It took Vaughn more than three hours to finally sort through all the Christmas presents.
Anything meaningful had to be stored away. Food required planning for quick consumption. And the ones with signatures needed reply letters.
Fortunately, he didn't need to write too many. Most replies to customers or classmates could be handled with a few standardized templates, automatically copied by an enchanted quill.
That greatly reduced his workload.
By noon, Vaughn, Ron, and Harry were hauling a large bundle toward the Owlery, sending off each letter one by one.
By the time they finished, it was already afternoon.
The Great Hall was quiet and nearly empty; Filch was hanging sprigs of mistletoe along the walls.
Rows of wreaths, green foliage dotted with clusters of white berries, looked fresh and bright against the stone.
As the three entered the hall, Hagrid happened to come in as well, carrying a massive Christmas tree over his shoulder.
Beaming, he called out,
"Harry! Vaughn! Ron! Merry Christmas, yeh three! An' I love the gifts yeh gave me."
Vaughn had given him a tin of beard–care ointment. Judging by the neat, silky fall of Hagrid's usually wild beard—hanging smoothly across his chest and softening his rugged face—he had clearly used it today.
"Merry Christmas to you too, Hagrid. Need a hand?"
"No, no, I've got it! You three go have yer lunch!"
Food at Hogwarts was never in short supply—not as long as the plates were still there.
Halfway through their meal, Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick arrived to decorate the hall.
Under their combined magic, the Great Hall transformed quickly into a shimmering festival venue, with the twelve trees Hagrid had dragged in standing tall at various corners.
Some tree tops glowed with candles, some shimmered with crystalline icicles, some hung with tiny lanterns. Clouds of sparkling powder-snow—shaped like drifting wind and mist—floated between the trees. Shards of frost reflected candlelight like animated starlight.
Ron and Harry watched, utterly dazzled.
After eating, the two boys kept talking about it on the way back.
"I've never seen such a grand Christmas feast coming," Harry said excitedly.
Ron asked curiously, "Harry, how do Muggles celebrate Christmas?"
"Well, they—" Harry began, then froze. He suddenly remembered: he had never actually taken part in a festive dinner before.
His Christmas used to consist of a cupboard and a tiny candle.
Vaughn smacked the back of Ron's head.
"Oy! Why'd you hit me again?" Ron complained.
"Because you're stupid," Vaughn replied, rolling his eyes.
Fortunately, Harry didn't brood long. Once they returned to Slytherin with Vaughn, he suddenly remembered the Invisibility Cloak he had brought. Digging it out, he handed it to Vaughn.
"I'm afraid it might be cursed or something."
Peering at the silver–grey cloak inside the box, Vaughn lifted it gently. It was so light, so soft—when taken out, it flowed like liquid, glittering like mercury.
The Deathly Hallows…
Whispering its true name in his heart, Vaughn examined the cloak with curiosity. He draped it over himself, and under Harry and Ron's startled cries, his body vanished instantly—only his head still visible.
After a moment of sensing its magic, Vaughn frowned slightly.
This so-called Deathly Hallow felt… ordinary.
After another short inspection, he shook his head and handed it back.
"Relax. No problem."
But Harry, who had already been spooked several times because Vaughn occasionally borrowed the "Black-Robed Man" persona, had become extremely cautious.
"C-can you check one more time?"
Vaughn pointed at the anonymous card inside the box.
"That's Dumbledore's handwriting. I recognize it. You're not seriously worried he'd harm you, are you?"
Harry instantly relaxed.
Ron urged him to try it on again, and soon the two were playing happily under the cloak. When they spotted Malfoy passing by outside the room, they sneaked up behind him, tugged his robes and yanked his hair.
Malfoy fled in terror.
Observing from the side—testing a few spells as well—Vaughn felt more and more that the cloak hardly deserved to stand beside the Resurrection Stone and the Elder Wand.
It only made people invisible. Nothing else.
He could even smell the lingering scent of bilberry jam on Harry and Ron…
The only impressive part was that the cloak was perfect at pure invisibility. Vaughn tested several revealing spells—none worked.
