Disclaimer: I only own Grey Tower, any characters you don't recognize, and the plot. Please read Elemental Genesis first before reading this.

I feel uncertain
Shadows whisper to me now
Sudden wind begins to blow

What is veiled now soon
Will be shown
Come walk with me through
The unknown
Stranger

"You idiot! Don't you realize what you're suggesting?!"

"Of course, I do! But that doesn't mean that we have to deny children their education over that little fact! They deserve the same rights to a magical education as the purebloods do!"

"Little fact," the first voice hissed in frustration and thinly veiled anger. "You call the Black Plague, the bloody pestilence that is killing off thousands of us, just a 'little fact'! The muggleborns are the ones most in contact with the wretched disease and the most likely to bring it here! All the hard work we've done to keep the wizarding community safe from this menace would have been for naught!"

Two men stood in the darkened corridors, the night pale from moonlight and starry outside the small window. The torchlight, dim gold, played along the walls with the shadows. One stood in the light, the fire dancing on light brown hair creating golden highlights, in robes the color of burgundy, with a face so handsome and attractive that it was almost divine. He leaned against the freshly hewn stone, the edges of each block sharp and perfect, his body language like that of an imperious and arrogant lion, his hand resting casually on the ruby-studded sword belted at his waist.

The other, taller man stood in the light of the moon, the white luminance making his skin even paler than it was, stark against the black robes he wore, the silver embroidery of snakes and the vibrant emeralds of his gold chain gleaming. His eyes were a piercing dark brown, hard and ruthless. Dark black hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail at the nape of his neck, though stray strands hung loose around his face. He was not awe-inspiring gorgeous like the other man. No, he was merely a normal man with no outstanding good looks to make him stand out in the crowd. But he possessed a striking aura of power and authority that drew the eye, much more so than physical attractiveness.

"It still isn't right," the one in burgundy said.

"Right be damned," the dark one proclaimed shortly. "Tell me that when you're dying of it in the hospital wing. Tell me that a thousand years later when the muggles finally outnumber us so much so that our freedom to do what we wish has diminished because we all died out during these times." With that and an impressive scowl, the dark robed man turned around with a flourish and began to walk away, his footsteps echoing in the silence.

But the other merely laughed. "Like that will happen, Slytherin! By the way, give my regards to Chryse…"

The perverted smile of the lighter haired man immediately vanished when the point of a wand was aimed directly in between his eyes. Those eyes, sharper than swords, ran through him as if he were a disgusting piece of trash. "Not satisfied with your wife, Gryffindor? Nor with Rowena or Helga?" he mocked. "Don't think I'm blind. Keep your womanizing disgusting self away from my wife." Not waiting for a reaction, the black robed man proceed to leave, leaving his opponent behind in that corridor, winding his way down the twisting corridors and stairs to the dungeons. His wife hadn't been pleased with the fact that she would be living in the lower levels, but she acquiesced. Because of this, he tried to make the dungeons as comfortable as possible.

As he reached for the handle of the door to his rooms, he paused when heard the faint strains of music floating through into the hallway. He smiled in contentment. It was late, the students and his son would be peacefully asleep. He let the music wash over him, the sweet strains comforting and relaxing him. He could physically feel his angry mood slowly slip away.

Then again, Chryse always had that calming affect on him.

He pushed open the heavy door and hissed a small greeting to the large dark green snake lounging comfortably on the armchair, its head resting on its coils in satisfaction. The music was louder know, the soul in the music palpable in its silver beauty. Sitting before the roaring fire, he smiled fondly at his small three year-old son who was sleeping peacefully on the sofa, apparently abandoning his picture book to frolic in the land of dreams. Though young Athanasius resembled his mother greatly in looks and personality, he could see his own traits showing. Indeed the child was clever enough at this age. He was a lovely child, the eyes he inherited from his mother innocent and serene when awake. Relaxing in the plush green chair, he looked on at his wife, the woman he fell in love with. Their meeting was by chance; one could even call it fate, though he was never one to believe in the subject of destiny and divination at all.

