HP: Transmigrating as an Obscurial

The door to the headmaster's office creaked open, and Quirinus Quirrell stepped inside, his palms clammy, his breathing shallow. His eyes darted nervously around the circular room, lingering for a moment on the whirring silver contraptions before settling on the aged yet piercing gaze of Albus Dumbledore.

"P-Professor Dumbledore... you w-wished to see me?" he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. Beads of sweat formed on his brow.

Dumbledore, seated comfortably behind his vast desk, gestured to the chair opposite him. "Quirinus, there's no need to look so alarmed," he said kindly, pushing a steaming cup of tea towards him. "You seem rather strained lately — are you quite well?"

Quirrell hesitated before perching stiffly on the edge of the chair, his hands clenched in his lap. "N-no, I — everything is fine. Just... a busy term."

Dumbledore hummed as he stirred three generous lumps of sugar into his own tea, taking a thoughtful sip before speaking again. "The school has been somewhat — unsettled — as of late. I trust you've noticed?"

Quirrell's spine went rigid, and he forced a feeble smile. "I-I'm afraid I d-don't know what you mean, Headmaster."

Dumbledore's gaze lingered on him for a moment before he said, quite casually, "A dear friend of mine has entrusted me with a rather precious item. Naturally, I've taken precautions — securing it within the restricted area on the third floor."

Quirrell's fingers tightened around the teacup, his knuckles turning white. "I see…?"

Dumbledore leaned back slightly in his chair, watching him over the rim of his half-moon spectacles. "Someone, I suspect, has taken an interest in obtaining it." His tone was light, but the weight behind his words was unmistakable. "And so, Quirinus, I was hoping you might assist me."

"M-me?" Quirrell's lips twitched into an awkward grin, though his shoulders remained tense. "I — I would be honored, of c-course."

Dumbledore's expression softened. "I knew I could count on you. Before November, I'd like you to contribute a protective measure for the area. Something fitting for a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."

For the briefest moment, something flickered in Quirrell's wide eyes. Panic. Then, as though forcing himself into a role he was no longer certain he could play, he laughed weakly. "O-of course, Headmaster. I will do m-my best."

Dumbledore nodded approvingly. "Excellent. If I had asked you the same thing a year ago, you likely would have refused. You were quite the scholar, preferring your books over — well, such tasks as these." There was something almost wistful in his voice, as though he mourned the change in Quirrell.

Quirrell swallowed hard. "Times change, sir."

Dumbledore regarded him for a moment, then took another sip of tea. "Tell me, did Vizet come to see you at lunch today?"

Quirrell was caught off guard. He blinked rapidly before nodding. "Yes — he has q-quite the talent. I gave him some b-books for reference."

Dumbledore smiled faintly, but his gaze remained sharp. "A remarkable boy, isn't he? You may not have been in England this summer, Quirinus, so you may not have heard. Vizet is an Obscurus."

Quirrell stiffened.

Dumbledore continued, his voice quieter now. "The Ministry nearly destroyed him when he lost control. He recovered on his own... though it left him with wounds all over his body..." He set his teacup down carefully, eyes steady. "As a professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, I trust you are well-versed in the dangers of dark magic. I hope you will ensure that no such magic takes hold of him again."

Quirrell's fingers trembled slightly against the porcelain of his cup. For a fleeting moment, something unreadable passed across his face — guilt? Resolve? Perhaps both. Then he nodded, voice stronger than before. "I — I will. I swear it."

Dumbledore gave him a searching look before smiling. "Good. Then I shall look forward to hearing your plans before Halloween."

Back in his office, Quirrell collapsed into his chair, gasping as he pressed his fingers against his throbbing temples.

"He knows," he whispered through gritted teeth.

"Of course he does."

The voice slithered through the darkness, smooth as silk and laced with amusement. The candlelight flickered, and Voldemort's presence stirred within him.

Quirrell squeezed his eyes shut. "Master, the protections on the third floor… they ought to be formidable."

Voldemort's voice was calm, but edged with irritation. "Then you will have to confirm their nature firsthand. The walls themselves obscure magic — spying spells are useless. The only way is to enter."

Quirrell swallowed, then hesitated before speaking again. "Dumbledore asked me to contribute a defense of my own. I am well-versed in dealing with trolls — perhaps I could use one."

"A clever suggestion," Voldemort mused. "You could use the distraction to your advantage. Let the boy be caught in the chaos — perhaps his Obscurus will react."

