"Harry Potter- Ravenclaw"Chapter 173: Snape, Blade Unveiled
Watching Snape grip his wand, Wyzett slipped into his Custodis Meditatio, mind sharpened to a razor's edge as he studied every movement.
In this moment, Snape radiated a singular, chilling presence—not just cold, but the kind forged from iron and blood, like a blade steeped in battle and thirsting for more. To Wyzett, he no longer looked like a mere professor, but a swordsman—one whose blade was unsheathed for all to see.
The Sectumsempra curse carried that same feeling: a single, decisive stroke of sword energy.
"Sectumsempra!"
Snape's incantation was soft and clipped, but every syllable rang with explosive force and an indomitable will. Contradictory, yet utterly compelling.
But Sectumsempra itself was not a spell of contradictions.
With a subtle twist of the wrist, Snape moved as if his wand weighed nothing at all. In a single, fluid motion, a chill swept the air—an invisible blade, leaping from a point to a line.
Shhhkt.
The sound was like a reed being split—brief, sharp, and unstoppable.
The basilisk skin trembled twice, then split cleanly in two, collapsing in silence to either side.
With precise timing, Snape lowered his wand, as if sheathing a sword, and returned to his customary brooding stillness.
"This skin isn't all that tough. I'm giving you ten minutes," Snape said, lowering his wand. "And rein in the Dark Magic in your Sectumsempra—"
"Focus on control and precision. Unbalance the spell so only its sharpness remains. I want clean basilisk skin fragments, not shards of Dark Magic."
Wyzett had guessed right—Snape cared about the purity of the skin itself, not any additional properties.
What a blade.
That single stroke lingered in Wyzett's mind, worthy of endless contemplation.
He exhaled, using mental magic to replay every detail: Snape's casting, his tone, the spirit he projected. Suddenly, Wyzett realized—this was the very image of the young Snape he'd seen in Hagrid's memories.
If that was so… perhaps he could use another memory as a fulcrum, a pivot point to help him channel Sectumsempra.
All roads lead to Rome. His studies of mental magic could propel him toward mastering other spells as well.
But Snape wanted the task done quickly. Time for a little ingenuity.
Wyzett closed his eyes, wand pressed to his temple. His Obscurus core surged, pumping Ancient Magic into a Memoria Exhaurire.
By fusing Ancient Magic with the memory extraction spell, he could link two memories—creating a unique effect. He'd used similar methods teaching Luna, using the Pensieve to create a sense of true empathy.
First, he drew out memories of the young Snape; next, the memory of the spell just cast; finally, the very concept of sword energy itself.
He twisted these memories together, like braiding wicks for a single, powerful flame.
When Wyzett opened his eyes, they glittered with a new, icy clarity.
Snape turned, brow furrowed, then arched an eyebrow—something strange had caught his attention.
Wyzett's arm hung low. In his hand, the wand felt less like wood and more like a true blade.
He adjusted his stance, back straight as a pine, then lifted his arm and swept his wand upward—a single, clean stroke through the air.
"Sectumsempra!"
His voice was brighter than Snape's, but no less sharp.
Whoosh!
The sound, like a reed flute, rang out—longer than Snape's, less controlled. The results showed it: while Snape's spell made only the snakeskin tremble, Wyzett's cut through both skin and bone.
Bones caught in the spell's path shattered alongside the basilisk skin. The rest rattled and rolled away, clattering like dry twigs in the wind.
Snape's brow knotted, his eyes dark—disgust and nostalgia flickering within, just like the magic he'd cast.
Dumbledore seemed to sense it too. He stepped closer and murmured, "In him… I see echoes of you as a student."
"Heh. Is that really something to remember?" Snape scoffed, arms crossed, fingers drumming on his sleeve as if counting down the seconds.
Dumbledore only shook his head, saying nothing more.
Wyzett held onto the feeling, swinging his arm again and again, unleashing blade after blade of magic. Soon, bone dust filled the tunnel like a gentle snowfall. The massive snakeskin shrank rapidly, sliced into neat, regular fragments that tumbled to the ground.
When the task was finally done, Wyzett let out a long breath, pressed his wand to his temple, and restored his memories to their rightful place.
Pain flared in his fingers. Looking down, he saw deep cuts on his index finger and thumb—blood welling from the wounds now that the spell's tension had faded.
"Episkey!" he muttered with his off hand, quickly sealing the cuts.
"That's the price for shortcuts," Snape said, glancing at the fading scars. "Took you about six minutes. Barely a passing grade."
Wyzett nodded. "Understood. I'll practice this spell properly from now on—no more shortcuts."
He knew well: if he could wield Sectumsempra as fluidly as Snape, he wouldn't risk slicing through everything nearby.
"I thought you'd give him an eighty," Dumbledore remarked, approaching them. "There's another door at the end of this tunnel."
"I tried opening it, but ordinary methods don't work… After all, this is Salazar Slytherin's Chamber. It'll need Parseltongue."
"Collect the fragments and dust off the bone powder," Snape instructed. "We need to move on."
Wyzett nodded, sweeping the fragments into the bag Dumbledore had conjured.
"Mundus Totalus!" he incanted, cleaning the bone dust from the skin.
After a quick inspection, he reached into the bag to check for any lingering bone powder.
The moment he touched the skin, The Wizard's Practical Combat Guide sprang open, pages fluttering wildly.
All the Ancient Magic he'd gathered surged into the book, feeding its hunger. With each pulse, the pages spun faster, as if something new was about to be revealed.
Wyzett had seen this before and took it in stride, following Dumbledore deeper into the winding tunnel…
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