Another morning.
Another basement.
Gray daylight filtered through the narrow window wells, the shadow of falling snow drifting across the walls.
Vaughan lay sprawled over an experimental table. Several desk lamps focused their light into a tight cone, magically gathered and spread evenly, like thick liquid illumination.
Dozens of glass slides floated around him—dense, orderly.
Each held crimson blood that gleamed like polished gemstones, faint magical halos pulsing through them from time to time.
"Sample seven-six-three."
At Vaughan's murmur, one slide drifted beneath the microscope while the previous withdrew on its own.
Time passed in monotonous verification.
When Vaughan finally straightened, his lower back aching, full daylight had already claimed the window.
His stomach growled.
With a lazy flick of his wand, a storage box opened; the slides returned themselves neatly. The microscope folded metal limbs around itself and drew a dust cover over its body.
A snap of Vaughan's fingers—
A wool jumper, jacket, and velvet coat drifted from a rack. His lab coat peeled itself off and leapt into the laundry tub. Everyday clothes wrapped around him, and a floating iron whizzed about, smoothing creases with unnecessary enthusiasm.
House magic.
Vaughan yawned.
"Professor really knows how to live…"
He was staying at 19 Spinner's End, in the bleak industrial town of Cokeworth—home to Severus Snape.
Through the small window above, a massive smokestack loomed in the distance, watching over the town like a gravestone.
When Vaughan climbed out of the basement, he emerged into a cramped sitting room.
No warmth. No welcome.
Books crammed every wall. What floor space remained barely fit a battered sofa, a sagging chair, and a crooked table.
Everything felt worn, dark, and oppressive.
Snape sat on the sofa, staring into nothing.
"Morning, Professor," Vaughan said brightly. "Had breakfast?"
Snape blinked, dragged back into the present.
"No."
"So… no cooking? Perfect. Lend me some pounds—I'll eat out."
Snape stared.
After a long moment, he fished a crumpled five-pound note from his pocket.
"The last one."
"You really should keep more Muggle currency around," Vaughan said cheerfully, pocketing it. "Christmas is in two days. Planning to survive on dirt?"
"—Shut up."
"Right. I'll check on the warehouse wolves later. Don't make lunch for me. Unless you want to eat out—then let me know."
"Get. Out."
Vaughan left smiling.
Cokeworth was a town left behind.
Once industrial, now rotting—its streets buried under snow, its river clogged with filth. Blackened windows stared blankly at the world.
This, Vaughan thought, is where Snape and Lily grew up.
No wonder he carried ghosts.
After breakfast, Vaughan crossed into the abandoned warehouse district.
He had rented one building.
A few Muggle delinquents wandered nearby, trapped by layered protective charms—unable to approach, unable to leave. Vaughan erased their memories before letting them go.
Inside the warehouse, seven figures remained.
"Good morning, gentlemen," Vaughan said. "Sleep well?"
A middle-aged man in patched clothing stood slowly.
"Better than most nights," he said hoarsely. "At least we're alive."
His name was William White—a Muggle infected five years ago.
Since Vaughan had destroyed Fenrir Greyback's followers and freed the remaining seven, White had begun grooming himself again.
Trying to look human.
"You finished the forms?" Vaughan asked.
"Yes, sir."
Vaughan skimmed them.
"Five years since you saw your family?"
White nodded, tears trembling in his eyes.
"I nearly killed them. I couldn't risk it again."
Vaughan closed the file and burned the papers.
Then he spoke.
"I am attempting to cure lycanthropy."
The reaction was immediate.
One boy—seventeen, named Barnell—collapsed into sobs. He had killed his parents during his first transformation.
After the silence passed, Vaughan continued:
"The Wolfsbane Potion I'm developing will not cure you. It will grant clarity during transformation."
White stepped forward.
"That is enough."
"For us," he said, voice breaking, "that is everything."
Vaughan nodded slowly.
"Then help me. Find others like you. Those worth saving. Have them contact me."
He handed White an enchanted parchment.
"Wizard-written messages only."
"How will they believe me?" White whispered.
Vaughan smiled.
"They'll see it in the papers after Christmas."
Later, as the wolves vanished into the snow, Vaughan spotted Snape waiting beneath a tree.
"You know who this reminds me of?" Snape said quietly.
"Voldemort?" Vaughan replied without hesitation.
Snape flinched.
"Yes."
"But my goal is different," Vaughan said calmly.
Snape watched him.
"And how will they afford your potion?"
"They won't," Vaughan replied. "That's the problem."
Snape said nothing.
Snow fell.
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