Moody, being a seasoned Auror, grasped Dumbledore's intention immediately.
"You want me to infiltrate their ranks? Monitor Voldemort's movements?"
For someone like Moody, names others feared to speak held no taboo—especially before Dumbledore and Wayne, where such concerns were unnecessary.
He did, however, overlook Snape's discomfort.
With three men casually invoking "Voldemort", Snape found himself torn—remaining silent made him appear cowardly, yet voicing the name felt unnatural.
Agonising.
"Precisely." Dumbledore nodded. "Barty Crouch Jr's connection mustn't be severed. Through him, we can monitor—perhaps even influence—Voldemort's actions."
"Henceforth, you'll be Barty Crouch Jr impersonating Moody. We'll follow Voldemort's expected script, preventing him from retreating into hiding. After one failure, he'd conceal himself more thoroughly."
"Then he'd become exponentially more dangerous."
"I object," Snape interjected before Moody could respond, his suppressed fury palpable. "What madness is this? Barty Jr intends to resurrect him! To deliver Potter to the Dark Lord! Would you become an accomplice?"
"Have you forgotten your promise to me?"
"I acknowledge the risk." Dumbledore remained composed before Snape's anger. "But if we adhere to Barty Jr's plan—with my constant oversight—Harry's safety is assured."
"Wait." Moody's scarred face twisted further as his brows knitted. "Snape, what did you just say? Barty Jr plans to resurrect Voldemort?"
Moody had just recovered, and before Dumbledore could fully explain the hidden details, he still believed Voldemort had been resurrected and that it was he who had instructed Barty Crouch Jr. and Peter Pettigrew to attack him.
Thus, the group spent some more time ensuring Moody understood the full context of events.
"A bold plan..." Moody's single eye fixed deeply on Dumbledore. "Albus, are you so certain he will recover?"
Dumbledore sighed faintly. "Voldemort has mastered many forms of Dark Magic. He is an undeniable genius, pushing many fields to unprecedented heights..."
He had not intended for too many to learn about the Horcruxes, but this plan required Moody and Snape's cooperation, so he reluctantly revealed some information.
Moody listened in horrified disbelief. Multiple Horcruxes... What kind of person would do such a thing?
"So, rather than allowing uncontrollable circumstances to arise later, it's better for us to take control now."
"I am old. I don't have the time to wait him out." The old man's gaze was profound, an unconscious weight settling around him, making the other two struggle to breathe.
"Resurrect him... then kill him for good."
Wayne propped his chin on his hand, staring absently at Fawkes, when Snape suddenly turned to him. "Lawrence, how do you think?"
"With my brain," Wayne yawned. "You decide. Though I can offer some technical support."
"What kind of support?" Dumbledore asked curiously.
"Beating Voldemort to a pulp, or just killing him outright—does that count?"
The three fell silent.
Well... that certainly was a technical skill.
"I look forward to that day," Dumbledore said with a smile. "A duel between the school's two most outstanding students. I believe you will emerge victorious."
"Beating him is easy. Killing him is the hard part." Wayne shook his head and said no more.
"I agree," Moody stated bluntly.
As for Snape, he was still hesitating. But Dumbledore, often called the White Lord, could be quite domineering when he chose to be—once he made a decision, it was difficult to change.
At present, Snape lacked both the ability and the leverage to sway him.
In the end, Snape could only storm out in frustration, slamming the door behind him.
Moody took Barty Crouch Jr. away, stopping only to ask Wayne for a vial of enhanced Veritaserum to aid in interrogation.
Wayne had been about to leave as well—after Moody agreed to Dumbledore's plan, his system's major event was finally complete, and he was ready to go back and try his luck with the reward draw.
But Phineas suddenly spoke up:
"Lawrence, wait a moment. We still haven't discussed last time's matter."
Wayne stood beneath the portrait. "Go on, then."
"Not yet." Phineas glanced at Dumbledore, who was still seated.
"The next topic isn't for your ears. You may leave."
Dumbledore: "???"
Wasn't this his office?
"What are you waiting for, Dumbledore? This is a private matter for the Black Family. It's not for you to hear." Phineas urged impatiently.
