Lupin wasn't sure how he made it out of the Three Broomsticks.
He had thought, rather smugly, that he'd been steering the conversation. That he was the one in control. But now he realized—he'd only been indulged by a twelve-year-old boy who could've ended the conversation at any time.
That realization hit harder than expected.
Even now, he couldn't get over the image of that Banishing Charm—executed with precision and power few adult wizards could manage. And the sheer magical force behind it… it was terrifying.
Still dazed, Lupin stumbled into the Shrieking Shack, where he doused his face with freezing snowmelt to wake himself up.
Then, together with James Brown, the two wizard werewolves took Barnell and William and began their relay Apparition back to London.
By the time they arrived, it was already midday.
The encampment's fires were lit. Dozens of women squatted by the lakeside, scrubbing clothes in icy water.
They didn't dare venture too far, lest they cross the boundary of protective charms—Muggle-Repelling Spells, defensive wards, and enchantments that kept them hidden from the world.
When the four figures appeared at the edge of the woods, someone shouted from the lake:
"Barnell and William are back! They're back!"
Soon, over a dozen tall, gaunt werewolves emerged from the largest tent at the center of the camp.
Barnell grinned and raised the pouch Vaughn had given him. "We met with Mr. Weasley! He gave us several thousand more pounds!"
A cheer erupted through the crowd.
The werewolves who came out rushed forward, asking excitedly:
"What did Mr. Weasley say?"
"When do we begin?"
"Hold on—let's go inside and talk first!"
The crowd ushered Barnell, William, and James back into the main tent, eager for news.
Lupin didn't follow. His mind was still clouded, spinning.
He walked to the lakeside and splashed his face again, letting the ice-cold water sting his skin. The biting cold was a welcome anchor—a reminder that he was still here, still grounded.
Just as he was about to return, a little girl's voice made him pause.
"Mum, what's a pound?"
Lupin glanced over.
The girl looked to be about ten, dressed in a blanket-turned-dress and wearing rabbit-skin shoes stitched together with thick thread.
Her mother, a woman in her thirties with deep lines etched into her face, answered gently:
"Pounds are money. You can use them to buy food… and clothes."
"Like when we trade potatoes to Uncle Abad for animal hides?"
"That's right," the woman laughed softly. "But pounds are even better. You can trade them for lots and lots of things. Today, little Aya is going to eat until she's full."
The girl's eyes sparkled with wonder, as if she could already see a table full of steaming food.
"Mr. Weasley is a good person," she said solemnly.
"He is," her mother replied, voice thick with emotion. "He's going to cure our sickness. Soon, you'll be able to go out and play with other children. And when the full moon comes, we won't have to hide in caves anymore, hurting ourselves just to survive…"
The little girl fell into a hopeful daze, lost in a vision of a different life.
Lupin, watching from the shadows, felt a sudden tightness in his chest.
He pressed a hand to his face, unable to bear the heat in his eyes.
That light in the girl's gaze…
He recognized it instantly.
It was hope.
He turned away and walked off quickly—but the girl's expression burned in his mind, impossible to shake.
And as he walked, he couldn't stop replaying Vaughn's words:
Put aside your bias. Go to the camp. Look for yourself.
For reasons he couldn't explain, Lupin did exactly that.
He wandered slowly through the camp, watching quietly.
From a distance, someone rushed back with a battered pickup truck, its bed piled high with food. Men and women worked together, unloading the goods with bare hands, smiles lighting up their weary faces.
Some brought out preserved meats, others offered up dried fruit they'd carried with them.
A stout witch, her neck marred by a savage old bite, cheerfully waved her tattered wand. Kitchen knives danced in the air beside her. She was cooking—clearly enjoying the mundane joy of preparing a meal, something she hadn't done in years.
Children tumbled out of tents, chasing each other through the snow.
They clutched toys made of straw and carved wood, skidding to a halt near the makeshift kitchens. Eyes wide, noses twitching, they drooled openly at the smell of food rising from the bubbling cauldrons.
Lupin didn't know when it had started—this change.
Perhaps the moment they left the mountains and forests behind… they had begun to awaken from numbness.
Silently, imperceptibly, they had started to live again.
A mother and son passed him by.
"Today's a good day…" the mother murmured.
"Mum, will tomorrow be a good day too?"
"Yes, sweetie. Tomorrow will be a good day."
"What about the day after tomorrow?"
"Also good. I promise."
Lupin didn't look back at her face. He didn't need to. Her voice told him everything.
She believed it.
He had always assumed that these people followed Vaughn because they were ignorant, easily misled. That was why he'd risked his identity, joined them—because he thought he could save them.
He had always hated his werewolf side.
