After gathering every trace of ancient magic he could find, Wyzett finally made his way to the Great Hall.
This time, he channeled that power directly into his Oculus Magicae—the Eye of Magic. Although still in its infancy, the Eye had awakened a new ability: magical circuits within materials now shimmered before his eyes, their flows and patterns as clear as ink on parchment.
As Wyzett approached the Ravenclaw table, a wave of cold hostility radiated from the Slytherin side.
"I heard from Miss Parkinson he's an Obscurial—supposedly extremely dangerous? He looks harmless enough. Not bad-looking, either."
"That's just his face. Get a Healer to do some permanent Transfiguration, and you could look however you want."
"Not for me, thanks! End up in St. Mungo's if it goes wrong—permanent Transfiguration is risky business..."
"If this ticking time-bomb loses it in class, we'll all go down with him! Why did Dumbledore let him in?"
"It's way too dangerous! I don't want to die. People like that belong in Azkaban—let the Dementors give him a kiss!"
"Exactly. Azkaban's where dangerous freaks like that should be!"
The Slytherins made no effort to keep their voices down. It was as if they wanted the entire Hall to know: he's an Obscurial, a threat.
Wyzett met their malice with a faint, unbothered smile. He felt nothing.
He'd grown up in an orphanage, accustomed to whispers, stares, and outright bullying because of his background. By the time he set foot in Hogwarts, he'd already built armor against rumors and suspicion.
What did surprise him, though, was how little the other Houses seemed to care. Only Slytherin was obsessed with his supposed danger. Everyone else was busy chattering about Harry Potter, the "Boy Who Lived."
A boy with a sharp nose and long black hair slid onto the bench beside him. "Knew I'd find you at breakfast."
"Chris said the Gryffindor upper-years dragged you off. I was about to ask Prefect Penelope for help."
"Michael, you just want an excuse to talk to Penelope because you fancy her," said Chris, a brown-haired boy, grinning as he sat across from them.
"Morning!" called a blond boy. "Why are your books so tiny? Are those deluxe editions?"
"Morning, Anthony," Wyzett replied. "Not deluxe—just copied out by hand. Luna did the illustrations and covers for me."
"Morning, Wyzett!" Another brown-haired boy appeared, frowning. "Luna? Is that a girl?"
"Morning, Terry. Yes, she's my little sister."
Chris Mohn, Anthony Goldstein, Michael Corner, and Terry Boot—all four were his roommates.
"Such a thoughtful sister! Mine just cries all day..." Terry sighed, sounding a little jealous.
"Will your sister come to Hogwarts?" Chris leaned in, curious.
"Definitely," Wyzett said with a smile. "We'll see each other next year."
"A sister who draws for her brother—what a perfect life," Chris said wistfully.
"His life's perfect, but what about us?" Michael groaned. "Our first class is Potions!"
Snape's reputation clearly preceded him. None of the new students had even set foot in his classroom, yet they were already nervous.
Still, they gathered their books and headed down to the dungeons.
The Potions classroom was a place apart—broad as a medieval monastery, dim as a crypt. Sparse torches flickered along the stone walls, barely pushing back the gloom.
Even before they entered, a chill seemed to seep from the doorway.
The room itself was lined with towering shelves, each crammed with glass jars. In the wavering firelight, it was impossible to tell what strange, foul-smelling things floated inside.
Terry leaned in for a closer look, then recoiled in horror. "Merlin! Are those animal specimens? Why are they all so... weird?"
"They're magical creatures," Wyzett explained, peering into the jars. "Those transparent, furry ones are Demiguises. The snaky things with bird heads are Occamies."
Luna adored Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them—it was the first Hogwarts book Wyzett had read cover to cover. With so many well-preserved specimens, identifying them was second nature.
His matter-of-fact tone left his friends speechless.
"No wonder you're a Hatstall," Terry said, shaking his head. "You know everything!"
"Fantastic Beasts is fun. I just read it a few extra times," Wyzett replied.
"It's more than that, isn't it?" Chris cut in. "Didn't you say you copied down all the textbooks?"
"Really?" Michael scratched his head. "How did I miss that?"
"Your brain's full of pretty Prefect Penelope," Chris teased. "No wonder you don't notice anything else!"
The classroom's long tables were scarred and pitted, burned and corroded by countless magical mishaps.
Ravenclaws, always early, filled the room first—but no one dared sit near the front. Snape's reputation kept them at a safe distance.
"Wyzett, aren't you going to sit further back?" Terry asked.
Wyzett shook his head. "The light's better up here. I'd rather see what I'm doing."
"Impressive," Anthony said sincerely. "There's a reason you know so much already."
"Yeah," Michael agreed. "Facing Professor Snape head-on takes brains—and guts."
Wyzett chuckled. "It's not that dramatic. I just want to learn. Besides, none of you have actually met Professor Snape yet. Why are you so scared?"
This Potions class was shared with Hufflepuff, and the room soon filled up. Yet even as more students arrived, everyone crowded toward the back, leaving the front row empty.
Five minutes before class, the seat beside Wyzett was still vacant.
Then, just as the bell was about to ring, a girl with two golden braids hurried in. Every other seat near the front was taken, so she had no choice but to sit beside him.
It was Hannah Abbott—the first student sorted last night.
She wiped the sweat from her cheeks, fumbled with her books, and finally let out a breath of relief.
At that moment, Snape swept in, black robes billowing like a great bat. He mounted the dais and looked down at the class, his gaze settling on the flushed Hannah.
"Hufflepuff, minus one point. Nearly late to your very first class—how dare you?"
Hannah ducked her head, shoulders shaking. Her face turned scarlet, and she looked ready to burst into tears.
The rest of the students froze, the classroom as silent as a tomb.
"Roll call," Snape announced, voice cold and clipped. "Hannah Abbott!"
"H-here!"
He rattled through the names at breakneck speed. Everyone snapped to attention, shouting "here" the instant their name was called.
"Good. Only one fool today," Snape said, his tone softening—if only a fraction.
"As beginners, if you can't manage basic punctuality, my advice is to leave now—before you endanger yourselves or anyone else."
"Potions is a discipline of precision and rigor. Within a bubbling cauldron lies both destruction and rebirth."
"I don't expect you to understand the true allure of Potions, or what it can bring you..."
"All you need to do is follow my instructions exactly. Mimic every step. Wealth, fame, and honor—these are yours for the taking."
No wonder students feared Snape. In this classroom, he was king; the Potions dungeon, his throne room. Here, he controlled everything—including the students themselves.
After that chilling introduction, he didn't launch into the lesson. Instead, his gaze flicked to Wyzett.
"Mr. Lovegood, are you without a textbook? Or have you brought a picture book to my class? This is not an art lesson."
~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~
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