Vizet's eyes shone with sudden clarity as vines erupted from the leaf-strewn forest floor, lashing out to entangle the Acromantula once again.
But the spider had already seen through this tactic. Its eight eyes narrowed with something resembling disdain, and with a slow, deliberate motion, it began to tear the vines apart.
Then, without warning, the creature froze.
A pulse of danger registered in its senses, sending it into a frenzy. It redoubled its efforts, biting and thrashing to free itself — but it was already too late.
"Morbus Letalis Crucio" Vizet whispered.
His tone was calm, measured — deliberately suppressing the power of the curse. The Obscurus core within him trembled, but it did not surge out of control.
A slender beam of dark gray light burst from his wand, streaking toward the Acromantula's face with unnatural speed.
Vizet's lips curled into a faint smile. This is it. The spell felt smooth, precise — no resistance, no inner chaos. For the first time, he felt he had mastered the Sickness Curse, not merely endured it.
The Obscurus still exuded its usual trace of malice, but it remained contained. He could now moderate the curse's power and still unleash it swiftly.
The Acromantula sensed it too — death approaching.
It clicked its pincers wildly and twisted its head to evade the cursed beam.
But the spell struck true. The dark gray light pierced the topmost eye and vanished into its skull.
The Acromantula convulsed.
Its limbs spasmed violently, claws splaying, then curling inwards. A horrible rattling sound escaped its throat as it sank to the ground, twitching.
Vizet flicked his wand again. The vines twisted into a cocoon, wrapping around the spider's limp body, binding it tightly from thorax to abdomen, leaving only the head exposed.
The creature no longer fought back. It simply shuddered, disoriented, occasionally vomiting thin threads of silk laced with venomous green spittle.
"It's still alive," Vizet muttered. "Even if it's not fully grown, Acromantula venom should fetch a decent price."
He didn't waste time.
Once he made up his mind, he acted. With several quick Diffindo spells, he sliced open the spider's head near the mandibles, exposing the slick, glistening poison sacs hidden behind the pincers.
Suddenly, a low voice echoed from beyond the trees.
"There seems to be a pony nearby… I think I smell Acromantula blood…"
Vizet froze.
He snapped off the poison gland, stowed it in a pouch, and darted into the undergrowth.
Behind him, he heard the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves growing louder, accompanied by the same deep voice:
"Pony, I mean you no harm! Please, don't be afraid!"
Pony? What kind of strange name was that?
Vizet stopped, confused, and turned to face the speaker.
He cast the Night Vision Spell once more — and saw the figure emerging from the shadows.
A centaur.
Young and imposing, his upper torso was that of a broad-shouldered man with flowing platinum hair. Slung across his back was a longbow, and a leather satchel hung at his side. His lower half was the powerful, silver-maned body of a stallion.
He looked like something out of a legend — calm, alert, and regal.
"Oh," the centaur said with a warm tone. "A human child. I am Firenze. And you are?"
------------------------------
Voldemort had not left.
Invisible under the shimmer of a Disillusionment Charm, he remained hidden in the trees, watching with cold interest as Vizet passed what he had called a "little test."
From the boy's wand, the swirling dust had transformed seamlessly into vines — lashing through the air to wrap around the Acromantula once again.
"But after only a year at Hogwarts…" Voldemort murmured to himself. "He can already transfigure fungal spores into vines — and use them in combat."
A note of reluctant admiration crept into his voice.
"He really does have potential."
Vizet moved with calm focus. He cast a Knockback Jinx to keep the spider at bay, then followed swiftly with a cutting curse to weaken its defenses.
Voldemort's eyes narrowed as he observed the rhythm forming — precise, disciplined, adaptive.
"How interesting… He already has a firm grasp of standard magic. When I was his age…" Voldemort paused, a flicker of memory tightening his jaw. "I was likely at this very level."
Still, Vizet hadn't managed to stop the Acromantula entirely. Its magical resistance remained formidable. Spell after spell merely slowed it.
