Two days earlier, before dawn, Ron had been jolted awake by Scabbers' piercing shrieks. By the time he rushed outside, his beloved rat was already lying in a pool of blood at the doorway, a patch of skin torn clean away.
After examining Scabbers, Madam Pomfrey concluded that the attacker had been a vicious bird—and definitely not an owl.
Furious, Ron spent two days investigating but failed to discover who owned the savage creature that had harmed his pet.
At the mention of it, Ron's anger flared again.
"That bastard had better not let me catch him," he snarled. "If I do, I'll shove his bird straight up his—"
Harry: "..."
Just then, a familiar voice replied coolly,
"There isn't anyone in the entire school who keeps birds of prey other than owls—except Dumbledore."
"Hi, Hermione."
Harry looked toward the corridor, where Hermione was leaning against a stone pillar, a thick book clutched in her arms.
Ron stared at her suspiciously.
"You're saying Dumbledore's phoenix—Fawkes—attacked Scabbers?"
"I didn't say that," Hermione shrugged. "I'm just telling you what I know. So, Ronald, why don't you verify it? Phoenix-inflicted wounds should be fairly obvious. Professor Kettleburn could confirm it for you—give testimony—so you can march straight off and take revenge on Dumbledore."
Ron didn't really believe her, but he still glanced around nervously, worried someone might have overheard his earlier outburst.
Harry found Ron's bullying-the-weak-but-fearing-the-strong attitude tiresome and didn't bother responding. Instead, he turned to Hermione.
"Want to go to the Great Hall together?"
"Not now, Harry. I'm waiting for Vaughn."
"Alright. See you later."
After they'd walked quite a distance away, Ron muttered resentfully,
"She's completely changed, Harry. Ever since the trial in the painted world, she's been distancing herself from us. Did you hear her just now? She was trying to drive a wedge between me and Dumbledore!"
"I bet she's jealous I stole the spotlight back then. When we came out of the painted world, Dumbledore personally escorted you and me to the hospital wing—but didn't bother with her!"
Harry's mouth twitched.
"Have you considered the possibility that she was with Vaughn at the time?"
Ron carried on as if he hadn't heard.
"And she's becoming more and more like Vaughn—always speaking in riddles, acting mysterious, with that 'I know more than you' look on her face…"
Ron spoke without thinking—but Harry suddenly felt a flash of insight.
He turned back instinctively, gazing down the corridor behind them, at the girl leaning against the pillar, her robes fluttering in the draft.
Would Vaughn share his secrets with her?
Harry thought about it.
It seemed very possible.
Summer in Scotland meant the sky darkened late.
By around eight o'clock, the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall still reflected a sky ablaze with sunset beyond the castle.
Beneath the radiant glow of the burning clouds, the four House tables were lit with candles as tradition dictated, while the banners and hangings along the walls had been redecorated in Slytherin green and silver.
It was to celebrate Slytherin winning the House Cup for the seventh consecutive year.
When Harry and Ron entered the Hall, the colors stung their eyes—especially Harry's. He couldn't help thinking that he'd once had a real chance to hang Gryffindor red here instead.
Spotting Harry, the Gryffindor students erupted into cheers. A seventh-year near the entrance caught the look on Harry's face and clapped him hard on the shoulder.
"Don't be too disappointed, Harry. You'll get your chance."
Really?
Harry looked at him. Seven straight years of Slytherin victories meant this senior had been crushed by their rivals for seven years running…
For some reason, that thought made Harry feel a little better.
Not long after Harry and Ron sat down at the Gryffindor table, Vaughn and Hermione arrived, triggering an even louder roar of applause than before.
Vaughn smiled as everyone expected, acknowledging the cheers. Since this was the final feast of the school year, he even deigned to give Head of House Snape some face—no wandering over to Ravenclaw or Gryffindor tables this time—returning instead to his loyal Slytherin seat.
A short while later, Dumbledore hurried in.
