How many could receive private lessons from Master Renodier? Of course, very few. Even vast sums of money could not compel this man to teach someone he deemed unworthy. When I first began attending his lessons, he looked at me as if I were not merely a novice, but an insult to alchemy itself. His attitude reminded me of Snape dealing with a particularly dim-witted Gryffindor.
I could understand him, in a way. I came to the first lesson having barely digested a couple of basic treatises, which I now realize were to alchemy what a child's nursery rhyme is to higher mathematics. My questions were so naive, so superficial, that I fear he seriously contemplated doing something unpleasant to me.
Renodier was a dry, elderly man in appearance, with a gray beard and a piercing gaze. He was always impeccably dressed and enjoyed smoking a pipe. This man was a student of the greatest alchemist in history, but his teacher had not granted him immortality — though that didn't stop him from looking half his age at a century and a half. However, time still held power over him, and according to Céline, he still sought to recreate his teacher Flamel's greatest creation.
One might think Flamel was so greedy he kept the secret to himself, but it's better not to make such simple and foolish conclusions — I don't know all the nuances. And even if those dumb guesses were true, does anyone have the right to decide for the creator what to do with his brainchild? I, too, would keep such an advantage only for myself and those closest to me.
On his path to this goal, the Master Alchemist had managed to make an invaluable contribution to the development of scientific alchemy — from dozens of proven theorems and formulated definitions (including crucial ones like the definition of PMS — Phasic Magical State) to creating numerous alchemical formulas and diagrams. He gifted the world a new type of magical alloy, a variety of volatile powder, and an alchemical deposition method widely used by modern artisans to create wands, brooms, and much more.
Oh yes, I almost forgot about the formula for Transmutational Energy Potential (TEP) he derived. Renodie's formula allowed alchemists to more or less safely calculate the required amount of energy for transmutation.
This formula defined a quantitative measure of magical energy required for a transformation. Before Renodier, there were alchemists who created their own calculations, but no formula simultaneously accounted for all the most important factors: mass, the complexity of the source and target materials, the molecular-level difference between substances, and their magical conductivity.
Renodier's formula included these last two factors — unlike earlier versions. This became possible only in the last two centuries thanks to advancements in related magical and non-magical disciplines, but my temporary teacher's achievement was still so great that I didn't even understand how I deserved to learn from him, knowing less about alchemy than any second-year Beauxbatons student.
Ultimately, using the formula, one could determine in advance that turning air into water has a low TEP — manageable for most — while transforming, say, granite into a complex organic compound has an extremely high TEP, threatening the loss of one's life to create a mere log. Even creating gold from silver, which also has excellent properties as a magic conductor, required more energy than mining and refining natural gold through magic.
And that's just in his primary field of research. Of course, he worked in related disciplines, but now he was, so to speak, living out his days, trying to find a worthy successor or at least make an indirect contribution to his beloved science through a talented pupil.
And this man taught Céline de Millefeuille — and certainly did not need the money the Millefeuilles could offer a tutor.
I learned from Louis that Renodier agreed to teach Céline after the girl received a small word of praise from his teacher during Flamel's annual lecture at Beauxbatons. Whether that's true or not, the fact is I was being taught by a man whose contribution to alchemy was comparable to that of, say, Cauchy's to mathematical analysis.
Patiently, he sometimes even "condescended" to explain the basics to me, clearly considering it a waste of time — after all, right beside me sat a future outstanding alchemist. In me, he saw only a spoiled scion of a wealthy British family, foisted upon him. He probably accepted me only out of politeness to Madame Isabelle and Céline.
It wasn't even about his unwillingness to teach from scratch, but his conviction that I wasn't truly interested in alchemy — that I was simply wasting his and my own time.
Why do I think so? Because over time, things changed — not without Céline's help, who became my guide. After lessons, she would break down complex points for me, explain elusive connections, and patiently answer my, sometimes foolish, questions. Gradually, I began to grasp things and stopped merely memorizing. To be honest: it was difficult, it was painful, but I started to succeed.
The thing is, the results of such efforts aren't instantly noticeable, like with a spell. Reaching practical utility in this science was not easy — precisely to the extent that the entry barrier was high.
When I showed that I was genuinely studying his subject and even eager to learn and comprehend alchemy, his attitude began to change. The ice in his eyes thawed, and now, after three weeks, I even earned rare approving nods.
He even began answering questions willingly — my recent question about the paradox of transitional metal stabilization particularly pleased him. I hoped he now saw in me another capable, though green, student, not a burden. He even stayed after the last lesson to explain a particularly complex point to me.
So, what did I learn in three weeks from the esteemed alchemist?
