Harry Potter and the Knights of Chaos

Chapter Four: The Knights of Chaos And The War of the Sun and Moon

Knowledge is Power, Wisdom is knowing when to use it

-Curinur the White

TWO WEEKS LATER

Dressed in his battered brown leather jacket, Harry strode down the alleys of Muggle London with a certain redhead on his mind. As he blearily ran a hand through his hair, Harry cursed the ever-present rain for the millionth time since leaving the warmth and comfort of Ginny's apartment to visit the Archives. The omnipresent mist was slight enough to escape detection by the Heating Charm that kept his jacket insulated, but enough to soak Harry went through skin. Shivering against the cold, Harry fought the urge to try to Apparate to the Archives. That, of course, wouldn't work, and the probable result to Harry's attempt would make Splinching look like a positive alternative.

Ginny had of course warned Harry against going out too soon. Only a little over two weeks ago, Harry had bedridden with five broken bones, fifth-degree burns on his right side, a ruptured kidney and a ribcage so badly shattered it had taken Harry six hours to heal, despite his affinity for mending things with magic. For the last week, Harry had been so drained from using the potent healing magic that he had done little more than sleep. Once Ginny had brought him soup, but Harry's digestive system had just been replaced (his old one made deadly cancerous from all the radiation from the bomb that damaged them) and, as a result, simply vomited whatever she fed him.

Harry sighed again, checking to see that the little knife he kept in a wrist sheath was still in place out of reflex. Four years working for the White Council would do that that to a guy. Harry's body had been altered by magic so many times he doubted any Healer could have dealt with his injuries. Several of his original internal organs had been replaced long ago with bio-magical equivalents that did the same job better, faster, and more efficiently. His neural network had even been rewired- twice.

Finally, after a journey of several miles, Harry reached the Archives. To the Muggle eye, it looked like a garish adult book and film store located beneath the street level and accessed by a steep set of concrete stairs. Harry walked down these and knocked on the thick wooden door that advertised "Virgin Amateurs! Ebony Beauties! You name 'em, we got 'em- naked and horny!"

"Heron James Potter, Council Operative 7311981," Harry muttered when a small eye slot opened up, revealing a single red eye that seemed to glow slightly. The door creaked slightly to admit him.

Once inside, Harry saw that the red eye belonged to a Red Cap standing on a stool. Harry tried to hide his shock at seeing a creature clearly listed in the Council Operative Manual as a Dark Creature. The Red Cap, looking bored, asked Harry to pull up his shirtsleeve to reveal the triangular scar on his forearm. The bloodthirsty creature than raked a claw across it and licked to the blood from it, frowning for a second as he thought.

"You are who you say you are," the creature growled in a gravelly voice. "You may enter the Antechamber." The creature bowed with a sneer and stroked a long claw- the claw that still shone with Harry's blood- and it simply melted away, like a Gringotts Goblin.

Harry swallowed and entered the Antechamber of the Great Archives. Established by Tar-Pharazon the Golden, the Founder of the Council and ancestor of Merlin (who inherited only one-fifth of his power), the Archives were the single greatest source of knowledge in the world. Had they not been contained by magic, the Archives would sweep the entire length of the British Isles and then some. There were eight Cortexes, or pocket-universes, where the books of lore were kept. Each Cortex held more and more complex information, right up to the Eighth, where only Curinur was allowed to tread and where all the books were written in High Alanoriean, a language so old it predated the split, when people separated into magical and nonmagical. It even predated Adunaic, the oldest of all Wizarding tongues, which in turn was the ancestor to the Indo-European language that in turn was the ancestor of Latin and the other Romance Languages, German, English, and the Cyrillic alphabet. The Antechamber itself was a museum of sorts, as well as a library to rival Hogwarts', much more than a mere gateway to the Cortexes.

After standing there, awestruck, for several minutes, Harry was tapped on the shoulder by a wispy-looking witch who appeared to be well into her second century.

"Anything I can help you with, deary?" she asked, smiling politely.

"Oh, yes, thank you," Harry replied, trying to remember his manners. The librarians at the Archives were famed for their inclination to turn impolite browsers into horrible fusions of unnatural animals. "I'm here to do research for the Council." Harry allowed his voice to drop to a conspiratorial whisper. "And I need to use the Sixth Cortex."

The librarian nodded gravely and led Harry to a large bookshelf that held old issues of the Daily Prophet. She tapped it carefully with her wand, revealing a dark whole that would just fit Harry's head inside.

"Just speak the password you were given, deary, and you'll be transported inside." She shook her head as she backed away. "Although I must say, I don't hold with you young people messing about in Cortex Six. What would a young man like yourself need to know of ancient wars, weapons, and the Dark Arts?" She sighed again. "Never mind, deary. When you want to leave, just speak the password aloud, and you'll reappear here. Happy hunting."

Harry nodded to her and wasted no time in sticking his head in password-hole. Feeling rather stupid, Harry let the password bleed from his lips. "Ego volo apirere!"

