The Gathering and Cola

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The October night wind swept through the spires of Hogwarts, carrying with it fallen leaves that danced like shadows on the wind. In the stillness of the library, Sargeras lowered the manuscript of De Vermis Mysteriis he had been reading, and glanced toward the magic hourglass on the table.

The time was just right; midnight was drawing near.

He rose to his feet, unhurried, and stepped out of the castle. He passed the greenhouses, crossed by the Quidditch pitch, skirted the edges of Hagrid's vast pumpkin patch, and finally made his way into the heart of the Forbidden Forest.

Only when he reached a secluded area surrounded by thick thorns and massive boulders did he slowly come to a stop. Slipping his hand into his pocket, he drew out his wand.

"Stone For Beams, Thorns For Tiles~"

The moment the words left his lips, the ground shuddered. Pale, bone-white stone slats surged upward from the soil, and fallen branches knit themselves together to form a curved, vaulted ceiling. Then came the brambles, twisting over the structure like creeping ivy, followed by patches of glowing moss that settled over the frame.

In the blink of an eye, a safehouse shaped like the skull of a massive beast crouched low in the forest clearing, its form eerily lifelike, as though it might begin to move at any moment.

From within his robes, Sargeras took out a small badge embossed with the sigil of the Bronze Feather. He ran his fingertips slowly across its surface.

At once, eight figures appeared in succession, each accompanied by the sharp crack of displaced air as space twisted around them. And with their arrival, voices rang out through the darkness of the Forbidden Forest.

"Merlin's stinkin' socks, can't we please switch to an entrance that's a little less cursed than this?" muttered Stork, his voice muffled behind the hand he had slapped over his mouth as he fought the urge to vomit.

"What's wrong with him?"

"Too long a jump. He might be a bit queasy now…" Swift guessed.

"Alright, everyone," Sargeras clapped his hands softly. "Let's head inside. We'll talk there slowly."

At his words, firelight kindled suddenly within the "eye socket" of the skull-shaped shelter, glowing like a beast slowly opening its eye.

The night wind howled as it threaded its way through the ribs of the bone-like structure, moaning low through the window slats like something half-alive.

Kestrel swallowed hard, her throat bobbing nervously. "Did we really have to meet in a place this… creatively horrifying?"

"Don't be scared…" Thunderbird drawled, clearly enjoying himself. "Your wand actually suits the style of this place perfectly."

"Thanks for the reassurance," Kestrel replied stiffly, her expression deadpan as she tucked away her wand… which looked unsettlingly like a piece of twisted spine. "Though all I felt was deeply offended."

Snowy Owl shifted uncomfortably, turning the silver ring on her finger — a delicate Eastern European design that caught the flickering firelight. "Forgive me for asking, but… exactly where are we right now?"

"The depths of the Forbidden Forest," Sargeras replied casually, his tone light and unconcerned. "Roughly ten miles from Hogwarts."

"What?" Her voice rose sharply with an alarm. "I'm not allowed in the UK. The British Ministry of Magic banned me from entering the country! I've still got four more years left on that restriction!"

"Don't worry," he said gently, trying to put her at ease. "No one knows you're here…"

As he spoke, he gave his wand a casual flick.

In an instant, a long table made from dark oak rose smoothly from the forest floor, polished and imposing. Around it, nine high-backed chairs slid into place with effortless precision, each one carved with the emblematic creature of a Bronze Feather member on the backrest, reflecting their personal marks.

Sargeras took his seat first. He tapped the tabletop lightly with his fingers, and before each person, a cup appeared — filled and waiting.

Curious, Kestrel took a tentative sip of the black liquid in her glass. The moment it touched her tongue, her eyes widened in shock.

"What… what is this?! It's biting my tongue!"

"Cola," Sargeras replied without even glancing up. "A Muggle drink."

"Muggle-made?" she echoed, incredulous. She stared suspiciously into her cup, then took another sip. "Are you sure they didn't kidnap a wizard to help them invent this stuff? This thing tastes seems to have magic!"

"Instead of worrying about the Statute of Secrecy," Sargeras said, tapping his own glass to gather everyone's attention, "how about we talk about what you each want to learn tonight?"

Kestrel immediately shot her hand into the air, her enthusiasm so sudden and over-the-top that she nearly knocked over Stork's drink beside her.

"Ah, me first, me first! I want to learn Raven Instant Shadowform! But I was wondering... could we maybe change the 'raven' part to something a little more elegant? Something that suits my temperament better…"

"And what exactly does suit your temperament?" Stork drawled, calmly dabbing his sleeve with a napkin where a few droplets had splashed. "A Dementor, perhaps?"

Laughter erupted around the room, warm and loud, echoing off the eerie skull-shaped safehouse hidden deep in the forest.

