Five minutes later, a frantic Professor Flitwick delivered the unconscious Seamus to the hospital wing.
Madam Pomfrey's eyebrows shot up at the sight. "Filius, what dangerous spell have you been teaching them now?"
"How many times must I remind you? You're the Charms professor now, not some duelling champion from your glory days."
Professor Flitwick felt more wronged than Sirius Black himself. "I haven't! The Summoning Charm has always been the first lesson for fourth years! Who could have predicted this? Please, Poppy, just examine him."
"Wait here," Madam Pomfrey said curtly, levitating the unconscious Seamus inside for examination.
Professor Flitwick paced anxiously, utterly bewildered.
Where had he gone wrong? It was supposed to be the safest of spells!
Seamus's usual mishaps involved nothing worse than singed quills or exploded desks.
But this time, he'd turned his destructive talents on himself - now that was dedication!
At that moment, Flitwick silently made a decision. Once students from other schools arrived, he would minimise Seamus's practice opportunities in class to avoid giving the impression that Hogwarts had sinister intentions towards them.
Fifteen minutes later, Madam Pomfrey emerged with a peculiar expression.
Professor Flitwick immediately approached her. "How is he, Poppy?"
"Are you certain he used the Summoning Charm?" Madam Pomfrey asked.
"I'm absolutely certain."
"That's bizarre." Madam Pomfrey was at a loss. "How on earth did he manage to blow up his own lungs?"
Professor Flitwick: "???"
...
Bad news travels fast.
The news that Seamus had blown up his own lungs by stuttering during a spell spread rapidly through the school, leaving everyone stunned.
Who would have thought Hogwarts harboured such a formidable talent?
In no time, the title of "Explosive Prodigy" echoed across all seven years. Many thought it wouldn't be a bad idea for Seamus to be a champion – he wouldn't need to blow himself up, just the champions from the other six schools.
Harry and their dormmates had intended to visit the hospital wing, but upon arrival, Madam Pomfrey informed them Seamus had been transferred to St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Blown-up lungs weren't minor injuries even in the wizarding world – hospital care was safer and more professional.
Several professors hastily convened a meeting, where Professor McGonagall instructed everyone to keep a strict watch on Seamus from now on to avoid alarming students from other schools.
In the following days, the young witches and wizards experienced the true intensity of the term.
Daily homework assignments had increased significantly. For fourth-years like Wayne, the combined length of assignments from all subjects now exceeded ten feet – equivalent to ten A4 sheets stacked together.
The worst part? This wasn't even the weekly total, as subjects like Charms and Transfiguration assigned work twice weekly, and Defence Against the Dark Arts hadn't even started yet.
Students grumbled incessantly. Between classes, they either camped in the library or huddled in common rooms, desperately padding out their assignments.
Yet despite this workload, Hermione still carved out two hours daily to study house-elf history.
On Thursday evening, just before the library closed, she finally finished reading.
"Changed your mind yet?" Wayne asked.
The young witch pressed her lips together, unable to speak for a long moment.
The historical records alone made her realise that had wizards lost the species wars, their fate wouldn't have been much better than the house-elves'.
Moreover, after millennia of domestication and conditioning, servility had become deeply ingrained in house-elves' genetic makeup.
If she stubbornly pursued her crusade, she'd face opposition not just from wizards, but terror from the very house-elves she sought to liberate.
"I was being naive," Hermione finally admitted dejectedly.
"Sometimes naivety isn't so bad. I rather like it," Wayne said, ruffling her hair. "Focus that limited energy on more worthwhile causes."
"Yes, I understand." Hermione wrapped her arms around the boy's waist, resting her head against his chest with profound contentment.
...
Friday's final lesson for Hufflepuff remained Potions class.
During class, everyone was being extremely cautious. The young wizards had all heard that Snape's temper had grown increasingly foul, and every lesson, he would pick a few unlucky students to mock mercilessly.
No one knew why this was happening, but no one found it surprising that such behaviour came from Snape. They'd all grown accustomed to it.
So during this lesson, everyone tacitly focused on listening attentively, brewing potions as instructed, and trying their best to remain inconspicuous.
Yet even this couldn't prevent someone from deliberately finding fault. The despicable old bat directly targeted students like Hannah and Toby, whose grades weren't particularly good, casually deducting over a dozen points.
Recently, Snape's mood had been perpetually at its worst, with bad news arriving one after another.
