A Letter from the Nightingale

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Dumbledore had forgotten to give him the password…

Standing in front of the griffin statue on the eighth floor of the castle, right outside the headmaster's office, Sargeras tapped his wand impatiently against his fingers.

"Fizzing Whizzbee—" The carved patterns on the stone statue shimmered faintly, then dimmed again without a sound.

"Lemon Drop—"Still no reaction.

"Cockroach Clusters—"A spark flared at the tip of his wand. He narrowed his eyes and gave it one last shot.

"Toffee—"At last, the statue's amber-colored eyes turned with a click, and with the soft whirring of hidden gears, the entrance slowly creaked open.

Sargeras stepped onto the spiral staircase, the echo of his boots striking the steps growing sharper, more urgent, with every turn upward.

"Good afternoon, Sargeras."

The headmaster's cheerful voice drifted over from the fireplace. But Sargeras wasn't in the mood for pleasantries. Without much enthusiasm, he replied, "Afternoon, Professor Dumbledore."

"Just came back from the Quidditch pitch? How was the match?"

"It was absolutely thrilling, Professor!" he said flatly, dragging over an oak chair and taking a seat, his tone as deadpan as it could be.

"Oh, don't bother pretending, Sargeras. Every professor here knows perfectly well you've never liked Quidditch." Dumbledore chuckled as he removed his half-moon glasses to give them a gentle polish.

"I think you've misunderstood me…" Sargeras leaned forward slightly. "What I meant was—the match between Voldemort's pawn Quirrell, and your pawn Snape—was truly thrilling!"

Dumbledore looked up, his expression suddenly serious. "That's not something to joke about, Sargeras."

"And I wasn't joking either, Headmaster."

The old man's hands stilled, the gentle polishing motion stopping mid-air. On the walls, the portraits of headmasters past seemed to hold their breath all at once.

"…It seems you know more than I thought," Dumbledore said quietly.

Sargeras hated this sort of cryptic tone. With a touch of mockery in his voice, he shot back, "Compared to you—the wizard who knows more secrets than anyone else in the magical world—I'm practically clueless."

"No need to tease me anymore, Sargeras. At least in some matters… I'm not quite your equal."

Sargeras didn't rise to the bait. "So… can we drop the mutual flattery segment and get to the point?"

Dumbledore nodded gently, his tone soft. "Very well. How much do you actually know about all this?"

Sargeras leaned back, answering slowly with deliberate calm. "It's all just speculation on my part, really. When it comes to this, I truly know nothing for certain."

"Well, you're still as sharp as ever. Your speculation is almost spot-on, but there's one thing you got wrong…"

Dumbledore looked at him earnestly and said, "Severus has never been my pawn. It's true that I asked him to investigate Quirinus in secret, but that doesn't mean he belongs to me."

Sagres raised an eyebrow but didn't say a word.

The old man seemed to drift into memory. His voice dropped low, almost like a whisper weighed with regret. "Yes… Voldemort… I never believed he was truly dead. Even more than ten years ago, I already suspected as much… But at the time, the entire magical community of Britain was basking in the joy of victory. I couldn't bring myself to step forward and tell everyone the harsh truth."

Pulling himself out of the past, Dumbledore's eyes grew deep again, their light sharpened with clarity.

"All these years, I've been searching for traces of him. Perhaps… he really was seriously wounded back then—otherwise he wouldn't have stayed hidden for so long."

"As for Quirinus…" the old man shook his head softly.

"I don't even know if he's still the same Quirrell as before. He was always a very sensitive boy, even back in his school days, always eager to stand out, desperate for recognition from everyone around him…"

His voice gradually turned solemn: "Somewhere along his pursuit of magical knowledge, he strayed down the wrong path. He was seduced… Voldemort sent him to Hogwarts for one reason—to steal something. Something that could help restore his strength."

"What is it?" Sargeras asked instinctively, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

"I can't tell you, Sargeras. This thing doesn't belong to me. I'm merely its guardian."

"I see." A soft laugh escaped Sargeras. "Another secret."

He didn't press Dumbledore about it. Instead, he shifted the conversation with another question.

"Have you ever considered the possibility that Professor Quirrell might be under duress? Honestly, his actions don't really resemble the profile of a competent infiltrator."

