Spring had come to the Scottish Highlands, sunlight warming the ancient stones of Hogwarts as exam season arrived. Despite the bustle, Wyzett's days remained as full as ever—he kept up with every lesson, and his study of nonverbal spellcasting had begun to bear fruit.
Plenty had happened in the meantime.
Harry, Hermione, Ron, Neville, and Draco had all been caught by Filch during a midnight escapade. Each of them lost fifty house points.
When Wyzett heard the news, a chill ran down his spine. Every Friday night, he himself returned late to Hogwarts—technically breaking the rules, too. Maybe it was Dumbledore's silent protection, but Filch had never troubled him.
Still, the incident was a warning. On his way back to the dormitory, Wyzett became even more cautious, determined not to get caught by the infamous caretaker. He had no quarrel with Filch, but if Fred and George were to be believed, the man was not to be trifled with.
He crept down a deserted corridor, mind occupied with thoughts of his soul maze. Every happy memory he could summon had been transformed into positive emotion, filling the labyrinth within his mind. According to Aberforth, completing such a feat in mere months was nothing short of extraordinary.
Suddenly, footsteps echoed behind him.
It might be Filch making his nightly rounds. Instinctively, Wyzett quickened his pace, eager to slip away before trouble found him.
He'd barely taken two steps when a cold, guttural voice rasped from the shadows. "Quirinus, aren't you going to greet your star pupil?"
Wyzett's heart lurched. Professor Quirrell? But… whose voice was that?
A strangled gasp echoed through the hall. Quirrell, pale as death and swaddled in oversized robes, staggered into view, blocking Wyzett's path.
"Professor Quirrell, are you—?"
A shrill, mocking cackle erupted—from the back of Quirrell's head. "Wyzett Lovegood, I'm your real professor! Understand?"
The moment Wyzett heard that voice, he guessed its source. He kept his composure, replying softly, "Everything I've learned, Professor Quirrell taught me. He's my professor."
"Oh, how moving! I almost drowned in my own tears!" the voice sneered.
A sickly green-black light flickered, enveloping Quirrell's face. He collapsed, convulsing. Wyzett stepped forward, alarmed. "What are you doing to him?!"
"Nothing at all," came the cold reply, as the magic continued to torment Quirrell.
"I know all about you, Wyzett Lovegood. So talented in every way, favored by every professor… In fact, we're not so different."
Wyzett clenched his fists, but kept his voice steady. "How could I be like someone who won't even give his name?"
"Won't give my name? Hahaha!" The laughter was harsh, echoing off the stone. "It's you lot who don't dare say it! Isn't that right?"
"Voldemort, isn't it?" Wyzett exhaled, slow and deep.
Voldemort—possessing Quirrell. The worst possible scenario.
Just then, heat flared from the locket at his chest. His palm, too, grew warm—the gentle reassurance of Fawkes.
A good sign. Fawkes was watching over him, which meant perhaps Dumbledore was, too.
"You dare speak my name? But you're still just a student—there's plenty of room for… correction." Voldemort seemed to muse aloud, withdrawing the green-black light from Quirrell's face.
"Professor Quirrell, are you alright?" Wyzett rushed forward, helping him to his feet.
"Oh, thank you so much for helping my servant up!" Voldemort jeered.
Quirrell had slumped into unconsciousness, yet some dark magic kept him upright, moving him like a puppet.
Voldemort continued, "Wyzett Lovegood, it seems my servant is indisposed tonight… but I have business to attend to. Why don't you take his place?"
Wyzett's voice was icy. "Do I have a choice?"
He noticed that green-black light still coiling around Quirrell's neck—a silent threat.
"Very clever." Voldemort's laugh was like a knife scraping bone. "You'll go first. We're headed to the Forbidden Forest."
Lips pressed tight, Wyzett walked on in silence, senses straining for any sign of help. Tonight, Hogwarts seemed eerily quiet—not even Filch was in sight.
They crossed the wide lawns. At last, Wyzett spotted Filch—and not just him. Harry, Ron, Neville… five students in all, trailing behind the caretaker.
Following their direction, Wyzett realized their destination: the Forbidden Forest.
Detention for their nighttime adventure? Hannah had mentioned it a few days ago. Now it made sense.
"What's wrong, Wyzett Lovegood? Don't like the look of that decrepit old caretaker? Or those five little brats?" Voldemort's voice slithered through his mind.
"Why not follow your instincts—kill them? You've learned plenty of Dark Magic; surely you can find something suitable. Go on, put your knowledge to use!"
"A Wasting Curse could turn them into fertilizer for the grass. Just imagine—enriching the lawns of Hogwarts. Wouldn't that be perfect? It might even improve the grounds…"
Wyzett could feel something—some insidious force—trying to worm its way into his mind, his very soul.
But the soul maze he'd built repelled it. The darkness faded, unable to find purchase.
He pressed his lips together and hurried on, making for the forest.
Faintly, he heard Harry and Ron calling his name.
To avoid any accidents, Wyzett skirted around Hagrid's hut, choosing to slip into the Forbidden Forest from the opposite side.
"You really do have potential, Wyzett Lovegood!" Voldemort's laugh was jagged, inhuman. "Deliberately avoiding that oaf—so clever!"
"Really, you shouldn't repress yourself so much… You ought to learn to unleash your true nature, to let out the darkness inside. Suppress yourself too long, and you'll never realize your full magical power. Don't you see?"
"Oh? I'm not sure I follow," Wyzett replied, voice even.
"Aren't you an Obscurial? That's what comes of suppressing magic—stifling your gifts," Voldemort said offhandedly. "Why do you think Hogwarts exists?"
"It's to help you release your talent, stop holding back your magic, learn to control it, to master the art of letting your power flow. Only then can you truly wield your abilities."
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