HP: The Dangerous Azkaban Professor

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Night had fallen, and the sky hung heavy and low, the stars hidden away behind a thick curtain of dark clouds.

In the depths of the dense forest, Sargeras moved carefully through the tangled undergrowth, his black cloak blending into the shadows as he picked his way through the thorn-choked woods. The hood was pulled low over his head, concealing most of his face, leaving only a pair of deep, sharp eyes exposed to the faint moonlight.

It was his first time here. The whole way, the path had been nothing but thick vines and poisonous mushrooms. He even passed by a few unfortunate Muggles who had clearly stumbled across some hallucinogenic toadstools by mistake and were now sitting cross-legged on the ground, having an animated conversation with tree stumps.

Judging by their tents and scattered gear, they looked like campers. How they managed to find this place was beyond him.

With a sigh, he sent them out of the forest, and only then, after some effort and nearly missing the time, did he finally make it to his destination.

An ancient manor stood alone in the heart of the forest, its silhouette looming quietly beneath the dark canopy of trees. The air was thick with a foul, nauseating stench that clung to everything.

Sargeras crossed the creaking fence and approached the front door. Two silent sentinels, waxwork statues with lifeless eyes, stood on either side of the entrance, their rigid gaze fixed upon him with mechanical scrutiny.

Lifting his chin slightly, Sargeras revealed the bronze badge pinned to his cloak — a raven, etched in fine detail.

The moment the waxwork guards caught sight of the emblem, their stiff postures eased. Without a word, they stepped aside and respectfully opened the heavy door.

Inside the grand hall, candlelight flickered softly, casting long shadows across the walls and the many figures gathered within. Most of them had taken great care to conceal their appearances. Some wore grotesque, twisted masks, while others, like Sargeras himself, were wrapped tightly in heavy cloaks that obscured every feature.

A quick glance around told him he was likely the last to arrive.

"Well, look who finally decided to show up," a cold, hoarse voice drifted across the hall.

The speaker was none other than Shrike, one of the most wanted dark wizards on the International Confederation of Wizards' list for over fifteen years. Among the members of the Bronze Feather, that was the name by which he was known.

At that moment, he lounged lazily atop a floating Persian rug, a gold coin dancing across his fingers as he casually tossed it into the air and caught it with practiced ease.

"I heard you've taken up a teaching job at Hogwarts, isn't that right?" Shrike asked, his voice laced with amusement and mockery, as though the thought alone was enough to entertain him.

Sargeras shot him a cold, indifferent glance but didn't bother replying.

The members of the Bronze Feather were a mixed and unpredictable bunch. Some of them brought nothing but endless trouble wherever they went, and Sargeras had no interest in wasting his breath on them.

Across the grand hall, several familiar figures caught his eye. Kestrel and Thunderbird both wore elaborate masks, their true faces concealed beneath layers of secrecy. Nightingale had wrapped herself in a heavy cloak, melting into the crowd with practiced ease. Snowy Owl, on the other hand, was impossible to miss. Dressed in an elegant white fur coat, her platinum-blonde hair cascading down her shoulders like silk, she stood out strikingly amidst the dimly lit room.

She hadn't bothered to cover her face at all. As she liked to say, how could a proper businesswoman conduct trade if she skulked about like a common thief, hiding her face from potential partners?

Sargeras swept his gaze calmly over the familiar faces one by one, then gave the slightest nod in their direction — a subtle gesture that served as both a greeting and confirmation of his arrival.

"Alright then, since it seems everyone is finally here…"

An elderly man with silver-streaked hair clapped his hands together, his voice neither loud nor forceful, yet it carried effortlessly through the hall and drew everyone's attention toward him at once.

"Let's take our seats, shall we? We've got a new member joining us this time…"

The group settled themselves around a massive, oval-shaped table that dominated the center of the hall. As they sat, the old man smiled warmly and gestured toward a stranger — a woman of medium build with distinctly Chinese features, who now stood quietly at his side.

"This here is our new member. Her code name is Wren," the old man introduced her with a warm smile. "She's exceptionally talented when it comes to magical locks and barriers, particularly skilled at unraveling all sorts of complicated sealing spells."

It was obvious the woman was nervous. Unlike the others, she hadn't taken any precautions with her appearance. There was no cloak, no mask, nothing to shield her identity. Under the old man's gentle urging, she rose from her seat in a somewhat awkward, self-conscious manner and gave the room a brief, uncertain greeting.

Her words were met with little more than silence. A few eyes lingered on her, curious but unreadable, and then quickly moved on.

Sensing the awkwardness, the old man rose to his feet once more, his expression easygoing and kind as he chuckled softly.

"Raven, since you were the last one to arrive tonight…" he said, his tone carrying a faint teasing edge, "why don't you be the one to properly introduce our new friend?"

Sargeras didn't refuse the request, though neither did he bother to rise from his seat.

