"Professor Quirrell and Snape?"
"Yes," Vaughn replied solemnly. "Out of all the professors, those two are the most abnormal. Quirrell because of his… habits.
Honestly, it's sweltering already, and he still wears that ridiculous turban every day. That alone is suspicious."
"And as for Professor Snape—it's because of how hostile he is toward Harry. He practically wishes Harry dead. That said, Dumbledore trusts him."
Which meant that, in truth, they had made no real progress at all.
Hermione tugged at her hair in frustration.
"So what did Dumbledore say?"
Vaughn didn't hesitate to dump the blame.
"Our dear Headmaster said nothing at all. He spends his days obsessed with desserts and knitting. Hunting Dark Wizards seems far less important to him than designing new knitting patterns."
"Good heavens! How can he be like that?" Hermione stared in disbelief. "He's the Headmaster—how can he be so irresponsible?"
"My dear," Vaughn said earnestly, "you should've realized how unreliable he was the very first day, when he had us sing the school song."
Hermione tried to defend the Headmaster—at least a little—but after recalling everything she'd seen and heard these past months, she found she simply couldn't lie to herself and say Dumbledore was responsible.
At least not when it came to the Philosopher's Stone.
She kicked a pebble angrily.
"Why did he insist on hiding the Stone in the school? Why does he protect Snape? Why would he hire someone like Professor Quirrell in the first place…? Sorry—I shouldn't lose my temper."
Vaughn offered hypocritical comfort.
"It's not your fault. It's all Dumbledore's."
"Why is everything my fault?"
Inside the Headmaster's office, Albus Dumbledore's pale beard trembled as he questioned Vaughn, who was rummaging through his satchel and checking the day's harvest.
In the corner, half-hidden in shadow, Severus Snape let out a loud, unmistakable snort.
It was blatant mockery.
Dumbledore stiffened, watching Vaughn take out the fairy glass bottle and hold it up to the light, admiring it leisurely. Unable to restrain himself, he protested:
"The one deceiving them is clearly you! What kind of heartless—"
"—Hundred-year-old man?" Vaughn cut in smoothly. "Yes, yes, I've heard that excuse enough times. Please use a different one next time. Also, if you hadn't insisted on testing Harry, I wouldn't need to lie to my girlfriend in the first place."
He paused, glancing at Dumbledore's widened eyes.
"If the Headmaster can't stand hearing such intimate terms, I suggest revising school rules to forbid dating. Thank you."
"Perfect—sharp and incisive!"
Snape drawled his praise from the shadows.
"Thank you, Professor," Vaughn replied with a courteous nod. "To continue—if you hadn't insisted on testing Harry, Quirrell would've been dealt with already, Voldemort would've long since become a wisp of smoke crawling back to Albania, and none of this nonsense would be happening. Albus, all of this stems from your stubbornness. At the very least, Professor Snape and I have always opposed this plan."
"Absolutely correct!"
Snape was practically glowing. Vaughn's words struck straight to his heart. He'd always found the idea of 'testing Harry' unbearably tedious—don't misunderstand, it wasn't concern for Harry. He simply felt that testing Harry Potter's intellect was like playing a lute to a troll.
"Ahem!" Dumbledore coughed loudly, shooting Snape a warning glare.
Snape snorted and wiped the expression from his face, returning to his usual scowl.
Dumbledore scratched his cheek awkwardly. Faced with Vaughn's accusations, he truly had no rebuttal and could only change the subject stiffly.
"Did you finish collecting the materials?"
Vaughn clicked his tongue but didn't pursue the argument.
"Yes. Mostly magical creatures rated XX to XXX by the Ministry. Carefully selected—aggressive by nature, but not lethally destructive. Excellent materials."
As he spoke, he unpacked everything from his satchel, lining it up on Dumbledore's desk—the fairy glass bottle included.
Aside from the fairies inside the bottle, who lay perfectly still like satisfied ornaments, the other magical creatures were brimming with vitality.
Several fox spirits snarled from within their cages, hurling themselves against the bars and baring their teeth at Vaughn and Dumbledore.
Clusters of glowing Lumos Bugs floated like soap bubbles, each encasing a trapped Grindylow, which screeched and stretched its long claws, trying desperately to puncture the luminous shells.
