Dumbledore nodded gravely. "Indeed, this potent memory charm has me somewhat stumped."
"What about Professor Lockhart?" Vizette pressed. "He's a master of memory charms—surely he could unravel it."
Dumbledore's lips twitched into a knowing smile. "Certain... reservations prevent him from stepping in."
Vizette frowned, piecing it together. Lockhart's books were full of embellished tales. If even half were true, the man had likely stolen more memories than he'd admitted. "I see."
He paused, rubbing his chin. "I'd need more practice, though. I've only scratched the surface of countering it—repetitions would boost my odds."
Dumbledore waved it off. "No rush. Tracking them down will take time." He popped a sherbet lemon into his mouth. "For now, let's tackle the basilisk threat first."
...
With Dumbledore's input, Vizette refined the blueprints for the amethyst-infused wards. They agreed on an official name: the Parseltongue Whistle, blending its Parseltongue-detection with its alarm function.
Vizette handed the schematics to Fred and George, who would craft the amethyst bases. Dumbledore chipped in a pouch of Galleons from school funds to kickstart their "club" project.
The twins dove in with gusto, channeling their prankster energy into legitimate invention. But forging the bases was no quick task. With curfew still in force, they hunkered down in a corridor, snacking through afternoon classes, only slipping back to the common room at dawn.
Vizette, meanwhile, buried himself in studies—poring over forbidden library tomes and dissecting the Marauder's Map to optimize the whistles' deployment.
---
The castle's tension eased. No fresh attacks meant whispers of the Chamber of Secrets faded, replaced by the hum of everyday Hogwarts life.
Even so, Fred and George's latest gossip lit up the corridors: Percy busting Ron in the girls' bathroom. Vizette chuckled—classic Harry, Ron, and Hermione, no doubt brewing some scheme that went sideways.
The twins snickered while etching runes into prototypes. "Our little Ronald's finally hitting puberty—sneaking into the ladies' loo like a proper Romeo."
---
November blurred by, ushering in Quidditch season. Gryffindor versus Slytherin loomed, and talk shifted from heirs to brooms. Word had spread: Slytherin swapped their old Cleansweeps for Nimbus 2001s. Excitement buzzed—who wouldn't want to see those speed demons in action?
Match day dawned muggy, the sun struggling through heavy clouds. Rain seemed inevitable.
Vizette peered out the dormitory window, then spiraled up to the headmaster's office. "Expecto Patronum!"
He traced a silvery shield around Fawkes with his wand, a daily ritual to ease the phoenix's vigilance. Maintaining the charm, he set a small box on the desk. "Headmaster, here's the latest Parseltongue Whistle."
Dumbledore leaned forward. "Hagrid mentioned something troubling the othe day—the henhouse was ravaged, dozens of chickens dead."
Vizette nodded. "Could be the basilisk hunting to build strength for another strike. This month's calm feels too much like the calm before a storm."
"Better safe," Dumbledore agreed. "If anything stirs, use this." He slid over a slim bookmark-like gadget. Scribble on it, and he'd know instantly—ready to Apparate and corner the serpent.
Vizette pocketed it, unused so far amid the peace. "I'll stay sharp. Time to head out—assembly's soon."
---
At eleven sharp, Flitwick herded the Ravenclaws down the shifting stairs, out the oak doors, and onto the flood of students pouring toward the pitch like a tidal wave. All houses converged in a roar of anticipation.
Luna bounced with unusual energy, her wide eyes devouring the scene despite Vizette's training sessions here. She tilted her head. "The Wrackspurts have mostly scattered, but they're lingering up there, all tangled in the clouds."
Vizette glanced at the brooding sky. "Once the rain hits, they might clear out for good."
He guided her to the stands. Madam Hooch's whistle pierced the air, and the game erupted.
Fred and George weren't exaggerating—the Nimbus 2001s were beasts. Slytherin's Chasers streaked past with a high-pitched whoosh, like low-flying jets. Gryffindor barely mounted a defense; Slytherin racked up ten points in minutes.
As a reserve Chaser, Vizette scanned from the bench—not just for Quaffles, but Bludgers too. One caught his eye: erratic, ignoring the low-flying Chasers to barrel straight for the high-altitude Seeker. Harry Potter.
Even when the twins cracked it away with their bats, the Bludger shook it off, looping back with unerring focus on Harry alone.
…
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