The steam had long since cleared from the iron tracks of the Hogwarts Express, leaving the secluded station quiet once more. After watching Harry's determined black hair disappear into the Muggle world, Sebastian Swann turned, his gaze drifting toward the high turrets of the castle.
Specifically, toward the tallest one, where the Headmaster's office lay. He let out a deep, chest-heaving sigh, the sound more weary than annoyed.
Old Dumbledore.
The man had done it. The very next day following the climax with Quirrell and the Mirror of Erised, Albus Dumbledore had acted with a speed and finality Sebastian hadn't anticipated. The legendary Philosopher's Stone—the creation of the great Nicolas Flamel, the world's last documented source of the Elixir of Life—had been irrevocably reduced to mundane dust.
Sebastian rubbed the bridge of his nose, his internal monologue a cynical stream of exasperation. He didn't even pause to negotiate a severance fee. Didn't think to extract a single galleon of 'consulting charges' from the asset before dissolving it.
Dumbledore, the wizarding world's greatest hero, might possess an unrivaled understanding of magic, but he had the financial acumen of a particularly thick troll. Sebastian wasn't just thinking of his own wallet—he was thinking of the school's persistent, pathetic poverty.
Hogwarts had needs. Expensive needs.
Following the success of Fred and George Weasley—who had parlayed Sebastian's accidental lessons into the magnificent Marauder's Map knock-off—a quiet revolution had begun. Suddenly, a torrent of young wizards, from every House and every year, had begun to corner Sebastian in corridors, during meals, and even outside his private quarters. Their plea was unanimous and intense: they wanted to learn Alchemy.
But Alchemy wasn't a standard course like Charms or Transfiguration. It was a bottomless, fiery pit of expense.
"You can't teach it with a textbook and a wave of a wand," Sebastian muttered to himself as he strolled across the now-empty grounds. "It demands material investment."
The current most expensive course at Hogwarts was Potions, but even Snape's exotic ingredients were child's play compared to what true Alchemy required. Students needed extensive, unsupervised, practical lab time, and that practice consumed resources like a Blast-Ended Skrewt consumes floorboards. Sebastian ticked off the requirements mentally: Phoenix feathers for stabilization, pure, unadulterated Dragon's Blood for catalytic reactions, powdered unicorn horn for purity rituals… These materials weren't just rare; they were astronomically priced, and every single failed experiment meant a loss of hundreds of Galleons.
Hogwarts simply could not afford it. Sebastian knew that of the three great European schools, only the French Beauxbatons Academy could afford a comprehensive, full-time Alchemy program. Why? Because Nicholas Flamel, a Frenchman himself, had bequeathed a substantial portion of his wealth to the Academy.
Sebastian wasn't about to be Hogwarts' new Flamel. He had his own legacy to build. His only option had been to quietly run an exclusive Alchemy Club, carefully hand-picking the most talented students—like the Weasley twins—to train and hoping their ingenuity would eventually bring some wealth back into the school.
But finding donors was a stopgap. What Hogwarts truly needed was sustainable income. It needed to stop being a perpetually broke charity case and become self-sufficient.
Sebastian stopped dead, turning to face the immense, brooding expanse of the Forbidden Forest. Under the lazy, hazy sunlight, the dense treeline seemed to pulse with a primeval energy.
They are sitting on a staggering, tier-A gold mine.
The forest wasn't just a spooky, off-limits patch of woodland; it was a vast, biodynamic pharmacy and zoological reserve, teeming with creatures capable of yielding invaluable materials: Acromantula silk glands, Thestral hair (if one could see them), wild-growing rare Moly, Mooncalf dew, and, of course, the occasional Unicorn. Every plant, every magical beast—from the tiny, protective Bowtruckles to the colossal, web-spinning denizens—represented a potential source of high-value potion ingredients and alchemical reagents.
"They're practically resting their heads on a treasure chest and complaining they can't afford new cauldrons," he sighed, shaking his head.
Enough was enough. The school needed direction, and the Headmaster needed a gentle, firm shove toward economic reality.
Humming a tuneless, determined song, Sebastian headed toward the main gates, but made a slight detour. He found Professor McGonagall grading papers in a sunlit classroom, her stern features slightly softened by the impending vacation.
"Minerva," he greeted her warmly. "I need a wingman."
Professor McGonagall adjusted her spectacles, her gaze sharp. "A wingman, Sebastian? Are we planning aerial maneuvers or a raid on the kitchens?"
"Neither, Professor. We're staging an intervention. And I require the Deputy Headmistress, the Head of Gryffindor, and—most importantly—the school's financial conscience, to be present."
A few minutes later, the unlikely duo arrived at the stone gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office. McGonagall, with a slightly mischievous air, provided the password.
Upstairs, Dumbledore was exactly where Sebastian expected him to be: utterly relaxed. He was perched comfortably in his high-backed chair, his silver beard slightly askew, gently swaying. He looked the epitome of a gentle, retired man enjoying the peace after a hard year's work.