Facing the students' eager, anxious gazes, the Headmaster raised his goblet.
"I know you are all waiting for your exam results. However, as tradition dictates, we must first hold the House Cup ceremony… Oh, yes, you already know. Indeed—Slytherin has won the House Cup once again…"
He paused.
Below, Vaughn couldn't help lifting his head, bracing himself for a "but"—only to see the old man wink mischievously at him.
That crafty old fox.
Vaughn narrowed his eyes.
Chuckling at Vaughn's reaction, Dumbledore declared,
"I hereby announce that the winners of the House Cup are—Slytherin!"
The next instant, the Hall erupted.
On the final day at Hogwarts, everything felt like a dream.
After the ceremony, the exam results were officially announced. The prefects collected stacks of parchment from the professors and began calling names; students retrieved their report cards one by one.
Harry almost instantly forgot his disappointment over the House Cup. His green eyes were locked onto the Gryffindor boys' prefect—Percy Weasley.
"That was the first time I ever focused all my attention on Percy's annoying face," Ron would later say. "And the first time I truly believed he was a good bloke—who'd give me a report card I could actually show my mum."
Harry felt much the same, though he didn't find Percy annoying.
Thankfully, the last-minute revision had paid off. Both Harry and Ron passed all seven subjects—not a single fail, including Potions, which Harry had feared might be unfairly marked against him.
Everyone Harry knew made it through as well.
As for Vaughn, that went without saying. Everyone took it for granted that he ranked first in the year.
Second place was Hermione, her only shortfall being Potions practical work, where she scored slightly below Vaughn.
Ron—who'd previously complained about Hermione—immediately leapt to her defense, insisting Snape had deliberately suppressed other students' marks to secure Vaughn's first place.
Harry didn't buy a word of it.
Snape was biased, yes—but this time Harry believed he'd been unusually fair, perhaps even lenient.
After all, even Neville—whom Harry had fully expected to struggle—had advanced. Neville earned an O (Outstanding) in Herbology, and against all expectations, an A (Acceptable) in Potions instead of a P or D.
Neville was beside himself with joy—laughing, crying, jumping in place like a madman.
No one minded. Many students were behaving the same way.
Two months of crushing exam pressure finally had an outlet.
The Great Hall descended into utter chaos. Even Ravenclaw—normally famed for calm and logic—joined the hysterical celebration.
On any other day, such behavior would've been stopped.
But today, no one intervened. The professors understood the need for release.
Dumbledore slipped away at some point. Professor McGonagall, cheeks flushed from a few glasses of wine, chatted animatedly with Professor Flitwick. Professors Kettleburn and Trelawney sat together—not because they had anything to discuss, but because two heavy drinkers instinctively gravitated toward each other. Most of the drinks on the staff table ended up with them.
Snape still perched like a giant bat, but his good mood was unmistakable—he even accepted a rock cake from Hagrid, though he didn't eat it.
The most unrestrained of all were the seventh-years.
For younger students, the end of term merely meant the start of another. For them, it meant leaving the castle where they'd spent seven years—perhaps forever.
Relief and sorrow intertwined in a way the younger students couldn't yet understand.
When Harry and Ron finally staggered out, exhausted, they saw the seventh-years sitting together regardless of House, singing the school song again and again.
That was when a scar-faced middle-aged wizard entered the Hall, accompanied by a slightly tipsy Professor McGonagall.
She gathered the graduates around him.
"Everyone, this is a recruitment officer sent by the WAC—"
The rest was lost as Harry and Ron exited.
"Merlin's beard—that's a werewolf! A werewolf at Hogwarts!" Ron exclaimed as soon as they were outside.
Harry frowned.
"How do you know?"
"WAC—the Werewolf Affairs Committee. What else could he be?"
"Maybe he's just a recruiter," Harry argued. For some reason, the man's gaze had seemed kind—almost gentle. "They're recruiting at Hogwarts, after all."
Ron snorted.