She stood there, in the firelight, but it didn't seem to cast any of its gold on her at all. To him, it always seemed as if she were shadows and silver, a different kind of radiance emanating from within. Her robes were dark green, in a strange style he had never seen, but what she insisted was worn in the Middle East. He did not question her, since they had met in the Constantinople, but he had never been farther east than that fair city. Tall and regal, her hair was a mix of dark brown and black, though once or twice he saw strands of silver intermingled within the dark that had nothing to do with age. His dark-haired goddess, he called her, and she always amused when he said that. Pale hands grasped the bow of the violin, the stringed instrument making melodies that were cathartic to his spirit.

"Gryffindor has bothered you again, hasn't he, Salazar?" she asked, no skip or delay in the song. Salazar knew this song well by now, but it never lost its charm to him. Its sweeping notes, its alternating rapid and slow rhythms, its dark undertones. Night's Aria, she said it was called, and played it when she wanted to be reminded of her family, wherever they were. He had, of course, met her brother Nathaniel…odd nutter, that he was. But it never ceased to amaze him how she always knew. She opened her eyes, that piercing dark blue flecked with gold and silver, containing worry for him. Worry for her son, peacefully slumbering.

"C'mon!"

"Hey, I'm trying!"

"Doesn't seem like it on my end, kiddo."

"Some cheerleader you are."

"Do I look like the type to be jumping around in a short pleated miniskirt, waving pompoms in the air wildly while screaming cheesy limericks of encouragement? Because if so, then I will be under the impression that you've been drinking or something."

Nuitari Hawking, the Black Dragon successor of the Arashi-Tenku elemental clan, grinned before returning back to his work. He had plenty of things to be happy about. Oh, certainly, he was usually happy. Most of the time he was in a good mood. But he had seen his doctor today, who really had only good news to share. His malnutrition was diminishing, thanks to good food and effective exercise. He had grown a few inches taller. Of course, he was still not as tall as two of his friends Bran or Mordecai, but he was finally reaching a more normal (and less embarrassing) height. All his injuries had healed with no problems whatsoever. Other than the fact that he still suffered from amnesia, he was okay and healthy, no longer as sickly or frail looking. Of course, he still had that strange thin scar on his forehead, shaped like a lightning bolt. But he didn't remember how he got in the first place. And it was barely visible from underneath his bangs.

But it was now completely proven. A good and loving family and home definitely made a spectacular difference.

He did admit that he had changed a lot since his sudden appearance in Grey Tower Town. Other than physically, though he did admit that his messy black hair still drew looks, particularly with the streaks of gold and silver in them from an accident a few months ago in the Eastern Starlands. And that he now had the tattoo of his clan on his left arm. He felt…more assured in himself. And he knew that this feeling of contentment was something completely new and foreign to him, but delightful all the same.

The boy was sitting Indian-style on his large bed, tracing patterns absently with a yew wand on the thick heavy fabric. His blazer, its left arm embroidered with the black dragon of the Arashi-Tenku, hung over the chair of his desk, the computer on top of it open to a report he had finished and printed about an hour ago. His large gable window was wide open, the last vestiges of a crimson sunset just noticeable over the horizon, cool autumn air fresh and exhilarating. On the tree outside, a green-eyed black cat with silver paws, gold-tipped ears and tail twitching as it tried to swat what was probably the last of the fireflies this year. Yes, Shadow was still staying loyally by his side here at 14 Zephyrus Court. His pet owl, his spirit guardian actually, Hedwig was out hunting. A dark green backpack lay abandoned by the door of his room, the white pages of textbooks and notebooks visible. Pictures and posters were hung up on the walls, the most prominent being a large photo of four teens: a tall boy with red hair, another tall boy with spiky light brown hair, a short dark-haired girl, and himself, all smiling widely while showing the camera the different colored tattoos on their left arms.

But Nuitari – or Night, as he preferred – wasn't concentrating on the items that made up his bedroom. His focus, and frustration, was the small rock that was sitting innocently on the coverlet. Though he did entertain himself that the rock was laughing (and laughing hard) at him for his efforts. A mirror floated nearby, though it did not reflect the room, but rather an older dark-haired man with blue eyes whose face held a perceptible similarity with the boy.