"What about the rest of you?" Sargeras asked, letting the moment settle before turning his gaze to the others.

"I want to learn Soul Weaving," Hummingbird said softly, her slender fingers gently brushing the surface of the parchment in front of her. Her voice was usually warm and quiet, but now there was a rare firmness in her tone, a resolve that rang clear. "That's the one I want. But… can it really heal a soul damaged by the Cruciatus Curse?"

Sargeras' storm-grey eyes narrowed slightly, not with doubt, but focus. "It's like mending a torn spiderweb…" he said, raising his wand and drawing fine silver threads into the air with a graceful motion. "As long as the core is still there, it can always be stitched back together…"

"Then that's the one I'll learn."

"Are you sure? You already know quite a lot of healing magic. I was actually going to recommend you try something more offensive or defensive this time."

"Thank you, Raven," she said, giving him a gentle yet insistent nod. "But I'd like to focus on this for now. I've got a few patients…"

"…As you wish."

Sargeras nodded thoughtfully, then turned to the others, ready to hear their choices.

"I want to learn this one — Thunderbolt Blast. No problem, right?"

"Of course. Anything listed on the parchment is fine."

"Summon Wolf Spirit."

Swift leaned forward, tapping a finger curiously against another spell on the parchment. "What about this one? Whispers of the Dead. Can you really talk to corpses with it?"

"Only yes-or-no questions," Sargeras replied, lifting his wand once again and letting a thread of silver light curl upward. "And I'd recommend using fresher ones. If they're too far gone, the jaw tends to fall off, and then it gets a little hard to understand them."

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Once the final member had made their selection of a spell, Sargeras suddenly raised his wand and pointed it at his own temple.

"Memory Divergence!"

He tapped his wand rhythmically against his temple. Each tap was precise, deliberate. And with every light touch, a ghostly figure peeled away from his body… faint and translucent, like mist given form. By the eighth tap, eight spectral copies of Sargeras stood in a silent circle around the table, each one as clear as moonlight, their movements soundless yet sure.

Each phantom carried a distinct magical glow; subtle traces that revealed the spell it embodied. The one assigned to Soul Weaving had silver threads coiling delicately around its fingertips, soft and glimmering like moonlight spun into silk. The one teaching Thunderbolt Blast had stray sparks dancing through the ends of its hair, little arcs of electricity crackling in and out of the air. But the most terrifying by far was the phantom responsible for Whispers of the Dead — its pupils flickered with ghostly green flames, dancing like candlelight inside hollow eyes.

Even the well-traveled Thunderbird couldn't quite hide his unease. His voice came low and tense. "That's… that's incredible. What kind of magic is this?"

"It's really not as impressive as you're thinking," Sargeras replied, rubbing his temple with one hand as though the process had given him a headache. "They're just temporary magical constructs — fragments made from a little spare magic and a sliver of memory."

As he spoke, he gave a casual wave of his hand, and the eight doppelgängers silently drifted toward their designated 'students,' each one finding its partner without hesitation.

"Let's begin, everyone." Sargeras picked up his drink from the table and took a slow sip, letting the flavor settle on his tongue. "Try to master the rough framework of your spells before sunrise. After all, once this is over… I've got a small favour I'll be needing your help with."

Robin hesitated for a moment, clearly torn, but eventually worked up the nerve to ask.

"Raven… since we're this close to Hogwarts, would you maybe show me around a bit?"

She pressed her palms together in a pleading gesture, her eyes full of hope. "I heard the Founders themselves laid down several protective magical spells inside—"

"I want to go too!" Kestrel added quickly, lifting her head with sudden energy. "I've heard about it so many times, but I've never actually been!"

Sargeras raised a hand, stopping any more requests before they could pile up.

"I'm afraid that's not possible."

His tone was gentle, but there was no room left for negotiation. "Right now, my role is just that of a professor. I'm not the headmaster. And I'm certainly not a tour guide."

Seeing the flicker of disappointment spread across their faces, he gave a soft sigh, then added, "However… if you really want to visit, you're welcome to write a formal request to Dumbledore. I don't think he will refuse."

Kestrel suddenly leaned in, her eyes shining with mischief and anticipation. "But what if you become the headmaster? Would that mean you could—"

"Kestrel." Nightingale reached over and yanked her back by the collar of her cloak. "Stop pestering him. If you're really that eager, I'll write to Hogwarts for you myself tomorrow morning."

The room fell quiet all at once. The only light came from the soft glow of Sargeras' eight magical doubles, now scattered across the table, each quietly conducting their lessons beneath the curved, bone-like dome.

Sargeras cleared his throat softly. A few bright sparks leapt from the tip of his wand, flaring and fading like tiny comets.

"Eyes on your work, everyone," he said. "Focus."

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[Chapter End's]

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