Chapter 234: Rue Montorgueil
Olympe Maxime stood on the attic balcony, her olive complexion slightly bewildered.
Pedestrians walked along the cobblestone street of Rue Montorgueil, with a noisy and bustling market outside.
Clearly only a few feet apart, but as the alchemy magic circle on the gray stone wall rotated, the sounds of vendors hawking and customers bargaining on the street drifted up from below, the commotion absorbed and diminished, entering the attic interior as only faint echoes, like white noise in the Pyrenees Mountains at midnight.
The attic was positioned very cleverly, with sunlight streaming exactly through the skylight; the clear Paris sun in mid-July warmed the body comfortably, making one want to sneeze.
Every furnishing in the room revealed traces of time: old bookshelves and grandfather clock, probably handmade by Muggle artisans two hundred years ago, older than the Ministry of Magic; the parchment manuscripts on the bookshelves dated back to the 14th century and had survived to the present—even Beauxbatons’ library rarely held original books from that era.
A crystal ball sat on the table, faintly revealing a blurry future within the silver mist.
Every corner of the attic was imbued with the mysterious aura of a legendary alchemist; most objects had histories of decades or centuries, the only recent addition being a silver mirror hung on the brick wall behind the fireplace, which a gaunt old wizard was installing, fiddling with it like a child with a new toy.
In just a few short days, the Rosier family had pushed projection mirrors into Paris, attracting wizards from all over France to snap them up; according to news received by the Beauxbatons headmistress, wizards’ shops in neighboring countries including Spain, Portugal, the Netherlands, Luxembourg, and Belgium were stocking up.
Projection mirrors seemed to ride the Floo Network into thousands of wizards’ homes.
Summer temperatures rose, the sun scorching on the skin, yet the market outside remained hot, with many wizards from out of town.
Olympe Maxime removed the ornate off-white from her neck, turned, and walked into the room; she had an olive face, pebble-black bright eyes, a sturdy bone structure, seeming able to touch the ceiling with a raise of her hand.
By rights, such a sturdy woman would find it hard to act like a lady, but her manners were elegant, her hair combed impeccably, every gesture like a noblewoman cultivated by an ancient wizarding family.
“Connecting to the Floo Network… there’s a slot in the back… that kid Wright optimized the process.”
“The seams here are uneven… it must be the assembly line defect he mentioned… selling me a defective one for seven hundred Galleons, what a shrewd merchant.”
The elderly, hunched old wizard muttered under his breath; he had silver hair, pale wrinkled skin, and with his trembling movements, the tassels on his robe swayed back and forth—this level of exertion was too intense for a six-hundred-year-old wizard, occasionally needing to pause for breath.
Watching the old wizard’s labored movements, Madame Maxime couldn’t help but ask:
“Mr. Nicolas Flamel, I don’t understand—why does a great alchemist like you have such keen interest in projection mirrors? Is the alchemy on this mirror so profound?”
“Profound? No, not at all—even crude.”
“Then why…”
“Because this crude, simplistic silver mirror, like the crystal ball I use for divination, holds the future inside.”
Nicolas Flamel hung up the projection mirror, lightly tapped it with his index finger, then turned shakily; when he returned to his recliner, the projection mirror had just completed its activation process—lines emerged from the swirling silver mist, outlining contours, then filling with color, just in time for the midday performance.
“Ladies and gentlemen, sharpen your eyes, hold your breath—tonight you will witness an unprecedented spectacular performance, more unbelievable than ancient magic, a wondrous creation not even imagined by the Creator…”
Maxime watched carefully for a few minutes and realized it was just an ordinary wizard circus performance, seemingly clipped from a front-row audience member’s memory, mixed with chatter from adjacent seats; the audience mentioned keywords like Quidditch World Cup, Scotland, and Canada—from the conversation, it seemed like a memory from a few years ago.
The host used sensational words to stir emotions, but performing publicly under Ministry of Magic jurisdiction with ticket sales, the formal stage show wasn’t earth-shattering: some rare magical creatures, odd magic from remote regions, relying on stage techniques for visual impact.
But for a magic school headmistress, these performances could only be called amusing; for a six-hundred-year-old wizard, they would be even more tedious and dull.
Maxime turned to look at the old wizard, only to see him watching with relish, a glimmer flickering in his silver eyes.
Seeming to notice her puzzlement, Nicolas Flamel turned his head: “Olympe, you must understand—for an old bag of bones like me who can barely move, how delightful it is to see outside performances from home.”
