1986
“Charles,” Albus started with a small, affectionate smile. “Have you ever done a spell before?”
The young boy sitting on the chair in front of him was so small he was able to curl up against one of the armrests, head bowed over the edge, fluffy red hair almost like a lion's mane with its wildness. His feet dangled far above the ground. This little boy was only about six years old. Five years since he’d been pronounced the Boy-Who-Lived.
Charles pouted but didn’t answer.
“Young Charles. I will be training you these coming years. This is an important question to ask… and an even more important one for you to answer.”
“Fir’works,” he finally mumbled, so quiet that the stammer perturbing those words were barely heard. He looked as though he wanted to shrink back into the corner of the chair, looking at all the charming bobbles in Headmaster Dumbledore’s office like they were monsters of the most terrifying sort.
Albus hummed in response. “Are you all right, my boy?”
Charles didn’t reply. He was fixated on a sneering portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black.
“Do not be afraid,” Albus said. “Nothing in this room can hurt you.” He let out a warm, soothing laugh. “You may trust me on that—More than, hm, twenty years I’ve been in this office. Time escapes me, but I know—know—you are safe here.”
With all the courage of a future Gryffindor, Charles brought it upon himself to respond. “S’scary.”
“Ah, but what is life without fears to overcome? You have many battles ahea…”
“I w–want m’Daddy. I–I want Mummy. Now.”
“They’re waiting just outside the door,” Albus promised and they were. James Potter and Lily Potter, while not permitted to stay inside of the room (for no reason other than the fact that they could be a little… intrusive when it came to their younger—or, well, their only son), would be standing out on guard. “Charles, do you know where you are?”
“It’s… it’s scary, dark,” Charles repeated, somewhat clearer. He sniffled. “Wa–wanna go home.”
“You’ll be going home in about an hour or so.” it took more than a few days for him to bargain for that much time with the Boy-Who-Lived. Clearing his throat, he continued, “Your father says you display an extraordinary amount of Magic—uncontrolled Magic. We must find out how to train and tame your Magic.” Indeed, Charles seemed to be just as powerful as both of his parents. However, from James’ stories, he didn’t seem to be in control of this power at all—he created fires on impulse, pushed things off tables without even realizing it, and nearly made the Potters’ family cat float. Unpredictable Magic was dangerous, and that kind of Magic coming from someone as important and high-status as Charles Potter even more so. “When you reach Hogwarts, you will find many dangers ahead of you. Dangers the Order has protected you from, and you will need to face the challenges in front of you. You will need to stand tall just as your father does… be brilliant just as your mother is… you will…”
Charles sneezed. Somewhat mystified, he looked off into the self-spinning globe on the side of his desk. Just before he could reach out to touch it, Albus made his presence known again.
“That’s Switzerland, yes, very interesting, but—not what we’re here for.” He went over the contents of his speech, one he’d rehearsed into his talking mirror multiple times. “You are the Vanisher of the Dark Lord. The one who brought peace and harmony back to Britain. With the fame and prestige you and your parents have, there are many tasks and tributes—”
Charles turned to him with a small, off-put pout. There was a slight shininess to his brown eyes—so like his father’s, but, at his youth, they lacked experience and wisdom. He drew himself even closer to the cushion, focused entirely on Albus for once. He seemed to finally be listening.
“You have a big mission ahead of you, Charles,” Albus cautioned, trying to make the words as gentle as possible, unassuming, nothing to be feared. “I suspect you will always have this mission, to make the world Good and Pure…”
With a wobbly shake of his head, Charles was looking over the cliff-like hedge of his chair’s view, down to the floor below him.
Clearing his throat (and thinking, in exact terms, ah, I’ve lost him!), Albus continued, “You have been marked by Voldemort himself… the scar across your forehead… it’s a sign of the great power you will…”
“I–I want ice cr–cream,” Charles spoke with an impatient whine, frustrated at not just him and the circumstances forced upon him, but at himself as a whole. “U–uncle Albus, I—I want it!”
Albus supposed that the discussion of Fate and Destiny would have to wait.