HP: The Dangerous Azkaban Professor

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"Mr. Noctis is here!"

Harry called out in surprise, his voice filled with joy.

Quirrell, however, looked terrified. "Master, that is the Greengrass's raven… he's here!"

Indeed, before the words had even fully left his mouth, the raven swooped down, landing squarely on the shoulder of a figure draped in black robes. If one looked closely, they would notice two smaller figures following quietly behind him, both of them young witches or wizards, their faces faintly visible beneath the shadows.

At last, Harry let out a quiet breath of relief. He gazed at Sargeras and his two companions, his eyes growing hot, the urge to cry almost overwhelming him. But in the end, he managed to hold it back — because Sargeras had given him a steady, reassuring look.

"Voldemort…"

Sargeras rolled that name over on his tongue, a faint, mocking smile playing at the corners of his lips as he fixed his gaze on the eerie face in front of him. "How did you fall so far…? Reduced to snatching things from children now, are you?"

He reached out and took the Philosopher's Stone from the raven's beak, turning it over in his palm, studying it carefully.

No wonder Voldemort hadn't bothered to stop Quirrell's foolish antics. So that was it — he had been hiding right under everyone's noses all along.

Sargeras had seen through Quirrell's every move, observed it all with cold clarity, yet never once intervened. The more obvious Quirrell made himself, the safer he became. After all, who would ever suspect that the suspicious, bumbling Defence Against the Dark Arts professor was actually carrying Voldemort himself?

Sargeras's expression turned complicated as his eyes lingered on that grotesque face, a fleeting hint of longing flashing across his gaze.

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Voldemort's face darkened, his expression flickering between rage and unease. He chose not to acknowledge the mockery in Sargeras's tone. After a brief pause, he finally spoke, "Sargeras… I know you. Your father… was one of my most loyal followers. We shouldn't… we shouldn't be standing as enemies now…"

The three young wizards beside them froze at Voldemort's words, their eyes wide with shock. Professor Greengrass's father… had been one of Voldemort's Death Eaters? Then he himself…

None of them dared to let their thoughts continue down that road. Thankfully, Sargeras's next words quickly put their fears to rest.

"That's right," Sargeras replied with an unconcerned smile, his tone light, almost casual. "And not just him… plenty of the Greengrass family followed your footsteps in those days. Most of them… well, they're still rotting away in Azkaban, aren't they?"

"I know… I know all of that. It's… a tragic reality," Voldemort coaxed gently, his voice smooth as silk. "Hand over the Philosopher's Stone… once I've regained my strength, getting them out of that wretched place will be nothing more than a small favour…"

"Get them out?" Sargeras looked at him in genuine surprise, as if he'd heard the most ridiculous thing. "Why would I want to get them out? I was the one who put some of them in there, you know."

Both Voldemort and the young wizards fell silent, stunned. But Sargeras simply kept speaking, his tone as calm as ever.

"After all, your pure-blood ideals… are utter rubbish. You never understood… only continuous evolution, fusion, and reinvention can prevent magical civilization from becoming a stagnant fossil. Your vision of magic… is backwards. It'll never stand the test of time…"

"Shut up, you filthy half-blood mongrel!"

Voldemort's fury finally exploded, his expression twisting into something grotesque and terrifying. The three young wizards instinctively took a step back at the sight, unable to hide the fear flashing across their faces.

"The rule of pure-blood wizards is destiny itself!" Voldemort roared, his eyes blazing with fanatical conviction. "How could a mongrel stray like you possibly comprehend the true power that flows through noble blood?"

Sargeras's expression remained perfectly calm, untouched by the venom in Voldemort's words. Without saying a word, he passed the Philosopher's Stone to Hermione behind him, then reached into his robes and casually drew his wand.

"Is that so? In that case…"

His voice was steady, laced with quiet mockery as he took a slow, deliberate step forward.

"…then you shouldn't have been grovelling on the forest floor, drinking unicorn blood to survive."

Step by step, he descended from the stone platform, closing the distance between them with unwavering confidence. Voldemort, despite himself, instinctively retreated, the movement subtle yet unmistakably cautious.

"Magic has never belonged to your family name," Sargeras continued, his tone unhurried and composed. "You should have understood that… the moment you were scurrying through the forest, living off snakes and rats."

"Avada Kedavra!"

