In his earlier letters, Nicolas had already learned of Tom's purpose in seeking the Philosopher's Stone.
But hearing it spoken aloud now, the old man's brows still furrowed together, his expression clouded with a quiet gravity.
"Tom… I've gone through some materials myself. There aren't many records about the Blood Curse, and its effects vary greatly depending on the caster."
"That Greengrass you mentioned—I've heard of her. That family is very skilled in social maneuvering. Their contract magic and unique way of conducting affairs are the key to their long-standing influence."
"In fact, over two hundred years ago, their family already had designs on the Philosopher's Stone. Back then, I simply hid away and ignored them."
The old man chuckled. "And yet, after all the twists and turns, two centuries later, the Stone still ends up being lent to them."
"Do you… have any way to cure it completely?" Tom asked. Depending on the Stone to prolong life could only solve the problem temporarily. What if in the future he and Astoria had children who also inherited the Blood Curse?
Wait—no… shouldn't that be with Daphne?
Tom suddenly realized his thoughts had wandered into dangerous territory.
While the boy stood there distracted, Nicolas spoke again. "There are ways. In fact, there are two."
Tom instantly straightened, listening intently.
"The first," Nicolas began, "is to fight poison with poison—use an even stronger curse to suppress the effects of the Blood Curse. For example, curse them to live for a hundred years?"
"But it might be painful. Even if the Blood Curse is suppressed, it still exists. Two curses clashing inside the body… that's a torment few can endure."
Tom waved his hands quickly. "No, no—pick another. They're both girls. I won't have them suffering like that."
"You do know how to care for people." Nicolas smiled, tapping Tom lightly on the forehead. He'd expected Tom to refuse, and wasn't surprised in the slightest.
"The second… is a blood replacement."
The old man's expression turned far more solemn. "Blood Curse. The name itself tells you—it's an inherited curse bound to the bloodline. Not only must the blood be replaced… even the heart might need to be changed. The implications are far-reaching, and not easily explained in a short time."
"I'd rather you discover the reasons and answers yourself through study."
When Nicolas had agreed to meet Tom, it had been mainly as a favor to Dumbledore. But now, he truly admired Tom's talent—and even entertained the thought of finding a successor to pass his mantle to.
To Nicolas Flamel, life and death had long lost their sharp edges, but he still wished to leave some trace of his existence in the world.
So now, he was speaking as a mentor thinking of his student's future.
Tom understood the old man's good intentions. He didn't press further, but instead took out the "anti-disarming bracelet" he had designed.
The old man examined it and nodded repeatedly. "Your fundamentals are solid, but you lack a system—you're piling up knowledge by sheer force, which makes the work feel too much like craftsmanship rather than artistry."
"For example, here in this line work—you could make it far more ingenious…"
Tom listened intently to every flaw Nicolas pointed out, jotting them down in a notebook, nodding from time to time with a sense of sudden clarity.
Andros knew nothing of alchemy, and Grindelwald had no time for it, devoting himself entirely to his own power. Tom truly lacked a teacher in this field.
Even in the magical study spaces, it would be hard to find a better instructor than Nicolas. He might not have been the "King of the Century," but in alchemy, he was undoubtedly among the best.
In a hundred years, you might find one or two "Kings of the Century," but in the past several centuries, there had been only one Nicolas Flamel—rarer still.
After speaking for a while, Nicolas finally stopped, still full of ideas but unwilling to say too much too soon. Tom needed to start from the very basics under his guidance before they could go deeper.
"Puck!"
Nicolas tapped the arm of his lounge chair, and with a pop, a house-elf appeared. Nicolas instructed it to prepare a room and dinner for Tom. Though walking hadn't tired him much, spending a whole morning watching beauties on the beach had worn the old man out—so he retired to his room for rest.
Tom, left to himself, wandered through the house, picking up each alchemical tool to examine it. In an afternoon, he'd only managed to explore one kitchen and one sitting room.
The next day, they boarded a luxurious carriage pulled by Aethonans and made their way back to Paris.
Paris was divided into twenty arrondissements, and Nicolas' home was in the 8th—the district best known for the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. The old man liked its bustling charm, saying it let him feel the warmth of ordinary life.
They slipped into a shabby little shop on the street. Nicolas lightly pressed the bell on the table, and the back wall began to ripple, forming a wide arched doorway.
Stepping through, Tom found himself in a grand estate, only slightly smaller than the Greengrass family's. But instead of a castle, the grounds held a cluster of lavish palaces.
