Vizet was sorely tempted to pull out his notebook and scribble down every word Voldemort had said. Even if half of it was tainted or misleading, he could bring the information back to Hogwarts and consult the professors — carefully strip away the traps and isolate the truths.
"Vizet… my student!" Voldemort's voice curled with pride. "You're a Ravenclaw to the core. Are you afraid you'll forget what I told you?"
"Have you ever considered leaving Hogwarts with me? I could teach you far more. You're an Obscurial, blessed with such rare magic. Don't let that talent rot in a castle full of limitations."
"Leave Hogwarts?" Vizet exhaled slowly, his eyes sharp and resolute. "I'd rather stay."
He scooped the finished potion from the cauldron into a few vials with steady hands. "The soul soothing draught is complete."
He handed the vails to Voldemort.
"What a pity..." Voldemort sighed, dissolving the protective energy field with a flick of his hand. "Truly, I wavered for a moment. Your gifts deserve so much more. It's a shame... such a waste..."
He didn't finish.
A low rustling began in the distance. The trees swayed in unnatural sync, their tall trunks shivering as if stirred by some deep tremor.
"Hmm..." Voldemort's eyes gleamed faintly through Quirrell's face. "I never underestimated your timing. The potion was brewed to the second. Pity, pity..."
The rustling grew sharper, more urgent — then a shrill whistle split the night.
A black shadow hurtled between the trees, crashing into the forest floor with a bone-snapping thud. Branches, brittle bones, and dead leaves exploded outward in a cloud of dust and rot.
Then, with another high-pitched whistle, the shadow burst from the smoke.
Eight eyes blinked in unison, each one gleaming with a fierce, burning malice.
With the night vision spell still active, Vizet got a full view — and his stomach turned.
An Acromantula.
It stood nearly a meter tall, thick with wiry black bristles that shimmered like oil under moonlight. Its pincers snapped open and closed, the sound sharp as shears: click-click-click.
Vizet reacted at once. He activated the Guardian Meditation Technique, sharpening his perception to its peak, and retreated several steps while jabbing his wand forward.
"Botanomorphis!"
The swirling dust shot upward and twisted mid-air, forming coiling vines. They wove together rapidly, knitting a thick net that arced through the air — and slammed into the spider's torso, wrapping it in a tangle of magic-wrought foliage.
As he held the spell, Voldemort's voice rang out, slow and amused. "Only a small one. Looks like they don't recognize your scent yet. Shame, really."
He raised Quirrell's wand-hand lazily — then let it fall. "Tsk… Can't cheer for this next performance. This body has limits, after all. So — Vizet, think of this as a professor's little test."
"Pass it, and I'll tell you what the real final exam will be next week..."
With that, Voldemort turned and vanished into the shadows, leaving Vizet to face the Acromantula — alone.
Vizet couldn't tell whether Voldemort was truly gone or simply lurking, watching from the shadows.
Either way, he had no reason to act impulsively.
He still didn't fully understand how others might perceive the use of primordial magic. And until he did, it was wiser to be on the side of restraint. Caution, after all, was what kept "brilliant" from becoming "suspicious."
So he avoided primordial magic altogether, relying instead on Transfiguration to keep the Acromantula in check.
From Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, he remembered that a fully grown Acromantula could reach the height of a carriage — some even taller, up to two or three meters.
The one before him barely stood a meter tall. Not yet fully grown, then. But that didn't make it any less dangerous. It still bore the Ministry's XXXXX classification for a reason.
Its pincers snapped with lethal precision, venom glistening on the tips. It tore through the conjured vines in a heartbeat and landed heavily in front of Vizet.
The surrounding forest floor was a mat of dry leaves and brittle underbrush — too volatile for fire spells. A single flame would ignite a blaze and draw far too much attention.
Vizet instead fired a sharp Severing Charm, then quickly followed with a Knockback Jinx to put distance between himself and the charging creature.
As he dodged a jet of silk spat from the Acromantula's spinnerets, he was already recalibrating.
The carapace resisted his cutting spell. Deep lacerations that would normally cleave wood or even stone left only shallow grooves on the Acromantula's armored hide.
That confirmed it: simple spells wouldn't suffice.
His mind raced through alternatives. Black magic — it was the only viable option left.
Even if basic dark spells failed, he could amplify them with the Obscurus. Its raw force could easily overpower the creature's natural defenses.
But unleashing the Obscurus was no light matter.
That creeping wave of malevolent thought — the slow, oily surge of darkness clouding the mind — was more than unpleasant. It was dangerous.
The last time he'd used the Sickness Curse at full strength, he'd been inside Hogwarts, flanked by Fred and George. Even then, it had been a risk.
This was different.
The Forbidden Forest teemed with unknown threats. If he allowed the evil thoughts to overwhelm him just to kill a juvenile Acromantula... it would mean Voldemort's provocation had worked.
If I cast the Sickness Curse at full force, the Acromantula dies — but I open myself to corruption.
What if I restrain it first... and control the curse's power? Adjust the flow. Target its weak spot.
That might work.
Thanks to Quirrell's guidance, Vizet had a refined understanding of the Sickness Curse. He took a steady breath and recalled Voldemort's theories — ones he loathed but couldn't deny were useful — and tried allowing the magic to flow more naturally.
Not forced. Not reckless. Precise.
He conjured more vines, binding the Acromantula once again, while scanning its body for a vulnerable point.
For most creatures, the eyes were an obvious target.
Eight eyes gave him eight chances.
Even if he missed the eyes, a strike to the head could be nearly as effective.
He ran through the creature's previous movements in his mind, mentally rehearsing what would happen next, calculating distances, reactions.
The Acromantula shrieked and tore through the vines once more, all eight legs clawing through the brush as it leapt forward —
— and in the blink of an eye, it was upon him.