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Upon his return to Hogwarts, Sargeras made his way directly to the Headmaster's office on the eighth floor of the castle.
There were no pleasantries exchanged. Without beating around the bush, he went straight to the point and told Dumbledore everything he had learned about Voldemort's Horcruxes.
The old Headmaster listened in silence. He didn't interrupt to press for more details, nor did he show any overt signs of shock. Only his gaze shifted, growing distant, heavier, more burdened with thought. At last, he gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod.
In Dumbledore's eyes, Sargeras could almost see a pie chart — sliced with subtle, layered emotions: a measured wariness, a trace of anxiety, the faintest glimmer of gratitude, and beneath it all, a deep, brooding vigilance toward the unknown.
"By the way, about the Dueling Club—"
"You can be in charge of it," the Headmaster said calmly, cutting him off with quiet certainty. "If you're willing, of course."
Sargeras nodded, his face as calm and unreadable as still water. This was exactly the response he had expected… or rather, one he had long anticipated. There was no need to say more. The unspoken approval between them had already been exchanged.
Finally, he offered the Headmaster a respectful nod, then turned and walked away without another word, leaving behind that weighty gaze and the heavy thoughts it carried.
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What followed was a strange kind of calm that settled over the British wizarding world.
The Daily Prophet barely acknowledged the attacks that had taken place at Hogwarts, mentioning the Chamber of Secrets only in passing with the vaguest of references. Instead, the headlines quickly shifted to a different narrative: the loss of Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge's arm in the line of duty, followed by a stream of so-called "heroic deeds" and "recovery updates" on his recovery.
Dumbledore, for his part, no longer waited for Professor Sprout's Mandrakes to mature. Instead, he purchased an entire batch of restorative draughts directly from Diagon Alley and used them to return the petrified students to their original state.
The official notice from the school, delivered to the student body, was similarly brief and obscure. The culprit, it claimed, was a basilisk; an ancient creature that had been lurking in the forgotten plumbing beneath the castle.
The crisis, they said, had already been resolved. Professor Greengrass had completely incinerated the beast with powerful fire magic, reducing it to a charred and empty husk.
As for Gilderoy Lockhart?
Ah, he had "tragically sustained serious injuries" during the attack and was now receiving "long-term and carefully monitored treatment" at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
And those terrifying blood-red words that had once appeared on the walls?
The school brushed them off with ease, labeling them "a foolish prank carried out by some bored student," and that was that.
Naturally, the younger witches and wizards were far from convinced. Whispers full of doubt rippled through the corridors, murmured behind hands and half-closed doors, never truly fading from the air.
However, in the end, children are easily distracted.
A stretch of carefully maintained calm, just long enough, was all it took for their fear to begin wearing thin. And when that calm happened to be followed by a round of stressful, brain-melting exams… well, even the strangest of mysteries were quickly pushed aside, forgotten beneath the growing weight of homework and revision.
So, just a few days before Christmas, the heads of house, acting on the "suggestion" of a certain professor, announced that midterm exams would be held. The official reason, of course, was to "assess the students' academic progress."
The moment word got out, the castle's halls, once buzzing with gossip and wild speculation, fell into an eerie hush. The little witches and wizards, ever so susceptible to panic, buried themselves in their books without complaint. Every ounce of energy went into cramming, each student determined to survive this sudden academic storm with their grades still intact.
Only three subjects in all of Hogwarts were spared the dreaded "claws" of the midterms: Sargeras's own Advanced Charm Theory and Practice, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Professor Binns's notoriously dull History of Magic.
Sargeras felt that the students already had their hands more than full. After all, he had once been a student too. He knew exactly what it was like and believed he ought to extend some measure of understanding.
The students, naturally, were overjoyed by this rare stroke of mercy. Quietly, in their hearts, many of them offered him a silent salute, raising an imaginary thumb in appreciation for the only professor who seemed to truly understand them.
Of course, what none of them knew… was that this very "kind-hearted" professor was also the one who had come up with the "brilliant" idea of holding midterms in the first place. And it was he who had so cheerfully passed it along to their heads of house.
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During this time, the Department of Mysteries sent two elderly wizards to the school. Clad in the standard dark robes of their office, they performed a series of strange and obscure healing methods, most of which looked like a curious blend of alchemy and ancient ritual. But in the end, they succeeded. Myrtle, the ghost girl who had been petrified, was finally restored to her former state.
Sargeras had watched the entire process from the sidelines, and he had to admit that these old men knew exactly what they were doing. Even in a field as rare and peculiar as this, they had managed to find an effective solution, one that clearly worked.
That display stirred an even deeper curiosity in him toward the research conducted within the Department of Mysteries. Quietly, he began plotting when and how he might find a way to slip inside for a hands-on investigation of his own — just to "observe," of course.
