Is this an attempt at self-immolation?
The Memory of Gryffindor watched Sebastian, anticipating the dramatic magical implosion. He expected the boy's conceit to crash against the cold, hard wall of thousand-year-old magical law. He stood ready to deliver the promised, well-deserved beating, his expression a coiled mixture of fury and superior anticipation.
Sebastian, however, simply closed his eyes. He didn't meditate on physical motion or wand choreography. Instead, his focus was entirely internal.
His hyper-perceptive mind replayed the entire sequence: the deliberate fracturing of the Ironclad's intent, the alchemical binding agents used to link the components, and the precise tension curves required to hold the entire structure in suspension. To Sebastian, it wasn't a spell; it was a circuit diagram.
He opened his eyes. The Holly and Phoenix feather wand began to move, its trajectory a controlled dance of elegant precision, utterly devoid of the frantic effort Gryffindor's students had once displayed.
The first Ironclad Charm emerged, not as a finished shield, but as a perfect, shimmering magical embryo. Sebastian used an infinitesimal pulse of control—the result of decades spent mastering obscure magical disciplines—to hold the embryo suspended.
Gryffindor's face, etched with aggressive confidence, twitched. Beginner's luck. He's clearly managed the first layer before.
Sebastian's wand smoothly transitioned to the second movement. The second Ironclad Charm instantly formed, and with a soft, barely audible snap, it locked perfectly into the geometric tail of the first component. The connection was seamless, instantaneous, and terrifyingly stable. There was no hesitation, no shimmer of instability.
What? Gryffindor leaned forward, his composure instantly cracking. How is that possible? The transition requires absolute stability!
The third, fourth, and fifth layers followed in rapid succession. Sebastian wasn't casting; he was weaving, laying down the magical threads with the serene competence of an ancient tapestry maker. His face was calm, his focus absolute. There was no doubt in his mind, only the quiet, logical execution of a technical blueprint.
Gryffindor's shock morphed into profound, existential dread. His mouth fell slightly ajar, his powerful arms dropping to his sides. He began to pace back and forth with short, jerky movements, glancing frantically between Sebastian's impossibly steady hand and the six perfectly nested layers forming around the boy.
Six… Seven…
The Founder was rapidly losing the thread of reality. Seven layers, executed with the ease of a simple Lumos. Was this boy truly a once-in-a-millennium magical prodigy? Had the simple act of imitation somehow bypassed the necessity of agonizing, repetitive practice?
"There's no need for haste, boy, no need to rush!" Gryffindor muttered under his breath, desperately clinging to the hope of failure. "The final connection, the eighth to the ninth—that's the crucial juncture! The emotional investment required to complete the ninth spell successfully after such exertion… he will absolutely falter! I will not be defeated by a Slytherin's parlor trick!"
As Sebastian approached the eighth layer, he noticed Gryffindor's rising anxiety. This was the moment for the theatrical payoff, the final twist of the knife that would elevate his victory from mere magical triumph to a psychological masterpiece.
Sebastian opened his eyes, allowing a flicker of manufactured uncertainty to cross his features. He turned to the furious, red-bearded giant.
"Sir Gryffindor," Sebastian called out, his voice slightly strained, "I am nearing the end, but the control is wavering! I feel I can't maintain the integrity of the layers without external encouragement! I desperately need your passionate motivational support!"
Encouragement?
Gryffindor stared at the boy as if Sebastian had just suggested painting the entire castle pink. What utter buffoonery!
"Encouragement?" Gryffindor scoffed, his voice choked with disbelief. "If simple verbal encouragement were the key to mastering this charm, I would have abandoned my sword a thousand years ago and become a full-time, self-help motivational speaker! This is a warrior's technique! It is forged in blood and discipline, not in sentimental fluff!"
However, the layers were already seven deep. The failure of this demonstration, even if intentional, would look suspiciously like the great Founder of Gryffindor had been manipulated into halting his own lesson. And Sebastian was looking at him with an expectant, slightly wounded expression.
Gryffindor inhaled a colossal amount of air, his massive chest expanding. He was forced into the role of cheerleader. He was Godric Gryffindor, the embodiment of courage and fervor, and if this ridiculous, manipulative Slytherin claimed a motivational shout was required, then a motivational shout he would receive!
Gryffindor slammed his sword's point down, his voice rising to an impossible, echoing crescendo that threatened to shatter the memory realm itself.
