As Sean's calm green eyes faded from the central pane, the creations and refinements that followed from other young alchemists could no longer rouse much interest.
They themselves understood it all too well—there was nothing left to "compete" over, just as their masters understood. No one seemed close to that boy named Sean Green.
Their pupils needn't compete either, because the legend was so very young.
He would be a mountain, heavy and immovable, pressing upon three generations of alchemists—
or else a crown blazing with light. Who could say?
On the mirror and at his side appeared Professor Tayra. Sean murmured:
"Professor, I still… don't quite understand."
He knew that the ritual's difficulty multiplied with the creature's power; he might not produce those dreamt-of constructs quickly. So he was not elated. His road was long and far—nothing like the simple arc others now imagined.
But it was undeniable: the Fairy-Tale Cookie series foretold a future of resplendent magic.
"My student," Tayra said gently, "excess humility is like raw, unrefined matter—it must be raised in the necessary flame of honor to be sublimed. As for balancing the scales within… perhaps you could ask Albus Dumbledore? I've heard—"
She stopped, recalling something, then looked at her student steeped once more in thought, and quietly exhaled.
At the close of the Youth & Junior Exchange, Dumbledore's voice rolled out—majestic, low:
"Very well, my friends—indulge an old man's sentiment. Every spark of alchemy kindled tonight will light a farther future.
"And now, it is time to let the young shine for themselves—
"The International Alchemy Congress Pioneering Contribution Bronze Award goes to… Miss Heather Gark—"
Applause rang out—bright, unrestrained. The very young witch flicked her wand; a sheaf of papers bore her to the dais. To reach the stage by one's own invention was a small tradition—Flamel had done so in his day; the young had copied it ever since.
"The Silver Award goes to Mr. Lucien Hernández—"
The Nordic bard–alchemist swirled his robe and was on the dais in an instant. Sean watched, already considering what good might come of binding one's own apparition to a robe.
When Hernández returned to his seat, the crowd's eyes burned hotter still.
"I know what you're waiting for," Dumbledore said, blue eyes flashing behind his half-moon spectacles. "So now—allow me to announce: the International Alchemy Congress Pioneering Contribution Gold Award goes to—"
A touch of his wand set radiant sigils drifting in the air. Everywhere wands rose; all gazes fixed on Seat Seven—Miracle—where the small wizard sat.
"Hailed by the IAC Joint Committee as the most gifted alchemist in six centuries, and the youngest member in the history of this Congress—Sean Green of Hogwarts."
Sean walked. He had no prepared flourish for taking the stage—he simply walked, and no one dared belittle him. The Bardic Box still whispered:
"Flamel's path need not be the only road; no longer must the future chase his heels alone—another alchemist's back has appeared to lead the branch onward—"
Sean caught a little of it and quickened his pace. Who could tell him why there are bards at an alchemy congress?
The prize was a badge—unknown metal, cool in the hand. On the face: "As above, so below; as below, so above—thus is the miracle of the One accomplished."
On the back: "Turn of the 20th Century IAC Pioneering Contribution Gold Award: Sean Green."
As he examined it, he felt the contract that followed his taking of knowledge dissolve. The youth–junior session was over.
Next came the field exchanges. The castle held twenty-four hidden salons—plenty of room for alchemists to speak their fill. The Congress would run four days.
On day one—arrival—the hall had been black; once all had gathered, it turned white. The whole day thereafter was a parade of wizards—young and not so young—coming to speak with Sean: courteous faces, no envy, no shadow.
Tayra smiled and explained, "Put 'decline' aside—the field has waned six hundred years. Look at the dais. What do you see?"
Sean looked: Flamel, watching him quietly; Dumbledore, too.
He understood. Magic is power; and power sat blinking at him fondly.
Candles and hearths threw a warm light, yet night fell soft and starry. The alchemists hurried from room to room; figures flickered before lamplit windows.
Sean followed Professor McGonagall into a private salon. He was neither proud nor burdened. A small figure in an oversized chair, poring over Dumbledore's notes on ancient transformation runes—already itching to test them.
Beside him lay another notebook—snippets of techniques traded by transformation-minded alchemists; not much yet. When they did speak, they poured out such jargon that he understood not a word.
Then Professor Tayra entered.
"Professor McGonagall."
McGonagall's day of pride had not yet ebbed, when Tayra continued:
"The International Confederation of Wizards is waiting. Though you could give the common herd a hundred years and they still couldn't reproduce Fairy-Tale Cookies, patent rights will spare young Sean no end of trouble."
"Patent?"
Sean looked up.
"Come, my student—time to meet a few special people. Professor McGonagall, please join us," Tayra said.
~~~
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