"Wayne Lawrence!" Voldemort roared, both shocked and furious.
"That's me, Professor," Wayne nodded. "Surprised to see me?"
'Surprised? Damn you!'
Voldemort stood up, his expression twisted with rage.
'Lawrence again!'
"Why are you here?"
"Just checking how well my little contraption worked," Wayne said matter-of-factly. "Seems it did the job—hope you enjoyed the experience."
While the two exchanged words, Harry seized the chance to dart behind Wayne.
Thank Merlin, a real saviour had arrived.
"It was you!"
Both Voldemort and Quirrell realised. Their intel hadn't been wrong—it was all Wayne's doing.
"You knew I was possessing Quirrell?" Voldemort asked in a hoarse, venomous voice.
"Dumbledore figured it out first," Wayne corrected. "I didn't guess a thing."
"So he sent you here to die?" Voldemort sneered.
"The old fool still follows the same playbook—hiding like a coward and sending weaklings to provoke me."
Voldemort raised his wand. Last time in the Forbidden Forest, he'd held back many spells to conceal his identity.
And after much deliberation, he'd even found a way to counter that bizarre Patronus.
Wayne's timing was perfect—he could now eliminate both of the little wizards he despised most.
"AAAAARGH!"
Quirrell let out a blood-curdling scream as Voldemort channelled a sinister Dark Magic, devouring Quirrell's flesh in exchange for a brief surge of immense magical power.
This power was beyond anything Quirrell had ever experienced, but his mind was now shattered beyond the capacity to revel in it.
"Lawrence, it's time we settled our score!"
A faint green light flickered at the tip of his wand. Wayne grabbed the scrawny Harry and flung him into a corner.
Crack!
The familiar Killing Curse shot forth, met by a bolt of lightning from Wayne. The two forces collided, erupting in a shower of sparks.
Wayne needed to gauge just how much power Voldemort now wielded to plan his next move.
The crackling energy persisted, but Wayne's expression relaxed slightly. Even with Quirrell's life fuelling him, Voldemort's strength was underwhelming.
Voldemort withdrew first—flesh was finite, and he couldn't afford to waste it in a prolonged clash.
The retracted magic twisted into crimson flames, coalescing into three fiery serpents. The air itself sizzled and popped under the scorching heat.
"Finite Incantatem!"
Wayne drove his wand towards the ground, and a golden light surged forth, halting the Fiendfyre's spread. The two forces annihilated each other in a final, blinding flare.
Then he fixed his gaze upon Voldemort's crimson eyes.
"Silent Fear!"
Horrifying images flooded Voldemort's mind, causing him to falter for a split second. By the time he regained his focus, a blue spell was already inches from his face.
Thick tendrils of black mist seeped from Voldemort's body, corroding the spell mid-air.
"Lawrence, you truly are the most outstanding genius Hogwarts has produced since me," Voldemort said, flicking his wand as swirling black tornadoes formed around him. "No—in fact, you are far more brilliant than I was at your age!"
Despite his grotesque appearance, Voldemort moved with eerie grace. His wand became a conductor's baton, weaving Dark Magic into a lethal symphony.
Wayne focused on defence, unfamiliar with many of the spells being hurled at him, and dared not let his guard down.
These were likely spells Voldemort had modified himself.
At a certain level, conventional incantations became shackles that limited a wizard's potential. The predecessors created, the successors refined—only by assimilating all knowledge into one's own system could one forge a unique path.
Voldemort had long surpassed such limitations.
Yet for Wayne, this was also an invaluable opportunity. He had talent and potential, but insight and experience required time to accumulate.
Voldemort was like a meticulous teacher, demonstrating his mastery of magic.
Only this teacher was exceptionally harsh—any mistake Wayne made would be paid for in blood.
"A pity, truly a pity," Voldemort mused, now holding the upper hand, his words flowing freely.
His spells never ceased, even as he laced his speech with temptation.
"Do you know?" Voldemort sighed. "Dumbledore, that hypocrite, has led you astray."
"Look at the spells you've mastered—how many of them are truly powerful Dark Magic? He forbids you from learning it because he fears you'll surpass him, threatening his influence over the wizarding world."
"Lawrence, you're clever enough to see through this, aren't you?"
Wayne shattered several shadowy spectres with a flick of his wand and countered with a laugh, "The problem is, despite all the Dark Magic you've mastered, you're still no match for Dumbledore, are you?"
"When you swept through all of England, why did you never dare step foot in Hogwarts?"
Voldemort's expression darkened. Two Killing Curses, fuelled by fury, erupted from his wand.
