The word Sufficient still hung in the frigid air, smelling of burnt ozone and frostbite. Before Fred Weasley could muster another frantic syllable of warning or gratitude, a shadow fell over him.
Sebastian Swann, dismounting his racing broom mid-air and landing with the controlled grace of a falling stone, was suddenly there—a solid, unmoving wall of human presence between the terror and the terrified.
In that instant, the visceral, paralyzing fear that had gripped Fred since the fertilizer bomb incident evaporated like morning mist. It was replaced by a surge of raw astonishment and a dizzying rush of confidence. Professor Swann! The sentiment was a silent, excited cheer in his mind.
But his relief was immediately tempered by a familiar Weasley caution. Wait. Robert is a Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor. This man is a genuine, wand-waving dark wizard now. Can Professor Swann, the alchemy enthusiast and entrepreneur, really beat him? If only it were someone focused entirely on combat, like—
Sebastian knelt fluidly beside the frozen, bleeding form of Snape. His voice, pitched low enough to be a private confession, was utterly calm.
"My apologies for the unnecessary delay," Sebastian murmured, his hand resting briefly and reassuringly on Fred's shoulder. "I wasted time clearing a path."
He offered a brief, fierce smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, which were fixed intently on Robert's horrified face. "Your part is finished, Fred. Now, you must focus. The rest of this unfortunate affair falls to me."
"Professor, you have to be careful!" Fred stammered, pulling himself together, the urgency overriding his pain. "He is using the worst kind of spells! He's truly a dark wizard, Professor Robert!"
Sebastian stood up, a movement that felt less like rising and more like the unfurling of a powerful storm. He casually waved his wand toward the massive Wall of Glacial Ice. The ice didn't shatter; it simply receded, liquefying back into the ground with a soft, hissing steam, revealing the petrified Robert.
"Dark wizards?" Sebastian asked, the question delivered with the patronizing ease of an adult discussing a difficult homework assignment.
"I appreciate the warning, Fred, but my first profession was that of an Auror—and a rather successful one, at that. It has been an embarrassingly long time since I've had the opportunity to apprehend an honest-to-goodness dark-aligned sorcerer. I must confess, I have developed a rather keen appetite for it."
He retrieved several vials from a hidden, enchanted pocket inside his robe—small, perfectly formulated potions that glowed with muted, medicinal light. He pressed them into Fred's trembling hands.
"Your immediate mission, Fred, is the safe recovery of Professor Snape. He took a nasty spell meant for you, a favor you are now indebted to repay." Sebastian's eyes flickered to Snape's pale, motionless face. "First, administer the Skeletal Regeneration Potion for internal trauma, followed immediately by the Blood Replenishment Draft for the loss of fluids. Then, use this White Essence—it's highly concentrated—directly on his chest to seal the external wound. Do this now. Don't waste a drop."
Sebastian finally turned his full, searing attention to the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, his posture radiating lethal calm.
"As for me," Sebastian continued, his voice hardening, "the Professor will now exact his full and considerable revenge."
Fred, his eyes wide at the mention of Sebastian's past as an Auror, felt a renewed sense of purpose. He quickly scrambled to Snape's side, uncorking the first potion.
"Professor Snape, you ungrateful dungeon bat, wake up and drink this medicine immediately!" Fred hissed, managing to inject a surprising amount of annoyance into his urgent life-saving effort. He gently forced the bottle to Snape's bloodless lips.
The Alchemist's Contempt
Sebastian stepped forward, effortlessly crossing the distance that separated them. He examined Robert, still caked in the fertilizer bomb's disgusting, pungent residue, with a look of profound, almost theatrical disgust.
"Professor Robert, my colleague," Sebastian began, drawing out the word colleague with a sneer, "you have gravely injured a close acquaintance, used a student as a prop for a despicable ritual, and drenched yourself in enough filth to offend every sense I possess. I am, to be perfectly blunt, incandescently furious."
He spread his hands in a gesture of icy politeness. "Therefore, I suggest you employ every single dark curse and nasty trick you possess from this moment forward. Apply yourself fully. Unleash your maximum destructive capability."
A chilling intensity entered his voice, utterly devoid of emotion. "Failure to do so might cause me to become… careless. I would hate to accidentally extinguish the only witness to this absurd spectacle prematurely."
Robert, who had been struggling to compose himself, burst into a harsh, wheezing laugh that sounded dangerously close to sobbing. "Hahahaha! Who in the name of the Dark Lord do you imagine yourself to be, Swann? Dumbledore's replacement? A threat?"
Robert wiped a hand across his face, smearing the fertilizer further. "You are merely the Muggle Studies professor, a merchant with a knack for trinkets! I offered you a chance to see your miserable student one last time! Did you genuinely believe I was afraid of your commercial genius?"
