"Tom, guess what I've brought you?"
After casting a Bubble-Head Charm on himself, Wayne unscrewed the ink bottle, dipped his quill, and began writing in the diary.
The reddish ink quickly faded.
[Thank you... Is this dragon blood? Ugh, what's that awful smell!]
Wayne feigned confusion. "Dragon blood, just delivered from Diagon Alley. Is there a problem?"
[Why does it... Why does it stink so much!]
"Does it not work? I'll return it right away."
This time, Wayne wrote with ordinary ink. Tom immediately noticed the difference.
Though the dragon blood had nearly made him pass out from disgust, its magical energy was undeniable.
[No need. It might just be spoiled, but it still has some effect.]
[Young Master Potter, what have you been busy with lately? You disappeared last time before telling me about the wizarding world.]
Familiarity breeds comfort.
Tom was nothing if not adaptable, and "Young Master Potter" rolled off his tongue more smoothly now.
Back in the day, he'd frequently sold his charms to obtain treasures.
To acquire Ravenclaw's Diadem, he'd seduced the Grey Lady—Helena Ravenclaw—staging a ghostly romance worthy of a melodrama.
After graduation, he'd wooed Hepzibah Smith, an immensely wealthy elderly witch and the last descendant of Hufflepuff. From her, he'd obtained Hufflepuff's Cup and Slytherin's Locket.
A man like him, once resigned to reality, could swiftly embrace his role. If it had been the real Harry, he'd probably have handed over everything he owned, down to his last scrap of dignity.
"Busy with romance. I'm the only one left in my family, so I have to start working on it from a young age."
Tom: "..."
[Young Master Potter, about that matter you promised me last time...]
"Ask whatever you want to know."
Wayne decided not to continue toying with Tom this time—what if he pushed too far and made the guy suspicious?
[What year is it now, and who is the Headmaster of Hogwarts?]
"It's 1992. The current Headmaster is Professor Dumbledore, the greatest Headmaster of the century."
[Ninety-two? That means over fifty years have passed since my time.]
[Professor Dumbledore is indeed great. He was my Transfiguration professor back then.]
Tom's reply was calm, but his emotions were anything but stable.
Dumbledore.
That name had been a shadow looming over his heart since his school days. All the teachers and students adored him.
Except Dumbledore.
From the very beginning, that old man had regarded him with wariness.
Tom even suspected that his failure to secure the Defence Against the Dark Arts teaching position was due to Dumbledore's interference.
"Your Headmaster back then was Armando Dippet, right? He just passed away this year—lived over three hundred years."
[Headmaster Dippet was a very kind man. What a shame.]
[And in all these years, have there been any other notable wizards in Britain? Perhaps some of my former classmates?]
Tom continued probing, and Wayne pondered for a moment before writing:
"Of course. For instance, the Dark Wizard who murdered my parents—he was even called the Dark Lord by people back then."
[The Dark Lord? How dreadful. What was his name?]
The ink vanished and reappeared rapidly.
"Voldemort. Most people are too afraid to say his name, but I'm not. Because I was the one who defeated him."
The diary remained silent for so long that Wayne almost thought Tom had logged off. Just as he was about to close the notebook, a response finally appeared.
[Young Master Potter, boasting isn't a good habit. You're only in your second year—how could you possibly have defeated the Dark Lord?]
Tom was now unsettled. He quietly cast the Legilimency Spell and found no trace of deception from 'Potter.'
Which meant... it was all true.
What on earth had happened? Why would his future self be defeated by an underage wizard?
"You wouldn't know this, would you?" Wayne smiled faintly, almost sensing Tom's emotional turmoil.
"I was just a one-year-old baby when I defeated Voldemort. The Killing Curse he cast at me rebounded and hit him instead. The Headmaster said I was the one prophesied to vanquish the Dark Lord. Wizards call me the Boy Who Lived."
[The Killing Curse... rebounded? That's impossible.]
"Tom, why do I get the feeling you're not very happy about this?"
[Not at all. I'm just... shaken. After all, anyone called the Dark Lord must have been a terrifying Dark Wizard.]
[Young Master Potter surviving such an ordeal is nothing short of miraculous.]
"Pfft, just a small-time loser, not worth mentioning. Didn't even need Professor Dumbledore to step in—I, Potter, was enough to crush Voldemort. Don't you agree, Tom?"
[Of course, Young Master Potter.]
After these words appeared, Tom fell silent again. But Wayne had no intention of letting him off.
Instead, he began posing a series of second- and third-year magical questions to him. Through the answers provided, he could gauge just what level Voldemort had been at when he created the Horcrux.
