To avoid straying down the wrong path, Wayne resolved to always use his wand when casting the Final Spark in future.
The unfortunate mountain became his testing ground, the deafening explosions thankfully disturbing no one. Thunderbird Mia had already relocated from her former nest here. Had she witnessed her home being ravaged like this, she might have wept.
The Final Spark's power was immense, but its flaws were equally apparent.
MP drain.
Testing his absolute limits left Wayne feeling physically drained.
Mental exhaustion set in, too, like an ordinary person deprived of sleep for a day - lightheaded and weak.
Yet the results spoke for themselves - the mountain had been reduced to a mere hillock.
Additionally, the accompanying Light Inheritance proved remarkably versatile.
It could form protective shields or transform into swift, compact missiles. One could even solidify the light into a blade within one's grasp.
When Wayne enveloped his wand in light and casually swung downwards, the boulder before him split cleanly in two, revealing a glass-smooth cross-section.
"Feels like I could become a battlemage now," the youth muttered.
Every proper spellcaster secretly yearned for melee combat - he was no exception.
But considering how much more energy close-quarters fighting consumed...
His enthusiasm waned slightly.
Spell-slinging was simply more efficient.
After all this experimentation, the suitcase's interior had become thoroughly disordered. Gardevoir went to calm the other magical creatures while Wayne gradually restored the mountain to its original state.
He also took this opportunity to expand more land.
Compared to the suitcase he'd first obtained, the interior space had now more than doubled and was quickly catching up to Newt's case.
All this was thanks to Gardevoir, who had been steadily enlarging it with Undetectable Extension Charms during her free time.
Now, the little maid had truly become Wayne's indispensable right-hand woman.
While her master was off gallivanting irresponsibly every day, Gardevoir had independently studied Herbology, Potions, Magical Creatures, Alchemy, and more—reaching a fairly competent level in each.
Particularly in Herbology, Potions, and Magical Creatures.
This miniature world's current state was entirely her achievement.
One could say that Gardevoir was a prodigy, possessing all S-tier talents, coupled with an extraordinary capacity for learning—a true all-rounder of a caretaker.
She was ten thousand times better than any House-elf.
Watching his little maid bustling about, Wayne guiltily slunk back to the cabin and descended into the basement.
Downstairs, Nagini remained in a state of forced slumber.
Ho-Oh purified her every two weeks, and the effects were growing increasingly noticeable.
After each purification, Nagini would regain brief moments of lucidity—even lasting over ten minutes during the session before the term started.
Still, full recovery and regaining her human form remained a distant prospect.
The two-week interval was necessary because each purification felt like tearing Nagini's soul apart. Any shorter, and while she might recover physically, her mind could be reduced to that of an imbecile.
"Hurry up and turn human to repay me..." Wayne muttered. "I'm desperately short on hands right now."
He had many plans, but no one to execute them.
Nagini was his first candidate.
The world owed Hogwarts its gratitude—if not for the school, who knew what chaos Wayne might have unleashed upon the wizarding world?
...
A new week arrived.
Yesterday, precisely at eight o'clock, Flint had plummeted from the ceiling as scheduled.
Fortunately, some Slytherin students were waiting below and caught him safely—otherwise, the fall alone would have shattered several bones.
Soon after, Flint was delivered to the hospital wing.
Madam Pomfrey encased him in plaster casts and bandages, swaddling him completely.
Having been suspended for a full day, Flint's injuries had worsened considerably, requiring at least a week's confinement in the infirmary.
Brimming with resentment, he laboriously penned a letter home with the help of several Quidditch teammates.
...
The next morning, Douglas Flint—patriarch of the Flint family and Marcus Flint's father—stormed into Hogwarts in a fury.
"Snape, I demand an explanation."
'Explain my arse.'
Snape inwardly cursed Douglas while simultaneously blaming Dumbledore.
The headmaster had left the school the previous night, leaving Douglas to first approach Professor McGonagall before being redirected to him.
"Douglas, please sit."
Cancelling the fourth-year Potions class, Snape ushered the man into his office.
"Expel that Wayne Lawrence, and we'll consider the matter closed."
Douglas bore some resemblance to his son Marcus—and yet none at all.
The similarity lay in their shared ugliness.
The difference was that each was grotesque in entirely unique ways.
Snape cursed inwardly while forcing a smile onto his face. "Douglas, it's been a long time since we last met."
Both had been Death Eaters in their past, and during their school years, Douglas had been Snape's senior. Their relationship had been reasonably amicable.
In fact, Snape becoming the youngest ever Head of House at Hogwarts owed much to his relatively good relations with most pure-bloods. This was precisely why Dumbledore had pushed him forward to clean up Wayne's mess.
