During the recent battle, two Death Eaters had successfully Apparated away from the scene at the risk of splinching.
Not because they were particularly powerful, nor because they were especially lucky.
But because before leaving, they'd used magic to reveal their true identities to Wayne, who consequently showed mercy by not letting the flames consume them as they Disapparated.
Yet this didn't mean the matter was over.
Young Selwyn – Arsenio Selwyn – was a Slytherin student who'd graduated from Hogwarts just a year ago.
During his school days, he'd been on decent terms with Wayne, being one of Slytherin's 'friends'.
Whenever Celia Store released new products, Selwyn would always be among the first to purchase them as gestures of goodwill and support towards Wayne, spending more money on Wayne than even Malfoy did.
Excluding tutoring fees, of course.
Hence, Wayne's willingness to spare him.
But if satisfactory explanations weren't forthcoming, killing them now wouldn't be too late either.
The masks originally used to conceal their identities had long been discarded. Old Selwyn watched as his son was ground into the dirt under Wayne's foot, too terrified to resist, trembling as he begged:
"Lord Lawrence, I was foolish. Please spare us."
Wayne sneered, kicking young Selwyn away. "This is the reason you're giving me?"
"If that's all, letting you leave earlier was truly unnecessary."
As he spoke, starlight already coalesced anew in his palm, sending young Selwyn scrambling back to cling to his leg in terror.
"Wayne – no, Lord Lawrence!"
"We're willing to pay any price for our crimes – the Selwyn family's wealth, our loyalty. Please give us this chance!"
Old Selwyn nodded frantically. "My lord, my son speaks for the entire Selwyn family. We offer everything!"
"Even if I ordered you to kill Voldemort, you'd betray your former master?" Wayne lowered his hand slightly.
At that name, old Selwyn shuddered.
Many knew Voldemort wasn't dead.
Especially former Death Eaters – their unconsumed Dark Marks stood as irrefutable proof.
Yet old Selwyn gritted his teeth. "Of course! Your will will be done!"
"I alone can complete this task. Arsenio could remain by your side to serve you. Would that suffice?"
After brief consideration, old Selwyn concluded Wayne was even more terrifying than Voldemort.
During the Dark Lord's most rampant era, his most dazzling feat had been facing thirty Aurors and nearly a hundred Hit Wizards in ambush, killing over a dozen before escaping unscathed.
If not for the fear of Dumbledore arriving with reinforcements, perhaps few of those people would have survived.
From then on, the wizards of Britain entered an era where even the mere mention of the Dark Lord's name struck terror into their hearts.
Compared to Wayne's recent feat, both sides were roughly equal. Though the numbers were greater this time, the overall quality was certainly inferior to Hit Wizards and Aurors.
But the question was—how old had Voldemort been at that time, and how old was Lawrence now?
Selwyn had done the maths quite clearly.
If sacrificing his life could ensure the continuation of the Selwyn bloodline, he would rather face Voldemort himself.
"Father..." Young Selwyn's eyes were red-rimmed.
"Spare me the sentimental father-son act," Wayne said coldly. "Selwyn, the only reason you're still alive is our past acquaintance."
"If you can't offer me something truly tempting, no amount of pleading will help."
Old Selwyn, far from alarmed, looked delighted and immediately laid bare the entirety of the Selwyn family's assets.
Wayne showed no interest in monetary matters, but his eyes did gleam slightly upon hearing they held majority shares in a dragon reserve.
"Can you arrange a complete takeover of this dragon reserve within half a month?"
"Yes!" Old Selwyn answered with absolute certainty, inwardly overjoyed, knowing his life was now secure.
Wayne gave a mildly satisfied nod, leaning back as a plush sofa materialised beneath him. The Selwyns, meanwhile, remained kneeling where they were.
"Who organised this operation?" Wayne asked.
"Malfoy, Parkinson, and Flint."
This 'Death Eater reunion' was fundamentally just their way of venting frustrations—it had nothing to do with the Dark Lord whatsoever.
Donning their old Death Eater robes was merely to intimidate people and stoke greater fear.
Wayne frowned. "I didn't see Malfoy among that group earlier."
"As for Parkinson and Flint... they've gone to meet Merlin."
Old Selwyn trembled before hastily adding, "Malfoy was definitely with Flint and the others—I'm not lying!"
