Time passed quietly—so subtly that Vaughn barely noticed.
He had been buried in memories of magic and buried deeper still in a mountain of meetings. One moment, it was snowing over the Black Lake—and the next, the ice had melted, fresh buds sprouted on trees, and the mountains surrounding Hogwarts were cloaked in spring green once more.
Today was one of those rare, perfect days.
Spring sunlight danced across the lawn.
Hermione, humming a cheerful tune, had somehow procured a checkered picnic cloth and was carefully laying out food she'd smuggled from the Great Hall.
Guo Guo Cha, Vaughn's ever-loyal magical cat, hadn't seen him for two days. After circling and nuzzling him affectionately, she was soon distracted by the sight of shimmering fae-butterflies and took to leaping and darting through the grass in pursuit.
Vaughn lay back on the lawn with a satisfied sigh.
He snapped his fingers—and a soft bloom of bluebell fire flared to life at his fingertips. The gentle flame floated upward and hovered midair, swaying slightly in the cool breeze, radiating comforting warmth.
Out on the lake, the giant squid surfaced lazily, its enormous tentacles carving ripples through the water.
Peaceful moments like this were rare.
Vaughn stared up at the cloud-dappled sky, lost in thought.
Some time passed.
Hermione quietly lay down beside him—and then, with great subtlety, reached over and took his hand.
Vaughn turned to look at her.
She quickly turned her gaze away, eyes fixed stubbornly on the floating flame above them.
"I can do that spell too," she said a bit too quickly.
Then immediately regretted it.
Why do I always sound like I'm trying to one-up him? she groaned internally.
Vaughn chuckled.
Hermione flushed bright red in embarrassment.
"Let's not talk about magic today," Vaughn said with a soft smile. "Otherwise, this picnic will turn into a study session."
Hermione bit her lip, wracking her brain for a new topic.
And found, to her horror, that it was... surprisingly hard.
She had always taken pride in her intelligence, but now her clever mind had completely stalled.
Apart from academics, what did she and Vaughn ever talk about?
Thankfully, Vaughn seemed to notice her awkwardness and offered, "We could talk about your family?"
"Oh—right. My mum and dad are both Muggle dentists. Do you know what that is?"
The moment Hermione slipped into lecture mode, Vaughn quickly cut her off with a raised hand. "Let's go back to magic."
Hermione laughed shyly. "Well... over Christmas, I did show them a few spells. Transfiguration, the Levitation Charm, the Fire-Making Charm... And then I got a letter from the Ministry threatening to expel me if any other Muggles saw!"
Vaughn shrugged. "They were bluffing. The Ministry can't expel a top student just because someone might've seen some sparks."
Hermione let out a breath of relief. "That's good to hear. But that reminds me... what is the Trace? And where exactly is it placed?"
Ever since she received that warning letter, Hermione had buried herself in the Hogwarts library trying to research how the Ministry even knew she'd cast spells at home.
She'd only managed to find vague references to something called "the Trace," but little else.
Vaughn explained, "The Trace is a kind of passive monitoring charm—or more precisely, a weak magical contract. It's not placed on your wand or your body. The moment you accepted your Hogwarts letter and confirmed enrollment, you unknowingly agreed to it."
"It allows the Ministry to sense magical activity and location signatures around underage wizards. That's it."
Hermione's eyes lit up with understanding. "So... if I live somewhere with lots of nearby witches and wizards, the Ministry can't tell who actually cast the spell?"
"Exactly," Vaughn nodded. "That's why I never worry about it."
Hermione sighed with envy. "Must be nice…"
There was a pause.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she asked:
"Vaughn... could I visit your home over the summer?"
He turned his head.
The golden spring light cast a soft glow across her face, turning her brown eyes luminous like gems—shining with a mixture of hope, nervousness, and bashful anticipation.
He smiled.
"Your eyes... they're like mine. And Ginny's."
"...Huh?" Hermione blinked, confused. She knew who Ginny was, but why bring her up now?
Before she could ask, Vaughn closed his eyes and murmured into the breeze, "I think Ginny would really like you."