Robert aimed his wand directly at Sebastian's chest, his eyes burning with a renewed, desperate malice. "Very well! You want combat? You want arrogance punished? I will gladly accommodate! Ostea Frange!"
A sickly red beam shot out. It struck Sebastian's cufflink—a small, unassuming piece of obsidian worn on his left wrist—which instantly shattered into fine, smoking dust and fell to the ground.
Robert's triumphant sneer froze. "An alchemical protection charm… a one-time ward…" His eyes widened as Sebastian stood, completely unscathed and utterly calm. "I see how it is. How much of this protection do you actually wear, merchant?"
Enraged, Robert unleashed a desperate flurry of rapid-fire dark spells, spitting the incantation over and over, his voice hoarse: "Ostea Frange! Ostea Frange! Ostea Frange!"
Three more dark spells impacted Sebastian, each hitting a different, unremarkable piece of his attire—the clasp of his belt, a button on his vest, and the small, brass pin holding his collar in place. Each protective charm exploded in a brief, harmless puff of silvery light, yet Sebastian remained utterly untouched, his expression radiating boredom.
Sebastian brushed the dust from his sleeve with an exaggerated sigh, then tilted his head, his smile returning—cold, condescending, and dangerously polite.
"Professor Robert," Sebastian said, his voice dropping an octave, "I gave you a chance to make a statement, and you still managed to fail spectacularly. The magical output is remarkably weak, like a slow drip through a poorly maintained pipe. It does not even possess the necessary kinetic force to penetrate two protective buckles simultaneously. I am wearing twelve such enchantments, by the way. You will run out of power long before you run out of buckles."
Robert was consumed by a blinding fury that dissolved into pure, impotent frustration. Fine. If he's a walking fortress, I'll attack the vulnerable targets!
He spun his wand to aim at the figures on the ground, who were now struggling upright. "Then let's see if your protections extend to the injured! Fulgur Explodo! (A thunderous explosion!)"
Robert's eyes narrowed in panic. In the instant he pivoted his wand, Sebastian vanished. No sound, no flash, no movement—just gone.
And then, Sebastian was back. He had simply intercepted the trajectory of the bolt, his wand flashing out a near-instantaneous shield charm, deflecting the spell harmlessly into the massive stone monolith behind Robert, which absorbed the energy with a low, resonant hum.
Impossible! Snape could block spells, but Snape was a master duelist! How could this Muggle Studies professor, this businessman, possess such catastrophic speed and deflection mastery?
Robert's mind went blank, his rage dissolving into a desperate, cold sweat. He watched, utterly paralyzed, as the black-haired man lifted his leg and began to stroll toward him, a man so powerful he was walking instead of fighting, as if conducting an utterly tedious chore.
Robert unleashed every curse he knew, a frantic, screaming deluge of dark magic. But the other man blocked every single one with minimal movement, his wand a blur of calm efficiency.
This shouldn't be happening! He's just a Muggle Studies teacher! If he's this powerful, why isn't he the Defense Professor? Why is he selling novelty jewelry and cleaning potions?
A terrifying clarity pierced Robert's terror. He had made a fatal miscalculation. He had completely underestimated the man Dumbledore had hired.
Escape!
The thought screamed through his mind, overriding all fear and pride. Robert instinctively tried to Apparate, that familiar, painful sensation of being squeezed through a tight tube his body's last-ditch response.
He was instantly, startlingly, rooted to the spot. No squeeze. No movement. Just cold, absolute stillness.
What?
"Did I forget to mention the immediate defensive countermeasures?" Sebastian asked, stopping mere inches from Robert. His face was unsmiling now, his eyes like chips of black ice. "I apologize for the oversight. I utilized an Anti-Dissipation Charm to lock your spiritual signature to this clearing, effectively preventing any form of controlled or uncontrolled departure. Furthermore, I surrounded Professor Snape and Fred with a subtle Freezing Charm to lock their physical forms down, ensuring they won't interfere, or suffer collateral damage, during our final unpleasantries."
Robert reacted instantly, slamming a Smoke Screen spell at the ground, hoping to create a temporary, blinding distraction before trying to sprint toward the dark sanctuary of the bushes.
"There's no virtue in delaying the inevitable, Robert. You will remain."
Robert had only taken two panicked strides when he felt a sudden, profound heat radiating from behind him. A voice, unnervingly calm, uttered a single, chilling incantation:
"Vulcan – Clear the Way!"
With a sound like a dozen furnace doors slamming open simultaneously, a colossal, emerald-green dragon, composed entirely of intensely raging fire, erupted from the thick smoke created by Robert's own spell. It wasn't just heat; it was pure, terrifying, controlled elemental magic.
The dragon swooped down, coiling around the perimeter of the clearing, cutting off the path to the bushes instantly and completely.
Robert staggered back, his hair instantly curling and smoking from the intense heat of the magical beast. He was now perfectly trapped—flanked by walls of raging flame, the yellow portal, and Sebastian.
