Just as Harry was brimming with confidence, certain that Char would leap at the chance to join his secret mission, the next moment left him utterly bewildered.
Char rejected his invitation without the slightest hesitation.
"I refuse."
Harry stared at Char, stunned and speechless. He had expected resistance, maybe some questions, but not a flat-out, immediate refusal. It must be said, Harry truly had the heart of a savior—always ready to leap into action, to defend the castle, to uncover mysteries. But Hogwarts, with all its history and powerful professors, hardly needed protection from a handful of first-years. Char felt no malice toward Harry's enthusiasm. In fact, he respected it. After all, after everything Harry had endured, he still faced the world with courage and hope. That was admirable in itself.
But Char had no interest in joining the "savior's game." Even if he needed the three-headed dog's blood to cultivate blood emerald, now was not the time. The two-faced man—Quirrell, with Voldemort lurking behind—was still searching for a way past the dog. If Char showed his legendary strength and managed to subdue the beast, it would only draw unwanted attention. The last thing he wanted was for the two-faced man to realize just how dangerous he could be. Better to wait until Harry and his friends made their move. By then, Char hoped he'd have a new experimental field in the greenhouse, and it would be the right time to start cultivating blood jade.
For now, Char's hands were full. He had no space for new magical herbs, and risking everything for uncertain rewards was not his style. It was far wiser to focus on the plants he already had, to keep his head down and let the "heroes" chase their adventures.
Harry, still reeling from the shock of rejection, hurried after Char. "Why?" he pressed. "Char, I'm not lying. There really is something important hidden in the castle. Someone's trying to steal it—"
But Char interrupted, his tone calm and steady. "I believe you, Harry. But isn't this something the professors should handle? Your enthusiasm is admirable, but maybe you're asking the wrong person. Hufflepuffs aren't exactly known for seeking out danger."
With that, Char stepped around Harry and continued toward the Potions classroom.
Harry watched Char's back, feeling a mix of frustration and disbelief. He caught up again, determined to make his case. "Char, don't you want to know what's behind the trapdoor on the fourth floor? I guarantee you won't guess it."
Char almost laughed. How could he not know? Even if he hadn't read the original book, Hermione had already told him everything. But he really wasn't interested—not now, not with so much at stake.
Just as Char was about to tell Harry to please stop pestering him, he suddenly paused. The air was tinged with a strong smell of garlic, and a stuttering voice echoed from the shadows.
"Shhh… shut down… Ha, Harry—Potter, you mustn't tell anyone about this."
A figure in a large turban emerged from the darkness. It was Professor Quirrell.
Harry jumped, startled. Char clenched his fists, cursing his luck. Why did Harry have to bring Quirrell here, of all people?
Char immediately forced his thoughts to focus on herbology—on the Frequency Light Spell, academic papers, guardian trees—anything but the Philosopher's Stone or the events of the original story. He remembered all too well: Voldemort could read minds, especially when he was awake at the back of Quirrell's head. He'd even been able to sense when Harry was lying during the final confrontation in the original timeline. Maybe Voldemort couldn't maintain that power constantly, but Char wasn't about to take any risks.
If Quirrell could read minds, why bother with so many convoluted schemes? Why not just pluck the information from Hagrid's head about the three-headed dog? Perhaps Voldemort's ability only worked in certain circumstances, but Char had no intention of testing those limits.
Luckily, Quirrell's attention was fixed on Harry. To Quirrell—and to Voldemort—Char was just another unremarkable student, more interested in plants and potions than in grand magical adventures. Char seized the opportunity.
"I still have work to do with Professor Snape," he said quickly. "Goodbye, Professor Quirrell. Goodbye, Harry."
Quirrell barely glanced at Char, his gaze uninterested. Char's behavior was easy to interpret: a little wizard with no magical talent, hiding in the safety of classes and greenhouses, trying to find some small way to make a name for himself. Nothing to worry about.
The only student worth watching was Harry Potter.
As soon as Char was out of sight, he quickened his pace, not slowing down until he'd put two corridors between himself and Quirrell. Only then did he let out a long, shaky breath.
Thank Merlin Quirrell's attention was elsewhere. If Voldemort had caught even a hint of his system, it would have been a disaster. Char resolved then and there to keep his distance from Harry. Frequent contact with the "Boy Who Lived" was just asking for trouble. Even if he avoided Quirrell, he'd probably run into Dumbledore sooner or later—and that might be even worse.
A chill ran through Char. "I need to get stronger as soon as possible," he thought. "Even if I don't go looking for trouble, trouble always finds its way to Hogwarts. If I want to keep farming in peace, I need the power to protect myself."
His mind turned to the Half-Blood Prince's textbook, to the Divine Sword Shadowless Spell, and the bonuses from the mutated piranha algae. That was the fastest way to boost his strength. At the same time, he needed to accelerate the progress of the guardian tree. Since Harry's arrival, Hogwarts had become a magnet for dark creatures—two-faced men, trolls, basilisks, dementors, werewolves. Many of them were tied to black magic, and the guardian tree's resistance could be a lifesaver.
Both the Shadowless Spell and the Sacred Tree Potion required Char to keep working with Snape. He picked up his pace, heading for the Potions classroom.
When he entered, he found Malfoy and the other Slytherins gritting their teeth, hands red and raw as they struggled with the Flobberworms. Char stopped, surprised. Malfoy looked up and sneered.
"Char Sprout," he spat. "Do you think your little trick of buttering up to Dean Snape will work forever? We're going to kick you out today. The Dean's Potions Assistant should be a Slytherin!"
But before Malfoy could finish, he suddenly felt a wave of pressure. He swallowed, his bravado faltering as he looked away from Char's intense gaze.
"What's with that look in his eyes?" Malfoy wondered. "I'm just taking his assistant job. Is it really that serious?"
Char took a deep breath. For the first time in a long while, a spark of competitive fire lit in his eyes. Someone wanted his job? So many people, all at once? Was this workplace bullying?
But Malfoy and the others were mistaken. After years of hard work, if there was one thing Char wasn't afraid of, it was competition. No one understood "involution" better than he did.
He walked over to inspect the Slytherins' work, pulling back his lips in a disdainful sneer.
"With this level of work, you want to challenge me?" he said, voice dripping with scorn. "Are you all here just to maintain your health? Watch closely—this is what real workplace competition looks like!"
And with that, Char rolled up his sleeves, ready to show the Slytherins what true diligence and skill could accomplish. The Potions classroom was about to become a new kind of battlefield—one where only the most relentless would prevail.
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