The hearth in Nicolas Flamel's ancient stone cottage crackled softly, casting a golden hue over parchment scrolls, brass instruments, and the scattered remains of old experiments. Bottles lined the shelves, each humming faintly with dormant enchantments. In the center of the room, beside a crystal orb and a worn alchemical codex, sat the man himself — frail in appearance, but unmistakably sharp-eyed, as if he were listening to the beat of time itself.
With a shimmer of blue flame, the fireplace flared. From the emerald flames stepped Albus Dumbledore, brushing soot from his long traveling cloak. He looked weary, but focused.
"Still using the Floo Network, Albus?" Flamel said with a smile, not looking up from his work.
"It's less conspicuous than apparating into a cottage surrounded by wards carved before Merlin's time," Dumbledore replied dryly, stepping forward.
"You've come with questions," Flamel said, gesturing to the seat across from him.
"I've come for clarity." Dumbledore sat. "It's about the World Wizarding Council."
Flamel paused. "So they've resurfaced."
"They never vanished," Dumbledore said softly. "They've simply returned to active manipulation."
Flamel's expression turned grave. "And you believe young Elias Blake is at the center of it."
"That's what I came to ask you."
Flamel leaned back, his bones creaking like old wood. "Elias Blake… he's interesting, yes. Intelligent, bold, capable of affecting change. But not the focal point. He is a consequence — not a cause. A pebble cast into the stream, not the hand that threw it."
Dumbledore's brows furrowed. "Then why are they watching him?"
"Because the Council never ignores potential. They measure threads in the tapestry of fate. Elias is a divergence — a ripple. But if he fails to prove useful… he will be discarded. Forgotten."
"Cold," Dumbledore murmured.
"They are colder than Azkaban, my friend. The Council predates your Ministry. Predates even the ICW in its modern form. Their purpose was once noble — to guard magical society across continents after the fall of Atlantis."
"I've read fragments of their history. Most were buried or redacted," Dumbledore said.
"With good reason," Flamel replied. "They fractured. What began as a circle of protectors became a ring of manipulators. Anonymous. Untouchable. They replaced ideals with strategy. Sacrifice over salvation. They move nations like chess pieces. Grindelwald was one. Voldemort another."
"Pawns," Dumbledore whispered.
"Yes," Flamel confirmed. "When the Council fails to control someone, they either destroy them — or use them from afar, as chaos to sow fear. Voldemort served both functions."
"And now?" Dumbledore asked.
"Now, they fear something else," Flamel said, voice low. "Something… or someone… unknown. A figure Elias is not. A hidden player — one even I cannot see clearly."
Dumbledore leaned forward. "You said you had numbers."
Flamel nodded and reached into his robes, withdrawing a thin roll of parchment. "Each Council member is represented only by a cipher. A number. I intercepted magical signals connected to Council actions. These," he handed the parchment to Dumbledore, "are identities by rank. Not names — never names. But magical signatures. Traces of intent."
Dumbledore unrolled the paper slowly.
00: The Prime Architect
03: The Inquisitor
07: The Silent Hand
09: The Bookkeeper
13: The Voice
17: The Scribe
21: The Gatekeeper
24: The Flame
28: The Ghost
30: The Seal
"Ten active members," Dumbledore said, eyes narrowing. "And none exposed."
"No. But their network of proxies, pawns, and misdirects spans the world. Ministers, Aurors, teachers, even Unspeakables," Flamel warned. "Don't fight them directly. Watch. Learn. Guide the right pawns."
"Elias may not be the key," Dumbledore said, "but I believe he is a door."
Flamel smiled faintly. "Then let's hope he chooses to open the right one."
The flames in the hearth dimmed, as if listening.
"Will you help me further?" Dumbledore asked.
"I've lived long enough to know when the tides shift. I will help, Albus. Quietly."
Dumbledore stood. "Thank you, old friend. The times grow darker."
"They always do before dawn," Flamel murmured.
With a swirl of green fire, Dumbledore vanished once more.
And Nicolas Flamel looked into the orb on his desk — one swirling with future threads — where the silhouette of a boy named Elias glimmered faintly amidst countless others.