The gloomy Azkaban prison stood on a solitary island cliff in the North Sea.
Waves crashed against the rocks, and Dementors flew and circled above the prison.
At this moment, Sagres Greengrass was sitting on the stone bed in his cell, holding a slender wand in his hand, its tip flickering with a faint silver light.
His gaze was focused and indifferent; the howling of prisoners and the shrieks of Dementors did not affect him in the slightest.
A tattered magic book floated in the air, flipping continuously, its dense runes and formulas being rearranged by an invisible force.
Suddenly, the cell door was pushed open.
Sargeras did not stop his wand.
"How surprising."
He said without looking up, "When did Azkaban start allowing visitors?"
"For an old man like me, there are always some privileges."
Dumbledore smiled as he walked into the cell, his blue eyes peering through his half-moon spectacles, scrutinizing Sargeras. His robes glowed softly in the dim light, strikingly out of place with the surrounding gloom.
"It seems they didn't arrange a cellmate for you." Dumbledore placed a bag of lemon sherbet on the stone table.
Sargeras's fingers twitched, and the magic book in the air turned to ash and drifted down.
He looked up at the old man, his gaze calm: "Azkaban has many empty rooms, Principal."
"But they didn't even take your wand?" The old man blinked, a playful glint in his eyes.
"I understand your confusion, after all, you personally cast a Trace on my wand, but now…" He waved the wand in his hand, his calm tone revealing a hint of pride: "Even a Dementor can't sense my wand's aura."
Dumbledore said nothing, instead looking around, his gaze finally settling on the anti-magic stone bricks of the cell wall—they were covered in magical formulas.
"It seems that even here, you haven't stopped your research." He leaned closer to look, reading softly: "'Energy Conversion of Emotional magic and the Symbiotic Relationship of Dementors'—it seems your prison life isn't too bad, perhaps this place can't even hold you?" The old man smiled, taking a fizzing whizbee from his pocket and popping it into his mouth.
"Just passing the time." Sargeras waved his wand, making the writing on the wall disappear.
"I don't know if it's old age, but lately I often think that expelling you from Hogwarts five years ago might have been the biggest mistake I've ever made." Dumbledore said with a sigh.
Sargeras frowned upon hearing this: "Professor Dumbledore, if you've come to mock my situation, then you can leave. Studying those foolish Dementors is already tiresome enough; I don't need another self-righteous visitor."
Dumbledore sighed, a hint of helplessness in his tone. "Sargeras, I never intended to mock you. I expelled you back then because your research was treading on dangerous ground. I had to consider the students of Hogwarts."
"Dangerous?" Sargeras shook his head, "magic itself is dangerous." He tapped the stone bed with his wand, conjuring an oak chair. "Of course, I understand your actions back then, and I have never held a grudge against you for it."
The old man smiled instantly upon hearing this, pulling the chair over and sitting down, the oak seat creaking softly.
"I'm very glad to hear you say that, especially since you haven't corresponded with me once in the five years since you left Hogwarts."
Dumbledore's half-moon spectacles glinted slightly: "I heard about you from Filius. I know you haven't given up on pursuing the true meaning of magic all these years, and you've achieved remarkable results. To be honest, I'm very pleased."
"As for the purpose of your visit, I think you might as well speak directly." He raised a hand to interrupt Dumbledore: "You've laid enough groundwork."
"Ah, yes, of course. My point is, judging by your past achievements, you deserve a better research environment." With that, the old man took a wax-sealed letter from his robes: "At the same time, Hogwarts needs a Charms consultant, responsible for guiding senior students' theoretical research projects and practical spell work, teaching all students who have passed their O.W.L.s."
Sargeras took the appointment letter but did not open it, his fingertips caressing the Hogwarts crest on the seal, murmuring softly: "Return to Hogwarts?"
His thoughts flashed back, his Hogwarts schooling experience appearing in his memories. To be honest, it truly was a "peaceful" and "beautiful" time.
Dumbledore did not rush him. After a long moment, Sargeras came back to his senses: "I think I can accept, but Professor, you'll need to use your position as a Wizengamot juror to allow me to leave here legitimately."
"Of course, I will resolve these issues." Dumbledore stood up: "The Ministry of Magic will send your pardon first thing tomorrow morning. Besides that, Sargeras…"
"Tea every Thursday afternoon in the Principal's office, and…" He paused again, "When the Castle needs it, protect it in your own way."
A brief silence fell over the cell, with only the sound of the North Sea waves seeping in through the iron window. Sargeras walked to the stone table, tapped the bag of lemon sherbet with his wand, and the candies automatically arranged themselves into a miniature model of Hogwarts Castle.
