It was the evening of July 14th. The air hung thick and heavy with the promise of the full moon—a strange, unsettling blend of anticipation and primal tension.
Sebastian waited patiently near the small cottage on the grounds of the Wolf Herb Garden. When Old Pete finally emerged, Sebastian couldn't help but blink in surprise, a faint smile playing on his lips. The elderly werewolf hadn't even attempted to find anything remotely appropriate for a high-profile media event.
Instead of a borrowed suit, or even a clean set of robes, Pete was proudly sporting his standard Wolf Herb Garden uniform.
It was a sturdy, forest-green jacket, patched in a few places from honest labour, with the distinctive logo—a stylized wolf silhouette nestled among flourishing acromantula webs—emblazoned boldly on the chest pocket. The emblem was far from subtle, practically shouting the wearer's identity and affiliation.
"Pete, my friend," Sebastian began, his voice laced with amusement. "I appreciate the brand loyalty, truly I do. But you're heading into the Ministry of Magic Atrium, not pruning Mandrakes. Couldn't you have at least put on a clean shirt? A tie, perhaps, to give the illusion of respectability?"
Old Pete puffed out his chest, the motion stretching the green fabric taut across his powerful frame. His expression wasn't one of embarrassment, but of fierce, defiant pride. "Respectability, Boss? Respectability is earned, not bought with silk or velvet. I've never owned a suit that meant as much to me as this uniform."
He gestured to the embroidered wolf. "This signifies my work, my worth, and the dignity you restored to me. You talk about respectability—I want those snooty wizards and witches to see that a werewolf, a manager of a successful business, is capable of honest, hard work. No fancy robe can convey that message. This uniform is the most powerful piece of clothing I own; it's my banner."
Sebastian's smile softened into genuine approval. This wasn't just a piece of clothing; it was a political statement, a carefully chosen visual protest against prejudice.
"Since you frame it as a declaration of intent, then I wouldn't dream of making you change," Sebastian conceded, glancing at his watch. The exact moment had arrived. "The time has come. This is your first official outing as a celebrity, Pete. Take my arm, tightly."
A familiar, unpleasant squeezing sensation wrapped around them both—the hallmark of Apparition. Old Pete momentarily grunted, clearly hating the experience, but held his composure.
The pair materialized instantly on a narrow, forgotten street in the heart of London. It was a place where Muggle reality and the hidden magical world intersected in a most mundane and slightly disheartening manner.
At the end of the grimy, neglected path stood their gateway: a near-obsolete, deep-red telephone booth, looking thoroughly neglected. Patches of paint had long peeled away, revealing the corroded metal beneath, a testament to Ministry bureaucracy's lack of care for visitor experience.
Pointing the way and striding quickly toward the rickety structure, Sebastian murmured, "Welcome to the hidden, glorious entrance to the Ministry. Classic, isn't it?"
Old Pete's expression tightened with a mixture of apprehension and awkwardness. "Boss, please, go ahead. I know you have direct Ministry Apparition privileges. It'll be a tight squeeze in there with me."
"Nonsense," Sebastian chuckled, reaching for the tarnished chrome handle of the booth. "You are the star of this particular circus tonight. I cannot, in good conscience, let my lead employee march in alone and get lost in the labyrinth of lower-level offices, or worse, be held up by some overzealous intern. A werewolf stepping into the Ministry of Magic is… a sensitive issue. It's far simpler if I accompany you."
Sebastian pushed the door open with a dry, metallic groan, and the two men squeezed inside. It was a snug fit; Old Pete's broad shoulders nearly touched both sides of the glass enclosure.
"Honestly, the lack of foresight here is criminal," Sebastian grumbled, looking up at the dusty, cobweb-laced ceiling. "This is the main visitor access point for the entire British Ministry of Magic, and it's a tiny, cramped box. They really need to upgrade to something more dignified. It's a genuinely unpleasant experience."
He lifted the heavy, old-fashioned receiver off the hook and began to dial the five numbers that every British witch and wizard knew led to the heart of their government: 6—2—4—4—2.
How archaic! Sebastian thought, rolling his eyes as the dial slowly ratcheted back into place with a buzzing grind. They're stuck using a rotary dial system from the 1950s. If I mention this to Fudge, I bet I could secure the contract to overhaul the entire visitor entrance system. A 'modern, digitally-integrated, and aesthetically pleasing access solution,' perhaps. The political optics alone would seal the deal.