"He's definitely a werewolf. This year's graduates—especially those Slytherin idiots—have been brainwashed by Vaughn. Normal witches and wizards would never work alongside werewolves."
"Why not?"
"No reason. That's just how we're raised."
Harry stared.
"Even the Weasleys?"
"Yes—every family!" Ron said firmly.
Harry fell silent, Vaughn's image surfacing unbidden in his mind.
A boy's worldview might be simple—but that didn't stop him from admiring those who faced adversity head-on.
Later that evening, Hermione told Harry the man's name.
Remus Lupin.
"He really is a werewolf," she confirmed. "And he's Vaughn's right-hand man. If you actually paid attention to Vaughn, you'd remember—earlier this year, during the werewolf march in Diagon Alley, The Daily Prophet interviewed him. I even read you the article."
She stormed off, clearly displeased.
Ron gaped.
"That's ridiculous! Who remembers an interview from half a year ago?"
"Hermione does…" Harry said weakly.
With Hermione annoyed, Harry's questions would have to wait.
He'd wanted to ask whether Remus Lupin had anything to do with him. Thinking back, the way Lupin had looked at him hadn't been like he was seeing "Harry Potter, the famous boy."
It had been more like… family.
That night, Harry lay awake thinking about it. More than once he nearly ran back to the Great Hall to confront Lupin directly.
In the end, he didn't.
Tomorrow, everyone would board the Hogwarts Express together and head home.
The thought put him in a foul mood.
Harry didn't want to return to the Dursleys.
But there was no negotiating it. Vaughn had already explained why.
Harry had argued—after the painted-world trial, he no longer feared Voldemort—but Vaughn had silenced him with a single sentence:
"The magic protecting you is the last gift your mother left you, Harry. Can you really bear to let it fade?"
An instant knockout.
Harry had to admit Vaughn had struck his weakest point.
So no matter how unwilling he felt, Harry packed his trunk early the next morning—clothes, summer homework, reference books stuffed to the brim.
The morning vanished in frantic chaos—absolute pandemonium.
Ron fretted endlessly over injured Scabbers. Hedwig, for reasons unknown, suddenly became viciously hostile toward the rat, constantly trying to peck it. Ron lost his temper, frightening Neville's toad Trevor into fleeing; they spent ages finding him in a bathroom corner.
Once everything was finally sorted, they had to hurry to the lake.
By tradition, first-years crossed the Black Lake to Hogwarts—and crossed it again to leave.
A proper beginning and end.
Hagrid was once more in charge of the boats. But after a full year, the once timid newcomers were growing crafty. The obedient little "quails" from last year were now utterly unruly, driving Hagrid to distraction.
Only when Vaughn appeared did they settle down—Draco Malfoy, chief troublemaker, immediately scrambled into a boat upon seeing him.
Hagrid wiped his brow.
"Thanks, Vaughn. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"You need to be firmer, Hagrid," Vaughn replied with a shrug.
Hagrid chuckled awkwardly.
"Right, right… Oh! Look—the train's here."
In the distance, just like during the Christmas holidays, the Hogwarts Express emerged from the mountains trailing white steam.
"Quickly now!" Hagrid called. "Or you'll miss it—and be stuck here all summer!"
That threat worked instantly.
The boats set off across the calm, windless lake.
From the lakeside bridge, Lupin watched the boats drift away, lost in thought.
Dumbledore joined him quietly.
"I thought you might speak to Harry. Or at least say goodbye."
Lupin shook his head without turning.
"There's nothing to say. And… I don't know how to face him."
"It wasn't your fault, Remus. Sirius betrayed James. None of you—James, Peter, or you—ever imagined he'd side with Voldemort."
"I still bear responsibility," Lupin insisted. "If I'd been with James instead of the Order of the Phoenix, at least—"
"You'd be dead as well," Dumbledore cut in.
Lupin gave a bitter smile, looking down at himself.
"Is there much difference?"
Dumbledore fell silent.
