Sebastian leaned back in his leather chair, the luxurious padding offering only slight relief to his bone-deep exhaustion.
His body was protesting the twenty-four hours of intense magical focus, but his mind was alight, humming with the exhilarating knowledge of Rowena Ravenclaw's emotional alphabet. He had the full spectrum now, the seven foundational runes—a complete grammar for a new field of magic.
He slowly raised the small, thumb-sized glass vial. Inside, the liquid shimmered. It was the material legacy of a thousand-year-old regret resolved: Ghost Tears.
This ingredient was less a magical substance and more a crystallization of psychic energy. In the magical world, Ghost Tears were the stuff of legend and rumor, almost impossible to procure because they could only be produced by a spectral entity experiencing a singular, profound emotional breakthrough. Their value was incalculable.
Sebastian held the vial up to the streaming morning light, rotating it gently. The liquid inside didn't just refract light; it held light captive. It pulsed with a complex, internal aurora—a fleeting mix of the silver-white of the disappearing ghost, the crimson of Rowena's profound maternal love, and the soft, vibrant yellow of Helena's ultimate peace.
The most famous application, as magical history dictated, was as the necessary catalyst in the formula for Felix Felicis. The precise recipe, guarded by generations of Potion Masters, called for only three drops of Ghost Tears to bind the complex mixture and activate its "liquid luck."
Liquid Luck. The name itself suggested a manipulation of probabilistic magic, bending fate toward the drinker's desires. The potion was so rarely seen that most younger wizards believed it to be entirely fictional. Its rarity stemmed not just from its fiendishly complex six-month brewing process, but the impossibility of obtaining this singular, precious ingredient.
Sebastian frowned, already calculating the volume in the vial. Less than half full. Helena had been truly sorrowful. My heart hurts so much, he thought, assessing the tiny amount. A single vial of this caliber could command a fleet of galleons, yet its true value lay in the potential it unlocked.
After several minutes of intense contemplation, Sebastian divided the Ghost Tears' potential use into three parts:
Personal Alchemy (Internal Research): He would dedicate a portion to his own work, specifically integrating the refined E-Energy of "transcendent peace" into a new class of alchemical stabilizers, perhaps creating an object that could passively dampen negative emotional resonance, protecting the user from fear-based dark magic.
Severus Snape (Political/Social Capital): He decided to give a small, symbolic portion to Severus as a future, high-value gift—far exceeding a birthday present. Snape, the quintessential Potion Master, would appreciate the sheer difficulty and rarity, securing his future cooperation and loyalty.
Felix Felicis (Practical Advantage): He would use the final portion to brew the legendary potion.
The last point, however, was a logistical nightmare. Brewing Felix Felicis required six months of dedicated, meticulous attention—a commitment Sebastian, with his burgeoning responsibilities and the looming threat of the war, simply could not afford. The required regular attention and precise adjustments were too demanding.
Snape is too busy, and I need him focused on Dark Arts research.
Then, a sudden, bright flash of inspiration—a stroke of pure, practical genius—hit him.
"Ah, of course! Professor Horace Slughorn!"
Slughorn, currently retired, was a masterful Potion brewer, renowned for his talent and his obsessive love of rare ingredients and networking. Sebastian could gather all the other necessary ingredients, provide the Ghost Tears, and simply commission the delicate brewing process. The resulting potion would be his, and Slughorn would be indebted and delighted. It was the perfect exchange.
Sebastian held the vial closer to the window. The liquid, bathed in sunlight, truly looked sweet. It shone with such a mesmerizing light, dancing like a captive aurora, momentarily overriding the bone-weariness in his limbs.
I wonder how Professor Flitwick will react to the sudden, irreversible disappearance of a beautiful house ghost, Sebastian mused, shaking his head.
And then there's the Baron. Poor, unforgiving spirit. His unresolved issue—the need for Helena's forgiveness—has now been rendered moot by her transcendence. I hope the Baron vents his frustration by targeting Peeves; the students would surely appreciate the resulting chaos.
Knock, knock, knock!
The abrupt, nervous tapping broke the office's quiet magic. Sebastian swiftly slipped the priceless vial into his inner pocket, his hand brushing against his wand.
In his amplified magical perception, the entity outside the door was not merely tense; it was a churning nexus of dark, corrupted E-Energy.
The signature was horrifyingly distinct: a dense, swirling cloud of dark violet fear mixed with the sharp, toxic scarlet of pure, desperate resentment. This was not merely the stress of a tired man; this was the psychic signature of a soul being devoured.
Quirrell. And the parasitic entity within him.
Sebastian cleared his throat, his demeanor instantly shifting to that of the genial, slightly absent-minded professor. "Enter!"
Professor Quirinus Quirrell, dressed in his heavy, ill-fitting robes and turban, slipped inside. His movements were jerky, his pale face alarmingly drawn and clammy, stretched tight over a skull-like fragility. He offered a sickly, strained smile that seemed to tremble with the physical effort.
"P-Professor Swann, g-good morning," Quirrell stuttered, the habitual stammer sounding less like nervousness and more like actual physical exhaustion.
