"Well…" Dumbledore nodded lightly, and his blue eyes gleamed with a quiet warmth. "For you to understand that — very good indeed."
"In fact," Vizet said with a thoughtful gleam, pulling out his wand, "another idea came to me… something I'd like to try."
He looked at Dumbledore expectantly. "Headmaster, could you provide me with some flour, eggs, milk, and butter? And — if possible — a little Gurdyroot?"
"Of course," Dumbledore replied without hesitation.
He tapped the table gently, and in the span of a few heartbeats, every requested ingredient appeared neatly arranged before them.
Vizet's gaze fell on the ingredients, and he murmured, almost to himself, "I've always wanted to recreate the taste of that bread Mr. Aberforth made… perhaps that's why I kept failing."
"After returning from the mirror world, I've come to understand something... No two lives are identical. No one's experiences are ever the same."
"So I shouldn't try to copy that exact taste," he said quietly. "What I need to do is create something of my own — my own flavour, my own magic."
He raised his wand.
"Wingardium Leviosa."
The ingredients lifted gracefully into the air, spinning and floating as if caught in a gentle wind, slowly combining into a soft, gleaming dough.
Vizet's voice grew rhythmic, poetic, imbued with warmth:
Milk flows gently, a whispering stream,
Flour drifts softly like clouds in a dream.
Sugar falls lightly, a powdered delight,
Butter melts golden, eggs leap to flight.
Warmth from the heart shapes tender the dough,
In love it is kneaded, with magic aglow…
The dough shimmered, its surface smoothing as it stretched and folded in mid-air. The Gurdyroot embedded itself within, gleaming like a shard of emerald. The colour deepened, becoming uniform, alive with energy.
Vizet felt a strange lightness. The magic didn't resist him — it welcomed him. There was no stumbling over words, no hesitation in movement. Even the poem he learned from hearing Aberforth sing, spilled effortlessly from his lips.
When the dough was fully formed, he raised his wand high. The dough shot upward, arcing and spiralling in the air. At one moment, it bounced like a bludger let loose; the next, it danced like a golden snitch, dipping and spinning with mischievous grace.
Dumbledore watched it all, his eyes bright, a soft smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
"Headmaster Dumbledore," Vizet called, wiping sweat from his brow, "would you mind lending a hand?"
The dough hovered in midair, swelling gently with heat and magic.
"Do you need me to light the fire?" Dumbledore asked. But his voice had grown hoarse, and his gaze drifted slightly, as if pulled toward a memory. "I… do I have that honour?"
Vizet beamed. "Headmaster Dumbledore, it should be me who feels honoured asking for your help. After all, you were the very first person in this world who reached out to me. If you hadn't arrived when the Obscurus came out in that moment, I don't know what might have become of me."
"I've gained so much this year. And I want to thank all the professors. Without your guidance, I never could've come this far — not in magic, nor in understanding."
"Then I shall gladly serve," Dumbledore said with an exaggerated little bow, eyes twinkling.
He raised his wand, and with a single, elegant movement, summoned a gentle flame — a brilliant, steady orange-red fire that enveloped the dough like a warm embrace.
The dough swelled in the heat, puffing and stretching, golden and glowing. It twisted and turned as though alive, reshaping itself again and again.
It was like watching a phoenix rise from the ashes.
In that moment, the entire year seemed to pass before Vizet's eyes — its trials, its triumphs, its lessons. All of it was there, turning, evolving, transforming along with the bread.
The surface crisped, the scent grew stronger — rich and earthy, like roasted onions mingled with fresh butter. A faint crackling sound filled the room, comforting and warm.
Vizet felt something stir deep within him, something like a blessing.
And without hesitation, the word slipped from his lips like a quiet spell of gratitude:
"Expurgare."
The painted portraits lining the walls began to stir.
