As Perenelle had said, a gathering of elderly gentlemen and ladies mostly revolved around academic discussions.
However, since everyone specialised in different fields, they naturally formed small circles, chatting in groups of two or three about their respective topics.
Maxime had initially intended to catch up with Wayne, but Damocles, utterly lacking in tact, pulled him aside to discuss the Wolfsbane Potion—much to the displeasure of the Beauxbatons Headmaster.
"I tried out the idea you mentioned last time. There were some changes, but the difference wasn't too significant, and the cost increased quite a bit."
The Wolfsbane Potion was a vital medication used by Werewolves, taken daily for one week prior to the full moon. While it did not prevent the physical transformation, it allowed the drinker to retain their rational mind and consciousness, eliminating the threat they would normally pose during the full moon.
However, this potion had apparent limitations. After consumption, the Werewolf would experience extreme physical weakness, beginning with the transformation and continuing for up to three days after the full moon. During this period, they were left exhausted and largely unable to engage in regular activity.
As a result, Werewolves spent roughly one-third of every month in a debilitated state—a week preparing with the potion, a night of painful transformation, and three days of recovery. Despite its benefits, the Wolfsbane Potion was not a cure, but rather a compromise that offered limited safety at the expense of significant physical strain.
Another issue was that the Wolfsbane Potion was too difficult to brew and too niche.
Only a handful of people in the entire wizarding world could prepare it, and almost none were willing to invest the effort and materials required.
Only Damocles, its inventor, continued his research on it tirelessly.
This was also tied to his childhood experiences.
Damocles' father had been bitten by a Werewolf in an accident, and every full moon thereafter, he would stay far away from his family.
But once, he miscalculated the time and didn't realise it was the night of the full moon. Tragedy struck—Damocles' mother and two older brothers all perished, with only him, away at school, escaping the disaster.
After regaining consciousness, his father, unable to bear the reality, chose to take his own life.
From then on, Damocles vowed to develop a potion that could help all Werewolves, ensuring such tragedies would never happen again.
"I think you could shift your approach," Wayne said slowly, taking a sip of tea. "Suppressing the bloodline ability isn't wrong.
"But we could also use a combination of potions to eliminate the side effects. Used together, the drinker would still feel weak, but at least they wouldn't be bedridden for days."
Damocles frowned after hearing this. "The Wolfsbane Potion is too toxic—ordinary restorative draughts have no effect.
"Many can't even be taken because the properties would clash."
"Lionfish spine powder, sorrowful grubs, fairy wings, dittany, bezoar..." Wayne listed an ingredient combination along with the brewing process, leaving Damocles pondering deeply.
After a long pause, he finally said, "It is indeed a potion targeting the body and toxicity, but..."
"Don't rush—there's one last ingredient." Wayne lowered his voice. "Vampire blood."
Damocles' tightly furrowed brows gradually relaxed.
"Brilliant!" He clapped his hands and stood up abruptly.
"Vampire blood can suppress the violent effects of sorrowful grubs while neutralising the bezoar's overly potent detoxification, without interfering with the Wolfsbane Potion's efficacy. Mr Lawrence, you're truly a genius."
Overcome with excitement, Damocles barely spared another word for Wayne before rushing off to find Nicolas Flamel, who was chatting with someone else.
"Nicolas, I need a quiet room and some potion ingredients," he told Nicolas Flamel, relaying the formula Wayne had just mentioned.
"Nabby," Nicolas called, and the House-elf appeared instantly. "Take Damocles and fulfil all his requests."
"Yes, master."
Soon, the two departed.
Newt curiously approached Wayne. "Why are you researching Wolfsbane Potion?"
Wayne replied honestly, "Snape taught me, but I thought the side effects were too severe, so I wanted to improve it. Never expected it to work straight away."
If Damocles heard this, he might well leap off a building in shame.
After all, he had spent thirty years successfully inventing the Wolfsbane Potion, then another century refining it to its current state.
Yet Wayne claimed it had worked "straight away."
"Ah." Newt patted the young man's shoulder. "If you can help them, do. Some Werewolves live in dire straits."
He knew a few Werewolf friends, all of whom were struggling in poverty.
Even though they were victims themselves, society still discriminated fiercely against Werewolves.
"I will," Wayne nodded.
He hadn't researched this to keep it secret—the wider it spread, the better, not for profit, but for reputation.
Even someone like Lupin, relatively well-off among Werewolves, had no money to speak of.
But with a solid reputation, intangible prestige would grow—a form of capital in itself.
As for making money, weren't there Slytherin's big sucke... loyal friends for that? They were his steadfast allies!
