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The uproar at St. Mungo's had finally subsided, and Nightingale seized the bottle of unknown potion before hurrying off to Beauxbatons, leaving Sargeras and the other four behind in the ward. The five of them stood there, staring at one another in uneasy silence.
The air still carried a bitter aftertaste, each of them catching faint traces of the smell they despised most, as though the room itself remembered their dread. A heavy weight lingered over them, one that no one could quite name. Misfortune clung to their spirits like a parasitic worm that refused to release its hold.
"I must return to Hogwarts." Sargeras broke the hush at last. His voice was quiet, yet it carried a firmness that brooked no argument. "Final examinations cannot be delayed. The papers haven't been finalized, and the invigilation schedule still needs confirmation."
His eyes moved to Kestrel, pale and listless on the bed. "Rest well. Nightingale will find a way to undo the curse. As for the rest of you…"
He let his gaze sweep over Swift, Thunderbird, and Hummingbird. "Try to stay somewhere safe. Keep your movements to a minimum and wait for Nightingale's word."
Swift looked down at the hand that had just held the potion, his face tightening with worry. "Professor, are you sure it's all right for you to go back now?"
Thunderbird and Hummingbird shared the same anxious look, their concern plain.
Sargeras drew a deep breath, forcing down the faint agitation that the potion's ill luck had roused within him. "It is my duty. Besides, Hogwarts is still the safest place for me. I will remain in my office and go nowhere else."
He kept his tone calm, determined to appear untouched, as though the unseen curse were nothing more than a petty nuisance.
In his mind he sketched the destination with perfect clarity: a quiet stretch of grass on the far edge of the Black Lake, safely distant from the Whomping Willow.
The words of the Apparition spell formed with crisp clarity on his tongue. Space around him tightened and folded, the world bending toward that chosen point…
However, just as his feet were about to touch the soil of Hogwarts, the long-slumbering misfortune finally stirred.
"Pfft—"
An extremely faint but chilling sound reached his ears, like the tearing of delicate cloth.
Sargeras staggered as he landed on the grass, a flicker of shock breaking through the stern mask of his face.
A sudden pain shot through his left hand. He looked down, disbelief flashing in his eyes, and saw that the little finger of his left hand had vanished from the second knuckle onward. The wound was unnaturally smooth, so clean that no blood had yet risen to the surface.
Splintering?
In all his ten years of magic, he had never once made a mistake this careless.
Frowning, he dropped into a crouch and swept his hand through the thick grass, searching for the missing piece of himself.
Fortune, at least, limited the damage. The separation seemed to have stopped with that single finger, and the severed piece lay close at hand.
Within seconds he spotted it: a small, chalk-white finger resting quietly among a cluster of clover leaves, as if it had simply chosen to nap there.
He lifted the severed finger with great care and pressed it precisely against the wound. His wand was in his other hand almost before he had finished aligning it.
"Vulnera Sanentur!"
From the tip of the wand a soft milky light poured out, wrapping both finger and hand in a gentle glow. Sargeras felt the wound knit itself together under the slow steady pull of magic, the sensation both strange and reassuring.
Moments later the finger was whole again.
"Phew…" He let out a long breath, the sound more like the sigh of someone who had survived a hard fight than a simple spell.
Apparition, then?
Until the curse was lifted, he would not attempt using it again.
He drew out the Bronze Feather badge and sent a terse message to the others, warning them to avoid Apparition if they could. Use a Portkey, the Floo Network, or even the Knight Bus instead.
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For a man of his skill, this was a humiliation. He had believed that such an everyday spell could never go wrong in his hands.
But he had, after all, been careless.
It seemed Dumbledore's words had been right all along. Arrogance ran deep in him, subtle enough to escape notice yet difficult to root out.
Knowing that ill fortune clung to him like a living thing, he realized he should never have risked casting any spell that carried even the faintest hint of danger.
Dragging his tired body, he made his way back toward Hogwarts castle.
He brushed past every greeting in the corridors, not slowing his steps and not offering a single reply, until at last he reached his own office. Once inside, he turned the key hard in the lock, sealing the wooden door with a firm click.
"Nowhere else to go…" he murmured, repeating the decision to himself.
His eyes settled on the thick stack of parchment on the desk, the unfinished drafts of the final examinations waiting for his hand.
