True to Harry's words, the duo arrived at Rivendell by nightfall, having ridden hard the entire afternoon. Elrond had been promptly notified and a room was prepared. After a light meal, they parted ways—Boromir retired to his room, while Harry sought out Elrond for a quick discussion (a 'quick' discussion that evolved into a planning session that lasted long past midnight. This was precisely why one shouldn't go off on tangents, no matter how interesting they were).

The next day Harry spent in his room, slowly sorting out a century's worth of thoughts and memories. It was wearying. He held no regrets—though perhaps it's more accurate to say that he had only one regret—for his life was far too long for them. That didn't mean that he did not sometimes wonder about what-ifs and if-onlys because he did and they hurt. It was why this was the only time he allowed himself to dwell on them. Any more and he would quickly spiral back into the pits he had worked hard to exit. Estë had helped him out of them once, and he was not going to go back.

He reviewed the memories that spanned longer than a common Man's lifetime, and he wondered. Then he tallied up the people he met and separated them into groups of know and knew. The first he would organize into already-established arrangements, because they were always of people he had already met. For the latter… he kept some.

Usually he'd do this with a few bottles of quality wine at hand, but he couldn't afford to curl up in the mountains for a day or two this time. For one thing, there were the hobbits. Besides, the next Remembrance wasn't too far off. It would be Glorfindel's turn, if he recalled rightly. Perhaps Thranduil would deign to join them this time.

Harry shook his head, standing up and stretching his stiff muscles. He should go meet the others now, maybe after detour to the kitchens.

He opened the door and looked down when his shoes knocked into something. Someone had left a tray of food outside his door. Baffled, Harry blinked down at it. Then a ray of sunlight fell upon his face, and the sudden realisation that it was late afternoon struck him.

That was probably lunch, sent to his room when he failed to appear in the dining hall. Harry bent down and picked up the tray. He'll return it to one of the kitchen staff when he passed.

Beyond the city, beyond the valley, the sun was setting. White columns turned into soft gold, and the snowy peaks of the Misty Mountains became a fiery orange. The trees looked as if they were set ablaze, and the waterfalls became veils of fine gold, glinting in the light. Shades within the valley lengthened and darkened, and slowly, the trees began to lose their blaze and fall into soft shadows. Though the outlook was a familiar one, Harry acknowledged that it was still a beautiful view. Perhaps he would tire of it in the future, but for now, he could appreciate it for what it was and that was enough.

The chiming of many bells caused him to look away, suddenly reminded of the feast to be held in honour of the victory at Bruinen. Turning abruptly on his heels, Harry headed for the hall.

The hall was filled with people—mostly Elves, of course, but Harry could hear Merry's voice somewhere to a side, and Gandalf was instantly visible, seated at the long table upon the dais. Elrond sat at the end, as was his custom, and Glorfindel was beside him, his hair bearing a copper tinge from the lamp behind his head. Arwen sat in the middle of the table, a cap of silver lace and small white gems glittering upon her head. Her grey raiment had no accessories, but it mattered not—the Undómiel's beauty was beyond any ornament. There were two seats less than usual at the table, Elladan and Elrohir's. Beside their spots, Erestor was conversing with Lindir at the other end of the table.

Elrond caught his glance, and looked pointedly at the empty chair beside Glorfindel. With a small smile, Harry made his way over, his uneaten lunch taken from his hands by a servant along the way, and seated himself on the wooden chair. The kitchen staff had been hard at work, it seemed, and food of all variety was present. There was even a trace of dwarven fare at the table, though Harry guessed that the spices had been toned down to account for elven palates.

The hobbits were together on a side-table close to the dais. Pippin spotted him and waved brightly, a gestured that Harry returned. The dwarves were seated beside the hobbits, Glóin to the right of Frodo, and the two were talking (or rather, Glóin was doing the talking, and Frodo was listening politely, if Harry read the gestures correctly).

The other elven delegations were scattered around the hall, mingling with old friends. Harry caught a flash of familiar blond as he was approaching the dais, and realised that Thranduil's messenger was none other than Legolas. Boromir was alone, but the small group of Rangers that were sojourning in Rivendell expanded their interactions to the lone Gondorian. All was well. Harry turned his attention back to his own table.

"What is the matter to be discussed tomorrow?" Harry asked, reaching for a piece of roasted fowl. Gandalf looked up at him.

"The tales of our guests must be heard first, and Lord Elrond means to let all know the history of the Ring." Here, his voice dipped, and Harry looked at Elrond incredulously.

