Dumbledore's voice rang out clearly through the Great Hall:
"He accomplished something that even I could not — he saved a professor's life! For that, I award Ravenclaw one hundred points!"
A stunned silence followed, broken only a moment later by a thunderous cheer from the Ravenclaw table. Professor Flitwick nearly fell off his seat with joy.
As the applause swelled, Dumbledore raised his wand with a dramatic flourish. The enormous eagle flag behind the staff table surged upward — unfurling, shifting — and suddenly transformed.
A magnificent eagle now soared beneath the enchanted ceiling, its wingspan nearly touching the walls. Its feathers shimmered like burnished bronze, and its eyes were so piercingly lifelike that for a moment, one could believe it had flown in from the mountains themselves.
Gasps of awe echoed through the hall.
With a final mighty cry, the eagle spiraled upward — and burst into a dazzling explosion of light and color, scattering a rain of sweets across the hall.
Candies glittered as they drifted downward, carried on invisible breezes. The students laughed and reached up to catch them, hands flailing, robes fluttering.
Vizet held out his palm, and a chocolate frog landed squarely in it, wriggling ever so slightly in the center of his hand.
He glanced up, heart still pounding — and caught Dumbledore's eye across the room.
The old wizard gave him a quick wink and smiled.
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On the day they were to leave school, the exam results were finally posted — and as expected, Vizet ranked first in his year.
It was no surprise to see "Outstanding" marked next to most of his subjects. But what truly caused a stir throughout the castle was the fact that Professor Snape had also awarded him an "O."
That, undoubtedly, became the final headline of the term.
Outside of a rare few Slytherins, no student from the other Houses ever received anything beyond "Exceeds Expectations" in Potions — if they were lucky. And now Snape had granted his highest mark to a Ravenclaw.
Naturally, the Slytherins tried to get to the bottom of it. But when they knocked on the Potions office door, they were turned away without a word.
According to Filch, Snape had slipped out of the castle early that morning, beginning his summer holidays ahead of everyone else.
Later that day, Vizet returned to the hospital wing, wand in hand. He was hoping to try the Purification Spell — perhaps it could aid Quirrell's recovery.
To his surprise, Dumbledore was already there, standing at the bedside, a look of calm satisfaction on his face.
"I knew you would come," he said with a knowing smile.
"I asked Madam Pomfrey — Professor Quirrell still hasn't woken," Vizet explained, raising his wand. "So I thought I'd give it a try…"
Dumbledore nodded. "The magic of the Guardian is always more wondrous than we expect. That's precisely why I came."
He turned and spoke gently to Madam Pomfrey. "Poppy, if you don't mind... I'd like a few minutes alone with Quirinus and Vizet."
With a small nod, she excused herself.
"I'll begin now." Vizet lifted his wand and cast the spell.
A soft silver-blue light blossomed from the tip, and a spiral of magic wrapped around Quirrell's sleeping form. A thin wisp of shadow — like black mist — rose from his chest, trailing upward like smoke.
Dumbledore observed quietly, then murmured, "Just as I suspected... The body, once tainted by Voldemort, no longer aligns with Quirinus's purified soul."
"Huuh —!" Quirrell suddenly gasped and opened his eyes, drawing in a sharp breath.
He blinked, eyes adjusting to the light, and looked about in confusion. "The hospital wing...? Vizet? You're here too?"
Vizet gave a small wave. "Good morning, Professor Quirrell!"
"You've been unconscious for several days now," Dumbledore said gently. "So we came to see you."
Quirrell tried to sit up, but his arms trembled with the effort. He collapsed back onto the pillows, breathing hard.
"What's wrong with me...?" he asked, voice hoarse.
Dumbledore sat down beside him. "The Philosopher's Stone is currently healing you purified soul... but your body hasn't caught up. The misalignment between the two has left you in a severely weakened state."
He then explained more, gently touching on the subject of Nicolas Flamel.
"Incredible..." Quirrell whispered, eyes wide. He yawned. "After all that, I actually get to be... a student of Nicolas Flamel...?"
He smiled wearily, eyes full of awe, then turned to Vizet and Dumbledore. "It's all thanks to you. I'll never forget it — ever."
Dumbledore chuckled. "I didn't do much. At most, I used a stone... to prod you a little."
Vizet smiled, and his throat tightened unexpectedly. "It's the same for me... I've been protected by you, too."
"Eh... don't say that..." Quirrell yawned again, his eyelids drooping heavily. "I'll come back... once I've rested properly..."
Before he could finish the sentence, his head tilted sideways, and he drifted back into sleep — peaceful as a child.
Dumbledore smiled. "His body needs time to recover."
Vizet looked down at the sleeping professor, and laughed softly. "Yes. We'll meet again — soon."
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After leaving the hospital wing, Vizet planned to return to his dormitory to pack up and head with his roommates to the platform to wait for the train.
But to his surprise, as he stepped onto the eighth floor, Trelawney jumped out again.
Just like their encounter at the start of the school year, she appeared almost out of nowhere — one moment, the corridor was empty, and the next, she was right behind him.
Trelawney was swaying slightly, her breath heavy with the scent of sherry. She hiccupped repeatedly, muttering incoherently as she stumbled forward.
"Hic — A four-leaf clover in its mouth... hic! The new star shall reach... hic! Reach the ancient... hic! Gear... hic! Turns the destiny... hic!"
"Tip of a triangle... hic! The interweaving makes everything... hic! The strange... hic! of the mist! It's getting... hic! getting blurrier... hic!"
It had to be said — Vizet had never seen a professor like Trelawney before.
He tried his best to make sense of her words, but between the hiccups, slurred speech, and obscure phrasing, it was impossible to catch anything clearly.
Just then, a tabby cat appeared at the far end of the corridor. She broke into a sprint — and mid-leap transformed into Professor McGonagall.
"Sybill!" she exclaimed, her eyes narrowing. "Oh, Vizet, she didn't say anything unpleasant to you, did she?"
With a quick flick of her wand, she conjured a warm, patchwork blanket and wrapped it tightly around Trelawney.
By that point, Trelawney had passed out completely, and now resembled nothing more than a bundled caterpillar wrapped snugly in color.
McGonagall turned to a suit of armor at the end of the hall and gave a subtle wave. The armor immediately clanked to life and marched over, lifting the "caterpillar" gently onto its shoulder.
"She's always this much trouble," McGonagall muttered, rubbing her temple like an exasperated parent. "If more students saw this, it would hardly help their impression of Divination…"
She watched the armor carefully carry Trelawney away and vanish around the corner.
After a long sigh, McGonagall turned to Vizet. "Well then — let's find an empty classroom. We still need to have a proper chat about transfiguration magic."
Vizet nodded, following her briskly through the halls. Before long, they arrived at a classroom with its door wide open.
But the moment they stepped inside, they were greeted by a cacophony of metallic clangs and crumbling plaster.
The floor was littered with debris — chalk stubs, torn parchment, and shattered chunks of what once seemed to be lime-sculpted figures.
And from overhead came an odd, haunting tune…
"There are no more footsteps in the corridor,And the yawning stairs are too bored to play.All jokes and mischief must wait 'til next term,My friends, my friends, have all gone away…"
Floating lazily above the room was a humanoid figure, scribbling on the ceiling with a piece of chalk and humming to himself in a thin, off-key voice.
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