That single sentence from Vaughn carried the weight of wisdom—far too much for any ordinary eleven-year-old to speak so casually.
Snape's expression flickered.
For the first time, he wondered whether he had underestimated Vaughn Weasley.
Vaughn tilted his head, softening his voice.
"Professor, is there something you'd like me to do?"
That smile—gentle, polite, faintly amused—struck Snape with an unpleasant sense of déjà vu.
It was the same smile Dumbledore used whenever he was ten steps ahead of you.
The smile that hid calculus behind courtesy.
And indeed, Vaughn had already guessed what Snape wanted the moment they stepped onto the Quidditch pitch. No reclusive, dungeon-dwelling, eternally bitter Potions Master would willingly stand in a storm for fun.
Snape only left the dungeons early for one reason:
To find new and creative ways to torment Harry Potter.
Even Quidditch—
"the stupidest sport created by mankind"—
was worth enduring if it meant sabotaging Gryffindor.
Eventually, after several minutes of pretending he wasn't plotting murder, Snape asked flatly:
"What do you think of Potter's performance in Quidditch?"
"He's great," Vaughn said, watching Harry slice through the wind like a dart. The boy was undeniably talented.
Then Vaughn added, with mischievous innocence:
"Everyone says he inherited his father's gifts. Gryffindor believes there isn't a Seeker alive who could match him."
CRACK.
That was the sound of Snape's molars grinding together.
Hatred, grief, and old wounds tangled behind his eyes.
Then, abandoning every pretence of subtlety, Snape demanded:
"Vaughn Weasley… if I placed you on the Slytherin team, could you beat him?"
Vaughn blinked.
"Professor? Why? You do know Harry's my friend, right? And honestly, I don't even like Quidditch very much."
"Friends." Snape scoffed. "Just answer. Can you beat him or not?"
"Well…" Vaughn tilted his head. "Probably yes."
He smiled brightly—too brightly.
"But I have a lot on my plate. Ingredient testing, potion development… all very time-consuming. Very expensive, too. A boy must earn a living—"
"I'll supply your ingredients," Snape snapped.
Vaughn pressed a hand to his chest.
"Professor, you're too kind. But schoolwork is a burden as well. Hours and hours every day—"
"I'll speak to McGonagall. And Flitwick. Your homework can be excused."
Snape's voice was low enough to freeze the rain.
"You will still attend classes. Do not expect to skip."
"Wonderful." Vaughn beamed. "Also, I noticed the books you gave me didn't include anything related to memory magic, aside from the Forgetfulness Charm. No Legilimency. No Occlumency training…"
Snape's face darkened into a full thundercloud.
Yes. This boy was absolutely detestable.
Greedy, calculating, opportunistic—
just like Dumbledore.
But after three long breaths, Snape gritted out:
"Next summer. I'll send you a book."
Then, dangerously:
"Don't push your luck, Weasley."
Of course Vaughn was nowhere near finished.
He'd been squeezing benefits out of Snape like juice from a lemon.
"Professor, while we're on the topic… I think Slytherin needs a new Quidditch captain. Marcus Flint is—well—an idiot."
Snape immediately turned away, robes billowing dramatically.
He took three full steps before stopping.
Flint's face appeared in his mind:
massive, brutish, with the brainpower of mashed potatoes.
Objectively speaking, Vaughn wasn't wrong.
Snape turned back stiffly.
"…Do you have someone in mind?"
Vaughn stared at him.
"…No."
The rain hammered them both into silence.
By the time they trudged off the pitch, neither had found a suitable alternative to Flint.
And Vaughn was certainly not volunteering.
Even Snape wasn't reckless enough to waste Vaughn's time on something as useless as House sports.
Just before parting, Vaughn sighed tragically.
"Professor, can't the House recruit at least three normal people next year? My standards aren't high—just someone with a functioning brain."
Snape:
"…"
Two Days Later…
Vaughn—currently visiting the Gryffindor table—received a package by owl mid-breakfast.
He opened it leisurely, ignoring Ron's curious staring and Hermione's immediate gasp of, "That wrapping looks expensive!"
Harry, Ron, and Hermione had approached him first thing that morning, buzzing with excitement.
Because Vaughn already knew exactly what they'd been investigating.
He didn't need to spy.
He didn't need to ask.
One member of the Trio was his brother.
Another was his informant.
And the last—
Harry Potter had the biggest mouth in Hogwarts.
Nickname: "The Leaky Cauldron."
Vaughn knew everything.
Harry and Ron had discovered the third-floor corridor, nearly gotten eaten by Fluffy, and spotted a trapdoor beneath the dog's paws.
The night they found it, they'd tried to sneak back to their dorms —
only to meet Mrs. Norris and Peeves, who had recently decided to team up.
Peeves shouted gleefully:
"YOU'RE DOOMED! FLUFFY'S GOING TO EAT YOU ALL!"
And he and Mrs. Norris chased the Trio until they finally dove into the forbidden room.
The next day, Harry had declared:
"Whatever Hagrid took from Gringotts—it's under that trapdoor!"
And Vaughn, ever the tempter, had suggested lazily:
"Why don't you just… ask Hagrid?"
Harry scoffed.
"Hagrid would never tell me anything."
"Tell him you've seen the dog," Vaughn said.
And sure enough—
This morning, the Trio came rushing up to him:
"It worked! Vaughn, how did you know?"
Vaughn just smiled.
Harry blurted:
"His name is Fluffy! And Hagrid lent him to Dumbledore!"
Ron added:
"And Hagrid said it has something to do with Nicolas Flamel."
Hermione's brow furrowed.
"I know I've seen that name before. I checked the library last night—nothing. Vaughn, do you know who he is?"
Three bright faces stared at him, wide-eyed, full of hope.
Vaughn set down his pumpkin juice with a sigh.
Oh, children…
You really have no idea how dangerous your curiosity is.
PS :
Fluffy – Hagrid's three-headed dog guarding Dumbledore's secret.
Nicolas Flamel – Legendary alchemist tied to the Philosopher's Stone.
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