Olympe Maxime stood on the attic balcony, her olive-toned face looking a bit lost in thought.
Down below, people wove through the cobblestone paths of Montmorency Street, where the bustling market filled the air with noise. Vendors shouted their wares, and customers haggled loudly. But just a few feet away, as the alchemical runes on the slate-gray stone walls spun softly, the clamor from the street was muffled, absorbed by the magic. Only faint echoes reached the attic, like the soft hum of the Pyrenees Mountains at midnight.
The attic's location was perfect. Sunlight streamed through the skylight, and the warm July glow in Paris felt cozy, almost tickling the nose with its brightness. Every piece of furniture in the room carried the weight of time—creaky wooden shelves and an old grandfather clock, probably crafted by Muggle artisans two hundred years ago, older than the Ministry of Magic itself. The parchment manuscripts on the bookshelf dated back to the 14th century, rare even for Beauxbatons' library.
A crystal ball sat on the table, its silvery mist swirling with glimpses of a hazy future.
Every corner of the attic radiated the mysterious aura of a legendary alchemist. Most of the objects were decades, if not centuries, old. The only new addition was a silver mirror hanging on the brick wall above the fireplace. A frail, elderly wizard was tinkering with it, handling it like a kid with a new toy.
In just a few days, the Rosier family had pushed the mirror's popularity across Paris, sparking a frenzy among witches and wizards. According to the headmistress of Beauxbatons, wizarding shops in neighboring countries—Spain, Portugal, the Netherlands, Luxembourg, and Belgium—were stocking up on them. The mirrors were spreading through the wizarding world like they'd hitched a ride on the Floo Network.
The summer heat was starting to feel intense, but the market outside was still buzzing, packed with witches and wizards, many from out of town.
Olympe Maxime slipped off her elegant opal necklace and stepped back inside. Her olive skin and dark, glossy eyes stood out, and her towering frame made it seem like she could brush the ceiling with a lift of her hand. By all accounts, a woman of her size shouldn't move with such grace, but she carried herself with the poise of a lady raised in an ancient wizarding family—every gesture refined, her hair perfectly styled.
"It connects to the Floo Network… and there's a slot back here… that Wright kid really improved the design," she murmured.
"The seams aren't even… probably that assembly line flaw he mentioned. Seven hundred Galleons for a defective piece? What a crook," grumbled an ancient, stooped wizard. His silver hair gleamed, and his pale, wrinkled skin shook as he moved, the tassels on his robes swaying. For a wizard pushing six hundred years old, this much activity was a workout. He paused now and then to catch his breath.
Watching the old wizard struggle, Madame Maxime couldn't help but ask, "Mr. Flamel, I don't get it. A great alchemist like you—why are you so fascinated by this mirror? Is the alchemy in it really that advanced?"
"Advanced? Nah, not at all. It's honestly kind of crude," Nicolas Flamel replied.
"Then why…?"
"Because this crude little silver mirror, like my crystal ball over there, holds a glimpse of the future."
Flamel finished hanging the mirror and tapped it lightly with his finger. He shuffled back to his armchair, and just as he settled in, the mirror flickered to life. Silver mist swirled, forming lines and shapes before filling with color—right in time for a noon performance.
"Ladies and gentlemen, get ready to be amazed! Hold your breath for a show like nothing you've ever seen—more incredible than ancient magic, a marvel even the Creator couldn't dream up!" boomed a voice from the mirror.
Maxime watched for a few minutes. It was just a wizarding circus performance, likely pulled from the memory of a front-row spectator. She could hear faint chatter from nearby seats—mentions of the Quidditch World Cup, Scotland, Canada. From the context, it seemed like a memory from a few years back. The host hyped the crowd with flashy words, but for a performance approved by the Ministry of Magic, it wasn't exactly groundbreaking. Some rare magical creatures, a few obscure spells from far-off regions, and plenty of stage tricks for visual flair.
For a headmistress of a magical school, it was mildly entertaining. For a six-hundred-year-old wizard? Probably boring as heck.
But when Maxime glanced at Flamel, his silver eyes sparkled with delight, completely absorbed in the show.
