Enthusiastic young wizards surrounded Vaughn, peppering him with questions well past noon. It wasn't until Professor McGonagall finally shooed them off that the crowd reluctantly dispersed.
Vaughn let out a sigh of relief. For the first time, he found Fred and George's big mouths hard to tolerate.
He rushed through lunch, intending to sneak off to Snape's office, only to be intercepted by Professor McGonagall at the staff table.
"Mr. Weasley," she said, "I just received notice from the Ministry. The Joint Investigation Delegation will officially visit the school this afternoon. A reporter from The Daily Prophet will accompany them. You'll be giving an interview…"
Today, Professor McGonagall was in high spirits. Her usually severe features looked nearly kind as she smiled, the deep lines on her face softened by genuine joy.
She glanced right past the snake-and-shield badge on Vaughn's chest. Right now, he wasn't a Slytherin in her eyes—just a brilliant student who brought honor to Hogwarts.
"You'll accompany the Headmaster and me to greet them at the station. And please, for the sake of appearances, wear formal attire. If you don't have any, the school will cover the cost—you can Floo to Diagon Alley from my office."
"I've got one," Vaughn said. "Had it custom-made before term started. Just never worn it."
"Excellent," McGonagall beamed. "Off you go, then. Get ready!"
As Vaughn turned to leave, he caught sight of Snape nearby, staring blankly into space.
With a deliberately innocent grin, Vaughn asked, "Professor McGonagall, can I request that Professor Snape accompany us?"
Snape jolted upright, his blank, coal-dark eyes snapping to life as he shot Vaughn a murderous glare.
But McGonagall, completely unaware of their silent exchange, clapped her hands together. "Of course you can, dear. Severus, did you hear that? Your student cares about you!"
"…"
"I have things to do—" Snape started to protest.
"Nonsense," McGonagall interrupted. "It's still the holidays, Severus. What could possibly be so important?" She glanced pointedly at his hair, where a tuft stuck out at a comical angle. "Besides, I think that shampoo you used yesterday worked quite well. Still time to use it again!"
And just like that, it was decided.
Vaughn returned to the Slytherin dorm, took a quick shower, and reviewed his notes—particularly those related to his research on the lycanthropy virus and the Wolfsbane Potion's development.
Those details might come in handy during the interview.
At three o'clock, Professor McGonagall's Patronus arrived, informing him that the Ministry train was about to arrive.
By the time Vaughn reached the gates of Hogwarts, McGonagall, Snape, and Dumbledore were already waiting.
The Headmaster had resumed his usual twinkly-eyed cheer. "Come now, dear boy. Let's greet our guests. Nothing to worry about—the Joint Investigation is just for show."
Vaughn rolled his eyes discreetly. Dumbledore only dared speak like this when McGonagall was around to back him up. Otherwise, he knew Vaughn would roast him alive.
Still, Vaughn followed.
"Why's the Ministry delegation arriving by train anyway?" he asked. "Floo Network would be quicker."
Dumbledore chuckled. "Ah, politics. A 'formal' visit requires a proper show of importance. Floo powder doesn't exactly scream dignity."
"Albus," McGonagall chided.
Dumbledore promptly shut up.
They followed the stone path to the station. After a few minutes, a luxurious train emerged from the mountains, rolling forward like a well-dressed, plump gentleman.
It moved slowly and with exaggerated elegance, taking nearly half an hour to reach the platform.
After the last puff of steam dispersed, the doors finally opened.
Out stepped a short, portly man in a pinstripe suit and a flaming red tie, draped in a long black cloak. He doffed his top hat and threw open his arms toward Dumbledore.
"Albus Dumbledore, my dear friend!"
Dumbledore blinked in mild surprise, then stepped forward with a genial smile. "Cornelius—what a surprise. What brings you here personally?"
Cornelius Fudge.
No wonder the delegation insisted on "grandeur." The Minister himself had decided to show up.
After exchanging warm greetings with Dumbledore, Fudge turned to McGonagall and kissed the back of her hand gallantly. "You look positively radiant today, my dear—like a blooming iris."
Then he spotted Snape.
Fudge's smile faltered just a little.
"Oh—Professor Snape. The renowned Potions Master of Hogwarts… Is that—er, is that potion I smell? Quite… distinctive."
Snape's scowl deepened.
His expression practically screamed: Touch me and die.
But Fudge, naturally, paid him no mind.
Turning to Vaughn, the Minister seized his hand with surprising force and shook it vigorously. "Ah! The man of the hour—Mr. Vaughn Weasley! One glance at that fine red hair, and I knew you must be Arthur's boy!"
Vaughn smiled politely. "Yes, Minister. My father speaks highly of you, Minister Cornelius Fudge."
Arthur's words had indeed included descriptions like "blithering idiot," "conniving midget," and "useless bootlicker."
But Fudge had no idea. He guffawed and gave Vaughn a hearty pat on the head.
Vaughn's smile visibly stiffened.
Snape, on the other hand, actually snorted.