"A shame," Voldemort mused. "If he relies only on this… he won't win. Not against an Acromantula."
His voice turned softer, almost coaxing, though no one could hear."Why are you so unwilling to use black magic, Vizet? You wield it better than most could dream. You understand it. So why deny it? Why fight it?"
He exhaled sharply, frustrated, and reached into his robes.
From within, he withdrew one of the Soul Soothing Draughts Vizet had brewed and raised it to his lips.
The potion slid down his throat.
And then he froze.
"No…" Voldemort whispered, his face contorting. "This… is not the taste I wanted."
His expression darkened with shock. The draught tasted orderly. Clean. Devoid of the chaotic volatility he preferred.
Its texture and magical balance were perfectly calibrated — for ordinary wizards.
And that, to Voldemort, was the greatest insult.
Ordinary.A word he had spent his life obliterating.
It was why he had destroyed Tom Riddle — why he had become Voldemort in the first place.
He snarled and yanked open the second vial. The liquid shimmered slightly, as if reluctant to be disturbed.
He sipped again.
A strange feeling stirred.
"What is this…?" he muttered, brows drawing together. "Happiness? No… not exactly. It's more complicated. Something… hidden."
The taste burrowed deep inside him, unsettlingly warm.
Not pleasure. Not satisfaction. Something gentler. Something forgotten…
"I don't understand it," he breathed. "I can't understand it…"
His fingers clenched around the bottle. The draught had become something dangerous — not because of its ingredients, but because of what it awakened.
It reminded him of things he had torn out of himself long ago. Memories. Longings. Humanity.
Something in the potion called to a part of him he thought he'd obliterated.
And that was intolerable.
He held the bottle like it was a blooming mandragora — beautiful, deceptive, and utterly lethal.
Yet he could not bring himself to smash it.
At the same moment, across the forest, Vizet struck the Acromantula with a diminished — but masterfully controlled — Sickness Curse.
Voldemort stiffened.
"He reduced its power," he whispered. "He's begun… controlling it."
He let out a long, tense breath. His eyes, usually like frozen steel, flickered with something colder.
"…I shouldn't have said so much."
He stepped back into the shadows, the potion still clutched in one hand.
"There's something wrong with the draught… And he's begun to master the Obscurus…"
Voldemort's voice dropped to a hiss.
"No matter. We'll settle everything at the end of the semester."
------------------------------
Vizet bowed slightly and raised his voice, clear and respectful. "Hello, Mr. Firenze. I'm Vizet, a student at Hogwarts."
The centaur's eyes narrowed slightly in recognition. "So you are Vizet," he murmured, more to himself than to the boy. "Hagrid has mentioned you."
"Hagrid mentioned me?" Vizet asked, blinking in mild surprise.
Firenze nodded. "Yes. He said you saved a number of Diricawls not long ago. Said you were… a good kid."
His tone softened as he spoke, the edge of a smile tugging at his features.
"But what brings you here?" Firenze's expression shifted, suddenly alert. His eyes scanned the trees, the undergrowth — until they landed on the massive, tangled form not far off.
With a flick of his silver mane, he broke into a gallop, hooves thudding softly against the earth. He stopped beside the unmoving shape.
Half of the Acromantula's head was cleaved open, its pincers slack and twitching slightly, venom glistening on the forest floor.
Firenze stared at the creature for a long moment.
Then he turned back to Vizet, his voice filled with something close to disbelief. "Little Pony… Vizet, did you do this?"
Vizet nodded, catching his breath. "I came into the Forbidden Forest, and it attacked me. I had no choice."
Firenze stepped lightly over the debris and paced a slow, deliberate circle around the spider's body. The way his muscles tensed, the occasional flare of his nostrils — it was clear: the Acromantula stirred something deeply unpleasant in him.
Vizet caught a flicker of something in Firenze's eyes. Not awe, not fear — but quiet, simmering disdain.
Disdain not for him, but for the creature.