Vaughan's speculation about hidden chambers was little more than a diversion—something to occupy his thoughts amid an otherwise exhausting schedule.
As for his new potion, every preparation had already been completed. All that remained was for Professor Severus Snape to find the time to take him to an actual werewolf.
Two days later, when Vaughan stepped out of the Slytherin common room fully dressed, he immediately spotted Snape waiting in a dim corner of the corridor.
The man stood half-submerged in shadow, cloak motionless, looking like he was about to conduct some illicit exchange.
"Professor," Vaughan said cheerfully, "you should get more sunlight. It won't melt you."
"—Close. Your. Mouth."
"Of course, Professor."
They went straight to Snape's office.
Without ceremony, Snape thrust a bowl of Floo powder toward him.
"Knockturn Alley," he said flatly. "Don't mispronounce it."
Vaughan briefly found himself missing Fawkes. Phoenix travel was far cleaner; Floo powder always left one coated in ash.
He grabbed a handful and stepped into the fireplace.
Moments later, he emerged into a narrow, filthy alley.
Unlike Diagon Alley, the public fireplaces here were cracked and neglected. Cloaked figures lurked in corners, their eyes following every arrival. Each time green flames flared, the person who stepped out pulled their hood tight and hurried away.
Vaughan merely dusted himself off and waited.
Behind him, the fireplace ignited again.
Snape did not emerge immediately.
Instead, Vaughan noticed him still standing within the flames, subtly flicking his wand.
Vaughan grinned. "Professor, are you secretly cleaning off the soot?"
From inside the fireplace came a tightly controlled, murderous whisper:
"Close. Your. Mouth."
A moment later, Snape stepped out—robes immaculate, hair perfectly greasy, not a trace of ash in sight.
If Vaughan hadn't spoken, the illusion would have been flawless.
Snape shot him a glare and strode forward.
Knockturn Alley was infamous even by wizarding standards—a haven for dark dealings and uglier magic.
That it still existed at all meant it served a purpose.
Vaughan knew that the truly illegal transactions didn't happen on the surface. Beneath the shops ran a hidden under-market.
And one of its gateways lay inside Borgin and Burkes.
The shop itself operated in a legal gray area, selling "antiques." Whether those antiques were cursed was, officially, not the owner's concern.
Inside, Mr. Borgin pretended not to notice them, absorbed in slicking back his hair. Only when Vaughan looked directly at him did the man offer an oily smile.
Snape ignored him entirely.
He dragged Vaughan to the back of the shop, opened a concealed trapdoor, and jumped down.
The space below was barely large enough for two people. As the door shut, Snape muttered an incantation. The walls seemed to slide and rotate.
Then light appeared ahead.
A door opened.
They stepped into a subterranean street.
It was cramped, uneven, and flooded with stagnant puddles. The air reeked of rotting frog entrails mixed with fermented snake venom, making Vaughan slightly dizzy.
Torches flickered weakly outside a few establishments.
Shadows moved constantly.
Whispers. Deals. Sudden flashes of spell-light—followed by screams that quickly faded.
No one reacted.
"Charming place," Vaughan remarked dryly as green light flared in the distance.
Snape's face remained impassive. He blasted aside a man who rushed toward them and said coldly:
"To the vermin here, a child like you might as well have 'easy money' written on his forehead. Be aware of that. I have no intention of receiving hysterical letters from your parents."
Vaughan shrugged. "Don't worry, Professor. I value my life more than you think."
Snape's lip twitched almost imperceptibly.
"See that you do."
They stopped at a shabby shop.
Inside, a wizard was shouting at a skeletal old clerk.
"You guaranteed this potion would cure dragon pox! Look at my face—"
His nostrils suddenly spat flame.
The clerk frantically beat the man's hands away with a broom. "The potion works! It was brewed by Master Snape himself—ah! Professor Snape, perfect timing!"
Snape sniffed. "The potion is flawless. If you hadn't resumed intimate contact with dragons, you'd have recovered already."
Vaughan stared at the man in awe.
This was no victim—this was a lunatic with courage bordering on insanity.
The wizard retreated in humiliation.
The clerk, saved, hurried them into the basement.
"These are the werewolves you requested, Professor."
He unlocked a heavy door.
Inside, iron cages lined the stone walls.
Some occupants were vacant-eyed, slumped like puppets. Others snarled, feral and violent.
Vaughan scanned them calmly. "Origins?"
"Vagrants, mercenaries, Greyback's pack," the clerk replied, producing a ledger.
Vaughan nodded, paid, and waved the man out.
Snape spoke flatly. "I'll wait upstairs."
The door closed.
Threats immediately filled the room.
Vaughan ignored them.
He conjured an examination table, unpacked his enchanted satchel, and laid out his tools:
A spell-modified microscope
A custom centrifugal separation device
Enchanted surgical instruments
Automated extraction phials
A self-writing quill
Over two thousand Galleons' worth of equipment.
Vaughan hummed as he worked.
At last, he smiled.
"Marcus… you were the one who wanted to taste me, weren't you?"
"Finite Transfiguration."
The cage itself unraveled.
Iron bars slithered like snakes, binding limbs and skull, suspending the werewolf one foot off the ground.
Vaughan adjusted his glasses.
"This potion will activate your transformation. For observation purposes."
The werewolf couldn't answer.
Three hours later, Snape returned.
The sight made even him pause.
Suspended remains. Blood siphoned cleanly into floating phials. Equipment humming softly.
Vaughan looked up brightly. "Excellent progress. I've located the lycanthropic organ—hidden behind the heart. During transformation, it spreads through the lymphatic system."
"Wolfsbane suppresses the curse," he continued, "but not the virus itself."
Snape read the notes.
"You think this isn't enough?"
"It's sufficient," Vaughan admitted. "Just not perfect."
Snape's voice was unusually firm.
"Perfection is not required to save lives."
Vaughan was silent for a moment.
Then he nodded.
"You're right."
Snape straightened. "When will it be ready?"
"After formulation, ritual design, and testing," Vaughan said. Then added, "Also, I'm starving."
Snape stared.
"…Deal with this."
"Oh—right. Fiendfyre, please."
Flames erased everything.
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