After leaving the dark, herb-scented confines of Spinner's End—a visit that Sebastian knew had irrevocably shaken the foundations of Severus Snape's tightly controlled world—he Apparated directly to the gates of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
The ancient castle, usually a magnificent, roaring engine of youthful chaos, was strikingly quiet during the summer break. The silence was less peaceful and more oppressive.
Sebastian walked through the familiar corridors, noting the stark difference: the marble staircases stood motionless, refusing to shift their geometry; the ancestral portraits were mostly dozing or gossiping in low, bored whispers; and the few ghosts that drifted past, such as the Grey Lady or Nearly Headless Nick, moved with a leisurely, aimless glide, as if lamenting the lack of live students to startle or annoy.
The Great Hall, absent the cheerful cacophony of four hundred eating, laughing students, seemed vast and lonely, its enchanted ceiling reflecting a weak, hazy July sky.
Sebastian found the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office. A simple password—Lemon Drops—was sufficient, and the stone sentinel sprang aside.
As he entered the circular office, the scene inside was so perfectly characteristic of Albus Dumbledore that Sebastian couldn't help but let out a burst of genuine laughter.
Headmaster Dumbledore, perched behind his magnificent, claw-footed desk, was holding a bright quill dipped in sparkling magenta ink. He wasn't writing; he was meticulously tickling the underside of Fawkes, the magnificent phoenix, who stood rigidly on his perch.
Fawkes would roll his huge, liquid gold eyes, flap his massive, restless wings once or twice in an annoyed gesture, and emit a series of disgruntled, low chirps—a noise that translated clearly as a petulant complaint about the immense boredom inflicted by his geriatric companion.
It's just like those Muggle grandfathers who insist on walking their grumpy, feathered pets in the park, Sebastian thought, suppressing another round of chuckles. Except Albus Dumbledore's pet is a primordial firebird. Truly a top-tier game of leisure.
Seeing Sebastian, Dumbledore gently placed the colorful quill on his desk, the action of a man reluctantly abandoning a favorite pastime. He rose and smiled, the warmth of his blue eyes momentarily eclipsing the sheer emptiness of the hall outside.
"Ah, Sebastian. I believe the old house is a touch dull without the usual racket. Please, sit down," Dumbledore offered, gesturing to the chair opposite. "I heard through the usual, efficient channels that you have a rather unique house guest. I trust he is well?"
Sebastian nodded, settling into the comfortable seat. "Yes, Headmaster Dumbledore, your intelligence network is as swift as ever. Harry is currently staying at my house, and I must confess, he is fully aware of his origins and the true gravity of his history."
"I took him to London for some necessary Muggle fun, and then, of course, to Diagon Alley to establish his identity. The boy is furiously curious about the magical world, and, most importantly, eager to learn magic."
Sebastian leaned forward, allowing a hint of paternal pride to soften his commercial edge. "Coincidentally, I'm rather good at it, and after a year of teaching Muggle Studies, I find myself rather adept at instruction. I've taught him a handful of minor, foundational spells, which he practices daily with commendable diligence."
"Also, following his strong interest in Potions—a subject his mother excelled at, as you well know—I took the liberty of securing him additional tutoring from an exceptional, albeit perpetually irritable, master: Severus Snape." Sebastian finished with a perfectly executed, smug little shrug. "His days are very full."
A flicker of genuine anxiety crossed Dumbledore's aged face, disappearing almost instantly, replaced by a subtle, desperate plea.
"You must be incredibly busy, Sebastian. But Harry is still very young. Please, do not overburden him."
Dumbledore saw the fire of ambition burning in Sebastian's eyes—the clear intent to forge Harry into a weapon, a champion, driven by the knowledge of his fate. The Headmaster did not want Harry to become an extremist propelled solely by a thirst for vengeance.
"His childhood was already deprived of innocence and joy," Dumbledore continued, his voice softer, more persuasive. "I simply hope that his life, from this point forward, can be characterized by ease and happiness. He will have ample time for rigorous academic study once term begins at Hogwarts."
Sebastian sighed internally, recognizing the familiar rhetoric. The old man and his 'Happy Education' philosophy again.
"Happiness is the most important thing for young wizards, isn't it, Sebastian?" Dumbledore pressed, his blue eyes twinkling over the half-moon spectacles.
Sebastian pursed his lips. He respected Dumbledore, but on this matter, they were politically and philosophically miles apart. The Headmaster seemed oblivious to the quiet decline of the British wizarding world's magical power.
While other children can afford this gentle, relaxed approach, can Harry? Sebastian thought grimly. Fudge is not eternal, and the Dark Lord is coming back within a few years. We can't afford to keep Harry wrapped in cotton wool.
Sebastian reflected on the statistics he had gathered from his private network:
When his own generation graduated during the height of the first war, nearly every graduate possessed the power and discipline to cast the Ironclad Charm (a non-verbal, powerful defensive shield) due to the sheer necessity of survival.
Today, far fewer Hogwarts graduates could successfully master the spell, leading to constant frustration among the Auror trainees. Scrinker, the head of the Auror Office, had recently reported that the number of graduates meeting basic physical and magical competency standards had dropped by forty percent over the last decade.
