Sebastian Swann, the newly minted Deputy Headmaster, understood the crucial principle of momentum. The series of reforms—the gifting of the Protective Badges, the aggressive House Point restructuring, and the insidious introduction of corporate efficiency into the House-Elves' domain—had generated a powerful, sustained shockwave throughout the student body and faculty alike.
To let the energy dissipate now would be a catastrophic administrative failure. The next, and easiest, target to conquer was the forgotten corner of the academic curriculum: Muggle Studies.
He had spent the early hours of Tuesday reviewing the department's archival materials. What he uncovered was not merely antiquated; it was a bizarre, insulting caricature of an entire civilization.
The past Ordinary Wizarding Level (OWL) and Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Test (NEWT) papers read like artifacts from a prehistoric era, frozen in the political and technological stasis of the late 17th century.
"Question 1: Explain the function of a 'Flashing Torch' and demonstrate its typical usage on a dark night."
"Question 2: List three common methods of Muggle transportation, including an explanation of the 'Iron Horse' and the 'Automobile Carriage.'"
"Question 3: Detail the precise steps a Muggle citizen follows to brew 'Morning Tea,' including the necessary implements."
Sebastian had slammed the sheaf of parchment onto his desk with a violence that startled a passing gargoyle.
"What in the name of Merlin's moldy beard is this utter bilge?!" he muttered furiously to himself.
The magical world's wilful ignorance was staggering. It wasn't just that they didn't understand electricity or the internal combustion engine; they were teaching concepts that Muggles themselves had relegated to antique museums.
The wizards, cocooned within the impenetrable shield of the Statute of Secrecy, had not merely isolated themselves; they had deliberately chosen a path of intellectual stagnation, actively resisting the urge to look outside their cloistered world to see the relentless, dizzying pace of Muggle technological evolution.
The department's purpose, established centuries ago, was sound: to ensure wizards could assimilate seamlessly into the Muggle world if necessary, and to prevent accidental breaches of secrecy through obvious magical gaffes. But the execution had been a decades-long failure, reducing the subject to a pathetic joke.
The course enrollment list confirmed the subject's disgraced status. Across third through seventh year, fewer than sixty students had signed up. Over two-thirds of those enrolled were either Muggle-born or half-blood wizards who sought an easy credit, or genuine, esoteric academic eccentrics—the students who enrolled in twelve subjects simply because they could.
Why would any talented young wizard, desperate to master Charms or Transfiguration, waste their time learning about a kerosene lamp when there are literal rockets flying to the moon?
Sebastian understood the students' apathy completely. The course was a guaranteed E for Exceeds Expectations with zero intellectual expenditure.
This failure is not the students' fault, Sebastian resolved. It is the fault of the systemic intellectual rot that permeates the old guard. It is my turn now. I will make this class mandatory, not through decree, but through irresistible, unavoidable fascination.
He immediately petitioned the Head of Transfiguration, Professor McGonagall, not for a smaller room, but for the largest lecture hall available in the castle.
Then, using his new administrative authority, he ordered a radical change to the timetable: all Muggle Studies classes, from the nascent third-years to the near-graduating seventh-years, were consolidated into a single, two-hour block on Thursday afternoon. The logistics were nightmarish, but the resulting spectacle would be worth the scheduling chaos.
Thursday afternoon, following a slightly chaotic lunch, Sebastian made his way to the lecture hall. He carried only a single scroll of parchment—the combined attendance sheet—and his wand.
As he stepped onto the teaching platform, a genuine smile touched his lips. The hall was packed. The official list of sixty students was easily drowned out by the hundreds of observers, curious passersby, and academic vultures—including a significant contingent of Slytherins, dispatched by Snape to scout the "new Deputy Headmaster's curriculum methods."
The sheer volume of young wizards, crammed shoulder-to-shoulder, felt wonderfully reminiscent of a bustling university lecture theatre in his past life.
