Hogsmeade was more vibrant than Vizet had imagined.
Diagon Alley might be the commercial heart of wizarding Britain, but Hogsmeade was something else entirely — a true wizarding village, where shops and homes were woven together in a way that breathed magic into daily life.
The streets bustled with activity. Robed residents ambled about, exchanging cheerful greetings and gossiping over the latest headlines from the Daily Prophet.
"This way," Dumbledore murmured, his voice low.
Vizet trailed closely as they entered a dingy, somewhat shabby-looking bar. A battered sign creaked in the wind above the entrance, bearing the faded image of a blood-smeared pig's head.
"We're headed to the back," Dumbledore added lightly, circling the perimeter of the establishment.
Behind the pub, a hulking wine barrel was built into the wall. Dumbledore stepped past it and pushed open the back door. A wave of gamey mutton odour rushed out to meet them.
Beyond that came the muffled clamour of voices — raucous shouting, coarse swearing, the smash of breaking glass and the thud of chairs tipping over.
"We'll wait upstairs," Dumbledore said, extending two fingers in a casual flick. With a rustle and groan, the crates and barrels stacked against an inner door slid aside.
No wand had touched them.
Silent casting and wandless magic — undeniably impressive.
Vizet's thoughts turned to Professor Flitwick's notes. His study of the material had granted him a working understanding of the mechanics behind silent casting, but he knew he had a long way to go. Replicating the results of that near-silent Transfiguration he'd performed on Christmas Eve still felt out of reach.
Then again, Transfiguration was uniquely suited to intuitive casting. Among the magical disciplines, it required the least reliance on spoken incantation. In Transfiguration, the spell was often more a focusing device than a strict magical trigger — a verbal cue designed to anchor intention and guide willpower into form.
That was why spells like Self-Shaping worked as well as they did. They didn't operate on fixed words, but on mental precision and understanding.
The building's structure reminded Vizet a bit of the Leaky Cauldron: a pub on the ground floor, a handful of guest rooms upstairs.
Dumbledore seemed entirely at home. He led the way with practiced ease, cancelled Vizet's Disillusionment Charm with a tap, and set about making tea and unwrapping a lemon sherbet as though he'd just stepped into his own living room.
"Come, sit," he said cheerfully, gesturing at a chair. "No need to be stiff about things. It's a cozy place once you get used to the smell."
Vizet nodded and took his seat, lifting a steaming cup and blowing gently on the surface. "Professor Dumbledore… may I ask what we're doing here?"
Dumbledore held out a lemon sherbet and replied in a mild voice, "Do you remember Occlumency?"
"I do," Vizet answered, accepting the candy. "Professor Quirrell once suggested I study it. He said it might help reduce the effects of black magic on an Obscurus."
"A very advanced branch of magical discipline," Dumbledore mused, fingers idly stroking his beard. "With surprising applications. How much do you know so far?"
"I've only been able to look up a few books in the library," Vizet admitted. "There's not much recorded. From what I gathered, Occlumency is a form of mental shielding — it closes the mind, resists magical intrusions, and protects against enchantments that influence thought."
"Useful, isn't it?" Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling.
Just then, another voice cut in from the doorway.
"A skilled Occlumens — if properly prepared — can even resist a Stunning Spell."
The door opened, and in stepped a tall, bearded man with streaks of flour dusting his coat. His long grey beard brushed his chest, and he carried himself with a blunt, no-nonsense energy.
"I didn't think you'd come here so early," the man said, his voice gruff.
Vizet's eyes widened. He looked from the newly arrived wizard to the Dumbledore beside him — and then back again.
------------------------------
Aside from the rougher voice and a few bloodstains at his cuffs, the figure was nearly identical. What little of his face wasn't buried beneath that wild grey beard mirrored the Dumbledore Vizet knew.
How could they look so alike?
Perhaps sensing Vizet's scrutiny, the man dragged out a chair, slumped into it, and introduced himself without preamble.
"My name's Aberforth Dumbledore. The lesser-known, uncelebrated younger brother of your revered and illustrious Headmaster."
His tone carried the same dry edge Vizet had often heard in Professor Snape's voice — biting, half-sarcastic, the sort that hinted at more than it said.
"He isn't unknown," Albus replied, still smiling. "He's simply content with the life he's built. He's helped me more times than I can count, and for that, I'm deeply grateful."
"I don't need your sugarcoating," Aberforth snapped, lifting his chin with a kind of defiant pride. He turned to Vizet, his eyes sharp and probing.
He rolled up his stained sleeves, tugged at his greasy collar, and brandished the dusty rag he'd stuffed into his belt.
"See for yourself, boy. I'm a barkeep. The Hog's Head isn't like the Three Broomsticks. It's not polished. It's not respectable. Best brace yourself."
Albus's smile remained unchanged. "Every wizard's path is their own, and magic has many branches. Some of the most remarkable journeys begin in places others overlook."
Aberforth snorted. "So tell me — did you bring him here, or did he bring you?" His voice sharpened as he turned back to his brother. "Why not let him decide for himself for once? Why is it always your plan, your choice, your way? It was like this then. It's still like this now. How many lives do you think you have the right to control?"
Dumbledore's smile faded.
He drew a slow breath, weariness slipping into his features like a shadow, and murmured, "You're right… Vizet. You tell me."
Aberforth's jaw tightened. His breathing grew heavier. Every so often, he flicked a glance toward Albus — restless, uncertain, as if daring himself to speak again.
Vizet watched them both, his curiosity piqued.
Something ran beneath their words — beneath the tension, the old frustration — something deeper. A shared past neither could outrun. He noticed the subtle shifts in expression, the things left unsaid. There was a wound between them, not fresh but not healed, like flesh long scarred and never fully closed.
They were like conjoined twins: inseparable by blood, bound by shared history, and constantly tormented by the jagged scar that connected them.
And still, Albus clearly trusted Aberforth. He'd defended him without hesitation. But Aberforth didn't want smoothing-over or softened words. He cut through the pretense, insisting that truth be seen — by others and by Albus alike.
"Boy, I don't have all day," Aberforth growled. "Say what you really think."
Vizet rose slowly, the weight of the moment not lost on him. But his thoughts kept turning.
He had reflected on much over the holidays — conversations with Luna, quiet hours in the common room, and long walks beneath the snowy sky. His perspective had shifted, just a little.
Where wasn't there learning to be found?
Even outside the walls of Hogwarts, even without formal instruction, one could gather wisdom from the world.
And this meeting, unexpected as it was, felt like more than coincidence.
Maybe it was a kind of lesson.