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Chapter Text

The sky over Hogwarts was on fire.

Wandlight and curses flashed like lightning across the blood-soaked battlefield. Screams echoed through the Forbidden Forest as the remnants of the Death Eaters fled or fell. In the heart of it all, on the broken stones of the courtyard, Harriet Potter stood facing Lord Voldemort for the final time.

Her hair was matted to her forehead, her black robes torn and streaked with blood. But her green eyes burned with fierce resolve. Voldemort's snake-like face twisted into a sneer of hatred, his crimson eyes alight with fury and fear.

"You cannot win, Tom," Harriet said, her voice hoarse but clear. "Even now, you've already lost."

"You know nothing of victory," Voldemort hissed, his pale hand raising his wand.

Their spells flew at the same moment. twin beams of pure magic, Avada Kedavra and Expelliarmus, colliding in mid-air with a crack of reality itself. The golden core of Harriet's wand met the sickly green light of Voldemort's with a deafening thunderclap.

But something went wrong.

Instead of forcing a rebound or snapping the connection, the clash tore open the fabric of space, a shimmering vortex of chaotic light erupting between them.

The battlefield screamed and twisted. and then, there was nothing but silence.

Weathertop in Middle Earth

The winds atop Weathertop were cold and cruel.

Frodo Baggins staggered, clutching his shoulder where the Morgul blade had struck. Sam was shouting, slashing wildly with a cooking pan at the dark figures circling them. Merry and Pippin were desperately trying to protect Frodo.

And then came the Nazgûl, five of them, wraiths in black, gliding forward as the Witch-King raised his sword.

But just before his blade could strike…

The air tore.

A burst of magic. blinding gold and sickly green, exploded into existence right at the heart of the hilltop. The Nazgûl reeled back as two bodies were thrown from the light, skidding and tumbling over stone and grass. One was a tall, cloaked man with a skeletal face and eyes like flame, Voldemort. The other was a young woman in battle-ravaged robes, Harriet Potter.

Both were coughing, gasping, bleeding, dragging themselves forward.

Harriet's wand skittered across the dirt and landed right at the feet of the Witch-King.

Voldemort's wand rolled toward the cliff's edge, just a few feet from falling over.

The Nazgûl hissed in confusion. The Witch-King bent toward the wand near his foot.

But before he could pick it up, a blast of invisible force knocked him back. Harriet, gasping and bloodied, flung herself forward, hand outstretched.

She snatched her wand just as Voldemort reached his.

They turned to face each other.

The others looked on, stunned. Frodo's wound throbbed as he stared in awe, while Sam held him tightly. Even the Nazgûl paused, sensing the power gathering between these two strange beings.

"Once more, Tom…" Harriet whispered. Her voice cracked, but her eyes shone.

Voldemort snarled. "Die, Potter."

And then

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"
"EXPELLIARMUS!"

The spells collided mid-air in a searing clash of gold and green. The ground shook—violently. Stones cracked. The very sky seemed to recoil from the force.

But something shifted.

Harriet's magic, fed by something ancient and wild in this world, grew. The green light faltered.

The Killing Curse bent backward, rebounding again.

Voldemort's eyes widened.

"NO!"

The curse struck him square in the chest.

He was ripped apart, body and soul, obliterated not only by the spell but by the strange, magical resonance of Middle-earth itself.

Silence fell.

Only the wind stirred the ashes where Voldemort had stood.

Harriet fell to her knees, exhausted, wand still clutched in hand.

The Nazgûl retreated a step, uncertain now.

And Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin stared at the strange, wild-haired woman who had just destroyed a monster even darker than Sauron's servants.

Chapter Text

The air on Weathertop hung heavy with the scent of lightning and death.

Voldemort was gone, reduced to a smoldering scar on the earth, his ashes scattered on the wind like a whispered curse finally lifted.

The Nazgûl hissed and staggered back from the raw pulse of the rebounding curse. The Witch-King, who had raised his blade to strike Frodo moments before, stood frozen. His unseen eyes were locked not on the Ringbearer but on her.

Harriet Potter.

She remained upright a second longer, swaying, like a lone tree in a storm. Her hand clenched around her wand. Blood dripped from her temple, trailing down her neck. Magic still crackled faintly around her shoulders, gold sparks flaring in the wind.

Then her legs gave out.

Harriet collapsed to her knees and then to the ground, falling face-first into the Ground, right at the feet of the Witch-King.

"Harriet!" Frodo gasped, unsure why the name escaped his lips like a breath of old truth.

The Witch-King raised his sword again, slowly, uncertainly, as if unsure whether this collapsed girl was truly vanquished.

And then he stepped back.

The other Nazgûl stirred uneasily. The magic that had just ripped apart something as vile and powerful as that other dark one, the one who screamed in a snake-tongue, was still clinging to her like fire around dry kindling. Ancient. Untamed.

For the first time in an age, the Ringwraiths felt something unfamiliar.

Doubt.

"She felled him," one of them hissed. "With a single blow."

"She is not of this world," said another. "And not of Mordor."

"She could be a weapon," the Witch-King rasped.

"Or a threat."

"Or both."

Sam stumbled forward, half-shielding Frodo with his body, eyes wide and terrified. "You keep away from her!"

The Nazgûl all turned toward the four hobbits again.

And then

A howl split the darkness.

From the shadows beyond the slope, Strider burst into view, sword in hand, cloak billowing behind him like storm-clouds caught in the wind. A torch blazed in his other hand, firelight reflecting in his eyes.

"Back, foul things!" he shouted, hurling the torch toward the wraiths.

The Nazgûl hissed in fury, retreating back into the shadows, slipping into the wind like smoke. The Witch-King lingered a heartbeat longer, then turned and vanished, his black robes fluttering into nothingness.

Silence fell.

Harriet lay still.

Strider rushed to Frodo first, his eyes scanning the wound.

"He's cold," Sam whispered. "That blade—it was unnatural."

Strider nodded grimly. "He has been stabbed with a Morgul blade. We must get him to Rivendell quickly before the shard reaches his heart."

But then his eyes drifted to the girl lying nearby. His brow furrowed.

"She's not of this land," he murmured.

"She saved us," Pippin said softly. "Whatever she is. she fought him. And she won."

"She was standing right next to that tall one," Merry added. "The other dark one. The one who died. Never seen anything like it."

Strider approached slowly, kneeling beside Harriet. Her skin was pale, lips tinged blue, and her breathing shallow. She was shivering despite the warmth of the night.

He reached out and turned her gently onto her side, revealing the lightning-shaped scar on her forehead, glowing faintly, gold against her skin like an ember.

"A mark of power…" he whispered. "Old and yet unfamiliar."

Her wand slipped from her hand, and Strider picked it up cautiously, frowning at the strange craftsmanship.

"She's like a fire that's burned too long," he said quietly, brushing matted hair from her face. "Too hot. Too bright."

"She needs help too," Sam said, stepping beside him. "She saved Frodo. She deserves it."

Strider nodded.

"Then we carry them both."

He carefully lifted Frodo into his arms, while Merry and Sam moved to support Harriet's limp form. She was light, almost worryingly so, and her head lolled against Sam's shoulder.

"She's not waking," Pippin whispered.

"She will," Strider said, voice grim but resolute. "She must."

As they descended Weathertop, leaving behind the scorched earth where two titans had clashed in another war not their own, the wind blew softly, carrying away the last remnants of Voldemort's presence, and perhaps, the beginning of something new.

Later

The sky over Middle-earth had turned gray with dread.

Winds howled through the hills as the Fellowship's broken remnants fled Weathertop. Frodo's breathing was shallow, his skin pale and clammy. Harriet, still unconscious, was cradled behind Sam on a second horse, her face bloodstreaked, her lightning scar flickering faintly with gold light.

Strider led them hard through the wilderness, his jaw tight, eyes scanning the horizon.

"The wraiths will come again," he muttered. "They won't stop now. Not with the Ring and whatever power she carries."

"She's not waking up," Sam whispered from behind, holding Harriet upright as best he could.

"She's alive," Strider said, "but fading. Both of them are."

Thunder rumbled far off. The shadows lengthened.

And then

Hoofbeats.

From between the trees galloped a shining figure, silver and swift.

"Arwen!" Strider breathed.

The Evenstar reined in sharply before them, her white steed gleaming like starlight. Her long dark hair flowed behind her, and her eyes were hard with purpose.

"I heard the Wraiths' cries," she said. "They ride with fury tonight."

Her gaze fell on Frodo. Then on the strange woman, slumped and unmoving, her wand barely clutched in her limp fingers.

"What power brought her here?" Arwen murmured.

"We don't know," Strider said. "But she slew one darker than Sauron's minions. One from another world, I think. She burned like fire."

"She burns still," Arwen whispered, brushing Harriet's forehead with her fingertips. "But she dims."

"Can you take them?"

Arwen nodded, slipping gracefully from her saddle. "Both of them. I can ride faster alone."

"But"

"They will not catch me," she said, already lifting Frodo onto her horse.

With unnatural ease, she reached for Harriet next, cradling the unconscious witch and settling her in front of her on the saddle.

As the hobbits looked on, Arwen mounted once more, now holding both Frodo and Harriet tightly against her.

"I will carry them to my father. Ride hard behind me. They will come."

And then she was gone, hooves pounding like drums against the earth.

The Chase

The forest blurred around her. Leaves snapped past her face. Arwen held tight to her passengers, feeling Frodo's shallow breaths and Harriet's faint, flickering heartbeat.

Behind her, the wind screamed.

The Nine had come.

They poured from the trees like a black tide, their mounts snarling, blades gleaming, wraith-cries tearing through the sky.

Arwen didn't look back. She whispered words of Elvish to her horse, urging him faster. deeper. toward the rushing sound of the Bruinen River.

She reached the stony banks just as the thunder of the Nazgûl closed behind her.

Nine dark riders surrounded the opposite bank.

The Witch-King urged his mount into the water, voice rasping through the veil of the spirit-world.

"Give us the halfling, she-elf."

But then his gaze shifted to the woman who hung half-conscious in Arwen's arms.

Her wand slipped from her hand and clattered into Arwen's saddlebag.

Her scar flared.

And the Witch-King froze.

He knew her now.

He had felt that power. Had stood beside it as she obliterated something ancient and cruel. The scarred woman who had defied the dark, who had touched a fire deeper than even Sauron's black sorcery.

He pointed his blade not at Frodo but at Harriet.

And hissed

"Hand over the woman."

Arwen's eyes flared in fury.

"She belongs to no one," she said coldly. "Least of all you."

The Witch-King raised his blade.

"Give her to us, and we will spare the halfling. Deny us and die."

Behind them, the river began to tremble.

Arwen took a deep breath, whispered to her horse in Elvish again, and then stared the Nine down with all the fury of the ancient Firstborn.

"If you want them. come and claim them!"

The wraiths surged forward.

And the river exploded.

Great white horses formed of crashing water roared to life, slamming into the black riders like a storm unleashed. Screams of rage and surprise echoed as the Nazgûl were swept away, thrashing, drowning in the enchanted flood.

The last thing Arwen saw before the spray blinded her was the Witch-King, dragged under, his blade still outstretched toward Harriet even as he vanished beneath the river's wrath.

Then there was only silence and water.

Chapter Text

The sun rose gently over Rivendell, casting golden beams through the arched windows of the House of Healing. Soft birdsong echoed through the valley, and the waterfalls murmured like the voice of time itself.

But inside the high-ceilinged room, where light danced across white linens and polished wood, there was only tension.

She hadn't woken.

Harriet Potter lay motionless in a bed of fine elven silk, her black hair tangled across her pillow, her scar glowing faintly with a slow, pulsing rhythm like a heartbeat. A clean bandage wrapped her shoulder, and her wand rested on a table beside her, untouched since Arwen retrieved it from the saddlebag.

She hadn't stirred in two days.

Elrond stood at the foot of the bed, his ageless eyes narrowed in thought. Beside him sat Gandalf, pipe unlit, staff leaning against the wall. Arwen stood near Harriet's side, her fingers gently tracing runes of healing across the girl's forehead.

"She is not of Arda," Elrond murmured, his voice like water over stone. "That much is certain."

"No," Gandalf agreed, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "She carries no scent of this world's making. Her soul does not sing in the way Elves or Men do… and yet, her power resonates with the very fabric of Eä. Wild. Untamed. Older than any wizard's staff."

"She slew a dark being with a single word," Arwen whispered, eyes on Harriet's still form. "A curse of death met with disarming light, and she shattered him. As if something deeper within her answered."

Elrond stepped closer, gaze falling on Harriet's lightning scar, which still shimmered with faint golden pulses.

"It is a wound," he murmured, "but not of flesh. Something dark once lived in her… and yet it is gone now."

Gandalf nodded solemnly. "Whatever shadow clung to her has fled. But it left its mark. A soul that has fought darkness, and learned to wear it like armor."

"And her wand?" Elrond asked.

Arwen reached for it. She hesitated, then slowly held it out.

"The wood is unfamiliar," she said. "But it hums when touched, alive, in its own way."

Elrond took it gently, his fingers brushing the holly wood. The core pulsed once—like something breathing.

"She channels her magic through this, like a river through stone," he mused.

"And yet," Gandalf said grimly, "it was not the wand alone that turned back the Witch-King."

No one spoke.

Because the truth lingered in the room like thunder before a storm.

The Witch-King had not merely pursued Frodo. He had demanded the woman. Called her his. Obsessed over her, as if sensing in her something familiar or threatening.

"A weapon?" Arwen asked softly.

"Or a prophecy," Gandalf said. "Perhaps even a rival."

Elrond turned away from the bed and crossed to the windows, looking down into the gardens where Frodo now sat quietly with Sam, resting.

"The Ring draws evil to itself," he said. "But Harriet, she drew it away."

"She broke it," Gandalf corrected, his tone low and cautious. "Something inside her lashed out—raw and unshaped. It was not elven craft. It was not wizardry. It was something older."

Elrond's brows furrowed. "Do you mean..."

"Before the Istari," Gandalf said. "Before the shaping of the Rings. Something born of death and sacrifice… and choice."

A long silence followed.

Arwen looked down at Harriet again. "She doesn't belong here."

"No," Gandalf agreed. "But the world seems to want her here anyway."

As if hearing them, Harriet stirred faintly—her fingers twitching once—her brow furrowing.

Then she stilled again.

Far across the hills of the east, in the blackened lands beyond the mountains…

In the ruins of the Witch-King's shattered armor, dark mist coiled. The Nazgûl had been cast down at the river, but they had not been destroyed. They had retreated, licking their wounds, gathering their strength.

And in the darkness, the Witch-King spoke again.

"The girl burns. She carries death and a name not meant for this world."

Another wraith hissed in the shadows.

"She is dangerous."

"She is mine." the Witch-King said coldly.

"She is the end of us."

Chapter Text

The world returned slowly.

Not with a jolt, but like mist drawing back from a sun-dappled lake.

Harriet's eyes opened to soft light filtering through carved stone arches. The scent of herbs and water drifted on the breeze. A white canopy hung above her bed, its fabric gently swaying in the morning air. Her limbs were stiff, her head a dull throb behind her scar, but she breathed without pain for the first time in what felt like years.

For a moment, she thought she was dead.

But then she saw her wand, resting neatly on a nearby table beside a goblet of water and a polished silver bowl. She shifted slightly, and a quiet rustle brought motion from across the room.

"She wakes."

The voice was deep and calm, old yet powerful, like the quiet center of a storm.

Harriet turned her head slowly.

A tall figure approached: hair dark as ink, robes of silver and midnight blue flowing around him like water. His face was ageless, noble and grave.

Lord Elrond.

Beside him walked an older man with sharp, wise eyes and long grey robes. A worn staff tapped gently with each step. His presence was warm and strange, as if he'd seen too much and carried it lightly.

Gandalf.

Harriet blinked. "Where, where am I?"

Elrond inclined his head. "You are in Rivendell, Lady Harriet. The Last Homely House. You are safe."

Rivendell. The word sang strangely in her ears, like a song she'd never learned but somehow remembered.

Gandalf stepped forward, eyes crinkling with something close to amusement and curiosity. "You've slept for two days. It seems magic such as yours takes a toll even you cannot escape."

Harriet's brow furrowed. "Magic?" She glanced to her wand. "I, Voldemort, he"

Her eyes widened as memories crashed into her, green light, the scream, the fire of the Killing Curse rebounding in that other world. Then…

The cliff. The wraiths. The ring.

Harriet sat up with a gasp, nearly tumbling from the bed before Gandalf caught her shoulder.

"Easy, child. You've crossed further than you know."

"Where am I, really?" she asked, breath ragged.

Elrond exchanged a glance with Gandalf, then walked to the window.

"This is Middle-earth," he said quietly. "And you are far from the world you knew."

Harriet stared at him. "That's not possible."

"Neither," Gandalf said gently, "was returning the Dark Lord's killing curse upon himself for the second time and yet, here you are."

She swallowed, heart thudding. "Voldemort's dead. Again. I saw it, he burned."

"Yes," Gandalf said. "And you nearly did too."

Harriet looked down at her hands. They trembled faintly, gold sparks flickering under her skin. Her magic felt different. Not broken. Not gone. But deepened. Wilder. Like it was tapping into something older than her wand, her words, or even her will.

"I don't understand," she whispered.

Elrond turned from the window and approached.

"There are powers in this world, older than any we speak of. Some magic comes from light, some from song, some from will. Yours comes from pain."

Harriet looked up sharply.

"You carry a scar not just of flesh, but of soul," he said. "Your magic answered when death came for you again. And in doing so, it echoed through the veils that separate the worlds."

Gandalf nodded. "Something in this world pulled you here or your magic reached out and found a crack to fall through."

Harriet took a shaky breath. "And Voldemort?"

"Was caught in the same storm."

She gritted her teeth. "He won't come back again."

"No," Elrond said. "But he was not the only one who noticed you."

Harriet frowned. "You mean the wraiths?"

"The Nazgûl," Gandalf said. "Servants of Sauron. But their leader, the Witch-King of Angmar, he spoke your name. Demanded you be handed over. He fears you. Or desires what you carry."

Harriet's hand reached for her wand.

"I don't belong here," she said, voice tight. "I just wanted to end it."

Elrond studied her. "You ended one war. Perhaps you were brought here to end another."

She looked up at them, suddenly exhausted again, not from injury, but from knowing. From the old ache of never getting to rest. Her eyes dimmed, her fingers clenched.

"I don't want to be anyone's weapon," she said quietly.

Gandalf leaned forward. "Then you must choose your own path, Harriet Potter."

Harriet blinked at him. "You know my name."

He smiled gently. "I make it my business to know strange things that fall from the sky and break the grip of ancient evil."

A faint, tired smile tugged at her lips.

"I suppose that is a bit strange."

There was a long pause.

Then Elrond said, "You may stay here for as long as you wish. Your wounds are not yet healed. And there is still much to understand."

Harriet looked to the open window, where waterfalls sang and birds danced in the early light.

And in the distance she heard the world begin to stir again.

Later, The evening sun dipped low over Rivendell, casting pools of gold and rose light through the high windows of the Hall of Healing. Soft whispers of water from the nearby waterfalls mingled with the rustle of leaves outside, creating a serene melody that softened even the heaviest hearts.

Harriet sat on a carved wooden bench in the garden courtyard, wrapped in a woolen cloak the elves had given her. Her hands trembled slightly, fingers absentmindedly tracing the faint lightning scar on her forehead, still glowing faintly beneath the twilight.

Footsteps approached softly on the cobblestones.

"May I join you?" came a gentle voice, melodic and calm.

Harriet looked up to see Arwen, her silver gown shimmering in the fading light, eyes deep pools of quiet strength.

"Of course," Harriet whispered, managing a small smile.

Arwen settled beside her, graceful and still. For a long moment, they simply watched the sky bleed colors, orange, pink, purple, until Harriet finally spoke.

"I never imagined I'd be here," she said quietly. "In a world so different from mine."

Arwen nodded, her gaze distant. "We all carry the weight of worlds we did not choose."

Harriet swallowed. "I'm afraid. Not just of the Witch-King or the Nazgûl but of what I might become. The things I've done, the darkness I carry inside me."

Arwen's eyes softened. "Fear is not weakness. It is a thread that binds us to life, to hope."

"But sometimes it feels like a chain," Harriet admitted. "Like it will never let me be free."

The elven princess reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from Harriet's face, her touch cool but comforting.

"Scars are not just reminders of pain," Arwen said. "They mark survival. Strength. The proof that you have endured."

Harriet's breath caught at the gentleness of the gesture. She met Arwen's eyes, so luminous and ancient, and felt something unfamiliar stir deep inside her chest.

"Do you carry scars, too?" Harriet asked softly.

Arwen smiled, a wistful curve of lips. "Many. Some visible, many more hidden. The burden of duty is a heavy one, and the cost often unseen."

Harriet's fingers curled into the fabric of her cloak. "How do you bear it?"

Arwen's gaze held steady, unwavering. "By choosing who I am, despite the shadows. By loving what is true, even when it is difficult."

A silence fell between them, tender and charged.

Harriet's heart beat faster. She wanted to reach out, to bridge the space, but words faltered.

"I, thank you," she said finally, voice barely above a whisper. "For being here."

Arwen inclined her head slightly. "I will be here, as long as you need."

The sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the stars to awaken.

Harriet looked up, her breath hitching at the beauty of the night and at the presence beside her.

In the quiet starlight, something new began to grow, a fragile hope, and perhaps the first spark of something more.

The morning after, light filtered softly through the tall windows of Rivendell's great hall, where the air was thick with the mingled scents of pine, fresh earth, and old magic. Harriet's footsteps echoed quietly on the polished stone floor as she was led down a sweeping corridor by Elrond himself.

Her cloak was heavier now, the shadows beneath her eyes less pronounced, but the weight of everything she'd endured still clung to her like a second skin.

Ahead, voices and laughter drifted from a sunlit room.

"Elrond," Harriet said, glancing up at the elf lord. "Who are they?"

He smiled, a warmth touching his ancient eyes. "Friends. The hobbits who carry a burden heavier than most. Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin."

The door opened, and Harriet stepped inside.

Four small figures looked up in surprise, wide-eyed and curious.

Frodo, pale but steady, smiled first, stepping forward. "You're the one who fought the evil guy on Weathertop." he said softly. "The one Arwen carried through the forest."

Harriet nodded, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. "I didn't want to be here. But I'm glad to meet you."

Sam blinked, stepping closer protectively beside Frodo. "We're glad you're safe. And that you're with us."

Merry and Pippin exchanged excited glances. "We never expected a witch from another world," Pippin said with a grin.

Merry laughed. "You're braver than we are, that's for sure."

Harriet smiled, a genuine warmth blooming. "I think we all have our battles."

As the group gathered, the air seemed to shift, two worlds converging in a fragile alliance forged in fire and hope.

The days in Rivendell passed in a blur of motion and quiet wonder.

Harriet found herself moving through a world both familiar and strange. The gentle rustle of elven song replaced the hum of spells she once knew. The air was thick with old magic, deep and resonant, unlike anything she had ever sensed.

Under the watchful eyes of Elrond and Gandalf, she began to learn.

The elves showed her how their magic intertwined with nature itself, the way light danced on leaves, how the rivers sang with hidden power, and how the stones beneath her feet pulsed with ancient strength.

Harriet's wand felt different here. Though it hummed softly in her hand, it no longer was the sole channel of her power. Here, magic was woven into the land, the air, the very essence of life.

She watched in awe as Gandalf conjured soft blue flames that danced like will-o'-the-wisps, and listened as Elrond recited songs older than the hills, words that stirred the stars.

Her own magic stirred uneasily at first, sometimes flaring with gold sparks beneath her skin, other times retreating, shy as a hidden flame.

The hobbits became her companions and guides, their innocence and courage a balm to her weary heart.

Frodo shared stories of the Shire, the simple joys she had once known only in dreams. Sam offered quiet support, always steady and true. Merry and Pippin filled moments with laughter and mischief, reminding Harriet of the light still worth fighting for and they remind her of Fred and George.