Unfortunately, Tom seemed rather distracted, giving perfunctory answers to everything. Wayne pursed his lips and decisively put away his notebook.
'You'll come begging to me eventually.'
...
The next morning, Wayne got up early, transformed his Supreme Heaven robes into a different style, and waited at Ravenclaw Tower for Cho.
He didn't have to wait long before the carefully dressed girl emerged from Ravenclaw's entrance.
Wayne's eyes lit up.
Today, Cho wore a white, embroidered qipao that perfectly accentuated her slender waist and graceful figure, exuding distinct Eastern elegance.
Feeling the boy's intense gaze, Cho lowered her head shyly. Marietta, who had accompanied her out, immediately caught the scent of romance in the air and tactfully left with the other girls.
"Let's go."
Wayne stepped forward, taking the girl's delicate hand in his with a smile.
"Mhm."
Following the crowd, the two walked towards Hogwarts' main gate.
Most of the students around them were older years, and nearly everyone recognised Wayne. Seeing him heading out with Cho raised quite a few eyebrows.
At the gates, Filch and Professor McGonagall stood checking students' permission slips. When it was Wayne's turn, Professor McGonagall looked at him in puzzlement.
"Mr Lawrence, are you here to see someone off?"
"This is the Headmaster's approval. Have a look."
Wayne handed over the parchment. After reading it, Professor McGonagall gave a wry smile.
If Dumbledore wanted sweets, he could just send a house-elf or write a letter—there was no need to assign a second-year student for it specially.
She understood perfectly well that this was just a way to bypass school rules, but she said nothing, simply adding Wayne's name to the approved list.
Before they parted, she even wished him a pleasant trip.
Geniuses and well-behaved children always got certain privileges.
For instance, Hermione in her third year had successfully obtained a Time-Turner—another student might not have been so fortunate.
Seeing everything go so smoothly, Cho inwardly sighed in relief.
Though they had the Headmaster's special permission, every young witch and wizard at Hogwarts knew that Professor McGonagall was the real authority in daily school matters.
...
Hand in hand, the two walked briskly towards the village outside the school.
Hogsmeade was Britain's only all-wizarding village, where every resident was a witch or wizard, and traces of magic and enchanted objects could be found everywhere.
Legend has it that it was established around the same time as Hogwarts, originally as a refuge from Muggles.
Professors McGonagall and Sprout both owned houses here, where they stayed during holidays.
And on designated school visiting days, the village became even livelier.
Today, for example, the streets were adorned with pretty decorations, and shops displayed large signs advertising their promotions.
Compared to the students, the shopkeepers were the ones who truly wished for more visiting days.
Ordinary residents and the occasional tourist didn't bring in much profit—it was the young witches and wizards who had the strongest urge to spend.
Sadly, each term had fewer than ten visiting days at most, averaging out to just once a month.
This was because every student trip to Hogsmeade required supervision by at least two Heads of House to ensure their safety. Not all Heads of House had such free time, especially when one of them was a reclusive bat who couldn't be bothered with trivial matters.
Upon entering the village, Cho and Wayne headed straight to Honeydukes Sweetshop.
Since they'd promised Dumbledore, it was best to purchase the required sweets early.
What if the popular items sold out by the time they returned?
As Hogsmeade's most popular snack shop, an enormous queue had already formed, with Wayne and Cho joining the back.
Cho suddenly thought of something and asked quietly, "What's Hermione doing?"
Wayne smiled slightly. "I left the case and Gardevoir with Hermione. She'll be looking after the little ones inside today."
Even while out enjoying himself, he'd still found work for the young witch.
It might seem like he was bullying Hermione, but this was actually a sign of trust.
Hermione also quite liked feeling needed by Wayne, and knowing he was going to Hogsmeade with Cho had stung less because of it.
...
While the older students enjoyed their day out, the Gryffindor Quidditch team was suffering.
Apart from Harry, all members were in their third year or above.
Not only were they missing the trip, but they'd also been dragged out of bed at dawn by Wood for tactical lectures. They'd all managed to nap through it, yet Wood was still droning on.
Finally finished, they were now forced onto the pitch for practical drills.
Merlin knew what Wood had actually been talking about earlier.
"Everyone must put in more effort," Wood continued, dispensing motivational speeches to his team.
"Though their brooms are superior, our players are better! Gryffindor must never lose to money – we will win the Quidditch Cup!"
The team responded with half-hearted murmurs, dragging their brooms behind Wood as they left the changing rooms.
"Harry, look over here!"
Shrieks came from the stands as a young wizard pointed her camera at him, snapping away.
