The sheer, staggering audacity of the request hung in the air: "Now please hand over your wands."
The hall of young wizards, seconds ago vibrating with academic excitement, froze in a collective state of magical existential panic. Hand over their wands? It was more than a strange request; it was a demand for psychological and physical disarmament.
The wand was their anchor, their tool, their very identity—the extension of their will. To surrender it was to willingly become an infant again, functionally useless and terrifyingly vulnerable in a world built on enchantment.
Hand over the staff? The very notion! The Pure-bloods, particularly, gripped their holly and ebony tight, their faces a mixture of indignation and sheer disbelief. To willingly act like a Muggle? That is the lesson?
Yet, Sebastian stood there, utterly relaxed, his expectant gaze conveying a simple, unspoken ultimatum: Cooperate, or fail.
One by one, they filed forward. The Muggle-born and half-blood students, though uncomfortable, understood the exercise: this was the ultimate immersion. The pure-bloods, however, treated the action like a ritualistic sacrifice. They handed over their wands with mournful glares, murmuring apologies to the wood itself.
Sebastian accepted the torrent of magical wood and ivory with casual indifference. He did not use a simple box. From the depths of his robes, he drew a small, unadorned leather pouch.
With a flick of his wrist, the hundreds of wands—Oak, Willow, Holly, and everything in between—vanished into the tiny purse, absorbed by a flawless, markless seamless stretch charm.
The capacity of the bag appeared infinite, its magical field so stable that the chaotic energy of so many concentrated foci did not disrupt the leather's smooth texture.
A perfect example of applied magical theory combined with industrial-scale charm-work, Sebastian thought, watching the students' eyes widen at the blatant display of complex, practical magic. A final, subtle reminder of the efficiency of Swann Alchemy before we begin the lesson on inefficiency.
"Excellent. Your tools are safe. Now," Sebastian announced, waving a commanding hand toward the main entrance, "every single one of you. Out!"
Out? Confusion replaced terror. But the lesson hasn't started! We're supposed to be learning about… teacups!
The students poured out of the castle, a massive, meandering stream of suddenly non-magical youths clad in Muggle jeans, jumpers, and trainers. They followed Sebastian's lead, marching across the sprawling, manicured grounds, their confusion mounting with every step toward the massive, forbidding main gate.
Why are we heading for the gate? The question pulsed silently through the crowd. This was unprecedented. Muggle Studies was a theoretical, castle-bound subject, taught in stuffy classrooms with outdated textbooks. Never, in the history of the course, had a lesson required crossing the magical perimeter.
Their collective bewilderment was answered moments later. Outside the familiar, wrought-iron gates, parked incongruously on the gravel drive, sat a vehicle. It was not a flying carriage or a self-driving enchanted contraption.
It was a massive, sleek, triple-decker bus, painted in a deep, glossy lavender, radiating an aura of disciplined, almost military efficiency. This was not the rickety, charmingly chaotic, standard-issue Knight Bus. This was a bespoke, purpose-built mobile fortress of public transport.
The young wizards stopped, their feet scuffing the gravel, all eyes turning to their Professor for guidance.
Sebastian clapped his hands once, the sound sharp and commanding. "Little Muggles, what are you waiting for? A direct order? Get on the bus!"
As they scrambled aboard, the vehicle instantly drew comments, primarily from those unlucky few who had experienced the original, nausea-inducing ride.
"It's a Knight Bus! But… it's so… square!" cried a sixth-year Gryffindor. "I took the old one once, and I was ill for a week. There were moving beds and the whole thing felt like riding a runaway washing machine!"
"Look, they've replaced the single rickety cot with proper, ergonomic bench seating!" a Ravenclaw observed, running his hand over the plush, dark leather. "This is almost luxurious! But wait until he hits the accelerator—you'll be plastered against the ceiling! Last time, I swear I lost three teeth holding on!"
Sebastian allowed the nervous chatter to build, enjoying the palpable sense of dread hanging over the non-magical wizards. He stepped into the aisle and waited for the last student to squeeze aboard before delivering his safety briefing—a concept entirely foreign to wizarding travel.
"Attention! Safety is non-negotiable! Locate the safety harness—the seat belt—and secure it tightly across your lap and chest. Its function is to prevent sudden, unplanned contact with the floor, which tends to lead to expensive dental work and loss of dignity."
