The first thing Victor saw after the transport was a completely ordinary stone cottage, heavily overgrown with withered ivy. It looked as if it had sunk into the ground from old age. Victor frowned, surveying the drab gray facade, turned to Dumbledore, and stubbornly crossed his arms over his chest.
— I am not living in this hovel, especially in the company of some old hermit, — he said, his entire demeanor radiating protest.
— You spent half your life in a damp cage and the other half in a small hospital ward. Where did this sudden aristocratic fastidiousness come from? — Dumbledore raised an eyebrow with interest, looking at him.
Victor sighed heavily, adjusting his collar.
— It's the money. It has corrupted me. It turns out I have a great weakness for luxury, — there was a hint of either remorse or pride in his voice.
Dumbledore nodded understandingly.
— I suppose we are all, to some extent, defenseless against the good life. Well then, come along. I'm sure our hosts have been waiting for us. — Dumbledore nudged him toward the lopsided gate.
As they approached the door, it swung open smoothly on its own. Once inside, Victor froze, and his eyes widened. The foyer alone was larger than the entire house he had seen from the outside. High ceilings made of light stone, floors inlaid with mosaics of rare woods, and a soft amber light that seemed to flow from nowhere. On the walls hung paintings, and silver suits of armor stood along the walls, emitting a faint magical pressure. Victor knew that if they started moving, even he would have a hard time dealing with them.
Noticing his stunned silence, Dumbledore smirked:
— Does this meet your standards now?
Victor nodded slowly, shifting his gaze to a magnificent chandelier hovering in the air.
— Impressive... And whose house is this?
— Albus, you've finally arrived! — a hearty voice called out from the depths of the house. — Perenelle was already worried we'd have to reheat the food.
A man and a woman walked out to meet them. Despite their venerable age, there was a lightness and grace in their movements not typical of the elderly.
— Nick, Perenelle, my apologies. I didn't expect packing would take so long. By the way, meet Victor.
— Hello, Victor. My name is Nicolas, and this is my wife, Perenelle. Please, don't be shy; make yourself at home.
But Victor didn't answer. He just stood rooted to the spot, staring at Flamel without even blinking, as if he'd been hit by a powerful petrification charm. Receiving no response, Nicolas looked at Dumbledore inquiringly.
— Don't worry, he's quite alright. He just needs a moment to process the information.
— Are you sure? — Perenelle approached worriedly, peering into the boy's face. — Albus, I don't think he's breathing.
At that moment, Victor snapped out of it. He practically lunged at Nicolas and began shaking his hand with frenzied strength.
— Mr. Flamel! I am incredibly happy to meet you in person! I've read mountains of your books on alchemy! I especially loved the work on runes — your explanation of their application is simply brilliant and easy to understand! And the fact that half of the world's advanced runic chains were created by you — that's just wow! And the Philosopher's Stone, I...
He didn't get to finish — Dumbledore reached out and gently took his hand, liberating poor Flamel.
— That's enough, you'll pull his arm off.
— Ha-ha-ha! It's quite alright, I'm not that fragile, — Nicolas laughed, flexing his wrist. — I'm flattered that the younger generation still admires an old man like me.
— Yes, he's clearly overexcited to see his idol, — Dumbledore added. — If you only knew, Nick, how much he was whining today about having to live with... — His words were cut off by a sharp elbow to the ribs. Dumbledore doubled over, the air whistling out of his lungs.
— Don't listen to this senile nonsense! — Victor interrupted, smiling broadly. — He's just jealous that I respect someone more than him.
Then he turned to Perenelle and spoke in pure, refined French:
— Glad to meet you, Madame Flamel. Please excuse this somewhat confusing scene.
Perenelle laughed genuinely. — It's quite alright. I'm used to being invisible when my husband is around.
— Oh, they shouldn't do that. As the saying goes: behind every great man stands a great woman.
Perenelle smiled:
— Thank you! Your French is very good.
— Thank you. Studying languages is a small hobby of mine, — he replied modestly, though triumphant sparks danced in his eyes.
— Well, why are we standing at the threshold? Nicolas, lead Albus to the dining room. Victor, please follow me.
— With great pleasure! — Victor nodded and followed the hostess. Walking down the hall, he suddenly paused for a split second and took a deep breath. — Oh... I smell the tantalizing aroma of Baeckeoffe! Spiced meat marinated in white wine, and slow-cooked potatoes... I can't wait to taste the original.
Perenelle stopped abruptly and looked at him in amazement:
— You identified the dish from a faint scent from the kitchen?
— Yes, I've taken up cooking seriously lately, but I must admit: my homemade Baeckeoffe turned out a bit dry, even though I followed the recipe exactly.
— Recipes are only a framework, — Perenelle laughed softly, taking his arm. — The secret is in the clay pot and the correct order of the layers. Tell me exactly what you did, and I'll tell you where you went wrong.
— Of course! Well, first I marinated the beef and pork in dry Riesling for a full day, and then... — their voices began to fade, dissolving into the depths of the long corridor.
As they disappeared around the corner, Flamel turned to Dumbledore. The latter was still wincing, cautiously rubbing his bruised side where Victor's elbow had landed.
— You were right, Albus. This is... an extremely unusual child.
Dumbledore gave a wry smile, watching his student go:
— Believe me, Nick, you haven't even seen ten percent of his true self yet. I suspect he will make you wonder more in the coming weeks than you have in the last hundred years.
After breakfast, Dumbledore prepared to leave. He motioned for Victor to step outside for a private word.
— I truly believe: if anyone is capable of helping you harness what rages inside you, it is the Flamel family, — Dumbledore stopped and looked at Victor over his spectacles with a piercing, testing gaze. — But I ask you, Victor: behave yourself. The last thing I want is a letter from Nicolas begging me to take you back immediately.
Victor rolled his eyes.
— I know my manners perfectly well. You don't need to lecture me like a small child.
— But you are a child, — Dumbledore countered gently.
Victor froze for a second. And sighed.
— Haaa, can't even argue with that. Fine, let's drop it. To be honest... how exactly is this old man going to help me? Is he going to invent some alchemical muzzle that knocks me out every time I feel like swatting someone?
Dumbledore shook his head slowly.
— I said they would help you understand yourself, not suppress your nature with brute force. Remember I mentioned a man who worked years ago with children facing the same... darkness? That man was Nicolas.
— Хm, experienced mentor — that inspires some confidence, — Victor muttered. — And what happened to those children in the end? How did the story finish?
He didn't get to finish. A sudden, triumphant cry from Fawkes rang out in the sky. The space around Dumbledore exploded in a blinding vortex of sparks, and the Headmaster vanished instantly in a flash of golden flame.
Victor stood on the porch, pouting in annoyance.
— Hmm, show-off. But damn, how cool that is. I want a phoenix too.
He stood there for a moment longer, looking at the spot where Dumbledore had just been, then sighed heavily and headed back toward the house.
— Fine, let him brag about his chicken. At least I'm young; he should be picking out a spot in a graveyard by now.