"MERLIN'S BEARD!"
The collective gasp and shout of delight that erupted from the throng of arriving young wizards was a single, sustained acoustic wave.
They had poured into the Great Hall expecting the comforting familiarity of the ancient stone walls, the vast ceiling mirroring the star-dusted night, and the worn, heavy oak tables of tradition. Instead, they were confronted by a scene of utterly revolutionary luxury.
The Hall hadn't just been cleaned; it had been remastered.
Gone were the splintered, scarred benches and the massive, immovable tables. In their place stood sleek, dark wood furniture that seemed to hum with latent, subtle power. The benches were replaced by individual, self-conforming Alchemical Settees upholstered in a rich, House-neutral grey fabric that looked impossibly plush.
The tables were narrower, their surfaces gleaming, and—most astonishingly—they were bathed in a steady, bright glow from the newly installed Focus-Spectrum Magic Lamps floating above. The light was calibrated to a warm, yet vibrant hue that cut through the ancient gloom of the castle without being harsh, reducing shadows to mere suggestions.
The young wizards erupted into a chaotic, joyous frenzy.
"It's brand-new! Everything is new!" shrieked a third-year Ravenclaw, running a hand reverently over the smooth tabletop.
"Look at the luminosity!" exclaimed another. "The lamps are emitting perfect, eye-strain-reducing light! My mother has a charm for this, but these are permanent!"
A fifth-year Hufflepuff stared wide-eyed at the floating candles, which now seemed almost quaint next to the technological marvels below them. "Did Headmaster Dumbledore finally win the Goblin Lottery? The Galleon value of this room alone must exceed the Ministry's annual budget for the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes!"
A group of Slytherin students, usually too composed for open enthusiasm, were currently huddled around one of the tables, their faces illuminated by the new light.
"Observe the central groove," noted a particularly sharp first-year, pointing to a fine, barely visible line etched down the middle of the table. "That is an Ancient Runic Magic Circuit! It's subtly applying a low-grade Calefacere charm—the food placed here won't cool down! It's precisely the same technology Swann Alchemy sells to the wealthiest wizarding families!"
Another wizard, having sat down on his seat, suddenly sprang up, her eyes shining with tears of delight. "Wait! Wait! Sit down! My chair automatically adjusted! It sensed my height and leg length! I can finally eat without my chin touching my knees! I need to buy one for my little cousin immediately!"
The Hall was a maelstrom of discovery, with students hopping onto and off their new seats, testing the automated ergonomics, and marveling at the sheer, undeniable quality. The atmosphere was one of unadulterated, materialistic wonder.
At the Gryffindor table, Charlie Weasley was having a profoundly miserable time.
The Quidditch World Cup, the most significant magical event in a generation, had concluded only days ago. Charlie, Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team and a true fanatic of the sport, was bursting with complex tactical insights and opinions on the Canadian team's fatal Transfiguration of the Beater's Bat strategy. He was primed to discuss the revolutionary impact of the final match.
Instead, his tablemates were debating the merits of alchemically reinforced lumbar support.
"It's entirely meaningless!" Charlie muttered under his breath, leaning back against his new, impossibly comfortable settee, which immediately adjusted its angle to a scientifically-proven 103 degrees. "Who cares about temperature regulation when we should be discussing the permanent alteration of the Seekers' strategic role?!"
He glanced down the table at his siblings. The situation was dire.
Percy, the usually unshakeable paragon of bureaucratic calm, was meticulously running his fingers along the runic groove, his eyes wide with a mixture of professional jealousy and covetousness. His expression screamed: This level of perfection is unfair. Why wasn't I consulted on the Procurement and Installation Protocols?
Fred and George were not simply enjoying the new furniture; they were in an intense, whispered consultation, their faces alight with mischievous concentration. They were not dancing with joy; they were analyzing the structural integrity and prank potential of the automated chairs.
They were undoubtedly formulating plans on how to secretly hack the height-adjustment charm to send every sitting professor vertically into the ceiling.
Ah, the innocence of children, Charlie sighed, seeing the scene through the lens of his own worldly, Quidditch-focused maturity. They are so easily distracted by mere comforts.
