France, Paris — a small house hidden by layers of magic.
Nicolas Flamel, who had long decided to give up the Elixir of Life, sat quietly in his study. The soft strains of King Lear drifted from an old phonograph, filling the room with echoes of a world he had watched change for centuries. His withered, parchment-like hands lifted a cup of steaming black tea. He took a careful sip, savoring the warmth and bitterness on his tongue.
As an alchemist who had walked the earth for more than six hundred years, Flamel had grown weary of it all. He had laid aside the Philosopher's Stone, turned away from immortality, and now only alchemy still held any power to catch his wandering gaze. But lately, even that flicker was fading — for months, The Philosopher's Stone, the most respected alchemical journal in the European wizarding world, had printed nothing that could stir him. Nicolas Flamel could feel it: when even alchemy failed him, death would not be far behind, and he would at last welcome it.
Ding Ding!
Ding Ding!
A gentle tapping at the window pulled him from his reverie. He turned his head, faint curiosity flickering in his ancient eyes.
In this world, very few souls still knew where he lived. His home was wrapped in enchantments; only those who could be counted on one hand knew exactly how to reach him — and none would disturb him without cause. Had Grindelwald escaped Nurmengard? The thought flickered through his mind and passed.
Yet even with his curiosity piqued, Flamel did not rise. When he'd helped subdue Grindelwald decades ago, he'd already been trembling with age — now he was slower still. Instead, he tapped a long, brittle nail on the table before him.
A pinprick of flame flared where he touched — a tiny alchemical array, no larger than a fingernail, but intricate beyond belief. From afar it might have looked like a single ember; up close, it was an entire world of runes and symbols.
At once, the far wall shuddered. Between the blue bricks, threads of firelight flickered, tracing the old mortar. The bricks rolled aside like receding tides until an alcove appeared — and within it, a girl stood motionless, her arms folded lightly across her chest, eyes closed.
When the passage opened fully, the girl's eyes fluttered open — but there was no human thought behind them. Her gaze was empty as she looked at Nicolas Flamel, waiting.
"Lisa, fetch the letter."
Without a word, the girl stepped forward. She opened the window, took the letter from the owl's leg, then turned to the kitchen. She found a handful of nuts that had not yet spoiled and set them on the sill for the owl, before returning to place the letter gently in Flamel's waiting hand. Then she drew the blanket more snugly over his knees and resumed her place behind him, silent as ever.
In his long life, Nicolas Flamel had crafted countless alchemical puppets. He had forged the Philosopher's Stone, but never a puppet that truly lived. Among them, Lisa was the closest he had come — she could react, perform tasks, and even respond to simple cues. But she did not think. She did not feel. In the end, she remained what she had always been: a puppet, not a person.
It was one of Flamel's few regrets, lingering quietly in the vast expanse of his years.
With trembling hands, Nicolas Flamel broke the seal, his eyes lingering for a moment on Dumbledore's familiar signature on the outer envelope. A soft smile touched his lips — only Albus would reach out to him like this.
Inside, he found not just one letter but two — Dumbledore's own note, and another sealed envelope tucked within it. He unfolded Dumbledore's letter first, curiosity flickering through the lines of his ancient face.
The note was brief, as Dumbledore's messages so often were — a few lines, simple and clear. And yet, when Flamel finished reading, surprise and disbelief stirred in his tired heart.
"Antonius Hopkins…"
The words slipped from his dry lips, and for a moment the name alone seemed to lift the shadows in the room.
This was no ordinary name. Antonius Hopkins — the alchemist who had walked the world even before Nicolas himself, the legend of the Golden Age of Alchemy. His few surviving treatises on the alchemy of life were coveted like the Philosopher's Stone itself. If this letter truly came from him…
Then perhaps Nicolas Flamel was not so eager for death after all.
Impatience — true, boyish impatience — stirred in his chest, so rare that it made him chuckle softly at himself. With an unsteady breath, he tore open the inner envelope.
His eyes fell first on the handwriting — and disappointment pricked him at once. The script was neat, careful, but wrong. Not the style of ink and quill from centuries ago. Flamel's excitement dulled, just slightly. But centuries of life had tempered his mind — where another might scoff and toss it aside, Nicolas only settled deeper in his chair and read on.
Line by line, his brow furrowed — and then slowly lifted.
The deeper he read, the clearer it became: the knowledge laid out here was no forgery cobbled together by some modern charlatan. The theories alone could fill the front page of The Philosopher's Stone journal for months — and not one living alchemist today could have written them. Nicolas knew that as surely as he knew the taste of black tea on his tongue.
Not every idea in the letter was flawless — some solutions were missteps, but even those mistakes held more value than the tidy, stagnant consensus that modern alchemists clung to. A few lines, in fact, went further than Nicolas's own work — bold, brilliant insights that made him lean forward in his chair, eyes bright behind sunken lids.
When at last he laid the parchment down, Nicolas Flamel felt it in his bones: Antonius Hopkins might indeed still exist. Ghost, spirit, echo — whatever form he wore, the mind in this letter was real.
He turned to the silent figure waiting behind him."Lisa," he said softly, his voice hoarse but alive with a spark that had long lain dormant. "Fetch me what remains of the Elixir of Life. It seems I may need to live a little longer after all."
The puppet-girl blinked once, then drifted away on silent feet.
"And bring me parchment," Nicolas called after her, a faint smile tracing the cracks of his lips. "And my quill. I have a letter to write — and you will deliver it for me."