Alchemy was even more astonishing—and fun—than Sean had imagined.
The professor had said she'd give him an afternoon—and she was so precise it literally included her teaching hours.
She led Sean into class. No one had the bandwidth to notice the extra first-year; they were too busy banging their heads on the assignment.
Sean finally had time to take in the place: a room lined with instruments, lightly attended—mostly Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, with the occasional Gryffindor or Slytherin.
As she taught, the professor had Sean watch from raw prep through to rune-engraving and the final infusion of magic. In a whole period, only a handful managed to produce a Howler.
The professor didn't look much happier than the ones who managed to mail theirs.
"Seeing the whole of alchemy before you learn it is like setting a course for a sailing ship," she said, hands clasped behind her back, ignoring the older students filing out.
Compared to those muddled, limited upper-years, Professor Tayra's bar for Sean was higher:
"As a noble and ancient craft, alchemy has long kept its quest for endless wealth and a perfected soul under a veil. In those truly gifted, these secrets yield."
She held up a notebook—blank from cover to cover.
"You have one week to record your material choices for a Howler. Remember, Mr. Green: slow is fast."
With the task came a stack of clearly handpicked books—passages selectively revealed with Confundus-like charms, leaving only the most precise parts. She knew full well alchemists wrote like sleep-talkers.
"It isn't that alchemists must write in riddles—remember that. Just as you recall the three phases: choosing and melting, transmuting and subliming, engraving and metamorphosing runes."
She seemed to read his thoughts and smiled.
"In our history, alchemists tried to turn base metals into gleaming gold. To them, the world was alive, steeped in spirit. With the right knowledge and proper tools, those forces could be harnessed. Through this noble, ancient technique, metals can live, can die, and can be reborn."
Sean left deep in thought. He now grasped the three practical phases—selection, transformation, and the sublimation brought by runic engraving. The task sat squarely in nigredo—choose materials and strip impurities.
He wasn't allowed to look up "Howler recipe ingredients"; the professor only told him: "Think more, Mr. Green. Think."
So he focused on the books she'd given: dozens of possible substances, no talk of "four elements," "seven planets," "Philosopher's Stone"—just straightforward candidates, enough to explore.
Alchemy truly was vast—especially after she told him not to skim, but to feel what alchemy meant to a wizard. For days, whenever the Hope Nook saw him, he was comparing materials.
He plowed through the books and found his answer soon enough.
Another Monday. The wind howled. Professor Tayra sat and regarded Sean with mild curiosity.
"Five days, Mr. Green. Have you had your insight?"
"In The Development of Alchemy it says wizards have studied it almost as long as Muggles have," Sean began, half to himself, half like a proclamation. "So why did only wizards make the Philosopher's Stone?
"Because alchemy, like potions, shares a single primal thread. That thread belongs to magic.
"Right knowledge and proper tools—those are merely the points of ritual. In the end, it's still a trial of the wizard's spirit. History, knowledge, the metaphors of materials—these all strengthen the will.
"As The Fifth Element: An Inquiry puts it: an alchemical success is a magical success. It's the wizard's belief in the working that makes it work—not the construct acting on its own."
Sean's eyes shone. If this was right, he could cut the same path in alchemy as in potions.
Professor Tayra's face shifted; she rose at once. "Three afternoons each week, Mr. Green. I expect you in the Alchemy office."
…
In just five days, Sean understood why, when speaking of Muggle science, she only found it "interesting."
Alchemy came with its own mystique—break that, and success would be hard to come by. If a wizard firmly believes in gravity, so that feathers cannot fly—can a feather still take wing?
Her assignment seemed unfinished—and yet complete. She taught him a spell that made hunting materials simple:
Scarpin's Revela.
A charm to correctly identify a potion's components, invented by Scarpin—useful for alchemy as well. Professor Slughorn introduces it in sixth-year Potions; Hermione was the only one who truly grasped it.
"A few small tools, Mr. Green—necessary tools," Professor Tayra said, unable to hide her admiration. Naturally, she assumed he'd master it fast.
Reality wrinkled her brow: her student—born for alchemy—was stumped by this little spell.
"Same time tomorrow, Mr. Green. I'll reserve the afternoon," she said, baffled, and slipped into her office.
Sean stood there, blankly. Tomorrow afternoon… he had potions in the dungeons…
Only ten more proficiency points in Euphoria Elixir to reach Beginner—new Potions title unlocked, and the alchemy door officially open. Now the two doors had collided. If he opened just one, what would burst from the other? He didn't want to imagine it.
Wandering the corridor, he ran into Michael and Terry, curls unruly.
"Oh—Sean, knew I'd find you. Returning your Charms notes—and huh? Scarpin's Revela? Don't tell me you're counting windows too?!" Michael yelped.
"Windows matter!" Terry retorted, ears pink.
~~~
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