Having successfully coerced the Weasley twins into an extremely profitable and academically challenging partnership, Sebastian Swann
o inventive minds, introduced sophisticated financial discipline, and significantly reduced the likelihood of Gryffindor losing points from midnight feasts—all in one elegant transaction.
He stood before his office window, watching the last sliver of the moon dip toward the horizon, feeling the residual zing of adrenaline from the late-night hunt.
What a night! It was his first time staying on school grounds since accepting the professorship, and the sensation was strangely exhilarating, like crashing on a very expensive, historical sofa.
He felt far too energized to sleep. The only logical recourse for this surplus energy was to share it with someone who actively rejected energy.
A celebratory nocturnal summit with Severus, Sebastian decided, pulling down his perfectly tailored cuffs. A few bottles of the finest firewhisky, a lengthy, self-congratulatory monologue about my genius, and the subsequent pleasure of watching his face grow progressively paler with distaste. It's the perfect end to a successful evening.
Just as Sebastian was about to pivot toward the dungeon stairs, a subtle distortion in his advanced magical senses stopped him dead. The faint, barely perceptible signature of a human being, poorly concealed, was exiting the castle and moving toward the ominous embrace of the Forbidden Forest.
He glanced at the enchanted clock on his wall. 11:46 PM.
Unbelievable! Sebastian fumed, his celebratory mood curdling into professional annoyance. I literally just finished addressing the endemic problem of nocturnal wandering! And now some ignorant amateur is going straight into a high-risk zone?
His planned interaction with Snape was instantly ruined. This violation could not stand. Sebastian's professional pride, already inflated from his recent victory over the Marauder's Map, demanded swift, exemplary intervention.
"We must broaden the horizons of this little midnight adventurer," Sebastian muttered darkly. "They are about to learn the difference between sneaking to the kitchens and actual, tactical infiltration."
Sebastian moved with the silent, efficient precision of a seasoned operative. He retrieved a small, obsidian vial from a hidden compartment.
It contained a powerful, specialized scent-masking potion—not for human noses, but to defeat the keen olfactory senses of creatures like werewolves and gigantic spiders. He applied several drops to his robes, the liquid instantly neutralizing all trace of human scent, leaving behind a faint, synthetic tang of cold ozone and sterile stone.
Next came the sequence of layered security charms:
The Disillusionment Charm: Quick, non-verbal, and utterly seamless, blurring him into the air itself.
The Silencing Charm (Personalized): A refined, targeted charm that dampened sound vibrations within a three-foot radius of his body, guaranteeing absolute silence.
The Name-Concealment Charm (Map-Grade): A lighter version of the charm he'd used against the Map, ensuring any localized surveillance system would fail to register his passage.
"Observe, future culprits," Sebastian said to the empty air, adjusting his posture. "This, my dear little wizards, is what professionalism looks like. You don't just 'pop' into invisibility; you nullify your entire physical and magical footprint."
He then elegantly mounted his personal, top-of-the-line racing broomstick—the handle a polished, sleek alloy—and slipped out the open window.
He quickly closed the distance, only to be struck by a profound wave of disbelief when he recognized the figure below. It was Professor Moses Robert, the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.
Robert? Sebastian thought, hovering silently twenty feet above the professor, who was awkwardly hugging the shadowed edge of the trees. Entering the Forbidden Forest? Now?
Sebastian's initial annoyance evaporated, replaced by intense, thrilling suspicion. His mind immediately went to the established, utterly cursed pattern of the DADA professorship.
My God, Sebastian thought, hovering and observing Robert's utterly amateurish movement—no disillusionment, no scent-masking, just a man in thin robes attempting to walk quietly. The curse is real. It's not just about one bad year; it's a systematic destabilization of the position itself.
He recalled the disastrous lineage with clinical horror:
Year One (Quirrell): A mild man entirely possessed by the spectral remnant of the Dark Lord. Literally had Voldemort attached to the back of his head. Dead.
Year Two (Lockhart): A fraudulent memory thief. Currently residing in a permanent magical ward with brain damage.
Year Three (Lupin): A secret werewolf who nearly mauled the hero trio after forgetting his potion. Managed to resign before the death toll rose too high.
Year Four (Moody): Impersonated for a year by an escaped Death Eater who kept the real one in a trunk. Nearly a year spent in a box.
