A significant portion of human nature is predetermined at birth.
Coupled with one's upbringing and life experiences, the other half—shaped by observation and growth—gradually forms one's worldview.
But Tom? He was beyond saving.
Merope Gaunt had ensnared the handsome Muggle Tom Riddle Sr. with a love potion, and the influence of the drug during their union had already sown corruption.
By the time Tom was born, Merope was gravely ill, eventually dying on the orphanage's doorstep.
Tom's very existence was a tragedy.
Add to that his orphanage years and Slytherin House's long-standing prejudice against non-pure-bloods.
Thus emerged Tom Riddle—selfish, cruel, insatiably greedy, yet riddled with deep-seated insecurity.
Faced with a sixteen-year-old embryonic Dark Lord, Wayne had no intention of completely overhauling Tom's mindset. Instead, he focused on imparting methodology, dialectics, and the interplay between objectivity and subjectivity.
Let him figure it out himself.
How things would unfold, Wayne couldn't say—he wasn't some omniscient deity.
All he knew was that the world would become far more interesting because of it.
For an agent of chaos, that was enough.
Well into the night, Wayne finally stopped writing.
Tom digested their earlier discussion.
The insights were valuable, but many clashed with his own views, leaving his mind in a state of turmoil.
[Young Master Potter, did you truly arrive at these conclusions yourself?]
Tom harboured doubts. Countless Legilimency probes had convinced him he was indeed conversing with his fated rival, 'Harry Potter.' But why would a twelve-year-old boy have such profound insights into the connections between things?
"Of course not, I learned it at school."
"At a Muggle school, any student could chat with you about it."
Wayne silently added a country restriction in his mind.
'I see.'
The moment Tom heard it was Muggle thinking, he instinctively felt uncomfortable and didn't press further.
Then he made another request.
[Young Master Potter, the diary's energy is growing weaker.]
"I gave you that special ink, didn't I?"
[Its effects are diminishing. Helping you with homework consumes too much energy now.]
[Could you bring me some magical creature's blood?]
Tom was thoroughly sick of the odd taste of that dragon blood ink, and the life force within it was dwindling.
To cast powerful magic that could influence 'Harry', this meagre energy simply wasn't enough.
When 'Harry' remained silent, Tom added:
[It doesn't need to be particularly rare. Just more variety would suffice.]
"Fine, I'll buy some for you in Diagon Alley."
Wayne eventually agreed.
Though agreeing and actually doing it were two different matters.
For the following week, Tom kept asking, but Wayne always evaded the question, never fulfilling his promise.
...
Saturday.
Another Quidditch match day at school.
As December approached, the air grew increasingly cold. Players from both houses wore thick jumpers and woollen trousers beneath their match robes.
Fortunately, there was no rain today, and visibility remained decent – at least Snape's scheming hadn't gone entirely to waste.
Before the match, Wayne had actually considered summoning heavy rain just to spite Snape.
But remembering it would be the players suffering, not Snape himself, he reluctantly abandoned the idea.
Notably, Dumbledore, who hadn't been seen publicly for quite some time, attended the match, seated between Snape and Professor McGonagall.
At Madam Hooch's whistle, players from both teams rose into the air on their brooms.
Slytherin's uniform Nimbus 2001 brooms quickly gave them the advantage – their speed far outstripped the older Cleansweeps and Comets.
Even with Oliver Wood's desperate defending and several spectacular saves, the score soon reached 80-10.
Commentator Lee Jordan said worriedly, "Time's running out for Gryffindor. If Harry Potter doesn't catch the Golden Snitch soon, their chances of winning grow slimmer by the minute."
Malfoy smirked triumphantly. His eyes weren't on the Snitch at all, only on Harry, who kept trying to shake him off.
The two Seekers were practically glued together – wherever Harry flew, Malfoy was sure to be within five metres.
A Bludger whistled past with a gust of wind, making Malfoy go pale as he hastily ducked.
The Bludger continued unchecked, heading straight for Harry, who deftly dodged the danger.
But to Harry's surprise, the Bludger braked sharply not far away, turned around, and came charging back at him.
From then on, that Bludger seemed to have singled him out. The twins also noticed Harry's predicament and quickly flew to his side, flanking him like guardians on either side, repeatedly batting away the Bludgers with their bats.
Harry couldn't even see the Golden Snitch anymore—just their swinging arms.
In the stands, Dumbledore glanced at Snape beside him.