"Snape," Douglas said, his tone softening slightly. "Yes, nearly two years have passed in the blink of an eye. I want to ask you—is this how you look after Marcus? A mere Mudblood actually managed to beat him up like that?!"
'That damned word again...'
A sharp glint flashed through Snape's eyes, vanishing just as quickly.
"Did Marcus tell you the reason?"
"He did. So what? Even if he hadn't actually said it out loud, it's still the truth."
"Then are you aware of Lawrence's status? He's a recipient of the Second Class Order of Merlin," Snape countered calmly.
"A meaningless title," Douglas dismissed without care. "He attacked my son—he must be expelled!"
"I can't help you," Snape said under Douglas's furious gaze.
"He's Dumbledore's man. You can't touch him."
At the mention of Dumbledore's name, Douglas shifted uncomfortably.
"I already went to speak with Dumbledore yesterday. But if he's determined to protect someone, what can I do? If you want Lawrence expelled, no problem. The moment I become Headmaster, I'll expel him immediately."
He deftly shifted the blame back again. To prove he wasn't lying, Snape recounted the conflicts between the two houses since last year, painting Wayne as the school's resident Dark Lord—someone who slapped anyone who displeased him, wouldn't spare even a passing dog, and shook every egg he came across—while the other Heads of House and Dumbledore all served as his protectors.
Douglas was left utterly bewildered by the tale.
"That brat is that much of a menace?"
"He's even worse," Snape sneered. "In any case, I can't afford to cross him. The most I can do is dock a few points here and there."
"Damnable little wretch," Douglas hissed through gritted teeth before suddenly recalling something, a mysterious smile creeping onto his face.
"Severus, you should know... we all support you becoming Headmaster."
Douglas lowered his voice, glancing around with paranoid wariness. "There was never an opportunity before, but in the near future... who can say?"
"Oh?" Snape tilted his head slightly.
Unexpected intelligence indeed. Keeping his expression neutral, he asked softly,
"You're targeting Dumbledore?"
"No, no, no. He's the one growing senile—what does that have to do with us?" Douglas grinned viciously.
"Lucius says he's already made arrangements. All we need to do is help him pressure the school governors. Dumbledore will be driven out soon, and the position of Headmaster will undoubtedly be yours."
Douglas finished with a loud laugh, as if their plan had already succeeded.
Snape lowered his head, a cold smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
'What fools. As if Dumbledore would ever obey the orders of the school governors.'
'Those old men were nothing more than cash cows.'
After conversing a while longer, Douglas left the office. Since Snape couldn't help, he planned to teach Wayne a lesson while Dumbledore was away.
But the moment he stepped outside, Professor Sprout blocked his path.
"Marcus, this is a school. Now that your business is concluded, leave promptly and don't disrupt the students' lessons."
Faced with Sprout's firm stance, Marcus ultimately lacked the courage to force his way through. Cursing under his breath, he departed.
He would rally several pure-blood families to pressure the Ministry of Magic, testing whether they could make Dumbledore yield.
What he didn't know was that the letters Wayne had sent had already reached their intended recipients.
...
Dorset. A house in the suburbs.
Tina's face immediately lit up when she saw the name on the envelope.
Newt, who was preparing food for magical creatures nearby, recognised that expression and knew exactly who the letter was from. He walked over.
In the Scamander household, Wayne was arguably more cherished than their own grandson, Rolf.
Rolf's personality was too much like Newt's—both were terrible conversationalists. Unless it involved magical creatures, neither could hold a proper discussion.
Tina had tried many times to help him overcome his introverted nature, but without success.
"What's wrong?"
Newt asked, puzzled as he watched his wife's expression shift from joy to calm, then to anger.
"See for yourself." Tina handed him the letter.
After skimming its contents, even Newt—normally the most easygoing of men—felt a flicker of anger.
"These pure-bloods grow more outrageous by the day. Honestly, Wayne and his friends should just transfer to Ilvermorny. Fontaine would never turn away a talent like Wayne."
Tina moved to start writing a reply, but Newt quickly stopped her.
"Wayne already said he has no intention of transferring. His own country has a wizarding school—why would he go abroad?"
Tina huffed. "Can't you see the boy's frustration in this letter?"
"Perhaps he wants us to intervene?" Newt ventured cautiously. Despite being profoundly socially awkward, he possessed sharp intuition. Knowing Wayne well, he was certain the boy wasn't one to suffer in silence. The letter laid bare the Flint family's secrets with unmistakable implications.
Rereading it, Tina caught on and laughed ruefully.
