Author's Note:

The plot bunnies have taken me hostage. No, really. They've duct-taped me to my computer until I've churned out something for each one of them, even though I have finals in two weeks. And I've had pneumonia. And I'm in college now. So, basically, the bunnies decided to take revenge on Real Life for the neglect they've suffered.

Disclaimer: I own neither Lord of the Rings/The Silmarillion nor Harry Potter. I just fit the pieces of their puzzles together, in a I-don't-like-that-Harry-married-Ginny-and-had-no-post-war-struggles-'cause-that's-unrealistic and a I-am-fascinated-with-Erestor,-Goldberry-and-Tom-Bombadil sort of way.

Shrugs In any case, here's my lovely little story that has somehow turned into an epic inside my head.

Five great mysteries there are which dwell in Arda, five figures of great power and unknown origins.

One, the eldest, makes her home on the peak of Caradhras, ceaselessly seeking knowledge. Few have seen her, and most who have number also among her kin.

The second abides in the far South, unusual for his flaming hair but respected for his skill at strategy.

The third and fourth dwell together near the fair and fertile land called the Shire by its new inhabitants. They live in happy harmony, singing away their limitless days, her pale hair wafting around a dreamy face and his round countenance rarely showing signs of solemnity.

The last, however, is little known and often overlooked, spending his eternal youth in the offering of quiet counsel, always near to the Wise yet never recognized for the bold power of legend. His appearance never changes, but he remains always on the outskirts of great events, taking refuge in the commonality of his coloring. Only four there are who would know him on sight: only they who followed him to Middle Earth in the time of its creation, fleeing from the memory of war. Even those who know of the First would never identify the lord of the five in the unassuming elf who gained the trust of Elrond Eärendilion, Lord of Imladris.

But lord he was, and mystery indeed, this elf who sat in silence within the great library of Rivendell, his quill scratching out the Tengwar characters of an account of the deceit of Annatar begun three millennia past. Of late, he had found himself increasingly dismayed by the dark presence within this world, for Sauron's recent attempts at conquest recalled to him the memories of another ring, this one set with an uncanny stone. He sighed the sigh of one who has seen too much strife, and laid down his quill, dusting powder over the glistening ink and setting the parchment aside to dry. He reached into his pocket and removed a small volume bound in gray leather. Opening to the first page, he dipped his quill in ink once more and began to write in a tongue not spoken in Arda since the elves first woke beneath the stars.

Hermione? I need your advice.

Moments later, another's handwriting appeared beneath his own.

Harry, what's wrong? I haven't heard of any more wars…

Círdan sent word. A group has arrived from the West, and most of them have the appearance of Edain, but a power only the Ainur wield. They are called Istari, but Men have begun to call them wizards.

The reply came back messy and blotched with the haste of she who wrote it.

What? Surely they are not from our homeland?

No, I believe they are Maiar. Men simply have made a subconscious connection between their power and ours. My concern is only that the newcomers will recognize me for what I am.

Why shouldn't they, Harry? Of us all, you are best equipped to aid the Free Peoples. Let them recognize you! You deserve to have your deeds known.

I also deserve my rest, Hermione. My anonymity is my shield from heroism. I will not take an active part; only aid those whom I may with words alone. I am so weary, Hermione.

I know, Harry. I know. Do you truly think these Istari will recognize you? They would be more likely, I think, to recognize Neville or Luna, who have had greater interaction in their own forms with the Ainur and Eldar. Even Ron or I would be more easily recognized as a being other than the acknowledged races than you, who have veiled your power and appearance with the semblance of the Eldar.

I do not believe so, but there is always a chance. One of the descriptions matches the personality of Olórin, and he has always been among the most perceptive of his brethren, outmatched by only a few, including Melian. Do you remember her reaction when we met her? I swear she didn't let me leave her husband's feast until I had eaten twice my weight.

You were still recovering then, Harry, and Melian knew that you wouldn't take care of yourself without being forced to do so.

