Sebastian's booming, cheerful hail echoed down the Ministry corridor, momentarily piercing the severe, professional quiet that hung over the second level. The figure in black, gliding with a patented degree of controlled menace, paused and slowly rotated on the heel of his boot.
Severus Snape's dark eyes fixed on Sebastian, and then slid with a practiced flicker of disdain to Old Pete, who still looked like a sturdy, slightly awkward tree in his green work jacket.
"You have just arrived, Swann?" Snape's voice was, as always, a low, smooth baritone of condescension. "I had foolishly assumed you would be here hours ago, wrestling with the delicate threads of your numerous 'complex interpersonal relationships.' I hear you've practically flooded this level with every Potions Master who owes you a favor, all here to offer Damocles Belby a standing ovation."
Snape offered Old Pete the barest, coldest dip of his chin—a silent, non-committal acknowledgement that passed for a greeting. Considering Snape's profound, lifelong hatred of werewolves—a hatred born from decades of prejudice and likely exacerbated by his Slytherin upbringing—Sebastian actually viewed the gesture as remarkably restrained. No venom, no insult, just a raw, chilling absence of warmth.
"The sun hasn't even fully set, Severus. Plenty of time," Sebastian replied easily, utterly unperturbed by the usual hostility. "Besides, one must maintain appearances. I had to personally collect the star employee, of course."
To avoid any chance of Snape deciding to weaponize his vocabulary against Old Pete, Sebastian immediately steered the conversation toward a topic he knew would soften the Potions Master's rigid posture: Harry Potter.
It had been three weeks since the end of the term. Per Dumbledore's peculiar request, Harry was still technically residing with the Dursleys, protected by the ancient magic of his mother's bloodline. However, that protection only required him to sleep there.
During the day, Harry was free to travel. Sebastian's long-term plan had been implemented: Harry was now using the Knight Bus to travel to Swann Manor daily, where he would receive private tutoring—specifically in magic—a legally ambiguous move that bypassed the Ministry's restrictions on underage magic use in the Muggle world.
Sebastian, of course, was too busy to teach him personally, so he had appointed the best possible—and most motivated—substitute: Severus Snape. Sebastian was genuinely curious how that dynamic was playing out.
"It's been a few weeks now since the end of term. How is young Harry's apprenticeship progressing?" Sebastian asked, injecting a deliberate curiosity into his tone.
The immediate transformation in Snape's demeanor was striking. The cold, reptilian gaze that had been fixed on Sebastian melted away, replaced by a subtle, almost unnoticeable softening around the eyes. A tiny, involuntary smile—or perhaps a highly controlled twitch of pride—played on the edge of his lips.
"Superb," Snape stated, his voice gaining a resonant timbre of satisfaction, far more pleasant than his usual cynical drawl. "His aptitude for theoretical work is precisely what I expected. He has already consumed the curriculum for all the Third Year's required potioneering and is now moving into practical application. I shall begin him on a few advanced brewing techniques within the next few days."
"I knew it," Sebastian said, nodding vigorously. "He must have completely inherited Lily's inherent skill with potions. That talent bypasses genetics, I swear."
Snape nodded in profound, solemn agreement, the mention of Lily's name smoothing his expression entirely.
"Indeed. We must thank the heavens for that blessing. However, I didn't bring him to the Manor to merely sit and stir cauldrons all day. The practice of actual magic, the spells themselves, must wait until his return to Swann Manor in a few days. Then, and only then, can I properly begin his instruction in the Dark Arts… or rather, the defense against them."
Snape paused, and then, a truly remarkable, unprompted expression of pure, beaming happiness cracked through his habitual scowl. It wasn't just a smile; it was a triumphant, fatherly expression that completely rearranged his features.
"But what I must say, Sebastian," Snape continued, his voice now positively buoyant with smug satisfaction, "is that Harry is a singularly sensible, thoughtful child. Entirely, utterly unlike his crooked, arrogant father."
Sebastian was genuinely taken aback. What on earth did the boy do to elicit such direct, glowing, and utterly unguarded praise? This was more than professional pride; this was a personal victory being celebrated.
Snape, clearly too pleased to maintain any air of mystery, raised his head slightly and delivered the punchline with an unmistakable note of deep, abiding pride.
"He is exceptionally clever. Every day, he volunteers—volunteers, mind you—to prepare lunch for us both. I told him, repeatedly, that he shouldn't waste his time on such trivial, menial matters, that I could handle the midday sustenance perfectly fine myself."
Snape folded his arms, trying to inject a sigh of internal suffering into his narrative, but failing spectacularly. "But he simply wouldn't listen, Sebastian! He insisted! He argued that since teaching me advanced Potions was such a difficult, time-consuming effort, it was his duty to ensure I was well-fed and rested, taking full responsibility for the kitchen."
Snape threw his hands up in a theatrical gesture of defeat. "I had no choice. I couldn't convince him otherwise, so I grudgingly permitted him to continue. And you know," he finished, his face glowing with suppressed delight, "the meals he prepares are, quite frankly, excellent. Delicious. The flavors are subtle, yet perfectly balanced. Truly… fragrant!"
