Time, impervious to the desires of man or wizard, had brought the dawn of September 1st. At Swann Manor, the morning was not marked by peace but by a highly organized state of chaos.
"Harry, dear, are you absolutely certain you have enough thermal robes? The dungeons at Hogwarts can be dreadfully cold! And the new climate charms in Sebastian's office may fail!"
Mia moved with a frantic, loving energy that transformed the grand drawing-room into a triage center for luggage. She re-checked Harry's trunk for the fifth time, pulling out neatly folded sweaters, only to press them back in with renewed vigor.
Leaving Harry was a profound, wrenching experience for her; since the moment Sebastian brought him home, he had become the central, cherished pivot of their small, unconventional family. Her current mission was a desperate expression of this reluctance: ensuring Harry's trunk contained enough material comfort to last a decade, just in case magic failed entirely.
"I have everything, Aunt Mia, I promise! We went over the list twice last night," Harry pleaded, rubbing his temples.
"But the snacks! You have only brought enough for the journey! Go back, collect more lemon drops, pumpkin pasties, and those Muggle fizzy drinks Sebastian pretends to despise!"
"No, no, Aunt Mia. Sebastian said too much sugar turns my teeth into weak enamel that even the finest Skelegro can't repair," Harry insisted, quoting his guardian precisely.
Mia threw a mildly murderous glance at Sebastian, who was leaning against the doorway, radiating infuriating smugness.
She instantly softened for Harry. "Nonsense, darling. A daily dose of Tooth-Strengthening Potion renders such Muggle concerns irrelevant. It's better to have too many comforts than too few."
Harry was internally counting his blessings for the wonders of the magical world. Were they Muggles, they would absolutely require a massive removal van.
Thankfully, Sebastian had merely applied a Threadless Stretching Spell and a powerful featherweight enchantment to the trunk. Harry's massive load of books, robes, and assorted gadgets now weighed less than a pillow and could fit into a single, modest container.
Harry shot Sebastian a desperate, silent plea from across the room: Help me! Intervene!
Sebastian simply raised his hands in mock surrender, a mischievous grin playing on his lips. I can't, Harry. This is the Mia Love Siege. Enjoy the care; it's a profound, unique magic.
Finally, with the trunk sealed and Mia's anxieties marginally appeased, Sebastian drove them in his elegantly understated Muggle car to King's Cross Station.
On the way, Harry, buzzing with anticipation, asked, "Aunt Mia, Sebastian mentioned the four Houses at Hogwarts. Do I get to choose, or is it a test?"
Sebastian quickly interjected, cutting off Mia's truthful explanation with a dramatic flourish.
"Ahem. Harry, you'll be doing a lot more than just choosing," Sebastian announced, peering dramatically into the rearview mirror. "When you arrive, the first-years do not enter the castle immediately. You are taken to the shore of the Black Lake and placed in a rickety small boat."
Harry's eyes widened, leaning forward in the backseat.
"This is the Trial of the Black Lake," Sebastian said conspiratorially. "It's a test of raw, inherited courage. The creatures of the Lake—notably the great Giant Squid and some other, less friendly, submerged monsters—will rise to 'attack' your boat. Your reaction to this moment of pure, unadulterated peril will be observed by the castle's ancient charms."
Sebastian grinned wider. "Don't panic! It's just a high-stakes, magical psychological assessment. It won't harm you, but your performance—your raw, instinctive response to the chaos—will directly determine which House the Sorting Hat places you in. It's an evaluation of your temperament under duress."
Harry gasped, gripping his knee. A test? A trial by monster? He instantly felt a new rush of anxious determination. Sebastian was incredibly kind to give him this vital intelligence. He was determined not to flounder or appear cowardly when facing a multi-tentacled threat.
Mia turned in her seat, pinning Sebastian with a look of extreme maternal disapproval—the silent communication was crystal clear: You are going to terrify the child!
Sebastian met her gaze in the rearview mirror and merely gave a slow, deliberate blink that translated to: He needs to be ready for the real, unexpected dangers. This is inoculation.
They arrived at King's Cross at precisely 10:30 AM. After Sebastian expertly guided Mia and Harry through the barrier between platforms Nine and Ten, they stepped onto the secret platform.
The atmosphere was electric. A colossal, magnificent old red steam train stood silently at the barrier, its vintage engine emitting a deep, resonant hum, while slow plumes of white smoke curled lazily toward the vaulted glass ceiling of the station. A gleaming gold sign hung over the locomotive, proclaiming its destiny: The Hogwarts Express.
Harry stared in awe. This was the place where the ordinary dissolved entirely into the extraordinary.
The platform was a kaleidoscope of color and motion. Parents, their faces a mixture of undisguised pride and profound reluctance, adjusted the collars of their children's robes.
Excited new students bounced on the cobblestones, clutching polished trunks and cage-swinging pets. Older students—cool, confident, and clad in their House colors—greeted each other with boisterous handshakes and enthusiastic chatter about summer travels and new spells.
