Ancient magic was a field few modern wizards dared to touch. Though termed 'ancient', it actually belonged to the same system as magic used by contemporary wizards. The reason for its gradual disappearance was simple: it was too difficult.
In ancient times, when the magical system was not yet fully established, all wizards had to forge their own paths. This required exceptional talent. Perhaps a wizard considered a genius in ancient times knew fewer spells than a modern student. But in terms of innate ability and the effects they could produce, there was no comparison.
One relied on extraordinary talent, using magic purely through instinct and comprehension; the other was an ordinary product of industrialised education. Comparing them was inherently unfair.
The magic Nicolas taught Wayne wasn't actually his first encounter with ancient spells. Fiendfyre, the Firestorm Charm, even the Lightning Web taught by Voldemort—all were part of ancient magic. The Lightning Web was incomplete; Wayne sensed this while learning it. It was likely a fragment of some greater spell. Either Voldemort had withheld parts, or... he himself hadn't obtained the complete version.
This time was different. The spatial magic manifested through runic arrays and ancient scripts was closer to the essence of magic. After setting it up once, Wayne gained new insights into Apparition. Taking a step forward, he didn't experience the usual spatial distortion of Apparition. Instead, he tore open a doorway in space, stepped through, and arrived directly at his destination.
Checking his attributes list, he found Apparition had quietly reached Master level.
"Didn't expect an extra reward," Wayne mused, raising an eyebrow.
Nicolas's library contained many ancient spells, though most were rather impractical. Initially, he hadn't planned to learn them. But if they could provide enlightenment and enhance other magic, there was no harm in studying them.
He had to start learning Ancient Greek and Ancient Hebrew from scratch, as modern vocabulary couldn't accurately convey the meanings of the magical terms recorded in such texts.
...
The next day, Wayne brought Cho and Hermione to his house to showcase his achievements. The two young witches, who hadn't yet learned to Apparate, were having tremendous fun, constantly teleporting to different corners of the room.
Wayne was thoroughly enjoying himself as well. First, he secretly kissed Hermione in his bedroom, then immediately Apparated to the living room to steal an affectionate moment with Cho.
A true master of spatial management.
By lunchtime, both girls' faces were flushed bright red.
However, neither thought much of it, assuming the other's blush was simply from the excitement of their earlier games.
"I'll have Gardevoir send you back this afternoon," Wayne suddenly announced.
"Where are you going?" Hermione asked curiously, her eyes wide.
Wayne smiled faintly: "To discuss a business deal."
...
Spinner's End.
This was a suburban street in Cokeworth that could even be called a slum, filled with ramshackle houses and litter everywhere.
But for Snape, this place held special significance. In his youth, he had lived here with his witch mother Eileen Prince, now Eileen Snape, and Muggle father Tobias Snape.
His father was extremely temperamental, while his mother endured everything silently, making Snape's childhood far from happy. The house was always filled with the sounds of his drunken father berating his mother.
But here, he had one neighbour.
Lily Evans.
Lily provided the only warmth in young Snape's life, and it was this girl who accompanied him to Hogwarts.
Only for them to eventually part ways.
At the end of the alley stood a house. Its walls were lined with bookshelves, and in the dim crimson light stood a worn sofa and an equally shabby long table.
A short, middle-aged man lay bound tightly on the long table, his mouth gagged.
His bulging eyes stared in terror at Snape, who stood expressionless before him, as he whimpered desperately.
Snape never considered himself a good man, nor did he care whether others thought him one. The only person whose opinion had ever mattered to him was no longer in this world.
Death Eater or Order of the Phoenix - it made no difference.
He mingled in various circles, gathering intelligence for Dumbledore—all for the sake of avenging Lily and protecting her bloodline.
That had been Snape's belief in the past, and it remained unchanged even now. But after obtaining Ho-Oh's tears, he had glimpsed a sliver of hope.
He hadn't shared his thoughts or goals with anyone, not even Dumbledore.
He intended to revive Lily.
Through enduring humiliation and imparting all his knowledge of Potions, he had managed to acquire four vials of Ho-Oh's tears from that detestable brat.
Now, only half a vial remained. Fortunately, he had also made some progress in his research.
He didn't know—nor did he care—who the man lying on the table was. Just some worthless trash he'd snatched at random from Knockturn Alley.
Finally, when the man's spirit was on the verge of collapse, Snape spoke, his voice hoarse:
"If you survive today's experiment, I can erase your memories and let you go. If you don't make it… I'll at least find you a decent unmarked grave."
With that, his wand transformed into a sharp blade, which he plunged without hesitation into the man's heart.
