"Caught you!"
Vaughn felt a distortion in the air.
He slipped out of Apparition instantaneously—
and squeezed out from the twisting space right in front of Voldemort.
The smoke of Voldemort's own apparition hadn't even dispersed.
The Dark Lord's expression twisted in shock—
And Vaughn's wand flashed.
Sectumsempra.
The invisible blade shrieked out—too close to dodge.
SLASH—
Blood spattered.
A deep gash split across Voldemort's waist, blood pouring uncontrollably.
The battle had barely begun—
and the Dark Lord was already injured.
Red pupils narrowed viciously.
With decades of combat instinct, he instantly understood Vaughn's plan.
He ignored the bleeding wound entirely—
black mist began spreading from his body, hissing as it corroded the floor.
Vaughn aborted his close-quarters assault and slipped away, feather-light, like a drifting scrap of parchment.
At the same moment, Voldemort swept his wand, unleashing his own invisible blade—
but the moment it reached a meter out—
A translucent barrier swallowed it whole.
Full-Power Protego.
Dense, unshakable, with enormous magic resistance.
Voldemort's unknown hex didn't make it tremble even once.
The next heartbeat—
Vaughn Apparated silently behind him.
A spark ignited the air.
BOOM!
Harry and Hermione stared, dumbstruck, as an expanding fireball swallowed half the hall.
The ground erupted into a crater.
Voldemort flew out of the inferno, smoke trailing from his robes.
Even mid-air, the residue of Vaughn's spell—
a lingering curse—kept exploding on his clothes.
Each flash burst with snapping crackles.
"What spell is that?" Harry gasped.
Hermione swallowed.
"Confringo Maxima. It forces the target to keep exploding…"
Harry stared, dazzled.
He had never realized Vaughn was this strong—
nor had he realized Vaughn fought with such crushing aggression.
Once Vaughn gained momentum, he never allowed the enemy to breathe.
Relentless pressure, endless attacks.
(And Harry knew this well—by experience!)
Voldemort was blasted through the air—
But before he even hit the ground—
Vaughn's apparition-smoke flickered beside him.
A hand shot out—straight for Voldemort's arm.
"HSSSS—!"
Voldemort hissed.
The cloth of his sleeve twisted into venomous serpents, snapping at Vaughn's hand—
But Vaughn did not flinch.
He had to keep control of the tempo.
Even if it meant accepting injury.
The snakes bit deep—Vaughn's skin blackened instantly—
But he grabbed Voldemort's arm.
Space warped—
He forcibly pulled Voldemort into his Apparition!
The unstable spell crackled sharply—
Voldemort was ripped out of place and left behind—
And Vaughn reappeared ten feet away—
Holding a torn, blood-soaked arm.
White bone gleamed from the severed end.
Voldemort's arm.
"AAAAH—!"
A hoarse scream tore through the hall.
Pain overwhelmed his mind.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd been hurt like this.
Even Harry Potter had never caused this kind of pain.
A Killing Curse didn't hurt—it simply ended life.
But Voldemort did not lose control.
Fury and humiliation only sharpened the poison in his soul.
Black smoke poured from Quirrell's frail, damaged body—corroding stone, rusting iron, rotting air—
He forced the vessel to its absolute limits, cramming more magic into it.
Green light burst forth.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The Killing Curse.
Emerald brilliance flooded the black fog—
disintegrating it—
a serpent of lightning rushing forward—
"AH!"
The moment Harry saw the green light, a spike of agony seared his scar.
He collapsed with a scream.
Beside him, Hermione froze in pure terror.
Her limbs turned cold and numb.
Though the Killing Curse wasn't aimed at her—
though she stood far away—
though she had indirectly witnessed it once before—
This was different.
This time, she saw it directly.
That terrible green brilliance—
the snake of death—
the concept of ending turned into magic—
devastation, decay, silence, annihilation—
All woven into one impossible spell.
Even a glimpse made her soul shiver.
Time slowed.
Not metaphorically—
Hermione felt the change.
She saw Vaughn, facing the Killing Curse head-on—
gently turn the Time-Turner in his hand.
When had he snatched it from the dragon?
Tick.
Tick.
Every click stretched time further.
The ticking grew slower—
echoing through the frozen world—
Then—
Everything stopped.
If time halted, what would the world look like?
Hermione finally saw.
Everything became a painting—
realistic, immutable—
Even the light froze.
Fire, spelllight, ambient glow—
all solidified into multicolored, translucent crystals in mid-air, like suspended amber.
Only thought remained—
slow, but alive.
Hermione saw Vaughn moving—very slowly—
but moving nonetheless.
"He can still move…"
Her delayed thoughts bubbled up with relief.
Yes—
Vaughn could still act.
"Time…"
Vaughn studied the frozen lights,
the Killing Curse suspended only three feet from him.
Lethal, quick, inevitable—
yet now motionless.
In a normal duel, one couldn't dodge Avada Kedavra.
It was too fast, too final.
