In LOTR with Harry Potter system

"You?" Saruman narrowed his eyes, his voice laced with skepticism. "And how exactly do you propose to prove it?"

Sylas stood his ground, meeting the White Wizard's gaze with calm resolve. "I possess a magic that can extract memories, mine or another's, and reveal them."

He raised his wand to his temple, gently touching it. 

A silver strand of memory shimmered into existence, drawn out like a thread of moonlight. It floated delicately from his skin, coiled softly at the wand's tip, alive with the essence of the moment it contained.

But memories, once extracted, required a vessel to be seen. A Pensieve would have been ideal, but none was at hand, and Sylas knew better than to ask any of these powerful figures to risk tampering with their minds.

He turned toward the tall elven figure bathed in moonlight. "Lady Galadriel," he said with deference, "I have heard that you wield the Mirror of Lórien, the power to reflect both what has been and what may yet come. Might I ask your help in showing this memory to the Council?"

Galadriel regarded him silently for a moment. Then, with a graceful nod, she replied, "As you wish."

She reached for a silver pitcher from the nearby table and walked to the edge of the balcony, where a crystal stream trickled beneath. With elegant movements, she scooped up water, the moonlight dancing across its surface, and poured it gently onto the polished stone table.

The water shimmered with quiet magic, rippling outward until it stilled, then glowed faintly like starlight on a calm lake.

At her signal, Sylas flicked the memory thread toward the liquid. It floated down, touched the glowing surface, and merged with it like mist dissolving into dawn.

The water pulsed once, and the memory began to play.

Images bloomed within the mirror, haunting and vivid. The tombs of the Barrow-downs shrouded in fog. The Witch-king of Angmar, cloaked in malice, rising from the darkness, possessing the remains of a wight. Sylas standing firm, wand alight. Then the road to Bree, where scores of wights surged like a wave from the shadows. Finally, Gandalf himself stood against the Witch-king, his staff blazing with white fire in a fierce battle of magic and will.

The Council leaned in to watch. Even Saruman stepped forward, his face unreadable, though the tension in his jaw betrayed his thoughts. The silence that followed the vision's end was heavy, pierced only by the quiet hiss of the water settling back into stillness.

No one spoke for a moment. The truth had been laid bare.

Even Saruman, so quick to dismiss before, could no longer deny the memory's clarity. And yet, pride is a hard habit to break.

He cleared his throat, voice sharp. "So it was the Witch-king. That much is clear," he conceded with visible reluctance. "But that alone does not confirm the return of Sauron."

His gaze swept the gathered faces, lingering on Galadriel and Elrond. "The Dark Lord was struck down. His body destroyed when Isildur severed the Ring from his hand. He is now but a spirit, scattered and powerless."

"And without the One Ring," Saruman added with a trace of finality, "he can never regain the strength needed to threaten Middle-earth again."

Elrond and Galadriel said nothing, but they moved to stand beside Gandalf, their silent presence a clear signal of support.

Saruman's eyes narrowed. That small gesture, simple as it was, stoked the embers of envy burning quietly within him. He was the head of the White Council, yet here he stood, outnumbered and alone.

"Very well," Saruman snapped, shifting the topic like a blade. "Let us set aside your ghost stories of Nazgûl for now. What of the Dwarves, Gandalf? That, too, demands an explanation."

His tone sharpened with each word, pressing like a weight.

"You always insist on meddling where there is no need. Stirring slumbering beasts, chasing shadows. We all know what lies beneath the Lonely Mountain, and yet you insist on sending a band of vagrants to wake it. You are inviting disaster."

Gandalf met his gaze calmly. "On the contrary, Saruman. That dragon, Smaug, belongs to no kingdom, no alliance. And if he were to side with the forces of darkness, especially those of the East… Middle-earth would suffer the consequences. Do you really believe the Enemy has no interest in such a weapon?"

"Allowing Thorin Oakenshield to reclaim Erebor is not meddling. It is a precaution. A line drawn in the sand, one that may yet hold back the tide."

As the two wizards stood locked in debate, Lindir, Elrond's steward, arrived bearing news.

"Thorin Oakenshield and his company have departed Rivendell," he announced, unable to hide the note of relief in his voice. "They left before dawn, along with the halfling."

