Harry Potter and the Knights of Chaos

Chapter 3: The White Council

When Harry awoke, he found he was bound to a chair by thick ropes. They were apparently tied by an expert, as Harry discovered that when he tried to move his hands the rope chafed the skin hard enough to draw blood. A dried sticky substance- his own blood- covered his right eye and made it hard to see. Harry could feel from the pain in his face that his nose was broken again and the sharp edges of his glasses had cut him when they broke. He had taken quite a beating.

Harry quickly took a survey of his surroundings. He was still in the same room he remembered, only it was now empty, save for him. Good eye narrowing in suspicion, Harry stretched his hands against the bonds and felt for his wand. Gone. Malfoy obviously had practice at what he did.

Panic rose up within him. His wand had been with him since the beginning of his introduction to the Wizarding world. That eleven inches of holly and phoenix feather had saved his life dozens of times, and Harry felt a deep wave of sadness rise up in him at the thought of losing it.

Easy, Potter. Concentrate on getting out of this mess first, worry about the damn wand later. The thought cut through Harry like a knife, restoring clarity to his mind. Okay. What did he have that would be of use to him? He could reach none of his hidden daggers, his wand was gone, and there was no one around Harry could try to trick with Legilimency to let him out.

Suddenly, realization slammed into him, making him gasp at his own slowness. His lighter! Harry strained and strained against the thick bonds, trying to feel into his pocket. After a moment, he collapsed. The skin on his wrists was rubbed raw from struggling and bleeding profusely. It was no use. He couldn't reach the lighter. Harry cursed himself silently as he slumped in defeat.

No. It couldn't end like this.

Harry strained again, struggling mightily against the bonds that held him to the chair. He had to escape. He didn't defeat the most powerful Dark wizard in a thousand years and dedicate his life to eradicating evil from the world to be defeated by a cocky school-boy rival with a bad haircut.

Finally, he felt his fingers touch something cool. Metal! With a final angry defiance against his ropes, Harry felt his first two fingers grip the lighter and pull it free. Triumph erupted in his mind, temporarily overriding the pain of his wrists; blood now trickling from them like water from a fountain.

Harry held the lighter away from him and flipped open the top. He clicked it once, but only a small spark became visible. Frowning, Harry tried again. This time, a tiny rush of gas was heard and the lighter yielded an inch-long tongue of flame. Harry grinned broadly and turned the flame away from him. Focusing his mind with all his might, Harry willed the flame to grow. And grow it did. The flame turned into a six-inch, blade-shaped fire, turning a hot orange color. Harry put his tongue between his teeth as he concentrated with all his might to keep the fire in existence. Very, very carefully, Harry sliced through the ropes on his arms. Once his arms were free, Harry sliced through the bonds on his legs and stood.

At first, Harry could barely walk. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, but it was obviously quite some time. The bonds had been tied too tight was well and had cut off circulation in his feet and fingertips. Harry spent some time flexing the offending numbness and discoloration from his body before he felt confident enough to walk around again.

Now that he was free, Harry searched the apartment for any signs of Malfoy and his gang. None. They had probably left soon after they beat Harry. Fortunately, Harry found his wand atop Malfoy's expensive Italian armoire. Another, more rigorous search, yielded a large quantity of yellowed parchment that was protected more heavily than Malfoy's own bedroom had been. Harry knew they must be important, but he also knew to try to open them now would be foolish. Instead, he tucked them deep into a cloak pocket and continued on his search.

Moment later, the telephone began to ring. Harry froze at the sound, afraid he had tripped some sort of alarm. When he realized what it really was, he stopped picking through the range of hair-care products for secret codes and picked it up.

Right then, Harry should have realized his mistake. He never should have picked up the phone. However, as tired, cold, and injured as he was, Harry's judgement was impaired. He thought perhaps he could get the name of one of Malfoy's associates during the call.

Instead of a subordinate, however, Harry heard Malfoy's own voice on the other line.

