"The Death Clock"

A/N: A LotR-HP crossover that hit me while at college and in the library. I hope this is an original story that you perhaps haven't read yet in another form. Enjoy!

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Story books are full of fairy tales
Of kings and queens and the bluest skies
My heart is torn just in knowing
You'll someday see the truth from lies

-"In My Arms", Plumb

The ropes seemed to burn into his skin, unkind and unforgiving, tight enough that they chafed the tender skin of his wrists and drew blood. His desperate struggles to free himself had released a copious amount of coppery red that now slickened his hold and crusted along his wrists. Always sensitive to the smell of blood, he choked against its sickening scent and grit his teeth, cursing for the umpteenth time the heartlessness of his captors.

Harry Potter was not in a good mood. In fact, to say that Harry Potter was not in a good mood would be a massive understatement. No, Harry Potter was not just in a bad mood.

Harry Potter was royally and totally pissed off.

Laying his head down upon the cold, hard floor of his prison, Harry cursed Dumbledore, Hermione, Ron, the Weasleys, his godfather Sirius, and the whole of the Wizarding world itself. It was they who had abandoned him, they who had pretended to care for him, they who had driven him into the arms of Darkness. It was they who condemned him now. Why hadn't they just killed him when he fought by Voldemort's side at the battle at Hogwarts? Why hadn't they just killed him as they had the rest of the Dark Lord's followers?

He knew why, of course. He was the Boy-Who-Lived, now the Boy-Who-Betrayed, the hope of the Wizarding world turned Dark and savage. Now, he was to be led through the streets like a pig to slaughter, fodder for those who hated him, laughed at and ridiculed before he was finally sentenced to an eternity in Hell. He was to be carrion for the vultures to pick. The wolves had descended upon him, ready to tear him to pieces if he as much as made a move to escape from their hold.

He hated them all. He hated them, scorned them, feared them, missed them, and loved them. He wanted to kill them, those who had once been his friends and family. He had found sweet, beautiful freedom in the Dark, such relief from his burdens, that now he found he could not readily free himself from its cloying influence.

He didn't think he wanted to, either.

Again, he tried to free himself of the ropes binding his arms, but they were just as tight and cruel as before.

"Potter!"

The rough growl of a voice jerked his attention from the bonds to the doorway of his cell, where an Auror looked in through the bars.

"Trying to escape, are you, Potter?" he hard-eyed man snarled, and Harry felt hatred bubble in his stomach. He knew this Auror, by reputation, as quick to anger and violent while in a fury. Although powerful as a wizard, and physically fit, Harry was tied up, exhausted, bruised from the battle, and wandless. He had little defense against this man.

His dignity and temper would not allow him to lie there and take the verbal jabs, however. "So what if I am?" he retorted. "Think you can stop me?"

The Auror's face darkened with rising fury. "Is that a challenge?"

Flushed, as angry as his accuser, Harry did not respond with words. Instead, he spat in the direction of the door, and it was a good shot—the spittle struck the man in the face. With a furious outcry, the Auror recoiled, instinctively reaching to scrub at his face, and when he locked gazes with Harry his eyes were hot with murder.

"You son of a bitch!" In seconds the door was flung open and in two long strides he was at Harry's side. Viciously he struck out, solidly kicking Harry under the chin.

Stars exploded in front of the young wizard's eyes, and he felt his head slam back into the floor. Dazed and in pain, he bit his tongue to keep from crying out, and rolled with the momentum, but the enraged Auror followed him and struck him again and again, not allowing Harry a respite. Screaming obscenities, he allowed his anger to guide him.

And little by little, Harry started to lose his hold on consciousness. Pain muddled his senses, caused all sound to run together and buzz in his ears. His eyesight began to darken, and still the Auror came on. Agony riddled his body, and when he started to cough, he felt warm, coppery-scented wetness run between his lips and from his nose. He curled into a small, protective ball, and he fancied he could hear through the buzzing in his ears and the Auror's insults someone calling out, screaming for a halt—

And then the room spun and everything went black.

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The feel of a cold cloth on his forehead brought him back to consciousness, but Harry found out immediately that perhaps it would have been better if he had stayed in black oblivion. His whole body ached and throbbed, a headache was pounding behind his eyes, and he felt like he needed to throw up. He groaned between gritted teeth, unwilling to open his eyes. Surely it was the healer woman from before that the Ministry had gotten to look over his wounds from the battle before who was with him now, and he didn't need to see the look of fear and disgust she would undoubtedly send him if she knew he was awake. Not that that bothered him, mind you. They were right to fear him.

