Albus Dumbledore was an exceptionally intelligent man.
That intelligence did not lie solely in his mind or learning, but also in his experience and insight.
The moment Dumbledore began to probe him, Vaughn knew that—based on the rapidly deepening cooperation between him and Crouch—the old wizard had guessed something.
In truth, once a person possessed enough information, and a sufficiently bold imagination, it was not difficult to deduce why Crouch was willing to support Vaughn so wholeheartedly.
For a man whose family had been shattered, whose heart had long since turned to ash, and who had even abandoned his political future—
What could possibly make him rise again?
The answer was obvious.
Family.
Vaughn had never intended to hide this. He had drawn Crouch to his side precisely to make use of his influence and connections. There was no reason to hesitate or tiptoe around it.
Crouch himself did not care.
All he wanted was to fulfill the wish he and his wife shared—to reclaim their son. Everything else could be ignored.
Dumbledore heard the implication clearly.
After a moment's silence, he spoke carefully.
"Have you considered this, Vaughn? That those who fall because of dark magic are not corrupted solely by dark magic itself. In a sense, power has no inherent morality. A Muggle gun does not leap into one's hands and force its owner to kill. Magic is the same—it is merely a tool, without thoughts or intent."
"Every wizard who becomes obsessed with dark magic begins with corruption in their own heart. Dark magic is only the means by which they act on it. If that is the case, do you truly believe such people are still worth redeeming?"
Vaughn smiled faintly.
"You shouldn't be saying this to me. I'm just a… doctor, if you like. I make fair transactions with patients and their families. He helps me; I help him. Whether the patient is guilty—that's a matter for law enforcement and relatives. It has nothing to do with a healer."
Dumbledore sighed.
He knew his attempt to sway Vaughn through moral reasoning had failed again.
That was what made Vaughn so difficult to deal with.
At only twelve years old, his worldview was disturbingly mature.
He possessed his own logic, his own principles—and more often than not, they were frighteningly persuasive.
Even when they were sophistry, they made sense.
And more importantly—
Dumbledore had realized this far too late.
It was only that afternoon, when he learned that Crouch had sent more than twenty letters rallying support for Vaughn, that Dumbledore finally grasped just how far Crouch's backing went.
Before coming to the Ministry, Dumbledore had visited the Crouch family cemetery in Godric's Hollow.
Mrs. Crouch and Barty Crouch Jr. were buried side by side.
Yet his magic detected only one body.
If he followed his conscience alone, Dumbledore knew what he should do.
He should notify the Ministry immediately and have Barty Crouch Jr. arrested.
But that was precisely where his dilemma lay.
If Crouch were exposed now, the establishment of the Wizengamot–approved Werewolf Affairs Committee would almost certainly collapse.
No—not almost.
It would definitely collapse.
Everyone already knew that Crouch stood behind Vaughn. He had written more than twenty letters that very afternoon.
Their opponent—Cornelius Fudge—knew it even better.
If Crouch were implicated now, not only would the pro-committee members of the Wizengamot be thrown into disarray, but Fudge would seize the opportunity to obstruct or delay the vote entirely.
There was no question that Barty Crouch Jr. was a cruel, irredeemable Death Eater.
But if punishing one man meant sacrificing the future of over a thousand destitute werewolves…
Dumbledore felt torn apart.
Had he known more about Muggle philosophy, he might have realized that his predicament resembled a famous thought experiment—
The trolley problem.
Punish one monster and doom thousands of innocents?
Or spare one criminal to save countless lives?
"Sigh…"
Dumbledore exhaled slowly and looked at Vaughn, weariness in his eyes.
"You did this on purpose, didn't you?"
"It only just occurred to me," he continued, "that you deliberately waited until the final day to have Crouch suddenly contact his old associates. At such a public moment, you ensured that everyone noticed how unusual your cooperation was—especially me."
"You knew I would investigate. You knew I would discover why Crouch was working with you so closely."
"Because you intend for Crouch to become your spokesman. He will be interacting with Amelia and me more and more in the future. We were bound to notice eventually. Once concealment became pointless, you stopped bothering with it."
"And you never waste time on pointless things."
Dumbledore gave a bitter smile.
"Sometimes, Vaughn, I truly want to pry open your head and see what's inside."
Vaughn neither confirmed nor denied it.
He simply replied with a smile,
"My grades prove that what's in my head isn't Bubotuber pus or flobberworm mucus. You can rest easy."
Dumbledore chuckled.
"A classic potioneer's metaphor."
"Thank you. I learned it from my professors. I find it quite amusing."
Vaughn's smile widened.
He was pleased—because Dumbledore's tone already revealed his decision.
Between the future of thousands and the crimes of one man, Dumbledore had chosen the greater good.
It was the choice most people made when faced with such a dilemma.
Seeing Vaughn's undisguised satisfaction, Dumbledore felt a trace of irritation and deliberately asked,
"There's one thing I've wanted to ask for a long time. Crouch's secret… Horcruxes… where exactly did you obtain this information?"
Vaughn looked mildly bored.
"What do you think?"
Dumbledore considered it, then said something shocking.
"I suspect you have Seer blood."
"Oh," Vaughn replied flatly. "If you say so."
Dumbledore ignored his tone and laughed.
"Then tell me, dear Seer—what does my future look like?"