Young Selwyn suddenly remembered something and blurted, "I know! Just before you arrived, a hooded figure slipped away from the group. That must've been Malfoy!"
Hearing this, Old Selwyn nearly ground his teeth to dust.
Damn that Malfoy—you bastard fled without warning me?
What a slippery weasel.
"Aside from you two, everyone involved in today's disturbance has been captured. They'll face trial soon enough."
Wayne looked down at the pair as the rising sun cast golden light across his youthful face, making it almost too radiant to behold.
The Selwyns bowed their heads respectfully, awaiting his command.
"Select a few families willing to play the role of dogs, then approach Crouch—he'll arrange their release."
"Remember, if any of your chosen ones develop rebellious ideas later, both of you—no, the entire Selwyn line—will perish alongside them."
"Is there... a limit?" Old Selwyn ventured cautiously.
"Three families," Wayne said dismissively. "I've always preferred making friends. Too many dogs become tiresome."
"I understand," Old Selwyn said obediently. "I will certainly select the three most suitable families. It would be their honour to serve as your hounds."
Wayne waved his hand. "Scram."
The Selwyns kowtowed respectfully before Apparating away from the scene.
Wayne didn't leave. Instead, he slowly opened his palm and gazed at the ladybird resting there, murmuring softly:
"Ms Skeeter, it seems you know too much..."
The ladybird fluttered its wings, flew off the boy's palm, landed on the ground, and transformed into a woman with exaggerated features.
Her hair was styled in stiff, elaborate curls, she wore hideous spectacles, and had a sharply pointed chin – the very picture of a shrewish face to Eastern eyes.
This woman was the star reporter of the Daily Prophet – Rita Skeeter.
Not only could she obtain stories others couldn't, but she also possessed a magical quill that could turn the most mundane report into sensationalist fodder.
Many despised her, even loathed her, but none could deny that whenever Rita Skeeter was involved, the Daily Prophet sold exceptionally well.
Her secret lay in being an illegal Animagus, able to transform into a ladybird and infiltrate even the most inaccessible places to gather secrets.
"Boss, if you hadn't permitted it, how could I possibly have heard any of this?"
Even when facing Dumbledore, Rita Skeeter dared to make outrageous claims and dig for scandalous stories. Yet now, she studied the boy's expression with extreme caution, her heart in her throat.
She feared not Dumbledore because she knew the old man wouldn't retaliate directly over her writings – at worst, he might ban her from Hogwarts.
But as a ladybird, such warnings meant nothing.
This boy was different.
He knew all her secrets and wielded terrifying influence, controlling eighty per cent of the wizarding media.
When one's life and dreams are held by the throat, fear becomes inevitable.
"Relax," Wayne said, noticing her tension with a smile. "If I truly wanted to act, I'd have crushed you earlier."
"Ms Skeeter, I consider ours an exceptional employer-employee relationship. You're my most valued staff member."
Wayne gestured, and a single armchair appeared behind Rita Skeeter. The boy indicated for her to sit.
Not daring to refuse, Skeeter perched on the very edge of the seat, stiff with apprehension.
"Some news should be exactly as you specialise – sensational, eye-catching, telling the public what they want to hear. The truth... is unimportant."
Rita Skeeter's face lit up with excitement. "How brilliant! You're utterly unlike those stuffy old publishers!"
Wayne's philosophy aligned perfectly with hers.
"Then tell me," Wayne straightened slightly, "what should be the focus of this report?"
After a hesitant pause, Skeeter ventured: "The poor quality of foreign wizards, the Ministry's incompetent management, and... the arrogance of those pure-bloods."
When Wayne continued staring silently, Skeeter squirmed as if sitting on needles.
"I disagree," the boy said slowly, enunciating each word.
Rita Skeeter nodded frantically. "I also feel it's wrong. I was too foolish. Boss, how do you think this article should be written? Please give me some guidance."
Wayne revealed a shy, bashful smile. "Actually, it's very simple..."
Rita Skeeter listened intently, even producing parchment and a quill.
Yet the boy uttered only a single phrase that left her utterly stunned.
"Hype me up."
...
The lively night finally came to an end. As dawn approached, the campsite at last fell silent, with many eagerly clutching the Portkeys issued by the Ministry of Magic to leave the place.
For most, the first half of the experience had been undeniably marvellous—but the latter half had turned utterly dreadful.
