Vacation is Over (Part 1)

Some days after Christmas, another letter arrived from Snape.

In it, the Potions Master explained his reasoning at last: it was possible, he wrote, that the Obscurus still lingering within Vizet's body, subtly impaired his ability to brew the Soul Soothing Draught with the precision it required.

Vizet read the letter in silence.

A rare feeling stirred in him — low and quiet like the whisper of winter wind. It wasn't just disappointment; it was the unfamiliar weight of frustration.

He sat alone on a garden bench, the parchment still held loosely in his hand, staring at the stream trickling in the distance. Its surface glittered faintly in the pale winter light.

He didn't know how long she'd been sitting beside him, but Luna was there.

Quiet as moonlight.

She said nothing — only breathed the same wind, listened with him to Sol and Diana cooing gently nearby, and watched the grass tremble where the breeze skimmed the lawn but failed to bend the blades.

Together they sat, from the amber slant of afternoon to the soft indigo hush of evening. When stars began to prick the darkening sky and the moon climbed shyly above the trees, Vizet felt the heaviness in his chest begin to lift.

Luna raised her wrist, angling the crystal bead bracelet, Vizet gifted her, toward the heavens. The moon peeked through the clouds, revealing only half its face.

"The moon rises tonight, and the sun will come out tomorrow," she said gently. "They're like the phoenix, you know — life and rebirth, all part of the natural order."

Vizet listened. And when he turned to her and saw those luminous, pale-gold eyes reflecting the starlight, he smiled — softly, genuinely.

He was like Cedric, he realized, that day on the train — lost in a maze of his own making.

All because of one small question that had twisted itself around his thoughts until he forgot the way out.

Fortunately, someone had come to guide him. Someone who, like a forest sprite, always seemed to know the hidden paths.

"The end might just mean... the beginning of something new," Vizet murmured, thinking aloud. "Even failure has its worth—it's a kind of experience, too. I've... I've been too successful lately, I think."

"Maybe you need a Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean," Luna said, tilting her head, her smile curling like a crescent moon. "Daddy always says he ends up with the vomit-flavoured one."

Vizet laughed. "I'm pretty sure I have a box in the sweets jar. Hopefully I'll be lucky... I can survive snot flavour, but not vomit."

"I always get orange," Luna said dreamily. "I think the beans like me."

Vizet rose slowly to his feet, brushing off his robes.

Setbacks weren't so terrible, really. What mattered more was how one chose to meet them.

------------------------------

During the long Christmas holiday, Vizet let his thoughts turn toward life itself.

The gifts from the professors had been carefully packed into his suitcase, tucked away and waiting to be unsealed when term resumed — as if they, too, were waiting for the next chapter to begin.

Xenophilius was busier than ever, often up with the dawn, the printing press rumbling before breakfast as he printed and reprinted his latest work.

Meanwhile, Vizet and Luna continued their quiet explorations of London, traveling here and there through the Floo Network.

But this time, it was different.

There was no goal. No specific place they needed to be. They wandered not to arrive, but simply to see.

They took the Knight Bus out to the farmers' markets in the suburbs, where the tables overflowed with jars of honey and baskets of eggs. They sat on wooden chairs with peeling white paint and shared crisp toast and crumbly, fresh cheese, still cool from the morning chill.

After breakfast, they would linger on benches by the pavement, the scent of flowers and roasted coffee drifting on the breeze. They watched the people pass by, inventing stories about each one — who they were, where they were going, what secret hopes or heartbreaks might walk beside them.

Sometimes they'd stroll along the Thames, counting the number of spires and domes rising in silhouette on the opposite bank. Other times they'd climb hills just beyond the city's edge, taking in the wide, sweeping view that made the entire world seem quiet and small.

And in those still moments, Vizet felt something he hadn't expected.

He felt rested.

Not just in body — but deep within his spirit. As though all the scattered pieces of himself had settled, quietly and gently, back into place.

