Sebastian Swann had expected many reactions upon revealing himself: shock, immediate panic, desperate excuses, or perhaps a sudden attempt to flee. He was prepared for tears, bluster, or a full-blown argument about the necessity of midnight expeditions. He was not prepared for the Weasley twins' actual response.
Instead of recoiling from the sudden materialization of their all-powerful new Defence professor, Fred and George Weasley surged forward, their faces alight with manic, genuine fascination. They behaved less like two students caught in a massive curfew violation and more like two budding scientists who had just witnessed a miraculous, peer-reviewed breakthrough.
"That was brilliant, Professor Swann! Absolutely brilliant!" George exclaimed, securing a firm grip on Sebastian's left elbow.
"How did you nullify the Map?" Fred crowed, instantly mirroring his brother's action on the right. "We thought the charm was absolute! Was that a Hyper-Disillusionment Charm? Can you teach us the non-verbal command for it?"
Sebastian found himself physically restrained by two grinning, immensely curious adolescents. His planned, dramatic lecture about responsibility and house points instantly evaporated.
My deterrent power is apparently non-existent, he mused, fighting down a laugh that would shatter his professorial facade. They treat an insurmountable magical security breach like a successful laboratory experiment.
He gently, but firmly, extracted his arms from their enthusiastic grasp. "Gentlemen, one moment. Are you suggesting I reveal advanced magical concealment techniques simply so you can continue to violate school rules with greater efficiency?" He raised an eyebrow, his irritation entirely theatrical. "I think not. Come with me. We're having this... discussion... in private."
The initial surge of relief that washed over the twins was palpable. Not McGonagall. The prospect of facing the stern, implacable fury of the Deputy Headmistress was far more terrifying than any detention.
Professor Swann, the generous, Coke-wielding Quidditch enthusiast, seemed to embody a gentler consequence—a loss of points, perhaps, but no thunderous lecture on moral failing or the dreaded letter home to their mother.
Once Sebastian had ushered them into his opulent, magically temperature-controlled office, Fred and George visibly relaxed. They took in the tasteful furniture and the modern, gleaming surfaces with appreciative nods, concluding that a loss of points was indeed the worst possible outcome.
"Well, Professor Swann certainly makes house calls more comfortable than Filch," George whispered to Fred, loud enough for Sebastian to hear.
"At least we'll have a snack before the inevitable punishment," Fred replied, already eyeing the bowl of imported Muggle sweets on the corner table.
Sebastian had been watching the twins for months. He didn't just see two pranksters; he saw two singular geniuses of magical engineering. Their focus on utility and marketable novelty—the idea of a tongue-tying toffee or extendable ears—was exactly the entrepreneurial spirit that Swan Alchemy valued.
In the original timeline, they had built a successful, thriving business empire entirely on their own whimsy and talent.
Sebastian's Capitalist Thesis: Why wait for them to graduate and struggle to build capital? Invest now. Recruit them immediately upon graduation.
His plan began to crystallize: He would offer them a specialized, highly funded Research and Development (R&D) contract under Swan Alchemy. Their inventive energies needed to be channeled into something beyond mere jokes—something profitable and potentially politically useful.
As for the Weasley family, Sebastian had a concurrent plan. The twins would inevitably want their joke shop, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Sebastian decided he would be the silent, primary financial backer. He would use the shop as a valuable marketing front, paying them handsomely to continue generating creative, crowd-pleasing products. But who would manage the day-to-day operations?
Mrs. Weasley. Sebastian chuckled internally. Molly Weasley would soon face the dreaded Empty Nest Syndrome once her last child was off to Hogwarts.
What better way to secure a deeply loyal, scrupulously honest, and fiercely protective ally than by offering her a fulfilling, high-paying role as the manager of her sons' entrepreneurial endeavor? It was a perfect piece of social and financial engineering.
He settled the twins onto the plush sofa, conjured two crystal tumblers, and performed his Dumbledore-mirroring ritual.
"Gentlemen, as an initial, non-committal gesture of goodwill," Sebastian said, adopting Dumbledore's gentle, avuncular tone, "would you care for some refreshment? I have the standard Pumpkin Juice and the ubiquitous Butterbeer, but perhaps you would prefer a rather excellent Muggle import? It's a very particular vintage of Coca-Cola."
