Paris. Tenth arrondissement. An unremarkable street, an unremarkable building.
The stone facade had been smoked grey by decades of weather. Narrow windows. Rust creeping along the ironwork railings.
Through the wooden door, a cramped hallway stretched toward a staircase at the far end.
Dumbledore climbed. The stairs groaned under him, turning twice before he stopped at a dark wooden door.
Three knocks. A pause. Two more.
The door opened from inside.
The man who answered was short, his hair snow-white. He wore deep blue robes beneath a dark waistcoat embroidered with gold symbols.
Pale grey eyes, warm when they settled on a visitor.
Nicolas Flamel.
His voice was soft but clear. "Albus."
Dumbledore smiled. "Nicolas."
Flamel stepped aside. "Come in."
The room was warm. A fire crackled in the hearth, throwing shifting light across the walls.
Every surface held something strange. Brass dials. Glass retorts with curved necks. Silver gear mechanisms. A few metal spheres whose purpose defied guessing.
All of them moved. Some rotated. Some ticked. Some hovered in place, trembling faintly.
A wide desk sat beneath the window, buried under parchment and open books.
On the windowsill, a silver mechanical bird perched with its head cocked, pecking idly at its own wing. Each tap produced a tiny metallic clink.
Flamel shuffled to the sofa by the fire and settled in. Dumbledore took the seat across from him.
A wave of Flamel's hand, and the teapot on the side table poured two cups of its own accord. Steam rose from pale, fragrant liquid.
"Try it," he said. "Fresh shipment."
Dumbledore lifted the cup and sipped. "Lovely. Shame there's no honey."
Flamel took his own cup and leaned back.
Silence held for a moment. Then Flamel said, "It's been a while, Albus."
Dumbledore nodded. "It has."
A sigh. "Nicolas, you know. Tom."
Flamel's expression didn't change. "I know. I hear he's been restless."
Another sip of tea. "More restless by the day."
Flamel watched him without responding. After a beat, he asked, "So why are you here today? Something specific?"
Dumbledore set down his cup. "There is."
He looked at Flamel. "But it isn't about Tom."
An eyebrow rose. "Then who?"
The corner of Dumbledore's mouth curved. "A child."
Flamel studied him. "A child worth a personal visit?"
Dumbledore nodded. "Worth it."
Interest flickered in the old alchemist's eyes. "Talented?"
Dumbledore considered. "Talented. But it's more than talent."
Flamel sank deeper into the sofa and adopted the posture of a man settling in for a story. "Go on."
"His name is Regulus Black. The current heir of the House of Black."
Flamel nodded. "The Blacks. I know them. Old Arcturus, back in the day..."
He stopped and didn't finish.
Dumbledore continued. "The boy's magical aptitude is exceptional. He developed his own spell in first year. In Transfiguration, Minerva says he's already grappling with the fundamental questions. And his Patronus is unusual. It can carry people through space."
Flamel listened, nodding at intervals.
"He's also been training with Fiendfyre. Nearly tamed it."
"Second year?" Flamel asked.
"Second year."
Silence stretched. Then Flamel said, "How does he compare to Riddle?"
Dumbledore didn't hesitate. "In raw magical talent, they're equals."
Flamel's gaze sharpened. "But?"
A smile touched Dumbledore's eyes. "But they've chosen different directions."
He looked at Flamel. "Tom pursued power to escape death, to prove himself above everyone, to make the world kneel. This boy is pursuing power too, but what he's after is... the Sorting Hat told me it saw stars inside his mind."
Flamel's eyes widened slightly.
"At the time, I thought it might be metaphorical. Ambition, perhaps. Or a broader vision."
Dumbledore paused, his gaze drifting to the dancing flames. Something turned behind his eyes.
"But now," he said, "I think it may not have been a metaphor at all. What this boy wants might be to walk beyond this world entirely."
Flamel went still. He stared at Dumbledore for a long time without speaking.
When he finally did, it was barely above a murmur. "Walk beyond this world... the boy's appetite isn't small."
Dumbledore said nothing, only nodded in agreement.
Flamel looked up. "So you're here today because of him?"
A nod.
Something else entered Flamel's eyes. "Albus. Your most recent regret is Riddle."
Dumbledore was quiet.
"Decades now," Flamel continued. "You've never let it go."
Dumbledore smiled. "Nicolas, decades are 'recent' to you."
Flamel chuckled. He picked up his tea, took a sip, set it down.
Then, bluntly: "The Philosopher's Stone?"