"It's rude to use someone's phone when they're out of the house, Potter, didn't your Mudblood mother ever teach you manners?" Before Harry could formulate a response, Malfoy continued. "You really should be punished for that, Potter. Maybe then you'll learn some manners. Goodbye, Potter. See you in Hell."

Two things happened next: one, the phone died with a click, and two, the microwave turned on. Harry saw the timer on the digital display begin at two seconds and run down. Comprehension hit him. It was a bomb!

"Oh, shi-" Harry began to yell, but was interrupted by clap of deafening fire. After that, his world became fire, and Harry knew no more.

* * *

Ginny Weasley sat at her desk in her small London flat, writing so fast she was splattering ink on her nose. She was as excited as she had been in a long time. Her boss at the Daily Prophet had finally promoted her off the zoological column and given her a real assignment. She had been selected as the Prophet's representative for the Ministry press conference on the newly-created Werewolf Equality Act, a sweeping mandate that would make or break David Gudgeon's Ministry. It was a great risk, but had been met with seventy-five percent approval by the Wizengamont. Minister Gudgeon, who had had held the post since Ginny's graduation from Hogwarts, was already well-known for his landmark decrees on the Reconstruction after the War. It was rumored he had drafted the whole document himself after being presented with a petition by a group of Irish werewolves who couldn't afford to feed their families.

Ginny had cast the WEA in a glowing report, glad the Part-Humans were finally getting full rights. After the press conference, she had run into Remus Lupin, an old Hogwarts professor or hers and a good friend of her family's. He was attending the after-party with his wife and young son, who were both werewolves themselves (Ginny hadn't understood why his son was until Lupin explained that the children of two werewolves are always born with the curse).

Ginny's status of Official Press could have gotten her into the party, but parties and other social events were covered by Hugh Jass, the Social Coordinator for the Prophet. Instead, she had rushed home and began working on her article, which was to be published four days from then, when the news was officially released.

Now, three days later, the fruit of Ginny's labor sat on the desk in front of her. Ginny wiped the ink off her face with a sleeve and took out her wand. After a quick Spell Check Charm, Ginny used a Copying Spell to duplicate the document until she had enough to send one to her editor, archivist, and her own copy.

Satisfied with her labor, Ginny moved to the couch and poured herself a glass of wine to celebrate her first real article. She rummaged through the mess on the coffee table until she found the book she was currently reading and flipped on the Wireless.

Just as she felt the bliss of relaxation overtaking her, a knock sounded at her door. It never fails, she thought as she jumped up to get it, disengaging herself from the blanket on her way.

Free of the warmth the blanket provided, Ginny shivered. It certainly was cold tonight. It was even too cold for snow to fall. Only a few stray flakes blew down now and again, kissing an otherwise drab, featureless ground.

When she reached the door, Ginny pulled it wide open and began speaking, a cutting cynical remark almost off her tongue. As soon as it started, she stopped. Proffered before her was a bloody heap of man. His skin was covered in burns that had ripped open to form large gashes in his skin. His hair was scorched almost completely off on the left side of his face and Ginny felt her stomach lurch as she saw what she thought were bits of metal fused to his right cheek. His arms were shattered so bad they were bent nearly double and one of his legs was bending the wrong way. Ginny stood there in shock for a moment until the battered, bloodied head rose. It lifted weakly and fixed her with a helpless stare.

"G-Gin-Ginny?" it asked hesitantly.

Ginny took a step back when it talked. How could something so hurt be speaking, much less recognizing anything?

The creature fixed her with a questioning stare. A green-eyed, questioning stare. A familiar green-eyed, questioning stare.

"Harry?" she breathed in horror.

* * *

"You have killed Potter, Draco?"

Draco Malfoy proffered himself before his master, not looking at him as he spoke. "Yes, my lord. I wasted no time on subtlety. I enlisted that fool Jungtao to lure Potter to the Paris house and blew it and the four blocks around it up with a Blaze."

