Vaughn patted the young wizard on the shoulder.
The man turned, only to catch a glimpse of a pair of eyes shimmering with magical light—and then everything went still.
After nearly a month of investment, Vaughn had leveled up Legilimency to Level 3. At this stage, the spell required no incantation, no wand movement—just intent.
The wizard's gaze went vacant.
Then he heard a voice—warm, familiar, kind.
"Excuse me, sir. Do you happen to know where Bartemius Crouch lives?"
That voice… it felt like a close friend, or even a family member.
Unthinking, the young man smiled. "He has two residences. One is the Crouch family manor, the ancestral home. The other's a newer property in a Muggle neighborhood. Which would you like to know?"
"Both would be ideal, if you don't mind."
"No problem at all! Happy to help."
The man cheerfully provided both addresses and bid farewell to the mysterious voice.
Moments later, he blinked, startled to find himself standing alone under the early morning sky.
"…Huh? What am I doing here?"
He scratched his head, the memory hazy.
All he could recall was zoning out for about a minute—nothing suspicious, nothing unusual.
Shrugging it off with the urgency of an upcoming night shift, he hurried toward the Ministry's public loo entrance.
But before he stepped in, he caught sight of a figure across the street: a boy, draped in purple Wizengamot robes, raising a wand to summon the Knight Bus.
The bus arrived with a deafening bang, invisible to Muggles, and a conductor's voice rang out: "Welcome aboard, young master! Where to tonight?"
The boy gave an address.
The man overheard and chuckled to himself. "That's the same neighborhood where Crouch lives. Maybe he's visiting?"
He paused—then shuddered, for reasons he couldn't explain.
And just like that, the boy in purple vanished from his mind entirely.
London Suburbs — A Quiet Muggle Neighborhood
Bartemius Crouch stepped out of the Floo with a grim expression. The lights in the living room were off, which immediately made him frown.
"Winky? Where are you?"
CRACK!
A house-elf appeared instantly, wearing a tattered tea towel like a robe. Her high-pitched voice grated the air:
"Master! Winky is here! Winky was taking care of young master!"
She was female, her voice shrill enough to give Crouch a headache.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You let him out?"
"No, master!" Winky's large brown eyes brimmed with tears. "You told Winky to keep him locked away! Winky dared not disobey! But… but he hadn't seen the sun in weeks… there were bugs on his skin… he was in pain…"
Crouch went silent.
He sat on the sofa, shoulders sagging under invisible weight.
For ten years, he had lived with guilt, grief, hatred, and regret. His wife was dead. His son… corrupted.
And now, hiding from the world—living in exile, paranoid and exhausted—he couldn't even return to the family manor. Too many eyes there. Too many questions.
The only place he felt safe was here, among the oblivious Muggles.
He sighed. "In a few days, once the Wizengamot session ends, I'll take a day off. We'll let him see the sun again."
Winky burst into grateful sobs, bowing repeatedly.
The irony wasn't lost on Crouch.
His son—who should have inherited everything—now lived like a prisoner. And the house-elf celebrated a walk outside like it was a holiday.
Shaking off the dark thoughts, he rose to head to the kitchen—when the doorbell rang.
Not unusual. He hadn't kept this home secret—after all, it was hooked up to the Floo Network for Ministry work. Visitors weren't uncommon.
Still, he instinctively glanced toward the basement.
Sealed. Both magically and physically—layers of cement, wards, and enchantments. The only access was via Winky's Apparition.
Satisfied, he walked to the door and called out, "Who's there?"
A familiar, young voice answered:
"Good evening, Mr. Crouch. My apologies for the intrusion. I'm Vaughn Weasley. Might we talk?"
Crouch's brow furrowed deeply.
His voice came cold and fast. "I'm sorry, Mr. Weasley. It's late. Whatever business you have can wait until tomorrow's session."
But Vaughn didn't leave.
Instead, he chuckled softly—like they were discussing the weather.
"Are you sure? I thought perhaps a man keeping his son hidden in the basement might want to chat..."
Everything froze.
Crouch felt his blood surge to his head. A high-pitched ringing flooded his ears. The world spun.
That voice was calm—but the words struck like lightning.
He knows.
He can't be allowed to leave.
He drew his wand, slick with sweat, and without hesitation:
"Alohomora!"
The door burst open.
The night wind rushed in, tousling Vaughn's crimson robes.
Crouch's wand flashed again.
"Expelliarmus!"
"Stupefy!"
In the world of wizards, cunning and intellect had their place.
But at the end of the day—power still reigned supreme.
If Vaughn hadn't succeeded with the Wolfsbane reforms—hadn't spiked his monthly Prestige Point income—he wouldn't have dared come here tonight.
He would've waited. Bided his time.
Because this confrontation? This was always going to be a fight.
As the spells flew, Vaughn's Protego Maxima flared into life.
Spells clashed in midair with explosive brilliance.
The next second, he slashed his wand downward.
BOOM—
A shockwave tore the door from its hinges.
Then—a fire dragon erupted, its maw opening wide, fangs bared.
Crouch wasn't holding back.
This was battle magic—war-level spellwork.
But Vaughn had expected it. His body, made feather-light by a spell moments earlier, was hurled back by the blast, robes flaring like fire.
