"You plan to drink the blood of the unicorn, don't you?" Vizet's eyes narrowed, and his silent core trembled with a ripple of unrest.
Dozens of spells flickered through his mind — ways to strike, ways to resist. Even the Purification Spell came to the fore. It might, just might, have worked here.
But he didn't seize the chance.
Voldemort still possessed Professor Quirrell. And that, in itself, was the worst possible scenario.
If the Purification Spell failed, Voldemort would be on guard. The next opportunity to act — or even to think of one — would be twice as difficult. No, worse than that.
Vizet had resources — his pendant box, the warmth in his palm that meant Fawkes was near — but Quirrell had nothing.
If things went wrong, Vizet could survive. Quirrell would not. And that was the outcome Vizet least wished for.
"You're right!" Voldemort replied without hesitation. "That was exactly my plan. I need the unicorn's blood to restore my strength."
"What about Professor Quirrell?" Vizet demanded, his tone sharp. "He'll have to drink it for you, won't he? You know what that means. He'll be cursed — cursed with something few can ever undo!"
Voldemort laughed, shrill and mocking. "You're very well-informed. So what? He brought this on himself. He should have asked you for that Soul Soothing draught of yours."
Vizet's brow furrowed."The Soul Soothing draught? You want the one I brewed?"
"Of course!" Voldemort said smoothly. "Such a unique creation… far more exquisite than unicorn blood. I would be delighted to taste it."
"So here's your choice: brew a Soul Soothing draught for me, or I'll send Quirrell back here in a few nights to drink the unicorn's blood himself."
"What do you say, my student — Vizet Lovegood?"
Vizet didn't respond right away. His eyes narrowed further.
"And the ingredients? Am I to gather them myself?" he asked coldly. "How many days do I have? And what exactly do you plan to do in the meantime?"
"Cautious to the end," Voldemort said with a snicker. "Do you think a professor would be so rude as to make his student fetch the materials?"
Quirrell's body moved stiffly, like a marionette on invisible strings. He reached into his voluminous robes and withdrew several items.
Thanks to the night vision spell, Vizet could clearly make out jars of ingredients, a shrunken cauldron, a handful of labeled bottles — everything required for potion-making.
It had all been prepared in advance.
Vizet exhaled slowly. "So this was your plan from the beginning…"
"Indeed!" Voldemort said, almost proudly. "My servant Quirinus... he's rather deficient when it comes to potions. I told him to gather the materials, but he barely knew what he was doing."
"And you — well, you've stepped into the role perfectly. An unknowing accomplice! Isn't it ironic?"
"Perhaps he suspected something. But the pain in his soul kept him obedient. Ah, yes… a curse that makes the soul tremble — would you like to learn it?"
"No," Vizet said curtly, loosening his clenched fists. "Where are we brewing this potion?"
"Right here." Voldemort's voice took on an almost casual lilt as he looked around. "I'll keep you safe for now. All you need to do is focus on the brew."
He enlarged the tiny cauldron with a flick, conjured a contained fire, and began unpacking the ingredients methodically.
With all preparations complete, Vizet could find no excuse to refuse. Instead, he laid down a single condition.
"This is a high-level potion. It must not be disturbed by outside interference. You should know that better than anyone."
"Of course." Voldemort replied silkily. "While you brew, I'll maintain the barrier."
With a jerk of Quirrell's wand, he raised a shimmering dome of magic around them — a dense grey energy field that pulsed with the scent of death.
"Excellent technique," Voldemort murmured. "Every movement precise. No wonder Severus bothers to teach you..."
"We're not so different, you and I. I, too, was once beloved by professors. They poured everything into me, shared every secret they knew..."
"You — an Obscurial — could achieve something greater. Do you want to see what real power looks like? Come with me. Leave this decaying institution behind."
"Hogwarts is rotting. The students grow weaker with every year. All thanks to the Ministry's incompetence..."
Voldemort kept speaking, his voice weaving through the air like a slow, poisonous mist — soft, relentless, and intent on seduction.
Vizet could feel the pull, the subtle tug in every syllable. But under the protection of his Soul Labyrinth, those invasive whispers slid off him like rain on glass. Language alone couldn't breach the fortress of his mind.
Voldemort seemed to sense it, too. After a moment, he muttered with dissatisfaction,"This body is still too weak… There's so little I can do."
"Could you kindly shut up?" Vizet snapped, his hands still moving in steady rhythm over the cauldron. "Potions require concentration — or do you want this to turn into poison?"
Voldemort chuckled. "Ah, your defiance confirms it — you're not affected. Your technique is steady. Ordinary distractions don't throw you off."
"But still, wouldn't it be more fun to stir in a little chaos? You weren't intrigued by what I said before? Never mind — perhaps this professor can offer something more... interesting."
Vizet didn't respond. He merely curled his lip and refocused, refusing to give Voldemort the satisfaction of knowing his curiosity.
Yet to his mild surprise, Voldemort did change tack. This time, he spoke of something that struck far too close to home.
"Vizet, my student... do you remember what I told you about freeing the Obscurus?"
His voice was low now, persuasive.
"It isn't easy — not at all. Especially when your mind is bound by the teachings of your current professors. That rigidity... it makes the process of altering magical flow through the body incredibly difficult."
"And freedom — true freedom of the Obscurus — isn't just about relaxing. No, no. It's a discipline. A mastery. It requires the integration of everything you've learned — magical theory, perception, intuition — every ounce of it."
Vizet's jaw clenched. This time, the words did get to him.
His stirring hand paused for half a beat.
He hated that Voldemort's words affected him — but they did. Because the truth in them rang too loudly to ignore.
As much as he despised the man, he couldn't deny Voldemort's formidable intellect. His reputation in the magical world was unmatched in its terror — and in its brilliance.
Even today, most witches and wizards dared not speak his name. "You-Know-Who." "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named." The superstitions ran deep, not because of tradition, but because of instinct — because speaking his name felt like inviting death.
To inspire such all-encompassing dread, Voldemort's magical prowess had to be nearly unparalleled.
And that was what made his words so dangerous.
Because every one of them mattered. Every one had the weight of real, forbidden knowledge behind it