HP: Transmigrating as an Obscurial

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Sorry for the delay, everyone. I was held up by a IRL emergency. Thank you for your patience

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An invisible force wrapped around Anthony's body, halting his fall just ten centimeters above the ground. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, his nose filled with the damp scent of soil and grass. The sheer terror of what had nearly happened sent chills through his body.

"Mr. Lovegood? Mr. Goldstein?" A stern voice cut through the stunned silence.

Professor McGonagall stood nearby, her sharp gaze shifting between the two boys. "Why… why is there another incident in flying class?"

Three Minutes Ago, McGonagall's Office

"Professor McGonagall, can we use the Quidditch pitch after tomorrow's tryouts?"

Oliver Wood, Gryffindor's Quidditch captain, strode beside McGonagall, practically bouncing with impatience. "Harry's just a first-year. He'll need more training sessions with the team to build synergy!"

McGonagall pursed her lips. "I can negotiate with Professor Snape. He requested to reserve the pitch two days ago."

Wood groaned. "What if we just split the time? Two hours less for them, two hours more for us — it's fair!"

"I'll see what I can do," McGonagall said crisply, stopping in her tracks to eye Wood suspiciously. "However, Mr. Wood, why are you not in your History of Magic class?"

Wood's forehead glistened with sweat. His eyes darted around the room, searching desperately for a distraction — anything that might steer the conversation away from his own rule-breaking.

That's when he spotted something outside the window.

"Professor! Look!" Wood blurted, pointing dramatically. "Another flying lesson incident!"

McGonagall didn't so much as blink. "Mr. Wood, I expect a direct answer."

As Gryffindor's Head of House, she knew Wood well. He was a disciplined student in all matters except when Quidditch was involved. The moment it was mentioned, he transformed into an obsessive fanatic.

Just as she was about to press the issue further, Wood gasped.

"Incredible speed! That dive — so smooth! He's flying like he was born for it! That's a Meteor, an antique from 1955! How in Merlin's —"

McGonagall frowned and turned toward the window. What she saw made her heart leap into her throat.

Vizet was soaring through the sky, streaking toward a student who was plummeting toward the ground.

Her wand was already in hand as she rushed to the window, prepared to cast a cushioning spell —but before she could, Vizet's wand ignited with silver-blue light, halting the fall at the last moment.

Both boys landed safely.

McGonagall exhaled slowly, then turned on her heel and strode out of her office, her robes billowing behind her.

Back on the Field

"Merlin's beard!" Madam Hooch arrived moments later, breathless and visibly shaken. "Are you two alright? Any broken bones? I'll take you to Madam Pomfrey immediately!"

Anthony was still sprawled on the grass, blinking at the sky as if he couldn't quite believe he was still alive. "That was… terrifying — but also amazing! I really thought I was going to die!"

"Stop talking!" Madam Hooch clutched at her chest. "Two accidents in two days — I swear, Professor Trelawney must be right! I am cursed with bad luck!"

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Professor Trelawney? Really, Madam Hooch, this was just an accident.

"Wood, meanwhile, had grabbed the broken broomstick, inspecting it with a critical eye. "These things are ancient! The branches are so worn they're practically falling apart. Even if this hadn't happened today, something else would have eventually. Madam Hooch, these brooms need replacing — immediately!"

McGonagall adjusted her glasses and nodded. "You're right. I'll submit a request for new brooms." Then, turning sharply, she added, "Now, Wood, back to class!"

Wood hesitated, clutching the broken broomstick like it was some rare artifact. His eyes darted to Vizet, then back to McGonagall, a spark of inspiration lighting up his face.

"Professor," he said urgently, "Can Vizet join the Gryffindor Quidditch team?"

McGonagall's brows shot up.

Wood pressed on, undeterred. "I haven't even seen Harry fly properly yet, but I just saw Vizet in action! If both of them join Gryffindor's team —"

A wild grin spread across his face. "We'll definitely win the championship this year! If we don't, I'll stand on my head and eat spaghetti!"

McGonagall sighed heavily. "Mr. Wood, get back to class before I start deducting points!"

As Wood finally sprinted off, McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose. "I would love to have Vizet on the team… but unfortunately, he's in Ravenclaw."

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Late Night, Hogwarts Headmaster's Office

Dumbledore sat comfortably behind his desk, flipping through the latest issue of Transfiguration Today, his half-moon spectacles perched low on his nose. His expression was calm, almost amused, as he turned a page.

"It's been a week," he mused, without looking up. "What do you think?"

Across the room, Snape paced in slow, deliberate strides, his black robes billowing slightly with every turn. His voice, like his footsteps, dragged through the dimly lit office.

"Poor," he said curtly. "Very poor. Just as mediocre and arrogant as his father."

Dumbledore turned another page. "Ah."

Snape's lip curled, and he stopped pacing for a brief moment, as if gathering more venom. "He disregards discipline, revels in attention, and — just like his father — thinks he's above the rules. It's pathetic."

Dumbledore finally looked up, his blue eyes twinkling with something unreadable. "Severus, you may only be seeing what you want to see."

Snape's jaw tightened, but Dumbledore continued before he could protest.

"Other professors say he is humble and easygoing, naturally talented, and, above all, a rather likable child."

Snape scoffed, his expression unreadable. "And?"

Dumbledore carefully set the Transfiguration Today aside and folded his hands. "What about the other boy?"

Snape stiffened.

"There was once another student," Dumbledore continued, his voice softer, yet pointed. "A boy of extraordinary ability. Exceptionally intelligent. Handsome. Highly favored by his professors — especially Horace, who welcomed him into the Slug Club without hesitation."

A heavy silence settled in the office.

Dumbledore's voice lowered. "And if I recall correctly, you once awarded Ravenclaw five points… an event nearly as rare as gaining entry into Slughorn's exclusive circle."

Snape's pale face darkened, his expression unreadable, but his fingers twitched slightly at his sides.

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair. "So, Severus," he asked, his voice laced with knowing curiosity, "what do you think of him?"

Snape's jaw clenched. His black eyes flickered with something unreadable — anger, perhaps, or something deeper. His voice, when he finally spoke, was lower, rougher.

"If you already see the resemblance," he said, each word laced with bitter finality, "then you don't need to ask me, Headmaster."

His voice dropped to a near whisper.

"Just strangle him in the cradle and be done with it."

A flicker of something — sadness? Regret? — crossed Dumbledore's face. But he said nothing.

The office was silent, save for the slow, rhythmic ticking of the silver instruments on the desk.