The days before France passed in a blur.

  Rowan spent his mornings reviewing alchemical theory from books he'd purchased in Diagon Alley, his afternoons practicing advanced spellwork in his abandoned classroom, and his evenings in the library researching everything he could find about Nicholas Flamel's published works.

  The castle remained mostly empty, which suited him perfectly. The few students who'd stayed kept to themselves, still processing exam results or simply enjoying unprecedented freedom.

  Iris had become his constant companion during these final days. They practiced Legilimency and Occlumency together each morning, and spent afternoons discussing magical theory and Rowan's plans for the summer.

  "Promise me you'll write," she said one evening by the common room fireplace. "I want to know what you're learning, what the Flamels are like, everything."

  "I will. Though I suspect Nicholas Flamel will keep me too busy to write long letters."

  "Then write short ones. Just... stay in touch. And Rowan?" She looked at him seriously. "Be careful. The Flamels are famous for good reasons, but they're also centuries old and likely see the world very differently than we do. Don't lose yourself trying to impress them."

  "I won't. I know who I am and what I'm trying to accomplish. The Flamels are teachers, not masters."

  "Good." Iris relaxed slightly. "I'd hate to have you come back all mysterious and abstract."

  Rowan smiled. "I make no promises about avoiding mystery. But I'll still be myself."

  The twentieth of June arrived with clear skies and warm sunshine.

  Rowan packed his trunk carefully. Not the extensive collection of belongings he'd accumulated over the year, but a smaller selection as Nicholas had suggested. His best robes, essential textbooks, his journal, and the books on alchemy he'd been studying.

  At precisely noon, there was a knock on the dormitory door.

  Rowan opened the door to find Professor Weasley holding what appeared to be an old boot.

  "Mr. Ashcroft. Your transportation has arrived. Are you ready?"

  "Yes, Professor."

  "Then please place your hand on the Portkey. It's keyed to activate at 12:05, which gives us... three minutes."

  Rowan shouldered his pack and lifted his trunk, extending his free hand toward the boot. The moment his fingers touched the cracked leather, he felt the familiar tug of Portkey magic. Not yet activated, but present and waiting.

  "I trust you'll make good use of this opportunity," Professor Weasley said. "Nicholas Flamel is an extraordinary wizard and teacher. You'll learn things at his home that aren't taught at any school."

  "I intend to, Professor. Thank you for arranging everything."

  "You've brought considerable honor to Hogwarts this year, Mr. Ashcroft. The youngest tournament finalist in history, top marks in nearly every subject. Try not to let fame go to your head, however. You're still very young, and there's much you haven't learned yet."

  "I'm aware, Professor."

  "Good. Then I'll leave you to—"

  The Portkey activated.

  Rowan felt the hook behind his navel, and the world dissolved into spinning colour and compressed sensation. His trunk banged against his legs, his pack slipped on his shoulder, and for several dizzying seconds he was falling through nothing and everything simultaneously.

  Then his feet hit solid ground. Cobblestones. He stumbled forward before catching his balance. His stomach churned violently, but his Occlumency training helped him push past the nausea and assess his surroundings.

  He stood in an empty lane.

  Fields stretched away on either side, green and gold under the summer sun. A low stone wall ran along the road to his left, and beyond it a vineyard climbed a gentle slope. The lane stretched on with nothing at the end of it.

  Then Nicholas Flamel stepped out from behind the wall, beaming.

  "Rowan! Excellent, the Portkey worked perfectly. How was the journey? Not too nauseating, I hope?" He was already hurrying forward, his movements energetic despite his apparent age. Today he wore simple robes in dark blue, his white hair slightly dishevelled as though he'd been working. Perenelle was beside him, her expression warm and amused.

  "Before we go any further," she said, "there's something you need to hear." Her tone shifted, taking on a formal cadence that felt older than the words themselves. "The home of Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel may be found at the end of the Chemin des Vignes, commune of Meudon."

  The Fidelius. Rowan knew what it was, had known since long before Hogwarts, though he'd never expected to experience it firsthand. The moment she finished speaking, the air shimmered and the world rearranged itself. Another stone wall materialised where there had been nothing, then an arched gateway, and beyond it a courtyard with climbing roses and a fountain splashing over carved alchemical symbols. Behind it stood a house, three stories of honey-coloured stone with tall windows and a slate roof. An entire home, conjured into existence by a sentence.

  "Remarkable, isn't it?" Nicholas said, watching Rowan's face. "Five hundred years and I still enjoy that expression." He grabbed Rowan’s trunk, led the way through the gateway into the courtyard, and chatted as he went. "We're about thirty kilometres outside Paris proper, in the countryside. It’s quieter here, fewer interruptions from well-meaning but tedious officials and scholars who want to 'just ask one quick question' that inevitably turns into three hours of debate. Not that I mind debate, you understand, but when one is in the middle of a delicate transmutation, interruptions are catastrophic!"