As the dial resettled, a cold, artificially-modulated female voice echoed, not from the receiver, but clearly and eerily from the air inside the booth itself, as if an unseen, hostile sentinel were speaking right next to Sebastian's ear.
"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and the purpose of your visit, and prepare to be judged." (The last part was implied by the tone, Sebastian noted.)
Sebastian spoke clearly into the mouthpiece, maintaining a polite but firm tone. "Sebastian Swann. I am here by invitation from the Minister's office to attend the press conference. And beside me," he added, placing a hand lightly on Old Pete's shoulder, "is the main feature of the evening: Old Pete, the werewolf who is here to provide verifiable proof of the Wolfsbane Potion's efficacy."
The receptionist seemed to hesitate, a pause longer than usual. The name 'werewolf' clearly triggered an immediate bureaucratic alarm. But the name 'Sebastian Swann' instantly overrode it. When the voice returned, the frigid, automated hostility had been replaced by a forced, sycophantic warmth that was almost comical.
"Ah, Mr. Swann! Of course. Your credentials are fully verified and no further documentation is required. Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. As for Mr. Pete…"
The tone snapped back to cool detachment, but without the initial hostility. "Mr. Pete requires temporary authorization. Please check the coin return slot for your visitor's badge. This must be worn clearly and visibly at all times."
With a heavy clunk, a square, gleaming silver badge shot out of the coin-operated machine on the phone box shelf. Sebastian picked it up. Engraved on its surface, in precise, official lettering, was: WEREWOLF PETE: WOLFSBANE POTION TEST SUBJECT.
Sebastian smirked, handing the badge to the old man. "Well, you wanted them to know who you are. This leaves little to the imagination."
Old Pete, swallowing hard, carefully pinned the badge to his green uniform jacket, right next to the Wolf Herb Garden logo. The moment the badge settled against the fabric, the receptionist's voice resumed.
"Mr. Pete is now authorized. Please proceed to the main hall security desk upon arrival to register your wand and undergo the necessary magical scan."
Before Sebastian could respond, the entire phone booth lurched violently. The grinding sound of metal scraping against stone filled the small space as the booth began its descent, sinking slowly and deliberately into the ground as if it were a medieval, magically-powered elevator shaft.
It was completely dark inside, and the jarring, unpleasant noise made Sebastian cringe. "This is genuinely appalling," he muttered, mostly to himself. "A complete lack of consideration for the visitor experience. It's pitch black, noisy, and it feels like the mechanism might give out at any second."
A one-star review for the Ministry's Access Department, he judged harshly. I absolutely must approach Fudge with an offer to overhaul this section. An entrance like this undermines the entire image of a competent, powerful Minister.
Finally, with one last, shuddering squeal of metal, the phone booth stopped. The door slid open automatically, and a rush of fresh, cool air, accompanied by a cacophony of voices, the crackle of fireplaces, and the distant sound of running water, flooded the cramped space.
Old Pete stumbled out, blinking rapidly, utterly overwhelmed. His jaw dropped.
They stood at the edge of a colossal hall—the Ministry of Magic Atrium. The floor was paved with polished black marble that reflected the vaulted ceiling like a perfect mirror, multiplying the brilliant gold light that streamed down from the upper levels.
The walls were lined with dozens of ornate, gilded fireplaces. Every few seconds, a vibrant emerald-green flame would erupt in one of them, and a wizard or witch would step out, often brushing soot from their robes, adding a constant, noisy bustle to the massive space.
In the center of the hall, dominating the entire area, was an enormous fountain: the Fountain of Magical Brethren. It featured a towering gold statue of a noble-looking wizard holding a wand, surrounded by his 'inferiors,' including a witch, a centaur, a goblin, and a house-elf, all seemingly looking up in adoration. The sheer size and blinding opulence of the scene hit Old Pete with the force of a Stunner.
"So this is what the seat of government looks like," Old Pete whispered, his voice hoarse with shock, his eyes darting from the gold statues to the bustling fireplaces. He was a man who spent his days surrounded by dirt and plants, and this glittering, massive display of wealth and power was almost too much to process.
