Harry Potter made for the perfect test subject.
Naïve and earnest, he trusted people once he decided they meant well—and if you told him something was "for his own good," he'd cooperate without hesitation.
At the same time, he lacked any real restraint. Even knowing there might be consequences, he couldn't help but break rules, again and again, creating a treasure trove of experimental data.
Thanks to Harry's cooperation over the past month, Vaughn had successfully refined his original theoretical framework.
The result?
The Persona Shell, an autonomous, fully functional pseudo-personality. Not just a pre-programmed script—it had memory, cognitive functions, and behavioral logic. Sure, it was still an Alpha build, but the foundation was real.
After Vaughn finished explaining his purpose and the mechanics behind the Persona Shell, Barty Crouch Sr. gave him a strange look.
"So... the entire time I've been speaking to you, I was talking to a fake?"
"Not exactly," Vaughn smiled. "Only once I invited you into my mental world did the switch happen. Isn't it fascinating? Oh, and by the way, you're still talking to the fake me right now—but don't worry. This prototype is based entirely on myself. Thoughts, values, behaviors—all identical."
Crouch's lips parted. He wanted to say something, but didn't know where to begin.
After a moment's silence, he asked curiously, "So... where's the real you hiding?"
Vaughn only chuckled in reply.
But that was answer enough.
Crouch understood: Vaughn had drawn him into his mental landscape and deployed a decoy personality—clearly to avoid any tampering. If Crouch attempted memory magic or mental sabotage here, it wouldn't matter. He'd never get close to the real mind.
Naturally, Vaughn wouldn't reveal where he was hiding his core consciousness.
Crouch sighed. "Let me out. I want to speak with the real you."
"Of course."
Another snap of the fingers.
Crouch's mind spun, and the next moment, he found himself back in the living room.
The frequent shifts between illusion and reality were starting to blur the line. To ground himself, he instinctively gripped the armrest of the sofa. The rough texture, warm to the touch, calmed him slightly.
Across from him, Vaughn leaned back comfortably, one leg crossed over the other.
"So. Do we have a deal? I help cure your son, and you collaborate with the Lycanthrope Affairs Committee. Later on, you lend me a hand here and there."
Crouch hesitated for a long while. "How certain are you?"
"I won't lie—uncertain," Vaughn said bluntly. "I'll need to examine Mr. Crouch Jr.'s memories and mental structure first, then assess the extent of the corruption caused by Dark Magic. Only then can I design a treatment."
"As your potential partner, I'll be upfront: Crouch Jr. is important to my research too. Truthfully, I've never had a chance to study a fully fallen Dark wizard. I want to see what their mind looks like."
And that was Vaughn's real reason for approaching Crouch.
Crouch narrowed his eyes. "These 'small favors' you mentioned... also have to do with Dark wizards?"
"Exactly." Vaughn beamed. "For example, you use your connections to send some captured Death Eaters my way for study."
There was a pause.
The idea sounded like something out of a Muggle sci-fi film—a mad scientist performing evil human experiments.
Oddly, the brutal honesty was what put Crouch at ease.
If Vaughn were sugarcoating his intentions, he would've been more suspicious.
But having seen Vaughn's Persona Shell in action, and its potential, Crouch hesitated only a moment before nodding.
"I'll think about it... How should I contact you?"
That was practically a yes.
Vaughn's smile warmed. "You can send an owl, or use the Floo Network to reach Professor Snape and pass along a meeting time."
He handed over a small card with an address and a few Floo tokens.
Crouch took them with a dry laugh. "You seem confident—so sure I'll agree."
"Not confident," Vaughn said. "Just... aware. A father will grasp at any sliver of hope if it means saving his son."
Crouch fell silent.
And said nothing more.
Two Days Later — Ministry of Magic
The questioning session over the new Werewolf Affairs Committee resumed.
Inside the Minister's Office, Cornelius Fudge watched the Wizengamot's proceedings through a magical mirror, his expression sour.
It was one of the few privileges he still held as Minister—he couldn't interfere, but he could observe.
The questioning was proceeding smoothly under Amelia Bones's lead.
At the central podium, Vaughn Weasley remained composed, answering every inquiry with infuriating ease.
Fudge's teeth clenched.
He downed a glass of firewhisky.
