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Remus Lupin wore a coarse, threadbare coat, the fabric so worn it had faded to a dull gray. The shoulder seam was frayed and torn from carrying heavy loads. His hair, prematurely streaked with white, clung damply to his temples.
At that moment, he was struggling to carry a wooden crate that looked heavier than he was. His back was bent under the strain, and each step sank into the muddy ground, leaving uneven footprints behind.
Sweat streamed down his thin face, tracing through the grime along his neck before vanishing into his collar.
Around him, other workers labored in the same numb rhythm, their breaths rough and ragged. The air was filled with the smell of damp wood and sweat, broken only by the overseer's sharp, impatient shouts.
Standing a short distance away was Sargeras. His clean, well-pressed wizard's robes looked utterly out of place in the grimy, gray dockyard, like a ghostly figure that had wandered into the wrong world.
He stood quietly, his eyes fixed on Lupin. Only when Lupin finally set down the heavy crate and lifted his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his brow did their gazes meet.
Lupin froze.
A flicker of confusion passed across his exhausted face, followed by disbelief, then a flush of embarrassment that quickly hardened into wary vigilance.
He did not recognize the young man, yet the stranger's attire and bearing left no doubt that he was a wizard.
The stranger didn't move. He simply watched, expressionless, but the sheer intensity of his gaze made Lupin feel a sting of discomfort, as if the man could see straight through him.
Sargeras did not step closer to the noisy, chaotic work area. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, signaling for Lupin to come over to a quieter corner of the dock.
Lupin hesitated. His eyes flicked toward the overseer before he finally gave in. Shoulders slumped with exhaustion, he trudged through the mud, the smell of sweat and dust clinging to him, until he stopped a few paces away from Sargeras.
Out of habit, he straightened his aching back, his expression cautious, eyes guarded.
"Who are you?" His voice came out hoarse, scraped raw by fatigue.
"Mr. Lupin," Sargeras replied in his usual calm tone, utterly unbothered by the dirt, noise, or the reek of labor surrounding them. "Headmaster Dumbledore sent me to find you."
The confusion in Lupin's eyes deepened. Unease rippled through him like a wave spreading across still water.
"Professor Dumbledore? Why—what does he need from me?" he asked, his fingers tightening unconsciously around the edge of his grimy coat.
"Let's talk somewhere else," Sargeras said quietly.
His gaze swept over the nearby Muggle workers. "Take me to where you live."
The words were simple, calm, and unquestioning. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and began walking toward the row of cheap apartment buildings in the distance.
Lupin did not refuse. He silently followed the unfamiliar wizard, his thoughts crowding one another in restless confusion.
Neither of them spoke on the way. The sound of their footsteps echoed through the narrow staircase until they reached the top floor.
The small room waiting there was unexpectedly clean. Though the furniture was old and the space cramped, every item was neatly arranged, every corner dusted and tidy.
Sargeras turned to face him, his eyes resting on Lupin's still weary and disheveled appearance.
"My name is Sargeras Greengrass," he said clearly. "I teach Advanced Charm Theory and Practice at Hogwarts."
Lupin gave a small nod. Though the words caught him off guard, he wisely kept the questions about the man's age to himself. The composure in Sargeras's manner told him that this was not a man to be treated lightly.
"You said Professor Dumbledore wanted to see me?" he asked again, repeating the question that had been gnawing at him since the docks.
Sargeras didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached into his robes and took out two letters.
One bore the wax seal of Hogwarts, pressed with the headmaster's crest. The other was written on rough parchment, the ink still faintly glistening where it had not yet dried.
"This one is from the headmaster." Sargeras handed over Dumbledore's letter first.
Lupin glanced down at his own hands, covered in grime and sweat, and hesitated.
"Wait." He turned quickly to the coat rack, pulled his wand from the pocket of an old robe, and murmured, "Scourgify."
A soft gust of invisible wind brushed over him. The dirt and sweat vanished at once, leaving him looking clean, though no less worn.
Only then did he reach out, carefully, with clean fingers, to accept the spotless envelope.
"My purpose here is explained in the headmaster's letter." Then he held out the second one. "And this, your father asked me to deliver to you."
"My father?!"
Remus's head jerked up. A flash of shock crossed his tired face, followed almost instantly by fierce worry. He snatched the second letter with trembling hands, clutching both tightly as if afraid they might vanish.
