"Lawrence, what are you doing? Release Scrimgeour at once!"
"Assaulting the Head of the Auror Office, and in front of the Minister for Magic no less—this is a crime! You'll be sent to Azkaban for this!"
Hearing Scrimgeour's groans, Fudge finally snapped out of his daze and shrieked.
"Headmaster, this matter doesn't concern you. There's no need for your intervention." Wayne raised his hand, cutting off Dumbledore before he could speak.
Scrimgeour struggled to reach for his wand, but the young man kicked it away before stomping hard on his right arm.
Crack!
The crisp sound of breaking bone echoed through the room. Yet Scrimgeour was nothing if not tough—despite the excruciating pain, he didn't utter a sound. His face turned ashen, bloodshot eyes glaring hoarsely at the youth:
"Wayne Lawrence, I swear I'll have you sent to Azkaban. Your wizarding career ends here."
"The Dementors will give you a warm welcome on my behalf!"
"Dumbledore!" Fudge had already drawn his wand, pointing it at Wayne. "What are you waiting for? Stop him! Lawrence has gone mad!"
"Fudge, are you certain you want to point that wand at me?" Wayne turned his head calmly to regard him.
Though facing just a teenager, Fudge broke into a cold sweat under that emotionless gaze. His wand hand trembled uncontrollably.
"I know Scrimgeour's words earlier were... ill-considered. But that's no excuse for violence."
Fudge forced composure: "Lawrence, don't do anything rash. Let's talk this through properly. Acting on impulse solves nothing."
"Yet acting on impulse can solve the person causing the problem." Wayne sighed, then suddenly asked: "Fudge, do you know why I didn't use spells earlier? Why I resorted to such crude physical methods?"
Fudge blinked, unprepared for the question. Watching Scrimgeour still writhing under Wayne's foot, he ventured: "B-because... it feels more satisfying?"
Wayne: "..."
Dumbledore: "..."
Dumbledore regarded Fudge with bewilderment. Was the man some sort of genius?
What an... unconventional perspective. How had he even arrived at that conclusion?
Wayne found his momentum disrupted by Fudge's answer—and couldn't even refute it.
Because it truly was satisfying.
His foot felt quite reluctant to leave Scrimgeour's face.
"Fudge, earlier I addressed you as Minister Fudge because I, too, am a wizard."
"But now, I speak to you as Wayne Lawrence, 33rd Earl of Northumberland."
Northumberland—the nominal fiefdom of the Lawrence family. Much like how the Duke of Westminster's surname is Grosvenor but his title is Westminster, Lawrence is the surname, while Northumberland is the actual peerage.
Wayne's gaze turned imperious: "Fudge, may I interpret this insect's threats against me as provocation?"
"Is he challenging me... or challenging my lineage? Believing me powerless and thus easy prey?"
"N-no, that's not it," Fudge stammered. "Scrimgeour merely..."
"I don't want to hear your explanations." Wayne cut him off sharply. "Since Scrimgeour has accused me of treason and aiding the enemy, I'd like to show him who truly represents this country!"
"Go back and await the notice from Number 10 Downing Street. From today onwards, all pure-blood families will be considered illegal immigrants. They must leave Britain within a month."
Fudge stammered, "L-Lawrence, w-what do you mean?"
"Was I not clear enough?" Wayne frowned. "None of the pure-blood families have birth registrations in Britain, have they? In other words... they're all undocumented, stowaways, or illegal immigrants."
The young man looked down at Scrimgeour with undisguised contempt. "A gutter rat like you, without even legal status, dares accuse me of treason?"
He spat directly onto Scrimgeour's face.
"AAAAH! I'll kill you!" Utterly humiliated, Scrimgeour finally snapped, roaring like a wounded beast.
Fudge had no mind for him now. Hearing Wayne's words, he was plunged into panic.
"You can't do this! Wizards have our own rules. Why should we register in Muggle society?"
"Then bring it on." Wayne spread his arms with a wild grin. "Since the Ministry of Magic doesn't recognise this country's order... what awaits you is war!"
"Wayne!"
"Mr Lawrence, please be reasonable!"
Now even Dumbledore was alarmed, speaking urgently: "Wayne, do you realise what you're saying?"
"You know I can do it, don't you?" Wayne met the old man's gaze.
"The consequences would be unbearable even for you. Wizards and Muggles can coexist peacefully—don't act on impulse." Dumbledore cautioned carefully. "Countless lives would be lost. I won't let you run amok."
