Just as Vaughn was about to leave, he paused and turned back, looking at Albus Dumbledore with clear surprise.
Dumbledore returned the look with a gentle smile.
After a brief silence, Vaughn spoke, his tone edged with mockery.
"I thought you wouldn't let me take part in the little 'playhouse game' you've prepared for the savior."
At least, he had that much self-awareness.
Despite how closely he and Dumbledore were working together now, Vaughn knew this cooperation existed only because he had not yet crossed any lines that marked him as dangerous.
From the very beginning, his relationship with Dumbledore had been built on a peculiar balance—mutual trust paired with mutual vigilance.
Their differences in worldview made true acceptance nearly impossible.
Vaughn was obsessed with power.
Whether it was fame, influence, or knowledge, all of it was merely another path toward strength.
Dumbledore, on the other hand, leaned too far toward the divine. Having witnessed the depths of human duplicity and cruelty, he wished—perhaps unrealistically—that people could remain simpler, purer.
For now, both of them exercised restraint.
They shared an unspoken agreement: no secret interference, no hidden manipulations. Everything would be placed openly on the table.
That was why Dumbledore, though he had likely guessed that Barty Crouch Jr. was still alive—and that Vaughn had used this fact to secure Barty Crouch Sr.'s allegiance—had chosen not to pursue the matter further.
And it was also why, every time Vaughn interacted with Harry Potter, he allowed Dumbledore to review those memories afterward.
Vaughn knew this was Dumbledore's deepest fear—that Vaughn's philosophy might influence Harry.
Distance.
Restraint.
Limited cooperation.
That fragile equilibrium was the only reason their trust had endured this long.
And Harry Potter was Dumbledore's greatest vulnerability.
Faced with Vaughn's sarcasm, Dumbledore merely smiled faintly. His gaze unfocused for a brief moment, as though he were pondering something far away, before asking an apparently unrelated question:
"Vaughn… what do you think of fate?"
Vaughn frowned slightly.
He could not yet perceive fate directly—and he disliked forming opinions about things he did not fully understand.
Dumbledore did not seem to expect an answer. He continued softly:
"A few months ago, you quoted a line from a Muggle film to me—that human nature is the sum of divinity and bestial instinct. It left a deep impression on me. Since then, whenever I've had time, I've been reading Muggle philosophy and literature."
"There was one playwright whose ideas fascinated me. He argued that tragedy in literature usually falls into three categories: tragedy caused by an antagonist; tragedy born of coincidence—or what Muggles call 'fate'; and the most common and realistic kind—tragedy born of social structure and class."
'What I write is not consequence or retribution, but the cruelty of heaven and the cruelty of the human world.'
Dumbledore murmured the line aloud, falling silent once more. Then he rose, extending a hand toward Vaughn.
"Take my hand, my boy."
Vaughn did not know what Dumbledore intended, but he complied, stepping forward and grasping the old wizard's thin, weathered hand.
Dumbledore raised his wand.
For once, he spoke an incantation aloud.
The pronunciation was strange—something like Runic, or rather, Ancient Runes. Vaughn had only encountered the language after enrolling at Hogwarts. It was an old tongue, long extinct in Muggle society and even rare among wizarding families.
Vaughn's own progress in the subject had been mediocre.
Runes had little to do with intelligence. They required Divination talent—a trait Vaughn deeply disliked discussing. Ancient Runes were, historically, a language of oracles.
Still, after half a year of study, Vaughn recognized enough to frown in confusion.
"A spell that requires Runes… this is a prophetic form of magic?" he asked. "But as far as I know, the Dumbledore family has never produced a Seer."
He did not resist—only observed carefully.
What he felt made his scalp prickle.
The magic radiating from Dumbledore surged like a mountain range collapsing outward. To Vaughn's senses, the old wizard had become a terrifying source of radiation—wave after wave of invisible force expanding in perfect circles.
The waves extended three… four meters—then vanished abruptly, as if striking an unseen boundary.
That limit did not imply weakness.
Within the affected area, the air itself grew unbearably heavy, almost solid.
For a fleeting instant, Vaughn felt like an insect trapped in amber.
He understood with chilling clarity that, at this moment, he had no ability whatsoever to resist Dumbledore.
He had always known this, of course.
The only reason he could negotiate with Dumbledore was because Dumbledore was a gentleman. Just as Dumbledore trusted Vaughn's rationality, Vaughn trusted that the old wizard would never strike him from the shadows.
As the incantation grew louder and faster, the magical waves intensified.
Then—
Vaughn's pupils contracted sharply.
The world was losing its color.
Not metaphorically.
Under the spell's influence, the waves of magic became visible. Vaughn watched ripple after ripple sweep across them, across the dangling tassels in the Headmaster's office, across the desk, the carpets, the candy cabinet, the Pensieve—
Each ripple stripped something away.
Color vanished.
