Severus Snape found himself standing before Swann Manor, momentarily arrested by its imposing, utterly tasteless magnificence.
"This is the new home?" he muttered, the scorn dripping from his voice thick enough to curdle a batch of Mandrake Restorative Draft.
The structure was an aggressive clash of aesthetics. The foundation and main wings were a classic, heavy, dark stone—a nod to ancient wizarding architecture—yet the entire central core was dominated by soaring, three-story walls of shimmering, modern glass and cold steel buttresses.
It was majestic, certainly, but in the way a heavily armored knight wearing a neon scarf is majestic: utterly conspicuous. It lacked the subtle, centuries-old dignity of a true wizarding estate; it looked like a highly successful multinational corporation had decided to crossbreed a gothic cathedral with a Silicon Valley headquarters.
The scoundrel. He always seeks to display his success in the loudest possible manner.
Snape's eyes involuntarily cataloged the grounds, noting the precise, manicured violence of the landscaping. He spotted the ubiquitous features of wealth: the shimmering, enclosed swimming pool area and the full Muggle-style gymnasium tucked into a discreet wing.
But interspersed were the magical necessities: the meticulously organized greenhouses, humming with rare and carefully regulated magical flora, and the tall, enclosed Owlery, clearly built for international correspondence.
Then he saw the remote, flat area in the expansive rear gardens—a perfect, obsidian circle shielded by a clear, powerful dome of magic.
A proper, full-sized dueling arena, Snape thought, his lip curling. He lacks restraint in all things. An arena for entertainment, not necessity. What an absolute glutton for life.
Before Snape could complete his internal inventory of Sebastian's material sins, he was seized by the arm and unceremoniously yanked toward the main entrance.
"Come on, Severus, don't stand there judging the architectural choices!" Sebastian's voice was bright and impatient. "I'm not trying to impress the Historical Preservation Trust. I'm trying to impress the shareholders! But tonight, I'm going to show you something truly special."
Once inside, Sebastian, having shucked his expensive robes for a casual cashmere sweater—another irritating display of comfort—rolled up his sleeves and strode toward the kitchen.
"Make a request, Severus. Don't be shy," Sebastian commanded, already pulling ingredients from magically enhanced storage cabinets. "French cuisine? Perhaps an Italian classic? I've been practicing my Peking Duck, or I could attempt a proper Thai curry—"
Snape's mouth went dry. Despite his profound resentment, he could not deny Sebastian's uncanny, inexplicable talent for magical cooking. Back in their student days, Sebastian would often sneak into the school kitchens and, using a dazzling combination of Charms and Transfiguration, whip up complex, impossibly delicious midnight feasts.
It had been years since Snape had tasted anything outside of the starchy uniformity of the Great Hall or the cold, bitter reality of his own meager cooking attempts. The sudden, raw yearning for that taste—a flavor tied inextricably to a fleeting moment of uncomplicated companionship—was overwhelming.
Unable to make a coherent choice that wouldn't sound like a plea, Snape mumbled, "Whatever… just make something… edible."
Sebastian immediately beamed, sensing the tacit permission. "Excellent! Chinese it is! I've been drowning in overly rich Continental fare lately. Time for a sharp change."
Sebastian then unleashed his unique brand of culinary magic. His wand, held with the precision of an expert duelist, flowed with dazzling, liquid light. Ingredients—fresh vegetables, marinated meats, herbs—seemed to erupt onto the countertops, dancing in the air.
Knives, charmed to perfection, executed complex, rapid cuts in a blur of silver, producing perfectly diced ingredients that floated gently into charmed bowls.
The entire process was a breathtaking display of Transfiguration and Levitation Charms, a high-speed, magnificent performance that filled the vast, modern kitchen with the delightful, complex aromas of roasting meat and simmering spice. For Sebastian, cooking was not merely consumption; it was a grueling form of advanced, multi-tasking spellcraft.