Nearly impossible to defend against.
But the Time-Turner experiment had worked.
At least within this painted world.
"Shame I can't use this outside," Vaughn murmured.
Time wasn't a substance; it wasn't an object.
It was the measure of motion.
To control time was to control everything.
Impossible in reality.
He reversed the Time-Turner.
His wand trembled slightly.
A silent Levitation Charm rippled through the cracks of the exploded floor—
time magnifying the propagation—
Pebbles floated—
rising like miniature stars—
gathering around Vaughn.
Time resumed.
BOOM—!
Sound and motion crashed back into existence.
The Killing Curse surged forward—
And Vaughn's wand tapped the clustered stones—
transfiguring them in an instant—
A herd of animals materialized—
wolves, boars, stags—
packed tightly in front of Vaughn—
The green light collided—
And Hermione heard them.
The death-wails.
Echoing, hollow, like cries from another plane.
The transfigured beasts collapsed—
their borrowed "life" extinguished—
crumbling to dust and stone—
But they had served their purpose.
They blocked the curse.
Voldemort narrowed his eyes—
shocked, but composed.
He had learned enough from their brief exchange.
Aggressive.
Relentless.
Dominant.
If Vaughn wasn't pinned down, he would always take back control of the tempo.
And as expected—
Vaughn vanished.
A crack behind Voldemort.
Prepared, the Dark Lord whipped a spell over his shoulder—
and simultaneously began Apparating again.
He no longer cared whether his spell hit.
His body was failing—
the Killing Curse had drained him—
and he was nearly at his limit.
The warped tunnel of apparition stretched before him.
He saw the blurred walls—
the distorted mirrors—
the slipping images—
And then he saw—
Harry Potter.
He understood instantly.
He couldn't win.
Not like this.
Not with this body.
His survival depended solely on resurrection—
and he needed to escape with the Philosopher's Stone.
Vaughn was the obstacle.
Harry was the leverage.
If he could just grab the boy—
He began phasing out of the apparition tunnel—
And then—
A pair of hands reached into the tunnel.
White, slender, strong hands.
Vaughn Weasley.
Voldemort's scalp prickled.
Vaughn was forcibly invading his apparition path—
Again.
In an instant, Vaughn's elongated apparition-distorted form squeezed inside the tunnel—
his calm eyes gleaming—
his hand closing around Voldemort's throat.
The same technique as before—
arrogant, wild—
Damn Weasley brat!
Their eyes locked—
Voldemort's face twisted with malice—
his rage fueling his magic—
Gray-white energy burst from him—
the tunnel collapsing—
He forced a corrupted apparition.
Space shattered.
Both screamed—
blood spraying freely.
A violent splitting.
But it was too late.
CRACK.
The warped dimensions imploded—
and two bodies tumbled out—
both drenched in blood.
Voldemort's red eyes locked on Vaughn—
at the wounds on Vaughn's chest and shoulder—
and at his unshaken, deep-still gaze.
And behind Vaughn—
Quirrell's headless corpse stumbled forward—
A body Voldemort had used only a second earlier.
It collapsed.
CLINK—CLINK—CLATTER.
A crimson gemstone rolled across the floor—
the Philosopher's Stone—
spinning until it stopped at Vaughn's boots.
Vaughn raised both hands—
and dropped something.
Voldemort's severed head bounced twice—
and came to rest before the Stone.
"Vaughn… Weasley…"
His lips twitched.
With no body, his voice was faint—
but he strained to speak.
His red eyes glowed dark and furious.
"I… will remember… you…"
"A privilege, Dark Lord," Vaughn said evenly.
His bleeding chest didn't shake his composure—
but his fingers trembled when he picked up the Stone.
From pain—
and from satisfaction.
Voldemort's eyes narrowed.
"You… think you've… defeated… me?"
"Of course not."
Vaughn inspected the Stone with a small smile.
"You're just a lingering soul.
Beating you isn't worth bragging about.
I'm only pleased that you aren't taking the Stone with you."
Voldemort stared—
then let out a broken laugh.
"…Then… until next time…"
Black smoke burst from the severed head—
forming a twisted screaming visage—
a soul being repelled from this place.
It writhed—howled—
and vanished into darkness.
Vaughn didn't try to stop it.
A soul in this state could not be contained.
One couldn't harm a shadow.
Even Dumbledore, if he wished to raise Harry differently, would have ended Voldemort long ago if it were possible.
Just as Vaughn had this thought—
A familiar, irritating voice echoed:
"My dear boy!
Magnificent magic, flawless tactics—you've just defeated the Dark Lord!"
Vaughn looked back.
Harry and Hermione had both fainted.
Dumbledore stood behind them, hands folded serenely over his stomach, beaming at him.
Vaughn sighed.
"I'm injured. Don't talk to me."
"Oh, nonsense! A little Splinching never hurt anyone."
"Want me to Splinch you and see?"
"Ahem. I'm over a hundred years old; I'd rather not.