Sebastian was left momentarily speechless. Fragrant? Snape's own cooking, Sebastian recalled from past interactions, consisted mostly of burned toast and hastily assembled, unseasoned slop. Of course, Harry's cooking would seem like a Michelin-star experience in comparison.
More importantly, this was the complete and utter defeat of James Potter. Snape had inherited James's son, and not only was the boy excelling in Snape's favorite subject, but he was also nurturing and caring for Snape—the man James Potter had most despised in the world. James Potter would be spinning in his grave like a broken Snitch.
Look at you, Severus, Sebastian thought, suppressing a theatrical grimace. You are trying to sound burdened, yet you look like a beaming father who just received a 'World's Best Teacher' mug, entirely convinced that this small act of kindness is proof of Harry's superior moral fiber.
Sebastian decided to play the role of the envious bystand to perfection, feeding Snape's immense satisfaction.
"That's truly unfair, Severus," Sebastian sighed dramatically, shaking his head. "A brilliant mind and he makes you lunch every day? I'm left teaching him the importance of portfolio diversification and risk mitigation. What do I get? A nod and a hefty fee. The boy is practically doting on you, making your miserable life just a little bit brighter. It's an outrage! You have truly won the war, Severus. You got the best part of Lily's son—the part that cares for you. I am simply green with jealousy."
Sebastian's over-the-top envy delighted Snape immensely. The Potions Master's triumphant, half-smirk lingered on his face, a truly rare sight, until they finally reached the designated press conference room.
In stark contrast to the glittering, overtly luxurious, and rather chaotic entrance hall, the press room was sober, dignified, and utterly professional. It was designed to convey the serious, important business of law and science. The walls were dark wood paneling, the lighting was crisp and non-glaring, and the long central table was set with official Ministry seals and water carafes.
The room was already bustling with journalists, high-ranking Ministry officials, and a scattering of the world's most prominent Potions Masters—Sebastian's invited guests—all engaged in hushed, anticipatory murmurs.
The entrance of Snape, Sebastian, and the werewolf in the work uniform immediately caused a ripple of silence.
A wizard in his mid-thirties, his hair slightly disheveled and his eyes gleaming with the intense focus of a scientist, immediately broke away from a group of white-robed Potions experts. He rushed toward Sebastian and enveloped him in a hearty, thankful hug.
"Sebastian! Thank you, truly," the man exclaimed, his voice slightly breathy with gratitude. "Initially, I was only hoping for a small feature in Swan Media—maybe a modest headline. I never expected you to organize a full-blown, Ministry-sanctioned media spectacle like this! This is fantastic; the official launch of Wolfsbane will now be completely unassailable. We will have national adoption by next week!"
"Congratulations, Damocles," Sebastian said warmly, patting his friend's back. "Years of demanding, tireless research finally paying off. The threat level of werewolves is about to be drastically, universally reduced. The entire magical world should be thanking you."
Damocles Belby, the genius behind the Wolfsbane Potion, smiled but shook his head humbly. "Please, no! It wasn't a particularly difficult piece of research, honestly. It's just that werewolves are such a marginalized field—very few Potions Masters bother to specialize in this specific area. The achievement merely fell to me out of simple necessity and timing."
It was the most understated, modest statement Old Pete had ever heard. The quiet scientist had just declared his world-changing invention was simply "not very difficult."
Old Pete gasped audibly, a sound that drew Damocles' surprised attention.
"You are absolutely correct, sir!" Old Pete exclaimed, his voice suddenly thick with overwhelming emotion. He took an involuntary step forward, his great hands trembling as he performed a deep, formal bow that was usually reserved only for Sebastian.
"Oh! Goodness, what is this?" Damocles Belby stammered, deeply astonished by the sudden, intense reaction.
"I am a werewolf, sir. The subject for tonight's test. You may call me Old Pete," the older man stated, his voice wavering with barely suppressed feeling. "I apologize for interrupting you so rudely, but what you just said… it struck me to the core. It is the purest truth I have ever heard a powerful wizard utter."
Old Pete straightened, tears welling in his eyes. "In the entire, vast magical world, you are right—so few wizards truly care about us. Everyone sees a werewolf only as an outcast, a monster to be feared or exterminated. But they don't bother to look closer. They don't care that the vast majority of us are pathetic, desperate human victims. We did not choose this curse."
His voice cracked slightly, ringing with years of pent-up pain and injustice. "Before the change, we were ordinary wizards, or just innocent children—victims who survived a vicious, unprovoked attack. We did nothing wrong, yet we are subjected to every kind of unfair, prejudiced treatment imaginable."
Old Pete swallowed hard, staring at the Potions Master with an intensity that demanded recognition. "Mr. Damocles Belby, you are not merely a master of the craft. You are a man of profoundly noble character. Your work is not merely science; it is mercy."
The old werewolf, unable to contain the surge of overwhelming gratitude, took another step and once again tried to moved in worshipful bow before the humbled Potions Master.