The subsequent weeks settled into a rhythm dictated by Sebastian's dual commitment: the continued, complex roll-out of his Tiered Muggle Studies Curriculum and the high-stakes preparation for the European Inter-Schools Quidditch Tournament.
Muggle Studies had transitioned from novelty exposure to rigorous, analytical work. Sebastian spent his mornings grading essays that compared the logistics of a Muggle automated warehouse to the chaotic efficiency of a wizarding shop, forcing students to apply the principles of Muggle logic to Magical inefficiency.
The Innovation Mandate seniors, meanwhile, were deep in the weeds of network topology, trying to design a magical alternative to fiber optics.
In the afternoons, Sebastian was at the Quidditch pitch, leading grueling practice sessions. While the individual talent was undeniable—Charlie Weasley's raw speed, Marcus Flint's terrifying power as a Beater, and Oliver Wood's resolute defense—the team still suffered from a lack of cohesion.
They played like seven brilliant soloists, not an orchestra, and Sebastian knew this singular flaw was their greatest weakness against the tactically superior, disciplined teams from Europe.
Time, however, refused to slow its pace for the sake of team synchronization. In the blink of an eye, it was the first Sunday of October, and the excitement reached a fever pitch.
The Beauxbatons Academy of Magic delegation had arrived a day early, their arrival a breathtaking spectacle: an enormous, pale blue carriage drawn by a dozen colossal, winged Abraxan horses that glittered in the crisp autumn sunlight.
Madam Olympe Maxime, the half-giant Headmistress, led her impeccably groomed and slightly condescending students into the castle, where a magnificent, dazzling feast was held in their honour, designed to showcase Hogwarts' legendary hospitality to the dozens of international magical dignitaries and Ministry officials already gathering.
Sebastian Swann arrived at the Quidditch pitch before sunrise. The massive stadium, typically rustic and windswept, had undergone a rapid, expensive alchemical transformation. Numerous new spectator stands had been erected, soaring higher than the old structure, granting the entire arena an appearance of both modern aesthetic elegance and monumental scale.
Crucially, every single spectator enclosure was now protected by Sebastian's own proprietary technology: Alchemically Fortified Viewing Chambers.
Knowing the sheer volatility of a professional-level game, where Bludgers often went rogue and players frequently collided near the stands, Sebastian had spent a massive amount of Galleons installing transparent, rune-inscribed safety barriers designed to absorb and diffuse even the most extreme kinetic magical forces.
The barriers were practically invisible, maintaining the magnificent view while guaranteeing absolute spectator safety.
This was not just a game; it was a live, European-wide broadcast event. Every perfectly manicured blade of grass, every newly installed protective rune, and every shot of the action represented the public image of Hogwarts.
Sebastian was currently overseeing the final adjustments of the Swan Media team—a fleet of highly specialized, charmed broadcast spheres that floated above the pitch, their lenses focused to capture the action in cinematic quality for the international audience.
As Sebastian was consulting with his lead camera technician, a figure detached itself from the shadows beneath the main faculty stand.
"Good morning, Severus," Sebastian greeted, turning to face his colleague. "A rather early hour for one not typically enthused by the spectacle of flying adolescents. I hadn't realized Quidditch commanded such interest from you."
Professor Snape, draped in his customary billowing black robes, stood rigidly by the railing, his dark eyes fixed on the pitch with an intensity that suggested he was calculating the optimal angle for a fatal curse, not observing a sports field.
"My presence is dictated by institutional duty, Swann," Snape stated, his voice a low, smooth monotone that belied the faint anxiety in his posture. "I am the Head of Slytherin, and this event directly concerns the reputation of this school. Tell me, what is your realistic probability of victory today?"
Sebastian stroked his chin thoughtfully. "A win is entirely achievable. Charlie's speed is a crucial advantage. If he secures the Golden Snitch swiftly, we take the match."
Snape turned, his dark eyes narrowing. "And the alternative? The scenario you are clearly bracing for—the loss."
"Losing is a possibility, yes," Sebastian admitted, sighing lightly. "The Beauxbatons team is exceptionally well-drilled. Our students, individually talented as they are, still struggle with tactical cohesion. If the game drags on, the odds shift against us."
"Then why," Snape demanded, his tone accelerating into a rare, sharp agitation, "are you not in the locker room, administering a fear-inducing potion or perhaps a memory charm to eliminate their individualistic tendencies? The Minister of Magic himself, Cornelius Fudge, is in the VIP box. This is not merely a sporting fixture; this is an inaugural political declaration that validates the Tripartite Exchange. Do you truly believe Fudge will be content to watch his flagship event—broadcast to half the continent—culminate in a humiliating home defeat?"
Snape leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial sneer. "A loss today will generate a massive swell of public disappointment, Swann. When the Daily Prophet headlines condemn your team, and the roar of public dissatisfaction descends upon you, I sincerely hope your infamous calm will not break, for the reputation you have so aggressively courted will shatter."
Sebastian looked at the Potion Master—his perpetually grumpy, overly dramatic, and deeply complex friend—and felt a wave of genuine warmth. Beneath the venomous exterior, Snape was expressing an almost familial concern.
He patted Snape lightly on the shoulder, ignoring the slight flinch the contact provoked. "You concern yourself too much with the theatrics, Severus."