Immediately, Harry felt a brief flash of light and the strange feeling that he lacked a body, a feeling similar to Apparation. It passed quickly and Harry found himself standing in a large, vaguely seashell-shaped room filled with gigantic tomes. All looked ancient, but the similarity stopped there. Some were bound in paper, others wood. There were gigantic leather-bound volumes as well as a large section that appeared to be bound with flayed human skin. These had to be the original volumes of the Dark Arts, written in the blood of his enemies when one of the first Dark wizards, Lucius Tarquinnus Superbus (the Proud), developed them. Harry gave them a wide berth and instead went over to the section titled "The History of the Dark Times."

Harry frowned. There were thousands of groups of evil Dark wizards. What did the Chaos Knights have to do to get their own section? Pushing aside his doubts, Harry boldly strode up to the bookcase and opened the first book, a treatise labeling "The Rise and Fall of Chaos Knights and the War of the Sun and Moon- Volume 1 of 546."

With no better ideas, Harry plopped down in the hard wooden chair by a desk and began reading.

* * *

Alone in the midst of a storm, Draco Malfoy stands atop a high cliff, his expensive dragon silk cloak fluttering around him, tossed by the high winds. Small flecks of hail strike his once-handsome face, but the blond wizard reacts no more to this than he does to the deafening thunder and blinding lightning that appear every few seconds. The howling winds do nothing to dampen his move, nor do the crashing of the angry sea waves at the bottom of the rocky precipice. He stands an ever-vigilant watch over the storm-tossed sea, watching for the men that were coming to aid his Master. Draco allows himself a tight, humorless smile as he thinks of the glorious reign his Master will soon bring upon the earth. The Chaos Knights had once been a powerful organization, but the Unnamed, the one who betrayed all his brother Knights, led the Knights to their downfall. Such foolery had led to creation of Muggles. Draco scowls. Muggles. How he hates the weak-minded, incompetent fools.

Draco is suddenly torn from his reverie as an unmistakable roar fills his roars, overpowering the sounds of tempest swirling around him. Draco looks out to the sea, his eyesight improved greatly by his recent doubling of power. He sees flying toward him an entire squadron of dragons, on which each was mounted a single wizard pulling at the reigns around the great beasts like they were horses. As the dragons go nearer, Draco's eyes begin to pick out individual breeds of the drakes, his expertise honed from years of running a dragon operation in Sweden. By sight alone, Draco can see mainly Swedish Short-Snouts (the kind he is most accustomed to), but also a score of Norwegian Ridgebacks, a cross-breed of a Fireball and a Hebridian Black, and even a Hungarian Horntail or two. Draco smiles wider, spreading his arms in greeting. The first group- the Dark Monks of the Apocalypse- had arrived. Only two more groups to go.

Draco is not disappointed. Only a few minutes later, another group comes from the west. The cloud Draco sees resolves itself into nearly three hundred wizards, all mounted upon a single Peruvian Vipertooth, the smallest and most vicious dragon in existence. Draco smiles again. This would be the South American militant group, the Sons of Aztec. Powerful, to be sure. They too land on the smooth green lawn behind Draco, their leader- Montezuma Incarnate, walking over to greet the Master's representative.

As Draco speaks briefly with him, the third and final group in attendance tonight appears. A mass of more than ten thousand suddenly is heard marching towards them, waving foul black banners that bore a crescent moon. Draco smiles in grim satisfaction as they approach, roaring ferociously. So the traitor had made good on his promise to recreate the army of old.

Draco smiles wider; unable to keep his satisfaction in check as he sees the magnificence his Master has wrought. The army is especially a masterpiece. Made entirely of Red Caps and troll/men hybrids, it would crush any opposition to Master's domination of the world and extermination of the unnatural abominations that were Muggles. Draco begins to laugh as he sees this tiny fraction of the Master's forces arrayed before him. And to think, the greatest estimation of the paltry defense the White Council was generously put at 2,000! The Master's full army, once gathered, would be more than one hundred thousand! Draco laughs louder, the high-pitched expression of cruel joy echoing strangely in the angry storm. He raises his arms, welcoming them all. His black heart is filled with joy, for he knows who will win the coming conflict. He does not need to know what forces the Council could muster.

He knows the Master of Chaos has already won.

* * *

Harry pulled down the next volume of lore from the shelf, rubbing his burning, itching eyes blearily. He had been at it for sixteen hours. Soon he would have to do a meditative trance to gain back some strength. Hardly even bothering to glance at the title- The Journal of Ardor Hakone, volume 32- The Making of the Veil, Harry opened it and began to speed-read, using a useful Legilimency trick to store each page photographically at twenty times the average speed a human could absorb information.

September 5012 BC.

There is great debate among the members of the Council on how to punish the Knights of Chaos. I have voted to kill the devils and let them rot in Hell for eternity, but other, more forgiving wizards, have voted to imprison them for life. Thankfully, they were outvoted, and the executions of the devils have been carried out via the Cage De Fin Curse. There remain only two things of curiosity. One is a strange veil in their old stronghold that appears to be a gateway to some other dimension; none of the wizards who have gone in have been able to return yet. I write this on the long journey to Londoninium to see for myself this supposed Veil.

