Disclaimer: The plot and any fictitious characters are mine, but the Harry Potter and The Lord of the Rings universes belong to their respective owners. I'm just messing around with their worlds.
A/N: I hope everyone enjoys this next chapter! Please leave me a review to let me know what you think :) Your feedback is invaluable in letting me know if I’m getting it right!
Harry came back to himself in pain before he found daylight. White-gold light cut across his closed eyes, sharp enough to send a throb through his scar and temples. He lay still, breathing shallowly, waiting for fire, smoke, screams—anything that made sense after the last thing he remembered. Instead, cool grass pressed damply against his palm. Bees hummed among nearby flowers. Birds called lazily overhead, their bright song so peaceful it felt almost cruel.
There were no screams. No curses. No Voldemort.
The memory crashed back in splinters: Voldemort’s cold eyes, Death Eaters closing in, hatred gathering in the air like a storm. Harry had stood his ground. The spell had struck. Everything had gone black. By every sensible measure, he should not have woken at all.
He lurched upright and immediately regretted it. Pain split through his skull, sharp enough to steal his breath and turn the sunlit clearing into a blur of green and gold. He swallowed hard against nausea and forced himself to breathe through it. Slowly, the spinning eased. His fingers found his wand in the grass, then his glasses. Once he pushed them onto his nose, the world steadied—beautiful, impossible, and entirely unfamiliar.
He lay beneath an ancient tree whose broad branches spread above him like a sheltering roof. Dappled sunlight shifted over the white flowers scattered in the grass, and the air smelled of clean earth, summer blooms, and running water somewhere out of sight. It should have been comforting. It should have felt like rescue. Instead, the peace only made Harry’s skin prickle. Paradise, he thought numbly, should not hurt this much.
Harry searched between the trees for some sign of his parents, Sirius, or Remus. No familiar voice called his name. No stag stepped from the light. No warm hand settled on his shoulder. The beautiful silence widened around him until it felt less like peace and more like abandonment. If he wanted answers, he would have to move. Bracing one hand against the ancient trunk, he pushed carefully to his feet, drew a shaky breath, and followed the narrow path.
He had not gone far before the soft clip-clop of hooves reached him. Harry froze. The sound wound closer along the dirt path, unhurried and certain. Instinct sent him behind the nearest tree, back pressed hard to the bark, wand clenched in his hand. The horse stopped on the other side of the trunk.
‘Harry, you can come out,’ an old, steady voice called.
Harry peered around the trunk. A hunched figure in flowing grey robes sat astride a white horse, his calm presence somehow more startling than any threat. The horse snorted and shifted, bright coat rippling beneath the sunlight, but the rider remained perfectly at ease.
Harry hesitated only a moment longer. Whatever this place was, the rider knew his name, and the voice tugged at memories he had not yet managed to put in order. He stepped out from behind the tree and approached the white horse cautiously, one hand still tight around his wand. When he reached the animal’s side, he rested his palm against its warm neck and felt the steady power beneath the shining coat.
Harry shaded his eyes against the bright daylight, throat raw and mind still fogged. The rider’s silhouette blurred in and out of focus: grey robes, but a familiar tilt of the head made Harry’s chest tighten before his thoughts could catch up. Tentatively, he whispered, ‘Professor Dumbledore?’ His voice scraped out rough and thin. He coughed, grimacing at the pain. ‘What happened to my voice?’
‘Yes, Harry,’ the old wizard said, his voice soft but certain. ‘Though in this world, that name will do neither of us any favours. Here, you must call me Gandalf.’ He lifted one hand in a small beckoning gesture. ‘Come down before that tree begins charging rent.’
Gandalf looked at him with a knowing smile. ‘Come along, Harry. Answers are best given on the road, and we have already kept the road waiting.’
Harry frowned up at him, still shaken by the pain and confusion of his arrival. ‘What happened to me?’
‘Ah,’ Gandalf murmured, taking Harry’s wand with maddening calm. ‘That is the difficulty with impossible journeys. One rarely remembers the tickets.’ Then he tapped Harry lightly on the head.
‘Ouch! What was that for?’ Harry snapped. The protest died as memories surged back in a violent rush. His eyes widened, horror and disbelief cutting through the last of the fog.The memories hit like a blow. Harry doubled over and retched onto the dirt track, one hand braced against his knee. When he finally straightened, pale and shaking, the truth sat cold in his chest.
Gandalf’s eyes twinkled. ‘Ah. So you did take the left train. I wondered whether courage or stubbornness would win. It appears they travelled together.’
‘Looks that way,’ Harry managed. His voice shook, but his chin lifted. ‘Next time, maybe warn me before my head tries to remember everything at once.’
Gandalf studied him over the bridge of his nose. ‘Do you remember what I told you before you boarded the train?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Harry said, straightening despite the tremor in his legs. ‘Don’t panic. Don’t tell people what I know. Trust you unless you start sounding completely mental.’
Gandalf’s expression sharpened. ‘I shall accept the spirit of that answer. Remember this as well: here, my name is Gandalf the Grey. Use no other.’
Harry nodded, though his eyes kept straying to the unfamiliar trees and distant road. ‘Right. Gandalf, then.’ He swallowed. ‘Where exactly are we?’
Gandalf’s smile deepened. ‘We are near the Ford of Bruinen,’ he said. ‘Beyond it lies Rivendell, the house of Elrond and the refuge of the Elves.’
‘Elves?’ Harry asked, genuine intrigue cutting through his exhaustion as Gandalf helped him onto the horse. ‘Not house-elves, I’m guessing.’ Ahead, the road sloped toward the Ford of Bruinen and whatever waited beyond it.
Gandalf chuckled warmly as their horse crested the hill and the River Bruinen shimmered below. ‘No, Harry. Not house-elves.’ He pointed toward the valley beyond the water. ‘These are the Firstborn: proud, fair, perilous when angered, and very unlikely to iron your socks.’
Harry stared at the world opening before him. ‘So this is Middle-earth,’ he said, half to himself. Wonder overtook the fear for a moment. He looked back at Gandalf, unable to hold the questions in. ‘Tell me the important bits. Please. Before I embarrass myself in front of someone ancient.’
