"I'm sorry, Minister Fudge, but we're currently out of stock for the items you require."
Nagini smiled politely while delivering words that chilled Fudge and Scrimgeour to the bone.
"How can that be? So many countries received shipments—why is there nothing left now?" Fudge asked desperately, sweat beading on his forehead.
Nagini continued to smile. "As you said, the orders from other countries are overwhelming, so the shop has been in a constant state of shortage. Many orders are still pending delivery."
"Then, when will the next batch be available?" Fudge pressed. "Price isn't an issue—we'll pay market rate if necessary."
What he needed most now was to show the public that the Ministry of Magic wasn't short on funds. Whatever other countries had, they would have too, more and better.
Only then could he salvage some public trust and mitigate the coming storm.
"I'm afraid I don't know the exact timeline," Nagini replied, still smiling. "But with the recent surge in orders, right before your arrival, we just received large orders from the French and Italian Ministries of Magic. If the British Ministry wants stock, you'll have to wait at least six months."
"Six months?!" Fudge's voice shot up. "That long?"
"Are you deliberately making things difficult for us?" Scrimgeour suddenly interjected. "Holding a grudge because the Ministry refused to cooperate last time?"
Nagini's smile turned icy. "Do you think these are as simple to produce as butterbeer from a street vendor? Each piece is a master alchemist's proud work, requiring unimaginable effort and craftsmanship."
"Mr. Scrimgeour, you overestimate your importance. The shop's orders are booming precisely thanks to you and the three Aurors' outstanding performance during the conference."
"If you're in such a hurry, you could always buy those disposable anti-curse cloaks—much cheaper, perfectly suited to your frugality."
"You—!"
The brutal jab struck a raw nerve, and Scrimgeour instantly flushed with rage.
He was the Head of the Auror Office, the leader of the nation's most formidable enforcement body. How dare a mere Diagon Alley shopkeeper speak to him like this?!
But under Fudge's sharp glare, he swallowed his retort, earning a contemptuous smirk from Nagini.
'This fool dares oppose my young master? He doesn't know his own limits.'
"Madam Nagini," Fudge forced a smile, "could you expedite our order or prioritise it? We're all British wizards—I'm not asking for special treatment, just a quicker batch."
"The Ministry's Aurors are in constant danger. Every moment counts."
'Who's a British witch? I'm Malay.'
Nagini kept her expression neutral. "I'm just the shop manager. I have no authority to make decisions for our owner. Minister Fudge, you'll have to discuss it with him directly."
"Excellent." Fudge's smile widened. "When does your owner visit the shop? I'll arrange a meeting."
Nagini's lips curled with amusement. "You'll have to wait until summer. The owner is currently at Hogwarts."
...
Five minutes later, Fudge and Scrimgeour stepped out of the shop.
Fudge still looked stunned. "All those items were crafted by Lawrence?"
"The same student who earned two Order of Merlin medals and killed over a hundred Dementors?" Scrimgeour asked.
"That's him," Fudge nodded.
"And he's the nephew of that Sir Humphrey you once met."
"Still a Muggle-born wizard?" Scrimgeour was even more astonished.
Alchemy was a discipline that placed great emphasis on lineage. Without a qualified teacher, a rich foundation of knowledge, and extensive practice, it was impossible to master.
He had assumed this Lawrence belonged to some pure-blood family he hadn't heard of.
Fudge gave him a sidelong glance. "What's wrong with being Muggle-born? He's already engaged to the second daughter of the Greengrass family. No pure-blood would dare look down on him now."
Scrimgeour frowned. "So what do we do now? Go straight to Hogwarts to find him?"
"Not today. We'll go on Monday," Fudge said after some thought. It wasn't that he wasn't anxious, but he needed to return and tally the exact procurement quantities and requirements to settle everything in one discussion.
Scrimgeour wanted to finalise matters immediately to quell the criticism against him, but he didn't dare oppose Fudge's decision.
Inside the shop, Nagini watched the two men disappear with a scornful smile.
There were plenty of items in stock—this had all been part of Wayne's instructions.
Having others deliver the slap was never as satisfying. The final blow had to come from the instigator himself.
Let Scrimgeour be a ghost who understood exactly who he'd crossed!
...
At Hogwarts, Wayne set down the day's newspaper, thoroughly pleased with Rita Skeeter's handiwork.
