HP: Transmigrating as an Obscurial

Professor Flitwick often emphasized the importance of precise pronunciation in Charms class.

But with so many students to instruct, he could hardly offer the meticulous guidance that Quirrell did.

The nuances of spell incantation — pitch, intonation, the shape of one's mouth, the distinction between voiced and unvoiced sounds, even the rhythm and cadence — were more intricate than Vizet had ever imagined.

By the time he had finished scribbling down everything Quirrell had taught him, he had filled two entire pages.

"Professor McGonagall always says that concentration and precision are the keys to successful Transfiguration," Quirrell remarked, setting down his glass of water. "The same is true for spellwork — especially curses."

"Is that because of magical backlash?" Vizet asked curiously.

He had been reading up on wand-making notes written by Ollivander, and the idea of magic rebounding due to improper execution had piqued his interest.

Quirrell nodded. "Exactly. And I must say, Vizet, your knowledge base is already beyond that of many graduates... perhaps even some Aurors."

Then, out of nowhere, Quirrell's expression darkened. "Do your classmates... resent you for it?"

Vizet blinked. "No, not at all. We get along well. We study together, they watch me train — some even offer to help."

A strange look flickered across Quirrell's face — relief, perhaps, but mingled with something else. He gave a stiff nod. "Good. That's good."

Then, as if shaking off an unpleasant thought, he pressed on. "Now, let's continue."

As Vizet quickly learned, a curse like the Sickness Curse required more than just the right incantation — it demanded absolute precision. Even the slightest mistake could result in dangerous magical backfire.

Quirrell's thoroughness impressed him. Not once did the professor hold back when answering his questions, and Vizet made sure to take full advantage of this rare opportunity.

"The final step is casting," Quirrell said, his voice as taut as a fraying thread. "Focus your mind…"

"Picture the serpent before you — diseased, its scales peeling, its flesh rotting, pus oozing from open sores. See it, feel it, let the image take hold..."

Vizet hesitated for only a moment before allowing the grotesque vision to settle in his mind. A sharp shudder crawled down his spine, but he did not waiver.

His lips parted, and in a voice that slithered like a serpent, he whispered:

"Morbus Letalis Crucio!"

A dark gray light shot from his wand and struck the snake like an arrow.

Silence.

Then —

The venomous serpent writhed in agony. Its body liquefied, scales and flesh dissolving into a viscous, greenish mucus. A sickening stench filled the room.

Quirrell staggered back, gagging. "Evanesco!" He waved his wand, vanishing the foul mess.

Vizet clutched his chest. A strange sensation pulsed deep within him — a restlessness in the core of his being, like a second heart beating out of sync.

A tide of dark thoughts surged forward, clawing at his mind. Yet, just as swiftly, most of them melted away, leaving only a faint throb of something... tempting.

Quirrell, wiping his mouth, noticed the change in him. "Are you alright?"

Vizet exhaled shakily. "My heart's racing… Maybe it's just the thrill of casting dark magic for the first time?"

A flicker of understanding crossed Quirrell's face. He muttered something under his breath.

"Obscurus… So that's it."

Vizet frowned. "What do you mean?"

Quirrell's eyes darkened. "You need to be careful, Vizet. The Obscurus within you is both your talent and your curse."

"It amplifies dark magic — doubles its strength, sometimes more. But it also stirs something sinister within you. The more you use magic like this, the stronger those thoughts will become. You must learn to control them."

Vizet absorbed this gravely. "Is there a way to stop it from happening?"

Quirrell considered for a moment. "You need to refine your technique. Don't let the imagery control you — focus solely on the spell, not the vision. That should help."

He conjured another venomous snake and gestured for Vizet to try again. "Or… you could learn Occlumency. But that is beyond my ability to teach you."

"Thank you, Professor. I'll try the first method." Vizet steadied his breath. "Morbus Letalis Crucio!"

This time, the result was different. The snake's scales withered, but only partially. It spat a stream of pus before slumping weakly to the side — sick, but alive.

Quirrell observed thoughtfully. "Even without the mental imagery, your magic is still potent."

Perhaps it was because of his struggle with stuttering in class, but in one-on-one lessons, Quirrell seemed determined to share as much as possible. He ignored the strain in his throat, delving deeper into the intricacies of compound magic and recommending yet another set of books for Vizet to study.

Vizet, for his part, listened intently. He was learning far more than he had expected — and yet, he couldn't shake the feeling that Quirrell was trying to prove something... to himself.

------------------------------

At precisely 1:50 p.m. on Sunday, Vizet stood before the door of Snape's office.

"Come in directly," came Snape's voice from within, sharp and expectant. "You have a good sense of time."

Compared to Quirrell's elaborate theoretical discussions and practical applications, Snape's teaching was ruthlessly efficient.

A shimmering magic energy field had been set up in the center of the office, enclosing a chaotic pile of potion ingredients. Some were plant-based — twisted roots, swollen pods, and shriveled fungi — while others were distinctly animal in origin. The latter, still fresh, glistened with dark, sluggish blood. Some even twitched slightly, as if resisting their fate.

Snape surveyed Vizet coolly. "What ingredients can you handle?"

Vizet stepped forward, inspecting the selection. "Mistletoe, snargaluff, leaping toadstools, gurdyroot, dirigible plums — I've worked with all of these at home."

Luna spent much of her time tending the garden, and Vizet had often helped her prepare and sell magical plants in Diagon Alley. Processing ingredients was second nature to him.

Snape gave a curt nod. "Very well. Then deal with that dragon liver."

Vizet barely flinched. After weeks at Hogwarts, he had come to expect Snape's abrupt instructions. Rolling up his sleeves, he stepped into the energy field —

— and immediately shuddered.

"How does it feel?" Snape asked, his voice as cold as the air itself.

"A little chilly," Vizet admitted, flexing his fingers. "The temperature must be near freezing, with just the right humidity. Keeps the ingredients from spoiling."

Snape raised an eyebrow, almost imperceptibly. "I will teach you this spell. You will maintain the magic energy field next time."

Vizet glanced at him. "Is this only for preserving ingredients, or can it be used in other ways?"

"Use it however you wish," Snape said dryly. "Just don't embarrass me."

He motioned toward the dragon liver. "Do you know the Severing Charm?"

Vizet nodded. "Yes, I've been practicing it recently."

"Then use it. Carefully. Slice through the outer membrane —"

Vizet raised his wand, preparing to make the incision —

"Stop!" Snape snapped. "Your technique is atrocious! Do you think dragon liver is as cheap as pig liver? Congratulations — pigs think so too."

Vizet adjusted his grip and tried again.

"Wrong! Start from the concave section of the dragon's kidney. See that green mass? It's highly toxic. Either slice it away completely, or — if you prefer — lick it clean. But don't leave a trace."

Vizet hesitated before cutting, ensuring the poison was removed without contaminating the rest.

"And now? What do you think you're doing? Picking up a dragon's heart like a common turnip?" Snape sneered. "Do you have any idea how valuable dragon heart blood is? If you waste even a drop, you may as well sign yourself over to Hogwarts to pay off the debt."

By the time he finished, Vizet understood why students always spoke of Snape with a certain underlying fear.

This was no ordinary criticism — this was verbal warfare.

And few survived it unscathed.