"You're going to be talking for hours."

A semi-resigned nod was his answer.

"How abridged a version are you going to give?"

Elrond paused, about to speak, but Glorfindel cut in with a laugh. "Now is a time for feasting and merriment, not for talk of serious plans and history. We are celebrating the victory at the Ford of Bruinen and the recovery of Frodo the Ring Bearer, are we not?"

"Indeed," said Gandalf, and his eyes twinkled as Harry grinned and tapped Glorfindel lightly on the head. After all, the elf did say merriment.

Elrond coughed. Arwen glanced over and quickly turned away, a smile at her lips.

Glorfindel's eyes trailed upwards, and then he looked sternly at Harry. "Reviauron, if my hair is green again I shall be very disappointed in you."

Wide-eyed with affected hurt, Harry shook his head. "I am grieved to hear that you believe I have so little imagination, Glorfindel. After all these ages…"

He didn't bother to duck the swat from the elf, and moulded his own hair into the shape of a diving eagle in an eye-watering shade of orange. (It was a small eagle, not nearly as eye-catching as a lime-magenta striped tiger in mid pounce, but really, his hair wasn't half as long as Glorfindel's. Sometimes, you just have to make do with what you've got).

There was a startled noise from one of the hobbits, and Harry turned to see Pippin laughing into a pie. The faintest twitch of a finger had the hobbit sporting a new hairstyle in the form of a neon green ferret, and everything escalated from there.

It took a while before the feast came to an end, and the songs sung in the Hall of Fire lasted long into the night.

Harry woke early the next day, in time to watch the sun rise above the Misty Mountains as he took the more scenic route to the porch. The air was crisp, and sunlight slanted through the thin silver mist in the valley, causing dewdrops to glisten on yellow leaves. Birdsong was in the air, and a wholesome peace lay on the land. It was a good morning.

The porch was empty at this time, save for Elrond. The Elf-lord was pacing around and looked up as Harry approached.

"Good morning," he said, and gestured at the chairs laid out in a semi-circular manner.

Harry returned the greeting and flopped into a chair at the edge, watching as Elrond resumed his pacing and muttering, apparently preparing for the couple-hours-long history exposition. Glorfindel arrived not too long after and seated himself on Harry's left, watching Elrond in concern.

"He has been doing that since daybreak," he muttered.

"Really?" Harry murmured back. "He helped in writing the annals. Does he plan to recite them word for word?"

"Most likely," said Glorfindel. "Anything less and he would not be our erudite Peredhel."

They lapsed back into silence.

Gradually, other people started streaming in. Erestor came alone and chose to seat himself on Glorfindel's other side, carrying writing instruments with him. The dwarves arrived as a collective group and they occupied the seats in the middle, looking much less suspiciously at the general elven surroundings than they had upon arrival. Given the presence of non-dwarves, Harry greeted the group in Westron. Elrond had stopped his pacing, standing instead at the centre of the circle to great the newcomers.

Other elves trickled in, talking and laughing. Boromir arrived just after Galdor, and he sped towards the empty seat to Harry's right.

"Good day," he commented, and Harry quirked a smile.

"Lovely morning, yes. How is Rivendell treating you thus far?"

"It is good. A proper bed is a delightful sight to behold after so long." Boromir said with a wry smile. "Do you usually stay in Rivendell?"

Harry leaned back. "Not particularly," he said slowly. "Though people who seek me can, with some luck and a great deal of patience, find me here."

"You could come to Gondor," said Boromir. "Come to Minas Tirith."

Harry raised an eyebrow, but his response was cut off by the ringing of a bell—the warning bell for the Council. He glanced around. All elves and dwarves were present, and Aragorn had strode in just moments before the bell. Gandalf's absence was particularly glaring, as was that of Frodo and Bilbo's.

There was silence for a moment, broken by the sound of hurried footsteps. Gandalf appeared, the two missing hobbits at his heels. Sam trailed behind the trio uncertainly, hesitating when he saw the gathered council but sat down without fanfare at a corner. He appeared to be unnoticed by the others, though Elrond and Glorfindel each spared him a glance, the first considering, the second amused. Hobbit magic indeed. Harry shot him an encouraging smile and then shifted his attention away.

Elrond drew Frodo to a seat by his side and presented him to the company, giving a brief introduction of those already present. Thus began the Council of Elrond.