Leaning back casually in his chair, his expression calm and detached, he lazily lifted a hand and pointed straight at the man who had spoken to him earlier, his voice cold and indifferent.

"Shrike. Dark wizard. Wanted criminal. There's a hefty bounty on his head."

Ignoring the furious glare Shrike shot in his direction, Sargeras simply turned his gaze to the next person and continued, his tone unchanged.

"Swift. Curse-breaker. Good at tracking down magical ruins."

The young man being pointed at stood up immediately, giving the newcomer — the woman with the code name Wren — a polite nod of greeting.

"Kingfisher. Goblin craftsman. Knows his way around forging and smithing."

The goblin in question had eyes that gleamed with open greed. Like Wren, he hadn't concealed his appearance in the slightest. But given his stature — barely reaching the height of the table — there was really no disguising himself, no matter what he wore. He stood out like a rooster in a flock of cranes.

"Snowy Owl. Black market dealer. If you need to buy or sell anything, she's the one to talk to. Knows the business well."

Snowy Owl, hearing her introduction, smiled faintly, her expression as composed and confident as ever.

"Nightingale. Potions master. You can buy just about any kind of potion from her at a reasonable price."

The silver-gray cloak wrapped around Nightingale shifted ever so slightly, the faintest of movements beneath the hood suggesting she had nodded in acknowledgment.

"Kestrel. Seer. Though she hasn't taken commissions for the past two years."

A young girl with fiery red hair sat at the table, a delicate, ornate mask covering her face. The moment she heard Sargeras's words, she pouted dramatically, her lips sticking out like a child sulking over a missed treat.

"Thunderbird. Wandmaker. Craftsmanship's top-notch, specializes in the North American style."

Upon hearing this, Thunderbird offered a warm, friendly smile and nodded to the newcomer as a gesture of goodwill.

"Stork. Information broker. Whether you want to gather intel or spread rumors, he's your man."

Sargeras pointed toward a figure clad in a dark, heavy cloak. Even beneath the thick fabric, it was impossible to miss the man's frail, bony frame. His sunken silhouette looked as though it might vanish altogether if not for the robe hanging loosely over his sharp, angular bones.

"Bird of Paradise. Alchemist. Fond of conducting alchemical experiments on Squibs and has quite the knack for mechanical modifications."

At that, the newcomer, Wren, visibly swallowed, her throat bobbing with unease. Through the faint glow of the candlelight, she could just make out the shadowed figure seated across the table. Half of their face was hidden beneath the hood, but what little peeked through gleamed with cold, metallic edges. It was the unmistakable glint of machinery fused with human flesh. Whether it was a man or a woman beneath that hood, she could not tell.

"Hummingbird. Healer. Knows how to deal with injuries caused by dark magic. Skilled and practiced hands."

A young woman quickly rose to her feet as Sargeras introduced her, offering Wren a graceful bow in greeting, her expression calm and professional.

"Robin. Defensive specialist. Good at building protective wards and safe houses."

A woman wearing a feathered mask pressed her lips together and nodded slightly, her demeanor cool and serious, the sharp lines of her eyes leaving no doubt about her cautious nature.

"Falcon. Dark wizard. Skilled in tracking and assassination."

"Pelican. Dark wizard. Poaching is his specialty."

"Lark. Dark wizard. Good at stealing things."

"Hoopoe. Dark wizard. Specializes in transplanting magical creature organs."

"And lastly… Albatross. Scholar. He's the one who recommended you, so I won't waste time introducing him."

Sargeras pointed lazily toward the white-haired elderly man who had first spoken, his voice carrying a faint trace of perfunctory disinterest.

"Ah… haha, and what about yourself, Raven?"

Albatrosschuckled awkwardly, the uneasy smile on his face betraying the quiet regret simmering beneath. Inwardly, he cursed himself for ever thinking it was a good idea to let the notoriously difficult Raven handle the introductions.

"You already heard it, didn't you? My code name is Raven."

Sargeras remained perfectly still, leaning back comfortably in his chair, his expression unreadable and calm, not even bothering to sit up.

Meanwhile, the group of people he had so bluntly labeled "Dark Wizards" now wore faces as black as thunderclouds. Their expressions twisted with barely contained anger, their eyes smoldering with hostility as they glared at him.

But none of them dared to step forward or speak in protest.

Sargeras couldn't have cared less.

In his eyes, this so-called gathering was nothing more than a collection of misfits. If he wanted to be less polite, he would have called them filthy rabble, the dregs of the magical world, utterly beneath his notice.

If it weren't for the Bronze Feather's strict rule forbidding internal fighting, he would have tossed these eyesores straight into Azkaban long ago, saving himself the headache of seeing their faces at every meeting.

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P.S: Hey Guys! Tell me, what's your favourite bird — and if you were a bird, which one would you be?

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[Chapter End's]

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