Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: Alone Facing Darkness (#1425)
Author: Galadriel8891
Chapters: 19

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Archive: Tolkien
Category: Crossovers
Description: At the beginning of his Sixth Year at Hogwarts, Harry begins to hear voices in his head. To whom do these voices belong? And why does he see events through another's eyes when he dreams? Dumbledore says he has the answers. But then one of Voldemort's evil plots sends Harry, Ron, and Hermione far back in time to Middle Earth, trapping them to prevent them from interfering in his plans. While they accompany the Fellowship on the quest, what will they discover about themselves that may help them save the Wizarding world they came from? Chapter sixteen is completed...and OVER 1300 READS! Thank you so much....Please read and review!
Published: 07 Dec 2004
Updated: 08 Nov 2007
Warnings: Mild Violence; Character Death
Type: General
Characters: Harry, Frodo, Aragorn, Ron, Hermione, Fellowship


Chapter 1 - Voices and Visions

Disclaimer: I have not, do not, and will never own any of the characters in this fiction. They are the creations of JRR Tolkien and JK Rowling, to whom I mean no disrespect whatsoever.

So, after that very serious-sounding note, hello to whatever readers I may have. This is my first attempt at writing a fanfiction, so I ask you to read it with that in mind. (Mind you, I don’t think that the title’s that great either.)

I hope that I have written this well. However, I must warn you that as a major fan of both the Harry Potter series and LOTR, there are several HP spoilers – major ones – located throughout the story, especially in the first couple of chapters. If you are reading the HP series and do not want to know (for lack of a better phrase) what happens next, I suggest that you go out and borrow or buy all five books before reading this fanfic.

I’ve tried to make everything as clear as possible for those of you who haven’t read all five books that are currently published, but I don’t think that I’ll have spotted any possible sources of confusion (at least for me) since I know those books very well. Notify me if anything is unclear; I’ll try to remedy it.

I have no idea where my story is going to go in terms of its plot (besides the very basic Fellowship quest and all else that follows). I’ve always written like that; however, if anyone is willing to help me move the story along by sharing ideas, I’d appreciate that.




~Prologue~


Countless ages have passed since Ilúvatar first called forth the Ainur, since the first notes of their Great Music filtered out into the void and created reality, since the voice of Yavanna brought forth the Two Trees, Laurelin and Telperion, at whose blossoming the Count of Time began.

The world first created by the Valar has changed almost beyond recognition since those days of splendor. It has been through numberless eons of light and darkness, seen many battles both great and small. But as time marches on, as each Age dies and another is born anew, the events of each Age are eventually turned history to legend to myth. And even these myths are eventually forgotten by the wise.

It is said that in Mandos, in the Halls of Waiting, are the souls of the Elves slain in battle or through utter grief, awaiting rebirth. But what of Men, whose greatest gift and yet sorrow is death? Very few souls of Men enter the world again. But among them there is one soul so strong and pure in its goodness that its presence among the living seems to be for only one purpose: to counter the deepest, darkest kind of evil.

Very few times in the history of the world has there been a villain of such great power and such blackness of heart that this soul had to be brought forth. The only time remembered by the wise, and very dimly at that, occurred at the end of the Third Age of the world. The Hobbit Frodo Baggins destroyed the One Ring in the fires of Mount Doom, dissolving the great power the Dark Lord Sauron held in Middle-Earth. But this tale has been embroidered and picked at so often that the true details are long forgotten.

The name of Middle-Earth may be beyond recall, the races of Elves and Dwarves long lost to Men, but this soul has been born again to fight a new, dark evil.

Such is his fate until the End of Days.



~Chapter 1: Voices and Visions~


September 1, 1996: The Hogwarts Express

The sky was heavy and dark as the Hogwarts Express sped north out of London through hills and forests, a long snake of cars being pulled along by the scarlet steam engine. Large droplets of rain pelted at the widows of the cars.

Sitting alone in a compartment, Harry Potter watched the landscape slide by with his bespectacled green eyes. The weather, dark and gloomy as it was, seemed to be echoing his mood.

Harry sighed and slouched down in his seat. His current appearance suggested that of a young man who no longer cared about anything. His jet-black hair, uncombed, was messier that it usually was, his Muggle clothes – he would change into his wizard’s robes later – were rumpled and unkempt. Pulling the round glasses off his face, he shut out the world by pressing his palms to his eyes and sat there, thinking.

It seemed so long ago – five years, in fact – that he had first ridden this train on his way to the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. That day, he had met Ron Weasley and the two of them had become fast friends. Hermione Granger had joined them after they had saved her life on the Halloween of their first year. Right now, both of them were sitting up front with the rest of the prefects. His two best friends would be here a little later; Harry was saving seats for them.

It was back then, five – no, six – years ago that he had learned that there was a reason for the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, a reason why he made all sorts of odd things happen without meaning to. That there was a way out of the hellish life of Number Four, Privet Drive, where his Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon treated him little better than they would a dog, at least one they didn’t particularly care for. His mother and father, lost to him before he could remember, had been wizards, and so was he.

Always, he had been glad to return to Hogwarts. It was because he had friends there, because he felt that he belonged there. It was the closest thing to a true home Harry had ever had.

Then, in his third year, Harry discovered that he had a godfather, albeit one who was a convicted criminal. But Sirius Black was innocent; he had also been James Potter’s best friend and was willing to take Harry to live with him once his name was cleared. Faced with the prospect of leaving Privet drive behind forever, Harry’s spirits had been lifted considerably. But now even that faint hope had been extinguished. Sirius was dead, murdered just like Harry’s parents had been, all because of a prophecy concerning Harry and Lord Voldemort.

Harry stared out the window and clenched his fists. Voldemort, in his insane bid for absolute power, was the reason that many families, not just Harry’s, were in shambles. Nearly sixteen years ago, there had been a prophecy stating that a boy such as Harry would be the one to fight Voldemort. The prophecy was clear: One had to kill the other before the world would settle down again, for good or for ill.

*Neither can live while the other survives*, Harry thought bitterly, recalling the prophecy’s exact words.

Voldemort had arrived at the Potters’ house on Halloween of that fateful year. He had murdered Harry’s parents before attempting to kill the little boy as well. But the curse had backfired. Voldemort, reduced to little more than a spirit, fled; Harry had somehow escaped with only a cut on the forehead. That too, had been in the prophecy – Voldemort would had *marked him as his equal,* whatever that meant. Harry had discovered that some of Voldemort’s own powers had transferred to himself, including the ability to speak to snakes, not to mention the strange link that the scar seemed to have forged between himself and Voldemort.

So Harry, orphaned at age one, had been sent to live with his aunt and uncle. For ten long years the secret of his wizarding ability had been kept from him, for they both hated magic. And then the secret of his scar came out: He had narrowly escaped his first encounter with Voldemort, and, unbeknownst to him, he was a celebrity in the wizarding world. Since then, Harry had learned other things about that scar. It provided a sort of link to Voldemort’s mind. When it throbbed painfully – as it was always doing now, ever since Voldemort had returned to his body – Voldemort was either usually euphoric or livid. Since his arrival at Hogwarts, Harry had narrowly escaped Voldemort four times. He wondered how many chances he had left.

*I’ve escaped,* he thought, *but what about those who haven’t? What about Cedric? Sirius? It’s all my fault they’re dead…if I hadn’t convinced Cedric to take the Triwizard Cup with me, if I hadn’t decided to play the hero last year, they’d still be alive…No one KNOWS how this feels, to be singled out, separated from everyone because of some great deed I have to do…No one understands how lonely a path it is…*

*You should know,* a small voice said to him. *You’ve walked it before.*

And then a woman’s voice. It was a low voice, very ethereal and wise. *This task was appointed to you. If you do not find a way, no one will.*

Harry jerked slightly. *Now where did that thought come from?* Bad enough that he was picking up Voldemort’s thoughts, now he had to hear more thoughts that weren’t his own. The voice was wrong, he decided. He only knew the feeling of loneliness from the sixteen years he had lived.

Harry looked despondently out the rain-splattered window. He wished there was someone to talk to, like Ron or Hermione. It wasn’t that he missed them – Ron had invited them both over to his house at the end of the summer – he just needed to hear someone else talking to him to reassure him that he wasn’t completely alone in the world. He’d felt so solitary ever since he’d learned about the prophecy. It was as if he had been cut off from the rest of the world, marked out as he was. He was never normal, and never would be. It had been such a long time since he had been genuinely happy.

The compartment door slid open.

As if in an answer to his wish for companionship, Ron and Hermione walked in, both already dressed in their wizards’ robes.

“Hey, Harry!" Ron said. “Anything interesting happen while we were gone?”

“No, not really. I was mostly sitting and reading a bit – *Quidditch Though the Ages* – no one walked in.”

“I would think that it would have been better to look over one of your new textbooks,” said Hermione.

“Give him a break, Hermione, school hasn’t really even started yet!” Ron was sorting through an assortment of brightly wrapped packages. “I’m starved, being a prefect is too much work…there was actually something to do this year, a scuffle broke out among a couple of the midgets – ”

“*First years*, Ron…”

“ – and Hermione and I happened to be the ones patrolling that car at that time. They had no idea how to use a wand whatsoever…Only a few sparks, but still…”

Harry sat back and listened as Ron spoke. The conversation between the three friends flew from topic to topic as the train wound its way through the pouring rain.

* * * * * * * * * *

They arrived at Hogwarts just after dark had fallen. The rain had subsided to a fine mist.

“Firs’ years! Over ’ere, please! Firs’ years! Al righ’, you three?”

Hagrid’s gigantic form towered above the students as he beamed at Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Even with this show of friendship, some of the first years still seemed intimidated by the half-giant.

“It’s all right, he’s much nicer than he looks,” Hermione said to a frightened-looking girl.

The girl looked at Hermione, still unconvinced.

At that moment, however, the carriages that would take the older students to the castle drove up. Ron got into one, shouting for Hermione and Harry.

“Are you going to stand there for the rest of the night? There’s food waiting up at the castle, I’m starving!”

* * * * * * * * * *

The Great Hall was buzzing with activity. Students were moving about, finding their friends and getting seats. Seeing their fellow sixth years sitting at the Gryffindor table, Harry, Ron and Hermione walked over and sat down.

“Had a good summer, Harry?” asked Dean Thomas.

“Yeah…”

He still couldn’t do it. He was at Hogwarts, and he wasn’t feeling truly happy. There was a great gaping hole inside him where Sirius once had been, one that could never be filled. He looked around him at the people contentedly talking with their friends, wishing that he were someone else.

And then, for the very briefest instant, he was no longer sitting inside the Great Hall. It was very odd…He was outside in the open air, he felt so inexplicably carefree. Many people were dancing around him – several curly-haired ones of his own height, and there, off to the side, was an old man in grey robes, laughing merrily as he danced. It was obviously some sort of celebration. He felt himself laugh as he watched his friend dance with the young woman he liked…

“Harry?”

Harry snapped back to reality. Ron was looking at him with a puzzled expression.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing…Just something I thought about.” And in a sense that was true…though it was more like a vision had stolen upon him unawares…

Ron still looked unconvinced. “Well, I’m glad to hear you laugh, mate. It’s been a while since you have.”

“Tell you later.” Harry gave Ron a significant look, directing it at Hermione as well. Both gave a very small nod.

Hermione changed the subject. “So who do you think is our Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher this year?”

Harry scanned the staff table. “I don’t see anyone new…”

At that moment, the doors to the Great Hall opened. In walked a line of first years, about to be sorted into the four Houses – Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. Professor McGonagall led them in, carrying a three-legged stool and a very ragged-looking hat. The Sorting Hat. She placed the hat upon the stool. For a moment it did nothing, then it opened up the rip at the brim and began to sing.

"Dear students of the Hogwarts School
I must divide you now
Into four Houses, all different for
The qualities they show.
To Gryffindor the bravest go
To Ravenclaw the clever,
In Slytherin the cunning are,
To Hufflepuff, the loyal forever.
I do not wish to separate you
But sadly, that’s my task.
To keep a little unity
Is all that I will ask.
We all can learn the importance of
A strong alliance here
In the story of our founders four
Which makes many shed a tear.
The school was founded in unity
To teach all those who came,
The founders chose their students
But their views were not the same.
Said Slytherin, “Pure blood, no less
Is worthy of our teaching.”
But the three others shook their heads,
For he was overreaching.
And so one day he left them.
The school was broken then
By inter-House contention
And will remain till…when?
I beseech you in these dark times
To stand together strong.
And so now I shall Sort you,
For I have reached the end of my song."

The Hall was silent for a few seconds. Then Dumbledore began clapping his hands. The whole school followed suit.

Professor McGonagall unrolled a scroll. “When I call your name, you will sit down on the stool and place the Sorting Hat on your head…”

Harry and his friends weren’t paying attention. “That’s the second year in a row it’s told us to stand united,” said Ron. “How bad d’you reckon it thinks this whole thing’s going to be?”

Harry and Hermione didn’t answer.

When the final first year was Sorted, Dumbledore stood up.

“Welcome, welcome, to our first years, and to those of you who are returning. I am aware of the fact that you must be hungry –”

“Tell me about it,” mumbled Ron.

“– but you must forgive me for making my start-of term announcements right now. I feel that I must talk to you while you are still awake and not sleepy from eating too much food.” Dumbledore’s blue eyes, usually twinkling, looked weary behind his half-moon glasses. “First of all…the Forbidden Forest is completely off-limits to students at all times. Secondly, no one is to be out on the grounds after dark.

“I know that most of you are expecting a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Several of you may have noticed that there are no new faces along the staff table. That is because…” he paused for an instant before continuing, “I am to be your new teacher.”

A stunned sort of silence greeted this remark. Harry looked up and down the Hall. Most of the students – except the Slytherins, of course – looked thrilled to some degree. Some wore mixed expressions.

“He’s going to be our teacher?” Hermione whispered. “But that’s wonderful! Seeing as he’s the only one who Voldemort – oh, Ron, do get used to hearing it – he’s the only one Voldemort’s afraid of, it’s absolutely perfect that he’s teaching us!”

Dumbledore continued. “I must warn you once again of the threat that hangs over us all. You all now know that Lord Voldemort has indeed returned. In these dark times, I will be imparting my knowledge to you as best as I can. And now, with that…eat up!”

He clapped his hands and the food appeared on the tables.

* * * * * * * * * *

The feast passed very quietly. In light of the Sorting Hat’s song and Dumbledore’s speech, it was no wonder that the students didn’t make much conversation.

When Harry reached his dormitory, he was so exhausted that he immediately went to bed. He lay there for a few moments, thinking about Dumbledore’s speech…it really was good that Dumbledore would be teaching the students…especially now that Voldemort was back…

He turned over onto his side, now pondering the meaning behind his strange vision in the Great Hall and the voice that he had heard on the train. He hoped it had nothing to do with Voldemort entering his mind…he still hadn’t mastered Occlumency, perhaps he would ask Dumbledore about that…He wanted no more nightmares about dark passages and locked doors…

Turning over once again, Harry fell into a mercifully dreamless sleep.


Chapter 2 - A Silver Hand

Diclaimers: Short and to the point - I own nothing.


~Chapter 2: A Silver Hand~


Harry awoke the next morning to a silent dormitory. This meant that either the four other boys were still asleep, or that they had all gone down to breakfast. Harry watched the dust motes dancing in the sliver of light that the curtains around his bed let in for a moment before getting up and putting on his glasses.

Looking around the dormitory, he saw that everyone else had already gone. He got dressed and went to the Great Hall.

When he arrived downstairs, he saw that Ron and Hermione were already at the Gryffindor table, comparing schedules. Hermione spotted him first. “Over here, Harry!” she said, waving.

Harry made his way over to where his two friends were sitting. Ron handed him his schedule, saying, “Looks like today’s not going to be that bad…Defense Against the Dark Arts with Dumbledore first, the Transfiguration and then…” Ron looked at his schedule again. “Charms with Flitwick. Probably the best schedule we’ve had in a long time.”

Harry nodded his assent before beginning to eat. Suddenly, Hermione asked, “Harry, I’ve just remembered something…you were going to tell us something last night but never got around to it.”

“Not here…” Harry protested.

“Harry, no one is listening.” Ron looked up expectantly too.

“Well, then…” Harry wasn’t exactly sure how to describe his vision to them. “Twice last night, I…er…well, I thought some things that weren’t my thoughts, d’you follow?”

They were looking at him blankly.

“Well, I’m not sure how to tell you about them…the first time it was a sort of…voice…that spoke to me, and then later in the Great Hall it was as if…” he swallowed. “It was almost like I was not here, as if I were somewhere else, looking through another person’s eyes, thinking his thoughts.”

Now Hermione looked worried. “Is it Voldemort again? Oh, Harry, I told you that you should have worked on Occlumency harder last year…”

“It wasn’t Voldemort…Somehow I know that, the vision wasn’t coming from him. It came from me. I don’t know how to explain how I know that…I just know.”

“You should talk to Dumbledore, Harry,” said Ron. “Remember what I told you before…Hearing things that no one else can…”

“…is dangerous, even in the wizarding world,” Harry finished. “I know Ron, I’m not that thick. It’s just that…I don’t know, I don’t particularly want to confide in Dumbledore any more.”

“What has he ever done to deserve that, Harry?” hissed Hermione. “He’s done nothing but help you for the past six years…maybe more! He’s always been on your side. Sometimes I think that you refuse to see that, that we are all with you, that you’re not alone…”

“But I am alone, Hermione. More than you’ll even know.” He regretted this instantly.

Hermione looked as though she had been slapped in the face. “Say you don’t mean that Harry,” she said in a dangerous tone. “Take it back…”

“Or what, you’ll hex me?”

“All too right, I will! Ron, back me up…”

“She’s right, Harry. You’ve been acting like such a martyr lately…”

“I have bloody well not! And if that’s how you see me…well, it’s your own problem!” Harry grabbed his schedule, shoved it in his bag, and stormed off without eating.

Once he passed through the doors, however, he realized how foolish he had been. First of all, he’d picked a fight with Ron and Hermione; secondly, he hadn’t taken a bite to eat. Not wanting to confront his two friends before class, he decided to head for the library. He had nearly thirty minutes left before Defense Against the Dark Arts.

The library was empty except for Madam Pince. She regarded him suspiciously for a few moments, then, apparently deciding that he wasn’t a threat to her precious books, she turned around without a word. Harry deposited his bag in a chair and selected a book at random before flopping down on another comfortable chair.

His head was buzzing with thoughts; he wasn’t really reading. He opened the red leather covers of the book and glanced briefly at the title. *There and Back Again…*

A shrill screech echoed behind him. Turning around, he saw Madam Pince swooping down on him. “What do you think you are doing, boy? That is one of the oldest books in the library, it is not to be defiled by your filthy hands, give it to me!”

Harry handed her the book, wondering why it was out on a shelf and not in the Restricted Section if it really was as old a valuable as she said it was.

“Now, out! OUT!” The librarian waved her wand and sent Harry’s bag chasing him past the shelves to the door.

Harry decided to head for the classroom early, having nowhere else to go. He found his way there easily.

The door was already ajar. He pushed it open to reveal the classroom, decorated in the sixth different way he had seen it since his arrival at Hogwarts some six years previously. It had been rather plain when Professor Quirrell had been the teacher. Professor Lockhart had put up large grinning posters of himself. Professor Lupin almost always had an interesting Dark creature on the desk, ready for study. Mad-Eye Moody had kept it quite plain as well. Professor Umbridge – Harry shook with a twinge of disgust – had covered the desk with several frilly pink items, a truly horrible sight.

Now, the desk held a few of the small silver instruments that Harry had previously seen in the Headmaster’s office. On the desk was also what Harry recognized as Dumbledore’s Pensieve, the stone bowl where Dumbledore put thoughts he wished to keep out of his head. They swirled in the basin, looking like a silvery mist. And on the board…

Harry groaned. Occlumency. The ability to block someone – namely Voldemort and his followers – from reading one’s mind. Well, the correct term for that was Legilimency, and apparently there was a difference, but Snape had never bothered to give Harry much of an explanation when he gave Harry lessons a year ago.

“Is something the matter, Harry?”

Harry jumped. There, sitting meditatively in the corner of the classroom, was Dumbledore. “Professor, I just…”

He thought about what Hermione had said. Much as he didn’t want to admit it, she was quite right. Nothing Dumbledore had ever done had hurt Harry, other than revealing the prophecy to him. The only reason Dumbledore had kept his distance from Harry the previous year was for Harry’s protection. With this in mind, Harry began to speak.

“Well, Professor…I think I owe you an apology.”

“Whatever for?” The gaze blue eyes behind the half-moon glasses was piercing.

“For…er…for my being such a prat last year, I really don’t know how else to phrase it.”

“My dear boy,” Dumbledore said quietly, “You do not have to apologize for that. I was young once too, long ago. I know what it is to lose someone important to you at a young age. It is a terrible feeling. There is a void inside you an emotional hole that the person once occupied. Harry, in my many years I have experienced that all too many times.”

Harry had no words to respond to this, so he continued: “Right…er…secondly, sir, I’ve been seeing and hearing things that I shouldn’t be. Thoughts that aren’t mine, seeing things I haven’t looked at, stuff like that. And I have this feeling that this time it isn’t Voldemort invading my head. I just…know.”

Dumbledore tipped his head to the side, looking thoughtful. “What sort of thoughts, Harry?”

“Nothing that is in any way related to Voldemort…first, on the train, it was really strange…I was thinking of how lonely I am, having to face evil pretty much all by myself, you know, how I’m the only one who can accomplish that task. Then out of nowhere, I heard a voice telling me that I’d…what were the exact words…‘walked that path before.’ And then there was another voice. I recognize it somehow, as though I’ve hear it before…It belongs to a woman, I’m sure, but it’s very deep…Funny,” he closed his eyes for a moment. “I think I can put a face to that voice…golden hair, blue eyes, all dressed in white with a silver and diamond ring on her finger…” He opened his eyes and looked at Dumbledore.

The headmaster’s face was pale, his lips compressed in a thin line much like Professor McGonagall’s. “Go on,” he said.

Harry hesitated. It seemed as though Dumbledore had been on the verge of telling him something. It was very odd that he had been able to recall something like that. He continued, “That night, at the feast, I had this…vision would be the word, I guess.”

“Tell me what you saw.”

“It was as if I were looking through someone else’s eyes, literally. I saw a party of some sort, several people with curly hair dancing, they wore no shoes…there was an old man launching fireworks…and also I remember something about a person, I felt as though he were a friend of some sort, he was dancing with someone he liked.” He closed his eyes again and pictured this…friend. Kind brown eyes, hair bleached and skin tanned from working long hours in the sun. A gardener. Sam. Yes, that was his name. My dear Sam. The thought came, as everything else, unbidden. This time Harry did not speak his thoughts. He opened his eyes again. Dumbledore was regarding him curiously, waiting for him to go on.

“That’s all I can remember, sir. Except that right after that, I laughed…as though something was funny. Not the maniacal kind of laughter that overtook me last year when my mind was connected to Voldemort’s. Just a happy kind of laugh, the kind of someone having a good time.”

Dumbledore’s expression had become grave. “Harry, I believe that there is more to the fight between yourself and Voldemort than we ever realized. I suspected it all along, but never had any proof to back it up, but now with what you’re telling me…” the headmaster trailed off. “The fact that there was any sort of prophecy should have put it beyond any doubt. It is, without a shadow of a doubt, indeed fate that you should be the one to combat this evil.”

Harry was impatient for Dumbledore to stop speaking in riddles and just get to the heart of the matter. “I don’t understand, Professor.”

“You will, Harry, you will. I will tell you sometime…But not now, class is about to start.”

The students were filing in and taking seats. Harry nodded to Dumbledore and said, “Thanks,” before moving off to sit with Ron and Hermione.

At first his two friends didn’t look at him. He decided to start the conversation. “I talked to Dumbledore,” he said.

Hermione didn’t even look up. “Good.” Harry hated it when she used that I-told-you-so tone. Ron didn’t say anything.

“Look, guys, I’m sorry…”

“What did Dumbledore say?” Ron asked, his tone rather businesslike.

“You sound like Percy,” Harry said.

“I do not!”

Harry chuckled. “Do to. Dumbledore has answers. Said there’s more to whatever’s between Voldemort and me than he realized.”

“Don’t try to make yourself sound so important,” Hermione said. He still didn’t like her tone.

“Hermione…Ron…I said I was sorry!”

She sniffed. “Apology accepted.” Her tone then changed, along with her expression. “Just try not to lash out at Ron and me all the time, all right?”

Harry was about to argue that he didn’t, but decided not to. “Okay.” At this point Dumbledore’s lecture began and the conversation ended.

“Occlumency!” Dumbledore was saying. “It is a very useful skill, especially in times such as these. Who can tell me what it is?”

Two hands shot up. Harry’s and Hermione’s. Dumbledore called on Hermione.

“Occlumency is the ability to effectively shield one’s mind from a Legilemens, a wizard who…”

When the lesson finally ended, Dumbledore beckoned to Harry. As the students left the classroom, he quietly told Harry, “I shall send word of when I will speak to you by owl, most likely. I shall be busy for the rest of the week, and it may be the most effective method of communication with you.”

* * *

Harry reached his dormitory later that night, feeling very tired but more than a little afraid to sleep. In his dreams, he revisited the Department of Mysteries and watched Sirius fall. He saw the graveyard in which Voldemort had been restored to his original self, where Cedric Diggory had died…So much death, so many places he did not want to revisit in his nightmares. But he had little control over what he thought after his mind slipped over the borders of consciousness.

That night, he had another sort of dream. It wasn’t a place he had seen before. It was more like…a fortress atop a hill, though he couldn’t see much because there was no light whatsoever. He felt a something bump into him from behind. Turning his head, he saw that there were three very small men around him. They wore no shoes. He looked down. He was dressed in very strange garb, a cloak…and he too wore no shoes. Strange. In his hand – was it his own hand? – he carried an unsheathed sword.

Then he felt an icy tingle running down his spine, fear coursing through his veins. The sky seemed to grow darker than it already was. It was almost as if…No.

Five creatures were advancing upon him and the other three little men. They looked like dementors, the darkness and the sudden chill in the air that followed them combined with the fear they instilled…They had to be…

But they weren’t. There was no frantic screaming in his head, no replay of his worst memories…and though these creatures were tall, they were nowhere near the twelve-foot height of a dementor. The way they moved as well…they didn’t glide, but rather stepped forward like people. He watched, frozen with fear, as they came ever closer.

The creatures raised their swords as one. One of the little men shouted and lashed out at the nearest creature; his sword was turned back and he was thrust toward a pillar easily, winded. He recognized it as the gardener he had seen, Sam.

The two other small people stood between him and the creatures fearfully, raising their own weapons. With no more than a reach, the tallest of the creatures scared them away.

And at last a terrible realization struck Harry’s sleeping mind. They wanted him.

But what did they want? He felt the sword slip from his hands, heard the clatter of metal on stone…He stumbled backwards, tripping over his own feet and falling to the ground on his back. He reached into his pocket, expecting to pull out his wand to perform the Patronus Charm…perhaps that would drive these black-robed creatures away…

But there was no wand in his pocket, only a perfectly circular ring of solid gold. It seemed as though it whispered to him to place it upon his finger…and then from somewhere at the back of his mind came a dim memory of being told to never put it on…

As he stared at it, dumbfounded, the leader of the creatures turned its head toward him. This was what they wanted? What could they want with a ring? Panicked, he watched as the leader drew a knife and advanced.

Not knowing what else to do, he slipped the ring on his finger just as the creature raised its knife, poised directly over him.

And then, for some strange reason, the shapes turned from black to white. While everything else had faded from sight, he could see them more clearly…The five creatures looked like men long dead, and each had a crown upon its head. Tattered robes whipped around them. A voice was whispering something in an uncouth tongue.

Slowly, inexorably, the hand that wore the ring was drawn upwards towards the hand of the one holding the knife. The long, pale fingers of the creature didn’t touch the ring, but rather they made a gesture over it as if to say, give it to me.

Harry’s mind reeled. Why not? It was only a dream.

But within the dream, something told him that he must not give up the ring, lest there be death and destruction throughout all the land. With an effort, he pulled his hand back, clutching it to his chest.

The creature with the knife recoiled briefly before stabbing.

Instantly he felt a pain in his left shoulder, as though a poisonous dart of ice had pierced it there. It was almost like when the basilisk’s fang had punctured his right arm in second year…only this time it was like ice rather than white-hot…

Harry woke, panting and wiping cold sweat off his face.

Where had that dream come from? Nothing about it was contained within his memory. Harry didn’t know what to make of it. While dreams without Voldemort were better than those with his face and high-pitched cackles, this one certainly wasn’t much better. Whose thoughts were they?

Harry got up and walked over to where a pitcher of water stood by the window. Looking down onto the grounds of the castle as he poured himself a glass, a memory stirred. Two and a half years ago, he had looked down there and seen Sirius as a dog walking with Hermione’s cat, Crookshanks…

If Sirius were alive…Don’t think about it, Harry told himself.

Drinking his water and replacing the glass on the table, Harry turned to walk back to be when he noticed a flutter of white outside the window.

It was Hedwig. Had Dumbledore really written that early?

Harry walked over to the window and opened it a crack to let the snowy owl in.

“Hedwig!” he whispered hoarsely, so as not to wake the four other boys in the dormitory. “What are you doing here?”

As if in an answer, the owl dropped a note on the table in front of him before giving a soft hoot.

“You can stay here for the rest of the night,” Harry said. “Just don’t wake up the others…”

Hedwig hooted quietly again and, in a soft rustle of white wings, she flew over to Harry’s bed, perched herself on a bedpost, and tucked her head under her wing before going to sleep.

Harry looked at the letter quizzically. His question was answered when he saw the narrow handwriting on the parchment. Dumbledore’s. Harry carefully tore the envelope open and withdrew the note.

Meet me outside the castle, halfway to Hagrid’s hut, and we shall talk there. You may bring Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger with you, if they wish to listen. I will tell you why you must be having your visions and hearing the voices, recognizing faces. No, it is not the Sight the Professor Trelawney speaks of, so you have no need to worry about that. ~Professor Dumbledore

Harry blinked and read the note again. Why outside the castle, of all places? Dumbledore had his office…in fact, he had two if he really wanted. Perhaps his explanation involved the stars? Harry snorted. Only centaurs thought in that way. Still, the headmaster usually had his own reasons for everything, so there was very little reason not to trust the note.

Reaching his bed, he fell into a dreamless sleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.

* * *

When Harry woke the next morning, the dormitory was empty and sunshine was already beginning to filter in through the windows. He reached for his glasses and put them on, only to find Hedwig perched on the bedpost, staring at him with large, amber eyes.

Harry tumbled out of bed and made his way toward the window. Hedwig followed, gliding silently on her white wings. She settled herself comfortably on Harry’s shoulder halfway there.

Harry turned his head a little sideways. “Go to the owlery, Hedwig, you deserve a proper rest and food. Why did you deliver it to me last night? Couldn’t it have waited until this morning? Was it that important?” Hedwig merely blinked at him. “Blimey, I have gone mad, asking all these questions to an owl…See you,” he said as the snowy owl took off out the window.

He watched until she rounded the corner of the castle, then he turned back and began to get dressed.

As he pulled the robe over his head, he thought again about his dream. What meaning was there behind it? His dreams of late had either been nightmares about Voldemort’s return or Sirius’s death, or of Voldemort’s personal thoughts. He hadn’t quite mastered Occlumency, though it was beginning to work…Still, where had this dream come from? There was nothing in it that related to his own life, nothing of his memories in it.

His eye fell on the small roll of parchment next to his pillow. And what did that cryptic note mean? He would take it to breakfast and show Ron and Hermione…Distractedly, he looked down at his foot to realize that he was trying to pull his hat on instead of his sock. He’d done that once before…Putting the garments where they properly belonged, he headed down to breakfast.

When, he reached the Great Hall he spotted Ron and Hermione sitting together at the Gryffindor table. Hermione waved him over.

“Good morning, Harry,” Hermione said brightly. “Here’s your schedule…Apparently we all have Care of Magical creatures together this morning…”

“Hagrid’s still teaching?” Harry asked, thinking of their half-giant friend.

“I guess so…Harry, is there something wrong? You still seem very out of sorts today,” Hermione commented.

“Tell us, mate.” Ron, who was devouring his breakfast as though he had been starved, looked up expectantly.

“This.” Harry showed them the note. “What do you make of it?”

“What does Dumbledore want with us tonight? Why can’t he talk to us now?” Ron asked.

“Maybe it’s too secret?” Hermione speculated.

“Then why outside? Why not in his office?”

“Oh, Ron, I don’t know. But Dumbledore always has a reason for doing anything he does, so I’d assume it would be safe to follow the instructions this note contains.”

“It’s still odd,” Ron said. “What did you think, Harry?”

“I agree with Hermione – Dumbledore is reasonable, even though I sometimes don’t like it. But I must admit, it looks more than a little suspicious.”

“Then we should ask Dumbledore himself,” Hermione said.

They finished their breakfasts and went to class, with every intention of speaking to Dumbledore during lunch or break. But they never got a chance. After eating hurriedly, they searched the school for Dumbledore but did not find him anywhere. And during break, Harry was accosted by Professor McGonagall, who asked him to be captain of the Quidditch team.

“Professor,” he said, “I really think that Ron should be captain…After all, I only played once last year…”

“Potter, do you really want to let this opportunity pass you by? Weasley is already a prefect, and everyone knows you are the best Seeker the school has seen in years.” McGonagall’s face looked hopeful. And it was quite something to be hearing compliments from her.

So Harry had agreed, after much deliberation, but by the time he had gotten away from his Head of House it was time to go to his next class.

That night, Harry, Ron, and Hermione made a point of staying in the Gryffindor common room, waiting for it to empty. Harry’s Invisibility Cloak – once his father’s – was under the seat cushion of his chair. For a few hours he sat there, not getting up, until he and his two friends had heard the sound of the last dormitory door closing at eleven o’clock. They donned their cloaks, for it was rather cold outdoors.

“I didn’t reckon we’d be sneaking out in the first week of school,” Ron said. “Usually we do it at the end of the year…”

Ron trailed off as Hermione led the way out, silently pushing the portrait of the Fat Lady open.

Fortunately, the corridors were empty and they were able to make it to the front entrance undetected. Suspiciously, the doors were not locked. However, thinking that the headmaster had left them open so that they could meet him, they continued on through. After they shut the main door quietly, they pulled off the Invisibility Cloak. Harry stuffed it under his cloak.

Crossing the lawn, they spotted another cloak-wrapped figure standing fifty paces away. Before they reached the figure – Dumbledore? – it moved off toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest, beckoning them to follow.

“Now why does he want us to go there?” Hermione asked quietly. Neither of the other two had an answer. They followed the figure to the trees. Away from Hagrid’s hut.

“Harry, I really don’t think we should follow…” Ron’s voice was trembling slightly.

“I don’t like it either, Ron…but after what you told me this morning, what do you think Dumbledore’d think if we just turned from him and ran?”

They had reached the edge of the forest. No one was there.

“Professor Dumbledore?” Harry called, his voice low. When there was no response, he spoke a little more loudly. “Professor?”

Dead silence.

The three friends stood there fearfully, waiting in the dark. The moonlight was obscured by thick clouds. What had happened to Dumbledore? Simultaneously, their hands went inside their cloaks to pull out their wands and provide them with light.

Then, quite suddenly, Harry heard a twig snap behind him. He whirled and saw a silver-colored hand being raised, most likely holding a wand. Before he, Ron, or Hermione could to anything, four voices had intoned the same spell: “Lumos!”

They froze. With a chill, Harry knew he recognized all four, but especially the high, cold voice that had haunted his dreams for the longest time. Four wand tips lit up, illuminating his, Ron’s, and Hermione’s fearful faces, as well of the faces of the three wizards and the one witch who had surrounded them. Lucius Malfoy, father of Harry’s Slytherin enemy, was there, having somehow escaped from the wizard prison of Azkaban. Peter Pettigrew, also called Wormtail, who had betrayed Harry’s parents to Voldemort. One of his hands, which had been used to resurrect Voldemort, had been replaced by the silver one Harry had seen. And – Harry felt a great surge of hatred – Bellatrix Lestrange, who had killed Sirius four months previously. He reached for his wand again and…

While he and his friends had stood there, dumbfounded, the wands of their captors were raised again. “Impedimenta!” Harry found himself unable to move or speak.

“Well, well, Harry Potter, we meet again.” Voldemort’s cold voice moved from behind Harry to in front of him. Harry looked resentfully on the pale, snakelike face, stared defiantly back into those red eyes. “You want to know what happened to your headmaster, I presume? He was never here.” Voldemort laughed. “It’s really quite useful to have Wormtail here…he was able to steal into Dumbledore’s classroom and overhear every word of your conversation while disguised as a rat.” He laughed again. “You are too easily fooled, Potter. But that is all the better for me.

“You think that I will kill you now? No, even though I know that I am protected from having the curse rebound on me once again, I will not risk it. You have ruined my plans too many times for my liking, Potter. I am going to do away with you now, but not in any way that you might think.

“I have no idea what Dumbledore was talking about when Wormtail overheard you. All I know is that there was never anything between you and me other than that one simply had to do away with the other, and that I shall be the one who prevails. I shall gain a following the like of which has never been seen, and I shall discover the secret to immortal life unhindered by you! Your friends will go with you too, they are just as interfering as you are!” Voldemort’s laughter seemed to be reaching a point where it was uncontrollable. Then, seeming to regain control of himself, he drew a very long, fine chain out of his pocket. From it dangled a tiny hourglass.

Harry made a small, strangled sound somewhere in the back of his throat. Voldemort and the other wizards smiled viciously.

“So you understand what I am going to do, Potter? It will do you no good. I have made this Time Turner specially for this purpose. It will send you back so far in time that I am absolutely sure that you will never come back. It will also cease to function as little more than a pretty trinket once it is used this time alone. You will live, grow old – or maybe not – and die, and never will be able to stop me!” With that, he threw the chain about Harry’s, Ron’s, and Hermione’s necks and gave the hourglass several turns.

The last thing Harry heard before the colors began to whirl around him was the maniacal laughter of Voldemort, Bellatrix, Pettigrew, and Malfoy.

* * *

The colors finally settled back into place after several minutes. Harry, Ron, and Hermione disentangled themselves from the chain, and Hermione stowed it in her pocket. When she saw Ron and Harry looking at her questioningly, she shrugged and said, “You never know, we might be able to make it work again. Now where are we?”

They looked around. They were in a village of some sort, near a gatehouse by the looks of it. Their trip in time had fortunately taken them to a spot in the shadows, out of everyone’s way. The ground was muddy, and it was pouring. Everywhere they looked the people were hooded and cloaked, looking unfriendly. The three friends were disheartened by the scene, completely lost. Still, they made an attempt to keep their heads, trying not show the panic that was welling inside each of them.

“Let’s wander around for a bit, get our bearings. Perhaps we’ve stumbled across a medieval village of some sort that was there before Hogwarts was?”

“Ron, if you’d read *Hogwarts, A History*, you’d know that there was nothing here when they began building the castle.”

“Hermione, this really isn’t the time,” Harry said. “We really should try to find out where we are and what year it is. There,” he said, pointing, “Let’s ask him.”

They walked up to a man standing next to a cart. “Excuse me,” Harry said, “but my companions and I have been traveling for such a long time and we’ve forgotten what year it is.”

The man looked at him suspiciously. “’Ere now, what’re those funny things on your face?” He turned away almost immediately.

“Looks like glasses haven’t been invented yet,” Harry said quietly. “Well, that didn’t seem to help, why don’t we just get out of the rain?”

Ron nodded. “Look, there’s a well lit place up ahead, only one on this street. Let’s try there.”

Harry and Hermione nodded in agreement. Picking their way through the mud and horse droppings and trying to dodge any carts that came down the street, they soon found themselves at a warm, well-lit in. Harry glanced at the sign. It read The Prancing Pony.

* * *

Just outside the gate where Harry and his friends had been transported, four Hobbits crouched behind the trees. The first one wrapped his cloak tighter about him and checked the muddy road. Seeing no one, he gestured to his companions and said, “Come on.”

Four small shadowy shapes crossed the road. The first Hobbit knocked on the gate. A small window, too high for Hobbits to see through, was opened and a bedraggled-looking man peered out. Seeing no one at his height, he shut that window, crouched, and opened the other one three feet above the ground. “What do you want?” he asked.

“We’re headed for The Prancing Pony.”

The gate opened. The man held a lantern above his “Hobbits! Four Hobbits! What’s more, out of the Shire by their talk. What business brings you to Bree?”

“We wish to stay at the inn. Our business is our own.”

“All right young sir, I meant no offense. It’s my business to ask questions after nightfall. There’s been talk of strange folk abroad; you can’t be too careful.” The gatekeeper stood aside and let the Hobbits pass.

With that, Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin entered the village of Bree.


Chapter 3 - A Night in Bree

I now have a beta reader! Not an OSA member, though. I just run my work by my sister, another huge LOTR/HP fan. She has taken the time to read over all my work, point out any errors, and even add a few ideas. Much thanks to her.

On another note - here is where more LOTR scenes begin to show up. Just to inform everyone, I am using scenes from the movie version because I personally am more familiar with it. I've directly used dialogue from the movie, and NO, once again, I do not own it. I own nothing other than (most of) the dialogue in the scenes involving the HP characters. None of the characters are mine, as are none of the settings.

Yet another note - I've edited this chapter; someone very helpfully pointed out that perhaps Strider's character wasn't suspicious enough of the Hogwarts kids, plus I've fixed a typo or two. So just check it out again if you want to.

Other than that, dear readers, thank you very much for the excellent reviews (I love you all)! Those of you who are new to this story, please review it. I hope that you continue to enjoy this fanfiction as I continue posting.


~Chapter 3: A Night in Bree~

The Prancing Pony was not anything like Hermione’s idea of a comfortable inn. It was loud, smoky, and worse, she seemed to be the only female present.

Because of this, she had kept her bushy hair tied back and her hood up, despite the fact that the warmth emanating from the fireplace had sufficiently warmed her from the cold and wet of the outdoors. She was surprised at how well Ron and Harry seemed to be taking this – at least, neither had completely lost his head. Yet. It was only a matter of time before the three of them fully realized what had happened.

Inwardly, she cursed Harry and Ron for their stupidity in allowing themselves to believe that the note had really been from Dumbledore. Then again, she had been the one insisting that any oddities they found in the message had a logical explanation, once the headmaster spelled it out. Still, none of them had expected Voldemort to move so quickly this year. They hadn’t anticipated Pettigrew’s spying on them in the castle. Well, she supposed that Harry and Ron – and herself, for that matter – could be forgiven for being so gullible. One would think that after the fiasco last year that had resulted in Sirius’s death, the three of them would have learned their lesson. But they hadn’t.

Harry and Ron returned, having gotten up to inquire about where they were and, of course, to buy food. Sliding onto the bench beside her, Ron spoke. “Well, ’Mione, we’ve found out where we are. The village of Bree.” Hermione found herself blushing slightly. She liked it when he called her by his own shortened version of her name.

“No idea about when, though,” Harry said. “The innkeeper just looked at us rather oddly and said something about the year 3018 of the Third Age, whatever that meant.” He pushed a mug toward her. “Try this, Ron and I think it’s quite good.”

She eyed it dubiously. “What is it?”

“Some kind of alcohol – ale, I think. Nothing like a butterbeer from Hogsmeade, but it’s something.”

She sipped it. “Not bad. But how did you pay for this?”

Harry paused, his mug halfway to his mouth, so he could answer. “Well, I spent a short while trying to convince the innkeeper to take some silver Sickles…he wouldn’t take them, but then Ron did something to turn them into coins from now. Whenever now is. Said he saw the coins used and could replicate them.”

Hermione gave Ron a look of approval. “Really? Sounds like a complicated bit of Transfiguration.”

Ron shrugged. “Useful charm Fred and George made up, though it’s like leprechaun gold. The money turns back into whatever it was after a day or so.”

A thought suddenly struck Hermione. “Ron, what if you and Harry were seen? This doesn’t seem like a place for Wizards – I for one don’t see any people discussing broomsticks or Quidditch, potions, or spells. We ought to refrain from using our wands right now…that may be dangerous.”

“The innkeeper’s back was turned.”

“That doesn’t mean that no one else was watching! I would imagine that they would be interested in two young men poking what seem to be prettily carved sticks at a pile of silver! There’s nothing in this village that remotely kindles my interest. Everyone here’s a Muggle, don’t you get it, you two?” She continued her diatribe. “I don’t see any people who are as out of place as we are…”

From where they sat, the door appeared to open on its own, letting in a rush of chilly air. When the man standing in front of the door moved aside, however, the two young wizards and witch saw four very small people entering the inn. Hermione’s tirade ended mid-sentence. Ron smirked.

“You were saying?”

She sighed. “Well, all right, you’ve made your point. Just keep your wands out of sight.”

The two young men nodded. “Of course.”

Hermione’s eyes, hidden by the hood of her cloak, followed the four small people to their table – right next to where she, Harry, and Ron sat. She watched, fascinated by the way their bodies were proportioned just like those of normal people, but that they were all little more than three and a half feet tall…No, it couldn’t be…

She’d read about just these sort of beings in a book in the school library a few years ago…She’d discovered it in a high, dusty shelf of the Restricted Section and had borrowed it in order to study the runes written in it…The name for them was Periannath. Halflings. Or, as the book – There and Back Again – stated on the first page, Hobbits. Which meant they had gone so far back in time that they were in an age long forgotten, an age long before the rise of the ancient empires that Muggles studied.

No, this age was one that greatly preceded those civilizations. They were in a time where magic – or at least some form of it – was still part of everyday life. They had been unceremoniously sent to Middle Earth, the name for Britain so long ago. And the village of Bree had been where Hogwarts now stood.

“Hermione?”

Ron’s voice interrupted her ruminations. “What?”

“What’re you looking at? You’ve got that look again, the one you get when you’ve just thought of something.”

Barely moving her mouth and indicating behind the two wizards by pointing ever so slightly, she said, “Look. I’ve read about them. I know where – well, when - we are.”

Harry and Ron turned their heads ever so slightly. She watched as their eyes widened slightly before they turned back to face her.

“What are they?” Harry whispered.

* * *

Frodo Baggins was growing uneasy. He had already asked the innkeeper about Gandalf, but he had only gotten the response:

“Not seen him for six months.”

As he sat at the table with Sam Gamgee and Pippin Took, Frodo peered glumly into his mug. Gandalf had said he would meet them at Bree, and he had never known the Wizard to be late. Ever. So what was wrong? What had happened to the Wizard, that he was unable to meet the Hobbits?

Sam was sitting next to him, shifting uneasily. To reassure his friend – and himself – Frodo said, “Sam. He’ll be here. He’ll come.”

His companion did not respond.

His cousin Merry Brandybuck returned to the table, carrying a large tankard – at least, it was enormous from a Hobbit’s point of view. Pippin eyed it curiously. “What’s that?”

Merry was smacking his lips in anticipation. “This, my friend, is a pint.” And with that, he commenced drinking.

“It comes in pints?” Pippin’s voice was both incredulous and excited.

The only response he got out of Merry was an enthusiastic “Mmm!”

“I’m getting one.” Pippin rose and, with a determined look, made his way up to the bar.

Sam called out after him, “But you’ve had a whole half already!” Seeing that Pippin was not paying any attention, he turned back to Frodo. It was then that he observed a hooded figure sitting in the corner of the room, smoking a pipe. He sat there for a long while already, and it seemed that he was watching the Hobbits intently. Particularly Frodo. Nudging the Hobbit sitting next to him and pointing, he said, “That fellow’s done nothing but stare at you ever since we arrived.”

Frodo’s blue eyes shifted ever so slightly, resting on the figure in the corner. Spotting the innkeeper walking past, he reached out and asked, “Excuse me. That man over there in the corner, who is he?”

The innkeeper’s gaze followed Frodo’s hand. “He’s one of them Rangers. What his right name is I’ve never heard, but around here he’s known as Strider.” The innkeeper’s tone carried a hint of caution.

“Strider.” Frodo repeated the name softly as he turned the Ring over and over in his hands. It was so perfect; a perfect circle, smooth and shiny gold that never became damaged. Who would want to destroy such a lovely thing? His breathing grew shallow as another internal struggle began…He heard the Ring’s voice, chanting his name, telling him to keep it, to put it on…Bagginssss, it hissed…he was about to slip it on…

“Baggins?” Pippin’s voice. Frodo came out of his trance and whirled around. “Sure I know a Baggins! He’s over there. Frodo Baggins. He’s my second cousin, once removed on his mother’s side…”

Panicking, Frodo clutched the Ring in his hand and leapt up from the table, pushing through the crowd towards the younger Hobbit. He had told his companions to keep the name of Baggins a secret, because it was not safe outside of the Shire. He had even introduced himself as Mr. Underhill to the innkeeper. “Pippin!” he cried, grabbing his cousin’s coat.

Pippin became unbalanced for a few moments, ale sloshing out of his tankard. “Steady on, Frodo!” Frodo, losing his balance as well, fell backwards, and the Ring, which had been held tightly in his hand, came loose and went flying into the air. He reached out to snatch it from midair…It landed on his finger…

To all observers, Frodo vanished from sight, seeming to disappear into the ground. And Pippin stood there, staring blankly at the place on the floor where his cousin had been.

* * *

Harry had received multiple shocks within the past five minutes. First, when he and Ron had turned to look at the table of small men behind them, he had recognized one of them as Sam, the one he’d told Dumbledore about. Two of the others – what were their names? – seemed vaguely familiar. In fact, he’d been feeling all along as though he’d visited this place, this inn, before.

In fact, the next scene – which he had watched out of the corner of his eye – was almost out of a memory long forgotten in the back of his mind. Only this time, he was seeing it from an outsider’s view…

He watched as the dark-haired one ran over and grabbed his companion’s green coat, watched as he fell over on his back…

A flash of gold…

Ash nazg durbatuluk, ash nazg gimbatul…

And suddenly memories that were not of his sixteen years in life surfaced in his mind. A quest to save the land. Pain. A band of gold that kept its holder’s very being bound to it. Darkness. A fiery Eye, with a pupil slitted like a cat’s, much like Voldemort’s were…

Then the small man disappeared. Harry knew what had happened. The gold ring had slipped onto his finger, not really hiding him from view, but exposing him to the Eye.

It was then that Harry realized whose eyes he was seeing through.

But why?

* * *

Frodo looked around wildly. The Ring had somehow managed to slip onto his finger, and now the world around him had turned rather blurry. Suddenly he heard a voice.

“You cannot hide.” It was low, menacing, uncouth. The voice of Sauron.

As Frodo turned, the Eye seemed to come closer and burn more brightly, threatening him. “I see you,” the voice continued. “There is no life in the void…”

He cowered, shielding his face from the fire.

“…only death…”

Wrenching the Ring from his index finger, Frodo shook his head and glanced around, breathing deeply to calm himself. Then a hand roughly grabbed him by the shoulder. It was the man who had been sitting in the corner, still hooded. In a low voice, the man said, “You drew far too much attention to yourself – Mr. Underhill.”

Something about the man’s voice told Frodo that he did not think that “Underhill” was Frodo’s true name. He was frightened by the stranger; how did he know that Frodo was lying? Was he an agent of the Enemy? He did not want to think about it. The stranger pulled Frodo up and pushed him up the stairs.

This had not been unnoticed by the other three Hobbits. Sam stood up and silently padded his way up the stairs, followed by Merry and Pippin, one carrying a chair and the other a candlestick.

* * *

Harry had witnessed the entire exchange between the hooded man and the dark-haired Hobbit out of the corner of his eye. He watched as the man picked the Hobbit up, gave him a small push, and followed him upstairs.

The sight made him more than a little uneasy. There was something about the way the man had sat in the corner watching the table next to him and then taken one of its occupants upstairs that seemed rather threatening. The fact that he had kept the hood of his cloak up all the while only made it seem worse. Harry felt that he had to do something about it; he couldn’t leave the Hobbit to take on the man alone if it came to a fight. He knew he should have learned his lesson about playing the hero the previous year, but still…

He stood up abruptly, causing Ron and Hermione to look at him questioningly.

“Harry?” He didn’t answer, but instead strode off purposely in the direction of the stairs.

“Harry!” Hermione called. He ignored her voice, as he was already halfway up the stairs. Glancing up, he caught a glimpse of the three other Hobbits heading down the corridor to, he supposed, rescue their friend.

His hand went to the inside of his cloak to make sure his wand was there. His fingers curled around the slightly worn wood. Not that he was going to use it, but one could never be too sure. The man had been carrying a sword, and Harry’s only defense was his magic.

* * *

The man pushed the door open and gave Frodo a shove, sending him tumbling onto the floor of the room. “What do you want?” Frodo asked.

“A little more caution from you; that is no trinket you carry.”

Frodo’s breath caught. “I carry nothing.” His tone was unconvincing.

“Indeed.” The man strode over to the window, where several candles were set upon the sill, and put a candle out with his fingers. “I can avoid being seen when I wish…” he put out the other candles, “but to disappear entirely, that is a rare gift.” Saying this, he threw back his hood to reveal keen gray eyes and dark, rather unkempt hair.

“Who are you?” Frodo was growing more uneasy.

The man – Strider, the innkeeper had called him – did not answer his question, but rather posed another one. “Are you frightened?”

“Yes.”

“Not nearly frightened enough. I know what hunts you.” He took a few steps, when suddenly the door burst open. In one fluid movement, he whipped around and drew his sword, taking up a fighting stance.

“Let him go! Or I’ll have you, Longshanks!” Sam said fiercely, his hands curled in tight fists.

A very slight smile played around Strider’s lips. “You have a stout heart, little Hobbit,” he said, resheathing his sword, “but it will not save you.” He turned back to Frodo. “You can no longer wait for the Wizard, Frodo. They are coming.”

* * *

Harry had been lurking by the door, eavesdropping on the whole conversation. Most of it made no sense to him whatsoever, so he was considering returning to the table when he heard the man speak.

“You can no longer wait for the Wizard, Frodo. They are coming.”

Wizard? If there was another wizard in this miserable place, perhaps he could help Harry, Ron, and Hermione return to Hogwarts.

He was about to push open the door when a hand grasped the back of his robes. Harry whirled around and found himself facing Ron and Hermione.

“Harry, what are you doing?” hissed Hermione. “We’re not to meddle with the past, you know that!”

Harry disentangled himself from Hermione’s grasp. “I know, Hermione, I’m not that thick. It’s just…well, they mentioned a wizard, and I thought…maybe if there is another wizard here, he could help us…”

Ron looked interested. “Another wizard? D’you reckon we should ask? I mean, there can’t be that much harm in asking…”

He was about to lay his hand on the knob when Hermione planted herself in front of the door. “You just don’t understand it, do you? You have no idea what McGonagall told me when she gave me my Time-Turner! Wizards have been killed because they ran into their past selves!”

“Ah, but we’re not about run into our past selves, are we?” Ron was grinning triumphantly.

“All the same, we should try to be inconspicuous as possible. We can’t just barge in on private conversations…”

But the choice of remaining inconspicuous was taken from them. Just as Hermione finished her sentence, the door opened.

* * *

Frodo was a bit more than alarmed when Strider opened the door. Three figures stood outside, looking as surprised as he. It was clear that they were of the race of Men, for they were too tall to be hobbits, and their manner of speech was unlike that of the Elves. Strider regarded them suspiciously – and rightly so, for the matters he and the Hobbits had been discussing were to be kept very secret.

Strider pulled them in roughly and shut the door before drawing his sword and standing protectively over the Hobbits. “How much have you heard?” Strider asked sharply. The three people shifted nervously, eyeing his sword. It was now apparent that they were not yet fully grown, for the taller of two young Men was a good head shorter than the Ranger. The shorter young Man had a shock of untidy black hair and wore strange frames with circles of glass over his eyes. Sensing Frodo looking at him, he met the Hobbit’s gaze.

Frodo felt something of a jolt. He was looking into a pair of clear green eyes behind the odd lenses. But it was not the color of the eyes that startled him. There was something familiar about the boy, he just could not place his finger upon it. A sense of – kinship, it almost was. And so, despite the fact that he had never met the boy or his two companions before, he quietly said, “It’s all right, Strider. I think we can trust them.”

Strider turned around to face him. “How do you know that? You do not even fully trust me. You Hobbits are very naïve; these people, for all you know, may be agents of the Enemy…”

The young people seemed taken aback by Strider's final comment. "Strider, look at them. They look younger even than Pippin," he said, gesturing to his cousin. "Do you truly believe that someone could, at such a young age, could be of the Enemy?"

"The Enemy has many spies. They come in any shape and form, from birds in the air to Men like myself. You suspect that I am an agent of the Enemy; why are you so trusting of them? And even if you truly believed that they are on our side, why would you be so willing to involve them in your mission?"

“You will have to take my word for it.” The feeling Frodo had gotten when he met the young Man's eyes was not one of fear. He knew - though he was not entirely sure how - that the young Man and his companions could be trusted.

Strider shook his head and once again fixed his gaze upon the young people. “I do not know how much you have heard – nay, do not tell me – but since Frodo seems willing to take you into our confidence, I will. Now you have no choice but to remain with us. I will, however, be watching your every move. Make one move to harm either myself or these Hobbits, and...” He gestured wordlessly with his sword. All three looked shaken and tense.

The taller young man who had fiery red hair and a freckled face spoke up. “You might ask us our names, sir. And we’d like to know who you all are as well.”

Strider’s mouth twitched upward slightly at the young man’s forwardness. “Very well. I will introduce myself as Strider, but I have many names.” He sheathed his sword once again. The three teenagers then looked visibly more at ease.

The young man nodded. “I’m Ron Weasley.”

“Harry Potter,” his dark-haired companion said.

