The aftermath of the hospital visit left Sebastian with a sense of profound satisfaction. After watching Councilor Jonathan rush out of the ward with the frantic energy of a man who had just been handed the keys to the kingdom, Sebastian didn't linger. He found Dr. Pete in the hallway, whose mind was currently a chaotic swirl of religious fervor and medical crisis, and performed a surgical-grade Memory Charm.
The doctor would wake up with a mild headache, a vague sense of having witnessed a miracle of "spontaneous cellular regeneration," and a firm belief that his own surgical prowess had paved the way for Shawn's recovery. Sebastian then caught Regulus's eye, gave a few quiet instructions regarding the monitoring of the Sterling family, and vanished into the London fog with a quiet crack.
He spent the rest of his Sunday at Swan Manor, sleeping with the kind of deep, dreamless intensity that only comes after successfully subverting a national government.
By Monday evening, however, the "expert wizard" persona was tucked away, replaced by the demanding Professor of Hogwarts. At 6:30 PM, the castle was bathed in the amber glow of sunset, and Sebastian made his way toward a large, high-ceilinged classroom on the third floor. Tonight was the first official recruitment drive for the Alchemy Club, and he was hunting for gold—not the literal kind, but the raw, unpolished talent of a future master.
Alchemy was a fickle mistress. Unlike Transfiguration or Charms, which relied heavily on willpower and visualization, Alchemy was a marriage of the soul and the hand. You couldn't just wave a wand and wish a potion into a permanent state; you had to understand the molecular stubbornness of the materials you were working with.
Because Hogwarts had no formal Alchemy curriculum yet, Sebastian had resorted to a unique filtering method. A week ago, he had handed out a thin, deceptively cheerful book to any student who expressed interest.
As he entered the classroom, he found about thirty students waiting. They were clustered around the desks, and the air was thick with the nervous energy of an exam room.
"Why are there so few people?" a Hufflepuff fourth-year whispered, glancing around. "I thought the whole school would be here for a club run by Professor Swann."
"Are you joking?" a Ravenclaw replied, clutching a copy of the primer. "With the new exam reforms, half the fifth-years are too busy panicking about their OWLs to even think about clubs. Besides, did you see the book he gave us?"
He held up the volume: Baby Alchemy: How to Craft Ten Interesting Magic Toys. "Most people took one look at the title and thought it was a joke for toddlers. They didn't realize that 'simple' in Alchemy is a relative term."
"I don't know," a Gryffindor chimed in, looking smug. "I read the whole thing in two nights. It's just basic wood-shaping and a few activation runes. I could do this in my sleep."
Simple?
In the back of the room, Fred and George Weasley shared a look that was remarkably similar to the one two sharks might share before a feeding frenzy. They knew better. They had spent the last week in the back of the Gryffindor common room trying to perfect the tenth project in that "baby" book. It had taken them four tries just to get the wheels to turn in the right direction. The "simple" toy carriage was a masterclass in disguised complexity.
The chattering died down instantly the moment Sebastian's boots hit the floor at the front of the room. He didn't bother with a long-winded speech. He stood at the podium, his gaze sweeping over the thirty hopefuls like a cold wind.
"I trust you've all spent the last week becoming experts on children's playthings," Sebastian said, his voice echoing. "Theory is a comfortable bed, but tonight, you're going to have to walk. Your task is simple: personally craft the tenth example in the book—the self-propelled toy carriage."
With a flick of his wand, the buckles on his dragon-hide bag unlatched. Thirty sets of professional alchemy kits—miniature chisels, rune-engraving needles, and glass measuring vials—flew out and landed with a synchronized thud on the desks.
Then, he tapped the podium. The wood expanded, doubling in size, and suddenly became laden with stacks of raw materials: blocks of beech wood, vials of silver-infused ink, and bundles of copper wire.
"The recipe is in the book. The materials are here. The deadline is 9 PM sharp. If your carriage doesn't move by the time the clock strikes, you don't get a badge. What are you waiting for? The wood isn't going to carve itself."
The students scrambled. There was a frantic rush to the podium to grab the best-looking blocks of beech wood.
"Fred, George," Sebastian called out as the twins started to stand. "Sit back down. This toy is below your pay grade, and I'd rather you didn't waste my expensive materials showing off. From tonight, you two are my teaching assistants. Move around, make sure nobody stabs themselves with an engraving needle, and keep the noise down."
The other students threw envious glances at the twins, but nobody complained. The Weasley twins were already minor legends in the art of magical mischief; they were the only ones in the room who truly understood the 'mechanical' side of magic.
As the crafting began, the initial confidence in the room began to evaporate faster than a spilled potion.
The first hurdle was the material itself. "Where's the beech?" a second-year cried out, staring at three piles of seemingly identical wood. "They all look like brown squares!"
"Look at the grain, mate," George whispered, leaning over his shoulder. "Beech has those tiny little flecks. If you pick the oak by mistake, your runes will crack when you try to activate them. Pick again."
Once the wood was selected, the room became a chorus of Diffindo charms and the scraping of sandpaper. Shaping the carriage body required a level of fine motor control that most fourteen-year-olds lacked. One Ravenclaw girl, over-eager with her Severing Charm, sliced her wooden block clean in half, letting out a frustrated sob before heading back to the podium for a replacement.
Then came the carving.
Carving runes wasn't just about drawing. You had to channel a steady, minute stream of magic into the tip of the needle as you etched the wood. One slip, one sneeze, or one moment of wandering thought, and the rune became "dead"—a useless scratch on a piece of timber.
Sebastian paced the aisles, his eyes sharp. He wasn't just looking at the finished products; he was watching their faces.
He saw a Hufflepuff boy who had failed three times to carve the 'Stop' rune. Each time, he took a deep breath, wiped his forehead, and started over with even more focus. That was a keeper.
He saw a Slytherin girl who was doing a perfect job but was constantly looking around to see if she was faster than everyone else. Her pride was a double-edged sword; she might be talented, but she lacked the humility Alchemy demanded.
And then there were the ones who cracked. A third-year Gryffindor, after his fifth failed assembly, slammed his chisel onto the desk. "This is stupid! It's a toy! Why won't the wheels just stay on?" He sat there, arms crossed, face red with fury. Sebastian mentally crossed him off the list. Alchemy required the patience of a mountain; if you couldn't handle a toy carriage, you'd never survive the refinement of philosopher's stone.
As the clock ticked toward 9:00, the atmosphere in the room turned frantic. The smell of cedar shavings and silver ink was heavy in the air.
"Ten minutes," Sebastian announced, his voice cool and unforgiving.
The final step was the assembly—fitting the copper wire axles into the carved grooves and dabbing the silver ink into the runes to "wake" the magic.
"Five... four... three..."
"Done!" someone yelled.
"Two... one. Stop. Hands off the tools."
The room went quiet. The thirty students stood behind their desks, looking exhausted. Some had wood shavings in their hair; others had silver ink stains on their fingers.
Sebastian walked to the front of the room. "Time for the moment of truth. If your carriage can move from one end of your desk to the other and stop without falling off the edge, you've passed the first test."
He clapped his hands. "Show me what you've built."