Vizet felt as though he were falling — spiraling downward through darkness — until his feet found ground in a dilapidated street, ancient and shadowed.
His vision blurred again, and this time he stood inside a crumbling room as ruined as the alley outside. Shards of broken wine bottles littered the floor, alongside melted sweets and wrappers trodden into the wood.
A strikingly handsome young man towered over a bloodied child cowering on the ground. His voice was harsh and distorted, barely more than a snarl.
"You useless little wretch! Why can't you do anything right? That woman ran — why didn't you stop her? Eh? Damn it! Damn it all!"
The child trembled, sobbing silently, yet never daring to fight back.
Vizet stepped forward instinctively, but his body passed straight through the man and the child like a ghost through a memory.
The young man turned and sneered at him. "He can't hear you, Vizet. This is Quirinus's past." His smile twisted. "One night... that's all it took. His mother abandoned him. Can you imagine what that does to someone?"
Vizet clenched his fists and glanced down at the mess scattered across the floor. Then he remembered Dumbledore's words:
"When he's drowning in the past, unable to escape, you must help Quirrell see the beauty of the present. Remind him of what he fights for. What he believes in."
Raising his hands, Vizet summoned golden light. He focused his feelings — empathy, hope — and shaped them into a chocolate frog that shimmered with sweetness. The little confection hopped toward the child, making the room tremble at its landing.
"It's working," Vizet murmured, encouraged. He conjured more — half a dozen chocolate frogs bouncing toward the boy.
Drawn by curiosity, the child slowly reached out, picked one up, and — trembling — bit into it.
His eyes lit with wonder. The blood on his skin faded, replaced by a clean, dark robe. Power returned to his frame.
The handsome youth reeled. "What have you done?!"
Vizet smiled coolly. "I showed Professor Quirrell the beauty of now. Look at him! He's not like you. You never moved past your pain. But Professor Quirrell —"
Before Vizet could finish, the transformed boy stood up, eyes blazing. He rushed the young man and rammed him into the wall with a brutal headbutt.
Reality fractured around them like shattered glass.
A new scene formed.
Towering ahead was Hogwarts Castle, majestic beneath the grey sky. A ring of students stood on the lawn before it, forming a jeering crowd. In the centre, two boys faced off.
The same handsome figure again — older but unmistakable — pressed a bloodied Quirinus to the ground, a boot on his chest.
"What's the matter?" he mocked. "All those books you bury yourself in — where's your magic now? Show me! Come on, show me!"
Vizet once more summoned golden light. It formed into a well-worn notebook — Quirrell's personal study journal from his private lessons.
The notebook fluttered open and burst into motion. Its pages peeled away, shaping themselves into sparrows that flew into the child's chest and disappeared.
A spark ignited in the boy's eyes. He rose with sudden power, gripped his wand, and cast a sweeping gust of wind that hurled his tormentor backward.
The castle faded. The lawn grew dark, twisting into tangled roots and towering trees. In moments, they stood in a shadowy forest — black, old, and full of whispers.
There, the child knelt before a massive snake, murmuring inaudibly. He was still bloodied, still trembling.
Beside him loomed the young man again, nodding eagerly. "Yes… yes! That's it. Let me in. Open everything you are, and I'll give you all you've ever wanted..."
Vizet raised his hand once more.
This time, a wand appeared — Quirrell's own. He extended it toward the child, and the boy reached out.
But his grip did not tremble.
A glint of rebellion burned in his eyes.
"Voldemort," he said clearly, "I will not yield to you. Avis Inferno!"
Flames erupted from the wand. Birds of fire soared into the air, circling, shrieking — and then plunged into the dark forest, setting it ablaze. Fire danced across the trees and onto the man's face.
The forest screamed as it burned.
And reality shattered once again.
They were back in the soul labyrinth. The handsome young face began to warp — sometimes twisting into Vizet's own features, sometimes stretching and shifting into the serpentine visage of Voldemort.
Voldemort staggered back, his form deteriorating. His body melted into swirling black and gold mist.
Opposite him, a radiant white-gold light pulsed — shimmering, formless — until it slowly coalesced into Vizet's figure. He had silently watched as Voldemort toyed with Quirrell's memories, dragging forth the deepest wounds, the rawest pain, all to hasten his devouring.
A surge of fury rose within Vizet — cold, absolute. There was nothing left to say. He didn't want dialogue or understanding. He wanted to erase Voldemort completely.
And as if the soul realm itself heard him, A Wizard's Practical Guide suddenly materialized in midair, glowing with ethereal brilliance. Its pages flipped open rapidly, and a flood of primordial magic burst from its heart, flowing across the maze like wildfire.
The entire labyrinth trembled. Ancient, unknowable power coursed through it — blessing it, awakening it. The maze groaned and shifted, then collapsed, only to rebuild anew.
It reshaped itself with purpose.
The heart of the labyrinth rose into a luminous form: a golden armor forged around the statue of the goddess at the center.
And then… the statue moved.
She drew in the golden light streaming from Vizet, her form stirring with life. Slowly, she lifted the silver moon cradled in her hands. It morphed into a radiant mirror, polished like starlight, and embedded itself into the center of the golden breastplate.
Vizet felt the pull — no, the summons. His body dissolved into white light and shot directly into the mirror embedded in the armor's heart.
The statue raised her head. Her voice, now infused with Vizet's essence, echoed like a divine bell through the void:
"Voldemort… let's end this."
The mist had no time to react.
The armored statue surged forward with a thunderous roar, her first strike a gauntleted fist that smashed into Voldemort's smoky form with seismic force.
He crackled like metal struck on an anvil. Black and gold sparks erupted on impact. The mist shuddered, recoiling and shrinking.
He tried to scream — first a shout, then a rasp — until the voice faded into nothing as his form dwindled, fragment by fragment.
At last, the light containing Dumbledore's will arrived. He emerged into the clearing, eyes wide with astonishment. Despite his mastery of Occlumency, he lacked the gift for soul magic. Navigating the labyrinth had slowed him... and then, suddenly, the entire structure vanished.
He arrived just in time to witness the statue's final onslaught — fist after fist flashing with silver-blue radiance, reducing Voldemort's essence bit by bit, erasing him from the very fabric of the soul world.
Dumbledore's gaze shimmered, his expression distant.
"Ancient magic…" he murmured. "So Vizet is the guardian of this era... No wonder he can command magic like the Eye of Insight. No wonder his gift runs so deep."
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After what felt like an eternity, Vizet slowly opened his eyes.
A wave of warmth washed over him. He was truly happy — relieved. The sensation of having vanquished Voldemort left him with a flicker of exhilaration still humming in his chest.
In the midst of that final confrontation, he had absorbed fragments of Voldemort's knowledge.
Dark, profound insights into the intricate workings of soul and flesh — knowledge Voldemort had spent decades mastering. Though Vizet could not yet wield it, he could store it, allow it to settle, and one day, perhaps, comprehend it fully.
With Voldemort finally dealt with, the looming pressure had lifted. He had time now — time to breathe, to study, to live in peace and order.
As the thought settled in, Vizet rose to his feet. He turned immediately and helped Professor Quirrell, who was struggling to sit up.
"Professor Quirrell," Vizet asked gently, concern in his voice, "are you alright?"
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