Only after Vaughn told her the price did Mrs. Granger do the math—calculating Hermione's annual Galleon allowance and the cost of textbooks for the new school year—before regretfully giving up.
Vaughn was perfectly willing to lend them the money, or even exchange pounds at Gringotts' rate.
But now fully aware that pounds were essentially worthless in the wizarding world, Mr. and Mrs. Granger refused outright. In their view, Vaughn would be the one taking the loss.
So the matter was dropped.
After playing with Crookshanks for a while, Vaughn noticed Molly was still packing. Clothes and personal items kept flying in from all directions. Arthur looked on the verge of collapse, frantically shooting Vaughn pleading looks.
Vaughn could only pretend not to see.
In this household, no one could defy Molly Weasley's will—much less her overwhelming love.
To avoid becoming a human clothes rack like his father, Vaughn scooped up Crookshanks and hurried upstairs.
But instead of returning to his own room, he dropped Crookshanks off in Ginny's room, then quietly opened the door to Ron's bedroom.
This was his real purpose for coming back to the Burrow.
Peter Pettigrew
Ron's room wasn't large. Before Vaughn turned eight, the two brothers had shared it, and even after Vaughn moved out, nothing had changed.
Two beds stood on opposite sides of the room. Ron slept deeply on the one by the window. The floor and the other bed were buried under clutter. On the wall hung several Chudley Cannons posters, their magic fading with age, flickering like broken television screens.
On the bedside table sat an iron cage.
Scabbers lay curled inside.
Hearing the door open, the fat rat stirred, waking from his dream.
Then he saw Vaughn.
Every hair on his body stood on end. His mouth opened to scream—to warn Ron that the devil had arrived—
But the scream never came.
"Legilimency."
A faint silver flash passed through the room. Scabbers froze in place, the emotions vanishing from his beady black eyes, replaced by dull confusion.
Smiling faintly, Vaughn stepped forward, opened the cage, and levitated the rat into the air.
"It's been a while since I adjusted your memories," he said calmly.
"Let's see what you've been thinking about lately… Peter."
Silvery mist was drawn from the rat's body, swirling through the air, fragmented images flickering within it—along with broken whispers.
"…Master… he's still alive…"
"Vaughn Weasley… that terrifying demon…"
"…Sorry, Harry…"
"I need to escape… why do I need to escape?"
"I'm a rat… no… I'm Wormtail… yes… a rat…"
The thoughts were chaotic, endlessly disrupted and rewritten.
Embedded deep within the mist was a faint, translucent web—threads like fungal tendrils entwining Peter's memories and consciousness.
A personality construct, custom-made by Vaughn.
With a flick of his wand, Vaughn drew the web out, his pupils glowing faint silver-blue as images flooded past his eyes.
Moments later, the glow faded.
"Stable," he muttered with satisfaction. "Excellent concealment. Borrowed elements from the Confundus Charm—his thoughts are scrambled just enough that he never notices."
"There's room for improvement, though. Keyword filtering is still inefficient… he can occasionally recall his identity."
With a casual gesture, Vaughn crushed several whispering memory fragments into sparkling dust.
Crack.
They vanished.
He altered and erased Peter's memory of seeing him tonight, returned the web to the mist, and pushed everything back into the rat's mind.
Scabbers remained frozen.
Vaughn took out a camera and snapped a photograph before placing him back into the cage.
"You should be grateful you're still useful."
He left the room without another word.
Since Vaughn had revealed his hostility, the rat had constantly tried to escape. That was why Peter—not Harry—had been Vaughn's first subject when he learned Legilimency.
For half a year now, the true betrayer of James and Lily Potter had lived under controlled memory manipulation—without ever realising it.
Departure
The next day, Vaughn prepared a batch of Developing Potion and processed the photograph.
Molly finished packing.
Her love manifested as a mountain of clothes and supplies—without Vaughn's enchanted satchel, it would've been impossible to carry.
That afternoon, just as Arthur and Molly predicted, Vaughn received Dumbledore's letter:
"…The Ministry has approved our visit to Azkaban. An official will accompany us—standard procedure…"
Vaughn suspected otherwise.
Sure enough, when he arrived at the Ministry via Floo, he saw Cornelius Fudge standing beside Dumbledore, belly protruding, buttons straining, loudly addressing a small group of reporters.
"…Normally, private visits to Azkaban are forbidden, but who could refuse Dumbledore? Such matters don't even reach my desk…"
Vaughn nearly laughed.
The Minister had changed tactics—playing the aggrieved underdog, hoping public resentment would shift toward Dumbledore.
Pointless.
After Fudge left, Vaughn muttered, "If I were you, I wouldn't let a clown like that sit in the Minister's chair."
Dumbledore sighed. "Removing him is easy. Replacing him is not."
Azkaban
With a sharp crack, the three Apparated.
Moments later, they stood on a magically concealed island in the North Sea.
Grey waves stretched endlessly beneath a sunless sky. Cold seeped into bone and sight alike. Jagged black stone replaced soil or greenery.
In the distance, a massive fortress loomed atop sheer cliffs, shrouded in mist.
"Gentlemen, welcome to Azkaban," the Ministry official said weakly.
"Welcome to hell," Vaughn corrected flatly.
Horn blasts echoed from the fortress.
Soon, Aurors arrived escorting a Thestral-drawn carriage.
"Perfect," Dumbledore said cheerfully. "A hell island and a Thestral carriage."
Inside the carriage, Vaughn narrowed his eyes.
"For the most secure prison in Britain, security procedures are remarkably… flexible."
Dumbledore sighed. "The Dementors deter escape."
"Do they?" Vaughn asked quietly.
Silence.
"I intend to make Fudge very busy," Vaughn added.
Sirius Black
Deep within Azkaban, Sirius Black stirred as the horn sounded.
Visitors.
Another political spectacle, no doubt.
Then a name echoed down the corridor.
"Dumbledore."
The chaos fell silent.
Sirius struggled to the bars, peering through the tiny window.
A carriage bearing the Hogwarts crest passed through the grey sky.
For the first time in years, hope flickered—and died.
Inside the Fortress
The Auror captain greeted them nervously.
Vaughn, now wearing Wizengamot robes, immediately began his inspection.
"Where are the Dementors?"
"They were withdrawn… to avoid disturbing the guests…"
Vaughn snapped his fingers.
"Record that."
After several such exchanges, the Aurors gave up resisting.
At the lift, Vaughn asked coldly, "Who's held on the next level?"
"Death Eaters. Lestranges. Black. Rowle. Rosier. Selwyn. Travers…"
The Auror hesitated. "I advise against going there."
Vaughn's expression didn't change.
"Take me."
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