"Are you doubting me?" Snape's temple twitched, visibly wounded by Dumbledore's gaze.
"Of course not. I was merely wondering why you haven't intervened."
Dumbledore spoke in a voice meant only for the two of them.
"Last year, you were the one who saved Harry from Quirrell."
"You said it yourself—last year. There's no Quirrell this time, and the Headmaster is right here. Why should the Head of Slytherin step in to solve Gryffindor's problems?" Snape retorted coldly.
The Bludger was clearly cursed.
But compared to a broomstick going rogue, it was nothing—just a broken bone at worst.
"I'm not suited to intervene either," Dumbledore said, shaking his head slightly.
"In that case..." His gaze drifted to the student stands, where Hufflepuff and Slytherin sections met.
There, Wayne was sitting with Astoria.
Watching Harry's perilous flight, the silver-haired girl gasped.
"Potter's flying skills are amazing—like something out of a circus."
The odd comparison drew laughter from those nearby, and Wayne couldn't help but sigh.
Harry was undoubtedly a prodigy as a Seeker, but he seemed cursed when it came to Quidditch.
Every year, something went wrong.
Last year, it was Quirrell. This year, Dobby. Next year, the Dementors.
Suddenly, a paper crane fluttered over and landed in Wayne's hand, unfolding itself.
Astoria noticed and leaned in curiously, peering at the writing.
[Helping others is the noblest quality of Hufflepuff.]
"Who sent this?" she blinked.
"Who else?" Wayne smirked, turning to look at the teachers' stand where Dumbledore was smiling at him.
Wayne had half a mind to ignore it, but then a thought struck him. He flipped the paper over, inscribed a line with his magical power, refolded it into a crane, and sent it back.
Snape had been watching their exchange and caught the reply.
[Lend me the Sorting Hat for a couple of days.]
"The Sorting Hat?" Snape frowned, baffled.
"What does he want with the Sorting Hat?"
Snape refused to believe Wayne would do anything without purpose. If he wanted the hat, there had to be a deeper meaning.
But wasn't it just a tattered old hat for sorting?
"Perhaps Mr Lawrence wishes to chat with a friend. He gets along quite well with the Sorting Hat."
Dumbledore mused for two seconds before offering the flimsy excuse.
Clearly, Snape wasn't convinced, still deep in thought.
Only after receiving confirmation did Wayne's lips curl into a smile. Through telepathy, he reached out to Gardevoir, who was reading inside his suitcase.
"Gardevoir!"
Five minutes later, the rogue Bludger finally returned to normal.
Malfoy, who had been circling Harry to mock him, was caught off guard and took a direct hit, nearly tumbling off his broom.
Seizing the moment, Harry snatched the Golden Snitch hovering right above Malfoy's head.
"Game over!" Lee Jordan bellowed excitedly. "At the final moment, Harry Potter showed his killer instinct, winning Gryffindor one hundred and fifty points!"
"One hundred and sixty to one hundred and fifty, Gryffindor defeats Slytherin!"
Marcus Flint threw his broom to the ground in fury as he landed, shouting at Malfoy.
...
What happened next, Wayne didn't witness.
When the match ended, he quietly withdrew from the pitch and returned to the castle, making his way to the Headmaster's Office.
Inside, Dumbledore was already seated in his customary place.
"Mr Lawrence, please sit."
Wayne nodded and took the seat opposite the elderly wizard. "Headmaster, it's been a while. Where have you been gallivanting off to?"
Dumbledore smiled as tea and pastries appeared on the table.
"Visiting an old friend. Professor Trelawney's prophecy was rather intriguing, though I'm afraid my dull mind couldn't decipher it."
"Did you find your answer then?" Wayne didn't touch the tea, asking with keen interest.
Regarding Trelawney's prophecy, Wayne had also consulted Nicolas Flamel.
While primarily a master alchemist, Nicolas was also skilled in divination. Paired with an ancient crystal ball from ruins, his prophetic abilities were formidable.
Yet even Nicolas couldn't make sense of it, knowing less than Wayne himself did.
After all, Wayne was partly responsible.
As for whom Dumbledore had visited...
Need one even ask? It could only be the resident of Nurmengard.
A man who'd foreseen the birth of the Fat Man and Little Boy decades in advance could rightly be called a prophet.
"Nothing gained," Dumbledore sighed. "That old friend's prophetic gifts are... particular. He only sees what interests him or what he feels strongly about."
"He showed no interest in Sybill's prediction."
