France, Saint-Tropez.
Home to the world-famous Pampelonne Beach, where countless tourists flock each year to bask in the sun, the sea… and bikinis.
An old man lay sprawled under a sunshade. His withered, ancient appearance made onlookers wonder whether he might just stop breathing any second. For someone his age to still make it to the beach, many passersby threw him glances of genuine admiration.
The old man wore sunglasses, seemingly dozing. But if you got close enough, you'd hear…
"Oh, that's a good one—great curve on the backside."
"Mmm, not bad either. The sway's making me dizzy—real deal, definitely real deal."
"Oh-ho-ho, twins! Excellent."
"Tch, where'd this fat one come from? Out, out you go."
"Oof… that waist… that waist is going to be the death of me…"
Standing behind the parasol, Tom glanced down at the invitation in his hand, gave it a dubious thumbs-up, then looked at the old man again, his expression somewhere between disbelief and speechlessness.
Today was August 3rd. After lingering in New York for two extra days, Tom had used a Portkey he'd applied for in advance, traveling for several hours before arriving in Paris.
The moment he landed, the blank invitation Nicolas Flamel had sent him changed—right in the center of the parchment, a golden arrow appeared, pointing in a particular direction.
Tom immediately understood this was Flamel's way of guiding him, so he followed the arrow. At first, he assumed it would lead him somewhere within Paris.
Half an hour later, he realized something was wrong—the arrow's direction hadn't shifted at all. Eventually, he switched to flying.
He flew for over an hour—more than six hundred kilometers—before finally finding himself on this beach.
Now, staring at the old man drooling over beautiful women, Tom, for the first time in his life, began to doubt Nicolas Flamel's alchemical prowess. Could the invitation have led him to the wrong person?
"Child, you arrived much faster than I expected."
Tom was still hesitating when the old man spoke first, his voice warm and kindly—so much so that it jarred with the image of someone ogling a swimsuit model.
How could a man be this gentle while… looking at that?
But since the other had spoken, Tom stepped forward, stopping at the right side of the lounge chair. "Mr. Nicolas Flamel, is that you?"
"Haha, indeed, I am Nicolas Flamel." The old man reluctantly removed his sunglasses, casting one last longing glance at the beach before turning a smile on Tom.
"The invitation activated a little over an hour ago—did you get here from Paris already?"
"I've mastered a flying charm, so my travel time's much shorter," Tom confirmed, now certain of the man's identity. "Newt asked me to send his regards. He said once the French Ministry of Magic lifts its restrictions on him, he'll come visit you."
Flamel chuckled quietly. "That boy Newt… Tina's hold over him isn't as strict as it seems—he just doesn't want to cause her trouble."
Then, eyeing Tom, his gaze full of appreciation: "A flying charm is already a remarkable bit of magic, and yours is fast as well. Child, you've surprised me the moment we met."
Tom forced a polite smile. "And you've… surprised me too."
He'd actually meant shocked.
"Hahaha…"
Flamel handed Tom his sunglasses. "Let me guess—you expected me to be a strict, humorless old codger, like Albus?"
"No… more like Professor McGonagall?"
"Young people shouldn't cling to stereotypes." Flamel grinned. "Even a so-called 'master' is still human. Especially an old man like me who's lived for centuries—of course I yearn for youthful, beautiful bodies. Can't touch, can't move much… so I can only look."
"Come, come, you take a look too. You may not have much use for it now, but you can cultivate your taste."
"I… I think my taste is just fine," Tom said with a dry laugh, but he took the glasses.
Holy—X-ray vision?
Tom smoothly took them off and, just as smoothly, slipped them into his pocket.
Traditional alchemy meets modern fashion accessory. Excellent. Worth studying.
Seeing this, the smile in Flamel's eyes deepened.
Feeling hungry, Tom pulled out a burger Tina had made for him and started devouring it. He didn't bother offering any to the old man—with those few teeth about to fall out, one bite would probably finish them off.
Flamel sipped at his special liquid meal, watching Tom eat with such appetite that even his own bland food began to taste better.
Yes… he was literally using Tom as a side dish.
Once Tom finished, Flamel got up slowly, packed away his lounge chair, and, when no one was looking, shrank it and tucked it into his bag.
"I was planning to stay here till the afternoon, but since you're here, let's head home."
Following him, Tom said quietly, "If you like places like this, I can recommend one next time—Spain's a lot more exciting."
"How exciting? Just don't send this old man to an early grave."
Tom smirked. "I don't believe that for a second. After watching this long, you're already immune."
Flamel blinked, then burst out laughing.
…
Tom soon noticed that Flamel's legs weren't at all like in Fantastic Beasts, where he shuffled along as if death were right behind him. While his stride was short, the speed of his steps was surprisingly quick.
Then Tom spotted another secret.
Every one of Flamel's steps was exactly the same length. To Tom's trained eye, there wasn't even the tiniest deviation—steady and precise, like a machine.
"You've noticed?" Flamel caught his look and smiled. "You know the drawback of the Elixir of Life—it grants immortality, not eternal youth. If I had to rely solely on my body's own strength, I'd be lucky to walk ten meters."
"So… you also performed alchemical modifications on your body?" Tom supplied.
"Exactly." Flamel nodded. "Using alchemy to improve life—that's the very essence of the craft."
"How much of your body have you altered?" Tom asked curiously.
"Hmm… about thirty percent." Flamel thought for a moment. "That's enough. Any further, and I fear I'd lose my human instincts. Perhaps at that point, I might discover the true 'Philosopher's Stone'—but I wouldn't like it."
Tom nodded, not pressing further.
Human-body alchemy didn't interest him. He had always believed the human form was already perfect and held limitless potential. Flamel's path was a cornered man's desperate solution—not much worth referencing.