Past Events

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Late night, Restricted Section

Moonlight filtered through the high windows, weaving a dark net across the mold-stained parchment. Sargeras stared at the potion in his hand for a long moment, then finally pried open Noctis's beak and forced it down the bird's throat.

Of course, he had already cast a "Throat-Sealing Tongue-Locking" spell beforehand to prevent the dumb bird from going berserk again.

The raven's glossy black feathers shimmered with a faint metallic sheen, and faint patterns began surfacing along its trembling wings.

While waiting, Sargeras couldn't help but recall all that had happened over the years.

He had now lived in this world for twenty-one years. Time flew by like an arrow. Over those years, Sargeras had fully awakened his abilities, successfully created seven original spells, and even used them to modify and refine an entire series of other spells.

These spells had once been his foundation—his means of surviving and establishing himself in this foreign world.

But now that gift, that mysterious boon which had come along with his transmigration, had stopped functioning three years ago… on the night of his coming-of-age ceremony.

Because the ability relied on an ever-growing magic reserve—but a wizard's magic did not grow without limit.

From his very first magical outburst at the age of five to the moment his magical tides solidified upon reaching adulthood, Sargeras's growth had slowed with each passing year. By the time he turned eighteen, it had nearly ground to a halt.

This was a natural shackle placed upon all wizards at birth. No one could escape it—not even a transmigrator.

And although, his total magical reserve far exceeded that of an average adult wizard, in concrete terms, it barely equaled the combined strength of three seasoned Aurors. He doubted even that could compare to the old monster known as Dumbledore.

However, even if he couldn't match Dumbledore in raw magical reserves, Sargeras was certain his spell power was by no means inferior. For he had long since transcended the crude limits of brute-force magic. His magic was no longer a hammer—it had become a blade. Every droplet of power was honed to surgical precision, forged into a deadly weapon that struck true and left no margin for error.

That obsessive pursuit of precision could be traced back to the chaotic years of his youth. His childhood had left him with a deep-rooted sense of insecurity, and ever since he walked away from his family more than a decade ago, he had thrown himself into a near-maniacal quest for knowledge—and, along the way, the means to seize power.

From Dark Magic to the war sorcery of ancient times, even to the long-lost runic spells of the primeval age, Sargeras devoured them all without the slightest hesitation.

He wandered through forgotten ruins and timeworn relics, unearthing magic that had long vanished from the annals of history, dragging it back into the light and making it his own.

Hogwarts, Durmstrang, Ilvermorny in America—he had read nearly every book in the libraries of all three schools. And during the year he spent wandering afterward, he even visited Beauxbatons in the Pyrenees of France, the Moon Mountain Wizarding School in Uganda, and a hidden magical institute atop a volcanic island in Japan…

Of course, none of the headmasters at those schools ever realized that Sargeras had once "studied" in their libraries.

After more than a decade of day-and-night study, after immersing himself in countless magical tomes, the boy who had once curled up in the Greengrass family's private archives had long since transformed into a sorcerer capable of shaking the entire magical world.

Refining spells? Creating new magic? That had already become second nature to him—an instinct engraved deep into his bones. The only difference now was that he no longer relied on some external gift, but solely on the knowledge within his own mind.

Sargeras tapped the table lightly with a bent finger. Noctis, who had been preening its feathers, raised its head. Reflected in its obsidian eyes was the faint curve of a smile forming at the corner of his lips.

He was thinking of that brush with death three years ago in the North Sea. At the time, he had been experimenting with a refined version of Apparition, when the spatial ripples from his spell disturbed a slumbering Norwegian sea monster.

A tentacle, thick as a python, had shot out from the ocean trench and wrapped around him in an instant. Yet Sargeras, still caught within the illusion spun by the creature's mind, remained unaware—even as the briny seawater flooded into his nose.

Even thinking back on it now sent a shiver down his spine.

The monster's mental corruption had bypassed the magical defenses he kept raised at all times. If not for Noctis letting out a shrill, panicked cry while half-choking on seawater, shattering the illusion in that moment, he might have ended up as little more than a skeleton curled in the beast's lair.

Thank Merlin for that stupid bird, even if it did give him a headache more often than not.

In that moment—adrift and nearly drowned—as he stared into the gaping maw of that massive beast, the flicker of fear that rose in his chest was swiftly eclipsed by a deep, uncontrollable fury.

