It was late in the afternoon on September 1st, the sacred day of student return, when Sebastian Apparated back onto the perimeter of the Hogwarts grounds. The sun was dipping, casting the first long, melancholy shadows across the grass, yet the ancient castle felt newly vitalized—an impressive feat considering its age.
Sebastian approached the magnificent wrought-iron gates, and his lips curved into a genuine, if slightly smug, smile of professional satisfaction. The gates were immaculately clean. Not merely wiped down, but scrubbed, polished, and magically protected against the daily accumulation of grime that Hogwarts' stone perpetually produced.
This wasn't the work of overworked house-elves; this was the zealous pride of professors who had been suddenly, generously uplifted. The tiny, subtle details of the refurbished environment were already sending a clear message: Hogwarts has changed.
This is the welcome message, Sebastian mused, slowing his pace to appreciate the effect. The unspoken promise of care and quality, reflected in the smallest detail.
He recalled his own student days. The gates were often filmed with a faint, greasy residue, and the Great Hall's older furniture perpetually sticky. Back then, he—like ninety-nine percent of the student body—had been blissfully, selfishly unaware of the tireless, thankless administrative and custodial efforts of the faculty. He had simply existed within the established decay, never questioning it.
All that effort, completely wasted on an unobservant student body, he thought, shaking his head. But now, every single item screams Swann Quality. It's a complete pedagogical paradigm shift delivered via high-thread-count sheets and ergonomic chair design.
He cast a quick, silent, comprehensive Perception Charm over the gate. The complex, minor hexes he and Snape had placed on the hinges during a particularly bored weekend—a playful test of boundary wards designed to annoy Filch by slightly dampening his cleaning spells—were finally gone, forcefully scrubbed away by the newly motivated staff.
Excellent, he thought, pleased. The physical slate is clean. Now for the intellectual one.
He continued into the castle. Already, the quiet anticipation of the school opening was giving way to the low, humming din of the gathered faculty.
When he finally reached the majestic expanse of the Great Hall, most of the professors were already settled at the long, polished high table, which gleamed under the newly installed Focus-Spectrum Magic Lamps. The overall atmosphere was one of unusual lightness, a marked departure from the traditional, weary pre-term tension.
Dumbledore, a vision in magenta robes, sat in the center, offering Sebastian a discreet, knowing nod upon his entrance. Sebastian reciprocated the greeting with a slight, respectful bow of the head and then began his slow, deliberate walk toward the table, surveying the available seats.
"Sebastian! Over here, my boy!"
The high-pitched, enthusiastic summons cut through the low faculty chatter. Sebastian looked up to see Professor Filius Flitwick, the diminutive Head of Ravenclaw and Charms Master, waving vigorously from his spot.
Flitwick was an extraordinary wizard. Though his small stature required him to use a stack of subtly charmed cushions to see comfortably over the high table, no one who had ever witnessed his dueling prowess underestimated him.
As a young man, he had been the Dueling Champion of Europe, possessing a depth of theoretical and practical Charms knowledge that Sebastian frequently sought out during his student years.
Flitwick was one of the few professors who had genuinely pushed Sebastian's abilities outside of the Potions classroom, often engaging him in impromptu, high-speed magical exchanges that were closer to a fencing match than a lesson.
Flitwick had saved a seat precisely between himself and Severus Snape—a prime political location. Sebastian moved to it immediately. He barely had time to slide into the luxurious, newly padded seat before Flitwick began, his small eyes sparkling with unabashed admiration.
"A most sincere congratulations on the World Cup, Sebastian! Two minutes! It was truly a feat of impossible efficiency! A perfect example of applied strategic speed. I knew the moment you took to the air you would expose the fundamental structural imbalance of the game!"
Sebastian offered a modest, carefully crafted response. "Thank you, Professor. While I appreciate the sentiment, the victory was largely due to the opposing Seeker's emotional mismanagement under pressure. They lost their tactical composure, and I simply capitalized on the resulting chaos. Elementary strategy, really."
Snape, seated to Sebastian's left, didn't bother to turn his head. He simply pressed his lips together, his jaw tightening slightly. The minimal physical reaction spoke volumes to Sebastian:
Hypocrite! That disgusting, humble-bragging swan is incapable of merely accepting a compliment. Every word is a calculated political maneuver!
Flitwick, oblivious to the silent, dark judgment beside him, forged ahead, his voice dropping slightly in pitch, indicating a serious academic interest.
"My dear boy, I have heard the rumors—confirmed by both Minerva and Albus—of your ambitious intent to shatter the historical barriers between the four Houses this year. What an extraordinary undertaking! But I must ask, what was the genesis of this ambition? What was the moment of epiphany that led you to believe the millennia-old sorting system must be actively subverted?"
Sebastian knew this was his moment—his chance to publicly articulate the Third Fire to the very people who would be the most difficult to convince. He leaned forward slightly, placing his hands flat on the newly polished wood.
"The source of the idea, Professor Flitwick, came from an unexpected source: Muggle children," Sebastian stated calmly. "I spent two years entirely immersed in the Muggle world, and I encountered children who simultaneously embodied courage, loyalty, fierce intellect, and towering ambition. They were, in short, complex, multi-faceted individuals."
He paused, letting the contrast sink in, then delivered the damning critique of the wizarding world.
"And then I looked at my memories of Hogwarts. What do we produce here? Single-trait specialists."
Sebastian's voice grew colder, more analytical, as he began listing the anecdotal evidence from his own tenure as a student—moments the professors likely never saw or conveniently forgot.