A shrill incantation split the air as a jet of blinding green light shot toward him like a bolt of lightning.

But Sargeras didn't even flinch. With a casual flick of his wand, a pale, ghostly phoenix burst from its tip, soaring directly into the path of the Killing Curse.

In an instant, the green light vanished without a trace.

"Very good… at least you've still got the courage to wave your wand at me."

Sargeras nodded at Voldemort, his voice calm yet carrying an undeniable weight of disdain. "Though I must say… the power is disappointing, to say the least. Still, I can finally catch a faint glimpse of the Dark Lord you once were."

"Flipendo!"

Voldemort pressed on, casting another spell as a surge of dark magical light shot toward Sargeras, crackling through the air like a coiling serpent.

But Sargeras barely moved. With another effortless wave of his wand, the spell disintegrated mid-air, dissolving into nothingness.

"Still not enough," he said quietly, shaking his head as his brows drew together in faint disapproval. His tone was cold, tinged with quiet appraisal. "If this is the extent of your power… I am afraid you will not be leaving here alive today."

"Crucio!"

This time, the crimson light slithered through the air like a venomous serpent, striking Sargeras squarely. But even as the painful spell connected, his steady, unhurried steps didn't falter in the slightest.

"Hah… the Cruciatus Curse…" A low, mocking chuckle escaped his lips, tinged with scorn.

"That little trick? I leaned it when I was five. To be perfectly honest, even when my mother cast that spell… it packed more punch than yours."

Voldemort had been forced all the way back against the wall, with nowhere left to retreat.

In a moment of desperation, he swung his wand violently, and a surge of furious crimson flames erupted into the air. Within the blink of an eye, the blaze twisted and roared as they coiled together, forming a ferocious serpent made entirely of living fire.

"Not bad… Fiendfyre…"

Sargeras lifted his brows ever so slightly, his expression finally showing the faintest glimmer of interest.

"Now this… this is finally starting to get interesting."

Not far off, Hermione's eyes widened in shock, her voice rising involuntarily.

"Fiendfyre Curse!"

The two young wizards beside her couldn't help but ask anxiously, "Is… is it really that dangerous?"

"Of course it is," Hermione replied at once, her voice tight with tension. "Fiendfyre is an extremely difficult magical flame to control. It's alive, with a will of its own… it's said to be hellfire that can burn through anything…"

A glimmer of worry appeared on the young wizards' faces. But Sargeras remained composed. From beginning to end, he hadn't even slowed his steady footsteps.

"Yes… Fiendfyre… the flames of destruction."

His voice remained calm, even tinged with faint amusement, as though all of this were nothing more than a meaningless exercise.

"As it happens, I've done quite a bit of research on that particular curse myself…" Without the slightest hesitation, he strode directly toward the hissing, snarling serpent of crimson fire.

"Let's see then… who's the one that'll be devoured by the flames in the end?"

As he spoke, Sargeras stepped straight into the heart of the raging Fiendfyre that Voldemort had unleashed. But the scene everyone expected — the agonizing inferno, the flesh charring and burning — never came to pass.

Sargeras walked through the wall of flames without so much as a scratch, his figure calm and unshaken.

The ferocious serpent of crimson fire roared, baring its fangs as it lunged at him. But the instant it touched his body, the terrifying serpent abruptly twisted and shrank, transforming into a pale, ghostly bird of flame.

The pale firebird flapped its wings sharply, then wheeled in mid-air and shot straight back toward Voldemort with terrifying speed.

Voldemort reacted at once, casting a powerful defensive spell. Sargeras watched closely and recognized the technique at a glance — a delicate fusion of Finite Incantatem, the Freezing Charm, the Aguamenti spell, and advanced Transfiguration, all interwoven with precise control.

In the end, the pale firebird collided with the intricate web of defensive magic and was successfully blocked, its ghostly flames gradually dissipating into the air.

"Impressive… truly worthy of being called the Dark Lord."

Sargeras spoke with quiet admiration, without changing his expression, though the mockery flickering in his eyes was impossible to overlook.

"Well then…"

His voice dropped an octave, steady as ever, but now laced with undeniable danger.

"Firestorm!"

Voldemort's face changed in an instant. Whatever fleeting trace of self-satisfaction he had shown vanished completely, replaced by wide-eyed panic.

