Read 20+ Chapter's Ahead in Patreon
The cold, desolate prison of Azkaban stood tall upon a craggy island cliff in the middle of the Northern Sea. Waves crashed relentlessly against the rocks below, while Dementors circled ominously in the sky above, gliding in eerie silence.
At that moment, Sargeras Greengrass sat calmly on the stone bed of his cell, holding a slender wand in his hand. The tip of it pulsed faintly with a soft silver light.
His eyes were fixed and expressionless, utterly unmoved by the screams of other prisoners or the harsh, rattling breaths of the Dementors overhead.
Hovering in the air before him was a battered old spellbook, its pages flipping on their own. Dense clusters of runes and incantation formulas were constantly rearranging themselves by some unseen force.
Suddenly, the cell door pushed open with a groan.
Sargeras did not lower his wand.
"Well… this is a surprise."
He didn't even lift his gaze as he said, "Since when did Azkaban start allowing visitors?"
"For an old man like me, there are always a few privileges."
Dumbledore stepped into the cell with a soft smile, his blue eyes gleaming behind his half-moon spectacles as they studied Sargeras. His long robes shimmered faintly in the dim light, out of place amidst the prison's gloom and decay.
"Seems they haven't assigned you a cellmate," Dumbledore remarked, setting down a paper bag of lemon sherbets on the stone table.
With a slight flick of Sargeras' fingers, the floating spellbook burst into ash and scattered to the floor.
Lifting his head at last, he met the old man's gaze with a calm, unreadable look. "There are plenty of empty cells in Azkaban, Headmaster."
"But they didn't even confiscate your wand?" Dumbledore's tone was light, a playful glint in his eye.
"I can understand your confusion," Sargeras replied coolly. "After all, it was you who personally cast the Trace upon this wand. But now…" He gave the wand a casual wave, and though his voice remained even, there was a flicker of pride beneath it. "Not even a Dementor can sense the presence of this wand anymore."
Dumbledore didn't answer right away. His eyes drifted slowly around the cell until they settled on the wall—more precisely, the anti-magic bricks etched with a dense web of magical equations.
"It seems you haven't stopped researching, even here," he said softly, stepping closer to examine them. Then, reading aloud, "The Conversion of Emotional Energy in Symbiotic Relationships Between Magic and Dementors… It doesn't sound like your prison life has been too dreadful. In fact, one might wonder if this place could ever truly hold you at all." The old man smiled again and popped a Fizzing Whizbee drop into his mouth from his pocket.
"Just something to pass the time," Sargeras said, giving his wand a flick to obscure the inscriptions on the wall.
"Maybe it's just my age catching up to me," Dumbledore murmured with a sigh, "but lately I keep thinking that expelling you from Hogwarts five years ago may have been the greatest mistake of my life."
Sargeras frowned slightly at those words. "If you came here to mock my current state, Professor Dumbledore, you can spare yourself the effort. I'm already sick of studying these wretched Dementors. I don't need another self-righteous visitor adding to my irritation."
Dumbledore let out a breath, his voice tinged with quiet regret. "Sargeras, I never came here to mock you. Back then, I expelled you because your research was straying too far into dangerous territory. I had to think about the safety of the other students."
"Dangerous?" Sargeras shook his head slowly. "Magic itself is dangerous." With a tap of his wand, he conjured an oak chair beside the bed. "Still, I understood your decision back then, and I've never held any prejudice against you because of it."
Those words brought a smile back to the old man's face. He pulled over the chair and sat down with a soft creak of wood.
"I'm glad to hear you say that. After all, you haven't corresponded with me once in all these five years since you left Hogwarts."
Dumbledore's half-moon spectacles caught a faint glint of light as he continued, "I heard about your recent activities from Phineas. I know you never stopped chasing after the true meaning of magic during all these years, and that your research has borne fruit. Truth be told, that gives me a measure of comfort."
"If you've come here with a purpose, Professor, I suggest you get to the point." Sargeras raised a hand to cut him off. "You've said more than enough already."
"Ah, of course. What I mean is that, based on your past work alone, you deserve a far better place to continue your research." As he spoke, Dumbledore took out a wax-sealed letter from within his robes. "And Hogwarts happens to be in need of a consultant in Spell Theory—someone to guide the senior students in both theoretical studies and practical spellwork, particularly those preparing for their O.W.L.s."
Sargeras accepted the letter but didn't open it, instead running his fingertips along the Hogwarts seal pressed into the wax. He murmured softly, "Back to Hogwarts?"
His thoughts drifted. Memories of his years at the Hogwarts school rose to the surface. Truthfully, those truly had been… peaceful, almost beautiful days.
Dumbledore didn't interrupt his silence. After a while, Sargeras stirred from his thoughts and spoke again. "I believe I can accept the offer. But Professor, that would require you, in your capacity as a Wizengamot Chief Warlock, to ensure I'm released through official channels."
"Of course. I'll take care of everything," Dumbledore said as he stood up. "By tomorrow morning, the Ministry of Magic will deliver your pardon. And besides that, Sargeras…"
He paused for a moment before adding, "Every Thursday afternoon, tea in the Headmaster's office. And when the castle needs it, protect it—in your own way."
For a moment, the cell fell into silence once more. Only the roar of the northern sea seeped through the iron-barred window.
Sagres walked over to the stone table. With a gentle tap of his wand, the bag of lemon sherbets sprang open, and the candies began to arrange themselves into a miniature model of Hogwarts.
"I can agree to that, Professor Dumbledore." The candy-formed towers shimmered in the moonlight, crystalline and clear. "But I have two conditions of my own."
