Half an hour later, Wayne walked out of the Charms classroom, slightly exhausted. Professor Flitwick's demands had been excessive.
As if competing with Professor McGonagall, Flitwick had required him to cast spells with an absurd level of proficiency. Even then, the professor seemed somewhat dissatisfied.
"Lawrence, your talent is being wasted. Why haven't you learned the Imperturbable Charm yet?"
"I'll exempt you from homework, but you must master this spell by Halloween."
Wayne nearly spat blood.
That spell was N.E.W.T.-level and extremely obscure—wasn't it normal that he hadn't learned it?
Still, to get out of another assignment, Wayne agreed.
The same scene played out again in Herbology class. Professor Sprout was impressed by his extensive knowledge of plants and their properties.
But she didn't waive his homework.
Herbology assignments were already minimal, and writing essays wasn't the focus—practical work in class mattered more.
When Hermione heard about Wayne's day, she was both envious and disheartened. Seeing the determined glint in the young witch's eyes, Wayne knew Hermione was about to become even more competitive.
...
As night fell, the Hufflepuff common room buzzed with its usual liveliness. Students eagerly shared their homework, pooling their efforts to outsmart their teachers.
When Wayne appeared, the room briefly quieted. The Badgers watched him with admiration as he headed for the barrel door.
Everyone knew Wayne was heading to Snape's remedial lessons, which would last until Christmas.
His sheer 'bravery' earned their collective respect. Potions class alone was torture enough—the gloomy atmosphere, Snape's sharp tongue, and the foul-smelling potions made it the most dreaded subject among young witches and wizards, bar none.
Wayne was actually rushing to 'Snape's Personal Torture Chamber' for remedial lessons, leaving many concerned about his mental state.
...
Thud! Thud! Thud!
Inside the office, Snape, who had been reading a newspaper, didn't even lift an eyelid at the knocking. "Enter!"
The door swung open, and Wayne walked in, casually taking a seat in the only vacant chair as if he owned the place.
Seeing Snape engrossed in his newspaper, Wayne remained silent, simply sitting there while surveying the room's furnishings.
Snape's office was quite spacious, nearly as large as the Potions classroom. However, there wasn't much room to move around, as it was crammed with display cases and cabinets.
These were filled with all sorts of jars and bottles containing everything imaginable—even a few eyeballs and severed arms floating in preserving solutions, creating an eerie and macabre atmosphere.
But in Wayne's eyes, these were all potential goldmines!
Lacewing flies—six for two Galleons.
Pufferfish eyes—one for four Galleons.
Boomslang skin—a small piece for thirty Galleons.
Graphorn horns—one for a hundred and fifty Galleons, and even then, they were nearly impossible to find.
Just as expected. No Potions Master was ever poor.
Wayne found himself thinking the same thing he had in the Headmaster's office.
'Rob the bastard.'
Rumour had it Snape even had a dedicated storeroom for rare ingredients. Who knew what treasures lay hidden there?
If he could loot that place clean, he wouldn't need to worry about materials for years.
"If anything goes missing, you'll be the first person I come looking for." Snape's icy voice cut through the air. "Lawrence, rein in those greedy eyes of yours. You're here for a lesson, not a shopping spree."
Unnoticed, Snape had set aside his newspaper and now stood silently beside Wayne.
"Professor, you misunderstand me," Wayne replied smoothly. "I'm a Hufflepuff—why would I steal from you?"
"Though... would you consider selling that Boomslang skin? I've sent several letters to Diagon Alley, but they're always out of stock."
Snape's breath hitched momentarily before steadying. "Want some? Bring me Phoenix tears in exchange."
"Never mind then." Wayne shook his head. "Ho-Oh is my dearest companion—my first-ever pet."
"How could mere Boomslang skin compare to her tears?" He paused dramatically.
"You'd need to pay extra!"
"...?"
Snape nearly threw his back out from that sudden swerve—but then came a surge of excitement. "Lawrence, name your price."
For many wizards, Galleons were second only to wands in necessity. But for true powerhouses, they were just numbers.
Priceless artefacts couldn't be bought with gold—be it the Deathly Hallows, the Philosopher's Stone, or the Pensieve. Or, in this case, the tears of Wayne's Ho-Oh.
To Snape, even the Hallows might pale in value compared to Ho-Oh's tears.
"Money's too vulgar," Wayne said, shaking his head again. "You're my professor—I couldn't possibly take your Galleons."
"I won't ask for much—just a 70-30 split on any potions brewed with Phoenix tears."
"Thirty per cent?" Snape frowned. "Unacceptable. Twenty at most."
