— — — — — —
"Whoa."
"Nicolas Flamel?" The Delacour couple blurted out in unison, startled.
"Wait… Mr. Flamel is your teacher?"
"How? Didn't he die already?"
The two of them spoke over each other in confusion, while Tom glanced at Fleur with a puzzled look. Fleur only stuck her tongue out playfully.
"Weren't you the one who told me not to go around telling people about Mr. Flamel?"
Tom gave the dazed Delacours an apologetic smile. "My fault. I should've explained things clearly to Uncle and Aunt."
He really liked Fleur's character. Around others she carried herself with pride. And she would quarrel with Tom plenty, but when it came to serious matters, she always listened. If Tom told her to keep something secret, then she would—so much so that even her parents were still in the dark about his connection with Flamel.
"It's like this," Tom began, carefully explaining. "Last summer, Nicolas Flamel became my alchemy teacher. As for the news of his death—that was just for the public. In reality, his health is fine. He'll probably live for decades more."
"The so-called death and the donation of his fortune to Beauxbatons? All part of a plan to get some peace, so the dark wizards would stop hunting him down."
Back in October, Flamel's funeral had gone viral. Nearly every major newspaper across Europe reported on it, and countless big names had shown up to pay respects to the so-called greatest alchemist of all time.
But the truth…
Tom's mouth twitched at the thought.
He rummaged through his dragonhide pouch and pulled out a photograph, handing it to Monsieur Delacour. "One look at this will make things clear."
Madame Delacour leaned closer too, curious. The couple froze when they saw it. Their expressions twisted, as if they wanted to laugh but weren't allowed to—an almost painful restraint.
"What is it?" Fleur, baffled by their reaction, snatched the photo herself. When she saw it, her own face stiffened into the exact same expression. She turned to Tom, incredulous. "This… this is Mr Flamel?"
"That's right. He sent it to me as a keepsake." Tom was also left speechless when he saw Nicolas and Perenelle taking the selfie.
Fleur nodded numbly. "A keepsake of… attending his own funeral, and taking a photo with his own corpse. That's… one way to put it."
In the photo, Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel lay serenely in a wide coffin, eyes closed as if in eternal rest.
But standing outside the coffin were… Nicolas and Perenelle again. Beaming. Throwing peace signs at the camera. A solemn memorial shot instantly turned into something out of a horror film.
The "corpses" were decoys so lifelike they could fool anyone. To top it off, they were covered in nasty curses, just waiting to blow up in the face of any grave robber.
"Well… I didn't realize Mr Flamel had such… a sense of humor."
As the pride of French wizardry, Monsieur Delacour couldn't help trying to defend Flamel's dignity—even when it was in tatters. Then his expression brightened. "But Fleur, to think you actually met him! That's a real honor. And it's all thanks to you, Tom."
"Fleur, when you visit Mr Flamel's home, you must mind your manners. We can't have anyone thinking the Delacours lack proper etiquette. Understood?"
"Yes, Papa." Fleur nodded solemnly.
"I want to go too!" Little Gabrielle, her mouth smeared with cream, protested. She didn't know who Nicolas Flamel was, but she caught enough to realize Fleur was going somewhere with Tom and leaving her behind. That wasn't happening.
Madame Delacour was about to scold her when Tom leaned over, chuckling as he ruffled Gabrielle's hair.
"Of course you're coming too. Grandpa Nicolas and Grandma Perenelle will definitely adore someone as cute as you."
Gabrielle nodded seriously. "Mm-hmm! Gabrielle's way cuter than Fleur!"
Fleur's face darkened.
After politely declining the Delacours' invitation to stay the night and arranging to pick up the sisters the following afternoon, Tom returned to Flamel Manor alone.
...
It was Christmas Eve.
But the Flamels themselves, after centuries of Christmases, hardly cared about the holiday anymore. But Newt had traveled all the way from America, so of course Tom had to spend it with him. Ariana was waiting too. If he stayed at the Delacours', Gabrielle would never let him escape.
Time management, at this point, had become second nature to him.
Back at the manor, the three old-timers were lounging comfortably in the heated pavilion, sipping wine and nibbling snacks while watching the snow fall outside.
"Well, aren't you all living the good life," Tom teased as he walked in.
Perenelle peeked behind him, saw he was alone, and her expression immediately hardened. "Didn't we agree? If you didn't bring someone back, you weren't coming back either."
"Now, now, don't be upset," Tom said cheerfully, dropping into the seat beside her. "It's Christmas Eve. I couldn't just snatch her and run, could I?"
"Tomorrow. Tomorrow afternoon you bring her."
"Yes, Ma'am."
That finally satisfied the old lady.
Tom drank a bottle of Bordeaux with the three elders before retreating to his room and entering his study space.
The Meditation Room outside had been decorated with Christmas ornaments—not by Andros or Grindelwald, who didn't care about such things, but by Ariana, who at her age still held a special love for holidays.
He kept her company until late into the night before finally wrapping up his busy day.
