Dumbledore forgot to give him the password…
Sagres stood before the Griffin statue outside the Headmaster's office on the 7th floor of the Castle, his fingers tapping his wand impatiently.
"Fizzing Whizbees—" The carved patterns on the stone statue glowed faintly, then dimmed.
"Lemon Sherbet—" The statue remained unresponsive.
"Cockroach Clusters—" Sparks flew from his wand tip as he prepared for one last try.
"Raspberry jam—" The statue's amber eyes finally rotated, and with a creaking sound of gears, it slowly opened a passage.
Sagres ascended the spiral staircase, the rhythm of his boot heels striking the ground quickening.
"Good afternoon, Sagres."
The Headmaster's cheerful voice came from before the fireplace, but Sagres was not in the mood for conversation. He replied indifferently, "Good afternoon, Professor Dumbledore."
"Just came from the Quidditch Pitch? How was the match?"
"It was absolutely splendid, Professor." He pulled over an oak chair and sat down, praising it expressionlessly.
"Oh, come on, Sagres, all the Professors know you've never liked Quidditch." Dumbledore took off his half-moon spectacles to wipe them.
"I think you've misunderstood me…" Sagres leaned forward. "I mean, the match between Lord Voldemort's minion, Quirrell, and your minion, Snape, was very splendid."
Dumbledore looked up, speaking sternly, "That's not funny, Sagres."
"I'm not joking either, Headmaster."
The Headmaster's movements gradually ceased, and the portraits of past headmasters on the wall held their breath. "It seems you know more than I imagined."
Sagres disliked such enigmatic behavior. He replied with a hint of sarcasm, "Compared to you—the wizard who knows the most secrets in the magical world—I am truly ignorant in this regard."
"Don't tease me anymore, Sagres. At least in some aspects, I can't compare to you."
Sagres was noncommittal. "So, can the mutual flattery segment be over?"
Dumbledore nodded and asked gently, "So, how much do you actually know about this matter?"
"It's all just my speculation; at least in this matter, I truly know nothing," Sagres replied unhurriedly.
"Alright, you're still as sharp as ever. Your guess is almost the truth, but there's one thing you got wrong…"
Dumbledore told him seriously, "Severus has never been my minion, although I am indeed having him secretly investigate Quirinus."
Sagres raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
The old man fell into thought, as if sighing in a whisper, "Yes, Lord Voldemort… I never believed he died. I thought so over ten years ago…
But at that time, the entire British magical world was immersed in the joy of victory, and I truly couldn't bear to stand up and tell everyone this cruel truth."
(Note: Dumbledore isn't calling Voldemort - Tom, or he'll have a lot more to explain to Sagres.)
Dumbledore broke free from his memories, his eyes once again becoming profound. "I have been searching for clues about him all these years… Perhaps he was indeed severely injured back then, otherwise he wouldn't have lain dormant for so many years."
"As for Quirinus…" the old man shook his head.
"I don't know if he is still the Quirrell he used to be. He was very sensitive during his student days and always wanted to make a name for himself, eager to gain everyone's approval…"
His voice gradually became serious: "He took the wrong path in his pursuit of magic; he was bewitched. Lord Voldemort sent him to Hogwarts to retrieve something—something that can heal his injuries."
"What thing?" Sagres asked instinctively.
"I cannot say, Sagres. This item does not belong to me; I am merely keeping it in trust."
"Then keep it elsewhere, far from the school."
"That.. I can not do.."
"I understand." Sagres let out a light chuckle. "Another secret."
He didn't mind Dumbledore's secrecy but brought up another question: "Have you ever considered that perhaps Professor Quirrell was coerced? After all, his actions truly don't resemble those of a competent infiltrator."
"Perhaps so…" Dumbledore stood up. "But Sagres, I searched for a full decade before I found any trace of him. So I cannot let this opportunity slip away, as I do not know if I can afford to wait another ten years."
"But I can assure you—if there's a chance, I will guide Quirinus back to the right path."
Sagres waved his hand. "There's no need to assure me. After all, I'm not close to Professor Quirrell. Don't worry, I won't alert the enemy or interfere with your plans."
"Thank you, Sagres." The old man finally smiled. "Would you like a candy?"
"No, thank you." Sagres stepped back half a pace. "If there's nothing else, I'll take my leave."
"What?" Sagres asked, leaning against the doorframe.
"You did well on Halloween night, and again today on the Quidditch Pitch… Of course, your teaching is also quite excellent. It seems I finally made the right decision." The old man spoke calmly and seriously. "You are indeed very well-suited to be a professor."
"You flatter me." Sagres shook his head. "When it comes to teaching, I must live up to the salary you pay me. As for the Troll on Halloween… I only acted because of the word I gave you. If the castle was ever in danger, I would help, in my own way- Your words, not mine."
"You are a fine young man.." Dumbledore picked up a wiggling candy from the amber syrup and popped it into his mouth. "Alright, one more thing…" The old man wiped his hands, speaking indistinctly, "Please try not to Apparate within Hogwarts."
"Of course. If it's not necessary, I won't do it."
Sagres nodded in agreement, turned, and Apparated just to the door, then walked, leaving the Headmaster's office.
A plump owl landed at his window. Seeing this familiar messenger, Sagres allowed a rare smile.
After taking out a bag of owl treats and handing it to the owl, he carefully removed the letter it held in its beak. On the wax seal of the envelope, a nightingale crest with a violet in its beak shimmered faintly.
Taking out the faintly scented parchment, Sagres raised his hand to cast an anti-eavesdropping spell, then cautiously opened the letter.
He took out his wand, and the magic in the room surged suddenly.
"Corvus obtinuit nuntium!" (Raven got the message)
After the incantation, neat handwriting slowly appeared on the parchment.
May this letter find you before the snowflakes fall on Hogwarts.
In the Oak Market, thirty miles southwest of Black Marsh Town, I met the "Evil Wandmaker" the bards spoke of—old Erios is indeed as eccentric as the legends say, but he is too vigilant. I couldn't get any useful information from him.
The only thing certain is that he, like Myron Wladyslaw Gregorovitch, both possessed and studied the old wand. Today, Thunderbird also sent a letter, saying that he found some research manuscripts about the old wand in Gregorovitch's workshop, bearing both their signatures.
This is good news—at least it points us in the right direction. Unfortunately, I still haven't been able to contact Kestrel. Perhaps this operation can only be carried out by the three of us.
The crystal vial enclosed with this letter contains a few drops of Felix Felicis. If you decide to try and find her, please make sure to take it beforehand, because Kestrel once wrote that when she left her safe house in Bulgaria, she saw two Dark Wizards disguised as Gypsies.
—I suspect her disappearance is related to those Dark Wizards.
Nightingale hopes to receive your reply before the crescent moon rises.
From Dark MarshSecond Night of Frost Moon
On the back of the letter, scrawled in invisible ink:
Beware of the camping tents east of the market; there are at least nine Wizards and two Werewolves there. They cast the "Viper's Venom" curse on my tent three times this morning.
Sagres read the letter with a frown. After a moment of thought, he immediately decided on his next course of action.
"First, I'll meet up with Nightingale, then we'll search for Kestrel together."
As for the Dark Wizards and Werewolves mentioned at the end of the letter, his eyes narrowed slightly, a dangerous glint flickering within them.
"I hope they don't make any foolish decisions."
Before leaving, he poured the contents of the crystal vial into a glass. A ball of flame rose from his fingertips, reducing the remaining parchment and envelope to ashes.