The master eyed him with his measuring glance. "There was no evidence to point to us, was there?"

"Of course not, my lord. I planted suggestions that it was an attack by a terrorist cell trying to destroy the German Embassy, five blocks away. It sustained considerable damage."

The master smiled coldly and without joy. "Excellent work, Draco. I think you have earned your reward."

Malfoy looked up at his master in fawning admiration. "My lord, you are truly magnificent. I hope I use my gift to please you ever more."

The master chuckled. "No need to fawn, Draco. I always valued your opinion because you were your own man. I'm not Riddle, you know. I won't kill a subordinate because he forgot to brown-nose me."

Malfoy bowed lower. "Yes, my lord. Sorry, my lord."

"Now, it is time for your gift. No, put your wand away, you don't need it yet. Follow me, Draco."

The master led Malfoy out of his throne room and through the small temple in the forest where he lived. After a twisting series of false doors and corridors, Malfoy found himself being led to the very center of the temple.

The room was a garden, a lush and beautiful place. A small stream flowed through the northwest corner of the room, magically appearing at the beginning again when it reached the wall. The master led him to the very center of the room, where a stone altar was set up. A man was strapped on the altar, bounded by webs of Darkness. He was unconscious, if his lolling head and bleeding nose was any indication. The master approached him, followed closely by Malfoy.

"Are you ready for your reward, Draco?" Malfoy nodded eagerly. "Good. Look to your left. There is a crystal flask there. No, not that one, the black one. Yes, good. Bring it to me." The master took the crystal and slipped it into a breach in the stone shaped like it. Next, he removed his shirt, handing it to Malfoy to hold. Finally, he withdrew a long, curved knife from his belt and raised it. He bowed his head and intoned a deep chant in a language Malfoy didn't recognize. Master raised the blade and approached the now writhing, screaming figure on the altar his chant began to increase in loudness and speed, and drums began to sound out of nowhere.

"Oh num shivadi, oh num shivadi, oh num shivadi, oh num shivadi," his voice grew ever louder and faster with the drums. "Oh num shivadi, OH NUM SHIVADI, OH NUM SHIVADI, OHNUMSHIVADI, OHNUMSHIVADI," he was now right in front of the writhing man on the altar, whose screams were drowned out by the frightful Dark spell began chanted. He raised the knife, and with a final bellow of "OHH NUMMM SHIVADI!!!", he plunged the curved dagger into the stomach of the sacrifice.

The victim's scream sounded throughout the garden, drowning out all other sounds. His unearthly wail caused the hair on Malfoy's neck to rise with fear and made him shiver.

Meanwhile, the master went about his work. He carved through the flesh in an ancient pattern, a character of the long-lost language Tsurumo. When he completed the gash in the man's flesh, he pulled the wound with the dagger. The flesh peeled right off and fell to the floor, revealing the victim's still living entrails. The master grabbed these with his right hand only, using the left to make deft twists and knots. Finally, amid the screams of the not-yet-dead sacrifice, the master read the entrails for signs of the future.

After a short time, the master placed the entrails back in, which, if anything, made the victim scream even louder. Satisfied with his own work, the master set about Malfoy's reward. He made a claw shape with his hand and looked into the victim's eyes, the fury of the work the Dark brought on blazing through them. He hesitated a moment longer and plunged his hand right into the victim's chest. His scream tore through his mouth anew, making Malfoy flinch.

After nearly a minute, the master removed his hand from the chest of the victim. Held in his hand was the sacrifice's own heart. It was still beating, pouring red onto the master's hand and arm. The master took it, still chanting, and placed it in the ebony crystal flask, sealing it with a thick stopper. Done with victim, the master finished him. He slit the man's wrists and throat and plunged the knife into what was left of his vitals.

"Quickly, Draco," Master spoke for the first time since asking for the crystal. "Drink what is in the flask before he dies."