The second thing is a matter that has discouraged me greatly. When reading the first reports from the scouts responsible for examining the dreary island the Chaos Knights called home, I was shocked to see that they described a horrible occurrence. It seems that in order to keep control of their slave population and add to their own frightening powers, the Chaos Knights have drained everyone on the island of all their magical talent. They are cripples in the worst sense; they can no longer see any magical creature or perform the simplest spells. Never before had I heard of anything like this. I myself can hardly stand the horror of what life would be like if I did not have magic at my beck and call. Worse, the reports suggest this condition has been passed on to their young! Again, I am barely able to keep a shudder of horror from escaping my body as I write. To never know the sweet power as magic bursts from your wandtip...I am beside myself with sorrow for those poor children who will never be able to perform magic. Already a name has been coined for them: Muggulameshi, from the word for magic-less. I pray that-

At this point, the text became interrupted; a large bloodstain covered up the words and Harry could find no more writing in the book. It was fine with him; as far as he could tell, all this Ardor character had described was the very first Muggles. As fascinating as he found it, Harry could not afford to waste time on matter that did not directly pertain to War of the Sun and Moon, the title given to the defeat of Chaos Knights.

The actual events leading up to fall were quite sketchy. All historical writers at the time had been too afraid to write down details, as they were afraid people would get ideas. So far, Harry could gather that the Chaos Knights had been an extremely evil group of wizards who stole the magical talents of others to gain power. The Grand Army they had assembled of a host of Dark Creatures suddenly seized control of the world and rooted their presence in a dreary island in the north that was named several times in numerous books as the Island of Chaos. Harry's natural prowess at deduction allowed him to figure out it was most likely one of the British Isles. The White Council, previous guardians of the world, mounted a defense that struggled on for nearly fifty years before Iscariot, a young Knight, betrayed his brethren. He told Daycroshus, then Head of the Council, that the one way to kill Lord Abaddon, Master of Chaos, was some immensely complex ritual that was never described (but occasionally called the Cage De Fin Curse). Leaderless, the rest of the Knights fell quickly and Iscariot himself gave his life to kill the last stronghold of them.

For an event that still could fill the hearts of the greatest wizards in the world with fear, Harry was disappointed in the level of detail he found. His sixteen hours turned into thirty-two, and still he found nearly nothing new. Finally, when his forty-eight hours were up, Harry felt a jerking sensation behind his navel not unlike that of a Portkey and found himself in the Antechamber.

"Damn," he heard himself mutter. Two days of research and all he had were vague information of an order of Dark wizards that made Voldemort look like a toddler. Wonderful. Harry snorted in distaste. He dealt with Dark wizards before, even two or three that were more powerful than Riddle had ever been. Now he would have to follow Algernon's advice and go see Dumbledore.

Harry snarled just thinking about his name. After excusing himself to the librarian, Harry left via the same garish porn shop and began his long walk home. He could have Apparated, but Harry needed time to think. Dumbledore. Harry wouldn't put it past the old codger to have books on the Chaos Knights that not even the Archives did. Knowing Dumbledore, this whole thing probably could have been prevented if he told Harry about it a year ago, and, sticking to Dumbledorian protocol, the famous professor would probably lie to Harry about it and expect him to save the day anyway.

Harry stopped suddenly, his body shivering in the London downpour. Screw the walk, Harry had a bad feeling. Perhaps his Legilimency senses were picking something up. Concentrating briefly on internal magic, Harry disappeared as quietly as a candle being snuffed out in cold London downpour.

* * *

Griske the Red Cap cursed silently from beneath his Invisibility Cloak. He had been less than five feet behind his target before the little gaki Apparated off. Had the quarry caught his scent? No, that was impossible. Griske had been the leader of his pack before leaving them to work for Master Draco. He was the greatest of Red Cap hunters; the cap on his head was always brilliant scarlet.

Scowling, Griske removed the cap from his head. After inspecting it carefully to make sure the sanguine color had not begun to fade, he flexed his calf muscles and propelled himself to the underside of a bridge that went over the street. Climbing upside-down in the shadows of the dreary night, Griske muttered and cursed to himself as he went off in search of his next target. He would have to tell Master Draco he had failed at killing Coward Potter, but instead brought him another old enemy: Scar-maker Finnigan.

* * *

As Harry reappeared just outside the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade, he immediately felt better. Perhaps someone was following him in London...but who?

Pushing his mind back to more important matters, Harry suddenly realized how cold he was. Unlike London, which was just warm enough for the precipitation tonight to be cold rain, Hogwarts' location in Northwestern Scotland was frigid, and, as a result, it was snowing something furious outside. Harry felt his jacket's Heating Charm kick in and try to warm him, but, cold and wet as he already was, it did little in the way of warmth. Harry looked up at the welcoming inn, with its cozy light and bright interior. It appeared much preferable to the long trek through either the snow (should he take the road) or freezing mud (should he use the Honeydukes' passage). Feeling justified for a drink, Harry pushed open the door and walked in.

At once, the inn grew silent as Harry walked in, taking in the stranger before them. Harry met no one's eyes and was rewarded in his endeavors by everyone going back about their business at failing to recognize him.

