Sebastian stood before the full-length, antique mirror in his dressing room, conducting a final, meticulous inspection.
The space was cavernous, its walls lined with sartorial masterpieces—robes woven with phoenix feathers, dragon hide boots, and Muggle fashion sourced from the most exclusive Parisian ateliers.
Yet, today's attire was deliberately classical, a powerful signal of respect and tradition laced with undeniable modern flair.
He wore an Italian-cut, three-piece suit of the darkest emerald wool, overlaid with a sweeping, immaculate ivory dress cloak lined in black silk.
It was a fusion of Muggle elegance and wizarding drama, tailored to enhance his already imposing 1.85-meter (six-foot-one) frame. Every line of the fabric screamed controlled power and unimaginable wealth.
His thick, black hair was styled with effortless precision, drawing attention to the razor-sharp angles of his jawline. His eyebrows, long and finely etched, framed eyes that shimmered with the depth and complexity of a midnight-blue ocean.
They were eyes that held the quiet certainty of thirty-plus years of experience, yet his face was impossibly youthful, preserved by both excellent genetics and subtle, proprietary Swann alchemical elixirs. He looked every bit the sophisticated prodigy, a man in his early twenties possessing the unnerving gravitas of a seasoned statesman.
Sebastian ran a hand over the lapel, his lips curving into a brief, self-aware smile that revealed a flash of perfectly straight, white teeth.
"Still an absolute masterwork," he murmured, the confidence pure and unrestrained. He thought of his previous life's cinema idols. "In a Muggle film, the entire cast list would bow out to avoid sharing a frame. I am the lead, and the entire production revolves around my presence."
This was not mere vanity; it was branding. His wealth was a weapon, and his physical presentation was the sheath—immaculate, intimidating, and impossible to ignore.
Today, he was not merely applying for a job; he was purchasing a seat at the magical world's highest political table. He would arrive looking worthy of the ambition.
He dismissed the chamber with a flick of his wrist and moved toward the courtyard gates. He glanced at the location pin on his custom-made magical wrist chronometer, then scoffed softly.
"Floo Powder," he muttered, the very concept distasteful. "Disheveled arrival, soot on the silk, and a lingering scent of bad chimney ash. Unacceptable for a meeting of this caliber."
His preferred method of travel was more direct, more brutal, and far more instant.
The world dissolved into a painful, compressed tunnel of sensation—the crushing physical feeling of being squeezed through a tight rubber hose, followed by the immediate, violent snap of spatial relocation. Sebastian tolerated the momentary agony of Apparition without flinching, a testament to years of rigorous mental discipline.
He reappeared precisely in front of the colossal, wrought-iron Hogwarts gates.
They were a statement in metal: imposing, heavily protected by ancient, throbbing enchantments, and flanked by stone columns bearing the watchful gaze of winged wild boars. The air here was different—crisp, clean, and saturated with centuries of concentrated magic.
In the distance, the multiple turrets and battlements of Hogwarts Castle rose against the misty, emerald hills, majestic and timeless.
Sebastian checked his chronometer. 9:30 AM. Thirty minutes to spare. Punctuality was a hallmark of power.
"Magnificent," he conceded, allowing himself a genuine breath of awe. "No amount of gold can manufacture this degree of historical gravitas."
Before he could indulge the sentiment further, the heavy gates groaned, parting slowly on enormous iron hinges. A lone figure emerged from the shadows of the grounds, gliding toward Sebastian with the silent menace of a hunting animal.
It was Severus Snape.
The Potions Master was the antithesis of Sebastian's elegance. His greasy, shoulder-length black hair hung like heavy curtains around his sallow face. He was swathed in dull, shapeless black robes that seemed to absorb all ambient light, enhancing his natural resemblance to an oversized, predatory bat.
Snape stopped a few paces away, his mouth curling into a familiar, viper-like smirk—a look Sebastian knew intimately.