A few Diricawls popped in and out of existence, appearing directly on Dumbledore's desk and pecking cheerfully at the cockroach clusters in his candy dish.
The lively assortment of bound and unbound creatures delighted Dumbledore.
"Wonderful, Vaughn—absolutely wonderful materials. They'll greatly enrich the surprise adventure we've prepared for Harry. I plan to call this stage The Miniature Forbidden Forest. Simple, direct, and thematically appropriate. What do you think?"
Vaughn answered flatly,
"It's mediocre."
"What? Excellent? Oh—thank you for your approval, my dear."
Dumbledore dabbed at his eyes theatrically and turned toward Snape with a pleased smile.
Snape deadpanned, "Tedious."
"Thank you as well, Severus—but I wasn't asking for your opinion. What I want to know is, are your potion materials ready?"
Snape's reply was dry and malicious.
"Complete—and in excess. Potter will have an unforgettable experience. He might even be poisoned to death."
"Splendid, Severus. Excellent."
Dumbledore nodded contentedly and clapped his hands.
"Very well, gentlemen. Everything is ready. Once the final mechanisms are complete, our Harry Trial Project can officially begin—"
"What a revolting name."
"Don't be like that, Severus. You're being petty and mean. You should learn from me—broaden your heart."
"Shut up."
"This is giving me a headache. Vaughn, promise me you'll never turn out like him."
"Yes, Vaughn Weasley," Snape sneered, "do stay vigilant—don't end up like Dumbledore, a foolish, neurotic old man. How tragic."
Vaughn couldn't be bothered to engage in the childish bickering of two men whose combined ages were nearing a century and a half.
He asked calmly,
"When does the plan begin?"
"Early May," Dumbledore said with a gentle smile. "That still leaves a full month before the end-of-term exams in June—enough time for Harry to focus on studying."
Vaughn stared at him.
"…Albus, you truly are a devil."
Then he grinned.
"But I like it."
When Vaughn left the Headmaster's office, night had fully fallen.
He stretched lazily as the door closed behind him—then turned to see Snape emerging as well, carrying a small suitcase.
It was Snape's case, filled with the potion ingredients Vaughn had collected earlier.
Vaughn greeted him casually.
"Professor, how's the quality of the shriveled figs? I handpicked them from an entire batch—guaranteed potency."
At the phrase guaranteed potency, Snape's stretched expression finally softened into something resembling a smile.
"Your eye is sharp. Potter is fortunate."
Vaughn was speechless.
He suspected that, if possible, Snape would happily brew potions whose effects were amplified tenfold or more—purely for Harry.
Deciding not to listen to Snape's enthusiastic fantasies of Harry's suffering, Vaughn changed the subject.
"Professor, have you had dinner? I was just heading to the Great Hall. Care to join me?"
"No." Snape refused outright. His cold expression cracked, revealing barely concealed excitement.
"I'm returning to brew the potions. The process will take at least twelve hours—constant supervision is required."
"Need any help?"
"No!" Snape snapped, eyes gleaming. "This is a gift prepared for Potter. How could I allow you to interfere?"
Vaughn: "..."
He'd mocked Dumbledore earlier—yet Snape was even more eager.
Fine.
As long as you're happy.
Parting from the overly energized Potions Master, Vaughn strolled toward the Great Hall.
Passing through the courtyard, he noticed the Quidditch pitch still illuminated in the distance.
Against the darkness, a figure could be seen flying at high speed, darting back and forth across the sky.
Vaughn stopped a passing Gryffindor first-year.
"Who's still training this late?"
The boy answered with admiration,
"It's Harry! He's incredible—he's been training nonstop until now."
Another Gryffindor sighed.
"Shame about last year's first match. We're second right now. Unless we beat Slytherin by a massive margin in the final game, we can't overtake them."
The Hogwarts Quidditch Cup didn't allow tie-breaker matches—there simply wasn't time in the school year. Rankings were decided not only by wins, but by total points.
Slytherin was currently undefeated, catching the Snitch in every match and leading by a wide margin.
That disappointed Gryffindor glanced at Vaughn with mixed feelings.
It was this very person who had shattered what should've been Gryffindor's most promising year.