Sebastian's gaze swept across the room, focusing briefly on a tightly wound, reddish-haired fifth-year boy sitting near the back: Percy Weasley.
Percy, who had signed up for Muggle Studies purely as a calculated, low-effort credit filler, was internally radiating suspicion. Unlike his older brother Charlie, Percy saw Professor Swann not as a Quidditch hero, but as a potential academic fraud.
Choosing Muggle Studies? Percy had scoffed internally. A brilliant businessman lowering himself to teach the easiest, most frivolous course at the school. It must be a simple power play to increase his prestige without having to grade any actual difficult assignments.
The idea of combining seven different grade levels into one lecture was, to Percy's rigidly organized mind, the height of pedagogical irresponsibility. He had strategically chosen a back corner seat, laying out his Charms homework on his knee, prepared to entirely disregard the lecture.
Sebastian decided to address the administrative chaos first, silently chuckling at the hundreds of curious non-enrollees.
He raised the scroll of parchment high. He did not speak. His eyes held a flicker of intense concentration, and a small, almost imperceptible surge of arcane power left his hand.
The parchment flew from his grasp and hovered in the air. The names written on the scroll's surface—the sixty enrolled students—peeled away from the paper, transforming into sixty individual, glowing butterflies of pure, iridescent light. These butterflies, emitting a soft, golden shimmer, then darted swiftly through the dense mass of students, unerringly locating their intended targets.
One butterfly landed delicately on Percy Weasley's shoulder, bathing the young Prefect in a gentle, confirmatory golden light. Once they had all found their hosts, the butterflies dissolved, leaving only a tiny, radiant glow on the student's shoulder—the magical equivalent of a checked box.
Percy Weasley was so startled that he dropped his quill. The wandless, non-verbal magic, performed with such casual, overwhelming power, completely shattered his preconceptions.
Wandless… non-verbal… and personalized. Percy's internal monologue went into overdrive.
That is a Transfiguration of exceptional complexity! To transform written language into a unique identifier, program it with sixty distinct destinations based on the soul-print of the student, and execute the entire sequence without a word or a movement beyond the gesture! That is NEWT-level magic, possibly beyond!
The students who had merely seen Sebastian as a wealthy, charming celebrity were suddenly confronted by a wizard of terrifying, elegant magical prowess. The lecture hall, seconds ago a mess of restless whispers, erupted into an explosive wave of bewildered questions and frantic awe.
"Professor! What kind of spell was that?!"
"A counting charm? I've never seen that principle used before!"
"Please, sir, can you teach us that butterfly attendance curse?"
Sebastian smiled, a gesture that conveyed both warmth and untouchable superiority. "Very well. The room is now marked. And remarkably full, I see."
He let the applause die down. "That little parlor trick? It's a simple Self-Invented Enumeration Charm I developed for quickly auditing inventory at my company's warehouses. And no, young wizards, it is far too early for you to attempt it. We have more pressing academic matters to attend to."
"First, before we begin the formal lecture, we must take a small diagnostic quiz."
A collective groan rose from the crowd—a perfectly natural student reaction to the word 'quiz.' The groans, however, were instantly and dramatically silenced. Sebastian raised his wand, and with a mere downwards flick of his wrist, cast a silent, powerful charm that sealed the students' voices in their throats. They could move their mouths, but no sound escaped.
Their eyes widened in fear and astonishment. Sebastian chuckled at their terrified, soundless pleas for mercy.
"Silence is golden, my friends," he murmured, pointing his wand at the stack of test papers.
The papers launched themselves into the air, flying with precision to land neatly on the desk of every student.
"Do not worry, you will regain your voices once the tests are complete. This is merely to ensure a focused examination environment. No cheating. No discussion."
Sebastian continued, his voice dropping into a thrilling, conspiratorial whisper.
"The tests before you are genuine, archival OWL and NEWT examination papers from precisely five years ago. Third-years to fifth-years, you are working on the OWL questions. Sixth and seventh-years, you tackle the NEWT practice exams. Do not stress. Skip anything you don't know. This quiz is not graded; it is purely for my evaluation of the department's institutional failures."
