John Baird gave a dry laugh. He glanced at Travers, Greenwill, and Ross, but none of them responded to his silent plea for help.
Shameless as ever, Travers quite naturally played the role of Weasley's loyal hound, smiling as he leisurely examined the yellowed scenery around them.
Greenwill and Ross exchanged looks, clearly communicating something in private.
Even Amelia showed no sign of resistance. Her severe gaze remained fixed on Vaughan Weasley's fingers as they tapped the armrest, as though she were evaluating the power of that peculiar magic.
Suddenly, John Baird understood why—when he had complained earlier—everyone had merely offered verbal placation, yet no one had stopped him.
Because among their group, Amelia and Travers included, everyone wanted to know how far Vaughan Weasley's magical strength had progressed.
The difference was that they were smart enough not to put themselves in the line of fire.
Only he—the fool—had volunteered himself.
A flicker of shame passed through John Baird's eyes. He took a deep look at the others, and the tremor in his voice vanished, replaced by steady resolve.
"Yes, Mr. Weasley. I do have some speculation regarding Fudge's actions. In fact, even if you hadn't asked, I intended to say it."
"After you expelled him from the Wizengamot chamber, I believe you're well aware that Fudge will retaliate. Not only you—everyone who knows the situation understands this. Including Fudge himself."
"Of course, given Fudge's temperament, he would never swallow such an insult. He will retaliate—quietly, covertly, and viciously."
"So the question is this: what weakness do you have that he can exploit, yet is afraid to make public?"
"You yourself are nearly flawless—your magical power, your Weasley lineage, Dumbledore's backing. But WAC is not."
"That newborn organisation is your greatest weakness. Born amid suspicion, it only takes a gentle push to trigger endless controversy—"
"—for instance, if news broke during the WAC conference that a werewolf pack had attacked a wizarding or Muggle village…"
Was such a scenario possible?
Absolutely.
If Vaughan and Fudge's positions were reversed, Vaughan himself would consider this the perfect plan—disrupt the conference and bury the enemy beneath public outrage.
It must be noted that although recent media coverage—thanks to Rita Skeeter, The Daily Prophet, and The Quibbler—had fostered some sympathy toward werewolves, millennia of prejudice could not vanish overnight.
The fact that werewolves still struggled to find employment was proof enough.
Most wizards remained wary, even hostile—merely shifting from outright slander to cautious concern over lycanthropy and the reliability of Wolfsbane Potion.
That trust was fragile.
So fragile that a single attack—one that appeared to be committed by werewolves—could shatter it entirely.
And once that happened, the resulting tide of outrage would drown Vaughan and WAC alike.
Tap.
The knocking stopped.
Vaughan's fingers relaxed, and the final ripple slowly expanded before fading away.
As the ripple vanished, so too did the sense of dissonance—like a frozen wave suddenly resuming motion. Colour surged back into the world, flooding the previously bleached scenery.
Chairs, tables, teacups—people.
Everything returned to its natural hue.
The change was silent, yet visually overwhelming.
So much so that John Baird nearly missed Vaughan's next question.
Still resting his chin on one hand, Vaughan asked calmly:
"Who do you think Fudge will use to carry out this plan?"
John Baird answered evenly, as though he hadn't noticed Vaughan treating a hypothetical as a certainty.
"He has limited options. Either Dark wizards… or Fenrir Greyback."
"Heh."
Vaughan chuckled softly, lost in thought for a moment before asking:
"John… may I call you John?"
"O–of course."
"Good. Then I'll give you a task, my friend. Keep a close watch on Greyback and his followers. I want to know their every move. Can you do that?"
"Yes," John replied, then hesitated. "And the Dark wizards…?"
"They will no longer be a problem."
As he spoke, Vaughan stood and gestured toward Barty Crouch in the corner.
"Barty, about what you asked me last time—my apologies. I've been busy. Let's take a look now."
"Now?" Crouch asked, though he was already rising and summoning Winky.
Understanding immediately, Winky wiped her tears and, without a word, Apparated away with the two of them.
Once Vaughan left, the previously tense living room loosened noticeably.
Henry Ross loosened his cravat and exhaled. "Terrifying… I mean his magic—and his temperament."
Travers laughed. "Mr. Ross, are you saying our esteemed Mr. Weasley has a terrible temper?"
