At Hogwarts, Alchemy is a very advanced elective offered only at N.E.W.T. level (sixth year and above) to a limited number of students, and it requires you to take multiple subjects alongside it—Potions, Transfiguration, Herbology, and Charms.
Because too few sign up, Harry's year didn't even have the class. Unfortunately, Sean is in Harry's year. Following the usual route, he might never even meet the professor—Sean doesn't even know where the Alchemy office is.
And yet alchemy is always alluring.
Muggles dismiss it as crude, primitive chemistry. But just as wizards know little about Muggles, Muggles have no real grasp of wizarding alchemy—indeed most wizards don't either.
But look at what it has achieved: the Philosopher's Stone, the Knight Bus, the Vanishing Cabinet… in short, a field of endless possibility.
Since deciding to study alchemy, Sean has been listening closely whenever upper-years discuss it.
The castle lay under a white blanket of snow; lunch scents floated through the Great Hall and the house tables were piled with food. Yet around a few Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables, many students looked preoccupied.
"I just can't believe it," a Gryffindor boy muttered, poking his potatoes. "'Nigredo' sounds simple on paper, but when I try it, my mind goes completely blank."
"You're only just starting alchemy—being confused is perfectly normal," said a nearby Ravenclaw girl, tucking some metal stock into her bag. She was Pamela Peyton, a seventh-year—one of the few who'd chosen alchemy.
"Senior Peyton, do you mean… after a while I'll master alchemy?" The Gryffindor's eyes lit up. Everyone knew alchemy masters, like potions masters, were walking Galleon-harvesters. Thinking he might one day be a big name like Professor Tayra, he rubbed his hands together.
"Heh… after a while you'll get used to it," Pamela rolled her eyes with a smile—another daydreamer.
A ring of Gryffindors groaned. They were already regretting choosing alchemy.
Just then a flock of owls swept into the Hall and dropped parcels. A small knot of students traded looks, then gingerly tucked away the extra reading inside—scrolls crammed with ancient symbols and diagrams—prompting a fresh round of wails.
"Another fifteen-inch essay!" one moaned. "And it has to cite at least three sixteenth-century alchemical texts!"
From the corner of the Ravenclaw table, Justin glanced over curiously, then at Sean. If he remembered right, Sean had been buried in alchemy lately—his desk stacked with Easy Introduction to Ancient Runes, Runic Dictionary, Table of Magical Phonetics… and, judging by Sean's notes, none of them had lasted a month under his pen.
The snow began thickening after three in the afternoon; later they received an urgent notice from Professor Sprout. The snowfall that started last night had blown into a blizzard. Herbology was canceled, and Professor Sprout had Sean and the others putting socks and scarves on the mandrakes.
"Neville, your earmuffs are crooked!" Justin called, straightening Neville's pink set.
Once the odd-looking plants were winterized, Professor Sprout slid a large pot from under the table, tucked the mandrake baby back in, and packed it with damp dark compost until only a tuft of leaves showed.
"My dears, do it just like this. Our mandrakes are still seedlings—hearing them cry won't be fatal." She brushed off her hands, smiling with satisfaction as the three finished up quickly.
Few could last that long in the greenhouse, especially with such repetitive tasks. But think of these three—through rain, mud, gales, and now heavy snow, they'd held each other up.
"Oh—how lovely. Truly lovely. Nothing could be better—"
Leaving the greenhouse, the three, bundled in scarves and gloves, stamped three neat trails into the snow—only for a face to pop out of a snowman:
"We told you we'd come find you!"
It was Fred—his whole body hidden in the snowman, only a very funny-looking face showing.
"And to tell you it's urgent!"
Another snowman spoke too, making Neville yelp.
"Where'd you get the groundhog—though that is funny—anyway—come on!"
When Fred and George stepped away, the snowmen collapsed. They hurried off, and Sean, following, felt a flutter of nerves.
"I'm guessing you don't really know Professor Tayra," Fred said as they walked, breath fogging. "It took us a whole year to find her—"
George tugged his red-and-black scarf; the wind could only curl around his neck now.
They passed out the castle doors, through the Hall, and into a secret passage—hidden behind a painting of fruit, which only opens when the fruit is "changed."
"Professor Tayra is forever shuttling between Beauxbatons and Uagadou. I'd wager there isn't a magic school she hasn't visited—do you know Uagadou?" Fred raised a brow. "Of course it's hard to—"
"Uagadou is the wizarding school in Uganda's Mountains of the Moon," Sean answered quietly. "It's the largest of them all, since it recruits from across the entire African continent."
George watched Fred's line die in his throat and leaned in, curious. "Then you also know Babajide Akinbad?"
"The wizard most likely to succeed Headmaster Dumbledore as Supreme Mugwump? I read about him in Modern Magical History," Sean said softly.
"Merlin—you know Babajide Akinbad but not Professor Tayra?" George's eyes went wide. "She's a guest of honor at Uagadou and has a towering reputation across the alchemy world. She even serves as the Ministry's alchemical adviser—and rumor has it she once met Nicolas Flamel. Word is, in her early years she worked at Floo-Pow—the only company that manufactures Floo powder; no one knows where the entrance is."
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