Much was said of events of the world outside, especially of the South and Erebor. A Black Rider seeking information of the hobbits (a Baggins) and the Ring, while offering three of the Seven Dwarven Rings? Another approaching the King of Dale with threats of war? It was troubling news. Then Elrond stood up, and began his much-prepared exposition on mid-Second Age and early Third Age history. It was as long as Harry had expected, and morning had all but passed by the time he ceased. As Elrond stepped back, Harry wordlessly handed him a glass of water.

Boromir stood up. "Give me leave, Master Elrond, to say more of Gondor, for it would be well for all to know what passes there, and understand the peril should we fail at last."

Harry shifted in his seat and leaned back. More grim news.

"In the days of June this very year, we were driven from Ithilien by sudden war from Mordor. We were outnumbered, for Mordor has allied itself with the Easterlings and Haradrim, but it was not by numbers that we were defeated." His eyes flashed and darkened.

"A power was there, a power we have not felt before. It was like a great black horseman—a dark shadow under the moon—and wherever it came, fear fell on our boldest men and horses bolted from his presence. We had fought on, but the eastern shores of Anduin are now lost to us."

Nazgûl. Sauron wished to attack the capital of Gondor, it seemed, and Elrond's face turned grave.

"In this evil hour I have come on an errand over many dangerous league to ask for counsel and the unravelling of a riddle, for a dream had come often to my brother and once to me. In that dream, the eastern sky grew dark and there was growing thunder, but a pale light lingered in the west. A voice was crying to seek for the sword that was broken and doom is near at hand, for Isildur's Bane shall waken, and a Halfling forth shall stand."

A prophecy. Harry raised his eyes up to the sky and trailed west. Without knowing the full prophecy, he could only guess at what it foretold, but the lines that Boromir did say sounded rather bleak. The last phrase sounded particularly… suspicious.

"Bring forth the Ring, Frodo," said Gandalf solemnly, "so that Boromir may understand his riddle at last."

A hush fell over everyone present. All turned to Frodo, who looked back with wide eyes. Hesitantly, he walked over to the stone plinth in the middle of the porch. Harry not see his expression, but his elbow quivered and there was a softest clink of metal on stone as he laid the Ring down.

Harry slammed down his mental barriers, projecting unwill–will not–no entry with every fibre of his being and averted his eyes, staring determinedly at the tip of Gandalf's staff as Frodo stepped back. See no evil, hear no evil, be tempted not into evil.

As such, he missed the exchange between Boromir and Elrond, but it was impossible to miss the way Gandalf leapt up, brandishing his staff.

"Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul."

Gandalf's normally mild voice deepened, becoming menacing and powerful, harsh as stone. A shadow seemed to cover the noonday sun, and the porch grew dark. Harry winced, as the power of that particular chant, made all the more jarring by the purity of the magic in Rivendell, hit him like rampaging bull. Elrond closed his eyes, and Harry could feel Glorfindel tensing beside him as a collective grimace came over the Elves. Boromir stepped backwards, almost staggering, to his seat.

"Never before has any voice dared to utter the words of that tongue in Imladris, Gandalf the Grey," said Elrond sternly, when the shadow passed and the company sighed in relief.

"And let us hope that none will ever speak it here again," Gandalf replied. "Nonetheless, I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond, for the Black Speech of Mordor may yet be heard in every corner of the West. The Ring is altogether evil, and the Enemy knows now that it has been found. This I have learned from Gollum. Since his servants have pursued the One to our front door, he will know—or he may already know—that we have it here. "

Then at Gandalf's prompting, Bilbo spoke, with the flair of a story teller, of the Erebor quest and how the Ring came into his possession. Frodo, more reluctantly, recounted his journey from the Shire to Rivendell, including his brief but bewildering meeting with Bombadil, the short refuge with Gildor's company, and the assault on Weathertop. Finally, Gandalf completed the entire, hours-long narrative by speaking of his research on the One Ring, his imprisonment at Orthanc, and Saruman's betrayal. There was silence when he ended his tale.

At long last, Elrond spoke again.

"And now we have come to the heart of our problem. What do we do with the Ring?"

"I recall many a strange and wild thing within the Old Forest, in a time when a squirrel could go from tree to tree from what is now the Shire to Dunland," begun Erestor, "but of this Bombadil, I have forgotten. Is he that which we have once named Iarwain?"

They were going to talk about Bombadil. Harry bit his tongue and carefully lowered his gaze to meet Gandalf's eyes. Their feelings on this matter were mutual.

Elrond gave an affirmation.

"Could we not send messages to him and obtain his help? It seems that within the bounds he has set, he has a power even over the Ring. Would he not take the Ring and keep it there, forever harmless?"

