Voldemort's voice curled with amusement, his tone half a smile.
"It's time to test the results of your studies. Consider this your personal final exam… Open the door, and take me to the end."
Vizet gripped his wand and approached the door one slow step at a time. Voldemort smiled, already picturing what would happen next:
The moment the door opened, the cerberus would lunge forward, sink its jaws into Vizet's arm — and then Vizet would transform into an Obscurus and spiral out of control…
Crack…
The door creaked open. In an instant, the deafening barking of dogs filled the corridor.
Voldemort tugged his cloak up higher, narrowing his eyes like a spectator awaiting the climax of a thrilling performance.
But —
"Wooo..."
Instead of lunging, Fluffy's massive head blocked the doorway, tongue lolling out as he let out a series of pitiful whimpers.
He crouched low, squirming toward Vizet with a hopeful gleam in all six eyes. Drool poured freely from his gaping mouths as he tried to lick him.
Vizet danced backward, dodging the slobbery tongue. Then he chuckled and reached out to pat one of the enormous heads.
"Fluffy, we meet again!"
"Woof!" Fluffy let out a delighted bark, plopping to the ground with his eyes closed and a dreamy hum rumbling in his throat. His ears flopped happily.
Voldemort stepped forward.
Immediately, all three of Fluffy's noses twitched. The heads snapped upright, their muzzles curling in sync as they crouched, snarling low in their throats.
"Easy…" Vizet murmured, patting Fluffy again. "We just need to go downstairs for a bit."
He reached into his backpack and pulled out a familiar oil-paper bag.
"Woof?" Fluffy sniffed eagerly, all three heads tracking the bag with laser focus.
"Here, have a snack. We'll be quick." Vizet tore open the wrapping and offered a roasted chicken leg to the middle head.
Voldemort's eyes narrowed with a flicker of disdain — followed by faint absurdity. The dragon egg Quirrell had emptied his Gringotts vault to buy had become obsolete… All they'd needed was roasted chicken.
Under Vizet's coaxing, Fluffy wagged his tail and padded over to a corner, curling up on the ground. His eyes followed the chicken leg, which he now licked with immense care — his tongues circling it like it was the rarest of lollipops.
Vizet turned to the trapdoor.
"We should go," he said, prying it open and lowering his wand. "Lumos."
A beam of light shot downward.
The Devil's Snare below, startled by the sudden illumination, recoiled at once — shivering away from the light, shrinking into the corners like withered vines.
"Devil's Snare…" Voldemort's voice curled with curiosity. "How will you get down? The environment below is perfect for its growth. Once your lighting charm fades, it'll return — and if you keep it on, you'll have no cushion to land on…"
"A wizard," Vizet said without missing a beat, "uses magic. Nox."
The light vanished, and he quickly retrieved a piece of parchment from his backpack. Kneeling at the edge of the opening, he unfolded it, creased it several times, then tapped it gently with his wand.
"Forma Gradalis!"
The parchment trembled and expanded, stretching down into the darkness. With a soft creak and shimmer, it morphed into a solid wooden staircase, sturdy and spiraling into the depths.
"Lumos," Vizet murmured again, and the staircase lit with a gentle glow as he descended calmly.
Voldemort followed, his voice dry with amusement. "If I could grade you, I'd give you an E here."
"Good? Not bad." Vizet responded casually without looking back.
"It's mostly to keep your ego in check," Voldemort said. "Still… are you interested in leaving Hogwarts with me? The offer still stands."
Vizet didn't hesitate, "Does Professor Quirrell still have a chance?"
Voldemort chuckled low in his throat, "Hehe…"
The two descended in silence.
It was the kind of silence Vizet preferred — neutral, watchful, nonintrusive. At the foot of the staircase, he stepped into a corner and plucked a few tendrils of Devil's Snare, carefully stuffing them into an oil-paper bag before continuing onward to the next chamber.
This new room was brightly lit. Even if the lighting spell were extinguished, the Devil's Snare would remain curled into the corners, quivering in the light.
At the far end of the room stood a locked door, and high above, a cloud of keys buzzed across the domed ceiling — winged and glittering, flitting about like birds. Their quick, darting movements and the charmwork behind them bore the unmistakable touch of Professor Flitwick.
Vizet scanned the room and quickly spotted a flying broom mounted on the far wall.
Voldemort broke the silence, tone dry.
"A flying broom… Quirinus told me this was your specialty. Should I expect a performance?"
"I've no such intentions," Vizet replied, approaching the door with the oil-paper bag still in hand.
An ordinary person might take in the scene — the enchanted keys, the locked door, and the solitary broom — and draw the obvious conclusion: get on the broom and chase the right key.
But Vizet was not ordinary.
Beyond learning how to build a Soul Labyrinth, he had listened closely to Aberforth's occasional musings. Some of them — especially after a few firewhiskies — were far from conventional.
One such drunken lecture lingered in Vizet's memory: "Wizards shouldn't obsess over the process. They should aim straight for the result. That's what makes us different… rules? They're meant to be bent — broken, even."
Hardly reliable philosophy, given the source, but Vizet had written it down anyway. And he'd thought about it. A lot.
Voldemort narrowed his eyes as he watched Vizet ignore the broom entirely.
"What exactly are you doing? That door won't open to a simple unlocking spell."
Vizet turned to him with a question of his own, "If it were you… how would you open it?"
"You've forgotten your manners," Voldemort replied coolly.
Vizet corrected himself. "Apologies… Professor, what would you do?"
"I'd blast the door apart without effort. Or use a Confundus Charm — confuse the keys until one drops into my hand."
"Exactly." Vizet nodded. "There are countless ways for a wizard to bypass obstacles. So, I thought of something less exhausting."
He reached into his backpack once again, this time retrieving a blank piece of parchment. Kneeling before the lock, he folded the parchment tightly and pushed it into the keyhole. Then, with a flick of his wand, he incanted:
"Cereaforma!"
The parchment glowed, softened, and melted into a thick wax. Under Vizet's guidance, it stretched into the shape of a long, slender key, filling every crevice of the lock. Then, just as quickly, it hardened — clean and solid, warm white with a faint glimmer.
Click!
Vizet turned the newly formed wax key, and the door opened with a gentle swing.
"Magic…" he murmured, pleased, "is really quite magical."
Voldemort, watching from behind, let out a quiet exhale — half sigh, half chuckle.
"You are quite magical, too."
For a first-year, Vizet's transfiguration was not only advanced — it was instinctive. Practical. He wielded magic like someone born to do it, folding it into the rhythm of everyday thought. But more importantly, he showed signs of something Voldemort valued deeply: independence of thought.
He wasn't shackled by convention. He questioned what others accepted. That, above all, was promising.
Voldemort's voice grew slightly rough.
"Why did you end up in Ravenclaw? You seem far more suited to Slytherin."
Vizet stepped into the next chamber and answered without looking back.
"Do I? If I'd gone to Slytherin, I imagine I'd have become a target."
"Oh?" Voldemort said, clearly intrigued.