The Werewolf Affairs Committee.
The most talked-about organization in the magical world this year.
Compared to the massive, bureaucratic Ministry of Magic, it was still small, with limited responsibilities. But anyone with a discerning eye could see its potential, its momentum—and more importantly, the power structure it was slowly fracturing.
Dumbledore, the Wizengamot, and—shockingly—Barty Crouch and his Department of International Magical Cooperation, who had quietly joined just two months ago.
Piece by piece, under the public's gaze, the committee had begun tearing at the Ministry's internal power network. And while it exposed Cornelius Fudge's incompetence to the world, it also highlighted someone else:
Vaughn Weasley—a genius Potioneer, cunning, sharp, and ruthless enough to wield politics like a scalpel.
Truth be told, Vaughn's performance in establishing the Werewolf Affairs Committee had struck a nerve for every Slytherin in Hogwarts.
After all, Slytherins had a deep-rooted obsession with power—and in their eyes, Vaughn was a born leader. Ambitious. Ruthless. Visionary. Everything they aspired to be.
Given his youth, it was no surprise that many of these sharp-minded, ambitious students had started hedging their bets early.
Whether Slytherin won the Quidditch Cup no longer mattered.
For most of the upper-years preparing to graduate, the victory banquet was just an excuse—a venue to get close to Vaughn Weasley.
He was surrounded all evening by the best-dressed snakes in the house, each one clearly styled to impress. But Vaughn?
He barely responded. He said almost nothing.
He just sat calmly, savoring the food in front of him, disinterested.
In his eyes, these young "elites" were still too green.
Despite their attempts to mimic the mannerisms of their pureblood parents—flashing polite smiles, speaking with carefully practiced eloquence—their childishness bled through. Their praise was shallow. Their words lacked substance.
He was, frankly, bored.
And perhaps sensing his indifference, a tall, impeccably dressed young man finally stepped forward. With slicked-back hair, a pressed velvet robe, and a smile full of ambition, he leaned in and asked bluntly:
"Mr. Weasley, does the Werewolf Affairs Committee have plans for open recruitment? You see, we're about to graduate, and if we had the chance to participate in your great cause, it would be the greatest honor of our lives."
Several others nearby flushed in embarrassment.
Too forward, their expressions seemed to say. These were still students—sheltered, pampered. Not all of them were ready to face the brutal realities of the magical world.
But Vaughn finally looked up. He studied the young man, then asked curiously:
"What's your name?"
The young man maintained his smile and answered respectfully, "Mr. Weasley, my name is Phil Travers."
A familiar surname.
With his mastery of memory magic, Vaughn rarely forgot anything these days. He had an entire archive of memories he could browse at will—and this name lit up a file almost instantly.
He asked, "Alred Travers… is he your…?"
Phil's smile deepened. "He's my grandfather, sir. He's always spoken highly of you—says you're a remarkable man and that I should strive to follow your example. He especially hoped I might join the Werewolf Affairs Committee after graduation, to work under your leadership."
Alred Travers.
Vaughn remembered him from a Wizengamot hearing months ago. He'd asked a soft, practically scripted question—likely at Amelia Bones' request to ease the pressure.
The Travers family, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, wasn't particularly ambitious. Their survival strategy in the current political climate was simple: hedge bets across all factions.
With multiple family branches, some aligned with pureblood supremacists, others closer to Dumbledore or Amelia Bones, they were ensuring that, no matter how the future unfolded, at least one branch would land on its feet.
Phil's approach now made sense.
And as expected, he confirmed it.
Vaughn gave a noncommittal reply. "The Werewolf Affairs Committee isn't my private company. It's managed by a board of commissioners. I'm just one of them. Don't phrase things in a way that could be misinterpreted."
Phil, however, looked pleased.
He knew that response meant Vaughn had not rejected the idea.
"Understood, sir. I promise it won't happen again."
Seeing Phil successfully latch onto Vaughn, the others dropped their bashfulness and immediately followed suit, expressing their desire to join the committee.
Vaughn didn't refuse.
Of course, officially, he wasn't involved in recruitment—so he simply left them with Remus Lupin's contact information.
As its name implied, the Werewolf Affairs Committee was managed by a group of commissioners. Beneath them, naturally, they needed a wide base of frontline operatives and administrative staff.
The committee had always planned on recruiting from the public. Lupin had even worried at one point that the stigma around lycanthropy would make it hard to find willing applicants.
So students coming forward voluntarily?
Not a bad outcome.
Having achieved their goals, the students didn't linger. After a few parting words, they stepped aside—making way for others eager to approach Vaughn.
Of course, not everyone came with an ulterior motive.
Some were just there to chat, to connect, to try their luck at speaking to a figure who—despite his aloof demeanor—was quickly becoming a legend at Hogwarts.
The rest of the banquet continued in a blur of clinking glasses and polite conversation.
