They ate lunch in the courtyard garden—crusty bread, soft cheese, cured meats, and a green salad dressed with olive oil and lemon. The wine was a crisp white that Flamel claimed was from a vineyard he'd invested in back in the 1700s.
Astra was fascinated by the cube, turning it over in her hands while Alister explained what it did.
"So if I dropped it from the tower," she asked, "and it got all smashed and dented when it hit the ground, it would just... fix itself?"
"Eventually, yes," Alister confirmed. "The more damage, the longer the restoration takes. A small scratch? it gets restored in Seconds. Complete destruction? Could take minutes or even hours depending on how much material needs to be reconstituted."
"Could you make a wand out of it?" Astra asked suddenly. "A wand that never breaks?"
Alister paused mid-bite. "That's... actually a brilliant question. I don't know. Wand wood has its own magic, its own connection to the wizard. I'm not sure how it would interact with Memory Metal."
"Something to research," Flamel said, making a note on a small pad of parchment he'd brought to the table. "Along with approximately seventy other applications I can think of off the top of my head."
He set down his fork and looked at Alister seriously. "But before we get lost in possibilities, we need to discuss something important."
"What?" Alister asked, sensing the shift in tone.
"Publication," Flamel said simply. "This discovery—this is paradigm-shifting work, Alister. It's the kind of breakthrough that comes once in a century, if that. It needs to be shared with the magical community properly."
Alister frowned. "I'm not sure I want to release the formula yet. This requires rare materials, advanced skill, access to equipment that most people don't have. If I just publish it, only the wealthy and powerful could exploit it."
"Which is precisely why you need to do this carefully," Flamel countered. "Listen to me, boy. I've been in this game for six hundred years. I know how magical discoveries get handled."
He leaned forward, his ancient eyes intense.
"If you try to keep this secret or control it yourself, one of two things will happen. Either someone will steal it from you—and they will, trust me on that—or the Ministry will classify it as dangerous research and bury it in the Department of Mysteries for 'public safety.'"
"So what do you suggest?" Alister asked.
"We publish the research," Flamel said. "Properly. Through the established channels—the Journal of Applied Alchemy, the International Alchemical Conference, peer review by the Continental Society. We make it legitimate academic work."
"But we don't just dump the formula into the world," Flamel continued. "We establish proper attribution. You as the primary researcher, me as the supervising master. We file patents through the ICW's intellectual property office. We set up licensing agreements."
Alister's eyes narrowed. "You want to commercialize it."
"I want to protect it," Flamel corrected. "And protect you. If this is properly registered academic work with clear intellectual property rights, anyone who wants to use Memory Metal for commercial purposes has to license the process from you. That means you control who gets access, you set the terms, and you earn royalties on every piece sold."
He gestured with his wine glass. "Think about it. Right now, the magical economy is in chaos because of Architect. The Goblins are in rebellion, the Ministry is floundering, old power structures are crumbling. Into that chaos, you introduce a revolutionary new material with clear economic value."
Flamel smiled, " And you do it through legitimate channels. You become Alister Potter, the youngest Master Alchemist in three centuries."
Perenelle nodded approvingly. "It also gives you legitimacy you could need later. Alister Potter, published researcher and inventor? That's someone the Ministry has to take seriously. Someone they have to negotiate with."
Alister sat back, processing this. He'd been so focused on the technical achievement that he hadn't thought through the political and economic implications.
"How would the licensing work?" he asked carefully.
"We'd establish a tiered system," Flamel said, clearly having already thought this through. "Academic institutions and researchers get licenses for free or at cost—we want innovation to continue. Small craftsmen and independent smiths get reasonable rates they can actually afford. Large commercial operations—Gringotts, the big manufacturing concerns, ministry—they pay premium rates."
"And the truly dangerous applications?" Alister asked. "What stops someone from using this to make weapons?"
"Nothing," Flamel said bluntly. "Any material can be weaponized. But by controlling the licensing, we can at least track who's using it and for what. And we include ethical use clauses in the licensing agreements. If someone violates those terms, they lose access to the process."
"It's not perfect," Perenelle added gently. "Nothing ever is. But it's better than either keeping it secret or releasing it completely uncontrolled."
Alister looked down at the cube sitting on the table, catching the sunlight.
"What kind of royalties are we talking about?" he asked practically.
Flamel grinned. "For something this revolutionary? Standard academic royalty rate is 3-5% of gross sales. But we can negotiate higher for commercial applications. Conservatively, once this gets into widespread use? You're looking at somewhere between fifty thousand and half a million Galleons per year. Possibly more if it really takes off."
Alister's eyebrows rose. That was... substantial. Not world-changing money, but enough to fund his operations indefinitely without relying on his parents' vault.
"And you'd get credit too," Alister pointed out. "Co-author on the paper. Probably a significant percentage of the royalties."
"I'm six hundred years old and I own half of Paris," Flamel said dryly. "I don't need the money. I'll take 10% to cover my time and expenses, and the rest is yours. This is your discovery, Alister. I'm just helping you navigate the bureaucracy."
"Why?" Alister asked bluntly. "Why help me like this? We've only just met."
Flamel was quiet for a moment, swirling the wine in his glass.
"Because in six centuries, I've seen a lot of brilliant minds waste their potential or get crushed by systems they didn't understand," he said finally. "I've seen researchers die in poverty while charlatans got rich off their work. I've seen discoveries buried because the discoverer didn't know how to protect themselves politically."
He met Alister's eyes.
"You're brilliant, boy. Genuinely brilliant. You have the potential to reshape the magical world—and you're already doing it. But brilliance isn't enough. You need to learn how to operate in the world as it exists, not just the world as you want it to be."
