Professor Dumbledore's suggestion received neither an immediate yes nor no from Vaughn Weasley.
Part of him suspected the old wizard was trying—once again—to nudge him in a specific direction. Dumbledore's track record for "gentle manipulation" was hardly spotless.
However…
The opportunity to learn directly from Newt Scamander?
That was something Vaughn refused to pass up.
Newt was a seasoned magizoologist with unparalleled knowledge of the world's rarest magical creatures. Even if Vaughn wasn't particularly sentimental, he understood the value of expertise.
Vaughn had always considered himself—half-jokingly—as a magical-creature materials specialist.
Demiguise hair.
Erumpent horn and explosive fluid.
Dragon blood.
Niffler pouch lining.
He knew each item inside out—its extraction conditions, magical composition, and alchemical potential.
But he had never seen any of these materials while still attached to a living creature.
Now that his research into magical trait extraction was deepening, he couldn't help wondering:
What were these traits like in their original biological state?
How did magical essence manifest inside a living body?
Such questions inevitably pushed him toward an even grander, more unsettling curiosity:
What was the very origin of magic?
Was the first wizard in history born from magic?
Or did ancient magical creatures birth the first wizard?
If he could observe those magical traits in vivo, dissecting the structure of magic in motion—
Would he uncover the truth?
The thought sent a shiver racing down his spine—
fear mixed with exhilaration.
That night, back in the dim, green-lit Slytherin common room, Vaughn eagerly scribbled down pages of ideas, notes, and speculative theories.
The scent of knowledge was intoxicating.
And he was certain:
Newt Scamander would approve of this pursuit.
Meanwhile… in Dorset
In the subcellar of a small cottage, Newt Scamander sliced apples for a herd of unicorns when he suddenly sneezed.
"Achoo!"
He blinked.
"Odd… am I coming down with something?"
Across the room, Tina didn't even look up as she snapped:
"Or maybe Dumbledore's talking about you again."
Newt paused, considering this with genuine confusion.
He wasn't sure which possibility was worse.
The Next Morning — Hogwarts Hit by the Flu
Whether or not Newt had caught something was impossible to tell.
But the next morning at Hogwarts, a sudden wave of flu swept through the castle.
Dozens of students stood sniffling and shivering outside the Hospital Wing.
Fortunately, Madam Pomfrey had anticipated the seasonal outbreak and brewed an enormous cauldron of Pepperup Potion.
It worked—
but like most potions, the secondary ingredients came with… unfortunate side effects.
Steam poured out of the ears of every student who drank it.
So when Vaughn entered the Great Hall for breakfast, he walked into a surreal scene:
Hundreds of students, from all four Houses, venting steady white plumes from their heads like a congregation of enchanted teapots.
Fred and George Weasley cackled with delight as they sculpted the fog with charms—shaping it into dancing goblins, exploding pixies, and even a disturbingly accurate, steaming likeness of Snape.
Even the staff table wasn't spared.
Professor Flitwick's unusually large goblin-like ears whistled like teakettles as jets of steam burst from them.
"This is marvellous, Filius!"
Dumbledore declared happily, taking a sip of Pepperup Potion himself.
A moment later he covered his mouth and attempted—poorly—to mimic Flitwick's ear-whistling.
Unfortunately for Severus Snape, the fog swallowed his whole face in swirling white mist, leaving only his furious black eyes visible.
He looked moments away from murder.
At the Gryffindor table, Harry and Ron both choked on laughter.
"Look at his face," Ron whispered. "He looks like he wants to eat Dumbledore alive."
"Shame the flu didn't get that greasy old bat too."
Just then, Vaughn sat down opposite Ron, brushed his sleeve aside, and pointed.
"Guo Guo Cha. Bring me Scabbers."
"Meow!"
Guo Guo Cha leapt onto the table, eyes gleaming with predatory joy.
Ron turned white.
"No—NOT SCABBERS! SOMEONE HELP—!"
He tumbled off the bench with a scream as Guo Guo Cha launched herself at his pocket.
Scabbers nearly fainted on the spot.
Harry laughed so hard he nearly inhaled pumpkin juice.
Hermione's Steam-Filled Questions
Hermione had caught the flu too.
Her wild, frizzy hair now billowed with steam, turning her into something resembling a mobile dumpling basket.
Clutching a heavy Transfiguration textbook, she approached Vaughn.
"Vaughn… can I ask you something?" she croaked.
He answered easily.
Then she asked another.
And another.
Vaughn didn't mind—he'd always had a soft spot for clever girls. And since he received private lessons from McGonagall's Transfiguration Club, most of Hermione's questions were trivial to him.
"…When casting Transfiguration," Vaughn explained, "what you need isn't calmness—it's clarity. A precise image of what you want."
"But clarity alone isn't enough. You need conviction. Force the change to happen. That emotional will is what fuels the spell."
Hermione listened, starry-eyed.
And Vaughn continued—because he'd learned this the hard way.
Magic in this world wasn't rigid like scientific formulae.
It was closer to will made real, like the "word magic" he once read about in fantasy novels of his past life.
Logic alone wasn't enough.
Passion alone wasn't enough.
Even madness could cast spells—
so long as the magician felt strongly.
The only thing magic rejected was emotional emptiness.
And yet…
Despite its chaos, Vaughn believed an underlying system still existed.
Every chaotic phenomenon obeyed unseen rules.
The only question was whether anyone had ever dug deep enough to find them.
That was why, years ago, when planning his life, Vaughn had secretly set himself two research paths:
Potions — his main field.
Magic Itself — the underlying laws and origins.
A terrifyingly ambitious goal.
Possibly unattainable.
But Hermione knew none of this.
Her main concern was far more terrestrial.
"Exams," she whispered dramatically. "Exams are coming up soon. I still have so many weak areas…" She swallowed hard.
"Vaughn… would you study with me more often?"
Before Vaughn could respond, Harry blurted:
"Exams? Already? Isn't that a bit early?"
Hermione stared at him as if he had just confessed to being a Flobberworm.
"Early? We've been in school for weeks. Subtract weekends and sleep—how much time do you THINK we have left?!"
The lecture lasted long enough to fry Harry's sense of time.
By the time they returned to the Gryffindor common room, he looked completely shell-shocked.
Ron—still covered in dust and recovering from Guo Guo Cha's attack—locked Scabbers securely in his cage.
The rat trembled violently.
Ron muttered while grooming his rumpled sweater:
"Stupid Vaughan. Stupid cat. Scared poor Scabbers half to death…"
He paused.
Strangely…
He didn't feel that angry anymore.
In fact, he realised with mild horror—
He was starting to get used to this.
(End of Chapter )
PS :
Guo Guo Cha : Vaughn's cat; adorable menace; mortal enemy of Scabbers.
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