Now fully recovered, Astoria was like a bird freed from its cage. Over the next few days, she explored nearly every corner of the castle—even the Forbidden Forest couldn't deter her.
Accompanied by three Unicorns and with a Phoenix perched above her, her entourage was so formidable that even the XXXXX-class magical creatures in the forest dared not provoke her. Wherever she went, timid creatures scurried into hiding.
Soon, the final day arrived, and report cards were handed out to every student.
As expected, Wayne once again claimed the top spot in his year with full marks in every subject.
After the initial shock in their first year, the young wizards were no longer surprised. If Wayne ever failed to achieve full marks, that would be the real astonishment—either the exam was flawed, or the professor was deliberately targeting him.
Wouldn't you agree, a certain Potions professor?
Behind him, Hermione also achieved straight Os in all subjects, securing second place in the year.
For anyone else, this would be cause for uncontainable joy, but Hermione only berated herself for the mistakes that cost her full marks. She vowed to work even harder next term, dedicating an extra hour to study each day.
Ron, overhearing their conversation, froze mid-smile.
This year, he had passed all his subjects, even scoring Exceeds Expectations in Transfiguration and Charms. His allowance might even double next year. Yet here was Hermione, dissatisfied despite straight Os?
How was a struggling student like him supposed to cope?
...
As it turned out, the effects of academic competition were undeniable.
The overall performance of Hogwarts' young wizards had improved significantly.
Out of the entire student body, only Crabbe, Goyle, and Neville had failed in any subject. Everyone else had at least achieved an Acceptable (A).
This sent Snape into a rage. He summoned the two dimwits to his office and berated them for a solid hour. Young wizards passing by the office claimed to have heard Crabbe and Goyle's screams, suspecting Snape was physically punishing students and debating whether to report him.
Wayne certainly didn't believe these rumours, but they were spreading with such vivid detail that even a theatrical reenactment emerged. He couldn't help wondering if Snape had actually resorted to violence.
Before the feast, Wayne distributed the promised charms and books to the young wizards. With this, only one of Newt's signed books remained in his possession.
During summer break, when visiting Newt, he planned to request several hundred more copies. For the sake of Hufflepuff's students, poor Newt would have to endure the hardship. Signing his name and writing a few dedications shouldn't pose much trouble for him.
Meanwhile, in Dorset, Newt, who was tending to a recently delivered Kelpie, sneezed abruptly. The startled creature awoke in agitation and dragged Newt straight into the lake...
...
At the feast, Dumbledore delivered his customary speech before students began dining. His rhetoric followed the usual pattern: reviewing the past, grounding in the present, and looking to the future. Finally, he announced the House Cup results.
Thanks to the Chamber of Secrets incident, Harry had secured two hundred points for Gryffindor, along with fifty points returned by Professor McGonagall after wrongly deducting them from the twins, plus one hundred fifty points for the Quidditch victory – propelling them to second place. Yet they still trailed Hufflepuff's substantial lead.
Moreover, Dumbledore announced Wayne's receipt of a second-class Order of Merlin. Being his second award, the ceremony was less elaborate than the first – Dumbledore simply pinned the medal on him and awarded Hufflepuff another two hundred points.
Ultimately, Hufflepuff claimed the House Cup for the second consecutive year with a three-hundred-point lead. While the badgers nearly raised the roof with celebration, the other houses fell silent.
One Special Award for Services to the School and one Order of Merlin per year – was this becoming an established pattern? How could other houses compete? Would they have to watch Hufflepuff claim seven consecutive victories?
At the High Table, Professor Sprout beamed uncontrollably, applauding alongside her badgers. She cared little for others' opinions – her joy was complete. When Slytherin used to win, Snape had been far more insufferable.
After dinner, professors gradually departed while students prepared to return to their common rooms for one final night of revelry before the journey home.
Seeing the professors leave, Wayne quickly summoned the twins, Harry, Penelope, Cho, Malfoy and Russel.
"Time to begin the operation."
"What operation?" Harry asked blankly.
"Defence Against the Dark Arts professor," Wayne reminded him, and comprehension dawned immediately. Malfoy and Russel remained confused until the explanation sparked their excitement.
"Brilliant, Lawrence!" Malfoy's pale face flushed with colour as he grinned villainously. "I'll write home immediately – and inform my father too."
