Grindelwald's plan was beautifully conceived, and he thought himself perfectly fair.
But what did fairness mean to Wayne?
Precisely unfairness!
'If I'm this powerful and you still expect me to play fair, then what's the point of becoming stronger?'
'Isn't it precisely to freeload?'
So Wayne refused outright.
"What would a student like me do with so many people? Besides, your old comrades must be over a hundred now. I'm afraid they'd drop dead from exhaustion before I could use them much."
"But..." Wayne changed tack, "I am quite interested in that Transfiguration technique you just demonstrated."
"Newt mentioned you once disguised yourself as the Head Auror of MACUSA for quite some time. Was that how you did it? Or was it Polyjuice Potion?"
Grindelwald smiled smugly.
After being outshone by Wayne all day, seeing the boy encounter something beyond his understanding gave him an odd sense of relief.
Good, good.
So there are things you're not better at, eh?
"This is Human Transfiguration, perfected through years of dedicated study," Grindelwald declared proudly.
"Don't be fooled—Albus may surpass me in general Transfiguration, but when it comes to disguise and metamorphosis, he can't hold a candle to me!"
"Indeed," Dumbledore chimed in mildly between bites, smiling at Wayne. "Back when Gellert's magic wasn't yet perfected, though still formidable, he'd flee whenever too many Aurors showed up."
"Nonsense!" Grindelwald protested immediately. "I simply couldn't be bothered dealing with those incompetents."
"Ah, yes, of course," Wayne agreed without argument. "Then why not teach me this technique? Might come in handy someday."
"That depends on your sincerity," Grindelwald countered, unfooled.
"Next time—if I'm in a good mood when you visit, perhaps I'll impart it to you then."
"This is a skill even Albus never mastered."
"Heh." Wayne gave a hollow laugh.
Next time he came, if Grindelwald refused to teach him, he'd absolutely force-feed him a Gender-Swap Mint and dump him on Dumbledore's bed.
...
Night fell as Dumbledore and Wayne exited the high tower.
The Squib guard, who'd slept through the entire day, was finally awakened. Startled by his prolonged slumber, he hurried upstairs to check on Grindelwald.
Seeing him unchanged—still gazing out the window as he always did—he sighed in relief.
While descending the stairs, the Squib guard muttered to himself, "How strange... how could I have slept so long?"
On the mountain path, Dumbledore suddenly asked, "Why do you still have spare wands?"
"I had a brief interest in wand-making a while back. Made a couple out of boredom, though the quality's poor."
The system was his, so anything drawn from it might as well count as his handiwork.
No issues there.
These were just miscellaneous items from the lottery draws that Wayne had left lying around in his suitcase warehouse.
Dumbledore didn't press further, nodding. "Wandlore shares some ties with Alchemy, but it's mostly about experience and feel. The slightest deviation affects the final wand's quality."
"I'm no expert myself. Only families like Ollivander's, with generations of specialised knowledge, develop complete systems."
"Wayne." Dumbledore regarded the youth seriously.
"I know you're endlessly curious about all things magical—I understand completely."
"But human focus has limits. Between potions and Alchemy, you're already spread thin. Adding more interests might hinder your progress."
After witnessing Wayne's duel with Grindelwald, Dumbledore's inner scales had tipped.
The prophecy was undoubtedly real—Harry and Voldemort couldn't both survive.
But... who would end Voldemort (or Harry) remained variable.
If he died without resolving the Dark Lord's threat... the wizarding world's future would rest solely on this young man's shoulders.
"I understand, Headmaster." Wayne nodded. "Wand-making really isn't that interesting."
Dumbledore looked relieved.
"By the way, Professor—since we're out here—I'd like to take a day's leave to visit Nicolas."
"Very well." After a brief pause, Dumbledore agreed.
"You might also discuss matters with Nicolas, seek his counsel. Just return before term starts." He handed Wayne Tom Riddle's Diary.
"Understood."
Wayne mounted his Firebolt. "I'll be off then."
With a wave to Dumbledore, the broomstick shot skyward, vanishing into the night.
Watching the receding silhouette, Dumbledore murmured,
"Why does that flying broomstick seem unnaturally fast?"
...
Late that night, Wayne crossed into French airspace. Estimating the distance sufficient, he stowed his broom and Apparated to Nicolas's estate.
At this hour, Nicolas and Perenelle were long abed. Nabby sensed Wayne's arrival, appearing before him with a deep bow.
"Young Master Wayne."
"Nabby." Wayne acknowledged.
