July 2nd, 1990.
8:00 AM.
The morning air outside the Swann family manor, nestled discreetly on the wealthy outskirts of London, tasted of dew and ancient prosperity. Inside the sprawling residence, sunlight streamed through the arched windows, illuminating dust motes dancing lazily above priceless relics.
Sebastian Swann, clad in silk pajamas that cost more than a small Muggle car, stepped onto his expansive, wrought-iron balcony. A soothing, classical melody—Vivaldi, played on a specially enchanted gramophone—drifted across the courtyard. He inhaled deeply, savoring the tranquility before the inevitable chaos of a new day.
"What a ridiculously perfect day," Sebastian murmured, a satisfied smirk touching his lips. He stretched languidly, the movement fluid and economical, indicative of a man whose body was as rigorously trained as his mind.
With a barely perceptible wave of his right hand, a heavy, velvet-cushioned rocking chair that had been resting three yards away lifted from the cobblestone patio.
It glided silently through the air, obedient to his non-verbal command, and settled precisely behind him. Sebastian sank into it, the gentle rhythm of the chair beginning to sync with the underlying beat of the music.
Sebastian Swann. An adult wizard, certainly. But more notably, a legend in the making, or perhaps, in the unmaking of the established world.
It had been twelve years since he had last passed through the stone gates as a student, graduating from Hogwarts—that glorious, crumbling monument to British magic—as the most celebrated Slytherin of his generation. Since then, he had not been idle. His company, Swann Alchemy, dominated the global magical market, making him, unequivocally, the richest wizard currently drawing breath.
"Jeff, the morning repast. I believe I shall consume it alfresco today. Ensure the coffee is scalding, and the pastries are freshly charmed."
With a faint pop, a creature materialized beside the balcony railing. It was a House-Elf, approximately three feet high, with the trademark enormous, bat-like ears and eyes the size of snitches.
But unlike the pathetic, sack-clad wretches employed by most aristocratic houses, this elf, Jeff, was impeccably dressed. He wore a miniature, double-breasted suit of slightly dated, tweed construction. It was meticulously clean but profoundly worn, the fabric softened to near-transparency in several places.
Jeff bowed so low his nose nearly scraped the marble floor. "Sir Sebastian, your breakfast, precisely as requested. And the Daily Prophet—the morning edition, freshly delivered and utterly worthless, as is tradition."
Sebastian accepted the silver tray—which weighed a staggering amount, being solid platinum enchanted to look like simple silver—and the crisp newspaper. He glanced at the elf and a flicker of irritation crossed his perfect features.
"Jeff, we need to talk about your sartorial choices." Sebastian set the coffee down, the steam spiraling into the gentle breeze. "Why, in the name of Merlin's most glamorous trousers, are you still wearing that same relic? It looks like it's survived three separate Great Wars."
Sebastian leaned forward, his emerald-green robes—a custom-tailored blend of dragon hide and enchanted silk—catching the light.
"My business, Swann Alchemy, is now the preeminent enterprise in our world. People judge success by its outward appearance, Jeff. When you dress like an impoverished antique, it compromises my image. People start whispering that I'm not worthy of the title, 'the richest man in the wizarding world.' It's a matter of brand integrity, Jeff."
The house-elf shuffled his large feet, his tennis-ball eyes drooping with genuine, yet dramatic, sorrow. He did not engage in the self-flagellation typical of his kind; Sebastian would never permit it. Instead, Jeff offered his familiar, profoundly sentimental defense.
"But Sir Sebastian," Jeff whispered, his voice thin with devotion, "this was the very first suit you selected for Jeff. You taught Jeff how to tie the knots and polish the shoes. Jeff loves this suit the most, because it is the suit of the beginning of Jeff's new life."
Sebastian pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the onset of a profound headache—a reaction that this specific, familiar line always elicited. Jeff was the purest form of loyalty, but his attachment to that ancient garment was a point of ceaseless, low-grade torture for Sebastian, the perfectionist.
