It had already been half a month since my arrival at the Millefeuille Manor. Over two weeks filled with morning training sessions with Louis, studying the intricacies of French etiquette and verbal sparring, and most importantly — immersing myself in the mysterious world of alchemy under the guidance of Master Renodier himself.
Today, taking advantage of the afternoon, Céline and I sat in the pristine white pavilion located at the very heart of the garden. The small, elegant structure of white stone stood at the intersection of four paths dividing the garden into perfect quarters. Arched openings on each side offered views of the riot of colors and shapes of magical flora, and a light breeze carried intoxicating scents. Inside, it was cool. What more could one wish for on this beautiful sunny day than a place sheltered from direct rays? In the center stood a round marble table, surrounded by comfortable wicker armchairs with soft cushions. This place had become our unofficial sanctuary, where we often sat and chatted. And here, Céline helped me review the studied alchemy material.
The girl leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs. Her light lavender-colored dress contrasted with her snow-white skin and beautiful eyes. Over these weeks, she had opened up — not as a cunning schemer, like the serpentine Amanda, but as a pure, unclouded intellect. Her mind was sharp, cutting to the essence of things, and her passion for knowledge was truly contagious and genuine.
It was this sincerity and love for her craft that endeared her to me.
"So, Arcturus," she continued her questions, her voice businesslike but without arrogance. "Let's check how well you've grasped the principles of Aurea mediocritas in the context of metal transmutation at the deconstruction stage. Why is excessive zeal just as dangerous as insufficient?"
I took a sip of cold lemonade, setting the glass aside. Over these weeks, we had developed our own "ritual" — she tested my knowledge, and I in turn asked counter-questions, sometimes challenging the very foundations I hadn't yet grasped so fundamentally. It was our game, our dance of minds.
"Because alchemy," I began, looking at a flowerbed with fiery-red blossoms whose petals slowly turned to follow the sun, "is a subtle art of balance. Too aggressive catalysis can not only destroy the molecular structure of, say, lead, but also trigger a chain reaction of decay, up to uncontrolled energy release. We don't want to turn our crucible into a mine, right?"
"Right," she nodded, and a flicker of approval appeared in her eyes. "And what, in your opinion, is the most elegant indicator of achieving the 'golden mean' when working with mercury?"
"The change in its surface tension," I replied without hesitation. "Up to a certain point, it behaves normally. But at the point of perfect magical saturation, its surface begins to... shimmer. Like molten pearl. Master Renodier called it 'the breath of metal.'"
"You were attentive in the last lesson," she noted, and that rare, and therefore precious, smile of understanding appeared on her lips. "Now my question. Suppose you've achieved this shimmer. What's your next step? Not theoretical... from a textbook, but what you would actually do based on the logic of the process."
I pondered. She was trying to make me think not with memorized words, but with what truly made alchemy, alchemy. She understood and felt everything on an intuitive level — unlike me. Despite my progress in such a laughably short time, I didn't grasp everything intuitively, as I did, for example, during duels or training, where I literally knew how to move and attack to achieve victory. I intuitively understood the entire battlefield, my opponent, and myself.
Perhaps it was because I hadn't practiced enough, but sciences like these, including Potions and other craft-related fields, although I did well in them, weren't at a genius level, which, I admit, I wanted to be in everything. For a talented person should be talented in all things!
"I would... slow down the heating," I said, slowly formulating the thought. "Despite the textbooks prescribing maintaining temperature. The shimmer is a sign of internal deconstruction, not its result. In theory, you need to give it time to stabilize, changing nothing, allowing the magic to 'be absorbed.' Like a plant after transplanting. However, I would try to reduce the heat, since the effect is already achieved. To understand where the boundary lies, you need to wait for the next sign to appear, and it's safer to do that by stretching the interval of the effect's manifestation."
Céline watched me intently; her blue eyes, usually so clear, were now full of thoughtfulness.
"An interesting line of thought," she finally said. "Unconventional and more time-consuming. But... having a right to exist. There's logic in that." She took a sip from her glass. "You're progressing faster than I expected, Arcturus. Master Renodier seems to have noted it too."
"Thanks to you," I admitted honestly. "Your explanations... they put everything in place. Sometimes I feel your explanations are easier for me to understand than Master Renodier's words filled with complex terminology."
We fell silent, but the silence between us was comfortable. Over these weeks, we had come a long way from polite strangers to... to what? Not quite friends yet, but certainly — comrades in the pursuit of knowledge. She — a genius of alchemy and Herbology, and I — a stubborn student, greedily trying to climb to the peak where she stood.
The sun slowly sank towards the west, casting long shadows.
