The night wrapped the Black Lake in eerie silence. Deep and murky, its stillness was broken only by the occasional flicker of moonlight across the surface.
From a window in the Slytherin dormitory, one could see nothing but darkness stretching endlessly outward—like the turmoil festering inside Rita Skeeter's heart.
An unfamiliar magic invaded her body, corrupting her Animagus form. She couldn't change back. Helpless, she stared as a pale, slender hand picked up the glass jar that trapped her and placed it on a desk.
How did he find out my secret?
He did it on purpose—said just enough to bait me into revealing myself, knowing I'd transform and come snooping. Damn it… why was I so careless? What was I even thinking?!
As a beetle, she scraped frantically at the glass, legs flailing in futility. The smooth surface offered no grip. Her efforts were as pathetic as they were useless.
Then, a pair of eyes loomed before her.
"Miss Skeeter," came a gentle voice. "Look into my eyes."
Her instincts compelled her to obey. Through the glass, her bug-like compound eyes locked onto his human ones. A faint shimmer danced within them.
Then came the vertigo.
When she regained awareness, she gasped.
She was human again.
Back in her body.
Now's my chance!
Find my wand! Obliviate him! He must never reveal my secret!
She darted for the door. It was only a few steps away.
But before she could reach it, a voice whispered from behind, soft and cruel:
"Need me to open that for you, madam?"
"Of course—"
She froze.
Not just because of his voice.
Because the entire world around her began to disintegrate.
From the snake-and-shield crest carved into the doorframe, the walls, the tapestries, the very floor beneath her—all of it started crumbling into dust, like ancient wood rotted through centuries of decay.
The doorknob, the frame, the bricks—all turned to ash.
The destruction raced toward her feet.
She couldn't move.
Some invisible force held her in place, forcing her to watch as the world dissolved into darkness and silence.
This isn't the real world...
The thought echoed in her mind—and then, literally, echoed through the void.
Someone chuckled.
"Very perceptive, Miss Skeeter. That's right… this is your mental world."
Light returned, a dim ethereal glow illuminating the space.
Rita glanced down. She was floating midair, untethered. Nearby, a couch drifted through nothingness—and upon it reclined Vaughn Weasley, casually flipping through a book.
It was titled:
Armando Dippet: Master or Moron?
Rita recognized it immediately.
Her debut bestseller. The book that made her a name in the wizarding world.
Vaughn turned a page and spoke with a pleasant smile.
"This must be your proudest work, right? You've probably read it dozens of times—every word committed to memory. It was the first thing I saw when I entered your mind. Sharp writing style…"
He snapped the book shut and tossed it aside.
"Shame it's absolute garbage. Not a single true statement in the entire thing."
Rita, still frozen mid-run, could neither speak nor move. But her thoughts—loud, unfiltered—rang through the space like an alarm bell:
He just threw my book! My precious book!
I'll ruin him. I swear I will.
Why can he hear my thoughts? Stop thinking, stop—
Help me—would begging work?!
Snap!
Vaughn clicked his fingers.
Her mental noise cut off instantly.
He studied her face—no longer furious, but frightened—and smiled gently.
"Begging works. Isn't that good news?"
The paralysis vanished.
Rita slumped forward and immediately nodded. "Of course! Mr. Weasley, please—let me go!"
"Give me one good reason," he said, reclining lazily.
"…What?"
"One reason. A real one. Why I should release you."
She forced a trembling smile. "You… you hold my secret. If you report me to the Ministry, I'll be imprisoned in Azkaban. And even if I get out, I'll be a ruined woman—"
"Nope," Vaughn cut her off. "Not good enough. You could leave here and register as an Animagus. And I'd be powerless to stop you."
Her eyes darted about, frantically seeking a lifeline.
Then she remembered what he'd said earlier: "Sharp writing style."
He hadn't attacked her. Hadn't exposed her. He wanted something.
Leverage.
Of course.
She widened her eyes. Her voice trembled.
"You… you want me to be your mouthpiece?"
Clap, clap, clap!
Vaughn applauded, all smiles. "Bingo. So, Miss Skeeter—do you accept?"
"…"
Only an idiot would agree outright.
Rita's gaze darted. Calculating.
But Vaughn didn't seem to mind her hesitation.
He raised his hand and made a subtle motion. From the surrounding void, countless foggy scenes coalesced—her memories, drawn from the depths of her mind. They spiraled around them like a film reel.
Rita's face darkened.
