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Sargeras had spent the entire night in the library. When dawn's first light brushed against the horizon, Dumbledore's phoenix, Fawkes, came gliding through the open window.
It carried a letter in its beak, its fiery red tail feathers shimmering with brilliance like flowing light.
For some reason, Noctis had never been fond of that phoenix. Perhaps he was jealous of its dazzling plumage, or maybe it was the beauty of its melodious song that irked him.
Sargeras could hardly blame him. After all, his own raven's voice was nothing to be praised.
Still, the bird had its advantages. Its voice might be grating, yet it could speak; it could not shed tears, but it could certainly make a mess; it could not Apparate, but it could gnaw through mithril; it might lack the phoenix's fiery red feathers, but it had something else... a black so dark it shimmered with hidden colors.
Sargeras slipped the letter into his pocket, then turned to the sulking raven that was still locked in a staring contest with Fawkes.
"Go to this address and keep watch over Harry Potter's home. If anything unusual happens nearby, notify me at once."
He handed the bird the slip of parchment he had received from Dumbledore the night before. Since he had accepted the commission, he would prepare accordingly.
The raven looked reluctant, almost offended, but it had little choice. With a disgruntled caw, it flapped its wings and disappeared into the morning sky.
After breakfast in the Great Hall, Sargeras vanished from sight, his figure flickering like a shadow. When he reappeared, it was before the modest little house of Lyall Lupin.
The cottage walls were still faded and peeling, the window sills lined with a few pots of drooping herbs that had clearly seen better days.
"Knock, knock, knock!"
He rapped lightly on the weathered wooden door.
Footsteps sounded from within, faint but steady. A moment later came the soft creak of hinges, and the door opened.
"Who are you?" asked an elderly man with graying hair and a slight stoop. His cloudy eyes studied the well-dressed young man at the door with a mixture of doubt and curiosity.
"Good morning, Mr. Lupin. We just corresponded yesterday," Sargeras said calmly, his gaze discreetly sweeping across the simple furnishings visible inside.
"Hm?" Lyall Lupin blinked in surprise, then his eyes widened, the wrinkles around them deepening. "You're Mr. Greengrass? I mean—Professor!"
His voice carried genuine astonishment. It was clear he had not expected the man behind those letters to be so young.
"Please, come in, come in and sit," the old man said quickly, stepping aside with a polite and almost flustered deference.
"Just Sargeras is fine." He smiled faintly and stepped inside. The little house was filled with the faint fragrance of herbs and the musty scent of old books. He chose the sturdiest-looking wooden chair in the room and settled into it.
"Is Peeves getting along here?" he asked casually, his tone light but knowing. "I imagine he's not exactly thrilled with my arrangement."
"Oh, quite right," Lyall replied with a weary chuckle. He began clearing the clutter off the desk, setting aside a stack of papers before turning to fetch a glass of water. "He hasn't been very cooperative. And as for my research on non-human spirits... it's been left untouched for too long. I'm still observing him, for now."
He placed the cup before Sargeras with a careful hand, then, unable to resist, stole another glance at his young visitor from the corner of his eye. There was curiosity there, perhaps even a hint of disbelief at the composure and quiet authority the young man carried.
Sargeras, of course, noticed the look. Lifting the cup, he took a measured sip before saying, in his usual steady tone, "Forgive me for coming without notice. I hope I'm not interrupting your work."
"Not at all, not at all!" Lyall said quickly, waving both hands in mild panic. His voice was flustered but earnest. "You could never be an interruption. In fact, I ought to thank you."
His tone dropped to something softer, his manner suddenly more restrained. He sat down on an old chair opposite Sargeras, the wood creaking faintly beneath him. His hands rested stiffly on his knees, fingers tightening as if gathering courage.
"It's just… there's something I've been wondering," he began after a long pause, "How did you know about… my history with Fenrir Greyback?"
There was pain buried in his words, a pain long suppressed, and beneath it, the faint glimmer of caution that comes from years of grief.
Sargeras set his cup down gently. "Does this require too rigorous a deduction," he said evenly, then lifted a hand toward the far wall.
Pinned there were several yellowed clippings: old newspaper articles, wanted posters, and among them, the savage face of Fenrir Greyback stared out, fanged and wild.
Lyall followed the gesture. His lips trembled, but in the end, he said nothing. His eyes dimmed a little as though some old memory had been stirred that he would rather not revisit.
"And besides," Sargeras added, his tone calm and flat, "my raven can tell me everything it observes."
At that, Lyall understood. His shoulders drooped as he nodded, the faint tension in his frame easing into resignation.