"Looks a bit like Versailles, doesn't it?" Nicolas said with a grin. "Back in the 18th century, I was bored and took a position as Louis XIV's art adviser. I used a few tricks to make him think it was alchemy."
"Some of my suggestions even made their way into the real Versailles. When I saw how good it looked once finished, I decided to build one for myself."
Tom gave him a big thumbs-up.
Living long really was the greatest advantage—you could meet anyone.
To enter the palace, one had to walk through a hundred-meter-long Hall of Mirrors, lined with hundreds of mirrors and dozens of arched windows.
There were far too many rooms in this palace, so five house-elves handled daily upkeep. Nicolas assigned Puck to attend to Tom exclusively during his stay, meeting his every need.
In a tea room, Tom was introduced to Madame Perenelle Flamel. The elderly lady's condition was much like Nicolas'—her energy lasted for only short periods each day. After a few minutes of conversation, Tom excused himself so as not to tire her.
But she seemed to like him, inviting him to join her for morning tea the next day. Tom naturally agreed.
Leaving the tea room, Nicolas led Tom to the place most important for him—the library.
The old man handed over a notebook. On the first page was a list of dozens of book titles, with even more filling the pages that followed.
"This is your task. Read these books in order. Every day I'll check your progress, and if you don't understand something, save your questions—I'll answer them all once every three days."
Tom nodded earnestly, taking the reading list. Then, looking a little embarrassed, he asked, "Professor, could I start tomorrow? I have a friend here in Paris—I promised I'd meet her."
"A friend, eh? Male or female?" The old man's expression shifted instantly into mischievous gossip.
"Uh… she's a girl," Tom said simply, giving a brief rundown of Fleur's details and how they'd met. As for the whole dragon-slaying incident—he conveniently left that part out.
Nicolas Flamel was on very good terms with Dumbledore, but unlike Newt, he wasn't the overly earnest type. If Tom swore something would stay secret, Flamel would never pry. So Tom chose to keep a few cards hidden up his sleeve.
Sure, even if Dumbledore found out, he probably wouldn't give Tom any real trouble—but in life, there's no need to play the pig eating the tiger if you can just be the tiger quietly. No point in showing all your trump cards for free.
"Well, well, well—you're even smoother than I was at your age. Got sisters on both sides, eh?" Flamel nodded knowingly, giving Tom a teasing grin as he patted his shoulder.
Suddenly, Tom's body went taut.
Crack!
The old man's hand… snapped.
"You really hold grudges, don't you?" Flamel chuckled wryly. "No wonder you're Muggle-born and still got sorted into Slytherin."
"Come on now, I'm just a sturdy young man. Don't overthink it."
"Alright, alright—go find your Veela girl then."
After granting Tom free access to his estate, Flamel strolled away at a leisurely pace.
…
Ding-dong—!
Ding-dong—!
The doorbell's sudden chime broke the quiet. Fleur immediately told Gabrielle to go upstairs, then drew her wand and approached the door cautiously.
Any visitor who could find this house was usually a friend of her parents—and such people would never show up at a time when the adults were at work…
When she peeked through the peephole and saw who it was, caution melted instantly into delight. The quarter-Veela flung open the door and launched herself into his arms.
"Tom!"
"Well, hello there—what a warm welcome," Tom said, pleasantly surprised by the bonus he got the second the door opened. Her fragrance drifted into his nose, and he chuckled, giving her back a friendly pat. "See? I told you I'd keep my word, didn't I?"
"Hmph."
Remembering herself, Fleur pushed him away with feigned annoyance.
"Half the summer's already gone before you show up—you must have forgotten me."
"Hey, forgetting you's no big deal—but I'd never forget Gabrielle."
"You—you scoundrel!"
Fleur bristled, pounding her small fists against his chest. Up on the stairs, Gabrielle—who had been secretly listening—perked up at the sound of his voice. With a delighted squeal, she dashed down, wedged herself between them, and clung to Tom like a little koala.
"Tom! You finally came to see Gabrielle!"
"Aww, my little cutie—your face looks even rounder than last time," Tom teased, hoisting her higher with one arm while his other hand pinched her smooth, soft cheek. He didn't use much force, and far from being annoyed, the little girl burst into giggles.
She even tattled.
"Big Sister's so mean! She told me to go upstairs just so she could hide you!"