"Minerva, Sebastian!" Dumbledore twinkled, a slight look of surprise passing over his face. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this double visit? I trust no one has accidentally Transfigured the library shelves into badgers?"
Professor McGonagall offered a tight, polite smile, gesturing toward Sebastian. "Sebastian said he had something of high importance he needed both of us to see, Albus."
Dumbledore straightened, his blue eyes losing their playful shimmer and gaining a keen focus. "High importance, you say? Very well, Sebastian. Lay it out."
Sebastian didn't waste time on pleasantries. He calmly retrieved the Pensieve from his private satchel and set the wide, silver basin down on Dumbledore's intricately carved desk.
"Director, Professor McGonagall," Sebastian began, his voice dropping to a serious, measured tone. "I want to share a recent pattern of memories with you. It's about the future of this school and, perhaps, the survival skills of its students."
He drew his wand, pressed the tip to his temple, and with a practiced, elegant motion, drew out a long, silvery strand of thought. He dropped the memory into the Pensieve with a faint plink.
Dumbledore, intrigued, immediately leaned over the basin, followed by a slightly hesitant McGonagall. Moments later, they plunged into the swirling, cool gray of memory.
Dumbledore found himself instantly in Sebastian's office—bright, modern, and intimidatingly organized. Before him sat a familiar, earnest young wizard.
"Ah, Percy," McGonagall whispered in the real world, recognizing her loyal Gryffindor Prefect.
In the memory, Percy Weasley sat stiffly, his eyes wide with a combination of admiration and concern.
"Professor Swann, I just wanted to ask… are my younger brothers, Fred and George, really learning Alchemy from you?"
"They are, Percy. Is there an issue?" Sebastian's remembered voice was calm.
"No, Professor, quite the opposite! It's incredible. But… why won't the school offer it as a proper course? So many other students are fascinated. If you are a Master Alchemist, surely more of us could benefit?"
Sebastian's voice, layered over the memory for context, echoed softly in the Headmaster's office: "That was a conversation I had with Percy shortly after the first term began. He found out about the twins' progress through their unauthorized navigation map. He was clearly worried for his siblings, but also genuinely curious. I gave him a noncommittal answer about it being a 'twelve-course meal' of a subject, hoping that would be the end of it."
The Pensieve memories began to scroll rapidly, accelerating through time. The setting remained Sebastian's office, but the faces changed. One after another, small, hopeful, desperate young wizards flashed across the internal office view.
A Ravenclaw girl with her nose perpetually in a book: "Professor Swann, as the school's only Master Alchemist, it's logically unsound not to teach it! Why deny us access to such fundamental knowledge?"
A Hufflepuff boy, nervous and fidgety: "Professor, please tell us you're thinking about teaching Alchemy? We all saw the twins' work—it's amazing. We want to be able to create things like that, too!"
A gaggle of older students, their voices tinged with the professional anxiety of their impending graduation: "Teacher, we want to learn skills that will truly help us survive outside the Ministry system. Alchemy is job creation! Can we learn it from you, just like the Weasley twins? We want to create something truly profitable."
The emotional core was the same in every memory: a potent cocktail of yearning, ambition, and a simple, pragmatic desire for self-sufficiency. The images spoke volumes about the students' hunger for relevant, powerful knowledge—the kind that wasn't strictly about passing exams, but about shaping their future.
The final memory segment dissolved, and the three wizards snapped back into the quiet, lamp-lit reality of Dumbledore's office.
Professor McGonagall's expression was deeply troubled. She was a teacher to her core, and seeing the earnest, pleading faces of the dozens of students she had just witnessed weighed heavily on her. She had been so focused on the budget deficit, she hadn't realized the sheer depth of the demand.
Sebastian, standing before the Headmaster's desk, let the question hang in the silence before delivering his final, powerful challenge.
"Headmaster, Professor McGonagall. I have rejected too many talented, ambitious young wizards. They don't want to be told 'no' anymore. They need a clear, definitive answer from the Headmaster's office, not just from me."
He met Dumbledore's thoughtful, blue eyes without flinching.
"The question is simple, Director. Can this school, Hogwarts, establish an Alchemy course next year? Can we give these students the valuable, tangible survival skills and the ability to create their own future, or must we continue to tell them that the school is simply too poor to educate them properly?"
The weight of the question pressed down on Dumbledore, forcing him to confront not just the logistics, but the moral obligation to his students. He reached a long, silver-ringed finger out and absently traced the rim of the Pensieve, his expression now completely serious. The casual, relaxed air of the vacation had been violently banished.
Sebastian had successfully moved the focus from security risks to financial responsibility and educational duty—a much harder argument for the Headmaster to dismiss. Sebastian knew he had him cornered; now, they needed to find a way out of the financial hole.