The stone gargoyle, having heard its password—a ridiculous command that confirmed Snape's perpetual cynicism—sprang aside with a grinding crunch of ancient masonry. Sebastian, stepping onto the spiraling staircase that ascended toward the Headmaster's office, glanced back at his former roommate.
"You came, Severus. Good," Sebastian commented, his voice carrying the satisfaction of a challenge met. "You wanted to verify that the Alchemist King hadn't replaced his magic with Galleons. Display complete."
Snape ascended the moving staircase behind him, his black robes pooling around his feet. "I verified that the gates are still structurally unsound and that your overconfidence remains tragically high. As always, you substitute raw velocity for true subtlety, Sebastian."
"Subtlety is for those who cannot afford velocity, Severus," Sebastian countered, dismissing the argument with a flick of his wrist. "My entire career—the building of the Swann empire—is about moving faster than the competition. Why should my spellcasting be any different?"
Snape offered a rare, grudging nod. "You are, unfortunately, entirely consistent. Now, explain this absurdity. You've used pure wealth to force a new administrative position into existence. The Headmaster is not a man easily bought, especially when his authority is bypassed."
Sebastian smiled—a genuine, predatory expression. "You misunderstand, Severus. I am not buying Dumbledore. I am buying the leverage to compel him to listen. Material needs are resolved; I seek influence. And in this world, influence is the final, most expensive commodity."
They reached the top landing, and Sebastian squared his shoulders, preparing for his grand entrance. He knew the next interaction would be pure, distilled political theater. He had come here to negotiate, and in negotiation, the first impression is the opening salvo.
The Headmaster's office was not merely an office; it was a sanctuary of magical history, a vast, circular room radiating the powerful, ambient hum of concentrated centuries. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment, esoteric potions, and lemon drops.
Sunlight streamed through tall, arched windows, illuminating a dizzying array of bizarre and priceless artifacts perched on a long, slender-legged carved table: strange silver instruments, bubbling cauldrons, and alchemical paraphernalia that looked both immensely valuable and utterly incomprehensible.
In the corner, on a slightly wobbly shelf, rested the most significant piece of fabric in the entire magical world: the Sorting Hat.
Wrinkled, patched, and centuries dirty, it was an antique beyond monetary value. It was the living artifact of Godric Gryffindor's original vision, imbued with the wisdom and desires of all four founders—a thousand years of magical judgment contained in frayed wool.
Sebastian briefly paused, his eyes lingering on it, remembering the moment it had roared Slytherin against his secret, juvenile hope for Gryffindor.
The walls were alive. Portraits of the former Headmasters and Headmistresses of Hogwarts, men and women of immense power and historical fame, watched every move.
As Sebastian and Snape entered, the entire gallery stirred, the inhabitants blinking awake from their soft, painted slumber. A wave of whispered commentary rippled across the room, focused entirely on Sebastian.
Phineas Black, the former Slytherin Headmaster, whose goatee was as sharp as his tongue, peered down and shouted in his high, aristocratic voice. "Ah! Look who has returned! The finest graduate the House of Slytherin has produced in half a century! The wealth smells glorious, Sebastian!"
Sebastian waved a hand in acknowledgment toward the portraits, a gesture of polite, casual arrogance. He then looked toward the massive, claw-footed desk at the center of the room.
Albus Dumbledore, Chief Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards and Supreme Mugwump of the Wizengamot, was seated there, leaning back, his long, slender fingers gently massaging his temples. The movement conveyed a subtle, calculated fatigue—a hint that his morning had been difficult.
As the portraits settled, Dumbledore opened his eyes. All trace of weariness vanished, replaced by a devastating, electric blue gaze that seemed to pierce Sebastian's very soul.
"Sebastian, welcome," Dumbledore said, standing up. He advanced with his arms open, his ornate robes rustling softly. "I have indeed been anticipating your arrival. Though, I must confess, I had hoped you might be slightly kinder to the thousand-year-old protective enchantments on our front gates."