In comparison, no potion could have done the same. Not even the Soul Soothing Draught.

If his life was a house still under construction, then magic — books, spells, theories — formed its walls and foundation. But these fleeting, ordinary moments were the windows.

And with windows, moonlight could finally spill inside.

Before he realized it, the holiday had drawn to its end.

No dramatic goodbyes passed between them. When the time came, Vizet and Luna simply looked at one another.

No words were needed. Everything that mattered had already been said without speaking.

With one last glance, he turned and boarded the train.

The tracks wound their familiar path northward, and Hogwarts waited ahead.

------------------------------

The Scottish Highlands were still buried beneath a thick quilt of snow, untouched and glittering in the pale afternoon light.

At the platform, Filch stood huddled inside an oversized coat, his nose red and his hands trembling with cold. His voice, as usual, was thoroughly disgruntled.

"Come to my side! Follow me! Don't dawdle, I haven't got all evening!"

Under Filch's grousing lead, Vizet trudged with the rest of the students into the forest, where a row of carriages — without any animals — waited on the wide dirt road.

He climbed into one of them. The door closed of its own accord, and the carriage lurched forward, creaking along the snow-packed trail.

Curious, Vizet activated his Eye of Insight and peered through the frosted glass toward the front of the carriage.

What he saw was not what he expected.

There, veiled by enchantments, pulsed a massive magical circuit — far more intricate than what he could decipher. Even with his intermediate-level magic eye, the details blurred into complex, shifting forms.

He could just make out the rough outlines of an enormous horse-like creature — larger than any human — drawing the carriages. Their magic signatures hinted at life, but the nature of their circuits remained completely beyond him.

So that's what pulls them... he thought, silently filing the mystery away for another day.

When he arrived back at the Ravenclaw dormitory, the common room was empty.

Judging from the chaotic state of his roommates' desks — ink stains, parchment mountains, and the occasional broken quill — it was clear they were making a frantic, last-minute dash to finish the homework they'd blissfully ignored all holiday.

Sure enough, a note lay waiting on Vizet's desk, scribbled in four distinctly different handwritings:

Vizet — Library — Help! Homework! Save us!

With a wry smile, he packed up his notes from Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick, tucked them under his arm, and made his way to the ever-bustling Hogwarts library.

Inside, Madam Pince was in full command.

Her watchful gaze swept the room like a hawk on the hunt, and at the slightest hint of noise, she'd swoop in and eject a group of students with such finality, they'd slink away as if banished from the Forbidden Forest itself.

Fortunately, Anthony and the others had anticipated this and chosen a table in the farthest, dustiest corner — where Madam Pince could only glare from a distance.

When they saw Vizet approach, four hands shot into the air, waving desperately the moment her back was turned.

"Vizet! You're back!" Michael whispered in a barely-contained voice. "Please — look over our homework. See if anything can be improved!"

In true Ravenclaw fashion, finishing the assignment wasn't enough. It had to be exceptional — worthy of praise, fine-tuned, and ideally, ahead of the curve.

Vizet skimmed through the pages, nodding as he read.

"Well done," he said in a hushed tone. "The content's solid. But if you really want to enhance it, try quoting a few original sources in your conclusions. That could elevate your argument."

He paused for a moment, mentally flipping through the library catalog.

"For Potions, check the twelfth cabinet — Professor Snape likes precision. Basic Potions Theory has a tone that matches his style. Crisp and exact."

"For Charms, sixth cabinet — Chadwick's Magic: Volume I. The summaries are lively, but clever enough to reference."

"And for Transfiguration… fifteenth cabinet, sixth row. There's a book called From Silver Needles to Blades. Some of its phrasing might help you polish the ending."

"You're a genius," whispered Terry, giving Vizet a thumbs-up.

"An actual savior," added Anthony, already halfway out of his chair.

The four of them scattered in different directions, ducking between shelves and dodging Madam Pince's steely glare like seasoned spies, vanishing into the towering stacks in search of the perfect sentence.