Up on the fifth floor, after finally escaping his overexcited mother, noisy siblings, and the chaos downstairs, Vaughn returned to his room and sat down, eyes fixed on the translucent system panel still hovering before him.
Since the system had awakened at birth, this was the first time he had ever seen something labeled a quest.
Strangely enough, it didn't seem to care whether he failed or not. There was no punishment listed—only a reward for completion.
And it was precisely that reward that held his attention.
Talent Point.
Ever since receiving a randomly maxed Potions talent from the starter gift pack, Vaughn had come to appreciate just how absurdly easy potion-brewing became at level ten. Recipes that should have taken years to master felt almost instinctive.
Naturally, he'd been hoping for another chance to gain a talent point.
And then there was the Magic Scale.
As the name suggested, the Magic Scale represented a wizard's total magical capacity—the strength, volume, and sustainability of spellcasting. The higher the number, the more spells one could cast, and the longer they could be maintained.
Still, it wasn't something as crude as a "mana bar." Casting spells also consumed mental focus and emotional energy, and raw power meant very little without proper mastery.
There were still two months before the quest would complete.
Vaughn dismissed the panel and turned his attention to the parchment in his hand—the letter that had arrived earlier.
The first page, written in elegant green ink, read:
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class; Grand Sorcerer; Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot; Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Weasley,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Enclosed is a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1st. We await your owl no later than July 31st.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
Vaughn penned his reply immediately and sent it off using the Weasleys' new family owl.
Their previous owl, Errol, was simply too old. Years ago, during a delivery of Vaughn's potions, the poor bird had nearly crash-landed straight into the pond.
Once Vaughn began earning money, the first thing he did was insist on retiring Errol. The elderly owl now lived peacefully in the garden, enjoying a well-earned rest.
That had also been the first time Arthur and Molly had accepted any of Vaughn's money.
Errol's condition had been too serious to ignore, and there was no reasonable excuse to refuse. A few additional expenses followed—small repairs around the house—but even then, they refused to touch his earnings for daily living.
Arthur and Molly were firm about it.
They didn't want money coming between family.
Thinking of finances, Vaughn flipped to the second page of the letter—the supply list.
Books. Robes. Equipment. Materials.
He sighed softly.
"Looks like Ron's going to end up using Bill and Charlie's old things again," he muttered. "Hopefully he doesn't cry this time…"
To his surprise, Ron was handling it far better than expected.
After sending off the owl, Vaughn passed through the fourth floor and spotted Ron marching back and forth, clutching his wrinkled Hogwarts letter like a trophy.
Percy stood beside him, slapping him on the back.
"I knew you'd get in, Ron!"
Ron puffed out his chest proudly.
Vaughn rolled his eyes.
Just yesterday, he'd overheard Percy whispering to Mum about forging a letter—just in case Ron didn't receive one.
"To celebrate," Percy announced suddenly, "how about I give you Scabbers?"
Ron froze as Percy pulled a rat from his pocket and dropped it into his arms before scurrying off.
Leaning against the stair railing, Vaughn couldn't help but grin—until two sets of suspiciously quiet footsteps approached from behind.
No need to guess.
Only Fred and George ever moved like that.
The twins leaned against the railing beside him and loudly whispered their "secret" conversation.
"I bet Percy's been desperate to get rid of Scabbers," Fred said.
"Absolutely," George agreed. "That rat's ancient. Probably one sneeze away from death."
"Poor Ron," Fred sighed dramatically. "Thinks it's brotherly love."
"How did someone that clueless end up our brother?" George mused.
"Must've used up all his brains somewhere else."
They cackled in perfect unison.
Downstairs, Ron turned red with fury, clutching Scabbers in visible conflict—wanting to throw the rat away, yet far too soft-hearted to do so.
In the end, he stormed off to his room.
"All right," Vaughn said calmly, glancing sideways. "What do you want?"
The twins immediately stiffened.
After some not-so-subtle nudging, they changed tactics—Fred kneading his shoulders while George worked on his arms.
"Dearest Vaughn," Fred began sweetly, "you're going to Diagon Alley soon, right?"
"And Mum said you're paying for your own supplies," George added. "We always knew you had some money, but—"
"—we didn't realise you had that much," Fred finished.
"So," they said together, "how about a small investment in our project?"
Watching the normally brazen twins shamelessly beg for Galleons was… impressive.
Vaughn smirked. "Last time you borrowed ten Sickles, you used the same speech."
"That was different!" George protested. "Our first real product is almost done!"
Seeing their sincerity—and deciding they'd suffered enough—Vaughn tapped his chin.
"Well… Mum did say the garden needs cleaning tomorrow…"
The twins instantly brightened.
"Oh, don't trouble yourself!"
"Leave it to us!"
"…I was going to make Ron do it," Vaughn added.
"That's called initiative," Fred said solemnly.
"And enthusiasm," George agreed.
"Fine," Vaughn waved them off. "We'll see how you do."
Cheering, the twins bolted away.
Later, Vaughn knocked on Ron's door.
It flew open.
"What do you want?" Ron snapped.
"Come with me to Diagon Alley tomorrow."
Ron hesitated. "…Why? I've only got hand-me-downs anyway…"
"That's a shame," Vaughn said casually. "I was thinking of giving you your Christmas present early. Maybe… a new wand."
"I'LL GO!"
Ron froze, then coughed. "I mean—Scabbers needs food…"
Vaughn's gaze drifted past him to the rat nibbling on a biscuit.
"Speaking of Scabbers," Vaughn said lightly, "Percy doesn't mind him, right? He's old enough to test potions…"
Inside the room, the rat froze.
Ron paled.
Vaughn chuckled and patted his shoulder. "Relax. One sip of my potions would kill him instantly."
Scabbers visibly shuddered.
"Don't oversleep," Vaughn said, walking away.
Outside, Vaughn paused and smirked.
Let that rat live… for now.
(End of Chapter )