However, that was only a possibility.
In truth, the second he heard Dumbledore's voice—the moment he realized the headmaster was right there—he felt that prickling sensation, like eyes boring into his back.
His gut never lied.
So he stayed put. Running would just make him look guilty.
"But if we're being honest, before you tell Harry to drop his grudge against Snape, maybe you should work on getting Snape to drop his grudge against Harry Potter first.
Otherwise it just sounds like you're lecturing from the cheap seats."
Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Don't forget the 'Professor,' and for what it's worth, I've tried."
Charlie smiled, hand over his heart, and gave a small bow. "Next time. Promise."
He meant the title.
"Looks like you've read Harry's letter too. I'm curious—did you team up with him to dig into this?"
He switched topics fast.
"No." Charlie shook his head. "I couldn't care less."
"Expected answer, but still surprising." Dumbledore nodded. "I figured with how tight you two are, you'd be in on it together."
"Professor, I'd rather not die for nothing." Charlie shrugged.
"I don't even know what that three-headed dog looks like. Harry just told me about it."
Dumbledore stayed quiet, studying the painting of Lely instead—the brushwork, the magic woven in.
"I'd give you extra credit if this were homework."
Charlie leaned back against the wall and sighed. He glanced around. The corridor was dead silent. Even the floating candles had drifted farther away.
"I've got a question," Charlie said.
Dumbledore waited, letting him finish before deciding how to answer.
"I've got this friend. Total klutz. Hopelessly clumsy. You give him anything to do and it turns into a disaster.
So I know for a fact that right after Christmas break, in Charms class, he's gonna botch a spell. Wand's gonna explode and mess him up pretty good.
But I also know he won't die or anything. Maybe a couple days in the hospital wing with Madam Pomfrey and he'll be fine.
So, Professor—do I step in and try to stop the explosion before it happens, or just let it ride since he'll survive?"
Dumbledore listened without changing expression. After a long pause, he raised an eyebrow.
"Your friend sounds like a mix of Longbottom, Finnigan, and Potter.
Granger too? No, she's too sharp for that."
Actually, yeah, Charlie thought.
"So what's your choice, Mr. Wonka?"
"The first one. I try to head off the trouble. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't."
Like keeping Neville off the ground after falling from his broom—he'd pulled that off.
Like steering Hermione clear of the troll—he'd managed that too.
But Harry Potter? That kid had still run straight into the troll anyway. Same meddling heart, different excuse.
"Perfectly reasonable," Dumbledore said. "Caring about your friends, trying to protect them—there's nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all.
But if you want the professor's version…"
Charlie met those calm blue eyes.
"Let the flower stay a flower. Let the tree stay a tree. That doesn't mean pouring help on them nonstop, and it doesn't mean standing by cold and silent.
Your friend might get hurt. But he'll grow from it. You can't shield him forever."
"I don't play nanny."
"Yet you keep caring anyway." Dumbledore's smile made Charlie's skin itch.
He looked away, scratching the back of his neck. "Fine. Teacher's answer it is. He's always been that type."
"Exactly. As the big brother, are you really supposed to guard your little siblings for life?"
Charlie shot him another glance. Yeah, the wording hit right.
With Anthony and Hector it was different. With everyone else he kept slipping into the older brother role. Made sense—he wasn't actually eleven.
"Maybe just slip them a chocolate when it really counts."
"All right. I think I get it. Everyone's got their own battles." Charlie nodded and turned to go.
He needed to move fast before Dumbledore circled back to the chocolate shop.
Running a business inside the school, right under the headmaster's nose? Not exactly classy.
"Wait, Charlie. May I ask you something?"
Damn it. Here it came.
Charlie stopped, resigned.
"What do you make of Severus? Word is you two clash pretty often."
Not about the shop. Charlie relaxed a fraction.
"I like the notes he leaves on my essays. Hate the bias.
I keep those two things separate.
And if you're asking whether he's really gunning for whatever's hidden on the fourth floor like Harry thinks?
Same answer as before. Don't know. Don't care.
If the sky falls, someone taller will catch it.
And Professor? You're pretty damn tall."
Dumbledore stood maybe six-three, beard down to his belt, back straight as a rod, sharp as ever.
The old man laughed and nodded.
"Thank you for the compliment, Charlie. Good night."
"Good night, Professor Dumbledore."
Charlie waved once and walked away without looking back.
Up the stairs—third floor, fourth floor—his mood settled with every step.
Yeah. Dumbledore knew everything. Controlled everything. And he was doing exactly what he'd said: letting the flower be a flower, the tree be a tree.
He'd been steering Harry this whole time. At least it looked that way.
Charlie didn't have to carry that weight anymore.
If Hermione and Harry decided to sneak down to the third-floor corridor at the end of the year for the Stone, Charlie could just watch. No urge to jump in and fix it like he had with the troll.
Some things you don't touch. That was enough.
He reached the fifth floor and pushed open the door to the abandoned classroom.
The Mirror of Erised stood in the center like it always had.
Charlie stepped in front of it.
In the reflection, a tall, thin man in a worn trench coat stood right beside him.
The guy had heavy bags under his eyes, a patched newsboy cap, baggy trousers, and that same old coat.
Even broke and beaten down, the man next to him still tried to look decent.