  The interior of the house was exactly what Rowan had hoped for and nothing like what he'd expected simultaneously.

  The entrance hall was modest. Polished wooden floors, a few paintings on the walls, one of which appeared to be moving, and a staircase leading upward. But through an open doorway to the left, he caught a glimpse of a room whose shelves were packed floor-to-ceiling with books, scrolls, and alchemical apparatus.

  "Your room is on the second floor," Nicholas said, guiding him up the stairs. "Perenelle and I occupy the third floor, and the ground floor is mostly working space. Library, laboratory, workshop. You're welcome to use any of it, though do please ask before touching anything that's actively bubbling or glowing. Some of our experiments are quite temperamental."

  The second floor hallway was lined with more bookshelves. Apparently every available wall in the house was dedicated to storing knowledge. Nicholas opened a door near the stairs and gestured Rowan inside.

  The bedroom was larger than Rowan's dormitory at Hogwarts and significantly more luxurious. A four-poster bed with deep blue hangings occupied one wall, a writing desk sat beneath the window overlooking the garden, and an entire wall was devoted to empty bookshelves.

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  "I left those empty for you," Nicholas explained. "Figured you'd want to fill them with whatever books you're working through. Feel free to borrow from our library. Anything that interests you. Just return them when you're finished and keep track of what you've taken. I've been known to forget where I've put things, and Perenelle gets cross when she can't find reference materials she needs."

  "This is more than generous, sir. Thank you."

  "Nonsense! We're delighted to have you." Nicholas gestured around the room. "The wardrobe has expansion charms if you need more space. The desk has a full set of writing supplies. There's a bathroom two doors down the hall. Make yourself comfortable, unpack, and then come down to the garden. It's through the door at the back of the entrance hall. We'll have lunch and discuss your curriculum."

  After Nicholas left, Rowan stood alone in the bedroom and allowed himself a moment of pure satisfaction.

  He was here. In the home of Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel. About to begin an education that no other student his age could dream of receiving.

  He unpacked efficiently, organizing his belongings in the wardrobe and arranging his books on the empty shelves. Then he splashed water on his face in the bathroom, checked his appearance in the mirror, and made his way downstairs to the garden.

  The garden was even more impressive than the courtyard. Carefully tended beds overflowed with plants Rowan didn't recognize. Some growing in patterns that suggested deliberate magical arrangement, others in wild profusion that somehow still looked intentional. A large table sat beneath an old oak tree, already set with plates, glasses, and a pitcher of what looked like lemonade.

  Perenelle was seated at the table, reading a leather-bound tome. She looked up as Rowan approached.

  "Ah, our guest. I trust Nicholas showed you to your room adequately?"

  "He did, madam. Thank you for having me."

  "Sit, sit. Nicholas will be along shortly. He's fetching lunch from the kitchen. Tell me, Rowan, what specifically do you hope to learn this summer?"

  Rowan had prepared for this question. "Everything I can about alchemy, primarily. But also about magical innovation, about combining different disciplines to create new applications, about the theoretical foundations that underlie advanced magic."

  "Ambitious. Good. We don't have patience for students who want easy answers or quick results. Alchemy demands dedication." Perenelle closed her book. "I should warn you. We're not traditional teachers. We don't follow a curriculum or assign homework in the conventional sense. We'll expose you to knowledge, demonstrate techniques, answer questions. But the learning itself is your responsibility."

  "I understand. I prefer it that way, actually."

  "Excellent. Then we should get along well."

  Nicholas emerged from the house carrying a platter of sandwiches and a bowl of fruit. "Lunch! Nothing fancy. Perenelle insists we don't waste time on elaborate meals when there's work to be done. I'd spend hours cooking if she let me. I find the process meditative, you see, much like potion-making but with more immediate gratification."

  They ate lunch in the garden, and Rowan found himself relaxing in a way he rarely did. The Flamels were brilliant, yes, but also warm, welcoming, genuinely interested in him as a person rather than just a prodigy to study.

  After lunch, Nicholas gave him a tour of the ground floor.

  The library was magnificent. Three walls of books from floor to ceiling, with a rolling ladder to access the higher shelves. Rowan recognized titles he'd only heard of in references, rare volumes that no Hogwarts student would have access to, and entire sections devoted to subjects he'd barely begun to explore.

  "Take your time exploring," Nicholas said. "Everything here is available to you except the locked cabinet in the corner. That contains genuinely dangerous material that requires more experience to handle safely. But everything else? Read whatever interests you."

