Mahattan had many skyscrapers and beautiful sights to see, the Statue of Liberty just one of many. He flipped through the brochure, looking at other interesting sights, wondering if he would ever get a chance to see any of them. This year coming up was supposed to be so busy he wouldn't get the chance to breath. He hoped that Kingsley was lying there as well.

There were so many different kinds of wood in that room. Too many to know. The best, for desks at least, were oak and mahogany. Oaken desks were fairly common and the oldest as well. Harry had one. But there weren't many Mahogany desks left, however. In fact—there was only one. And she had it.

South Brewer was a quiant little town. Town. Huh. Perhaps 'town' isn't the right word. It was filled with houses. That's true; it was. Though . . . maybe, and only just maybe, you might think of it as a very large apartment complex.. There were no shops. At least, no shops anyone knew about. But the residents didn't need shops. Residents? That's definitely not the right word either. The wizards didn't need shops.

Robert Burns once said that the best laid plans of mice and men often go astray. While I in no way disagree with such a beloved poet, I do offer a counterpoint. And that is to simply point out what he said: 'often go astray.' It's understandable, therefore, to assume that, while most plans often require a backup, some go exactly as they were thought up. And they become, unless something drastic happens, fait accompli.

Blood. They were mindless in that regard. New to the life—life! How ironic—that they would now lead for eternity, blood was everything to them. But not just any blood. They needed the best blood. The most sustaining blood—because that is what they wanted. To be sustained.

No matter what someone thinks about their government, be it dissenting or otherwise, it cannot be said they do not—on some levels, at least—try. No matter what you may think or what they may be doing, they attempt to serve the people and the people’s best interest. While that is all fine and dandy—certainly commendable, yes, yes—do you really think that's all they're up to?

There were so many of them. The organization that wanted Harry dead. Perhaps because he had killed Tom Riddle, perhaps because they didn't like him. He wasn't going to let them. Death wasn't something Harry was ready to accept, but he was against the world. The world. Jagged. Jagged thoughts. Not connecting. But that couldn't be. What? No . . . that's not right. What was happening? WHAT WAS HAPPENING?

So many people would have to be involved. He was the mastermind; they couldn't dispute that fact. But to be the mastermind of so much it was imperative he had many underlings. They needed to discover what those might be. Getting slightly off task, they intended to do just that.

There was a new law that had just been instituted. There was only one thing that could be discussed, no matter what was going on anywhere within the city. That one thing was stringent and not to be confused with any other things regardless of nature or circumstance. It was only the most ridiculous tales that could be told.

Quinn McKenzie was the very first Chief. She was brazen. Not really noteworthy, but her picture hung largest and highest of all. Alistair Donovan was a man that singlehandedly took down Elder Blue - apparently a very powerful Dark Wizard. His hung near the bottom. Harry wondered, if all went as planned, and if that room really did hold the portrait of every previous Chief - where would Richard's hang?

So that was everything then - the entire story was wrapping up nicely. Save for the clean-up that would have to happen, it looked as though there wasn't much more that could jump out at them. Although, perhaps that old saying comes into play here. Something about the calm before the storm.