He hadn't even hesitated. Drawing his wand, he unleashed the most powerful spell in his arsenal.

A violent surge of magic erupted with a thunderous roar, and a searing blast of crimson spelllight tore through the curtain of water…

…and that mountain-sized kraken exploded into a scattered chunks of flesh.

Then there was that gods-damned trip to France…

Noctis, ever greedy, had caught sight of the ancient mithril-embellished covers of Beauxbatons' arcane collection and, without the slightest thought, had awakened a Dark Arts tome that had slumbered undisturbed for over two centuries.

In a panic, the raven had flapped madly through the rafters of the vaulted ceiling, knocking loose ancient volumes with its wings. One after another, the enchanted tomes triggered their magical protections, and what had begun as a minor mishap quickly escalated into a full-scale dark creature incursion alert across the entire school.

By the time Sargeras caught the wretched bird by the neck—right beneath the stony noses of the patrolling gargoyle squad—it still had a chewed chunk of mithril clutched stubbornly in its claws…

His memory was interrupted by the sound of footsteps. Sargeras looked toward the door as Snape swept in, shrouded in his enormous black robe.

Expressionless, Snape stared him down, but when his eyes landed on the raven, a flicker of undisguised disgust broke through his frosty composure. "Sargeras," he said coldly, "only you would keep something this grotesque for company."

Hearing this, Sargeras nodded in agreement, completely straight-faced. "That's absolutely true, Professor Snape."

Snape's lip curled, his revulsion even more apparent now. "And what exactly are you doing in the Restricted Section at this hour of the night?" His tone was sharp, edged with suspicion and scrutiny.

"As you can see, Professor..." Sargeras gestured at the raven on the table. "I'm conducting research on dark magic… oh, and how best to conquer the world, of course."

Snape let out a derisive snort, just about to unleash a scathing retort, when Sargeras flicked his wand toward the raven on the table. Instantly, Noctis flapped up and perched neatly on his shoulder.

"Gaaawk~! Gaaawk~!"

At some point, the Throat-Sealing Tongue-Locking Spell had come undone. Now it let out two ear-splitting squawks from its perch.

"Shut it, you idiot!" Sargeras barked.

Then, turning to the clearly annoyed Snape, he offered a look of feigned apology. "Sorry, Professor Snape. I wasn't speaking at you…"

"Sargeras…" Snape's face darkened. His voice dropped, low and heavy with restrained fury. "Perhaps you should learn to show proper respect to your former professors."

"But of course, Professor Snape." Sargeras gave a perfectly polite smile. "You can rest assured, I hold nothing but the utmost respect for you. Truly. And if you feel I've crossed a line… well, by all means, feel free to dock points."

He gave a shallow bow and turned to leave. But just as he reached the doorway, he paused. Glancing back over his shoulder, he added with calm precision, "Ah. I nearly forgot. You can't dock my points anymore, can you, Professor? After all… I'm no longer a Hogwarts student."

Without sparing another glance at Snape's thunderous expression, he strode out of the library with Noctis perched proudly on his shoulder…

Sargeras knew full well that Snape couldn't stand him. And to be perfectly honest, the feeling was mutual. He couldn't stand his former Potions Professor either.

Their feud went way back years. And the reason behind it? In truth, it was painfully simple.

Back during his school days, Sargeras had been constantly surrounded by insults and mockery. And among all the offenders, none were more aggressive than the students of Slytherin House—renowned for their venomous tongues.

At first, Sargeras had not even bothered to respond. In his eyes, most of the things they said were not worth acknowledging, let alone calling insults. Honestly—how much harm could a handful of sneering teenagers possibly inflict on someone who carried the soul of a fully grown man from another world?

They couldn't. At most, they were annoying. Certainly not offensive.

So he hadn't even offered the courtesy of a fake smile. He simply ignored them.

But patience and silence, it seemed, only fed their arrogance. Rather than backing off, those twisted little snakes grew bolder by the day, mistaking his indifference for weakness.

When their jeering and slurs failed to provoke any reaction, they turned to sneakier tactics. Whispered curses behind his back, jinxes cast from behind corners, hexes slipped into the shadows of empty corridors.

