The first light of morning painted the edges of the window in gold. Oliver stirred in his bed, the heavy silence of the Flamel household wrapping around him like a blanket. It was different from Hogwarts, different from the orphanage. No shuffling feet in the corridor, no muttered complaints from tired students. Only stillness, broken by the faint rustle of feathers as Nyx shifted on her perch near the desk.
The notebook Nicolas had given him the day before lay where he'd left it—on the nightstand, its worn cover seeming almost alive in the dawn light. He reached for it with careful hands, as though afraid to damage it, and flipped it open again.
The pages were cluttered with cramped handwriting and sketches that looked half-finished. Strange symbols curled into margins, some he recognized from his nights in the Hogwarts library, others wholly unfamiliar. There were diagrams of circles layered on circles, notes written in French, a scattering of lines in Latin that he struggled to parse.
His brows knitted. It was fascinating and terrifying all at once.
Nyx made a low, encouraging trill, tilting her head at him. Her feathers shimmered faintly, their starlit glow softening the shadows in the room.
"I don't know if I can do this," Oliver whispered, closing the notebook carefully. "It feels… bigger than anything I've ever done."
Nyx blinked at him with those sky-blue eyes that always seemed to see too much. She let out another sound—not sharp, not scolding, but almost amused.
Oliver let out a small laugh despite himself. "Yeah, yeah. You'd probably do better than me."
He dressed quickly, nerves tight in his chest, and followed the faint smell of breakfast through the halls. The house-elves had already laid out a small tray for him—fruit, bread, and tea. He ate in silence, not tasting much of it, his thoughts circling around the lesson to come.
When Nicolas and Perenelle found him, they greeted him with the same calm warmth as always. Nicolas's voice was steady, reassuring: "Are you ready?"
Oliver hesitated, then nodded. His fists tightened at his sides, hiding his trembling.
The walk back to the alchemy chamber felt longer than it should have, the stone halls stretching around them. When they entered, Oliver froze again.
The room was alive.
It wasn't moving, not exactly, but the faint hum of enchanted instruments, the gleam of glass and metal, the quiet shimmer of stored magic in vials—it all gave the chamber a presence, like stepping into a place that was both classroom and cathedral.
Nicolas gestured him forward. "Alchemy begins not with gold or immortality, but with understanding. With patience. With purification."
He placed a small vial on the table. The water inside was cloudy, filled with flecks of salt and bits of dried herbs. "Your task is simple in appearance: purify this until it is clear."
Oliver stared at the vial, then back at him. "That's it?"
"That's it," Nicolas confirmed. "But you will find that simplicity is not the same as ease."
Perenelle added softly, "Think of it not as forcing the water to obey, but as guiding it back to what it was meant to be."
Oliver drew a shaky breath and set the vial before him. He raised his wand, focusing as best he could. He pushed his will into the spell, channeling the intent to strip away the impurities.
The water hissed, then boiled violently. The herbs blackened, smoke curling upward in sharp, acrid wisps. Oliver yelped and nearly dropped the vial.
Nicolas waved his hand, and the reaction ceased, leaving the glass scorched. "Too much force," he said calmly.
Oliver's face burned. "Sorry."
"Do not apologize," Nicolas said, his voice even. "Failing is part of learning."
Oliver clenched his jaw and tried again. This time he barely pushed at all, afraid of another disaster. The water sat stubbornly, unmoved. Nothing happened.
He sagged.
Perenelle stepped closer, her voice gentle. "You are not coaxing it. You are ignoring it. Magic listens, Oliver, but only if you speak with intent."
He swallowed, shoulders slumping. "Maybe I'm not cut out for this."
Nicolas shook his head. "Nonsense. Do you think I succeeded the first time? I once melted half a table trying to purify honey. It took me years to understand why." His lips quirked faintly. "The house still smells faintly of caramel."
Oliver blinked at him, startled into a small laugh. It didn't erase the sting of failure, but it loosened something inside him.
He tried again. The vial trembled under his wand, but once more the result was uneven—half the herbs dissolved, the rest clumped together stubbornly.
Frustration gnawed at him. He wanted to slam the vial down, to declare that it was pointless. But something in Nicolas's calm gaze stopped him. The alchemist wasn't mocking him, wasn't disappointed. He was waiting.
