HP: Transmigrating as an Obscurial

After Vizet left the headmaster's office, the room fell into a deep and contemplative silence.

Dumbledore remained seated for a moment, his fingers lightly tracing the wood grain of his desk. Then, with a quiet exhale, he drew his wand and moved it in a smooth, deliberate circle.

"Expecto Patronum."

A brilliant silver light burst forth from the tip of his wand, coalescing into the shape of a majestic phoenix. The spectral bird flapped its wings, radiating an aura of serenity and power.

Dumbledore watched the Patronus for a moment before speaking in a warm, familiar tone.

"Newt, how have you been lately?" His voice was calm but carried an undercurrent of urgency. "One of my students has invented a spell — a rather remarkable one. The incantation is Expurgare..."

The phoenix cocked its head, as if listening intently.

"It is an extraordinarily efficient and practical piece of everyday magic," Dumbledore continued after a detailed explanation on how to replicate the spell. "I recall that you still keep an Obscurus under observation… which led me to wonder: might this spell have an effect in stabilizing or suppressing the Obscurus? I would greatly appreciate your thoughts. Do write back as soon as you can. Wishing you and Tina the very best."

He gave a subtle flick of his wand, and the silver phoenix rose into the air, soaring in a graceful arc before gliding soundlessly out of the office window. Within moments, it had vanished into the night.

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, his fingers briefly pressing against the bridge of his nose. Fatigue had begun to weigh on him, settling in the creases of his face.

Then, as if recalling something, he murmured to himself, "Ah, yes… Occlumency."

A sigh, deeper this time. He pushed himself up from his chair.

"I'll have to find him again."

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Quirrell's office

Snape loomed over Quirrell, his black robes billowing as he took a slow step forward. His cold, piercing gaze bore into the trembling professor.

"Quirinus Quirrell," Snape sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. "Since you need more time to think, then by all means — use your garlic-clogged brain to do so!"

His lips curled in contempt as he leaned in slightly.

"Do you truly believe that with your feeble strength, you can be of any real use to the Dark Lord?" His voice dropped to a menacing whisper. "Compared to you, I am far more... reliable."

Quirrell clenched his jaw, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. "Professor Snape, I... I don't know what you're talking about."

A flicker of irritation crossed Snape's expression, but then he merely smirked. "Very well." He turned sharply, his robes swishing behind him as he strode toward the door. "I will come back for you."

Bang!

The door slammed shut with a thunderous echo.

The moment Snape was gone, Quirrell collapsed, as though the very strength holding him upright had been sucked from his bones. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling as cold sweat dripped from his brow.

Then, without warning, he jolted upright — his movements sharp and unnatural.

A pained groan tore from his throat as he clutched his head, his fingers digging into his scalp. He staggered back, letting out a strangled, animalistic roar before hastily casting a silencing spell on the room. His hands fumbled at the cloth wrapped around his head.

The moment he yanked it away, the mirror before him reflected not just his own face — but another.

A grotesque, serpentine visage emerged from the back of Quirrell's skull.

Voldemort.

The Dark Lord's sunken red eyes gleamed with amusement. "You did well," he murmured, his voice slithering through the dimly lit office. "Snape is not to be trusted. You were right to withhold my name from him."

Quirrell swallowed hard, his breath still unsteady. "But... I don't understand." He hesitated before whispering, "He knows too much about you. Wasn't he once a Death Eater?"

A quiet, sinister chuckle echoed in the room.

"Snape?" Voldemort's expression darkened. "He is a traitor."

Quirrell flinched, and immediately, a searing pain shot through his skull. He let out a choked gasp, his legs nearly giving out beneath him.

"Q-Quirinus," Voldemort mocked, his lips curling into a twisted grin. "Your ignorance is almost entertaining."

His voice grew colder. "The truly loyal ones — the ones who never wavered in their devotion — are rotting away in Azkaban."

"And Snape? That coward spent ten years hiding behind excuses, slithering through the cracks of the Ministry like a rat. Do you really think he has remained faithful to me?"

Quirrell's hands curled into fists. "Then... he hid what I did tonight because —"

"Because he has his own agenda." Voldemort cut him off, his voice a low hiss. "Make no mistake, Quirinus, I know everything you do."

A violent shudder ran through Quirrell's frame. For a brief moment, regret flickered in his wide, hollow eyes.

Voldemort smirked. "Do you feel regret, Quirinus?" His tone was almost mocking. "I never lied to you. You have knowledge of the Dark Arts, do you not?"