Harry could no longer use the Gender-Swap Mints, Wayne and Dumbledore had swindled him out of thousands of Galleons, and he'd had to pay out of pocket to replenish the students' materials.
Were those fools just wasting materials?
That was his money!
Even worse... that man had returned!
After hearing news of Voldemort, he'd barely slept a wink these past few days.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Lily lying pale on the ground—an image that nearly drove him mad.
Feeling the irritable and gloomy aura emanating from Snape behind him, Ravenclaw's Anthony Goldstein was on the verge of tears. Under such intense scrutiny, he'd completely forgotten the next steps.
"Are you trying to burn through the cauldron, Goldstein?"
"Five points from Ravenclaw!"
...
After class, the young wizards fled the classroom as if escaping disaster. Once again, Wayne was detained by Snape.
When the classroom had emptied and only the two of them remained, Snape said quietly:
"Moody has woken up. He's in Dumbledore's office now. You're coming with me."
"Fine." Wayne nodded indifferently.
Snape waved his wand, and all the windows shut tightly while the leftover materials on the desks vanished. The two left the classroom.
On their way to the top floor, Wayne suddenly asked, "That Blasting Curse you used to defeat Barty Crouch Jr.—its power suddenly increased significantly. That was the effect of the modifications, wasn't it?"
Snape's expression tightened. Only after confirming there were no other students or professors around did he relax slightly and reply in a low voice, "Correct. I compressed my magical power to unleash double the force."
"But I can't use it frequently yet. My body can't withstand it."
"Obviously." Wayne gave him a sidelong glance. "Your blood vessels were about to burst back then."
No need to point out the obvious!
Snape cursed inwardly. Did he think everyone was a freak of talent like them? For ordinary wizards like him who wanted to break their limits and grow stronger, wasn't risking their lives the only way?
Even Snape, who had always prided himself on his strength and talent, had to admit that his power and genius were only remarkable compared to ordinary people.
As for that old fox and young fox at the school, they'd long since transcended that category. There was simply no comparison.
With a grunt, Snape retorted stubbornly, "This is only the beginning of the modifications. Given time, there will definitely be a complete transformation."
Wayne chuckled but didn't argue. Instead, he asked, "Professor, though I haven't researched this much myself, I do have some suggestions. Would you like to hear them?"
The two stopped walking. Snape studied the young man for a long moment before finally nodding.
"Go on."
Wayne had never displayed particularly strong Dark Magic abilities in front of him. Still, mastery in one field leads to understanding in all – just like Dumbledore, he didn't use Dark Magic simply because he disliked it. Anyone who thought he couldn't use it would be utterly naive.
"Your modifications are still too superficial. Even if you alter yourself beyond recognition, to the point of losing your nose, the improvement would be negligible – at best a few times stronger than now, but still unimpressive."
Snape's expression darkened, yet he couldn't deny the truth in Wayne's words.
"I asked for advice, not discouragement."
"I know you're eager, but don't be hasty." Wayne noticed someone descending the stairs and casually pushed open the nearby History of Magic classroom, ushering them both inside.
"Professor, since you've already embarked on this path, why not go further..." The youth looked at him meaningfully. "For instance... modifying your bloodline?"
Snape's pupils contracted violently as he stared in disbelief.
"Do you realise what you're suggesting?"
"Obviously." Wayne rolled his eyes. "At this stage, what reservations could you possibly have? That magical creature bloodlines are beneath you?"
"The origins of wizards remain unproven. Bloodline purity is meaningless – only power matters."
The wizarding world harboured many hierarchies of contempt.
Beyond purebloods looking down on half-bloods and Muggle-born wizards, they particularly despised other kinds of 'hybrids'.
Like Hagrid or Madame Maxime (though few knew of Maxime's hybrid heritage, which she herself refused to acknowledge).
Or Fleur with her Veela ancestry.
During his time at Beauxbatons, Wayne had noticed Fleur's poor social standing.
Many female students openly resented her, and Madame Maxime's special regard for Fleur stemmed partly from their shared circumstances.
Yet none could deny the unique advantages of magical creature hybrids.
Fleur excelled at mental magic spells, while half-giants typically possessed vast magical power and greater resistance than ordinary wizards.
A controversial theory in magical academia suggested the first wizards resulted from unions between Muggles and magical creatures – too scandalous for mainstream acceptance.
But Wayne found the hypothesis quite plausible.
Snape's expression shifted uncertainly as he considered the proposal.
