The brief, charged encounter with Snape concluded, leaving the Potions Master a solitary figure grappling with the emotional wreckage Sebastian had deliberately invoked. Sebastian, however, was already moving.
He had executed three masterful administrative strikes: the high-value rebranding of the school's assets, the destabilization of the House Points system, and the forceful reorientation of Slytherin's moral compass. Now, he sought his fourth, and perhaps easiest, target: the vast, tireless labor pool operating beneath the castle.
Sebastian strode purposefully toward the south corridor, his shoes barely clicking on the ancient flagstones. The entrance to the Hogwarts kitchens was deliberately subtle, hidden by the gentle façade of still life—a large, cheerful painting of various fruits. Locating the hidden latch required an intimacy with Hogwarts' secrets, a knowledge gained only through years of privileged access.
He reached the canvas and located the plump, blushing pear. Instead of merely scratching it, Sebastian performed a delicate, almost surgical flick with his thumbnail.
The pear instantly quivered, swelling slightly, and—with a sound uncannily like a muffled, good-natured belch—transformed into a highly polished brass doorknob with a perpetually smiling face. Sebastian grasped the knob and turned.
The stone wall slid away, revealing a spectacle of organized, frantic activity.
The Hogwarts kitchens were a subterranean labyrinth of enormous fireplaces, sparkling copper pots, and self-stirring cauldrons the size of small rowboats.
The air was a rich, overwhelming tapestry of scents: freshly baked bread, roasting meats, complex sauces, and the faint, electrical tang of controlled magic. Hundreds upon hundreds of tiny figures, the House-Elves of Hogwarts, whizzed through the vast space, their movements a blur of tireless, dedicated labor.
They were all identically clad in the traditional, drab House-Elf uniform: a simple, coarse tea towel, embroidered with the Hogwarts crest, wrapped toga-style around their slight frames.
The moment Sebastian's silhouette appeared in the doorway, the highly-attuned senses of the Head House-Elf snapped to attention.
"Master Swann! Master Swann! He is returned!" The shriek was so high-pitched it momentarily distorted the ambient cooking charms.
The elf, small and wearing the most pristine tea towel, instantly dashed across the room, leaving a vortex of rapidly stirring soup and flying vegetables in its wake. It reached Sebastian, stopped abruptly, and executed a deep, profound bow that threatened to send its large, pointed ears scraping the floor.
The initial cry acted like a magical siren. Hundreds of house-elves ceased their work—a collective pause that caused loaves to stop rising and gravy to hover mid-pour—and descended upon Sebastian in a shrill, buzzing, adoring throng.
"Young Master Swann, what delicacy does your heart desire? I will craft it for you!"
"Master Swann, your garments! Are they clean? May I press them?"
"Young Master Swann, we have new plum pudding! It's your favorite, we remember!"
The high-pitched, insistent chorus of adoration was nearly deafening, a wave of affection and deference that threatened to physically overwhelm Sebastian. He raised his hands, a gesture learned from years of handling adoring fans and shareholders alike.
"Please, quiet, my friends," Sebastian said, his voice gentle but firm. "One moment."
His eyes, however, betrayed a searing, almost feverish intensity. Sebastian looked upon the hundreds of tireless workers, and the pure, unadulterated flame of the venture capitalist roared to life within him.
My God. They are flawless.
He ran an internal checklist: Loyalty? Absolute, requiring no incentive but kind words. Submissiveness? Total, questioning nothing. Reliability? Perfect, they do not tire, demand breaks, or require salary. Scalability? Infinite.
If I could simply incorporate this entire workforce into Swann Alchemy…. Sebastian mentally calculated the exponential growth curve. He was confident he could not just double, but likely triple his corporation's size and global output in three years simply by replacing his human, entitled R&D staff with this army of dedicated brilliance.
The memory of his previous attempt—the Corporate Coup of '88—flashed through his mind. He had spent six months cultivating their trust as a student, gently explaining the concept of Employee Stock Options and Retirement Packages, convincing them they could leave Hogwarts to form the labor foundation of his nascent empire.
