HP: Transmigrating as an Obscurial

Being favored by Hufflepuff was a rather delightful experience.

At breakfast, Vizet always received jams of various flavors from his Hufflepuff classmates.

According to Hannah and the others, these jams were specially provided by the professors, an exclusive privilege of Hufflepuff students.

Vizet had to admit — these unique jams had their own remarkable flavors.

Through the Eye of Insight, he could see the magic symbols embedded within them, subtle runes that served as the source of their distinct taste.

At noon, an owl with sleek, glossy feathers swooped into the Great Hall.

It circled overhead before landing gracefully on Vizet's shoulder.

Stroking Sol's crest feathers, Vizet murmured, "You must be exhausted from all this back-and-forth. Thank you for your hard work."

"Gu…" Sol cooed softly, rubbing his beak against Vizet's cheek before flapping his wings and flying off. Most likely, he was heading to the owlery for a well-deserved rest.

As soon as Vizet removed the envelope, his roommates leaned in, their curiosity evident.

Chris peered at the envelope, decorated with a delicate ring of mistletoe, and asked, "Who sent this? It looks so fancy."

"It has to be Vizet's sister," Michael declared like a sharp-nosed hound, guessing correctly on the first try.

"It's from her." Vizet nodded as he opened the envelope. Inside was not only a neatly written letter but also a small glass bottle and a plum-shaped pendant.

"What's this?" His roommates were even more intrigued.

"A mini carrot pendant?" Terry examined it closely. "That's the first time I've seen a gift like this."

Michael pointed at the bottle. "And what's in here? Seeds?"

"The seeds of Dirigible Plums," Vizet confirmed before holding up the pendant. "This is a Dirigible Plum Pendant — it's said to improve one's ability to accept unusual things."

Anthony furrowed his brows. "Dirigible Plums? Improve the ability to accept strange things? Would it keep me awake in History of Magic class?"

Vizet chuckled. "Professor Binns's lectures have a unique magic of their own. If you can adjust to his tone, you'll find they're actually quite insightful."

"As for the Dirigible Plum's effects…" He twirled the pendant lightly. "Luna told me they vary from person to person. But for me, they work remarkably well."

Terry looked tempted. "So, are you going to plant these seeds? We should try growing some too!"

Michael smirked. "You might also need a clever sister to make you a pendant… but too bad, you don't have one."

Ignoring his roommates' playful bickering, Vizet focused on Luna's letter.

It was simple, yet written in a flowing, steady rhythm — just like Luna herself.

She wrote about harvesting Dirigible Plums in the garden, enjoying the sweetness of chocolate frogs, and spending her afternoon painting in her room…

She also mentioned Xenophilius's praise for him and how she hoped the Dirigible Plum Pendant would bring him inspiration.

Vizet slipped the pendant around his neck, letting the small red fruit rest against his chest.

As he gazed at it, his thoughts drifted beyond the towering spires of Hogwarts, past the Scottish Highlands — back to the quiet garden filled with peculiar, magical plants…

Back to home.

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That afternoon, Ravenclaw had Transfiguration class with Gryffindor.

As Vizet stepped into the classroom, he noticed a group of Gryffindors gathered around the podium, their laughter filling the air.

They were teasing a small tabby cat perched on the desk, trying to get a reaction out of it. But no matter what they did, the cat remained perfectly still, its sharp eyes observing them in silence.

There was something oddly familiar about the feline. Vizet frowned, watching it closely. Then, a memory surfaced — the day he had encountered the Runespoor, when a tabby cat with identical markings had appeared. That cat had not been an ordinary animal. It had been Professor McGonagall.

His roommates seemed eager to join in the fun, but Vizet quickly stopped them. Anthony hesitated before taking his seat, still glancing at the cat with interest. "I thought you liked cats, Vizet. Look at those markings — the black rings around its eyes look just like little glasses!"

Vizet's lips twitched. "That's because this isn't just a cat," he began, but before he could finish, the bell rang.