The firebird he had painstakingly tamed was suddenly engulfed by Sargeras's spell, twisting and convulsing as it transformed into a raging inferno that billowed wildly in all directions. In no time, the firestorm devoured him whole.

"Ahhh~!"

Accompanied by a bone-chilling, agonized scream, Quirrell's voice came from within the flames.

"Sargeras… please… please spare me… I… I had no choice…" Quirrell's cries rang out, desperate and pitiful, but Sargeras remained unmoved.

With a simple wave of his hand, the pale flames receded like a withdrawing tide, revealing a curled-up, utterly wretched figure lying on the ground.

"Ah… Sargeras… save me…"

Quirrell sobbed uncontrollably, his voice hoarse and broken. "I… I never wanted any of this… I was forced… Voldemort controlled me… I wanted to tell you the truth… but I never… never found the chance…"

Sargeras stood silently, his sharp gaze fixed on the man before him like a torch, his expression unreadable.

"In the beginning… I only wanted to learn a few powerful spells from him… I thought I could use that as an opportunity to report him… to expose everything…"

Quirrell choked out, his voice quivering as though clinging to his final thread of hope.

"But who would've thought… Voldemort took control of my body before I even realized what was happening… by the time I tried to resist, it was already too late…"

He sobbed, tears and snot running down his face as he desperately poured out his words.

"Everything I've done since… it was just to get your attention… to make you all notice something was wrong with me… but all of you… every single one of you… turned a blind eye to it…"

His voice cracked into a pitiful whimper. "Sargeras… please… help me… give me one more chance… I'll go to Azkaban… I'll even face the Dementors if I have to…"

Shhhht—

A silent, razor-sharp Severing Charm sliced through the air like lightning, striking the back of Quirrell's head before he even realised it.

The moment he reacted, the entire face that had been stuck to the back of his head had been neatly severed by the spell.

But Sargeras's furrowed eyebrows remained tightly knitted together, showing no sign of easing. Because even as blood poured steadily from the raw, exposed flesh, Voldemort's grotesque face was still stubbornly clinging to the back of Quirrell's skull.

"Flesh Flaying!"

Sargeras continued casting spells on Quirrell. This, after all, was the other, far more terrifying purpose of that spell — to forcibly tear apart both body and soul.

"Ahhh~!"

Quirrell let out an even sharper, earsplitting scream as the spell took hold.

But this time, Voldemort, who had been playing dead, could no longer hide. His twisted, blood-soaked face was ripped free from the back of Quirrell's head with brutal force.

"You'll all die for this!" The mangled, dripping face roared furiously as it finally broke away.

But in that final moment, as it peeled off, it hungrily devoured the last remnants of Quirrell's flesh and soul.

Within seconds, the former Defence Against the Dark Arts professor had been completely consumed, leaving behind nothing but a broken, hollow husk of a body — like a scarecrow stripped of its straw and clothes, exposed and pitiful before them all.

And Voldemort's face that had torn free convulsed violently, shrinking inward as though gathering power.

And then… a terrifying explosion ripped through the air.

A thunderous blast echoed through the chamber as smoke and dust billowed in every direction, filling the space with choking grey clouds.

The room fell into silence — long, heavy, and suffocating.

With a wave of his wand, Sargeras cast a silent Scourgify, clearing the air in an instant. As the dust settled, the room lay empty and still, nothing but the faint scent of blood and ashes lingering behind.

Sargeras finally lowered his wand, revealing the young wizards huddled beneath the protection spell, along with the pitiful figure of Quirrell.

But at this point, Quirrell had clearly reached the end of the road. Voldemort had drained nearly all of his magic, his flesh, and even his soul. What remained was nothing more than a frail, half-dead corpse, ready to breathe his last at any moment.

"Voldemort… where is he… did you… did you kill him…" Quirrell used the last of his strength to speak, his voice as faint as the whisper of a dying ember.

"No, he got away."

Sargeras's face showed no emotion as he replied flatly.

The young wizards couldn't help but feel a strange sense of familiarity at those words, as though they had witnessed this exact scene unfold somewhere before.

And when they thought back carefully, it hit them — this was almost identical to the conversation between Lady Veiliss and the centaur Leon, after she had driven Voldemort away in the Forbidden Forest.

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[Chapter End's]

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