The ecstatic roar of the Quidditch Final, that sweet, violent taste of victory, was notoriously fleeting. It lasted precisely forty-eight hours before the immense, suffocating weight of final exams descended upon Hogwarts, effectively eclipsing all school spirit.
"There are only fourteen days left until your Ordinary Wizarding Level examinations, and two weeks until your Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests," Professor McGonagall announced to the collective fifth and seventh years, her voice sharp and devoid of sympathy.
"I trust you understand the gravity of these examinations. They are not merely tests of your knowledge; they are the magical measure of your life's path."
The moment those words were spoken, a tangible, suffocating cloud of anxiety settled over the castle.
It was, as Professor Swann had meticulously explained in his Muggle Studies class two months prior, a textbook case of 'Test Anxiety'—a psychological phenomenon where the fear of failure cripples the ability to perform. The fifth and seventh years, the victims of this academic contagion, were the epicenters, but the stress quickly bled out.
The anxiety peaked at breakfast. A bright-eyed Ravenclaw, known for flawlessly reciting the lunar cycles and the properties of rare, poisonous fungi, suddenly burst into wrenching, public sobs, clutching a thick, dusty tome.
"I'm so impossibly stupid!" the student wailed, attracting the horrified gaze of four Houses. "It's already so late in the term, and I haven't even properly revised the Goblin Rebellions in A History of Magic! What am I going to do? I'm going to fail everything! I won't get a single 'O'!"
The surrounding students exchanged looks of absolute devastation. History of Magic? A subject so notoriously mind-numbing that passing with an 'A' (Acceptable) was considered a Herculean feat. And this genius was crying over the risk of not getting an 'O' (Outstanding) in it.
Do you seriously not realize you're selling anxiety at a wholesale price, sister?! The thought echoed in the minds of the less academically inclined, particularly the Hufflepuffs and certain exhausted Gryffindors. We have rights, too! The right to aim for an 'E' (Exceeds Expectations) and be happy about it! Stop making us feel morally deficient!
The incident had the opposite of the intended effect. Instead of motivating the students, it amplified the neuroses. Cases of sleeplessness, chronic headaches, and stress-induced magical outbursts soared.
Sebastian, observing the unfolding psychological meltdown from his relaxed position in the staff room, decided to intervene with his characteristic brand of calculated pragmatism.
"If the internal cognitive pressure is becoming unmanageable," Sebastian advised a cluster of wide-eyed students in the corridor, drawing on his own past life's medical knowledge and a certain disregard for conventional wizarding ethics, "I recommend a carefully measured, oscillating regimen. A slight, short-term application of Dreamless Sleep Potion for refractory insomnia, immediately counterbalanced by a few controlled doses of a powerful Elixir to Induce Euphoria before study sessions. The combination allows for restful recovery and renewed focus. Remember: Controlled consumption is key."
The effect was instantaneous and disastrous for one person: Madam Pomfrey.
Long queues of anxious, headache-ridden students formed outside the hospital wing, all demanding the specific, professor-recommended cocktail. Pomfrey, accustomed to treating Dragon Pox and minor Transfiguration accidents, was not equipped to manage a mass psychological panic induced by a combination of academic pressure and a professor's borderline-irresponsible advice.
After two days of relentless work, barely having time to breathe, the poor Matron finally snapped. She found Sebastian enjoying a quiet cup of coffee, looking deceptively calm, and unleashed a ferocious, ten-minute scolding—a tirade so impressive it nearly cracked the windows in his office.
Sebastian could only endure it, nodding sympathetically. He was, after all, technically responsible for creating a sudden, unsustainable demand for controlled substances.
To rectify the situation and prevent a repeat collapse of the medical services, Sebastian was forced to put his own resources into play. He spent a considerable sum importing a massive supply of high-grade, legally regulated Calming Draughts and Focus-Enhancing Potions directly from his own company, Swann Alchemy, thereby saving the student body and Madam Pomfrey's sanity.
The Weasley Wheezes Consultation
The atmosphere of stress created a thriving market for exam-related aids—both legitimate and fraudulent. Sebastian, playing his part as a vigilant, yet opportunistic, professor, intercepted everything from questionable memory potions to—most ludicrously—a charlatan attempting to sell what he claimed was "powdered dragon claw," which Sebastian quickly determined was merely dried fox droppings ground to a fine dust.