Malfoy did what he was told and brought the flask to his lips. Fighting revulsion, he drank down the warm liquid inside. As it hit his throat it burned and left a strange warmth in his belly not unlike a good whiskey.

As the man died, Malfoy felt something stirring in him. Power. The man was dying, and because Malfoy had eaten his still-living heart, his power was going to Malfoy. Malfoy fell to his knees and laughed maniacally. His eyes rolled back until the whites were all that could be seen and bolts of black electricity sparked into existence around him.

Finally, Malfoy's laughter and the man's screaming joined for one final assault on the ears of the master and stopped suddenly. The man dropped from the altar and fell facedown on the ground. Malfoy's master removed the curved dagger from the man's chest and turned. Malfoy was bowed before the master, thanking him profusely.

"My lord, you are too kind. Thank you, thank you." Malfoy was panting heavily, drawing in great breaths of air.

The master favored him with a smile and bade him to rise. When he did, the master clapped a hand to his shoulder. "You'll be a Chaos Knight yet, Draco. Now, clean up this mess and return to Sweden. The authorities shall arrive in two weeks, and you will need time to fabricate an alibi."

Malfoy bowed deeply. "Thank you, my lord. And, if I may ask, what did you see in his entrails, my lord?"

"Anthropomancy is not an easy task, Draco. The meaning of what I saw must be meditated on before I draw a conclusion from it. You just concentrate on what I have instructed you to do. Remember, you have killed only one half of my weakness. Be sure to find the other half and return it to me. Once I have it, no one can resist me. Not even the White Council."

Malfoy nodded and exercised a bit of his newly-wrought power to vanish from the room and reappear instantly back in Sweden, a feat that would have never been possible had he not just nearly doubled his power.

* * *

Harry concentrated as best he could as he heard the bomb ticking down the two seconds he had left. He felt the momentary weightlessness one always felt before Apparition occurred, but before he disappeared entirely, the world came about around him. Fire surrounded him, cooking his skin, making him scream in agony. Bits of molten steel burned along the right side of his face and he felt debris pounding at him from all sides. An omnipresent roar filled his eardrums and Harry was quite that they had ruptured; he felt a warm trickle down both sides of his neck.

Harry finally disappeared less than a second after the explosion went off. Surprised Muggles nearly shat themselves as a flaming man suddenly popped into existence, still flying from the impact of the bomb. He landed some one hundred feet away from where he reappeared and skidded an additional forty before he finally was brought to a sudden, jarring stop by a set of stone steps.

Ah, Harry thought in his half-dead stupor. Ginny's place.

Harry had indeed made it to where he had been trying to go. It was the first place that popped into his head when he needed to escape; Harry was lucky to have survived. Groaning, Harry dragged himself up the steps, trying to focus through the pain. He had to get to Ginny. If he didn't, he'd be dead soon; if not by his injuries than by a Dark wizard with a grudge against him. The streets of London were not a good place to be when one was wounded and helpless.

Somehow, over the period of what felt like eternity to Harry, he managed to drag himself up the stone steps and the corridors to Ginny's small flat. He fell down the stairs twice and nearly gave up, but he managed the task nonetheless, shattered bones and all. Finally, after what in reality was thirty minutes, Harry curled into a heap at her door. With one feeble motion, he managed to knock his head against the door, providing a soft knock. He hoped she wasn't asleep. Harry felt his consciousness fade out as the door opened. He'd have to put his faith in Ginny now...

* * *

Ginny didn't know what to do. She had levitated Harry into her bed and cleaned the blood from the hallway. She had tried to heal Harry as best she could, but such an advanced task proved beyond her. Instead, she had set Harry's wounds and cleaned him as gently as she could with a sponge.

As she did so, Ginny frequently had to fight back tears and nausea as she used small scissors to cut away parts of his clothes where they had been fused or melted to his skin. More than once, parts of skin would come off attached to the cloak and Harry would groan and arch his back, unknowingly breaking Ginny's heart every time she did so. Finally, after a night of frantic worrying, Ginny awoke to find a weak green stare directed her way.

