Sebastian Swann, the newly minted Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, was not a philanthropist.
Every galleon spent on the revolutionary Quidditch uniforms, the sophisticated Muggle supplies now filling a section of the castle, and the constant stream of small, targeted gifts was part of a meticulously calibrated long-term investment strategy. He harbored a colossal, self-appointed destiny: to become the White Lord of the wizarding world.
He fundamentally rejected the pathetic, myopic philosophy of Lord Voldemort. The notion of pure-blood supremacy was not just morally repugnant; it was an exercise in catastrophic political and demographic illiteracy.
"What good is a bloodline purity test when the pure-blood pool is barely a fraction of the total population?" Sebastian mused internally, striding through the castle corridors toward his meeting.
"You attempt to rule a majority by terrorizing them based on a fictional superiority, and you inevitably provoke a devastating resistance. Voldemort only ever achieved infamy in Britain; he never achieved legitimate, enduring political power."
Sebastian's model was the First Dark Lord, Gellert Grindelwald. Grindelwald's ideology—while terrifying—had possessed a terrifying logic: Greater Good. His influence had spanned continents, reaching across Europe and even touching the American magical diaspora.
He sought to unite wizards against Muggles, not tear them apart over arbitrary blood status. Crucially, Grindelwald understood the power of a grand, unifying vision, even if that vision was ultimately warped.
Sebastian wanted neither the name "Dark Lord" nor the aesthetic. Dark Lord? It sounded like a badly translated comic book villain.
How could anyone seeking to establish a lasting, unified magical government—a true Ministry of Order—gain the trust of the masses while branding himself with a name that signified only fear and secrecy? His past life had taught him one immutable truth: deviate from the will of the majority, and failure is a statistical certainty.
To achieve his vision—to usher in a new era of stability under his control—Sebastian needed two things: Unassailable Prestige and Political Leverage.
Becoming a professor at Hogwarts was the tactical masterstroke. Every successful English wizard, from Minister to Auror, passed through these halls.
Gaining the adoration and loyalty of the student body, the future leaders of the Ministry and society, was Phase One. His Quidditch success, the popular Muggle Studies course, and his conspicuous generosity were all designed to cultivate the image of a Benevolent, Competent Authority.
In a few years, after meticulously laying the groundwork, he planned to follow the blueprint of Dumbledore's own legend: defeating the ultimate evil.
If Sebastian could personally vanquish the resurrected Voldemort, his prestige would skyrocket beyond any achievable academic or business success. The public would demand he take over the Ministry of Magic; his ascent would be practically unassailable.
However, prestige was insufficient. Power was necessary. The wizarding world, like the Muggle world, was ultimately governed by the Law of the Jungle.
Sebastian knew, starkly and certainly, that his current power level was no match for a fully realized Dark Lord. He desperately needed access to the unique, powerful, and closely guarded spells of Albus Dumbledore.
The magic that allowed Dumbledore to control the very elements, to open pathways through enchanted flame, was the crucial missing piece of Sebastian's arsenal.
He had tried the respectful route upon graduating, asking Dumbledore for tutelage, only to be politely but firmly rebuffed on the grounds of "youthful distraction." Returning as a peer offered a different approach, but the conversation still seemed impossible to initiate naturally.
How do you ask the greatest wizard of the age to share his most potent secrets without sounding like an opportunist?
The solution, Sebastian realized with a truly inspired flash of Slytherin brilliance, was not found in flattery, but in the balance sheet.
Sebastian's extensive spending—the thousands of galleons on high-end electronics, educational tools, and, most recently, the custom-fabricated, highly enchanted Swan Alchemy Quidditch kits—was a massive, unsolicited outlay on behalf of Hogwarts.
As a conscientious Headmaster, Dumbledore could not allow Sebastian to absorb such a financial burden for school projects, regardless of the quality.
The plan was simple: Request immediate, full reimbursement for all expenditures.
Sebastian knew with absolute certainty that Hogwarts' operational budget was tight, and the vaults were guarded jealously by the Ministry's financial overseers.