Maxime looked at the nearly seven-hundred-year-old man and opened her mouth: “I thought you had high hopes for that magic mirror founder, Melvin Lavent.”
“Melvin, yes, he is indeed the one I chose.” Nicolas Flamel’s recliner was precisely positioned just below the skylight, able to catch the sun; the slightly scorching sunlight was just the right temperature for the old man, warming the stiff, cold shell of his body and making his blood flow.
“The chosen one… will he brew a new Philosopher’s Stone?” Maxime’s bright black eyes widened; Nicolas Flamel’s Book of Abraham wasn’t a secret—many wizards knew the process of the Philosopher’s Stone’s birth.
“I never said that; I just think he’s a young man with infinite potential.”
Nicolas Flamel shook his head, picked up the coffee on the table, and took a slow sip. “He will make the world more exciting and interesting, but sadly I won’t live to see it.”
“Don’t say that.”
Maxime found conversing with this alumnus very pressuring. “I came to visit today to consult on a few matters, about Beauxbatons’ future.”
“Mm…”
Nicolas Flamel let out a long breath, as if agreeing or exhaling the coffee’s bitterness.
“As you know, the Mediterranean was once pirate territory; some wizards have long lingered at sea, never disembarking or docking. A few months ago, their leader approached me, hoping to send their children to Beauxbatons.”
Nicolas Flamel pondered for a moment: “Anything else?”
“Hogwarts has drastically changed its Muggle Studies teaching content—should Beauxbatons follow this change? Should our school actively embrace Muggle technology?”
“Anything else?”
“I also want to ask if the Secrecy Law can really hold much longer?”
Maxime asked sincerely; as a half-giant, the pressure of sitting in the headmistress’s seat was unimaginable—she truly hoped for answers from this wise man. “Muggle footprints frequently appear deep in the Pyrenees Mountains; I feel they will one day reach Beauxbatons’ doorstep.”
She looked straight at the old man: “Mr. Nicolas Flamel, I hope you can stay a while longer. The Egypt Alchemy Research Center has sent a letter inquiring about your status; the International Confederation of Wizards is about to convene—we need an experienced old wizard to guide the way.”
Nicolas Flamel didn’t answer immediately but closed his eyes, fingers lightly tapping the armrest, seemingly thinking.
About three minutes later, the fireplace flared green, and an old woman appeared in the room.
Maxime quickly greeted: “Mrs. Flamel.”
“It’s Olympe.”
The old woman’s physical condition seemed better, moving less stiffly; she spotted the coffee on the table at once and glared at the old wizard. “Your old bones are crispier than French fries, and you still drink coffee—you’ll be sleepless tonight, and have nightmares if you do sleep.”
Nicolas Flamel could only smile apologetically.
After scolding him, the old woman turned to the female headmistress: “Good thing you’re here; I’m planning Provençal stew—help me prep the ingredients.”
Maxime then noticed the fresh vegetables she carried: “Yes, ma’am.”
Though Maxime was no longer a fresh graduate witch, facing these two living fossil-like wizards still made her feel awkward and constrained, so she obeyed, busily handling tomatoes, zucchini, and eggplant…
Her sturdy frame confined in the ordinary-sized kitchen made her movements awkward, even a bit flustered, as if back to her recent promotion days—similarly chaotic adapting to school affairs, learning to deal with the Ministry of Magic, negotiating with the Board of Governors; in the toughest times, she had received help from the Flamels.
Dazedly finishing the stew, then helping wash cutlery and cook other dishes, until sitting at the dining table did she somewhat regain her senses.
What question had she just asked Mr. Nicolas Flamel?
After lunch, Nicolas Flamel lounged lazily in his chair; the skylight angle had somehow shifted, letting slanted sunlight fall on the old man; Maxime, having cleaned the cutlery, emerged from the kitchen to see the old man’s eyes half-closed, drowsily falling asleep.
She knew those questions probably wouldn’t get answers.
Before leaving, she still couldn’t hold back, leaning close to the old man and whispering: “Sir, do you have any parting words for me?”
“My parting words are…” Nicolas Flamel paused briefly, “don’t ask Nicolas Flamel about everything—he’s just an old wizard.”
Maxime was stunned for a moment; when she came to, she was already descending the attic’s spiral staircase, Pernelle seeing her off, stepping out the door together—only to see a white flash, and they were at a staircase corner on Rue Montorgueil, with a bronze witch statue behind.
Pernelle handed her a package: “This attic will be completely sealed from now on—don’t come looking for us anymore; pretend we’ve left.”
