Sebastian had briefly entertained the notion of maneuvering Harry into Slytherin. The political leverage of having the Boy Who Lived in his own House, under his direct ideological influence, would have been immense. It would have sent shockwaves through the entire Wizarding world, instantly fracturing Dumbledore's public image as Harry's infallible guardian.
But Sebastian was too much of a strategist to prioritize a fleeting political coup over long-term strategic stability, especially concerning Harry's well-being.
He knew the sheer impossibility of the endeavor. Even if he could somehow manipulate the Sorting Hat—a task he had just successfully tested the limits of—convincing Dumbledore was a mountain of a different scale.
The Headmaster, for all his gentle wisdom, harbored a deep, abiding prejudice against Slytherin that bordered on the irrational, stemming from his complex history with the House's darker alumni, most notably Tom Riddle. Dumbledore loved Harry with a paternal intensity; he would never willfully subject the boy to an environment he inherently distrusted.
Beyond Dumbledore, Sebastian had to consider Harry's intrinsic nature. Harry, with his impulsive courage, his stubborn refusal to back down from a fight, and his innate, almost reckless, need to protect others, was a creature of pure, raw Gryffindor energy.
He didn't fit the calculating, self-preserving ethos of Slytherin. Forcing him into that environment would not only be a wasted effort but a source of genuine unhappiness.
Sebastian's primary objective wasn't political domination, but ensuring Harry survived and thrived so that Mia—his anchor, his true priority—remained content.
In the cutthroat, inherited hierarchy of the Slytherin common room this year, where many first-years hailed from Death Eater stock, Harry would find allies only among those who wished to exploit his name. He would not find the unconditional, life-risking companionship that he desperately needed to stabilize his future.
Sebastian realized that genuine friendship—the kind that would sustain Harry through the psychological horrors awaiting him—could only be forged in the fiery crucible of Gryffindor loyalty.
Harry needs an external support structure built on pure, reckless loyalty, not cunning self-interest, Sebastian concluded, finally relaxing his grip on the political reins. He needs to be with the Weasleys and the Grangers of the world. Gryffindor is not just where he belongs; it's where he is most strategically resilient.
With this final, calculated decision, Sebastian felt an overwhelming sense of relief.
His relief gave way to a renewed sense of purpose. He was still holding the Sorting Hat, having just negotiated the future of two Slytherin heirs. He now focused his full attention on the artifact, deciding to test the limits of his inherited power one more time, not for politics, but for pure, exhilarating pride.
Sebastian straightened up, closing his eyes. His imposing, controlled aura—the very signature of a powerful Slytherin—suddenly shifted. He allowed the raw, reckless, unbridled intent of the Ironclad Charm to wash over him, a deep-seated magic he had recovered from Gryffindor's own legacy. It was an act of pure will, a psychic declaration of his right to the Founder's mantle.
Slowly, deliberately, he reached his right hand deep inside the worn, velvet lining of the Hat. His fingers immediately encountered something hard, cold, and undeniably metallic. It was the intricately carved hilt of a legendary sword.
Sebastian tightened his grip and pulled.
The sound that followed was astonishing. It was not the muted clunk of an object being pulled from a fabric hat. Instead, a clear, ringing, high-pitched "SHIING!" echoed through the office—the unmistakable, resonant cry of a finely honed blade being drawn from a scabbard of ancient, enchanted steel.
The Sword of Gryffindor was revealed. Its silver blade, forged by goblins a thousand years ago, reflected the light of the whirring silver instruments, illuminating the entire office with a chilling, cold luminescence. Runic inscriptions shimmered across the blade, each one a testament to the purity of its creation. The massive rubies set in its hilt seemed to pulse with captured firelight.
Sebastian stared at the Hat, then the sword, bewildered by the audible metallic screech. Why did it sound like it was drawn from a scabbard? It was pulled from a simple, magical sorting implement!
But he didn't have time to ponder the profound magic.
The portraits on the wall had erupted in collective, furious disbelief.
"This is an outrage!" shrieked Phineas Nigellus Black, momentarily forgetting his noble disdain. "A Slytherin is holding the very symbol of Gryffindor! It is an abomination! Impossible!"
The other Headmasters and Headmistresses joined the chaotic chorus. Portraits flew from their frames; Delilah Derwent's face was shoved sideways into Dilys Derwent's frame, and the two ancient witches began fiercely swatting each other. The argument wasn't about the danger Sebastian represented, but the fundamental violation of House Law he had committed.
Sebastian couldn't suppress the genuine, triumphant grin that spread across his face. He easily balanced the heavy, magnificent sword in his hand, feeling the immense gravity of the ancient weapon.
He casually twirled the massive, jewel-encrusted blade, ending with the point aimed dramatically at the empty space where Dumbledore's desk should have been.
"Gentlemen, ladies, allow me to introduce myself," Sebastian announced with theatrical flair, his voice booming over the din of the arguing portraits. "From this day forward, I am Sebastian Swann: the Slytherin Sword Saint!"
At that precise, utterly chaotic moment, the Headmaster's office door burst open, heralded by a subtle, almost melancholy fade of a high-pitched phoenix song.
Albus Dumbledore swept in, his silver beard slightly askew, his pale blue eyes twinkling—though a brief, unmistakable flash of surprise crossed his face as he took in the scene: a horde of furious portraits, a wailing Sorting Hat, and his Muggle Studies professor pointing a legendary goblin-forged sword directly at the center of the room.
