Following Wayne's line of thought, Dumbledore felt a twinge of unease.
'Thank Merlin, Tom wasn't that clever—if he had done that...'
Harry would be safe due to the magical protections, but the Philosopher's Stone would likely have fallen into Quirrell's hands.
Still...
The old man smirked slyly. "If Tom had truly obtained the Philosopher's Stone, he would have been even more disappointed."
Wayne raised an eyebrow. "It's a fake?"
"No," Dumbledore shook his head. "The Stone is genuine—otherwise, Tom wouldn't have been so easily fooled. He's not that gullible."
"However..." Dumbledore winked playfully. "Nicolas never said he only made one Philosopher's Stone. This one is real, but it's nearly depleted—utterly useless to Tom."
'Crafty old fox.'
Wayne cursed inwardly, not only mocking Nicolas Flamel but also Dumbledore.
The two old fellows had practically led poor Voldemort around by the nose.
No wonder Dumbledore could confidently use such simple obstacles to temper Harry.
Placing a worthless stone there, of course, it could be tampered with freely.
"Mr Lawrence, thank you very much for cooperating with my plan this time. I believe Harry will have matured considerably upon waking."
As he spoke, Dumbledore produced the Philosopher's Stone.
"Though it has nearly lost its efficacy, I believe the commemorative significance of the Stone remains quite special. Now, I give it to you."
Wayne didn't stand on ceremony. He took it, examined it briefly, then handed it back to Dumbledore.
"Professor, if you truly wish to thank me, why not teach me that spell from earlier?"
Dumbledore was taken aback, not expecting Wayne to make such a request, but he agreed nonetheless.
This wasn't a traditional spell by any means—it was one of Dumbledore's creations. It incorporated elements of Potions, Transfiguration, and even Alchemy. All the clouds had been pre-prepared by Dumbledore, capable of trapping enemies, tracking targets, and providing defence, all while being remarkably convenient to use—no incantation required upon casting.
The only challenge lay in the caster's innate talent.
If any aspect of one's abilities fell short, the spell's power would diminish significantly, potentially becoming weaker than ordinary magic.
Wayne grew even more intrigued. Earlier, he'd noticed how swiftly the clouds materialised—far quicker than typical magic—and now he discovered there were so many intricacies involved.
When faced with a prodigious student, any teacher would be delighted.
Dumbledore hardly needed to explain much. After a single demonstration, Wayne had memorised it perfectly, and his questions all pinpointed the crucial aspects.
"If the school were filled with students like you, the professors would have it far too easy."
Dumbledore chuckled lightly after finishing his explanation.
Wayne pondered this. If Hogwarts were indeed populated entirely by bright, vivacious, and academically outstanding young wizards like himself...
Surviving even a single year would render the school impregnable.
Finally, before parting, the old headmaster posed one last question: "You don't think highly of Tom. What about Grindelwald?"
Wayne turned to look at the elderly wizard. His expression was calm, as if he were inquiring about a stranger.
After a few seconds' pause, the young man replied, "Overly idealistic goals are impossible to achieve. Were I a pure-blood, I might have supported him—at the very least, I wouldn't have stood against him."
"But I was born in the Muggle world. Our inherent standpoints differ, so naturally, our outcomes would too."
Dumbledore nodded after hearing this. "A fascinating answer. Thank you, Mr Lawrence. It's quite late now—you should get some rest."
"Enjoy your holiday."
"Goodbye, Professor."
...
Returning to his dormitory, though the hour was late, Wayne remained wide awake. He reflected on his shortcomings.
He hadn't paid much heed to Voldemort's attempts at manipulation, yet some of the Dark Lord's points hadn't been entirely without merit.
In this world, when it came purely to lethality, White Magic was inherently inferior to Dark Magic.
Absolute destructive power required extreme negative emotions to unleash—spells like the Killing Curse or the Laceration Curse.
And the Laceration Curse leaned more towards stealth, its lethality differing from conventional White Magic.
This also meant that although Wayne's strength surpassed that of Voldemort possessing Quirrell, he lacked a decisive, one-hit-kill technique.
The combination of the Thunderlord's Decree and the Patronus Charm counted as one, but such a combination was only most effective when facing Dark Wizards.
Unless he could arbitrarily declare who was evil and who wasn't, then he wouldn't have to worry.
This time, the system didn't generate a major event because the incident hadn't originated from him, but rather from Dumbledore deliberately setting a trap. As a result, the points earned were minimal.
Only the final act of using Harry as a weapon netted him two hundred points from the system. The points for tricking Quirrell would be tallied at the end.
With fewer than five thousand points currently on hand, even the purple-tier draws couldn't achieve the effect Wayne desired.