"Who's that?" Fred asked.
"No idea," Harry lied, accelerating sharply to put distance between himself and Colin.
Colin Creevey was the photographer – a Gryffindor first-year who'd developed an inexplicable hero-worship of Harry. Daily, he'd ambush the so-called 'Boy Who Lived' for photos and odd questions around the castle.
Harry found it tiresome, but couldn't bring himself to harshly rebuff someone so earnestly friendly. All frustration had to be swallowed silently.
Fred frowned, suspecting a Slytherin spy, but George stopped him when he moved to confront Colin.
"The Slytherins are here."
Wood had spotted them too, landing furiously on the pitch:
"Flint! This is our training slot – I booked it with Madam Hooch weeks ago!"
The Gryffindor team landed behind Wood, glaring at their rivals.
"So what?" Marcus Flint smirked, picking his ear.
"I've got a note from Professor Snape. Special permission for Slytherin to train today – breaking in our new Seeker."
Wood scowled. "You mean that Malfoy brat who bought his way onto the team?"
Harry and the others couldn't help but chuckle.
Malfoy, who had been hiding behind the taller Slytherin players, flushed red and pushed his way forward.
"I was chosen on merit! Donating brooms was just to improve our house's overall strength!"
"Right," George sneered. "When it comes to galleons, your family's strength is indeed impressive."
"Hmph." Malfoy shrugged. "Good that you know. Brooms like your Cleansweep Fives would only be used for sweeping floors in my house."
Now it was the Slytherin students' turn to laugh as they proudly displayed their brand-new Nimbus 2001s. Just seeing them put pressure on the Gryffindor team.
At that moment, Hermione, who had been passing by on her way to the Forbidden Forest, heard the commotion and entered.
"Harry, what's going on?"
"Slytherin's trying to take the pitch from us," Fred explained.
Flint immediately countered, "No, we've got a professor's note. You're the ones occupying our training time."
Having roughly grasped the situation, Hermione looked at Malfoy with disdain: "Wayne donated plenty of brooms, too, but he's never been as obnoxious as you."
Facing Hermione, even though Malfoy was seething inside, the mere thought of Wayne triggered his passive skill of forced composure. Suppressing his anger, he retorted, "Is swaggering illegal? I'll be as obnoxious as I please! What are you going to do about it? We're not leaving today!"
While he managed to restrain himself, Flint, the older student, unaware of Hermione's connection to Wayne, grew impatient at her criticism from an outsider's position.
"Who gave you the right to speak here, you filthy Mud—"
Bam!
To everyone's astonishment, Malfoy leapt up and punched Flint right in his foul mouth.
"Malfoy! What are you doing?" a Slytherin team member roared.
"Shut it!" Malfoy didn't back down, instead glaring fiercely. "Do you even know who she is? This is Lawrence's girlfriend!"
The previously furious Slytherins immediately cooled down.
The name 'Lawrence' seemed to carry magical power, capable of silencing any room with its utterance.
These Quidditch players might not have witnessed the prowess of Hufflepuff's boxing champion firsthand. Still, when Snape had brought Lawrence into their Common Room, where he effortlessly defeated several of Slytherin's strongest, every Slytherin had seen it with their own eyes.
To this day, they remained Lawrence's loyal friends.
And the original conflict had stemmed from Robert Parkinson uttering that vile slur.
Suddenly, they understood exactly why Malfoy had struck Flint.
This was to preserve Slytherin's dignity!
Did they really want to give Lawrence reason to storm their Common Room again?
Would Slytherin even survive that?
Now the team members looked at Malfoy not with anger, but gratitude.
Truly worthy of being the Malfoy Family's young master—his foresight was impeccable!
Meanwhile, the Gryffindor side stood dumbfounded by this turn of events.
They hadn't even made a move yet, and the Slytherins were already fighting amongst themselves.
Harry's focus took an odd turn as he whispered to Hermione, "Since when are you Wayne's girlfriend?"
Hermione, who'd been blushing at Malfoy's declaration, now glared at Harry with displeasure.
The young witch suddenly found even Slytherins more tolerable than Gryffindors.
At least they knew how to speak properly!
"Malfoy! How dare you hit me!"
Only one person remained oblivious to the situation—Flint, having recovered from the punch, burned with outrage.
"Shut up, Flint!"
"Mind your language, or we'll report you to Professor Snape!"
"Exactly! We're here to train, not cause trouble!"
Before Malfoy could respond, the other Quidditch players piled on with accusations.
Flint was utterly bewildered.
When had his teammates become so polite?