The grand hall fell into complete silence the moment Vaughn began to speak.
Over a hundred guests sat listening—watching, scrutinizing, evaluating the child before them.
Vaughn ignored their gazes entirely. His eyes swept past Cornelius Fudge's forced smile, past the crowd, landing instead on the lavish, floor-to-ceiling windows… and beyond them, the snow-covered streets of Diagon Alley.
He was telling a story. A real story.
"Many have asked why I developed the Wolfsbane Potion. I've never answered—because I didn't know how to explain it. Don't get me wrong, I'm not ashamed of it. I just wasn't sure… if anyone would understand."
The enchanted lectern magnified his voice, sending it through the entire hall.
At the entrance, unnoticed until now, stood Albus Dumbledore. He held the Elder Wand loosely, its tip gently touching the glass. Soft, concentric ripples spread out—inaudible, but present.
The enchanted glass, linked to the alchemical nature of the hall itself, silently opened a channel—transmitting Vaughn's voice out into the snow-covered streets.
"I was six when I first saw the file. My father had brought it home—an interdepartmental personnel transfer from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. They were reallocating staff to two divisions—the Beast Division and the Being Division…"
A pause.
Some in the crowd still looked confused. But a few Ministry officials seemed to grasp what he was hinting at—though their expressions were puzzled, unsure why he was bringing this up.
Vaughn lowered his eyes slightly.
"The transfer involved the Werewolf Registry, the Werewolf Capture Unit, and the Werewolf Support Services Department… all under the Beast Division."
"I doubt many of you understand how shocking that was to a child… Werewolves—lumped in with fire-breathing dragons, ghouls, and banshees?"
Outside, Aurors began emerging from their concealed posts in the alley.
To ensure today's ceremony went smoothly, Fudge—ignoring Rufus Scrimgeour's protests—had deployed dozens of Aurors to Diagon Alley. But, concerned for the 'mental well-being' of their pure-blood guests, he had ordered them to stay out of sight.
Delrich, a rookie Auror who had passed his exam just last year, was listening to Vaughn's voice echoing from the hall. He turned to his captain, the seasoned Kingsley Shacklebolt.
"Captain… is that true?"
Kingsley nodded solemnly. "It is."
Delrich frowned. "I thought the werewolves had their own department… Why are they managed by the Beast Division?"
Kingsley didn't answer. He'd heard this question many times before—from young Aurors full of ideals. But over time, those same people stopped asking.
No one knew exactly how the prejudice had formed. It just… seeped in. Spend long enough in the Ministry, and you'd forget that werewolves were ever considered people at all.
All around them, Aurors reacted differently—some with disdain, others in quiet reflection, and some with unease.
Suddenly, a disturbance erupted near the entrance to Diagon Alley—from the direction of the Leaky Cauldron.
Auror Shawick, closest to the scene, frowned.
A dozen ragged figures were walking through the narrow archway. They looked half-frozen, hesitant, and cautious—but they were moving toward the ceremony.
"Hey, what are you doing here? Diagon Alley is closed today—come back later!"
They ignored him.
Inside the hall, Vaughn's voice continued to resonate:
"I once believed everyone would view werewolves with fairness—as victims of a disease. But over the years, I've seen very few who do…"
The dozen figures—like weathered beggars—stopped walking. Tears fell silently from their eyes.
Shawick gritted his teeth. "Stupe—"
But before he could finish the spell, the scarred man at the front raised his wand.
A burst of red light blasted Shawick back.
"Hostiles—!"
"Damn it, they're werewolves!"
All the Aurors turned toward the disturbance. Some readied their wands, others bolted toward the hall.
But Kingsley raised his voice.
"Stand down!"
"Captain—?"
He didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on the archway—and everyone followed his gaze.
Their expressions shifted from alertness… to dread.
One… ten… a hundred…
More and more ragged figures poured through the gate—men, women, and children in threadbare robes, their faces sunken from years of hardship.
Hundreds of them.
They moved silently, like a tide of forgotten souls.
Delrich swallowed hard.