Jeff was the ancestral House-Elf of the Swann line, serving Sebastian since he was a babe. House-Elves were creatures of absolute, fervent loyalty, a devotion that became intensely amplified when they were treated not as slaves, but as highly valued, if occasionally irritating, family retainers.
"Yes, yes, the suit of the beginning of your new life," Sebastian sighed, running his right hand through his carefully styled, dark hair.
"A beginning that was thirty years ago, Jeff. Fine. Keep it for sentimental wallowing in your private quarters. But before you step outside this manor, you will change into something that screams, 'My master owns this quadrant of the planet,' understand? Something chic. Something fashionable."
He gave a sharp wave of dismissal. Jeff vanished with a tearful, grateful pop.
Sebastian took a long, fortifying draught of the black, bitter coffee. He then picked up the Prophet, but instead of reading, he leaned back, letting the smooth rocking motion cradle him.
"Ah, the profoundly simple, unpretentious, and utterly unburdened existence of the world's richest man," he sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes at the sky.
This outward display of languid, spoiled ease was, of course, a practiced lie. Sebastian Swann was hiding a secret—a reality so sharp, so fantastic, that it anchored his entire existence: he was a time traveler.
In his previous life, he had been an ordinary, freshly graduated college student, a product of the late 20th century. His promising, if mundane, existence had been violently terminated in an alleyway brawl—a swift, brutal end delivered by a thug's knife, all because Sebastian, idiotically, had chosen to intervene to protect a stranger on his way to a job interview.
Did this not just coincide with the trend, but become the trend?
The transition had been less of a flash of light and more of a terrifying, suffocating blackness, followed by the blinding, disorienting arrival into the tiny, helpless body of a newborn baby named Sebastian. He was a mature, twenty-something soul trapped within the fragile confines of a dying infant.
For the first few months, the psychological strain was immense. He was an observer, a prisoner in his own crib, unable to articulate the fear, the revulsion, and the confusion. He ate, slept, and cried, adhering strictly to the needs of the infant body, but his mind was in a constant state of skeptical analysis.
He was silent and unusually inactive compared to other babies. The family, a line of proud, powerful pure-blood wizards, grew increasingly frantic. They had fought Death itself to save the child; was he now developmentally disabled?
Healers from St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries were consulted repeatedly. They waved their wands, muttered incantations, and found absolutely no magical or biological flaw. Sebastian was, frustratingly, fine.
In a final act of desperate, un-pure-blood-like humility, his doting parents and stern grandparents packed up their bewildered heir and ventured into the alien landscape of the Muggle world.
After a series of confusing and technologically primitive trials, they located a well-regarded pediatrician.
It was this Muggle, this non-magical doctor, who finally diagnosed the problem:
"Babies need to crawl extensively," the doctor had stated, drawing diagrams of neurological pathways. "It's crucial for developing spatial reasoning. Otherwise, they can develop issues with direction and finding their way later in life."
Sebastian, the sophisticated soul trapped in the baby, finally understood the Muggle's words, thanks to the fragmented English vocabulary he still retained. He was flabbergasted.
This is it? The great medical minds of the wizarding world were stumped, and the solution was a developmental commonality known to every average Muggle mother? The sheer absurdity of magic's arrogance was breathtaking.
But the advice itself triggered a horrifying, immediate realization.
Sebastian Swann, the aspiring battle mage,—for that was his new, fierce ambition, driven by the knowledge of what horrors the future held—could not be navigationally challenged.
Getting lost while running, hiding, or dodging curses in the middle of a war? Unacceptable. A fatal flaw.
Crawl.
I need to crawl.
The moment they returned to the ancestral manor, the former collegiate student began his pilgrimage across the polished mahogany floors. He crawled everywhere, with the single-minded focus of a seasoned explorer charting a new continent. He crawled under tables, into cabinets, and across carpets.