A wave of dizzying excitement surged through Harry. He felt a deep, instinctive sense of belonging—a feeling that this, this chaotic, loving, magical energy, was his true home.
They maneuvered the heavy trunk toward the back of the train. Finding a relatively quiet carriage, Harry hauled the trunk aboard with a strong levitation charm and settled it in the luggage rack. He immediately opened the window to say his final goodbyes to Mia.
Sebastian stood back, maintaining a respectful distance, surveying the platform. He smiled and waved at a few passing students, particularly recognizing a nervous, scrawny boy with bright red hair and a cheerful, bushy-haired girl already engaged in animated conversation.
The piercing, mournful whistle of the train engine blew—a final, absolute call to departure.
Sebastian stepped forward, placing a comforting arm around Mia's shoulder. He waved enthusiastically at Harry.
"Don't fall asleep on the journey, Harry! The landscapes change dramatically! We'll be watching you tonight! Now, off you go!"
He kept his arm firmly around a teary-eyed Mia, pulling her back just as the massive train began to slowly, inexorably pull out of the station, its brass gleaming in the sunlight as it carried its precious cargo toward the Scottish Highlands.
Later that evening, the Hogwarts Great Hall had been transformed into a vision of gothic splendor to welcome the new academic year. Hundreds of candles floated impossibly in the air, illuminating the polished, dark wood tables and the enchanted ceiling, which currently reflected a clear, starry night sky.
Sebastian sat at the Professors' Table, trying, with limited success, to enjoy a glass of spiced pumpkin juice. His neighbor was the source of his current, profound discomfort: Gilderoy Lockhart.
Sebastian, in a tactical move, had leveraged his influence to recommend Lockhart as a temporary Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, but more specifically, as the instructor for a new, mandatory elective: Creative Magical Autobiography.
This allowed Lockhart his cherished spotlight but neatly sidelined his actual ability to teach defensive magic, which Sebastian was highly skeptical of. In return, Lockhart had directed his Swann Media contacts to subtly undermine the influence of the Daily Prophet—a quid pro quo that had benefitted Sebastian's long-term media goals.
Lockhart, however, was treating the Professors' Table like his personal signing booth. Dressed in peacock-blue robes that clashed spectacularly with his flaxen hair, he was fielding a constant stream of admiring students—mostly giddy young witches—who lined up holding copies of his books.
"Oh my gosh, Professor Lockhart! You look even more radiant in person than you do in the Witch Weekly spreads! Your stunt work in Travels with Trolls was truly masterful!" gushed a third-year Ravenclaw.
"Yes, yes! He's so versatile! A writer, director, and lead man. Do you know how much dedication it takes to succeed in all three fields? No one else in our lifetime has achieved such literary and cinematic genius!" echoed another.
"Professor," a calculating-looking Hufflepuff girl whispered, "how much do you think a lock of your hair is worth on the collectible market? Should I try to secure a few more of your signatures now, for investment purposes?"
Sebastian's head was pounding. The noise—the sheer, high-pitched cacophony of celebrity worship—was giving him a profound, spiritual understanding of the suffering Severus Snape had endured in this very seat, dealing with Sebastian's own overblown enthusiasm last year. He truly understood the urge to snap and hiss in the dark.
Just as the line of fawning fans looked set to stretch into the next century, and just before Professor McGonagall made her solemn entrance, Sebastian executed a move of surgical precision. He drove a sharp, targeted elbow jab straight into Lockhart's ribs.
Lockhart, mid-signature flourish, squeaked and instantly caught Sebastian's fierce glare—a clear, non-verbal warning: The ceremony is about to begin. Stop this promotional chaos now, or face the wrath of the Deputy Headmistress.
Lockhart immediately grasped the danger. He stood up, adjusting his immaculate robes with an oily smile.
"Thank you all, my devoted readers! That concludes our impromptu pre-feast session. If you require further signed volumes, my office door is always open. But for now, please return to your Houses and prepare for the commencement of our magical year!"
The students dispersed, still chattering excitedly about the man's undeniable magnetism. Sebastian watched them leave, deeply relieved by the sudden relative quiet.
Then, the massive oak doors of the Great Hall slowly swung open. Professor Minerva McGonagall marched in with her usual severe grace, followed by a line of approximately eighty terrified and wide-eyed first-years.
She halted before the dais, motioned the children into a nervous huddle, and with a familiar, deliberate movement, took the patched, tattered, and ancient Sorting Hat from its stool and placed it squarely on the floor.
"The Sorting Ceremony begins now!" she announced, her voice ringing with authority.
Sebastian leaned back in his chair, his focus now absolute. The test of his political maneuver was about to begin. He knew exactly where the trio would go. He knew where the Malfoy bodyguard would fail to materialize.
He watched as McGonagall unrolled a scroll of parchment.
"Hannah Abbott!"
Hearing the first familiar name, Sebastian let out a slow, contented sigh. It begins. He folded his arms, entirely satisfied. This year's Sorting was going to be uniquely and deliciously disruptive.