Throughout the entire process, Snape's expression remained utterly indifferent, as though he were stabbing not a human being, but a watermelon.
The man died quickly. Holding a stopwatch, Snape waited four minutes after death before forcing a vial of golden liquid down the man's throat, using magic to ensure it went down smoothly.
A brilliant red light erupted from the man's body, and the wound in his heart began healing at an astonishing rate.
Snape's own heart pounded violently.
One minute.
Two minutes.
Five minutes.
Just as he shook his head in disappointment and prepared to dispose of the corpse, the man suddenly sat upright!
Success!
Snape leapt up in excitement, punching the air. He had finally succeeded, snatching a life back from Death's grasp!
There was an iron rule in Potions: no concoction could bring the dead back to life. But today, he had shattered it.
His gaze burned as he stared at the remaining half-vial of Ho-Oh's tears. His instincts hadn't been wrong.
This was hope—the hope for everything.
The man on the table, too, thought he had escaped death. But what he didn't expect was—
Thunk!
Another stab. Snape killed him again.
This time, he waited not four minutes, but a full two hours before pouring the potion into the man's mouth.
No miracle occurred. Though the wound in his heart healed with formidable vitality, the man never sat up again.
Disappointment was written plainly on Snape's face, but he refused to be disheartened.
He had a direction now, a path to follow. With relentless research, he would make progress. The only problem was Ho-Oh's tears—he had so little left, and couldn't afford to experiment recklessly.
If only Lawrence were as easy to fool as Potter. Then he could have as much of Ho-Oh's tears as he wanted.
Knock knock.
The front door of the house was suddenly pounded, followed by a young voice. "Anyone home?!"
Still brooding, Snape shook his head.
He must be losing his mind—now he was hallucinating Lawrence's voice.
"Oi, Professor Snape! I know you're in there! Open the door if you dare!"
Bloody hell. It really was Lawrence.
Snape's face visibly darkened as the boy's incessant chatter continued outside the door.
With a flick of his robes, the man on the table was swallowed by the rising floor. After restoring all the tools to their places, Snape strode swiftly to the door and opened it. What greeted him was an exceedingly handsome face beaming with a radiant smile.
"Lawrence," Snape's tone reeked worse than fermented herring. "How did you know where I live?"
"Dumbledore told me. I said I had some potion questions to consult you about, Professor, and he gave me your address."
Wayne's voice was cheerful as he curiously craned his neck to peer inside. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"
"It's summer holiday. I'm under no obligation to answer any of your questions."
"Don't be so unprofessional, Professor. Though you never had any professionalism to begin with, you could at least pretend."
Snape nearly choked on his own breath.
'After finally getting a break from being worked like a house-elf by Dumbledore, now you come knocking at my door to harass me?'
Though he dearly wanted to curse Wayne into next week, various considerations forced him to let the boy in grudgingly.
"Tsk, this place is far too shabby for a Potions Master of your standing," Wayne critiqued the room's furnishings the moment he stepped inside, only stopping when Snape silently drew his wand. The boy immediately became the picture of obedience. Push and pull—relentless push and pull.
Wayne was thoroughly pleased, while Snape felt like vomiting blood in frustration. All the satisfaction from his earlier success had been utterly ruined.
"Ask your questions quickly, then get the hell out of my house!" The old bat practically roared his ultimatum.
"Well, I do have potions questions, but that's not the main point." Wayne waved his hand and made himself at home on the sofa.
To prevent his custom-tailored suit from being contaminated by someone's hair grease, he cast two powerful Cleaning Charms before sitting down.
"Do you know Agatha McKay and Spencer Wallow?"
At those names, Snape frowned. "How do you know them?"
"Hassan Mostafa told me."
"That International Quidditch Federation president?"
"The very same."
Snape couldn't help giving the boy another look. The sort of company he kept was... unexpected.
Snape said coolly, "We're barely acquainted. They live down this alley and have purchased several potions from me. I gave them some discounts since McKay was a Slytherin alumnus."
Wayne clapped his hands delightedly. "Brilliant! I hadn't realised there was that connection."
"You need something from them?" Snape asked.
"Indeed. Those two run a small flying broomstick workshop. I see potential there. With your connections, Professor, this becomes even more promising."
You've never even met them—what potential could you possibly see?
Snape sneered internally but settled for verbal sarcasm. "Why should I help you?"
"Oh, so you're unwilling to assist me." Wayne stood up, shaking his head regretfully. "In that case, I'll just take Ho-Oh's tears to Professor Dumbledore instead."