Pausing to look in the reflectively-clean mahogany bar as he sat down, Harry found he barely recognized himself. It had been two days since he had shaven, eaten, slept, or bathed. A wiry beard coated his cheeks and neck, disguising his jawline. The rest of his face was gaunt and tired-looking. Even his famous green eyes had lost their emerald spark.

"What can I get you, stranger?" a deep, yet somehow familiar voice asked him. Harry looked up in shock to see Dennis Creevey staring back at him- all seven feet of him. The younger of two Creevey brothers had nearly doubled in size since Harry had last seen him, his pale complexion and extremely pointy chin the only thing old-Dennis and new-Dennis had in common. "What can I get you, stranger?" he repeated in a deep, mellow voice when Harry didn't answer.

"Sorry," Harry grunted. "A bowl of whatever the stew is, a half-loaf of bread, and a pint of stout." Tempted by the wondrous smells coming from the kitchen, Harry was suddenly ravenous. There were some things a Sustenance Potion just couldn't do. "And a pint for while I wait," Harry finished.

As Dennis poured him a mug full of a foamy brown brew that smelled delicious, Harry sat back and eyed the other patrons in the pub. Sipping occasionally from the pint that tasted as good as it smelled, Harry took a mental demographic of the pub.

There was a group of elderly witches in the corner, smoking from long pipes and drinking sherry. Every few minutes, one of them would cackle loudly and quiet down suddenly as if afraid to be heard.

The only other patrons in the bar at the moment were a group of young men Harry suspected to be seventh-years sneaking out for a night of drinking. During their own seventh year, Harry and Ron had done that a multitude of times; bringing or returning with girls they met along the way. This lot, however, didn't seem to be as interested in a night of drinking and girls as they should have been. Instead, they kept giving sideways looks at the door, as if waiting for someone.

Harry's eyes narrowed in suspicion. Now that he noticed it, not one of them had touched their drinks since he arrived. In addition, they all wore Slytherin robes, save for one unpleasant looking fellow in Ravenclaw's blue and bronze. Seeing the prefect badges on two of them, Harry made a mental note to ask Dumbledore who the Slytherin prefects were this year.

At the same time Harry's food arrived, which he dug into eagerly, the door swung open, blowing in a heap of snow accompanied by a rush of cold air. Harry nearly froze in mid-bite when he saw what walked through the doorway, but remembered to pretend not to notice, lest the new arrival spare him a glance. Though Harry had run into the thing's kind before, he certainly had not expected to see one hear. Usually they didn't travel far from their homes in countries like the Czech Republic and Romania. So it was with great concern that Harry put in an order for a loaf of garlic bread, just in case.

After all, it wasn't everyday a vampire came to Hogsmeade.

Harry's magically enhanced ears should have allowed him to hear every word that came from the vampire's mouth, but for some reason Harry could hear no more than as if he were wearing earmuffs. Briefly considering moving closer or using a charm, Harry decided instead to wolf down the rest of his supper and report the vampire to Dumbledore.

Several minutes later, when the loaf of bread was crumbs and the soup mere droplets, Harry left his payment on the table and went into the bathroom to make himself more presentable.

A careful look in the mirror revealed a Harry that looked far older than his meager 22 years of age. However, after washing his face thoroughly and shaving the itchy stubble that had begun to grow, Harry found that he was looking younger and younger. Finally, after using a useful Shampoo Charm and his weak Metamorphmagus abilities (only strong enough to alter his hair length and hide his numerous scars for a short period of time) to neaten his hair, Harry deemed himself presentable. Leaving the Three Broomsticks decidedly more upbeat than when he had came, Harry decided to quicken the journey to Hogwarts and did something he rarely found need to anymore.

Concentrating briefly, Harry felt the instant of nausea and disorientation he always did when making this particular Transfiguration. After the moment passed, however, Harry rose into the air, spreading his magnificent plumage. The natural heat of his body gave off a faint scarlet and gold glow into the crisp, snowy air and as Harry took to the sky in his phoenix form, inaudible hissing noises rose as snow melted on his pleasantly warm feathers. With a brief burst of noise that was pure avian joy, not phoenix song, Harry disappeared in a burst of flame and landed, half an instant later just outside the doors to Hogwarts Castle.

* * *

"Avada Kedavra!" Draco cried triumphantly, sending a jet of emerald light through the chest of the last Auror who defended Chancellor Grey. The Master had sent him to kill the Head of the Wizarding Commerce Guild, a powerful trade organization with international interests. The WCG owned a private army for enforcement purposes that, though small, was extremely well trained. In addition to being infamous for their Hellfire Curses, the WCGA was also the only legal international organization that had license to use wyrms for security purposes. This, of course, could not be allowed.

A wyrm was the smaller cousin of a dragon, unable to breathe fire and lacking the powerful magical protections that imbued the hides of their larger brethren. They were also far more prevalent; the ratio of them being approximately 1,000 for every 1 dragon.

