Vizette kept up the Patronus meditation, eyes locked on Snape as the Potions Master drew his wand. A chilling aura radiated from him now—cold as tempered steel, stained with the ghosts of old battles, like a blade honed for the kill.
Vizette held his breath. Staring at Snape, he saw not a wizard, but a duelist at the peak of his edge, raw and unyielding. It reminded him of the Sectumsempra curse, that invisible slash of fury, like unleashing a blade from the shadows.
"Divine Sharpness Without a Shadow!"
Snape's voice was a low murmur, each syllable packed with coiled power and iron resolve. Paradoxical, almost—the spell demanded fury, yet Snape wielded it with eerie calm.
He flicked his wrist, casual as stirring a cauldron. From the wand's tip, an unseen edge unfurled, slicing the air with lethal grace.
Swish.
The sound cut sharp and brief, like wind through reeds. The snake's molt quivered once, then cleaved cleanly in two, the halves drifting apart in silence.
Snape lowered his wand, sheathing an invisible sword, his face settling back into that brooding scowl Vizette knew so well. "This skin's not particularly resilient. You've got ten minutes." He holstered his wand. "And curb the dark residue in your Sectumsempra—channel control and precision to unbalance it. Make it sharp alone. I want the fragments intact, not tainted with stray curses."
Vizette's hunch had been spot on: Snape prized the molt's purity, free of any embellishments. What a strike—swift, flawless. He could replay it endlessly in his mind.
Exhaling softly, Vizette replayed the cast through his mental magic: the motion, the inflection, the sheer intent behind it. It clicked then—the way Snape handled Sectumsempra echoed the fierce youth from Hagrid's memories.
If that was the bridge... maybe another memory could anchor his own grasp of the curse. All paths converged, after all, and his studies in mental magic opened doors to other spells. Snape wanted results fast; a shortcut might do the trick.
Vizette shut his eyes, pressing his wand to his temple. He drew ancient magic from his core, channeling it into a memory extraction. Linking memories with this power created echoes—unique resonances. He'd done something similar teaching Luna, using the Pensieve for that shared "insight."
He pulled fragments: young Snape's fire, the earlier recollections, the essence of swordplay... Twisting them together like a fuse, binding them tight.
His eyes snapped open, a glacial edge sharpening his gaze.
Snape glanced over, brow furrowing, then arching in faint surprise.
Vizette's arms went slack, his wand no longer a stick but a rapier in his grip. He straightened like a sentinel, then swept the wand upward in a precise arc.
"Divine Sharpness Without a Shadow!"
His incantation rang brighter than Snape's, but no less commanding.
Whoosh!
The flute-like keen stretched longer, less restrained—Snape's control had been surgical, his a wilder swing. Predictably, it overreached: the nearby skeletons rattled, bones fracturing under the curse's bleed. Shards of molt and skeleton alike scattered like brittle leaves in a gust, clattering across the tunnel floor.
Snape's scowl deepened, his dark eyes flickering with a mix of revulsion and grudging nostalgia—the same conflicted storm he'd shown invoking Avada Kedavra.
Dumbledore approached, murmuring low. "In him, I see your younger self, Severus..."
Snape snorted, arms folded, fingers drumming his sleeve. "Nostalgia's a luxury I can't afford."
The headmaster merely shook his head.
Vizette held the mindset, slashing rhythmically. Sword energies flared, carving the molt into neat segments. Bone dust swirled like fresh snow in the dim tunnel, the massive shed dwindling to a pile of fragments.
Only when it lay in pieces did Vizette release a shaky breath. He touched his wand to his temple again, unraveling the memory weave—and winced as fire lanced through his fingers. Deep gashes marred his index and thumb, blood welling as tension ebbed.
"Episkey!" With his free hand, he mended the cuts, the skin knitting pale and scarred.
"Cheating has its price," Snape said, eyeing the faint lines. "Six minutes—barely adequate."
Vizette nodded. "Got it. I'll drill the curse properly—no more shortcuts."
He knew the truth: mastered like Snape's, it would've spared the skeletons. Precision was the key.
"I'd score it higher—say, an eighty," Dumbledore interjected, leading them onward. "A sealed door blocks the tunnel ahead. Standard charms failed it. Given this is Salazar Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets, we'll need Parseltongue."
"Bag the fragments first," Snape added. "And scour the bone dust."
Vizette flicked his wand, summoning the pieces into the conjured pouch Dumbledore had provided. "Scourgify!" The bone meal vanished, leaving the skin pristine.
He delved a hand inside to verify, brushing a fragment—and The Wizard's Practical Guide burst open in his mind's eye. Pages whipped wildly as his stored ancient magic surged, fully absorbed into the tome.
The influx accelerated the frenzy; it'd need time to settle before revealing more. Vizette had seen this before—unruffled, he pocketed the bag and followed Dumbledore deeper into the shadows...