The final person revealed that she was a female when she threw back her hood to reveal rather bushy brown hair and keen brown eyes. “Hermione Granger.”

“What sort of names are those?” Pippin piped up. “I’m Pippin, by the way, and this is Merry,” he pointed “Frodo,” another point, “and that is Sam.”

“We might ask the same of you,” said Hermione, smiling slightly.

Strider spoke once again. “We all have names from the cultures here in Middle Earth. But never in my long lifetime have I heard names as strange as yours. Tell me, where did you come from?”

The three companions looked at each other quickly. “Well,” Harry began, “that’s a little hard to explain…”

“Let it suffice to say that you should not ask where we came from, but rather when we came from,” Hermione finished.

Frodo was astonished. “You mean to say that you are from…” He scrutinized their clothing carefully. It was certainly not from this Age of the world, and the materials were too new-looking to be of the past. “You are from the future?”

“That’s right,” Harry said. “It’s a long and complicated story…”

Over the next hour Harry and his friends explained to the Hobbits and Strider about Hogwarts, Lord Voldemort, and Time Turners. Frodo listened with fascination. “You mean that you are actually Wizards? Do you know of Gandalf?” His excitement grew. Wizards! They could indeed be helpful to his mission.

They looked at him blankly. “We don’t know any Gandalf,” Harry said. “I guess he’s who you were talking about when I was listening in on your conversation…I heard something about a Wizard, and I wondered if he would be able to help us out of this predicament.”

“I truly do not know if he would,” Strider said. “Now that you have finished telling your tale – you have, I presume?” He continued when they nodded. “We must give you our story. But first, I would like to ask you – how much do you know?”

Ron and Hermione looked startled when Harry spoke up. “I know it involves a Ring of some sort, and a quest to save Middle Earth, but not much else.”

“I don’t know if you could quite call it a quest yet,” Frodo said. Everyone’s eyes turned to him. “My mission was to bring it here to Bree, and to meet Gandalf,” he added. “Though now, since he is not here, I am not sure what to do. You see, the Ring is evil; it was made by the Dark Lord Sauron in the Second Age…”

With Strider’s help, he gave the young Wizards – it was still amazing to think that they were like Gandalf – a very shortened history of the Ring, Strider adding his own comments every now and then. How Sauron had forged it in the fires of Mount Doom, how he had made it so that he could rule over the other Rings of Power, the Three the Elves possessed and now hid, the Seven of the Dwarves which by now were long-lost or recaptured by Sauron, and the Nine for Men. It was of the Nine that Strider spoke of most fearfully.

“They are enslaved, bound to Sauron’s will. They forever feel the pull of the One Ring, always wanting to return it to their Master.”

Harry’s expression looked troubled. “Frodo put it on downstairs awhile ago. What are the consequences of that?”

Strider did not look at Harry when he responded, but rather at Frodo. “They will come. Tonight.”

Ron, Hermione, and the three other Hobbits looked troubled by this. “Because of that, all of you will be lodging here for tonight. Frodo, you are not to go to the rooms you have reserved for tonight. I will get the innkeeper to set up bolsters under the covers in that room, in case it is attacked. And you three,” he said, glancing around at Harry, Hermione, and Ron, “You are to be accompanying us, and I will feel safest if you were with us. Staying here will also ensure that you interfere as little as possible with the events of the present, which to you belong to the past.”

* * *

Later that night, the gatekeeper heard a knocking at the gate. He opened the small door upon it to see who was outside, then fear etched itself on every inch of his face. Before he could move, a dark horse knocked down the gate on top of him. Four riders galloped into Bree, heading for the Prancing Pony.

They entered the inn stealthily, creeping inside like shadows to a room with four beds. Here they would kill the one who kept their Master’s Ring and take it from him. They stood, one over each bed, swords pointing down. As one, they began stabbing.

When they felt they had stabbed the occupants of the beds enough to ensure they were dead, they threw back the covers – to reveal bolsters and pillows, white feathers flying everywhere. Their screams of rage as they made this discovery could be heard far into the night.

* * *

Frodo and Harry stood by the window, gazing at the room across the courtyard where the screeches were coming from. Merry, Pippin, and Sam, who had been soundly asleep on the bed, sat up, now wide-awake. Ron and Hermione, who had taken spaces on the floor, stirred and lifted their heads.

The Hobbit turned his blue gaze towards Strider, who was seated in a chair close to the dying embers of the fire holding his sword, looking out a window as well. “What are they?”

Strider turned his head to face him “They were once Men. Great kings of Men. Then Sauron the Deceiver gave to the Nine Rings of Power. Now they are slaves to his will.” His voice dropped closer to a whisper. “They are the Nazgul. Ringwraiths.” The name sent chills down Frodo’s spine. “And as I told you before, they are ever seeking the Ring. They will never stop hunting you.”

Frodo turned back to the window in time to see the Ringwraiths galloping away from the inn. The sight was not a comforting one.

* * *

Harry regarded the Hobbit standing next to him curiously. He had by now figured out that he was seeing events of Frodo’s life as memories he possessed, though he did not know why. He decided that he would speak to the Hobbit more often and get to know him better, to more fully understand this mental link that he, at least, was aware of.

It was frustrating, to be true, that he was seeing things that weren’t his own memories. Frodo’s memories were a nice change from Voldemort’s thoughts – he just now noticed that his scar had stopped throbbing as it usually did – but he wished he could understand it more. For now, a show of friendship to the Hobbit would be a good start.

“Mr. Baggins, I think you should try and get some sleep.”

The Hobbit turned his gaze upwards towards him. Those blue eyes were almost as unnerving as Dumbledore’s. Unlike Dumbledore’s eyes, however, Frodo’s eyes reflected emotions Harry often saw in his own. He had the look of someone being hunted. Fear stood out among everything else.

“I do not think I will be able to, Harry. And you may call me Frodo.”

“Frodo…I know what it feels like to be in your position. Having so many people relying on you – remember what I told you about the prophecy? So many people close to me have died because of it. My parents, my godfather, a person could consider a friend…”

“I’m sorry, Harry. I too know what it feels like to lose my parents.”

Harry looked down at the Hobbit. “I’m sorry too. How?”

“They drowned in a boating accident when I was twelve. Unlike you, though, I have never had anyone close to me murdered in cold blood…”

“What a pleasant conversation!” Strider said from his corner. “I would tell both of you to follow Harry’s advice. We’re starting out early tomorrow.”

Boy and Hobbit looked at each other. “Please, Frodo,” Harry said. “Just try. I don’t think you’ve had nightmares as bad as I have…”

“You have no idea.” Frodo’s voice was low.

“Er, well…I guess we have a lot in common, then. Maybe I’ll try teaching you Occlumency one of these days, it’ll help you close your mind to intrusion…”

Hermione snorted from her position on the floor. All right, so he hadn’t fully mastered Occlumency.

“I would appreciate that. Carrying this Ring is a task greater than you probably can imagine.”

“I don’t have to imagine it. I know.” Harry didn’t know where this came from; he just let it slip.

Frodo looked at him sharply. “What?”

“I…I…know what it feels like to have such a burden.” But that wasn’t what he had meant at all.

“Oh.” That was all the Hobbit said. So much for trying to strike up a friendship.

“Well, I guess we should listen to Strider…How early did you say we were getting up?” he asked the Man in the corner.

“At the crack of dawn, no later.”

Harry groaned. He hadn’t woken up that early since before he left the Dursleys for Hogwarts. “Good night, then, Frodo.”

The Hobbit did not reply, but remained standing next to the window. Harry fell asleep, wondering what he, Ron, and Hermione had gotten themselves into.


Chapter 4 - Amon Sul

Disclaimer: Once again, I own neither the characters nor the dialogue that comes from the films. Enjoy! And please review.



~ Chapter 4: Amon Sul ~

Strider was the first one to wake the next morning. After stretching the cramps sleeping in the chair by the window had caused, he woke the Hobbits, and while they went to find a pony to carry their belongings, he paid the innkeeper.

He returned to the room to find the young witch and wizards still fast asleep. He looked closely at their faces. So young! They could not yet be twenty. Such a sense of innocence radiated from their expressions that he could not possibly bring himself to believe that they were spies of Sauron. Frodo had been right to trust them. He paused as he looked over Harry’s face. There was the lightning-bolt scar the boy had explained the night before, just visible behind the thick black hair. This one’s expression was somehow different from those of his companions. To be so young, and to lose so much! Strider felt genuine sympathy for the young man. To know that a burden almost as great at Frodo’s was set upon his shoulders, to have had so many close to him die…it was no wonder that this boy’s expression, even in sleep, somewhat mirrored Frodo’s. Worry was etched into every feature of his face, and a hunted look dominated his eyes when he was awake.

Strider did not think he had endured so much suffering in all his years. Certainly, he had lost both his parents and killed more orcs than he could count, but he felt that no one should lose the sense of child-like innocence that came from being loved at such an early age. Harry had clearly had a most unhappy life.

He sighed and belted on his sword before giving Harry a gentle shake. “Wake up, young wizard. It is well after the crack of dawn.”

The boy groaned and burrowed deeper into his blankets. “You have to be joking.”

“I said, wake up! The Hobbits are already up and about, searching for a pony to carry our belongings…Speaking of which, have you any supplies? Any of you three?”

“No,” Harry said, putting on his glasses. He was still rather bleary-eyed.

Strider sighed. “Well, I suppose that we could find a few water skins, but we will not have time for much else.”

Ron and Hermione stirred, awakened by Harry and Strider’s conversation. “A little food would be nice,” Ron mumbled.

“There is bread downstairs.” Strider turned and headed out the door.

“It’s not going to be enough!” He heard Ron’s moan as he started down the stairs. Perfect – another one with the appetite of a Hobbit.

* * *

About ten minutes later, the eight companions left Bree by way of a more concealed gate. Just before they passed through, Strider said to the three Hogwarts students:

“The number of people in our company somewhat worries me. I can go unseen if I so desire, and Hobbits have a natural talent for blending in. But you…”

“We’ve been creeping around Hogwarts since we were in first year,” Harry said indignantly. “I also have this…” he said, pulling out his Invisibility Cloak. The silvery material rippled gently in the breeze.

“What is it?” Frodo asked, sounding intrigued.

In response to this, Harry threw the cloak about himself, chuckling slightly at the startled reactions of the four Hobbits. Even Strider, who seemed to always maintain his composure, jumped slightly upon seeing Harry’s head floating in midair.

“It was my dad’s,” he said. “It works better than any other form of hiding if you want to remain unseen.”

“Put it away!” Hermione hissed. “Someone might see it!”

“She is right,” Strider said. He nodded pointedly at the buildings behind them. The villagers were beginning to move about in order to do their morning tasks. “We must leave now.”

Harry stowed the cloak in his bag, together with his wand and water skin. Strider had only managed to find a small pack and water skin each for Ron, Hermione, and himself. There had been no time to find clothes that were neither more suitable for travel nor appropriate for the time they had been sent back to. The three of them were still wearing jeans and old sneakers together with sweaters Mrs. Weasley had knitted for each of them. Fortunately, their cloaks had become so dirty and mudstained the night before that they were able to hide these very out-of-place clothes beneath them. Harry had even taken off his glasses so as not to attract attention, though Strider had said something about being able to put them back on once they left Bree. This was lucky, for at the moment everything was rather out of focus. He had carefully placed them in his bag, tucked carefully into the folds of his Invisibility Cloak.

Strider led the way out of the gate, looking left and right to see if anyone was watching before allowing the rest of the small company to follow him out. He shut the gate before motioning the other seven travelers to follow his lead.

Harry watched as Merry walked faster to catch up to Frodo. “How do we know this Strider is a friend of Gandalf?”

“I think an agent of the Enemy would look fairer, but feel fouler.”

“He’s foul enough,” grumbled Merry.

“We have no choice but to trust him.”

‘But where’s he leading us?” asked Sam, who was leading their new pony.

Strider had overheard. “To Rivendell, Master Gamgee. To the house of Elrond.”

Sam’s voice was joyous. “Did you hear that? Rivendell! We’re going to see the Elves!”

“That’s all very nice…But Frodo, what of other three? Why do you trust them so?” Pippin glanced back at the Hogwarts students to see if they heard him talking. Harry gave no indication that he had.

Frodo sighed, judging by the heave of his shoulders. “I don’t know, Pippin. I just do. Besides, they are younger even than you. What kind of trouble do you think they could cause?”

Quite a bit of trouble, Harry thought. He, Ron and Hermione had not yet shown Strider and the Hobbits what their wands could do. Pippin did not answer.

* * *

A few days of traveling found them at the Midgewater Marshes. Harry and his friends hung at the back of the group, following Strider and the Hobbits through the unpleasantly wet and smelly wetland. The cold and damp was only made worse by the thousands of midges that nipped at the travelers’ skin. They constantly tried to swat them away, to no avail. Doing so only seemed to make it worse.

“What do they eat, when they can’t get Hobbit?” Merry said, sounding understandably vexed.

Pippin fell face forward into the foul water, spluttering as he stood back up, wet and shivering. Harry sighed as he watched the Hobbit follow the rest of the group. His sneakers, never having been made for this sort of traveling, were completely ruined, his jeans and socks were soaked through, and his cloak provided no warmth. What have I gotten us into? He sighed. It was going to be a very long journey.

They camped that night in the marshes, huddled around a campfire that Hermione had conjured for warmth. Strider had somehow managed to catch a deer to eat. When they were all fed, they all crept under their blankets, exhausted. All save Strider. He remained seated, watching for any attackers who might come through the nighttime fog.

Sleep did not come easily to Harry. The ground, while soft, was unpleasantly squishy, and the smells of the marsh were still bothersome. The fog added to the chill, and his clothes, still slightly damp even after Hermione had applied a drying spell, clung to his skin uncomfortably, and several small plants that had had the misfortune of being placed under his blanket were annoyingly poking into his back.

Just as he was about to doze off, a strange, haunting melody in a language he could not understand reached his ears. He raised his head a few inches to see Strider’s profile. The Ranger was the one singing.

“Who is she?” Slightly startled, Strider turned to face Frodo, who was lying down on the other side of the now dying fire. “The woman you sing of?”

“She was Luthien. An Elf maiden who gave her love to Beren, a mortal.”

“What happened to her?”

Strider’s voice was sad. “She died.” He turned again to the Hobbit. “Get some sleep, Frodo.”

Harry heard soft sound of the Hobbit lowering his head to the ground once again. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was Strider, staring pensively into the night.

* * *

The next day they came to the foot of a great hill with a crumbling fortress atop it. Strider paused to look at it.

“This was once the great watchtower of Amon Sul,” he said reflectively. He turned to the other travelers. “We shall rest here for tonight.”

The hill offered a spectacular view of the surrounding countryside – one could see for miles – but Frodo was so weary he did not notice it and was glad to reach the small alcove where they finally stopped. As he collapsed against the rock face of the hill with his companions, Strider took a roll off his back and laid it on the ground before the Hobbits, opening it to reveal four long knives. They would make a sword of the perfect size for a Hobbit.

“These are for you,” Strider said briskly, tossing each of the four Hobbits a sword. “Keep them close.” He looked over to where the two young wizards and the witch stood. “I have no weapons for you, as I was only expecting to take these four with me.”

Frodo saw the three young people look at each other. “Shall we show them, Hermione? Ron?” Harry asked. The other two nodded in response before pulling out what at first appeared to be small but finely carved and decorated strips of wood. They put Frodo in mind of Gandalf’s staff, though they were much smaller.

“These are our wands,” Harry said. “They’re what we use to perform spells.”

Strider was eyeing them dubiously. “And what do you hope to do when an enemy attacks you? I cannot believe that you could possibly use your wands and power alone to defend yourselves. Even Gandalf must use a sword, and Gandalf’s knowledge goes back farther than anyone remembers – save a few.”

Harry smiled. “Well, Strider, you see, last year we organized a group just for the purposes of learning Defense Against the Dark Arts, and I was the teacher. I’m sure some of those spells can come in handy even against non-magic folk…for instance…Accio sword!”

Strider and the Hobbits jumped visibly as Strider’s sword flew out of its sheath into Harry’s waiting hand. Frodo felt his heart beating more rapidly than normal; clearly, these young wizards had a brand of magic very different from Gandalf’s. The boy returned the sword to the Ranger before continuing to speak.

“Simple Summoning Charm – that one’s not even used for defense in our time. You get the idea?”

Strider still looked visibly shaken by the power these young people apparently possessed. “I understand clearly.”

“Please, you must believe us, we would never use our wands against you,” Hermione said.

“Keep your wands at hand, then. I am going to look around.” With that, the Ranger turned and left. He did not return by nightfall, and by that time, Frodo had fallen asleep.

“Want a tomato, Sam? Ron?”

“No, not that one, Merry, that one’s burned…”

“You’re the one who cooked it, young wizard. You take it.”

“Pass the bacon,” Pippin’s voice said.

This conversation, together with the crackling sound of a small fire, roused Frodo from his slumber. He sat up quickly and cried, “What are you doing?” A fire was the last thing they needed at the moment.

His cry woke Harry and Hermione as well. “Idiots!” he heard Hermione mutter.

“Tomatoes, sausages, and nice crispy bacon,” Merry gestured toward the food.

“We saved some for you, Mr. Frodo,” Sam added, holding up a plate.

“Put it out, you fools, put it out!” Frodo ran over the fire and stamped it out.

“Oh, that’s nice! Ash on my tomatoes!” Pippin said indiganantly.

Frodo was about to give a retort when a shrill, hair-raising shriek pierced the darkness of the night.

The Nazgul.

The four Hobbits scurried to the edge of their small campsite as the wizards stood up. Frodo’s blood chilled. There were five Wraiths. Unsheathing his sword, he turned to his companions and yelled, “Go!” The three other Hobbits unsheathed their swords, holding them rather unsteadily, and Harry, Ron and Hermione whipped out their wands. Then they all turned and ran to the highest point of the hill – the fortress. What was once Amon Sul.

* * *

Harry could hardly believe what he was seeing. Everything here – the fortress, the Nazgul, down to the four diminutive figures that followed in his wake – was exactly as it had been in his dream. Only this time, there was no waking.

They reached the ring of stones that had once been the fortress. Their shortness of breath was not only caused by their headlong sprint uphill.

Once there, the six companions formed a protective ring around Frodo. Harry saw them trying to conceal their fear, but their widened eyes and trembling hands betrayed them. He tried to steady his own shaking hands as they held his wand out defensively.

What spell would be most effective against these creatures? Harry recalled from his dream that they were almost like dementors. Perhaps the Patronus Charm? He continued mentally reciting all the hexes and defensive spells he knew, keeping his eyes shut until the sudden chill in the air and the icy tingle in his spine told him that the creatures had reached them.

There were five of them. The hobbits held their short swords up defensively; the wizards aimed their wands. As the small group backed away from the dark and menacing wraiths, the Nazgul continued a slow but steady advance, raising their five swords as one.

Sam could no longer take it. “Back, you devils!” he cried, lashing out at one of them with his sword. For all his effort, he was thrown backwards by the force of the Ringwraith’s sword into a wall and lay there, unable to get up.

Harry and his friends had positioned themselves behind Frodo, but now moved to the front with Merry and Pippin, planting themselves between the Hobbit and the wraiths. Ron pointed his wand at the wraith in the center. “Reducto!”

But his aim went awry, crumbling a stone statue instead of burning through the Ringwraith. Just like in Harry’s dream, the same tallest wraith reached out, scaring Merry and Pippin away. Without knowing why, Harry, Ron, and Hermione fled as well, hiding in the shadows and leaving Frodo standing alone.

A column stood between Frodo and Harry, obscuring the Hobbit from view. As Harry peered around the column to see the Hobbit, he heard the clatter of metal on stone. The sword had fallen from Frodo’s now limp hands and the Hobbit was running as fast as he could away from the robed figures before tripping and sprawling out on the ground. His hand went to his pocket, pulling out the Ring.

At that moment, Harry felt the stirrings of temptation. But memories told him to quash those feelings; there was nothing to be gained by possessing the Ring other than pain beyond belief. He knew that Men were weak when it came to the Ring. He was not Frodo, no matter how many memories of the Hobbit’s he possessed. He only hoped his heart could be as strong as Frodo’s.

All these thought stopped as Harry caught movement out of his peripheral vision. The tallest wraith had turned its head and was now looking directly at Frodo, whose eyes widened even more greatly in fear. Harry watched as the Nazgul unsheathed a knife and began advancing upon Frodo. The Hobbit began backing away as fast as he could.

Harry felt ashamed to have run away leaving the Hobbit alone to face the five Nazgul. He had to do something. But what? He looked back at Ron and Hermione. Hermione’s head was in her hands, and Ron…Ron was standing stock-still, all color drained from his face, eyes glassy. He knew he couldn’t expect his two friends to help him, seeing their current states. Not knowing what else to do, he whipped out his wand and cried, “Expecto Patronum!”

A large silver stag flew from his wand to charge at the Nazgul. The tallest one stopped its advance towards Frodo, momentarily distracted. Frodo himself lay frozen on the ground, the Ring in one hand. For a moment Harry thought there was hope. Then the Nazgul reached out its hand as if to strike the Patronus.

The stag vanished into a wisp of silvery smoke.

Harry was shocked. “No! Expecto Patronum…Expecto Patronum…Expecto…Expecto…”

He was getting weaker with each futile attempt. As he collapsed onto the ground, he saw the wraith begin to advance upon Frodo once more, its knife poised. Breathing heavily, trying to regain his strength, he watched as the Hobbit disappeared from view. The dream replayed itself in his head as his vision darkened.

Men with crowns and swords…a pale hand reaching out…an uncouth voice chanting in Black Speech…refusal…the knife descends…

Frodo’s scream of pain rent the night, ringing in Harry’s ears. Harry was just barely able to see the Hobbit reappear and Strider leaping seemingly from nowhere, brandishing a torch and sword at the wraiths…He heard his friends shouting spells for fire…Then the world went black.


Chapter 5 - Flight to the Ford

Disclaimer: I own neither the characters nor the dialogue that comes from the films nor the settings of this story.

I'm amazed at how well this story's been received so far. I hope that you, my readers, continue to enjoy it as much as you have. Please, after you read it, review! Much thanks.



~Chapter Five: Flight to the Ford~

“Harry! Harry!” Hermione said urgently, shaking him awake.

Harry turned his head to face her groggily. “What happened?”

She ignored his question. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine…What about Frodo?”

Hermione tensed slightly, compressing her lips. “You might want to see for yourself. He’s not well at all, and there’s not much we can do for him. At least that’s what Strider says.”

Harry had already sprung up and was making his way around the ruins toward the spot where Frodo lay, surrounded by the other five travelers. His breath caught at the sight of the Hobbit. The effect of the knife was more terrible than he could have imagined. Frodo lay there, moaning in pain, his face drained of color, his words becoming less coherent every time he spoke. What was worse, it seemed as though his eyes were less able to see them at each passing moment.

“Help him, Strider,” Sam was pleading desperately.

The knife that had done its work on the Hobbit lay on the ground next to Strider. The very tip seemed to be broken off. It shone dully, coldly, as the Ranger picked it up. “He’s been stabbed by a Morgul blade,” he said grimly. As he said those words, the blade vanished, turning into a wisp of smoke. He dropped the hilt as if he had been burned. “This is beyond my skill to heal. He needs Elvish medicine.” He picked Frodo up and started down the hill with everyone else following.

“It’s six days to Rivendell!” Sam said, distressed. “He’ll never make it!”

Strider held on more tightly to his burden. “Hold on, Frodo.”

The Hobbit was murmuring something inaudible. Then, quite suddenly, he cried out, “Gandalf!”

“Harry!” Ron called. “You all right, mate?”

Harry turned to face his friend. “Yeah…just a bit tired. I’m sorry I got us mixed up in all this,” he added as Hermione caught up to them.

“Well, there’s one good thing about this – no schoolwork!”

Hermione looked at Ron reproachfully. “Ron, even if I did see that as a upside to our situation, look at where we are now. We’re tired, we’re cold, hungry – and even here, we’re still being hunted.”

“Not us,” Harry said, indicating the Hobbit Strider was carrying. “It’s him they want.”

“I know, but by extension…we’re traveling with him, so those Nazgul are after us too.”

“Those things are scary,” Ron said. “Like dementors, but not quite. I don’t know what came over me back there, I meant to stay there and defend Frodo, but it was like…Well, I really don’t know, I just ran for it. And then I couldn’t move, I was just really…” here Ron hesitated, as though unwilling to admit it. “I was afraid.”

“That’s what it was like for me too,” said Hermione. “And I was surprised by the fact that all of us ran, especially seeing as we are all in Gryffindor. But you’re right, they are both alike and unlike the dementors. They look like them, but don’t glide like they do, they move more like men. And while dementors make us relive our worst memories, these Nazgul use fear as their weapon. Still,” she said, “We’re usually able to stand our ground against dementors…”

“It’s the Black Breath,” Strider called back. “That is what we call it; the Ringwraiths use it just like you described. The usually brave run from them without knowing why because of it.” He continued on through the forest without another word.

Harry turned toward his friends. “I tried using the Patronus Charm against them. I did manage to conjure the Patronus itself, but the one who stabbed Frodo just brushed it aside as if it were no more than my first attempt at a Patronus…the pathetic silver mist I tried to protect myself and Sirius with was completely useless. But this was a full-fledged stag Patronus, which usually works.”

Ron and Hermione didn’t seem to know what to make of this. “Do you suppose our power is weaker here?”

“But Harry was able to perform the Summoning Charm on Strider’s sword back there…”

“Yes Ron, but that was only a Summoning Charm. What if the more complicated spells we know, or all the hexes we hope to use…what if they’re useless here?”

“Then we’d better learn how to use weapons of this time, like a sword or a bow or something,” Harry said.

“I suppose…” Hermione was cut off by a cry from Pippin.

“Trolls!” He and Merry had moved slightly ahead of the group when they spotted a clearing in the forest, where Strider had said they would stop and rest. Now they were scurrying back, looking frightened.

Strider shifted Frodo slightly, raising his torch so that it lit the clearing a little better. “Are you sure?”

“Yes…three big ones, they look very angry too,” Merry said.

Harry could have sworn he saw Strider smiling slightly – but for what? If there were trolls up ahead it was no laughing matter.

“I don’t hear them.”

“Should we take a look, Strider?” Ron asked.

“I do not want to send you three to face them alone…” The Ranger’s words were serious, but his voice held a hint of laughter. Why?

“We took on a troll in first year and won,” Ron said. “Simple, really, though a bit stupid on our part.”

“Well, then, have a look,” Strider said.

So Harry, Ron, and Hermione softly made their way to the edge of the clearing. They pulled out their wands as they leapt into the trolls’ line of sight. Harry was about to cast a Stunning Spell when Hermione caught his arm and laughed.

“Oh, Ron, Harry, look at them, they’re not even alive!” To prove her point, she walked right up to the foot of the nearest troll and kicked it. “And look, there’s a bird’s nest behind that one’s ear,” she said, pointing. “I don’t think any bird would build its nest there if the troll were alive. I wonder how they got like this,” she said. Just then Strider and the Hobbits entered the clearing.

“Perhaps Sam can explain,” the Ranger said.

Sam looked up, surprised. “Well, it’s like this,” he said, turning to the wizards. “A long while back Mr. Frodo’s uncle Bilbo Baggins went on an adventure with the Wizard Gandalf and some Dwarves. One night it was raining, and they had lost all their supplies, so they were cold and wet and hungry. Then they spotted a light coming from this very clearing. Mr. Bilbo was sent to find out what was going on. Turned out that there were three trolls, roasting mutton, complaining that they’d eaten the same thing for who knows how many days. Well, Mr. Bilbo tried to pick one’s pocket and got caught doing it, and the trolls wouldn’t let him go. So one by one each of the dwarves came to investigate, but every time the one that came got picked up and stuffed into a sack.

“The trolls then argued about how best to cook them. They’d have decided on one way or another when a voice sounding like one of theirs spoke up to disagree, then they began to argue again. Eventually the sun came up and turned them into the stone we see here…but not before Gandalf came and showed that he’d been the one keeping their disagreement going.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione laughed appreciatively at this, but their merriment soon died down as they saw Frodo. A sheen of perspiration covered his pallid face, his breathing shallow and quick. His eyes – what was wrong with his eyes? They looked just – wrong.

“Keep him warm,” Strider was saying. “Hermione! Ron! Go look for some kindling; we need small fire.”

Sam had made his way over to Frodo. “Look, Mr. Frodo. It’s Bilbo’s trolls!”

His friend did not seem to hear him. “Mr. Frodo?” Sam placed his hand upon Frodo’s brow. He turned to Strider, saying urgently, “He’s going cold!”

“Is he going to die?” Pippin queried.

Strider, who had been peering into the surrounding woods with his torch held aloft, said grimly, “He’s passing into the shadow world. He will soon become a wraith like them.”

Just then several far-off Ringwraith screams pierced the night. Frighteningly, as Frodo inhaled, his breath sounded like one of their cries.

“They’re close,” Merry said, looking around the clearing.

Frodo seemed to hear this at least, for his expression became more panicked. As Hermione and Ron returned carrying pieces of dry wood, Strider beckoned to Sam. “Sam! Do you know the athelas plant?”

The gardener seemed unfamiliar with this particular name. “Athelas?”

“Kingsfoil?”

“Kingsfoil, aye, it’s a weed.”

“It may help to slow the poisoning. Hurry!” With that, he and Sam hurried off into the woods.

Harry watched as Hermione started the fire before going to Frodo. He was troubled by what he saw, especially in the Hobbit’s eyes. The pupils somehow seemed more constricted, the irises an unnaturally bright blue. The overall effect made Frodo seem to be fading from this world, seeing less of it than anyone else did – which in fact he was.

And as Harry touched Frodo’s hand, a wisp of memory floated across his mind so that he was seeing this very moment from Frodo’s point of view. He saw the forest clearing as a shadowy place, felt as though he were drifting somewhere between reality and a sort of otherworld. And pain. Not just the physical pain that arose from the stabbing, but a constant feeling of being watched by the Eye.

Wrenching himself back into reality, he tried to comfort Frodo. “Hang on, Frodo. You’ll make it through.”

And for a moment, it seemed as though Frodo heard him, turning his head to face him. Then another spasm of pain rocked the Hobbit’s body, another inner struggle with the master of the Ring.

* * *

Darkness. Shadow. And voices, voices chanting softly in the uncouth Black Speech. That was what Frodo perceived most clearly. He felt himself slipping away from the world he knew, becoming closer to the shadowy realm the Nazgul inhabited. His friends became shadows in his vision.

There were times when the dark veil would lift and for an instant he would clearly see or hear. He saw Sam issuing words of comfort and heard Strider telling the others what was happening to him. He even managed to see and hear Harry. He had been startled by the understanding he saw in the boy’s eyes. Then the veil had fallen again.

The effect such a small wound had had on him surprised him greatly. But then, considering that the weapon had been forged by such a powerful enemy, perhaps it should have come as no surprise. In addition to his fading sight and strength, his left arm had gone numb and hung useless at his side. The fire next to him was but a pale light as he saw it.

Then, quite suddenly, it seemed as though a bright star rode into the clearing on the back of a white horse. The star dismounted gracefully. It was not a star after all; it was a beautiful Elf, dressed in a flowing white gown. The light shone off her long dark hair and sparkled in the jewel she wore as a necklace. Frodo stared at the apparition, dazzled by both the bright light and her loveliness. Her dark blue eyes looked deep into his, seeming to peer into the very depths of his soul.

“Frodo.” Her voice was deep but melodious, ethereal. “Im Arwen…Telin le thaed. Lasto beth nin, tolo dan nan galad.”

Frodo could no longer meet her penetrating gaze. He closed his eyes and turned away from her.

* * *

Harry had seen Ron’s jaw drop when the woman rode into the clearing. He had felt his do the same. Never had they seen someone so beautiful. They watched as she dismounted her horse gracefully, her dark curtain of hair seeming to float behind her, a curtain of shimmering black silk. Her movements, while graceful, were urgent as she bent over Frodo, concern written across her flawless features. She began to speak to Frodo in a strange but musical language. Harry saw the Hobbit’s head turn toward her, his gaze becoming slightly more focused.

“What is she saying?” Ron wondered aloud.

He and Harry were startled to hear Hermione murmur, “Frodo, I am Arwen. I’ve come to help you. Hear my voice, come back to the light.”

Harry looked at her incredulously. “How do you know that?”

Hermione smiled knowingly. “Ancient Runes. I always knew that subject would be useful someday.”

“So she’s speaking…”

“Sindarin, which most likely means that she’s an Elf. I can understand what she’s saying mostly, just not sure if I’d speak it. Ron,” she added, her tone reproachful, “you really ought to close your mouth.”

For Ron had still been gawking at the Elf – Arwen? – his mouth hanging open. He shut it quickly, looking very embarrassed.

Strider had returned with Arwen, the leaves of a plant held in his hand. He motioned for Harry, who was still seated on the ground next to Frodo, to move aside as he bent over the Hobbit, chewing on a few leaves of kingsfoil to release the healing fluids of the plant. Then Strider exposed the wound on Frodo’s shoulder and placed the crushed leaves on it.

“Frodo!” Arwen then switched into the Common Tongue – what Harry and his friends knew as English. “He’s fading. He’s not going to last,” she said as Strider picked Frodo up. “We must get him to my father.”

“Where are you taking him?” Merry asked. Arwen and Strider did not seem to hear him.

“I’ve been looking for you for two days. There are five wraiths behind you, where the other four are I do not know.” Strider gently seated Frodo on Arwen’s horse. The Hobbit let out a soft groan. It was clear that he was getting weaker.

She and Strider then began conversing in Elvish.

“What are they saying?” Merry asked no one in particular.

Hermione began translating softly. “Stay with the Hobbits and these children. I will send horses for you.

“I’m the faster rider. I will take him.

“The road is to dangerous.

“Frodo is dying.” Hermione’s voice caught slightly at these words, but she continued her translation. “If I can get across the river, the power of my people will protect him.”

Arwen then spoke in the Common Tongue. “I do not fear them.”

They watched as Strider gently took hold of Arwen’s hand, saying something inaudible before helping her onto the horse. “Arwen,” he said softly.

She looked back at him.

“Ride hard. Don’t look back.”

The beautiful Elf gave a small nod before the horse began to trot out of the clearing into the surrounding woods. “Noro lim, Asfaloth. Noro lim.”

“What’re you doing?” Sam cried. “Those wraiths are still out there!”

Strider did not respond. From his vantage point, Harry saw the worry that showed across the Ranger’s features. Yes, it appeared that the Ranger loved the Elf. It showed in his movements as he helped her onto the horse, in the way he looked at her as if there was no one else in the world. Then Harry remembered what he had overheard about the tale of Beren and Luthien. Such a love, between a mortal and an Elf, could only end in tragedy.

Harry gave his head a little shake. Now where had those thoughts come from? It was most unlike him to think that way. He needed an explanation for this, and soon.

* * *

Arwen breathed a small sigh of relief as they cleared the forest and began galloping across open country as the sun began to rise. There was still no sign of the wraiths. She was somewhat amazed a Frodo’s strength; even an Elf would have succumbed to the knife’s effects hours earlier. Still, even without pursuit, Frodo needed to be brought as quickly as possible to Rivendell where her father, Lord Elrond, could heal him. Her father was one of the most skilled healers who had ever existed, if not the best. Even so, the magnitude of the Hobbit’s injury gave her cause for some doubt. Elrond had described just such an injury to her long ago, one where a shard of the Enemy’s blade was left imbedded in the wound making its way slowly but steadily to the heart.

She could hear the Hobbit’s breath growing more ragged as the hours wore on. He was now too weak to hold his head up, and it moved from side to side under her chin as her horse galloped along. His gaze was unfocused, seeing nothing.

They entered another stand of trees. Arwen urged her horse on a little more. The Ford of Bruinen was near, and Rivendell only a little further.

Then she heard it. An unearthly wail, a screech of anger. She saw the figures in the trees around her, dark shapes. They began to emerge behind her horse, following in pursuit.

“Noro lim, Asfaloth!” she cried. It was fortunate that they were close to the Ford, for if the wraiths had begun their pursuit any earlier, her horse would not have been able to run from the wraiths at the pace he was going now. The black horses the Nazgul rode would never be able to catch them, but still she rode at that breakneck speed. For if she paused for an instant, she and Frodo would be overwhelmed.

Glancing back, she quickly counted the wraiths. All nine were present. Against all of them, her skills with the sword would never be enough.

At long last, they reached the Ford. Her own white steed had reached the opposite bank before the wraiths had even begun to gather on the shore, hesitant to cross.

“Give up the Halfling, She-Elf.” The leader’s voice was cold, grating.

Arwen drew her sword and answered with the challenge, “If you want him, come and claim him!”

The Nine drew their own swords as one. As their leader’s horse began the crossing, Arwen closed her eyes and began to chant, calling upon the river to protect Frodo and her. “Nin o Chithaeglir, lasto beth daer, Rimmo nin Bruinen dan in Ulaer!”

Her eyes flew open as a low rumbling began upstream. Around the bend came a white wall of crashing water, the waves seeming to form into the shapes of galloping horses. The wraiths’ heads jerked around to look an instant before they were all swept away, horses tumbling, cloaks and swords becoming tangled in the rush of water.

But then, as the water settled down once again, she felt Frodo finally collapse. Had her efforts and those of his traveling companions been for nothing? “No!”

Arwen directed her horse further up the bank before dismounting. Gently she lowered the Hobbit to the ground. “No! Frodo, no! Don’t give in! Not now!” Tears of frustration welled up in her eyes as Frodo’s breathing went from shallow gasps to inaudible whispers, as the Hobbit went completely still. Weeping, she gathered him into her arms, pleading with the Valar, *What grace has given me, let it pass to him. Let him be spared.* Her tears darkened the fabric of his green cloak as she lifted him onto the horse’s back. Then, drying her eyes, she led the horse back to Rivendell.


Translation: Nin o Chithaeglir, lasto beth daer, Rimmo nin Bruinen dan in Ulaer! – Waters of the Misty Mountains listen to the great word: flow waters of Loudwater against the Ringwraiths!


Chapter 6 - A Meeting of Wizards

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, the settings (or, for that matter, anything else you recognize), the dialogue from the films, the ideas from the book, etc, etc…Right. But as always, the dialogue you don’t know was specially crafted by me and shall hitherto not be used by anyone else…blah, blah, blah…Yes, I’m hyper at the moment.

A note to my readers: Yes, I know that in the book Frodo gets stabbed on the sixth of October and wakes up on the twenty-fourth. But the way the movie made it seem, only a few days at most had passed between Weathertop and his waking up. As the previous scene with Arwen (that’s not in the book either, of course) seemed to take place over a very short period of time, I have had to match the journey of the other characters to make the few hours (it seemed) that the Wraiths were chasing Arwen seem logical.

Anyways, ignore this little factor if you must and enjoy the rest. I’m sorry for taking such a long time to write this chapter – I’ve written it and rewritten it and tried to decide how best to move the plot. Compounded with piles of homework (veritable mountains, if you ask me), insanely tiring swim workouts (All right, so I exaggerate), and a whole bunch of other things I can’t think of off the top of my head, it’s taken quite a while. It’s a long chapter (as you’ll see, it’s the longest yet). And please review! I love reading reviews. Thanks to everyone who’s written one so far! They brighten my day.


~Chapter Six: A Meeting of Wizards~

“What are we going to do now?”

Sam’s worried question was directed at Strider. Harry watched as the ranger turned slowly – unwillingly tearing his gaze from the spot where Arwen had ridden off with Frodo, it seemed – to face the Hobbit.

“We shall continue on to Rivendell,” came the calm reply. Strider made to put out the small fire. “I suppose you are all exhausted from all the running we have done. There are a few hours left until sunrise. Get some sleep; at dawn, we will follow Arwen and Frodo’s path.”

“The wraiths?” Pippin asked fearfully.

“They will not be coming for us. Frodo is the on they are after; without him with us, we are no concern of theirs.”

Harry walked over to where Ron and Hermione were kneeling by their packs and pulling their blankets, which had been hastily stuffed in during their flight from Weathertop. “A few hours?” Hermione was saying irritably. “Worried as I am about Frodo, I would like a good night’s rest!” She threw her blanket down.

Strider, who was walking past at that moment, overheard. “When we get to Rivendell, you will be able to take that rest. For now, we must journey on for another day – perhaps longer, though that is not my wish. Frodo is in more danger than you know. Have you any idea what the knife did to him?”

Hermione, who usually had all the answers, shook her head.

“Perhaps you managed to see the blade of the knife before it vanished – the tip was broken off. That shard of metal, forged by the Enemy, is making its way slowly and steadily to Frodo’s heart. If we are too late, he will fall into shadow just like the wraiths. Only he will be theirs to command, and the Dark Lord’s to punish for keeping the Ring.”

Hermione’s eyes were widened in horror. “Oh…”

Harry glanced back towards the other Hobbits. Sam had his back turned to him, so there was no way to tell if he had overheard. As for Merry and Pippin, they were already sound asleep under the stone trolls, mouths hanging open. Strider turned and walked around the clearing, sword unsheathed, as if watching for an attack. He then positioned himself close to the rest of the companions, keeping watch.

Harry lay down and slept, but it only seemed like a few minutes before Strider was calling out for everyone to wake up. Still tired, he yawned mightily as he reluctantly rolled up his blanket.

“Sam,” he heard Strider saying, “Put Frodo’s things on the pony’s back.”

It seemed that the Hobbit had picked up Frodo’s pack and was making to carry it by himself. “I can carry enough for two.”

“Nonsense,” Harry heard himself saying. Why did he feel such a familiarity with this Hobbit, though not as strong as the one with Frodo? “Sam, you’ll be too exhausted to carry on. Frodo wouldn’t want that, I think.”

Sam looked at him with an odd expression on his face. “I suppose…” With that he slung Frodo’s bag off his shoulders and secured it carefully atop the supplies the pony was carrying.

The pace of the journey was swift, with Strider pressing them to follow. The Hobbits were hard put to keep up, almost constantly jogging. Harry, Ron, and Hermione weren’t that much better. The Ranger allowed them a few rests, but never for long. They ate apples as they walked, unable to prepare anything else.

Merry and Pippin seemed to be getting along well with Ron; he was showing them how to levitate objects. Using the apples, he would make one float over Strider’s head as Merry, Pippin, and he bit back their laughter. Harry said nothing; there was no harm in what his friend was doing. He could see the disapproval written on Hermione’s face in her pursed lips and narrowed eyes, though she remained silent. Sam didn’t seem to be paying attention. Rather, he moved forward purposefully, with a worried expression on his face.

There came a point, almost at the edge of the forest, where Ron seemingly lost his concentration. The apple fell a few feet to land squarely on Strider’s head.

The Ranger stopped and looked up. Quite obviously, there were no apple trees in this part of the forest, much less any of the red fruits to fall from overhead. Without turning around, he said, “No Hobbit’s aim is that accurate. Put your wand away, Ron.”

Ron looked startled, but he quickly replaced his wand in his pocket. Strider turned his head to look at him. “It’s not that I am trying to accuse you – by the Valar, we need something to laugh about right now. But the Enemy has many spies in his service. Use your magic as little as you can until we reach Rivendell. There, with Lord Elrond’s permission, you will be able to practice without fear of discovery. Or so I hope.”

They crossed an open stretch of land – Harry didn’t realize how much he missed the sun until he felt it on his face again, they’d spent all their time in the woods or in darkness – and reached another stand of trees. The sound of running water was coming closer. Strider suddenly stopped.

“Here was where Arwen and Frodo passed…” His eyes followed the ground a little further. “They were pursued.”

There was nothing immediately visible to Harry to indicate what Strider said, but Harry took the Ranger’s expert word for it. They continued on through the trees as the afternoon wore on, Strider taking them quickly along a rather complicated path, his eyes following the ground as he muttered to himself.

“The horses were galloping, it seems…” he muttered, hours later. “And the tracks end here at the Ford of Bruinen,” he said audibly. They had reached a noisily flowing stream of clear water.

“The Loudwater?” Hermione asked. “A very apt name…What’s that?” She pointed to something a little farther out in the water.

Strider waded out as the Hobbits and teenagers collapsed onto the ground, exhausted. When he returned, he was carrying a long, wet strip of dark cloth.

“It appears that the Ringwraiths were stopped here by the power of the River. Elrond would never allow them into Rivendell.”

Harry looked at the others. They were wearing somewhat revolted expressions on their faces, expressing perfectly how he felt. Everyone relaxed when Strider flung the scrap of cloth into the water once more, letting it wash downstream. He led them to a shallow point at which they could cross the Ford. Even so, Harry’s sneakers were soaked through. All his clothes were rather the worse for wear. He was going to need new ones, and soon.

They all finally made the crossing – the Hobbits were oddly apprehensive about entering the water, and took some convincing – and sat down once again on the opposite shore under the shelter of the trees. The sun was beginning to fall.

“Follow me closely,” Strider told them. “Rivendell is impossible to find except for those who already know where it is – so they say. At the very least, it will not take much to become hopelessly lost in the woods.” With that, he began making his way slowly through the trees, following every path carefully.

* * *

“Lasto beth nin, tolo dan nan galad…”

A voice. Bright, white light. Frodo felt his consciousness beginning to stir once again, an awareness of his surroundings that he had not felt for what seemed like ages. He also was quite disoriented.

“Where am I?” he asked no one in particular. He was surprised to hear a friendly voice answering, a voice he had not heard in such a long time.

“You are in the house of Elrond. And it is ten o’clock in the morning, on October the twenty-fourth, if you want to know.”

Frodo’s eyes opened to reveal a beautifully decorated room, open to the outdoors, morning sunshine streaming in. And there, seated at his bedside…

“Gandalf!” He looked almost exactly as Frodo remembered him – same long grey beard and knowing blue eyes – though his face seemed more tired, lined with care and worry.

“Yes, I’m here,” the Wizard took a puff of his pipe. “And you’re lucky to be here too. A few more hours and you would have been beyond our aid. But you have some strength in you, my dear Hobbit.”

Frodo sat up and felt his shoulder tentatively. He no longer felt any pain. “What happened, Gandalf? Why didn’t you meet us?”

“Oh, I’m sorry Frodo.” The Wizard paused, searching for the right words. “I was delayed.” The look in his eyes became distant, and silence filled the room for a few moments.

“Gandalf? What is it?”

Gandalf shook his head slightly. “Nothing, Frodo.”

Just then, Frodo heard the sound of quickly approaching footsteps. Sam rushed into the room, beaming happily. “Frodo! Frodo!” Sam clasped Frodo’s hand, which was no longer lifeless and cold. “Bless you, you’re awake!”

“Sam!” Frodo smiled. Gandalf gave a small chuckle.

“Sam has hardly left your side.”

“We were that worried about you, weren’t we, Mr. Gandalf?”

Gandalf turned to indicate a tall, majestic Elf who had just entered the room as he spoke. “But by the skills of Lord Elrond, you’re beginning to mend.”

“Welcome to Rivendell, Frodo Baggins,” Elrond said, smiling down at his charge.

* * *

Ron stood on the balcony outside his room, enjoying the view of the valley in the morning sunlight. For the first time in days, he felt well rested.

As soon as Rivendell had come into sight, Ron’s eyes had widened in astonishment at the beauty of the Elven establishment. The architecture was both majestic and graceful, and it seemed to blend with the natural surroundings almost as if it were a part of it, ageless. It was wonderful to look upon, even in the night under the light of the stars and moon. Next to it the Hogwarts castle, something he’d always considered to be a work of art from the moment he saw it as he crossed the lake as a First Year, seemed rather crude.

His admiration had been cut short because of the brisk pace at which Strider had them walking; he had to watch where he placed his feet. Strider had been anxious to get to Frodo. Well, everyone else was, including Ron. He’d barely gotten to speak with Frodo, though his two cousins Merry and Pippin were delightful companions. They reminded Ron of Fred and George, his twin brothers – a right pair of jokers. He felt sorry for those two Hobbits, and if Frodo had died – well, he really didn’t know what he’d have said to them. He hadn’t exactly known what to say to Harry when Sirius had been killed, other than “I’m sorry, Harry…”

Ron sighed. Harry had been rather frustrating to deal with lately. He’d shut Ron and Hermione out, seemingly. Off in his own little world, moping most of the time, feeling sorry for himself. Ron wanted to help him, he knew that Hermione wanted to too. But Harry wouldn’t let them.

It was odd, though. Harry had opened up a little just a while back, but not to his two best friends. He’d talked to Frodo as though they had known each other for…for as long as Ron and Hermione had known Harry. Harry wasn’t the kind of person to open up to strangers, that Ron knew. He was hesitant at best, most likely because he hadn’t been able to confide in anyone when he was very young. He wasn’t the type to immediately trust someone, and for a good reason – after all, his own parents had placed all their trust in Peter Pettigrew, and what did Pettigrew do? Betrayed them to Voldemort. Ron had never had the same problem; he’d grown up in a large family, loving parents and siblings and all that. Yes, there was something strange about the way Harry and Frodo had connected. Like brothers – no, not even that. But somehow, inexplicably, they understood each other. And Frodo had also been awfully quick to accept Ron, Harry, and Hermione into his fold of companions. What was going on?

They’d been given rooms not too far from the rest of their friends. Hermione had gone into transports of delight when she had seen hers – there was a tall shelf of books at one wall. In Elvish, of course, but apparently she could read it. Ron had been impressed by that. Harry had just deposited the small bag containing his water skin, wand, and Invisibility Cloak on the bed before rushing off to find Frodo. Not even a word to Ron or Hermione. He’d returned at about seven o’clock, looking pale, exhausted, and worried, then promptly curled up on his bed and dropped off to sleep without removing his glasses.

What sort of crazy adventure had Harry gotten them mixed up in? Not that Ron minded the lack of schoolwork, but all the same…the situation wasn’t much better, as Hermione had pointed out the previous night. He’d take Snape’s potions class over it any day…maybe. The fact that those dementor-like Ringwraiths were chasing them didn’t help matters. He had always had the bad luck of making friends with people whom the Enemy was always after. Harry had had Voldemort after him for years now, and Ron had gotten somewhat used that…But to exchange Voldemort for Ringwraiths? Which was worse?

Ron still didn’t know what the whole deal about the Ring was. In fact, he’d been surprised that Harry had known about it. Perhaps by now Hermione had uncovered something about it.

He looked down at the new outfit he was wearing. He thought it looked a bit ridiculous, at least on him. There was a soft, knee-length robe in a grey hue with an embroidered collar, a shirt that he almost thought was too nice to wear that went under it, leggings – he wasn’t quite sure if he’d ever get used to those – with a new pair of boots to complete the look. A new cloak of a russet color had been laid out on his bed as well, but he wasn’t wearing it at the moment. Ron had never worn anything so richly made in his life – no surprise, considering the fact that his family didn’t have much money. These clothes reminded him of pictures he’d seen in books about people from centuries before he was born, though somehow different, more elegant.

There was a tap on his door, which was open. He turned around.

It was Hermione. Ron gaped at her. For she had changed her muddy cloak and clothes for a lovely dark blue Elven dress, and she looked…He was lost for words. She had even somehow managed to braid her hair. The dress fitted her as though it was made for her, with its long, flowing sleeves and graceful…

“Ron?”

Ron blinked. “What, ’Mione?” He was too tongue-tied to say anything else. Why was he never able to think of anything witty when she was around?

“Frodo’s awake. I was on my way to tell Harry, but he’s still asleep and I thought maybe you’d want to know too…”

An awkward silence filled the room. Finally, Ron managed to say, “Well, that’s good, I guess. Er…Did you find out anything yet about the history of the Ring? I don’t understand what that’s all about, why it’s so important.”

“Well, not yet, but I suppose I could…”

They were spared any more uncomfortable moments when Merry and Pippin came bounding into the room. “Ron! Hermione! Frodo’s awake!” Pippin said excitedly.

“He’s out in the gardens with Sam,” Merry said. “At least, that’s what Gandalf says. We have not yet gotten the chance to say hello to him, why don’t we go and do that?”

Gandalf. The Wizard Harry had thought could help them. Ron hoped they would meet him soon. To Merry’s question he replied, “Good idea…But I think that Harry would like to come along and he’s still asleep…”

“Oh, that’s no problem.” Pippin ran out of the room to pound on Harry’s door before anyone could stop him. “Harry! Frodo’s up and about, if you wanted to know.” Ron shook his head. He had been surprised to find out that Pippin was already twenty-nine, and that Merry was not much older. They acted even younger that Fred and George did, more often than not. Although, by their reckoning, they hadn’t yet reached the Hobbit “coming of age” at thirty-three. Considering that seventeen was the age at which wizards back home became of age, perhaps it was not such a great surprise.

Harry emerged from his room to look down at the Hobbit through dirty glasses knocked askew, still somewhat bleary-eyed. “Thanks Pippin.” He then noticed Ron and Hermione. Harry straightened his glasses to take one look at Ron before bursting out in laughter.

“What?” Ron said crossly. Harry apparently hadn’t noticed the new clothes in his room, for he was still dressed in his muddy jeans and sneakers. Had he been that worried about Frodo? Ron remembered the time that Harry had fallen off his broomstick during a Quidditch game. Ron and Hermione had gone with the rest of the Quidditch team to go and see him in the hospital wing, still soaking wet from the rain…And then there was that time in First Year when Harry had almost gotten himself killed in another encounter with Voldemort. Ron and Hermione had waited for him to wake up for days, going back to see him as often as they could. But that was after almost a year of knowing him. Harry had only known Frodo for less than a month.

“Your outfit…” Harry laughed, sounding greatly amused. “It looks so…so…Who would wear something like that?”

“In this day and age, apparently everyone does. If you hadn’t been so tired, you might have noticed that there’s one in your room too,” Ron retorted.

Harry glanced over his shoulder and stopped laughing. “Yeah…” He shut his door again. When he came out again, he was wearing clothes that were similar to Ron’s, except that they were dark green. Harry might have looked perfectly natural in them if it wasn’t for his glasses and short, messy hair. At any rate, he seemed to look less self-conscious than Ron felt.

“Well, what do you think of them?” Ron asked.

Harry looked down at the robe. “They’re a bit odd, but very comfortable.” He shrugged. “I guess they’ll do.”

* * *

They found Frodo walking outside, enjoying the fresh air of Rivendell. Laughing, he embraced his joyful cousins Merry and Pippin before noticing the three Hogwarts students.

“Are you feeling better, Frodo?” Hermione asked.

“Yes. Lord Elrond – the Elf who rules here at Rivendell – is a marvelous healer.” All of a sudden, he noticed another white-haired Hobbit sitting on a bench farther down, a large book in his lap, his feet dangling above the ground. “Bilbo!” Frodo ran to greet the older Hobbit.

“How exactly do they know each other?” Harry asked Merry and Pippin as the older Hobbit – Bilbo – embraced Frodo warmly, joy written in every line if his wrinkled face.

Pippin thought for a moment. “Well, Frodo’s mother was Bilbo’s first cousin…their mothers were sisters. And then Frodo’s father…”

The young Hobbit talked enthusiastically on for several minutes, going on to explain how he and Merry were related to Frodo. It all washed over Harry – it was truly more information than he’d asked for – but Hermione was drinking in every word, poised attentively. “And then after Frodo’s parents died, Bilbo adopted him. The Sackville-Bagginses were not to pleased about that; they’d been hoping to get Bag End – Bilbo’s Hobbit-hole – for years.”

Merry spoke up thoughtfully. “Bilbo looks a whole lot older than when we last saw him…He has aged very quickly. Strange,” he pondered. “I never thought about it before, but Frodo honestly looks no older than we do.”

“Why, how old is he?” Ron asked.

“Fifty,” Merry and Pippin said together.

“Fifty?” Hermione said incredulously. “That’s difficult to believe!”

“It’s the Ring,” came a low, wise voice from behind them. They turned to face an old, bearded man wearing grey robes and carrying a staff of gnarled wood.

“Gandalf!” Pippin said.

“Hello, Peregrin, Meriadoc, Samwise.” He nodded his head at each of the Hobbits as he spoke their names. Looking off toward Bilbo and Frodo, he smiled. “I see that Frodo has already found his uncle again, after all these years.” He then turned to face the Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

“You are not of this time,” he said slowly, looking at each of them in turn. His gaze lingered on Harry for a few moments longer than the others. Harry forced himself to meet those knowing blue eyes – eyes that were unnervingly like Dumbledore’s. For a moment, while he was looking at Harry, his expression seemed somewhat startled, but quickly became composed again.

“Gandalf…” Harry said thoughtfully. “You are the Wizard that Strider and the Hobbits were talking about?”

The old man replied, “Yes, that would be me.”

“Well…I’m not exactly sure how to explain this, but…” Harry tried to find the right words. “We were wondering if you could help us. It’s a long story.”

“A story I am curious to hear.” He turned to the Hobbits. “You will not mind if I speak with them alone, would you?”

“Not at all,” Merry and Pippin said together. Harry chuckled inwardly. So like Fred and George, always speaking in chorus. He wondered if Ron noticed. Sam merely nodded his assent.

Gandalf led them through the walkways to Rivendell, coming to a stop outside a room full of scrolls and books. The library. Hermione gasped in delight.

“A scholar, I see,” said Gandalf. “Here you will find much of the history of Middle-Earth. But that is not what we are here for.” He took out a pipe, which was cleverly concealed on his staff, filled the bowl and lit it before taking a puff of it.

He remained silent, waiting for them to begin speaking. The three friends looked at one another. “Harry, you probably know the most,” Hermione said. “Dumbledore’s told you the most.”

“Well…” Harry said. “Our names first I guess…I’m Harry Potter, and this is Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger.” He gestured at each of his friends. “We came from the Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry – we’re wizards too.”