“…”
“Inside are some Gringotts deposit slips and vault keys, plus the deed to the Pyrenees Mountains castle; hopefully these will help you manage the school and shut up the stubborn folks on the Board of Governors.”
Pernelle instructed in a gentle voice, “Oh, and the Triwizard Tournament is about to restart—you need to prepare in advance.”
“Triwizard Tournament?”
Maxime wanted to ask more, but the old woman shook her head silently, bidding farewell as usual, turning toward the bronze witch statue—her figure vanishing from sight.
Maxime, still reluctant, tried the old trick of lifting the bronze statue’s skirt, but it didn’t budge; as the old woman said, the place was sealed—no more disturbing the old couple.
Maxime stood stunned for a long time until her tall figure drew stares from passersby; she strode to the enchanted carriage parked at the roadside, entering the compartment amid the sound of thestrals flapping wings, leaving Rue Montorgueil.
……
Night fell, Paris Opera House, back-row corner seat.
The stage curtain hadn’t risen yet; formal performance was still a ways off.
Short, plump Mr. Delacour glanced at his neighbors—his wife Apolline to his right, Gabrielle and Fleur to his left. No one else would notice his actions; not very interested in the upcoming ballet, he pulled a newspaper bought on the way from his pocket and flipped through it by the opera house lights.
「Recently, magic mirrors have swept Rue Montorgueil, prompting surrounding wizards to snap them up at premium prices…」
「Magic Mirror Club head Wright arrives in Paris, coordinates with Ministry of Magic Transportation Administration, completes Floo Network upgrades in short time; introduced to Belgium Ministry of Magic by Department of Magical Law Enforcement’s Mr. Bonnel; projection mirror business continues expanding—per related staff, surrounding Ministries of Magic are discussing mutual Floo Network connections…」
「At 11 a.m. today, Aurors on patrol arrested multiple illegal-entry wizards on Rue Montorgueil; scrutiny revealed a dark wizard smuggling ring stealing projection mirrors, unrelated to recent New Salem cult; rumors persist of New Salem and Purifiers fugitives, investigations and pursuits ongoing—our reporter continues to follow…」
「Magic power projection mirrors hot-selling! In stock at Violet Café—buy now while supplies last!」
Mr. Delacour turned to glance at his daughter Gabrielle, who was peering at the newspaper over his arm but couldn’t yet read the text, just blinking at the moving photographs; one was recent news about the Louvre Museum fog incident.
At this point, his wife turned too: “Well? Did anyone notice us that day?”
“The dark wizards who attacked that day were cultists; Hogwarts and Beauxbatons professors happened to be nearby, subdued them, and handed them to the Auror office—no reports mention our warning.”
Apolline nodded: “Good as long as no one noticed—Veela are in a tough spot now; getting tangled in cultist affairs would make Fleur even more ostracized at school.”
The Veela community had kept a low profile these years to integrate into wizard society sooner. Veela, due to their harpy form, had long faced criticism and lack of acceptance by mainstream wizards; Fleur’s Veela half-blood heritage gave her a pretty, delicate face but also drew many odd looks.
These matters were hard to sort out.
The couple exchanged sighs.
“Daddy, Mommy, can we buy a projection mirror on the way home later?” Gabrielle asked in her soft, piping voice; though she couldn’t read the long reports, combining words she knew with pictures let her grasp some content.
“It’s just a projection mirror—if Gabrielle wants one—” Mr. Delacour stroked her hair, about to agree.
Apolline beside him cleared her throat: “Shh, quiet—the performance is about to start.”
The two fell instantly silent.
Melvin and Kristin, seated behind, exchanged smiles; though hearing the Delacour family’s talk, they didn’t interrupt, as the stage curtain had risen.
Tonight’s ballet was Giselle《, telling the love story of country maiden Giselle, who meets noble youth Albert (betrothed); hunter Hilarion, secretly in love with Giselle, exposes the noble youth’s identity, shattering Giselle’s heart—she collapses and dies amid cries.
Act Two turned fantastical: Giselle’s soul meets a group of female ghosts, all ill-fated women abandoned by faithless lovers, harboring grudges and seeking revenge.
The ghosts had repeatedly surrounded young men near graveyards, forcing them to dance to exhaustion and death.
Night brings Hilarion to the graveyard, immediately encircled by ghosts and punished to death; noble youth Albert comes to Giselle’s grave to confess, ghosts try to kill him too, but kind Giselle protects him fully, allowing survival.
A love story mixed with ghost affairs—perfect for projection mirrors; that was why they sat there tonight.
