"What exactly must I do?" Draco Malfoy repeated the question, his voice hollow. He had retreated completely, the veneer of the confident 'Heir Malfoy' shattered by Sebastian's brutal financial forecast.
He sat slumped in the luxurious leather chair, defeated not by a spell, but by a balance sheet. His inherited knowledge—the shallow, prejudiced catechism of pure-blood supremacy—had utterly failed him. His mind, accustomed to simple, black-and-white certainties, could not generate a single viable solution to the complex market threats Sebastian had laid out.
Suddenly, a flicker of his inherited cunning ignited. The man before him, the one who had so clinically dissected the Malfoy enterprise, was also the Alchemist Swann, the man whose products dictated market solvency. Sebastian had not been performing a veiled threat; he had been offering a professional diagnosis.
Draco raised his gaze, the uncertainty in his eyes replaced by a calculated, if desperate, plea. "Professor Swann," he asked, quietly, carefully choosing his words. "Can we return to the Professor and Student dynamic? I require instruction. I need to know the next sequence of moves. Can you tell me how to secure the Malfoy future?"
A hearty, genuinely amused laugh escaped Sebastian. He loved this quick adaptability. This was the raw, unrefined cunning he sought in a Slytherin. A Gryffindor would have doubled down on his pride and launched a second, foolish challenge. Draco had pragmatically surrendered his ego for a strategic advantage.
Sebastian rose and moved the short distance to sit on the arm of Draco's chair, leaning in confidentially.
"Draco, that adaptability is the first sign of talent. You must learn to discard pride when profit is on the line," Sebastian murmured, his voice now warm and instructional. "The answer to your question is, ironically, the one your mother should have taught you at age five: Treat everyone with an equal baseline of respect, and cultivate allies. The more competent allies you have, the easier your management task will become."
Sebastian swept his hand through the air. "Consider the facts. The British wizarding community is finite. There is only one operational wizarding school, and therefore, every single classmate you meet in this castle, regardless of their parentage or house affiliation, is a potential customer, a future employee, a necessary supplier, or a future Ministry regulator."
He lowered his voice, making the point starkly simple. "If you spend your youth actively insulting, marginalizing, and alienating these individuals—creating a host of immediate, future enemies—you are not securing the Malfoy legacy. You are actively digging its grave. You are gifting your future competitors a motivated, unified workforce. That, Draco, is not ambition; it is stupidity."
Sebastian leaned back, changing the topic once more. "Now, tell me the truth: what do you believe is the single most important, sacred quality for a Slytherin?"
Draco, after a momentary struggle with the fresh poison of the duel, forced out the traditional response: "Bloodline. Our purity."
Sebastian shook his head, a dismissive sneer touching his lips. "If blood purity were the sole metric, then Salazar Slytherin would never have accepted half-blood wizards into his ranks, and the vast, wealthy Pure-Blood families wouldn't suddenly find themselves in financial distress when their ancient assets become obsolete. Blood is merely a heritage; it is not a skill."
"Remember this, Draco: the qualities we truly value are Cunning and Ambition. A truly cunning mind prevents you from committing public self-sabotage, like insulting every potential business partner you meet. And ambition provides you with a clear, defined goal—a goal that transcends petty insults and requires the relentless pursuit of self-improvement."
Sebastian looked directly into Draco's defeated eyes. "What is blood? It is a boast, a meaningless historical footnote that provides you with a head start. If bloodlines represented true power, you would not have lost your duel with Mr. Potter so utterly, so publicly, and so quickly, that you never even touched the hem of his cloak."
Draco flinched again, the mention of the duel bringing the hot sting of tears to his eyes. But this time, it was mixed with a flash of resentment and genuine bewilderment.
"But… but that's not fair!" Malfoy whispered, the injustice raw in his tone. "Potter is Dumbledore's favorite! Everyone knows he's favored by the Professors! And… and his skill, the dodging, the speed—that's not an ordinary first-year's skill! You taught him! Why would you give him such an advantage, Professor, when I am the Heir of Slytherin?"
Sebastian maintained his neutral expression, pleased that Draco had finally pierced the surface. "You are perceptive, Draco. Yes, I train Mr. Potter. And yes, his talent is prodigious. But you must understand this, truly, fundamentally: I gave him nothing that I cannot offer you." Sebastian patted the boy's head once more, a surprising gesture of approval.