"Right." Wayne pursed his lips. The tangled history between those two was too complex to unravel.
Snap!
Wayne snapped his fingers. With a sharp crack, Gardevoir appeared alongside a subdued house-elf.
"My, what formidable magical power," Dumbledore remarked, observing Gardevoir.
"Might you introduce us?"
"Gardevoir, my chief steward."
"Gardevoir!"
"A pleasure, Miss Gardevoir."
Gardevoir curtsied gracefully as Dumbledore responded with a smile.
Every man has his secrets, and the more remarkable the man, the more numerous they tend to be.
Prying too deeply would only damage his good relationship with Wayne.
"Professor, I've delivered your package, so I'll take my leave."
Wayne walked over to the Sorting Hat and picked it up.
"Lawrence boy! What do you think you're doing?" the hat exclaimed indignantly.
"Professor Dumbledore's lending you to me for a few days," Wayne explained truthfully. "Payment for catching this house-elf."
"Is this true, Dumbledore?"
The Sorting Hat's voice brimmed with disbelief. "You'd just hand me over like this?"
"Mr Lawrence will treat you well," Dumbledore reassured the hat, though he added quietly to Wayne, "Do be kind to the Sorting Hat. Without it, next term's ceremony would prove rather troublesome."
"Don't worry," Wayne winked. "I'll return it in perfect condition."
...
Inside the small wooden cabin, Wayne placed his hat on the table.
The usually upright tip of the hat drooped pathetically - the Sorting Hat was deeply wounded.
He had actually been used as a bargaining chip. Never before had any Headmaster treated him this way.
"Lawrence boy, what have you brought me here for?" the Sorting Hat asked weakly.
"Old Hat," Wayne propped his chin on his hand as he looked at it. "I read in a book that you're hiding a great secret."
"What great secret?" The Sorting Hat was baffled. "I don't know anything about that."
"Stop pretending. Gryffindor's sword is inside you."
Wayne flipped the Sorting Hat over and began rummaging inside with his hand.
"Ah, stop! Stop that at once!"
"Too rough! Can't you be gentler? There's nothing in here!"
The Sorting Hat protested loudly, but Wayne ignored it entirely, meticulously exploring every corner of the hat's interior.
"Wait!" As if being tickled, the Sorting Hat burst into laughter. "Godric really... really didn't put that blasted sword... inside me!"
"Impossible," Wayne said with absolute certainty. "The book said the sword can be drawn as long as you give your approval."
"Come on, Old Hat, we're mates. Don't be so narrow-minded."
"Even though I'm a Hufflepuff, I've got Gryffindor qualities too. Hand over the sword."
Wayne sounded wounded as his hands continued their relentless search.
"It's really, really not inside me!"
The Sorting Hat shrieked, "I'm just a portal! The sword can be summoned through me. Now put me down!"
"Should've said so earlier." Having gotten the answer he wanted, Wayne finally released the limp hat.
"Then summon the sword. Let me have a proper look."
"You wretched boy," the Sorting Hat said weakly. "I should've sorted you into Slytherin!"
The hat, which had never admitted to making a mistake in sorting, was thoroughly defeated.
"Only a wizard I approve of can summon that sword."
"You don't approve of me?" Wayne looked at the hat in astonishment.
The Sorting Hat fell silent.
'After nearly breaking me, you still expect my approval?'
"Come on, Old Hat, we're pals. Don't be stingy," Wayne poked the hat. "Just let me see what Gryffindor's sword looks like."
"No. Return me to Dumbledore."
"I'll buy you a full set of maintenance tools."
"Won't work. Dumbledore will buy them for me later. Give it up."
No matter how Wayne pleaded, the Sorting Hat refused. Then his eyes fell on a silver flower left on the table from preparing Christmas gifts for the girls—exquisitely crafted.
Wayne picked it up and pressed it against the hat's surface, admiring it for a moment before praising,
"Looks absolutely stunning."
"Really?" The Sorting Hat felt strangely delighted.
In a thousand years, no one had ever thought to decorate it.
"Truly. Instantly much more fashionable."
Heaven knew how powerful the word "fashionable" was to a thousand-year-old hat. The Sorting Hat was overjoyed.
But then Wayne removed the silver flower.
"Let me see Gryffindor's sword, and I'll give this back to you—even fix it permanently with a Sticking Charm."
"Don't think you can bribe me!" the Sorting Hat shouted indignantly.
Clang!
The sound of something heavy clattering came from within it.
Wayne: "..."