Preparations for the journey ahead were underway.

Weapons were sharpened, horses readied, and provisions gathered. Maps were studied in the halls of Rivendell, where whispers of shadow and hope mingled.

And then came the summons, the great hall filled with voices from every corner of Middle-earth.

The Council of Elrond was to begin.

Harriet stood beside Frodo, Arwen, and the others as the doors opened.

Leaders and champions from distant lands took their seats, Elves from Lothlórien, Men of Gondor and Rohan, Dwarves from the Lonely Mountain, and even strangers whose origins whispered of mystery and power.

Gandalf's voice rang clear.

"The fate of all free peoples rests on what we decide this day. The Ring must be destroyed. But how?"

Harriet looked around, heart pounding.

Here, in this hall of legends and legends yet to be made, she would find her place or be forever lost between worlds.

The Council of Elrond

The great hall of Rivendell was filled with murmurs and restless shifting as the Council of Elrond convened. Harriet sat near the center, flanked by Frodo and the hobbits, her heart pounding with a strange mixture of awe and unease.

Around her, voices rose and fell, debating the fate of the One Ring, the shadow looming over Middle-earth, and the desperate path that lay ahead.

Harriet's eyes drifted to the Ring itself, resting on a small pedestal in the middle of the hall. The gold band gleamed under the soft lamplight, its surface shimmering with an almost alive quality. Though no one touched it, its presence filled the room with a heavy, suffocating weight.

Her fingers twitched, and a faint pull tugged at her, like a whispered promise at the edge of her mind.

Legolas, tall and graceful, caught her gaze and offered a small, knowing smile. His emerald eyes seemed to pierce through the room's tension, and his calm presence steadied her.

"Magic from another world carries many burdens," he said softly, his voice a smooth melody. "Here, power is a dangerous temptation."

Harriet nodded, struggling to keep her focus. She could feel it—the Ring calling out to her, singing the same dark song Voldemort had once tried to wield.

Then Boromir stepped forward, his armor gleaming, eyes fierce with determination.

"This Ring is a weapon," he declared, voice ringing. "With it, we could defend Gondor, strike down our enemies, and turn the tide. It should be ours to wield."

Harriet watched him warily. She sensed his desperation masked by pride, and the dangerous lure the Ring held for even the strongest hearts.

Her gaze flickered back to the Ring, and before she knew it, her hand moved forward, trembling, fingers inches from the band.

A cold shiver ran down her spine.

The room seemed to grow silent.

And then Gandalf's voice broke through the haze, sharp and urgent.

"Do not touch it."

His eyes locked onto Harriet's, fierce and commanding.

"The Ring offers power, but it is a poison that corrupts all who seek to master it."

She froze, the temptation recoiling like a wave breaking against stone.

Frodo's hand found hers, steady and reassuring.

"You're not alone," he said quietly.

Harriet withdrew her hand slowly, breathing heavy.

Legolas nodded at her with a gentle smile.

"Strength is not the absence of temptation, but the choice to resist it."

As the Council continued, Harriet felt the weight of the Ring ease slightly, not gone, but tempered by the bonds forming around her.

She was part of this world now, its hope and its danger entwined with her own.

And the path forward, uncertain and perilous, was hers to walk.

As the Council's voices rose and fell, debating the fate of the Ring and the peril it represented, Elrond rose from his seat, his voice calm but grave.

"There is another shadow we must consider," he said, turning his piercing gaze toward the assembly.

"All know the threat of the Nazgûl, the Witch-King of Angmar, greatest of Sauron's servants. But there is something new. Something personal."

He looked toward Harriet, who felt the weight of all eyes settle upon her, the scar on her forehead burning faintly.

"The Witch-King has spoken of this woman," Elrond continued. "Demanded that she be handed over. He fears her, or desires the power she carries. His pursuit of the Ringbearer is now entwined with a dark obsession, one that puts her in grave danger."

Boromir frowned, exchanging uneasy looks with the others.

"Why would he want her? What threat could she pose to such a creature?"

Elrond's eyes darkened. "She is not of this world, but she bears a magic ancient and wild, a power that rivaled and destroyed another dark lord who sought to wield death itself. The Witch-King senses this power as a threat to his master's designs."

Gandalf nodded solemnly. "We must protect her as fiercely as we protect the Ringbearer. For if the Witch-King captures her, the consequences could be dire beyond imagining."

Legolas stepped forward, voice steady. "The path before us is shadowed not only by the Ring, but by those who covet her power."

Harriet's heart pounded, the truth of Elrond's words settling like a cold weight.

She was caught between two worlds, hunted by an enemy older and darker than even Voldemort, and now the fate of Middle-earth seemed tied not only to the Ring, but to her very existence.

Elrond's final words hung in the air:

"This council must decide not only the fate of the Ring, but the protection of the girl who stands against shadow itself."

The hall fell into a tense silence, the enormity of their task settling over them all.

While the Council Argues

As the voices of the Council grew louder in the great hall, debating fiercely over the fate of the Ring and the path forward, Gandalf quietly motioned for Harriet to follow him out into the dimly lit corridor beyond.

The air outside the chamber was cooler, heavy with the scent of rain and ancient stone.

Gandalf's eyes, sharp and thoughtful beneath his silver brow, fixed on her with unusual intensity.

"The Witch-King's interest in you is no mere chance," he said softly. "He is a creature born of fear and malice, yet even he senses something dangerous within you."

Harriet swallowed, feeling the weight of the wizard's words settle like a cloak around her.

"Why me?" she whispered. "I'm just a girl, caught between worlds."

Gandalf shook his head slowly.

"You are more than that. The power that saved you, and destroyed Voldemort, echoes with a force older than we can fully understand. The Witch-King fears you because you represent a wild magic that could unravel the darkness he serves."

Harriet's fingers tightened around her cloak.

"But if he captures me? what then?"

Gandalf's expression grew grim.

"Your magic could be twisted, turned against all free peoples. Worse, he could learn to harness what lies within you, and that would be far deadlier than the Ring itself."

Behind them, voices rose sharply from within the Council chamber.

Boromir's voice thundered, "We should take the Ring to Gondor! Use its power to crush Sauron before he can strike!"

Aragorn countered, "The Ring is not a weapon. It will corrupt all who wield it. We must destroy it."

Elrond's voice cut through the argument, steady and commanding.

"The danger to this girl cannot be ignored. She is a target, and her protection must be our priority."

Harriet glanced back toward the chamber door, then at Gandalf.

"What should I do?"

"Trust in your strength, and in those who will stand with you," Gandalf said, placing a steady hand on her shoulder. "The road ahead is perilous. But you will not walk it alone."

Harriet nodded, resolve hardening within her.

As the Council's debate continued inside, a new chapter of her journey was just beginning, one that would test every part of her courage, magic, and heart.

Back to the council

The great hall of Rivendell fell into a heavy silence as Elrond's voice rang clear, settling the heated debate.

"The Ring cannot be wielded or kept by any one power. It must be destroyed."

He turned to the assembly. "A Fellowship must be formed, a company of diverse strength and loyalty. To carry the Ring to the fires of Mount Doom and cast it into the fire from whence it came."

Harriet's heart quickened as she met Elrond's steady gaze.

"You will come with us," he said softly, nodding toward her.

Whispers rippled through the hall.

Gandalf spoke next, voice ringing with quiet authority, "Harriet Potter's power and courage make her vital to our quest. She faces dangers both from this world and beyond."

Boromir's expression darkened but he did not object.

Legolas stepped forward, bow slung over his shoulder. "I will join the company."

Aragorn, tall and grim, nodded his assent. "As will I."

The hobbits, of course, would go. Frodo bore the Ring, and his companions would not leave him.

Thus the Fellowship of the Ring was born, Ten souls bound by fate and fire.

Training and Bonds

In the days before their departure, the company gathered in Rivendell's courtyards and forests to prepare.

Harriet trained alongside Legolas and Aragorn. The elves taught her to listen to the magic in the world around her, to feel the song of the trees and the whisper of the wind. Aragorn shared lessons in swordplay and tracking, his gruff kindness grounding her.

She marveled at Legolas's effortless grace, his laughter lightening moments of doubt.

One evening, while practicing spellwork beneath a canopy of stars, Harriet turned to Legolas.

"Your magic, it feels alive, like it breathes with the earth."

He smiled. "It is part of us, as you are part of yours. But the power you carry is fierce and unlike anything I have seen."

Aragorn joined them, nodding thoughtfully. "Your strength will be tested. But you will teach us as much as we teach you."

The hobbits often gathered nearby, their friendship simple and true.

Sam offered her fresh bread and stories of the Shire's gardens, while Merry and Pippin teased her gently, reminding her to find joy even in darkness.

One morning, Frodo approached quietly as she practiced, his eyes full of quiet courage.

"You're not alone, Harriet," he said softly. "We'll all be there. Together."

Harriet smiled, feeling the first true flicker of hope in weeks.

As the dawn of their journey broke over Rivendell, the Fellowship stood ready.

Nine hearts bound by courage, shadow, and light.

Harriet's wand was steady in her hand, her scar faint but glowing, a beacon of fire and resilience.

The road ahead was perilous.

But she was no longer just a girl from another world.

She was a part of this world's fate.

Chapter Text

The air in Rivendell was still in the early dawn, the valley cloaked in silver mist. Harriet stood on the stone bridge that led away from Elrond's house, her wand in one hand and the Elven cloak Arwen had pressed upon her folded tightly around her shoulders. The sound of rushing water echoed from below, mingling with the distant songs of elves bidding them farewell.

The Fellowship assembled in quiet determination. Frodo stood at the center, pale but resolute, the weight of the Ring pulling at him even in the soft light. Sam hovered near, packs laden as though he bore the Shire itself on his back. Merry and Pippin whispered hurried jokes to one another, their bravado masking the tremor of fear Harriet could see in their eyes.

Aragorn, stern yet gentle, checked the straps of his sword and turned his gaze to the horizon. Legolas moved with the grace of a deer, bow and quiver slung across his back. Gimli the dwarf adjusted his axe, muttering to himself about "foolish elf-song goodbyes." Boromir stood apart, his eyes lingering on Frodo and then flicking to Harriet, as though measuring their worth in silence.

Gandalf brought them together, his staff gleaming faintly in the morning light. "Ten companions," he said, voice carrying like the toll of a bell. "So be it. We shall be the Fellowship of the Ring."

And so they departed, the Last Homely House shrinking behind them, its comfort and safety replaced by the long, winding road that lay ahead.

The first days were hard.

The company moved through tangled woods, across frost-stiffened fields, and along narrow mountain trails. Harriet's boots blistered quickly; though she was no stranger to long treks during her school years hunting Horcruxes, the lands here were wilder, harsher, and far less forgiving.

Nights were cold. They huddled around small fires, careful to keep their presence hidden. Harriet listened to the hobbits speak of home, warm kitchens, roaring hearths, gardens bursting with flowers. It tugged at her heart, reminding her of things she never had but always longed for.

During the march, Aragorn taught her how to move silently in the undergrowth, how to look for tracks, and how to read the signs of weather on the wind. Legolas often walked near her, pointing out creatures she had never seen before, hawks with golden eyes, deer swift as the river current, and once even a fox with fur so silver it shimmered like moonlight.

But not all was wondrous. More than once, Gimli growled of shadows on the wind. Once, Boromir's hand shot to his sword as distant howls rose from beyond the ridges. And Harriet herself felt it, that pull, that uneasy prickle on her scar, as if dark eyes watched them from far away.

It was on the fourth evening, as they made camp beneath a circle of ancient pines, that Harriet's curiosity finally broke free. She sat by the fire, parchment in her lap, filled with careful Elvish script she had copied from Rivendell's archives. Her eyes lingered on one passage in particular—the history of the Rings of Power.

At last, she looked up.

"Gandalf," she said quietly, her voice carrying just enough for the others to hear. "I've been reading about the Rings. The One Ring I understand, it dominates the others. But what of the rest? The Three, the Seven, the Nine? What became of them?"

The fire crackled, throwing shadows across Gandalf's lined face. He regarded her with a mixture of approval and sorrow.

"You are right to ask, Harriet. For in knowing the history, you may better understand the peril we face."

He gestured with his staff, as though drawing the story from the flames themselves.

"The Nine you already know, the Nazgûl, the Ringwraiths. Once kings of men, now enslaved by Sauron's will. Their master's will is their own."

Harriet shivered, recalling the Witch-King's rasping demand: Hand over the woman.

Gandalf continued, his tone darkening.

"The Seven were given to the dwarves. Many were lost to dragon fire, others reclaimed by Sauron. They did not bend to his will so easily, but they stoked greed, and that greed devoured kingdoms."

He paused, his gaze lifting to Legolas, who listened in still silence.

"The Three were the fairest. Forged not by Sauron, but by the elves themselves, to preserve, to heal, to protect. One rests with Elrond, one with Galadriel of Lothlórien, and one…" His eyes flickered for the briefest moment. "With me."

Harriet leaned forward, fascinated.

"So the elves' Rings aren't corrupted?" she asked.

"No," Gandalf said softly. "But they are still bound to the fate of the One. If it is destroyed, their power will fade. If it endures, even hidden, they remain vulnerable."

The company fell silent, the weight of his words settling heavy over them.

Harriet looked into the fire, her fingers brushing the hilt of her wand. She knew too well the cost of power, the lure of temptation. And now, in this strange land, she realized she stood not only among warriors and kings, but among bearers of burdens as heavy as her own.

Later that night, unable to sleep, Harriet walked to the edge of camp, looking out over the wild lands stretching into shadow. Her scar burned faintly, not with Voldemort's touch, but with something colder, older, and more vast.

The Witch-King's words haunted her still.

Hand over the woman.

And she knew, with a certainty that chilled her, that her fate was now as tightly woven with the Rings as Frodo's was.

When she returned to the fire, Legolas glanced up, his eyes bright in the dark.

"They are clearer here than in your world, are they not?" he asked softly, without turning.

Harriet stepped beside him, her breath catching at the nearness of his presence. "They are brighter. As though they're watching."

Legolas looked at her then, his eyes reflecting the starlight. "The stars are older than all of us. They endure. As will you."

Something in his tone, a quiet assurance laced with gentleness, warmed her more than any fire. She smiled faintly, her chest tightening with something new, unfamiliar yet not unwelcome.

For a moment, the weight of war and prophecy lifted, leaving only two souls beneath the stars.

And Harriet wondered if perhaps, among all the shadows of Middle-earth, she had found a light worth reaching for.

Harriet managed a small smile, settling near the hobbits as they slept in a tangled heap of cloaks.

Tomorrow, the Fellowship would march further into shadow.

And with every step, Harriet felt herself pulled deeper into the fate of Middle-earth.

The Fellowship pressed onward, their path bending north as the foothills of the Misty Mountains rose into the sky. The peaks of Caradhras loomed above them, sharp and cruel, wreathed in clouds that churned like a storm waiting to strike.

The climb was steep, the air thin and bitterly cold. Snow crunched beneath their boots, and the wind cut through even the thickest cloak. Harriet had known harsh winters at Hogwarts, but this was no ordinary mountain. The air was thick with resistance, as though the stone itself rejected their passage.

Boromir cursed under his breath as he pushed forward. "This is folly. The mountain will kill us before Sauron's forces ever lay eyes on us."

Aragorn's voice was steady but strained. "We must try. The passes are watched, Caradhras may be our only chance."

Harriet gritted her teeth, pressing onward. Yet the deeper they climbed, the more she could feel it. The magic here was hostile, thrumming in the very air. Snow fell heavier, sharper, biting at her skin like shards of glass. The wind howled with a voice that wasn't natural.

Her wand trembled in her hand, sparks jumping at her fingertips. She raised it instinctively, trying to shield the others. A golden barrier shimmered against the wind for a moment, but the mountain's fury battered at it until the spell cracked and broke like fragile glass.

She staggered back, her chest heaving, her magic drained far faster than it ever had been in her world. "It's alive," she gasped. "The mountain, it doesn't want us here."

Legolas's hand brushed her arm, steadying her. His eyes, calm and luminous even in the storm, studied her with concern. "Save your strength. Caradhras is cruel and ancient. Its will is older than spells."

Gandalf's face was grim, snow caught in his beard. "The mountain is awake and against us."

The storm worsened, burying their path under endless snow. Even the hobbits struggled, their small legs sinking with each step. Boromir and Aragorn took turns carrying Merry and Pippin through the drifts, while Sam half-pulled Frodo onward.

Harriet pressed herself forward despite exhaustion, her cloak heavy with snow. But the mountain fought them harder with every step, avalanches crashing down from the ridges above, the ground shaking as though it wanted to cast them off.

And then her boot slipped.

With a startled cry, Harriet tumbled sideways into the deep snow, her wand skittering from her grasp. For a heartbeat, icy terror gripped her. The slope was steep, the drop below far too close.

A hand caught hers before she could fall further.

Legolas stood above her, balanced with impossible grace on the shifting snow, his grip firm and unyielding. He pulled her up with an effortless strength that belied his slender frame.

Their eyes met.

The world seemed to still despite the howling storm, her breath caught in her throat. Heat rushed to her cheeks, a violent blush blooming beneath the cold. She muttered a shaky "thank you," but the words felt clumsy, drowned by the pounding of her heart.

Legolas only smiled faintly, his expression unreadable but gentle, before releasing her hand once she stood steady.

Harriet turned quickly, embarrassed, but she felt the weight of Gandalf's eyes upon her. The wizard said nothing, his face unreadable beneath the snow, but the knowing glimmer in his gaze made her cheeks burn hotter.

After awhile, Aragorn called for retreat. "We cannot pass. Caradhras will bury us before we find the summit. We must turn back."

Boromir nodded grimly, for once in agreement. "The mines, then. Moria."

The company descended in weary silence, the storm easing only once they turned away from the mountain's heart.

That night, they camped in the shelter of a narrow valley. A small fire flickered, barely strong enough to push back the cold. One by one, the Fellowship fell into uneasy sleep, huddled together for warmth.

Harriet sat apart, staring into the flames, still feeling the phantom pressure of Legolas's hand in hers.

She startled when Gandalf settled beside her, the staff in his lap, his face shadowed in the firelight. For a long moment he said nothing, merely smoking his pipe and watching the stars struggle against the drifting clouds.

At last, his voice rumbled low. "It is no shame to be moved by kindness, Harriet. Nor to blush at the hand that catches you from the dark."

She turned crimson again, sputtering, "I, I wasn't"

Gandalf's smile was small but kind, his eyes twinkling as though he had seen the blushes of countless ages. "The world is full of shadow, child. Do not be afraid to grasp the light where you find it."

Harriet swallowed, her chest tightening. For once, she did not argue.

The fire crackled softly between them, and somewhere behind, Legolas shifted in his sleep.

And though the road ahead leads into the darkness of Moria, Harriet lay down that night with a warmth in her chest that even the cold mountain could not extinguish.

The road from Caradhras wound low into a bleak, stony wilderness. Gone were the white peaks and deep snow; here the air was cold and dry, the wind carrying only the scent of dust and old stone. The Fellowship walked in silence at first, wearied by their struggle with the mountain, but slowly voices returned, laughter and talk rising here and there like sparks in the gloom.

Harriet walked between the hobbits, the warmth of their company easing the heavy thoughts Caradhras had left on her shoulders. Merry and Pippin teased her endlessly about her fall, though their mischief was gentle.

"Not every day the great Witch-Queen of another world nearly tumbles into the abyss," Pippin grinned, darting ahead.

"Witch-Queen?" Harriet snorted, shaking her head. "That's a new one. I was lucky Legolas was there at all."

Merry smirked knowingly. "Aye, lucky indeed."

Her cheeks flushed, and the hobbits laughed until Sam cuffed them both on the ears. "Enough, you two! Don't tease her. She's had more weight on her shoulders than any of us."

Sam gave Harriet a shy smile afterward. "You remind me of Mr. Frodo, in some ways. You carry things without complaining, even when they near break you."

Harriet's chest warmed at that, though she said nothing. She didn't feel like Frodo, if anything, he seemed far braver than she. But the hobbits' companionship, their simple loyalty, felt like a balm she hadn't known she needed.

That evening they camped in a hollow near a cluster of broken stones, remnants of some forgotten wall or tower. Aragorn set watch while Boromir gathered wood, and Gandalf drew soft sparks from his staff to light the fire.

The Fellowship sat close around the flames, sharing food and stories. Boromir spoke of Gondor's White Tower, his voice rich with pride. He described its walls gleaming in the sun, its banners snapping against the wind, the city standing as a bulwark against Mordor.

"The shadow beats at our gates day and night," Boromir said, his eyes hard. "Yet still we endure."

Frodo listened quietly, but Harriet noticed the weight in Boromir's words, the edge of desperation that always seemed to follow him.

When the hobbits grew drowsy, Legolas began to sing softly in Elvish. His voice was clear, bright as starlight, carrying across the camp like a melody older than the stones around them. Harriet found herself leaning toward him, caught in the spell of it. She didn't know the words, but she felt their meaning—sorrow and endurance, light surviving in shadow.

When the song ended, she whispered, "It's beautiful."

Legolas turned to her, his eyes reflecting the firelight. "The stars are older than sorrow. Their song reminds us of that."

She held his gaze a moment longer than she meant to, heart thudding in her chest. Then she looked away quickly, tucking her wand back into her cloak as though it demanded her attention.

The days that followed brought long stretches of weary travel. They crossed grey hills where nothing grew but patches of hardy grass, and valleys where jagged stones rose like broken teeth. At times, the land seemed abandoned, empty of bird or beast, and Harriet felt the press of silence heavier than the weight of her pack.

But there were lighter moments too.

Sam, ever faithful, insisted on cooking meals for everyone whenever they stopped, producing simple stews and breads from their meager supplies. Harriet offered to help one evening, only to find herself shooed away as Sam muttered, "You've enough to think on, miss. Leave the taters to me."

Merry and Pippin taught her hobbit drinking songs, their voices loud and merry even when their throats grew hoarse. Frodo smiled at their antics, his hand never far from his chest, where the Ring hung hidden, yet his laughter seemed genuine in those rare hours.

Even Gimli warmed to her, though gruffly. He allowed her to hold his axe for a moment one night, and though it nearly pulled her arm from its socket, he nodded in approval when she didn't complain. "Stronger than you look," he said, before reclaiming it with a grunt.

After a couple of days, they came within sight of the western cliffs of the Misty Mountains. The great walls of stone towered above them, and the path narrowed into deep shadows where the air was still and heavy. Harriet felt a chill crawl up her spine as they drew nearer, as though unseen eyes watched from the cracks in the stone.

They made camp one last time before pressing to the gates of Moria. That night, Harriet sat apart, gazing at the mountains that loomed like sleeping giants. The firelight flickered across her face, her mind restless with worry of what lay ahead.

Gandalf approached, lowering himself onto the stone beside her. He said nothing for a time, puffing at his pipe, the scent of smoke drifting lazily between them.

"You fear what waits in the dark," he said at last.

Harriet nodded, her voice quiet. "I've faced monsters before. But this feels older. Like the shadows themselves are alive."

Gandalf's gaze was steady, unreadable. "In Moria, you will find darkness deep and perilous. But remember this: even shadows flee before light. Hold fast to that truth."

She glanced at him, her chest tight. "And if I falter?"

The old wizard smiled faintly, his eyes twinkling with warmth. "Then you will not be alone. That is the gift of this company. Remember it well."

As Harriet returned her gaze to the mountains, she found herself glancing across the camp to where Legolas sat, silent and watchful, polishing the edge of one of his arrows. He looked up at that moment, their eyes meeting across the flickering firelight.

For just a heartbeat, the dread of Moria faded, replaced by a warmth that spread through her chest. She looked away quickly, cheeks heating, but the feeling lingered.

The Fellowship would face darkness soon enough. But for the first time since she had fallen into this world, Harriet felt a fragile thread of hope winding its way through the fear.

The land pressed close as the Fellowship moved down into the dark cleft of the mountains. The cliffs rose like walls of iron on either side, blotting out what little light remained of the waning day. The air was thick and damp, clinging to skin and breath alike, and the silence felt so complete that every step seemed to echo too loudly against the stone.