He selected one memory with a snap of his fingers. It floated before him.
"This one," he said. "What you wore today."
He reached into the memory—and clenched his fist.
The image shattered, color draining away like spilled ink.
In that moment, Rita couldn't remember what she was wearing.
She gasped.
But Vaughn wasn't done.
He looked around at the endless web of memories and said softly:
"Now… what if I erased your memory that you're a witch? That you're an Animagus? What would happen?"
Her face turned white.
She would believe herself to be a real beetle.
She'd fly from Hogwarts, end up in the Forbidden Forest, foraging among flowers and animal dung to survive. And because she still had a human soul—far longer-lived than a beetle—she'd remain like that for decades. Forgotten. Lost.
A fate worse than death.
She weighed the pros and cons in a heartbeat.
Her lips trembled.
Then she smiled—submissive, flattering.
"Mr. Weasley… I accept. I'll write for you. I'll speak for you. I'll be your blade—sharp, deadly, unseen."
It was degrading.
But it was survival.
And Rita Skeeter had always been a survivor.
Vaughn smiled, pleased.
He raised a single finger and tapped her forehead.
"Then let me embed a little spell in your memory, dear Rita…"
Dumbledore had taken to nightly patrols lately.
Not out of preference, but necessity. The Chosen One needed supervision.
Last night, Harry had once again snuck up to the fifth floor—this time dragging Ron with him—to gaze into the Mirror of Erised for hours.
Children had boundless energy.
But for a centenarian like Dumbledore, the all-nighters were starting to take their toll.
That morning, Headmaster Weasley expressed concern. "Albus, you look dreadful. If you keep this up, you'll keel over."
Meanwhile, Headmaster Black clapped and cheered. "Drop dead! Drop dead! The day you croak is the day I'm free!"
Cue another round of elderly wizard brawling.
There was no time to rest.
Dumbledore had to guide Harry's emotional development, protect him from Quirrell, and now—entertain the Ministry's Joint Investigation Team, still loitering in the castle.
He looked into the mirror and sighed.
The dark circles under his eyes were practically legendary.
With a resigned breath, he downed another Cheering Draught.
Then, the side effects hit.
He began to sing.
Loudly.
Operatically.
Minerva McGonagall walked in just as he hit the final high note in a twenty-minute performance.
"Albus—"
"Ahhhhh—Minerrrrrvvvvvvaaaaaa—"
She grimaced, glancing at the empty Cheering Draught vial on the counter.
"You're going to drink yourself into a coma."
From the corner, Headmaster Black shouted again, "Drop dead! Drop dead!"
Finally, Dumbledore stopped singing and collapsed onto the bed, panting.
"What's the schedule for today?"
McGonagall handed him the parchment itinerary.
Most of the delegation members were still "touring their alma mater"—a formal way of saying they were slacking off.
Fudge, however, had asked for a private, quiet place to "build rapport" with Vaughn.
Dumbledore chuckled.
He'd already sensed Fudge's suspicion and subtle distancing. This "rapport-building" was just another attempt to persuade Vaughn to hand over the Wolfsbane formula.
He didn't mind.
Fudge was a seasoned politician—but he'd already lost initiative the moment he treated Vaughn like a twelve-year-old boy.
At the bottom of the schedule was a note about the Daily Prophet interview.
Dumbledore frowned. "Minerva, has it started?"
"Yes. Ms. Skeeter's in the Slytherin common room. No one knows how she got in…"
McGonagall's lips tightened. She'd never liked Rita—brilliant at Transfiguration, but untrustworthy.
Dumbledore nodded. "I'll go check in. Rita's articles are… colorful. But she tends to prioritize drama over truth."
If she went too far, he'd call in favors and have her replaced.
The publicity deal with Vaughn was too valuable to be derailed by a tabloid fantasy.
But when he arrived…
He was shocked.
The Slytherin dorm was peaceful.
Outside the window, fish swam lazily through the Black Lake. Magical incense made the room feel warm, almost sunlit. On the table, blue flames warmed a teapot.
Rita and Vaughn sat facing each other, each with a steaming cup of milk tea. Vaughn was explaining the drink.
"I find wizard beverages too eccentric. Muggle inventions suit my tastes far better…"
Dumbledore cleared his throat.
Vaughn looked up, surprised. "Headmaster? What brings you here?"
Rita turned as well, her expression serene.
"Good morning, Professor Dumbledore," she said sweetly.
He smiled. "Good morning, Rita. Just checking in. Is the interview going smoothly?"