The woman's viperous talent was undeniable. She'd said nothing explicitly, yet implied everything.
She guided public opinion exactly where she wanted it, all without bearing any responsibility.
A bonus was definitely in order.
"Wayne, stop reading the paper." Beside him, Astoria pouted.
He'd promised to spend the day with her, yet he'd been engrossed in the newspaper since morning.
"Alright, no more reading." The young man folded the paper away and took Astoria's hand.
"I'll take you somewhere special."
"Where?" the girl asked curiously.
"Hogwarts' kitchens. The house-elves are holding a cooking competition today. You're in for a treat."
Astoria's face lit up with delight. "That sounds wonderful!"
Leaving the courtyard gardens behind, they returned to the castle's basement, where Wayne led Astoria into the kitchens.
The arrival of the two sent the house-elves into a frenzy.
"Mr Lawrence! Miss Greengrass!"
"Has the competition started yet?" Wayne asked.
"Not yet, but we're all prepared," one house-elf replied respectfully.
Wayne nodded. "Then let's begin. No need to go overboard - just a taste will suffice."
At his command, over a dozen house-elves sprang into action, busily preparing their signature dishes.
Wayne spotted Coren among them - the elf who served only the Headmaster.
This competition actually had much to do with Wayne. After seeing the young wizards of Hufflepuff engage in culinary contests, the house-elves couldn't bear to fall behind.
So, when Wayne returned this time, an elf representative approached him, pleading for him to serve as their judge.
Faced with an invitation offering free food and drink, Wayne readily agreed, sending the elves into paroxysms of joy.
To encourage some healthy competition, Wayne even dropped hints about next year's Holy Grail War, telling the elves they'd have opportunities to cook for students from other schools.
This caused an absolute uproar. The elves all vowed to improve their culinary skills to avoid bringing shame upon Hogwarts.
It was like having guests over - when house-elves performed well, it reflected well on their masters.
There were no restrictions on the dishes - they simply had to prepare their specialities.
Half an hour later, dishes began arriving in succession. Wayne sampled each just once before stopping.
Astoria, however, was in her element - cheesecake in her left hand, apple pie in her right, happily devouring multiple portions of everything from desserts to main courses.
"I never realised how talented these elves were! Mmm... this roasted lamb leg is delicious, Wayne, try some."
"Because they're usually cooking for so many. Mass-produced meals can't compare to something made specially for you. Hmm, this lamb is excellent indeed. Any orange sauce? It cuts through the richness."
"..."
In the end, Coren's braised lion's head meatballs best suited the wealthy young lady's palate, earning him the championship.
Wayne presented the prepared prizes - new pillowcases for every elf, while champion Coren received a plate that kept food warm. This moved them deeply, with Coren bursting into tears.
Truly, Mr Lawrence was the most outstanding student Hufflepuff had ever produced - so kind even to house-elves.
"Sir!" one elf widened its eyes and squeaked, "Will you honour us with your presence at the next competition?"
"That depends on my schedule," Wayne said. "Give me advance notice, and don't make it too frequent - once a month is enough."
Astoria nodded eagerly. "Me too! Don't forget me!"
The elves excitedly agreed.
Before leaving, Wayne pointed to the West Lake vinegar fish that Astoria had only taken one bite of:
"This flavour profile would suit Professor Dumbledore perfectly. Coren, you should send him a portion."
"At once, sir."
...
After spending the afternoon entertaining Astoria, Wayne finally escorted the wealthy young lady back to her common room before heading to the classroom where he usually tutored Malfoy and Harry.
This trip had delayed them for a month, so from now until the end of term, Wayne would appropriately increase their training duration.
Malfoy still wore that punchable expression, while Harry seemed somewhat distracted.
Wayne didn't pay much attention and asked directly, "How's your progress with the Shadow Bind?"
Harry remained lost in thought, but Malfoy smirked triumphantly. "I've mastered it."
With that, he drew his wand and incanted the spell. Harry's shadow slowly rose and raised its hand.
Slap!
Harry snapped back to reality, clutching his cheek in anger. "Malfoy, are you looking for death?!"
Wayne looked at him quizzically. "Harry, what's wrong? The shadow moved so slowly—you could've easily dodged that."
"I was thinking about something! I didn't notice his sneak attack!" Harry retorted, drawing his own wand as he and Malfoy began duelling.