"Tom, why am I doing this?" Night asked pleadingly. "A rock is a rock. I don't think it wants to be turned into anything, whether it's a cat, a snake, or even a particularly brown cow."

Tom, the man in the mirror, smirked. "Because if you finish with this, we move on to more fun things. Don't you want to have fun?"

"I believe you said that before after we covered animal to animal transfiguration." He winced from the memory. "Neither Hedwig or Shadow approved of those lessons."

"They'll get over it." A loud angry feline hiss from the tree outside countered this.

"Well, you'll never know when you'll need some animal assistance," the older man continued, pointedly ignoring (and blushing at) that contradiction to his statement. "Take a break, you've done enough."

With resigned exhalation, he picked up the rock and placed it on his nightstand, doing the same with his wand. Well, it actually Tom's wand, but Tom let him have it to practice wizarding magic. Reaching over the side, he picked up a large leather case and unzipped the zipper. Pulling back on the case, he reached in and pulled out a polished violin and after it, the bow that belonged to it.

"Ah, the violin," Tom sighed. "I used to love playing that instrument."

"You played the violin?"

"Yep. It always made me feel better. Though I never really understood how I could play instinctively. Nor where the songs themselves came from."

Night nodded in agreement. The same thing happened to him. During music class, he picked up the instrument and began playing as if he had known how all his life.

…Maybe I knew how to play before I lost my memory…

It was the only plausible explanation he had for the moment.

"Now add 50 milliliters of the copper sulfate to the hydrochloric acid, armadillo bile, and essence of laurel," the icy voice of Professor Lavinia Coulter intoned imperiously. The woman herself walked up and down the desk aisles, observing the concoctions brewing with an expert and critical eye from behind her spectacles. "Stir counterclockwise slowly with your stirring rods while it heats. Do nothing else." Within seconds after this command was given, the splashing of liquids, the clinking of glass against glass, as well as the occasional of pain due to carelessness pervaded the room, a quiet murmur of conversation here and there. The students that filled this room wore a multitude of colors and a variety of clothing, but the main constant among them was that they all wore the same kind of blazer. Most were alarmingly attentive to their task, some even sweating profusely from the mere effort of making the correct measurements.

Large beakers full of a cerulean blue substance were on every triangular shaped table, clean vials held in place in racks, and graduated cylinders of every size stood tall in the center. Each table had three sinks, one for each student at one table to use. Binders everywhere were open, scribbled with notes and instructions, some of the neat pages stained with the color of chemicals and solutions. Bubbling beakers were held up by circular rings attached to stands, beneath them a merry flame contained in a clear glass orbs, producing just the right amount of heat. Diligently, the students work, eager to gain the perfect results.

It was at one such table that three boys, three friends, stood at their stations, doing the activity. The least attentive one, a boy with spiky light-brown hair whose blue eyes was focused on the professor rather than the concoction he was unconsciously mixing, wore a tan-colored blazer with a blue dragon sewn on. The boy in the black blazer embroidered with a red dragon that worked next to him, with dark red hair and with blue eyes as well, ignored his friend's inattention to concentrate completely on his task. The last of the them, a thin pale boy in the dark green blazer with striking emerald eyes, looked caught between apprehension and the urge to burst out laughing. He shook his head in amusement; the gold and silver stardust streaks in his messy hair catching a bit of the light. Respectively, these boys were Mordecai Freely, Bran Ravencroft, and Nuitari Hawking.

In reflection, Night wished Trina, the fourth in their group, was there with them. But she was quite happy to be in the far less difficult chemistry class of Dr. Lapiano than in the ever-feared Professor Coulter's class. One word came to his mind when he thought of that: lucky. Professor Coulter viewed the subject she taught as the greatest of the sciences, the foundation of the entire world and everything in existence, and enforced its significance in every lesson of hers. She loved chemistry and had no patience for those who couldn't see its subtle beauty, even less patience for those who dared to fall asleep while she explained the complex nature of ionic and covalent bonds. Night couldn't say that chemistry was his favorite class, but he thought it was okay. He wasn't particularly outstanding, but he did considerably well, probably due to his previous experiences with the icy professor.

