Being captured by a resurrected Voldemort… tortured in every imaginable way…
A fate worse than death!
Ron trembled violently at the thought.
Harry could only feel helpless at his friend's fear.
Who could possibly have guessed that meek, bullied Quirrell had been the Dark Lord himself?
He continued recounting everything Vaughn had told him:
"…Also, we really did misunderstand Snape.
Professor Snape…"
"You're calling that old bat professor?"
Ron's fear evaporated instantly.
His eyes bulged.
"Did Vaughn put you under the Imperius Curse?!"
Harry rolled his eyes.
He looked up at the bright blue sky above the castle towers, recalling Vaughn's explanation of Snape and Lily Evans.
He sighed softly.
"Snape is a pitiful man, Ron…"
"Oh please. You pity a viper—
the viper sure won't pity you.
Maybe he has a tragic backstory, maybe he suffers terribly…
but that doesn't change the fact that he hates you, Harry.
I've said it for ages—he'd be thrilled if you dropped dead!"
Harry didn't argue.
In Vaughn's telling, he had seen a man who loved deeply, hopelessly, heartbreakingly.
A man with regrets carved into his bones.
Even if Vaughn had said Snape's hatred for Harry came mainly from James Potter…
Harry still couldn't bring himself to hate Snape—
Because Snape had loved Lily Evans with devotion bordering on worship.
And Harry loved his mother.
He longed to know every part of her life.
So how could he hate someone who had loved her so fiercely?
If that wasn't some strange form of love-by-proxy, what was?
But reality proved Ron's instincts—or "prophecy"—about Snape were frighteningly accurate.
That afternoon, during Potions—
The moment class began, the still-distracted Harry was targeted immediately.
"Ah—Harry—Potter.
Our world-famous savior—"
Snape drifted through the cold dungeon like a bat-shaped ghost.
His black robes billowed with icy drafts.
He lifted his chin and glided directly to Harry's desk, looming over him.
"I see you've decided to daydream.
Tell me, what earth-shattering, mind-blowing issue is occupying your thoughts?"
Normally Harry would have bristled, snapped back, and lost Gryffindor points.
But today… he thought maybe Snape and he could coexist peacefully.
So he stood politely and began,
"Sorry, professor. I just got distracted—"
He was promptly cut off.
"Ohhh… the great Potter daydreaming in my class," Snape drawled.
Then he didn't even look at Harry—
he turned theatrically to Malfoy behind him.
"Mr. Malfoy, do tell me—
is my lecture too dull, or has the mighty Savior already mastered all of Potions and no longer requires my instruction?"
Malfoy snickered on cue.
"Maybe Potter already knows everything, professor.
He could probably get top marks without listening at all."
"That's not it, professor—"
Harry's protest drowned beneath Snape's elongated tones.
"Excellennnnt."
Snape leaned down, voice silky and cold.
"Then let us test your brilliance…
Po-tter."
His gaze slid to Ron—
who was desperately shrinking into his seat, wishing he could vanish under the desk.
Snape smirked.
"Tsk tsk… Ron Weasley.
I hear you were humiliated by a dragon, buried in its dung, and became so poisoned you swelled up like a pumpkin.
Potter—what potion produces a similar effect?"
Ron flushed crimson under the snickers from Slytherin.
Harry stared blankly.
"I—I don't know, professor…"
Hermione's hand shot up.
Snape ignored her completely.
"It is the Swelling Solution."
He stalked forward until his tall shadow consumed Harry's entire desk.
"And what are its ingredients?"
"Uh—"
"They are bat spleens, dried nettles, and puffer-fish eyes."
Snape's cold, expressionless face curled into a faint sneer.
"Tsk tsk… It seems Mr. Potter hasn't learned much.
But he does possess the arrogance befitting a Savior."
"After all—
the boy-who-vanquished-the-Dark-Lord must surely deserve special treatment.
Even if his actual ability does not quite match the legend… hmm?"
Harry didn't remember leaving the Potions classroom.
