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"I know the confusion in your hearts."
Sargeras's calm voice rang out at just the right moment, quiet yet steady, carrying easily over the fading murmurs in the hall. He lifted a long, elegant hand and tapped lightly against his temple, as though pointing to the very place where the answer lay. "There is no need to worry. The knowledge that has been etched into your minds will not simply vanish. What you have lost, for the time being, is only the flawless precision with which you once commanded yourselves."
His words cut through the remaining noise like a clear blade, leaving the air still. "You have already experienced the success of casting with your own hands, and the memory of that feeling remains sharp and vivid in your minds. Finding your way back to that state is far simpler than you think… just practice."
The tone in his voice was entirely devoid of warmth, cool to the point of sounding almost merciless. "Those who apply themselves wholeheartedly may reclaim it in as few as ten attempts; those who grow complacent may need to repeat it thousands, even tens of thousands of times before they can barely grasp it again. That is fair, is it not?"
With those final words, he gave a casual flick of his wand. The wooden training dummies and practice grounds dissolved in an instant, flowing away into neat rows of polished oak desks and chairs, restored as though nothing had disturbed the room at all.
Sargeras inclined his head slightly to the gathered students.
"Class dismissed. Go and eat."
The moment the words left his lips, the students surged forward like a breaking tide, rushing toward their respective House tables. The Great Hall erupted with the clamor of voices, a lively noise woven from exhaustion and excitement in equal measure.
Professor Flitwick came scurrying over in quick, eager steps, his small frame almost trembling with uncontainable wonder. His high, sharp voice quivered with awe. "Sargeras! That… what kind of magic was that? You created it yourself, didn't you?"
"That's correct," Sargeras confirmed with a steady nod, his expression calm.
Although the other professors did not immediately gather around, it was plain that every one of them had their ears pricked toward the conversation. Even Snape's hand, midway through adjusting his sleeve, froze for the briefest moment.
"By Merlin's beard! That was… breathtaking!"
Professor Flitwick looked as though he might spring into the air, his tiny hands waving animatedly. "When I first heard about it, I assumed it was merely a simple emotion spell, but I was clearly wrong. It was truly magnificent; your mastery of charms has already… already surpassed my own!"
"You will always be my teacher."
Sargeras's voice remained even, yet his next words landed like a stone dropped into still water. "Do you remember the days I was imprisoned in Azkaban? The inspiration for this spell came precisely from my observations and studies of the Dementors."
"Heavens above!"
The exclamation burst from Professor Flitwick before he could stop himself.
It was not only him… Professor McGonagall, usually so composed, and the ever-kind Professor Sprout both gasped softly, their hands flying to cover their mouths in shock.
Kestrel, on the other hand, was musing idly to herself. Perhaps she ought to make time for a trip to Azkaban as well; who knew, maybe she too could come up with some powerful magic there.
Only Snape's eyes narrowed sharply, his pupils contracting as his thin lips pressed into a hard, cold line.
So that was the truth!
Understanding struck him all at once.
No wonder the man had surrendered without resistance back then, allowing himself to be bound and led without resistance into that fortress of despair. It had never been submission but a calculated choice, a deliberate step into Azkaban for the sake of studying, at the closest possible range, those creatures that even Dark wizards avoided at all costs.
Azkaban… indeed, it was the only place in the world that could serve as a perfect "laboratory" for Dementor research.
Then what of now? If he had returned to Hogwarts at this moment… what was it that he intended to study here? Could it be the castle itself, with all the ancient secrets hidden in its stones?
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Along the long House tables, the students sat slumped and weary, looking as if they had just run a marathon, yet their excitement burned like molten metal in a boiling cauldron.
Many of them were already unable to contain themselves, spearing bites of food while waving their wands with their free hands, eager to recapture the strange and wonderful sensation they had felt during the lesson.
The entire Great Hall rang with the bright clink of cutlery striking plates, mingling with the hum of loud, animated conversation that rolled from table to table.
Among the most elated was Neville Longbottom of Gryffindor. The second-year boy who so often shrank back, weighed down by his own lack of confidence, now wore a brightness on his face he had never known before.
It was true that his wand, at present, could summon nothing more than a tiny sputter of weak sparks, but the essential points of spellcasting, etched clearly in his mind, the angle of the wrist, the rhythm of the incantation, the gathering and shaping of magic in the hand, all of it remained as vivid and solid as if they had been carved there.
It was nothing short of a miracle.
Not even his strict and formidable grandmother could have given him such a gift, of that Neville was certain.
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That spellcasting lesson of Sargeras's, a perfect model of clarity and effectiveness, had fallen upon the calm surface of Hogwarts life like a great stone plunging into calm lake.
His precise and efficient guidance, combined with the immediate, tangible results, had rekindled a long-dormant fire in the students' hearts: the passion for duelling!
The orderly, glittering display in the Great Hall had also become the most talked-about sight in the entire castle.
A feverish "duelling craze" swept through the school in no time at all.
Corridor corners, empty classrooms, even the edges of the Quidditch pitch turned into makeshift arenas.
Groups of students gathered in twos and threes, mimicking Sargeras's sharp and simple commands — "Target! Movement! Will!" — as they grew steadily more adept at casting Disarming Charms, Shield Charms, and Stunning Spells.
In the common rooms, discussions about spell technique and counter-strategy replaced the usual gossip and rumours.
Even Professor Flitwick could not hide his surprise when he discovered that the quality of assignments from the lower-year students in Charms had risen noticeably, particularly in the area of practical application.
Yet beneath this wave of enthusiasm, unseen currents began to stir.
