The golden sunlight breaking through the clouds felt different against Sebastian's skin. Even after reverting to his human form, he felt an echo of that draconic resonance hum beneath his surface. He looked at his wand—the same piece of wood he had carried for years—but it felt heavier now, charged with a new, aggressive potential.
"Cloudburst!" he commanded, a simple weather-altering charm he had performed a hundred times.
Usually, the spell was a thin, silver wisp that slowly nudged the clouds aside. Not today. A beam of deep, pulsating red light erupted from the tip of his wand, thick as a man's torso. When it hit the overcast sky, it didn't just nudge the clouds; it detonated. The shockwave of pure magical pressure tore through the grey canopy, creating a circular void that revealed the brilliant blue of the heavens. It looked less like a weather charm and more like he had fired a railgun into the atmosphere.
"Merlin," Sebastian whispered, his eyes wide. "The output... it's doubled. Maybe tripled."
Mia walked up to him, her boots crunching on the wet grass. "It wasn't just your imagination, then. Your core is actually channeling through the draconic pathways even in human form. You're not just a wizard anymore, Sebastian. You're a powerhouse."
"Which is why the tests we did in the forest aren't enough," Sebastian said, his excitement returning. He grabbed her hand, his eyes dancing. "The employees at Swan Alchemy are still on their Easter break. The main laboratory will be empty. Let's go. I want hard numbers. I want to know exactly how much damage I can do before I accidentally take down a wing of the castle."
"And the weapon?" Mia asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Oh, definitely. From this moment on, the era of the 'fragile academic' is over. I'm going to be a melee wizard. Imagine the look on some Dark Wizard's face when he expects a duel and I just... hit him with a club."
They returned to Hogwarts and made a quick exit through the fireplace, emerging into the sleek, marble-and-glass foyer of the Swan Alchemy headquarters. For the next several days, the facility's high-precision sensors were pushed to their limits. Sebastian, in his Dragon-Human form, performed a series of "crash tests."
The disagreement about the weapon, however, lasted longer than the testing.
"A spiked club, Sebastian? Really?" Mia said, looking at the rough sketches he had drawn. "It's so... primitive. It's the weapon of a caveman. Or a troll."
"It's practical!" Sebastian countered, pacing the workshop floor. "A greatsword is beautiful, I'll give you that. But with the strength I have now, I'd snap a regular blade in half just by swinging it too hard. A greatsword needs finesse and a sharp edge. A club? A club just needs mass and a target. It's low-maintenance, high-impact, and honestly, in this form, I'm built for overwhelming force, not a fencing match."
Mia crossed her arms, looking unconvinced. "It's ugly. You have a reputation for elegance."
Sebastian chuckled, stepping closer and giving her a mischievous look. "Alright, tell you what. Since we're the ones paying the bills, we'll forge both. I'll have a silver-inlaid greatsword and a full set of enchanted plate armor for when I want to look like a legendary knight—just for you. But for the actual dirty work? I want my black iron club."
Mia finally relented, a soft smile tugging at her lips. "Fine. As long as you don't bring the club to dinner."
Two weeks later, the delivery arrived at Swan Manor.
Sebastian bypassed the polished armor and the gleaming sword, reaching straight for a long, heavy crate. He willed the transformation, his body expanding into the three-meter-tall draconic giant. He reached down and gripped the handle of the weapon.
It was nearly two meters of solid, enchanted black iron. It wasn't a "primitive" club by any means; it was a work of alchemical art. The shaft was thick, covered in runes that glowed with a faint, violet light—shock-absorption and weight-distribution charms. The business end was a heavy, cylindrical head studded with rounded, blunt metal protrusions. These weren't spikes meant to pierce; they were 'points of impact' meant to shatter everything they touched.
He walked out to the manor's private dueling ground, the heavy weapon feeling like a feather in his clawed hand.
"Mia, activate the dummies!" he roared, his voice vibrating with power.
