An hour after the last lantern dimmed, the boys of Gryffindor Tower sank into sleep.
Outside, the Forbidden Forest stretched like a dark smudge beneath the moonlight. A silver glow crept across the windowsill, slowly sliding toward the rat's cage.
At a certain moment, the plump rat opened its eyes.
Two bead-like black pupils glinted. It slowly rose, balancing on its hind legs like a tiny person, nose twitching as it sniffed the sleeping Harry and Ron.
Only after confirming they were truly asleep did it extend its paws, nimbly unhook the lock, and slip out of the cage.
Scritch—scritch—scritch.
Soft sounds accompanied its escape through the dormitory door, down the Gryffindor Tower staircase, and along the quiet corridors.
It knew the castle well—every hidden door, every fake door, and every staircase prone to mischief.
Scritch—scritch—scritch.
It arrived at the Great Hall.
Even at this hour, a few students lingered. The enormous floating screen still played the film in a low whisper. With exams nearly over and the holiday approaching, curfew had become little more than a polite suggestion. Professors had relaxed; even Filch no longer patrolled at night.
But only veterans of Hogwarts knew this "tradition."
The rat nudged open the door.
A seventh-year student near the entrance turned his head.
"Did you hear that?"
"Just the wind," his friend muttered. "Stop being paranoid. Anyway, can you cast a silent Bombarda Maxima?"
"No, I can't even silent-cast Bombarda, let alone that."
"Ugh, how does Waughn Weasley do it? It ruins my confidence."
"He's a genius. There's no logic in that. Oh—did you hear from Phil Travers? WAC is coming to Hogwarts for recruitment in two days."
"WAC? But… the werewolves?"
"Phil said Waughn is running to become their first president. Doesn't that sound promising? Would you rather work in the Muggle world or scrub cauldrons in Diagon Alley? I'd rather follow someone who might become the next Dark Lord—or the next Dumbledore."
"You rate him that highly?"
"Of course…"
The rat listened to the conversation, but its eyes were fixed on the far end of the hall—on the enormous screen.
Unlike most wizards, it understood perfectly well what a movie was.
And as the scenes advanced, its trembling grew uncontrollable.
When the familiar, horrifying face appeared—the face ripped from Quirinus Quirrell's skull—and when Waughn tore that head clean off—
The rat collapsed.
No! I can't stay in the Weasley house anymore! I have to run! Even the Forbidden Forest is safer than this!
Panicked, it scrambled toward the door.
But it didn't get far.
A massive paw slammed down in front of it.
The rat looked up.
A giant cat loomed above—Fawfaw Tea—and perched regally on its back was a phoenix, watching with unblinking, radiant eyes.
London – Ministry of Magic, Late Night
Far beneath Whitehall, a cleared meeting chamber in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement held a small gathering of black-robed witches and wizards.
A floating screen unraveled in the air, and a projector cast the movie across it.
No one spoke.
Only when the film concluded did whispers begin.
Dumbledore folded his hands and turned to Amelia Bones, who sat frozen, her expression hollowed by shock.
After a long silence, she whispered,
"So… he truly isn't dead?"
The murmurs behind them fell still. All eyes turned to Dumbledore.
"Yes, Amelia," Dumbledore said gravely. "Voldemort never died. He has been waiting—plotting—to return to Britain."
A wizard in the back blurted, "How do we know this is real? Dumbledore, Muggle productions are fiction—"
Amelia cut him off sharply.
"It's real, McClain. That thing attached to Quirinus Quirrell—that was Voldemort."
Pain flickered across her face. "I'll never forget his voice… that twisted face. He ordered my brother Edgar Bones executed. And he murdered my family."
The room fell silent.
Everyone knew the story.
The Bones family had once been among the most powerful in the wizarding world—until Voldemort exterminated nearly the entire bloodline.
Their alliance with Dumbledore after the war had come from scars, not politics.
Amelia inhaled. "Albus… what do you intend to do? You recorded him in a Muggle film. Are you planning to show this to the whole world?"
