Two months had passed since Fleur's memorable birthday, and Paris was blanketed in a crisp autumn air as Louis stood before a grand, ivy-clad townhouse tucked away in the 5th arrondissement. His mother crouched to adjust the collar of his cloak, brushing a bit of lint from his shoulder.
"I'll be back before dusk," she said warmly. "Be polite. And listen more than you speak."
Louis gave a soft nod, his expression calm but expectant. "Of course, Maman."
She kissed his cheek, then turned and vanished with a soft crack, leaving Louis at the threshold of a legendary mind.
The tall wooden door creaked open before he could knock. Nicolas Flamel, as timeless as he had appeared during Fleur's party, greeted him with a knowing smile.
"Welcome, Louis. I've been looking forward to this."
Louis stepped inside, greeted by the scent of old books, herbs, and soft incense. The home was a maze of shelves, alchemical tools, and glowing orbs hovering midair. Flamel's companion, Perenelle, soon emerged—elegant and sharp-eyed, with a serene grace.
"So this is the boy who impressed Nicolas," she said with a slight smile, extending a hand. Louis bowed politely, kissing it lightly as was his custom.
After some warm tea and pastries, Louis found himself seated across from Nicolas in a sun-dappled study. Ancient tomes were stacked beside them, some floating lazily as they turned their pages mid-air.
"You mentioned last time that your pressure spell is emotion-based," Flamel began. "Let's expand on that. What governs the output?"
"Intensity of the caster's presence and will. The spell reacts like a lens—it concentrates emotion into force. It's not merely intention—it's a channeling of memory."
Flamel leaned forward, eyes bright. "You're using affective memory as a fuel source. Intriguing. That sort of spellwork borders on what the old Mediterranean mages theorized."
Before Louis could respond, a deep crack resonated through the room. A swirl of wind pushed through the open archway, and a tall figure stepped into the study.
Louis blinked.
The man was instantly recognizable—half-moon spectacles, silver beard, and robes that shimmered faintly with patterns of stars.
"Albus!" Flamel rose with a broad smile. "Perfect timing. Louis, I'd like you to meet an old friend—Professor Albus Dumbledore."
Louis stood quickly and offered a bow.
"A pleasure, Professor."
Dumbledore studied him with gentle curiosity, then smiled. "The pleasure is mine. Nicolas has spoken highly of you—something he rarely does."
Flamel chuckled. "Louis is not merely gifted—he's innovative. And more importantly, thoughtful."
Dumbledore took a seat. "Is that so? Tell me, Louis, what area of magic most intrigues you?"
Louis didn't hesitate. "The framework of spellcraft. The underlying logic of enchantments. I've been dissecting known spells to see how they could be reshaped."
The two elder wizards exchanged a look. Dumbledore folded his hands. "And what do you find lacking in modern spellwork?"
"Stagnation. There's too much reliance on rote. Spells become sacred scripts rather than tools. I believe magic should evolve with the wizard."
Dumbledore's smile widened. "You remind me of someone I knew once."
The conversation spiraled deeper. They discussed wandless magic—Louis demonstrated a levitation and minor transfiguration using only his hands, drawing intricate sigils in the air. Flamel beamed with pride, but it was Dumbledore who leaned forward, eyes narrowed with fascination.
"And you do this entirely without a wand?"
"Correct. I've chosen not to use one—for now. I'm studying the core principles behind wandlore. My goal is to create one myself, attuned entirely to my magical nature."
Perenelle offered more tea as the trio delved into magical ethics, the theory of magical consciousness, and the metaphysical implications of emotion-fueled casting. Louis held his own with quiet clarity.
As the sun began to descend, casting golden light across the room, Dumbledore finally rose.
"Louis," he said warmly, "you must consider Hogwarts. We would be fortunate to count you among our students."
Louis's expression shifted slightly. "I appreciate the offer, Professor. But I believe Fleur will attend Beauxbatons."
Dumbledore nodded. "Beauxbatons is a fine institution. But Hogwarts offers something truly unique—access to a greater magical diversity, a more experimental curriculum, and proximity to some of the most ancient magical sites in Europe."
He paused, then added gently, "It would be a shame to see your potential constrained by tradition."
Louis's jaw tightened slightly. The name—Hogwarts—was tied to the land he once knew as an enemy. Great Britain. The nation that had brought his past kingdom to ruin, that had decapitated his legacy in cold steel and flame.
France and Britain had a long, blood-streaked history. Though centuries had passed since open warfare, the magical communities still held scars of deep rivalry. Britain had always seen itself as dominant, and France had always resisted. Even in the wizarding world, old allegiances died hard.
He folded his hands. "It's not so simple, Professor."
Dumbledore met his gaze. "No, I imagine it isn't. But perhaps… simplicity is not what you need."
Louis hesitated, then dipped his head slowly. "I will consider it."
Dumbledore bowed his head gently. "That's all I ask."
Moments later, the professor vanished in a whirl of light and sound. Louis sat quietly as the house settled again.
Flamel watched him. "He saw what I see. A storm of potential."
Louis turned to the window, gazing at the rooftops of Paris. A storm, yes. But one shaped by two worlds—the boy he was, and the king he had been.
His mother arrived soon after. As they stepped into the quiet streets of Paris, Louis felt the weight of a choice forming.
Beauxbatons or Hogwarts?
France or England?
The question lingered as they disappeared into the evening.