Chapter 111: The Plan's Changed!

"Harry Potter, I presume," Nicolas Flamel's gaze shifted towards the young wizard, "Our paths haven't crossed before, so I haven't had the opportunity to express my gratitude for your help in safeguarding the Philosopher's Stone last year."

Harry, fostering an antsy quickness to the conversation, immediately responded, "I can't take all the credit, Mr. Flamel. It was a collective effort – my friends and I defended the stone together."

"Ah, well," Nicolas Flamel cast a courteous smile, "Please extend my thanks to your friends as well."

"I'll make sure to pass along your words."

Nicolas Flamel's smile dwindled as the conversation escalated.

"Now, about that disgraceful commotion. When I destroyed the Philosopher's Stone, a few remaining fragments retained traces of magic – just simple residual magic though."

Continuing, he shared, "I penned a letter to some old acquaintances, letting them know that their descendants could come collect a piece. Before I knew it, this information had spread like wildfire. Turns out, many who believed they had a solid rapport with me sent their descendants to contact me, hoping for a slice of the stone."

"In reality, only three pieces of the Philosopher's Stone fragments still hold any significant value."

With that, he extracted three deceptively ordinary-looking red stone fragments from his pocket.

Glancing at them, the genuine remnants of the Philosopher's Stone appeared quite plain, resembling ordinary red stones one might find on the ground – a stark contrast to the luxurious fakes everyone had been chasing.

"Given all the help you've been, I think it's only fitting to gift the fragments to you. It'll also keep the other leeches at bay."

He handed the fragments to Sherlock Forester, the Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts, who'd been listening with great interest. Sherlock didn't refuse the offer but, whilst marked with a certain degree of puzzlement, accepted the fragments and examined the red stone curiously.

"What uses do these bits of the Philosopher's Stone possess, Mr. Flamel?"

Promptly, Nicolas Flamel delivered an explanation.

"These fragmented pieces retain some qualities of the original Philosopher's Stone. They can amplify the effect of potions when added during the brewing process. Alternatively, soaking them in water can create a healing draught capable of mending most injuries. In some respects, they could be thought to surpass even phoenix tears."

Sherlock understood: the Philosopher's Stone's power to turn metals into gold was lost, and its ability to create the Elixir of Life had greatly diminished. It was now essentially a exceptionally potent ingredient for a restorative potion.

Regardless, these fragments still held considerable value. At the very least, there was little doubt Professor Snape would go to great lengths to acquire them from him.

"I'll make some other arrangements to compensate those who journeyed all the way to Paris seeking these shards and instead fell victim to deception. I assure you, they will not leave empty-handed."

With these matters adequately addressed, Nicolas Flamel rose from the sofa.

"My wife requires my attention. I do appreciate your assistance, Sherlock, and Harry. Please do give my regards to Albus when you return to Hogwarts."

With those parting remarks, he exited the reception room, heading back to the German wizarding hospital via the fireplace of the French Ministry of Magic.

Shortly after his departure, Harry and Sherlock were endowed with the rewards conferred by the French Ministry of Magic: a French Amity Wizarding medal each, which made for a memorable token of appreciation.

After all the hullabaloo had settled, they did not bid farewell to Fleur and her family in person. They instead entrusted one of the Philosopher's Stone fragments to Mr. Delacour, an official at the Ministry of Magic, who promised to hand it over to Fleur on their behalf.

Over at the Delacour residence, undisturbed by any restorative charm, Fleur only woke up in the late afternoon. She lay in bed, blankly staring at the ceiling for a while before abruptly sitting up. She hastily put on her slippers and rushed out of the bedroom, asking Mrs. Delacour in the living room with obvious alarm.

"Mother, why am I at home?"

Mrs. Delacour narrated the events from the morning: the apprehension of the fraudsters and, finally, produced the Philosopher's Stone shard from her pocket.

"Your father brought this back. He said it was a gift from Sherlock, and relayed a message suggesting that if you happen to visit England, you should pay them a visit. They're quite eager to show you around."