Under his strict supervision, hundreds of students fumbled with the simple Muggle locking mechanism until every single person was cinched into their leather seats.
Sebastian nodded to the driver—a silent, dour-looking man with a neatly trimmed beard. "Execute launch sequence, driver. Initiate inertial dampening."
"Trigger!" the driver replied, his voice a flat monotone.
The young wizards tensed, gripping the metal railings of their seats, bracing themselves for the promised, violent thwack that would slam them backward. The thoughtful Slytherin who had been watching Sebastian still standing in the aisle shouted a warning: "Professor! Hold on! You're going to fall! The push is—"
But the promised surge never came.
The bus, rather than leaping forward with the uncontrolled, magical acceleration characteristic of the original Knight Bus, simply began to move. It accelerated rapidly, yet with a velvety, smooth, utterly stable grace.
Outside the windows, the world blurred—the castle gateposts seemed to jump sideways in disbelief—but inside the bus, nothing stirred. Sebastian, standing tall in the aisle, did not even sway.
The students stared, first at Sebastian, then at each other. They were rigid, braced for impact, yet completely stationary relative to their seats.
"Ha?"
"Where is the push? Where is the inertia?" cried a Muggle-born wizard, his frustration overriding his common sense. "This violates every principle of classical mechanics! This is not how mass works!"
His Pure-blood neighbor, a Gryffindor, slapped him on the arm. "You idiot! This is magic! We're beyond mechanics! Professor Swann must have layered a Perfect Stability Charm onto the frame! It's the same principle as the Undetectable Extension Charm—the container moves, but the contents remain still! It's all Advanced Rune Theory!"
Sebastian smiled, allowing the student to think he'd nailed the magical explanation. In truth, the bus utilized a complex electromagnetic stabilization matrix designed by Swann Alchemy's R&D department, cleverly masked by a low-level kinetic dampening charm.
It was Muggle ingenuity enhanced by magical stability—a far more efficient solution than trying to force magic to obey physics.
"That's close, young wizard," Sebastian conceded smoothly. "Allow me to introduce you to the newest logistics solution from Swann Alchemy: Knight Bus 2.0—or, more accurately, The Knight Coach. It is smoother, safer, and faster for any wizard unable to Apparate."
He looked out the window as they transitioned seamlessly onto a major A-road. "And just as accessible as before: stand on the roadside, wave your wand, and a dispatcher, not an unstable spell, will confirm your pickup."
The students erupted into excited, high-volume discourse, the sheer utility of the product overriding their earlier fear.
"This is why Swann Alchemy is so successful! They don't advertise, they just fix the systemic problems the Ministry ignores!"
"Brilliant! I hate Apparating! This is the only way I'll travel with my trunk now!"
"Professor, where is this smooth, silent chariot taking us?" a young witch called out.
"That, my apprentice Muggles, is a necessary secret," Sebastian replied, sitting down with an air of theatrical mystery. "But before we arrive, let's have an honest discussion. I have your diagnostic quizzes right here, and the results confirm my suspicions."
He fixed his gaze on Marcus Flint, the hulking Slytherin Quidditch Captain who had chosen the course for its promised minimal effort. "Marcus Flint. I recall your sneering face when the topic of Muggle Studies was mentioned. Why, truly, are you here?"
Marcus, stripped of his wand and sitting uncomfortably in a high-speed vehicle, was stripped of his bravado. He flushed a deeper crimson than his house colors.
"Professor, I… I chose Muggle Studies," Marcus stammered, looking embarrassed to admit it in front of the assembled school, "as a guaranteed easy credit for my OWL exams. I knew I had to take at least seven subjects, and this one required the least… mental expenditure."
The honest admission broke the ice. A wave of collective, nervous laughter rippled through the bus.
Sebastian silenced them with a single, sharp look, then nodded approvingly at Marcus. "Honesty is the most efficient form of communication, Flint. I respect the ruthlessness of your strategy. It was, indeed, the easiest course in the curriculum. I took it myself for the same reason."
He then spotted Charlie Weasley, the Dragon-loving, academically sound Gryffindor. "Charlie Weasley, you look ready to confess. Why are you on this high-speed coach, if not for a burning passion for the non-magical world?"