Sebastian leaned forward, his expression one of gentle, concerned curiosity. He was studying Quirrell like a slide under a microscope.
"Good morning, Professor Quirrell," Sebastian replied, his tone teasing but measured. "Though I must object to your timekeeping; it's nearly noon. Have you been keeping terribly late hours recently? You look quite… spectral."
Spectral. The word hit Quirrell (and the consciousness layered behind him) with a jolt of alarm.
You're the one who stays up all night, Swann! Your entire castle stays up all night! The internal voice was a silent snarl of fury and resentment.
Quirrell felt a wave of impotent rage mingled with the terror of his situation. His vitality was draining so rapidly that his bloodless complexion and physical weakness were becoming impossible to mask, even behind the stuttering persona. Why shouldn't I be pale? I am being consumed!
Voldemort's presence, an icy, constant drain, whispered in his mind: "He is testing you, Quirrell. He smells your fear. Control your pathetic human weakness!"
Quirrell's mind spun with panic and bitter regret. He remembered the intoxicating promise of immortality and power in the Albanian forest, and how quickly that dream had curdled into a living nightmare. He was not merely under observation by Dumbledore, the wizard he most feared; he was now under a literal, parasitic attack by the Dark Lord himself.
The time is approaching, Sebastian noted, his internal alchemist's gauge registering Quirrell's rapidly declining life force. He is running on borrowed time. The need for the unicorn's blood is imminent. The Fear E-Energy surging from the back of Quirrell's head, where Voldemort's face resided, was so dense it almost gave the visual impression of smoke.
Quirrell knew, with chilling certainty, that if he did not find a solution, he would be dead within two months, his body collapsing before the school year was even out. The Dark Lord, impatient and desperate, was relentlessly pushing him towards the Forbidden Forest.
"Unicorn blood," the voice hissed in Quirrell's mind. "It will sustain us until the Philosopher's Stone is secured. Go, now! Do not delay!"
Is it safe? Quirrell's core screamed in protest. He knew the legends: unicorn blood prolongs life, but only at the terrible cost of a cursed, half-life—a permanent existence trapped between light and darkness. He knew the only reason the Dark Lord was pressing this was to ensure Quirrell, facing permanent spiritual damnation, would be utterly devoted to obtaining the Stone to save himself.
Quirrell wanted, desperately, to confess, to scream out his betrayal, to throw himself at Dumbledore's mercy. But the fear was absolute: Dumbledore, facing the returned Dark Lord, would likely incinerate them both to ensure the greater good.
His thoughts turned, almost manic with self-preservation, to Professor Swann. The richest, most powerful, and arguably the most magically eccentric wizard he knew. Swann surely possessed rare elixirs, ancient remedies, or unique alchemical solutions that could replenish his vitality.
But to secure Swann's help, he needed an alliance. And to secure an alliance with Swann, he had to pass the infamous, ridiculous, maddening test: the Magic of Love.
Quirrell felt a fresh wave of sick resentment towards his unseen master. Voldemort, the self-proclaimed greatest magical mind, had scoffed at Swann's requirement: "Love is a flimsy, vague human delusion, Quirrell! Ignore it! We will take what we need!"
They had ignored it, and now Quirrell was dying.
For the past week, in the agonizing hours when Voldemort's consciousness was subdued by the faint morning light, Quirrell had been frantically researching the most basic tenets of defensive Charms, trying to understand the principles of love-based magic. He had finally cobbled together a crude, theoretical hypothesis. It was his final gamble.
His only option was to grit his teeth, play the role, and grovel for salvation.
Quirrell managed another shaky smile. "I-I confess, P-Professor. My body is w-weak. Too much l-late night research. The p-pressures of teaching D-Dark Arts… they are quite taxing, even for a seasoned academic like m-myself."
Sebastian's smile widened, but his eyes were calculating. Quirrell was at the absolute breaking point. The moment for intervention was now.
"Too taxing, you say?" Sebastian replied, his hand sliding into his robe pocket. "A man shouldn't admit to being so frail. You look like you've been losing a battle, Professor. You need something more substantial than a simple sleeping draught. Something that replenishes more than just simple fatigue."
Sebastian slowly withdrew the small, shimmering glass vial, holding it casually between his thumb and forefinger. The liquid inside caught the light, refracting it in a tiny, captive rainbow.
"I happen to have a bottle of something quite extraordinary here, Professor Quirrell," Sebastian said, his voice dropping slightly, becoming serious and intensely focused.
"A curative, a profound cleanser of spirit, a restorative unmatched in modern potionry. The properties are… unique. It demands honesty, Professor. If one has deeply sinned, its effects may be… uncomfortable."
He held the vial toward the deathly pale man, the tiny rainbow of light illuminating the fear in Quirrell's eyes.
"Before you take it, however, you must be entirely certain of your intentions, Professor Quirrell. This is a very specific type of medicine. This is pure, distilled peace, earned by the forgiveness of the innocent. I want to see how you respond to such an ingredient, Professor. Would you care to try it, and see how it works?"
The vial, containing the tears of a purified soul, floated momentarily between the alchemist and the possessed man, a silent, terrible test of their two opposing natures.