Harry Potter: From Little Wizard to White Lord

The wisdom in that sentence was far beyond what you'd expect from an eleven-year-old.

Snape studied Vaughn silently, and for a moment, he hesitated. Doubt crept into his earlier assumptions.

Vaughn noticed the hesitation and smiled. "Professor, is there something you'd like me to do?"

Snape stared at that ever-so-pleasant face and, for reasons he couldn't quite explain, his mind flashed to Dumbledore. That old manipulator always had a smile like that, too.

In truth, Vaughn had already guessed what this was about the moment he stepped onto the Quidditch pitch and saw the Gryffindor team practicing. The only reason Snape would voluntarily leave his dungeon lair and attend what he often called a "brainless broom-chasing parade" was if it involved a certain boy with messy black hair and glasses.

Sure enough, after maintaining his icy persona for a while, Snape finally broke the silence.

"What do you think of Potter's performance on a broom?"

"Brilliant," Vaughn said immediately, gazing up at the Gryffindors darting through the rainclouds. Harry's wiry figure sliced through the wind with natural grace.

He glanced at Snape, mischief twinkling in his eyes. "Everyone says Harry inherited his father's talent. The Gryffindors seem convinced no Seeker in any other house can match him."

Crunch.

Vaughn could almost hear Snape grinding his teeth.

The Professor's hand clenched into a fist, and a rare, intense emotion flickered in his usually impassive black eyes. It was impossible to tell whether it was bitterness or painful nostalgia. Probably both.

Snape dropped the pretense and got straight to the point. "Vaughn Weasley. If I put you on the Slytherin team, could you beat him?"

Vaughn widened his eyes in practiced innocence. "Professor, why? You know Harry's my friend. Besides, I'm not even that into Quidditch."

"Hmph. Friend, is it? Just answer me. Can you do it or not?"

Vaughn paused for effect, then shrugged. "Probably."

He smiled, equal parts pure and smug. "But I'm awfully busy, Professor. My experiments on magical herbs take up a lot of time and money. I need to brew potions, sell them, study rare ingredients..."

"I'll provide the materials."

Snape spat the words like they physically pained him.

"And then there's schoolwork. I'm very studious, as you know. Homework consumes a large part of my day..."

"I'll speak to Professors McGonagall and Flitwick," Snape snapped, voice like frost. "Given your skill in Transfiguration and Charms, I imagine they'll excuse you from most of their assignments. Including my Potions class. But not the others."

"Oh, Professor, you're too kind," Vaughn replied, absolutely delighted. "Although, the book you gave me, besides the Forgetfulness Charm, it doesn't include anything on memory-based magic. Like, say, Legilimency..."

Snape's expression darkened to the color of storm clouds.

He was now completely convinced. This Weasley was exactly like Dumbledore.

Insufferably opportunistic. Always pushing the advantage. Utterly shameless.

Breathe, Severus, breathe.

After several seconds of deep, icy breathing, he managed to say, "Fine. Next summer, I'll send you a book. But don't push it, Weasley."

Vaughn looked almost wistful. This was such a rare opportunity for blackmail, and it was slipping through his fingers.

Still, judging from Snape's twitching eyebrow, he'd already hit the man's breaking point.

Just one more thing.

"Professor, could Slytherin please get a new team captain? Marcus Flint is a complete idiot."

Snape turned with a swish of his robe, ready to stalk off. But he paused.

Marcus Flint... that towering ape of a boy with the grace of a troll and the intelligence of a damp sponge. Yes, calling him an idiot might be an understatement.

He exhaled, defeated. "Do you have someone in mind?"

Vaughn's expression fell flat. "Not really..."

The two of them walked off the pitch together under the pouring rain, still without a replacement for Flint. Vaughn was clearly out of the question. No matter how much Snape wanted Potter put in his place, there was no way he'd let Vaughn waste that much time chasing Quaffles.

As they parted, Vaughn glanced back and sighed dramatically. "Professor, could the house get a few more normal students next year? Just ones with functioning brains. That's all I ask."

Snape said nothing. His silence was more eloquent than words.

Two mornings later, while dining with the trio in the Gryffindor common room, Vaughn received a package from the owl post.

Lately, he had been pouring most of his energy into researching new spells and magical ingredients. But despite that, he still kept tabs on everything Harry was up to.

One member of the trio was his little brother. The other, his personal informant.

And then there was Harry. The boy couldn't keep a secret if it were nailed to his forehead. Vaughn had taken to calling him "The Leaky Cauldron."

Even without trying, Vaughn knew they were investigating the small package Hagrid had removed from Gringotts.

In fact, they'd already discovered the room where Fluffy was being kept.

It happened over two weeks ago, on the night Harry's detention finally ended. Ron and Hermione had gone to meet him, only to be cornered in the halls by Mrs. Norris and Peeves.

Since Vaughn's previous "lesson" involving Peeves and a certain binding charm, the poltergeist had kept a wide berth from him. But now, having taught that spell to Hermione, Peeves found himself feeling a little... vulnerable.

In response, he formed a comical alliance with Mrs. Norris.

That's how he saw it, anyway.

In truth, he just started following the cat around and tattling on students.

He phased through walls and screeched whenever he spotted someone sneaking about. Mrs. Norris would then scamper off to fetch Filch.

That night, Peeves spotted the trio and gleefully howled across the corridors.

"You're finished! Fluffy'll tear you to bits!"

He laughed himself silly, somersaulting in midair, as the trio fled in panic and bolted into an empty room, where they met the three-headed dog.

Hermione was the first to notice the trapdoor beneath Fluffy's paws.

"That package from Gringotts," Harry later whispered to Vaughn, "it has to be under that trapdoor. It's Dumbledore's. Must be something incredibly important. Just don't know what."

Vaughn, playing along with great interest, had suggested, "Why not ask Hagrid?"

Harry had been around Hogwarts long enough to gain a bit of confidence. No longer the shy, uncertain boy who once feared his own shadow. Still, he frowned. "Hagrid won't tell me anything. He's careful."

"Just say you saw the three-headed dog."

This morning, the trio returned to Vaughn's table, eyes gleaming with triumph.

"How did you know that would work?" Harry asked, amazed.

Vaughn just smiled mysteriously.

Where do you think Harry learned to be a loudmouth?

"Hagrid said the dog's name is Fluffy. He lent it to Dumbledore to guard something," Harry said breathlessly.

"And it's got something to do with Nicholas Flamel," Ron added quickly.

"I know I've seen that name before," Hermione muttered. "But I just can't remember where. I checked the library again last night and still nothing. Vaughn, do you know who he is?"

All three turned to him, eager and wide-eyed.