This would be his only task from this moment on!
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Time crawled forward, weighed down by one small misfortune after another.
Two quills rebelled, snapping and flinging ink across the room, and a pile of parchment burst into sudden flame before the examination week at last arrived.
Two full days had passed since the curse had first taken hold. Swift and Thunderbird had almost returned to their usual selves, yet the shadow of misfortune still clung stubbornly to Sargeras.
For him, the very thought of supervising the exams felt like stepping into a nightmare waiting to unfold. He chose instead what seemed the safest path. Noctis would oversee every test in his stead, and there would be written papers only, with no practical magic attempted at all.
His caution proved wise. The examinations unfolded without disruption, and when the bell finally rang to mark the end of the last paper, the students handed in their work and filed out of the hall with visible relief.
Through the eyes of a watching raven, Sargeras observed the tall stack of completed parchments. The tension that had gripped him for days at last began to ease, if only a little.
"Bring Dobby here," he instructed Noctis.
The raven's black eyes mirrored his own blank expression. Without a sound it spreads its wings and swept away, vanishing into the dark depths of the Forbidden Forest.
Sargeras had already resolved his course. For the sake of absolute safety, and more importantly to keep the curse from twisting some small action into catastrophe, he would remain as still as possible. Any needless movement might serve as a lever for the bad luck that stalked him.
Not long after, a gentle pop broke the silence. The house-elf Dobby appeared at his feet, his tennis-ball eyes shining with a mixture of excitement and anxious devotion.
"The great wizard calls for Dobby? Dobby will do anything, anything at all!"
"Quiet, Dobby." Sargeras's voice was calm and level. His steady gaze rested on the elf. "Do you see that pile of exam papers?"
Dobby followed his gaze to the desk where a heavy stack of parchment lay waiting. Beside it a quill stood ready in a pot of ink, the feather gleaming faintly under the lamplight.
"Y-yes, Master! Dobby sees them. Dobby can—"
"Good." Sargeras cut him off before the eager words could spill any further. His voice was calm and clear as he laid out the task. "I need you to grade them. Listen carefully. The marking rules are as follows. For each correct step of the key spell, award three points. If the student explains the full evolution of the spell…"
He was still laying out the details of the grading when the cursed misfortune struck once more, swift and unerring.
His tongue seemed to move of its own will and caught sharply against his teeth.
"…"
A sudden sting shot through the tip.
His brow tightened just slightly. Years of discipline kept his face composed. He merely pressed the injured spot with the very edge of his tongue and tasted the faint, almost imperceptible metallic trace of iron.
Without breaking the rhythm of his speech, he continued as though nothing unusual had happened. "…Award two points if the theory is clear, even when the answer lacks practical examples…"
It was as though misfortune had found the first strike too mild. Before he could utter more than a few words, his tongue, as if possessed, slid once again against his teeth.
"…sshh!"
This time the pain was sharper, clean enough to draw a brief flash of heat across his jaw.
The line of his jaw tightened, and for the briefest instant a shadow of helplessness crossing in his eyes.
He drew a slow breath and forced the discomfort down. The tip of his tongue pressed lightly against the inside of his cheek, testing to make sure he had not bitten through the skin and started bleeding again. When he spoke his pace never faltered. "…Deduct one point if the reasoning holds but lacks proper support. Answers that stray completely from the question or create dangerous results earn no credit at all."
He closed his lips for a heartbeat, the tongue curling in a small defensive knot inside his mouth.
This pause was not from pain. It was a deliberate check, a silent guard against a third strike that felt all too likely tonight. He shut his eyes for a single breath and opened them again with the same calm as before.
His gaze settled on Dobby, quiet and steady. "Remember every detail. Follow this standard exactly. And do not improvisation."
Dobby's great round eyes grew even wider. He had caught the slight pauses, the faint hiss of breath, and his long ears quivered with nervous energy. But he did not dare to question. He only nodded hard enough to make the tips of those ears tremble.
"Dobby understands! Dobby will follow your instructions exactly! Not a single word will be wrong! Dobby promises!"
He stepped toward the desk with exaggerated care, took up the quill as though it were a sacred relic, and finally began the work. His posture carried a kind of solemn bravery, as if he were not marking examination papers at all but recording the names of the living and the dead.
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[Chapter End's]
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