He peeked at her floating parchment.
Nothing scandalous.
Although her Quick-Quotes Quill hovered listlessly, clearly bored it couldn't embellish freely.
Satisfied, Dumbledore made polite conversation, then left.
As his footsteps faded, Gogo Tea returned from the hall with a soft meow—signaling the coast was clear.
Vaughn flicked his hand. The door shut.
Rita's cheerful expression collapsed into one of dread.
Vaughn took a sip of his tea and chuckled. "Chin up, Rita. You should be grateful I still have a use for you. Otherwise, you'd be buzzing around the Forbidden Forest by now."
She forced a smile.
Rebellion was no longer even a thought.
Or rather, it had been.
Hours ago, when Vaughn released her from the jar, she'd planned to hit him with an Obliviate at the first opportunity.
But something in her memory had been cursed.
Even the thought of defying him sent searing pain through her skull—like knives tearing through her brain.
And then came the worst part.
He'd sealed her into the wall with Transfiguration, slowly cutting off her air supply. Suffocating. Claustrophobic. Terrifying.
He never even touched her—but the message was clear.
Obey. Or worse than death awaits.
She recalled his whispered threat: "I can make you forget you're a witch… make you live out your days as a beetle…"
Suddenly, submission didn't seem so bad.
At least she was still human.
And being someone's flunky… well, everyone has to start somewhere.
She forced a more natural smile.
Vaughn seemed pleased. "See? Cooperation isn't so painful."
He summoned her parchment and read aloud:
"Like his family, pureblood Vaughn Weasley exhibits a fascination with Muggles. Books, foods, even technology—he embraces them all. He claims the wizarding world has fallen behind…"
He shrugged. "You like drama. Eight parts truth, two parts fiction—that's the formula, right? I'll feed you stories that generate buzz but don't harm me. A fair deal."
Rita exhaled. She'd been domesticated.
At least she could preserve some dignity.
She asked carefully, "Do you think the current draft is… acceptable? The part about pureblood backlash might…"
Vaughn laughed. "Which pureblood family doesn't hate the Weasleys already? Let them talk."
They went over final details.
He permitted embellishment about his Muggle preferences but forbade involving his family or friends. His critiques of wizarding society's flaws were fair game.
He was intentionally cultivating a radical, Muggle-leaning image.
Finally, Vaughn gave the key instruction:
"Your next piece should focus on the Wolfsbane Potion. Emphasize the plight of werewolves. And most importantly—describe the dangers of handing the formula over to the Ministry."
Rita's eyes lit up.
She understood immediately.
"You suspect the Ministry will misuse it?"
Vaughn said nothing.
But her quill was already flying.
Her journalist instincts took over. The idea of spinning this into a political scandal thrilled her.
Then she hesitated.
"But… targeting the Ministry won't pass The Daily Prophet's editorial review. You do know the Ministry funds the paper…"
Vaughn's tone was calm. "It will pass."
She acted surprised—but inwardly felt reassured.
Vaughn clearly had powerful backing. If he could influence the Prophet, and uncover her Animagus secret…
She'd chosen the right master.
If she was going to serve someone, better he be formidable.
After chatting a while longer, the interview ended.
Rita left the Slytherin common room with a smile.
Vaughn returned to his dorm, picked up the empty glass jar from last night, and chuckled.
An unexpected bonus.
He hadn't planned to strong-arm Rita. If she'd behaved, he wouldn't have bothered.
But she came looking for trouble.
And he simply let her find it.
"Still, she has her merits. Clever. Ruthless. Pragmatic. Not many people accept reality so quickly—or master Animagus magic so young."
He'd studied her transformed body the night before. As a beetle, her physiology matched the insect perfectly—even her magic had vanished.
Only the soul remained human.
Animagus transformation altered one's very nature.
The process was grueling: hold a Mandrake leaf in your mouth from full moon to full moon, brew a crystal vial of saliva and arcane ingredients, bury it, wait for a thunderstorm, and perform the final ritual.
Few succeeded. Most gave up.
But Rita hadn't.
He tossed the jar aside, deep in thought.
"I wonder… can I use the system to bypass the Animagus process?"
"Even if I can't… the Marauders all became Animagi just to help Lupin. That many students succeeding? Sounds fishy…"
Honestly, Vaughn didn't need an Animagus form.
Why give up magic for the body of an animal?
Unless… he could crack the essence of magic itself.
Unless… he could become a magical creature.
Now that would be worth it.
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