Lockhart, with his preening perfection and calculated charm, was nothing short of a phenomenon—a singularity of talent entirely dedicated to the propagation of Gilderoy Lockhart. His drive was fueled not merely by ambition, but by a manic, almost terrifying hunger for universal adoration and wealth.
His initial foray into the wizarding world's media landscape, the creation of Swan Media, was not merely intended to be a competitor to the venerable Daily Prophet; it was a declaration of war against the mundane.
The launch of the morning and evening news broadcasts—slick, fast-paced, and utterly devoid of the Prophet's stuffy, self-important tone—was only the beginning. In a breathtaking display of magical imitation and raw production power, Swan Media had managed to conjure up a slate of engaging, magically-themed television programs.
They mimicked the vibrant, often absurd formats of Muggle entertainment, translating talk shows, reality competitions, and dramatic serials into a uniquely enchanting wizarding experience. All of this was accomplished in the span of ten days.
Sebastian, usually cynical regarding the limits of magical bureaucracy, was genuinely astonished.
Lockhart's efficiency bordered on the supernatural. Sebastian briefly—and with a deep, internal sigh—wondered if Lockhart hadn't secretly stumbled upon some lost, high-level time-stretching charm, enabling him to cram a month's worth of work into a single afternoon, all in the service of his dazzling ego.
Lockhart's brilliance, however, lay not just in production, but in public relations. To smooth over the inevitable friction with the established magical authorities and, more importantly, to ensure a constant stream of Ministerial cooperation and favor, Lockhart shrewdly allocated a dedicated channel. This channel was entirely devoted to promoting the works, edicts, and self-congratulatory accomplishments of the Ministry of Magic.
Minister Fudge, a man whose love for soft cushions was rivaled only by his love for positive media coverage, was absolutely giddy over this unexpected public relations windfall. He personally threw the full weight of the Ministry's non-cooperation-prone departments behind the enterprise.
With the Minister's backing and the sheer magnetism of its engaging programming—from the slightly educational to the completely ridiculous—Swan Media had rapidly achieved runaway success.
This momentum was turbo-charged with the immediate, explosive popularity of the docu-drama serial, "Running with Werewolves." Halfway through the quiet, cozy confines of the Christmas holidays, Swan Media transitioned from being a promising upstart to becoming the dominant cultural force, utterly eclipsing the previously unassailable popularity and perceived necessity of The Daily Prophet.
Magic TV, which for decades had been relegated to the niche interest of fanatical Quidditch enthusiasts and the occasional purveyor of questionable magical gadgets, was suddenly transformed. It became an essential, ubiquitous piece of alchemy in every wizarding home.
Even Arthur Weasley, notoriously poor and utterly fascinated by Muggle technology, found his resistance crumbling. He capitulated to the relentless, unified insistence of his children, purchasing a magical television set for the Burrow.
Molly Weasley, initially a fierce opponent of the purchase—seeing it as an unnecessary frivolous distraction and expense—underwent a swift and total conversion upon its arrival. The magical television quickly transformed her from a skeptic into one of its most loyal, dedicated users.
Every night, precisely at eight o'clock, the bustling activity of the Burrow would cease. Molly would be found, knitting needles momentarily forgotten, positioned squarely in front of the screen, breathlessly awaiting the latest episode of "A Walk with Werewolves."
When the Christmas break concluded and the Hogwarts Express steamed its way back toward the imposing, familiar sight of the castle, the atmosphere among the students was dramatically altered.
The usual clamor of Quidditch analysis and trivial school gossip was replaced by frenzied, animated discussions about the latest plot twists, character arcs, and dramatic reveals of the television serial.
Young witches and wizards who hailed from Muggle families, having missed this sudden, immersive cultural event, could only stand by with bewildered, blank expressions. They strained to glean the overarching theme of the now-legendary "A Walk with Werewolves" from their classmates' highly energized conversations.
They couldn't fathom how the universal axis of conversation had shifted so violently during a brief vacation. No one cared about the Puddlemere United; the only topic was the televised drama.
The academic term resumed its rhythm, the days flowing by with the smooth, measured pace of a calm stream. Sebastian had settled into a comfortable, almost serene state, fully expecting to drift through the remainder of the term in this quiet, scholarly tranquility. He had grown accustomed to the predictable, if slightly chaotic, existence of a Hogwarts professor.
Then came Easter Sunday, March 31, 1991.
After a particularly demanding day reviewing complex alchemy schematics and dealing with a minor, self-inflicted dormitory explosion (courtesy of a fifth-year trying to brew Polyjuice Potion with extra spice), Sebastian felt utterly depleted. He had collapsed into the luxurious depths of his private, cloud-softened bed, fully preparing to surrender himself to a long-deserved, blissful oblivion.
He was seconds away from drifting off when the tranquility was violently shattered. His Seamless Stretch Pack, resting on the bedside table, began to vibrate with a sudden, alarming intensity. It was not the gentle hum of a self-repairing zipper; this was a frantic, desperate pulse.
