HP: Transmigrating as an Obscurial

Ollivander's expression was unusually complex. "To be honest," he began, his voice tinged with reverence, "although this wand was crafted by the Ollivander family, it is not what one would call a complete wand."

Vizet raised a brow. "What do you mean by that?"

Ollivander sighed. "My grandfather mentioned it once. This wand was designed for a unique purpose, though its specifics remain a mystery. In everyday use, it may not even perform as well as an ordinary wand."

Curiosity flickered in Vizet's eyes as he took the box, carefully lifting the velvet lining.

Nestled within was the most exquisite wand he had ever seen. Its handle gleamed like pure sapphire, its gray crystalline structure spiraling upward to meet the wooden shaft in perfect harmony. The craftsmanship was unparalleled, both enchanting and otherworldly.

Ollivander observed with an almost paternal pride. "This wand," he murmured, "is unlike any other. It defies traditional wand-making principles. It lacks a standard wand core, and its body is... unorthodox, to say the least."

Vizet felt an indescribable connection to the artifact before him. It wasn't just a tool or a weapon—it felt like a part of him, waiting for this very moment to be complete. He was certain that this wand had been crafted with him in mind, even if its purpose remained elusive.

Without hesitation, Vizet reached out and clasped the wand in his hand.

The moment their connection was made, a surge of silver-blue light engulfed his mind. Within him, A Wizard's Practical Guide began to stir, its pages flipping wildly as though caught in a storm. Symbols and diagrams danced in his mind, brimming with arcane energy.

The wand, once solid in his grip, began to dissolve into light, reappearing within his consciousness. There, it floated amidst the whirling pages, a luminous anchor that steadied the chaos.

Suddenly, the gray crystal at the wand's core ignited, emitting a radiant silver-blue glow. The once-dim shop was transformed, flooded with waves of light that spilled outward, streaming through walls, windows, and doors, spreading across Diagon Alley.

Ollivander stared in awe, his usually calm demeanor shattered by the spectacle. His mouth hung slightly open, his wide silver eyes reflecting the brilliance of the light. He had seen many extraordinary things in his lifetime, but nothing like this.

Vizet floated several inches above the ground, suspended by unseen forces. His gaze seemed fixed far beyond the walls of the shop, as though he were witnessing the threads of history itself. In his mind's eye, the story of Diagon Alley unfolded like a vivid tapestry:

He saw the earliest days, when Ollivander's ancestors erected a modest shed and sold their first wand.

He watched goblins arrive, laying the foundations of Gringotts with an uncanny foresight of the prosperity to come.

He witnessed the gradual transformation of this space, as merchants and wizards built a bustling commercial hub around those two pivotal landmarks.

But it went deeper still. Vizet's vision stretched beyond Diagon Alley, reaching back into the origins of magic itself. He glimpsed ancient rituals, the primordial ways wizards first tapped into their power, and faint echoes of a time even older than recorded history.

Just as he tried to focus on the oldest, most enigmatic fragments of the vision, a sudden, overwhelming dizziness struck him. The world around him twisted and spun, plunging him into a maelstrom of vertigo...

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At the back of the Leaky Cauldron, Dumbledore sat with his fingers intertwined, his piercing gaze fixed on the shadowy figure across the table. The air between them seemed charged, heavy with unspoken tension.

"Professor Quirrell," Dumbledore began, his voice calm yet probing, "I understand you traveled to the Black Forest of Albania for practical experience in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Did your journey yield any notable inspiration?"

Quirrell shifted uneasily, beads of sweat forming on his pale forehead. "Of course... of course!" he stammered. "I—I encountered... a blood-sucking... vampire! Yes, and... and they were... quite unfriendly to me."

His trembling words hung awkwardly in the air as Dumbledore's sharp eyes never wavered. Before he could respond, the entire room was bathed in a sudden, radiant silver-blue light that pulsed through the bar like a shockwave.

The drinkers, previously slumped over their tables or engrossed in low conversation, snapped to attention.

"What just happened?" one mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "Did you see that light?"

"See it? I felt it!" another exclaimed, pointing toward the windows. "Looked like a proper Lumos Maxima!"

"You've had too much, mate," grumbled a third patron, belching loudly. "Oi, Tom! Another two dozen sherries over here!"

Dumbledore's gaze shifted toward the bar, then beyond it, as if his eyes could pierce the walls themselves. His expression became thoughtful, his brows furrowing ever so slightly. In his mind, the puzzle pieces aligned: Ollivander's Wand Shop... Vizet.

He sensed the ancient, almost primordial magic radiating from the silver-blue light. It was not chaotic or destructive but potent and profound, like a whisper of history that had momentarily come to life.

