HP: Transmigrating as an Obscurial

Vizet walked into the Great Hall, letting the familiar hum of Hogwarts' magic sink into his senses. The leyline energy here was strong, and as he moved, he carefully guided a small stream of it into his Eye of Insight. It was still developing, but it already had its uses — letting him see the intricate patterns of magic within enchanted objects, like the way circuits glowed faintly beneath their surfaces.

The Ravenclaw table was up ahead, but before he could take a seat, he felt something sharper than a spell hit him — words.

The Slytherin table wasn't even trying to be subtle.

"I heard from Parkinson that he's an Obscurial. Isn't that incredibly dangerous?"

"Doesn't look unstable…"

"That means nothing. You can get transformation magic at St. Mungo's and look like anyone you want. Doesn't change what you are."

"If he loses control in class, we'll all go down with him. Why did Dumbledore let him in?"

"Azkaban would be safer. Let the Dementors kiss him and be done with it."

The words cut through the general chatter of the Hall, deliberate and loud. They wanted him to hear it. They wanted everyone to hear it.

Vizet didn't react. He had lived through worse before Hogwarts — being whispered about, being excluded, and sometimes worse. This was nothing new. If anything, what surprised him more was that only the Slytherins seemed to care.

The other tables barely looked up. The conversations there had a different focus — Harry Potter. The famous Boy-Who-Lived had stolen their attention, and compared to him, Vizet might as well have been invisible.

Someone slid onto the bench beside him, and a familiar voice spoke.

"You really are here."

Vizet glanced up to see Michael Corner watching him closely. "Chris told me you got captured by a Gryffindor upperclassman, and I was just about to report it to Prefect Penelope."

Across the table, Chris Moon grinned. "Michael, just admit you wanted an excuse to talk to her because you think she's pretty."

Michael huffed but didn't deny it.

Anthony Goldstein leaned over, eyeing the book in Vizet's hands. "What's with your textbook? It's tiny. Special edition?"

"Nah," Vizet said, flipping it open. "I copied everything down by hand. Luna did the illustrations and cover."

Terry Boot, sitting across from them, frowned. "Luna? Who's that?"

"My sister," Vizet said simply.

Terry groaned. "A sister who actually helps with schoolwork? That's unfair. Mine just cries all day."

Chris raised an eyebrow. "She coming to Hogwarts?"

"Yeah, next year."

Chris sighed dramatically. "A talented sister who can draw and do magic… that's just unfair."

"His life's perfect," Michael muttered. "Ours, on the other hand… we have Potions first."

That changed the atmosphere instantly.

The group collectively groaned as they grabbed their textbooks and stood up, already dreading their first Potions lesson.

------------------------------

The dungeons were colder than Vizet expected. The moment they stepped inside, a damp, bone-chilling air swept over them. Torches flickered weakly against the stone walls, casting long, wavering shadows.

Rows of tall shelves lined the walls, packed with countless glass jars filled with mysterious, murky substances. Under the dim firelight, it was impossible to tell what was floating inside them—only that they smelled faintly of mildew and something far worse.

Terry Boot wandered closer to one of the shelves, then immediately recoiled. "Merlin's beard! Are those… animal specimens?"

"Magical creatures," Vizet corrected, stepping up beside him. His eyes traced the floating forms inside the jars. "That one's an Augurey chick. And over there — those transparent, furry ones? Baby Demiguises. Their fur can turn invisible."

Luna would have loved this. Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them was her favorite book, and the first one Vizet had ever read cover to cover. Recognizing these creatures felt as natural as breathing.

His roommates, however, stared at him like he'd just performed wandless magic.

"No wonder you were a difficult case for the Sorting Hat," Terry muttered, eyes still darting between the jars. "How do you know all this?"

Vizet shrugged. "I read Fantastic Beasts twice. It's interesting."

Chris Moon nudged Michael Corner. "See? That's why he's ahead of us. Meanwhile, you're too busy thinking about Prefect Penelope."

Michael scowled. "I am not—"

"You absolutely are."

The classroom itself was just as unsettling. The long wooden tables were scarred and battered, the surfaces covered in old burns and faint acid stains. Though the Ravenclaws had arrived early, they all hesitated before choosing their seats. No one dared to sit too close to the front — not when Professor Snape was known for his sharp tongue and sharper punishments.

Terry gestured toward the back. "Let's not tempt fate. We can still see from there."

Vizet shook his head. "The light's too dim. If we sit closer, we'll be able to see the ingredients better."

Anthony Goldstein let out an impressed whistle. "That's why you're so good at this. You actually think ahead."

"Or he's just crazy enough to sit near Snape," Michael muttered.

The classroom filled quickly as their Hufflepuff classmates arrived, but even as the seats filled, no one took the empty one beside Vizet. The students huddled toward the back, like they were avoiding some invisible line of danger.

Then, just before the bell rang, a blur of gold braids rushed inside.

Hannah Abbott

She skidded to a stop, glancing frantically around the room. The only open seat was beside Vizet. Looking more anxious by the second, she hesitated — then hurried over, dropping into the chair next to him with a breathless sigh of relief.

She barely had time to set out her books before the dungeon doors slammed shut.

A hush fell over the room as Professor Snape swept in, his black robes billowing like the wings of some great, ominous bird. He stopped at the front of the class and let his gaze drift slowly over the students — until it landed on Hannah.

Her face went pale.

"One point from Hufflepuff," Snape said coolly. "Nearly late to the first class. How dare you?"

Hannah's head ducked so fast, it was as if she was trying to disappear entirely. Her hands clenched in her lap, her shoulders trembling slightly.

No one dared to speak.

The silence held until Snape finally moved on, flicking open his roster. "Now. Roll call."

The names were called quickly. Each student practically shouted their reply, as if being too slow would cost them house points.

"Yes, only one fool today," Snape murmured once he was finished, his voice laced with quiet disdain. "As beginners, if you don't even have a sense of time, my suggestion is to leave this classroom before you endanger yourselves — and others."

He let that sink in for a moment before continuing.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making."

The torchlight flickered, deepening the shadows beneath his sharp cheekbones.

"As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you to understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron, the delicate power of liquids that creep through the human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses…"

"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death—if you are not as insufferably incompetent as the dunderheads I usually teach."

No one breathed.

Snape was a king in his dungeon, and he ruled it with a gaze sharp enough to cut through steel.

Then, after a long pause, his cold eyes flicked toward Vizet.

"Mr. Lovegood."

Vizet blinked.

"Where is your textbook?" Snape's lip curled slightly. "Or have you mistaken this for an art class? I see you've brought a children's picture book instead."