There were other reasons the Master's plan required the WCG to fall. As mentioned before, it was a trade organization, and thus was a very rich one. All major magical business transactions took place through it. If the WCG should fall, then entire economic structures would topple with it. The resulting panic would be marvelous, Draco presumed. That, and the Master had acquired means to gain nearly one hundred million Galleons when it did cease to operate.

Draco shook his head one more time at his Master's genius. His so-named Trident Plan could not fail. It was elegant in its simplicity; not even the Muggle-loving fool Dumbledore could do anything to stop it, now that Potter was dead. Already, the Master's First Prong was in effect: plunge the Wizarding world into panic by disposing of the four major financial organizations that controlled much of the Wizarding money: the WCG, the Magical Banking Clan Alliance, the Universal Trade Organization, and the North Atlantic Merchant's Group. Next, the Master's Second Prong would end in the Master's operatives gaining the top executive positions in America, Britain, France, Italy, and most the rest of Europe. The Russian Czar of Magic and the Chinese Prime Minister had already been reelected in the Master's favor, leaving only several major countries left to fall under the Master's dominion. Then the yet-to-be-revealed Third Prong would be put into effect and end with all the Muggles in the world killed like the beasts they were and the Master of Chaos ruling the world again, as it should've been.

Draco smiled unpleasantly as he blew open the door to the Chancellor's room. The ancient witch inside cowered in the corner of her office, trapped by the very Apparition wards she was so proud of casting herself. She screamed and pleaded, but Draco refused to acknowledge her.

Draco paused for a moment as he lifted his wand. Master had said to not use the Killing Curse on anyone important; it was reversible as long as the person hadn't been dead more than a year. But how to effectively kill her? The Reductor Curse was survivable and most of the other Dark Arts Draco learned were focused towards torture, not death. Ah, wait. There was that one. A grim smile of satisfaction crossed Draco's face. Not wanting to waste another moment, Draco aimed his wand carefully at the hysterically crying Chancellor.

"Ignis Cordio Scelestus!" Draco cried triumphantly, sending a bright whip of purple flame into the elderly woman. As it passed through her, the woman gave a soft cry and collapsed, rapidly deteriorating into a crumbling skeleton. Draco reminded himself to thank Antonin Dolohov, another former Death Eater who now served the Knights of Chaos, for teaching him that one. The Flame of the Wicked Heart was a powerful curse that could even be done without the incantation, though that form of the curse sacrificed a good deal of power.

Draco stood from his prone position and took a quick look around before preparing to Apparate out of the WCG Headquarters. Now to report to his Master and dispose of the Heads of the rest of the financial organizations. Draco grinned ferally, ignoring the discomfort the facial strain put on his scar. Soon his Master would have his revenge on the world and Draco would be whole again. His good looks and rightful position in the highest circles of Wizarding esteem would soon be returned to him, and the man who took them away would pay the price.

"Potter," Draco said in a hate-filled whisper. Soon his vengeance would be wrought.

* * *

"Good evening, Professor McGonagall," Harry greeted his former Head of House and Transfiguration teacher as he shut the door behind her, deigning not to comment on her shocked expression at seeing Harry suddenly walk through the front door. "I'm here to see Dumbledore."

"Why, er... hello, Mr. Potter...nice to-"

"Yes, yes, Professor," Harry interrupted briskly. "I'm sorry for the rudeness, but I have some matters to clear up with the Headmaster. May I have to password to his office?" Harry studiously ignored McGonagall's seeming inability to get over the fact he was present.

"Yes, Potter, of course," she finally answered, a touch of her old personality coming back. Removing a scrap of parchment from her robes, she scribbled something down quickly and gave it to him. Seeing his upraised eyebrow, McGonagall clarified. "I didn't want to say it out loud," she said. "There's a pair of trouble makers behind you who simply drive everyone insane if they got into the Headmaster's office."

Harry turned and just managed to catch a shock of shining blond hair and the flap of a tapestry before all signs of anyone else in the Entranceway were erased. Watching for a moment more, Harry pocketed the scrap and turned to his old teacher.

"Thank you, Professor. I'll be seeing you."

Harry turned and left, and Minerva McGonagall didn't realize until much later just how ominous those words sounded.

"Ah, Harry!" Albus Dumbledore cried, springing to his feet like a man a quarter of his age. "You've returned!"

Harry made no move to sit in the chair Dumbledore conjured up, instead deciding to return the elder wizard's exuberant greeting with a casual, "Hello, Dumbledore."

"Yes, yes, indeed!" Dumbledore said, sitting down again. "Harry, Harry, how have you been? You look dreadfully tired. Would you like something to eat? What have you been doing?"

"I don't have time for pleasantries," Harry grunted. "I've been told on good information you have something for me. If Algernon the Grey didn't send me, I wouldn't be here. I've got a job to do, Professor, so if you please?"

Dumbledore's happy demeanor suddenly deflated and the Headmaster looked older than Harry had ever seen him. The old man said nothing and didn't move save to collapse bonelessly into his chair.

"But, Harry, surely after all these years you have something to say?" Dumbledore sounded broken-hearted and Harry had to try very hard to feel a pang of empathy.

"We've said all we have to, Professor. Now please, hand over whatever you've got, because there are people who need me right now."

