When the last footsteps faded and the heavy oak door of the Headmaster's office clicked shut, Albus Dumbledore brought his hands together in a soft clap.
A wandless, wordless pulse of magic rippled outward.
At once, every portrait in the room fell silent. Whispering mouths froze mid-word; painted figures stiffened. Eyes slid shut.
It was as though the magic animating them had been drained away.
Vaughan met Dumbledore's gaze.
Dumbledore met Vaughan's.
After a few measured breaths, the old wizard smiled.
"Vaughan, I must admit—your abilities far exceed what I expected. I—"
"I assumed you kept me behind to explain a few things," Vaughan said calmly, cutting him off.
Silence.
"For example," Vaughan continued, voice level, "why the Philosopher's Stone is at Hogwarts. Who is trying to steal it. Why it's hidden on the fourth floor behind a set of… childish obstacles."
He stepped forward half a pace, eyes sharp.
"And why the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor is casting the Killing Curse at students. Why you erased the traces of battle on the fourth floor. Why you warned us not to tell Professor McGonagall."
A pause.
"What exactly are you planning, Albus?"
To Vaughan, the duel with Voldemort had been an accident.
His original intent had been simple: tail Quirrell, see whether the man could pass Fluffy, whether he could even reach the Stone. Vaughan had already seen the Mirror of Erised in Dumbledore's office. Since the Stone hadn't yet been sealed within it, he knew that once it was, access would become nearly impossible.
Even if Dumbledore later relocated the Stone, allowing Quirrell—and Voldemort—to scout the defences first was the perfect opportunity to observe discreetly.
Then came the accident.
Vaughan hadn't anticipated that leaving Ron behind would prompt Harry and Hermione to sneak out in search of them, triggering everything.
That, however, wasn't the true problem.
He hadn't grasped it until, on the way to the Headmaster's office, Harry had leaned weakly against him and whispered—
"Vaughan… I think I could hear that man's thoughts. Not clearly—but when you hurt him, I felt his anger. His hatred. And I think he… nudged me and Hermione toward the fourth floor…"
Harry had wanted to ask if he'd been cursed.
He hadn't seen Vaughan's expression freeze.
The issue wasn't disobedience.
The issue was this:
Harry had sensed Voldemort's thoughts.
That should not have happened. Not yet.
A month earlier, Vaughan had tested it himself—the soul fragment within Harry had shown no connection to Voldemort. In the original timeline, their bond only intensified as Voldemort recovered strength and other Horcruxes were destroyed.
So why had it awakened now?
Only one answer presented itself to Vaughan—
Fate.
The one force in this world he could neither understand nor resist… and desperately wanted to grasp.
This deviation made something painfully clear.
His plan to remain at the edge of the prophecy's storm—to quietly observe the destinies of the Savior and the Dark Lord—
might no longer be viable.
So, facing Dumbledore, Vaughan chose to strike first.
His barrage of questions genuinely surprised the old wizard. The blue in Dumbledore's eyes deepened.
"You recognized him?" Dumbledore asked softly. "You knew who he was? Did Harry see as well?"
Shielded behind Occlumency, Vaughan's lips curled.
"No. But that disgusting stench of garlic? I won't forget it in this lifetime."
Then he frowned. "You mentioned Harry. What does any of this have to do with him?"
Dumbledore said nothing.
His Legilimency found no deception—only anger, suspicion, and a fierce hunger for truth.
If Vaughan were an adult, Dumbledore could have intimidated him.
If Vaughan were Ron—
(Ron: ???)—
Dumbledore could have played the fool.
But after several encounters, Dumbledore knew better. This was not a boy who could be guided by half-truths.
After a long pause, he sighed.
"It is a very long story," he said. "I can tell you—but I will require your silence."
"You can trust me," Vaughan replied flatly. "I never talk."
(Which was true. He had kept these secrets for over eleven years. He had never told a soul.)
Meanwhile…
Severus Snape barely remembered returning to his office.
His thoughts were a storm.
Old memories—like maggots gnawing at bone—rose unbidden.
The familiar scent of potion ingredients failed to calm him.
Visions assaulted his mind.
A lakeside, years ago.
A girl with green eyes laughing as willow leaves danced in the wind.
A ruined house, ten years past.
The same green eyes, lifeless, as he clutched Lily's cold body and wept until his voice broke.
He had believed that was the end.
Even when Dumbledore insisted the murderer had not truly died, Snape had dismissed it as paranoia—an old man's delusion.
But tonight—
Tonight, he had felt it.
The foul, twisted magic of the master he once served.
CRACK.
Lost in thought, Snape dropped an ingredient into his cauldron. The Draught of Living Death ignited, the batch ruined in an instant.
He stared numbly—
Until a translucent blue phoenix slid through the window, perched on his shoulder, and whispered its message.
The moment the Patronus finished, despair and fear burned away—
replaced by white-hot fury.
Snape stormed for the Headmaster's office.
He flung the door open.
"Dumbledore!" he snarled. "Oh, great white wizard—ruining my life wasn't enough? Must you drag Vaughan down with you as well? Training another obedient servant for our so-called Savior? Or crafting a new double agent?"
The portraits did not stir. The room felt like a tomb.
Dumbledore stood before the Pensieve, lost in thought. He turned, a weary smile tugging weakly at his lips.
"Severus… you've known him longer than I have. You must see how intelligent he is."
Snape sneered. "So you told him everything? Used his friendship with Ron and Harry to turn him into your newest helper? After all these years, you haven't changed."
But Dumbledore's expression only grew heavier.
"No, Severus," he said quietly. "He told me."
"…What nonsense are you speaking now?"
Dumbledore's gaze lowered.
"He said," he murmured, "that it was a transaction."
Snape froze.
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