Fred and George exchanged a lightning-fast, conspiratorial glance. They had heard the ecstatic, evangelical reports from the other students, particularly those lucky enough to attend Sebastian's Muggle Studies course, about the Professor's hidden stash of the fizzy, dark elixir.
"Coke!" they roared in unison, their disciplinary worries momentarily forgotten in the face of chemical temptation.
George, ever the cautious engineer, peered into the glass Sebastian poured. "The color is... rather medicinal, Professor," he noted, but his curiosity clearly outweighed his hesitation. "Is this truly the legendary beverage Charlie described?"
Fred, however, was past analysis. He seized his glass, tilted his head back, and downed the carbonated drink in a single, enthusiastic gulp. The effect was immediate and dramatic.
A long, resonant B-U-R-P escaped him—a sound of sheer, unadulterated contentment that echoed slightly in the quiet office.
Fred wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, completely unashamed, and looked at Sebastian with sincere awe. "Professor Swann, that is truly magnificent! It's sharp, it's sweet, it's utterly baffling! Can I petition for a refill? That deserves a professional tasting."
Seeing Fred's genuine, blissful reaction, George's engineering caution dissolved entirely into FOMO (Fear of Missing Out). He grabbed his glass and imitated his brother, drinking the cola in a theatrical, head-tilted chug. His burp, slightly lower in pitch and longer in duration, served as his review.
Sebastian simply watched, his smile widening. These boys were easy—their motives were clear, their excitement infectious. He wordlessly held up the bottle, topping up both their glasses.
"I believe a proper toast is in order," Sebastian announced, raising his own, smaller glass. "To Innovation, to the Disruption of Stagnation, and to the brilliant minds that achieve both."
The twins, utterly won over by the high-level flattery and the exquisite taste of forbidden sugar, clinked their massive glasses against his.
"To Innovation!" they echoed happily.
Sebastian then set his glass down, his demeanor instantly shifting from friendly host to focused professional. The transition was sharp and unsettling.
"Now that we have established a basic professional rapport, let us address the matter of your magical surveillance equipment," Sebastian said, his eyes fixed on the folded parchment George was nervously clutching. "Hand over the Map."
Sebastian received the Marauder's Map, holding the ancient parchment in his hands. He felt a deep surge of emotion—not nostalgia, but respect for the sheer ingenuity of its creators.
The magic wasn't intricate Transfiguration or elemental control; it was a conceptual leap—the persistent, real-time magical tracking of individual identities within a fixed, complex, and changing environment.
The value is in the idea, Sebastian confirmed to himself. The execution is straightforward, but the vision is genius.
He focused his immense magical strength into his wand, pointing it at the parchment. "The fun and games are over, gentlemen. The spell is a sentimental flourish, but it provides too much unauthorized data."
Sebastian spoke the counter-charm softly, the incantation one he had intuitively reverse-engineered just moments earlier: "Cognito Expello."
The script on the parchment—the intricate, delicate black lines showing the hallways, the moving signatures, and the hidden passages—all instantly blurred, then vanished, leaving behind a piece of smooth, blank, ordinary parchment.
Fred and George shot bolt upright on the sofa, their Coke glasses nearly tumbling.
"Professor, you just—you just erased it!" Fred stammered, aghast.
"The ultimate secret! We spent years mapping those passages!" George cried, his voice laced with genuine panic. "How did you know the counter-charm? You must be Moony, or Padfoot, or one of the others!"
They rushed Sebastian, their voices overlapping in frantic inquiry. "Professor! Tell us! Are you an unregistered Animagus? Do you have an alias? What's your secret nickname? Was it Wormtail? No, you're too tall to be Wormtail!"
Sebastian raised his hands, a genuine smile replacing his theatrical one. "Silence, gentlemen. And I assure you, I was never involved in any secret, misspent youth." He lied smoothly.
"While I may know of the original creators, most of them, I regret to inform you, were—or are—my rivals. My true interest lies in the mechanism, not the mischief."