Since Dumbledore had cost his father the school governor position, leaving him humiliated at school, Wayne's idea perfectly suited his purposes.
Russel also responded repeatedly, lowering his head slightly. "Don't worry, Lawrence. I'll inform the others too. I guarantee the complaint letters will appear in the Headmaster's Office first thing tomorrow morning."
This was how most Slytherins treated Wayne.
Admiration mixed with fear.
Lawrence was flamboyant and unrestrained, acting entirely according to his whims.
Within the school, he was practically invincible.
With just a thought from him, many would follow in his footsteps. Nearly everyone in the castle considered it an honour to be his friend.
Wasn't this the ideal state every Slytherin aspired to?
Nobility, glory, power.
It would have been easier to swallow if Wayne had been a pure-blood from Gryffindor.
But why... did all these qualities manifest in a Muggle-born wizard?
This was why many Slytherins felt conflicted when facing Wayne.
As for the others, the twins were the type to revel in chaos. Upon hearing Wayne's plan, they agreed with glee.
Penelope and Cho had already heard about it from Wayne earlier, so naturally, they had no objections.
Soon, the group returned to their dormitories and spread the plan.
Quills and parchment that had been packed away in the young wizards' luggage were hastily retrieved, and furious writing began.
The resentment had been brewing for a long time. Two consecutive years without learning anything substantial was unacceptable to anyone.
With Wayne leading the charge, these pent-up emotions were instantly stirred into action.
...
The next morning, young wizards who could have slept in rose early and converged on the Headmaster's Office on the eighth floor.
The stone gargoyle opened its eyes, witnessing this familiar scene with growing unease.
"Not again?"
Then it remembered the expanded interior space Dumbledore had upgraded, puffing up with confidence as it opened its maw wide:
"Bring it on! Letters, was it? Throw in as many as you've got!"
Surprised by its cooperation, the students exchanged glances before tossing their letters inside and scattering like leaves.
One, two, ten...
Twenty, thirty, a hundred...
The gargoyle gradually realised the severity of the situation: "Wait, this is worse than last time!"
"Stop! Stop! I can't take it anymore!"
"Ugh~!"
By the end, nearly seven hundred letters had been crammed into its body, its stone frame visibly swollen beyond recognition. The gargoyle could only lament its fate.
"Damn you, Dumbledore! Your mess, my suffering!"
...
"Leaving so soon?" Wayne asked in surprise at the Black Lake.
He'd been dragged out early by Grace, who wanted to take one last walk around the school before departing and asked for his company.
Naturally, Wayne didn't refuse. Handing his complaint letter to Cedric, the two left the castle.
They wandered from the vegetable patches to the Whomping Willow, past Hagrid's Hut, across the main path for a loop around the Quidditch Pitch, finally reaching the grassy shore before the Black Lake.
Grace suddenly revealed she wouldn't be taking the Hogwarts Express – she'd be catching the Knight Bus to Yorkshire from Hogsmeade instead.
"That's right." Grace smiled enchantingly, the breeze playing with her raven hair. Her eyes didn't meet Wayne's; instead, she gazed down at the Black Lake.
"The adventure team I contacted is assembling today. Going back to London would be too far out of the way."
"Adventure team? What kind?" Wayne asked curiously.
"Tomb raiding." The senior student dropped this bombshell with devastating nonchalance, leaving Wayne gaping at her.
"Surprised?" Grace laughed even more delightedly at the boy's stunned expression.
"Quite," Wayne admitted honestly.
Tomb raiding – or ancient artefact recovery – wasn't particularly taboo in the wizarding world. In fact, it was rather fashionable.
Many wizards made fortunes through tomb exploration, unearthing either priceless treasures or vaults of galleons.
Some even discovered powerful ancient magic. All possibilities were on the table.
Lockhart's books frequently featured tomb-raiding exploits, their thrilling narratives being a major selling point.
Still, Wayne struggled to reconcile Grace's elegant beauty with the grubby business of grave robbing.
"Don't you think it sounds fascinating?" Grace asked, picking up a rough, pitted stone for an unsuccessful attempt at skimming – it sank after three pathetic bounces.
"Unearthing secrets buried for centuries... Far more exciting than poring over dusty history books, don't you think?"
"Interesting, but dangerous," Wayne said, crossing his arms. "Any wizard capable of constructing a grand tomb is no simple opponent. Curses, Dark Magic, even the Inferi guarding the tomb won't be easy to deal with."
