A Christmas gift. A lot of you will have seen the latest Hobbit movie. A lot of you will have been - how to put it - stirred by the various characters on screen. It's happened to me for the last three years now and I've finally given in to my yearnings. I considered writing an OC for these two, my fave Hobbit males (can't call them men, as they're not), but I'd feel disloyal to Hermione, and her magic does make certain plot points easier (ie how to make two fictional characters from Middle Earth appear in 21st century London).

I admit - I find Richard Armitage as Thorin hot as hell, but I do have an issue with the height (or lack of it) thing. So I've made Thorin really tall for a dwarf (as he would be, naturally). In this, he is the same height as Hermione (just about canonically acceptable - fingers crossed!). And he's very, very imposing, so just think of him as being absolutely majestic. And then there's the elf. He's tall. And perfect. The fact that he has long blond hair like that other fellow I occasionally write about is entirely coincidental. No, seriously, it is. These are the only two men with long blond hair in any world, real or fictional, that I would ever find attractive.

This is a silly bit of Christmas fun, really. I don't generally like crossovers, but these two demanded a lust splurge. The lust isn't going to splurge for a couple of chapters though, so bear with me.

'And then he was like stumbling out of Diagon Alley, pants halfway down his legs, bum on full display, belting out Jingle Bells totally tuneless. He didn't see the muggle copper before it was too late. And then it was like, "Sho shorry, constable, we wuz jusht having a little pre-Christmas drinky", and I was like –'

Hermione turned away from the ramblings of her ex-boyfriend and crossed her arms in disgust. She looked around the pub but the forced festivities seemed empty and pointless. Surely there was more to Christmas than this? She had stayed in London with her friends for the last few years. It had been good to start with, but since she and Ron split up in the spring, she'd questioned her need to remain so tightly knit at Christmas, if ever. Even London seemed to constrain her now. She glanced back at her friends. Ron was still mouthing off, oblivious to her brewing disdain. Harry was tired and distracted, but he smiled benignly and humoured his oldest friend. Ginny was rubbing her boyfriend's back, clearly thinking about what they'd get up to later.

Hermione couldn't stand it. She downed the last of her wine and stood up, reaching for her coat.

'You going?' asked Harry.

'Yeah … I'm just … tired and all that.'

'Oh, I'm sorry. But we'll see you about half eleven Christmas Day.' Harry stood up to give her a farewell hug. As he pulled back, he searched her eyes. 'You okay, Hermione?'

She nodded unconvincingly. 'Yeah … I just …' She gestured at Ron. He was turned away from her, unaware she was even going.

Harry smirked. 'I understand. Sorry. At least he's happy.'

'Yeah … he's happy.' That was the thing. It was always Ron's happiness that mattered. It had always been assumed, somehow, that she would be fine. Hermione, ever reliable, ever sensible, able to take care of herself. She tried to return Harry's smile, said goodbye to Ginny and called across to Ron. 'Goodbye, Ron.'

No response. He was still in full flow.

'Goodbye, Ron!' she tried again.

'Wha-? Oh, right, you off already then?'

'Yup.'

'Okay, Mione, see you later.' He lifted his pint glass to her.

'Yup.' She left. Hermione paced down The Strand, her heels clicking out a terse staccato. Revellers were spilling from the pubs, tinsel adorning prominent cleavages, Santa hats worn askew on the heads of people who usually tried for the ultimate in chic.

A couple of men staggered out in front of her, their designer suits in disarray, their arrogant, City control gone in the haze of excessive alcohol, revealing the manchild beneath.

'Where you off to in such a hurry, darlin'?'

'Fancy jingling my bells, sweetheart?'

She pushed past them. They responded by rising whoops and a chorus of sexualised slurs. Hermione stopped, turned on the drunk pair and yelled, 'Oh, why don't you all just fuck off!'

'Whoa! Hold on, you stupid bitch! Just thought you might want warming up. Fuck off, yourself.'

'I will!' She turned and stormed off.

Hermione walked on and on, hardly knowing where she was going. Her feet started to ache, but she carried on through the crystal cold and clear streets of London. Eventually, she was vaguely aware of crossing the Mall and ending up in St James's Park. Maybe the pelicans would offer more in the way of conversation. But even they were asleep.

Hermione slumped onto a bench near a dense copse of trees, still fuming. Why, she wasn't entirely sure. Months, perhaps years, of frustration had built to this moment it seemed. For an age now since the war, she had been seeking something different, seeking escape. In London she thought she'd find it, but it hadn't happened so far.

She sat there, alight with tension, prickling with energy. She could feel her magic bursting from her, borne from her rage and passion. She had honed her skills further over the last few years and was regarded now as the most fearsome witch of her age. Sometimes it scared her, her power. Sometimes she wasn't sure she could control it. Sometimes she wished it would go away.

She had read and read, burying her frustrations in books. Wizarding books, history books, Muggle books, including those she had loved as a child, as if trying to recapture those lost dreams. Sometimes it was those Muggle books which helped her the most. Wizarding books dealt with a world that was real to her. Unbelievable at times, but real nonetheless, whereas the fantasy of the Muggle books was so wondrous as to be almost envied. At her darkest times, it was to those places that she would go – the worlds of Terry Pratchett and CS Lewis and Tolkien. Anything to get away from the Ministry and expectation … and Ron.

She threw her head up to the night sky and saw her breath clouding before her. 'Is this it? Is this really all there is?' she yelled aloud into the hollow air.

