This was only natural—alchemy was never a pursuit for the poor.
Even with the Philosopher's Stone at his disposal, Nicolas Flamel had once been forced to assume countless identities, mingling with kings, dukes, and lords to secure resources. Wealth and influence were as necessary to an alchemist as parchment and quills.
A carriage rolled up to the estate gates. Fleur, who had been standing silently at Tom's side like a decorative vase, suddenly froze. Her eyes widened at the crest emblazoned on the coach.
An elderly wizard stepped down first… followed by a woman whose towering height made the word giantess feel like an understatement. Fleur gasped aloud:
"Professor Léonard? Madame Maxime?"
The tall woman's head turned instantly. Recognition flashed in her sharp eyes as she spotted Fleur.
"Fleur? What are you doing here?" she asked, striding forward with surprising speed for her size. She had admired this student greatly at Beauxbatons—yet here she was, tied somehow to Nicolas Flamel himself?
"I came with Tom," Fleur admitted shyly, her cheeks coloring.
Nicolas chuckled. "Allow me to introduce properly. Olympe Maxime, headmistress of Beauxbatons—your young lady's school. And Léonard, currently teaching alchemy there."
Fleur's blush deepened, but she didn't correct Nicolas. Girlfriend? Not yet… but perhaps someday.
"Good evening," Tom said politely, extending a hand to Maxime. The height difference forced him to reach up almost comically, nearly a right angle.
Maxime studied him curiously. "A Hogwarts student, and yet connected to Fleur? How exactly did you meet?"
"By chance," Tom replied smoothly. "I saved her life once. After that… we grew close."
"Ah, destiny then," Maxime said, a teasing note in her voice. "One at Hogwarts, one at Beauxbatons… Why not transfer, hmm? That way you could be together every day."
She didn't yet know Tom's full story, but anyone favored by Nicolas Flamel was hardly ordinary. Poaching such a student was worth a try.
Fleur's heart leapt—she'd wanted to ask that herself, but had been too shy. Her eyes shone with quiet hope.
But Nicolas stepped in smoothly, rescuing Tom. "Olympe, do you want Dumbledore pounding at your gates? If Tom were to transfer, the man would never forgive you. You'd have Albus camped at Beauxbatons, and I'd laugh myself sick."
Maxime stiffened. She hadn't realized Dumbledore valued the boy so highly. (In truth, it was less about value and more about containment—better to keep Tom Riddle in Hogwarts than loose him upon the wider world.) At the image of Dumbledore storming her school, she shuddered faintly and gave Fleur an apologetic smile before allowing herself to be escorted inside.
At last, the final guest arrived, and Tom returned to the grand hall.
The tables glittered with exquisite dishes, and conversation filled the room. As the meal progressed, Nicolas formally introduced Tom once more. When the guests learned that this boy was none other than the author of The Chronicles of the Wizarding World, many were visibly shocked.
Nicolas' own manner toward Tom only deepened their respect. Clearly, this was no ordinary apprentice.
In truth, the night felt less like Flamel's gathering and more like his public endorsement of his disciple. The message was plain: This boy is mine. Give him face, and lend him your support.
Of course, support would come—every wizard present owed Nicolas some debt of wisdom or favor. But curiosity lingered: what, truly, was Tom Riddle capable of?
And so, as wine flowed and plates emptied, conversation drifted—naturally, inevitably—toward alchemy.
Nicolas chuckled and gave Tom a meaningful glance. He would not intervene. This trial was his student's alone.
But was it truly Tom who was being tested… or the guests? Against raw genius, even centuries of study could crumble.
The result was swift and humiliating.
The first few questions Tom dispatched with calm precision. Then came deeper, more layered topics—each unravelled by the boy with effortless clarity. The scholars, who had nodded confidently at first, soon began to falter. Their theories fell apart when pressed, their arguments stumbling.
They realized, with a creeping chill, that Tom was not merely correct. He was unchallenged. Nicolas sat in silence, never once moving to correct him—clear proof that the boy's words held weight.
One by one, the proud alchemists grew pale and silent. Questions grew weaker, desperate diversions into other fields—only to be steamrolled again.
At last, an elderly witch dabbed sweat from her brow and turned to Nicolas with a strained smile.
"Enough games, Nicolas. Your invitation promised that young Riddle has made a remarkable invention. At such a point in the evening, surely it's time to show us?"
Nicolas barked a laugh. "What's the matter? Can't keep up?"
The old wizard looked like a mischievous child in that moment, relishing their embarrassment.
"This boy's talent is enough to make anyone envious. In alchemy, in magic, his gifts shine alike. And tonight…" Nicolas paused, letting anticipation tighten the air. "Tonight, he will show you a creation that—without exaggeration—outshines even the Philosopher's Stone."
The hall erupted in gasps.
"You can't be serious," Maxime said sharply. "However skilled young Riddle may be, the Stone is your life's masterpiece."
"I speak not of difficulty," Nicolas explained, smiling. "But of meaning. The Stone was my personal tool, a treasure for myself. Tom's invention, however, will reshape the wizarding world. It can fulfill the dream I never could—alchemy for all, not just the few."
The guests murmured, awe and hunger mixing in their eyes. What could it be, this creation worthy of such words?
With a wave of Nicolas' hand, the feast vanished—plates, scraps, and wine swept clean in an instant. The long table gleamed.
Two house-elves entered, arms laden with neat stacks of notebooks, placing one before each guest.
Tom rose from his seat.
The stage was his.