Sebastian leaned back in his chair, a silent observer of the bizarre rehabilitation project unfolding in the castle corridors. With the constant, draining presence of the Dark Lord's psychic demand slightly alleviated by Sebastian's "Philosopher's Stone Water," Quirinus Quirrell was undergoing a startling physical transformation.
His skin, once the mottled, pale grey of ancient parchment, now possessed a faint, almost translucent pinkness. His eyes, previously sunken and frantic, held a new, though distinctly artificial, glint of energy.
The change did not go unnoticed by the students. They whispered that Professor Quirrell now often managed a genuine, if fleeting, smile, and his stammer—the lifelong affectation of a nervous man—was significantly diminished, suggesting either a new confidence or a dramatic reduction in physical stress.
Sebastian's magical perception confirmed the superficial recovery. The dominant psychic signature emanating from Quirrell's body was no longer the poisonous, all-consuming scarlet of fear. Now, it was a volatile blend: patches of vibrant yellow (an aggressive, transactional cunning) and frequent, jarring bursts of red light (a savage, desperate excitement).
Sebastian knew the source of the latter emotion. Quirrell, terrified of the rapidly dwindling "Stone Water" supply and the exorbitant thousand-Galleon price per bottle, had become a frantic, nocturnal entrepreneur. He had embarked on an unofficial, highly effective career as a freelance Dark Wizard catcher.
The evidence of this arrived on Sebastian's desk one brisk Friday morning in early March, not as official correspondence, but as an aggrieved, hastily sealed private letter from his former associate, Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Office.
…frankly, Swann, your school's current Defence Against the Dark Arts instructor is decimating our training regimen! We are running out of high-probability targets for the trainee Aurors! The man is relentless. He's turning up every minor curse-breaker, petty fiend, and Gringotts runner with a small bounty on their head. Last week, he delivered three separate groups of 'amateur' goblins, bound with an unnecessarily aggressive full-body bind, demanding immediate payment. He even claimed the parchment used for the arrest warrants as 'business expenses.' Our trainees are getting no field experience, and I am running out of budget for his ridiculous rewards! Confine the man to the classroom, or better yet, suggest he focus on something less profitable, like Charms.
Sebastian chuckled, tearing the letter in half. Quirrell was not just surviving; he was thriving on pure, mercenary desperation, exhibiting the resourcefulness of a man terrified of eternal damnation and eternal thirst. It was working perfectly.
Sebastian was reviewing a complex stack of third-year theoretical exam papers—noting with satisfaction the unexpected excellence of a certain Miss Granger—when a hesitant knock, knock, knock interrupted the quiet focus of his office.
He opened the door to find an assembly that defied the very laws of Hogwarts social physics: The Impossible Quartet.
Harry Potter stood uneasily in front, his green eyes darting around the room, clearly nominated as the spokesman but lacking the required confidence for the job.
Behind him, Draco Malfoy and Ronald Weasley stood with a rigid, unnatural space between them, their faces meticulously turned away from each other as if the mere sight of their rival was physically repugnant. Their enmity hung in the air like ozone.
Bringing up the rear was Hermione Granger, who looked as if she had recently wrestled a Blast-Ended Skrewt—her usually neat hair was astonishingly voluminous and frizzy, standing out from her head like a panicked, bushy halo, a sure sign of extreme intellectual or emotional stress.
How in Merlin's name did these four find common ground?
Sebastian stepped aside, gesturing them in. He conjured an assortment of comfortable, non-house-aligned armchairs and poured each child a glass of sparkling, cool soda—a deliberate, non-magical gesture of hospitality.
"Right," Sebastian said, settling into his chair. "Explain yourselves. This grouping suggests either a highly unusual alliance against a greater foe, or a catastrophic magical accident. Did you all finally get into a proper brawl in the Great Hall?"
The four heads shook in emphatic unison. They were terrified of being labeled rule-breakers and subjected to Dumbledore's brand of gentle, yet inexorable, reprimand. They quickly shifted responsibility back to Harry.
