The urgent summons arrived on the twenty-ninth of August, a mere seventy-two hours before the castle doors were due to open for the start of term. The letter, delivered by a solemn, perfectly groomed Hogwarts owl, bore the unmistakable, slender handwriting of Albus Dumbledore.
The Headmaster's tone was formal yet insistent, requesting Sebastian's immediate presence to discuss a matter of "paramount importance to the smooth operation of the upcoming academic year."
Sebastian, still riding the high of his successful donation and the subsequent, humiliatingly satisfying spectacle of watching professors wrestle with furniture, practically levitated out of his luxurious, Swann-Alchemically-enhanced bed.
Aha! he thought, smoothing down his expensive robes. It seems the Old Man has finally recognized the true scope of my talents.
He strode toward the Apparition point, his mind humming with proud, strategic speculation. He needs to consult with me on important matters first. A wise move on his part. My administrative genius is clearly shining through the grime of old customs.
What could it be?
Perhaps I'm being appointed the Director of Personnel Strategy? That would allow him to immediately begin dismantling the archaic curriculum, starting with the truly egregious classes like Binns's ghostly History of Magic lectures.
Or maybe the Head of Financial Portfolio and Resource Allocation? A tempting proposition, given the massive new Quidditch revenue he had secured. Imagine the investment returns he could guarantee Hogwarts!
He paused, dramatically conflicted by his own imagined choices. Oh, the agony of choice! Should I choose the cerebral thrill of strategic financial management or the brutal joy of restructuring human capital? He chuckled, a low, satisfied sound. The things one must suffer through when one is exceptionally brilliant.
He Apparated directly into the hallway outside the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office, feeling like a conquering hero ready to receive his next command.
Dumbledore was seated behind his massive, claw-footed desk, looking less like a Headmaster and more like a benevolent sorcerer who had misplaced his glasses. The usual chaos of silver instruments and whispering portraits filled the room.
"Sebastian, my dear boy! So punctual! Do take a seat," Dumbledore greeted him, his eyes twinkling merrily over his half-moon spectacles.
Sebastian settled into a high-backed chair, adopting a look of profound, administrative readiness. "Professor, thank you for the urgent summons. I am entirely prepared to discuss any high-level strategic challenges the school faces, be they budgetary or organizational."
Dumbledore nodded sagely, then his expression shifted to one of mild, utterly disarming distress. "Ah, well, the challenge is… rather more immediate than high-level, I'm afraid. It pertains to a rather inconvenient and sudden vacancy in our teaching ranks."
Sebastian waited, his internal compass already spinning.
"In short, Sebastian," Dumbledore continued, leaning forward with an air of gentle plea, "I need you to assume the role of the Professor of Muggle Studies."
Sebastian's jaw dropped. The carefully constructed administrative readiness shattered.
"The Muggle Studies Professor?" he echoed, the disbelief evident in his voice.
"You wish me to instruct the student body on the nuances of electricity and plumbing? Professor, with all due respect, I am the Deputy Headmaster—my plate is already full with the monumental task of the Quidditch Cup and, frankly, the entire strategic future of the school! And what happened to Professor Quirrell? I thought he was perfectly adequate, if a little… obsessed with handkerchiefs."
Dumbledore sighed, reaching into a desk drawer and producing a single, shimmering, magical photograph. He slid it gently across the desk.
"Professor Quirrell, regrettably, resigned yesterday. A complete surprise, I assure you. I tried to reason with him, but he was absolutely resolute. And this," Dumbledore said, tapping the photograph, "is the reason."
Sebastian stared at the photo. It was one of the Magic Images he had sent as a gift to the faculty—a vibrant, moving composite picture showing various scenes of modern Muggle life: a bustling underground subway station in London, a crowded Muggle airport terminal with flashing digital flight boards, and a scene of a child using a smartphone to order a complex pizza.
"Ah," Sebastian murmured, recognizing his own handiwork—the unintended catalyst.
Dumbledore nodded sadly. "Professor Quirrell came to me, quite distraught. He pointed to this photo and declared that his current curriculum, which focuses heavily on the use of quills for writing and the essential function of the horse-drawn carriage in society, was a profound disservice to the youth. He confessed that he couldn't even identify half the mechanisms in the picture, nor explain their societal function."
Dumbledore raised a hand to his forehead, rubbing the bridge of his nose in a gesture of paternal exhaustion.
"He said, and I quote, 'I can no longer perpetrate such a fraudulent misrepresentation of contemporary society. I am going to travel the entire Muggle world to correctly identify the function of the motorized iron horse before I teach another class.'"
"He packed a rather small satchel, Sebastian, and left within the hour. No amount of calming tea could deter him. Now, with less than a week until the Express arrives, I cannot conceivably find a suitable, qualified replacement. We would be facing a catastrophic curriculum gap for the entire student body."
Dumbledore then fixed Sebastian with a deep, earnest look—the infamous, manipulative twinkle operating at full, high-wattage power.
"But then, I remembered that you, Sebastian, have spent the last two years not just in the Muggle world, but dominating its high-tech, financial vanguard. You are, quite literally, the most qualified Muggle Studies expert on the planet. Furthermore, as Deputy Headmaster, your current teaching duties are restricted solely to the rather intermittent and seasonal supervision of the Quidditch team. It is hardly a burden."
Dumbledore rose from his chair, gliding over to Sebastian. He placed one large, warm hand on Sebastian's shoulder and leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper of gentle coercion.
"Sebastian," he murmured, his blue eyes pleading. "You wouldn't intentionally inflict this crisis upon an old man whose knees occasionally seize up during important administrative duties, would you? You wouldn't dare make me search for a Muggle Studies Professor."