His only hope now lay in the lottery draw after the 'Fallen Professor' settlement. Surely, the outcome wouldn't be too poor.
He'd literally played the man to death—wasn't that Outstanding-worthy?
Wayne's gaze drifted toward his two peacefully sleeping roommates, then even further, piercing through walls to where Cedric lay in another dorm.
How about... sacrificing a little more from the three of you?
No, that wouldn't do. These were his beloved friends—he couldn't exploit them like that. Better to target the twins instead.
'Sacrificing ten—no, fifteen—years of their romantic luck in exchange for my next lottery draw yielding exactly what I want? The twins definitely wouldn't lose out.'
'Fifteen years meant fifteen years. Trying to die early to escape the penalty? Impossible!'
'Even if Voldemort, the Death Eaters, or Death himself came knocking, those two would have to stay alive!'
Having settled on this, Wayne smiled in satisfaction and drifted off to sleep.
...
The following week was the happiest of the year for the students—no classes, no homework, no grades in sight, just pure, carefree fun.
There were also the last two Quidditch matches to watch: Hufflepuff versus Slytherin, followed by the final showdown between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw.
This year's championship was still delicately poised. If Hufflepuff lost and Gryffindor won, the total points from all three matches would determine who lifted the Quidditch Cup.
Wood was feeling rather hopeful—after all, their opponents were the weakest team, Ravenclaw.
But the next day, devastating news broke: Potter had been hospitalised!
Hogwarts had no secrets, especially when one of the participants was a certain red-haired first-year lion.
Soon, nearly everyone knew what had happened.
The curse on the Defence Against the Dark Arts position had struck again—Quirrell had turned out to be a Dark Wizard coveting the school's treasures, and Harry had been injured fighting him.
Truth be told, the students weren't all that surprised. Such disasters had happened too many times before. What shocked them more was that Quirrell had lasted until the end of term before being exposed.
Many had hoped the school might finally have a stable Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, but alas, another year had passed without one surviving the post.
Wood couldn't care less about any of that—all he wanted was a healthy, intact Seeker for the next day's match.
But Gryffindor had no reserve players. With one member down, they were forced to face Ravenclaw with only six.
Ultimately, Gryffindor suffered a humiliating defeat at the hands of Ravenclaw. As the match concluded, an enraged Professor McGonagall stormed back to her office and locked herself in for the remainder of the day.
Wood, too, vanished without a trace!
Rumours swirled that Wood had been strung up in McGonagall's office and beaten senseless for a full twenty-four hours. But in reality, Wood had only run back to his dormitory.
As soon as the match ended, the twins sought out Wayne to ask what had happened. No one had known Wayne was involved until Hermione accidentally let it slip, and only then did the twins find out.
Omitting the part about Voldemort, Wayne didn't hide the rest.
"Merlin's bikini!" Their expressions were utterly bewildered after hearing the story. "The Philosopher's Stone was hidden on the fourth floor all along?"
"Why didn't you tell us sooner?" Fred smacked his thigh in frustration. "If you'd said something, Quirrell wouldn't have stood a chance. We'd have taken it ages ago."
"Exactly!"
Wayne shrugged helplessly. "Ron knew, too, and he's your brother. He didn't tell you either, did he?"
The twins exchanged a glance and nodded emphatically.
"You're terrible," Cho giggled, covering her mouth as she watched the two storm off to give Ron a hard time.
"I was just stating facts," Wayne said innocently, blinking.
The girl laughed even harder, taking a moment to recover before bringing up the next day's final match.
"Do you think you'll win tomorrow's match? I—"
"You'll have to ask Wotley about that. I'm not on the Quidditch team."
The girl pouted. "Well, I hope Hufflepuff wins. I don't want Slytherin to take the cup—they play so dirty."
"Don't worry, I'm sure they'll play fair tomorrow."
...
And just as he said, Slytherin indeed refrained from their usual violent Quidditch tactics.
During the final, nearly every Hufflepuff boy came armed with a handy weapon, leaving the Slytherin players pale-faced.
Would they rather foul on the pitch and get beaten off it, or play fair and let skill decide the outcome?
The answer was obvious.
Even the Slytherin spectators watching the match understood their choice perfectly.
They also kept glancing nervously at Wayne, sitting among them, afraid that any overly aggressive move might provoke the young master.
In the end, Cedric caught the Golden Snitch, securing Hufflepuff's third straight victory and the Quidditch Cup with an overwhelming lead. It also earned the badgers an extra one hundred and fifty points for the House Cup.
"Thank you, Wayne!"
After a celebratory lap around the pitch, Wotley landed and clapped Wayne heavily on the shoulder.
"If it weren't for your reputation as Hufflepuff's Boxing Champion, we'd never have won so easily."
