Dumbledore found Vaughn's caution admirable. In fact, it was one of the things he liked most about him—reverence for the unknown.
The thing people should fear most had never been ignorance or foolishness.
It was arrogance.
Ignorance might inconvenience you. Arrogance would destroy you.
As the golden hourglass returned to his hand, Albus Dumbledore sighed softly, once again recalling Vaughn's theory about higher-dimensional beings.
"Wizardkind's control over time is still deeply flawed," he said. "Your idea of us as 3.5-dimensional beings is… quite reasonable."
"Oh?" Vaughn raised an eyebrow. "You're actually agreeing with me? I thought you'd argue that such a classification belittles Muggles."
Dumbledore smiled.
"Don't test me, my boy. You should know—my protection of Muggles comes largely from compassion for the weak. It's a mindset almost all wizards develop unconsciously… even those born to Muggles."
"When overwhelming power rests with individuals, class division becomes inevitable. To put it bluntly—you will never truly see ants as your equals."
Vaughn fell silent.
When great power belongs to an individual, it is like carrying a blade.
Even the most law-abiding person—if armed with something that can easily take another's life—will instinctively think of using that weapon when problems arise.
Because deep down, people understand that all problems are created by people. Remove the person creating the problem, and the problem disappears.
Even Vaughn—armed with the maturity of a past life—no longer truly regarded Muggles as equals. Otherwise, he would not use the word Muggle at all.
This was the unavoidable consequence of wielding great power.
And it wasn't unique to wizards. Among Muggles, power could just as easily take the form of wealth or authority.
Vaughn changed the subject.
"Albus, do you have any records on the construction of Time-Turners? I'd like to understand them better."
"I don't," Dumbledore replied. "But Nicolas Flamel might. The next time I visit him, I can ask."
"Thank you. One more thing—how long until these mechanisms are complete?"
Dumbledore calculated briefly.
"Late May. Perfect timing—Norberta should be grown enough by then. Two months… I can hardly wait."
"So can I," Vaughn said lightly. "I'm very much looking forward to Harry's performance."
The old fox and the young one exchanged knowing smiles.
"Achoo!"
In the library, Harry sneezed violently.
He had caught a cold. That morning, Poppy Pomfrey had forced him to drink a Pepper-Up Potion; now steam puffed from his ears, completely obscuring Ron's head.
Ron didn't care.
He was staring miserably at his fingers, swollen like carrots, on the verge of tears.
Across from them, Hermione looked up from her revision notes, sneered, and said coldly,
"I told you to go to Madam Pomfrey. Serves you right."
Ron was too drained to argue. He muttered weakly,
"How was I supposed to know a dragon hatchling that small would be that venomous? One night, and my hand's like this…"
Harry blew his nose and said gently,
"You really should go get it checked."
"And what if Madam Pomfrey asks what bit me?" Ron groaned. "She won't even need to ask. She'll know."
To students, Madam Pomfrey was the most miraculous witch at Hogwarts—there was nothing she couldn't cure.
There was only one problem.
Her potions worked exceptionally well—and tasted exceptionally awful.
Harry agreed that she'd probably recognize a dragon bite instantly. But surely enduring pain just to keep professors in the dark wasn't sensible?
After more persuasion, Ron finally shuffled off toward the hospital wing, clutching his hand.
He had barely left when the twins appeared.
"Good afternoon, dear Harry! Dear Hermione!"
"Fred, you sound stiff. We've never greeted people like that."
"But George, we need Harry's help. I think we should be polite."
"Help?" Harry immediately remembered the Canary Creams from his first Quidditch match. His guard shot up.
"You're not tricking me again—feeding Ron something weird, are you? I'm not falling for that twice!"
The twins exchanged looks.
"Oh dear, our foolproof trick has been exposed."
"What now, Fred? Vaughn's checking our research progress. If we can't produce test data, he'll withdraw his investment!"
"We're ruined—ten Galleons gone! Without money, Vaughn will kill us."
"Strip us naked and hang us from the castle gate, most likely."
"Yes, he absolutely would."
They wailed pitifully.
Harry remained unmoved. Ron had told him all about their past crimes.
What Harry didn't realize was that Hermione was the real target.
She looked up sharply.
"Fred. George."
She would not tolerate anyone speaking ill of Vaughn.
Still, she knew the twins wouldn't stop without results. She held out her hand.
