The Black Lake at night was dark and unfathomable. Looking out from the dormitory window, there was nothing but endless shadow—just like Rita Skeeter's heart at that moment.
The magic had seeped into her, making it impossible to return to her human form. All she could do was watch helplessly as a pale, slender hand lifted the glass jar that imprisoned her and placed it on a desk.
'How did he find out my secret? He was deliberately vague, just to lure me into transforming and sneaking in later—so he could trap me! Damn it, damn it, how could I have been so careless, so stupidly confident? What was I thinking?'
Beetle-Rita scratched at the glass irritably, but the smooth surface rendered her efforts hopeless again and again.
Then, a pair of eyes loomed into view.
"Ms. Skeeter, please look into my eyes."
Rita instinctively glanced up. From the perspective of a beetle, the eyes looked enormous—lit with a faint glow.
Suddenly, a wave of dizziness swept over her. When she came to her senses, she was startled to find that she had turned back into her human form!
Get out!
I have to find my wand—cast a Forgetfulness Charm on him!
My secret must not be exposed!
Screaming silently inside, Rita bolted toward the door.
It was just a few steps away—but she never made it. A voice behind her spoke gently, "Madam, do you need me to open the door for you?"
"…Of course."
Rita froze. Because of the voice and because of what she saw.
Starting from the snake-emblazoned Slytherin door, the world around her began to crumble, like ancient wood rotted by time, or a sand sculpture collapsing in the wind.
The handle, the doorframe, the stone walls, the murals—everything turned to fine dust and dissolved into the void. The collapse quickly spread to where Rita stood.
But she couldn't move. Some force held her still, and all she could do was watch as the world disappeared, drawing her into suffocating silence and darkness.
This isn't the real world—
She thought. And soon, that very thought echoed around her.
Someone chuckled. "Very perceptive, Ms. Skeeter. Yes—this is your spiritual world."
As the voice faded, the darkness was pierced by soft light. Rita looked down and saw herself floating mid-air. A sofa drifted beside her—and on it sat Vaughn.
He was flipping through a book.
"Armando Dippet: Master or Idiot?"
The title was painfully familiar. It was her debut piece, the one that had made her name in the magical world.
Vaughn turned a few pages and said pleasantly, "Rita, this must be your proudest work, right? You've probably reread it a hundred times. Every word etched into your memory. So, the first thing I encountered after stepping into your mind… was this. Sharp writing—really."
Then he casually tossed the book aside. "Too bad it's trash. Not a single word of it is true."
Rita, still trapped mid-stride and unable to move, tried to widen her eyes. Her mouth wouldn't open, but her thoughts echoed like blaring sirens:
"He threw away my book—my favorite book!"
"I want revenge! I'll destroy his reputation!"
"Why can I hear my thoughts aloud? Don't think—stop thinking—"
"Someone help! Would begging work? Should I beg?"
Snap!
Vaughn snapped his fingers, and the chaos of voices ceased instantly. He looked at her. Her eyes, once furious, had now shifted into fear.
Smiling faintly, he asked, "Is it good news for you—that begging actually works?"
Suddenly able to move, Rita nodded frantically. "Yes, Mr. Weasley, of course! Please let me go!"
"Give me a reason." Vaughn leaned back lazily on the sofa.
"Wh-What?"
"Give me a reason to let you go."
Rita forced a smile. "Sir, you hold my secret. If you report me to the Ministry, I'll be imprisoned in Azkaban. Even if I get out one day, my life will be ruined—"
"No, no," Vaughn cut her off with a shake of his head. "That's not a reason. You could simply register as an Animagus once you're out. What can I really do to you?"
Rita's eyes darted nervously until she remembered what Vaughn had said earlier about her book: "The writing style is really sharp."
What kind of person would go to such lengths—exposing her secret, capturing her, but not harming her? The answer became clear.
Rita's eyes widened. "You… you want me to be your mouthpiece?"
Clap, clap, clap!
Vaughn applauded softly, his expression still gentle and kind. "So, Rita—are you willing?"
Only a fool would agree to such a thing.
Rita's eyes flickered.
As if sensing her answer, Vaughn remained unbothered. He raised his hand and reached into the surrounding darkness. In an instant, a stream of hazy images emerged from the void, drawn out and strung together, stretching endlessly into the dark.
Rita's expression darkened—those images were her memories.
They circled the two of them, rotating like a ring of ghosts.
Vaughn curled a finger, and one image floated in front of him. He examined it for a moment before smiling at Rita.