Harriet walked close to Gandalf and Legolas, her wand loose in her fingers though she tried not to draw notice. Every nerve prickled with unease. She had fought in graveyards, chambers beneath castles, and even dreamscapes filled with shadow, but this place was different. The silence was watchful, heavy, as if the mountain itself had a will.

At last, they came to the dark lake that lay before the sheer rock face. The water stretched wide and black, smooth as glass, reflecting no stars. Harriet felt her stomach twist just looking at it. There was something about the stillness of the surface, too still, that set her teeth on edge.

"This is no ordinary pool," she murmured under her breath.

Legolas, walking at her side, inclined his head in agreement. "No creature of the wild drinks from it. I have felt its unease since we drew near."

The rest of the Fellowship spread out warily as Gandalf stepped forward, his staff glowing faintly as he began to search along the stone for some hidden sign of the gate. Harriet trailed closer, curiosity warring with unease. Her eyes caught faint grooves etched into the stone, delicate lines that shimmered faintly as Gandalf's light fell upon them.

"Elvish," she whispered, awe softening her tone.

The runes bloomed to life in pale silver fire, stretching in arching designs across the gate. Harriet's breath caught at the sight. It wasn't like the runes she had studied at Hogwarts, rigid, bound to single meanings, but something alive, fluid, a language that seemed to breathe as she looked at it.

"What does it say?" she asked.

Legolas answered softly, his voice carrying the reverence of one who knew their meaning well. "Speak, friend, and enter."

The beauty of it struck her more than the words. To Harriet, the script felt less like writing and more like the lingering breath of something ancient and enduring. She reached out, almost without thinking, her fingertips brushing the glowing lines. For a moment, warmth bloomed beneath her skin, a pulse that resonated with the core of her magic. It was like being acknowledged, as though the mountain itself whispered: I see you.

She pulled her hand back quickly, unsettled, and found Legolas watching her with keen interest. His expression was unreadable, though his eyes lingered on hers a heartbeat longer than necessary before turning back to the gate.

While Gandalf tried word after word in Elvish, muttering in frustration, Harriet wandered a few paces away to stand beside Legolas. The darkness of the lake pressed against her thoughts, heavy and suffocating.

"Legolas," she said quietly, almost hesitant, "tell me about yourself. About the others. I've fought alongside them, but I feel as though I know so little."

His face softened in the shadows, his gaze still sweeping the dark water. "I am of the Woodland Realm, the son of Thranduil. We are a proud but solitary people, though our lands grow dim in these later days. I have walked beneath trees older than stone and sung songs of the stars since I first drew breath." His voice lowered. "And now I walk at your side, far from the woods of my people. Such is the way of this quest."

Harriet studied him, caught by the quiet depth in his words. "You make it sound almost eternal. As if time itself can't touch you."

Legolas gave her a faint smile. "Time moves differently for my kind. For you, it is a rushing river. For me, a slow tide. But even tides shift."

Her chest tightened, and before she could think of what to say, Merry's voice cut in with a mischievous tone. "Careful, Harriet, get too lost in those Elvish eyes, and you might forget the way back out."

Heat flared in her cheeks as the hobbits chuckled, and even Gimli gave a low grunt that might have been laughter. Harriet opened her mouth to snap a retort but found herself too flustered, words caught in her throat. She turned away quickly, staring hard at the black pool, though the burning in her face betrayed her.

Legolas said nothing, though she thought she caught the faintest ghost of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips.

When at last Gandalf admitted defeat and Frodo offered the simple solution, "Mellon," the Elvish word for friend, the gates groaned open, the silver light folding inward as ancient stone ground against stone.

The Fellowship stepped warily toward the opening, but Harriet lingered, her gaze still fixed on the black water. Ripples spread across the surface, faint at first, then deeper, darker. Something stirred beneath.

She froze. The magic in her blood screamed warning. "Something's moving."

Before anyone could respond, a great tentacled arm burst from the pool, wet and glistening, slamming into the rocks with a thunderous crack. The Watcher in the Water rose in its terrible form, countless limbs whipping and curling toward the Fellowship.

Harriet's wand snapped up instinctively, a wordless surge of magic bursting from her. Bright light flared, striking the nearest tentacle and forcing it back with a hiss. Frodo stumbled, nearly caught, before Sam and Boromir dragged him clear.

"Inside!" Gandalf thundered. "Into the mines!"

Harriet tried to cover their retreat, magic blazing from her wand in sharp bursts. The creature's limbs recoiled but returned again and again, relentless. One shot of light fizzled uselessly against its slick flesh, and dread coiled in her stomach, her magic, so strong in her own world, seemed to falter here against something born of this place.

Then she was seized, a tentacle curling around her ankle and yanking her to the ground. Her wand flew from her grip, skittering across the stone. Panic surged, but before she could reach for it, Legolas's arrow struck deep into the limb, and the creature shrieked, dropping her. He was there in a heartbeat, hauling her up with one strong hand, his other arm steadying her against his chest.

For one dizzy instant, all Harriet could do was stare up at him, heart pounding, her face burning hotter than the flames she'd conjured.

"Come," he urged, guiding her into the gateway.

The Watcher's fury crashed down behind them, the gates groaning as stone shattered under its limbs. With a deafening rumble, the entrance collapsed, sealing them in darkness.

The Fellowship stood in pitch blackness, breath ragged. Gandalf's staff flared to life, casting faint golden light across the stone passage. Harriet leaned against the wall, trying to calm her racing heart. She could still feel the echo of the creature's grip, the sting of her magic's failure.

"Darkness," she whispered to herself. "This is what I'll face in here."

It wasn't just the absence of light. It was an ancient, crushing weight, like the mountain itself pressed down on her soul. And somewhere, deep within the halls of Moria, something stirred.

Far below, in the deepest pits, the Balrog shifted in its slumber. Its awareness brushed against the intrusion in its domain, tasting the sparks of unfamiliar power, alien, sharp, and alive in a way it did not know.

It considered. A rival? A tool? Or merely a gnat to be extinguished when the time was right?

The fire in its chest flared once, deep and hungry, before sinking back into the shadows.

Chapter Text

The gates had collapsed behind them, sealing off the world of starlight and wind. Now, only Gandalf's staff lit their way—a soft golden glow that barely touched the vast blackness stretching beyond. The walls were smooth and ancient, their silence so absolute that even the hobbits' whispers seemed loud.

Harriet kept close to the others, her wand in hand, though the dark pressed in against her magic like a suffocating blanket. She had thought she knew fear from Voldemort, from battles where the dead walked and spells clashed like thunder. But here, the terror was different. This wasn't a single enemy she could strike down. It was a living silence, heavy with age, steeped in something far more patient than human malice.

Legolas walked ahead, his eyes glinting faintly in the staff's glow. His every movement was fluid and soundless, as though he belonged even in these hollow halls. Harriet found herself watching him more than she cared to admit, steadying her nerves by following the quiet grace of his steps.

Gimli, on the other hand, marched with determination, his voice low but eager. "This is but the beginning. Soon you'll see the beauty of dwarven craft. Pillars carved like trees of stone, halls wide enough to fit a dragon. My kin built wonders beyond the reach of time."

Aragorn cast him a wary glance. "And yet, Gimli, we know not what shadows may still dwell here."

At that, Gandalf's light brightened. His face was grave, eyes flicking to Harriet briefly. "The shadow that walks in Moria is no idle threat. We must tread with care."

Hours passed as they pressed deeper. At times, the passage narrowed, forcing them to file one by one. At others, it widened into cavernous chambers where their fire seemed swallowed by the darkness. Harriet tilted her wand upward in one such hall, her whispered Lumos Maxima sending a flare of light to the ceiling.

Gasps rippled through the company. Pillars rose like an endless forest of stone, carved with runes that shone faintly as the light brushed them. Harriet's breath caught, this was no mere mine, but a kingdom preserved in shadow.

"Beautiful," she whispered.

Legolas's gaze shifted toward her, studying the awe on her face. For a moment, something softened in his eyes, but he said nothing.

The deeper they went, the more Harriet felt it—that pulse of awareness, vast and smoldering, buried far below. It wasn't watching her constantly, not yet. But its presence brushed against her magic from time to time, a weight like fire pressing against her chest. The Balrog knew something foreign had entered its realm.

And it was stirring.

They had just crossed into a narrower causeway when the sound came, sharp and sudden. A scrape of stone against stone. A shuffle of many feet.

"Orcs," Aragorn hissed, drawing his blade.

The shadows erupted.

Figures poured from the cracks and tunnels—yellow eyes glinting, blackened armor clattering, blades gleaming with malice. The Fellowship drew close, a circle of steel and will against the tide.

Harriet's wand snapped up. "Stupefy!"

A jet of red light burst forth, striking the lead orc squarely in the chest. It crumpled with a guttural cry, but three more surged past it. Harriet fired again and again, Expulso! Confringo!, the blasts echoing like thunder against the walls. Stone cracked where spells struck, and orcs fell, smoking and broken.

But her magic drew eyes. The orcs snarled, focusing on her with feral rage. One leapt from the shadows, jagged blade raised high.

Harriet raised her wand, but too slow.

Steel clashed before it could fall. Legolas's knives flashed, swift and merciless, the orc falling before it even screamed. He stepped between Harriet and the next wave, his voice sharp. "Stay behind me!"

She bristled. "I can fight"

Another orc lunged, and Harriet's spell ripped it backwards with a shriek. She glared up at him, panting. "I will fight."

For a heartbeat, Legolas's eyes met hers, and there was something fierce there, respect, mingled with concern. Then he turned, loosing three arrows in the space of a breath, each striking true.

The battle raged. Gimli's axe rang like iron song. Aragorn fought with grim precision, every stroke clean and purposeful. Boromir shielded the hobbits, his horn echoing through the halls like a call to war. Sam slashed wildly with his blade, shouting Frodo's name, while Merry and Pippin struck with desperate bravery.

And Harriet, her wand sang with spell after spell. The chamber filled with light, red and gold against the shadows. Yet each spell drained her faster here than in her own world. She could feel the weight of Moria pressing against her, dragging at her strength, as though the very stone resented her magic.

At last, silence. The last orc fell with a knife in its throat, its body crumpling into the dark. The Fellowship stood in the aftermath, breath ragged, bloodied but alive.

Harriet lowered her wand, her arm trembling. Sweat dripped down her temple, her chest heaving. She looked at the bodies, at the black blood staining the stone, and shivered. She had fought dark wizards, monsters, even Death Eaters—but this felt different. These creatures weren't driven by ideology or command. They were pure malice, born of shadow. And she had killed them.

Her stomach twisted. She forced her gaze away, only to find Legolas watching her quietly. He didn't speak, but his eyes held something steadying, grounding, as though reminding her she was not alone.

Far below, in the pits of the earth, the Balrog stirred more fully. It had felt the clash, the ripples of alien fire that licked through its halls. That magic was unlike the crafted sorcery of Elves or the corrupt power of Sauron. It was raw, bright, defiant—something the shadow had never known.

The Balrog's fire coiled hotter, curious now. Was this spark a challenge worthy of its wrath? A weapon to be broken? Or something more dangerous, light that might pierce the dark?

Its attention sharpened. The girl would not walk unnoticed any longer.

The endless dark of Moria pressed down on the Fellowship as they wound their way through ancient halls and broken causeways. Gandalf's staff and Harriet's wand provided the only light, casting long shadows across the stone carvings of a kingdom long fallen.

Though fear lingered in her chest, Harriet could not help but be awed. Towering pillars shaped like living trees rose into unseen heights, their trunks engraved with runes that glimmered faintly when the light touched them. In some, she felt the echo of old enchantments—dwarven craft that was part artistry, part spell, something unlike any magic she had known.

She slowed, her fingers brushing a carved rune on one pillar. A warmth stirred faintly, as if recognizing her touch, before it faded again. "This is magic too," she whispered.

Gimli, marching proudly beside her, nodded. "Aye, lass. My kin poured their souls into stone and steel. The halls remember, though they have gone silent."

Harriet gave him a small smile, though her heart twisted with sorrow. A world so full of wonders, left to rot in darkness.

At last, they came upon a great chamber, its roof upheld by mighty columns. In its center lay a stone tomb, simple and solemn. Gandalf moved forward, his face shadowed, while Gimli rushed ahead with sudden eagerness. But when the dwarf's eyes fell on the runes carved upon the slab, his eagerness broke into grief.

"Balin, son of Fundin, Lord of Moria." His voice cracked. He fell to his knees, his hand trembling on the stone. "It cannot be…"

The Fellowship stood in silence, the weight of tragedy pressing in. Harriet stepped forward, her heart aching at the sight of Gimli's grief. She laid her hand gently on the tomb, her magic brushing against the runes. For a fleeting moment she felt Balin's story, the pride of reclaiming Moria, the hope that filled these halls, and the terror when shadow and flame returned. It was only a whisper, gone as quickly as it came, but it left her shivering.

"This place remembers pain," she said softly. "It clings to it."

Gandalf found a battered book nearby, its pages half-rotted. His voice was heavy as he read: the last words of Balin's company. "We cannot get out. They are coming."

And then the drums.

Deep and relentless, echoing through the stone. Doom. Doom. Doom.

The Fellowship froze as the sound grew louder, closer.

"Orcs," Aragorn said, grim.

Gandalf's face hardened. "They have found us."

The attack was sudden. Black arrows whistled through the chamber, clattering off stone. Orcs swarmed through the doors, shrieking and howling. The Fellowship formed a circle around the tomb. Steel met steel, sparks flying as blades clashed.

Harriet raised her wand, spells bursting forth. Stupefy! A crimson bolt dropped an orc in its tracks. Expulso! The stone floor erupted beneath another, sending it flying back. Yet more poured in, their eyes gleaming with hunger.

"Back! Stay back!" she cried, blasting a swath of them with a roaring Depulso that sent bodies tumbling like rag dolls. The sheer number made her stomach twist—she couldn't hold them all.

A guttural roar shook the chamber.

The cave troll.

It crashed through the ranks of its masters, its massive form blotting out the light. Its gray hide was thick as armor, its strength enough to crush stone. Frodo's scream pierced the chaos as the beast lunged toward him.

"Frodo!" Sam cried, rushing forward with his blade. The hobbits fought with desperate bravery, stabbing at the troll's legs, but it barely noticed them.

Harriet ran forward, wand blazing. "Reducto!"

The spell struck the troll's chest, searing a blackened mark into its hide. The beast staggered, bellowing in fury, before swinging its club toward her. She dove aside, the impact shaking the ground where she had stood.

Legolas's arrows thudded into its hide, Aragorn and Boromir slashing with steel, Gimli roaring with his axe. But still it fought on, its strength overwhelming. Harriet scrambled to her feet, heart racing. This wasn't like fighting Voldemort, or Death Eaters. This was raw power, an unstoppable force of nature.

The troll turned, Frodo caught beneath its massive hand. With a cry, Harriet hurled everything she had. Confringo! The explosion rocked the chamber, throwing dust and shards of stone. The troll reeled, dropping Frodo with a roar.

Sam and Aragorn dragged Frodo away as Legolas loosed one final arrow into the creature's neck. With a gurgling bellow, the cave troll staggered, then crashed to the ground, shaking the tomb itself.

Silence fell. The Fellowship panted, battered but alive. Frodo stirred, gasping, his mithril shirt glittering beneath torn clothes. Relief flooded through them, even as orc cries echoed again from the halls beyond.

"Too many," Aragorn said, gripping his sword. "We must flee!"

They ran, the corridors shaking with the thunder of pursuit. Harriet's lungs burned, her magic sparking wildly as she blasted orcs from their path. Yet deeper than the orcs, deeper than the drums, she felt it.

The fire.

A pressure unlike anything she had ever known. Ancient. Malevolent.

As they crossed a wide stair, the heat surged. A distant roar rumbled through the stone, not beast nor storm but something far worse.

And then the flames.

Far below, fire leapt to life, filling the abyss with searing light. A shadow moved within it, vast and terrible, wings of darkness unfolding. The very air burned.

Harriet stumbled, her breath ripped from her lungs as the Balrog's presence slammed into her. Her magic recoiled, sparks dancing painfully across her skin. The creature's awareness locked on her fully now, and she heard it, not in words, but in intent.

Intruder.
Light in the dark.
Mine.

Her knees buckled. Only Legolas's hand at her arm steadied her as the Fellowship stared into the inferno below.

Gandalf's voice rang out, grim and unyielding. "A Balrog of Morgoth." His eyes flicked briefly to Harriet, shadowed with fear. "This foe is beyond any of you. Run!"

And run they did, as the Balrog rose in full, fire and shadow taking form, its hunger fixed not only on the Ring, but on the strange girl whose magic blazed like a star in its dark domain.

The Fellowship fled through the darkened halls of Moria, their footsteps echoing like drumbeats of doom. The walls themselves seemed to tremble with the Balrog's pursuit, its aura pressing against them like molten iron, suffocating and unrelenting. Shadows surged, swallowing light, and Harriet felt her magic recoil as if it were a living creature shrinking from a greater predator. Every breath tasted of ash and fire, her chest tightening under the crushing presence of something ancient and unearthly.

The hobbits stumbled, driven forward by Aragorn's stern hand and Boromir's urgent shouts. Legolas moved like a streak of moonlight, his bow singing in warning to the orcs that dared block their flight. Gimli's axe rose and fell, his voice a thunderous roar in the darkness. Harriet's mind reeled, sparks dancing at her fingertips, but each spell she tried to summon sputtered against the suffocating aura ahead.

When they reached the great hall before the bridge, Harriet staggered, her knees nearly buckling. The sheer weight of the Balrog's will pressed against her soul, whispering of ruin, of despair, of fire and death. She could hear its voice, not in words, but in dreadful resonance, mocking her fragile mortal flame. You are nothing. A flicker before the storm. A shadow before the dawn.

But she clenched her wand tighter, forcing herself forward. Her scar burned fiercely, as if recognizing the darkness that stalked them.

At last they reached the narrow span, the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, thin as a thread stretched over the abyss. Gandalf turned, his staff blazing with light. "Over the bridge!" he shouted. His voice rang with command, cutting through the terror that clawed at their hearts. "Fly! This foe is beyond any of you. I must face it alone."

The Fellowship hesitated, torn between duty and fear. Aragorn and Boromir drew their blades, unwilling to abandon him, but Gandalf's eyes flared, a fire of their own. "Do as I say! Go!"

Reluctantly, they obeyed, shepherding the hobbits across the perilous span. Harriet lingered, trembling, torn between obedience and the instinct to stand beside him. Her magic screamed in defiance, and for a fleeting moment she thought of facing the Balrog herself, though every instinct told her it would mean her death.

Then it came.

The Balrog emerged from the abyss, towering higher than the pillars of Moria, its form wreathed in shadow and flame. A whip of fire cracked in its hand, its sword blazing with ruin. The heat struck Harriet like a physical blow, stealing her breath. Her wand hand shook, though she raised it, desperate to shield Gandalf if she could.

"You cannot pass!" Gandalf's voice was a clarion call, echoing across the chamber. He planted himself at the center of the bridge, staff in one hand, Glamdring in the other, a figure both fragile and indomitable against the storm of shadow.

The Balrog answered with a roar that shook the very foundations, stepping forward. Sparks fell like burning rain. Harriet felt the abyss call to her, but she could not look away. Her heart pounded, her throat dry.

Gandalf struck the bridge with his staff, and a shockwave of light rippled outward. For a moment, the darkness faltered. "I am the servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor!" His voice rang with unshakable authority. "The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn! Go back to the Shadow!"

The Balrog lifted its sword and brought it down. Glamdring rose to meet it, and the impact rang like thunder. Flame splintered, and the demon's blade shattered, molten shards scattering into the abyss. Harriet's eyes widened, never had she seen such raw defiance, such divine power wielded by mortal hands.

The whip lashed next, searing the air. Gandalf braced, his staff shining brighter, and struck the bridge once more. Stone cracked beneath the Balrog's feet, fissures racing outward. With a sound like the world breaking, the bridge collapsed, and the Balrog plunged into the chasm below, its roar fading into the depths.

Relief surged too soon.

The whip lashed upward in a final act of vengeance, curling around Gandalf's ankle. He staggered, his eyes flashing with pain as the force dragged him toward the edge. The Fellowship screamed, Frodo's cry of "Gandalf!" piercing Harriet's heart like a blade.

Without thought, Harriet darted forward, wand blazing with a surge of raw power. She fired a blast of light, striking at the whip. For a heartbeat, the Balrog faltered, but its grip held. Gandalf looked back, his eyes meeting hers.

"Harriet." His voice was calm, steady, even as the abyss beckoned. "Take this."

With his free hand, he pulled from his robes a ring, a golden band set with a red stone that burned like a living flame. Narya, the Ring of Fire. He pressed it into her palm, his fingers briefly closing around hers. Power thrummed through her skin, a warmth that spread into her veins like sunlight in the dark.

"You must carry it now," he whispered. "Do not fear the fire within you. Guard it well."

"No" Her voice broke. She tried to pull him back with a desperate burst of magic, light wrapping around his cloak, but it unraveled like smoke against the Balrog's pull.

Gandalf's gaze softened, sorrow and pride mingling in his eyes. "Fly, you fools!"

And then he was gone, dragged into the abyss.

The silence after was unbearable, broken only by the Fellowship's anguished cries. Harriet fell to her knees, Narya clutched in her trembling hand, her heart shattered by the weight of both loss and the burden thrust upon her. The Balrog's roar still echoed in her ears, but so too did Gandalf's words.

She had been entrusted with fire. With hope. With something greater than herself.

And for the first time since she had arrived in Middle-earth, Harriet Potter was truly afraid, not just for her friends, but for the role she was now bound to play.

The world seemed to stop the moment Gandalf vanished into the abyss. The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the echo of stone crashing far below and the fading roar of the Balrog. The bridge was gone. Gandalf was gone.

The Fellowship stood frozen in their grief, faces pale, eyes wide with horror. Frodo let out a broken cry, collapsing to his knees on the stone. Sam wrapped his arms around him, tears spilling freely as his sobs echoed in the vast, hollow chamber. Merry and Pippin clung to each other, their small forms trembling with shock and fear.

Aragorn turned away, his jaw clenched tight, as if refusing to let his own anguish break through when others needed his strength. Boromir shook his head, muttering a denial under his breath, as though by refusing to believe it, he could undo what had just happened. Gimli lowered his axe, shoulders slumping, his proud stance crumbling beneath the weight of loss.

Harriet stood at the edge, her breath coming in sharp gasps, her hand trembling violently. Narya still burned in her palm, warm and alive, as though the fire of Gandalf's spirit lingered in the stone. The moment she looked at it, her vision blurred. This wasn't hers. She wasn't worthy of such a gift. She was just Harriet, broken, scarred, dragged into a world she didn't understand. How could she possibly hold something so precious?

Her knees buckled, the weight of grief and responsibility too heavy to bear. Before she struck the stone, Legolas was there, catching her in his arms. His embrace was steady, his touch careful yet unyielding, like a shelter in the storm. Harriet buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably. The ring seared between her fingers, its warmth a cruel reminder of Gandalf's last moments.

"He, he trusted me," she choked, the words barely coherent. "He trusted me and I couldn't save him"

Legolas tightened his hold, his voice low and steady, though sorrow dimmed his usually clear gaze. "You carry his will now. Do not dishonor it with despair." Yet there was no harshness in his tone, only a soft conviction, as if he too needed the words to keep standing.

The others slowly gathered around, their eyes drawn to the faint glow of Narya in her hand. Boromir stared, wonder and doubt warring in his expression. "He gave it to you?" His voice was hushed, reverent and questioning all at once. "A Ring of Power, to a stranger?"

Aragorn's eyes lingered on Harriet, the weight of centuries in his gaze. For a moment, he seemed on the verge of protest, but then he shook his head slowly. "No. Not a stranger. He chose her. That is enough."

Even Gimli, grief-stricken, gave a solemn nod. "If Gandalf deemed her worthy, then so must we all."

