"And I can't be so generous as to say that all wolfsbane potions will be distributed for free. I don't have that kind of money—and I'm not that selfless."
"More importantly, even if I agree to give it out for free, no shop will be willing to sell it. In that case, for every bottle they sell, they'd be losing money on storage and operating costs. No one would do something so foolish, Professor."
As a Potions Master, Snape had long since forgotten the struggle of earning a living—dozens of apothecaries practically lined up just to shove Galleons into his pocket. But that didn't mean he couldn't understand.
The moment Vaughn laid it out, Snape grasped the logic immediately and forced down the creeping déjà vu, so reminiscent of Voldemort that it made his skin crawl.
He paused, then asked quietly, "So what are you going to do?"
Vaughn slipped his hands into his pockets and began walking.
"This sort of thing can't be solved in private. With the current number of werewolves in the wizarding world, even including you and me, we couldn't possibly brew enough wolfsbane potions—even if we worked ourselves to death. So, I plan to make the formula public. But that brings a whole new set of problems."
"First of all, once the formula is released, how many potion-makers will actually be willing to take on the job? Who will organize them? Do we just expect them to offer help for free? Second, the huge demand for raw ingredients will definitely drive up prices and increase costs. So who handles that?"
Vaughn came to a stop and said calmly, "To truly solve these problems, the entire wizarding world must take responsibility. In other words, the Ministry of Magic has to get involved. And that, Professor, is what worries me the most."
"You're afraid the Ministry won't agree?"
"No. I'm afraid they'll be too eager," Vaughn replied, shaking his head. "This is about politics. Who feels most threatened by werewolves? Wizards and the Statute of Secrecy. And those two things are the pillars that uphold the Ministry.
If the danger of werewolves can be eliminated, of course, the Ministry will be willing to fund every bottle of wolfsbane potion. In their eyes, anything that can be solved with gold is the simplest kind of problem."
"But then what? Do you think they'll spend mountains of Galleons to deliver potions to every werewolf every month?"
"No. They won't. Even someone like Greyback can think of forming a werewolf legion—do you think the Ministry won't see that too?"
"They'll come up with even more 'clever' ideas. If I were Fudge, I'd hold the wolfsbane potion tight, use it as bait to lure in desperate werewolves who long to return to normal life, and then force them to register under the Werewolf Registry Act, swear magical oaths, and receive legal citizenship. Doesn't that sound perfect?"
"But at the same time, I'd continue to stir up fear and rejection among ordinary wizards—remind them that wolfsbane doesn't cure lycanthropy. It just keeps them sane. They still have the potential to infect others."
"And once the divide is complete, when all werewolves are registered, sworn, and can no longer go back to a life of hiding or wandering, they'll have no choice but to cling to Fudge—or whoever holds the potion in the Ministry. They'll become tools of politicians, weapons and votes alike."
Snape's brow was damp with sweat.
He had spent most of his life buried in academia, never imagining that a single potion could spiral into such a political nightmare. And though he wasn't well-versed in politics, Snape knew one thing clearly—Fudge and the Ministry were entirely capable of such a move.
And then a more chilling thought struck him.
Who truly holds power in the Ministry? The pure-blood families. And if they controlled the werewolves?
Given their arrogant bloodlines and prejudice against Muggle-borns, the answer was obvious—and terrifying.
Compared to them, Greyback was nothing.
Snape might've supported pure-blood ideals, but he wasn't insane. He knew if things unfolded that way—if Voldemort ever returned—the next wizarding war might be worse than the last.
At least in the last war, a large number of wandering werewolves and their descendants stayed neutral.
Yes, the children of werewolves are also werewolves from birth. There were entire tribes like this—several hidden in Hogwarts' Forbidden Forest.
They had signed a pact with the school: protect Hogwarts in exchange for sanctuary in the forest, under centaur supervision. But in recent years, they had grown increasingly bitter toward their confinement.
And they weren't alone. Tribes like theirs existed throughout the magical world.
A chill wind swept past, and Snape shivered, suddenly aware that his back was soaked in cold sweat. He murmured, "We can't let the Ministry take control of this."
"Exactly." Vaughn nodded. "We can't sit back and let the Ministry of Magic make the decisions. By the time they act, it'll be too late. That's why I asked those men to find other werewolves—so this group can take the first step."
Vaughn didn't explain how they would 'take the initiative,' and Snape didn't ask.