"Sebastian," Dumbledore said calmly, his voice instantly silencing the portraits, though Phineas continued to mutter darkly. "I believe you will find that it is usually easier to talk to me when you are not holding an artifact of ancient power at the ready."
He offered a slight, knowing smile before gracefully moving to his seat, which Sebastian noted, was a perfect piece of political control. He never acknowledged the sword, only Sebastian's intention.
Flushing slightly at being caught in such a display of dramatic arrogance, Sebastian quickly replaced the Sword and the Hat on the shelf. The Sword vanished back into the Hat with a soft thump as if it were simply a heavy piece of metal, denying the sonic spectacle of its departure.
Sebastian sat down, leaning forward across the intricate wooden desk, immediately pivoting to his true purpose.
"Headmaster, apologies for the theatrics," Sebastian said smoothly, adopting a professional, focused tone. "I have a matter of immediate and vital scientific interest. I understand you are currently the custodian of Nicolas Flamel's Philosopher's Stone."
Dumbledore steepled his long fingers, his eyes focused on Sebastian. "An astute observation, Sebastian. I hadn't anticipated your visit would be so timely. Tell me: if you are interested in the Stone's properties, why request its use, rather than attempting to recreate it yourself?"
Sebastian offered a slight, rueful smile. "A fair question, and one I have spent considerable time and resources on. As you know, Flamel published all the necessary procedural steps. Yet, every attempt by every notable alchemist since has failed. Even the Swann family's most protected knowledge could not fill the single, missing piece of the puzzle."
He lowered his voice, leaning further into the conspiracy. "Flamel claimed the Stone was forged accidentally and could never be replicated. I have a working hypothesis, Headmaster. The creation of such a potent, self-sustaining nexus of life force requires an expenditure of energy so vast that it might only be achievable during moments of immense, focused catastrophe. The Stone's emergence into public view coincided perfectly with the height of the Black Death in Europe."
"I suspect forging the Stone requires an immense, transient wave of raw life energy—a sacrifice of scale that no sane alchemist would ever willingly provide. I do not wish to test this morbid hypothesis, but I do wish to test the Stone's product."
Sebastian changed tack, locking eyes with Dumbledore. "I don't want the Stone, Headmaster. I merely wish to borrow the product it yields: the Elixir of Life."
Dumbledore remained motionless, his expression unreadable. "And what precisely, Sebastian, do you plan to do with the Elixir of Life? The Muggles have a saying: 'Human desire is like Pandora's box; once opened, it can never be closed.' You are already a wealthy man; do not allow the simple promise of endless gold or extended years to corrupt your better judgment."
"You misunderstand my goals, Headmaster, profoundly so," Sebastian countered, reaching into his robe and withdrawing the special, ornate crystal cup he had brought. He placed it carefully on the desk.
"I only wish to create the base ingredient for my ongoing alchemical preparations," Sebastian lied smoothly, making the Elixir sound like an inert component. "A small amount of water infused with the Stone's essence is merely the catalyst for the next stage of my research. I'll make a fortified tonic—nothing more aggressive than that."
Fortified tonic. Sebastian internally cringed at the simple-mindedness of the lie, but it was better than admitting the truth: he needed the raw, life-sustaining power of the Elixir to stabilize certain volatile, high-stakes magical experiments—experiments related directly to the possession of Professor Quirrell.
Sebastian's mind raced through the Quirrell situation. The man was already compromised, the Leaky Cauldron encounter confirming Voldemort had successfully latched onto him. Sebastian couldn't simply accuse Quirrell without proof, which would only drive the enemy deeper underground.
He was preparing an ultimate alchemical extraction and stabilization ritual—a process that would require massive, sustained magical stability and life force. He couldn't risk the raw magic of his Ironclad Charm; the Elixir was the only stable source of pure life.
I need to save Quirrell without alerting Dumbledore to the full extent of the danger, or revealing my own advanced magical capabilities, Sebastian thought. If I can get a vial of that Elixir-infused water, I can stabilize Quirrell for a clean extraction later.
Dumbledore continued to stare at the crystal cup, his silence stretching the tension taut.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Dumbledore sighed, the sound soft and world-weary.
"Sebastian, I can arrange for the fortified tonic you require, though I assure you, it will be under the strictest control. However, the world is indeed showing an unusual, dark interest in that particular piece of alchemy this year."
Dumbledore's gaze sharpened, losing its twinkle and becoming intensely serious.
"I have taken steps to ensure the Stone's safety within the castle. Yet, there are gaps in my defensive line. The obstacles are varied and complex, designed to test a variety of dark aptitudes, but they lack a crucial component: a defense against a uniquely Slytherin intellect—an alchemist who thinks like a strategist, rather than a duelist."
Dumbledore leaned back, folding his hands. "I need you to fill that gap. I need you to prove your loyalty to the institution, and to the well-being of the young man you care for so deeply."
He delivered the final instruction with the weight of both command and profound trust.
"I need you to take charge of the final layer of protection. I need you to ensure that only an utterly pure, selfless will can ever hope to claim the Stone. You will design the ultimate, self-sacrificial lock."
Sebastian's jaw tightened. It was a test, a challenge, and an undeniable entry point into Dumbledore's highest-level operations. He had asked to borrow the Stone, and Dumbledore had, instead, asked him to design the defenses against its theft. It was the ultimate political move, granting Sebastian power while simultaneously placing a moral leash on his ambition.
"I accept, Headmaster," Sebastian said, a slow, predatory smile finally forming. The Philosopher's Stone is not just a prize; it is a key to Dumbledore's trust. I will not fail this test.