"Ahahahahaha—!"
He burst into crazed laughter. Then, just as suddenly, he smashed the glass down in rage.
"Damn it! I asked for sherry, not that wretched Gigglebrew! I don't want to laugh!"
"I-I'm so sorry, Minister!" Umbridge stammered, hastily pouring a fresh drink.
Fudge cursed. "Weasley... Bones... Those conniving bastards! Look at this—those questions might as well be fluff! They're practically handing him the vote!"
He covered his panic with profanity, but inside, he was boiling with fear.
After this inquiry session, the Committee's formation would be officially cleared. The purpose of such sessions was to identify flaws in a proposal—but Vaughn had prepared thoroughly. Every answer was polished, strategic.
Watching his political future crumble in real time was infuriating.
Umbridge leaned closer, trying to soothe him.
"Minister, you needn't worry. The Committee has a serious flaw—no funding. Haven't you heard? That Weasley brat is trying to recruit Barty Crouch, of all people!"
She tittered like a schoolgirl.
"But he underestimated your authority! Crouch won't dare defy you. Let's see how much gold Weasley and Dumbledore can scrape up for those filthy werewolves."
Fudge finally allowed himself a smile.
Yes—keeping Crouch under his thumb had been a masterstroke.
And now, it would ruin Vaughn's plans. Perfect.
He raised his glass again—
And then froze.
In the mirror, Barty Crouch—long silent, barely present—raised his hand.
Even Amelia Bones paused, startled. She glanced around, then followed procedure.
"Mr. Crouch, you have a question?"
All eyes turned to him.
The old man rose. Pale, solemn, his voice was thin but clear:
"Mr. Vaughn Weasley, I would like to ask—regarding your proposal for exporting Wolfsbane Potion—what is your detailed strategy?"
CRACK.
Fudge's glass shattered in his grip.
Umbridge turned slowly, trembling.
Crouch… was supporting Vaughn.
Just like that, the final day of questioning ended in uproar.
No one could understand what had happened.
Why had Barty Crouch—missing from politics for years, all but exiled—suddenly returned like a storm, and backed a controversial initiative at the most sensitive moment?
He hadn't changed much outwardly—same rigid attire, same cold silence.
But his energy was different.
Like a dying man who'd found a reason to live.
Though he rarely spoke, every word was razor-focused on the proposal's key pain points. He even stepped in to fill gaps in Vaughn's explanations.
No attempt to hide his urgency.
Everyone in the room knew: once the Committee was formed, it would become a target for Fudge's Ministry.
Even with Wizengamot's approval, the Ministry had many indirect tools: blocking potion sales, inciting public backlash, disrupting supply chains.
But now?
The Minister's plans had a gaping hole.
Crouch's involvement meant new connections to the international magical community.
England couldn't block sales abroad.
Crouch had fluent ties to small nations who would eagerly greenlight exports.
Nordic countries, desperate for Wolfsbane, would gladly pay in raw ingredients or galleons.
And thanks to Dumbledore and Snape, more potion masters were offering to brew Wolfsbane—like Slughorn, who never missed a chance to bask in fame.
No one knew how Vaughn had turned Crouch.
But it was working.
The Committee's success was now inevitable.
That Evening — Amelia Bones's Office
Amelia lowered the newspaper with a bemused smile.
"Rita Skeeter? Since when did she become your personal mouthpiece?"
Vaughn shrugged, munching a biscuit. "Maybe she's a fair-minded, compassionate journalist. Maybe she's always cared about the truth but got distracted by drama."
"Hah."
Amelia scoffed. She'd been interviewed by Rita before—she knew full well the woman was petty and venomous.
But she didn't mind.
As a seasoned politician and staunch Dumbledore ally, Amelia knew: in politics, you didn't reject useful allies just because you didn't like them.
Still…
Amelia pinched her brow, curious. "I told you not to approach Crouch. And yet... you did. So? What did you say to convince him?"
Vaughn gave no answer.
Instead, he smiled slyly.
"After what you saw in today's meeting... do you still think recruiting Crouch was a bad idea?"
Amelia hesitated.
"...Hard to say. But he was far more motivated than I expected."
She was honest, if nothing else.
The aimless, broken man from earlier years was gone.