Grey Tower High valued its high graduation rates and number of successful alumni. As a result, the hour-long classes started at eight and ended at four in the afternoon. No class consisted only of members from one or two clans. In every lesson and classroom Night went into, he met a multitude of other teenagers his age from other clans. The variety made it interesting, since he knew only a few people (mainly those who would succeed the leaders, like himself). Of course, they had heard of him.

He started the day in mathematics class, where lately Mr. Dalton was boggling his mind with what he called 'the simple topic of geometric proofs. Simple? Right…I'd like to see him completely memorize all those damned postulates. He had no problem with the subject matter. No, of course not. But he did have difficultly in memorizing over twenty-four rules and postulates, each one to be used to prove something else. It did not help when – as a joke in very poor taste – Dalton added in complex algebra to the problems on their latest test. How Victor Lerani managed to gain a 100 average baffled him.

Ms. Carmichael was a nice woman. Because of that, a number of the students took advantage of that kindness to treat the class as more or less a free period. Elemental Control was to teach the theory of various elemental techniques, such as manipulation and metamorphosis. Night was surprised that many of the spells that required a wand and the correct phrasing of words could be achieved with the same effects if an elemental concentrated their elemental energy correctly to do it. But, judging from the off-hand lesson that took only a day to cover, Night could only assume that this wasn't used a lot.

His Language Arts teacher was Ms. Bronte, an energetic woman with a distinct London accent. She had a habit of calling the subject she taught as 'English', to which she explained was the term they used in the United States, where she was part of an exchange program while in college. This was Bran's favorite class, the red-haired youth practically skipping to the door every day, ignoring the pointed looks of dislike that happened to follow him. Night liked Oliver Twist and he admitted that without shame. He could sympathize with the orphan's plight, of course. But enough to do a four page analysis of Dickens' style? That ruined it really. Not to mention, the presentations…

Gym…he was thankful that his lunch period followed soon after that. Fredericks, a veteran of World War II and a soldier in India, he pushed them relentlessly. "War is HELL!" the older man had screamed at them on their first day, eliciting raised eyebrows from Night and Trina. This philosophy comes from a man who had met Gandhi in person? Either way, it all surmounted to one thing.

Dodgeball.

After lunch, which he shared with all of his friends, he then went to chemistry with Professor Coulter. Usually lunch entailed an argument between Mordecai and Bran (though they called it a discussion) over something rather insignificant, before all four of them erupted into laughter. He didn't know why this happened, but he couldn't say that he didn't enjoy it.

His second to last class of the day was music with Mrs. Shepards, a stately woman with a benevolent smile. He had the option of taking art, but he decided on music instead. With Trina as a friend, it was impossible not to be involved in art in some way. Mrs. Shepards had been reluctant to let him into her program so late, but allowed it. Usually students were taught to play an instrument as well as learn to sing. She was quite surprised when she handed him a violin and he immediately began pouring out a song (a minuet, to be exact). Even more so when he claimed that he didn't remember ever playing one (which was the truth…he didn't). So, he was now part of the music program, alternating between singing and playing instruments every day.

Okay, he admitted it. He made a screeching cat sound good. But he wasn't perfect! And he was working on it…

The last class, History and Politics, was somewhat of a joke. Usually, their teacher just gave them typed notes for them to read and a few questions before sitting at his desk and letting them do what they wanted. According to Patricia Garamond (a wind elemental from the Seijaku-Shinrin), the man was trying to complete the 'perfect' thesis essay to submit to Oxford. And he started this essay two years ago. Mr. Weatherby was an extreme perfectionist. Though Night had no idea why he found the mention of the name 'Weatherby' so funny.

"I can't believe that you like Professor Coulter," Bran whispered, incredulity emphasizing every word of this statement. Night, looking quizzically over his notes, nodded in agreement. He was checking if he had – in fact – put in the right amount of the blue liquid – the copper sulfate.

