Rayleigh emerged from Professor McGonagall’s office completely unscathed.
Closing the door softly behind him, he let out a long breath.
His shirt was soaked with cold sweat.
No punishment.
Not even a single harsh word.
But that made his skin crawl even more than any penalty would have.
His only price was that, starting this week, he had to report to Professor McGonagall every Friday night from eight to ten for one-on-one remedial Transfiguration lessons.
“Mr.
Stark.” Professor McGonagall had sat behind her desk, fingers laced together, her expression cold enough to scrape frost off.
“I must admit, the spell you invented is exquisite in both structure and logic.
It even touches upon the boundary between Charms and Alchemy.
If Professor Flitwick knew, he would likely jump high enough to touch the ceiling.” Rayleigh had stood on the rug with his head lowered, keeping quiet and playing the part of an obedient, repentant student.
“However!” Professor McGonagall’s voice had suddenly spiked.
“You are a Gryffindor!
The Head of your House is a Master of Transfiguration!
And you, a student who displays astounding talent in Charms, have Transfiguration grades that are merely mediocre!
Are you planning to transfer to Ravenclaw and study under Professor Flitwick instead?” “No, Professor, I’m not…” “Then learn Transfiguration properly!” Professor McGonagall cut him off.
“I do not care what method you use, nor do I want to hear excuses about talent.
If your proficiency in Transfiguration fails to reach even half of your achievements in Charms, Mr.
Stark, you will experience the ultimate wrath of an angry Head of Gryffindor.” The old witch paused, her sharp gaze piercing through her spectacles and locking straight onto Rayleigh.
Those words had sent a shiver down Rayleigh’s spine.
It was a hundred times more terrifying than being threatened with expulsion or detention.
Rayleigh didn’t doubt for a second that if he slacked off, his strict Head of House would deliver on her threat.
*Damn it!* he cursed inwardly.
Transfiguration!
The bloody stuff was utterly useless in the Diablo world!
Everything in that hellhole was deeply tainted by the demonic power of Baal, the Lord of Destruction.
Forget turning a match into a needle—Rayleigh suspected that even if Dumbledore went there himself, he would strain every fiber of his being just to turn a stone into sand.
With Rayleigh’s meager mastery, changing the form of any matter under that world’s rules was completely out of the question.
Over time, he had practically given up on Transfiguration.
“Looks like I’ll have to get Hermione to tutor me.” Rubbing his stiff face, Rayleigh strode toward the Gryffindor common room.
When he gave the password “Pig snout” and the portrait of the Fat Lady swung open, a wave of heat mixed with deafening cheers rushed out to meet him.
“The hero returns!” “Rayleigh!
Rayleigh!
Rayleigh!” The common room was packed, everyone cheering for him.
Fred and George Weasley were standing atop a table, dramatically waving Gryffindor scarves as they led the crowd in chanting his name.
Rayleigh couldn’t even remember how many times this had happened.
It couldn’t be helped—Slytherin was Gryffindor’s mortal enemy, through and through.
Anything that humiliated Slytherin—especially Malfoy—was treated like holy scripture by the young Gryffindor lions.
Rayleigh practiced-waving at the crowd, a customer-service smile plastered on his face, while inwardly plotting how to approach Hermione.
After the brief welcome party, the crowd gradually dispersed.
Fred and George slunk over, grabbing Rayleigh by both arms.
“Brother, come with us!” “We’ve got big business to discuss with you!” Dragged and hauled into their dormitory, Rayleigh stepped into their “workshop”—the place where they fiddled with all sorts of prank items.
“Rayleigh,” Fred lowered his voice, unable to contain his excitement.
“That spell of yours was bloody brilliant!” George added, “Pure art!
We’ve never seen magic that was so…
so visually shocking!” “So,” the two said in unison, “teach us!” Rayleigh raised an eyebrow at them.
“You want to learn *that*?” “Of course!” Fred rubbed his hands together.
“We want to modify it!” “Modify it?” Rayleigh felt his interest piqued.
“Exactly!” A dangerous light glinted in George’s eyes.
“We want to add it to our Dungbombs!
Think about it: the moment a Dungbomb explodes and the stench spreads, everyone who smells it…” “…will get hit by the curse!” Fred took over, throwing his arms wide in an exaggerated explosion motion.
“That scene will be a hundred times more magnificent than Malfoy putting on a solo show in midair!” *Holy crap!* Rayleigh sucked in a breath.
