HP: Transmigrating as an Obscurial

Ron and Harry had finally finished their homework — though not without some struggle and Vizet's guidance. As he watched the two Gryffindors leave the library, Vizet leaned back in his chair, deep in thought.

No wonder Hagrid had been so nervous when mentioning Fluffy before.

A three-headed dog guarding a trapdoor? And the same day he and Hagrid had visited Gringotts, there had been a break-in? The connection was obvious, but Vizet merely chuckled to himself.

Why bother thinking so much?

He had no interest in getting involved in whatever that was.

Before he could return to his studies, an all-too-familiar voice interrupted him.

"Did you let Harry and Ron copy your homework? That's wrong! They'll definitely lose points again!"

Hermione stood in front of him, her arms wrapped around a thick book, her brows furrowed with frustration.

Vizet looked up from Theory of Metamorphosis and Transformation, raising an eyebrow.

"What are you talking about?"

"I just saw them leaving!" Hermione pointed toward the library entrance, as if Ron and Harry's retreating figures were still visible. "They had their homework with them! They must have borrowed yours!"

Vizet spread his hands. "So, where's my homework?"

Hermione blinked, looking down at his desk. There was no parchment, no ink-stained notes — just the open textbook and his quill resting idly beside it.

Her ears turned red as she stammered, "I — I'm sorry... I didn't know —"

Vizet remained calm. "They finished it themselves. I only answered their questions. That's all."

Hermione hesitated, clearly thrown off by his explanation.

"But that's what I told them too!" she said, frustrated. "I told them that if they copied, Professor Snape would definitely notice, and we'd lose points!"

"And what else did you say?" Vizet asked, tilting his head slightly.

"I told them to take better notes in class," she huffed. "That it was their fault for not paying attention. If they had written things down properly, they wouldn't need help now!"

A small smile tugged at the corner of Vizet's lips. "And do you think they liked hearing that?"

Hermione's mouth opened, then closed.

"Why wouldn't they?" she finally asked, though her voice had lost some of its earlier certainty. "I was just trying to help —"

Vizet leaned forward slightly. "You remind me of something," he said thoughtfully. "Last time in Transfiguration, when you turned a match into a needle... you were frustrated because it wasn't perfect, right?"

Hermione stiffened.

"You want to master things immediately. You think you should be able to perform magic as quickly and effortlessly as me. But do you really believe you have that ability yet?"

Her breath hitched. "You —"

Vizet held up a hand, stopping her before she could protest.

"I'm just repeating your own words," he said evenly. "What you said to Ron and Harry? It sounded a lot like this, didn't it?"

Hermione's expression shifted from anger to realization.

"No one likes to be preached at," he continued. "Least of all when they feel like they're being talked down to, having their mistakes pointed out and their abilities dismissed. Even if you mean well, if you want them to listen, criticism alone won't work."

Hermione's shoulders slumped, her eyes glistening as if she had just begun to understand something she hadn't seen before.

Vizet glanced at the clock. "Anyway, I should get going." He picked up his book and notes, tucking them under his arm. "Enjoy your reading."

Without waiting for a response, he strode past her and out of the library.

With the weekend ahead of him, he had more important things to do — like exploring the vast corridors of Hogwarts and gathering more leyline magic.

Hermione, still rooted in place, watched him go.

For the first time in a long while, she wasn't quite sure what to say.

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Defense Against the Dark Arts was one of the most important courses at Hogwarts. It covered everything from dark creatures to jinxes, poisons, and curses — teaching students how to recognize, counter, and defend against them.

It was also one of the strangest subjects in the school's history.

For nearly half a century, no professor had lasted more than a year in the position. Even the logical-minded Ravenclaws had a saying about it:

"I'm afraid the course itself is cursed!"

Finding a new professor every year had become one of Dumbledore's ongoing challenges, leading to wildly inconsistent teaching quality.

This year's professor, Quirinus Quirrell, was already considered one of the weaker ones.

For one, there was his bizarre appearance — constantly wrapped in a purple turban that, according to rumor, reeked of garlic. Some students swore they could smell it even from the back row.

Then there was his teaching style. He stammered his way through the textbook, struggling to explain even the simplest concepts. There was little to no practical application, leaving students disengaged.

The class had become infamous as "a second History of Magic," with many using the time to catch up on sleep.

Today's lesson was no exception.

"The Sn-Snot Curse..." Quirrell stuttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "This is... an a-ancient magic..."

A few students blinked drowsily.

"Wizards... a-after the Wizarding World W-War... the improved Sn-Snot Curse was re-reintroduced... back into textbooks!"

A few heads snapped up, but only momentarily.

The Snot Curse? A spell to make someone's nose run?

For something categorized as a curse, it sounded ridiculously harmless.

Around the room, students were already losing interest. Even the usually diligent Ravenclaws had given up and were scribbling away at last night's Potions homework.

Vizet, however, was fully engaged. He had long mastered the ability to filter through poorly delivered lessons, extracting valuable information like piecing together a puzzle.

And from what he had gathered, this spell wasn't as simple as it seemed.

"Professor Quirrell," Vizet suddenly raised his hand, his voice cutting through the sleepy silence. "Do you understand the original form of this spell?"

Heads jerked up, students glancing around in confusion, trying to figure out who had spoken.

Quirrell himself looked momentarily startled, as if waking from a trance. "O-oh... Mr. Lovegood... wh-why do you ask that?"

Vizet's eyes remained sharp. "Because it's a curse," he stated simply. "Curses usually cause harm beyond mild inconveniences. It seems unlikely that its only effect is a runny nose."

A flicker of something passed through Quirrell's eyes — surprise? Approval? It was gone before Vizet could decipher it.

"Heh... you l-listen to the lessons v-very seriously!" Quirrell chuckled, his nervous laughter filling the classroom.

Around them, students exchanged glances, suddenly more interested in what was being said.

Quirrell nodded slightly, as if deciding to reward Vizet's curiosity.

"The reason this spell is... ancient... is b-because it was inspired by d-disease..." he explained, his voice trembling as usual. "By pl-plagues!"

The moment the word plague was spoken, the mood in the room shifted.

The drowsy atmosphere dissipated.

Plagues.

That wasn't just some harmless jinx.

"You mean..." someone muttered, the realization dawning.

Quirrell nodded. "Yes... in its original form... the Snot Curse wasn't a joke... It was lethal."

The room fell completely silent.

"It was a murderous curse," Quirrell continued, his voice trembling, but no longer just from nervousness. "A magic designed... to bring death through disease..."

Students straightened in their seats, now fully awake.

A curse capable of killing? The Snot Curse didn't sound so ridiculous anymore.