"Most of them?"
"Oh yes, child. There are always a few headmasters who were talentless fools. They had no secrets worth guarding."
The witch speaking wore a Baroque court gown, stately and extravagant.
She cast a very deliberate, contemptuous glance toward another portrait.
Hermione followed her gaze—
in that frame sat a gloomy, sharp-featured old wizard who looked eternally irritated.
She recognized him.
When she had followed Vaughn here earlier, that very old man had shouted Vaughn's name—only to be promptly pummeled by another portrait: a wizard with a beard dragging on the floor.
Phineas Nigellus Black.
The name wasn't unfamiliar.
Hogwarts: A History had mentioned him clearly—
calling him "the most incompetent headmaster in modern Hogwarts history."
His second claim to fame was that, during his tenure, he had "nurtured" Albus Dumbledore.
In comparison, the only modern headmaster who matched him in… notoriety…
was Armando Dippet—who "nurtured" none other than Tom Riddle.
Hermione's mind wandered.
After a final wave to Vaughn, she bid the portraits goodbye.
When the other portraits turned to her, none paid Phineas any attention—
so he quietly scuttled closer to Vaughn.
"Hey, Weasley boy!"
Vaughn gave him a single glance—and ignored him.
Phineas bristled, but he had a request, so he squeezed out a smile.
"Weasley—remember my offer? It still stands… oh—Dumbledore!"
Dumbledore stepped forward.
"Phineas, why don't you try letting go?"
As he spoke, he reached up and removed Phineas' portrait from the wall.
The old headmaster clung desperately to the edges of his frame.
"Dumbledore, please—let me finish! I no longer expect anyone to save that bastard—yes! He deserved what he got! But… but he's the last of the Black bloodline…"
Around them, portraits drifted closer, whispering as Phineas sobbed.
"If he dies… the Black family ends. A thousand years gone—dust!
By Merlin… are we cursed?
Dumbledore—Weasley—please, for the sake of an old man…
Is there any way to ensure the Black family leaves even one descendant?"
He choked on his own tears.
"My darkest magic tricking Weasley last time—it was wrong.
I'll apologize!
I'll even donate all remaining Black family magic to the school—just… just don't let our line go extinct!"
Portraits murmured sympathetically.
But Dumbledore did not waver.
A silent charm rolled from his fingers—
Phineas fell asleep mid-sob.
Dumbledore slid the frame under his arm.
One portrait hesitated.
"Dumbledore… perhaps—"
"No perhaps!"
Dumbledore flicked his wand—every portrait in the room dozed off at once.
His mood was clearly foul.
Noticing Vaughn's eyes, he paused—then explained quietly:
"Don't be swayed by Phineas' theatrics.
The last Black committed unforgivable crimes.
Azkaban is the only place he belongs.
He forfeited all right to anything else."
He refused even to speak the name.
But of course Vaughn knew.
"Sirius Black?"
(Vaughn quietly notes the name is a mistranslation but common enough to retain.)
Dumbledore's expression flickered.
"Where did you hear that?"
"After Phineas used black magic to lure me last time," Vaughn answered calmly,
"I looked up newspapers from ten years ago.
And I asked Mum and Dad.
He was James Potter's best friend—Harry's godfather."
Dumbledore's jaw tightened.
"Then you know how wicked he was."
"Well…" Vaughn nodded with perfect seriousness.
"As the Secret-Keeper of the Fidelius Charm, he betrayed the Potters to the Dark Lord.
And after Voldemort's fall, he murdered their other friend—Peter Pettigrew."
He recited with a steady face.
Dumbledore sighed—refusing to continue the subject.
Instead, he noticed Vaughn's bandages.
"Your wounds aren't healed yet?"
"No."
Vaughn loosened the wrappings.
In the amber glow of sunset, they saw it clearly:
The Splinching wounds across Vaughn's chest and shoulder—
left by Voldemort's forced Apparition—
still oozed blood.
A faint blackness clung to the edges, spiderwebbing across half his torso,
tracing a line back to the origin—
a tiny serpent bite on his right hand.
Dumbledore bent down to inspect.
A blue glow flickered behind his crescent-moon glasses.
After a long moment, he murmured:
"Tom's curse…"
"Mm. Troublesome."
Voldemort had cast it the instant Vaughn tore off his arm.
A curse from a master of the Dark Arts was never trivial.
But Vaughn wasn't worried.
The spell was cast hastily.
And as a master of potions, he could treat most dark-magic afflictions given time.
"Don't let anyone know," Vaughn said.
"Not even Hermione.
No need to make them worry."
Dumbledore nodded.
"But you should tell your Potions master.
Severus… is very capable when handling Tom's leftovers.
You know some of his past, don't you?"
