The transition from the Forbidden Forest to the heart of Hogwarts felt like stepping out of a dream and into a workshop of wonders. Under the shadow of the castle's ancient stones, Sebastian began his first official "lecture" with Luna. To his delight, he found that the castle itself was a living textbook.
Rowena Ravenclaw had been a master of architecture and psyche; she had woven enchantments into the very masonry that reacted to the emotional pulse of the students. As Sebastian guided Luna through the corridors, he pointed out how the swirling, invisible "Wrackspurts"—the stray wisps of negative energy—didn't just float aimlessly. They were slowly, systematically drawn toward the gargoyles and the rhythmic pulsing of the moving staircases. The castle was breathing, inhaling the students' stress and exhaling it as structural stability.
Luna was spellbound. Her pale eyes tracked movements in the air that even Sebastian's specialized lenses struggled to catch. For her, it wasn't a lesson in theory; it was as if someone had finally handed her the key to a language she'd been hearing her whole life. The afternoon vanished in a blur of laughter and "shooing" away imaginary flies, and by the time the sun began to dip, Luna had already begun to grasp the fundamental rhythm of emotional resonance.
Sebastian was just packing up his desk, preparing to head back to his quarters to meet Mia, when a sharp tapping at the window interrupted him. A sleek, tawny owl was perched on the sill, looking rather impatient.
"A bit late for a delivery, isn't it?" Sebastian muttered, untying the scroll from the owl's leg. He tossed the bird a handful of dried fruit from a jar on his desk, letting the creature rest while he broke the wax seal.
His eyebrows shot up as he recognized the handwriting. It was Regulus Black—or "Mr. White," as he was known in the Muggle world. They had been in constant contact regarding the expansion of Wizard Pictures, their burgeoning film empire, but Regulus usually saved his letters for business updates. This felt different.
Dear Sebastian,
I'm writing to you because a situation has arisen that sits perfectly at the intersection of our long-term goals and a personal crisis. During the launch of our latest project in London, I've managed to cultivate a rather influential friendship with a Member of Parliament. He's a sharp man, Jonathan Sterling, and he's one of the few in the House of Commons who is genuinely, dangerously curious about the "hidden side" of London.
Two days ago, his eighteen-year-old son was involved in a horrific car accident. The boy's right leg was effectively crushed. The tragedy isn't just physical; the boy had just signed a contract with Arsenal Football Club. It was his dream, and the doctors have told him he'll be lucky to walk without a limp, let alone play professional sports.
Jonathan is desperate. He came to me in confidence, asking if the "magical rumors" I sometimes hint at are real. He's willing to offer anything—political leverage, silence, or open doors—if his son can be made whole. I believe this is the golden ticket we've been looking for. If we save the son of a sitting MP, we don't just get a thank you; we get a debt of honor from a man who helps run the country.
Can you do it? Please tell me you can make a trip to London tomorrow.
Your loyal friend, White.
Sebastian leaned back in his chair, the parchment crinkling in his hand. A car accident. Shattered bones. In the Muggle world, that was a life sentence of surgeries and physical therapy. In the wizarding world? It was a Tuesday at St. Mungo's. A bit of Skele-Gro, a specialized mending charm, and a touch of Essence of Dittany would have the boy sprinting in a week.
The political implications, however, were massive. Bringing an MP into their circle was a strategic masterstroke. Sebastian immediately grabbed a fresh piece of parchment and scrawled a short, affirmative reply.
The following evening, the air in London felt heavy and damp as Regulus Black's sleek black sedan pulled up to the entrance of a private hospital. Regulus was dressed in an impeccably tailored Muggle suit, looking every bit the high-society mogul. Sebastian, beside him, had opted for a more subdued look—a dark, high-collared coat that hinted at authority without shouting "I have a wand in my sleeve."
Waiting under the hospital's brightly lit canopy were Jonathan Sterling and his wife, Mary. The MP looked like a man who hadn't slept in forty-eight hours; his tie was loosened, and his eyes were bloodshot. His wife, however, looked more skeptical than exhausted.
As Sebastian stepped out of the car, Mary Sterling's face tightened. She leaned toward her husband, her voice a sharp, audible whisper.
"Jonathan, are you serious? Is this the 'Wizard' your friend promised?"
"Mary, please, keep your voice down," Jonathan hissed, though his own eyes were filled with doubt as he scanned Sebastian.
"He looks like he's barely out of university!" she complained, clutching her husband's arm. "We're paying for elite specialists, and you're bringing in a boy in a fancy coat? He's probably a swindler, Jonathan. He's going to take your money and disappear while our son sits in that bed in agony."
Sebastian heard every word. His hearing, enhanced by years of alchemical conditioning, was far superior to a normal human's. He didn't look offended; instead, he allowed a cold, detached expression to settle over his features. He decided to play a part. In the world of high politics and desperate parents, a "friendly" wizard was a "weak" wizard. He needed to be an enigma.
Regulus stepped forward, acting as the bridge. "Jonathan, Mary, thank you for meeting us. I know the hour is late. This is the gentleman I told you about. I'll be honest—he doesn't take many requests."
Jonathan Sterling forced a smile, though it looked more like a grimace. He stepped forward and extended his hand. "Thank you for coming, Mr...?"
Sebastian didn't take the hand immediately. He let the silence stretch for a beat too long, his gaze drifting from the MP to his wife, whose face was flushing with indignation.
"You seem disappointed, Mr. Sterling," Sebastian said, his voice dropping into a low, silky drawl that bore a striking resemblance to Severus Snape's most intimidating tone. "And your wife seems convinced I'm here to steal the silver."
The couple froze. They hadn't been that close; there was no way he should have heard Mary's hushed complaints.
"I... I apologize," Jonathan stammered, his hand still hanging in the air. "We're just... under a lot of stress. You have to understand, you don't exactly fit the traditional image we have in mind."
"Ah," Sebastian said, finally taking the man's hand with a grip that was surprisingly firm. "The traditional image. You were expecting white hair, perhaps? A long, flowing beard that gets caught in doorways? A pointed hat and a wooden staff taller than myself?"
Mary Sterling turned pale. That was exactly what she had pictured. "How did you...?"
"The mind is a very loud place when it's filled with prejudice, Mrs. Sterling," Sebastian said, his eyes flashing with a spark of amusement. "I don't need magic to see that you'd prefer a doctor with a clipboard. But a doctor has already told you your son will never play football again. I, however, haven't given my opinion yet."
Jonathan Sterling felt a jolt of hope compete with his confusion. There was an aura around this young man—a weight of confidence that felt far older than his face. "White tells me you saved his life once. Using... 'amazing' means."
"Magic is only amazing to those who don't understand the math behind it," Sebastian replied coolly. "I'm here as a favor to Mr. White. I have very little patience for skeptics when there is work to be done. Shall we go see the boy's leg, or would you prefer to continue debating my wardrobe?"
"Of course, of course," Jonathan said, stepping aside and gesturing toward the elevator. "Please, follow me. He's in Ward 4B. The doctors have him on heavy sedation, but the pain... it keeps breaking through."
As they walked through the sterile, white corridors of the hospital, Sebastian felt the sharp contrast between Muggle medicine and his own world. Here, everything was about management—managing pain, managing expectations, managing the slow, agonizing crawl of natural healing.
In his pocket, his hand brushed against a small, velvet pouch containing a vial of specialized bone-knitting potion and his wand. He looked at the back of the MP's head. Today, he wasn't just healing a leg; he was buying a politician. And in the world Sebastian was building, that was worth more than all the gold in Gringotts.
"For White's sake," Sebastian said as the elevator chimed, "let's see if we can't give your son a miracle."