Charlie chuckled good-naturedly, leaning forward. "Professor, honestly? I needed a safe backup subject. I'm a high-level academic student, but I also spend nine hours a day covered in dragon scale and soot. This course offered a high-value, low-effort credit that didn't demand excessive reading outside of my mandatory N.E.W.T. load. Most of us here are exam strategists, not Muggle enthusiasts."
"Outstanding!" Sebastian exclaimed, slapping his knee in approval. "Then we are unified. Our goal is not the appreciation of Muggle culture; our primary goal is the flawless execution of the Ministry-mandated OWL and NEWT exams. And if your papers are any indication, the old curriculum has failed you spectacularly."
Sebastian gestured to the stack of quizzes. "Flint, your paper is almost entirely blank. The only question you answered correctly was identifying the photograph of a 'mechanical clock.' And Charlie, while your answers are technically correct based on the 1940s-era textbooks used previously, you answered a question about 'personal computing' with a description of a telegraph operator."
He put the papers aside. "You need to confront reality, young wizards. The Statute of Secrecy forces us to be excellent scholars of invisibility, but it has made us terrible scholars of modernity. We are not going to read the dry texts that lead to your blank pages. We are going to conduct a massive, immersive, sensory update to your collective knowledge."
The Knight Coach, with its smooth, magical stabilization, glided off the main road and came to a perfect, soft stop.
"We have arrived at our field laboratory," Sebastian announced.
He rose, opening the door. They were outside a massive, utilitarian structure on the outskirts of what they immediately recognized as Muggle London. It was a pre-fabricated steel building, absolutely immense—far larger than the Great Hall, spanning what seemed to be acres of land. Over the main door, a discreet, elegant shield bearing the Swann family crest—a stylized swan with wings spread in flight—was barely visible.
Sebastian stepped out, allowing the students to follow in a wide-eyed throng.
"Instead of making you read dry texts in books about what a 'wireless' is," Sebastian said, sweeping his arm toward the giant structure, "I shall give you a full, hands-on field experience in the reality of the 21st-century Muggle world."
He produced a complex, electronic keycard—a Muggle artifact in itself—and swiped it across a reader beside the warehouse door. With a mechanical whirr and a loud clank of internal locks, the gigantic steel door slid silently upward.
The sight within was utterly overwhelming.
The interior was not merely a warehouse; it was a museum, a laboratory, and a showroom all at once. The space was easily the size of two Quidditch pitches, with a bright, luminous white floor and industrial lighting that banished all shadows.
A pristine, rubberized running track encircled the inner walls, marking a perimeter for observation. Within that perimeter, the floor space was meticulously organized into vast, clearly labeled sections.
There was a section dedicated entirely to Telecommunications—dozens of phones, computers, network servers, and satellite dishes. A section on Energy & Power Generation—solar panels, wind turbines, and complex engine block displays. A third, staggering section on Transportation—motorcycles, small automobiles, and even a partially disassembled section of a jet engine.
The sheer scale, organization, and technological density of the display silenced the young wizards more effectively than any charm. This was not the broken, quaint Muggle world of their textbooks. This was the world of massive, reproducible industrial power.
The area was segmented with clear signage: the Third-Year Exhibit (Basic Infrastructure), the Fifth-Year Module (Advanced Communication), and the Seventh-Year Demonstration Zone (Global Logistics and Military Applications).
Charlie Weasley, who had been studying the complex Muggle-magical engineering of the Knight Coach on the ride over, suddenly gasped and clamped his hand tightly onto his younger brother Percy's shoulder.
"Percy," Charlie whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of professional awe and filial terror. "Did you see this? My father, Arthur Weasley, has spent thirty years in the Ministry obsessed with rubber ducks and plugs! If he knew this sanctuary of technological progress existed, he wouldn't just write to me—he'd resign his post and move into this warehouse!"
"Professor Swann," Percy murmured, utterly forgetting his Charms homework, his eyes darting between a glowing television screen and a rack of power tools. "This… this is the ultimate classroom. This is the truth of Muggle Studies."
Sebastian smiled, watching the hundreds of non-magical wizards stare at the Muggle world, organized and presented for the first time with logic, efficiency, and scale.
"Welcome, students, to the Swann Alchemy Museum of Modernity," Sebastian announced, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "This semester, we will not be talking about how to brew tea. We will be discussing fiber optics, orbital mechanics, and thermonuclear power. We will be discussing the world that the Statute of Secrecy requires you to ignore."