Back in Charles's primary school, there were plenty of children from powerful and influential families. Families like Hermione's—middle-class professionals—were just average in comparison. Parents like Charles's dad, a local councilman, were practically everywhere.
That spring, during the Year Six field trip, one of his classmates—daughter of a major corporate tycoon—got kidnapped. Since Charles had been playing with her at the time, he got taken too, purely out of convenience.
The kidnappers, seeing that their hostages were just kids, let their guard down. When most of the gang went off to collect the ransom, they left just one guy behind to watch over the children.
Big mistake.
While that lone kidnapper dozed off, Charles fashioned a garrote out of a shoelace and strangled him to death. Then, using the house's landline, he called the police. It was thanks to that call the authorities were able to trace the location and rescue them.
The whole thing made quite the stir behind the scenes. The SAS even got involved—but both families managed to keep it quiet. Charles never liked talking about it afterward. Even the neighbors never heard a word.
The girl never returned to school; she transferred out. And as for the classmates? They said Charles had taken down a kidnapper and escaped all on his own—especially since he was known for being in boxing and always scored high marks.
Which explained why, during Flying Class, Hermione had grabbed Charles's arm—afraid he might literally punch someone into orbit.
Voldemort, curious now, asked, "Were you afraid?"
Charles paused, surprised. He realized… he'd never actually thought about that.
He set his quill down and pondered for a moment before shaking his head. "No. I wasn't scared. Not at all."
Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "And when you knew he was dead? What did you feel then—fear? Satisfaction?"
Charles frowned, digging through his memories before answering with certainty, "Neither. No fear, no joy. I just felt… calm. Like I'd finished copying a few vocabulary words."
That answer genuinely threw Voldemort for a loop.
If Charles had said fear, he could have coaxed him toward craving power. If he'd said pleasure, he could've tempted him into repeating that rush. Either way—black magic bait.
But this?
Completely unfazed by killing. Voldemort had been around a long time, but even he had never met a kid like this.
He realized he'd need a different approach. So for the rest of the time, he said nothing at all.
Charles didn't breathe easy until he was far from the office. Once safe, he mentally replayed the entire conversation, trying to figure out what Voldemort had been planning.
A strange unease crept into him. A feeling that fate was slipping out of his hands, that he was dancing to someone else's tune. As he wandered, lost in thought, he eventually found himself standing before the Room of Requirement.
With a sigh, he entered.
The room transformed into a boxing gym.
Charles grabbed a pair of gloves, tested their fit—surprisingly good—then stripped off his robes and began laying into a heavy bag like it was Voldemort himself.
He didn't know how much time had passed. When he finally collapsed to the floor, gasping for air, it was already late.
He left the Room of Requirement, changed it into a steamy bathhouse and soaked under the hot water. Then, after grabbing a late-night snack from the kitchen, he finally returned to the Gryffindor common room.
As he stepped inside, the Fat Lady muttered, "Do young people just not sleep anymore these days?"
Charles barely had time to chuckle when he looked up—and froze.
Hermione was standing there in a pink dressing gown. Nothing unusual.
What was unusual… was that she, Harry, Ron, and Neville were all flushed, drenched in sweat, and panting—like they'd just finished a serious workout.
And then Hermione snapped, voice sharp and indignant: "Well! If you three don't mind, I'm going to bed now!"
Charles scratched his head. Just what on earth had they been up to?
(End of Chapter)