"Everything follows fright, Potter," Voldemort had told him during his training. "Lay the basis of fear, and everything will follow after."

"Ah! Good, then, you're awake!" came an unfamiliar voice, and Harry's eyes very nearly snapped open in shock. That was not the nurse's voice! This was a male's, and unlike any other he'd ever heard before. It was soft, melodious, and spoke of peace. The Darkness hissed at that voice, hated it, and Harry tensed in spite of himself. He heard the soft voice chuckle, and the cloth on his forehead started to dab away the sweat from his face. His body felt riddled with fever, and he groaned again. "Hush," the voice soothed gently. "You have been long in coming, Harry Potter—we have waited for this moment a long time past."

What in Merlin's name-? Shocked, his eyes snapped open, and immediately cried out in agony, his hands—somehow unbound—flying up to cover his face. Blinding white shone all around him, endless and pure, and his shattered soul shuddered in the light. His aching body protested his abrupt movements, and he felt himself stiffen under the pain that surged forward. He felt confusion rise within him—he still felt the cool cloth on his skin but could not see anyone or anything, just the same blinding whiteness.

"Who's there?" he called out, and his tone was hoarse and dry, and he winced as pain throbbed in his throat. His hands, still shielding his smarting eyes, he looked around.

"No one of importance, Harry," came the voice again, amusement lacing its tone. "Titles have no importance here, but for confusion's sake, you may call me Frodo."

"And what kind of name is that?" Harry snarled, still trying to shield himself from the light. He was in no mood to be courteous.

But his caretaker merely laughed again. "And what, pray, is such a name as "Harry"?" he countered. ""Hair" should describe that which is on your head, or our feet. It should not be a name."

"It was the name my parents chose!" Harry snapped, still looking in vain for whoever it was he was speaking to.

"And so my name was as well," the other answered gently, "so let us lay the matter of names to rest, shall we?"

"What do you want?" Harry demanded angrily. "Why am I here?"

There came another chuckle, and he felt the cloth wipe his forehead. "You're quite impatient, aren't you? Quite used to being answered immediately, everything you wanted brought to you by your Lord's hand. Voldemort spoiled you quite thoroughly."

"You dare to speak the Dark Lord's name?" Harry hissed, feeling fury pounding through his limbs. None should speak thus! "I could kill you for that and enjoy it!"

But again his caretaker spurned his attempts to bait him into an argument. "How can you kill that which is beyond a mortal's reach? Of course I dare to speak Voldemort's name—it is so tiring to refer to him as the Dark Lord as it so unoriginal, even if "Voldemort" is utterly ridiculous as well." There was a pause, then: "I always thought Tom was a much better name. You called him Voldemort once upon a time."

"Before I realized my folly calling him such!" Harry retorted, his anger still throbbing. Then his headache spiked, and he groaned again, closing his eyes behind his hands. "What happened?" he ground out.

"You were injured grievously by the Auror you provoked. You have a concussion, a ruptured appendix, two broken and three cracked ribs, and a cracked skull. You are being helped, but it'll be a close thing. Your wounds have become infected. I'm sorry you had to meet us injured as you are, but perhaps that's the whole reason you're here now."

"Speak plainer!" Harry snapped. "I have no patience for riddles!"

"Then it is a good thing you are not speaking to Gandalf," came the smooth reply, and Harry, to his irritation, realized he was sparring with a master. He tried for a different tact.

'Please, could you just tell me where I am?"

There came again the laugh that sent the Darkness screaming again in fury. "What a silly question, my dear wizard! Why, you rival a Took in inquisitiveness! Of course I cannot tell you where we are, since I myself really have no idea either! The most I could tell you is that we are beyond the Circles of the Earth, far beyond the reach of mortal lives."

Harry blinked. "So… we're in the Afterlife?"

"In a manner of speaking. This is not the Afterlife for you—this is a place for you to purge yourself of the evil you allowed to mar your being."

"A place to purge my— oh damn it all, are you really going into the Catholic rubbish of purgatory? That's bullshit, all of it!"

"This is not Hell, whatever you may think," came "Frodo's" reply. "You will not even be here all the time. In fact, you will be waking soon. Before you do, I must tell you—you have a limited amount of time to set things to right between those you once loved. Use well the days!"

Harry thought his skull might explode with the stupid riddles his company was giving him, and he glared heatedly through his fingers. "And that's supposed to help me?"

Something in the light shifted, and Harry had the weirdest sense that his caretaker was frowning, suddenly completely serious, and the Darkness in his soul cowered as a chill shivered up his spine.

"It will have to, if you have any hope for your imperishable soul."