Rita Skeeter remained frozen on the floor, a tableau of pure, post-traumatic shock. Her eyes, wide and vacant, stared at the spot where Sebastian Swann had just Apparated away.
It wasn't until the residual air disturbance of his departure settled that her pupils began to track again, slowly pulling her mind back from the dizzying precipice of terror.
Her lips worked spasmodically, a silent tremor that was an equal mix of fear, incandescent fury, and the creeping, paralyzing certainty that she was utterly, completely ruined. She didn't scream or curse; she just pressed her hands tightly against her chest, right over the spot where the cold, pale-yellow light had vanished.
The Seed.
His words echoed in the cold, silent room, far more potent than the Fiendfyre itself. "I planted a 'seed' in your heart."
She was consumed by the terrifying knowledge of her Animagus form. That was the secret that truly crippled her. The moment she betrayed him, the moment she dared to type a negative word, she wouldn't just be exposed—she would be exposed mid-slander.
The humiliation would be so instantaneous and complete that her legacy wouldn't be one of a flawed journalist, but of a pathetic insect twitching on the floor of the Ministry atrium. It was a punishment that bypassed the legal system entirely, striking directly at her vanity and her livelihood.
Fiendfyre! A Hogwarts professor, shamelessly deploying one of the most volatile and notorious forms of Dark Magic, and doing so immediately after two Aurors had just left his side!
The cognitive dissonance was too much. The man who donated alchemical heating units and lectured on Muggle ethics was a calculated psychopath.
He's not a hypocrite; he's a predator! she realized with hysterical clarity. He's the next Dark Lord, but far more dangerous because he controls the Aurors and the public narrative! He controls the Ministry with his gold, and now he controls me with a personalized, internal hex!
She felt a fresh wave of panic thinking about Dumbledore. Even the great Albus Dumbledore must be thoroughly bamboozled! How else could he tolerate such a man teaching the children?
Sebastian Swann was a magical chameleon, capable of fooling the greatest minds while systematically installing magical time bombs in the hearts of his enemies.
Driven by a desperate, misplaced need to purge the space of his presence, Rita finally scrambled to her feet. She began a furious, pathetic rampage, smashing cheap ornaments and throwing magazines to vent the volatile mix of fear and hatred.
But even in her madness, she maintained a wide, panicked berth around the wooden table and the Transfigured couch upon which he had sat. That furniture, to her mind, was now radiating latent, sinister power.
When exhaustion finally brought her to a standstill, panting and covered in dust, she dragged herself slowly toward the table, driven by a sliver of resentful reason. She needed her contacts.
She needed to find a curse-breaker, a powerful, reclusive wizard who could detect the Fiendfyre Seed and extract it. Once the magical threat was gone, she would devote the rest of her life to his destruction.
I will find you, Swann. I will publish the truth about your Dark Arts, your bribed Aurors, and the innocent lives you control! I will—
Rita froze mid-step.
The insect ice sculpture—the crystallized Animagus—had melted completely. The water, instead of dissipating, was coalescing on the tabletop, shimmering unnaturally. It flowed with an almost sentient direction, forming itself into two perfectly legible sentences written in liquid script:
A friendly caution: The specific, proprietary Alchemical architecture of the 'seed' in your heart is undetectable by standard Ministry-trained curse-breakers.The greater question is, will you have the freedom to arrange an appointment?
The terror hit her like a physical blow. She realized he hadn't just predicted her next move; he had warned her against it. He was still watching. He is everywhere.
Her legs gave way. She collapsed to the floor once more, clutching her chest where the Seed lay dormant, her hysteria now replaced by a chilling, absolute compliance. She was broken.
"I was wrong," she whimpered, the words tasting like ash. "I was completely wrong. I will never write about you again. Please, I beg you, just leave me alone…"
Meanwhile, in the tranquil solitude of his opulent manor, Sebastian Swann reclined on his vast leather sofa, a tumbler of imported French brandy resting on the armrest, completely absorbed in a late-night Muggle documentary about sustainable forestry.
I wonder if the silly woman has stopped screaming yet, he mused, taking a slow sip. He felt an intense, satisfying wave of calm, a sensation far better than any ice-cold beverage.
He had achieved maximum deterrent with minimal expenditure.
His initial intent had merely been to silence her, but the discovery of her Animagus form—a valuable piece of information gleaned years ago by a former business rival who was now deep in Sebastian's employ—had provided a perfect, elegant solution. Why use a heavy, cumbersome Obliviation or a risky physical attack when a simple psychological construct would suffice?
The "Seed" was nothing more than a highly localized, long-duration Luminescent Heat Charm, modified with complex Alchemical runes to ensure it could only be detected by a level of magical analysis far beyond standard Ministry protocol.
It generated a barely perceptible warmth and a suggestion of light—enough to feel like a foreign body, but not enough to cause any physical damage.
The real power was in the name: Fiendfyre Seed.
Fear, when combined with a guilty conscience, is the most powerful control mechanism, he thought with a private smirk. She believes in the sensational, the theatrical, the forbidden. Naming a minor heat spell after Dark Magic achieved far more than a proper Cruciatus Curse ever could.