"Hey," the word seemed to take all the strength he had left. Ginny replaced the cloth on his forehead with another cold one, hoping to combat his fever.

"Harry..." She trailed off as she saw just how weak he looked. The dark of night had hidden the worst of it. She couldn't see how he would survive another night unless she called Hermione. Ginny would have called her the night before, but she had been too afraid to leave Harry's side. Harry seemed to pick up on her thoughts, because he suddenly put his hand over hers, letting the conjoined hands rest on his stomach.

"Don't." He leaned back again, shutting his eyes in great pain.

"Don't what?" Ginny looked intensely at him. Was he insane, too? Had the injuries driven him mad?

"Don't call Hermione. It's bad enough I'm staying with you. I can't put anyone else in danger."

"But Harry, you'll die," Ginny's voice cracked and she felt tears in her eyes. She swiped them angrily away. She couldn't show tears in front of him.

"No," he broke off and began hacking, drawing up splatters of blood. He was silent for nearly five minutes before he had the strength to continue. "Phoenix... tears...phial...my pack...drink them..." He hacked again, narrowly missing Ginny with the drops of blood that forced themselves from his insides. "'ll...be...fi-" Harry was forced to stop and rest again, leaning back against the pillows. He hacked mercilessly for several minutes before he could bring himself to speak again, compelling her to find his phial of phoenix tears.

Ginny's hands fumbled clumsily over Harry's small fireproof pack, shaking so badly she could hardly undo the leather strap fastening it. Finally she managed to force open the drawstring and emptied the pack on the floor of her bedroom, frantically searching for the tears. There! Triumphantly, Ginny found a little bottle of a mother-of-pearl liquid. This had to be it!

Ginny carefully pinched the now-unconscious Harry's nose shut and opened his mouth slightly. Slowly, she tipped in the entire contents of the bottle, hoping against hope it would be enough.

Almost immediately, the effects of the tears began showing up. Plumes of steam erupted from every one of Harry's pores as the tears traveled through his body. Harry arched his back and moaned in pain as broken ribs were forced back together, internal organs were made whole again and blood was replaced. Ginny let out a soft cry, thinking she had killed him or made it worse by using so much phoenix tear.

Harry's spasms subsided in a moment and Ginny felt her heart rise to her throat with joy at the sight of color returning to his cheeks. His breathing became less labored and he seemed to be sleeping, not out cold. Ginny allowed herself a sigh of relief and conjured a chair to sit down in by the bedside. After drafting a letter to the Prophet asking for her work to be sent home for a week, she picked up a quill and began writing a letter to Dumbledore. Danger or not, she knew Dumbledore had to know of Harry's whereabouts. The old man had nearly had a heart attack when Harry left last time.

For days, Harry slept fitfully. Sometimes he would wake and ask for water, or soup. Ginny didn't leave his side for any other purpose but to pee. Finally, on the sixth day after his arrival on her doorstep, Harry woke, fully conscious for the last time in days.

"Gin?" He sounded very tired, but otherwise fine.

Ginny offered a small smile in response and brushed the hair from his eyes. "Feeling better?"

Harry nodded, looking for all the world an exhausted toddler recovering from a fever. "I will be. The tears healed the worst of the injuries and I used a little spell I picked up to do the rest. Only thing is I was so hurt, using the magic nearly killed me anyway. That's why I've been sleeping so often." Harry yawned, interrupting himself. Ginny smiled; she thought he yawned cutely.

"Harry, what happened?" she asked, soft brown eyes moist with concern.

"I...oh, what the hell. I'll tell you, I mean, you already know who I work for, right?" Ginny nodded. "It was for them...the Council. I was tracking down a Chinese crime organization that was trafficking in illegal Dark spellbooks and heroin. There was letter addressed to Draco Malfoy, so I followed him to the Paris townhouse his grandfather bought."