"No," Dumbledore said softly. "I will not reveal the truth to the public. Before anyone leaves this room, you will each make an Unbreakable Vow of secrecy. To the outside world, this film will remain 'fiction.'"
No one argued.
They understood perfectly.
"News of his survival would cause panic."
"Eleven years isn't enough to erase fear of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."
"Then why tell us?" someone asked.
Amelia also waited for the answer.
Dumbledore stood, facing the screen where Waughn's blood-drenched silhouette was frozen mid-battle.
"I called you here because I need your help.
You all fought in the war.
You know how powerful Voldemort is.
You also know why you turned to me afterward—because deep down, you feared he had not truly died, and you believed I was the only one capable of opposing him."
Not a single person denied it.
"But," Dumbledore continued quietly, "I am old. Next month, I turn one hundred and eleven. My strength wanes each year. I cannot shoulder this burden forever."
Amelia's eyes flicked to the screen—specifically to Waughn Weasley, triumphant over Voldemort.
"Albus… you intend to make him your successor?"
The room erupted.
"A twelve-year-old?!"
"This is madness!"
"Dumbledore, have you lost your senses?"
"Ridiculous!"
Only Amelia remained thoughtful.
She had met Waughn.
He was not a boy—he was a wizard, with a wizard's mind, ambition, and unsettling depth.
Dumbledore raised his voice.
"Yes, he is twelve. And that is exactly why he is extraordinary. Tell me—could any of you have accomplished this at twelve?"
He pointed to Waughn's image.
An uncomfortable silence followed.
Someone sputtered, "But that was only Quirrell's body, not the true Dark Lord. Waughn killing him proves nothing!"
"Quirinus was a brilliant Ravenclaw," Dumbledore replied mildly. "Mr. Baird, you graduated from Ravenclaw as well. Are you suggesting that Ravenclaw graduates being defeated by twelve-year-olds is normal?"
Baird's face flushed scarlet. "That's—twisting words!"
"Enough!"
Amelia snapped.
Before she could continue, an old wizard in the corner slowly lifted his hand.
"I support aiding Waughn Weasley," he said calmly. "So—Dumbledore, what do you need from us?"
The others stared at him.
"Arled? You agree with this insanity?"
Arled Travers, elder of a minor branch of the Travers family, merely smiled.
"Perhaps I am mad. But if Voldemort can return, is it so strange for an old man to lose his wits?"
He looked around the room.
"We are a loose alliance. We follow Dumbledore for protection—and because his ideals give us shelter. Now he asks us to nurture someone new. Of course you resist. So would I.
But if it is Waughn Weasley…
I support it."
McClain frowned. "Why?"
Arled only said, "Because Dumbledore will show us why."
All eyes turned back to the Headmaster.
Dumbledore exhaled and swept his sleeve. A shallow stone basin flew forward—his Pensieve.
"My reasons are in here," he said. "But before you witness them, you must swear the Unbreakable Vow."
His gaze never left Arled.
To his surprise, Arled approached first.
"I'll go ahead," the old wizard said cheerfully. "Someone must set an example."
The others exchanged uneasy looks.
Hours Later – After the Meeting
As dawn crept toward London, the chamber emptied.
Amelia returned and found Dumbledore still staring at the frozen image on the screen, deep in thought.
"Albus?" she asked.
He turned.
"Amelia… has the Travers family ever produced a Seer?"
She blinked. "None that I recall—wait… Travers wasn't one of your plants?"
"…No."
Dumbledore rubbed his temples.
"The Travers main line is deeply pure-blood supremacist. Their heirs were Voldemort's followers. Even though Arled's branch cut ties long ago… I never trusted them."
Amelia's eyes widened.
"You think Arled's branch carries some prophecy talent? They foresaw something?"
"That is my concern," Dumbledore murmured. "Otherwise I cannot imagine why he would step forward now. And…"
He reached into the Pensieve again. Another memory surfaced—a parchment listing new members.
Amelia leaned in.
A familiar name stood out:
Phil Travers.
"Arled's grandson?" she exclaimed. "He enrolled his grandson into WAC?"
The parchment bore the WAC seal.