"Look what the Niffler dragged in," Snape drawled, his voice a low, mocking monotone. "The legendary Sebastian Swann, trading the boardrooms of Gringotts for the dusty classrooms of Hogwarts. I trust the halls of commerce weren't quite stimulating enough for the great White Demon King?"
Sebastian met his gaze evenly, a cool challenge simmering in his ocean-blue eyes. Snape was his friend, yes, but their friendship was forged in the fire of competition and constant, mutual scrutiny. Snape was testing him, verifying that the richest man in the world still possessed the magical acumen they had once shared.
Sebastian placed his wand, ebony with a dragon heartstring core, casually against his chest. "What's the matter, Severus? Did Dumbledore expect me to be late, or did you simply want to ensure I hadn't softened into a mere Galleon counter?"
Snape mirrored the gesture, his own wand—a menacing black instrument—held upright. "As always, Sebastian. Let's confirm the legend still holds true."
The silence that followed was heavy, charged with years of unspoken rivalry and respect. They stood for three full breaths, measuring each other, before the tension broke.
"Rictusempra!" Sebastian snapped, his voice sharp.
"Tarantallegra!" Snape countered, his own incantation a low hiss.
In that instant, the air between them erupted in a kaleidoscopic frenzy.
This was not a formal duel; this was The Slytherin Quick Attack—a high-speed barrage of low-powered, non-lethal hexes and jinxes they had invented in the dungeons during their school days. It was a brutal test of a wizard's raw fundamentals: footwork, reflexes, spell accuracy, magical endurance, and above all, the stable control of power output.
Sebastian moved first, dancing lightly on the balls of his feet. His ivory cloak billowed and snapped behind him, an almost deliberate, theatrical flourish.
"Furunculus!""Locomotor Wibbly!""Stupefy—minor!"
He fired a triplet of curses, each one manifesting as a vivid, multi-colored bolt of light.
Snape parried the first two with practiced ease, his wand a blur, but the third forced him to execute a sharp, desperate ducking maneuver.
"Langlock!" Snape snarled, aiming the Tongue-Tying spell at Sebastian's face.
Sebastian didn't even verbalize the counter. His Magical Perception—his Observation Haki—flared violently. He didn't see the crimson jet of light; he felt the unique, spiraling magical signature of the Langlock gathering in Snape's wand tip an instant before it fired.
It was the magical equivalent of seeing the bullet leave the gun.
Sebastian merely tilted his head an inch to the side, allowing the curse to whistle harmlessly past his ear.
"Calvary Infortunis!" Sebastian retaliated, sending a curse designed to make Snape's trousers fall down.
They moved within a tight ten-meter radius, the duel a controlled, chaotic ballet. Sebastian's advantages were immediately clear.
While Snape relied on muscle memory honed by occasional practice and dueling lessons, Sebastian's magical perception was a perpetual state of readiness. He could predict the exact moment Snape was reaching the limit of his spell output and use that fraction of a second to apply pressure.
Snape was already sweating, his greasy hair plastered to his forehead, his face pale with concentration. He hadn't faced this level of unrelenting, sustained speed since before the Dark Lord's downfall.
"You've been practicing, Sebastian," Snape spat, deflecting a Jelly-Legs Jinx with a savage flick of his wrist. "Hardly expected from a corporate overlord."
"My career is the pursuit of perfection, Severus," Sebastian laughed, a sound that carried across the misty grounds. He cast two different disarming charms in quick succession, aiming for both Snape's wand and his dignity.
"Do you think I'd let my only genuine advantage atrophy while I watch numbers rise? That's Ravenclaw weakness, not Slytherin diligence!"
Snape blocked both, his breathing ragged. He knew Sebastian was holding back the powerful, complex magic—they were only using minor curses. But even the pace of the minor curses was suffocating.
Sebastian saw the moment of exhaustion in Snape's magical core, a fleeting dip in the familiar energy signature. He decided to end the test, pushing the pace to a level Snape couldn't physically sustain.
"Ha ha! Getting used to the rhythm, Severus? Good! Because now we accelerate!" Sebastian yelled.
