Vaughn descended from the air on his broom and glanced at the mistletoe overhead when he heard a drifting, ethereal girl's voice nearby.
"Would you like to pick a few bunches?"
Turning around, Vaughn saw a girl about Ginny's age emerge from behind the Black Tower cottage. She wore a wreath of flowers on her head.
Vaughn waved.
"Hi, Luna."
Luna Lovegood—the future Ravenclaw known as the school's "loony girl." Vaughn had known her since she was six.
They weren't especially close; Ginny played with her far more often.
And Vaughn hadn't come today to see her.
He glanced past Luna toward the neat orchard behind the Black Tower and asked,
"Is your mum here?"
Luna stared at him blankly, her gaze drifting. After a long pause, she murmured dreamily,
"…You're covered in strange little creatures… not Wrackspurts… I think you should pick some mistletoe. The larvae living inside can drive them away."
Vaughn: "..."
Everyone in Ottery St Catchpole knew that the Lovegoods' daughter was odd—even by wizarding standards.
No one remembered when it started, but she claimed she could see peculiar creatures: Wrackspurts, Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, and more. At first, the local children believed her and eagerly searched for them.
When nothing was ever found, Luna was gradually isolated. But as far as Vaughn could tell, she didn't mind at all.
She believed in those creatures with absolute certainty. She never argued when contradicted—and simply carried on as she pleased.
Thus, years ago, she'd already earned the nickname the loony girl of Ottery St Catchpole.
At first, Vaughn had been intrigued—not because he believed in Wrackspurts, but because Luna possessed an air of mystery reminiscent of certain legendary bloodlines. He'd suspected she might have traces of Seer or Legilimency ancestry, and that her creatures were manifestations of some latent ability.
One notable detail was that she could supposedly tell who was troubled by noticing Wrackspurts around them.
But after some observation, Vaughn gave up—not only because he couldn't confirm anything, but because he realized he was starting to be influenced by her way of thinking.
Ever since, he'd kept his distance.
Clearing his throat, Vaughn ended the conversation.
"Thanks, Luna. I'll pick some mistletoe on my way out… Your mum's in the orchard, right? I'll head over. It was good seeing you—bye!"
Luna watched him disappear among the trees. Only after a while did she cheerfully reply,
"Bye, Vaughn!"
No one answered her—but she didn't mind. Humming happily, she continued picking dirigible plums.
She wanted to make a necklace.
Vaughn entered the orchard. The Lovegoods' trees were meticulously cared for, branches pruned to ensure sweet fruit in autumn.
It was still too early for signs of harvest.
Soon, he spotted a witch beneath a tree, her long hair wrapped in a handkerchief, wand raised. The tree's leaves were yellowed and curled—diseased.
Soft white light flowed into the trunk as she cast her spell.
Vaughn waited, then asked,
"Any effect?"
The witch lowered her wand, studied the leaves, and sighed.
"No… Curse it. Why is developing new spells so hard? I analyzed Episkey, growth charms—every incantation and wand movement planned meticulously. Why won't it work?"
This was Pandora Lovegood, Luna's mother—a witch utterly obsessed with spell invention.
In Vaughn's memory of the original timeline, she was meant to die in 1990, killed by an explosion from a spell she invented herself.
But that year coincided with Vaughn publishing his paper in Extraordinary Potions, provoking outrage among traditional potion masters.
Xenophilius Lovegood's The Quibbler had enthusiastically jumped into the fray—attacking convention simply for the sake of opposing it.
Through this, Pandora learned of Vaughn's work. Living nearby, she often visited the Burrow to discuss turning magical extraction theory into a spell.
Diverted by this collaboration, she never pursued more dangerous experiments.
Watching her now—still elegant despite frustration—Vaughn felt thoughtful.
Only now did he realize that someone close to him had already escaped their destined fate.
Did she survive because my fate interfered with hers?
But that wasn't his only reason for coming.
Pandora led Vaughn beneath a sprawling oak tree. Tea had already been prepared.
"The usual?" she asked.
"Yes. No milk. No sugar."
She laughed.
"What an odd preference. If I hadn't watched you grow up, I'd never believe you were English."
She placed plain black tea before him. Her own cup received milk, heaps of sugar, clotted cream, scones, and jam.
Calories incarnate.
Vaughn took a sip of the bitter tea and got to the point.
"Did you receive Isabella's letter?"
"Of course."
Pandora split her scone, spreading cream first, then jam—the Devonshire way.
"She sent a parcel from North America at Christmas. I heard you contacted the Rosier family?"
"Yes. But Isabella already severed ties. They refused to help."
"I knew it," Pandora scoffed. "Aristocratic families."
She looked at Vaughn.
"When are you going to rescue her? I can't do much—but I can fight. Let me know when you leave."
Direct. No nonsense.
That recklessness was exactly why she'd died in the original timeline.
Hearing her readiness, Vaughn nodded. He only needed her stance.
He planned to visit Ilvermorny in early August. Lupin and WAC members would accompany him—but they'd be of little help in North America.
Pandora would be useful.
He then added,
"I plan to research dragons this summer. Interested?"
Her eyes lit up.
"In what aspect?"
"The principles behind their magic. Scale resistance. Fire-breathing. What causes it."
"I have theories," Vaughn continued. "I suspect dragons possess microscopic magical structures—like alchemical runes."
Pandora leaned forward.
"How small? And your samples?"
"I'll have access. Enough. I didn't dissect the hatchling—I grew attached."
"Live dissection then," she concluded calmly.
"If you're in," Vaughn said, "I'll need modified Muggle instruments—microscopes capable of observing magical flow."
She smiled.
"That won't be easy."
But she didn't hesitate.
Two mad scientists—perfectly matched.
After leaving Pandora a list of tools, modifications, pounds, and Galleons, Vaughn returned to the Burrow.
Breakfast was ready.
Arthur sat at the head of the table reading The Daily Prophet.
"Dear," Arthur asked, peering over the paper, "when are you picking up the Grangers?"
"Afternoon," Vaughn replied. "We'll use Muggle transport."
Molly swooped in and kissed him fiercely.
"Oh, my precious boy!"
She then turned on the twins and Percy.
"Look at your brother! First year and he's got a girlfriend!"
Fred and George deflected instantly.
"We're busy, Mum. Ask Percy—didn't he have one?"
"…We broke up," Percy muttered.
Silence.
Ginny opened her mouth—Vaughn covered it.
Arthur brightened.
"We could take the car! It flies now!"
Vaughn sipped juice.
"And I drive?"
"…I've been practicing."
Eventually, Vaughn relented—after testing Arthur's skills.
The test ended with Ron vomiting and Arthur barely holding it together.
They took the Knight Bus instead.
At the Grangers' house—
Mrs. Granger hovered anxiously.
"Jane—are you wearing that robe to the Weasleys'?"
An hour later, the door opened.
Hermione emerged like an angel—pink gown, braided hair, glowing.
Vaughn stared.
Arthur nudged him.
"Good eye, son."
That evening, the Knight Bus deposited them at the Burrow.
The driver beamed.
"My brother's a werewolf. Thanks to you, he's got work and joined the WAC. Best of luck in the elections!"
The bus roared away.
Behind them, Mr. and Mrs. Granger bent over, retching.
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