Gandalf nodded to indicate his interest. Harry continued, “Anyways, there’s this evil wizard from our time who calls himself Lord Voldemort. According to a prophecy, I’m supposed to be the only one who can defeat him. Well, he’s been after me since I was born…”

For the second time in such a short while, Harry went on to tell Gandalf the history between himself and Voldemort. About the people – his parents, Sirius, Cedric – who had died because of Voldemort’s mad bid for immortality. Ron and Hermione sat quietly, nodding every now and then, and occasionally supplying their own comments. Gandalf listened quietly, but as Harry spoke, he seemed to retreat farther into his mind, as if trying to recall something.

Finally, after what seemed like hours of talking – though it had perhaps been no more than thirty minutes, maybe even twenty – Harry reached the part in his story about Voldemort’s latest scheme. “He sent us here because he doesn’t want to risk getting killed again. He’s after me, actually, but Ron and Hermione are my friends and since all of us have…meddled…too much in his plots, I guess he figured that getting rid of all of us would leave him free to wreak havoc,” he added bitterly. “I’m sorry,” he said to Ron and Hermione. “It’s my fault you two are here.”

“No, it isn’t!” Ron said heatedly. “We decided to be your friends, what was it, almost five years ago, and we’re going to stick with you through thick and thin.”

Hermione added, “And I think it’s better for you to have someone looking out for you. No offense meant, but you do tend to leap before you look.”

Harry felt himself smile appreciatively. His two friends had been stressing this fact for many months now, but, caught up as he was in his own problems, he’d refused to notice it. What had these days in Middle-Earth done to him? Despite all the running away from Ringwraiths that he had been doing, it felt – relaxing – not to be the one the Enemy was always after. He understood Frodo’s plight, to some extent at least.

And now, since he was also not constantly laden with schoolwork, his mind was free to think about other things. For the first time, he saw how he’d been acting since Sirius died – perhaps for even longer than that – as others might have seen him. Brooding, moody, very short of temper. Hermione and Ron hadn’t deserved that at all. And all those times they tried to hold him back from doing what he wanted? They were only trying to prevent him from acting too rashly and getting himself killed. He owed them more thanks than anything else. “Yeah…Thanks.” He smiled again before turning back to Gandalf.

The Wizard had been sitting deep in thought, but now he looked at all of them, seemingly studying them. “You say that you are Wizards. What do you know of the Istari?”

Ron and Harry stared blankly at Gandalf, but Hermione had something of an answer. “I read something very vague about them from a book at Hogwarts…there were five of them, I believe, and they came in the guise of old men. But there wasn’t much else…” Suddenly she put something together. “Are you one of them?”

“Yes,” Gandalf replied. “It seems, though, that you are the only one to know about the White Council. If that is the case, the nature of your magic must be very different from mine.”

Ron spoke up. “We use wands and incantations. Can’t show you the wands, though, they’re back in our rooms because there wasn’t any way to carry them in these clothes.” He indicated the new Elven-made robe.

“Can you help us get back to our time?” Hermione asked.

“I cannot say. Might I see the Time-Turner?”

Fortunately Hermione had been wearing it around her neck. She drew it out and placed it in Gandalf’s hand carefully, lest she drop it. The old man turned it over in his fingers, studying the tiny hourglass. The fine golden chain sparkled in the sunlight that streamed through the windows of the library. Had the Time-Turner worked, Harry and his friends would have used it to return to Hogwarts. But Hermione had already tried that. Whatever spell Voldemort had cast on it had worked; it ceased to function, becoming no more than a pretty trinket, as he had put it. After a few moments, Gandalf sighed.

“If you wished to use this to return to your school, I am afraid that I cannot help you. There are other methods, but the danger behind each of them is so great that it would not be wise to even attempt them.”

Ron and Hermione looked as disappointed as Harry felt. “Are we stuck here forever, then?” Ron asked frustratedly.

“Indeed, I hope not. No, it’s not that everyone here hates you,” he added, seeing their offended expressions. “I hope I did not imply that. For your sakes and the sake of the world you come from, I hope that we can return you. Any attempt now, however, will draw the attention of the Enemy upon Rivendell. His Eye is already turned towards this place, for he knows the Ring is here. But if I did try to send you back now, he, not knowing what the use of power was for, would think it an attempt to meddle in his plans.”

“Sounds familiar,” Harry muttered.

“Indeed. At the moment, he is biding his time, keeping his forces within the borders of Mordor, waiting for the moment to strike. We must be prepared to counter any blows, and right now, we are not. We do not yet know what we are going to do with the Ring.”

“Yes, the Ring.” Ron spoke up. “Could you fill us in on that? Frodo and Strider told us a bit, but we were too tired to properly listen, I guess.”

Gandalf looked at him solemnly. “That is a long tale not made for such a fair morning as this.”

“Try us,” Ron said. “We’ve been through a lot too, as Harry just told you.”

The old Wizard sighed. “It is a history of many Ages of the world. To tell it in full would take longer than you would sit still, I imagine.” For a moment the blue eyes twinkled, and Harry could almost picture them behind a pair of half-moon glasses…

“We’re not that young,” Hermione said. “At least, I know that I am perfectly capable of listening to any lecture, long and dull though these other two,” she indicated Harry and Ron, “may find it.” Ron looked at her, seemingly offended.

“’Mione, it’s not the lectures Professor Binns gives that are in themselves boring…It’s the way he talks.” Professor Binns was the only ghost teacher they had. He hadn’t let death get in the way of his teaching.

Gandalf appeared amused. “If I may continue, children – for indeed, you are the youngest here at Rivendell, it has been many a long year since the Elves have seen anyone, much less three people, as young as you are. So, the Ring. Perhaps you already know that it has an unwholesome power. You may have seen it at work on Frodo, felt it at work in your hearts.” Harry opened his mouth to speak, completely in agreement with Gandalf. But something stopped him. Did he want Ron and Hermione to know that the Ring had sensed some weakness about him? He hated being weak, hated how Voldemort was able to use anything – his friendship with Sirius, for instance – to his advantage. And Harry usually came out of the experience worse off than before.

“Long ago, at the end of the Second Age of this world, the Elves began to experiment in the making of magical rings. Their greatest work came in the crafting of the Rings of Power. Three were given to the Elves, Seven to the Dwarf-lords, and Nine to Mortal men.”

Harry and his friends shifted uneasily. “They became the Ringwraiths?”

“Ah, so you have encountered them. Yes, certainly. The Dark Lord Sauron wished to control all the races of Middle Earth, so in the fires of Orodruin – in the Common Tongue, Mount Doom – he created the master Ring. One Ring to rule them all, as the verse goes. The Ring magnified Sauron’s already considerable powers, and one by one, the lands of Middle Earth fell to the forces of Mordor.”

Mordor. The name was chilling.

“There was resistance, of course. A host of Men and Elves, joined in what is known as the Last Alliance, marched upon the forces of Mordor and fought there, on the very slopes of Orodruin. It was the last time those two races fought side by side,” he added sadly. “For in the battle, the Elven King Gil-Galad fell, fighting with Elendil, the King of Gondor. He, too, perished in the battle. It was through the friendship of Elendil and Gil-Galad that the forces of Men and Elves were joined. When they fell, the races began to alienate themselves from one another.

“Hope seemed lost. But then Isildur, son of Elendil, took up his father’s broken sword and cut the Ring from Sauron’s hand. Thus having been separated from the object that held his very life force, the Dark Lord’s power waned to almost nothingness. But he was not destroyed.”

“How can that be though, since he lost the Ring?” Hermione asked.

“Here is what I told Frodo many months ago: ‘Isildur took the Ring, and the Ring survived. They are one, the Dark Lord and the Ring.’ Isildur did have the chance to destroy it – Lord Elrond brought him into the heart of Mount Doom, the one place where the Ring may be destroyed. Yes, he was there,” he said, seeing their startled expressions. “Elves are immortal, but retain an appearance of youth even after thousands of years.”

“So long as the Ring remains intact, Sauron’s presence will never fade. Only recently, though, has he had the boldness and the strength to rebuild his fortress of Barad-dûr and to rally his armies. But already, darkness is beginning to spread. Trolls have been seen in the mountains, not witless creatures but armed and clever. Orcs have begun to attack. The Three Rings the Elves have long kept hidden, but the Seven of the Dwarves are either destroyed or in the Enemy’s possession. The Nine are his most faithful servants. He needs only the One Ring to cover the lands in a second darkness. And if it is returned to him, who knows how long the Three will remain hidden?”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat silent for a moment. Then Harry asked, “Then how did it come into Frodo’s possession?”

The old Wizard regarded him appraisingly. “One thing you all must understand is that a Ring of Power – especially this Ring – has a will of its own when it comes to mortals. It will do anything it can to get back to its master. Not long after taking the Ring Isildur discovered the power it had to make him invisible. He was riding with a company of his men when they were waylaid by Orcs. Slipping away silently, Isildur put the Ring on his finger, vanishing from view. He tried to swim across the River Anduin to safety on the other side. But there, in Gladden Fields, the Ring betrayed him; it slipped from his finger as he swam. The Orcs who had attacked his company spotted him and killed him.

“For many years the Ring lay at the bottom of the River Anduin, forgotten even by the Wise. Then, some five or six hundred years ago, it was found by a Hobbit-like creature named Gollum. No, that was not his real name, but that is what he is called now. The Ring began its work on Gollum at once. He was cast out of his family, and embittered, fearing light of sun and moon, he fled into the depths of the Misty Mountains. It was there that Frodo’s uncle Bilbo found the Ring. For Gollum did not leave it lying about uncared for; it chose to abandon him in those dark tunnels. Bilbo encountered Gollum but escaped. Gollum, however, is no fool. Bilbo had unwisely given him his name and the name of the Shire, where Hobbits live.

“And so the Ring has passed from Bilbo to Frodo. Of all those who possessed the Ring, Bilbo was the only one to ever give it up of his own free will.”

“So why is Frodo here?” Ron asked.

Harry spoke suddenly. “The Ring’s power is growing. The Shire was in danger; Frodo had no choice but to leave.”

Gandalf was looking at him oddly. So were Ron and Hermione. “That is indeed what happened,” said Gandalf. “I told him the history of the Ring, and made one final test by fire to be certain that his Ring was the One Ring. He had a warning from me, telling him to flee as early as was possible.” His face darkened. “The Shire and Hobbits had long been no concern of the Enemy’s. But Bilbo had given Gollum his name and that of his homeland. Gollum wanted the Ring back, was angry at Bilbo for having taken it, and so, after a long last, left the darkness of the Misty Mountains to seek Bilbo out. I suspect that he made his way southward after a while. In any case, the Enemy captured and questioned him. They tortured him for information.

“And so the Enemy knew that the Ring was not destroyed or lost. Among Gollum’s inane babble and screams they discerned two words: Shire and Baggins. The Nine were sent to find Frodo, disguised as riders in black.”

“To kill him or find another way to control him?” Hermione’s face was paler than usual.

“Yes.”

This Sauron sounded much more powerful than Voldemort even was. Harry thought about it for a moment. Voldemort had that host of followers known as Death Eaters, as well as the dementors of Azkaban, but he did not have whole armies and realms under his control. “And I thought that Voldemort was bad,” Harry said softly.

All was silent save for the chirping of the birds outside, somehow incongruous with the darkness of the story of the Ring. Gandalf spoke first.

“Ron, Hermione, might I ask that you leave me alone with your friend for a moment? There are a few more questions I’d like to ask him.”

They nodded their agreement, passing Harry another pair of curious looks as they walked out of the library. Harry was left facing Gandalf, not knowing what the old Wizard wanted of him. “Er…” He did not know what to say.

Those blue eyes were studying him carefully again. “You said there was a prophecy about you defeating this – Lord Voldemort?”

“Yes,” Harry said uncertainly.

“There is something about you, young Harry, that sets you apart from your friends. And it is not just that.”

Harry didn’t know where the Wizard was leading him. “Well…For one, there’s the fact that Voldemort’s always after me, not them. To him, they are insignificant, much as I hate to say that about them.” He heard his tone becoming edgy. “And also, I’m the only one of us three who’s had anyone as close as a parent murdered in cold blood.” He struggled to maintain control of his voice, which was wavering at the memory of Sirius falling… “And there are times when even though they’re there for me, I feel alone. Like they’ll never understand what darkness is. I am alone facing the darkness that threatens to encompass the world, even though my friends and allies stand around me.” He stopped speaking for a moment. That last sentence had sounded so unlike him. Perhaps that was not the way he normally spoke, but in this day and age…

“There was a change in the manner of your speaking.” So Gandalf had noted it too. His sharp observation skills reminded Harry – again – of Dumbledore, but this Wizard’s knowledge seemed to go far deeper than the Hogwart’s Headmaster’s ever would, no doubt a result of a much longer lifespan. “There is something I recognize in you. There is an old legend, long forgotten by this time, so old that even the wise Lord Elrond does not know it, that may be coming to life in you. How shall I explain it…”

“In the simplest terms possible,” Harry said, trying to be light.

Gandalf chuckled before quickly becoming serious again. “When Men die, their souls go beyond the borders of this world to a realm that even the Valar – what you may call gods – know of. Elves who die slain in battle can be reborn. But almost never in the course of my long years has there been an incident where the soul of a mortal returned. However, among the Valar it has been said that there is one mortal soul destined for one thing. That soul is manifested in this word only when the deepest, darkest kind of evil enters the land and has no other counter.”

Harry felt his mouth go dry. So his meeting with Voldemort was – predetermined? “So…”

“Your description of Voldemort and yourself, combined with the existence of a prophecy, is good enough to hold up such a thought.”

Harry remained silent, fidgeting as he sat.

“From what I know, it is not uncommon for a soul reborn to remember things of past lives. Vivid memories that often surface as either unbidden visions or dreams.”

How did he know? Gandalf’s guesses were very shrewd. And while he wasn’t saying anything outright, he seemed to be hinting at something that Harry had suspected ever since he and his friends had been unceremoniously sent to Bree…

“You must tell no one,” Gandalf said abruptly.

“Tell no one what?” For indeed, the Wizard had told Harry next to nothing.

“Just this: that you and your two friends – but especially you – are, merely by your presence here, disrupting the pattern of events. They may not unfold as they would have accordingly, and the destiny of this world could be altered forever. I’m not saying it is your fault,” he added, seeing Harry’s indignant expression, “It was by mere chance that you came across Strider and the Hobbits – no, it was not luck. Perhaps there was a greater power that brought you to the Prancing Pony. Not the Ring; it has little power over those not exposed to it before…” he trailed off.

“Meaning what?”

“You should not try to meddle in events. Doing so may spell disaster for Middle-Earth, and because you come from a future built upon this land…”

“That future might be lost, if what we do let’s Sauron win,” Harry concluded.

“Exactly.”

Harry wished he had his wand in his hand. He didn’t want to use it, but holding it made him feel less helpless. “That’s asking a lot. Hermione, Ron, and I – we’re all used to trying to influence events.”

“I know. You are all so young; perhaps you cannot see what repercussions any small actions you take may have.”

“Oh, we do. We once used a Time-Turner to free a friend…” his voice was trembling again. He hated that. Sirius…If I hadn’t gone to try and save him, he would have still been alive…It was cruel, the irony of what had happened. All because of his love for trying to be the hero…if only he’d listened to Hermione…

Could have. Would have. If he kept his nose out of what happened here, Hogwarts would still exist. It would be hard for him to do. All the same, if he or Ron or Hermione took the wrong step, Hogwarts would not be there when – if – they ever returned. Or if Sauron triumphed, they would not return at all. So Voldemort would either never be born, or his plans would succeed. Harry felt like such an idiot. After all, hadn’t he been tricked by Voldemort on several occasions? And this time, the consequences were vast.

“There is a Council to be held here quite soon, a gathering of Men, Elves, and Dwarves where we will decide the fate of the Ring,” Gandalf said. “Lord Elrond wants you to come.”

“I’m interested. What about Ron and Hermione?”

“Ah. Ron may certainly be present, but Hermione…”

“What?”

“There’s no other way than to put it bluntly. She simply will not be allowed.”

“Why? She’s the smartest of the three of us, probably more brains that Ron and I have put together…”

“Where – when – you come from, that might be acknowledged. But some men in this day and age might not see women quite the same way.”

“Oh.” Hermione wasn’t going to like this one bit.

“Try to tell her that it is not your fault. From the impression I get of her, she’s likely to fly into a rage about it.”

“No kidding.” Harry was not looking forward to it. “I’ll come, I guess, and I’ll try to convince Ron to also. As for Hermione…I’ll keep my wand at hand, just in case.”

Gandalf chuckled. “A wise decision.”


Translation: Lasto beth nin, tolo dan nan galad – Hear my voice, come back to the light


Chapter 7 - The Council and the Fellowship

Disclaimer: I own neither the characters, film dialogue, settings, etc…And also the ideas from the book that I’ve chosen to incorporate into this story. Rivendell needed a few more scenes, so I had to draw from what sources there were. Tell me what you think…

At long last, chapter seven. My muse decided to go on strike for a few months, but finally decided to return. Much thanks to VanaTheEverYoung, and Alquavani for doing the beta work. And hooray! I now know how to do italics on this site!




~Chapter 7: The Council and the Fellowship~

“That’s not fair!” Hermione railed, crossing her arms and scowling as she sat on her bed.

“It’s what he said,” Harry repeated wearily for the umpteenth time. He and Ron had been trying to placate Hermione for the past hour or so, listening to her rant about the idiocy of males as she stalked around her room. From what it looked like, it wasn’t easy to stalk in a flowing skirt. Ron’s head came up from where he had been resting it on the back of a rather ornate chair.

“’Mione, it’s not our fault. We’ll try to talk to Elrond and Gandalf about it, maybe they’ll change their minds…”

“Not if the other – Men – coming to the Council have anything to say about it.”

At least they hadn’t had to restrain her with their wands. As Ron tried yet again to calm her down, Harry reflected on what Gandalf had said.

“Among the Valar there is a legend…A soul manifested only to counter the deepest, darkest kind of evil…It is not uncommon to remember things of past lives…Tell no one.”

Oh, yes, Harry had been suspecting something of the sort all along, at least in the back of his brain. But to know that the Valar, whoever they were, had only one purpose in mind for him…It felt so…It made him feel so inexplicably helpless, but angry at the same time. Was he no more than a tool in the grand scheme of things, with no control over his fate? Would he never have the power to direct the course of his life?

He remembered Dumbledore’s words. There is more to the fight between yourself and Voldemort than we realized…It is indeed fate that you should be the one to combat this evil. Did Dumbledore know about it? How? Of course the encounter with Voldemort was inevitable, but to know that he had been born merely to do that…What would he do if he vanquished Voldemort? How would his spirit find rest from all the emotional scars inflicted on it? How would he ever live a normal life?

And then another one of those cursed visions stole upon him. He saw a harbor, a cove of sorts, and smelled salt upon the air. By the slight rocking motion under his feet he knew he was on a boat. Looking back towards the dock, he saw Sam, Merry, and Pippin, tears streaming down their faces…He smiled at them, at last he was going to have the rest he so desired…

Blinking, he wrenched himself back to Hermione’s room in Rivendell. Curse those visions. Frodo’s memories.

He now understood, in part, why he felt so familiar with Frodo. If what Gandalf had been hinting at was true, he was a reincarnation of the Hobbit. Perhaps it made sense. Since Frodo was the one carrying the Ring, wasn’t he the one at the center of the conflict with Sauron, the Dark Lord who was the very embodiment of evil?

It was a rather disconcerting thought, if not entirely unexpected. And if the vision he had just seen was indeed Frodo’s memory, then Frodo would one day find peace and full healing of the wounds inflicted upon him throughout the journey…

Unless he, Harry, interfered with the course of events. Unless his actions caused the Hobbit to fail in his quest – for undoubtedly, there would be one with Frodo at the center of it – and the Enemy triumphed. And in that case, Harry and his friends would be trapped here forever, unable to return to Hogwarts. Not that there would be any Hogwarts to return to…This was beginning to make his head spin. Too much thinking about the possible consequences did that. Such a small thing could unravel the course of events that led up to the building of Hogwarts, the building of the time they came from…And from the sound of Gandalf’s voice, if Sauron won there would most likely be a Dark Age of death and destruction that would follow this one…There would never be any going back, never…

“What do you think, Harry? Harry?”

He surfaced from the depths of his mind to look over at Ron, who was giving him a quizzical look. “Er…Sorry, Ron, I missed what you said…I’m just thinking…”

“You do that a lot lately.” Ron grinned. “At least you’re responding…Anyways, what do you think about us going to Elrond and Gandalf and asking if Hermione can come, we can threaten to hex them if they don’t…”

“The asking is okay, but I dunno about the hexing. Gandalf seems like he’d be a pretty powerful Wizard.” For some reason, the twinkling blue gaze surfaced in his mind. “Along the lines of Dumbledore, if not more powerful. Doesn’t he remind you of Dumbledore?”

“Actually, yes, a little,” remarked Hermione. “Though it seems like Gandalf hides his power…With Dumbledore, you feel it all the time.” She paused, inclining her head. “Perhaps it’s because his magic is different, like he said.”

“Or maybe you get that impression because he wears a grey tent, not nice robes,” Ron said. “Hey, I wonder…we should also ask him if our magic will work here. You know, about the Ringwraiths.”

Hermione shuddered. “Those things are worse than dementors. At least with a dementor, if you have someone who can do a Patronus Charm on hand…” She gave Harry a sidelong glance.

“The Patronus Charm didn’t work, like I already said. Maybe it’s the more powerful spells that don’t work, or the ones that we use for defense…The Summoning Charm worked just fine,” Harry reflected.

“What say we try one of those defense charms on someone?” Ron asked.

“What sorts of charms?”

“Oh, nothing too damaging…Perhaps just a Stunning Spell…”

“I’d like to use that on one of those unsuspecting Men coming to the Council,” Herimone said darkly.

“Can’t do that,” Harry said. “They’ve got weapons, knives and swords most probably…they’d probably attack us, thinking that we were the Enemy.”

“Then who?”

“No idea. Merry and Pip might find it amusing if we did it to them, though,” Ron said.

Harry and Hermione laughed appreciatively for a few moments before silence fell upon the trio. Harry glanced at Hermione. Her eyebrows were drawn downward in a frown of deep thought, and she was looking at nothing in particular. Then she spoke.

“Ron, Harry…I’ve been thinking about this for days now…Well, things may be worse than we think.”

“Why? Just look at where we are, ’Mione! It’s better than any vacation!”

“Oh, Ron, you really are shortsighted. Think of the long-term effects of our being here. I’ve done a bit of research already…Rivendell is where one of the most powerful Elven rulers of this time lives. You, know, Elrond. And Gandalf isn’t just an obscure wizard…It took me a while to puzzle it out, but he has so many names that everyone here in Middle-Earth knows him by one or another. Don’t you understand? We’ve made contact with some of the most powerful figures of this time. We have no idea how much our presence here will influence the decisions they make…”

“Such an optimist,” Ron commented.

“Be serious!” Hermoine’s words were tumbling out with greater rapidity each time she spoke. “Look, if we make a wrong move here…”

“There might not be any Hogwarts to go back to,” Harry finished for her. He turned to Ron. “I hate to be the voice of doom, but that’s the way it is. If something we do causes events to not play out as they should, Sauron’ll win and history from that point on will be different.”

“And another thing,” Hermione said. “We’ve told quite a bit of our story to Strider and the Hobbits and Gandalf. What if one of them takes it into his head to write it down somewhere? And I know that books of this time have made it all the way into the school library. Do you know who There and Back Again was by? Although I don’t suppose that you’ve seen it…”

“I have,” Harry said. “But Madame Pince came and said it was one of the oldest books in the library. I had no idea why it was just lying out on the table.”

“Usually it’s in the Restricted Section, because it’s so precious,” Hermione said. “I have no idea how it survived so long. Any guesses?”

Ron ventured to say, “Frodo?”

“Close. It’s by his uncle Bilbo.”

Harry’s and Ron’s mouths dropped open in surprise. “Seriously?”

“I’m sure of it. And if Bilbo could write a book like that, I’m sure that Frodo would be capable of doing it too, seeing as he’s Bilbo’s heir. Bilbo probably taught him.”

“And we told Frodo a lot about ourselves…” Harry said slowly.

“Right. If he ever writes it down…Let’s just say that his book survives and makes its way into the Hogwarts library. And who went to Hogwarts?”

“Well, most every witch and wizard from up and down Britain has gone there…”

“Don’t be stupid, Ron. Voldemort went there, years and years before we did.”

Harry’s eyes widened. He hadn’t even considered this possibility. “Oh, no…”

“What? Am I missing something here?” Ron demanded.

“If Voldemort reads an account of his own defeat before he’s even out of Hogwarts, he’d probably never attack me when I was…am…oh, whatever. He wouldn’t attack me as a baby.”

“So? You live a perfectly normal life, same as the rest of us. Except that you won’t be as famous…”

“I wouldn’t miss that. But I’d probably be a different person entirely. Or not even exist. Or something.”

“A paradox,” Hermione said very simply.

Harry sat down on a chair, placed his head and his hands and groaned, “What are we going to do?”

“Staying out of everyone’s way would be a start,” Hermione said. “We should make ourselves so insignificant that everyone forgets about us. But other than that, I honestly have no idea.”

“We’ll decide on that later,” Ron said. “Er…why don’t we talk to Gandalf or Elrond about letting Hermione into the Council now, just to watch? It must be almost time for supper, they’re bound to be near a dining hall of sorts…”

“Do you have any idea how to get there?” Harry asked. They hadn’t ventured much farther than beyond their rooms without someone to follow. Breakfast had been a light meal laid out in their rooms, and they had taken their lunch with the Hobbits out in the gardens. Harry had been astonished by how much those small beings could put away; truth to tell, only Ron was able to keep up with their appetites. Barely. He had had an eating contest with Merry and Pippin, much to everyone else’s amusement, but he’d tottered around rather unsteadily for a few hours afterward, trying to hold his food down. The two youngest Hobbits had found this mightily funny, but Ron had sworn that he would never eat again.

“Well, no…” Ron trailed off. Fortunately, at that moment, Frodo emerged from around the corner with Bilbo leaning on his arm. The older Hobbit looked up and saw the three teenagers.

“Hullo!” His voice was jovial, if slightly tired. “Frodo was just telling me all about you! I should like to speak with you sometime. I am writing a book and am gathering all the stories I can…Though perhaps Frodo will be the one to write it. In my old age I’ve become rather forgetful.”

“Bilbo, they’ve scarcely met you!” Frodo laughed. “Perhaps some other time. Their tale is dark and strange, not one of those you would tell on a day like this…or night, for that matter,” he added, seeing the sun sinking in the west.

“Not too unlike yours, my lad,” Bilbo responded. He turned to face Ron. “I did hear you speaking of food. Come, follow us. We are going to the dining hall; Elrond is having a feast tonight. To celebrate Frodo’s return to health.” He patted his nephew’s arm fondly. “We were so worried.”

“But I’m perfectly fine now, Bilbo. Let’s go – we want to be there before Merry and Pippin devour everything.”

Bilbo chuckled, shaking his head. “Have you never seen a feast at Rivendell? I doubt that even those two young rascals will leave the table without feeling completely satisfied.”

Harry grinned at Ron. “You feeling up to it? Or are you still too full from lunch?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to have those two laughing at me.”

Hermione gave a somewhat derisive snort. “If you’re sick again, it’s not our fault.”

“Never!” Suddenly Ron gave an elegant – albeit extravagant – bow. “Shall I escort you to the dining hall, fair lady?”

Harry, Frodo, and Bilbo were struggling not to laugh as they watched Hermione’s face turn red. Odd, Harry thought, that Ron would do something like that. Maybe the air on Middle-earth was getting to his head?

“I…I…I shall be honored,” Hermione managed, still blushing furiously. Harry didn’t know how to read her expression or the tone of her voice. Ron took her by the arm and they began walking away.

“Oy!” Harry called. “I thought you didn’t know the way to the dining hall?” So, Ron liked Hermione. Not that he’d been incapable of seeing that before, what with the way they bickered constantly. Of course, they were already close friends, not like it had been with himself and Cho Chang…But chasing girls was something of the past, at least for him. He knew intuitively that Frodo had a long existence ahead of him, but not one that involved any Hobbit woman. Would he be condemned to the same? At sixteen, that seemed to be looking too far ahead.

Bilbo trotted up next to him. “No problem, I’ll show you the way. I’ve been living here for the past seventeen years…or is it eighteen? Whatever it is, I know my way around.” Clearly eager to get to the dining hall, he walked forward energetically with Frodo following closely.

The hall was magnificent, with a high, arching roof and tables fairly laden with food. The cool autumn air that came in from the outside was warmed by fires, and the first stars of twilight were just visible through the large windows. There were a great many Elves in the room, all of who regarded the three Hogwarts students curiously. Sitting somewhat separately from the Elves were other beings, too short of stature to be men but certainly not Hobbits, judging by the thick beards they sported. Harry guessed they were Dwarves – they did remind him a little of the ones in the animated Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Bilbo and Frodo made their way over to them. Feeling more comfortable sitting with people they knew, Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed.

Bilbo walked toward a group of empty places next to a white-haired Dwarf with a merry expression before stopping to bow. “Bilbo Baggins at your service,” he said politely. There was a hint of a smile in his voice.

“Gloin at yours and your family’s,” replied the Dwarf, turning around to face the Hobbit. He laughed richly. “Is this where you’ve been all these years? What of visiting the Lonely Mountain?”

“I really did mean to…But, Gloin, I’m old. I’m no longer fit for such a journey through the Wild.”

“Ahh…Well, for your information, Bombur’s grown so fat that he can no longer move himself.”

Bilbo’s lips turned upward, his eyes twinkling. “Oh, that is not so hard to imagine. Who else has come with you?”

The Dwarf – Gloin – gestured to his other side. “My son, Gimli, and a few other kinsmen.” Gimli looked like his father, except that his braided beard and hair were brown. At the moment, he was too busy eating and talking with his fellow Dwarves to notice. “We arrived not too long ago.”

“It’s just like old times,” Bilbo sighed. “A reunion.”

Gloin’s expression clouded for a moment, but he kept his tone light. “Certainly. Now, why don’t you sit down and enjoy this marvelous food? For all their shortcomings,” he added in a lower voice, “the Elves are certainly masterful cooks.”

It was, indeed, magnificent. Never had bread tasted any fresher or fruits sweeter than when Harry and his friends ate them now. There was cold, clear water to drink as well as a few excellent wines. Harry and Hermione, preferring the water, only took a few sips, but Ron took a goblet of wine. Well, more than one. He waved away his friends’ comments that he was looking rather tipsy.

* * *

Soon after his – what was it, fourth or fifth? – plate, Bilbo had fallen asleep and was snoring gently, his head on Frodo’s shoulder. Gloin scrutinized the younger Hobbit closely.

“So you’re the one he adopted as his heir?” Frodo nodded in response. “I wonder, what brings you and your companions here, all the way from the Shire? It does not seem to be a family reunion.”

Frodo chose his words carefully. “It’s neither safe to travel alone nor to speak of the reason I am here.”

“Ah. Cryptic now, laddie? I suppose it has something to do with the Council that Elrond called us here for.”

“Perhaps.” Frodo had no doubt that the Ring was the reason for the Council the following day, but he had no desire to reveal his secret at the moment. Trying to steer the conversation away from that dangerous topic, he asked, “What news do you have of the Lonely Mountain? Bilbo often told me of his adventures through the Misty Mountains to the other side of Mirkwood to Esgaroth.”

Frodo tried to read the Dwarf’s expression. The words came out slowly, deliberately. “Oh, we Dwarves do well enough. Our craft today cannot mimic the masters of old, but Men and even the occasional Elf from Mirkwood still think them very fine. Even Bilbo bought numerous trinkets once, for his one-hundred eleventh birthday. Your thirty-third birthday fell on the same day, if I’m not mistaken…” He waited for Frodo’s nod of agreement before continuing. “That was a busy time. Did your Hobbit friends enjoy them?”

“Oh, yes, very much,” Frodo said. “What about the other Dwarves who went on the journey? Balin and the others?”

Gloin’s face fell. “Balin…He went to Moria with a few of the other companions. He hoped to recapture to glory of the days long past, when Moria would shine brightly with the fires in the halls of the Dwarves. For the first few months hopeful messages flew back and forth between the Dwarf-city of Dwarrowdelf and the Lonely Mountain. But then…nothing.”

“I’m sorry.” Frodo could not think of what else to say. He looked out towards the window. The brightest stars of the night were now visible against the midnight blue canopy of sky. Over the now quiet talk, he was able to hear the rustle of the leaves on the branches as the wind gently stirred them, as well as the gentle sound of water as the stream babbled over and around rocks. He gave a contented sigh. Here, in Rivendell, he could happily spend the rest of his days. But while the Ring still existed, no peace would remain for long.

His uncle gave a particularly loud snore. Frodo glanced down at the curly white head. Bilbo had always seemed young and energetic before. Of course it was the Ring that had kept him looking like that, young and spry, never aging a day. Even when Bilbo had approached the age of one hundred, the much younger Frodo had sometimes been hard-pressed to keep up during their walks through the Shire. Now time was catching up to the old Hobbit. There were more wrinkles in his smiling face, and his hair had turned a snowy white. And while it had indeed been a full seventeen years since he had last seen Bilbo, Frodo felt that the weight of years had fallen upon his uncle more quickly than usual.

He looked down the table at the trio of young wizards. Ron seemed to be enjoying himself as he talked with Merry and Pippin. The girl, Hermione, was watching him worriedly. As he scrutinized Ron further, he noticed that his speech had become a little slurred. Apparently he did not know just how strong Elven wine could be.

Harry, however, was looking pensively into his goblet, not drinking. His brow was furrowed in a slight frown, and he was tapping the frame of his strange lenses – he called them glasses – with his right index finger.

What was it about this young boy that he recognized so well? They had at least one thing in common, being orphans. But Frodo knew – rather, felt – that that was not all. Whatever it was, he did not know what to make of it. And even if he did, such knowledge could be dangerous.

Well, there was another thing they had in common. Harry was pursued by the Dark Lord of his time, and Frodo by the agents of Sauron. He could identify with the boy’s situation to a certain extent. But Harry had had this – Voldemort, was it? – after him ever since he was born. He had never had the opportunity to live a carefree youth, unlike Frodo himself. It was a pity to see a mere boy lose his younger years to darkness. For Frodo, those years had already gone by. He had thought his future lost when his mother and father died, but Bilbo had shown him otherwise.

It was more than just having several things in common, though. He felt that there was recognition of some sort, an inexplicable familiarity. For even though most of Frodo’s memories of his recent illness were dark and dim, the veil had once lifted and he had seen a particular look in the boy’s eyes. The look was one of understanding. Frodo did not know how to explain how he saw it – but Harry had somehow understood what Frodo was going through.

Could Harry have had a similar experience in the world of the future?

Perhaps the answer would reveal itself to him in time. Maybe he would find out at the Council the next day.

* * *

The feast ended rather late – indeed, it seemed that the Elves did not grow tired at any point, for at the end they all filed out to another hall to listen to songs and tales, as Lord Elrond had announced at the end of the feast. Harry saw Frodo and Bilbo following the Elves, clearly eager to hear such lore. Well, considering that Frodo had had so much sleep, it was not surprising that he was so energetic.

On the other hand, Harry and his friends had found themselves too tired to continue. Sam was nowhere to be found – probably gone to look after Frodo, as he usually did – but Merry and Pippin followed them until they had reached their rooms and said good night. At the moment, Harry and Hermione were leading a rather tipsy Ron back to his own room.

“See, Ronald, when you drink too much, this is what happens,” Hermione said sternly, catching him as he stumbled for the umpteenth time.

“’Mione, Ima jus’ fine…”

She snorted. “Indeed. Your speech is slurred, and you can’t find your way back to your room by yourself.”

“That Elvish wine must be strong,” Harry said, raising a hand to his forehead. “I took some, but not a whole lot, and even I feel a bit warm…”

“At least you didn’t take nearly as much as this hopeless mess,” Hermione said quietly with a shake of her head. Ron did not seem to hear.

The trio finally reached the entrances to their rooms. Ron’s and Hermione’s were both directly across the hall from Harry’s.

“Well, good night,” Harry said before slipping into his room. He heard Hermione bid Ron good night as she stepped away from him to open her door before Ron spoke.

“’Mione…” Harry, who was just about to close his door behind him, turned around and peered through the crack.

Hermione didn’t even get the chance to make an irritable comment or cry out. Ron reached out and pulled her into his arms, lifting her onto her tiptoes to bring her face up to meet his before giving her a rather rough and drunken kiss on the lips. Hermione closed her eyes for a moment before fully realizing what was happening. All too quickly for Ron’s liking, she pushed away, looking mortified. She opened and closed her mouth several times, but no sound came out.

Ron gave a sheepish grin before retreating into his chamber and closing the door. The last thing Harry saw before he shut the hall out of sight was Hermione standing frozen in the hall, rage and embarrassment warring on her reddened face.

* * *

Frodo was awakened by Gandalf early the next morning. His appetite had come back in full force; he was about to rush off to find a morsel to eat when Sam came to his door, carrying a tray laden with food.

“’Morning, Mr. Frodo. I thought you’d be hungry, so I went to get you a little something from the kitchens before that Council, seeing as you’re going to be in there for a while.”

Frodo smiled. “As a matter of fact, Sam, I was just about to look for something. Thank you.”

Sam stood watching him concernedly as he applied himself to the soft, warm bread, crisp apples, and tea. Finally Frodo looked up and asked, “What is it, Sam?”

The gardener shook his head. “Nothing, Mr. Frodo. It’s just…Remember how you said that we’d would go back to the Shire soon?”

Frodo nodded.

“Well, sir, I don’t know what it is, but I’m getting the feeling that that’s not going to happen. The road looks darker just ahead.”

For a moment Frodo wondered what had come over Sam. He looked just the same, but his brown eyes were unusually thoughtful and sad.

“Oh, come now, Sam. Of course we’ll go home.”

“And what about the Ring?”

Frodo shuddered and touched his left shoulder briefly. Ever since he had been wounded by the Morgul-knife he had sensed the evil force that filled the Ring much more clearly, as if a tenuous link between his mind and Sauron’s had been established. That awareness seemed to grow whenever the Ring was mentioned aloud. “I don’t know. But let’s not talk about that right now. I am sure I will hear enough about it later.”

They continued to reminisce about the Shire until Gandalf came to the door with Harry and Ron in tow.

“Frodo, the Council is ready to begin. They only require your presence and mine.”

The Hobbit eyed the two young Wizards curiously. “And theirs?”

Gandalf glanced backward at Harry and Ron. “Well…”

“Really, Mr. Gandalf, I don’t think they ought to be trusted too far. They might look young and innocent, but what if it’s someone from the Enemy in disguise?” The two young men stiffened at Sam’s words.

Sam had a very good point, but something told Frodo otherwise. “I can assure you, Sam, they mean no harm.”

“And just how do you know that, Mr. Frodo? Begging your pardon, but you’ve only known them for a few days.”

“Trust me.” How else was he supposed to respond? He turned to Gandalf. “Let us go, then.”

They proceeded down the hall in silence, not noticing the uninvited Sam following them.

* * *

Harry and Ron sat down next to each other upon the two chairs closest to Gandalf. There was no other place for them; their two chairs had been hastily added to the circle of seats that surrounded a small stone pedestal. Harry noted that he and Ron were met by curious stares, as well as a few low murmurs. Even Elrond regarded them with a frown. He walked up to Gandalf, and the two began conversing in low tones. Harry strained his ears to listen.

“I cannot allow them to join us,” said Elrond. “These matters are far beyond the understanding of ones so young.”

“They have endured much in their lives, young though they are,” replied the wizard.

“I fear the effect this Council may have on two so young and innocent. I will only allow one to stay.”

“They are wiser than you know.”

Elrond looked at Harry and Ron and shook his head. “Surely you have seen it. There is no possibility that he can stay.” With that, the Elf straightened and returned to his seat.

Gandalf sighed and turned to face them. “Ronald…”

Ron gave the Wizard a too-curious look. Undoubtedly he too had been eavesdropping on the conversation.

“I must ask you to leave.”

Ron stood up and gave a stiff nod. His expression gave away little, but his ears had turned red, a sure sign that he was angry.

“Ron…” Harry started, but his friend did not even look at him. Instead, he swept past without a word.

Elrond waited until Ron was out of sight before he began. “Strangers from distant lands, friends of old, you have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle-earth stands upon the brink of destruction, none can escape it. You will unite or you will fall. Each race is bound to this fate, this one doom.” He nodded toward Frodo, who was sitting on Gandalf’s other side. “Bring forth the Ring, Frodo.”

Frodo stood up and laid the Ring down in the center of the stone pedestal. As he sat down, his eyes closed and he let out a deep breath.

The eyes of everyone else, however, had become fixed upon the band of gold just lying there, gleaming in the sunlight. Even Harry felt it tugging at him. He could defeat Voldemort, if only he possessed the Ring…and then perhaps he would find a way to bring back his parents and Sirius…

“So it is true,” someone breathed. Harry, his thoughts interrupted, tore his gaze from the Ring and looked at the speaker. It was another Man, dressed in fine but travel-stained clothes. He was stroking his well-kept brown beard thoughtfully as his grey eyes remained fixed on the Ring.

More eyes turned toward the man as he stood up. “In a dream, I saw the eastern sky grow dark.” He started walking toward the pedestal. “But in the West, a pale light lingered. A voice was crying, ‘Your doom is near at hand! Isildur’s Bane has been found!’” The man reached for the gold band. “Isildur’s Bane…”

“Boromir!”

Gandalf had stood up and was advancing upon the retreating man, his voice thunderous as he spoke the words, “Ash Nazg durbatuluk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thratatuluk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul!”

The very sky seemed to darken and the earth trembled slightly as the words were spoken. Harry closed his eyes. The words had brought a vague pounding to his head, and he did not have to understand them to know what they meant. One Ring to rule them all…No. He would not allow the Ring to rule him. He had resisted it before – he knew it – and would manage this time. He hoped.

“Never before has anyone uttered the words of that tongue here in Imladris,” Elrond said, bringing his face away from his fingertips.

“I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond, for the Black Speech of Mordor may one day be heard in every corner of the West. The Ring is altogether evil!”

“It is a gift,” Boromir exclaimed as he stood up again. “A gift to the foes of Mordor! Why not use this Ring? Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe. Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy! Let us use it against him!”

“You cannot wield it.” All eyes turned to Strider. “None of us can. The One Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master.”

“And what would a Ranger know of this matter?” Boromir scoffed.

A tall, blond Elf stood up, eyes flashing in Strider’s defense. “This is no mere Ranger! He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance.”

“Aragorn?” Boromir paused, examining the other Man disbelievingly. “This is Isildur’s heir?”

“And heir to the throne of Gondor.” The Elf gave Boromir an intense look, challenging him.

“Havo dad, Legolas,” Aragorn said. The Elf glanced briefly at him before sitting down.

“Gondor has no king,” Boromir said as he returned to his own seat. “Gondor needs no king.”

“Aragorn is right; we cannot use it,” Gandalf said solemnly.

“Then you have only one choice. The Ring must be destroyed.” Elrond’s expression was grave.

Gimli, who was seated at Gloin’s side, jumped up and seized the axe at his feet. “Then what are we waiting for?” he asked, striding up to the stone plinth and bringing the axe down hard.

Instantly, a memory awoke in Harry’s mind. Not his own, that was sure…He saw an Eye wreathed in flame, a voice chanting, a pounding in his head…He raised his eyes and glanced in Frodo’s direction, and saw the Hobbit covering his eyes and rubbing his temples. The Dwarf had been thrown onto his back, and his shattered axe seemed to be smoking.

Elrond spoke. “The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli son of Gloin, be any craft that we here possess.” Frodo was now looking at the Ring, brow furrowed in what looked like worry. “It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm form whence it came.” After a pause he added, “One of you must do this.”

Silence reigned over the Council.

“One does not simply walk into Mordor,” whispered Boromir. “Its Black Gates are guarded by more than just Orcs. And the Great Eye is ever watchful. ‘Tis a barren wasteland riddled with fire and ash and dust. The very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. Not with ten thousand men can you do this. It is folly,” he shook his head.

“Have you heard nothing Lord Elrond has said?” the Elf who had spoken earlier demanded. “The Ring must be destroyed!”

“And I suppose you think you’re the one to do it?” the Dwarf glared up at the Elf.

Nearly everyone at the Council stood up and began to argue not only about who would shoulder the burden of taking the Ring to Mordor, but the Elves and Dwarves argued about their races. “Never trust an Elf!” Gimli proclaimed.

Gandalf tried to halt the disagreement. “Don’t you understand? As you bicker amongst yourselves, Sauron’s power grows. None can escape it, you’ll all be destroyed!”

Harry was one of the few who had not joined in the fray. He glanced to his right and saw Lord Elrond, eyes closed in frustration, and to his left was Frodo.

The Hobbit had recovered from whatever had struck him earlier. Harry could have sworn he saw a visible change come over him as he saw there, staring at the Ring, breathing hard, with the flame of decision growing in his eyes.

Then he slid out of his seat. He drew himself to his full three and a half feet and said loudly to the arguers, “I will take it!”

The bickering did not slow. “I will take it!” he repeated.

This time the rest of the Council was silenced, its attention turned down to face the diminutive but brave soul who had volunteered. “I will take the Ring to Mordor!” His eyes met those of the Elves, Men, and Dwarves who studied him. “Though…” he added, in a softer voice, “I do not know the way.”

Gandalf gave a barely perceptible nod and moved to stand by the Hobbit. “I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins, as long as it is yours to bear.”

Aragorn knelt before Frodo, their eyes level. “If by my life or death I can protect you, I will. You have my sword.”

“And you have my bow,” the blond Elf said.

“And my axe,” added the Dwarf. He stood by the Elf, and Harry couldn’t help noticing the vaguely irritated expression in the Elf’s eyes.

“You have my wand.” Harry felt himself rising, felt the questioning – and even disapproving – glances of the others present. He met Frodo’s gaze levelly. “You could always use another wizard.”

“Of course,” Frodo nodded.

Boromir wove his way forward. “You carry the fates of us all, little one. If this is indeed the will of the Council, then Gondor will see it done.”

A sudden cry and rustling of leaves followed by pattering footsteps brought everyone’s attention to Sam, who had been unable to conceal himself any longer. “Mr. Frodo’s not going anywhere without me,” he declared, planting himself firmly at his friend’s side.

“No, indeed. It seems hardly possible to separate you, even when he is invited to a secret council and you are not,” Elrond said, his expression slightly amused.

“Oi! We’re coming too!” Merry cried. Pippin followed him from behind the columns together with Ron. “And you’ll have to send us home tied up in a sack – or throw away Ron’s wand – to stop us.”

“And Harry isn’t going to go anywhere without me,” Ron added.

“Anyway,” Pippin said to a now slightly less amused Elrond, “You need people of intelligence on this sort of mission…quest…er, thing.”

“Well, that rules you out, Pip.” It took Pippin more than a moment to understand that Merry had just insulted him.

“Eleven companions,” Elrond mused. “So be it,” he proclaimed. “You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring.”

Pippin smiled. “Great! Where are we going?”

Frodo and Merry tried to maintain politely quizzical expressions as they glanced at their cousin.

* * *

“What were you two thinking?”

Hermione glared at Harry and Ron, but did not wait for a response. “I told you that any meddling might undo the future as we know it! How thick can you both be?” She rolled her eyes and turned to face the balcony, crossing her arms.

Ron’s ears turned red in consternation as his hands moved to smoothed his robe; Harry merely looked at the carved ceiling, studying the swirling wave pattern overhead intently. Interestingly, he spotted a small ship in the corner, which appeared to be carrying a star into the heavens at the other end of the room…

“…and to make matters worse, they’re actually allowing you to go on the quest! I suppose that since I’m a girl, they won’t take me along…but I refuse to be left behind! I’m surprised that Lord Elrond actually agreed to it, considering that you – we – are only sixteen, and Pippin’s twenty-nine, and he’s the next youngest member of the Fellowship! I know we can use magic, but what if our power’s weaker here? Gandalf doesn’t know, so it’s most likely that no one else does.”

“’Mione…”

“Don’t call me that, Ronald!” Harry looked at her and saw her face turn red.

“Hermione…You don’t know what it was like. I was – compelled – to walk up there and say I’d go with Frodo and everyone else. Something told me…”

“Oh yes, so now you have mystical voices speaking to you too?” Apparently the kiss last night had made her angrier at Ron than usual.

“I only meant…”

“And what do you have to say, Harry?” she demanded as she looked at him sharply. “From what Ronald tells me you volunteered before he did.”

“I…” What was he to say? “I couldn’t leave Frodo…”

“What is it with you and the Hobbit? You’ve decided that you can save him? Play the hero again?”

Harry decided to ignore this particular comment. “I can’t explain it. I know the dangers he’ll be going through and I think…I think I can at least help. And I’m probably the best of the three of us at defense spells.”

“What do you mean, you understand? Harry, I was reading the history of the Ring while you two were away. Mordor is worse than any place we have ever encountered.”

“We heard. Boromir described it for us.”

“Boromir?”

“From…Gondor, was it?”

“I see…” Hermione walked over to the desk, where she had a map of Middle-Earth spread out. Harry and Ron followed her. She traced her left finger over a small star that most likely represented Rivendell, across and down a long mountain chain, through a few painstakingly drawn forests, to a general area far south. “Gondor. And since he’s a messenger, he’s most likely from Minas Tirith, the City of the Guard.” Her slender index finger came to rest at the end of a shorter mountain chain, over a small but detailed drawing of a tower. She moved her right hand to indicate an area to the west of Minas Tirith that was enclosed on three sides by mountains. “That,” she said, “is Mordor. Sauron is most likely here, in his tower of Barad-dûr. And here is Mount Doom, where the Fellowship is headed.” A tiny volcano that spewed fire indicated its location. She looked up at the two of them. “Are you certain you want to travel that far on foot?”

“On foot?” Ron asked, dumbfounded. “No…no horses, nothing?”

“On foot.”

“What’s the scale on that map?”

“Here? Well, all told, I’d say that it was perhaps a thousand miles or more from here to Mount Doom.”

“That long? How do they expect us to…”

“We walk, Ron,” Harry said. “I don’t think we can back out of this one. We joined the Fellowship in front of the entire Council…”

“The Fellowship. That is what Lord Elrond and I wish to speak to you about.”

The trio whirled around to face Gandalf, whom they had not noticed. “Why…” Harry began.

“I suggest that the four of us go to Lord Elrond’s study. He is waiting for us there.”

“The four of us?” Hermione asked.

“Yes, you too, Miss Granger. Elrond requested that I bring the two young men, but I heard you as I came down the corridor and have decided that you are worthy of consideration.” He led them out, passing through delicate-looking walkways that melded with the natural growth of the trees and intricately carved arches that led into other corridors.

“So are you on our side or his?” Ron asked. “He doesn’t want us coming, does he?”

“I’m afraid you are right. However, I believe that there are other forces at work here. You were sent here from your time for a purpose; what that is, I cannot yet say, but I am certain that the Quest is something you must take part in.”

“But why? Why us? We’re only sixteen, after all…”

“Sixteen, which to the Elves is barely beyond birth and to Hobbits is still childish. But I see you and know that you three have grown far beyond your years. Lord Elrond, on the other hand, looks upon your age as an Elf would.”

After a pause, Hermione spoke up. “There is one other thing that may play a part in this, Gandalf…”

“And that is?”

“We have no knowledge of weapons. Our wands have defended us until now, but how are we to face an army of Orcs armed with only a strip of wood that, for all we know, could be useless here in Middle-Earth?”

“You refer to your encounter with the Nazgûl when you say your powers have been diminished? I do not believe they are affected by the mere fact that you are no longer in you own time. You draw your magic from a place I do not yet understand, but wherever it comes from, it has not been affected by the evil that reigns in Mordor. I confess that even I have not defeated a Nazgûl. They say that no living man can kill the Witch-king of Angmar, the leader of the Nine. I would assume the same holds true for his companions.”

Hermione considered this for a moment. “No living man…” she said softly.

“What?” Harry asked.

“Nothing,” she shook her head. “I’m just thinking.”

They passed the rest of the way in silence before Gandalf halted at the entrance to the study, motioning the three inside.

Harry paused to admire the room. The room was large, with a high ceiling and a collection of books that was a library in itself. Candles and a fire crackling merrily in the hearth threw warm light into the room that glowed softly off the darker wooden paneling on the walls and the richly made desk. The whole room was a work of art, beautiful as only the Elves could make it.

The master of Rivendell himself stood behind his desk, his gaze welcoming but also somehow grave. His face was free of lines, but the incalculable wisdom that lay behind the deep blue eyes shone through. “Good evening, young wizards. I am certain you understand why you are here…”

An odd thought crossed Harry’s mind as he looked at the Elf Lord. Funny, he looks nothing like Dobby…

“It has to do with the Quest, doesn’t it? And you don’t think we should go?”

“That, Ronald Weasley, is precisely it. You see, you are simply too young to accompany the rest of the Fellowship. I am even tempted to disallow Peregrin from going, and he is thirteen years older than you are.”

“He may be thirteen years older, but he acts about as maturely as my brothers Fred and George. They’re two years older than I am, but are jokers like you wouldn’t believe…”

“I think my own twin sons could rival your brothers. Or even my daughter Arwen – you have met her. She was probably worse than Elladan and Elrohir together when she was a young elleth.” Elrond’s mouth twitched upward and his eyes lit up briefly at the memory. “But we are straying from the topic. You and Harry are too young, and I cannot imagine what Hermione Granger means by coming here.”

“I mean that if Harry and Ron manage to convince you to send them on the Quest, I won’t be left behind,” Hermione said, her eyes flashing. “Where – when – we come from, women are treated almost as equals to the men. And I have to say that I felt most insulted by not being allowed at the Council.”

“Only Harry was allowed to stay…” Elrond began.

“But that’s not the point! I don’t believe that women should be considered any weaker for the mere fact that they are what they are! And I wish to go on the Quest. You say that none of us have knowledge of weapons; well, we can learn. It will be a few months, anyway, before the Fellowship departs. I learn quickly – Harry and Ron can attest to that.”
“The Elves and I do not object to your involvement. But Men, Dwarves, and even Hobbits are not accustomed to equality between males and females, and this Fellowship represents them as well. And what if you run afoul of an army of orcs, Corsairs, or even a band of slavers along the road? The companions of the Fellowship are honorable and strong of heart, but eleven alone cannot stand against an army of thousands.”

“Then I will learn to defend myself, together with Harry and Ron. I do have a few tricks up my sleeve – and I’ve learned to master most of my fears.” Hermione’s voice sounded even older than it normally did as she met Elrond’s gaze levelly.

The Lord of Imladris regarded her carefully. “You have a stout heart indeed. But the wild is no place for a lady – and you are barely out of childhood, even by the reckoning of humans.

“Likewise,” he added, looking at Harry and Ron again, “you two are young Men with scarcely any sign of a beard. You all are young and innocent; you have not encountered the dangers of the wild.”

“How many Elves have, by our age, stared death in the face?” Harry asked. “How many fourteen year-olds in Middle earth have fought for their life against someone who had been after them since their birth?” Elrond remained silent. “I have. I’ve fought Lord Voldemort and escaped five times with my life. I’ve seen people cut down just because Voldemort wanted to hurt me. I’ve watched people die, seen people tortured, been tortured with the Cruciatus Curse myself. And Ron and Hermione have been with me through it all,” he added.

“You see, Lord Elrond,” Gandalf said, emerging from where he had sat silent in the shadows, “they are less innocent than even some Elves ten times their age are. Just by being alive and well they have shown they are not fainthearted.”

“Have they seen loved ones killed and friends tortured?” Elrond said rhetorically. “I do not question your opinion, Gandalf, but – ”

“We’re not lying!” Ron interrupted.

“I was not going to suggest that you were. So you have seen death and torture. But from what Harry is telling me, I understand that the wizards of your time use magic to kill and to torture?” They nodded. “There is something you have not seen, then. You have neither watched someone die a slow and painful death nor seen someone scream while being ripped apart. You have not used a weapon to kill, and that is something you must learn to do if you want to go. The Quest is not a game. You see why I cannot allow you to go? You are too young to foresee the consequences of any actions you might take!”

“And the others can?” Ron challenged.

“Ron!” Hermione tutted.

Gandalf stepped into the conversation. “You are right, Lord Elrond. But Ron also speaks the truth. What of Boromir? Gimli? The Hobbits? We saw how rashly and impulsively they acted at the Council. Why, Boromir reached for the Ring and tried to take it! He could not see that it would bring destruction and not salvation to Gondor, and yet you do not question his presence in the Company.”

“Boromir is a Man. Weak in spirit and easily bent to the Ring’s will because of his desire to save Gondor, yes, but a Man skilled with weapons and sharp of mind.”

“Hermione’s very clever,” Ron said. “And most of the stuff we’ve been through is not exactly to be considered a walk in the park.”

The Istari and Elf looked at him quizzically at the phrase, but ignored it. Gandalf said, “And what of Gimli? You saw how eagerly he rushed up to the Ring, not thinking of what would happen as soon as he lowered his axe.”

“He did not know…”

But Gandalf shook his head. “None of them do. Neither Elf, nor Man, nor Hobbit can comprehend the perils that lie before him on this quest. And neither age nor experience can change that. Even Legolas has only battled the spiders in Mirkwood, and Thranduil told me once that it was out of sheer boredom. And you say that these young people are too innocent?”

“Legolas is an Elf. His skill with the bow has remained unsurpassed since he first mastered it.”

“Certainly. But his heart would be just as vulnerable as Boromir’s if the Ring were to uncover what he most wanted.”