"Young master, what urgent matter brings you here so late? Shall I wake the master?"
"No need. I was just passing by and thought I'd stay for the day." Wayne shook his head. "Go rest. We'll speak when Nicolas wakes tomorrow."
"Then you should retire early as well. Your room has been kept clean—you may settle in directly."
With that, Nabby vanished.
Returning to his room, Wayne freshened up briefly before stepping into the bath.
As he soaked, he reviewed today's duel with Grindelwald.
It was a habit he'd cultivated—after every fight, he would absorb his opponent's strengths and scrutinise his own weaknesses. Only then could he improve.
Yet after all this time in the wizarding world, those worthy of teaching him anything remained few.
Today had yielded the most lessons by far.
First, there was presence.
Unlike Dumbledore's reserved demeanour, Grindelwald exuded an overbearing aura of invincibility the moment he stood there. Those inferior to him would feel their morale weaken before even fighting.
In this idealistic world, weakened morale directly diminished the potency of many spells.
Secondly, there was his mastery of spellcasting.
Grindelwald's creativity knew no bounds—offensive spells could be used defensively, while defensive spells could be repurposed for attack.
Take the General Counter-Spell, for example. Most wizards used it purely for defence, yet he frequently employed it to disrupt Wayne's high-powered spellcasting, rendering him unable to unleash his full strength.
It was downright infuriating.
Lastly, there was that effortless, instinctive control.
Wayne couldn't quite pinpoint the exact difference between them, nor could he articulate it properly.
His own spellwork was already highly proficient—aside from Final Spark, nearly all his spells had reached master-level. Yet, he still lacked Grindelwald's natural, seamless execution.
The gap lay in their comprehension of magic itself.
In the end, his victory had only come from stacking every possible advantage.
The burst from Phase Rush, the 'Heavenly Ascension' mode of his robes, his Innate Saint, and the overwhelming power of Final Spark.
Only through this convergence of factors had he managed to overwhelm Grindelwald and defeat him head-on.
And this wasn't even Grindelwald at his peak.
Decades of imprisonment in Nurmengard had left his body frail, even with Ho-Oh's aid in restoring much of his vitality.
The wand he wielded was also nothing special—a mere blue-tier instrument.
"Still lacking," Wayne sighed, rising from the bath as the water evaporated instantly from his skin. He lay back on the bed.
The system rated his strength as Archmage-tier, but even within the same rank, disparities existed.
He was still lacking.
Yet, at this level, even marginal improvements were excruciatingly difficult.
Otherwise, Voldemort wouldn't have been so terrified of Dumbledore—why not just seclude himself for a few years, master his dark arts, then emerge to finish off the old man?
If he wanted rapid growth, it all hinged on the two grand rewards from the system's latest upgrade. Hopefully, they'd yield something worthwhile.
With these thoughts, Wayne drifted off to sleep.
When he opened his eyes again, it was already 8:30 in the morning.
Entering the dining room, he found Perenelle and Nicolas already at breakfast. They showed no surprise at his appearance—clearly, Nabby had informed them of his late-night return.
Perenelle smiled and beckoned him to sit beside her. Only after he settled did she ask with concern, "What brought you here so late? Nothing troubling, I hope?"
"Nothing," Wayne replied warmly. "I was out with Headmaster Dumbledore. After we finished our business, he returned to the school, so I thought I'd visit."
"Good. Will you stay a few days, then?" Perenelle smiled.
"Better not. If I don't return tomorrow, the professors will dock points. You've no idea how much our Potions professor loves targeting me..."
His anecdotes had the elderly lady laughing throughout the hour-long meal.
After breakfast, Perenelle left for the opera, leaving Wayne and Nicolas alone.
The latter, who had remained quiet earlier, took a sip of tea before carefully setting the cup down. His voice was soft as he asked, "The papers mentioned several attacks at Hogwarts recently. Have they been resolved?"
"Well, it's more or less resolved."
Wayne recounted everything. Nicolas remained unmoved upon hearing about the Horcrux, but when he learned Hogwarts had housed a thousand-year-old Basilisk, his expression shifted to one of regret.
"You just slaughtered it like that? What a waste!"
Wayne hastily deflected responsibility: "Wasn't me. You'll have to ask Ho-Oh about that."
"You..." Nicolas Flamel gave him an exasperated look. "Even throwing your own familiar under the carriage? Is this how Dumbledore taught you to behave?"
Wayne laughed it off awkwardly before revealing the most crucial details – Tom's resurrection and his recent encounter with Grindelwald alongside Dumbledore.