"No." Harry's tone was absolute, and he was proud of the way he had kept his voice impassive. A few curious looks was tossed at him, but he gave no elaboration—it was not his story to tell. Elves most of them may be, but the bitterness with Bombadil was before their time.

Glorfindel shot him a glance. "To send the Ring to him would only postpone the day of evil, and he is far away. We could not take the it back to him now, not without spies learning of such an act."

"I know little of Iarwain save the name," said Galdor, "but I do not think that he can defy the full might of our Enemy, for surely he would bend all his power towards retrieving the Ring. What power that still remain lies with us, here in Imladris, or with Círdan at the Havens, or Lórien, but have they the strength to withstand the coming of Sauron, when all else is overthrown?"

"I do not have the strength," was Elrond's calm response. "Neither have they."

"If we cannot keep the Ring from him by strength, then let us cast it into the deeps of the sea, for in the sea it would be kept safe."

Harry didn't notice who made the comment, but turned to face the direction of the voice. "Then by virtue of his armies within Mordor, Sauron would sweep aside the resistance of the Free People and march across the West without the Ring. Have you the strength to fight a legion? For every warrior would have to slay a legion of orcs to even the odds. Sauron has not been idle. And in time the seas and lands will change, and the Ring will surface once more—what then?"

Experience was speaking now. Nothing in the world was permanent.

"Reviauron is right. We should not take thought for only a season, or even for a passing age of the world. We should seek a final end of this menace, even if we do not hope to make one."

"Then," said Erestor with a sigh, "if we cannot seek to hide the Ring forever, there is but one more course—to unmake it."

Elrond looked around, meeting the gaze of everyone present. "There lies our hope, if hope it is. To walk a hard road, a road unforeseen, into peril, into Mordor. We must send the Ring to the fire whence it was made."

Once more, there was silence, and Boromir leaned forward. "One does not simply walk into Mordor," he said, clenching his fist. "Its black gates are guarded by more than just orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep and the great eye is ever watchful. It is folly. I do not understand all this—why do you speak of hiding and destroying? Why should we not use this Ring? The Men of Gondor are valiant and they will never submit, but they may be beaten down. Valour needs strength and a weapon. Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy, let us use it against him—take it and go forth to victory!"

"You cannot wield it. The One Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master." It was Aragorn. Boromir turned, a not-quite-sneer on his face.

"And what would a Ranger know of this matter?"

Harry (softly) slammed his head into the arms of the chair.

Legolas leapt up, eyes ablaze. "This is no mere Ranger. This is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur and heir to the throne of Gondor. You owe him your allegiance, Steward."

Harry groaned into his chair.

"Isildur's heir…" Boromir repeated, looking at Aragorn with doubt in his eyes. "The sword that was broken."

"Yes." said Legolas, ignoring Aragorn's soft pull on his cloak.

"And what would he know of Gondor's troubles? Even if he is the heir of Isildur you claim, had he fought and bled alongside us when we tried to keep Ithilien from the Enemy? Was he there when we faced the dark power that drove us west of the Anduin? Does he have the strength as this Ring to drive back her foes?"

Aragorn's eyes flashed, but once again Legolas spoke before him. "You have heard Lord Elrond. The Ring cannot be used. It must be destroyed."

The elf's eyes held a challenge within them as he met Boromir's gaze. Naturally, a dwarf had to take up the challenge.

"And I suppose you think you'll be the one to do it?"

It went downhill from there, and the council devolved from a respectable, dignified discussion and into a three way quarrel between dwarves, elves and men.

Elrond cast a despairing look at the lot and flicked his eyes towards the west as if asking for divine interference. Gandalf sighed. Harry (gently) slammed his head into the other arm of the chair and groaned again.

"–I will be dead before I see it in the hands of an Elf!"

"As if any naugrim–"

Glorfindel prodded the back of his head. "Reviauron, do something about them."

"What? Scold them as children?"

"If that is what it takes."

Viler words were beginning to be hurled around. Harry would have attributed it to the intensity of the argument, but that didn't seem right. Surely a group of adults could hold their tempers better than this? Each of them had interacted with one another before, and none had arguments as heated as this.

One Ring to rule them all.

The whisper caused a chill to creep down his spine.

"Gondor needs no king, not least one without concern for her people!"

"You forgot your place, Steward–"

One Ring to find them.

No. The Ring couldn't have done this. How–?