With the Minister in attendance, the rest of the so-called investigation team became background noise. The accompanying officials and invited potion experts knew this was a formality at best.
After a few polite greetings, they all clustered around Snape and Vaughn to discuss academic matters.
Until a sharp, unmistakable voice cut in.
"Mr. Weasley! I'm Rita Skeeter, reporter for The Daily Prophet. I'll be handling your exclusive interview. When shall we begin?"
Vaughn turned to see a slightly plump middle-aged woman in a blindingly gold-green silk dress. She pushed her glittering glasses up her nose and offered him a sugary smile.
Vaughn's expression grew subtly guarded.
He reached out and shook her hand. "A pleasure, Ms. Skeeter."
She gave his hand a dainty shake—but didn't let go.
"Oh, you're such a handsome young man. One would never guess you spent your time brewing potions."
Snape and the other potion masters looked… offended.
But Rita Skeeter was practiced at ignoring people without headlines.
She threw an arm around Vaughn's shoulders and whispered, "I know your secret, sweetheart."
Vaughn frowned. "What?"
"A twelve-year-old developing a new potion like Wolfsbane? That's the stuff of fairy tales. And yet here you are—parading around the Ministry, escorted by big names. Quite the fairy tale, hmm?"
A luxurious quill hovered near her shoulder, scribbling rapidly on a piece of parchment.
But to her surprise, Vaughn showed no signs of panic. No fear, no guilt. Just mild amusement.
Rita's strategy had always been to provoke her interviewees—make them emotional, catch them off guard, push them into revealing something.
But this boy…
He just gave her a strange look and turned away.
At that moment, Fudge called out, "Vaughn, my boy! Come, let's take a photo together!"
"Apologies, Ms. Skeeter," Vaughn said pleasantly. "The Minister awaits. We can talk later."
He gently removed her arm and stepped between Dumbledore and Fudge. The view of Hogwarts Castle behind them made it a perfect photo backdrop.
Fudge made sure to stand on a rock to appear taller, draping an arm over Vaughn's shoulder with a beaming smile—and subtly shifting to block Dumbledore from view.
Vaughn mirrored the smile but remained thoughtful.
So, the Minister was already growing wary of Dumbledore.
No surprise.
Last year, in 1990, former Minister Millicent Bagnold retired. At the time, the Ministry had no clear successor. Both Dumbledore and Bartemius Crouch Sr. were considered the most qualified.
But then came the scandal.
Crouch's son was exposed as a Death Eater. Though he personally sent the boy to Azkaban, public trust in him collapsed.
If he couldn't control his own son, how could he govern the Ministry?
With Crouch out of the running, Dumbledore was the obvious choice.
But he refused.
He told his friends he feared being seduced by power.
People thought it was a humble excuse. But Vaughn knew—Dumbledore truly feared what he might become.
His youthful mistakes still haunted him.
Ariana's death had been the wake-up call. There would be no second Ariana.
With the two top candidates gone, and others unwilling or unable to step up, the role fell—absurdly—to the Deputy Head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes: Cornelius Fudge.
Some say Fudge was Dumbledore's puppet.
And in the early days, it seemed true. He sought Dumbledore's advice constantly. But Vaughn suspected the "puppet" rumors may have been Fudge's own doing.
Borrow Dumbledore's prestige to cement his authority. Then use public scrutiny to keep the old man at arm's length.
Smart.
And now, one year later, Fudge believed his position secure.
The fox was starting to fear the tiger it once clung to.
And that's good.
If Fudge grew cautious, he'd want control over the Wolfsbane Potion.
Vaughn had already hinted at his willingness to share the formula and cooperate with the Ministry—so of course Fudge came in person, hoping to curry favor and reel him in.
Sure enough, shortly after the photoshoot, Fudge waved over a few aides.
"Big fans of Dumbledore," he said, "dying for a chat."
Once the aides had distracted Dumbledore, Fudge quickly ushered Vaughn away from the crowd.
"Mr. Weasley—"
"Please, Minister, just call me Vaughn. You work with my father. There's no need for formality."
Fudge, flattered, nodded. "What a polite young man…"
He got to the point quickly.
"I heard you plan to release the Wolfsbane formula, make it public, forgo the patent. Could you tell Uncle Fudge why?"
Vaughn donned the wide-eyed innocence he'd perfected watching Ron. "I just want to help the wandering werewolves. They can't afford the potion, so I thought—maybe if the recipe's free, someone will make it available."
"Such kindness!" Fudge beamed. Then, in a grave tone: "But Vaughn, you're still young. You may not grasp the complications. Even if you share the recipe and convince some potion makers to brew it for free—who ensures it stays that way? Some might resell it for profit…"
As Vaughn pretended to ponder, Fudge pressed on, "I have a better idea. Would you like to hear it?"
"Of course, Uncle Fudge."
Fudge gave him a warm, fatherly smile.
"Give the formula to the Ministry. To me. I'll create a new Department, one fully funded and dedicated to distributing Wolfsbane to all registered werewolves."
"But… I have a small favor to ask in return."