Dumbledore met his eyes. Said nothing.
Flamel waved a hand. "Albus, how long have we known each other? You think I can't tell what you're thinking?"
Dumbledore's expression was all innocence. "Nicolas, you're reading too much into it. I'm bringing him by to broaden his horizons."
Flamel glared. "Albus, when you lie, your beard twitches."
Dumbledore stroked his beard. "It didn't twitch."
Flamel gave up. "Where is the boy now?"
Dumbledore glanced toward the window. "Should be here any moment."
---
Regulus stood at the gates of Wisteria Manor, about to say his final goodbye to Andromeda.
That was when something caught the edge of his vision. Directly in front of the gate, a leather glove lay on the ground, beckoning him.
Its fingers curled inward, then straightened. Curled, straightened. Like it was waving him over.
Regulus looked at the glove. His mouth twitched.
That familiar feeling. And of course there's a next act.
He walked over and picked it up.
The glove squirmed once in his hand, then went still.
He tucked it into his suit pocket and finished his farewell with Andromeda.
The next instant, force erupted from the pocket, hooked somewhere behind his navel, and yanked him forward.
The instant after that, he stood in a hallway.
Wooden stairs. Creaking boards. A dark door at the far end, already open.
Dumbledore's voice drifted out. "Come in, Regulus."
Regulus flicked his wrist, and the suit rippled back into wizard's robes.
He straightened his collar and stepped through.
The room was larger than he'd expected. Fireplace, sofas, desk, and walls covered in strange instruments.
Everything moved. Everything hummed. Like the room itself was alive.
Dumbledore sat on the sofa by the fire. Across from him sat another white-haired old man.
The stranger watched Regulus approach, his gaze warm and curious.
The name surfaced immediately. Nicolas Flamel.
Alchemist. Centuries old. Creator of the Philosopher's Stone. Dumbledore's oldest friend.
He stopped before the sofa and inclined his head. "Mr. Flamel."
Flamel smiled. "Sit down, child."
Regulus settled beside Dumbledore. His magical perception spread outward on instinct, probing, and found nothing.
Flamel's smile deepened. "The little one's scanning me."
Dumbledore turned to Regulus, gentle. "Regulus, there's no need for that."
Regulus dipped his chin, apologetic. "Sorry. Habit."
Flamel waved it off. "Good perceptive ability. Nothing wrong with that."
Regulus pulled his senses back in.
Being called out to his face. That was a first. No one had ever caught him before.
But the man sitting across from him was Nicolas Flamel. Six hundred years old. There wasn't a trick under the sun he hadn't seen.
Regulus had always known magical perception wasn't some secret art. It was closer to a fundamental skill. His was stronger and better concealed than most, invisible to ordinary wizards, but against someone at this level, it wasn't enough.
And Dumbledore had noticed too.
Still, perception was only a tool. As Star Guided Meditation continued to develop, his senses were trending toward fusion with his natural eyesight. Perhaps if he didn't extend them outward, if he relied on sight alone, it would go undetected.
But there was no point testing that theory now. Getting caught twice would be rude.
A useful reminder, though. These two were gentle about it. A smile, a word, and the matter was done.
Others wouldn't be.
He let the thought settle and took in the room with quiet attention.
At least seven or eight objects stood out as extraordinary.
On the mantelpiece, a brass sphere covered in dense, tiny symbols rotated slowly under its own power.
On the desk, a silver hourglass. The sand inside flowed upward.
In the corner, a glass cabinet held crystals of every color. Some glowed. Some trailed wisps of cold.
Beside the cabinet, an intricate mechanism of countless gears and levers ticked along, driving itself.
On a side table, a book. Its cover was some unrecognizable material, faintly gold. The pages turned on their own, stopping at a particular spread, then flipping back to start again.
Regulus looked away from the room and back at the two men on the sofa.
One old man.
One super old man.
He didn't ask Dumbledore why he'd been brought here. He sat, quiet and patient, and waited.
But his mind was already turning.
Dumbledore had brought him to meet Nicolas Flamel. There would be a reason.
Maybe it was about broadening perspective. Alchemy was its own discipline, distinct from Transfiguration or Charms. A different way of thinking about magic entirely.
Maybe it was a test. Gauge his reaction to the Philosopher's Stone. See how a boy responded to the temptation of immortality.
Maybe it was nothing more than convenience. They were in France anyway. Why not introduce him?
But more likely, it was the test.
After all, there was precedent.