"Professor," Wayne 'kindly' reminded him, "the seventy per cent is mine."
Snape's face turned livid.
'I only get thirty? That'd make me no better than a beggar on my knees!'
"Enough wasting time." To stop himself from hexing Wayne into next week, Snape forcibly changed the subject: "Let me first assess the potion-making skills of Hufflepuff's little prodigy."
Snape was, of course, aware of the other professors taking turns to test Wayne.
However, he wasn't particularly impressed.
Who wasn't a genius? Back in his school days, he had invented countless spells himself, even including intangible Dark Magic.
Facing Snape's questions, Wayne didn't hold back in the slightest.
When it came to pure theoretical knowledge, Wayne, with his Memory Palace, could recite the origins and properties of countless ingredients as if they were second nature.
And every potion-brewing technique could be recalled flawlessly.
After over ten minutes of relentless questioning, Snape delivered his verdict: "Merely book-smart, lacking independent thought.
"The content in textbooks is antiquated. If you blindly trust them, your achievements in life will be severely limited."
Faced with Snape's sarcasm, Wayne silently raised a middle finger in his mind.
'One day, I'll have you under my thumb.'
With a flick of his wide sleeve, Snape summoned a blackboard covered in dense instructions for a potion.
"Fetch the ingredients yourself—only one portion allowed."
"You have two hours to produce a complete potion. If you fail..."
Snape sneered, leaving the threat unfinished as he returned to his seat and picked up a magazine.
After reading the contents of the blackboard, Wayne's lips twitched.
The Hate Potion was a magical concoction that forced the drinker to reveal their worst self, the polar opposite of the Love Potion.
He had seen this potion in 'Advanced Potion-Making'. By standard classification, it was material meant for the sixth or seventh years.
The brewing process was exceedingly complex—not only were the ingredient preparations highly precise, but the most critical step involved stirring with a wand.
While stirring, one also had to channel a moderate amount of magical power. Bloody 'moderate'—why can't they just use exact measurements?
Was Snape deliberately assigning an advanced potion to discourage him?
Suppressing the urge to whip out his wand and engage Snape in a spell-slinging duel, Wayne obediently went to gather the ingredients.
Salamander blood, Griffin claw powder, Dragon liver, dried nettles.
Following Snape's instructions step by step, Wayne meticulously prepared the ingredients, even transfiguring his wand into a ruler for millimetre-perfect precision.
This earned a grudging nod of approval from Snape.
In his mind, potion-making was a discipline that balanced rigour with creativity, utterly captivating.
And the prerequisite for creativity was mastering the teachings of those superior to you before developing your own ideas.
Though Wayne and he didn't see eye to eye, the boy at least knew what was truly beneficial, unlike Potter, who was a hundred times worse.
Wasn't this the very quality a true Slytherin should possess? Obedience to the strong, thirst for power, and the ambition to become stronger.
Thinking of the pure-blood students in his own house—so full of themselves yet so lacking in real skill—made Snape's liver ache.
"The liquid should turn pale green. Only after the bubbles vanish can you add the Dragon liver."
At the reminder, Wayne immediately paused, waiting until the last bubble dissipated before decisively tossing in the Dragon liver—stir-frying it.
No, brewing it.
Two hours had passed, and the brewing of the Hate Potion reached its critical final stage. With Snape's occasional reminders and corrections, the previous steps had gone off without a hitch. Now, only the last step remained: stirring with a moderate amount of magical power.
This step involved fusing the properties of various ingredients through magical power to complete the potion. It was also the most challenging part.
The amount of magical power to add and the speed of stirring with the wand were entirely based on experience. Wayne could only proceed with painstaking caution, controlling the speed—neither too fast nor too slow—relying solely on his intuition.
Bang!
A plume of crimson smoke erupted, rapidly spreading to fill the entire office.
Snape frowned and waved his wand. "Ventus!"
A gust of wind dispersed the smoke, and Wayne also ceased his movements.
The Hate Potion now bore a dark, blood-like hue, clearly not something benign.
Snape approached to inspect it, even dipping his wand into the mixture, before remarking with evident dissatisfaction:
"All that effort, wasted!"
"Your execution of the previous steps was flawless. Why did you add so much magical power at the end?"
"It's barely passable."
In Snape's mind, a potion that wasn't perfect held no value. With a flick of his wand, he disposed of the cauldron's contents as if they were rubbish.
Wayne shrugged helplessly. "Professor, what can I say? What's an 'appropriate' amount of magical power for you might just be a 'small' amount for me."