Yet having witnessed Vaughn's spellwork—and heard the rumors about Slytherin—he dared not say anything harsh. Once his companion finished speaking, the two left together.
Vaughn looked back at the pitch and clicked his tongue.
"Harry's working this hard… Is he trying to beat me just once?"
He sighed. "I was planning to slack off for a while after everything settled…"
The House Cup was something Vaughn fully intended to claim. Even if no one else believed Gryffindor could work a miracle, Vaughn wasn't the type to celebrate before the final whistle.
That very night, he sought out Marcus Flint.
Under Flint's terrified yet strangely enlightened gaze, Vaughn issued his orders:
"I'm joining team training. Prepare proper tactics."
"…Huh?"
"This time it's different. Harry can now integrate fully into Gryffindor's offensive system. I want better methods to suppress him."
"…Huh…"
"And this conversation stays between us. Any tactical decisions are your responsibility. Understood?"
Marcus 'Scapegoat' Flint's mouth twitched. In the end, he didn't dare refuse.
As mentioned before, no student liked the Easter holiday.
This cursed break was less a vacation and more a celebration of professors assigning homework, determined to squeeze every last drop of energy from their students.
This year, to improve assignment quality and prevent plagiarism, professors even mandated the use of enchanted parchment.
These parchments rejected Quick-Quotes Quills and automatically prevented anyone but the owner from peeking.
To Ron, the holiday was nothing short of a nightmare.
On the final day, he lay drenched in sweat over his desk, scribbling furiously. Whenever his so-called "wand divination" produced a wrong answer, the parchment immediately rejected it—sending him into helpless fits of rage.
Driven mad by the noise, Hermione finally snapped:
"Can you be quiet for one minute? Instead of blaming your wand, why can't you calm down and think for yourself instead of relying on… divination?"
Ron retorted righteously,
"But I don't know the answers! Not a single one!"
"Then why did you spend every day watching Harry train? Two whole weeks—enough time to redo the entire first-year curriculum!"
"Nonsense!" Ron scoffed. "I didn't go to watch Harry for fun. I was encouraging him! The final match is a life-or-death battle—Harry's under enormous pressure! Someone has to cheer for him!"
At that moment, the common room door opened, and Harry staggered inside, utterly exhausted—ashen-faced, lips cracked, looking half-dead.
The argument ceased instantly.
Ron hurried to help Harry onto the sofa while Hermione poured him tea.
"Harry, are you all right? You look terrible," Hermione asked anxiously. "Training didn't go well?"
Harry nodded, opening his mouth—only to find no sound came out.
He didn't panic. It had happened many times recently—too much flying, too much shouting, too much wind.
After sipping the tea, his throat finally felt less raw.
"Slytherin's developed new tactics," he rasped. "Angelina spotted them yesterday. Wood and I spent all day trying to work out counters."
At the mention of new tactics, Ron immediately perked up, eager to pry for details.
Hermione cut him off sharply.
"Can't you see how bad he looks? Let him rest!"
Harry nodded gratefully, then asked,
"What about you two? How was your day?"
Ron sulked.
"Terrible. She wouldn't let me watch you. My only companions were homework and more homework."
At the word homework, Harry felt like dying on the pitch would've been preferable.
Training was exhausting—but homework was unavoidable.
He changed the subject hastily.
"Hermione, are you still investigating the professors?"
Ever since Hermione and Vaughn went into the Forest over a week ago, she'd resumed tracking the Dark Wizard.
Harry cared deeply about this—after all, he was still carrying a Dark curse.
"Yes," Hermione replied. "I've been following up again recently—"
Ron's eyes bulged.
"Following? When? Aren't you supervising us every day?"
"Of course—while Harry goes to training and you tag along!" Hermione snapped.
"And don't act surprised at how I find time. If you didn't spend ten minutes working and an hour staring into space, you'd have time to spare too!"
An angry Hermione was like a ferocious little lion. Ron was silenced completely.
Harry scratched his cheek awkwardly. In terms of zoning out during homework, he and Ron were identical—and wisely kept quiet.
Fortunately, Hermione didn't pursue that tangent.
She continued,
"Based on our earlier investigation and what I've found recently, we can rule out most professors. Between Snape and Quirrell, I'm now convinced Professor Quirrell is the Dark Wizard."