"Maybe you're right…" Dumbledore stood up slowly to his feet. "But Sargeras, it took me ten whole years just to find the faintest trace of him. I can't afford to let this chance slip away. The truth is, I don't even know if I have another ten years left to wait."

"But what I can promise you is this—if the opportunity ever presents itself, I'll do everything I can to bring Quirinus back onto the right path…"

Sagres waved his hand dismissively. "There's no need to promise me anything. After all, Professor Quirrell and I aren't exactly close. Don't worry—I won't blow your cover or interfere with whatever you have planned."

"Thank you, Sargeras." The old man finally smiled. "Would you like a candy?"

"No, thank you." Sargeras took half a step back. "If there's nothing else, I'll take my leave."

"Wait, Sargeras…"

"Yes?" he asked, leaning lazily against the doorframe.

"You did well on Halloween night. And again today, at the Quidditch pitch… not to mention, your teaching has been excellent as well. It seems I finally made the right decision." The old man's tone was calm, but there was a quiet sincerity beneath it. "You truly are well suited to be a professor."

"You flatter me." Sargeras shook his head lightly. "When it comes to teaching, I simply do what's expected of me in return for the salary you're paying. As for the Halloween troll… I only stepped in because I promised you I would, should danger ever reach the castle."

Dumbledore picked out a squirming candy from the amber syrup jar and popped it into his mouth. "Very well, one more thing…" he mumbled through the candy as he wiped his hands, "please try not to Apparate inside Hogwarts."

"Of course. If it's not necessary, I won't do that"

Sargeras nodded in agreement and turned to head down the staircase, quietly leaving the headmaster's office behind.

———————————————————

"Coo~"

A round, fluffy owl landed on the window ledge. The moment he saw the familiar messenger, a rare smile crept onto Sargeras' face.

He reached for a small pouch of nearly expired owl treats and offered one to the bird, then carefully took the letter held in its beak. On the wax seal shimmered the crest of a nightingale, its beak clasping a single violet.

He unfolded the parchment, faintly fragrant with a subtle, delicate scent. With a flick of his wrist, Sargeras cast a (Muffliato) Privacy charm to keep prying eyes away, then gently opened the letter.

The page was blank.

He raised his wand. At once, the magic in the room stirred and surged.

"Aparecium (Revealing Charm)!"

As the spell took effect, neat lines of handwriting slowly began to emerge on the parchment's surface.

◇◆────────────────◆◇

Dearest Raven,

May this letter reach you before the snow begins to fall over Hogwarts.

I encountered the "evil wandmaker" spoken of in the songs of traveling minstrels—thirty miles southwest of Black Marsh Town, in the Oak Market. Old Erios is just as eccentric as the tales make him out to be, but he's far too wary. I couldn't get a single useful word out of him.

What I can confirm is this: like Mykew Gregorovitch, he once possessed and studied the Elder Wand. Just yesterday, Thunderbird sent word as well, saying that he found several research manuscripts in Gregorovitch's old workshop about the Elder Wand—some of which were co-signed by both of them.

That's something, at least. It gives us a clearer path to follow. It's just a shame I still haven't managed to make contact with Kestrel. It seems this mission may end up falling to the three of us alone.

I've enclosed a small crystal vial with this letter, containing a few drops of Felix Felicis. If you decide to go looking for her, please be sure to take some before you set out. In her last letter, Kestrel told me that, on the day we parted ways in Bulgaria, she saw two Dark Wizards in disguise as Romani travelers, loitering near the safehouse.

I have reason to believe her disappearance may be tied to those two she mentioned.

Nightingale hopes to receive your reply before the crescent moon rises.

From the Black Marsh,

Night of the Second Frostmoon

◇◆────────────────◆◇

Scrawled messily in invisible ink on the back of the parchment:

'Be careful of the camping tents just east of Market. At least nine wizards and two werewolves inside. This morning, they cast the Viper's Venom Curse at my tent—three times. '

———————————————————

Sargeras read the letter with a frown, and after just a moment's thought, he had already made up his mind about his next move.

"First, I'll regroup with Nightingale. Then together, we'll track down Kestrel."

As for those Dark Wizards and werewolves mentioned at the end of the letter, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, a dangerous glint rising within them.

"I really hope they don't make any foolish decisions."

Before he left, he poured the crystal vial from the envelope into his hand. Then, with a flick of his fingers, he conjured a flame that danced in his palm, feeding it the parchment and envelope until they crumbled to ash.

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