"Arthur, yeh shouldn' ha' been so impulsive." Hagrid said, holding Mr Weasley up and helpfully dusting him off with such force he nearly knocked the wind out of him. "Tha' foul Lucius'll surely be schemin' 'gainst yeh behind yer back."
"Do I look afraid of him? That's enough, Rubeus, put me down," Mr Weasley wiped blood from his mouth and went to Ginny's side. "Are you alright, Ginny?"
"I-I'm fine, Dad," the girl replied timidly.
It had started with verbal sparring until she angrily threw her cauldron at Draco Malfoy, prompting the physical altercation.
"Hmm?" Wayne approached just then, stopping Ginny as she moved to retrieve the cauldron.
"Is this the 1972 edition of Guide to Transfiguration? Would you trade in your old textbook for a new one? This one's quite antiquated."
"Wayne, you don't—" Mr Weasley began, but Wayne had already pressed the brand new textbook into Ginny's hands.
"Mr Weasley, while the old edition contains no errors, it lacks many recently improved spells. For me, though, this book holds considerable collectable value," Wayne smiled.
"And surely you wouldn't want Ginny falling behind from the starting line?"
This silenced Mr Weasley, especially as he noticed Wayne running his fingers over the old textbook with clear appreciation, not mere politeness.
"Thank you, Wayne," Ginny murmured.
"Mutual benefit," the boy's smile made the girl's face flush as red as her hair.
"Make way! Clear the path!"
Another commotion arose as Lockhart, mid-book signing and noticing the attention shifting away from him, came to investigate.
A short, ill-tempered man shoved through the crowd roughly, angling for photographs of Lockhart and nearly colliding with an oblivious Hermione.
Wayne's smile vanished, his gaze turning icy with a mere glance. The man was sent flying backwards, crashing hard into a bookshelf in the corner with a pained cry.
Wayne strode forward, crushing the dropped camera underfoot as he fixed the whimpering man with a cold stare.
"If you've never learned manners, don't embarrass yourself in public."
The man opened his mouth to retort, but under Wayne's frigid glare, his body seemed to freeze, rendering him speechless.
"Name," Wayne demanded from his superior height.
"I-I'm with the Daily Prophet, Ciprian Parvus. What do you think you're—" The man instinctively replied, only to feel a surge of shame and anger afterwards—he had actually been frightened by a child.
The fury in his heart burned hotter, but when he recalled Wayne's utterly emotionless gaze just moments ago, he found himself unable to utter a single harsh word. He had been flung so far away—someone must have tampered with him. He just wasn't sure if it was this young wizard.
"Get lost!"
With a pained glance at his ruined camera, the man scrambled to his feet and fled.
"Wayne, it's fine. He didn't touch me," Hermione said softly as she stepped forward.
She understood why Wayne had suddenly lost his temper. Her eyes brimming with sweetness, she wrapped her arms around Wayne's arm.
Watching the man's retreating figure, Wayne gave Hermione a reassuring smile before murmuring under his breath.
He disliked using Dark Magic, but that didn't mean he couldn't. Right now, he was using his true name as a link to cast a curse upon that man.
With good luck, he'd suffer a day or two of splitting migraines and spontaneous nosebleeds.
With bad luck… well, his shoelaces might never stay tied again — and every bird in the city would mistake him for a toilet.
And all Wayne would lose was a negligible amount of vitality—easily restored with a single healing touch from Ho-Oh.
In the distance, Ginny watched Wayne's back, her eyes sparkling.
...
After leaving the bookstore, Mr Weasley repeatedly reminded everyone not to mention what had just happened. Otherwise, Molly would find out, and he'd be in for an awful time.
Hagrid had joined them this time, and they all stopped by the Leaky Cauldron for a round of Butterbeer before heading home.
Wayne thought about it—since it was only a few days away—and decided not to return to Cedric's place. Instead, after seeing Hermione home, he went back to his own house.
Opening his tattered Transfiguration textbook, he found a worn black notebook tucked inside.
Its cover had faded, but it was remarkably well-preserved, with few creases. Placed among second-hand books, it would have seemed utterly ordinary. No one could have guessed that this was the first Horcrux Voldemort had ever created for himself—and the most unique one at that.
Voldemort had intentionally or unintentionally crafted six Horcruxes (the seventh not yet made), but only Tom Riddle's Diary possessed its own memories, consciousness, and capacity for thought.
Wayne didn't immediately initiate a conversation with Tom. Instead, he carefully stored the notebook in a box.
This box was inscribed with runes that blocked magical power and perception, and it had also been enchanted with a Tracking Charm, ensuring it could always be found, no matter where it ended up.