I mastered basic theoretical knowledge, memorized every definition and theorem Céline pointed me to — thus shoring up my theory. This allowed me to learn to distinguish a substance's composition from both magical and chemical perspectives, know the basics on a theoretical level, understand the teacher's terminology... most of it, and much more.
Let's just say, as an example, I could now easily distinguish simple molten silver from silver saturated with lunar energy. I also began to grasp the basics of constructing alchemical matrices — magical diagrams that channel energy and set the parameters of transformation — but practical application was still far off.
For now, beyond basic transmutation, I could only stabilize simple compounds and perform basic purification — but even that was a real breakthrough. I experienced firsthand what it means to "give" in order to "receive" — be it magical energy or matter intended for transmutation.
I also learned to sense the "breath" of metals. The subtle vibration of magic indicating a metal's readiness for transmutation, more precisely, the moment when the metal becomes ready for final deconstruction. All thanks to my acute magical perception.
The final stage of transmutation also came to me, but with varying success. That is, I learned in practice to apply the transmutation principle with its sequential steps. In terms of practical utility, I could now, bare-handed, draw a transformation diagram and turn a pebble into something else — say, another type of stone. Of course, of the same mass — for mass does not change in transmutation, a natural prohibition not even the legendary Philosopher's Stone can violate.
Meanwhile, my relationship with Céline's brother, Frédéric, had once again become strained. I don't know why he's so jealous of me regarding his sister — maybe he just dislikes Britons? But the fact that he tries by all available means to provoke me and show how inferior I am, that's certain.
Fortunately, I've managed to put him in his place so far, but how long until he loses control and our verbal conflict ceases to be merely verbal is unclear. I did, of course, casually mention this to Madame Isabelle, but she doesn't seem inclined to do anything about it.
Generally, it's extremely strange that Céline and Frédéric are siblings. Whether the elder was spoiled or the younger took all the brains from her brother, Frédéric, while not stupid, is extremely capricious. Take his boycott of his sister because she, after receiving an invitation for a walk from her friend, invited me to join them.
What invitation? Well, it happened yesterday, and it went like this:
We were finishing up with the new plants. Céline carefully smoothed the soil around the last seedling and stood up, wiping her hands on a cloth.
"Thanks for the help, Arcturus. Without you, I'd have been stuck here until evening."
"Always happy to help, O beautiful Frenchwoman," I said half-jokingly, eliciting a blush on her cheeks.
At that moment, a soft click was heard from outside, and a small owl fluttered into the greenhouse, carrying a folded parchment in its beak. It headed straight for Céline without hesitation and delivered the letter right into her hands.
She opened the letter and skimmed it. A light, animated smile appeared on her face.
"From Charlotte," she explained, looking at me. "My friend from Beauxbatons. She's inviting me for a walk along the Avenue of Crystal Lanterns the day after tomorrow. Have you heard of such a place?"
I shook my head.
"It's one of France's magical districts, like your Diagon Alley, only... more elegant. The second largest after Rue Mirabelle." She paused, and a spark of mischief flashed in her eyes. "I don't think she'd mind if I brought company. Would you like to join us? It would be... interesting to show you more than just our garden and dusty tomes."
The offer was tempting and unusual. This was no longer a joint lesson or garden work. This was a real, informal outing — albeit with her friends, but that's not what interested me. I really wanted to visit magical France. I recall Avery praising Rue Mirabelle a lot, but I'll get to that too.
"The day after tomorrow?" I confirmed, trying to hide a sudden surge of curiosity. "Yes, of course. With pleasure. I'm just eager to see the French magical world and buy a couple of things."
"Oh, believe me, the Avenue of Crystal Lanterns is far more refined than your... colorful alley," she smiled, and in that moment, she looked not like a genius alchemist, but like an ordinary cheerful girl. "Excellent. So, it's settled. The day after tomorrow, after noon."
"By the way, would it be difficult to stop by your local bank during the walk? I need to exchange my Galleons; I have a couple of things to buy."
"I don't think so. Good thing you mentioned it. You know, there's a wonderful patisserie on the Avenue that serves a chocolate soufflé so good even Flamel would weep from the taste."
"Then I must treat you and your friend as a token of gratitude for the outing," I replied with a sly smile to her unsubtle hint... though maybe it wasn't a hint — my eye has been twitching since the recent conversation with her mother.
"That would be lovely, but 'friends.'"
"Friends?"
"Yes. But remember, you've already promised." The French girl smirked.
"Of course. But then you must definitely show me a couple of shops."
***
July 28, 1990
Céline and I stood under an elegant, lace-like arch marking the entrance to one of the streets of the Avenue of Crystal Lanterns. If Diagon Alley was chaotic, dark, yet full of charming medieval disorder, its French counterpart was strikingly different.