Harriet looked down at the ring through her tears, her reflection warped in the fiery stone. It pulsed gently, like a heartbeat, and she knew she couldn't just hold it forever. With trembling fingers, she slid it onto her right hand.

The moment Narya touched her skin, warmth surged through her like a rising tide. Fire, not destructive, but enduring, flared within her veins, steady and unwavering. The crushing cold left by the Balrog's presence eased, and in its place was a strength not her own, as if Gandalf's parting gift was not just the ring, but a spark of hope.

She gasped softly, eyes wide, as the Fellowship watched. For the first time since Gandalf's fall, there was light among them, not blazing, but steady, alive. Harriet pressed her hand against her chest, trying to calm the storm inside her. She was terrified of this power, yet she clung to it, because it was the last piece of him she had.

"Come," Aragorn's voice cut through the silence, firm but heavy with grief. He turned toward the passageway that led upward. "We cannot linger here. Gandalf gave his life for us. We must not waste it."

The Fellowship moved slowly, as if in a trance. Sam half-carried Frodo, who still wept silently, eyes hollow with loss. Merry and Pippin stumbled along, leaning on each other for strength. Boromir kept close behind them, his face grim, while Gimli trudged forward, his steps leaden.

Harriet walked with Legolas at her side, her hand still clutching his sleeve for steadiness. Every so often, she felt his gaze flick toward her, protective yet unreadable. She dared not meet his eyes for too long, afraid her grief would consume her again.

At last, the blackness of Moria gave way to blinding daylight. They stumbled out into the open air of Dimrill Dale, the sun streaming down upon them. But instead of relief, the light only deepened the hollow ache in their hearts.

On the green grass before the Mirrormere, they collapsed, the weight of their loss pressing down like a stone. The hobbits wept openly. Boromir turned away, his face hidden in shadow. Aragorn stood apart, his shoulders bowed, as if bearing the grief of them all.

Harriet sank to her knees, tears still wet upon her face, her hand curled tightly around Narya. The sunlight caught the red stone, setting it ablaze like a living flame. She remembered Gandalf's words: Do not fear the fire within you. Guard it well.

Legolas knelt beside her, his hand hovering near hers, not touching, but offering comfort simply by being there. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper carried by the wind. "Do not let your sorrow consume you, Harriet. Fire can destroy, but it can also keep the darkness at bay."

She looked at him through blurred eyes, her chest heaving, her face streaked with tears. The words, the warmth of his presence, the unbearable pain in her heart, all collided in a single, reckless impulse. Before she could stop herself, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

The kiss was brief, trembling, born of grief and desperation, yet also of the fragile thread of hope that still bound her to this world. For a heartbeat, Legolas did not move, stunned by the suddenness of it. Then his hand rose, feather-light, brushing her cheek as if he were afraid she might shatter.

When they pulled apart, Harriet's cheeks burned, her breath catching, but she did not look away. Legolas's expression was unreadable, sorrow and surprise mingling with something softer, unspoken.

The Fellowship did not speak of it, though Aragorn's eyes flickered toward them with quiet understanding. The moment was theirs alone, a fragile spark amid the ashes of grief.

Harriet drew in a shaky breath, clutching Narya to her chest. She would not let the flame die. Not now. Not ever.

And so, beneath the fading sun of Dimrill Dale, the Fellowship mourned, but in the silence between sorrow and resolve, a new bond had been kindled.

Chapter Text

The Fellowship's march from Dimrill Dale was a quiet, hollow thing. The bright sun did little to warm them; the mountains loomed behind, a shadow in memory as much as in stone. Every step felt heavier without Gandalf at their side, and though Aragorn pressed them onward, no one's heart was truly in the journey.

Harriet walked near the center of the company, her hand absently resting over Narya where it now gleamed on her finger. The ring's warmth had steadied her in the darkness of grief, but it was no comfort she yet trusted. Too often, her thoughts circled back to the final moment on the Bridge, Gandalf's hand, his voice, the impossible weight he had passed to her.

Her other thoughts, those of Legolas, she tried to bury even deeper. The memory of that desperate kiss still burned in her mind, a flame she was both drawn to and terrified of. Every time her gaze brushed his, her chest tightened, and her lips tingled with the ghost of what she had done. He did not mention it, nor did he treat her differently, but there was a gentleness in his eyes now that hadn't been there before, and that made it harder still to ignore.

The hobbits kept close together, still shaken and subdued. Sam's eyes never left Frodo, who trudged forward in silence, the burden of the Ring heavier than ever. Merry and Pippin whispered to each other when they thought no one was listening, small comforts against a loss too large for them to grasp.

Boromir had grown restless, his steps impatient, his muttered words more frequent as the miles stretched on. "We wander without a guide, without hope," he grumbled. "And into what? Another tomb? Another death?" His eyes often flicked toward Harriet and the faint red glow of Narya, though whether with envy or suspicion, she could not tell.

Gimli marched with his head bowed, sorrow carved deep into his features. "The mines are lost," he muttered more than once. "Balin gone and Moria taken by shadow. The world of the Dwarves grows smaller still."

It was Aragorn who kept them moving, though his own grief weighed upon him as much as theirs. "Our road lies to the Golden Wood," he said, gesturing eastward. "To Lothlórien, where the Lady of the Wood may grant us counsel and rest."

At the name, Legolas's voice lifted faintly with reverence. "Lórien is fairer than any words can tell. There, sorrow is gentler, and the shadow cannot so easily enter." His gaze lingered on Harriet as he spoke, as though the promise of healing was meant most for her.

She flushed, quickly looking away.

By nightfall, the Fellowship camped beneath the eaves of tall, whispering trees, the first edge of Lórien's forest reaching out to meet them. Their fire was small, for Aragorn forbade a bright flame, wary of the eyes that might still follow them.

The air was different here, softer, Harriet thought. She sat with her knees pulled close, her cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Her eyes followed the slow dance of firelight across her hand, where Narya glowed faintly, the fire within responding to her heartbeat.

Across the circle, Legolas sat polishing his bow, his movements smooth and deliberate. Every so often, his eyes flicked toward her, and she felt the weight of his attention even when he said nothing. Her heart beat faster at every glance, and she silently cursed herself for the foolishness of that kiss, for the way it had unraveled her so completely.

Yet when he finally spoke, his voice was soft, meant for her alone. "Do not be afraid of what you carry. It does not diminish you, it makes you brighter."

She startled, looking at him, but before she could find words, Aragorn stirred and urged them to rest. The company lay down one by one, leaving Harriet to turn his words over and over in her mind as sleep eluded her.

The next day, they pressed deeper into the woods. The tall mallorn trees rose higher and higher, their leaves like golden fire even in the dim light. The air shimmered with something Harriet could not name, old, deep magic, both welcoming and wary. Her own magic stirred in response, uneasy beneath the watchful silence of the forest.

At last, Aragorn slowed, raising his hand. "We are watched," he said.

From the high branches above, voices rang out in Elvish, sharp and musical, followed by figures descending with the grace of starlight. Elves of Lórien surrounded them, bows drawn, their eyes keen and mistrusting.

Harriet froze, every muscle tense as arrowheads gleamed in the dim forest light. She had never felt so small, so exposed. Even Voldemort's Death Eaters had not stared at her with such piercing judgment. Her hand went instinctively to her wand, though she forced herself not to draw it.

"Do not be afraid," Legolas said gently, stepping forward and speaking swiftly in their tongue. The tension in the air shifted, though the bows did not lower. One of the elves stepped forward, his bearing noble and proud, his eyes sharp as flint. His long hair shimmered silver-gold beneath the canopy.

"I am Haldir of Lórien," he said, his voice smooth but edged with command. His gaze swept over the company, lingering on Aragorn, then on Frodo and finally settling on Harriet. His eyes narrowed at the sight of Narya glowing faintly on her hand.

For a heartbeat, Harriet felt as though he could see straight through her, stripping her bare to weigh every secret, every weakness. She gripped her cloak tighter, her pulse hammering in her ears.

"You walk in dark times, strangers," Haldir said slowly. "And yet you carry burdens heavier than most. Whether you are welcome in the Golden Wood…" His gaze flicked again to Harriet, unreadable. "…remains to be seen."

The forest seemed to hold its breath.

Chapter Text

The journey into Lothlórien was unlike anything Harriet had ever known. The deeper they traveled beneath the mallorn trees, the more the world seemed to shift into something timeless and enchanted. The air itself seemed alive, fragrant with unseen blossoms, humming with quiet magic that resonated against the edges of her own power. Light filtered through the golden canopy in shifting pools, so that each step felt as though they were walking between dream and waking.

The company marched in silence for a time, awed and wary. The hobbits whispered among themselves about the strange beauty of the place, their grief softened for the first time since Moria. Gimli remained stoic, though Harriet caught his eyes darting upward often, suspicion etched deep into his features. Boromir kept to himself, brooding and watchful, his eyes occasionally flicking toward her hand where Narya gleamed faintly, a constant reminder of what Gandalf had left behind.

Haldir led them with a bearing both proud and measured, his eyes never ceasing to survey the forest as though it were his charge and his weapon both. Harriet found herself walking nearer to him than she intended, the weight of her questions tugging her forward.

At last, when the company had fallen into a steady rhythm and the hush of the forest grew heavy, she cleared her throat softly. "Haldir?"

His gaze slid to her, cool but attentive. "Yes, Lady Harriet?"

She hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of Narya as though to remind herself of why she spoke. "Why would Gandalf trust me with this? With Narya. He knew me only a short time, compared to the rest of you. You knew him far longer. Surely there were others, worthier."

The elf's eyes lingered on the ring. "It is no small thing you bear. Few among Elves or Men would deem themselves worthy to carry a Ring of Power, even one wrought for purpose of healing and fire. Gandalf was no fool. He would not entrust such a burden lightly."

"But why me?" Harriet pressed, her voice softer now, almost pleading. "I'm not of this world. I don't belong here. I" Her voice caught, grief rising sharp in her throat. "I already failed once. He's gone. And yet I was the one holding on to him when he fell."

For a long moment, Haldir said nothing. His eyes, keen as a hawk's, studied her as though weighing every word left unspoken. At last, he inclined his head slightly. "Perhaps that is why he chose you. Not because you are untested, but because you know the weight of failure and will not bear to repeat it. Narya burns with the fire of resistance, of hope against despair. I think… Gandalf saw that same flame in you."

His words settled in her chest, a strange mixture of comfort and fear. She tightened her cloak around her shoulders, glancing down at the glowing band upon her finger. She wanted to believe him, needed to, but the weight of the ring was a heavy reminder that belief alone was not enough.

By the time the Fellowship reached the heart of Lothlórien, the forest had grown even more strange and wondrous. The great mallorn trees towered higher than any Harriet could fathom, their trunks wide as towers, their crowns glittering like captured sunlight. Wooden walkways and platforms spiraled upward into the branches, lit by lanterns that glowed like starlight.

They were led up a winding path, stairways climbing into the living city itself, until the company at last stood before the highest flets of Caras Galadhon. The air seemed charged here, filled with power as old as the mountains and the stars.

Upon the high platform, Galadriel awaited them, radiant in her stillness, her hair like molten silver-gold flowing in the faint breeze. Beside her stood Celeborn, noble and grave, though Harriet could not tear her eyes from the Lady. Galadriel's gaze fell upon each member of the Fellowship in turn, but when it came to Harriet, it lingered, piercing, gentle, and terrifying all at once. Harriet felt herself laid bare, as though no thought or fear could be hidden from those eyes.

"Welcome, children of many realms," Galadriel said, her voice like music that filled the space without need of force. "Though shadow dogs your heels, here you may find respite. Rest now, for you have come far, and with heavy hearts."

As Celeborn began to speak with Aragorn and the others, Harriet's hand moved almost without thought, tugging Narya from her finger. Her breath came fast, her chest tight as she stepped forward, the fire of the ring flickering faintly in her palm.

"Lady Galadriel," Harriet said, her voice unsteady. "This doesn't belong to me. It was Gandalf's. It should be yours. I can't" She swallowed hard, her throat tight. "I can't be what he was."

Galadriel's eyes softened, though she did not reach for the ring. Instead, she lifted her hand and gently closed Harriet's fingers over it. "You speak as one who does not yet see her own reflection clearly. This ring was Gandalf's, yes, but in his final choice he entrusted it to you. That choice cannot be undone, nor should it. I would not take Narya from your hand, even if you begged me. Its fire has found you and through you, it will endure."

Harriet's knees nearly gave way beneath the weight of the words. "But why? Why me?" she whispered.

Galadriel's gaze was unfathomable, like the depths of the sea. "Because you are not of this world, yet you carry within you a power untouched by its history. The Balrog felt it. So too did Gandalf. And now… so do I. What you carry is not weakness, Harriet Potter, but a flame the Shadow does not yet understand. That is your strength."

Tears pricked at Harriet's eyes as she pressed Narya back onto her finger, its warmth flaring as though answering Galadriel's words. She wanted to argue, to deny it, but something deep within her stirred, something that recognized truth when spoken aloud.

Behind her, she felt the weight of her companions' stares. Legolas's gaze was steady, gentle, as though urging her to believe. The hobbits looked at her with awe, Gimli with puzzlement, and Boromir with something closer to suspicion. But Harriet could not dwell on them.

Galadriel's hand lingered briefly upon hers, a touch both grounding and luminous. "Take heart, child of another world. What was given to you was not chance, it was necessity. And you will have need of that fire, before the end."

The words settled over the company like a shroud of prophecy. Harriet drew in a shaky breath, clutching the ring against her chest. For the first time, she felt not only the burden of Narya, but also the faintest spark of what it might mean to bear it.

Galadriel led Harriet along a winding path beneath the silvered boughs, lanterns gleaming faintly like stars caught among the branches. The forest was hushed, the air cool and alive with secrets. Galadriel walked in silence, her presence both comforting and overwhelming, as though Harriet were in the company of something that was more than mortal, more than even elven.

At last, they came to a small glade where a stone basin rested upon a pedestal carved with runes so old they seemed part of the living rock itself. Water shimmered within, dark and still, reflecting only the starlight above.

"This is the Mirror of Galadriel," Galadriel said, her voice quiet, yet resonant with power. "Many things it shows. Things that were, things that are, and some things that yet may be. But be warned: what you see is not always set in stone. The future is a river, and each choice changes its course."

Harriet's heart tightened. She had stared into mirrors before, Mirrors of Erised, reflections that haunted with longing. This one felt heavier, deeper, as though it might strip her bare.

"Look, if you will."

Harriet stepped closer, leaning over the basin. At first, only her own reflection stared back, pale skin smudged with fatigue, eyes too old for her young face, the faint glimmer of Narya at her hand. Then the water rippled, and images began to unfurl like a tapestry woven of smoke and light.

She saw the cupboard beneath the stairs, a small girl with bruises on her arms whispering into the dark. She saw Hogwarts—the Great Hall lit with candles, the Gryffindor common room ablaze with warmth and laughter, her friends' faces so clear it hurt. She saw Voldemort, his pale face twisted in fury, the green flash of the Killing Curse, then herself collapsing into Middle-earth, the world forever changed.

Her chest constricted, breath shallow as the images shifted again. She saw the Fellowship: the hobbits huddled close together, Aragorn standing tall against the darkness, Gimli shouting defiance, Boromir's eyes shadowed with something unspoken. She saw Legolas, bow in hand, his eyes fierce, but his face soft when it turned to her. Her heart thudded painfully at the sight.

Then came a vision of fire, the Balrog, its burning gaze turning not toward Gandalf but toward her. In its roar was hunger, malice, and something like recognition. She flinched, clutching at the rim of the basin as though she could hold herself steady against the weight of it.

Finally, the images shifted again. She saw herself standing on a cliffside beneath a sky filled with stars. Legolas stood beside her, his hand brushing hers, his expression gentle and unguarded. Then, in another ripple, she saw them closer still, lips meeting in a kiss that sent her heart soaring and breaking all at once.

She gasped, stumbling back from the Mirror. The vision dissolved into ripples, leaving only her wide-eyed reflection staring back at her.

Galadriel's gaze never wavered. "You have seen much," she said softly. "Your past, your burdens, and a path your heart longs for."

Harriet's throat tightened. "Can it… can it be real? That future? Him?" Her fingers pressed against her chest as though she could hold the ache there. "I don't know what I'm supposed to be here. I don't know what Gandalf meant when he gave me Narya. But when I saw him, Legolas, it felt… right. Like maybe there's a place for me. Someone who might… see me. Not the Chosen One, not the girl who lived, not the one who failed Gandalf. Just me."

For the first time, Galadriel's expression softened in something almost like tenderness. "The heart often speaks truths the mind is not yet ready to accept. The choice will always be yours, Harriet Potter. But know this: love, when true, is never weakness. It is the flame that endures when all else has turned to ash. If your paths twine, it will not be by accident, but by courage."

Harriet blinked rapidly, tears pricking at her eyes. She whispered, "Do you think… I could have that? Even in the middle of all this darkness?"

Galadriel's eyes seemed to pierce through time itself. "Yes. But only if you dare to let yourself believe it."

Harriet pressed her lips together, her heart hammering. She wanted to cling to those words, to trust them. But she could not shake the fear that any happiness she found would be stolen away, as so many things in her life had been.

Unseen by either of them, a shadow shifted beyond the glade. Legolas stood beneath the mallorn trees, silent as the night, his keen ears having caught every word. His heart stirred at Harriet's confession, her raw vulnerability laid bare before Lady Galadriel. His eyes softened, but he did not step forward. Not yet.

Harriet turned from the Mirror at last, her breath shuddering. Galadriel laid a hand gently on her shoulder. "Take what you have seen not as a command, but as a gift. The path ahead is fraught with shadow. Let your heart's truth be a lantern, should the darkness press too near."

Harriet nodded faintly, though her mind still reeled with the images. Fire. Fear. Longing. And Legolas's face.

As Galadriel guided her back toward the others, the Mirror's surface smoothed once more into stillness. But its reflections clung to Harriet's thoughts, burning brighter than even the fire of Nar

A couple days later, The Fellowship gathered in the soft glow of Caras Galadhon's heart, where golden light streamed through the mallorn boughs and made the air shimmer as if stars themselves had come down to rest among the Elves. The company stood solemn but expectant, each awaiting what Galadriel might bestow upon them before they set forth again into shadow.

Galadriel moved with a grace that seemed beyond the reach of time, her eyes resting upon each of them in turn. She gifted the hobbits lembas wrapped in leaves, light yet nourishing beyond imagining. To Aragorn she gave a sheath of elven make. To Legolas went a bow of the Galadhrim, strung with hair from Galadriel's own people, supple and strong. Gimli, after some gruff words and a bowing of his head, received three strands of her hair bound with silver, which he accepted with reverence.

When at last her gaze fell upon Harriet, the girl stiffened, Narya warm against her skin.

"Come forward, Harriet Potter," Galadriel said, her voice soft yet commanding, like the hush of leaves before a storm.

Harriet stepped toward her, feeling the Fellowship's eyes upon her. Her fingers worried at the hem of her cloak as she met Galadriel's unblinking gaze.

"You bear a burden given freely, and yet you doubt it still." Galadriel's hand lifted, not to take the ring but to hover just above it, and Harriet felt the fire within Narya pulse in answer to her presence. "This ring was made to inspire, to kindle hope when all else falters. It is not a weapon in the way of steel or spell. Its flame lies in the spirit, and the spirit can move mountains or turn them aside."

Harriet swallowed hard, listening with every fiber of her being.

"You must learn to wield it not as a sword, but as a song," Galadriel continued, her voice lowering to a near whisper. "Do not force its fire upon others. Let it burn through you. It will strengthen your heart, and through you, the hearts of those who walk beside you."

Her hand lowered, brushing Harriet's shoulder, grounding her. Then Galadriel stepped back, and from one of her attendants she received a small bundle wrapped in white cloth. She unfolded it to reveal a delicate chain of mithril silver, from which hung a small crystal vial. Within the vial swirled a light faintly red-gold, flickering like embers that never died.

"This is a phial of firelight, drawn from the heart of Lórien's forges long ago and mingled with the glow of a star. Keep it close, and when despair threatens to consume you, it will remind you of who you are not a shadow's pawn, but a flame in the night."

She placed the chain into Harriet's hands, and the warmth of it coursed through her palms as though it recognized her. Harriet blinked rapidly, her vision blurring, overwhelmed by the weight of such a gift.

"T-thank you," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Galadriel smiled faintly, almost knowingly, then leaned closer so her words would be for Harriet alone. "And one more counsel, child of another world. You asked me if a future with the prince of Mirkwood is possible. The answer lies not in what fate permits, but in what you dare speak aloud. Love cannot bloom unvoiced. Tell him what stirs within you, before war and shadow seek to take that chance away."

Harriet's breath caught, her cheeks warming as her eyes darted, unwilling but unable to resist, toward Legolas. He stood with his new bow slung across his shoulder, sunlight tracing his golden hair, and though his expression was calm, his gaze seemed to linger on her more than it should with an eyebrow raised. (A/N as early in the chapter, Legolas knows how she feels, not that she knows that, and waiting for her to make the first move. I say it how Gollum would: Sneaky, tricksy elf.)

She closed her fingers tightly around the vial, her pulse pounding in her ears. The weight of Galadriel's words pressed heavy against her chest, but beneath it all was a spark of courage, one she hadn't known she possessed.

Galadriel straightened, her voice ringing clear for all to hear once more. "Go now with hope in your hearts, and may the light of this realm linger with you even beyond its borders."

The Fellowship bowed their heads in gratitude. As they prepared to depart, Harriet touched Narya with one hand and the vial with the other. For the first time since Gandalf's fall, she did not feel only the burden of what she carried. She felt the promise of it, too.

Chapter Text

The Fellowship's boats glided silently down the Anduin, the pale morning light breaking over the waters. The forest of Lothlórien receded behind them, its golden canopy a fading dream. Harriet twisted in her seat, unable to stop herself from looking back. The soft shimmer of mallorn leaves caught the sun one last time before the river curved, hiding the Golden Wood from view.

She felt hollow. Leaving Lórien was like stepping out of a sanctuary, like stepping away from the one place that had felt safe after Gandalf's fall. But Lórien had not only given her rest—it had given her burdens. Narya pressed warm against her skin, and the mithril vial Galadriel had placed in her hand still swung from her neck. And with those gifts came words she could not ignore: Tell him what lies in your heart, before shadow and war take the chance away.

Harriet pressed her lips together and stared across the water. Legolas was in the other boat, his hair gleaming like pale gold in the sunlight, his eyes fixed ahead with quiet vigilance. Her chest tightened. She thought of Galadriel's Mirror, of the flickering vision of herself standing beside him, laughter on her lips despite the storm gathering all around. Could such a future be hers? Could she even risk it?

The current carried them quickly, the day stretching into still silence broken only by the steady rhythm of paddles. The others seemed content with the quiet, but Harriet's mind raced endlessly. She caught Aragorn's eye once, and after a long moment, he spoke.

"You are restless, Harriet," he said, his voice low enough that Frodo alone heard it too.

She hesitated before answering. "Lady Galadriel gave me advice before we left. Advice I don't know how to follow."

Aragorn's gaze was steady, patient. "What troubles you?"

Her eyes darted to Legolas again, though she dropped them quickly. "She told me not to wait. That if I care for someone, I should speak my heart. But… how can I, when we march toward war? When every step could be our last?"

A faint smile touched his lips, weary yet kind. "Because that is exactly why you must speak. Hope and love are not luxuries in times of shadow. They are necessities. They give us strength when we would otherwise falter. Do not think it selfish, Harriet. Think of it as a flame to keep close in the dark."

His words struck deep, and she nodded silently, though her stomach twisted with fear.

That evening, when they pulled the boats onto the gravel banks and lit a small fire, Harriet sat beside Frodo, watching the flames flicker. He looked drawn, pale from the burden of the Ring, yet when she fidgeted beside him, he gave her a small smile.

"You're troubled," Frodo said gently.

Harriet let out a shaky laugh. "That obvious, huh?"

