Voldemort fell.
His physical and magical weakness left him no time to react as the pungent stench of the Deluxe Supreme Mega Dungbomb Max Pro Plus Ultra invaded his nostrils, seeped into his skin, assaulted his senses and made his eyes water uncontrollably.
For a moment, Voldemort lost all capacity for thought, lying stiffly on the ground.
Only one notion remained in his mind.
'Bloody hell, that stinks!'
After the brief mental short-circuit came a tidal wave of fury.
"Lawrence, you dishonourable bastard!"
Voldemort's shrill wail echoed through the cavern before abruptly cutting off into retching sounds.
The moment he opened his mouth, the green mist surged desperately down his throat.
Only after vomiting yesterday's meals did Voldemort feel slightly better, waving his wand to blast the green mist apart.
Yet the stench clung stubbornly to him.
No spell worked—not even burning his robes and transfiguring new ones.
He'd been thoroughly marinated.
Even Voldemort had to admit defeat.
What in Merlin's name had that damned Lawrence been researching all this time?
Unable to purge the stench immediately, Voldemort magically blocked his nostrils and leaned against the stone platform to compose himself.
Had any Death Eaters witnessed this, they wouldn't have believed their eyes.
None had ever seen the Dark Lord in such disarray—truth be told, even Voldemort himself couldn't recall the last time he'd been this humiliated.
When Lawrence had shattered half his body with that attack?
Bollocks!
Voldemort now realised his most wretched experiences had all been courtesy of that brat Lawrence.
In an instant, Lawrence surpassed Harry as his second greatest nemesis, trailing only Dumbledore.
But dealing with Lawrence wouldn't be quick work—he needed to assess his own situation first.
Good news: This Horcrux hadn't mutated or spawned another version of himself.
Bad news... It was bloody gone!
Stolen by Lawrence!
If Lawrence knew about Horcruxes, Dumbledore almost certainly did too.
Voldemort's arrogance turned to panic, murderous intent flickering unpredictably.
He prided himself on having gone further than anyone in pursuing immortality through multiple carefully hidden Horcruxes.
So long as they remained intact, even if Harry Potter killed him ten thousand times, he'd always return.
But now, one Horcrux had gained sentience, another had been stolen.
Worse, he couldn't be certain whether Lawrence knew how to destroy them.
Everything was slipping from his grasp.
Voldemort desperately wanted to check the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts and the Gaunt shack for his other Horcruxes. But having just consumed a basin of poison, he was at his weakest—and terrified of stumbling into another of Lawrence's traps.
His obsession with Dark Magic stemmed from his fear of death; no normal student would contemplate creating Horcruxes in their fifth or sixth year.
So despite knowing his Horcruxes were compromised, he dared not act rashly now.
Gritting through his weakness, Voldemort retraced his steps out of the cave, transforming into black mist that vanished into the distance.
...
Outside the Hufflepuff common room, Wayne rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
Harry stood nervously beside him, naturally handing over a small pouch of coins.
Jerry leapt out of his pocket, happily stuffing all the Galleons into his tiny belly.
Harry's mouth twitched, but he still said, "Wayne, you know I've always had issues with Defence Against the Dark Arts professors. Umbridge is acting strangely, and I can't shake the feeling she's up to something."
Wayne gave the simpleton an approving look.
After being tricked for so many years, he's finally showing some growth.
"Then just don't go. It's just house points, don't worry about it."
"I can't," Harry said miserably. "Professor McGonagall insists I attend, but I don't feel right about it. That's why I came to you for help."
"It's good to be cautious," Wayne mused, extending a finger.
Familiar silver-white mist emerged and seeped into Harry's body.
"Consider this insurance. If Umbridge tries anything, she'll get quite the surprise."
Reassured by Wayne's words, Harry thanked him profusely before returning to his dorm.
His first act upon returning was to write to Gringotts.
Not even a month into term, and his allowance was already gone...
...
On Friday afternoon, with no classes, Wayne was dragged by Hermione to the library to accompany her revision.
Now in her fifth year, the young witch had become more diligent than ever, studying late every night. Even when serving as Wayne's pillow in the suitcase world, she'd have a book in hand.
One might think she was struggling with most subjects, but Wayne knew she could easily achieve 'Outstanding' in all her chosen courses if exams were held now.
She simply had an innate anxiety about tests.
...
Elsewhere, Harry arrived excitedly at the Quidditch Pitch with the Gryffindor team, only to remember his detention and hastily depart under Angelina's reproachful gaze.
At five to five, Harry knocked on Umbridge's fourth-floor office door.
A sickeningly sweet voice called, "Come in."
Harry entered cautiously, looking around.
He'd visited this office many times under five different occupants.
Each professor left their mark—Lockhart's self-portraits, Lupin's Dark creatures, Moody's Dark Magic detectors.
But now, Harry barely recognised the room.
Everything was draped in lace doilies and tablecloths, with several vases of dried flowers. Decorative plates adorned the walls, each depicting a garishly coloured kitten wearing different bows. One particularly nauseating specimen wore the exact same bow Umbridge favoured.
"Good evening, Mr Potter."
Harry jumped and turned to see Umbridge seated behind her desk.
"Good evening, Professor Umbridge," he said reluctantly.