Neither Harry nor Ron liked that answer.
"Why?"
"Yeah—Snape treats Harry like dirt! Quirrell's always been kind—he even admires Harry!"
Harry scratched his face, embarrassed.
"That's exactly the problem," Hermione said, eyes shining. "Harry—do you remember the day you first went to Diagon Alley?"
"Of course. I'll never forget it."
"Then answer me this," Hermione pressed.
"That day—when Hagrid withdrew the Philosopher's Stone from Gringotts, and the break-in happened—how many Hogwarts professors did you meet?"
Harry froze—then jolted.
"…Only one. At the Leaky Cauldron. Quirrell!"
The pieces snapped together.
Hagrid retrieved the Stone.
Gringotts was robbed.
Quirrell was at the Leaky Cauldron.
What had seemed coincidence now formed a line.
Hermione nodded in satisfaction.
"Exactly. I checked—during that period, aside from Professor McGonagall and Quirrell, every professor remained at Hogwarts. Excluding Professor McGonagall, only Quirrell's movements match the timing and location of the Gringotts incident."
Neither Harry nor Ron questioned excluding McGonagall.
Her fairness and integrity were beyond doubt.
Harry felt his mouth go dry. After a long moment, he looked up, conflicted.
He didn't want to accept it—but Hermione's reasoning and evidence were compelling. No matter how unlikely, Quirrell was the prime suspect.
The realization felt surreal.
Perhaps because he'd once been weak and bullied himself, Harry had always sympathized with Quirrell.
Quirrell had also been the professor most attentive and kind to him.
Memories resurfaced—of last Halloween night, of the horrifying presence in the fourth-floor corridor, power so evil it twisted the light itself.
Harry's scar throbbed.
He slumped back on the sofa, pressing a hand to his forehead.
"So… what do we do?"
Hermione sighed.
"Nothing."
"What?"
"All of this is deduction. We have no proof. Since Halloween, the Dark Wizard hasn't appeared again. We can't accuse a professor on speculation—that would only alert him."
Harry's breathing grew ragged.
"So we just watch?"
Unexpectedly, Ron agreed with Hermione.
"She's right, Harry. Without proof, we can't accuse anyone. It's like the Muggle world—knowing someone's bad doesn't matter without evidence."
Harry paced restlessly, anger and disappointment churning together.
Someone who'd treated him kindly… wanting to hurt him.
It hurt more than he expected.
At last, he snapped.
"If you won't do anything, I will! I'll tell Professor McGonagall—I'll tell Dumbledore!"
He bolted from the tower.
"Harry—wait!" Ron shouted, chasing after him.
Hermione followed with a sigh. She already knew how this would end.
When she'd first shared her conclusion with Vaughn, he hadn't confirmed or denied it. He'd only asked:
How will you prove it to Dumbledore?
She couldn't. And she doubted McGonagall would listen to a student.
Sure enough, when Hermione arrived at McGonagall's office, she heard the Deputy Headmistress's stern voice from within:
"Mr Potter, what evidence do you have that Professor Quirrell is the Dark—Dark Wizard?"
"I—"
"Is this another attempt to avoid homework, Mr Potter? Frankly, your audacity is astonishing—no student has ever tried to slander a professor as an excuse!"
"I'm not—I didn't—"
"Oh? Then tell me, Mr Potter—have you finished your homework?"
Harry: "..."
Outside the door, Ron's raised hand froze. Hermione covered her face.
One sentence—Have you finished your homework?—extinguished Harry's righteous fury.
He should be grateful McGonagall still hoped for his success in the post-Easter Quidditch match, and thus quietly suppressed the matter.
On any other day, doubled homework would've been inevitable.
Along with his anger, Harry's reliance on adults was extinguished.
On the walk back, he fumed,
"I shouldn't have relied on adults at all. A Dark Wizard that dangerous—and they've searched for half a year without finding him! Since they won't believe us, we'll handle it ourselves!"
Ron stared.
"Ourselves? How?"
"By watching Quirrell," Harry said firmly. "From today on, we observe everything he does. He won't give up on the Stone. Sooner or later, he'll slip."
"If adults won't protect it—then we will!"
