Dumbledore’s Tea

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Thursday arrived in the blink of an eye. In the days leading up to it, Sargeras had already taught two more classes to the group of young, not-yet-qualified wizards. By now, among the sixth and seventh years at Hogwarts, Professor Greengrass had become the most popular teacher in the school.

After all, there was no homework, the lessons' learning effects were oddly effective, and classes like that were a rare treasure at Hogwarts.

Back when Sargeras was still a student here at Hogwarts, these sixth and seventh years had only just started their first and second years. Technically speaking, they were schoolmates. And yet, in the blink of an eye, he had turned into their professor. Honestly, it wasn't a bad feeling at all.

He hadn't expected it, but it turned out there really was a part of him that enjoyed teaching.

He had spent the entire morning buried in the Restricted Section, and had only just looked up from the pile of books when Fawkes, the phoenix appeared in a burst of flame.

In the bird's beak was a small piece of parchment. He unrolled it, and the handwriting across it stood out clearly: Don't forget about this afternoon's tea!

"What a pain…"

Grumbling under his breath, Sargeras gave his wand a flick. The magical books all lifted themselves into the air and flew neatly back to their shelves. Once everything was in order, he finally gave a small nod to the phoenix perched on his shoulder.

A swirl of fire swept through the air, and in the blink of an eye, the figures of both man and bird vanished from the Hogwarts library.

"Cawww—caww—!"

A shrill, piercing cry suddenly echoed through the library. It turned out to be the raven, Noctis, who had been napping up in the rafters. Startled awake by the flash of fire, he began shrieking uncontrollably again.

Madam Pince came charging down the hallway, holding up her skirt in her hands. Her face was a storm of shock and fury, and the young wizards in her path couldn't help but scatter in alarm.

"Sargeras! If you bring that idiotic raven into the library one more time, I swear I'll go straight to Headmaster Dumbledore and ask that you be banned from ever setting foot in here again!"

The outrage in her voice made the students shrink instinctively in their seats. Truth be told, none of them had ever seen Madam Pince this angry before…

———————————————————

"Coffee, mead, or… black tea?"

Dumbledore, seated comfortably in his chair, posed the question with a warm smile as his fingers idly traced the rim of his half-moon spectacles.

Sargeras didn't answer. Instead, his gaze shifted to the paintings behind the old wizard—

Iocha Saktendenberg: A Headmaster from some unknown time before the year 1503.

Ambrose Swart: Headmaster during the late Tudor era.

Dilys Derwent: Headmistress from 1741 to 1768, a renowned healer.

Phineas Nigellus Black: Headmaster from the late 19th century to 1926, belonging to the House of Black.

Armando Dippet: Headmaster during the early 20th century up to 1956, the man who held the post during Tom Riddle's school years.

At the moment, the portraits were all whispering among themselves, but Sargeras didn't bother trying to make out what they were saying. Instead, he casually reached toward the gilded tea tray and picked up a cup of coffee—though not before three sugar cubes had scurried into his bone china cup of their own accord.

He took a habitual sip and set the cup down again, then spoke in a calm, even voice, "Is there something you need, Professor Dumbledore? I was planning to return to my office and prepare for my lessons."

"Sargeras," Dumbledore replied without missing a beat, "since the day you took up your post, other than immersing yourself in the sea of books in the Hogwarts Library, I don't believe I've ever seen you actually step foot in your office, much less prepare a lesson there."

The old man's tone was gentle, but there was no mistaking the way he so effortlessly saw through the lie.

"Well, I think I've been doing a pretty decent job regardless," Sargeras said nonchalantly, brushing it off with a shrug. "I imagine my students would say the same."

It wasn't until Dumbledore pulled open a drawer and retrieved three letters, each sealed with the red wax insignia of the Ministry of Magic, that the mood began to shift.

Cornelius Fudge's signature, written in elaborate cursive, glowed faintly red at the bottom of the third letter. As that luminescence pulsed softly, Sargeras' expression gradually began to darken.

"I'm not questioning your teaching methods, Sargeras," Dumbledore said, letting out a deep and weary sigh. There was a trace of exasperation in his voice now, though it was tempered by warmth. "Nor am I denying the results you've achieved. Your students' performance certainly speaks for itself. But what I would like to know is this: when, exactly, did the Department of Magical Education grant you special permission to cast spells on students during class?"

Sargeras showed no change in expression. "Professor, I believe we reached an understanding back in Azkaban."

Dumbledore gave a small nod at those words. "I admit that. But even so, you should have at least informed me beforehand. And lying to a group of underage students— that is simply not something a professor should be doing."

Sargeras looked annoyed. The whole scene reminded him uncomfortably of the day he was expelled, but he forced himself to stay calm.

"I wouldn't call it lying," he said evenly. "You should know that my spells would never cause any harm to the students." As he spoke, he reached out and gently touched the letters on the desk with his fingertip.

A pale flame flared up from his hand, and in an instant, the letters crumbled into drifting ash.