But that hardly proved it was connected to any god of Death.
Vaughn shared Dumbledore's later opinion: the Deathly Hallows were simply alchemical creations of the Peverell brothers.
Night soon fell. Though Harry and Ron still wanted to play more, Vaughn dragged the two back to the Great Hall.
With darkness settling in, every lantern lit, the hall shone with gold and warmth.
Lanterns whirled lazily overhead. The enchanted ceiling no longer showed clear skies or moonlight, but instead bloomed with endless fireworks.
Most students had gone home, making the hall feel a bit empty.
But as soon as the rich aroma of food filled the air, the atmosphere warmed instantly.
Nearly all professors were already seated. Only when dinner began did Snape stride in.
Vaughn almost burst out laughing the moment he saw him.
"Severus, you're far too—hm? Oh—" Professor McGonagall stared at Snape's hair. "Did you… finally use shampoo?"
It was painfully obvious. Snape's usual greasy, nearly clumped hair hung today like a sheet of black silk.
Noticing Vaughn's teasing stare, Snape looked away stiffly.
Dumbledore arrived moments later, and seeing his appearance nearly made Vaughn spit out his pumpkin juice. Ron and Harry practically choked on their potatoes.
The greatest wizard of the century was wearing a pastel-pink dressing gown over his robes—designed with flirtatious youthful curves that only emphasized the… looseness of his elderly figure.
McGonagall was so shocked her drink splashed.
"Albus…"
"A little one gave it to me as a gift. Isn't it lovely?"
Dumbledore winked.
Then, after a moment of thought, he plucked McGonagall's wide-brimmed, flower-trimmed hat off her head and placed it atop his own.
"Perfect!" he declared happily.
The students stared, stunned.
"…He's gone mad," Ron whispered.
Harry, however, found Dumbledore's eccentricity quite entertaining. After recovering from the shock, he burst out laughing. Seeing Vaughn's deadpan expression, he asked,
"Vaughn, what's wrong?"
"Nothing…"
Vaughn muttered.
"Only regretting that I gave him that dressing gown."
A tactical miscalculation.
When a man over a hundred years old must choose between dignity and happiness, he will always sacrifice dignity…
But Christmas was a time for joy. Though everyone mentally complained about the Headmaster's sanity, considering he had never behaved like a normal person anyway, being extra mad on a holiday seemed… understandable.
Soon Fred and George arrived with a crate of Weasley Wizard Crackers, and the atmosphere became festive again.
Wizard Cracker Packs were like Muggle party poppers—except they exploded into bizarre little gifts. The twins gleefully grabbed one and yanked it toward the staff table.
A deafening bang!
Blue smoke erupted.
Several white mice and captain's hats shot out of the cloud.
No one scolded the twins. Dumbledore picked up a captain's hat and plopped it back on Professor McGonagall's head.
Professor Flitwick delightedly transfigured the mice into dancing puppets that hopped along the staff table.
Hagrid stroked his silky beard while chatting with Snape. To everyone's surprise, the ever-cold Potions Master actually accepted a drink from Hagrid—though he remained stiff-faced, offering the occasional grunt.
Vaughn pulled a cracker himself. The little white mouse that burst out made the cat Gugu-Cha extremely excited, darting around his feet.
Everyone was immersed in holiday cheer. Harry felt he had forgotten all troubles—eating heartily, laughing loudly.
The feast lasted over an hour before people began returning to their dormitories.
Ron, stuffed full of meat and juice, flopped onto his bed and immediately snored.
Harry, however, was too excited to sleep.
This was his first lively Christmas—no cramped cupboard, surrounded by friends, receiving real presents.
Thinking of the cloak, Harry eventually got up again, retrieving the Invisibility Cloak.
Moonlight from the window illuminated the note that fell out.
Vaughn had said those final lines were written in Dumbledore's hand:
Use it well.
Use it well…
Remembering their prank on Malfoy, Harry suddenly felt inspiration strike him.