"Gabrielle!" Fleur scolded, cheeks coloring. "How was I supposed to know it was Tom? I told you to go upstairs to keep you safe—bad men love little girls like you!"
She shot Tom a pointed glare.
With someone to back her up, Gabrielle wasn't afraid of Fleur's scolding. She made a silly face and urged Tom to carry her inside.
Fleur quickly fetched a brand-new pair of slippers for him, and the three of them settled in the living room. On the carpet lay scattered magical building blocks—clearly Fleur had been babysitting here just moments ago.
Gabrielle didn't stand a chance in a verbal spar with her sister. The moment Fleur casually suggested, "Why don't you show Tom the thing you were building?" the little one scampered off happily, leaving the two of them some space.
Tom didn't hesitate to sit close—so close that from behind, they could've been mistaken for a couple leaning on each other.
"You could've told me you were coming—I'd have prepared something," Fleur said.
"I've been in America, remember? Too much trouble to write. Oh—here, I brought you something."
Tom pulled out two Thunderbird models. Normally these were made from ordinary feathers, but he had replaced them with real Thunderbird plumage. The sheen was richer, the colors more vivid—they seemed almost alive.
"And this," Tom said, producing souvenirs from Ilvermorny's four houses. Fleur examined each in turn before deciding that the Wampus cat emblem best suited her tastes.
"So… you met Mr. Scamander?" she asked, curious.
"Mm. You admire Newt?"
"Not exactly." Fleur laughed a little sheepishly. "Our Care of Magical Creatures professor uses him as a bad example—says if you can't control your pets, you'll end up banned from multiple countries, just like him."
Tom: "…"
Seriously? After all these years, the French were still salty about nearly getting Paris burned down?
If they had to blame someone, shouldn't it be Grindelwald? Why did poor Uncle Newt always take the fall?
Tom began recounting his American adventures, and Fleur's eyes lit up with a sparkle of wonder. Compared to his eventful summer, hers had been a dreary cycle of homework and caring for the little whirlwind now building blocks nearby.
Glancing at Gabrielle, Fleur's expression softened with both affection and exasperation. Still—now that Tom was here, they could actually go out tomorrow. Surely two of them could handle one small, excitable girl?
With renewed energy, Fleur began describing the sights of Paris—both wizarding and Muggle—and was soon planning out the next few days with enthusiasm.
But before she got too far, Tom gently interrupted her.
"Fleur… actually, here's the thing…"
"What? You're actually learning alchemy under Monsieur Nicolas Flamel himself… and living in his home?"
Fleur stared at Tom in shock, her rosy lips forming a perfect 'O' as though she'd just heard something beyond belief.
If anyone else had said it, Fleur would have scoffed and suspected they were boasting. But this was Tom. The only possible explanation was that her ears were playing tricks on her.
"Uh… is that really so shocking?" Tom asked, puzzled at her exaggerated reaction.
"That's Nicolas Flamel — the pride of the French wizarding world!" Fleur said excitedly. She rattled off a long list of Flamel's accomplishments before leaning forward urgently. "How did this happen? You came straight from Monsieur Flamel's house, didn't you?"
Tom had no choice but to give her a brief rundown of the events that led up to this.
He had underestimated Flamel's status in the hearts of French wizards — it was even higher than Dumbledore's in Britain.
It wasn't just because Flamel was the most accomplished wizard France had produced in centuries, but because of his remarkable contributions to Beauxbatons.
Before Flamel, Beauxbatons had been little more than a private finishing school for pure-blood aristocrats. After Nicolas Flamel, however, he poured vast sums of gold into the school, allowing it to greatly expand enrollment.
Students from France, Belgium, the Netherlands, Luxembourg, and beyond came to study. Only then did Beauxbatons grow into one of the three great wizarding schools of Europe.
Thus, in France, Nicolas Flamel was as revered by students as Godric Gryffindor or Salazar Slytherin were at Hogwarts — a living legend.
When Tom finished describing life in Flamel's household, Fleur's eyes were brimming with envy.
"I'm starting to hate you a little, Tom. Being able to have Monsieur Flamel as your teacher… you've hit the magical jackpot!"
"Then what should you call me? Ancestor?"
Fleur, without any instruction, reached over and pinched the soft skin at Tom's side. The boy immediately raised his hands in surrender.
It wasn't that he feared pain — he feared being tickled.
