HP: Transmigrating as an Obscurial

Vizet had always believed that as long as potion ingredients were processed correctly and brewing techniques were precise, the outcome would be a high-quality potion. However, under Snape's private tutelage, he was beginning to realize just how naive that assumption was.

For ordinary wizards, potion-making was like assembling a puzzle — each ingredient a piece that had to be placed exactly in its rightful spot to complete the full picture.

But for Snape?

Potion ingredients were building blocks, and as long as the final structure matched the desired outcome, it didn't matter how he arranged them. He could add, remove, or substitute materials at will, bending the laws of alchemy to suit his purpose.

It seemed impossible to compare the two approaches, yet this was the vast chasm that separated ordinary potion-makers from true masters.

Snape's teaching methods mirrored his approach to potions — his instructions were brutally concise, cutting away all excess, delivering only the essential knowledge. While this allowed him to cover an extraordinary amount of material in a short time, it also meant that Vizet had to work doubly hard, taking rapid notes and filling in the gaps through inference.

And today's lesson?

The Soul-Soothing Potion, a high-level brew that required perfect precision. It was overwhelming, even for him.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the lesson finally came to an end.

Vizet exhaled and pressed his fingers to his temples, feeling the weight of all he had absorbed. His mind was packed with formulas, reactions, and theories — too much information at once, leaving him lightheaded. He would need time to fully digest everything, and more importantly, he had to put it into practice. Theory alone was never enough.

"Continue next week," Snape said curtly, standing up.

"Professor Snape, thank you for your teaching," Vizet responded instinctively, still dazed from the flood of knowledge.

Snape moved toward his desk but faltered — his step stumbled forward, and for the first time, a sharp, metallic scent tinged the air.

Blood.

Vizet, shaking off his fatigue, rushed forward and caught Snape's arm before he could fall.

"Professor Snape," he hesitated, then asked carefully, "I wanted to ask you before... Are you injured?"

Snape's face twisted slightly, as if annoyed by the concern. "Yes," he admitted through clenched teeth. His expression hardened. "You can go back."

Vizet ignored the dismissal. His mind was still half in the realm of potions, and so his next thought was a natural extension of their lesson.

"Potions aren't working, then?" he asked, frowning. "They should be the best option for wounds that can't be healed by magic."

Snape's lips curled in something between irritation and amusement. "A fair conclusion," he said flatly. "But no, potions have been ineffective. I was bitten by a highly dangerous magical creature. The wound is cursed — one of the particularly insidious types, interwoven with the venom, preventing it from fully healing."

He pulled back his robe, revealing his calf. The sight made Vizet inhale sharply. The wound was deep and ragged, the skin around it an angry, swollen red, with dark veins stretching outward like creeping shadows.

"Since there is no recorded counter-curse," Snape continued, his tone clinical despite the gruesome injury, "the only way to counteract it is through prolonged treatment. Potions can 'chip away' at the curse over time, but a full cure is impossible without the correct countermeasure."

Vizet studied the injury for a moment before speaking.

"Professor Snape, can I try something?"

Snape raised a skeptical brow. "Oh?"

"I've been helping Hagrid treat magical creatures," Vizet explained. "I've learned to extract dark magic from wounds, and I might be able to —"

"Try it if you want," Snape cut in abruptly, sounding more irritated than hopeful. He threw himself into a chair and gestured vaguely at his leg. "Three minutes. No more."

Vizet was unfazed by the brusque response. He stepped forward, drawing his wand with practiced ease, and traced a delicate yin-yang symbol in the air.

Primordial Magic: Purification.

A soft, spiraling cyclone of magic materialized, its energy swirling around Snape's leg like a coiled serpent. The moment it touched the wound, the reaction was immediate. The very air seemed to hum with tension as black smoke curled out from the injury, writhing as if in agony.

The cyclone darkened as it absorbed the malignant magic, carrying the corruption upward until the curse's essence detached — manifesting as a cluster of shadowy orbs, floating midair like weightless black balloons.

