Vizet sat in a daze, lost in thought — until the smell reached him.
It was subtle at first, a faint warmth curling in the air, then stronger: the irresistible aroma of freshly baked bread, sweet and earthy and alive. It made his stomach stir and his throat tighten in reflex.
"You must be starving," Aberforth's voice broke through gently. "Come on, have a bite."
A piece of bread floated before him, cradled in candlelight. The golden crust shimmered with a soft glow, casting warm shadows on the old wooden table.
Vizet reached out and took it in his hands. The crust gave a delicate crackle as he pressed it lightly. He tore off a piece, and steam billowed out, carrying a rich, nutty scent that rushed to his nose and settled deep in his chest.
He inhaled slowly. Then took a bite.
The contrast startled him — crisp on the outside, soft and airy within. The subtle sweetness of wheat mingled with a buttery depth, melting gently on his tongue. His eyes fluttered shut, savoring it.
But it wasn't just flavor. There was something else, something that bloomed quietly in his chest.
Warmth.
Not just the warmth of food, but the warmth of home. Familiarity. Safety. As if someone had poured kindness directly into the dough.
If only there were a few slices of Gurdyroot and a dash of Dirigible Plum... it would really taste like home.
The loaf was larger than both his palms, yet he finished it without realizing, and still felt like licking the crumbs from his fingers.
"This," Aberforth said, chewing noisily on his own piece of bread, "is my answer to the question of wizards and magic."
He swallowed and gave a crooked grin. "To me, the true wizards are the ones who master the magic of life. They use their gifts to create, to nurture, to bring comfort. That's real magic — not just reaching a goal, but doing it in a way only a wizard can."
He thumped his chest. "What you just felt in that bread — that warmth? That's the emotion I baked into it."
He wiped a few crumbs from his beard and leaned forward on the stool, more serious now. "That's also how the Soul Labyrinth works. You use your emotions — positive emotions — to defend your soul. That's how you keep Voldemort out."
The method stood in contrast to traditional Occlumency.
Occlumency required emotional suppression. One had to seal away all feeling, because any trace of it could be an illusion — a fabrication drawn out by a skilled Legilimens.
By burying emotion, one created a blank slate, leaving the attacker with nothing to grasp. It was subtle and precise, like covering up a window so convincingly that the attacker never knew a window existed.
But the Soul Labyrinth worked in the opposite way.
It didn't hide feelings — it amplified them. Bright memories, strong attachments, love, joy, laughter—these were used as bricks to build the maze. A magical barrier that wasn't cold or hidden, but radiant, sprawling, defiant.
Any Legilimens who tried to enter had to navigate the winding paths of that maze. And while it didn't stop them entirely, it delayed them. This bought time and gave warnings to the wizard.
Vizet listened intently.
Occlumency, he now understood, was like a locked vault hidden in the earth — sophisticated, invisible, deceptive. If performed perfectly, even a master Legilimens might mistake illusion for truth.
The Soul Labyrinth, by contrast, was an open declaration: I know you're trying to break in. I'm not letting you through easily.
Though it lacked Occlumency's subtlety, its construction was faster, its defense immediate. And for someone in Vizet's position, exposed and hunted, it was the best start.
A stopgap, perhaps. But a powerful one.
What he needed now was time — to erect the labyrinth quickly, and to begin training in Occlumency at the same time.
A layered defense.
A soul not only shielded — but fortified.
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"I asked you to think of happy memories — so why are your ears turning red?" Aberforth teased from across the room, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Can't be the bread, can it? Or did you eat too much and now you're blushing from guilt?"
His voice was thick with amusement, the kind that old men wore like a well-used cloak.
"I'm really curious now… What exactly are you thinking about? Maybe I should find that old parchment scroll again…"
Vizet, who had been quietly replaying the Christmas holiday in his mind, snapped out of it with a jolt. Without thinking, he raised his wand. "Nox!"
The candlelight around him vanished in an instant.
With a sharp snap of his fingers, tendrils of Devil's Snare rushed from Vizet's hand, writhing toward Aberforth like serpents. They twisted around him, binding his arms and torso in a tangled, thorny grip.
But Aberforth responded just as fast. A ball of fire burst to life above his shoulder, hovering in the dark. It crackled with heat and light, casting shadows across the walls.
The Devil's Snare shriveled the moment it felt the heat, recoiling rapidly and retreating into Vizet's palm.
Aberforth raised his eyebrows. "Human Transfiguration magic? How many surprises are you hiding, boy?"
He shook his head in disbelief and chuckled to himself. "No wonder Albus has gone completely rogue lately — abandoning his usual stiff self and getting all sentimental. So it's you. Now it all makes sense…"
He began rambling, half to himself, half to Vizet, as if something inside him had loosened. Tales and complaints about Dumbledore spilled out — half-affectionate, half-mocking.
"Albus says you're dependable," he muttered, peering at Vizet from beneath bushy eyebrows. "I suppose you won't go tattling if I let a few things slip?"
Vizet stayed perfectly calm. "I'll keep it secret."
Aberforth groaned dramatically. "Boring…" Then, more seriously: "We'll stop here for today. You've managed to stir emotions through bread alone — and your progress has exceeded anything I expected."
Even as he returned to Hogwarts that evening, Vizet's ears still felt warm.
You can place emotions into food...
If he could truly learn this kind of magic, maybe he could recreate it at home during the summer — something to share with the people he loved.
In the days that followed, as Vizet continued to build his Soul Labyrinth, his mood subtly changed. Everything at Hogwarts seemed brighter, more vivid, as if the world itself were inviting him to notice its beauty.
That, too, was part of the labyrinth.
To construct it, he had to gather the most meaningful, most beautiful pieces of his life — memories, feelings, attachments — and use them as bricks to shape his defenses.
And at the heart of it all, the labyrinth needed a core.
The deeper and more vivid that core, the easier it would be to build around it, to expand it, and to fortify the soul against invasion.
For Vizet, there was no question what that core would be: the enchanted car-turned-castle, the magic garden, the warmth of the people who lived there, and everything that had happened over Christmas.
He found himself silently grateful to Snape for his letter. Without it, he might never have truly let himself enjoy that holiday. He might have remained tangled in anxiety, missing the moments that became the very heart of his defense.
That memory — whole and unspoiled — became the anchor of the Soul Labyrinth.
Meanwhile, Aberforth encouraged Vizet to spend time outside the practice room, sitting near the bar to absorb the atmosphere and listen to the patrons' tales.
The Hog's Head was, as always, a den of oddities.
The patrons were loud, colorful, and wildly unpredictable. They swore in nearly every sentence — "Damn" every three words, "Shit" every five — and were somehow both rude and endearing.
But if you ignored the language, their outrageous stories — half lies, half drunken dreams — were oddly charming. Vizet even began jotting them down. With a bit of polish, they might be worth submitting to The Quibbler.
And it wasn't just storytelling.
The guests, once inebriated enough, often broke into duels at the drop of a hat. Disagreements escalated rapidly into wand fights, while the rest of the bar either ducked for cover or cheered them on, placing bets and shouting insults.
Aberforth never interfered — at least, not right away.
Only when spells began damaging the bar itself would he lazily flick his wand, disarm the offenders, and demand payment for repairs. With interest.
But Vizet was observing closely.
The duels themselves were chaotic, yes, but they were also informative. The insults hurled across the room weren't random — they were designed to rattle the opponent, to draw out rash decisions.
Mental interference, Vizet realized, was as important as magical strength.
In a duel, the first one to lose their temper often became the first to fall.
And that, too, became part of his training — not just mastering spells, but learning how to keep his mind still, even in the storm.