"Enough for today, perhaps," Céline said, standing up and closing her notebook. But instead of leaving immediately, she, as always, turned to me with a lively, almost mischievous sparkle in her eyes. "But if you're not tired... I need to check the new Lys Nocturne seedlings in the greenhouse. Four hands will manage faster. Will you help?"
This had become part of our routine. After the mini-lesson, we would go to her green "wards." I had noticed long ago that it was among the pots of soil and the smell of magical fertilizers that the mask of the perfect, reserved aristocrat finally fell from her. She became... simply Céline.
"Of course," I smiled, standing up. "Just warn me if I have to dodge those 'talkative' ones again... you know what I mean."
She laughed — brightly and sincerely.
"Well, I wasn't laughing when those nasty greenish-yellow tendrils started touching me."
"Hahaha..." Wiping away tears of laughter, she calmed down a little. "I did warn you..."
"You see, you just had to not move, otherwise they'd sense a threat and attack... pfft... Alright, I can't stay mad; it's funny to me too."
After sharing a laugh, we finally headed to the greenhouse.
"I promise, today there will only be harmless plants, though finicky ones."
Emerging from the pavilion's coolness into the gentle warmth of the sun, we walked towards the glass domes of the greenhouse. Over these two weeks, something between us had subtly shifted. The turning point, perhaps, was those first joint lessons with Master Renodier.
There, I saw Célinе in her element — not just a smart student, but an inspired researcher, whose eyes burned with a living fire when the Master explained the intricacies of Fibonacci spirals in the structure of alchemical diagrams. And when, after the lesson where Master Renodier diligently ignored me, I started asking Célinе the questions that had arisen...
Since then, our relationship had ceased to be merely dictated by our parents. They had become... a joint exploration. I didn't feel any tender feelings within myself, but she was interesting. I love intelligent people, and there were few among my peers. But this fourteen-year-old girl truly won me over with her sincere love for science.
And for those unaware: the constant descriptions of "genius" and "talent" from everyone around (including me) might sound like an exaggeration. The girl is clever in conversation — but calling her a genius?!
However... who else at such a young age can tend a garden better than a professional gardener who has dedicated their whole life to it? Who at 14 would be entrusted with a greenhouse containing extremely expensive and rare plants requiring not just professional but sometimes lethally dangerous care — where a mistake threatens either the plant or the caretaker themselves?
I'm not even mentioning the magical plant species she herself had cultivated, her absolutely precise knowledge of hundreds of species, their properties, and application specifics.
In alchemy — and at Beauxbatons, it is studied as thoroughly as Transfiguration is at Hogwarts, with advanced courses available — she has so surpassed her peers that she received permission to attend seventh-year classes instead of the standard ones. And she has only just finished her third year.
That's why the knowledge she gained from Master Renodier and could apply in practice, I was only trying to grasp theoretically. It's impossible to apply in practice something that is orders of magnitude beyond the base of what you know. In other words, between my basic knowledge, which I learned to apply practically, and the theory I was studying with Célinе, there was simply a monstrous chasm.
Among Célinе's practical achievements are several types of alchemical essences already used in their flagship store to create cosmetic ointments, perfumes, and more.
And all this — at 14! How could one not call her a genius after that?
"You know," Célinе suddenly began, as if reading my thoughts as we walked, "I first thought you'd just study the assigned material, learning out of principle because 'you have to.' But you... you're genuinely trying to delve in. And your sometimes silly ideas turn out not to be so silly after all. I recently, after your thought about the secret of goblin silver, had certain reflections."
"You decided to push them out of that business? Let's discuss percentages upfront," I said jokingly, to which Célinе laughed.
"Hah, no, I'm not that good to unravel such a complex alchemical process. I just thought about how, in theory, to alter a metal so it could absorb beneficial substances."
Chatting a bit more about this, we reached the greenhouse and got to work. Fortunately, over the time, I had managed to become quite skilled and would surely surprise Professor Sprout upon returning to Hogwarts.
Though, unlike alchemy, which I liked, I wasn't particularly fond of Herbology. I liked alchemy because, in my eyes, it had great potential. Unlike Muggle opinion, alchemy is not the science of making gold from anything at hand...
No, alchemy was the magical science of transmuting one matter into another. Precisely transmutation, because unlike Transfiguration, where we use magic to change an object's form and properties, but the matter eventually returns to its original state when the magic supply depletes, in alchemy the change is irreversible.
Of course, one could recall the branch of Advanced Transfiguration — permanent Transfiguration. But the whole essence there is that the transfigured object independently receives magic to sustain its new form. So, if that supply is cut off or there is severe deformation where the incoming magic flow is insufficient, the object will simply revert to its original form.
There's also a common opinion that alchemy is Potion-making. However, Potion-making combines ready-made magical properties of ingredients for an immediate effect. Alchemy strives to change the very essence of a substance.