Then Dumbledore had arrived, gliding into the kitchen like a massive, glittering iceberg of moral indignation. In front of Sebastian and every elf, the Headmaster had delivered a thundering lecture on Duty, Sacred Bonds, and the Honor of Institutional Service, effectively torpedoing Sebastian's ambitious hiring plan and leaving the elves weeping with confusion over the sudden revocation of their promised futures in cutting-edge magical manufacturing.
The emotional display of lamentation that followed Dumbledore's pronouncement had been epic, the entire kitchen shaking with the collective sobbing of hundreds of distraught workers.
Even now, decades later, they still adore me. Sebastian realized with satisfaction. Dumbledore may have won the legal battle for their labor, but I retained the moral custody of their affection.
Sebastian refocused, his eyes gleaming. Excellent. The stage is set. Time for the fourth fire.
"Please," he repeated, smiling warmly. "From this night forward, I must insist you refer to me as Professor Swann. I am now the Deputy Headmaster—a title which means I look forward to your expert guidance on all matters of domestic efficiency."
The house-elves responded with a new wave of even more excited squeaks.
"Professor Swann! Professor Swann! Yes, Professor Swann!" they chorused, a few of the smaller ones actually levitating slightly in their ecstatic frenzy.
Sebastian held up his hand for quiet. "My first directive to you, under my new administrative role, concerns an issue of great importance to the Hogwarts brand identity." He adopted a tone of serious, institutional concern.
"My friends, when I look upon you, I see the finest, most diligent workers in the wizarding world. You are the beating heart of this castle. Yet your current attire is… unacceptable."
He glanced pointedly at a tea towel, noting its slight fraying at the edges. "These tea towels, while traditional, do a disservice to your skill and to the prestige of Hogwarts. They lack the necessary aesthetic professionalism to represent a world-class institution. I declare that you are desperately in need of new, elegant, Hogwarts-specific uniforms!"
A wave of bewildered confusion swept through the elves. They looked down at their tea towels, then at each other, their large, luminous eyes darting back and forth. Unacceptable? But… this is the uniform! It is our purpose!
"Jeff!" Sebastian called out, turning toward the door.
From the shadows, a singular, pristine figure stepped forward: Jeff.
Jeff was Sebastian's own house-elf, given a conditional form of freedom years ago but choosing to remain in Sebastian's employment under a complex, high-Galleon contract that the elf viewed as a sacred magical bond.
Jeff was perfectly groomed, dressed not in a tea towel, but in a bespoke, immaculate midnight-blue butler's uniform, complete with silver buttons and the minimalist, elegant Swann crest embroidered over his heart. He looked less like a house-elf and more like the Chief Operating Officer of a Swiss banking establishment.
The reaction from the Hogwarts elves was instant and harsh. The hundreds of workers recoiled, opening a wide, significant circle of empty floor around Jeff, as if his tailored garment was physically repellent.
"A free elf…" hissed one of the older elves, pulling his tea towel tighter as if protecting himself from an invisible moral contagion.
"He wears clothing!" squealed another, his voice dripping with social disgust. "He has abandoned the humble, true path of service! He is a social pariah!"
"Master Swann has employed an unbound disgrace to advise us!" a third declared dramatically, shaking his head in mourning.
Sebastian, ignoring the hostile social climate he had engineered, gave Jeff a slight, encouraging nod. "Jeff, the floor is yours. Explain the situation clearly."
Jeff, puffing out his finely tailored chest, stepped onto the metaphorical battlefield. He drew himself up, adopting a haughty, professional tone that contrasted sharply with the elves' humble squeaks.
"Listen here, all of you, you unsophisticated cloth-wearers!" Jeff projected, his voice echoing authoritatively. "I am not merely Mr. Swann's house-elf; I am his Chief of Domestic Operations! I was not abandoned! I accepted a professional contract reflecting my high-tier skill set!"
He gestured contemptuously toward his pristine uniform. "And this attire is not a gift! Mr. Swann understands the ancient, sacred honor of the house-elf. He knows that to give us clothes is to insult our purpose and release our bond. That is why I meticulously sewed this uniform myself!"
Jeff turned to Sebastian with a look of theatrical, profound gratitude. "Professor Swann told me that the quality of the house-elf's garment directly reflects the honor and dignity of the institution they serve. He asked me to come here to teach you the high art of personalized, dignity-affirming garment creation!"