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Hogwarts had returned once more to its usual peace.
As the Christmas holidays drew near, Sargeras's teaching schedule grew considerably lighter. With the free time that followed, he took the opportunity to restore the various devices he had previously installed throughout the castle; mirror-corner reflectors, suspended glass chandeliers, and other delicate contraptions that had been disrupted.
Each one was brought back to perfect working order, as if nothing had ever happened..
Even The Mirror That Reveals All, which he had placed at the entrance to the Great Hall, had now been carefully taken down and stored away.
In truth, most of these setups had served no real purpose in the end. Only the mirror-corner reflectors had played any role at all during the basilisk attacks… and even then, only barely.
It was as he was restoring the Mirror of Erised to its original form that he happened to run into the golden trio, Harry, Ron, and Hermione, emerging from the library, arms full of books and homework.
"Good morning, Professor Greengrass!" they greeted him in unison.
"Good morning, the three of you…" he replied with a nod.
"Professor, isn't that the Mirror of Erised?" Harry couldn't help asked, catching sight of the gleaming frame as it began to shift back into the familiar surface he recognized.
"That's right," Sargeras replied, lifting his gaze briefly from the mirror. "I borrowed it from Dumbledore, though in the end, it didn't turn out to be of much use."
"But wasn't it supposed to—" Ron began, curiosity getting the better of him.
"Yes, Mr. Weasley," Sargeras nodded again, his voice calm but edged with amusement. "However, I've made a few… minor adjustments. For now, it won't be showing anyone the desires of their heart."
The moment those words left his mouth, all three young wizards immediately crowded around the mirror, their curiosity fully piqued.
"It looks just like an ordinary mirror?" Harry said, inspecting his reflection as he stepped closer.
"Well, that's exactly what it is, so long as you're a normal person," Sargeras replied evenly, his tone light.
"Uh… so what if someone isn't normal?" Hermione asked, her interest sharpening as her eyes flicked between the mirror and the professor.
"Well…" Sargeras chuckled, his voice low and almost conspiratorial, "that would depend on what kind of abnormal we're talking about. If it's someone like Quirrell, for instance, someone with a piece of Voldemort's soul lodged in the back of his head, then the moment he walks past this mirror, it will emit a very loud and very unpleasant scream."
As he spoke those words, the smile on Sargeras's face suddenly froze.
A cold thought hit him like a splash of ice water.
If Voldemort had created Horcruxes by splitting his soul… then it meant that the soul currently attached to his body was already incomplete.
But could Soul Tracing actually detect fragments of a shattered soul?
That question hung heavy in his mind. His expression turned grim as he raised his wand and began casting a series of detection charms on the mirror once more, each one precise, silent, and deliberate.
And this time, when he stared into the reflection and saw the images of the four people standing there, he heard it.
A faint, ghostly shriek. So soft it seemed to come not from the room, but from some faraway void. The mirror's surface shimmered ever so slightly, a ripple spreading across it like a breath caught in glass.
Sargeras's eyes narrowed in an instant.
Very slowly, he turned toward the three students. His gaze settled on them with a strange intensity, calm on the surface yet carrying something harder to name, a subtle weight of scrutiny that made the air feel just a little heavier.
"Professor… is something wrong?" Harry asked. The trio had picked up on his sudden silence, and even more on that unsettling change in his eyes.
"It's nothing…" Sargeras said softly, his voice perfectly flat, like the surface of still water. "Miss Granger, could you do me a favor and return this book to the library?"
Hermione blinked in surprise at the unexpected request, but quickly nodded and stepped forward, taking the thick book he handed her before hurrying off in the direction they had just come from.
Sargeras watched the little witch's retreating figure in silence. The whispering shriek in his ears had not gone away.
Slowly, he turned his gaze toward Ron.
"Mr. Weasley, would you mind helping me fetch those four crystal orbs from the Great Hall?"
"Of course, Professor!" Ron responded instantly, dashing through the doors of the Great Hall without a second thought.
Still, the shriek remained.
Soft, persistent, like a breath brushing the edge of thought.
Sargeras stood quietly. His expression remained unchanged, calm and unreadable.
"Mr. Potter," he said at last, his voice just as composed as before, "go help Mr. Weasley, will you? It might be a bit difficult for him to carry four crystal balls by himself."
"Sure thing, Professor."
Without hesitation, Harry turned and ran in after Ron, his footsteps echoing briefly down the corridor.
And then, just as his figure slipped through the threshold and vanished from sight, the shriek stopped!
Completely!
As though the very sound had been severed at its source, leaving behind a silence so sudden and absolute that it settled over the hall like a curtain.
A hush, cold and deathly still, descended all at once.
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[Chapter End's]
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