Delusional

Jessylane318

"Bring us three pints, would yah laddie?" called an obviously drunk dwarf over the roar of the crowded inn. Around him, two others heartily agreed, beating the now wet wooden tables and spraying spittle everywhere.

"You got the money for it?" Harry shouted over the bulking noise well aware the dwarf did not have it. The squat fellow had spent his last coin on a mug of ale last week, when Harry first begun working in the Prancing Pony.

He'd taken the job eagerly, ready not only to get out of bed, but also to find this Gandalf man again. If he could only find this wizard, then perhaps he would help him get home. That is, if there were even a home to go back to...

"Put it on me tab, boy."

Nodding in agreement, because really it wasn't his place to argue, he scurried away; mindful of the stray boots and stray wenches in his path. Glancing in a corner, he noticed the hooded figure once more smoking his pipe.

"Mr. Butterbur," Harry said as he awaited the drunk dwarf's order. "Whose that man there in the corner?"

"Him?" the fat man asked, his cheeks pink and eyes curious. "I don't rightly know, one of them wandering folk—Rangers, we call them. He seldom talks, save for a rare tale when he has the mind. He disappears for a month, or a year on end, and then pops up as though he'd never left. What his right name is, I don't rightly know, never heard. Around Bree we call him Strider; going about at a great pace on his long shanks. He don't tell nobody, mind you, where or what his hurry cause for. But there's no accounting for East and West here in Bree, meaning Rangers and Shire-folk."

But at that moment, the dwarves shouted for more ale, and Harry quickly nodded, though he didn't understand at all. He glanced once more at the quiet stranger before taking the dwarves their ale.

Harry Potter wheezed slightly as he dropped the heavy saddle at the base of the large stable and leaned against the wooden door beside it. Who would have thought leather could be so heavy? He turned slightly towards Bob, a hobbit of the stables.

"Your sword, ya say?" asked the three-foot tall hobbit with a grin that resembled Hagrid's rotting squash. "Ho! Thought you'd never be coming for it, the bulky thing."

Harry chuckled awkwardly, unsure as the little man bustled about. What would he do with the massive blade now that he'd found it? Was it possible his wand had fallen with him, despite the fact Riddle was holding it when he left? Could it somehow help him find a way back home?

"Ah!" sighed the little man with pleasure as Harry struggled with his unanswered questions. "'Ere it tis, back 'hind the rakes and spades. 'Fraid it's still dirty, tho'. You'd best be takin proper care of it, young sir, lest it fall apart like an ole mule!"

Harry nodded in acceptance and took the massive blade from the tiny man. Even as he did so, he felt the cold, heavy metal biting beneath the mud under his fingers.

Harry easily completed his long list of chores before noon. Butterbur refused to give him too many, stating he had only just recovered, but Harry saw the pity in the man's eyes. Everyone always pitied the poor orphan boy.

Everyone but Strider, that is.

Perhaps that was why he liked the strange man so much. He never looked at anyone with anything other than contempt or a neutral expression that denied the observer his opinion.

Still, without much else to do, the green eyed youth journeyed into the woods behind the Inn, taking up the sword much as he had from the sorting hat weeks earlier, and attempted to slay some mighty invisible beast.

As he did so, he wondered if Ginny was alive. Did Ron make it past the cave in to rescue his sister? Did Lockhart get sacked? Did Hermione get better? Was Riddle destroyed?

Using the bloodstained sword with its mud-crusted hilt, Harry pushed forward and back, blocking and parrying and attacking his invisible foe. With stiff and heavy movements, he tried to destroy the imaginary monster, pushing the sword up in a high arch.

However, he misjudged his strength and the hilt came crashing down, falling onto his chest as his right arm burned with pain. The flat edge of the blade knocked upon the side of his head, blurring his vision. Hissing, Harry collapsed on the ground with a heavy grunt.

He laid there for a good while until he found the strength to pick himself up.

Strider sat in the corner again, when Harry returned to wipe down tables and scrub tankards at the inn.

"Harry, there you are boy!" stated Butterbur as he poured himself a large drink of ale to moisten his lips.

"Er- Sorry," he replied sheepishly, well aware he was late.

"'Tis well enough, young Harry, 'tis well enough" replied the man with a wide grin. "But best don't repeat it. Now, what was I doing? Oh yes! Lock up the inn, will you boy? I'll just have me self another drink and then head up!"

Harry nodded slightly despite the ringing in his head and helped the forgetful man to Nob, who would show him to bed. Turning back, Harry began cleaning the glasses as a man rolled lazily on the floor, to drunk to stand.

"Have you got a room here sir?" Harry asked politely, not wanting to cause a fight. He looked towards a group of three nearby. "Sirs?"

The red headed one closest just grunted in response. Harry sighed and went around the counter.

"Sir, it's time for bed. Do you have a room?" The head lolled and Harry rolled his eyes in disgust as droll begun to trail down the man's face. Without much other choice, Harry pulled up the man and half-carried, half dragged him to the spare room. It was hard work considering he was nearly a third of the man's size, and he was left heaving afterwards with smoke in his nose.

When he returned, he noticed Strider was gone. Just as well, Harry thought despite the odd feeling in his stomach, he named unsatisfied curiosity. He quickly shooed away the other visitors and locked the doors. With that, he gratefully went to bed.

For the next week Harry snuck out at noon every day and practiced his swordsmanship. Wielding the large blade as best he could with his lack of muscles and sore body, he managed to accidentally stab himself twice, wounded a few trees, and somehow knocked a few feathers off a stray bird.

Needless to say the animals all took to avoiding him frequently.

And yet, even as the time passed, Harry found his hope ebbing at the prospect of leaving the strange land of hobbits and dwarves and men diminishing. He had yet to see or hear even a glimpse of this Gandalf fellow that nobody seemed able to describe, besides queer or strange.

Then there was Strider.

The ranger hadn't been seen for days by any of the people of Bree. He'd all but vanished without a trace one evening and not come back since. Somehow, the absents of the stranger left Harry hollow, but the young man brushed it off.

Swallowing a sigh, Harry pressed his arms upwards, dragging the sword's blade high and angling it slightly to the left-blocking a swift downwards blow from his imaginary opponent. Pushing back, Harry forced his invisible foe's blade back and swept wide, cutting open the man's gut and spilling his innards.

A leaf crunched behind him, and Harry turned at once, the blood-coated metal whistling forward to barely miss the top of the stable-hobbit, Bob's head.

"If ya didn't want any company, Mr. 'arry, you'd only 'ad to say so!" complained the Hobbit as he fell upon his bum with wide eyes. "We 'obbits aren't so nosy as all that!"

Laughing despite the occasion, Harry helped his little friend up.