"Everyone else may go. Malfoy, stay behind," Charles said softly.
The playful grin that had been on Draco Malfoy's face all afternoon froze. His stomach sank as anxiety crept up his spine.
After spending the whole afternoon having fun, he'd nearly forgotten what had happened earlier. If Charles hadn't spoken up, he might've forgotten it entirely.
The word Mudblood—a slur everyone in the wizarding world knew—wasn't something you could just toss around. Malfoy figured he'd probably be forced to write a self-reflection, or maybe Snape would give him a token punishment like a few days of detention.
He wasn't too worried. After all, Professor Snape was on his side, wasn't he? His father had told him often enough that Snape was a close family friend—and Malfoy was one of his prized students. Surely that would count for something.
So although his heart jumped for a moment, Draco quickly relaxed again, wearing that familiar look of smug confidence.
Charles didn't need Legilimency to guess what Malfoy was thinking; the boy's arrogance was practically written across his face.
One by one, the other young wizards filed out of the classroom, leaving only the two of them.
Charles didn't immediately take Draco to see Snape. Instead, he decided to talk to the boy first.
"Have a seat, Mr. Malfoy." Charles waved his wand, casting Transfiguration to create a chair from thin air, gesturing for Draco to sit.
Though confident, Draco hadn't expected such courtesy from a professor. That tiny gesture made him relax even more, his lingering anxiety fading away.
"Mr. Malfoy," Charles began, his tone calm but sharp as a blade. "Tell me—why did you insult your classmate?"
The gaze he fixed on Draco pierced straight through him. Under that gaze, Draco felt stripped bare, as though every lie, every mask, every trace of arrogance had been peeled away.
He suddenly realized that lying would be pointless.
He didn't know it, but Charles was using Legilimency. It was an advanced magical art—even many Ministry officials couldn't wield it properly.
When Umbridge had been teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts, that pink toad had relied entirely on Snape's Veritaserum because she couldn't use Legilimency herself.
Charles not only used Legilimency on Draco—he added a touch of psychological suggestion, making Draco believe that lying was impossible.
"B-but, Professor… she is a Mudblood," Draco blurted out uncontrollably. The words frightened even him—but he couldn't deny that they were truly his own.
"So you genuinely believe that wizards born from Muggle families are inferior?"
Draco hesitated, then nodded slowly. Charles didn't look angry, but the air between them grew heavier, almost suffocating.
He wanted to stop talking—but couldn't.
"My father always told me that—"
"He also said he regretted that the Dark Lord didn't manage to rule the wizarding world—"
Regretted?
Charles almost laughed. Lucius Malfoy, that coward, would be lucky if he hadn't secretly celebrated Voldemort's downfall. Most of Voldemort's Death Eaters had initially joined him for the promise of pure-blood power, but later on, they'd stayed out of sheer fear.
If Lucius truly "regretted" Voldemort's failure, the Dark Lord wouldn't have been hiding alone in Albania for years.
All those speeches to Draco? Just insurance. Lucius was terrified Voldemort might come back one day and punish the Malfoys for their betrayal.
Loyal to Voldemort? Even Voldemort himself wouldn't buy that.
"Don't let your father's words cloud your judgment, Draco," Charles said quietly. "Ask yourself—do you really believe that Muggle-borns are inferior? Or are you just parroting what others say? Where, exactly, does this so-called pure-blood 'nobility' come from? Where does 'honor' come from?
"When you look down on Muggle-born wizards, have you ever thought about what makes you superior? Is it simply because you had the chance to learn magic first?"
Draco blinked, his arrogance faltering as he tried to find an answer—but no matter how he turned it over in his mind, he couldn't.
What was pure-blood pride, really?
He'd heard the phrase all his life from his father, worn it like a badge of honor—but when forced to explain it, he realized there was nothing solid underneath.
Charles's final question gave him a brief foothold, though.
"Isn't it true, Professor?" Draco said quickly. "I did start learning magic earlier than they did. Before Hogwarts, most half-bloods and—uh, Muggle-borns—didn't even know magic existed. Even Harry Potter didn't! He hadn't even played Quidditch before coming here!"
Charles gave a small, pitying smile. "And you call that honor? I call it shame."
He shook his head. "You've had years of magical upbringing before Miss Granger even held her first wand, and yet she still surpasses you in nearly every subject. Does that sound like something to be proud of?"
Draco froze, words dying on his tongue.
Charles knew he couldn't change Draco's beliefs overnight. That wasn't realistic. But as long as the boy began to think—to question whether his father's ideas were truly right—then there was hope.
"When I was in Slytherin," Charles continued, "there were plenty of people who called me a Mudblood. But after a while, they stopped. Do you know why?"
"Because you… beat them up, Professor," Draco murmured. The rumor had long been Slytherin legend.
Charles chuckled. "Correct. I knocked them out and stuffed their heads into the nearest toilet. If they couldn't shut their mouths themselves, then perhaps a little toilet water could. Don't you agree?"
Draco's face went pale. He nodded frantically, shrinking in his chair.
He suddenly wanted to cry.
The professor's gentle smile was absolutely terrifying.
"So tell me, then—those so-called pure-bloods who insulted me and wound up with their heads in the toilet… or the ones I recently took down all at once—do you still think that is the glory of pure blood?"
Draco shook his head immediately.
"Good." Charles rose from his seat. "I'm not fond of corporal punishment, so your 'penalty' for today is this—think carefully about where honor and nobility truly come from. Tell me, Draco, can someone who looks down on others ever be truly noble?"
"I understand, Professor… Can I go now?" Draco asked timidly. He was thinking—but mostly about escaping this nightmare as fast as possible.
"Of course not. We still have to visit Professor Snape." Charles smiled pleasantly.
He'd played the good mentor; now it was Snape's turn to play the villain. Snape already had a dreadful reputation—what was one more angry student going to change?
Snape: Are you polite?
(End of Chapter)