Barty Crouch Jr. was delighted.
He crawled around the iron cage like a wild animal, chains clanking loudly as his pupils dilated and shrank. His eyes were locked on Vaughn, brimming with excitement, greed, and cruelty.
"You should be grateful you ran fast enough," he hissed. "Do you know what happened to the last wizard that old dog brought in to alter my memories?"
"Heehee… I locked him inside my memories and tortured him for a very long time."
"You idiots have no idea how powerful my Master is. Every single day I hear him whispering in my mind. With the Dark Lord's help, I stopped being afraid of pathetic memory magic long ago!"
Vaughn's expression remained calm.
"Is that so?"
"You don't believe me? Then try again—!" Barty laughed, his tongue nervously licking his lips.
What he saw next froze him in place.
Vaughn smiled, raised his hand, and snapped his fingers.
Snap.
Barty's limbs stiffened mid-crawl.
His eyes flew wide as he felt something strange rise from the depths of his mind.
If anyone could see his mental world at that moment, they would notice the cloak of mist Vaughn had thrown at him earlier—the one Barty had corrupted—suddenly collapse.
The mist dispersed.
Black sand spilled out.
The remaining white mist reassembled, forming the outline of a humanoid figure.
The moment it took shape, it pulled a scene from the void—
The small, old house Vaughn had seen before.
The stiff, puppet-like mist figure walked inside, slammed open the door, and vanished into the darkness of that memory.
In the real world, Barty Crouch Jr. stared in horror as "he himself" stood up like a marionette.
He watched as Vaughn opened the cage.
Watched as "he" walked out.
Watched as "he" stopped in front of Vaughn and stood motionless.
Barty wanted to scream.
To curse.
To howl the vilest insults imaginable.
But he couldn't control anything.
All he could do was watch Vaughn casually inspect him and smile.
"To be honest," Vaughn said lightly, "you really gave me a scare back there. I thought you were some hidden master of memory magic."
"But it turns out you're just a pitiful fool who's been tortured by Voldemort and learned a few crude tricks."
"A true memory mage would never expose their real personality and most precious memories to another memory mage—much less leave behind someone else's 'gift' so carelessly."
"Crouch," Vaughn said abruptly, "kneel."
Barty's eyes burned with fury and madness.
Yet his body obeyed.
He knelt stiffly.
"Raise your hand."
His arm lifted.
Vaughn took his hand, gave it a casual shake, and smiled warmly despite the hatred in Barty's eyes.
"You told me to take your memories—your darkness, your twisted nature. That's a first for me."
"Don't worry. I'll make good use of you. After all, you're my first dark wizard test subject."
"I'm very interested in everything about you."
When Barty Crouch Sr. woke up, night had already fallen.
Heavy curtains blocked most of the view, leaving only blurred city lights glowing faintly through the window. His cheek rested against the pillow, damp with tears.
Another dream.
The same impossible dream.
In it, time had rolled back, and his son smiled and called him Father—not screaming curses filled with madness.
Pain gripped his heart. Crouch closed his eyes and buried his face in the pillow.
Then he heard movement downstairs.
Winky.
Her sharp voice carried faintly upward—she sounded happy.
Memories returned in a rush.
He hadn't fallen asleep—Winky had knocked him unconscious, even apologizing as she did so.
"Master, I'm sorry, but Mr Weasley says this will help you sleep better!"
Crouch's face darkened.
Damn it. Who is she loyal to now?
He threw on a coat and went downstairs.
As he descended, Winky's voice became clearer.
"…Mr Weasley is the cleverest, wisest, greatest wizard Winky has ever met! Winky is only a humble house-elf, but Winky will serve you well! Whatever you need, just tell Winky!"
Traitorous little creature…
Crouch's cheek twitched.
When he reached the living room, he froze.
His home had been transformed into a potion workshop.
A large experimental table—apparently Transfigured—stood in the center, bathed in brilliant light from enchanted alchemical lamps Winky had dragged out.
A golden cauldron bubbled softly.
Vaughn stood beside it, dropping in the final ingredient.
Winky stood on tiptoe like an eager assistant.
"Sir, is it finished?"