Quirrell bit his lip. "Yes, but —"

"Was it not through my guidance that your silent spellcasting improved?" Voldemort continued silkily. "Did I not promise you more? You want power, don't you?"

Quirrell hesitated. "I..."

"Then get me the Philosopher's Stone!" Voldemort's voice turned sharp. "Do this, and I will reward you beyond your wildest dreams."

A sickly silence filled the air.

Then, Voldemort's tone shifted, more calculated now. "And as for the Obscurus..."

Quirrell stiffened.

"The Sickness Charm saved him tonight, but that boy's potential is wasted in Dumbledore's hands." Voldemort's crimson eyes gleamed with malice. "Teach him more of the Dark Arts. Let him understand the true nature of power."

A sharp breath escaped Quirrell's lips. "But..."

Voldemort's expression darkened. "Hmm?"

A shiver of terror crawled up Quirrell's spine. He swallowed thickly. "Y-Yes, my Lord!"

Voldemort's laughter slithered through the room, a deep, hollow sound that echoed against the stone walls.

"That's right," he crooned, his voice drenched in cruel amusement. "You would do well to remember who is always watching you."

Then, his voice dropped into a deadly whisper. "I am... most displeased with your performance tonight, Quirinus."

Quirrell trembled violently.

"How dare you stop the Obscurus from unleashing its power?" Voldemort's voice was a razor against his ears. "And just now... You weren't actually hoping to be a good professor, were you? How quaint."

A cruel chuckle.

"Then endure it." His voice twisted into something inhuman, something monstrous. "Endure my wrath!"

Quirrell's scream never left his throat.

Dark, sickly-green and black light erupted around his skull, searing through his mind. His body convulsed violently, spasming in agony as though caught in a relentless curse. His mouth opened in a silent howl — no sound escaped, only the violent tremors of his body telling of the unimaginable torment coursing through his veins.

And in the dim glow of the torches, Voldemort's smile remained.

Cold.

Unrelenting.

Merciless.

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"When I do not speak, you know my true name; when I speak, I cease to exist."

Standing before the bronze door of the Ravenclaw common room, Vizet pondered the riddle posed by the enchanted eagle-shaped knocker.

He had lived here for two months now, and each time he returned, the sentient door presented a new puzzle — an ever-changing challenge that he had come to enjoy.

A small smile played on his lips as he considered the answer. "Silence."

Not speaking meant remaining silent. But the moment one spoke, silence was broken — ceasing to exist.

The eagle statue observed him in thoughtful stillness before spreading its wide, majestic wings. With a smooth, metallic groan, the bronze door swung open.

It was already past midnight, and Vizet had assumed most of his housemates would be asleep.

He was wrong.

The common room was still filled with students, some seated by the fireplace, others scattered across the room in clusters. A murmur of hushed conversations filled the air, and at the sound of his footsteps, all heads turned toward him.

The first to react was Andre, the Quidditch captain. He stood up abruptly, glancing around before striding toward Vizet.

"You're finally back," he said, relief evident in his voice. "It's great to see you're okay!"

A wave of movement followed as others hurried toward him. His roommates, teammates, and even upper-year students surrounded him with a mixture of curiosity, concern, and excitement.

Cho Chang let out a dramatic sigh of relief, pressing a hand to her chest. "Thank Merlin! We thought something had happened to you!"

Penelope Clearwater, who had been flipping through her study notes, glanced up at Cho before offering a small, knowing smile. "I told you he'd be fine."

Roger Davies grinned and slung an arm around Vizet's shoulders. "A first-year fighting a troll? That sounds like something straight out of a Lockhart novel!"

Anthony Goldstein practically bounced in place, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "A fully grown mountain troll — those are XXXX-rated creatures! How in Merlin's name did you take it down?"

More voices joined in.

"Yes! Fred and George were spreading some wild tales, but we wanted to hear it from you."

"I heard the best way to fight a troll is to aim for the head — did you use a Stunning Spell?"

"Stunning Spells don't always work on trolls! Their magic resistance is too high."

"Maybe he used Transfiguration to immobilize it first? That would at least give him a fighting chance!"

"Or what about potions? A Draught of Living Death would have knocked it out cold! Trolls eat anything, so slipping it into their food wouldn't be too hard!"

Their enthusiasm was infectious, their voices overlapping in excited theories. Some argued strategy, others debated magical effectiveness, and a few simply gawked at him as though he had just returned from slaying a dragon.

Vizet, still taking in the sight of his gathered housemates, found himself laughing softly.

Ravenclaws.

Even when discussing a near-death encounter, they couldn't help but turn it into an intellectual debate.