Dumbledore's thoughts drifted back from memory. His clear blue eyes settled on Waughn, calm and steady.
"So," the Headmaster asked softly, "why propose this bargain now?"
Waughn spread his hands. "I said it before—we're partners. I think it's time you learned a few things. That's all."
Dumbledore arched a brow. "Very well. What is it you want in return?"
"I want dragons."
"…Dragons?"
That clearly wasn't what he expected. He had imagined Waughn demanding alchemical secrets, or assistance from Nicolas Flamel—not this.
"Yes. Ten different species." Waughn scratched his hair, frowning. "I need them for experimentation, but as you know, every dragon reserve in the world is under tight Ministry supervision. Even when one escapes the market, it's nearly impossible to gather ten species."
He sighed. "So I'm out of options. I can only come to you. Well? What do you say?"
Dumbledore opened his mouth—then closed it again.
After a moment, he sighed. "That request places me in a very difficult position…"
Waughn gave him a thin, mocking smile. "Oh, spare me. For anyone else, maybe. But you're Albus Dumbledore, one of the developers of the Twelve Uses of Dragon's Blood. If you announced you were researching the thirteenth, every Ministry would line up to send you live dragons themselves."
And that was why Waughn wanted to deal with him.
Dumbledore smiled again. "It would greatly strain my reputation. At my age, reputation is all I have left—"
"Trade is voluntary, Albus."
Waughn cut him off. "I'm only trying to save time."
His voice echoed through the quiet office.
Dumbledore fell silent for a long moment. Then he said, "Reviving Tom requires Tom's consent. And you know how cautious he is. He wandered Albania for eleven years rather than seek help from his Death Eaters."
"Because they betrayed him," Waughn said simply. "Aside from those locked in Azkaban, every Death Eater still free is a traitor. Why would he trust them?"
"Then what is your plan?" Dumbledore asked sharply. "Free the madmen rotting in Azkaban? I will not allow it—and neither will the Ministry."
The air turned heavy.
Dumbledore had considered that option once. And dismissed it.
Those Death Eaters were too dangerous—inhuman, murderous. Releasing them would endanger both wizards and Muggles.
He stared at Waughn. "Or do you intend to use Barty Crouch Jr.? I forbid that as well. And so does his father."
Clever as he was, Dumbledore had immediately enumerated Waughn's possible choices.
But even geniuses faltered before missing information.
Waughn merely shrugged. "Neither Azkaban nor Barty Jr. I intend to use someone else—someone Tom actually trusted." He emphasized the word deliberately. "And I think you've wondered for a long time—how do I know so many secrets?"
Dumbledore's eyes gleamed. "You've caught a Death Eater who escaped justice?"
"Exactly."
Behind the shield of his full-level Occlumency, Waughn pictured a plump grey rat.
Yes, you—Peter Pettigrew, fall guy extraordinaire.
Waughn had chosen his scapegoat long ago.
Who could be more perfect?
A former Order member.
James Potter's closest friend.
A Death Eater who betrayed them all.
An illegal Animagus who hid in the Weasley home for eleven years.
His "employment record" explained everything:
Why he knew Voldemort's secrets.
How he overheard the Potters.
Why Waughn could conveniently discover him.
And Waughn even toyed with the idea that his unusual childhood magic could be "explained" by Pettigrew's sinister influence—the fallen Death Eater attempting to groom little Waughn into a dark wizard… only to be outsmarted by a child.
A perfect narrative.
Protected by Occlumency, none of this surfaced.
Dumbledore leaned forward, curious. "So your knowledge about James, Lily, Severus, and Tom's Horcruxes—all from this Death Eater?"
"Yes."
"What is his name?"
A trap.
Dumbledore used he, not the gender-neutral they—testing him.
Waughn didn't blink. "His name relates to another secret. If you want it… wait until our next exchange."
Dumbledore put on a displeased face. "Selling the same information twice—hardly good business."
Waughn didn't care. "If you accept the trade, you procure ten dragon species—no hybrids. Once you deliver them, and when you eventually need him, I'll give you the Death Eater. After you pay for his identity."
"That's unfair. How do I know you aren't lying?"
"Believe me or don't," Waughn said coolly. "But you won't need him until after you deal with Tom's Horcruxes."
That struck home.
Dumbledore finally dropped the pretense. Horcruxes were his greatest dilemma.
He hesitated, then asked in a low voice:
"Does this Death Eater… know how many Horcruxes Tom made?"
If they could settle the Horcruxes before Tom revived, that would be ideal.
But Dumbledore had found no records—no clues—nothing.
Waughn shook his head. "Tom never told anyone. You said it yourself—he's paranoid. Horcruxes determine his survival. Why would he share that?"
True.
Dumbledore sighed again.
But the absence of information only made the Death Eater more valuable. Someone Voldemort trusted, even secretly, might help lure him out.
After a long pause, he said quietly:
"…I accept."
Waughn smiled. "Then I look forward to your success. Good night, Albus."
He left.
Dumbledore's Fears
Alone in his office, Dumbledore summoned his Pensieve, extracted a strand of memory, and dipped his face into the silvery liquid.
Scenes shifted.
The Wizengamot court, eleven years ago.
One criminal after another under Veritaserum.
Confessions, betrayals, secrets.
He searched for anyone who fit Waughn's description.
Nothing.
"Just who is this Death Eater…?"
Then another image appeared—the one Waughn had given him.
The memory of last Halloween.
The green flash of the Killing Curse.
The distorted corridor.
Waughn shielding Harry.
Harry writhing, clutching his forehead.
