Chapter 20: The Stone's True Price
The Philosopher's Stone. Few who knew of it could resist its allure. The promise of limitless gold was one thing, but the true temptation was the Elixir of Life—the key to immortality. The living proof, Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel, had walked the earth for over six centuries.
Harry and his friends, in their childish bravado, gave no thought to the caliber of wizard who would dare to target such a relic, especially under Dumbledore's very nose. They didn't consider the danger because they couldn't possibly comprehend it.
"So," Solim said, leaning back in his chair and swinging a leg, his voice dripping with condescension, "you genuinely believe it's your responsibility to protect the Stone from one or more extremely powerful and desperate dark wizards?" He shook his head, a faint, mocking smile on his lips. He had no real fear the Stone would be stolen; the game was too carefully orchestrated. "Don't you know your own limitations? If you have a death wish, go alone. Don't drag your friends down with you."
His words were a bucket of cold water, dousing the last of Harry and Ron's fiery resolve. The stark truth—that they were insignificant, bumbling children in a game of high stakes—was a bitter pill to swallow.
"Now that you're aware the Council of Elders exists," Solim continued, pressing his advantage, "do you truly believe they would leave something like the Philosopher's Stone unguarded? I may not be an expert on it, but I know far more than you. My own great-great-grandfather is still alive and well, residing within the European wizarding government."
This revelation landed with the force of a Bludger. A wizard older than Dumbledore by two generations.
"Think for a moment. Since its creation, how many have coveted the Stone? Grindelwald, the Dark Lord... at the height of their power, they never made a successful move for it. Why do you think that is? And now you, a group of first-years who can barely manage a Disarming Charm, think you can involve yourselves in this?" A short, harsh laugh escaped him. There was a certain dark pleasure in dismantling their naive heroics, a trait he suspected was a lingering effect of his time at Scuol.
"Fine. Play your little game of 'protect the treasure' if you must. Just don't be so foolish as to actually go after the Stone yourselves."
The truth was, Solim had once felt a flicker of desire for the Stone's power. But upon learning its true nature, he had ruthlessly extinguished it.
As he had hinted, the Council of Elders, the shadowy power controlling Europe, took a very keen interest in the Philosopher's Stone. They were not mere "people" who coveted it; they were its ultimate custodians and beneficiaries.
When the Stone first emerged, countless wizards had tried to seize it from Flamel. Most failed to even find him. Those who did found his home a fortress, its defenses a lethal puzzlebox designed by a master alchemist.
In the end, Flamel had not been conquered; he had been incorporated. He joined the Council of Elders. Whether this was due to pressure or a mutually beneficial arrangement was unclear, but the result was the same. The Council provided immense resources and protection—a permanent detail of elite guards stationed at his residence, which also functioned as a subtle form of surveillance. In return, the Council gained a monopoly on the Stone's production and distribution. Every Stone created was logged, assigned to a specific user, and transported under heavy guard, much like a high-security cash convoy.
But it was the process of creating the Stone that had truly sickened Solim and solidified his rejection of it.
Alchemy was, at its core, the science of transformation. But some things defied transmutation. The Elixir of Life worked by replenishing the drinker's life force. Yet, life force itself could not be conjured from base metal or common ingredients. It could not be created, only transferred.
The Philosopher's Stone did not create life; it stole it.
It siphoned the vital essence from other living beings—sentient, humanoid beings—and refined it into a potent, consumable form. The "raw materials" for the Elixir were living souls.
Nicolas Flamel, working alone, might have sourced his materials from the dregs of society—condemned prisoners, the forgotten. But the Council of Elders operated on an industrial scale. Their demand was insatiable. And when the supply of "raw materials" ran low, history had a grim way of providing more. Wars conveniently broke out, creating a surplus of lives to be harvested.
Solim did not consider himself a good person. He understood the brutal reality of survival; life consumed life. He ate meat without a second thought. But this was different. This was a cold, calculated, and systematic form of cannibalism, sanitized by magic and justified by a desire to simply continue, to avoid the natural end that came for all things.
He believed a person could be ruthless, ambitious, even evil, but to have no bottom line was to cease being human. To extend one's own life by deliberately, mechanically ending countless others was a line he would not cross.
The knowledge had settled in his gut like a stone. He had made a vow to himself then: even with the scythe at his throat and old age gnawing at his bones, he would never touch the Elixir. He would face his end rather than pay that price.
"Alright," he said, his voice flat and final, waving a dismissive hand at the stunned Gryffindors. "Do what you want. But I will warn you one last time: play your games if you must, but do not, under any circumstances, seek out the Stone yourselves. You have no idea what you're truly dealing with."