The thought of the Half-Blood Prince's textbook danced through Char's mind, but with it came a mountain of new difficulties. Hogwarts was a castle stuffed with history, and its classrooms, especially those in the dungeons, were crammed with relics, textbooks, and forgotten treasures from decades—even centuries—of students. The Potions classrooms were no exception. Each one held lockers and cupboards brimming with old textbooks, notes, and mysterious odds and ends left behind by generations of young wizards.
Char knew from the original story that Harry Potter had found the Half-Blood Prince's book in his sixth year, but the exact location was a mystery. With seven or eight Potions classrooms, each packed to the rafters with old belongings, finding one specific textbook would be like searching for a needle in a haystack. It wasn't a task that could be rushed, nor one he could ask his fellow Hufflepuffs to help with. How would he explain how he knew about the book in the first place? No, this was a quest he would have to undertake alone.
But there was a bigger problem: the Potions classrooms were Snape's domain, and after class, they were locked tight. If Char wanted to search them, he'd need access—and that meant getting the keys from Snape himself. That was easier said than done. Snape had reason to be less than fond of Char, especially after the incidents with Malfoy. Char had cost Slytherin face more than once, and Snape wasn't the forgiving type. Still, Char was determined. He needed the Shadowless Sharpness spell, and he needed it soon if he was to be ready to face Antonin Dolohov.
As luck would have it, today was Potions day. Char took a deep breath and made his way to the dungeons, steeling himself for whatever lay ahead.
Monday mornings were miserable enough, but a first-period Potions class made them even worse. The little badgers and eagles shuffled into the classroom with anxious expressions, their voices hushed and their shoulders tense. The air was thick with the scent of dried herbs and something faintly metallic. The stone walls seemed to absorb all warmth, leaving the room cold and unwelcoming.
When Snape swept in, his black robes billowing and his expression colder than the dungeon walls, the room fell into a hush so deep you could hear a pin drop. Snape's eyes swept over the students, lingering especially on the Hufflepuffs. When he saw that Char—the "careless little badger"—wasn't late, a flicker of disappointment crossed his face. If Char had been late, Snape would have had a perfect excuse to deduct points from Hufflepuff. But it didn't matter; he would find other reasons before the morning was over.
"Hannah Abbott," Snape intoned, his voice dripping with disdain, "are you paying attention? Did I tell you to handle the materials like that? One point from Hufflepuff for wasting precious ingredients!"
"Susan Burns," he continued, moving down the row, "your handling of the cauldron fails to meet even the most basic safety standards. One point from Hufflepuff for negligence."
Snape stalked among the students, his sharp eyes missing nothing. When he reached Char's cauldron, he scrutinized every move, hoping to find a reason to deduct points. But even Snape had to admit, grudgingly, that Char's work was flawless. It wasn't brilliant or inspired, but it was exactly as the textbook described. With a scowl, Snape moved on, determined to find fault elsewhere.
From time to time, the little eagles also had to endure Snape's sarcasm. The Potions class dragged on, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. The students worked in silence, their nerves frayed and their spirits dampened by Snape's relentless criticism.
By the time the bell rang, Hufflepuff had lost five points and Ravenclaw two. The students dragged themselves out of the classroom, their spirits as damp as the dungeon air. The badgers and eagles shuffled up the stairs, their voices low and their expressions weary.
"Merlin, what a way to start the week," one badger muttered as they trudged along.
"I bet Snape spends his weekends thinking up new ways to torment us," another added.
"Can you imagine being Harry? He gets this every day."
"Did you see how Snape looked at Char today? I'd be shaking in my boots."
"Wait, where is Char? Did he run off to the greenhouse already?"
No one noticed that Char had stayed behind. He stood in front of Snape's desk, his expression earnest and his voice steady. "Professor Snape," he said, "I'd like to offer to help clean the Potions classroom and prepare ingredients for your lessons."
Snape froze, his eyes narrowing. "Charle Sprout," he said slowly, "you want to be my Potions assistant?"
Suspicion, confusion, and a hint of curiosity flickered across Snape's face. He knew his reputation among the students—most avoided him like the plague, especially after a morning like this. What could possibly have possessed Char to volunteer for such a task?
Snape was about to unleash a torrent of sarcasm, but before he could speak, Char continued. "Yes, Professor. I think it's a waste of your talent to spend time on basic preparations. Your skills should be used for advanced research and discovery. Tasks like cutting porcupine quills and squeezing Flobberworm mucus can be handled by a first-year like me. Why waste your time?"
Snape's mouth twitched. He couldn't deny that Char's words were… oddly flattering. Dumbledore had never given him a proper assistant, and he often found himself bogged down with menial tasks. The thought of having someone else handle the drudgery was tempting.
Still, Snape wasn't about to make things easy for a Hufflepuff—especially not Char. He considered rejecting him outright, but then a new idea took shape. Maybe he could use this to his advantage. If Char failed, Snape could deduct even more points from Hufflepuff. If he succeeded… well, that was unlikely.
With a cold smile, Snape said, "My standards for a Potions assistant are very high. You'll have to prove yourself worthy."
He disappeared into his storeroom and returned with a large basket of writhing Flobberworms. "Flobberworm mucus is a thickener used in almost every potion," he explained. "I need all of these processed by tomorrow. They must meet my exacting standards."
He tossed Char a key to the Potions classroom. "I expect to see all the mucus ready by tomorrow morning. You'll probably be up all night. If you slack off or delay my lesson, I'll deduct points from Hufflepuff—even for Professor Sprout's sake."
Char accepted the key without complaint. Staying up all night? That was nothing compared to the nights he'd spent tending his plants. And the key—that was the real prize. With it, he could search the Potions classrooms at his leisure, looking for the Half-Blood Prince's book.
"Thank you, Professor," Char said sincerely. "I appreciate the opportunity."
Snape blinked, caught off guard by Char's genuine gratitude. He turned away quickly, his expression unreadable. As he left the classroom, he couldn't shake a nagging feeling of guilt. He'd been deliberately making things difficult for Char, but the boy had thanked him as if he'd been given a gift.
"Am I being too harsh?" Snape wondered, just for a moment, before pushing the thought aside.
Back in the classroom, Char set to work. The basket of Flobberworms was large, but he was used to tedious tasks. He began the process of extracting mucus from each worm, his hands moving with practiced efficiency. As he worked, his mind wandered back to the Half-Blood Prince's book. With the key in his pocket, he could search the lockers and cupboards at his leisure.
He imagined the book: a battered brown cover, pages crammed with handwritten notes and spells. The Shadowless Sharpness spell was just one of the secrets it contained. If he could find it, he'd be one step closer to the power he needed.
The hours passed. The dungeon grew quiet, the only sounds the occasional rustle of a Flobberworm and the steady drip of mucus into Char's collection jar. Outside, the castle settled into night, the torches flickering and the stone walls whispering with ancient magic.
Char worked steadily, his thoughts focused and his determination unwavering. He knew that every task, no matter how small, brought him closer to his goals. And with each passing hour, he was one step closer to finding the book—and the spell—that could change everything.
By dawn, the basket was empty, and Char's jars were full. He stretched, his muscles stiff but his spirits high. He had done it—Snape's impossible task, completed on time. And with the key in his pocket, the next phase of his plan could begin.
As the first light of morning crept through the dungeon windows, Char allowed himself a small smile. The search for the Half-Blood Prince's book was about to begin, and nothing would stand in his way.
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