— — — — — —
"Hello, Master Nicolas. I'm Luban Seven."
In Paris, inside the Flamel estate, Luban-7 introduced herself politely to Nicolas Flamel.
Most of the little Lubans were still at home decorating for the holiday. Only Little Seven was different.
She was clumsy, easily distracted, and prone to wandering off. The other Lubans were terrified she'd ruin everything, so Tom simply took her along, sparing her big sisters the stress.
Of course… that was only a secondary reason. The real reason was simpler: he wanted to show off.
An alchemic lifeform. What did that even mean?
Tom Riddle had reached a point where, in certain aspects, he could stand shoulder-to-shoulder with God himself. A creator. Someone who forged life from nothing.
Since the day the Lubans had come to life, Tom hadn't told anyone. Showing off to ordinary wizards was boring; they wouldn't understand the difficulty or the meaning behind it.
But showing this to the greatest alchemist in history? Watching Nicolas Flamel go from mild interest, to disbelief, to eyes shining like a kid in a candy shop as he knelt down to talk seriously with Luban-7…
Tom felt like fireworks were going off in his heart.
"She's alive… she's truly alive…"
The old man muttered like someone possessed. When Luban-7 curiously poked around the room and even broke a cabinet clock he'd treasured for four centuries, he didn't get angry. He looked at her the same way a grandfather might look at a beloved granddaughter.
But when his eyes shifted to Tom, all that gentle warmth turned into a feverish intensity that practically wanted to devour him whole.
"How did you do it? I've tried countless times. Everything I made was just a tool. But Luban… she's a living being you created. What did I miss? Where did I fall short?"
Tom gave Nicolas a rough explanation of the spiritual nature — its existence, its traits, and its role. Not because he wanted to hide anything, but because the theory was so vast and complicated that explaining the whole thing would take the entire Christmas holiday.
"Spirituality… I really overlooked that. No, more like I lumped it together with souls. They're not the same thing at all."
"But how did you attach it to physical material?"
"Old man, use magic as the medium. Turn an abstract concept into something concrete. Isn't that basically what magic does?"
Nicolas nodded so rapidly his head looked like a bobble toy. Tom made it sound simple, but that one sentence represented a truth most wizards could never grasp. He looked ready to sprint back to his lab that instant to begin researching extraction and infusion of spirituality.
No. First, he needed materials.
"Tom, why don't you let Little Seven stay with me?" Nicolas asked gently, watching the lively Luban girl bounce around. "Let me teach her alchemy. I promise I'll turn her into a capable assistant in a few months."
"That won't work." Tom shook his head. "She has several sisters waiting at home. You'll see them soon enough."
"How many alchemic beings have you created?"
"Seven so far. And that's the limit. I'm short on key materials."
Nicolas of course knew exactly what materials Tom meant. But he didn't warn or lecture him. Why would he?
A man who studied alchemy in the Middle Ages — especially alchemy involving human bodies and longevity — was no saint.
Or rather, Nicolas Flamel could be kind and warm-hearted when his interests weren't involved. But the moment something touched his core obsession… heh. Certain moral lines and principles simply didn't matter anymore.
The old man kept peppering Tom with questions until Tom couldn't take it anymore. He didn't want to spend the entire holiday talking shop, so he called for reinforcements: Madame Perenelle.
Once she stepped in, Nicolas' eyes cleared, his hunger for knowledge receded, and he obediently directed the house elves to pack. Originally they'd only meant to bring a few daily necessities, but now he insisted on bringing lab equipment and materials as well.
While the Flamels were packing, Tom made a trip to the Delacour home.
The moment he arrived, he was swept into a tight embrace, and in seconds Tom and Fleur were kissing, wrapped up in the intense warmth only a part-veela could give.
Gabrielle covered her eyes, but peeked through fingers spread wider than the doorway, staring at them like she was watching two seals fighting over a grape.
When Tom finally had Fleur breathless, she pushed him back weakly, sapphire eyes full of reproach. "So you do remember I exist. I thought you'd totally forgotten about me."
"Me too. Gabrielle was forgotten too." The little girl pouted dramatically and tugged Tom's sleeve.
Tom gave her an embarrassed grin and ruffled her hair. "I've been busy. A lot of messy stuff happened, but it's pretty much sorted out now."
News from North America hadn't reached France yet, and Fleur didn't know what Tom had been up to. She assumed he meant business troubles. She huffed softly but didn't complain further.
She understood, after all. In just one semester, Tom's communication network had already changed the way many wizards sent messages. That had taken a huge amount of work.
"You said so yourself. You won't be busy anymore. So when I get to Hogwarts, you owe me a proper tour."
"…Huh?" Tom stared at her. "Why are you coming to Hogwarts?"
