Vaughn didn't give Dumbledore a clear answer. He neither agreed nor refused.

He couldn't help but suspect the old man was trying to nudge him in a particular direction. Dumbledore's reputation in that regard wasn't exactly reassuring.

Still, Vaughn didn't want to pass up the chance to meet Newt Scamander. A seasoned magizoologist could open up whole new horizons for someone like him.

In his own way, Vaughn considered himself something of a magizoologist too... just more on the materials side.

He knew the properties of demiguise fur, erumpent fluid and horn, dragon's blood, the pouch of a niffler, all by heart. The only problem was, he'd never seen these creatures alive.

As his research into magical essence extraction progressed, he often found himself wondering what those materials looked like before they were harvested. How exactly did these magical properties emerge from the creatures themselves?

That line of thinking led him to a tantalizing, slightly horrifying question.

How did the first wizard come into being? Could magical creatures be the true origin of magic? If he could dissect one, examine its magical core, its biology, would he find a glimpse of the truth?

The thought alone was enough to make his fingers itch with curiosity.

Back in the Slytherin common room, Vaughn eagerly scribbled down everything he'd learned and imagined that day into his journal.

The scent of knowledge and the thrill of truth, so intoxicating. Surely someone like Mr. Scamander would support his work?

Far away in Dorset, Newt Scamander was currently preparing a fruit platter for a herd of unicorns in his basement when he sneezed loudly.

"Odd… am I catching a cold?" he murmured, rubbing his nose.

Tina, nearby and not particularly sympathetic, muttered, "Maybe it's Dumbledore gossiping about you again."

Whether Newt caught a cold or not, no one could say for certain. But the very next morning, Hogwarts was hit with a full-blown wave of magical influenza.

The second floor was packed with sniffling, red-nosed students lined up in droves.

Madam Pomfrey, ever the veteran of such epidemics, had anticipated this and brewed a massive cauldron of Revitalizing Draught.

Highly effective against the flu, but like many potions, the side effects were... memorable.

It made steam shoot out of your ears.

The moment Vaughn stepped into the Great Hall, he was greeted by a truly surreal scene.

Hundreds of little heads were whistling like kettles, clouds of steam pouring from their ears and drifting lazily over the four House tables.

Fred and George were having the time of their lives, weaving through the smoky crowd, using their wands to shape the steam into dancing animals, faces, even miniature explosions.

Even the staff table wasn't spared. Professor Flitwick's long, goblin-like ears whistled like a pair of broken flutes.

"How delightful, Filius!" Dumbledore beamed, raising his own cup of potion. He took a dramatic sip, then covered his mouth and attempted a high-pitched imitation.

Unfortunately, Severus Snape was seated between them.

Thick smoke completely enveloped his face, leaving only two glowering black eyes visible beneath the cloud. They were locked onto Dumbledore with a look that could freeze lava.

As Vaughn approached the Gryffindor table, he spotted Harry and Ron chuckling while casting nervous glances toward the staff.

"Look at him," Ron whispered, nodding at Snape. "He's one step away from strangling Dumbledore. Shame the flu skipped over that bat."

Before Harry could reply, Vaughn took a seat across from Ron, pointed straight at him, and said, "Fruity, fetch Scabbers!"

"Meow!"

Fruity, the playful cat who'd gone far too long without a toy, pounced onto the table and launched herself at Ron, whose face turned a shade paler than milk.

"No! Not Scabbers! You stinky cat, help!"

Ron toppled over backward, arms flailing as he tried to protect his pocket from the so-called kitten.

Harry, watching the chaos unfold, suddenly felt very grateful he'd taken a sip of pumpkin juice instead of saying anything mean about Snape.

Hermione, meanwhile, had clearly caught the flu herself.

Steam curled from her ears like a pair of delicate chimneys, swirling through her tangled curls and giving her head the appearance of a particularly active teapot.

She walked up clutching a tome thicker than her forearm and plopped it down beside Vaughn.

"Can I ask you something about Transfiguration?"

After getting a helpful answer, she launched into another question.

Vaughn didn't mind. His aptitude for Transfiguration outpaced hers, and Professor McGonagall had already taken him under her wing in her Transfiguration Club. Helping Hermione wasn't difficult.

Besides, as he'd once said, he had endless patience for clever girls.

"Transfiguration is about willpower, Hermione," he explained calmly. "Actually, that's true for almost every spell. It's not about keeping your mind cold and analytical. That can actually backfire. You need to be focused, but emotionally charged."

He gestured for emphasis.

"Say you're turning a button into a beetle. Sure, knowing the structure of both helps. But what really matters is the raw intent, I will transform this button. The stronger that thought is, the more likely it is to work."

In Vaughn's view, magic in this world was irrational. It worked less like a scientific formula and more like sheer force of belief. It reminded him of something he'd read about in fantasy novels "power words," perhaps, or the magic of intent.

Magic wasn't mechanical. It was emotional.

That's why wizards were often a bit... dramatic. Even the most unhinged dark wizard could hurl deadly spells with pinpoint precision, so long as their emotions weren't blocked.

Vaughn was convinced, however, that there had to be a logic beneath it all.

Even chaos had its own hidden order. It just needed someone to dig deep enough to find it.

That belief had led him, years ago, to chart out a second area of study alongside potioneering:

The true nature and principles of magic.

Of course, Hermione had no idea her classmate harbored such grand ambitions. She was too busy stressing over grades.

Clutching her book, she looked at him hopefully.

"Exams are coming up, and I still have so many weak spots. Vaughn, would you mind if we studied together more often?"

Before Vaughn could reply, Harry who'd been quietly listening blurted, "Exams? Already? Isn't it a bit early?"

Hermione spun on him with a glare.

"A bit early? We've been in school for weeks now! If you subtract weekends and sleeping hours, how much actual study time do you think we have left?!"

Her voice launched into rapid-fire logic, bombarding Harry with timelines, breakdowns, and panic-inducing calculations.

By the time she finished, Harry looked like he'd just been hit by a Confundus Charm. He followed Ron out of the hall in a daze.

Back in the Gryffindor common room, Ron was stuffing a visibly traumatized Scabbers back into his cage.

"You poor thing. That awful cat and that creepy Vaughn are going to be the death of you," Ron muttered.

Oddly enough, he didn't feel all that angry.

In fact, he was starting to accept that getting bullied by Vaughn and occasionally mauled by a cat, might just be part of his new normal.