That old bat, Sebastian muttered to himself, a wry smile playing on his lips as he hurried down the spiral stairs, leaving the Headmaster's office behind. Still so prone to the dramatic flourish, but he took the bait beautifully.
Sebastian's mood was buoyant. The acquisition of the Deputy Headmaster title was less about the prestige and more about securing the necessary administrative launchpad for his grand plans. He was now officially inside the fortress, no longer just the ambitious external financier. The next step was the Charm Offensive: establishing immediate, solid rapport with his new colleagues.
He raised his wrist, checking the sleek, obsidian-framed watch—a subtly charmed piece of Swann Alchemy craftsmanship. It was well past the usual lunchtime hour. Dumbledore had, predictably, consumed more time than Sebastian had allotted. Time to move swiftly.
Sebastian had done his homework. Before setting foot on Hogwarts grounds, he had meticulously reviewed the staff roster, noting which professors were veterans from his student days and which were recent appointments.
For each, he had prepared a personalized, valuable gift—a strategic investment in goodwill. Kindness, Sebastian believed, is simply excellent relationship management. Since they were now colleagues, establishing a robust, mutually respectful relationship was critical.
He headed toward the nearest office, which belonged to the Head of Gryffindor: Professor Minerva McGonagall.
If Sebastian had to rank the Hogwarts faculty by sheer, unwavering integrity, Professor McGonagall would claim the undisputed top spot. Despite her stern, intimidating façade and her obvious fierce loyalty to Gryffindor House, she was, in Sebastian's assessment, the most consistently fair-minded adult in the castle.
She treated every young witch and wizard equally, assessing them on merit and conduct, not lineage or scarf color. Why don't more people strive for her standard? Sebastian often wondered.
He found her office situated near the castle's western wing, a large, well-lit space with high, Gothic arched windows that framed a breathtaking vista of the Quidditch pitch and the Black Lake shimmering far below.
Knock, knock, knock. Sebastian rapped sharply on the heavy oak door.
"Enter, please!" Professor McGonagall's crisp, unmistakable voice ordered from within.
Sebastian pushed the door open. The office was neat to the point of austerity. An antique desk held a bronze inkwell, a stack of highly technical Transfiguration Today journals, and nothing else superfluous.
Professor McGonagall herself was seated, immersed in a text titled Contemporary Conjurations. Her graying hair was pulled back into its characteristic tight bun, emphasizing the sharp angles of her face and the intense focus behind her square spectacles.
As she looked up and spotted Sebastian, the severe lines around her mouth softened immediately. She stood with surprising quickness and, to Sebastian's genuine surprise, enveloped him in a rare, tight, affectionate hug.
"Sebastian, my dear boy! It is so very good to see you back," she exclaimed, her voice warm with undisguised pride. She held him at arm's length, giving him a thorough, delighted inspection.
"You've shot up a bit, haven't you? But you are just as dashingly handsome as ever. Though I suppose international stardom agrees with you."
Sebastian couldn't help but respond with genuine feeling. "Dear Professor McGonagall, I've missed you and this castle terribly! There's simply no place quite like it."
He stepped back and formally presented the gift he had prepared—two distinct packages.
"This, Professor, is a recently translated collection of late-19th-century Transfiguration manuscripts from a reclusive Russian sorcerer. His concepts on elemental shifting were deemed wildly unconventional at the time, but I believe you will find them profoundly insightful and potentially inspiring for the seventh-year curriculum." The first package was a sophisticated academic offering.
"And this," Sebastian added, lowering his voice conspiratorially and producing a small, wrapped bag with a playful wink, "is a large quantity of a particularly potent, high-altitude Nepalese catnip. For administrative stress relief, naturally. I believe it's best enjoyed with a little privacy."
Professor McGonagall let out a robust, undignified peal of laughter—a sound Sebastian hadn't heard often, but always cherished.
"Oh, Sebastian! You were always a terrible combination of academic depth and sheer, calculated mischief! Excellent, excellent, I shall accept both with immense gratitude. Come, sit down. We are colleagues now. I've already prepared the initial orientation paperwork; an owl will deliver the contract and your full credentials shortly."
Sebastian sat, smiling broadly. "I am honored to serve. And I look forward to leaning heavily on your decades of guidance. After all, in my mind, you will always be my professor first."
McGonagall beamed, settling back down but unable to suppress her excitement, which quickly centered on the one subject that could still turn the unflappable lioness into a giddy fan.