Year Five (Umbridge): The political plague, a symbol of bureaucratic evil who turned the school into a fascist nightmare. A lifetime of being thoroughly despised.
"It's a statistical anomaly," Sebastian muttered into the still night air, the sound dampened by his charm. "The position of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor has a 100% incidence rate of being problematic. The closer the timeline gets to the main conflict, the crazier the professors become."
Robert, an affable, slightly scatterbrained academic, had seemed harmless. But now, sneaking into the Forbidden Forest at midnight, he instantly fell under the shadow of this terrible, proven curse.
Is he an unregistered Animagus? Is he searching for the cure to a dark malady? Is he working for the Ministry's Department of Overly Concerned Academics?
Sebastian dismissed his initial thought of simply tackling the professor and marching him back to the castle. This required subtlety, surveillance, and a full intelligence workup. He instantly decided to direct Swan Alchemy's intelligence apparatus to begin a deep-dive investigation into Professor Moses Robert's background.
Sebastian, with his superior magical training, found it laughably easy to stalk the other professor. Robert was slow, noisy, and kept stopping to consult a small, flimsy notebook held up to the ambient moonlight.
The surveillance mission quickly devolved from thrilling mystery to frustrating anticlimax. Robert was not hunting unicorns, harvesting Moly, or meeting a shadowy contact. He was simply wandering aimlessly.
Sebastian followed him for hours. They circled clumps of ancient oak. They crossed streams. They trod near the edges of known Acromantula territory. Robert would stop, scan the area with wide, unfocused eyes, and then, with a sigh of dejection, move on.
This is incredibly amateurish, Sebastian mentally critiqued. He's moving like a Muggle trying to find his lost keys in a field. No focus, no detection spells, and he's relying entirely on a piece of paper!
Sebastian slowly crept closer, lowering his broom a few feet and enhancing his auditory charms to catch Robert's low muttering.
"No... not here..." Robert whispered, his voice tinged with obsession. He flipped the pages of his notepad. "The inscription mentioned the 'crossing'... near the old boundary marker... must be related to Gryffindor..."
Gryffindor?
Sebastian's interest, which had been flagging into boredom, spiked again. The search was related to the founder Godric Gryffindor. Could it be a hidden vault? A lost artifact?
Sebastian felt a sharp, envious pang as he focused on the notebook in Robert's hand. He wanted to snatch that tattered document and confirm its contents. It was the thrill of the narrative, the feeling of destiny just out of reach.
Robert, you ignorant brat. That notebook is my inheritance! That quest is my destiny!
Unfortunately, Robert's notes appeared incomplete, or his understanding of them was fundamentally flawed. After spending the rest of the night circling the same cluster of trees near a moss-covered boulder, Robert finally sighed in utter defeat.
As the first faint streaks of pink and gold began to tint the eastern sky, Robert gave up his search, turned, and plodded back toward the relative safety of the castle, having accomplished nothing but acquiring a good layer of dew on his robes.
For the next two days, Sebastian remained on school premises, confined by his need to observe Robert. But the DADA professor made no further move. He was back in the classroom, teaching advanced shield charms with a slightly glazed, exhausted look, but otherwise perfectly normal.
Sebastian could not maintain this surveillance indefinitely. Unlike the other faculty, he had a company to run, investments to manage, and an empire to solidify. He needed an inside agent, someone who was already living in the castle's core, someone meticulous, observant, and politically discreet.
There was only one man for the job.
Early Thursday morning, Sebastian arrived at the gloomy, torch-lit door of the Potions Master's office and performed a polite, almost too-gentle tap.
"ENTER!" Snape's voice was sharp, a single, cutting syllable designed to make the heart rate of whoever was on the other side drop instantly.
Sebastian slipped in, quickly closing the door behind him. Snape, already hunched over a simmering cauldron of purple liquid, looked up, genuinely surprised.
"Professor Swann," Snape drawled, his lips barely moving. "A rare sight. Have you finally learned the common courtesy of knocking, or was that a clumsy attempt to cast a silent Explosion Charm on my door?"