"So we'll start with something simpler," Grace said softly. "This time, we're visiting the tomb of a court mage from five hundred years ago. According to records, he wasn't particularly powerful—never even attended Hogwarts. A self-taught rogue."
"Consider it practice, to build experience."
Clenching her small fist, she furrowed her brows and declared solemnly, "One day, I'll find Slytherin's tomb and uncover whatever great secret lies within."
Wayne was speechless. He hadn't expected his senior to harbour such an ambitious dream.
Slytherin's tomb?
It was one of history's greatest mysteries, with no clues left behind—not even confirmation that such a tomb existed.
After a moment's thought, Wayne said, "In that case, I'll give you a gift."
"What gift?" Grace looked at him curiously.
"Hold out your hand."
Obediently, she extended her arm, its pale skin almost glowing in the gentle sunlight.
Wayne took her hand and tapped his wand against her forearm. Grace felt a sudden warmth, followed by the appearance of a mark that flickered several times before vanishing.
"What is this?"
"An insurance measure," Wayne explained, releasing her hand. "If you're ever in danger, channel your magical power to activate it. It carries a portion of my strength—might come in handy."
"That's incredible?" Grace raised her arm, concentrating, and immediately sensed the mark's presence. It hadn't disappeared, merely hidden beneath the skin's surface.
"How much power does it hold?" she asked eagerly.
"Not much," Wayne said flatly. "But it should handle two or three dragons without issue."
"Look at you, showing off," Grace rolled her eyes prettily before smiling again. "Still, thank you."
"Shall I repay you with more... private photos?"
"Cough. Please do."
"I'll take a few when I have time."
"Can I request specific outfits? Oh, and use some Developing Solution this time. Still images are boring."
"Demanding, aren't you?"
"..."
The two arrived at the school gates.
Grace embraced Wayne, gazed at the ancient castle for a long moment, then drifted away.
Watching her silhouette recede, Wayne frowned.
A thought struck him.
He'd never heard Grace mention her family—not even whether she was pure-blood or half-blood.
...
Meanwhile, after delivering their letters, the young wizards turned and fled.
The more timid ones skipped breakfast entirely, darting out of the castle to board Thestral-drawn carriages or boats bound for King's Cross Station.
The train wouldn't depart for hours, yet it was already packed.
It wasn't until past ten that Dumbledore—who'd just woken up, expecting to enjoy a few days of holiday before resuming his search for Voldemort's Horcruxes—finally arrived at his office.
The sea of letters on the floor made him question whether he was still dreaming. He rubbed his eyes vigorously.
Only after repeating this several times did he accept it was real. The doorway stirred with movement once more, the sound preceding the person's arrival.
"Albus, you must see this—it's a disaster." Professor McGonagall strode in, arms laden with a towering stack of letters, her expression fraught with urgency.
She paused abruptly upon seeing the scene before her.
"This is..."
"I haven't looked yet," Dumbledore admitted with a wry shake of his head. "Though I can already guess..."
Half an hour later.
Dumbledore and McGonagall had opened and skimmed through over a hundred letters before halting their mechanical repetition.
The contents were largely identical, with many near-duplicates clearly churned out from the same template. Further reading seemed pointless.
Every one condemned him as Headmaster for poor judgement—two consecutive Defence Against the Dark Arts professors exposed as frauds, jeopardising students' education.
"My batch is the same," Professor McGonagall said stiffly. "Except these were all from parents."
"A few Howlers were mixed in, but I destroyed them. The language was... unbecoming."
"Albus, you must take this seriously."
For once, McGonagall didn't side with Dumbledore—instead, she chastised him.
"These children need magic that protects them, not grandiose theories and absurd tales."
"Should they confront danger by levitating their foes?"
"Mr Lawrence's letter put it well—moral principles matter, but the ability to defend oneself is what allows civil discourse in the first place."
Under McGonagall's lecture, Dumbledore was unable to muster a rebuttal. He merely ducked his head awkwardly, fiddling with his beard.
He desperately wished Snape were here instead. Given Snape's rapport with Lawrence, the scolding would've been redirected.
Even without details, Dumbledore's toes could guess this was Wayne's handiwork.
No one else could mobilise so many students...
Now he understood why Snape's temper flared at Wayne's mere mention.
The boy was infuriating...