Gandalf’s brows rose. ‘Important bits?’ he repeated, half amused and half weary. ‘My dear boy, even the short version would keep us riding until winter.’ He looked across the quiet land ahead. ‘There is war on the horizon, though many do not yet feel its shadow. Farmers bring in their harvests, Elves sing beneath the stars, Hobbits fret over supper, and Men quarrel over borders as they always have. For now, Middle-earth carries on as if it has all the time in the world.’
Gandalf went on, ‘Today is the eighteenth of October, in the year 3018 of the Third Age.’ His gaze moved across the peaceful scenery, and his voice softened. ‘By my reckoning, Frodo should already be in Rivendell.’ Harry frowned at the unfamiliar name, hearing the worry Gandalf had not quite hidden.
They crossed a sturdy stone bridge, the horse’s hooves ringing brightly over the river below. The road dipped, and the air cooled; pine, wet stone, and rushing water replaced the open sweetness of the fields. Ahead, a vast mountain rose blue-grey through drifting mist. Then Gandalf guided the horse off the main road and into a narrow gorge where steep walls climbed on either side and shadows flickered over the stone. At last, the passage opened, and Harry stared. A hidden valley unfurled below them, ringed by cliffs and snow-capped peaks, waterfalls flashing silver in the sun. Among the trees and terraces stood Elven buildings of pale wood and shining stone, their arches and balconies seeming to grow naturally from the landscape—beautiful in a way that felt less built than remembered.
They reached the courtyard at speed. Gandalf dismounted smoothly and helped Harry down, but before Harry could properly find his footing, a sharp voice rang across the stones. ‘Mithrandir!’ A woman ran toward them, mud on her riding clothes and urgency in every step.
‘Arwen,’ Gandalf said, his warmth vanishing into concern as his eyes swept over her mud-streaked riding clothes. Harry thought he saw blood among the dirt. Gandalf’s voice dropped. ‘Tell me.’
Arwen’s face was grave. ‘Frodo,’ she said. That single name was enough. She turned at once, already moving back the way she had come.
Gandalf looked at Harry, all softness gone from his face. ‘Elrond’s study, Harry. Up those stairs. Wait there, and do not wander.’
‘But—’
Gandalf raised a hand, cutting off Harry’s protest. ‘Now, Harry. I will come for you when I can.’ With that, he turned and followed Arwen into the heart of Rivendell, his grey robes sweeping behind him.
Harry watched Gandalf and Arwen vanish into the bustle of Rivendell. Elves hurried past with grave faces, turning the peaceful courtyard into something tense and purposeful. Before he could decide whether to obey Gandalf or follow, a curious voice spoke behind him, ‘You must be a friend of Gandalf’s.’
Harry turned and looked down. A tiny man stood beside him, no taller than Harry’s waist, yet clearly no child. His lined face, grey hair, and bright, mischievous eyes gave him the air of an elderly gentleman who had no intention of behaving like one. A brocade waistcoat completed the impression.
Harry blinked down at him. ‘Er—yes, sir. I think so.’ He hesitated, then added honestly, ‘I’m still working out what counts as normal here.’
The small man gave him a bright, assessing look. ‘What’s this? Never seen a Hobbit before?’ His tone was all innocence, though the twinkle in his eye said otherwise.
Harry gave a sheepish smile. ‘No, sir. Where I’m from, small folk usually turn out to be either very dangerous or very offended. I’m trying not to guess wrong.’
‘Hobbits are also small folk,’ the Hobbit said, drawing himself up with pride. ‘We live in Hobbit-holes: snug homes built into hillsides, with round doors, warm hearths, proper pantries, and enough peace and quiet for any respectable person to enjoy six meals a day. Bag End, where I used to live, is a particularly fine example.’ He puffed on his pipe, looking deeply satisfied by the memory.
Harry listened, smiling despite himself. ‘It sounds brilliant,’ he said. ‘A front door that isn’t hiding anything dangerous would be a novelty. Maybe I’ll see it one day.’
‘Perhaps you will,’ the Hobbit said. Then his expression sobered. ‘My nephew Frodo arrived in a dreadful state. The Elves have been rushing about ever since, and Lord Elrond has barely rested.’ He glanced toward the busy courtyard, worry creasing his face. ‘Still, Frodo is a Baggins. We are stubborn when it matters.’
They climbed the stairs toward Elrond’s study before the Hobbit stopped short. ‘Oh! Where are my manners?’ he said, giving a small embarrassed laugh. He turned and offered Harry his hand. ‘Bilbo Baggins, at your service.’
Harry extended his hand, and Bilbo clasped it warmly with both of his smaller ones. ‘Harry Potter,’ Harry said. ‘At yours too, I suppose. I may need someone to explain the meals.’
Bilbo studied him with unabashed curiosity as they stepped into Elrond’s study. ‘Harry Potter,’ he repeated. ‘A curious name. And where do you come from, Mr Potter?’
Harry hesitated. ‘I’m from… rather far away.’
Before Bilbo could press him, Gandalf entered the study, his face brightening at the sight of his old friend. The room seemed to shift around him as he stepped inside: shelves of worn books lined the walls, maps lay rolled and stacked beside a carved desk, and a tall window opened onto the sound of distant water. ‘Bilbo Baggins,’ Gandalf said warmly. ‘Still asking questions before offering tea, I see.’
‘My dear Gandalf!’ Bilbo cried, hurrying into the embrace as Gandalf knelt to meet him.
Gandalf held him by the shoulders and smiled. ‘It does my heart good to see you safe, old friend.’Gandalf released Bilbo and rested a steadying hand on Harry’s shoulder. ‘This is Harry Potter,’ he said. ‘My apprentice.’ Harry glanced up sharply, but Gandalf only gave him a small, reassuring smile.