His mind was already reeling with too much. In that moment, he truly missed Dumbledore. The cunning old man had a talent for navigating this kind of murky, shadowed complexity.
On the walk back, Vaughn looked up at the gray sky.
Though the clouds still loomed, the sun would break through eventually.
What Snape hadn't noticed was that Vaughn had listed all the possible threats involving the Ministry of Magic—yet never mentioned that he himself was the developer of the wolfsbane potion.
He was the one most naturally connected to werewolves.
---
The next day, Snape and Vaughn returned to Hogwarts. The beloved Potions Professor was still haunted by the conversation from the day before. He had barely slept that night, constantly tormented by visions of werewolves surrounding him every time he closed his eyes. He finally drifted off in the early morning hours.
Unfortunately, after only a few hours of sleep, he was jolted awake by frantic owls banging against his window. It was only then that he remembered—Christmas was coming!
As he opened the window, the owls, frozen stiff after hours of flying in the cold and now thoroughly enraged, dropped their parcels onto him and started pecking at his head in protest.
Snape swatted them away impatiently, tidied his hair, and began checking the names on each of the gift boxes.
Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, Malfoy—
Then, when he reached the last large box, his eyes landed on Vaughn's elegant cursive handwriting:
[~To the beloved Severus Snape, I hope you like it
Your student, Vaughn Weasley~]
Snape curled his lip ever so slightly, suddenly feeling a flicker of anticipation. But the moment he opened the box and saw dozens of neatly arranged bottles of shampoo, his mood dropped straight back down.
"Vaughn—Weasley!"
---
Meanwhile, in Slytherin's common room—
Vaughn, who had forgotten to close his door before sleeping, awoke to find himself buried in a mountain of gifts. Still groggy, he sat among the pile of presents in a daze, already feeling the pressure brought by his growing fame.
And he could easily foresee this only getting worse in the future.
Boxes tied with colorful ribbons were stacked from the bed to the floor. And that wasn't even all—while he was brushing his teeth, several more owls flew in.
They looked completely exhausted, as if they had flown an incredibly long distance. Upon landing, they made a beeline for the snacks Vaughn had thoughtfully set out the night before.
He gently combed their feathers and gave them water to drink. Only then did the poor creatures regain some strength.
By the time the clock struck nine, the flow of owls had finally stopped. Vaughn stared at the hundreds of packages and sighed with concern.
He called out, "Hexby, go get Ron for me."
The big fluffball darted out the door with excitement. It hadn't seen its favorite toy—the strange fat rat—in far too long.
Hexby, the beloved cat, proudly made its way out of the Slytherin dorms. The Slytherins, it passed on the way, all moved aside respectfully, some even opening the doors for it in advance, just in case it couldn't speak the password.
As a pet, it had truly achieved the pinnacle of cat luxury—basking in the glory of its master's influence.
When Hexby reached Gryffindor Tower, it didn't bother taking the usual route favored by the little lions. Instead, it took the secret shortcut taught by Mrs. Norris, exclusive to cats—the outer wall.
Harry and Ron had just woken up.
"Merry Christmas, Harry."
"Merry Christmas, Ron. Get up, there are presents under your bed."
Ron replied with little enthusiasm, "Don't need to look. I already know what's in them. Who else would send me anything?"
"Maybe Vaughn?"
"He already gave me something, remember? My wand."
Still, Ron climbed out of bed. Moments later, he sighed in disappointment.
"Just as I thought. Same as every year. Mum's sweater—ugh, still that awful dark purple. Merlin, this one's Charlie's—oh, a dragon scale, great. And forget Fred and George, don't open theirs. Those two bastards are up to no good—I'm not falling for it again!"
As Ron mumbled on, Harry began opening his much smaller stack of gifts.
To his surprise, the Dursleys hadn't forgotten him. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had sent him a shiny 50-pence coin.
Harry was so 'moved' he couldn't even bear to look at it.
So when Ron's eyes lit up with curiosity about this Muggle coin, Harry handed it to him immediately. Then Harry spotted the Weasley family gifts.
Ron had given him a full collector's set of Chudley Cannons trading cards.
The orange-red cards featured animated players sprinting in the wind, and Harry liked them instantly.
Vaughn had gifted a book titled A Guide to the 100 Most Vicious Offenders in Quidditch – How to Make Your Opponents Regret Living.
Harry: "…"
The next gift made him smile again. "Hey Ron, your mum sent me a sweater too."
It was bright green with the same rough stitching. The sunlight hit it just right, making Harry's face look oddly greenish.
