Vaughn neither agreed nor refused Dumbledore's suggestion.
He suspected that the old man had some hidden agenda—after all, Dumbledore's reputation for steering people toward mysterious ends wasn't exactly spotless.
Still, Vaughn wasn't about to pass up the chance to get to know Newt better.
A seasoned expert in magical creatures was incredibly useful for expanding one's horizons. And in a way, Vaughn was also an expert on magical creature materials.
The hair of a Demiguise, the volatile horn fluid of the Poisonhorn beast, dragon's blood, the pouch of a Niffler... Vaughn was familiar with all these potion ingredients, even if he'd never seen the living beasts they came from.
As his research into magic extraction deepened, Vaughn often found himself wondering: What were these creatures like when alive? How did they naturally produce these magical substances?
It even led him to a grand and dizzying question:
How was the first wizard in this world born? Could magical beasts be the origin of all magic? And if so, could dissecting them and studying their magic and physiology reveal the truth?
Just thinking about it stirred his curiosity!
After returning to the Slytherin common room, Vaughn eagerly jotted down his day's observations and thoughts in his diary.
The fragrance of knowledge and truth was irresistible. Surely, Mr. Newt would support his quest… right?
Far away in Dorset, as Newt Scamander sliced fruit for unicorns in his basement, he suddenly sneezed.
"Strange. Am I catching a cold?" he muttered.
Tina scowled. "Maybe Dumbledore's gossiping about you again!"
Whether or not Newt had a cold remained unclear—but the next day, Hogwarts was struck by a sudden outbreak of flu.
Dozens of young wizards stood lined up on the second floor with runny noses and red eyes.
Thankfully, Madam Pomfrey, experienced as always, had already brewed a massive cauldron of Pepperup Potion based on trends from past years.
It worked wonders against flu symptoms. However, like most potions, the supporting ingredients added a unique side effect: they cause steam to emit from the drinker's ears for several hours afterward.
As Vaughn entered the Great Hall the next morning, he was greeted by a surreal sight—
Hundreds of students looked like human kettles, wisps of steam trailing from their ears.
All four House tables were cloaked in mist.
Fred and George were gleefully weaving through the smoky crowd, using their wands to shape steam into funny figures.
Even the professors hadn't been spared. Professor Flitwick's sharply pointed ears—perhaps inherited from goblin ancestry—produced a loud whistling as the steam escaped through their odd curves.
"It's hilarious, Filius!" Dumbledore laughed, taking a sip of the potion himself. Then he covered his mouth and made a show of mimicking the sound.
Unfortunately, Snape was sitting between them. A thick puff of steam enveloped his face, leaving only two black eyes visible, glaring coldly at Dumbledore as though he were about to commit murder.
At the Gryffindor table, Harry and Ron were both trying—and failing—to hold back laughter.
"Look at him! He's about to eat Dumbledore alive," Ron whispered. "Pity the flu didn't take that old poison instead."
Just then, Vaughn sat down across from them and pointed straight at Ron. "Hexby—go get Scabbers!"
"Meow—!" The long-neglected cat perked up instantly, leapt onto the table, and pounced.
Ron's face went pale. "Not Scabbers! Bad cat—HELP—!"
As Ron was tackled to the ground by the "kitten," clutching his pocket for dear life, screaming—
Harry suddenly felt lucky he'd only sipped some pumpkin juice and hadn't had time to insult Snape.
Hermione had also caught the flu. With steam rising from her ears and frizzing her already bushy hair, she looked like a walking steamer.
Still, she hugged a massive book and made her way over to Vaughn to ask about Transfiguration.
After he answered, she fired off another question right away.
Vaughn had a natural talent for Transfiguration and had learned faster than her. He even taught in Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration Club, so answering wasn't difficult.
As he'd said before, he was patient with cute little girls.
"…In transformation, what matters most is a firm will, Hermione. Any spell requires clear, focused emotion," he explained.
"It's not about being emotionless—that'll only backfire. You just need controlled calm. When turning a button into a beetle, analyze the button's structure, visualize the beetle's form, and fix your mind on a strong desire to succeed. The stronger that desire, the more likely you are to succeed."
Vaughn was sharing his personal insight.
Magic in this world was illogical in many ways—closer to wish-fulfillment than to science. Magic wasn't a cold tool governed solely by formulas. It was an emotional outlet. That's why wizards—especially Dark wizards—tended to be emotionally intense. Emotion was the key.
But Vaughn believed there was logic beneath even the most chaotic appearances.
Everything had rules. The only question was whether someone could uncover them.
This was the second major goal Vaughn had quietly set for himself, alongside potion research—Unraveling the nature and laws of magic itself.
A lofty, far-reaching ambition.
Of course, Hermione had no idea Vaughn harbored such grand plans. Her current concerns were focused on academics.
At the end of her questions, Hermione clutched her book and looked at Vaughn hopefully.
"The exams are coming up. I still feel like I have too many weaknesses. Vaughn, could I study with you more often?"
Before Vaughn could answer, Harry—who had been waiting to butt in—finally spoke up, baffled: "Exams? Already? Isn't it still early?"
Hermione glared. "Still early? We've been in school for weeks! If you subtract weekends and sleeping time, how much actual studying time do you think we really have left?"
She launched into a long-winded breakdown of remaining hours, leaving Harry speechless. Suddenly, his relaxed schedule felt woefully inadequate—as if wasting even one more minute would result in him aging into dust.
He was still in a daze when he and Ron returned to the Gryffindor common room after breakfast.
Ron, covered in dust, shoved Scabbers into a cage.
Looking at the trembling rat, Ron muttered angrily, "Damn Vaughn, damn that cat Hexby... Poor Scabbers is losing hair again. One day, that cat's going to kill him."
Then Ron paused. Strangely, he realized he wasn't even that angry anymore. It was as if he were… starting to get used to the bullying—both his and Scabbers'.