"About six hundred and fifty years ago, when I was seventeen, I'd just graduated from Beauxbatons. I found a cushy, entertaining job in Paris, copying books, letters, and wills for various nobles. Back then, compared to the dull grind of alchemy, I was far more interested in digging up the gossip and scandals of the aristocracy.
"I once wrote a letter for a runaway princess, asking her aunt for travel funds. The letter never got sent—I paid for her journey myself, gave her a few gold coins, a map, and nudged her toward falling in love with her betrothed.
"I loved copying wills for governors. Their relatives would go to great lengths to snoop on the contents—first with bribes of gold and silver, then with threats of swords. I'd put up a show of struggling before making my choice: sometimes leaking fake details, sometimes faking my own death to slip away and watch them squabble over land and titles."
A faint smile crossed Nicolas Flamel's face, the kind of nostalgic, amused grin Melvin had seen many times on Dumbledore's face when he savored sweets.
"Those happy days lasted two years. Then, signs of disaster began to creep in. Seasoned sailors can smell a storm coming, and a scribe like me could glimpse secrets in noble correspondence—especially since I was a wizard."
Flamel's aged muscles lacked strength, and his voice was feeble, almost a murmur. "It started when the Mongol armies, marching west, besieged a port city on the Black Sea called Caffa—a trade hub with military defenses. The soldiers catapulted plague-ridden corpses into the city, and that's how the pestilence broke out.
"The deadly plague didn't care who it infected—residents of Caffa, Tartar soldiers, it spread to all. The war had no victors. The only thought in the survivors' minds was to flee that city of death.
"They were hysterical, running blindly. No one bothered with the groaning patients slumped in streets, fortresses, or trenches. Some who didn't die from the plague crawled back to life, boarding merchant ships. They lied about their symptoms, thinking they'd escaped the devil's grasp, not knowing the disease had burrowed into their bones, following them like a ghostly shadow."
The old man rambled on, his words long-winded, but Melvin showed no impatience. He wasn't sure why Flamel was suddenly talking about the Black Death, but he listened quietly, not interrupting.
"The merchant ships passed through the Messina Strait at Italy's southern tip, docking at the port of Messina in Sicily. They brought silk and spices—and the seeds of disease. Those seeds took root fast, sprouting new ones, feeding on Muggle flesh, sweeping through Messina and all of Sicily.
"Genoa, Venice, Florence, and Paris—the four most prosperous cities in Europe back then, with easy travel and dense populations—were perfect breeding grounds for the virus. Genoa fell first. In just three months, the bustling city turned nearly empty. Then Florence, where the plague left nearly seventy thousand corpses.
"Muggles had no systematic medicine back then. They thought demons had possessed them. They petitioned to bring the relics of Saint Agatha, the martyr, to ward off the devil. I still remember the letter a bishop sent to the Vatican, briefly describing the plague's symptoms: sudden fever, days of excruciating pain, then death."
Flamel paused. "The priest delivering that letter died exactly as he'd described."
"The plague followed the priest to Avignon, the papal seat. It fell quickly. Church graveyards overflowed, and the living wouldn't—or couldn't—touch the dead. Corpses were tossed carelessly into pits. Many, poorly buried, were dug up by wild dogs, their entrails and organs scattered everywhere.
"To dispose of the bodies, the Pope soon declared the Rhine a holy river, a path to paradise. He and the governor ordered corpses thrown into it to cleanse their souls and sins. The plague rode the river's waves across Europe, including Paris, where I was.
"I didn't leave. As a wizard, I went around observing plague victims, disguising myself as a Muggle doctor—a plague doctor. I still remember their outfits: long robes covering the whole body, thick gloves, and a bird-beak mask stuffed with a sponge soaked in vinegar mixed with cloves and cinnamon."
Flamel wrinkled his nose, as if smelling that stench across centuries. "Horrible smell."
Melvin had read about that era, but historical records paled compared to a firsthand account. It was as if the veil over history lifted, revealing a vivid, raw glimpse.
That was six hundred years ago.
"Muggles called the plague demonic, and it did create a kind of hell. Men, women, old, young—once infected, lumps swelled in their groins and armpits. When those tumors grew to the size of an apple or egg, they were 'ripe,' spreading their seeds through the body in no time. The skin broke out in blue and purple patches—sometimes in swathes, sometimes in speckles."
Flamel gestured with his hands. "Those patches were death's mark."
Melvin cradled his goblet silently, wishing the old wizard didn't have to describe it so vividly.
"I'd love to show you those memories through the Mirror of Shadows, but I'm too old. The memories blur together, and I can't sort them out."
Flamel looked at Melvin apologetically, then continued. "Once those signs appeared, anyone who saw the victim's face, heard their cough, or touched their skin or clothes while burying them would follow them to the grave within days. There was no effective prevention."
"A butcher from Siena lived next to my shop. Neighbors called him Fatso. He buried his five children himself, then caught the plague. He refused to go home, coming to me to write a will leaving everything to his wife. Two days later, his wife, wrapped head to toe, came to leave her estate to her nephew. The nephew died the next afternoon…
Flamel vaguely recalled their crooked signatures at the end of those letters. The butcher's name was Agnolo di Tura. "It happened every week. Someone sick would write a will, then their family would come, one by one, to write theirs. In the end, no one was left to claim them.
