"I'm not about to start handing out Wolfsbane Potion for free," Vaughn said. "I'm not that rich—or that generous."
"Even if I agreed to make it free," he continued, "no apothecary would stock it. Every bottle they sold would mean a loss—on shelf space, storage, labor. No shopkeeper in their right mind would go along with that, Professor."
As a Potions Master, Snape had long since forgotten how hard it was to make a living. These days, potion shops lined up to shove Galleons into his pocket.
Still, he understood the point. Vaughn's words made sense. The faint sense of déjà vu he'd felt—like looking at a young Voldemort—slowly faded.
Snape went quiet for a moment. Then, looking directly at Vaughn, he asked, "What do you intend to do?"
Hands in his pockets, Vaughn began pacing.
"This kind of thing isn't something one person can solve. With the current number of werewolves, even with your help, we could never brew enough potion ourselves."
"That's why I plan to publicly release the formula."
"But that brings its own problems."
"First, who will brew it? How many potion-makers would volunteer for free? Who organizes them? And then there's the issue of ingredients—more demand means higher prices. Who handles that?"
He stopped walking, his expression calm and firm.
"To solve this, the entire wizarding world will have to step up. And that means bringing the Ministry of Magic in."
He paused. "Which is exactly what I'm afraid of."
"You're worried the Ministry won't cooperate?"
"No," Vaughn said grimly. "I'm worried they'll be too eager."
"This is political, Professor. Who are werewolves a threat to? Wizards. The Statute of Secrecy. And those are the very pillars the Ministry is built on."
"To them, solving the werewolf problem would be a blessing. They'd gladly foot the bill for the potion. To bureaucrats, anything that can be fixed with money is simple."
"But what then?" Vaughn's voice grew sharper. "You think they'll send potions out each month out of the goodness of their hearts?"
"No. They'll use it."
"Even someone as thick as Greyback knew he could form a werewolf army. You think the Ministry hasn't thought of that?"
"If I were Fudge, I'd keep the Wolfsbane Potion under tight control—make it bait. Dangle it in front of werewolves who want their lives back."
"Register them under the Werewolf Registry. Make them take oaths. Grant them partial citizenship. Sounds great, doesn't it?"
"But at the same time, I'd keep stoking public fear. Remind people the potion doesn't cure lycanthropy—it only keeps the mind intact. They can still infect others."
"And once the divide is complete—once every werewolf is registered and bound by oath—they won't be able to go back to hiding. They'll be trapped. Dependent on the Ministry. On Fudge. On politicians who'll use them as pawns—or voters."
Snape felt a cold sweat forming on his back.
He'd spent decades inside Hogwarts. He'd never imagined a single potion could lead to this.
And even though he wasn't a politician, he knew—this kind of manipulation was exactly what Fudge and his cronies would do.
And then Snape realized something worse.
Who controlled the Ministry?
Pureblood families.
What would they do if given control over werewolves?
He didn't need to imagine.
He'd seen it before.
Greyback was nothing compared to them.
Snape might have held pureblood views, but he wasn't a fool. If things spiraled that far, and if Voldemort returned…
The next war would be far worse than the last.
At least last time, most werewolf tribes were neutral.
Yes—there were tribes. Generations of werewolves, born to werewolf parents. There were even a few clans living in the Forbidden Forest, under truce with Hogwarts. They guarded the school in exchange for sanctuary—under the centaurs' watch.
But those clans hated their gilded cage.
And there were many more like them across the magical world.
A cold wind blew.
Snape snapped out of his dark thoughts and realized his robes were damp with sweat.
"We can't let the Ministry take control," he muttered.
"Exactly," Vaughn nodded. "That's why we have to act first. I want the werewolves themselves to take initiative—before the Ministry steps in."
He didn't say how they would take initiative, and Snape didn't ask.
His mind was already spinning fast enough.
For once, he found himself wishing Dumbledore were here. That wily old man was far better at navigating these dark waters.
On the walk back, Vaughn glanced up at the overcast sky.
The clouds were thick—but the sun would shine through, eventually.
What Snape hadn't realized was: Vaughn had listed all the dangers of Ministry involvement...
But never mentioned his own role.
The inventor of the potion.
The one the werewolves would turn to first.
The next morning, Snape and Vaughn returned to Hogwarts. But the Potions Master didn't sleep that night. He lay awake, visions of snarling werewolves flooding his thoughts.
By dawn, he managed a few hours of restless sleep.
Only to be jolted awake by the furious pecking of owls at his window.
He groaned.
Right—Christmas.
He flung the window open. Several half-frozen owls, clearly fed up, dropped his presents and then immediately attacked his scalp.
Snape snarled and swatted them off, then smoothed down his hair and began inspecting the name tags.
Dumbledore. McGonagall. Flitwick. Malfoy…
At the bottom, he spotted a familiar script:
To my esteemed Professor Severus Snape.
I hope you enjoy this.
Your student,
Vaughn Weasley
Snape couldn't help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth.
He opened the box, a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes.
Only to be greeted by dozens of neatly arranged bottles of shampoo.
His mood crashed.
"VAUGHN—WEASLEY!"
In the Slytherin dorms...
Vaughn hadn't even closed his door the night before. When he opened his eyes, he found himself buried in gifts.
He sat up in a daze, surrounded by a sea of boxes, ribbons, and crinkled paper.
And this was only the beginning.
As he washed up, more owls arrived, exhausted and hungry from long journeys. Vaughn offered snacks and water, stroking their feathers gently until they recovered.
By 9am, the owl flood finally ended.
Vaughn stared at over a hundred packages and sighed.
"Gogo Tea!" he called. "Go fetch Ron."
His beloved cat bolted off cheerfully.
She missed her favorite toy—Ron's odd fat rat.
