Returning to the Common Room, Wayne sensed something amiss. The room was filled with people, yet an unusual silence hung in the air as everyone sat deep in thought.
"What's going on?" Wayne asked curiously, taking the empty seat beside Cedric.
Cedric wore a complicated expression. "Your two roommates are too clever—they asked questions no one could answer. Everyone's still thinking about them."
Wayne gave him a look that said, 'You're joking.'
His two roommates were truly a pair of hidden talents. Toby, in particular, had been dubbed by Snape as being on the same level of idiocy as Neville.
"Toby, what exactly did you two ask?"
"Oh, Wayne," Toby looked up at him with utmost seriousness. "Tell me—if laxatives expire, do they still work?"
Norman chimed in, "And does riding a flying broomstick while drunk count as drink-driving?"
Wayne: "..."
"You two should transfer. Little Hufflepuff can't contain you anymore—go wreak havoc on Ravenclaw instead."
...
A new week began.
Harry walked into the Great Hall with Ron, both looking utterly exhausted. Their injuries hadn't fully healed—dark circles under their eyes, several lumps on their heads. When classmates asked, they claimed they'd tripped down the stairs.
No one bought it, of course. Who gets two black eyes from falling down stairs?
As if destined, Malfoy glanced up from his meal just as Harry passed by. Their eyes met.
"Hmph!"
Harry and Malfoy snorted in unison. Malfoy wasn't faring much better—his usually neat blond hair had a chunk missing, as if bitten off. A bruise marred the corner of his mouth as he bared his teeth in a vicious grin, about to taunt Harry.
But Harry laughed first.
"Hahaha, Malfoy, you're missing a tooth!"
Ron joined in, the two of them openly mocking Malfoy, whose face visibly darkened.
"Potter, looking for another fight?" Malfoy hissed, his words slightly slurred from the gap in his teeth.
Only after returning that night had he realised one of his teeth had been knocked out. After careful reflection, he'd concluded it was Crabbe's clumsy fault. He was so furious he nearly spat blood.
Today, Harry had once again torn open his wound. If there hadn't been so many young wizards around, he would have lunged forward to punch Harry and knock out one of his teeth.
Harry retorted sharply, "I wouldn't want to knock out all your teeth—you'd have nothing left to eat with."
Of course, he couldn't agree. If it hadn't been for Wayne's help on Friday night, he, Ron, and Neville would have been completely done for. The best outcome would have been getting caught by Filch. The worst? Probably ending up as food for the Three-Headed Dog—one head each, no fighting necessary.
"Coward," Malfoy sneered when Harry didn't take the bait. He turned away to eat, ignoring them.
Harry was about to fire back when a familiar, loathsome voice sounded behind him. "Potter, does Gryffindor not have its own place to eat?"
"No, Professor," Harry replied, forcing composure as he turned. "I was just saying hello to a classmate."
Snape's gaze froze when he saw the injuries on Harry's face. After a moment of silence, he said coldly,
"Lying to a professor. Five points from Gryffindor. Potter, you'd best pray I don't catch you fighting again, or you'll be sent straight back to Privet Drive."
With that, Snape swept away like a bat active in daylight. Harry watched his retreating figure with disgust.
"Sometimes I wonder if I stole his girlfriend for him to hate me this much."
"You're twenty years too young for that," Ron quipped mercilessly. "Your dad stealing his girlfriend, though—that's more likely."
"Alright, let's go eat."
Harry nodded and turned to head back to the Gryffindor table with Ron. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Wayne approaching the staff table, speaking to Snape, who had just sat down.
...
"Professor, here are the materials you asked for."
Wayne handed over a paper bag, his expression pained. Collecting those tears had been agony—he'd practically talked himself hoarse persuading Ho-Oh yesterday, barely managing to scrape together two small vials. If Snape dared to hold back now, Wayne swore he'd slip him a Love Potion laced with Umbridge's hair next time!
Whoosh!
The movement was so fast it left an afterimage. Before Wayne could react, his vision blurred—and Snape had already pocketed the items. He even smiled, a rare sight.
The materials Wayne had provided earlier had been put to use over the weekend, with astonishing results. Especially his Rebirth Potion. After adding Phoenix tears, it had undergone changes even he couldn't fully comprehend.
After an entire weekend of research, Snape had confirmed one thing: Wayne's Phoenix was unique.
Take Fawkes, for example. Its tears had potent healing properties, but that was all—just healing.
But Wayne's Phoenix...
