"You forgot the dragon voice," Gabrielle said, stepping into the kitchen from the front door like she'd just let herself into her own house. Which, apparently, was allowed when your family was practically fused to the hips with the Flamels. I blinked at her, mid-yawn, and pointed.
"Did she just walk in from outside? Did anyone lock that door?"
Perenelle didn't even look up. "Darling, the Delacours don't knock."
"We noticed," I muttered. "Should I just give her a key at this point?"
Gabrielle beamed like a victorious gremlin and brandished her storybook. "You promised the dragon voice."
"Ah, I see the guilt patrol is awake," I muttered, rubbing my eyes. "Can I at least have coffee before the emotional blackmail starts?"
"Non," she replied smugly, pulling out her storybook and setting it firmly on the table. "Promises are sacred."
"So is sleep," I shot back. "And I was promised eight hours. Someone lied."
The kitchen of the Flamel Château smelled like fresh croissants, magical jam, and maybe hope—if hope were spreadable and slightly citrus-flavored. Hermione was already seated at the breakfast table, flipping through her Charms book with the kind of intensity that made me wonder if she could levitate me by accident. Perenelle and Emma were seated nearby, chatting in the cozy, tea-sipping tone of two women rapidly becoming best friends. Dan, mercifully, had not yet emerged. Possibly still negotiating peace with his legs.
Hermione glanced up from her book. "She's right, you know. You said the dragon would sneeze fire and cinnamon. That book ended on a cliffhanger."
"Technically, it was a sneeze-hanger," I corrected. "And for the record, she fell asleep mid-sneeze. I didn't abandon the story—my audience passed out. Also, is no one going to ask how I managed to imitate a Welsh Green's sinuses with just a teaspoon and a napkin? That's talent."
"Sounds more like a head cold," Hermione said with a smirk.
"Sky," Nicholas said from the doorway, looking unreasonably well-rested. "A moment, if you please."
"Uh-oh," I muttered. "Either I'm in trouble, or we're finally building the underground lair."
"Neither—yet," he replied with a smile. "But we do have a lot to prepare if you plan to make the most of your time in France. Two weeks go quickly."
He led me down the hallway into his study again, a place that smelled like ancient paper, enchantments, and the kind of wood polish that could probably reverse aging. The walls glittered faintly with self-updating parchment, and several inkwells were stirring themselves like soup. Nicholas waved his hand and summoned a hovering chalkboard, which politely cleared its throat and then produced a quill.
"Let's list your goals," he said, motioning for me to begin.
I held up four fingers. "Right, so: One, figure out what exactly my storage ability is. Two, fix and possibly duplicate the Vanishing Cabinets. Three, transmute metal into gold—"
"That one's easy," Nicholas interrupted with a wave. "I'll sort it personally. That's hardly research—it's just an afternoon with the right tools."
"You mean you're not going to make me hunt goblins for platinum first?"
"Tempting," he said. "But no."
"Alright, fourth—"
"—Should be alchemy," he finished for me. "Not the flashy kind. Real alchemy. Foundational principles. Transmutation theory. Binding techniques. The slow, proper, ancient way."
I blinked. "Are you suggesting school?"
"I'm suggesting you stop winging it before you accidentally store a thunderstorm in your coat."
"…That sounds amazing."
"And fatal," he added.
As we broke from planning, I lingered in the hall a moment, stretching and yawning like a sleepy cat with anxiety. That's when Gabrielle snuck up behind me and poked my back.
"Still no dragon voice," she reminded me.
I turned slowly. "That's because the dragon had allergies. You want authenticity, you wait for pollen season."
She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes in what she probably thought was an intimidating look. "You promised."
I sighed, dramatically pulling a cotton napkin from my sleeve like it was a royal decree. "Then it shall be done."
I knelt dramatically and launched into the most over-the-top cinnamon-sneezing dragon impression I could muster. By the time I mimicked a wheezing snore, she was in stitches on the floor.
Hermione passed by, raised an eyebrow, and muttered, "Every day we stray further from Hogwarts."
Before the moment could dissolve into full-blown hallway theater, Nicholas also stepped out of his office for lunch down in the kitchen.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a leather-bound book with silver filigree curling along the spine. "Speaking of magic and productivity," I said, waving it slightly, "check this out."
Nicholas raised a brow. "Ah, the Neverending Tome. Where did you find that?"
"A charming little shop with an alarming return policy," I said. "But I had an idea. What if I could copy all seven years' worth of Hogwarts material into this? Every textbook. Charms, Transfiguration, Potions—you name it. And use one of those old relic quills to speed-copy pages from borrowed books. Like a portable Hogwarts that doesn't smell like poltergeists."
Nicholas leaned in. "That's clever. I love it."
"That's not even the best part," I said. "What if I made more of them? And linked them to this one. Not two-way. Just one-way. So I could push information out to other tomes, like copies that auto-update."