This sweep of contraband inevitably led him to the two primary disruptors of the Hogwarts economy: Fred and George Weasley.
He found the twins deep in the dungeons, but instead of detaining them, he brought them back to his office. He slammed two particularly elaborate trick quills onto his desk—quills that not only corrected spelling errors but occasionally changed the answers entirely to mention Dumbledore's love of garish lemon drops.
Sebastian turned, his back to the windows, allowing his Slytherin Aura—the disciplined, cold focus gained from centuries of practice—to fill the room. The air immediately cooled, thick with silent, imposing disappointment.
"Tell me," Sebastian's voice was low, harsh, and entirely devoid of his usual amusement. "Why, after everything I've shared with you, the time I've invested, and the potential I know you possess, are you still obsessed with developing such vile, trivial things?"
Fred and George, veterans of disciplinary meetings, instinctively lowered their heads until their chins nearly rested on their chests. They were trembling slightly, but this time, it was not merely fear; it was the sting of disappointing their only academic mentor.
"You've seen the principles of self-sustaining magical circuits, the foundational alchemy of structural Transfiguration," Sebastian continued, pacing slowly. "I've treated you as semi-apprentices! You delivered a perfectly accurate, beautifully enchanted navigation map of this entire castle last month—a work of genius! And yet, your immediate application of that high-level learning is to produce deceptive novelties that, at their core, serve only to undermine genuine academic effort?"
Fred, seeing the genuine disappointment in his mentor's posture, risked raising his head.
"Professor, we just thought… it was fun," he mumbled, trying to convey the pure, market-testing joy of their creation.
"Fun?" Sebastian's voice was completely flat.
George, emboldened by the fact that the professor hadn't used a single curse, raised his head fully. "Yes, genuinely fun, Professor! We saw an original Trick Quill and we thought, 'Can we replicate this with our own alchemical binding agents and a simple Capacious Extremis charm? Can we make it faster, more reliable, and, yes, a little bit more comically disruptive?' It was research and development! We even used them ourselves during the mock-exams—purely for testing purposes! Fred can attest that I was about to find the proctor to submit my results for review when you intercepted us. Besides, I've been feeling a bit low on energy since the Quidditch Final, and creating something that perfectly encapsulates absurd chaos is precisely the Euphoric Elixir I need!"
Sebastian stopped pacing. He stared at the two identical faces, their eyes bright with the genuine enthusiasm of inventors, not cheats.
They don't see it as cheating, Sebastian realized, the tension in his own shoulders easing. They see it as a product line. They're not trying to scam the system; they're trying to optimize the market for cheap laughs and mass-produced magic. I judged them on a moral standard, but they operate on a commercial standard.
His harsh stance melted into a self-deprecating smile. Sebastian, too, often chose tactical victory over moral high ground.
"I admit it," Sebastian said, shaking his head gently. "I was entirely too loud. I judged you with an outdated, prejudiced academic lens. The Professor was wrong."
He walked to a small enchanted cabinet, produced three large, perfectly frosted glasses, and, with a flick of his wrist, poured a dark, fizzy liquid into each.
"An apology, gentlemen. This is a Muggle beverage: Iced Cola. It represents the triumph of simple, mass-produced joy over pretentious expectation. It is, perhaps, the ultimate commodity Transfiguration—a sweet liquid from a mundane factory, now imbued with the magical refreshment of ice."
He handed a glass to each twin.
"Now, go. Drink this, and consider my next lesson: Target Audience. If you are going to waste your genius, at least ensure the final product is so ridiculously innovative that even the Ministry can't ban it immediately. And never, ever, produce a product that competes with your own earning potential. That is truly vile."
Refreshed, intellectually challenged, and absolved, Fred and George grinned, thanked him with genuine gratitude for the "new product testing idea," and left his office noisily, already whispering plans for an aggressively themed line of Anti-Anxiety Cheering Charms that involved exploding fireworks.
Grading the Results
Despite the underlying anxiety, the exams proceeded. Sebastian, having lived two lives but never having been a proctor, found supervising the Muggle Studies final to be an amusing exercise. He watched the students—the anxious scribblers, the smug finishers (like the academic machine, Percy Weasley, who finished in half the allotted time), and the nervous twitchers—with paternal amusement.