"Now, about that Quidditch!" she exclaimed, leaning over the desk eagerly. "Sebastian, the entire British wizarding community is buzzing! Thanks to your efforts, England is in the quarterfinals—we haven't had this level of success in years! And that record, that record! Catching the Golden Snitch in a mere two minutes on your World Cup debut! It was unbelievable, breathtaking!"
"The Daily Prophet," she continued, lowering her voice in mock-reverence, "even coined a nickname for you! A marvelous bit of sensationalism, really. They call you 'The Two-Minute Man!' I have the issue framed downstairs, you know."
Sebastian's smile froze. The sudden, intense elation of the last hour evaporated, replaced by a cold, surgical fury usually reserved for failing stock portfolio analysts.
The Two-Minute Man.
He fought the urge to twitch. He fought the urge to casually curse the Prophet's headline writer with a decade of chronic, unrelenting nosebleeds. The utter, unspeakable imbecility! To take a moment of unparalleled athletic and strategic triumph—the fastest, most decisive victory in World Cup history—and reduce it to that. The phrase was vulgar, reductive, and screamed of the lowest-common-denominator journalism.
Oh, they think they are so clever, Sebastian thought darkly, a plan for media revenge already formulating in his mind. The day is coming, Prophet. Swann Media is going to launch an intellectual, ethically superior, twenty-four-hour competitor that will systematically destroy your readership. Enjoy your final months of relevance, you miserable headline-sucking ghouls.
Maintaining his composure with superhuman effort, Sebastian managed a practiced, charming laugh. "Ah, yes, the press. Always fond of a catchy, if slightly simplistic, moniker, Professor."
"Simplistic, perhaps, but effective!" she countered, completely oblivious to his internal inferno. "And thanks to you, Sebastian, I've been able to follow every play! Your SwanMedia Magic Television is truly a marvel. I watch every match live, or if I'm marking essays, I buy the pre-recorded magical video feed. Truly, a brilliant product."
She then leaned in, her fan excitement overriding her professorial decorum. "Which reminds me, you haven't decided if you'll play for the House team while serving as Deputy Headmaster, have you? You haven't entirely given up the sport, have you?"
Sebastian, instantly refocusing on the task at hand—the Quidditch-based strategy—slapped a hand to his chest with powerful confidence.
"Nonsense, Professor McGonagall! Give up Quidditch? Never! And yes, I intend to participate fully. After all, the plan Dumbledore and I discussed revolves around the beautiful game. Don't you worry," Sebastian declared, his eyes burning with renewed, strategic determination. "When the time comes, no one on that pitch will know the location of the Golden Snitch better than me. We only need one game day to change the entire dynamic of the Houses!"
After a solid thirty minutes of detailed (and highly technical) Quidditch discussion, Sebastian reluctantly took his leave, promising to schedule a tea to discuss the Russian manuscripts.
Sebastian's charm offensive continued with mechanical precision.
Next was Professor Filius Flitwick, the diminutive but brilliant Head of Ravenclaw. Sebastian found him in his office, perched atop a stack of books, correcting a mountain of Charms essays.
"Sebastian! My greatest regret was that Slytherin's traditions prevented you from joining us in Ravenclaw!" Flitwick squeaked delightedly.
Sebastian presented his gift: an ancient, delicately preserved manuscript containing an entire, previously lost family Grimoire detailing advanced techniques for Non-Verbal Charms—a masterpiece of magical economy.
Flitwick's eyes nearly popped out of his head, his hands trembling as he accepted it. The Head of Ravenclaw immediately forgot Sebastian was even in the room, sinking into a corner with the manuscript, already muttering in Latin.
Following this, Sebastian sought out Professor Pomona Sprout, the robust and cheerful Head of Hufflepuff.
Her office, smelling richly of soil, fertilizer, and exotic floral decay, was a chaotic jungle of potted plants. Sebastian's gift for her was carefully selected: a large wooden box containing hundreds of vials of rare, high-altitude seed samples collected by Swann expeditions—seeds for plants with potent, undiscovered magical properties, sourced from remote corners of the globe.
Sprout let out a whoop of pure, earthy joy, embracing Sebastian and covering his expensive robes with a thin layer of peat moss.
"Oh, Sebastian, you marvelous boy! This is not just a gift, this is a year's worth of research! The patience of Hufflepuff will be put to excellent use!" Her sheer, unadulterated happiness was infectious, and Sebastian felt a genuine, simple pleasure in her reaction.