“And that is another reason I cannot allow these children on the Quest; it is far too dangerous!” It was as if the three Hogwarts wizards were no longer present. “They are of the race of Men, and their hearts would be easily corruptible.”

“Yet it is said that children – as you insist on calling them – are the most pure, the least susceptible to corruption. Elrond – none of us sees the danger that truly lies ahead, and that is why these three have chosen to go. If we knew, we would be doomed to failure from the start.”

“Very well…I can hardly call them children, for they have indeed seen things my sons and Arwen did not see until they were past one hundred years old.”

“And you are wrong – at least for one of them. Harry has killed a creature before – and not only that, he mentioned facing a dragon only a year ago.”

Elrond looked, eyebrows raised, at Harry, who said, “It was self-defense. Voldemort sent a twenty-foot long snake after me, but a sword appeared and I used it to defend myself by killing the snake.”

“And the dragon?” Elrond questioned curiously.

“It was part of a Triwizard Tournament task. I had to take a golden egg from the nest it was guarding.”

Elrond regarded Harry with an expression of amazement, then he sighed. “Very well. Harry, perhaps, has shown that he is capable of the Quest. But as for Ron and Hermione…”

“I’m not going anywhere without them,” Harry stated. When Elrond began to speak, most likely to tell him to stay, he added, “And I made a promise in front of the Council, and so did Ron. A promise like that can’t be broken that easily.”

“Honor is central to anyone’s life here, but I have your safety in mind.”

“And we three want to help save Middle-earth!” Hermione said fiercely. “Perhaps these two haven’t considered it, but I know that I am ready for the long journey. I know what it’s like to hike over long distances and sleep on the ground.” When she saw Harry’s and Ron’s puzzled looks, she added, “My parents and I took a long hiking trip last summer in Switzerland.”

Elrond seemed to be relenting. “You three realize that this is not merely a – hike – down through Middle-earth? The way will be long and perilous. You will be pursued by the Enemy, and may have to fight for your lives in battles with Orcs – or worse. Are you prepared to take on the burden if defending the Ringbearer to the death?”

To the death. The finality about that phrase was ominous, but it was binding. “I promised Frodo my wand, and he will have it. I know some good defense spells – so do Ron and Hermione – that’ll keep anyone’s hands off me long enough for me to catch up to the Fellowship if I have to use them. I am ready.”

“Me too,” Ron added.

“I will go – with your permission, Lord Elrond. I swear not to distract any of the others in the Fellowship from the true goal,” Hermione said.

“Not that it’s in your personality to,” Ron muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Elrond regarded them all thoughtfully. “Very well. I will send for the smiths so that they may create new swords for you; Aragorn shall teach you. If one of you should show any promise with the bow, I shall be sure to find one as well as some well-fletched arrows. You three shall join the Company on the Quest to Mount Doom. Use whatever is in your power to defend Frodo from all harm.”

“We will,” they said together, nodding.

Have I made the right choice? Harry wondered. If any of us die, I would never forgive myself. But the promise is to defend Frodo to the death.

Their decision had been made, and it was irrevocable. They would face the Quest as brave Gryffindor students should.



Translation: Ash Nazg durbatuluk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thratatuluk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul! - One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them; One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them. (Black Speech of Mordor)


Chapter 8 - Preparations

Well, here is the final chapter before book six of Harry Potter comes out. Please review! (Or I won't post the next chapter, hehe...just kidding)

Much thanks to VanaTheEverYoung for the beta work on this chapter.


~Chapter 8: Preparations~


The days spent in Rivendell were the most relaxing Harry had had in a long time, for now he had neither Voldemort nor schoolwork to worry about. It seemed that there was a feast every night, but when they complimented the skills of Elrond’s cooks, the Lord of Imladris simply laughed it off and said it was but simple fare.

“It’s still good enough for a party back in Hogwarts,” Ron said.

Since their discussion with the Elf, he had opened up to them and become warmer, introducing them to his guests and making them feel at home. The Hobbits – especially Bilbo – took them around the Elven settlement, leading them through beautifully crafted buildings and serene gardens with the leaves just turning golden-red. They came across Aragorn once, sitting before a white marble statue reflectively, gazing silently at the splintered sword it held. Gandalf explained the sword to them at supper.

“It is named Narsil, Red and White Flame, and was crafted from the metal of a falling star. The sword once belonged to Elendil, who died in Mordor fighting against Sauron himself. It is the blade that Isildur used to sever the Ring from Sauron’s hand. And as you know, Aragorn is Isildur’s heir.”

“Will they reforge it?” Hermione asked.

“I cannot say for certain. Now that the hand of evil reaches out over the land once more, Aragorn will need to emerge from the shadows and eventually make himself known to the Enemy. But whether he is willing to take up the burden – a heavy one indeed – that remains to be seen.”

Hermione could rarely be coaxed out of the library, but when Harry and Ron managed to do so, the three often set out wandering in the valley with the hobbits in tow. With the beautiful waterfalls, forests, and pools, there seemed no end of places to explore.

Even though the leaves were changing, the weather was still pleasantly warm during the middle of the day. Harry, Ron, and Hermione ventured lower into the valley wearing their new cloaks. The four Hobbits were with them, Merry and Pippin scrambling ahead, and Frodo and Sam trailing behind. Hermione found it a little difficult to pick her way down the trail in her dress, but somehow they all managed to make a path down to the stream by midday.

Ron sprawled out on the mossy bank; Hermione chose to seat herself meditatively on a flat rock that jutted out into the water. Sam, handy as ever, set out the bread, cheese, and apples he had brought for lunch as Frodo lay down and looked at the sky. Harry sat in the grass away from the water’s edge.

“It’s so peaceful here,” Hermione said. “I wish we could stay forever.”

“You mean that?” Ron asked. “Without schoolwork?”

“The Rivendell library is more than enough to keep me occupied.”

But then Frodo said sadly, “It will not remain peaceful so long as the Ring remains undestroyed. The world will fall into shadow, and the Elves will flee Middle-earth. They have already begun to sail.”

No one spoke for a few moments. Then Harry asked, “What d’you mean, the Elves are leaving?”

“He means that they’re going away, never to return,” Sam responded. “It makes me sad to see such fair folk leave.”

“But why?” Hermione asked, still gazing down the stream.

“Their time is over – at least, that is what Lord Elrond says. The Big Folk – Men, that is – are going to rise as the protectors of Middle-earth.”

The silence hung in the air.

A splash broke through the companions’ thoughts, accompanied by Pippin’s loud, high yelp. “Help! I can’t swim!”

Shaking his head, Harry waded out into the stream – it was perhaps only a foot of water – and hauled Frodo’s madly thrashing, bedraggled cousin up onto the bank. “And you’re coming with us on the Quest?”

Merry laughed, cocking his eyebrow. “Aye. A person of intelligence, as he said.”

Pippin scowled at him.

* * *\r\n\r\n

One morning Harry, Ron, and Hermione were in the library. Harry and Ron, who had gotten bored of perusing maps and books they could not understand, were practicing the Stunning Spell and other hexes over a pile of cushions they had borrowed from many of the library chairs. Hermione was curled up in the sunlight by the window, reading and occasionally finding a location on the large, detailed map that was spread out on the table before her.

“Stupefy!” Harry cried, pointing his wand at Ron.

At the same moment Ron whipped his wand in Harry’s direction and said, “Expelliarmus!”

A jet of red light streaked out of Harry’s wand, but his aim went awry as Ron’s Disarming Spell hit him. Ron lowered his wand as Harry went to retrieve his.

”Y’know, now that I think about it, we might not need that one here,” Ron said a bit sheepishly. “Not unless Gandalf tries to attack us.”

“Actually, we might,” Harry said, standing. “In fourth year Diggory used it to make a giant spider drop me – well, I broke my leg because of it – but it worked. So it might come in useful against Orcs. And Ron?”

“What?”

“You shouldn’t leave your wand lowered like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because Voldemort and the Death Eaters fight dirty – like this!” he said as he aimed again. “Petrificus Totalus!”

Ron toppled backwards in the full Body-Bind, nearly missing the pile of squashy blue cushions they had borrowed.

“Harry, that was uncalled for,” Hermione said, glancing up from the massive book she held.

“I just wanted him to learn. Don’t you want to put that thing down and join us?” He crouched over Ron and pointed his wand at his friend, muttering the countercurse.

As Ron stretched, Hermione replied, “No thanks – these flowing skirts really make things like that difficult.”

“And you’re planning to go on the Quest wearing what?”

“Elrond told me that he would find someone to make me an outfit similar to the one Arwen wore when we first saw her, but I asked him to let me wear something more practical.”

“Meaning?”

“An outfit a male would typically wear, like the ones you will be using. A tunic and leggings with boots and such, altered to fit me, of course.”

Ron smiled from his prone position on the floor, eyes closed. “And what did Lord Elrond say?”

“He didn’t look too convinced, but when I told him that it was perfectly acceptable for a girl in our time to wear clothing that consists of trousers and a shirt – none of this nonsense of long skirts and robes – he didn’t argue with me any more.”

“Most likely he’s worried that the others will have…er… inappropriate thoughts when they see you wearing that,” Ron grinned cheekily.

“Ronald!”

“Just a thought.”

Hermione responded by lifting the book so that it hid her face. Ron sighed and turned to Harry. “Let’s go.”

They positioned themselves ten feet apart. “Ready?” Harry asked.

“Any time now.”

As he raised his wand, Harry cried, “Fenarvis!”

But Ron was ready. “Protego!”

A shimmering shield blossomed around Ron, and the Blindfold Hex bounced off, now headed for Harry. With his Quidditch instincts, he ducked and the spell hit a delicate statue, breaking off the head.

“You two are hopeless!” Hermione said when she heard the crash. She pointed her wand at the marble fragments. “Reparo!” The pieces flew together and the head settled back into position. “Hopefully no one noticed that,” she said.

“Begging your pardon, Miss,” Sam’s voice said. “I did – but don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone! I’m here because Lord Elrond wants to talk to you three,” he added as he shuffled into the room.

“Whatever for, Sam?” Hermione asked.

“The messenger who told me to find you didn’t say. Just that you’re to go to his study.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

They slipped their wands into the slim pockets that had been sewn into their robes – or, in Hermione’s case, attached to her skirt and hidden in a fold – before leaving the library and heading off. By this time, they knew Rivendell so well that Sam did not even bother leading them to Elrond’s study.

“What d’you think he wants?” Harry asked.

“I can’t imagine,” Hermione replied. “Unless he wants to withdraw his permission for us to go on the Quest. But I can’t see why he would.”

The room was dimly lit, for the open wall faced west – towards Valinor, as Gandalf had explained. The old Wizard himself was waiting for them, standing beside the Elf Lord. Harry, Ron, and Hermione inclined their heads respectfully as they entered.

“You wished to speak to us, Lord Elrond?” Harry asked.

“Yes. A few weeks ago, I promised that I would send you on the Quest as part of the Fellowship. However…”

Harry watched as Ron’s and Hermione’s faces fell.

“However, I will not send you without the knowledge of how to fight without magic. Should you ever be cut off from your power, you will not be without defenses. You must master the sword and the bow; an orc will not be frightened by someone wielding a blade without the knowledge to use it. But first, you must receive the swords you are to use.”

He unwrapped a cloth bundle that had been lying on the dark, polished surface of his desk. Inside were three sheathed swords, all unique but equally beautiful. Harry felt his eyes widen in astonishment.

“The smiths of Rivendell have worked tirelessly on these to ensure that you have none but the best sort of Elven swords. The blade, I believe, is a mixture of mithril and steel and will not break easily. They were neither crafted from the metal of a falling star nor have the power to glow when Orcs approach, but they will serve you well.” He selected a sword from the three that lay on the cloth. “Harry Potter.”

Harry approached and accepted the weapon reverently, bowing as he took it in his hands. He backed away, clutching it close, as Elrond presented Ron, then Hermione, with their swords.

“Draw them,” Elrond said. “But take care, for the blades are sharp.”

The sound of metal sliding gently against metal rang through the air as they carefully pried the swords out of their sheaths. The scabbard, Harry noted, was a work of art in itself. The black, hard leather shone softly in the light, and the ends were chased in silver. On closer inspection, he saw that the Gryffindor lion had been added to the design near the top of the scabbard, worked in red enamel and gold.

“Where did you find…” he began.

“The emblem? The design is a copy of the one from the cloaks you wore when you first arrived.”

Harry nodded and continued his study of the sword. The handle was wrapped carefully in black leather, and right where the blade met the hilt the lion design was again detailed into the metal. He drew the blade out in full and hefted the sword. The straight, perfectly balanced blade was etched with delicately flowing Elven script; he would ask Hermione what it meant later. It was surprisingly light – the sword that had come out of the Sorting Hat during his second year had seemed heavier – but also felt comfortable in his hand. Not that he really knew anything about swords.

He glanced over at Ron. His friend had received a sword similar to his, but the handle was of slightly different shape, perhaps to accommodate Ron’s larger hands. He saw that the Gryffindor lion on Ron’s sword had been placed at the pommel rather than at the hilt.

Hermione’s sword, however, looked entirely different. The Gryffindor design had been worked into the scabbard but not into the sword itself. The blade she held aloft was slightly curved and shone in the light with a silver-blue sheen. Both of Harry’s friends were gazing wonderingly at their new weapons, studying the artful designs.

“They’re wonderful, Lord Elrond,” Hermione said. “How we can thank you, I don’t know…”

“Yes, thank you,” Harry said. Ron echoed him.

“You can repay me by doing what the Council and I have asked. Learn how to fight well and defend the Ringbearer with your life.”

“And when will we learn?” Ron asked.

“Aragorn is to teach you, starting tomorrow. And he will also teach you the bow, if you wish to learn.”

* * *\r\n\r\n

The next day, Aragorn gathered Harry, his friends, and the four Hobbits in a spacious courtyard to begin teaching them the proper use of the sword. Clearly, the Hobbits, like Harry, had been awaiting an exciting lesson. They stood admiring the wizards’ new weapons, and Frodo gladly hefted his new sword – Sting, he called it – for all to see. After five minutes, however, Aragorn positioned his seven students in a line, far enough away from each other so that they would not be able to unintentionally hurt one another. The lesson commenced – but it was not nearly as thrilling as Harry had expected.

First, Aragorn told them to hold their swords up and grip them as they would naturally. Harry, used to holding his Firebolt broomstick during Quidditch, wrapped his fingers around the handle in that manner. Hermione, at the end of the line, was the first one whose grip Aragorn corrected.

“No, Hermione…Adjust your left hand just a little; you need not have a death grip upon the sword! Good. Now grasp it lightly with your right hand. Relax the shoulders…Yes…and bend your elbows slightly. Very good. Move your arms outward a little – perfect. Hold that stance and remember it.”

As Hermione adjusted the tilt of her sword to point the tip at throat level, she asked quietly, “Sir?”

“Yes?”

“I have a trivial question really, but…How often is it that women are trained to use weapons of any kind?”

He smiled gently. “Not often. You are one of the few exceptions, only because you are a part of the Fellowship.”

There was no hint of distaste in his voice, but still Hermione asked, “And do you consider it – unusual?”

“Truly, I do not mind. Arwen knew how to wield a sword long before I was even born.” His eyes shone slightly, remembering something. “In any case, you do not seem as perturbed by the idea as most ladies of this time would be.”

“Our time is…different. I for one hate the idea of being a damsel in distress.”

He chuckled slightly. “Indeed, I could believe that.”

He moved on to Harry next, following much the same process: adjusting the position of his fingers and telling him to relax before leaving him standing to memorize the way his body was positioned.

“Is this usually how people start out learning the sword?” Harry asked.

“Young boys who live the life of a Ranger or intend to become soldiers for their land start at a much younger age. Often the lessons are shorter at first, and intensify as the young warrior’s skill grows. But here, however, I – and perhaps some of the other members of the Fellowship – intend to give you intense training. Every day.”

“Every day?”

“You have but a few months to learn. And I cannot guarantee that anywhere we go during the Quest will be safe enough for sword practice.”

Ron was next. Aragorn tried again and again to correct Ron’s grip on the sword – but for some reason, Ron’s hands did not want to comply. It seemed, rather, that as soon as Aragorn moved his hands aside, Ron’s fingers slipped back into their original death-grip position. Finally the Ranger threw up his hands in frustration.

“By the Valar! How difficult can you possibly find this? I have told you repeatedly – grip mostly with the left hand, and grasp lightly with the right. And relax your shoulders or you will be unable to move with precision. There is no need to be so tense!”

“It’s not my fault,” Ron mumbled. “This is how I grip a wand…”

“But not how you hold a sword. Your weapon is of Elven make, and one of the finest I have seen. It is balanced well and is made of the strongest metal the smiths could find. Honor their hard work by at least making the effort to do it correctly.”

“I’m trying, but it’s not working.”

“Indeed.” He rearranged Ron’s fingers around the handle once more. “There! Hold it just like that. And relax.”

“How am I supposed to relax if, say, hundreds of Orcs come dashing madly at me?”

“You will have to learn,” Aragorn sighed as he resignedly moved on to a still-eager Pippin.

He knelt down by each Hobbit, gently correcting their stances. When he had finished with Frodo, who was the last in line, he stood back and surveyed his seven pupils.

“Lower your swords. Carefully,” he added as they began to comply.

“Now – raise them again, holding them just like I showed you. That would be your ready stance.”

He walked down the line, inspecting them once again. He nodded in approval to six of them. It seemed, however, that Ron was incapable of holding his sword correctly.

“No, Ron…Like this.” Aragorn drew his sword and demonstrated.

“It’s not that difficult, Ron,” Hermione said.

He shot her a look, one that clearly told her to stop being such a know-it-all. His ears were turning red again.

For twenty minutes Aragorn worked with Ron, trying to get him to hold the weapon correctly. Then, when Ron finally mastered that, it was another ten minutes before he managed to relax his tensed muscles.

Aragorn sighed, but nonetheless nodded. “If you must know, I myself had some difficulty in learning swordsmanship when I began. Do not despair – I will make a good swordsman of you yet!”

“How old were you when you started?” Ron asked.

Aragorn smiled. “That was eighty years ago.”

“What?” Ron exclaimed.

“I am of the Númenorian people, descended from Lord Elrond’s brother Elros. Elven blood mingled with that of Men flows through our veins, making us a long-lived race.”

“So how old were you?”

“Seven.”

“And you think that I can be a good swordfighter with just a few months of training while you have had eighty years to practice?”

“I will make sure you leave Rivendell with enough skill to battle Orcs. Believe me – they are vicious creatures, but not overly bright. Brute force is their main advantage, but there are ways that smaller but cleverer people such as yourself can turn that against them.”

Harry caught Hermione’s eye and both of them had to suppress sniggers. Ron, clever? They had never heard that word used to describe him…

Aragorn backed away from his students, surveying them. “Good. Lower your swords, and on my command, raise them.”

As they complied, his normally soft voice became strong and commanding, even regal. “On your guard!”

They repeated this exercise several times before he was satisfied with their speed. Harry hoped it was the end of the lesson; his arms were already aching. Quidditch practice had never been so physical.

His reverie was interrupted when Aragorn spoke again. “Well done. Now, another basic skill you must learn is how to unsheathe and sheath your swords quickly but without hurting yourself. Watch me…”

After another thirty minutes, Aragorn dismissed the Hobbits. As they turned to leave, he said, “Keep in mind that you will not be standing still during actual combat. These exercises will become more difficult as we progress, so I suggest you get some sleep.” They nodded before leaving Aragorn alone with Harry, Ron, and Hermione in the courtyard.

The Ranger now turned to Harry and his friends. “Follow me.” They trailed behind him tiredly as he led them to another, larger courtyard with practice targets against the high wall at the far end. Hermione’s eyes lit up with interest, but Ron and Harry groaned. They wanted nothing more than to relax their exhausted muscles, yet here they were for yet another lesson…

“I will not keep you long. Swordsmanship is a skill that you all must learn in order to survive the Quest. Archery, however, requires a little more finesse and – considering the short time we have – can only be taught so quickly if one has the talent, patience, and concentration required. Oh, do not fret, you will all learn the basics of archery, but only if you have considerable talent will you take up the bow as your primary weapon. If that is the case, you will spend more of your time with a more capable teacher than myself.

“However,” he added, seeing their now excited faces, “I must remind you that these lessons will also be trying. And I will still expect a good amount of proficiency with the sword.”

Aragorn now strung a bow he had been carrying on his back. “This one is not overly difficult to draw.” He demonstrated how to nock an arrow and aim before releasing it. The bowstring sang as the arrow hissed through the air, finally thudding dead center into a target.

“Wow,” Ron said, eyes wide.

“If you’re that good,” Harry asked, “then why can’t you be our teacher?”

Aragorn smiled. “That was but one arrow. Lord Legolas, on the other hand, has been known to shoot two or even three arrows at once, all of them flying true.”

“This Legolas,” Hermione asked, “he would be the one teaching us?”

“Of course. His skill with the bow is unsurpassed. Now, Harry, I would like to see you try. Twenty-five paces.”

Harry tried to get a feel for the bow as the other three backed away. He ran his hand up and down the wood, noting the delicate tracery of leaves carved into it – but it just didn’t feel right, not the way a broomstick had when he had first ridden it. Nevertheless, he plucked one arrow from where it was stuck into the ground at his feet, nocked it, and let it fly.

To his surprise, it thudded into the very edge of the target.

He turned to Aragorn questioningly. The Ranger responded, “Good, but continue just to see whether that was merely luck – no offense meant.”

So Harry tried with the rest of the five arrows – but all of his shots went miserably wide. Well, he thought, guess it’s more sword lessons for me. Not that it mattered much to him; he felt more comfortable wielding the sword. Archery required far too much standing still for his taste.

Ron was next. Much to his embarrassment – Harry supposed he was trying not to make a fool of himself in front of Hermione – his shots not only flew wildly in all directions, but one even flew into the target to the left of the one he was aiming for.

When it was Hermione’s turn, everything changed. Ron gawked at her as she stood there, still as a statue as she took aim and fired her first arrow into the ring just outside the center one. Her other arrows flew into the target, though none as near to the center as the first. As the last one gave a resounding thud into the target, she turned to face Aragorn.

“Well done, Hermione. Try it at forty paces.” As she counted off her steps, he said to Harry and Ron, “You may leave for today, if you wish. Hermione will follow in a few minutes.”

So that was the end of archery lessons for the moment. Harry glanced at Ron, who was looking quite upset. “I guess we’ll leave,” he said, steering his friend away.

Once they were on the way back to their rooms and out of earshot Harry asked, “What’s eating you, Ron?”

Clearly frustrated, he ran a hand through his tousled red hair. “I…”

“It’s Hermione, isn’t it?” Harry said.

Ron stopped dead in his tracks. “How’d you know that?”

“On, come on, it’s obvious from the way you’ve acted since fourth year. And then there was the time after the feast that you went and kissed her…”

“I did not!”

“You were drunk, you prat. You didn’t know what you were doing.”

“I…” Ron trailed off. “It’s just…I can never do anything right when she’s around, even if I try. And she always does everything right. I don’t know what to do.”

“So go talk to her,” Harry said. “Tell her.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk!” Ron said heatedly. “What about what happened between you and Cho Chang, eh? I don’t know why you’re trying to give me advice…Although…about Hermione…” His ears turned pink and he avoided Harry’s eyes. “You don’t…”

Harry guessed what he was going to ask. “No. She’s a friend, that’s all.” They continued walking in silence.

Hermione caught up with their slow walk five minutes later, happy that she would be learning how to use the bow.

“It just felt so…so natural, the way you described being on a broom for the first time, Harry. Oh, I do hope that there are some books on archery somewhere in that library, I’m worried that this Legolas will be a really difficult teacher…”

“Him? He looked like he could hardly hurt a fly,” Ron said.

“And where did you meet him, Ronald?”

“At the Council, obviously. He looked like such a pretty-boy.”

“Aragorn’s description gave me a quite different impression. And which opinion would be more reliable, do you think?”

One would hardly have guessed what Ron had been talking about with Harry only a few minutes earlier, what with the way the two of them bickered all the way back to their rooms. Harry surmised that Ron was trying to make his feelings less obvious after Harry’s comments – either that, or it was his strange idea of flirting.

* * *\r\n\r\n

The tallest Wraith advanced upon him, raising a knife menacingly…when he refused to hand over the Ring, it leapt back before bearing its knife down upon him…a chill like poisoned ice, paralyzing his body, swept through him…The others, Aragorn and the Hobbits, were too slow to react, and the Wraith swept him away from the crumbling fortress and onto a midnight-black horse…

Frodo sat bolt upright, breathing heavily. It was only a dream; he was still in his room in Rivendell, wrapped in comfortable blankets. Moonlight streamed through the balcony, and flickering torchlight came through the crack under his door. He closed his eyes and attempted to relax once again, to get the sleep that Aragorn had said he would need. But slumber evaded him, so he finally got dressed and headed for the garden where he had first seen Bilbo. Even in the darkness of an autumn night, the garden was still a calm and beautiful place. Frodo put his cloak on and headed there.

When he arrived, he found that he was not alone. The figure sitting on the bench moved its head slightly, and the reflection of moonlight off a pair of glasses told him it was Harry.

“You could not sleep either?” he asked the young wizard.

Harry turned around swiftly, whipping out his wand. He relaxed when he saw it was only Frodo. “Oh. You scared me for a minute there.”

“I apologize. Do you mind if I sit as well?”

Harry shook his head and moved over as Frodo clambered onto the bench. His legs swung a good six inches off the ground as they sat in quiet reflection.

“What’re you doing here?” Harry asked.

“I could not sleep; I was awakened by a terrible dream. And you?”

Harry replied, “I…I have too much to think about, I guess. The Quest, of course. I just hope that Ron and Hermione won’t get killed…After all, it’s my fault they’re here. And then there’s the problem of getting home – not that I don’t like it here. But I miss Hogwarts.”

Frodo nodded in understanding. “I miss the Shire. I always dreamed of going off on an adventure like Bilbo’s, but the Quest will be fraught with far more danger.” He paused. “Which makes me wonder: why did you and your two friends volunteer for the Quest? Why not instead remain in Rivendell, unseen?”

“I’ve asked myself that loads of times. I honestly don’t know why. Why did you accept my friends’ and my help? Others say that we are too young, too inexperienced…And there were lots more capable fighters there in the Council.”

“As you told me when you stood up, I could always use another wizard. Or even three, as it turned out. And…” he hesitated for a moment. “I feel that I can trust you.”

“Funny, I’ve got the same feeling.”

The Hobbit was taken aback. “You do? But do you have any idea why?”

“Yes and no.” That was all Harry said.

Frodo had to suppress a small laugh. “Are you always this cryptic?”

“I’m a wizard, it shouldn’t surprise you. You’ve said yourself that’s the way Gandalf is.”

“And I suppose that you are not going to tell me?”

“No. I can’t.”

“Oh, very well, then.” Frodo slid off the bench and began walking back to his room. “Good night, Harry.” He did not respond.

* * *\r\n\r\n

The next day dawned bright and clear. The sword lesson was more fun than the first day; they exchanged the blades for several wooden staves and practiced the many moves that Aragorn taught them. One thing the Hobbits continually used to their advantage was their height. By the end of the lesson, Harry and Ron had a considerable number of bruises up and down their legs.

“Dunno what Sam’s got against me,” Ron said, wincing as he walked. “I’m sure most of these bruises came from him…”

“I reckon that he still doesn’t trust us,” Harry said. “C’mon, let’s go find Hermione.”

They wound through the covered walkways until they came to the practice range they had gone to the previous day. Hermione was still in the middle of her lesson, her face set in a look of concentration as she held her drawn bow and looked down the arrow to aim. Harry looked at the target. Many of the arrows were embedded in the center ring.

“Wait a few more moments.” Harry and Ron turned their heads to the speaker, who must have been Legolas. His own bow and quiver were slung across his back. “Is the technique I showed you helping?”

“A little,” Hermione replied. “But my arm still hurts.”

“In time, you will become used to it. Very well, release your arrow.”

After pausing for another second to check her aim, Hermione let it fly.

“Well done,” said a voice as the arrow flew quickly to join its fellows in the center of the target. They turned to look at the speaker, who had approached without their notice. Harry vaguely remembered him from the Council: Boromir, the man from…Gondor, was it? “Fair morning, Legolas,” he said, nodding. The Elf inclined his head in reply but said nothing. The Man looked at Harry, Ron, and Hermione. “I know your faces, but you must forgive me for not taking the time to learn your names. I am Boromir, son of Denethor.”

The three friends introduced themselves. Boromir nodded approvingly at Hermione. “You certainly have skill with the bow, Hermione. How long have you been practicing?”

She blushed modestly. “Two days.”

“Truly? You have talent. Quite unlike myself,” he added laughingly. “I was hopeless when it came to archery; it seems that any inherited talent went to Faramir.”

“Faramir? Who’s he?” Ron asked curiously.

“My younger brother,” Boromir responded. “My only brother, in fact.”

“Me, I’ve got five older brothers. I’ve got a lot to live up to, too. Bill was Head Boy of the school, Charlie was captain of Quidditch – ”

“Quidditch?” Boromir asked. “What is that?”

“Wizard sport, played on broomsticks,” Ron replied. He and Harry launched into an explanation about the four balls and positions of the players to Boromir, who listened with some interest and occasionally asked questions. Legolas resumed his teaching. Harry saw Ron glance sideways at the Elf, his ears turning a violent shade of red as Legolas touched Hermione’s shoulders to correct her stance.

“And once the Seeker catches the Snitch, the game’s over. Their team usually wins; catching the Snitch earns an extra one hundred and fifty points. Harry’s the Seeker for our House’s team, and I’m the Keeper.”

“Interesting,” said Boromir, though he was shifting uneasily from side to side. “Well, I must take my leave. Until we meet again.” He gave a small nod before disappearing around a corner.

“That was a bit abrupt,” Harry commented.

“Nice guy, though,” Ron said thoughtfully.

“I dunno. He seems a bit…” Harry trailed off. He couldn’t quite explain to Ron that he felt slightly uncomfortable around Boromir, almost suspicious.

From that day on, Boromir came to assist Aragorn in the sword lessons. Eventually Harry, the Hobbits, and even Ron were able to exchange the staves for their swords and set about fencing. Hermione would sometimes join them, and much to her frustration, she found that she was not nearly as skilled as the others had grown to be. She acted somewhat smugly, though, when Harry and Ron finally began their archery lessons and kept missing the targets. Legolas, while he was a patient teacher, did not speak all that much.

“What, is he too thick to string a sentence together?” Ron muttered to Harry as the Elf left. “Must be because he’s such a pretty-boy…No brains…”

An arrow whizzed past his ear, coming to rest, quivering, in the tree behind it. Ron turned, heart hammering rapidly, to see Hermione holding her bow.

“I heard that, Ronald. And I didn’t have to miss,” she said coolly. “I do hate it when you insult teachers.”

“A teacher? Looks like he wants to be more than that…”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Really, Ronald! Look at the age difference!”

“Age difference?”

“He’s an Elf! I don’t know his how old he is, but knowing Elves, he’s well over a hundred! Maybe even over a thousand!”

Ron blinked. “Whatever,” he finally mumbled as he turned to leave.

* * *\r\n\r\n

Their time in Rivendell was drawing to a close, for the Fellowship was leaving in just a few weeks. The lessons became more intense, with Aragorn and Boromir now fencing against their pupils. They varied their attacks greatly; both imitated the hacking style of the Orcs. Boromir then fought each in turn with the more traditional style of Men, and Aragorn used the smooth, flowing attack the Elves had taught him. Their moves were unpredictable at first, but soon Harry learned how to anticipate their actions. While learning the different forms he discovered their weaknesses and became especially good at countering them. Ron’s skill was passable, but not nearly as good as Harry’s.

“Is there anything I can be good at?” Ron moaned one day.

As for the Hobbits, they had learned in an astoundingly quick manner. Sam was especially proficient – he was surprisingly agile, able to duck and roll out of the way if he could not ward off the blows.

One day Harry was fencing against Aragorn. The Ranger’s moves were quick, and he kept throwing in elements of the various styles, but Harry was mostly able to defend himself. He had learned that sword fighting was nothing like any movie he had seen portrayed; he had once tried doing a fancy spin and gotten a good scolding for it.

He concentrated on the moment, paying close attention to the way Aragorn placed his feet, trying to anticipate his next move. Harry lifted the sword above his head just in time to block an orc-like blow that, had they really been fighting, might have split his head open. But Harry knew that Aragorn could handle his sword with precision; he would have stopped the blade few inches from Harry’s head. Next Harry aimed a cut at Aragorn’s leg. When the Ranger’s blade countered it, the swords hit so hard that they sent a vibration up Harry’s arms – and, by the looks of it, Aragorn was also trying to steady his own grip. Harry pressed forward, forcing his opponent to take a step backward, but then Aragorn’s sword came up in an Elven move, so sudden that Harry was forced to counter and give back the ground he had taken.

His arms, while they had developed a good amount of muscle over the past couple of months, were beginning to tire. He forced that thought out of his mind and sought for an opening. But Aragorn would give none.

So Harry tried a fake. He bore his blade downward, and when Aragorn’s followed to counter it, he swiftly changed direction and stopped it an inch from Aragorn’s throat.

Clearly Aragorn had been thinking the same thing, for his own sword was pointing at Harry’s neck in the same instant.

It was the first time Harry had ever gotten anywhere near beating the Ranger. Slowly they lowered their swords and looked each other in the eye.

“You are ready,” Aragorn said gravely. “Well done.”


Chapter 9 - The Quest Begins

Disclaimer: I own neither the characters nor the setting. Dialogue that you recognize from the film likewise does not belong to me; original dialogue and the idea for the crossover is, however, mine.

Much thanks to VanaTheEverYoung for the beta work done on this chapter, as well as the link that allowed an artist by the s/n of Andegora to make this spiffy banner for posting on a Harry Potter fanfiction site (where my s/n is Linaewen):

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~Chapter Nine: The Quest Begins~\r\n\r\n

Everything suddenly began to seem like a whirlwind to Harry. Within a week, they had stowed a few belongings and many provisions into their packs. Boots that were even slightly worn were mended, and they all made sure their swords were polished and sharp. Hermione had received a new bow, extra strings, and a quiver full of grey-fletched arrows.

Days before the departure of the Fellowship, the three of them were given new outfits – long-sleeved shirts, leggings, and jerkins each of a different color. Harry’s clothes came in varying shades of green, Ron’s in grey, and Hermione’s in brown. Ron looked at his outfit, stunned.

“They expect us to wear something this nice on the Quest?” he exclaimed, running his hands over the embroidery in the shirt.

“Ron, it’s of Elven make, so of course it’s nice. I suppose that we are also to take along our cloaks,” she added.

“Which one?” Harry asked. “The one they gave us or the one from Hogwarts?”

Hermione thought for a moment. “I suppose…We ought to leave our school things here, in a safe place. Just in case we’ll ever need them again…”

Just in case. She wasn’t sure whether they’d return alive, and quite frankly, that was just how Harry felt.

Finally the day of their departure arrived. Harry woke at sunrise and slowly pulled on the new Elven-made clothes. When at last he belted on his sword and slid his wand into a pocket sewn specially into the jerkin, he left the room and met the rest of the Fellowship down by the southern gate.

All of Imladris had come to watch them leave in solemn silence. Frodo stood a little apart from the rest of the Company, looking very small but resolute.

Elrond spoke. “The Ring-bearer is setting out on the Quest of Mount Doom. Upon you who travel with him no oath nor bond is laid to go further than you will. Farewell; hold to your purpose. May the blessings of Elves and Men and all the Free Folk go with you.”

Elrond spread his arms solemnly as Gandalf said, “The Fellowship awaits the Ring-bearer.”

Frodo turned to face the other eleven companions and made his way forward, leading them through the tall stone arch into the wild.

* * *\r\n\r\n

They traveled for so long that Harry lost count of the days that had passed since their departure. Gandalf, who seemed to know the land very well, led the way as they wound along the western side of the Misty Mountains, saying that they would follow that course for nearly four hundred miles until they came to the Gap of Rohan. The pace was quick; Harry was grateful for the exercise the sword training had given him, for he would surely not have been able to keep up otherwise.

One morning Harry awoke to the clanging of swords and the smell of cooking sausages. Ron and Boromir were practicing with Merry and Pippin as Frodo watched. Smoke curled up from Gandalf’s pipe as he sat on one of the boulders of the campsite, which Aragorn was leaning on. Gimli was nowhere to be seen, and Sam squatted by the fire, turning the sausages over. Harry turned his head slightly to see Legolas and Hermione talking together, polishing their bows. He glanced back at the four people practicing with their swords and noticed that Ron kept shooting sidelong glances at the pair. This distracted him for a moment, which allowed Boromir to get past his defenses.

“Ouch! You great clumsy prat, you’ve nicked me!” Ron fairly shouted. Merry and Pippin were sniggering behind his back as Harry folded up his bedroll and made his way to the ledge where Frodo sat.

“My apologies!” Boromir responded. “Perhaps you should rest and allow Pippin to have a turn.”

“Yeah, I’ll rest. Got any breakfast up there, Sam?” he called.

The Hobbit waved his hand and pointed to the plates he was handing to Frodo and Harry. “’Course I do!”

Ron clambered his way up the rocks and flopped down on Frodo’s other side to watch Boromir and Pippin. “Oi, Sam, don’t worry, I can get some out of the pan for myself…”

“It’s no trouble, really! And it’s my turn to do the cooking anyway!”

Ron chortled and said quietly to Harry, “He’s as fussy as my mum.”

Harry gave a short laugh before turning to survey the rest of the Company. Gimli was now arguing with Gandalf.

“…taking the long way ’round! Gandalf, we could pass through the Mines of Moria!”

Gandalf’s reply was so soft Harry could not hear it, but thankfully it sounded like a no. As his bedroom for eleven years of his life had been the cupboard under the Dursleys’ stairs, he did not particularly fear dark and enclosed spaces, but he had no wish to go under the mountains when they could just as easily go around them.

Meanwhile, Legolas had leapt over a few boulders to peer southward. His brows were drawn slightly downward and his mouth was set in a grim line. Hermione climbed – a little less gracefully than the Elf had done – over to his side and was now staring intently in the same direction.

“What is it?” she asked, straining her eyes. “I don’t see anything…”

Legolas did not respond, but merely continued to look fixedly at the skyline.

Ron was glowering at them. “Why does she have to hang around him so much?”

“Well, Ron, he is the one teaching her how to use the bow…”

“Right, and they’ll certainly get a good amount of practice here, where there is plenty of room!”

“She said there was nothing between them, not in that way.”

“She still writes to Krum!”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

Ron was cut off by an indignant squawk that came from Pippin, accompanied by the clang of his sword hitting the ground.

“Sorry!” Boromir said, quickly setting his sword aside and taking hold of Pippin’s shoulders. “I – ”

Pippin, still clutching the hand that Boromir had apparently hurt, responded by kicking the Man in the shins. Merry quickly joined in the fray, knocking Boromir down and crying, “One for the Shire!”

Harry, Ron, Frodo, and Sam watched the scene below, laughing. Their attention was drawn away from the tussle when they heard Hermione say, “Wait. I see something…a grey smudge on the horizon, can you make out what it is, Legolas?”

“Ah, it’s just a wisp of cloud!” Gimli said offhandedly.

“It’s moving fast,” Boromir said, setting one of the Hobbits down, “and against the wind.”

Legolas’s eyes widened in realization as he cried, “Crebain from Dunland!”

What this was supposed to mean was lost on Harry, as he too only saw a cloudlike shape. But those words sent the campsite into a panic. Someone – it sounded like Aragorn – shouted “Hide!” Grabbing his pack and sword and clutching them to his chest, Harry followed Ron as he dived into a small crevice. From his cramped position, concealed by some brush, he watched as several hundred dark birds swooped past, cawing loudly and passing over the area several times.

When the harsh calls and flapping of dark wings had subsided, everyone emerged from their hiding places.

“Spies of Saruman!” Gandalf muttered. “The passage south is being watched! We must take the Pass of Caradhras.”

Harry followed the old Wizard’s gaze to a tall, snowy peak. This is certainly going to be fun.

* * *\r\n\r\n

The trek up the mountain seemed easy at first, for the snow was only ankle-deep. Later, the Fellowship had to slow down for the sake of Gimli and the Hobbits, who were several inches, and in some cases feet, shorter than the others. The wet snow had fallen to a level just above Harry’s knees in one place; he could hardly imagine what that had felt like for the Hobbits. There were few places to rest on the snow-blanketed ground, and eventually Frodo collapsed with exhaustion, tumbling several feet down the mountain and coming to rest at Aragorn’s feet.

Harry saw the Hobbit touch the place around his neck to discover that the Ring was no longer there. Instead, Boromir had picked it up and was now staring at it, transfixed, and murmuring to himself. Harry, somewhat farther up the mountain, could not make out what he was saying very clearly, but the sight made him uneasy. He glanced to his left and saw Ron watching the scene below with mild interest.

As the Ring caught the sunlight and reflected it brilliantly, Harry saw a hungry expression flash across Ron’s face for an instant. Then it was gone. Harry had seen that sort of look on Voldemort’s face before, and did not like the way it played out across his best friend’s features.

“Ron?” He poked him. “Ron? You there?”

“Er…” Ron blinked. “Oh. Must’ve drifted off for a moment there…getting exhausted from all this walking…”

“You did volunteer, remember that,” Harry said.

“Mmm…” Ron’s eyes followed the Ring, which Frodo was now clutching tightly with a look of deep mistrust etched on his features.

“C’mon, let’s move,” Harry said, hoping to distract him. Thankfully it worked, and Ron turned his back on Frodo to trudge further up the snowy slope.

That band of metal can cause about as much harm as Voldemort can, Harry thought. Frodo knows that, but it looks like Boromir doesn’t…And now It’s starting to get a hold on Ron. It’s my fault we’re stuck here, my fault if he dies because of the Ring, my fault if any of us dies…

He gripped the sword slung at his side for reassurance. I won’t let that happen.

Hours later, the Company found themselves in snow that was waist-deep. Aragorn and Boromir were holding on to the Hobbits, who were shivering madly with the cold, cloaks held tightly to shield their faces. Hermione had taken the lead and was melting a path through the snow as best she could. Much to Ron’s irritation, Legolas was gracefully stepping over the snow next to the trench everyone else was using.

“And he doesn’t even seem cold!” Ron muttered darkly. “Look, why don’t we go and help Hermione, get the incantation from her…Or maybe Gandalf can do a better spell…”

“No, I cannot,” Gandalf shouted over the wind. “Doing so would alert the Enemy to my presence; it would spell ‘Gandalf is here’ for all to see. However, you may give it a try…I think that since you use a different brand of magic you may remain undiscovered.”

So Harry and Ron pushed their way through the ever-deeper snow towards Hermione. A stream of hot air issued from her wand, slowly melting a path for everyone, but she shook her head when they pulled level with her. Her cheeks had been stung red by the tiny flying crystals of ice, and her usually straight posture was bent both in exhaustion and against the wind. There were tears in her eyes, but whether they were a result of the stinging snowflakes or her frustration, Harry could not tell. “It’s no good. It seems that the harder I try, the faster the wind gets and the thicker the flakes fall. I can’t even concentrate any more…”

She began to sway slightly and put a hand on the cold rock face next to her for support. Ron shot forward and managed to catch her under her right shoulder, but then Legolas lightly leapt down from the snow beside the trench and was there supporting her other side.

“You are doing too much, young one. Put your wand away; see, your fingers are freezing. You can do no more.” His voice was gently admonishing.

Hermione gave a rueful smile before tucking her wand away; Ron glared daggers at the Elf, who seemed oblivious to him.

“’Mione, here, my hands are warm…” He reached out from under his tightly drawn cloak.

“No, Ron,” she said vehemently. “I’m fine. Really.”

She pulled away a few inches and leaned her back against the rock face, tugging her hood forward to shield her face and drawing her cloak tightly about her. In a few moments the rest of the Fellowship had pulled level with them.

“What is it?” Gandalf half-shouted over the wind, which was howling ever more loudly. “Is she – ”

“Hermione’s fine,” Harry responded, “just tired. She says it’s getting impossible for her to melt a proper path through, and if she can’t manage, I don’t think that Ron and I could do any better.”

“It’s as if the mountain doesn’t want us to go any further,” Hermione said faintly from where she stood.

Legolas was squinting off into the wind, his back to the rest of the Fellowship as he stood lightly on top of the untouched snow. “It is not the mountain. Listen.”

Harry strained his ears, trying to catch some sound, but all he could hear was the roaring rage of the storm.

“There is a fell voice on the air,” he said ominously.

Gandalf’s eyes sharpened. “It’s Saruman!”

His words were punctuated by a sudden rumble of rocks coming down from overhead. Instinctively they all flattened themselves against the cliff in order to avoid being crushed.

“He’s trying to bring down the mountain!” Aragorn cried. “Gandalf, we must turn back!”

“No!” the Wizard responded as he made his way to the precarious ledge. He lifted his staff and began chanting.

Whatever magic he was using seemed to not be powerful enough, for shortly afterward a bolt of lightning struck the snow just overhead. Harry’s eyes flicked upward to see an avalanche of ice, so large that no Levitation Charm he knew would be strong enough to stop it, heading their way

* * *\r\n\r\n

Boromir had used his body to shield Merry and Pippin from the avalanche, clutching them close in the last instant before they became encased in the fall of ice. He breathed shallowly for a moment before he allowed one of his arms to relinquish its hold on Pippin and travel upward, searching for the air.

Thankfully, his head was only inches from the surface. Wriggling, he propelled himself upward and dug around a little to help Merry and Pippin back up to where they could cling to his shoulders.

He glanced around quickly. It seemed that no one was hurt, but the avalanche had destroyed the path the girl, Hermione, had melted for them. How had she done that? He had been so far behind that he was unable to see exactly what she was doing. But why her? Why could Gandalf not be the one to create their path through the snow?

And then there were the two young lads, Harry and Ron. Strange names, by all accounts, and the boys themselves had made him uneasy with all their talk of flying broomsticks. They seemed to come from the same place as the girl had. Why had Lord Elrond ever trusted them to go on the Quest, young as they were, no more than children? Had he not considered that they might be one of the Enemy’s agents?

And yet, nearly everyone else in the Company seemed to consider their presence harmless. No one else seemed to consider Hermione’s ability to melt a path through snow unusual – at least, no one had made any comment about it, save for Gimli, who had merely said he was grateful that he would not need to plow through snow nearly as deep as he was tall.

Pushing these thoughts to the back of his mind, he shouted over the wind for all to hear, “We must get off the mountain! Make for the Gap of Rohan, and take the west road to my city!”

“The Gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard,” Aragorn objected.

“If we cannot pass over the mountain,” Gimli said, “let us go under it. Let us go through the mines of Moria.”

Hermione gave a small sound of alarm, but Boromir was looking at Gandalf, whose eyes now held a shadow of fear and doubt.

“Let the Ring-bearer decide,” he said in a grim voice.

Frodo’s tired head jerked up sharply to face the Wizard.

Merry and Pippin were shaking violently with the cold in Boromir’s arms, their normally cheerful faces pale and drawn. “We cannot stay here!” he cried. “This will be the death of the Hobbits!”

“Frodo?”

After a moment’s hesitation, the Hobbit said, “We will go through the mines.”

The Wizard gave a heavy, resigned sigh. “So be it.”

As they heaved themselves out of the snowdrift and turned back down the path Hermione had made, the wind seemed to instantly die down. Boromir frowned. If the girl could melt the snow by an unnatural means, what was to stop her and the two young Men from creating the storm? For Boromir knew that the Enemy hid itself in several guises, many foul, but some fair and innocent-looking.

“Who are they?” he asked himself softly.

It seemed that Pippin had heard him, for the Hobbit asked, “Who are you talking about?”

“No one.”

“Well, obviously it’s someone, or you wouldn’t be asking now, would you?” The cheeky grin had returned to Pippin’s face.

“You must have been hearing the wind; I did not say anything,” he lied.

He would ask Gandalf. The Wizard, at least, would give answers that he could believe.

* * *\r\n\r\n

Moria. The very name made Harry shiver. Intuition – or perhaps memories – told him that the place was full of danger and ought to be avoided at all costs. A small cry of alarm from Hermione had only served to reinforce what his misgivings about Frodo’s choice.

“I don’t think we ought to be doing this,” he said quietly to Ron and Hermione.

“Well, our only other way to the other side of the mountains is impassable,” Hermione said.

“Unless you fancy dying along the way,” Ron noted. “Who exactly was that Saruman Gandalf was talking about?”

“Another one of Gandalf’s kind,” she responded. “A Wizard, but he’s a little more powerful. You see, Gandalf is known as the Grey and Saruman as the White; that’s how they are ranked.”

“So why was he trying to kill us?” Ron queried. “Wouldn’t he want the Ring destroyed as well?”

“Ron, if you ever listened to what Gandalf had been telling Elrond – ”

“But I didn’t. And if I did, I wouldn’t remember it anyway.” His tone became apologetic when she scowled. “All right, all right…so what was he saying?”

“That Saruman’s in league with Sauron now. That he destroyed all the trees in Isengard to feed fires for his forge, and that he was building a fearsome army.”

“See, this is why you got eleven O.W.L.s and Harry and I each got seven,” he grinned. She smiled back at him.

Then Harry asked quietly, “Moria. It’s a mine, that’s all I know from what Gimli said, but why doesn’t Gandalf want to go down there?”

“Dwarves used to live there – but then something terrible happened down there and they were never heard from again. There were rumors of goblins – ”

“Not the Gringotts type, eh?”

“Obviously, Ron. And…”

“And what?” Harry pressed.

“I’m not sure. The books and scrolls in Rivendell said there was a greater evil there, but none of the ones I read said exactly what it was,” she ended in a frustrated tone.

Yet another one of those visions stole over Harry once again. He could not close them off, even if he could do Occlumency, for they were already memories stored in his mind. It was brief; he saw a long, flickering tongue of flame lash upward somewhere far beyond his reach…felt a terrible sense of loss not unlike the one that had come over him when Sirius died…

He stumbled back into reality, tripping over his own feet.

“Harry? You all right?”

He blinked, making sure that he was seeing Ron’s concerned face properly. “Something bad is going to happen if – when – we go down there. Something terrible.”

Ron stared at him for a moment. “You’re not going batty like Trelawney, are you? You’re staring to sound like her.”

“’Course I’m not,” Harry said crossly. “It’s probably the impression I get of the place from what Hermione said, combined with how tired I am. I hope we stop to make camp soon.”

They did indeed stop as soon as they reached dry ground. Exhausted, Harry threw his bedroll on the ground and began to drift off to sleep.

* * *\r\n\r\n

Gandalf had warned them that it would only be a short rest, but Frodo was so tired that he immediately dropped off to sleep, heedless of the evil dreams that had plagued him since Weathertop. Each time, Strider had been a little too slow in his arrival and the Ringwraith had whisked Frodo up from where he lay on the ground, swiftly descended the hill, and mounted the dark horse. Every time Frodo woke, drenched in sweat and with the old wound icy and prickling, as the horse began to gallop southward, gaining such speed as no normal horse had. This time, the dream went a little farther…

The pounding of hooves had ceased under him, and he was dropped unceremoniously onto the cold stone. The Ring grew red-hot where he clenched it in his hand, heated as no simple fire could ever have made it. Crying out in pain but unable to open his fingers, he glanced up.

There, before him, was the Eye he had seen only once before. Wreathed in flame, its slit-shaped pupil a pool of never-ending darkness boring into him. Fear such as he had never known took hold of him, and he cried out again as the Ring burned even hotter, branding its Elvish characters into his skin…

Frodo woke with a start, sitting bolt upright. Something was hurting his hand; glancing down, he saw that the Ring was clenched so tightly in his hand that it had made a circular red mark on his palm. Releasing his grip, he tucked the chain back under his shirt. As he did so, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He was being watched.

As he turned his head, he let his right hand slide towards Sting, which lay in its sheath by his side. Expecting perhaps an Orc or another terrifying creature, he was surprised to find Boromir’s eyes resting on him. The Man was neither moving nor speaking, just staring.

Frodo shifted uncomfortably. He had seen the way Boromir’s will had been so easily swayed by the Ring during the Council; he did not trust the Man. Under any other circumstance, Frodo might have given Boromir his trust, but now…it was difficult to tell whether his actions were indeed his own.

Boromir seemed to come out of a trance, and he spoke to Frodo as though seeing him for the first time. “Go back to sleep. The journey will be tiring, and I imagine that it will be more difficult with that – thing – around your neck.”

Frodo tensed for a moment, tightening his grip around the sword; it seemed as though an evil shadow had passed over Boromir’s eyes, and his face had grown greedy and menacing. Then just as quickly as it came it passed, and Frodo gave the barest of nods in response before turning back around.

Just before he lay his head down, he caught a slight movement out of the corner of his eye; Harry’s eyelid had fluttered shut. It appeared that Frodo and Boromir had not been the only ones awake.

* * *\r\n\r\n

“There aren’t any other ways around?” Harry asked, jogging to catch up with Gandalf’s swift lead.

“None that are safe,” the Wizard responded grimly. “We could not travel through the Pass of Caradhras, and the Gap of Rohan goes altogether too close to Saruman’s domain for Aragorn’s and my liking. Moria is the only way.”

“Are you sure?”

“Harry, I have traveled Middle-earth for far longer than you can imagine. I know this land; of course I am sure.”

“But Moria – ”

“I understand the dangers of Moria, and I have misgivings about our current route. But it is now the only way to the other side of the Misty Mountains.”

“You’ll be in more danger than any of us if we go down there.” The words just came out of Harry’s mouth.

Gandalf turned to look at him sharply. “You have the gift of foresight?”

“No!” Harry said, revolted at the very idea. “I just know it.”

“Ah. Well now, Aragorn told me much the same thing. I have heard these warnings already, and I heed them. I will be wary,” he added with a small smile and a twinkle in his eye.

“But – ”

“We are going through the mines. The decision has been made.” Gandalf’s tone brooked no argument. He increased his pace slightly, leaving Harry trailing behind.

Harry still could not shake off the sense of foreboding that had taken hold of him, and now any last hope of averting the disaster he knew would happen was gone. Reluctantly, he followed. No good can come out of this, he thought.

At length they came to a towering cliff of dark rock, and Gimli breathed a sigh of awe as he murmured, “The walls of Moria!”

Harry wondered where the entrance to the mine could possibly be. He saw no cleft in the rock, no tunnel that led into the cliff. Perhaps Gandalf had led them the wrong way and they would not go into Moria after all…But no, the explanation for this came later when they were edging their way around a large pool of dark water that nearly came to the base of the cliff.

“Dwarf-doors are invisible when closed,” said Gimli, searching for a hollow place in the rock by tapping his axe against it.

“Yes, Gimli, their own masters cannot find them, if their secrets are forgotten,” Gandalf replied, running his hand along the rock.

Legolas scoffed in a manner that reminded Harry greatly of Ron, “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” The Dwarf grumbled but chose to keep silent.

Night had fallen before two large, graceful trees appeared around a bend, looking quite out of place. Gandalf put his fingers to the stone between them murmuring softly to himself as the moon appeared from behind a cloud.

Harry heard Hermione let out a gasp behind him as silvery lines appeared on the stone, depicting an elegant archway and Elven characters.

“What does it say?” he asked her.

“Ennyn Durin Atan Moria: pedo mellon a minno,” she responded.

Ron snorted. “Well, that’s nice to know. Awfully helpful, that…what was it, Emi Dirlin a Moria…?” Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Legolas and Aragorn wince at Ron’s butchering of the language.

Hermione cleared her throat and spoke in a clear voice. “The doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter.”

“What do you suppose that means?” Merry asked.

“I think I know,” Hermione said with a small smile. “It’s logic, like the guard Professor Snape set on the Stone in our first year, remember, Harry?”

“Yeah,” Harry said absently. He didn’t know if he wanted Hermione to figure out how to open those doors.

“With respect, Hermione,” Boromir cut in, “Gandalf said he has been here before. Should he not know how to enter?”

A flare of anger and frustration went up in Hermione’s eyes, and Harry knew why. She was not used to being treated as…well, as a girl. Harry knew there were some cultural differences Hermione, clever and brave as she was, found difficult to accept. Still, she managed to respond in a tight, controlled voice, “Very well.”

So Gandalf placed the end of his staff upon the silvery star engraved upon the door and cried, “Annon edhellen, edro hi amen!” Nothing happened. “Fennas nogothrim, lasto beth lammen!” Still nothing.

Ron went up and tried Alohomora on the doors. It sounded and looked impressive with the brief flash of light, but the doors remained unmoving, almost mocking their efforts. Hermione sat on a rock, biting her lip to prevent herself from speaking. Sam was tearfully removing the pony’s baggage and bridle, for they could not bring him into the mines.

Nearly half an hour had passed and Gandalf was still trying various spells upon the door. As he paused for breath, Hermione, who looked as though she could take it no longer, called out in a ringing voice, “Mellon!”

A splash accompanied the great cracking and rumbling of the opening doors; Pippin had tossed a large rock into the water out of sheer boredom.

“Oh!” Gandalf said sounding mildly surprised. “Well done!”

“If you all had just listened to me, we could have been in here half an hour earlier,” she said. Her voice was tinged with irritation as she shot a glance at Boromir, who merely shrugged.

“Next time I will not doubt you,” he said.

It was with great trepidation that Harry followed the rest of the Fellowship across the threshold into the darkness of the mine. The pale moonlight did not penetrate so far in; he could barely make out the stone steps at the far end of the chamber they had just entered. Instinctively his hand closed around the wand concealed within his jerkin, pulling it out as he murmured, “Lumos.” Beside him, he heard Ron and Hermione do the same before they moved to provide light to the others in the Fellowship.