He nodded, his eyes kind despite the shadows haunting them. "Lady Galadriel showed you things, didn't she?"

"Yes," she whispered. "She told me I should speak my heart before it's too late. But what if I ruin what I already have? What if… it changes everything?"

Frodo was silent for a long moment, staring into the fire. "I think," he said slowly, "that sometimes we're so afraid of losing what little light we have, we forget that it might grow brighter if we share it. If it's meant to be, it will not break what you have, it will strengthen it."

His eyes flicked toward Sam, who sat a little apart, tending the stew with quiet focus. Harriet caught the look in Frodo's eyes, soft, aching, unspoken. Her chest tightened. He knew what it was to hesitate, to carry a truth unsaid.

"Thank you, Frodo," she whispered, squeezing his hand before letting go.

The night grew deep. The others settled to sleep one by one, their breaths slow and steady in the silence. Harriet, restless, found herself standing near the water's edge, staring at the silver trail of moonlight on the river. Narya pulsed against her skin, warm and insistent, as though echoing the pounding of her heart.

She sensed rather than heard Legolas approach, his footsteps light as always. "You cannot sleep," he said softly, coming to stand beside her.

She shook her head. "No. My thoughts won't let me."

They stood side by side for a long while, the river whispering past them, the forest sighing in the breeze. Finally, Harriet turned, her courage scraping itself together in a way that felt harder than any duel she had ever fought.

"Legolas… there's something I need to tell you."

His gaze shifted to her, steady, calm, though his eyes searched hers with quiet intensity. "Then speak it. You need not fear me."

Her throat was dry. She clenched her fists, then released them, willing her voice not to shake. "Since Moria… since Gandalf fell… everything has felt so uncertain. I keep thinking that each step we take might be our last. And yet, through it all, you've been there. You've been… a light for me. More than a companion. More than a friend."

Legolas's expression softened, though he said nothing.

She swallowed hard. "I don't know if this is foolish, or reckless, or if it will change everything between us. But if I don't say it now, I'll regret it. Legolas, my heart… it wants you. It chooses you."

For a moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the murmur of the river. Fear clawed at her chest, until Legolas reached out, taking her trembling hands in his. His touch was gentle, grounding, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet but sure.

"I heard your heart long before you spoke these words, Harriet," he said. "And mine has answered you from the start."

Her breath caught. Tears welled in her eyes as relief and joy flooded her all at once. He stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face, his touch lingering. "The road ahead is dark," he murmured. "But so long as you walk beside me, I will not fear it."

Harriet's courage, trembling though it was, finally held. She rose onto her toes, and in the stillness of the night, kissed him. The world fell away, the shadows, the river, the uncertainty of tomorrow. There was only this: the warmth of his lips, the steadiness of his hands, the quiet promise of something worth fighting for.

When they parted, Harriet let out a shaky laugh, half sob, half joy. Legolas rested his forehead gently against hers, and for the first time since Moria, her heart felt steady.

The path ahead was dark, yes. But she was no longer afraid to walk it.

Following that night, The Anduin bore them more southward, its wide waters gleaming silver beneath the shifting skies. The days were long and heavy, filled with silence that weighed as much as the shadow gathering on the eastern horizon. Harriet often caught Boromir's eyes on her, sometimes burning with suspicion, other times clouded with something she could not name. He lingered close to Frodo as well, his voice clipped and restless, his shoulders tense as though he bore a burden heavier than his shield.

Harriet felt the pressure too. Since Lothlórien, the Ring's presence had grown sharper, more insistent. She could feel it gnawing at the edges of her mind when she came too near Frodo, whispering not just of its power but of what it could do with the fire she now carried. Narya pulsed warm at her throat, and the Ring seemed to sense it, an ancient malice pressing close, coaxing, Two flames, bound together… think of what could be wrought if you let me in.

She resisted, but each time it grew harder. At night, she would sit by the river, hands clenched tight around her wand as though the wood might anchor her to herself. And though she said nothing, Legolas often came to sit nearby, silent, his presence a steadying light.

Boromir's unease finally began to break into words as the Fellowship made camp one evening. His eyes burned with frustration as he paced.

"We wander down this river like driftwood, waiting for doom to overtake us," he snapped. "Every step, Mordor grows stronger, and yet we do nothing. We should wield what we have, not fear it!" His gaze darted to Frodo, then, uncomfortably, to Harriet. "The Ring was meant for such as us, for men of strength, for those who could defend their people. And you—" His voice caught, softer but still dangerous. "You bear the Ring of Fire, gifted by Mithrandir himself. Surely you, at least, see sense? Together, those powers could end this war before it begins!"

Harriet froze, the Ring's voice stirring at his words, insidious and sweet. Yes. You know it is true. Fire and dominion, united, none could stand before you. Not Sauron, not even death itself.

Her heart pounded. She wanted to shout, to silence the whispers, but she could not trust her voice. It was Aragorn who answered, calm but firm.

"You are blinded by need, Boromir," he said. "The gifts of the Lady, the trust of Gandalf, the charge of Frodo, none of these were meant to be twisted into weapons of conquest. You tread a dangerous path."

Boromir's jaw clenched, but he turned away, muttering darkly as he stalked into the trees. Harriet let out a shuddering breath, her hand clutching Narya as if to smother its warmth before the Ring's poison could twist it further.

The next day dawned bleak and restless. The river seemed darker, the air heavy with a tension that none could shake. When they finally made camp near Amon Hen, Harriet's nerves were raw, the Ring's pull gnawing at her with sharp persistence. She caught Frodo's eye once and saw the same torment mirrored there, and guilt stabbed her heart.

It was then that Boromir broke. Harriet had wandered only a short way from the camp when she heard raised voices—Boromir calling after Frodo, desperate, pleading. She hurried toward them just as Boromir reached for him.

"Why do you shrink from me?" he cried, his voice shaking. "I am not your enemy! I only wish to save my city, my people! With the Ring we could destroy Mordor forever!"

"Boromir, no" Frodo gasped, stepping back.

And then Boromir lunged.

Harriet's wand was in her hand before she could think, her voice sharp as a whip. "Expelliarmus!"

The force of her spell knocked Boromir stumbling back, his sword clattering to the ground. But his eyes, wild and glittering, snapped to her.

"You too?" he snarled. "Even you, with Gandalf's fire at your neck, you will not see reason? You deny the gift laid before us?"

Harriet's heart hammered. "The one ring is not a gift, Boromir. It's a curse."

For a moment, pain flickered in his face, then Frodo vanished, the Ring claiming him. Boromir shouted his name, despair breaking through his fury, and staggered away into the trees.

Harriet stood trembling, wand still raised, the weight of the confrontation pressing on her chest. But there was no time to recover. A harsh horn blast split the air, followed by a scream. Orcs, scores of them, were pouring into the woods.

The battle that followed was chaos. Harriet fought back-to-back with Legolas and Aragorn, her spells cutting down orcs in bright flashes of light, the Ring shrieking in her mind with every surge of her power. The enemy pressed hard, and still more poured in, their numbers endless.

A roar split the fray, the Uruk-hai had come. Towering brutes crashed through the trees, arrows whistling, blades cleaving. Harriet conjured shields of flame, forcing back their ranks, but the drain on her magic was immense. Her legs trembled beneath her, her breath ragged.

And then she heard it: Boromir's horn, ringing clear through the wood.

She turned and saw him fighting like a man possessed, standing between the hobbits and a tide of Uruk-hai. His blade flashed, his shield cracked, his voice carried with desperate defiance. Harriet started toward him, but an Uruk slammed into her, knocking her to the ground. She blasted it away with a surge of raw fire, but when she staggered to her feet, the scene before her froze her blood.

Boromir fell to his knees, three great black-fletched arrows jutting from his chest. Still he fought, roaring in fury, cutting down foes even as blood poured down his armor. Harriet screamed his name, but the sound was drowned in the clash of steel and the thunder of war.

Aragorn reached him first, cleaving through the last of the Uruks that surrounded him. Harriet stumbled to his side just as Boromir sagged against a tree, his breath ragged, his face pale.

"I tried to take it from him," he rasped, shame and grief heavy in his voice. "I tried to take the Ring. I have failed you all."

"No," Aragorn said fiercely, gripping his hand. "You fought bravely. You tried to keep them from the hobbits. You have not failed."

Harriet's tears blurred her sight. She knelt beside him, clutching his hand, her voice breaking. "Boromir, you stood for them when it mattered. That is what counts."

His eyes flicked to hers, something like peace softening his gaze. "Sister of fire… you… forgive me?"

Her throat tightened. "Of course I do. Always."

Harriet's tears blurred her sight. She knelt beside him, clutching his hand, her voice breaking. "Boromir, you stood for them when it mattered. That is what counts."

Tears blurred her vision. "If only Fawkes were here…" she whispered. "He'd know what to do. He'd save him."

Legolas, still fighting nearby, froze for a heartbeat. "Fawkes?" he called over his shoulder. "Who is Fawkes?"

Before she could answer, the air shimmered. A brilliant note, clear and bright, cut through the chaos like sunlight piercing a storm. A blaze of golden-red flame erupted above them, and with it, a magnificent phoenix descended from the sky.

Fawkes.

The Fellowship stared in stunned awe as the great bird landed beside Harriet, his feathers glowing like embers, his eyes filled with ancient knowing. With a soft trill, he bowed his head to her and began to weep crystal tears falling onto Boromir's wounds.

Light blossomed across the man's chest as the phoenix's magic worked. The black shafts of the arrows burned away to ash, and the bleeding slowed, then ceased. Boromir gasped, color returning to his face as Fawkes gave one last trill before settling quietly on Harriet's shoulder, nuzzling her cheek affectionately.

"Fawkes…" she breathed, tears streaming freely now. "You came."

The others stood speechless, Legolas, Aragorn, even Gimli. Frodo, reappearing near the riverbank, stared in open wonder.

"What… what manner of creature is this?" Aragorn asked softly.

Harriet smiled faintly through her tears. "A friend. One who finds me when I need him most."

Fawkes gave a proud cry, his wings flaring briefly before folding again. His feathers glowed faintly against the twilight, a beacon of warmth amid ruin.

Harriet looked to him, her heart still trembling. "Would you stay with us, Fawkes? There's darkness yet ahead, and… we could use a bit of your light."

The phoenix met her gaze with a slow, deliberate blink, then let out a musical note of assent. His feathers shimmered brighter, and for the first time since Moria, a flicker of hope stirred in every heart.

The Fellowship was broken, but not undone.

And as the sun set over Amon Hen, Harriet knew: their journey was far from over, but the fire of friendship, and love, had been rekindled.

Chapter Text

The smoke of battle still hung heavy in the air, the stench of iron and ash mingling with the sweet burn of grass where fire and blood had mingled. The once green slopes of Amon Hen lay littered with the remnants of war, shattered arrows, broken helms, the bodies of the fallen. And in the midst of it all, the Fellowship gathered, breathing, bloodied, but alive.

Boromir sat propped against a tree, pale but conscious, his chest bandaged and healing beneath a faint glow left by Fawkes's tears. The great phoenix perched upon a nearby rock, preening his crimson and gold feathers as though the chaos of the battle were nothing more than a passing storm. His golden eyes shimmered with intelligence and calm, and every so often, he turned his head toward Harriet—his familiar presence grounding her amid the wreckage.

Aragorn crouched beside Boromir, still marveling at the man's recovery. "His wounds are clean," he murmured, fingertips brushing the bandages. "No sign of fever or decay. I have seen no healing like this, not even among the Elves."

Harriet smiled faintly, exhaustion softening her features. "That's Fawkes. His tears have powerful healing properties. He saved my life more times than I can count."

Frodo, sitting nearby with Sam at his side, stared up at the phoenix in awe. "He's beautiful," he whispered. "I've never seen anything like him."

"Few have," Harriet said softly. "He's a phoenix, creatures of fire and rebirth. They live for centuries, and when their time comes, they burn and are born again from their own ashes."

Gimli gave a low whistle, his beard still streaked with soot. "By Durin's beard… a bird that dies and comes back? Aye, that's magic beyond the reckoning of dwarves."

Legolas's keen eyes lingered on the creature, a faint smile touching his lips. "And a companion most loyal, I think."

Fawkes let out a soft trill, inclining his head toward the elf as if in greeting. The sound rippled through the trees, warm and bright, easing the lingering tension from the group.

Boromir shifted, grimacing slightly but managing a wry smile. "Then it seems I owe both of you my life," he said, his voice still weak but steady. "Had your friend not come when he did…"

Harriet knelt beside him, gently resting a hand on his arm. "You were willing to die to protect Merry and Pippin. That kind of courage doesn't deserve to end on a battlefield."

Fawkes gave a low, approving hum, and for a moment, all was still, just the rustle of leaves and the quiet crackle of distant fire.

After a long silence, Harriet turned to her old friend, meeting the phoenix's golden gaze. "Fawkes," she said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Can you go back and forth between worlds? Between… home and here?"

The phoenix blinked once, then unfurled his wings with a graceful stretch. A flare of light shimmered around him, and in the reflection of his feathers Harriet caught fleeting glimpses—shadows of Hogwarts' spires, the glint of the Great Lake, the faint echo of familiar halls. When the light faded, Fawkes bowed his head once in confirmation.

Harriet smiled, tears pricking her eyes. "Then… maybe you can be our bridge. Keep watch over both worlds, until I find a way home or until this one no longer needs me."

Fawkes let out a soft, almost affectionate note and nudged her hand with his beak. Then, with a flash of gold, he soared into the sky, circling once before disappearing into the horizon, a trail of fire marking his path.

Aragorn rose, his expression turning grave as his gaze swept toward the south. "We cannot linger. The Orcs who fled will bring word to Saruman or worse. Merry and Pippin have been taken, and Frodo's path must now be his own. We must decide our next course."

Legolas nodded, his features solemn. "Then we follow the Uruk-hai. We cannot leave the little ones to torment and death."

Boromir pushed himself upright, aided by Harriet. His voice, though tired, carried determination. "I will not let my weakness cost them their lives. I will go with you."

Aragorn clapped a hand to his shoulder, nodding once. "Then we ride. You, Legolas, Gimli, Harriet and Fawkes, should he return. The others must make for safety."

Harriet's heart ached at the words. She looked toward the place where Frodo and Sam had vanished into the trees, a flash of gold glinting where the Ring had been. For a moment, she wanted to run after them but deep down, she knew her path lay elsewhere.

Lady Galadriel's words echoed in her mind: "Love cannot bloom unvoiced. Tell him what stirs within you—before war and shadow seek to take that chance away."

As Aragorn and Gimli prepared their weapons, Harriet found herself standing beside Legolas. He was cleaning his bow, sunlight glinting across his fair hair, his movements fluid and graceful. When he turned to her, there was a quiet question in his gaze.

"You fought with great courage," he said softly. "I feared for you when the tide turned."

Harriet's throat tightened. "And I for you," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. She hesitated, her heart hammering in her chest. "Legolas… before we go, I need to say something."

He tilted his head slightly, concern flickering in his eyes. "What troubles you, meleth?"

She took a shaky breath. "I've spent so much of my life fighting wars I didn't ask for. I've lost people I loved because I never told them what they meant to me until it was too late. But I won't make that mistake again."

Before he could respond, she stepped forward, cupping his face with both hands, and kissed him. It was not a fleeting touch, it was fierce, desperate, full of all the words she hadn't known how to say. Legolas froze for a heartbeat, then melted into it, his hand finding the small of her back, holding her as though she might vanish.

When they finally parted, both breathless, the forest seemed to hold its breath. Aragorn, Gimli, and Boromir had turned to look, silent witnesses to the moment.

"I love you," Harriet said, her voice trembling but sure. "Whatever comes next, whatever happens, I needed you to know that."

Legolas's eyes shone with something deep and bright, like sunlight caught in water. "Then you will not face what comes alone, Harriet Potter of another world," he whispered, his forehead resting gently against hers. "You have my heart… and my bow."

Gimli cleared his throat loudly. "Ahem. If you two are done with your elvish courtship rituals, we've got orcs to chase."

Boromir managed a weak chuckle, shaking his head. "A kiss before battle, how very fitting."

Harriet laughed softly, brushing a tear from her cheek. "Then let's go make it count."

As they gathered their weapons and turned toward the south, Fawkes's cry echoed once more from the skies above, a note of defiance and hope mingled in one. His shadow passed over them, golden against the fading light, as if blessing the road ahead.

And so, beneath the crimson sky of Amon Hen, the hunt for the Uruk-hai began, not just with swords and arrows, but with hearts bound by love, loyalty, and the fire of a phoenix's flame.

Chapter Text

The days that followed Amon Hen were a blur of wind, dust, and tireless motion. The small company, Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Boromir, Harriet, and the ever-watchful Fawkes, pursued the Uruk-hai relentlessly across the wild plains of Rohan. They ran by dawnlight and moonlight alike, their feet pounding the earth as if driven by the very heartbeat of Middle-earth itself.

Fawkes soared high above them, a brilliant ember against the endless blue. His keen eyes scouted the terrain far ahead, sending shrill notes of warning whenever danger lurked. At night, he would descend to rest upon Harriet's shoulder, the faint warmth of his feathers a comfort against the chill winds that swept over the plains.

Harriet had never known exhaustion like this. Yet it wasn't just her body that felt the strain, it was her magic. Narya pulsed faintly on her hand, the Ring's ancient fire now more active than ever. Its warmth was not gentle; it was fierce, commanding, alive. It seemed to breathe with her heartbeat, burning brighter when she was angry, aching when she feared for those she loved.

During the long runs, she practiced subtle exercises, small spells to steady her breathing or ignite sparks between her fingertips. But each time she called upon her magic now, Narya's flame rose with it, feeding off her power and lending it more force than she intended. A simple Lumos became a beacon that lit half the night sky. A minor ward scorched the ground beneath her boots.

She tried to hide it, but Legolas noticed.

"You are pushing yourself too hard," he murmured one evening as they paused beside a small creek. The sunset burned gold across the water, and his voice was soft, meant only for her.

Harriet sighed, running a hand through her hair. "It's not just me, Legolas. The ring… it's changing. It feels like it's alive, like it's trying to guide my magic and sometimes I don't know if it's helping me or trying to take control."

He regarded her with quiet worry. "Narya is a ring of great power. Such artifacts are not meant to be used lightly. Even if its fire is meant for good, it will test you. It will seek to know the heart of its bearer."

Harriet met his gaze, her green eyes reflecting the dying sun. "Then I'll just have to make sure it finds my heart strong enough."

Legolas smiled faintly, though the concern didn't leave his eyes. "You already are."

Fawkes gave a soft, approving chirp, fluttering down to rest on Harriet's shoulder. His presence calmed the burning in her veins, the phoenix's warmth harmonizing with Narya's fire. For a fleeting moment, she thought she felt the two forces resonate, magic from two worlds, finding balance through her.

By the third day of their chase, they began to see signs of the Uruk-hai's passing, broken branches, trampled grass, black blood staining the ground. The wind carried the stench of orcish smoke and sweat.

"They make for Isengard," Aragorn said grimly as he knelt over a print in the dirt. "And they move swiftly, even burdened."

Boromir gritted his teeth, tightening the straps of his armor. "Then we move faster."

Gimli groaned. "Aye, says the man who still bleeds from three wounds."

Boromir shot him a weary smile. "Fawkes saw fit to heal me. I'll not dishonor that gift by slowing us down."

They pressed on. The plains grew harsher, the land rolling out in long golden stretches beneath a clouded sky. Rohan's beauty was fierce and lonely—tall grasses swaying like an ocean of sunlight, broken only by scattered stones and the distant silhouettes of riders.

It was near midday when Fawkes's cry broke the silence.

"Riders!" Legolas shouted, already nocking an arrow as dust plumed on the horizon. "Many riders!"

Within moments, a host of horsemen thundered into view, spears glinting, banners whipping in the wind. They surrounded the Fellowship in a ring of dust and steel. At their head rode a tall man with fierce eyes and golden hair, his armor marked with the sun emblem of Rohan.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "And why do you ride so openly in these lands? Speak quickly before my patience wears thin."

Aragorn stepped forward, calm but commanding. "We are friends of Rohan and enemies of the Dark Lord. I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. These are my companions, Legolas of the Woodland Realm, Gimli son of Glóin, Boromir of Gondor, and Harriet Potter of another world."

The man's eyes narrowed slightly at the last name. "Another world?"

Harriet stepped forward cautiously, her wand still at her side. "It's a long story. But we're not here to bring harm, I promise you that."

He studied her for a long moment before dismounting. "I am Éomer, son of Éomund, Third Marshal of Riddermark. You come at a dangerous time. Saruman's forces have ravaged our borders, and strangers are met with suspicion."

Fawkes, perched nearby, trilled sharply. The Riders' horses stamped nervously at the sound, but Éomer only raised a brow. "And what is that creature?"

"A friend," Harriet said simply, smiling faintly. "His name is Fawkes. He watches over us."

Éomer's stern expression softened for a moment at the phoenix's regal bearing. "Then you have powerful allies, Lady Potter."

At her name, his eyes darkened slightly, as if recalling something troubling. He gestured for his men to lower their spears. "There is word spreading across the plains," he said slowly. "A bounty has been issued by no mortal lord but a shadow. The Witch-king of Angmar himself offers reward beyond measure for the capture of a woman bearing fire on her hand. Alive. At all costs."

The words hit like a cold wind. Harriet's breath caught; she instinctively curled her fingers over Narya.

"The Witch-king knows she's here," Boromir muttered grimly.

Aragorn's jaw tightened. "That means he fears her. And fear is a weapon we can use."

Legolas's hand brushed Harriet's shoulder, grounding her. "He will not have you," he said quietly, eyes fierce as the stars.

Éomer nodded once. "Then ride swiftly and unseen. I will not betray your presence, but beware, his servants are everywhere. And the Nazgûl do not rest."

As Éomer and his Riders turned to depart, Harriet watched them fade into the horizon, her heart pounding. She had faced Voldemort, she had faced death, but this, being hunted across another world by the Witch-king himself, was something else entirely.

When the wind shifted, she felt Narya grow hot, pulsing with warning. Somewhere far to the north, a chill spread across her thoughts, like a shadow whispering her name.

She drew a deep breath, clutching her wand. "Let him come," she murmured, fire flaring in her eyes. "I'm done running from monsters."

Fawkes trilled above her, wings catching the sunset, a banner of flame against the darkening sky.

And so they pressed on through the plains of Rohan, the hunted becoming the hunters once more, each step carrying them closer to war, to destiny, and to the fire that awaited them all.

The hunt had carried them deep into the shadowed wilds of Rohan, across endless plains and through ancient forests whose roots seemed to breathe with forgotten life. Fangorn loomed ahead like a dream of the elder world, vast, primeval, and humming with slow, ancient power. The very air was thick with green scent and whispering leaves, the light dim beneath the canopy of towering trees that had stood since before the First Age.

Even the Fellowship felt its presence. Gimli muttered uneasily, his axe tight in his grip. Boromir scanned the shadows warily, every instinct sharpened by battle and weariness. Legolas, though, looked upon the forest with reverence, his gaze distant and his tone hushed. "This is no ordinary wood," he said softly. "Fangorn is older than the kingdoms of Men and Elves. The trees here remember a time when the world was young."

Harriet could feel it too, the thrum of magic beneath her feet. It was ancient, slow, patient, and powerful. It spoke not in words, but in feeling: a deep knowing that they were intruders upon something sacred.

Fawkes circled above, his fiery wings cutting through the mist, before swooping down to perch on Harriet's shoulder. His feathers glowed faintly against the dim green light, their warmth steadying her as they moved through the towering trees.

They had been searching for signs of Merry and Pippin when Aragorn paused suddenly, crouching to examine a set of tracks. "They passed through here," he murmured, his fingers brushing the earth. "But their captors are gone. The trail ends near the edge of that glade."

They followed his lead, stepping cautiously into a small clearing where the air seemed to hum with unseen energy. The forest was silent except for the faint creaking of wood and the whisper of wind.

