HP: Transmigrating as an Obscurial

After their visit to Stockholm, the trio boarded the magical boat arranged by their guide and began the journey to the island of Midgard.

Somewhere along the way, a curious cloud drifted silently overhead. It cast a sudden shadow, muting the sunlight and bathing everything around them in a soft, silvery haze — as if the world had been lightly brushed with mist.

It was the strangest cloud Vizet had ever seen.

Snowflakes fell first, soft and sparse, but mixed with them were flickering specks of ash. Then came a gust of wind from above, strong and sweeping, stirring the flakes and ashes together until they merged into glowing motes of colored light.

These floating specks — like luminous fireflies — hovered briefly in the air, shimmering like fragments of a broken rainbow, before slowly drifting downward. As they touched the surface of the lake, they vanished without a trace.

Xenophilius, ever the eager researcher, pointed skyward with delight.

"A long time ago, Muggles thought those clouds to be one ones floating around the 'World Tree'", he explained. "And those glowing dust motes? They called them the 'Bifröst' — the Rainbow Bridge."

"Legend has it," he continued, eyes sparkling, "that if a Muggle ever caught a piece of the Bifröst, they could cross over into Asgard and become a god. Of course, we know who those 'gods' truly were — powerful wizards. The magic they left behind was so beautiful, the local wizarding community preserved it. And here it is, still enchanting travelers today."

Vizet reached out instinctively to catch one of the glowing motes, but it passed through his fingers like a dream, dissolving into the air before settling into the lake below.

A quiet thought stirred in his chest: Perhaps this is how Muggles once saw wizardkind... as beings of miracles, akin to gods.

A wizard like Dumbledore, who could blanket an entire city in fog with a flick of his wand — was he not godlike in the eyes of those who knew no magic?

Though the sunlight had vanished, the light-dust around them gave the air a hazy, dreamlike glow. It was a striking contrast — having just left the buzz and bustle of the modern city — to now find themselves drifting slowly through what felt like a myth brought to life.

The boat rocked gently, as if inviting them to linger and soak in the scene.

Vizet turned his gaze outward — and then paused.

Far in the distance, across the lake, stood a lone figure.

It was a woman. She wore solemn black robes, her pointed witch's hat tilted low to shade most of her face. From the sliver of skin visible on her cheek, Vizet could tell she was very old.

She stood perfectly still atop the lake's surface, bouquet of white lilies in hand. Head bowed slightly, she gave off the unmistakable air of mourning.

Then, slowly and deliberately, she dropped the lilies into the water.

Petal by petal, they began to sink.

Just as Vizet wondered if he might be the only one to notice her, the woman looked up.

Their eyes met through the drifting rainbow dust.

Her face, now fully visible, was deeply lined with age, but her gaze held no fear — only quiet recognition. She gave him a small nod.

A swirl of white mist bloomed suddenly at her feet, rising to envelop her figure. And in the blink of an eye, she vanished.

No ripples marked her departure. No lilies floated back to the surface. Only the last glimmers of colored light continued to fall, silently absorbed into the lake.

In another life, Vizet might have dismissed the encounter as a ghost story. An old woman standing on the lake, disappearing into mist — it was the kind of tale whispered around fireplaces.

Luna, noticing the shift in his expression, stepped closer.

"What's wrong?" she asked softly.

Vizet rubbed his eyes and stared at the place where the woman had stood. "I thought I saw someone," he murmured. "But she vanished in an instant."

Luna looked toward the empty lake, then back at him. "Maybe it was just the heat?"

She cupped her hands and began fanning him gently, as if to cool a fever. "Is this better?"

Vizet looked at her — so serious, so genuinely concerned — and couldn't help but smile.

"Yes," he said with a laugh. "Much better now."

The boat skimmed swiftly across the water and reached the shore within minutes.

The island's forest loomed thick and untamed, with hills rising and falling like waves frozen in time. Half-sunken ruins peeked between trees and stones — fragments of a forgotten age.

Even though the area was protected by powerful Muggle-repelling charms, additional enchantments had been laid—ones that created shimmering illusions over the village, further cloaking it from the outside world.

"Revelio," the wizard guide accompanying them intoned. He drew his wand and twisted it in the air like a key.

A pale white light flickered from the wand's tip and rippled outward, peeling away the layers of illusion like curtains parting on a stage.

Behind the veil was a hidden wizarding village, quaint and untouched by time. It was a place from another era — cobblestone streets and houses built from stacked stones, crooked but sturdy. The buildings reminded Vizet of the Burrow: tall, leaning, and haphazard in design, yet somehow resilient and warm.

In the center of the village stood a grand striped tent, taller than any of the houses. Red, yellow, and blue panels stretched to its peak, bold and vibrant against the muted hues of stone and moss.

An arched entrance marked the tent's front, strung with colorful pennants that flapped gently in the breeze. Magical orbs of light danced around the arch, flashing in alternating colors and casting a festive glow.

Atop the arch gleamed a sign: Fantasy Circus.

Just as Vizet took in the sight, something unexpected loomed before him — a shark's head, large and leering.

A gruff, slurred voice growled, "If you're interested in the c-circus… you must c-come and have a look!"

Vizet instinctively stepped back, his hand already moving to draw his wand.

"Ahem — sorry! I'm just a bl-blood-cursed ogre", the shark head muttered.

In the blink of an eye, the monstrous visage vanished, replaced by a short man in a painted clown costume. His face was covered in heavy greasepaint, and his gait was wobbly, as though he hadn't quite gotten used to walking on two legs.

He chuckled sheepishly and extended his hand. Resting in his palm was a small plush shark doll, stitched with comically oversized eyes.

"A token of apology…" he offered, gently tossing the toy.

The doll hovered in midair, flapping its tiny fins as it swam lazily around Vizet's head.

Hearing the man's familiar stammer and seeing the ridiculous get-up, Vizet let out a soft breath and gave an awkward smile. "I overreacted. Thank you for the gift."

"This is what I sh-should do," the clown replied, still stuttering. He then pulled a brightly colored flyer from his pocket and pressed it into Vizet's hands. "We'll be here for two more days. The final night's festival… the program will be especially exciting. And f-free of charge. We hope you'll come!"

Vizet glanced at the flyer. The enchanted images moved across the page, showing scenes of magical acrobatics and whimsical creatures. One performance in particular caught his eye: a massive shark soaring through the air inside the tent.

Clearly, the main attraction was the clown man himself — transfiguring into a great shark and performing aerial feats. It was strange… but fascinating.

In his previous life, Vizet had never seen a circus in person. And now, for the first time, he felt a flutter of curiosity. A bit of childlike wonder.

Luna and Xenophilius seemed equally enchanted. They decided to explore the village for the next two days and attend the final show.

Once the flyer was tucked away, their guide led them down a narrow cobblestone lane toward their lodgings. But as they approached the inn, Vizet froze.

Standing at the entrance to welcome them was an old woman.

It was her — the woman he had seen on the lake.

She wore the same solemn robes and tilted hat. But now, her face was gentler, and she offered him a warm, knowing smile.

"Welcome to Midgard," she said in a soft, whispery voice. "I am the owner of this hotel — Anne Saroo."

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