Emergency. The abrupt, visceral movement instantly jolted Sebastian wide awake, all lingering fatigue incinerated by adrenaline.
He leapt out of bed, grabbing the magical, self-stretching satchel. He plunged his hand inside and pulled out the source of the frantic trembling: a beautifully crafted, silver-inlaid box. The vibrations were coming from within.
He snapped the box lid open. Inside, a two-way mirror instantly flared to life, reflecting a distorted image of his own startled face before resolving into the frantic, worried features of a familiar young man. A human voice, high-pitched with stress and anxiety, was barely contained by the glass.
"Professor Swann, it's George! You've got to answer! Something's gone catastrophically wrong! Please, sir, you have to get here, and fast!"
"George Weasley?" Sebastian's voice was sharp and immediate, cutting through the panic. "Where in the name of Merlin's beard are you, and how did you get your hands on that? Is this a joke?"
The mirror he held was unmistakably one that belonged to Severus Snape—a highly sensitive, private communication tool. How could one of the notorious Weasley twins possibly be in possession of it? The implications alone were enough to make Sebastian's mind race.
The image in the mirror shifted slightly, and George's eyes darted nervously around the frame. "I'm in your office, sir! Professor Snape let me in! It's Fred, sir, they've… they've got Fred! He's been taken!"
Sebastian didn't hesitate for a moment. He cast a quick, silent charm to secure the room, then dressed himself with a speed that would have made a professional Auror envious, his robes smoothing themselves into place with a subtle swish. He slung the Seamless Stretch Pack over his shoulder and strode to the fireplace, grabbing a handful of Floo powder.
With a blinding flash of emerald green flames, Sebastian materialized in his office at Hogwarts.
"Professor, you're here! Finally! I thought I'd completely lost my mind waiting." George, visibly trembling and sweating despite the cool night air, rushed toward him from the corner of the room.
Sebastian raised a hand, his gaze calm and unwavering, which belied the sudden, chilling weight in his stomach. "Hold, George. Do not rush. Breathe, and speak slowly, clearly." He didn't outwardly express his astonishment regarding the two-way mirror.
The fact that it was in George's possession and that Snape had actively deployed the boy as a messenger was, in itself, a profoundly alarming piece of information.
If Snape is already involved, it means the situation has passed the point of a minor disciplinary issue and entered the realm of genuine peril. Snape would only relinquish such a crucial piece of communication if he was already in the field and needed backup while maintaining absolute silence.
"Now, George," Sebastian continued, his voice a low, steady rumble designed to anchor the frantic boy. "Tell me everything, but start at the end. What happened to Fred, and who is 'they'?" At the very least, he needed to gather every scrap of intelligence before plunging blindly into the darkness.
Seeing the sheer, unadulterated panic radiating off the young man, Sebastian reached into his pack. He didn't offer a traditional calming draft; instead, he withdrew a small, iridescent bottle containing a highly concentrated, non-magical Sedative Elixir—a preparation he'd created to cope with Lockhart's most irritating theatrics. He handed it to George.
"Drink this, all of it. It's not magic, it's just very strong Muggle valerian. It will settle the frantic edge."
After drinking the potion—its effect almost immediate on his overtaxed nerves—George took a deep, shuddering breath. He finally managed to pull his thoughts into a coherent line, though his retelling was riddled with the lingering chaos of the event.
"Professor," George began, his voice still shaking but now holding a narrative thread, "It started when Fred and I were out—just walking. It was late, but we were being super quiet, like we always are when we test new products, you know? And we saw Professor Robert. He was moving… wrong. Not like a normal teacher on a patrol. He was furtive—the same kind of paranoid way we act when we're sneaking past Filch."
Sebastian's eyebrow twitched slightly. Reckless adolescents using their own criminal behavior as the metric for assessing professorial villainy. Only at Hogwarts.
"We were immediately curious, Professor," George continued, his tone morphing from anxiety to a rush of remembered excitement and then back to terror.
"We watched him leave the castle entirely, heading right for the edge of the Forbidden Forest entrance. Fred, bless his idiot heart, just had to follow. He was already halfway to the gate, but I was worried about running right into Professor Snape during his rounds—that would be a fortnight of detention at least—so I told Fred I'd wait and keep watch with the Marauder's Map right by the gate, cover him if Snape came up the path."
George swallowed hard, his eyes wide. "But… I saw it on the Map, sir. I saw Fred's dot, and Professor Robert's dot, and then just as Fred was near the tree line, a flash of red light—I didn't hear it, but I saw the light—and Fred's name vanished from the Map. Completely gone, like it was erased. Then I saw Professor Robert's dot dragging something, moving fast, into the darkness of the Forest."