"Please, go ahead," Dumbledore said.
"First, my research will not be subject to interference from any ethics committee."
With another flick of his wand, the sugar-spun castle collapsed and reformed into a three-dimensional structure composed entirely of intricate runes.
"Second, when I believe so-called 'traditional wisdom' is standing in the way of truth, I'll have the authority to implement educational reform."
Dumbledore studied the floating rune structure—an arcane composition of ancient Norse magic. He said nothing for a long time. Then, finally, he reached out his hand with calm conviction.
"Then allow me to welcome you to Hogwarts, Professor Greengrass."
Sargeras returned the gesture with a faint smile, shaking his hand. "Guess sneaking into the Hogwarts Library's Restricted Section won't count as breaking school rules anymore."
"Indeed, but please do try not to swap out the index pages of Moste Potente Potions again," Dumbledore added with a wink. "Madam Pince still believes it was her own misfiling…"
As he watched Dumbledore vanish with a burst of phoenix apparition, Sargeras felt an old, unwelcome flicker of memory stir in his mind—scenes that did not belong to this world. A lab cluttered with glassware and blackboards covered in chalk-scrawled formulas, endless experiments carried out in a place far from here.
But those images never lasted long. They always gave way to another kind of memory—the disgusted looks on his family's faces when he was young, the screams of his mother under the Cruciatus Curse, and the cold, unfeeling back of his father as he walked away…
In truth, as a transmigrator, Sargeras had been content at first with the life he found himself in. Most people who were isekai'd ended up as orphans with both parents dead. But he had been fortunate—he had both parents alive, and not just that. He had been born into the Greengrass family, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.
He had thought that being a pure-blood aristocrat in the wizarding world would at least guarantee a life of ease. He imagined enjoying the wonders of magic at his leisure, perhaps even setting up a hedge fund to short Gringotts, or something along those lines. It seemed like the perfect chance to show these archaic wizards the brilliance of "Muggle intellect" and finally achieve a sense of self-actualization.
Reality, however, struck swiftly and brutally, like a freight train crashing through a paper wall!
Because from the moment he arrived in this world until the day he received his Hogwarts letter, the British wizarding world had been under Voldemort's reign.
Sure, he knew Voldemort would eventually fall, but the Dark Lord hadn't been defeated yet. The Boy Who Lived was still nestled in his mother's womb.
Most crucially, all he knew was that Harry Potter would one day vanquish Voldemort, that Voldemort was the final boss, and that, eventually, the good guys would win.
But when would that day come? And how would Voldemort be defeated? He had no idea.
And the Greengrass family? They were loyal to the Dark Lord, their allegiance worn openly. Nearly all of them were true Death Eaters, through and through.
His father worked as an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries, a quiet, distant man. His mother, though a Muggle-born witch, despised the very blood that flowed through her own child's veins.
Yes, Sargeras was a half-blood.
His mother, beautiful and brilliant as she was, never once concealed the revulsion she felt toward him. It was as though her disdain might somehow erase her impure heritage in the eyes of her peers.
Had it been only neglect or harsh words, perhaps he could have endured. But the Death Eaters of the Greengrass family, desperate to prove their loyalty to Voldemort's ideals of blood purity, ultimately used his mother as a sacrificial offering to curry favor.
This pitiful woman was driven into madness under round after round of the Cruciatus Curse, wielded by the very people she had tried to serve. Her mind shattered. And in the end, a single Killing Curse silenced her forever.
At the time, when Sargeras received the news, he wasn't even sure what to feel. Perhaps it was a relief. After all, his so-called mother, apart from giving him life, had offered him nothing but constant scolding and relentless torment.
He was five years old when his first accidental burst of magic occurred. Even without a wand, he was forced to confront the reality of this world far sooner than he had ever wanted.
He could still remember muttering the same line to himself over and over back then.
"This crap's worse than being an orphan."
With nowhere to run and the threat of death always hanging over him, he turned to magic in sheer desperation. And so, at the age of five, Sargeras created his very first spell in this life.
That was when his golden finger—his cheat code—finally manifested.
Whenever his magical energy reached a certain threshold, he found that he could forcibly enhance existing spells or even create entirely new ones from scratch.
The first of these was the "Enhanced Confundus Charm." It couldn't hurt anyone, but it could make people instinctively ignore him. And for a child who was already treated like a shadow in his own household, it was the perfect cloak.
That charm became his shield, allowing him to live unnoticed under the same roof as Death Eaters for years. Looking back, it was nothing short of a miracle.
When he finally received his Hogwarts letter, he took matters into his own hands. On the eve of his departure, he personally sent two of his relatives—both of whom had cast the Cruciatus Curse on him—straight to Azkaban.
As for his father, he had already been imprisoned after Voldemort's fall. By now, he was likely long gone, kissed into oblivion by the Dementors.
A sharp flutter of wings broke his reverie. A raven landed at the window, its claws gripping the stone.
Sargeras reached out and took the tattered scrap from the bird's beak—a fragment torn from a Dementor's cloak. With a tap of his wand, the cloth crumbled into ash, releasing a wisp of ghostly blue light that spiraled inward, sinking into his body.
The flame-shaped rune etched into his wrist shimmered faintly beneath the moonlight—a relic from a dark magic experiment, and a reminder of the strength that had allowed him to walk unflinching through the heart of Azkaban.
"It's time to leave this place…"
**
**
[IMAGE]
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------–
[Chapter End's]
🖤 Night_FrOst/ Patreon 🤍
Visit my Patreon for Early Chapter:
https://www.patreon.com/Night_FrOst
Extra Content Already Available