Working alongside Nicolas Flamel to organize his manuscripts was not merely a task — it was a continuous challenge to the very limits of Alan's intellect, and at the same time, an unprecedented feast for his mind.
That unique volume — a book that could not be copied by any magical or physical means — carried the weight of centuries upon every page.
Each alchemical symbol inscribed upon it was not just an isolated cipher, but a miniature universe, a condensation of laws themselves.
Between those ancient symbols and modern spells lay a web of intricate, hidden connections, overlapping and intersecting like strands of light.
Every symbol was a door leading toward the true source of magic.
To push it open, Alan had to mobilize every ounce of mental power within his "palace of thought."
He performed exhaustive analyses, constructed and dismantled models, only to rebuild them anew.
He broke down those twisted, abstract lines into their most basic geometrical forms and vectors of energy flow, constructing hundreds upon hundreds of possible models within his spiritual world, then cross-referencing them against the fragmented notes Flamel had left behind.
It was a grueling, intricate, and deeply consuming process — but Alan was utterly immersed in it.
His understanding of alchemy was no longer growing linearly — it was expanding exponentially, bursting outward in a cascade of insight.
It was a lazy, sun-dappled afternoon.
The old study was filled with the mingled scent of black tea and aged parchment.
Alan's quill hovered above a fresh sheet of transcription parchment.
He was working through a particularly complex chapter on magical markings — and the structure of one symbol inevitably reminded him of an unpleasant incident from the previous summer.
"Mr. Flamel," he said at last, setting his quill down and rubbing his temples, frustration creeping into his tone — the kind of unguarded irritation only a young scholar could have.
"Last year at home, I was issued a formal warning from the Ministry of Magic — all because of a single levitation charm that got out of control."
He couldn't help but vent about the invisible shackle known as the Trace.
"Its existence practically robs every underage wizard of the chance to experiment during the holidays. We can only sit and memorize theory — it's a huge obstacle for anyone who truly wants to explore knowledge."
Flamel, holding a steaming cup of tea, listened in silence.
There was no surprise in his weathered eyes — as though he had long known every word Alan was about to say.
When Alan finished, Flamel gently set the porcelain cup back onto its saucer with a soft, crisp sound.
Then, with a faint smile, he spoke — and his words made Alan's entire mental framework collapse in an instant.
"The Ministry's laws," Flamel said quietly, "exist only for those who are bound by them."
He paused, the light catching his ancient eyes.
"But we, Alan… we are the creators."
Alan froze.
All the logical threads in his mind — which usually ran with perfect precision — snapped one after another.
Flamel gazed at him with those eyes that seemed to pierce time itself, eyes that saw through the essence of all things.
"Alan, you must remember," he said, his tone calm but carrying the unmistakable weight of authority, each word striking deep into Alan's consciousness,
"Rules have never been immutable."
"When a wizard's knowledge and power rise to a certain height — so high that he no longer needs to passively obey the existing rules — then at that moment…"
He leaned forward slightly, his voice almost a whisper:
"He himself becomes the source of new rules."
"At that level," Flamel concluded softly, "the old rules can no longer bind him."
Those words carried no trace of magic — yet within Alan's mind, they stirred up a violent storm.
For the first time in his life, he truly felt the ultimate kind of power that knowledge could bring.
It wasn't the ability to unleash some cataclysmic spell.
Nor was it the mastery to brew a potion of impossible wonder.
It was something far greater —
the power to define what is "right" and what is "wrong."
To help Alan free himself completely from restrictions — and conduct his research peacefully during the coming holidays —
Nicolas Flamel decided to perform a small act in front of him.
A small act that seemed trivial… yet radiated boundless authority.
He didn't even stand up.
He merely raised one hand slightly and flicked his fingers against the air.
The space within the room rippled faintly — a barely perceptible wave — and then, a graceful owl appeared out of thin air.
Its feathers shimmered in a silvery white, glinting like moonlight scattered through the afternoon sun.
It made no sound, simply landed quietly upon the corner of Flamel's desk, its eyes dark and deep as polished obsidian.
Flamel picked up a blank piece of parchment, dipped his quill in ink, and began to write.
It was, perhaps, the shortest official letter in magical history.
Alan couldn't help but look — one glance was enough to make him forget to breathe.
The content was so simple it was almost shocking.
There was only one sentence:
"Minister Fudge,
My research assistant, Alan Scott, requires permission to conduct several harmless and necessary magical experiments during the upcoming holidays."
There were no formalities —
no 'Yours sincerely', no 'Best regards', not even the most basic courtesy.
Only a single, swift signature, written with effortless confidence —
F.
Once finished, Flamel rolled up the parchment, tied it with a thin string, and handed it to the majestic owl.
"Deliver it to the Minister's desk," he said calmly —
his tone as casual as if he were asking a servant to take out the trash.
The owl let out a clear, melodious sound — like wind chimes brushing in the breeze.
Then, instead of flying toward the window, it simply flapped its wings once.
In the next instant, its entire body dissolved into countless silvery motes of light, scattering across the air — and vanished without a trace.
When it was done, Flamel turned back toward the parchment on Alan's desk, as though nothing had happened at all.
"Now then," he said mildly, "about the transmutation symbol — your third model is quite interesting, but you've overlooked the entropy increase during the energy phase transition…"
Alan stared blankly at the calm old man before him.
His mind was utterly blank — his heart pounding so loudly it drowned out everything else.
His blood seemed to surge straight to his head.
And within his "Mind Palace," a single thought took shape — clear, radiant, and eternal:
From this moment onward —
the so-called "Trace" that bound every young wizard at Hogwarts, and across all of Britain — no longer applied to him.
~~----------------------
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