Antonius had left.
But Sean still sat at his desk, a pencil in hand, quickly sketching out alchemical arrays of all shapes and sizes on the sheets of scrap parchment in front of him.
Yet no matter how he drew, the arrays just wouldn't come together — always a hair's breadth away, yet that tiny gap made all the difference.
Snap—
The pencil tip broke clean off. Sean glanced at the snapped lead embedded in the parchment, took a slow breath, switched it for a fresh pencil, then looked back down at the mess of half-finished sketches. He closed his eyes, replaying Antonius's instructions in his mind. He exhaled, settled his shoulders, pulled over a clean sheet — and lowered the pencil again.
The graphite moved smoothly this time, no hesitation.
Stroke by stroke, a simple pentagram array took shape — flawless and steady.
A faint red glow shimmered from the freshly drawn array, and in the next instant, the glow ignited into tiny wisps of flame, burning the parchment to ash.
It worked.
Finally — it worked.
Sean leaned back in his chair, a rare, satisfied smile breaking across his face.
In that moment, he'd grasped the feeling Antonius spoke of — the elusive sense of flow when drawing an alchemical array. It was faint, but it was real, and it was his. So long as he kept practicing, nothing would hold him back from mastering the craft.
"Alright… it's done."
He glanced at the scattered notes and sighed with quiet relief.
"Next, I need to send that letter to the Headmaster — see if he can help pass it on to Nicolas Flamel."
Gathering his things, Sean slipped the pencils and parchment into his bag, then stepped out of the third-floor classroom and into the quiet corridors of Hogwarts.
He did not return to the Slytherin common room, but went directly to the Owlery in the West Tower. There, he picked out an owl at random and tied to its leg the letter that Antonius had dictated and he had written by hand, asking the owl to deliver it straight to Headmaster Dumbledore.
The owl looked a little confused but, following Sean's quiet instructions, it flapped out of the Owlery, circled once over Hogwarts, then swooped down to perch just outside the window of the Headmaster's office.
By the time Dumbledore discovered the familiar Hogwarts owl tapping at his window and retrieved the letter, Sean had already slipped back to the Slytherin common room and was in his dorm washing up.
When he sat back down at his desk, Dumbledore set the letter down before him, turning it over in his hand as he carefully checked for curses or hidden magic. Satisfied, he cracked the wax seal and unfolded it.
Behind him, the portraits of former headmasters stirred at once, leaning forward to see what he held. Phineas Nigellus, never patient, was the first to speak up, his tone sharp as ever.
"Dumbledore, who's written to you by Hogwarts owl? Some student?"
Opening the letter fully, Dumbledore chuckled softly. "Quite right, Phineas. Someone at Hogwarts did indeed write this. I'm only curious why."
At that, Dilys Derwent, who once came to Hogwarts from St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, frowned down at him from her frame.
"Be cautious, Dumbledore. Your enemies would think nothing of slipping poison or curses into a letter."
Phineas scoffed before Dumbledore could reply. "Dilys, do you take Dumbledore for a fool? He's already checked it, hasn't he?"
"Phineas, you're insufferable."
"So people keep telling me. And yet—here I am!"
Dumbledore raised a hand without looking up. "Enough, both of you. Phineas, provoke her again and I'll have to lock your frame for a week."
Phineas fell abruptly silent, folding his arms in sulky defeat. The office quieted. Dumbledore drew the letter closer and began to read.
His expression changed as he took in the words. Alchemy was not his primary field, but he was no novice — after all, he had discovered the twelve uses of dragon's blood himself. Even so, the insights in this letter, its references to the Philosopher's Stone — none of it read like the idle theory of an ordinary wizard. It was the work of a true master.
And the name at the end — Antonius Hopkins — gave him pause.
"Dexter, if I'm not mistaken, there was an Antonius Hopkins in your time, wasn't there?"
The portrait of Dexter Fortescue, dozing behind him, blinked awake at his name. When the words sank in, he gave a start.
"Yes! In my day, alchemy was its own world — we had an age of geniuses then, wizards and Muggles alike devoted to it. It was a golden age. Antonius Hopkins was the best of all — no question."
Dumbledore tapped the parchment thoughtfully. "This letter claims to be from Antonius Hopkins himself. And I suspect it just might be."
Dexter looked skeptical. "That's impossible! The Philosopher's Stone didn't exist in his lifetime — so no Elixir of Life. His death was confirmed!"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Perhaps he didn't live — but ghosts linger, do they not, Dexter?"
Dexter paused, brows knitting. "A ghost, then? And what does he want with you?"
"He wants me to pass this letter to Nico. He wishes to speak with Nicolas Flamel."
Dexter's painted shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Are you sure there's nothing dangerous in it?"
Dumbledore smiled. "Perfectly sure."
"Then send it on! Flamel will know at a glance if this is truly Antonius Hopkins. A man's face you can fake — his knowledge you cannot."
At that, Dumbledore chuckled, folding the letter carefully back into its envelope.
"Well said, Dexter. Well said. I look forward to Nico's reply."