Gogo Tea was now a minor celebrity in Slytherin. Students opened doors for her, knowing she couldn't speak the passwords herself.
She had, as the saying goes, climbed to the peak of cat society on her master's coattails.
Instead of using the normal route, she took a feline-exclusive shortcut along the castle walls—one Mrs. Norris had taught her.
In Gryffindor Tower...
"Merry Christmas, Harry," Ron yawned.
"Merry Christmas, Ron! Come on, you've got presents under the bed."
"I already know what they are," Ron grumbled. "Mum's jumper. Same ugly color as every year."
"Maybe Vaughn sent something?"
"He already did. The wand, remember?"
Even so, Ron slid out of bed and began unwrapping his gifts.
No surprises there: Molly's handmade sweater (a hideous dark purple), Charlie's gift (dragon scales), and unopened packages from Fred and George—he wasn't falling for their tricks this year.
Harry's pile was smaller, but held some surprises.
One was from the Dursleys—an entire 50 pence coin.
Harry was so touched, he gave it straight to Ron.
The Weasleys' gifts were better.
Ron had given him a full set of Chudley Cannons player cards, with animated images of them flying across the pitch.
Vaughn sent him a book: One Hundred Quidditch Fouls – And How to Lethally Commit Them.
Harry: "…"
Then he unwrapped a bright green sweater from Mrs. Weasley, the same coarse knitting as Ron's.
The way the morning light hit it made his face look faintly poisoned.
Oddly, Ron seemed a little more at peace.
Then they found the Invisibility Cloak.
No name. Just a note saying it once belonged to Harry's father.
Ron was amazed.
Harry was more wary. After his run-ins with the black-robed man, he wasn't sure if this was a gift… or a trap.
At that moment, Scabbers let out a shriek.
Outside the window stood an enormous cat—paws on the glass, eyes locked on Scabbers.
Ron yelped and snatched the cage.
"Harry, get rid of it! That cursed cat's trying to murder Scabbers!"
"Wait… I think it's here for us."
Harry opened the window.
Sure enough, Gogo Tea gave them a few polite meows and headed toward the door.
Harry scratched his head. "I think Vaughn's calling us."
Ron glared at the cat suspiciously. Only after he was sure it wouldn't attack did he set Scabbers back.
"One day, that thing's going to scare me and Scabbers to death."
Still grumbling, he followed Gogo Tea.
Harry hesitated for a moment, then grabbed the box with the cloak.
Maybe Vaughn could examine it.
Once they arrived at the Slytherin dorms, Ron took one look at the sea of presents and groaned.
"I knew you were up to something…"
"Harry, so glad you came too!" Vaughn said brightly, wand flicking as he organized gifts in midair.
Ron gave him a death glare.
"You see those purple-ribbon boxes?" Vaughn said. "All from clients. Help me sort the letters inside—don't mess them up, I need to reply."
"Harry, you've got the easy task. These are from classmates—if there's a name, write it down on this parchment. I'll send thank-you notes later."
Reluctantly, both boys sat down and got to work.
Harry's first box turned out to be from Malfoy. He wrinkled his nose, but then burst out laughing at the attached note.
"To the esteemed Mr. Vaughn Weasley…"
"First time I've ever seen that git write something polite," he chuckled.
Ron wasn't so amused.
He stared at cards reading things like:
"To my sweet Vaughn…"
"My angel of youth…"
"My dearest honeydrop…"
He groaned. "Harry… do you know what kind of people Vaughn's clients are? Old witches who need potions just to hide wrinkles or move fat to their thighs. Ugh—"
Harry glanced at one and quickly looked away.
Vaughn, meanwhile, opened the more important packages himself.
Dumbledore's gift was a pair of wool socks.
"Dear friend, I'm still in Romania. Wonderful chat with Arthur and Molly—we shared thoughts about the real you. I heard about your potion progress. I'll return to Hogwarts tonight for the feast—we'll talk more then."
"P.S. Remember my wish? I do hope it comes true this year."
Vaughn snorted. "Still dreaming about socks? Dream on."
He sent back a pink cashmere robe. Very frilly.
Hagrid gifted him a filter cloth made of unicorn tail hairs. A bit clumsily woven, but precious all the same.
Ron gave a Chudley Cannons figurine.
Hermione sent a Robert Southey poetry collection—clearly thinking he was a romantic.
McGonagall sent a notebook from her assistant teaching days—full of transfiguration insights and Dumbledore's annotations.
Vaughn carefully wrapped it in a protective cover and placed it in his secret shelf.
Flitwick's gift was a book titled A Brief History of Ancient Magic. Not a spellbook, but a primer on pre-modern magical theory—rituals, materials, powerful but complex.
"Interesting… worth studying later."
Then came Snape's gift.
A plain box, probably reused from potion supplies. It smelled faintly of herbs.
Inside was a tiny vial—golden liquid glowing like molten metal.
Ron gasped.
"Felix Felicis…" he whispered. "Liquid luck. Whoever drinks it… for the next 24 hours, they can't lose. Everything just works out."
Harry's eyes widened.
Even he, a total newbie to magical theory, grasped how powerful it was.
Snape… had given this to Vaughn?
Vaughn was shocked too. He'd read the recipe in Advanced Potion-Making but never attempted it. Too many rare ingredients, like amaranth petals and unicorn foal blood. Not to mention the six-month brewing process.
But here it was.
"…Maybe that shampoo was a bit rude after all," Vaughn murmured.
Then he shrugged and tucked the potion safely away.
Among the remaining letters, one caught his attention.
From a pen-pal potion-maker who had once defended his theories in Extraordinary Potions Quarterly.
She was now in North America—and things were not going well.
(TO BE CONTINUED…)
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