Quirrell's mind had been addled by Voldemort's possession, making it risky for him to teach and potentially expose them.
To remain at Hogwarts, Voldemort was truly going all out. Though he was merely lecturing now, without using any magical power, for a fragmented soul that struggled to string together a few words, even this was a considerable strain.
When not needed, Voldemort usually remained dormant to conserve energy. Fortunately, Quirrell's stash had already been emptied, exchanged for precious materials, along with Phoenix tears provided by Dumbledore.
This had restored a fraction of Voldemort's strength, enough to see him through this period.
"Defence is the core of everything."
Quirrell—or rather, Voldemort—was the type to commit fully to whatever he did. Since he was now the one teaching, half-hearted efforts were unacceptable.
If word got out, it would tarnish the Dark Lord's reputation!
While maintaining Quirrell's persona as much as possible, Voldemort still imparted genuine knowledge.
"Survival—that is the foremost consideration when facing danger. So-called defence isn't just about deflecting an enemy's attacks with spells."
"Evasion, even retreat, is also part of defence."
"Mr Lawrence…" Quirrell suddenly called Wayne's name and posed a question: "If a Dark Wizard confronts you, what is the most correct course of action?"
Wayne rose unhurriedly and replied, "Assess their intentions, gauge the disparity in strength. If a fight is unavoidable, then give it your all."
A flicker of appreciation passed through Voldemort's eyes.
He did despise Wayne—after all, it was Wayne who had forced him into this desperate position, compelling him to take the risk of appearing in the open. But he wouldn't deny someone's talent due to personal grudges either. Only by acknowledging an enemy's strength could one demonstrate their own exceptionalism upon defeating them.
Voldemort had done precisely that.
He'd lavishly highlighted Potter's uniqueness, even referring to him as 'the Boy Who Lived' himself.
All to prove one thing.
That he could defeat the so-called Chosen One and shatter destiny's shackles. Though ultimately, he'd failed.
Being unaware of Wayne's exact capabilities, Voldemort currently viewed Wayne as far from enemy material in his eyes. Yet that didn't preclude his admiration.
Rationality, talent, methods, charisma. Each aspect was peerless.
Wayne bore some resemblance to his younger self.
"Quite correct, Mr Lawrence," Quirrell had Wayne sit down. "Before combat, one must clarify why they fight."
"Is it to survive? To defeat the enemy? Or perhaps—"
Voldemort's lips quirked briefly before smoothing, leaving the thought unfinished. Watching the young wizards utterly captivated by Voldemort's lecture, Wayne felt profoundly unsettled.
'What exactly are they?'
Voldemort's personally taught disciples? The Azkaban reserve squad? But credit where due—Dumbledore's judgement was truly poor. This teaching standard got rejected for Defence Against the Dark Arts?
Voldemort's teachings contained no specific magical knowledge, yet were critically foundational.
Beyond comparison to merely learning spells.
Cultivating students' fundamental understanding of Defence Against the Dark Arts, even Dark Magic itself.
Great oaks from little acorns grow—with a fortified mindset and spirit, everything becomes twice as effective with half the effort.
As Wayne had taught Hermione, focused thinking and a clear purpose vastly improved spellcasting success.
'Brilliant lecturing.'
Even he'd been drawn in. No wonder so many had followed Voldemort back then.
"Clear defensive definitions make combat's inevitability demand seizing initiative to suppress the enemy."
"Initiative offers flexibility—advancing to subdue enemies, retreating to preserve oneself."
"Suppressing the enemy relies not solely on powerful magic."
"Wisdom and experience equally empower you."
"A glance, a gesture—all reveal enemy intentions and impending spells..."
The lecture ceased abruptly with the bell. Voldemort drank leisurely before assigning homework.
"Two-foot essay: Maintaining Composure in Combat Through Observing Enemy Cues."
"Class dismissed."
The young wizards awoke as if from dreams, erupting in thunderous applause.
Their ecstatic cheers could've lifted the ceiling, audible classrooms away.
"Magnificent!"
"Professor, is this your true standard?"
They were overjoyed—not one spell taught, yet they'd gained something far more precious.
Their sole grievance?
Two-foot essays... Were these death warrants? Sixty centimetres!
Departing reluctantly, some already anticipated the next Defence class.
...
"Mr Lawrence, a moment."
Wayne halted amidst the crowd.
The badgers instantly formed a protective circle, assuming Quirrell sought retribution for earlier complaints. The lesson was well-delivered, but the little badgers wouldn't abandon their friend.