"And I dare say," he added, his voice quiet but firm, "if the one sitting here right now were Voldemort or Grindelwald, the Ministry would never have dared send those letters. It's not just me they disrespect. It's you."

"That's only because people fear them, child," Dumbledore replied, his voice weary. "I don't believe that kind of fear should ever be the answer…"

"I respect your choice, Albus," Sargeras said softly. This was the first time he had called the Headmaster by his given name.

"But I'm not like you. I don't like being told what to do."

He drew his wand and lightly traced a glowing silver line across the surface of the desk. "I don't like it. Especially not when I've done nothing wrong."

"My demand is simple enough. Whether it's out of respect or fear— just don't cross the line. And don't provoke me."

Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak, but Sargeras cut him off before he could utter a word.

"They can play their political games in the wizarding world all they like, but they'd better learn who to mess with and who not to. If I'm being honest, the reason things have gotten this bad is partly because of you, Headmaster. Your tolerance gave them the courage to keep pushing."

Dumbledore's voice, for once, carried a rare heaviness. "The greater the power one possesses, the less authority they should wield. Because none of us can guarantee we won't make mistakes."

Sargeras gave a slight nod. "I don't disagree with that, Professor Dumbledore. Like I said, I respect your choices."

Then his tone shifted, and he changed the subject. "However, I'm not you. I don't have your broad-minded patience. So if those politicians come knocking at my door, playing at control, I'll remind them what the fundamental truth of the wizarding world is."

As those words fell, his figure vanished in an instant, leaving not a trace behind. Dumbledore looked around the now-empty office, a bit startled… but in the end, he simply let out a long, quiet sigh.

From the wall, Dilys Derwent suddenly spoke. "The child is right, Albus. Sometimes… fear can be far more persuasive than respect."

Dumbledore didn't respond right away. Instead, he dropped a screaming sugar cube into his tea.

"He can even Apparate inside Hogwarts now, Dilys," he murmured, lifting the teacup and taking a slow sip. "He's even more powerful than I imagined."

"You can't control everything," Armando Dippet joined the conversation too, his portrait voice calm. "Besides, this child is nothing like Tom. That much, you need not worry about."

Dumbledore said nothing in response. He took out his Elder Wand and tried to mend the silver scar that Sargeras had carved into the surface of his desk, only to discover that he couldn't.

A soft scoff came from behind him. Dumbledore turned around, but couldn't tell which portrait it had come from…

———————————————————

The sharp crack of Sargeras' Apparition sent a few ravens flapping into the sky above the pumpkin patch. He brushed the grass from the hem of his cloak and lifted his gaze toward the crooked wooden hut ahead.

Twilight had cast the edges of the Forbidden Forest in bluish-grey hues, and the warm yellow glow seeping through the window slats of the cottage spilled gently into the damp evening air.

Apparating within Hogwarts was no easy feat. Even for Sargeras, it had drained a fair amount of magic. But he didn't mind—It was worth it to remind Dumbledore that he was no longer the fifth-year student from years ago.

He had come to see Hagrid to ask for some magical materials. Technically, Snape might have them too, but judging by the nature of their relationship, Sargeras doubted he could get anything more from his former Potions Master than a cold glare.

Knock! knock! knock!

His knuckles landed with a dull thud against the wooden door, rousing the occupants inside. He waited. The door didn't open for quite a while—then, slowly, it cracked open.

"Professor Greengrass…?"

"Good afternoon, Hagrid," Sargeras greeted, peering through the narrow gap in the doorway. He could just make out two shadowy figures within. "Do you have other guests?"

"Oh, come in and we'll talk, Professor," Hagrid said cheerily, stepping his massive frame aside and pulling the door fully open. The hinges groaned under the strain. "It's Harry and Ron. I invited them over for tea to celebrate their enrollment."

Sargeras narrowed his eyes. Inside, the oil lamp flickered across the oak table, casting a dancing glow. Two small figures were practically swallowed by the massive armchairs built to Hagrid's size.

Harry was absentmindedly picking at a chip on his teacup, and Ron's ears had gone scarlet beneath his mop of red hair.

Looking at the two boys seated at the table, Sargeras gave an uncharacteristic greeting. "Good to see you two again."

"G-Good afternoon, Professor," they stammered in unison, jumping to their feet, their voices catching in their throats. Sargeras gave them a faint nod.

"Care for a rock cake, Professor?" Hagrid offered cheerily.

"Just call me Sargeras, Hagrid," he replied, waving off the copper tray of iron-hard biscuits. "Actually, I'm here to ask you for a favor."

"Say the word, Professor. What can I do for you?"

"If you have them, I'd like to purchase some unicorn tail hair and a few branches from the Whomping Willow," Sargeras said plainly and directly. To be honest, he much preferred dealing with Hagrid.

"Purchase? Don't be ridiculous. I'd be honored to help." Hagrid thumped his furry chest, his booming voice rattling the copper pots hanging from the ceiling.