Nicholas scratched his chin. "A two-way link would be unstable with all the enchantments already in your Tome. But one-way? Yes... yes, that's more than doable. We'd need to align the anchor runes with your original and inscribe identifiers onto each recipient Tome. But yes. It could work."
Hermione, who had apparently been listening in, "Wait—why not just duplicate the textbooks? Use magic or a copying charm or something?"
"Good question," I said, turning to her. "While it's not technically illegal, most magical tomes and scrolls are riddled with anti-copy charms. Publishers and magical authors have their own form of copyright protection—it's enchantment-based. Try to duplicate a Charms textbook and you'll either end up with blank pages or a book that explodes into glitter and judgment."
Hermione blinked. "Seriously?"
"Seriously. But weirdly, old relic copy quills like mine still work. Probably because they're slower and don't trigger the anti-theft enchantments the same way. It's not instant, but it's still way faster than writing by hand. Think of it as magical loophole calligraphy."
Hermione shook her head with a laugh. "I learn more from your schemes than I do from some professors."
"That's the nicest criminal accusation I've ever received. And if I ever become a professor, I'll just chuck one of these at my students instead of giving homework." I replied brightly.
"You'd be a terrifying professor," Hermione muttered as she walked by again. "And I'd probably still take your class."
After lunch, Nicholas Flamel and I left behind the cozy sounds of tea and gossip, stepping into the more serious hush of Nicholas's study once more. It felt like crossing from a warm kitchen into a vault of forgotten secrets. The study door shut behind us with a soft click, sealing off the sounds of laughter and the clink of tea cups. Nicholas moved straight to the bookshelf, not to retrieve anything, but seemingly just to give the illusion of preparedness.
"I've been thinking about your storage ability," he said, turning slowly. "You said it's always worked, but you've never had it examined properly. I believe now is the time."
I nodded, already pulling a mug from thin air and setting it on the table. "Coffee. Three days old. Still warm. You'd think someone would have noticed by now, but no. Never been caught, never triggered a ward. It's like it doesn't even exist."
Nicholas's eyes sparkled with interest. "That's because it doesn't register on magical resonance scans. There's no fluctuation, no signature. Which leads me to a very curious conclusion."
I leaned in, intrigued. "And that is?"
He raised a finger. "It's not magic. Not as we know it. There is no trace of arithmantic flow, no evidence of spellcraft. Whatever you're doing—it's entirely outside the scope of known magical law."
I blinked. "So what you're saying is… I've been unknowingly cheating all this time?"
"Essentially," he said, completely unfazed. "And you've done a remarkably good job of it. Which is why we'll need to catalog what it can and cannot do. When you store something, do you feel anything? Heat? Weight?"
"Maybe a tiny bit of guilt," I said with a small shrug. "But just from certain acquisitions... The power? Zero guilt. That one's guilt-free and oddly satisfying."
Nicholas gave a knowingly small laugh. "Let's start with parameters. Size limits, temporal state, interaction with enchantments—anything you've noticed."
As I began explaining how objects remained perfectly preserved—unchanged in taste, temperature, or decay—Nicholas scribbled rapidly. I also brought up something I'd noticed lately: when I stored certain enchanted items, they didn't lose their charge. If anything, the energy inside seemed frozen in place. I even wondered aloud if I could store spells or raw magical energy inside other objects.
Nicholas paused, his quill hovering. "That changes everything. If what you're describing is accurate, this isn't just storage—it's containment. Possibly even redirection."
For a man who had lived over six centuries, he suddenly had the energy of a caffeinated pixie on a breakthrough. He was already sketching arcane symbols in the margins of his notes, his eyes bright with possibility.
"Eventually," I said, "I want to test if it can store magical energy itself. Spells. Maybe potions mid-brew. I mean, who needs a cauldron when you have a cosmic pantry?"
Nicholas put the quill down slowly. "Let's… take this one step at a time. But yes. That is an avenue worth exploring. Possibly dangerous like all other spectrum of unknown power, but has lots of potential to be considered worth the risks."
I nodded. "I was planning to tell Hermione. Eventually. Once she finishes learning Occlumency. I don't want this kind of secret floating around in an unsecured head."
Nicholas nodded approvingly, then paused. "You trust her that much?"
"More than anyone," I replied.
There was a long pause, then a smile. "You may be mad. But you're methodical. That's rare."
He stood up and walked to the fireplace, staring into the low flames. "Let's test more tomorrow. You'll need rest, and I'll need to rework the study into something more explosion-proof."
"Comforting," I muttered.
He turned back with a grin. "Oh, and Sky? For your sake, let's keep this quiet. Don't tell anyone about this ability—not even the Flamels. Not yet."
I raised an eyebrow. "You're the Flamels."
Nicholas chuckled. "Exactly."