Sebastian Swann's amusement was a cold, precise thing, completely devoid of warmth. It was the smile of a technician observing a malfunctioning mechanism before administering a destructive, targeted fix.
He watched the Quick-Quotes Quill complete its frenzied, libellous rampage across the parchment—a flawless recording of Rita Skeeter's own uncontrolled paranoia and venom—and then focused the entirety of his phenomenal magical power onto the reporter.
He didn't need to shout or gesture. He merely unleashed.
A silent, invisible torrent of raw magical pressure flooded the small dining room. It wasn't the crude, blunt force of a physical shield; it was an enveloping field of sheer, overwhelming presence. Rita's breath hitched, caught deep in her lungs. The air seemed to solidify, compressing her chest until every beat of her heart was a frantic, strained effort.
Her expression, already contorted by rage, froze into a mask of pure, primal terror. This pressure was instantly, sickeningly familiar. It was the intangible, crushing weight of power that existed outside the Ministry, outside the law, outside even the petty rules of society.
It was the feeling she had experienced years ago, hiding in the shadows of Diagon Alley, when the most powerful Dark Wizard of the century had merely walked by. This was the same scale of magic, only controlled, honed, and terrifyingly focused directly on her.
Frantically, driven by instinct, Rita snatched her wand from the table and shakily raised it, intending to deploy a crude, desperate defensive spell. Before she could utter the first, harsh syllable of a hex, a silent, almost beautiful catastrophe began at the wand's tip.
A layer of brilliant white frost materialized instantly, crawling down the shaft of the holly-and-phoenix-feather wood. It wasn't simple ice; it was a lattice of thick, diamond-like crystals that spread with astonishing, predatory speed. In the blink of an eye, the frost reached her fingertips.
"Ahhh!" A sharp, choked shriek of pure panic tore from Rita's throat.
The cold was paralyzing, a searing, deep bone-ache that instantly disabled her grasp. She instinctively released the wand, watching in horror as the heavy, ornate ice crystals coated the entire instrument, reaching its handle just as it clattered to the floor.
CRACK!
The wand, unable to endure the rapid, intense thermal change and the magical compression, fractured into several large, sickeningly clean pieces of debris, covered in gleaming, inert ice.
Rita Skeeter, the renowned fear-monger, collapsed onto the floor, scrambling backward until her back hit the solid wall. She stammered, pointing a quivering finger at the serene man still seated at the table.
"You… you… Aurors! They'll lock you up! Azkaban! You attacked me with magic!"
This was completely outside her paradigm. Her entire career was a war of words—a duel with ink. She had expected lawsuits, bribes, or public arguments—not a surgical, unprovoked display of controlled force that annihilated her ability to defend herself. A wizard of his standing, a professor at Hogwarts, with a multi-billion Galleon empire… he had everything to lose! Why would he risk it?
"Auror?" Sebastian repeated, his voice dangerously soft, the sound of velvet wrapped around steel. He stood and executed a deliberately exaggerated, courtly bow toward the woman huddled on the floor.
"My dear Miss Skeeter, if you require the assistance of the Auror Office, I would be happy to oblige. In fact, I believe I just cast a simple 'Summoning Signal' to save us both the trouble of writing a formal letter."
He produced his own wand—a slender, unassuming piece of wood—and aimed it not at Rita, but at the window, performing a non-verbal, innocuous-looking flicker of light. Then, he casually tossed a small, heavy pouch of Galleons onto the table, placing it precisely where the wand had been.
"I do apologize about your staff. Please accept this as compensation for a replacement. Ollivander should have something suitable for a journalist."
Less than forty seconds later, a series of heavy, measured boots stomped onto the porch. The front door, which Rita had left ajar in her panic, was thrown open.
"Auror Investigation! Nobody moves inside!" A tall, stern-faced Auror with the severe haircut of a Ministry bureaucrat strode into the room, followed by a slightly younger witch.
Rita Skeeter, finding a lifeline in the chaotic arrival, surged to her feet. She dashed past Sebastian, hiding behind the stern lead Auror.
