Only one week had passed since the commencement of the term, and already the Gryffindor House Hourglass glowed with an unnerving, pulsating red. The glass column held a devastatingly high tide of rubies, soaring far above the measured emeralds, sapphires, and amethysts of the other houses.
Sebastian stood before the magnificent, towering scoreboard in the marble entrance hall, his gaze locked on the terrifying disparity. It wasn't the winning that bothered him; it was the scale and the speed.
Fifty points. A fifty-point lead in ten days was not merely a good start; it was, statistically speaking, a small-scale catastrophe. Under normal Hogwarts operations, five points were awarded for a well-executed homework answer; ten for truly outstanding class participation or a perfect potion.
Fifty points was the kind of score one accrued over an entire month of exemplary behavior across multiple classes, or conversely, what was deducted for a violent, near-fatal breach of rules.
Sebastian, initially concerned that Headmaster Dumbledore might be preemptively padding Gryffindor's end-of-term score, realized the truth was far more insidious, and far closer to home.
My own House Head is a traitor, Sebastian thought, a tight, disbelieving smirk crossing his face. I worried about the old man playing favorites, when the most critical damage is being inflicted by the Potions Master himself.
Sebastian did not bother with the main staircase. He moved directly toward the stone basement, his long, emerald robes flowing behind him as he descended into the cold, damp silence that was Severus Snape's domain.
The door to Snape's private office did not merely open; it burst inward, slamming against the stone wall with a resonant thwack.
Snape, bent low over a steaming cauldron of luminous, swirling restorative tonic, did not flinch. He merely shifted his black robes and delivered his greeting without looking up.
"I was under the distinct impression that Professor Swann's mind, full of the ephemeral trivialities of Muggle culture and theatrical ego, would recall at least the most fundamental rule of etiquette when entering a working laboratory," Snape hissed, his voice cutting through the hiss of the potion.
"Ah, but I deduce the inevitable: Professor Swann's glory days must be over. The insufferable Gilderoy Lockhart must have successfully stolen the limelight, leaving our former media darling to nurse his wounds."
Snape gave a dramatic, exaggerated sigh. "Pray, have mercy on the poor, overworked Potions Master and do not take your professional humiliation out on my valuable ingredients, or my already fragile patience."
Sebastian knew the drill. Engaging Snape in a battle of wits and insults was fruitless; Snape was a master duelist with words. Sebastian adopted his unique defense: immunity. He pretended the insults were the buzzing of an annoying insect.
Instead, he moved immediately to Snape's most sacred ritual: the potion. He released his precise magical perception, tracing the subtle fluctuations in the cauldron's heat and the rhythmic stir.
"The black root herb was added approximately thirteen seconds too late," Sebastian stated flatly, his voice devoid of emotion. "The restorative quality will be acceptable, but the stability will suffer under sustained magical drain. The overall quality of the potion is compromised, Professor. It could have been further refined."
Snape's precise, methodical breathing hitched instantly. He straightened, his face momentarily contorted in a mixture of surprise and pure, intellectual fury. He was about to unleash a tirade about Sebastian's uninvited presence, but Sebastian interrupted him with the swift, cold command of a Master Alchemist.
"Stop talking. You have approximately six seconds to correct the stirring rhythm before the compound begins to destabilize. Stir now."
Snape, recognizing the unassailable truth in Sebastian's cold assessment of his craft, suppressed his visceral displeasure. He grabbed the stirring rod and began stirring clockwise exactly seven times, his motions rigid with suppressed anger. Once the complex tonic in the cauldron settled, radiating a stable, gentle heat, Snape straightened again, turning his fiery glare onto Sebastian.
"Now, Swann. You will explain the purpose of this petulant intrusion. What catastrophic development in the Gryffindor common room requires the attention of its rival House Head?" Snape demanded, his voice thick with sarcasm.
"Ah, 'catastrophic' is indeed the correct word, Severus," Sebastian replied, his own tone dripping with cold, Slytherin judgment. "I am here to understand why the Head of Slytherin is actively dismantling the foundations of our House. Pray tell, why is the Potions Master sabotaging his own students?"
Sebastian paced slowly, his hands clasped behind his back, adopting a slow, deliberate mockery of Snape's usual drawl.
"'Mr. Potter, ten points to Gryffindor for demonstrating a superior comprehension of the anti-venom preparation, even if your methodology was unnecessarily reckless.' Five points. 'Mr. Potter, five points for promptly and efficiently cleaning up your workstation, a feat of organization rarely seen in this dungeon.' Five points. 'Mr. Potter, an astonishing twenty points for identifying a catastrophic hazard in the form of Longbottom's over-boiling mixture and providing prophylactic intervention, thus saving the lab from structural instability.'"
Sebastian stopped, his eyes narrowed. "You are not merely rewarding excellence, Severus. You are creating a dependency. You are training him to rely on external validation and material rewards—House Points—rather than fostering the internal, ruthless ambition that drives a true student of our House. You are rewarding him for being a Gryffindor martyr who saves the clumsy fool, rather than allowing the clumsy fool to suffer the consequences of his ineptitude, thus learning a valuable life lesson."
