Hermione stopped reading mid-sentence.
The attic fell so silent one could hear a pin drop.
Only when the enchanted coat stand finished helping Vaughan into his jacket—twisting left and right to "admire" its work before patting his shoulder and brushing away imaginary dust—did Hermione finally come back to herself.
She looked at Vaughan, who appeared completely unbothered.
"Aren't you worried about that opposing argument?" she asked.
An iron floated up on its own, releasing a faint hiss of steam as it smoothed the remaining creases from Vaughan's velvet suit.
Watching their reflections in the mirror, Vaughan asked instead, "What about you? Do you think he made sense?"
Hermione fell silent for a moment, then said dejectedly, "…As much as I dislike it, and as unpleasant as those ideas are, what he described is the magical history I know."
"And the supporters' arguments?" Vaughan asked.
"Those are right too," Hermione replied without hesitation. "Werewolf affairs should be decided by werewolves themselves—"
She stopped, frowning in frustration.
She had suddenly realised that both sides seemed… correct.
Seeing her confusion, Vaughan—now fully dressed—turned back and gently ruffled her hair.
"When it comes to the creation of WAC, neither side is wrong. They simply stand in different places."
"Then… what about you?" Hermione asked.
"My personal views aren't important," Vaughan said with a smile. "The moment I developed Wolfsbane Potion and refused to transfer its ownership to the Ministry, my position was fixed. I must—and can only—stand with the werewolves."
Hermione stared at him blankly.
She was not yet thirteen. She couldn't fully grasp the layers hidden within that apparently helpless statement. All she could tell was that although Vaughan's words sounded resigned, there was no discouragement in his expression at all.
Her gaze grew distant.
"Don't worry," Vaughan said gently. "WAC's establishment is inevitable. Support or opposition won't change that. The people who truly make decisions never judge an issue solely on whether it benefits a particular group."
"They consider law, ethics, politics… Ultimately, every policy, every ideological breakthrough, is the result of struggle. On that point, Mr. Harrison in the paper wasn't wrong—living space has always been fought for. It still is."
"Harrison" was a pseudonym.
The moment Vaughan read the interview in The Daily Prophet that morning, he knew it—and knew the man was almost certainly from a pure-blood family.
Not because of the overt emphasis on competition.
But because of the stance itself.
For most wizards, werewolves existed only in childhood horror tales or dark legends. That alone wasn't enough to inspire firm opposition to WAC.
Only pure-bloods possessed the historical depth, education, and perspective to articulate such a "mature" argument—not hatred of werewolves, but fear that WAC's creation marked the beginning of a wider shift.
From a Muggle perspective, the wizarding world's reaction to WAC resembled Britain's view of Asia around 1950.
Small resistance.
Massive shock.
The ignorant, trapped in their information cocoons, failed to understand. The half-informed raged and belittled. Only those who truly understood history realised that the flames rising in Asia heralded the collapse of the old imperial order.
In 1950, it was the aristocracy who wailed.
Today, it was the pure-bloods.
And this wasn't new.
For a thousand years, pure-blood families had sought to control the wizarding world.
The Wizard's Council.
The International Statute of Secrecy.
The Ministry of Magic.
The International Confederation of Wizards.
Even the darkest chapter of magical history—the medieval witch hunts—could not be separated from them.
Official history claimed that both pure-bloods and half-bloods suffered equally.
But in truth, it was wizarding commoners who bore the brunt.
Pure-bloods conveniently "forgot" blood purity, embraced Tudor, Stuart, and Hanoverian rule, joined royal magical institutions—and under that protection, The Malleus Maleficarum appeared.
A book so precise it functioned as a manual for hunting, subduing, and killing witches and wizards.
Official history—written by Bathilda Bagshot—claimed it was destroyed because of its absurdity.
Yet many alchemists called her a liar.
They believed the book was a Dark alchemical artefact, possibly a spellbook composed entirely of magic—each page embedding a powerful spell.
Some even believed it was hidden at Hogwarts.
Three hundred years later, the wizarding world was shattered.
Pure-blood families emerged largely unscathed—some even stronger.
Mixed-blood power collapsed.
The Statute of Secrecy was enacted.
And the pure-bloods—having cut ties with Muggles—founded the Ministry to enforce it.
Power, once seized, endured.
Watching Hermione lost in thought, Vaughan reflected:
History was repeating itself.
Who had supported Grindelwald?
Who had empowered Voldemort?
The answer was obvious.
The drums of war were sounding again—unheard by Muggles, unnoticed by most wizards.
That Night – London
As Remus Lupin stepped out of the hotel, fog rolled in from the Thames.
He watched it form.
This was no natural mist.
It was magic.
Fog Conjuration Charm.
A spell so potent it manipulated half of London's environment.
Streetlights blurred. Neon signs dissolved into halos.
Muggles complained—but didn't question it.
"Was this cast by Mr. Weasley?" Mundungus Fletcher asked, waddling over.
Lupin ignored him, checking his enchanted pocket watch.
"You should loosen up," Mundungus said cheerfully. "Look at your life now—suits, hotels. Better than wandering the streets."
Silence.
Mundungus sighed. "You're a good man, Remus. But good men don't survive."
Lupin finally snapped back.
"And that's why you grovel to whoever's strongest?"
Mundungus laughed. "That's why I'm alive."
Then, softly, "What Weasley gives me isn't money. It's dignity."
The fog thickened.
The watch's pointer froze.
A flare of light burst overhead.
"They're here," Lupin said.
Two wizards descended on broomsticks.
One wore a hood. The other—a young man—wore a cloak embroidered with WAC.
"Phil Travers?" Lupin asked.
"Yes. Greyback's followers are gathering. Orders are to neutralise them."
Lupin nodded. "Alive if possible. Fletcher will collect them."
As they prepared to move, Lupin knew—
The calm before the storm was over.
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