Bilbo’s brows rose. ‘An apprentice? That is new for you. I thought Istari collected pipeweed, riddles, and inconvenient timing—not pupils.’349Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNQBYydR6Oy
‘Maiar, Bilbo,’ Gandalf corrected, not unkindly. ‘And we do, upon occasion, take pupils into the Istari Order. Usually the impossible ones find us first.’ The familiar twinkle returned to his eyes.
Bilbo accepted the correction with a distracted nod, his worry returning at once. ‘And Frodo? Have you heard anything?’
Gandalf’s voice softened. ‘He will mend, Bilbo.’
Bilbo’s shoulders loosened, and he sank into a chair as if Gandalf’s words had finally allowed him to breathe.‘Oh, good,’ Bilbo breathed. Then he was on his feet again, eagerness returning at once. ‘Are the Elves finished? I want to see him.’
‘Yes, Bilbo Baggins, it is done,’ a deep voice announced from across the room. Everyone turned. Lord Elrond stood in the doorway, tall and still, his presence drawing the room into quiet around him. His face held both agelessness and weariness, as if he had seen too much to hurry and cared too deeply to look away.Bilbo’s face brightened. He gave Elrond one grateful look, then hurried from the room.
‘Lord Elrond,’ Gandalf said, bowing his head. The warmth he had shown Bilbo remained, but it settled now into respect. Elrond answered with a calm nod and crossed to his desk.
Elrond studied Harry with quiet intensity. ‘And this is one of the three you mentioned?’ he asked, taking his seat behind the desk.
Gandalf gently placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder. ‘Yes. This is Harry Potter.’ His voice lowered, steady and deliberate. ‘He is under my protection.’
Elrond’s gaze moved briefly to Harry’s hand, then returned to his face. ‘I can see the likeness,’ he said. The words landed like a locked door. Harry frowned, but Elrond offered no key.Elrond looked to Gandalf. ‘This knowledge must remain hidden until I judge otherwise.’ It was not quite a question.
Gandalf nodded. ‘For now, yes.’ He turned to Harry. ‘Take off the ring and keep it hidden.’
Harry frowned but obeyed, slipping the ring from his finger and tucking it safely into his pocket. ‘That sounded a lot like “don’t ask”.’
Gandalf glanced toward the window, his expression unreadable. ‘When the others arrive, I will explain what I can.’
‘What others?’ Harry asked, the question sharp enough to show his patience was thinning. ‘You keep saying things like I already know the ending.’
‘Soon, Harry,’ Gandalf said, gently steering him toward the door. ‘For now, let Lord Elrond have his peace.’
They found Bilbo later on a patio outside a grand hall, where Elven song drifted through the open doors. For a little while, the urgency of Frodo’s arrival softened into lamplight, music, and the clatter of tea things.
Gandalf led Harry to Bilbo’s table and settled into a chair with the ease of long familiarity. ‘Tea, Harry?’
Harry nodded, then drifted toward another table scattered with maps. Bilbo noticed at once. ‘Ah, those are from my travels,’ he said, reaching for the teapot with obvious pride.
‘Do you mind if I look?’ Harry asked, already leaning closer to the maps. ‘I promise not to spill tea on anything that looks cursed, priceless, or both.’
‘Not at all!’ Bilbo said. ‘Maps are wasted if no one looks at them.’
Harry’s attention snagged on several parchments near the maps. Sketches of a ring crowded the margins, repeated with uneasy urgency. He glanced toward Gandalf. The wizard watched him in silence, no twinkle in his eyes now. Harry slid the papers back into place, dread prickling at the base of his neck.
His gaze moved to another map, framed and worn at the edges, one corner singed as if it had survived fire.Gandalf noticed Harry’s interest and smiled into his beard. ‘I may once have nudged Bilbo beyond his gate,’ he said. ‘A very small nudge, by wizardly standards. It led him to a Dwarf named Thorin, a mountain full of trouble, and that map.’Harry leaned closer. At the top, in bold letters faded by age, was the title: The Lonely Mountain.
Bilbo turned to Gandalf with a scandalised air. ‘I was shocked to discover the Elves know nothing of Afters. Nothing! Most disappointing.’ He seized a pork pie and took a decisive bite.
‘Afters?’ Harry repeated, baffled.
Bilbo rose, selected a generous slice of sponge cake from the side table, and set it down with ceremony. ‘This. Civilisation, Mr Potter. Never trust a people who can sing for three hours and forget pudding. I just hope it is enough.’
Gandalf nodded toward the cake, eyes bright with amusement. ‘Afters,’ he said, as if revealing one of Middle-earth’s deeper mysteries.
Harry watched in increasing amazement as Bilbo piled more food onto the table. The spread seemed to grow every time Harry blinked: pork pies with golden crusts, thick slices of sponge cake, jam tarts, bread, butter, cheese, and a pot of tea that somehow kept producing steam. He looked at Gandalf. ‘That’s not enough?’
Gandalf chuckled. ‘Hobbits, Harry. You will soon learn that hospitality is practically a force of nature with them.’
‘Cake?’ Bilbo asked, turning toward Harry.
Harry hesitated. ‘No, thank you.’ His stomach chose that exact moment to growl loudly enough to betray him to the entire table.
Bilbo looked back at him, affronted. ‘No, no, that will not do. A growing lad needs food.’ Before Harry could object, Bilbo began loading a plate with alarming determination.
Harry lifted both hands in surrender. ‘Honestly, I’m fine.’ He looked to Gandalf for rescue, but the wizard only smiled as if Hobbit hospitality were a weather system best endured indoors.
Gandalf leaned closer, eyes bright with amusement. ‘Take the plate, Harry. It is far easier than arguing with a Hobbit.’
Harry accepted the plate at last, understanding that refusing more would be both pointless and possibly impolite in the face of such genuine concern.
Hermione woke with sunlight in her eyes and cold in her bones. For one disorienting second, she did not remember where she was. Then the damp smell of leaves, old smoke, and trampled earth brought everything back: the flight from Hogwarts, Malfoy’s confession, Snape keeping watch beyond the trees. The ground had been unforgiving, the blanket scratchy, and the enchanted tents remained uselessly inside her beaded bag. Obvious magic would have been too dangerous to leave behind. For now, discomfort was safer.
