Standing on the elevated platform, Minister Cornelius Fudge looked positively radiant, fueled by the intoxicating mixture of political power and media attention. His usually slightly anxious face was smoothed out by an air of manufactured confidence, and his lime-green robes seemed to shimmer under the magical lighting, demanding the audience's respect.
Heh. This, I must admit, is a talent I have cultivated naturally, Fudge thought, surveying the packed room with immense satisfaction. The trick is to attach yourself to history.
From this night onward, whenever the Wolfsbane Potion was mentioned, whenever werewolves regained their sanity, the wizarding world would inevitably remember one name: Cornelius Fudge.
He would be immortalized as the first Minister of Magic courageous enough to proactively address the systemic suffering of the werewolf community, the statesman who brought peace and stability where others saw only monsters. He saw himself, already, as a monument to humanitarian dedication.
And all thanks to Sebastian Swann.
Fudge briefly frowned in appreciation. That young man was truly a miracle of strategic foresight. Last year, he was tackling the international chaos surrounding dragons; this year, he was solving the millennia-old werewolf crisis.
Sebastian Swann consistently identified the next major threat or opportunity and, with unnerving precision, delivered the solution right to the Minister's desk, ensuring Fudge always reaped the political benefits.
Fudge suspected that next year, he'd be solving the mystery of the sentient fungus in the Amazon, or maybe brokering peace with the Merpeople. Sebastian Swann was an inexhaustible spring of high-profile, politically rewarding projects.
Unfortunately, Fudge lamented internally, Swann is the richest man in the wizarding world, utterly secure in his power, and frankly, too grand to be bothered with the tedious bureaucracy of the Ministry.
If Sebastian didn't possess such profound disdain for Ministry employment, Fudge would have immediately appointed him Deputy Minister. Swann's tactical genius would be far more beneficial advising him officially, rather than merely pulling strings from the shadows.
But no matter, Fudge consoled himself. As Minister, I have the power to make Swann Media and Swann Alchemy's work run incredibly smoothly. I will ensure every necessary Ministry endorsement, every legal loophole, is managed with lightning speed. He was confident Sebastian would recognize and appreciate this sincerity, and the reciprocal favors would continue to flow.
Fudge cleared his throat with great ceremony, taking a moment to arrange the papers on the podium, though he knew the first part of his speech by heart.
He looked out at the sea of eager faces—journalists with their quills floating expectantly, Ministry heads nodding sagely, and the assembled masters of potions and commerce—and began his lengthy discourse on the latest, glorious developments in the wizarding world.
"Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests, our Ministry of Magic, under my diligent leadership, has achieved yet another year of truly brilliant, dazzling success," he proclaimed, his voice swelling with self-importance.
He paused for dramatic effect, scanning the room to ensure every eye was fixed on him. "First and foremost, we have achieved a resounding victory in our tireless, relentless campaign against the Dark Arts."
"Under my personal guidance, and with my strategic direction, our dedicated Aurors have successfully cornered, apprehended, and neutralized one Dark practitioner after another!"
The room responded instantly. A wave of vigorous, choreographed applause rose from the Ministry employees in the front rows, quickly joined by the genuinely impressed murmurs of the independent press. Camera flashes erupted across the room, bathing Fudge in staccato bursts of light.
Sebastian, standing near the back, fixed a strained, perfect smile on his face, forcing his hands together in a slow, reluctant clap. The hypocrisy is astounding, he thought, his mental clock ticking relentlessly toward the hour. He's acting as if the magical world would dissolve into a pile of ash without his constant, heroic intervention.
Fudge continued to bloviate, spending what felt like an eternity boasting about minor administrative victories and taking credit for things the Aurors had done independently.
Damn it. Tonight's theme is lycanthropy, Minister, not your glorious term in office. It is a full moon tonight, a fact I believe is entirely germane to the proceedings.
Sebastian couldn't help but entertain the darkly amusing fantasy: the moon rising just as Fudge paused for a sip of water, and Old Pete, mid-transformation, instinctively lunging for the tastiest-looking politician. That would certainly secure tomorrow's front page.
Finally, mercifully, Fudge concluded his tedious self-congratulatory segment. He adopted a slightly lowered tone, his expression instantly shifting to one of practiced concern and solemn empathy—a truly convincing display of political stagecraft. He began to voice his genuine, profound concern for the plight of the werewolf community.
"As all members of the wizarding community know, on every single night of the full moon, our afflicted werewolf citizens undergo a traumatic, terrifying transformation," Fudge intoned, his voice trembling slightly with manufactured emotion. "They lose their human minds, attacking anyone and anything near them indiscriminately."
His voice grew heavier, more serious: "The consequences are tragic: victims are cursed to become new werewolves, and the perpetrators, often acting completely against their will, are destroyed by guilt and further shunned by a fearful society. This cycle of violence and despair has plagued the magical world for centuries."
"Fortunately!" Fudge dramatically switched key, his voice suddenly enthusiastic, "Through the unwavering support of the Ministry and the boundless genius of our very own, deeply committed Potions Master, Mr. Damocles Belby, a revolutionary solution has been discovered: the Wolfsbane Potion!"
He gestured expansively. "The Wolfsbane Potion, a true milestone in medicinal magic, allows werewolves to retain their crucial human sanity and cognitive function during their most perilous transformations. They no longer have to fear harming their families or friends on the full moon."
"Of course, in matters of such historic significance, simple faith is not enough. Seeing is believing! Therefore, the Ministry of Magic has invited you all here tonight to bear witness to this monumental moment."
Fudge glanced down at his notes, confirming the identity of the star participants before raising his voice again. "And now, we welcome Mr. Damocles Belby, the brilliant inventor, and our distinguished special guest for tonight's presentation, the brave werewolf citizen, Old Pete!"