"Corpses piled up in every corner. No one dared approach the rotting bodies. Families dragged them out of homes and left them at doorsteps. At its worst, the infected were cast out by their kin. Relatives abandoned each other, spouses fled, and towns were littered with corpses and the dying.
"Paris was already filthy. The stuff coming out of them—sweat, excrement, spit, even their breath—reeked of death and disease. Their fluids were murky, foul, laced with blackened blood.
"I mingled with the porters and doctors, moving the abandoned outside the city to pyres. Corpses were tossed into burning pits. For the living, I'd urge them to lie down on the pyre themselves, then douse it with oil and set it alight.
"Muggles had no magic, no anesthesia. They felt every inch of their flesh burn. I'm sure it was agonizing, but I could see the relief on their faces."
He thought of those suffering souls, his eyes glinting with silvery compassion. Taking a deep breath, he continued, "Winter came, the ground froze, and fewer hyenas dug up corpses, but the plague didn't stop. The burning crews and porters dropped one by one. To avoid trouble, I used three different identities. Perenelle wanted me to leave, but I refused."
"I entered a strange state then," Flamel said, pausing. "Each time I burned the sick, I felt a peculiar magic around me—faint but clear. Many rare magical creatures hadn't gone extinct yet, and I'd encountered all sorts of magic, but none like that. That magic came from Muggles.
"I tried analyzing it with alchemy, but I couldn't touch or capture it. That strange magic pulled me out of the plague's shadow, if only for a moment."
Melvin looked up at the old wizard, his eyes wide with astonishment.
"In 1350, Paris was nearly a ghost town. One quiet midnight, I got a clue to the puzzle," Flamel said softly. "A figure in a black cloak entered my dream, telling me I'd soon receive a wondrous book. They urged me to study it thoroughly, saying it might grant extraordinary power to end the catastrophe."
"A prophecy?" Melvin asked tentatively.
Prophecy, one of magic's most mysterious domains, carried an air of unfathomable mystique. Divination was merely past wizards' summarized experience, but true seers relied on raw talent—perhaps a Seer's inner eye like Cassandra Trelawney's, a trance like Sybill Trelawney's, or even dreams.
"I do have some divination talent, enough to glimpse the future through a crystal ball, but only with the ball," Flamel said, shaking his head. "I'm certain it wasn't a prophecy."
"Someone cast a spell on you?"
"For centuries, I've searched for answers, but found none," Flamel replied. "Regardless, the dream came true. The next evening, a merchant fleeing Florence came to me. I was sure he had no trace of magic—a complete Muggle.
"He begged to trade a book for food and coins. It was a small price for me, so I gave him two florins and three loaves of black bread for a massive, heavy tome. You might've heard of it… The Book of Abraham."
Melvin had indeed heard of it, tied to Flamel's name in history books. "The ancient alchemical text, detailing how to create the Philosopher's Stone."
Flamel spread his hands, a faint silver glow flickering in his palms. A translucent, illusory book shimmered in the light.
"Its cover isn't any material I know—not animal hide, not tree bark. The pages are Egyptian papyrus, the metal clasp plain brass, likely added later by a wizard. It's inscribed with text and strange symbols…"
Melvin quietly studied the book's glowing silhouette as Flamel described it.
"Forgive me, this is the only way I can show it. The title page carries the author's warning, laced with a severe curse. Only high priests and scribes can read it without inviting death," Flamel said, pausing. "It's no bluff. I once asked a Hebrew scholar to translate a chapter…"
Melvin listened, intrigued, but only mildly so.
After acquiring the book, Flamel dove into its contents, but they were maddeningly obscure. Beyond Hebrew, it contained Egyptian hieroglyphs, Sumerian cuneiform, Mayan script, even oracle bone inscriptions and Nazca lines. Ancient runes were the easiest part.
Even for a wizard, learning so many languages quickly was impossible. Eager for progress, Flamel enlisted a Hebrew scholar, scrambling excerpts and mixing in irrelevant text for caution, creating a jumbled mess for translation.
The first two paragraphs, Hebrew poetry, were translated smoothly. But within two weeks, the scholar fell ill and died.
To atone, Flamel quickly buried him, moved his family out of the plague zone, compensated them generously, and cared for them for two months to ensure they were safe before leaving.
After that, he never let anyone else—not even his wife—touch The Book of Abraham.
Transfiguration follows Gamp's Law, alchemy its own principles, and language learning has no shortcuts. The book's varied scripts weren't meant to block readers but to convey its contents accurately—translations risked distortion.
Studying multiple ancient languages alone, even chugging Awakening Potions like water, Flamel's progress was glacial. By spring 1351, he'd only reached the second chapter.
The plague was finally subsiding.
"Having seen too many Muggles burn to ash before me, that faint magic from them and The Book of Abraham gave me a delusion. I thought I was special, that Muggle suffering needed me to save them, that I was their savior."
Flamel dispersed the light in his hands. "But the truth is, Muggles don't need saving. I was just an ordinary wizard with a bit of talent."