Quirrell flinched. "Master… I —" He hesitated, gathering his courage. "I do not believe we should involve him."

For a moment, silence. Then a low chuckle, dark and knowing. "Oh, Quirinus… do you fancy yourself a noble professor now?"

Quirrell shuddered, his breathing uneven.

Voldemort's voice was almost a whisper. "Do as I say, and I shall grant you something far more powerful than your feeble moral dilemmas. A spell — ancient, cunning. With it, you can make your 'accident' all the more believable."

As his master began to whisper the incantation, Quirrell's limbs went slack. His consciousness wavered, slipping away like mist.

And in the darkness, a pair of red eyes gleamed.

"Poor, foolish Quirrell," Voldemort murmured to himself. "You still believe you have a choice."

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Learning and practicing magic always left Vizet feeling as though time was slipping through his fingers.

The weekend arrived in the blink of an eye, and, as agreed, he made his way to Professor Quirrell's office.

The moment he stepped inside, the now-familiar stench of dampness and decay assaulted his senses. The cold, clammy air clung to his skin, unchanged from his previous visits. Yet there was one difference — Quirrell himself. His complexion, though still pallid, no longer carried the sickly sheen it once had. His posture seemed less rigid, his lips curled into a warm, almost encouraging smile.

On top of the books Quirrell had recommended, Vizet had scoured the library for additional tomes, eager to piece together the intricate structure of the chronic curse. He had spent hours poring over texts, cross-referencing incantations, and now, in his notebook, lay a spell of his own making —though he was unsure whether it would work.

Quirrell's eyes flicked over Vizet's notes, his brows lifting in surprise. "Merlin's Beard! Did you compose this spell yourself?" he asked. "Have you attempted to cast it yet?"

Vizet hesitated before shaking his head. "No… I don't know how to test it safely." His fingers tightened around the edge of his notebook. "It's a curse, after all. Dangerous."

Despite his openness to learning dark magic, he wasn't reckless. Experimenting blindly could lead to consequences he wasn't prepared for.

"Then let's give it a try," Quirrell said smoothly. He turned towards the corner of the room and made a small flick of his wand.

A sheet of rough linen, draped over something large, slipped to the ground with a whisper of fabric. Beneath it stood a heavy iron cage, its bars rusted and thick. Inside, coiled and motionless, lay a cluster of venomous snakes — their sleek bodies glistening in the dim light, tongues flickering even in sleep.

Vizet stiffened as understanding dawned. So that's where the smell was coming from.

Quirrell gave a slight wave of his hand, and one of the snakes stirred. Slowly, it lifted from the tangled mass, its body rising unnaturally until it hovered in midair between them. Its slitted yellow eyes gleamed as it swayed slightly, held aloft by an unseen force.

"Magic is best mastered through experience," Quirrell murmured. "Try casting your spell on this one."

Vizet hesitated for only a moment before drawing his wand. He took a steadying breath and whispered, "Morbus Impedimenta!".

The reaction was immediate. The snake convulsed, its sleek body twisting and writhing in midair. Scales flaked off, drifting like dead leaves, and a trail of thick, yellowish mucus oozed from its mouth.

Quirrell observed it with an approving nod. "The spell's structure is sound. I can see traces of both the Peeling Curse and the Pus-Flowing Hex."

Vizet frowned, watching the snake thrash. "But I meant for it to cause severe diarrhea, high fever, and skin ulcers." His voice carried a note of disappointment. "It looks like I only managed the last one."

"You're being too harsh on yourself." Quirrell let out a quiet chuckle. "What you've described are effects found in true curses, not just hexes or jinxes. What you've done here is already quite remarkable."

Vizet blinked, then quickly asked, "Is it because my magic is new? That's why it would be harder to counter?"

A pleased glint flashed in Quirrell's eyes. "Exactly," he said. "As long as you don't find yourself facing an Auror or a particularly skilled wizard, your spell will be difficult to break. However…" He trailed off, reaching towards the snake.

With practiced ease, Quirrell grasped the creature's head between his fingers and murmured an incantation under his breath. Almost instantly, the snake stilled, its suffering vanishing as though it had never existed.

"The principle behind your spell is rooted in the structure of the Sickness Curse," he continued. "To refine it, you need to understand the original incantation — Morbus Letalis Crucio."

Vizet's eyes gleamed with curiosity.

Quirrell gave him a knowing look. "Now, let's correct your pronunciation."