Professor McGonagall led Vaughn to her office on the second floor.
The room was neat and sunlit, with a window overlooking the Quidditch pitch—a small luxury she allowed herself as Deputy Headmistress, indulging her lifelong passion for the sport.
Once the door closed, her stern demeanour eased. She even pushed a plate of biscuits toward him.
"Mr. Weasley," she began, folding her hands atop the desk, "I didn't want to go into detail during class… but you've practised Transfiguration at home, haven't you?"
"Yes, Professor. I used my brothers' old textbooks."
"I distinctly recall warning your brothers about the dangers of unsupervised Transfiguration."
Her tone sharpened.
Vaughn nodded respectfully.
"That's why I only attempted basic object transfigurations, Professor. I followed Percy's notes—simple shapes first, then more complex ones. These are my records."
He offered her his battered copy of A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, its margins overflowing with cramped handwriting and diagrams.
McGonagall flipped through the pages.
"This looks quite new… did you redo all this before term?"
"Yes, Professor."
She said nothing for a long time—just read.
Not idly, not politely—read.
Finally, she shut the book with a quiet snap and gave him a small, rare smile.
"I see."
A hint of warmth softened her usually crisp tone.
"You've prepared thoroughly. And documented your progress meticulously."
What she didn't show was her inner shock.
Initially, she had assumed Vaughn had dabbled a little—learned a spell or two, nothing more.
But the notes—especially the final page—left her stunned.
The Last Page
She reread the paragraph that unsettled her:
"…Today I successfully transfigured Guoguo Tea's dried fish into a mouse. For a moment I thought I'd created life—but the behaviour was patterned. A puppet, not a living creature. It lacked spontaneity.
This exceeds my understanding.
How do higher-level Transfigurations solve this?
Some spells require a specific emotional state—does Transfiguration also require emotional alignment? To transfigure one living being into another… does one have to engage with its thoughts? Feelings? Memories?"
The profundity of the question chilled her.
This was not the work of a clever first-year.
This was the thinking of a future Transfiguration researcher.
A mind like that… in Slytherin?
McGonagall hesitated—but integrity always won out.
Talent was talent. House prejudice had no place here.
"Mr. Weasley," she said carefully, "as you may know, students develop at different paces. Some possess particular gifts."
She disliked categorising children, but reality often ignored her preferences.
"To support such students, the Headmaster encourages us to run advanced subject clubs—specialised groups for focused study."
She cleared her throat, cheeks faintly pink, as if she were committing a minor crime.
"Mr. Weasley… would you be interested in joining my Transfiguration Club?"
Professors had the right to invite.
Students had the right to refuse.
A long moment passed.
Then Vaughn smiled.
"It would be an honour, Professor McGonagall."
Back in the Great Hall
"You—YOU joined the Transfiguration Club?!"
Hermione almost squeaked, clutching her books like they were about to faint.
"Of course," Vaughn said calmly, filling out an application parchment. "Professor McGonagall said I've already surpassed the first-year curriculum. The club is mostly fourth-years and above. That's where I'll actually learn something."
Hermione stared at him, star-eyed.
"If… if I learned the match transfiguration perfectly, like you… would I have a chance too?"
"Not necessarily," Vaughn answered honestly. "But you can ask Professor McGonagall."
That was all she needed to hear.
Hermione snatched two slices of bread, mumbled an excuse, and bolted toward the library at the speed of a fleeing Kneazle.
A new life mission had been born.
Meanwhile, Harry and Ron exchanged looks.
Studying? Advancement? Extra coursework?
Did people really… do that?
Both boys had developed the natural instincts of future slackers.
Everything in Hogwarts was new and exciting.
Why study when you could explore a castle filled with ghosts, secret passages, and—Merlin help them—moving staircases?
But Ron had an additional concern: Vaughn's shiny Slytherin badge.
Watching Vaughn sit at the Gryffindor table, and with outrageous confidence steal a piece of roast off Ron's plate, Ron finally exploded.
"Why don't you go sit with the Slytherins instead of stealing our food? Or is it because you think Harry's easy to bully?"
Harry:
What on earth? Why am I involved?!
Vaughn ignored Ron's tone. He calmly finished the roast, swallowed, then reached into his bag.
He pulled out a small pouch.
He opened it.
Inside was a brand-new wand-care kit—full set, high quality.
Ron's soul left his body.
Harry genuinely heard him swallow.
The situation was familiar. Predictable. Painful.
Ron braced himself.
I will NOT beg this time.
This is Gryffindor pride!
I WILL RESIST!
Then a hand gently patted his head.
"Take it, Ron," Vaughn said softly. "You'll need it for Charms this afternoon. Try paying attention in class. Don't slack off."
By the time Ron lifted his eyes, Vaughn was already walking away.
The pouch still sat open on the bench.
Harry turned—and froze.
Ron was crying.
Not loud, dramatic crying—quiet, helpless tears spilling down his face as he clutched the wand-care kit like a lifeline.
He choked, voice trembling:
"Harry… not all Slytherins are bad, right?"
And Harry understood instantly.
Ron wasn't angry.
Ron was scared.
Scared his brother was slipping away.
Scared Vaughn was changing.
Scared he'd lose him.
Harry squeezed his shoulder.
"Yeah," he said firmly.
"Not all of them."
Meanwhile, Vaughn walked back toward the Slytherin common room, humming cheerfully, in an extremely good mood.
Who said he only knew one way to handle people?
(End of Chapter )