He would make some preparations first, then have a proper chat with this particular senior.
...
Over the next few days, he worked on crafting a special ink infused with Troll saliva and dragon blood.
He even made a special trip to Devon to visit Newt and obtain some venom from a Swooping Evil. The combination of various high-grade ingredients and rather unpleasant substances made this custom ink... indescribable.
Packed with potent life energy while also being 'aromatic' in the most overwhelming way. Guaranteed to give Tom a truly unforgettable experience.
...
Two days later, on September 1st.
The start of the new term had arrived, and young witches and wizards from across the country flocked to King's Cross Station.
Cho and Hermione, having packed their belongings, were brought to Wayne's home by Gardevoir.
"This might feel a bit unpleasant later, so take these first." Wayne handed them two blue pills.
"What are these?" Hermione asked curiously.
"Motion sickness pills. Long-distance Apparition tends to have stronger side effects—better safe than sorry."
Hearing this, the two obediently swallowed the pills and let Wayne take their hands.
Ho-Oh circled overhead with a resonant cry, flames trailing behind it in long streaks, enveloping all three before exploding in a brilliant flash. When the light faded, the three of them—along with Ho-Oh—had vanished from the room.
...
Hogwarts, the Headmaster's Office.
Wayne and the girls appeared in the empty office, with Hermione and Cho clinging tightly to his arms, their faces deathly pale.
Even with mental preparation, they hadn't expected it to feel this awful. It was as if their internal organs had left their bodies to ride a rollercoaster, thoroughly enjoying themselves before grudgingly returning to resume their duties. Every part of them felt nauseous in a different way, yet thanks to the motion sickness pills, they couldn't even throw up.
"Here, have some dried plums."
Wayne handed them a few ordinary sour-sweet plums, the tangy flavour easing their discomfort slightly.
"I am never travelling to school like this again," Hermione huffed, punching Wayne's arm lightly. She'd rather endure half a day on the train than suffer through that ordeal.
"Still better than a Portkey," Cho remarked. "A few more trips and you'll get used to it."
"Miss Chang is quite right. Travelling long distances via Phoenix does take some getting used to."
A gentle voice came from the spiral staircase as Dumbledore descended with a warm smile.
"Children, what a delight to see you all a little early."
"Good afternoon, Headmaster," Hermione and Cho replied, suddenly stiff with nervousness. Technically, they had broken school rules by arriving without taking the train.
But Dumbledore showed no intention of reprimanding them. Instead, he conjured a table laden with sweets and lemon tea, inviting them to help themselves.
"Chirp! Chirp!"
Fawkes eagerly fluttered over upon spotting Ho-Oh, and with its master's permission, the great Phoenix led its smaller companion out through the window.
"How was your holiday?" Dumbledore asked, turning to Wayne.
"Quite pleasant. Learned a few new things, though it was a bit quiet," Wayne replied with a smile. "Life at school is far more exciting."
"Indeed, this castle never fails to enchant," Dumbledore agreed warmly. "Especially when I see young faces like yours full of energy—it makes me feel decades younger."
"You're hardly old, sir," Wayne said with a shake of his head.
Dumbledore was only a hundred and ten years old this year, which was truly nothing for a wizard. Take Damocles, the inventor of the Wolfsbane Potion—he was nearly two hundred years old and still as sprightly as ever.
Dumbledore smiled but didn't refute the remark.
Cho and Hermione ate lightly before excusing themselves, knowing the Headmaster had important matters to discuss with Wayne and that it wasn't appropriate for them to stay.
"Professor," Wayne said, not rushing to help Aberforth with his treatment, "I've got a few questions—mind if you help me out first?"
The more he learned, the more uncertainty clouded his mind.
The most basic wizards were content simply being able to cast spells by incantation. Elite wizards, those who had truly mastered their craft, pursued non-verbal spells, instant casting, and greater spell potency.
Beyond that, a wizard's understanding of magic underwent a transformation. Even spells created by others, once in their hands, bore their personal mark.
At this stage, what they sought was the very essence of magic.
After listening to Wayne's torrent of questions, Dumbledore shook his head slightly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lawrence, but I can't answer these for you."
"Need more money?" Wayne ventured.
"Of course not," the old man replied, torn between amusement and exasperation at Wayne's train of thought. "If I could, I'd gladly do my best to answer them.
"But sometimes, the answer itself isn't the most important thing. What truly matters is what you gain in the process of seeking it," Dumbledore said meaningfully.
"Tom, Grindelwald, Nicolas, and I—we've all been through this phase. Nicolas found his answer, and so he created the Philosopher's Stone. The three of us found ours, glimpsed the essence of magic, and became… slightly more capable than other wizards."
