A day at Hogwarts.

Chapter 660 Untradeable
"Have you not seen the Thames River come from the sky, rushing to the sea never to return?"

"Have you not seen..."

Charles couldn't continue reciting, because Voldemort had no hair.

Voldemort emerged from the shadows, his expression hidden beneath his hat.

The Thames River at night is devoid of the hustle and bustle of the day.

On the riverbank, a stylish bar still had its warm lights on, but the regulars who frequented it would immediately turn around and go home as soon as they got close, remembering that they had important things to do at home.

The bar's wooden terrace, which extends onto the water, was empty except for two guests sitting at the corner table.

An open bottle of Macallan whisky sits on the table, its crystal glass reflecting the candlelight, while a slight river breeze carries a damp chill.

Charles slumped in his wicker chair, looking languid, but his sharp eyes behind his glasses, in the dim light, were like the most sophisticated instruments, calmly dissecting the man opposite him who was almost one with the shadows.

Voldemort's scarlet eyes, like two bottomless pools of blood, were also watching Charles.

Charles took a sip of whiskey and then got down to business, getting Voldemort out that evening.

“The Gringotts underground labyrinth,” his voice was clear and steady, making Voldemort immediately take it seriously, “is far more complex than what is depicted on the Ministry of Magic’s internal blueprints.”

"Those secret areas, guarded by fairies for generations and hidden by layers of ancient spells, are beyond imagination in size."

He paused deliberately, picked up his glass, took a small sip, and felt the warmth of the strong liquor dispel the chill of the river breeze. Then he said, "To pinpoint that specific golden cup, we need meticulous intelligence gathering and analysis, time, and far more caution than usual."

"Gringotts' underground defense system has been upgraded once again, using African magic. Any hasty action would be tantamount to suicide."

After he finished speaking, he gently swirled his wine glass, looking as if he had really gone to Gringotts again.

The matter of helping Voldemort find the Hufflepuff Cup cannot be delayed indefinitely, so Charles will take the initiative to report on it tonight. There is also another matter to be done.

Voldemort's lips curled into a cold, barely-smiling arc.

“Time is not an issue,” he said in a hoarse, deep voice with a chilling power. “The important thing is to make sure everything goes perfectly.”

"Those demons, though greedy, have an exceptionally keen sense of smell. Don't attract their attention unnecessarily."

His scarlet pupils contracted in the candlelight, like the eyes of a snake locking onto its prey.

Charles nodded slightly, his gesture perfectly timed.

He put down his glass and looked out at the ceaselessly flowing river in the darkness, as if the inky waters could reflect the labyrinth beneath Gringotts, built of rock, magic, and greed.

A brief silence filled the two of them, broken only by the sound of the wind and the flowing river.

Voldemort's scarlet gaze, like a tangible probe, once again focused on Charles.

“I’ve heard,” he began slowly, each word carefully chosen, “that you possess some unique talent for prophecy?”

"Those mediocre people in the Ministry of Magic seem to have consulted you on this matter as well?"

Voldemort's question was not unfounded.

Charles did indeed make several prophecies during his time at Hogwarts.

His most well-known instance was when he explained what prophecy was in the common room.

But the most talked-about thing recently is his near-perfect prediction four years ago, after the first Potions class, that Severus Snape's house in Spider's End would be blown up.

At the time, Snape's house hadn't been blown up yet, so no one took it seriously. However, this summer, the house was indeed reduced to rubble in an explosion of unknown cause, and the perpetrator has yet to be found.

Snape had already reported this to Voldemort, which piqued the Dark Lord's interest, so he took the opportunity to find out more.

Charles calmly met those soul-devouring crimson eyes, his face devoid of smugness, merely offering a casual smile. "My prophecies are closer to uncontrollable, randomly flashing flashes of inspiration," he said in a flat, even tone. "They are not governed by my will, and cannot be actively performed or repeated."

"As for the Ministry of Magic, they did send a letter inquiring about it, but after I replied, it disappeared without a trace, and I haven't heard from them since."

"I think those bureaucrats also understand that relying on such elusive capabilities carries far more risk than reward."

Voldemort leaned forward slightly, the light making his waxy white face even brighter, and faint silver reflections could be seen on his skin—even in his nostrils.

However, that suffocating sense of oppression almost solidified into a tangible form.

“Then,” he hissed, his crimson pupils contracting, “could you… make a prophecy for me?”

Voldemort's voice was filled with an undeniable command.

Charles simply shrugged and replied almost without thinking, "Unfortunately, as far as I know, my predictive abilities seem to have limitations for certain individuals."

"It can only be triggered once by chance over a long period of time."

He hoped that this cold reality would make the other party back down.

However, Voldemort's reaction was completely unexpected.

A sudden burst of light, a mixture of surprise, sudden realization, and almost coldness, erupted from those scarlet eyes.

He leaned back in his chair, letting out a low, guttural laugh that echoed through the underworld.

“I see…” Voldemort said in a low voice, as if he knew everything. “You have recently made a prophecy for me.”

He felt that such a thing was normal and not surprising at all.

Charles stopped swirling his glass and took another sip.

He instantly realized that Voldemort had completely misunderstood him and thought that Dumbledore had asked him to make a prophecy.

But at this moment he was unable and too lazy to clarify.

There's no other way than to use the content of this non-existent prophecy as a condition.

Charles remained calm, neither admitting nor denying, and said nonchalantly, "Falbotton Castle welcomes talented people from all over the world to join us, and there are wizards among our staff who have been released from Azkaban."

"but!"

As Charles spoke, he stared directly at Voldemort, a murderous aura emanating from him that sent a shiver down his spine, and even Harry clutched his chest.

"I don't like my employees doing things that harm the company's interests, especially when the company is in operation and they take the opportunity to cheat customers."

After saying that, he took a sip of his drink and looked at the other person expressionlessly.

Voldemort immediately understood that he was referring to the intrusion into the Department of Mysteries, but he did not respond; he simply took a sip.

A silent game of wits ensued between the two. Charles discovered that there was a Death Eater mole in his company, but Voldemort remained unmoved, acting as if to say, "What can you do to me?"

“August Lukewood,” Charles broke the silence. “It seems we’ll need to hire another cleaner for our castle.”

Since Voldemort did not react, the deal to exchange the prophecy for the Death Eater infiltrators to stop causing trouble was out of the question.

After he finished speaking, without waiting for Voldemort's response, he put down his empty wine glass, stood up, and disappeared into the night.

Voldemort simply watched Charles disappear and sneered.

He was using Lukwood—or rather, Lukwood's life—to conduct a test, to test what kind of person Charles really was.

(End of this chapter)