Chapter 134: Wrong Flal (Bonus)
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Saint-Tropez, France.
Known around the world for the Pampelonne Beach, Saint-Tropez is a hotspot for tourists every year—sun, sea, and won in bikinis.
Under the shade of a beach umbrella, an elderly man lay back in a lounge chair. He looked so old that onlookers wondered if he might stop breathing any second. Still, many couldn’t help but admire the man—at his age, and he’s still coming to the beach?
Wearing dark sunglasses, the old man appeared to be dozing off peacefully. But if you got close enough, you’d hear—
"Oh yeah, this one’s nice. Great curves."
"Wow, what a busty woman!"
"And that one is sothing else too. Jiggling so much I’m dizzy—100% natural, guaranteed."
"Nice, nice—are those twins?"
"Tch, who let that fatty through? Beat it, will ya?"
"Oof... that waist is gonna be the death of ..."
"..."
Standing behind the umbrella, Tom stared at the old man, then glanced at the invitation in his hand with a weird expression, thumb raised half-heartedly.
It was August 3rd. After spending two extra days in New York, Tom had used a Portkey he’d pre-arranged to travel several hours to Paris.
The mont he landed, the previously blank invitation from Nicolas Flal began to change—a golden arrow appeared in the center, pointing in a specific direction.
Tom imdiately understood: this was Flal’s way of guiding him. He thought it’d be sowhere within the city.
But half an hour of walking later, he realized sothing was off—the arrow hadn’t changed direction at all. So he switched to flying.
Over an hour later, after covering more than 600 kiloters, he finally arrived... at the beach.
Now, staring at the drooling old man ogling won, Tom—for the first ti—genuinely started to question Flal’s supposed alchemical brilliance.
Was this invitation... pointing to the wrong guy?
"You got here a lot quicker than I expected, kid," the old man suddenly said with a warm, friendly voice, completely at odds with the vibe he gave off just monts ago.
Tom blinked. ’How are you sounding so gentle while simultaneously watching beach hotties bounce around?’
Still, since the man had spoken, Tom stepped forward and moved to the side of the lounge chair. "Mr. Nicolas Flal... is that you?"
"Haha, that’s ," the old man replied, removing his sunglasses reluctantly, taking one last lingering glance at the view before giving Tom a nod.
"The invitation activated just over an hour ago, and you’re already here from Paris?" he asked.
"I’ve mastered a flight spell. Makes travel a lot faster," Tom replied, now certain of the old man’s identity. "Newt sends his regards, by the way. He said once the French Ministry lifts its restrictions, he’ll co visit you himself."
Nicolas chuckled. "Truth is, Tina doesn’t keep him on that tight a leash. He just doesn’t want to cause her trouble."
He then turned his gaze back to Tom, eyes full of appreciation. "Flight magic alone is already impressive, but to be this fast? Kid, you’ve given
quite the surprise."
Tom gave him a stiff smile. "You’ve surprised
too."
’Scared , actually,’ he thought.
"Hahaha..."
Flal handed his sunglasses to Tom. "You probably imagined I’d be so stern, old-fashioned geezer. Like Dumbledore?"
"No, no—maybe more like McGonagall?"
"Kids these days and their stereotypes," Flal laughed. "Even so-called professionals are still human. Especially soone like
who’s lived for centuries—of course I’d admire youth and beauty. Can’t do anything about it anymore, so at least let
look."
"Co on, you should have a look too. Even if you’ve no use for it now, it’ll help develop your taste."
"I... I think my taste is just fine," Tom chuckled nervously, but still slipped on the sunglasses.
"...What the fuck? Is this X-ray vision?"
Tom instinctively took them off... and just as naturally slipped them into his pocket.
A perfect blend of classical alchemy and modern fashion. Not bad. Worth studying.
Flal noticed and his smile grew wider.
Tom’s stomach growled. He took out the hamburger Tina had packed for him and started munching happily. He didn’t bother offering one to the old man—with those shaky teeth, the guy would probably lose a few if he even tried.
Flal sipped on a special liquid diet drink, eyes twinkling as he watched Tom eat. Sohow, seeing the boy dig in so heartily made his bland al taste better too.
He was literally eating through Tom’s appetite.
Once Tom was done, Flal finally got up and slowly folded up his lounge chair. When no one was looking, he shrunk it and tucked it into his bag.
"I was hoping to hang out till the afternoon," he said, "but since you’re here, let’s head ho."
Tom followed behind and muttered, "If you’re into this kind of stuff, I can recomnd a spot next ti. Sowhere in Spain. Bit more... intense."
"Oh? How intense? Don’t go getting this old man killed."
Tom rolled his eyes. "Please. You’ve been watching for hours. You’re probably immune at this point."
Flal paused, then burst into laughter.
Tom also noticed sothing odd—Flal’s movents were nothing like how he was portrayed in Fantastic Beasts, all frail and tottering. While his steps were small, his pace was surprisingly fast.
And then another detail clicked.
Each of Flal’s steps covered the exact sa distance. Tom couldn’t spot even the slightest deviation. It was chanically precise.
"You noticed?" Flal asked, catching Tom’s expression. He grinned. "The Elixir of Life has its flaws, as you know. It grants immortality, but not eternal youth. If I relied on my body alone, I’d probably be crawling on the ground by now."
"So... you alchemically modified your body too?" Tom asked.
"Exactly," Flal nodded. "Using alchemy to improve your life—that’s the whole point of the art, isn’t it?"
"How much of your body is... modified?" Tom asked.
"Hmm... about thirty percent, give or take," Flal mused. "That’s more than enough. If I went any further, I’d risk losing what makes
human. Maybe I’d even discover the real use of the Philosopher’s Stone—but I don’t want that."