Dumbledore regarded the young man with pride, his fingers interlaced. "Now it's your turn, Mr. Lawrence. To touch upon this realm in your second year—it's unprecedented in the history of magic."
"Alright then," Wayne said, somewhat disappointed.
He understood Dumbledore's point—lessons imparted by others would never resonate as deeply as those realised through personal insight.
"Shall we head to the Hog's Head now?"
"No, Aberforth is rather busy at the moment. We'll go after lunchtime. If you'd like, you're welcome to browse the books here—they're rare treasures, none of which you'd find in the Restricted Section."
Wayne didn't stand on ceremony. Approaching the bookshelf, he selected The Screaming Soul. The book bore heavy signs of recent handling—likely Dumbledore himself had been reading it.
Works on the soul were scarce in the wizarding world, and this one was particularly abstruse. The author often relied on conjecture rather than concrete evidence, making it a laborious read.
By the time they were ready to leave, Wayne had only finished the first two chapters.
"Professor, may I borrow this book for now?" Wayne asked, looking at Dumbledore.
"Certainly," Dumbledore replied after a brief pause, "though do take care of it. It's school property, not my personal collection."
"Don't worry," Wayne said, tucking the book into his pocket. "How are we getting there?"
"Fawkes and Ho-Oh are out playing, so we'll walk. I assume you haven't been to Hogsmeade yet?" Dumbledore asked casually, and Wayne nodded matter-of-factly.
"I'm not in third year yet. Going to Hogsmeade would be breaking school rules."
Dumbledore had grown accustomed to Wayne's style by now and wasn't surprised by his response.
...
The two meandered through the streets, bypassing the row of charming shopfronts, and arrived at a pub on a side road of the village.
A battered wooden sign hung from a bracket, depicting a severed boar's head with bloodstains seeping through the white cloth wrapped around it.
This decoration was utterly appalling. Before even stepping inside, Wayne had already lost half his appetite.
Dumbledore didn't knock but pushed the door open directly, leading Wayne inside. The room was small, dim, and filthy, reeking strongly of mutton. Wayne silently cast a Bubble-Head Charm on himself while Dumbledore seemed unfazed.
From the pub's kitchen came an angry shout:
"Come back in the evening if you want a drink! We're closed in the afternoon—get lost!"
Dumbledore gave Wayne an apologetic smile before calling out clearly, "We're not here for drinks, just a bite to eat. Whatever you can manage."
The shouting ceased, and a tall, gaunt old man with white hair and beard emerged, clutching a cloth filthier than the tables.
Wayne studied the old man's features carefully and noticed a faint resemblance to Dumbledore. Still, his gaunt frame and sullen expression made it easy to overlook the connection unless one looked closely.
"The great Headmaster of Hogwarts—I'm not worthy of hosting you," the old man sneered. "You're not welcome here. Take that brat and scram."
The old man waved impatiently, and the wooden door swung back open. Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak, but Wayne acted first.
Bang!
A streak of red light struck the unprepared old man, sending him flying into the wall. Two long knives hanging nearby transformed into thick ropes, binding him tightly.
The sudden turn of events left the old man utterly bewildered. He never expected this young wizard to attack without a word of warning.
Even Dumbledore was stunned.
'I brought you here to help, not to assault people...'
"You—"
"Shut it!" Wayne cast a Silencing Charm, and the old man could only mumble incoherently. Wayne then sauntered over to him.
"Old man, I'll let it slide that you insulted the Headmaster, but even a little Hufflepuff like me? Aren't you ashamed at your age?"
Dumbledore's eyelid twitched.
'So it's fine if he insults me, then?'
The old man's face flushed crimson, but with his voice gone, he could only glare at Wayne with bloodshot eyes before turning to Dumbledore.
'Your student is bullying your brother—aren't you going to do something?!'
"Ahem, Mr. Lawrence, I apologise on behalf of my rude brother here. Could you perhaps release him now?"
Dumbledore spoke awkwardly. Aberforth had indeed been the one to provoke first, and though Wayne's reaction was a bit extreme, he wasn't entirely in the wrong.
"Fine." Wayne nodded. "Out of respect for the Headmaster, I'll let this go. Don't forget to say thank you."
Wayne lifted the Hardening Spell and the Silencing Charm, restoring the old man's mobility.
The first thing Aberforth did upon regaining movement was to draw the wand tucked at his waist and brandish it furiously.
Then he saw Wayne's wand gleaming with an eerie green light, pointed directly at his head.
The boy said softly:
"Say thank you."
The old man swallowed hard, his hands and feet icy cold. "Th... thank you."
"Don't thank me. Professor Dumbledore told me to let you go. Tell him that."