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Morning light streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting fragmented colors across the stone corridor. Sargeras had just stepped out of the library when he nearly walked straight into someone.
It was Lockhart… and his face looked absolutely dreadful.
Dark, heavy circles hung beneath his eyes, and the carefully styled curls he usually prided himself on had lost their shine, drooping with exhaustion. Altogether, he looked less like a celebrated author and more like a fugitive who had just escaped from Azkaban.
As the two brushed past each other in the narrow hallway, Lockhart shot him a sharp, icy glare.
Sargeras couldn't help but scoff inwardly: Already cracking under the pressure? That was nothing. He still had an entire storeroom full of "lesson plans" he hadn't even begun to use.
If Lockhart really was foolish enough to retaliate, then when the time came, Sargeras would make sure the hypocritical mask of this so-called "legendary wizard" shattered like glass — so completely that not even the tiniest pieces could be put back together.
Carrying his textbook under one arm, he walked toward the classroom. But the moment he stepped inside, he paused, his stride faltering ever so slightly, one eyebrow lifting at the sight that greeted him.
The lingering buzz from the Dueling Club was clearly still going strong — nearly twice the usual number of students had shown up just to audit the class.
Without a word, Sargeras strode calmly up to the podium. He gave a casual flick of his wand, and in the next instant, several beams of colored light burst from the tip, shooting forward in all directions. They struck the walls with force and then rebounded from unexpected angles, crisscrossing back toward him like a net of magical attacks.
He didn't move his feet at all.
His wrist, however, moved with lightning speed… so fast the naked eye could barely catch it. In rapid succession, several nearly transparent Protego Maxima shields flared to life in the air before him, each one forming and vanishing at different points with uncanny precision.
The beams of light collided with the shimmering barriers, some were deflected, others dissipated entirely, each impact ringing out with a crisp, glassy crack.
The classroom fell into stunned silence. Then eyes began to widen.
Even the new students, who had only come out of curiosity, instantly felt the trip had been more than worth it.
Only once the last beam faded did Sargeras speak. His voice was calm but carried effortlessly across the room, resonating with quiet authority.
"Did you see that?" he asked. "Protego Maxima isn't just some clunky shield you lug around. It's an extension of your will. When used right, a barrier like this can move, adapt… turn into a weapon all your own."
As he spoke, he gave another graceful flick of his wand. Instantly, glowing magical text appeared in the air beside him, laying out the full structure and theory behind the Protego Maxima spell.
"This barrier isn't one uniform 'wall,'" he explained, his tone still steady but layered with depth. "Its magical structure is malleable. You can make the center thicker to absorb heavy attacks, while the edges stay soft and sticky… ideal for deflecting or slowing down spells."
To demonstrate, a translucent, jelly-like shield materialized in the air beside him. It continuously shifted shape — stretching, shrinking, reshaping — until it finally expanded into a vast, shimmering net that spanned nearly the entire classroom.
He gestured for the students to step forward and touch it, encouraging them to feel for themselves the resistance and density of the magic barrier.
"Wherever your thoughts goes, the barrier follows," he continued. "If you think, 'Block the front,' then the shield just sits there stupidly, right in front of you. But if you think, 'Protect my left shoulder,' it will instantly form right where you need it. And if your focus is on 'Deflect that red beam', then that's exactly what it'll do."
As he spoke, the shimmering net hovering above the classroom began to respond to his thoughts. It fragmented gracefully, breaking apart into dozens of tiny translucent shields that zipped through the air, rapidly shifting positions along the sides of each student's body — left, right, above, behind — demonstrating how the spell could respond to intent in real time.
"Now, compress its structure and speed it up," he went on, his tone steady and instructive. "Then it becomes a weapon."
Without warning, those small, delicate-looking shields hardened in an instant, turning dense and solid. The next moment, they shot forward with alarming speed, smacking each of the young witches and wizards squarely on the forehead. Though no real harm was done, the sensation was jarring… like getting hit in the head by a transparent block of soft rubber. The stunned students staggered slightly, heads swimming from the unexpected impact.