It was as though an invisible hand were peeling layers of varnish from a grand oil painting, tearing away the world's ornate surface to reveal its stark reality beneath.
The affected space—less than four meters across—turned utterly monochrome.
Black.
White.
Gray.
Then Vaughn saw them.
Countless transparent threads—like spider silk—emerging from every object.
Only then did Dumbledore finally end the spell.
He staggered slightly, face so pale it was almost translucent.
"Ha…" He drew a sharp breath, then smiled self-mockingly. "Age truly does catch up to us. Decades ago, when I used this spell to observe the Web of Fate, it was far less taxing."
"The Web of Fate…?" Vaughn echoed.
He stared at the strange scene around them.
Centered on himself and Dumbledore was a spherical region roughly three meters wide, drained entirely of color. Beyond its boundary, the portrait-lined walls remained perfectly normal—as if reality itself had been embedded with a black-and-white sphere.
Inside that sphere, spider-silk threads covered everything except the two of them, intertwining and weaving together, stretching outward until they vanished at the sphere's edge.
"…This is the Web of Fate," Vaughn said again—this time with certainty.
"Yes," Dumbledore replied quietly. "This is fate as it truly exists—and the cruelty that playwright spoke of."
"It penetrates all things. It is both origin and end. Nothing escapes these threads. Muggles cannot see them, of course—but what they call coincidence or opportunity is merely a fragment of fate made visible."
"And yet… even they grasp certain truths."
"Such as its indifference. Its cruelty."
Dumbledore lowered his wand and raised his free hand.
"Fawkes."
With clear reluctance, Fawkes appeared, settling onto his arm. With a sharp crackle, the phoenix carried them in a flash of fire—
They reappeared in a Hogwarts corridor, standing before a familiar door.
Vaughn recognized it instantly.
Quirinus Quirrell's office.
The monochrome sphere still surrounded them. Maintaining it seemed effortless now—Dumbledore even had spare focus to cast Disillusionment and Silencing Charms.
He pushed open the door casually.
"A small privilege of being Headmaster," he said with a wink. "Hogwarts does not refuse its master."
Vaughn ignored the joke.
His attention was fixed on the man curled asleep on the sofa.
As they approached, Quirrell was pulled into the sphere.
Color drained from his body.
Threads emerged—
But unlike the surrounding objects, Quirrell's threads were divided.
One set was thin and faint, distributed evenly across his body.
The other set was concentrated behind his head—thick, dense, fanning outward like the white plumes of a peacock's tail, extending all the way to the sphere's boundary.
"…That is Tom's fate," Vaughn said quietly.
Ignoring Quirrell's own fragile threads, he focused on one thick strand trailing from the back of Quirrell's skull.
He reached out instinctively, glancing at Dumbledore. At the nod of approval, he touched it—
His fingers passed straight through.
Dumbledore sighed.
"This is what has confounded countless great wizards. Fate can be observed… predicted… but never altered."
His gaze lingered on one particular strand—the thickest of them all.
Unlike the others, it was twisted like a double helix, as though two threads had been wound tightly together.
Vaughn followed his gaze.
"Harry… and Tom."
"Yes," Dumbledore said softly. "Their intertwined fate. You know the prophecy—the one that says the Dark Lord will create his own mortal enemy."
"I know parts of it."
Dumbledore nodded.
"The irony is this: no one in the wizarding world doubts fate's existence, yet most understand it poorly—including the Dark Lord himself."
"When Tom began slaughtering children born in July, he did not realize that learning of his fate—and acting upon it—was itself part of that fate."
"You never saw Voldemort at his height, Vaughn. He was no frail old man like me. He stood at the peak of his power—his magic far beyond any known threshold. Perhaps even beyond mine… and another."
He did not speak the name.
"And yet—even then—he could not defy fate."
"A miracle occurred: a legendary dark wizard was slain by the rebound of his own most powerful curse."
Dumbledore's beard trembled.
"Absurd… and terrifying."
"The prophecy reveals that of the two entwined by fate, only they may kill one another."
At last, Vaughn understood why Dumbledore had shown him this.
"You mean," he said slowly, "that only Harry and Tom can kill each other—and no one else can?"
Dumbledore nodded.
Vaughn's expression darkened.
Not because he believed himself capable of killing Voldemort.
Not because he longed to be a hero.
But because of something deeper.
To Vaughn, wanting to do something, being able to do it, and being allowed to do it were entirely different matters.
Fate, as Dumbledore described it, erased all choice.
There was only can and cannot.
No alternatives.
Vaughn despised that.
The pursuit of power, to him, had never been about domination—it was about choice. About never placing his survival in someone else's hands.
"When one tries to oppose fate," Dumbledore said gently, "it often becomes far worse."
Seeing Vaughn sink into thought, Dumbledore said nothing more. He guided him out of Quirrell's office.
"Let Quirinus sleep," he murmured. "He… has had enough."
