Quirrell's face was rosy — like someone who had just stepped outside into warm sunlight after a drink.
But his eyes remained dazed, as though he hadn't yet processed what he had just lived through.
He shuddered suddenly.
"I just fought… Voldemort," he whispered. Then louder, as if the realization struck like lightning, "I defeated Voldemort. I actually did it!"
His gaze cleared, and a childlike smile broke across his face. Tears brimmed in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks.
"I-I'm free! Vizet! I'm free! I don't have to listen to Voldemort whispering in my mind anymore… I can finally be myself! And it's all thanks to you, Vizet!"
Vizet shook his head firmly.
"No. I didn't do anything, Professor Quirrell. That victory was yours alone. It was your resolve that drove him out. Your strength that defeated him."
"Is that so…?" Quirrell murmured, glancing down at his chest — where the Philosopher's Stone was pressed. His gaze turned distant, almost dreamlike.
"It is so," Dumbledore confirmed gently. "Choice is far more important than ability. It was your endurance, your will after so much suffering, that saved you."
Quirrell opened his mouth, as though trying to reply — but his eyes fluttered, rolled back, and he collapsed, unconscious.
Vizet made to move toward him, but his knees gave out beneath him. His limbs felt sluggish, as though his body were still burning with fever.
Then, with a whisper of air, an armchair and a soft bed materialized. They caught both him and Quirrell with impeccable timing, lowering them gently as if summoned by a silent charm.
Vizet, breath unsteady, asked in concern, "Headmaster… Professor Quirrell — he'll be all right, won't he?"
"Of course," Dumbledore said, with a faint shake of his head. "It's natural to suffer a few consequences when wielding magic that reaches beyond your understanding. Even with the Philosopher's Stone, there's bound to be a cost."
"Magic beyond understanding…?" Vizet repeated quietly, eyes closed now, his thoughts drifting back over everything that had just occurred.
He hesitated, then asked, "But… Professor Quirrell doesn't really understand soul magic, does he? And yet, he was able to manipulate it?"
Dumbledore nodded. "That's correct. Even without formal study, he learned instinctively — through pain. When Voldemort repeatedly tormented his soul, Quirrell came to understand the limits of his own essence. Pain has a way of etching things into memory that even the finest tutors cannot."
He turned toward Vizet with a thoughtful smile. "And your magic — your unique gift — achieves something similar. Vizet, you never stop surprising me."
As he spoke, Dumbledore took in their surroundings — the shattered chamber, the scorched pit in the corner where the Killing Curse had struck — and called out gently to Fawkes, who was still circling overhead.
"I daresay this place is no longer fit for conversation. Why don't we relocate?"
Vizet offered a tired guess. "The Headmaster's office?"
Dumbledore glanced down at the unconscious forms of Harry and Quirrell, then waved his hand in a soft arc.
"First, we'll stop at the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey will want to examine these two carefully."
He straightened, his tone becoming more measured. "As for what happened tonight… if anyone asks, you'll say a dark wizard broke into the castle. You were the one who discovered him. I'll speak with Harry separately and help him understand what must be said."
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"Headmaster Dumbledore! You've brought me three patients this time!"
In the quiet of the castle hospital, which had been prepared for the summer holidays, Madam Pomfrey's voice rang out like a well-aimed spell. Her brows arched so high they nearly vanished into her hairline.
"And with symptoms so... similar! Merlin's little medicine box — Headmaster Dumbledore! Could you not save me at least a bit of trouble?"
Dumbledore merely smiled, as though enjoying the familiar scolding. He waited patiently while Madam Pomfrey huffed, hands on her hips and lips pursed with professional fury.
When she finally paused for breath, he replied lightly, "Poppy, I am terribly sorry… It was just a small accident, really. Barely a ripple —"
"A small accident, he says!" Madam Pomfrey muttered darkly, already bustling into action. "It's like this every time!"
She heaved a long-suffering sigh and went on grumbling. "Honestly, just once I'd like to finish a summer with my tea undisturbed. But no — it's always this."
"Fortunately," she added, glancing at her potion stores, "Professor Snape has delivered the necessary draughts in advance. Headmaster, please help settle them in while I prepare the doses."
"With pleasure," Dumbledore said cheerfully. He waved his wand, and with a soft hum, two sets of armor appeared out of thin air.
Vizet's eyes widened.
The armor looked familiar — strikingly so. Its form and enchantments echoed the very one that had struck Voldemort down. Yet it lacked the radiant layer of primordial magic, the ancient force that had given the original its gravity and depth.
"You recognize them?" Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled as he blinked at Vizet. He guided the enchanted armors, which promptly lifted Harry and Quirrell and carried them gently to the beds.
Vizet nodded slowly, uncertain how to explain what he felt. He opened his mouth, searching for the right words — but nothing came.
"If you don't wish to speak of it," Dumbledore said kindly, "then you don't need to. Everyone has their own secrets, yes?"
As he spoke, he quietly unwrapped a lemon sorbet.
But before Vizet could respond, Madam Pomfrey swooped in and deftly plucked the sweet from Dumbledore's fingers.
"Honestly! Can't you exercise some restraint?" she scolded. "At least not around me!"
"Understood!" Dumbledore said, backing away with exaggerated caution and giving Vizet a sly wink. "Rest well."
No sooner had he vanished through the doors than Madam Pomfrey turned her full attention on Vizet.
"You again!" she said, frowning deeply. "And still with the same symptoms!"
She sighed, not unkindly, and shook her head. "Well, at least you lasted to the end this time. That is something."
She handed him a potion and pointed to the bed. "Up you go. Lie back and drink this. It's been specially prepared by Professor Snape, who, I quote, asks that you drink it promptly and 'stop thinking nonsense.'"
"Understood," Vizet said, mimicking Dumbledore's earlier tone with a weary smile.
He took off his backpack, climbed into the nearest bed, and picked up the small glass beaker filled with a soft, silver mist.
Meanwhile, Madam Pomfrey had begun dosing Harry and Quirrell with their potions. The moment the draught touched their lips, both of them grimaced — even in unconsciousness — as though they were being fed something impossibly bitter.
They stirred uneasily, letting out faint, muffled sounds, as if trapped in restless dreams.
Vizet glanced at them, then down at his own potion. He eyed the pale shimmer of the mist again and took a cautious sip.
There was no taste, but the texture was thick, and the scent of lavender curled gently through his senses.
In two long gulps, he emptied the beaker.
Even as he set the glass down on the bedside table, sleep rose over him like a soft wave, sweeping away the weight of the night.
Darkness pressed in — and then everything went quiet.
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