The speculation and search for the Chamber of Secrets was a refreshing diversion in Vaughn's otherwise busy life.
He had completed all the preparations for the new potion and was simply waiting for Professor Snape to take him to find a werewolf.
Two days later, when Vaughn stepped out of the Slytherin common room, neatly dressed, he spotted Snape standing silently in a dark corner of the corridor.
The professor looked like he was making some sort of shady underground deal.
"Professor, get some sun—it won't kill you," Vaughn quipped.
"Shut up."
"Alright, Professor."
They walked to Snape's office together, where Snape, wearing his usual stern expression, handed him a basin of Floo Powder.
"To Knockturn Alley. Don't say it wrong."
Vaughn suddenly found himself missing Fawkes' rebirth flames—how convenient those had been, unlike Floo Powder, which left him dusty and coughing.
Still, he grabbed a handful and stepped into the fireplace.
Following the proper steps, he emerged into a dark, narrow alleyway.
Unlike the not-too-distant Diagon Alley, the public fireplaces here were run-down, and shadowy figures loitered in the corners.
Each time the green flames burst to life, the newly arrived figure would quickly pull their cloak tight and rush away without pause.
Vaughn, unfazed, brushed the soot off his robes and waited. A moment later, the fireplace behind him flared again.
Snape did not step out right away.
Vaughn could see him standing within the flames, quietly waving his wand.
He grinned. "Professor, are you secretly cleaning off the ashes?"
Through gritted teeth came the reply: "Shut—your—mouth!"
Not long after, Snape stepped out, neat and spotless. His robes were perfectly pressed, and his black hair gleamed, not a speck of ash in sight.
If not for Vaughn's earlier outburst, no one would have suspected anything at all.
Snape glared at him before turning and leading the way toward a shop.
Knockturn Alley was infamous across the wizarding world. It was where dark wizards brokered shady, often illegal deals.
Yet despite its reputation, the Ministry of Magic had never truly shut it down. It survived, and that meant it had its own methods of staying useful.
Vaughn knew that many illicit deals weren't done in plain sight here. Beneath the alley was an underground district, hidden behind ordinary-looking shops.
Borgin and Burke's was one such shop.
On the surface, it sold antiques—nothing illegal, just a gray area industry that skirted the edge of magical law. Whether the antiques contained dangerous dark magic… well, that was the buyer's problem.
When Snape led Vaughn into Borgin and Burke's, the owner, Mr. Borgin, didn't even glance up. He seemed completely absorbed in combing his slicked-back hair.
Only when Vaughn looked his way did the man flash a greasy smile.
Snape ignored him and pulled Vaughn deeper into the shop, where he opened a trapdoor and descended, Vaughn following behind.
They landed in a narrow cellar—barely enough room for two. As the trapdoor closed, Snape murmured an incantation, and Vaughn felt the walls begin to shift.
Moments later, the space brightened, and a door appeared before them.
When they pushed it open, a bustling underground street stretched out before them—cracked stone paths, dirty puddles, and crumbling storefronts.
The air was heavy with the stench of rotting frog guts and fermented snake venom. Dim torchlight flickered only near a handful of shops, casting long shadows.
Shady figures scurried across the street, whispering in hushed tones. Occasionally, someone shouted an incantation—flashes of magic lit the darkness, followed by screams and silence.
No one around reacted.
"What a mess," Vaughn muttered when he saw a flash of green light in the distance.
Snape's face remained impassive. He casually blasted away a cloaked figure who rushed at them and said in a cold, mocking tone, "To the scum here, you're a fat lamb waiting to be skinned. Try to have some self-awareness. I'd rather not receive a tear-soaked letter from your parents."
Vaughn shrugged. "Relax, Professor. I value my life more than you think."
A slight smirk curled on Snape's lips. "Let's hope so—"
On the way, he dispatched two more shady figures and brought Vaughn into a store. As the door opened, Vaughn heard a wizard yelling at the scrawny clerk behind the counter:
"You said this potion could cure dragon pox—look at me, look at my face—"
Flames shot from the man's nostrils, and his blue-tinged face looked worse for wear.
The old clerk swatted at him with a broom and pleaded, "Those potions are top-notch! Brewed by Master Snape himself—ah, Mr. Snape, perfect timing!"
Snape scoffed. "The potion works. If you hadn't been off mingling with dragons again, you'd be cured by now."
Vaughn looked at the wizard, stunned. He had assumed this man had been infected by accident, not that he was bold enough to actually tangle with dragons.
Thanks to Snape's intimidating presence, the dragon enthusiast finally stormed out.
The clerk, now grateful, shut the shop door and led them to the basement.
"Mr. Snape, these are all the werewolves you requested." He opened a heavy metal door.
Inside, the room was lined with cages welded to rough stone walls. In each one, people in ragged clothes sat or lay on the cold floor.
Some looked vacant, like dolls with broken strings. Others growled like caged beasts.
Vaughn turned to the clerk and asked, "Who are these werewolves? Strays? Or from Greyback's pack?"
The clerk looked to Snape first, saw he wasn't speaking, and quickly realized it was the boy doing the business.
He smiled politely and produced a parchment list. "We have both, sir. Their identities are noted here. Please, see for yourself."
Vaughn reviewed the list, matching faces to names.
After confirming the identities, he opened his enchanted bag and took out a pouch of gold galleons, handing it over. "May I use your basement?"
"Of course, sir. Take all the time you need." The old man replied obsequiously.
With the deal complete, Snape said, "I'll wait upstairs."
"Come here, boy! Let me taste your flesh!"
"Let me out, you red-haired piglet—!"
As Vaughn stepped into the chamber and shut the door, the captured werewolves erupted in threats and insults.
These were the fierce ones—members of Greyback's army.