Within minutes, a steaming, magnificent feast was laid out on the table—dishes of vibrant color, complex textures, and mouthwatering smells. Snape's hunger was no longer intellectual; it was a sharp, visceral pain.
Sebastian then produced a clear, heavy glass bottle of white porcelain, uncorking it with a sharp pop.
"Ah, the perfect accompaniment to this. A truly traditional spirit, distilled from rice—it's deceptively strong, Severus. A proper Baijiu," Sebastian announced with a knowing grin, pouring a generous measure of the clear liquid into two small, delicate glasses. "We'll start with this, and if you're brave enough, I'll send you home with a bottle."
Snape, a Potions Master whose profession demanded absolute clarity of mind and abstinence, rarely touched alcohol. But tonight was different.
Tonight was a strategic truce, a reunion with a man he grudgingly considered a trusted, if infuriating, ally, and a release from the burdens of the Head of House. He had already decided on a complete mental shutdown.
The liquid was crystalline and utterly clear. It had an intense, unique bouquet, sharp and sweet, that filled his nostrils. It looked, smelled, and felt like a fine, expensive ritual.
Snape lifted his glass, gave Sebastian a curt, non-committal nod, and, in a gesture of proud defiance, threw the entire shot back in a single gulp.
The effect was instantaneous and explosive. The fiery liquid slammed down his throat and into his stomach, a searing, chemical burn that felt more like a cleaning potion gone wrong than a beverage. His eyes watered violently, his face flushed crimson, and he was racked by a sudden, involuntary fit of hacking coughs, turning his head away from the table.
Cough! Cough! By the beard of Merlin, what foul substance is this?
He turned back, gasping, only to be met by Sebastian's smug, triumphant smile.
"Hahaha! Oh, Severus, look at you! Your entire face is the color of a Gryffindor common room!" Sebastian mocked, utterly devoid of sympathy. "Are we sure about this? Should I fetch some cool, refreshing pumpkin juice? Perhaps some soda pop, or just some nice, calm water?"
Water? Soda? The humiliation! Snape's inner dignity screamed at the insult. Sebastian knew exactly what he was doing: testing his mettle, making him flinch. The audacity of it was breathtaking.
Snape silently drew his wand, executed a precise Engorgio charm on his small glass, expanding it to the size of a substantial mug. He placed the newly enormous vessel back on the table with a theatrical clatter, cleared his raw throat, and spoke, his voice slow and dangerously low.
"I find," Snape stated, fixing Sebastian with a lethal stare, "that a vessel of this magnanimity is far more suited to the status of a Hogwarts Professor, Swann. Small glasses are for parlor tricks. I certainly wouldn't compel you to drink from a glass of this stature, of course, if your capacity is… limited."
Sebastian roared with secret, internal delight. The reverse psychology works every time on the beautiful, brooding tsundere! He knew precisely when to press and when to retreat.
Sebastian raised his own glass, giving Snape an appreciative nod of victory. "Excellent point, Severus. I stand corrected on the glassware. Now, let's stop drinking and start eating! That's the real trick to surviving this stuff—a sip of liquor, a bite of savory food. It's what makes the meal divine."
After several more courses of food, and an obligatory, cautious switch to the enormous glassware, the heavy-hitting conversation began. The initial heat of the Baijiu had settled into a comfortable, reckless warmth, softening Snape's rigid defenses.
Sebastian set down his wine glass, his face immediately shifting into the expression of a CEO addressing a quarterly review—focused, intense, and utterly serious.
"Severus, let's talk about the real purpose of this evening. I have a mission statement: To Make Slytherin's Reputation Great Again."
Snape scoffed, swirling the clear liquid in his giant glass. "A corporate slogan for a House. How typically Swann."
"A necessary one," Sebastian countered, leaning forward. "I'll be taking over the stewardship of Slytherin's image when the school year commences, and I require your absolute, public cooperation."
"Cooperation in what manner?" Snape asked, his skepticism clear. "Am I to applaud your every insufferable victory?"