"Professor Swann," Harry began, his voice barely above a nervous squeak, "we need to ask you something, and we beg you, please, not to mention this conversation to anyone else. It's completely confidential."
"You have my word, sealed by a professor's oath—a very boring, legally binding oath, mind you," Sebastian assured them, keeping his tone light to encourage the confession. "Now, tell me. What is the nature of this inquiry?"
Harry swallowed hard, exchanging a nervous glance with Ron. "We… we wanted to know, purely hypothetically, what are the legal repercussions if someone were discovered to be breeding a dragon without obtaining the proper Ministry permits?"
Sebastian processed the information immediately. Hagrid. Of course. The simple question confirmed his suspicion. This was not a theoretical query; it was a desperate plea for legal counsel.
"The repercussions?" Sebastian paused, tapping his chin thoughtfully, his expression growing theatrically grave. "Well, let me be perfectly clear: under the 1709 Statute of Secrecy, unauthorised ownership of a Class XXXX Beast or higher is a serious offense. Breeding one is an act of criminal recklessness."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes gleaming with mischievous intent.
"If the perpetrator causes serious consequence—a fire, or a breach of the Statute—they would certainly face imprisonment, likely a long term in Azkaban. Oh, and just so you know," Sebastian added, grinning, "any individuals found to have knowingly aided, abetted, or covered up the offense are considered accomplices, and are equally guilty under Ministry law."
The effect was instantaneous and spectacular. Ron Weasley, who was already holding his soda cup precariously, began shaking so violently the liquid sloshed over the rim. Hermione's eyes were wide and frantic.
"Azkaban?" Hermione whispered, swallowing audibly. "Professor, we were just… inquiring! For an essay! A hypothetical on the classification of dangerous beasts!"
"An excellent, if dramatically specific, essay topic," Sebastian agreed smoothly.
"We have pressing Charms homework!" Hermione suddenly declared, pushing herself off the couch with urgency. She shot the others a severe glare—a silent instruction to flee—and began marching stiffly towards the door. "We'll just go now. Thank you for your time, Professor."
"Wait a moment," Sebastian called out, his voice pitched just loud enough to halt their flight at the threshold. "Hagrid is raising a dragon?"
The four children froze as if struck by a full-body binding curse. Sebastian's question confirmed their worst fears: the Professor hadn't just guessed the topic; he had correctly identified the culprit.
Ron, on the verge of tears, turned slowly, his face white. "P-Professor S-Swann… are you… are you going to send us to Azkaban as a-a-accomplices?"
Harry, while panicking internally, managed a deep sigh. He had hoped Sebastian would be his usual, dryly helpful self, not this terrifying blend of former Auror and sadistic legal expert. He tried to shoot Ron a look of calming reassurance, but Ron was too far gone.
Before Harry could speak, Draco Malfoy, seeing a perfect opportunity for both self-preservation and political advantage, stepped forward.
"Professor Swann, please," Malfoy began, his tone surprisingly oily and flattering, dripping with an affected respect. "We are all, essentially, on the same side here—the side of Hogwarts Security and Ministerial Compliance. We came to you precisely because we trust your discretion."
He then glanced at Ron with sudden, cutting malice. "If an arrest truly is necessary to ensure the Statute of Secrecy, I suggest starting with Weasley. They have such an absurd number of children already; taking one would hardly cause undue administrative stress on the Ministry's census records."
"Malfoy!" Harry barked, stepping in front of Ron before the inevitable explosion.
Ron, however, was past fury, his face contorted in a silent scream of betrayal and terror.
"Settle down, gentlemen," Sebastian commanded, a genuine, amused grin finally breaking through his serious façade. "No one is going to Azkaban today. I promised secrecy, and I honor my commitments."
He turned to Hermione, the only one capable of delivering facts. "Miss Granger, you are generally the most level-headed and fair person in this room. Please, sit down, take a deep breath, and give me a precise, factual account of how a high-security situation involving a Class XXXX beast escalated to the point where Malfoy believes he is a privileged informant."
