HP: Azkaban's Outstanding Graduate

But clearly, this happiness was cruelly shattered.

Sagles's "gaze" swept across the wall.

Several outdated copies of the Daily Prophet were pasted on the crumbling wooden wall, and several Ministry of Magic wanted posters were nailed to the side.

The top one, worn smooth from repeated handling, has curled edges and features a man with a ferocious face and crazed eyes—Fenrir Greyback.

The wanted poster lists the infamous crimes of this werewolf leader: attacking Muggles, creating werewolves, and murdering wizards...

Below the wanted poster, in the blank space, were several small news clippings from newspapers, all of which were scattered reports about attacks carried out by Graybuck and his gang in various places.

Sagres noticed that the date of one of the messages was not far from the time Lyle Lupin resigned from the Ministry of Magic.

On one corner of the desk lay an open notebook, covered in messy handwriting.

The titles, vaguely discernible, include "A Speculation on Material Replacement for Wolfsbane" and "The Correlation Between Lunar Phases and Werewolf Aggression"... The text is filled with an almost desperate dedication to research.

The old man was standing in front of the wall, his calloused fingers stroking the curled-up wanted poster again and again.

Sagles's deep eyes remained calm, yet a hint of understanding lingered beneath the surface.

No further explanation is needed; the truth is already obvious.

Lyle Lupin, the widowed old man, his broken family, his suffering, and the sudden shift in his research direction... all point to the source of that brutality—Fenrir Graybock.

His wife and children are very likely to perish in the tragedy perpetrated by that crazed werewolf or his henchmen.

Loctis, who was standing on the window frame, suddenly moved.

It shook its feathers violently and let out a short, hoarse cry, which attracted the old man's attention.

Lyle Lupin turned around, puzzled.

The raven tilted its head, staring directly at him with its obsidian-like eyes. Then it bent down, took out the letter, and gently placed it on the worn wooden table.

"It's you!"

The old man's voice held a hint of surprise.

He strode to the table, picked up the parchment and began to read, his brow furrowing from time to time.

"Ah... I've had that idea too, but unfortunately I haven't been able to put it into practice..."

"Unfettered imagination..."

"This is indeed a question I've never thought about before..."

"Unfortunately... my research on harassing spirits has been shelved for too long, all these years..."

He muttered to himself, absorbed in the contents of the parchment. After a while, he turned his gaze back to the raven.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have much food here,” he said with a slightly apologetic smile. “Owls rarely come here.”

Loctis simply stared unblinkingly at the old man with his eyes, which were completely unlike those of a bird.

The gaze was so focused that it wasn't until Lyle sensed something amiss that Raven spoke in a stiff, rigid tone:

Fenrir Greyback. Dead.

Lyle Lupin froze.

The wrinkles on his face froze instantly, an incredulous light bursting from his cloudy eyes, his lips moving silently, as if trying to confirm something, or as if he was choked by the sudden news.

Loctis did not give him a chance to ask questions.

Once the message was delivered, its mission was complete. It simply added a sentence, in the same monotonous tone: "Time of death, December two years ago."

Then, it stopped looking at the old man's face, which was filled with confusion and pain, spread its wings, and silently disappeared into the night outside the window, just as abruptly as it had arrived.

Lyle Lupin was left alone in the room, along with his body that had suddenly lost all its support.

The wanted poster, bearing the狰狞 (zhengning - ferocious) face of the enemy, silently drifted to the floor.

On the mantelpiece, the wife in the photo still smiled gently, while the child in her arms giggled and tried to grab his mother's hair. Inside the fireplace, the last faint spark had been extinguished completely.

Lyle's gaze swept blankly over the fallen wanted poster, without bending down to pick it up.

Greyback is dead.

He died two years ago.

This news was like a cold boulder thrown into stagnant water, stirring not ripples of relief, but a suffocating sense of bewilderment.

What had sustained him for so many years—that deep-seated hatred, that obsessive dedication to studying werewolf traits day and night, trying to find a weakness or a cure—suddenly lost its purpose.

He staggered and slumped into the old armchair with a dull thud.

Outside the window, the night was deep and the silence was filled with ivy.

……

Not long ago, news of Damocles Belby's development of the wolfsbane potion spread throughout the wizarding world.

Lyle almost immediately tried to obtain the recipe.

However, the euphoria was fleeting.

The rare potion ingredients listed in the recipe are so expensive that they are beyond hope.

Even the dosage needed for just one brewing was enough to empty his meager savings, let alone long-term, consistent use.

For wizards struggling to survive, that was simply an unattainable dream.

Lyle sat slumped in his chair, his gaze finally settling on the open notebook on his desk. It was filled with research notes on werewolves, lunar phases, and how to control rage, written in a handwriting that was almost insane.

He once thought that by thoroughly studying these things, he might be able to find a way, even if it couldn't cure the disease, to alleviate his son's suffering, or to find a weapon to take revenge on Graybury.