Her heart leapt.
The joy was immediate, crashing into her like a tidal wave. She could feel her pulse racing, could barely keep from squealing out loud.
Then panic crept in behind the joy.
What do I wear? Do wizard families judge appearance? Should I bring gifts? Will they have a car? Wait—what if there are no cars?
Her mind spiraled.
Vaughn laughed.
"Relax. It's not even spring term yet. When summer comes, I'll come pick you up myself."
Hermione exhaled dreamily, her cheek pressing into the grass to cool the heat rising to her face.
Vaughn continued, "Your parents are welcome to visit too. I'm sure they've never seen a proper wizarding household."
"Really?" she gasped.
"Of course. Write them a letter. I'll pass it along during one of my Ministry trips. Do you have something like a keepsake I can show them? Or will they think I'm a fraud?"
Hermione giggled.
"I already told them about you. Once they see your hair... they'll know."
"Oh—?"
"...What 'oh'?"
"Nothing. Just feels like someone's been eyeing me up for a while now."
Blushing furiously, Hermione scrambled to her feet. "L-let's eat! The food's getting cold!"
Vaughn lay there a moment longer, wind tousling his red hair.
He watched Hermione fidget and fuss with the food, stealing nervous glances his way.
And then he stood to join her.
Later That Evening – Wizengamot, Level Two
A sharp voice echoed through the stone hall:
"Mr. Vaughn Weasley, in your policy draft for the Werewolf Affairs Committee, you state that the Committee will not accept donations from individuals or organizations, nor will it accept direct Ministry funding. You claim this is to preserve neutrality and independence."
"But I must ask—how are those poor, unfortunate souls meant to survive? How will they afford Wolfsbane every month?"
The speaker: Arlaird Travers, an aging wizard clad in the purple robes of a Wizengamot member. His family—the Travers line—was one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.
A true pure-blood.
Though to be fair, the Travers family played both sides. One branch upheld the proud pure-blood doctrine; another openly mingled with Muggles. A classic political hedge—put eggs in multiple baskets so that no matter where power shifts, someone in the family stays afloat.
"Just don't be here to cause trouble," Vaughn thought quietly.
Then, raising his voice, he replied:
"Excellent question, Mr. Travers. But I must clarify—the poverty of werewolves is not due to laziness. It's because magical society stigmatizes them. They were forced into isolation."
"Now that they have access to Wolfsbane, they can finally return to society, earn wages, and support themselves again."
He paused.
"That said, your concern is valid."
Vaughn's tone grew firmer, confident.
"There are roughly 2,000 werewolves in the UK. Excluding Fenrir Greyback's faction, there are still about 1,600 viable individuals. Of those, nearly three-fifths are Muggle-born, Squibs, or born-werewolves—meaning they're unfit for magical society as it currently stands."
"We plan to reintegrate them into Muggle society instead. With the larger population base, they'll find jobs faster and avoid magical prejudice."
A hush fell over the chamber.
Then murmurs.
Vaughn sighed. "Yes, yes—I can see the concern. Muggle currency is worthless in the magical world."
He continued:
"So, the Committee will establish its own internal foundation. Initial funds will be loaned by myself and Professor Dumbledore. We'll convert Muggle gold into galleons through a special agreement with Gringotts."
"That will cover Wolfsbane costs—at least in the short term."
In truth, it was a stopgap.
Vaughn knew: if too much gold flooded in, it could destabilize the fragile galleon system entirely. Gringotts loved gold—but even goblins had limits.
Still, this financial bottleneck was an opportunity.
The wizarding world was too closed-off. This could be the perfect wedge to force more contact with the Muggle economy.
He paused again, letting the more senior members process the implications.
Then he raised another point:
"In addition, I propose that the Committee be allowed to partner with the Department of International Magical Cooperation—specifically for exporting Wolfsbane Potion abroad."
The reaction was immediate.
Heads turned—toward a thin man seated quietly in the back.
Bartemius Crouch, Sr.
Once one of the most powerful figures of the last wizarding war, now the Director of the International Cooperation Department... and still a Wizengamot member.