"Wait." Snape stopped him, rising as well. "Since you've come begging at my door, I'll reluctantly help you this once. Don't expect it again."
...
Ten minutes later, Snape led Wayne to a house even more dilapidated than his own.
He knocked.
Soon, footsteps approached. The wooden door creaked open to reveal a balding middle-aged man who looked like he hadn't slept in days. His sunken eyes and pallid complexion suggested either a life of excess or that of a perpetually sleep-deprived tech enthusiast.
"Snape?" The man who opened the door recognised the visitor at once.
"Wallow." Snape gave a curt nod, while Wayne stepped forward enthusiastically.
"Hello, I'm Wayne Lawrence."
"Y-young man, what brings you here?"
"Here's the thing—" Wayne wasted no time in explaining the purpose of their visit.
When Spencer Wallow heard that a young wizard wanted to invest in his business, his expression became indescribably complex.
Wayne shot Snape a meaningful glance. Those tears hadn't been given for nothing.
Even the proud Head of Slytherin eventually yielded to the allure of rare treasures, stepping forward to vouch for Wayne.
"Rest assured, this boy has money—an obscene amount of it."
Still only half-convinced, Wallow ushered them inside and led them down to the basement. An Undetectable Extension Charm had been cast on the space, transforming it into a production workshop and laboratory.
Ten Goblins were meticulously polishing various components of flying broomsticks. Another middle-aged man, balding and looking even older than Wallow, stood nearby—their other partner, Agatha McKay.
"Snape, it's been a while."
McKay strode forward amiably to shake Snape's hand, though the latter seemed slightly uncomfortable. Wallow seized the moment to explain their visitors' intentions.
McKay's smile faltered. "I don't believe we require any investment."
"Really?" Wayne countered. "Then why did Mostafa tell me you're drowning in debt?"
"You know him?" McKay sounded surprised.
"We met at Nicolas Flamel's home."
Wayne produced a photograph as proof. It had been taken during a tea gathering, with Wayne standing between Newt and Nicolas Flamel, surrounded by numerous academic luminaries. Hassan Mostafa was clearly visible among them.
The sight of the photo made their eyelids twitch. They were astonished by Wayne's seemingly boundless connections.
"Mr. McKay, Mr. Wallow, I simply believe in your project. The Firebolt has the potential to be a broomstick for the ages."
"I won't interfere with any aspect of production, and profit-sharing terms are negotiable. For starters, I can inject ten thousand Galleons to clear all your debts. Further funding can be discussed if needed later. Moreover, if your broomsticks prove exceptional, I can liaise with national Quidditch teams to help with sales."
"Bloody hell!"
Both men gasped in unison.
Ten thousand Galleons!
With more to come!
At last, their resistance crumbled. Given Wayne's connections and financial clout, he could indeed offer them substantial support.
Glancing at the Goblins, who were subtly eavesdropping, McKay barked a reprimand before leading Wayne and Snape into a nearby office.
"Were you serious about everything you just said? Age doesn't define ambition, nor youth one's wealth."
Wayne's sheer extravagance had already compelled them to lower their guard.
Thud!
A dragonhide pouch landed on the table, its mouth gaping open to reveal a glint of gold. They could clearly see it was stuffed with Galleons—another Undetectable Extension Charm at work, making the contents uncountable.
Even Snape couldn't help but glance at the boy.
Carrying ten thousand Galleons on his person? Not even Lucius Malfoy had that kind of audacity.
"Ten thousand Galleons, right here. My sincerity speaks for itself."
"What percentage do you want?" Wallow asked.
"Forty-nine per cent," Wayne stated his offer.
"Too high."
"What do you think is acceptable? Twenty per cent?"
Wayne glanced at their shabby surroundings and the factory outside, which didn't even possess a single intact broomstick.
"So, you believe this business is worth fifty thousand Galleons?"
Both Wallow and Mackey lowered their heads in embarrassment.
After a heated exchange, Wayne ultimately purchased a thirty-three per cent stake in the small workshop for twelve thousand Galleons. He only had advisory rights and profit-sharing rights, with no involvement in the specific production details.
Truth be told, even if they had allowed Wayne to intervene, he couldn't be bothered. Why exert effort on a project destined for success? If he truly wanted, he might as well develop a superior broomstick from scratch.
Once the money was handed over, the two men meticulously checked each coin to ensure no Leprechaun gold was mixed in.
After confirming all the money was genuine, Mackey and Wallow embraced each other excitedly, nearly moved to tears.
"Thank goodness, we can finally pay the Goblins' wages next month!"