Unfortunately, with so many affairs demanding his attention, Vaughn had never been able to devote himself fully to that research.
His original plan had been to wait until the North American academic visit in August concluded, rescue Isabella, and then set aside time to develop new spells properly.
Now, with the "Slytherin gift package" in hand, he could save himself a great deal of time.
Over the next several hours, Vaughn focused entirely on those minor spells, repeatedly observing Morfin Gaunt's learning process and slowly mastering them.
There were memory spells capable of directly absorbing another person's memories and stealing their knowledge—but in reality, very few wizards who studied memory magic ever used them.
Memories carried emotions.
And emotions had power.
They were not only one of the raw materials of spellcasting, but also a component of consciousness itself. Absorbing too many foreign emotions was like pulling someone else's awareness into your own mind.
In the end, it would only result in a parasitic takeover—or complete personality collapse.
Night gradually fell over the North Sea. Lamps were lit in the lounge.
After an unknown length of time, Vaughn—still immersed in observation—heard Dumbledore's breathing suddenly grow uneven.
He looked up.
Dumbledore's eyes opened at the same moment. Faint shadows of black-grey lingered in his blue irises, his expression dazed, as if he were still lost in Morfin Gaunt's vast sea of memories.
Only after a while did he fully regain his senses.
He glanced at the Pensieve beside Vaughn and smiled knowingly.
"Well then, my dear—are you satisfied with the magic I gave you? How's the learning coming along?"
"It's fine," Vaughn replied flatly.
Dumbledore, who knew him well, understood immediately—if Vaughn weren't pleased, he wouldn't have summoned Fawkes or borrowed the Pensieve at all.
In truth, the spells Vaughn received had been carefully selected.
Ever since last year, Vaughn had wanted to learn Dark Magic. Dumbledore also knew he couldn't stop him forever.
So when Vaughn made his request today, Dumbledore had agreed—but with safeguards.
Parseltongue was obvious. It was the most iconic legacy of Slytherin and the Gaunt family. Any wizard with the chance would be tempted to learn it—Dumbledore included.
In his youth, he had paid a considerable price to learn snake-speech from a Gaunt descendant, purely out of curiosity.
Necromancy, however, had been chosen deliberately.
Vaughn himself might not have realized it, but he was something of a neat freak.
He disliked Floo Powder because it left ash everywhere.
Though he had a dormitory to himself, he kept it impeccably clean—nothing like the messes Ron and Harry lived in.
Ron & Harry: ?
Dumbledore noticed everything.
Necromancy was undeniably powerful and vicious—Inferi, corpse demons, devastating curses—but Dumbledore trusted that Vaughn would never use it frequently.
Because it was dirty.
Corpses. Rot. Corruption.
As for the Soul-Theft Charm, Dumbledore had no hidden agenda there. He merely wanted to prevent Vaughn from blundering blindly into the soul domain.
Sooner or later, every wizard had to confront it.
And after what he'd seen in Morfin's mindscape, Dumbledore believed Vaughn could walk his own path.
As for the final prize—
The Slytherin Bloodline Transplantation Package—
That had been the true bait.
Dumbledore smiled cheerfully.
"Don't pretend otherwise. When I saw that bloodline transplantation magic in Morfin's memories, I knew it was perfect for you. Haven't you always wanted to research dragons? The creature-study spells in there are extraordinary!"
Vaughn rolled his eyes.
"Yes, very rich indeed. But, Headmaster—where are my dragons?"
"…That will take some time."
"How long is 'some time'?" Vaughn pressed. "Thanks to you, my preliminary work is nearly complete. I plan to start in August. Can I get an exact date?"
Dumbledore's beard trembled. Regret flickered across his face.
Quickly, he changed the subject.
"Ah—dragons later. Come, look at what I found. The truth of Tom Riddle's patricide."
The Truth in the Pensieve
Dumbledore drew a silver strand from his temple and dropped it into the Pensieve.
They leaned in together.
Black and silver mist swirled, sinking—reforming into Little Hangleton decades ago.
Moonlit roads.
The crooked Gaunt shack.
A young Tom Riddle carrying a lamp.
But this time, there was no false memory.
Here, Tom was already cruel.
He had not stunned Morfin.
He had controlled him with the Imperius Curse.
Under its influence, Morfin revealed the truth of Tom's birth—a child conceived through deceitful love, abandoned by his father, rejected by both bloodlines.
Tom shattered.
He took Morfin's wand.
The massacre followed.
Vaughn watched impassively.
Dumbledore sighed.
"Tom was deeply insecure. That insecurity twisted into pride. In the orphanage, he took pride in being different. In the wizarding world, in his talent."
"He believed he came from greatness… only to learn the truth."
Voldemort was destroyed by his own pride.
Vaughn felt no sympathy.
When the memory reached its end—Tom stealing the Gaunt ring—Vaughn froze the scene.
The ring was ancient, unassuming.
But the stone—
Metallic, wooden, mineral all at once.
Vaughn glanced at Dumbledore.
Their gazes locked on the same object.
"Albus," Vaughn said calmly, "you know what's set into that ring, don't you?"
Silence.
"The Resurrection Stone."
Dumbledore faltered.
"There's no need to hide it," Vaughn continued. "Many believe The Tales of Beedle the Bard is just a children's story—but we know better. The Peverell brothers were real."
"They forged the Elder Wand, the Invisibility Cloak, and the Resurrection Stone."
"And you know what the Stone truly brings back."
Dumbledore couldn't answer.
"Tell me," Vaughn pressed. "Voldemort possessed that ring for years. Do you really believe he never studied it?"
Dumbledore knew the answer.
And Vaughn struck mercilessly.
"He understood its danger. That's why he turned it into a Horcrux."
"Even Voldemort understood what you refuse to accept."
"Ariana is gone, Albus. No one—least of all the Resurrection Stone—can bring her back."
"…I only wanted to know if she was at peace," Dumbledore whispered.
A Warning
Vaughn softened, just slightly.
"If it were my parents… I might do the same."
"But that's why I'm telling you this."
"Voldemort wanted someone to recognize the ring's value—wanted them to put it on."
"What happens when a wizard dons a cursed Horcrux crafted by the greatest Dark wizard in history?"
Dumbledore shuddered.
Rain began to fall over the North Sea.
Vaughn left Azkaban that night.
He had fulfilled his bargain—and gained more than he expected.
Whether Dumbledore would heed the warning… that depended on fate.
Hogsmeade
By late July, Vaughn returned—not for the WAC meeting, but for another matter.
He emerged from the Floo Network in Hogsmeade.
Waiting nearby was Remus Lupin, dressed in Muggle work clothes, idly tapping the window of Dervish and Banges, teasing a spinning Sneakoscope.
"If you like it," Vaughn said lightly, "why not buy it? Harry's birthday is in two days."
Lupin stiffened.
"…Why would Harry need a Sneakoscope?"
Vaughn smiled.
Lupin groaned inwardly.
He hated riddles.
And yet, everyone around him spoke in them.
The morning mist drifted over Hogsmeade as Vaughn turned toward the narrow alley—
Toward the Hog's Head Inn.
And the man waiting inside.
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