"Don't misunderstand," Quirrell guessed their thoughts. "I just have some matters to discuss with Lawrence."
Wayne also persuaded them: "It's fine, Professor Quirrell won't do anything to me." Though he said this, his wand was already gripped within his wide sleeve, Dynamic Perception silently activated.
If Voldemort dared make a move, Wayne would react instantly.
An injured old Voldemort was someone Wayne would treat cautiously, but never fear. Hearing Wayne's words, everyone reluctantly left.
Soon, only Wayne and Quirrell remained in the classroom.
"Lawrence, though I didn't teach any specific spells in this lesson, it could barely be considered passable."
Quirrell's tone was exceedingly mild. "I wonder if you could spare me some Phoenix tears? My curse hasn't fully healed yet."
"Professor, perhaps after you teach us a spell next lesson?" Wayne said with a smile.
'Damn brat! One day, I'll obliterate you!'
Voldemort cursed inwardly, though his expression remained unchanged as he pulled out a slip of parchment. "This is a powerful spell I once discovered in ancient ruins—so formidable even I haven't mastered it. Do you think it's sufficient?"
Wayne took it and skimmed the contents.
[Lightning Net: Weave threads of lightning into a net, effectively restraining enemies while delivering considerable damage upon contact.]
Talk about perfect timing.
Just last night, he had drawn the Thunderlord's Decree, and today Voldemort delivered a lightning-based spell.
Wayne cheerfully pocketed the spell. "Then thank you, Professor."
He wouldn't recklessly attempt to learn it—he planned to have Dumbledore inspect it first. At a glance, the incantation seemed fine, but who knew what traps Voldemort might have hidden within?
Though his strength wasn't what it once was, Voldemort's mastery of magic remained unparalleled.
Having received his reward, Wayne readily handed over the tears.
Quirrell snatched them quickly, as if fearing Wayne might change his mind—but his expression soon darkened.
"These aren't from your Phoenix?"
"Nope," Wayne said cheerfully. "Recently, my Ho-Oh developed conjunctivitis and can't produce tears. These are Fawkes' tears. They're both Phoenixes—shouldn't make much difference, right?"
From the start, Wayne had never intended to give Voldemort Ho-Oh's tears. Lately, Fawkes had become Ho-Oh's underling—getting tears from him was all too easy.
'Bloody hell, a Phoenix with conjunctivitis? Why don't you just say your Phoenix has heatstroke lately?'
Voldemort clenched his teeth, afraid he might lose control and whip out his wand to give Wayne a couple of knocks to the head.
"Professor," Wayne observed him, "you don't seem too pleased with the situation? How about I take the tears back, and once Ho-Oh recovers, I'll help you collect some more?"
"N-no, that won't be necessary." Voldemort took a deep breath. If he handed them back, who knew how long Wayne would drag this out? By then, he might not even get Fawkes' tears.
"For now, let's proceed with these. If your Phoenix recovers, we can always trade later. I have other advanced magic to offer."
Voldemort had no choice but to keep dangling incentives.
Wayne nodded but didn't rush to leave. Seizing the opportunity while Voldemort was present, he fired off a few more questions—when else would he get the chance to milk him dry?
...
Fifteen minutes later, Wayne left the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, satisfied, and headed to the Great Hall for lunch.
As he took his seat, words materialised on his plate:
"Mr Lawrence, would you mind joining a lonely old man for afternoon tea? I shall await your arrival in my office after class."
The handwriting faded after Wayne read it twice, as though it had never been there. Glancing up, he caught Dumbledore at the High Table giving him a playful wink. Understanding, Wayne nodded slightly in acknowledgement.
'No idea what the old man is scheming, being so cryptic.'
Still, Wayne agreed. Initially, he'd planned to take Cho and Hermione to the edge of the Forbidden Forest to see the Chomping Cabbages, but that would have to wait a little longer.
After lunch, when he told the girls, they were envious.
Having afternoon tea with the Headmaster—such an honour was unheard of, except for Wayne.
"You're putting Dumbledore on too high a pedestal," Wayne chuckled. "Just relax. He's just a lively old man at heart."
Cho rolled her eyes.
This was Dumbledore—the legendary wizard featured in textbooks and historical records, the greatest white wizard of the century. Who could possibly treat him with such casualness?
...
That afternoon, in Potions class, Snape scowled as he outlined the lesson.
Earlier that morning, Gryffindor's house points had finally hit zero, but Snape's fury still hadn't fully subsided.
Every time he saw Wayne, he was reminded of the boy's meddling words in the Headmaster's office.
"Materials arranged in the wrong order—five points from Hufflepuff!"