With Damocles gone, Wayne chatted with Maxime before wandering around the room.
Eventually, he sidled up to Claudio Giussani and Hassan Mostafa, who were still arguing.
Mostafa wanted Giussani to speed up broom development, not just squeeze out a 5% improvement yearly.
With the Quidditch World Cup two years away—his last in office—Mostafa wanted a flawless finale.
Only greater speed could thrill audiences. But Giussani, profit-minded, refused to budge.
Nimbus had the technology, but annual updates meant Quidditch teams had to buy new brooms every year.
Wasn't that better than one explosive upgrade?
Giussani, famed in the industry as "Giussani the Skinner," wielded his pricing knife with finesse, leaving consumers both agonised and addicted.
As the argument flared again, a House-elf appeared.
Nicolas hastily intervened. "The feast is ready. Settle this after eating."
Reluctantly, the two headed out.
Wayne caught up with Giussani, asking about the Nimbus 2001.
Giussani replied readily, "Launching on the first next month. Quality Quidditch Supplies will sell it for 600 Galleons, but I can give you one at the factory price—500."
"Thank you, but I already have a Nimbus 2000," Wayne declined politely, then added, "Will the 2000's price drop?"
"That depends on the shop's promotions," Giussani said uncertainly. "Though usually, they discount it 20–30%."
"Right."
Then, Wayne sought out Mostafa, the President of the International Quidditch Association. "President, have you heard of a broom called the Firebolt?"
"The Firebolt?" Mostafa frowned. "I've heard of it. It's a concept product from a small workshop with just two people, even hiring Goblins as craftsmen at high wages. Honestly, I reckon they'll go bankrupt before the broom even gets produced."
Wayne perked up. "Do you know which country they're from?"
"Britain, actually. I've seen their report."
After getting the address, Wayne politely bid farewell and left.
Passing through a long corridor, the group entered a vast Great Hall. It was already filled with quite a few people—the so-called 'juniors' Nicolas had mentioned. But that didn't mean they were all young.
In Nicolas's eyes, anyone whose academic level or magical prowess hadn't reached a certain standard—or lacked their own unique insights—remained a junior, no matter if they'd lived for centuries.
For instance, the few middle-aged men greeting them at the entrance all looked older than Snape.
The arrival of their group drew everyone's attention.
These individuals represented the pinnacle of magical academia. Apart from Dumbledore, nearly every renowned wizard of the century had gathered here.
Only Nicolas Flamel could command such influence.
Among the crowd, Wayne stood out conspicuously amidst a sea of white-haired and bearded figures. People whispered, wondering whose child he was to be brought into such a core discussion.
"Wayne!"
A delighted female voice reached his ears.
Wayne, who had been quietly conversing with Newt, looked up in surprise toward the source of the voice.
"Fleur, you're here too?"
In France, only two girls would call his name in French—Gabrielle and Fleur.
Today, Fleur wore a blue satin robe that complemented her striking azure eyes. Unlike their last meeting, her silky hair wasn't pinned up but cascaded like a silver waterfall down to her waist.
Gone was some of her poised elegance, replaced instead by a youthful liveliness.
The girl left her seat and hurried toward Wayne, her flowing hair rippling like waves, drawing gazes as she moved.
"How did you end up here?" she asked excitedly.
Wayne replied matter-of-factly, "I came to Paris specifically to visit Mr Nicolas Flamel."
Without sparing another glance at the radiant, smiling girl, he peered past her.
"Where's Gabrielle?"
The smile on Fleur's lovely face faded slowly.
What was this?
She was standing right in front of him, and he was asking about a little brat instead?
"Madame Maxime brought me, along with a few other students," Fleur said irritably. "Of course Gabrielle didn't come."
"Also, I went to the address you gave me twice. Why were you never there? If the front desk hadn't confirmed it was your room, I'd have thought you lied to me."
"Oh, I completely forgot about that," Wayne said, smacking his forehead in frustration. "I moved into Nicolas' place the very next day and haven't left since."
He'd assumed Fleur was just being polite—he hadn't expected her to actually visit.
Besides, what was the appeal of women compared to magic? Right now, he could freely experiment with magic, but could he freely experiment with... huh?
"You've been staying at Nicolas Flamel's house recently?" Fleur exclaimed in a hushed voice.
"Are you two that close?"
Observing the two whispering to each other, Nicolas Flamel silently drifted over to Newt's side and handed him a bag of popcorn. "Fancy some?"
"Brilliant, Nicolas, I was just looking for some."
The two munched on popcorn while watching the scene unfold, wearing identical knowing smiles.
"...Ah, youth."
Thinking of something, Newt grinned even wider. "Nicolas, you wouldn't believe what this lad got up to at school..."
