Gryffindor had won.
With a score of 160 to 40, they had successfully defeated Slytherin, claiming the first Quidditch victory of the school year.
But no one was celebrating.
Everyone's attention was completely hijacked by a far more explosive incident.
Fifteen minutes after Harry had caught the Golden Snitch…
Headmaster's Office
The office was unusually lively today.
Dumbledore, Snape, McGonagall, Sprout, and Wayne.
Those were the living occupants.
The others were the former headmasters and headmistresses in their portraits—
not one of them pretending to be asleep. Every single one was chattering excitedly.
"Eighty students carried into the hospital wing on stretchers, and dozens more still queueing outside!"
"Derwent! You've got the best memory—tell us, is this the biggest accident in Hogwarts history?"
A bearded headmaster bellowed so loudly with excitement he nearly fell out of his frame.
Headmaster Derwent pondered for a moment, then nodded slowly.
"Indeed it is. Ever since I founded the hospital wing, its beds have never once been completely full."
"Boy, you've outdone yourself!"
"Oh, hardly," Wayne said modestly. "I only knocked out twelve of them. The rest were thanks to my friends' help."
"Hmph!"
Snape's cold snort was sharp enough to cut glass.
"Dumbledore, what more needs to be said? He's admitted it himself. Severe punishment! A year's detention at the very least!"
"Snape!" Phineas Nigellus spoke up irritably from his portrait.
"What's happened to you these last few days? You've gone completely soft!"
"Where's all that bite of yours gone?"
"Slytherin got flattened—absolutely flattened! And you're just going to let it go?"
"If you don't expel him, what—keep him here for Christmas dinner?!"
Snape's face darkened like a thundercloud.
"I'm still Head of Slytherin, you outdated relic, so shut your mouth!"
Expel Wayne? And lose the Phoenix Tears from Ho-Oh, along with the other rare materials he could provide?
Forget expelling him—if Dumbledore himself wanted to, Snape would still be the first to plead on Wayne's behalf.
"You—!"
"Enough, Phineas," Dumbledore cut in, flicking his hand to draw the curtains over the portraits.
The voices vanished instantly.
The old man rubbed his temples, looking weary.
He had only dozed off for a short while, skipping the Quidditch match—and in that time, this had happened.
"Mr. Lawrence, I believe you're not the sort of person who acts on impulse…"
His voice trailed off.
Wayne blinked.
Dumbledore couldn't go on.
He remembered everything Wayne had done in the past investigations.
There was no way to spin this.
Exhausting.
"Care to explain why?"
All four Heads of House turned their eyes on Wayne in unison.
When the brawl ended, the professors had rushed all the injured to the hospital wing, then dragged Wayne straight to Dumbledore's office.
As for how things had spiralled this far—none of them yet knew the full story.
"Well," Wayne began, "I'm a Quidditch enthusiast. And when I saw Slytherin's filthy playing style—"
"Ahem!"
Snape's sharp cough cut Wayne off, his gaze murderous.
Wayne's expression didn't change, though he swapped in a milder term:
"—a rather rough playing style, so I muttered a few complaints."
"Then Parkinson called me a Mudblood."
Two gasps escaped from Professors McGonagall and Sprout.
Snape's fists clenched hard beneath his robes, and a flash of cold fury crossed his eyes.
Even Dumbledore's usually calm expression cooled slightly.
"That is indeed… an excessive term."
"Excessive?" Sprout stared at him in disbelief.
"It's an insult! How could Parkinson speak such a filthy word?"
"Dumbledore, do you think calling it excessive can erase the pain it caused Lawrence?"
Wayne had never seen his own Head of House angry before—until now.
The normally round, cheerful witch with a kindly smile had transformed into a protective lioness, glaring fiercely at Dumbledore.
Only when she turned her eyes on Wayne did that fierceness soften into a trace of pity.
Wayne was her favorite student—not only possessing Hufflepuff's kindness, but also the sharpness most Hufflepuffs lacked.
Coupled with his talent, Sprout was certain that one day Hufflepuff would be proud to call Wayne their own.
And yet, her favorite student had just been insulted—viciously.
"Pomona, I understand your feelings. My wording was careless."
When the mild-tempered lose their temper, even Dumbledore must yield. He humbly admitted his mistake:
"In any case, Slytherin will lose fifty points for this."
"One hundred points! Plus a month's detention—tasks assigned by me!" Sprout declared without hesitation.
Wayne could have hugged her on the spot.
He raised an eyebrow and looked at Snape.
Go on, say something. I dare you.
"I agree. A month is too short—let's make it until Christmas."
Snape's voice was as cold and flat as still water. He adjusted his robes.
"The Herbology department must need plenty of compost. He's young and strong—Sprout, feel free to make full use of him."
No objections at all—he accepted Sprout's decision outright.
If it had been for any other reason, Snape would have argued until the end.
But the word Mudblood…
He never wanted to hear it again.
"However…" Snape, having sacrificed his own student first, now turned the spear toward Wayne.
"This was, in the end, a conflict between you and Parkinson. Why did it escalate into an all-out… battle?"
"I have no idea, Professor," Wayne said, feigning innocence and spreading his hands.
"Cedric stood up for me, and Parkinson rudely shoved my friend aside."
"Naturally, I couldn't back down, so I hit him."
"Then your house's students charged in. My friends couldn't stand to see me being outnumbered, so they joined in."
"With no choice left, I could only fight back."
Wayne tilted his head thoughtfully.
"Now that I think about it… doesn't sound like it was my fault, does it?"
"But you went too far," McGonagall quickly pointed out the flaw.
"Ten broken noses, eight mild concussions, and poor Professor Quirrell was accidentally injured by you as well."
"I'm sorry, Professor." Wayne stood, gave a small bow to express genuine regret, then straightened and met McGonagall's eyes.
"But I honestly don't think I was excessive. At the very least, I didn't even use magic."
"If I had drawn my wand… their injuries would have been much worse."
McGonagall was at a loss for words.
Sprout looked at her student with open admiration.
Polite. Knows when to advance and when to yield. Has restraint.
Truly a good child.
"Alright, the matter is clear now." To spare Wayne further punishment, Sprout spoke first.
"The fault lies with Parkinson. But Lawrence did injure Professor Quirrell, even if by accident."
"Deduct… oh, say 180 points, and be done with it."
In true Hufflepuff tradition, neither the students nor the Head of House cared about House points.
Start with a deduction of 180—utterly lavish.
"And the detention…" McGonagall began, thinking the punishment far too light.
McGonagall didn't dislike Wayne—quite the opposite, she admired him greatly.
But precisely because of that, she believed the punishment should be stricter.
It was a strict teacher's way of protecting a favored student.
"Let's skip the detention," Sprout said cheerfully.
"He shouldn't waste so much time on manual labor."
"No," Snape interjected suddenly, "there's still one person who hasn't been punished—Cedric."
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