He reached up to the wall and tugged down a patched-up dragonhide pouch. After rummaging through it for only a few seconds, he pulled out a neat bundle of gleaming white hairs. "Collected just last week, brushed under the moonlight only a few days ago."

"As for the Whomping Willow… would last year's branches be all right?"

"Of course. Thank you for your generosity, Hagrid." Sargeras thanked him sincerely.

"Think nothing of it, Professor," Hagrid said. "And if you ever need anything else, please feel free to come to me anytime."

"Thank you, Hagrid." Sargeras tucked the materials away and, as he offered his thanks, gave his wand a small wave. Instantly, the cluttered hut began to tidy itself, tools returning to their hooks, dust sweeping itself away, and the room becoming warm and neat in the blink of an eye.

Hagrid looked around in amazement, beaming. "Much appreciated."

Sargeras merely waved it off and said, "It's nothing. Just a small gesture within my power."

He rose to his feet and bid everyone farewell, but when he reached the doorway, he turned back to Hagrid with a warm smile.

"This year's Christmas tree… let me handle the transporting and decorating, Hagrid. Please, don't turn me down…"

Hagrid blinked in surprise. The words had caught him off guard, and he answered almost instinctively, "Of course."

Then, realizing what he'd said, he broke into a wide, genuine grin. "I mean—no problem at all. Thank you, Sargeras…"

Leaning against the doorframe, Hagrid stood there smiling as he watched Sargeras walk away. Beside him, Fang gave a sleepy snort, and just then, Harry scooted over and nudged his way in curiously.

"Hagrid… are you and Professor Greengrass close?"

"Close?" Hagrid rubbed his beard with a hand the size of a roasting pan. "Well, as you saw, we know each other—but I wouldn't say we're close."

"Well, we've had our fair share of dealings, I suppose," he added after a beat.

Ron chimed in, "Then why'd you just give him all those magical materials for free? That stuff isn't cheap, you know."

"Don't think of it like that, Ron. Professor Greengrass was invited back to teach at Hogwarts by Headmaster Dumbledore himself." Hagrid picked up a rock-hard slab of treacle fudge and stuffed it into his mouth. "Don't let his age fool you… he's done more than most witches and wizards twice his age."

"Don't worry, Hagrid," Harry said, glancing at Ron. "We've already heard plenty about all his accomplishments over the past few days."

He and Ron exchanged a knowing look. Just the thought of how often Hermione had been going on about the professor lately made them both feel a little worn out.

"Tell us something we don't know," Harry went on. "Like that thing you mentioned earlier… about Gringotts being broken into…"

"I'm not saying another word about that," Hagrid said at once, his tone firm.

"Alright, then… do you know why Professor Greengrass was expelled?" Ron leaned forward, eyes wide with curiosity.

At that, the muscles in Hagrid's broad and hairy back seemed to stiffen slightly. His expression turned reluctant, but this time, he didn't say no. "It's not exactly a secret. I suppose I can tell you—but you mustn't go repeating it to anyone else. Talking behind people's backs isn't right…"

"Promise, Hagrid," both boys said quickly, each patting his own chest like a solemn vow.

"It happened a few years back. He was in his fifth year at the time," Hagrid said with a sigh, then turned toward the two of them with a nostalgic look in his eyes. "Did I ever tell you he was a Ravenclaw?"

"No, but we already know that," Ron replied.

"Oh… alright then." Hagrid paused, as if reaching back through a fog of memories. "He was a proper Ravenclaw, through and through. From the moment he set foot in the castle his first year, he never once left school grounds for five whole years. Not even during holidays."

"Didn't his family care?" Ron asked, frowning at the thought. "Didn't they ever take him home?"

"I don't know. Word was, he didn't get along with his folks. I only ever heard rumors. Hmm… but he used to come around here from time to time, asking me questions about the habits of magical creatures in the Forbidden Forest."

Hagrid smacked his lips thoughtfully. "Later on, as he got deeper into his magical research, he started breaking all sorts of school rules…"

"Rules?" Ron leaned in. "What kind of rules?"

"Oh, loads of them. Reading books from the Restricted Section without permission, sneaking out of the castle in the middle of the night, slipping into the Forbidden Forest when no one was looking… That sort of thing. In the end, he lost control of a spell and set a large part of the Forest on fire."

Hagrid took a sip of tea, the cup nearly vanishing in his hand. "After that, the Ministry of Magic started breathing down Headmaster Dumbledore's neck. In the end, he didn't have much choice and had to expel him."

Harry glanced at Ron, then turned back to Hagrid and asked the question that had been weighing on his mind. "Hagrid… what do you think of him? I mean, do you think he's studying the Dark Arts?"

"The Dark Arts?" Hagrid scratched his head, looking uncertain. "I don't know. I really don't. But he's not a bad person, if that's what you're asking."

He gave a soft chuckle and added, "Take the Christmas tree, for example. I'd only made some offhand complaint about how much I hated decorating the bloody thing. He was still a student then, but he offered to help without me even asking. Of course, he was expelled before Christmas ever came that year…"

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[Chapter End's]

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