In midair, his wand moved again.
Chunks of stone, debris, shattered walls—all surged into the air and reshaped under his command.
Spears.
Five enormous, gleaming stone spears, cold and deadly, launched forward like missiles.
Each one howled through the air.
CRACK!
BOOM!
BOOM!
They smashed through the fire dragon, splitting its flaming body with sheer kinetic force. The house groaned. Walls cracked. The earth trembled.
Still in midair, Vaughn moved again.
More debris rose, transfigured into monstrous beasts—snarling hounds, spiny lizards, winged serpents.
But Crouch was gone.
His voice came from behind.
"Crucio!"
The Cruciatus Curse. One of the Unforgivables.
Vaughn's shield spell couldn't block it—it never could. But he didn't need to.
He tossed one of the summoned beasts behind him.
The red curse struck it midair and dissipated.
He spun, wand tip glowing with power.
"Expelliarmus—!"
The blast this time was massive—arm-thick, a surge of scarlet magic that lit up the entire street.
And Vaughn had been clever.
The spell split upon impact—breaking into dozens of smaller curses, like a firework of red snakes.
Crouch, Apparating ten meters away, reappeared right into their path.
WHAM.
Caught off-guard, he didn't even get a shield up in time.
Two curses struck. His body stiffened. He fell.
His wand spun through the air—and Vaughn caught it effortlessly.
Crouch struggled weakly.
Too late.
Vaughn waved his wand again, transfiguring nearby leaves into a rope that coiled around the fallen man.
The dust was still settling.
Wind howled.
Muggle neighbors began turning on lights.
From their windows, some peered out, puzzled.
A wizarding duel, over in under a minute.
Vaughn glanced toward the curious Muggle homes.
No time for admiration.
He raised his wand.
Crouch's floating body hovered beside him.
"Reparo Totalis."
A mass repair charm surged outward.
Walls stood tall again. Doors reformed. Debris snapped back into place like a film played in reverse.
By the time the Muggles stepped outside, torches in hand—
There was nothing.
Just a perfectly intact suburban home under a silent night sky.
"Should we call the police?"
"Bah, it's probably just kids playing with fireworks again. Back to bed!"
The Muggles retreated.
Inside the house, Vaughn lowered the curtain and flicked his wand toward the fireplace.
A gentle fire sprang up, casting long shadows.
Crouch sat on the couch—rigid, silent, bound.
Vaughn took the chair across from him, smiling politely.
"Good to see you again, Mr. Crouch."
Crouch's face twitched. He glared. Said nothing.
"I imagine you're confused," Vaughn began. "Someone breaks into your home, exposes your darkest secret, and then defeats you in a duel... You must be feeling frightened. Angry. Powerless."
He leaned forward.
"So why not talk?"
Crouch's voice came hoarse and cold.
"There's nothing to say. And don't think you can blackmail me."
"Blackmail?" Vaughn blinked. "Did I say anything about blackmail?"
Crouch stared silently.
Vaughn smiled wider.
"I'm here to offer a deal. Don't you want your son back?"
Crouch flinched.
That dream again…
The one where his son was still a boy—running barefoot through the gardens. Where his wife still lived. Where Winky's voice didn't sound so shrill.
He missed those dreams. Hated waking up.
He hated himself for missing his son.
Hated Voldemort for stealing him.
He had tried. Years of experimental magic. Memory alteration. Therapy. All of it failed.
"He's already dead," Crouch rasped. "Not in body—but in soul. That… boy… is gone."
Vaughn didn't speak.
He simply snapped his fingers.
Crouch blinked.
The boy's glowing eyes pulled him in—and suddenly—
He stood in a vast, golden-lit archive.
Shelves stretched into the heavens. Books lined every wall.
In the distance, Vaughn stood on a rotating staircase, browsing a tome.
"Where… is this?"
"Welcome," Vaughn said, smiling. "To my Memory Archive."
The book in Vaughn's hand vanished, reappearing in Crouch's arms.
It was titled "Crouch".
Opening it, he saw scenes—Vaughn at the Wizengamot, their duel tonight, and even the conversation they were having right now.
"These… are your memories of me?"
Vaughn nodded. "Correct. Every book on these shelves is a piece of my past."
Crouch was stunned.
"Why format it like a library?"
"Because," Vaughn said, "the human mind is inefficient. So I built a better one."
He explained the system—tagging memories, classifying them, indexing them with Muggle-inspired computing logic.
Crouch was entranced.
"You want to rebuild my son with memory magic?"
"It won't work," Crouch said. "I've tried. Even Dumbledore said so. Every time I altered his memories, his dark instincts warped them back. Unless you erase everything—his mind will twist it. And full erasure causes permanent damage."
Vaughn's eyes glinted.
"Interesting. Then perhaps... the mind isn't the problem."
He snapped his fingers again.
The memory archive collapsed.
Crouch gasped.
Vaughn's body turned to fog—dissolving, reforming, changing shape.
And then—
The archive rebuilt itself, faster this time.
"What are you doing…?"
"Creating a new version of myself," Vaughn said cheerfully. "What if we stop trying to change the core mind... and instead, build an interface—a personality overlay?"
"I call it... Persona Shell: Alpha v0.3."
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