"He's still alive?" Ginny frowned, puzzled. "I thought they gave him the Kiss."

"No, he was exiled because he claimed the Imperius Curse at his trial. There was reasonable doubt, so he avoided the Kiss. Instead, they barred him from ever coming back to Great Britain and Ireland. He's been in Sweden for a while, running a dragon operation. At least, that's what Istari's men told us."

"Who?"

"Sorry, forgot I didn't tell you about them. Istari the Green, he's in charge of intelligence. His men keep tabs on the wizards who made the One Thousand Most Wanted list. Anyway, I followed Malfoy to his townhouse and was captured. When I woke up and got free, I searched the apartment. The phone rang, and I stupidly picked it up, activating a bomb. I was halfway through Apparating here when it went off."

Ginny winced. "It's a wonder you didn't die."

Harry smiled as best he could through the minor burns that had yet to heal. "Not really. I don't know if you've heard of it, but my cloak is dragon silk. Almost as good as the scales, none of the weight. Chinese Fireballs make it."

Ginny had more questions, but before she could get them out of her mouth, Harry drooped back into a deep, contented sleep.

* * *

Meanwhile, at the Wizard's Keep in Talmar, one of the last all-Wizard city-states in the world, the White Council was in full session. They had been called by Heron James Potter, of England, for an emergency report. Unfortunately, Operative Potter was too injured to leave London, and was appearing in dream form only, regrettably preventing the Council to be able to tell whether or not Harry was lying.

Harry swallowed nervously. He had worked for the Council for four years, and had never yet had to give a full report to the Council before. In fact, he had never even seen half the members in real life, only read about them.

Radagast the Brown he knew, of course. Radd had been his superior since the beginning, and despite being the least powerful of all the Councilmen, he was certainly more powerful than even Albus Dumbledore ever was. To him the command of operatives had been given to; he was thus the best known member.

Istari the Green was also another one Harry knew, the next weakest. He was the intelligence wizard, in charge of the Council's numerous spies and scribes. His knowledge filled his entire personal stronghold, better known to Muggles as the Great Sphinx. He was a little distant and had a slightly arrogant, scholarly air, but he had always shown great interest in studying Harry's Animagus form, a phoenix.

Merrit the Red was last Councilman Harry had have had contact with and the fourth-ranked wizard that sat on the Council. He was famed for his strategy in war and his being one-quarter of an Elemental. An Elemental, of course, was a wizard that had particularly good control of an element, such as fire, or earth. Merrit was rumored to be in charge of the Talmar's defense and was the founder of the Red Guard found everywhere in the city.

Of the other members, Harry had read only stories or, in Curinur the White's case, rumors. He stood before them now, a partially transparent form surrounded in coruscating blue light. Back in London, his body was resting on Ginny Weasley's bed. Harry had had time only to briefly explain the process to Ginny, imploring on her only that his body was extremely vulnerable when his mind was away, and that she should ward the apartment and guard him.

"Heron James Potter," began Curinur the White, head of the White Council. Harry swallowed nervously. He was standing before a wizard that was the equal of a score of Dumbledores, a wizard who could incinerate him with a twitch of his finger. "You have called the entire Council to meet. Do you understand the grievousness of the situation you have initiated?" His powerful voice echoed throughout the cavernous chamber. Harry managed a weak nod. It was a grave thing to call the Council to full session; doing so for a frivolous reason was punishable by death.

"Then why have you risked death, Heron James Potter? Why have you called us here?" a wizard in deep cerulean robes asked, leaning forward in his throne. Harry frantically tried to untie his tongue. Valorum the Blue, the wizard who had asked the question, was just as famous for his impatience as his duties of matters of education and trade for Talmar.