He raised a judgmental, gloved finger. "Your current towels show a disrespect for the Hogwarts crest! They are wrinkled, they are dull, and they offer no room for tailored efficiency! Professor Swann wants you to look like the premier magical labor force you are!"
The words hit the Hogwarts elves like a sequence of well-aimed stunning spells. Respect? Dignity? If the esteemed Professor Swann believed their current state was disrespectful to Hogwarts, then their duty was immediately clear. The anti-Jeff sentiment began to crumble under the weight of institutional obligation.
"I see! I see! Professor Swann is very kind to House-Elves!" shrieked Mary, the elf Sebastian had initially seen.
"Professor Swann is the greatest wizard! He recognizes our commitment to the Hogwarts Brand Identity!" cried another, eyes wide with the realization of the noble task ahead.
But a pocket of conservative, old-guard elves still hesitated, looking deeply distressed. The concept of creating and wearing an unneeded item was anathema to their core philosophy of pure, selfless, minimal service.
Jeff, spotting the resistance, snapped: "Do you intend to disobey Professor Swann's first administrative order? Do you intend to shame Hogwarts by continuing to wear those shoddy, disrespectful tea rags?"
The remaining elves instantly bowed their heads, their ears drooping in misery. Disobeying Professor Swann, who had just publicly declared his high expectations for their dignity, was unthinkable. They were trapped between ancient servitude and the seductive logic of capitalist-driven professionalism.
Sebastian stepped down from the doorway, drawing his wand. He didn't waste time on explanations. With a quick, silent Transfiguration Charm, he transformed two unremarkable cooking apples resting on a nearby counter into two perfectly formed, knee-high mannequins.
The mannequins—one posed as a butler, the other as a maid—were dressed in the vision Sebastian intended. The uniforms were tailored, forest green, trimmed with thin silver piping, and featured a simplified, elegant Hogwarts crest sewn perfectly onto the lapel of the jacket. They looked elegant, sophisticated, and utterly professional.
"Look upon your future, my friends," Sebastian instructed, gesturing to the mannequins. "This is the image of a world-class, dedicated magical service. This is the dignity of Hogwarts."
"Starting tomorrow, Jeff will remain here to establish a House-Elf Tailoring Division. By the time I return next week, I expect every single one of you to have mastered the art of garment construction and to be wearing your new, professionally elegant uniforms."
Sebastian delivered the final word on the matter. His stomach, having waited patiently through the entire demonstration, now let out a low, rumbling groan—a profoundly human sound that cut through the magical tension.
He summoned Mary, the elf he had addressed earlier. "Mary, my very helpful friend," Sebastian said, his tone shifting instantly from stern administrator to hungry customer.
"The administrative work has made me terribly late for my supper. Could you please prepare me a small steak, well-done, with a side of sautéed forest mushrooms? Thank you kindly."
Mary practically vibrated with pleasure, looking as if she might implode from the sheer, overwhelming joy of being thanked and given a simple task that didn't involve complex moral paradoxes.
"Professor Swann has thanked a house-elf again! He is the greatest, most polite wizard who has ever walked the stones!" she whimpered, instantly darting off to procure the ingredients, humming a frantic, happy tune.
Sebastian found a comfortable, low-hanging counter and sat down, leaning back against the cool stone wall as the renewed chaos of labor began to hum around him. He watched Jeff, already holding court with a small, terrified circle of sewing trainees, and smiled faintly.
Excellent workers, indeed.
The new uniforms were merely the beginning. Once they had mastered the skill of fine tailoring, the true potential would be unlocked. Hogwarts would soon possess a massive, loyal, highly skilled, and economically invisible manufacturing base.
He would simply need to funnel external, high-value Swann Alchemy corporate orders through the kitchen—orders for custom-made robes, gloves, specialized banners, and perhaps even high-end magical sportswear—all produced with absolute loyalty and quality, and at a zero-labor cost.
Hogwarts, Sebastian thought, closing his eyes in satisfied anticipation, is about to become the world's most efficient, uncredited, and magically secured garment factory.