Oliver stared at the cloudy water, his breathing quick. He thought of Transfiguration, the lessons with Professor McGonagall. How she told him he had to picture both the rock and the sparrow, to hold them both in his mind until the change was inevitable.
He thought of Charms, the way Professor Flitwick had insisted magic was like breath—gentle, steady, not forced.
He thought of Herbology, Professor Sprout explaining how plants had their own rhythms, their own natures, and to ignore that was to fail them.
The vial wavered in his grip, the cloudy water reflecting his uncertain face.
A flicker of understanding stirred in him—something incomplete but urgent.
He didn't know it yet, but the first threads of an epiphany were beginning to weave together.
Oliver drew in another slow breath. The cloudy water blurred before his eyes. His failures hung heavy on his shoulders, but the memories of his classes lingered like small sparks.
Transfiguration: both states held in the mind.
Charms: magic as breath, not a hammer.
Herbology: respecting what already lived, instead of forcing it to change.
He let those lessons rest together, overlapping, like puzzle pieces shifting into place.
What if alchemy wasn't separate? What if it was… a bridge?
His grip on the wand steadied. He pictured the vial not as a mess to dominate, but as something that wanted to be whole again. The water was clouded, yes, but at its core it was still water, waiting to be clear. He had to guide it back.
He exhaled, letting his intent flow through his hand. His will wasn't a shout now, but a steady call.
The herbs loosened, rising gently to the surface like leaves drifting on air. The salt shimmered, then dissolved evenly. The liquid's cloudy cast softened until, slowly, it gleamed. The light from the enchanted lamps caught in it, making it glow as if holding a fragment of moonlight.
Oliver blinked, lowering his wand. The vial was clear.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then Nyx let out a triumphant screech, her feathers blazing brighter, their faint starlight spilling across the table. She hopped closer, inspecting the vial, then turned her head toward him as if to say, Finally.
Oliver stared at the vial, a smile tugging at his lips, disbelief and pride warring inside him. "I… I did it."
Nicolas stepped closer, his sharp eyes fixed on the liquid. His lips parted, but for once he didn't immediately speak. Perenelle leaned in beside him, her expression caught between astonishment and quiet joy.
Finally Nicolas murmured, "Most children—even gifted ones—take weeks to understand the principle. Some take years. And you—" He shook his head, a rare break in his composure. "You pieced it together as though the path was already waiting."
Oliver flushed, lowering his gaze. "I just… thought about my classes. About what the professors said. It sort of… clicked."
Perenelle's eyes softened, but her voice was steady, admiring. "That is not just anything, child. That is comprehension. True comprehension. You did not copy what we told you—you understood it."
Oliver hugged the vial to his chest, grinning despite himself. "It felt… right. Like I wasn't forcing it anymore."
Nicolas's expression shifted, pride warming his features. "You think not as a student. You think as an alchemist."
The words struck deep. They weren't flattery. They were truth, spoken by someone who had walked this path longer than Oliver could imagine.
Perenelle touched Oliver's shoulder lightly. "Do not mistake this for mastery. You will fail again, often. But you will never lose this—this way of seeing. Hold onto it. It is rarer than gold."
Oliver nodded, the weight of her words sinking into him.
Nyx gave another approving cry, the light from her feathers dimming back to their usual faint glow. She hopped onto his arm, balanced herself neatly, and nipped his sleeve affectionately.
Oliver laughed, the sound bright in the quiet room. "Alright, alright. You helped."
Nicolas chuckled, the tension easing. "She did indeed. A guide as much as a companion."
Oliver set the vial carefully on the table, then looked back at the notebook Nicolas had given him. He felt a strange kinship between the faded ink and his own trembling hand. The path wasn't easy, but it was his.
Nicolas didn't set a new task. He only folded his hands and said, "That is enough for today. Reflection is as important as practice. Go, write down what you felt—not what you did, but what you understood."
Oliver nodded again, his grin returning. "I will."
He left the chamber with the notebook clutched tight, Nyx perched on his shoulder, the purified vial gleaming behind him like a small testament.
And though his steps were quiet, in his chest his heart hammered with a fierce, steady certainty.
For the first time, he felt like he was not simply learning magic. He was beginning to become something else entirely.