The Intelligent Potter

*** The Flamel Residence, France

Emmanuel Delacour prided himself on his patience. He was a man who could play the waiting game very well, and he knew it to be one of his greatest strengths.

When it became clear that Nicolas Flamel had no intention to emerge from his residence in time to aid the Battle of Hogwarts, Emmanuel simply mirror-called Sirius and informed him that the legendary wizard would not be joining them for the war effort.

Hell, he would consider it more of a testament to his patience that he was able to withstand the several minutes of foul cursing that he was subjected to by Sirius Black than the fact that he was able to wait patiently for Flamel to emerge.

After he finally got off of the cursed call, Emmanuel waited.

Emmanuel waited.

Emmanuel waited and waited and waited, but despite constant knocking and triggering of the wards, Nicolas did not emerge.

A suspicion was beginning to form that Nicolas was not even in his own house. Which would be strange, but not unheard of. Indeed, in recent times, Flamel had left his house more often than he had in several hundred years, in which he had preferred to stay at home as a recluse, with just his wife for company, completely immersed in his research, and his research alone.

It was after several hours of waiting for Flamel's return, that Emmanuel finally asked for a team of ward-breakers to apparate to his location to try and batter down Flamel's wards so that he could enter.

Now, to some this may seem like a little bit of an extreme response, but Emmanuel knew Flamel. Flamel had been a close family friend for several generations of Delacours. A perennial ally. And one thing which Emmanuel had learned about his very very old friend was that he was extremely connected to his wards. Even if he was a thousand miles away, he would know when his wards were triggered, and only an emergency of epic proportions could possibly cause him to be missing in action for several hours, especially when it was Emmanuel who was patiently awaiting his arrival. Something truly catastrophic must have happened, and Emmanuel needed to know what.

Thus, he called upon a team of ward-breakers, who apparated into the location within ten minutes.

"Delegate Delacour," the head of the team of ward-breakers bowed slightly, and shook the hand of the experienced delegate.

Emmanuel recognised the man as Hector Laurent, a ward-breaker who he knew from his time as the head of magical law enforcement in France, a position in which he had been very well-respected, and which was, indeed, the main reason that a team of ward-breakers of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement would respond to his call so quickly.

"Hector!" Emmanuel greeted, and shook the man's hand with a warm smile on his face.

"You remember me, Monsieur?" Hector asked. He was a fairly intimidating man, but still a hopeful smile broke across his face.

"That I do, Hector," Emmanuel patted the taller man on the back, "I would love to just catch up with you, but I'm afraid I do have a job for you."

"Ah yes, a ward-breaking job I presume, you have the papers, Delegate?" Hector Laurent returned to the formal title.

Emmanuel hesitated, "Please?"

Hector looked away shiftily, before sighing, "Fine, but I better have the papers on my desk tomorrow morning."

Emmanuel hugged the man.

"Men, circle the building." Hector waved his men into formation, and they got started on their job.

Taking down the wards around the house of Nicolas Flamel should have taken hours. They were powered by the Philosopher's Stone, and the very life source of the ancient alchemist.

Emmanuel settled down for another long wait, a wait which he reckoned might last another several hours.

With a single wail, the wards dissolved into nothing at the first touch of the ward-breakers.

Emmanuel stared.

Something was really wrong.

"Well, that was easy," Hector commented, "Why did you even need to call my guys in the first place, this should have been a cakewalk for a man of your skills, Monsieur."

Emmanuel nodded to the other man but quickly, and quite tactlessly, told him to bugger off, because there were more important things which needed dealing with.

A little crestfallen at the reception of his help, Hector and his men left the scene. Emmanuel made an internal note to make sure to invite the head ward-breaker over for dinner with his family sometime soon to make up for the perceived slight.

At that moment, however, he had to push that thought to the back of his mind.

Emmanuel entered the lavish Delacour home sprinting.

A sharp pain in his foot was the first thing he registered upon entering the room. The second thing was the darkness.

"Lumos," Emmanuel hissed out in pain.

Emmanuel gasped.

He could not have imagined the wreck that greeted him inside the manor, even in his wildest dreams. All the furniture and decorations had been obliterated. Pieces of antique wood and broken glass lay scattered all over the floor.

Perenelle Flamel lay in the middle of the entrance hall, bloodied everywhere with a hole in her c.h.e.s.t, where Emmanuel could only assume a tendril of The Darkness had pierced her. For only The Darkness could hope to take the Flamels on in their own home and murder both, without raising the slightest of alarms.

Emmanuel had seen many gruesome sights in his days as an auror, and as the head of the French DMLE, but this seriously took the cake. He felt bile rising in his throat, and fought not to throw up.

The pain in his foot came back to him, as he breathed slowly to try and prevent himself from going into shock. He raised his foot to see a ruby red shard sticking out of it.

The color was so distinctive that he would have recognised it anywhere.

There was no mistaking what it was.

The Philosopher's Stone.

Voldemort must have come for it.

Emmanuel looked down at the tiny shard sticking out of his foot. The Stone would not break by accident under any circ.u.mstances. He knew that. It was stronger than any metal.

Which meant that Nicolas Flamel destroyed it, his life's work, himself, to protect it from falling it into the clutches of Voldemort.

Bile rose in his throat again, at the idea of his old friend's long and ill.u.s.trious life ending in such a disgraceful and saddening manner.

*** End of Chapter