He'd once fought hard to admit Lupin as a student, and would gladly help him still—but Lupin's pride and consideration for others ran deep. He loathed his werewolf nature and feared burdening those who helped him. Even when Dumbledore offered him work, he'd refused.
Until the founding of the WAC.
Smiling gently, Dumbledore said,
"I never expected you to accept Vaughn's invitation. When I received your letter half a year ago, I was astonished."
Then he glanced at Lupin.
"But you haven't written since."
After a long silence, Lupin spoke hoarsely.
"I won't be writing again. I'm sorry, Albus."
Dumbledore didn't look angry—only curious.
"May I ask why?"
"For the sake of werewolves."
Lupin turned and walked away.
Dumbledore stood watching until the distant whistle of the train echoed hollowly across the grounds…
until the wind stirred once more.
The return journey felt dull compared to the thrill of arriving at Hogwarts for the first time.
Students stayed put in familiar groups, chatting and laughing.
Vaughn and Hermione shared a compartment. Harry and Ron considered joining them—until Fruit Tea made Scabbers scream in terror.
That idea was abandoned.
Vaughn didn't mind the peace. Without those two oblivious third wheels, he could enjoy time alone with his girlfriend.
The train rolled from mountains to plains, past rivers, villages, farmland, towns gradually growing more frequent.
The prefects went to work again—reminding everyone to change into Muggle clothes and handing out pamphlets.
"Attention! Ministry regulations regarding underage magic—strictly enforced!"
Hermione skimmed the booklet.
"So it's mostly restrictions and warnings—no magic outside school, the Trace, don't take chances…"
She blinked.
"You once said the Trace doesn't really track individuals, just locations—right?"
"Correct. These rules mainly affect those living among Muggles."
She grinned.
"Then you'd better come pick me up quickly. Merlin, I can't imagine having a wand and not being allowed to use it!"
Vaughn: "..."
Soon, the train pulled into King's Cross.
Farewells were cheerful—after all, they'd meet again soon.
Harry and Ron lingered longer.
"Come visit me, Ron!"
"I will, Harry!"
As the crowd thickened, Vaughn and Hermione embraced—and then a shrill cry rang out.
"Vaughn—!"
A red-haired girl came flying and leapt straight into his arms.
Habits were a frightening thing.
That first morning home, Vaughn instinctively lit a lamp—forgetting he was no longer in the lake-bottom dungeons.
If he wanted light, all he had to do was pull back the curtains.
Smiling wryly, he disentangled Ginny, who was wrapped around him like an octopus. Separated from her brother for a year, she'd clung to him since the station—so much so that even Harry Potter hadn't distracted her.
She hadn't even gone back to her own room.
Half-asleep, Ginny mumbled,
"Where are you going?"
"Up you get. Lazy pig."
She hummed sleepily.
Devonshire was warmer than Scotland, though the mornings were still cool. Vaughn opened the window, letting in pale light and a chill breeze.
Ginny shrieked awake.
"Close it!"
"Get up, or go sleep in your own room!"
"I won't—!"
She burrowed deeper into the covers.
Vaughn ignored her and gazed toward Stoat Hill, lush as ever. Morning mist flowed down its slopes like a living thing.
Beyond it lay Ottery St Catchpole.
As he took in the familiar scenery after a year away, his thoughts drifted lazily—until a blinking icon caught his eye.
With a thought, he opened the system panel:
Host: Vaughn Weasley
Magic Capacity: 541 (Average adult wizard: 500)
Main Quest II: Help Slytherin win the House Cup (Completed)
Reward: 1 Talent Point, +50 Magic (Claimed)
The reward had pushed his magic beyond the adult average.
At twelve years old, that was impressive.
But the real prize was the Talent Point.
He weighed his options—Charms, Transfiguration, Dark Magic, Alchemy…
Charms or Dark Magic?
His gaze drifted back to the mist-wreathed hill.
Eventually, he sighed and closed the panel.
No rush.
Summer had only just begun.
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