"TO WHAT, BOY!" Gryffindor roared, his tone a magnificent blend of fury, reluctant compliance, and absolute, volcanic embarrassment. "TO WHAT ARE YOU COMPELLED! SHOW ME THE COURAGE TO BIND THE NINTH! NOW!"
Sebastian offered a beatific, satisfied smile—a true 'green tea' victory—and instantly snapped his wand.
Snap.
The ninth Ironclad Charm solidified instantly, binding with flawless, alchemical precision to the previous eight. The entire structure of the charm simultaneously activated and seamlessly collapsed into Sebastian's essence, forming an invisible, dense layer of protective armor.
Sebastian felt the immediate, profound sense of resilience. The multi-layered structure didn't just feel like a simple shield; it felt like wearing a thick, all-encompassing magical skin, providing 360-degree protection against all incoming attack vectors.
He could now mentally sense the charm's integrity. The original Ironclad Charm only blocked spells from the direction of the wand; this Stacked Charm encircled the caster completely.
Sebastian's mind immediately leaped to the obvious, impossible question: If a single, finished Ironclad Charm is weak against an Unforgivable Curse, what about nine linked layers? What about a hundred layers, constantly reinforced by ambient magic?
His heart pounded with a predatory, excited rhythm. Could a wizard, wearing a hundred stacked layers of this charm, simply walk up to Voldemort's 'massive melon-eating spell,' shrug off the Killing Curse, and then casually retaliate with a single, stunning blow?
The theoretical power was immense. It wasn't just defense; it was the ultimate tool for strategic confidence.
"IMPOSSIBLE!"
Gryffindor's scream was a raw, primal roar of defeat. He stalked toward Sebastian, grabbing the boy's collar with both immense hands, though the act was now one of incredulous fury rather than physical threat.
"You dare to play me for a fool, Slytherin?! You did not require encouragement! You had this mastered before you even cast the second layer! No one succeeds on the first try! This skill was lost! I left this legacy because no one could perform it anymore!"
Sebastian gently reached up and touched Gryffindor's arm, an act that strangely calmed the Founder's rage, forcing him to release the collar.
"Sir Gryffindor," Sebastian said smoothly, straightening his robes. "I find your enthusiasm overwhelming. I much preferred your original, dignified contempt."
Sebastian then turned serious. "But you mention the skill was lost. You stated you taught it to several students. Why, then, did the technique disappear from the magical world, if it is so overwhelmingly powerful?"
Gryffindor's massive shoulders slumped. He gazed sadly up at the illusion of the pristine white castle, the youthful memory of Hogwarts now tainted by a millennium of loss.
"They're all dead," he stated simply, waving his hand in a gesture of desolate finality. "Every single one of the students I taught who focused solely on this technique died tragically young."
Sebastian nearly gagged on his own saliva. A terrible conversational opener, indeed. And wait, isn't this charm supposed to grant near-invincibility?
Gryffindor, sensing the boy's confusion, walked slowly over to the imaginary steps of the castle gate and sank onto the ground, motioning for Sebastian to join him.
"Slytherin boy, this is the final, crucial lesson, far more important than the charm itself. The magical contest between wizards is fundamentally a contest of magical power and core foundation!"
He fixed Sebastian with an intense, weary gaze. "My students blindly worshiped me. They believed that infinite defense meant eternal life. But if your own magical core is weak, the Stacking Charm cannot draw the necessary ambient energy to resist the force of a high-powered, concentrated spell."
Gryffindor sighed, a sound like wind howling in a chimney. "They used their nine layers to resist what they believed were powerful spells, but they were defeated by wizards who simply possessed far superior magical output. Their stacked charm couldn't draw enough external power to stand up to a truly potent curse. They relied on the charm, and the charm failed their weak cores."
Ah, the power creep. Sebastian suddenly recalled Barty Crouch Jr.'s words in the guise of Moody—the insistence that a powerful wizard's curse, even a simple one, could overcome a younger wizard's shield. The principle was the same. The charm wasn't a universal defense; it was a magical multiplier that required a vast magical base to operate effectively.
"The Stacking Charm is not invincible," Gryffindor warned, his voice grave. "You must always possess the magical instinct to judge whether your current stacked protection can withstand your opponent's raw power. Blind arrogance is what killed them all."
Magical Instinct… Sebastian felt a wave of relief. His own hyper-perceptive magical sense was perfectly suited for exactly this kind of real-time assessment. This curse was indeed perfect for him.
"I became disillusioned," Gryffindor admitted, his gaze distant. "I had inadvertently created a tool that fostered fatal arrogance. I refused to teach it again, and after Salazar left, and the old order began to fade, I retreated here, deep into the forest, and left this unique legacy for the one who possessed the right courage and the right sense of magical reality."