His eyes darted between Sargeras's calm expression and the parchment in his grasp. His breathing grew uneven.
Sargeras watched him quietly. He saw the man's anxious restraint, the urge to tear the letter open battling against his effort to hold back, and at last he spoke, his voice steady and composed.
"Professor Dumbledore wishes to invite you to serve as the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor for the coming school year. As for your father…"
He paused. "He seems to be in good health, though he misses you deeply."
With that, Sargeras seemed ready to bring this visit to an end.
He gave a small nod toward the weary, timeworn werewolf before him, the faintest gesture of respect or perhaps acknowledgment. Just as his figure began to blur at the edges, he spoke again, his tone casual, as if in passing.
"Mr. Lupin, have you ever heard of something called the Blood Moon Alliance?"
The unfamiliar name left Lupin staring blankly. "What?"
"Nothing," Sargeras replied with a faint shake of his head, his voice flat and unbothered.
In that instant, a faint ripple passed between them — an almost imperceptible Legilimency. The truth surfaced effortlessly in his mind. Lupin's confusion was genuine. He knew nothing.
"Since the letters have been delivered, I'll take my leave now, Mr. Lupin."
Without another word of farewell, Sargeras's figure warped and blurred, and with a soft pop, he vanished from the room.
Remus Lupin stood frozen where he was, staring at the empty space that still seemed to echo faintly with that vanishing sound. For a moment, he wondered if both the wizard and the sound had been nothing more than an illusion.
He lowered his gaze to the two letters resting heavily in his hands: one from the headmaster he respected above all, carrying an invitation he had never imagined receiving; the other from the father he had neglected, yet who had never ceased to worry for him.
The clamor of the dock and the weight of his daily struggles seemed to fade in that moment. With trembling fingers, he broke the seal and began to read.
…
After leaving Lupin's small but immaculate apartment, Sargeras did not linger for even a moment.
He had accepted Dumbledore's commission, and once a task was his, he would see it through with precision.
His next Apparition took him far to the north, to the dreaded stretch of sea known for its bitter winds and the stench of death.
The air was cold and sharp, the gale carrying the taste of salt and decay of the sea. It struck his face without mercy. In the distance, upon a jagged reef of black rock, stood a fortress that loomed like a gravestone against the storm-dark sky, radiating endless despair.
Dementors drifted soundlessly between the towers, carrying with them a bone-chilling cold.
With a casual flick of his hand, Sargeras summoned from the folds of his sleeve several pale, ghostly fire ravens that rose into the air and circled above him in slow spirals.
The Dementors recoiled at once, retreating into the shadows.
This visit bore no authorization from the Ministry of Magic, nor any official clearance. Yet such formalities meant little to him. For Sargeras Greengrass, stepping into the most infamous prison in wizarding history was scarcely a challenge at all.
After all he had once been locked inside it himself and before that he had taken the trouble to "inspect" it on more than one occasion.
He walked straight to the cell where Sirius Black had been held. The chamber was filthy, and the stone walls were scored with frantic, hopeless scratches.
Sargeras let his gaze sweep slowly over every patch of floor, every inch of wall and the iron bars.
He found nothing.
He drew his wand, and his low voice filled the cramped space. "Footprint Reveal!"
The spell took hold, and layers of glowing tracks shimmered up from the floor, a tangled web of prints overlapping one another in chaotic confusion.
Sargeras crouched to study them, but the marks were far too dense to isolate any clear trace of a fugitive.
He tried to trace the residual magic instead, but Azkaban itself was a vast well of magical pollution that seethed with chaotic dark magic residue. Any clue about Sirius Black's escape had already been devoured by that chaos.
The only certainty was this: there were no signs of a forced break, nor any residual thrum of Apparition.
Black had vanished like a wisp of smoke, evaporating from that heavily guarded iron cage as if he had never been there.
Sargeras stood in the cold cell for a long time, his brows slightly furrowed.
This did not make sense. Even the most skilled wizard could not leave here without leaving a sound or a scar.
Unless… he had used something everyone overlooked or something no one could even begin to understand.
Feeling the prison's powerful anti-Apparition charm around him, a sharper question rose in Sargeras's mind.
Why had Sirius Black waited more than a decade of inhuman torment in Azkaban before choosing to escape?
Was it because he had been powerless to flee at first?
Or had he... like Sargeras once had, been here for a purpose no one else knew about?
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[Chapter End's]
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