He hadn't expected to be dragged into this meeting.
Crouch looked visibly startled.
His lips moved slightly, as if to respond—but he said nothing.
Gasps and murmurs swept the chamber.
Was Vaughn about to declare war on Cornelius Fudge?
Otherwise, why partner directly with Crouch?
The political implications were explosive.
Madam Amelia Bones—head of Magical Law Enforcement and the session's chairwoman—had to intervene.
"SILENCE!" she bellowed, using the Sonorus Charm.
Order returned.
She turned to Travers. "Do you have any objections to Mr. Weasley's reply?"
Travers shook his head. "No, Madam Bones. I'm satisfied."
"Very well. Next question."
As the night wore on, more inquiries followed.
At one point, a female elder stood and asked:
"Mr. Weasley, do you intend for the Werewolf Committee to become a permanent fixture of the Ministry?"
Vaughn nodded.
"Yes. For now, there is still no cure for lycanthropy—what I prefer to call the werewolf virus. The next stage of Wolfsbane development will aim to suppress full-moon transformations entirely."
"Until a real cure is found, the Committee will be essential for many years to come."
The questioning continued for hours.
At last, near midnight, Amelia Bones adjourned the session.
As the chamber emptied, Amelia approached Vaughn with a rare smile. "Well done today. Care for some refreshments in my office?"
"Thank you, Madam Bones."
"Just 'Amelia'. You don't call Dumbledore 'Professor' when you're having tea, do you?"
In Amelia's office (still underground), she poured them drinks and offered dried fruits.
"You're all over the Ministry gossip boards," she said dryly. "They're calling you the 12-year-old revolutionary trying to tear down the Ministry."
Vaughn shook his head. "That's not my intent. But the current system is outdated. And if I don't push for independence, the Wolfsbane project will be twisted into political leverage. The werewolves into weapons."
Amelia looked at him with a complicated expression.
Over the past few weeks, she'd come to realize this boy was... not simple.
But still, she reassured him gently:
"Don't worry. Dumbledore supports you. And so do I."
Her tone left no doubt—when Dumbledore gave the signal, the old guard followed.
Even though Albus had long since withdrawn from politics, the man was a living legend. Some supported him for his ideals, others simply idolized him. Still others, like Fudge once had, sought to ride the coattails of the so-called "White King" for personal gain.
Throughout these weeks, Vaughn had encountered countless subtle offers and coded invitations.
He had refused them all.
In truth, questioning sessions like these were political minefields.
A hostile member could drag things out endlessly over petty details.
He'd already been grilled by a pure-blood this morning.
But tonight, under Amelia's control, the session had been tightly managed.
Only Travers had asked a meaningful question.
And when things got risky, Amelia cut off escalation immediately.
No wonder everyone wanted to cling to Dumbledore's side.
Vaughn took a sip of his drink and said nothing.
"You handled yourself well," Amelia added. "But be cautious. When you mentioned Crouch earlier—that could be seen as... provocative."
She explained the history.
Barty Crouch Sr. had once been a top candidate for Minister of Magic—and a serious rival to Fudge. But after his son's arrest, his wife's death, and various scandals, he'd been exiled to the International Department—a clear demotion.
"Even if your intentions were pure, others will assume the worst. Some might say you're trying to ally with Crouch to unseat the Minister."
Vaughn smiled agreeably, giving nothing away.
"Thank you for the advice, Amelia."
They chatted a while longer before Vaughn excused himself.
Tomorrow would be another round.
He took the elevator up, bypassing the Floo Network for a quiet walk through the underground corridors.
Above his head, in the Muggle world, was Whitehall Street—home to the British government.
He cast a subtle Disillusionment Charm to blend in and scanned the area with magically enhanced eyes.
He found it.
A hidden entrance disguised as a public restroom.
From here, Ministry employees could flush themselves directly into the Floo system.
Vaughn chuckled to himself.
No wonder Arthur hated this system.
And yet, there stood a chubby young clerk, holding a newspaper, waiting nervously by the toilet...
A perfect Ministry pawn.
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