When he came to his senses, he was halfway to the Great Hall with Ron muttering beside him:
"…I told you Snape was hopeless.
You shouldn't have expectations, Harry.
Vaughn trusts him only because he's a Slytherin—Snape naturally likes him.
Half of what Vaughn says about him can't be taken seriously…"
Harry smiled bitterly.
He couldn't fully disagree.
But he still tried defending Snape.
"Maybe his hatred is too deep. Vaughn said my dad bullied him…"
"Vaughn also said Snape called your mum a Mudblood!
Harry, stop projecting your feelings for your parents onto someone who lived in their time.
He hates you.
Our relationship with him should stay exactly as it is—
annoying professor, misbehaving students.
After we graduate we never speak again. Perfect!"
Ron sounded unusually wise and emotionally intelligent—
—until a passing first-year Slytherin chirped:
"Hey, Weasley!
Professor said you were humiliated by a dragon and buried in dragon dung.
Is that true?"
Ron exploded.
"That—that was a dragon!"
"Ohhh—so it's TRUE?"
"SLANDER! SLANDER!"
The boy ran off laughing.
Harry added innocently:
"Actually, Ron, I never asked—what did happen with that dragon to make you swell up like that?"
Ron sputtered.
"N-nothing! It was a dragon! What was I supposed to do—die heroically?!"
Harry couldn't help laughing.
His mood lifted.
Eventually Ron grumbled:
"It's all Vaughn's fault sending me there.
Do you know who that dragon was?"
"I do. Norberta."
Harry had recognized her instantly during the time-reversed sequence.
Ron groaned.
"I bet Vaughn and Dumbledore planned this test ages ago.
Remember how we teased Norberta and Vaughn pretended to stop us?
I bet he was already planning revenge!"
"Maybe…" Harry shrugged.
"But I'm more curious—what's he going to do with Norberta?"
Ron paled.
"Probably send her to Romania now that the trial's over…"
"Gaaah!"
In Vaughn's Slytherin dormitory, baby Norberta shrieked as Fudge-Tea—Vaughn's massive cat—turned its head curiously.
The giant feline leaped up lightly, planted a heavy paw on the tiny dragon's head, and patted.
"Hissss—"
Norberta puffed up, throat swelling—flames gathering—
A second later her head was pinned to the table.
The fire died in her throat.
"Meow~"
Fudge-Tea purred smugly.
Poor Norberta wriggled helplessly.
Her body had reverted to newborn size—weak, defenseless—
a dragon bullied by a cat.
"Alright, Fudge-Tea, stop bullying her~!"
Hermione scooped up the big cat and rubbed her cheek against its fur.
Fudge-Tea looked betrayed.
Norberta staggered to Vaughn's feet and scrambled into his arms.
Vile lizard!
Foolish clingy witch!
Hermione ignored the cat's contempt and turned to Vaughn.
"So… what are you going to do with her?"
Vaughn blinked back from deep thought.
"Norberta?
Not sure yet.
I plan to go to Romania this summer."
He glanced down.
The baby dragon clung to him anxiously, as if terrified he'd abandon her.
Dragons were intelligent—far more than most magical beasts.
Their massive bodies supported massive brains; they were social creatures with layered structures—family groups, communities, regions.
The problem wasn't placement.
It was his system mission:
Side Quest ③: Research the magic of all dragon species; uncover their underlying principles.
Progress: 0/10
Reward: Magic Capacity +100, Spell Development Module
After the ordeal of the test and his experiments, Vaughn finally had time to plan the summer.
He began listing priorities—
realizing that with his rising power and influence, he had more and more to handle personally.
First: the development of the Werewolf Affairs Committee (WAC).
In late July, WAC would hold its first full assembly.
They'd elect leadership.
Vaughn intended to run for Chairman.
He hadn't built WAC to hand it off to anyone.
He gave Dumbledore half the seats to keep Fudge out, not to surrender control.
He didn't care for power—
but his goals required power.
Next: the system mission.
He wanted the Spell Development Module desperately—
more than the magic increase.