She shivered and pulled the thin blanket tighter around her shoulders. Mist clung low between the trees, softening every shape until branches looked like reaching hands. The campsite itself seemed too exposed now that daylight had found it. Their footprints marked the damp ground. The dead fire still carried a faint thread of smoke. Somewhere nearby, birds sang, but Hermione listened for what might be moving beneath the song.
Ron slept nearby, his face briefly free of the strain that had marked him since the Horcrux hunt. The sight softened Hermione’s irritation, then sharpened it into guilt. Ron’s loyalty had always been easier to trust than to answer. She wished her own heart were half as straightforward.
Her gaze moved to Malfoy. Free of his father’s shadow for the moment and far from Voldemort’s command, he looked younger than he ever had at school. Hermione was not naïve enough to mistake exhaustion for innocence, but the possibility that he might become someone else unsettled her all the same.His grief made that possibility harder to dismiss. Draco had been cruel, proud, and responsible for choices that had hurt people, but loss had stripped something from him that Hermione could not ignore. For the first time, she found herself wondering what had been hidden beneath the Malfoy façade.
Hermione sighed, but the sound did little to ease the tightness in her chest. They could not stay much longer. Diagon Alley was their next stop, and the thought set her nerves on edge. It would be more than risky; unless they planned every step, it would be foolish. Death Eaters might be watching the entrances, the shops, the Floo connections. One wrong turn could put them directly in enemy hands.
She sat up slowly, careful not to rustle the blanket more than necessary. The embers glowed faintly in the ash, not enough for warmth and not enough for comfort. Hermione scanned the treeline before reaching for her wand, counting shadows and gaps where someone could stand unseen. Nothing moved. That should have reassured her; instead, the quiet felt deliberate, as if something had simply chosen not to reveal itself yet.
‘Ah, you’re awake,’ a voice said behind her. Hermione’s wand was halfway raised before she recognised Snape’s drawl.Hermione turned sharply as Snape stepped into the clearing, black robes ghosting through the mist. He rekindled the fire with a flick of his wand, but his eyes were not on the flames. They moved over the trees, the ground, the camp, assessing. ‘Wake them. We leave shortly. I will make certain we are not being followed.’ Without waiting for a reply, he disappeared back among the trees, leaving Hermione with the unpleasant certainty that he expected trouble.
Hermione looked toward the two sleeping boys. For a moment, she hesitated. Waking them meant moving; moving meant Diagon Alley; Diagon Alley meant walking willingly toward danger. Draco stirred first, roused either by Snape’s voice or by some instinct for threat. He sat up stiffly, pushed his blanket aside, and reached for his battered satchel without a word.A moment later, he set a small triangle cooker over the revived flames. The sight of Draco Malfoy using something so unmistakably Muggle would once have been unthinkable. Now it simply looked practical.His satchel caught Hermione’s attention: once expensive, now scuffed, burned, and scratched. For a Malfoy, that damage said more than any speech could have.
Draco paused and glanced at Hermione. His hair was mussed, his expression sour with exhaustion. ‘Breakfast?’ he asked, as though offering anything more polite would physically pain him.
‘Anything you can spare,’ Hermione said, keeping her voice even. ‘And thank you.’
Draco nodded and laid out breakfast with brisk efficiency. Soon the campsite filled with the quiet clink of utensils and the low sizzle of food over the fire. The ordinary sounds should have been comforting, but Hermione found herself flinching at each small metallic scrape, absurdly certain it would carry through the trees.
Snape returned to the camp and gave Draco a curt nod. ‘Up, then.’ He crossed to Ron and prodded him sharply with one boot. ‘Wake up, Weasley.’
Ron groaned and pushed himself upright, blinking blearily. ‘Blimey, can’t a bloke sleep through one miserable morning?’ he muttered, glaring at Snape.His irritation did not survive the smell of breakfast. His stomach growled, loud and unmistakable, into the watchful morning.
Hermione laughed softly. Even Draco allowed himself a thin smirk. ‘Hungry, Weasley?’
‘I haven’t eaten since yesterday,’ Ron muttered, ears red. He stood, stretched, and moved closer to the fire as if pulled there by the smell alone.
Draco glanced toward Snape. ‘Anything for you?’ Snape’s flat look was answer enough. Draco shrugged and turned back to the fire.When the food was ready, Draco divided it into three portions, handed plates to Hermione and Ron, and kept the last for himself.
Hermione ate slowly, letting the heat of the food steady her hands even if it could not steady her thoughts.
Ron finished almost immediately and handed his empty plate back to Draco. Draco raised an eyebrow. Ron flushed and looked away, only to find Hermione still halfway through her meal.
‘So,’ Ron said, stuffing their things away with far too much force, ‘anyone got a plan that ends with us not being dead before lunch?’
Hermione moved to help, folding her blanket with quick, precise motions. ‘Diagon Alley,’ she said. It came out flatter than she intended. ‘If we are doing this, we do it properly.’
Draco nodded. ‘We can Apparate there.’ He stayed by the fire, too still to seem relaxed. ‘Unless someone has a better suggestion hidden in Weasley’s bottomless appetite.’
‘But…’
Draco leaned forward, fixing Hermione with a look that tried for superiority and landed closer to exhaustion. ‘Granger, the Dark Lord blew the Apparition wards apart so his followers could move in and out of the forest. Unless your precious Order rebuilt them overnight while under siege, we can Apparate.’
Hermione’s jaw tightened. She hated that he might be right. She hated more that arguing would cost time. ‘Fine. Then where do we land?’
Draco tapped his chin, the old lazy gesture made brittle by nerves. ‘Not Knockturn. It will be thick with masks by now. Muggle London, then the Leaky Cauldron. Flourish, and Blotts is close enough if we move quickly.’
Ron grimaced. ‘I hate every word of this, but Malfoy might actually have said something useful.’
‘Try not to sound so wounded, Weasley,’ Draco said. ‘Competence is very upsetting the first time you encounter it.’
Hermione gave him a sceptical look. ‘And the Leaky Cauldron is safe because…?’ A faint rustle came from the trees. All three of them looked up. Nothing moved.