A vein throbbed in Wayne's forehead. "Then today, I'll show you just how fearsome the Boxing Champion can be!"
The entire hall erupted in laughter.
...
Just as Hufflepuff was celebrating, Harry, who had been asleep for three days, finally woke up.
When Ron went to visit him, Harry's first words were: "Ron, could you fetch Wayne for me?"
Though unsure why Harry wanted Wayne, Ron complied nonetheless.
Soon enough, Wayne arrived at the hospital wing, meeting Harry's resentful gaze.
"Wayne..."
"What's wrong with you?" Wayne was utterly baffled by his expression.
Harry gritted his teeth. "Have you forgotten how I ended up here?"
He had been minding his own business when Wayne suddenly hurled him at Voldemort and bound them both tightly together.
"Can't blame me for that, Harry," Wayne replied, sitting on the chair beside his bed with a sigh. "That was Voldemort. Only you can truly harm him."
Harry glared at him resentfully. "Weren't you afraid Voldemort might kill me in one strike?"
Wayne looked surprised. "Didn't the Headmaster tell you?"
"Tell me what?" Harry asked, confused.
Wayne studied Harry's scar. "The magic your mother left you—it's still protecting you. Your mother was a remarkable woman. She used her love for you and her own life to cast a spell. This spell rebounded the curse Voldemort aimed at you ten years ago. It's also why you can harm him when you touch him."
"Love is the greatest power in this world—limitless in possibility, capable of creating countless miracles," Wayne spoke these words with complete sincerity.
He truly admired Lily. The power of a mother's love transcended life and death, binding her protection around Harry through sheer emotion until he came of age. This was a force Voldemort would never comprehend—one of the many reasons Wayne held him in contempt.
Hatred might fade once you've crushed someone to dust and obliterated their lineage. But love, especially a mother's love, is infinite—the most precious emotion of all.
Harry stared at Wayne, tears silently tracing down his cheeks.
Without another word, Wayne stood and left.
Unbeknownst to him, in the adjacent room with Madam Pomfrey, Snape was curled against the wall, weeping just as bitterly.
"Lily..."
...
A week passed in the blink of an eye.
On Sunday, the students received their exam results.
"Nice! I passed everything—even got an 'Exceeds Expectations' in Charms!" Toby cheered, leaping from his bed.
Norman grinned foolishly, having secured 'Exceeds Expectations' in both Charms and Herbology without failing a single subject.
"Wayne, how'd you do?" they asked, eyeing his calm demeanour curiously.
"Just my usual performance. Nothing special."
Norman picked up Wayne's results, eyes widening. Toby peered over his shoulder.
"Full marks! All full marks?!"
"Obviously," Wayne said flatly. "I told you—normal performance. What else would it be?"
Instantly, their joy at avoiding retakes evaporated. Staring at his annoyingly handsome face, they dearly wished to acquaint their fists with it.
Exchanging a glance, Norman swung the dormitory door open while Toby cheerfully shoved Wayne out.
"Kindly piss off and stop ruining our good mood."
"Go find your first-year girlfriend or second-year girlfriend, whatever. Just come back after dinner."
Bang!
The door was slammed shut.
Wayne pouted.
How heartless. Wasn't it you two who came begging me for homework earlier?
But then again, he really should go and collect on his bet with Hermione.
...
The news of Wayne's perfect scores in every subject had spread quickly, and it was the professors who had started it.
It had been years since such a feat had been achieved at Hogwarts, so naturally, they wanted to make a big deal of it, setting him up as a model for the students.
That evening, Wayne handed out the books he had promised. After the badgers' diligent efforts, he ended up distributing... twenty copies. It wasn't for lack of trying—their usual grades just weren't up to par. Badgers had never been known for their academic prowess.
Averaging three students per year in the top fifteen was already considered an overachievement.
When Cedric got his hands on the book, he was so excited that he started kissing and hugging it, much to Wayne's disgust.
Was that necessary?
If he found out that Newt was coming to the school for the end-of-year celebration tomorrow, would he faint from excitement?
That's right—Newt was coming to Hogwarts.
This time, he wasn't just here for Nagini's sake; he also had the task of presenting Wayne with the Order of Merlin.
And it wasn't just him—other recipients of the Order would be arriving as well, as Dumbledore had informed him.
Speaking of Nagini, Newt had successfully captured her by the end of April. Since then, he had been trying every possible method to restore her human form, but all had failed.
Wayne wasn't entirely confident either. He was just giving it a shot.
If it didn't work, he could always rely on future lucky draws for better solutions. There was no rush.
And so, time passed until the final night before the holidays.
That evening, everyone gathered in the Great Hall for the end-of-year feast, packed just as it had been at the start of term.