He'd never seen so many werewolves in one place.
In theory, untransformed werewolves weren't particularly dangerous. Many couldn't even shift at will. But that didn't stop the fear.
The wizarding world had never solved the problem of werewolf madness… but it had created potions that could force transformations.
Delrich glanced at Kingsley—only to find his captain strangely calm.
Looking closer, he realized: none of the werewolves were acting threatening. They just stood there, trembling with emotion… eyes locked on the Great Hall.
They were listening to the child inside.
Delrich suddenly understood.
Kingsley ordered, "Clear the way."
No one resisted this time.
The sight of so many werewolves—silent, unified—had shaken them. They instinctively obeyed.
The scarred man nodded in gratitude and led the group forward.
It was strangely quiet. Delrich was stunned to see many children among them, holding their parents' hands, walking slowly through the snow.
Even the falling snow seemed to yield to the intensity of their feelings.
Inside the hall, people had noticed the commotion.
Many stood up in confusion, watching the ragged crowd approach.
At the front, Umbridge clung tightly to Fudge's arm. The Minister looked both pale and furious.
Up on the second floor, the Wizengamot whispered among themselves.
Vaughn took in all of it—the confusion, the fear, the curiosity.
The werewolves stopped just outside the grand hall, their eyes filled with anticipation… and anxiety.
Vaughn raised his wand, pointing toward them.
His voice thundered above:
"Ladies and gentlemen—tell me. Are these… beasts? Or are they people?"
The crowd offered no answer.
Some pure-bloods stared blankly, unmoved—as if the sight of werewolves meant nothing.
Others whispered among themselves, unsure how to respond.
The international reporters, on the other hand, went wild—snapping photos like mad. What should've been a simple award ceremony had become a moment of historic significance.
Vaughn didn't expect the stone-hearted pure-blood elite to be swayed by a single speech. He wasn't aiming for them anyway.
No—his focus was on the journalists and the more open-minded wizards.
And Fudge, who—thanks to some clever manipulation—had unwittingly handed him the perfect stage.
The sound of camera shutters echoed like falling rain.
Vaughn answered his own question:
"In my eyes, they live worse than beasts. Does anyone here know why?"
The crowd fell silent again.
Then, a sharp voice broke through:
"I don't care why a bunch of lazy imbeciles are poor and pathetic. Don't you agree, Weasley?"
Vaughn turned. He didn't recognize the man, but he remembered the name.
Selwyn.
One of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. A hardline pure-blood radical.
Selwyn laughed, joined by a few cronies.
Then Vaughn raised his wand—and pointed it straight at him.
Selwyn leapt up, furious. "What, going to curse me? Let me teach you some manners—Expelliarmus!"
Red light shot from his wand.
Vaughn moved lazily, conjuring a gleaming, transparent magical shield.
The spell hit with a dull thud… and fizzled out like a pebble against armor.
Vaughn calmly flicked his wand.
A brighter, sharper beam erupted—obliterating Selwyn's hastily summoned shield and sending him flying.
His wand spun through the air… and landed neatly in Vaughn's hand.
Stunned silence.
Only after Selwyn hit the floor did the crowd react.
A middle-aged man rushed forward to shield Vaughn, while photographers swarmed in for the shot of the decade.
The man was Oliver Prewett—Molly Weasley's brother.
Vaughn bowed slightly. "Thank you, Uncle. But allow me to handle this."
He tossed the wand aside and stepped down.
Standing before Selwyn and his flustered friends, he said coldly:
"There will always be fools who choose the wrong time and place to make jokes."
The fear in their eyes was unmistakable.
The whispers around the room began:
"Did you see that shield charm?"
"Selwyn barely scratched it!"
"Silent casting too…"
"Merlin, the power on that kid…"
Pure-bloods respected power above all. And Selwyn—by acting as the fool—had accidentally proven Vaughn's might.
Now they were listening.
Vaughn turned back to the stage.
"Just now, Mr. Selwyn claimed that werewolves are poor because they're lazy or stupid…"
A common refrain—heard in every society.
