Disclaimer: I own neither Harry Potter nor The Hobbit and I don't earn any money with this story.

Author's note: Yep, still alive… and determined to finish this fic.

Rating: T

Warning: pre-slash, future mpreg


Twisting his foot slightly to get a firmer stand, Harry parried the incoming strike with his own sword. Several more blows followed in quick succession, before the brunet managed an attack of his own, which was swatted away like an annoying fly. With gritted teeth and a low growl, Harry tried again and again and again, always with the same result. He was tempted to use magic to give himself an edge, but knew it was his pride talking. It didn't want another kick in the arse and neither did he.

The brunet refrained reluctantly and raised his arms for another strike, giving his opponent the perfect opportunity to kick Harry's legs from underneath him. The wizard tumbled to the ground, a place he unfortunately knew very well by now. Directing his glare first at the pointed blade in front of his face, then at its wielder, the brunet heaved himself into a sitting position and rubbed his aching calf.

Elrohir countered the dark expression with an amused smirk and held out his hand after re-sheathing his sword.

"Falling for me yet again, I see."

Instead of accepting the offered help, Harry sent a stinging hex the elf's way, though Elrohir didn't even have the decency to flinch. Perhaps he had already developed immunity to that particular spell; he had certainly experienced it enough times. Sure, Harry was grateful for the lessons and liked spending time with the other male, but the elf was a smug, little prat more often than not.

"Now now, no need sulk, tithen curunír. This time you managed a full ten minutes!" And honestly, that was a feat. In the beginning of his sword training, Harry had not even lasted half a minute against the elf, but now, a few months later, he managed a couple of minutes of Elrohir (mostly) putting away the kid gloves.

He had made tremendous progress, but Harry would probably never be as good as a being several hundred (thousand?) years his senior. An elf to boot. Losing time after time was still frustrating, though.

"Exactly how I left you."

Sighing, Harry glanced to the person on the steep, stony staircase that connected the secluded training field by the river to the Elven city further up the cliff. As he was wont to do, Elladan had watched the daily sword-fighting lesson, but had disappeared half-way through only to turn up now with a basket and an amused grin curling his lips.

Instead of climbing down the last couple of steps, the elf leapt and landed, light-footed as ever, on the grass at the bottom of the stairs. One of Elladan's hands dropped into the basket and resurfaced with an apple, which sailed swiftly through the air moments later. Harry caught the tasty fruit easily and bit into it with relish. For now, his frustration was soothed.

"My hero," the wizard declared, his mouth still half-full, but not caring.

"Always at your service." Elladan sketched a playful bow, while shooting a smug smirk at his brother, which his twin answered with a disgruntled frown. Harry raised a bemused eyebrow, but decided not to question the silent communication. Instead he got off the hard earth of their training space and walked to the lush spot which harboured Gryffindor's sword during their lessons.

Upon listening to a few of Harry's stories, some featuring the achievements of his blade, the twins had decided – all by themselves - to dub it lhûgdagnir, which basically meant 'Snake Slayer' in Sindarin. Apparently all great swords needed a great name based on their deeds… The brunet didn't much care and still referred to it as 'Gryffindor's sword' anyway.

"Dan…" Harry frowned at Elrohir's apprehensive tone – he seldom sounded like that - and redirected his attention to the brothers. Elladan was nibbling half-heartedly on a pear-shaped fruit that tasted like nothing the wizard had ever eaten, while his twin was staring blank-faced at something in the basket. "…is this…"

"Indeed, a missive from Arador. He is enquiring about our return plans. We have already been here longer than planned, after all," Elladan explained, gravely staring at the fruit in his hand, but looking up upon hearing a dull thud.

A half eaten apple lay forgotten next to the wizard's left boot, the hand, which had held it, still raised in mid-air. Harry's mind was in a frenzy. He had known this day would come, when the twins would leave Imladris to return to the Dúnedain, but…

The brunet had wandered through Middle Earth for ages, always looking for clues to get home, even though he had quickly lost hope and with it most of his enthusiasm for just about everything. Elrohir, and to a slightly lesser extent, Elladan had somehow saved him from that miserable existence.

Sure, it wasn't like being back in his old world, with his friends and family of choice and the twins had a penchant for smugness and utterly annoying innuendos – not unlike another pair of twins he knew -, but, at least for the moment, they were his reason for living, not just existing. In the last few month they had laughed, teased each other, trained and shared stories and Harry couldn't quite cope with the thought of it being all over. With the loneliness returning.

And he wouldn't let that possibility become reality!

"Hey, do you think the Dúnedain would object to the help of a wizard with mediocre sword skills?"

The responding brilliant smile was the only answer he needed.

Rule number 3: If you wish to have something, you have to work for it.