It was another early morning in the basement.
Gray light filtered in through the skylight, and the shadows of falling snow danced outside.
Vaughn lay on the laboratory table as several lamps focused beams of light before his eyes. The light was gathered by magic and spread evenly across his workspace like a pool of viscous liquid.
Floating around him were rows of densely packed yet orderly glass slides.
The scarlet blood within them gleamed like gemstones, occasionally pulsing with a magical glow.
"Specimen No. 763."
Murmuring to himself, Vaughn watched as a glass slide floated toward the microscope, replacing No. 762, which automatically withdrew to make room under the objective lens.
Time slipped by as he methodically verified each specimen. When Vaughn finally stood up to stretch his aching back, dawn had already passed.
Rubbing his rumbling stomach, Vaughn gave in to his hunger. With a wave of his wand, a box on the laboratory table opened, and the floating glass slides automatically filed themselves away. The microscope, now finished with its task, stretched out its limbs and tucked itself beneath a dustproof cloth.
With a snap of his fingers, wool sweaters, jackets, and velvet suits flew from the hangers in the corner.
His lab coat slipped off automatically and tossed itself into the nearby laundry tub.
Regular clothes surged toward him and dressed him neatly. An enchanted iron zipped through the air, spinning around him in search of wrinkles to press out.
This was the House Magic.
Vaughn stifled a yawn and muttered, "The professor sure knows how to live."
He was currently staying at Snape's home, tucked away in the remote outskirts of a small, rundown town called Cokeworth—
No. 19, Spinner's End.
As the town's name suggested, it belonged to the Muggle world. From the narrow skylight above the basement, Vaughn could see a towering smokestack standing tall in the distance, overlooking the entire town.
After packing up, Vaughn climbed out of the basement.
There was no warm, spacious living room or welcoming host waiting for him. As he pushed open the basement door and stepped into the main house, all he saw was a small, cramped room.
The ceiling lamps had lit a ring of candles, but their dim glow did little to brighten the space. The walls were crammed with books, making the already tight room feel even more claustrophobic.
What little floor space remained barely fit an old sofa, a worn recliner, and a shaky table. The furnishings gave off an air of gloom and age, with nothing remotely cheerful in sight.
Just like Snape, who was currently sitting on the sagging sofa with a vacant stare, lost in thought.
Vaughn remained unaffected. He waved cheerfully. "Hey, Professor, had breakfast yet?"
Snape's blank eyes flickered, as if snapping out of a trance. He glanced at Vaughn, responding to his liveliness with a cold, "No."
"So you didn't cook? Fantastic. Give me a few pounds, Professor, I'll grab breakfast myself."
Snape: "..."
The stagnant air in the room suddenly felt more alive. With a stiff face, Snape fumbled around in his pocket for a while before producing a crumpled £5 note.
"The last one."
"You can't live like this, Professor. You're in a Muggle neighborhood, you need to keep some Muggle cash on hand! Christmas is only two days away. Are we supposed to eat snow tonight?"
Watching Vaughn snatch the money and grumble, Snape nearly reached for his wand.
Of course, there was food in the house. He never spent all the pounds he exchanged each trip home. But ever since he cooked for Vaughn two nights ago, the insufferable brat had begun criticizing his meals—
The summer's supply of Muggle cash had started to dwindle quickly.
"Shut up."
"Alright, alright—oh, by the way, Professor, I'm heading to the warehouse to check on the werewolves. Don't bother making lunch. But if you decide to go out to eat, let me know."
"Get lost."
Vaughn cheerfully waved goodbye to the increasingly irritated Snape and strolled out of the house, hands in his pockets, meandering through the remote and dilapidated town.
The industry that once gave Muggles purpose here had withered during England's economic shift in the 1990s. This town, named after industrial coke, had become a forgotten relic of the past.
Had it been spring or summer, there might've been a touch of life. But in the dead of winter, the snow-blanketed streets felt utterly deserted.
