Tom followed Nicolas away from the bustling tourist area, climbing halfway up a mountain to a modest house—one of Nicolas's vacation homes.
The moment they stepped inside, an array of enchanted tools zipped through the air. One deftly swapped Nicolas's beach sandals for a pair of soft slippers; another whisked off his beach shirt. A mechanical arm then made a rather bold move toward Tom's pocket—only for the boy to slap it away without so much as blinking.
Nicolas waggled his eyebrows at Tom with a mischievous grin, but alas… after that lightning strike incident, Tom's face had developed a rather formidable resistance to embarrassment.
The house wasn't large, and unlike many wizard homes, it hadn't been magically expanded. Each room kept its original size—three floors in total. Yet everywhere Tom looked, the furniture and decor were dominated by intricate alchemical constructs. That, he quickly realized, was what truly set this house apart.
Even the clock mounted on the wall above the TV wasn't a normal one—it resembled the Weasleys' magical family clock, showing not the time, but the current locations of its owners. It had only two hands: Nicolas Flamel's pointed to "Vacation Villa," while his wife Perenelle's rested on "Opera House."
"Pick any room you like, my boy," Nicolas said, easing into a single rocking chair in the sitting room. "We'll only be here for one night. Tomorrow, we head back to Paris—far better conditions there, and all my supplies."
He smiled warmly. "So, tell me… how did you find America? Their magical world is far closer to Muggle society than Europe's, you know—quite different."
"I didn't see much of the magical community itself," Tom replied. "I went with Newt to the Arizona magical reserve…"
Tom gave a simple account of his time in America—carefully leaving out the matter of the Twelve Trials. He spoke of seeing a Thunderbird and mentioned his encounter with the Saint.
Nicolas listened with evident interest, occasionally sighing in reminiscence.
"Even in my several centuries of life, Grindelwald was one of the most brilliant wizards I ever met. And Albus… well, he's even more extraordinary."
Tom's mind sparked with curiosity. "Master Flamel, over the years, how many wizards have you seen who were on par with Dumbledore and Grindelwald? Were there many?"
Nicolas chuckled, clearly amused by the naïve question. "Of course not. Sometimes a century will pass without a single one. In my youth, the most powerful wizard alive wasn't even worthy of carrying their shoes. A few have appeared since, but never more than one or two in the same era."
"These wizards… their magical power is so immense that their bodies simply can't keep up. Most don't live past one hundred and fifty."
Tom nodded silently. He already knew this secret. Why had Andros appeared in the prime of life? Because he'd died at sixty-two.
Sixty-two—barely middle-aged for a wizard.
And the cause? Exactly as Nicolas described—his body began to break down under the strain of his overwhelming magical power. Rather than suffer the decay, he chose to end his life swiftly.
Every time the subject came up, Andros would bemoan his fate—how he had explored countless ancient ruins, survived innumerable battles, each one making him stronger… only to have died young for the crime of being too exceptional.
Whenever he said that, both Tom and Grindelwald privately agreed—this guy was basically humble-bragging.
The conversation gradually drifted from Tom's recent adventures to the finer points of alchemy. Nicolas had promised in his letters to give Tom guidance, but first he wanted to test the boy's real skill.
Before the summer break, Tom had been little more than a bookworm—crammed full of theory, but without any practical experience. But after several days of intense training at the Greengrass estate, he'd managed to truly integrate his knowledge, enough to hold his own under Nicolas's questioning.
As the minutes passed, Nicolas's questions grew more advanced. Tom's answers came more slowly now—some he could work out after careful thought, but many were in fields he'd never studied. When he didn't know, he admitted it outright.
And that, in itself, impressed Nicolas.
Alchemy had never become widespread because its demands were too great—not just money and talent, but a powerful lineage of knowledge. Without a good mentor, you could pour endless gold and time into it and still end up like a blindfolded fool banging into walls.
Tom, though… his answers bore traces of several different alchemists' teachings—some even from Nicolas himself—yet fused with his own interpretations, clearly born from personal practice. Not all were entirely correct, but many were heading in the right direction.
To reach this level after only a year in the wizarding world, self-taught in his spare time… Nicolas couldn't deny it. The boy was a prodigy.
And not only in alchemy—Tom had successfully brewed the Elixir of Life using the Philosopher's Stone, proof that he had great talent in potion-making as well. Together, the two disciplines could enhance each other enormously.
"Your level is far beyond what I expected," Nicolas said at last, giving a slow clap, genuine admiration in his eyes. "But inevitably, you've made some textbook mistakes. That's not your fault—it's the lack of a teacher."
He leaned forward slightly. "My boy, spend the rest of your holiday here. I'll do everything I can to lay a proper foundation for you."
"Thank you, Master," Tom said quickly, taking the opportunity to flatter. Nicolas laughed, calling him a sly one, but he didn't take back the offer.
With the test over, Tom finally let out a quiet breath. Nicolas was in high spirits, so Tom decided to probe further.
"Master… do you have any leads on the Greengrass family's blood curse?"