The weeks that followed found their rhythm again. Mornings with Perenelle, learning the twelve stages of the Great Work in detail. Calcination, dissolution, separation, conjunction, fermentation, distillation, coagulation, and the five others whose subtleties required weeks to grasp. Afternoons with Nicholas, pushing deeper into runic theory, attempting increasingly complex arrays that sometimes worked and sometimes scorched the copper plates or made sounds that had them all covering their ears.
But now there were breaks. Walks in the garden where they didn't discuss magic at all, just pointed out interesting plants or complained about the heat. Trips to Paris for coffee at Les Trois Sorcières, where Rowan discovered he had strong opinions about the relative merits of different roasting methods. Evenings spent simply talking. About medieval France, about the witch hunts that were real and terrifying in ways Muggle histories never captured, about Nicholas's early failures that included three separate laboratory explosions and one incident with an entire year's supply of dragon's blood.
"Ruined," Nicholas said mournfully. "Thirty-seven vials of properly aged dragon's blood, turned to worthless sludge because I miscalculated the fermentation temperature by two degrees. I wanted to quit alchemy entirely that day."
"What stopped you?" Rowan asked.
"Perenelle pointed out that quitting after a failure meant I'd just waste thirty-seven vials of dragon's blood and learn nothing. Whereas if I analyzed what went wrong, I'd waste thirty-seven vials and gain knowledge. Put that way, quitting seemed like the worse option."
By late August, Rowan had a telegraph prototype that worked reliably over three hundred meters with clear audio. The arrays were intricate. Seventeen runes arranged in three concentric circles, with regulatory runes positioned at precise angles to prevent overload. It was his ninth iteration, and while it still couldn't approach the hub design's complexity, it proved the fundamental concept worked.
"This is genuinely impressive work," Perenelle said, examining the latest copper disks. "Most master artificers would have been proud to create something this functional at your age."
"It's still limited."
"All innovations start limited. Then they improve." She handed the disk back. "You'll refine this over the next few years. By the time you're seventeen or eighteen, you'll probably have solved the hub problem and created something that could change how the magical world communicates. All meaningful innovations build one step at a time."
On Rowan's final evening, the Flamels presented him with a wooden box. Inside lay a complete set of alchemical tools, scaled for student use. Crucibles, retorts, an alembic whose glass was so fine it seemed impossibly fragile, measuring instruments calibrated with runic precision.
"You can't practice alchemy at Hogwarts," Nicholas said. "The dungeons aren't equipped, and the professors would object to students conducting transmutations unsupervised. But you can continue your theoretical studies, design experiments, plan for future work. When you have access to a proper laboratory again, holidays here, or eventually your own workspace, you'll have proper tools."
Rowan touched the alembic carefully. The glass was cool, perfect, the kind of equipment he'd only seen in the Flamels' laboratory. "Thank you. For everything. The tools, the teaching—"
"You've earned it," Perenelle interrupted. "And you're welcome back any time. Holidays, summer breaks, whenever you need advanced instruction or just somewhere to work. We don't take students lightly. Once we commit to teaching someone, that relationship doesn't end when summer does."
The next morning, Rowan packed his trunk. It was considerably heavier now. New books, alchemical tools, seventeen notebooks filled with theory and experimental results, two working telegraph prototypes wrapped in cloth to prevent damage. The Flamels stood in the courtyard as he prepared to take the Portkey.
"Work hard at Hogwarts," Nicholas said. "But not so hard you forget you're twelve. You've got decades to change the world. Let yourself be a student sometimes."
"Write to us," Perenelle added. "Questions, updates on your work, anything. We can provide guidance by letter."
"I will," Rowan promised. Then, because they deserved honesty: "Thank you for... you treated me like I mattered. Like my ideas were worth taking seriously. Adults don't usually do that for twelve-year-olds."
"Your ideas are worth listening to." Perenelle's expression was serious. "You're going to accomplish remarkable things, Rowan. We're certain of it. Just remember to build a life while you're changing the world. Otherwise the world wins."
The Portkey activated.
Rowan stumbled into Professor Weasley's office, steadying himself against the edge of her desk.
"Mr. Ashcroft," she said, looking up from organizing papers. "Good summer?"
"Yes, Professor. Very productive."
"I'm sure it was. Settle in quickly. The welcome feast is in two hours." She handed him his class schedule. "Second year. You'll find the curriculum more challenging than first year, though I suspect you've already read ahead."
"Some."
"Of course you have." She almost smiled. "Try not to let the attention distract you from your studies."
"I won't, Professor."
Rowan picked up his trunk and stepped out into the corridor.
Students filled the hallway, heading toward their common rooms to unpack before the feast. The moment he emerged from Weasley's office, conversation stopped.
All eyes turned toward him.