HP: Transmigrating as an Obscurial

By the time Vizet left Hagrid's hut, the sun was already high in the sky, casting golden light across the castle grounds.

His leather bag, now significantly heavier, was filled with the materials Hagrid had generously stuffed inside — unicorn tail hairs, various herbs, and other magical components he hadn't yet identified.

Despite the weight of the bag, Vizet himself felt strangely light. Perhaps it was the excitement buzzing through him. His mind raced with possibilities.

"The weekend is almost here… With all these materials, I can finally start experimenting with wand-making. And then there's healing magic, Animagus transformations — Professor McGonagall's words from yesterday…"

He had so much to explore.

The afternoon schedule was already set — first Herbology, then the much-anticipated flying lesson.

The greenhouse was cool and damp, filled with the earthy scent of soil and budding plants. First-year students weren't yet allowed to handle dangerous or highly magical flora, but Vizet had already absorbed plenty of knowledge from Luna before even arriving at Hogwarts. Digging, fertilizing, trimming — none of it was difficult. His precise care with the plants earned him an approving nod from Professor Sprout, along with a few extra points for Ravenclaw.

The lesson ended with his robes streaked in dirt, soil caking his hands, and a few stray leaves tangled in his hair. But Vizet hardly noticed. He was about to head straight for the flying field when Chris grabbed his arm.

"Vizet, aren't you going to clean up first? You can't go to flying lessons looking like that."

Before he could reply, a voice cut through the air, sharp and laced with disdain.

"That's right! Not that it'll help. A dirty Obscurial can't be washed clean, no matter how hard they try."

A Slytherin girl stood nearby, her arms crossed tightly, her black hair slicked back in a way that accentuated her round, stubborn face. She tilted her chin upward, looking down at him despite the fact that he was taller.

Vizet turned to her, his expression cool and composed. "Washing? I thought we were wizards."

With a graceful flick of his wand, he traced an elegant "S" through the air. "Scourgify."

The dirt vanished instantly, leaving his robes spotless, the fabric as smooth as if it had just been pressed. Not stopping there, he turned to his roommates and cast the same spell, clearing away every last trace of mud from their uniforms.

Then, he turned back to the girl and held out his hands, palms up, as if offering her something. His voice was polite, almost teasing. "Would you like some help? Or perhaps you can manage on your own?"

Her face flushed red — an ugly, blotchy shade somewhere between anger and humiliation. "You —"

Before she could say another word, another Slytherin girl passed by, her expression sharp and unimpressed. "Millicent, let's go."

"Pansy, I was just —"

"Miss Bulstrode," Pansy snapped, her tone clipped and superior. "Use my last name, please. It makes you sound more refined."

Without another word, Pansy strode off, her shoes clicking against the stone pathway.

Millicent hesitated for a moment, her mouth twisting as though she wanted to say something, but then, with a sharp inhale, she turned and hurried away, her head ducked low.

Terry watched the whole exchange, frowning. "What was that all about?"

Anthony sighed. "Obscurials aren't exactly common. And since magic suppression is something that usually happens in Muggle families…" He trailed off, glancing meaningfully at the path Millicent had just taken. "Well. You know how Slytherins are about blood purity."

Michael threw an arm around Vizet's shoulder, grinning. "They just can't handle the fact that he's smarter than them. And that he knows all kinds of magic they don't." He leaned in, half-serious. "Speaking of which, why do you know so much magic? How did you even become friends with Cho Chang before school started?"

Vizet laughed. "She taught me this spell, actually. The Scouring Charm is simple but really useful. Do you want my notes?"

"Later, later!" Michael waved a hand impatiently. "The broomsticks are already out! If we wait too long, all the good ones will be taken."

That was enough to get them moving. Vizet tucked his wand away and followed the group toward the open field, the excitement of flying lessons just beginning to settle in his chest.

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Since ancient times, people have looked to the sky with wonder, dreaming of soaring among the clouds.

This yearning led to the invention of countless flying machines, each pushing the limits of human ambition. Wizards, too, shared this longing — so they created the broomstick. Not only did it grant them the ability to fly, but it also gave birth to the most beloved wizarding sport of all: Quidditch.

Madam Hooch, the flying instructor and Quidditch referee at Hogwarts, stood waiting for them on the grass, her sharp eyes scanning the students as they arrived. The broomsticks had already been laid out in neat rows at her feet, each one looking weathered but sturdy.

"She looks like an eagle," Terry murmured to Vizet as they approached.

It wasn't a bad comparison. With her short, pointed gray hair and piercing yellow eyes, Madam Hooch did resemble a keen-eyed bird of prey.

Her sharp gaze immediately caught Michael reaching for one of the brooms.

"Put that down at once!" she barked, striding forward with surprising speed. "No one touches a broomstick until I give the command! Even if you already know how to fly, you will follow my instructions — no exceptions."

Michael recoiled as if the broomstick had burned him, hastily dropping it back onto the grass. "Sorry, Madam Hooch!"

"Ahem..." She cleared her throat, looking slightly flustered. "I should apologize as well — I've been a little on edge."

She glanced over the assembled students, sighing. "Yesterday, during the Gryffindors and Slytherins lesson, one of the first-years had an accident. A nasty fall. Broke his wrist."

At this, a few students began murmuring.

"Who was it?" Michael asked, curious.

"Neville Longbottom," came Hannah Abbott's voice from nearby. "He fell right off his broom and landed badly. It looked painful."

More Hufflepuff students gathered around, eager to share the details.

"And then Draco Malfoy stole Neville's Remembrall!" one added.

"Harry Potter stood up to him," another chimed in. "They had some kind of mid-air fight, and Potter actually caught the Remembrall!"

"That's not all," someone else cut in excitedly. "Professor McGonagall saw him fly and made him the new Seeker for Gryffindor!"

Michael's jaw nearly dropped. "Wait, what? The Quidditch tryouts haven't even happened yet! How did he just — skip all that and become Seeker?"

The buzzing conversation was abruptly cut short when the school bell rang.

Madam Hooch clapped her hands loudly, calling the class to attention. "All right! That's enough chatter. Everyone, stand next to a broomstick — now. And do not touch it."

The students quickly fell into place, exchanging amused glances. Madam Hooch was being far more cautious than they had expected.

"Now, hold your hand over the broomstick — but do not grab it. Just keep your palm hovering above the handle."

Once everyone followed her instructions, she continued, "On my command, say 'Up!' The broom should rise into your hand — when that happens, you may grab it."

"And then we wait for your next instruction?" one student asked with exaggerated patience.

"Yes!" Madam Hooch said firmly, ignoring the scattered groans of impatience. "Step by step. No accidents today."

A chorus of "Up!" echoed across the field.

Not all the brooms responded immediately. Some wobbled in place, while others stubbornly refused to budge. One rolled lazily on the ground before eventually floating up at a snail's pace.

Hannah's broomstick, unfortunately, remained completely still. She called "Up!" several times, her face growing redder with frustration, but the broom refused to obey.

Ravenclaws, perhaps because they were used to adapting quickly, seemed to have an easier time. Most of them managed to summon their broomsticks within a few tries.

Vizet, however, didn't even need to say the word.

He merely thought about it, and his broomstick shot up into his palm instantly.