Hermione, visibly relaxing as Sebastian's kind eyes returned, gathered her considerable composure. Her hands, however, instinctively flew up to claw at her already voluminous hair in a characteristic gesture of stress.
"Professor, the situation is this: A few weeks ago, Hagrid acquired a dragon egg. We suspect he won it from a stranger in the Hog's Head, perhaps in a drunken card game. Since then, he has been obsessively keeping it warm, practically locked in his hut, trying to incubate it himself."
She spoke quickly, her anxiety manifesting as sheer velocity. "Ron and Harry and I have been trying, unsuccessfully, to persuade him to surrender it to the authorities—the Dragon Sanctuary in Romania, perhaps. He is completely fixated and refuses to listen to any logical argument about the illegality or the danger. We were discussing this—perhaps loudly, I admit—in the library earlier this week, attempting to devise a plan to subtly extract the egg."
She paused, looking pointedly at Malfoy. "And Malfoy overheard us. He then threatened to report the matter to the Ministry of Magic directly unless we allowed him to view the egg. He claimed he wanted to ensure 'the integrity of the law,' but he clearly just wanted to see a live dragon before anyone else."
"A threat? Ridiculous interpretation," Malfoy immediately interjected, bristling at the suggestion he was merely an envious child. He smoothed his robes and stepped forward, adopting an air of aristocratic, almost professional vigilance.
"Professor Swann, allow me to clarify my necessary intervention," Malfoy stated. "I was studying in the restricted section—quietly, I might add—when Weasley's bellowing completely shattered the peace. I could hear every word three tables away! He was practically screaming about 'Hagrid going mad' and 'trying to keep a wild beast in his wooden shed.'"
Malfoy mimicked Ron with theatrical, disgusted perfection, cupping his hands around his mouth and roaring in a low, crude tone: "I think the idiot has gone completely off his rocker! A dragon! In that hut! What a reckless imbecile!"
He glared at Ron, who was vibrating with suppressed fury. "Had I not interrupted their incredibly public, reckless conspiracy in time, the news would have been common knowledge among every busybody and prefect in the school by now. The library was packed that afternoon."
Malfoy turned his attention back to Sebastian, his chin held high in self-congratulation.
"I simply offered them a controlled release of privileged information—an exclusive viewing—in exchange for their silence. I was protecting their secret, Professor, and more importantly, protecting the safety of the school. If rumors of an unauthorised dragon are to circulate, I want it to be perfectly clear to any Auror—or former Auror—that the source of the security breach was Weasley's lack of volume control, not my diligent efforts to contain the scandal."
"So, we should thank you for your espionage?" Ron snarled, finding his voice again.
"Of course, you should!" Malfoy declared, utterly serious. "My efforts prevented a mass panic and a full Ministry sweep of the grounds. I secured their silence, ensured they had no need to run their mouths, and I determined the species! It's a Norwegian Ridgeback—a magnificent, extremely dangerous breed!"
Malfoy's eyes lit up with genuine, fervent passion. "After hatching, they must be fed half a bucket of brandy mixed with chicken blood every half hour to ensure optimal growth! That's the proper maintenance for a Ridgeback!"
Sebastian raised a hand, cutting off Malfoy's unsolicited, detailed advice on draconian infant care.
"I understand the chain of events perfectly now," Sebastian said, his smile both amused and knowing. "The plot, the panic, the betrayal, and the resulting forced alliance born of shared fear. Now, let's discard the legal threats and the dragon diet suggestions."
He fixed his gaze on Harry, Ron, and Hermione, then briefly on Malfoy.
"The dragon must be removed. Hagrid must be protected. You came to me, knowing my history and my capabilities, because you need a way to securely and permanently remove a Norwegian Ridgeback egg—or fledgling dragon—from the Hogwarts grounds without alerting Dumbledore, the Ministry, or causing Hagrid to have a nervous breakdown."
Sebastian leaned forward, his hands flat on the desk. "So, tell me the real plan. What is the deadline, and what specifically do you need me to do? Would the Dragon egg hatch soon?"