"You'll die."
Vaughn shot back coldly.
"A horrific death. You'll fall from Hogwarts' Astronomy Tower, smashed into pulp. Even after death, your grave will be desecrated. Truly miserable."
Dumbledore blinked, then smiled.
"Ah—now I'm certain Aurora was right. You truly lack talent in Divination."
At that moment, Amelia Bones, who had just walked in and overheard the exchange, froze.
She looked at Vaughn's malicious grin, then at Dumbledore's cheerful expression.
Suddenly, she felt that these two—who took such delight in verbally wounding each other—were remarkably alike.
Childish, even.
That night, Whitehall above ground blazed with light.
Below, the Ministry of Magic was no less brilliant.
The Wizengamot Grand Chamber on Level Two, usually quiet, was once again bustling.
This time, however, only a dozen or so Wizengamot members sat on the raised dais.
The rest of the chamber was filled with Ministry officials, reporters, and curious members of the wizarding public who had rushed over after seeing the notice.
The noise was deafening.
When Vaughn and Dumbledore followed Amelia into the chamber, camera flashes erupted instantly.
Burning magnesium filled the air with a faint, alchemical scent.
Then a short, balding man was pushed forward by the crowd and wrapped Vaughn in a crushing hug.
"My son! It's been so long—Father missed you terribly! Everyone, look—this is my son, Vaughn Weasley! Handsome, isn't he? He's already as tall as I am!"
Only Arthur Weasley could say such things to Vaughn.
Vaughn said nothing.
In truth, he had seen his father just half a month earlier—he'd been at the Ministry constantly back then.
Arthur paraded him around proudly, especially in front of Amos Diggory.
"Amos, after today, my son's name will echo throughout the wizarding world. He's destined for greatness—"
Finally unable to endure it, Amos Diggory stormed off.
Arthur laughed heartily, then leaned in and muttered,
"Best keep your distance from the Diggorys. Amos is petty beyond belief—he even defended Fudge just to put you down. Absolute nonsense."
"Cedric himself is a good person," Vaughn replied evenly.
"Oh—yes, yes, Cedric's a fine boy. Just unfortunate enough to have a terrible father…"
Their conversation was cut short when Amelia, already seated at the dais, raised her wand to her throat.
"Silence!"
Her amplified voice crushed the din.
"The Wizengamot's final vote is about to begin. Take your seats. No disruptions!"
Vaughn separated from his father and returned to the Wizengamot benches.
Arthur and the other Ministry officials sat opposite, with the public and reporters flanking both sides.
As the camera flashes flared again, Amelia announced:
"This full Wizengamot vote concerns the establishment of the Werewolf Affairs Committee."
She turned.
"Do any Wizengamot members object to the subject of this vote?"
No one spoke.
She repeated the question to the Ministry officials, the public, and the press—a formality inherited from ancient Muggle traditions.
No objections.
Without delay, Amelia raised her wand.
Dozens of envelopes folded into birds fluttered down from the ceiling.
With a tap of her wand, the granite floor before the dais slid open.
From below, a roaring flame surged upward—burning fiercely, yet radiating no heat, as if it existed in another world.
"In the sixteenth century," Amelia intoned, "when the first modern magical statutes were enacted, the wizarding world bound this fairy fire with enchantments. It has since borne witness to the Wizengamot's sacred duty. Each vote cast here reflects the voter's true will—untainted by coercion or fraud."
She dropped the first envelope into the fire.
Boom!
A red fireball erupted, bursting into brilliant colours that froze in midair.
"One vote in favour!" Amelia announced.
Behind her, Vaughn watched with interest and whispered to Dumbledore,
"Ancient magic?"
"Yes," Dumbledore replied. "Very old—quite different from modern spellcraft. More like alchemy, really."
"What's it called?"
"Fairy Fire. It lacks destructive power, but each has unique properties. This one is fuelled by honesty and oaths."
"Fascinating."
As the tally continued, bursts of red fire filled the chamber.
Until—
A green fireball erupted.
The sickly hue drew a pause.
Amelia confirmed it, then declared,
"One vote against!"
Fortunately, the green flames were few.
When the final envelope was cast into the fire, the chamber erupted into restless anticipation.
"Silence!"
Amelia rapped the dais, the sound booming like thunder.
She raised her gaze to the frozen fireworks above.
"By the authority of magical law and under the witness of Fairy Fire, the Wizengamot records the following result:"
"Thirty-six votes in favour. Eighteen against."
"From this day forward, the Werewolf Affairs Committee is hereby established in England!"
Dawn.
Remus Lupin awoke in his cellar as the eastern sky turned pale.
He tore off his shredded clothes and, by the dim light filtering through the window, saw the familiar scene—scattered wolf fur, claw marks in damp earth, rusted shackles in the corner.
He leaned against the wall, barely able to stand.
The aftermath of the full moon.
Panting hard, he forced down some food.
At last, the hollow emptiness eased.
It had been nearly thirty years since Fenrir Greyback bit him.
And still, he could not get used to it.
But at least—
At least things are better now.
His thoughts drifted to one name.
Vaughn.
The Wizengamot vote should be over by now.
With anxious hope, Lupin stepped outside—
Just as James Brown came running, waving a newspaper.
"Remus! Barnard! He did it—he succeeded!"
(End of Chapter)
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