"This is the memory of what you wore today. Now, if I just do this..."
He reached into the image and clenched his fist.
The memory shattered silently, its colors bleeding away like spilled ink. At that exact moment, Rita suddenly couldn't recall what she had worn today.
A flicker of fear entered her eyes.
But Vaughn wasn't finished. He glanced at the countless memories drifting above, below, and around them, and said in a low voice, "Rita, in reality, you're still a beetle. If I erase the memory that you're a witch—erase the memory that you're an Animagus—what do you think will happen?"
Rita's face turned bone-white.
She would truly believe she was a beetle—flutter away from Hogwarts, into the Forbidden Forest, and spend her days with flowers, insects, and animal droppings. With a human lifespan far longer than a beetle's, she'd live like that for decades, crawling through filth, until she finally died. A fate far worse than death.
Her thoughts raced. In that flash of realization, her lips trembled, and she forced out a flattering smile:
"Mr. Weasley, I am willing to write for you, speak for you, and become a blade in your hand!"
Humiliating, yes—but painfully realistic.
And Rita Skeeter had always been someone who knew how to adapt to the times.
Then she saw Vaughn smile with satisfaction. He reached out, gently tapping her forehead with a finger:
"Then, dear Rita, allow me to engrave a spell into your memory."
---
Recently, Dumbledore had taken to midnight walks—not out of preference, but because the Boy Who Lived needed watching over.
Last night, Harry had once again sneaked up to the fifth floor.
This time, he brought Ron along. The two had gazed longingly into the Mirror of Erised well into the night.
Children were energetic; losing a few nights' sleep meant little to them. But for an old man over a century old, Dumbledore was beginning to feel the toll.
When he woke up this morning, Headmaster Weasley looked at him with concern. "Albus, you're in terrible shape. If this keeps up, you'll drop dead!"
Headmaster Black clapped and laughed. "Who cares if he dies!"
Dumbledore had no time to rest.
He needed to guide the kindness in Harry's heart, make sure it wasn't eroded by time, and also protect him from Quirrell's schemes.
Meanwhile, the joint investigation team from the Ministry was still camped at Hogwarts, and he had to play host to them as well.
Gazing at the deep bags under his eyes and his exhausted expression in the mirror, Dumbledore sighed. He reached for another bottle of Euphoria Potion.
Then came the singing. Loud, lyrical, dramatic—one of the unfortunate side effects of overusing Euphoria Potion.
When Professor McGonagall came to report today's schedule, she walked in just as he was finishing a particularly drawn-out bel canto finale.
"Albus, you—"
"Ahhhh... Minerva!"
Professor McGonagall's face darkened instantly. She glanced at the empty Euphoria Potion bottle on the sink and knew exactly what had happened. Furious, she snapped, "You used that potion again? One day you'll drink yourself to death!"
"Ahem, it's finally over," Dumbledore said, rubbing his sore throat after twenty minutes of full-volume singing. The potion had worked—he was energized, if hoarse. "So, what's the investigation team's schedule today?"
McGonagall handed over a parchment.
Dumbledore scanned it. Most of the team was still wandering the castle—supposedly 'revisiting their youth,' though in truth they were simply slacking off.
Fudge, however, had requested a quiet, secluded, private space to meet with Vaughn.
Seeing this, Dumbledore smiled knowingly. He had long noticed Fudge's subtle distance and polite deflections. The so-called private meeting was likely an attempt to bypass him and convince Vaughn to hand over his potion formula to the Ministry.
But Dumbledore didn't mind. Fudge was a seasoned politician.
Yet from the moment Fudge had assumed Vaughn was merely a twelve-year-old and treated him as such, he had already lost the initiative.
Near the end of the parchment was a note about The Daily Prophet's interview schedule.
Dumbledore frowned slightly. "Minerva, has the interview started?"
"Yes. Ms. Skeeter is already in the Slytherin common room," McGonagall replied. "No one knows when she got in."
Thinking of Skeeter's usual sensationalist writing, Professor McGonagall pursed her lips. She had never liked this former student, though, admittedly, Rita had been quite gifted in Transfiguration back in school.
Dumbledore thought for a moment. "I'll go have a look. Ms. Skeeter's articles are fascinating, yes, but she always chases a story that lacks the truth."
If Rita went too far, he would simply rely on his connections to replace her with another reporter.
Using the newspapers to boost his public image was part of Vaughn's arrangement with him. If a reporter's exaggerated stories jeopardized that cooperation, it would be a regrettable outcome.