By nine o'clock, Mr Weasley returned to the tent with his three sons and Mr Diggory, their bodies dragging with exhaustion.
Those eating breakfast hurriedly brought out the portions prepared for them, while Cedric inquired about the situation outside.
"Chaos. Absolute chaos," Mr Weasley said, downing his oatmeal in one go before standing to refill his bowl.
"Hundreds of troublemaking wizards from dozens of countries. Because it's a cross-border arrest, just coordinating with their respective Ministries of Magic will take a month of overtime."
Percy grinned foolishly. "Mr Crouch has entrusted me with writing the report. He values me more now."
No one paid him any attention. Ginny, however, asked, "What punishment will those people face?"
"Aside from the core protesters, the rest haven't been decided yet," Mr Weasley shook his head. "Too many countries are involved—there might even be extradition treaties complicating things."
"All we can do is make sure they pay before their home countries intervene. Compensation for the victims' losses."
As he spoke, he subtly glanced at Wayne, who was peeling an orange for Astoria.
In terms of losses... those hundreds of wizards combined couldn't compare to the devastation of Wayne's fiery barrier. Two walls of flame, hundreds of metres long, had reduced the surroundings to scorched earth.
Yet all that damage had been pinned on the rioters.
No one would plead fairness for them—most would gladly see those troublemakers bankrupted.
Even the dozens of deaths had been tactfully dismissed by the Ministry as collateral damage, with no further inquiry into their causes.
They weren't fools. The moment they saw those hooded figures prostrating at Wayne's feet, they knew exactly who was responsible.
But who would dare provoke Wayne over these unlucky souls?
The incident had already been classified as a terrorist attack. Any countermeasures taken by the would be deemed self-defence.
Only one thing puzzled Mr Weasley: why had those Death Eaters been suicidal enough to fire Killing Curses at Wayne?
Unless... they'd been controlled.
But Mr Weasley preferred not to dwell on that. Sometimes, ignorance was bliss.
When reporting to Fudge, he hadn't mentioned these suspicions, only stating that the assailants had launched a desperate ambush.
"Ah, yes," he suddenly turned to Wayne. "The Minister asked me to inquire—what do you intend to do with those 'diamonds'?"
The boy immediately wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Anyone who wants them can have them. Not my concern."
Ron's eyes lit up. "Diamonds? What diamonds? Can I have them?"
The adults' faces turned slightly green. Uncharacteristically, Mr Weasley smacked Ron on the head.
"Eat your porridge!"
"Dad, but they're diamonds!" Ron protested.
Sirius tugged at his sleeve, whispering something in his ear that instantly drained the colour from Ron's face.
"Right, we'll head back after finishing our meal. With something this big happening, Molly must be beside herself with worry."
Everyone nodded in agreement, hastily polishing off their food.
As the tents were packed away, the Weasleys, the Diggorys, and Luna, with her father, prepared to use the Portkey back to the village, while Wayne summoned Ho-Oh.
Before leaving, he pulled young Cedric aside into a small grove.
"Ask your father when you get back – does he want to advance?"
Cedric stared at him blankly. "Advance how?"
"That brain of yours isn't cut out for the Ministry of Magic," Wayne sighed in resignation. "Just tell Mr Diggory. He'll understand."
Cedric could only nod and commit it to memory.
The girls gathered around Wayne as Ho-Oh transformed into swirling vortexes of scorching flames, enveloping the group before vanishing from sight.
They reappeared in Wayne's home.
"Everyone should rest for a while. None of us slept well last night," Wayne said, noticing the exhaustion on Hermione and Cho's faces.
"I should go home first," Cho shook her head. "Dad's still at the Ministry. I need to let Mum know he's safe."
Wayne nodded, having Gardevoir escort Cho home.
The others retreated to their rooms to sleep, with Astoria slipping into Wayne's room and collapsing onto the bed in immediate slumber.
By noon, an owl swooped in carrying an urgently printed copy of the Daily Prophet.
Wayne took the newspaper, its front page dominated by towering infernos, dense crowds of wizards below, and a majestic figure floating in the sky.
His mouth twitched upon reading the headline.
"Symbol of Peace, Scourge of Evil! – Prodigy Lawrence Saves Incompetent British Ministry of Magic"
'I told you to hype me up... not make me cringe!'