Though the portraits served the current Headmaster, they retained autonomy in matters unrelated to the school's interests—they were not his servants.
With a resigned shake of his head at being so thoroughly dismissed, Dumbledore headed downstairs for dinner.
As soon as he left, Phineas couldn't wait to exclaim, "Lawrence, you're going back on your word!"
Wayne raised an eyebrow. "Phineas, you'd better have proof before making accusations, or I'll sue you for slander. How exactly have I gone back on my word?"
"I helped you resolve Sirius's case, didn't I? Beyond that, I never promised you anything else."
"Resolved?" Phineas's beard quivered with indignation. "We agreed you'd ensure Sirius continued the Black Family lineage!"
"Now he's gone and made Potter his godson without the slightest intention of marrying or having children."
"How is this any different from letting the family line die out?!"
Wayne stared at him speechlessly. "Our deal was that if Sirius remained a convicted man, I'd help you with this. But now he's completely free – you expect me to play matchmaker?"
"If you want descendants, go talk to your great-great-grandson. Don't come to me."
"That unfilial brat won't listen to me!" Phineas fumed, his beard bristling. "Wayne, help me out again, won't you? Just slip him something – Amortentia, love potion, anything."
"Goodbye, farewell, and no can do." Wayne walked out of the room without looking back.
He completely ignored Phineas's shouting.
Love potions, of all things...
The last product of a love potion was Tom Riddle – a man born incapable of understanding love. If they dosed Sirius and ended up with a Tom Black, what kind of life would that be?
...
After dinner in the Great Hall, Wayne took Astoria into the suitcase world for some private time together.
The wealthy young witch complained about her mounting homework, which had already cut half an hour from her sleep schedule.
Wayne considered the problem. Professor McGonagall would be difficult to persuade about reducing workloads, but if Astoria demonstrated higher proficiency, Professor Flitwick might halve her assignments without much fuss.
As for Potions class, Astoria had decent talent – she shouldn't need to complete so many tedious assignments either.
But they'd have to wait until Snape nearly exhausted his supplies and came begging for help before raising the issue.
When Wayne explained his plan, the young girl clapped her hands in delight.
Suddenly, Astoria's eyes gleamed mischievously. "What if we stole the supplies back? Then the professor would come to you much sooner."
Wayne pinched her cheek, torn between laughter and exasperation. This was the first time he'd noticed Slytherin traits in Astoria – even he hadn't thought of such a devious solution.
After more affectionate moments together, Wayne reluctantly escorted the lingering Astoria back to her dormitory.
Returning to the suitcase world, he opened the reward package from the major event.
Expecting mediocre rewards for such a simple task, the contents pleasantly surprised him.
[Resolve Talent – Aftershock: Grants the host earth's power. Magical power recovery accelerates when in contact with the ground. When earth's energy surrounds the body, it significantly enhances physical and magical resistance.]
[Note: This talent's quality will transform upon collecting all Resolve runes.]
Though not the life-enhancing or physique-strengthening talent he'd hoped for, Aftershock proved impressive nonetheless. At its current epic-grade quality, it ranked among golden-tier runes.
Standing on solid ground, he felt his strength multiply. With a mere thought, an emerald-green shield enveloped him securely.
Watching this flashy display, Wayne's eyelid twitched, deciding he'd better use it sparingly in future.
...
A week passed swiftly.
Over the weekend, Wayne made a small fortune in Galleons and points – the double-value first-purchase offer proved irresistible. Just from selling cards, he earned nearly a thousand Galleons, plus tutoring fees from several students, pushing his accumulated points past the thirty-thousand mark.
Yet he resisted the urge to draw cards immediately, choosing instead to save them.
His priority was digesting the numerous inheritances and templates he'd acquired.
Lately, he'd been focusing on the study of souls within Dark Magic, seeking a deeper understanding of its most mysterious aspects.
Thursday morning.
Fourth-years finally had their first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson. Students arrived early, curious about what Mad-Eye Moody – hailed as the most formidable Auror – might teach.
As the bell rang, Moody entered the classroom with his characteristic limp, his wooden leg thumping rhythmically.
Hannah was reviewing her textbook, The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, when Moody stopped before her. His electric-blue magical eye swivelled unnervingly, turning her face pale.
