"You mean to drink the unicorn's blood yourself, don't you?" Wyzett's eyes narrowed, the core of his Obscurus pulsing with tension.
A dozen strategies flashed through his mind—ways to deal with Voldemort. The Ancient Magic: Purification Curse was among them; perhaps, if he struck now, it might work wonders.
But he didn't dare gamble. With Voldemort possessing Professor Quirrell, this was already the worst-case scenario. If the Purification Curse failed, it would only put Voldemort on high alert. Any future attempt, or any other plan to defeat him, would become exponentially harder.
Wyzett had plenty of resources—the warmth from his locket and the heat in his palm gave him confidence to face Voldemort head-on. But Professor Quirrell had nothing. If things went wrong, Wyzett could walk away unscathed, but Quirrell might lose his life. That was the last thing he wanted.
"You're absolutely right!" Voldemort didn't even try to deny it. "That's exactly my plan. I need to replenish my strength before I finish what I started."
"And Professor Quirrell?" Wyzett's voice was sharp, almost accusing. "He'll be the one to drink the unicorn's blood for you! That means he'll be cursed—tainted forever."
"You do know a lot, don't you?" Voldemort burst into mad laughter. "But so what? He brought this on himself. He could've asked you for a Soul-Soothing Draught, but he didn't."
"Soul-Soothing Draught?" Wyzett frowned. "You want the potion I brew?"
"Of course! Such a unique Soul-Soothing Draught… I'd love to savor it. It's even more exquisite than unicorn blood."
"So, either you keep brewing the draught for me, or I'll have Quirinus come back here another day—he'll still drink the unicorn's blood for me."
"Well? The choice is yours, my student—Wyzett Lovegood. Surely you know what to do."
"And the potion ingredients? Am I supposed to gather them myself?" Wyzett didn't agree right away. He pressed for details. "How many days do I have? What will you do with that time?"
"How cautious!" Voldemort cackled. "Wouldn't it be terribly rude for a professor to make his student bring their own supplies?"
Quirrell's body jerked like a puppet, stiffly retrieving items hidden in his robes.
Thanks to the night vision spell, Wyzett could make out everything clearly—potion ingredients, vials, even a collapsible cauldron.
It would have taken time to gather all this. Clearly, Voldemort had planned everything in advance.
Realization settled over him, and Wyzett let out a long breath. "You've been orchestrating this from the start…"
"Indeed!" Voldemort said, with a hint of pride. "My servant, Quirinus, is a little lacking in potions knowledge."
"I told him to collect the ingredients for the Soul-Soothing Draught, but he had no idea what I meant… Isn't it funny? He never wanted you involved, yet he's ended up as your accomplice."
"Perhaps he suspected something, but the agony I inflicted on his soul soon changed his mind… My student, would you like to learn a curse that makes the soul tremble?"
"No, thanks." Wyzett relaxed his clenched fists. "Where are we brewing this potion?"
"Right here," Voldemort replied, glancing around as if something had caught his interest. "I'll keep you safe for now. All you need to do is focus on your brewing."
He unfolded the cauldron and even conjured a flame, unwrapping the potion ingredients with surprising efficiency.
With things set up so thoroughly, Wyzett found no reason to refuse—but he did set a condition.
"This is an advanced potion. No outside interference. I'm sure you know that better than I do."
"Of course! While you're brewing, I'll see to it that you're protected." Voldemort raised Quirrell's wand, casting a gray magical barrier overhead—a field that radiated a chilling, deathly stillness.
"Flawless technique… Every step precise. No wonder Severus was willing to teach you this…"
"Really, we're not so different. Back in my day, professors favored me too—they were always eager to share their secrets…"
"You're an Obscurial, aren't you? Don't you want to taste even greater power? Come with me! Leave this wretched place behind…"
"Hogwarts is rotting away, student standards slipping every year. It's all the Ministry's fault…"
On and on, Voldemort talked, his words laced with temptation.
Wyzett could feel it—the subtle, insidious pull in every phrase. But his soul maze filtered out the worst of it; words alone couldn't reach him.
Voldemort seemed to sense this, murmuring, "This body is still too weak… There's so little I can do!"
"Would you mind being quiet?" Wyzett said, not looking up. "Brewing potions takes focus—at least, for me it does. Unless you'd rather risk drinking poison?"
"If you can say that, you're clearly not under my influence." Voldemort sounded almost delighted. "Your hands are steady—trivial distractions won't shake you."
"In fact, I was hoping to stir a little chaos into this batch. But it seems you're not interested in what I've said so far? No matter. Let your professor find something that truly catches your attention!"
Wyzett pursed his lips and returned his full attention to the cauldron.
To his surprise, Voldemort actually kept his word, switching topics to things Wyzett genuinely cared about.
"Wyzett, my student… Remember what I told you before? Casting magic with true ease? It's not as simple as it sounds…"
"Especially when today's professors have misled you—trapping your mind in rigid patterns, making it impossible to change your spellcasting. Achieving real 'ease' is anything but easy!"
"True ease isn't just a matter of relaxing. It's about integrating everything you know—your magical knowledge, your understanding of the world, all of it…"
Wyzett clenched his teeth—this time, he was truly affected. Even his movements slowed.
He despised Voldemort, but the knowledge pouring from him was irresistible.
Voldemort's infamy was legendary. In the British wizarding world, most witches and wizards wouldn't even dare speak his name, fearing it might summon disaster.
When they needed to refer to him, they'd whisper "You-Know-Who" or "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."
To inspire such nameless terror, Voldemort's magical brilliance was beyond question.
And so, every insight, every theory that spilled from his lips—each was a gem, echoing with the weight of true mastery…
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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