"Two years ago," Sargeras continued in the same even voice, "I encountered Greyback and his pack near the Oak Market, southwest of Black Marsh Town. For certain reasons, I had to deal with them."
Lyall's face showed a hint of astonishment at these words, as if he had not expected someone so young and composed to speak of such a thing so plainly. Yet when he remembered the magic recorded written on that parchment Sargeras had sent, his astonishment gave way to comprehension. Professors at Hogwarts might vary in talent, but anyone capable of creating their own spells was not to be underestimated.
"Then… may I ask what brings you here this time?" Lyall raised his head cautiously. Curiosity laced his voice, though he spoke with a care born of long habit.
"I was merely passing through," Sargeras replied softly, "and thought I might deliver a message while I'm here."
He met Lyall's eyes and continued in the same unhurried tone. "Headmaster Dumbledore intends to appoint a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. The person he has chosen is Remus Lupin."
"What?" Lyall's voice trembled as disbelief widened his eyes. The words struck him like a spell he could not quite deflect.
"I assume," Sargeras said, ignoring the old man's astonished expression and speaking as though confirming a fact already known, "that he is your son?"
Lyall drew in a long, steadying breath before nodding slowly. "Yes."
Dumbledore knew about their circumstances, yet he still chose to hire Remus? The thought was almost too difficult to understand. Joy, fear, and worry intertwined across Lyall's weathered face, his expression shifting as each emotion fought for place.
Sargeras, however, did not elaborate. He merely inclined his head slightly. "I'll be meeting him soon. If there's any letter or message you'd like to pass along, I can take it for you."
Then he reached into his cloak and placed a small leather pouch on the table. The sound of coins clinking inside was unmistakable. "This is for your research on Peeves. Additional funds will be sent at the end of every month."
When Lyall opened his mouth, whether to refuse or to thank him, Sargeras lifted a hand to stop him. "It isn't a gift. If you accept my funding, every piece of your research must be shared with me, without restriction."
The old man's body noticeably stiffened at these words.
For a long moment he only stared at the pouch of Galleons before him. Then his gaze lifted to Sargeras's calm, unruffled face. After a brief silence, he nodded firmly. "No problem."
"Good."
Sargeras rose from his chair, smoothing the sleeve of his robe. "Do you have a letter for him? If not, I'll take my leave."
"Wait—please wait a moment!" Lyall exclaimed, stumbling slightly in his haste to stand.
He rushed to the corner desk, seized a piece of parchment and a frayed quill, dipped the nib into ink, and began to write with frantic speed. The quill's tip scratched harshly across the parchment, leaving hurried, crooked strokes that bled faintly into the page.
When at last he finished, he handed the letter to Sargeras. The ink was still fresh, the parchment faintly warm from the touch of anxious hands.
Sargeras accepted it in silence. With a brief nod of farewell, his figure shimmered and wavered like heat rising from stone, then vanished from sight before the weathered cottage.
"POP!"
A faint pop echoed through a narrow alleyway in London's East End, where the air hung heavy with the sour tang of fish and the acrid bite of coal smoke.
Sargeras appeared beside a stack of damp wooden crates reeking of mildew. He frowned slightly and brushed at his robes, though there was no dust to remove, his sharp gaze sweeping the shadowed surroundings.
Compared to where he had just come from, this place felt far more desolate and suffocating.
At the end of the narrow alley lay a noisy dock, where coarse shouts mingled with the heavy thuds of cargo being dropped to the ground.
Following the address Dumbledore had provided, Sargeras made his way deeper into the alley until he reached a crumbling tenement whose structure seemed ready to collapse at any moment.
The stairwell inside was dark and damp. Paint peeled from the walls, and the air was mixed with the rancid cheap tobacco and spoiled food.
He climbed to the top floor and found the room he sought; the one with a number so faded it was barely legible.
"Knock, knock, knock!"
The sound echoed exceptionally clear in the silent stairwell.
There was no response from within, only the dead silence of a place long abandoned.
Sargeras was not surprised. After confirming that no one was inside, he turned on his heel and descended the stairs, heading directly for the clamorous dock below.
Under a dim, gloomy sky, cargo ships were being loaded and unloaded.
Workers in tattered clothes, their bodies smeared with grime, strained to lift sacks and crates across the slick gangplanks. Sweat, rain, and seawater soaked through their roughspun garments until they clung to their backs like second skins.
And amid that crowd, Sargeras quickly found the man he was looking for — Remus Lupin.
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[Chapter End's]
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