Snape couldn't be certain yet—the timeframe was too short. But based on current observations, Ho-Oh's tears contained immense vitality.
Uninjured individuals could experience extended lifespans—even rejuvenation—after consuming them.
What did that mean? It was practically a superior Philosopher's Stone! No, scratch that—what was the Stone compared to this?
A mere tool for immortality, incapable of halting ageing. Nicolas Flamel probably cracked a rib every time he sneezed now.
But with Ho-Oh's Phoenix tears... not only was immortality possible, but eternal youth at the peak of physical condition!
These two vials of tears—Snape no longer dared to use them carelessly. He felt that none of the potion recipes he knew were worthy of being paired with these tears.
"Come to my office tomorrow evening," Snape whispered faintly, to which Wayne gave him an 'okay' gesture.
However, all eyes at the High Table were now fixed on the two of them. The sight of Snape smiling left even Professor McGonagall utterly astonished.
"Lawrence, what were you discussing with Professor Snape?"
As Head of House, Professor Sprout was most qualified to ask, and she made no attempt to conceal her curiosity.
"Er, Professor, I just thought my potion skills were rather poor, so I wanted Professor Snape to give me some extra lessons," Wayne said sheepishly, lowering his head. "I just gave the Professor some materials he might need for class."
As he spoke, he produced a jar of Ho-Oh's droppings as fertiliser for his Head of House, then presented both Professor Flitwick and Professor McGonagall with a feather each.
Professor Sprout laughed heartily, wondering how effective Phoenix droppings might be as fertiliser—this was certainly a first for her. Her gaze towards Wayne grew noticeably warmer. "Well, I won't stand on ceremony then. Feel free to come to me for any plants you might need in future."
A young wizard with such talent, diligence, and obedience was truly rare. With a Cedric in third year and now a Wayne in first year, Professor Sprout could almost envision an era of Hufflepuff dominance on the horizon.
Having accepted gifts, it was only right to offer assistance in return. Both McGonagall and Flitwick smilingly assured Wayne that he could approach them with any academic difficulties.
"Mr Lawrence..." Dumbledore, who had remained silent until now, spoke up with a sigh of feigned disappointment. "Surely you haven't forgotten this dreadful old man?"
Wayne blinked. "Professor, don't you already have Fawkes? Do you need these materials too?"
"Of course I do," Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye. "Every Phoenix is unique—especially when yours seems to be akin to royalty."
Lately, Ho-Oh had been accompanying Fawkes on frequent visits to Dumbledore's office for treats. If even Snape had noticed something unusual, how could the Headmaster have missed it?
Unfortunately, Dumbledore was no expert in magical creatures. While he could sense Ho-Oh's extraordinary power through magical means, he couldn't glean more concrete information.
No matter—he'd already written to an old friend, an expert in the field, for advice.
With the Headmaster openly soliciting gifts, Wayne could hardly refuse. He produced another feather and handed it to Dumbledore.
The old wizard carefully examined it, feeling its lingering warmth, before tucking it away with a smile. He planned to send it to his old friend later.
Sensing another pair of eyes upon him, Wayne turned with a mischievous grin.
"What about you, Professor Quirrell? Fancy some materials too?"
Quirrell waved his hands frantically. "N-no, I was just... curious. C-could I see your Phoenix?"
"Of course..." Under Quirrell's eager gaze, Wayne abruptly changed tack. "...not."
"Professor, if you teach us some useful spells next lesson, I might consider summoning Ho-Oh. How does that sound?"
Aside from McGonagall's slight frown at Wayne's audacious teasing of a professor, the other teachers showed no particular reaction. It was truly Quirrell's fault for being so terrible. All the young wizards held considerable grievances against him, and no one else could be blamed for that.
The other professors also disliked the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, who reeked of an unpleasant odour all day long, making him thoroughly unappealing.
Faced with Wayne's pressure, Quirrell merely stammered that he would "try his best," offering no firm commitment.
Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable behind the glare of his spectacles.
...
On the fourth floor, inside Quirrell's office.
After breakfast, Quirrell, having no morning classes, returned directly to his office. Along the way, few young wizards greeted him, casting only scornful and disdainful looks in his direction.
To this, Quirrell always lowered his head, offering no response. He closed the door behind him and locked it.
Quirrell then drew his wand, casting several trap spells and alarm charms before finally approaching a full-length mirror. He unwound the turban that had piqued the curiosity of all the young wizards.