There was a probing glint in his eyes.
Vaughn smiled.
"I'll tell him.
I'll also tell him I turned his idol Voldemort back into a floating shadow.
Hopefully he doesn't cry too hard."
…So he does know.
Dumbledore chuckled.
"Better yet—show him the recordings.
You installed quite a few cameras in that painted world.
Let Severus watch you ripping off Tom's arm… and his head.
Much clearer demonstration."
"You're cruel, Albus."
"My dear, so are you."
They traded jabs.
Dumbledore summoned several objects:
the Time-Turner, the Philosopher's Stone, and a scroll painting.
He slipped the Stone and Time-Turner into his robes,
and pushed the scroll toward Vaughn.
Vaughn blinked.
"What's this for?"
The scroll was the key—the body of the painted world.
Dumbledore explained:
"It's of no use to me now.
But you'll keep researching pocket worlds.
Materials capable of supporting an entire 'world' are… extremely rare.
Its creator spent decades gathering them."
Vaughn considered. Then took it.
"Thanks… though honestly, I'd rather have the Time-Turner."
"That's impossible, dear boy.
You're not of age.
Try again in third year—ask Minerva.
As for this one—well… I'll have to return it to the Department of Mysteries."
Dumbledore winked.
"With luck, they haven't noticed it's missing."
"You stole it?"
"How can you call it stealing?
Wizards don't steal. We borrow.
I simply forgot to inform Cornelius Fudge!"
"Shameless."
Vaughn's eyes slid to the bulging pouch in Dumbledore's robes.
"And the Stone?"
"That must be returned to Nicolas.
I only borrowed it."
"And then?
What will Nicolas Flamel do with it?"
Dumbledore hesitated, then answered honestly:
"He'll destroy it.
Gold and immortality only breed desire.
He's been in hiding for two centuries because of it.
He never dared pass on the method."
"And you wouldn't learn it either?
Didn't you two work together for decades?"
"Of course not.
He wouldn't teach, and I would not learn.
The Stone violates the natural order."
Vaughn frowned.
He understood—yet it pained him.
"The Stone represents the pinnacle of the Golden Soul theory.
A miracle of alchemy.
If it's destroyed, doesn't the knowledge vanish too?"
He didn't care about immortality or gold.
He cared about the theory.
A foundation he knew he could not continue on his own path.
His views diverged from Golden Soul philosophy entirely.
To Vaughn, there was no "Cosmic Soul."
No perfection.
No incompleteness.
Matter was simply matter—
manifesting differently across scales and dimensions.
He wasn't arrogant enough to claim absolute correctness.
He needed other theories.
Other knowledge.
Losing the Stone would be losing a path.
Dumbledore heard the sincerity behind his words.
He trusted Vaughn's thirst for knowledge.
And that made him waver.
Finally—
"…I'll speak to Nicolas.
Tell him your thoughts."
Vaughn smiled.
"Or you could just give me his address, and I'll visit him myself."
Dumbledore pretended not to hear.
Dangerous.
Too dangerous.
This was a boy who ripped Voldemort's head off bare-handed.
After a bit more conversation, Dumbledore hurried off to return the Time-Turner and greet the Ilvermorny representative.
Before leaving, he said:
"Vaughn—go see Harry when you can.
He's upset about our… secrecy.
He trusts you more than me."
"Alright.
Anything I shouldn't tell him?"
The truth should help a child seeking truth—
but some truths were premature.
"Decide for yourself," Dumbledore said softly.
And he left.
…
Vaughn didn't go to Harry immediately.
Instead he lit the lamps, sat at the headmaster's desk,
and began writing.
"Temporal Folding."
The quill scratched rapidly across the notebook.
"…The backward flow of time in the painted world indirectly proves that a timeline can be altered at its origin.
Invoking Novikov's self-consistency principle, one can assume that 'reality' is already the altered line…"
"…If a timeline folds like a loop, then a time traveler merely moves around the loop and returns to the present unchanged…"
But how does the loop form?
What ensures a traveler falls into it?
Vaughn wrote two words:
Node
Reflex
"If the timeline is a rope, nodes are knots—remnants left by observers who collapsed previous branches.
But this implies countless observers, countless knots.
Impossible."
"So perhaps time has a reflex—
Any temporal bubble leaving the present falls into the loop…"
He paused.
Then wrote one word, heavy and dark:
Fate
Only Fate fit the concept.
His mind drifted to Dumbledore's earlier words.
Fate revealed outcomes—
never the process.
Harry and Voldemort:
one must die.
But which one?
Ambiguous.
And what of himself?
Vaughn Weasley—
a variable that shouldn't exist in the original universe.
"My existence contradicts a fixed timeline…"
If a fixed line suddenly birthed an impossible variable—
the timeline should collapse.
