Dumbledore's heart did a small, frantic somersault against his ribs the moment he saw Sebastian and Minerva McGonagall standing in his doorway.
This visual... it's dangerously familiar, the Headmaster thought, his eyes darting between the two. The last time they had stood in this exact formation, the school had ended up with an alchemical factory in the Forbidden Forest and a complete overhaul of the regional ecosystem.
Sebastian is truly making a fuss again, Dumbledore sighed internally, feeling every bit of his age. Can't he just let me enjoy the quiet of the summer holidays for a few days? He's brought Minerva along as his shield again—she has no desire for these chaotic 'creative' projects, but she's so terrified that I won't agree with her sense of duty that she simply follows him to ensure I don't say anything foolish.
However, Dumbledore's posture relaxed slightly when he realized the topic was merely an employment survey of the graduates. It seemed harmless enough. After all, once a student left Hogwarts, they were technically no longer the Headmaster's administrative burden. He smiled gently at Sebastian, convinced that even the most ambitious capitalist couldn't find a way to pull a major "trick" out of a pile of career statistics.
Sebastian, however, was not acting like a man here for a casual chat. Instead of sitting in the plush armchair opposite the desk, he stepped into the center of the room. With a sharp, fluid flick of his wand, he whispered a transformation incantation. The empty chair beside him groaned, its wood stretching and flattening, until it became a massive, towering upright blackboard made of polished slate.
Sebastian stood before it, his expression sharpening into that of a senior professor preparing to deliver the most important lecture of his career.
Professor McGonagall, her interest piqued by the grand gesture, sat down next to Dumbledore. She was well aware of the survey; after all, she had been the one to hand Sebastian the official list of alumni. But she knew Sebastian—he didn't just gather names. He looked for the narrative beneath the numbers. She looked at the blackboard with the same focused intensity she applied to a difficult Transfiguration class, eager to see how her former students were actually coping with the "real world."
"Headmaster, Professor McGonagall," Sebastian began, his voice cutting through the quiet of the office. "Since I've only held the position of Assistant Headmaster for two years, my survey focuses specifically on the students who graduated during this window. I wanted to see exactly where our education meets the pavement."
He waved his wand toward the slate. Instantly, the surface rippled. Vivid, dynamic graphics in glowing chalk began to assemble themselves—pie charts that spun, bar graphs that pulsed, and flowing text that categorized hundreds of lives.
"First, let's analyze the current year's graduating class," Sebastian said. "It has been exactly one month since the summer holidays began. As of this morning, exactly 48 percent of our most recent graduates have secured employment."
Dumbledore adjusted his half-moon spectacles, nodding with a grandfatherly smile. "Well, that sounds like a very healthy start, doesn't it? Nearly half the class finding their way in just four weeks... I'd say things are going quite well."
"Are they?" Sebastian asked, his tone dropping into a serious, almost challenging register.
He flicked his wand again. The 48 percent block on the board expanded and then shattered into two distinct, color-coded sections.
"Let's look at what that 48 percent actually represents," Sebastian said, tapping a section of the graph. "This group is almost entirely composed of two types of students: those with 'Outstandings' in every subject, and those from affluent, well-connected Pureblood or wealthy Half-blood families. This is the reality. If your family owns a manor, you don't 'find' a job; you inherit a position. Or, if you are a genius, the Ministry and the big workshops headhunt you before you even take your O.W.L.s."
He pointed to the prestigious names appearing on the board: Ministry of Magic, St. Mungo's, Swann Alchemy, Gringotts.
"They are the heirs, the top-tier researchers, the elite," Sebastian continued. "But now, look at the other side of the moon. Guess how long it will take for the remaining 52 percent of the class to find a career path that isn't just surviving, but thriving?"
Dumbledore hesitated. He was used to thinking of his students as children to be nurtured, not as commodities in a labor market. After a moment of cautious thought, he ventured, "Perhaps... within six months? Surely by the new year, they will have found their footing."
"Six months?" Sebastian shook his head, a grim smile on his face. "I'm afraid I don't share your optimism, Albus. To understand the future, we must look at the past."
