HP: Transmigrating as an Obscurial

The sensation of performing transfiguration magic was unlike anything Vizet had experienced before. As he whispered the incantation, his consciousness seemed to expand, covering the surface of the matchstick in front of him. It felt as though his mind had grown invisible hands, molding the tiny object at will.

A strange déjà vu washed over him — memories of childhood, hands deep in cool, pliable mud, shaping it into crude figures and patterns. But this was different. Here, his will alone could sculpt reality.

He focused, summoning the image of a silver needle in his mind. Slowly, the matchstick responded. It stretched, its wooden texture smoothing, its tip narrowing into a fine point. But it wasn't enough.

More detail.

The silver needed to gleam. The needle's point should be delicate, honed for precision. And there had to be a pinhole at the end, just large enough to thread a fine strand of silk through.

The changes unfolded steadily — the wood grain fading, red-tipped phosphorus vanishing, and in its place, the metallic sheen of silver growing stronger. The matchstick elongated, sharpening further, the transformation nearly complete.

Across the table, Anthony, who had been watching with growing astonishment, leaned in. "Did he just — on his first try?" His voice barely masked his disbelief.

Even Professor McGonagall, known for her strict composure, gave a small nod of approval.

Transfiguration was not simply about waving a wand and hoping for the best. It required caution, patience, and above all, imagination. Vizet had shown all three — first by closing his eyes to visualize his goal, then by carefully guiding the transformation step by step rather than rushing headlong into it.

McGonagall observed the shifting material with keen interest. The matchstick-turned-needle was not just functional — it bore a delicate engraving along its surface. A mistletoe pattern, faint but precise, now adorned the slender metal.

A finishing touch. A signature of sorts.

The professor reached for the transformed object, lifting it to examine it in the light. "Mr. Lovegood has successfully completed the spell. Five points to Ravenclaw!"

The classroom turned, attention shifting toward Vizet.

With a flick of her wand, McGonagall cast an Engorgement Charm, and the tiny silver needle stretched and thickened until it became a beautifully carved awl. She held it aloft for everyone to see. "This, class, is what success looks like. Note the pinhole, the craftsmanship, and the additional detail — a sign of strong visualization."

Anthony clapped Vizet on the shoulder. "Not just a needle, but a decorated one? You're making the rest of us look bad."

Professor McGonagall returned the needle to its original size and handed it back. "Well done, Vizet."

"Thank you, Professor." He took the silver needle between his fingers, turning it over in his palm. A thought struck him. "Professor, is this needle truly silver now? Or is it still, in essence, wood?"

McGonagall's lips twitched slightly, as though pleased by the question. "Ah. That is the heart of transfiguration, isn't it?"

The class fell silent, listening intently.

"You have altered its appearance, yes, but its true essence remains unchanged. If you were to break it apart, you would find traces of the matchstick still within it."

Vizet frowned slightly. "But can transfiguration change the essence of an object? Could I make this into real silver?"

"You could. But I strongly advise against it." Her voice, while still patient, took on a warning tone. "This is where transfiguration becomes dangerous."

She paced slightly, tapping her wand against her palm. "For inanimate objects, changing essence might seem harmless — turning wood to metal, stone to cloth. But what happens when you attempt the same on yourself?"

A quiet chill settled over the class.

McGonagall met Vizet's gaze. "If you alter your own essence, then tell me — are you still you? If you were to transfigure your body into steel, your essence would also have to become steel. And what of your thoughts, your soul? Would they remain, or would they be lost?"

Vizet's fingers tightened around the needle as a shiver ran down his spine.

Professor McGonagall gave a small nod, as though recognizing the gravity of the realization dawning on him. "The soul is a delicate thing. Some wizards have sought to manipulate it, to twist their very being through transfiguration. Many of them… lost themselves in the process."

She hesitated for a fraction of a second before shaking her head. "I may have said too much. But understand this — if you wish to master transfiguration, you must not only learn how to change, but also how to retain your essence."