"The boy isn't complaining—he's tattling! But he's right. If someone bullies you and you do nothing, do they think the Scamander family has no backbone?"
By the end, her voice had turned steely.
Newt smiled wryly. He wanted to point out Wayne's surname was Lawrence, but seeing his wife's expression, wisely held his tongue.
"I'll write to some old friends. Let's ensure the Flint family's products can't leave the country."
"At least that'll give Wayne some satisfaction."
Though many foreign Ministries of Magic viewed Newt with apprehension, this didn't mean he lacked connections. Everyone feared the chaos he might stir up, but no one ever doubted Newt's character.
This had led to many people, even the Ministry of Magic, owing favours to the Scamander family.
Tina went so far as to contact the current director of the American Auror Office directly.
As the head of law enforcement, finding excuses to crack down on smuggling operations was all too easy.
...
France.
Perenelle's reaction was much the same as Tina's, if not more furious.
She and Nicolas had no descendants, so in her eyes, Wayne was like her own grandson.
Insulting Wayne's girlfriend was tantamount to insulting the Flamel family.
'Mudblood?'
'When our Flamel family was thriving, the Flint family didn't even know where they were being persecuted during the witch hunts!'
A family legacy spanning centuries could grow stronger or decline miserably.
No one could guarantee every generation would produce outstanding talent.
But when one lives for centuries – especially a genius living for centuries – their accumulated influence becomes truly formidable.
Such was the case with the Flamel family.
Given Nicolas Flamel's status in France, even if he paid no heed to worldly affairs, the sheer weight of his unintentionally accumulated connections over time was staggering.
In France, a single word from Nicolas Flamel carried more weight than the Minister for Magic himself.
Perenelle was busy writing letters to various high-ranking officials, while Nicolas Flamel remained utterly indifferent.
These were trivial matters. What truly concerned him was Wayne's personal progress.
Along with the letters, a notebook had been sent.
Nicolas Flamel turned it over in his hands, flipped through several pages to examine the magical runes and arrays, then smiled approvingly.
'This boy improves too quickly.'
He turned to the first page and channelled his magical power into it.
Soon, Wayne's handsome face appeared on the paper.
Judging by the surroundings, he seemed to be in a corridor.
The young man smiled as his voice came through clearly in the Great Hall: "Nicolas, you got my letter?"
Nicolas Flamel chuckled. "Just arrived. Perenelle's currently avenging you."
"Grandmother Perenelle always treats me best," Wayne teased. "Unlike certain people who can still laugh when they see me being bullied."
Nicolas sighed. "Aside from Dumbledore, I can't think of anyone in Britain capable of bullying you."
Age brings wisdom, and Nicolas Flamel knew exactly how formidable Wayne's magical power and talent were.
This targeting of the Flint family seemed more like toying with fools.
Hearing Wayne's voice, Perenelle hurried over, beaming with delight.
"Wayne, did you make this yourself?"
"Indeed. Now you won't need to bother with letters when you want to chat."
Wayne had made only two of these video notebooks – one for Fleur, the other for Nicolas.
Perenelle snatched the notebook from Nicolas's hands and began asking about Wayne's recent life.
After chatting for over ten minutes, she suddenly noticed a flash of white hair passing through the frame.
Perenelle paused, checked the time, then gave a knowing smile.
"Is someone else there? Then I won't keep you."
With that, she closed the notebook.
"Wait, I wasn't finished yet," Nicolas protested, looking puzzled at his wife.
"Stop talking nonsense, the boy has his own important matters to attend to. He doesn't have time for idle chatter with you," Perenelle said irritably.
"Come here quickly, I can't find this family's address..."
...
At Hogwarts, Wayne saw the interrupted image and smiled wryly, turning his gaze to the young girl standing before him.
Astoria hung her head low. "I-I'm sorry, did I disturb you?"
She'd merely been curious about why human voices could be heard from a notebook, so she'd leaned in for a closer look.
When her hair appeared in the frame, Perenelle had promptly ended the conversation.
Wayne raised an eyebrow. "Apologies require... ahem... require sincerity. Do you think a simple 'sorry' suffices?"
"Do you want money?" Astoria asked softly, pulling a small purse from her robes and offering it respectfully.
"All my pocket money is here. Please forgive me."
Wayne: "..."
Surely robbery wouldn't earn him system points?
He accepted the purse, but as expected, the system showed no reaction.
Wayne returned the purse, explaining under the girl's puzzled gaze:
"Keep your money. I'm not some schoolyard bully - I only conduct proper transactions."
"Then... what do you want?"
The young man tilted his head, studying the slender girl before him before suddenly declaring: "Smile for me, and I'll forgive you."