Before Snape could fully process what Char was about to do, Char bit his fingertip, letting a single drop of vivid red blood fall onto Snape's injured leg.
Snape's eyes widened in shock and disbelief. He'd spent his life walking the razor's edge between light and darkness, used to betrayal, secrets, and danger—but he never expected a student to offer their own life force to help him. There was something deeply moving in the gesture, a warmth that caught Snape off guard.
He tried to sound stern, even as his voice shook. "Get away. I don't need your help. You can't just bleed yourself dry—"
But as the drop of blood touched the wound, acrid black smoke hissed up from Snape's leg. The dark magic that had been stubbornly clinging to the injury vanished—half of it gone in an instant.
Snape was stunned. All his careful potions and magical expertise hadn't managed this much. He stared at Char, bewildered. "What… what are you?"
Char shook his head, lips quirking in a small, wry smile. "Not a half-giant, Professor. I just grew up working on a Muggle plantation. All that hard work must have made me a little tougher than most."
Snape's expression twitched—he clearly didn't buy that explanation, but before he could argue, Char added a few more drops of blood. The black magic retreated further, and when Snape applied a bit of white mulberry essence, the wound began to heal as if several days had passed in a moment. The pain lingered, but it no longer hampered his movements. Most importantly, the curse no longer interfered with his spellcasting.
For the first time in days, Snape's face relaxed, the tension and pallor easing. A weight had been lifted.
But now a new discomfort settled over him—he owed Char a debt, and Snape was not used to gratitude. He was a master of sarcasm, not thank-yous. He fumbled for a way to repay the favor, until a thought struck him.
He cleared his throat. "Char, did you find anything interesting in the Potions classroom? Perhaps an old textbook? One with… unusual magical insights? Maybe even some powerful black magic?"
Char blinked, caught off guard. Had Snape figured out he'd been studying the Half-Blood Prince's notes? But after a moment, he relaxed. Of course Snape would recognize his own work. The only thing that mattered was keeping it from Dumbledore and Professor Sprout—he didn't want suspicion or worry.
He nodded. "Yes, Professor. I found a copy of Advanced Potion Making by someone who called himself the Half-Blood Prince. It's filled with brilliant spells and ideas—like the Inverted Golden Bell and the Divine Sword. Whoever wrote it was a genius. I wish I could meet them."
Snape's lips twitched, struggling not to smile. "Yes. That book is a treasure. You have a good eye, Char."
Char tilted his head, feigning innocence. "How did you know I found it? Could it be… you're—" He let the question hang, inviting Snape to reveal the truth.
Snape hesitated. For a moment, he almost admitted it. But then, embarrassment crept in. "I am—well, like you, I've read the Half-Blood Prince's textbook. I left it in the storage cabinet so future students could learn from it. As for the author's identity, I'm not sure, but I have a theory."
He leaned in, voice low and conspiratorial. "A wizard that brilliant, with such a strange sense of naming… I suspect it might be Dumbledore. He's always had a taste for odd slogans. And who's to say he didn't invent a nickname for himself?"
Char stared, barely able to keep a straight face. "Professor, are you sure?"
Snape nodded solemnly. "Absolutely. Dumbledore is the Half-Blood Prince. It explains everything."
Char just nodded along, deciding not to push further. If Snape wanted to keep his secret, that was fine. What mattered was that he could now openly ask for guidance.
Snape straightened, regaining his composure. "Since you've read that book, I'll spare two hours a week to teach you the magic in it. Now, you'd better get to the Quidditch match."
As Char left the office, he couldn't help but grin. He could guess why Snape didn't want to admit to being the Half-Blood Prince—some nicknames just don't age well. But now, Char could learn directly from the master himself.
He felt a surge of anticipation. The piranha algae would mature soon, boosting his water and cutting spells. Margaret would be ready by Christmas, increasing his magic power. And with Snape's guidance, he could push the Divine Sword Shadowless Spell to new heights.
Excitement thrummed in his veins. With these new strengths, he'd be ready for any challenge—even the two-faced man who was still lurking in the shadows.
But for now, Char forced himself to calm down. There was still work to do, and rewards to earn. He took a deep breath and headed for the Quidditch pitch, wondering how Snape's healed leg might change the outcome of today's match.
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