Ron swallowed. He'd never faced the Dark Wizard directly, but he knew exactly how dangerous someone capable of casting the Killing Curse at Hogwarts must be.
Still—he was a Gryffindor.
Backing down out of fear wasn't an option.
He quickly proposed a safer alternative:
"Harry—we should tell Vaughn. Professors won't help, but Vaughn can. He's stopped that Dark Wizard before."
Hermione rolled her eyes.
"Aren't you the one who hates asking your brother for help?"
"That's different," Ron declared solemnly.
"Normally I don't ask for my dignity. This time I'm asking for your lives. If sacrificing my pride keeps you safe, it's worth it!"
Hermione: "..."
Harry's eyes glistened with emotion.
The next day at noon, Ron crept outside Vaughn's dormitory.
Guoguo Tea greeted him with a raised paw.
Since he was asking for help, Ron didn't curse the cat this time. He even brought a bag of dried fish—though Guoguo Tea sniffed once and disdainfully swept it away with her tail.
Ron explained everything and looked at Vaughn hopefully.
"You'll help us, right?"
In the wide dormitory—built for four or five students but occupied only by Vaughn—light from the Black Lake rippled across the walls.
Vaughn sat behind his desk, half his face hidden in shadow, chin resting on his hand. His gaze held unmistakable amusement.
"What if I say no?" he asked calmly.
"Merlin!" Ron gaped. "Harry's your friend, Hermione's your girlfriend, and me—your brother!"
Vaughn laughed softly.
"Ronald Weasley, how many times have you admitted being my brother?"
Ron flushed.
"Enough nonsense—are you helping or not?"
"Oh?" Vaughn twirled his quill. "Is that how you beg? I'm not convinced. Try again."
Ron clenched his jaw, teeth grinding.
At last, in a voice like a mosquito's buzz:
"B—Brother. Please help us."
Vaughn burst out laughing. After letting Ron suffer just long enough, he finally nodded.
"Of course, my dear little brother. You're foolish and foul-tempered, like a stone in a toilet—but as your brother, I'll never abandon you."
Ron exploded.
"I've never seen a brother like you!"
"Now you have," Vaughn smiled. "By the way—why didn't you let Hermione ask me instead?"
Ron snorted.
"It was my idea. I won't hide behind her!"
Vaughn raised an eyebrow.
Perhaps he'd underestimated Ron's courage and sense of responsibility. Reckless bravery and true resolve weren't the same thing—and Ron was closer to the latter than Vaughn had thought.
After sending Ron away, Vaughn went straight to the Headmaster's office.
He informed Dumbledore—who had just finished lunch and was enjoying dessert—about Harry and the others' decision to monitor Quirrell.
Dumbledore wasn't surprised.
"As expected. Harry isn't a child who gives up easily. His recklessness is precisely why he must be tested."
"In my view," Vaughn replied coolly, "your inaction has seriously damaged Harry's trust in you and the other professors. He may rely on you less and less in the future."
"I welcome that," Dumbledore said gently.
"In my younger years, I loved displaying my wisdom—drawing everyone into my plans, making them depend on me. After suffering failure, I learned to compromise—to let a free soul grow by his own will. That soul showed me many possibilities."
Vaughn narrowed his eyes.
"That 'free soul' wouldn't happen to be me, would it?"
"Correct, my dear boy!"
"Tsk."
"I've learned much from you, child," Dumbledore continued.
"I know you've always opposed testing Harry—not out of boredom, like Severus, but because of principle. You believe no one can control everything—especially living beings."
"Life cannot remain forever within a prescribed framework. It will always find its own way. Those were your words—wise beyond your years."
"So I'm glad Harry is learning independence, even if it makes him reckless."
Vaughn listened silently, then sneered,
"Yet now they've simply shifted their dependence onto me."
Dumbledore smiled serenely.
"That's fine. In due time, you'll leave the school on sudden business—just as I often do—and Harry will embark on his independent adventure."
You scheming old man.
Vaughn curled his lip.
"Honestly, this change in attitude makes it feel like you're arranging your affairs."
What was meant as a jibe turned heavy.
Dumbledore spread his hands calmly.
"That's not entirely wrong. Such considerations are part of why my thinking has changed."
The office fell into silence.
After a long moment, Vaughn asked quietly,
"Fate?"
