Sometimes a person's erudition bears no relation to their manners.
Snape exemplified this truth.
When Wayne kindly visited to remind him about the forgotten gift, he was greeted by a Laceration Curse.
Clang!
The invisible blade struck an equally invisible barrier before rebounding into a shoe cabinet, cleaving it neatly in two.
Still seething, Snape fired several more curses in quick succession. Wayne flicked his sleeve, releasing a crimson cloud that swallowed each spell whole.
The scarlet mist advanced relentlessly at Wayne's command, nullifying every hex Snape hurled until it had him cornered.
"What manner of spell is this? No – this transcends mere spellwork!"
Snape's frustration mounted. These were his private quarters – he dared not use destructive magic here. How he longed to incinerate this infernal cloud with cursed flames.
"Professor Dumbledore's magic. Quite practical, wouldn't you agree?"
The handsome youth strolled forward unhurriedly. "Really, Professor, such poor manners. I come bearing gentle reminders about Christmas gifts, and you respond with curses?"
"You tracked me down for this triviality?" Snape's eyes burned crimson.
Half a phial of Phoenix ashes – wasted because of this imbecile.
"Trivial?" Wayne clutched his chest in theatrical anguish. "Can you fathom a young wizard's heartbreak when his thoughtful gift goes unreciprocated?"
"Oh, I think you should understand." The boy suddenly realised, "It's just like love—when your feelings aren't accepted, and you have to watch the woman you love fall into the arms of someone you despise."
"These things are quite common in schools. You must have seen plenty during your own school days."
"Sectumsempra!"
Snape's roar was the reply. The surge of intense emotion caused his magical power to abruptly escalate. An invisible blade sliced through the air with a shriek, even cleaving through the fiery clouds as it hurtled towards Wayne.
Clang!
Clang!
The crisp metallic echoes reverberated through the room. Wayne stood motionless behind his Shield Charm, making no move to retaliate as he quietly endured Snape's outburst.
After what felt like an eternity, Snape was left panting heavily—yet the shield remained steadfastly in place before Wayne.
"Who told you?" Snape glared coldly at the boy before collapsing onto the sofa.
Snape cursed inwardly.
Where did this bastard get such monstrous reserves of magical power?
He'd exhausted himself attacking, and the shield hadn't even budged!
"What are you talking about?" Wayne tilted his head, feigning confusion.
Snape stared intently into his eyes, maintaining a prolonged silence as the two locked gazes.
"Hmph!"
Snape was the first to look away. Surveying the wreckage of the room, he activated a counter-charm, restoring all the damaged furniture to its original state.
"Take whatever catches your eye. Consider it your Christmas gift. Then get out!"
"Is this how you treat beggars?" Wayne said disdainfully.
The combined value of everything in this room couldn't match a single bowl from his own home.
"What exactly do you want?" Snape was nearly driven mad by Wayne.
He couldn't defeat him in a fight, didn't dare to curse him out, and the other party held something he desperately wanted.
He'd rather face Voldemort than get entangled with Wayne any further.
"Since you've asked so directly, I won't stand on ceremony." Wayne flashed a bashful smile. "Well... do you still have any Felix Felicis? Could you spare me a few bottles?"
Snape's breath hitched again.
After a long pause, he turned and fumbled in a hidden compartment, producing a glass vial filled with golden liquid.
"Just this one. Either take it and leave, or kill me and get yourself thrown into Azkaban by Dumbledore. Your choice."
"Fine then." Wayne reluctantly pocketed the vial. One bottle would last him quite a while anyway.
Though he could brew it himself, what a hassle that would be.
A single batch of Felix Felicis required at least three months of meticulous care. One misstep would ruin everything.
Not making use of an available potions master seemed wasteful.
Yet seeing Snape's expression that screamed he'd rather perish together, Wayne felt slightly uneasy.
His earlier words must have triggered some unpleasant memories for his professor, who now looked borderline deranged.
Some damage control was needed.
With this thought, Wayne produced a phial of Phoenix Rebirth Ash.
"Professor, I think I gave you the wrong Christmas present by mistake. I came specifically to deliver the correct one."
Though Snape didn't believe a word of this nonsense, his expression softened considerably.
At least he'd gained something to compensate for his losses.
He even poured Wayne a cup of tea, gesturing for him to sit.
But seeing the tea stains on the cup, Wayne shook his head vigorously, waving his hands in refusal.
He suspected Snape was trying to poison him - and had substantial evidence to support this theory.