"You know nothing! I merely lacked absolute certainty of victory!"
"Give me ten more years, and I would've defeated him—no, killed him—fair and square!"
Crouched in the corner, Harry, upon hearing Voldemort slander Dumbledore, found an unexpected surge of courage and stood up, shouting, "Even if you had a hundred years, you'd never beat Dumbledore!"
The words were like oil on fire. Voldemort's face twisted with rage as he turned towards Harry and cast an Unforgivable Curse without hesitation.
"Crucio!"
"AAAAARGH!"
Harry collapsed, writhing in agony, until Wayne leisurely intervened, cutting off the curse's effects. This had been a deliberate lesson for Harry.
'No strength? Then keep your mouth shut. Voldemort and I were having a perfectly civil duel, and you had to jump in with a taunt. Who wouldn't be punished?'
'It was just the Cruciatus Curse—it wouldn't kill him. A little pain would teach him a lesson.'
Harry quickly passed out from the pain as the battle reached its climax.
Voldemort abandoned persuasion, his attacks growing increasingly vicious. Wayne dodged several curses with agile movements, seizing the pause in Voldemort's assault to launch a counterattack.
Roar!
A resounding dragon's cry echoed as a silvery-white dragon claw materialised, slashing towards Voldemort.
"I've been waiting for this!"
Voldemort sneered, his robes billowing as his body swelled unnaturally. Wailing spirits emerged from beneath his cloak, solidifying into tangible forms that coiled around the Patronus. Black smoke and white threads intertwined, creating an eerie stalemate.
Boom!
A curse struck a beam, sending massive stones crashing down and kicking up clouds of dust.
With a flick of his fingers, Voldemort hurled the debris at Wayne.
Wayne tapped his wand lightly, instantly transforming the boulders into pink petals that fluttered to the ground.
"You think this can stop me?"
Glancing at his half-dissipated dragon claw, Wayne twirled his wand theatrically. Thick white mist billowed forth, coalescing into the complete form of the celestial dragon, crackling with red lightning.
Upon contact with the crimson arcs, the tortured spirits contorted violently before dissipating into nothingness.
Thud!
Voldemort—no, Quirrell's head—took a brutal claw strike that nearly deformed his skull.
Harry, just regaining consciousness, watched excitedly.
"Harry, lend me something."
Wayne's voice echoed clearly in his mind.
Harry blinked.
'Lend what?'
He soon understood.
"Accio Harry!"
As Voldemort doubled over, his wand snapped in two, Harry found himself flying uncontrollably towards Voldemort.
"Grab his face!"
The command carried a magical compulsion. Harry instinctively obeyed, clutching at Voldemort's features.
"Argh! Aaah—!"
Voldemort's piercing shrieks filled the air as blisters erupted across his face, though Harry's scar burned with matching intensity.
As Harry faltered, Wayne acted. "Incarcerous!"
Ropes materialised, binding the two together. Their screams escalated in a grotesque competition of agony.
"Professor, shouldn't we detain him properly?" Wayne suddenly asked.
Flames erupted as Fawkes materialised with Dumbledore in a burst of fire.
A black mist seeped from Quirrell's unconscious form, streaking towards the exit.
"Dumbledore!"
"Tom, it's been too long. Won't you stay for a reunion?" Dumbledore's wand released crimson clouds that flooded the chamber.
The mist thinned but persisted. After a heartbeat's hesitation, Voldemort shattered the barrier, vanishing through the walls.
"Don't grow complacent, Dumbledore!"
His parting curse reverberated: "I am immortal! The day will come when I slaughter you and Lawrence alike!"
Dumbledore shook his head sadly as the echoes faded.
"How it grieves a teacher's heart. I did, after all, teach him Transfiguration for seven years."
"But Newt said you taught Defence Against the Dark Arts and often teased the students," Wayne said quietly.
Upon hearing this, Dumbledore looked delighted. "Oh, Newt still remembers that? But it wasn't teasing—I was just teaching the students how to be more cunning.
"Actually, I'd have liked to try teaching every subject," Dumbledore said with sudden enthusiasm, chatting with Wayne despite the inappropriate timing.
"But I only taught Potions, Defence Against the Dark Arts, and Transfiguration before becoming Headmaster.
"The other subjects weren't short of teachers, which is rather a shame."
"You truly are an all-rounder, then."
"No, no, Mr Lawrence. The future you will far surpass me."
"Not at all—you are the greatest Headmaster."
"Please don't say that. I always feel undeserving. You are the most talented student."
On the ground, still tightly bound alongside Quirrell, Harry struggled to raise a hand.
'Would you two stop with the mutual flattery? I could still use some saving here!'