The rows of crumbling brick houses, their black windows lifeless, mirrored Snape's hollow eyes.
The Pea-shaped river running through the town was so filthy that even snow couldn't purify it. Weeds grew wild on its banks, garbage lay piled nearby, and the air reeked of rot and decay.
"So this is where Snape and the Evans sisters grew up?"
Vaughn shook his head. He recalled Cokeworth well. Long ago, a young Snape had met Lily Evans near a pond on the edge of town.
That must have been the happiest moment of his life.
After all, Snape had a Muggle father—angry, violent, and domineering. His pure-blood views may have taken root during childhood. His mother, Eileen Prince, hailed from the noble Prince family and was a genuine pure-blood, something his father loathed.
No one quite knew why a pure-blood witch would marry such a bitter Muggle, but the relationship clearly deteriorated, and their mutual resentment was taken out on each other—and on their child.
Vaughn hadn't seen any family photos in the cottage during his stay.
Clearly, the scars of childhood still haunted Snape. Since returning here, he'd grown more withdrawn, often sitting alone on the sofa, lost in thought.
That kind of mindset wasn't healthy. Vaughn figured he should do something to "liven him up."
Humming, Vaughn twirled the £5 note in his hand and made his way across town to a small eatery—the only one still serving breakfast.
He bought a coffee, a sausage sandwich, and an omelet. After a leisurely meal, he headed to the far side of town where a nearly abandoned warehouse stood.
The once-bustling industry had long since collapsed, and no one had rented this space in years.
Vaughn had taken over one warehouse to temporarily house his experimental subjects. His only concern was keeping Muggles at bay.
There wasn't even a guard on duty here. Passing through the wide-open gate, he approached the warehouse he had rented.
A few Muggle hooligans were loitering near the entrance in a daze.
Thanks to layered spells—Muggle-Reppelling Charm, Fidelius Charm, and Confusion charms—they couldn't get near the building. Nor could they leave.
This setup ensured they wouldn't go spreading wild stories about supernatural sightings. Before letting them go, Vaughn would implant false memories in each of them.
Walking into the warehouse, Vaughn switched on the lights. In the empty space, seven remaining werewolves looked up at him. He smiled and asked, "Did everyone sleep well last night?"
The sudden bright light stung eyes long used to the dark. The middle-aged man closest to the door, dressed like a tramp, slowly climbed to his feet and answered with a wry smile:
"Not bad. At least I'm still alive—"
Like the others around him, he was in poor condition. His long-worn trench coat, edges faded and frayed, had been patched over a dozen times, yet it remained neatly kept.
Since Vaughn had used up the other eight of Greyback's lackeys two days ago, he'd brought these seven werewolves here and granted them limited freedom.
That same middle-aged man had since begun caring for himself—an attempt to look like a person again, not a beast.
His gaze was no longer numb and deadened as it had been at the start.
Because over these past days, he had come to understand what Vaughn was trying to do—Vaughn had never hidden it from them when chatting with Snape.
The man lowered his head slightly. "Good morning, Mr. Weasley."
Following his lead, the other wanderers greeted Vaughn one after another. Their eyes glowed with the same light as William White's.
Vaughn observed them with a satisfied smile. "Gentlemen, have you finished the forms I asked you to fill out yesterday?"
"Yes, Mr. Weasley, we've completed them," William replied, handing over a stack of forms with both hands.
The form wasn't complicated—basic questions about their lives and personal histories. Vaughn casually flipped through the pages. "Hmm—Mr. White, you're a Muggle?"
"Yes. I was attacked and infected by a werewolf five years ago, while walking home from work on a full moon night," William White said, pain tightening his already-thin features.
"You also mentioned you have a wife and daughter. How long has it been since you saw them?"
"Five years... since I first transformed and almost hurt them." His thin shoulders trembled, and tears slid down the weary man's face.