Sebastian stepped forward quickly, accepting the brief hug with practiced ease, his posture impeccably upright.
"You wrong me, Professor Dumbledore," Sebastian replied, injecting a hint of mock injury into his tone. He shot a wry, performative look at Snape. "The lion's share of the blame for the minor cosmetic scuffs on your ancient metalwork falls squarely upon the shoulders of a certain overly competitive Professor of yours."
He pressed the point, deliberately challenging the Headmaster's implied authority. "Besides, these gates have repelled the darkest magic in Europe for a millennium. Are we truly suggesting a few of Severus's pathetic, low-level jinxes could threaten their integrity? Sir, I believe we are undermining the very legend of Hogwarts."
Sebastian straightened, the emerald crest of the Swann family shimmering against his ivory cloak.
"However, if the current state of the gates displeases the Headmaster, simply say the word. I will not only replace them with a brand-new set, but I will redesign the entrance to be twice as magnificent, clad in silver and imbued with proprietary Swann anti-dark-magic defenses. Free of charge, of course. Consider it the first down-payment on my commitment to the school."
Dumbledore smiled, the crinkles around his eyes deepening as he lightly shook his head. "My dear Sebastian, your skills as a negotiator and a salesman remain as formidable as they were when you were trading rare dragon scales with the Goblins. Please, take a seat."
Sebastian gestured pointedly toward Snape, who was hovering near the door, his face a mask of practiced disdain.
"Professor Dumbledore, if you don't mind, I would greatly appreciate it if Professor Snape were to stay. I have the distinct feeling he possesses an almost religious interest in the details of my reappointment, and it would be a shame to deny him this spectacle."
Dumbledore chuckled, the sound like dry rustling parchment. "Very well. Severus, please, join us. I trust your curiosity is sufficiently piqued."
Snape hesitated for a beat, clearly fighting the desire to storm out, but the lure of witnessing Sebastian Swann's interrogation by Dumbledore proved too great. He took a seat stiffly, his dark eyes fixed on Sebastian.
Once they were all seated—Sebastian in a high-backed leather chair, radiating easy confidence, and Snape sitting ramrod straight, radiating cynicism—Dumbledore drew his wand.
"Now, refreshments," the Headmaster announced with a twinkle in his eye. "Pumpkin Juice? Perhaps a calming tea? Or, given the intensity of the morning's exercise, might I offer a generous glass of Dark Butterbeer?"
Sebastian reached into the inner pocket of his ivory cloak. His hand disappeared into the depths of a space enchanted with an expansion charm, pulling out two heavy, condensation-covered glass bottles of a black liquid. He placed them on the desk, the movement smooth and unhurried.
"I recommend this," Sebastian said, tapping the bottles. "It is known across the Muggle world as 'Happiness Water'—refreshing, globally popular, and perfectly suited for a tense July morning."
Dumbledore eyed the bottles with immediate, profound interest. The logo seemed familiar to him, though impossibly distant.
"Coke!" Dumbledore sighed, a genuine note of wistful melancholy entering his voice. He leaned back, gazing at the bottle. "It takes me back to my younger days, during the New York visit. I had the distinct pleasure of meeting a Muggle gentleman there. A baker, named Jacob."
Snape sniffed, clearly annoyed by the nostalgic detour.
"Jacob was a man of immense courage and a truly generous spirit," Dumbledore continued, his blue eyes distant.
"He provided us with invaluable assistance against a great darkness, and I recall he always spoke with such passion about this particular beverage. I never had the chance to try it, regrettably. Something… intervened."
Dumbledore gave a knowing smile, referencing the entire terrifying plot of the Fantastic Beasts films without naming it. "I am delighted to finally make its acquaintance."
Dumbledore reached for the bottle, ready to summon a corkscrew.
"Professor, please wait."