"The level of control you demonstrated in your haste—the ability to cast an Expelliarmus and a subsequent Incarcerous in rapid succession, even if poorly executed—suggests a formidable talent. Logically, those complex sequential spells should be beyond the capacity of all but the most dedicated second-years. You are, at this moment, the most naturally gifted duelist in Slytherin House. But natural talent requires ruthless discipline."
"Can I… can I truly catch up to Potter?" Draco asked, the ambition rekindling, fueled by the professional competition. "Can I surpass him?"
"Surpass Potter?" Sebastian echoed, a genuine, challenging smile finally breaking through. "Our only real enemy is the lack of discipline within ourselves. Draco, you must remember the fundamental truth: You are not a blade of grass; you were born to be a mountain. You must stop measuring your value by the achievements of others. Potter shines brightly because he works relentlessly. You must find your own pace, work with focused intensity, and reject the sloth of inherited privilege."
Sebastian leaned back, standing tall. "If you wish to surpass him, you will work harder than he does. You must shed the childish posturing and embrace the difficult, cold reality of competence. Give your absolute best, and you will know your true worth."
He extended his right hand again, a formal, professional handshake this time. "Draco, Professor Snape and I see your true potential. We need a strong, respected leader for Slytherin, someone who will carry our banner not through outdated dogma, but through cunning and demonstrated capability. Let's work together to redefine what it means to be a powerful Slytherin."
Malfoy, energized by the clear direction and the validation of his talent, stood up abruptly and gripped Sebastian's hand tightly. His eyes, though still serious, burned with newfound, focused intent. "Professor Swann, I will do it. I will enact change, and I will meet your expectations. I will become that mountain."
Draco left the office, his step now brisk, his head held high, the shock of humiliation replaced by the cold steel of ambition. The boy had been broken down and rebuilt in the space of one conversation.
The first dueling lesson, set for Friday, was now the single most exciting event on the Hogwarts calendar, thanks to Harry's sensational two-second victory. In the days leading up to it, Ron Weasley, utterly convinced that Harry possessed secret, devastating techniques, became Harry's shadow, badgering him incessantly to teach him some 'killer moves.'
Not to be left behind, Hermione Granger, viewing the club as an extracurricular academic opportunity, also insisted on preparatory lessons.
Thus, after dinner, the trio found themselves on a secluded, open patch of lawn near the Quidditch pitch, practicing elementary spells. Harry diligently showed them the subtle wrist movements for the Disarming Charm, and more importantly, the non-verbal shifts in weight he had learned to evade simple jinxes.
They worked until the last vestiges of the sun dipped below the Forbidden Forest, leaving the sky a bruised purple.
Tired but energized, they started back toward the Gryffindor Tower. As they reached the main staircase, the ancient, restless magic of Hogwarts intervened. The massive stone steps abruptly and violently swung sideways, forcing the startled trio up toward the Fourth Floor—a rarely used, long-abandoned stretch of corridor.
"I think," Hermione gasped, clutching her bag and scanning the peeling wallpaper and dust-caked sconces, "this is the very corridor Headmaster Dumbledore explicitly warned us about—the one where we were told we would die a most painful death."
Ron's legs immediately began to tremble. "Right, yes, the warning. Then what in the name of Merlin are we waiting for? We need to get back down now!"
But just as they turned to retreat, they heard a muffled, unmistakable sound of jingling keys and heavy, shuffling steps echoing from the floor below—Argus Filch was on patrol.
The caretaker!
"Filch's cat, Mrs. Norris, is just at the bottom of the stairs!" Hermione whispered fiercely, pointing. "If we're caught here, Gryffindor will lose every point we've earned this week! We could even be expelled!"
She spotted a heavily reinforced wooden door at the far end of the gloomy corridor. "Quickly! We must hide in that room!"
Ron, panicking, grabbed the doorknob and yanked. The door was solidly, unyieldingly locked. "The door's locked! We're trapped, Hermione! We are completely and irreversibly done for!"
Hermione shoved Ron aside impatiently. Her face, usually pale, was flushed with fear and determination. She pulled her wand, a focused glint in her eyes. "Get out of the way, you useless thing! I read up on the counter-charms. It's an elementary Muggle mechanism, not an advanced locking jinx."
She pointed her wand at the brass lock, her concentration absolute.
