"What devious scheme are you two plotting now?"
Ron, mid-bite into a chicken leg, was forcibly dragged into the entrance hall by the twins. Harry had initially tried to follow but was firmly pushed back down by George.
Compared to their younger brother, Harry had at least some brains.
What if Ron caught on because of his warning?
George and Fred exchanged glances. Fred pursed his lips, George nodded, then turned to place a solemn hand on Ron's shoulder.
"Ronnikins, we need to discuss something very important with you."
Ron shuddered involuntarily and immediately tried to bolt.
Whenever the twins used that nickname, he could guarantee nothing good would come of it—either mockery or some elaborate prank.
"Hold on, Ronnikins, hear us out first."
Fred swiftly pinned Ron down with considerable force. "Two minutes. If you're not interested after that, we won't stop you. You can leave."
"Just spit it out," Ron groaned, closing his eyes in resignation. He knew escape was futile.
"Another potion for me to test?"
"Potion?" George's eyebrows shot up. "No new creations lately, but we'll definitely call on you when the time comes."
"Today, we're here to make an investment... or as Wayne puts it, to play angel investors."
"Exactly," Fred chimed in, nodding. "Lad, we see great potential in you."
Ron looked up blankly. "Potential for what?"
This was truly a first—Fred and George seeing potential in him?
"We think you've got what it takes to be a champion."
"Fred, it's not April Fools' Day," Ron slumped against the wall weakly, baffled by their antics. "I don't even meet the entry requirements. Champion? Are you having me on?"
It used to be fun, but they'd grown bored with it.
The twins shared the same unspoken thought, though their smiles remained intact.
"Ronnikins, we can get you past the age line," George said warmly.
"How?" Ron blinked.
"Ageing Potion." George produced a small vial. "One drop equals one year. You'd only need three."
"This isn't some fake potion, is it?" Ron wasn't entirely daft, eyeing them suspiciously. "If it actually works, why aren't you using it yourselves?"
"Because we believe you stand a better chance of becoming champion," George said gravely, his expression dead serious.
"Right. Compared to you, while we're marginally smarter, slightly more cunning, and know a tad more magic, we lack one crucial trait."
"Courage!"
Their seamless tag-team act left Ron utterly bewildered.
He pondered it and found no flaw in their logic.
"Ronnikins, you've always been the bravest in the family—well, except for Charlie, who actually plays with dragons."
George's gaze was earnest. "That's why we're investing in you, offering this expensive Ageing Potion for your use."
"Cut the crap." Ron snorted. "You're just trying to scam me out of money, aren't you?"
"Of course not, we don't need your money."
Ron, who had been clever just moments ago, was confused again.
They weren't trying to sell him potions?
"We told you it's an investment. Taking your money would make it a transaction," Fred patiently explained the concept of investment to Ron.
"We'll give you the Ageing Potion for free. We're betting you'll win the championship and claim the final three thousand Galleon prize."
"Three drops of Ageing Potion in exchange for three hundred Galleons. If you win, you pay us back. If not, we'll consider it a failed investment. What do you think?"
Ron's eyes grew brighter.
He thought the twins' proposal sounded rather good.
If he won the championship, he'd only need to give George and Fred three hundred Galleons.
Though compared to three drops of Ageing Potion, that was undoubtedly a steep price.
But he'd be getting three thousand Galleons total—losing three hundred wouldn't be an issue.
Even if he didn't win, there'd be no problem. He wouldn't have to repay anything, and simply becoming a champion would give him enough prestige in front of all those schools.
The worst outcome would be not being selected at all, in which case he'd lose nothing.
Realising he had nothing to lose, Ron's expression instantly hardened with determination.
"I want four drops, but it's still three hundred Galleons."
To be on the safe side, he'd asked for an extra drop.
At this moment, Ron felt exceedingly clever.
Fred and George pretended to hesitate, muttering quietly between themselves as if deliberating.
Only then did they reluctantly agree.
...
Five minutes later, Ron returned to the Great Hall in high spirits.
"What did Fred and George want with you?" Harry asked curiously.
"Ageing Potion," Ron boasted, producing the vial and tipping four drops into his mouth.