Sebastian chuckled, laying on the charm like treacle. "Hello, Severus. So nice to see you. I've missed our little... dynamic. You're looking wonderfully rested, by the way. Is that a new brand of shampoo? It has a distinctly fresh scent of—"
"Swann," Snape cut him off, his face darkening to the exact shade of his cauldron's contents. "Speak like a sentient being, or I shall be forced to assume you've sampled your own research." He pushed himself away from the workbench, straightening his robes, and crossed his arms. "I am busy. State your purpose with concise, human language. Begin your inevitable performance."
Sebastian, ignoring the bait, pulled out his wand and went straight into full-blown paranoid Auror mode. He cast a battery of highly illegal protective charms around the office: The Peaceful Protection Charm (dampening all aggressive magic), The All Protection Charm (a complex, layered shield), and finally, The Interference Charm (to prevent any remote surveillance or eavesdropping).
Snape was instantly on high alert. He slowly drew his own wand, his eyes fixed on the trembling air of the office. "What in Merlin's name is wrong? Has the Dark Lord sent a message through the plumbing?"
Sebastian realized his theatrics had worked too well. He lowered his voice, leaning forward conspiratorially. "I suspect a problem with Professor Robert."
"You cast enough protective magic to survive a siege just to tell me you have a suspicion about the new DADA teacher?" Snape's anger was a barely controlled fire. "Sebastian, this is a serious accusation. I demand evidence."
"Well, you see, the evidence is... circumstantial," Sebastian hedged, realizing he couldn't actually provide the surveillance data.
Snape's lips curled in contempt. "Of course. The great Sebastian Swann, Auror Extraordinaire, has an 'intuition.' Get out of my office. Now."
Sebastian scrambled, knowing the argument was lost. He dropped his wand, rushed to Snape's chair, and began frantically wiping it down with his silk sleeve. "No, no, wait, Severus, please!" he begged, his tone utterly servile. "Let me adjust the comfort level for your sitting experience! You must be comfortable for this highly important information transfer!"
Snape, shocked speechless by this abject display of manic flattery, simply pointed his wand at the now-spotless, violently scrubbed chair and settled into it with slow, terrifying dignity, daring Sebastian to continue.
Sebastian then launched into the recounting of the night, detailing Robert's lack of concealment, his amateurish movements, and the specific overheard clue.
"He was wandering the Forbidden Forest all night, Severus! Not hunting, not poaching—searching! And I distinctly heard him muttering about a Gryffindor artifact."
He leaned onto the desk, his voice pleading. "I cannot live at the castle. I need to know what he is looking for, and more importantly, why. You are ideally placed. You move silently, you see everything, and you have access to information channels I don't. I need you to keep tabs on Robert and notify me via the two-way mirror if he makes any further move."
Snape remained perfectly calm, his dark eyes like chips of granite. "Sebastian, searching for an ancient relic is not a crime. And you are speaking of the Gryffindor heritage. I am a Slytherin. I have no interest in the sentimental trinkets of that arrogant fool. If you are truly obsessed with founder artifacts, why don't you simply ask the basilisk to guide you to the Chamber of Secrets? That is the real prize."
Sebastian knew the argument was lost. Snape would never cooperate on an abstract suspicion, especially one that involved helping Gryffindor. It was time for the final, undeniable trump card.
He reached into his sleeve, pulling out three small, perfectly preserved items, dropping them onto Snape's desk.
The first was a single, fully intact scale from an adult Antipodean Opaleye dragon—a shimmering, impossibly rare item used only in the highest grade of complex combat potions.
The second was a handful of flawless, crystallized tears from a Phoenix—not Fawkes, but a different, wilder breed—used for advanced healing and stabilization draughts.
The third was a vial containing the venom of a six-month-old Acromantula, freshly harvested and still impossibly potent, a crucial component for the most powerful defense potions.
The combined value was astronomical. Snape's eyes, which had been fixed on Sebastian's face, instantly snapped down to the bounty. He studied the rarity, the perfect preservation, the professional grade of the bribe.
Sebastian stood up straight, crossing his arms, adopting his most arrogant, challenging posture. "Well, Severus? Will this be sufficient inducement for a minor, low-effort surveillance operation? Give me a straight answer!"
Snape, without breaking eye contact with the priceless ingredients, stretched out a long hand, scooped up the entire pile of materials in one swift, possessive motion, and tucked them into the deep pockets of his robe.
He then looked up, his expression entirely devoid of emotion.
"Done," he clipped out, a single, decisive word. "It's a deal."