The ensuing confrontation was less a duel and more a deeply satisfying, meticulously executed demolition. Robert's sophisticated dark spells were rendered impotent by Sebastian's casual deflections and layered, invisible protections.
The Professor of Muggle Studies, the mild-mannered alchemist, moved with the terrifying economy of a seasoned combat veteran, systematically neutralizing every frantic counter-attack Robert launched.
When Sebastian finally disarmed Robert, the wand was sent spinning high into the air, landing in the furthest shadows of the clearing with a faint, metallic clatter. The moment the source of his power was gone, the ropes of Transfigured grass tightened further, securing Robert into a rigid, sobbing bundle of despair.
Sebastian then retrieved the simple, thick oak stick—the baseball bat, as Fred had instantly recognized it—from where he had temporarily placed it. He then proceeded to administer the physical punishment he felt was necessary, precisely calibrated to cause maximum pain and minimum lasting magical harm.
It was a brutal, non-magical act of vengeance, driven by the cold, pure fury of watching a coward prey on the innocent.
They said they wanted to cleanse the world of Death Eaters and evil. Sebastian's internal monologue was razor sharp, his scorn absolute.
There are dozens of Death Eaters, known murderers and torturers, walking free or incarcerated in Azkaban. If he had somehow infiltrated the Ministry to take down someone like Lucius Malfoy, or even stormed Azkaban to challenge a true terror like Bellatrix Lestrange, I would salute him as a hero.
But he didn't. He spent a decade perfecting dark magic only to target children, using them for a selfish, desperate shortcut to power.
This is not noble rage. This is a classic, pathetic case of bullying the weak and fearing the strong!
Sebastian tossed the oak stick aside, allowing it to de-Transfigure back into a pile of dry, flattened grass. He then calmly walked over to Fred, whose eyes were wide with a mix of shock and utter adoration, and kicked the now-discarded wooden implement gently toward the boy's feet.
"Fred," Sebastian said, his voice surprisingly gentle considering the recent, bone-jarring violence, "I've reduced Professor Robert's head to a state resembling a poorly boiled ham, but I haven't quite managed to vent all my anger."
Fred looked at the groaning, inert Robert, whose features were swollen and distorted beyond recognition, resembling a particularly lumpy pumpkin. Fred was trembling, not from fear, but from the raw, exhilarating chaos of the moment.
"How about you? Feel like a few solid whacks to balance out the terror and pain he put you through?"
Fred shook his head vigorously, less out of pity and more because he genuinely thought his brain would rattle out of his ears. The sight of Professor Swann, the mild-mannered alchemist, savagely beating a Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor like a rogue Bludger, was both terrifying and incredibly satisfying.
"N-no, Professor, I think… I think I'm good," Fred managed, giving a shaky, thumbs-up sign. "You were magnificent. Truly. I didn't know you were that strong."
Sebastian merely smiled faintly—a shark-like glint in his eyes that was immediately replaced by a look of serious concern as he knelt by Snape.
"Severus, report. How are you? Can you possibly manage a coherent sentence or two, or must I carry your dramatically limp body back to the castle?"
Snape, whose life had been saved not by some grand spell but by a swift administration of excellent alchemy, was already past the worst of the injury. The Bone-Regeneration Potion had done its work, knitting the micro-fractures in his ribs, and the Blood-Replenishment Draft had chased the grey from his face. The White Essence, applied directly to his chest, had sealed the wound instantly, leaving only a pale, angry scar.
He pushed himself up, leaning heavily on one elbow, his voice still weak but regaining its characteristic low register. "It was hardly a 'serious injury,' Swann. Your potions are, as always, aggressively effective."
Snape then forced a thin, strained smile—a sight that caused Fred's jaw to drop—and pointed to the massive, smoking imprint of the fiery dragon Sebastian had summoned.
"I seem to recall some rather strict statutes regarding the summoning of incendiary creatures within a protected forest environment. The penalty for arson, if memory serves, is quite steep. Are you quite certain you aren't going to be spending the rest of your life in a cell for this ecological disaster?"
Fred stared, slack-jawed. Professor Snape… told a joke? This night was officially the most bizarre, terrifying, and profoundly revealing night in Hogwarts history.
Sebastian rolled his eyes with familiar exasperation as he waved his wand, systematically calming and extinguishing the smoldering grass and shrinking the imprint of the Vulcan spell.
"I gave you half a dozen protective charms before you even left for this disastrous adventure, Severus," Sebastian complained, the lecture tone returning. "Why you insisted on going into the Forbidden Forest with only two active defenses against a Dark Arts master, however incompetent, is beyond me. You shouldn't have been injured in the first place."
Fred immediately sprang to Snape's defense, his admiration for the Potions Master at a fever pitch.
"That's not fair, Professor Swann! It's completely my fault for being the bait! And Professor Robert acted incredibly deceitfully, using me as a human shield! Without that low tactic, Professor Snape would have ended the duel instantly!"
Sebastian stopped his clean-up, looking at the two unlikely allies—the sneering, recovering Slytherin and the fervent, messy Gryffindor—with genuine amusement.