He hadn't bothered to lower his voice, and many nearby students overheard, casting curious glances their way.
"I'm going to be a champion. Wish me luck, Harry," Ron declared before striding confidently towards the Age Line.
"He can't seriously think an Ageing Potion will fool Dumbledore's magic?"
Hermione stared at Ron with disbelief, wondering if he'd lost his mind.
Even if Dumbledore had gone senile, he'd surely have accounted for such an obvious loophole.
Otherwise, the Age Line would be completely pointless.
"Don't be like that, Hermione," Fred and George said, sitting opposite her while keeping their eyes fixed on Ron.
"What if the Headmaster really did forget? This is a premium Ageing Potion we begged from Wayne – called him godfather all day for it."
Hermione was speechless, yet found herself watching the unfolding scene with interest.
As Ron stepped over the blue Age Line, the Great Hall erupted in thunderous cheers.
"Weasley did it!"
"Ageing Potion! I need an Ageing Potion!"
But before the shouts could fade, as Ron raised his wand towards the Goblet—
A hissing sound erupted, as if an invisible shot-putter had hurled him backwards. He landed heavily ten feet away.
"Ow!"
Rubbing his sore backside, Ron groaned, convinced he'd broken his tailbone. His ordeal wasn't over – with a loud crack, an enormous white beard sprouted from his chin, longer and silkier than Dumbledore's own.
The surrounding students howled with laughter. Only Fred and George looked genuinely relieved.
Thank Merlin, they'd let dear Ronnie test the waters first.
Though... that beard did look rather amusing.
"I did warn you," came a deep, amused voice. Turning, they saw Dumbledore and several other headmasters entering from the entrance hall.
His eyes twinkled as he surveyed Ron:
"Mr Weasley, I'd be happy to share beard-care tips sometime – such smooth, luxurious growth is rare. Though right now, I suspect Madam Pomfrey's services might be more pressing."
The laughter redoubled, even some of the visiting headmasters joining in.
Ron buried his face in his beard and fled.
Wayne chuckled, approaching Fred and George.
"I thought you two were using it yourselves. Didn't expect you'd make Ron your guinea pig again."
"I'll remember Ronnie's sacrifice," Fred said solemnly, crossing himself.
"Pity, though," Wayne suddenly sighed, wearing a regretful expression.
"What's the pity?" George asked, puzzled.
Wayne said with a faint smile, "It's a shame you couldn't see each other grow old."
"What's so shameful about that?" George shrugged. "There'll be plenty of chances in the future, right, Fred?"
"Of course. Even at eighty, we'll still be living together."
The two high-fived, wearing identical grins.
Wayne suddenly felt much better.
These two clowns really ought to kowtow to him. Otherwise... this might be the only chance they'd ever get to see each other in old age.
...
Ron's miserable experience had sobered up many students hoping to cheat their way through, but a few stubborn attempts still ended with trips to the hospital wing.
By Saturday morning, nearly all interested students had signed up.
Time seemed to crawl unbearably slow, with everyone itching for evening to arrive when Dumbledore would announce the results.
That morning, Wayne found himself unusually free. Having turned down all his female admirers' invitations, he lazed about in his dorm.
Even the most beloved girlfriend could become tiresome after a while.
Constantly juggling attention between girls had left Wayne mentally exhausted. He just wanted some solitude.
Yet by ten o'clock, boredom crept in.
After some thought, Wayne decided to check on Snape's condition.
Yesterday's Potions class was taught by Professor Sprout as Snape was absent.
He'd been missing for nearly two days now. Surely he hadn't actually kicked the bucket?
"I solemnly swear I am up to no good."
Inky lines spread across the parchment as the Marauder's Map revealed the castle's layout.
Dots with names clustered densely around the Great Hall and first floor, with many others by the Black Lake—the pleasant weather had drawn young wizards outside.
Snape remained stationary in his office. After two minutes of observing no movement, Wayne resolved to investigate.
But first, he'd divine the bat's fortunes.
Feng Hou Qi Men wasn't merely an offensive art—as a form of Qimen Dunjia, how could it lack divination methods?