Hufflepuff's quiet loyalty and collective patience were the undervalued keystones of the entire school, and Sprout was the perfect ally.
Finally, Sebastian found Professor Quirinus Quirrell, the unassuming, nervously stuttering Professor of Muggle Studies.
Quirrell's office was surprisingly warm, decorated with beautifully pressed wildflower specimens he had collected during his travels and a few colorful tapestries showing Muggle landscapes.
Sebastian gave him a thick, leather-bound magical photo album filled with high-quality, enchanted photographs Sebastian's Muggle-facing branch of Swann Media had taken: beautiful, dynamic magical photos of Muggle life—skyscrapers, racing cars, deep-sea research, and orbital satellites.
Quirrell's reaction was surprisingly robust. He opened the album, his wide, pale eyes fixed on the images. He did not stutter once as he enthusiastically explained the origins of each wildflower specimen he had pressed, his words revealing a deep, almost passionate love for the joie de vivre of the Muggle world and its beautiful simplicity.
Sebastian stared at the man, a secret alarm bell ringing deep in his gut. This sunny, life-loving Professor of Muggle Studies bore absolutely no resemblance to the frightened, host-body-sharing shell he recalled from the original narrative.
He's supposed to be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts next year, wearing a turban, and hosting the Dark Lord on the back of his head, Sebastian mused, filing the observation away as a profound timeline anomaly. Something is definitely different. But for now, the charm must continue.
The late afternoon faded into the deep blue twilight as Sebastian completed his rounds, leaving a trail of delighted professors and secured alliances in his wake. His last official stop was the dungeons.
He walked past the towering, intimidating entrance to the Slytherin Common Room and came to the cold, stone door of his last target.
Sebastian pushed open the door to Severus Snape's office without bothering to knock, marching straight into the gloom.
"Come on, Severus!" Sebastian boomed, tossing his jacket onto a chair. "The Charm Offensive is complete. The Ministry is paralyzed, Dumbledore is mollified, and Mia is busy curing Dark Curses! Let's drink! Tonight, we celebrate the true ascension of the Slytherin ambition—the only kind that matters!"
Snape was seated at his desk, staring into a smoking cauldron with the fixed, glacial concentration of a man attempting to boil water with his contempt alone. He lifted his head slowly, his expression one of pure, venomous displeasure.
"The utter lack of decorum, Swann. One knock, at least, is customary," Snape hissed, waving his wand to dismiss the smoking cauldron. "And I accepted your invitation earlier only under the mistaken impression that silence would be a term of the arrangement."
"Nonsense! I need a good, honest critic, and you are, unfortunately, the only friend I have qualified for the job," Sebastian retorted cheerfully, already pulling two bottles of aged Firewhiskey and a pair of crystal glasses from his expanded pocket.
Snape watched Sebastian's easy, effortless movements—the casual display of wealth, the arrogant confidence, the perfect smile—and the bitter resentment intensified. He has everything. The resources, the title, the immunity from consequences, and the beautiful, moral wife.
Snape's mind replayed Mia's successes at St. Mungo's, her quiet, dignified fury against the Dark Arts. Mia's life is a righteous quest; mine is a miserable servitude to a dead promise. It was all a cruel joke orchestrated by the cosmos.
As Sebastian set the glasses down, he noticed the lingering scowl on Snape's face. Sebastian, knowing exactly how to poke the bear, leaned in and lowered his voice, delivering the final, perfect barb.
"What is it, Severus? Still thinking about the Two-Minute Man headline? Try not to let the Prophet's cheap vulgarity ruin your evening. Though I admit, I find it quite a catchy headline for a man whose whole strategy revolves around decisiveness. Don't worry, old man, I'll tell you all the secrets of speed tonight. Now, come on. Let's drink until we forget that headline ever existed!"
Snape's fists clenched. That was it. Sebastian was not merely successful; he was relentlessly, effortlessly joyful about it. The simple, idiotic confidence was unbearable.
Without a word, Snape rose from his chair, sweeping his robes around him in a dramatic, black vortex of wounded pride and refusal. He walked past Sebastian, his gait rigid and furious.
Go with you? Snape thought, his pace quickening as he stalked toward the door. Never. You pompous, fortunate, oblivious peacock. I would rather spend the night reviewing second-year essays on the proper application of bottled sunlight!
He wrenched the door open and vanished into the cold stone hallway, leaving Sebastian alone in the dark office, laughing softly and pouring himself the first, victorious measure of Firewhiskey.