"I can agree to that, Professor Dumbledore." The sugar-constructed towers sparkled in the moonlight, "But I also have two conditions."
"Please state them."
"First, my research will not be interfered with by any ethical review committee." With a flick of his wand, the sugar Castle collapsed and reassembled into complex three-dimensional runes.
"Second, when I believe certain 'traditional wisdom' obstructs truth, I reserve the right to implement educational reforms."
Dumbledore gazed at the floating sugar runes—they were some form of ancient Norse rune magic.
He remained silent for a long time, finally extending his hand calmly: "Then Hogwarts welcomes you, Professor Greengrass."
Sargeras also smiled and extended his right hand: "This time, exploring the Library's Restricted Section won't be a violation of school rules."
"Indeed, but please don't replace the index pages of 'Most Potente Potions' again." Dumbledore winked: "Madam Pince still thinks it was her own classification error…"
Watching Dumbledore leave through Phoenix apparation, some memories not of this world occasionally flashed through Sargeras's mind: glassware in a laboratory from another world, blackboards covered in formulas, endless experiments.
But those images were always quickly replaced by reality—the disgusted expressions of his family in his youth, his mother's screams as she was tormented by the Crucio, and his father's indifferent back…
In fact, as a transmigrator, Sargeras had initially been pleased with his circumstances upon transmigration. After all, most people who get a transmigration script usually end up as orphans with deceased parents, but he not only had both parents but also belonged to the Greengrass Family, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight pure-blood families.
In his initial vision, as a noble in the magic world, he would be well-fed and clothed, only needing to enjoy the beauty of magic in a life of idleness, perhaps even setting up a hedge fund to short Gringotts.
He wanted to let these old fuddy-duddies of the magic world experience what "Muggle wisdom" was, and truly realize his self-worth.
But reality soon dealt him a heavy blow.
Because from the beginning of his transmigration until his enrollment at Hogwarts, the British wizarding world was shrouded under Lord Voldemort's rule.
Yes, he knew Lord Voldemort would ultimately fail, but at that time, he hadn't fallen yet, and the Boy Who Lived was still in his mother's womb.
Most importantly, he only knew Harry Potter was the savior, Lord Voldemort was the great villain, and Harry would eventually defeat Lord Voldemort.
But exactly when and how he would be defeated, he had no idea.
And the Greengrass Family, as loyal followers of Lord Voldemort, was almost entirely composed of Death Eaters.
His father was a Silencer at the Ministry of Magic, usually taciturn, and his mother was a Muggle-born Wizard.
Yes, Sargeras was a half-blood.
His beautiful mother, though a Muggle Wizard, deeply loathed Sargeras's half-blood status.
She made no secret of her malice towards him, as if doing so would make others forget the fact that she herself was not pure-blood.
If it were just the family's disgust and abuse, it might have been bearable, but later, the Death Eaters of the Greengrass Family, to conform to Lord Voldemort's pure-blood ideology, actually used Sargeras's mother as a token of their loyalty.
This pathetic woman was tormented into madness by the Death Eaters she sought to uphold, then struck by a Killing Curse, thus abruptly ending her life.
At that time, when Sargeras learned of this news, he didn't even know whether to be happy or sad, because his nominal mother, besides giving him life, had only given him endless daily scolding and torment.
Five-year-old Sargeras had just experienced his first magical outburst in his life. He didn't even have his own wand yet, but he had to start facing his situation.
The phrase he most often muttered to himself back then was: "This is worse than being an orphan!"
There was no other way; the threat of death forced him to seek the help of magic. So, at the tender age of five, Sargeras was compelled to create his first spell.
Yes, after his first magical outburst, he discovered his own golden finger—when the magic power in his body accumulated to a certain extent, he could forcibly improve or even create spells out of thin air.
"Potent Confundo," this improved spell had no offensive power, but it could make people automatically ignore his presence, especially since he was already a transparent figure in the family.
He used this spell to hide himself, living precariously at home for six years. It was nothing short of a miracle.
Later, he received a letter from Hogwarts, and on the eve of leaving home, he personally sent two Death Eater elders who had cast the Crucio on him into Azkaban.
As for his father, he had already been imprisoned when Lord Voldemort fell, and by now he had probably died under a Dementor's Kiss…
"Flap, flap." A raven landing on the window interrupted his memories.
Sargeras took the fragment of a Dementor's cloak from the raven's beak, tapped it with his wand, and the fragment turned to ash, a wisp of ethereal blue energy flowing into his body.
The flame-shaped rune scar on his wrist glowed faintly in the moonlight—it was a souvenir of a Dark Arts experiment, and also the reason he could walk calmly in Azkaban.
"Time to leave."