And then, a voice, low, calm, yet filled with an echo of immeasurable power, broke the stillness.

"You need not search further."

Every weapon was drawn in an instant, sword, bow, and wand. A blinding light flared through the mist ahead, white and pure, forcing them to shield their eyes. Fawkes gave a shrill, startled cry, his wings flaring protectively around Harriet.

When the brilliance faded, a tall figure stood before them, cloaked in white, his staff gleaming with inner fire.

At first, Harriet could scarcely breathe. For a moment she thought it must be Saruman, but no, the presence was different. Stronger. Kinder. Older than stone and yet lighter than sunlight.

Then he spoke again, and the sound of his voice made her heart stutter.

"Do not fear," said the man in white. "For though I was lost to the Shadow, I have returned to you at the turn of the tide."

Harriet's wand fell from her hand. "Gandalf?" she whispered.

He smiled, faintly, softly, as if he'd been waiting for her to speak his name. "Yes, Harriet. I was Gandalf the Grey. But I am now Gandalf the White, returned to finish that which began in the depths of Moria."

The world blurred. A sob tore from her throat as she stumbled forward, crossing the clearing before anyone could stop her. She threw her arms around him, pressing her face into his chest, her body trembling. "You" she choked out, "you fell, I thought"

Gandalf's hand came to rest gently on her back, his touch steady and warm. "I did fall," he said softly, "into the deepest dark. And there I fought the flame until both of us were broken and remade. But do not weep, my dear child. I am here."

Harriet couldn't stop the tears. They came in hot streams down her cheeks as the weight of weeks of grief and fear poured out. The Fellowship stood silent behind her, even Boromir bowing his head in quiet reverence.

When she finally drew back, Gandalf brushed a tear from her cheek. "The fire in you burns brighter than I remember. You have walked a perilous road."

She nodded, trying to steady her breath. "You gave me Narya before you fell," she said softly. "It's been… difficult, learning to carry it. It's powerful, Gandalf. Sometimes it feels alive."

His eyes, bright as starlight, yet impossibly gentle, softened further. "It is alive, in a way. Narya was always meant to awaken hearts, to rekindle courage when hope falters. You were the right choice, Harriet. I trusted that even in the darkest moments, you would keep its flame true."

At his words, the ring pulsed faintly, as if acknowledging its former master.

Then Fawkes gave a melodic cry, drawing Gandalf's gaze. The phoenix perched proudly upon Harriet's shoulder, his eyes full of intelligence and light. Gandalf's expression turned to one of delighted wonder.

"Ah," he said with a smile. "So the guardian of flame has returned to his mistress. I felt his presence even beyond the veil. A creature of pure renewal, how fitting that he should walk beside you again."

Harriet smiled through her tears. "He saved Boromir's life. I don't know how he found me here, but I'm glad he did."

Fawkes trilled softly, the sound full of affection and pride. Gandalf extended a hand, and the phoenix stretched his neck forward, brushing his beak against the wizard's fingers in greeting.

"Faithful to the end," Gandalf murmured. "I remember him well from your world, Harriet. His fire burns with purpose, as yours does. Together, you may yet light the way through the darkness to come."

The forest seemed to sigh around them, the leaves whispering approval. The reunion of wizard and phoenix, and the young witch who carried both the fire of her world and the Ring of another, felt like a convergence of fate itself.

When at last Gandalf turned his gaze to the others, the old glimmer of mirth shone behind his eyes. "Come," he said, gesturing toward the deep woods. "There is much to do and little time to do it. We must ride for Edoras. War is stirring in Rohan, and Sauron's shadow lengthens across the land."

But before following, Gandalf looked again to Harriet. "You have done well, my dear. The fire of Narya burns bright within you, but remember, even fire must be tempered by wisdom and love. Both will be tested soon."

Harriet nodded, her heart still trembling from the joy of seeing him alive. She didn't know what trials awaited them, but for the first time since Moria, the light in her heart burned steady once more.

Fawkes rose into the air, his wings blazing gold as they followed Gandalf deeper into the living heart of Fangorn.

And as they walked beneath the whispering boughs, the first true hope in many days warmed them all, like the dawn after the longest night.

Chapter Text

The road to Edoras was long and grueling, the wind carrying dust and the scent of scorched grass from the battles that had wracked Rohan. The Fellowship rode as one, Fawkes flying above them in brilliant arcs of gold and red, casting flashes of fire against the darkening sky. Harriet felt Narya's warmth thrumming against her palm, its pulse resonating with her own heartbeat. Every mile closer to Edoras made the tension in the air tighter, as though the shadow of Saruman's influence stretched further than even the horizon.

The Golden Hall of Meduseld rose before them, its gilded roof glinting in the sunlight, but the beauty of the place was marred by a subtle darkness, a sense of oppression that seemed to cling to the very air. The doors opened before them, and Gandalf led the way with quiet authority, his staff glowing faintly as he stepped forward. Behind him, Harriet followed closely, feeling the weight of the fire in her hand, knowing that her magic would play a crucial part in what was to come.

Inside the hall, Théoden sat slumped in his chair, his eyes clouded and vacant, the strength of his spirit bound by Saruman's dark will. The courtiers and soldiers moved cautiously, their gazes flickering between fear and hope.

Before Harriet could fully process the scene, she noticed movement near the balcony. A tall, fair woman with hair like silver sunlight watched them with sharp, intelligent eyes. Éowyn. There was a recognition in her gaze, a curiosity and wariness that mirrored Harriet's own.

"I am Éowyn," the woman said quietly, stepping forward. "And you are…?"

Harriet's mouth curved into a gentle smile. "Harriet. Harriet Potter. From… well, not here, but I've traveled farther than I ever thought I would." She hesitated, then added, "And this," she gestured to Fawkes perched on her shoulder, "is Fawkes. He helps me keep people safe."

Éowyn's eyes widened slightly, awe flashing in them at the sight of the phoenix. "A creature of flame… and you wield such power?" she asked, voice trembling with a mix of fear and admiration.

"I do my best," Harriet said softly. "And sometimes, I need help." Her glance drifted to Gandalf, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

Gandalf's voice filled the hall, carrying the weight of authority and command. "The time has come to free Théoden of Saruman's corruption. It will require focus, patience, and the strength of those who wish to protect him."

Harriet stepped closer to the king, feeling the pulse of dark magic that Saruman had woven around him. She touched Narya lightly to her palm, letting its fire hum against her own energy. She felt its warmth spread through her, settling over her like a protective cloak.

Gandalf began the incantation, his voice low and deliberate, threading through the weave of Saruman's control like a knife through cloth. Harriet joined him, letting Narya's fire mingle with her magic, sending waves of light and heat into Théoden's mind, a gentle but unyielding push against the chains that bound him.

As the process continued, Harriet's thoughts drifted to the words of her mentor, words that had carried her through the darkest moments of her life: Do not pity the dead, Harriet. Pity the living, and above all, those who live without love. She felt them as a spark in her mind, as if Dumbledore's wisdom had followed her across worlds, guiding her hand.

Saruman's voice hissed in her thoughts, a venomous echo meant to unnerve and dissuade. "Foolish girl," it sneered. "You cannot touch what is mine. His mind is bound to me. You cannot break the chains."

Harriet inhaled, letting the power of Narya surge beneath her touch, and spoke, her voice steady and unwavering:

"As my mentor Albus Dumbledore once said to me, I say to you, Do not pity the dead, Saruman. Pity the living, and above all, those who live without love."

A spark of fire shot from Narya, bright and intense, illuminating the hall with white-gold brilliance. The heat of it pressed against everyone's skin, a living presence that seemed to pulse with Harriet's determination and heart. Fawkes flared beside her, wings spreading wide, his own flames mingling with the ring's energy.

The court gasped, the soldiers and courtiers staring at her, astonished at the audacity and brilliance of the act. Gandalf's eyes shone with pride and recognition, a silent affirmation of her courage. Even Éowyn's jaw dropped slightly, admiration and awe mixing with her concern.

Saruman recoiled, a hiss of anger and disbelief vibrating through the air. The chain of his influence trembled, shattering in sparks and shadow. Théoden's eyes blinked open, clear and bright, his spirit returning to him like the first breath after a long winter. His hands gripped the arms of his chair, and a gasp of relief rippled through the hall.

Harriet stepped back, allowing Gandalf to finish the work, but she remained near the king, her eyes following his every motion. Théoden rose slowly, his strength returning, and turned to look upon her. There was recognition, gratitude, and an unspoken understanding in his gaze.

Gandalf laid a hand on her shoulder, the warmth of his presence mingling with Narya's fire. "You have done well, Harriet," he said, voice carrying a quiet reverence. "Your courage, your magic, and your heart, together, they have freed a king and shattered a shadow. Remember this, child: love is the fire that even the darkest will fear."

Harriet exhaled, her chest tight with emotion. She had faced death, monsters, and despair, and yet here she was, standing in the golden hall of Meduseld, fire and phoenix at her side, having turned words of wisdom into a weapon stronger than Saruman's will.

Fawkes trilled softly, brushing against her shoulder, his flames dimming to a gentle, steady warmth as if acknowledging her triumph. Harriet's gaze met Gandalf's once more, gratitude and determination shining bright.

The battle for Théoden's soul was over, but the war for Middle-earth was far from finished. And Harriet Potter, with the fire of Narya and the courage of her heart, was ready for what came next.

3 Days Later:

The wind swept across the plains of Rohan, carrying the faint scent of horses and the distant memory of battle. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long golden shadows over the rolling hills as the riders gathered at Edoras, preparing to ride for Helm's Deep. The sound of hooves striking the ground echoed across the open fields, a rhythm both steady and urgent, as though the land itself understood the danger approaching.

Harriet's hand rested lightly on Narya, its fire pulsing softly against her skin, a constant reassurance as she mounted her horse. Fawkes circled above, letting out a triumphant trill before diving into a playful arc, leaving a streak of gold in his wake. Beside her, Legolas adjusted the quiver on his back, his gaze scanning the horizon with elven precision.

"You've grown more confident with Narya since Fangorn," Legolas observed quietly, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "I sense the balance you've begun to strike between your own magic and the ring's power. It is not easy, yet you manage it well."

Harriet's lips curved into a small, tired smile. "I still make mistakes," she admitted, glancing down at her hand where the ring pulsed faintly. "But Fawkes has helped, and… well, having you nearby helps too." Her cheeks warmed at the confession, and she kept her gaze fixed on the distant hills, hoping he wouldn't notice.

"I am glad to be of assistance," Legolas said, his lips twitching with a hint of a smile. "You wield fire and light as if they were extensions of yourself. It is… inspiring."

Harriet's heart gave a small, startled leap at his words. "Inspiring," she echoed, almost laughing at how flustered she felt. Her eyes flicked toward him, catching the sunlight glinting off his hair and the graceful tilt of his bow across his back. She quickly looked away, focusing on the horizon, but her pulse raced.

Fawkes landed lightly on her shoulder, giving a soft trill as if to say, Don't get lost in admiration; we have work to do. Harriet laughed softly, brushing the phoenix's feathers. "Alright, alright. I'll keep my head in the game."

The ride to Helm's Deep stretched for hours. They passed through winding valleys, forests, and streams, the horses' hooves striking a steady rhythm that echoed the determination in the hearts of the riders. During breaks, Harriet found herself conversing more freely with both Legolas and Éowyn.

Éowyn walked beside her horse at one rest stop, the wind catching her hair. "You wield your magic differently from anyone I've seen," she said quietly. "It is strong, yes, but… delicate, too. Like fire contained in a crystal."

Harriet smiled, touched by the analogy. "I'm still learning how to control it. It's strange to have power that doesn't come from just yourself, it's like carrying another heartbeat in your hand. And sometimes, it wants to do more than I do."

Éowyn nodded thoughtfully. "I know what it is to feel restrained by what is expected, and to yearn for freedom. Perhaps that is why your fire calls to me. You remind me of what courage looks like, and… what it can feel like."

Harriet's cheeks warmed, and she lowered her gaze. "I'm glad to hear that," she said softly. There was a moment of understanding between them, a quiet bond forming over shared courage and the pressures of living with responsibility beyond their years.

As they rode, Legolas fell into step beside Harriet, his voice a quiet murmur over the wind. "You are thinking of Éowyn," he said, not accusingly, but with the gentle curiosity only he could convey.

Harriet flushed but didn't look away. "She's… brave. And strong. And I want to understand her world too, like you've helped me understand this one."

He nodded, eyes distant for a heartbeat as if weighing her words. "It is good to connect with those who share the burdens of courage. But do not forget your own heart while you learn of others'."

Her pulse quickened. "I won't," she promised softly, letting her hand brush against Narya in affirmation, the ring's warmth echoing her racing heartbeat.

For a while, they rode in companionable silence, the quiet only broken by the whispering wind and the occasional call of Fawkes from above. When Legolas finally spoke again, his tone was lighter, teasing in a way that made her grin. "I am beginning to think you enjoy being near danger as much as you do learning magic."

Harriet laughed, the sound mingling with the rush of wind across the plains. "Maybe I do," she admitted, "but only because I have good company." Her gaze flicked toward him, and for a fleeting moment, the world beyond the fields and mountains disappeared.

Night fell as the riders made camp near a wooded ridge overlooking the approach to Helm's Deep. The fires crackled warmly, casting dancing shadows across the group. Harriet sat close to Éowyn, sharing stories of battles past, while Fawkes rested atop a nearby branch, his feathers glowing softly in the firelight. Legolas kept watch, bow in hand, but his eyes frequently drifted back to Harriet, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

As the stars blinked awake overhead, Harriet's thoughts returned to the coming battle. Narya pulsed faintly in her hand, a quiet reminder of the power she carried and the responsibility she bore.

Legolas crouched beside her, voice low but steady. "Tomorrow, we face an army, yet I have faith that the light you carry will guide us through it. Together, we are stronger than we know."

Harriet's heart fluttered. "Together," she echoed, letting the warmth of both his words and Narya's fire fill her chest. And then, without thinking, she reached up and brushed her fingers lightly against his. The contact was fleeting, but enough to send a spark of electricity through her, mirrored by the faint glow of Narya.

Legolas caught her hand, holding it gently. "I am glad you are here," he said softly, the intensity of his gaze both grounding and thrilling her.

Fawkes trilled from above, a tiny spark of flame dancing off his feathers, as though in approval of the bond growing between them. Harriet smiled, squeezing Legolas's hand in return, feeling a quiet certainty in the midst of uncertainty: that in the coming storm, they would face it side by side, and hearts bound by courage and fire could withstand even the darkest night.

And in the shadows beyond the firelight, Éowyn's eyes lingered on Harriet, admiration and curiosity mixing with a growing respect for the girl who carried both fire and love in equal measure.

The night stretched long and quiet, but the coming dawn promised the roar of battle—and with it, the courage, bonds, and fire that would light their path through the darkness.

Chapter Text

Far to the east, in the dark and twisted towers of Mordor, the air was thick with ash and shadow. The sky was a dull, sickly red, streaked with clouds that seemed to twist in unnatural patterns, as if even the heavens recoiled from the land beneath. In the center of it all, upon a jagged hill of black stone, the Witch-king of Angmar stood, the wind whirling about his black robes and the tips of his crown-like helm glinting in the dim light.

He did not speak aloud, his thoughts: dark and unyielding, carried across distances as easily as his presence carried fear. The world itself seemed to sense his anticipation, and yet, even as the winds of Mordor swirled violently, a new and unfamiliar tension pricked at his consciousness.

Harriet Potter. The name echoed through his mind like a curse and a call, a beacon he could not extinguish. She had survived. Again and again, despite odds that should have claimed her. The memory of Amon Hen, the clash of magic, the blaze of light, the ring of fire, haunted him. That she had touched the realms of Middle-earth with power he could not yet understand filled him with a mixture of rage and fascination when he saw it in the Palantír.

He could sense her still, a spark burning across the lands of Rohan. Narya's presence resonated faintly, a pulse of life and fire unlike anything he had encountered. She was not merely a mortal or even a witch of her own world, she was something more. Something that could defy the very darkness he wielded. And yet, that same defiance made her tantalizingly close to irresistible, a thread of obsession twisting through the shadow of his mind.

He considered the reports brought by spies and whispers in the wind. She had crossed paths with kings and wizards alike, survived battles that should have ended her, and now, she rode through Rohan's lands with her companions, her fire a living thing, uncontained and dangerous.

"Why does she endure?" the Witch-king murmured to the shadows that curled about him. His voice was a rasp, a sound that seemed to scrape the air itself. "Why does she not fall, as all others do?"

It was not curiosity alone. There was something more, a gnawing, insistent pull he could not ignore. He could feel her heartbeat in a way he could not have imagined, her courage and her power drawing him closer, even as the darkness within him recoiled at the very light she carried. A thrill ran through him, a dangerous intoxication born from the clash of fire and shadow.

Every victory he had won, every kingdom he had crushed, every fear he had spread, all of it felt hollow in the face of this girl. He was aware, even in his immense arrogance, that she had something he did not fully comprehend. A power tied not only to her magic but to the very essence of life and hope, a force he had long thought to be irrelevant in the eyes of the Shadow.

He moved to a jagged balcony overlooking the obsidian plains of Mordor, the wind whipping his robes around him like living darkness. His armored fingers clenched, and his helm tilted slightly as if to watch a distant horizon. Somewhere beyond the hills, somewhere in the lands of Men and Elves, she moved. Alive. Burning with fire. Protected. Unbroken.

A shiver of rage passed through him, mixed with something else, something that no darkness should allow him to feel. Desire? Obsession? Perhaps both. She was a threat, yes, but one that ignited a dark fascination he could not quell. And every time he thought of her, every time he felt the pulse of her courage through Narya, that fascination grew stronger, sharpening like the edge of a blade.

"She must be taken," he whispered, and the shadows seemed to echo the words. "Alive. I must have her. Her fire… her defiance… I will see it broken, and yet I will know it. I will know it."

And for the first time in centuries, the Witch-king paused, letting the darkness of Mordor and the blackness of his own mind simmer in anticipation. The hunt would be unlike any before. She had survived the hands of others; she would not survive him. Not unless he wished her to. And in that thought, the shadow that was he trembled, not with fear, but with a keen, dangerous excitement.

The obsidian plains stretched endlessly, a kingdom of despair, yet in the distance, a faint glimmer of light: warm, golden, and unyielding, burned and carrying with it a name he could neither ignore nor forget.

Harriet Potter.

The shadow shifted, restless and impatient. The hunt was coming. And so, too, did his obsession deepen, winding through him like a poison, a fascination born of fire and defiance. The flame he had once thought to snuff out now beckoned him, daring him to touch it.

And the Witch-king smiled beneath his helm, a dark, predatory gleam.

"She will be mine," he hissed, the wind carrying the promise across the blackened lands. "Alive. And I will see what that fire costs the world."

Fawkes, Narya, and the Fellowship had yet to sense the weight of the shadow growing behind them, but the Witch-king's mind already reached across the lands, weaving fear and obsession into a web that would stretch into the heart of Rohan and beyond.

The game had begun.

Meanwhile at Helms Deep:

The walls of Helm's Deep rose like jagged teeth against the sky, their gray stone pale beneath the dimming light of late afternoon. The wind carried the chill of the White Mountains, sharp and biting, and the distant cry of birds circling overhead only heightened the sense of tension. Inside the fortress, the air was thick with anticipation; men of Rohan hurried to arm themselves, sharpening blades, checking armor, and nervously whispering prayers to whichever gods would hear them.

Harriet mounted a small rise overlooking the main courtyard, letting Narya's warmth pulse gently in her palm. The ring's fire was steady, almost comforting, a heartbeat she could cling to amidst the growing fear. Fawkes circled above, his golden feathers catching the last rays of sunlight, occasionally letting out a triumphant trill that felt like a reassurance Harriet hadn't realized she needed.

Legolas approached quietly, silent as the wind through the battlements. "The enemy comes," he murmured, his green eyes scanning the horizon. "And yet the tension here feels heavier than the storm itself. The men are afraid, but they have courage, tempered by hope. Courage and hope… it is not unlike your fire, Harriet."

Harriet smiled, brushing back a loose strand of hair. "It feels like so much," she admitted. "Every time I try to focus, it's like the ring, Narya, Fawkes, and everything else are all pulling at me. I keep asking myself if I'm strong enough for this."

Legolas's gaze softened. "You are stronger than any of us. Stronger even than you know. But strength is not measured in victories alone. It is measured by the courage to stand, even when the world expects you to fall."

A soft laugh escaped her, tinged with disbelief. "And here I was thinking you elves were all stoic and perfect. I'd say you're giving speeches now."

He smiled faintly, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. "Only to those who need them most."

A few yards away, Éowyn practiced parrying with a wooden sword, her movements sharp and precise, but Harriet noticed the tension in her shoulders and the faint shadow in her eyes. She moved closer.

"You're worrying too much," Harriet said quietly. "It doesn't make you any weaker to accept that we all feel fear before battle."

Éowyn lowered her sword, breathing heavily, and gave a small, wry smile. "And you've never felt it?"

Harriet's hand went automatically to Narya, feeling its warmth radiate through her. "I do. Every time I hold this," she said softly, "I feel the weight of it, of everyone counting on me, and everything I've survived. But that weight… it also makes me stronger."

Éowyn nodded thoughtfully. "I understand. Perhaps that is why I feel… safer around you, Harriet. You carry not just fire, but a sense of purpose that makes others believe they can stand too."

Harriet felt her heart swell. "Then maybe we'll make it through this together," she said quietly. Éowyn's eyes softened, and for a moment they simply stood there, sharing the calm before the storm.

As the sun dipped lower, the glow of Narya intensified slightly. Harriet's fingers brushed against something hard in her pocket, a small, smooth object she hadn't noticed before. Curious, she dug it out and turned it over in her hands.

It was the Resurrection Stone. Her eyes widened. "Fawkes…" she murmured, looking up to see the phoenix perched nearby, tilting his head with that same mischievous intelligence. The bird gave a soft trill, almost like a chuckle, and Harriet understood: he had placed it there, without her noticing, as a safeguard, a reminder that she was never truly alone, that hope and help could arrive in the smallest, unexpected ways.

Narya pulsed brightly in response, as if acknowledging the presence of the stone, and Harriet felt a wave of reassurance wash over her. The fire of the ring, the warmth of Fawkes, and the quiet courage of her companions intertwined within her. She was ready.

Legolas noticed the stone in her hand, his brows lifting. "What is that?" he asked softly.

She held it out to him briefly, smiling. "A little gift from Fawkes. Just in case." Her hand lingered near his for a heartbeat, and she felt his warmth, not just from the body heat of his hand but from the steady reassurance of his presence.

Éowyn stepped closer, glancing at the stone and then at Harriet. "That… that's remarkable," she whispered. "A way to hold hope even when things seem lost. You truly are extraordinary, Harriet."

Harriet felt a blush creep over her cheeks, but she smiled. "I've learned from some of the best." She gave a quiet nod toward Legolas and Fawkes, letting Éowyn understand that sometimes, courage came in many forms, not all of them human.

As night fell, the fires of Helm's Deep blazed, flickering against the ramparts and casting long shadows on the stone walls. The soldiers huddled in quiet groups, sharpening swords and offering prayers. Harriet trained, letting Narya's fire spill through her, creating sparks that danced like living embers. Legolas observed her, occasionally lending pointers on balance and movement, while Éowyn joined in, practicing defensive strikes and spells alongside her.

The calm before the battle was electric, a taut string ready to snap. And yet, amidst the tension, Harriet felt something she hadn't felt since Moria—a sense of belonging, of fire and courage intertwined, and the bond of those she trusted most by her side.

Fawkes settled lightly on her shoulder, the warmth of his feathers against her neck, while Narya pulsed brighter than ever, reflecting the determination in her heart. She slipped the Resurrection Stone into her hand, feeling the reassurance of its weight. Even if the coming night was filled with shadow, she was not alone, and the fire she carried would not be extinguished.

Legolas leaned closer, his voice barely a whisper over the wind. "Tomorrow, we stand together. You, me, and all of them. The fire you carry… it will guide us."