"Give it to me. I'll pass it to Ron later. But if I hear you slandering Vaughn again, I'll report you."
The twins beamed.
"No problem at all, dear Hermione!"
They produced a hard sweet wrapped in greaseproof paper.
"Our latest invention—Skiving Snackboxes, fast-acting, guaranteed."
"We've learned our lesson. This time, we help the truly oppressed."
"Yes! The poor students crushed by lessons, robbed of freedom and dignity!"
Hermione frowned deeply.
Oppressed? Robbed of dignity?
Surrounded by learning, with professors always available—how was that suffering?
Unable to understand, she pocketed the sweet and returned to her towering stack of books.
When Ron returned from the hospital wing, she casually tossed him the candy.
"Merlin—" Ron stared as if dreaming. "Harry, did you see that? Hermione gave me a sweet!"
"Er—wait, Ron—"
Too late.
Ron unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth. This was the first time Hermione had ever been kind to him.
"Mmm… sweet," he said happily. "Perfect after Madam Pomfrey's antidote—my mouth tasted like almonds. Thanks, Hermione—"
Then his nose burned.
Harry's face twisted in horror.
Pfft—!
A jet of bright red blood erupted from Ron's nostrils like a fountain, blasting straight into Harry's face with enough force to knock Ron's head back.
"What incredible pressure," Ron thought distantly—
Then his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed.
Only then did it register that the blood was his.
Vaughn learned about Ron the next morning.
Over breakfast, Hermione said guiltily,
"If I'd known that 'Skiving Snackbox' was so dangerous, I'd never have given it to Ron."
By rumor, Ron had lost nearly two pints of blood before reaching the hospital wing. When Madam Pomfrey revived him, he didn't even recognize Harry.
Fortunately, such blood loss was trivial in the magical world.
By the time Vaughn finished breakfast and visited the hospital wing, Ron was rosy-cheeked again—gnawing enthusiastically on a pork chop.
"It was terrifying," Ron said through a mouthful of meat. "Took hours of Blood-Replenishing Potion before I remembered Harry's name. That was the only surprise, really—I didn't expect blood loss to be that bad."
He waved a greasy hand grandly.
"Honestly, the moment I ate it, I knew it was Fred and George's trick. Experience, you see?"
Harry hesitated.
He distinctly remembered Ron sobbing the night before, clutching his trousers and screaming, 'Harry, am I going to die?'
But Ron's face now showed no trace of that terror.
Until Neville asked,
"Did Madam Pomfrey give you time off?"
Ron's eyes sparkled.
"Three days! She said the blood loss might've damaged my brain!"
Neville, Seamus, and Dean looked envious. Harry swallowed his own yearning—Hermione's glare, sharp as Norberta's, silenced him.
Hermione dragged Vaughn out of the ward, furious.
"I was worried sick—and look at him! He might even be grateful!"
From inside, Ron's voice rang out:
"Neville, those Skiving Snackboxes are brilliant! Fred and George's finest work—I'm giving an honest review, even if I was the test subject!"
Hermione was speechless.
She could already foresee the disaster: once Neville and the others spread the word, Skiving Snackboxes would sweep Gryffindor.
And indeed, that's exactly what happened.
That evening, Vaughn stayed with Hermione in the library to calm her down. When he walked her back to Gryffindor Tower, the common room was packed.
Fred and George were at the center, drowning in admirers.
"With Ron Weasley as our official tester," George announced proudly, "the Skiving Snackboxes are a proven success! Next in development—Fever Fancies, Fainting Fancies—"
Lee Jordan shouted,
"George! Remember that Butterbeer I bought you? Credit me one!"
"Fred—cross Lee Jordan off the list!"
"Done!"
Hermione's face turned green with rage.
Nearby, Percy fought desperately to push through the crowd—utterly ignored.
Vaughn quietly stayed behind to listen to Hermione vent until curfew.
When the crowd finally dispersed, the twins approached him, shaking a pouch heavy with coins.
"Vaughn—we did it!"
"Your investment paid off!"
Vaughn smiled mildly.
"Paid off? I recall it being an investment. That makes me a shareholder."
The twins laughed uproariously.
They didn't notice Vaughn's faint smile.
Because the night before, he had overheard Professor McGonagall briefing Dumbledore at a staff meeting.
The school was about to begin its pre-exam crackdown.
And the twins—
Were about to receive a very special surprise.
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