The International Confederation of Wizards, founded in France by Pierre Bonaccord, is the world body for magical cooperation—the wizarding world's equivalent of the United Nations.
It rarely has much presence in everyday life; young witches and wizards seldom encounter it. Along with the Wizengamot, it's one of those lofty institutions students vaguely know exists, but know little about.
Now that mysterious body had sought them out.
They met in a special room of the castle—the door plainly labeled "Special Audience Chamber."
As they entered, Sean suddenly realized something and said in a voice barely above a whisper:
"Professor Tayra, I don't think I've seen a single—"
"Silly child," Tayra said, still alight with delight, her tone lilting, "Not a single foolish Ministry committee? Nor any meddlesome ICW functionaries?
"If you're worried the International Alchemy Congress will be branded an illegal gathering, better worry we might brand the Ministry an illegal organization—what if I told you Uagadou once went to war with the Pan–African Magical Union… and won?"
Seeing Sean visibly rocked, Tayra shook her head. Her disciple clearly had the potential to upend the magical world—and yet showed not a trace of worldly ambition.
But in a higher, nobler sense—he was fiercely ambitious indeed.
That pleased her even more.
Talking thus, they stepped into the room.
Sean followed the two professors in, taking in the place.
It was a small chamber on the castle's west side—narrow yet warm.
Floor-to-ceiling bookcases packed the walls; overflowed volumes sprawled across the floor as if alive. In the center, an ancient stone hearth crackled brightly, firelight polishing the old rug to a glow.
A single slender arched window opened through thick stone. Outside, wind and rain battered the night; gusts howled past, rattling the ancient frame. Inside, all was calm and safe.
Three impeccably dressed witches and wizards had clearly been waiting; they even looked a touch perplexed from the wait.
"Master Tayra," said the middle wizard in a sharply cut black robe, "permit me to ask—have none of this year's prodigies filed any patent applications?"
Tayra's smile only grew brighter.
"Wait a little, August. Perhaps they are waiting too—"
The wizard addressed as August sharpened instantly; a heated gaze swept the room, paused on Professor McGonagall, then fixed squarely on Sean behind the two women.
"Far too young—so young for a Gold Award… precocious indeed—precocious!" He strode forward and thrust out a hand. "Riley August, ICW Vice-President and current Director of Education—my sincere thanks for your contribution to the magical world."
Sean's hand was pumped vigorously; he fully felt the Director's ardor.
"Mr. August, isn't that… a bit improper?" frowned the younger witch beside him—an Auror Department official who clearly didn't grasp her superior's enthusiasm.
Ten minutes later—
"Mr. Green, please consider—five hundred Galleons per unit." She was quoting in a rush. She'd heard enough.
A cat-spirit that discerns good from evil and finds the way on its own; a Bowtruckle that conceals perfectly; that damnable dragon—and the unimaginable offshoots to come—
After tonight, bids would flood this alchemist—especially from those damnable old masters. What couldn't they bid?
Riley August regarded his Auror Deputy, Ollie Mitchell, with a complicated expression. He understood her completely.
On the front lines, Aurors know all too well what silent identification and stealth can mean. Open a sales channel and no Auror would refuse to trade three months' pay for a sliver of survival.
"My dear Ollie Mitchell—you're out of line."
August cut her off. In alchemy, to reach past the master and address the disciple is a grave discourtesy.
This is the most protective guild in the magical world; show a hint of threat toward a master's disciple and the half-buried old wizard will happily fight you to the last breath.
And given time, you've no idea what contraption you'll be facing.
"My apologies," Ollie murmured, bowing her head—though her eyes still burned with frustration.
Rain drummed the window. Before long, Sean left with the professors.
In the end, August secured only a hazy promise: when the Auror Office wishes to petition for a Fairy-Tale Cookie allotment, it may inquire once every six months.
Only then did Sean grasp what a tidal wave the Cookies would unleash.
"Noticed, have you?" Tayra said, walking with him, studying his changing expression with a subtle look.
"Rumor is the one thing wizards never control. With reputation comes endless trouble. My disciple—learn to find yourself a spokesperson."
After declining Tayra's recommendation as politely as he could, Sean settled into an armchair in a spacious, cozy suite.
When the reception ended, those hidden salons dissolved; in their place rose private rooms—each stamped with an alchemist's taste.
Like the seat-niches that had been expanded with Undetectable Extension Charms, every chamber here proved vast within: a garden, a pool, a grand alchemy lab bristling with materials and instruments.
Sean nibbled a dessert and read through Dumbledore's notes, a hint of contentment on his face.
It had been a very long time since he'd had proper Chinese food.
"A spokesperson…" he echoed.
As rain traced the glass, something stirred in him. He drew a button from his bag—warm to the touch.
It was the special paired button he shared with Justin, its Summoning charm keyed only to tokens made of earth, Thestral tail-hair, and wood.
With such tightly constrained signatures—almost naming the person outright—even across long distances the two buttons could sense each other's call.
Sean's deep gaze shifted to the storm beyond the window. At Hogwarts, tonight—precisely when he was away, precisely when Dumbledore was away—what was happening?