"On the other hand," Sargeras continued, unbothered, "if you stretch its structure and slow it down, it can help you hinder your opponent's movements."
Even as he spoke, the shields softened once more, their edges growing loose and pliable. They floated down and wrapped gently around the students' hands, like thick, clingy fog. Almost immediately, the children found that even the simplest movement — clenching a fist, spreading their fingers — had become unusually difficult, as though they were underwater or wearing gloves made of molasses.
Then, with a graceful flick of his wand, Sargeras summoned a beam of spell light that shot straight toward the students with roaring momentum.
Most of the class was still frozen in place, caught somewhere between confusion and awe, when all at once, the surrounding magical barriers surged toward the front and fused together. They bent and folded in unison, forming a single, curved surface that caught the incoming spell — then hurled it right back in the direction it had come from, completely intact.
And just before it could strike him, Sargeras summoned a small angled barrier beside himself, no larger than a shield. The rebounding spell slammed into it and was deflected harmlessly away, the force of the impact causing him to slide gracefully to the side with barely a ripple in his composure.
"Did you catch that?" he asked lightly, glancing over his shoulder. "That's what we call recycling waste. Let your opponent's magic do the moving for you."
With a calm sweep of his arm, he lowered his wand, and the last of the Protego Maxima barriers dissolved into thin air, leaving no trace behind.
"As you've just seen," he continued, his voice casual but clear, "these barriers can also be used to bounce spells back at your enemies. But that kind of precision requires real practice. Without it, your shield is going to end up like a failed potion; random in direction, unpredictable in effect."
At that, a wave of chuckles swept through the room. Several students covered their mouths, laughing quietly at the image.
In the midst of the laughter, Sargeras pressed on, breaking the spell down even further. He walked them through each detail with unwavering focus — from the angle of the wrist when casting, to the precise moment when magical energy should surge from the core.
By the end of two uninterrupted hours, his throat was bone-dry, as if it had been scoured by a salamander's tongue. Even the students were showing signs of exhaustion, their eyes bloodshot and dazed, yet wide with lingering fascination.
But theory alone could only take them so far. No matter how much they listened, no matter how closely they memorized every word, spells could never truly be mastered without thousands of real-life repetitions. Magic, after all, demanded practice… not just knowledge.
"Alright, everyone…" Sargeras finally clapped his hands together, his voice hoarse but firm. "Next lesson will be a practical one. Between now and then, there's only one thing you need to focus on… successfully casting Protego Maxima. That's the bare minimum."
He paused, eyes scanning the tired but determined faces in front of him.
"I've taught you everything you need to know. The rest… is up to you. Practice. Over and over. Until your mind and your magic move as one."
With that, he motioned for the class to be dismissed, and without another word or a single glance back, he turned and walked out of the classroom.
As he passed by the Great Hall, Sargeras instinctively glanced at the Mirror That Reveals All that stood watch there… his routine check. As always, its surface remained calm and unchanging, no disturbances reflected in its depth.
But just as he turned the corner toward the library, a sudden shriek split the air like a cracked violin string. It came mixed with a bizarre cheer, the kind that only one entity in this castle could ever produce.
"Ha! Run for it!"
Sargeras's eyes narrowed at once. His wand slipped soundlessly into his palm, and in that instant, every muscle in his body tensed, coiling with the silent intensity of a hunting panther. He held his breath, listening, as his sharp gaze scanned the columns and shadows — searching for that bone-white glimmer of scales, that icy hiss of the Basilisk…
But this time, there was no cold-blooded monster lurking in the dark.
Instead, there it was — those unmistakable billowing lantern trousers, accompanied by that awful, screechy voice that sounded like someone dragging a rusty pot across a stone floor.
He edged closer and peered around the corner, moving with quiet precision.
Sure enough, there was Peeves the Poltergeist, dangling upside down from the massive crystal chandelier like a demented bat, looking far too pleased with himself. His grimy little hands waved with manic delight as he flung one foul-smelling sludge ball after another down at the chaos below.
