Alchemy had always intrigued Regulus.
But if you wanted to talk alchemy, you had to talk about France. About Beauxbatons. About Nicolas Flamel.
In magical Britain, avenues for learning alchemy were pathetically scarce.
Hogwarts offered it, technically, but only as a seventh-year elective at the N.E.W.T. level. By the time you enrolled, graduation was already around the corner. One year. What could anyone learn in one year?
So most British wizards carried a laughably shallow understanding of the discipline.
They thought alchemy was craftsmanship. Carving runes into a cauldron so it stirred itself. Enchanting gloves for fire and water resistance. Creating Portkeys that yanked people across distances.
But that was magical item crafting. It wasn't alchemy.
Regulus turned the distinction over in his mind.
Crafting magical items meant adding function to existing objects. Carve runes into a block of wood, and it flies. Enchant a robe, and the wearer breathes underwater. Layer spells onto a mirror, and it reveals your enemies.
The object remained what it was. It gained a trick or two.
Even wands, broomsticks, invisibility cloaks... all fell under magical items.
Alchemy was something else entirely.
Alchemy altered the fundamental nature of matter. Lead became gold, and it was gold, through and through. The molecular structure changed. The atomic arrangement shifted. It became, in every measurable way, a different substance.
Crafting was modification. Alchemy was transformation.
Crafted items wore down. Lost potency. Alchemical products were permanent.
The Philosopher's Stone was the perfect example.
It produced the Elixir of Life endlessly. It transmuted base metals to gold without limit. No degradation. No depletion.
When your entire understanding of alchemy stopped at "making enchanted objects," breakthroughs weren't coming.
Alchemy sat at the intersection of ancient magic, potions, transfiguration, and runes. Its threshold was brutal. The number of practitioners who'd truly mastered it was vanishingly small. Even at Beauxbatons, graduates capable of producing respectable alchemical work could be counted on one hand.
And then there was Nicolas Flamel.
Regulus looked at the white-haired man across from him.
Born in the 1330s. Late medieval era, bleeding into the early Renaissance.
Transmutation of lead to gold. The Elixir of Life. Either one alone would have secured a place in history.
He'd accomplished both. With a single stone, he'd claimed the crown of alchemy and become the greatest alchemist ever recorded.
No qualifiers needed.
As Regulus considered all this, another thought surfaced.
About himself. About the Decomposition Curse.
The Decomposition Curse returned order to chaos. It dismantled systems. It unraveled existence itself.
Alchemy was the exact opposite.
Transmuting lead to gold meant reshaping a common metal into a more ordered structure. The Elixir of Life maintained an aging body in stable equilibrium.
Alchemy could make stone move on its own, grant dead matter a kind of life, let objects remember their owners and respond when called.
All of that was chaos condensing into order. Entropy decreasing.
If the Decomposition Curse represented destruction, then alchemy represented creation.
Entropy and negentropy. Destruction and creation. Two directions, like opposite faces of a coin.
But there was a problem.
Making things fall apart? The universe did that on its own constantly. Everything trended toward entropy. That was natural law.
Making things more ordered? Forcing chaos into structure? That meant pushing against the current of the world itself.
From that angle, alchemy was the more impressive achievement.
Regulus drifted through these thoughts, losing track of time.
Flamel glanced at the clock on the wall and rose, unsteady but purposeful. "Regulus, Albus, let me see what there is to eat."
Dumbledore nodded cheerfully. "Wonderful."
Regulus stood to help.
Dumbledore didn't stop him. Didn't volunteer, either. He sat there with that quietly amused expression.
Before Regulus could take a step, Flamel waved him off.
The old alchemist smiled. "No, no. Preparing food is something I enjoy. Sit. Keep Albus company."
Regulus paused and glanced at Dumbledore.
That same look. As if the whole scene delighted him.
He sat back down. "Thank you, Mr. Flamel."
Flamel waved a hand. "No trouble at all. A young wizard visiting gives this place some life."
A faintly reproachful look at Dumbledore. "Otherwise it's two old men staring at each other. Dreadfully dull."
Dumbledore laughed, his beard bobbing, and offered no rebuttal.
Flamel shuffled toward the door. Short steps, quick rhythm, arms swinging slightly at his sides. The whole effect was remarkably penguin-like.
Regulus watched him disappear through the doorway.
That gait. Those quick little steps. The swinging arms.
That familiar feeling again.
He settled back into the sofa. He and Dumbledore both gazed toward the empty doorway.
Once Flamel's footsteps faded around the corner, Regulus turned. "Professor."
Dumbledore was still looking in the direction his old friend had gone. A moment passed before he turned.
Regulus asked directly. "Why am I here?"
Dumbledore smiled. "To broaden your horizons."
"Magic..." He leaned back, his gaze falling on the flickering flames. He seemed to be looking at something far beyond the room.
"Sometimes even I feel as though I've barely touched the surface. What Hogwarts teaches is sufficient. But sufficient is all it is."