"If you let me brew it again, I'm sure I could do better."
He then shook his head with a hint of disdain. "Ah, having too much magical power isn't always a good thing, is it?"
Hearing such a boastful remark, Snape's chest visibly heaved with anger as he ground out two words through clenched teeth:
"Class dismissed!"
...
Ejected from the office, Wayne wandered the deserted corridors.
He had no intention of returning straight to the common room. Instead, he headed for the second-floor library. Snape had mentioned a few book titles earlier, along with the potion he'd need to brew for the next lesson.
Wayne recalled that two of those books were available in the library and placed in the Restricted Section, no less. Old Dumbledore really had a way about him.
Books that could easily be purchased outside were somehow deemed restricted here.
Pausing at the library's entrance, Wayne hesitated.
'There's someone inside?'
Despite his numerous nighttime excursions, he'd encountered plenty of young wizards in other places—some sneaking to the kitchens, others playing with the armour statues on the fifth floor, and even couples stealing away to the towers for romantic trysts.
There were even those who fancied a game of Quidditch in the dead of night.
But stumbling upon students during a library night visit was a first.
Casting a Silencing Charm on the door, Wayne pushed it open and stepped inside. He was curious to see which house's student was so studious.
"Fred? George?"
The sight of two figures skulking in the Restricted Section made Wayne exclaim in surprise.
Hearing their names called, the twins jumped in fright.
About to bolt, they paused, recognising the voice. Fred ventured cautiously, "Wayne?"
"It's me." Wayne lifted the Disillusionment Charm, stepping out from between the bookshelves as if materialising from thin air.
George clutched his chest. "Next time, could you drop the Disillusionment before speaking? My heart nearly leapt out just now."
Only then did he register what had happened, gaping at the boy before him. "Wait—you've mastered the Disillusionment Charm already?!"
Wayne tilted his head. "Is it difficult?"
The twins fell silent.
Never mind. Wayne would never understand their struggle. A night-wandering essential like this, of course, the twins had tried learning it.
Back in their second year, they'd spent a solid two months on the Disillusionment Charm before giving up out of sheer frustration.
"What brings you two to the library for a night stroll?" Wayne crossed his arms, puzzled.
"Only because you said all those advanced spells were in the Restricted Section," Fred sighed, pulling a bulging money pouch from his robes and handing it to Wayne. "But you've got perfect timing."
"Earnings from the quills. Three hundred Galleons total—we kept our thirty, so that's two-seventy in there."
"Take it quick. We didn't dare leave this much in the dorm—too risky."
"This fast?" Wayne accepted the pouch, stunned. "A hundred and fifty quills sold in just two days?"
George smirked. "We're the Weasley twins. Hand us a job like this, and it's child's play."
Fred grinned wickedly. "Even Percy got swindled out of a term's allowance for two Book-Copying Quills."
"Percy had that much spare cash?"
"He's the model student—top of the year. Mum gives him extra for prizes and pocket money."
"Though he's probably tapped out now. Face went as dark as a Troll's, it did."
Back and forth they went, until even Wayne was laughing.
These two were proper businessmen—no mercy, not even for their own brother. After promising another batch of quills tomorrow and pointing out a few useful books, Wayne turned to his search.
By 1 a.m., the twins were flagging. With a quick farewell, they left the library.
An hour later, Wayne followed.
He'd already used the Book-Copying Quills to transcribe several books onto parchment—plenty to study later.
A shame the library's books were all enchanted against direct duplication with the Duplication Charm. One spell would've done the job. Still, it worked in his favour.
Because books couldn't be copied easily, his quills had a market. Take Percy: a single book costs several Galleons, but one quill could copy a dozen. No wonder he'd gritted his teeth and bought two.
...
Back in the dorm, his roommates slept soundly, undisturbed. Wayne cast the usual Silencing Charm on Toby's snores, washed up, and climbed into bed.
His points had climbed past two thousand again—barely three or four days since his last draw.
'No point hoarding.'
With a thought, he went straight for a ten-pull.
Only one purple this time, but the reward was solid: an Alchemy experience tome.
As it dissolved, flashes of intricate experiments flooded his mind—vivid, as if he'd performed them himself. It took a full ten minutes before these images finally ceased, merging into his mind as memories.
Several problems that had previously troubled him were now effortlessly resolved. Wayne felt rather exhilarated—it seemed his luck today wasn't half bad.
The second ten-draw further proved that his luck was indeed on his side, yielding two purple-tier cards in one go.
The first was an advanced spell derived from Finite Incantatem—the End of All Spells. The second was a skill hailing from another world.