Draco’s smirk vanished. His voice dropped. ‘It may not be. Last time I was there, they kept mostly to Knockturn. Last time does not mean today.’ His eyes flicked toward the trees. ‘So we go ready to run—or curse our way out.’
Hermione breathed out slowly. ‘Then we use the Leaky Cauldron only because every other option is worse.’ Draco’s pleased little chuckle earned him a sharp glare. ‘Do not look so pleased. This is not a victory lap.’ The brief flicker of humour faded. The question she had been holding back pressed too hard to ignore. ‘Malfoy…’
Draco looked up at the hesitation in her voice. ‘Yes, Granger?’
‘I need to ask you something,’ Hermione said.
For a heartbeat, Draco’s guard snapped into place. Then he saw no sign of Legilimency, only Hermione watching him with careful seriousness.‘That usually means I am about to regret answering,’ Draco said, bending to prod the fire with a stick.
Hermione’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do not dodge.’ She folded her arms, though the movement did nothing to steady her. ‘Why did you join him?’ Ron looked sharply at her. Draco did not.
Draco went very still. ‘I didn’t.’ He set his empty plate aside, cleaned the dishes with a murmured ‘Scourgify’, and packed them away with such careful precision that it became an answer of its own.
Ron and Hermione shared a stunned glance. Ron recovered first, because anger was easier than uncertainty. ‘Everyone gets a choice, Malfoy.’ His voice had an edge, but less certainty than he wanted.
Draco’s gaze snapped to him. ‘If being tied to a chair, tortured, and branded counts as choosing, Weasley, then yes. I was positively drowning in freedom.’
Ron’s face drained of colour, and the hand near his wand curled into a fist against his knee. Whatever retort he had been ready to throw died before it reached his mouth. Hermione stared at Draco, horror cutting through years of anger. ‘They branded you by force?’ she asked, softer now.
Draco looked back into the fire. ‘The Malfoys have belonged to him since before I was born. My grandfather admired him. My father built his entire life around the fantasy of standing beside him. By the time I understood what any of it meant, my future had already been signed away.’He gave a hollow laugh. ‘Unfortunately, I proved disappointingly bad at gratitude. Hesitate, question, fail to smile at the honour properly…’ His mouth twisted. ‘The Cruciatus Curse is very persuasive, if not particularly imaginative.’
Silence settled over the campsite, heavier than before. Ron looked as if he wanted to argue, apologise, and pretend he had never spoken all at once. His ears burned red, but he kept his mouth shut, staring down at the ash near the fire as though it might offer him somewhere safer to look. Hermione held herself still, afraid that any interruption would make Draco retreat behind his old sneer. Somewhere beyond the trees, a branch creaked. Ron’s head snapped up first, wand already shifting in his grip. Hermione’s fingers twitched toward her own wand, but the sound did not come again.
Draco sighed and tilted his head. ‘I was born into the Dark Lord’s service before I even had a name. Now I get this charming keepsake until he dies—or I do.’ He glanced at his sleeve with cold disgust. ‘And he put it on my perfect skin, which feels personally vindictive.’
Draco rolled up his sleeve to reveal the black skull burned into his forearm, the serpent slithering from its mouth like a living warning. Ron’s face went a sickly green. His eyes fixed on the mark with horrified fascination, and his throat bobbed as if he were trying not to be sick. He had imagined the Dark Mark as a symbol, something hateful and chosen, not a wound that could still hurt. Hermione instinctively shrank back, fear and revulsion tightening her throat. The mark seemed too dark in the pale morning light, too visible, too dangerous. A new thought chilled her: if Voldemort could summon through it, what else might he sense?
Draco stared down at the mark, his expression twisting. ‘When it burns, he is calling. It starts like heat under the skin. Then knives.’ The black lines stood raised and angry against his arm. ‘It stops when we answer. If we don’t…’ He swallowed. ‘It makes sure we regret having a spine.’ Ron’s jaw tightened with unwilling sympathy, and he looked away as if hating Draco were easier than understanding him.
Snape stepped back into the clearing and took in Draco’s exposed arm at once. His wand lifted. ‘Ingorio,’ he murmured. The tension in Draco’s face eased as the spell settled over the mark.
As the pain eased, Draco drew in a slow breath and pulled his sleeve down again. He gave Snape a faint, brittle look. ‘You are teaching me that spell before we die horribly.’
‘Ambitious of you to schedule lessons,’ Snape said. He demonstrated the wand movement with crisp precision: a sharp flick left, then a broad anticlockwise circle. ‘The incantation is Ingorio. It relieves pain from cursed marks. Only cursed marks. Do try not to become sentimental about it.’
Hermione’s fingers drifted to the bandage on her arm, where the word carved into her skin still burned in memory if not in flesh. The ache seemed to wake beneath the dressing as she looked at Draco’s mark, and for a moment she was back beneath Bellatrix’s knife, helpless on the cold floor, trying not to scream. She forced herself to breathe through it. She looked to Snape. His faint nod gave her just enough hope to raise her wand, but the quiet around the camp pressed in as if the forest itself were waiting for her to make a sound.
Hermione raised her wand, hope and doubt flickering across her face. Her fingers felt cold around the handle, slick with sudden sweat. Before she could speak, the clearing snapped out of its fragile calm. Birds burst from the branches in a violent rush of wings. Their cries cut the morning apart. Hermione’s spell died unspoken on her tongue. Then, all at once, the forest went silent. Not peaceful silent. Listening silent.
Snape went still, one hand lifting just enough to silence them. His eyes swept the trees, tracking something no one else could see. A twig cracked beyond the clearing. Then another, closer. ‘We leave,’ he said, voice like a blade drawn slowly. ‘Now.’
Snape crossed to the treeline, touched his wand to his palm, and went rigid. Six red dots flared across his skin: two to the north, three fanning wide from the east, one circling behind them. The pattern tightened toward the camp as if pulled by a noose. Hermione saw the trap a heartbeat after he did. Ron’s knuckles whitened around his wand, already searching for a gap. Draco went colourless. He knew what those dots meant—and who might be leading them. ‘Go now!’ Snape snapped. With a sharp flick, he killed the fire. Smoke curled from the ashes, smearing the campsite into grey morning light.