Vaughn barely noticed.
His focus remained on the food in front of him.
It wasn't until late into the night, when the last of the revelers had left and the candles began to dim, that the feast finally ended.
Vaughn returned to his dorm.
Gugu Cha, his kneazle, immediately came trotting over to greet him, rubbing affectionately against his leg.
He bent down to pick her up, gently smoothing her fur.
Then he frowned and glanced toward the corner of the room.
"Albus," he said coldly, "when are you going to stop breaking into other people's rooms?"
A familiar magical ripple shimmered in the shadows.
Moments later, as if squeezed from thin air, Albus Dumbledore stepped into view—wearing his pajamas.
Gugu Cha yelped in surprise: "Meow!"
Vaughn patted her. "It's not your fault. He's been pulling this kind of creepy crap for a hundred years. You're still young—you couldn't have known."
Dumbledore didn't seem offended in the slightest.
Smiling, he said, "Dormitories don't belong to students, Vaughn. They belong to Hogwarts. And as Headmaster, I have the right to enter any room at any time."
"Oh? So, that includes the girls' dormitories too? Does Professor McGonagall know about this little policy of yours?"
"…"
Dumbledore, momentarily speechless, sighed in defeat.
Vaughn carried Gugu Cha to his bed and sat down. "What do you want, Albus?"
The old man looked genuinely a bit glum now—maybe he hadn't expected Vaughn to see him as some pervy old weirdo who crept into people's rooms unannounced.
"I just wanted to check on you," Dumbledore said. "Do I need an excuse? Must every visit have a purpose? Your constant suspicion wounds me, my dear boy."
"Oh? Well, I just won the Quidditch Cup for Slytherin. The feast was enjoyable. I'm in a great mood right now. You've seen it. You can leave now, right?"
Of course not.
Dumbledore conjured a chair and sat down beside him, pretending not to hear that last part. He beamed cheerfully.
"The feast was enjoyable? Did something interesting happen? Would you care to share?"
"Not particularly. And even if there was—I wouldn't."
"…Right."
Vaughn knew exactly what this was about.
The old man had clearly noticed that a group of Slytherin students had started gravitating toward him—and rushed over here to make sure it wasn't turning into something… dangerous.
Because this had happened before.
A student, still in school, had once gathered his peers, formed a private group, and eventually built a network that became a terrorist organization.
The Death Eaters.
That's why Vaughn's patience had worn thin the moment he realized Dumbledore was snooping around his dorm.
"I've told you many times, Albus—I am not Tom Riddle," Vaughn said calmly, scratching Gugu Cha behind the ears. "And I don't appreciate being watched like a criminal. It's irritating. Do you understand?"
Dumbledore paused, then offered a sincere apology. "You're right. I'm sorry. I admit—I have some… sensitivities about this sort of thing."
"No need to apologize. It won't stop you next time."
After months of working with Dumbledore, Vaughn had gotten used to him.
He wasn't just the wise, twinkling figure from the fairy tales.
He was deeply suspicious.
Maybe it was age. Maybe the years had dulled his instincts, shaken his confidence. He used to act with certainty—taking bold, decisive action. But now?
Now, he hesitated.
For a long moment, silence hung between them.
But both were mature men. They knew how to navigate tension.
Their relationship was complicated from the start—part mentor and protégé, part rival and watchdog. Sometimes they supported one another. Sometimes they challenged one another.
Eventually, Dumbledore broke the silence with a smile.
"Perhaps I ought to reflect on my behavior more," he said. "I should offer you more trust, more support. Maybe even more… conversation. We could talk about Harry. Or Ron. Or Miss Granger."
Vaughn raised an eyebrow but didn't immediately shut him down.
"So? How is Harry doing? Still crying?"
"Not at all. That boy's tougher than you give him credit for. Right now, he and his two friends are in the Forbidden Forest."
"What? Why?!"
Dumbledore's expression turned wry. "I suspect his defeat today hit him harder than expected. It seems he's… motivated now. Motivated enough to chase down Quirinus—perhaps in hopes of earning a… reward. Say, enough points to put Gryffindor back in the running for the House Cup?"
Vaughn blinked.
That's… ridiculous.
And yet… it kind of made sense.
Too bad Harry didn't realize that Vaughn had already sealed off that possibility months ago.
Dumbledore's expression turned slightly amused.
"You remember our first agreement?" he asked. "You specifically requested that I not award Gryffindor extra points for anything related to their extracurricular activities. I didn't understand why you asked that at the time. But now… Vaughn, I'm starting to wonder—do you have the gift of Divination?"
Level 2 Divination talent? Technically… yes.
Vaughn said nothing. Just raised an eyebrow.
Then asked dryly, "And what does any of that have to do with the Forbidden Forest?"
"They're trying to consult a centaur for a prophecy."
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