"But Harry...it's been so long... can't we-"

"No, Dumbledore, we can't," Harry said forcefully. "If you don't want to help me, that's fine. I'm used to this sort of treatment from you. All smiles till it comes down to business, then suddenly you're helpless."

"Harry..." Dumbledore whispered brokenly. Suddenly, he straightened. He fixed Harry with a stare he had not had cause to use since he stopped teaching Transfiguration and spoke in a flat tone. "Fine. But I give you what I have under one condition: you answer my questions."

Harry glared right back, emerald eyes meeting icy blue ones. "What questions?"

Dumbledore worked hard to keep his composure. "Just one. I know I never had your love. I know you never respected me much after Sirius' death." Harry stiffened noticeably at this. "But Harry," Dumbledore lost his glare and became the very image of a broken old man. "What did I do to lose your regard?"

Harry looked levelly at Dumbledore for a long moment before answering.

"You want the truth, Professor? Really? Because I don't think you can handle the truth, Dumbledore!" Harry stood up. "You want to know why I lost my regard for you? It's because I grew up! I grew up and I realized how manipulative you are! You left me stranded at the Dursleys' for ten years! You lied to me during every single one of my years at Hogwarts! And then, once I had killed Voldemort, which you considered my bloody purpose in life, YOU IGNORED ME! LIKE BLOODY TRASH! I WAS NEVER ANYTHING MORE THAN A FLIPPING PET TO YOU! DON'T TRY TO DENY IT! YOU'RE NOTHING MORE THAN A LIAR AND A MANIPULATOR! YOU'RE THE WORSE KIND OF BOTH! YOU EVEN LIE ABOUT THAT!!!"

For a long moment, silence reigned in the office. Harry, breathing hard from his outburst of years of suppressed rage, was looking anywhere but Dumbledore. Had he, he would have seen the old man with his head in his hands, crying softly. Nevertheless, Harry soon became aware of the tears by hearing them. He heard Dumbledore's quiet sobs, heard the tears hitting the polished mahogany desk.

"Harry!" Dumbledore lamented, his voice dangerously close to a wail. "Oh, Harry, I had no idea you felt this way! And worse, you're right!" Dumbledore reverted to tears and was unable to speak for several minutes. "I had no idea how bad it was for you at the Dursleys', Harry, or I would have relocated you immediately! I made so many mistakes, my boy, you're right. Everything you said was right," Dumbledore sobbed into his hands.

Harry stood there, shocked. Dumbledore crying? The idea was nearly impossible to swallow. See, all of Harry's childhood beliefs about Dumbledore were gone. All except one. The single-most unshakeable idea Harry believed in was that Dumbledore was infallible. To see that ever-calm demeanor break was more than Harry could process.

"Dumbledore?" Harry whispered, amazed and unsure if this was, or could even be, the immortal Headmaster of Hogwarts. The aging wizard ignored him, unable to speak through his tears. "Dumbledore...I-" Harry had no idea what to say. What could he say? He made an old man cry. Even Dudley Dursley at his worst had never sunk so low.

"Harry, my boy, I know I don't deserve it, but please, do you think you'll ever forgive me?" Dumbledore looked at Harry pleadingly, his blue eyes totally devoid of sparkle for once. "I know I don't have many more years within me, and I know I'm too tired to carry on a feud with you."

Harry paused before answering. Was this what he wanted? Did he really need to rub his childhood in Dumbledore's face in order to be happy? Like many times before, Harry had been apologized to, and now that he heard Dumbledore's apology, Harry found he no longer needed to here it.

"No, Professor, I'm sorry," Harry said after a long moment. "I've known since the end of my fifth year here that you make mistakes. I should never have expected you to be infallible. I mean, me of all people should know what feels like to be thought perfect. I'm sorry for yelling, sir. Please don't hold it against me."

To Harry's surprise, this elicited even more tears for the powerful Headmaster. Dumbledore looked at him strangely, as if he had never seen Harry before.

"I wonder," he began in a voice softer than the softest whisper. "How could a boy with a such a childhood, with such a schooling, be so kind, so forgiving? Harry, I've said this many times before: your soul is purer than any I've ever come across."

Again, to Harry's great surprise, Dumbledore rose from his magnificent office chair and strode across the room to where Harry stood, shocked, and enfolded him in a warm embrace.

For a moment, Harry was too shocked to respond. Then, remembering that he was supposed to hug back, Harry returned the awkward embrace in kind.

"Harry, I don't know if anyone has told you, but-"

"Professor, this would not be a good time to reveal some fact about my family I didn't know before tonight," Harry mentioned.

"Right on the nose, actually," Dumbledore laughed, sounding a little nervous. "I was just wondering if you ever thought about your power. You are extraordinarily powerful for a wizard your age, you know. Most wizards don't fully grow into your magical potential until they are at least in their late thirties."

Harry wasn't sure how to respond to this. "The Potters are a line of purebloods that have been established for nearly a thousand years, sir. I figured it was from my dad's side."