Wayne was accustomed to such scenes. He watched calmly as they exchanged spells until Harry once again defeated Malfoy and confiscated his wand. Only then did Wayne speak up.
"You've made little progress recently. Your footwork's slower than before—pull yourselves together."
Both hung their heads, not daring to argue. They had indeed slacked off considerably.
After losing to Hufflepuff, Harry had been dragged into extra training by Wood daily. At the same time, Malfoy was hopelessly addicted to games, too lazy to even complete homework, let alone maintain regular practice.
Wayne produced dummy wands for them to practise evasion drills and regain their form.
After class, Harry waited until Malfoy had left before stopping Wayne. Hesitating briefly, he said, "Wayne, I've been having... strange dreams lately..."
Wayne's interest was piqued. "What kind?"
As a semi-Horcrux, Harry's dreams were likely connected to Voldemort—especially when triggered by the Dark Lord's intense emotional fluctuations. Wayne hadn't received any news about Voldemort or Tom for ages. Were they making new moves?
"Don't laugh," Harry prefaced, "and don't tell anyone else."
"No problem. Just between us."
Harry nodded, reassured.
"These weird dreams have lasted two nights now." Rubbing his temples wearily, Harry looked embarrassed. "I... I dreamed I turned into a hen—no, wait, a rooster?"
"Huh?" Wayne's face was pure confusion. "Which is it?"
Harry grimaced. "I looked like a rooster, but... I could feel an egg inside me!"
"These past two nights, it's been nothing but this dream. I'm practically learning to crow now."
"Wayne, am I cursed? Could it be Sirius Black's doing?"
"Wayne? Why aren't you saying anything?" Harry asked again, noticing the pensive look on the younger boy's face.
"Just thinking," Wayne replied, snapping out of it.
"I'm certain it's not a curse. There's no trace of dark magic on you, and no one would go to such lengths just to give you bizarre dreams."
"Malfoy definitely would," Harry argued stubbornly. "Maybe Snape, too."
"But he doesn't have the capability, and as for Snape, if it were really him, you'd already be in the hospital wing by now." Wayne spread his hands in a bear-like gesture. "Stop overthinking it. Who knows, in a couple of days, you might dream about turning into a toad yourself."
"If you're really that worried, you could drink some Draught of Living Death. That'll make you sleep soundly without any dreams."
"Alright then." Seeing how confident Wayne sounded, Harry felt considerably reassured.
Only after Harry left did Wayne's expression turn playful.
A rooster laying eggs... So Voldemort wants to emulate his ancestor...
...
Albanian wilderness forest.
In a secluded valley, Voldemort, who had successfully become a chicken—no, successfully turned into a rooster—was lying in a straw nest with his eyes closed, experiencing the mysteries of the life-creating process.
Nearly two years of accumulation had allowed him to regain some strength. To avoid inhabiting a rat's body and to obtain a more powerful guardian, Voldemort put his little mind to work and devised an excellent plan.
Without Nagini, he could create a snake to protect himself.
An ordinary snake wouldn't suit his status—it had to be something grand!
As Slytherin's heir, opening the Chamber of Secrets hadn't just granted him an obedient Basilisk; he'd also acquired many of Slytherin's research notes, including methods for breeding Basilisks.
The Basilisk breeding method was utterly bizarre: a rooster must lay an egg, which would then be hatched by a toad, to produce a Basilisk.
How to make a rooster lay an egg?
Slytherin had spent ten years researching before uncovering the trick.
Keep a flock of hens—strictly hens—and after some time, for the continuation of the species, one of the hens would mutate into a rooster.
If the mutating hen happened to be carrying an egg, the resulting egg would be a rooster's egg.
This step was highly unpredictable. After over a dozen failures, Voldemort finally succeeded in transforming a pregnant hen into a rooster.
To ensure the egg-laying process went smoothly, Voldemort possessed the rooster himself, guaranteeing the safe delivery of this special egg.
Three days had now passed, and the final moment was approaching.
Plop!
An egg dropped onto the straw nest. Voldemort felt an overwhelming sense of relief and satisfaction, letting out a triumphant crow.
Without hesitation, he then drained the rooster's life force and transferred his consciousness into a prepared toad, carefully hopping onto the egg to begin incubation.
...
Far away at Hogwarts, Harry suddenly woke from his sleep in alarm.
Oh no!
He'd actually dreamed about a toad!
And it was hatching an egg!