He swept his gaze up to the staff table, seeking reassurance in the familiar faces of authority. All the professors were beaming, basking in the glow of the students' overwhelming, validating reaction. Even Professor Snape's face, while still set in its usual look of profound distaste, lacked its typical, aggressive wrinkle of pre-emptive hatred. He seemed merely grimly tolerant.
Then, Charlie's brain, tuned to instantly recognize celebrity-level magical presence, stuttered.
Wait.
His eyes locked onto the man seated between the Head of Ravenclaw and the Head of Slytherin. The man who was not a professor, but whose face had been plastered across every wizarding newspaper, every souvenir banner, and every collectible Quidditch trading card for the last fortnight.
"MERLIN'S BEARD!" Charlie shrieked, a piercing sound that was utterly devoid of the furniture-induced joy, carrying only the raw, hysterical force of a fan realizing he was breathing the same air as his idol. The volume and sudden intensity of the sound instantly silenced the entire Hall.
Every single young wizard, mid-adjustment of their ergonomic settee or mid-speculation about Merlin's treasure, snapped their heads towards the Gryffindor table, confused.
Charlie, his own maturity utterly abandoned, stood up on his new, self-adjusting bench, his body trembling. He pointed a shaking, accusatory finger directly at the faculty table, and screamed the title that had become a magical legend:
"T-T-THE TWO-MINUTE MAN!"
The reaction was not a cheer; it was an acoustic explosion.
The stunned silence lasted exactly two seconds—a perfect, dramatic beat—before the Great Hall devolved into absolute, deafening chaos. The sound wasn't laughter or conversation; it was a wall of pure, high-frequency hysteria.
"A-H-H-H! He's real! He's actually here!"
"Look! He's sitting right next to Professor Snape! He's so handsome in person!"
"The Daily Prophet pictures didn't do justice to the confidence!"
A literal stampede erupted. The students surged forward, a tidal wave of robes and excitement, intent on reaching the god-like figure. They only halted abruptly when the foremost row of hysterical fans slammed into an invisible psychological wall—the proximity of Severus Snape.
Snape, whose mask of tolerance instantly snapped back into place, had merely deployed a complex, non-verbal Imperturbable Field Charm in a perfect, silent, one-meter radius around his chair. The barrier wasn't dangerous; it was merely an absolute denial of passage, creating a small, untouchable island of darkness and professional pique.
The students gathered at the edge of this Fear Barrier, frantically waving their hands and textbooks at Sebastian.
"Please, sir! An autograph! My Nimbus 2000! I need your signature on my Nimbus 2000!"
"He's waving! He's smiling at me! My favorite superstar! Sebastian! I love you!"
Sebastian, caught completely off guard, forced a painfully wide, "Diplomatic" smile and offered a polite, regal wave. Internally, however, a storm of irritation was brewing.
The Two-Minute Man? he seethed, the blood draining from his face.
My name is Sebastian Swann. My nickname is The Man Who Secured Victory in Two Minutes—a title which implies strategic genius and unparalleled skill! 'Two-Minute Man' sounds like I failed to properly execute a simple Charms instruction!
He glared past the waving hands, fixing his internal target. Charlie Weasley.
Red hair, excessively cheerful, and an expert in strategic mislabeling. I will remember you, Gryffindor Captain. We will have a long, painful discussion about brand messaging during remedial flying class.
As the chaos threatened to utterly engulf the staff table—a few brave, Snape-fearless seventh-years were starting to breach the psychological barrier and dart toward Sebastian—Dumbledore intervened. He rose slowly, his smile still intact, yet his eyes flashed with a hint of power. He made a single, subtle gesture with his hand, a complex, non-verbal charm that was more about mass psychology than brute force.
A low, gentle WHOOMP echoed through the hall, and in the next instant, every single student who had left their seat was gently, yet firmly, deposited back onto their Alchemical Settees. The charm was too fast, too efficient, and too non-violent to register as an attack, but the message was clear.