...
Two days later.
Wayne's broom was delivered right on schedule.
Gold-engraved with the serial number 00001, it bore Wayne's name and the Lawrence family crest.
The polished and waxed wood gleamed smooth and glossy, offering excellent grip.
After briefly adjusting to its speed and braking, Wayne shot off at full velocity towards Paris, hundreds of miles away.
In just an hour and a half, he descended into Nicolas Flamel's estate.
"Grandmother Perenelle, I'm here!" Guided by a House-elf, Wayne strode into the entrance hall and called out loudly.
Unexpectedly, he spotted a surprising figure beside Perenelle.
"Fleur?"
The silver-haired girl's cascading locks shimmered brilliantly as she chatted cheerfully with Perenelle.
Seeing Wayne, she rose in delighted surprise: "You've finally arrived?"
Suddenly aware of her own enthusiasm, she quickly sat back down, pressing her knees together nervously, her fair face flushing pink.
Wayne and Fleur's relationship resembled that of online friends.
They frequently video-called, yet their real-life encounters remained few, though each left deep impressions.
This sudden meeting elicited completely genuine delight.
But upon reflection, it felt somewhat awkward.
Perenelle patted the half-Veela girl's hand, chiding Wayne: "What took you so long? Fleur came early, especially to wait for you."
Upon hearing the elderly lady's words, Fleur lowered her head even further.
"Heh, I came by broomstick, so I was a bit late." Wayne moved to Perenelle's other side, glancing around.
"Grandmother Perenelle, where's Nicolas?"
"He's gone to watch a film. He'll be back soon." Perenelle's smile deepened as she looked at the golden pair before her.
"I'm rather tired myself—I'll take a nap first. You two chat."
With that, Perenelle vanished, leaving only Wayne and Fleur behind.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Wayne found it strange. They had chatted perfectly fine over video, even with Fleur sending him... certain favours. Yet face-to-face, he found himself at a loss for words.
"So... how's Gabrielle?" he finally managed, grasping for a topic.
Fleur gritted her teeth, lifting her head to glare at him with a mix of embarrassment and irritation. "All you care about is Gabrielle, is it? Why not ask how I've been?"
"We literally spoke the day before yesterday—why ask?" Wayne blurted without thinking.
This only angered her further. Unleashing the innate magic all girls seemed to master, she pinched his arm.
Wayne winced dramatically.
"Stop pretending. I barely used any strength," the girl huffed.
"It's the emotional pain," Wayne said, feigning hurt. "The moment Grandmother Perenelle left, you started bullying me. My heart aches."
"Pfft!" Fleur couldn't hold back a laugh at his antics.
The initial awkwardness dissipated somewhat.
"I got the Christmas gift you sent me. It's brilliant—I've been carrying it around these past few days." Wayne pulled out the hand warmer Fleur had given him, proving he kept it close.
"I've been wearing mine too." Fleur turned her head slightly, revealing a glittering hair accessory nestled in her waterfall of silver hair.
"Beautiful. It suits you," the boy praised.
They quickly slipped back into their video-call dynamic, chatting freely—until Nicolas returned, interrupting their conversation.
By then, the distance between them had shrunk from several feet to near-clinging proximity.
"Have I returned at an inopportune moment?" Nicolas paused, noticing their nearly clasped hands.
Fleur scrambled to her feet, flustered. "Mr. Flamel!"
"Relax, child." Nicolas smiled kindly. "With just us two old folks at home, Wayne must find it dull. Why not stay? Keep him company."
Though tempted by the offer, Fleur couldn't quite bring herself to accept. After sharing a meal, she had a House-elf escort her back, planning to return the next day.
"Don't forget to bring Gabrielle."
Wayne couldn't resist reminding her as she left.
Fleur rolled her eyes hard but didn't refuse.
...
"Perenelle mentioned you came by broomstick?" Nicolas sipped his tea. "What inspired this sudden whimsy?"
"Got a new toy—had to test it out, didn't I?" Wayne grinned, explaining his investment in the Firebolt company.
"A broomstick with a hundred-and-eighty-mile-per-hour speed?" Nicolas grew more intrigued.
Seizing the moment, Wayne produced the Firebolt. Nicolas placed it on the table, donning a monocle over his right eye as he examined it closely.
After a thorough inspection, he finally set it down.
"An acceleration charm unlike any I've seen. The inventor of this spell is nothing short of a genius. Combined with Goblin craftsmanship, it's indeed a fine little trinket."