He enjoyed watching their various reactions as he slowly patrolled the aisles: some trembled, their hands freezing mid-sentence; others met his gaze with a defiant, slightly insolent grin; still others simply rolled their eyes, their total focus allowing them to dismiss the professor as an irrelevant physical presence.
For two weeks, while the fifth and seventh years suffered through the external rigor of the OWL and NEWT exams administered by the neutral Wizarding Examinations Board, Sebastian threw himself into grading the papers of the remaining years.
He was meticulously focused on the results—the direct indicator of his teaching effectiveness.
The final grades were a source of immense professional satisfaction. Across his third, fourth, and sixth-year classes, the results were astonishingly uniform: the vast majority of students achieved an O (Outstanding), and the absolute lowest grade was an E (Exceeds Expectations). He had achieved total, undeniable control over the curriculum and, more importantly, the students' ability to master it. His methods were sound.
The Last Supper
The exams finally concluded, releasing a colossal, collective sigh of relief that swept through the school. The atmosphere immediately became one of pure, unadulterated freedom. Marcus Flint, having worried for precisely five minutes about his performance, quickly gathered his friends and retreated to the Quidditch pitch. Percy Weasley, having completed the last major examination of the year, was already meticulously organizing his textbooks, mentally planning his flawless OWL strategy for the following year. Charlie and his seventh-year friends wandered the familiar halls, quietly saying their final farewells to the only home they had ever known. And Fred, completely revitalized, was already back in the planning stage with George for their next grand, profitable escapade.
As Headmaster Dumbledore finally rose to announce the start of the final, celebratory feast before the summer holidays, the Great Hall shimmered with magic and joy.
The announcement of the House Cup winner was, for once, met with surprisingly little acrimony.
"And the winner of the Hogwarts House Cup, for their phenomenal demonstration of ambition, unity, and discipline over the past year, is… Slytherin House!"
Slytherin won by a clear, undeniable margin of twenty points over Ravenclaw. However, unlike previous years, where the other three houses would erupt in boisterous protests over perceived favoritism, this year was met with grudging acceptance.
The students understood the shift. Professor Snape, in the aftermath of Robert's tenure, had been utterly ruthless—but his ruthlessness had been aimed inward. He had stopped the arbitrary point deductions and the transparent favoritism. In fact, he had become significantly stricter in the management of Slytherin House, demanding higher standards and punishing misbehavior with immediate, uncompromising severity. Slytherin had won, but they had won fairly—a concept that shocked and confused the rest of the student body.
Sebastian Swann sat next to Snape, enjoying a plate of perfectly prepared steak, occasionally glancing at the chaos of the celebrating Slytherins.
He leaned slightly toward Snape, using his acquired skill in non-verbal communication and precise volume control to ensure only the Potions Master heard him. Sebastian casually pointed his fork toward Dumbledore, who was now delivering a lengthy, rambling speech about socks.
"Ten years, Severus," Sebastian murmured, his voice flat, matter-of-fact, and entirely serious. "The period of protection is over. The wards are at their weakest now, before the school year officially concludes."
Snape's hand, resting on the table, tightened imperceptibly. He didn't look at Sebastian. His eyes remained fixed on Dumbledore, yet his entire being was suddenly focused on the single question that had hung in the air for a decade. The decade-long promise made in blood, fear, and love was now coming due.
"It is time for the retrieval, then," Snape responded, his voice a low, gravelly whisper barely audible above the din of the feast. He felt a complex cocktail of emotions—the cold relief that the time had finally arrived, the heavy dread of what came next, and the deep, personal terror of finally confronting the boy who carried her eyes.
Sebastian took a bite of steak, chewed slowly, and then looked directly at Snape, a hint of genuine curiosity in his expression.
"It has been a difficult, necessary decade of exile. We both know the Dursleys will have fulfilled their task of protection, if not affection. I will go. It is a simple matter of logistics, a Portkey, and a minor memory charm for the Muggles."
Sebastian leaned closer, his voice dropping another degree, a single, decisive invitation.
"Would you like to come, Severus? To finally see the boy who represents the fulfillment of your oath?"