Meanwhile, Quirrell's voice broke the silence, his stuttering more pronounced. "Th-there was also... an old witch," he muttered, trembling. "She... she was terrifying... really... really terrifying."

Dumbledore turned his attention back to him, though his thoughts seemed far away. "An old witch?" he repeated absently.

"Y-yes!" Quirrell continued, his hands fidgeting nervously. "She—she raised a—a lot of snakes... poisonous snakes! She sent... sent them to attack me!"

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On the second floor of the Leaky Cauldron, in the dimly lit guest room rented by Quirrell, an eerie silence hung in the air. The only sounds were the faint creaks of the old inn settling into the night.

From beneath a tattered quilt, a small snake with pointed features slithered free, its movements quick and agitated. This was no ordinary snake — it was Voldemort, his fragmented soul clinging desperately to the meager vitality of the creature.

The snake's head darted toward the window, its glowing red eyes scanning the distance. A harsh, rasping voice emerged, echoing faintly in the room.

"Such ancient magic..." he hissed, his tone dripping with a mix of awe and frustration. "This body is far too weak to track its source. But even from here, I can feel its power."

The snake coiled tightly for a moment, as if gathering its strength, then relaxed. "No matter. I must compel Quirrell to secure the Stone... and quickly."

Before the snake could utter another word, its body trembled violently. The scales began to darken and flake away, turning to ash as if consumed by an unseen fire. Within moments, the creature disintegrated entirely, leaving behind a swirling mass of black smoke.

The shadowy energy hovered ominously, pulsing like a living entity. Slowly, it drifted across the room, drawn to a dark corner where a metal cage sat. Inside, venomous snakes lay coiled, their brightly colored scales shimmering faintly under the moonlight that filtered through the cracked window.

The snakes were unnaturally still, as though enchanted into a deep, dreamless slumber.

The black mass lingered, swirling above the cage like a predator choosing its prey. Then, with sudden purpose, it surged downward, enveloping one of the snakes. The chosen serpent writhed for a moment as the black energy seeped into its body, merging with it completely.

The room fell silent once more, but the faint glow of red eyes now shone from the depths of the cage, burning with renewed malevolence.

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Vizet stirred awake on the bench, the quiet hum of Ollivander's shop greeting him.

Blinking a few times, he noticed something strange. The once-familiar surroundings had transformed.

The ceiling above was now a maze of intricate lines, like trails left by an ethereal brush. They shimmered faintly with an otherworldly silver-blue glow. The same lines traced every wand on the shelves — some glowing with fiery red intensity, others warm and orange, and still others with soft, soothing silver hues.

"Child, you're awake!" Ollivander's voice drew his attention. The old wandmaker appeared before him, his silver eyes brimming with fascination. "Tell me, has the world in front of you changed?"

Vizet turned toward a mirror that Ollivander conjured, staring at his reflection. His young face looked as it always did, except for his eyes—his eyes were no longer ordinary. They glowed with a radiant silver-blue light, resembling tranquil lakes under the moonlight.

"What's wrong with my eyes?" Vizet murmured, his fingers brushing over his eyelids.

"The Eye of Insight" Ollivander explained, his voice tinged with envy and awe. "An incredibly rare talent, and the most prized gift in the Ollivander family lineage!"

He gestured dramatically, as though recounting a legend. "The first wandmaker in the Ollivander family possessed the Eye of Insight. With it, he could observe the essence of magic itself, unraveling the laws and mysteries within. It was this gift that enabled him to create wands unlike any other, laying the foundation for our family's legacy."

Ollivander's eyes gleamed with pride. "Many have dabbled in wandmaking throughout history, but no family has matched the craft of Ollivanders. And now, you carry this gift within you — a truly wondrous blessing."

Vizet listened, a mixture of awe and curiosity swirling within him. He closed his eyes, focusing inward.

In his mind, A Wizard's Practical Guide opened to a fresh page. The book had updated itself, and the new entry read:

Elementary Eye of Insight

Discover the ancient magical power distilled through time… Absorb it to nurture the Eye of Insight… Perceive the circuits of magic...

The words resonated deeply with him. He now understood that the glowing lines surrounding the wands were these magical circuits, a manifestation of their unique power.

And this, he realized, was only the beginning. The Eye of Insight could evolve. With more ancient magic absorbed, it could grow to intermediate and advanced levels. But what mysteries would it reveal then?

Excited by the possibilities, Vizet instinctively tried to channel the Obscurus within him, hoping to fuel his new ability. But no matter how much he focused, the primordial magical power produced with the Obscurus remained untouchable to the magical eyes.

He sighed, pushing aside his disappointment. For now, there were other priorities.

"Mr. Ollivander," Vizet said, turning to the wandmaker, "the wand you gave me earlier… it's gone. What should I do now?"