"That old turncoat has courage after all," Amelia muttered.
Privately, she was stunned. She supported WAC politically, but she would never allow her niece Susan Bones to join them while lycanthropy remained unresolved.
Dumbledore chuckled softly.
"Perhaps 'courage' is the word. The old hedgehog actually tied his heir to Waughn's future. Very unusual. And unusual things in the wizarding world often mean one thing…"
Amelia finished the thought:
"Prophecy."
Yet the Travers family had no known Divination bloodline.
But the unease remained.
Dumbledore looked to her. "Will they agree to my request?"
"I don't know."
"And you, Amelia?"
She hesitated.
"Harry and Voldemort's fates… truly intertwined that deeply?"
"Yes," Dumbledore said gently.
"But Waughn can disrupt it?"
"That is the conclusion of nearly a year's observation."
She frowned. "Then why does Waughn need ten species of dragons?"
Dumbledore blinked.
Then smiled brightly.
"I don't know, dear. I forgot to ask."
"…"
July 1st – Rain Over Hogwarts
After days of sunshine, a storm swept across the Scottish Highlands. Rain battered the windows; lightning slithered across the sky.
In the Black Lake, shoals of sea kelp and Grindylows surged in the currents. Patrols of merfolk glided past Waughn's dorm window, armed for underwater cleanup.
By the dim light of his workbench, Waughn lifted his head, pushing aside a hovering magnifying lens.
On the table lay Norbette—now the size of a small foal—strapped down with magical restraints, red eyes glistening miserably.
"What? Afraid I'll dissect you?"
Norbette shrieked pitifully, tail thumping.
Waughn laughed, released the restraints, and patted its bony head.
"Go play."
The dragonlet scampered off toward Fawfaw Tea, who lay curled lazily on a nest of blankets.
Despite being bullied days ago, Norbette now dwarfed the cat—but Fawfaw Tea remained unconcerned, confident in its status as favorite.
When Norbette scrambled onto the bed, Fawfaw Tea casually kicked it off.
"Gah! Gah!" Norbette hissed.
"Meow~," the cat replied contemptuously.
Waughn ignored them and resumed writing.
Researching dragonfire was unbelievably complex.
Life was not a simple ingredient—life was a system.
He wrote:
"Multiple micro-structures detected—neither organs nor glands. Hard to identify. Concentrated in the chest, neck, and throat. Magical flow resembles alchemical sigils, yet wholly different…"
When he finished his sketches, he sighed.
If not for his growing attachment to Norbette, he would truly prefer cutting one open.
Norbette shuddered across the room, sensing danger from afar.
Waughn closed his notebook and whispered:
"System."
The translucent panel sprang into view.
[Magic Power: 491/500]
[Spells: Occlumency MAX, Shield Charm MAX, Disarming Charm MAX…]
[Main Quest II: Help Slytherin win the House Cup – (Complete Today)]
[Side Quest III: Study dragon magic — 0/10]
[Reputation Points: 19]
July had begun. Reputation points refreshed.
He sighed at the large list of Lv.4 spells—each stuck at the limit of his Talent: Charms 7.
Raising them further would cost reputation points he didn't have.
"And I still haven't touched Alchemy…"
He shut the panel, irritated.
Today would settle the main quest.
July 1st—the announcement of the House Cup.
Students were too anxious about grades to care about the movie anymore.
Waughn was grateful; he dared not leave his dorm during the craze.
Even now, Harry and Ron were bombarded by excited greetings as they walked through Gryffindor Tower.
"You'll pass, Harry! You too, Ron!"
"Is it true the film will release in Diagon Alley?"
"You'll be famous! I should've brought my camera!"
Harry forced polite smiles.
He wasn't fond of attention—especially false attention.
He remembered too well how fame turned to scorn after one lost Quidditch match.
But Ron…
Ron basked in it—finally no longer "Harry's sidekick," no longer "just another Weasley."
So Harry decided to let him enjoy it.
When they finally slipped out of the common room, Harry asked casually:
"By the way, since you're so cheerful… have you found who hurt Scabbers yet?"
Ron's smile vanished instantly.
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