---
Two hours later, a luxurious carriage drawn by two winged horses rose from the Flamel estate and soared into the sky.
Tom slumped into the sofa inside, looking miserable.
He miscalculated. Horribly.
He had completely forgotten about the International Underage Wizarding Duel Tournament. When Fleur reminded him today, it felt like getting smacked with a brick.
The stupid event was still happening?!
"Damn you, Laos. I swear, the next time I see you I'm going to beat the crap out of you… you drama-loving bastard."
Actually, helping Grindelwald get out of his prison early was, in large part, to avoid exactly this kind of romantic crossfire.
The world was on the brink of war. Who still had the mood to worry about kids playing at duels? Weren't they afraid their homes would get robbed while they were gone?
But Tom had miscalculated. With Dumbledore around, the idea that Hogwarts was the safest place in the magical world was only becoming more widely accepted. Especially after he genuinely drove Grindelwald back. Sending promising students to compete meant they could grow without real danger, so of course the tournament stayed on schedule.
"What's chewing on you now?" Nicolas Flamel asked when he saw Tom looking drained. "Did you get into a fight with that Delacour girl?"
"No…"
Tom sighed and explained the mess he'd walked into. Nicolas found it hilarious.
"So you do get scared sometimes. If you're scared, maybe don't flirt with so many girls to begin with."
Tom rolled his eyes. "What do you know, you fossil. Trouble is temporary. A happy life lasts a lifetime."
"Who are you calling a fossil?"
The old man pointed at him, ready to snap back, but he couldn't hold a straight face and chuckled instead. "Forget it. I won't kick you while you're down. You'll have enough headaches soon."
"Oh boy, I've gotta go to Hogwarts and watch the drama."
He paused, then added, "And although… veela blood is a strange thing. Once they choose someone, they almost never change their mind. So you don't need to worry too much about this girl."
But that wasn't what Tom was worried about.
Tom took a big gulp of orange juice. What he worried about was Daphne. How would she react when Fleur arrived? If the two of them clashed, wouldn't that just make a public joke out of him?
Nicolas was about to share some of his own youthful escapades when Tom's Codex on the table suddenly buzzed. With a flick of his hand, the notebook opened itself to a blank page, and Dumbledore's image swam into view.
"Well, that's rare." Tom perked up a little and teased, "Professor, I think this is the first time you've ever video-called me."
Normally, Dumbledore would at least smile. Today, though, his face was set and solemn. He only gave a slight nod. "Merry Christmas, Tom."
"I didn't expect you to take one trip to North America and cause such a massive problem for yourself."
"Problem?" Tom raised a brow. "I don't see it. It's nothing important."
"North America?" Nicolas leaned in curiously. "What did you do over there?"
Dumbledore blinked when he noticed him. "Nicolas? You're with Tom?"
"This boy has at least a bit of conscience left," Nicolas said cheerfully. "He invited Perenelle and me to Britain for Christmas. We're still en route, though we should reach Newt soon."
Dumbledore felt himself aging five years on the spot. North America was practically knocking down his door, and the culprit was thinking about holiday plans. The magical Congress might as well be invisible to him.
"What exactly did Tom do this time?" Nicolas pressed.
Dumbledore had no choice but to explain. Tom listened quietly, curious how badly the Americans were trying to spin things. In fairness, the story wasn't too distorted. With so many witnesses and the ability to pull memories, inventing lies was pointless.
"You really can't stay still, can you."
Nicolas shot Tom a glare and lectured, "You attacked a thriving family alone? Why didn't you prepare more? What if your enemies predicted your visit, arranged an ambush, and took you out?"
"Dueling them head-on is the stupidest method. Why not poison them? Why not use a potion? One vial of Dragon Frenzy and that entire estate would have been flattened by a rampaging fire-dragon. Much easier than doing it yourself."
Tom lowered his head like an embarrassed schoolboy. "I needed to make a statement. A simple, direct approach leaves a deeper impression. Otherwise no one would know it was me."
Dumbledore's mustache practically twitched off his face. "Nicolas… how can you teach him things like that? He's still a child…"
"Albus."
Nicolas cut him off. His face, usually kind, turned cold for the first time. Even his tone carried something like a warning.
"I know your character. Humble, restrained, always willing to sacrifice your own interests for peace and stability."
"But that is your philosophy."
The old alchemist's gaze sharpened.
"Don't force your ideals onto Tom. He has his own way of doing things and his own mind. And don't pretend you don't understand what Graves was trying to pull. Was Tom wrong to respond?"
"These minor matters… either you handle them for him, or let him."
"You shouldn't let them interfere with his life and studies from the start. Tom's energy shouldn't be wasted on petty nonsense."
.
.
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