Precisely because he knew the immense power and influence this young man wielded in the Muggle world, his concern was profound.
"Even as the greatest white wizard, you can't stop me," Wayne said calmly. "If you doubt me, try."
Dumbledore found himself in an impossible position.
Setting aside personal capability—he wasn't certain he could subdue Wayne. A year ago, the youth had already demonstrated astonishing power. Now, after another year, some profound transformation had occurred that even he couldn't fathom.
As for the current situation, would matters have escalated this far if Scrimgeour hadn't provoked Wayne with threats?
Even if he did apprehend Wayne, what then?
Throw him into Azkaban?
As if his uncle, the Chief Civil Servant, would stand idly by.
Dumbledore looked at the petrified Head of the Auror Office at the boy's feet, feeling a surge of disgust.
This is all your damned fault!
Fudge had turned deathly pale, collapsing onto the sofa.
The Ministry's founding purpose was to provide sanctuary for wizards, to build a magical world hidden beneath normal society.
In the Great Hall of the MACUSA headquarters, there hung a peculiar clock that displayed not the time, but the exposure threat level of the wizarding world.
When it reached the highest level, it signified complete exposure of the magical community and the inevitability of war.
Newt had once caused that very clock to explode. Fortunately, with the Thunderbird and Swooping Evil's assistance, the memories of all ordinary New Yorkers were erased, quelling the crisis.
The British Ministry of Magic lacked such a magical clock, but maintained a similar department to ensure the secrecy of the wizarding world.
If Wayne truly went through with this, Fudge's resignation would be the least concern. The most terrifying consequence would be igniting a global war between wizards and Muggles.
"Fudge!" Dumbledore's voice boomed. "Don't you have something to say?"
Startled by the reprimand, Fudge seemed to awaken from a dream. He hastily rose to his feet, his tone unexpectedly ingratiating:
"Mr Lawrence, no, Earl of Northumberland." His voice dripped with servility. "Scrimgeour's reckless words just now don't represent the Ministry's stance. He was merely venting his personal frustrations through empty threats."
"With your magnanimity and grace, such petty behaviour surely isn't worth your attention."
"How amusing." Wayne chuckled lightly. "I was raised to prioritise my own contentment. If I can't even achieve that, you expect me to forgive others? That's quite the joke."
"There's no need for forgiveness!" Fudge glared hatefully at Scrimgeour. "His actions today have severely damaged wizard-Muggle relations. I'll petition the Wizengamot to impeach and remove Scrimgeour from office."
It wasn't that Fudge didn't want to sacrifice Scrimgeour to save himself immediately – he simply couldn't.
The Head of the Auror Office ranked as the Ministry's third-highest position. Not even the Minister for Magic could dismiss him without completing an extremely complex procedure.
"Is that all?" Wayne tilted his head.
"Of course not." Fudge inwardly groaned – this young master was utterly ruthless.
"Should any illegal activities be uncovered, he'll face legal consequences."
The youth pursed his lips. "The evidence is right here – abuse of authority, slander, false accusations, and traumatising a vulnerable underage wizard."
"Just an ordinary Hogwarts student, yet threatened by the Head of the Auror Office? What has this world come to? Is there no justice left?"
The shamelessness!
Both Fudge and Dumbledore cursed inwardly simultaneously.
Now he claims to be an ordinary student – why didn't he say so earlier?
Fudge forced a strained smile. "I'll record every word you've said for the Wizengamot's review."
Wayne turned to Dumbledore – wasn't the old man the Chief Warlock?
Dumbledore sighed internally but maintained a solemn expression. "I'll preside over the trial. However, Wayne, you'll need to appear as the plaintiff."
"No problem."
Wayne agreed readily. "And about that Azkaban imprisonment threat earlier..."
"Never! Absolutely never!" Fudge looked bewildered. "I distinctly referred to Scrimgeour..."
Wayne smiled. Seeing this, Dumbledore and Fudge smiled too.
The tense atmosphere in the room instantly eased.
Only Scrimgeour stared blankly at the ceiling, offering a desolate smile as he realised in his heart that he was utterly finished.
"Dumbledore, might I borrow your fireplace?"
Wayne reluctantly lifted his foot and returned to his original seat. Fudge didn't even glance at Scrimgeour, levitating him directly with a hovering charm as he asked.