It was no secret the Dwarves had tested Rivendell's hospitality to the limit. They had drained the wine cellars, devoured the pantries, turned delicate elven harps into firewood, disrupted the libraries with song and laughter, and, perhaps worst of all, bathed in the sacred moonlit fountains.

Yet Elrond had never once reprimanded them. Elven hospitality, after all, was not lightly given, nor easily withdrawn.

Still, now that the rowdy guests had gone, a quiet joy stirred through the valley. The elven folk, ever graceful, were already preparing a discreet celebration.

With the atmosphere soured by Saruman's obstinance, the White Council adjourned without resolution.

Though Galadriel and Elrond aligned more with Gandalf's foresight, they refrained from directly opposing Saruman, respecting his formal position as Council leader. Thus, Gandalf's proposal, that they unite and march against Dol Guldur, was rejected for now.

Frustrated but undeterred, Gandalf made a quiet vow. If no one else would act, he would.

He would go to Dol Guldur himself.

Before leaving Rivendell, Sylas approached Elrond with a request. With the Lord's blessing, he performed a bit of magic: he enchanted the main hearth of Rivendell's library with a connection to the Floo Network, linking it to the lone fireplace in the tower of Weathertop.

Thus, with the newly connected Floo Network, Sylas could now travel between Weathertop and Rivendell with ease.

As a gesture of thanks, he gifted Elrond a small velvet pouch containing Floo Powder, enough for ten one-way journeys. Elrond accepted the gift with quiet curiosity, intrigued by this strange green fire magic Sylas had introduced to his household.

The journey from Rivendell to the Lonely Mountain was a long and treacherous one, requiring them to cross the Misty Mountains. The paths ahead were steep and often swallowed by snow or fog.

So, Sylas left his enchanted carriage and his faithful pony, in the care of the Elves. The stablehands promised to pamper the creature with berries and song, which seemed to please the plump little pony immensely.

Sylas and Gandalf set off on foot, tracing Thorin's trail up into the heights.

Thorin Oakenshield and his company had left a full day ahead of them, but the two wizards were in no great hurry. They walked at a leisurely pace, exchanging stories and pausing often to admire the wild beauty of Middle-earth.

With the Palantír in hand, Sylas had little concern about losing track of the Dwarves.

"Where are they now?" Gandalf asked as he eased himself down onto a boulder, lighting his pipe and sending lazy rings of smoke into the cold air.

"Let's take a look." Sylas untied the leather pouch from his belt, reached inside, and pulled out a crystal orb that was clearly too large to have fit in such a small bag.

He peered into the orb, and the swirling mists inside cleared to reveal a vision. "Ah… They're nearing the High Pass already. We'll need to pick up the pace if we want to catch them before Midsummer."

He tucked the Palantír back into the pouch and took a long drink from his water flask.

Gandalf watched him with a mixture of curiosity and admiration. "Your magic never ceases to surprise me. Even this pouch, it's enchanted with spatial magic, isn't it?"

Sylas smiled. "That spell is called the Undetectable Extension Charm. It doesn't manipulate space itself, just stretches the inside of containers."

The charm was famously used on magical suitcases, tents, even broom closets. But few could master it to the degree Sylas had. Within the tiny pouch hung at his hip was an internal space over two meters wide, enough to hold his entire traveling inventory. Spare robes, scrolls, potions, tools, even his sword and dagger, all were tucked neatly inside.

Only his wand remained at his side.

Gandalf, ever a lover of practical comforts, had asked Sylas to enchant his pipe pouch as well. Now it held a month's worth of Shire-grown Old Toby, much to the Wizard's delight.

"No wonder Saruman says you're more Hobbit than Istari," Sylas teased.

Gandalf chuckled and tapped the ashes from his pipe. "He says that, but secretly he's jealous. He's always been too proud to admit that Hobbit tobacco is one of the finer joys of this world."

Then his tone grew thoughtful. "You underestimate yourself, Sylas. Your magic is different from ours. We draw from the world around us, its winds, waters, and stars. But you… you shape the world with your will alone. You say 'Let there be light,' and there is light."

"It may seem small now, but I see great promise in it."

"Oh, by the way, you now have the elven gem gifted by Lady Galadriel. Have you decided what wood you'll use? Once you've chosen, I'll begin crafting it for you."