Still! I swear she was channeling Mrs. Weasley.

Ron said the same thing, do you remember? Well, I have to leave now. I have a potion that needs stirring.

Bye, Hermione.

Harry closed the book and returned it to the pocket of his long dark blue robes. He picked up the sheet of parchment once more and began to write of the fall of Númenor.

A fortnight later, Harry sat in the same library, this time copying a message from Thranduil for the records, when someone came into the room behind him. Unperturbed, he continued writing, knowing that the intruder would speak when the silence became too unbearable. Moments later, a throat was cleared and he calmly set aside his quill, powdered the parchment for drying, set it to the side, stoppered the inkwell, and cleaned the point of his quill with mild alcohol before turning to face his visitor.

A golden-haired elf stood in the doorway, chin held high and posture straight. "Pardon my intrusion, but I was told I would find the Chief Advisor here? Could you tell him I require his presence?"

Harry gazed at the all-too-familiar elf sternly, calling on all of Professor McGonagall's influence to deal with the warrior he'd met in the First Age. "I am he, Lord Glorfindel."

Glorfindel started. "You are the Lord Erestor? How do you know who I am?" His eyes narrowed in suspicion, a single hand coming to rest on the pommel of the sword sheathed by his hip.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Peace, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower. There is no need to bare your blade in Imladris. 'Tis guarded by more than elves alone. As for my knowledge of your identity, I am a lore master. 'Twould be remiss of me if I did not recognize a hero of Gondolin. Further, we have in fact met before, many millennia ago, though I was called by another name. In Imladris, I am named Erestor, councilor and scholar."

Glorfindel's eyes returned to their normal width. "Truly we have met before? How strange that I do not recall having ever made your acquaintance!"

Harry chuckled mirthlessly. "'Tis not so strange in my eyes. Our meeting was brief, and I was e'er in King Turgon's shadow."

"But that is stranger yet! I thought I had known every ellon and elleth in the Hidden Kingdom, but ne'er do I recall meeting an elf of your appearance and name. Surely I should have some memory of our encounter?"

Harry smiled grimly. "Few e'er remember me, child of Aman. I am not easily brought to mind, save by those whom I serve and my four sworn kinsmen. And, I repeat, I had not the same name as I bear now. In those days, I was known as Fuingil. But that is neither here nor there. You require lodging, I believe?"

Glorfindel shook his head slightly as though to clear it. "Ah, yes, I do. Is there ought available?"

Harry smiled, a mere lifting of the corners of his mouth. "Of course. Imladris is still expanding. Lord Elrond's guest quarters are finally completed. You may stay there until you discover a room which suits your taste and needs. Come, I shall show you the way."

"No need, Lord Erestor. I shall simply enlist a guardsman's aid."

"Nonsense. You are honored here, Lord, for your part in the saving of Lord Elrond's sire." Harry shook his head firmly. "'Twould reflect poorly on our Lord's hospitality should you go unescorted through the halls the day of your arrival."

Glorfindel bowed his head in concession. "Very well. Lead on, councilor."

The elves departed, light-haired following dark, and strode through the halls filled with elves preparing for the night's feast. Many called out to the Chief Advisor, and small matters were dealt with smoothly, without pausing in their progress toward the guest quarters. Larger matters, when brought to his attention, were deferred until the councilor was back in his office.

Glofindel was not easily impressed. Many had been the warriors who tried and failed to win his admiration. But the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower knew competence when he saw it, and the raven-haired elf striding ahead of him showed it in every word the councilor spoke and every action taken.

Glorfindel was not easily impressed, but Erestor of Imladris, once Fuingil of Gondolin, was impressive.

He was also precisely what Glorfindel looked for in a friend: intelligent, honorable, and perceptive.

Glorfindel would befriend Erestor, no matter how long it took.

Of course, it would take three decades before the stubborn elf would even address him casually.