But now, he saw it clearly.
They weren't ignorant.
They were just people.
People who had never, until now, been given hope.
Vaughn returned to Hogwarts from Hogsmeade in a flurry of snow.
The wind howled across the Scottish Highlands, whirling and shrieking like wild spirits.
His cloak billowed as he trudged through the snow-covered path, Hogwarts Castle rising like a dark, ancient titan in the storm. The Forbidden Forest loomed beyond, jagged mountains painting the horizon in strokes of shadow and ice.
At the gates, Dumbledore stood waiting, his silver beard whipping in the wind. A still-young Fawkes perched on his shoulder, feathers ruffled against the cold.
As Vaughn approached, Dumbledore opened the gate with a wave of his hand.
"Minister Fudge returned to the Ministry and immediately called a meeting," Dumbledore said lightly. "He's planning to invite reporters from across Europe to attend your award ceremony. He's calling it a… press conference. You've certainly seen right through him."
Vaughn didn't care much about what kind of man Fudge was. "And the result?"
Dumbledore smiled and winked. "Barty Crouch tried to stop him. Said it was unseemly to make such a fuss over a Second-Class Order of Merlin. That only made Fudge more determined. A certain Dolores Umbridge even seized the moment to accuse Crouch of obstructing international cooperation."
Vaughn smirked. "Ah, politics…"
"Indeed," Dumbledore said. "It fuels the ambitious, drives the greedy mad. Fudge convened the Wizengamot—deliberately delaying my notice, of course—and bypassed the International Magical Cooperation Department to send invitations to over ten countries."
He looked down at Vaughn.
"Just as you planned."
Vaughn raised his hands in mock innocence. "I merely made a suggestion."
"Hmm hmm…"
Dumbledore said no more. The two walked into the castle, the heavy doors slamming shut behind them, cutting off the wind and snow.
Fudge had thrown himself into the preparations with unmatched zeal.
Publicly, he announced that the ownership of the Wolfsbane Potion had been settled. Its inventor, Vaughn Weasley, would reveal the details at the award ceremony. Discussions on international exports would follow.
In the next two days, with Fudge's lobbying, multiple nations confirmed attendance—France, Germany, Greece, Denmark, Bulgaria…
Even the isolationist MACUSA from North America agreed to send a delegate.
After all, lycanthropy knew no borders.
The magical world buzzed with anticipation.
The Daily Prophet ran back-to-back stories:
"The French Ministry says Wolfsbane offers hope in curbing lycanthropy—sends warm congratulations to Vaughn Weasley for his Merlin Award."
"German envoy and media on their way to London…"
"Ministry constructs temporary structure in Diagon Alley for ceremony—Gringotts displaced by ten feet, goblins furious. Madam Malkin thrilled: 'First time I've seen daylight in years!'"
"Rumors swirl that Fudge plans to build a werewolf army using the potion. The Quibbler accuses Fudge of abuse of power. Fudge denies all allegations."
"Damocles Belby claims he too was working on a Wolfsbane cure for five years. 'I was close… but Vaughn beat me to it. It's disheartening, but his method clearly outpaces mine.'"
At the Hogwarts breakfast table, Ron dropped the paper with a stunned expression.
"Did you hear that? Rita Skeeter didn't stir up any trouble in her report! If it were before, she'd definitely accuse Vaughn of stealing Belby's work!"
Harry bit into his toast. "Who's Rita Skeeter?"
"A lying cow," Ron said darkly. "Mum loves her columns though…"
Harry raised an eyebrow. "She seemed fair in this one."
Ron scoffed. "That's because Vaughn probably cursed her during that last interview!"
Hermione rolled her eyes. She'd only just returned last night.
"Maybe if you spent less time complaining about Vaughn and more time doing your homework, you wouldn't need to copy mine!"
"I'm not jealous…" Ron muttered. But since he still needed Hermione's notes, he didn't argue.
Harry buried his head in his plate, pretending not to hear anything.
Despite his words, Ron was jealous.
Especially when Vaughn, dressed in formal wizarding robes, walked into the Great Hall beside Dumbledore.
The entire hall buzzed.
"Today's the ceremony, isn't it?"
"Yeah, and he's so young. Bet he's the youngest recipient of the Order of Merlin ever!"
"Hey Ron, aren't you going?"
Ron hesitated. Of course he wanted to. But Vaughn hadn't invited him.
That stung.
He pushed his plate away, appetite gone.
He turned to Harry and whispered, "You should get a Merlin Award too. You killed You-Know-Who at one year old. You'd definitely be the youngest ever!"
Harry just stared at him.
Sometimes, he really wanted to crack Ron's head open and see what was in there.
To be continued ..
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