"You're a sharp one, aren't you?" Aberforth let out a hearty laugh, then grew serious. "No wonder every time Albus visits, it's always about you."
"I can't decide if you're just talented, or if you're like any other clever Ravenclaw—always ready with a cunning answer. Like those riddles at your House door."
Wyzett offered no comment, keeping his silence.
There was something strange about Aberforth—the way he used that bizarre parchment, the way he probed at Wyzett's defenses. It left him with a lingering sense of unease, a thorn lodged deep in his chest.
But it was a necessary reminder.
This was a real world—not a storybook, not a fairy tale. Real dangers lurked here.
Even without Voldemort watching him, just the crowd of wizards in the tavern's main hall was enough to make anyone wary. Few, if any, looked trustworthy.
Then there were the magical artifacts—strange and unpredictable. That parchment was proof enough.
He realized, too, that his Oculus Magicae and the volatile Obscurus inside him were both dangerous secrets—unpredictable, and sure to attract the wrong kind of attention.
In his previous life, he'd been just another orphan. Now, he had what he'd always longed for—a family.
He had more than that: professors willing to teach him everything, genuine, cheerful friends, magic, potions, Quidditch…
He didn't want to see any of it destroyed.
To protect what he cherished, he needed to become stronger. Otherwise, the visions conjured by Legilimency might one day become reality.
Wyzett exhaled, long and slow. "Aberforth, what should I do? How can I fight Voldemort?"
Aberforth snorted. "Fight Voldemort? Do you really think… a first-year could scatter a troll's ashes? Hahaha…"
"I didn't scatter ashes… but on Halloween, I dissolved a troll with magic."
"Albus never told me the full story!" Aberforth's laughter faded, replaced by a scowl. "He just said you did something remarkable that night!"
"What spell did you use? Dark magic? If an Obscurial uses dark magic, it amplifies the effect… am I right?"
Wyzett nodded. "Yes."
"I don't want the details." Aberforth fixed him with a long, searching look. "Learning Occlumency takes time. To become an Occlumens, you need either a wealth of experience, extraordinary talent, or extreme—but controlled—emotions."
He stroked his beard, rising to pace the room. "You, it seems, fall into the second category—exceptional talent."
Wyzett waited quietly, listening.
"Tch… this kid," Aberforth muttered, half-amused, half-exasperated. "From what I know of Voldemort, he's a master of Legilimency."
"In this world… there are fewer than a handful who can rival him in that art. So you're in real danger! You need another way."
"Another way?" Wyzett echoed.
"Exactly that." Aberforth nodded, a sly smile on his lips. "You need to build a maze inside your soul—a labyrinth to keep Voldemort out."
Wyzett frowned, puzzled. "What does that mean, exactly? How do I build a maze in my soul?"
Aberforth explained, "Use your happiest memories to construct the maze. Let the purest, brightest parts of yourself stand against Voldemort's evil and madness."
"And how do I actually do that?" Wyzett pressed.
With a flick of his wand, Aberforth summoned a battered book from under the table. "You already understand the theory of Occlumency, so we can skip straight to practice."
He handed the book to Wyzett. "You're a Ravenclaw—I'm sure you can figure out the rest without my help."
Wyzett opened the notebook. On the first page, neat handwriting read: To master Occlumency, one must understand and manage one's emotions, in order to control them…
Alongside the main text were concise, orderly notes in the margins. "Are these your notes?"
"Left them there myself," Aberforth said. "Back when I hadn't seen so much of the world—just some humble thoughts."
Some habits, it seemed, ran in the Dumbledore family.
Wyzett read the annotations, letting them illuminate the dense, cryptic text.
The theory became clearer, easier to grasp. It felt like studying Transfiguration Theory with Dumbledore's own notes in the margins.
He soon lost himself in the study, soaking up every detail about Occlumency.
There was no doubt—Aberforth was talented in his own right. He simply chose to hide it behind the mask of a gruff barman.
Before he knew it, he'd finished the book. He felt a deeper understanding of Occlumency settling within him.
Aberforth noticed. "So, what did you learn?"
Wyzett closed the book, thinking aloud. "The most important thing in mastering Occlumency is managing your emotions."
"You practice emptying your mind, over and over, trying to build a 'box' inside yourself—somewhere to lock your feelings away, so they don't show."
"It's a long process. You have to keep practicing, reinforcing it, until you can control your emotions reliably."
"A Legilimens creates illusions, and any emotional slip can become a weakness in your defenses."
"You have to train your sensitivity to Legilimency, so at crucial moments you can reinforce your shields and resist the illusions…"
"That's enough," Aberforth cut in, a rare note of approval in his voice. "You read well. I didn't expect you to grasp so much so quickly."
"Should we start practicing now?" Wyzett asked.
"Aren't you hungry?" Aberforth raised an eyebrow. "You must've come straight from class at Hogwarts, right?"
He didn't wait for a reply. With a casual wave of his wand, he began to chant softly, almost like humming a tune.
Ingredients for bread—flour, milk, sugar, butter, eggs—flew from the shelves to the table, swirling through the air.
"Milk flows like a stream, gently stirring, clouds of flour spinning, sugar dusting the plates, butter soft and golden, eggs bouncing with glee, warm love kneaded into the dough…"
A smile played on Aberforth's lips as the ingredients danced around him, playful as children swept up in a magical game.
"When bread is baked, wishes rise with the smoke; in magical flames, passion never dies. In the willow's dream, sweetness lingers on; a feast for all the world, an invitation to the grand banquet…"
A burst of flame appeared on the table, and the dough leapt into it—tumbling and swelling like a hippo rolling in a river, turning golden and fragrant as it baked…
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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