Even Mia, a Healer, constantly complained that the quality of recruits at St. Mungo's Hospital was steadily declining.
Worse, Sebastian's intelligence from the Swan Alchemy branch in the USA reported a growing cultural arrogance from American wizards. Graduates of the Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry openly mocked the magical prowess of their British counterparts. Their common insult? That Hogwarts had degenerated into the "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry Technology," implying a reliance on mere enchanted gadgets rather than true, disciplined magical skill.
Hogwarts hadn't competed in a major international magical competition in years. Its students lived in a bubble, unaware of how far behind their global counterparts they had fallen.
Sebastian completely rejected Dumbledore's insistence on magical complacency, but he knew arguing the point would be fruitless.
"Headmaster, I will take your counsel on Harry's well-being seriously, of course," Sebastian replied, forcing a reassuring smile and shifting the massive volume of the conversation. "However, I am here today to present to you a detailed reform plan for the next academic year—a plan designed to directly address some of the issues of student engagement and falling professional standards we both secretly worry about."
Dumbledore's interest was immediately and completely piqued. Sebastian's previous, seemingly trivial reforms—the Muggle Studies classes—had quietly become the unexpected catalyst for improved inter-house relations, especially among the younger years. The sight of third-year Gryffindors, Slytherins, and Ravenclaws discussing the internal combustion engine was, to Dumbledore, a small, yet profound, miracle.
"A reform scheme?" Dumbledore leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "I am entirely intrigued by what new brilliance you have hatched, my dear boy."
"My plan is titled the Hogwarts Work-Study Program," Sebastian stated, his voice now firm and professional, moving from the personal domain to the institutional. "It is designed to address two distinct challenges within the student body: the exceptional student who needs deeper engagement, and the student who requires financial and vocational assistance."
I. Academic Assistants (The Feynman Technique)
"Firstly, we address the issue of the highly capable students and the current strain on faculty resources. In classes like Charms, Transfiguration, and Potions, you have a handful of young wizards who master new spells and concepts immediately, and then a far larger group who struggle to keep pace."
"Due to the size of the classes, professors cannot possibly give personalized, timely attention to every single student who requires a remedial explanation. This is where the Work-Study program intervenes."
"Students with exceptional grades—those achieving Outstanding or Exceeds Expectations—will be able to apply to work as Assistant Instructors alongside their Professors for the lower years. This is not mere busywork; this is genuine, paid teaching assistance."
Sebastian tapped his fingers on the desk to emphasize the dual benefit. "The students who become Teaching Assistants will not only receive a stipend to cover their living and textbook expenses, but they will also solidify their own knowledge more effectively than any amount of simple revision."
"This approach, which Muggles refer to as the Feynman Learning Technique, is brilliant: when you teach a concept to someone else, you are forced to simplify it, identify your own knowledge gaps, and restructure the material, leading to a profound, permanent consolidation of learning."
"This will raise the floor for the struggling students and raise the ceiling for the top-tier students simultaneously."
II. Vocational Placements (Dignity and Work Ethic)
"Secondly, we must account for the vocational needs of students who may not be academically inclined or who come from less privileged backgrounds—specifically, some Muggle-borns and those from ordinary wizarding families who lack the vast family fortunes."
"Currently, many of these students feel that their only value is academic, and if they struggle in class, they have no other means of contributing to the school or earning their way. This creates shame and low self-worth."
"We will formalize and pay for essential, operational jobs within the school, turning them into work-study placements: Tending the rare, fragile plants in the greenhouses for Herbology; the precise, pre-class preparation of potion ingredients for Professor Snape's class; structured assistance in the Library Stacks; and even roles in the magical maintenance of the Quidditch pitch."
"By offering these placements, these students can earn their required materials, their robes, and their living expenses through their own honest effort. This builds not only a strong work ethic but a sense of ownership over the institution. I believe they will work tirelessly in the jobs the school offers, and this pride will translate to better overall engagement, even if they never manage to master the Ironclad Charm."
Sebastian slid a thick, bound manuscript—complete with budget projections, job descriptions, and a proposed pay structure—across the desk toward the Headmaster.
"I have detailed the full structure, including the proposed hourly rates and the allocation of funds in this document. It is a comprehensive overhaul, Headmaster, and it will inject a powerful sense of purpose and professionalism into the student body."
Dumbledore picked up the weighty document. He did not merely glance at it; he opened it, adjusted his half-moon spectacles, and began to read with the methodical attention of a man contemplating a game-winning chess move. He read page after page in silence, his expression shifting from curiosity to profound approval.
He closed the document slowly, placing his hands on the cover. He looked up at Sebastian, his blue eyes holding a conflicted expression.
"Sebastian," Dumbledore said, his voice quiet and heavy. "This plan… this plan is, in truth, perfect. It addresses the very core issues of motivation, inter-house bias, and student inequality that I have long struggled with."
He paused, a troubled look deepening the wrinkles around his eyes.
"But there is a very serious, very mundane problem with your excellent scheme, one that your business acumen must understand immediately."
Dumbledore sighed, a sound of deep, ancient weariness.
"The school's funding… it is, quite frankly, entirely inadequate to support the stipend and employment costs outlined in this proposal."