According to Vaughn's earlier explanation, WAC could use its supply of Muggle money to purchase gold from the Muggle world, then sell that gold to the goblins of Gringotts for Galleons.
But after several months living in the Muggle world—and diligently reading the newspaper every morning—Remus Lupin no longer thought the plan was very realistic.
"You're still trying to buy gold from Muggles?" Lupin frowned.
"Vaughn, it won't work.
You and Dumbledore lent WAC only half a million pounds.
How much gold can that possibly buy?
And once it runs out—what then?"
WAC already owed over thirty thousand Galleons.
Lupin didn't want more debt piling up.
He feared that someday, in desperation, WAC would be forced to sell out werewolf interests.
He remained in WAC for one reason only—
to serve as a nail in the structure, preventing it from turning into someone's personal weapon.
At the subtle warning in Lupin's voice, Vaughn only smiled.
"Remus, it seems you didn't learn very much of value in Muggle society."
"…Meaning?"
Vaughn didn't answer.
He simply patted Lupin's shoulder.
"Come along, Moony. I'll take you somewhere."
"Please stop calling me Moony…" Lupin muttered. "No one's used that nickname in years."
"Of course, Moony."
"…Are you even listening to me?"
Still grumbling, Lupin stood up.
He watched Vaughn ignite the fireplace with a flick of his wand, and—trying to sound casual—asked:
"By the way, how do you know that nickname?
Only a few people ever used it, only—"
"Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs?"
Lupin fell silent.
His expression turned distant.
The three nicknames echoed in his mind like brittle, yellowed photographs—
memories so old they had begun to distort like static on a Muggle television screen.
Once, those names were laughter.
Now they were ghosts.
After a moment, Lupin steadied himself.
"So you found something at Hogwarts, then?
Some prank item we left behind?"
He remembered that in their final year, the Marauders had hidden a prank device in Hogwarts—hoping some future mischief-maker would inherit their legacy.
Their nicknames had been recorded in that object.
But the item hadn't included their true identities.
Had Snape told Vaughn?
Snape was the only person who might know both the nicknames and be close to Vaughn…
Lupin's thoughts spiraled.
Vaughn only smiled.
"If you want the answer, why not return to Hogwarts and check for yourself?"
Lupin looked away.
He didn't dare return.
Not yet.
Not while he was still there—
the one person Lupin still lacked the courage to face.
Seeing the Floo powder ready, Lupin quickly changed the subject.
"Where are we going?"
Vaughn tossed in the powder.
Green flames roared upward.
"Diagon Alley."
The last time Lupin visited Diagon Alley had been six months ago, during the werewolves' protest march.
Compared to the ever-changing Muggle world, the wizarding world was utterly static.
Months—or years—passed without the slightest change.
The crooked shops, the uneven streets—
Exactly the same as the day a small, frightened boy had followed Professor McGonagall here for the first time.
Exiting the public Floo, Lupin looked around at the sparse crowds.
Diagon Alley was only busy before school terms.
With only a few tens of thousands of wizards spread across all of Britain, few adults ever traveled far for shopping.
Feeling the thin, chilly atmosphere, Lupin sighed.
"Muggle cities feel so much more… alive.
The wizarding world feels desolate by comparison."
He had never noticed the contrast before.
Only after six months living shoulder-to-shoulder with Muggles did the difference become so stark.
"Because nothing ever changes."
Vaughn walked beside him, looking around with boredom.
"England's wizarding world is a stagnant swamp.
No growth, no flow.
Everyone here is like bacteria feeding on dead water.
How active do you expect them to be?"
Lupin glanced at him.
Vaughn's dissatisfaction with the magical world was… intense.
It worried Lupin.
But he didn't know what to say.
They entered the Leaky Cauldron.
The dim, cramped pub held only a few customers.
Tom the barman wiped eternally grimy glasses with an eternally grimy cloth.
Seeing Vaughn, Tom brightened.
"Mr. Weasley—welcome back!"
"Evening, Tom.
Is my guest here?"
"Arrived and waiting in your private room, sir—enjoying our finest dishes!
What may I get for you today?"
Vaughn waved a hand.
"Nothing for me.
Ask Remus."
Lupin didn't mind the dirt or gloom.
"Firewhisky, please."
"Right away!
Remus Lupin, isn't it?
Haven't seen you in years, lad!"
Lupin forced a polite smile.
"Lad" was not something he had been called in a long time.
Tom led them upstairs, bowing repeatedly.
