HP: Transmigrating as an Obscurial

"Accio Transfiguration textbook!"

As Vizet left Quirrell's office, he drew his wand and summoned the hand-copied edition of A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration from his dormitory, watching as the book soared towards him from across the castle.

There was no denying that the Summoning Charm was an incredibly useful piece of magic.

Once mastered, it could retrieve lost items, summon books from across the room — or, in his case, fetch textbooks left behind in his dormitory with remarkable convenience.

"Magic really is brilliant." Vizet murmured to himself in admiration, tucking the book under his arm as he turned towards the Transfiguration classroom.

But before he could take more than a few steps, a low, familiar voice called his name.

"Vizet."

He turned, startled, as Professor Snape emerged from the shadows, his black robes billowing slightly with the movement. His expression was unreadable — cold, as always.

"Professor Snape?" Vizet blinked in surprise. "Good afternoon."

Snape gave a slow nod, his dark eyes unreadable. "Yes." His tone was quiet but firm. "Come with me."

Without another word, he turned and walked down the corridor, his long strides making it clear that Vizet was expected to follow without question.

The two of them moved through the winding passages of the castle until Snape led him into a secluded alcove, well away from passing students. He turned to face Vizet, fixing him with a piercing gaze.

"Why were you in Quirrell's office?"

Vizet hesitated only for a moment before answering honestly. "I'm interested in composite magic. Professor Quirrell wanted to recommend some books, so I went to see him."

Yet even as he spoke, he felt a peculiar discomfort under Snape's gaze — almost as if something unseen was pressing against his thoughts, peeling through them like pages of a book.

Legilimency.

The realization struck him instantly, and his instincts kicked in. Without thinking, he engaged the Guardian Meditation Method — a technique he had practiced to clear his mind and sharpen his focus. The oppressive sensation vanished in an instant, leaving him feeling steady and clear-headed once more.

Snape's expression shifted almost imperceptibly, his gaze narrowing slightly.

"Oh?" He murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. His lips curled faintly, though whether in amusement or approval, Vizet couldn't tell. "So he has begun. Not a bad attempt, but still easy to read."

"Professor?" Vizet asked, perplexed. "What do you mean?"

Snape ignored the question. Instead, he pressed on, his voice still measured. "What did you learn, spending your afternoon with him?"

"The basic theory of composite magic," Vizet replied. "And an introduction to a few jinxes and poisonous spells."

As he spoke, he retrieved the note Quirrell had given him and held it up. "Professor Quirrell also recommended these books to me."

Snape's gaze flickered over the list, but if he had any thoughts on it, he kept them to himself. Instead, his next question was entirely unexpected.

"And what do you think of Quirrell?"

Vizet hesitated. "He's... a good professor. He explains things well, and I learned a great deal from him."

Snape's lip curled ever so slightly. "That is not what I asked." His voice was silk-smooth, yet unmistakably edged with impatience. "Have you noticed anything... unusual about him? Anything that seemed off?"

Vizet took a step back, instinctively cautious. "I don't believe it's my place to criticize a professor, sir."

Snape let out a short, cold laugh. "Ah, what a well-mannered Ravenclaw. Gryffindors don't share your restraint. Two points from Gryffindor."

Vizet blinked. "But I'm not in Gryffindor."

"Yes, well, they tend to need humbling," Snape said dismissively.

Vizet couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for his red-and-gold-clad classmates. Gryffindor's house points had been steadily vanishing since the start of term; they were already trailing behind the other houses by a significant margin.

Ravenclaw and Slytherin, on the other hand, were neck and neck. Their respective hourglasses in the Great Hall glowed with nearly identical amounts of gemstones, making it difficult to tell which house was in the lead.

Snape, apparently finished with his amusement, returned to his original line of questioning.

"Once again, I ask — did anything seem off about Quirrell?" His black eyes bore into Vizet's. "Anything at all?"

Vizet exhaled, finally relenting. "His office smelled strange — there was an odd fishy scent mixed with garlic. And even though sunlight was coming in through the windows, the room felt... cold."