"Mr. Auror! You must arrest him immediately!" she shrieked, pointing an accusing, trembling finger. "This man attacked me! He used illegal magic and destroyed my property! Lock up this murderer and send him to Azkaban!"
Sebastian merely inclined his head toward the lead Auror. "Hello, Delix. I trust the trip was swift."
The lead Auror, Delix, gave Sebastian a slight, almost imperceptible nod—a gesture of professional respect. He then turned his formal attention to Sebastian, adopting an official tone that masked any familiarity.
"Mr. Swann, due to the allegation of magical assault and the presence of residual magic, we require you to submit to a Priori Incantato test immediately." Delix held out his own wand. "Please submit your staff for a Reverse-Spell Charm inspection."
Sebastian, playing the role of the unjustly accused wizard with impeccable composure, walked forward and offered his wand to Delix's partner, the young witch named Delilah.
Delilah performed the difficult charm, forcing Sebastian's wand to reveal the recent history of its casting. A sequence of pale, ghostly images of spells drifted from the tip.
"Warming Charm (self-targeted, low power)," Delilah muttered, recording the findings on her notepad.
"Purification Charm (on robes, standard issue). Muggle-Repelling Charm (perimeter, standard). Feather-Light Charm (on baggage, expired)." She cast the charm one last time. "And the Summoning Signal (standard emergency protocol)."
Delilah looked up, her expression utterly professional. "No offensive spells, no Dark Arts, and no spells targeted at Miss Skeeter. The wand has only been used for innocuous domestic and preparatory magic, Mr. Swann."
Delix stepped forward, handing Sebastian his wand back. "I suggest, Miss Skeeter, that you contain your accusations. The evidence found at the scene indicates a severe lapse in judgment on your part. Mr. Swann is demonstrably innocent of all charges of magical assault."
"Innocent?!" Rita Skeeter's high-pitched voice cracked with disbelief. "My wand is shattered! Are you blind? How could I shatter my own wand? Are you questioning the integrity of the Auror Office?!"
Delix's voice hardened, instantly becoming twice as cold as Sebastian's own.
"We are questioning your stability, Madam. Given your history of sensationalism, we find it far more probable that your staff was broken either by accident or through a sudden, hysterical fit of pique when you were denied an interview. If you continue to obstruct an official investigation with false accusations, we are authorized to escort you to the Ministry for a formal charge of Wasting Magical Law Enforcement Time and temporary detention in holding cells."
Rita's face went a sickly shade of grey. She finally understood. The two Aurors were not randomly assigned; they were assets. Sebastian hadn't risked a visit; he had orchestrated a perfectly legal, documented confrontation designed to place him beyond reproach while simultaneously trapping her.
He had cast the Muggle-Repelling Charm and the Purifying Charm before he opened the door, ensuring the evidence on his wand was pristine and defensive. The broken wand was simply collateral damage she couldn't blame on him.
How wide did his influence reach? How many people in the Ministry were in his debt? The extent of Sebastian's covert power—the network he had spun—was far more terrifying than the thought of him simply being a powerful rogue wizard.
Seeing that his message had been delivered, Delix nodded curtly to Sebastian. "Our report will reflect the facts, Mr. Swann. Good day." The Aurors walked out, closing the door firmly behind them, leaving Rita Skeeter alone with her nemesis.
The silence was total, broken only by Rita's ragged, shallow breathing. She looked at Sebastian, not with hatred, but with a paralyzing, animal fear.
"Now, Miss Skeeter," Sebastian said, returning to the couch with the graceful ease of a man who had just enjoyed a pleasant outing. "Perhaps we can have that proper conversation now. Will you join me?"
"Of course, Professor Swann," she stammered, scrambling to her feet and practically tripping over herself to retrieve the chair and sit opposite him, keeping her hands clasped tightly in her lap. "How… how may I assist you?"
Sebastian ignored the question. He reached into the air above the table and began to weave an extremely complex, shimmering sequence of ice-blue spells. The air condensed, and with a delicate crystalline pop, a miniature construct materialized on the wooden surface.
