"They took the bait! The plan I discussed with Dumbledore can finally be put into action!" Sebastian thought, suppressing a triumphant grin.
He straightened his posture and turned back to Quirrell, whose whole body still radiated barely contained anxiety. "Have you given my proposal proper thought, Professor Quirrell? An alliance to secure a prize that will elevate us both beyond the mundane?"
Quirrell shifted uncomfortably, his eyes flicking involuntarily to the back of his head. He cleared his throat, attempting to regain the professorial dignity he had lost in the chaotic exchange.
"Before I can consider this… partnership, Professor Swann, you must address a glaring inconsistency," Quirrell began, his voice strained but firm.
"You are known throughout the magical world not just as a prominent academic, but as the richest man, possessing fortunes rumored to be beyond counting. Why on earth would a man of your established wealth and standing jeopardize his entire reputation for a single magical stone? Surely, gold is the least of your concerns. This is highly… suspicious."
Sebastian had anticipated this query. He settled his gaze on Quirrell, allowing a flicker of purely human greed to cross his expression.
"Ah, Professor Quirrell, that is the difference between a successful businessman and a wealthy miser," Sebastian said, leaning forward slightly. "A miser counts his pennies and fears losing them. A businessman knows that true wealth is not the money you have, but the money you can make without effort. And a good businessman can never have enough money."
Sebastian shrugged, allowing a look of theatrical exhaustion to cross his face. "If I could transmute common materials into pure gold for the rest of my life, without the endless travel, the sleepless nights negotiating with Goblins, and the tedious management of global assets, why wouldn't I? I could remain the richest man in the world effortlessly. You've never been the richest person in China, Professor. You wouldn't understand the sheer, crushing burden of maintaining that status. I desire the Stone for effortless, infinite financial security."
Quirrell visibly relaxed. The explanation was base, simple, and utterly believable to a man obsessed with power and wealth. He is a mercenary, not a megalomaniac. Good. As long as Sebastian's goal was money and not the destruction of a certain Dark Lord, the plan was sound.
Quirrell pressed on with the second, more tactical question. "Very well. Greed is a powerful motivator. But why choose a partner? Why not use your immense resources and considerable magical talent—talent I witnessed moments ago during the Quidditch match—to simply secure the Philosopher's Stone yourself?"
Sebastian allowed his expression to turn subtly haughty.
"In the public sphere, Professor Quirrell," Sebastian stated slowly, ticking off points with his fingers, "I am Sebastian Swann, the highly respected Muggle Studies professor at Hogwarts. I am Sebastian Swann, the powerful businessman and philanthropist in the international trade world. I am Sebastian Swann, the popular Quidditch sensation in the global sports world."
Quirrell still looked bewildered, so Sebastian articulated the unspoken reality with a sharp snap of his fingers.
"Reputation is important to me. Every one of those identities depends entirely on maintaining a spotless public image. I need to keep my hands absolutely clean. I need to be seen as the pillar of academic and commercial integrity. I am willing to pay for the prize, but I am unwilling to be the one caught committing the crime."
A slow, angry comprehension dawned on Quirrell's face. They expect me to be the fall guy. To take the risk, commit the theft, and bear the entire responsibility if caught. The quintessential arrogant elitist. The realization fueled a quiet resentment, but the logic was, again, undeniable.
"Then why should I cooperate?" Quirrell challenged, his voice rising in genuine pique. "If I'm taking all the risk, I should take all the reward. Wouldn't I be better off continuing my work alone?"
Sebastian smiled, a gesture that was half-amused, half-condescending. "Because you lack what I possess, Professor: access and protection."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "You may not realize this, but I am currently very close to the entire staff. I am Professor McGonagall's preferred consultant. I am a sparring partner and confidant of Professor Flitwick. Even Snape is—in his own deeply sullen way—one of my closest academic friends. I can effortlessly acquire detailed schematics and information about every layer of defense, a feat that would be impossible for you, the new, suspiciously nervous Defence professor."
Sebastian then delivered the crushing blow, the one that proved his intelligence was far superior to Quirrell's assumptions.
"Ah, yes," he said, tapping the surface of Quirrell's worn wooden desk. "You've successfully navigated the first obstacle, Fluffy, haven't you? That massive, drooling hound. But then you would have come to my contribution: the locked, heavily enchanted trapdoor. A door that contains the powerful alchemical material I installed."
Sebastian's eyes narrowed, his voice becoming a deadly whisper. "Any spell—any spell—cast on that door, regardless of how minute, will trigger a deafening Alarm Charm that will instantly notify the entire castle. The only way to open it is to solve the puzzle etched into the wood."
He paused for dramatic effect, letting the weight of the information sink in. "And that puzzle, Professor? It's not some ancient runic challenge. It's a very common, simple Muggle mathematics problem. A system of equations. Since I know for a fact that you wizards avoid arithmetic like the plague, you likely wouldn't even be able to understand the question, let alone the complex algebraic solution required. Make a single error in the calculation, and the alarm sounds. Your attempt fails."
Quirrell was reeling. His carefully constructed knowledge—his certainty that he only had to deal with classical curses and charms—was shattering. A Muggle problem? It was ingenious, insidious, and perfectly tailored to expose the average wizard's fatal weakness. The sweat on his brow became heavier.
"If you cooperate with me, I don't just give you the answer to that particular trap," Sebastian pressed, seeing his target weaken. "I give you the complete operational plan for the remaining obstacles, along with the necessary counter-measures, all while ensuring your activities are covered by my political influence within the staff."
Quirrell, desperate now, blurted out the question: "Then what is the answer to your challenge? Give me the solution!"
Sebastian looked at him with an expression of withering disdain, shaking his head. "Professor Quirrell, are you dreaming? We haven't even confirmed the terms of the alliance. Do you expect me to simply hand over the single most important key to the entire operation for free?"