She was holding her wand before her, absentmindedly twirling it. She could feel her magic pulsing down her arm, flowing into her wand, which began to tingle and glow. She stared at it. She should stop this, but neither wanted to nor felt she could. She watched as a pale blue light began to emanate from it. A force she had never felt before coursed down her arm, and then, in a great silver arc of energy, it billowed out from her wand, knocking her off the bench. She fell in an unruly heap onto the cold ground.

'Shit!' she swore, picking herself up and smoothing down her clothing. What did it matter? There was no one around to see. She glanced about. The magic seemed to have evaporated harmlessly. She'd got away with it, however inadvertent it had been.

Hermione sighed and looked up the path. Her Chelsea flat seemed a long way away. She could apparate but lacked the energy. Taxi maybe. She stood up with a sigh, but before taking a step, she heard voices.

'What trickery is this? Orc spew be upon you! This is not Mirkwood, you elven fiend! If you have led me astray I shall hack off those ears of yours and feed them to the nearest oliphaunt!'

'Speak not to me, dwarf! It was you who suggested we follow the river. The consequences rest squarely on your shoulders.'

'I see the glint of water over there, but it is too light. And such a strange light – a glow, as if illuminated by the Arkenstone itself.'

Hermione took a step back. The language was familiar. Her heart started a tattoo in her chest. Instinctively, she held up her wand as two figures emerged from the trees.

The first was broad shouldered, muscular and dressed in black – leather and fur from what she could tell, great swathes of it. And then there was his hair. There was a lot, on his face and head. He was not tall for a man, but no shorter than her five feet four inches. His presence was immediately both commanding and imposing and he gave the impression of someone much taller. Beside him was someone of a complete physical contrast. This person was perhaps a foot taller than Hermione. In the gloom at night, she at first thought it was someone else entirely, someone she recognised all too well.

A name formed on her lips and she whispered to herself, 'Malfoy?' This person had long blond hair, just like Draco's father, and the same imperious expression and demeanour. But it only took a moment for Hermione to realise that this was not Lucius Malfoy. The Death Eater could hardly be described as unattractive (even Hermione acknowledged that) but the person standing before her now had a beauty which seemed to defy humanity. He stood erect and proud, surveying his surroundings.

And then they saw her. Her wand was still primed.

Immediately, the dark-haired one reached for a short sword he had in his belt and the blond one a long blade which seemed to gleam in the moonlight, almost imparted with its own light.

'Don't move!' she said, keeping her voice as steady as she could. 'Drop your weapons.'

'I do not lower arms in the face of aggression. You too bear a weapon,' said the dark one. He had a remarkably deep and resonant voice and he fixed his stare on her with a resolve she found exhilarating.

They were clearly not going to drop their blades. The dark one took a slow pace towards her. She flicked her wand towards him, but the other then mimicked him, his step seeming to glide him closer. She darted her wand towards him instead. The other one moved again. She moved it back to him. This was crazy. Why didn't she just stupefy them? But something was ticking away at the back of her mind, something mad, something extraordinary.

She took in the details of their clothing: the boots on the darker one, his piercing gaze, his determination, his build. And the blond one: the smoothness of his skin; the material of his clothing – Velvet? Silk? The most beautiful cloth she'd ever seen, not that she could properly identify it; and on his head a garland of some kind. Her heart beat frantically, but not with fear. She found her wand arm slackening despite the proximity of the armed strangers.

The taller one was closer to her now but she'd barely noticed his silent approach. He held up his blade slowly, studying her face as he did so. His eyes were a luminous blue, even in the dimness of the London night. Hermione did not move, almost bewitched by his appraisal. As he looked over her, she felt a strange pride that he deigned to grant her his consideration. He was the most stunning person she'd ever seen. An aura of near divinity seemed to emanate from him. His voice was low but smooth and refined. Silver. It made her think of silver.

'What are you? Elven? You have the beauty for it.' She flushed at his compliment. 'But not the height. You are no taller than my … companion here.' He glanced briefly at the shorter one who sneered across at him. Companion he'd said, not friend.

The blond continued to hold up his blade, but rather than use expelliarmus to send it flying, Hermione merely stood as he lifted it under her hair to draw the strands away from her face. He moved a lock behind her ear and examined what he'd revealed. 'No, not an elf. Woman, but spirited, I see. Tell us, maid, where is this place?'

Maid? If she hadn't been in such an extraordinary situation she would have laughed aloud. Her maidenhood was long gone.

'You're in St James's Park. Buckingham Palace is just over there.' She pointed through the trees where the lights of the Mall and the palace shone through. The two stared curiously and glanced at each other, clearly no more enlightened than before.

The dark one frowned. 'Palace? Where? Minas Tirith? The halls of Rohan? I know no palace with the name of which you speak.'

Minas Tirith. Rohan. Hermione knew those names. Exactly what magic had her frustrated passion unleashed? She stared at the two of them, wonderful and terrifying realisation creeping through her. 'You're … in London. In England. And I think … you're a long way from home.' She took a deep breath and steadied herself. 'Who exactly are you?'

The leather-clad one stepped forward first and fixed her with his dark gaze. It rooted her to the spot. 'I am Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror. King under the Mountain.'

Hermione struggled to catch her breath but darted her eyes immediately to the taller one.

'I am Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm. And you, woman, have not told us your name. Kindly repay our courtesy.'

'I … I'm … I … I think I need to sit down a moment.'

And for the first time in her life, Hermione Granger fainted.

Merry Christmas! More in the next day or so. LL x