A cold shiver, not of fear but of profound understanding, traced its way down Sebastian's spine.
The audacity! The sheer, unadulterated manipulative genius of the man! He is using my own goodwill, my own products, and his advanced age as weapons!
Sebastian knew then and there that Dumbledore had engineered this whole confrontation perfectly. Resistance was futile, and moreover, politically imprudent.
Fine. I'll teach. But I'll teach like a god.
Sebastian stood quickly, adopting a posture of staunch, unwavering loyalty.
"Say no more, Professor Dumbledore! I understand the severity of the situation. I am like a brick at Hogwarts, sir—a high-end, magically reinforced, strategically valuable brick, I might add—but I can be moved wherever the foundation requires shoring up! You may consider the Muggle Studies curriculum secure and modernized."
Muggle Studies, he scoffed internally, his confidence swelling to immense proportions.
This is not merely a class; it's an opportunity. My past life is now my syllabus! I will introduce them to the complexity of the global supply chain, the cultural impact of streaming entertainment, and the horrifying brilliance of the internal combustion engine. I guarantee those little wizards will be so intellectually stimulated they'll weep and beg me to assign them a thesis!
Sebastian gave Dumbledore a crisp, professional nod and turned to leave, eager to begin drafting his syllabus. Just as he reached the door, Dumbledore's voice called him back.
"Ah, Sebastian, just one moment, my boy!"
Sebastian turned, bracing himself for another unexpected task.
Dumbledore gave him a dazzling, appreciative thumbs-up—a gesture Sebastian hadn't expected the aged wizard to even recognize.
"I almost forgot to congratulate you properly," Dumbledore said warmly. "That was a truly magnificent performance in the Quidditch World Cup final against Canada last Sunday. Two minutes and seven seconds! Minerva has been utterly insufferable these past few days, quoting the Daily Prophet's headlines at anyone who enters the staffroom. You are truly a superstar, my boy."
Dumbledore leaned back, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Speaking of which, the noise surrounding your performance has been quite deafening, you know. I hear the International Quidditch Committee is currently in an absolute panic, threatening to convene an emergency session to fundamentally change the Quidditch Format—specifically, they want to reduce the decisive weight of the Seeker's role."
Sebastian felt a genuine surge of professional offense, overriding the faint warmth of Dumbledore's praise. Change the format? Without consulting the man who just broke the game?
He thanked Dumbledore curtly, his mind already churning as he walked rapidly out of the office and down the corridor.
The Seeker/Snitch dynamic is the obvious, critical flaw in the entire Quidditch ruleset! he fumed.
It has been a statistical anomaly since 1884! The role of the Seeker is inherently one of individual heroism—a single player can negate hours of strategic play by the Chasers and Beaters simply by catching the tiny, flying gold ball. It's an elegant, but structurally unsound, narrative loophole!
And who had exposed that loophole with such ruthless, glamorous efficiency?
The Man Who Can Win in Two Minutes!
Sebastian grinned fiercely at the ridiculous, hyperbolic nickname the Daily Prophet had settled on after he threatened to withhold all post-match exclusive content unless they abandoned their usual, pedestrian headlines.
Is there a more famous player? A more statistically dominant player in the history of the sport? Absolutely not.
His mind flashed back to the final match. The Canadian team, recognizing his overwhelming talent and the near-instant danger he posed, had abandoned all pretense of offense. They had essentially sacrificed their Chasers, directing them to swarm Sebastian, turning the entire game into a frantic, chaotic man-hunt designed purely to foul him out of the air.
A joke! Sebastian thought, his confidence now reaching orbital levels. His Magical Perception, honed by years of complex potion brewing and advanced Alchemical sensing, was now so unnaturally refined that it could map the entire Quidditch pitch in a complex, three-dimensional grid. He could sense the slightest shift in air pressure, the faint magical residue of the Snitch's movement, and the trajectory of every opposing player.
Their attempts at a "surround and suppress" maneuver were nothing more than clumsy, predictable patterns. He recalled moving through their defensive web with the slippery, impossible grace of an eel coated in liquid soap, effortlessly dodging Bludgers and players alike.
He'd even used the momentary chaos of two Canadian Chasers attempting a mid-air tackle on him to execute a subtle feint that resulted in the opposing Seeker, who was shadowing him with desperate intensity, accidentally running head-first into a goalpost.
They want to reduce the weight of the Seeker's catch? They want to make the 150 points less decisive? They want to punish me for being too good at exploiting the system they designed?
Sebastian's strategic brain kicked into high gear. The Wizarding Schools Quidditch Cup was his brand, his long-term investment. If the professional league changed the fundamental rules, it would devalue his entire product. He needed to be involved. He needed to ensure any changes benefited his narrative—and his company's broadcasting rights.
I need to write to the Committee immediately! he decided, pulling out his wand to summon a high-priority parchment.
No, wait. He stopped abruptly just outside the Hogwarts gates. Sending an owl is too slow. Writing is too passive. The Committee is panicking; they need a dynamic, high-impact appearance from the source of their panic.
He looked at his clothes—impeccably tailored, expensive, and appropriate for a diplomatic meeting, not a frantic commute.
The semester starts in three days. I can't waste time on travel or sleep. I'm not going home. I'm going to the International Quidditch Committee Headquarters right now. The time for administrative politeness is over. The time for aggressive, pre-emptive lobbying is now!
Sebastian's face hardened into a mask of pure, strategic determination, the air around him crackling with suppressed power.
He drew a sharp breath, centered his will, and cast the charm that would take him instantly from the hallowed grounds of Hogwarts to the bureaucratic nightmare of the Committee offices.
"Aperiuntur!" he commanded, invoking the necessary transportation charm, and he vanished in a silent, powerful crack.