"I didn't say that. Just… it feels like he doesn't value us much, doesn't it? George? John?"
George Greenwill spoke from beneath his hood, voice edged with mockery. "Don't try to sow discord. The Greenwill family understands Vaughan Weasley far better than you."
Turning toward John Baird, he added gravely, "John, if you still remember our school days—listen to me. Do exactly as he instructed."
John frowned. "George… what do you know?"
After a moment's hesitation, George drew his wand, extracted a strand of silvery memory from his temple, and handed it to John.
"You were wondering why, when you mentioned Dark wizards and Greyback, he chose only Greyback. The answer is in here."
"That's why I came personally. This has spread throughout the black market."
He glanced at Henry Ross. "I strongly advise you to watch this—and report it to Edward. Also—don't drink the tea."
With that, George inclined his head and Apparated away.
The room fell silent.
After a long pause, Henry muttered, "What's with the mystery…"
Yet George's solemn tone unsettled him. He looked down at his teacup.
Still delicate. Still ruby-red—
Wait.
Frozen?
Henry's eyes widened. His trembling finger reached out.
It passed straight through.
The cup shattered—not into shards, but into drifting dust and light, as though it had never truly existed.
Henry Ross went pale.
John Baird stared at his palm, remembering the ripples that had passed through the cup—and through them.
Crouch Manor, Underground Chamber
Dim light flickered as Barty Crouch unraveled layer after layer of protective enchantments. The stone wall undulated, reshaping into a hidden passage.
"Your memory magic has grown terrifying," Crouch said quietly. "Mind influencing reality… I thought only Dumbledore—or You-Know-Who—could manage that."
Vaughan smiled faintly. "Isn't that good news? At least you won't worry about me failing to deal with your son."
Crouch hesitated. "You said your Mental Construct project hit a bottleneck. Is that resolved?"
"Not yet. But I have a hypothesis."
"So that's why you insisted on meeting here—and studying my son?"
"Exactly. Barty Jr. is the perfect test subject."
The passage opened into a circular chamber.
Bound to a restraint chair at its centre was Barty Crouch Jr.
When Vaughan arrived, the younger Crouch lifted his head and screamed obscenities.
Vaughan silenced him with wandless magic.
Then—he acted.
Dark mist poured from Barty Jr.'s mouth and nose, pooling into a humanoid silhouette.
A corrupted Mental Construct.
Vaughan shattered its resistance and sealed it in a crystal vial.
Crouch asked hoarsely, "What… is that?"
"My research material," Vaughan replied. "Distorted memories. Emotions. Mental residue."
Hope flickered in Crouch's eyes—then died.
"This doesn't cure him, does it?"
"No. Contamination goes deeper. It involves consciousness and the soul."
After a pause, Vaughan added quietly:
"I believe Dark Magic contamination appears only after killing."
Crouch stiffened.
"Do you have proof?"
Vaughan smiled. "That's what we're about to test."
Two new Mental Constructs formed.
One for Barty Jr.
One for—
Crouch sighed heavily. "You're putting the other one in my head, aren't you?"
"You catch on quickly," Vaughan said pleasantly. "So—do you agree?"
Crouch looked at his son.
He had no choice.
"Who do you want me to kill?" he asked.
Vaughan thought for a moment.
"Dark wizards," he said lightly. "Let's give Fudge something to worry about."
July 27
The English wizarding world stirred once more.
One reason was the approaching birthday of Harry Potter.
On July 30th, "The Saviour's Birthday" would be celebrated—at least by those who knew.
Harry himself, blissfully unaware, lay in a cupboard-turned-bedroom, praying his friends wouldn't forget.
The second reason was the upcoming WAC Conference.
Debate raged across the papers.
Supporters hailed it as progress.
Opponents called it the death knell of wizarding supremacy.
In the Grangers' attic, Hermione read aloud passionately.
"She's a Squib," Hermione said breathlessly. "And she supports WAC! That's so brave!"
Vaughan listened quietly, measuring robes in mid-air.
"And the opposition?" he asked calmly.
Hermione frowned, then read:
"'Wizarding civilisation was built on conquest,' Harrison claims. 'Strength, not fairness, ensured our survival.'"
Her voice grew quieter.
The wind outside rustled.
The tree wished for calm.
But the wind would not cease.
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