"Fudge is a purely functional politician. The resumption of these inter-school exchanges is already the single most significant resume booster of his tenure. A Quidditch loss will earn him cheap political sympathy, not anger. More importantly, he knows perfectly well that Swann Alchemy is the Ministry's single largest supplier of stabilizing magical technology and funding. He needs my innovations—my Galleons—more than he needs a clean scoreboard."
Sebastian smiled, his gaze distant. "My concern is not with Fudge's mood or the headlines. My concern is that my students, win or lose, maintain the attitude that this is a learning experience. As long as they commit fully and are prepared to win the next game, that is all that matters. As for dishonor, Severus, as a lifelong Slytherin, you know better than anyone: reputation is merely currency until one has true power."
Snape sniffed, his expression a masterpiece of haughty disdain. "I am not concerned. I only maintain an interest in the school's fiscal solvency, which your company ensures." He then spun his robe around with an unnecessary flourish, starting to walk toward the main spectator entrance.
After only a few steps, he paused, turning his head stiffly back toward Sebastian. "I shall secure us a seat in the faculty box—a vantage point that allows for minimal interaction with Trelawney's dramatics. And, once you have concluded your utterly saccharine locker-room performance," he added, his voice barely audible, "meet me there. I have recently reviewed the published strategy of the Beauxbatons Seeker. I may have one or two minor tactical observations that could—purely by chance—prove useful."
Sebastian watched the Potion Master stalk away, barely managing to contain a laugh. One or two minor tactical observations. The man was desperate to help, but physically incapable of admitting it. Thank you, Severus, Sebastian thought. I'll be sure to credit your 'minor observations' when we win.
As the first rays of the morning sun illuminated the newly polished pitch, the young wizards began to stream into the stands, taking their places amidst the already buzzing atmosphere.
The most prominent section was the Hogwarts Cheerleading Quadrant. Sixty dedicated students, clad in sharp, uniform school robes, were led by the charismatic and impeccably organized captain, Penelope Clearwater.
Armed with a megaphone and a complex choreography of synchronized wand-waving, Penelope was a beacon of focused energy, driving the students to a fever pitch of coordinated support. The sheer, raw volume of the Hogwarts student body was already overwhelming the small, elegant contingent of Beauxbatons supporters.
After confirming the broadcast feed was live and the alchemical wards were at full power, Sebastian made his way to the locker room below the stands.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old leather, fear, and aggressive bravado. Charlie Weasley was finishing a passionate, sweat-soaked pre-game address.
"Today," Charlie concluded, his voice husky but determined, "every wizard in Europe is watching. Every single one. We show them the raw, unmatched power of Hogwarts Magic! We are the best! UP!"
The team roared their agreement. Sebastian stepped in, his expression one of gentle, focused concern.
"Alright, how is everyone?" he asked softly, moving among the players. "Are we nervous, or are we charged?"
Marcus Flint slammed his fist against a metal locker, the sound echoing sharply. "Nervous, Professor? We are electrified! Beauxbatons is a joke. I'm going to spend the first twenty minutes making their Beaters regret they ever woke up this morning. They won't even realize they've lost their Striker until the Quaffle is already in the goals!"
Oliver Wood, the Keeper, stepped forward, his eyes already fixed in the unblinking stare of maximum vigilance. "The goalposts are secured, Professor. I have calculated the maximum potential curve of the Quaffle in the current wind conditions. I assure you: Nothing gets past me."
Charlie Weasley met Sebastian's eye, his enthusiasm hiding a core of deeply rooted worry. "We are ready, Professor. We'll fight for every point. I just... I believe we can win, sir," he stated, his voice ringing with a fragile determination that spoke of internal struggles.
The most vulnerable was Cedric Diggory, the newly recruited Second-Year Seeker, whose talent was immense but whose competition experience was zero. He was visibly pale, trying desperately to keep his hands from shaking as he clutched his broom.
"I—I'm fine, Professor," Cedric stammered, then flushed scarlet at the lie. He took a deep breath. "What I mean is... I will synchronize with the older students. I won't be a liability, Professor. I won't let the team down."
Sebastian smiled, ruffling Cedric's hair with an affection that instantly calmed the boy's racing heart. "You are no liability, Cedric. You are here because you are the fastest, sharpest young Seeker in Britain. Just fly, child. I trust your instincts completely."
He surveyed the seven players—a raw, unbalanced mix of brute force, speed, tactical genius, and sheer panic.
"Wonderful, your energy is infectious," Sebastian concluded, his voice rising to a forceful, commanding volume.
"You have talent in abundance. You have speed. You have strength. But you must remember one thing: Talent is individual, but victory is collective."
He locked eyes with Marcus, then with Charlie. "Do not treat this as seven separate duels. Do not try to be the hero who scores the most or the villain who fouls the most. Your single, non-negotiable directive is teamwork. Treat yourselves as a single, perfectly coordinated magical machine. Every pass, every block, every feint—do it for the person next to you."
Sebastian stepped back, his voice taking on the roar of the crowd already gathering above them.
"Now go. Fly hard, fly fast, and fly together! Hogwarts is the strongest! UP!"
The seven young wizards—Flint roaring, Wood focused, Charlie leading, and Cedric silently terrified but energized—thundered out of the room, heading toward the pitch and the waiting, watching eyes of Europe.