Ron suddenly felt a little better.
Then they opened the final package: the Invisibility Cloak. There was no sender name, just a note claiming it had once belonged to Harry's father, James Potter.
Ron was amazed, but Harry hesitated. After the whole ordeal with the man in black robes, he wasn't sure whether this was a true family heirloom or a dark artifact.
As he pondered, Scabbers suddenly shrieked from the cage on Ron's desk.
The two boys turned to see a giant cat at the window, paws pressed against the glass, eyes locked on the trembling rat.
Ron sucked in a breath and clutched Scabbers' cage protectively, shouting, "Get rid of it! Get rid of that damn stinky cat!"
"Wait, I think it's looking for us."
Harry noticed Hexby only stared at Scabbers for a few seconds before turning to meow at him.
He cautiously opened the window. Sure enough, Hexby leapt in, let out two sharp meows, then headed for the door, pausing to glance back and forth between Harry and Ron.
Harry scratched his head. "We should follow. Maybe Vaughn's looking for us."
Ron still watched Hexby warily, only slinging Scabbers' cage over his shoulder once he was sure the cat wasn't planning to attack.
"Sooner or later, that cat and its lunatic owner are going to scare us to death." Grumbling, Ron followed Hexby out.
Before leaving, Harry hesitated for a moment, then picked up the box containing the Invisibility Cloak—he wanted Vaughn to take a look at it.
Ron grumbled all the way. When they arrived at Slytherin and stepped into Vaughn's dormitory, the moment he saw the gift boxes scattered all over the floor, he immediately understood his brother's intention.
"I knew you weren't calling me over out of kindness—"
"Ah—Harry, thank you for coming to help!"
Vaughn, who was waving his wand to sort the gifts, completely ignored Ron's gloomy face and greeted Harry with a cheerful smile.
Looking at that sunny grin and the sea of gifts that surrounded him, Harry suddenly wondered—why had he even come?
"Come on, Ronald, don't be upset. See this pile with the purple ribbons? All from clients. Help me open them and sort the letters inside—don't mess them up, I have to respond later."
"Harry, you get the easier job. These are probably from schoolmates. If any have names, write them on this parchment—I want to return the gifts. If they're unsigned, just leave them."
Under Vaughn's firm instructions, the two reluctantly bent over and began working.
Perhaps fate was playing tricks—Harry opened the first box and found it was from Malfoy. He wrinkled his nose, but then laughed as he read the note: "To my dearest Mr. Vaughn Weasley."
"Wow," Harry chuckled. "First time seeing that smug git speak so sweetly."
Compared to that, Ron looked genuinely sick. He scanned the notes in his hand, labelled things like Vaughn Sweetheart, Angel of My Youth, My Sweet Honeybee, and groaned with hollow eyes:
"Harry, do you know who Vaughn's clients are? All old witches who need potions to smooth wrinkles and transfer fat to their thighs."
Harry caught a glance and immediately turned away.
Meanwhile, Vaughn wasn't slacking either. He was personally handling the gifts from more important people.
Take Dumbledore's gift, for example: a pair of woolen socks. The card read:
"My dear friend, I'm still in Romania. It was a pleasure meeting Arthur and Molly—we shared many wonderful stories about you. I heard you've developed a new potion. I'll be back for the Christmas dinner tonight. Let's catch up then!
Also, do you remember that wish I once told you? I really hope it comes true this year."
Vaughn sneered. Shameless old man. Still dreaming about wool socks? Keep dreaming!
In return, Vaughn gifted Dumbledore a pink cashmere robe—soft, elegant, and very girlish.
Hagrid sent a woven filter cloth for straining potion residue. Though the craftsmanship was a bit rough, the material was rare: unicorn tail hairs he'd collected.
Sensing the faint magical energy flowing through it, Vaughn sighed at how well-off Hogwarts' gamekeeper actually was.
His family's gifts were the usual—nothing worth mentioning. Only Ron, who had recently borrowed some money and had extra to spare, gave him a Chudley Cannons doll ornament.
Hermione gifted a poetry collection by Robert Southey. Before the holidays, she'd often seen Vaughn leafing through the Ravenclaw library's poetry books, probably thinking he liked that romantic style.
Professor McGonagall gave him a Transfiguration Notebook—her own class prep notes from her time as Dumbledore's assistant. It included her Transfiguration insights and Dumbledore's personal guidance.