Sebastian's tone softened slightly, pivoting back to the calculated benevolence. "However, you don't need to decide immediately. As a gesture of good faith, and as a simple, friendly reminder—Dumbledore has not even fully installed the Philosopher's Stone yet; he's merely preparing the final stage. You have time to contemplate the reality of your situation."
He walked to the door, pulling a slim, leather-bound notebook from his inner robe pocket. He returned to the desk, placing the journal containing the Notes on Advanced Love Magic gently beside Quirrell's elbow.
"But let me be clear," Sebastian stated, his voice devoid of warmth. "If you wish to be my ally, you must demonstrate your commitment. I require a partner with competence and initiative, not an incompetent footman. You have until tomorrow evening to show me that you understand the terms of this lethal contract."
Sebastian turned to leave, but paused, his hand on the doorknob, and looked back at the stunned Quirrell.
"You know where to find me when you've fully made up your mind."
Quirrell was left paralyzed in the small, stifling office, his eyes fixed on the notebook detailing the magic of Love, and his mind reeling from the sheer depth of Sebastian's knowledge.
He felt an immediate, internal mental backlash. "Retrieve it! Quickly, retrieve the Stone! He will only complicate matters! He is a fool, but he is a resourceful fool!" the weak, high-pitched voice echoed in his skull.
"Sir," Quirrell pleaded silently, his lips barely moving, "he is right about the Muggle conundrum. And this notebook… I cannot decipher the magic of Love. It is beyond me. We are stalled until we solve his algebraic lock or accept his terms."
A chilling silence settled before the voice returned, strained and bitter. "Grant his terms, then, you pathetic vessel! Humiliate yourself, if you must! But you will secure the final prize. And as for the notebook... No one knows this weakness better than I. The essence of this trivial magic is all I have studied for a decade. Hand it over. I will solve the cipher. I will give him what he seeks. Go now. Find a way to show him your commitment!"
Meanwhile, Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed Hagrid back to his cozy, smoke-filled cabin, still buzzing from the terrifying, chaotic spectacle of the Quidditch match. The instant the heavy, fur-draped door closed behind them, Ron exploded.
"Harry, you almost died up there! And it was Snape! I saw it! Hermione saw it! He was cursing your broom! It's what I've been saying all year—the man is pure malice in black robes! He despises all Gryffindors, but he hates you most of all!" Ron was pacing furiously, gesturing wildly with his oversized hands.
"Percy said Snape used to be even worse; he hated your father, too! This is what the Slytherins do when they can't win fair—they resort to Dark Arts!"
"Ron, calm down!" Hermione insisted, her own face flushed, not from fear, but from the intellectual anxiety of incomplete information. She placed her hands firmly on his shoulders to stop his pacing. "We cannot jump to conclusions, and we certainly cannot start spreading accusations without proof."
"Proof? What more proof do you need? Your eyes were glued to his face!" Ron demanded, throwing his hands up in frustration. "He was doing the spell! You said so yourself!"
Hermione shook her head, her bushy hair swinging emphatically. "I saw him casting a spell, yes, but I felt something was wrong about the timing. Think, Ron, think logically! Why would Professor Snape, who gives Harry preferential treatment in Potions class—a class where he could easily slip Harry a lethal ingredient privately—choose to murder him in the middle of a crowded stadium, in front of Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, and five hundred witnesses? It makes no sense!"
She dropped her voice. "Furthermore, if it was Snape, why did the jinx only stop when Quirrell fell over? It was Quirrell who was making the noise and causing the distraction. Professor Snape would have been able to maintain the curse even if he were distracted by Sebastian's little drama. It feels like we are being intentionally misdirected."
Harry, who had been quietly listening to his two friends argue with a strange mix of amusement and weary resignation, finally spoke, leaning against the hearth.
"Ron, I appreciate you looking out for me, but Hermione has a point. I don't believe Professor Snape was trying to harm me," Harry stated firmly.
"Ron, I was a defenseless orphan living in a Muggle house all summer. If Professor Snape truly wanted me dead, he could have found an assassin, or a rare poison, or done anything before I ever set foot in Hogwarts. Why wait until I'm surrounded by the most powerful wizards in Britain? It's simply not logical."
He grinned faintly. "Besides, I've had him as a teacher for a term now. If Snape wanted to harm me, he'd find a more humiliating, drawn-out way to do it. This was too quick, too obvious. It was prejudice against Slytherin, Ron, not an honest accusation."
Ron was utterly furious, his face crimson. He rounded on Hagrid, who was nervously attempting to push a tray of his infamously hard-baked goods onto the table.
"Hagrid! You were there! Tell them! Tell Harry and Hermione that Snape is the obvious villain here!"
Hagrid fidgeted, his enormous hands twisting the knot of his apron. "Now, now, kids, let's not point fingers at the teachers. I—I don't think any professor would try to harm Harry. But, Harry, you do need to be extra careful about the Slytherin folks. They… they get up to strange things."
Seeing the argument flare up again, Hagrid desperately grabbed the tray of baked goods. "All right, everyone! Enough of the excitement and the arguing. Harry's safe, isn't he? Let's all settle down, and everyone try my famous Rock Cakes! They'll calm your nerves right down!"
The three friends exchanged a collective, horrified glance at the sight of the heavy, charcoal-colored cakes—the only thing more likely to cause injury than the troll's club. For the sake of the newly solidified friendship, however, they all reluctantly reached for a cake, thus temporarily postponing the debate over Professor Snape's guilt.
Do you think Hermione and Ron will follow up on the Quirrell clue, or will Harry's insistence on Snape's innocence prevent them from investigating the actual threat?