Sebastian did not launch into a verbal explanation. Instead, with a flourish that was both effortless and slightly theatrical, he retrieved a thick document from an inner pocket.
It wasn't rolled parchment or a leather-bound book; it was a half-finger-thick booklet bound in a stark white, smooth, Muggle A4 cover. It looked wildly out of place next to the ancient, stained tomes on Dumbledore's desk.
"The detailed mechanics, the psychological justification, and the logistical roadmap are contained within this plan," Sebastian stated, pushing the booklet toward the Headmaster.
"I believe the analysis will be self-explanatory upon reading. Please, give me your feedback as soon as possible—critical or supportive. Successful implementation, Professor, begins with perfect communication and timely adjustment."
Dumbledore picked up the unfamiliar artifact with an air of genuine fascination, running his thumb over the smooth, synthetic cover. It smelled faintly of toner ink and Muggle paper mill chemicals. He opened the first page. Written across the top in a bold, efficient typeface was a single, immense word:
QUIDDITCH!
Dumbledore blinked, his expression moving from curiosity to profound surprise. He had fully expected a complicated proposal involving curriculum reform, a radical overhaul of the investment portfolio of the school's endowment, or perhaps an immediate replacement of Snape with a Professor of Applied Alchemical Economics. But Quidditch?
The Headmaster's mind immediately supplied the relevant data on Sebastian's relationship with the sport. Since his second year, Sebastian had served as Slytherin's Seeker, transforming a moderately successful House team into an unbeatable, near-mythical powerhouse.
They had not lost a match. Ever. Their victories were notorious, often ending within twenty minutes after Sebastian completed an absurdly fast, brutal catch of the Snitch. He still held the record for the fastest capture, a blistering two-minute game-ender that had left Professor McGonagall sobbing quietly into a tartan handkerchief.
Now, Sebastian was the celebrated Seeker for the English National Team, a clear contender for the World Cup.
To weaponize something so trivial, so beloved, for an administrative goal... Dumbledore mused, turning the page. Only Sebastian.
Snape, meanwhile, was fighting a losing battle against arrogance. Sebastian had turned to him, raising an eyebrow in a clear, smug gesture that screamed: See, Severus? I told you my plan was exquisite.
Snape met the look with a face of granite, a masterclass in studied, aggressive indifference. He recognized Sebastian's tactic instantly: lure the opponent into a reaction, then use that reaction as a springboard for further self-aggrandizement. Snape would not budge. Ignore the gilded toad. Absolute, unyielding contempt is the only shield against such boundless self-regard.
Dumbledore began to read, his eyes scanning the compressed text with unnatural speed. His soft murmurs began almost immediately.
"Ah! Excellent… yes, the power of shame as a motivator… brilliant psychology!" Dumbledore exclaimed, running a finger down the page.
"Creating a sense of external threat—truly, Sebastian, this is exquisite political maneuvering, framed within the guise of extracurricular excellence! You intend to force the Houses to merge their best players into a single, cohesive Hogwarts Unified Squad to face an opponent so superior that failure is guaranteed unless they discard their ancient rivalries. And that opponent is… marvelous!"
Dumbledore closed the booklet after only three pages, his smile now wide, complex, and deeply satisfied. He handed the document back to Sebastian.
"I confess, Sebastian, the remainder of the details regarding logistical costs and ethical considerations can wait. I have read enough to see the core mechanism," Dumbledore declared.
"You understand the true currency of the adolescent wizarding world is not gold or power, but reputation and victory. You are engineering a situation where a House that refuses to cooperate will be seen not merely as petty, but as an active saboteur of Hogwarts' collective pride. I see the possibility of breaking down these barriers, and the success rate is remarkably high."
Sebastian, now fully vindicated, straightened his posture, his eyes gleaming with the triumph of an intellectual victory.
"For this reason, Professor Dumbledore," Sebastian pressed, moving seamlessly from presentation to negotiation.
"I submit that the Deputy Headmaster position is not just warranted, but immediately necessary. Without the official authority of a central, governing role, I cannot even begin the formal process of establishing this necessary external competition—the first step in the plan."
Dumbledore stood up, circled the large desk, and approached Sebastian, opening his arms wide in a formal gesture of welcome.
"Welcome to Hogwarts, Deputy Headmaster Sebastian Swann!" Dumbledore announced, his voice ringing with genuine warmth.
"Your administrative responsibilities will primarily focus on the strategic development of International School Exchanges. I trust this aligns perfectly with the requirements of your audacious Quidditch plan."
Sebastian accepted the hug, a wave of profound, secret elation washing over him. He had done it. He had bought a chair at the highest table in the magical world.
"Thank you, Professor Dumbledore," Sebastian replied, the humility now genuine, but still measured.
"I deeply appreciate your trust. I pledge to immerse myself in the remainder of this proposal immediately. I need your guidance to avoid the mistakes of youth, and only with the support and foresight of the century's greatest wizard do I dare to act so freely. I will begin work as soon as all necessary permissions are ratified."
Dumbledore chuckled, placing a gentle, paternal hand on Sebastian's shoulder. "I believe in your capabilities, my boy. But as an old man who has seen many ambitious plans end in ruin, I have a personal plea: please, always be generous with your tolerance and patience toward this brittle world and its children. Take your time, Sebastian, please. Speed is not always salvation."