"Yes… fate," Dumbledore said softly.
"A premonition. A sense that one day, some years from now, I'll embark on another journey."
"When will you die?"
"I don't know."
"How?"
"I don't know."
Vaughn stared at him.
"You know nothing—how is that a prophecy? I know I'll die one day too. Everyone does!"
Dumbledore chuckled, stroking his beard.
"It's different, my dear. You lack the gift of Divination. It's like wrestling endlessly with a problem—then, without warning, the answer appears, and your mind becomes utterly clear."
"A powerful instinct tells me that, one day in the future, because of something, my life will reach its end."
Vaughn tried to imagine it—and failed. It sounded more like senility than foresight.
And the old man even took the opportunity to mock his Divination talent—how irritating.
Normally Vaughn would've snapped back, but today he held himself in check.
"Is there a way to avoid it?"
To his surprise, Dumbledore was unconcerned.
"Why should I?"
Vaughn frowned sharply.
"The Albus Dumbledore I know isn't someone who submits to fate!"
Dumbledore laughed heartily.
"Human nature is complex and contradictory. No label can fully capture a person's beliefs."
"Yes, I dislike submitting to fate. When facing Grindelwald, when facing Tom—I always rebelled, tried to bend fate to my will."
"But those struggles were necessary. Their whirlpools of destiny endangered countless innocents. If I didn't intervene, many would die."
"But if it's only the fate of Albus Dumbledore—such a small destiny—why resist it?"
He popped a cockroach cluster into his mouth, smiling.
"As you said, all people eventually wither. Some die warmly in bed; others on the battlefield."
"Remember my words—death is but the next great adventure."
Vaughn fell silent, unsure whether this was wisdom—or escape.
Compared to Dumbledore's contradictions, Vaughn felt simpler. He would never entrust his life or future to something so intangible.
He respected fate—not as an authority, but as a source of knowledge and power.
After a long pause, he asked,
"Whose destiny vortex is causing this premonition?"
Dumbledore had once said that fate was like a cruel god—each era birthed chosen ones who tore through the web of destiny, dragging innocents into their wake.
If canon held true, Dumbledore's death would be tied to Harry and Tom.
But now—that wasn't guaranteed.
Dumbledore paused, smiling gently.
"I'm sorry, my dear. I don't know."
Vaughn lowered his gaze.
Did Dumbledore truly not know?
He remembered the magic Dumbledore used to observe the Web of Fate. Even if he couldn't divine the future, tracing a disturbance backward should be possible.
Perhaps his "I don't know" was simply unwillingness to say.
Perhaps the one who caused his premonition… was already very close.
That night, the Black Lake outside the Slytherin common room was dark and unfathomable.
Vaughn lay in bed, staring at the canopy tassels, still thinking about Dumbledore's words.
There was one thing he'd never forgotten.
Dumbledore had once told him that the disturbance in Harry's and Tom's destinies began when the Werewolf Affairs Committee was founded.
Vaughn knew little about fate—but he understood one universal principle:
to disturb a vortex, a larger vortex must form.
The thing that interfered with Harry's and Tom's destinies wasn't the committee itself.
It was the one who pushed it into existence—
Vaughn Weasley.
Vaughn had always known what he wanted, what he was pursuing.
He didn't actually like the current magical world.
In his eyes, its potential was vastly underdeveloped. A power and knowledge system so different from Muggle science was being lazily managed by complacent wizards.
Magic and alchemy had existed for thousands of years—yet no rigorous, unified system had ever been established. Wizarding society still lived as if it were stuck in the Middle Ages.
And above all—
The so-called International Statute of Secrecy, the law that completely severed the magical and Muggle worlds, was nothing but regression.
PS: I've been releasing chapters daily . Honestly, it hurts seeing almost no support on Patreon after all that work.
If you're enjoying the fic, even a little, supporting me would mean a lot. It helps a student stay independent .
fic (70+ ahead chapters ) are already up on P@treon → patreon.com/FinalArcHero789
◇ BONUS & SUPPORT ◇
◇ 1 bonus chapter for every 10 reviews — drop a comment!
◇ 1 bonus chapter for every 100 Power Stones.
◇ Read 70 chapters ahead on P@treon → patreon.com/FinalArcHero789