Nicolas grew increasingly solemn, his expression darkening by the end.
"Reckless!"
"Do you have any idea how dangerous Grindelwald is? To engage him in combat... And Dumbledore permitting it! I'm writing to him immediately."
"Don't get worked up, old friend." Worried the elderly wizard might overexert himself, Wayne quickly explained: "I needed that fight. The current magical world's full of mediocrities. I've mastered all these spells but never had a proper chance to use them."
"Aside from Grindelwald and the Headmaster, there really aren't any worthy opponents."
Nicolas shot the young man an irritated glare. "Watch your tongue – that insult includes me, too."
Though his alchemical talents were extraordinary, his other magical abilities were merely competent – though "competent" by the standards of prodigies like Wayne.
"Of course I didn't mean you," Wayne backpedalled. "Besides, I won, didn't I? A half-dead Grindelwald poses no real threat to me."
Nicolas sighed heavily. "Time... it changes everything."
"If you'd faced the Grindelwald who set Paris ablaze, you'd have been in genuine peril."
"He'd never have tolerated a potential rival reaching maturity."
"But now..."
The ancient alchemist trailed off, shaking his head.
"Come to the laboratory. Do you have the diary with you?"
"The Professor handed it to me before we left. Feel free to examine it."
Space distorted around them as they instantly apparated into the lab. Wayne first produced the diary, then, after a moment's consideration, placed his wand on the table as well.
Nicolas Flamel's gaze sharpened.
Ignoring the diary entirely, he picked up the wand instead. After a brief examination, he murmured:
"Sycamore with Unicorn hair. Enhances most positive magic. Stable magical output. Ideal for wizards of exceptional talent. Remarkably loyal."
"The drawback is limited amplification potential. Creates resistance when casting Dark Magic – both materials possess inherently sacred properties."
True to his five centuries of experience, Nicolas demonstrated profound wandlore expertise, effortlessly discerning every characteristic of Wayne's wand.
But Wayne hadn't produced it for appraisal.
Near the tip ran a hairline fracture, extending about three inches down the shaft.
"Sustained during your duel with Grindelwald?"
"Exactly." Wayne approached, wincing. "That final spell... overdid it. The wand couldn't withstand the strain."
By system classification standards, Wayne's wand would likely rank as purple-tier – significantly superior to the blue-tier wand he'd discarded for Grindelwald. The sycamore wood and unicorn hair were both extremely precious materials.
Yet... they could no longer keep up with Wayne's pace.
As the wand's master, Wayne had sensed its "whimper" when casting the Final Spark. He had deliberately held back, but it was still too late.
The damage had been done, though fortunately, it wasn't severe.
"If you can help repair it, please do. Saves me a trip to Ollivander."
"Given that old man's fanatical obsession with wands—and money—he'd probably glare at me and huff."
Nicolas Flamel chuckled.
Wayne's assessment was likely accurate.
The Ollivanders were all like that.
"Leave it to me. The crack isn't deep—a day should be enough to fix it."
"But you'll need to be more careful in the future. Even after repairs, its tolerance for magical power will be lower."
"I'll make do for now," Wayne sighed.
After using it for so long, familiarity aside, he'd grown attached to it.
He was sentimental by nature. Unless absolutely necessary, he preferred not to replace old belongings.
...
The entire day was spent with Wayne accompanying Nicolas in the laboratory. His original plan to visit Gabrielle in the afternoon was cancelled.
Though he couldn't assist much with the wand repairs, Nicolas took the opportunity to teach him some wandlore. It never hurts to learn more.
Nicolas prepared an ancient potion and submerged Wayne's wand in it.
The potion was initially green, but its colour gradually faded over time as the three-inch crack slowly mended.
By evening, it was nearly done.
As for Tom Riddle's Diary, Nicolas hadn't uncovered anything yet.
However, he planned to create a time-reversal device to trace back and determine how many times Voldemort had split his soul.
This would take time—even Nicolas Flamel couldn't finish it immediately.
So, for now, Wayne was to return the diary to Dumbledore at school. The two would coordinate later.
...
Early Monday morning.
After breakfast with the two elders, Wayne retrieved his wand—soaked overnight—and left Nicolas Flamel's estate.
Summoning Ho-Oh, he Apparated several times in succession back to his dormitory, startling Norman and Toby, who were still groggy from waking up.
Only after recognising Wayne did they gasp in relief:
"You scared me to death! Where've you been these past two days?"
"Don't tell me Snape kidnapped you?"