Sebastian made no overt movement, but the air around the bottles dropped several degrees instantly. A thin, silvery frost began to bloom across the glass, coating the labels and turning the dark liquid impossibly cold. The bottles began to hum softly as the chill penetrated the thick glass.
Sebastian then stood and, using only minute wrist movements, corked and poured a glass for Dumbledore, then Snape, and finally, himself.
"The Freezing Charm, performed wordlessly and wandlessly, with perfect, granular control over the precise temperature," Dumbledore murmured, watching Sebastian settle back down. "Truly impressive magical economy. Control is always the highest form of power."
Dumbledore picked up the glass. The black liquid was fizzing violently, making a sharp, pleasing hiss as the bubbles rose and burst. He took a long, thoughtful sip.
The taste was a revelation: sharp, sweet, and aggressively cold. The aggressive carbonation exploded on his tongue, creating a marvelous, tingling numbness that chased away the lingering dust of his day. Dumbledore took a second, even longer draught, his eyes widening in pure, simple delight.
"My word," he declared, putting the glass down with a satisfied clink. "Sebastian, I am a very old man, and it is a profound regret that I have only just now experienced the simple pleasure of this Muggle confection."
Sebastian instantly pounced on the "old man" comment, using it to further deflate the Headmaster's political gravitas.
"Professor, who told you you're old?" Sebastian countered, leaning forward with feigned indignation.
"With the longevity afforded to the most powerful wizards, you are barely entering your prime! Former Headmaster Dippet was well over two centuries old. You are perhaps 110 at most, and physically, you appear sixty. If you like the drink, I will personally charter a refrigerated Muggle truck and have it delivered by the metric ton this Christmas. Think of it as a contribution to staff morale."
Dumbledore let out a great, booming laugh that caused the Headmaster portraits to stir in annoyance. "You still know how to talk your way out of anything, Sebastian."
The atmosphere, thanks to the soda and the banter, had been effectively neutralized. The tension was gone, replaced by comfortable, if wary, camaraderie.
The moment for pleasantries ended as Dumbledore straightened, adopting the severe posture of the Chief Mugwump. He interlaced his long, elegant fingers on the desk, the half-moon spectacles obscuring the full intensity of his gaze.
He dropped the façade and spoke with serious, crystalline clarity.
"Sebastian, we must now address the purpose of this meeting. It is a known fact that the Board of Governors, influenced—or perhaps compelled—by your generous endowments and proposals, has formally appointed you as a second Deputy Headmaster."
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a low, penetrating register that ignored the presence of Snape entirely.
"As the Headmaster, I retain the absolute right to refuse any appointment that does not serve the best interests of this school, regardless of the Board's mandate. Now, let us look at your history."
Dumbledore's eyes were sharp, revealing he had done extensive research. "You graduated at the top of your class. You worked for two years at the Ministry as an Auror, a respectable but short tenure. Then, with the fall of Lord Voldemort, you immediately pivoted, dedicating yourself to the expansion of Swann Alchemy into the single wealthiest corporation in British wizarding history."
"But you did not stop there, did you?" Dumbledore continued, his voice heavy with implied accusation.
"You then ventured into the Muggle world during times of maximum chaos. You exploited the dissolution of the Soviet Union, acquiring assets and fortunes that are utterly incomprehensible, then leveraged that new wealth to buy up strategic real estate across the globe."
Dumbledore paused, allowing the sheer magnitude of Sebastian's ambition to settle in the tense silence.
"You have achieved success, fortune, and power in three separate domains: Magic, Government, and Global Commerce. You have more to manage than the entire Ministry of Magic combined. Yet, you fight—and you pay—to return to Hogwarts in a role that is, frankly, beneath you."
Dumbledore fixed his piercing gaze directly onto Sebastian, delivering the crucial question with the weight of prophecy.
"Tell me, Sebastian. Your sincere, unvarnished thoughts. What motivation is so consuming that it forces the world's richest, most influential man to insist on becoming a school administrator?"