Even Nicolas Flamel couldn't fully comprehend Goblin techniques. It was akin to how Muggles couldn't grasp magic - the two existed within entirely different systems, separated by an inherent barrier.
"If you like it, I can have one sent over for you to study at leisure," Wayne offered.
"No need," Nicolas shook his head. "At my age, such stimulating novelties hold less appeal. Though I wouldn't mind keeping one of those Virtual Brain Machines."
Wayne gave an awkward chuckle. "You'll have to wait a while longer then. I've only managed to make one so far."
"You..." Nicolas tapped the young man's forehead in exasperation. "Wasting your talents."
"I've got too much on my plate," Wayne defended with a pout. "Besides Alchemy, there are other disciplines demanding my attention."
"If you truly want me to produce a second Virtual Brain Machine sooner, perhaps you could help me decipher these two spells?"
Wayne placed the parchment on the table.
"These were a Christmas gift from someone - supposedly spells created by Merlin himself. My knowledge of ancient Latin and Goblin dialects is limited, and there are characters here I've never encountered before."
Nicolas Flamel showed little interest upon hearing Merlin's name. Such claims were commonplace nowadays - one could still find French street vendors peddling so-called "Flamel originals" to tourists.
Yet after examining the two incantations, his expression grew solemn.
"This is the language of the Sirens. Could these truly be Merlin's spells?"
Now it was Wayne's turn to be puzzled. "Sirens? Aren't they just legends?"
"Legends aren't necessarily fiction," Nicolas murmured, tracing the strange script with his fingers. "Long ago, Sirens did inhabit the British Isles. Originally a Goblin offshoot, they developed their own civilisation and language after seceding, possessing formidable magical abilities and smithing techniques."
"Have you heard the tale of Gryffindor and his sword?"
"The Goblin King he faced was descended from this very lineage."
"Indeed," Wayne nodded. "I actually came into possession of Gryffindor's sword."
Nicolas's eyes widened. "Where is it? Show me at once."
"Professor Dumbledore took it," Wayne sighed, briefly recounting the incident.
After a long silence, Nicolas finally said:
"You're the first ever to push Albus to such measures."
"Next time you visit, remember to bring the sword."
"No problem," Wayne agreed readily, before both turned their attention back to the spells.
In the library, Nicolas retrieved a crumbling, yellowed volume from the furthest shelf, handling its fragile pages with care.
"This is a translated collection of Siren poetry from a millennium past. We'll need to cross-reference each line and consult several similar texts to reconstruct the complete incantations."
"I think there's an easier way," Wayne said. "Now that we've identified it as Siren language, the solution becomes simpler."
Nicolas regarded the young man, waiting to hear his approach.
Wayne lowered his head sheepishly, smiling bashfully. "Why don't we just capture a Goblin who understands this language and make him translate for us?"
Nicolas rolled his eyes. "Are you some kind of Dark Lord? How could you think of such a brute method?"
"Leaving aside how kidnapping a Goblin might provoke protests and cause trouble, even if we found one, how could you be sure they'd tell the truth?"
A vial of transparent liquid slid into the young man's hand.
"No worries, I've got some strong Veritaserum here. Guaranteed not a single lie."
Nicolas was stunned.
What kind of things was he carrying around?
"No slacking!" The old man smacked Wayne's head, nearly fracturing his own hand in the process.
"Knowledge will never betray you. Learning more is always worthwhile. These next few days, you'll stay here properly assisting with the translation work—no more shortcuts."
Seeing Nicolas's insistence, Wayne had no choice but to comply.
The two would often consult several different books just to confirm the meaning of a single word.
...
By dawn the next day, they'd only deciphered half of the Nightmare Curse's text. With the more complex Dreamstalker Curse still awaiting translation, Wayne noticed the old man remained spirited despite pulling an all-nighter.
Still, he persuaded him to rest and went to the kitchen for breakfast himself.
"Young master." Nabby suddenly appeared before Wayne, bowing respectfully. "Your friend has come to visit."
"Is that Fleur? Show her in."
"Yes." Nabby vanished with a flick.
Swallowing the last bite of his sandwich, Wayne leapt from his chair and apparated to the drawing room.
Soon, two beauties—one tall, one petite—entered hand in hand.
"Big brother!"
Upon seeing Wayne, the little girl Gabrielle squealed and launched herself at him.
Wayne chuckled, spreading his arms to catch the charging child.