Dear Mr Potter,
We have received intelligence that you performed the Patronus Charm at twenty-three minutes past eight this evening in the presence of a Muggle.
This constitutes a flagrant violation of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, and as such, you have been expelled from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Ministry representatives will shortly arrive at your place of residence to destroy your wand.
Given your repeated violations of this law, we regret to inform you that you must attend a disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic at nine o'clock on the twelfth of August.
Yours sincerely, Mafalda Hopkirk, First-Class Officer, Improper Use of Magic Office."
After reading the letter, Harry felt utterly gobsmacked.
Wait, the Ministry could detect him using a Patronus but couldn't tell there were two Dementors nearby?
Was he supposed to just stand there and let the Dementors give him a kiss without defending himself?
Just as Harry was pacing anxiously, a second letter arrived.
It was from Mr Weasley, informing him that Dumbledore had gone to the Ministry and urging Harry not to surrender his wand or perform any more magic.
Soon, another owl came, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief upon reading its contents.
His wand wouldn't be destroyed immediately, but he'd still have to attend the hearing on 12 August.
Good news: the immediate crisis was averted.
Bad news: the future remained uncertain.
Recognising the gravity of the situation, Harry immediately began writing letters.
One to Ron, one to Sirius, and the last one to Wayne.
The first two were brief, simply explaining his situation. The last one took Harry a full half-hour to compose.
After all these years, he wasn't that naive boy anymore.
Harry now fully understood the importance of having powerful allies. Because of Wayne, his living standards at the Dursleys had improved immeasurably.
Because of Wayne, his life had been saved several times at Hogwarts.
Though Dumbledore was formidable, Harry found Wayne more reliable and... more tangible.
After all... You could hire Wayne's services for money. Could you do that with Dumbledore?
After finishing the letters, Harry tied all three to Hedwig's leg, gave her plenty of breadcrumbs, and watched her fly away.
...
Paris.
Wayne received Harry's plea for help the next morning.
After reading it, he showed no particular reaction.
This kind of petty harassment was too obvious—no need to guess it was Umbridge's doing.
But Wayne had to admit that while crude, such tactics could still push Harry into a corner if handled properly.
The root problem was that the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery was utterly poor. It imposed excessively harsh restrictions on underage magic use outside school.
These restrictions primarily targeted students from Muggle families.
Those with at least one adult wizard at home could easily circumvent the rules, but Muggle-born students had no such advantage, forced to waste over two months of holiday without practising magic.
Many students returned to school practically like Muggles after such long periods without touching their wands.
Wayne mused about pushing for legal reforms when the time came.
Though it didn't affect him personally, the injustice still rankled.
As for Harry's situation, Wayne wasn't particularly concerned.
Dumbledore wouldn't let anything happen to him. Though the boy had painted quite the picture of his predicament in the letter, he'd forgotten to include any... 'sincerity'.
How poor.
Fleur, who was standing nearby, had also finished reading the letter and found it unbelievable.
"Just some magic outside school—a warning or, at most, a fine would suffice. Why destroy the wand?"
"Exactly," Wayne shrugged. "When Newt was expelled back then, his wand remained intact."
These days, Wayne and Fleur have been staying at Nicolas's estate. Though Wayne owned property in Paris, it hadn't been modified and wasn't as convenient as Nicolas's home, where they could enjoy their private time while conducting research.
That evening, Monsieur Delacour suddenly summoned them both back for dinner.
As soon as they arrived home, Gabrielle came running over with a cheer.
"Brother, I'm going to be a big sister!"
Wayne froze, looking up at Monsieur Delacour, who was affectionately embracing his wife.
Fleur was equally stunned, hugging the little girl. "Gabrielle, why would you be a big sister?"
"Because Mummy's having a baby!"
Monsieur Delacour smiled sheepishly. "That's why we called you back—to celebrate. We just found out today."
Wayne gave him a thumbs-up.
'Well done, old man.'
Just look at Fleur and Gabrielle—his father-in-law might not excel in other areas, but the daughters he produced were each more beautiful than the last.
In the sparsely populated wizarding world, adding a new family member was absolutely cause for celebration.
In high spirits, Wayne had Gardevoir prepare a lavish feast and even summoned a House-elf from their holiday castle in Britain to take care of Madame Delacour for the coming months.
The only thing that amused Wayne was when Monsieur Delacour, after a few drinks during dinner, declared that two daughters were enough; this time, he wanted a son.
However, Wayne did some calculations for his father-in-law and concluded this would be another daughter.
His dream was thoroughly dashed.
...
Late at night, after putting Gabrielle to sleep, Wayne finally returned to the estate with Fleur.
Following some... in-depth communication, Fleur drifted off contentedly.
Wayne, meanwhile, made his way to a hidden Chamber of Secrets in the annexe.
Inside the sealed room, an intricate array was drawn in Dragon blood. Sitting at its centre, Wayne began his deductions.
Voldemort and Tom had agreed to meet again in a month. Wayne had been calculating the timing of this event recently, concluding they hadn't met yet.
The intelligence from Malfoy was scarce—Voldemort was elusive, often absent from the manor, with no one knowing his whereabouts.
Determined to uncover their plans, Wayne had invested heavily, using countless precious materials to set up an array that would enhance his divination abilities while minimising backlash.
The domain of Feng Hou Qimen enveloped the space as the four plates shifted continuously.
Finally, amidst the chaotic information, Wayne detected faint traces—a glimmer of divine light appearing in his otherwise indifferent eyes.