"Bloodline fusion... the research is too scarce. The risks..."
"That's precisely why it suits you." Wayne pressed his advantage. "Greater risks yield greater rewards – the effort and gains are directly proportional."
"Imagine fusing with a Phoenix, Basilisk or dragon – your power would undergo fundamental transformation."
"Besides, you've got those potions as backup. However extreme the process, it wouldn't be fatal – just excruciating."
"You're already the Half-Blood Prince. What difference would a little more mixing make?"
Snape's cheek twitched.
Easy for him to say. The pain from embedding a few magical runes in his flesh had been unbearable enough – an entire blood replacement...
He couldn't begin to imagine that agony.
It might well rival what he'd inflicted on Peter Pettigrew.
But Wayne wasn't wrong...
If one could truly fuse the bloodlines of a dragon and a Phoenix—such supreme-tier magical creatures—he would undoubtedly become incredibly powerful.
For a moment, even Snape seemed uncertain.
He walked out of the classroom without a word. Wayne followed behind with a faint smile. The man was already tempted.
Given Snape's personality, though he might still hesitate, he'd ultimately choose to fuse the bloodlines. When that happened, the amount of Resurrection Draughts required would be astronomical.
As the sunk costs kept rising, wouldn't he—the one controlling the raw materials—be able to name his price?
Snape had no idea he was already thoroughly outmanoeuvred, while still weighing the pros and cons.
Not another word was spoken until they reached the gargoyle.
The two entered the office to find Moody seated opposite Dumbledore. After several days of Snape's restorative treatments, his complexion now closely resembled Barty Crouch Jr's impersonation.
"Eh, Mr Moody, where's your magical eye?" Wayne asked curiously upon seeing him.
Dumbledore's eyelid twitched. "Mr Lawrence, we called you here precisely regarding Alastor's eye."
"Professor, I didn't take it!" Wayne protested dramatically. "I do fancy treasures, but that eye looks downright grotesque. It's been used by several people, too—I'd never want it."
Moody's expression darkened further.
"Wayne, you saved me, and for that I'm grateful. But I made that eye myself. Who else could have used it besides me?"
"Barty Crouch Jr," Wayne said with distaste.
Moody froze.
"Mr Lawrence, we're not accusing you, but your Niffler," Dumbledore said wearily.
"Jerry took it?"
Wayne sceptically fished the snoozing Niffler from his pocket. The little creature woke with indignant squeaks.
"Phineas saw it happen. I hadn't noticed at the time," Dumbledore admitted.
"One moment."
Wayne upended the struggling Jerry, tickling its soft belly. Galleons, gemstones and assorted shiny objects promptly rained out, rapidly forming a small mountain.
Even Dumbledore and Moody looked startled by Jerry's 'collection'.
Snape's breathing grew noticeably quicker.
This bloody Niffler... was richer than him.
When the treasure pile reached waist height, a spherical eyeball finally tumbled out. Moody summoned it with a flick of his wand, though he didn't immediately reattach it—after Wayne's comments, the idea repulsed him. It'd need two days soaking in disinfectant first!
"Chirp! Chirp!"
Jerry looked at Moody and squeaked disapprovingly.
"Little fellow, seems you've got good taste." Moody chuckled, rummaging through his pockets before tossing over a blue gemstone.
"How about swapping this with you?"
Jerry immediately quietened down, ceasing its fuss.
After Wayne set it down, it swiftly gathered all its treasures and hopped back into the boy's pocket.
Snape shot another glance at Jerry, his thoughts unreadable.
Once the two men were seated, Moody thanked Wayne again: "If not for you, I might have been locked away until death without anyone noticing."
"We're all on the same side, no need for formalities." Wayne waved a hand. "Just be more careful next time."
"Of course. This time I was careless." Moody said bitterly. "I never imagined they'd have a Basilisk as their weapon."
Even without the Basilisk, you probably wouldn't have beaten those two.
Wayne silently assessed.
Moody was formidable, but his numerous injuries—especially his impaired mobility from leg damage—severely compromised his combat effectiveness.
Otherwise, a man barely in his fifties wouldn't have retired from active Auror duty.
Moody asked gravely, "Dumbledore, with Voldemort returned, what's your plan?"
Snape turned to the elderly wizard.
After a contemplative pause, Dumbledore responded: "My idea... carries some risk, Alastor. Since Barty Crouch Jr could impersonate you, might we reverse the deception? Have you play the role of Barty Jr?"