The stench rising from those balls was revolting — like sewage and wet socks rolled into one. And yet Peeves hurled them with deadly precision, each shot landing squarely on the heads and robes of shrieking students scrambling for cover.
Their screams echoed down the corridor, blending into Peeves's delighted cries of victory and laughter.
"Ten points!"
"Ha! Another ten points!"
"Terrible dodge! You get to dodge again, double punishment!"
He shrieked with glee, cackling madly as he watched a poor Gryffindor get hit square in the face, the mud splattering across his cheeks and hair. Peeves was so thrilled he did a complete somersault around the chandelier, still giggling like a lunatic.
"Yes yes yes! Just like that! Hahaha!"
Watching the chaos unfold below, Sargeras's lips slowly curled into a cold, razor-thin smile.
"Chaos Storm!"
His wand swept through the air in one smooth, silent arc, and in the blink of an eye, a swirling miniature cyclone burst into existence. It was a compact gray storm, spinning with the force and precision of a tightly wound predator trap. In an instant, it shot upward, coiling around the dangling poltergeist like a striking serpent.
Peeves didn't even have time to finish his next laugh. His wild cackling was cut off mid-breath, replaced by a sharp, startled scream of terror.
Within the storm, he was reduced to a spinning blur of motion, a chaotic smear of gray, like a top gone mad. The whirlwind flung him around so violently that even his battered old hat was nearly torn from his head.
"Waaah… put me down!"
The students, who just a moment ago had been screaming and dodging for their lives, skidded to a stop. They froze, their eyes wide, jaws slack, completely stunned by the sight before them.
Peeves — Hogwarts' number one troublemaker, the eternal menace of every corridor — now looked more like a caged goblin than the untouchable spirit they all knew.
After a brief pause, the corridor suddenly exploded with thunderous cheers and applause. The walls seemed to shake with the noise. Some of the students who had been hit with mud moments earlier even stomped their feet in excitement, unable to hold back their delight.
It was a rare scene indeed… no, more than rare. It was unprecedented.
Because everyone knew Peeves feared no one. Not the prefects, not the professors, not even Dumbledore himself. Only the Bloody Baron had ever managed to keep him in check. Even Sargeras, during his first two years at Hogwarts, had been just as helpless as the rest.
But that was a long time ago.
The boy he had once been was naive, uncertain, and still learning, but that version of him had long since disappeared. Years of study had taught him one crucial truth: Peeves was not merely a prankster. He was chaos itself, a force woven into the very walls of Hogwarts. And to fight chaos, you could not rely on order. You had to answer it with chaos of equal strength.
That was the key. Only through magic just as wild and unruly could you hope to subdue him, even for a little while.
The method was complicated, messy, and far from permanent. But it could make Peeves suffer, if only a little. And that, at least, was enough.
Calmly, Sargeras reached into the inner pocket of his robes and pulled out a thick crystal flask etched with runes. The bottle's mouth gleamed faintly in the light as he raised it toward the still-spinning cyclone above.
With a gentle tap of his wand, the whirlwind and Peeves, still flailing inside it, were drawn downward like a plume of smoke. There was a sharp whoosh, and then silence. He was sealed inside the bottle.
"Thunk!" Peeves's face slammed against the smooth interior of the crystal. The sound was dull and deeply satisfying.
"Looks like you need some time to cool off," Sargeras said softly, flicking the side of the bottle with his finger.
"Aaah—have mercy! Professor! Oh brilliant, magnificent professor!" Peeves wailed, pressing his face pitifully against the glass. "Make me Head Boy, Headmaster, anything! Just let me out!"
Sargeras gave the flask a little shake.
Instantly, the pitch of Peeves's voice shot up at least eight octaves, the sharp squeal echoing through the corridor like a haunted violin string scraped too hard.
He was a hostage now!
And Sargeras had plans for him. He intended to "escort" his new captive to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, and see if that weeping ghost might finally give up something — anything — useful about the Chamber.
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[Chapter End's]
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