Hogwarts: Chill, I’m Not That Tom Riddle

— — — — — —

Saint-Tropez, France.

Known around the world for the Pampelonne Beach, Saint-Tropez is a hotspot for tourists every year—sun, sea, and women 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 something 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 me..."

"..."

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 moment he landed, the previously blank invitation from Nicolas Flamel began to change—a golden arrow appeared in the center, pointing in a specific direction.

Tom immediately understood: this was Flamel's way of guiding him. He thought it'd be somewhere within the city.

But half an hour of walking later, he realized something was off—the arrow hadn't changed direction at all. So he switched to flying.

Over an hour later, after covering more than 600 kilometers, he finally arrived… at the beach.

Now, staring at the drooling old man ogling women, Tom—for the first time—genuinely started to question Flamel'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 moments 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 Flamel… is that you?"

"Haha, that's me," 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 come 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 me quite the surprise."

Tom gave him a stiff smile. "You've surprised me too."

'Scared me, actually,' he thought.

"Hahaha…"

Flamel handed his sunglasses to Tom. "You probably imagined I'd be some stern, old-fashioned geezer. Like Dumbledore?"

"No, no—maybe more like McGonagall?"

"Kids these days and their stereotypes," Flamel laughed. "Even so-called professionals are still human. Especially someone like me who's lived for centuries—of course I'd admire youth and beauty. Can't do anything about it anymore, so at least let me look."

"Come 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.

Flamel 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.

Flamel sipped on a special liquid diet drink, eyes twinkling as he watched Tom eat. Somehow, seeing the boy dig in so heartily made his bland meal taste better too.

He was literally eating through Tom's appetite.

Once Tom was done, Flamel 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 home."

Tom followed behind and muttered, "If you're into this kind of stuff, I can recommend a spot next time. Somewhere 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."

Flamel paused, then burst into laughter.

Tom also noticed something odd—Flamel's movements 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 Flamel's steps covered the exact same distance. Tom couldn't spot even the slightest deviation. It was mechanically precise.

"You noticed?" Flamel 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," Flamel 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," Flamel mused. "That's more than enough. If I went any further, I'd risk losing what makes me 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 Flamel had done was more of a desperate workaround, not something worth imitating.

Next, he followed Flamel out of the bustling tourist area to a quiet mountainside retreat—one of Flamel's many vacation homes, nestled halfway up the slope.

As soon as they stepped inside, enchanted tools came flying toward them. One swapped Flamel's beach sandals for soft slippers, another tugged off his beach shirt.

The house wasn't large, and unlike most magical homes, 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 time. Like the enchanted one at the Weasleys' Burrow, it tracked the locations and conditions of family members. It only had two hands: one pointing to "Holiday Cottage" for Flamel, and the other to "Opera House" for his wife, Perenelle.

"Pick any room you like," Flamel 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 America? 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 mentioned going to see the Thunderbird and the incident with the acolytes, but still nothing too revealing.

Flamel 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. Flamel, over the years, how many wizards have you met who were on Dumbledore or Grindelwald's level? Are there many?"

Flamel chuckled at the question, clearly amused. "Not many, child. Not at all. Sometimes 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 Flamel once said.

Tom already knew that.

Why had Andros appeared in the prime of life when he first emerged 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 Flamel 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 time the story came up, Andros would rant and rave. He'd explored countless ancient ruins, survived more battles than most could imagine, grown stronger each time... 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. Flamel had promised to mentor him, but first, he wanted to test Tom's actual ability.

If this had been before summer break, Tom would've been in trouble—he had the theory down, but he was still stuck memorizing 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 Flamel had in mind.

And he did—at first. But after a while, Flamel's questions got more and more complex, and Tom started slowing down.

Some 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 Flamel.

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… Flamel could tell right away that he'd learned everything on his own. His answers echoed multiple alchemists Flamel 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 time, 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 meant his talent for Potions was just as strong—and the two fields complemented each other perfectly.

"Your skills are far beyond what I expected," Flamel said, slowly clapping his hands. His admiration was obvious. "Of course, you've made some 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.

Flamel chuckled. "You smooth-talker," he said, but didn't deny the offer.

Now that the test was over, Tom felt relieved. Flamel 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 Flamel in the first place — the Blood Malediction of Astoria, also known as Blood Curse.

.

.

.