Snape's face remained impassive, but his thoughts were a storm of cold, calculated defense. The points are not for him, Swann. The points are a buffer. Dumbledore will be watching the score. If I must show favour, it must be so transparently obvious, so exaggerated, that he assumes I am merely indulging my usual vindictiveness by deducting points from my own House and compensating Harry's. It is necessary political cover for the Boy's success, you oblivious strategist.
Sebastian mockingly unfurled a piece of parchment detailing the newly ratified Teaching Assistant Regulations and placed it dramatically on Snape's desk.
"Kindly turn your eyes away from your favourite student, Professor, and read these regulations carefully. Harry is being paid by Hogwarts to act as the Potions Assistant. Therefore, assisting his classmates is part of his contractual obligation. To award excessive points for performing a paid duty is not generous—it is a clear, egregious breach of the rules. You must, at the very least, be subtle!"
Snape silently picked up the parchment, his fury now directed less at Sebastian and more at the sheer complexity of his own covert operation.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
The loud, urgent rapping on the wooden door shattered the tense atmosphere.
"Enter!" Snape snapped, without looking up, still reading the regulations.
A third-year Slytherin boy—thin, pale, and clearly terrified—stumbled into the office. He breathed a visible sigh of relief upon seeing Sebastian.
"Professor Swann, thank goodness, you're here! You need to come to the Great Hall immediately! Malfoy is going to duel Potter! It's about that—that Remembrall thing, sir, and the duel is scheduled for the Hall!"
Sebastian exchanged a significant glance with Snape—the shared look of two adults suddenly dragged into trivial adolescent drama. They both moved immediately toward the main castle.
As Sebastian and Snape approached the Great Hall, they could already hear a furious, high-pitched argument emanating from inside.
"You two are spineless traitors!" Ron Weasley's voice rang out, raw with anger. "Fred and George, you swore you'd help Harry fight the Slytherins! Instead, you sent Marcus Flint to fetch a Professor! You've both been chosen for the Quidditch team, so now you're sucking up to the Captain, aren't you? You pathetic, cowardly leeches!"
"Ron!" Hermione Granger's voice was equally frantic. "This is a clear challenge to a duel! It requires immediate professional intervention to prevent a serious breach of the Statute of Secrecy, or at least, massive injury!"
"Ronnie," Fred Weasley replied, his voice unnervingly calm, "This has nothing to do with Marcus, or the team. Even if he hadn't volunteered, we would have gone to find the Professor ourselves."
"Yes," George interjected smoothly. "When a disagreement between students from different Houses reaches the level of a formal challenge, they must appeal to Professor Swann. That's his rule, Ronnie. It's what prevents the inevitable collapse into a messy, dishonourable free-for-all."
"Don't call me Little Ronnie!" Ron muttered, still bristling with indignation. "But Sebastian is from Slytherin! What guarantee is there that he won't be hopelessly biased in favour of his own House?"
A dark, resonant chuckle came from the center of the crowd. It was Marcus Flint, the massive, imposing Quidditch Captain of Slytherin.
"Heh. Don't worry, Weasley. Professor Swann is always fair." Flint smiled, but it was a cold, memory-laden expression.
Flint had first-hand experience with Sebastian's version of fairness. After a massive brawl the previous year, Sebastian had not only docked Flint's own personal House Points but had personally supervised him while he was forced to read the entire Hogwarts code of conduct aloud for an hour at the entrance of the Great Hall during lunch—a brutal, humiliating spectacle that effectively ended inter-house fighting.
Nobody wanted to stand frozen like a statue while every passing student stared and snickered. Flint, now a reformed advocate for peace, felt a wave of malicious anticipation for the spectacle he knew was coming.
The crowd parted as Sebastian and Snape strode forward. Sebastian took in the scene instantly: Malfoy looked pale and anxious, cornered by his own arrogance. Harry was standing tall, gripping a misplaced, enchanted object (Neville's Remembrall), his face alight with reckless, Gryffindor courage.
Sebastian clapped his hands sharply, the sound echoing through the suddenly silent hall.
"A private challenge, escalating from a trivial object, and requiring the intervention of a Captain? Very well," Sebastian announced, addressing Malfoy first, his voice sharp and decisive. "Mr. Malfoy, you initiated the theft and the challenge to a student whose possession was clearly a matter of personal value. Ten points have been immediately deducted from Slytherin for bullying and provocative behavior."
Malfoy's jaw dropped. Before he could utter a protest, Sebastian turned to Harry and the gathering students.
"However, the challenge has been issued, and a duel under supervision is far preferable to a chaotic confrontation. We will proceed." Sebastian gestured broadly to Snape. "Professor Snape and I will bear witness. You are granted this exhibition to settle your dispute."
He then commanded the onlookers, his voice now booming with theatrical authority.
"Clear the space! Both sides, take your positions! Your duel has just been elevated to a formal, professors-supervised exhibition. No wands, gentlemen—this is a fight to the finish using pure, textbook defense spells only. Failure to comply results in fifty points deducted and a month of detention. Let the entertainment commence!"
The crowd exploded in excited murmurs, rushing to clear a vast circle, realizing they were about to witness a legitimate, sanctioned battle—the most thrilling kind of rule-breaking.