"One… two… three… stir eight times," Vaughn said. "Yes. Finished. Let it cool, then bottle it. Winky, fetch an owl."
"Yes, sir!"
She answered louder than Crouch had ever heard in his life.
Vaughn turned—and Winky noticed her master.
Instead of guilt, her enormous eyes lit up with joy.
"Master, you're awake! That's wonderful! Mr Weasley's potion succeeded, and now Master is awake, and the young master—oooh—"
She burst into tears.
Crouch frowned.
"Winky, what nonsense are you talking about?"
"Please, Master… look… look behind you," Winky sobbed. "Such a beautiful sight… Winky has waited so long for this… remembered Madam's last wish…"
Crouch's body went rigid.
Slowly, he turned.
The dining room was lit by soft candlelight.
A familiar figure leaned against the doorway.
Just like years ago, he wore a bright, innocent smile.
Crouch's vision blurred with tears.
All he heard was—
"Dad…"
A sob broke from the dining room.
In the living room, Vaughn—waiting for the potion to cool—shook his head quietly.
Barty Crouch Jr. wasn't healed.
Not even close.
Vaughn had merely implanted a personality construct into his mind.
The one who called out "Dad" wasn't the real Barty Jr.—but a constructed persona.
Yet it wasn't entirely false.
Because the construct was connected to real memories and the original personality.
And unfortunately for Barty Jr., who knew nothing about memory magic, he had already exposed his true self to Vaughn.
In a sense, that construct was Barty Crouch Jr.—a version from long ago, before dark magic, before brainwashing.
After a while, the crying subsided.
Crouch emerged, unsteady, and asked hoarsely,
"So this is the personality construct you mentioned?"
Vaughn nodded.
"Yes. For now, it has taken control of his body and memories."
"How much of it is real?"
"The memories and personality are genuine—taken from Barty Jr. before he fell into darkness."
"This is different from the Imperius Curse?"
"Completely. Imperius suppresses and twists the soul. A personality construct simulates and derives. You can think of it as… another personality split from your son."
Crouch's breathing quickened.
"And the influence of dark magic?"
"It's still there," Vaughn said calmly. "My next step is to observe how long the construct can resist corruption."
Crouch fell silent.
"Don't rush, Barty," Vaughn continued. "This is long-term work. I need to study and understand dark magic—its effect on minds and souls—before I can uproot it."
Crouch steadied himself.
"What help do you need?"
"Dark wizards," Vaughn replied with a smile. "As many as possible."
Then he tapped the now-cooled cauldron.
"But right now, I need an owl. Tomorrow's Valentine's Day—I still have to send my girlfriend her gift."
A new day dawned.
Valentine's Day.
For first-years, it meant nothing at all.
They were the last to notice.
Harry only realized something was odd when he saw older students strutting around the Great Hall like peacocks, robes open to reveal stylish clothes.
Girls kept glancing up at the enchanted ceiling, expectant.
"What's wrong with everyone?" Harry asked, gulping pumpkin juice.
His dorm-mates shook their heads.
Across from him, Hermione looked up from her thick book.
"It's Valentine's Day."
Ron slapped the table.
"No wonder Percy's hair was slick enough this morning to make flies slip off!"
Soon, owls flooded in.
Packages rained down.
Then—
A parcel floated gently down in front of Hermione.
Pink bubbles shimmered around it.
The hall went silent.
Hermione accepted it calmly—though Harry and Ron noticed her hands tremble slightly.
She grabbed some bread and left quickly.
Shock rippled through the table.
"Merlin's beard!" Seamus gasped. "Someone sent Hermione Granger a Valentine's gift?!"
The twins' laughter echoed later.
"Who else could it be but our most charming brother—Vaughn Weasley!"
That night, alone in the common room, Hermione finally opened the gift.
Inside were several crystal-clear potions.
And a note, written in Vaughn's elegant script:
To the girl I love.
I hope these help you experience a complete Hogwarts life.
You already have friendship and love—now you're only missing a best friend.
A silly smiling face was drawn beneath.
Hermione laughed.
Then cried.
She didn't plan to use the potions.
Because any affection gained through magic could never compare to what they represented.
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