Harry Potter: From Little Wizard to White Lord

Professor McGonagall led Vaughn to her office.

It was situated on the second floor, with a window that overlooked the Quidditch pitch, a small privilege of her position as Deputy Headmistress, and one that happened to satisfy her quiet fondness for the sport.

Back in her office, she seemed noticeably less stern. In fact, she even offered Vaughn a biscuit before speaking.

"Mr. Weasley," she began, "it wasn't the right time to ask during class, but I suspect you've been practicing Transfiguration at home, haven't you?"

"Yes, Professor. I've been using one of my brother's old textbooks."

"I believe I've made it quite clear to your brothers just how dangerous that can be," McGonagall said, lips pursed tightly.

Vaughn nodded. "That's why I only practiced object transfigurations, starting with very small items, just like Percy wrote in his notes. Begin with simple changes, build up to complex ones. I kept my own notes, too."

He reached into his bag and handed over his well-worn copy of A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, its margins crammed with scribbles.

McGonagall flipped through the pages. "A new copy? You reviewed the entire book before coming to Hogwarts?"

"Yes, Professor."

She didn't say anything for a long moment, her eyes scanning the pages with increasing interest. When she finally closed the book, there was a faint smile tugging at her lips.

"I can see that you've prepared thoroughly, Mr. Weasley. Your notes are… surprisingly meticulous."

What she didn't say aloud was how thoroughly shocked she was.

At first, McGonagall had assumed Vaughn was just dabbling, perhaps coached a little by his brothers, with some rudimentary understanding at best.

But now, having read his work, she realized he'd already achieved an advanced grasp of Transfiguration. The evidence was there, right on the last page of his book:

"Today, I successfully transfigured a piece of dried fish into a mouse. For a second, I truly believed I'd created life. But it clearly wasn't alive—it behaved exactly as I'd pre-set. It was more like a puppet shaped like a mouse. It lacked the unpredictability of true life. This raises a question beyond my current knowledge: How do advanced Transfigurations bridge that gap?"

"Spells draw on emotion. Could Transfiguration also require emotional resonance? Changing inanimate to animate, or transforming one lifeform into another, does that depend on replicating thought, feeling, or even memory?"

That passage had genuinely shaken her, not because of the boy's skill, but because of his insight.

Such thoughtful speculation... and from a first-year?

She found herself wondering, not for the first time:

Why did he end up in Slytherin?

McGonagall hesitated. As Deputy Headmistress, she had always prided herself on fairness and impartiality. But right now, she felt like a thief sneaking into someone else's territory.

"Mr. Weasley," she said eventually, her voice a little stiff, "as you know, students progress at different paces. Some are... more gifted than others."

She didn't enjoy categorizing children by talent, but facts were facts.

She continued, "For students who advance more quickly, Headmaster Dumbledore encourages us to form clubs for additional instruction, to help them grow beyond what the standard curriculum can offer."

She cleared her throat, then added, "Mr. Weasley, would you consider joining my Transfiguration Club?"

Her cheeks flushed slightly. It did feel like she was poaching talent.

But still, she looked at him hopefully.

After all, an invitation from a professor was only that, an invitation. The choice, always, lay with the student.

Vaughn met her gaze and smiled.

"I'd be honoured, Professor McGonagall."

"So, you joined the Transfiguration Club?!"

At the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, Hermione nearly choked on her toast.

"Of course," Vaughn replied matter-of-factly. "Professor McGonagall said the regular classes aren't enough for me anymore. The club's members are mostly fourth-years and above. That's the level I need to keep progressing. No point wasting time repeating stuff I already know."

He spoke between bites as he filled out a crisp parchment form, the club application.

Hermione leaned over to look at it, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. Then, almost shyly, she asked, "If I, hypothetically - were to perfectly transfigure a matchstick into a needle, like you did today... do you think I'd have a chance too?"

"Maybe," Vaughn said thoughtfully. "You'd have to ask Professor McGonagall."

Before the words were fully out of his mouth, Hermione had grabbed two slices of bread and dashed out of the hall like a woman possessed, probably heading to the library.

Clearly, she'd just found a very powerful new motivation.

Beside them, Harry and Ron exchanged looks.

These two were beginning to show signs of... let's say, selective academic enthusiasm.

Everything at Hogwarts was exciting and strange and wonderful—but classes? Studying?

Why do that when you could explore hidden staircases or duel with ghosts?

Neither of them truly understood Hermione's competitive zeal, and they definitely didn't see Vaughn's extra lessons as something worth celebrating.

At least, Ron didn't.

What he was focused on was the shiny green-and-silver Slytherin crest pinned on Vaughn's chest.

After watching him polish off a roast potato and nick a sausage from Harry's plate, Ron finally snapped.

"Why don't you sit at the Slytherin table, huh? Come to steal our food too? You think Harry won't fight back, is that it?"

Harry blinked. "Wait, what?"

What's with the Weasleys today...?

Vaughn didn't answer. He just calmly finished his meal, then rummaged through his bag and pulled out a small velvet pouch.

He opened it with a practiced flick.

Inside was a brand-new, full wand maintenance kit, polish, buffer cloths, resin, the works.

Ron's eyes widened. Harry could hear the sound of his friend swallowing his jealousy.

The kit gleamed like a treasure chest.

Ron's face turned crimson. He wanted to throw the pouch at Vaughn's smug face... but he didn't.

Years of hand-me-downs and being broke had trained him well. And besides, those kits weren't cheap.

He braced himself for what he was sure was coming next, Vaughn dangling the kit like bait, trying to make him beg.

He made a vow.

Not this time.

This time, he would resist.

This time, he would uphold the honour of Gryffindor.

Then Vaughn patted him on the head.

"Take it, Ron. You've got Charms this afternoon. You'll need it. Study properly. And stop goofing off, yeah?"

By the time Ron looked up, Vaughn was already walking away.

The pouch lay open beside him, gleaming in the morning light.

Ron stared after him, stunned.

Slowly, as Vaughn disappeared around the corner, Ron's eyes filled with tears.

He sniffled loudly, hugged the pouch to his chest like a child clinging to a bedtime bear, and asked in a trembling voice:

"Harry... not all Slytherins are bad, right?"

Harry paused.

Then he finally understood.

Ron wasn't angry about the food, or the crest, or even the club.

He was just... worried.

Worried his big brother might change.

And he didn't know how to say it.

Harry reached over and clapped Ron on the shoulder.

"No," he said firmly. "They're not."

Meanwhile, walking toward the Slytherin common room, Vaughn hummed a little tune under his breath.

Who says he only has one playstyle?