The pale pool of light cast by his wand barely penetrated the oppressive darkness, but there was enough for him to catch the look on Boromir’s face. It was an expression of mingled fear, wonder, and curiosity.

“Who are you?” the Man softly asked, eyes traveling from Harry’s face to the wand held aloft in his right hand.

He is honorable enough, a small voice said to Harry, but you must be wary. What was that supposed to mean? Now was not the time to tell Boromir, not while the two of them lingered behind the rest of the Company. Even the Hobbits had overtaken them, but Frodo had turned around to look at them quizzically.

“Ask me later,” he replied, “when we’re out of here.”

He turned and began walking back to the rest of the group. The look of horror upon Ron’s face and Frodo’s cry of “Harry! Behind you!” did not register until it was too late. Something wrapped itself tightly around his right ankle and he had the wind knocked out of him as he was dragged facedown over the rocky ground to the lake’s edge. He lost his grip upon his wand. He was going to get dragged beneath the water…It was not Gandalf who had been in danger after all…Panicking, he shouted, “Help!”

Boromir, who was nearest to him, dashed over with his sword out and raised and began hacking at the creature’s tentacle. Ron and Hermione had run forward, faces white and wands at the ready. As Harry lay on his back, breathing deeply, he caught a glimpse of Frodo bending down to pick up his wand. The Hobbit moved forward a bit, extending the hand in which he held the wand to Harry, but then he sprang back, fear upon his face.

Many more tentacles sprang out of the water, knocking Boromir, Ron, and Hermione over and seizing Harry’s leg once more. Harry heard himself shouting into the confused tangle of squid-like tentacles and crashing water and spotted Aragorn and Boromir wading into the water, hacking with their swords…He was tossed from one limb to another, being thrown always just out of reach…

Someone cried out, “Expelliarmus!” The jet of red light shot past Harry’s ear, missing the creature. The tentacle that had fastened itself around his leg gave a shudder as something struck it, either a sword or an arrow, Harry could not tell which…He was brought low over the water, still held fast by the tentacle, and an arrow with grey fletching whizzed past his body and struck what might have been the creature’s head…Another with green feathers brushed so close to his face that he could feel it…The creature gave a great roar and tossed him even higher, then he was falling, falling…and landed right into Boromir’s arms. The Man set him on his feet quickly and gave him a shove towards the shore, yelling for Legolas.

Another green-fletched arrow flew by Harry’s ear, narrowly missing. Looking back, he saw that it had struck the water dweller’s eye, but that was not stopping the creature from pursuing them. He stumbled and was dragged unceremoniously the rest of the way by Boromir holding on to the back of his jerkin, with Aragorn following closely behind.

Gandalf gave a shout and everyone retreated into the darkness of the mines. The darkness had suddenly become protective and welcoming. Harry ran headlong into Ron, who was pushing Hermione ahead of him. The three of them fell over onto the hard stone floor, gasping for breath.

With a great rumbling and crashing, the darkness fully surrounded them and the Doors of Durin fell shut for the final time.

No one spoke for several moments; rather, the sound of many panting breaths echoed in the darkness. Harry rolled away from Ron and Hermione and lay on his back, catching his breath. He had a nagging feeling that he had experienced what had happened only moments before already – from the same point of view. He felt that he had been tossed about by tentacles in the same manner before, and he knew that it was not because he had had the misfortune to swim into the giant squid at Hogwarts. No, what had just happened to him had been meant for Frodo, for he had been the one carrying the Ring. Was it just Harry’s bad luck that he had been standing where the creature would reach him first? Or had the creature recognized something deeper?

Harry didn’t want to think about it. He hoped it was mere coincidence.

“Ouch! Ronald, you’re sitting on my arm!”

“Er, sorry…where…wand…Lumos!”

The faint light emitted from Ron’s wand revealed the stunned faces of the rest of the Fellowship. Frodo crawled over to Harry as if afraid that if he stood, the tunnel would cave in. He silently held out Harry’s wand.

“Thanks,” Harry said.

Frodo nodded in reply; it was then that Harry caught a look of unease in his slightly unfocused eyes.

“What is it?”

The blue eyes snapped quickly back into focus. “What do you mean?”

“Something’s bothering you.”

“No, there is nothing troubling me,” Frodo said.

“All right then, suit yourself…Lumos.”

Harry added his light to the small glow coming from Ron’s and Hermione’s wands. They saw that Gandalf had affixed a crystal to the end of his staff.

“You may put those out,” the Wizard said. “I think that this light will be sufficient.” He tapped the staff sharply against the ground and a blazing white light shone forth, brightening the chamber.

“Oh no…” Hermione gasped in horror.

Several skeletons dressed in mail and armed with axes were scattered around the area close to the ruined doors. The skeletons of Dwarves.

“NO!” Gimli ran forward to the skeleton nearest to him, disbelieving what he saw. The skeleton’s beard crumbled at the touch of his gloved hand, and he let out a cry of anguish. “NOOO!”

“Gimli! Silence!” Gandalf said. “We must go quietly as possible to avoid detection – ”

“We should never have come here,” Boromir muttered.

“Nevertheless, son of Denethor, we have come here, and the creature that seized Harry at the gate has given us one choice only. The way out is at the far side of the mine, a good four days away. All of you must be on your guard, for there are older and fouler things than Orcs in the deep places of the world.”

“And you, especially, must be wary,” Harry murmured to himself. He wished there were another way around once again, but Gryffindor that he was, he would put on a brave face for whatever came next.

* * *\r\n\r\n

The journey proceeded in silence save for the pattering of bare Hobbit feet and soft padding of boots upon the dusty stone floor. Gandalf led the way, his staff held aloft like a torch. Frodo walked with Sam in front of him and the trio of young wizards behind him.

Wizards. Young as those three were, all of them could be as cryptic as Gandalf when they spoke. Especially Harry. The young lad seemed far too aged for his years, the sixteen-year-old shell belying the spirit within.

A bit like me, Frodo thought wryly. Well, not quite. Harry was young but acted much older than most people his age usually did; one only had to look at his companion Ron to see that. Whereas the Ring keeps me looking not a day older than thirty-three and I am actually fifty years of age. Some of his neighbors in Hobbiton had thought him blessed with exceedingly good luck, what with the way he had been adopted by Bilbo and inherited not only a large sum of money, but Bilbo’s uncanny ability to remain young, at least on the surface. Frodo would have given up this seemingly everlasting youth along with his inheritance to be rid of the cursed Ring and the nightmares that still plagued him. Why, he would have willingly handed the keys to Bag End over to Lobelia Sackville-Baggins if that was what it took to be rid of it.

Frodo thought back to what Harry had said just after the gates had been broken beyond any repair. Something’s bothering you. Once again, the boy had proven just how perceptive he was.

For something had indeed been troubling him. It was most likely nothing to worry over; he did not want to alarm Gandalf or anyone else, for that matter. But when he had picked up Harry’s wand in his right hand and clutched the handle tightly lest he drop it in the confusion, a most disquieting and yet wonderful sensation had spread from his fingertips, up his arm, and through his small body…a blanketing, relaxing warmth that had seemed charged with power. He was almost sure the wand had grown warm of its own accord – or was it merely his sweating palm that made the wood feel warmer?

The small strip of wood was what Harry used to do magic, of course. Magic? No, the notion was ludicrous. He laughed silently at himself for even pondering that it could be such a thing. Hobbits were not Wizards. They were not supposed to go on ridiculous adventures with the likes of Gandalf. They were quiet, ordinary folk who stayed out of the way of the affairs of the world beyond the Shire. At least, they usually did. He and Bilbo had broken the rules.

It was not magic. It could not be.

Then what was it? a small voice in his mind asked.

He found that he did not have an answer.


Translations:

Annon edhellen, edro hi amen! : Gate of the Elves, open now for me!
Fennas nogothrim, lasto beth lammen! : Doors of the Dwarves, hear my voice!

(Forgive me if the translation is not exact. I am basing it on a fairly rudimentary knowledge of the language. If you think that a more accurate translation is possible, PM me and I will remedy it with your suggestion.)


Chapter 10 - Beneath the Mountains

Disclaimer: None of it is mine...except the idea of having a crossover.

Thanks a lot to Hufflepuff / VanaTheEverYoung for doing the Beta work. And thank you to the readers who have left reviews.

Enjoy – and remember, leave a review! ~Linaewen

~Chapter 10: Beneath the Mountains~\r\n\r\n

For the first part of the journey Harry wondered whether his initial feelings about Moria were indeed correct. The only sounds were the careful footsteps of the twelve companions along the narrow path and the occasional far-off dripping of water echoing in the high chambers. Two nearly uneventful days passed, the only interesting thing being Gandalf showing where the mining area had once been.

“The wealth of Moria came from the most valuable metal known,” he said, extending his staff a short way over the edge. “Not gold, but mithril.”

A gasp of awe rippled through the group as they gazed down the deep drop-off lined with old scaffoldings into blackness.

“Mithril?” Ron asked. “What’s that?”

Hermione, of course, had the answer. “True-silver. It is more valuable than gold and harder than any ordinary metal. Remember? Elrond said there was some in the swords we received. Look, there’s a small vein of it there,” she added, pointing. Sure enough, there was a glimmer of silver in the rock, illuminated brilliantly by Gandaf’s light.

“Well spoken,” Gandalf said in a low voice. “As I recall, Bilbo had a shirt of mithril rings. I never told him, but it was more valuable than all of the Shire!”

Ron gave a low whistle. “Wow.”

The mines were so dark that the Fellowship could only guess whether it was night or day outside; thus, the long and silent walks were punctuated by even quieter rests whenever they felt exhausted. Somehow, even Ron and Gimli managed to hold off on their usual snoring.

Harry took the final watch the second time the others slept, shaken awake after some hours by Boromir. He sat by a small woodless fire that Hermione had conjured, his pack at his side and his hand on his sword. Moria hadn’t been that bad, Harry though, aside from the Watcher at the gate and the way it had become a gigantic tomb for Dwarves. He shivered. The Dwarves must have been dead for a long while now, what with the way their skeletons were devoid of any rotting flesh…Surely whatever had attacked them had moved on, for nothing could survive in a place so desolate…No sound, save for the soft breathing coming from the people asleep in front of him…

Harry jerked upright. He was sure he had heard something – a snuffling and a pattering of feet. His hand tightened around his sword hilt as he strained his ears once more.

At that moment Ron gave a rather noisy grunt and roll over. Harry listened harder but heard no more. If only Ron had held off for a few more moments…he always chose an inconvenient time to make a noise…

Harry relaxed a little against the rock but kept his eyes wide open. Silent as the grave, he thought. He might have laughed had he not known just how much truth there was in that statement.

At length the others stirred and came awake one by one, pulling out dried fruit and hard cheese from their packs for breakfast, for they dared not risk cooking anything. Hermione blearily put out the small blue fire just before they all set off on the third leg of the journey.

The day began without much incident; the most exciting thing was Pippin losing his footing on a steep set of stairs and nearly knocking Merry over. They wound their way along, following Gandalf around boulders and ancient scaffoldings until they came to another set of stone steps. When they reached the top Gandalf paused, looking at each of the three looming archways in turn. All led into dark tunnels.

Gandalf was muttering to himself, his eyes roving from left to right as he paused.

“He’s lost,” Ron muttered to Harry.

“It’s not funny, Ron.”

“Did I say it was?”

Gandalf turned to face the eleven companions following him. “We will pause here; I must sit and try to recall the correct route.” With that, he settled himself at the rock on top of the stairs, facing the three doorways. The rest of the Company descended the steps once more and settled onto a flat area surrounded by a circle of stones. This time, Sam used some of the kindling he had brought and lit a fire.

Everyone soon became deep in hushed conversation, save for two. Legolas was standing straight-backed next to a boulder, his arms crossed and his head down in an almost meditative position. Frodo had climbed to a rock slightly above the other Hobbits and sat there, looking at the flames. Harry slipped away from Ron and Hermione and went to join him.

“Merry?” came Pippin’s voice. “I’m hungry.”

Harry exchanged a glance with Frodo, trying to suppress a laugh. “Fine time to get an appetite, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Indeed,” replied Frodo, “though I am sure he is not alone. Pippin’s the only one who – ”

He broke off and turned around, looking down into the cavernous area behind him. Wide-eyed, he gestured for Harry to climb higher so he could see as well.

As Harry clambered upward, he heard it again: the snuffling and the pattering. So that hadn’t been a figment of his imagination after all.

“Where?” he whispered to the Hobbit.

Frodo pointed. There, down below, was a skinny creature leaping from rock to rock as he hissed to himself.

Something had to be done; they could not allow this creature to follow them. With a sudden thought, Harry pulled the pack slung at his shoulder open and withdrew the tightly folded Invisibility Cloak, tucking it under his arm.

“Stay here,” he muttered to Frodo.

The Hobbit shook his head. “I must tell Gandalf.”

“Oh…all right then. Just make sure you all don’t leave until I come back.” Harry unbuckled his sword and set his pack down beside it.

“Where are you…?”

Harry crawled back over to the stairs and crept behind a boulder. Hopefully no one had noticed, but if they had, they would probably figure that he needed privacy for a few moments. He donned the Cloak and set off down the steps just as he heard Frodo speak to Gandalf, though the actual words were lost to his hearing.

Not for nothing had Harry and his friends been able to sneak around Hogwarts at night for five years aided by the Invisibility Cloak. As he padded forward he kept his eyes fixed on the creature in front of him, who was now staring up at the place where the others were seated. Harry had crept to within a few yards of the creature before it turned around warily, sniffing the air.

The large and pale green eyes immediately put Harry in mind of a house-elf, but the rest of the creature’s body could hardly look less like one. It was so wasted Harry could count its ribs, it had unnaturally long fingers, and wore nothing but a ragged loincloth.

“What iss it, Preciousss? We knows something is there, oh yess, even if it’s hiding, we does. And when we finds it…”

The creature’s voice was ragged and nasal, as though he had something caught in his throat. And he was coming closer. Harry knew that he had to act within the next few seconds or risk being discovered, but he would never get a clear shot with the Cloak on…maybe if he was quick enough…

“Yes, we knows it’s there, nassty creature…” The long, bony fingers stretched close.

Harry whipped the cloak away from his hand to take proper aim, flicked his wand in a small circle, and hissed “Immottica!”

The Freeze Charm hit the creature in the form of a small ball of dull blue light, rendering him incapable of speech or movement, though without the stiff snapping of arms to sides that came with the full Body-Bind. The spell also took a much longer time to wear off.

Perhaps the creature frozen in its crouching pose could no longer move, but his pale eyes glowed with resentment. Harry sincerely wished he had already learned how to perform wordless incantations such as he had seen Dumbledore doing, but it was too late now. The damage was done; the creature had seen the wand and heard Harry’s voice. Cursing his stupidity, Harry sprinted away as fast as he could back up the stairs without tripping over the hem of the Cloak. Slipping it off, he quickly folded it into a compact but messy bundle before making his way back around to his pack and sword. If the others had noticed his absence they did not comment on it, but Hermione was glowering at him.

Gandalf was still conversing with Frodo in low tones; Pippin, it seemed, had given up trying to find something to eat and was now smoking a pipe in Merry’s company.

“Oh!” Gandalf exclaimed. From his vantage point Harry saw everyone’s heads jolt upwards to face the Wizard. “It’s that way!” he indicated the rightmost archway with an inclination of his head.

Merry jumped up excitedly, exclaiming that Gandalf must have remembered – but oddly enough, the Wizard told him to always follow his nose.

“Well, that sure didn’t help us in the Ministry last year, did it?” Ron asked. “‘Follow your nose?’ If there’s anything a Hobbit’s going to follow with his nose it’ll be the smell of food cooking.”

Too tired and too worried to laugh, Harry gave his friend a small grin.

The tunnel wound along for some length before coming to a much wider space. Harry squinted into the dimly lit chamber. He could see more broken rocks, but these had the look of being carved.

Gandalf raised his staff and the crystal glowed more brightly.

Nearly everyone’s mouth dropped open in speechless awe. The vaulted ceiling of the chamber soared high above their heads, and row upon row of stately columns marched off into the distance. Gandalf told them that it was the Dwarf-city of Dwarrowdelf, and paused for a moment to let them gaze.

No one else had any words; indeed, it was perhaps the most magnificent sight Harry had ever seen, surpassing even the ceiling of the Great Hall in Hogwarts. How had such a civilization been forgotten? How, indeed, had such a place as Rivendell been forgotten long before Harry and his friends, or even Nicolas Flamel, had been born?

This time the Company was held silent not by fear of being discovered, but by sheer wonder. As they came closer, Harry saw that the columns were carved in careful detail, and that runes ran all along them.

“Any idea what they say?” he asked Hermione.

She shook her head. “Not the least. I think these were the very runes that I would have been studying during this year, though.”

They came around a bend. Suddenly Gimli made a sound somewhere between a strangled cry and a grunt and began sprinting towards a light off in the distance…a light that didn’t come from Gandalf’s staff. Were they at the exit already? Harry hoped so, hoped that his ill feelings about the mines were incorrect and that they would indeed pass through safely.

“Gimli!” Gandalf called. The Dwarf paid him no heed as he ran through a battered wooden doorway. Gandalf turned to bring him back, and with another sense of foreboding, Harry followed.

The Dwarf was kneeling before a stone tomb that had a ray of sunlight shining upon it, moaning and murmuring “No…No…” over and over again. In silence Gandalf walked up next to the tomb and read the inscription.

“‘Here lies Balin, son of Fundin, Lord of Moria.’ He is dead then. It’s as I feared.”

With a dull thunk of helmet upon stone Gimli rested his head on the edge of the tomb, his cries fading.

It appeared that the Dwarves had made a last stand here after Balin’s death. There were more books within this room than there had been in other places, more scattered weapons and coats of mail. Gandalf handed his staff and tall blue hat to Pippin before turning to take a battered book from a skeleton’s grip. Clouds of dust came free of the book, and a few pages fell out as Gandalf opened it and began to read grimly as the Company listened in mortified silence.

“They have taken the bridge and the second hall. We have barred the gates, but cannot hold them for long.”

As if these ominous words had awoken the sense of danger in Harry yet again, Harry whispered to Ron and Hermione, “We have to move. Now.” Hermione just shushed him as she listened intently.

“The ground shakes. Drums…drums in the deep…” He glanced up and turned the page. When he began to speak again, his voice had grown even more hushed.

“We cannot get out. A shadow moves in the dark. We cannot get out…” he paused, not for the effect but in seeming horror. “They are coming.”

His words were punctuated by a crashing and ringing that made the already tense Fellowship jump and whirl around to face the noise, hands on sword hilts and bows. They relaxed momentarily when they saw that it was only Pippin standing by a well. The Hobbit winced as whatever had dropped into the well – obviously through his own intervention – hit the side and let off another resounding metallic clang. Tension hung in the air in the next few moments, with everyone too nervous to move or even breathe.

When the noise had descended to somewhere far below the range of their hearing, Boromir exhaled with an audible sigh and everyone relaxed – everyone but Gandalf.

The Wizard slammed the ancient book shut in a manner that would have made the Hogwarts librarian Madam Pince cringe, scolding the Hobbit for his foolishness. He snatched his hat and staff back as Pippin hung his head in shame.

“Let’s go. Now,” Harry said, his voice urgent. “They are coming, didn’t you hear? They are coming!” He heard his voice becoming steadily louder.

“Harry, keep your voice – ” Hermione broke off.

Boom.

Gandalf, whose hat was halfway to his head, turned around to look at Pippin again.

Boom. .

The Hobbit glanced back into the well behind him. But the sound was not coming from there…

Boom. Boom. Boom.

“‘Drums in the deep…’” Hermione murmured, her eyes wide. Harry felt his hand straying instinctively toward the wand concealed in his jerkin. Not the wand, he told himself. Not now. He grasped the hilt of his sword, loosening it for a quick withdrawal; next to him, Ron had done the same and Hermione had taken up her bow. I will not let any of us die. Not if I can help it. This was it; this was the reason Harry and Aragorn had warned Gandalf against going into the mines…

The deep, thundering beats were growing ever more rapid. Sam suddenly cried, “Frodo!”

The Ringbearer needed no telling what to do; he loosened the short sword that hung at his side and withdrew it a few inches. Sting’s blade was glowing bright blue. Harry had not been told what this meant, but his guess was confirmed when Legolas exclaimed, “Orcs!”

Ron swore. “Great. Here we are, very nicely trapped, about to do battle for the first time…”

“Shut up!” Hermione hissed. “Listen to Gandalf and Aragorn…”

“Stay with Gandalf!” the Man said as he ran to the door. “You two, stand near them; Hermione, come with me. Ready your bow.”

Hermione followed him to stand close to the tomb with an arrow nocked and ready. Her face was pale, but when she held the bow up it remained steady. Boromir had closed the doors, and now he and Aragorn and Legolas worked together to bar it shut for a few moments longer. The spell Colloportus would not work to hold these doors magically shut, damaged and rotted as they were. Harry drew his sword and glanced at Ron. The freckles on his friend’s features stood out starkly against a face drained of color, and the sword he held in his large hands quivered. Harry clapped him on the shoulder.

“You can do this, Ron.”

“What if our training wasn’t enough? And I was terrible at it too. What if…”

“Come off it, mate. You’ve faced Death Eaters; what’s a couple of great clumsy goblins?”

Ron grinned weakly in response before standing alert once more. Gandalf had cast aside his hat and held a long sword aloft in one hand and his staff in the other. The Hobbits were trembling where they stood, gathered in a tight knot around Frodo. Over in front of the tomb, three arrows were trained upon the growing hole in the door, and Gimli stood upon the tomb itself, growling fiercely and hefting his axe.

Hermione let her arrow fly first, and there was a horrible sort of squealing as the grey fletching disappeared from view. Two more shrill cries came from the other side of the door as Aragorn and Legolas shot two arrows through the gap. Quick as lightning the Elf nocked another arrow and set it loose. Then the doors burst open.

“A bit more than a couple, eh?” Ron asked, his voice forcibly joking and his face white as he gave Harry a sidelong glance. Harry did not have time to respond; within seconds, the chamber became a melee of slashing and stabbing.

Harry had frozen at first sight of the Orcs. They were hideous, leering creatures that fought indiscriminately, occasionally slashing at their own companions. It was only when one stood right next to him, weapon raised, that Harry forced the fear from his mind and raised his sword.

Aragorn’s training had prepared them well; the Orcs did indeed use brute strength as their main weapon, no subtlety at all. Their movements were easily anticipated and countered. And there was no time for regret. No time to stop and think about mercy, for if he faltered for one instant he would most likely die. So as Harry lopped off the head of the Orc that slavered menacingly in front of him and stabbed at another that had attempted to bring a club down on his head, he tried to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach and move on.

What the Orcs lacked in cleverness they made up for in sheer numbers; Harry knew he and his companions were outnumbered many times over. From the glimpses he caught all around him, all were still up and fighting. He whirled his sword with deadly accuracy, slashing through the pitiful armor of the next Orc, who fell with a gurgling squeal. On and on it went, the hacking and slicing. There was no pleasure in this killing the way Voldemort would enjoy it, no fancy dodging or twirling as Harry had often seen in Muggle movies. There was just a grim efficiency. He fought down the desire to retch as he noticed the shining blade covered in black blood.

A sudden roar and crash drew his attention. The doorway was smashed beyond any hope of repair, and there, standing in its ruins, was a gigantic creature. Harry had only seen a creature such as this three times in his life: once in the girls’ bathroom, another larger one far below the school, and the three that he, Aragorn, and the Hobbits had come across before they arrived at Rivendell. Of those, the one he had seen protecting the Sorcerer’s Stone had been the largest – but this troll was larger by far.

The troll gave another enraged howl and brandished the club it carried. Seized by an idea, Harry fought his way over to Ron.

“Fancy taking this one out?” he shouted over the commotion.

Ron dispatched another Orc with a stab of his sword, glaring at the others as if daring them to come closer. “Fancy distracting it by sticking something up its nose? That’s how we did it last time.”

“Er…” Harry hadn’t actually remembered that foolish but lucky mistake until now, a mistake that had made Hermione Granger their friend. “Right.” He beat back a few Orcs that had been trying to corner him. “Stunners, on the count of three.” He whipped out his wand, holding it in his left hand as his right brandished the sword. “One…Two…THREE!”

Two jets of red light flew up and struck the troll’s ugly head. Unfortunately, while the magic still had not been strong enough to knock it out, it certainly gave it enough cause to turn its attention away from the three Hobbits cowering by the wall in front if it. Now it rounded on Harry and Ron, roaring with its club raised.

Harry swore and began to run instinctively, thrusting his wand into the belt that held his jerkin closed. The wrong way, he realized a moment later, when it was too late to change direction. He was headed for the place where Frodo hid by a pillar, drawing the troll after him. Out of breath, not knowing what else to do, he stood before the Hobbit with his sword raised. But a sword would be of little use against the massive club the troll was now raising. Harry shouted over his shoulder, “Run!” before he closed his eyes and waited for the crushing end to come…

“Relashio!” came Ron’s panicked voice. Harry opened his eyes to see the troll looking confusedly around, wondering what had made its club fly out of its hand and to the opposite wall. At the other end of the chamber, Ron was standing with his wand raised as Boromir fought off the Orcs that sought to attack him. Enraged and heedless of whoever had the misfortune to be in its path, the troll charged over to the Ron, whose red hair marked him out clearly against the dull colors of the chamber.

Hidden behind the massive column Harry watched Ron swish and flick his wand in the unmistakable movement of the Levitation Charm. Harry couldn’t keep a grin off his face as he recalled how the events had unfolded that one Halloween night. Ron’s course of action was perfectly understandable; if magic could not penetrate the troll’s thick skin then maybe a swift and direct blow to the head would be the only means of putting the troll out of action.

A sharp pain at the back of his head drew his attention most unpleasantly away from the scene. The room spun as he wobbled around to face his attacker but fell over on his back. One Orc was already neatly run through by Frodo’s glowing sword, and another was receiving several painful slashes on its legs. The third was standing over Harry, an evil grin upon its hideous features as it raised its sword, this time to kill. Somewhere in the middle of the chamber a great thud echoed.

Dimly, Harry realized that this creature must have struck him with the flat of its sword. Reflexes born of Quidditch training and honed by extensive sword lessons acted for him now. He aimed a well-placed kick at the leering creature and thrust his already bloody sword upward, struggling to push himself upright. The Orc staggered but was shortly dispatched by Frodo.

An odd silence now reigned in the chamber, which swam before Harry’s eyes. He could no longer keep himself upright…

Small hands propped him up and a voice called “Aragorn!”

“I can walk,” he mumbled. “Really…”

“Here,” said Aragorn’s voice. “Take this.”

An unpleasant-tasting concoction was tipped into his mouth. From the slight grittiness Harry figured it was probably dried, crushed herbs mixed with water. Still, Polyjuice Potion and Skele-Gro tasted far worse, so he gulped it down. Immediately his head began to clear.

“You must be able to run,” Aragorn said.

“I’ll manage.”

“Are you certain?”

“I will. I have to.” The ache in his head was not quite gone, but his vision remained steady as he stood up.

The twang of a bowstring echoed throughout the chamber, followed by Hermione’s voice. “It was already unconscious, Legolas, there was no need to…”

“We do not want it following our Company. It had to be killed, Hermione.”

“But…”

Harry turned to see the Fellowship gathered around the space containing himself and the troll. The troll, which had undoubtedly been felled first by its own club, now had two arrows buried deep in its neck. And now at last the members of the Fellowship began to draw in deep, relaxed breaths.

Then hundreds – maybe thousands – of cries began to echo some distance away. The Company tensed, for weary as the battle had made them, they knew they had no choice but to leave.

Gandalf ran for the broken door, calling for them to get to the bridge.

Harry paused long enough to pick up the pack that he had dropped near the well, tossing Ron and Hermione their own also. Then they sprinted after the other nine.

The squawking cries were growing louder in all directions. Harry saw Frodo glance over his shoulder with terror written clearly over his face.

Do not look back, he thought. For that was a way to die.

They were surrounded. A crowd of hundreds upon thousands of Orcs had sprung from seemingly nowhere and was now edging closer, hemming the Fellowship in, heedless of the bright white light coming from Gandalf’s staff. The twelve companions stood in a circle, shoulder to shoulder. Harry calculated quickly. Even if he whipped out his wand a performed Reductor Curses and Stunning spells there and there – and in the face of the closest Orc that was sneering in his face, for that matter – it would never be enough. Twelve could not hope to hold out for very long against these sheer numbers, not unless something else came to drive the Orcs away…

As if in answer to his wish, a low rumble resounded at the far end of the high chamber. The Orcs shook and scattered, disappearing into the places where they had come from, squealing and screeching in fright.

And orange glow filtered down through the archway to accompany another growl that sounded like an immense rock sliding over the entrance to a cave. It was coming closer…

Hermione’s eyes were round as she spoke for the group. “What could that be, that it could drive away all those Orcs?”

Harry watched as Gandalf closed his eyes and searched his memory. This was bad. The longer they stood there, the more likely they would have to face whatever it was…Every fiber of him was screaming Run, but he stood rooted to the spot, quite unable to speak from fear.

“A Balrog,” Gandalf finally said. “A demon of the ancient world. This foe – ”

“RUN!” Harry shouted, cutting the old Wizard off. He wasn’t quite sure what exactly the Balrog was, but he knew it was dangerous. Gandalf had wasted nearly a full twenty seconds standing there, precious seconds they could have used to escape from the hall.

They ran through another doorway, following Boromir’s raised torch. The Man started running down the steps but stopped abruptly, his torch spinning down into the abyss. Harry glanced at Ron and Hermione and the three of them hung back, letting the others pass down the stairs before them. Aragorn, too, stopped next to Gandalf, but the Wizard shoved him aside and ordered him to lead the Company down to the bridge.

“And you three, follow him!” Gandalf added when he spotted the trio. “Swords are useless!”

“We can use more than swords,” Harry said, gesturing at Ron and Hermione. “We can help you with our magic – ”

“I will not allow it! Now, run!”

“But – ”

“GO! This is my task. You will be in far too much danger!”

He glared at them and they scuttled down the stairs obediently. Harry could hear the swish of the Wizard’s grey robes as he followed them down the stairs.

There came a point where a portion of the stairs had fallen away. Legolas leapt over first, followed by Gandalf. For a moment the Elf and Wizard stared back at the rest of the Company across the gap. Then Hermione sighed.

“This is stupid,” she said in an exasperated tone. “Get out of my way!” Pushing forward, she whipped her wand and pointed it just as a black-fletched arrow streaked past. She stumbled backwards for an instant into Harry and Ron, who held her upright. Then, when Legolas began firing arrows at the Orcs that were presumably hidden in the shadows, she flicked her wand, pointing first to one side of the gap and then the other crying “Lattransi!”

Nothing spectacular happened other than a quick burst of golden light. Another arrow flew dangerously close. Hermione turned around and aimed a Stunning Spell at its source; with a screech, an Orc plummeted into the abyss.

“Walk across, Harry.” She gave him a push towards the gap, still gripping her wand

“What?” Surely he had not heard properly. She wouldn’t tell him to walk to his death.

“There’s an invisible bridge there! Now walk across, before the stone below collapses!”

It seemed like an insane leap of faith, to step out when he did not recognize the incantation, but more arrows were raining down on them and there seemed to be no other choice. Taking a deep breath, Harry put his foot out onto nothingness – and felt a hard surface beneath his feet. Sure enough, Hermione had conjured an unseen walkway.

“Go!” he heard her say to the others. “Hurry!”

Legolas and Gandalf were standing at the opposite side, watching as they descended quickly down through the air. Hermione was the last across, following Aragorn and an extremely pale Frodo. She gave her wand another wave, and Harry saw an arrow that had stuck itself into the unseen surface tumble down into darkness.

All but Harry and Ron were now goggling at her, quite unable to believe what they had just seen. Then Gandalf seemed to come back to his senses.

“To the bridge! Come now, run!”

This jolted the others back into motion. They raced through down the stairs and through more hallways, which seemed to be growing brighter as they neared their final destination. The brightness was a fiery glow, cast, they at last discovered, by a wall of flames that danced upon the stone in the hall just before they came to the bridge.

Odd, Harry thought. Stone doesn’t burn…

And that was when he realized what was about to happen. The vision he had seen earlier…the loss he had felt…here was the fire demon, come to take Gandalf from the Fellowship…

He pulled his wand out and pointed it at the flames. But as soon as the incantation left his mouth he knew it was no use; the Reductor Curse was only good on solid objects, as he had learned in his fourth year at Hogwarts. There was a charm to make water fly from his wand, he knew that from Ron’s description of how Fleur Delacour had handled the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, but he had not learned it yet…

As he took another breath a hand closed about his wrist and he looked up into Gandalf’s eyes. The grip was powerfully strong for one so old in appearance.

“No,” Gandalf said. “This is my fight.” Harry saw that Ron and Hermione, too, had tried various hexes upon the fire; Hermione had tried the charm for water, but the stream had turned into vapor as soon as it got close to the flames. Harry knew they were fighting a losing battle and might die if they remained. He couldn’t allow his friends to die, but neither could he leave Gandalf to perish…

Then a small voice, sounding much like Hermione’s, said to him, You must not interfere. Let the events unfold.

What would happen to Gandalf was beyond any memory he had yet seen, but he already knew that the Wizard’s death – if it came to that – was indeed a part of the pattern of events, a necessary one. He had to let go, something he knew did not come easily to him. He knew that Frodo, especially, would take the blow hard. He wished there was something within his power to prevent what was now, though others may not know it, inevitable. But there wasn’t. His magic – and Ron’s and Hermione’s – made not so much as a dent on the power that this fire demon held.

It seemed as though an age had passed when he finally arrived at his decision, but only a few moments had actually gone by when he looked back into Gandalf’s eyes, now blazing a bright blue with power. Hating himself for doing it, knowing the anguish it would cause the others, Harry nodded. The grip on his wrist was released, and he stowed his wand away. Ron and Hermione did the same.

The rest of the Company had stopped just ahead of them, staring entranced at the flickering flames. Gandalf barked at them all to run, pushing Harry and his two friends along.

They all stopped just short of the narrow stone bridge when they heard a thunderous roar and turned to stare back at the Balrog. The horned demon of smoke and flame glared with glowing orange eyes down at Gandalf, who suddenly looked very small and powerless as he faced it. As it took a step, the floor shook. Gandalf turned and spotted the companions, who stood rooted to the spot.

“Run!” he shouted yet again. “To the bridge! Fly, fly!”

They needed no telling twice. In single file they walked as fast as they dared across the narrow strip of stone. Only when they were all across to the other side did they look back.

Gandalf had not gone farther than halfway across. He stood facing the looming demon.

“You cannot pass!” he said in deep, sonorous tones.

Frodo let out a strangled cry from somewhere behind Harry.

“I am the servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. The dark fire shall not avail you, Flame of Udûn!”

The Balrog growled and slashed downward with its sword at the white glow that was Gandalf. The Wizard raised the already drawn Glamdring and parried, shivering the sword of fire into many glowing fragments that glanced of his white shield.

“Go back to the Shadow,” Gandalf commanded. The beast merely growled at him.

“You shall not pass!” Gandalf bellowed again, raising his glowing staff.

Harry did not know what drove him to do it. He had already run closer to the bridge; now, without thinking, he whipped his wand out and took careful aim to a point just below where the fire demon now stood before crying “Reducto!”

His spell met with a brilliant flash of white light from Gandalf’s staff when the Wizard brought it down upon the stone bridge. But Harry, as far away as he was, had not aimed properly. The Reductor Curse hit the demon itself.

Enraged, thinking that this new nuisance had come from the old man in front of it, the Balrog took a step towards Gandalf. But while Harry’s spell had not worked, Gandalf’s had, and the bridge collapsed beneath the creature, taking it away down into the dark depths below.

Gandalf turned around wearily to face Harry. “That was very foolish, Harry, very foolish indee – ”

The last word was cut off when the Wizard had his breath knocked out of him. The Balrog had lashed upward with its whip and the flame-like ribbon had twined itself around Gandalf’s legs as the gnarled staff and the long sword fell down into nothingness.

Now Harry was frozen with horror. He watched as the Wizard struggled to hold on just for a few moments longer, watched helplessly as Gandalf curled his fingertips around a bit of stone, exertion now in his every move and breath. The eyes, which had only moments before blazed with power, now seemed devoid of any and full of fear.

“Fly, you fools!” he gasped.

And with that final grunting rebuke, he was gone…gone, spinning into the depths below to meet his end.


Chapter 11 - Sojourn in the Golden Wood

A warning to my readers: I have incorporated elements of “Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince” into my story, as its events would have been the outcome had Harry and his friends not traveled to Middle-earth. I warn you, do not proceed with this chapter until you have read the book, unless you want to find out who dies! HBP will not have any effect on the ending of this story, whenever it may come.

Thank you to VanaTheEverYoung/Hufflepuff (depending on the site) for the beta work. Thanks also to NancyBrooke of the Open Scrolls Archive for the Sindarin translation of “The strongest power is found within.”

And to my readers, thanks for all the reviews!



~Chapter 11: Sojourn in the Golden Wood~\r\n\r\n

It was with horror that Frodo watched Gandalf plummet into the dark depths below the bridge of Khazad-dûm. Mere moments before it happened, he had begun running to the bridge, to the place where Harry stood…but Boromir, who had been unable to prevent Harry from going back, now easily put an arm out to stop the Hobbit. Frodo resisted, trying to get to the place where Gandalf dangled off the stone, clinging by the very tips of his fingers…if he could just go near Gandalf, if he could just touch him it would put everything right….

But then Gandalf told them to run, losing his grip at last. Frodo heard someone crying out in denial, sobbing, and it was only when Boromir picked him up that he realized it was himself. He wanted to go back; he cried out Gandalf’s name as though it would bring back the Wizard’s cryptic smile and twinkling eyes. Against his will he was borne away, though a hail of badly aimed Orc arrows and into the brightness of day at last.

It was not until he was finally set down that Frodo fully let go of any hope that Gandalf might yet be alive. As the others climbed out into the light on the stony mountainside, he wandered off to be alone with his grief.

* * *\r\n\r\n

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Hermione said faintly.

She collapsed on a rock and did just that before beginning to sob. “I – I can’t b-believe I did that! I wasn’t thinking d-during the battle…Oh, it’s so horrible, how c-can you all just stand there?”

Harry and Ron just stood there awkwardly; it was Legolas who put a comforting hand on her shoulder. Hermione tried to shrug it away, but he held on, gentle but firm.

“It is a necessary evil, Hermione. All of us, I am sure, abhor the very idea of taking a life. But you must understand that in a battle, no enemy will stop attacking if you lower your weapons.”

“I-I’m a Gryffindor,” she sobbed. “I’m supposed to be brave!”

“And you showed your courage down in the Mines,” the Elf said. “You need not be ashamed.”

Legolas gave her a final comforting pat before leaving her with her hands over her eyes. He walked lightly over to where Ron and Harry stood. “She is in a state of extreme shock,” he said to them quietly. “It happens to many after their first battles. Do your best to cheer her up.”

As he moved on, Ron stood there with his mouth working soundlessly.

Harry and Ron waited uncomfortably for a few moments, just looking at Hermione as she shuddered with sobs. Then Ron sat down next to her and put a comforting arm around her shoulders.

“Definitely not the Gringotts type, what d’you think?”

Hermione gave a slightly choked laugh through her sobs, but she was smiling weakly when she looked up at Ron.

“N-no.” Another wave of tears filled her eyes and began to spill forth. “B-but…Gandalf…he…” She could not finish, and instead began sobbing into Ron’s shoulder.

“Shh.” He stroked her rather severely plaited hair gently. Harry decided to leave the pair alone and wandered over to a rock where he could sit alone and face eastward, with his back to the exit from Moria. He no longer even wanted to think about the place.

The grief in the air surrounding the rocky area was palpable. The Hobbits were all weeping; Gimli, restrained by Boromir, was struggling to reenter the Mines. Legolas and Aragorn stood in the middle of everyone, silent but with sadness written clearly on their features.

Harry did not cry. He did not remember a time when he had. He had not shed a tear when Sirius had died; rather, he had stormed about in a rage, locking up his grief and nearly allowing it to consume him from within.

It was then, as he looked out and at a white, frothing stream that he realized: holding on to his grief would get him nowhere. Would Sirius have wanted him to be tied down by it, especially if there was adventure to be had? No. And so he let go of his sadness for both Sirius and Gandalf. He did not weep like the others were doing; he just took a deep breath and steeled himself anew. Gandalf had died for a cause he believed in, just as Sirius had. Harry owed it to them to complete the two missions he now had: first this one in Middle-earth, then he would eventually hunt down Voldemort if he, Ron, and Hermione ever got back home.

Not if, he told himself. When.

He stood looking silently out over the land spread before him. The brightness of the sunlight blinded him after nearly four days spent with very little light, but neither the sun nor his sadness would bring tears to his eyes. Perhaps Voldemort had stolen this ability from him along with his parents and his happiness.

Harry was jolted out of his reverie when Aragorn called out, “Legolas, get them up.”

Harry turned around to see Boromir halfheartedly trying to set Pippin on his feet. “Give them a moment, for pity’s sake!”

“By nightfall these hills will be swarming with Orcs! We must reach the woods of Lothlórien. Come, all of you, get them up.”

He called out to Frodo, who had wandered off. As Harry made his way back to where Ron and Hermione were now standing, he looked to where the Hobbit stood. On Frodo’s face was a look of such pain that Harry felt a stab of guilt for letting Gandalf go so easily. Had the old Wizard known this would happen, that the Ringbearer would be in such distress at this loss?

The Company finally came together in a few minutes, drying their eyes and putting on stoic expressions. Not a word was said as they followed Aragorn, who had taken up the position as leader of the Fellowship, down through the foothills and closer to the distant woods.

* * *\r\n\r\n

Hours later, Aragorn led them into a strangely silent forest of tall trees that Harry could not recognize. A strange, unsettling glow seemed to come from all directions, giving the place an eerie quality. There was no sign of habitation; the only sounds were the occasional whispered conversation and rustle of leaves underfoot.

Gimli was muttering something to the Hobbits about an Elf-Witch who lived in these woods. Then, quite suddenly, Frodo halted in his tracks.

Harry wondered about this for a moment, but almost stumbled into Ron when another memory surfaced. That deep, ethereal voice he had heard on the Hogwarts Express murmuring, “Frodo…Your coming to us is as the footsteps of doom. ”

Harry shook it off as Ron asked, “Harry?”

“Mr. Frodo?” Sam said at the same moment.

Harry and Frodo did not reply, but they shot glances at each other when they began to move on. Harry knew that look; he had seen it on Ron’s and Hermione’s faces several times. It said, quite clearly, Talk with me later.

Harry gave the barest of nods. Now Gimli – presumably going on about the “Elf-Witch” – was saying, “Well, here’s one Dwarf she won’t ensnare so easily. I have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox. Oh!” As if to mock his words, an Elven arrow had appeared inches before his nose.

The rest of the Fellowship halted in their tracks, finding themselves surrounded by archers. As Aragorn put up his hands, a tall, haughty-looking Elf strode into view, with a hint of a smirk playing around his mouth. His features reminded Harry vaguely of Lucius Malfoy, what with his long, silvery hair, grey eyes, and current expression.

“The Dwarf breathes so loud we could have shot him in the dark,” the Elf said.

Gimli merely growled.

The Elf began conversing with Aragorn in rapid Elvish. Harry and Ron glanced at Hermione for a translation, but she shook her head, too tense to provide one at the moment. After several minutes of discussion, the Elf jerked his head, indicating that Aragorn should follow. Aragorn glanced back at the Company, indicating wordlessly that they should follow suit.

Their guards led them even deeper into the forest with grim expressions, finally showing them up a rope ladder and onto a platform they called a talan – or, as Aragorn said, a flet. Legolas and Aragorn stood in front of the rest of the Fellowship, conversing with the Elves’ leader. Harry looked at Hermione.

She glanced back with an exasperated expression. “They’re only greeting each other,” she said in a low voice. “Nothing important yet.”

Gimli, growing angry at the use of Elvish, spat an insult in his own language back at the leader, whose name appeared to be Haldir. Aragorn seized him by the shoulder and remonstrated, “That was not so courteous.”

Haldir looked back to where the Hobbits stood. His gaze came to rest on Frodo.

“You bring great evil with you,” he said softly. His expression sharpened and he looked at Aragorn. “You can go no further.”

Aragorn stood still for a moment, stunned as Haldir began to walk away. A second later he followed, arguing once more in Elvish.

More the thirty minutes later the others had placed their packs on the ground as they waited for something to come of Aragorn’s pleas. Harry noticed that Frodo was sitting all alone near the far edge of the platform, looking around at his companions. All – even Sam – glanced back at him with expressions that said very clearly, this is your fault. Frodo sat hugging his knees, looking crestfallen.

Harry knew how this felt. When he was in second year most of the people at Hogwarts had believed he was the one attacking fellow students; even ghosts had thought him guilty. He also knew that Ron had helped him pull through the worst of it by being there to support him.

Now even Sam did not want to talk to Frodo. So Harry got up and walked over to where the Hobbit sat, settling down next to him.

“You heard her too, didn’t you?” the Hobbit asked in a low voice.

Harry nodded, glancing over to see Frodo thinking hard. Frustration and guilt surfaced on Frodo’s features, compelling Harry to speak.

“It’s not your fault,” he said quietly.

Frodo didn’t turn his head. “How can you say that? It was my decision to go into the Mines.”

“But blaming yourself won’t do anything.” Harry was surprised to hear himself say this; it was as if he needed to convince himself as well as Frodo. “Gandalf made a choice, and in the end, it allowed us to escape and continue the Quest.” Just like Sirius made a choice….

When Frodo did not respond, Harry added, “The Ring already weighs you down. Carrying this guilt will only slow you even further.” I must kill Voldemort eventually…. I can’t let guilt about Sirius eat me up…. I have to focus on the task….

There was a long silence. The Frodo said in a quiet voice, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You and Ron saved my life, and those of my two cousins, when you distracted the troll. We owe you for it.”

“Oh…well, you’re welcome. Or, as you might phrase it, Harry Potter at your service!” He gave the best bow he could in his seated position.

The corners of Frodo’s mouth began to twitch upward, but his face fell again as Haldir emerged from his argument with Aragorn. “You will follow me,” the Elf said, looking less than pleased about it. He scrutinized Harry for a moment, as if debating whether to say something, but instead turned away. Everyone stood and gathered up their belongings once more.

Apparently these woods were just the very outskirts of Lothlórien. The Elf Haldir led them along a winding path for hours on end. They finally made it to the top of a ridge just as the sun was beginning to set before they stopped.

“Caras Galadhon,” Haldir breathed, “the heart of Elvendom on earth. Realm of the Lord Celeborn, and Galadriel, Lady of Light.”

The Elvish names were somewhat lost on Harry, who merely saw a stand of exceptionally tall trees, but he continued to follow the Elf together with the rest of the Fellowship.

Dusk had settled in when they reached the trees. Harry looked up and gasped in wonder. Beside him he heard Ron and Hermione do the same.

Above their heads soared an intricate, beautifully constructed series of flets and walkways. Staircases wound gracefully around unbelievably tall trees, the likes of which Harry had never seen before. Little silver lights were placed here and there throughout the entire structure, giving the place an ethereal glow. It was easily as beautiful as Rivendell, though the atmosphere was certainly more eerie.

They were led up a staircase that seemed to ascend for ages. Night had fallen before they reached the very top, where they stepped out onto a magnificent platform. They stopped and waited before a large staircase, which led into the largest and most elaborate flet they had yet seen.

Two noble Elves, the Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel, descended the steps to stand before the Fellowship. A glow seemed to emanate from the pair, an ethereal light that set them apart from other beings. They began to speak, but Harry, exhausted as he was, paid little attention to their words. Harry vaguely realized that they were talking of Gandalf’s fate, a topic that he was quite willing to avoid.

Then, quite suddenly, a voice spoke sharply right to his mind: Harry Potter…

He jerked out of his reverie and looked up. Galadriel was not looking directly at him, but he knew it was her voice that he had somehow heard.

“The Quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little, and it will fail to the ruin of all.”

Her eyes met Harry’s as she said this. He had the distinct feeling that he was being X-rayed – something only Dumbledore could do to him. It was unsettling to feel Galadriel’s eyes boring intently into his. He tried to look away, but could not as she began to speak to him yet again, a whisper to his mind.

You do not belong here. You and your friends lie outside the pattern of events, and that may have unforeseeable consequences…

With an effort, an unnerved Harry tore his eyes from her powerful blue gaze. No one he knew of could touch his mind without any need for spells – no one, that is, except Voldemort. And while Harry knew that Galadriel was an ally and could be trusted, he wasn’t sure whether he liked her.

* * *\r\n\r\n

The Hobbits did not like heights, so the Fellowship climbed back down to rest among the great roots of the mallorn trees. They laid out their packs and bedrolls, removing their cloaks and jerkins before leaning against the massive trunks. Above them, the Elves began to sing a melody as haunting and beautiful as phoenix song.

Legolas would not say what the other Elves were singing, and neither would Hermione. The lyrics brought tears to her eyes and soon enough she had rolled over and fallen asleep. Harry, Ron, and Aragorn were all polishing and sharpening their swords; Ron sat close to Hermione’s sleeping form and scowled at anyone who came too close.

Harry rubbed a soft cloth over the blade and lion emblem one last time before sheathing his sword. He stood up and was about to go sit with the morose-looking Hobbits when Boromir suddenly appeared in front of him.

“Walk with me?” the Man asked.

Harry gave a nod, leaving his sword with the rest of his belongings but keeping his wand stowed within his tunic.

They wandered among the trees, passing clear pools of water as the silence stretched between them. Finally Boromir spoke.

“We have indeed had ill fortune during the course of the Quest. Forced to take the dark road of Moria, then Gandalf fell into shadow…”

Harry responded with a noncommittal, “Mmm.”

Boromir glanced sideways at him. “I asked you before we began the journey in the Mines who you were. I had half a mind to ask Gandalf, but…”

“What is there to know? I’m just Harry Potter, of the race of Men.”

“But is that all?”

“All?”

“What of these strange abilities you and your two friends have? Flying broomsticks, melting snow without effort, light at your command? Where do you three really come from?”

There was no avoiding the question, so Harry decided to give a truthful but incomplete answer.

“As for where we come from, I don’t think I should say. But those ‘strange abilities’ as you call them … that is magic.”

Boromir threw him a calculating look. “Magic?”

“Yes. The three of us are wizards, though we are trying to avoid using our powers unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Kin of Gandalf?”

“No … At least, I don’t think so. He said we had a different brand of magic.”

Boromir now had a thoughtful look on his face. “Powers such as yours would be a valuable asset in our fight against the Enemy. If you and your two friends were to come to the city of Minas Tirith we could likely arrange something …”

“Only if the Quest takes us there,” Harry said firmly.

“Gondor is at the very center of the fight against Sauron.”

“Ron, Hermione, and I swore that the Ring would make it to Mount Doom and be destroyed. That was our mission; we did not promise any more than that.”

Was he mistaken, or did that greedy look he had seen on Ron’s face flash across Boromir’s features as the Ring was mentioned? But it was gone as soon as the Man spoke. “Elrond told us that we were to go no further than we will.”

“But I, for one, wish to go all the way to Mordor with Frodo. I have to make sure that happens, or else – ”

He broke off abruptly, lest he reveal too much.

“Very well,” Boromir said. “If the road does not take the Fellowship to Minas Tirith, so be it. But at least consider the offer. You and your friends would be safe within the city walls – and is that not what you want the most?”

With that, Boromir turned back to where the others were. Harry allowed him to move out of sight before beginning to follow.

When Harry returned to the campsite, he found nearly everyone asleep, though Aragorn and Boromir were nowhere to be seen. Exhaustion finally taking over him, Harry fell into a deep sleep such as he had not had in a long while.

* * *\r\n\r\n

Frodo still looked tired the next morning, as though he had slept uneasily or not at all. When Harry awoke, the Hobbit was deep in talk with Sam already, so Harry went over to where Ron and Hermione were sitting. He ate a breakfast of fresh bread and fruit as he told his friends about Boromir’s proposal.

“I think it’s a good idea,” said Ron.

“What?” Harry and Hermione said at once.

“I mean…look, if we all go to Minas Tirith, we can rest up a bit before taking off into Mordor, can’t we?”

“He has a point, Harry. After all, Minas Tirith is right in sight of the awful mountains surrounding Mordor.” She shuddered at the thought.

“We can’t go,” Harry said firmly.

“Why not?” Ron asked, his tone insistent.

“Don’t you get it? Frodo is carrying the Ring! If we were to bring it into the city, it could wreak havoc!”

“If Frodo were to keep it hidden…” Ron said, but Harry cut him off.

“That’s not the point. Frodo keeps it hidden from view all the time, but can’t you see what it’s been doing to Boromir? To you?”

The words were out of Harry’s mouth before he knew it. Ron’s blue eyes hardened as he looked back at Harry, and Hermione had turned her gaze away.

“What do you mean, to me?” Ron asked in a soft and dangerous tone.

“It’s got a hold on Boromir,” Harry whispered. “Ron, you’re my best mate, I don’t want the same thing happening – ”

“I think I’m done eating,” Ron said, standing abruptly. “See you later.” With that, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the trees. Hermione cast one glance at Harry before she rose as well. With a mumbled apology, she took off after Ron.

By then Harry had quite lost his appetite, but he could hardly follow his two friends at the moment. So he walked off in the opposite direction, making note of all the small pools and streams that he passed.

Their supper was brought to them by an Elf between sunset and dusk. The food was wonderful, but Harry couldn’t help thinking that it would seem better if only Ron and Hermione would meet his eye. The two sat on the opposite side of the circle of companions, pointedly looking down into their food so as to avoid Harry’s gaze. Later, Hermione gave a quick “Good night!”, but Ron did not speak at all. So it was with frustration and slight anger that Harry curled up in his bedroll and went straight to sleep.

How he heard it, he did not know. Sometime later in the night he awoke to the barest stirring of leaves, so light it might even have been the wind. But when he turned over and squinted at the source of the sound, he saw that it was not the wind at all. The bright white gown and cascade of long blonde hair told him that it was the Lady Galadriel. He rummaged around in his pack for his glasses. What was the Lady doing down here at such a late hour?

Harry pushed the spectacles over his eyes and saw Galadriel off in the distance, disappearing around a tree. It was as though she had called him without words; an overwhelming curiosity suddenly took hold of him, and he quietly stood and began to follow her.

He rounded the tree and spotted a clearing with a pedestal at its very center. A shining silver basin stood upon it, and there, poised as though she had been expecting him, was the Lady Galadriel herself. Behind her was a bubbling pool fed by a small waterfall, a silver pitcher standing just at its edge. Oddly enough, while Harry was sure he had explored this very area earlier, he did not remember any such clearing. Yet it all seemed right out of a dream….

“So,” Galadriel began in her deep voice, “you have returned.”

Harry frowned. “Returned?” he echoed.

“You know both who you are and who you were. You understand the evil you face both now and the time from whence you come. What would you do with this knowledge?”

“I…How d’you know?”

The Lady smiled gently as she responded cryptically, “There are ways.”

“How much do you know?”

“Enough to understand. What of my question?”

The answer was obvious, of course. Harry began to speak, more to himself than to her. “If I knew how to defeat Voldemort I would definitely try. I know that my mum’s love protected me when he gave me this,” Harry said, pushing aside his long and slightly unkempt bangs to reveal the lightning-bolt scar. “And I know that it can link our minds and that he gave me some of his powers. But I don’t have much to go on from there. There really isn’t a spell that sends waves of…of love out to attack anyone.” The very idea in itself sounded ridiculous.

“Would you seek the answer in the Mirror?”

Harry considered. “I was never any good at Divination.”

“You need not be. Would you look?”

“Would it give me a straight answer?”

Galadriel gave a soft laugh. “I fear that even the wisest would not know. The Mirror does not always show truly what may come to pass. You must decide what is important.” With that, she dipped the pitcher into the clear pool and poured the water into the silver basin. “Come.”

Harry did as he was told and stood next to the pedestal, looking down into the rippling surface of the water at his reflection. The person staring back at him seemed almost a stranger; a small growth of beard made him look much older than sixteen years, his skin had tanned, and his hair was longer and messier than usual. He was rather broader in the shoulder than before, the result of long hours of practice with the sword. He only recognized the round glasses, green eyes, and thin scar as being himself…but then the water began to shimmer, rippling rather than swirling like a Pensieve’s contents, and a small image appeared.

The image showed Gandalf at the bridge in Moria, raising his staff and bringing it down in a surge of brilliant light. The water moved again almost as if he had breathed on it, and now he saw a small figure of a rider in white, chasing away large, dark reptilian beasts…

The Mirror turned dark and Harry leaned in closer, trying to make out what the image was. Then a faint green glow filtered down from the upper end of the Mirror, spreading out to reveal the castle of Hogwarts. But it was not Hogwarts as Harry remembered it…the gates were mangled and broken, and it looked as though there were people dueling in the front of the lawn, but they were too tiny to make out…The image pulled back, and it was with horror that Harry realized the source of the light was the Dark Mark, hovering over the castle…Hagrid’s hut appeared, all ablaze…

Images flashed before his eyes. The Burrow in ruins…Grimmauld Place abandoned and dark…Ron lying on his side with his eyes open, wand fallen to the floor at his side…Hermione’s face, eyes staring glassily at nothing…

A final image appeared, and Harry felt his sword-callused hands gripping the sides of the pedestal so hard that his knuckles were turning white. Dumbledore, lying with his limbs at strange angles, a trickle of blood issuing from the corner of his mouth…clearly dead…

Harry wrenched his eyes away from this terrible vision to look Galadriel in the eye. “Is it real?”