The tabby, which had been as still as a statue moments before, suddenly sprang to life. It leaped forward in a single, fluid motion — and in midair, its shape began to shift, stretching and twisting until it was no longer a cat at all.

By the time its paws touched the ground, Professor McGonagall stood in its place.

A stunned silence fell over the classroom.

"Professor McGonagall!" the Gryffindors yelped, scrambling back to their seats, their playfulness replaced with wide-eyed horror.

Anthony, still recovering from shock, leaned closer to Vizet. "How in Merlin's name did you know?"

"You said it yourself," Vizet murmured, watching as McGonagall straightened her robes. "The glasses."

She surveyed the class, her piercing gaze sweeping over them. "Perhaps some of you believe Transfiguration is nothing more than a harmless trick," she said coolly. "A cat to be played with. A bit of fun."

The silence deepened.

"But I assure you — it is not."

Her voice, though measured, carried a weight that made even the most restless students sit up straight.

"Transfiguration is one of the most complex and dangerous branches of magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she continued. "If performed incorrectly, the consequences can be severe. I do not want any of you to suffer injury — or worse — because of arrogance or carelessness."

A Gryffindor shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Anyone who does not take this class seriously will not be welcome here," McGonagall added sharply. "I will not allow recklessness to put your safety at risk."

She let the words settle before her expression softened just a fraction. "This is your first lesson in Transfiguration. And the most important thing you must learn is caution. Even when something appears harmless, you must be prepared — because it may very well transform into the thing you fear most."

The class remained silent, absorbing her warning. Then, with a flick of her wand, she summoned their textbooks. "Turn to page four," she instructed. "We begin."

The first half of the lesson was spent on theory. Transfiguration was not simply about flicking a wand and willing something to change; it required precision, concentration, and an understanding of magical laws. Though Vizet had already copied much of the textbook into his enchanted notes, he still found gaps in his understanding.

McGonagall, however, had a way of making even the densest material seem clear. She didn't just repeat what was written in the book — she explained it, dissecting complex theories with practical examples drawn from years of experience. Under her guidance, the tangled web of principles and incantations began to make sense.

Then came the practical portion.

McGonagall waved her wand, and in an instant, rows of wooden matchsticks appeared on each desk.

"For your first exercise," she announced, "you will attempt a simple transformation: turning a matchstick into a needle."

Excitement rippled through the room. The students, eager to finally try real magic, grasped their wands and began chanting the spell with varying levels of confidence.

Almost immediately, the room erupted with pops and bursts of color.

A few students managed to make their matches quiver, some changed the color of the wood, and others — whether through mispronunciation or sheer bad luck — accidentally caused tiny explosions. Sparks flew from several desks, sending embers into the air.

McGonagall acted instantly. With a sharp flick of her wand, she turned the rogue sparks into a flock of tiny birds, which chirped once before vanishing into thin air.

Her lips pressed into a firm line. "Focus, all of you!" she said, her voice cutting through the commotion. "Visualize the transformation clearly. You must see the needle in your mind — its shape, size, and texture. A match will not simply become a needle because you demand it. Magic requires clarity of intent."

The students redoubled their efforts, their excitement tempered by caution.

McGonagall, making her way through the room, soon stopped at Vizet's desk.

She had noticed something peculiar about him. While the others had rushed into casting the spell, Vizet had done something different.

He had closed his eyes.

Instead of waving his wand wildly, he had sat there in complete stillness, as though searching for something within his mind.

Now, sensing her presence, Vizet opened his eyes.

He had spent the past few minutes building a perfect mental image — not just a vague idea of a needle, but a precise vision of it. He could see it in his mind's eye: the gleaming silver, the slender point, the way light reflected off its smooth surface.

Everything was ready. Now, all he needed was the spell.

He raised his wand, the incantation resting on his tongue.

A quiet breath.

Then —

"Acusignis!"