The sheer volume of Galleons Sebastian had channeled into the gift was immediately eclipsed by the volume of collective faculty enthusiasm.
Returning to the castle before 9 a.m. the following day, Sebastian was greeted not by the stillness of the summer vacation, but by a scene of organized, magical mayhem. The professors, freed from the crushing summer workload and suddenly given the tools to elevate their living standards, were absolutely ecstatic.
Professor Flitwick, standing precariously atop a magically stabilized pyramid of textbooks, was zipping around the Great Hall like a tiny, delighted hummingbird, expertly levitating colossal stacks of Focus-Spectrum Magic Lamps into the air with sharp, chirping incantations.
Professor Sprout was deep in an animated debate with Professor Slughorn—the former demanding that the Hufflepuff common rooms and the greenhouses receive priority for the Alchemical Magic Beds (as plants needed well-rested caretakers), while Slughorn, looking suspiciously like a large, green caterpillar trying to claim a gourmet leaf, was attempting to secure one of the "Ultimate Professorial Edition" beds immediately for his private quarters, claiming it was vital for "recuperation required for high-level student networking."
The noise level was impressive, but it was a noise of shared ambition and gratitude. Sebastian had successfully unified the notoriously fractious faculty through the simple, universally appealing medium of luxury goods.
Professor McGonagall, who was orchestrating the deployment with the grim intensity of a field marshal commanding a siege, looked years younger. She had already cleared the Great Hall floor of the old, scarred dining furniture, storing it in a temporary dimensional pocket until the renovation was complete. She waved Sebastian over, her eyes sparkling.
"Mr. Swann! Your timing is perfect. They are positively buzzing with gratitude," she confided, gesturing to the chaos.
"However, there was a minor debate regarding the optimal color scheme for the new common room cushions, but I settled the matter by informing them that neutral, stain-resistant tones would be ordered, and that personal décor was the responsibility of the students."
She efficiently handed Sebastian a clipboard covered in complex logistical charts.
"I have already briefed the Heads of House on the basic operation of their new amenities, but I need you to demonstrate the advanced charms—particularly the Noise-Cancelling Sleep Dome—to Professor Sprout and Professor Vector. They are currently skeptical about its power to block the incessant chirping of Professor Flitwick's canary cage."
Sebastian, thrilled to be the presenter rather than the installer, spent the next hour demonstrating the flawless functionality of his products.
Once his instructions were complete, the faculty, using their unique magical proficiencies, began the arduous, but highly motivated, work of moving the items to their respective House quarters. McGonagall was relentless, ensuring that the heavy lifting was magically distributed, but the enthusiasm remained infectious.
Sebastian then turned his attention to his designated mission: assisting the Head of Slytherin House. He found Severus Snape overseeing the delivery of a massive crate of desks to the dungeon common room, his posture impossibly rigid amidst the flying furniture.
"Severus, my dear Potions Master! Hold still for a moment, would you?" Sebastian exclaimed, his voice dripping with theatrical astonishment as he stepped into the cooler air of the stone common room. "I almost failed to recognize you in this, improved state!"
Snape paused the levitation charm on a particularly dense study table, fixing Sebastian with a glare that was meant to be lethal, but was diminished by a certain unnatural sheen to his dark hair.
"The product of the last chapter's unpleasantness is truly remarkable, Severus," Sebastian continued, circling his friend slowly, treating him like an antique that had just been professionally restored.
"Look at that flow and bounce! Not an ounce of residual oil—it's reflective, dynamic, almost… commercial. I feel like I should take a photograph and use it for an advert for 'Swann's Proprietary Hair Repair Elixir.' But really, old friend, why the long face? You look like you've just found a fungus in your best cauldron. A smile, Severus! It elevates the profile!"
Snape's left hand twitched, his only sign of emotional distress. "My facial expressions, Swann, are entirely my own business, and unlike you, I am preoccupied with the dignity of labor, not frivolous vanity. Get to work." His wand, however, continued to work with furious speed, magically unwrapping a protective layer of canvas from a new sofa.
