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"Cleaning Charm!"
Sargeras flicked his wand, and a soft blue glow swept through the corridor. In an instant, the grime that had clung stubbornly to the stones dissolved away, leaving the floor dry, gleaming, and spotless.
Even the mop head, which only a moment ago had been heavy with thick black ink, shed every trace of stain and returned to its shabby yet perfectly clean strips of cloth.
The mop hesitated, as though confused by the sudden absence of "water," then tried, almost by instinct, to dip itself back into the iron bucket of ink.
"…I suggest you have that mop looked at, Mr. Filch. Its magical sensors seem to have failed completely. Professor Lumina's modifications were clearly less than perfect."
Sargeras left the comment at that without offering any advice on how to repair it.
"I'll… I'll deal with this cursed mop myself!"
Filch's jaw tightened with frustration. He kicked the animated mop hard enough to send it skidding across the floor. The metal joints gave a mournful squeal before falling silent at last.
Sargeras merely inclined his head, unmoved, as if he had expected exactly this reaction. With a graceful, detached nod, he said, "Then I will take my leave, Mr. Filch. I have a class to teach."
————————————————————
When Sargeras stepped into the classroom, a stack of books tucked beneath his arm, every seat was already filled.
Since that duel exhibition, his lessons had become the most sought–after in the castle. Students from every House had gone so far as to petition their Heads of House for permission to attend.
Sargeras himself cared little for the fuss. When the Heads handed him the long list of applicants, he hadn't even glanced at the names before approving them all.
Whether these young witches and wizards truly wished to learn or had only come to satisfy their curiosity, he could not be bothered to care. One sheep or two, it was all the same to the shepherd. And since he never assigned homework, there was no burden placed on anyone.
His gaze swept slowly across the classroom, taking in each face one by one. There was first-year Ginny Weasley sitting beside her friend Astoria Greengrass, with the dreamy Luna Lovegood nearby. A little further along was second-year Neville Longbottom, and even Draco Malfoy, who for once sat properly in his seat, with his hulking companion Goyle squeezed awkwardly into the back row.
"Professor, that ink bottle in your hand… does it contain Peeves inside?" Penelope Clearwater raised her hand, curiosity gleaming in her eyes.
Sargeras did not bother to hide anything he simply gave a brief nod and passed the bottle down for the students to examine.
"Say your good-byes. You may not see Peeves again for quite some time."
"Really?" The room broke into a ripple of surprised delight.
No one seemed the least bit saddened by the thought of Peeves' absence. If anything, the only trace of regret came from knowing the mischievous poltergeist would eventually return.
"Probably," Sargeras replied, flipping open his textbook without so much as a glance upward. "He's being loaned to a researcher for a study on the ecology of disruptive spirits."
Excited murmurs spread as the bottle passed from hand to hand. Students gave it gentle shakes and careful tilts, laughing softly at the sight of Peeves whirling inside, baring his teeth and pounding in vain against the glass.
When he judged the moment sufficient, Sargeras retrieved the bottle and set it firmly on the lectern. "Class begins."
Halfway through the lesson, the door eased open with a soft creak.
Professor McGonagall's stern silhouette filled the doorway, her sharp eyes cutting straight to a boy seated in the back.
"Pardon the interruption, Sargeras." Her voice carried the kind of authority that allowed no debate.
Sargeras lifted an eyebrow, a silent invitation for her to continue.
"Mr. Longbottom," she said, crisp and commanding, "come with me at once."
Neville's face drained of color. He fumbled to gather his books, his hands trembling as though they no longer obeyed him. Around him, the other students, Harry, Ron, and Hermione most of all, turned wide, anxious eyes in his direction.
Sargeras inclined his head in a slight, silent gesture that told Neville he was free to leave.
The boy rose hastily, stumbling in his rush and nearly tripping over his own feet. The door closed behind him with a soft thud, and at once an uneasy murmur spread across the classroom like a swarm of bees straining against restraint.
"Quiet."
The single word fell like a splash of ice water, quenching every stray sound. The calm discipline of the "Mechanical Mind" settled over the classroom, and the students bent back to their work as though nothing had happened.
————————————————————
The next morning, just after returning from the library, Sargeras stepped into his sparely furnished office and found a freshly delivered copy of The Daily Prophet lying on his desk.
The headline stretched across nearly the entire front page in bold letters:
A MEDICAL MIRACLE! ST MUNGO'S SOLVES THE CRUCIATUS CURSE'S PERMANENT DAMAGE — TWENTY-ONE LONG-TERM VICTIMS, INCLUDING THE LONGBOTTOMS, REGAIN CONSCIOUSNESS!