You're poor because you're lazy. You're poor because you're stupid.
Not because they believed hard work guaranteed success—but because it justified their own status.
"Let me ask—Barnell, tell me. Are you poor because you're lazy?"
A young man in the crowd stepped forward.
"Of course not, sir."
"Then why?"
Barnell's voice broke as he looked at the grand hall… and at his threadbare cloak.
"Because we exiled ourselves to the wild…"
"Why?"
"Because we were afraid—afraid of waking up after a full moon and finding we'd hurt someone. We didn't want to be monsters."
His tears fell freely now—tears of pain, of kindness trampled underfoot.
Behind him, the werewolves began to cry too.
Inside the hall, no one spoke.
The divide between the elegantly dressed guests and the shivering crowd outside had never felt more stark.
But Vaughn didn't expect to change everything in a day.
"I developed the Wolfsbane Potion to help those people out there. But in truth, there's a poison more dangerous than lycanthropy—prejudice."
He raised his voice.
"The Ministry has placed werewolf affairs under the Beast Division. But these people are not beasts! They are intelligent, feeling, compassionate. Many are more noble than the pure-bloods who sneer at them."
"Prejudice has long tainted the Ministry. And for a long time, I doubted whether the Wolfsbane Potion could ever solve anything in such an environment."
"So I sent the formula to the Potioneers' Guild and the Ministry. I sent it to Minister Cornelius Fudge, hoping he would have insights to share."
He looked up to the second floor.
Dumbledore stood quietly in the gallery.
He raised his wand—and cast a memory projection charm.
From the tip of his wand flowed thick, oily smoke—shaping into two familiar figures: Vaughn Weasley… and Cornelius Fudge.
The memory replayed their conversation in the Three Broomsticks.
"I need one small favor… use your fame to encourage werewolves to register under the Werewolf Registry Act."
Gasps filled the room.
The Wizengamot began to murmur.
Vaughn bowed to Dumbledore and dismissed the smoke.
"Some of you may not know—the Registry Act, passed in the 17th century, is little more than a leash. It binds werewolves through magical oaths disguised as 'registration requirements'. Give them your name, your blood, your hair… and in return, lose your freedom."
"Is this help… or shackles?"
He paused.
"If the werewolves agree to such chains, they cease to be people. They become property."
The second-floor gallery exploded with outrage.
Madam Marchbanks, ancient and furious, flung her shoe at Fudge.
"You greedy little toad! I should've failed you when I proctored your OWLs!"
Dumbledore tried to calm her, while Amelia Bones fended off other furious elders.
Umbridge, ever loyal, shielded Fudge with her own bulk.
In the chaos, she ended up covered in shoes, wigs—and someone's false teeth.
The press clicked away gleefully.
"WIZENGAMOT BEATS MINISTER WITH SHOES!"
"100-Year-Old Witch Wallops Fudge!"
It took a while for calm to return.
Then Amelia Bones stood.
"Mr. Weasley, your remarks today were… unconventional. What exactly are you proposing?"
Vaughn met her eyes.
"As I've said—I wish to help those werewolves. To give them a future without prejudice or chains. Therefore, I respectfully ask you and Professor Dumbledore to convene the Wizengamot… to establish a Werewolf Affairs Committee."
A new wave of murmurs rippled through the hall.
Everyone understood now what he meant.
"This issue affects the entire wizarding world. It must be handled by the wizarding world as a whole. And since the Ministry, in its current state, is not capable… I propose that the Committee operate independently of the Ministry. That the Wizengamot revoke the Ministry's authority over werewolves."
Fudge leapt to his feet.
"This is treason! You're trying to divide the Ministry!"
His eyes shot daggers at Vaughn—but the boy didn't flinch.
"Given the scale of discrimination, werewolves must hold half the seats on the Committee. The rest, I suggest, be filled jointly by the Wizengamot and… the International Confederation of Wizards."
The room froze.
All eyes turned to Dumbledore.
For a moment, they could almost see it—the man who always claimed to despise politics…
…reaching out with his paw… and seizing power.
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