The next morning, Tom was woken by Usaki, who had littered the velvet carpet with gift boxes and wrapping. She'd flown back to Britain earlier to pick up all the presents, storing them in her own pocket dimension—otherwise her tiny claws could never have carried so many.
After all, opening gifts only felt right on Christmas morning.
As usual, Tom made a note of who hadn't sent him anything, then started unwrapping from the pile of ordinary classmates' gifts. Nothing worth mentioning, just the usual stuff.
Zabini had sent a bundle of rare herbs, and tucked inside were a few Tom had actually been searching for.
Nott's present was a set of copied manuscripts from his family's private library, mostly on obscure historical secrets.
Rosier, as always, skipped the thoughtfulness and just sent money. Though this time he'd upped it to five hundred galleons.
Next came the professors' gifts.
Last year Tom hadn't received any from them, but since he'd sent them presents then, this year they'd all returned the gesture.
Snape… Huh?
"Dammit, what is that supposed to mean, giving me a bezoar? Is that his way of wishing me gallstones?"
Tom cursed Snape a bit before continuing to unwrap the presents.
Professor Flitwick had sent a huge chest of magical fireworks. When ignited, the bursts could transform into firework sprites that would leap out and perform an elegant dance.
Professor Sprout's present was a bag of Chomping Cabbage seeds—the very thing Tom had hinted about countless times.
And McGonagall… McGonagall had sent him her Transfiguration notes. Not old, faded notes from her youth, but carefully organized insights from the last two years—a master's lifetime of knowledge distilled into one complete work.
Tom had been stunned. A Christmas gift of this magnitude? It was overwhelming.
Only after reading the letter included did he understand.
This wasn't just a Christmas present. It was also McGonagall's reward to him. His Fantasy Draught had passed peer review and would soon be published in {Transfiguration Today}. Hogwarts itself would also brew a batch for students to use.
The notebook—her life's work—was, in a sense, the licensing fee.
Trading her own achievements to secure her students' futures… Tom couldn't help but admire her devotion.
Finally, Tom turned to Dumbledore's gift.
"Come on, old man," Tom muttered. "McGonagall's done so much as deputy headmistress. As the headmaster, you'd better not cheap out. If you do, Hogwarts really will be the laughingstock."
He unwrapped the package. Inside was a notebook too, though much thinner than McGonagall's—barely a dozen pages.
Tom flipped it open. On the very first page, in bold strokes, was a spell: {Firestorm — A Path of Fire}.
His eyes lit up instantly.
Grindelwald was a master of fire, but so was Dumbledore. And this spell—Tom remembered it vividly. It was the last shining moment of Dumbledore's life.
First ambushed by the cursed power hidden in the Resurrection Stone, his life span cut short and one hand ruined. Then he'd forced down Voldemort's potion only to retrieve a fake Slytherin's Locket.
And even in that half-dead state, he had unleashed this spell, driving back a sea of Inferi.
The spell itself was just as legendary as the man who cast it.
Tom forgot about the other gifts completely and dove into studying the Firestorm.
Past the first page, every sheet was dedicated to the spell—its theory, its structure, its breakdown. Out of all the magic Tom had learned, only the ancient sorcery Andros had passed on could compare in complexity.
But the deeper he read, the stranger his expression became.
Wait… was the real purpose of this spell to counter Grindelwald?
Why else would Dumbledore stress that it was especially effective against fiendfyre? It could suppress the cursed flames, even devour them and feed the power back into itself, boosting its destructive force.
Intrigued, Tom opened his study space and called out for Grindelwald.
The old dark wizard, who had been drinking tea with Andros, looked up at the sound of Tom's voice echoing from the sky.
"Hey, old man. You know the spell Firestorm?"
— — —
London, Spinner's End.
At the very back of Spinner's End sat Snape's home. For him, Christmas was nothing special. He woke at precisely eight, as always, and his eyes swept across the floor. The pile of presents was pitifully small.
Aside from a few fellow heads of house and some eccentric old men with too much money, no one ever bothered to send him anything. Oh—except Lucius. Lucius always did.
Still… today's pile looked bigger than usual.
The largest box caught his attention first. A gift from the Greengrass family. He opened it—and his good mood for the day ended there.
A trash can.
They'd sent him a trash can.
But Daphne's note explained: the bins were meant for his Potions classroom, to make collecting waste and scraps easier. A practical gift, sure. And honestly, it was needed. Every time a class ended, the state of the room made him want to tear his hair out.
So… it wasn't useless. Just strange to get it as a Christmas present.
Then Snape's frown deepened as he spotted another package. From Riddle.
He sneered. "Oh, let's see if it's worse than the gift i gave him."
Last year, Riddle had sent him a book that made his stomach churn: {How to Win the Heart of the Girl You Love.} (ch 87)
If someone had handed him that decades ago, he might have been grateful. But now? Completely pointless.
He refused to believe Riddle could top that level of humiliation.
With cold calm, he opened this year's package. Another book.
The title: {When Your Childhood Sweetheart Falls for Your Mortal Enemy.}
"Bloody hell!"
"Ughhh, Riddle!"
"I swear to kill you a thousand times—and even that wouldn't be enough!"
.
.
.