"You will start by ceasing your highly ineffective management strategy," Sebastian shot back, his tone sharp.
"For the last two years, every wizard who graduates and ends up working in a sector relevant to Swann Alchemy—which is increasingly every sector—knows that the Head of Slytherin is a man of intense bias. He's seen as arbitrarily protecting his pets while deducting points from the other Houses with no strategic benefit."
Sebastian slammed his hand on the table—a rare, physical display of genuine frustration.
"You've devolved into the cliché, Severus! The Pure-blood philosophy, propagated by the Mystery Man, turned Slytherin into a pathetic meeting place for cowards and bigots who hide behind their names! I spent my entire time at Hogwarts—four entire years!—laboring to redefine that image, demonstrating that Slytherin ambition is about strategic excellence and utilitarian efficiency, not prejudice!"
Sebastian's voice rose, edged with genuine fury. "But look at the state of affairs now! A few short years since we left, and Slytherin's reputation has plummeted. It's become a ghetto of entitlement! Frankly, it's a miracle the other Houses haven't successfully lobbied for its closure! My plans to unite the school are hampered from the start by your reputation for petty favoritism and antagonism."
"I will be the new face of Slytherin: the ambitious, global, fair-minded innovator. Just as Gryffindor is inextricably linked to Dumbledore's reputation for courage, I want people to know Slytherin for what it should be—excellence under pressure."
Sebastian paused, breathing heavily, and then delivered the final, calculated order.
"As for you, Severus, your immediate task is to dramatically tone down the antagonism. Learn from McGonagall's impartiality—not her compassion, but her administrative fairness. Stop using points as a weapon for personal grudges. Your bias is now a liability to the very House you're meant to protect."
Snape's lips twitched violently, a silent battle raging within him. Every instinct screamed for a vicious retort, a defense of his actions—that he was protecting his own from the outside world's judgment!
But the alcohol had lowered his inhibitions, and Sebastian's corporate-style critique cut through the emotional haze. Sebastian was right: his methods were inefficient.
They had only reinforced the division. And the constant, necessary management of children, the petty discipline, the forced camaraderie—he was dreadful at it, and he hated it.
Seeing Snape's defeated silence, Sebastian's tone softened, moving back to the supportive ally.
"Severus, I know you loathe the emotional labor of interpersonal relations," Sebastian said quietly. "You were thrust into the Head of House role far too young, still nursing old wounds, and having to battle for respect as a Half-Blood in a Pure-Blood den. You did what you could. But that ends now."
Sebastian raised his glass again. "Leave the reputation management, the inter-House diplomacy, and the entire strategic direction to me. Don't, for a moment, think I'm trying to seize power from you as a friend. I'm relieving you of the most burdensome, humiliating parts of the job—the parts you despise."
A profound, internal sigh of relief escaped Snape. He did despise it. He wanted only his quiet dungeons, his bubbling cauldrons, and his research.
The endless parade of whining students, the necessity of defending Slytherin against McGonagall's righteous fury, the feigned authority—it was an agonizing drain. Sebastian, the arrogant peacock, had just offered to take all the mud and filth of the job, leaving Snape only the teaching and the research.
Snape lifted his massive glass, the clear liquid sparkling under the chandelier light. He took a long, steady pull, then set the glass down with a decisive click.
"Sebastian," Snape said, his voice returning to its characteristic low, smooth cadence, free now from the need to defend his administrative role. "I have never cared for the rights or the status of the Head of House, only the safety and education of the students in my charge."
"You are welcome to implement your corporate restructuring. I will step back from all active oversight of House discipline and focus entirely on curriculum excellence." Snape gave a thin, almost imperceptible smirk. "You can be certain of my cooperation. And do try to avoid any more embarrassing headlines, Two-Minute Man."
Sebastian laughed—a deep, triumphant sound. He had his ally. He had his Head of House. The first phase of the plan was secured.
"To efficiency, then, Severus!" Sebastian cheered, raising his glass again. "To the greatest comeback Slytherin has ever seen!"