After their playful exchange, Fleur sighed in regret but said earnestly, "Tom, this is a rare opportunity. You must learn everything you can from Monsieur Flamel. Next time you come to France, we'll go out and have some fun."
"It's not as exaggerated as you make it sound." Tom toyed with a lock of Fleur's silky silver hair, smiling. "I'm there to study, not locked up in prison. I can come and go freely. I might not be able to see you every day, but dropping by every few days is still possible."
"Besides, if I study constantly, my brain will get tied into knots. I'll need to relax once in a while."
Fleur found that reasonable and her smile returned.
"Brother, my carriage is ready!" Gabrielle clapped her tiny hands, calling Tom over to admire her handiwork.
Tom walked over and sat beside the little girl, nodding seriously at the assembled carriage. "Not bad. Though it would be even better if the door wasn't on the ceiling."
"Oh— right!" Gabrielle nodded blankly. How had her carriage door ended up up there?
Watching the two of them get along so well, Fleur's lips curved into a knowing smile.
…
That evening, the Delacour couple returned home. They were equally delighted to see Tom.
The last time, Tom had been in a hurry and hadn't been able to thank them properly. This time, Monsieur Delacour immediately booked a restaurant to welcome Tom to France.
When they learned Tom was studying under Nicolas Flamel, their reactions were nearly identical to Fleur's. They too reminded him not to waste such an opportunity.
The dinner lasted well into the night, and it was after nine o'clock when Tom finally returned to Flamel's estate.
From the next day onward, Tom threw himself into learning, following the reading list Nicolas had given him to re-learn alchemy from the ground up.
Even though the first few books were the most basic introductory texts, Tom still read them with complete seriousness, without the slightest hint of contempt.
To be more efficient, Tom projected the books into his study space and then brought them into his meditation chamber for reading — nearly doubling his learning speed.
After just three days, when Flamel tested him, the old man was surprised at Tom's progress.
Worried that Tom might have skimmed over such "shallow" material without truly understanding it, Flamel's test was thorough and exhaustive — the questioning lasted a full hour.
Only then did the old alchemist conclude that Tom had read all ten books carefully. His perception of Tom's learning ability shifted yet again, and he grew even fonder of his last apprentice.
An obedient, intelligent student who didn't let talent breed arrogance — what teacher wouldn't like that?
As for morals and ideology, such things meant little to someone who had lived over six centuries. Flamel didn't care what Tom would do with the knowledge; all that mattered was that his legacy would endure.
Half a month passed in the blink of an eye.
Re-learning alchemy in a structured way under Flamel's careful guidance, Tom realized just how wild his previous methods had been. Tasks that should have taken three parts effort had taken him ten — even fifteen — before.
Without proper technique and experience, all he had relied on was raw talent and brute magical force.
Now, Tom had several ways to improve his enchanted bracelets — saving on materials while enhancing their effects, tightening the bond between artifact and owner, and making them automatically return to their wielder without even a conscious summons if knocked away.
He could even integrate multiple defensive spells, such as the Shield Charm and cushioning enchantments.
But Tom made only a few of these before stopping. Why give the Ministry such good gear? If he didn't hold back for future upgrades, how would he keep making money… or control an "arms market" to counter the Ministry?
"I'll have two chilled soups and two garlic breadsticks."
At the long table, Tom finally set aside his book after holding that posture for over an hour in the study space, stretching his stiff muscles.
He didn't have to wait long before a small trolley glided into the library. There was no house-elf pushing it — it moved entirely on its own.
The trolley stopped, and the plates and bowls on top sprouted legs, obediently walking over to arrange themselves neatly before him.
Yes — Nicolas Flamel really was this eccentric…
Not just in his vacation villa, but throughout his massive palace, most objects were alchemical creations.
Tom wore a ring on his hand — Flamel's "master control."
With it, he could summon meals from the kitchen, have the washroom prepare a bath, set the opera house to queue music, tell the tea room to steep strong tea, order laundry, prepare ingredients — all remotely with a thought.
After finishing his late brunch, Tom found Flamel in the Sunroom, basking in the light.
The Sunroom was a chamber walled entirely in enchanted glass, capable of showing different landscapes. Today it displayed a sunset over endless wheat fields, looking remarkably like a scene from magical virtual reality.
"Sir, this is my latest work. Please take a look."
Tom placed his newest anti-disarming bracelet on the side table. Flamel picked it up, examining it closely, then put on a pair of magnifying spectacles to study the magical engravings within.