"Two days ago, I committed a raid of Draco Malfoy's Paris apartment. In an old wardrobe, I found four letters and two books, each protected by wards more powerful than I believed were capable unless done by a Councilor. The weakest of the wards was barely more powerful than I myself could break, and I was able only to read two lines of it before it burst into flames in my hand."

"Then I suggest you tell us those lines, Operative, or I'll have to leave you to Valorum's judgement," Merrit told him as he folded his hands into a steeple-shape, looking at Harry over them. He was unpleasantly reminded of the time he had been called in front of the Wizengamont for a matter of underage magic.

Harry opened his mouth wide and let the words pour from his memory to the Council. " 'From the ashes of the old, the Chaos Knights will rise again, my servant. The Elder Kindred may have defeated us once-'" Harry broke off suddenly. "And then it burst into flames, Councilor. That's all I got."

Far from being angry, as Harry expected them to be, the faces of the White Council had gone pasty and Harry saw open fear play across them. Only Curinur, Head of the Council, was calm.

"Silence, silence!" he demanded, quieting the whispering that broke out among the hall. "We must keep our heads, lest they be swept from our shoulders! The Chaos Knights are extinct. They no longer exist! Heron James Potter, what you have found here is a Dark wizard who has found a fragment of text describing them and set himself up as one. Operative, there is no shame in what you have done. You have doubtless heard the stories of the Dark Times when the Chaos Knights reigned. You acted only on a philanthropic desire, which is to be commended. Although this document is a hoax, you will receive no punishment. However, such a claim cannot go unchecked. You new assignment, as of this moment, is to track down the Dark one who has made this outrageous claim and kill him. You will turn over the other findings you have over to Istari, who will decipher them. In order to aid you, Heron James Potter, I give you permission to enter up to and including the Sixth Cortex of the Great Archives and learn what you can in two days. You are allowed at the very most three weeks to heal, but I must implore upon you how much that time is of the essence. May God bless you on your journey." Curinur made the Sign of the Cross in the air, like a bishop, and stood, signifying the meeting over. He walked out of the Chamber of Council, trailed by the White Guard, his personal entourage. One by one, the wizards filed out of the room, followed by their own host of goblins or bodyguards or whatever creatures they had brought with them.

Finally, Harry was left alone in the room. Alone, of course, except for one other. He was a dirty sort of fellow, dressed in ratty grey robes and leaning upon a battered, gnarled staff. His hair was iron-grey and reached past his shoulders. It was very matted, as was the rest of him; he looked like a refugee, or perhaps someone who had traveled across Asia on foot. His eyes, however, were piercing blue, and seemed to stare right into his soul. Harry was suddenly and inexplicably reminded of Dumbledore.

"Don't go yet, my boy," the wizard said, making his way over to where Harry floated. He walked with the quick surety of a man who had traveled many miles and favored his right knee slightly, using his staff as support. "Indulge an old man with talk, if only for a moment. I've been watching you for a long, long time." He reached Harry, stopped arm's-length away.

"Who are you?" Harry asked, trying to be polite. In truth, he wanted nothing more than to go home. Home? Ginny's place. Not home, Harry corrected himself. How odd to suddenly think of that. Harry decided it would be best to get rid of the old man as quickly as possible.

"Me?" he chuckled to himself. "Oh, that's right. I keep forgetting they stopped teaching Council Protocol. I'm called Algernon the Grey."

"The Grey?" Harry asked incredulously. There was no "Grey" rank in the Council. It went Brown, Green, Red, Blue, and White, the Head. Obviously this man wanted to feel important."

"Yes, the Grey. Haven't you ever heard of the Grey Wanderer?" Algernon smiled softly, again, calling Dumbledore into Harry's mind for some reason.

Harry laughed. He got it now. "You mean Gandalf the Grey? As in the Tolkien character?"

Surprisingly enough, Algernon laughed with him. "You've read Tolkien? How delightful. Yes, Gandalf the Grey was indeed based on me. Tolkien was a dear, dear friend of mine. When he was a boy, I once read him a myth, a myth that formed the basis of his 'Elder Days.' He was quite brilliant, you see, and decided to write a book about their descendents. I thought it came out rather well."