The school simply would not have the necessary liquidity to cover the sudden, massive cost of a fully kitted-out Muggle Studies department and a brand-new, top-of-the-line Quidditch team, especially the complex charms woven into the gear.
Dumbledore, being Dumbledore, would be morally obligated to pay, but financially unable to do so instantly. That created the perfect chasm—a massive, immediate financial debt—that Sebastian could exchange for magical knowledge.
I ask for the money, Dumbledore realizes he doesn't have it, and I then offer a charitable compromise: "Just teach me the spell, Headmaster, and we can consider the debt settled."
It was a beautiful, inescapable trap. The Headmaster couldn't accuse him of asking for a favor; he would merely be clearing a school debt. Sebastian inwardly high-fived his Slytherin ancestors.
It doesn't matter if it's a black cat or a white cat, he reaffirmed, adjusting his robes, as long as it lands the mouse.
Sebastian arrived at the towering gargoyle, giving the password ("Fizzing Whizbee"—Dumbledore was nothing if not predictable), and began his ascent.
In the lavish, circular Headmaster's office, Albus Dumbledore was enjoying a rare moment of deep contentment. He was leaning back in his velvet chair, his half-moon spectacles perched on his nose, reading an academic journal titled Transfiguration Today: Theoretical Limits.
Beside him, however, was not the traditional tea cup, but a tall, frosted glass filled with a sparkling, dark brown liquid, topped with a frothy, caramel-colored foam. He took a long, blissful sip of his chilled, expertly carbonated Muggle cola.
Aaaah. The silent victory of caffeine and refined sugar. He let out a silent, barely audible, deeply satisfying wizarding burp.
It had been a blessedly uneventful two weeks. No mysterious student petrifications. No rogue House Elves. No urgent letters from the Ministry. The new Defense professor was a prodigy of efficiency, and the subsequent Quidditch tryouts had provided an excellent, data-driven spectacle. A truly joyful life for a retired legend.
Suddenly, the portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black—ever the busybody—rushed into view. "Headmaster! Professor Swann is ascending the stairs. He looks... focused."
Dumbledore immediately sprang into action. He banished the half-empty glass of cola under his desk with a swift Evanesco, replacing it instantly with an ornate silver teapot and a copy of the serious academic journal he had been holding.
He straightened his colorful robes, adjusted his posture from relaxed retirement to Stoic Academic Sentinel, and looked intently at a random paragraph about the ethical implications of human-to-object transfiguration.
One must maintain a certain image, even for one's own staff.
A moment later, the door swung open, and Sebastian entered, his expression a carefully constructed mixture of professional respect and nervous, financial concern.
"Good evening, Sebastian. What brings you to my lofty perch? Please, do take a seat," Dumbledore offered, his blue eyes twinkling over the rim of the academic journal.
As Sebastian approached, Dumbledore conjured a spare cup. "Tell me, my boy, would you care for anything? Perhaps some Earl Grey, a spot of Pumpkin Juice, or perhaps you've acquired a taste for the peculiar Muggle beverage I've found recently? A 'Coca-Cola'?"
Sebastian's eyes immediately darted to the spot under the Headmaster's desk where the Professor had quickly banished the first glass. He didn't miss a beat.
"Headmaster, that is immensely kind of you," Sebastian replied, a warm, slightly insincere smile spreading across his face. He pulled out his wand and, with a complex, silent charm, caused the cup Dumbledore had conjured to grow instantly into a massive, tankard-sized stein, easily holding four times the volume of a standard goblet. He then gestured grandly to the original, hidden soda.
"I'll take a full, large measure of your precise vintage of Muggle soda, thank you. I suspect the school's standard supply won't quite match the optimal carbonation profile you've acquired."
Dumbledore winced, his heart experiencing a tiny, sharp pang. That was his personal reserve—specifically imported from a Muggle purveyor in London! He was forced to retrieve the nearly empty glass and wave his wand in a complex refill motion, filling Sebastian's oversized vessel to the brim.