At the beginning, Sargeras had been caught off guard more than once. He'd walked into class with a face puffed up like a pig's snout, or spent an entire afternoon covered in rough black fur from head to toe. The effects of those petty tricks were never serious—Madam Pomfrey could fix them in minutes—but still, he couldn't very well patrol the Hogwarts corridors all day and night with his wand drawn, ready for ambush.

Because say what you will about name-calling… once things crossed the threshold into spellfire, the rules changed.

He wasn't some bookworm who only knew how to bury his head in study just because he wore Ravenclaw colors. As it happened, he was rather adept at real combat as well.

So for a while, aside from going to class and spending long hours in the Hogwarts Library, his daily routine included intercepting stray Slytherins with pinpoint accuracy. He'd corner them when they were alone, press the tip of his wand against their trembling Adam's apple, and make sure they got their daily dose of "practical lessons."

Before long, all of Hogwarts was in chaos.

Still, most of the time, after dishing out a proper beating, Sargeras would end things with a healing spell—just enough to erase any visible injuries. If he didn't, he'd risk getting thrown into detention.

As for psychological trauma? That was none of his concern.

Maybe he'd gone too far, or maybe those pure-blood brats just had thin skin, but either way, it wasn't long before some of their families started putting pressure on Snape.

The young Head of Slytherin came to talk to Sargeras several times, and wasn't above throwing in a few veiled threats.

At first, Sargeras played along. But it didn't take him long to realize Snape wasn't actually interested in solving the problem. The man was absurdly biased, always siding with his own, and without bothering to understand what had actually happened, he started throwing Sargeras into detention outright.

That pissed Sargeras off to no end. He tried going to Dumbledore with a formal complaint, but the old man's response was lukewarm at best.

So, with nowhere left to turn, Sargeras decided to take matters into his own hands… and he did it with a vengeance. From then on, he stopped waiting for others to provoke him. He went looking for Slytherins on purpose, started the fights himself, and then patched them up after he was done.

When those students reported him, he simply denied everything.

He could still remember exactly what he said at the time. "Professor, you're saying I used a Severing Charm on him?" His face had been the picture of innocent confusion. "How could that be possible? Why would I use an aggressive spell like that on a fellow student? You must be mistaken."

"And besides, there's not even a single wound on him. If this isn't a misunderstanding, then it's an outright frame job."

"What's that? You're saying I hexed him first and then healed him? Who on earth would do something that childish?"

This little tug-of-war only ended when Dumbledore personally pressed his wand to Sargeras's purple yew wand and left a tracking imprint on it.

The moment that ancient wand made contact with his own, Sargeras caught the warning hidden behind those tranquil, half-moon spectacles. He understood it perfectly. From that moment onward, the headmaster would be able to monitor every spell he cast with that wand, whenever he wished.

That evening, just before dusk, Sargeras leaned against the top of the Ravenclaw Tower, letting the mountain wind whip through his robes. In the end, he sealed that troublesome secondhand wand inside a dragonhide case and threw himself into desperate training atop the Astronomy Tower, practicing silent, wandless casting over and over again.

Honestly, the wizarding world should probably be grateful that Sargeras was a transmigrator. If it hadn't been for the deep-rooted values instilled in him by nine years of mandatory education in his previous life, he might very well have become the next Dark Lord.

During that period, his days were either spent in class or locked up in detention. It was only in the stillness of night that he could sneak into the library and devour books with a hunger bordering on obsession.

Back then, just like now, Snape was like some relentless force of nature. He always seemed to appear in the library late at night, trying to catch him red-handed. Sometimes Sargeras got lucky and managed to slip away, but more often than not, he was caught and sent straight back to detention… and Peeves certainly wasn't helping his case.

At first, Sargeras had been furious and frustrated. But as time wore on, he began to let it go. In the end, all that time spent grinding away at practice had not gone to waste. His silent, wandless spells were now nearly as powerful as those he cast with a wand in hand.

And then came the real turning point: he got expelled during his fifth year.

By that time, he had already self-studied a large number of spells in the Hogwarts Library, and the young Sargeras had even begun attempting to create new spells on his own, without relying on any external sources of power…

One night, he secretly ventured into the Forbidden Forest and summoned his Patronus there—a raven.

Yes, a raven. Somehow, he and that creature had always shared a strange connection.