They returned to the Headmaster's office.
Dumbledore dispelled the spell and poured each of them a glass of fruit juice.
Vaughn took a sip, grimaced at the sweetness, and set it aside.
He had had time to think.
If fate were truly immutable, Dumbledore would never have shown him this.
The old wizard was not so cruel as to say, Give up—this story has no place for you.
"So," Vaughn said at last, looking up, "you didn't show me this just to crush my spirit. What are you planning?"
Dumbledore did not evade the question.
"Do you remember your theory?" he asked quietly. "That Harry—after that night—became one of Voldemort's Horcruxes?"
Vaughn remembered it well.
He had deliberately revealed that truth months ago—both to deepen their cooperation and to prevent a collapse of trust.
"I've been thinking about how to resolve that problem," Dumbledore continued. "I've made some progress… but if possible, I would rather not use that method."
He did not explain further.
Vaughn did not need him to.
If fate truly bound Harry and Voldemort together, then Dumbledore's options were painfully limited.
Even setting fate aside, the shared sensations and memories between Harry and Voldemort implied that the soul fragment was not merely attached—it was deeply integrated.
The original solution—the one Vaughn knew all too well—required enormous sacrifice.
Manipulation.
Bloodshed.
Allowing Voldemort to revel in revenge, to believe he had triumphed over fate, only to destroy his final Horcrux with his own hand.
A path soaked in death.
Vaughn finally understood why Dumbledore recoiled from it.
Too many would be crushed beneath the wheels of destiny.
"If we follow fate," Vaughn said quietly, "Harry and Tom become a giant meat grinder. Everyone else gets dragged in until the end."
Dumbledore did not deny it.
"So," Vaughn continued, eyes sharp, "you want to defy fate? You just said resisting it makes things worse."
"Not defy," Dumbledore corrected gently. "Change the method."
"Fate does not dictate outcomes—only conditions. It says one of them must die by the other's hand. It does not say who must win."
"That uncertainty is our opportunity."
He smiled faintly.
"Fate is like a cruel god—sets the rules, then watches its chosen struggle for amusement."
"I do not yet know how to exploit this uncertainty," he admitted. "For now, the original plan will continue—but I wish to introduce… variables."
He glanced at Vaughn.
"You have the potential to become one."
If this conversation had happened before, Vaughn would have walked out immediately.
But today, something else held his attention.
"Albus," he said slowly, "that spell didn't show our fates. Did you see something?"
Dumbledore was silent for a long moment.
"I don't know," he admitted at last. "I lack Divination talent. I can't see clearly. But after the Werewolf Affairs Committee succeeded, the Web of Fate… shifted."
"Very slightly."
"But with Harry and Tom's fate already formed, no new 'chosen one' should exist."
"Unless…"
His blue eyes shone, clear as autumn sky.
"Unless what you will do in the future profoundly reshapes the wizarding world. The committee is only the beginning—but even that was enough for fate to respond."
Vaughn said nothing.
Dumbledore did not press.
Instead, he asked gently,
"Would you like to know why I—despite lacking Divination talent—can see the Web of Fate at all?"
Vaughn raised an eyebrow.
"Trying to tempt me with power?"
"Knowledge," Dumbledore corrected cheerfully. "It sounds nicer."
Vaughn snorted—but he was undeniably tempted.
That perspective… seeing fate laid bare… was intoxicating.
After a moment, he asked coldly,
"How did you do it?"
"It comes from transformation," Dumbledore answered readily. "When one's magic reaches a certain height, the body and soul undergo a positive change—something akin to evolution. You begin to feel… different. As though you've become a new form of life, one composed of magic itself."
"A… mythical creature?" Vaughn supplied.
Dumbledore smiled slowly.
"A very good summary."
Vaughn shrugged.
"Your power gap is too large to be explained by talent alone. If you didn't evolve into something else, I'd have no other explanation."
Dumbledore laughed heartily.
"The wizarding world calls that state Legend. We call such beings Legendary Wizards."
"I've never heard of it."
"There are very few. In the latter half of this century—only one. Tom."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.
"Perhaps, by century's end, there will be another. You."
Vaughn ignored the bait.
"So that prophecy spell—was it something you learned after becoming a Legend?"
"Yes. At the moment of transformation. In that state, one can glimpse truths no ordinary wizard ever could—and comprehend spells that should be impossible."
"I chose prophecy… because of an old friend. That spell was my own creation."
Vaughn was silent for a long time before asking,
"Then how do I reach that level?"
"When you find you can no longer improve," Dumbledore said calmly, "you will be standing at its threshold. Choose one discipline and pursue it utterly. No one can guide you there."
"But I suspect Potions and Transfiguration suit you best."
"When the time comes, you will understand your path. We call it… the Road of Legends."
"Every legend walks a different road."
Vaughn did not speak again for a long while.
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