Her words reached his mind directly. It may come to pass if you do not find the answer soon. You were given a gift when you were sent to this time, accident though it may have been.

So it won’t? Harry thought back.

I cannot say. The answer may be found here in Middle-earth, or it may not.

“Why can’t you just tell me? You already know all about me,” Harry voiced aloud, loosening his grip on the pedestal. He glanced down at the Mirror, which now innocently reflected the treetops and stars above.

Galadriel sighed. “There are some things that are best left untold. It will be to your advantage to discover the answer for yourself.”

* * *\r\n\r\n

Harry slept fitfully that night, which was unfortunate because they packed up their belongings the following morning to leave Lothlórien. He tied his jerkin on and belted his sword to his waist blearily, listening to the two Hobbits seated next to him.

“What are they?” Pippin asked.

“Bread, my dear Took! It seems as though they left us breakfast!” Merry said excitedly.

The sound of enthusiastic munching came from behind Harry, who turned his head to see a small leaf-wrapped package at his side. He pulled on the corner of the leaf to see what was inside, and sure enough, there were ten pieces of flat bread.

Ron dashed by, ignoring Harry, who was now in the process of rolling up his blankets. Feeling rather as though he had lost his appetite, Harry placed the packet of bread into his traveling bag and swung it onto his back.

Aragorn made an entrance into the camp, already dressed and ready to leave. “Come!” he said. “The Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel wish to meet with us before we depart.”

The Fellowship hurried to pack their possessions before following Aragorn as he led them through the trees to a clearing that, by the sound of rushing water, was close to a river. Celeborn stood there with ten other Elves; Galadriel was nowhere to be seen. Each of the Elves held a bundle of grey-green cloth and stood solemnly as the Fellowship formed a semicircle opposite them.

“The Lady Galadriel has chosen to gift you with these Elven cloaks,” Celeborn said. As if on cue, the other Elves unrolled their bundles. “They are light, warm in the winter and yet cool enough to be worn in the height of summer. The Lady herself helped weave the cloth.”

He nodded, and the other Elves stepped forward to stand in front of each member of the Fellowship. Aragorn looked each member of the Company in the eye before unfastening his own cloak and laying it to the side. Everyone else imitated him before the Elves swung the cloaks carefully around the shoulders of the Fellowship’s members. Harry noticed that a delicately made brooch of green and silver fastened the cloaks as a final touch.

“Never before have we clad strangers in the garb of our own people,” Celeborn said, as the Elves stepped back silently. “May these cloaks shield you from unfriendly eyes.”

Harry chose to pick up his old cloak and folded it, stuffing it in his bag together with his Invisibility Cloak, provisions, and water skin. He shouldered his pack once more as Celeborn beckoned to the Company.

They emerged into a more brightly lit clearing where Galadriel stood, several more Elves behind her. Once more the Fellowship formed a line across from her.

“We wish you well on your Quest,” Galadriel began, “but we would not allow you to take your leave without first giving you these gifts.”

She began at the end of the line, where Legolas stood, and presented the Elf with a new bow. She gave Hermione a similar one of a smaller size, smiling as she did so.

“You are very brave, Hermione Granger, to venture out upon such a Quest as this. This bow is indeed worthy of your newfound skill. May it serve you well.”

For once, even Hermione had no words, but she smiled and nodded at the Lady thankfully. Galadriel then handed Merry and Pippin a small dagger each before moving on to Sam, holding a length of silvery cord in her hands.

“And for you, Samwise Gamgee, Elven rope made of hithlain.”

Sam thanked her, but then glanced over to where Merry and Pippin were admiring their new knives. “Have you run out of those nice, shiny daggers?”

The Lady merely smiled before moving on to Gimli. The Dwarf shuffled and mumbled as she stood before him, waiting for his request. It came as a surprise to Harry – a single hair from Galadriel’s head. She smiled again as she took up a few strands of hair and cut them off with a small knife, handing them over to Gimli, who immediately stowed them in a pocket. His face held an expression of wonder.

Ron was next. Galadriel regarded him gravely.

“Your loyalty to your friends runs strong. Take care that you do not come to harm by it.” She presented him with an elegantly made knife, its blade long and straight. Ron’s eyes widened at the sight of the rich silver scrollwork around the hilt.

“This is not of a typical Elven style, but it suits you. With it, your aim will ever be true. Use what talents you have and do not be tempted by the power of darkness.” Harry watched as she handed him the knife and was almost sure that she slipped him something else wrapped in a cloth.

She moved on to Boromir, who chose to avoid her eyes. Harry guessed that she spoke directly to his mind before she gave him a belt.

Aragorn had stood between Boromir and Harry, but he had somehow disappeared. So it was Harry who faced Galadriel next.

“For you, Harry Potter, a walking staff.” The golden-brown stick was a little shorter than Harry was, with a small sphere of wood covered in a thin tracery of gold carved into the top. Elvish characters ran all the way from the top to the bottom. Harry took it into his hands and realized that holding it felt as natural as holding a wand. There was no rush of magical warmth spreading from his fingertips up his arm, but it just felt right.

“It will guide your feet safely over uneven paths and will lead you to wisdom. And remember, I valan vellwain vi dortha, the strongest power is found within.”

With that cryptic note, Galadriel walked over to where the last person was standing: Frodo waited at the end of the line, looking up to meet her eyes.

“And for you, Frodo Baggins, I give you the light of Eärendil. May it be a light for you in dark places, when all other lights go out.”

A small crystal phial exchanged hands and Frodo bent his head respectfully. Then Galadriel leaned down to kiss the top of his head in parting.

“Your journey commences once again,” she said to the Fellowship in a sad voice. “The Lord Celeborn, myself, and Elves of Lothlórien all wish you well on your endeavor. Haldir will lead you to the boats.”

* * *\r\n\r\n

The boats already had their belongings stowed in them, together with extra packets of the leaf-wrapped wafers. Harry overhead Legolas call them lembas and say that only a bite was needed to sustain a grown man for hours on end.

There was one boat that was slightly longer than the others. Aragorn directed Harry, Ron, and Hermione to that particular one.

“I will be taking Frodo and Sam, and Boromir has Merry and Pippin in his boat. Legolas will be taking Gimli, so there is no place for you three but here.”

Harry glanced at Ron and knew that he wasn’t too pleased about this arrangement, for the two of them still weren’t talking. Harry noticed, with greater unease, that both Ron and Boromir were watching Frodo more often than was necessary to keep guard. Yet Harry felt that to give Ron another warning would only infuriate his best mate even further. Hermione was still talking to both of them, but the situation was becoming increasingly awkward.

“I will lead us down the river. All you must do is follow,” Aragorn said before he moved to speak with Celeborn.

Harry clambered over the thick tree root that served as a small dock for the boat and sat down inside. The boat rocked back and forth as each of them entered, but it stayed afloat. Out of the corner of his eye Harry could see Sam clinging to the sides of his boat, a frightened expression on his face.

Soon enough Aragorn returned and they were all situated in their boats. Harry and Ron took up the paddles and followed Aragorn’s lead downstream, Hermione sitting quietly between them. At the very border of Lothlórien they passed the Lady Galadriel, who raised her arm in farewell. She met Harry’s eyes once more.

I valan vellwain vi dortha, she repeated into his mind.

What does that mean? What power?

You will discover it in time. I cannot tell you more.

Why not?

But the Lady just smiled sadly and shook her head. Farewell, Harry Potter. May you find the answer you seek.


Chapter 12 - The Battle of Parth Galen

Much thanks to VanaTheEverYoung/Hufflepuff for the Beta work on this chapter. I hope you enjoy it.

Any dialogue you recognize comes from The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring by Peter Jackson…but there is very little of is in this chapter. Please leave a review!




~Chapter 12: The Battle of Parth Galen~\r\n\r\n

Ron swept his oar through the water once more, his eyes fixed upon the monotonous landscape around him. High cliffs had soon overtaken the flat, tree-dotted land that had appeared beyond the borders of Lothlórien, and there had been little change in the scenery since then. For the past week they had been coursing down the Anduin, yet for all the hard work and the new blisters that had formed on Ron’s hands, they seemed to be getting nowhere.

His eyes were fixed on Frodo, who was two boats ahead. Why had the Council allowed so small a person to carry such a burden? Frodo was not all that special, if one thought about it. By rights, it belonged to Aragorn, but even he had no way of controlling it; he had admitted as much. Perhaps Gandalf could have carried it, powerful Wizard that he was, but he had not wanted it either.

Didn’t Gandalf say that he, Harry, and Hermione were able to use a different brand of magic? So might it be that their magic could be a means of keeping the Ring under control? As he looked at Frodo, he became convinced that he, Ron, should be the one to carry the Ring during the Quest.

He had wanted to voice this thought to Harry, but he could not bring himself to even speak to his friend. Not after what Harry had said about the Ring controlling him. Who was Harry to talk about avoiding being taken in by the Ring, when it was his own stupidity that had gotten them thrown into Middle-earth in the first place? Who was Harry to tell Ron that the Ring – a simple golden band – was controlling him, when Harry had been constantly drawn to the enchanted Mirror of Erised in their first year?

It was odd, though. Every time he nearly brought himself to apologize to Harry, a small voice in the back of his head would say, He doesn’t deserve anything from you. Well, that was logical enough, seeing as it was Harry’s fault for everything that had happened to them.

Ron’s thoughts drifted to Hermione. Lately, plans to wrest the Ring from Frodo’s possession had occupied his mind far more then she had. It would help, that sinister voice told him. Use the Ring, and she would see that you are truly powerful. It would draw her to you.

Back in Rivendell, he had finally admitted his feelings to himself, but didn’t know how to deal with them. Harry, of course, wasn’t that much help…That prat really doesn’t know anything, does he? the voice snickered in a tone worthy of Malfoy. The thought that such a traitorous idea could ever enter his head caused him to pause in his rowing, lift the paddle out of the water, and stare into the distance. The boat began to drift towards the left as Harry, who was sitting at the back, continued paddling.

“What is happening to me?” he whispered.

“What did you say, Ron?” Harry called out.

Ron felt his head whip around, felt a glare emanating from his eyes. “None of your business,” he snapped back.

Harry’s expression grew stunned. Hermione shot Ron a wordless, reproachful glance before shaking her head in disbelief.

Ron instantly regretted his words, but could not figure out what had driven him to speak like that. The voice in his head began to laugh softly, Good, good. Distance yourself from them, and they are less likely to meddle…

“Stop it!” Ron whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. He knew covering his ears would be no good.

Stop it? You know you want the Ring. The question is how to get it…

He chose to ignore the voice and began slicing his paddle through the water with more force than was necessary, drowning the words in the sound of water. He concentrated so fiercely on ignoring all voices that he did not hear Hermione talking to him.

“Ron? Ron!”

The last call came with a sharp poke in the back, bringing him back into reality. “Wh – What?”

“Look. Aragorn’s leading us to that small beach on the right…you have to direct the boat towards him.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Ron switched the paddle over to his left side and began paddling gently, so that the boat gradually turned towards the beachhead. He directed them onto the bank next to Aragorn’s boat, where Frodo and Sam were gathering their belongings.

“Where are we?” Hermione asked.

Aragorn gestured farther downriver. “Those are the Falls of Rauros; we can go no further in these boats. We shall rest here, at Parth Galen, until the sun sets.”

An hour later, the days of paddling began to catch up with the Fellowship. They lounged around the small cooking fire, exchanging quiet stories and eating the fish that Aragorn had caught and the now-sleeping Sam had prepared. Ron felt his eyelids closing and was ready to drift off to sleep when the voice gave him a nudge.

Look at them. They are too caught up in their conversation to see that one of their number has vanished.

Ron jerked back into wakefulness. What?

Your chance has come. You might not get another.

He glanced over to where Frodo had been sitting – and sure enough, the Hobbit was not there. His mind leapt into action, formulating a plan to corner the Hobbit.

He decided that the only weapon he would need would be his wand, but he left Galadriel’s knife belted at his side anyway. No need to go arousing suspicion among the other members of the Fellowship; he would be as surreptitious as possible. He would have the Ring before they knew it.

On the pretense of going to find more wood, Ron hurried into the forest. Where had Frodo gone? If only he could enlist Hermione’s help; she had absorbed all of Aragorn’s instructions regarding tracking and would know which path the Hobbit had taken immediately. But Hermione was not there, and he could hardly go back to ask for her help, so he chose a direction at random. The leaves swished under his feet as he walked with his wand tightly clutched in his hand.

Little did he know that another had entered the woods just behind him.

* * *\r\n\r\n

Harry was only half listening to Aragorn’s plan of action with his eyes partially closed. Exhaustion from the entire journey had begun to set in, and he welcomed the short rest. The crackling of the small fire made a pleasant sound in the background, accompanied by low conversation and the occasional clack of new branches being set into the flames.

“…hide the boats and continue on foot,” Aragorn said. “We approach Mordor from the north.”

“Indeed, the Enemy will not realize that we are approaching, for we might never reach our destination,” Gimli said dryly. “Or have you forgotten the Emyn Muil?”

“I have traveled through Middle-earth for a long time, Master Dwarf. I have wended my way through that maze of boulders.”

“But then there are the marshes. You have heard, certainly, of travelers vanishing without a trace?”

Harry kept his eyes closed, but he listened more closely in alarm.

The sound of short branches hitting the ground announced someone else’s presence, and Merry’s voice asked, “Where’s Frodo?”

Harry sat up straight and looked around. Sure enough, the Ringbearer was gone, and not only that…

“Where’s Ron?” Hermione said as she glanced around. Harry noticed that Ron’s sword was still lying with the rest of his belongings.

“And Boromir…” Sam muttered darkly, seeing the black-and-silver shield. “I’m betting they’re after Mr. Frodo, or the Ring at least.”

Aragorn’s voice rose. “Quick, they might not be themselves! We must hurry before they find him…but do not go unarmed!”

The camp turned into a flurry of action as they belted on their swords. Harry did not want to face Ron armed like this, especially when his friend had left his sword behind. He made sure his wand was in easy reach, hoping that the worst he would have to do was to Stun Ron or Boromir.

The eight members of the Fellowship started into the woods with Aragorn in the lead. “It seems that Frodo went this way,” he said, indicating the direction to his right. “Either Boromir or Ron followed him, but the other wandered off in that direction. Legolas, take the Pippin, Merry, and Gimli with you to follow this one’s trail. Sam, Harry, Hermione – come with me.”

* * *\r\n\r\n

Ron meandered through the trees, unsure of where he was. Frodo could not possibly have gone down this way, or he would have run into him by now. He kicked at the dead leaves and spun around, but everything looked the same to him. There was no way of knowing where the river was, nor any way of finding the others without making a noise. But if he called out, he might alert Frodo…

Nevertheless, a loud groan of frustration escaped him as he ran his hands through his hair and leaned against a tree trunk.

“Now what?” he asked aloud.

“Ron! Ron!”

He looked up to see Merry and Pippin running towards him, with Legolas and Gimli behind. “Where are the others?”

“Gone to look for Boromir,” Pippin panted. “And Frodo, by the looks of it,” he added, glancing around.

“We must return to the shore and find them,” Legolas said as Ron got to his feet. “I sense that danger is near; we must stay together.”

As if to punctuate his words, a black-fletched arrow flew past his head and landed, quivering, in the bole of the oak tree behind the Elf. The Elf sprang into action immediately, nocking an arrow and motioning the others to get behind him with a jerk of his head.

The Hobbits unsheathed their swords and Gimli hefted his axe as Legolas released the first arrow. Ron realized how incredibly vulnerable he felt as the nightmarish creatures streamed into the woods all around them; he had no sword, no weapon save for the strip of willow wood held in his right hand. There was no conscious thought as he raised his wand and set Stunning Spells at the first creature, then the next.

“Run! Up the hill!” Legolas instructed, firing a final arrow before turning to flee.

It was the only escape not blocked by the creatures. Ron pounded up the hill after the Elf, half dragging Merry and Pippin along. Gimli followed in his wake, occasionally turning to strike an enemy with his axe.

The Elf was too swift for Ron to keep up, and soon enough, he lost sight of Gimli as well. “Go,” he said to Merry and Pippin. “I heard them saying something about Halflings. Hide.”

“But…” Pippin spluttered.

“How can you order us around? The nerve!” Merry said.

“We’re older than you are! You ought to listen to us.”

Ron tried to give them the look he had often seen on Percy’s face as he said, “Look, I’m younger, but I’ve also got magic on my side. We’ll meet up later, got that?”

“But – ”

“Got that?” Ron repeated, fingering his wand. They eyed it warily before nodding and hurrying away.

Sighing, Ron noticed that the trees were thinner up ahead. That must be the shore. He breathed a sigh of relief and began to run, wanting to have the sword in his hands before he rushed into battle.

His fingers fumbled as he tried to belt on the sword. A sudden will to fight flared up in him as the sounds of battle reached his ears…but he still did not have the sword properly belted on. Swearing loudly, he jerked the sword out of the scabbard and ran into the forest once more.

The sounds seemed to be coming from the right, despite the fact that he had come from the left. Perhaps the creatures had changed their course? No matter what the case, the others were in danger. Harry…and Hermione…

The trees flashed by him as he ran, accompanied by the occasional broken stone formation. As he paused to catch his breath and glance around, he saw something that made his racing heart stand still.

There stood Hermione, alone, poised with an arrow ready to fly. The look of concentration upon her face told him that she was sure of her mark…but there, right behind her, was a huge orc-like creature, a black-fletched arrow nocked and pointing directly at Hermione’s back.

“HERMIONE!”

She sent her arrow into a creature’s chest before turning to face him, a quizzical expression on her face. And without thinking, Ron dashed towards her and tackled her to the ground just as the creature released its own arrow.

He was too concerned for her safety to worry about the pain in his right shoulder and any sort of propriety. As her stunned voice asked, “Ron, what – ” he pushed her back to the ground and spread out over her protectively.

The creature was leering at him, slowly drawing out another arrow, thinking Ron defeated. Ron saw that he had dropped the Elven sword as he was rushing towards Hermione. His thoughts flew to his wand…but pain lanced up his arm as he tried to draw it out. Then his fingers brushed the knife at his side.

Your aim will ever be true. Galadriel’s words echoed in his mind as his left hand jerked the knife loose and as he weighed it quickly in his palm.

There was no time. No time to think, no time to remember the fact that he had not thrown a knife like this before, much less with his left hand. No time to realize that if he missed, he and Hermione were as good as dead. The cool steel blade left his hand before he knew it.

He screwed his eyes shut, unwilling to watch, but heard a sickening sound that meant the dagger had hit its target. He opened his eyes to see the creature scowling at him, wrenching the knife from its leg. It threw the knife but the blood-coated blade flew short of Ron and Hermione. With a final grunt, it quickly limped away from them to catch up with its fellows, black blood dripping on the leaves in its wake.

The woods grew quieter, and Ron became aware of his position over Hermione. He leaped back to sit against the trunk of a tree – and pain seared through his shoulder once more. Hermione’s breath was shallow and quick as she reached out a trembling hand.

“Ron…why…?”

“I don’t want to see you hurt,” Ron said. He tried to keep his voice steady despite the arrow lodged deeply into his shoulder. “Hermione, I…”

“You’re wounded.” She placed her hand gently on his shoulder, and he bit back a cry.

“Yes…well, better me than you.”

“You think that just because I’m a girl, I can’t take it?” she asked, flaring up at once and drawing her hand back. “Is that it?”

“No!” he said vehemently. “I’m the one who wouldn’t be able to stand seeing you hurt – or dead.”

Their eyes met, and any last thoughts of laying hold of the Ring, any awareness of the battle surrounding them, was driven from Ron’s mind. Hermione was staring at him with a look of amazement, her eyes wide and her mouth half open in surprise. Ron extended his left arm and, leaning forward, pulled her into an embrace.

She stiffened for a moment, but then relaxed. A tentative hand came to rest at the back of his neck, and he looked down at her. A half-smile was playing around her lips, and, forgetting the arrow still embedded in his flesh, he leaned down to kiss her….

A loud call from a horn echoed through the woods, disrupting the moment. Ron’s head jerked up and he gazed around the woods.

“Boromir.”

“What?” Hermione’s eyes fluttered open.

“Boromir. He’s in trouble, that’s his horn. We have to go help him!”

With that, Ron let go of Hermione and stood up.

“Ron, the arrow – ”

“Come on!”

“You’re still hurt – “

“Never mind that.” Ron seized the shaft and snapped most of it off, leaving only a few inches protruding from his shoulder. He began to run in the direction of the sound, Hermione following at his heels.

“Where’s Harry?” he asked.

“I…don’t…know…” Hermione replied, breathing hard as she ran. “We were with Aragorn and Gimli…then Aragorn told us to wait while he looked somewhere else…and after he left the creatures came and we all got separated fighting them…”

“We’ll find them later. We’ve got to help Boromir now.”

“Ron, you don’t have any weapons!”

Ron looked down at his side. Sure enough, he had left both the dagger and his sword at the place where he had found Hermione. Swearing, he pulled out his wand.

“This’ll have to do. I’m probably better with it anyway – ”

Hermione let out a scream, and Ron whipped his head around. There were about ten creatures following them, leering as they approached…

“Fenarvis! ” Ron’s Blindfold Hex hit the one in the lead, and it blundered forward stupidly before tripping over its own feet. Two of the others stumbled over it and began to fight amongst themselves.

The other seven were at the base of the hill now. One of Hermione’s arrows struck down the smallest, and another thudded into the white hand painted on the chest of another.

“Go!” Hermione cried as another blast from Boromir’s horn echoed around them. “I can handle this!”

“But…”

“GO!”

I can’t leave her here…

“Are you really that thick, Ron?” she shouted as she took aim. “Find Boromir, I’ll be right behind you!”

Two more creatures had fallen already. Ron shot one last Stunner down the hill before turning to run.

He darted through the trees, listening for another call. One came from behind a hill to his right, and he scaled it quickly. His head was swimming, and his breath came in short, quick bursts. Glancing down at his shoulder, he saw a red stain surrounding the wound, coming through his leather jerkin. He would deal with that later.

A horrible sight met his eyes as he crested the hill. There was the same creature that had attempted to kill Hermione, taking careful aim at Boromir. The Horn of Gondor swung at the Man’s side as he slashed at the other creatures, unaware of the archer. Merry and Pippin were battling madly as well, stabbing with their short swords.

Ron could not cry out. He remained rooted to the spot, wanting to shout or cast a spell at the creature as it pulled the bowstring farther back. With a whistling sound, the arrow flew through the air and struck Boromir in the left shoulder.

The Man jerked backwards at the blow, a stunned expression forming on his face as he stumbled. Then, with a cry, he launched himself at the Orcs once more.

“No!” Ron shouted.

Several of the creatures turned to look at him, and he raised his wand. Hexes and jinxes flew from the tip as jets of light, striking down a few of them as Ron moved forward. He had to get a clear shot at the archer….There was a chance that Boromir might live; the wound was not serious….

Something struck him hard at the back of his head. He tottered for a moment before falling upon his knees, stars winking before his eyes. His wand flew from his hand to land somewhere out of his reach, and all at once, he felt incredibly helpless.

“Do not try to defeat the Uruk-hai,” a creature hissed at him. “Pitiful humans. You will watch your friend die!”

He was wrenched to his feet and his aching head was forcibly turned in Boromir’s direction. A second arrow had penetrated into the Gondorian’s stomach, and the archer was taking aim yet again. Boromir stood up unsteadily, swinging his sword wildly.

The third arrow took him in the chest. He sank to his knees, the horn at his side split in two.

Merry and Pippin had frozen in shock, but now they raised their swords and charged. Two of the Uruk-hai ran at them and picked them up easily, and the swords fell from their hands. Ron felt himself being lifted and thrown unceremoniously over an Uruk’s shoulder.

His vision was blurring, and he felt himself slipping into unconsciousness. He raised his eyes one last time to see Hermione at the top of the hill, an expression of shock on her face as she stood rooted to the ground with her bow swinging uselessly at her side.

“Hermione…” he whispered.

Then the arrowhead that had lodged into his shoulder struck hard against the Uruk’s back, and he felt the world around him turn dark.

* * *\r\n\r\n

The creatures were running away, paying no heed whatsoever to Hermione as she watched Ron and the two Hobbits vanish into the woods. Bodies – all belonging to the creatures – were strewn about the clearing. Only one remained standing. An archer, one who was drawing his bow upon…

Aragorn came hurtling out of nowhere and slammed into the creature, making the arrow fly through the trees. Hermione snapped out of her reverie and sprinted towards Boromir, who had fallen on to his back.

“They…they took…” he tried to say.

“Don’t talk,” Hermione said, laying her bow on the ground and kneeling at his side. “Aragorn will fix you up…”

Boromir gave a weak laugh. “No. Not even magic can save me, though it may save Aragorn…” His eyes flickered to his right.

A clang resounded in the clearing. Hermione turned her head to see Aragorn trapped by the neck against a tree, the creature approaching him with a raised sword.

The Lothlórien bow lay uselessly at Boromir’s other side. Without a second thought, Hermione reached into her jerkin and pulled out her wand.

“Stupefy! ”

The creature tumbled to the ground as Aragorn pulled himself free. The Ranger raised his sword and stabbed the creature before hurrying to Boromir’s side.

“Are you hurt, Hermione?” he asked.

“I’m fine. But Boromir…” she gestured helplessly.

“No!” Aragorn said. His eyes scanned the three wounds, his expression becoming graver by the second.

”I have failed,” Boromir whispered.

“Be still,” Aragorn said.

Hermione could no longer bear to watch. She turned away and saw Legolas and Gimli approaching.

Boromir’s voice began to tremble. “It matters not. Even Hermione’s magic cannot save me. Hermione – ”

She faced Boromir once more. “Forgive me for not trusting you and your friends. You were ever true to the Quest, but I…”

“You did well, Boromir,” she replied, struggling to keep her own voice steady. “You are an honorable Man.”

“No. I failed in my duty. I tried to take the Ring from Frodo.”

“Frodo has chosen to continue the Quest alone,” Aragorn said. “You have already redeemed yourself, Boromir.”

“Yet I failed. The Uruks took three of the Fellowship captive despite my efforts.”

Hermione was unable to fully grasp this. “What?”

“Yes. Merry, Pippin, and Ron, all taken. You see? The world of Men shall fall, and Gondor shall be first!”

Hermione simply stared in disbelief.

“I will not allow it,” Aragorn said. “I swear to you, the White City shall never fall while I am alive. Our people are strong; they shall not lose heart.”

Boromir’s face lit up at these words. “Our people…our people…” His hand clasped Aragorn’s shoulder. “I would have followed you to any end, my brother…my captain…my King!”

He breathed a final sigh, an expression of joy still etched on his still features.

“Be at peace, Son of Gondor,” Aragorn whispered, bowing his head in respect.

Legolas and Gimli came closer as Aragorn stood. Hermione felt a tear trickling down her cheek and quickly wiped it away.

Aragorn gazed upward so that the sun illuminated his features. “They will look for his coming from the White Tower, but he will not return.”

They began to search for branches to make a stretcher, for Boromir was too heavy for them to carry. Hermione wandered to the other side of the clearing and selected a few fallen branches, gathering them into her arms. As she walked back, something caught her eye. It was a slender, smooth piece of wood, polished to a bright sheen…

Hermione dropped the wood she was carrying and ran to the object. Her fingers closed around the fallen wand, which felt still felt warm from lying in a patch of sun…

“Ron…” she whispered, as though speaking his name would make him appear at her side.

His words from earlier filled her mind. I wouldn’t be able to stand seeing you hurt – or dead.

Boromir’s words began to sink in, and a tear trickled down her cheek as she pictured Ron lying helplessly slung over an Uruk’s back. Where were they taking him? He was weak, he needed healing…

He could be killed.

You’re wrong, she thought. I’m the one who can’t stand it.

It was too much for her to bear, and the tears began to flow freely. How would she tell Harry? He would blame himself for not being there, but it was more her fault…she had simply stood there watching as the creatures raced away through the trees, not bothering to raise either her bow or her wand.

“Hermione?”

She brushed the tears from her eyes to see Legolas looking down at her with concern.

“He…He’s gone, Legolas,” she hiccupped. “Ron’s gone…it’s my fault, I could have saved him!”

“You did what you could. Fear not – if these Uruks wished to kill him, they would have done so already. We will find him, together with Merry and Pippin. Come, we must bring Boromir back and send him off properly.”

He reached out a hand to help her up. She stood and gathered the wood into her arms, heading back to where Aragorn and Gimli stood waiting.

I will find you, Ron. Just stay alive for me.

* * *\r\n\r\n

Harry had run pell-mell through the woods as soon as the creatures had attacked, thinking that Hermione had followed him all the way. But as soon as he stopped to catch his breath, he realized that she was not there.

Swearing, he began to race back in the direction he came, when all of a sudden Sam emerged from the trees.

“Harry! Have you seen Mr. Frodo?”

Harry shook his head, and Sam groaned.

“We have to find him! Where do you think he’d have gone?”

Harry closed his eyes, trying to dredge up a sliver of memory in order to answer Sam’s question. He was about to reply that he didn’t know when suddenly a picture swam into his mind…

“The river. That’s where he is, he’s going to try to cross…”

“Well, come on then!”

Sam dashed ahead, calling out Frodo’s name as Harry followed. They crashed haphazardly through the underbrush until they found a place where the trees looked thinner.

“Here! Hurry!”

Harry and Sam scrambled down the gentle slope until the rocky beach came into view.

“Frodo!” Sam shouted.

There, already more than twenty feet from the bank, was a boat with Frodo sitting inside. “No!” the Hobbit called. “Go back! I must do this alone.”

“Of course! I’m coming with you!” Sam began to wade into the water, stumbling in the current.

“You can’t swim!” Frodo cried in a panicked voice. “Sam!”

Suddenly, Sam slipped on a rock and vanished below the surface. Frodo hastily turned around in his boat and began to paddle frantically to the spot where the gardener had disappeared. Harry sheathed his sword and ran into the water. His progress was slow; the sword, cloak, and all his clothes weighed him down as he kicked out against the current.

He took a deep breath and floated facedown at the surface, scanning the water for any sign of Sam. He spotted him just off to his left, sinking helplessly.

Harry took another gulp of air before diving below. His grabbed Sam by the hand and heaved, kicking towards the surface all the while.

It was only five feet to the surface…two…

The sweetness of air met his face, and he took a deep breath before realizing that Sam was still partially submerged. He pulled the gardener’s head out of the water just as Frodo pulled up beside them. Frodo extended a hand out towards Sam, and Harry helped the bedraggled Hobbit into the boat. Then, with an effort, both Hobbits seized Harry’s hands and pulled him aboard.

Frodo stood looking at the pair of them. “I was supposed to go alone.”

“I made a promise, Mr. Frodo! A promise! Don’t you leave him, Samwise Gamgee! And I don’t mean to!”

Grateful tears welled up in Frodo’s eyes. “Oh, Sam!” The two Hobbits embraced quickly before Frodo turned his gaze on Harry.

“Of all the people in the Fellowship besides Sam, I trust you the most. But Elrond said that you need go no further than you will.”

“I…” Harry weighed his decision carefully. If he followed Frodo, he might meddle in events too much for the world’s good. All the same, he knew his magic could protect the Hobbits on their journey. Leaving Ron and Hermione had never been in his plans, but…

I valan vellwain vi dortha. The words echoed in his mind, followed by another voice. Find that power. Take this road.

“I’m coming. Let me just get my stuff…”

Frodo and Sam made to paddle to the shore, but Harry shook his head. “Accio!”

The bag and walking staff he had left on the beach flew across the water to his hand. Harry looked back and saw Frodo smiling.

“Indeed, I can always use a wizard. I thank you for choosing this perilous road.”

They paddled to the opposite shore and hid the boat in the underbrush. Before they set off, they glanced back one final time, hidden behind the trees.

On the opposite bank stood four companions: Hermione, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli. All of them were talking, though they were too far away to hear.

“We can’t just leave them wondering,” Harry said quietly. “I need to let Hermione and Ron know where I am, or they’ll worry.”

“Aragorn knows what I did,” Frodo said. “And he will probably deduce that you and Sam have gone with me.”

“Yeah, but all the same…”

“What do you intend to do?”

Harry smiled and raised his wand.

* * *\r\n\r\n

With the final blessings, the four remaining companions pushed the boat holding Boromir’s body out into the current. They watched silently as it drifted farther and farther away, finally vanishing over the Falls of Rauros.

Hermione quickly gathered up Ron’s wand, knife, and sword. The first two she slid into her quiver with her arrows; the last she slung across her back. Its Elven craftsmen had ensured that it would be light, for which she was grateful. Then she selected a small pouch full of provisions and belted it around her waist, resting next to her own sword.

After they gathered their belongings, Legolas raced to a boat. “Hurry! Frodo and the others will have reached the eastern shore!”

Hermione looked from Legolas to Aragorn. When the Ranger made no move, she knew that any hope of following them could be extinguished.

“Frodo’s fate is no longer in our hands,” Aragorn said quietly.

“But Harry!” Hermione burst out. “That fool, he’s going into greater danger than ever.”

“Do you not wish to find Ron?” Gimli asked.

“Oh, I do, but I just want to know that Harry is – ”

She broke off as she spotted a brilliant light out of the corner of her eye. Turning, she saw what it was and a wave of relief broke over her.

A shining silver stag was galloping across the water. It reached the shore and walked up to Hermione, gazing at her with large, reassuring eyes before it vanished.

“What was that?” Aragorn asked.

“Harry’s Patronus,” Hermione said softly. “He’s telling us that they will be all right. He is a much more powerful wizard than he gives himself credit for; Frodo and Sam will be well-protected.”

She turned to face the other three. “Very well. I will not follow them.”

“Then the Fellowship has indeed failed!” Gimli said.

Aragorn looked around at the three of them, a determined glint forming in his eye. “Not while we hold true to each other. We will not abandon Merry, Pippin, and Ron to torment and death. Not while we have strength left.”

He began to gather his belongings. “We will find them. Come – our hunt begins!”

Aragorn turned and dashed away through the trees. Legolas and Gimli followed just behind him.

With one final glance back at the opposite shore, Hermione turned and began the pursuit, the air whistling past her ears and her braid trailing behind her.


Chapter 13 - The Elven Staff

Segment 2: Based on Peter Jackson’s rendition of JRR Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. None of the dialogue you recognize herein is mine; however, original dialogue between the characters of the two fandoms is my intellectual property. Please continue to enjoy…at the risk of sounding cliché, I shall tell you that the plot is thickening!

PLEASE READ: I feel that it is my duty to inform readers – sometime in the future, there will be a possibly upsetting non-canon character death. It pains me to remove the character from this story, but I feel that it is a necessity in order to allow the plot to progress in the direction I desire. I will not warn you again; the chapter in which the death actually occurs will not have a heading like this one, for that will spoil the plot. Be aware of that fact – I WILL NOT REPEAT IT.

Much thanks to my Beta, Hufflepuff/VanaTheEverYoung.



Chapter 13: The Elven Staff~\r\n\r\n

Harry gripped the silky Elven rope with all his might. The silver cord felt so delicate under his hands, yet it held his weight. He felt as though the smooth threads of the rope would slide through his sweaty palms, and the ground would rush up to meet him, but amazingly he was able to hold his position without even looping the cord around his hand.

He braced his feet against the rock face in front of him and began his descent into the mist. Frodo and Sam had insisted on going first, despite Harry’s protests. Now their voices drifted up from below.

“Don’t look down, Harry!” Sam called.

“I’m trying! It’s very hard not to, though!”

He heard Frodo give a laugh and say quietly to Sam, “Really, I don’t recall ever being this testy at the age of sixteen.”

Harry scowled to himself and continued his slow descent, finally penetrating the mist and spotting the faces of the two Hobbits. Though they had sounded merry earlier, their expressions had once more become subdued.

“Well, that wasn’t too bad,” Harry said, wiping his palms on his cloak. “Better than dodging Bludgers, at any rate.” He noticed that the Hobbits wore curious looks. “Wizard sport. Maybe I’ll explain sometime.”

Frodo nodded, but Sam looked back up the cliff and groaned.

“Ah, you fool, Samwise Gamgee!”

“Sorry, Sam?”

“Just a thought, Mr. Frodo – we can’t just leave this here. Galadriel herself gave it to me. Real Elvish rope.”

Frodo gazed upward and muttered, “Yes…and we cannot leave it for anyone to follow.”

“Who in their right mind would follow us into a place as desolate as this?” Harry asked. This must be the place that Gimli mentioned. It was indeed a barren, rock-strewn place that seemed nigh impassable. No matter in which direction he looked, everything appeared the same to Harry. The Four-Point Spell had led them a little further southward than they might have come without it, but the landscape never seemed to change.

“I assure you, the Enemy will at least try. Now, we must find a way to undo the rope without climbing back up there.…”

“My knot’s not going to come loose easily,” Sam said.

“A Severing Charm?” Harry asked as he drew out his wand.

Sam cringed. “I’d rather not. But if it is the only way…” He gave the rope a final tug.

The rope slid down the cliff fluidly, coming to rest in a neat pile at Sam’s feet.

“Real Elvish rope?” Frodo smiled.

Sam did not reply, but put the curiously untied cord into his pack once more.

“Harry, now that we have come down the cliff, could you find the way southward once more?”

Harry laid his wand flat into his palm and whispered, “Point me.” The wand spun around a few times before coming to rest, its tip pointing in the direction off to the left – and to the right there was another solid rock face. Sighing, Harry stowed his wand back in his jerkin.

“Come on. We’ll have to find a way around this so we can go in that direction.” Gesturing to the Hobbits, he plunged into the maze of rocks once more.

They clambered over and around sharp boulders for hours. Harry would usually help Frodo and Sam up first, then they would use the rope and together they would help him over the stones. Over and around, over and around…. Their search for a way south seemed fruitless, for whenever Harry performed the Four-point Spell the wand would point in the most impassable direction, and they would have to find another way over, getting hopelessly lost all the while. No matter which direction they chose, the landscape never altered. Just rocks, rocks, and more rocks.

After another day of going in circles, Sam sat himself down on the ground and said, “It’s no use. The harder we try to get to Mordor, the harder it gets to get there. Not that I’m anxious to see it but…” He glanced over at Frodo.

“It has to be done,” the other Hobbit replied, looking off into the distance. Harry followed his gaze and noticed an orange glow on the horizon, peering over shadowy mountains. Mordor.

A sudden pain seared across his scar. He clapped a hand to his forehead, blinking hard, but the pain was gone almost as soon as it had come.

“Mr. Frodo?” Sam’s voice asked.

Harry lowered his hand and turned around to see Frodo sitting on a rock, breathing heavily and clutching a hand to his chest – over the Ring. “It’s becoming more of a burden,” Frodo said faintly. His hand moved over to his left shoulder, rubbing the place where the Morgul knife had stabbed him. “We must find a way out of here, and quickly.”

Sam looked concernedly over at his friend. “Well, not without some food first,” he said briskly. “Come on, Harry, I don’t reckon we’ve eaten for more than ten hours.”

“What’s it going to be now? Sausages or stew?” Harry joked.

Sam heaved a theatrical sigh. “Well, unfortunately, I think not. But we have…” He opened his pack and pulled out a mallorn leaf-wrapped package. “Lembas.” He laid it down carefully before searching once again. “And more lembas. And even more lembas.”

There was a short silence, during which Harry and Sam tried to keep straight faces. Then Frodo burst out laughing.

“I am glad you two are here with me,” he said. “Your spirits are always up, while mine…” He indicated the Ring’s chain.

“It’ll be over soon enough, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said firmly. “Here.” He broke off pieces of lembas and tossed some first to Frodo, then to Harry.

Chewing thoughtfully, Harry gazed out over the east. “It’s like Sauron doesn’t want us there,” he said.

Sam scowled. “Aye, that’s true enough. Though I’m sure that if he knew just what Mr. Frodo was carrying he’d make it seem all the easier so we’d walk right into a trap.”

Harry placed the last bit of lembas in his mouth and swallowed. After several weeks’ sustenance on nothing but the Elven bread, water, and the occasional bit of dried fruit from his provisions, he had gotten used to the unusual sensation of feeling satisfied with only a few bites. But he knew he would have to watch his supplies – even lembas could only last so long.

“I expect that we’ll all look like wraiths once this is over,” Harry said, taking a swig from his water skin.

Frodo shuddered. “Don’t put it like that. It’s enough to know that we’re not alone in this Emyn Muil, but to even think about those foul demons…”

“Not alone?” Sam asked.

Frodo nodded and replied quietly, “Someone is following us; we can only hope that we’ll lose him.”

He tried to sound nonchalant, but Harry and Sam detected the worry in his tone. As they set out once more, they made sure their weapons were in easy reach.

Two days later they were still hopelessly lost, and their clothes were now soaked from a day’s worth of rain. Bone-weary and too exhausted to clamber over the slippery rocks, they settled down within a fair-sized fissure between two boulders. But while the Hobbits were small enough to stretch their limbs comfortably, the cave was too small for Harry to fully extend his legs. After two hours of sitting and waiting, he said to the two Hobbits, “I’m going out for a bit. It’s just a little cramped in here.”

They both gave small nods of acknowledgement, eyes half-closed as they leaned against the walls. Harry crawled out of the cave and breathed in the smell of rain. Never in his life had the air smelled so fresh, despite the fact that he was on a completely mad adventure in the wilderness close to Mordor.

He looked at the walking staff held in his right hand. Even though he did not need it for support, he felt a strange connection with it that compelled him to carry it everywhere. The smooth golden wood felt just right in his palm – the surface was silky and the golden Elvish characters were perfectly flush with the wood around them. He still did not understand them, and he still could not comprehend the gold tracery around the sphere on top. There seemed to be a pattern, but every time he tried to look for it, any sense of order vanished before his eyes.

I should have asked Hermione, he thought. Of course, she hadn’t exactly been speaking with him at that time, but he hoped that she and Ron were all right. It had been less than a week since he had seen his friends, but it felt as though an entire year had passed while they were trapped inside the maze of the Emyn Muil.

If only I could blast the rock out of the way without worrying about it. Using the Reductor Curse was too risky, what with the way the rocks were precariously placed. And his wand was stored inside his jerkin, which he did not want to get any wetter than it already was. Idly, he jabbed the staff at a smaller stone and imagined it breaking into several pieces.

CRACK! The rock shattered into many smooth fragments the same moment that lightning flashed overhead.

Harry stood frozen on the spot as the thunder rumbled, heedless of the fact that the hood of his Lórien cloak had fallen and that his glasses were becoming rain-spattered. What was that? He had not yet learned how to cast spells silently, and he had not even thought the incantation Reducto. Yet something had happened, for he had felt the wood grow warm under his wet, cold fingers. A warmth had seemed to come from his very heart, spreading a slow, pleasant heat through his rain-soaked person.

Before he could ponder this further, Sam’s head emerged from the cave mouth. “Harry…Mr. Frodo’s just about gone to sleep, but he thinks that you should come inside. Thunderstorms are always a danger, like my Gaffer always said.”

“Gaffer?”

“My ole’ dad. It’s what everyone else calls him back – ”

BOOM. A fork of lightning split the sky, coming close – entirely too close. Harry saw a boulder collapse in the distance, followed by another that had just been struck by lightning.

Something echoed in the depths of Harry’s mind. It would spell ‘Gandalf is here’ for all to see. And somehow, inexplicably, Harry understood…

“Sam! Get Frodo out of there!”

“But Harry, he’s just settled in and we’re almost dry and all – ”

“Now! This isn’t an ordinary thunderstorm. Someone’s trying to bring the cliffs down around us! They’ll collapse the cave!”

The gardener needed no telling twice. In seconds he had thrown all of the bags out to Harry, who held them in his arms as Sam went to get Frodo up.

The rumbles were coming closer, if that was even possible. Harry glanced back and saw Frodo and Sam crawling as fast as they could out of the cave. Then, without warning, a bolt of lightning struck the rock face above the cave mouth.

The Hobbits froze mere feet from the entrance. Harry’s eyes flicked upward, and he stared transfixed at the sight. Slowly, ever so slowly, fractures appeared in the cliff accompanied by cracking sounds. Frodo gave a cry.

Harry’s jerked his gaze away from the hypnotic web of cracks, returning to the faces of the terrified Hobbits. It wouldn’t be much longer before the rocks collapsed…

“Come on! Get out of there!” Harry yelled.

Sam dragged Frodo forward. They reached the mouth of the cave when another brilliant flash lit the sky just overhead.

Harry watched in horror as the lightning struck the rock – not once, not twice, but three times. The rock crumbled and began to fall just as the Hobbits started crawling outside.

Without thinking, Harry flung the packs from his arms and pointed the staff, concentrating hard and hoping, praying that it would work a second time…He closed his eyes, not willing to see whether the rocks had buried his two companions, wishing that the thunder would go on so that he would not hear their desperate cries…

“Harry!”

In his mind’s eye, he willed the mass of shattered stone to move to the left. A fiery rush of power had taken hold of him, a power that made his very being thrum with its strength. Yet it was getting more difficult to hold on….

“Harry!” He heard Frodo’s voice this time, more urgent than Sam’s had been.

He opened his eyes and let go.

There were Frodo and Sam, shaking before him with wide eyes, but otherwise quite unharmed. A pile of rocks lay beside them, its dust beginning to settle in the rain. Suddenly the warmth of this new magic dissipated, leaving Harry cold and weak. His knees buckled and he sat down hard, breathing heavily and leaning against the opposite cliff face to support himself.

“Harry? Are you all right?”

He glanced up; Frodo and Sam were leaning over him, concern written upon their features. “I…I’m fine,” he managed, more weakly than he expected.

“Take something to drink, here – ” Sam held out a water skin, which Harry gratefully accepted. After a few gulps of the cold water, he felt the strength returning to his limbs, and he pulled himself upright on his staff.

“I’m better now. I reckon I was just exhausted.” He looked down and saw the two Hobbits still staring at him, but with much different expressions.

“How?” Frodo asked softly. “How did you do it?”

“Only Gandalf could have reacted as fast,” Sam added thoughtfully.

“I…I didn’t…”

“Who else would have, then?” Frodo said.

“I don’t know,” Harry confessed. “I’m not sure how I did it.”

The Hobbit’s blue eyes flicked towards the golden staff in Harry’s hands. “That is the Lady’s gift, is it not?”

I valan vellwain vi dortha.

“Yes. I thought it was just a walking staff.”

“Clearly it is much more,” Frodo said.

The strongest power dwells within.

Was this the answer he was looking for? He had a vague notion about what he had done…but how? “I don’t really know what I did.”

Frodo and Sam regarded him skeptically for a few moments. Then Frodo said, “Keep it close. You might need it again – and thank you for saving my life and Sam’s once again.”

“That’s twice you owe me,” Harry grinned.

Frodo smiled, but his expression quickly grew somber. “And the debt will not go unpaid if the occasion ever arises that I must save you. Come, we must find a new place to rest….”

They sheltered themselves behind a cliff, pulling their cloaks over their heads and curling up against the rock face. The storm abated as Harry sat awake, too unsettled to fall fully asleep.

* * *\r\n\r\n

A crackling sound and the smell of cooking greeted Harry when he woke the next morning. Wiping his glasses and pulling his hood back, he spotted Sam crouching over a small fire with a pan full of sizzling meat.

“’Morning, Harry,” the Hobbit said.

Harry straightened up and stretched. “What’s all that for? We have lembas, don’t we?”

“Well, yes, but seeing as we had to sit through that horrible weather last night, I thought that something hot would set us all on our feet right this morning. Especially Mr. Frodo,” he added, glancing over at their companion. Frodo’s face was pulled into a frown, even in slumber.

“So what is it?”

“Salted pork. I left it in a pot of rainwater last night to soften…it’s about the only fresh water we’ll get right now. And there are a few apples in my pack, if you’d like. Matter of fact, I was thinking about cooking a few.”

Sam removed the sizzling meat from the pan and began cutting two wrinkled apples into wedges. As he lowered them onto the pork fat, Frodo stretched and awoke.

“Good morning, Sam and Harry. What have you got there?”

Poking the contents of the pan with a fork, Sam replied, “Just some fried apples and pork.”

“My dear Sam! You didn’t have to. We have lembas.”

“Aye, but the Elven bread isn’t properly filling – and it’s isn’t hot neither. Anyways, it’ll hopefully make up for sleeping in that storm, at least partly.”

“It will more than make up for it,” Frodo replied. “Thank you.”

They ate their breakfasts quickly, despite their wishes to sit and savor the meal. Harry hadn’t realized just how much he missed the feeling of real food settling in his stomach until today. Sam was right – the lembas just wasn’t enough, even though it eased their hunger and gave them energy.

A thick fog had replaced the storm from the night before, and they had even more trouble than usual navigating through the rocks. Midway through the day, Sam looked around and remarked, “This place looks strangely familiar.”

Harry groaned. “We were here a few hours ago. It’s no use; even with the Four-point Spell, we’re still going in circles!”

“Urgh! Mr. Frodo, can you smell that? I reckon there’s a nasty bog somewhere here.”

“Yes,” Frodo said softly. “I can smell it.”

He seemed altogether lost in thought. Harry and Sam glanced at him.

His eyes met theirs as he said quietly, “We’re not alone.”

* * *\r\n\r\n

Later that night, the three companions lay sleeping at the foot of a cliff. Frodo tossed and turned, unable to sleep despite his exhaustion. Harry and Sam were snoring quietly on either side of him, wrapped in their cloaks.

At last he fell into an uneasy sleep plagued by that same dream. The Wraiths on Weathertop, the pounding hooves, the flame-wreathed Eye. The Ring, branding its inscription into his flesh. And then the dream continued…

The Eye’s pupil of never-ending darkness bored into him, and he stared right back. Someone was muttering in the uncouth tongue of Mordor, a dark chant, an evil song. He felt fear, yes, but also defiance.

Then the Ring was wrenched from his closed fingers, and he felt as though a piece of his very being was ripped away…Someone was laughing, deep and menacing, but the voice was growing higher as the flames dimmed and the Eye turned into dark smoke in the shape of a Man or an Elf…

He saw Sauron’s back. Towering and strong and fair as an Elf-lord was he, though much more terrible…And then his cold laugh rang out, a sound that chilled Frodo even as he stood there, silent and defiant…

“You are a thief, Frodo Baggins. Did you not realize that you had taken what was mine?” Sauron raised his hand and Frodo saw the Ring upon the middle finger, glinting in the strange light of the chamber.

The Lord of the Ring did not turn as he continued speaking. “It was always mine. Only I have the power to control it; any lesser being would be controlled by it, driven mad by the very desire to hold it.” He paused. “Why do you remain silent, thief? For that is what you are. Nothing but a filthy thief.”

“…They’re filthy little thieves! Curse them!”

A guttural, hissing voice replaced Sauron’s deep and sonorous tones, jerking Frodo awake. Here was their follower. He opened his eyes and saw Harry’s frozen expression, but the young Man remained motionless. On Frodo’s other side Sam’s snores had ceased.

The voice grew closer. “Where iss it, Precious?”

Frodo signaled to Harry with small motions of his fingers. Stand and seize him when I do. Harry gave the barest of nods in reply.

“We wants it!”

“NOW!” Frodo cried. He sprang to his feet and grabbed the creature’s wrist, tugging hard. Sam had seized the creature’s other arm, and Harry was at Frodo’s side.

The creature tumbled from the wall, hissing and spitting, and Frodo was thrown against a rock. Stars winked before his eyes, and the Ring had escaped from beneath his shirt, now easy to spot.

For such an emaciated being, the creature fought hard. He had wrapped himself around Sam from behind, and Harry was struggling to free the other Hobbit from the creature’s stranglehold. Then, as Frodo’s vision cleared, he caught the creature’s gaze momentarily. The luminous green orbs moved from his face to the Ring dangling from its chain, and the creature released Sam, now lunging for Frodo.

Frodo could not sit up in time. The creature leapt upon him, fingers scrabbling at his chest and throat as Sam struggled to hold him back. Yet even as Frodo tried to tuck the Ring back into his shirt, Harry’s voice rang out.

“ENOUGH! Sam, back off!”

“But – ”

“Do as I say!”

Frodo felt the pressure of the creature’s hands upon his throat, slowly cutting off his breath.

“Relashio!”

The creature flew backwards. Frodo raised his head in time to see Harry pointing his wand once more.

“Incarcerous!” Ropes shot out of Harry’s wand and bound themselves tightly around the creature, covering even his mouth.

“Who are you?” Harry demanded. He severed the ropes binding the creature’s mouth shut with a careful spell, making sure his wand was in plain view. “You know what I can do with this if I want. Answer me! Why were you following us?”

“Gollum,” Frodo said quietly. “He is called Gollum, or so my uncle Bilbo told me.”

“That only answers half of my question. Why were you following us?” he asked again.

A menacing light shone from the creature’s eyes as he spat, “Mustn’t ask us. It must release us.”

“I will not. Answer, or I will…”

“Leave it to me, Harry.” Frodo unsheathed the sword at his side and crouched next to the bound figure. “Do you know what this is?”

Anger welled up in Gollum’s features. “Yess…”

“Listen to me, or your throat will feel Sting’s blade. I know why you were following us – ”

“The Precious is ours, it is! Ours!”

“It is not, and it will not fall into your possession. We cannot risk you running off to tell the Enemy where we are; therefore, you will remain tied and will follow us until we see fit.

“Leave his hands tied, Harry. Sam, use your Elven rope to put around his neck, but carefully! We will set a guard and exchange places after a few hours, so we all can continue sleeping.”

* * *\r\n\r\n

The next day dawned bright and clear. All would have been well, except that Gollum moaned continuously in a loud voice.

“It burns us! Take it off us, we asks you! Elveses made it, curse them…”

“Quiet down, will you?” Harry said through gritted teeth. “Or I’ll make you! Do you want us to be spotted?”

Gollum stopped crawling and howled his misery to the sky in response.

“Every Orc in Mordor’s going to hear this racket, Mr. Frodo!” Sam said, tugging at the Elvish rope.

Frodo turned and gazed at the creature. After Gandalf had told him Gollum’s sad history, he had not been able to comprehend why exactly Bilbo had left Gollum alive. The creature had tried to kill Bilbo, after all. Yet as he stared at the skeletal limbs and emaciated features, he could finally understand why Bilbo had spared Gollum from death.

Sméagol had been his name once, the name of a creature not unlike a Hobbit. But then the Ring had cast a shadow upon his path.

Frodo knew just how strong the Ring pulled at his heart. He had been unable to even drop the Ring into the fire at his home, for it had shaken his resolve. But to live bound to the Ring for nearly six hundred years…

Pity welled up in his heart. Gollum had been like a Hobbit once, so perhaps he could be saved. The riddles Gollum had chosen during the game with Bilbo had proven that there was a small part of him that was still longing for the light. Perhaps he can be fully turned back, Frodo thought, looking at his two other companions.

* * *

Harry pointed his wand at Gollum. Sam was staring at the creature with a look of revulsion on his face, which was perfectly understandable. Gollum’s enormous eyes were shut as he moaned piteously on the rock-strewn ground.

“Shut up, will you, before I have to curse you!” Harry hissed again. “You’re making a racket!”

Gollum’s pale eyes flickered to the wand, and he bared his teeth. “Nasssty sstick. We hates it!”

“Then pipe down, or I’ll use the nasty stick on you.”

Gollum started howling miserably once again. Fed up, Harry made a jabbing motion towards the emaciated creature and said, “Silencio!”

Gollum clutched at his throat, now unable to speak. His large, hate-filled eyes glared at Harry, who felt little remorse. This creature was treacherous and could not be trusted…

“Harry, release him from whatever spell you are using.”

“But Frodo – ”

“He might deserve death for the damage he has caused, but he also deserves our pity. Release him.”

“But he doesn’t deserve your trust. And you’re blindly giving it to him?”

“Mr. Frodo…”

“You must be gentle, Sam. He might yet be turned to goodness.”

“He won’t.”

The words were out of Harry’s mouth before he knew what he was saying. Something deep inside him gave him this conviction. Frodo’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“And how do you know that?” he said in a soft voice.

“I know.”

The Hobbit scrutinized him for another few moments before saying, “Very well. Release him.”

“He’ll make a racket,” Harry replied.

Frodo sighed and moved towards the creature. “Gollum.”

The piteous, emaciated face turned to face him, pale green eyes beseeching.

“Do you know the way to Mordor?”

A nod.

Frodo crouched. “You have ventured into that land?”

Another nod, more frantic this time.

“How do I know that I can trust you?”

Gollum threw a glare at Harry, who still had his wand in his hand. He pointed to his throat and turned his gaze on Frodo.

“Harry, let him speak.”

Harry grudgingly muttered “Audictus!”, pointing his wand at Gollum.

At once the creature began to plead with Frodo. “Don’t kill us. Don’t let the tall one use the nasssty stick.”

“I cannot promise you that.”

“Then we will do whatever it wantss! Please, please, take it off us!” he cried, tugging at the silvery rope.

“I cannot trust that you will not run away and alert the Enemy.”

Gollum looked crestfallen. “It doesn’t believe us, Precious! Why would we lets Him know?” His eyes flicked back to Frodo’s face. “We will swear…”

“On what?”

“On…on…on the Precious! Yesss….We will serve the master of the Precious. Take it off us, we asks!”

Silence filled the rock-enclosed area as Frodo weighed his decision. Then something seemed to snap in Sam.

“You’re lying!” He started towards Gollum as if to attack.

“No, Sam!” Frodo cried out. Harry grabbed the gardener by the shoulders, bringing him up short. Gollum had sprung aside and had begun to speed away, but the Elven rope around his neck snapped him back. He lay there in the stony ground, wheezing pathetically.

“He has sworn to listen to me, Sam. He will not harm you.”