"Ah, but dignity and presentation are two sides of the same Galleon, Severus. Speaking of presentation," Sebastian said, pulling out a small, pre-purchased catalogue of Muggle high-fashion designs,
"we need to discuss the Bat Problem. When you walk, that billowing, threadbare black robe makes you look like a disgruntled vampire—a magnificent one, certainly, but professionally counterproductive. We need a rebranding."
He tossed the catalogue onto a new table. "I'm taking you to Muggle London. We're going to find a Tony Stylist—yes, that is their name, they are masters of the aesthetic transformation—for a trendy, modern haircut that complements the newfound vitality of your locks. And the wardrobe. Throw that moth-eaten cloak into the deepest part of the Black Lake. We need quality, tailored, charcoal wool—something that says 'formidable academic' rather than 'harbinger of doom.'"
Snape's jaw tightened. He finally lowered his wand, the levitation charm holding the sofa steady.
"You will do no such thing. And your endless babbling about clothes is a distraction from my actual concern. I overheard the chatter in the Great Hall. You are donating items worth hundreds of thousands of Galleons, and you gave away the entire revenue from your Quidditch venture. Have you suffered a debilitating Charms-induced concussion? Our richest man, the undisputed King of Commercial Aggression, has suddenly embraced the persona of Santa Claus, the Magical Philanthropist!"
Sebastian laughed—a short, sharp, entirely calculating sound that held zero genuine merriment. He leaned against a newly installed, plush armchair, dropping the playful banter entirely.
"Your concern, Severus, is noted, and characteristically short-sighted, although I appreciate the underlying sentiment of friendship," Sebastian said, his eyes scanning the elegant, serpent-emblazoned walls of the Common Room.
"Appearances suggest a short-term loss, yes. But to focus on the immediate cash flow is to misunderstand the Swann Business Model."
He walked toward a new study desk, casually running his finger over the etched, subtle logo in the corner: a tiny, stylized Swan integrated into the rune-work.
"The donation is not a loss; it is an investment with a seventy-two-month recurring return. Look around, Severus. What do you see on every single item? The beds, the lamps, the chairs, the tables. The small, subtle, yet undeniable Swann Alchemy logo."
Snape's eyes narrowed as he followed Sebastian's gaze, focusing on the discreet etching.
Sebastian tapped the logo with his wand. "These young wizards—our entire student body—will live, sleep, study, and revise under the direct, constant, and silent brand visibility of Swann Alchemy for seven continuous years. From the moment they step off the Hogwarts Express until they take their final N.E.W.T.s, they will be intrinsically linked to the name. They will associate quality, comfort, longevity, and innovation with Swann."
"This, Severus, is the power of in-house, unskippable, environmental advertising. Long after the Daily Prophet has dissolved into dust and the Quidditch broadcast money is spent, these thousand-plus young witches and wizards will graduate with a Pavlovian loyalty to the Swann brand. They will become our immediate, loyal customers when they seek their first Alchemical Potion Kit, their first advanced lamp, or their first comfortable armchair."
He finished with an expansive gesture. "I learned this particular strategic pivot from a fascinating Muggle executive named Lei Jun. The principle is simple: Give the hardware away to secure the platform. This donation is the ultimate Trojan Horse of luxury—it buys loyalty, silences critics, and creates a generational brand presence. I don't give away Galleons; I purchase future market share."
Snape stared at him, his face a mask of silent, dark realization. The disgust he usually reserved for incompetence was now mixed with a begrudging, professional awe. The Dirty Swan hadn't just changed careers; he had brought his hyper-capitalist ruthlessness to the most ancient institution in Britain.
The man is a mercenary wrapped in a diplomat, cloaked in Santa Claus attire, Snape thought bitterly. He uses one action to achieve not two, but three profitable ends. Utterly without scruples. Utterly brilliant.
The two men moved to the dormitory wing, their discussion shifting from corporate finance to the specifics of their shared passion: Potions. They began installing the Alchemical Beds and fixing the Focus-Spectrum Magic Lamps high on the walls.