He stared at the cloak in his hands—cool, smooth, lighter than light—and a bold thought emerged:
Starting today… I'll become the King of Midnight Wanderers!
With this cloak, no professor could catch him during patrols. Filch? Mrs. Norris? Not a threat.
He could roam Hogwarts freely.
His mind jumped to the Restricted Section, to the mysterious Black-Robed Man, to the room on the fourth floor that might hide the Philosopher's Stone…
Harry's heart pounded wildly.
…
After leaving the feast, Vaughn had barely entered the Slytherin common room when a translucent phoenix Patronus appeared and perched on his shoulder.
Dumbledore's cheerful voice came from it:
"Vaughn, please come to my office. Password: Butterbeer Fudge."
The Patronus vanished.
Vaughn sighed and rubbed Gugu-Cha's soft belly.
"Well, you go back to bed. I'm going to see what the old man wants."
"Meow—?"
Gugu-Cha flipped over, exposing its tummy, wrapping his hand with its paw pads—pleading: "Forget the old man, stay and play with me!"
But its owner was a cold-hearted scoundrel who simply carried it back to the dormitory and left.
On the eighth floor, Vaughn arrived at the Headmaster's Office and found Dumbledore no longer in his earlier lunatic state. The old wizard was fully dressed again, slipping a knobby wand into his sleeve.
Vaughn glanced once.
"So why did you call me? Going out?"
"No, dear Vaughn."
Dumbledore winked.
"I just wanted to talk. But staying in the office all night is bad for an old man's health. So—would you care to join me on a late-night stroll through Hogwarts? I hear you're quite familiar with nighttime wanderings."
"That is slander," Vaughn said flatly. "I am a perfectly rule-abiding student."
Dumbledore laughed and took his hand, murmuring several spells.
The air thickened for an instant. A strange force enveloped them—then faded. Vaughn instantly sensed something off:
The air and light around them had warped. A powerful spell cloaked their forms completely, isolating them from the outside world.
"This is an ancient type of magic," Dumbledore said. "I heard Filius gave you a book about such things. Interested in learning more?"
Vaughn studied the magic around them, then shrugged.
"No idea yet. I haven't gotten into ancient magic properly. Ask me again once I do."
Then he added mischievously,
"That book from Professor Flitwick—was it your idea?"
Dumbledore shamelessly admitted,
"Indeed. I asked him: 'Filius, how do we prevent a gifted young wizard from falling into the mire of Dark Magic?'"
"And Filius said, 'Albus, teach him ancient magic instead. It's powerful and impossibly difficult—I guarantee it will consume his entire life!'"
Dumbledore imitated Flitwick's crisp voice. Vaughn rolled his eyes.
The old man is probing me again.
The two had already left the office and were descending the winding staircases. The spell hid their presence completely; even sound and scent could not escape.
Vaughn allowed Dumbledore to pull him along and counter-attacked lazily,
"Albus, instead of keeping guard all the time, why don't you consider whether you can truly prevent a wizard from ever encountering Dark Magic?"
"Impossible. At the very least, after graduation, he could just take the Auror exam. They'll teach him the three Unforgivable Curses themselves—Aurors don't share your taboos."
It was obvious.
Aurors were the Ministry's enforcers—their enemy was Dark wizards, not Dark magic.
During the last wizarding war, Bartemius Crouch Sr., then Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, even authorized Aurors to use any means—including the Unforgivable Curses.
Dumbledore fell silent. So did Vaughn.
After a long moment, the old wizard spoke again.
"You understand the danger of Dark Magic…"
Vaughn cut him off.
"Of course I do. That's why I've never asked you or Professor Snape to teach it to me. Albus, I am more wary than you think. Until I solve its influence on the mind, I won't touch it."
Dumbledore knew, deep down, that he was being overbearing.
But one Tom Riddle had already given him enough regret for a lifetime.
He recalled what Snape had told him earlier—Vaughn's calm evaluation of the Wolfsbane Potion's implications. The boy's decisiveness, his ruthlessness toward Greyback's pack, contrasted with his limited compassion toward wandering werewolves.
Contradictory traits—proof of human complexity.
