Quirrell was dead, yet the school year was not over, and Defense Against the Dark Arts once again fell into Snape's hands.
That fact alone was enough to make Harry's fleeting guilt over having misunderstood Snape vanish completely.
"Now that he's repaid my dad for saving his life, he can go back to hating me all he wants," Harry complained to Hermione and Ron.
After waking up in the hospital wing, he had asked Dumbledore several questions.
As for what had happened between his parents and Snape, Dumbledore told him only fragments—half-truths, carefully chosen and deliberately incomplete.
In the days following that night, the atmosphere at Hogwarts turned intensely studious. Fifth- and seventh-years were busy preparing for their O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, running themselves ragged as if every second spent not revising were a crime. Even the Saturday club meetings had become nearly empty—no sign of any upper-year students at all.
The lower years weren't spared either; the professors seemed determined to instill the terror of final exams into every laughing young witch and wizard.
Among them, Hermione stood out the most. She practically lived in the library these days.
As for Charles, he had essentially handed the higher-year classes over to the students themselves. The Master Trainer course for fourth-years and above had become nothing more than a long-term review session.
Even so, he was far from idle.
His current focus wasn't on coursework, but on the upcoming Pokémon Hogwarts Cup, which would be held later that term.
"How many schools plan to come and observe?" Dumbledore asked while leisurely enjoying a cup of Oran Berry ice slush.
"Only four," Charles replied, picking up the stack of letters. "Beauxbatons from France, Durmstrang from Northern Europe, Japan's Mahōtokoro, and Castelobruxo from Brazil. Apparently, they only agreed to attend after hearing that Snape had invented several new kinds of special potions."
The other wizarding schools hadn't even bothered to reply.
"It seems your influence is still somewhat limited," Dumbledore said smugly. "If it were me, things would be different. I am, after all, the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards."
"Really? Because I used your name when sending out the invitations," Charles said innocently, tilting his head.
Dumbledore: "…"
"Ahem…" He coughed twice, then cleared his throat in mock seriousness. "Well, four schools responding is already an unprecedented success. Including Hogwarts, that makes five schools in total. You know, even the Triwizard Tournament centuries ago only involved three."
That, of course, was a complete twist of logic—participating in a competition and merely attending as spectators were two entirely different things.
"I imagine Mr. Crouch must be quite busy these days," Dumbledore mused.
"Not really," Charles shook his head. "It's not like this is the Quidditch World Cup with a hundred thousand attendees. There's not much to worry about."
Still, if those visiting wizards decided they wanted to import Pokémon after the tournament, then Crouch would truly have his hands full.
"All right then," Charles said, narrowing his eyes. "You didn't come here just for small talk, did you? You never linger this long in my office."
"I came to thank you, actually—for getting Fudge on my side and saving me from being buried under mountains of paperwork. Without that, I wouldn't be this relaxed," Dumbledore said with a teasing smile.
"But," he continued, lowering his voice, "I do have something that I'm not sure how to handle."
He reached into his robes and drew out a deep crimson stone.
Charles instantly recognized it.
"The Philosopher's Stone? I thought you destroyed it."
"If it weren't for you, I probably would have," Dumbledore replied with a chuckle. "But since it's in your hands, I'm confident it won't ever fall to Voldemort."
He had no intention of returning it to Nicolas Flamel—after all, the Flamels were ready to embark on their final journey, embracing death together.
Had Charles not existed, Dumbledore would have had no choice but to destroy the Stone to ensure it didn't fall into the Dark Lord's grasp. But now… destroying such a priceless artifact would be a waste.
Charles reached out and took the Stone.
This was a miracle of alchemy, an artifact that had achieved two of the discipline's three ultimate goals—transmutation into gold and immortality.
In truth, if Voldemort had succeeded, he might have even used it to achieve the third—the creation of life itself. A body born from the Philosopher's Stone would have been far superior to the one he later restored for himself. No wonder the Dark Lord had been willing to risk everything for it.
But to Charles, the Stone wasn't all that tempting.
Transmuting gold might have been useful once, but he hardly lacked Galleons. Immortality that couldn't stop aging was even less appealing.
In comparison, he would much rather gain the power of a Legendary Pokémon.
Most Legendary Pokémon were ageless, their lifespans effectively infinite. Far more practical than any Philosopher's Stone.
Still, since Dumbledore was offering, there was no reason to refuse. The world's only Philosopher's Stone was, at the very least, a priceless collectible.
"How's Tom doing lately?" Charles asked at last—referring to the Tom Riddle sealed inside the diary.
"He's been… relatively quiet. We've come to an arrangement of sorts," Dumbledore said. "He teaches me some of his spells, and in return, I've promised to craft him a wand."
"A wand? But he doesn't have a body. What use would that be?" Charles frowned.
In the original timeline, Tom had only been able to wield Harry's wand because he'd absorbed Ginny's life force. He certainly wouldn't be able to drain Dumbledore's.
"He did ask me to sacrifice an innocent life to restore his own," Dumbledore said flatly, shaking his head. "I've been putting him off."
Tom clearly believed he was dealing with a darker version of Dumbledore—one who might actually agree to such a request. But Dumbledore would never do that.
Not that he was incapable of killing; during the Wizarding War, he had taken more than a few lives.
But that had been war. This was different.
"In any case, we're not actually going to let him return," Charles said simply.
Messing with the diary Riddle had been nothing more than a passing amusement. He had no intention of wasting serious time on it.
"If you get tired of him, just destroy it," Charles added. "Or better yet—use it to test your so-called savior."
"My savior?" Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Harry wasn't chosen by me. Tom marked him himself—the prophecy's 'chosen one' was of his making.
"But you, on the other hand… you've chosen Neville as your successor, haven't you?"
As someone who knew the prophecy's full truth, Dumbledore was aware that Neville had been the other potential "Chosen One." Voldemort had simply chosen Harry instead.
"Not exactly," Charles replied with a faint smile. "I just think he'd make a fine Swordmaster."
(End of Chapter)