The clearing broke apart at once. Hermione snatched up her wand and beaded bag, but the clasp caught under her shaking fingers. Ron was already moving, sweeping one arm across the blankets and tin plates to shove them into the dying smoke. ‘Hermione, move!’ His voice cracked with panic, but his grip on her elbow was firm enough to drag her thoughts back into her body. She forced the clasp shut, nearly dropped the bag, and stumbled after him toward the thinner trees on the west side of camp.
Draco took two steps after them, then froze at the edge of the clearing, staring back toward Snape as if leaving required more courage than fighting. His wand trembled. ‘Snape!’
‘Run!’ Snape barked. ‘No last stands, no idiotic bravery, and no disobeying me for once in your lives.’ He shoved Draco bodily toward the westward gap, then vanished under a Disillusionment Charm just as six black-robed figures burst from the eastern trees.
The first curse shredded the place where Draco had stood an instant before. Ron pulled Hermione low, dragging her behind a fallen trunk as red light carved through the branches above them. Splinters rained into her hair. Behind them, a voice shouted, ‘There! After them!’
Hermione crawled the first few feet before Ron hauled her upright and pushed her between two close-set trees. Draco crashed through the brush to their right, no longer caring how much noise he made. Snape’s spells came from behind them in quick, invisible cuts: one curse knocked aside before it reached Ron’s back, another redirected into a tree root that exploded in dirt.
Hermione twisted to return fire, but Ron caught her sleeve. ‘Not here,’ he hissed. ‘You’ll light us up.’ A red spell struck a trunk ahead and blasted bark across the path. Hermione ducked too late; a splinter scored her cheek. Ron swore, stepped between her and the spray, and yanked her left into a shallow dip where bracken hid them from the clearing.
Draco veered away from them, drawing one pursuer after him down a narrow game trail. Branches whipped across his face and robes. A curse cracked past his shoulder, close enough to scorch the seam of his sleeve. He threw himself sideways behind an oak as the second spell split the bark at head height. The Death Eater lunged around the trunk, wand raised. Draco’s own hex came out wild and high, flashing harmlessly into the leaves. The man laughed—then vanished from sight as Snape’s unseen jinx swept his legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard enough to drive the breath from his lungs.
For one heartbeat, Draco stopped behind the oak, chest heaving. Snape had saved him. Again. Through the trees, he could see only flashes: red light, smoke, dark robes turning toward the clearing. Snape was still back there. Snape was alone. Hermione hissed Draco’s name from the bracken, barely daring to breathe around the sound. Ron crouched beside her, wand lifted and trembling, ready to stun Draco if that was what it took to keep him moving. Draco looked toward the fight one last time. The choice cut across his face—turn back and die, or run and live with it. Then he forced himself away from the clearing and plunged after them into the trees.
Snape appeared at the edge of the clearing, wand raised and face emptied of everything but calculation. One Death Eater lowered his mask. Pale face. Long flaxen hair. Lucius Malfoy. For the smallest instant, Snape’s eyes flicked toward the trees where Draco had fled. Then they returned to Lucius, blank and black. ‘Lucius.’
Lucius looked him over as though inspecting a stain on old silver. ‘Severus Snape.’ The name dripped contempt. ‘Faithless to the last.’ His eyes slid toward the trees where Draco had vanished, and the polish cracked just enough to show the rage beneath. ‘You had one task: return my son to his proper place. Instead, you teach him to run.’
Snape’s mouth barely moved. ‘An educational improvement, then. He has finally learnt where not to stand.’
Lucius’s eyes narrowed to pale slits. ‘Narcissa.’ The name was not spoken so much as unsheathed. A heartbeat passed. Then his expression smoothed into something worse than anger. ‘No matter. A father may still correct what a mother has spoiled.’
Snape’s wand snapped up. ‘Call it correction again, and I shall remove your tongue before your wand.’ Purple light struck Lucius squarely in the chest and hurled him against a tree with a crack of splintering bark.
Snape stepped into the open deliberately, drawing every wand toward himself and away from the fleeing students. When the purple curse blasted Lucius into the tree, the remaining Death Eaters scattered by instinct: two dropped behind the dead fire, one slipped wide to Snape’s right, and another cut left through the ferns. Snape moved before they settled. He turned a red curse into the earth, sliced a yellow jinx out of the air, and sent his answer skimming low across the ash. It struck the nearest attacker in the ribs and hurled him backwards through the undergrowth.
The others adjusted quickly. One came at him from the left, forcing Snape to pivot away from the treeline where Draco had vanished. Snape hexed the man’s wand arm and drove him to his knees, but the movement cost him ground. A second attacker circled behind the firepit. A third fired at Snape’s feet, blasting soil and ash into his robes. Snape staggered, used the stumble to duck a killing curse, and came up with his wand already cutting across his body. For one breath, he had them measured. Then another Death Eater moved. She had not rushed with the others; she had waited. Now she slipped in from his blind side, low and fast, and struck the back of his knee with a curse that buckled his leg. Snape nearly caught himself. Another spell flashed over his shoulder, forcing his wand high. His knee hit the ground. The circle closed.
The Death Eater stepped into the ring of churned earth and peeled off her mask. Bellatrix Lestrange smiled down at him, wild curls spilling around fever-bright eyes. For a moment she only watched him fight for breath, savouring the instant before pain became fear. ‘Poor little Sevvy,’ she crooned, all nursery sweetness and venom. ‘Still pretending treachery is cleverness. How tired you must be.’
Snape shoved at Bellatrix’s wand hand and dragged himself half upright, using the motion to put a tree trunk at his back before they could surround him completely. It bought him a second, no more. Bellatrix laughed as if he had performed a trick for her amusement, then revived Lucius with a lazy flick of her wand. Lucius came back with a sharp gasp, fury lighting his eyes before he fixed them on Snape. The others tightened the semicircle, wands angled down, careful now to stay beyond the reach of his sudden strikes. Snape’s gaze moved from mask to mask, measuring distance, weakness, timing. None favoured him.