Snape's brows eased slightly as he lifted his wand.

Immediately, the potion cabinets around the room rattled open, their contents responding to his unspoken command. Jars and vials soared into the air, each releasing precise portions of their ingredients.

He was like a maestro conducting a silent symphony, orchestrating a performance where dragon scales, dried herbs, and shimmering liquids danced through the air in perfect harmony. Each motion of his wand guided the materials with elegant precision, slicing, grinding, and stirring without a single misstep.

To Vizet, it was mesmerizing.

Every step was essential. Every flick of Snape's wrist held meaning. He didn't know where to look first — everything was happening too fast, too flawlessly.

The air grew thick with overlapping scents — bitter wormwood, the sharp tang of crushed bezoar, the earthy undertones of powdered bark. Steam rose from the bubbling potion in the cauldron, each bubble perfectly round and uniform, like eerie, unblinking fish eyes.

Then, with another fluid wave of his wand, Snape lifted the potion from the cauldron itself.

The liquid curled upward, defying gravity, gathering midair into a shimmering sphere. A moment later, it contracted, condensing into a solid fist-sized salve—thick, smooth, and pulsing faintly with magic.

Not once had Snape moved from his spot.

Not once had he needed to touch a single ingredient.

From start to finish, the entire brewing process had unfolded purely through magic, his expression unbothered, almost detached, as if he had merely been flipping through the pages of a book rather than crafting a high-level remedy.

The salve drifted downward, landing gently onto the still-bleeding wound.

With a quiet sizzle, green smoke curled into the air. The raw, torn flesh began to knit itself back together at an astonishing speed, the cursed veins shrinking and fading beneath the skin.

Only then did Snape finally rise from his seat, turning his attention to the floating black masses — the lingering remnants of the curse.

With a lazy flick, he drew a perfect arc in the air, and a transparent glass-like dome materialized around the orbs, sealing them in like specimens in a containment jar.

Only after everything was dealt with did he turn to Vizet. His expression was unreadable, his voice colder than before.

"Do not reveal the full extent of your magic."

Vizet stiffened.

"There will always be people with ulterior motives." Snape's dark eyes bore into him. "The wizarding world is not as safe as you might believe. If you want to survive, learn to be cautious. Trust no one too easily."

Vizet swallowed hard.

The words hit him like a hammer.

Hogwarts had been a haven, a place where he could study, experiment, and grow stronger without fear. But Snape's warning had ripped that illusion apart.

Because he was right.

There was malice in this world.

He had already encountered it before even setting foot in Hogwarts — the runespoor attack had been a stark reminder that he was a target.

The Daily Prophet was filled with news of Dark Wizards. The Death Eaters, once Voldemort's most powerful followers, still held loyalty toward him in the shadows. Some had escaped justice entirely, their wealth and connections shielding them from consequences.

And if someone were to discover his Primordial Magic?

If they decided he was a valuable specimen, to be captured, studied, experimented on?

Or worse — what if they tried to use Luna or Xenophilius as leverage?

No.

That cannot happen.

Vizet clenched his fists.

Inside Hogwarts, he could indulge in the luxury of learning freely. But outside these walls?

He needed to be ready. To protect himself. To protect his family.

Snape watched him, then exhaled. "I only say this because I assume you wouldn't want to return to Hogwarts as a ghost after your untimely death."

Vizet forced a small smirk. "Understood, Professor."

"Good." Snape's expression barely shifted. Then, as if the previous conversation had never happened, he added offhandedly, "There are some things best done when Madam Pomfrey isn't watching."

Vizet blinked, caught off guard. "Huh?"

"For instance —" Snape gave him a pointed look, "— deconstructing potions. What exactly were you thinking back then?"

Vizet averted his gaze.

Snape's voice remained flat, but there was something akin to frustrated disbelief laced within it. "And how in Merlin's name did you even manage to stay conscious long enough to write down the full formula?"

Vizet's face heated in embarrassment.

He had no real defense for his recklessness. But even so…

He didn't regret it.