The New Spell

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Sargeras rose to his feet, his wand slicing through the air in a graceful arc. In that moment, a massive sheet of parchment, covered in ancient spells, slowly unfurled before the assembled members.

"The situation is worsening," he said calmly, his tone as steady as stone. "The wizarding world is growing more and more unstable. That's why all of you need to master some new magic… to arm yourselves properly."

Instinctively, everyone reached out to touch the parchment, their fingertips brushing against the spells that shimmered with a faint red glow.

"These… are all dark arts?" someone muttered, unable to look away.

"Correction," Sargeras replied evenly, utterly unperturbed. "These are highly effective, survival spells that happen to be forbidden by the Ministry of Magic."

With a sharp snap of his fingers, the shimmering red letters on the parchment began to rearrange themselves. In the blink of an eye, they formed into three neat columns:

[Support and Defensive Spells]

[Movement and Evasion Spells]

[Control and Offensive Spells]

Sargeras's gaze was deep and unreadable, his voice quiet and steady. "What I hope… is for every member of the Bronze Feather to survive, and to live long, peaceful lives."

Thunderbird froze at those words, a flicker of surprise flashing across his wrinkled face.

Sargeras caught the reaction and allowed himself a rare, fleeting smile. "Well, everyone except Mr. Thunderbird, of course."

"What price do we have to pay?" Robin's sharp eyes pierced through her mask as she absently ran her fingers along the edge of the parchment.

"None at all," Sargeras replied without hesitation, his tone firm and unwavering. "You've all already proven yourselves — your character, your choices, your integrity. Each of you is a truly decent wizard. Of course, if the day ever comes when I need help, I hope you'll be willing to step forward and lend a hand… if it's within your power."

Silence spread slowly through the stone chamber like a tide. Sargeras didn't rush them. He simply waited in stillness, letting the decision take root on its own.

"No objections? Then I'll take that as agreement." He tapped the tabletop lightly with his finger. The parchment immediately split itself into eight perfect pieces in midair, each one fluttering down precisely in front of a different person.

"On the night of the full moon each month, we'll gather again, and I'll teach you everything I know," he said softly. "How much you manage to learn… that's up to your own commitment and discipline."

And with that, Sargeras gave them a casual wave. "Until next week, then…"

The moment his words fell, his figure vanished from sight without a sound.

The others looked around at one another, stunned into stillness, their eyes fixed on the space where he had just stood—until Kestrel suddenly let out a cheer that shattered the quiet.

"Look at this!" she shouted, her fingertip practically poking a hole through the parchment as she pointed excitedly at the line beneath the spell labeled [Raven Instant Shadowform]:

Allows transformation into shadow form. Can bypass Anti-Apparition enchantments and travel rapidly!

"If I can learn this one, I won't need a broomstick anymore!" Kestrel said, a rush of excitement bubbling in her voice. "You guys probably not know this, but… I've never been great with broomsticks…"

The others exchanged glances, and then the stone room filled with low murmurs and lively discussion.

Under the flickering candlelight, the densely packed spells on the parchment glimmered in a kaleidoscope of hues… crimson magic from the dark arts, deep blue rooted in ancient magic, and golden spells traced with delicate runic inscriptions.

Trying to master every single spell listed here would be pure fantasy. But even if they could just become proficient in a handful, it would be enough to set them apart from most wizards.

"Does he actually know all of these spells?" Snowy Owl asked, somewhat incredulously.

"I doubt he'd write down spells he couldn't use himself," Nightingale replied without even glancing up. "Don't you think?"

Everyone nodded in agreement, their expressions unconsciously turning serious.

Each of these spells had been collected by Sargeras over more than ten painstaking years, gathered from the farthest corners of the magical world. Some were etched into stone slabs hidden deep within the Forbidden Forest. Others were extracted from crystal orbs bought off Goblin black market. A few had even been salvaged from the memory basins of long-dead dark wizards…

And yet, even among all these formidable spells, there were several that remained conspicuously absent — his most dangerous, self-created magic, bound so tightly to his soul that they could never be passed on to anyone else.

