Voldemort's voice curled with mock amusement. "Time to see what you've learned—your very own final exam. Open that door and lead me to the end!"
As Wyzett gripped his wand and edged closer to the heavy door, a sly smile crept across Voldemort's face.
His hands were empty, and Voldemort seemed to savor a private vision: the instant the door swung open, the three-headed hound would lunge, sink its teeth into Wyzett's arm, and drive him to unleash his Obscurus—until the darkness devoured him whole.
Creak… creak… The great door groaned open, and in a heartbeat, the barking exploded.
Voldemort drew his cloak higher, eyes narrowed in anticipation, like a theatergoer awaiting the climax.
But instead—
"Whine, whine…" Fluffy's massive heads crowded the doorway, tongues lolling as he let out a pitiful moan.
He crouched low, stretching forward to lick Wyzett, thick ropes of drool splattering the floor.
Wyzett dodged the tongue with practiced ease and patted one of Fluffy's heads. "Hey, Fluffy, we meet again!"
"Woof!" Fluffy thumped his tail, flopped onto the ground, and closed his eyes in bliss, his floppy ears twitching as he hummed contentedly.
Voldemort took a step forward.
At once, all three of Fluffy's heads wrinkled their noses, bared their fangs, and snapped upright, muscles tensed in warning, growling low and deep.
"Let us through, Fluffy—we've got business downstairs." Wyzett gave another friendly pat, then pulled an oil-paper parcel from his bag.
"Woof woof?" All three heads perked up, nostrils twitching as they zeroed in on the parcel.
"Here, have a snack while we're gone…" Wyzett soothed, tearing open the package and tossing a roasted chicken to the beast.
A shadow of regret flickered in Voldemort's eyes, tinged with absurdity. All that trouble for a dragon egg, and in the end, a simple roast chicken worked just as well.
Guided by Wyzett, Fluffy trotted to the corner, tail wagging, then flopped down to gaze at the chicken. Though it was tiny, he savored every lick, refusing to gulp it down in one bite—more like a child with a lollipop than a beast with a meal.
"We should get moving." Wyzett yanked open the trapdoor and pointed his wand below. "Lumos!"
A brilliant flash of light shot down, sending the Devil's Snare writhing away into the corners, shriveling like dead vines.
"Devil's Snare… How do you plan to get down?" Voldemort asked, clearly entertained. "The conditions down there are perfect for it. The moment your light fades, it'll come right back… But if you keep the light going, there's nothing to break your fall."
"A wizard solves things with magic, of course. Nox!" Wyzett extinguished the light, pulled a sheet of parchment from his bag, and set it on the floor. He folded it over and over, then tapped it with his wand. "Mutatio Rationalis!"
The parchment stretched downward, transforming into a sturdy wooden staircase that spiraled into the darkness.
"Lumos!" Wyzett relit his wand and strolled down the stairs, unhurried and confident.
Voldemort followed, a chuckle in his voice. "If I were grading, I'd give you an 'E' for this."
"'Exceeds Expectations'? I'll take it," Wyzett replied breezily.
Voldemort smirked. "Just don't get cocky. Interested in leaving Hogwarts with me? You still have a chance…"
Wyzett cut him off. "What about Professor Quirrell? Does he have a chance?"
"Heh…"
Silence fell between them.
It was a silence Wyzett welcomed. He stooped in a corner to gather up a few strands of Devil's Snare, stuffing them into the oil-paper package before moving on.
The next room was ablaze with light. Even without the Lumos charm, the Devil's Snare huddled in the corners, trembling.
At the far end, a heavy door was locked tight. Overhead, hundreds of winged keys fluttered beneath the vaulted ceiling, darting and swooping like birds—unmistakably Professor Flitwick's handiwork.
Wyzett scanned the room and spotted broomsticks hanging on the wall.
Voldemort broke the silence. "Broomsticks… Quirinus tells me you're quite the flyer. Planning a show?"
"Not today." Wyzett gathered up his oil-paper package and walked straight to the locked door.
Most people, faced with a locked door, flying keys, and broomsticks, would naturally think: ride a broomstick, chase down the right key.
But Wyzett had learned more than just the construction of a Soul Labyrinth. From Aberforth, he'd picked up some rather unconventional wizarding wisdom.
For instance: Wizards shouldn't obsess over the process—what matters is the result. A wizard's true gift is reaching the outcome directly by magic. Rules? They're made to be broken…
Of course, Aberforth had only muttered that after a few too many drinks, so it wasn't gospel. Still, Wyzett had written it down and made an effort to understand it—and, in the process, to understand wizards themselves more deeply.
Watching Wyzett's movements, Voldemort couldn't help but ask, "What are you planning? The Unlocking Charm won't work on this door."
Wyzett shot back, "And if it were you, how would you open it?"
"You seem to be forgetting something…"
"Er… Professor, what would you do?"
"I'd simply blast it open, or use a Confundus Charm to befuddle the keys…"
"You're absolutely right, Professor. There's more than one way for a wizard to get through." Wyzett grinned. "So I thought of something even easier…"
He pulled another sheet of parchment from his bag and shoved it into the keyhole.
"Mutatio Rationalis!"
The parchment melted into wax, flowing deep into the mechanism until it filled the entire lock, then hardened again.
In moments, a smooth, white wax key was formed.
Click!
Wyzett turned the handle, and the door swung open with ease. "Magic really is wonderful, isn't it?"
Voldemort stared after him, a note of genuine awe in his voice. "You're rather wonderful yourself."
For a first-year, Wyzett's command of Transfiguration was already advanced—he could apply magic to everyday life with ease.
But it was his unique way of thinking that truly caught Voldemort's attention.
It meant Wyzett wasn't shackled by the past—he was forging his own path.
Voldemort's voice grew hoarse. "Why were you sorted into Ravenclaw? You seem far more suited to Slytherin."
"Do I?" Wyzett stepped into the next room. "If I'd been sorted into Slytherin, I'd probably have a target on my back."
Voldemort sounded genuinely intrigued. "Oh?"
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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