The water elemental blinked in bemusement. "How can a person not?" He gesticulated madly, trying to convey his feelings. "I mean, look at her!" They all turned to observe their teacher, who was currently demonstrating to a particularly nervous student that she cared about her students' grades and her classroom, preventing what could have been a disaster while commenting on the quivering pupil's lack of listening skills. Night had to admit that Professor Coulter was very attractive. That was a fact. But he couldn't ignore the tiny detail that…she was Professor Coulter. And Professor Coulter was a class all her own. The spectacled woman stood now, arms crossed, the white lab coat she wore contrasting with her black slacks and dark blue turtleneck. "She's intelligent, beautiful, influential, and powerful! She's perfect!"

The chestnut-haired woman's glacial blue eyes looked up swiftly, so much so that Night swore that she heard Mordecai's last statement. "Freely, Ravencroft, Hawking! Less talking and more work!"

All three boys shared a look before returning back to their assigned task, amused smiles pulling at their lips.

"See you guys, tomorrow!"

"Bye, Night!"

"Good luck on that math test tomorrow!"

"Yeah, see guys you later!" he called back, waving as he went his separate way from his friends, adjusting his backpack to a more comfortable position.

It was always a joy to walk down Hallenby Drive. It was a newer part of Grey Tower, the houses being built at the beginning of the century during the great Victorian era. Spacious verandas and porches, their elaborate balustrades sweeping and wide, bay windows gleaming in the light of the setting sun. The perfume of lilacs, the essence of the long gone summer, hung faintly, like a ghost, in the late afternoon air. The autumn flowers would be in full bloom in just a few days, turning the flowerbeds into a riot of pale yellows and purples. Dimly glowing were the lanterns on the old elaborate iron lampposts, the water within them beginning to gleam with light. Graceful willows lined the serene deserted avenue, their long leaves and branches swaying in the breeze.

It was also the best shortcut to get home.

Night inhaled the crisp October air, reveling in its sharp and invigorating chill. Nevertheless, he tightened the green and silver scarf around his neck and pulled the gray coat closer to his body to retain his body's warmth. It was an old coat, originally Tom's, and dramatic looking with its buckles and belts. But it was warmer than any coat he had. It was October after all, with apparently no chance of an Indian summer, projected to be an especially cold fall. It was in the low 10s right now. His blazer, black shirt, and black jeans wouldn't keep him completely comfortable. And should he ever be attacked (one never knew with the Phantoms about), the spells on the coat repelled them as well as protected him from any damage.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, he continued down the empty street, enjoying each and every step he took. He never could exactly pinpoint why he enjoyed going home so much. Maybe it was the prospect of a delicious dinner lovingly cooked by his energetic grandmother. Or maybe it was the completely off-the-wall conversations that always took place when their eccentric neighbor, Hans Claybourne, came over for his dinner. Maybe it was just seeing his mother, whether it was when a smile graced her face when she heard his exploits at school or the stress of her own job. According to Gran, Zylle Hawking was always on edge and busy in the fall and spring, when the television seasons changed. It didn't matter to him though. He was always happy to see her.

A loud bark shattered his train of thoughts, causing him to jump in surprise. Alarmed, Night turned around and looked down. Right in front of him was a dog. A very large dog, with black fur as dark as death and light-colored eyes staring up at him with an almost unnerving intelligence. Panting slightly, it looked positively thrilled to see him, the animal's tail wagging a mile a minute. It was so familiar…

Light poured over the pebbles that made up gate, darkness surrounding him. He could hear his own heartbeat, wild and fast, in his ears. In the driveway of a suburban street, a large black dog stared back at him. Shocked, he stepped back…to trip over something…his arms flailing…

A black dog waited for him at the end of a dusty road, its tail wagging, a rolled up newspaper in its mouth. It was waiting for him…he was happy to see it…

With a start, he came back to the situation at hand. What was that? The second vision was one that he knew. It was the only memory he woke up from his coma, the only link to his past that he had. Could this be the…What am I thinking? He denied. What are the chances that this is the same dog? Considering what limited knowledge he had on probability, the chances of that happening were very low. Bending down to one knee, he was eye level with the great beast and put out a hand. To his immense surprise, the dog completely ignored the hand, instead lifting its two front paws onto his shoulders and gave him a huge lick on the face.

