Hearing Professor McGonagall's encouraging words, Sebastian felt a surge of professional refreshment, as if he'd just downed a tall glass of ice-cold cola on a sweltering July afternoon.
Hey-hey! he thought triumphantly. With the Iron Lady of Hogwarts on my side, the battle is practically won.
He glanced over at Albus Dumbledore. The Headmaster hadn't uttered a single word in his own defense; he just stood there like a decorative wooden block, his long silver beard catching the sunlight. Sebastian couldn't help but think that for a man who claimed to love the students, Albus was being remarkably quiet when confronted with the cold reality of their unemployment.
Sebastian turned back to Professor McGonagall, his smile widening into something more clinical and ambitious. "Secondly, Minerva, I want to fundamentally reform the examination system."
Dumbledore's eyebrows shot up, but Sebastian pressed on before the old wizard could protest.
"We all know that for professors, exams are currently treated as a final verdict—a way to slap a grade on a student and send them on their way. But that's a waste of a diagnostic tool," Sebastian explained, pacing the rug. "An exam should be a map. It should tell the student exactly where their knowledge is solid and exactly where the holes are. The goal isn't the test itself; the goal is the retention of the information. My idea is to divide every subject's curriculum into two distinct categories: Essential Knowledge Points and General Information Points."
Upon hearing this, Dumbledore's brow furrowed. He finally broke his silence, his voice echoing with a hint of academic concern. "Sebastian, isn't separating knowledge into 'levels' a bit too... utilitarian? Are we suggesting to the children that the 'general' points are irrelevant or beneath their notice?"
Sebastian met the Headmaster's gaze without flinching. "You've misunderstood the intent, Albus. Every subject has a core—a set of spells or theories that a student absolutely must master to be considered a functional wizard. Look at our exam papers over the last fifty years; there are certain questions that are asked every single time because they are fundamental. Why are we being so cryptic about it?"
Sebastian gestured to his blackboard. "I want the professors to be straightforward. Select the most critical, life-saving, or industry-standard points for the year. Make those points mandatory. We tell the students exactly what will be on the test regarding these core competencies. If they know what's coming, they will naturally prioritize that information during the learning process."
As Professor McGonagall listened, she began to see the hidden brilliance of the scheme. Usually, the young wizards didn't start their real review until May. They would try to cram seven months of Transfiguration theory into four weeks of frantic, caffeine-fueled panic.
Sebastian's method would force them to distribute that workload. If a student knew that the 'Switching Spell' was a mandatory exam point in November, they would master it in November. They wouldn't wait until the spring.
"If that's the case," McGonagall said, her voice growing sharp with a new kind of pedagogical ruthlessness, "we can be even tougher than you're suggesting."
Sebastian grinned. "Oh?"
"We make the 'Compulsory Questions' a separate threshold," she proposed, her eyes gleaming behind her spectacles. "They don't count toward the total 'extra credit' score, but they are a hard requirement. If a student fails the mandatory section, they fail the entire subject, regardless of how well they did on the essay portions. If the material is taught clearly and the students are told it's coming, failing it can only mean one thing: the student is lazy. And we have no room for laziness when their future careers are at stake."
"Brilliant," Sebastian nodded. "That prevents them from taking shortcuts or relying on 'fluff' to pad their grades."
"And," McGonagall continued, warming up to the idea, "we should turn these mandatory points into hands-on projects. These are the skills they need to enter the workforce. In Charms, it's about the perfect execution of a spell. In Potions, it's about the stability of the brew. No more just writing about it—they must do it under the professor's eye."
"Exactly," Sebastian agreed. "We allow the heads of houses to discuss the specifics, but the principle remains: no more slipping through the cracks with a clever tongue and a dry wand."
Then, Sebastian's voice dropped an octave, turning serious. "But I noticed another problem with our current exam culture."
"Another one?" McGonagall asked, looking bewildered.
"The 'May Syndrome,'" Sebastian said. "With the exception of a few Ravenclaws and the occasional overachiever, most of our students are quite lazy. They don't work hard in October. They don't work hard in February. They only work hard in May. They cram, they pass, and then they forget everything over the summer because the knowledge never settled into their long-term memory."
He leaned against the desk. "I want to learn from the Muggles again. I suggest adding a formal Midterm Exam immediately after the Christmas break. It assesses everything from the first half of the year. It gives professors a chance to see who is struggling before it's too late to help them."
He waved his wand, and the five core subjects—Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, Herbology, and Defense Against the Dark Arts—began to glow on the board.
"For these five, the 'Big Five,' we should increase the frequency even more. A simple, low-stakes progress test every month or two. If a student masters these five subjects, they are practically guaranteed a good job in the magical world. We are doing them a favor by forcing them to stay sharp all year round."
Professor McGonagall nodded in deep, solemn agreement. She had seen too many talented students fail their NEWTs simply because they couldn't handle the pressure of one single, massive exam at the end of seven years. Spreading the pressure out was, in a way, a form of mercy.
"But," Sebastian added, his expression turning grave, "there is one more thing regarding the exam reform. A non-negotiable requirement for graduation."
Dumbledore and McGonagall both leaned in.
"I want to identify four specific spells that every student must master to receive a Hogwarts diploma: the Disarming Spell, the Stunning Spell, the Petrification Spell, and the Shield Charm," Sebastian stated. "And if we can manage it, the Patronus or at least advanced defensive movement. If you can't cast a Protego that can stop a heavy hex, you don't graduate. Period."
"Really?" Dumbledore's voice echoed with genuine astonishment. "Sebastian, the Shield Charm is notoriously difficult. Even many fully grown, Ministry-employed wizards struggle to maintain a functional Protego under pressure. Isn't that an incredibly high bar for a seventeen-year-old?"
Sebastian looked at the two greatest educators of the age, his gaze cold and decisive. "The reason is simple, Albus. The 'Mysterious Man' has reappeared."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees at the mention of Voldemort. Professor McGonagall's heart sank, a look of sudden, sharp anger crossing her face. She glared at both men, remembering the chaos of the previous year—the possessed Professor Quirrell, the obstacles in the basement, and the fact that children had been sent to do a task the staff should have handled.
"You two," she hissed, "sent children to confront that... that thing. I only learned the full extent of the danger after I returned from my duties at Durmstrang."
She looked ready to launch into a full-scale lecture on child safety, but Sebastian cut her off with a somber tone.
"Minerva, whether we like it or not, the 'Mysterious Man' will be back in full force within five years, maybe ten. When he does, another wizarding war is inevitable. We can't stand in the Great Hall and tell the children that a dark army is coming—we'd cause a mass exodus and a panic that would destroy the school. But we can subtly give them the tools to survive."
Sebastian stepped closer to the professors. "We teach them to attack, we teach them to defend, and we teach them how to stay alive. If we let them graduate without a Shield Charm, we aren't being 'kind'—we're sending them out to be slaughtered. So, I ask you both... is that justification sufficient?"
The silence that followed was absolute. The only sound was the ticking of the various silver instruments in the office. Dumbledore looked down at his folded hands, the weight of the prophecy and the coming storm visible in the lines of his face. McGonagall, her anger fading into a grim, maternal protectiveness, finally closed her eyes and nodded slowly.
"It is sufficient, Sebastian," she whispered. "More than sufficient."
Sebastian exhaled, a small weight lifting from his shoulders. "Good. Then let's talk about how we're going to tell the other professors that their summer just got a lot busier."