He wrote:
Timeline Collapse
Observer
Then stared at the word Observer—
And wiped it away.
…
Harry lay curled in the hospital bed all day.
Students visited; Hagrid too.
But he refused to see them.
Rumors spread—
that he and Ron had contracted some horrific magical-creature-dung disease.
Ron nearly exploded, then fainted after a force-fed potion.
By nightfall, Harry still hadn't eaten, slept, or spoken.
When the door cracked open and footsteps approached, he snapped:
"I said I'm not hungry—"
He turned—
And froze.
Vaughn stood in the moonlight.
Taller than last year.
Sharper features.
Bandages soaked faintly red.
Harry scrambled upright.
"I—I thought it was Ron…"
He stared at the bloodied wrappings.
"Your wounds… Dumbledore said you were fine…"
"That old man exaggerates," Vaughn smiled.
"It's troublesome, but manageable.
Come on. Walk with me."
"…Okay."
They left the castle.
Moonlight shimmered across the black lake.
Harry followed hesitantly, waiting for Vaughn to speak—
but Vaughn remained quiet, thoughts elsewhere.
Finally Harry blurted:
"Vaughn… Ron said you defeated You-Know—
I mean, Voldemort?"
Vaughn snapped back to reality.
"Two things," he said.
"One: don't casually say his name.
It's cursed.
Safe for now, but if he revives, speaking it marks you."
Harry swallowed.
"I—I'll remember."
"So.
Did I defeat him?
More or less.
You won't see him again anytime soon—
unless he finds another idiot to possess."
"You mean… he isn't dead?"
Harry recalled the nightmare sight of Voldemort's severed head.
Surely that was death?
Vaughn chuckled.
"Quirrell died.
Voldemort didn't.
You can't kill someone who isn't alive.
He just reverted to the pathetic shadow he used to be."
Harry nodded slowly.
Then—
He asked the question that had eaten at him all day:
"You and Dumbledore…
why did you lie to me?"
Vaughn answered without hesitation.
"That was Dumbledore's decision.
He wanted to test you.
I disagreed."
"Why test me?
Is it because of the prophecy?
What does it actually mean?"
Vaughn stopped walking.
Stared at him.
Then shook his head.
"You're not ready for that answer."
Harry's temper rose.
"When will I be ready?
When I'm older?
When someone else dies?
Why won't anyone tell me anything?!"
He expected another cryptic non-answer.
Vaughn instead replied plainly:
"When you're as strong as I am now."
Harry:
"…That's impossible."
He had watched Vaughn duel Voldemort.
It was like watching two forces of nature collide.
Apparition like lightning.
Explosions tearing apart stone.
Transfiguration that countered the Killing Curse.
Harry couldn't do that in a hundred years.
Vaughn raised an eyebrow.
"You've never tried.
How do you know?"
Harry froze.
"Only mediocre people," Vaughn continued,
"deny themselves before they begin.
You're not mediocre."
Harry swallowed.
"And the day you reach my level…
I'll tell you everything."
A spark ignited in Harry's chest.
"So… what can you tell me now?"
"Plenty.
Like why Voldemort died eleven years ago.
Snape's role between you and him.
Your mother's protection.
Your confusion has many parts."
He added gently:
"There's no malice in not telling you everything.
Only concern.
You're not ready yet."
Harry's shoulders eased—
as though a knot inside him had loosened.
"…I understand."
"Good.
So—what first?"
Harry thought.
Then asked softly:
"Why was I able to kill Voldemort that night?"
"Because your mother cast a protection spell.
Her name was Lily Evans.
Remember it well, Harry."
Their voices drifted into the night breeze—
mingling with moonlight on the lake.
…
By dawn, Harry had barely slept—
but he had repeated everything to Ron.
Ron, half-asleep, bolted upright in horror.
"Merlin's pants—
so the Dark Lord was with us all year?!
Every time Quirrell turned to write on the board…
You-Know-Who was staring at us from behind the turban?!"
His face went ghost-white.
Neville, half awake, made a choking sound—
and fainted.
(Probably for the best Dean and Seamus were still snoring.)
Shaken, Ron let Harry drag him outside for fresh air.
He trembled.
"So… Vaughn really dealt with him?"
"Pretty much.
He said Voldemort's a shadow again."
"A… shadow?
He's not dead?!"
Harry hurriedly relayed everything Vaughn had said.
Ron did not look reassured.
"But… he'll revive someday…"
Ron suddenly recalled all the times he had heckled Quirrell in class—
all the chalk he threw at him—
the insults—
the mishaps in the fairy-tale town—
the lightning strikes—
the fire-dragon breath—
He saw his future flash before his eyes—
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