Until now, whenever Wyzett used mental magic, he'd always cast it on himself.
Helping Hagrid organize his memories gave him a fresh perspective—and a new way to study the intricacies of mental magic.
Once he had sorted through the relevant memories, Wyzett opened his eyes.
He quickly seized the lingering sensation from his spellwork, jotting down every insight and observation in his notebook before the details faded.
Writing everything down would make it easier to revisit these lessons in the future—to learn, recall, and build on what he'd discovered.
The memory work had taken quite some time. Even Hagrid was starting to nod off; he gave up and fished a pair of knitting needles and a ball of yarn from his pocket, setting about knitting a sweater.
Catching sight of Wyzett scribbling away, Hagrid couldn't help but marvel, "You really are a hard worker! No wonder Professor McGonagall and the others are always singing your praises."
"Same goes for Harry and his friends. Whenever they come round to visit, they're always talking about you too."
"It's just a different way of learning," Wyzett replied, finishing his last note and slipping the notebook into his pocket. "Writing down my thoughts helps me review and improve later on."
"Ravenclaw through and through…" Hagrid chuckled, shaking his head and stuffing the half-knitted scarf back into his pocket.
Wyzett blinked in surprise—he'd just spotted a live owl nestled in the depths of Hagrid's coat pocket.
The owl, clearly ruffled at being disturbed, puffed up its feathers in protest, as if sulking over its interrupted nap.
But before its disgruntled hoot could escape, Hagrid simply snapped the pocket shut.
It was nothing out of the ordinary, really. As far as Wyzett could recall, Hagrid's moleskin coat was home to all sorts of things—copper kettles, pokers, dog biscuits, and more.
"Wyzett, is it… all done now?" Hagrid asked.
Wyzett shook his head. "I've organized all the memories, but there's one last step."
"Just one more, eh?" Hagrid rubbed his hands together eagerly. "Let's get it over with, so you can get some rest."
Thanks to his recent research, Wyzett had managed to combine everything he'd learned about mental magic. Following Quirrell's advice on composite spells, he'd crafted a basic secrecy charm.
He lifted his wand, pressed it gently to Hagrid's temple, and softly intoned the final incantation.
"Memoria Tacita!"
A silver glow blossomed, swirling around Hagrid's head before fading as quickly as it had come, leaving no trace behind.
Hagrid looked dazed, uncertain. "That's… it? All finished?"
"Yes," Wyzett nodded. "Hagrid, can I ask—how did you find Professor Snape and bring him out from the Whomping Willow?"
"What are you on about?" Hagrid's voice sounded oddly stiff, but his beetle-black eyes gleamed with amazement.
"Galloping gargoyles!" he gasped. "That just slipped out—I didn't even mean to say it! I was going to answer your question, I swear!"
Wyzett waved a hand dismissively. "There's still a lot of room for improvement… This charm only prevents someone from revealing secrets of their own accord."
"If someone uses Occlumency, Veritaserum, or some unusual magical artifact, they might still break through and extract the information."
"That's still brilliant! I've never known a young wizard who could do what you just did," Hagrid said, full of genuine admiration. "I really don't know how to thank you…"
On his way back to the Ravenclaw Tower, images of Snape kept flickering through Wyzett's mind.
Through Hagrid's memories, he'd gained a far deeper understanding of Hogwarts' past.
Compared to the relatively peaceful and harmonious school of today, the old Hogwarts was rife with tension—a powder keg that could blow at any moment.
To keep it from exploding, Dumbledore had to maintain a façade of stability, even if it meant hurting certain individuals in the process.
Like Snape.
Wyzett had suffered bullying himself. He could empathize with young Snape—could even imagine, if he'd been in the same place, he'd have fought back just as hard.
James had saved young Snape's life—that much was undeniable.
Padfoot had set him up, putting him in mortal danger—another undeniable truth.
After being bullied by James and his friends, it was only natural that young Snape refused to acknowledge, or accept, that James had saved him.
Especially since the real culprit was Padfoot—James's own friend…
But Dumbledore, desperate to preserve the school's fragile stability, could only take a hard line, exploiting Snape's reluctance.
And young Snape had precious few choices—he was forced to accept it all…
Even though these were Hagrid's memories, Wyzett could still feel the bitterness and frustration that haunted young Snape on that full moon night.
He could only imagine how much worse it would be to relive that memory from Snape's own perspective.
…
The more he thought about it, the more unsettled Wyzett became.
He climbed the stairs to Ravenclaw Tower. Beneath the great eagle statue, the bronze knocker trembled, and a melodious female voice rang out:
"I hide between day and night, wordless yet the truest proof of strength. Patient and silent, I endure until darkness yields to light. What am I?"
It wasn't a difficult riddle, and there were plenty of possible answers.
But Wyzett thought of one in particular—a word that struck a painful chord.
He looked at the bronze knocker and murmured, "I don't want to endure anymore…"
Turning away from the tower, Wyzett headed down another corridor. He broke into a run, following it until he reached the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to the headmaster's office.
Panting, he wracked his brain for the password.
"Sherbet lemon?"
That had been Dumbledore's password last year.
But the gargoyle didn't budge. The password must have changed.
"Cockroach Cluster?"
"Acid Pops?"
"Lemon Drop?"
"Peppermint Toad?"
"Coconut Ice?"
"Pumpkin Pasty?"
"Pineapple Chunks?"
…
He tried every sweet he could think of, guessing at Dumbledore's favorite treats.
"Toffee Eclair?"
At last, the stone gargoyle stirred to life, stretching and stepping aside to reveal the spiral staircase behind it.
Wyzett dashed up the stairs, reaching the door to the headmaster's office. He knocked gently.
"Professor Dumbledore, I'm sorry to bother you so late… May I come in?"
He waited, but there was no reply from within.
After all this running around, Wyzett felt himself calming down—a chance to reflect on everything that had just happened.
"Looks like he's not here…" he murmured, then froze as a realization hit him. "Wait… Something's wrong. Was I just… swept up by someone else's memories?"
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