Harriet met his gaze, heart pounding, warmth spreading through her. "Together," she echoed, pressing her hand to the stone and letting Narya's light flow through her. And in that quiet, fleeting moment, she knew they could face whatever darkness awaited beyond the walls of Helm's Deep.

The wind stirred through the Deeping Wall, carrying the promise of battle, fire, and unbroken courage. The calm would soon end—but Harriet Potter, with fire, phoenix, and stone in her hands, was ready to meet it head-on.

As The night at Helm's Deep carried on, it was heavy with tension. Fires flickered along the battlements, casting long, quivering shadows that danced across stone walls, while the distant clatter of armor and the anxious murmur of men reminded Harriet that the battle would come soon. She stood apart from the others, Narya's warmth steady in her hand, and her fingers brushed absently against the smooth surface of the Resurrection Stone.

Fawkes perched on her shoulder, trilling softly, sensing her unease. The stone pulsed faintly against her palm, almost as if it was urging her to use it, and Harriet felt the weight of longing and responsibility pressing on her chest. She had fought monsters, orcs, and shadows beyond reckoning, but tonight, what she most wanted was a moment of connection with the people she loved.

Taking a deep breath, she murmured the incantation she had discovered earlier, letting the energy of Narya and the stone flow together, and closed her eyes. A faint, golden shimmer surrounded her, the air vibrating softly, and then, one by one, the voices of her loved ones came through.

"Harriet?" A soft, quivering voice first, Lily. The warmth in Lily's tone brought tears to Harriet's eyes immediately.

"Mum," Harriet whispered, smiling through the ache in her chest. "I… I wanted to see you. To hear you."

Lily's form shimmered into being, radiant and kind, though faintly translucent. "Oh, my darling girl… you've grown so much. So brave… and so strong." She reached out, as if she could touch her daughter across the worlds, and Harriet felt the echo of her love press against her heart.

Before she could speak further, another presence flared into view. Sirius, wild-eyed and impish, hovered beside Lily, clearly agitated. "Potter! Look at you! Look at you! You're… you're grown, and you're…" He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of Legolas, who was watching from a distance, perched near the ramparts. "And… and you're with him? An elf? You didn't even tell me about this!"

James appeared next, his expression a mixture of pride, disbelief, and exasperation. "Harriet! By Merlin, you've grown up on me! And now you're… I don't even know, dating an elf? What is this, Middle-earth matchmaking?" He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "Honestly, we raised you better than this!"

Harriet laughed softly, feeling a flush rise to her cheeks. "I didn't mean to surprise you," she said gently, the fire of Narya pulsing faintly in response to her nervous energy. "But yes… I'm with Legolas. He's… amazing, kind, and brave, and"

Sirius crossed his arms, scowling in mock indignation. "Kind? Brave? You've clearly been living in fairy tales, Harriet Potter! You're a wizard, your heart shouldn't even be capable of elf-level romance!"

James groaned, half laughing, half frustrated. "I swear, you make it impossible for us to give fatherly advice anymore. We just want you to be safe, Harriet. And you… well, you've gone and grown into someone who's too dangerous and too… unstoppable for our liking."

Remus stepped forward, calmer than the others but no less concerned. "They're not angry, Harriet. They just… need to adjust. You're a different person now, and they're realizing just how much you've changed. I, for one, am proud of you."

Harriet felt her throat tighten at his words, and a small laugh escaped her. "I'm still me," she said softly, holding the stone tightly. "But I'm… more now. More than I could have imagined. And I wanted you to see that I'm still thinking of you, even when I'm so far away."

Lily smiled warmly. "That is all we could ever hope for, my child. Even if we cannot touch you, we feel your courage, your fire… your love. And that is enough."

Sirius, though still frowning, let out a reluctant laugh. "Well… alright. But just so you know, elf-boy better treat you like a queen, or there'll be trouble when we finally get a proper duel in Middle-earth!"

James rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Sirius, give it a rest. She's her own person now. And if she's happy" He paused, his voice softening. "Then I suppose we must be happy too. Just… don't forget who you are, Harriet. Don't forget us."

Harriet felt her heart swell, tears threatening to fall. "I could never forget you," she whispered. "And I promise I'll stay true to myself, even here, even now."

Remus gave her a small nod, his eyes shining with pride. "Good. And remember, even when you are facing darkness, you have the love and strength of those who came before you. That is something even the Shadow cannot touch."

The shimmering forms of her loved ones slowly began to fade, the connection gently breaking as the stone's magic receded. Harriet lowered it, holding it to her chest for a long moment, feeling the echo of their love still thrumming in her heart.

Fawkes gave a soft trill, brushing against her cheek with a gentle feather. Narya pulsed in agreement, the fire in her palm steady and warm. She looked up to see Legolas and Éowyn approaching, each sensing the change in her, the quiet calm that now rested over her despite the storm to come.

"You're ready," Legolas said softly, a hint of pride in his voice, "even more ready than you know."

Éowyn smiled, eyes filled with admiration. "You carry more than fire and courage, Harriet. You carry hope itself, and that is a rare gift."

Harriet breathed deeply, the weight of Narya and the Resurrection Stone reassuring her. "Thank you," she whispered. "I'm ready… and I won't let any of us down."

Fawkes fluttered overhead, leaving a trail of glowing embers, and the fires of Helm's Deep blazed along the battlements. In the distance, the first murmur of Uruk-hai movements carried on the wind, sharp and ominous. The night was almost over.

But Harriet Potter, phoenix, fire, and stone at her side, stood prepared, heart steady, mind clear, and love burning bright, ready to face the coming darkness.

Chapter Text

The storm broke over Helm's Deep in a torrent of rain and fury. Lightning slashed the sky in jagged arcs, illuminating the towering walls of the Hornburg and the endless ranks of Uruk-hai massed below. The air was heavy with the scent of wet stone, steel, and fear.

Harriet stood upon the battlements beside Aragorn, Legolas, Boromir and Gimli, her cloak plastered to her armor by the downpour, strands of dark hair sticking to her face. In her right hand, her wand burned faintly with the shimmer of Narya's fire coursing through her veins. The Ring of Fire had become more than an heirloom now, it was a conduit, linking her to the heartbeat of the fortress itself, every flame, every torch, every ember answering her call.

She looked to Legolas, who met her gaze with a steady calm, a reassurance that anchored her heart amid the chaos. "They're coming," he said softly, eyes fixed on the advancing horde.

Harriet nodded, jaw tightening. "Then we make our stand."

Below, the thunderous drumbeat of the Uruk-hai began, a deep, rolling pulse that shook the ground. Their snarling faces glowed in the flicker of lightning, eyes full of bloodlust, voices rising into a war cry that shook the hearts of even seasoned men. Harriet felt the dread pushing against her, the chill of the Witch-king's influence whispering faintly at the edges of her mind. The air itself seemed to hum with dark anticipation.

And far away, deep within Mordor, inside the fortress of Barad-dûr, the Witch-king stood before a Palantír resting atop a pedestal of obsidian. Its surface swirled with dark light, visions of Helm's Deep flashing across its depths. He could see the fire-haired witch moving along the wall, her power visible even across the distance, a thread of light in the endless dark. Her magic rippled outward, a defiance that made the shadows recoil.

He leaned closer, skeletal hands tightening upon the stone. "So… you burn brighter when cornered," he whispered, voice echoing like a blade through a tomb. "How fascinating."

Behind him, orc captains trembled, uncertain whether to speak or flee. The Witch-king's presence was suffocating, his aura a tangible thing that snuffed out hope like a candle in a storm.

"Fire against shadow," he murmured, eyes fixed on the Palantír. "Let us see which endures."

At Helm's Deep, the first arrows loosed.

Legolas's bow sang, each shot swift and sure, cutting down Uruks before they reached the wall. Beside him, Harriet lifted her wand, murmuring an incantation, "Ignis Aeternum!", and a river of fire erupted across the rain-slicked stones, forming a blazing barrier before the main gate. The flames hissed under the downpour but did not die, fed by Narya's unyielding will.

The men of Rohan gasped, awed and terrified in equal measure.

"She commands flame itself…" one whispered.

"By the Valar," muttered another. "She burns like a star."

Aragorn and Boromir shouted orders, rallying the archers, while Gimli roared with laughter as he hurled himself into the fray. Harriet's spells burst through the darkness, fiery runes and shields of golden light, deflecting crossbow bolts and blasts of crude orcish fire. Each time she drew on Narya, she felt its warmth entwine with her magic, a rhythm of life against the crushing dread that pressed from the east.

And still, the Witch-king watched.

Through the Palantír, he felt her strength surge, her heart's fire bright as the sun. His helm tilted, the faint echo of amusement in his voice. "So the Ring of Fire awakens in her hands… A gift from the Maia of flame herself, and yet it bends to the will of a mortal. No… not merely mortal."

He saw the faint shimmer of something else, the Resurrection Stone's power pulsing within her robes. Death and life, fire and light. She carried remnants of two worlds, a convergence that defied his comprehension.

"She walks in both realms," he hissed. "Perhaps… she belongs in neither."

The Palantír flared, showing him the flood of Uruks storming the causeway, ladders slamming against the wall. His unseen lips curved in a cruel smile. "Break her, and the fire will fade."

Atop the walls, chaos reigned.

An explosion rocked the Deeping Wall as Saruman's black powder ignited, tearing a gaping wound in the stone. Harriet was thrown backward, slamming hard against the rampart. Pain blossomed in her ribs, and for a moment, her vision blurred. Through the smoke and rain, she saw Uruk-hai pouring through the breach like a flood of nightmares.

"Harriet!" Legolas was at her side in a heartbeat, pulling her to her feet.

"I'm fine," she gasped, clutching his hand before stepping forward again. "We can't let them through!"

She raised her wand, drawing on both her own magic and Narya's, fire coiling around her like a living storm. "Protego Maxima!" she cried, and a massive dome of golden flame erupted across the breach, sealing it with a roar of energy. The ground trembled under the force. Uruks slammed into the barrier, only to burst into fire and ash.

But the effort cost her. Her knees buckled, and she sagged slightly, breath coming fast. Narya pulsed, trying to steady her, but she could feel how much energy she had poured into the spell.

Legolas caught her, his arm strong around her waist. "Easy," he whispered, concern etched into his fair features. "You've done enough."

She shook her head, eyes blazing. "Not yet."

Fawkes appeared in a burst of light, diving through the smoke and flame, his cry piercing the night. His feathers shed golden sparks, igniting arrows mid-flight and mending wounds where he landed. Men rallied at the sight, hope rekindled in their hearts.

In Mordor, the Witch-king staggered as the Palantír flared with Fawkes' brilliance. He snarled, voice a venomous hiss. "The phoenix. Again, she defies the laws of death. You think light will save you, witch? It will burn you first."

He extended his will through the stone, dark tendrils of malice seeping outward. Shadows began to stir in the sky above Helm's Deep, black clouds twisting unnaturally as if summoned by unseen hands. Lightning crackled, not white, but greenish, sickly and unnatural. The Witch-king's influence reached out, trying to smother her fire beneath an avalanche of despair.

Harriet felt it, an icy grip pressing against her heart. For a moment, her flame flickered. She saw flashes of Voldemort's sneer, the graveyard, the bodies that had fallen because of her. Her breath caught.

Then she heard a voice, a whisper through the storm.

"You are never alone, Harriet."

Her mother's words, faint but unmistakable, brushed through her mind. The Resurrection Stone glowed faintly in her pocket. The fire steadied. She stood tall, eyes burning with renewed strength.

Lifting her wand, she cried out, "You will not take them from me!"

The fire erupted again, brighter than before, cutting through the rain and shadow. The men cheered, their courage renewed.

Aragorn turned, eyes wide as he saw her blazing atop the wall. "By the Valar… she is light itself."

And far away, the Witch-king's helm turned sharply, as though her defiance struck him across the miles. The Palantír cracked faintly under his grip.

"Then I will come for you myself," he hissed, his voice echoing through the dark halls of Mordor. "And we will see if your fire burns so bright when shadow takes form."

The night raged on. Helm's Deep burned and bled, groaned under the weight of battle, the clash of swords and steel, the screams of men and orc alike, and the thunder of unending war rolling across the valley.

The Deeping Wall was shattered, the gate barely holding under the relentless pounding of the Uruk-hai's battering ram. Smoke and ash mingled with rain, turning the night into a blur of red and black. Every man fought for his life. Every moment was borrowed from doom.

And amid it all, Harriet Potter stood upon the ramparts, fire blazing around her like a living storm. Narya pulsed with her heartbeat, its crimson glow reflected in her emerald eyes. Each incantation she spoke seared through the darkness like a divine command. "Confringo! Bombarda Maxima! Fiendfyre Circum!"

Walls of fire tore through Uruk ranks, serpents of flame devouring ladders and siege engines. The magic burned hotter, more furious, than she had ever dared before. She was a tempest, a beacon, a soldier of light in a world besieged by night.

Beside her, Legolas loosed arrows with breathtaking precision, each shot finding the gap between armor plates or a weak point at the neck. Gimli bellowed from below, his axe drenched in black blood, keeping count with laughter that defied despair.

But for every Uruk that fell, ten more rose.

"Aragorn!" Harriet cried over the din, her wand blazing like a brand. "We can't hold them much longer!"

Aragorn, bloodied but unbowed, met her eyes. "Then we buy time until dawn! Ride out with me when the gate falls!"

Even as he spoke, a deafening crack split the night. The great gate of Helm's Deep buckled, then shattered inward under the force of Saruman's infernal machinery. The Uruks roared triumphantly as they surged through the breach like a black tide.

Harriet's heart clenched. "Legolas, with me!"

The elf leapt from the rampart to land beside her as she raced down the stairs. The world narrowed to the roar of battle and the pulse of fire in her veins. Together, they charged toward the chaos, Legolas's blades flashing silver as her wand burned white-gold.

She thrust her wand forward. "Protego Incendia!"

A wave of flame exploded across the courtyard, halting the oncoming horde. Men cheered, renewed by the sight of her standing defiantly before the breach, her hair soaked and glowing faintly in the firelight.

But even magic had limits. Harriet's strength faltered, her vision blurring at the edges. She felt Narya's warmth flicker, the weight of exhaustion creeping in.

Then, through the storm, she heard it, the echo of a horn.

A single, piercing note cutting through the din of death.

Aragorn turned toward the Deeping Wall, rain washing blood from his face. "The horn of Helm Hammerhand shall sound in the Deep one last time!"

He met Harriet's gaze, and for a fleeting second, they shared the same fierce resolve. "Ride with me."

Harriet's lips curved in a tired, fierce smile. "To the end."

The gates were thrown open.

Aragorn, Harriet, and Théoden rode forth, the King's banner streaming behind them, Legolas beside her on his white steed, the dawn beginning to break faintly over the horizon. The Uruks faltered at the sudden brilliance of her fire as she raised her wand high, shouting a spell that thundered through the air

"Incendio Solaris!"

A burst of golden flame tore across the causeway, a sunrise made of fire. The ground quaked, the very air shimmering with heat. For a heartbeat, the battlefield was bathed in radiance.

And then, from the ridge above, a blinding white light pierced the clouds.

Gandalf.

He stood astride Shadowfax, his staff raised high, robes gleaming like starlight. Behind him, Éomer's riders crested the hill, spears gleaming, eyes alight with fury and hope.

"Gandalf!" Harriet gasped, tears burning through the grime on her face.

His voice rolled like thunder across the valley. "Rohan! To the King!"

They charged.

The riders of Rohan swept down like a tidal wave of vengeance, smashing into the Uruk-hai flank. Spears shattered, blades flashed, and the tide turned in a heartbeat. Harriet's magic ignited the field, arcs of golden fire cutting through the dark tide. The sun broke fully over the horizon, its light scattering the storm clouds.

Day had come.

And with it, hope.

Harriet dismounted and ran forward as Shadowfax reared, light spilling from Gandalf's staff. She met the old wizard halfway, her breath catching as she threw her arms around him.

"I thought I lost you," she whispered, voice shaking with relief and tears.

Gandalf smiled, his hand gentle on her back. "You have not rid yourself of me just yet, dear one. Though it seems you've kept yourself quite busy."

Fawkes circled above, singing a note of pure triumph. The phoenix landed upon Gandalf's arm, and for a brief moment, the two ancient beings shared a look of knowing kinship.

"You've brought light to this world once more, child," Gandalf said softly. "But be wary, the shadow grows restless."

Harriet frowned, sensing it even now, the faint pull in the east, cold and poisonous. "He's watching, isn't he?"

"Yes," Gandalf murmured. "And not just him."

Far away, in Mordor.

The Palantír burned with light as the Witch-king hurled it aside, fury radiating like cold fire. He had watched it all. the fire, the defiance, the embrace between wizard and witch.

"She lives," he hissed. "She defies the will of the Dark Lord and the dominion of death itself."

His armor creaked as he turned to the assembled Nazgûl, his voice sharp as a blade. "Prepare the host. Summon every shadow that will answer. We ride soon. for her."

A lesser wraith hesitated. "My lord… Sauron"

"I will have her!" The Witch-king's voice thundered, cracking the air. "She bears flame and death both. She belongs to me!"

In the highest chamber of Barad-dûr, Sauron stirred.

The Great Eye flared, casting crimson light across the tower's black walls. Through the void that linked him to his servants, he felt the Witch-king's fury, his obsession.

For a long moment, the Dark Lord was silent. Then, his voice rolled like a storm through the abyss.

"Your fixation blinds you, my servant. She is not a prize to claim. She is a weapon to turn."

The Eye narrowed, its fire swirling.

"But perhaps…" Sauron mused, his tone shifting to one of dark curiosity, "your hunger may yet serve me. Obsession is but another chain. Let it bind her to you, and through you, to me."

Below, the Witch-king bowed, unseen by any mortal eye. "As you command, my master."

Yet within the hollow of his helm, a whisper defied the command.

She will burn for me alone.

And far away, as the smoke cleared from Helm's Deep, Harriet Potter stood beneath the morning sun, unaware that the shadow watching her had found a name for its hunger and that the war of Middle-earth.

Chapter Text

The dawn after Helm’s Deep was heavy with the scent of rain, blood, and smoke. The battlefield stretched before the fortress like a graveyard—broken shields, arrows jutting from the earth, the silence of too many fallen. The storm had passed, but the grief it left behind lingered like mist.

Harriet stood upon the battlements, her hair wind-tossed and streaked with ash. The fiery glow of Narya still shimmered faintly at her hand, the ring’s gem dim but alive, its warmth pulsing in rhythm with her heart. The victory felt hollow beneath the weight of exhaustion, though the sun, at last, shone upon Rohan’s fields.

Behind her, the clang of distant hammers echoed as the survivors tended to the wounded and repaired what little could be salvaged. But Harriet heard none of it—only the faint hum of magic beneath her skin and the deep ache of the battles she had fought since arriving in this strange, wondrous, and terrible world.

“You look as though you carry the world upon your shoulders,” came a gentle voice.

She turned. Gandalf stood beside her, leaning lightly on his staff. His white robes gleamed in the dawn light, though his face bore the same weariness she felt. Fawkes was perched on his arm, feathers glowing faintly gold, his eyes wise and watchful.

Harriet exhaled softly. “Perhaps I do. Or perhaps it’s just the weight of what’s still coming.”

Gandalf regarded her for a long moment, eyes kind but edged with the knowledge of ages. “You have done more than any could have asked. The Deep still stands. That is no small thing.”

She smiled faintly, though her eyes were distant. “I can’t help but wonder… how many more battles must I fight before I find peace?”

“Peace,” Gandalf murmured, “is not always found at the journey’s end. Sometimes it walks beside us, unseen, in the hands we hold and the hearts we trust.”

At that, Harriet’s gaze softened. She turned, spotting Legolas in the courtyard below, tending to a wounded Rohirrim soldier. His movements were graceful even in weariness, his golden hair catching the light. He looked up as though sensing her gaze, and their eyes met across the ruin of Helm’s Deep.

He smiled faintly, a small, quiet smile that made something in her chest flutter.

“Go to him,” Gandalf said gently, eyes twinkling. “He waits for you, even if he does not yet know what he wishes to say.”

Harriet hesitated, then nodded. “You always know too much, old man.”

“It is the curse of being old,” he replied with a chuckle, and turned his gaze to the horizon.

She found Legolas standing beneath one of the surviving towers, his hands busy with binding a soldier’s wound. When he noticed her approach, his expression softened instantly.

“Harriet,” he greeted, his voice low and soothing. “Are you hurt?”

“Only in the places magic can’t heal,” she said softly.

He smiled, and the warmth in his eyes nearly undid her. For a long moment, neither spoke. The silence between them was not empty, it was full, alive with everything that had gone unsaid during battle.

Legolas reached out, brushing a strand of soot-streaked hair from her cheek. “You fought as though you were born to fire and storm.”

“I was,” she said with a faint, wistful smile. “But every flame burns at a cost.”

His thumb traced lightly along her jaw, a wordless comfort. “Then let me help you carry it.”

Her breath caught. For all his calm grace, there was sincerity in his voice that shook her more deeply than the fiercest battle. She leaned forward, resting her forehead lightly against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“I don’t know what will come next,” she whispered. “But if the Valar themselves wish to stop me from standing beside you, they’ll have to try very hard.”

Legolas laughed softly, a quiet, musical sound. “Then may they never succeed.”

Fawkes landed nearby with a gentle cry, his feathers glimmering as the morning light grew stronger. The warmth of his presence filled the courtyard like the calm after a storm.

For a moment, it felt as if the world was right again.

But in Mordor, peace was a thing of mockery.

Deep within the black heart of Barad-dûr, shadows coiled like living serpents. The forges of the Dark Land screamed with the labor of thousands, shaping armor and weapons for an army that blotted out the horizon. The Witch-king of Angmar stood before the throngs, his armor gleaming obsidian, his tattered cloak stirred by the cold winds of death.

Before him, tens of thousands of orcs, wargs, and men from the East knelt in trembling obedience.

“She rises against us again and again,” he said, his voice an echo that chilled the blood. “She bears the fire that should have been quenched at birth. The Dark Lord commands her capture, but I will break her will first.”

He raised his black blade high, and a roar swept through the horde. “Ride to the North! Hunt every whisper of her flame! Bring her to me, alive!”

As the horde dispersed into the black plains, a pulse of red light rippled through the fortress. The air thickened, a tremor shaking the stones.

Then came the voice, deep, ancient, and terrible.

“Your zeal blinds you, my servant.”

The Witch-king stiffened. The Eye of Sauron flared to life above the dark tower, its fire bathing the chamber in crimson light.

“She bears the ring of fire,” Sauron’s voice thundered, like iron grinding on stone. “She is not to be destroyed. Her flame can be bent, not broken.”

The Witch-king bowed low, his voice cold. “You command her obedience. I command her soul.”

A rumble of displeasure echoed through the fortress, yet there was amusement within it, a cruel, knowing hum.

“Defiance suits you poorly,” Sauron intoned. “Remember your place, wraith. You are bound to my will, forged by my hand. Do not mistake my patience for mercy.”

The Witch-king’s helm tilted upward, the faint trace of something, pride, madness, or hunger, lurking in the silence that followed. “Forged by your hand, perhaps. But tempered by my own darkness. I will deliver her to you, my lord… once she remembers who truly commands the shadows.”

The Eye burned brighter, as if piercing into the Nazgûl’s very soul. For a moment, the chamber was lit in living flame.

Then the light faded, and the silence that followed was heavy with unspoken doubt.

In that silence, Sauron’s thought flickered like embers.

"He defies me already. His desire clouds him. Yet perhaps that, too, can serve me. Let his hunger drive her toward the dark, until she forgets which fire she serves."

The Witch-king turned, his blade humming faintly as he descended the stairs toward his waiting armies.

And far away, under the soft dawn light of Helm’s Deep, Harriet Potter, bearer of Narya, heart of flame, felt a chill ripple through her magic, as though some distant darkness had whispered her name.

She shivered, clutching the ring.

Legolas glanced at her, brow furrowing. “What is it?”