That oath is no good, Harry thought. He is treacherous, Frodo, why can’t you see that?

But something else told him that there was more to Gollum’s story, and that Frodo knew enough to spare him the punishment he truly deserved. Grudgingly, Harry placed the wand back into his jerkin.

“Very well, Frodo. I do not trust him yet, but the Ring will hold him to his oath.”

“Aye, best keep an eye on him, no matter what,” Sam added.

Frodo gave an approving nod to his companions before turning to face Gollum once more. Carefully, he released the ropes binding Gollum’s hands and slipped the silver cord off his neck.

“Thank you, Master! We will do whatever you wants…”

“I hold you to your word,” Frodo said sternly. “You will lead us to the Black Gate of Mordor.”


Chapter 14 - The Uruk-Hai of Saruman

Much thanks to my Beta reader, Hufflepuff/VanaTheEverYoung. Couldn’t do it without you.


~Chapter 14: The Uruk-Hai of Saruman~\r\n\r\n

A dazzling, blinding light was the first thing Ron saw when he awoke. He thought that he had overslept, for the clank of cooking pots and the blinding sun surely indicated that he was still at the Fellowship’s campsite. At first, he thought it was the sound of Sam’s pots and pans that had awoken him – then he realized that someone was shaking his arm and calling his name.

“Ron? Ron! Do wake up – ”

“Not now, ‘Mione…”

The owner of the voice huffed. “Not funny. Wake up.”

Ron blinked. A curly head swam into focus. “Pippin?” he croaked.

“That’s right. You’ve been asleep for days.”

“Days!?” Ron asked. “Where are we? Where’s Hermione?”

Pippin lowered his voice. “Look around. We were captured, and I’ve no idea where we are or where we’re going.”

Ron raised his head a fraction of an inch and swept the surrounding area with his eyes. Horror began to well up inside him.

The sounds he had thought were of cooking pots were in reality the clanking of armor. And all around them sat a large group of –

Memories began flooding back. Of course, he thought. Uruk-Hai. They caught me when I…

This thought broke off as something else occurred to him. “Pippin, what happened to Boromir?”

The Hobbit’s face fell. “I don’t know, Ron. But it didn’t look good – he was shot three times the last I saw.”

“Oh.” It was all Ron could say. Silence hung in the air between them before he tried sitting up. “OUCH!”

He had tried to prop himself up using his right arm, but had completely forgotten about the arrow wound in his shoulder. As he collapsed, the Uruks turned their ugly heads.

“Oi! You there, get away from him!” One creature came and carried Pippin away from Ron, throwing him to the ground a few feet away.

“Listen there, scum!” The Uruk who had lifted Pippin turned his head to listen to his taller superior. “They are not to be harmed, even the tall one, or Saruman will have your guts. And if he won’t, then I will. The packages are to be delivered unspoiled.”

The shorter Uruk growled, “You even sure this one’s the one he wanted?”

“Saruman said to find the Halflings and three others – this boy, with flaming hair, another with dark hair and a scar, and a girl.”

Another voice from the behind called, “Pity we didn’t get the girl; she’d have given good sport.” Raucous laughter greeted this comment.

Ron’s blood was boiling. How dare they talk of Hermione in that manner! His left hand slipped into his jerkin; he was going to curse them all into oblivion….Then he realized that his wand was not there. The leader of the Uruks, who had approached, leered down at him.

“No knives. Can’t let you toy with those – you might get hurt even more, and my soldiers had enough of a mess already fixing you up.”

Ron looked at his shoulder. Sure enough, the arrowhead and shaft were gone, replaced by dirty-looking bandages and a smelly concoction. He was just beginning to think that Uruks might have some vestige of civility when the leader growled down at him, “Don’t think it was because we’re playing nice. Saruman wants you nice and whole before he has his fun.”

Ron blanched. Laughing, the Uruk turned away from him and called out, “March, you last maggots! Pick up these two, but leave this – ” he indicated Ron “ - to walk. Tie his hands, make sure he doesn’t escape.”

And so Ron was forced to stand with his hands tied behind his back as the Uruks hoisted a scared-looking Pippin and an unconscious Merry onto their backs. A sharp knife prodded him between the shoulder blades. “Hurry up. I’m sick of carrying you, so now you’re going to walk. And I’ll be holding the rope, so don’t try anything funny.”

He could not respond properly; he was putting every effort into not crying out as the wound throbbed with every step. Wishing that he would stumble into unconsciousness once more, he began the long, quick march to wherever they were going.

Saruman. The name was familiar. When had he heard it? Hermione had mentioned it in passing once or twice, but Ron could not properly remember what she had told them. Something about black birds…

That was it. The cawing cloud of birds that had forced them to go up the mountain of Caradhras and later into the Mines had been under Saruman’s orders. Still, he could not focus on his memory; all he could remember was Hermione speaking.

Was she still all right? Pain made the landscape around him swim before his eyes, and he gritted his teeth again. Hopefully the Uruk’s comment earlier meant that she had escaped and was not dead.

The sun was beating down on his back, and the rope cut cruelly into his wrists. He suspected that the Uruks were trying to toy with them as much as possible without incurring Saruman’s wrath. Yet what exactly did this Saurman have in mind? And why had the Uruks been ordered to take only the Hobbits, Ron, Harry, and Hermione? Well, he reasoned, the Hobbits look clearly different…and Frodo’s carrying the Ring. And the three of us are wizards…

Wizards. That was it; Saruman was the Istar Hermione had mentioned, the Wizard corrupted by the evil of the Ring.

And they were headed directly to him.

Ron gave a tug on the rope, testing the Uruk’s reactions. A sharp flick of a whip upon the back of his neck destroyed any hope of escaping while on the march. Even if he tried, what was the use? Though the feeling had returned to his legs, his bound hands would hamper him in any attempt to flee, not to mention the fact that he had no idea where he was. And he could not simply leave Merry and Pippin to the Uruks, for though they were older than he was, he felt obliged to protect them.

Suddenly, the Uruks halted. The leader raised his nose into the air and sniffed.

“What is it?” another asked. “What do you smell?”

“Man-flesh,” the leader growled. “And not the captive. They’re following us! March on, scum!”

So Aragorn had led the others close! To the left, Ron saw Pippin’s head jerking up and down. The Hobbit had seized the Lothlórien leaf brooch in his teeth and was tugging it loose. A few seconds later, he spat the delicate-looking pin into the grass.

“Good thinking,” Run muttered.

“Shut it! What did you say?” The question came with a sharp prod in his back.

“Nothing. Can we stop?”

The Uruk let out a hoot of laughter. “Can we stop, you ask? We won’t. You’re worth too much for your friends to find you. You’re going straight to Saruman himself, and I’m glad that I’m not in your place.”

“What does he – ”

“Like I’d tell you if I knew. One of you has something he wants.”

The Ring. His heart sank. When Saruman found out that they did not have it, they were dead for sure.

The day wore on, and the Uruks kept up their brutal pace without slowing. Finally, at nightfall, they paused at the very edge of a forest. The trees were taller than any Ron had seen, and they looked far more menacing than the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts. “Are we going through that?” he asked, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.

The Uruk who had guarded him all day merely sneered down at him. Others were venturing to the very edge of the forest, hacking down whatever branches hung over the grass. A pile of wood was growing in the middle of the campsite, surrounded by Uruks trying to kindle a fire. Ron sat on the ground and slumped forward, exhausted.

“Oi, you!” He looked up to see the leader pointing with his sword. “Bring the prisoner over here, and station a guard!”

A sharp tug on the rope brought Ron’s limp arms up, dragging the rest of his body into a standing position. Stumbling, he let the Uruk lead him to the place where the two Hobbits lay motionless in the grass. As the creature shoved him to the ground, he glanced at his two companions. Merry, he saw, had an ugly gash above his right eye, but Pippin seemed unhurt.

“You all right?” Ron asked quietly, as the guard moved farther away.

Merry gave a short, humorless laugh. “I’ve been better. But well enough.”

“What do they want with us?” Pippin asked. “Did you find out anything?”

Ron gestured for them to come closer before he whispered, “The Ring.”

Their eyes went wide. “Oh, no…” Pippin murmured.

“We’re dead once they find out we don’t have it,” Merry said. “Who wants it, anyway?”

“Saruman. We’re going to him.”

The two Hobbits closed their eyes in despair, and Ron glanced around. There was a squabble going on at the other side of the campsite, most likely over the fire.

A plan began to form in his mind. “Merry. Can you walk, with that wound?”

Merry touched his bound hands gingerly the gash. “I think so.”

“What about running?”

The Hobbit grimaced for a moment, and then smiled. “I’ll manage. I’ll even beat you, Pip,” he added, smirking at his cousin.

Pippin didn’t seem amused. “How are we going to run with our hands tied?”

Ron opened his mouth to reply, but an Uruk grabbed him from behind, pulling him roughly into a crouched position. Had the creature heard them plotting an escape? Another Uruk had seized Merry and Pippin, dragging them to their feet.

“They are not for eating, clear?” the leader said, shaking Ron by the scruff of the neck. “They have something, a weapon for the war. Saruman wants it.”

“We ain’t had nothing but moldy, stinking bread for days!” an Orc replied. When they had joined with the band of Uruks, Ron did not know – probably when he was unconscious. “Come on, those Halflings don’t need legs – you’re carrying them!” A roar of approval from the rest of the Orcs met his comment. “Just a little, they look mighty tasty!” He gestured behind him, and one of his soldiers came forward with a knife drawn.

The Uruk leader growled and raised his sword – and a moment later, the Orc’s head went flying, to land at Ron’s feet. He recoiled in disgust.

“Fresh meat!” the Uruk jeered. “Come and get it, boys!”

The creatures hurried towards the body of the fallen Orc. Ron turned his head away, sickened by the sight.

“Psst! Ron, Pippin!”

Merry was back on the ground a few yards away, gesturing to a dropped sword. “Help me hold it steady so I can cut through these ropes.”

Ron crawled over to Merry’s side and placed his hands on the hilt, keeping the blade upright. The process seemed excruciatingly slow; as Merry moved his wrists back and forth, the sword slipped out of Ron’s sweaty grip.

“Careful, Merry!” Pippin said.

Merry did not reply. He kept his eyes fixed on his bonds, which began to come apart, lash by lash…

At last the ropes fell away. Merry wriggled his fingers and flexed his wrists, savoring his freedom of movement once more.

“Oi! Come on, help us!” Ron hissed. The Uruks and Orcs were still huddled around the body, but he had no idea when they would turn around.

Merry nodded and reached for the sword.

“Wait!” Pippin said. “I forgot – the belt! The belt from Galadriel!”

“How could we have forgotten?” Merry muttered. He reached to his side to find – nothing. The belt still hung about his waist, but the blade was no longer there. “It’s gone!”

“Never mind then,” Ron hissed. “Grab the sword and help us.”

Merry wiped his palms – sweaty out of nervousness – upon the sides of his trousers before taking a firm grip on the blade. Applying downward pressure as Ron and then Pippin slid their bonds carefully along the blade, he helped to quickly free them.

“Right,” Ron said, shaking his hands out. “We crawl to that ridge first, go down the hill, and then run into the forest. Hopefully they won’t notice us.” He looked up at the sky and cursed silently. The moon was waning, but still nearly full. The brightness of its light would hardly aid them in their escape.

“The cloaks!” Pippin said excitedly. “Didn’t the Elves say they would hide us?”

Ron and Merry nodded, pulling the hoods up. Pippin followed suit. “Let’s go,” Ron whispered.

They stayed flat against the ground as they wriggled over the grass towards the slope. Ron felt his breath coming in short, quick gasps and tried to keep the sound down. What I wouldn’t give for Harry’s Invisibility Cloak now, he thought wryly. I hope he’s keeping Hermione safe.

Only twenty feet before they reached the ridge…fifteen…ten…

Ron came to the edge of the slope first and waited for the two Hobbits to catch up. The grassy incline was not very steep; they could go perhaps halfway down before standing and beginning to run.

Merry and Pippin went down first, edging partway down and pausing. With a quick glance back at the knot of Uruks and Orcs, Ron followed. “Halfway, then run,” Ron whispered. It took all of his nerve to say it – what if their plan failed? Would they simply be recaptured, or would the Uruks kill them instead?

He had just made it over the ridge when a harsh voice rang out. “Where are the prisoners?”

The two Hobbits looked at him with wide eyes.

“Idiots!” the leader said. “Split up and look for them. Saruman will have your head, and I’ll have your guts torn out if you don’t find them!” The sounds of clanking armor and pounding feet filled the air.

“Go!” Ron said. “Forget crawling, just run!” He waited for Merry and Pippin to begin running before he himself stood, hoping that the cloak would keep him hidden as Celeborn had said.

Cloak streaming out behind him, he soon overtook the two Hobbits and waited for them at the base of the hill. Too slow, he said to himself. We’ll never make it…

A harsh call came from the top of the hill. “There they are! After them, you lazy dolts!”

There were maybe fifty yards between them and the Uruks. “Merry! Pippin!” Ron cried. “One of you climb on my back. I’ll hold the other one and run.” He crouched to the ground.

“But – ”

“Get on, Merry! No time!”

The Hobbit hesitated for an instant before wrapping his arms around Ron’s neck. The redhead then bent quickly down to pick Pippin up. Then he began to run.

Ginny had always wanted to be piggybacked around the Burrow when she was small. All of the Weasley boys carried her around at some point, but it was Ron who ended up doing so most of the time. He smiled briefly as the memory of his younger sister – barely smaller than he himself was at the time – flashed through his mind. Carrying two Hobbits would be easy, as they were much smaller in relation to him.

He had not reckoned on having to deal with his arrow wound, however. Before long, his shoulder began to ache, and pain jolted up his arm at every step.

Have to get to trees, his mind told him through a fog of pain. Safety.

“Ron! I’m slipping!”

Pippin’s panicked words turned into a yell as, too late, Ron made to adjust his grip. The Hobbit went tumbling to the ground, and, unable to stop his momentum, Ron continued running.

“Pippin!” Merry cried. “Turn back…”

“One minute.” Ron made to launch himself into the concealing shadows of the trees – and tripped spectacularly over his own feet.

Something crushed into his windpipe for a moment just before he felt Merry fly off his back. The ground was coming up to meet him…he couldn’t stop it…and then he knew no more.

* * *\r\n\r\n

Merry was momentarily stunned as he landed, winded, upon the ground. Before he could properly move again, an ugly, leering face filled his vision.

“You are lucky that Saruman wants you unharmed,” the Uruk growled. “For that trick, we usually punish prisoners.”

Merry did not want to know what kind of punishment they used against runaways. Instead of replying, he called out, “Pippin?”

“Over here, Merry.” His cousin’s normally jovial voice was now dull and cheerless. “I guess this means no more escape.”

The Uruk kicked Merry sharply in the side. “No talking. You’re lucky, idiot Halfling. You both are, you and that pathetic excuse for a Man.” He raised his voice so that the rest of the group could hear. “You’re to keep them alive and unspoiled, you hear? Just keep them separated until we get to Isengard. If I hear even one word out of them, I’ll have that guard’s guts for my breakfast, you hear?”

A roar of assent met his words. Then he leered back down at Merry, who was still prone upon the ground.

“Get up, Halfling. You three are headed to Saruman.”


Chapter 15 - Hunters and Horse-Lords

Thanks to SpaceWeavil for the Sindarin translation, and Rhapsody for the name Eadwine. And as always, my wonderful Beta VanaTheEverYoung.


Chapter 15: Hunters and Horse-Lords\r\n\r\n

The air whistled past Hermione’s ears as she clambered swiftly up the rocky hill, bending forward and pushing against the stones to propel herself upward. They had been running for three days now, from daybreak to sunset each day, and she was exhausted.

It wasn’t that the trail the Uruk-Hai left behind was difficult to follow. Telltale signs were scattered everywhere, from the crushed grass blades to an occasional mark against a rock – presumably where a weapon or armor had scraped against it, as Aragorn had said. They were unsubtle, true, but they moved quickly. Hermione and her companions had been following hot on the trail, but they seemed to be coming no closer to rescuing Ron, Merry, and Pippin. In fact, the Uruks seemed to be pulling farther and farther away.

Aragorn had sped ahead earlier. Hermione rounded a stone and found him lying with an ear pressed to the earth, Legolas standing silently behind him. Gimli was leaning on his axe, catching his breath.

“Their pace has quickened,” Aragorn said.

“Do they know we’re here?” Hermione asked, wiping the sweat from her brow.

“It must be so,” he replied. “We must hurry – come!” With that, he began running down the other side of the hill.

A huffing and puffing sound made Hermione and Legolas turn around to find a very cross-looking Gimli. “Three days…” he panted. “Three days, and no sign of our quarry!”

“And I thought the Dwarves were hardy folk,” Legolas said, smiling slightly.

Gimli scowled but only retorted, “Hardy, yes, but we’re not made for running great distances! And my legs…” He shrugged. “Nothing for it but to keep going.”

The Elf nodded. “Come, we are gaining on them! We may catch them soon!”

Hope made a new energy surge into Hermione’s tired limbs. She began to run once more.

I’m coming, Ron. The Uruks don’t scare me – but the thought of what may be happening to you and the Hobbits…

The landscape flew past, and the sun climbed higher in the sky. The four companions descended the hills, running in and out of their shadows as the day wore on. The Uruks had passed here, that much Hermione could tell. But how recently they had gone by was something she could not yet guess – the others, who were far more experienced trackers, could understand the signs far better than she could.

Aragorn and Legolas had halted and were looking at something in the man’s palm. Gimli was just catching up to them as Hermione reached the crest of the hill; when she finally reached their sides, the three of them were conversing in low tones.

“How far ahead are they?” she asked.

As they looked at her, a glint of silver caught her eye. In Aragorn’s hand was a Lothlórien brooch.

“Is that – ”

“The Uruks would not touch these willingly, nor would they fall by mere chance,” Aragorn said. “No, one of the captives meant for this to be found.”

“A large chance to take,” Legolas added, “but it tells us that at least one of them is alive.”

“All of them are,” Hermione whispered. “Uruks are clever, but they cannot hide a body without leaving obvious traces. All three of them have to be alive.” Even as she said it, she knew that the fierce flame of hope made her sound childish.

The Elf and Man exchanged looks. Finally Aragorn replied, “Of course. You must be right – and they are less than a day ahead.” He stowed the brooch in a pouch at his side. “And there is not a moment to waste!”

Hermione was still catching her breath as all three of them began their quick jog once more, Man and Elf leading the way, Dwarf following behind. Groaning but refusing to admit her now obvious weakness, she drew in a final deep breath before forcing her legs to move.

At last they reached an outcropping of rocks that looked out across an open plain. The Uruks were a small black streak and cloud of dust in the distance.

Legolas had reached the edge of the rocks before everyone. “Where are they taking them, Legolas?” she called.

He studied the horizon hard before saying, “They are headed towards Isengard – see how they turn northeast!”

“Isengard? You mean…” A sinking feeling settled within the pit of Hermione’s stomach. “Saruman?” she asked in a small voice.

He nodded grimly. The faint bubble of hope that had been growing inside of Hermione burst abruptly – but the mere fact that she could see the creatures in the distance angered her, sending a rush of adrenaline to her legs. “Come on, then!” she cried, beginning to clamber down the hill.

Aragorn and Legolas soon overtook her and continued to lead the way. Gimli soon followed, his heavy armor clanking. How much further? she wondered silently. Seeing the Ranger and Elf before her, running ever further ahead, brought back the weariness from running. It was barely past noon, and they had only stopped for a little while to take bites of lembas and sips of water. The Elven bread provided strength, but it was not enough to fully counter the days of settled-in fatigue. With an extra effort, she ran up to Gimli’s side.

Through his huffing and puffing, he tried to make conversation. “Aragorn and that Elf are tireless. Look, they have no sympathy for us…they just run ahead and farther ahead…”

“It’s the Elf blood in both of them. Aragorn has a little, doesn’t he?”

“Aye, lass. But his kind are a dying breed – few of them now exist.”

Hermione already knew this, and could think of no suitable reply. After a few moments she said, “This is tiring.” Even to her, the obvious words sounded stupid.

“Altogether too true. They may want to press on – ” he indicated Aragorn and Legolas, “ – but if the Uruks are as close as they say, one night should not hurt our chase. The Uruks make camp as well.”

Aragorn and Legolas had stopped, waiting for Hermione and Gimli to catch up. “We come ever closer to them; the tracks are growing fresher,” Aragorn said. Hermione looked at her three companions. They wanted to press on, to continue the pursuit well into the night – and then they glanced at her.

“This Dwarf is tired,” Gimli said after a few moments. “And the lass looks like she could use a bit of rest.”

Legolas agreed after a short stretch of silence. “Yes. Aragorn, we are closer to them than we have been; let us take a short rest.”

The Ranger had looked as though he were about to protest, but looked again at Hermione and acceded. “Very well.”

* * *\r\n\r\n

They had set up a very small camp, insisting that Hermione take the last two-hour watch of their rest. She slept, but fitfully, rising when Aragorn gently shook her awake. It had been her first proper rest in days, so she had arisen without any hesitation.

Dew began to settle on Hermione’s cloak as she kept the final watch of the night, her bow in her hand and her wand in easy reach. The fire grew lower as the first red rays of dawn began to creep over the open plain, and though she was now shivering, she felt no desire to conjure up new flames. It was peaceful, to finally be by herself, with only the low snores of her companions to break the silence.

Hermione knew she was slowing them down. Though her mind strongly willed her body to keep moving, her limbs could only withstand so much, even with the lembas. Her skill with the bow she now held was something to be remarked upon, she knew, but what use was it if she was always too tired to properly use it? There was her wand, but how much would it protect her in battle?

She glanced at her quiver of arrows. Ron’s sword was bundled and tied carefully to it. Gimli had found the sheath thrown hurriedly aside close to the boats, so Hermione had slid the sword in and wound the strap around Ron’s wand, securing it in place. She did not mind running with the burden too much, as the Elven blade was light and easy to carry. Yet every day she felt its weight more, paralleling the growing weight of worry in her heart.

A soft rustle upon the grass beside Hermione made her look up to see Legolas with his arms crossed and his eyes fixed upon the horizon. “Hello, Legolas.”

He looked down and offered his hand to help her up. “Fair morning, Hermione.” He regarded her as she stood. “Something is troubling you.”

“And what gave you that impression?” she said in a falsely cheery tone.

Legolas shrugged. “Elves can sense certain things. Do not worry; we will find Ron and the Hobbits soon.”

“I – ”

“We are nearer than ever today. Avo 'aro niphred.”

Have no fear. “I can’t, Legolas.” She turned away from him, pulling her cloak closer against the chill morning air. “I don’t want to think about what is happening to him; if he gets hurt, it’s my fault, and then Harry is going to kill me because I let his best friend get hurt!”

“Hermione.”

“What?”

“Do not forget that we found a Lórien brooch yesterday. They are alive. If Saruman truly wanted them dead, they would have been killed at Parth Galen, helpless as they were.”

“Oh, that’s comforting,” Hermione retorted sarcastically. “They won’t be killed, they’ll just do something else to them!”

“Hermione – ”

“And I – I am the only reason that you haven’t caught them yet!” she said. “I’m slowing you down!” Tears of frustration welled up in her eyes, and she brushed them away roughly.

Through her tears, she could see the Elf’s concerned gaze. “You need rest.”

“Well, I’m not likely to get any, now that the sun is coming up.”

Legolas did not reply. Hermione drew a deep, shaky breath, willing herself to remain composed as she turned to face the east. It was difficult to keep her face empty of emotion, empty of anything save a grim purpose. Focusing on the moment – anything from the dying fire to the blood-red sunrise – helped drive thoughts of Ron’s fate from her mind. Bad enough that her sleeping mind imagined all sorts of horrible possibilities; she did not need to speculate while she was awake.

“Shall we press on?” Gimli’s voice called. “After we’ve had a bit to eat, that is.”

“No, Gimli,” Aragorn responded. “We must begin running as soon as we can.” His eyes passed over Hermione’s face, and she knew he was trying his best to refrain from commenting upon her tired features as he began to stamp out the remains of the fire.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, squaring her shoulders. “I want to catch those Uruks quickly.” There was a clawing feeling of hunger in her stomach, but she ignored it. I’m a Gryffindor, she thought severely to herself. I’m supposed to be brave.

“Are you – ”

“I’m fine.”

Aragorn regarded her for a moment before rummaging through a pouch at his side. “Here, drink this,” he ordered, holding out a small flask. “Just a little, though – a sip is all that is necessary.”

Hermione took the flask and opened it. A fresh, invigorating smell drifted up from the small bottle. “What is it?”

“It is miruvor, Cordial of Imladris. I have carried it since we departed from Rivendell, though I have been loath to use it. It is too precious to be used save in the most important situations.” He nodded to the flask. “Drink it.”

Hermione lifted the flask to her lips and allowed herself a tiny sip. Instantly she felt refreshed; the effects were similar to a Strengthening Solution, but the miruvor tasted much sweeter. Ready to face the day, she corked the flask and handed it back to Aragorn. “Thank you.”

He smiled. “I have no wish to see you stumbling again. Your determination to rescue your friend is something to be remarked upon indeed; few women, even among the Dunedain, would dare to pursue Uruks.”

“I am not from this time. I don’t share most of the views on women that are of this age.”

“True enough,” Aragorn agreed. “Though it seems that your desire to rescue Ron is driven by far more than that.”

He had struck too close to the mark; Hermione glared stonily back.

“Leave it, Aragorn,” Gimli advised. “The lass wants to continue the pursuit – shall we begin?”

* * *\r\n\r\n

They stopped only when the sun was well above the horizon, sitting hidden within the shelter of a rock formation.

“We are close,” Aragorn said, crouching into the small space. “The tracks look fresh; I believe they were made last night. It seems as though another band of creatures joined the Uruks just yesterday.”

“Reinforcements?” Gimli asked, munching loudly on his lembas.

“No. The tracks were not made by the heavy feet of Uruks. A band of Orcs joined their company and – ”

He broke off suddenly, a frown forming upon his face.

“What is it?” Hermione asked.

With a gesture that asked her to remain silent, Aragorn pressed his ear against a rock.

“Horses,” he muttered. “Rohirric Riders out on patrol, like as not.”

With that, he stood and peered around a boulder. He turned back to his companions, a silent question in his eyes. Legolas nodded, followed by Gimli, then Hermione.

The riders thundered past, their armor glinting in the sunlight. All of them carried spears and wore helmets that half-concealed faces full of grim determination. As the last rider galloped past, Aragorn emerged from the hiding place, followed by the other three.

“Riders of Rohan!” he called. “What news of the Mark?”

The leader signaled with his spear, directing the column to turn about. Hermione realized that they were coming closer and instinctively drew her hood up and let her hand stray so that her wand was in easy reach. If they were not the friendly – Rohirric? – riders that Aragorn had thought, she did not want to give away the fact that she was a girl. They could use that against me so easily.

In a matter of seconds the four companions were surrounded, sharp spears pointing at them from all directions. Hermione froze as the leader came forward, tall and commanding upon his horse.

“What business have you here?” he demanded. “Speak!”

Gimli bristled. “Give me your name, horse-master, and I shall give you mine.”

“Hold, Gimli,” Aragorn ordered. He turned to the leader. “I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. These are Gimli, son of Glóin, Legolas Thranduilion, and – ”

“Hermione Granger,” Hermione finished, drawing back her hood. If Aragorn wanted to give her name to the Riders, she supposed there was no use in concealing the fact that she was a girl. “We mean no harm to your King’s realm.”

A collective gasp rippled around the circle of Riders. “A woman?” the leader asked. “But no, she is a mere girl! Why does she travel in the company of three males?”

Whispers broke out amongst the riders. Hermione struggled to maintain her composure, but Aragorn spoke first. “I would know your name first, now that we have given ours.”

“Éomer, son of Éomund,” he replied. “Now tell me – why do four companions, a Man, a mere girl, an Elf, and a Dwarf, run westward across the plains of Rohan? For you may not be as you seem. Saruman’s spies have slipped through our defenses before.”

“We mean no harm to Rohan. King Théoden has received me as a friend before; surely he will do so again,” Aragorn said.

Éomer’s expression grew dark. “Times are dark, son of Arathorn. Théoden can no longer distinguish friend from foe. This company of Riders – ” he gestured around the circle “ – remain loyal to Rohan. For that, we have been sent from the realm on pain of death.”

“But surely your King isn’t so inexperienced as that!” Hermione cried. “Only a very naïve man could be so foolish as to send his most loyal followers away!”

“No, he has been King for nigh on forty years,” Éomer said. “He seemed strong and hale but a few months ago. Yet now his appearance is haggard and his wits addled.” He sighed. “It is Saruman – Saruman who seeks to destroy the kingdom of Rohan from within by poisoning the King’s mind.”

Something stirred in the back of Hermione’s mind. “And he hasn’t been able to fight it off?”

“It was a slow decline, but now I know this for certain: Théoden’s will is no longer his own.”

The Imperius Curse! Was it possible that Saruman was using a form of that Unforgivable Curse? “And you say that he appears older and weaker?” she asked.

“Yes, but – ” Éomer broke off, suspicion growing in his eyes. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I may know what is making your King act as he does.” Hermione strove to keep the anger out of her voice. Hatred for Saruman burned within the pit of her stomach – first he took Ron and the Hobbits captive, now he sought to destroy an otherwise peaceful kingdom. Doesn’t he already have enough? She could only imagine how the people of Rohan coped with it, struggling to survive in this dark time with a King turned fool by dark magic. That’s what it must be – I’ve read about it, I’ve felt the effects of the curse, and I’ve seen the long-term consequences firsthand.

“Do you?” he muttered. “How does a mere girl understand Saruman’s black arts? How do I know that you are not an apprentice of Saruman’s, come to further weaken the realm? And I suppose that these are your bodyguards. How do I know that you are not spies in fair guises sent to trick me into allowing you free reign within these borders?”

“Spies!” Gimli growled indignantly. “Certainly not!”

“Saruman’s creatures have taken three of our friends captive,” Aragorn said. “Two Hobbits, and one young Man, Hermione’s friend.”

“Ron,” she whispered. She looked back up at Éomer and implored, “Please – just allow us enough to rescue them!”

He remained silent for several moments. “Last night – last night, we attacked the Uruks, just beyond that ridge.” The Riders moved aside so that the four companions could see where Éomer gestured.

The burning hatred in Hermione’s stomach was swallowed by a growing sense of despair. “No…”

“Did you see them, then?” Gimli demanded. “Two Hobbits, and a young Man?”

“The Hobbits would be small, the height of mere children,” Aragorn supplied. “And the young Man had unmistakably red hair. He would have fit in with the folk of Rohan, now that I think on it. But his clothes are of Elven make.”

Éomer shook his head. “If they were there, we did not see them. All I know is that none were left alive.”

After we came so far? Hermione wanted to rage and storm at Éomer, but she knew it was not his fault.

“We piled the carcasses and burned them,” he added. Sure enough, when Hermione looked again, a thin plume of smoke rose from the dark mound up ahead.

A sob threatened to burst forth from Hermione, but she swallowed it back. She felt Legolas’s hand upon her shoulder, but she shook it off roughly.

“All – ” Gimli trailed off.

Éomer bent his head. “I am sorry.” For several moments the only sound was the breeze stirring the horses’ tails, then Éomer whistled. “Eadwine! Arod! Hasufel!”

Three horses came forward, riderless but still bearing the saddles and reins. “These horses are for you,” he said, swinging into his saddle. “Look for your friends, but do not trust to hope. It has forsaken these lands.” He called back to the Riders and began to gallop away once more.

Legolas helped Gimli onto Arod, the white horse, before mounting the horse himself. Aragorn was already sitting in the saddle on Hasufel’s back. Hermione, on the other hand, stood by her horse, not knowing what to do.

“Hermione?” Legolas asked. “Come, we must ride swiftly.”

Something – was it fear? – made her unwilling to climb into the saddle. “I’ve never been riding before.”

Aragorn’s horse pawed the ground restively. “It is easy enough to learn,” the Ranger assured her. “Do not worry – the horses of Rohan are well-bred. He will not allow you to fall.” He sprang down to help Hermione onto the grey’s back.

Something told Hermione that he was not being entirely truthful. “I thought only the Elves could tame horses so well?” she inquired, sliding her feet through the stirrups.

The Ranger was murmuring softly to the Horse, stroking its neck gently and avoiding Hermione’s gaze. A few words of Sindarin reached her ears, and she sat for a few moments, listening to the musical language. But she did not forget her question. “Aragorn?”

With a final pat, he began walking back to his horse. “Aragorn!”

“Eadwine will not let you fall,” Aragorn reassured. “Do not worry; riding is not altogether to difficult.”

“But – ”

Aragorn slapped Hermione’s mount on the rump, and the horse began to canter forward. Hermione gasped in alarm and clutched at the reins, disliking the jolting sensation that came with every footfall of her horse. The saddle seemed to slide underneath her, and she was sorely tempted to bury her face in the horse’s mane.

It’s not much more comfortable than a broomstick, Hermione thought uneasily. “I don’t like this,” she muttered as Legolas rode up, Gimli sitting behind him.

The Dwarf heard her. “Aye, lass. You and me both.”

Hermione clung tightly to Eadwine’s reins throughout the entire ride, trying to keep her eyes from closing in fear. Fear from what, she was not sure. Perhaps it was her aversion to riding broomsticks – and now horses, she thought wryly – or perhaps it was mostly fear of what she would find when they arrived.

The still-smoking pile gave off the cloying smell of death that Hermione had become all too familiar with in the past few days. The companions drew up next to it, looking closely for any sign of the captives.

Legolas and Aragorn slipped from their saddles easily and helped Gimli and Hermione down. Even after that short ride, Hermione’s lower body was all sore. As soon as Gimli’s feet touched the ground he headed over to the carcasses and began looking through the burned remnants with his ax.

Hermione stood there, numb with shock. It can’t be…

“Nothing,” Gimli said. “There is no sign.”

No sign that they had even been there – so they probably lay at the very heart of the pile, completely destroyed beyond recognition. Hermione sank to the ground without realizing it and felt the tears beginning to pour from her eyes. A scream of despair and frustration loosed itself from her throat.

The other three came to her side. Legolas knelt and touched her arm. “Hermione – ”

“I – I never – I never told him,” she babbled, more to herself than to anyone else. “I should have at Parth Galen, then I could say – say g-g-goodbye without – ” She could not complete her thought. What will Harry say? I was too late…

“Wait.”

“Aragorn, how can you tell her to hold back her tears?” Gimli said. “He was one of her dearest friends!”

Aragorn sighed. “Look. Hermione, look and tell me what you see.”

Tears still blurred her vision, and she brushed them angrily away. Two indentations on the grass, and – she looked again – she sat in a third one that was longer.

She looked at Aragorn, who was still focusing upon the tracks with determination. “They lay here,” she gasped. “But that – ”

“Look further.”

Slowly she stood and let her eyes wander further along the ridge. “They crawled.” Aragorn nodded at her guess and led the way.

“The fallen sword,” he said. “They undid their bonds – one slowly at first, then he helped the others remove theirs.” He walked several more feet. “They crawled partway down the hill.” Pointing, he indicated where much heavier feet had fallen upon the grass. “The Uruks – or some of them – pursued them.”

No…

He studied the tracks carefully. “The three tracks here become one at the base of the hill. Ron must have tried carrying the Hobbits.” Whistling to call to the horses, he continued for several more yards. “A Hobbit fell here and ran to keep up – and was picked up by and Uruk, it seems,” he finished grimly. “The pursuit continued to the edge of the trees…”

Aragorn studied the ground. Hermione could now make little sense of the jumbled tracks and waited for Aragorn’s word, but she thought she knew what was coming next. Ron would never have left a Hobbit behind…Not the Ron I know…

Bluntly, Aragorn said, “They were recaptured.”

“All this in vain?” Gimli asked. “You do know what this means, Aragorn, don’t you?”

Aragorn remained silent, pensively staring at the tracks.

“What?” Hermione asked. “What does it mean, Gimli?”

The Dwarf turned to her, his expression heavy. “We can no longer follow them.”

“What? You’ll just leave them in Saruman’s clutches to die?”

“No!” Legolas said. “But we cannot assail Saruman alone. Four of us against Uruks and Saruman? We would not survive. And remember – ”

“Don’t say that if he wanted them dead they would already have been killed.”

Legolas fell silent.

“Hermione,” Aragorn began, “I wish to follow them as well, but you must consider that we are only four against a much greater number. I mean no offense, but your magic can only go so far. Who knows how Saruman will break your power? Your friends say that you are talented in the art of magic, but Saruman is the leader of the Istari.”

The sword on her back seemed to grow heavier. “But we can’t just leave them!”

“We won’t,” Aragorn insisted. Noticing her skeptical look, he added, “Believe me when I say that I would try to rescue them if I could. But we would come far too close to Isengard to be sure of our safety. That is Saruman’s land.”

“How do you know they won’t be killed?”

“I don’t. Truthfully, I have no idea what Saruman has in mind. But we can hope.”

“What hope I had is gone,” Hermione said bitterly. “I see your reasoning, much as I hate it.”

Ron was there. She had been so close, and now he was snatched away once more. How long will I have to wait before I know what has happened?

She understood now how Harry felt about Voldemort, for whatever she felt now must be something akin to his sentiments. If she ever found the chance to fight Saruman, the old Istar would have much to answer for. Perhaps she could not come close now, but if a full army were to assail Isengard and keep Saruman within his tower…

But her rational half tugged at her mind. You cannot interfere.

I have done too much already, what difference would attacking Saruman make?

It would change events far too much. Let them run their course.

And leave Ron and the Hobbits to die?

Her inner voice was stilled at this question.

They could not follow now; that much she understood. “What are we to do, then?”

Aragorn thought for a moment. “We must ride to Edoras to see King Théoden,” he said. “He may be able to provide some assistance…”

Legolas protested, “Aragorn, did you not hear? Théoden’s mind is no longer his own – ”

“Which is why we shall go to him – and I will be the one to bring him back.”

Hermione was startled by the grim determination in her voice. The others turned to look at her incredulously.

“You?” Gimli asked skeptically. “How would you be able to do it?”

“Do not be foolhardy, Hermione,” Legolas said. “You are young yet, and Saruman is old and clever.”

“Old and clever? I’ve been laying out plots and I’ve been using spells more advanced than my year since I entered Hogwarts. Anyway, I know what spell Saruman is using. I would have been able to recognize it two years ago.”

“And you know how to counter it?” Aragorn asked.

Hermione hesitated for the briefest instant before saying, “Yes.”

It was a lie; she had never actually performed the series of complex spells that would result in the removal of the curse’s effects. She had read about it, however, and knew all of it by heart.

A strong desire for justice – not unlike the one she had felt when she founded S.P.E.W. – flamed up inside of her. For ruining a kingdom and capturing Ron and the Hobbits, Saruman would pay.

Hermione just hoped she was strong enough to see it through.


Chapter 16 - The White Wizard

Author's Note: I know that Fangorn is on the other side of the Misty Mountains, but since I’m using movie canon – where Fangorn it quite literally just beside Isengard – the geography here works.

Thank you to all my readers, and to those of you who have been leaving reviews. You are all wonderful people. And without further ado...the story. Enjoy!



Chapter 16: The White Wizard\r\n\r\n

The foul stench of Uruk sweat met Ron’s nostrils as his mind crept slowly back towards consciousness. Opening his eyes slightly, he found that his arms were tied and slung around the neck of an Uruk who was carrying him pig-a-back.

Captured again. So their attempt at escape had failed, and it was likely that they would not be able to try again. They would be guarded more closely from now on.

As he grew more aware of his surroundings, the pounding sensation in his head increased. But he could do nothing about the jolts that accompanied every step of the Uruk’s gait, not even by moving his arm to cushion his head. Hermione would know what to do – if she were here. If. With a sinking heart, he realized that every pounding step took him and the Hobbits further and further away from their friends and closer to Saruman.

All of a sudden, the Uruk dumped Ron unceremoniously onto the ground. Ron could no longer feign unconsciousness, so he opened his eyes and sat up slowly, wincing as his head throbbed painfully. Ron blinked a little to clear his vision before taking stock of his surroundings.

The forest still stood to the north, a huddle of dark shadows. In the distance, Ron could clearly see the dark shape of an imposing tower. Smoke rose around its base, clouding the neighboring land from view.

An Uruk spotted him staring at the tower and sneered, “So, noticed Orthanc? That’s where you’re going. I wouldn’t look forward to it if I were you.”

Ron bit back an angry retort, scowling. When had he ever looked forward to another day in captivity?

All at once, a feeling of dread rose up inside him, making his mouth go dry. He, Merry, and Pippin were all going to that tower. To Saruman.

Ron didn’t even want to think about whether they would come out alive.

What would the corrupt Wizard do once he found out that they did not have the Ring? He’d probably throw them in the dungeons or put them where he had held Gandalf captive. Atop the tower – that would terrify the Hobbits to no end. Ron did not fear heights – he played Quidditch, after all – but he could not imagine how he could possibly keep Merry and Pippin calm. Perhaps Saruman would order them to talk or be killed. Or maybe he would kill them outright.

This last thought struck him heavily. I’m not ready to die. He had known, of course, that he would die eventually, perhaps much sooner than he believed. As one of Harry’s best friends, he was a prime target for You-Know-Who. Though he could still not say the name – much less think it out of fear – Ron felt that he could defy the Dark wizard. He and Hermione had talked about it the summer before fifth year and had come to the conclusion that no matter what, they would always stand by Harry, even if it meant that they could be killed. Ron had always pictured himself falling at Harry’s side during the final battle of the war, or dying as an old man surrounded by a large family. He even remembered back in his third year, when he had told Sirius Black that he would have to kill him and Hermione before he would get to Harry. Of course, that was before they had known what had really happened with Sirius…

Yet now that he came to it – now that he knew his death could occur any minute after they crossed the gates of Isengard – he felt that he was not ready. Not ready, especially because he had not apologized to Harry…and because the one moment he had had with Hermione had been stolen…

He felt angry now, furious enough to hurt as many Uruks as he could. But he couldn’t do anything, guarded as he was. His hands clenched as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to clear his head.

There was nothing he could do. His insides went cold at the thought, but he knew it was the truth.

Was this how Harry had felt on the night Voldemort You-Know-Who had returned – helpless as the wizard had pointed his wand at him, feeling as though no spell would be enough to save him? At least he had had a wand. Ron had no weapon at all…

I’m no hero, he thought. What the bloody hell am I supposed to do?

He stared at his scratched and dirty palms blankly, hoping that an idea would strike him soon.

“What news?” the leader’s gruff voice asked from somewhere behind him.

“Less than twenty made it. The rest were killed near the forest by those Riders.”

“Less than twenty?”

“The ones who ran after the prisoners. The rest were caught off guard at the campsite.”

The leader growled angrily at this news. “And the trackers?”

“Scouts went back. Their trail ends where the others were slain.”

Ron remained still, but a terrible feeling had begun to rise in his chest. They’ve stopped following?

“And?”

“They went back into Rohan.”

“Useless rat! You should have followed them and killed them.”

Why? They’re letting us go to Saruman! Why? The news made the day seem bleaker than before. Ron moved his head and caught sight of Merry and Pippin, who were sitting dejectedly upon the crushed grass. The Uruks were making sure that they were far apart and faced away from each other. Both of the Hobbits were unusually silent.

The Uruks ignored their prisoners while they sat and chewed on whatever foul rations they could find. Yet even though his stomach was growling with hunger, all Ron could think of was his – and the Hobbits’ – present fate.

Hermione, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli. Had they really stopped their pursuit? But why?

Ron felt that the answer was staring him in the face, but he could not quite work it out. And Isengard was drawing closer.

* * *\r\n\r\n

Less than an hour after they had stopped, the Uruks began to march once more.

“Let them walk!” the leader ordered. “We are close enough.”

At his word the Uruks tied each prisoner’s hands with a length of rough cord, leaving a trailing end that could be held. Then, with Uruks holding their bonds, Ron, Merry, and Pippin were forced to march at a quick pace.

It was not so terrible for Ron to keep up, because he was only a little shorter than the Uruks themselves. But the two Hobbits struggled, almost running to keep pace with their captors.

“Couldn’t you – ” Ron began.

A whip snapped right beside his ear before he could continue – not near enough to hurt him, but close enough to make him flinch into silence. “Save your breath,” the Uruk said nastily. “You don’t know if it will be your last.”

Ron decided that he had no choice but to obey, but shot a dirty look at the Uruk all the same.

Orthanc grew larger as they approached, and even Ron noticed that for all its imposing looks, the tower really was finely built. If only Hermione were here to tell me about it – but he did not complete the thought. It caused him too much hurt to even think about any of his friends. Instead, he turned his eyes to the forest – and was startled to see that large sections of it had been cut and burned away. The smell of wood smoke hung in the air; obviously, they were using all of the trees they cut down, but for what he wasn’t sure.

Ron blinked and shook his head, glancing back at the forest. Only a moment ago a single tree had stood among its burned fellows. Was it just him, or had the tree retreated back into the green depths of the forest? It couldn’t be. The distinct lack of enough food, water, and sleep was clearly playing tricks with his mind.

They reached a wall that ran far in both directions. Ron guessed that it probably surrounded the tower.

“Isengard. Only one way out, and that’s this gate,” the leader said nastily to the prisoners. The Uruks had dragged them all close to one another and had formed a tight ring around them. The leader raised his voice. “Open!”

The gate swung forward slowly, ominously, welcoming Ron and the Hobbits into the enemy’s land.

Ron gasped when he saw the other side of the wall. It looked so – so desolate. There were still a few places where the roots of several trees remained in the ground, too difficult to dig up. Huge stands of trees and greenery had once stood here, but now the entire ringed area was full of pits through which fire shone, accompanied by plumes of smoke. Instead of the rustling of tree leaves, the clanging sound of metalworking filled the air. And as Ron glanced to the side he realized that just beyond lay a now-dry riverbed. Even the Muggles back home weren’t nearly as bad! Just how much was Saruman planning?

As they passed by one of the holes that led underground, Ron looked and saw several Uruks beating out new armor and weapons. Just how large was Saruman’s army?

The tower loomed larger and larger until they finally stopped at the base of the steps that led to Saruman.

“Wait here,” the leader growled. He set off at an ungainly pace, going up the stairs to speak with the Wizard. Minutes passed. Ron did not know what to think – he knew that hope of escape was slim, and that they all might be –

Don’t say it, he told himself sternly. It’ll be okay.

Somehow he couldn’t quite convince himself.

Both Merry and Pippin looked too dispirited to talk. In any case, Ron thought that the surrounding Uruks would prevent a conversation from going anywhere.

Finally the leader came down the steps. “Bring them in.”

Already exhausted, the prisoners were hauled up the steps. The doorway led into the darkness within the tower, looking like a leering mouth to Ron’s frightened eyes. A steady drumbeat – not unlike the one they had heard in Moria – was coming from somewhere below, increasing in rapidity, reaching a frenzied pace. Ron could hear his heart mirroring the rhythm, beating harder and faster than it ever had before. There was no turning back – this was final. A small part of him still struggled, but the fear and despair coursing through his veins left that inner voice stilled. His head turned back to glance at the world outside one last time…

The afternoon sun seemed to mock them as they headed further and further up the steps. A sudden chill swept over Ron as he stepped out of the bright light into the darkness of the tower. He blinked to clear his vision, and the outlines of the entrance hall came into focus.

The ceiling was high, extending far out of Ron’s view into blackness. Cold, dark stone surrounded him – trapped him – offered him no comfort…

His dirt-encrusted boots left a light trail on the polished floor. The only sounds were the Uruks grunting, his nervous and heavy breathing, his heart thumping…

They reached another doorway, and all the Uruks except the leader fell back, standing guard against the walls. Ron looked at Merry and Pippin. Their faces were pale and terrified. His own reflection gazed back at him from the floor, so white that his freckles stood out more clearly. He had not noticed how cold and clammy his skin felt.

He wanted to clap Merry and Pippin on the shoulders and tell them that everything would be all right, but the words died even before they reached his mouth. Even he had no such delusions. Nothing would be right so long as they were here…

The door swung open.

“Enter,” called a voice.

The Uruk leader grunted and pushed the prisoners into the room. Ron and the Hobbits stumbled in.

“You have done well,” the voice said. “Leave us.”

Wordlessly, the Uruk departed. Ron heard the door boom ominously shut.

“Look at me,” Saruman commanded.

His voice was melodious, not to be disobeyed. Ron raised his eyes to see the Wizard, the only spot of white against the blackness of the stone. He was an old man, like Gandalf – but unlike Gandalf, his eyes were dark and cold, like the stone of the tower. He was sitting at ease upon a sort of throne, a staff held lightly in a clawlike hand.

“Do you know why you are here?” he asked.

The Hobbits said nothing, terror having blocked their voices.

“You are here because – ”

Ron stood up straighter and lifted his head angrily. “We bloody well know why we’re here,” he spat. “You’re not going to get what you want.”

Saruman laughed. “Brave words from one so young.” He stood and approached, beginning to circle the prisoners in an almost predatory manner. “Have you any idea how many ways there are to break someone into giving an answer?”

“You’re not getting anything from me,” Ron repeated, clenching his fists. “Or them. I will not betray my friends.”

“They all tell me the same thing,” Saruman said dismissively, “but I have never failed to procure the information I need.”

“But you don’t need the information!” Merry burst out. “What you want would destroy Middle-earth!”

“Destroy it? No. I mean to bring down the Dark Lord and restore order to the land.”

“An order that you would head up, is that it?” Ron said through gritted teeth. “You’re nothing but a power-hungry Wizard who doesn’t have the brains to see – ”

An invisible force pushed him abruptly onto his back, knocking the wind out of him.

“Ron!” the two Hobbits cried.

Ron opened his eyes slowly as he lay there, to find Saruman standing over him, staff raised. “If I had my wand –” he spat.

A smile of cold amusement stretched the corners of the Wizard’s thin lips. “What would you do? Fight me? I have defeated Gandalf. You have not even the least chance of winning.”

“I’d kill you.”

Silence descended on the room. Merry and Pippin looked fearfully at each other, uncertain of what to do.

Saruman leaned contemplatively against his staff. “You would?”

Ron hesitated.

The Wizard laughed again. “You have not the strength for it. Brave words indeed, but spoken with the rashness of youth.”

Ron got to his feet furiously as Pippin said, “At least we can tell the difference between right and wrong.”

The amusement left Saruman’s face. “There is no right, no wrong. Power is all that matters.”

It was Ron’s turn to laugh. Harry had told him, back in their first year at Hogwarts, that Voldemort had said much the same thing. “Will you never learn? Ever heard that good always triumphs over evil?” A recklessness had taken over him, one that prompted him to insolence.

“Who holds the most sway in Middle-earth?” Saruman countered. “Sauron does. And it is Sauron’s power that will triumph.”

“With you as what – an underlord of sorts?”

“Therein you are mistaken. I plan to wrest the power that Sauron has created from him. And unless you wish for Sauron’s victory, you will tell me where the Ring is.”

There it was again – a certain melodic intonation that cast a strange charm over their minds, a charm of power that compelled them to obey. But it wasn’t nearly as strong as the Imperius Curse; Ron ignored it easily enough.

“NO!” he shouted. “We don’t know where it is!”

He looked wildly at Merry and Pippin; they blinked rapidly and shook off the effects of Saruman’s voice.

The same bravado that had taken hold of Ron now flamed forth in the Hobbits. “We haven’t got it,” Pippin said defiantly.

“You might as well kill us now,” Merry added. “We won’t tell you anything. We wouldn’t, even if we knew where it was.”

Saruman looked at each of them in turn, taking in the determined light in their eyes. “Fools,” he said softly. “You have chosen poorly indeed. You have your final chance: obey my command, and you will live.”

The three prisoners stared back with stony silence.

“You will not accept my offer willingly?” he asked in a dangerous tone.

“Never!” Pippin half-shouted. Ron and Merry nodded, glaring at Saruman.

“Very well.” He returned to his seat and called for the guards. Three of the Uruks strode in.

“Take these three and lock them below. But leave them alive and unspoiled; their information is of great value to me. I wish to wrest the words from them myself.”

The Uruks bared their teeth in horrible grins. The bravado draining from him, Ron began to feel despair once more. His spirit flagging, he let himself be led away.

Saruman called out one last time, “The next time we meet, you will feel pain. You will watch each other suffer, wishing for death – a death that shall only come if you tell me what I must hear.”


Chapter 17 - Slinker and Stinker

Author’s Note: Many thanks to my Beta VanaTheEverYoung and my many reviewers. You are what keep this fic alive.


Enjoy this chapter – and please review!



Chapter 17: Stinker and Slinker\r\n\r\n

Gollum was singing again.

“When Sun has died and Moon iss gone
We sits right by the little pond
And waits for fisheses to bite
So we eats them hidden from the light!”

His low and guttural voice grated on Harry’s ears, and his manner of speech, which was similar to Kreacher the House-elf’s, didn’t help matters at all. Harry resisted the urge to whip out his wand and hex him, or to raise the staff he held and – he didn’t know what.

The staff’s power was new to him, but he could not control it enough to be sure of the results. A few days ago he had managed to conjure a ball of light similar to that of the Lumos spell, but much brighter. Harry was positive that both the Hobbits had been asleep, but had heard a low hiss as he lay down. He could almost feel a pair of luminous eyes glaring at his back with a mixture of fear and loathing.

The next day, Gollum had capered before Frodo, showing all the signs of being an eager guide, but when his eyes fell on Harry, the expression on his face changed. Harry could not describe it; it was as though two personalities sought control of Gollum’s body, and the good side manifested itself whenever Frodo looked his way. But when Harry or Sam alone looked at him, it took on a more twisted, unfriendly quality.

Gollum was now humming to himself as he clambered over and around the rocks. He began to sing the second verse to his song – or maybe it was a new song. His singing annoyed Harry to the point that he did not know whether the tune was the same or different.

“We catches the fish and gobbles it up
And then –”

Harry could no longer stand the wretched creature’s voice. “Shut up, will you? D’you want all of Mordor down upon us?”

Gollum halted mid-word, stopping in his tracks to look back at Harry. Frodo cast a reproachful glance in Harry’s direction, shaking his head. “Lead on, then,” Frodo said. “Come along!”

Gollum scrambled through the maze of rocks, Frodo following closely behind.

“It’s no use talking to him, is it, Harry?”

Harry looked down to see Sam glaring in the direction the other two had taken. “No, it isn’t.” He began to follow.

“I don’t understand! Why does he trust him so much?”

“The Ring,” Harry replied. Sam looked at him questioningly. “It’s the truth. Frodo feels sorry because he knows what it’s like to carry the Ring – imagine holding on to it for hundreds of years.”

“But that’s exactly why Mr. Frodo shouldn’t trust him!” Sam exclaimed in a low, furious tone. “He plays the part, all right, but deep down – Stinker and Slinker, that’s what I call him. He shows Frodo Slinker, but Stinker’s always there just beneath his skin.”

Harry could feel the corners of his mouth twitching upward at Sam’s choice of names. “Stinker and Slinker, eh?”

Sam snorted. “It fits. I just wish he’d leave.”

“Me too. But Frodo trusts him implicitly.”

“You don’t.”

Harry turned to look down at Sam. “No. Not at all. Look,” he added fairly, “I think Gollum’s trying.”

Sam frowned.

“How can you say – ”

“But it won’t ever work out. That – er – Stinker will win in the end.”

Sam nodded, his jaw still set grimly. Suddenly, Gollum’s voice broke the brief silence.

“Come on, slow ones! We’re almost there! Master is waiting for usss.”

“Almost at the Black Gate?” Harry asked.

“No, silliesss! We has led you out!”

Gollum darted around the boulder again as Harry and Sam neared him. Frodo was indeed waiting on the other side, staring beyond with wide eyes.

Harry saw what had transfixed Frodo when he pulled himself onto the boulder next to the Hobbit. The wet smell of decay met his nostrils as his eyes fell upon the vast marshland spread out below the rocks. Mist hung in the air, obscuring the far end of the marsh, but Harry was sure that it went on for miles.

“You expect us to cross that?”

Gollum turned to Harry and bared his teeth in a lopsided grin. “Yess, we does,” he hissed. “It is the only way.”

“We cannot go around it?” Frodo asked.

“Master asks us to lead him out of the rockses, and we does. But Master does not trust uss,” Gollum said mournfully. “We knows the secret paths. Miles and miles they goes, but we sayss that we knows the way out.”

“To the Black Gate?”

Gollum nodded. “Yesss.”

Frodo nodded to Harry and Sam before allowing Gollum to lead the way. Grimly, Harry moved forward with Sam close behind.

The path was spongy and sank slightly under Harry’s weight. He grudgingly had to admit that Gollum was the only chance they had at negotiating the way through the marshes. Many times he and the two Hobbits considered stepping on more solid-looking land only to have Gollum hiss at them and splash at the water, setting the once firm-looking mossy surfaces drifting across. Harry did not want to trust the wretched creature, but as he was leading them through the marsh, what choice did Harry have? If Gollum had wanted to murder them, he could have done it while they slept or even just led them off the wrong way. Sam had had the misfortune of setting his foot down into the water; fortunately, Harry and Frodo were able to pull him out of the mud, which was just beginning to take hold of Sam to suck him downward. A few choice spells blasted at the mud took care of it.

Many times Harry would set his weight down and feel the ground shift, but he had not fallen in yet. Indeed, Gollum was making it very hard to prove that he was unworthy of Frodo’s trust. The memories were becoming clouded in Harry’s mind; he could remember no specific event about which he could warn the Hobbit. He only remembered that Gollum, despite any attempt to reform him, would remain a traitor.