Fleur took the fragment of the Philosopher's Stone from her mother's hand. She stared at the crimson shard nestling in her palm, and after a moment finally found her words again, she inquired nervously.

"Are they still in Paris?"

"They appeared to have departed by midday. Your father mentioned something about them planning to head over to Sweden before returning to England."

Hearing this left Fleur in a mix of emotions. She looked at the fragment in her hand with a touch of wistfulness. After some time passed, she murmured, "I wanted to go to Sweden with them…"

Meanwhile, at the base of the Eiffel Tower, having just snapped a photograph with Harry and thanked a helpful passerby for assisting with the camera, Sherlock remarked on their next venture.

"Shall we head to the Palace of Versailles next, Professor?"

"Actually, forget the palace, it's not that interesting," Sherlock denied, reviewing the film in the camera and checking his wristwatch. He weighed the remaining daylight. "Why don't we skip straight to the next destination and find some good food while we're at it? Are we in the mood for some traditional Foie gras, roasted pork knuckle, or maybe steak?"

Harry retorted, "If I keep eating so much rich people food, I'm gonna end up looking like my cousin!"

"Don't underestimate your cousin's diet, Harry!" Sherlock jested at the semblance.

Regrouping, they headed back to their car where Sherlock smoothed out a map, planning their next stop.

"If all goes well, we should make it to Troyes by seven this evening. We'll make camp there, set off for Lyon tomorrow, and land in Geneva the day after."

For the first time in the journey, Sherlock had masterminded such a detailed plan, and he had even taken the liberty of verbalizing it.

Observing this, Harry ventured, "Professor, have you ever noticed that things you pin your hopes on often end up going wrong?"

Drawing from his words, Sherlock stared at his travel companion.

"What, you reckon my every utterance is some kind of prophecy of doom?"

Harry paused, choosing to nod tentatively. "Well.. kinda, yea."

Sherlock reflected on his previous encounters, then quipped back, "You and your friends thought the same while battling the Basilisk, didn't you? All those pleas for me to 'shut up already'. I mean, you are all students of magic but have no faith in it; why persist with such baseless superstitions, then!"

Frustrated yet resolved, Harry challenged, "Don't believe me? Let's test it!"

Motioning towards a bird soaring in the sky overhead, he asked Sherlock, "Do you genuinely believe that bird can safely perch on a branch?"

Examining the lonely fowl, Sherlock shrugged off Harry's challenge, "Unless it's hurt or gets distracted enough to collide with a vehicle, why wouldn't it settle safely on a branch?"

Before Harry could protest, Sherlock parked the car and motioned for them to step out. They squatted by the vehicle, observing the bird as it gracefully soared in the sky, its wings gliding back and forth for several minutes. Finally, under the vigilant gaze of Sherlock and Harry, it descended, settling on a sturdy tree by the roadside.

"I told you!" Sherlock exclaimed, swiveling around to face a rather flabbergasted Harry.

"That's not fair!" Harry retorted, "It was highly probable that it would land safely, so your prophecy didn't work. Let's test again!"

Spotting another bird in the sky, Harry jubilantly challenged the professor again, "Do you, in all honesty, believe that that bird will land safely?"

Sherlock squinted at the approaching owl and muttered to himself, "Not only do I believe this bird can land safely and effortlessly, I have a gut feeling it's looking for us."

No sooner had he said it than Harry's jaw dropped to the floor at the sight of the owl landing a stone's throw away from them – on the roof of their car, to be precise.

Harry was speechless while Sherlock, distracted by an incoming missive, promptly took a letter from the owl, skimmed its contents and put it away in his pocket. The owl, the message now delivered, spread its wings and took off into the sky once more.

Lugging a shell-shocked Harry back into the car, Sherlock announced the abrupt change in their plans. "Harry, there's been a bit of an unexpected turn. Our expedition must come to an abrupt end!"

And with that, the endearingly familiar sights of England awaited their arrival.