As they spoke, their expressions grew increasingly peculiar, brimming with schadenfreude.
Wayne remained completely unaware that Newt—the ultimate socially awkward introvert—would actually spread gossip about him.
He was busy apologising profusely to Fleur, promising to visit her after leaving Nicolas' house.
Just then, Madame Maxime, who had been walking more slowly, arrived. Seeing Wayne and Fleur together, she froze on the spot.
She hadn't even instructed Fleur to use feminine wiles yet—how had these two started chatting? Had Fleur somehow intuited her intentions and taken the initiative?
"Fleur, you know Mr Lawrence?"
"Madame." Upon seeing her Head of House, Fleur immediately composed herself and greeted respectfully.
"A few days ago, Wayne saved my sister. At the time..." Fleur briefly explained the situation.
Madame Maxime's expression became as peculiar as those of the popcorn-munching old men.
What a coincidence! This was... perfect!
She'd been worrying about how to get Fleur to help lure Wayne to Beauxbatons—saying it outright would be impossible, far too shameless. And with Fleur's peacock-proud disposition, she'd never agree to such scheming. Now, without any intervention, the two had formed a natural connection. Judging by Fleur's demeanour, she seemed rather taken with Wayne, too.
Everything was falling into place beautifully.
At this moment, Nicolas Flamel approached.
"Children, this isn't the place for chatting. Return to your seats."
Only then did Fleur realise how improper her behaviour had been. She hastily apologised and turned to return to her original seat.
"Ah, no need for that trouble, my dear. You may sit with Wayne," said Nicolas Flamel, even giving a conspiratorial wink.
Newt chuckled quietly behind them.
'A bunch of disgraceful old men,' Wayne thought darkly.
Fleur's cheeks pinkened as she glanced uncertainly at Madame Maxime.
Madame Maxime smiled approvingly. "Go on. You'll learn much by Mr Lawrence's side." She added meaningfully, "How much simpler things would be if Mr Lawrence were a Beauxbatons student."
Fleur missed the implication, but Wayne shot Madame Maxime a look. He said nothing, however, simply having Nabby guide him to his designated seat before inviting Fleur to sit beside him.
As everyone took their places, the previously empty table instantly filled with food. Nicolas Flamel kept his speech brief, offering only a few words of encouragement to the 'younger generation' before inviting them to dine.
Fleur could barely contain her excitement. She'd never imagined this visit would grant her a place at the head table with Nicolas Flamel, surrounded by such illustrious company. Especially as a native Frenchwoman and a student at Beauxbatons... For the students of Beauxbatons, Nicolas Flamel held an even higher place in their hearts than Dumbledore did among the Hogwarts students.
One was merely a Headmaster for a few decades, while the other was the legendary founder who had lived for centuries.
"Maxime, are you trying to lure Wayne to Beauxbatons?" Nicolas saw right through her intentions and asked bluntly.
"That was the idea. You must know how exceptional he is, don't you?" Maxime nodded.
"Of course, he's quite the remarkable young man," Nicolas Flamel remarked, then suddenly added, "But aren't you worried Dumbledore might give you trouble for this?"
"I'm not forcing Mr Lawrence," Maxime replied with a sly smile. "If he applies for a transfer voluntarily, even Dumbledore can't say anything about it."
Nicolas Flamel shook his head.
"You, you..." Newt, standing nearby, grew anxious and tried to speak, but the old man stopped him.
With a playful wink, Nicolas said, "Newt, let's not interfere in matters between the youngsters."
"But—" Newt attempted to protest.
"Consider it a small indulgence from the founder of Beauxbatons. Let it be decided by their own merits." With that, Nicolas turned his attention back to the two young people.
Newt had no choice but to silently pray that Wayne would resist the temptation.
"Try this—blanquette de veau. It's Pompeii's speciality," Wayne recommended to Fleur.
The girl took a bite and smiled in satisfaction. "It's truly excellent. As expected of the House-elves in Nicolas Flamel's household."
"How does it compare to Beauxbatons?"
"It's still much better. The French cuisine at school is too formulaic—it gets tiresome after a while."
"Changing things up occasionally isn't bad. Hogwarts' House-elves may not excel at French cuisine, but they do well with other dishes."
Fleur blinked. "But I can't exactly go to Hogwarts just to eat."
"You could apply for an exchange—spend a year as an exchange student."
Maxime had been closely observing their interaction, her initial cheerful expression gradually fading into silence.
Now, her face darkened further. Things weren't going as planned.
She had intended to recruit him, so why did it feel like Fleur was about to be whisked away by this boy?
Tsk.