Sebastian took a massive, appreciative gulp that clearly demonstrated the need for the enormous volume. He set the stein down, looked directly at Dumbledore, and began the performance.
"Headmaster Dumbledore, I am genuinely grateful for your understanding. I'm afraid I've encountered a rather awkward, personal financial dilemma, and I require your direct assistance to resolve it." Sebastian shifted nervously in his seat and then, with practiced humility, extended his right hand, his thumb and forefinger rubbing together in the international gesture of "money."
"It's a small matter, involving a… a reimbursement issue."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, laying aside his journal. "A financial issue, Sebastian? Please, explain. I assure you, I will endeavor to help you in any way the school charter allows."
"I am absolutely delighted to hear that," Sebastian said, his face lighting up with relief that was just a hair too immediate. "It concerns the teaching materials for the Muggle Studies class. And the Quidditch equipment. And the brooms, potentially."
Dumbledore blinked slowly. "The Muggle Studies materials, yes. I had heard reports of your rather… lavish procurement. You purchased items like those 'personal computing devices' and the 'video cassette recorders'? I presume those are covered by the Teaching Materials Allocation budget, though I must confess, I hadn't anticipated the scale."
"Precisely, Headmaster. Professor McGonagall was kind enough to inform me that any resources procured by a professor to significantly enhance the learning experience are fully reimbursable by the school," Sebastian confirmed, leaning forward conspiratorially.
"I have essentially outfitted the entire Muggle Studies wing with modern, high-grade Muggle technology, establishing a truly immersive learning environment. The students are ecstatic, and the learning curve is phenomenal!"
He then dropped the other, far more expensive shoe, carefully maintaining his humble, apologetic demeanor.
"However, the cost… well, the cost is rather substantial. And since the Quidditch team gear—the customized, charmed, weather-neutralizing black uniforms, the helmets, the goggles—is now essential, permanent, school-owned property... I have naturally included those costs in the total balance due as well. I hope you concur that professional-grade equipment, such as the Swan Alchemy branded gear, is vital for the safety and success of the Hogwarts team, and thus a proper school expense?"
Dumbledore finally understood the gravity of the situation. His expression, which had been benign and curious, slowly dissolved into a look of dawning horror.
Not just the Muggle items. Not just the teaching supplies. The custom, high-tech, professionally designed Quidditch equipment, too?
Sebastian's Muggle equipment alone—computers, televisions, video cameras—would constitute a massive claim. But the specialized, magically reinforced uniforms, designed and manufactured by Swan Alchemy, were an entirely different order of magnitude. The enchantment on those items alone would cost a fortune.
How many galleons did the boy spend? He outfitted an entire classroom and an entire professional sports team.
Dumbledore rubbed his silver beard slowly, his mind racing through the labyrinthine corridors of the Hogwarts treasury bylaws, searching for a clause, a loophole, anything that might shield the school from financial ruin. He had been so proud of Sebastian's initiative, but he suddenly felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. The total bill, if Sebastian's quality matched his ambition, would be astronomical.
"Sebastian," Dumbledore began, his voice losing its usual cheerful lilt, "I appreciate your dedication, truly. But you must understand... the school's quarterly operational funds are managed with... certain... delicate limitations. We do not possess the ready, liquid funds for unexpected expenditures of this magnitude. Could you perhaps... give me a preliminary figure? Even a rough estimate of the total amount you are requesting in this reimbursement?"
He finished his question, looking at the young professor with an expression that was suddenly less "Headmaster" and more "treasurer facing an unprecedented deficit."
Sebastian, sensing the hook was securely set, smiled his most sympathetic, least honest smile. "I wouldn't want to burden you with numbers, Headmaster. But let's just say, my current personal account is... distressed. I need an immediate solution. A very, very immediate solution."
With Sebastian now holding the financial upper hand, do you think Dumbledore will try to settle the debt with a cash payment later, or will he immediately suspect Sebastian's true intention and offer a magical compromise instead?