"Well, that probably has a lot to do with it," Dumbledore allowed. "But did you ever perhaps wonder why your mother was so powerful? It is, after all, highly unusual for a Muggle-born to posses so much talent. At best, they're usually average in terms of power. Your mother, on the other hand, was just as, if not more powerful than James. Have you ever given it any thought?"

"Well," Harry said after considering for a moment. "I suppose it's entirely possible that my mother was descended from Squibs who were born of a decently powerful wizard, and recessive genes or something got passed to her."

"Right in one, Harry," Dumbledore told him softly. "I knew Lily's magical relative when I went to school here; he was a Half-blood. His father had been a Muggle and his mother was a Muggle-born which of rather mediocre talent. But their children, oh, their children, Harry. There were three of them, as I recall, two boys and a girl. The eldest had amazing power, even at a young age. The younger one was not much compared to his older brother, but still more powerful than your average wizard. It was the girl, the youngest of them all, who put her brothers to shame, Harry. She looked just like your mother, you know. Same eyes. The two boys went through Hogwarts when the time came, surprising their Professors as O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s came up. Hogwarts was not accepting girls at this point, and hadn't for nearly two hundred years. The boys were in Gryffindor, I believe, though now that I think of it, I think the younger one was a Ravenclaw. Yes, he was."

"Anyway, after Hogwarts the elder boy married a nice Muggle girl from the village near his home and had several children with her. Though he loved them dearly, they were all Squibs. As he stayed comparatively youthful as a result of his magical abilities, his wife grew old and died, as did eventually his children, whom all married Squibs. As the wizard got more and more ingrained into the Wizarding world, his children's children's children began to lose touch with him and it wasn't long before the wizard had no idea what happened to his non-magical descendants. In turn, they all believed he was dead, for what Muggle would expect a grandfather to live past a century?

"You can then imagine, Harry, the surprise the wizard felt when he saw, one year at Hogwarts, the splitting image of his long-dead sister as an eleven year old girl stride into the Great Hall. Imagine, if you will, Harry, his elation when his multiple-great granddaughter was Sorted into his own House; Gryffindor. Picture his feeling of triumph as he watched, not revealing his relation to her, as she quickly asserted herself as the top student in her year, competing only with a pureblooded boy who loved to make trouble. Imagine the joy he felt when he witnessed her marry this boy, years later, after a long and eventful courtship. And now, Harry, if you will, to try feel like he did when he learned that this descendent of his was pregnant with a baby boy. What levels of power would this scion of wizards reach? What lofty peaks of ability would he discover? What would he accomplish, surrounded as he was on all sides by love?" Dumbledore's voice grew softer and gained a bitter edge. Harry, who had been listening, all concerns forgotten, leaned forward to hear. "Imagine," Dumbledore said in a whisper. "How heart-broken he was when his granddaughter and her husband (whom he loved like a son) were both murdered on the same night but a madman bent on immortality, never to know his identity. Imagine how he felt when their child was made to be sent off to Muggle relatives who hated him and all of his kind," Dumbledore stopped and Harry let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"YOU!" Harry shouted, jumping to his feet. "It's you! You were the wizard...and my mum was the descendent, and my dad the pureblood, and, and oh my God!" Harry burst out with. Dumbledore looked shocked that Harry had figured it out so fast; usually it took him the course of the school year to do it. "But if, and if my mum, and if- oh my God!" Harry repeated. "You're my...my..."

Dumbledore, to his credit, suppressed his smile. "I've been trying to figure out a way to tell you for years, Harry. I tried to hint it to you, right before the Battle of Hogwarts, but time was rushed and-"

"I remember," Harry said, nodding. The words rose, unbidden, to his mind. You're like the grandson I never had. Never before had they held so much meaning for him. "And I suppose you want to know where I've been the past four years." Harry had momentarily forgot the Knights of Chaos. He was too enthralled by Dumbledore's latest bombshell to consider them.

"Yes, yes, of course," Dumbledore said, leaning eagerly over his desk. "I've heard news from...never mind, but he's quite the source and I'm inclined to believe him. Tell me, Harry, is it true when my dear friend tells me you're an operative for the White Council?"

"Yes, sir," Harry grinned. "For four years now I've been doing it. It's actually why I'm here..."

"Ah, yes, you mentioned something about that," Dumbledore allowed. "And it seems my source has passed a message along to you, if you've come to regain something that was yours. Well, yours by birthright, anyway. I also have some documents on certain magics I've developed that would probably catch your fancy...but first things first." Dumbledore removed his wand from an inner pocket of his robe and strode over to the large glass case Dumbledore had erected at the end of Harry's second year. In it was suspended a sword that belonged to Godric Gryffindor, one of the four Founders of Hogwarts and the wizard who had given his name to Harry's House.

"If you recall, Harry, when you presented me with this after killing the basilisk, I told you only a true Gryffindor could pull that out of the Hat. When I said it, I meant it quite literally."

"How so?" Harry asked, already not liking the direction this conversation had turned.

Dumbledore favored him with a grandfatherly smile. "What I mean, my boy, is that only one of Gryffindor's bloodline would have been capable of calling forth the sword.