Lucius rose slowly, one gloved hand pressed to his chest where Snape’s curse had struck. He rebuilt his composure piece by piece, and each piece made him colder. ‘A vigorous display, Severus. How noble. How provincial.’ He pressed his wand to Snape’s chest. Around them, the others held their positions, wary now, no longer eager to step within reach. ‘Was Draco alone, or have you collected more strays for Dumbledore’s grave?’ Lucius’s gaze bored into Snape’s, probing—and struck a wall of cold, practised silence.
Snape smiled faintly despite the dirt on his robes, the tremor in his wand hand, and five wands trained on him. Every breath dragged at his ribs. Every instinct demanded another strike, but his eyes remained steady. If Draco had time to run, if the others gained even a few more minutes, then this was enough. ‘Albus has won,’ he said softly. ‘You are merely late to the lesson.’
Lucius’s face tightened. ‘Speak plainly for once in your miserable life.’
Snape gave no answer. He only began to hum, light and maddeningly calm. The tune unsettled the clearing more than any curse could have. Bellatrix’s smile faltered, then sharpened with recognition that she was no longer the only one enjoying the moment. Lucius’s wand dug harder against Snape’s chest.
Lucius snapped. ‘Avada Kedavra!’ Green light flashed. The words left him too quickly, anger outrunning calculation. Snape fell without ceremony, black robes folding into the ash and trampled leaves. The faint smile remained on his mouth, small and infuriatingly calm. For one suspended heartbeat, even Bellatrix did not laugh. The clearing seemed to understand before anyone else that something final had happened.
Bellatrix stared at the body, then at Lucius, and her amusement crept back by slow, delighted degrees. One of the masked Death Eaters shifted uneasily, the scrape of his boot far too loud. ‘That was rash, Malfoy. The Dark Lord wanted answers, not a corpse.’
‘I am aware,’ Lucius hissed. His hand shook once before he forced it still, silver rings catching the green afterglow. ‘Then I shall provide him with results instead.’ The words had the shape of pride and the sound of dread. Bellatrix heard both. Her head tilted, and her smile sharpened.Lucius turned on the others. ‘Who saw Draco? Who saw who ran with him?’ His voice had gone quiet, aristocratic and vicious. The Death Eaters shifted uneasily, each unwilling to be the first to confess blindness.
Bellatrix’s lips curled. ‘A girl,’ she sang, bright and childish in the corpse-still clearing. The word hung there, small and gleaming and dangerous. Lucius turned toward her at once.
Lucius seized her chin. ‘Name her.’ For one breath, Bellatrix allowed the grip, eyes glittering with delight at having made him ask. Then her smile widened.
Bellatrix struck his hand away. ‘The clever little Mudblood.’ Her voice turned soft with hungry certainty. ‘She runs with your son now. Isn’t that delicious?’ She was already moving, eyes raking the trees. ‘Find Draco, and we find her.’ Her excitement made the search feel less like obedience and more like sport.
Lucius’s patience broke. ‘Find them.’ The quiet command was worse than a shout. Four masked figures Disapparated at once, the cracks ripping through the clearing. Their sudden absence left Lucius and Bellatrix alone with Snape’s body, the silence between them sharp with accusation.
Bellatrix tilted her head, eyes bright with mockery. ‘Now what, Lucy? Run to the Ministry and tell our Lord you killed the only prisoner who knew anything?’ The nickname slid between them like a knife. Lucius’s jaw tightened until it looked carved.
Lucius forced himself still. ‘The Ministry,’ he said. ‘And you will remember your place, Bellatrix.’ The decision came too quickly, brittle at the edges, as if standing in the clearing a moment longer might show her exactly how badly he had miscalculated. Then he spun on the spot and vanished.
Bellatrix stayed behind. Her eyes swept the churned undergrowth until a faint green shimmer caught her attention. She crouched, lifted the small green-tinted pebble, and turned it between her fingers, smiling as if it had whispered something filthy and delightful. ‘Well, well,’ she murmured. ‘What have we here?’
She looked once more at Snape’s body, searched him quickly, and found nothing worth keeping. Her smile thinned into irritation. With one last contemptuous glance, she vanished with a frustrated crack. The clearing fell silent behind her. Smoke drifted over the trampled earth. Broken branches settled. Snape lay where he had fallen, one hand still curled as if his wand ought to be there. Somewhere far off, a bird began to sing again, small and horribly ordinary, and the sound made the empty clearing feel crueller than any curse.
But the search had begun.
Through the trees, three fugitives ran with Snape’s last command still driving them forward. Hermione clutched her beaded bag so tightly the chain bit into her palm. Ron kept one hand on her sleeve and the other on his wand, pulling her through bracken whenever her steps faltered. Draco ran ahead only because looking back would break something in him. Once, a green flash lit the trees behind them. Draco stopped so suddenly Ron nearly collided with him. No one said what all three of them understood. Hermione’s breath caught. Ron’s face hardened into something that was not anger, not quite. Draco made one small, strangled sound, then forced himself forward again. There was no room for grief yet. There was only distance, breath, and the need to live long enough for grief to find them.
Days passed elsewhere in uneasy quiet.
In Rivendell, sunlight still fell on carved beams and running water still sang down the valley walls, but Harry had stopped trusting peaceful places simply because they looked untouched. Every quiet hour felt borrowed. Every closed door seemed to hide news Gandalf had not yet told him. Somewhere beyond the valley, he knew, his friends were still moving through danger, carrying whatever the forest had taken from them.
Harry sat by the window in Frodo’s room, half-watching pale morning light spill across the floor and half-listening to the soft rise and fall of Frodo’s breathing. Outside, Rivendell murmured with distant waterfalls and faint Elven voices, but inside the chamber every sound seemed to move carefully around the bed. Gandalf sat beside Frodo, pipe unlit in one hand, his stillness more troubling than pacing would have been. Six days had passed since Harry had arrived in Rivendell. Six days since Gandalf had ridden him into the hidden valley. Six days of distant urgency, closed doors, and hurried whispers. Six days, and Frodo had not opened his eyes.
