Hogwarts: From Little Wizard to White Lord

Professor McGonagall brought Peter to her office.

It was located on the second floor, and from the window, one could see the Quidditch pitch. This small luxury was one of her privileges as Deputy Headmistress, a quiet nod to her fondness for the sport.

Once they entered, Professor McGonagall's stern expression softened a little. She even offered Peter a biscuit before beginning.

"Mr. Weasley, it was difficult to speak with you in detail during class earlier. I suspect you've been practicing Transfiguration at home, haven't you?"

"Yes, Professor. I used one of my brother's textbooks."

"I suppose I'll have to remind your brothers again how dangerous unsupervised Transfiguration can be," she said, pressing her lips together.

Peter gave a small nod. "I only practiced on objects, Professor. I started with smaller ones, just like Percy described in his notes. First simple transformations, then slowly moved on to more complex ones. That's what I've been doing."

He pulled out A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, the cover slightly worn, pages filled with notes and margin scribbles, and handed it to her.

Professor McGonagall opened the book and flipped through a few pages. "A new copy? Did you review it again before term started?"

"Yes, Professor."

She paused and studied the book more closely. For a moment, the room was quiet. Then, she closed the book and gave a small, approving smile.

"I see, Mr. Weasley. You came very well prepared, and you've kept detailed records of each of your transformations."

Although she kept her tone even, Peter could sense she was quietly impressed. She didn't show much outward emotion, but as she looked at the notes again, a brief sigh escaped her lips—one that hinted at a hidden pride.

At first, Professor McGonagall had assumed Peter had only dabbled in Transfiguration, perhaps picking up the basics from his brothers or experimenting lightly out of curiosity.

But after reading through his notes, she realized her assumptions had fallen far short of the truth. Peter's understanding of Transfiguration had already reached an advanced level. The final page of his textbook held the most astonishing entry:

"Today I successfully transformed the dried fish from Guoguocha into a mouse. For a moment, I thought I had created life, but that was clearly not the case. The mouse's behavior was something I had set. It was merely a puppet in the shape of a mouse, lacking the spark of real life. This is clearly beyond my current knowledge. How do advanced transformations solve this problem?

A spell requires emotion to function. Could Transfiguration also depend on this connection? From lifeless to living, and even between forms of life... maybe we need to start by understanding the target's thoughts and emotions? Or its memory?"

When Professor McGonagall read that passage, she was genuinely shaken.

It was not merely Peter's technical progress that startled her, but the depth of his reflections and the boldness of his questions.

Such insight... such instinct for the craft... Why was he in Slytherin?

She hesitated briefly. As someone who had always prided herself on fairness and integrity, she eventually cleared her throat and spoke in a slightly awkward tone.

"Mr. Weasley, you must understand that not all students learn at the same pace. Some students are simply... more talented."

She did not like categorizing students into tiers, but reality left little choice.

She continued, "For students who show accelerated progress, Headmaster Dumbledore encourages professors to form subject-based clubs. These allow us to offer more focused instruction."

Then she looked directly at Peter.

"Mr. Weasley, would you be interested in joining my Transfiguration Club?"

A faint blush rose to her cheeks, as if she felt she was trying to steal talent from another House. Yet despite that, her gaze remained fixed on Peter, full of hopeful expectation.

Since professors had the authority to extend invitations, the students they invited naturally had the right to decline.

But under Professor McGonagall's sincere gaze, Peter smiled and replied politely,"It would be an honor, Professor."

…

"So, you really joined the Transfiguration Club?"

Hermione's voice rose with surprise as she spoke from across the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall.

"Of course," Peter said calmly, continuing to eat while filling out a form beside his plate. "Professor McGonagall said my current level was ahead of the class. The regular lessons wouldn't benefit me much for now, and the club is made up of at least fourth-years. I'll be able to keep learning there instead of sitting through material I already know."

Hermione leaned over to look at the form, her eyes practically glowing. After a pause, she asked hesitantly,"If— I mean, if I also manage to turn a matchstick into a needle perfectly, do you think I'd have a chance too?"

"Maybe not right away," Peter replied, thinking carefully. "But you could always ask Professor McGonagall about it when the time comes."

No sooner had he spoken than Hermione snatched up two pieces of bread, leapt from the bench, and bolted toward the library like a gust of wind.

It seemed she had just found a brand-new goal to chase.

Meanwhile, Harry and Ron, who had been sitting beside them and quietly eavesdropping, exchanged puzzled glances.

They still felt completely lost. Everything at Hogwarts was new to them, and already, Peter and Hermione were making leaps ahead. The two boys were starting to realize what kind of uphill battle they might be facing as students.

"Study? Wouldn't it be nicer to just play around?"

That was the thought running through both Harry and Ron's minds. They didn't quite understand Hermione's eagerness, or the look of determination she had as she rushed off to the library.

And as for Peter joining a club or taking extra lessons, neither of them considered it to be a good thing.

Ron, in particular, couldn't stop staring at the green serpent crest on Peter's robes.

Seeing Peter still sitting at the Gryffindor table and even reaching over to grab a piece of his roast meat, Ron finally snapped.

"Why don't you go sit with the Slytherins?" he muttered, his tone sharp. "Why are you always snatching from our side? You think Harry is easy to push around or something?"

Harry blinked. "Huh?"

He glanced between them in confusion.

I don't understand you Weasleys sometimes...

Peter didn't respond. He quietly finished the piece of meat, wiped his hands with a napkin, then calmly reached into his schoolbag and pulled out a small pouch.

He opened it slowly, revealing a pristine, brand-new wand maintenance kit, the kind displayed behind glass cases in Diagon Alley shops.

Ron's eyes widened. Harry was pretty sure he heard a gulp.

It was the same old routine—far too familiar.

Ron's face turned red, a mix of envy and frustration. For a moment, it looked like he might grab the pouch and toss it right at Peter's face.

But years of knowing better, of living under the weight of tight budgets and secondhand gear, dulled the impulse. The price of that care kit alone could probably buy a month's worth of school supplies.

So instead of lashing out, Ron simply sat there, clenching his jaw, while Peter calmly opened a polishing cloth and began tending to his wand.

From past experience, Ron was certain that the devil known as Peter would use this moment of weakness to tempt him. That was always the Slytherin way—strike when desire is strongest.

But this time, he told himself he would not give in, no matter what. He was a Gryffindor, and Gryffindors didn't surrender to Slytherin tricks.

Just as he firmed up that thought, he felt a hand patting him gently on the head.

"Here, Ron. You'll need it in Charms this afternoon. Focus on your studies and stop messing around."

When Ron looked up, Peter was already walking away, his small wand care kit left open on the seat behind him.

Ron stared after him, watching Peter's figure grow smaller as he walked down the corridor, eventually turning a corner and vanishing from view.

Harry, who had silently witnessed the entire exchange, turned and noticed something unexpected. Ron's eyes were red. The usually loud and careless friend was now sniffling like a small child, tears silently rolling down his cheeks. He reached out and pulled the kit into his arms, holding it tightly against his chest.

Then, through broken sobs, he asked,"Harry... not all Slytherins are bad, right?"

Harry suddenly understood. Ron wasn't just angry or confused. He was scared—scared that his brother might be changing into someone unfamiliar, someone cold. But he didn't know how to say that.

Harry placed a hand on Ron's shoulder and nodded firmly."Yeah. Not all of them."

Meanwhile, on the other side of the castle, Peter made his way toward the Slytherin common room, humming softly to himself.

Who said he only had one trick?

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