Wayne's right hand flicked through calculations using the Earthly Branches palm chart. By mapping the target's information across his palm, he could approximate their fate.
Though still a novice—incapable of deciphering anomalies like Voldemort, the so-called "Chosen One"—figures like Snape, mere "small fry," were within his grasp.
"Fortune and misfortune intertwine... sixty per cent auspicious."
His conclusion came quickly.
Best go see what's happening.
If something really was wrong, he could lend a hand, couldn't he?
Wayne rose and left the common room. Within five minutes, he stood before the office door.
Multiple defensive and alarm spells warded the entrance—clearly, Snape desired no visitors.
In that case...
Wayne glanced around. On a Saturday, nobody would be loitering near Snape's office. Eerie silence enveloped the corridor.
"Alohomora!"
Bang!
Wood splinters flew as the heavy oak door tore from its frame and crashed to the floor. Stepping over the wreckage, Wayne called out breezily:
"Professor! Haven't seen you in days. Still alive?!"
"Lawrence!"
The dust settled as a low roar echoed from within the house.
The young man tilted his head to see Snape lying on a sickbed in the corner of the room, his face flushed red, with syringes and cauldrons arranged on a nearby stand.
At this moment, Snape was on the verge of mental collapse.
That morning, he'd injected himself with bloodline factors extracted from Thestral blood and had been battling its violent side effects ever since.
It was an extremely perilous process – either he assimilated the Thestral's bloodline, or it assimilated him, turning him into a humanoid beast. Survival alone would be a miracle.
Fortunately, he'd anticipated this scenario and prepared numerous precautionary potions in advance.
Not just mind-stabilising ones, but also potions to protect blood vessels from rupturing, to repair internal organs, and even two vials of resurrection draught as a last resort.
He'd nearly succeeded. Snape had felt himself growing increasingly lucid, gradually regaining control of his body.
Then that damned Lawrence had to come barging in!
The violent mental shock caused Snape's eyes to be completely overtaken by blackness. His stream of curses cut off abruptly as dark mist surged behind him.
"Bloody hell, what are the odds?" Wayne was stunned.
So... the 'fortune' in 'misfortune and fortune are intertwined' referred to him.
Instantly, he gained new insights into the divination arts of the Windhou Qimen.
As a player within this chess game, his every action and thought naturally influenced the hexagram's fluctuations.
Snape had now sat up on the bed, gripping his wand tightly. With his last shred of rationality, he pointed it at his own chest.
This attempt had failed. He needed to kill himself immediately to activate the contingency plan and restart the process using the resurrection draught.
The young man snorted lightly and casually flicked a spell, sending Snape flying.
I am the direction. I am the fortune and misfortune.
This wasn't just empty talk.
Since he'd brought the misfortune, the fortune should also be his to control.
Swish! Swish!
Two invisible blades sliced through the air towards Wayne. After being sent flying, Snape climbed back up as if unharmed.
Abandoning his suicidal thoughts, he launched a fierce assault on Wayne instead.
This state somewhat resembled the legendary 'qi deviation'. Thestrals were never docile creatures to begin with – though fiercely loyal once tamed, their blood carried inherently violent traits.
Judging by the intensity of these magical attacks, they were indeed significantly stronger than before.
Wayne raised a defensive barrier. The Laceration Curse struck it with clear metallic pings.
Snape's attacks came like a tempest, spells raining upon the barrier and ricocheting wildly in all directions.
"Not just increased spell power, but greater speed too?"
Wayne stood immovable as a mountain, making no counterattacks. He let Snape bombard him while studying the effects of his bloodline fusion.
The improvements were indeed substantial, seemingly capable of breaking through natural talent limitations.
As for total magical power... no one understood better than Wayne exactly how much magic a single 'is' unit represented.
After two minutes, the offence rapidly waned. Snape was already panting heavily.
Bestial instincts told him he couldn't defeat the youth before him, so without hesitation, he charged towards the shattered doorway to escape.
Wayne finally moved.
With a slight flick of his index finger, the charging Snape was frozen in place, maintaining his running posture.
Qian Character – Temporal Disruption!