"Yuck…" Night scowled, though he petted the dog affectionately. "I guess you like me, don't you?"

His answer? Another wet lick to the face.

"Alright, alright I get the picture," Night laughed. "Let's see who you belong to now-" A loud screech sounded from the air, causing him to look up. Hedwig, who had been flying while he had been walking (he noticed that either she or Shadow followed him to school everyday), was swooping down rapidly. Black tipped white wings were fully spread, amber eyes holding the almost predatory quality of a protective mother. Night frowned in confusion, before a large pop returned his attention to the dog again.

Except the dog wasn't there. A dark-haired man in crimson red robes, clear blue eyes focused completely on him, replaced the friendly animal. The grip on his shoulders was almost vice-like, causing him to wince in pain. He didn't react, couldn't, the signals from his brain drawn to an utter halt. This stranger, like the dog, was familiar. He knew this man…trusted…

But Hedwig wouldn't react like that unless it was a threat. She was his spirit guardian, the one that protected him. Blinking back to the world, he began to struggle, trying to throw off the man's grip. He managed to get free and stand, but the man grabbed him tightly by the wrist while reaching into one of his robe's pockets. Dark shapes were appearing at the now lit windows, several doors slamming open. "Get away from me!"

It was the last thing he said before the world was abruptly thrown off balance.

Terror…fear…something was going to happen. Something bad…

Death…it was happening again.

Madame Pomfrey screamed as two people and a screeching owl suddenly appeared in her pristine white realm, the infirmary of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The long bearded older man in the dark purple robes merely sipped the cup of tea with incredible aplomb. But he was expecting them after all, taking a final sip of the Earl Grey before standing up. The man in the red robes was obviously Sirius Black, one arm thrashing wildly to dispel the attacks of one snowy owl, the other holding an unconscious young man with a small thin frame and telltale messy black hair. He frowned at the streaks of gold and silver running through the dark strands, but decided that for the moment, what Harry chose to do with his hair was not of any great importance.

With a wave of his wand, he froze the agitated avian. The matron went forward immediately, picking up and laying the animal on a bed. Her face contained skepticism and the headmaster noticed that the owl's wings were twitching slightly. But that was impossible…

"Thank you, headmaster," Sirius sighed, readjusting his hold on the still prone Harry. "Is that Hedwig?"

"I do believe it is," Dumbledore mused. "But if memory serves me right, Hedwig was killed by Dursley during the summer…maybe Harry has gotten himself another one."

The younger man snorted, all the while trying to keep Harry away from the fussing healer. "Damn good replacement, I can't tell the difference. But if he did get one, why didn't he contact us?" More struggle. "I'll handle it, Poppy! He's my godson!"

"I don't care if he's your honest-to-goodness son, Sirius Black! Hand him over to me and -"

A sharp crack issued from the area where Hed- no, the mysterious owl was. When he turned to inspect the noise, however, nothing had changed.

That wasn't necessarily the case with another person in the hospital wing, though.

The conversation came to an abrupt halt when the boy in question violently pushed himself away from his godfather, sharp green eyes that were as trademark as the now revealed thunderbolt scar on his forehead was. But there was something undeniably wrong. Those green eyes were…different, swiftly surveying the infirmary while also keeping a suspicious eye on them. His expression hardened when he saw the state of the owl.

He expected some joy, at least relief, but not the anger he could feel radiating from the boy. It was then that he noticed the boy's attire. Specifically, the distinctly Slytherin house scarf wrapped around Harry's neck. Was it an enchantment of some sorts?

What happened to you, Harry?

"Harry," Sirius began, his hands raised in a placating manner, but was interrupted.

Sorry for being so late about this. Thanks for waiting for it. I might go AWOL again soon, seeing that I was given three more projects and have finals to worry about now. I can't wait for summer! I'd finally be free of that.

Hope you enjoyed the chapter. Now, I have to go do a World History project and prepare for an English one.

This is in Celsius degrees. According to the converter, this would correspond to "low 50s" on the Fahrenheit scale.

The link to my Yahoo! Group is on my profile.

Raven Dragonclaw