Vizet gave a slight bow, his voice calm but sincere. "Mr. Dumbledore, what I'm most concerned about… is how I can help."
"Ah…" Aberforth shook his head, exhaling with a kind of theatrical despair. "There it is. Just like him."
He looked at Vizet with a mixture of weariness and something softer — melancholy, maybe even reluctant admiration.
"You're like this already? Reminds me far too much of our great and noble Headmaster Dumbledore when he was young. All thoughtful, rule-bound, selfless…" He snorted. "You might even be worse — no, better. Merlin help us."
"What house were you sorted into? Gryffindor?"
"Ravenclaw," Vizet replied.
Aberforth stroked his beard and nodded slowly. "Mm. Ravenclaw fits. Makes sense, based on what he told me about you…"
Then, another sigh, heavier this time. "Well, I've already agreed, haven't I? So you'll stay. Got to not let it interfere with the bar. I run a business, not a school."
"Thank you…" Dumbledore's eyes gleamed with quiet relief. "When do you need him to start? I'll make sure he has a proper Hogsmeade pass."
"No need for that kind of red tape," Aberforth grunted, waving the suggestion away with one hand. "Rules are rules. He's not of age, so he doesn't qualify."
He leaned forward, fixing Vizet with a pointed look. "Starting next week, every Friday night. That's when I expect you here."
Then, with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, he added, "And don't count on any official pass. If you want to come, you'll have to find your own way."
------------------------------
Before proceeding, Vizet made sure to consult Professor Quirrell about the Soul Soothing draught. Only after confirming the potion had caused no lingering effects did he finally allow himself to relax and turn his full attention back to study.
In addition to reviewing his classroom lessons, Vizet carefully structured a demanding self-study schedule.
He had five notebooks in total.
Two were from the private lessons with Professor Quirrell and Professor Snape. Two more had been Christmas gifts — one from Professor Flitwick, the other from Professor McGonagall. The last was the most cryptic and possibly the most dangerous: Grindelwald's notebook.
Together, they provided a treasure trove of magical insight — enough to shape a schedule that filled every spare moment.
On Mondays, he reviewed Quirrell and Snape's materials. Tuesday nights were reserved for Quidditch training. Wednesdays, he dove into Flitwick and McGonagall's annotated notes. Thursdays, he faced the complexities of Grindelwald's arcane theories.
And Friday nights… were now reserved for the Hog's Head.
Aberforth had made it clear that this wouldn't be simple. Thankfully, Fred and George had mentioned a secret passage into Hogsmeade, and Vizet had taken careful note.
After his flying lesson on Friday, he followed the map the twins had provided, turning down a deserted corridor on the fourth floor.
There, standing with its back to the corridor and its single eye forever peering over its shoulder, was the one-eyed witch statue.
Vizet raised his wand and tapped the statue's hunched back. "Separate left and right."
With a soft click, the stone spine cracked apart. The statue's hunch split open, revealing a narrow, pitch-dark tunnel.
To be cautious, Vizet snapped his fingers — an improvised trigger. His fingers twisted, darkened, reshaping into tendrils of Devil's Snare.
He had spent the week tirelessly practicing and had finally succeeded in casting his first wandless spell:Primordial Magic: Self-Shaping (Devil's Snare)
The casting wasn't fully stable yet, so he'd assigned the gesture — snapping his fingers — as a physical conduit to invoke the transformation.
The tunnel was a slide at first, narrow and steep, until he finally landed in damp, clammy earth.
In Devil's Snare form, his heightened sensitivity allowed him to detect subtle vibrations and sounds. Slowly, carefully, he advanced through the twisting underground path, alert to his surroundings.
He visualized the map in his mind. As he passed through different magical zones, each one lit up, and he absorbed the ambient leyline energy as he moved.
The passage felt like it had been burrowed by something massive — rough, damp, and winding like the tunnels of a colossal mole.
Eventually, he reached a steep stone stairwell at the far end. It climbed upward, seemingly without end.
Still, the abundant leyline energy kept his interest sharpened and his legs moving.
After what felt like an eternity, he reached the top, where a trapdoor was embedded in the ceiling.
He extended a tendril, silently probing.
No sound. No footsteps. No one nearby.
With a quiet exhale, Vizet pushed open the trapdoor and emerged.
"Just like Fred and George said," he murmured, glancing back. "This really is the cellar of Honeydukes."
The trapdoor vanished perfectly into the wooden floor, seamless and untraceable.
After navigating the familiar streets, Vizet made his way to the back entrance of Hog's Head. He silently made his way into the dimly lit side-kitchen.
Moments later, Aberforth appeared, coated in the smell of alcohol from serving the customers.
"So," he said, voice rough and dry, "Albus must've helped you. I figured it'd take you a month to sneak your way here. How'd you do it?"
This was only Vizet's second meeting with Aberforth, and the contrast between the two Dumbledore brothers had never been clearer.
Albus was always impeccably dressed, soft-spoken, his tone filled with warmth and old-world charm. He smiled easily and exuded the effortless grace of someone used to diplomacy.
Aberforth was his mirror-opposite: disheveled, blunt, his voice gravelly, his glare sharp under thick brows that made him look perpetually irritable.
"I learned about a secret passage from a friend," Vizet said plainly.
"That close, eh?" Aberforth arched a brow. "Must be a good friend. Better than Albus ever had. Come on, follow me."
The Hog's Head was even dimmer than the Leaky Cauldron, with air thick from years of pipe smoke, animal musk, and unwashed robes.
From the direction of the bar came the grating sound of tusks grinding — an enchanted boar's head on the wall that gnawed restlessly.
Within moments of entering, Vizet could feel the stares.
A few patrons hunched in dark cloaks, eyes gleaming like coals beneath their hoods. When they realized Vizet was a child, some peeled back their hoods, revealing grins full of rotted teeth and eyes glinting with amusement — or malice.
Aberforth led him into a side room where the light was warmer. Candles ringed the walls, revealing a flour-dusted table at the center, surrounded by sacks of sugar and butter and bags of flour stacked haphazardly against the walls. It looked more like a baker's storeroom than anything else.
"This is Hog's Head, lad," Aberforth said, shutting the door behind them. "You've still got time to walk out."
He glanced toward the bar, then back. "It's not just the guests out there who are worse than Hogwarts. I am too."
Vizet didn't flinch. He lifted his chin and replied clearly, "Aberforth, what do you need me to do?"
"Don't call me 'Mr. Dumbledore'," Aberforth snapped. "Just Aberforth. I'll call you Vizet. Simple enough."
"Alright. Aberforth."
Aberforth nodded and summoned two round stools with a flick of his wand. He gestured for Vizet to sit.
From his robes, he pulled a strange parchment scroll.
It was covered in densely written, twisted characters — none of them recognizable. But together they formed a single symbol: an eye.
As Vizet stared at it, the eye on the scroll slowly opened.
And in a voice that was neither male nor female, it spoke:
"Where is your home?"