They wanted to turn a single-target sniper spell into a weapon of mass destruction!
The image immediately flashed in his mind.
In a corridor at Hogwarts, a specially modified Dungbomb explodes.
Dozens of unlucky students—boys, girls, regardless of House—clutch their stomachs, and then…
*Pfft-pfft-pfft-pfft!* What a magnificent, foul-odored symphony that would be!
*Damn, too painful to watch.
Pure art!* The Weasley twins were practically military industrial geniuses of the wizarding world!
Rayleigh looked at them with immense appreciation.
But he firmly shook his head anyway.
“No can do.” “Why?!” the twins shouted together.
“We can pay!
Or trade with our products!” “It’s not about money.” Rayleigh sighed, putting on a solemn face.
“Professor McGonagall gave a strict order: this spell is classified as a forbidden curse and strictly forbidden from being shared.
She said if a second person uses or gets caught with this spell at Hogwarts, she’ll pack me up and ship me back to London that very night.” He patted their shoulders.
“You know the old lady—if she says it, she means it.” Fred and George’s faces instantly fell, all excitement evaporating into disappointment.
“So…
there’s really no way?” “Well, I wouldn’t say *no* way,” Rayleigh pivoted, offering a secretive smile.
Their eyes lit up again.
“What way?” “Your vision is too limited.” Rayleigh wagged a finger in front of them.
“Making people get diarrhea is small-time thinking.
At best, it’s just a prank.
Don’t you want to play for bigger stakes?
Something that makes money—big money?” “Make money?” Fred and George exchanged a look, seeing both confusion and greed in each other’s eyes.
“Precisely,” Rayleigh coaxed.
“How’s the progress on the gas potions and explosive potions I asked you to speed up developing?” “Oh, that,” George scratched his head.
“The tear-gas potion is making progress, but the sting isn’t strong enough yet.
The explosive potion still needs work—the power is unstable.
Sometimes it blows up a pillow, sometimes it just makes a loud pop.” “Not enough!
Far from enough!” Rayleigh emphasized.
“Do you realize what those things represent?
Those aren’t prank items!
Those are strategic military assets!” “Strategic military assets?” The twins stared at him, dumbfounded by the high-sounding terms.
“Listen to me break it down,” Rayleigh cleared his throat, activating full salesman mode.
“Imagine the Ministry of Magic is cornering a gang of Dark wizards hiding behind cover.
What do the Aurors do?
Charge in blindly?
People will die!
But if they pull out a Weasley-brand High-Potency Tear Gas Bomb and toss it in?
In an instant, every Dark wizard is crying their eyes out, completely incapacitated!
The Aurors can just walk in and arrest them!” The twins’ breathing grew shallow and rapid.
“Now imagine a riot at Gringotts—hundreds of Goblins armed to the teeth blocking the vaults.
Suddenly, a Weasley-brand Flashbang lands among them!
*BOOM!* The noise and shockwave leave every Goblin disoriented!
Isn’t the crisis resolved?” “Will the Ministry buy it?
Will the Auror Office place massive orders?
Will the Goblins at Gringotts spend fortunes on security procurement?!” Rayleigh’s voice vibrated with persuasive charm.
“Is that not infinitely more profitable than selling a few Dungbombs?
Your goal should be to become the arms tycoons of the Wizarding World!
Monopolize the entire non-lethal tactical gear market in Britain!
When that day comes, Gold Galleons will literally bury your beds!” Fred and George were thoroughly stunned.
They stood open-mouthed, staring dumbly at Rayleigh, their minds filled with the clinking sound of Gold Galleons.
Before this, they only wanted to make fun gadgets and earn some pocket money.
But what Rayleigh painted for them was a glittering commercial empire they had never dared to dream of!
Gradually, the spark of mischief in their eyes gave way to a roaring blaze of avarice.
Their pupils practically reshaped into Gold Galleons.
“We…
we’re going to modify it right now!” “Yeah!
Pull an all-nighter!
We’ll boost the output!” Watching the Weasley twins charge back to their workbench like men possessed, Rayleigh clapped his hands in satisfaction.
Done.
He had kept his secret safe while injecting fresh momentum into his future enterprise.
Two birds with one stone.
Now, time to solve his own problems.
He turned and scanned the common room, quickly spotting his target.
Hermione Granger was sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, a book thicker than a brick—*A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration*—spread across her lap.
Rayleigh took a deep breath, plastered on his kindest, most sincere smile, and walked over.
“Hi, Hermione.
Good evening.”