There was no doubt: Vaughn Weasley was a complicated person.
Snape had told Dumbledore that Vaughn's reasoning made sense—Wolfsbane should not be controlled by the Ministry but by werewolves themselves.
But Dumbledore saw through the rhetoric: the true reason was Vaughn did not want anyone owning the potion, because that would dilute his glory as "inventor."
His concern was never the werewolves' plight, nor the Ministry's authority.
Vaughn's motives were always for himself.
Just like Gellert Grindelwald…
Yet there were differences.
This Christmas, instead of leaving Romania early to track Quirrell in Albania, Dumbledore had stayed longer after learning that the Weasleys were visiting Charlie.
Arthur and Molly, as always, trusted him completely. When the topic shifted to Vaughn, they began sharing stories proudly and without reservation.
From them, Dumbledore learned many details of Vaughn's daily life.
To his mild amusement, Vaughn—a pure-blood who had never lived among Muggles—did not look down on them.
In Romania, he had tasted Molly's recreation of a Muggle dish called "hot pot."
A wizard who despised Muggles would never bother "recreating" their cuisine—much less one from the far East.
As Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, Dumbledore had eaten food from all around the world.
He glanced at Vaughn's face in the dim stairwell. Only a few torches lit the spiral, casting flickering shadows that made the boy's expression shift between clarity and obscurity—mirroring how Dumbledore had never fully understood him.
This wasn't due to Occlumency, but to Vaughn's inherently complex human nature.
"Human nature…"
Dumbledore murmured, then suddenly asked,
"Vaughn, what do you think of human nature?"
Another test…
Vaughn clicked his tongue but answered anyway,
"I don't have a deep philosophy. To me, a person has both unimaginable good and unimaginable evil. Borrowing a quote I agree with: 'Human nature is the sum of divinity and animality.'"
Dumbledore looked genuinely impressed.
"Oh? A brilliant summary. Where did you read it?"
"A Muggle film."
Actually—from his previous life.
Dumbledore repeated the phrase several times, clearly liking it.
"Often, I am amazed by the wisdom of Muggles."
They continued talking—this time Dumbledore asked endlessly about Muggles. Vaughn answered casually, amused. The old man's "pro-Muggle" stance, Vaughn realized, was actually more like sympathy toward a weaker, less capable group.
Reasonable, considering Dumbledore's past.
Many years ago, his sister Ariana had been traumatized by Muggles who attacked her after witnessing her magic. Their father died in Azkaban after retaliating. Ariana grew terrified of her own magic, which twisted into a dark, unstable force—an Obscurus.
So yes, Dumbledore once hated Muggles. Later, "the power of love" changed him, but the psychological scar remained. He could not bring himself to truly understand them.
Trauma was not easily undone.
Vaughn answered casually, still wondering why Dumbledore dragged him out tonight. Just to chat?
Until they reached the second-floor library—and saw a lantern floating inside the Restricted Section.
Vaughn instantly knew who was holding it.
His expression darkened.
"You're worried about Harry. Fine. But why drag me into this?"
Dumbledore asked cheerfully,
"Don't you find this amusing?"
"No. It is a complete waste of time."
Just then, a horrible inhuman scream echoed from the Restricted Section—Harry had opened something dangerous.
Filch came running with excitement. Harry stumbled out, fleeing.
What annoyed Vaughn most was that Dumbledore seemed to be enjoying it—several times subtly tripping Harry with Transfiguration to "guide" him toward secret passages.
Snape happened to arrive on patrol. Happened to know that shortcut.
Soon Harry found himself cornered by Snape and Filch—until a door conveniently swung open beside him.
He darted inside.
It was an abandoned classroom, empty except for a mirror standing in the center.
The Mirror of Erised.
Watching Harry's near-death "adventure" and eventual fascination with the mirror, Vaughn sighed.
"Only someone as simple as Harry wouldn't question all these coincidences."
Dumbledore smiled.
"Oh, not necessarily. For example—Ron might not question it either."
"…Yeah." Vaughn had no rebuttal.
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