Previously, when Vizette had practiced mental magic, the focus had always been on himself. Helping Hagrid sort through his memories offered a fresh angle, deepening his grasp of the art.
Once the relevant fragments were organized, Vizette opened his eyes. He captured the lingering sensations and jotted down every insight in his notebook—notes to revisit later, sparking new connections.
The process had dragged on, leaving even Hagrid drowsy. He pulled knitting needles and yarn from his pocket, settling into a half-hearted scarf project.
Spotting him scribbling, he chuckled. "You're a right diligent one! No wonder Professor McGonagall and the others sing your praises. Harry and his lot mention you every time they drop by."
"It's just a different way to learn," Vizette replied, tucking the notebook away. "Writing it down makes reviewing easier."
"Ravenclaw through and through," Hagrid muttered, shaking his head as he stuffed the scarf back into his pocket.
Vizette's eye twitched at the sight of a live owl poking from Hagrid's moleskin coat, feathers ruffled like a grumpy morning riser. Before it could hoot, Hagrid clapped the pocket shut.
Not an unusual sight—Vizette recalled the coat's usual menagerie: copper kettle, fire poker, dog biscuits, and more.
Hagrid leaned in. "Vizette, is it... all sorted now?"
He shook his head. "I've bundled the key memories, but there's one final step."
"Just one more!" Hagrid rubbed his hands eagerly. "Let's crack on—you can head back to bed sooner."
Through his studies, Vizette had woven the mental spells he'd mastered, drawing on Quirrell's lessons in composite magic to craft a rudimentary Guardian Spell.
He raised his wand to Hagrid's temple, murmuring the incantation to seal the Riddle Charm.
"Knowing the truth, I remain silent."
A silver gleam flickered over Hagrid's head, vanishing as swiftly as it came.
Hagrid blinked, dazed. "That it? All done?"
"Yes." Vizette nodded. "Hagrid, tell me—how did you find Professor Snape and pull him from the Whomping Willow?"
"What're you on about?" Hagrid's voice caught, but his beady eyes sparkled. "Merlin's beard! It's brilliant—I nearly spilled it without a second thought! I was dead set on answering you!"
Vizette waved it off. "It's got room for tweaks. The spell only blocks active disclosures. Mind control, truth serum, or dodgy artifacts could crack it wide open."
"Still, it's wizardry beyond most your age," Hagrid boomed, unreserved in his admiration. "I don't know how to repay you..."
---
Back in Ravenclaw Tower, thoughts of Snape crept into Vizette's mind unbidden. Hagrid's memories had peeled back layers of Hogwarts' history, revealing a school once seething with tensions—a tinderbox ready to ignite.
To keep the peace, Dumbledore had juggled fragile balances, inevitably bruising some in the process. Snape was a prime example.
Vizette knew bullying's sting all too well. He could slip into young Snape's shoes, imagining his own fierce retaliation. James had undoubtedly saved his life that night, but Padfoot's prank—thrusting Snape toward mortal peril—had sparked the mess. Admitting a debt to his tormentors? Unthinkable.
Dumbledore, prioritizing the school's fragile calm, had cornered Snape with no gentle hand, leveraging his fears. The boy had few options but to swallow it.
Even through Hagrid's lens, Vizette felt the raw resentment pulsing from that full-moon memory. Immersing in Snape's own recollections must have been agony...
The weight of it gnawed at him, twisting his gut.
He ascended to Ravenclaw Tower, but the bronze knocker on the eagle doorstop stirred to life with a riddle's lilt.
"I hide between day and night, silent yet the best proof of strength. Unhurried and patient, I endure until darkness yields to light."
The answer was straightforward, open to interpretation. But one possibility struck Vizette like a hex.
Staring at the knocker, he whispered, "I don't want to endure this anymore..."
Abandoning the tower, he bolted down a side corridor toward the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office.
Panting before the stone beast, he racked his brain for the password.
"Sherbet Lemon?"
A holdover from last term, but the gargoyle didn't budge.
"Cockroach Clusters?"
"Sour Popping Candy?"
"Sherbet lemons?"
"Peppermint Toads?"
"Coconut ice cream?"
"Pumpkin pie?"
"Pineapple preserves?"
Dumbledore's sweet tooth guided her guesses—candies, confections, treats.
"Toffee finger biscuits?"
The statue creaked to life, stretching and sidestepping to unveil the spiraling stair.
Vizette dashed up, rapping lightly on the office door.
"Headmaster Dumbledore, sorry to disturb you so late... Can I come in?"
Silence stretched. No reply.
The rush had ebbed, clarity returning. He pieced together his impulsive flight.
"He's not here," she murmured, then froze. "Wait—something's off. Are these memories messing with me?"
…
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