Among the students, there was a persistent rumor about Professor Snape.
They said he'd never truly wanted to teach Potions—his real ambition was to become the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
Perhaps Dumbledore believed that a Potions Master should focus on his own discipline, which was why he never approved Snape's transfer request.
But Snape's expertise in Potions was undeniable. His meticulous handling of ingredients and the precise steps he demanded in brewing were full of unique quirks—quirks that, more often than not, worked. His methods consistently raised the success rate of any potion.
So, his desire to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts was hardly unfounded.
After all, the Patronus Charm was one of the most advanced and intricate spells in that field—and Snape had insights into it that most wizards could only dream of.
"Those spellbooks," Snape began, his tone dry, "will tell you to recall a happy memory. Focus all your thoughts on some particularly joyful moment…"
He paused, a thin smirk curling his lips. "It's much like Muggle fishing, really. You throw out a hook, dangle some bait, and hope luck's on your side."
"That method works—at least, it can catch a fish or two, and sometimes it's enough for a wizard to cast the Patronus Charm. But it's unstable. Primitive. You need something far more reliable if you want to master this spell."
In just a few crisp sentences, Snape laid bare the ordinary wizard's approach to the Patronus Charm—simple, but with a pointed metaphor that said more than any textbook. It was a subtle reminder: his grasp of Defense Against the Dark Arts was every bit as sharp as his mastery of potions. He was more than qualified to teach either subject.
There was a brightness in Snape's eyes now—a rare glint of pleasure, as if imparting these secrets brought him a kind of joy he seldom allowed himself.
Perhaps, for him, teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts was a rare delight.
"The method I'm about to teach you," he continued, "relies on positive emotions as its foundation. The more you can draw upon, the stronger your Patronus will be."
"These emotions won't just help you understand your soul—they'll stabilize it, keep it pure."
He fixed Wyzett with a fierce, icy stare. "Remember this: when you feel the darkness closing in, when evil thoughts threaten to swallow you whole, a Patronus cast in this way will be your last sanctuary."
"The true origins of the Patronus Charm are lost to history. But its purpose is clear: it was created to protect the self."
"A Patronus that can't even shield its caster—what use is it for anything else? When you've been abandoned by all, the Patronus Charm is your final refuge."
He broke off suddenly, arms folding across his chest, as if realizing he'd revealed too much.
"That's enough. You can start now. The rest—the theory and the gestures—you should already know."
Everything he'd said was about the soul of the Patronus Charm, not its mechanics. He hadn't mentioned incantation, wand movement, or any of the usual details. He trusted Wyzett knew those already.
And Wyzett did not disappoint.
He recited, "Recall memories that stir positive emotion. Draw circles with your wand, let those emotions become your Patronus, then speak the incantation—Expecto Patronum."
"There's a Boggart in the box," Snape said, tapping the battered chest with a casual flick. "But it'll turn into a Dementor. I want you to drive it away."
Boggarts and Dementors—creatures cut from the same cloth, in some ways.
If a Boggart hungered for fear, a Dementor craved happiness—all positive emotion.
That was why the Patronus Charm was the only reliable defense against Dementors.
Wyzett found his mind drifting to the pixies—creatures that thrived on mockery, another kind of emotion.
But now wasn't the time for idle comparisons. He needed to focus on the Patronus Charm.
After building his soul labyrinth, channeling positive emotion wasn't difficult for Wyzett. The real challenge was using the Patronus Charm to truly explore his own soul.
With that clarity, he raised his wand, tracing slow circles through the air. Memories flickered through his mind, each one radiating a different shade of hope, warmth, or love.
Snape opened the battered chest without ceremony. A decayed, pus-oozing hand gripped the edge and hauled itself upward.
Though it was still autumn, a sudden frost spread from the chest, icing the floor in a growing white bloom.
The slanting orange sunlight from the window vanished, as if sucked away by that withered hand. The world faded to the dull gray of an old photograph.
The Dementor burst from the chest, its breath rattling and harsh, an icy chill devouring every last trace of warmth.
It looked like a corpse draped in rotting robes, nearly as tall as Hagrid, with mottled, decaying skin—an overwhelming, suffocating presence.
Snape watched, hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable, as if the Dementor was of no concern at all.
Wyzett didn't hesitate. "Expecto Patronum!"
He followed Snape's method, letting positive emotion lead him deeper—down into the core of himself.
He felt a sudden, weightless plunge, spinning in widening circles that echoed the motion of his wand.
It was like flying—like a leaf caught in the wind, drifting and spiraling through the air.
All around him, silver light swelled, shielding him from the kaleidoscopic chaos of the world outside.
Within that shimmering world, scenes from his past flickered and reformed, looping endlessly.
His positive emotions stood guard, guiding him through layer after layer of memory, driving ever closer to the soul.
The silver light drew tighter, wrapping him in a glowing membrane.
Then the swirling world vanished. He heard a faint, familiar rustling.
Wyzett opened his eyes. The last rays of sunset streamed through an open window, painting the patterned stone floor in warm orange.
Outside, an old tree—taller than the second floor—shook its few remaining leaves in the cold wind.
The paint on the walls was peeling, exposing the gray plaster beneath.
Two rows of iron bunk beds lined the walls, each with a thin mattress and a quilt in a slightly yellowed cover.
This was his room at the orphanage.
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