"I want you to publicly support the Werewolf Registration Act. We need to be careful who receives this potion, after all. We can't have it falling into the hands of people like Greyback, right?"
Vaughn hesitated. Looked torn. Just enough to appear tempted.
Fudge smiled kindly. "No pressure, my boy. Think it over. Meanwhile, I've got some good news for you."
"What is it?" Vaughn asked.
Fudge beamed.
"Your Order of Merlin."
"You've done something extraordinary, Vaughn. And I insisted the Order acknowledge it."
He pulled out a parchment envelope and unfolded it with a flourish.
"The Order has agreed—your ceremony will take place at the Wizengamot, three days from now. You'll be awarded the Second-Class Order of Merlin!"
Vaughn watched him with a faint smile.
So that's the game.
Offer temptation, then reward compliance. It was smart politics—establish trust through generosity.
And yet…
Vaughn knew exactly how that Order had come to pass.
Dumbledore, not Fudge, had pulled the strings. As Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and a First-Class Merlin recipient, the old man's word carried immense weight.
But Fudge didn't mind taking the credit.
His ego had long since outgrown his dignity.
Later, the delegation returned to Hogwarts.
They observed Vaughn brew a batch of Wolfsbane in Snape's office—complete with magic testing and lycanthropy validation—all caught on camera.
The photos would soon appear in Extraordinary Potions Quarterly and The Daily Prophet.
Once the official show was over, the Ministry folks cheerfully wandered off for a "nostalgic tour."
All except one.
Rita Skeeter, who had absolutely no fond memories of her school days, lurked behind.
She crept up beside Vaughn and whispered in that rasping, syrupy voice:
"Still haven't answered my question, handsome…"
Her Quick-Quotes Quill popped out again, scribbling away.
Vaughn raised an eyebrow. "And what would you like to know?"
"Oh, so many things—"
She barely got the words out before Vaughn's wand flashed silently.
Her quill went flying.
The parchment zipped to his hand.
"YOU—!" she snarled.
But Vaughn's wand was already pressed against her throat.
Calmly, he read her notes aloud.
"'When asked how a twelve-year-old boy mastered advanced potion theory and developed the Wolfsbane formula, the bashful Vaughn Weasley stammered and blushed…'"
He sighed.
"I've heard about you, Ms. Skeeter. Twisting facts, blurring lines, hiding behind 'interpretation.' And I see it's all true."
Rita's lips quivered. She tried to feign outrage.
"You attack a journalist? In Hogwarts? How dare you!"
Vaughn looked around casually. "Who's going to report me?"
"…"
For the first time, Rita felt fear.
There was no warmth in his eyes. Just cold calculation.
She instantly dropped the act and collapsed to her knees.
"Mr. Weasley! I was wrong! Please, I didn't mean it—"
But before she could beg further, Vaughn leaned in, mimicking her earlier whisper.
"Ms. Skeeter… I know your secret too."
"You have a knack for discovering secrets that were never meant to be found."
She froze.
"What—what secret?"
Vaughn gave her a wink. "Guess. Am I bluffing… or do I really know?"
And with a jaunty whistle, he strolled off, leaving Rita pale and trembling in his wake.
That night, Rita couldn't sleep.
Her secret… it couldn't be known.
She had hidden it for years. Not even Fudge had caught on, and she'd eavesdropped on his private conversations more than once.
There's no way he knows.
Right?
She shifted uncomfortably.
Rita Skeeter was an unregistered Animagus.
A beetle.
And if that ever got out…
Azkaban would be the only place left for her.
Desperate to confirm her suspicions, she waited until midnight. Then, transforming into her Animagus form, she flew out the Ravenclaw tower and zipped toward the Slytherin dorms.
She'd used the ventilation system before during her school years. The layout hadn't changed. She'd find him.
And she did.
Through the vent, she spotted Vaughn, humming softly as a large black cat dozed in his lap.
She settled in to watch.
She would learn his secrets and strike back.
But then, Vaughn spoke aloud, still petting his cat.
"You know, Gogo Tea, when someone's emotions fluctuate wildly, and they're near someone trained in memory magic… it's like watching a torch flare in the dark."
Rita froze.
No—
A sudden magical pressure thickened the air.
His voice echoed, distorted and chilling.
"Barrier Hex – Lockdown."
"Accio Beetle."
Powerless, she was yanked out of the vent and fell into his hand.
Still in beetle form, she was stuffed into a glass jar—already prepared and waiting.
"Hello again, Ms. Skeeter," Vaughn said, smiling pleasantly. "I told you. I know your secret."
She knew then.
She was done for.
PS : I've been consistently releasing chapters for many days now, and If you want to support my work and read the 70+ Extra aheadChapters , you can check out
my P@treon. -> patreon.com/FinalArcHero789
◇ BONUS & SUPPORT ◇
◇ 1 bonus chapter for every 10 reviews — drop a comment!
◇ 1 bonus chapter for every 100 Power Stones.
◇ Read 70 chapters ahead on P@treon → patreon.com/FinalArcHero789