"Ah, the bond of shared trauma and immediate life-saving assistance. A powerful, if highly biased, form of testimony," Sebastian conceded, ruffling Fred's hair lightly. He glanced back at Snape, raising an eyebrow in a clear, silent communication: I see your new fan.
"But you are right," Sebastian admitted. "Professor Robert is handled. Now, for the far more intriguing matter: the loot."
The trio, moving slowly due to Snape's injury and Robert's incapacitation, made their way towards the immense stone monolith and the shimmering, vibrant yellow light of the portal.
As Fred approached, he noticed, just as Robert had, a set of incredibly faint, tiny characters carved into the granite near the light-gate's threshold. The yellow light of the portal nearly obscured them, requiring careful focus to read:
Only those with the courage and the dedication to shoulder the burdens of the world may pass through this unknown doorway to the future.
Fred hesitated, his excitement bubbling over. He voiced his earlier, crucial observation: "Professor... you might still need my blood to open it. Professor Robert said he needed my blood to activate it."
"Nonsense," Sebastian stated instantly, dismissively. "If this gateway is truly linked to Godric Gryffindor, it wouldn't require a vile, barbaric act of blood sacrifice. Gryffindor was one of Hogwarts' great founders, a man of fierce honor and a heart meant for the world. Robert used a perversion of the ritual to force its activation, an evil shortcut. The true process is certainly not based on a student's bleeding arm."
Sebastian looked directly at Fred, a light of encouragement in his eyes. "You are a Gryffindor. You possess the bloodline and the bravery. Since you were the unwilling key, you should attempt the correct method. What do you say, Fred? Are you ready to try?"
The allure was irresistible. Gryffindor's Legacy. Robert had promised unparalleled power. This was almost certainly the legendary treasure. Fred's heart hammered against his ribs. Two Slytherins and one true Gryffindor. Clearly, the universe wants me to find this.
He took a deep breath, focusing his mind on the bravest, most defining moment of his life: the moment he and George had stood up to Filch after a particularly daring prank, taking the full blame without hesitation. He pushed his hands forward, toward the vibrant yellow light.
Plunk!
The sound was soft, like knocking on a thick, invisible pane of glass. Fred bounced off the field, staggering backward. He rubbed his forehead, utterly deflated.
"Ah," he sighed, the disappointment heavy in his voice. "I guess I'm not courageous enough. I thought facing near-death might count."
"It seems the required courage is not for pranks, or even facing down a dark wizard," Snape commented dryly, fully upright now, though leaning against the monolith. "It speaks of shouldering the burdens of the world. That is an entirely different caliber of madness."
Snape shook his head when Sebastian offered him the chance to try. "I have enough burdens, thank you. And my courage is not of the global, heroic variety. It is far more localized and entirely self-serving. I will decline the opportunity to receive a nasty rejection from a thousand-year-old light show."
Sebastian nodded, his gaze fixed on the inscription, his expression introspective. "Not just courage, but the dedication to carry that weight. It requires a specific philosophy—a willingness to sacrifice all personal comfort for the collective good, without expectation of reward."
He straightened his robes, smoothed a few wrinkles, and walked purposefully toward the yellow light.
Fred frowned. "Professor, are you going to try? But... you're a Slytherin, aren't you? It's Gryffindor's door!"
Sebastian merely offered a philosophical shrug. "The Sorting Hat takes only a few minutes. Destiny, Fred, can take a lifetime to reveal itself."
He didn't hesitate. He simply reached out his hand and pushed it directly into the shimmering yellow light.
In the blink of an eye, Professor Swann was gone.
Fred stared, momentarily stunned. "He's in! Wait! If a Slytherin can enter Gryffindor's treasure... does that mean Professor Swann is actually a Gryffindor? No, wait... that means I might be able to get in, too! Unless... unless the circle is broken!"
Snape, retrieving Robert's wand from the shadows and pocketing it, merely watched the portal with a look of resigned exhaustion. "Focus, Weasley. The light is still active. The test is still ongoing."
Sebastian felt a strange, cold rush, not of air, but of pure magic. He blinked, finding himself standing not in the cramped, dark clearing, but on a vast, windswept hill.
Before him stood the towering, pristine white castle of Hogwarts, not the centuries-old stone structure he knew, but a breathtakingly new, impossibly perfect vision of white granite and soaring towers, glistening as if freshly conjured from the mountain itself.
A psychological test. An illusion, or perhaps a memory echo, Sebastian surmised instantly, his mind racing to analyze the magical signature. This feels like a hyper-realistic pensieve memory, yet it is interactive.
As he looked around, the massive, newly carved oak main gates of the castle swung open, and a figure emerged. He was a colossal man, taller than Hagrid, with a great, tangled shock of flaming red hair, a thick beard woven with gold rings, and eyes that twinkled with wild, passionate fire. He wore simple, practical leather armor and carried a magnificent sword casually over his shoulder.
Sebastian felt a profound, instinctive recognition, a visceral shock that only a few historical figures could evoke.
"What in the name of Merlin's beard is the meaning of this interruption?" the giant man boomed, his voice rumbling like distant thunder, though his expression was one of curiosity, not malice.
Sebastian stared at the vision of power and idealism. "Godric Gryffindor? Are you... still present? Still alive?"