"Your room is just ahead, gentlemen! Your drink will be right up!"
As Tom left, Lupin muttered:
"I don't remember him being this… sycophantic."
"That's the charm of Galleons, dear Remus.
Keep a suite reserved year-round and you'll see the same treatment."
"Wait—you rented a suite here?!"
"Yes.
For your future team."
Before Lupin could digest that, Vaughn pushed open the door.
Inside—thanks to an Undetectable Extension Charm—the room was wide, bright, and luxurious, utterly inconsistent with the decrepit pub outside.
A dozen people stood or sat within.
Lupin instantly recognized three—
• Barnard (the London district head)
• James Brown (the werewolf wizard)
• William White (the Liverpool district head)
These were the core veterans of WAC—
the werewolves closest to Vaughn.
Especially Barnard.
The moment the door opened, Barnard rushed forward, threw himself at Vaughn's feet, and kissed the hem of his robes.
"My respects to you, sir!"
Lupin didn't like Barnard—
not because of the bowing and robe-kissing.
That behavior was common among werewolves grateful to Vaughn.
He disliked Barnard because the young werewolf was… fanatical.
He worshipped Vaughn blindly.
Vaughn's every word was holy scripture.
Rumor said Barnard had the London pack reciting Vaughn's letters daily—
—ridiculous.
And Barnard disliked Lupin equally, believing Lupin insufficiently reverent toward Vaughn.
As Barnard rose, shooting Lupin a hidden glare, Lupin ignored him and scanned the room.
Eleven strangers remained.
With a whispered spell, Lupin saw their auras.
No magic.
Muggles.
His heart clenched.
He looked instinctively at William White.
If any district leader was competent and trustworthy, it was White—
once a rising star in Muggle high society before lycanthropy ruined his life.
White, with his sharp mind and professional experience, was the natural administrator for Liverpool—the most important region in England's old industrial network.
Lupin hoped for an explanation.
But William White only smiled gently and bowed to Vaughn.
"Good evening, sir.
As instructed, I brought the guests.
They all have extensive experience and resources in the precious metals industry."
He gestured for Vaughn to approach.
The eleven well-dressed Muggles looked confused.
Barnard's robe-kissing, Vaughn's youth—it was all unsettling.
A middle-aged man with a cane finally asked, frowning:
"Mr. White…
This is your employer?
This child?"
White's smile didn't waver.
"Yes, Mr. Nye.
This is my employer—Mr. Vaughn Weasley."
"Ridiculous."
"Absurd! I didn't come here to play children's games!"
"White, this is an insult!"
Mr. Nye grabbed his coat.
"I agreed to come only out of respect for your past career.
But this—this is humiliation—"
He didn't get the chance to leave.
Vaughn stepped calmly before him.
Drew a wand.
Behind Vaughn, Lupin blurted—
"Vaughn—don't—!"
But it was too late.
Light swallowed the room.
Lupin had always known Vaughn was unconventional.
But not like this.
Never had he imagined Vaughn would cast memory magic—
on eleven Muggles—
right in front of him.
The silver-grey mist flowed from Vaughn's wand, enveloping the Muggles.
Their expressions shifted—
shock
fear
confusion—
Then softened.
Smiling.
Joyful.
Enthusiastic.
"Mr. Weasley, we reviewed your documents.
Your monetary system is shockingly primitive—unchanged for centuries!"
"Yes, arbitrage is entirely feasible.
We have ample gold, silver, and copper available.
Naturally, we must verify the purity of your coinage…"
Within seconds, negotiations that should have taken hours leapt straight to completion.
Lupin stared, horrified.
Watched Vaughn hand over a Galleon, a Sickle, and a Knut.
Watched the Muggles take out measuring tools with cheerful eagerness.
His mind spun.
Remus Lupin was a good man.
A rule-follower.
A believer in justice, order, and fairness.
He had followed Dumbledore's strict instructions during school,
endured monthly transformation alone in the Shrieking Shack,
fought for the Order of the Phoenix,
refused to join Voldemort despite the opportunities Lycans had under the Dark Lord.
He had never abused magic on Muggles.
And now—
before his eyes—
Vaughn had shattered the Statute of Secrecy
and rewritten eleven people's minds.
His hand trembled around his wand.
"Remus!"
A thin, callused hand grabbed his wrist.
James Brown.
The werewolf wizard shook his head discreetly.
Following James's gaze, Lupin realized—
Barnard and William White were both watching him.
Waiting.
