Nicolas Flamel.
The name reverberated violently through Alan's mind palace. It was more than just a name — it was a symbol, a legend etched into magical history for over six centuries. The sole creator of the Philosopher's Stone, a towering authority in the field of alchemy.
Alan had never imagined that his path would intersect with such a living legend in this way.
He followed Professor Flitwick, the small figure darting nimbly ahead. They were not walking through ordinary corridors; the tapestries on the walls rippled like water under the touch of Flitwick's wand, revealing deep stone stairs that spiraled upward. The air grew increasingly dry, carrying the mixed scent of ancient stone and centuries of time.
Eventually, they stopped before an unadorned oak door, quietly standing at the top of the tower as if it had been there since the castle's founding, overlooking the Forbidden Forest and the ebb and flow of the Black Lake. This was a restricted area of Hogwarts, a space unmarked on any map.
Flitwick raised his hand and tapped the door three times.
The door slid open silently.
An elderly woman appeared. Time had etched countless fine lines across her face, yet her eyes shone like the warm sun on an autumn afternoon — gentle and serene. Her gray hair was neatly pinned back, and she wore a dark-colored gown, radiating a calming, soothing aura.
Perenele Flamel.
She smiled, speaking little, but with a gentle sideways motion, she welcomed Alan inside.
The sight inside instantly captivated Alan. A warm fire licked the massive stone fireplace, bathing the entire circular room in a soft orange glow. The air carried a strange, unique scent — a mixture of herbs, metals, and some unknown spice — not pungent but invigorating, awakening his senses.
In a high-backed armchair by the fireplace sat a man.
His form exceeded anything Alan had ever imagined the word "aged" could describe. His skin was shriveled and wrinkled, tightly clinging to his bones like dried parchment, its texture and color that of long-dried paper. He was so thin it seemed a single gust of wind could blow him away.
Yet, when he lifted his head, Alan's breath caught.
What eyes those were.
There was none of the cloudiness or fatigue one would expect from an elderly man. Instead, they were as clear as a mountain lake formed from melting spring snow. At the bottom of that lake lay endless wisdom and insight, and a gentle radiance flowed within, as if all the mysteries of the world were laid bare under this gaze.
This was Nicolas Flamel.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Scott."
Flamel spoke softly. His voice carried a breathy rasp, like dry straw, yet held an unusual clarity and penetrative force, reaching Alan's ears and resonating directly in his mind.
"Filius has already told me about you."
His gaze settled on Alan, unashamedly filled with admiration, as if evaluating a rare masterpiece.
"A first-year student with such profound insight into information magic — rarer than seeing a fire-breathing dragon tap-dance."
Alan's heartbeat quickened slightly. It wasn't nervousness, but an intellectual excitement at encountering a kindred mind. He bowed respectfully to the legendary alchemist.
Then he took from his pocket the parchment imprinted with the "garbled symbols" and presented it with both hands.
He spoke without reservation, using the most precise and concise language to fully explain his hypotheses about the "information encryption protocol" and the "key." He did not rely on flourish or embellishment; every word was like a command carefully calculated within his mind palace, cutting straight to the heart of the problem.
Nicolas Flamel listened intently.
At first, the admiration in his wise eyes gradually shifted to astonishment. That astonishment grew so intense it nearly became tangible. For the first time, a pronounced expression appeared on his usually calm, almost impassive face.
When Alan finished speaking, the room fell into a long silence. Only the fire in the hearth flickered faintly.
After a long moment, Flamel's lips — dry and bark-like — moved, letting out a heartfelt, drawn-out sigh.
"Inconceivable…"
He repeated the word, as if no mere language could express the state of his mind.
"Truly… inconceivable…"
His gaze locked firmly onto Alan's face. It was no longer mere admiration; it carried the thrill and joy of discovering a new continent.
"Your hypothesis… is essentially correct."
The words shone like a holy light, instantly illuminating all the unresolved corners of Alan's mind palace.
"Indeed," Flamel added, with a trace of self-mockery in his tone, "the words you used — 'encryption' and 'protocol' — are far more precise than the terms we old timers have relied on for centuries, like 'protective charms' or 'riddle locks.' They capture the true essence more accurately."
He tapped the armrest with his gaunt finger, affirming Alan's grasp of the mysterious domain before him.
"Now, let me clarify your confusion."
His voice became serious, carrying the solemnity of teaching sacred knowledge.
"The root of your problem lies in attempting to solve thoughts using mere language."
The words struck Alan like a wedge, pinpointing the blind spot in his understanding.
"These symbols are indeed a key. But what they unlock is not the encrypted information itself," Flamel's gaze deepened. "They unlock the logic the creator embedded in the puzzle."
Flamel moved slowly, picking up a piece of charcoal by the hearth. On the stone floor, he drew a symbol: a serpent devouring its own tail — the Ouroboros.
"Take this symbol as an example. In the context of ancient alchemy, it represents a principle: eternity."
The charcoal rasped lightly against the stone.
"But if you only understand its meaning as the word 'eternity,' you will never unlock the next link. Your thinking is blocked."
"You must comprehend, must reflect," Flamel's voice carried guiding force, "why did the creator place an obstacle here around 'eternity'? What is the intrinsic logical connection between what he sought to protect and the grand concept of 'eternity'? What was the fundamental, original logical intent when he set this 'firewall'?"
Flamel's words, one after another, were no longer lightning but a series of precise explosions, shattering the sturdy barriers Alan had built in his mind using "cryptography."
He understood. Completely understood.
All his previous efforts had been misdirected. He had been trying to solve a "cipher," when Flamel showed him it was never a cipher at all — it was a logic puzzle. What he should have been understanding was the creator's line of thinking.
This brief meeting left Alan utterly shaken, as if his previous understanding had been overturned and reconstructed.
Before this, his conception of alchemy was an extension of Advanced Potion-Making, a matter of physical transformation — the ancient art of turning one metal into another.
But now, Flamel had revealed, in the simplest terms, the hidden, core truth beneath the flashy "turning lead into gold."
True alchemy, at its heart, is not about transforming matter.
It is about the transformation and perpetuation of information.
Its essence lies in expressing all the "information" carried by one substance in a completely different form. It is the embedding of an abstract "concept" into a material in a permanent, indelible way.
Turning lead into gold is merely replacing the informational model of "lead" with that of "gold."
The legendary Philosopher's Stone, which drove countless wizards to madness and could even extend life, is merely the most outstanding, most perfect "application product" of this grand, universe-like theory.
In this moment, Alan's understanding of alchemy was irrevocably transformed — from a simple focus on matter to a vast, multi-dimensional comprehension encompassing information, philosophy, and the essence of existence.
The world, in his eyes, had already become fundamentally different.
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