Now then—how about returning the Stone?"
"Later. I'm injured."
"…Didn't I give you three drops of Fawkes' tears? One drop heals Splinching easily."
"They're for Hermione, Harry, and Ron."
"…So you want another drop?"
"I've lost so much blood I'm practically dying.
I don't think one drop is enough.
What do you think?"
"…."
…
Harry awoke from a nightmare.
A blurry ceiling hovered above him.
And a hoarse, oddly familiar voice asked:
"Harry? You feeling alright?"
He blinked.
"My glasses?"
A blurred figure fumbled and handed them to him.
As Harry put them on, the voice continued:
"I was worried, but Madam Pomfrey and Dumbledore said you're fine—just affected by everything. You fainted."
Harry blinked—then froze.
A massive… head filled his vision.
He leaned back, startled, and saw the body beneath it—
a familiar set of robes.
And suddenly, everything clicked.
"Ron!?"
Ron's enormous, sausage-lip mouth wobbled.
"Of course I'm not dead!
Though at the time, I thought I was.
Those traps were meant for Dark wizards after all!
I just woke up in the dragon's nest—right in front of a giant fire dragon—"
Ron rambled on, puffing and pouting with his swollen head.
Harry tried—really tried—
but finally burst into laughter.
Ron frowned.
"Why're you laughing?! I'm telling you something terrifying!"
"S-sorry… pfft… sorry, Ron… I just… can't believe it…"
He quickly redirected:
"So—so you saw the dragon before us?"
Ron brightened.
"Of course! I must've triggered some hidden condition in the chess trial—like noble self-sacrifice. Probably why it sent me straight to the dragon's nest."
Harry stifled another laugh.
"Then… you saw us?"
"Yeah! Tons of Muggle TVs everywhere.
You were chasing Quirrell, fighting through the castle—I watched all of it."
Harry tensed.
"Was… was anyone else there?"
"No."
Ron paused.
"But you're really asking about Vaughn and Dumbledore, right?"
Harry nodded.
Ron sighed.
"I think they were always there…
Dumbledore brought me out. Vaughn too.
He was injured."
Harry bolted upright.
"Vaughn was hurt?! How bad?!"
A calm voice answered from the doorway:
"Vaughn is fine, Harry.
How are you feeling?"
Dumbledore entered, radiant in white robes.
After sending Ron back to bed, he sat beside Harry.
Harry hesitated—
then whispered:
"Professor…
were you and Vaughn really there?
The whole time?
Watching me and Hermione…
while we fought Quirrell…
and Voldemort?"
Hermione had warned him—
Voldemort's words were a ploy.
But the question still ached inside him like a thorn.
Dumbledore met his gaze gently—
and nodded.
"Yes, Harry.
Vaughn and I were there the entire time."
"…When?"
"Five minutes after you and Quirrell entered the world."
Harry wasn't stupid.
He was impulsive, but sharp.
With that timing—
everything suddenly made sense.
Why the school never caught the black-robed man.
Why Snape could "lure away" Dumbledore and Vaughn.
Why he overheard Snape at such convenient moments.
It was all arranged.
All orchestrated.
Snape.
Dumbledore.
Vaughn.
They had planned everything.
Only he—
Harry Potter—
had thought he was saving the world.
He curled under the blanket.
"I should've known…
Too many coincidences.
Like Snape.
How could I conveniently overhear him talking to Quirrell… twice?"
He felt small.
Foolish.
Dumbledore sighed.
"Forgive me, Harry.
Vaughn opposed the plan from the start.
It was I who insisted.
I am sorry."
Harry didn't answer for a long time.
Finally:
"…I want to be alone."
Dumbledore left quietly.
He understood.
Anyone would feel betrayed after learning their grand adventure had been staged from the beginning.
He only hoped Harry would understand someday.
But as Dumbledore reached his office—
all melancholy vanished.
The weather was perfect.
A golden morning sun bathed the room.
Vaughn lay in the windowsill, fully bandaged, basking like a content cat.
"Vaughn, is the book close enough?"
"A bit farther…
Yes. Perfect."
"And some of my coffee?
An old headmaster portrait taught me the recipe. Supposedly wonderful."
"Mmm.
It is good. You try some too."
"Hehehe."
Dumbledore watched the two teenagers—
laughing, lounging in the sunlight—
and the light seemed so bright he almost had to squint.
Hermione spent the entire day with Vaughn.
The portraits adored her—especially the old witch headmistresses, thrilled to see a bright young witch instead of Dumbledore's "desert-dry face."
When Hermione finally had to leave—
the portraits groaned in disappointment.
"Come visit often, dear! We're bored to tears in here!"
"Yes! I've served six headmasters—old as mountains, all of them! I'd forgotten what youthful energy even looked like!"
Hermione blinked.
"Can't you visit the other portraits in the castle?"
They sighed.
"We swore oaths.
As former headmasters, we guard Hogwarts' secrets.
Without the current headmaster's leave, we cannot step beyond this room."
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