The panic returned, thick and fast. "I didn't know what to do! I ran, straight into the castle until I found Professor Snape, who was doing his patrol route on the third floor corridor. He listened to my garbled nonsense about Robert, the Map, and Fred's name vanishing. He didn't say a word, Professor. Just shoved this mirror into my hand, gave me the key to your office, and told me to get here, use the mirror to bring you in, and wait until you arrived. He said, and this is what he said, 'Tell Swann that the serpent is coiled and ready, but the twin requires an alchemist's swiftness.' Then he just turned and flew down the stairs toward the dungeons. I didn't even see him leave the castle."
Sebastian's internal sigh was profound, extending into the very core of his soul. Those two utter, incorrigible blockheads.
Is there any pair of second-year students in the history of Hogwarts who would think following a potentially dark-aligned teacher into the Forbidden Forest at night was a good idea? He wasn't sure whether to commend their reckless courage or simply condemn their catastrophic lack of common sense.
George's account—the sudden, silent strike, the dragging motion, the vanishing name on the Map—all suggest a severe magical attack, not just a simple stunner.
Sebastian released his magical senses, expanding them like a slow, silent wave throughout the castle walls. The ancient stone remained tranquil; no alarms, no frantic student activity, and most importantly, no concentrated magical flare-ups to suggest a full-scale confrontation.
This was a fragile relief. It meant Snape was likely moving silently and alone, maintaining stealth. It also meant that Sebastian still had the advantage of surprise.
Sebastian turned his full attention back to the still-hyperventilating George. He didn't need to panic the entire castle yet, and George needed to be grounded and safe.
With a simple, fluid motion of his wand, Sebastian transfigured the sturdy, oak visitor's couch into an impossibly soft, inviting bed heaped with pillows. He reached into the Seamless Stretch Pack and drew out a thick, comforting quilt.
"George, listen to me closely. Professor Snape is one of the most capable men in this country. If anyone can retrieve Fred swiftly and silently, it is he. He needs no distraction, and certainly no second-year wandering into the crossfire," Sebastian said, his tone firm yet gentle.
"You are going to rest here for the night. You'll be the first to know the moment there is news. My office is warded to the hilt; you are safer here than anywhere else in the school, save perhaps Dumbledore's study," Sebastian instructed, pushing the boy gently toward the makeshift bed.
"If you find yourself truly unable to sleep, there is a Magical TV unit hidden behind that bookcase—Lockhart's latest promotional stunt. It's set to loop old Quidditch matches. You can use it to pass the time and distract your mind until good news arrives. Do not leave this room, do you understand?"
Sebastian offered a brief, reassuring smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Do not fret. Snape will return with him, likely sooner than you think."
Without another word, Sebastian retrieved his racing broomstick—a high-end model enchanted for silent flight and extreme velocity—and positioned himself near the nearest window. He threw the sash wide open, allowing the chilly March air to rush into the warm office.
Mounting the broom, he didn't just glide out; he launched himself into the sky like a low-flying missile, angling sharply over the Quidditch pitch and toward the dark, ominous treeline of the Forbidden Forest.
He pushed the broom to its maximum speed, a howling blur against the dark canvas of the night sky. His focus, however, was not on physical speed, but on magical projection.
To clear his path and warn any unwary—or indeed, hostile—magical creature within the forest that a force of immense power was rapidly approaching, Sebastian deliberately released his immense magical core. It was not a spell, but a pressure wave, a controlled, silent Aura Projection.
It felt like a silent, overwhelming roar to the sentient beings in the Forest, announcing his arrival with the raw, territorial dominance of an ancient, roused dragon.
His magical senses flared to their absolute peak, burning like twin suns in his mind's eye. He was no longer looking with his eyes; he was feeling the residual magical trails left behind. He quickly locked onto the faint, spoor-like magical signature of Snape's rapid passage, following the professor's subtle path of dislodged leaves and broken twigs.
The dense, chaotic undergrowth that might have slowed a lesser wizard melted away before him. The trees seemed to blur into a single, dark stream as he approached the Forest floor with astonishing speed.
As he traversed the increasingly wild and unpopulated reaches of the grounds, the ambient magical power emitting from his body grew volatile, transitioning from a warning to an outright threat—a boiling, violent storm of focused rage.
Sebastian's gaze hardened, freezing over with cold resolve as the wind screamed past his ears. The timing of this entire affair was too neat, too opportunistic to be a mere coincidence.
They knew. They were waiting for an opening.
"They truly picked the perfect, calculated moment to strike, didn't they? With Albus away from the school, attending some crucial, far-flung Wizengamot conference," Sebastian muttered into the rushing wind, his voice laced with venom.
"Professor Robert, you must think you are spectacularly clever. I hope, for your own immediate and long-term well-being, that your grasp of situational awareness is significantly better than your choice of a target. You have selected the wrong student, the wrong school, and certainly the wrong night to indulge in your subterranean schemes."
He pushed the broom faster, the ground rushing up to meet him. Sebastian was no longer the composed academic; he was an alchemist and an enforcer, and his patience had evaporated. The serpent was indeed coiled, but the dragon had just taken flight.