"By the way, Severus," Sebastian asked casually, adjusting a lamp's focus, "I took the liberty of mailing you a small library of Muggle chemistry laboratory manuals while you were busy with your international duties. Specifically, the ones regarding Controlled Variables. Did you happen to scan them?"
Snape stopped working instantly, a familiar, disdainful sneer forming on his lips.
"I did. And I found them predictable and largely irrelevant. They prattle on about 'precise temperature control' and 'fixed reaction times' using apparatus that lacks even the most rudimentary enchantment. Perhaps you've spent so long among the Muggle corporate masses that you've forgotten the fundamental difference, Sebastian: We are wizards."
He leaned in, his voice taking on the low, thrilling timbre of the master lecturing the novice.
"When brewing an advanced potion, the reaction time is inherently chaotic and unpredictable. You must use your unique Magical Perception—that subtle, intricate sixth sense—to feel the potion's readiness. To wait for a fixed color change, as those Muggle textbooks suggest, is a simple, foolproof methodology for amateurs and simpletons. It is a crutch for those who cannot truly feel the ebb and flow of magical chemistry."
Sebastian turned fully, meeting Snape's condescending gaze with a patient, yet knowing look. He chuckled softly.
"Of course I know we must use magical perception, Severus. Do you truly forget? I am, after all, only the second greatest Potion Master of our generation, and you have yet to best me in a clean brew-off contest."
Snape sputtered—the ultimate verbal shot that never failed to infuriate him. That insufferable merchant! He was technically right; Sebastian's unique, commercial-grade focus gave him a precise, if less intuitive, talent for perfection.
"But let us apply some pedagogical pragmatism to this, Severus," Sebastian continued smoothly, ignoring the offense he'd dealt.
"Think about the students. Specifically, those below the sixth year. They are children, their magical cores still developing. Their ability to perceive the subtle, volatile changes in a complex potion is practically nonexistent. They cannot feel the brew; they can only rely on the visual cues—the color change, the vapor, the texture—exactly what your beloved Muggle textbooks describe as the 'amateur' method."
"Even a prodigious genius such as yourself only fully unlocked the true wonders of Magical Perception in your fourth or fifth year! Therefore, for the first three years of their education, those Muggle Chemistry principles—the focus on precise measurement, temperature constancy, and reproducible results—are not useless. They are the essential scaffolding that prepares their minds for the moment their magical ability catches up."
He then lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Furthermore, the Muggle labs are masters of environment control. You noted the difficulty of temperature control? I have a fully equipped, state-of-the-art Muggle laboratory in the United States, complete with advanced thermal regulation and spectral analysis tools. I propose that you, Severus, use it during the Christmas holiday. You could combine your Magical Perception with their precise regulation, leading to a new era of Potions research—potions that are stable, quantifiable, and universally reproducible."
Snape remained silent, the idea—the sheer, intoxicating possibility of eliminating the environmental variables that had plagued his more ambitious experiments—taking hold. Skepticism warred with a greedy, professional anticipation.
Sebastian clapped him on the shoulder, giving him one final, strategic instruction.
"Splendid. One final note: Next time you take your first-years down into the dungeon for remedial stirring exercises, don't forget to turn these new Magic Lamps up to full power. The basement is quite dim, isn't it?"
Snape looked up at the newly installed lamp, which was currently emitting a pleasant, neutral glow. He instantly saw the tactical advantage. The dungeon, formerly a realm of shadows and merciful darkness that hid a thousand subtle student errors—the wrong color change, the unchopped root, the accidental spill—would now be flooded with unforgiving, perfect light.
Eee…
He allowed a tiny, wicked, and completely private thought to escape: Now the conditions are indeed very good. I want to see which fool will dare attempt to mask their incompetence now.
The students would hate Sebastian for this gift, and Snape, as the man who forced them to work under this relentless illumination, would reclaim his rightful place as the most feared professor at Hogwarts. He gave Sebastian a curt, almost imperceptible nod of satisfaction—a victory for the Pedagogical Sadist.