"Does this mean," Sebastian asked, his excitement returning, "that Lady Ravenclaw and Lady Hufflepuff also left similar, unique legacies hidden within Hogwarts?"
Gryffindor stood up, his massive frame radiating renewed energy, and looked at Sebastian with a faint, enigmatic smile.
"Perhaps it is, and perhaps it isn't. That, Professor, is for you to discover."
At the address of 'Professor,' the Memory of Gryffindor straightened, his playful demeanor entirely gone. He raised his wand to his chest in a formal dueling salute. His entire form began to flicker, the edges of his figure growing faint—the magic that sustained him was finally reaching its end, his purpose fulfilled.
"You have earned my approval and my legacy, Slytherin boy. Now tell me your name, for my existence will soon vanish, and I wish to remember the name of the one who finally claimed my burden."
"But," Gryffindor's eyes flashed with a final spark of ferocious passion, "even as a fading memory, I refuse to simply disappear with a polite wave! I want to fight one last, great, satisfying battle! Come, Professor Sebastian Swann! Let us dance one final time before the lights go out!"
Sebastian looked upon the spectral thunder of the Founder's fading form. He recognized the profound, fundamental need of a great warrior to leave the world in a blaze of glory. With deep respect, he pressed his own wand solemnly to his chest and bowed.
"Hogwarts Professor Sebastian Swann humbly requests your guidance, Headmaster Gryffindor. I accept your farewell."
Gryffindor roared with genuine, unbridled joy, his magical sword leaping once more into his hand. "Haha! Excellent! I am Godric Gryffindor, Head of Gryffindor House! Let me show you the limits of a master's power!"
This time, Sebastian did not retreat. He did not dodge. He activated his newly replicated seven-layer shield, and for the first time in his life, charged forward like a true, reckless Gryffindor.
"Farewell, Teacher Gryffindor," Sebastian whispered, a fierce smile on his bruised face. "May you find peace in the eternal legends."
The battle that followed was spectacular, an explosion of light and raw magical force conducted at impossibly close quarters. Sebastian, now equipped with the ultimate defense, threw caution to the wind, employing complex Transfigurations and devastating Eastern battle spells that forced Gryffindor to fight with every last molecule of his preserved essence.
It was a proper, satisfying, destructive duel, culminating in a powerful, mutual blast that caused the entire memory realm to shimmer violently before dissolving into a soft, golden dust.
Sebastian stumbled back into the clearing, the intense yellow light of the portal collapsing behind him into a featureless, ordinary rock face. He was heavily bruised, his robes were torn, and his face was smeared with ash and a small, fresh cut above his eyebrow.
He looked like he had been put through a meat grinder, but his eyes were shining with the manic exhilaration of total, absolute victory.
Fred and Snape, who had been standing guard over the still-groaning Robert, stared at him in stunned silence.
"Professor Swann!" Fred cried out, rushing forward. "What happened?!"
Sebastian waved his hand dismissively, his new stacked charm already invisibly reinforcing his external defenses. He was magically intact, if physically battered. He then tapped the unconscious Robert with his wand and levitated the pathetic figure gently to his side.
Sebastian pulled three high-quality, Ministry-standard racing brooms from his satchel—a gesture of preparedness that would have made Salazar Slytherin proud.
"No questions," Sebastian ordered, his voice slightly muffled from a split lip. "I met a very demanding gym instructor who insisted I practice extreme magical calisthenics. It was an excellent lesson."
He passed one broom to Snape and the other to a bewildered Fred.
"Severus, you are taking the scenic, low-altitude route back to the castle and delivering Professor Robert's limp, pig-headed body to Dumbledore's office with a detailed, verbal accounting of his crimes. Ensure you mention his use of the boy as a shield."
Sebastian, already mounting his own broom, then looked at the two bewildered figures—the pale, recovering Potions Master and the adrenaline-drunk Gryffindor student.
"And if either of you breathes a single word about any 'yellow light,' any 'Gryffindor Founder,' or any 'life sentences for arson,' I will personally ensure your next week of classes consists entirely of advanced, non-verbal Transfiguration of particularly aggressive Doxys. Now, fly."
Sebastian kicked off, leaving the surreal clearing behind him. The memory of the duel and the feel of the seven-fold charm around his core filled him with a potent sense of anticipation.
An infinite defense, prepared in advance. I have a feeling the Dark Lord is about to meet the most stubborn magical turtle the world has ever seen.