"I watched a newly sorted Slytherin in his first month—a truly decent, friendly boy—who formed a deep, devoted bond with a Gryffindor student. A bond of pure, selfless loyalty to friendship. Do you know what happened? He was slowly, systematically labeled an 'outcast' and a 'blood-traitor' by his own House, not because he lacked ambition, but because he possessed a virtue that was considered 'Gryffindor territory.' He was forced to choose. And he chose to conform to the rigid mold of his House."
He shifted his gaze, sweeping it slowly down the table, engaging each Head of House in turn.
"I saw an immensely studious Gryffindor—a student with the most diligent and rigorous approach to research I have ever encountered—mocked mercilessly by his own peers as a 'bookworm' and 'no fun' because he preferred the library to the Quidditch pitch. His intellect and diligence—Ravenclaw traits, we are told—were stifled by the courage-or-nothing culture of his own House."
"I watched a Ravenclaw student, bursting with reckless, adventurous courage and a desire for bold action, become the target of endless academic scorn from her own House, who judged her as 'mediocre' because she prioritized excitement and action over intellectual contemplation. The irony—a House founded on the pursuit of knowledge actively discouraging a brave pursuit of experience."
"And most tragically, I remember a young Hufflepuff—a student who had a burning, internal ambition and a powerful drive to achieve global recognition. That ambition—a Slytherin trait, we teach—was interpreted as a threat to the gentle, loyal simplicity of the Badger's burrow. He was subtly but effectively ostracized for daring to desire more than just a quiet life of work."
Sebastian leaned back, the silence in the Great Hall now thick and profound.
"In less than two months of school, the vast, multi-faceted potential of these children is systematically killed off by peer pressure and the unspoken mandate of the House system," he concluded, delivering the diagnosis with clinical precision.
"All that is left in Hufflepuff is loyalty. All that is left in Gryffindor is courage. All that is left in Ravenclaw is intellect. All that is left in Slytherin is ambition."
He lowered his voice, making the next part a personal challenge to every academic professional present.
"The Sorting Hat, I believe, was never intended to be a Personality Filter; it was designed as a tool for a master-apprentice system a thousand years ago. But over a millennium, it has calcified into a rigid ideological prison. We, the faculty, have allowed the characteristics of the Houses to become a heavy, crushing shackle for them. We are actively breeding magical single-trait savants at the expense of creating well-adjusted, holistically developed human beings."
"My ambition, Professor, is not just to break down barriers; it is to introduce the concept of Holistic Virtue. Why can't every child be brave and loyal, eager to learn and ambitious? I want them to feel safe to be their most complex, authentic selves. They should be celebrated for embodying all the good qualities of humanity, regardless of whether their dorm room is in the dungeon or the tower."
A collective intake of breath swept through the faculty table. Sebastian's speech wasn't accusatory; it was an incontrovertible critique of a beloved but flawed tradition. It was a perfect strategic move: using a moral and pedagogical argument to justify his political objective.
Dumbledore was the first to react. He set down his glass, the gentle clink echoing in the sudden quiet, and began to clap slowly, the rhythm accelerating into an enthusiastic burst. His eyes, fixed on Sebastian, were shining with pride and a terrible recognition of the truth.
"Sebastian," Dumbledore said, his voice rich with approval, "you have just articulated a systemic flaw that many of us have sensed for decades, but lacked the courage, or perhaps the appropriate perspective, to fully diagnose. You have my full, unwavering support. I look forward to the changes you will bring to Hogwarts." He then raised his glass in a silent, meaningful toast.
Professor Flitwick, meanwhile, had been so captivated that he was literally jumping on his stack of cushions, nearly toppling over in his excitement.
"Brilliant! Simply brilliant!" Flitwick chirped, tapping Sebastian firmly on the shoulder. "You've given the system a necessary jolt! I will help you, Sebastian! I will begin by re-writing the common room notice board rules! The Ravenclaws will be encouraged to seek out acts of bravery!"
The other professors—even the usually severe Professor Sprout—were nodding in thoughtful agreement, their earlier enthusiasm about new furniture now replaced by a genuine academic challenge.
Then there was Snape. Sebastian's words had struck him with the force of a full-powered Stupefy Charm. He remained perfectly still, his eyes wide, his usual mask of sneering indifference utterly shattered.
He saw it, Snape thought, the blood draining from his face. He saw the mechanism.
Sebastian's example of the loyal Slytherin befriending a Gryffindor was not an abstract anecdote; it was a dagger to the heart, a perfect summation of the failure of his own student life.
The House system, the same system that had sheltered and defined him, was the very structure that had demanded he kill the loyal part of himself, the part that dared to choose friendship and love over ambition and malice.
He was forced to become the single-trait specialist Sebastian had just described—the cold, ambitious, hateful shell that Hogwarts had molded him into. The idea that a student could be loyal to friendship and a Slytherin was an explosive, destabilizing concept that tore open decades of carefully suppressed pain.
He remained frozen in a horrified, dazed silence, unable to comment, unable to even muster a sneer, his mind reeling from the accidental, devastating psychological blow Sebastian had just delivered.
Suddenly, the silent, intense moment was broken by a sound that instantly transformed the atmosphere of the entire castle:
Laughter.
The joyous, disorganized, high-pitched clamor of a thousand young voices, amplified by the resonant stone corridors, began to pour in from the castle entrance. Footsteps, the dragging of trunks, the excited squeals of recognition and reunion—the sounds grew louder and closer, flowing like a living river toward the Great Hall.
The students had arrived. Sebastian's ambitious, disruptive new term was about to begin.