There was certainly no leaving through the front door now – tomorrow's papers would have a field day otherwise. The only option was to Floo back to the Ministry from here.
"Of course, Cornelius." Dumbledore produced a box of Floo Powder and handed it to Fudge.
With a loud cry of "Ministry of Magic!" from Fudge, green flames erupted in the fireplace, and both he and Scrimgeour vanished from sight.
Surveying the wreckage, Dumbledore sighed and waved his wand to restore everything.
"Wayne, were you serious about everything you just said?"
"What do you think?" the young man countered.
The old wizard studied him. "Even if it were true, I'd wish it weren't. I know you're a good lad at heart – those were just words spoken in anger."
"Professor, I'm not you." Wayne shook his head gently, his gaze falling to the bloodstains on the floor, which he vanished with a wave of his hand.
"My ambitions and temperament haven't changed. I simply wish to live without interference. Yet as you've seen, there are always fools who provoke me unprompted."
"Had Fudge not given me satisfaction just now, everything I said would have become reality."
"The East has an ancient saying: 'Don't say you weren't warned.' I trust after today's events, Fudge will keep his incompetent underlings from bothering me again."
Dumbledore fixed Wayne with an unwavering stare, the air between them growing thick with tension – yet the young man remained perfectly at ease.
After a long silence, Dumbledore finally spoke wearily: "You'd best push Crouch or someone else into the Minister's seat soon. If needed, I'll assist you."
Had the wizarding world gained a prodigy?
Bloody hell – they'd gained a sovereign!
Ready to ignite a Muggle-wizard war at the slightest provocation – not even Grindelwald had been this ruthless.
All he could hope now was that the next Minister for Magic would maintain good relations with Wayne, intercepting potential conflicts before they arose. Otherwise, true catastrophe loomed.
Wayne beamed. "Then I'll take that as your blessing."
"Enough. Off to dinner with you." Dumbledore wondered whether he should ask Minerva for some of her special tonic – his heart couldn't take much more of this.
"Ah, we're not quite finished." Wayne showed no intention of leaving, instead sitting himself opposite the headmaster's desk.
"Even if you hadn't summoned me, I'd have come to see you tonight."
"What is it?" Dumbledore asked, discreetly pressing a hand to his chest. The mere mention of Wayne having business with him set his pulse racing uncontrollably.
Wayne spoke softly: "Recently Harry's been having dreams – no, more like an ongoing vision, terrifyingly vivid."
Dumbledore's expression turned grave. "Explain."
Wayne recounted everything Harry had told him, including the divination from Trelawney.
"Basilisk," the old wizard said pointedly. "That's the hatching process for a Basilisk."
"Any further details?" Dumbledore pressed.
Wayne shook his head. "Harry only told me this much. You'll need to question him directly if you want more."
"Thank you for the warning, Mr Lawrence," Dumbledore inclined his head slightly. "Perhaps this is related to Voldemort's wraith. Ever since Harry rebounded that Killing Curse thirteen years ago, a peculiar connection has existed between them."
"However, I must ask you not to inform Harry. He isn't ready to know this yet."
Though he'd obtained intelligence about Voldemort, Dumbledore felt no joy—instead, his heart sank like a stone.
His earlier suspicion was edging ever closer to reality.
Harry... was an accidental Horcrux created by Voldemort.
"I'll keep it confidential," Wayne agreed, then revealed something that startled Dumbledore further.
"Professor, before Christmas, I discovered one of Voldemort's Horcruxes."
Dumbledore rose abruptly. "Where?"
"I know you're eager, but don't be hasty."
Wayne replied calmly, "I'd like to make a deal. If you agree, I'll share the Horcrux's location."
The old wizard's brow furrowed, uncertain of Wayne's intentions.
"Mr Lawrence, what could this impoverished old man possibly possess that interests you?"
Suddenly, comprehension dawned. He regarded Wayne strangely. "You wouldn't be angling for the Headmaster's position, would you?"
The portrait of Phineas Black erupted in protest. "Out of the question, Dumbledore! You can't agree to this!"
If this lad became Headmaster, he'd be stuck hanging in the boys' lavatory!
He'd rather die!
Wait... he was already dead.
Wayne rolled his eyes. "Obviously not that condition. If I wanted to be Headmaster, it wouldn't be now anyway."
Dumbledore's curiosity piqued. "Then what do you want?"
"Simply your agreement—and an Unbreakable Vow—that ownership of all future destroyed Horcruxes will transfer to me."