He then delivered the highly sensitive, confidential information with a knowing wink that galvanized the students into intense, focused attention.
"And here, young wizards, is a secret they won't tell you in your study guides: The Examination Board officials are, institutionally speaking, extremely lazy and overworked. They prefer the familiarity of established question formats. There is an exceptionally high probability that up to forty percent of the questions on your real OWL and NEWT exams will be minor variations of questions you are seeing right now."
The students gasped, soundlessly. The realization dawned instantly: This was not a quiz; it was a guaranteed, high-Galleon study opportunity. Their initial dread vanished, replaced by a sudden, frantic, competitive energy. They scrambled for their quills, their previous resentment against Professor Swann evaporating completely. He is giving us the answers!
"You have thirty minutes," Sebastian stated, checking the chronograph charm on his wrist. "Begin."
For the next thirty minutes, Sebastian Swann stood upon the platform, a silent, imperious referee watching the first real, competitive academic exercise in years within that department. The patterns of performance were starkly illuminating.
The Muggle-born and half-blood students—the ones who truly understood the difference between a kerosene lamp and a modern LED flashlight—looked confident. They scrawled detailed, contemptuous essays on the failings of the old curriculum, clearly demonstrating modern knowledge that rendered the questions hilariously obsolete. They finished quickly, then spent the remaining time correcting Sebastian's copy errors on the printed test.
The Pure-bloods, however—with the notable exceptions of academic outliers like Percy Weasley—were a portrait of frantic confusion. They gnawed on their quills, their eyes darting wildly between the questions about 'electric refrigeration' (which they had never seen) and 'telephonic communication' (which they believed was conducted through a complicated series of smoke signals).
To them, the Muggle world was a murky, incomprehensible wasteland. Their pages remained alarmingly blank. The five years' worth of Muggle Studies classes they had taken had clearly not prepared them for the simple reality of the last five years of Muggle history.
Percy Weasley, the self-appointed academic warden, worked with brutal, focused efficiency. He completed the OWL section (even though he was a fifth-year) and then, in a fit of intellectual over-achievement, attempted the NEWT questions as well.
Even he had to pause, however, before the question that read: "Describe the concept of 'Digital Currency' and explain its functional difference from a bank note." He bit his lip, ultimately leaving the question blank, realizing with a jolt that his perceived expertise in the subject was based on knowledge nearly fifty years out of date.
His respect for Sebastian Swann, already high after the butterfly spell, vaulted again. This was not the easiest course; this was now the most relevant course.
As the thirty minutes elapsed, Sebastian raised his wand again, and the finished papers flew upwards, stacking themselves into a precise, alphabetical pile in his hand. The silence charm vanished, and the room instantly erupted.
"It was so simple! I answered everything about the Iron Horse and the new 'Tarmac Roads'!" exclaimed a smug fourth-year.
"Simple? I blanked on every question after 'Muggle Cinema'! What is 'The Internet'?!" countered a bewildered Pure-blood.
Sebastian waited for the noise to subside, then delivered his final, momentous instruction.
"Excellent. I am pleased to see that everyone has internalized the need for speed and that, based on your attendance glow, everyone came suitably prepared." He gestured to their non-magical, ordinary clothing—a mandatory request he'd posted on the bulletin board the night before.
"Before we commence the actual, practical lesson of Muggle Studies, which will be taught using modern, real-world examples, I have one final request."
His voice was calm, yet utterly non-negotiable.
"Please, every student in this hall—whether enrolled or merely observing—will now, in an orderly fashion, surrender your wand to the collection box at the front of the classroom."
A gasp swept through the hundreds of students. Hand over their wands? Their very identity? Their magical crutch?
"For the next two hours, you will not be witches and wizards, children," Sebastian stated, his smile cold and thrilling. "You will be Muggles."
"Today, we learn how to survive without magic."