HP: Transmigrating as an Obscurial

"Th-the earliest form of the S-Snot Curse was... quite complex. A layered, c-compound curse capable of inducing severe d-diarrhea, prolonged high f-fever, and even skin ulcers."

Quirrell's stammering made it difficult to follow, and despite the initial excitement of learning about a potentially deadly curse, most students quickly lost interest. Within minutes, heads drooped onto desks, and quiet snores filled the classroom.

Vizet, however, remained focused, scribbling notes furiously. Something about this spell intrigued him. Unlike the dull, oversimplified hexes in the textbooks, this curse seemed to have a history, a hidden depth waiting to be uncovered.

When the bell rang, signaling the end of class, Quirrell hesitated for a moment before approaching Vizet, his voice barely above a whisper.

"H-how was it? C-could you understand everything?"

Vizet closed his notebook with a satisfied nod. "It was fascinating! This is the first time I've encountered a curse with such a complex evolution. Do other spells have similar histories?"

Quirrell's pale lips curled into a rare, hesitant smile. "You make a-a very k-keen observation. No wonder P-Professor Flitwick always speaks highly of y-you."

His voice grew steadier, more certain, as he leaned in slightly. "If y-you're interested... come to my office at noon. I can r-recommend some advanced books on the subject."

Vizet tilted his head, intrigued. "I'd like that. I appreciate the opportunity, Professor. I'll try not to disturb your lunch break."

Quirrell's fingers twitched, gripping the edge of his robe. "No... no trouble at all!" His forced smile widened. "I-it's rare to have such a d-dedicated student..."

He turned away quickly, his steps heavy as he made his way back to his office.

Once inside, he shut the door behind him, pressing his back against the wood. His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps.

Why did I do that...?

His hands trembled. The boy was bright — too bright. He reminded him of himself in his Ravenclaw days, before...

Quirrell squeezed his eyes shut. "I had no choice," he whispered. "It's the master's order..."

A sharp, burning pain shot through his skull, forcing a gasp from his throat. He clutched at his turban-covered head, his fingers trembling as he obeyed the silent summons.

Slowly, he moved to the center of the office and reached up with shaking hands, unwrapping the purple cloth coiled around his head.

In the mirror before him, another face stared back.

A terrible, malformed visage — skeletal, pale as ash, with slitted nostrils where a nose should have been. A pair of malevolent red eyes burned with an eerie glow.

Voldemort.

A voice like a serpent's hissed from the mirror's reflection. "Quirinus... I trust you bring me good news?"

Quirrell shuddered, lowering his head in submission. "M-master... I have done as you asked. I have lured one of the boys into my office."

The crimson eyes gleamed. "Harry Potter?"

Quirrell swallowed hard. "N-no, Master. The other one. Vizet Lovegood."

For a moment, Voldemort was silent. Then, a soft, sinister chuckle escaped him.

"Not Potter... but the other one." His voice turned contemplative. "Yes. I suspected there was something different about that boy. You've done well, Quirinus."

Quirrell let out a shuddering breath of relief.

"Tell me," Voldemort continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. "How did you lure him in?"

"I taught the history of the Snot Curse," Quirrell explained hastily. "He questioned its true power, its origins as a deadly curse. His intuition is... sharp."

Voldemort sneered. "Of course it is. Those fools watered down the curse, disguising it behind a ridiculous name. But its original form... ah, yes. The Chronic Sickness Curse."

Quirrell hesitated. "Master, forgive me, but... I still do not understand. Why him? Why focus on Vizet when our target is Harry Potter?"

Voldemort's expression darkened instantly.

"Do not question me, Quirinus."

A searing pain ripped through Quirrell's skull. He collapsed to his knees with a strangled gasp, clutching his head as his body convulsed.

"M-master... I-I'm sorry!" He whimpered, his breath shallow.

Voldemort's voice was a slow, insidious whisper. "You will do as I say. You will teach him the Chronic Sickness Curse. Slowly. Carefully. Let him believe it is simply another lesson, another piece of knowledge to devour."

Quirrell's vision blurred. His limbs felt like lead. "A-as you command, Master..."

"Good." Voldemort's reflection smirked. "I will grant you the knowledge you require. Surrender to me, Quirinus."

Quirrell barely had time to register the words before an overwhelming force surged into his mind. The pain was unlike anything he had ever known — searing, relentless. He gasped once, then collapsed into his chair, unconscious.

Voldemort watched, his reflection flickering ominously in the dim light.

"The soul's resistance weakens." A slow, cruel smile stretched across his face. "He won't last much longer."

His crimson eyes gleamed as they shifted, staring into the void beyond the mirror.

"Obscurus..."

A slow hiss escaped him, his fingers twitching in anticipation.

"Obscurials are rare now... but this boy, this Lovegood child... he carries the unparallel potential of dark chaotic power of one within him."

A pause.

"If Quirrell holds out long enough... I will carve the boy into a suitable host..."

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At noon, Vizet stood outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts office and knocked lightly.

"Come in," came the muffled response.

Pushing the door open, Vizet stepped inside. The office, situated on the second floor, had decent lighting, yet the air felt cold, sterile — like a space untouched by warmth.

There wasn't much furniture: a desk covered with parchment, a few bookshelves with scattered, disorganized volumes, and an iron cage draped with linen sitting ominously in the corner. The usual scent of garlic hung in the air, but something else lingered beneath it — a strange, sharp, almost metallic tang.

"Mr. Lovegood," Quirrell called, his voice hoarse. "Sit down. The lesson will begin soon."

Vizet took a closer look at his professor.

Quirrell looked worse than he had in the morning. His skin, already pale, now resembled parchment stretched too thin over his bones. His lips had lost all color, and faint tremors ran through his fingers. He seemed drained — like someone who had just survived a long, brutal illness.

"Professor Quirrell, are you feeling alright?" Vizet asked. His tone was calm, but his eyes held a glint of curiosity. "Perhaps you should rest? I can come another time."

Quirrell straightened abruptly, shaking his head. "N-no need!" His hand flicked toward the air, and with a sharp motion, a chair materialized behind Vizet.

"Sit."

Vizet did as instructed, though he studied Quirrell carefully.

"I told you before," Quirrell continued, his voice steadier now, "that during the summer, I encountered a group of vampires and witches. They cursed me. I still suffer from... aftereffects."

He waved a trembling hand, dismissing any further concern. "Crowded spaces... remind me of that night. The memories trigger my stutter. But when it's just one person, I feel much better."

Vizet nodded politely. "It sounds like a terrible curse, Professor. You should take care of yourself."

Something flickered across Quirrell's face. A tremor ran through him, and for a brief moment, his lips quivered.

"You're the... first student to ever say that," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Vizet offered a small, unreadable smile and pulled out his notebook and quill, poised to take notes.

Quirrell cleared his throat and straightened. When he spoke again, his voice was oddly smooth — no stutter, no hesitation.

"This morning, you expressed interest in compound magic."

"Yes." Vizet's quill hovered over the parchment, ready to write. "Actually, I'm interested in anything related to magic."

"As a Ravenclaw, you should be," Quirrell said, forcing what might have been an attempt at a smile. The expression was stiff, unnatural — like a man who had forgotten how to smile altogether.

"To help you understand compound magic, I'll use practical examples — like the one that we discussed earlier, the Chronic Sickness Curse."

Vizet's eyes sharpened with curiosity. "The Chronic Sickness Curse?"

Quirrell nodded. "Yes. That is its true name. It was only called the 'Snot Curse' after its power was deliberately weakened."