Tom didn’t ask further.
He wasn’t particularly interested in human transmutation. To him, the human body was already the most perfect form—full of untapped potential. What Nicolas Flal had done was more of a desperate workaround, not sothing worth imitating.
Next, he followed Flal out of the bustling tourist area to a quiet mountainside retreat—one of Flal’s many vacation hos, nestled halfway up the slope.
As soon as they stepped inside, enchanted tools ca flying toward them. One swapped Flal’s beach sandals for soft slippers, another tugged off his beach shirt.
The house wasn’t large, and unlike most magical hos, it hadn’t been expanded with an Undetectable Extension Charm. Everything was its original size, spread across three floors.
What stood out most, however, was what filled the space.
Everywhere Tom looked, there were alchemical creations—tools, devices, and strange artifacts. This, clearly, was no ordinary house.
Even the clock on the wall wasn’t for telling ti. Like the enchanted one at the Weasleys’ Burrow, it tracked the locations and conditions of family mbers. It only had two hands: one pointing to "Holiday Cottage" for Flal, and the other to "Opera House" for his wife, Perenelle.
"Pick any room you like," Flal said kindly. "We’re only staying the night. Tomorrow we’ll head back to Paris—better facilities and a full stock of materials there."
He settled into a cozy armchair in the living room and looked over at Tom with a smile. "So, how was your trip to Arica? The magical world over there is much more integrated with Muggle society—it’s quite different from Europe."
"I didn’t see much of their magic world," Tom said casually. "I went with Newt to visit the Arizona reserve..."
Tom gave a brief summary of his trip, glossing over the Twelve Trials entirely. He just ntioned going to see the Thunderbird and the incident with the acolytes, but still nothing too revealing.
Flal listened thoughtfully, occasionally nodding or sighing.
"Even in all my years," he said eventually, "Grindelwald remains one of the most brilliant minds I’ve ever encountered. And Albus... well, he’s even more extraordinary."
That gave Tom an idea. "Mr. Flal, over the years, how many wizards have you t who were on Dumbledore or Grindelwald’s level? Are there many?"
Flal chuckled at the question, clearly amused. "Not many, child. Not at all. Sotis a whole century goes by without producing a single one. When I was young, the so-called ’strongest’ wizards wouldn’t even qualify to shine their shoes. In any given era, you’re lucky to find one or two that gifted."
He paused, then added with a more serious tone, "And wizards with that much magic often burn out early. Most don’t live past one-fifty."
The average life expectancy of wizards was around 138 years. And that’s just the average—so in theory, the strongest should live even longer. But weirdly enough, they rarely make it past 150, just like Flal once said.
Tom already knew that.
Why had Andros appeared in the pri of life when he first erged in the study space?
Because he’d died at sixty-two.
Sixty-two was practically middle-aged for a wizard.
His death had happened exactly as Flal described—Andros’s body couldn’t handle his overwhelming magic. His organs started failing, and rather than waste away in agony, he ended it himself.
Every ti the story ca up, Andros would rant and rave. He’d explored countless ancient ruins, survived more battles than most could imagine, grown stronger each ti... If he’d just taken things slowly, he might’ve lived to be a hundred. But instead, he died young—because he was too good.
Whenever he started whining like that, both Tom and Grindelwald agreed: the man was just humble-bragging.
Eventually, the conversation drifted from Tom’s recent adventures to the real reason he was here—alchemy. Flal had promised to ntor him, but first, he wanted to test Tom’s actual ability.
If this had been before sumr break, Tom would’ve been in trouble—he had the theory down, but he was still stuck morizing things by rote. Fortunately, after a few intense days of crash training at the Greengrass estate, he’d managed to grasp and apply a lot more than just theory. He was confident he could handle whatever test Flal had in mind.
And he did—at first. But after a while, Flal’s questions got more and more complex, and Tom started slowing down.
So of the questions he could work through after thinking carefully. Others were so far beyond his current knowledge, he had no choice but to shake his head and admit he didn’t know.
But that was already enough to surprise Flal.
Why wasn’t alchemy widely taught?
Because it demanded too much—talent, money, and most importantly, proper guidance.
Without a good teacher, even the richest, most dedicated student would just end up running in circles—like a headless chicken.
But Tom... Flal could tell right away that he’d learned everything on his own. His answers echoed multiple alchemists Flal had known over the years, including himself.
More impressively, Tom had clearly added his own understanding, based on practical experience. It wasn’t perfect, but it showed he was already on the right track.
Considering he’d only been in the magical world for a year and had studied all this solo—in his spare ti, no less—that level of progress was genuinely astonishing.
And then there was the fact that Tom had successfully used the Philosopher’s Stone to brew the Elixir of Life. That ant his talent for Potions was just as strong—and the two fields complented each other perfectly.
"Your skills are far beyond what I expected," Flal said, slowly clapping his hands. His admiration was obvious. "Of course, you’ve made so classic beginner’s mistakes—but that’s not your fault. You didn’t have a teacher."
He leaned forward a bit, smiling warmly.
"Stay here for the rest of your holiday. I’ll do everything I can to give you a proper foundation."
"Thank you, Professor." Tom played along with a rare smile.
Flal chuckled. "You smooth-talker," he said, but didn’t deny the offer.
Now that the test was over, Tom felt relieved. Flal was clearly in a good mood, so he decided to push his luck a little.
"Professor," he said cautiously, "do you have any insight into the Greengrass family’s blood curse?"
That was the main reason he contacted Flal in the first place — the Blood Malediction of Astoria, also known as Blood Curse.
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