She waved her wand, and six top-of-the-line alchemy puppets—designed to mimic the speed of a master duelist—zipped into the arena. Sebastian didn't wait. He blurred.
"Thunderclap Eight Trigrams!"
He brought the club down in a vertical arc. The speed was so great that the air itself shrieked in protest. The first puppet didn't just break; it was pulverized. The club hit the stone flooring with a thunderous BOOM, and the ground instantly spider-webbed with cracks, a small crater forming at the impact site.
He didn't stop. He spun, the weight of the club providing a terrifying centrifugal force.
"Eighty!"
A horizontal sweep caught two puppets at once. They vanished in a cloud of wooden splinters and metal gears. Sebastian laughed, a deep, resonant sound. This was it. This was the "romance" of the warrior—the feeling of absolute, unyielding physical dominance.
By the time he finished, the dueling ground looked like a war zone. Sebastian stood in the center, chest heaving, the black club resting on his shoulder.
"Satisfied?" Mia asked, leaning against the doorway with a look of pure admiration.
"Incredibly," Sebastian rumbled, his eyes glowing.
"Good. Now, go put on that armor. You promised me a knight, and I've already got my dress ready. Let's have that party."
Sebastian grinned, already imagining the night ahead. But as they stepped back into the living room, a sharp, rhythmic vibration came from his coat pocket. It was the emergency signaling box connected to his field agents.
Sebastian's expression shifted instantly. He reverted to human form and pulled out the Two-Way Mirror. The surface shimmered, revealing the harried, sweat-streaked face of Old Peter. Behind him, the sound of howling and crashing brush was audible.
"Boss! We've got a situation," Peter panted, his eyes darting around. "We were tracking Fenrir Greyback near Ben Nevis. We thought we had a lead on a small cell, but it was a setup. He's got at least fifteen of his 'cubs' with him—the radical ones. We're pinned in the forest."
Sebastian's eyes turned cold. "Can you Apparate out, Peter?"
"We could, but we've got them gathered in one spot. If we leave now, they'll vanish back into the Highlands. We're holding them off, playing cat and mouse, but we can't keep it up forever. They're getting bold."
"Stay safe, Peter," Sebastian said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low register. "Don't take any stupid risks. Lead them toward the northern ridge. I'm coming to you."
"Copy that, Boss. See you soon."
Sebastian tucked the mirror away and looked at Mia. The playful atmosphere of the party was gone, replaced by the sharp, focused aura of a hunter.
"Change of plans, darling," Sebastian said. "Greyback decided to show his face. And I really want to test my new toy on someone who can actually feel pain."
"Be careful," Mia said, her voice firm. "Greyback is a beast, but he's also cunning."
"So am I," Sebastian replied.
He stepped outside and Apparated. He reappeared on the jagged, windswept slopes of Ben Nevis. The air was thin and freezing, the scent of pine and damp earth heavy in the wind. He pulled out a scrying glass, the needle spinning before locking onto Peter's magical signature a few miles to the west.
Sebastian didn't walk. He shifted.
The Dragon-Human stood tall on the mountain, his black scales blending into the shadows of the rocks. He unfurled his massive wings, the leathery membranes snapping against the mountain gale. He cast a powerful Disillusionment Charm over himself, becoming a shimmering ghost against the grey sky.
With a single, powerful leap, he launched himself into the air.
He soared over the treeline, his vertical pupils scanning the forest below. He could see them now—the heat signatures of a dozen werewolves, moving with predatory grace through the underbrush, closing in on Peter's small team.
Greyback was there, a larger, more savage heat signature in the center of the pack.
Sebastian felt the black iron club hanging at his side. He felt the fire building in his throat. A dark, predatory smile touched his draconic lips.
"Time to see if you can hunt a dragon, Fenrir," he whispered into the wind.
He tucked his wings and dived, a silent, invisible shadow falling from the heavens. The hunt was on.