HP: Transmigrating as an Obscurial

"Not exactly," Dumbledore corrected gently, his bright blue eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight. "Being an Obscurial is only part of it. More significantly, you come from the Muggle world."

He clasped his hands together, leaning forward slightly. "Some pure-blood families still cling to the delusion that blood supremacy ensures their dominion over wizardkind. But the truth, Vizet, is that wizards were never destined to rule this world."

A faint smile crossed Dumbledore's face — one of quiet amusement, tinged with melancholy. "To maintain their sense of superiority, these families have nurtured a deep-seated disdain for Muggles and those born from them, fearing that the blending of bloodlines threatens their uniqueness."

Vizet listened intently, his fingers unconsciously tracing the grain of the wooden table. He could already see the cracks in the ideology Dumbledore described.

"But they have overlooked a simple truth," Dumbledore continued. "Pure-blood lines grow thinner with each passing generation. The reality is undeniable: the majority of wizards today are either half-blood or Muggle-born."

At this, Vizet let out a quiet chuckle. "The idea of pure-blood supremacy is absurd."

It reminded him too much of the racial ideologies he had learned about in his past life — twisted beliefs built on arbitrary distinctions, the kind that led to the so-called 'one-drop rule' he had once read about.

And yet, despite its absurdity, some still clung to it.

"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed, his expression knowing. "A fading ideology often resists its demise with desperate fervor. That desperation birthed Voldemort."

Vizet frowned. "You mean… Voldemort was chosen by the pure-blood families?"

Dumbledore gave a small shake of his head. "Not quite. His rise was far more complex. Voldemort's childhood, his experiences, and his own beliefs shaped his support for blood purity. But when the pure-blood families recognized in him a figure who could further their cause, they lent him their allegiance. They saw him as a means to preserve their power."

He folded his hands together, his voice grave. "Thus, a partnership was formed — Voldemort became the Dark Lord, and the pure-blood families became his Death Eaters. Together, they ushered in one of the darkest eras in wizarding history."

The weight of those words settled heavily between them.

Vizet exhaled slowly. He had read about Voldemort's reign, but hearing it from Dumbledore made it feel more real — more personal.

"But then Harry Potter happened," Dumbledore continued, his voice softening. "And for a time, the darkness was driven away."

He lifted his gaze to meet Vizet's. "But now, I must tell you the truth, Vizet — Voldemort has returned. And he is not only after Harry. He is after you."

A cold chill crawled up Vizet's spine. His fingers clenched against the table.

"Me?" His voice was quieter than he intended.

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes."

For a brief moment, Vizet's thoughts tangled. The troll. The runespoor. The strange attacks that seemed to revolve around him. It all pointed to something larger, something far more insidious.

"The troll…" he murmured. "It wasn't just a random attack, was it? It was after me."

Dumbledore's expression didn't change, but his silence spoke volumes.

Vizet swallowed, his mind racing. "And the reason… is because of the Obscurus inside me?"

This time, Dumbledore smiled — small, but approving. "You are perceptive."

His response sent a ripple of clarity through Vizet's thoughts. It made sense. An Obscurus was a rare phenomenon, dangerous yet powerful. If Voldemort knew about it, he would undoubtedly seek to control it… or him.

Yet, despite this revelation, Vizet felt something odd. Not fear. Not panic.

Curiosity.

Dumbledore must have noticed, for his gaze lingered on Vizet with quiet scrutiny.

"You are remarkably composed," he observed. "Most would be overwhelmed by such news."

Vizet met his gaze, steady and unwavering. "Fear won't change the situation," he said simply.

Dumbledore chuckled, and for the briefest moment, something flickered behind his eyes — something like admiration.

"You remind me of several people," he said, almost to himself. "But above all… you remind me of myself."

Vizet tilted his head slightly, sensing there was more behind those words. But Dumbledore had already moved on.

"Because you have shown such understanding, I believe you deserve to know more." His expression grew solemn. "There is something else I must tell you. Prepare yourself."

Vizet straightened, bracing himself. "I'm listening."

Dumbledore took a measured breath. "It was only after my recent encounter with Professor Quirrell that I became certain — Voldemort has already begun his return."

The name alone made the room feel heavier.

Vizet's hands curled slightly. "Quirrell…" he echoed, disbelief flickering across his face. "Professor Quirrell?"

