Spring had quietly settled over the Scottish Highlands. As warmth crept back into the stones of the castle, blooming flowers swayed in the soft breeze, and Hogwarts entered its examination season.
Vizet's days remained full and focused. He kept up with his studies, and his research into silent spellcasting continued to advance steadily.
But much had happened in that time.
Harry, Hermione, Ron, Neville, and even Draco had been caught by Filch wandering the halls at night. Each lost fifty points for their house — a punishment that sent shockwaves through the student body.
When Vizet heard the news, he was rattled.
Every Friday night, he too returned to Hogwarts well past curfew, a technical violation of the rules.
Perhaps thanks to Dumbledore's quiet instructions, Filch had never stopped or questioned him. But still, the incident served as a stark warning. From that point on, Vizet became more careful, watching every shadow and listening to every footstep on his late-night walks.
Though he had no quarrel with Filch, Fred and George had made it clear: the caretaker was no one to underestimate.
That evening, Vizet moved cautiously through a secluded corridor, his steps echoing softly in the quiet. His thoughts were occupied by the Soul Labyrinth — each fond memory he had collected now shining within it like stars. They radiated a powerful, positive magic.
Aberforth had said that completing such a feat in just a few months was near miraculous.
Then came the footsteps.
Soft at first. But growing closer.
Vizet froze.
Could it be Filch?
He quickened his pace, hoping to leave unnoticed. But before he had gone more than a few steps, a low, raspy voice rolled through the dark like a cold wind.
"Quirinus, don't you have a word for your dear student?"
Vizet's breath caught.
Quirrell? But… whose voice was that?
A strangled sound followed — half a groan, half a gasp — and then Quirrell staggered into view, clutching at the wall for support.
His skin was deathly pale. He wore an oversized cloak that seemed to conceal something unnatural.
"Professor Quirrell, you…" Vizet began, his tone tight with worry.
"Hahahahaha!"
The cruel, high-pitched laughter echoed through the corridor.
"Vizet Lovegood," the voice sneered, "I am your real professor. Understand?"
Vizet didn't move. His eyes narrowed, his expression calm despite the alarm rising in his chest.
He already had a suspicion.
"I've learned a great deal from Professor Quirrell," he said quietly. "He is my professor."
"Ahh, how moving!" the voice jeered. "I'm choking on the sentiment!"
A sickly black-green light flickered over Quirrell's face. His body jerked violently, and he collapsed to the floor, twitching.
Vizet took a step forward, alarmed. "What are you doing?!"
"Nothing."
But the cursed light didn't stop.
"I know you, Vizet Lovegood. Exceptionally gifted. Excelling in every subject. Admired by your professors…" the voice oozed with mocking admiration. "We're the same, you and I."
Vizet's fists clenched at his sides, but his voice remained composed."Someone who won't even give his name isn't like me at all."
That drew an amused, almost maniacal laugh.
"You dare not say my name. That's the truth, isn't it?"
Vizet took a steady breath.
"Voldemort, isn't it?"
Silence followed.
Then the voice hissed with pleasure. "You dare speak it. Impressive. But you're still a student… unripe… moldable."
The black-green glow faded, and Quirrell slumped motionless on the ground.
Vizet rushed to him, helping him upright. "Professor Quirrell, can you hear me?"
"Thank you for lifting up my servant," the voice said coldly.
Though Quirrell's body remained limp, he was held upright — sustained by some dark enchantment. His eyes were dull, unfocused, his limbs moving not by will but by command.
"It seems," Voldemort continued, "my servant is… indisposed. But I have an operation tonight, and I need help. Why don't you take his place?"
Vizet looked up slowly.
His fingers brushed against the pendant around his neck — it was hot to the touch.
At the same moment, a gentle warmth blossomed in his palm, the mark of Fawkes' presence. Reassurance. Protection.
That meant Dumbledore might be watching, too.
He straightened.
"And if I refuse?"
"You're clever enough to know the answer," Voldemort said smoothly.
Vizet's eyes flicked to the dark tendrils still curling faintly around Quirrell's neck. A silent threat.
"I see."
"Very clever." Voldemort chuckled. "Now — be a good student and lead the way. To the Forbidden Forest."
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Vizet pursed his lips and walked silently, keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings.
The castle grounds felt unusually quiet tonight — no wind, no sounds, not even a creaking door or a howling ghost. And oddly, Filch, who normally prowled these paths at night, was nowhere in sight.
As they reached the grassy slope leading down from the castle, Vizet finally spotted him.
Filch was leading a small group of students. Harry, Ron, and Neville were among them. Five in all, trudging reluctantly behind the caretaker's lantern.
Filch's path pointed unmistakably toward the Forbidden Forest.
A punishment?
Vizet remembered what Hannah had told him earlier that week: the five of them had been caught sneaking out at night and were being disciplined with a detention in the Forest.
Just as he pieced that together, Voldemort's voice slid back into his mind — dry and slow, like smoke curling into his ears.
"What's the matter, Vizet Lovegood? Don't like that foul old janitor? Or those five little brats?"
The voice grew quieter, more insidious.
"Follow your instincts. Kill them. You've learned so much black magic… surely there's a curse that fits the job. Try one out. Practice what you've studied."
"The Sickness Curse, perhaps. Turn them into nourishment for the lawn. Imagine it... fertilizing the grounds with their bodies. A poetic contribution to Hogwarts, wouldn't you say?"
Vizet shuddered slightly. It wasn't just words.
He could feel something trying to reach into him — through the voice, into his mind, clawing for a foothold in his soul.
But the Soul Labyrinth stood firm.
The darkness splintered and scattered, unable to take root.
Vizet said nothing. He simply walked faster, heading straight for the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
From behind, he could faintly hear Harry and Ron calling his name — but he didn't turn around.
To avoid attention and potential interference, Vizet veered away from Hagrid's hut, circling around to approach the Forest from its far side.
"You really are something, Vizet Lovegood," Voldemort mused, his tone curling into amusement. "So clever, even avoiding that lumbering oaf deliberately!"
"You don't have to keep repressing yourself, you know…" the voice pressed on. "Let your true nature out. Let the darkness breathe. Repression only dulls magic — it doesn't make you stronger."
"You understand, don't you?"
"I'm afraid I don't," Vizet said flatly.
Voldemort chuckled.
"You're an Obscurus. Born from suppression. That's your whole tragedy."
His voice oozed conviction, as if lecturing a student.
"But Hogwarts is here to free you. To help you express your magic — not to bind it. To give you control and precision so that your power can be wielded, not buried."
"That's the only way forward. The only way you'll ever truly belong."