"Two days later... London..."
...
The two days passed in a flash.
London, Islington.
The dead of night. The streets were nearly deserted.
Before an office building stood a black-robed, hooded figure, silently facing the towering structure.
Two passing drunkards seemed not to notice him—otherwise, such peculiar attire would surely have drawn comments.
"So you still remember what happened back then."
At some point, a dark-haired young man appeared beside the hooded figure. Gazing at the familiar address yet unfamiliar building, he asked softly, "Do you know when the orphanage was demolished?"
"What does it matter to me?" the hooded figure replied indifferently. "I never belonged there. From the day I entered Hogwarts, I became a world apart from them."
"1945. It was demolished after the war ended. Then came this office building you see now."
The dark-haired youth seemed to be talking to himself, unconcerned whether the hooded figure was listening.
"Did you seek me out just to discuss such trivial matters?" said the hooded figure.
"I find it rather meaningful."
"Keep rambling and I'll leave."
"Oh? Don't you want to know how I came to be?"
The air seemed to freeze as the hooded figure's murderous intent surged forth, almost tangible as it focused on the dark-haired youth.
"Imposter. Do you think I won't kill you?"
"Tsk. Considering soul fragments, who's the real imposter between us now isn't so clear."
The hood fell away, revealing Voldemort's grotesque and terrifying visage—still marked by that stark black-and-white demarcation, with serpentine eyes glowing crimson as he hesitated over whether to strike.
Tom showed no fear, instead studying Voldemort's new appearance with interest.
"Seems you paid quite the price to escape Lawrence's grasp."
At this, Voldemort grew even angrier, though he showed no outward sign. He rose into the air, flying towards the outskirts.
He'd see whether Tom dared follow.
Two black streaks cut through the night sky unnoticed, arriving fifty kilometres from the city at the Thames riverside.
"I'll let you ask three questions," said Tom. "Then it's my turn."
"You truly believe I won't kill you?" Voldemort's robes billowed as he drew his wand.
"Consider that one free."
Tom didn't even look at him, gazing at the night sky instead. "I told you, I know you. You won't kill me until you understand why and how I appeared."
"I created you," Voldemort sneered. "You just drained Lockhart's life force."
"Then why am I the only one who could revive?" Tom countered. "Do you truly understand?"
Voldemort fell silent. Regarding Horcruxes, his knowledge was limited.
The creation method came from Secrets of the Darkest Art. That multiple Horcruxes were possible came from Slughorn.
The book's descriptions were vague. He genuinely didn't understand why a sixteen-year-old version of himself had appeared.
"Fine. Three questions."
"First, the real reason for your appearance."
"Because you poured too much emotion and memory into it. The soul fragment became highly active," Tom answered readily. "Though that's just my theory."
Voldemort's eyes flickered, finding some merit in this explanation.
When first creating a Horcrux, he'd been rather excited, pouring nearly everything of himself into it—effectively making a second thinking version.
"Second, why did you call Lawrence 'Young Master'?"
Tom shook his head slightly. "I want to tell you, but I can't."
Voldemort's pupils contracted. He understood the implication—it must be some form of contractual magic preventing Tom from speaking the truth.
"You collaborated with Lawrence?"
"No, he's the one I most want to kill." Even Tom, who had remained composed throughout, revealed a vicious expression, unsettling Voldemort considerably.
Tom knew him, and naturally, he knew his former self just as well.
The desire to kill someone couldn't be hidden in one's eyes—that hatred, just like his own towards Harry Potter, was a fight to the death.
"One last question—what exactly are you scheming?" Voldemort stared at Tom. "Why flee to some backwater like the bears' territory?"
"Existence itself holds value." A flicker of disdain passed through Tom's eyes, but he kept his head lowered, unnoticed by Voldemort.
"I can't defeat Dumbledore, nor can I defeat Young Master Lawrence. Should I stay in Britain and wait for them to dissect me for research?"
Voldemort grunted, falling silent as the urge to kill surged within him once more.
No matter what, he couldn't allow another version of himself to exist in this world.
Sensing the shift, Tom sighed helplessly. "Voldemort, do you know why you failed back then?"
"It's because you never distinguished between primary and secondary contradictions."
Voldemort froze.
What nonsense was this?
Seeing his bewildered expression, Tom felt a rush of intellectual superiority.
This was the consequence of not reading enough.
Tom subtly took two steps back before speaking. "Let me ask you—if you kill me, won't you still have to face Dumbledore, Lawrence, and Harry Potter?"
"I'll kill them too."
"But you can't do it in the short term." Tom struck at the heart of the matter. "You must have gauged Young Master Lawrence's strength by now. Dumbledore alone leaves you powerless. If Young Master Lawrence grows stronger over the next few years, do you really think you can win against the two of them combined?"
Voldemort fell silent.
"What exactly are you trying to say?"
"Let's form an alliance, Voldemort." Tom's gaze was sincere—a tactic he had employed countless times over the past two years, now second nature to him.
"Only one of us can remain in the end. Just as you want to kill me, I want to kill you—to become the one and only in this world."
"But no matter how we fight, it's a battle between Voldemorts. We share common enemies—that's the primary contradiction."
"Kill those three first. Then you and I can settle our score—that's the secondary contradiction."
Voldemort lowered his head in contemplation.
Hmm... that almost made sense.
...
Meanwhile, a kilometre away, Wayne's expression was complicated.
Bloody hell... he's nearly conned him into submission!