Vaughn was too hyped to sleep.
He rolled out of bed, and his sleepy cat, Guo Guo Cha, yawned widely before jumping down beside him.
His gaze flicked to the double-digit Prestige Points displayed on his system panel. Vaughn stared for a long moment, heart pounding with anticipation, before finally managing to calm himself down with a few deep breaths.
Back to focus.
He looked at the long list of spells he'd mastered and began to consider where to allocate his points.
He already had a plan in place.
Vaughn was always meticulous. Once he'd made a plan, he rarely changed it. Even though his recent idea of a "Dark Magic Memory Cloak" gave him hope of mastering Dark Arts safely, it was still theoretical and untested.
So for now, he would stick to the original plan: focus on strengthening his main combat spells—defense and offense.
Protego and Expelliarmus.
Ever since they reached Level 4, these spells had become much harder to advance. Back in the early months, Vaughn could rely on sheer practice to push them forward—sometimes gaining 1 or 2 experience points per week.
But for the entirety of December?
Nothing. Not a single point gained.
Vaughn had a hunch that both spells were nearing the upper limit of what his Charms talent (7/10) could support naturally. To reach Level 5, he'd have to spend Prestige Points.
In the system's spell ranking, Level 5 marked the pinnacle of spell mastery—a state where magic transcended its basic function and reached something akin to artistry.
So far, only his Occlumency had reached max level. But that was a special case—it wasn't a combat spell, and its effects were subtle.
Still, Vaughn believed: a Level 5 spell wasn't just about raw power.
It was transformation.
Without hesitation, he spent 15 Prestige Points, instantly maxing out Protego and Expelliarmus.
Then he grabbed his wand and called out, "Guo Guo Cha, come. Time to test some spells."
The cat instantly perked up and trotted after him excitedly.
The two strolled casually through the castle, blatantly ignoring curfew. On the way to the Room of Requirement, they bumped into Mrs. Norris and Peeves the Poltergeist.
The moment Peeves spotted Vaughn, he shrieked a curse and fled in terror.
Vaughn didn't bother chasing him. He tossed a small supplement snack to Mrs. Norris and patted her on the head. "Go find some other night-walking first-years to harass."
Opposite the tapestry of the troll bashing Barnabas the Barmy, Vaughn stopped.
He dropped his Occlumency barriers and focused.
I need a room to practice spells.
A moment later, the door appeared.
The Room of Requirement could manifest all sorts of dueling rooms—some small, some vast.
Tonight, Vaughn lucked out and got a large one.
The chamber was about twice the size of a classroom. The open space was scattered with training dummies—humanoid constructs mounted on wheeled bases, each wielding weapons: swords, axes, even medieval crossbows.
As he stepped in, the dummies began to stir, glowing red eyes flickering to life. Vaughn knew the routine—he'd used this room a few times now.
He didn't lift his wand.
Instead, he made a gentle slicing motion with his hand.
Immediately, a shimmering shield of Protego formed around him.
Vaughn instantly noticed the change in its appearance.
Where before the Shield Charm had looked like a glowing bubble or ghostly suit of armor, the max-level Protego was something else entirely.
Now, it looked like a semi-transparent beast coiled around him—its surface etched with scale-like patterns, pulsing with magical energy.
It felt alive.
Twang!
One of the dummies fired a bolt from its crossbow.
This training room had clearly been designed with a medieval flair—all the weapons were real. The bolt shot toward him like lightning, razor-sharp and deadly.
Clang!
The bolt struck the shield and bounced off harmlessly, clattering across the floor.
Vaughn didn't flinch.
"Continue."
At his command, the melee dummies rolled forward, blades slashing, maces swinging.
Their weapons crashed against his shield, throwing sparks with every impact—but the shimmering defense didn't even ripple.
Arrows continued to fly from the rear units, but none found purchase.
The shield didn't fade.
It didn't weaken.
It didn't move.
While being pelted by blades and bolts, Vaughn closed his eyes and focused on the connection between spell and caster.
After a few moments, he opened his eyes and slowly rotated his hand.
The shimmering shield began to rotate around him.
Faster and faster.
Until it became a spinning dome of magical energy.
The next arrow that hit the shield was not simply deflected.
It was captured, absorbed into the spinning spell—then launched back.
Thwack!
The retaliated bolt pierced through the head of the dummy that had fired it.
Two more went down before they could reload.
Only one dummy escaped by sheer luck, rolling off to the side.
Vaughn looked at the shield in awe.
"So this... is what max-level feels like…"
So many attacks—and it hadn't even dipped in power.
Next, he raised his right hand.
No wand. No incantation.
Expelliarmus.
A beam of red magic, thick as a grown man's arm, erupted from his palm and slammed into a melee dummy.
BOOM.
The dummy was sent flying across the room.
But that wasn't the end.