Of course, at the foundation of it all lies the main axiom of alchemy — Equivalent Exchange. As Master Renodie often repeats: "Natura non nisi parendo vincitur" (Nature is conquered only by obeying her). Nothing arises from nothing. To obtain something, you must give something of equal value.
However, the beauty of being a wizard is that what you "give" isn't necessarily material — it can be energy, time, knowledge, a part of yourself... Understanding this is the key to everything, and not just in alchemy. This same principle is extremely important in Ritualistics, although there the exchange is often not perceived as equivalent. At least, the human mind doesn't consider some things used in rituals as valuable. For instance, an animal's blood is worthless to us — but that's merely a subjective human opinion.
All this leads to alchemy not being as simple to apply as Transfiguration. Turn lead into gold? Be so kind as to fulfill the three mandatory conditions of transmutation and follow the sequence:
Understanding — Comprehend the internal structure and properties of the source material, including the flow and balance of energy within.
Deconstruction — Use energy to destroy the material's physical structure into a more malleable state, ready for transformation.
Reconstruction — Do not stop the energy flow, but channel it to transform the material into a new form.
The more the source material differs from the desired one, the more energy is required. And in the third stage, you realize that gold is not lead, and the metal possesses the highest magical conductivity, so your attempts to create value from dung with clumsy hands will lead to a powerful explosion, damage to magical flows, or something even worse. However, you can do the opposite — obtain lead from gold. But no one would want to exchange a kilogram of gold for a kilogram of lead.
Ultimately, this is precisely why everyone is still puzzling over how goblins create their goblin-silver from ordinary silver, using the same alchemy.
And not just that. Alchemy is everywhere — people just don't think much about the fact that even glass vials for potions are the result of an alchemical process, as ordinary glass cannot preserve the potency of potions, which lose their properties over time.
Roughly speaking, Potion-making and Transfiguration were essentially subfields of alchemy. However, being a great alchemist does not equate to being a great Potions master or Transfiguration expert. And vice versa.
Alchemy is complex and time-consuming to learn, but every alchemist knows of the boundless possibilities of the science capable of granting god-like power. All the limitations I mentioned earlier, related to Equivalent Exchange and magical conductivity, were rendered moot in the eyes of alchemists by one name: Nicholas Flamel.
Nicholas Flamel was the greatest alchemist in history and, thanks to the creation of the Philosopher's Stone, became practically a god. Everyone knew that one of the two currently living Archmages of Europe (the second, by the way, is not Dumbledore) has lived for over 600 years. He subjugated life itself, granting immortality to himself and his wife.
There was no confirmation, but it was believed that the Philosopher's Stone in the hands of a skilled alchemist could create life, which is impossible according to the laws of alchemy. The stone could also violate the rules of Equivalent Exchange, which, for physicists, would be like exceeding the speed of light for an object with mass. The legendary work of the equally legendary alchemist could create literally anything, including simple gold.
Flamel met his wife at Beauxbatons, which is why the couple held great affection for their alma mater. In short, the school basked in luxury, and rumors had it that one could not become Headmaster of Beauxbatons without Flamel's approval.
Somehow, thoughts arose that he actually owned the school. After all, headmasters change, the founder died long ago, and the school isn't directly subordinate to the French Ministry.
Also, according to Célinе, the Archmage visited Beauxbatons once a year and gave a lecture on alchemy for those studying the subject in depth. Needless to say, many sent their children there from all over Europe, especially from Western-Southern parts, as Beauxbatons wasn't so much a French school as an international one, like Durmstrang. Therefore, its students were mainly at least second-generation wizards, and the tuition was expensive enough to be considered a privilege for only well-off families.
After her words, I even thought about transferring there, but no. I had a grand plan tied to Britain, and a key part of it lay in the connections I was building at Hogwarts. Perhaps in the future, I might spend a year or two on an exchange at Beauxbatons, but not now.
"And you believe that's possible?" I asked quietly. "Not just transmuting matter into other matter, but... breaking the laws of nature and creating life from non-life. With just one stone..."
She looked at me, and there wasn't a shadow of doubt in her eyes.
"I don't believe, Arcturus. I know. Just as I know these flowers will bloom under the moon. Or that the sun will rise in the morning and set in the evening. It's not belief, but knowledge that alchemy is capable of anything — and that was proven by the Great Nicholas Flamel. That's precisely what makes alchemy the most honest and most beautiful of all magical sciences."
She spoke with such faith, with such fire, that I couldn't look away. In that moment, she wasn't Isabelle de Millefeuille's daughter or a potential bride. She was a true dreamer, seeing magic in everything.
Needless to say, for an alchemist, the figure of Nicholas Flamel, who conquered aging, was in some ways even greater than that of the Great Merlin, revered throughout Europe and sometimes used in speech in place of the word "God."