Indeed, fewer and fewer memories were clouding Harry’s mind. He wasn’t sure what to think of that. He had been able to see Gandalf’s death clearly; why could he no longer remember what was going to happen at this stage in the journey? He needed to know. But the memories simply weren’t coming.

They rested after hours of walking, stopping on a wide stretch of more solid ground. Frodo and Sam sat on a rock, while Harry seated himself on the ground with his staff across his crossed legs. Over by the water’s edge, Gollum splashed morosely and sighed.

Sam brought out a pack of lembas to share with Frodo and Harry. “I don’t like these marshes,” he said, looking at the darkening sky. “It’s too quiet.”

“The Dead Marshes, that is their name,” Gollum said. “No noise, no crunchable things for us to catch,” he added mournfully. “We shall starve!”

“Go right ahead, no one’s stopping you,” Harry said.

Frodo glared at him as Gollum began sniffing piteously at the water, finally grabbing a squirming worm from the mud and slurping it down. Disgusted, Harry averted his eyes. It was no use trying to talk to Frodo – like Dumbledore, the Hobbit looked as though he wanted to see the good in everybody. Harry often questioned the Headmaster’s trust in Severus Snape, but at least Dumbledore had had years of experience by which to judge his confidants! And even though Frodo was nearly fifty years of age, Harry could not shake off the feeling that living in the Shire had blinded the Hobbit to reality.

“Here,” Frodo said quietly, breaking off a piece of lembas and tossing it to Gollum.

“What is it, preciouss?” Gollum said to himself as he curled his bony fingers around the small piece of Elven bread. “Is it tasty?”

The Hobbit gave a shrug in reply. Gollum brought the lembas to his mouth for a taste – and almost immediately began coughing and spluttering.

“We cannot eats it!” he cried. “Hobbits’ food is not for us!”

“Not yet,” Frodo said. “Perhaps in time you will come to like – ”

“Ha! Elveses made it, curse them! The same Elveses that made the rope! They wants to kill us, kill us!”

“I want no such thing,” Frodo said. “You are the guide.”

Gollum gave a hearty sniff and turned his back, facing the water. “We has suffered for years and years,” he said. “Always hungry, always wanting it. Yesss,” he hissed, turning back around. “The Precious. Master knows. The Precious never lets go…” He stretched out his fingers towards Frodo, eyes fixed upon the Ring’s chain.

Harry reacted on instinct. Whipping out his wand, he pointed it at Gollum. “Leave him alone!” he said harshly.

Gollum hissed, eyeing the wand warily. “Must do as the tall one wishes,” he muttered, “or we gets hurt with the nasssty stick.” He retreated slowly, heading to the water’s edge.

None of the companions spoke again during the meal. Frodo finished his bread and laid out upon the ground, tugging his cloak about him tightly as he faced away from Sam and Harry. His breathing soon turned slow and deep.

“Get some rest, Sam,” Harry whispered.

“What about you?”

Harry responded with a jerk of his head, indicating Gollum. “I’ll sit up for a bit.”

Sam nodded before curling up on the ground near his pack. Soon enough, Harry and Gollum were the only ones left awake. Harry watched the strange creature muttering over something, watched luminous eyes dart back and forth between the water and Frodo’s back.

“Don’t you ever sleep?” he called.

Gollum turned around slowly. “We sleeps, yesss – but we doesn’t need it so much. The tall one should be resting too.”

“And what, wait for you to wring our necks while we sleep?”

A low hiss. “The Precious binds us,” he said. “We listens to the Master of the Precious.”

Harry didn’t know what he wanted to hear from the creature. An oath of loyalty? Hardly. “Look – just get to sleep. I don’t want to be watching out for anything but the Enemy’s minions.”

Gollum looked at him through narrowed eyes. “As the tall one says,” he muttered before he curled up on the ground, back turned to Harry. A few minutes later his breathing had become deep and steady, albeit a little wheezy.

At last Harry was alone with his thoughts. He looked up at the sky. The stars were familiar; he could pick out some of the constellations he had learned in Astronomy class, though their positions in the sky were dramatically different. For one, what he knew as the northern star arced across the sky each night, its position always changing.

Where were Ron and Hermione now? The rest of the Fellowship had obviously decided not to follow Harry, Frodo, and Sam across the river and towards Mordor, but Harry still wondered why his two friends had chosen not to come after him and drag him back. Harry had seen Hermione across the water, and he had the feeling that she would not have considered a simple Patronus to be enough assurance of his safety. At least not on its own. What else, then, had influenced any decision she and Ron, together with the rest of the Fellowship, had made?

Possibilities swirled through Harry’s mind, not for the first time. He had a feeling that something truly terrible had happened to someone in the Fellowship; after all, he had only seen four of the other eight companions on the opposite shore. And though it was well beyond his control now, he could not help wondering.

Sam relieved Harry of the watch a few hours later, and the young wizard fell into a dreamless sleep. He woke again at dawn to see Frodo and Sam gathering their things as Gollum rocked impatiently on his heels.

“Come, come, we must hurry!” Gollum said.

“Aye, the sooner we can be rid of his company the better,” Sam muttered, shouldering his pack.

Harry quickly stood, packed his bedroll, and took out a piece of lembas for breakfast. It was only after he had belted on his sword and taken up his staff that he noticed something else.

“Where’s my wand?”

The Hobbits looked at one another quizzically, then shook their heads. “Mayhap you left it on the ground somewhere?” Sam asked. The two Hobbits began searching for the wand.

Harry was already on his knees, running his hands through the grass. His breathing became panicked – what if he could not find his wand? He had not mastered magic with the staff nearly enough, he needed his wand to survive…

A little to his right, Frodo said, “Here, Harry.” In his extended hand was the wand.

“Thanks.” Harry pocketed the wand, then noticed Gollum watching him, eyes bright. “What?”

“Isss the tall one ready?” he wheezed. “Come, then!”

“Mr. Frodo?”

Harry wheeled around at Sam’s voice to look at Frodo. The other Hobbit was frozen, his eyes fixed on the sky and his skin pale and clammy. His mouth was working soundlessly as Sam shook his shoulders. “Mr. Frodo? What is it?”

He looked as though he had seen a dementor. And sure enough…

“They – They are here,” Frodo whispered.

Suddenly Gollum loosed a terrible shriek. A feeling of sudden cold and dread washed over Harry, and he turned his eyes to the sky.

“Hide!” Gollum said. He tugged at Frodo’s arm, but there was no need; the Hobbit had already collapsed to the ground, and was clutching his left shoulder in agony.

“Wraiths!” Harry muttered to himself, dropping to hide beneath what little brush there was on the marsh and trusting to his Lórien cloak to keep him hidden.

“Frodo…Frodo, it’s all right…” Sam murmured. Still Frodo continued to cry out. “Help me, Harry!” Sam said pleadingly.

Harry crawled over to the two Hobbits. Gollum continued to cover his ears against the terrible screeches made by the Wraith and its winged beast. “I don’t know what to do, Sam!” He was forcibly reminded of the times he himself had collapsed, clutching his scar in pain. No one had known how to help; all Harry could do was wait for the agony to stop. “I don’t know how to help him at all, I’m no healer…”

Then, quite suddenly, Frodo went still. His eyes seemed to see past Sam and Harry, and his right hand began to draw the chain out from under his shirt…

Sam grabbed Frodo’s hand, and Harry quickly followed suit, holding the Hobbit’s other hand tightly so he could not reach for the Ring.

“They are calling for it,” Gollum said, eyes wide. “They wants the Precious!”

“But…they died!” said Sam. “Killed outside of Rivendell, they were, I saw their torn cloaks with my own eyes!”

“Dead? No, they do not die. And they seeks It…”

As Harry glanced back down at Frodo, his eyes caught a flash of gold as the Hobbit struggled to reach for the Ring. At the same moment, the wraith let out another horrible cry. Harry’s scar throbbed as the gold appeared again, and temptation stole across his consciousness….

He wrenched his eyes away from the Ring and shut them, not even daring to reach out and push it out of sight. He was no Hobbit, and it was breaking through the barriers built up by memories and by years of fighting against an evil similar to that which it represented. Already he heard promises of returning to his time and freeing Middle-earth of the need for a Quest, promises of bringing his parents and Sirius back to life….Empty words, all of them, he knew, but it took a good part of his strength to resist. The voices surged around his ears even more insistently as the Wraith loosed another call.

He ducked his head to the ground, willing himself not to heed the voices. Harry wished he could do something, but his ineptitude with Occlumency and inability to perform a spell effective against the Wraiths were beginning to work against him…when all of a sudden the cold feeling went away. Looking back up, he saw the foul beast and rider flying away.

Frodo flexed his fingers, blinking. Harry let go as soon as he saw the Hobbit breathing normally. Touching the place where the Ring hung to make sure it was still there, Frodo seemed to calm even further and sat up.

I have to stay away from him, or I might end up trying to steal the Ring. Had the look he had seen in Ron’s eyes surfaced in his own? If it had, neither of the two Hobbits had seen anything, but Harry still hated the idea. He had thought himself stronger, more able to resist the Ring, but it was apparently not so.

Yet there was no choice but to keep going. He could not find his way out of the Dead Marshes and Emyn Muil without a guide of some sort. He would die if he left the Hobbits and Gollum. And anyway, he had pledged his sword and wand to serve Frodo’s quest. Abandoning him to the company of a faithless creature like Gollum would be contrary to that indeed.

“How much farther?” he asked Gollum.

“Close,” he hissed in reply. “Close.”

With that, he began to slink away through the marsh, Harry and the Hobbits following quickly behind.

* * *\r\n\r\n

The Black Gate was huge.

There was no other word for it. Harry had thought that the Hogwarts castle was immense, but the sheer size of the Gate….In a way, it had its own haunting and terrible magnificence. Crouching behind a rock, Harry surveyed the area before him.

There was an army marching closer, bearing banners and pennants of red and black. Orcs patrolled the gate at the top, looking tiny as ants compared to the portal they guarded. Suddenly, the harsh call of an Orc’s horn rang out. There was a flurry of movement at the top and Harry watched, fascinated, as two trolls pulled forward on a platform near the top of the Gate. It only seemed to open a crack, but it was wide enough to accommodate the marching army.

“It’s opening!” Sam said excitedly. “Let’s go!”

“No!” Frodo hissed, reaching out to grab Sam. It was too late; the rock had given way under Sam’s weight, and the gardener was tumbling down the rock-strewn hill. Frodo scurried down after him, despite Harry’s – and even Gollum’s – urgent warnings.

Harry glanced down at the marching army. Had they noticed the Hobbits? Frodo was crouched behind a rock, but Sam was there with his foot trapped in between another boulder and the gravel. Sure enough, Harry noticed a break in the army’s formation; two soldiers had stepped out of line, undoubtedly to investigate.

“Great,” Harry muttered to himself. He riffled through his pack as he spoke to Gollum. “You wait here.”

“The tall one is a fool,” the creature muttered. His eyes brightened in curiosity as Harry drew out the silvery Invisibility Cloak. “What iss it, Precious?”

Harry did not reply; he swung his pack with the attached walking staff onto his back, checked to make certain that his sword was buckled on, and dashed off down the hill.

It was slippery going, but once he got used to the ground’s texture he was more able to negotiate his way down. Leaning into the hill, he hurried to the place where he spotted the two Hobbits. Frodo was trying to help Sam out, heedless of the approaching soldiers.

“Harry, what…?”

“Shh!” Quickly, he crouched down and threw the Cloak so that it covered all three of them.

For several tense moments they watched the two soldiers through the Cloak. Their feet stopped mere inches from where the three companions crouched, hidden. Finally, after glancing around and ascertaining that nothing was amiss, they turned back to join the end of the line.

Harry released a breath he had not known that he was holding as he drew the Cloak back into a tight bundle. He and Frodo worked furiously and finally managed to free Sam. As they stood, they saw the last of the soldiers marching into the Gate, which began to draw slowly shut.

“Can’t wait for it to open again,” Sam said. “Might as well shout out to Sauron that we have the Ring if we do. How’re we supposed to get past that guard?”

“This Cloak,” Harry said. “It makes you invisible, remember?”

Sam’s eyes lit up in recollection. “Aye, that I do. Mr. Frodo?”

The other Hobbit was staring at the gate. “I suppose now is the best chance we’ll get.”

“Well then, let’s go!” Sam said. “Harry?”

Harry swung the Cloak back over them, and they made their way to the Gate as quickly as they dared. Suddenly, a weight knocked him over, and the Hobbits with him. There were fingers scrabbling to find his invisible form, and he kicked out on instinct. An indignant squawk told him that he had hit his mark, and he pulled the Cloak off the struggling Hobbits.

“Gollum!” he said angrily. “Now we’ll never make it in!”

The creature had his wide eyes turned to Frodo, not Harry. “Master, not that way! They will kill you! They hurts us if they catches us, and they will take the Precious!”

“You led us here,” Frodo said, standing. “What are we to do, then, wait for the next army? For we will not be able to enter now, invisible or no.”

Gollum looked as the Cloak, which he was clutching in his fingers, and cast it away as though burned. Harry stooped to retrieve it and stuffed it into his pack. “He wants It, wants the Precious,” Gollum said pleadingly. “Not that way.”

“Sméagol,” Frodo said calmly. “Tell me, Sméagol, what else is there to do?”

Harry started at the name; a faint wisp of memory told him that this was once Gollum’s name. But the true Sméagol is buried beneath another presence, hundreds of years old, something else told him. At last, some memories – they had been slipping away lately, and now he was unsure of the path to take next.

“There is a way,” Gollum whispered. “I found it, I did. We knows about it, we knows. It is secret.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Sam demanded.

Gollum turned to him with an innocent face. “Master asked for the Black Gate, so good Sméagol leads him there. Master did not ask.”

Sam scowled. “I don’t believe you.”

“We swore,” Gollum said, looking back at Frodo. “On the Precious. We can’t lets him have It!”

Frodo considered for a moment. “Harry? Would you take this other path?”

Harry screwed his eyes shut, trying to dredge up another memory. This Gollum – Sméagol? – was treacherous, but he could not recall when the betrayal occurred. He would have to rely on his current thoughts alone to make this decision. “I joined the Fellowship to see this through; I’ll follow you. But,” he added, looking at Gollum, “if you try anything sneaky, you had better watch your back.” For emphasis, he touched his sword and the place where he kept his wand hidden.

“No!” Sam said in disbelief.

“He’s been true to his word thus far, Sam,” Frodo said.

The other Hobbit shook his head, whispering, “No.” But on his face was a resigned expression.

“Show us the path, Sméagol,” Frodo said. “If there is another more covert way into Mordor, I shall take it.”


Author’s Note: I mentioned before that what Harry knows as the Northern Star – Polaris – cycles around every night instead of staying in a fixed position. This is absolutely true; the pole star marking celestial north changes once in a very great while. For instance, the star Thuban (in the constellation Draco) marked celestial north some 5000 years ago. In another 12000 years, the star Vega – the brightest star in the summer sky – will mark north. It is a gradual process, and there are long stretches of time where there is no northern star at all.

The skies of Middle-earth show many of the same constellations as modern-day Britain; however, these constellations are in extremely different positions in the sky. Their positions relative to each other are the same, but their absolute positions are quite different. As such, Harry would be able to recognize constellations, but would not be able to navigate using them.


Chapter 18 - Sisterly Bonds

Author’s Note: Once again, thank you to my Beta VanaTheEverYoung. I’m sorry it took so long to update; college life will do that to you. In any case, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and that the wait was worth it. Please review!

Chapter Eighteen: Sisterly Bonds\r\n\r\n


Riding was much more uncomfortable than Hermione had expected. She was weary from being in the saddle for so long, but fearing that she would drift off to sleep and fall, she forced herself to stay awake by nibbling lembas and taking sips of water. I will not slow them down, she thought fiercely, not when Ron’s life may be at stake. The horse was gentle enough, but the constant jolting rattled Hermione’s teeth.

“How much farther?” she called to Legolas and Aragorn.

The Elf looked back at her. Hermione felt a twinge of annoyance – here she was, exhausted and dusty, her bushy hair coming out of its braid, and yet Legolas looked as though he had just risen from sleep and combed his still-immaculately braided hair. At least Aragorn looked like he had traveled just as many leagues as she had.

“Not far,” Legolas said.

“It is just beyond this ridge,” Aragorn added.

They rode to the top and drew to a halt, waiting for Hermione to catch up. Gimli was muttering, “Hurry up then, laddie. We’re not all tireless.”

A breathtaking sight met Hermione’s eyes: a hill dotted with houses and framed by snow-capped mountains. The pristine sight was completed by the presence of what could only have been a palace at the top of the hill. Even from far away, Hermione could tell that its architecture was far more elaborate than any other building; its thatching gleamed like gold in the sunlight.

“Oh – it’s beautiful!” she sighed.

“The city of Edoras,” Aragorn nodded. “And there is the hall of Meduseld, home of King Théoden. I have been here once before, when Théoden was but a small boy. Alas that I could not have returned at a happier time!”

They sat there for a few moments with the breeze as the only sound. Then Legolas said, “Danger lies before us. Saruman’s arm has grown long indeed, that he is able to cause unrest from such a distance.”

“Aye, that’s well said,” Gimli nodded. “Lass –” He turned to face Hermione. “Are you certain you want to do this?”

Hermione drew out her wand and fingered it carefully. “I have to. It isn’t fair that Saruman should steal these people’s lives!”

She let the wand slide into position and held it before her. The feeling of warm familiarity – the feeling of magic ready to be unleashed after long disuse – tingled down her arm as she held the wand, but she spoke no incantation. New energy at the thought of doing magic again rushed into her. She was secure in the knowledge that while she could perform spell after spell without tiring, Saruman’s power came from his very spirit, and each spell he threw at her would weaken him. I can do it.

“Well, let’s go then!” she said, stowing her wand back under her cloak.

They cantered across the plain, closing the distance between themselves and Edoras. A nervousness began to rise inside of Hermione as they drew closer, but the determined half of her pushed it into the back of her mind.

Edoras had looked pristine enough from far away, but a closer look revealed the grim inhabitants. Peasants stared as they rode up to the hall of Meduseld, only the faintest flicker of hope in their eyes. Glancing up, Hermione caught a glimpse of white fabric disappearing into the hall. Someone had spotted them and knew they were coming.

“There’s more cheer in a graveyard,” Gimli muttered.

They finally reached the huge building, which Hermione immediately recognized as a palace. Its architecture, while not nearly as graceful as that of the elves, was nevertheless ornate. Truth be told, the style of the buildings and the round shields of the guards strongly reminded Hermione of the Anglo-Saxon armor she had seen at the British Museum when she was young.

Hermione dismounted gratefully and allowed the horse to be led off. She forced herself to stand upright and walk erect despite her aches and pains. If she was going to rescue the King, she wasn’t going to show any sign of weakness.

The stable hands appeared surprised to see her traveling in such – to them, anyway – strange attire and with such companions. Ignoring them, Hermione silently proceeded up the steps with the other three. A guard was waiting for them.

“We seek an audience with King Théoden,” Aragorn said clearly. “We are friends of Rohan.”

The guard scrutinized each of them in turn. “A strange company,” he said. “Who are you?”

“I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, Ranger of the North. And this is Legolas of the Woodland Realm, Gimli son of Glóin of the Lonely Mountain, and Hermione Granger.”

The guard looked once more at Hermione, frowning at the unusual method of introduction. “And from where does she hail?”

“The village of Bree,” Hermione said quickly. It wasn’t entirely a lie. “I am – was – a student of Gandalf the Grey. I bring news for your King.”

The last part, she had thought, would be her best chance of getting close to Théoden, for she could hardly walk inside and begin to perform her spell. The guard started at Gandalf’s name, but gave a slow nod. “Very well. But I cannot permit you before the King so armed.”

The companions looked at one another hesitantly. Then Aragorn unbuckled his sword and handed it to another waiting guard. Legolas handed over his bow. Hermione hesitated for an instant before following suit. She unbuckled her quiver, but as she passed it to a guard, she said, “Be careful with the bundle. It belongs to a friend.”

The guard nodded as his hands closed around the quiver and he took it away. After unbuckling her sword, Hermione checked to make sure that her wand was concealed but in easy reach. She felt strangely defenseless without the weight of the Elven weapons at her back and side. She looked at each of her companions in turn; they nodded grimly. Feeling suddenly cold and clammy with nerves, Hermione entered the hall.

The throne room was spacious, with rafters crossing high overhead. But it was dark and had an oppressively gloomy air, for the fire remained unlit. The doors boomed ominously shut behind the companions. With a final shaky glance back, Hermione strode forward towards the throne. King Théoden looked old and weary, his head and back bent as though his crown were too heavy.

“Hail King Théoden,” Aragorn said. “We bring tidings from the North.”

It was not Théoden who replied, for his mouth remained unmoving.

“What manner of company is this, that you so desperately sought an audience with the King?” an oily, nasal voice asked. A man emerged from the shadows by the throne and placed a thin, bony hand on Théoden’s arm, whispering in the King’s ear. His pale eyes met Hermione’s, and his mouth curled in a sneer. “The King does not wish for your company.”

“Let him speak for himself,” Hermione said evenly before Aragorn could speak.

“The King is ill. No one – a woman, much less – can determine whether he will see an audience or nay. Only the King.”

“Only you, you mean,” Hermione said, fitting the final pieces of the puzzle in place. He’s working with Saruman. “At least let me take a look at him.”

Gríma shook his head. “He is not unwell. He need not be examined.”

“Then why did you say that he was ill just a moment ago?”

The man spluttered for a moment before his expression turned to one of anger. “The King does not desire your presence. Leave.”

“I will not. Step aside.”

He did not move.

“Everyone knows where your loyalties lie, I’m sure,” Hermione said. “If the King were able to think for himself, I am sure that he would dismiss you straight away.”

The man looked startled for an instant, but he straightened his heavy robes and smoothly said, “I, Gríma, a traitor to Rohan? I have been nothing but loyal – ”

“Loyal to whoever offers you the best payment, is that it?” Hermione drew her wand and pointed it at the man. “Get down from there.” Legolas made a movement to stop her, but she waved him off. “Get away from him!”

Gríma was staring at her wand with something akin to fear. “She knows Gandalf!” he said, voice rising in panic. “Fools! I told you to be certain they were unarmed!”

A pair of Gríma’s cronies lunged at Hermione, but Aragorn and Legolas fought them away. Gríma tripped over his heavy, dark robes, and was pinned to the ground by Gimli’s foot.

Hermione left the commotion behind and ran to the King’s side. “Your Majesty!” she said, kneeling and placing a hand on his arm, hoping to catch his attention.

Théoden raised his head slowly. His eyes looked misty and vacant. Then, quite suddenly, they seemed to darken and see her. A sneer twisted Théoden’s lips, and an expression close to anger bloomed in his eyes.

“Foolish girl,” he rasped. “You do not know what you are doing.”

The voice isn’t his…It’s not him…Ignore it… “I know exactly what I’m doing, Saruman.” The fingers wrapped around her wand were cold, but her arm was steady as she raised it and pointed the wand.

A gasp behind her made her whirl around. There stood a young woman dressed in white. She looked to be only a little older than Hermione herself, and her grey eyes were regarding Théoden in fear.

“Uncle?” she asked in a trembling voice.

“He’s in there somewhere,” Hermione said in what she hoped was a reassuring tone. She knew the incantation, she had read the theory, but she had to pronounce the words first. What if the spell went wrong?

The woman gazed at her in amazement. “Please – can you do nothing?”

“I will free him.” There was nothing left for her to do but speak the incantation and pray that it worked.

“Legilimens! ”

Performing the spell on an Imperiused person resulted in a different effect. She was taken not into Théoden’s mind, but the mind of his captor.

Saruman.

Hermione was pleased to see that the spell had taken her elsewhere. The world was a little blurry, but she could make out a tall room with walls of dark stone and a cloth-covered pedestal in the center. She did not have time to dwell on this, though. She gripped the wand in her hand – it seemed that even in this world, she had physical form.

“So.”

Hermione turned to see an old man leaning heavily on a staff, a half-smile playing about his lips. “You are young and rash,” he said in his powerful voice. “Leave now and you may escape unharmed.”

She stood her ground and gripped her wand so tightly that she worried it might break. “Let him go,” she said, willing her voice to remain steady.

“I think not,” Saruman replied. “He will die if I leave.”

It was Hermione’s turn to laugh. “Die? Hardly. You have him under the Imperius Curse. If you leave, he will be free to think for himself again!”

“No,” Saruman repeated.

Hermione raised her wand. “Then I will force you out,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Fool. Do not even try to defeat me.”

She responded with a Reductor Curse that shattered the floor near his feet. Smiling at his discomfiture, Hermione asked, “What?”

Saruman shot back with a spell that knocked Hermione back so hard that she hit her head on the floor. Dazed, she fired a Stunning Spell, blinking to clear her vision. As she stood up, she saw that Saruman had not been knocked out as she had hoped. But he was leaning more heavily on his staff than before….If she could weaken his hold enough to perform the final spell that would banish him from Théoden’s mind, she might stand a chance. And the only way to provoke him into using magic would be to anger him into forgetting about that fact.

“Are you scared?” she taunted. Never in her mind had she thought she would try to imitate Draco Malfoy, but she pictured his sneering face and directed all her thoughts to mimicking his mocking tones. “Frightened that a woman-no, a girl! - might beat you?”

With an unpleasant snarl, Saruman pointed his staff at her – but this time, she was ready. The Shield Charm lessened the effect of his spell, but Hermione felt a sudden weakness rush through her nonetheless. She fell to her knees.

“You were warned, young one,” Saruman said. “I told your friend much the same thing. A pity he did not listen.”

Ron. Hermione’s lips formed his name soundlessly.

“Yes,” Saruman bent cruelly. “Know that you have failed, both to rescue your friend and to save Théoden.” He raised his staff a final time.

Anger blazed through Hermione’s chest. The Unforgiveable was on her lips – she had never hated anyone so much, even Malfoy – she lost control.

“Crucio! ” she screamed.

It was not the spell it was meant to be; Saruman did not fall to the ground screaming in agony. But it was enough to make his aim go awry. He recovered, and Hermione, who was still stunned by what she had tried to do, took the full force of his spell.

Weakness, a draining weakness, rushed through her limbs. But through her misted vision, she saw Saruman leaning heavily on his staff, breathing hard. With her final strength, she pointed her wand at Saruman and cried, “Animus cedum! ”

Saruman was blasted onto his back – Hermione felt the world tilt and then she was falling through darkness…

The last thing she remembered were the faces of her companions looking worriedly down at her. She saw the King rise and gaze at her with wonder – then, knowing she had accomplished the task she had set out to do, Hermione slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *\r\n\r\n


When she came to, Hermione found herself in a dimly lit room. Someone was patting her brow with a cool, damp cloth. Hermione opened her eyes to see the woman from earlier looking at her with concern.

“You’re alive,” she said. “Your companions were fearful that it was not so, even when Lord Aragorn said that you were still with us.”

Hermione raised her head a few inches. “What happened? Where am I?”

The woman gave a small smile. “You saved my uncle, and for that I thank you,” she replied. “But you collapsed with the effort. The King ordered for you to be brought to a quieter chamber.”

“Oh,” Hermione said. She pushed herself into a sitting position and spotted her wand lying on the bedside table.

“Forgive me,” the woman said. “My name is Éowyn.”

Hermione smiled as she picked up her wand. “Hermione Granger.”

Éowyn was looking at the wand in fascination. “You showed a great deal of power and skill in the ways of magic,” she said. “Only the very wise, my Lady – ”

“Oh, stop it!” Hermione laughed. Éowyn looked puzzled. “No, really, where I come from I’m only a student. And I’m only seventeen.”

“Only – ”

“Seventeen, yes,” Hermione said. “I should be the one calling you my Lady, seeing as you’re the King’s niece…”

“No,” Éowyn said. “You have earned King Théoden’s respect. You may call me Éowyn.”

“Then…Éowyn. Call me Hermione. I deserve nothing better – I want nothing better.”

“Very well,” the older woman replied. “Tell me, how did you come to be in the company of a Man, Elf, and Dwarf? And bearing weapons made with such skill!”

Hermione sighed. “That’s a long story. I’ll tell you, but not now. I don’t know how much the others will allow me to say. Our mission is dangerous. She looked at Éowyn again. “You want to find out if you can come too, don’t you?”

The other woman looked away. “Always, I wanted to be in the company of the Riders as an equal, in the glory of battle. I can fight, but they do not see that! All they see is a woman who may be a weak point in battle – merely because she is a woman.” She sighed. “You are younger than I am. By your age, my brother had been a Rider for two years!”

There was a pause. “I’m sorry,” Hermione said. “I did have to fight to go with them – but my two friends were going, and I wasn’t about to leave them behind.”

“Where are they?”

“One…I don’t know. But the other was captured by Saruman’s Uruks. We were following them, but he was taken too far into Saruman’s realm for safety…and he’s completely defenseless…We were hoping that Théoden could provide some sort of help, but…”

“He will help you,” Éowyn said with conviction. “He is grateful for what you have done.”

“Doesn’t he have any children?” Hermione asked. “Why wasn’t anyone around to fight against that…Gríma?”

Éowyn’s expression clouded. “That snake had my brother banished from Rohan while he still held sway over the King. Gríma Wormtongue– ” she spat the name with contempt, “ – has fled since my uncle’s recovery, most likely to Saruman. As for Théoden’s son – my cousin – Théodred was slain in an ambush by Saruman’s Uruks. He was buried just today, after the King’s return.”

“I’m so sorry,” Hermione said softly. “I wish I was here sooner.”

“As do we all. But come! I am forgetting already – the servants are to attend you, to help you bathe and get dressed before the King meets you again. I imagine that you would like to wash the dust of the road away.”

“Thank you!” Hermione said. “A bath would be wonderful.”

Éowyn summoned a servant, who led Hermione down the hall to the bathing quarters. Despite her efforts, they continued to bob and curtsey and call her “My Lady” as they filled the bath. With an effort, Hermione shooed them away, saying that she could take care of herself. The women placed a bar of herb-scented soap next to the tub and a drying cloth close by before curtsying out. Hermione sighed. How would she stop them from treating her so? All she had done was save Théoden by removing the Imperius Curse.

She sank into the warn water, reveling in the feeling of becoming clean. She reached over the side of the wooden tub, picked up the soap, and began to scrub herself all over. She also undid her braid and washed her hair free of dirt. Not since Lothlórien had she felt this clean.

It was only when she stepped out of the tub and dried herself off that she realized that she had no idea what to do next. Her old and dirty clothes were lying in the corner, but she could not very well put them on. She tightened the cloth around her.

“Help!” she called, feeling a little foolish.

A servant, who had likely been waiting just outside, came in with a bundle of burgundy cloth. Smiling, she said, “Here, my Lady. The Lady Éowyn has asked that you wear this.” She undid the bundle to reveal fresh stockings and a shift, but also a well-made dress edged with golden thread.

“No…I couldn’t possibly – ”

”It was the Lady Éowyn's,” said the maid. “But she’s long outgrown it.”

Hermione gawked at the dress, looking it up and down. It looked almost new. “It used to be hers? But it looks so…so…”

“Aye, that it does,” the maid agreed. “The Lady grew too quickly after this was made, and could hardly use it. So she laid it aside. Now she asks – insists – that you wear it.”

“Well…”

Hermione considered the dress, looking at it this way and that. The sleeves were wide where they opened for her hands, but the upper arm was tied in place with laces just above the elbow. A slender belt, which lay next to the shift and stockings, went around the waist.

“All right.” The maid placed it down carefully and took up the shift, making to help Hermione put it on. The young witch held up her hand, saying, “I might need help with the dress, but if you could please turn away while I put this on…”

The maid looked puzzled, but she handed Hermione the shift and turned her back. Hermione tugged it on as fast as she could and reached for the stockings. When she was done, she took up the dress and slipped it over her head. It fit fairly well, considering that it had been made for a younger Éowyn. With the maid’s help, she got the sleeves and back laced up properly, and placed the belt around her waist. Now I understand why people need help getting dressed here, she thought.

“It suits you,” the woman said, handing Hermione a bone comb to take the tangles out of her hair. She tugged the knots out of her bushy locks carefully, afraid that the comb’s teeth would break, but after much painstaking work she managed to get her hair relatively smooth. After slipping on her boots – her clothes would be taken elsewhere and cleaned, the maid told her – she went back to the chamber to retrieve her wand and found Éowyn waiting there.

“You look lovely,” Éowyn said. “Here, I will braid your hair for you.”

“I can do it – ”

“Consider it part of my gratitude,” Éowyn said. “Please?”

Hermione sighed, but sat on a stool so that Éowyn could do her work. The other woman’s fingers flew, quickly weaving her hair into an elaborate braid that was pinned into a knot at the nape of Hermione’s neck.

“It’s going to come out later,” Hermione sighed. “Normally I can’t even get it in a simple braid without effort, but it looks very pretty. Thank you.”

Éowyn nodded. “Come, it is time to see the King.”

Hermione picked her wand up from the bedside table before following Éowyn out the door. As they walked down the hall, Hermione marveled at the architecture and tapestries that covered the walls.

“Do you have a library?” she asked eagerly.

“Library?” Éowyn said.

“Books?”

“No, our history and stories are all passed between generations by the spoken word. Scribes in Gondor have recorded our history for us, as we have no written language of our own.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, disappointed and baffled at the same time. How could anyone carry on without books?

They entered the main hall to find Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli gathered around a table. A pair of young children were seated at another, eating what was set before them hungrily.

“Ah, so there really was a lass under all that dirt!” Gimli joked, grinning as he lifted his tankard of ale. Hermione smiled back at him before she turned to follow Éowyn.

The throne room was considerably brighter now in the later afternoon, with the doors flung open and the fire lit. King Théoden sat upon his throne; Hermione curtsied when she stood before him out of respect for his title.

“No, rise!” Théoden said. “You need not bow to me, young sorceress, for you have saved my life.”

Startled, Hermione glanced back at her traveling companions, but they nodded in encouragement. She looked again at Théoden. His face was less lined than it had been earlier, and he seemed much more aware of his surroundings. A grateful smile was on his face. “Éowyn has told me that you are yet young. Where did you learn such magic?”

“I learned from Gandalf, after a fashion,” Hermione said, sticking with the story she had given earlier. “But my magic is a little…different from his.”

“Different, but powerful all the same. I am sorry to hear that your teacher fell in the Mines of Moria.”

Hermione bowed her head. “We all miss him.”

“As do I. I regret that my parting words to him when I saw him last were not given entirely in friendship. Alas, I wish we could all make merry in thanks to you, but there is a more pressing matter at hand.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean to say – those two children have brought ill tidings.” He nodded his head at the youngsters seated across the hall. “Wild men and Uruks are attacking villages of Rohan in the Westfold, heading ever closer to Edoras.”

“Your Majesty…”

“You were taught by Gandalf. I trust your wisdom.”

Not wisdom. But I’ll think it over. “What are your options?”

Théoden sighed. “I am loath to order the people to leave Edoras. And yet – ”

“With all the wood and thatch used here, it would burn easily,” Hermione mused. “Do you have soldiers? Any defenses?”

“No. I – I’m afraid that they went with Éomer when he was banished by Gríma.”

Hermione chose her words carefully. “Saruman will not be happy with my freeing you. You can be sure that he will send more armies this way – and more, considering that he is working with Sauron.” She had come to that conclusion days before, realizing that Saruman could only have captured the Hobbits and Ron if he was after the Ring. “Your Majesty – I’m very cautious by nature, and I can only see one choice: to leave Edoras and go to safety.”

“Safety!” Gimli burst out. “You should stand and fight!”

“Helm’s Deep has protected the people of Rohan before,” Théoden said. “We can outlast any attack in there.”

“He doesn’t have the men to mount any sort of counterattack, Gimli,” Hermione said. “Isn’t the best plan to go to safety?”

“The Uruks look to destroy the people of Rohan!” the Dwarf exclaimed. “Saruman is their leader; he will not give up until everyone is slaughtered!”

“Two thousand men are riding with Éomer,” Aragorn added before Théoden could say anything. “Send a few swift riders out to search for them and bring them back. They will return.”

Théoden shook his head. “They are leagues away, with many days’ head start. Theirs are the swiftest horses. And even if we could reach them, I could not risk such an open act of war against Saruman. I cannot risk the lives of my people!”

“You have no choice!” Aragorn said. “Saruman seeks to destroy the very people you wish to protect! Find Éomer’s company of men, draw them back.”

The King looked coolly back at Aragorn. “Who is King here?”

Aragorn made no reply.

“Please,” Hermione said quietly. “King Théoden – Aragorn has a point. Éomer’s men will come back if they are called. I have seen them; they are loyal to you. I fear that the only choice you have is to make for safety and wait until Éomer’s men arrive before making a stand. If you don’t…Saruman will continue to attack. I’m sure of it.”

Théoden stood and paced restlessly.

“What will you do?” Hermione asked.

He took a deep breath and faced her. “I shall order the people of Edoras to take refuge in the fortress of Helm’s Deep. There we shall wait for Éomer’s men. That is my wish.”

* * *\r\n\r\n


Later, after they had eaten, the companions chose to wander out of doors. The city’s residents were gathering their belongings in a flurry of motion all around them. Éowyn had found a more serviceable gown for Hermione.

“Helm’s Deep!” Gimli muttered. “I say they should stand their ground. He chooses to flee rather than to fight!”

“We’re not all as brave as you, Gimli,” Hermione said. “And besides….Théoden has the lives of his people to think about. If they had the soldiers they needed, perhaps I would think that staying here would be better. But the fortress sounds like the best option to take.”

“Yes, but they will be trapped,” Legolas said. “Saruman’s army will have strength in numbers. How long will the people of Rohan last against so many?”

“And with all those machines of war,” Gimli added. “Saruman is determined to destroy them, that’s certain.”

“And that’s why they have to head for Helm’s Deep!” Hermione said. “They can’t just stay here and wait to be killed!”

“They should at least make a stand at the fortress, then,” Gimli said. “If it’s as good as Théoden says it is…”

Hermione glanced about her. “Look around you, Gimli. These people are not soldiers. Théoden knows that and wants to make sure they are all safe!”

Aragorn spoke. “Then, Hermione, you must convince the King that battle may be necessary. Éomer and his men are leagues away; it will be days before they arrive, even if they are found. I hope that there will be no need to stand and fight, but we must be ready,”

“As ready as we can be without proper soldiers,” Hermione said bitterly. “All he wants is to keep the people safe. Trying to outfit them for battle…they aren’t soldiers! It’s suicide!”

“It is a trap, no matter which way you look at it,” Aragorn sighed. “There may be a need to fight.”

“And I say that there might not be! He says they can outlast the Uruks by staying within Helm’s Deep!”

“You are still young and do not know the ways of battle,” Aragorn said, in a presumably gentle voice. “It is likely that Saruman has weapons the like of which we have not yet seen, and against which the fortress would prove ineffective. He will lay siege to the fortress.”

“They can’t possibly fight!” Hermione said. “Look at them – all are too old or too young, and most have probably never even handled a sword!”

“Hermione –” Legolas said.

“There’s nothing more I can say to Théoden,” she said, cutting him off. “I’m going back to find my things so I can be packed.” In reality, her belongings were already stowed in her bags, but she felt the need to get away.

With that, she whirled around and began heading up to Meduseld. Someone probably made to follow her, because she heard Gimli’s voice saying, “Let her be. She’ll want to be alone.”

She had understood what they were trying to communicate to her, of course. But she could not convince Théoden to make his people stand and fight, not when they were so unprepared! So many lives were in her hands – and she was frightened for it.

Already she feared for her own life and those of her companions. If she had thought that worrying whether Voldemort would attack was real fear, she had been wrong. Voldemort was, to her, still a very nebulous idea. She had never encountered him face-to-face, not like Harry had. This fear – the fear that she and her friends might not survive if there would be a battle – was much more tangible.

It was a huge risk for Théoden to take, hanging his people’s lives on her advice. She had not reckoned that he would do such a thing, considering that she was so young.

You see? An inner voice asked. This is what happens when you meddle.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to ignore the guilt that was rising inside of her. What had she done? All she had wanted to do was find Ron. And now she was not even sure if he and the Hobbits were still alive.

Hermione found Éowyn in the main hall, looking through a trunk. The older woman pulled a sheathed sword from the very bottom of the trunk. She drew it out, laid the sheath to the side, and began to practice forms in a fluid motion. Hermione watched, recognizing a few of her moves.

“You’re quite good, you know,” Hermione remarked. “Who taught you how to use a sword?”

Éowyn held her blade in front of her with practiced ease. “My brother taught me, when we were young – before he was old enough to be a Rider. Now I simply remember the forms and practice on occasion.” She motioned to her right. “Your own sword is over there. It is very well made.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said. She walked over to the table, finding her bow, quiver, and sword all intact. The bundle of Ron’s things was still tightly wrapped. “The Elves made it for me, in Rivendell. I needed one for the Quest. Aragorn taught my friends and me how to use them, though my best weapon is the bow.”

“Would you like to practice?” Éowyn asked.

“Against you?”

She nodded.

“You’re going to win, I’m not used to fighting in skirts.” Hermione drew her blade out and smiled. “But I’ll try.”

They took up positions across from one another and raised their swords. Hermione studied Éowyn’s stance, trying to determine what moves the other woman would use. A counterattack using Elven forms would probably work very well to Hermione’s advantage; it was likely that Éowyn had never used those particular moves.

The blonde woman attacked swiftly, and the strength with which she wielded her blade surprised Hermione. It was immediately clear that Éowyn practiced regularly enough to know exactly what she was doing. Hermione herself had not used her sword frequently enough to move through the various Elven forms as smoothly or as swiftly as she would have liked, and Éowyn’s skills were enough to force Hermione back for several feet…

Soon enough, however, the moves came back to Hermione. Éowyn’s expression turned to one of slight surprise to intense concentration as they continued to spar, this time with Hermione on the offensive.

There was a slight movement off to the side, but Hermione paid it no heed. Her opponent, however, was momentarily distracted, and Hermione took the opportunity to disarm Éowyn with quick movement. The blonde woman’s sword fell to the ground with a clang.

“You both fight well,” came Aragorn’s voice. Hermione faced him, but he directed his next words towards Éowyn. “It is somewhat surprising to find yet another young woman who knows how to properly wield a weapon.”

Hermione looked at Éowyn. The other woman was flushed – and it could hardly be from the short bout of sparring. Her mouth opened and closed once soundlessly before she turned to put the sword away, saying, “The women of Rohan know that those who cannot use swords can still die upon them. I fear little – death and pain are no object.”

“Then what is it you fear, Lady Éowyn?”

She paused before saying softly, “To be locked away, until any chance of glory is beyond my reach. I have not had the freedom that Hermione was given, to fight beside men in battle. How else is renown to be gained? That is something I cannot see.”

“Éowyn,” Hermione said, “I’m sure that there has to be some way – ”

“It would never be allowed,” the other woman cut in. “It will be my fate, to be overly protected thus.”

“You are the daughter of kings, and a shieldmaiden of Rohan,” Aragorn said. “I do not think that will be your fate.”

To Hermione’s surprise, Éowyn turned a slightly pinker color at these words. “Thank you, my Lord Aragorn. Now I must see to the preparations once more.” She turned away and began to pack more items into the trunk on top of the sword, her hair swinging before her face as if to hide to rising color.

Aragorn beckoned to Hermione. “Your preparations are completed?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I have a spare dress – one of Éowyn’s old ones – and the clothes I have been wearing for the Quest packed away, together with my weapons and some food.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you did not want to wear a dress while traveling?”

“Éowyn insisted.”

“Have you spoken to Théoden?”

“No!” she said vehemently. “You heard me earlier – there’s little I can do to convince him. What else am I supposed to say? The people here in Edoras are not fighters – they would be massacred!” She endeavored to keep her voice low, as Éowyn was still nearby. “Could you just leave me alone?”

Aragorn’s mouth tightened, but he wordlessly walked away. Hermione strode back over to where Éowyn was so that she could put her sword away.

“I am almost ready,” the other woman said. She sighed and looked around. “I have lived here for years. It is almost terrifying to think that it might not be here if – when we return.”

“It will be,” Hermione said, trying to keep her voice confident. In speaking with her companions she had deduced that Saruman wished to destroy the people of Rohan, not their possessions. “We will return. We must.” Sheathing her sword, she took up her belongings and made for the stables.


Chapter 19 - A Seed of Good

Author’s Note: Much thanks to my Beta VanaTheEverYoung for catching all of my foolish mistakes.

Chapter 19: Ithilien\r\n\r\n

“I thought all the land around Mordor was supposed to be desolate,” Harry said. “Or doesn’t Sauron control these lands as well?” The air around them was fairly warm and dry, a welcome change from the cold and damp that had seemed to permeate both the Emyn Muil and the Dead Marshes. Plants were more abundant here than they had been in other places.

“Mahap it’s nice, but I still don’t like it,” Sam said. “It’s unnatural, it is – all this green but no sound of birds or the like. But I suppose I can find something for us to eat.”

“As I recall, Gondor holds some sway here, but Sauron’s reach is growing ever longer,” Frodo said as Sam wandered to the edge of the small, tree-enclosed area. The Hobbit was sitting in the sun with his back against a rock, eyes closed. His pale face was showing a little more color than it had in a while, at least, which was a good sign.

“You sure about this, Frodo? About letting Gollum lead us to who knows where?”

Frodo’s eyes flew open and he looked sharply at Harry. “If you have second thoughts, Elrond said that you needed to go no further than you wished.”

“That’s not what I was saying.”

“Then what was it?”

“Just…I’m not sure that it’s the best idea. I mean, I do see why you want to try and trust him, but I don’t think it’s going to change him.” A brief image of Severus Snape flashed across Harry’s mind as he said this. Harry’s lack of trust in Snape was small compared to how he felt about Gollum.

“You don’t trust my judgment?” Frodo demanded.

“No! I mean…I do, but…”

“But what? You doubt that I can handle the situation?”

That’s exactly it! You’ve been so sheltered in the Shire, you don’t know! Harry wanted to say this, but he refrained from doing so. Instead he repeated, “I just don’t want to trust him, that’s all.”

Frodo sighed. “He can change. He was something of a Hobbit once, you know. There is some seed of good in him.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean that you’ll be able to bring it out.”

“You need to trust me, Harry. I am trying to gain Sméagol’s trust – and in doing so, he gains mine. You could try being kind to him as well.”

“Look, as nice as you are to him, he can’t change.”

“I’m with Harry here,” Sam said as he approached. “Gollum isn’t going to get any better, Mr. Frodo.”

“You think so because you do not look for the good that come from him. Have you not noticed?” Frodo said stubbornly. “I try to be kind to him because I know how he feels and can guess how he thinks.”

“And you don’t think that I can guess, is that right? I’ve been through more than you have, Frodo, even though you are older than I am! I’ve dealt with more untrustworthy – ”

“Perhaps you know part of what I feel, Harry. The weight of the world is on my shoulders, so to speak. But you do not understand what carrying the Ring is like.”

Yes I do, Harry thought, though he held his tongue.

Frodo began fingering the chain absentmindedly as he continued to speak. “I was given this burden, and I will see the journey through. It is mine to carry – mine, my own!” The look in the Hobbit’s eyes had grown wild, almost animal.

Silence hung over the group for a few seconds before Sam whispered, “Don’t you know who you sound like, Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo’s hand traveled to where the Ring lay, and a glint of gold flashed through his fingers as he clasped it tightly. In the moments following that brief view of the Ring, Harry felt a voice in the back of his mind speaking – stronger this time than the last time he had heard it. Look how weak he really is, and you are armed with a sword and a wand – take it, save your friends, return to your time and repair all the damage Voldemort wrought…

It was like the Imperius Curse – the Ring was calling to him. He closed his eyes so that he could not see it. But it took every bit of his willpower to shove the voice to the very back of his mind, where he would be able to ignore it more easily. It was almost as bad as having Snape delve into his memories during Occlumency lessons.

When Harry opened his eyes again, Frodo’s expression had become sorrowful. “I’m sorry, Sam – and you, Harry. I know you are trying to protect me, and I do not know what made me speak thus.”

But you do, Harry thought. And we do too. But both he and Sam let Frodo continue talking.

“All I ask is that you allow me the chance to let the good come forth in Gollum. You may still be wary around him, you may not trust him, but at least try to be kinder to him. Agreed?”

Harry and Sam looked at each other briefly before nodding. “We’ll try, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said in a low voice. “But any funny business from him and…” He gestured in a manner that reminded Harry forcibly of Ron. He wondered where his best friend was right now and hoped that he was all right.

At that moment Gollum came prancing up with an expression of glee on his face and something furry dangling from his mouth. He deposited what he was carrying in Frodo’s lap and said excitedly, “Look! Look! See what Sméagol finds out in the treeses!”

Frodo grinned up at his companions as if to say, See, I told you! “Wonderful, Sméagol!”

“They are young and tender, and tasty!” Gollum said, picking one of the young rabbits up and twisting its neck. With that, he began gnawing at it, uncooked though it was. Frodo’s expression turned to one of disgust.

“Stop that!” Sam snapped, snatching the rabbit away from him. “You’ll make him sick if you carry on like that!”

Harry glanced at Frodo. The older Hobbit’s brows were furrowed. Sam avoided his gaze and continued to speak to Gollum.

“There’s a proper way to eat these, as every Hobbit knows. If you really want to help, go and find me some vegetables and herbs. Oh, and some taters would be nice.”

“Fat Hobbit is sso kind,” Gollum hissed. With that, he turned back to the trees and scurried off.

Sam averted his eyes as he placed the young rabbits carefully on the ground and began rummaging through his pack. He drew out a knife and a small wooden box that Harry had not seen before.

“Look, Mr. Frodo, I’ve been carrying this for a while. Just in case we ever needed a bit of it.” He tossed the little container to Frodo, who caught it with ease.

Harry glanced down as Frodo opened the box and revealed a white, crystalline substance. “Whatever is this, Sam?”

“It’s only a bit of salt. Just in case, you see. I was thinkin’…perhaps if we had some roast chicken…”

“Roast chicken?” Frodo said, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. “Sam!”

The other Hobbit shrugged his shoulders and busied himself with preparing the food.

“Don’t you think that the smoke from our fire will be a beacon for any enemy?” Harry asked.

“If we keep it small, it shouldn’t be a problem,” Sam replied. “And even as it is, I’m so craving a hot and decent meal that I near enough don’t care.”

In less than an hour Sam had put together a wonderfully fragrant stew. Harry had scrounged around the clearing and turned up a few herbs that Sam added to the pot. All those years of tending Aunt Petunia’s garden in the summer were useful after all, he thought as he watched the pot bubble, the scent of stewed rabbit rising with the steam.

Gollum bounded up on all fours, carrying some roots and humming to himself. As soon as he encountered the pot, however, he let out a shriek.

“What’s it doing, precious? It ruins tasty meat!”

“Oh, quiet with you,” Sam said as he stirred his cooking. “As my Gaffer always said, a good hot stew’ll always do you some good.”

“Yechhh!” Gollum said, making a face.

“Mayhap you ought to quit whining and try a bit,” Sam snapped. He turned to Harry. “Hand me that pan so I can give some to Mr. Frodo.”

Harry reached for the small pan and spoon and glanced around the clearing. “Where is he? He was next to you a moment ago.”

Sam looked up from his cooking. “Frodo?”

“Where’d he go?” Harry asked. “Wait a second…”

They sat for a few moments, the only sound coming from the gently bubbling stew. And then they heard it: a rumbling carried through the earth that could only come from the marching of hundreds upon hundreds of feet.

“Do you hear that?” he asked Sam in a hushed voice.

The gardener nodded, eyes wide.

Harry swore under his breath. “And Frodo’s gone and wandered off. What if it’s Orcs? He could be caught!” He reached for his sword and made sure he had his wand before heading in the direction of the sound. Looking back, he saw that Sam had stamped out the fire and was following.

Now he understood how worried Ron and Hermione felt whenever he was in danger. He would plunge headfirst into all sorts of situations while they were left wondering where he was in if he was all right.

“Pssst! Frodo!” he hissed as he and Sam crept closer to the sound.

“Over here,” Frodo said, waving his hand at them. He was flat on his stomach, concealed from the source of the sound by a screen of underbrush. “Look!”

Harry followed Sam, crawling next to the Hobbits. His jaw dropped open at the sight that me this eyes.

They were not Orcs, but rather an army of Men. The line stretched on for quite some distance. Every soldier carrying some sort of weapon or was bearing a banner.

“Who are they?” he wondered aloud.

“Wicked Men,” hissed Gollum’s voice just behind him.

Harry suppressed a yelp, and saw the two Hobbits do the same.

“Oi, don’t go doing that!” Sam said. “Why can’t you make yourself known like any normal being would?”

Gollum shrugged. “We is trying to be quiet – wicked oness must not see usss!”

“But where are they going?” Harry asked. “They’re Men, couldn’t they easily be on out side?”

Gollum snorted and rolled his eyes. “Silly, they is going to the East. The Dark One is gathering forces – to Mordor they goes!” Suddenly he turned and darted away.

“Sméagol?” Frodo asked. He looked, but Gollum had disappeared among the trees.

“We should go,” Harry said. “I don’t like Gollum, but whether he’s run off because he saw something or if he’s gone to betray us – ”

“He would do no such thing!” Frodo protested.

Harry sighed. Blinder than Dumbledore is when it comes to Snape. “Right, come on, let’s get out of here.” He began to turn around when Sam seized Frodo’s arm, mouth agape and eyes staring at something.

“Look, Mr. Frodo! No one at home would ever believe us!”

Frodo and Harry looked outwards once more, and Harry’s eyes widened in shock.

There were elephants bearing warriors upon their backs, but even Harry, who had been to the zoo a few times in his life, was rendered speechless by the sight. The creatures were unlike any elephant Harry had seen or even heard of. Their enormous tusks were decorated fiercely with sharp spikes, and the towers they bore on their backs were the size of small houses.

“Oliphaunts,” Sam breathed. “I never thought I’d see one.”

The oliphaunts paraded past with the rest of the army. This is what we’re up against, Harry thought. A Fellowship of nine – and now us, a group of four – against armies upon armies of Men and Orcs and such creatures – it seems more impossible than my defeating Voldemort. Fear struck him suddenly – how were they to make it past these armies once they made it to Mordor?

Suddenly chaos erupted amongst the ranks. Those of foot feel out of their marching formation, dead or fleeing in confusion; the oliphaunts were gong mad, twisting their bodies and stamping so strongly that people were shaken from the towers to their deaths. As Harry watched more closely, he saw that the commotion was caused by arrows flying from the trees.

“We’re not alone here,” Frodo said, apparently seeing the arrows as well. “Come, we must leave but remain unseen!”

The invisibility cloak is at the camp, Harry thought in frustration. As they turned to leave, the body of a young soldier pierced by an arrow flew though the air to land in front of them.

“Let’s go!” Harry said urgently, struggling to keep his voice low. He crouched and began to walk quickly back in the direction of the camp. All of a sudden, he stumbled to the ground. When he went to pick himself up again, he noticed a pair of unfamiliar boots before his eyes. Glancing up, he saw a cloaked Man reaching for a sword. With a yelp, Harry rolled away and jerked his sword out of its sheath as he stood.

Even as their swords clanged together, Harry knew he was not ready. In his haste, he had not gripped the sword properly, and he was also out of practice.

“Harry!” Frodo’s voice called. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the two Hobbits unsheathe their own swords and charge, but he could not afford any more than that brief sight. He would defend Frodo, but he could not do that if he was killed by this Man…

Their swords classed again and again as they fought around the trees; Harry soon had a tree at his back and was trying to recall all the forms and subtle tricks Aragorn had taught them. But now he was trapped; the strategy of fighting with something at his back might have worked against a group of Orcs all approaching from the same direction, but this opponent was skilled enough to keep his back pressed against the tree. He could not move, and he had to parry all the strokes he could. If only he had not made this mistake…

The sword flew from his shaking hands to rest on the ground. Harry closed his eyes, waiting for the final blow – I tried, Frodo, I tried, I’m so sorry...

But it never came. He opened his eyes.

The point of the sword was resting at his throat, but his opponent made no move to attack any further. Harry dared not move, but looking around, he was able to see that Frodo and Sam were struggling ineffectually against their own captors.

“Please! We’re innocent travelers!” Sam cried.

“Travelers?” came a Man’s voice. “There are no travelers here, only servants of the Dark Lord.”

“Oh, and what does that make you?” Harry asked before he could stop himself. Instantly he wished he hadn’t said anything. The Man fixed Harry with a hard stare, and even as Harry met his eyes, he saw the expression in them turn to one of puzzlement.

“What,” said the Man slowly, “is a Gondorian such as yourself doing here, so far from any settlement and in such company? Do you not realize – ”

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” Harry said, frowning. “A what, exactly?”

“Please, let us go!” Sam said. “We mean no harm.”

“Our mission is secret,” Frodo said. “If you truly oppose the Enemy as much as you appear, you would do well not to hinder our progress.”

The Man, still hooded, looked down at the body of the young soldier who had been killed. “Indeed.”

“It’s urgent,” Harry said. “Any delay – ”

“I imagine that this soldier’s sense of duty, of purpose, was no less than yours,” the man interrupted. “Perhaps he did not know the evil for which he went to fight. Where he came from, whether he was truly good, I do not know.” He turned to the companions. “You offer as little explanation as he does. I cannot know if you speak the truth. Bind their hands,” he said to the others.

Harry saw frustration well up in Sam and Frodo’s eyes. But they had no choice—unarmed as they were, they could do nothing but obey. Vainly Harry tried to search the memories that were Frodo’s, but he recalled only darkness.

I can’t let them take the Ring, Harry thought. I can’t let them near Frodo. With every step we take out of here, the stronger Sauron grows!

And with that despairing thought, they were hurried through the trees.
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