And Waughn's quiet, terrible words:
"…Horcruxes are made by tearing the soul. Ten years ago, Voldemort's Killing Curse rebounded from the ancient protection on Harry. He killed himself—and in that moment, a fragment of his soul latched onto Harry…"
"Albus… Harry is a Horcrux. An accidental Horcrux."
Even now, hearing it again, the pain stabbed him anew.
For eleven years he had tried—desperately—to find a way to free this child from destiny.
Yet every discovery brought greater despair.
Harry and Tom were bound by fate.
Until—
Waughn appeared.
Waughn, whose existence continually altered the course of events.
Every time Dumbledore reached a dead end, Waughn provided a clue.
If one viewed fate as a thread—
Then Waughn was a knot in the weave.
A disruption.
A possibility.
Dumbledore exhaled deeply.
He swept away the memories, withdrew from the Pensieve, and let the waters still.
He would not overthink this.
He had chosen—again—to trust Waughn.
Not because Waughn was pure.
Not because he believed him fully.
But because in this boy, he saw the faintest glimmer of hope.
June's End – Hogwarts in Frenzy
Ordinarily, late June was restless. Exams ended, summer neared, and students were caught between hope and dread—especially the seventh years, facing dismal employment prospects in the British wizarding world.
This was why Hogwarts had a "Graduation Journey"—a polite way of saying:
Go abroad and try not to come back unemployed.
But this year, no one cared.
Because something else consumed the school.
"Harry! HIT IT! YES!"
"Merlin, Hermione looks amazing! Harry—fly—!"
"What was that transformation? I've never seen it in any textbook!"
"Idiot, that's advanced Transfiguration! You can't even enter McGonagall's club!"
Yes—
"Harry Potter and the Painted World" had gone viral.
The Weasley twins screened it over and over. Students—some having watched it four times—begged for more. Even Muggle-borns found it fascinating; after all, it was still 1992, and Muggle special effects were primitive compared to raw magical spectacle.
Real fire.
Real dragons.
Real magic.
Real danger.
The trio—Harry, Ron, Hermione—became overnight celebrities.
Ron, especially, was worshipped for his wild "dragon encounter philosophy".
His dramatic retellings, coupled with the film's shocking scenes, made him a household name in Hogwarts.
Harry tried hiding—but Hogwarts was only so big.
When the scenes of Voldemort's transformation premiered, the hall exploded. Muggle-born and pure-blood alike were entranced by the terrifying, twisted dark figure.
"Who played Voldemort?" became the most asked question.
The trio gave no answers—per Waughn's orders. Their silence only fanned curiosity.
June 29th – Final Screening
The twins unveiled the finale:
"The Wizard Returned from the Past & The Fall of the Dark Lord!"
Students held their breath as the story reached its climax.
Hermione's brilliance.
The dragon's time loop.
The tearing of time itself—
And then—
Two hands breaking through the time stream, holding Norbette, the baby dragon.
When Waughn finally appeared on-screen—
The Hall detonated.
Ravenclaws screamed.
Slytherins hammered tables in excitement—even Malfoy was wild with awe, reenacting Waughn's beheading of Voldemort using poor Goyle.
Hufflepuffs cheered.
Gryffindors turned the hall into a festival.
Cedric Diggory boasted loudly, "I knew he was brilliant! We're neighbours!"
The professors watched too.
Flitwick nearly danced.
Kettleburn roared approval through drunken hiccups.
Only McGonagall and Snape looked troubled.
Snape stared at the severed head on-screen, emotion shifting like storm clouds.
Anger.
Pride.
Confusion.
Grief.
The thing he had once called "Master" had been slain—by his own student.
McGonagall whispered, worried, "Severus… should we ban this? It's far too violent."
Snape snorted. "They're witches and wizards, not fragile Muggles. Let them see cruelty. And if Dumbledore isn't worried, neither should you."
He did not tell her the truth—that everything shown was real.
Nor that the truth would remain hidden.
For a long time.
Later – Dormitory
After the excitement died down, Gryffindor Tower buzzed with discussion.
Seamus attempted spells, exploded himself.
Dean asked about Apparition.
Neville stammered.
Ron crept to Harry's bed.
"Harry—people keep asking who played You-Know-Who. I can't keep lying!"
Harry groaned. "Same here. Someone asked where Quirrell went."
"What are Waughn and Dumbledore even planning?"
"No idea. Let's keep pretending we don't know anything."
Ron nodded and fed Scabbers bits of bread and chicken. After a while—
"Harry… what happens when everyone finds out the film was real?"
Harry had no answer.
Ron continued softly:
"You-Know-Who… adults used that name to scare us. Even Fred and George would shut up at the warning."
Harry listened quietly—his own childhood far darker.
Ron lowered his voice.
"Only Waughn… he was never afraid. I remember once, when Percy scared Ginny by saying he'd sell her to You-Know-Who, she cried her eyes out. Waughn took her to our room and told her he'd protect her."
He smiled faintly.
"And now… he actually did. I knew he'd beaten You-Know-Who, but hearing it isn't the same as seeing it. It was… cool, right, Harry?"
"…Yeah."
"If only the guy on the screen were me," Ron sighed dreamily.
Harry rolled his eyes. "Go to sleep. Dreaming is free."
He reached for his glasses—and paused.
"Ron… Scabbers is shaking."
Ron panicked, checked the rat nervously, found nothing, and put him back.
"Probably old. And Waughn's stupid cat terrorizes him."
"Fawfaw Tea is adorable," Harry protested.
They watched the rat a bit longer until he stopped trembling.
Then, with Seamus blowing up his face with cleaning charms and everyone arguing about who bathes first, the dorm finally settled into its chaotic, familiar rhythm.
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