He stumbled backward and turned, finding Sebastian standing directly behind him. The Auror's face was inches from his own.
Before Robert could articulate a single syllable of plea or protest, the dry grass beneath his feet shot up, transforming instantly into thick, tough ropes that wrapped around his ankles, knees, waist, and chest. The bonds were so instantaneous and powerful that Robert couldn't even manage a whimper, the ropes tightening with the choking silence of a sophisticated Transfiguration Spell.
"Professor Robert," Sebastian's voice was utterly flat, carrying no anger, only an overwhelming sense of disappointment.
"I know a bit of your history. You were, by all accounts, Dumbledore's sincere ally. During the height of the Last Wizarding War, you were a recognized member of the opposition, fundamentally and morally opposed to the Dark Lord's philosophy."
Sebastian slowly circled the bound man, inspecting him as if he were a specimen in a jar.
"You were deemed an honest man, otherwise Dumbledore would never have entrusted you with a position at Hogwarts. So, I will allow you this single, final opportunity for honesty. Tell me why. Why the dark magic, why the betrayal, why the ritual, and why the targeting of a student?"
Robert's eyes were now red, burning with a desperate, manic fervor. He struggled against the ropes, the tendons in his neck bulging. When he realized the restraints were absolute, his fight turned inward, erupting in a hoarse, uncontrolled roar of pure anguish.
"Dumbledore is a hypocritical coward! A self-righteous monster! I trusted his principles, and that trust brought ruin and a slow, agonizing death to my family!" Robert's voice was raw, grating on the silent night air.
"He told us to fight honorably, to avoid the worst of the Unforgivables, to hold the moral high ground against the Death Eaters. And I listened! I was honorable! But what happened? The Death Eaters were repeatedly released by their collaborators within the Ministry! Dumbledore had the power to end them all, to strike them down, but he held back, adhering to his damnable, precious morality!"
Robert spat a curse at the ground. "If he had simply been ruthless, if he had murdered those filth when he had the chance, my family wouldn't have been caught, tortured, and driven to irreversible madness by their retaliation! They lie in the permanent ward at St. Mungo's—hollow shells! They have been there for ten years! Do you grasp the weight of that decade, Swann? Do you know what it is to visit the living dead every single Christmas?!"
Robert's throat thickened, and his roar descended into a ragged, guttural cry. "I hated my own weakness! My own morality! So, I studied! I learned every single curse—every dark, murderous thing Dumbledore forbade! I promised myself I would exterminate every last surviving, pathetic follower of the Dark Lord!"
His eyes, frantic and intense, locked onto Sebastian. "I was so close! One step away! That rock holds the source, the means to the power of the Gryffindor line! I would have gained the might of a true founder—the power to destroy and reform! Let me go, Sebastian! We share the same goal! I did this to eradicate the rot! I want to kill the bad guys!"
Sebastian stood motionless, listening to the entire, pathetic, horrifying confession. He was completely unmoved by the emotional torrent.
His gaze darkened slightly, his expression one of profound, cold disappointment.
"I find your justification utterly unconvincing, Professor Robert," Sebastian stated flatly, his voice slicing through the clearing.
"I accept your heartbreak. I accept your anger toward the systemic failures of the Ministry and even Dumbledore's idealistic principles. Those are legitimate targets for rage. But they do not excuse your actions."
Sebastian pointed to the coagulating blood on Fred's arm, which was now being clumsily tended to by the still-shaking twin.
"I saw the wound on that student's arm. You sought power through ritualistic abuse. That wasn't vengeance; that was a dark shortcut. You became exactly what you swore to destroy—you substituted one evil's morality for another. You have become indistinguishable from the filth you seek to eliminate."
"I told you, Robert," Sebastian's voice was now a low, dangerous growl. "I stand with the students."
He shook his head slowly. "Honestly, I truly wanted to punch you in your wretched, self-pitying face. I wanted to use my own bare, mortal hands to simply beat the justification out of you."
Sebastian's lip curled in a sudden, sharp, look of disgust. "But you are covered in an extraordinary amount of literal, actual feces. My hands are far too valuable to be soiled by your desperate filth."
He reached into the Seamless Stretch Pack, rummaged briefly, and then slowly withdrew an item. It was not a wand, not a potion, and certainly not a spell component. It was a thick, mundane, dark wooden stick—a sturdy length of oak, perhaps meant for propping up a heavy plant or stirring a large vat of potion.
Sebastian smiled faintly—a terrifying, humorless expression that showed his teeth like a viper's.
"Professor Robert," he said, his voice now a chilling parody of courtesy, as he adjusted the grip on the wooden object. "As your immediate retirement is about to commence, I must insist that you endure this final stage of the process with some degree of fortitude."
"Please endeavor not to die. I still have a few questions that need answering before the Aurors arrive."