He placed the now-blank parchment back on the table. "I have something far more interesting in mind than simple nocturnal mischief. An Alchemy Project."
The word "Alchemy Project" hung in the air, instantly drawing the full, unified attention of the twins. Their eyes sparkled with renewed, capitalist zeal.
"An official, funded Alchemy Project?" Fred demanded excitedly. "Professor, we're in! What's the brief? Do we get lab access?"
"What project?" George asked, his excitement tempered by his usual, astute skepticism.
Sebastian picked up the blank parchment again, gesturing with it like a blueprint. "Take your time, gentlemen, and think carefully about this offer. I want you both to create a new map, similar in function and conceptual design to the Marauder's Map. But not for mischief."
The twins looked at the parchment, then at each other, confused.
"Why would we clone it?" George asked, the skepticism heavy in his tone. "Professor, if you want a tracking map, we have the original right here—we can detail every single secret passage for you. We know them all!"
"Exactly!" Fred chimed in. "Why waste time recreating something that already exists, Professor? That's not innovation, that's busywork!"
Sebastian leaned back, allowing his own ambition to show through just a little. This was the moment to separate the employees from the contractors, the enthusiasts from the professionals.
"You miss the key point, gentlemen. The Marauder's Map, while a masterpiece of its kind, is a product of sentiment and limited scope. My goal is larger. I need to patent the conceptual mechanism—the dynamic, real-time, identity-based tracking—for a mass-market, legitimate application."
He switched to his rehearsed, public justification. "Every year, new students—especially First Years—are plagued by the complexities of the castle. The changing staircases, the hidden traps, the general labyrinthine nature of Hogwarts. They are late for classes, they are lost, and they are sometimes injured on the trick steps."
"Therefore, I intend to establish the 'Hogwarts Navigation Initiative.' Your task, as the lead R&D team, will be to develop a simplified, user-friendly, non-prank-oriented 'Hogwarts Safety and Navigation Map.' It will track only the authorized, named occupants of the castle, display only the safe and direct routes, and be marketed as a vital safety tool for all First Years."
He paused, letting the scope sink in. "Your payment will be a substantial, five-figure sum upon successful completion and a guaranteed R&D contract upon graduation, with full funding for any inventive project you choose."
Fred's eyes lit up. The idea of an officially sanctioned, funded project that involved high-level, practical magic was irresistible. "A legitimate excuse to use magic to mess with the castle's architecture? Professor, I'll start the conceptual schematics tonight! What do you need from us first?"
George, however, still frowned. "Professor Swann," he said, fixing Sebastian with a surprisingly penetrating gaze, "with your obvious skill in advanced charm-work and your knowledge of the Map's secrets, this project—a simple navigation system—is entirely within your own capability. Why are you outsourcing this to two seventeen-year-old boys who you just caught out past curfew?"
The question was astute, cutting through the layers of professional politeness and ambition. George had just called Sebastian's bluff.
Fred, panicked that George's sharp questioning might jeopardize the entire project, clamped his hand over his twin's mouth, laughing nervously.
"Professor, please, don't mind George! He's just... he's been sampling too much of that experimental Firewhisky toffees recently! He meant to say that our participation ensures an unparalleled level of student usability!"
Sebastian simply waited, a dark, amused expression growing on his face. He reached out and gently tapped both twins with his wand, separating them with a mild, non-harmful Wingardium Leviosa to keep them from smothering each other.
"Mr. Weasley," Sebastian said, addressing George directly with a low, dangerous purr in his voice, "that was an excellent business question. I am delegating to you because I need to focus my time on much higher-level magical research, which is why I was visiting the Headmaster's office at such a late hour."
He then fixed both of them with a cold, hard look that erased all traces of the generous cola host.
"However, your excellent business acumen does not excuse your blatant violation of the curfew. The cost of this negotiation, gentlemen, must be accounted for. You were caught out of bounds after hours, and you were engaging in active deception against a professor."
Sebastian smiled, a completely ruthless smile. "Therefore, for your attempt to undermine the nightly order of the castle, and for forcing me to use up valuable personal Coke reserves, there must be a consequence."
"Gryffindor, two points down. Consider it the administrative fee for your late-night R&D proposal."