The blackboard rippled again, shifting to the data from the previous year's graduates.
"Last year, 37 percent of the class found excellent jobs within the first month. We've improved that number this year, which is a testament to our tightening standards. However..."
A new, alarming data point began to glow in blood-red chalk at the bottom of the board. Both Dumbledore and McGonagall straightened up in their chairs as the numbers solidified.
"Even after a full year," Sebastian said, his voice echoing in the silent room, "approximately 20 percent of last year's graduates are still effectively unemployed or working in positions that require zero magical education."
"How can that be?" Professor McGonagall frowned deeply, her voice tinged with disbelief. "Twenty percent? Sebastian, are you certain? Our students are capable, hardworking..."
"I guarantee the accuracy of this data, Minerva," Sebastian said firmly. "Of that 20 percent, only two individuals aren't looking for work—they're currently on a 'Grand Tour' of the magical world on their parents' Galleons. The rest are in a much more difficult position. Their grades were average. Not bad, certainly not failing, but... unremarkable. They are the 'B' and 'C' students who have found themselves trapped in a gap they cannot bridge."
Sebastian reached into his robe and pulled out two pieces of parchment. He handed one to McGonagall and the other to Dumbledore.
"I asked for honesty," Sebastian said quietly. "Here are two representative responses from the 'unemployed' category. I think you should read them."
Professor McGonagall's eyes scanned the letter in her hand. Her heart sank when she saw the name at the bottom.
[Dear Professor Swann,
Thank you for reaching out. It's a bit embarrassing to be writing this, but I'm still at home.
I've applied for dozens of positions since I left Hogwarts last year. At first, I was ambitious—I wanted to be an Auror. I've always admired them. But during the interview at the Ministry, the recruitment officer told me that while my N.E.W.T. scores were fine, my practical casting under pressure was 'insufficient' for their standards. I didn't meet the cut.
So, I tried St. Mungo's. I wanted to be a Healer. But again, they told me my brewing precision was a 'fraction' below their safety requirements. Then I tried Gringotts as an analyst, and even your own Alchemy workshop, Professor. In every case, I made it past the resume screen—so my grades weren't the problem—but during the practical assessments, I always fell just a little bit short.
I'm starting to regret not studying harder, but mostly, I'm just... anxious. I've started doubting whether I'm actually a good wizard at all. There are other jobs, I suppose—I could sell tickets for the Knight Bus or work behind a counter in Hogsmeade—but after seven years of intensive study, I feel like... well, maybe my wizard's robe is just too heavy for me to carry.
I've stopped applying for a while. I'm just reviewing my old textbooks, hoping that this year, I'll finally be 'enough' for someone to hire me.
Your student, John Wilson]
McGonagall looked up, her expression pained. She remembered John Wilson—a Gryffindor, a boy with a steady hand and a decent heart. He had never been a troublemaker, and his grades were perfectly respectable. To hear that he felt his "robe was too heavy"—that the title of 'wizard' was a burden because he couldn't find a place for his skills—cut her to the quick.
She looked at Dumbledore. The Headmaster had finished his letter and was staring out the window, the twinkle in his eyes entirely extinguished. He looked older, more somber.
After a long, heavy silence, Dumbledore regained his composure. He looked at Sebastian, his expression now one of profound, serious inquiry.
"Sebastian," Dumbledore said softly, "thank you for this. It is a sobering reminder that our responsibility to these children does not vanish the moment they cross the lake for the last time."
He gestured to the blackboard, where the red '20 percent' seemed to pulse like a heartbeat.
"I have to ask," Dumbledore continued, his voice regaining its strength, "what led you to conduct this survey now? You don't do anything without a goal in mind. Do you already have a plan to address this gap? Or are you simply here to show us the weight of the robes we've given them?"
Sebastian met Dumbledore's gaze with a sharp, clear-eyed intensity. The trap was set, the data was undeniable, and the emotional hook was firmly in place. Now, it was time to sell the solution.