Half an hour later, Wayne walked out of the Charms classroom feeling slightly exhausted.
Professor Flitwick's expectations were just too high.
Almost as if he were competing with Professor McGonagall, Flitwick demanded Wayne use an absurd number of charms with an equally absurd level of proficiency.
And even then, he still wasn't satisfied.
"Lawrence, your talent has been wasted far too long. Why haven't you learned the Locking Charm yet?"
"I'll exempt you from the homework—but before Halloween, you must master this charm."
Wayne felt like coughing up blood.
That charm was something fourth- or fifth-years learned, and extremely obscure. Wasn't it perfectly normal that he hadn't learned it yet?
Still, in exchange for skipping another assignment, Wayne agreed.
The same thing happened again in Herbology. Professor Sprout was impressed that he could remember so many herbs and their properties.
But there was no homework exemption.
Because Herbology homework was already minimal—just essays, which weren't that useful. The real learning came from hands-on practice in class.
When Hermione heard about Wayne's day, she was both envious and discouraged.
But when Wayne saw the determined sparkle in the young witch's eyes, he understood immediately—
Hermione was going to become even more intense.
As night fell, the Hufflepuff common room bustled with its usual cheer.
Everyone shared their homework with great enthusiasm, contributing to the collective effort of confusing their professors just enough.
When Wayne entered, the common room went briefly silent.
All the little badgers watched him leave through the barrel entrance with the eyes of someone seeing off a brave hero.
Everyone knew Wayne was headed for extra tutoring with Snape—and that it would continue until Christmas.
They all deeply respected his courage.
Just attending Potions class was already a nightmare.
The gloomy atmosphere, Snape's poisonous tongue, and the awful-smelling ingredients…
Put all that together, and Potions had become the most hated subject among young witches and wizards—hands down.
And Wayne was voluntarily going back for more? Many were already concerned for his mental wellbeing.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Inside his office, Snape didn't even lift his eyes from the newspaper he was reading when he heard the knock.
"Enter."
The door opened. Wayne walked in and casually sat down in the only empty chair like he owned the place.
Seeing Snape still buried in the newspaper, he didn't speak. Instead, he looked around, taking in the room's decor.
Snape's office was actually quite spacious—not much smaller than the Potions classroom.
But there wasn't much room to move around, since the space was filled with display cases and cabinets.
All kinds of bottles and jars were crammed inside, containing all sorts of strange things—eyeballs, severed arms soaked in solution—it all looked particularly grim and eerie.
But to Wayne?
All of it looked like money!
Green lacewings—six for two Galleons.
Pufferfish eyes—four Galleons each.
African tree snake skin—thirty Galleons a strip.
Horn of a Graphorn—one hundred and fifty Galleons apiece, rare and priceless.
As expected...
No potion master was ever poor. Wayne had the same thought he'd had in Dumbledore's office:
Rob him blind.
It was said Snape even had a special storeroom for storing rare materials.
That place might have even better stuff.
If he could clean it out, he probably wouldn't have to worry about potion ingredients for years.
"If I ever lose something, you'll be the first person I look for."
"Lawrence, wipe that greedy look out of your eyes."
"You're here to study—not to stock up."
Snape's icy voice cut through the air. At some point, he had silently put away his newspaper and appeared beside Wayne.
"Professor, you misunderstand me," Wayne replied smoothly. "I'm a Hufflepuff—why would I steal from you?"
"…But would you consider selling that African tree snake skin? I've written several letters to Diagon Alley and they're always out of stock."
Snape's breath hitched for a moment before he returned to normal.
"You want it? Trade me a phoenix tear."
"No thanks." Wayne shook his head. "Ho-Oh is my best companion—my very first pet."
"How could a mere African tree snake skin possibly compare to her tears?"
"You'll need to pay extra!"
???
Snape almost pulled a muscle from the mental whiplash.
But then, a gleam of surprise and excitement lit up in his eyes.
"Lawrence, name your price."
Galleons were a necessity for most wizards, second only to their wands. But to a true powerhouse, they were just numbers.
Some treasures couldn't be bought with money.
Like the Deathly Hallows. The Philosopher's Stone. The Pensieve.
Or, in this case, the phoenix tear in Wayne's possession.
To Snape, even the Hallows might not compare to the worth of that phoenix tear.
"Talking money is so vulgar," Wayne waved it off. "You're my professor, how could I charge you?"
"I just want a thirty–seventy split of the potion made with the tear."
"Thirty percent?" Snape frowned. "Too much. I'll give you at most twenty."
"Professor," Wayne kindly reminded him, "the seventy percent is mine."
Snape's face turned green with frustration.
Only thirty percent left for him?
What is this, begging for scraps on his knees?
"Let's not waste time," Snape snapped, shifting the topic before he lost control and hurled a curse at Wayne.
"Let me first assess the potion-making skills of Hufflepuff's little genius."
Snape was, of course, aware that the other professors had taken turns testing Wayne.
But he wasn't particularly shocked.
After all, he was a genius too—he'd invented spells during his school days, including shadowy Dark Arts spells that left no trace.
Wayne didn't hold back in answering Snape's questions.
When it came to pure theory, Wayne had the memory palace technique—he could rattle off the origins and properties of countless ingredients like an encyclopedia.
He also had every potion-brewing technique memorized by heart.
After over ten minutes of rapid-fire questioning, Snape finally gave his assessment:
"All book smarts. No independent thinking."
"The stuff in textbooks is ancient and dry. If you blindly believe in them, you'll never amount to anything."
Faced with Snape's cold sarcasm, Wayne silently raised a middle finger in his mind.
One day, I'll get you back for this.
With a dramatic sweep of his robe, Snape summoned a blackboard, densely covered with handwritten potion instructions.
"Get the ingredients yourself. Only enough for one dose."
"You have two hours. I want to see a complete potion."
"If you fail..."
Snape sneered and didn't finish the sentence, returning to his seat and picking up a magazine.
Wayne glanced over the blackboard and twitched at the contents.
Hate Potion—a brew that makes the drinker exhibit their worst, ugliest traits. It was the polar opposite of Amortentia.
He'd read about it in Advanced Potion-Making. Based on curriculum standards, it was something meant for sixth or seventh-years at the earliest.
The brewing process was extremely complex. Not only were the ingredient prep steps strict, but the key element was wand-stirring.
You had to stir with your wand while releasing a precise amount of magic.
Whatever the hell "appropriate amount" meant. A bit, a little, a certain quantity…
Couldn't they be more specific?
Snape was clearly throwing a difficult potion at him to drive him off.
Resisting the urge to pull out his wand and engage Snape in a spell duel, Wayne obediently went to gather the ingredients.
Salamander blood. Hippogriff powder. Dragon liver. Dried nettles.
Following Snape's instructions, Wayne began preparing the materials step by step. To avoid any errors, he even transformed his wand into a ruler—accurate to the millimeter.
This small detail made Snape glance at him with a flicker of newfound respect.
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