Sensing her confusion, Flamel turned to her. "Olympe, you've gotta understand—for an old geezer like me who can barely move, being able to watch the outside world from home? That's something to celebrate."
Maxime studied the nearly seven-hundred-year-old wizard and opened her mouth to reply. "I thought maybe you saw something special in the mirror's creator, Melvin Levent."
"Melvin? Oh, he's definitely the one I've got my eye on," Flamel said, his armchair perfectly positioned under the skylight. The warm sunlight felt just right, warming his stiff, chilly bones. "He's a young guy with endless possibilities."
"Chosen one… does that mean he'll create a new Philosopher's Stone?" Maxime's dark eyes widened. Flamel's Book of Abraham wasn't exactly a secret—plenty of wizards knew the story behind the Philosopher's Stone.
"I didn't say that," Flamel chuckled, shaking his head. He picked up his coffee and took a slow sip. "I just think he's gonna make the world a lot more interesting. Shame I won't be around to see it."
"Don't say that," Maxime said softly, feeling the weight of talking to someone so ancient. "I came here today to ask your advice about Beauxbatons' future."
"Hmm…" Flamel let out a long breath, maybe agreeing, maybe just tasting the bitterness of his coffee.
"You know how the Mediterranean used to be pirate territory," she continued. "Some wizards spend their whole lives on ships, never setting foot on land. A few months ago, their leader reached out to me. They want their kids to attend Beauxbatons."
Flamel nodded thoughtfully. "Anything else?"
"Hogwarts revamped its Muggle Studies curriculum. Should Beauxbatons follow suit? Should we embrace Muggle technology more?"
"Anything else?"
Maxime leaned in, her voice earnest. "And the Statute of Secrecy—can it really hold? Muggle footprints keep showing up deep in the Pyrenees. I feel like one day they'll be knocking on Beauxbatons' door."
She looked straight at the old wizard. "Mr. Flamel, I'm hoping you'll stick around a bit longer. The Egyptian Alchemy Research Center sent a letter asking about you, and with the International Confederation of Wizards meeting coming up, we need an experienced wizard to guide us."
Flamel didn't answer right away. He closed his eyes, fingers tapping the armrest, lost in thought.
Three minutes later, the fireplace flared green, and an elderly woman stepped into the room.
"Madame Flamel!" Maxime greeted quickly.
"Oh, it's you, Olympe," Perenelle Flamel said. She seemed spryer than her husband, moving with less stiffness. Her eyes landed on the coffee cup on the table, and she shot Nicolas a look. "Your old bones are brittler than French fries, and you're still drinking coffee? You'll be up all night or dreaming weird stuff again."
Nicolas gave her a sheepish grin.
Perenelle turned to the headmistress. "Since you're here, I'm making Provençal stew. Come help me prep the ingredients." She held up a bag of fresh vegetables from the market.
"Of course, Madame," Maxime said. Despite no longer being a fresh-faced graduate, she still felt a bit awkward around these living legends. She followed orders, tackling tomatoes, zucchini, and eggplants in the cramped kitchen. Her large frame made it tricky to move, and she fumbled a bit, like she was back in her early days as headmistress, scrambling to handle school business, the Ministry, and the board of governors. Back then, the Flamels had been a huge help during her toughest moments.
Somehow, she got through the stew, washed dishes, and helped with the rest of the meal. It wasn't until she sat at the table that she snapped out of her daze.
What had she even asked Nicolas about?
After lunch, Flamel lounged in his chair, the skylight now angled to bathe him in soft sunlight. Maxime stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her hands, and saw the old wizard's eyes half-closed, dozing off.
She knew her questions probably wouldn't get answers now.
Before leaving, she couldn't resist leaning in and whispering, "Sir, any parting words for me?"
"My advice?" Flamel paused, his voice soft. "Don't keep asking Nicolas Flamel everything. He's just an old wizard."
Maxime blinked, and before she knew it, she was descending the attic's spiral staircase. Perenelle walked her out, and with a flash of white light, they were at a corner of Montmorency Street, standing by a bronze witch statue.