"Alohomora!"
A soft, mechanical click answered the charm. The door swung inward, revealing a pitch-black cavity. They scrambled inside, Hermione swiftly pulling the heavy door closed behind them, muffling the sounds of their ragged breathing.
Harry pressed his ear to the wood. He heard Filch's irritated, wheezing cough, followed by a few muttered questions to Mrs. Norris about 'out-of-bounds students.' After a tense minute, the footsteps receded.
"He's gone," Harry whispered. "We can go back now."
He turned around, expecting to see Ron and Hermione already moving to the door. Instead, both his friends were frozen, wide-eyed, staring into the oppressive blackness of the room. Harry followed their gaze.
The ambient magical light filtering beneath the door and through the small crack in the frame revealed the room's impossible, terrifying inhabitant.
It was a dog. But a dog of monstrous size, easily filling the space, with three colossal, slobbering heads. Its eyes, even in the dim light, glowed with malevolent yellow menace. The air was thick, suffocatingly heavy with a foul, acrid smell—the stench of old, rotten meat and perpetually unwashed fur, mixed with the damp, musky odor of colossal canine breath.
The Three-Headed Dog was enormous, resting heavily on its immense haunches, its three sets of razor-sharp teeth partially visible even in its current state of deep, noisy sleep. Each breath was a rattling, wheezing roar that vibrated through the floorboards.
Harry felt his blood run cold, but Sebastian's voice, the voice that spoke of cunning and calculated retreat, immediately surfaced in his mind. Do not fight fairly; fight to win, utterly and immediately. If you cannot win, you must retreat with zero wasted motion.
Harry knew instantly that no first-year spell could injure this creature. He backed away slowly, deliberately, his eyes locked on the dog's faces. He moved with the trained economy of movement he'd practiced just hours ago, pulling Ron and Hermione gently by their robes.
As the middle head stirred, its colossal eyelid fluttering, Harry pushed his friends toward the door, silently praying the giant beast was too slow to react. The moment they were through the door, Harry slammed it shut with a violent kick.
They didn't stop running until they tumbled, breathless and weak-kneed, through the Portrait Hole and into the warm, familiar safety of the Gryffindor Common Room.
Ron collapsed onto a sofa, clutching his chest, tears of fear and relief blurring his vision. "There was a monster like that in the castle! If that thing had been awake, I'm telling you, my mum wouldn't even be able to collect my body! It would have been a fine, red mist!"
Hermione, equally shaken, paced quickly, her mind already processing the logistical nightmare they had just survived. "Unbelievable! This is Hogwarts! It is supposed to be, according to Hogwarts: A History, the safest place in the entire wizarding world!"
She stopped pacing, tapping her chin with her wand, the panic receding as logic took over. "The dog was standing over something, Harry. Right in the middle of the room, on a circular wooden trapdoor! It was clearly guarding something! Why else would Professor Dumbledore break every safety rule in the book just to keep a sleeping, three-headed Cerberus in an unused corridor?"
Guarding something…
Harry's mind immediately snapped back to the frantic, hurried trip he and Hagrid had taken to Gringotts Bank just before term started. He remembered the small, brown, hastily wrapped package Hagrid had retrieved from Vault 713—a package that Dumbledore had commissioned to be moved out of Gringotts for safekeeping.
The realization hit him with the force of a Stinging Hex. The package Hagrid retrieved... the item Dumbledore wanted safe... it must be beneath that trapdoor.
Before Harry could voice this monumental deduction, Hermione, still hyperventilating slightly, put her wand away. "Well, we weren't bitten to death, nor were we expelled. We must count our blessings. And Harry, thank you for the extra dueling practice—it was the only reason we didn't panic completely and move fast enough."
She gathered her books, her focus immediately shifting back to the next day's demands. "If you have no further lessons for tonight, I am going to bed. I need to conserve my energy for the official Dueling Club tomorrow. I fully intend to analyze the techniques of every participant and devise a counter-strategy for each House."
Harry watched her leave, his heart still pounding, a thousand questions about the mysterious package swirling in his head. He looked at Ron, whose face was still a shade of sickly green.
I need to find out what is under that trapdoor.
Do you think Harry should tell Ron and Hermione about the Gringotts package immediately, or wait until the Dueling Club meeting on Friday? How should he approach Hagrid about the three-headed dog?