On the first day of term, the castle was shrouded in thick fog from early morning, so dense you couldn't see your hand in front of your face.
Flocks of owls swooped into the entrance hall, dropping parcels large and small onto the long tables.
The first few days of term were always like this—many students had a habit of forgetting things, only realising what they'd left behind once they arrived at school.
Neville took this to the extreme.
Four owls carried a massive parcel and dropped it at his feet, nearly knocking over a bowl of porridge on the table.
Neville hurriedly opened it to check, only to discover he'd forgotten an astonishing number of things.
"My wand!" Neville exclaimed in delight as he picked it up. "I thought I'd lost it!"
Hermione rolled her eyes beside him.
A wizard forgetting his own wand was like turning up to an exam without an admission ticket or playing football without boots.
Harry and the others didn't laugh, quietly eating their breakfast instead.
Last night, there had been some unpleasantness in their dormitory—Harry and Seamus had clashed.
Over the summer, the Daily Prophet had been slandering Dumbledore, loudly proclaiming his withdrawal from the Wizengamot and claiming he'd gone senile.
It wasn't until Wayne became Chief Warlock that the frenzy died down a little.
Seamus had merely repeated some of his mother's criticisms of Dumbledore, and the two had ended up arguing.
They'd nearly drawn their wands on each other the night before.
In their dormitory, Dean Thomas was a pure Muggle-born—his family had no idea who Voldemort even was—while Ron and Neville sided with Harry.
Seamus found himself isolated, sulking all evening.
Hermione also gave Wayne a brief rundown on their way to class.
"After years as roommates, not one of them takes his side. Harry's really failed at this."
Then, with a hint of sarcasm, he added, "Seamus is quite something, too. After knowing Harry for so long, he should understand what kind of person he is."
"His mother's ignorance is one thing, but Harry—though a bit dim at times—has never been one to lie. If the paper started praising Voldemort as the saviour and calling Harry the Dark Lord, would he believe that too?"
Hermione couldn't help but laugh at Wayne's mocking tone, and the two quickly moved on from the topic.
She'd only mentioned it in passing, really—just feeling that these boys were too immature, lacking their own judgement.
Not far behind them, Seamus's face flushed alternately pale and red.
He'd heard every word of Hermione and Wayne's conversation, burning with shame yet unable to refute any of it.
Two conflicting viewpoints warred in his mind.
Should he believe his mother's words or trust his own roommate?
Even after class began, Seamus's thoughts remained tangled—until Professor Binns' soporific voice lulled him into a drowsy slumber.
The epic tale of the Giant Wars, as narrated by Professor Binns, became as dull and tedious as a House-elf's dishrag.
Hermione was the only one who stayed awake through the entire lesson, while Wayne had started snoring the moment his head hit the desk.
When the bell rang, Wayne blinked his bleary eyes open.
Hermione copied her notes and tucked them into his bag, reminding him, "I've got Potions now. Your next class is Herbology—don't be late."
"Oh." Wayne nodded drowsily and stood to leave, then suddenly remembered something and grabbed Hermione's arm.
"You've got Defence Against the Dark Arts this afternoon, right?"
"Mhm, I've noted everything you mentioned." Hermione knew what Wayne was asking about and gave an affirmative nod.
"You won't be upset, will you?" Wayne gently smoothed Hermione's slightly messy hair as he asked softly.
"Of course not." The young witch made a disgusted face. "She's just Fudge's troublemaker, completely unqualified to teach."
"Well, you can observe her first." Wayne smiled. "Just do what you think is right."
"I know." Hermione kissed the boy's cheek, then hurried off with her bookbag.
...
Next was Potions class. In the first few weeks of term, Snape always made an example of students—especially Gryffindors.
Sure enough, when Hermione arrived, Harry and Malfoy were already locked in a heated argument.
Malfoy kept bringing up his Prefect status, ostensibly praising Ron while actually mocking Harry for no longer being on his level.
Truthfully, Harry couldn't care less about being a Prefect. Coming from anyone else, the remarks would have rolled off his back.
But hearing such words from Malfoy's mouth was another matter entirely. Within moments, Harry was red-faced with anger.
Just as Harry was about to explode, Snape glided in.
He deducted ten points from Gryffindor for arguing with a Prefect.
Only when Harry sat fuming in silent fury did Snape smile in satisfaction.
With a wave of his wand, the recipe and preparation method for a Calming Draught appeared on the blackboard.
"This is your O.W.L. year." Snape's voice was languid. "Though some in this class possess remarkably sluggish intellects, I expect Acceptable results from all of you. Otherwise... I shall be very cross."
His gaze settled on Neville, who turned deathly pale and gulped audibly.
"Don't worry," Harry whispered while gathering ingredients, "Crabbe and Goyle are much worse than you."
"But they're Slytherins," Neville said despairingly as Snape approached again. Both boys hastily straightened up and focused on their potions.
Watching Harry stir clockwise instead of counter-clockwise, Snape's lips curled.
"Potter, I suggest new glasses. Can you truly not see text that large?
"Or have you forgotten how to distinguish between 'six' and 'seven'?"
Malfoy burst into exaggerated laughter as many Slytherins watched with schadenfreude. Harry's face burned crimson as he stubbornly attempted damage control.
Snape moved on to torment Neville instead.
As for Hermione, one glance confirmed her work was flawless.
...