Beneath the headline, a moving photograph revealed the gleaming white interior of a St Mungo's ward. Frank and Alice Longbottom, the Auror couple who had been driven to madness years ago under the torment of the Cruciatus Curse by a Death Eater, sat side by side. Their faces were still pale, but their eyes no longer stared into emptiness.
They held each other's hands with a fragile determination, weak smiles trembling on their lips. Between them stood Neville, tears streaking down his cheeks as he struggled to lift the corners of his mouth into something brave for the camera.
The article described in careful detail how Mirabella Rawlson, a senior healer at St. Mungo's, had spent years rediscovering an ancient soul-mending spell, painstaking research that finally reversed what had long been deemed irreversible damage to the mind. Frank and Alice Longbottom were among the first to receive the full treatment and to show a true and lasting recovery.
In its final paragraph, the report adopted the Ministry's guarded tone, hinting at politics beneath the triumph:
"…Given the epoch-making significance of this discovery for the field of magical medicine and the immense hope it offers to victims who have suffered under dark magic, officials from the Ministry of Magic revealed that Healer Mirabella Rawlson, who led this research, is very likely to be nominated for her pioneering contributions and is expected to receive a Merlin Medal, with the rank yet to be determined. Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge will deliver an official statement on the matter this Thursday."
Sargeras's gaze lingered for a moment on the line about the Merlin Medal. His fingers tapped softly on the polished redwood of his desk, a quiet rhythm — tap, tap, tap — that was scarcely louder than a breath.
So Neville's parents had been among Hummingbird's patients. That was something he had not known.
His expression betrayed no joy and no outward sign of surprise. Deep within, however, there was perhaps a quiet recognition for the boy who was clumsy yet steadfast, who never yielded no matter how heavy the burden. At last, Neville's suffering had met with a glimmer of light.
But that small acknowledgment remained hidden beneath his habitual composure.
As for the Merlin Medal so prominently heralded by the Prophet, the honor that seemed almost inevitable…
Sargeras lifted the cup of red tea that had long since cooled and took a slow sip. The bitterness spread across his tongue.
A medal? An honor?
The faintest curve touched Sagres's mouth, a smile so thin it was almost no more than a shadow, and there was a quiet gleam of irony behind it.
Neville's parents had returned to him, and that was good. A family once broken now had the chance to be whole again.
St Mungo's success deserved its praise.
The Merlin Medal? That promised a grand spectacle waiting for its curtain to rise.
He casually set the Daily Prophet aside, the one that shouted of medical miracles and speculated about medals, sliding it toward the corner of the desk. In its place he pulled a sheet of fresh parchment and began to write.
༺✧─────────────✧༻
To Mr. Lyall Lupin
Mr. Lupin,
I hope this letter reaches you in good health.
With it you will find a rather unusual parcel. Inside is none other than Hogwarts' resident mischief-maker… Peeves himself.
Perhaps he has recently experienced an epiphany and suddenly felt an urge to contribute to the progress of magical knowledge, or perhaps he merely longs to leave the castle for a taste of the wider world. Whatever the reason, at the unanimous request of the entire faculty, every student, and even the castle's ghosts, I have agreed to send him away from Hogwarts for a time.
Your earlier research into the nature of disruptive spirits impressed me deeply, especially your theories concerning the energy core that binds such entities to particular locations. I believe Peeves, as a living embodiment of that mystery, may provide the unique practical data you require to complete your unfinished work.
Observe him as you wish, though I trust you will honor the great sacrifice this… volunteer has made.
A word of caution: the seal at the mouth of the bottle is a temporary spell of my own design. The instant the stopper is removed, the contractual bond between Peeves and the castle will activate at once, pulling him back to Hogwarts in a heartbeat. For that reason, please keep your observations within non-intrusive limits unless you wish to see him vanish before your very eyes.
With best wishes for your research,
Sincerely,
Sargeras Greengrass
Office of Advanced Charm Theory and Practice
༺✧─────────────✧༻
Sargeras folded the letter with neat precision and packed it together with a small bottle of ink inside a secure parcel. At his summons, the raven Noctis fluttered down and settled neatly on the desk, ready to bear the delivery.
Once the bird was on its way, he prepared to call upon Professor McGonagall. Only yesterday the deputy headmistress had caught him in the very act of imprisoning Peeves inside the ink bottle, and it seemed proper to inform her of what he had done, especially as she was the one who oversaw all of Hogwarts' financial expenditures.
After all, Peeves, in his own chaotic way, was still considered part of the school's property.
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[Chapter End's]
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