Unlike before—when the spell would vanish upon impact—this time the magic lingered.
It split.
Dozens of red strands scattered from the original beam, zigzagging across the air like serpents. Each struck a different dummy, sending their weapons flying from their hands in a loud clatter of metal.
It looked like magical fireworks.
The dummies' eyes flickered. Their systems froze.
Vaughn looked at his hand, astonished.
"So this is what it's like... to truly control a spell. It's like moving a limb. No resistance. Just... intent."
He was suddenly feeling a little cocky.
He almost wanted to run up to the eighth floor, kick open Dumbledore's quarters, and challenge the old man to a duel.
...Almost.
Thankfully, sanity prevailed.
He might have surpassed Dumbledore in Protego and Expelliarmus, but when it came to raw magical power, that old fox was still far ahead.
Still, the results were deeply satisfying.
There were more tests to be done—whether Protego could withstand high-level spells as it did physical attacks, or if Expelliarmus's fragmentation could hold up in chaotic combat scenarios.
But for now, he was content.
Then he noticed something else.
His glorious double-digit Prestige Points?
Now down to 7.
He sighed.
"Still not rich enough."
After a moment's thought, he spent 5 points to raise Legilimency (Legilimens) to Level 2—a crucial step for testing his future "Dark Magic Cloak" theory.
"Hmm… I'll test Level 2 Legilimency on Harry tomorrow."
Decision made.
Harry's going to love this.
That Morning…
"ACHOO!"
From the moment January 1st began, Harry Potter had been sneezing nonstop.
He'd gone to the hospital wing early, but Madam Pomfrey declared there was nothing wrong with him.
Which only made him more anxious.
Ron leaned over and whispered, "In the wizarding world, sneezing like that means someone's talking about you."
They exchanged glances.
Then both immediately looked away, blushing.
The incident from the night before still haunted them.
Today marked the last day of Christmas break.
In the morning, Harry and Ron finally scraped together enough focus to finish—well, copy—their homework.
They wanted to enjoy the last free hours.
But outside, a blizzard howled across the grounds.
So they remained trapped in the Gryffindor common room.
Ron pulled out wizard chess but refused to play. After two weeks of humiliating matches against Harry, he was done. Playing with a newbie was a kind of slow torture.
Until Hermione returned.
It turned out, even geniuses had blind spots.
Around the fireplace, Harry and Hermione waged a chess war of unprecedented chaos.
Harry's queen ripped off her crown and smacked the king upside the head. The bishops rode their rooks like chariots, crashing into their own pawns.
Meanwhile, Hermione's knights ignored the board completely and started dueling each other. Eventually, bleeding and broken, they teamed up again—this time to assault Hermione for calling them cowards.
Ron watched the madness unfold, clutching his chest.
"Merlin help me... how can you both still be this bad?! One correct move! Just one! You've turned the whole army into rebels!"
"RON, SHUT UP!"
"RON, SHUT UP!"
(Simultaneously.)
Eventually, the game ended in a draw—because both kings were murdered by their own side.
Hermione shoved the board away and declared the game permanently banned.
Harry protested. He wanted revenge.
Hermione changed the subject quickly. She glanced around, lowered her voice.
"Have there been any updates about the robed man during the holidays?"
Harry and Ron shook their heads.
"None."
Hermione frowned.
"I've gone over every professor. Most have been here for years. But there's something off about one of them…"
She'd even tried subtly asking Professor McGonagall about odd faculty members—like the Divination teacher, Professor Trelawney.
McGonagall's face had scrunched up in frustration.
"Miss Granger, you know I don't like speaking ill of colleagues. But... Sybill... she's not exactly what I expected in a Divination professor."
"You mean she's a fraud?"
"No. She can make real prophecies. But she's also... let's just say, overly fond of dramatic flair."
Hermione couldn't fully wrap her head around it, but one thing was clear:
Trelawney wasn't the black-robed man.
Which left only one viable suspect.
Snape.
"Harry," she said, "has Professor Snape been bothering you recently?"
"Hermione, it's the holidays. Even Snape can't assign homework then."
Ron chimed in, "He's been busy anyway. Barely seen him since before Christmas. Vaughn too, come to think of it. Maybe they're working on Wolfsbane together?"
Hermione looked thoughtful.
"Harry, you're still learning Occlumency with Vaughn, right? Maybe you could ask him if he's noticed anything off about Snape."
Harry's face twisted.
"Why... that look?" Hermione asked suspiciously.
Harry and Ron exchanged a haunted glance.
"Nothing!"
"Absolutely nothing!"
Ron elbowed Harry.
"You will talk to him, right?"
Harry's eyes bulged. Betrayed again.
But under Ron's pleading—and threatening—gaze, he gave in.
"Fine. I'll ask him tonight."
(TO BE CONTINUED ....)
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