The classroom was a scene of controlled chaos and whispered post-mortems. As Sebastian signaled the end of the practical test, the tension that had been thick enough to choke a dragon finally began to dissipate. Students slumped back in their chairs, some staring at their masterpieces with pride, others looking at their mangled piles of beech wood as if they were cursed objects.
"Alright, eyes on me," Sebastian said, his voice cutting through the chatter like a knife through soft wax. "The forge is cold. Let's see what survived the heat."
The first to rise was a sixth-year Ravenclaw witch named Penelope Clearwater. She didn't just walk to the podium; she marched with the poise of someone who already had an "O" in every subject. She placed her creation on the lectern, and the room went silent.
It wasn't just a toy carriage. It was a masterpiece of miniature architecture. While most students had struggled to make a basic box on wheels, Penelope had used the week of previewing to research the structural aesthetics of the Hogwarts express carriages. Her toy featured tiny, functional windows made of thin sheets of mica, intricate scrollwork along the roofline, and a glossy finish that looked like it had been polished for hours.
"Merlin's beard," a Gryffindor third-year muttered. "Did she shrink a real one? Look at the door handles!"
"It's not just about the look," Penelope said, her voice clear and confident. "I focused on the weight distribution to ensure the friction on the axles didn't interfere with the activation rune's output."
She tapped the 'Start' rune with her finger. The carriage didn't just jerk forward; it glided. It moved with a silent, eerie smoothness across the podium, stopping exactly three inches from the edge when she tapped the 'Stop' rune.
Sebastian offered a rare, genuine nod of approval. "Detail-oriented, structurally sound, and aesthetically pleasing. Excellent work, Miss Clearwater."
The bar had been set impossibly high. The students who had been joking about their "poop-shaped" pumpkin carriages or their three-wheeled monstrosities suddenly found their humor dying in their throats.
The second student to approach was a surprise to many. Justin Finch-Fletchley, a second-year Hufflepuff, stepped up with a look of grim determination. Sebastian watched him closely. Justin was a Muggle-born who had nearly gone to Eton; he had a mind for logic and a soul that didn't know how to quit. During the test, Sebastian had seen him ruin three different axle assemblies. Most kids would have thrown their tools by the third failure. Justin had simply cleaned his desk, sharpened his chisel, and started again.
His carriage was ugly. It was a blocky, utilitarian rectangle with no windows and wheels that looked slightly lopsided. But when he placed it on the podium and activated the runes, it hummed with a steady, reliable rhythm. It moved at a constant speed, straight as an arrow, and stopped the moment he commanded it.
"I had trouble with the silver ink," Justin admitted, rubbing a smudge of metallic residue off his cheek. "But I realized if I carved the grooves slightly deeper, the magic flowed more consistently even if the carving wasn't perfectly smooth."
"Patience and adaptation," Sebastian noted, looking at the boy. "The two pillars of alchemy. Talent is a gift, Justin, but persistence is a choice. You chose well today."
As the evening progressed, the disparity in skill became painfully obvious. Out of the thirty students, only about half had managed to finish the assembly. Of those fifteen, many had botched the rune sequences—some carriages simply sat there and vibrated until they started to smoke, while one particularly unlucky Slytherin's carriage wheels spun in opposite directions, causing the toy to perform a sad, frantic dance in place.
By the time the last volunteer finished their demonstration, Sebastian returned to the center of the podium. He didn't look disappointed; he looked like a man who had successfully filtered out the impurities from a batch of ore.
"Tonight, seven of you produced carriages that followed the fundamental laws of alchemy," Sebastian announced. "Congratulations. You are the founding members of the Hogwarts Alchemy Club."
A small cheer went up from the successful seven, while the rest of the room let out a collective sigh of defeat. Sebastian raised a hand to quiet them.
"For those whose names I didn't call—don't throw your tools away just yet. Showing up tonight, facing a subject you've never been taught, and trying your hand at the craft is a victory in itself. As a token of my appreciation for your interest, you may keep the alchemy kits at your desks. They are a gift from me. Consider them an invitation to keep practicing."
The disappointment in the room softened. A professional alchemy kit was worth a small fortune in Diagon Alley; giving them away for free was a gesture that spoke volumes about Sebastian's resources—and his goals.
"And for those of you worried about your future in this field," Sebastian added, a small, knowing glint in his eye, "I'll let you in on a little secret. The Board of Governors is currently reviewing a proposal. It is very likely that starting next year, Alchemy will be offered as a formal elective for third-years and above. I have already stocked the library with three hundred new volumes on the subject. If you still have the hunger, the knowledge is waiting for you. Class dismissed. Members of the club, stay behind."
The room cleared out quickly, leaving only the successful seven, the Weasley twins, and Sebastian. The atmosphere shifted instantly. It was no longer a classroom; it was a workshop.
"Sit closer," Sebastian said, gesturing to the front row. "I didn't bring you here to make toys. That was the entrance fee. Now, we talk about the real project."
Fred and George leaned in, their eyes alight with the kind of mischief that usually preceded a massive explosion. "What's the plan, Professor?" Fred asked. "Are we building a gold-making machine? A flying fortress?"
"Something much more interesting," Sebastian replied. "In the coming months, I intend to lead this group in a large-scale project that will push the boundaries of what you think magic can do. But before I give you the blueprints, I need to test your philosophical foundation."
He looked at each of them in turn—the brilliant Penelope, the dogged Justin, the creative twins.
"Tell me," Sebastian asked, his voice dropping into a low, hypnotic tone. "Do you believe it is possible for two people in this world to possess the exact same magical power? Not just similar strength, but identical magical signatures?"