The relief and profound joy of the Swann family were almost overwhelming.
Sebastian's grandfather, Anton Swann, a man whose stern features had been etched with worry for months, pounded his fist on a nearby table, causing a chandelier to rattle.
"Merlin's thunderous beard!" Anton boomed, his voice full of stunned delight. "That Muggle doctor is an absolute marvel! Even Dumbledore couldn't manage that!"
The name hit Sebastian like a powerful, full-body Stunner.
Dumbledore.
The Wizarding World of Harry Potter.
Sebastian's internal monologue, which had been focused on his personal goals, dissolved into a thrilling, chilling clarity. He remembered the St. Mungo's healer waving a stick and realized his initial suspicions had been correct.
In the moment of this definitive realization—Dumbledore, Hogwarts, it's all real—a pulse of raw, uncontrolled magic surged out of the baby Sebastian. A small, enchanted silver rattle on the nearby mantlepiece shuddered, then violently ascended, rocketing into the air before crashing into the opposite wall.
Anton Swann, doubly delighted by the display of both physical and raw magical potency, laughed so hard he accidentally plucked a tuft from his own beard.
The bald, noseless monster.Voldemort.
The dream has come true, Sebastian thought, a mix of elation and cold dread washing over his adult consciousness. Who, having grown up reading the series, hadn't dreamed of receiving their own Hogwarts letter from a half-giant?
He started to plot instantly. Should he choose a beautiful witch like Hermione or a mystically intriguing one like Luna as his partner? Should he involve himself in the epic quest of the Golden Trio, or should he quietly stay invisible, a rich, powerful recluse, far away from the dark forces that would soon begin to move?
His scheming came to a grinding, shuddering halt when he turned one year old and overheard a conversation placing the current date.
1961.
The fantasy dissolved like cheap Transfiguration. Harry Potter's parents hadn't even met. Hermione and Luna were non-existent concepts. The main plot, the epic conflict against the creature Sebastian internally dubbed the "bald, noseless monster," was decades away.
A new kind of drama replaced the old. This wasn't a story he could simply join; it was a future he would have to build. He wasn't arriving at the climax; he was arriving at the beginning of the Third Great War's prologue. He realized he was meant to shape the world that Harry Potter would inherit.
Returning to the present moment, 1990. Sebastian smiled, a thin, knowing expression that held three decades of planning and quiet ambition.
"The curtain of a new, glorious, and perhaps slightly more profitable era," he mused, finishing his coffee in a single, decisive gulp, "is indeed slowly being raised."
He extended his left hand. The magical power he commanded was now refined, controlled, and precise. A heavy, official piece of parchment, sealed with dark wax, ripped itself free from the desk in his adjacent study, flashed across the intervening distance, and settled perfectly into his waiting palm.
The wax seal was broken, depicting the complex crest: the lion, the snake, the badger, and the eagle circling the heavy, capital 'H'.
Sebastian's eyes scanned the formal, terse script that followed.
Mr. Sebastian Swann:
In accordance with the establishment of the newly created position of Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts, your immediate presence is required for a mandatory interview.
The interview is scheduled for today, July 2nd, at 10:00 AM sharp. Please be prepared for an extensive review of your proposal for institutional reform.
You may utilize the Floo Network directly to the designated fireplace (Location: Hogwarts Deputy Headmaster's Office) or arrange for staff to meet you at the main school gates.
Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall
Sebastian crumpled the Daily Prophet and tossed it aside, his entire posture tightening with sudden, focused energy. The languor was gone, replaced by the coiled readiness of a predator.
Deputy Headmaster. Not just a teacher. A position of true, systemic influence. The opening he had been waiting for had finally materialized. He stood up, his white silk robes catching the morning light, making him seem like a figure carved from marble and emeralds.
"Hogwarts," Sebastian declared, his voice low and rich with intent, "I am not merely coming back. I am coming to take over."