A face appeared on the back of his head. And what a face it was.
Pale, twisted, perpetually contorted in agony—just the sight of it could make a child burst into tears.
This was Voldemort.
If Wayne had been here, he would surely have marvelled. 'Ugly as he is, at least he still has a nose. Just look at what he'll become later.'
"Master," Quirrell grovelled reverently, positioning Voldemort's face to catch the sunlight.
"Fool! You can't even handle a first-year student. Why did I ever choose such a worthless wretch?"
Voldemort's scolding was intermittent, his voice weak, yet Quirrell still trembled in terror, offering a meek defence:
"M-Master, I had no choice. If I acted too enthusiastically, Dumbledore would notice something amiss."
Voldemort sneered. "Do you think Dumbledore doesn't know you serve me?"
Quirrell gasped. "What? Then why hasn't he—"
"Exposed you? Expelled you?" Voldemort countered, his voice dripping with malice. "I know Dumbledore is aware of my existence. Dumbledore knows that I know he knows of my existence. And I know—"
"This is a balance. A game between him and me. But Dumbledore would never expect that a wandering spirit like me would dare set foot in Hogwarts himself. In his eyes, you're likely nothing more than a pitiful worm I've ensnared!"
Quirrell stopped trembling, his voice turning sycophantic. "No, Master. I have turned from darkness to light. Only by following you have I come to see how hypocritical Dumbledore truly is."
"Then prove your worth! I have no use for useless trash!" Voldemort snapped. "I need Phoenix tears—especially those of Lawrence's Phoenix!"
Voldemort knew his current state was far too weak. Only through rare methods and dark rituals could he restore even a fraction of his strength. And Phoenix tears—even their blood—were one such method.
That damned first-year student, constantly belittling his servant—some of the insults were so vile even he couldn't bear them. What did he mean, 'pretending to be a teacher'? This was called strategic humility!
"Master, I will do my utmost," Quirrell hurriedly pledged his loyalty. "I will secure the Phoenix tears for you and help restore your power."
At this point, he hesitated again: "Master, Snape was once your subordinate, too. Why won't you let me seek his help?"
"Snape?" Voldemort's voice was eerie.
"He is indeed far more outstanding and intelligent than I am." Quirrell hung his head in shame, though a trace of resentment lingered in his heart.
Voldemort continued, "But precisely because he is too outstanding, too exceptional, I cannot appear before him now. Ten years have passed... I am no longer the Dark Lord I once was. Would an ambitious Slytherin like him still be willing to acknowledge me as his master?"
"If he betrays you—" A ruthless glint flashed in Quirrell's eyes. "Then I'll kill him."
"Your life is of little consequence, but if my existence is exposed, your death wouldn't suffice even if repeated ten thousand times!" Voldemort said coldly. "You have one week. If you still can't handle that little wizard, you know the consequences."
With that, Voldemort closed his eyes to rest. The power he had accumulated was too feeble; every additional word wasted his dwindling life force.
Quirrell quietly tied his scarf back on, his eyes gleaming with cold determination. 'Wayne Lawrence...'
...
"Wayne, you really shouldn't bully Professor Quirrell anymore," Hermione whispered during History of Magic class. "He is our teacher, after all."
Wayne yawned and retorted indifferently, "Then tell me, Miss Granger, what have you learned from this teacher?"
After stammering for a while, Hermione finally found a reason: "Stay away from Vampires?"
"Hah, you know how to amuse me."
Wayne gave a hollow laugh. "You'd be better off learning from me how to deal with Vampires. No tuition fee—just half an hour of massage."
"You're impossible!" The young witch lightly swatted him and dropped the subject of Quirrell.
Truthfully, she didn't care much for the useless Quirrell either. Her admonishment was merely out of respect for a teacher's position.
In secret, Hermione had already written several complaint letters to Dumbledore—about Quirrell, about Professor Binns, and even about Astronomy class disrupting students' sleep.
But Dumbledore only replied to Hermione once, telling her she could sneak a nap during Astronomy class since it wasn't useful anyway.
This left the young witch fuming.
At the lectern, Professor Binns continued his soporific lecture. Today, he recounted the various exploits of wizards aiding the Greek city-states in their campaigns against Persia during ancient times. What should have been an epic tale became dull and tedious under his narration.
Wayne's eyes were deep in thought as he considered Quirrell's recent behaviour. It seemed he had ulterior motives regarding Ho-Oh. Was it Voldemort's doing?