The days before France passed in a blur.
Rowan spent his mornings reviewing alchemical theory from books he'd purchased in Diagon Alley, his afternoons practicing advanced spellwork in his abandoned classroom, and his evenings in the library researching everything he could find about Nicholas Flamel's published works.
The castle remained mostly empty, which suited him perfectly. The few students who'd stayed kept to themselves, still processing exam results or simply enjoying unprecedented freedom.
Iris had become his constant companion during these final days. They practiced Legilimency and Occlumency together each morning, and spent afternoons discussing magical theory and Rowan's plans for the summer.
"Promise me you'll write," she said one evening by the common room fireplace. "I want to know what you're learning, what the Flamels are like, everything."
"I will. Though I suspect Nicholas Flamel will keep me too busy to write long letters."
"Then write short ones. Just... stay in touch. And Rowan?" She looked at him seriously. "Be careful. The Flamels are famous for good reasons, but they're also centuries old and likely see the world very differently than we do. Don't lose yourself trying to impress them."
"I won't. I know who I am and what I'm trying to accomplish. The Flamels are teachers, not masters."
"Good." Iris relaxed slightly. "I'd hate to have you come back all mysterious and abstract."
Rowan smiled. "I make no promises about avoiding mystery. But I'll still be myself."
The twentieth of June arrived with clear skies and warm sunshine.
Rowan packed his trunk carefully. Not the extensive collection of belongings he'd accumulated over the year, but a smaller selection as Nicholas had suggested. His best robes, essential textbooks, his journal, and the books on alchemy he'd been studying.
At precisely noon, there was a knock on the dormitory door.
Rowan opened the door to find Professor Weasley holding what appeared to be an old boot.
"Mr. Ashcroft. Your transportation has arrived. Are you ready?"
"Yes, Professor."
"Then please place your hand on the Portkey. It's keyed to activate at 12:05, which gives us... three minutes."
Rowan shouldered his pack and lifted his trunk, extending his free hand toward the boot. The moment his fingers touched the cracked leather, he felt the familiar tug of Portkey magic. Not yet activated, but present and waiting.
"I trust you'll make good use of this opportunity," Professor Weasley said. "Nicholas Flamel is an extraordinary wizard and teacher. You'll learn things at his home that aren't taught at any school."
"I intend to, Professor. Thank you for arranging everything."
"You've brought considerable honor to Hogwarts this year, Mr. Ashcroft. The youngest tournament finalist in history, top marks in nearly every subject. Try not to let fame go to your head, however. You're still very young, and there's much you haven't learned yet."
"I'm aware, Professor."
"Good. Then I'll leave you to—"
The Portkey activated.
Rowan felt the hook behind his navel, and the world dissolved into spinning colour and compressed sensation. His trunk banged against his legs, his pack slipped on his shoulder, and for several dizzying seconds he was falling through nothing and everything simultaneously.
Then his feet hit solid ground. Cobblestones. He stumbled forward before catching his balance. His stomach churned violently, but his Occlumency training helped him push past the nausea and assess his surroundings.
He stood in an empty lane.
Fields stretched away on either side, green and gold under the summer sun. A low stone wall ran along the road to his left, and beyond it a vineyard climbed a gentle slope. The lane stretched on with nothing at the end of it.
Then Nicholas Flamel stepped out from behind the wall, beaming.
"Rowan! Excellent, the Portkey worked perfectly. How was the journey? Not too nauseating, I hope?" He was already hurrying forward, his movements energetic despite his apparent age. Today he wore simple robes in dark blue, his white hair slightly dishevelled as though he'd been working. Perenelle was beside him, her expression warm and amused.
"Before we go any further," she said, "there's something you need to hear." Her tone shifted, taking on a formal cadence that felt older than the words themselves. "The home of Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel may be found at the end of the Chemin des Vignes, commune of Meudon."
The Fidelius. Rowan knew what it was, had known since long before Hogwarts, though he'd never expected to experience it firsthand. The moment she finished speaking, the air shimmered and the world rearranged itself. Another stone wall materialised where there had been nothing, then an arched gateway, and beyond it a courtyard with climbing roses and a fountain splashing over carved alchemical symbols. Behind it stood a house, three stories of honey-coloured stone with tall windows and a slate roof. An entire home, conjured into existence by a sentence.
"Remarkable, isn't it?" Nicholas said, watching Rowan's face. "Five hundred years and I still enjoy that expression." He grabbed Rowan's trunk, led the way through the gateway into the courtyard, and chatted as he went. "We're about thirty kilometres outside Paris proper, in the countryside. It's quieter here, fewer interruptions from well-meaning but tedious officials and scholars who want to 'just ask one quick question' that inevitably turns into three hours of debate. Not that I mind debate, you understand, but when one is in the middle of a delicate transmutation, interruptions are catastrophic!"
The interior of the house was exactly what Rowan had hoped for and nothing like what he'd expected simultaneously.
The entrance hall was modest. Polished wooden floors, a few paintings on the walls, one of which appeared to be moving, and a staircase leading upward. But through an open doorway to the left, he caught a glimpse of a room whose shelves were packed floor-to-ceiling with books, scrolls, and alchemical apparatus.
"Your room is on the second floor," Nicholas said, guiding him up the stairs. "Perenelle and I occupy the third floor, and the ground floor is mostly working space. Library, laboratory, workshop. You're welcome to use any of it, though do please ask before touching anything that's actively bubbling or glowing. Some of our experiments are quite temperamental."
The second floor hallway was lined with more bookshelves. Apparently every available wall in the house was dedicated to storing knowledge. Nicholas opened a door near the stairs and gestured Rowan inside.
The bedroom was larger than Rowan's dormitory at Hogwarts and significantly more luxurious. A four-poster bed with deep blue hangings occupied one wall, a writing desk sat beneath the window overlooking the garden, and an entire wall was devoted to empty bookshelves.
"I left those empty for you," Nicholas explained. "Figured you'd want to fill them with whatever books you're working through. Feel free to borrow from our library. Anything that interests you. Just return them when you're finished and keep track of what you've taken. I've been known to forget where I've put things, and Perenelle gets cross when she can't find reference materials she needs."
"This is more than generous, sir. Thank you."
"Nonsense! We're delighted to have you." Nicholas gestured around the room. "The wardrobe has expansion charms if you need more space. The desk has a full set of writing supplies. There's a bathroom two doors down the hall. Make yourself comfortable, unpack, and then come down to the garden. It's through the door at the back of the entrance hall. We'll have lunch and discuss your curriculum."
After Nicholas left, Rowan stood alone in the bedroom and allowed himself a moment of pure satisfaction.
He was here. In the home of Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel. About to begin an education that no other student his age could dream of receiving.