After polishing off the last bite of chocolate, Vaughn glanced toward the portrait wall.
Phineas Nigellus Black was still locked in a ferocious wrestling match with his old professor—another former Headmaster, apparently. Several other portraits had crowded round in excitement, cheering and jeering like gamblers around a boxing ring.
Dumbledore's dignified office had, in effect, devolved into a retirement-home brawl.
"Child, don't pay attention to old Black's nonsense,"
a warm, grandmotherly voice drifted across the room.
Vaughn turned.
A frame that had been blank moments before now held an elderly witch with curly red hair and gentle, thoughtful eyes.
Red hair.
In the wizarding world, that usually pointed to one particular family.
Vaughn bowed politely.
"Good evening, Headmistress Weasley. Forgive me—I don't know the proper way to address you."
There was no question about it. She was a Weasley ancestor.
Thanks to Arthur and Molly's infamous elopement, the family had been cut off generations ago. Any records the young Weasley children should have inherited were long lost. Vaughn himself knew almost nothing of his family's lineage.
The old witch smiled warmly.
"No need for titles, dear. I've been dead long enough that formalities bore me. Family hierarchy means nothing here."
Vaughn nodded.
If even the dead don't care, I'm not digging into this.
He smoothly changed the subject.
"You mentioned the last male heir of the Black family… Were you referring to Sirius Black?"
"Yes. Ten years ago," she sighed. "I remember the day Dumbledore brought the news. Phineas howled like a madman."
"One of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, fallen from grace. His grief was understandable… but after that, he tried to persuade Slytherin students to break Sirius out of Azkaban."
She shook her head.
"That was far too dangerous. Dumbledore had no choice but to restrict his portrait to this office."
Her expression softened with grandmotherly concern.
"You're still young, Vaughn. Power is tempting—terribly tempting. But be careful with Dark Magic."
"Some dark wizards like to say 'magic isn't good or evil—only its wielder is.' But the truth is… Dark Magic feeds on emotion. Fear. Rage. Despair. Live with those long enough, and even the strongest mind can break."
Vaughn nodded.
That aligned precisely with his own beliefs.
It also rekindled a long-standing question:
How had Dumbledore and Snape survived it?
What had they seen—what had they endured?
They chatted a little longer, occasionally glancing at the portraits, who were still entangled in an elderly shouting match.
Eventually, Vaughn grew bored and began wandering the room.
Near the fireplace was a Pensieve, gleaming in its protective glass case.
He remembered: Dumbledore had collected countless memories of Tom Riddle, hoping to uncover the secret of his unnatural "immortality."
None of those memories were inside.
They must have been hidden behind layers of enchantments.
Behind a tall shelf near the door, Vaughn spotted a large mirror draped in black velvet.
He did not touch the covering.
He already knew what it was.
"That is the Mirror of Erised,"
said a soft voice behind him.
A faint rush of air signalled the return of Dumbledore, Fawkes perched on his shoulder.
The elderly wizard looked unusually cheerful—whatever he had witnessed in the Forbidden Forest had clearly confirmed his suspicions.
"Legend says it reveals your heart's deepest desire, Mr. Weasley," he said, eyes twinkling.
"Not tempted to take a look?"
Vaughn shook his head, smiling faintly.
"I've read about it. It shows desire, not truth. You can stare all you like—what it shows is still a lie."
"But it can help you understand yourself," Dumbledore coaxed.
"I know myself quite well, Headmaster," Vaughn said coolly.
"Understanding shouldn't come from a mirror."
Dumbledore's smile stiffened ever so slightly.
Vaughn pressed on:
"What do you see in the mirror, Headmaster?"
For a fleeting moment, Dumbledore's face stilled.
His mind flickered—four young faces, bright and whole, laughing together in a time before betrayal and tragedy. Memories he could never change, no matter how many times he looked.
But the flicker vanished.
He blinked, twinkled, and gave Vaughn a whimsical grin.
"Socks, my boy. I see socks. Warm woollen socks. At my age, there's nothing more precious."
"Heh…"
Vaughn's smile was layered, meaningful.
Enough playing games.
"Did you find anything in the Forest?"
Dumbledore exhaled, all humour fading.
"Yes. You were right. A dark wizard is hunting unicorns—trying to brew a crude Elixir of Immortality, clinging to life like a dying flame."
His bright blue eyes glimmered with sombre weight.
"But though I did not find the culprit, I located the herd. Thankfully, none have died. Your warning came just in time, Vaughn."
Then he dabbed dramatically at his eyes.
"On behalf of the unicorns, I thank you. Such a thoughtful young man—so compassionate—"
Vaughn resisted the urge to sigh.
Ancient fox… must you always act?
Honestly, he preferred Ron's gullibility or Harry's bluntness. These older wizards were exhausting.
And another thought crossed his mind with mild disappointment:
Shame Tom wasn't there tonight.
I would've loved to see him run into Dumbledore unexpectedly.
Calming himself, Vaughn said:
"Headmaster, the unicorns should be moved.
The Forbidden Forest isn't safe—and Hogwarts can't guard them continually."
"An excellent idea, Weasley—ah, may I call you Vaughn?" Dumbledore asked kindly.
"Then I'll call you Albus," Vaughn replied without missing a beat.
To his surprise, Dumbledore chuckled.
"Very well. Albus it is."
He continued:
"I was already considering relocating the herd. And I know just the wizard who can help.
Come with me, Vaughn—you will like him. He is a very good man."
Vaughn didn't hesitate.
He stepped forward.
Fawkes fluttered onto Dumbledore's arm.
"Have you ever travelled by side-along apparition, via phoenix?" Dumbledore asked lightly.
"Don't worry—it's only a little uncomfortable."
"Got it, Albus."
"Do try not to move mid-flight. Splinching is messy. If your head comes off, I fear I won't find it."
"Understood, Albus."
"…You don't have to keep calling me that."
"Of course, Albus."
FOOM—
A golden blaze erupted—
and the Headmaster and Vaughn disappeared,
leaving only the bickering portraits behind.
To be continued...
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