Remus Lupin wore a faded, coarse linen coat, its shoulders rubbed thin from carrying heavy loads. His hair, prematurely streaked with gray, clung damply to his forehead.
He was struggling under the weight of a wooden crate heavier than he was, his back slightly hunched. Each step sank into the muddy ground, leaving deep footprints behind.
Sweat streamed down his gaunt cheeks, mixing with the grime along his neck.
Around him, the other workers labored with the same numb exhaustion, the air filled with harsh breathing and the impatient shouts of overseers.
Sagres stood quietly not far away, his clean wizard robes strikingly out of place amid the grimy dock workers—like an apparition that had no business existing here.
He watched Lupin calmly until the man finally set down his burden and wiped his sweat with a threadbare sleeve, inadvertently catching sight of him.
Lupin froze.
Exhaustion gave way to bewilderment, then to incredulous shock, and finally to deep embarrassment and wariness.
He did not know this young man, but the robes and bearing unmistakably marked him as a rich wizard.
The stranger simply watched him. There was no clear emotion in those eyes, yet that direct, unhidden gaze made Lupin feel acutely uncomfortable.
Sagres did not walk into the loud, chaotic loading zone. He simply tilted his head slightly, signaling Lupin to speak with him in a quieter corner.
Lupin hesitated, glancing toward the overseer, but eventually dragged his weary, sweat-soaked steps toward Sagres and stopped a short distance away.
He instinctively straightened his sore back, his eyes cautious.
"Who are you?" Lupin's voice was hoarse, weighted with exhaustion.
"Mr. Lupin," Sagres replied, his tone as calm as ever, as if the filth and clamor around them couldn't touch him. "Headmaster Dumbledore sent me to find you."
Doubt deepened in Remus's eyes, unease spreading across his expression.
"Professor Dumbledore? What does he want with me?"
He unconsciously clutched the dirty hem of his coat.
"Let's talk somewhere else."
Sagres's gaze flicked over the nearby Muggle workers. "To your place."
His tone was steady. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and began walking toward the cheap apartment building.
Lupin didn't refuse. He silently followed the unfamiliar wizard, a storm of thoughts churning in his mind.
The two climbed the stairs and returned in silence to the room on the top floor.
Unexpectedly, although the small space was simple, it was impeccably clean and orderly.
Sagres turned, his gaze landing on the disheveled Lupin.
"My name is Sagres Greengrass," he said clearly. "I teach Advanced Charm Theory and Practice at Hogwarts."
Lupin nodded at Sagres's introduction. Though he clearly had questions about the young professor's age, he held them back.
"You said Professor Dumbledore has something for me?" he repeated softly.
Sagres did not answer directly. Instead, he calmly took two letters from inside his robes.
One was an envelope sealed with the Hogwarts crest—Dumbledore's letter.
The other was a parchment written recently by old Lupin, its ink still faintly glossy.
"This one is from the Headmaster."
Sagres handed Dumbledore's letter to him first.
Lupin glanced at his hands—covered in dust and sweat—and hesitated.
"Wait."
He turned quickly, pulled his wand from an old robe hanging on a hook, and murmured, "Scourgify."
An invisible breeze swept over him, wiping away the sweat and grime instantly. He looked noticeably cleaner.
Only then did he accept the pristine white envelope with equally clean fingers.
"Headmaster Dumbledore will explain my purpose in that letter," Sagres said. Then he held out the second one. "And this—your father asked me to deliver to you."
"Father?!"
Remus's head snapped up, his eyes surging with sudden, sharp worry. He almost snatched the second letter from Sagres's hand.
His fingers trembled as he held both letters. His gaze flicked between Sagres's calm expression and the envelopes in his hands, his breathing turning slightly unsteady.
Sagres watched Lupin's eagerness to open the letters—tempered only by the restraint to wait until Sagres finished speaking—and said directly:
"Professor Dumbledore wishes to invite you to serve as the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor for the coming school year at Hogwarts. As for your father—"
He paused.
"He seems well. He just misses you very much."
With that, Sagres appeared ready to end the visit.
He glanced at the worn, exhausted werewolf before him, gave a slight nod, and then—just before his figure vanished—asked in an almost casual tone:
"Mr. Lupin, have you heard of the 'Blood Moon Alliance'?"
Lupin blinked, a blank look crossing his tired face. "What?"
"Nothing." Sagres shook his head, tone flat.
A very subtle Legilimency had already been performed, and the answer was clear—Lupin wasn't lying. He truly knew nothing.
"Since the letters have been delivered, I'll take my leave, Mr. Lupin."
Without any further pleasantries, Sagres's figure warped and blurred, and with a soft pop, he vanished without a trace.
Remus Lupin stood rooted to the spot, as though the faint pop and the disappearing wizard were nothing but illusions.
He looked down at the two heavy letters in his hand—one from his respected Headmaster, bearing an unexpected invitation; the other from his father, the man he owed so much to and worried about day and night.
The noise of the dock and the crushing weight of life seemed sealed away in that moment. His hands trembled as he opened the letters and began to read.
...
After leaving Lupin's tidy little room, Sagres did not linger.
Since he had accepted Dumbledore's commission, he would not treat it lightly.
His Apparition brought him to the infamous sea region of the North Sea.
Cold gales, heavy with the salty sting of the ocean, struck Sagres's face without mercy. In the distance, the fortress built upon jagged black reefs resembled a tombstone, radiating endless despair.
Dementors drifted silently between the towers, spreading a bone-deep chill.
Sagres casually waved his hand, and several pale fire crows flew from his sleeve, circling around him.
The cold Dementors immediately kept their distance.
Although this visit lacked authorization or permission from the Ministry of Magic, entering this notorious prison was not a difficult task for him.
After all, he had once been imprisoned here himself—and before that, he had deliberately "inspected" it several times.
He went straight to Sirius Black's cell.
The cell was filthy, its stone walls covered with desperate scratch marks.
Sagres's gaze swept slowly across every inch of the floor, the walls, and the iron bars.
Nothing.
He drew his wand, his low voice filling the cramped cell: "Vestigium Revelio."
The spell activated, and the ground immediately lit up with layers of messy, overlapping footprints.
Sagres crouched to examine them, but the traces were too dense—chaotic beyond recognition. There was no way to isolate any distinct footprints belonging to the escaped prisoner.
He also attempted to track magical residue, but Azkaban itself was a massive source of magical pollution, saturated with chaotic remnants of Dark magic.
Any clues related to Sirius's escape were completely swallowed by that chaos.
The only clear fact was this: there were no signs of forced entry, and no traces of Apparition.
Black had vanished from this heavily guarded iron cage as if he had evaporated into the air like smoke.
Sagres stood in the frigid cell for a long time, his brows faintly furrowed.
This was illogical.
Even for the most skilled wizard, slipping out unnoticed from here was nearly impossible.
Unless… he had used something everyone overlooked—or something no one could understand.
Sagres felt the powerful anti-Apparition barrier woven through Azkaban's structure, and an even sharper question surfaced in his mind.
Why did Sirius Black choose to escape only after enduring more than ten years of inhuman torment?
Was it because he had been unable to escape before?
Or was it because… like Sagres once had… he had come here with a purpose no one yet understood?
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