In the end, Vaughn neither agreed—nor refused.
The revelations about the Web of Fate and the Road of Legends were too vast. He needed time to digest them.
Besides, no matter how lofty the topics he had discussed with Albus Dumbledore had become, there was an undeniable truth he could not escape—
He was still a first-year student.
For talent points, for system rewards, he still had to return to reality.
He needed to catch up on lessons, secure House Points, and complete the system's main storyline.
After all, Harry Potter's trial had not yet officially begun. Dumbledore's invitation had merely been an attempt to draw Vaughn deeper into the plan—hoping that his presence might interfere with Harry and Voldemort's intertwined fate.
That night, Vaughn rarely suffered from insomnia.
So when he appeared in the Great Hall the next morning and—after a long absence—graced his loyal Gryffindors with his presence, the dark circles under his eyes matched Harry's perfectly.
They became a unique sight at the long table.
"I knew it," Ron declared despairingly in the Gryffindor common room at noon. "While he was gone, he must've been brewing a whole cauldron of evil ideas. I bet he stayed up all night figuring out how to torture us, Harry!"
Unfortunately, Harry—bleary-eyed after staying up all night—failed to register Ron's complaint.
Only Hermione's ears twitched slightly as she quietly committed Ron's words to memory.
Thus, that afternoon, Ronald Weasley—once famous as "the Savior's friend" and "the boy who killed a troll alongside Vaughn Weasley," and just as quickly forgotten—suddenly became a castle-wide celebrity again.
Peeves the Poltergeist had set his sights on him.
The spirit perched atop Ron's head, dyed his hair in garish colors with unknown pigments, and during lessons gleefully mimicked Ron's voice—shouting insults, making rude noises, and loudly disrupting class.
Even when Ron eventually proved that every incident was Peeves' doing, the furious professors still punished him—
By doubling his homework.
"If you hadn't been misbehaving and provoking Peeves, why would he target you so persistently, Weatherby?"
Professor Binns' remark perfectly summarized the staff's true attitude toward the matter—despite, as usual, getting Ron's surname wrong.
That night, while bathing, Ron was finally pushed beyond endurance when Peeves hurled a Dungbomb at him.
Swallowing his pride, he invoked Vaughn's name in desperation—
And at last learned the truth.
"Ohhh—poor, foolish Weatherby," Peeves cackled, eyes gleaming maliciously. "You tried to scare Peeves with the name of the great dark lord Vaughn Weasley—but…"
The poltergeist grinned wide.
"The one who asked Peeves to teach you a lesson was Vaughn Weasley himself! Heeheehee! The Dark Lord said poor little Weatherby was speaking ill of him behind his back. Peeves was delighted to accept the commission!"
Ron stormed back to the common room, stinking so badly that he nearly knocked people unconscious.
"I knew he wouldn't let me off!" Ron shouted furiously to Harry and Hermione. "From the day I was born, he's never gone more than two weeks without tormenting me!"
He then glared at the other Gryffindors.
"And whoever snitched to Vaughn—if I find out who it was, I'll let them taste these fists that once punched a troll!"
In his rage, Ron failed to notice Hermione quietly lowering her head.
To Vaughn, punishing his younger brother was nothing more than a trivial interruption—an aside amid reflection and revision.
Ever since his conversation with Dumbledore, his thoughts had never strayed far from the Web of Fate, the influence his actions had exerted upon it, and the intoxicating glimpse of a future path.
It took him several days to set those lofty matters aside and refocus on studying and accumulating House Points.
Another week passed.
Vaughn finally caught up—and using his personal charisma, reined in several unruly Slytherins who had grown bold during his absence.
One in particular—Draco Malfoy, who had reverted to loudmouthed arrogance—quickly became obedient again.
By March, Slytherin reclaimed first place in the House Cup standings.
With things temporarily stable, Vaughn decided to take Hermione out for a walk on the second weekend of March.
The Scottish Highlands had finally shed their constant rain. On that day especially, the weather was bright and gentle—the sky clear as a sea of forget-me-nots, dotted with white clouds. Sunlight bathed everything, and even the breeze carried warmth.
It felt as though summer had arrived overnight.
Hermione happily accepted his invitation.
She wore a dress and used the hair potion Vaughn had given her, smoothing her once-bushy hair into a neat ponytail.
They wandered from the Black Lake to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, eventually resting beneath a massive oak tree.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappling Hermione's cheek.
The soft glow illuminated the faint down on her skin—a sight belonging only to youth.
Vaughn watched quietly, listening as she spoke about trivial everyday matters.
When Hermione finally noticed his gaze, she blushed and asked shyly,
"What are you looking at?"
Vaughn smiled and took her hand.
"At a beautiful girl."
It was a little cheesy.
But girls in love rarely think clearly.
Even Hermione—usually sharp-tongued and precise—could only redden and shift closer to him, speechless.
Their intertwined hands shared warmth as the moment stretched on.
Yet Vaughn's thoughts were far from romance.
Memories from his previous life surged—finally stopping at the image of George Weasley, missing an ear, and Fred Weasley, smiling as he died.
Harry and Voldemort's fate was a meat grinder.
Unless one abandoned everything—left England, left the wizarding world entirely—no one could escape it.
He had always known this.
He had simply believed that, by the time it truly mattered, he might be strong enough to save them.
Until Dumbledore explained the true nature of fate.
The Web of Fate was distant and abstract—but the playwright's metaphor resonated deeply.
Fate was both the cruelty of heaven and the cruelty of the human world—because fate was born from human interaction, and from the conflicts that followed.
Even if Vaughn gained power, could he truly restrain George and Fred?
People could not be restrained.