It was a perfectly rendered, intricate sculpture of a giant beetle, fashioned entirely from clear, vibrating ice crystals. It looked exactly like the form she took when she transformed as an Animagus.
Rita Skeeter's entire body went rigid. The colour drained from her face, leaving a terrifying pallor beneath the makeup. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged. The realization was complete: he knew her deepest secret. He knew her illegal status as an unregistered Animagus. He held her entire career and her freedom in the palm of his hand.
"Miss Rita Skeeter," Sebastian said quietly, regarding the ice beetle with mild interest. "I believe this small display confirms that the information I possess is indeed valuable, would you not agree?"
"Y-yes… extremely valuable, Professor Swann," she whispered, staring at the cold, crystalline insect.
"Good. Now let us proceed to the consequences of your recent actions." Sebastian's expression turned utterly merciless.
"You have a history of encountering others who have done me great harm in my career as an Alchemist. Men of malice, men of greed. And I dealt with those men. What you need to understand, Miss Skeeter, is my nature."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, terrifying murmur.
"You have spent your life taking advantage of the fact that most people are too proud, too morally upright, or too bureaucratic to fight you using your own tools. They try to argue logic in the pages of the Prophet when you are speaking emotionally. But I am different. I am, as you correctly guessed, a true Slytherin. When faced with a disgusting, parasitic attack on my character, I like to retaliate with something far more permanent and far more creatively disgusting."
He raised his wand again—slowly, deliberately—and pointed it directly at her chest.
"You are accustomed to getting your way because you are evasive, and because your enemies are predictable. I am here to ensure you remember this lesson every single day for the rest of your life."
A pale yellow sphere of light, shimmering with a sickly, almost internal luminescence, sprang from his wand tip. It flew across the small gap, struck Rita Skeeter directly in the center of her chest, and vanished instantly, leaving no mark but a lingering sensation of profound, chilling cold that seemed to burrow into her soul.
"That is your punishment," Sebastian declared, his face hardening to granite. "I have planted a Seed of Magical Retribution in your heart. It will remain dormant, a psychological and magical pressure point. If you ever publish or speak a single word of malice, rumour, or fabrication about me, my school, or my students again, the Seed will activate."
He gave a slight, chilling shrug. "When it activates, the psychological compulsion to transform into your Animagus form—that little beetle you so despise—will become completely overwhelming, immediate, and utterly public. Imagine trying to give a press conference on the steps of the Ministry, only to suddenly find yourself changing into an insect on live camera. Imagine the humiliation, Miss Skeeter. The final, spectacular implosion of your career. It will be the biggest story you never wrote."
He snapped his fingers. The parchment on the table, still bearing the Quick-Quotes Quill's venomous diatribe, instantly erupted in a terrifying burst of pure, orange-black flame.
"Fiendfyre!" Rita Skeeter screamed, recognizing the volatile, highly illegal nature of the cursed fire. She let out a wretched wail and scrambled desperately backward, convinced she was about to be incinerated. She collided hard with the wall, her eyes locked on the horrifying sight.
But Sebastian was a master Alchemist. He didn't just summon destruction; he controlled it. The flames danced wildly, forming demonic shapes that licked the air, but they remained perfectly contained, a miniature inferno that consumed the parchment in a matter of seconds.
The fire vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind only a small, drifting pile of ash and not a single scorch mark on the simple wooden table.
Sebastian rose to his full height. He executed a final, flawless, gallant bow toward the whimpering, broken journalist who was now weeping genuine, silent tears against the wall.
"Miss Rita Skeeter, I have shared all the important news I wished to convey. I hope we do not have cause to meet again for a very long time."
He paused at the door, turning back to deliver the final, unnerving message.
"And I truly wish you the sweetest dreams tonight, Madam. May the beetle not bite."
Then, with a crisp crack of Apparition, Sebastian Swann vanished, leaving Rita Skeeter alone in the silence of her temporary sanctuary, ruined not by a duel, but by a meticulously planned, devastating display of legal, magical, and psychological warfare.
She knew, with chilling certainty, that the only thing she would ever write about Sebastian Swann again was a glowing, utterly positive review. She couldn't risk the beetle.