He had also cast a tiny, custom Trigger Charm on the ice sculpture. When the ice melted (a controlled, intentional process), the residual magic briefly flared, giving the illusion of a personalized, omniscient threat. Skeeter, consumed by paranoia, would never dare to investigate the charm, lest the 'Seed' activate. She would simply retreat into terrified silence.
Sebastian adjusted a pillow. The world was now quieter. His students would no longer have their focus diverted by ridiculous rumors of his emotional frailty, and he could return to the important work: ensuring the smooth operation of Hogwarts.
The days following the encounter with the journalist slipped into a peaceful routine. As the calendar flipped to December, London became a landscape of grey skies and heavy coats. Yet, within the sprawling, ancient confines of Hogwarts Castle, a strange, persistent spring had taken root.
This was due entirely to the alchemical climate control systems Sebastian had discreetly integrated into the school's infrastructure during his expansive "donations."
Thousands of tiny Thermic Regulation Runes, etched into the stonework and powered by a centralized, non-magical energy core he had financed, ensured that the temperature inside the castle remained a perpetually comfortable seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit.
The young wizards were the most delighted. They glided through the corridors in thin, sensible robes, occasionally trading them for light Muggle sweaters—a sharp contrast to the bundled figures struggling through the chill outside.
Heavy coats were reserved only for required field trips to the drafty, open-air Care of Magical Creatures class or the humidity of the Herbology Greenhouses.
The Quidditch season, however, remained a focus of intense, passionate debate. The second match of the Unified Tournament had just concluded: Hogwarts versus Durmstrang. The outcome had been a decisive, strategic victory for the home team, confirming Sebastian's intensive, aggressive coaching regimen had fundamentally changed the team's capabilities.
Small groups huddled in the sun-drenched corners of the library, murmuring excitedly:
"Did you see Krum's Lansky Feint? Incredible! He's only a fourth-year and he executed a move that nearly gave Professor Swann a heart attack in the stands!" a Ravenclaw exclaimed, adjusting his lightweight spectacles.
"I'll grant Krum is brilliant, but Charlie's response was pure, applied Swann strategy," argued a Gryffindor. "He didn't panic. He anticipated the dive and counter-rotated the Chasers, forcing Krum to break altitude. That's a move they couldn't have pulled off last year—it was complete team defense."
"Exactly! We dominated the field! It was nothing like that disaster against Beauxbatons. Durmstrang were playing rough, but our tactical endurance was superior," another student chimed in.
The only bizarre moment of the match became an instant school legend, providing much-needed comedic relief.
"But seriously," laughed a girl from Hufflepuff, "who could have foreseen the Messenger Owl Incident?"
"I still can't believe it! A giant tawny owl, flying full speed like a rogue Bludger, right across the pitch at the exact moment Charlie was making his initial Snitch pursuit! It almost took his head off!"
"And the noise it made when it finally swerved! I swear I heard it shriek a curse that sounded suspiciously like a Muggle profanity. That little intervention cost Charlie a full twenty seconds. Otherwise, he'd have caught the Snitch far sooner."
The consensus was clear: Hogwarts was now the team to beat. They had a commanding lead in the tournament, having outclassed Durmstrang, who in turn had easily defeated Beauxbatons in the November fixture.
"We are definitely advancing to the finals," a confident Slytherin declared. "The next matches aren't until spring, giving us months to refine our rotational offense. The competition is finished."
The conversation inevitably drifted to the final, coveted perk of victory: the international travel.
"I'm so jealous of the travelling squad and the cheerleaders," lamented one student. "They get to visit the beautiful Beauxbatons palace and the austere Durmstrang fortress."
A member of the traveling support team preened. "The rumors about Beauxbatons are true. It's like a fairytale. I plan to use the opportunity to collect data for my Inter-School Diplomacy thesis... and maybe acquire a pen pal or two with excellent hair."
A chorus of good-natured groans and mock disapproval erupted, momentarily scattering the studious groups.
Sebastian, having spent the afternoon monitoring his team's continued progress via their practice reports, leaned back in his comfortable office chair. He felt a profound sense of order—his influence was systemic, his enemies were neutralized, and his students were thriving.
The silence of the office was broken by the soft, almost formal tap of an elegant, silver-feathered owl landing on his desk. The creature presented a pristine white envelope, sealing the transaction with an unusually subdued hoot before taking flight.
Sebastian picked up the letter. The parchment felt thick and expensive. His brow furrowed slightly; this was not Ministry paper, nor was it the official letterhead of the International Magical Cooperation body.
He turned the envelope over in his hand. In the bottom right corner, a few words were written in a crisp, unfamiliar script:
From: Mr. White
A sudden, sharp tingle of professional curiosity—the kind he hadn't felt since his days deep in the Alchemical black market—ran down his spine. This was a signal.
A code. Mr. White was a name used only in the most covert, highly-protected circles of international magical finance and intelligence—the people who controlled markets, governments, and secrets. It was a pseudonym for a figure who was universally acknowledged to be both exceptionally powerful and ruthlessly discreet.
Sebastian slowly broke the seal, his gaze intensely focused on the envelope, sensing that the quiet, orderly winter he had just engineered was about to be violently interrupted by a challenge far beyond the petty revenge of a journalist or the simple demands of a Quidditch tournament.
The contents of the letter, he was sure, would demand his full, undivided, and utterly ruthless attention.