A note of wistfulness entered his voice. "It's like standing at the shore, scooping up a handful of water, tasting it, and declaring you know what the ocean is."
He looked at Regulus. "You have ideas. Certain ways of understanding magic. Alchemy would complement them well. Exposure to it might spark something."
Regulus considered this.
Whatever Dumbledore's true purpose, whether testing his attitude toward death or genuinely wanting to widen his perspective, it didn't matter.
An opportunity like this was too rare to waste.
This was Nicolas Flamel. Centuries old. Standing at the absolute pinnacle of alchemy.
The man's continued existence was, in itself, the most powerful endorsement the wizarding world had to offer.
From the fourteenth century to the present. He'd watched the Black Death sweep across Europe with his own eyes. Watched Muggles go from riding horses to flying through the sky.
Watched generation after generation of so-called genius wizards be born, rise, age, and die.
The magic Flamel commanded, the depth of his understanding, the extent of his exploration into the nature of matter... Regulus couldn't begin to imagine what that level looked like.
So, since he was here, since this chance had fallen into his lap, he intended to make it count.
Questions crowded his mind.
And there was another thing. The question of nourishing and strengthening the soul. Perhaps he'd find answers here.
Flamel's voice carried from the next room. "Albus, Regulus, come eat."
They rose and followed the sound.
The dining room was modest. A long table, a few chairs, and several dishes arranged in French style.
Provencal stew. Fish roasted in olive oil. A basket of baguettes.
Regulus took it in. The presentation was appealing, and the aroma matched.
He sat and looked at Flamel. "Thank you for the meal, Mr. Flamel."
Flamel smiled and waved it away.
Dumbledore had already picked up his fork with practiced ease.
He carved a piece of fish, tasted it, nodded with satisfaction, then tore off a chunk of bread and dipped it in olive oil.
Completely at home. As if this were his own kitchen.
Regulus found it entertaining.
For all his age and stature, the old wizard loosened up entirely in Flamel's company.
Another thought struck him.
Dumbledore was probably one of very few wizards capable of maintaining a friendship with Nicolas Flamel.
Reaching that level required sufficient power, sufficient depth of thought, sufficient talent. Ordinary people wouldn't hold Flamel's interest.
And Flamel had watched Dumbledore from youth to middle age to old age. What did that feel like?
Dumbledore probably didn't think much of it. When they'd first met, Flamel had already looked exactly as he did now.
But for Flamel?
Watching friends grow old, one by one. Watching them die. Like autumn leaves. When the last one fell, the branch was bare.
What had sustained him through all those centuries?
The Philosopher's Stone granted him life. But what came after living?
He'd already achieved alchemy's highest milestones.
So what was he still pursuing?
Regulus remembered something.
In fewer than twenty years, Flamel would choose to destroy the Philosopher's Stone. He'd give up living.
Given how the man experienced time, that decision might already be taking shape.
He set the thought aside and focused on the food. It was, he had to admit, excellent.
Most importantly, the baguette wasn't as hard as he'd feared. The crust was crisp, the interior soft and chewy. No trouble at all.
After the meal, the three of them returned to the fireside.
Dumbledore settled into the sofa, looked at Regulus, and gave a little wink. "Regulus, ask whatever you'd like. Nicolas rarely has visitors. Don't waste the opportunity."
Flamel watched him too, his gaze kind and faintly curious. "Go ahead, child."
Regulus thanked them again, then asked outright. "Mr. Flamel, about the Philosopher's Stone..."
Dumbledore's beard twitched.
A flicker of surprise crossed his eyes. Brief, but Regulus caught it.
A spark of amusement lit inside him.
Dumbledore was genuinely taken aback.
Based on everything he knew about Regulus, the boy thought deeply. Calculated.
Whether or not a test was intended, Dumbledore had expected him to suspect one, maybe even to deliberately steer away from the topic of the Stone.
Instead, Regulus had asked about it head-on. That, he hadn't predicted.
A beat later, interest replaced surprise.
Regulus continued. "The Stone transmutes lead into gold. Lead becomes gold, and the mass changes. Where does the extra mass come from?"
Flamel's eyebrows rose slightly. "Alchemy doesn't treat matter as fixed. Matter is alive. Mutable."
"What fills the gap?" Regulus asked.
"Magic."
Flamel said, "Magic can become matter, and matter can become magic. That's the foundation of alchemy. You're asking where the mass comes from. It comes from magic. Pour enough magical energy in, and it converts to mass."
Regulus processed that rapidly.
Magic converts to matter.
That's...
He didn't say it aloud. He pressed on. "Is there a limit to the conversion?"
Flamel answered without hesitation. "In theory, no. In practice, yes. The total magical energy you can channel, the strength of your mind, the depth of your understanding of matter... all of those are limits."
Regulus turned that over, then asked, "What about the soul? Is the soul matter?"
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