The wind was heavy and the waters turbulent. The day neared twilight as the cottage stood atop the cliff, staring resolutely down upon the crashing waves. The windows were shut adamantly, and neither the buffering of the wind nor the sprays of mist could tempt them open. A column of smoke rose from the chimney, the last bit of smoke ever to rise from this cottage again. Inside, a man called Nicolas Flamel whiled away his 666th year—his last year, his last month, his last week. His wife, Perenelle, had passed on eight years ago. He sat on the couch, untouched by ravenous nature, awaiting his new journey. Who knows. He might see her again. 

    Suddenly, he stood up. He listened. He grasped for his wand; though old, he was capable. Though tired, he was fierce. Though patient, he was dangerous. 

    The cottage doors were slammed off their hinges, smashing into the fireplace just opposite the room. Wordless spells were fired into the blurred doorway. Flashes of green and blue. There was commotion, and then two muffled cracks. Nicolas looked down and saw two darts protruding from his chest. Nicolas had seen them before; Muggle hunters! He raised his wand to cast a memory charm, but it was too late. He slid out of reality. 

    The Muggles advanced. There were four: two dressed in military protective gear, and another two dressed surgical gear. 

    "Damn," said a Muggle. "Looks like the informant was right." 

    Another shrugged. "How much did we pay that guy?" 

    "A ton of gold." 

    "Send out orders. Kill him and retrieve the gold." 

    "He has a wand. It'll be dangerous." 

    "Not as dangerous as we are. Alert Dr. Savage. He'll want to see this." 

    "What?" 

    "This old guy's telomeres are long as hell." 

    "So?" 

    "If I calculated this right, his biological age is well over six-hundred." 

    "What a shame, cause now we'll have to put him out." 

    "Not necessarily. Let's start with cryonics. We have some units, I gather?" 

    "Yeah. I'll get them ready." 

    The year was 1992. These men were never seen again until 2017. 

    When the men left, the fireplace was doused. No smoke would rise again, ever. 

 

    Martin Savage was an impressive figure, even at 16. His father, Dr. Randolph Savage, was an accomplished polymath scientist. His mother, Mrs. Tricia Savage, was a wealthy socialite. Family ties aside, Martin was, himself, a polymath. Though not accomplished (yet), Martin's foundation of knowledge includes all forms of science and philosophy, with such a depth that would rival Nobel-winners. 

    Taller than average, calm and collected, he was a media figure, the epitome of education. Every Muggle knew his name. 

    But he was only ever a Muggle. 

    He was to inherit Global Dynamics, his father's company. That was unfortunate; Martin could not imagine himself as a leader. 

    Muggle...where did he hear that word? That's right: some guy, dressed in robes, hugged him and called him a Muggle. Odd, Martin had thought. 

    What an odd word. Muggle. Martin could not let it go. He was capable of reading microexpressions, and knew that the odd man did not just make the word up. 

    A few months later, Martin was walking the halls of Global Dynamics with his father. He neared a testing facility where he saw four men—two military, two medical—restrain a very old man, who had called them "Muggles". This piqued his interest, but his father directed his attention to the next testing room, where a hideously mutated creature was in the process of being gassed. 

    Then, visiting London, he entered a cafe. There he met two women: Gabrielle Delacour, who was 30, and Victoire Weasley, who was 17. They were both astonishingly beautiful, and Martin noticed—but when they said "Muggle", he became interested. He tried to approach them, but his bodyguard set a hand on his shoulder. "Don't," said the guard. "Your father'll kill me for letting you date that girl." 

    Martin laughed. "That was my first thought, but then I realized something." 

    "What's up?" 

    "The way they talk. Reminds me of patient 672—remember that really old guy?" 

    The bodyguard was uncomfortable. He was trained to avoid these subjects; these subjects are what spies would like. Nevertheless, he said, "I'll take a photograph of them. I got a friend in the Identification Department; he might be able to get their names and social securities." The bodyguard would definitely get a raise for identifying people relevant to the company's research. 

    "Whose ID Department?" 

    "Tandem Enterprises." 

    "No, we're using Global Dynamics'." 

    "Sir, I beg you to reconsider." 

    Martin understood the man's sentiments. His father's company was not well known for its bioethics. If these women had anything to do with patient 672, they would be captured and erased from existence. The researchers were not exactly big on anesthetics. And the bodyguard—well, he was not built for cruelty. He wanted to keep the identification confidential, because Global Dynamics would capture the women the moment they got wind of the identification. 

    "That or you give me leeway to talk to these women." 

    The bodyguard looked stumped. "Fine," he said. "But only for five minutes."

    Martin introduced himself as a census worker. They introduced themselves, and told him to go away. He acquiesced. 

    "Got their names," he told his bodyguard. "Let's go."