Meanwhile, Wayne was sighing dramatically in Herbology class.
'Tomoyo, what are you doing now? How am I supposed to slack off in Herbology without you?'
Last term, with Tomoyo and Hermione around, he'd barely needed to lift a finger to complete assignments.
But now both right-hand women were absent, replaced by the disastrous duo of Norman and Toby.
He'd plummeted from heaven straight into hell.
Left with no choice, Wayne miserably tended to the Bouncing Bulbs himself, repotting and fertilising the squirming plants.
"Wayne, let's continue yesterday's topic," Norman said while loosening the soil, wearing dragon-hide gloves.
"Yesterday, you mentioned your younger brother?" Wayne quickly recalled what Norman was referring to.
"Exactly." Norman's legs had gone numb from squatting, so he changed position and sat on the ground. "I want to buy some little gadgets that ordinary people can use too. Any recommendations?"
"Canary Creams, Skiving Snackboxes, Bubble-Head Bubblegum—wouldn't these work?" Wayne said, somewhat puzzled.
There were so many products at Zonko's that could meet Norman's requirements—surely he didn't need to ask about this?
Sure enough, Norman became awkward. "I've already given him those... but my brother's still unhappy. He wants... something that can actually perform magic."
Wayne suddenly understood, then showed a troubled expression.
"That's quite a tall order."
Norman hastily added, "Just something that works. I've got money—not many Galleons, but would pounds do?"
Norman came from a well-off family—his mother was an estate agent and his father a schoolteacher.
To be precise, a university professor, although there was an annual limit on the Galleon exchange, had to budget carefully.
After some thought, Wayne said, "How about a fake wand then?"
"You mean the kind Weasley invented?"
"No, more like an improved version. It can cast Lumos, Wingardium Leviosa, and shoot magical fireworks, but other spells won't work."
"That's perfect!" Norman was delighted. "How much?"
"Twenty Galleons." Wayne gave him the cost price—truly just the cost, not even counting his own labour.
Norman thanked him profusely, grinning happily when suddenly his head got smacked.
Professor Sprout scolded disapprovingly: "Sherlock, are you trying to suffocate that Mimbulus Mimbletonia? You've piled enough soil on it to build a pyramid."
The class erupted in laughter as Norman hurriedly dug up the plant again.
After class, Professor Sprout stopped Wayne.
"Wayne, you should be careful with Umbridge," Professor Sprout said worriedly. "She's clearly trouble—came here specifically targeting Dumbledore. After you tripped her up yesterday, she's probably already marked you down."
"If Umbridge deliberately targets you, come to me. I won't let you suffer unfairly."
Wayne felt warmed—his own Head of House was the best, unconditionally on his side.
Professor Sprout and Professor Flitwick were actually neutral parties. Unlike Snape and Professor McGonagall, they had no connections with Dumbledore outside of school.
Both professors were loyal only to the school, largely indifferent to external conflicts. Even in the final battle, they fought not for Dumbledore but for Hogwarts.
Precisely because of this, Professor Sprout didn't know Wayne already had prior grievances with Umbridge.
"Professor, when have you ever seen me come off worse?" Wayne smiled. "Don't forget—I'm not just a student now."
Professor Sprout then remembered—this young man before her was also Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, technically equal in rank to the Minister for Magic.
Still, she cautioned: "Just don't go too far. It'd be hard to clean up if someone actually dies."
Wayne nodded in understanding and walked out of the greenhouse.
He'd grasped it—as long as no lives were lost, it wasn't going too far.
If Sprout knew this was how Wayne had interpreted her words, she'd be utterly baffled.
...
Returning to the castle, he first checked the Great Hall and found Dumbledore wasn't there, but still headed upstairs.
Reaching the eighth floor, Wayne was surprised to discover that the entrance to the Headmaster's Office was now guarded by two gargoyles.
The gargoyle he knew came to life, greeting him cheerfully: "Lawrence, long time no see! Just yesterday I was wondering when you'd come visit."
"Hello," Wayne nodded, then glanced at the other one. "So this is your new partner?"
The second gargoyle also animated, speaking in a crisp female voice. "Hello, Lawrence."
"Heh, all thanks to your idea," the familiar gargoyle said, swaying its head. "Not long after the term ended, Dumbledore brought my little sister here."
"Finally got some stone company to chat with."
"Are you here to see Dumbledore? He's inside."
As it moved to clear the passage, Wayne stopped it: "No need. I just came to see you. When Dumbledore's not around, have a portrait or ghost notify me—then I'll come in."
"Alright," the gargoyle agreed without sensing anything amiss.
Wayne chatted with it a while longer before heading downstairs for dinner.
After Wayne left, the new gargoyle asked in confusion: "Big brother, Lawrence didn't even say the password just now. Why were you going to let him in?"
"Little sister, you're new here—there's much you don't understand yet."
The older gargoyle spoke with gravitas, imparting wisdom: "Lawrence is specially exempted by Dumbledore from needing passwords to enter.
"He's also our good friend. Without his ideas, you'd still be who-knows-where being ordinary stone. So whenever he wants in, just clear the way—no password needed."
"Ohhh," the rookie nodded repeatedly in understanding. "So when Lawrence or Dumbledore come, I'll just open up straight away."
"Wrong again," the gargoyle chided. "Dumbledore never told me he doesn't need passwords, so we still have to ask him."
"Ah, I see now."