Wayne casually swapped the toad bile and flobberworm mucus. Deducting points was as good as adding them—he'd be thrilled if Snape went all out and docked him a few hundred.
"Lawrence," Snape muttered under his breath, audible only to the two of them, "you gave Ho-Oh's tears to Quirrell?"
He'd only learned about the morning's events by eavesdropping on the badgers before class.
Wayne blinked innocently. "Ho-Oh's got conjunctivitis at the moment, so I gave him Fawkes's instead."
"Pfft—"
Snape couldn't suppress a snort. Hannah, thinking she'd misheard, looked up at him in surprise.
"Eyes on your cauldron, not me!"
"Lawrence, control your tagalong—five points from Hufflepuff!"
Snape's expression darkened instantly. After snapping at them, he stalked off.
Hannah's lips trembled, and Wayne quickly reassured her before flipping Snape the bird behind his back.
...
After losing twenty points, Wayne didn't delay and headed straight for the eighth-floor Headmaster's office.
"Lemon—"
Before he could finish the password, the gargoyle stepped aside. "Hurry up, hurry up, I don't want to see you. I nearly got crushed by letters the other day!"
Wayne chuckled, patted the stone beast's head, and entered the office.
A tower of desserts was already laid out on the desk, and steam rose from an exquisite teacup.
"Professor." Without ceremony, Wayne sat opposite Dumbledore, greeted him, took a bite of cheesecake, and sipped the black tea, thoroughly enjoying himself.
Dumbledore watched with twinkling eyes, amused by Wayne's relish. He, too, cherished such moments with students.
Most treated him with too much reverence, becoming stiff in his presence. Only Wayne truly saw him as an ordinary old man.
After polishing off a slice of cake and a cup of tea, Wayne felt replenished. "Professor, what did you call me here for?"
He knew this wasn't just an ordinary afternoon tea.
"Oh, right." Wayne smacked his forehead, belatedly remembering. "Your business can wait. Professor Quirrell gave me this spell this morning, and I can't quite make sense of it. Could you take a look?"
It was a flimsy excuse—he couldn't very well admit he'd noticed something off about Quirrell.
Hearing this, Dumbledore straightened, examining the spell inscribed on the parchment.
After about ten minutes, he suddenly picked up his wand and recited the incantation.
Zap!
A small web of lightning crackled mid-air before dissipating. Dumbledore smiled and handed the parchment back. "The spell is sound."
"A fine charm. Lightning-based spells are rare these days—Quirrell must have unearthed it from some ruins."
"With your talent, you'll master it quickly."
He then explained his insights and some techniques.
Wayne listened intently. No surprise it's Dumbledore—he'd already uncovered so much in such little time.
Soon, Wayne successfully cast the spell himself.
Holding back the full might of the Thunderlord's Decree to keep an ace up his sleeve, his performance was still impressive enough to astonish Dumbledore.
"Mr Lawrence, you are the most outstanding student I've ever taught—perhaps the most gifted in the school's history."
Once, those words had been reserved for Voldemort. But compared to Wayne, even the Dark Lord seemed to pale.
"You flatter me, Professor." Wayne 'shyly' lowered his head. "I'm still far behind you, at least."
In White Magic, Wayne was confident his talent surpassed the old man's.
But in Dark Magic...
This elder was no mere practitioner of light—his mastery of the Dark Arts rivalled his prowess in White Magic.
After all, he was the Dark Magic virtuoso acknowledged by Grindelwald himself, the first Dark Lord.
After exchanging pleasantries, Wayne seized the opportunity to ask more questions while Dumbledore was in high spirits.
Morning lessons with Voldemort, afternoon tutoring from Dumbledore—with two Dark Lord-calibre mentors, Wayne absorbed their knowledge and experience like a parched sponge.
Only after a full class period did he remember Hermione and Cho were waiting for him, steering the conversation back on track. "So, about that..."
Dumbledore began explaining why he'd summoned Wayne. "You previously gifted me a few feathers from Ho-Oh, which are remarkably different from Fawkes'.
"I'm no expert in magical creatures, so I passed one along to an old friend of mine.
"He has considerable expertise in magical creatures—one might even call him the most outstanding in the field.
"Today, I received his reply. He was equally astonished and even wrote a letter for you, which he asked me to deliver."
As Dumbledore spoke, he placed an envelope in front of Wayne. Even without mentioning a name, Wayne had already guessed who this old friend was.
The magical creature expert, the legend of Hufflepuff House, the man most despised by the first Dark Lord.
Newt Scamander!