"Consider this my investment in the future," Flamel smiled. "I'm old, Alister. Old enough to recognize when someone extraordinary comes along. If I can help you avoid some of the mistakes I made, help you build something lasting... well. That's worth more than any amount of gold."
Alister studied the ancient alchemist's face, searching for deception or hidden motives. But all he saw was genuine mentorship and a kind of grandfatherly pride.
"Alright," Alister said finally. "We publish. We set up the licensing. We do this properly."
"Excellent!" Flamel clapped his hands together. "I'll contact the Journal tomorrow, set up a submission. We'll need to write up the full methodology, prepare diagrams, document the testing process. Should take us about a week if we work efficiently."
"And I'll help you set up a proper legal entity," Perenelle added. "You'll need a company structure to handle the licensing agreements. Something like... 'Potter-Flamel Alchemical Innovations' perhaps? Has a nice ring to it."
"Just 'Potter Innovations,'" Alister said. "You've done enough, Mr. Flamel. I won't take credit for your reputation too."
"Compromise," Flamel suggested. "Potter Innovations as the primary entity, with a note that research was conducted in consultation with Flamel Alchemical Laboratory. That way you get independence, but people know the work was properly supervised and vetted."
Alister nodded slowly. "That works."
Astra had been listening quietly, turning the metal cube over in her hands. "Does this mean we're going to be even more rich?" she asked innocently.
Alister laughed—a genuine, surprised sound. "Maybe? Eventually? It's going to take time for this to actually get into production and start earning money."
"But when it does," Flamel said with a wink, "I expect you to buy your sister something very nice."
"I want books," Astra said immediately. "And maybe a cat. Can I have a cat when I go to Hogwarts?"
"Cats are on the approved pet list," Alister confirmed, smiling at her. "Along with owls and toads. Though I'm not sure why anyone would want a toad."
"Well, when your letter comes, we'll get you whatever pet you want," Alister promised. "Within reason. No dragons."
"What about a Kneazle?" Astra asked hopefully.
"That's basically a magical cat. Sure."
She beamed.
They spent the rest of the afternoon in the garden, discussing practicalities. Flamel outlined the publication process, the peer review system, the timeline for getting the research into print. Perenelle explained corporate structures and intellectual property law with the ease of someone who'd been managing a six-century-old fortune.
Alister took notes, asked questions, and slowly began to understand the mundane but essential infrastructure that turned brilliant ideas into lasting change.
As the sun began to set over Paris, Flamel raised his glass one more time.
"To Memory Metal," he declared. "May it prove more durable than the institutions that will try to control it."
They all clinked glasses—even Astra with her watered wine.
"And to proper documentation," Perenelle added dryly. "Because apparently, that's what passes for revolution these days."
Everyone laughed.
[Two Weeks Later - The Journal of Applied Alchemy, Geneva Office]
Magister Heinrich Vogel, Chief Editor of the Journal of Applied Alchemy, stared at the manuscript on his desk with something approaching disbelief.
The paper was titled: "Conditional Soul-Binding in Inorganic Matrices: A Novel Approach to Adaptive Material Creation"
Authors: Alister Potter (Primary Researcher), Nicolas Flamel (Supervising Master)
"It's legitimate," his deputy editor, a severe witch named Adelinde Kessler, said from across the desk. "I've checked the methodology three times. I've reviewed the photographic evidence of the testing process. I even sent a query to Flamel himself to confirm his participation."
"And?" Vogel asked.
"He confirmed everything. Says the boy is the most talented alchemist he's seen in two centuries." She paused. "He's also offering to sponsor the paper personally and fund replication studies."
Vogel picked up the sheaf of parchment and flipped through it again. The theoretical framework was sound—brilliant, actually. The methodology was meticulous. The applications were staggering.
"How old is Potter?" he asked.
"Eleven. Just finished his first year at Hogwarts."
"Eleven," Vogel repeated flatly.
"Yes, sir."
"And he's claiming to have successfully bound a conditional memory matrix to metallic substrates, creating a self-repairing material that responds intelligently to damage."
"The evidence supports the claim, sir."
Vogel set down the paper and rubbed his temples. "Do you have any idea what this is going to do to the field? We've been trying to achieve stable memory binding for three hundred years. Every attempt has ended in either explosion or inert failure. And now an eleven-year-old solves it?"
"True." Vogel leaned back in his chair. "Still. This is going to be controversial. The peer reviewers are going to eviscerate it just on principle. A child submitting to the Journal?"
"Then we pick our reviewers carefully," Kessler suggested. "Masters who care more about results than credentials. And we fast-track the replication process. If independent laboratories can confirm the results, the controversy becomes irrelevant."
Vogel considered this. The Journal of Applied Alchemy had a reputation to maintain—they published only the most rigorously vetted research. But they also prided themselves on recognizing genuine breakthroughs.
And this... this was undeniably a breakthrough.
"Alright," Vogel decided. "We publish. Full peer review, three independent replications, and we require Flamel to provide a written statement confirming the boy's primary contribution. I won't have anyone claiming we were bamboozled by a famous name."
"Understood, sir."
"And Adelinde? When this publishes... it's going to change everything. Make sure our legal team is ready. Because every major manufacturer, every organization, every research institution in the world is going to want a piece of this."
Kessler smiled slightly. "According to the cover letter, Potter and Flamel have already filed preliminary patents with the ICW. Anyone who wants to use the process commercially will need to license it."
He signed the acceptance form with a flourish.
"Publish in the next issue. Front page. And let's send a congratulatory letter to Mr. Potter. The Journal of Applied Alchemy is pleased to welcome the youngest published alchemist in our three-hundred-year history."
(END OF CHAPTER)
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MYTH: Christopher K Wright