Harry felt his jaw drop in amazement. "I-uh... that is..."

Algernon smiled again. "Don't worry, my boy. No one is supposed to know about me, see. I'm rather delighted you connected me with Tolkien. My boy, I am called the Grey Wanderer because it is my job. I wander the earth, sometimes on horse, sometimes on foot, sometimes on broom, gathering knowledge, making friends, and doing things my counterparts will never dream of. Many cultures have myths of me and my father, who held the post before me. It is my job to travel among the Wizarding clans, to search for any rumor of the returning of the Dark Times."

"Dark Times? But Curinur said the Chaos Knights the letter mentioned were extinct. The Dark Times can't return, they just can't."

"My boy, why do you think Curinur said what he said? Curinur has the welfare of the Wizarding race upon his shoulders, he must think of that. If rumor the Chaos Knights had returned, the resulting panic would tear apart the fabric of the very world we live in. He would not dismiss such a possibility so easily, but, at the same time, had to reassure all those present that it was indeed a hoax. Harry, my boy, you must promise me not to get too involved. Kill this Malfoy if you must, but turn around. Turn around and never look back. Move away, get married. My boy, please, don't get involved. You have no idea of the horrors the Chaos Knights can inflict upon such an innocent soul as yourself..."

Anger welled up in Harry. He wished he could strike out at Algernon, but knew he couldn't. "Are you insane?" he demanded. "How can never look back on this? I took an oath to protect all Wizard-kind, and you want me to just betray it?" Harry seized the sleeve of his robe and pulled it up, showing Algernon the scar there. It was roughly triangular, made by three quick cuts of a bone-knife from Crimea. It was a symbol of his devotion to protecting all Wizard-kind; all those involved with the Council had them. "What kind of Councilor do you call yourself, telling people to give up at the first sign of trouble?" Harry clenched his first angrily.

Again, to his surprise, Algernon just smiled beatifically. "Excellent speech, my boy. Shows excellent character. Dumbledore was right about you."

Harry spun around, avoiding Algernon's eyes. "Don't talk to me about Dumbledore."

Algernon's eyebrow's shot up. "Oh? And why not? He misses you, you know. He worries most severely for your health. The last time I visited, he was so sad he barely had any of his famous eye twinkle."

"Misses me? All Dumbledore wants is his Golden Boy to solve all his problems for him. He even kept the existence the whole Council from me, didn't he? He's so high and mighty at his school..." Harry trailed off as he felt Algernon's glare penetrating him.

"Look here, boy," Algernon seemed to grow larger before Harry, his face steeping in shadow. "Albus Dumbledore has gone through more in his life than you could ever dream of, and he loves you like a son! And what do you do? You spurn him! You break his heart! All he ever did was care for you, boy! Are you too blind to see even that?"

Harry's argument faltered on his lips. Algernon seemed to shrink, becoming once more a grizzled old man.

"That's what I thought," he sighed. "I'm sorry, my boy. My temper has always been my greatest weakness. As I was saying, I don't really want you to turn away. I was testing you. Had you agreed and turned your back, you would have been unsuitable for the task ahead. However, as you treated me to that delightful little speech, you have passed. You have my approval, something, I assure you, is not given lightly. It took Dumbledore five years to win it, and since then, no one else has. Here," he handed Harry a piece of paper, which Harry reached for by instinct. To his surprise, he was actually able to hold it.

"It's a memory, not real paper," Algernon explained. "When you wake, you will remember what is written upon it, no matter what. It is the password for not only the Sixth Cortex, but the entire spectrum of knowledge that is available at the Archives. Tell no one of this, my boy." His voice rose back to normal level. "Take care, young Harry." He turned to leave. "Oh," he called over his shoulder. "Before you visit the Archives, see Dumbledore. He has something for you."

Fin.