"Put those away. You won't be needing them."
Students stowed their books while Ron buzzed with excitement.
Moody produced the register, giving his head a shake before calling names. His normal eye scanned the list while the magical one whirled independently, scrutinising each responding student.
"Right," he growled when the last name was answered. "Got a letter from Professor Lupin about this class. Speaks highly of you lot."
Several faces brightened until Moody snarled:
"But I reckon his standards were too low! Fourth-years who can only handle basic dark creatures? Against proper wizards, you'd be clueless!"
"The world's not that dangerous," Dean Thomas muttered rebelliously. Moody's magical eye snapped towards him instantly.
"Thomas! Explain the Quidditch World Cup riots then, eh?"
Dean fell silent. Many instinctively glanced at Wayne, who remained impassive.
"Never underestimate the dangers around you," Moody suddenly softened his tone.
"First year – a Death Eater teaching you. Second year – Basilisk attacks. Third year – Black was innocent, but what if he hadn't been? More dangerous than the others, that one. Clever."
His words made many realise how perilous their school years had truly been.
"Yet Hogwarts remains Britain's safest place. Because Dumbledore's here. Because of exceptional teachers."
"You never know when two wizards might ambush you." Moody clenched his fist. "Constant vigilance! That's how you stay alive."
"Time to open your eyes to the real world."
The classroom atmosphere grew palpably tense.
Finding standing tiresome, Moody thumped into a chair, leaning on his staff:
"This term, your primary focus will be spells—real combat spells and various counter-curses."
"Normally, I shouldn't be showing sixth-years what illegal Dark Magic looks like, let alone you lot. You're too young to handle this."
"Except you, Wayne," Moody added pointedly.
Toby and Norman barely suppressed their grins until the magical eye swivelled towards them, freezing their expressions mid-smirk.
Ignoring them, Moody continued, "But I believe the Ministry underestimates your capacity to learn. I'm not teaching you Dark Magic—merely showing you what constitutes it."
"Let's play a game." The words sounded oddly cheerful coming from Moody.
"Though I'm an Auror, not a Wizengamot judge, I'm well-versed in sentencing durations for Dark Magic offences."
"Name a Dark Magic spell, and I'll tell you how long it'd land you in Azkaban."
The class buzzed with sudden interest.
"Who's first?" Moody's gaze swept the room.
Hermione's hand shot up.
"Miss Granger."
"May we discuss the Unforgivable Curses, too?"
Several pureblood students stiffened.
"Naturally." Moody nodded approvingly. "Exemplary choices. Name one."
"The Killing Curse, then." Hermione delivered the ultimate example without hesitation.
Moody's staff thudded against the floor. A moving photograph flew from his book, enlarging itself on the blackboard.
It showed dozens of wizards surrounding a hooded figure. A flash of green lightning struck—five wizards collapsed soundlessly.
The class collectively shuddered. Harry's scar prickled as fragmented images surfaced.
Moody's voice cut through the tension: "This records the Ministry's hundred-strong task force ambushing the Dark Lord. Generated from eyewitness memories."
Some ducked their heads, trembling.
"The Killing Curse—sole lethal Unforgivable. Cast it, hit or miss, and Azkaban keeps you forever."
He paused. "Barty Crouch once pushed legislation allowing Aurors to retaliate with Unforgivables against Death Eaters. Pity it got repealed."
The regret in his tone was unmistakable.
Neville stood shakily. "P-Professor... the Cruciatus Curse?"
Moody studied him. "Frank and Alice's boy, aren't you?"
Neville nodded.
"Trained them as Auror recruits. You'll do them proud."
Neville's eyes glistened as he nodded fiercely.
"Sit, lad. Though non-lethal, it carries equal weight. Your parents' torturers will rot in Azkaban."
As Neville sat, Ron suddenly blurted out during the silence:
"Professor... the Slug-Vomiting Charm?"
"What?" Moody seemed not to have heard clearly and asked again.
"Slug-Vomiting charm, the incantation is—Eat Slugs!" Ron said loudly.
Moody fell into deep silence until Ron's face turned as red as his hair before finally speaking:
"Next time, you sit at the kids' table."