  The laboratory was exactly what Rowan had imagined when he thought "alchemist's workshop." Workbenches lined the walls, covered with cauldrons, retorts, alembics, and other apparatus. Shelves held jars of ingredients, bottles of reagents, and containers of substances that glowed, bubbled, or otherwise demonstrated their magical nature. The air smelled of herbs and metal and something indefinably alchemical.

  "This is where the real work happens," Nicholas said, his voice reverent despite his usual enthusiasm. "Alchemy isn't just theory. It's practice, experimentation, careful observation of how substances interact and transform. You'll spend considerable time here once we've covered the foundational concepts."

  "And try not to blow anything up," he added cheerfully. "Though if you do, the laboratory has excellent fire-suppression charms. I replaced them after the third incident."

  "This year or total?" Rowan asked.

  "This year. Alchemy is an experimental art. Failures are learning opportunities!"

  The workshop was the final room. A space devoted to more physical magical work. Rune-carving tools, enchanting implements, half-finished magical devices, and shelves full of raw materials filled the space.

  "This is where I work on practical applications," Nicholas said. "Magical devices, enchanted objects, that sort of thing. You mentioned interest in innovation. This is where that happens. Feel free to use the space for your own projects."

  Rowan's mind was already spinning with possibilities.

  They returned to the garden, where Perenelle poured more lemonade and they settled into comfortable chairs in the shade.

  "I should mention," Perenelle said, "that while we're happy to have you here and eager to teach you, we do expect you to take your studies seriously. Nicholas can be quite jovial, but don't mistake that for lack of rigor. Alchemy demands precision, patience, and genuine intellectual engagement. If you're not willing to put in the work, you won't accomplish anything."

  "I'm willing to work harder than you can imagine," Rowan said. "I didn't survive the mills through lack of dedication."

  "Fair enough." She nodded. "Then we'll see what you're capable of. Nicholas, what did you plan for his first theoretical lesson tomorrow?"

  "I thought we'd start with the basic principles. The three philosophical stages, the four elements, the relationship between microcosm and macrocosm. Build the conceptual framework before moving to practical transmutation."

  "Solid approach. I'll prepare some reading materials for him this evening."

  As afternoon faded toward evening, Rowan found himself relaxing completely. Nicholas's enthusiasm was infectious, while Perenelle's sharp intellect reminded him of Professor Weasley. Demanding but fair.

  When dinner came, a light meal of soup and fresh bread eaten at the same garden table, the conversation shifted.

  "So," Nicholas said, tearing off a piece of bread, "we've read your interview, and you've told us plenty about your vision. What I want to hear about are specifics. What do you actually want to build first?"

  Rowan had been thinking about this for weeks. "Communication. We rely on owls, which are slow and unreliable over long distances. Muggles have telegraphs that send messages instantly across hundreds of miles. There's no reason magic can't achieve the same result, some kind of enchanted device that transmits voices or written messages over any distance, privately, without requiring both parties to be present."

  "The Floo Network allows communication," Nicholas pointed out.

  "It requires a connected fireplace, both parties present at the same time, and no privacy whatsoever. I'm thinking about something portable. A device you carry with you."

  Nicholas stroked his beard. "You're talking about combining enchantment, charms work, and runic magic into a single integrated system. Runic arrays for the sustained function, alchemical bonding to link paired devices, charms for the actual transmission." He was already thinking through the architecture. "The core challenge is maintaining the magical connection over distance. Paired objects lose sympathetic resonance beyond a certain range."

  "Which is why I need to understand how those disciplines actually interact at a fundamental level. Hogwarts teaches them separately. I need to learn how to make them work together."

  "That," Perenelle said, "is exactly what alchemy is. The art of combining things that don't naturally combine." She poured more lemonade. "What else?"

  "Lighting. Permanent magical lighting that doesn't require a wand or a caster. Food preservation. Medical applications. Dozens of problems the wizarding world accepts as unsolvable because no one's approached them as engineering challenges."

  "Good," Nicholas said. "Ambitious, but good. The communication device is the right place to start. It's complex enough to teach you the fundamentals of multi-discipline integration, but contained enough to actually build in a summer. We'll get to the rest over time."

  They talked until the stars came out. Nicholas described devices he'd seen attempted over the centuries, a paired set of journals that copied each other's writing until the binding charm degraded and they started copying every book in the room, a French alchemist's singing teapot that wouldn't stop, a self-stirring potion rod that worked beautifully until it stirred its way through the bottom of the cauldron.

  By the time Rowan retired to his room, his mind was quieter than it had been in months.

  He climbed into bed and extinguished the lamp with a whispered "Nox." Through the window, stars were visible in the clear French sky, brighter than they ever appeared in London.

  Tomorrow, his real education would begin.