An ancient memory resurfaced. (I have seen your heart and it is mine. Red hair and bright steel. Ghastly wail.)

"The Ring only serves its Master!"

One Ring to bring them all.

He must cut off its influence. Stop its tendrils from crawling into their minds and manipulating them from the inside. Isolate it. What was strong enough? His mental walls.

Clenching his fist, Harry dropped his Occlumency shields over the glinting, smug Ring on the plinth.

"EVERYONE SIT DOWN AND SILENCIO. This is a council called by Elrond to decide the fate of the West. Kindly hold your grievances and settle it after the council is over. Am I clear?"

And in the darkness bind them… Oh hello, Harry Potter.

Mute nods. Gandalf was staring at him now, eyes wide with horrified understanding.

"Now, if I may bring us back to the matter at hand, I believe we were about to discuss the messengers seeing to the destruction of the Ring."

Harry sat down. Tentatively, Bilbo began to speak, but he ignored the hobbit. All of his attention was turned inwards.

I will not. I will not.

You will not? Hmm, tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match somewhere—I wonder, now—yes, you want them back, don't you? They've all gone beyond (the Veil—green light—blank eyes) and you can't follow. (I do feel so sorry for all those people who have to stay… because they're not wanted at home.) But you could bring them back, couldn't you? You know how. You've done the research (turn the stone over in his hand, three times) (they're fetching him) (a life for a life. Dark magic, but what does it matter?) All you need to do is to put the Ring on. Feel the gold beneath your finger, perfectly circular, perfectly sized just claim it. Your family would be back. All your friends, all those who'd went beyond (the Doom, the Curse of Men). They will never leave you again. Never (Potter, who's got no parents).

Harald? Harald!

(A toddler-child-teenager-adult-man with colour-changing hair, a brunette with frizzy hair, red-heads and freckles all so fond. Antlers in the crowd, a stag now a man. Shaggy black dog, dogfather-godfather seriously-Siriusly—)

I will not.

Hmm, difficult. Very difficult. All those power and you don't use it. (Are you mental?—a trace of longing—It's the Deathstick, Harry.) People die in vain, they die in agony and you do not help. What happened to the saving-people-thing? You could have stopped Sauron if you had (there is no good or evil. There is only power) claimed your rightful title (three Hallows, which, if united, will make the possessor the master of Death) you know? Why settle only for Master of the Hallows? You could do so much more. No need for senseless deaths and desperate plans, going on the run or Undesirable Number One. There's so much more you could have accomplished—you can still accomplish. (Only power, and those too weak to seek it.)

Harald. Hearken to me.

I will not—Olórin?

Take away your shields, Harald. Take them away. There is no more need of them.

Take away his shields?

Alright.

Take the Ring—

He was suddenly alone in his mind. Alone as he should be. Revulsion roiled within him, and Harry suddenly felt nauseated.

"–do it," said a small voice, and he jerked, his gaze focusing on a hobbit… Frodo, yes, Frodo.

"I will take the Ring, though I do not know the way," said Frodo, looking thoroughly lost but standing straight, head held up.

There was a beat of silence.

"It is a heavy burden," Elrond said, and he sounded so tired, weary of the world and its woes. Harry felt an uncharacteristic spike of anger (what did he have to be weary of? He has only lived three Ages of this world, a mere blink of an eye) and tightened his Occlumency shields, raising walls upon walls of (unwill) impenetrable defences. "So heavy that none could lay it on another. I do not lay it on you, but if you take it freely, I will say that your choice is right."

"But you won't send him off alone, surely?" cried Sam, and he was suddenly in their midst, standing to Frodo. A faint murmur of surprise swept through the assembled group, and if he could (dared), Harry would have felt amused.

"No indeed," said Elrond, a smile on his lips. "You at least shall go with him. It is hardly possible to separate you from him, even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not."

The hobbit looked down and blushed. "A nice pickle we have landed ourselves in, Mr Frodo," he mumbled, not intending to be heard but was heard nonetheless by all gathered.

If only you knew, thought Harry, only just noticing his knuckle-white grip on the chair. Glorfindel was looking at him in concern now, and Gandalf was coming over from the other side of the circle, eyes worried. He wanted to laugh—or maybe to curse, or to rage, or to do something, but his body failed him and he did nothing.

...so I was planning to have the Fellowship all announced by the end of this chapter, but then I ...kinda... got carried away. Most of this was written two days before an exam, because that's apparently the only time inspiration strikes. Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed the chapter.

[7/1/16: Heavy revision. Multiple scenes added.]