One by one, the former Headmasters blinked awake. They sniffed at the air — though, strictly speaking, they didn't have noses that worked — and turned curious eyes toward the two figures near the fireplace.
"What on earth is happening at Hogwarts?" muttered a black-haired portrait with a pointed goatee. "The Headmaster… baking bread? Has the school sunk so low?"
"Honestly, doing the work of a house-elf — utterly disgraceful! This institution has fallen beneath dignity. If it were up to my family —"
"Phineas Nigellus Black," interrupted a sharp voice from the frame beside him, "must you always be so insufferable?"
Dilys Derwent, elegant and composed in her old St. Mungo's robes, leaned toward him. "Haven't you noticed the aroma?"
"I most certainly have not. We can't —" Phineas began irritably, but then he faltered, his expression shifting.
He blinked again.
"...How could this be...?"
"We can sense it," Dilys said softly, her voice tinged with reverence. "Not with our noses. At a deeper level. This year… Hogwarts has produced a remarkable student."
"Hmph!" Phineas sniffed. "In my time, I also produced an amazing student!"
"Yes, yes," Dilys said indulgently, as if coaxing a grumpy child to swallow medicine. "Now you go and get busy with something, then?"
Phineas gave a dignified harrumph, cast one last glance at the glowing bread in the fire, and — with a mysterious, almost solemn expression — vanished from his frame.
Meanwhile, the fragrant aroma grew stronger.
Even Fawkes, who typically dined on nothing more exotic than herbs and berries, had taken flight from his perch. The phoenix hovered above the flames, his keen eyes gleaming with curiosity.
"...To tables of plenty, the kindred draw near,
All folk are welcome, all hearts gather here."
As Vizet recited the final lines, Dumbledore waved his wand, and the flames vanished in a gentle breath of magic.
Floating softly in the air was a single, radiant loaf of bread.
Its crust crackled with golden crispness, its colour a rich amber that made the mouth water. The scent of roasted onion and warm butter seemed to settle over the room like a charm.
At the same moment, Vizet's stomach let out a very audible growl.
After everything — the quidditch match, the battle in the mirror world, the knowledge gained from Salazar Slytherin — he hadn't eaten or drunk a thing. Now, confronted with the aroma of his creation, his hunger surfaced with surprising force.
"That was an oversight on my part!" Dumbledore chuckled, shaking his head. "I must be getting old. I didn't even think to offer you a few sweets."
With a gentle motion, he conjured a dinner plate onto the table. The bread floated down and, with another wave of his wand, sliced itself into several warm, inviting pieces.
"Go on — eat," he said kindly. "This is your masterpiece, after all. It's magic born of feeling, of memory. You've learned more from Aberforth than I imagined."
Vizet nodded, tearing off a piece of bread with a bit more force than intended. Crispy flakes scattered across the table, releasing a wave of scent even richer than before.
The taste of warm wheat, softened gurdyroot, and a hint of sweetness blended on his tongue — a harmony of home and magic. The flavour wasn't identical to Aberforth's, but it didn't need to be.
This was his.
No doubt remained: the creation of 'Magic Bread' had been a triumph. It might not have carried the exact taste of Aberforth's loaf, but it held something far more valuable — Vizet's own imprint.
In making it, he had touched the edges of something deeper. A soul-level magic. A beginning.
"There's plenty more," Dumbledore said softly, sliding over a cup of steaming tea and a few honey candies that crackled gently on the tray. "No need to rush."
He watched Vizet for a moment, the light in his eyes shifting slightly. Then, his voice grew quieter.
"Actually… there was another reason I invited you here tonight. I had hoped that, by passing through the Mirror of Erised, you might awaken something… something in the magic layered above it."
He gave a rueful smile.
"But I didn't expect what happened next. I stepped out for only a moment… and when I returned, Fawkes had already guided you in the office."
He sighed.
"Sometimes, that's how it is — one event follows another, cascading like tumbling dominoes… until things grow far more complicated than intended."
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