Waiting for him to make a mistake.
Waiting to pounce.
A cold chill swept Lupin's spine.
He wasn't afraid of Barnard or White.
But he was stunned by the human nature revealed here.
He had always believed the werewolves WAC gathered were inherently good—
outcasts who chose exile rather than prey on others.
But even good people—
here and now—
stood silently as Vaughn violated international law
and manipulated Muggles like puppets.
Not one protested.
They watched him instead.
Watched to see if he would lash out.
Watched to see if he would challenge Vaughn.
He felt hollow.
Had he been naïve all along?
His wand hand lowered.
And just then, Vaughn turned around—
smiling casually.
"Remus, come here.
Meet your future team.
Barnard, James—you too."
Lupin stared at Vaughn.
Had he noticed anything?
Had he orchestrated everything?
He recalled their earlier encounter—
Vaughn appearing in his home unannounced.
Breaking his Shield Charm with a flick.
Pinning him to the wall with sheer magical force.
It had been a warning.
A demonstration.
A reminder:
Know your place.
Stay calm.
Do nothing foolish.
The realization depressed him.
James gently tugged his arm.
Lupin walked forward numbly.
Vaughn said pleasantly:
"Do you know about Muggle arbitrage?"
Barnard practically snapped to attention.
"I'm sorry, sir!
I self-studied Muggle knowledge but not that part!
I've disappointed you!"
Vaughn smiled indulgently.
"No need to apologize.
Nobody knows everything.
That's why we hired these experts.
Mr. Nye—please explain."
Nye bowed.
"My pleasure, Mr. Weasley."
His warm smile bore no trace of earlier outrage.
"Arbitrage, simply put, is the practice of exploiting price differences between markets for profit."
He lifted the Galleon and Sickle.
"Your monetary system is… charmingly archaic.
No credit component, pure metal value.
Gold and silver coins contain the exact market value of their metals."
"Seventeen Sickles per Galleon—
that's your gold-to-silver ratio."
He eyed the werewolves.
"Seventeen to one.
Correct?"
They nodded.
Nye pressed on:
"So if we buy silver cheaply in the Muggle world,
bring it to Gringotts,
and exchange it for Sickles—
we profit."
Lupin added reluctantly:
"You'll need to pay a minting tax.
Fifteen percent.
Goblins are… greedy."
Nye laughed sharply.
"Greed is good, Mr. Lupin.
From an arbitrage standpoint, we like greed.
Because your gold-silver ratio is 17:1.
But in the Muggle world…
our gold-silver ratio is—guess?"
He didn't wait.
"Eighty to one!"
Barnard, James, and Lupin all froze.
Eighty to one.
Not seventeen.
Eighty.
"Gentlemen," Nye said eagerly,
"with one Galleon's worth of gold,
we can purchase eighty Sickles' worth of silver in the Muggle world.
Bring that silver here.
Exchange it for Galleons.
Return to the Muggle world.
Buy more silver.
Repeat.
Within a week,
we could empty Gringotts of its gold supply!"
The werewolves were stunned speechless.
Meanwhile, Vaughn stepped out with William White.
White, being well-educated, understood arbitrage perfectly.
But even he had been shocked when he first learned Vaughn's plan.
"Sir," he said quietly,
"have you considered that the goblins might eventually realize the loophole…
and restrict exchanges?"
Vaughn chuckled.
"Do you think goblins can restrain their love of precious metals?"
"…Fair point."
Goblins loved gold more than magic.
More than weapons.
More than peace.
"Even if they notice," Vaughn said,
"they'll demand a share—
not shut it down.
And whether they get that share…"
He shrugged.
"Depends on their attitude.
If they're reasonable, we'll give them a taste.
If not…
well, according to the Statute of Secrecy,
non-human magical beings are forbidden from dealing with Muggles.
So the metal trade belongs to wizards alone."
Arbitrage was simple.
Success depended on access and resources.
Muggle connections?
Vaughn could forge those instantly—with memory magic.
Wizarding connections?
He already had fame and a Wizengamot seat.
And if goblins caused trouble—
well, there was always Dumbledore.
Far away in Devon, Dumbledore suddenly sneezed violently.
The frail old man beside him jumped in fright—
and a sickening crack came from his brittle bones.
"Aah—Merlin's beard—!"
"Oh dear—sorry, Nicolas.
I may be coming down with something.
Are you alright?
Let me see—"
CRACK.
"Ah… my arm… my arm is broken again…"
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