"Welcome, students, to a new, exciting term!" Dumbledore announced, his voice carrying easily over the subsided hubbub. "I am delighted to see your appreciation for the new amenities. Now, please, contain your enthusiasm. We have a rather important ceremony to attend to."
The hysteria was contained, but the whispering was now a frenzied, constant hiss. The students were back in their seats, but their eyes remained fixated on the faculty table, trying to dissect the meaning of the celebrity presence.
The Hall was now alive with a thousand frantic, whispered debates.
"A superstar is our professor! Did you hear that? A professor!"
"This is a dream! The man who broke the Quidditch world is going to teach us! Pinch me again! I need to ensure this isn't a complex, shared Delusion Charm cast by Dumbledore!"
"He's the owner of Swann Alchemy—the richest man in the entire wizarding world! The donation wasn't a charity case; he must have purchased a teaching post!"
The debate then shifted to the critical question: What on Earth would The Two-Minute Man teach?
"It has to be Quidditch Strategy!" argued a desperate second-year. "He's the greatest Seeker alive! It's a complete restructuring of the syllabus! Finally, a class that matters!"
"Nonsense!" countered a cynical sixth-year. "He's clearly here to teach Advanced Financial Management. He's going to show us how to turn five Sickles into a fully autonomous, self-cleaning dungeon! We'll all graduate as entrepreneurs!"
Then, the terrible, annual possibility arose, carried on a chilling whisper:
"Wait! Look! Who is that woman sitting next to Professor Sprout? I recognize her—Miss Foster! She was rumored to be interviewing for a position!"
A sickening realization dawned across the hall. The Defense Against the Dark Arts position. The one with the Curse.
"Oh, no! It must be D.A.D.A!" shouted a Ravenclaw. "Sebastian Swann has become so wealthy and famous that he's decided to prove a philosophical point about risk management by taking the most dangerous, unstable job in the school!"
"Why would the richest man in the world put himself in danger like that? He'll be gone by Christmas!" whispered a small, terrified witch who immediately began clutching her chest. "He's too beautiful to be consumed by the Curse! I must pray to the House-Elves to protect him!"
The students were now locked in a horrified state of speculation, contrasting Sebastian the invincible Quidditch hero with Sebastian the rumored, doomed D.A.D.A. Professor, making the new, completely overlooked Professor Foster—who was indeed sitting quietly and nervously at the end of the table—feel completely invisible and deeply stressed by the bizarre speculation about her impending doom.
Just then, the grand doors to the Hall opened again, and Professor McGonagall, looking exceptionally stern and slightly weary from the evening's emotional rollercoaster, led the hesitant, tiny band of first-years into the Great Hall.
Her sharp, commanding glare swept across the assembled student body, instantly quelling the final fragments of hysteria and forcing a precarious silence. She proceeded to the faculty table, placed the tattered Sorting Hat onto the stool, and began the ancient ceremony that anchored the magical world, providing a brief, necessary distraction from the evening's celebrity shock.
During the customary quiet of the Sorting, Sebastian leaned toward Flitwick, his smile now replaced by a look of predatory focus.
"Professor Flitwick, I must ask a highly specific pedagogical question," he murmured, his eyes fixed on the red-haired captain of the Gryffindor team.
"The cheerful young man who was kind enough to give me my new, simplified celebrity nickname. The one who has an excellent sense of Quidditch analysis, but perhaps a subpar sense of public relations. His name?"
Flitwick, still humming with excitement, followed Sebastian's gaze. "Ah, that would be Charlie Weasley, Sebastian! Excellent seeker—rather a formidable talent, though not quite at your level of disruptive efficiency, of course!"
Sebastian Swann filed the name away with cold precision.
Charlie Weasley. Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. The man who rebranded me from a strategic visionary to a two-minute novelty.
Sebastian's smile returned, but it was no longer diplomatic. It was a shark's smile, filled with future menace and administrative planning.
Very good. We will have a long, in-depth academic consultation on the correlation between verbal precision and aerial performance very soon, Mr. Weasley.
The new term, the new classes, and the new rules of engagement had officially begun.