Vaughn nodded and refrained from probing further. He began reviewing the other forms, occasionally asking questions.
Soon, he finished reading all seven. With a snap of his fingers, a silent, wandless fire spell ignited the stack. Flames quickly consumed the paper.
He paced slowly in front of the werewolves, who watched him in silence, eyes flickering with a mix of emotion.
At a certain point, Vaughn stopped.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I believe you all understand what I'm doing. Yes—I'm working on a cure for lycanthropy."
Though they'd already suspected it, hearing Vaughn confirm it aloud caused the wanderers to stir with quiet excitement.
The youngest among them, a seventeen-year-old werewolf named Little Banar, began to sob. He had no surname. Bitten by Greyback at a very young age, he hadn't even realized his condition until his first transformation, when he tore his own parents to pieces.
The others had similarly tragic stories. In comparison, William White was the most fortunate.
After a while, when the emotions had quieted, Vaughn continued:
"Of course, this potion, which I've named Wolfsbane, is far from complete. The formula we've finalized for now may only allow you to remain sane during full moon transformations."
"That's more than enough, Mr. Weasley," William White interjected, eyes shimmering with tears. "We're not like those lunatics who follow Greyback. We don't dare live among people or even approach them, afraid we'll lose control and hurt someone."
"For us, just staying sane is a miracle. At least we won't wake up covered in blood, unsure of whose lives we've destroyed."
"You may be noble, and perhaps you have your own ambitions. But for people like us, surviving the transformation with our minds intact is everything."
Vaughn was silent for a moment. Noble?
He certainly didn't feel noble. Noble people didn't brew potions for fame and profit. Noble people didn't perform live dissections just to improve a formula.
But it wasn't all selfishness either—at least, Vaughn acknowledged, he did pity these wanderers.
Even if his tone could be condescending at times.
He couldn't truly feel their pain, but this conversation had deepened his understanding of the despair werewolves carried. These were the same people who'd seen him dissect Greyback's lackeys without blinking.
No sane person would call him "noble."
But in their eyes, Vaughn brought hope. That hope, perhaps, was enough to make them overlook or forgive everything else. How desperate must they be to cling so tightly to a sliver of hope?
Vaughn let go of the heavy thoughts and looked around.
"In that case," he said, "would you all be willing to help me with something?"
"Please, go ahead."
"I'll let you go. I want you to find other werewolf wanderers—those you think are still worth saving. The more, the better. Ideally, some who were once wizards. When the time comes, use this to contact me."
He handed William White a piece of parchment.
"Have a wizard write on it with their wand. I'll see it."
William accepted it with trembling fingers. His voice was low, anxious, and hopeful. "Sir… how do I convince them to believe me?"
Vaughn smiled. "After Christmas, you'll see it in the papers."
William White left with a mission—and a spark of hope.
Vaughn, after returning the warehouse keys to the property manager, stepped out onto the road—only to see Snape standing silently beneath a tree, like a ghost.
He had cast enchantments over the warehouse to monitor for trouble. Naturally, he'd sensed the activity.
Staring off in the direction the werewolves had gone, Snape frowned. "What exactly are you planning?"
"I'm sending them to find others like them. That's all."
Snape clearly didn't think it was that simple. His gaze darkened as he asked, "Do you know who you're starting to resemble?"
Vaughn raised an eyebrow. "Voldemort?"
Snape inhaled deeply and suppressed his unease. "Exactly. Just like when he instructed his Death Eaters to recruit the pure-blood families."
"But the goal is different, Professor. I just want to be prepared."
"Prepared for what?"
Vaughn didn't answer directly. Instead, he asked, "How do you think I can ensure werewolves use Wolfsbane once I release it?"
"They can buy it—" Snape began, then faltered mid-sentence.
He realized the problem.
Vaughn sighed. "Exactly, Professor. They can't afford it. You've seen the way they live—isolated, half-savage. How could they possibly pay for medicine?"