But back then, he still felt somewhat disappointed with the effect of the Patronus Charm. For such a complex and advanced piece of magic, it served only a single purpose—driving off Dementors.

So he made up his mind to combine the Patronus with another spell, one that would enhance its offensive power.

Eventually, he settled on the Fiendfyre Curse.

The pure white raven burst into pale-blue flames, unlike any Fiendfyre he had conjured before. These flames were stranger, more twisted in shape, and far more dangerous and uncontrollable than those he had previously handled.

The raven soared through the air with a brilliant flaming tail, heat rippling in its wake until the very air distorted.

For a split second, Sargeras thought he had succeeded. But then his Patronus gave a mournful cry, and within moments, it vanished completely… devoured by the flames it carried.

The Fiendfyre Curse—this terrifying dark magic—reduced everything around him to ash. And though he was lucky the spell had not spiraled out of control, he still came dangerously close to being consumed by the fire himself.

That first attempt at creating a new spell ended in failure, but Sargeras wasn't too discouraged.

Unfortunately, Snape, the man who never stopped haunting him, showed up once again.

Staring at the scorched earth and charred trees, Sargeras already knew. At least a month of detention, minimum.

"Sargeras…" Snape's voice carried a tinge of smugness, laced with that ever-present schadenfreude. "I have to admit, you've got guts." He eyed Sargeras like he was seeing him for the first time. "You actually dared to secretly teach yourself Fiendfyre. Do you have any idea what terrifying consequences this spell can cause once it slips out of control?"

Sargeras frowned and said nothing.

Snape pressed on. "Your wand's been marked with a tracking charm from Dumbledore. This time, there's no way out. Just wait… you're getting expelled."

Sargeras' voice came out cold. "Snape, why are you always targeting me?"

"Address me properly. It's Professor Snape. Do I need to teach you how to show some respect to your Potion class Professor?"

A fine crack split down the length of Sargeras' yew wand, right in his palm. He let out a quiet laugh and glanced at Snape standing a short distance away, a hint of annoyance flickering in his eyes. "Fine then, Professor Snape. Would you like to see what a real spell looks like?"

In the next instant, raw magic ripped through the night sky. Beams of light in a dozen brilliant colors exploded above the Forbidden Forest, blazing into a terrifying and dazzling spectacle.

The powerful surge of energy even reached the distant towers of Hogwarts.

Standing at the heart of the scorched clearing, Sargeras gripped his blackened wand. The tracking charm embedded deep in its core had nearly disintegrated under the weight of his spell.

"Snape. Professor…" Sargeras spoke coldly, his eyes locked on the man emerging from the darkness of the forest. "If I had wanted to, you would have died just now."

Snape said nothing, lips pressed into a tight line—but the shock in his eyes betrayed him. He wasn't nearly as calm as he pretended to be.

Sargeras's voice dropped lower, razor-sharp and biting. "If I hadn't been holding back all this time, again and again, do you really think you and those pure-blood brats from your House would still be walking the halls of Hogwarts unharmed?"

Memories from his past few years at school surged up inside him, fierce and bitter.

He was finally beginning to accept that he truly was leaving this ancient castle behind. But before he went, he needed to say what had been festering inside him for years.

"You and Dumbledore have never once been fair. Not even once. Is it just because of my bloodline?" Sargeras turned to face Dumbledore, who had just arrived in a flash of phoenix fire. His expression darkened further. "Ah, yes… my bloodline. Tell me, esteemed Headmaster. The Great Professor Dumbledore. When those noble families hurled curses at my origin, when I was hit with hex after hex—how is it that you never showed up this fast then?"

"Oh, I get it now." Sargeras nodded slowly. "You're just here to expel me."

"I'm afraid so, Sargeras. You've broken too many school rules." Dumbledore's voice was calm but unwavering. Still, something in his eyes flickered—something complicated, hard to name.

Sargeras turned back to Snape, his gaze flat and cold. "As you wished, Severus Snape. I've finally been driven out of Hogwarts by you."

Then, without another word, he looked at Dumbledore one last time, held his gaze for a breath, and vanished with a whisper of Apparition.

There was nothing more to say.

The only thing he regretted… was not finishing all the books in the Hogwarts Library!

That was the last thought Sargeras had before he disappeared.

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