"You're a sharp one," Aberforth chuckled, then his grin faded as he straightened his expression. "No wonder Albus only ever drops by when it's about you."
"I can't tell whether it's genuine talent or just classic Ravenclaw trickery — knowing how to phrase an answer just right, like solving one of those riddle-door passwords."
Vizet gave no reply. He simply watched Aberforth with calm eyes.
There was something about the old man — an uneasy contradiction. That strange parchment, for instance. It still left a prickle under Vizet's skin, like a thorn lodged deep. But the encounter had also shaken him awake.
This was no fairy tale.
Not a children's book with tidy endings and predictable villains. This was a real world — with real danger.
Voldemort had already turned his gaze toward him. That alone was terrifying. But even among the bar's rough patrons, likely only a few could be called innocent.
And then there were magical objects — like that accursed scroll — that could pry into one's mind or manipulate emotions.
Worse still, Vizet realized he himself was becoming a source of instability.
The Eye of Insight. The unpredictable Obscurus. Powers that could spiral out of control — and attract the kind of attention he didn't want.
In his past life, he was just a boy from an orphanage.
Now, he had the very thing he'd once dreamed of: a family.
More than that — he had professors who poured their hearts into teaching him. Friends who were warm and genuine. A world filled with wonder: magic, potions, Quidditch...
He would not allow those precious things to be taken away.
He needed power — more power. Otherwise, the nightmare vision shown to him by Legilimency could become reality.
Vizet took a deep breath and looked Aberforth in the eye. "What should I do?" he asked. "To fight Voldemort?"
Aberforth barked a short laugh. "Fight Voldemort?" His grin turned scornful. "You think a first-year could take on anything? Let alone him? Can you even handle a troll?"
"I probably couldn't restrain a troll," Vizet said steadily. "But on Halloween, I did used magic to dissolve one."
Aberforth's laughter died mid-chuckle. His face stiffened.
"So that's what happened. Albus never told me the full story — just said you did something… impressive."
His eyes narrowed. "What kind of magic did you use? Something dark, I assume? If the Obscurus cast black magic, the effects would've been… enhanced. Am I right?"
Vizet nodded. "Yes."
Aberforth raised a hand. "That's enough. I don't want to know the rest."
He studied Vizet in silence, then muttered, "Learning Occlumency takes time."
"To become a true Occlumens, you need one of three things: rich life experience, exceptional talent, or extreme — but controllable — emotion."
He scratched his beard, rising to pace the room. "You're the second type. Natural talent."
Vizet remained quiet, waiting.
"Tch… stubborn brat," Aberforth muttered, half amused, half exasperated. "Look, based on everything I know about Voldemort, he's a master Legilimens."
"And in the entire world," he continued, "you could probably count the number of people who can match him in that field in one hand. So your situation? Extremely dangerous."
"You'll have to find another path."
Vizet's eyes sharpened. "Another path?"
"Create a new path — literally," Aberforth said, nodding with a crooked smile after hearing Vizet's question. "You need to build a labyrinth within your soul, something Voldemort can't so easily pierce."
Vizet blinked. "Er... a labyrinth inside the soul? To stop Voldemort?"
Aberforth folded his arms. "Use your most beautiful memories to construct a maze. Let the purest parts of your heart — your love, your joy, your hope — become walls to confuse and block the madness and malice that drives Voldemort."
"What exactly should I do?" Vizet asked, straightening slightly.
Aberforth flicked his wand, and a thick, worn book floated down from the top of a shelf and landed with a soft thump. "You've already grasped the concept of Occlumency well enough. I'll spare you the lecture and take you straight to practice."
He handed Vizet the book. "You're Ravenclaw. I expect you can understand it without me spelling it out, eh?"
Vizet opened it. The first page read:
To successfully practice Occlumency, you must first understand your own emotions. Only by managing and mastering them can you shield your mind and achieve true control.
Below the printed text, additional lines had been written in a neat, restrained hand. "These... these notes —" he began.
"My own," Aberforth said simply. "Back before I'd been through half the things I have now. Just the musings of a younger, more naive me."
It struck Vizet how oddly similar the two Dumbledores were in their habits.
With the help of Aberforth's commentary, even the most obscure parts of the book became clearer — just as Dumbledore's notes had illuminated Theories of Metamorphosis and Transformation.
Before long, Vizet found himself drawn fully into the study. The ideas in the book weren't just theoretical — they were alive, echoing with meaning.
Aberforth watched from across the room, quietly noting the flicker of focus in the boy's eyes.
When Vizet finally closed the book, Aberforth asked, "So? What have you taken from it?"
Vizet thought for a moment, then replied slowly, "To master Occlumency, the core is emotional discipline. You have to learn to empty your mind and train constantly — build a kind of... box... to contain your emotions, so they don't leak out."
He paused to gather his thoughts. "It takes time — long-term effort — to maintain that kind of stability. Legilimency creates illusions, and any emotional disturbance becomes a crack in your defense."
"But if you learn to sense those moments — build awareness — you can anticipate the intrusion and reinforce your Occlumency before the illusion takes hold."
"Not bad," Aberforth interrupted, raising his brows in approval. "Didn't expect you to absorb all that so quickly."
"Should we start practicing now?" Vizet asked.
Aberforth blinked, then smirked. "Aren't you hungry?"
Vizet hesitated. "I guess… I did come straight after class."
Without waiting for permission, Aberforth waved his wand and began humming as he summoned ingredients from the shelf.
The ingredients obeyed as though they were old friends. With a flick of his wand, Aberforth began to chant — his tone warm and almost reverent, like an old hymn spoken in a forgotten tongue:
"Milk flows gently, a whispering stream,Flour drifts softly like clouds in a dream.Sugar falls lightly, a powdered delight,Butter melts golden, eggs leap to flight.Warmth from the heart shapes tender the dough,In love it is kneaded, with magic aglow…"
A smile curled on his lips. The ingredients twirled through the air like playful sprites, dancing to the rhythm of his incantation.
Then, as the dough took form and rose in the air, he chanted again — his voice rich with an old bard's cadence:
"When bread is baked, and wishes rise high,Smoke curling upward, a feast to the sky.In magical flames where dreams softly spin,Passion ignites as joy swells within.Through willowed woods and memory's gleam,Sweetness endures like a golden dream.To tables of plenty, the kindred draw near,All folk are welcome, all hearts gather here."
With a whoosh, a golden flame bloomed on the table. The dough dove into it joyfully, flipping and rolling like a playful hippogriff in a lake, swelling and crisping until the air filled with a rich, toasty aroma.