon, The Key of Solomon, The Cannibal's Ritual Texts, The Book of the Dead..."
He trailed off. Because Quirrell had stopped pacing.
He was now staring across the table at Charles, eyes oddly vacant, expression cold and still—like something serpentine watching from behind a glass tank.
In a voice that no longer sounded entirely human, he asked, "Where did you hear those names?"
Charles shrank slightly in his seat.
Oh no.
He'd poked the socket.
And something very, very unpleasant was plugged in.
(End of Chapter)
—————————
If you're enjoying the story so far please consider adding a review, it really helps the story reach more audience and it would help me a lot.
If you want to binge-read ahead, join my Patreon— beast0x1, you'll get access to 20-40+ chapters in advance, currently I have 2 ongoing novels The Mist Admiral and Days wondering around Hogwarts, plus some sneak peaks of planned novels are also going to be there.