"There are only a handful of wizards willing to delve into the study of the soul," Snape remarked, his tone flat.
"Indeed..." Dumbledore replied with quiet reverence. "But any wizard who walks the path of magic cannot avoid confronting the soul — its power, its fragility, its mysteries. It is the eternal subject."
"Croak! Croak!" The toad near the potion equipment stirred restlessly, as if the animal instincts it had once lost were suddenly flooding back.
Snape raised his wand with a flick, summoning a notebook from a nearby shelf. "Five days," he muttered as he began recording. "Vizet's soul-soothing draught has affected this toad for five entire days..."
"Incredible..." Dumbledore murmured, his voice laden with wonder. "Truly incredible..."
Silence fell between them. Only the scratching of Snape's quill and the toad's erratic croaking filled the room.
"So noisy," Snape grumbled, shutting the notebook with a snap. He waved his wand again, and both the toad and the cage vanished in a flicker of magic.
His eyes returned to Dumbledore. "Why haven't you told Vizet the full truth?"
"We've told him part of it," Dumbledore replied calmly. "And that part is not a lie — he truly should not continue working with this kind of potion."
Snape narrowed his eyes, unconvinced.
Dumbledore continued, "Any wizard well-versed in soul magic would immediately recognize the abnormality in Vizet's draughts. If the wrong person notices... it would be dangerous."
"For instance, the Dark Lord," Snape said, setting the notebook aside. "Vizet gave Quirrell a bottle of that potion for Christmas."
Dumbledore sighed, "He prepares his gifts with such care... We couldn't just dismiss it. We couldn't crush that sincerity."
"And so we hide the truth with 'white lies,'" Snape said with a note of disdain, "using dishonorable means to protect him."
"Sometimes, that is the cost of care," Dumbledore said gently.
Snape sneered. "Fortunately, the Dark Lord will keep this to himself... He hides many things, after all."
"He boasts of immortality," Snape continued, voice darkening, "but never reveals the method. That's the kind of man he is — the so-called 'Lord Voldemort.'"
"He doesn't want to simply be immortal — he wants to be the lord of every soul he encounters. He enjoys it — being the one whose name none dare to speak."
Dumbledore's gaze did not waver. "Which is precisely why we must uncover the secrets of this so-called 'Lord.'"
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The second half of the school year had begun. With the new semester came a familiar undercurrent of anxiety — subtle at first, but unmistakably present.
This tension was most pronounced among the fifth and seventh-year students, who now faced their O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. examinations. It clung to them like a heavy cloak, visible in the way they clutched their notes, arms filled with thick textbooks inked with every imaginable highlight, underline, and margin scribble — testaments to their sleepless nights.
The library had become a battlefield. Students wove between shelves like frantic researchers on a ticking clock, scavenging for fragments of knowledge that might appear on the exams. Even during mealtimes, the steaming food in the Great Hall sat largely ignored as fifth and seventh-years continued flipping through pages, heads bowed, lips moving in silent recitation.
That anxious atmosphere seeped far beyond the library and Great Hall. It lingered in every corridor, hung thick in the air of each common room.
In Ravenclaw Tower, the anxiety had practically taken root. For a house built on the pillars of knowledge and wisdom, exams were the ultimate proving ground.
Conversations in the common room were dominated by theoretical transfiguration, cross-checking potion instructions, or rapid-fire recollections of historical dates. Any idle chat had all but vanished.
Even Penelope Clearwater, a prefect known for her composure, was visibly fraying. Between patrolling the corridors, managing younger students, and studying for her own exams, she had grown withdrawn — quiet, overstretched, and on the brink of exhaustion.
It was in this atmosphere that Vizet returned to the Ravenclaw common room after one of Snape's private lessons. As he stepped inside, a muffled sound reached his ears — quiet, choked crying from a shadowed corner.
He turned, footsteps soft against the carpet. Just as he approached, a tear-streaked face peeked from behind the arm of a chair, eyes red and rimmed with confusion.
"Vizet?" Penelope's voice trembled.
He nodded. "Penelope... what's wrong?"
"N-nothing..." she sniffled, hurriedly wiping her cheeks with a sleeve and trying to tuck a thick textbook behind her back. "I just needed a minute. Sit with me?"
Vizet caught a glimpse of the book — Intermediate Potion-Making, a familiar and intimidating volume.
"If it's about Potions," he said gently, "maybe I can help. Or I could ask —"
"You were going to ask Professor Snape? No! No, please don't!" she blurted, her eyes wide. "He's terrifying! I couldn't possibly —"
Vizet coughed awkwardly. He hadn't even mentioned Snape by name, but her reaction said everything. Clearly, the man's reputation preceded him.
In some ways, even Professor Quirrell had a better standing among the students. According to Fred and George, Quirrell might stutter through class and be less useful than a textbook, but at least he was mild-tempered.
The twins once joked that even if someone lobbed a snowball at his head, he wouldn't lose his temper.
"Please don't do that again," he had told them. "He's under enough pressure."
In response, the twins had saluted him with mock solemnity. "If the material consultant says so," Fred had said. "We solemnly swear — we'll never do it again."
They'd even joked about what would happen if they pulled the same prank on Snape.
Vizet still remembered the exaggerated horror on their faces. Hands to their throats, they cried, "We wouldn't see the sun the next day! He'd poison us in our sleep!"
Vizet smiled faintly at the memory.
"Actually..." he offered carefully, "Professor Snape isn't as harsh as he seems. If you know how to filter through his... delivery style, he can be helpful. You just have to recognize what's important in what he says."
"Really?" Penelope blinked through the last of her tears, dabbing at her face with her sleeve. "I've just been... stuck. I didn't know what else to do."
"Tell me what you're struggling with," Vizet said. "Next time I see him, I'll ask for you."
Penelope hesitated for a moment longer, then gave a small nod. "He didn't scold you?" she asked, surprised. "I heard from someone in Hufflepuff... he even gave you points!"
"Yes," Vizet replied, smiling faintly. "So you can trust me."
Encouraged, Penelope retrieved her book, opening it to a page marked with several colorful lines and annotations.
"It's the vitality tonic," she explained. "I remember Professor Snape shouting something about the importance of dosage and stirring speed. He said... there was a way to brew it faster. I just... I didn't catch the details."