Vaughn ignored their taunts, calmly comparing the list to the faces in each cage, one by one. Once everything was in order, he transfigured a nearby stone brick into a makeshift lab table.
From his enchanted bag, he began pulling out his potion tools.
A high-priced microscope ordered from Muggle society (enchanted to detect magical traces), a set of separation equipment designed by Vaughn himself (with basic centrifuge functions for tissue fluid analysis), a full set of enchanted surgical tools, automated extraction tanks, and self-writing quills—
As these items, which had cost over 2,000 gold Galleons to assemble, were arranged one by one,
Vaughn, now visibly pleased, began to hum a lighthearted tune.
The atmosphere in the dark basement suddenly took on a bizarre tone.
Once everything was in place, he pulled out a pair of glasses with magnification enchantments and slid them on. Then, tapping the parchment list in his hand with his wand, he smiled and said cheerfully:
"First subject—Mr. Marcus. Oh? You were the one who said you wanted a taste of my flesh, right?"
The werewolf named Marcus abruptly fell silent. His eyes widened beneath his tangled hair, fixed on the smiling boy who had already raised his wand.
"Transform—now."
With the force of a powerful transfiguration spell, the iron bars of the cage twisted like serpents, slithering around Marcus's limbs and head. They stretched upward and downward, anchoring through the ceiling and floor, suspending his body a foot above ground with his limbs splayed.
Vaughn then picked up a syringe, pushed his glasses up his nose, and said pleasantly, "Now, Mr. Marcus, let's begin. This potion will trigger your werewolf transformation and activate the virus in your system so I can observe and extract it. I trust you won't mind?"
Mr. Marcus, head bound and immobilized, gave no response. He couldn't even struggle.
As the potion entered his bloodstream, a guttural roar echoed from the werewolf, which quickly gave way to a blood-curdling scream. Above, in the shop, both Snape and the old clerk heard the noise but showed no reaction.
More than three hours later, around noon, Snape returned to the basement.
He caught the faint scent of brewing potion in the air, pushed open the door, and paused at the horrifying sight: Suspended in midair were several masses of decayed flesh, bones exposed in humanoid shapes.
Their skin had been removed, muscles and organs completely exposed, pink nerves twitching visibly.
Oddly, there was no blood. It had all been neatly drawn into jars that floated nearby. Whenever a vial was filled, it would automatically drift over to the separator and begin metaphorical rotation.
A variety of similar devices were operating nearby, their soft humming filling the air.
Even though Snape was used to Vaughn's unorthodox methods—often diverging from traditional potion-making—this scene still pushed the limits of his imagination.
Vaughn was lying on the lab table, magnification glasses pushed to his forehead, eyes glued to the microscope. On the slide, magical potion components swirled with faint luminescence.
At the other end of the table, a self-writing quill connected to his consciousness jotted down notes. Hearing the door, Vaughn looked up and smiled. "Ah, Professor. Is it noon already?"
"Yes," Snape replied after a pause. "How's the progress?"
"Very smooth," Vaughn replied in a bright tone. "Thanks to our cooperative gentlemen here, I've discovered where the werewolf virus hides."
"Unbelievably, werewolves have an extra organ compared to ordinary humans. While in human form, it's hidden behind the heart."
"But during transformation, this organ's tissue spreads into the lymphatic system. Through that, the sleeping fluids and blood become saturated with the virus—"
"Also, wolfsbane has proven partially effective. It suppresses the magical aspect of the virus, essentially a curse. That curse is the root of the werewolf's loss of sanity."
Flipping through his notes, Vaughn added thoughtfully, "The trouble is, the curse and the virus are symbiotic. Eliminate one, and the other regenerates. As it stands, wolfsbane only suppresses the curse, not removes it. So, any potion developed from it would merely preserve the werewolf's sanity."
Snape immediately took the pile of notes from Vaughn.
After reading swiftly, his face twitched. He glanced at Vaughn and said, "And you think that's not enough?"
Snapping back to the present, Vaughn shook his head. "If it's only about keeping transformed werewolves from going on rampages, sure, it's enough. But it does nothing to stop werewolves who willingly harm others."
"You're too much of a perfectionist," Snape chided, uncharacteristically.
"In my view, this potion is more than enough to help those poor souls you mentioned the other day. Or rather—it only helps them."
"They're the ones who were forced into this. Their suffering stems from transformations that spiral out of control. Your potion may not 'solve' the werewolf problem, but it will ease their burden, let them work, love, and live like normal people—"
He paused, visibly grimacing, as if recalling someone revolting. He skipped over that thought and concluded, "Anyway, it's valuable!"
Vaughn didn't respond immediately. He thought Snape sounded a little too idealistic. "Professor, prejudice is a mountain buried in people's hearts. If the problem can't be resolved completely, their situation won't really improve."
Still, after over three hours of research, Vaughn had to admit that resolving the issue completely was unlikely, at least for now.
He added, "Of course, you're right. It's definitely helpful. At the very least, it can stop werewolves who were unwillingly infected from hurting others."
Seeing Vaughn no longer caught up in his idealism, Snape returned to his cool tone and asked bluntly, "When are you releasing it?"
"It'll take some time," Vaughn said. "Today was just for testing traits. The traits themselves can't be stored. Next, I'll need to run a series of tests to choose supporting ingredients and plan rituals to lock down the final potion formula—Ugh, I'm starving. Where are we eating?"
The sudden change in topic almost made Snape lose composure. "You're not going to deal with this mess?"
"Oh, right, I nearly forgot. Could you help me summon Fiendfyre to burn it all? These are Greyback's lapdogs; they should feel honored to contribute in this way."
"Hmph. Sadistic brat."
"Thank you for the compliment, Professor."
Soon, Fiendfyre consumed the rotting flesh, burning the cursed remains to ash.