Here, there were no crooked houses leaning over each other. Instead, elegant buildings of light sandstone with carved little balconies overflowing with greenery towered. The wide, smooth cobblestone street was straight as an arrow, stretching into the distance, fading into the light morning haze. Overhead, on delicate wrought-iron supports, hung the very crystal lanterns that even in daylight shimmered in the sun's rays, casting rainbow spots on the pavement. It was as if it were a meticulously planned yet simultaneously chaotic boulevard where every detail seemed to conform to a common standard. It even became interesting how they achieved such a thing.
"Do you like it?" Céline, dressed in a light summer dress, watched me, assessing my reaction.
"It's... not at all what I expected," I admitted honestly. "In Britain, everything is more... gloomy. Here, you can feel that not just time worked on this; there's a definite style. Even with some chaos, it's beautiful."
"The Avenue of Crystal Lanterns is, in my opinion, the most pleasant for strolling," she explained, a note of quiet pride in her voice. "Rue Mirabelle is too crowded with wizards and too vast. But that's where the Ministry, the main Quidditch stadium, and the best ateliers are. But here in Provence, we have our own charm."
We began our walk, moving leisurely along the boulevard. The air was filled with the aromas of fresh pastries, coffee, and blooming magnolias planted in pots along the sidewalk. Céline pointed out the most notable places. If not for my eye, constantly catching every bit of magic, which was abundant in any gathering of wizards, my nose would have continued to perceive this medley of scents as normal for Muggle France.
We stopped to wait for her friends near a beautiful fountain depicting two Veela, who in France had rights equal to wizards — unlike in my native England, where the question of reservations for Veela, like those for werewolves, was currently being decided. Barbaric, really. Anyway, we didn't stand by the lovely little fountain for long. Céline was scanning the crowd for her friends.
"There they are!" she finally exclaimed, waving a hand.
Two girls approached us from the crowd. One — a pretty brunette with freckles and a mischievous smile. And the second... For a moment, my breath caught. Platinum-blonde hair cascading down her shoulders, large blue eyes, and features of unearthly, almost ethereal beauty. I knew her. I was sure I knew this girl.
Something strange emanated from her... Not a smell — more like a sensation of warmth that seemed to spread through the air, seeping under the skin. Every one of her movements was too smooth, too precise, as if reality itself strove to please her.
At one point, our eyes met. I felt my thoughts beginning to tangle, and my tongue suddenly felt heavy. Somewhere inside, a quiet infatuation flared up, utterly inappropriate in my situation, but for some reason, my thoughts stopped being about anything other than this beautiful girl. I shook my head, forcing myself to focus, and that growing internal warmth subsided a little.
"Céline!" The brunette, presumably Charlotte, rushed to hug my companion.
"Long time no see!" the girl beside her exclaimed, her voice melodious. She and Céline exchanged light kisses on the cheeks.
"Far too long!" Céline smiled. "Charlotte, Fleur, allow me to introduce our guest from Britain, Arcturus Malfoy. Arcturus, this is Charlotte Bouchard and Fleur Delacour, my friends from the Academy of Beauxbatons."
I gave a polite nod, indicating I was pleased to meet them. That's why I thought I knew her... Even though the actress who played her in the films wasn't nearly as beautiful as she was in reality. I thought she was my age... Either I miscalculated something, or she was simply a year younger than her friends.
Fleur looked at me carefully, a slight smile touching her lips. There it was... Veela allure, and she was still just a teenager. Unpleasant! And here I thought she'd so easily turned my head.
Her gaze was too captivating. It seemed her eyes weren't just looking but probing my soul — softly and innocently, but...
When she stepped closer, the air around became even thicker... Stop! It's just Veela magic! Calm down! I even had to resort to a bit of Occlumency, as I didn't want to lose clarity of mind.
She seemed to deliberately begin speaking English with a very pronounced, melodious French accent:
"Ah... Monsieur Arcturus, I am pleased to meet you."
There was nothing in her intonation but friendliness and a desire to demonstrate language skills, but my mind kept trying to build some air castle on it. Apparently, she thought I didn't know French. Charlotte giggled restrainedly, and Céline looked at me with curiosity, awaiting a reaction. I had been communicating in French the whole time with the Millefeuilles, but it seems she forgot to mention this to her friend.
I held a brief pause and replied in French, with a playful note:
"Mademoiselle Delacour, je suis impressionné. Votre anglais est charmant, mais je vous en prie, ne vous fatiguez pas pour moi. Votre français est bien plus mélodieux. (Mademoiselle Delacour, I am impressed. Your English is charming, but I beg you, do not trouble yourself on my account. Your French is far more melodious.)"