The deeper he studied magic, the clearer the gap became between his thinking and the wizarding world's.
Muggle-born witches and wizards entered Hogwarts at 11—
by the time they graduated, they thought exactly like magical folk.
Innovation stalled.
Even Potions relied on tradition.
Magical research lacked tools.
Wizards still eyeballed ingredients instead of analyzing them with instruments.
He needed spell-tools.
Observation spells.
Analytical spells.
The Module would shortcut years of work.
Which was why Norberta's fate was complicated—
dragons were nearly impossible to acquire.
Norberta might be his only specimen.
The little dragon suddenly shivered.
Vaughn continued outlining:
• Rescue Isabella in North America
• Develop Wolfsbane 2.0
• Plan WAC's growth
• And more…
His ambitions stretched outward—
even to destabilizing the Galleon economy with Muggle gold.
"The wizarding world has been sealed too long," Vaughn muttered.
"Prosperity made them complacent."
He stared at the goals he'd written.
"…I feel evil."
He banished the thought.
Vaughn resurfaced from his mental archive.
Hermione was playing with Norberta; Fudge-Tea sulked nearby.
"You finished thinking?" she asked cheerfully.
"Yes. I've outlined plans for summer."
Hermione's eyes brightened.
"Summer plans?"
She flushed shyly.
"A-and… about what you said—that I could bring Mum and Dad to the Burrow to stay… have you thought about when?"
Ah.
Vaughn had completely forgotten.
Even perfect memory couldn't prevent human prioritization errors.
He dove instantly into his mental archive and added:
Invite the Granger family to the Burrow.
He returned less than a second later.
"Of course.
I'll pick you up at the start of summer."
"Will it interfere with your important work?" she asked sweetly.
"I read in the newspaper that Ilvermorny invited you to North America—"
"Summer's long. That can wait."
He moved "Invite Grangers" above "North America."
"And the Werewolf Committee? Their first meeting is soon…"
He moved it higher.
Then higher again.
Finally—top of the list.
"No problem. The werewolves trust me.
I'll have plenty of time to spend with you."
Hermione beamed—
then immediately opened her bag.
"Then let's start revising!
Exams are in less than a month!"
Vaughn: "…Okay…"
Time flew.
June arrived.
Charms, Transfiguration, and Potions all held full mock exams.
Harry, Ron, Neville, and Seamus were horrified by their results.
Ron clutched three parchments—marked A, P, and D—
and wailed:
"Merlin's beard—what have we been DOING?!"
Seamus, who could blow up anything, even got a T in both Charms and Transfiguration—the lowest possible grade.
Neville trembled.
"I…I did pay attention…"
Harry felt a cold dread settle in.
Three more weeks.
Then he pictured it—
Harry Potter, the Boy Who Failed First Year.
Even Marcus Flint hadn't unlocked that achievement.
He was suddenly grateful Dumbledore had forbidden them from talking about the painted world.
Otherwise he'd have gotten nothing done.
"No more drifting," Harry said solemnly.
"We need Hermione, Ron. She's our only hope."
Ron nodded miserably.
"But she's always with Vaughn—helping treat his wounds."
"Vaughn's still injured?"
"Almost healed…"
"This is the final dose."
Snape's icy voice froze the entire Potions office.
Even his expression seemed cold enough to frost the walls.
Hermione accepted the potion politely.
"Thank you, professor."
Snape twitched irritably as she helped Vaughn unwrap his bandages.
"How much does that hurt?"
"Oh Merlin, that looks awful—"
Her gentle concern—
the soft gasps—
the way she leaned close—
Snape's face grew darker by the second.
His dungeon sanctuary now smelled faintly of something he despised—
Young love.
Hermione applied half the potion to the wound and fed Vaughn the other half.
A week of effort had lightened the curse's black, spiderweb-like marks—
but the wound still resisted healing.
As Vaughn swallowed the final draught, he exhaled deeply.
Relief washed through him.
He looked down—
The black webbing around the wound faded rapidly.
Wisps of dark vapor seeped from the small serpent bite on his hand.
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