There were far too many powerful witches and wizards gathered here tonight.
Even without counting the rest of the staff, every Head of House sat at the high table—along with Albus Dumbledore himself.
And, of course… someone with no nose was likely skulking under a purple turban, clinging to life like mould behind faded wallpaper.
Vaughn's gaze slid toward the staff table, settling precisely on the man in the violet headwrap.
Definitely not the time to claim my system rewards.
Later—when I'm alone.
He dismissed the panel with a thought. Then, ignoring the whispers humming through the Great Hall, he walked calmly toward the Slytherin table.
The Draco Situation
THUD!
A loud crash silenced the hall for a heartbeat.
Draco Malfoy—already pale—had fallen right off the bench. Trembling violently, he scrambled upright, refusing to even look in Vaughn's direction. His robes shook so hard it was a miracle the buttons stayed on.
"Hi, Draco!"
Draco froze mid–escape.
"W-We-Weasley… s-sir…"
"You can call me Vaughn. Since we're in the same house now, I'm sure we'll get along wonderfully."
He gave Draco's shoulder a friendly pat.
Draco nearly levitated from sheer panic.
Beside him, Crabbe and Goyle hunched over the table with their heads buried in their arms, shaking so vigorously their teeth clattered like loose coins.
At that moment, a tall, broad, extremely unfortunate-looking prefect leaned in, voice low and irritated.
"Oi, Weasley brat. Sit down and behave. Don't start trouble at my table."
Vaughn took in the prefect's hulking build and tragic face, then smiled pleasantly.
"Of course, Prefect."
Satisfied, the prefect began clapping. A few other Slytherins joined—reluctantly—producing what was likely the most half-hearted welcome in Hogwarts history.
To them, Vaughn Weasley was a blood traitor who had somehow infiltrated their table.
Vaughn didn't mind one bit.
He sat beside Draco as though nothing at all were amiss.
The Feast Begins
Professor McGonagall cleared her throat sharply.
"Ahem. Quiet, please! The Sorting Ceremony continues."
No more dramatic surprises followed, and soon the last student was sorted.
Dumbledore rose, delivered one of his famously baffling speeches… and then declared:
"Let the feast begin!"
In an instant, platters of food appeared.
The feast was abundant—but depressingly predictable.
More potatoes.
Always potatoes.
After years of Weasley dinners, Vaughn felt vaguely nauseated just looking at them.
He calmly sliced into a rack of lamb—one of the few things he genuinely enjoyed, even in his previous life—and turned to Draco.
"Dear Draco, Professor McGonagall was right. Since we're in the same house now, we ought to act like family."
He smiled warmly.
"So I've decided to forgive what happened on the train. Let's get along, shall we?"
Draco's soul visibly left his body.
He stared at the food before him with the expression of someone hoping to eat himself unconscious and awaken to discover everything had been a nightmare.
Unfortunately…
"Draco, be a dear and pass me the pudding."
"…Yorkshire style. Lovely. Draco, hand me the lamb."
"Oh? You're not eating? Potatoes bring joy. Go on—try one."
"Don't make that face, Draco. Smile!"
"See? That's better. Quite charming. Look—Slytherin's ghost even wants to sit with you. Good evening, sir—how should I address you?"
A tall, spectral figure drenched in ghostly blood drifted nearer.
"…Baron," murmured the Bloody Baron, every syllable soaked in cold iron.
Draco—now full of potatoes and existential terror—clapped a hand over his mouth and fled the hall toward the lavatories.
By the time the feast ended, he returned looking almost as pale as the Baron himself.
Slytherin Dungeon
The Slytherin prefects gathered the first-years.
The male prefect—the same unfortunate fellow—led them down into the dungeons, along cold stone corridors and finally into the Slytherin common room, its greenish lamps and underwater windows casting eerie shadows.
Atmospheric, certainly.
But the nickname "the dungeons" fit a little too well.
Apparently emboldened after "keeping a Weasley in line," the prefect puffed himself up. After reciting house rules, he slapped Vaughn's shoulder—hard.
"Weasley boy, I don't know what issue you have with Malfoy, but in Slytherin—and at Hogwarts—you'll follow my rules. I expect you to show him proper respect. You pure-blood Weasleys have already disgraced your—"
"Prefect," Vaughn interrupted pleasantly.
"Before you continue lecturing me, may I ask something? A question about spells."
The prefect sneered.
"Did your pauper parents teach you to interrupt people, Weasley?"
"The spell I'm wondering about," Vaughn continued mildly, raising his wand, "is—"
Only then did the prefect sense danger.
He reached for his wand—
"Expelliarmus!"
A burst of red light hurled the prefect backwards. He slammed against the enchanted glass wall separating them from the Black Lake and slid down in an ungainly heap.
Every first-year froze.
Several older Slytherins stared mid-sentence, mouths hanging open.
Vaughn followed with a crisp:
"Stupefy."
The prefect twitched once and went still.
Vaughn nudged him with his foot, fished a parchment out of his robes, and checked the dormitory list.
Then he looked up.
His gaze swept the room—cold, steady—finally landing on Draco.
"Dear Draco," Vaughn said softly, "did you see what happened just now?"
Draco trembled so hard he looked ready to shed his entire head of hair.
"N-No? I—I didn't see anything!"
"Mm. Not clever enough." Vaughn wagged a finger.
"What you should say is this:
You saw the prefect raise his wand at me, and I was forced to defend myself. Understood?"
Realisation dawned like a sunrise.
Draco nodded—fiercely, repeatedly.
"Good." Vaughn smiled.
He cast one last cool glance around the room—wand still in hand.
Silence.
Not one student dared speak.
"Then I wish you all a pleasant night, gentlemen."
With that, Vaughn strode off to the dormitories as though nothing unusual had happened.
(End of Chapter )
PS :
Bloody Baron – Slytherin House ghost;