"I know the value of trust, Professor," Sebastian answered, his demeanor instantly serious. "And I recognize the gravity of your concern. I will not let you down."
Sebastian then produced an elegant, small gift box wrapped in silver paper, which Dumbledore immediately eyed with the enthusiasm of a schoolboy.
"This is a small token, Professor. It contains a collection of rare Muggle sweets and chocolates—far more refined than mere lemon drops. I hope they provide adequate compensation for the headache I have surely caused you this morning."
"My dear boy," Dumbledore sighed happily, taking the box with the care of a Healer holding a priceless cure. "Believe me, no gift could be more perfectly calculated. Goodbye, Deputy Headmaster Swann."
Sebastian gave a final, formal nod, then turned and began walking out of the office, Snape's black robes trailing stiffly in his wake. As they reached the stone gargoyle, Sebastian stopped, pivoting back toward Dumbledore, who was already unwrapping a chocolate.
"Professor, one last thought before I depart," Sebastian called out, his voice taking on a new, low, almost theatrical quality. He held up his right hand and curled it slowly, mimicking the head of a viper.
"Have you ever truly witnessed a snake hunt, Professor?" Sebastian asked, his voice low and mesmerizing. He paused for an extended, dramatic beat, then suddenly lunged forward an inch, striking the air with his hand. "I am quite good at waiting for the precise, perfect moment. But once the decision is made, the strike is swift and absolute."
Sebastian offered a final, piercing smile that held a thousand subtle threats and promises.
"Finally, I must reiterate: I am a true Slytherin." With that, he turned and descended the winding staircase, leaving Dumbledore to ponder the chilling elegance of the gesture.
Dumbledore smiled faintly, unwrapped a candy, and popped it into his mouth. "A true Slytherin, indeed. Not bad at all," he murmured, savoring the rich, coconut flavor as the staircase carried the two men out of sight.
Sebastian's mood visibly brightened the moment they reached the main corridor. He quickened his pace, now practically bouncing down the hallway, the professional veneer dissolving into joyous, youthful arrogance.
"Ah, the sweet taste of fun, Severus! Come to the house tonight, old friend, and we shall drink ourselves into a well-deserved oblivion!" Sebastian whispered, leaning in conspiratorially, his hand cupped beside his mouth as if they were sharing a forbidden secret.
"Yesterday, two unlucky Aurors were foolish enough to confront a rather advanced practitioner of obscure Dark Magic," Sebastian continued in a hushed, exaggerated tone.
"The curses they sustained were highly unconventional. The other Healers are completely baffled, but my own Mia has, of course, devised a long-term, excruciatingly slow path to reversal. She'll be sequestered at St. Mungo's for the night, extracting arcane energies one tiny molecule at a time."
Sebastian stepped back, a cocky, wide grin splitting his face. "Which is to say, Severus, you won't have to face the usual three-hour interrogation and subsequent verbal flaying over your life choices. No wife, no censure, just cheap Firewhiskey and a captive audience for your brooding. Otherwise, why on Earth would I dare invite you?"
Severus Snape froze, his dark eyes shooting daggers into Sebastian's infuriatingly handsome face. Without a word, he took two long, stiff steps to the side, maintaining a strict zone of isolation. The invitation—however insulting—was tempting, but Sebastian's sheer, uncomplicated happiness was toxic to him.
Snape quickly resumed his hurried pace, his mind a tempest of bitter, swirling memories that Sebastian's casual mention of his wife had awakened.
Mia Ellen, now Mia Swann. A Gryffindor lioness, hailed as the "most elegant" of her year. She had been Lily Evans's closest confidante, her fierce protector. Mia's life had been tragically defined by her father, an Auror, whose agonizing death from a sustained Dark curse had driven her into the most specialized, dangerous field of healing—the Cursed Injuries Department.
Snape remembered the unfairness of it all. Mia and Lily had both ventured into the research of Dark Magic. Snape, driven by a desperate need for power and knowledge, had been castigated by Lily and eventually lost her.
Yet Mia, driven by a desire to reverse that very magic, was celebrated and understood. Mia, the Lioness, had received Lily's blessing, her forgiveness, and her friendship until the very end, and had almost been named the godmother to Lily's son, Harry, until James Potter—the one person Mia genuinely disliked—vetoed it.
And who had won the hand of this brilliant, fiercely moral, and terrifyingly astute woman? Sebastian Swann. The man who had everything—the gold, the talent, the political genius, and now, the absolute moral compass of the most admired witch of their generation.
The unfairness was a physical ache in Snape's chest, a chronic wound that never truly healed. Sebastian had not only won the Gryffindor beauty, but he had tamed the one person who could truly challenge his corporate and ethical decisions.
A loud, carrying shout echoed down the corridor, rousing Snape from his self-pity.
"Oi!" Sebastian's voice boomed from far behind him, the sound of pure, unadulterated victory. "You grumpy old man! I have meetings with the rest of the faculty this afternoon, so you don't need to worry about being seen with me! Don't wait up!"
Snape didn't need to turn around. Wait up? The imbecile. As if the Potions Master would ever linger for the questionable company of the Golden Snake.
Snape merely quickened his stride, the black robes billowing around him like a vengeful shadow, putting as much cold, stone distance as possible between himself and the irritating, impossibly successful, and eternally cheerful new Deputy Headmaster.