Thud!
Harry passed out completely, collapsing limply onto the floor with a dull thud, finally drawing the attention of the other two.
Dumbledore looked slightly embarrassed. "I'll take Harry to the hospital wing first. Shall we meet there later?"
Wayne nodded. "I'll go find Hermione. See you soon."
The old man left first, taking Harry and Quirrell with him. Wayne summoned Gardevoir and Apparated back to the previous room.
The moment Hermione saw him appear, she rushed forward excitedly. "Wayne! What happened in there? Who was trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone?"
"It was Professor Quirrell. Voldemort was possessing him."
Wayne gave her the answer first, enjoying the witch's stunned expression before adding with a smile, "Harry was incredibly brave—he threw himself at Quirrell, and in the end... well, Voldemort fled."
The sheer volume of information made Hermione's brain short-circuit for a moment. It wasn't until Wayne explained everything on their way back that she fully grasped the situation.
Then came the shock.
The Dark Lord had been inside the school for an entire year, and no one had noticed. That was terrifying!
"Go back and get some proper rest," Wayne said gently, smoothing her dishevelled hair in front of the Fat Lady's portrait.
"Voldemort fears Dumbledore. He only dared to act when he thought the Headmaster was gone—but he didn't expect it to be a trap."
"So there's nothing to worry about."
The young witch nodded softly, then asked, "Where are you going?"
"The Headmaster needs to speak with me. I'll stop by the hospital wing and then head back to the dorm."
"See you tomorrow, then."
Hermione rose onto her tiptoes and pressed a quick goodnight kiss to his cheek before darting into the common room.
Wayne touched the damp spot on his face, smiled, and turned to descend the stairs.
...
Second floor, Hospital Wing.
Harry and Ron were already lying in their beds, while Madam Pomfrey scolded Dumbledore.
"A Dark Wizard was in the school, and you only found out now, after the students did! What kind of Headmaster are you?"
It was Wayne's first time witnessing Madam Pomfrey's fearsome side—even old Dumbledore had to endure her reprimands meekly.
Spotting Wayne's arrival, Dumbledore looked as though he'd seen a saviour and quickly said to Pomfrey, "Sorry, Poppy, I'll leave this to you. There's something else I need to attend to," before hastily pulling along a still bewildered Wayne as they hurried out of the hospital wing.
Behind them, they could still hear Madam Pomfrey's muttering.
"One Defence Against the Dark Arts professor every year, they might as well cancel the position!"
Oh, so he'd just been brought along as a shield.
The two soon arrived at an open-air balcony, where the stars in the night sky shone exceptionally bright, like a hazy veil draped over the earth.
"Headmaster, where's Professor Quirrell?" Wayne asked first as he settled into a lounge chair.
"You still call him 'professor'?" Dumbledore looked at him with amusement.
"Of course," Wayne said with a hint of regret. "This year, Quirrell—oh no, Voldemort—taught me quite a few useful things. It's a shame he's gone now."
The old man couldn't help but laugh wryly.
If not for being frightened by your complaint letters, would Voldemort have risked exposure just to teach you?
"Quirrell will never wake again. He merely took one wrong step and walked a path of no return," Dumbledore mused. "Power and knowledge can easily lead one astray. Using such means, Tom has bewitched far too many witches and wizards."
"Mr Lawrence, this is your second encounter with Tom. What are your thoughts on him?" Dumbledore asked curiously.
Those in higher positions often viewed things from unique perspectives, and he wondered how Wayne—a young wizard raised among the Muggle elite—regarded Voldemort.
"Professor, why do you call him Tom?" Wayne countered with a question of his own.
"Tom Riddle—that is Voldemort's true name, the name of his Muggle father," Dumbledore replied, glancing down at the lawn below. "He despised his half-blood heritage, so he gave himself a new name. Once, Tom was the most outstanding student the school had ever seen—until you came along."
Wayne nodded in understanding.
He needed an excuse to justify his sources of information, hence the question.
"Honestly," Wayne clasped his hands together, deep in thought as he chose his words carefully, "based on what I've learned over the past year, Voldemort was quite successful in his time."
"Aside from the school, he had the whole of Britain terrified."
Dumbledore didn't deny it—the Ministry of Magic had been all but defunct back then.
"And now?"
"Now he's just lost his mind," Wayne chuckled.
"The traps you set were so obvious even a pig would know they were meant for Harry, yet he still fell for them. If I were Voldemort, I'd just drink Ron's Polyjuice Potion, trick Harry into fetching the Philosopher's Stone, and then finish him off."
Dumbledore: "..."