Sargeras's emphasis on "removing threats" and on "acting with precision and decisiveness" was, in the minds of certain students, twisted into something entirely different: a creed that glorified aggression and worshipped raw strength.
The old rivalries between the Houses, long simmering under the surface for years, had now been found in this so-called culture of 'friendly sparring' the perfect outlet for their hostility.
And soon, the problems began to surface.
At first, they were little more than minor scuffles. Neville Longbottom of Gryffindor, on his way to the greenhouses, was "warmly invited" by two older Slytherins to a duel. He was struck by Expelliarmus, toppled into the mud, and sent sprawling as his wand flew far away.
Hufflepuff's Susan Bones had barely stepped through the library's back door when a sudden flash of red light from a Stunning Spell shot past her, close enough to make her drop her books in fright. The perpetrator only grinned and offered a breezy apology. "Just practice. Don't be so jumpy!"
Those on the receiving end, bound by the excuse of "sparring" and lacking any solid proof to accuse their attackers, often had no choice but to swallow their anger and keep silent.
But it did not take long for these incidents to escalate.
Robert Hilliard of Ravenclaw was ambushed in a secluded corridor by three hooded students, Disarming Charms and Stunning Spells hurled at him one after another.
Though he managed to shield himself with a Shield Charm, he was driven back against the wall, his wand almost torn from his hand before his attackers vanished into the shadows.
Worse still, some began to deliberately "hunt" certain targets, students who had revealed weaknesses during class and who happened to belong to rival Houses.
Goyle, for instance, was cornered outside the Trophy Room by a group of Gryffindors. Claiming they wanted to "help him improve," they blasted him off his feet with a Disarming Charm, then followed it with a Full Body-Bind until he lay helpless on the ground, leaving him there in humiliation before strolling away.
When they were done with him, his face was bruised and blotched, but fear of ridicule, along with an even deeper fear of Slytherin being branded as weak, forced Goyle to keep his mouth shut.
However, his disgrace did not escape the notice of one particular person.
The moment Draco Malfoy saw him in that condition in the Slytherin common room, his long-dormant eyes froze over with sudden, bitter frost.
"Goyle!"
Malfoy's voice rang cold through the slightly echoing room, sharp enough to make a cluster of first-years fall instantly silent.
"Come here. Explain to me this… appearance of yours."
He strode forward, each step deliberate, and came to a halt before Goyle, looking down at him from above as if weighing his every bruise.
Goyle flinched under his gaze, muttering awkwardly, "It's… nothing, Draco. I just… tripped and fell."
"Fell?"
Malfoy let out a short, cutting laugh, his tone laced with icy contempt. "You expect me to believe you tripped and ended up looking like this? Do you take me for a blind man?"
He leaned in suddenly, lowering his voice to a dangerous whisper that carried no room for denial. "It was those stupid Gryffindor lions, wasn't it? How many of them?"
Goyle froze, his whole body stiffening as his eyes darted uneasily to one side, avoiding Malfoy's gaze. His lips trembled as though words were on the verge of escaping, yet not a single sound came out.
Malfoy's anger flared hotter, swelling into something sharper than simple rage, a deep and personal insult.
Gregory Goyle was one of his own, part of the inner circle of Slytherin he'd always considered under his watch. True, lately he hadn't kept Crabbe and Goyle trailing after him as constantly as before, but that didn't change the fact that they were his friends, his people.
And to attack Goyle was to slap Malfoy across the face. It was a direct challenge to the pride and authority of Slytherin itself.
These past days had already been testing his patience, weighing him down with troubles he had no wish to speak of. And now this? Did they see him keeping quiet and think that meant he could be pushed around?
"Speak, Goyle!" The order came through clenched teeth, his voice low and tight, each word pressed out like it might cut on the way. "Tell me who did it…"
His fingers were moving without thought, stroking the smooth handle of his wand, his knuckles pale from the grip.
"Don't ask, Malfoy… there are too many people here. I just… I want to go back to the dorm…"
The tall, broad-shouldered Goyle seemed smaller now, his frame hunched slightly as though he could fold into himself. Shame clung to him, heavy and suffocating.
Malfoy rose to his feet, and his eyes flicked to a small knot of students nearby, lingering just a little too long on their hushed conversation. His voice cracked like ice.
"What are you looking at?"
The younger students instantly dropped their gaze, scurrying toward the stairs that led back to their dormitories.
"Stop!" His voice rang out behind them, cold and flat. When they froze, he took a step closer, speaking with an edge that brooked no argument. "Keep your mouths shut."
Then he turned back, frowning as he pulled his wand free. At the sight, Goyle instinctively stepped back.
"Tell me. Who was it?"
"I… I didn't see clearly… there were several of them… they… they said they were just helping me 'get improve'…"
The words made Malfoy's blood boil. So this was what happened now—he stopped picking fights, and suddenly others thought they could pick fights with him?
"Cowards! A pack of cowards who only dare to hide their faces and strike from the shadows!"
The insult left his lips like venom, and he fixed Goyle with a glare sharp enough to cut. "Remember this… Slytherin does not sit quietly and swallow this kind of disgrace. Weakness only brings more of it. Next time, no matter who it is, fight back. Use what you've learned! Don't stand there like some… Hufflepuff."
Goyle stayed silent, but Malfoy stepped forward and caught a fistful of his robes, tugging hard until Goyle stumbled forward. Without letting go, Malfoy hauled him toward the infirmary, ignoring his sluggish resistance.
"When we get back," Malfoy said, his voice low but firm, "you and I are going to practice… properly. You're going to take it seriously. And if there's a next time, you hit them back, hard."
Goyle gave a small, muffled nod, though whether in agreement or just to end the conversation, even he might not have known.
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[Chapter End's]
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