Catching Sebastian watching him, the old man quickly composed himself, a sheepish, slightly embarrassed smile replacing his awe. "Boss, forgive me. I'm making a complete fool of myself, gawking like a country bumpkin who's never seen a city before. Where to next?"
Sebastian just laughed, his hand coming up to pat the old man's shoulder reassuringly. "There is nothing to apologize for, Pete. It is designed to impress, intimidate, and make you feel small. Don't let it work. Come on, let's get you checked in. Our destination is waiting."
They walked across the polished marble, heading toward a small, inconspicuous desk nestled beneath a shadowed archway. Above the table was a small, dusty plaque that read: SECURITY AND WAND REGISTRATION. Behind it sat a wizard who looked utterly and completely defeated by his job. He was slouched, his hair dishevelled, his gaze fixed blankly on the endless stream of incoming wizards.
As Sebastian approached, the wizard's eyes, dull and lifeless a moment before, snapped wide. Recognition—and a jolt of alarm—immediately brought him upright.
"Good evening, Mr. Swann! Minister Fudge was literally just asking if you had arrived yet," the security wizard stammered, pulling himself instantly to attention. His eyes flickered nervously to Old Pete, who was standing solidly in his green uniform, the silver badge gleaming.
"And this is the… the gentleman you mentioned?" the guard asked, his forehead furrowing with official procedure—a procedure he clearly didn't want to follow. He reluctantly pulled out a thin, flexible metal rod, the kind used for magical scanning, and approached the werewolf.
The rod's tip briefly skimmed the air near Old Pete's chest. The security guard, however, barely gave the reading a second glance. Instead, he quickly stepped back, waving his hand dismissively as if Old Pete carried a literal contagion. The guard didn't look at the werewolf again, focusing solely on Sebastian.
"Perfectly clear, Mr. Swann. Please, proceed directly to the lifts. No need to register your wand tonight; you are expected. Welcome."
"Shouldn't you be checking that more… thoroughly?" Sebastian asked, a hint of dry sarcasm in his voice, gesturing vaguely at the elaborate magical security protocol the guard was ignoring.
The wizard managed a strained, forced smile that didn't reach his tired eyes. "Absolutely not, Mr. Swann. If you brought him, he's cleared. We trust your judgment entirely, sir. Wouldn't dream of delaying you."
Sebastian gave a short, satisfied nod, pleased that his influence was so immediate and absolute. He took Old Pete's elbow and steered him away from the desk.
"Boss, is that normal?" Old Pete asked, the doubt flickering across his face again. "That was… too easy. Intuition tells me that a security check for an unregistered werewolf—especially on the night of the full moon—should have involved at least three armed Aurors and a full body-binding curse."
"It would be, under normal circumstances," Sebastian explained, leading them to a cluster of lifts—large, brass-caged boxes that ran up and down the wall.
"If an ordinary, unknown werewolf walked through that phone booth, they'd be interrogated, scanned with half a dozen different spells, and probably asked to return their wand to their home before being allowed entry. Then they'd be escorted by a squadron of guards."
He smiled, pushing the ornate brass gates of one of the lifts open. "But this isn't about the werewolf, Pete. It's about who brought him. My political capital is high enough that they simply won't risk offending me by enforcing tedious, time-wasting rules on my guest. You're exempt from the Ministry's usual bureaucratic incompetence tonight. You're safe."
Stepping into the magical elevator, Sebastian pressed the button marked 'Level Two: Department of Magical Law Enforcement,' where the Ministry's main press room was located. The cage shot upward, the experience far faster and smoother than the terrifying descent in the phone booth.
As the lift slowed to a halt, the gates slid open, revealing a much less crowded, though still busy, corridor. Just as the lift doors parted, Sebastian caught sight of a familiar figure in the distance.
The figure was unmistakable: clad in flowing, perpetually dramatic black robes, moving with that signature, oil-slicked elegance, gliding rather than walking. It was a silhouette that could only belong to one man in the entire magical world.
A grin spread across Sebastian's face. Of course, the Head of Slytherin, always early, always brooding, always where the action was.
Sebastian stepped out of the lift, raising his voice to ensure it carried down the stone corridor.
"Hello, Severus! Don't look so thrilled to be here, old friend! Wait up for us—let's face the journalists together!"