This new Crouch? Sharp. Strategic. Hungry for results.
Suddenly, someone knocked.
Amelia straightened her robes. "Come in."
The door opened to reveal a stern-looking wizard with wild brown hair, gold-rimmed glasses, and a permanent scowl.
He walked with a limp—but his strides were long and commanding, like a lion ready for war.
"Rufus?" Amelia blinked.
"Amelia," Rufus Scrimgeour nodded curtly—then locked eyes with Vaughn.
"Mr. Vaughn Weasley, I'm Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Office. Mind telling me exactly how you convinced Barty Crouch?"
Vaughn blinked mid-bite. "So?"
"So, I suspect you used... irregular methods."
"Rufus!" Amelia snapped.
Though technically her subordinate, Rufus was treating her guest like a criminal.
"Apologies, Amelia," he said, eyes never leaving Vaughn. "But I have every right to investigate suspicious behavior. Especially when a high-ranking Ministry official might be under the Imperius Curse."
"Enough, Rufus. You're crossing the line."
Amelia was ready to eject him—
But Vaughn raised a hand.
"It's fine."
He studied Rufus with interest.
This grizzled Auror reminded him of a lion—one that didn't back down easily.
"And if I refuse to tell you?"
"Then I won't force you," Rufus replied coolly. "But I will watch your every move. You have Dumbledore's backing, fine. But as long as I run the Auror Office, you'll have a shadow."
Then he turned and walked out without waiting for a reply.
Vaughn raised an eyebrow. "Is he always like that?"
"Sigh..." Amelia pinched her nose. "You should ask how many Aurors aren't like that."
"Okay. How many?"
"...Kinsley Shacklebolt. That's it."
They both chuckled.
Then Vaughn said playfully, "Maybe the Auror Office needs a therapy department. I happen to know a thing or two about mental magic, Amelia. Want to hire me?"
She played along. "Maybe when I become Minister."
They shared a knowing look.
Vaughn wasn't fazed by Scrimgeour's threat. The man was brave—he would later resist Voldemort's torture and still not betray Harry.
But his talents ended there.
After Dumbledore's death, Scrimgeour had become Minister... and achieved nothing meaningful. His greatest accomplishment?
Distributing pamphlets.
Meanwhile...
Snape stormed up to the headmaster's gargoyle statue, muttered the password, and marched into the office—only to find Albus Dumbledore covered in dirt and leaves, looking like he'd just crawled out of a forest.
"Hah."
Snape snorted, voice dripping with disdain.
"White Lord, you've been gone for weeks. I assumed you were handling some great magical emergency—but now I see you've just fallen into a tree trunk while drunk."
Dumbledore smiled beatifically. "Severus, my dear boy. Good to see you. How's Harry?"
"Terrible," Snape said flatly. "Your golden boy's been pretending to be an owl, a Ravenclaw, a hamster, a lunatic... and a stag, of all things."
At the last word, his voice turned frosty.
Dumbledore didn't bat an eye. "Ah, the vigor of youth! And how's Vaughn?"
Snape's expression softened noticeably.
Wordlessly, he handed over the newspaper.
"Ah, so you've been following your prized student closely."
"I just want to watch him implode."
"Don't lie. You wouldn't carry the paper if you didn't care."
"Tch."
Dumbledore read the report, eyes gleaming.
"The hearings are done? And Crouch supported him? My, I've missed all the fun."
Snape frowned. "Aren't you curious how he managed to convince Crouch? Everyone else is."
"Of course I'm curious," Dumbledore said serenely. "But we made a promise—to protect the trust between us and focus on what matters."
"For Vaughn, that's the Committee. He never asked me to intervene, and I won't interfere. That's what trust means between equals."
Snape rolled his eyes.
"Ugh. You 'smart people' and your cryptic pacts."
"Now, if we're done," Snape added, rising. "I need to finish grading Harry's latest essay. It took an hour to get through it without vomiting."
But Dumbledore wasn't listening.
He was deep in thought.
Then, softly: "Severus, it's time to pressure Quirinus."
Snape paused. "You're accelerating the plan? Why?"
The original schedule had called for forcing Quirrell's hand at the end of the term—to lure Voldemort into a desperate move.
That timing was chosen to allow Harry to finish his Occlumency training.
So why now?
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