As soon as Roger stepped inside, he noticed the shadow of worry lingering in Professor McGonagall's eyes.
"Professor, is something wrong? Anything I can do to help?" he asked, sincerely concerned.
Though he'd come to request a favor, Roger wasn't in a rush. After all, having once been arrested by the Ministry of Magic, he was well-acquainted with how their machinery ran. It wasn't entirely corrupt—just… painfully bureaucratic. Like something straight out of Yes, Prime Minister. Most departments functioned more like fiefdoms under powerful wizarding families than efficient government branches. For someone like Roger, without status or political backing, navigating their labyrinthine procedures would mean months of dead ends and red tape.
Back in 1689, the signing of the International Statute of Secrecy divided the magical world into regions reflecting Muggle national borders. Each zone came under the influence of dominant local powers—like the Wizengamot or the Department of Mysteries in Britain. Ministries of Magic were formed, but the old factions that once monopolized magical knowledge didn't simply hand over their authority. Some were crushed and dissolved, their secrets diluted into publicly sold spellbooks. The strongest? They weren't defeated—they were absorbed.
It was like a private family monopolizing a nation's water and electricity supply. The government couldn't break them, so they legitimized them, gave them seats of power. Roger understood the game. Even if McGonagall supported him, pushing through his application for access to the Room-Extension Charm would mean running a gauntlet of approval processes across multiple departments. It'd take time.
And time, fortunately, wasn't something he lacked at the moment.
So when he noticed Professor McGonagall's troubled expression, his priorities shifted without hesitation. She had helped him too much over the years—his first mentor in this strange new world. Roger was never one to let those who'd aided him suffer alone.
"It's not a serious issue," McGonagall said, waving a hand to brush away the concern, though her expression didn't ease. "It's just… Quidditch." A flicker of embarrassment crossed her features.
Ah. That explained it.
Quidditch—wizardkind's most beloved sport, a chaotic, airborne blend of rugby, football, and magical mayhem—was the pride of Hogwarts student life. Each house fielded a team, and competition between them was fierce. Last year, Gryffindor had suffered a crushing defeat at the hands of Slytherin. As head of Gryffindor House, McGonagall had borne the brunt of it—especially from Severus Snape, Slytherin's Head, whose biting sarcasm was as relentless as a Bludger.
Roger winced internally. He already had a suspicion as to where this was going.
Unintentionally, he might have been part of the problem.
Though much of his time had gone into research and magical development, Roger hadn't completely detached from student life. He helped classmates with homework when asked, clarified confusing lessons, and occasionally assisted professors in cleaning up after magical mishaps.
When tensions rose between Gryffindor and Slytherin, he often stepped in to mediate. Not out of obligation—just a desire to keep peace. Even if that peace was enforced in a way that left everyone slightly terrified. Gryffindors and Slytherins alike had learned not to act out in Roger's presence.
As a result, incidents that were meant to happen simply… didn't.
Take flying class, for instance. In the timeline Roger remembered, a dramatic clash between Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter had led to Harry showcasing his astonishing natural flying talent—something that caught McGonagall's attention and landed him on the Gryffindor team as Seeker.
But under Roger's quiet watch, there had been no clash, no stunts, no drama. Everything proceeded by the book. And without a standout performance, Harry remained just another first-year student.
That, combined with Charlie Weasley's recent graduation, left Gryffindor without a proper Seeker—and McGonagall at a loss.
"It's about the Seeker position, isn't it?" Roger asked gently.
McGonagall nodded, lips pressed in a thin line. "Yes."
"Then let Harry try. I know he's only a first-year, and it's unusual, but if anyone can do it—he can. Dumbledore will approve."
"You really think he's suited for it?" McGonagall asked, clearly surprised. "I've heard no mention of any particular talent—"
"Trust me," Roger said with a quiet smile, tapping the side of his temple. "I've seen it."
The look in McGonagall's eyes shifted instantly. She understood. A Seer's insight.
Of course.
As a Seer with a proven track record, Roger didn't need to convince her further. He'd already anticipated her need before she voiced it, and now he'd handed her the solution on a silver platter.
McGonagall's shoulders eased. For the first time since he entered, she looked genuinely relieved.
And Roger? He grinned. Harry had inherited more than just his father's name—he'd also inherited his incredible flying instincts. Now, thanks to a full-body nervous system optimization Roger had performed earlier, Harry's physical abilities were practically legendary. It was like upgrading his athletic traits to +15 on every stat.
Gryffindor's Quidditch team might just have their secret weapon after all.
This year's Quidditch season was bound to take a dramatic turn.
With Harry Potter on the team—armed with uncanny reflexes, relentless drive, and stamina that bordered on the unnatural—every match would be a battlefield of surprises. Opponents wouldn't know what hit them.
"Speaking of which," Roger added, "we've got flying class later today. You can observe him then, Professor. I'm sure his performance will more than convince you."
Still, a hint of concern tugged at him.
Harry couldn't just be placed on the team out of nowhere. Without a proper display of his skills, it could stir resentment. People didn't like surprises, especially ones that bypassed hierarchy. And in a team sport, internal conflict could be far more dangerous than any external challenge.
Small slights, Roger knew, often planted the seeds of long-standing grudges.
Harry had helped him before—without asking for anything in return. Naturally, Roger wanted to ensure that his rise came with as little resistance as possible.
With McGonagall's concerns now put to rest, Roger turned to the real reason for his visit.
"I'd like to modify my brain—with magic."
McGonagall froze. Her expression flickered from curiosity to outright alarm.
"Magically modify—your brain!?"
She stared at him as if he'd just suggested grafting wings onto himself and trying to outfly a Hippogriff. It wasn't just incredulous—it was borderline horrified.
To her, this wasn't innovation. This was insanity.
"You do realize how absurd that sounds, don't you?" she said, her voice carefully measured, but her eyes wide. "It's like… a Muggle reading a few medical journals and deciding to perform brain surgery on themselves—with a kitchen knife—and then wiring their brain into a computer!"
Roger didn't flinch. If anything, he seemed even more resolute.
McGonagall exhaled sharply, suddenly understanding something she hadn't quite seen before.
So this was why the Sorting Hat had placed him in Gryffindor.
The other Gryffindors, no matter how reckless, limited their mischief to sneaking out after hours or launching the occasional Filibuster Firework in class.
But Roger? Roger didn't just defy authority. He defied reason.
"You're not just brave," she muttered. "You're out of your mind."
And yet… there was something terrifyingly compelling in his conviction.
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