November slipped quietly into December.
One morning, the students of Hogwarts awoke to discover that winter had arrived in earnest.
The castle, the surrounding mountains, the Black Lake, and even the Forbidden Forest were buried beneath several feet of pristine white snow. The courtyards—usually crowded with young witches and wizards—were completely deserted.
Even the corridors felt emptier. The cold was bitter; the drafts that swept through the stone passageways seemed to burrow straight into one's bones.
The four common rooms became the heart of the castle. Their fireplaces roared day and night, and students huddled inside, venturing out only when class forced them to, bundled up and complaining all the way.
Because of this, Severus Snape's Potions class earned the undisputed title of most despised lesson in winter.
The dungeon classroom was damp and freezing, and Professor Snape—despite being perfectly capable—refused to light so much as a single brazier.
"Potion ingredients prefer darkness and cold," he sneered.
"You will learn to endure discomfort. Learn to draw warmth from your own excessive stores of fat. Frankly, Hogwarts feeds you far too well."
Naturally, his own office was perfectly warm.
Since winter began, the fireplace there had not gone out once.
On the afternoon the snow fell, Vaughan was in Snape's office, sorting potion ingredients.
Snape sat beside the fire, skimming through the parchment Vaughan had submitted.
Calling it a paper was generous. It was closer to a research log for an entirely new potion.
"…During the separation of potion properties, I observed an unusual phenomenon.
A material's traits are not determined solely by its physical composition or innate magical qualities.
Certain properties appear to be influenced by… narrative significance."
"Take henbane petals as an example. They are traditionally used in Love Potions, yet henbane itself is not a magical plant. Chemically, it functions only as a sedative and analgesic—Muggles once used it medicinally."
"However, Hogwarts records reveal something intriguing: several centuries ago, henbane acquired a new symbolic meaning among Muggles."
"This originated from a wizard's prank. He told Muggles that henbane could steal love and cloud the mind. The Muggles believed him, and during anti-wizard movements, the myth spread as a cultural marker used to identify witches."
"Centuries later, what was once merely a sedative now genuinely possesses mind-altering properties. Thus, the Love Potion was born."
Snape paused.
He looked up sharply.
"Is this… true?" he asked.
"Which part?" Vaughan replied calmly.
"That Muggle folklore can alter potion properties."
Vaughan considered for a moment.
"I can't claim it's universal. But based on comparative tests between several materials and their non-magical relatives—there's a strong correlation."
That notion overturned centuries of potion orthodoxy.
Potion masters had always believed such effects came from magical rituals and spell frameworks alone.
The implication was unsettling.
Could belief—Muggle belief—become magic over time?
Snape, a man deeply shaped by pure-blood ideology, felt distinctly uneasy.
He wiped his brow without realizing sweat had formed, then continued reading.
"…This discovery broadened my perspective. I began examining materials prominent in Muggle folklore. That led me to aconite."
"Aconite is a lethal poison known to both magical and Muggle societies. The wizarding world uses it as a toxic reagent or stabilizer.
Yet in ancient folklore, it held a singular purpose—killing wolves."
"Thus, it is also known as wolfsbane."
"I have successfully isolated this aspect of its property. It may possess a unique function—specifically, the suppression of lycanthropic transformation."
Snape set the parchment down.
He looked as though he wanted to hurl it into the fire.
Instead, he asked stiffly,
"You intend to develop a treatment for werewolves?"
"Yes," Vaughan said innocently. "Isn't it necessary? Fenrir Greyback has been deliberately expanding the werewolf population for years. The numbers are growing."
Snape had no reply.
The questions he wanted to ask caught in his throat. He turned sharply and stormed out, robes snapping behind him.
Vaughan merely shrugged and returned to his work.
Yes—his goal was Wolfsbane Potion.
Greyback created outcasts, then weaponized them. Families destroyed, children infected, lives ruined—until desperation drove the victims straight into his pack.
If Wolfsbane could be stabilized and distributed, it would save countless lives.
And yes—earning influence along the way was hardly a drawback.
Half an hour later, Snape returned.
His face was still rigid, but Vaughan could tell the anger had burned itself out.
After a long silence, Snape asked,
"You haven't tested aconite on an actual lycanthropic subject yet."
"I can't find one," Vaughan replied. "For obvious reasons."
Snape clenched his jaw.
Finally, he hissed,
"Christmas. You're coming with me."
Vaughan blinked.
"Of course, Professor. Oh—by the way, I heard you dislike the Potter family's shampoo. I'm developing a new—"
"Vaughan Weasley—close your mouth."
"Yes, Professor."
By the second week of December, Professor Minerva McGonagall began registering students staying over Christmas.
Vaughan, Harry, Ron, and the twins all signed.
The school atmosphere loosened instantly.
Students drifted through classes half-asleep, waiting for the holidays. When the Hogwarts Express arrived, smoke trailing through the snowy hills, the castle emptied.
Hermione left first.
When Vaughan, Harry, and Ron returned, Hogwarts felt like a snow-covered wilderness—silent and vast.
The twins bounced off toward Hogsmeade, armed with their advance Christmas funds.
The Canary Creams had become a sensation.
Meanwhile, Harry and Ron planned to spend the holiday playing wizard's chess.
Harry lost spectacularly.
One knight deliberately destroyed its own legs just to avoid following his orders.
That night, Vaughan wandered the near-empty castle, borrowed a book, and took Guoguocha to the Black Lake.
The ice was thick and solid.
He conjured a lounge chair, wrapped himself in velvet, and opened the book.
It wasn't a spellbook.
It was a poetry collection.
Songs That Lead to the Soul
by Rowena Ravenclaw.
One poem caught his eye.
I walk the paths of passing years
Wherever I look, a shadow walks with me
My confidant, my silent friend
With whom I shared both joy and grief…
The shadow built itself a tomb
Beneath the castle I adored
When weariness finally claims me
I shall carry Helena's flower
And sleep beside it forever.
Vaughan closed the book.
Most believed the poem mourned Helena Ravenclaw.
Vaughan disagreed.
Knowing of the Chamber of Secrets, he saw it differently.
This was a farewell—written to Salazar Slytherin.
And perhaps… a map.
If Slytherin left a chamber—
Why wouldn't Ravenclaw?
Vaughan exhaled slowly.
Another secret slept beneath Hogwarts.
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