"Sit there. It's all prepared for you." Umbridge's saccharine smile widened as Harry sat. "Mr Potter, you'll be writing some lines for me."
When Harry reached for his own quill, she added sharply, "Not with your quill. You'll use this one."
She handed Harry a long black quill with an unusually sharp nib.
"I want you to write—I must not tell lies." Umbridge was now in a very cheerful mood, her tone gentle.
"That's it? How many times?" Harry asked.
"Yes, it really is quite simple," Umbridge simpered. "Start writing, and keep going until the words are etched into your heart."
Harry suddenly frowned. "You haven't given me any ink."
"Oh, my quill is specially made. It doesn't need ink. Start writing." Umbridge returned to her seat and simply stared at Harry, smiling faintly.
Harry bent over, his nose almost touching the parchment.
Umbridge's toad-like mouth had already stretched into a grin, her eyes full of anticipation.
"Ah!"
Harry, who had been writing, was startled and quickly looked up at Umbridge.
The smile on her face had vanished, replaced by a pained grimace as she kept sucking in sharp breaths.
Harry didn't know what was happening and thought she had guessed something.
To avoid giving her an excuse to criticise him, he quickly lowered his head again and wrote "I must not tell lies" once more.
This time, he wrote faster and pressed harder. Umbridge's scream was even louder.
Two lines of text appeared on the back of Umbridge's right hand, deeply embedded in her flesh as if carved with a knife.
Just as Harry was stunned, the writing and the wounds vanished.
"What did you do?! Potter!" Umbridge shrieked.
Harry understood everything now.
He looked down at the quill in his hand and smiled...
No wonder it didn't need ink. It used blood instead.
Too bad for her—he had connections!
"Potter! What exactly did you do?" Umbridge, seeing Harry hadn't answered but was instead grinning foolishly, demanded again in fury.
"I didn't do anything." Harry, snapping back to reality, played his part perfectly, grinning dopily. "I was just following your instructions and writing. I'll write a few more lines to finish the task as soon as possible."
As he spoke, Harry kept writing, his strokes growing faster and fiercer, as if he were trying to stab the quill straight into Umbridge's flesh.
"Stop! Stop at once!" Umbridge was sweating from the pain, but Harry pretended not to hear, scribbling madly.
Umbridge's hand was now a bloody mess. Biting back the pain, she lunged forward and snatched the quill back.
"I told you to stop! Did you hear me?" Umbridge glared at Harry with murderous eyes. "Potter, you dare use Dark Magic on a professor! You're finished—I'll report you to the Ministry of Magic and have you expelled!"
Harry was so angry that he laughed.
"Professor, I haven't even touched my wand since entering this room. It's been in my bag the whole time. If you're going to frame me, at least come up with a plausible reason."
Umbridge glared at him venomously. "The wounds on my hand are proof!"
"Then I'd like to ask," Harry said, eyeing the quill she'd snatched away, his tone turning sharp, "Why would the words I wrote with this quill appear on your hand? Unless... this quill is the Dark Artefact?"
Umbridge's face twitched, a flicker of guilt flashing in her eyes.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Ignoring her, Harry took out his own quill and wrote the same words on the parchment.
But this time, Umbridge showed no reaction, and Harry was completely certain—there was something wrong with that quill.
Fear gripped his heart once more.
If not for his quick wit in seeking Wayne's protection beforehand, he would have been the one in pain just now.
"Professor Umbridge, you wouldn't want others to know you're using Dark Artefacts to punish students, would you?" Harry said with a knowing smile.
"Get out! Get out!" Umbridge shrieked hoarsely.
Unfazed, Harry simply chuckled, slung his bag over his shoulder and left—the entire detention had lasted less than ten minutes.
He doubted Umbridge would dare give him detention again after this.
Leaving the office, Harry walked briskly towards the Quidditch Pitch.
There was still time—he could make it for the start of the Quidditch team trials.
But as he reached the third-floor landing and was about to descend the stairs, Harry suddenly froze, clutching his head in agony.
The scar on his forehead felt like it was splitting his skull apart, an unbearable pulling sensation as if something was trying to force its way out.
Harry's consciousness grew increasingly hazy before he toppled forward.
He saw a vast cavern where he stood at the centre, wildly brandishing a wand that emitted piercing cracks. Immense magical power coalesced into a vortex-like black hole.
A giant snake—no, a Basilisk—emerged from the dark opening. The creature's eyes remained closed as it sank its fangs into his neck.
Excruciating pain. Scorching liquid. Venom spreading rapidly through his body.
With a final anguished cry, Harry lost consciousness completely.
When he awoke two hours later, Ron and Neville were keeping vigil by his hospital bed. Seeing Harry's eyes open, Ron exhaled in relief:
"Thank Merlin, you're finally awake."
Neville hurriedly brought a cup of water, supporting Harry's head as he drank.
"What happened? Did Umbridge hit you with a nasty curse?" Ron asked curiously once Harry's gaze cleared.
"No, not her." Harry touched his scar, which still throbbed faintly. "It was Voldemort. I became him."
Seeing the horrified expressions on Ron and Neville's faces, he quickly shook his head. "Not like that, Ron. I need to find Professor Dumbledore and Wayne—"
He struggled to sit up.
"You shouldn't be moving about just yet, Harry. I'm already here."
Dumbledore's reassuring voice came from the doorway.