A glimmer of something deeper flickered in her expression before she added, "If this truly interests you, I recommend looking into Animagus transformations. But approach such studies with caution."

The weight of her words lingered in the air.

Vizet's mind whirled with new possibilities, new mysteries to uncover. The world of magic felt vast, deeper than he had imagined. There was so much more to explore, so many secrets woven into its very fabric.

He reached for his notebook and, with an almost reverent focus, began to write down every word McGonagall had said.

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The remainder of the Transfiguration lesson passed in a blur of activity, but for Vizet, it became less about his own success and more about helping his classmates.

One by one, students from both Ravenclaw and Gryffindor gathered around his desk, eager for advice. He didn't hesitate to share his experience, answering their questions with patience and clarity.

"You don't have to force it all at once," he reassured a nervous Gryffindor girl whose matchstick remained stubbornly unchanged. "Try focusing on just sharpening one end first. One step at a time."

Another student looked frustrated, staring at his match as if willing it to transform. Vizet leaned in slightly. "You're on the right track. See? The color is already starting to fade. That's a good sign. If changing the shape feels too hard, try altering the color first. Work with what responds to your magic."

A loud pop came from the other side of the room, followed by a startled yelp. The boy who had been practicing looked horrified at the tiny black scorch marks on his desk.

Vizet merely smiled. "That was just an accident. You're using too much force. Try holding your wand a little farther away." He paused, thinking. "If you're still nervous, you could break off the red phosphorus tip before casting. That way, you won't have to worry about accidental sparks. The important thing is to keep trying."

From her desk, Professor McGonagall observed the scene with quiet approval.

It was rare to see a student so naturally inclined to teach others. Most were either too focused on their own work or, in some cases, too competitive to offer real help. But Vizet — he approached the situation with a level of patience and humility that was uncommon, especially in students who showed early talent.

She sighed softly, shaking her head.

It was times like these that made her envious of Flitwick. How had such a remarkable student ended up in Ravenclaw?

Of course, Hermione Granger was also an exceptional talent. She had nearly managed a complete transformation of her matchstick into a needle as well, and her knowledge of theory was nearly unparalleled.

But there was a difference.

Hermione, though brilliant, struggled with the way she spoke to her peers. There was a certain sharpness to the way she answered questions, a tendency to sound as if she were correcting rather than guiding. Vizet, on the other hand, carried himself with a quiet confidence that put others at ease. He explained things in a way that encouraged rather than discouraged.

McGonagall understood now why Dumbledore spoke so highly of him.

For someone who had endured the horrors of dark magic at such a young age, Vizet had retained an extraordinary sense of balance. He was neither arrogant nor withdrawn, neither too eager for approval nor too afraid to engage with others.

A natural Occlumens in the making.

McGonagall knew that this kind of temperament — calm, measured, and difficult to read — was ideal for the study of Occlumency. If trained properly, Vizet could develop an unshakable mind, one that no Legilimens could easily penetrate.

The question was, how would Dumbledore nurture this potential?

And more importantly — who would he entrust as Vizet's guide?

Hogsmeade Village

Far from the lively chatter of the classroom, in the dimly lit upper floor of the Hog's Head, a flickering green light shimmered in the fireplace.

With a gentle step forward, Dumbledore emerged from the flames. He brushed a bit of soot from his sleeve, his gaze calm as he took in the familiar surroundings.

He didn't have to wait long.

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the stairwell, followed by the sharp creak of a door opening.

A tall, thin man appeared in the doorway, his gray beard unkempt, his expression hard. His blue eyes, so similar to Dumbledore's own, narrowed with suspicion.

"Aberforth," Dumbledore greeted, his voice soft.

Aberforth Dumbledore crossed his arms, clearly unimpressed. "What do you want?"

Dumbledore smiled faintly. "I need a favor."