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After returning to Hogwarts, Sargeras headed straight for the Restricted Section of the library. There was some information he needed to look up.

Magical Siphon — this obscure alchemical technique was something he had stumbled across in an old alchemical manuscript from the laboratory. The moment he saw it, something inside him shifted. An idea, long buried and forgotten, suddenly surged back to life.

A wild thought began pounding in his chest. What if it were possible to transform this forgotten alchemical method into a functioning spell…

"Then I could create a magic that draws power directly from other people's. And by doing that, I could strengthen my own magical reserves far beyond their natural limits."

If that truly worked, wouldn't it mean his golden finger — his one great advantage — could finally be awakened once more?

With that thought burning in his mind, Sargeras threw himself into research with an even more obsessive fervor. Whenever exhaustion dulled his thoughts or clouded his vision, he would cast Sleep Banishment or Waking Requiem upon himself, shaking off the fatigue just enough to keep pushing forward.

He remained buried in the library until the following afternoon, not because he had reached a breakthrough or found what he was looking for, but because he was finally forced to leave. A class was scheduled, and he had no choice but to attend.

It was another lesson on healing spells.

Sargeras, worn thin from constant high-intensity battles and sleepless nights of study, could barely hold his focus. His spirit felt frayed and sluggish, like a thread pulled too tight and ready to snap. The last time he had known real sleep was before the school year had even started, and now nearly an entire month had gone by since then.

When he stepped into the classroom, his face was pale and drawn. To keep himself awake, he relied on mechanical repetition, raising his wand again and again and slashing it across his own forearm. Each swing opened another thin cut. Bright blood trailed down his arm in ribbons of crimson, winding their way over his pallid skin before soaking into the black fabric of his robes. The stains spread slowly, dark and blooming, like ink dropped in water.

"Pay close attention to the contraction pattern of the wound," he rasped, his voice hoarse and raw. "The magical flow of an advanced healing spell should be spiral inward…"

In the front row, Hermione suddenly gagged and doubled over with a dry retch, her face deathly pale and full of horror. Only then did Sargeras notice that nearly all the students' hands were trembling as they clutched their wands, their expressions ranging from shaken to outright queasy.

He managed to push through to the end of the lesson, but by the time class was finally over, Sargeras knew he couldn't keep going like this. He had to rest, even if just for a moment.

His vision was starting to darken at the edges, little black spots swimming across the corners of his eyes. And from all around him, indistinct voices echoed endlessly in his ears — phantom sounds rising and falling like waves. Sometimes it was the whisper of magical runes. Other times, the howls of alchemical manuscripts.

"P-Professor!" someone called out behind him.

Sargeras let out a long sigh, already exhausted before even turning around.

"What is it, Potter?" he asked, rubbing at his temples, where the throbbing in his skull pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.

"I was just wondering…" Harry hesitated, his voice uncertain. "Do you know why some people hear… strange things in the castle sometimes?"

Sargeras blinked slowly, fighting through the fog in his brain. What kind of ridiculous question was that? He himself was hearing plenty of strange things right now — voices whispering nonsense in his ears, some begging him to sleep, others coaxing him to keep researching magic. It felt like a coven of hags was throwing a wild party inside his skull.

"Be specific," he muttered, suppressing his growing irritation. "When? Where? What exactly did they hear?"

"Uh… a friend heard something weird in Professor Lockhart's office… late at night."

"Ghosts? Or Peeves playing tricks again?" Sargeras asked offhandedly, barely invested. The question had been too vague, and his patience too thin.

Harry nodded slowly, clearly unsure. He didn't seem satisfied with the answer, but he knew he couldn't really blame anyone. His own question had been too muddled to begin with. Naturally, the response could only be just as unclear.