Snape studied him for a long moment before giving a slight nod. "Is that all?"

"That's all," Vizet confirmed.

"I see." Snape's gaze flickered for an instant — disappointment? Or perhaps relief? It was impossible to tell.

"And what did he teach you?"

"The Chronic Sickness Curse," Vizet answered readily. "The full version of the Snot Curse. He explained how it functions as proper dark magic."

Snape's expression darkened. "Are you interested in the Dark Arts, Vizet?"

The temperature in the alcove seemed to drop.

Vizet didn't flinch. "I don't know enough to say whether I'm interested or not. But I don't reject learning about it."

Snape's eyes gleamed with something unreadable. "Go on."

"To me, magic is like a knife," Vizet said slowly. "A knife can be a murder weapon, or it can be a surgeon's scalpel. It's not the tool that matters — it's the intent of the one who wields it."

There was a beat of silence. Then, to Vizet's great surprise, Snape gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod.

"Spoken like a Ravenclaw," he remarked coolly. "Well-rehearsed, articulate... and ever so diplomatic."

Then, quite suddenly, he straightened. "Very well, then. Show me."

Vizet blinked. "Show you?"

"Demonstrate the curse."

Vizet hesitated. "I... haven't actually learned how to cast it yet. He's still teaching me the theory — introducing me to the jinxes and poisons that form its foundation."

"Is that so?" Snape's lips curled slightly. "And he hasn't taught you the incantation yet?"

"No," Vizet confirmed. "He also introduced me to the Unlocking Charm, saying composite magic was developed to counteract it."

"How typical of him," Snape muttered, almost to himself. "Dark magic against dark magic — such reckless instability."

Vizet caught onto the implication at once. "But potions can counter dark magic, can't they?"

Snape's lips twitched ever so slightly. "You're sharper than he is."

Then, without warning, he turned on his heel. "When did Quirrell want you to go find him again?"

"Saturday at two o'clock in the afternoon."

"Then you will report to my office at two o'clock on Sunday."

Vizet blinked. "I — wait, what?"

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Unless, of course, you'd rather decline?"

"No! No, I'd love to!" Vizet said quickly.

"Good." Snape smirked faintly. "Then prepare yourself — I will not tolerate incompetence."

Vizet only grinned. "I'll do my best."

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After sending Vizet on his way, Snape wasted no time. His robes billowed behind him as he strode purposefully towards the headmaster's office.

The stone gargoyle moved aside at his approach, and the spiral staircase carried him upwards until he stepped into the warmly lit chamber.

Dumbledore sat behind his great, claw-footed desk, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. His piercing blue eyes, sharp as ever, flickered with quiet concern as he greeted Snape with a single, measured question.

"Is he alright?"

Snape's expression remained unreadable. "Vizet is apparently so well-liked that even Quirrell is willing to teach him everything he knows."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with something between curiosity and amusement. "Is that so?" he mused. "And what, exactly, has he been taught?"

"The Chronic Sickness Curse," Snape said flatly. "A rather dark piece of magic. Sufficiently wicked."

Dumbledore let out a contemplative hum, drumming his fingers lightly against the armrest of his chair. "So... Quirrell did not simply rush him into casting? Instead, he's taking the simpler, steadier route — teaching him step by step?"

"Yes," Snape confirmed. "Your anxieties were unfounded."

Dumbledore leaned back slightly, his expression easing with relief. "Then Quirrell is not as reckless as I feared. That is... reassuring."

There was a beat of silence before the headmaster tilted his head, eyes twinkling once more. "And you, Severus? I take it you have decided to —"

Snape cut him off with an expression of supreme reluctance.

"I have sacrificed my precious time and told him to report to me on Sunday afternoon," he muttered darkly. "But do not mistake me — I do not intend to coddle him as you do. I will reclaim every minute of my lost time from him."

Dumbledore chuckled, his tone light. "Understood." His face softened. "I am pleased that you have agreed to this, Severus. Truly."

Snape curled his lip, giving an exaggerated sigh of exasperation. "Yes, yes. I understand."

But Dumbledore only smiled.