Perenelle handed her a parcel. "This attic's getting sealed up for good. Don't come looking for us anymore—just act like we're already gone."
Maxime hesitated.
"Here's some Gringotts bonds, a vault key, and the deed to the Pyrenees castle," Perenelle continued gently. "Use them to run the school and keep those stubborn board members in line. Oh, and the Goblet of Fire's starting up again soon. You'll want to prep for that."
"The Goblet of Fire?" Maxime started to ask, but Perenelle just shook her head, gave a familiar wave, and vanished behind the bronze statue.
Maxime lingered, tempted to try lifting the statue's skirt like she used to, but it didn't budge. As Perenelle said, the place was sealed. The Flamels were out of reach.
She stood there for a while until her towering figure drew stares from passersby. With a sigh, she stepped into a waiting Thestral-drawn carriage and left Montmorency Street as the winged horses took flight.
---
Later that evening, at the Paris Opera House
The stage curtain hadn't risen yet, and the performance was still a bit off.
Mr. Delacour, a short, stout man, glanced around. His wife, Apolline, sat to his right, and his daughters, Gabrielle and Fleur, to his left. No one was paying him any mind, and he wasn't too thrilled about the upcoming ballet. So, he pulled out a newspaper he'd grabbed earlier and flipped through it under the theater's lights.
"Magic mirrors are sweeping Montmorency Street, with witches and wizards scrambling to buy them at premium prices…"
"Wright, head of the Mirror Club, arrived in Paris to work with the Ministry's Transportation Department, upgrading the Floo Network in record time. Introduced by Auror Bureau's Mr. Bonnel to the Belgian Ministry, the mirror business is booming. Sources say nearby Ministries are discussing linking their Floo Networks…"
"At 11 a.m. today, Aurors arrested several illegal immigrants on Montmorency Street, identified as a black-market mirror smuggling ring. No connection to the recent New Salem cult. Some New Salem and Purger criminals remain at large, with investigations ongoing. Stay tuned for updates…"
"Magic mirrors in stock at Violet Café! Buy now while supplies last!"
Mr. Delacour glanced at Gabrielle, who was peeking at the paper over his arm. She couldn't read much yet but was mesmerized by the moving photos, especially one about the recent Louvre fog incident.
Apolline leaned over. "So, did anyone notice us that day?"
"The attackers were cultists," he replied quietly. "Hogwarts and Beauxbatons professors were nearby, subdued them, and handed them over to the Aurors. No reports mention our warning."
Apolline nodded. "Good. Nobody noticed. Veela have it hard enough without getting tangled in cultist drama. Fleur's already got enough trouble at school."
Veela had kept a low profile for years, trying to blend into wizarding society. Their bird-like forms drew criticism, and Fleur's Veela heritage—while giving her stunning looks—also brought judgmental stares.
It was a messy situation.
The couple exchanged a sigh.
"Daddy, Mommy, can we get a magic mirror on the way home?" Gabrielle asked in her small, sweet voice. She couldn't read the full articles but pieced together enough from the pictures and words she knew.
"Just a mirror? If Gabrielle wants one—" Mr. Delacour started, patting her head.
Apolline cleared her throat. "Shh, quiet. The show's about to start."
They both fell silent.
Behind them, Melvin and Christine shared a knowing smile. They'd overheard the Delacours but stayed quiet as the curtain rose.
Tonight's show was the ballet Giselle, a Muggle story about a village girl who falls for a nobleman, Albert, who's already engaged. A huntsman, Hilarion, loves Giselle and exposes Albert's secret, breaking her heart. In despair, she collapses and dies.
The second act turned magical. Giselle's spirit meets a group of vengeful female ghosts—women betrayed by lovers, now haunting to take revenge. They trap men near their graves, forcing them to dance until they drop dead.
When Hilarion visits Giselle's grave, the ghosts punish him to death. Albert comes to mourn, and the ghosts target him too, but Giselle's kind spirit protects him, letting him live.
A love story mixed with ghostly vengeance—perfect for a magic mirror broadcast. That's why Melvin and Christine were here tonight.
---