Still, Sargeras's guess wasn't entirely without merit. Because later that very afternoon, Lockhart had been cheerfully bragging in class about how he'd once "tamed Peeves the Poltergeist" — his voice full of flourish and theatrical flair — when a heavy dungbomb dropped from the ceiling and struck him square on the head.

The entire corridor rang with the shrill, cackling laughter of Peeves:

"Lying Lockhart—"

"Bragging Lockhart—"

"Look at his brand-new hairdo—!"

A moment later, a rotten egg arced perfectly through the air and splattered right on Lockhart's polished forehead. The yolk burst and began sliding slowly down the bridge of his nose in a thick, sticky trail.

The entire classroom fell dead silent for a second. Then came the sound of stifled giggles, scattered and gasping, like small bursts of steam escaping under pressure.

"Th-this is an attack on a professor!" Lockhart shouted, flailing as he tried to draw his wand. "Watch as I—"

Before he could even finish the sentence, Peeves swooped down from above and snatched the wand clean out of his hand. Then, without missing a beat, the poltergeist turned mid-air and hurled the wand out the open window with perfect aim.

"And now…" Peeves cackled, pulling out a balloon filled to the brim with black ink as if by magic, "have a taste of Lord Peeves' special ink bomb!"

The inky balloon exploded against Lockhart's face in a spectacular splash, sending dark liquid flying in all directions. His once-snowy white robe was instantly ruined, now looking more like an abstract painting than a piece of clothing.

"My new robes!" Lockhart shrieked, jumping up in outrage — only to land squarely on a banana peel on the floor.

No one had noticed when Peeves had thrown it there, but it sent Lockhart sliding a good three meters across the floor. He finally came to a halt sprawled across the podium in an oddly graceful butterfly-stroke position.

From above, Peeves somersaulted in the air and clapped gleefully. "Perfect score!"

The classroom erupted into uncontrollable laughter. Seamus laughed so hard he fell out of his chair. Ron was slamming the desk with such force it echoed louder than the Whomping Willow. Even Hermione had both hands over her mouth, trembling with suppressed giggles.

"What are you all laughing at?" Peeves yelled, feigning indignation. "Did Lord Peeves give you permission to laugh?"

As he spoke, he pulled out a handful of ink balloons and lobbed them directly into the crowd of students. Chaos broke out instantly as shrieks and whoops echoed through the hallway.

Meanwhile, Lockhart was struggling to get back on his feet. His wig had slipped to one side, revealing the now-ink-blackened hair beneath. Just as he opened his mouth to speak again, yet another balloon smacked him right in the face, silencing him completely.

What followed was nothing short of a disaster. Peeves unleashed absolute mayhem, hurling his ink bombs at everyone indiscriminately. Though Lockhart remained his favorite target by far, several young witches and wizards were caught in the crossfire.

"Class dismissed!" Peeves whistled merrily as he tossed the last of the balloons, spinning in midair before zipping out of the room.

Even as he vanished into the distance, his gleeful voice continued to echo through the corridor:

"Lockhart is a big ol' fraud~ talks a lot but not much thought~"

Lockhart stood there in silence, egg yolk crusted in his hair, ink dripping from his sleeves, and bits of ribbon tangled all over his robes. He looked like a Christmas tree that had just been through a hurricane.

Forcing a pained smile, he tried to salvage what dignity he could.

"Th-this was all part of the lesson… a demonstration, you see… on how to remain gracefully poised in the face of—"

"Professor," Neville said timidly, raising his hand for once, "your hair's on fire."

Only then did Lockhart notice the tiny flame flickering atop his wig… Peeves, ever so "thoughtful," had left him a final gift before his grand exit.

And just like that, the classroom once again rang with shrieks — this time Lockhart's — as he flailed wildly, smacking at his burning head with both hands.

However, none of that had anything to do with Sargeras.

At that very moment, all he wanted was to find a quiet place, somewhere he could finally get some sleep… and, if he was lucky, finish that damned Magic Siphon spell once and for all.

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[Chapter End's]

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