Harry sighed in relief. Good, nothing he already didn't know. "I knew I was related to him," Harry said. "When I went through Council training, they told me I had to have been. It's not really surprising, sir. After all, he had twelve children who all had that many or more. I'd say half the Wizarding population of Britain is related to at least one of the Founders, if they've been here for more than a few centuries."

"Spoken with the modesty of Godric himself, Harry," Dumbledore beamed at him. He tapped the glass case with his wand, muttering a password as he did so, and the glass disappeared. Being extremely careful, Dumbledore removed the sword from its stand and motioned for Harry to take it.

As soon as the sword was in his hands, Harry felt warmth similar to when he had first grasped his wand. The blade, which had flashed softly in the low light of Dumbledore's office, now seemed to glow slightly. The egg-sized rubies in the hilt seemed to shrink beneath Harry's hands and the sword began to look much more than a simple object of show. Its magnificence was undiminished, yet it now appeared at the same time less majestic and more dangerous. For the first time, Harry felt as if he were holding a lethal weapon, not just a pointy stick. Not even when he fought Voldemort had he felt so capable with this weapon in his hand.

"You see, Harry?" Dumbledore barely kept a gloat out of his voice. "The sword responds to you. Yes, you're probably right in your estimation of the Founders' descendants, but only one person in the world can do what you just did."

"Who?" Harry asked, already fearing the obvious.

"The direct Heir to Godric Gryffindor. The eldest son of the eldest son of the eldest son, a line you can trace right back to Godric himself. He was afraid of his bloodline failing, you see, and so he charmed himself so that the first born of his seed would be male, the first born of that son would be male. The line has never faltered in the countless generations since Godric's death. You, Heron James Potter," Harry winced at hearing his real first name. "Are the last living Heir of any of the Founders. You are probably one of the sixty strongest wizards alive."

For a moment Harry could only stare openmouthed at Dumbledore, too shocked. What a day for news!

"Professor- I-"

"I know it's a lot to swallow. But swallow you must, Harry, if you want to stop the Chaos Knights."

"You know?" Harry asked, astounded. Curinur the White had been most insistent no one else heard the rumor the Return.

"Yes, I know," Dumbledore sank into his chair. "Al- my source, that is, told me."

"Professor, it's okay," Harry said. "I know who Algernon the Grey is. I met him a few days ago; he's the one who told me to come here."

"Yes, I know, and I'm afraid if a wizard reaches the power even a weak Chaos Knight possessed, I'm afraid that Voldemort was just an appetizer to the terror the world will face."

"I was thinking of contacting the old crowd," Harry tried to be casual.

"You mean the Order of the Phoenix?" Dumbledore asked in soft amazement.

"No, well, yes, in the long term, but not yet. I was thinking of D.A. officers for now. The Order would be organized only if we really felt need of it. I'm trying to head this off before it gets that serious. Right now Neville, Luna, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and the rest would be more appreciated.

"But Harry, one thing eludes me. Why do you require the assistance of your school friends now? You haven't seen them in years and Algernon tells me that all offers to partner you up with a more experienced operative at the Council were met with refusal. Why do you desire help now, especially when one expertly trained operative is ideal for a mission of this type?"

Harry made no pause to answer, already knowing what he would say. "Because, Professor, I've realized something over the last three weeks. These years since Voldemort's death, I've not been acting for the good of the Wizarding world. Sure, the missions I've done for the Council are beneficial to the good of everyone, but I suppose the real reason I've been off on my own is because I've been pouting."

"Pouting?" Dumbledore sounded intrigued and amused at the same time.

"Yes sir, pouting. I was angry with you, I was still angry with Voldemort, I was angry with everyone. I joined the Council to get away from the Wizarding world as I knew it, but all I was really doing was sulking. I was wounded a few weeks ago and stayed with Ginny while I recovered, and while I was there I realized something. I miss my friends. I miss having company, and I don't like being the only one I talk to. Our conversation has just ground those matters home. If I had never spoken to you again, I wouldn't know you were my family, and that I wasn't alone in the world. I wouldn't know about my relation to Gryffindor and my connection to his sword. Most importantly, I wouldn't know you actually cared."

Dumbledore's eyes seemed to explode, so strong was his trademark eye twinkle. Merriment clouded his face and Harry saw that his eyes were moist with tears of joy.

"Harry," he said, his voice still calm as ever, despite his demeanor. "That was probably the most impressive thing you've ever said. You wasted years of your life and you admit to it. You had a weakness and you exposed it for all to see. You apologized for your actions. Harry, my boy, my I-forget-how-many-greats grandson, you have finally become a man."

The two stood there a moment, smiling warmly at each other, and were probably just about to hug again when disaster struck.

"Albus!" Professor McGonagall's normally neutral Scots' accented voice was nearly unrecognizable with worry. "Albus, you're needed at the Ministry quick! Bring Mr. Potter, there's no time!"

"Minerva! What's wrong?" Dumbledore's voice lost decades and sounded young, strong and capable. "What has happened, Minerva?"

"The Minister!" she cried from her position in the fire, her hat knocked askew and ears licked by emerald flames. "The Minister of Magic has been murdered!"

Fin.