"Nicolas Flamel?" Monsieur and Madame Delacour exclaimed in unison.
"You mean… Monsieur Flamel is your teacher?"
"But wasn't he already dead?"
Their questions overlapped in shock. Tom blinked at Fleur, who stuck out her tongue playfully.
"Didn't you say not to tell anyone about Monsieur Flamel unless it was absolutely necessary?" she countered innocently.
Tom gave the Delacours an apologetic smile. "That's on me, Uncle, Aunt. I should've explained things properly from the start."
Merlin, how he adored Fleur's character. In front of most, she was proud, radiant—like a phoenix. She bantered with him often, refused to back down. But when it came to matters of trust and secrecy, she obeyed his words without question. He had told her not to share his connection with Flamel—and she hadn't breathed a word. Not even to her parents.
So now, the Delacours were utterly clueless about his ties to the legendary alchemist.
"It's like this," Tom began calmly. "Last summer, Flamel agreed to take me as his apprentice in alchemy. The news of his 'death' was… a ruse. A cover. In truth, my teacher's health is surprisingly good. He'll live for centuries yet."
The couple stared, speechless.
"The false death—and even the donations to Beauxbatons—were all a strategy," Tom continued. "He wanted peace. To stop every dark wizard in Europe from constantly circling him like vultures."
Back in October, Flamel's funeral had been headline news. The greatest alchemist of the age, dead at last. Almost every newspaper in Europe covered it. Great figures from every nation had attended the funeral of the man who'd given the world the Philosopher's Stone.
But the truth…
Tom's lips twitched at the memory. He rummaged in his dragonhide pouch, pulled out a photograph, and handed it across the table.
"Perhaps this will explain better."
Madame Delacour leaned in with her husband. Both froze at the sight, their expressions twisting as though they desperately wanted to laugh but were holding it back.
"What is it?" Fleur asked, hurrying over. The moment she saw, her face shifted to match her parents'.
"You cannot be serious… This is Monsieur Flamel?"
"Indeed," Tom sighed. "He insisted on giving me a 'souvenir.'"
The photo showed Nicolas and Perenelle lying serenely in a massive coffin, eyes closed in death. But in the same frame, another Nicolas and Perenelle stood beside the coffin, grinning broadly, flashing peace signs as though they were teenagers.
A solemn memorial turned into something out of a macabre comedy.
When Tom had first received it, he'd nearly dropped it.
"Memories of your own funeral," Fleur murmured, still stunned. "And posing with your corpse… it's certainly… memorable."
The doubles lying in the coffin were so realistic no one could tell they weren't real. Flamel had even layered them with curses—perfect bait for any grave-robber foolish enough to try their luck.
"I hadn't expected Monsieur Flamel to be… quite so humorous," Monsieur Delacour managed at last, forcing dignity back into his voice. After all, Flamel was a French treasure; he couldn't just laugh. "Still, it is an honor. Fleur, if you truly get to visit him… that is extraordinary. You must remember—you'll be representing our family. Behave properly. Show the Flamels that the Delacours know courtesy."
"Yes, Papa." Fleur straightened immediately, serious now.
"I want to go too!" Gabrielle, her mouth sticky with cream, piped up suddenly. She didn't know who Nicolas Flamel was, but she understood one thing: her sister and Tom were going somewhere exciting, and they meant to leave her behind.
Madame Delacour was about to scold her when Tom chuckled and patted Gabrielle's hair.
"Of course you'll come along. Nicolas and Perenelle will love meeting someone as adorable as you."
"Mmhm! Gabrielle's cuter than Fleur!" she declared proudly.
Fleur's face darkened.
Tom politely declined their invitation to stay the night, promising instead to pick up the sisters the next afternoon. He had no desire to be pinned down here—not when Gabrielle would inevitably latch onto him like a barnacle. He had to spend Christmas Eve back at Flamel's.
For all that the Flamels had lived through centuries of Christmases and found the holiday meaningless now, Newt Scamander had crossed the ocean for this visit. Tom wasn't about to skip out on him. And later that night… there was Ariana, who deserved his company too.
In the art of time management, Tom was becoming a master.
When he returned to Flamel Manor, he found the three elders lounging comfortably in a glass pavilion, sipping wine while snowflakes fell outside.
"Well, don't you look cozy," Tom quipped as he stepped in.
Perenelle leaned forward, eyes narrowing when she saw he was alone. "Didn't I say? Don't bother coming back unless you bring her with you!"
"Now, now, madam," Tom said cheerfully, slipping into the empty chair beside her. "It's Christmas Eve. Surely you wouldn't have me abduct her from her family mid-feast?"
"Tomorrow," he promised, smiling. "Tomorrow afternoon, I'll bring them both."
The old woman relented, mollified.
Tom spent the evening sharing a bottle of Bordeaux with the elders before retreating to his room. Inside his study space, the meditation chamber glittered with festive decorations. Ariana had insisted, of course—at her age, every holiday felt magical.
They celebrated until late into the night.
And the next morning, Tom woke to the soft rustle of movement. Usagi had returned from England, and the velvet carpet of his room was now piled high with brightly wrapped gifts.