The idea seemed almost ridiculous. The same Professor Quirrell who taught him spells with careful patience, who had encouraged his learning? The man who spoke softly and hesitated often?

Dumbledore nodded, his expression unreadable. "It is not uncommon to be led astray, Vizet. Many who walk that path do not realize it until they have gone too far."

The words were spoken gently, but they carried a weight that suggested experience — regret, even.

It was a sentiment Vizet did not yet understand. But something told him he would, in time.

Dumbledore's voice lowered slightly. "I have been observing Quirrell closely. Since his return from his travels, he has not been the same man. He avoids interactions, isolates himself. I feared that he had already fallen too deep into the abyss."

Then, something shifted in Dumbledore's expression. A spark of something unexpected. He looked keenly at Vizet.

"But then… a glimmer of hope appeared."

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Vizet pointed at himself, disbelief flickering in his expression. "Am I… the hope?"

Dumbledore's smile deepened, his eyes twinkling. "Of course. You and Quirrell are both Ravenclaws and have quite similar thirst for knowledge. A rather wonderful coincidence, wouldn't you say?"

Vizet's brows furrowed as doubt crept into his voice. "But… how could it be Professor Quirrell? If Voldemort ordered him to deal with me, why would he teach me anything?"

He shook his head slightly, trying to piece together the contradiction. "He was the one who warned me that dark magic could awaken malevolent thoughts in an Obscurus. He even advised me to learn Occlumency to guard against it."

Dumbledore nodded, as if this was precisely what he had expected. "Yes. Conflict often creates a turning point. You may not have noticed, but your actions, your words — they have an effect."

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Vizet's face.

Dumbledore's voice softened. "You treat all your professors with equal respect. You extend your sincerity without reservation. For most, this may seem like a simple gesture. But for someone like Quirrell…"

He paused, choosing his words carefully. "That sincerity is something he has longed for, yet has rarely received."

Vizet's frown deepened.

Dumbledore continued, "He may have chosen the wrong path, but your respect for him — your genuine belief in his teachings — has made him hesitate."

A quiet hush settled in the office, broken only by the gentle hum of the silver instruments ticking away on the desks.

Vizet exhaled, his mind swirling with uncertainty. "Then… what should I do?"

Dumbledore leaned back slightly, his hands still clasped together. "Maintain that sincerity."

Seeing Vizet's hesitation, he explained further. "Quirrell is a sensitive man. If he senses that you are treating him differently, he may retreat further into the shadows. Let things remain as they are. Continue attending his lessons — if you wish. Or, if you no longer trust him, you may step away."

His gaze turned solemn, his voice firmer. "But above all, Vizet — you must prioritize your own safety."

At that moment, a soft, melodious cry filled the room.

Fawkes spread his fiery wings and glided down from his perch, landing gracefully beside Vizet.

Dumbledore chuckled, stroking the phoenix's brilliant feathers. "Of course, I haven't forgotten you."

Fawkes let out another soft trill before plucking a single shimmering feather from his body.

The crimson plume drifted downward, landing gently in Vizet's palm — only to vanish the moment it touched his skin.

Startled, Vizet turned his hand over, searching for any sign of it. But there was nothing — only a lingering warmth, seeping into his palm like the embers of a dying fire.

He could feel it.

Not just warmth, but something deeper — an invisible thread of connection, a silent promise.

Dumbledore watched his reaction with quiet amusement. "It seems Fawkes has taken a liking to you."

He gestured toward Vizet's hand. "That was his mark. As long as he remains within the castle, he will be able to find you in an instant. And should you ever find yourself in danger… simply call for him."

Vizet flexed his fingers, still feeling the ghostly heat in his palm. He wasn't quite sure how he would call for Fawkes — but somehow, he knew he would understand when the time came.

Dumbledore gave him a knowing look. "You need not make a decision right away. Take your time. Should you have any doubts, my door is always open. Professor Flitwick will know the password."

But Vizet didn't hesitate.

He rose from his seat, his expression resolute, his voice unwavering. "I will keep attending Professor Quirrell's lessons. And I will do my best to change him."

For the first time that evening, Dumbledore's fingers unclasped. His expression did not change, but something in the room shifted — something subtle, something profound.

He inclined his head, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Very well."

And as he lowered his gaze, his bright blue eyes glistened — with crystal-clear films of water reflecting the candlelight.

A shimmer of emotion, hidden behind the veil of wisdom.