She forced a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just… a shadow passing.”

But in her heart, she knew, this was no passing shadow. It was the beginning of something far darker, drawn to her like a moth to the flame she carried.

And somewhere in the abyss of Mordor, a voice laughed softly.

The Witch-king was coming.

3 Days Later:

The road to Isengard was long and heavy with the smell of rain-soaked earth and the smoke of battle long passed. The company rode beneath a grey sky, the clouds shifting in lazy, bruised patterns across the sun. Every mile put distance between them and the horror of Helm’s Deep, yet it never truly left their thoughts.

Fawkes flew ahead as a flicker of scarlet and gold in the morning haze, his song carrying far and bright—a rare comfort after so much darkness. Harriet found herself watching him often, as though the familiar phoenix were the last fragment of the world she had left behind.

Gandalf rode at the front, white robes rippling like banners in the wind, while Legolas and Harriet rode side by side near the middle of the group. Every so often, their gloved hands brushed, and Harriet felt that strange, fluttering warmth that even Narya’s fire could not compare to.

“Strange,” Legolas murmured, gazing toward the horizon. “The air tastes cleaner now than when last we rode through these lands.”

“That’s because it is,” Gandalf said, voice carrying back. “The Ents have done their work.”

At that, Harriet raised her brows. “Ents?”

Gimli grinned under his helm. “Aye, the tree-folk! You’ll see soon enough, lass. They’ve got no love for stone and steel when wielded by hands like Saruman’s.”

Aragorn nodded gravely. “Let us hope the White Wizard himself has learned something of humility.”

Harriet’s eyes flicked briefly to Gandalf. “Somehow, I doubt it.”

Gandalf smiled faintly, though there was no humor in his gaze. “So do I.”

By the time they reached the ringed valley of Isengard, the rain had thinned to mist. The sight that greeted them was nothing short of astonishing.

Where once the land had been torn and blackened by fire and war machines, now it was half-sunk beneath water and overgrown roots. Massive tree trunks coiled through the remains of the walls, and the sound of flowing water filled the air. Saruman’s fortress no longer ruled this land, nature had reclaimed it.

The Tower of Orthanc still stood tall and dark in the center, untouched by flame or flood, its black stone gleaming with defiance.

And there, perched upon the crumbled gates of Isengard, were two very familiar figures.

“Merry! Pippin!”

Harriet dismounted before the horse had fully stopped, running forward with her cloak streaming behind her. The two hobbits turned at her call, wide grins breaking across their dirt-smudged faces.

“Harriet!” Pippin cheered, leaping down from a pile of debris. “You’re alive!”

Merry followed, laughing as they met her halfway. “We heard you were at Helm’s Deep! You should’ve seen the look on the Uruk-hai when the Ents arrived!”

Harriet couldn’t help but laugh through the sting of tears. “I missed you both.”

They embraced tightly, the kind of hug that came only from family forged in battle. When they pulled back, Merry held up a half-eaten apple with mock pride. “We’ve been keeping the place tidy, see?”

“Raiding Saruman’s stores, you mean,” Gandalf said dryly as he approached, his eyes twinkling in rare amusement.

“Well, one can’t let good food go to waste,” Pippin reasoned, earning a chuckle even from Aragorn.

Their laughter faded as their gaze drifted upward—toward the unbroken tower at the valley’s heart.

Saruman awaited them.

The air changed as they approached, colder and heavier, pressing down like a storm. Orthanc loomed black and sharp against the clearing sky, the top glinting with faint light as though it had trapped some of the stars themselves.

From the high balcony, the White Wizard appeared. His once-silver hair was tangled, his robes greyed with soot and pride. But his eyes, still they burned with a fierce, terrible intellect.

“So,” Saruman’s voice carried down like silk drawn over steel. “The broken staff returns.”

Gandalf looked up calmly. “Your voice still carries poison, Saruman.”

“I speak only truth. You have traded wisdom for pity. You march with fools, orcs’ kin, and” his gaze shifted, and his tone faltered for the briefest instant, “a child who bears a power beyond her comprehension.”

Harriet stepped forward before Gandalf could reply. “Funny. I heard the same thing said of you once.”

The faintest hint of irritation crossed Saruman’s face. “You wield a ring of fire, girl, without understanding the flames that command it. You meddle with forces that will consume you.”

“Maybe,” Harriet said, voice low and steady. “But I’d rather burn for something worth protecting than rot in fear.”

Narya pulsed faintly, its crimson gem glimmering like a heartbeat.

The light reflected in Saruman’s eyes and for a fleeting moment, his expression shifted. Awe? Recognition? Or envy? It was gone before she could read it.

“You think you can wield fire without being burned?” he whispered. “You know nothing of power.”

Harriet took another step forward, the wind stirring her cloak. “No,” she said softly. “But I know enough to use it for love, not domination. Maybe that’s why you fell.”

Saruman sneered, yet the faintest tremor of doubt crossed his features.

“Enough,” Gandalf said, his voice ringing like thunder. He raised his staff, and white light blazed forth. “Saruman of Many Colors, your power is broken. Your voice no longer commands the hearts of men.”

The tower shook faintly with the force of Gandalf’s words. The Ents stirred beyond the water, and the earth itself seemed to listen.

Saruman laughed bitterly. “Broken? No, Mithrandir. I am beyond your reckoning”

“Then perhaps it’s time someone reminded you,” Harriet said suddenly.

Before anyone could stop her, she raised her wand and Narya ignited, the fire dancing up her arm like living sunlight. The two magics intertwined, blazing gold and crimson, forming a bridge of energy that lanced up toward the balcony.

Saruman flinched, his hand instinctively rising in defense, but Harriet didn’t strike. She spoke.

Her voice rang clear, filled with fire and conviction:

“Do not pity the dead. Saruman, Pity the living and above all, those who live without love.”

Narya flared, its light cascading across Orthanc’s black stone. For an instant, it seemed to reach through Saruman, not to harm him but to reveal him. His eyes widened as if he beheld something within himself, something long buried and long feared.

The tower trembled, the waters around it rippling violently.

Then the light faded. Saruman staggered back, his expression hollow and lost. His staff slipped from his hand, shattering against the balcony floor.

The Ent Treebeard rumbled from below, voice deep as the mountains. “His power is ended.”

Harriet lowered her wand slowly, trembling. The glow of Narya dimmed, leaving only the steady warmth of its ember.

Gandalf placed a hand on her shoulder, pride and sorrow mingling in his eyes. “You did well, Harriet. Few could speak words that reach a heart turned so far to stone.”

She shook her head slightly. “I didn’t want to hurt him. I just… wanted him to see what he’d forgotten.”

“Then perhaps,” Gandalf said softly, “that is why the flame chose you.”

Later, as the company rested near the flooded gates, Harriet stood apart, watching Orthanc from a distance. Fawkes perched on her shoulder, humming softly, his feathers radiating comfort.

Legolas approached, his steps soundless as always. “You faced a great darkness today,” he said gently.

Harriet exhaled. “And saw how easy it is to become lost in it.”

He reached out, brushing his fingers lightly against the back of her hand. “Then hold fast to your light. For it burns bright, even in shadow.”

She looked up at him, the reflection of the dying sun in his eyes, and smiled faintly. “You make it sound easy.”

“It is not,” he said softly. “But nothing worth keeping ever is.”

They stood there, side by side, as the last light of day slipped behind the black tower.

And in the distance, unseen beyond the plains of Isengard, the Witch-king’s shadow stirred, sensing the pulse of Narya, and the fire that refused to die.

Chapter Text

The plains of Rohan stretched endlessly beneath the sun, gold and green as the wind bent the grass into waves. Smoke no longer stained the horizon; instead, banners of gold and white fluttered where death had reigned. The land was breathing again.

Harriet rode beside Legolas, the steady rhythm of Arod's hooves matching the soft thunder of the Rohirrim riding ahead. Gandalf and Aragorn spoke in low tones at the front of the company, their voices carried back in snatches of thought about Isengard, Saruman, and the uncertain calm before the storm.

Fawkes wheeled high above them, his cry echoing like sunlight in sound, a phoenix song that made even weary hearts lift.

Helm's Deep had been victory, but not peace. And Harriet could feel that truth in the ache of her bones and in the quiet weight that hung over Gandalf's gaze.

By the time they reached Edoras, the city of the Horse-lords stood proud and silent beneath a sky streaked with pale light. The wind carried the faint scent of mountain herbs and smoke, and the banners atop Meduseld rippled like golden fire.

It felt alive again.

As they climbed the long hill toward the great hall, the citizens gathered to meet them. Faces once shadowed with fear now glowed with cautious hope. Children ran beside the horses, calling out to Aragorn and Gandalf, their laughter bright as chimes.

Harriet smiled, waving at one boy who darted close enough to hand her a single flower, white as snow, a mountain bloom.

"For luck, Lady Wizard!" he said breathlessly.

Harriet blinked, startled. "Oh, thank you. That's… very kind."

Legolas chuckled softly. "You've earned the hearts of the Rohirrim, it seems."

She flushed faintly. "I just helped swing a sword."

"Sometimes that is enough," he said, eyes soft with quiet pride.

Inside Meduseld, the hall was warm and bright. The air shimmered with the scent of mead, polished wood, and the faint perfume of mountain flowers placed near the throne. Théoden King stood tall now, though the lines of sorrow still marked his face.

"Welcome home, my friends," Théoden said, his deep voice echoing through the chamber. "You bring with you the light of victory and the flame that does not falter." His eyes met Harriet's, kind yet sharp. "It seems we owe you more than words."

"You owe me nothing," Harriet said quietly. "We all fought for the same thing."

Théoden smiled faintly. "Spoken as one of Rohan's own."

At his side stood Éowyn, her white dress flowing like moonlight, her golden hair braided back. She regarded Harriet with quiet intensity, curiosity mingled with something softer.

"You faced Saruman himself," Éowyn said as they moved to the side table where food and drink awaited. "Few would have dared to stand against a wizard of his kind."

"I didn't stand against him," Harriet replied, tracing the rim of her goblet. "I tried to remind him of what he'd forgotten."

Éowyn tilted her head, thoughtful. "Mercy in the midst of power. That's rare."

Harriet smiled faintly. "Dumbledore would've said it's the difference between light and shadow."

Gandalf, overhearing, gave her an approving glance from across the room.

Later that evening, as music filled the hall and laughter replaced silence, Harriet found herself standing upon the balcony overlooking the plains. The stars shimmered bright above, and the wind carried the faint murmur of the city below.

Éowyn joined her quietly, a soft smile playing at her lips. "I always find peace here," she said. "The stars remind me that even in war, there is beauty worth defending."

Harriet nodded, eyes tracing the constellations. "Where I come from, I used to look at them and wonder if my parents could see me. If they were proud."

Éowyn's gaze softened. "They would be. You carry yourself with the weight of one who has seen both death and mercy."

A silence settled between them, not uncomfortable but filled with shared understanding.

"You remind me of my brother," Éowyn said finally. "Bold. Unyielding. A little reckless."

Harriet laughed softly. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"You should," Éowyn replied with a smirk. "Éomer drives me mad, but his courage has never failed him." Her eyes lingered on Harriet, thoughtful. "And you… you seem to bear the courage of a hundred souls."

Harriet looked down at her hand, the faint gleam of Narya's fire flickering beneath the ring's surface. "I don't know about courage. Half the time, I just try to keep moving forward."

"That," Éowyn said gently, "is courage enough."

Later that night, Harriet sat alone in the guest chamber provided to her. Fawkes perched upon the windowsill, humming low and warm. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the stone walls, and the weight of silence pressed around her.

She opened her hand, staring at Narya's faint glow. The fire within pulsed softly, steady, alive.

"Do you ever think," she murmured to Fawkes, "that no matter how far you run from darkness, it still finds you?"

The phoenix chirped softly, spreading his wings in a gentle flare of light.

Harriet smiled wearily. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

Her gaze drifted toward the horizon beyond the window. Far away, beyond the mountains, something stirred, a shadow vast and cold, reaching through the waking world like a whisper.

And deep within Mordor, the Witch-king of Angmar stood upon the black ramparts of Minas Morgul, his gauntleted hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Before him stretched the growing legions of orcs and wraiths, the air alive with malice and songless wind.

He gazed eastward, through the eye of his Palantír, and saw her, standing beneath Rohan's stars, the fire of Narya flickering against her skin.

His voice was a whisper of hunger and prophecy.

"The flame walks among men… and she will be mine to break."

From behind him, a deeper voice, one that filled the air itself, answered, cold and resonant.

"Do not forget who commands the darkness, Witch-king."

The Eye of Sauron burned across the sky, its gaze consuming.

Yet even under its weight, the Nazgûl did not kneel.

"You command the world, my Lord," the Witch-king murmured, his tone reverent but hollow. "But she, she commands the flame. And I would see which burns brighter."

The Eye flared with displeasure, yet beneath it, something like amusement echoed in the void.

And far away, Harriet Potter, Hero of another world, bearer of fire, felt a chill run down her spine.

The storm was gathering again.

Meanwhile

Inside the hall, the Fellowship and their companions rested after the long days of travel. Yet peace was not easily found. Harriet had spent the evening training with Legolas and Éowyn, her magic now intertwining more fluidly with Narya's flame. Even still, a restless unease had taken root within her. The phoenix, Fawkes, paced along the rafters, feathers twitching, as if sensing a storm unseen.

And in a quiet chamber nearby, Pippin couldn't sleep.

He sat on a carved bench beside the covered Palantír, the Seeing Stone they had taken from Isengard. It rested within a velvet shroud, yet its presence was like a pulse in the room, whispering, tugging. Curiosity warred with fear in the young hobbit's eyes.

"I just want to look," he muttered under his breath, glancing around. "Only a peek, nothing wrong with that, right?"

His fingers trembled as he reached out, pulling the cloth aside. Beneath it, the orb gleamed with dark glass that shimmered with faint red light.

And then, he touched it.

The world vanished.

A wave of heat, cold, and fire all at once consumed him. The hall dissolved into endless darkness. A vast Eye of living flame opened before him, blazing within a crown of shadow and iron.

"Who are you?"
"Who holds the Ring?"

The voice thundered through his soul. Pippin gasped, eyes wide with terror, unable to pull away. Images flooded his mind, armies of orcs, burning cities, the white walls of Minas Tirith under siege. The Eye saw him, pierced through him, mistaking the hobbit's fear for strength, his trembling hand for possession of the One Ring.

"You are mine. I see your mind… Minas Tirith! The Ring comes to me!"

Pippin screamed, breaking free at last. The Palantír fell from his grasp, rolling across the floor as Gandalf burst into the room, his staff blazing with light.

"Pippin!" he cried, sweeping the hobbit up in his arms. "Fool of a Took! What have you done?"

The others rushed in, Aragorn, Harriet, Legolas, and Boromir, still bandaged from Helm's Deep but alive thanks to Fawkes's tears. Harriet knelt beside Pippin, her wand already drawn, the soft glow of a healing charm steady in her hand.

Pippin trembled violently, eyes wild. "I, I didn't mean to! He saw me! The Eye, Gandalf, the Eye! He thought I had it! He thought I had the Ring!"

The words chilled the room.

Gandalf's face turned pale, his gaze distant. "He believes the Ring is with you… and in Minas Tirith."

"Then he'll go for the White City," Aragorn said grimly, standing tall. "He'll strike long before he's ready."

Gandalf nodded, his expression carved from stone. "And that may yet be our salvation. He acts too soon. We must go to Gondor, now. If we can hold the city, we may yet buy Frodo and Sam the time they need."

Harriet rose, her jaw set. "Then we go with you."

Boromir, ever the soldier, placed a hand to his chest. "Gondor is my home. I'll not let it fall while I still draw breath."

Gandalf's eyes softened. "Then ride with me, son of Denethor. Your people will need their captain."

By dawn, the company stood outside the stables. Shadowfax pawed at the ground, the morning sun glinting from his silver mane. Gandalf mounted swiftly, pulling Pippin up before him.

"Harriet, Legolas, Aragorn," Gandalf called out, his voice carrying the weight of command. "Ride hard. Follow the Riddermark south if you can, but Minas Tirith must not fall unguarded."

"We'll meet you there," Harriet promised, tightening her cloak. "Gondor won't stand alone."

The wizard gave her a long look, one that held both faith and sorrow. "You carry more than your own fate, Harriet Potter. Guard your flame well. The shadow now knows of you."

She nodded, heart heavy. Fawkes cried above them, a burst of red and gold in the pale sky.

Then Shadowfax leapt forward, Gandalf and Pippin racing into the rising dawn with Boromir riding next to them, wind and light streaming behind them.

Far away in the East, the Witch-king of Angmar stood atop the battlements of Minas Morgul, the glow of the Palantír casting blood-red light upon his iron helm. He had felt the Eye's surge—Sauron's sudden fury, his hunger and fear.

So… the Ring was in Gondor.

Or so his master believed.

The Nazgûl's voice rasped like ice. "So she remains free, this fire-born witch who defies shadow and flame alike. Soon, she will see what becomes of those the Dark Lord desires."

From deep within the Tower, the Eye of Sauron burned through the stone, vast and unblinking. The will of Sauron roared through the land, summoning armies beyond count. The mountains trembled, and the forges of Mordor flared anew.

A black tide began to gather, orc legions, trolls, and wraiths, preparing for war.

But Sauron's mind was not at ease.

He had seen something in the Eye's last vision, something beyond his control. The fire of Narya, blazing in defiance. The figure of the witch from another world, her flame answering his darkness.

And for a fleeting instant, he had felt… her will.

A rival spark. A light that did not yield.

His voice thundered through the void.

"Bring her to me alive. Let her fire burn in my dominion."

The Witch-king bowed low, though the faintest trace of something like hunger, or rebellion, flickered beneath his hooded form.

"As you command, my Lord. Alive she shall be."

But within the hollow cage of his chest, the Nazgûl's heart beat not for obedience.

It beat for possession.

Back in Rohan, Harriet stood atop the balcony of Meduseld, watching the horizon where Gandalf had vanished. The wind carried the faintest echo of Fawkes's song and the smell of distant smoke.

She closed her eyes and whispered, "Hold on, Frodo… hold on, Sam. We're coming."

The war for Middle-earth had begun.

Chapter Text

The thunder of hooves echoed across the Pelennor Fields as dawn broke over the plains. The wind was sharp and cold, tugging at cloaks and banners as three riders sped through the rising mists: Gandalf the White upon Shadowfax, Pippin clinging to his cloak, and just behind them, Boromir, son of Denethor, riding hard with fire in his eyes and purpose burning in his heart.

Fawkes circled high above them, a blazing ember in the morning sky. His song carried over the wind, pure and strong, lifting the hearts of those who heard it.

Before them rose Minas Tirith, the City of Kings. Its seven white walls gleamed faintly in the dawn light, tier upon tier carved into the side of Mount Mindolluin, crowned by the Citadel and the gleaming Tower of Ecthelion. It was beautiful still, but the light that once graced its marble halls had dimmed. Even from afar, the shadow of Mordor's growing might lay heavy upon it.

As they approached the Great Gate, guards rushed forward. Spears were lowered, then faltered as the men recognized the riders.

"Boromir!" one cried in disbelief. "By the Valar, it cannot be!"

Boromir reined in his horse, his face grim but proud. "Open the gates. I return to my father's house and I bring tidings of both hope and shadow."

The gates of Minas Tirith groaned open, and the riders passed within.

The city was alive with whispers as they climbed the winding streets, people emerging from doorways, falling to their knees, calling out Boromir's name as if a legend had stepped from the grave. Children ran alongside, shouting for joy, while weary soldiers saluted with tears in their eyes.

But Gandalf's gaze was fixed ahead, toward the upper levels where the Citadel waited. The air grew colder as they climbed, and the laughter below faded into a still, somber quiet.

When at last they reached the Hall of the Stewards, the doors opened with a low groan. Denethor, Lord of Gondor, sat upon the black chair beneath the empty throne of the kings. His robes were dark as mourning, his face thin and pale, his eyes like embers in shadow.

He looked up and froze.

For a long, terrible moment, he could not speak. His hands trembled upon the arms of his seat as Boromir stepped forward, armor dulled by travel but his spirit unbroken.

"Father," Boromir said softly, bowing his head. "I have returned."

Denethor rose slowly, disbelief and anguish warring across his face. "Boromir…" His voice cracked. "I saw your death in the palantír. I felt it. How, how can this be?"

Boromir's eyes softened, and he knelt before his father. "The Valar, perhaps. Or fate. But I did fall, Father. At Amon Hen. I was struck down by many arrows. Yet I was saved by a companion's magic, a woman from another world, blessed by fire and light and by the tears of a phoenix."

At the mention of Harriet and Fawkes, Gandalf's white staff glowed faintly. Denethor's eyes flicked toward him, suspicion sharpening his tone.

"A witch? Another sorceress in my city?" he hissed. "You bring strange allies, Mithrandir."

"She is no servant of shadow," Gandalf replied firmly. "She is bound to Narya now, for I placed it in her hand before I fell in Moria. Her heart is pure, her courage proven a hundredfold."

Denethor's face darkened further, though a spark of greed flickered in his gaze. "Narya… you gave her one of the Three?"

"I did," Gandalf said simply. "And she has carried it with honor. Would that you had her faith, Denethor, instead of your doubt."

For a moment, father and wizard locked eyes, the air between them thick with tension.

Boromir rose to his feet, breaking the silence. "Enough. We have no time for this. Sauron moves, Father. His Eye has turned toward Gondor. We must prepare for war."

Denethor's composure returned with chilling swiftness. "So it begins, then." He paced slowly, his long fingers curling into fists. "He moves sooner than I expected. What did you see, Mithrandir? What brought you racing to my gates?"

Pippin, standing small and pale beside Gandalf, swallowed hard. "I, I saw him. In the Palantír. The Eye of Sauron. He thought I had the Ring."

Denethor's eyes widened. "You touched the Seeing Stone?" His voice rose, sharp and furious. "Do you know what folly that was? You could have doomed us all!"

Pippin shrank back, but Gandalf stepped forward. "Enough. The fault lies with me for not securing it sooner. What matters is that Sauron believes the Ring is here. He will strike Minas Tirith with all his might."

Denethor's anger cooled into something darker. "Then let him come. Gondor shall stand, as it always has."

Boromir turned to the guards. "Send word to the lower levels, fortify the walls, rally the Rohirrim if they can be reached. Every sword will be needed."

The Steward gave no order to stop him. Instead, Denethor sank back into his seat, staring at his son as if afraid he would vanish again.

"Boromir…" he said finally, voice breaking with emotion. "My son. My captain. I thought you lost to me forever."

Boromir's expression softened. "I was lost, Father, but I have been given a second chance. Do not waste it with despair."

For a fleeting moment, warmth returned to Denethor's eyes. "Then perhaps… perhaps the line of Stewards is not yet broken."

That night, the city was a blur of movement. Soldiers filled the streets, smiths worked through the night, and the beacons of Gondor burned high upon the mountain peaks. From one to another, the flames leapt into the darkness, calling for aid from the Riddermark.

Gandalf stood upon a high balcony beside Boromir and Pippin, the wind cold against their faces.

"The beacons are lit," Boromir said quietly. "Rohan will ride to war."

Gandalf nodded. "They will come, but even so, it may not be enough. The storm gathering in Mordor is beyond reckoning."

Fawkes perched on the railing, feathers glowing faintly, and let out a low, mournful cry that echoed across the night.

Gandalf turned to Pippin. "You did not mean to do what you did, Peregrin Took, but you have set many fates in motion. Do not despair. You may yet play a greater part than you know."

Pippin managed a nervous smile. "I hope it's a good one, Gandalf."

The wizard's eyes softened. "So do I, my lad. So do I."

Below them, Minas Tirith gleamed under the stars, majestic, defiant, and unaware that its final siege had already begun.

And in the black lands beyond the mountains, the Witch-king's voice whispered across the plains like a shadow made flesh:

"She burns with the fire of the Valar… yet that flame shall be mine."

The war for Gondor had begun.