My God, he's a master of scheduling!
Sebastian noted the time on a pocket watch: the moon was visible just above the horizon, the final moments before its power peaked. Fudge hadn't wasted a second, maximizing the tension. These career politicians truly were masters of crisis management and temporal manipulation.
Sebastian gave Old Pete a quick, firm nod of reassurance. Receiving the signal, the older man, who had been sitting rigidly, swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and rose to his feet. He walked with a quiet, humble determination toward the front platform.
The moment reporters spotted the unassuming, green-jacketed figure—the werewolf who was about to transform—all cameras swiveled and flashes began to pop with the sound of frying bacon.
Among the journalists was a woman with a perfectly sculpted, if slightly brittle, smile, wearing large, fashionable glasses that failed to conceal her sharp, assessing eyes. Her legendary Quick-Quotes Quill floated a few inches above her enchanted parchment, scribbling furiously as it processed the data and the whispered gossip.
"Wolf Grass Garden? Never heard of it! This is clearly a clandestine werewolf collective, a secret organization planning an ambitious, coordinated social uprising!" the Quill frantically transcribed her internal, highly dramatic interpretation.
"This is immense! This is a headline that transcends the Daily Prophet's current mediocrity! I could easily sell this story to the international wizarding press for an astronomical sum."
She peered through her glasses, trying to identify the wizard who would sit fearlessly beside the known werewolf. Who is the ringleader? Who is the mind financing this audacious gambit?
She watched as Old Pete walked past the rows of frightened, cautious wizards, many of whom were instinctively leaning away from the aisle. The only entirely empty seat was—
Her eyes widened, suddenly fixing on the man sitting next to the empty chair: Sebastian Swann.
It can't be…
He's the boss! He's the financial overlord of the werewolves!
The suspicion flashed through her mind like a bolt of sickly green light. As she hesitated, her gaze locking onto the infamous Wizarding World tycoon, Sebastian Swann, who had been idly chatting with Snape, slowly, deliberately turned his head.
Sebastian's gaze, razor-sharp and cold as polished jet, zeroed in on Rita Skeeter.
That single, indifferent look was like a sharp arrow of pure freezing magic. Rita's blood instantly chilled in her veins. A visceral, debilitating shiver shot up from the soles of her silk stockings to the roots of her perfectly coiffed hair.
The entire room seemed to dim and silence, collapsing inward until the only reality was the oppressive weight of those cold, calculating eyes, magnified tenfold by her terror.
Don't look at me!
Stop looking at me, you terrifying, ruthless bastard!
Her mind screamed in a silent, useless panic. She felt completely paralyzed, unable to move her muscles, only able to stare back, trapped in the magnified, oppressive pressure of his attention.
Then, a wave of sickening realization swept over her, worse than the chill.
My article! The Quill!
Her eyes darted down to the enchanted parchment. Her own Quill, completely unaware of the shift in the emotional climate, had diligently transcribed her earlier, venomous, and completely unsubstantiated theories: "...the financial puppeteer, Sebastian Swann, is clearly the mastermind behind the shadowy Wolf Grass Garden, using his vast wealth to—"
The Quill stopped mid-sentence as Rita's grip clamped down on it, her face turning the color of old parchment.
The fear of the transformation about to happen on the stage was nothing compared to the fear of Sebastian Swann, a man who, two years ago, had used a single, cold-blooded lawsuit to nearly obliterate her entire freelance career and leave her deeply in debt to the Daily Prophet. She knew his wrath. She knew his methods. He didn't rant; he simply destroyed your livelihood.
I wouldn't dare publish this! she shrieked internally. If I print a single word of this conjecture, that devil will have my publishing license revoked by dawn, and I'll be selling self-stirring cauldrons on the streets of Knockturn Alley!
With a desperate, trembling hand, Rita snatched up the parchment and began to aggressively scratch out the offending sections with the Quill, rewriting frantically as if her life depended on the flowery prose.
No, no, no. He is a visionary entrepreneur!
The Quill began to furiously scribble a revised narrative, twisting the narrative into an ode of sycophantic praise:
"We must commend this magnificent individual, Mr. Sebastian Swann, as a visionary entrepreneur who offers extraordinary, unparalleled contributions to the very stability and strategic development of the entire magical world."
"We must praise his profound benevolence in creating a working environment of fairness and equity for the afflicted werewolf community, allowing them to pursue gainful employment with peace of mind and fully utilize their unique, diverse abilities."
"We must laud his boundless generosity in donating immense sums, not only supporting the scientific endeavor of Wolfsbane but also numerous charitable and public benefit projects. Through his mere presence, he makes the whole magical world a harmonized and far more aesthetically pleasing place to reside!"
Rita became increasingly manic, completely lost in the task of self-preservation, crafting a masterpiece of corporate hagiography, utterly oblivious to the ongoing press conference. She had entirely forgotten about the werewolf, the full moon, and the Minister of Magic.
Sebastian, seeing the familiar sheen of fear and the frantic rewriting in her eyes, finally permitted himself a subtle, satisfied nod. Rita was attempting to become an annoyance again, trying to sink her journalistic fangs into a story that was too big for her. A timely, cold, calculated reminder of who held the power was always necessary to ensure her continued, profitable subservience.
Dismissing the "clown" entirely, Sebastian finally averted his gaze. He looked at Old Pete, who was now standing bravely beside a nervous Damocles Belby on the platform.
The magical lights in the hall seemed to dim slightly as the clock struck the hour. The moment for tonight's main event had arrived. Sebastian leaned back, a thrill of anticipation running through him.
Showtime.