The frequency of Sebastian's attacks doubled instantly. Purple, green, and orange jets of light—hexes for shrinking, charms for making things fly, and jinxes to induce uncontrollable giggling—flew with impossible speed. Snape, already on the defensive, felt himself drowning under the relentless, precise bombardment.
"That fiend!" Snape thought, gritting his teeth. How is he this fast? He spent the last decade in commerce, then in the Muggle world trying to fleece the Soviets! When did he train like this?
Snape was near collapse, his defensive enchantments fraying under the strain of continuous neutralization, when a blinding flash of silver-white light erupted between them.
A towering, magnificent Patronus—a creature of raw, shimmering grace in the shape of a phoenix—solidified, acting as an impossible, glowing referee.
From somewhere high above the grounds, Dumbledore's voice, amplified by Sonorus, echoed, laced with a familiar, weary authority:
"Mr. Swann and Professor Snape! I implore you to desist immediately! The protective wards on the main gate are structural, not designed to withstand the intensity of your… reunion." A slight, dry cough followed. "Professor Snape, please bring Mr. Swann to my office at your earliest convenience. I shall be waiting."
Sebastian immediately raised his wand, his smile broad and victorious. The duel mini-game was complete.
He strode forward, the ivory cloak sweeping around him like a triumphant wing, and casually threw an arm over Snape's slumped shoulder. The contrast between Sebastian's fresh, immaculate attire and Snape's damp, soot-tinged robes was glaring.
"You collapsed, Severus! I hadn't even escalated to the full-body bind yet!" Sebastian taunted playfully as they started walking toward the castle.
Snape stiffened, shaking off the physical contact with a low growl. "Hardly. No single spell connected with me. I was merely evaluating your lack of subtlety, Sebastian."
Sebastian barked out a sudden, loud laugh. "You are as infuriatingly stubborn as ever! I doubt even Fiendfire could burn the pride out of that mouth of yours, Severus."
Snape slowed, his usual sarcasm replaced by a rare, deep seriousness. He stopped and turned his full, intense attention toward Sebastian.
"Enough theatricality. Sebastian, you have success beyond measure, a fortune that rivals the Crown, and a genuine magical gift. Why are you here? Why reduce yourself to the role of a professor?"
Sebastian waited until they were walking again, scaling the rise toward the magnificent castle entrance.
"The answer is simple, Severus: Structural Influence," Sebastian stated flatly. "The wealth settled my material needs decades ago. I am here for the prestige, the power, and the ability to reshape the system. That is the only currency Dumbledore truly respects."
"So, why Deputy Headmaster?" Snape challenged, his tone skeptical. "That position is already held by Minerva."
"I didn't apply to be a replacement. I applied for the position of Additional Deputy Headmaster, a newly created role," Sebastian clarified, a flicker of wicked cunning in his eyes. "Dumbledore rejected the concept immediately, of course. He prefers his puppets and protégés, not partners in power."
Snape raised a thin, cynical eyebrow. "Then how is this happening?"
Sebastian merely tapped his pocket. "When the rules do not favor your ambition, you must change the rules. A few well-placed Galleons, a few promises of corporate sponsorship, and the entire School Board became immensely supportive of the need for 'fresh, modern administrative talent.' All roads lead to Hogwarts, Severus, provided you pave them with enough gold."
Snape shuddered slightly. "I doubt Albus will find your entrepreneurial approach endearing."
"Probably not," Sebastian agreed cheerfully. "But he finds my money indispensable. And that is a form of influence far more stable than trust."
They reached the seventh floor, stopping before the staircase leading to the Headmaster's Office—the entrance guarded by a particularly hideous, dripping stone gargoyle.
Snape paused, giving Sebastian a final, dry look that said, Good luck—you'll need it against that old manipulator. He then stepped forward, addressing the monstrosity with the contempt he reserved for all things frivolous.
"A pile of Cockroaches."
The stone beast shuddered, then sprang aside, revealing the spiraling staircase. Sebastian smiled, knowing the true battle was only just beginning.