But now that his enemy is dead, the pillar of hatred that supported his research has collapsed.

His son is still suffering the curse alone in some unknown corner, unable to access the antidote due to poverty.

Despair weighed heavily on my heart, more real and colder than any news about Graybuck.

Lyle Lupin's anguish stemmed from a source far beyond what a dead enemy could encompass.

The happiness captured in that photo frame has long been torn apart by another curse.

A son abandoned by society, a father imprisoned by poverty and old age, and a "cure" that is right in front of them but out of reach.

This is the real, lingering gloom in this little house covered in ivy.

Chapter 177 Misfortune Subsides

After more than ten days of self-imposed seclusion, Sagres finally felt the curse gradually dissipate within his body.

Like rocks exposed after the tide recedes, a long-lost sense of ease once again took hold of him.

He took a deep breath of the fresh, grassy air and pushed open the oak door to his office, which had been closed for many days.

The corridor was deserted; the students' noise had long since faded away with the arrival of summer vacation.

Sagres headed straight for the auditorium. Nothing heralded the return to "normal" better than a hot dinner.

Although he doesn't have high requirements for food, it would be best if he could eat like a normal person if conditions allowed.

The auditorium was so empty that you could hear the echo of your own footsteps.

However, right next to the main guest seat, he caught a glimpse of Albus Dumbledore.

The principal was sitting there with a small dish of cream pudding drizzled with maple syrup in front of him, a silver fork hanging in mid-air, and blue eyes behind his half-moon glasses sparkling, as if he was waiting for him on purpose.

as predicted.

“Sagres.” Dumbledore’s voice pierced the empty Great Hall clearly. “It is good to see you come out of the room.”

“Indeed.” Sagres sat down in the high-backed chair that had been reserved for him next to Dumbledore (which he had no doubt about), and reached out to scoop himself a large spoonful of mashed potatoes.

"What's up?" he asked bluntly, his fork already aimed at a piece of browned carrot on the plate.

Dumbledore nodded and elegantly picked up a small piece of pudding with his silver fork. "Earlier today, I visited Professor Lumina at St. Mungo's."

Sagres slowed down his chewing.

Dumbledore sighed softly, his blue eyes behind his half-moon spectacles revealing deep sympathy: "Unfortunately, the consequences of the accident are far more serious than I had anticipated. The healers at St. Mungo's have done their utmost, but the conclusion is... she will not be able to return to Defense Against the Dark Arts classes for the next school year, or perhaps longer. Her body needs rest, a very long period of rest."

“Is that so?” Sagres said calmly. “That’s a real shame.” But there wasn’t even a hint of regret in his flat tone.

“Yes, it’s a great pity,” Dumbledore agreed, taking another bite of pudding. “This also means that we must find a new professor for Defense Against the Dark Arts, that… well, notoriously ‘difficult’ position, by September.”

Sagrais silently put the carrot into his mouth. Finding a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor has always been a problem at Hogwarts; this position seems to be constantly plagued by misfortune.

“Fortunately,” Dumbledore’s voice lightened again, with a sense of having found a solution, “I have just thought of a very suitable person. Someone of exceptional talent who has maintained extraordinary courage and wisdom even in difficult circumstances.”

"Oh?" Sagres responded absentmindedly, his thoughts clearly still lingering on the trouble the falcon was in. "Who is it?"

“Remus Lupin,” Dumbledore pronounced the name clearly. “He was your senior, though he had already graduated three years before you enrolled.”

“Lupin?” Sagles stopped chewing completely.

"You know him?" Dumbledore put down his fork and turned to look at Sacramento with interest.

“I don’t know him.” Sagres shook his head and went back to the food on his plate. “Is he also from Ravenclaw?” he asked casually.

“No, he’s from Gryffindor,” Dumbledore said with a smile. “But you can rest assured, he was a prefect in Gryffindor when he was a student, so there’s absolutely no problem with his academic knowledge.”

"I see."

Sagres put down his knife and fork, his voice much clearer and stronger than before, "Now that you have someone in mind, and I happen to be going out for some fresh air..."

He met Dumbledore's questioning gaze: "If you think it's alright, perhaps I can make the trip for you and speak with this Mr. Remus Lupin."

Dumbledore looked at him with some surprise, his deep eyes seeming to see right through him. After a long while, he slowly spoke, "Of course, no problem."

The old man picked up his glass and took a sip. “However, Sagres, I hope you can speak to him in a gentler way. He is a kind man, but… his path after graduation has been quite difficult.”

Sagles nodded. "Do you have his address?" he asked casually. "You two must have already contacted each other beforehand, right?"

“Yes,” Dumbledore replied.

"I'm leaving tomorrow morning. If you have anything to say, you can write it in the letter, and I will send it to you."

Dumbledore nodded in agreement: "That's fine. I have other things to take care of these next couple of days anyway."

"What is it?" Sagles asked.