Vaughn loved it immediately, wrapped it carefully in a protective cover, and tucked it into the secret compartment of his bedside bookshelf.
Professor Flitwick's gift was another book: A Brief History of Ancient Magic. Vaughn flipped through it curiously. It wasn't a spellbook, but a general history, introducing ancient magical knowledge. Unlike modern magic, ancient magic was complex, ritual-based, and far less convenient—but it boasted immense power.
"I'll study this when I have time," Vaughn muttered, sliding the book into his shelf.
Then he found Snape's gift. It was in a plain, somewhat worn box that smelled faintly of medicinal herbs—probably reused from potion storage.
But the contents were anything but simple. As Vaughn lifted the item out, Ron inhaled sharply.
Harry looked over and saw a thumb-sized glass vial in Vaughn's hand. Inside, golden liquid shimmered like molten sunshine.
Harry wrinkled his nose and whispered, "What is that?"
"Felix Felicis," Ron sighed dreamily. "The most magical potion ever. Drink it and for the next twenty-four hours, nothing will go wrong—everything will go your way!"
Harry's eyes widened. His mind instantly began spinning wild daydreams—him drinking Felix Felicis and solving all his problems. Even someone as unlucky as him immediately grasped how priceless that potion was.
Damn it.
Did Snape pour all his hatred on me and all his affection on Vaughn?
Vaughn was also surprised. He hadn't expected Snape to give him something so valuable. He actually knew the formula—it was in Advanced Potion-Making—but he'd never considered brewing it.
The requirements were brutal: one key ingredient, the "Immortal Flower" (amaranth—though Vaughn preferred the translation meaning "unfading" over the literal one), required 23 petals per batch.
Another ingredient, the freely given blood of a three-month-old unicorn foal, was even harder to acquire.
Worse still, the brewing process took six months of constant attention.
Half a year of nerves and babying a single potion? Vaughn didn't have that kind of time.
So to receive an actual vial of it...
"Damn it, he gave me something so expensive—and I gave him... shampoo?" Vaughn's conscience twinged—for a moment. Then he tucked the bottle happily into its box and stored it away in the secret compartment.
After unboxing the rest of the gifts from key partners (material suppliers, apothecary owners), Vaughn spotted a letter.
It was from a fellow pharmacist—his pen pal. When Vaughn was once under siege for his theories in The Extraordinary Potion, she had been his first supporter.
"Dear Vaughn Weasley,
I'm thrilled to receive your letter, even though it reached me during a hectic journey. Apologies for the late reply.
I'm currently in North America. The situation here is tense. The French authority is extremely wary of foreign wizards. They confiscated my owl. Aurors follow me everywhere, as if they think I'll whip out my wand and curse a No-Maj in public."
Vaughn frowned.
He knew that the North American French Congress was one of the strictest enforcers of the 'International Statute of Secrecy.'
There, the magical world was completely isolated from No-Maj society.
The backstory was complex, but it was said that the North American No-Maj government had been trying to decipher magical power for decades, even capturing wizards for experimentation.
This created deep insecurity in the magical community—most wizards, especially students, were not strong enough to resist.
Under pressure, the Magical Congress had gone to extremes, enforcing harsh rules: no intermarriage with No-Majs, No-Maj-born wizards were forbidden from discussing magic with their families, and if secrets were leaked, memory wipes followed.
He kept reading:
"...The enforcement of the secrecy laws is cruel. I met a poor student from Ilvermorny who used magic to save his sick parents. The Congress found out and erased his parents' memories of him. Just like that, he became a stranger in his own home."
"And regarding intermarriage, during Halloween, a witch attacked the Woolworth Building, headquarters of the L-French Congress.
They say she married a No-Maj six years ago and had three sons. This summer, the Congress found them. Her husband and children either had their memories erased or were eliminated—the rumors vary. Either way, she went mad…"
The long letter continued with more stories, giving Vaughn a clearer view of that distant, oppressive magical world.
Though none of it was comforting, Vaughn could imagine North America was a powder keg, just waiting to explode.
With the letter came a Christmas gift: a feather from a Thunderbird, a rare, magical creature now only found in Arizona.
After reading, Vaughn picked up his quill and began replying:
"Dear Isabella Rosier,
I'm so glad to hear from you. I've read about your experiences, and I must say—it may be even worse than you think.
If possible, I suggest returning to England or France.
Also, I have wonderful news to share: I've developed a children's version of the Wolfsbane Potion. It will soon be released.
I truly hope we can share in the joy together."