Elrond had spoken with calm confidence, but Harry had learned to distrust confidence when it came with too many quiet rooms and worried faces. Gandalf tried to match Elrond’s certainty. The tightness around his eyes betrayed him.
‘Do you think he’ll wake?’ Harry asked. He glanced from Frodo to Gandalf, then drifted toward the bookcase because standing still made the waiting worse. The shelves were crowded with books in flowing Elvish script, none of which he could read. He ran a finger along one spine without seeing it.
Gandalf did not take his eyes from Frodo. ‘Any moment now,’ he murmured, and for once the words sounded less like prophecy than hope. The room held its breath. Then Frodo stirred and gave a low, pained groan.
Frodo’s eyes opened to a blur of gold light and carved beams. For one frightened heartbeat, he seemed not to recognise the room, the bed, or even his own body. His hand moved weakly toward his shoulder, then fell back against the covers. ‘Where am I?’ he whispered.
Gandalf leaned forward, and the worry in his face softened into something almost unbearably gentle. ‘In the House of Elrond,’ he said. ‘It is ten o’clock in the morning on the twenty-fourth of October, if you wish to be precise.’ His smile warmed beneath his beard. ‘And you have given us all a rather anxious week.’
Harry crossed to the window and drew the curtains wider, letting the sunlight reach the bed. ‘Is he all right?’ he asked quietly, afraid that speaking too loudly might break whatever fragile spell had brought Frodo back. Gandalf gave him a small nod, but his attention remained on the Hobbit.
Frodo blinked again. This time his gaze settled: the carved beams above, the golden light at the window, the sound of falling water beyond the room—and then Gandalf. Relief broke across his face so suddenly that it made him look young and terribly tired. ‘Gandalf!’
Gandalf’s smile deepened, relief shining through despite his attempt to hide it. ‘Yes, Frodo. I am here. And you are fortunate to be here as well. A few more hours, and even Elrond’s skill might not have reached you.’ He rested a careful hand on Frodo’s brow. ‘There is strength in you, my dear Hobbit, greater than you know.’
Frodo pushed himself higher against the pillows, pain tightening his mouth before he mastered it. His eyes searched Gandalf’s face, relief already giving way to the memory of fear. ‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘Why did you not meet us?’
Gandalf looked toward the window, where the sunlight made the valley seem untouched by darkness. ‘I am sorry, Frodo,’ he said quietly. ‘I was delayed. And the delay nearly cost far more than I care to name.’
Harry’s stomach tightened. ‘I hope I wasn’t the reason,’ he said. The thought had been sitting in him since Gandalf first spoke of missed roads and late arrivals, small and poisonous.
Gandalf turned to him at once, firm enough to stop the guilt before it found deeper roots. ‘No, Harry. You came after the matter had already gone awry. We meant to meet you on the road, but events moved faster than we did.’
Harry hesitated. ‘I meant to ask… what happened to…’ He glanced at Frodo and stopped. The warning not to speak too freely pressed against the questions in his throat. In this room, with Frodo newly awake and still pale against the pillows, the future felt too heavy to name.
Gandalf’s expression softened with understanding. ‘They are safe.’ Harry let out a breath he had not realised he was holding. He nodded, though the answer left almost as many questions as it solved.
A joyful voice burst from the doorway before Harry could ask more. ‘Frodo! Bless you, Mr Frodo, you’re awake!’ Samwise Gamgee hurried straight to the bedside, relief shining in every word and every stumbling step.
Sam, Merry, and Pippin had arrived with the mysterious Ranger the others called “Strider”, though Harry had barely spoken to the man before he disappeared again into Rivendell’s quiet corridors. Now Strider’s absence hardly mattered. The room filled at once with the fierce, uncomplicated joy of Hobbits reunited.
Gandalf watched Sam take Frodo’s hand with a fondness that gentled every line of his face. ‘Sam has hardly left your side,’ he said. ‘I doubt the valley itself could have moved him far.’
‘We were that worried, weren’t we, Mr Gandalf?’ Sam said. His eyes did not leave Frodo, and his grip on Frodo’s hand tightened as if he meant to keep him awake by sheer devotion.
Gandalf nodded. ‘Thanks to Lord Elrond’s skill, the worst has passed. Rest now, and let those who love you fuss. It will do them good.’
Lord Elrond entered with quiet grace, and the chamber seemed to settle around him. He came to Frodo’s bedside and inclined his head, his gaze taking in the colour returning to Frodo’s face and the loyal hands gathered around him. ‘Welcome to Rivendell, Frodo Baggins,’ he said. ‘You have passed through a dark gate and returned to us.’
Frodo looked up at him in quiet awe. Even weakened, he seemed to understand that more than a healer stood before him: witness, lord, and keeper of a refuge older than many kingdoms. Gratitude, wonder, and exhaustion crossed his face too quickly for words.
Elrond’s voice was soft, but it carried the depth of long memory. ‘You have found your way to the last homely house east of the sea. The Elves of Imladris have kept this valley for three thousand years, though fewer of my kin remain with each passing age. Here, for a little while, you may breathe without fear.’
With Harry on one side and Sam on the other, Frodo rose unsteadily and crossed to the window. The valley opened below in a sweep of waterfalls, trees, and sunlit stone, so fair and untouched that, for one fragile breath, it seemed impossible anything cruel could ever reach it. Wonder softened the strain in Frodo’s face. Around him, Sam hovered close, Gandalf watched with tired relief, and Elrond stood silent as stone and sorrow.
Beside them, Harry looked out over Rivendell and thought of the friends still somewhere beyond its borders in the future, carrying smoke, fear, and loss toward this borrowed peace.
For the first time since waking, Frodo smiled—not because the danger was gone, but because, for this single morning, he had survived it. He let himself hold on to that small mercy. One morning. One breath. One quiet place before the road found them again.
A/N: So, what did you all think? It’s getting serious XD
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