Alone Facing Darkness

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