The hall fell utterly silent—only soft breathing and the snap of house-elves' fingers as they whisked away empty plates broke the stillness.
Up on the dais, the seven elder wizards wore different expressions, but none bothered to hide the approval in their eyes.
At the center, Nicolas Flamel himself could not recall how many years it had been since he felt such anticipation for the vast world of alchemy.
The poised, elegant brown-skinned witch lost her composure and murmured, "Tayra—this is the student you took seventy years to find? I can't fathom it—where did you lure Hermes from?"
"I spoke too much, earlier, Tayra," the white-haired wizard added, body held taut; only with effort did he keep envy from his face.
As many grizzled masters in the hall longed for a student who would surpass them as there were grizzled masters whose eyes now blazed. This was a guild that still kept a strict master-and-apprentice line; it was no wonder the hall was full of pairs.
For some apprentices "without much talent," a life's work meant collating a teacher's writings. For the passably gifted, advancing their master's work by a step was already enough to let countless elders die satisfied.
In truth, many kept themselves alive on potions alone, unwilling to let their lineage be cut off in the hands of a "dull student."
Being a one-in-ten-thousand genius yourself is one thing; finding a one-in-ten-thousand genius is another—the difference is immeasurable.
And the great hall was full of survivorship bias—full of one-in-ten-thousand geniuses. This was the International Alchemy Congress, held once every fifty years.
Even a competent student was rare. But that final, luck-borne kind—the ones dearer than one's own heart—could stand on their already-towering master's shoulders and open an era.
At center stage, countless pairs of eyes flickered across fragments of the Multi-Mirror; their faces varied, and yet—most seemed a little stunned.
A British master and her apprentice had never imagined Hogwarts still hid a wizard like this. The elder witch covered her mouth; her very young apprentice simply gaped.
Her teacher… would still love her, still praise her as talented—right?
There were quite a few with the same disbelief; everyone knew that because alchemy was transmitted master to pupil, it was the most "apprentice-driven" of magical arts.
Under Flamel's long shadow, no elder thought himself much worse than the next—so apprentices mattered even more. If a student failed to perform, there'd be hell to pay back home—puzzle-piece duty, at best.
"Fine—the Pioneering Contribution Gold Award is one thing. But what does 'most gifted alchemist of the last six hundred years, as recognized by the IAC Joint Committee' even mean?"
The witch asked her neighbor through a speaking alchemical trinket.
"Means what it says, Heather Gark, we're outclassed a hundredfold."
Her neighbor was no slouch either; in his case, his hat did the talking.
"And likely stronger than all the last six hundred years," another wizard—black-haired, a bit unkempt—finally used his mouth. "Why not a thousand? Because one of those thousand sits on the dais."
No one would have guessed: Tayra, mocked by her teacher for seventy years, would see the tables turned—her teacher mocked for life.
"I daresay the chronicles will put it this way. Let my Bardic Box tell it." He drew out a small, odd, mouth-shaped device like a recorder. It spoke in a low, time-worn voice:
["The first beneath Flamel, scorned for seventy years, has found a way to surpass the mountain of this age. Now, the future will be written by a legend.
And those myopic alchemists who once scoffed will be buried by history, raising not even a ripple…"]
"The Bardic Box? You're the famed Nordic bard-alchemist? Then why haven't I heard your master's name—?" Heather Gark asked.
"Haven't heard it? Then that's exactly right: not even a ripple."
At that, the very young Heather snorted aloud.
"Girl—don't laugh. Your master's in there too."
The bard turned to the wizard beside him. "And yours."
That wizard stared, poleaxed by the sudden broadside.
The muttering below did nothing to disturb Dumbledore. He blinked amiably.
"Let the future—and his works—speak. Mr. Sean Green… and Hogwarts is proud of you."
The moment he finished, the hall erupted—applause thundered, louder than at any time before.
On the central pane, the boy's calm, pale-green eyes did not ripple.
In truth, Sean was stunned. He had not expected a stage this grand—or that a first-year could be crowned with a title so vast.
Most gifted in six hundred years—it sounded tailor-made.
He tried to speak, to outline his work:
"I have devised several new alchemical rituals—"
Up on the dais, Tayra's long-tense face finally bloomed. This child—
Below, silence—then the aged masters stared again and again at that young face, making sure the lord of this Trismegistus hall hadn't come back to life.
"A set of fairy-tale cookies that let any living thing transform into a magical creature and wield its power. For now: Kneazle, Thestral, hatchling dragon, Hippogriff—"
Sean kept his voice even, finished in one breath. The house-elf at his side stepped out; with a proud lift of its chin, it snapped its fingers. A black crow, a white swan, a peacock, and a cock vanished—then, in the Multi-Mirror, four magical beasts appeared at once (though to the younger wizards, perhaps only three were clear).
He gave a brief technical sketch—and then the knowledge surged up and he knit his brows:
"Although I produced the cookie, its reproducibility remains doubtful. Even the creator cannot explain the full effect of every step; the one certainty is that the wizard's intent is decisive…
"And there are still many flaws. The transformed cannot stay conscious; duration is about a minute; production time is long—three days at the fastest. Most importantly, if the user does not desire the coming transformation and believe with conviction that he is the creature, the ritual is likely to fail—"
But no one heard him anymore. There was only one thought in every mind:
An eleven-year-old had seized, for the alchemical world, a prerogative of magical beasts that had gone unimagined for millennia.
In some hearts, the boy's silhouette rose to Flamel's height—and even beyond.
The prerogatives of magical beasts—prophecy, mind-reading, metamorphosis, storm, immortality, rebirth—powers that had haunted the dreams of wizards.
In the hush, the Bardic Box whispered:
["When the Stone appeared, the road of alchemy seemed to end. Yet the gods still called. Six hundred years of waiting, and a new legend descends. The waning of alchemy will be no more:
Hermes in the world returns bearing his glory."]