Even if warned of danger, they would still march onto the battlefield—for ideals, for freedom, or for reasons only they understood.
They might die forgotten in some corner of the world—just like Molly's two brothers.
The only way to avoid it.
The only way Vaughn could find peace—
Was to kill Voldemort.
Or rather… to sever Harry and Voldemort's fate.
That night, Vaughn went to the eighth-floor office and knocked.
Facing the calm Albus Dumbledore, he said quietly,
"I want to propose a trade."
Dumbledore nodded.
"Please."
He listened calmly—even poured himself a glass of fruit juice.
With over a century of accumulated resources, he could offer gold, rare materials, or profound magical knowledge.
He trusted Vaughn would not make an unreasonable demand.
Agreement implied cooperation.
Then Vaughn said,
"I want the Philosopher's Stone."
"Pfft—cough, cough!"
Dumbledore sprayed juice across the room.
Thankfully, no one else was present.
A casual wave of his hand dried his robes, but his beard trembled violently.
"You want what?"
"The Philosopher's Stone," Vaughn repeated impatiently. "Relax. I'm just borrowing it. The werewolf project nearly drained my funds—I'll use it to transmute some gold."
A blatant excuse.
In truth, he still had a system side quest in mind—and since he'd agreed to play a deeper role in the Savior's plan, not taking advantage felt irresponsible.
Dumbledore stroked his beard, suddenly feeling a toothache coming on.
He hesitated for a long time before asking,
"How long do you need it?"
"One week."
According to the system, merely obtaining the Stone was enough—but once he had an alchemical miracle in hand, not studying it would be a crime.
Smiling, he added casually,
"Of course, if you introduce me to Nicolas Flamel, I won't need the Stone at all. I hear he and his wife live in Devon?"
That did it.
Dumbledore immediately donned a warm—but utterly false—smile.
"While creating gold through the Stone may seem… unearned, your intentions are noble. As Headmaster, how could I obstruct good deeds?"
He stood.
"Come, child. I'll show you the trial I prepared for Harry."
"Oh, don't pretend you didn't hear me, Albus. I just want to consult Nicolas Flamel on alchemy. The field is ancient and poorly systematized—it's notoriously difficult to learn."
"What's that?" Dumbledore replied cheerfully. "Ah—old age. My hearing fails me at times."
Vaughn snorted and followed him out.
"You know," he mused aloud, "maybe I was too hasty agreeing to involve myself in Harry and Tom's fate."
Dumbledore reacted instantly.
"Ah—Flamel, yes! A living fossil in alchemy. But…" He sighed. "Let him rest, Vaughn. He and Perenelle have decided to stop taking the Elixir of Life. As an old friend, I wish them peace in their final years."
Vaughn fell silent.
He had his limits.
Disturbing two six-hundred-year-old elders who only wished to die quietly—even for knowledge—was beyond them.
As they descended the stairs, Dumbledore led Vaughn to the forbidden corridor.
"Albus," Vaughn asked, "you'd been preparing Harry's trial since the start of term. When did you realize Quirrell was compromised?"
"…Before term began."
Dumbledore walked steadily toward the door he'd warned students away from on the first day.
"Tom hid himself well. You observed Quirrell too—did you find any traces of dark magic?"
Vaughn nodded.
"None. Until Tom began draining his life-force."
"That's right," Dumbledore sighed. "At first, I thought the turban meant he'd suffered an accident. Nervous wizards are hardly rare…"
He paused.
"But Tom underestimated how closely I watch Harry. Though I couldn't sense dark magic, fate warned me. Before Harry arrived, I spent over ten days surveying the entire castle—including the professors—using the same spell that shows the Web of Fate."
Vaughn hesitated.
"Can Quirrell be saved?"
Dumbledore was silent for a long moment.
"No. The moment he opened his soul to Tom, Quirinus Quirrell died."
They did not linger on the topic.
Dumbledore shifted to the trial.
"The first challenge came from Hagrid—and Professor Kettleburn."
He chuckled.
"I long ago learned not to ask Silvanus for 'harmless' creatures."
The door opened.
A massive shadow loomed.
A fourteen-foot-tall, three-headed dog filled the room—teeth like daggers, eyes bloodshot.
"Good evening, Fluffy," Dumbledore greeted cheerfully.
The dog lunged.
Dumbledore clapped his hands.
Music filled the air.
Fluffy froze—then collapsed into enchanted slumber.
"As the first trial," Dumbledore asked, "what do you think?"
Vaughn shrugged.
"Effective on children. Or desperate men like Quirrell and Tom."
"One Killing Curse would end it," he added.
"Not without sufficient magic," Dumbledore replied calmly. "Quirrell lacks that strength now."
He revealed the trapdoor beneath Fluffy.
Below lay darkness—and rustling movement.
"Devil's Snare," Vaughn said lazily, summoning flame.
"Harmless."
Firelight banished the writhing vines instantly.
Dumbledore applauded.
"Splendid. Professor Sprout would be proud."
Vaughn smirked.
"Too bad I'm not Harry."
"This one was added later," Dumbledore admitted. "I didn't expect Harry or Ron to solve it. It's better suited to Miss Granger."
Vaughn frowned.
"You included my girlfriend without asking."
Dumbledore coughed.
"No danger. Only Harry can face Tom."
They shared a look.
"…And Vaughn," Dumbledore added awkwardly, "perhaps you should be… discreet. I am the Headmaster."
Vaughn raised an eyebrow.
"Is there a rule against dating?"
Dumbledore's beard twitched.
He briefly considered adding one.
Then dismissed the thought—becoming Hogwarts' most hated Headmaster seemed unwise.
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