Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or The Hobbit. They belong to J.K. Rowling and J.R.R. Tolkien, respectively. This is an amateur attempt. One which I am not making any profit over.

A/N: Thanks so much to all your many reviews. I couldn't have done this without your support.

Hope you enjoy.

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Chapter Ten: Harry in the Stream

Harry hummed the Wood-elf guard song under his breath as he followed the marching wardens down a corridor one late afternoon. They were singing very loudly and prettily and would not have heard Harry even had he been singing as loud as they. Still, he would not raise his voice until he tired of the game. The elves knew he was behind them, but they played along and pretended they didn't. Sometimes Harry would even whistle, but he wasn't very good. His whistling tended to sound a lot like Aunt Petunia's shrill voice screeching at him to make breakfast.

Elves loved to laugh, Harry had discovered. Very much so. They would laugh delightedly at the littlest things (like Harry's shoelaces). Everywhere there would be elves singing or dancing or laughing . . . it was as though Harry had entered a different world! To his knowledge grown-ups never acted like that. Harry found it difficult to imagine Uncle Vernon climbing a tree or dancing in a circle or singing all the time. That was not normal behaviour.

And that was why Harry Potter loved it. And loved the elves, too. It was impossible not to love them; most times they were like grown-ups and went about grown-up business, but sometimes they were like large children.

He left the singing guards a few minutes later and marched out into another corridor, still humming under his breath. A few elves stopped to wave at him and Harry waved back. They laughed and sang and marched away, and then they were gone; so far that Harry couldn't hear them anymore.

"What wass that all about?" asked Draedan. For a very tiny snake he had rather a deep voice.

Harry looked down at his wrist, where Draedan had uncurled his head and was peering up curiously. "I wass playing a game," he explained.

A forked tongue darted quick as a flash. "What iss a game? Does it have anything to do with mice?"

How excited his snake sounded. "It might. But not everything's about food, you know."

"I'll not be interested in anything unless it has to do with food," said Draedan stubbornly.

How rude. "Maybe you ought to stop talking before I get really cranky," said Harry.

Draedan grumbled but said nothing more. Then he curled himself back about Harry's wrist. And, even though they had just had their first small spat, Harry did not think Draedan meant to squeeze that tight. When Harry let out a small "Ow," the tightening quickly subsided.

He was going exploring today. Mr Legolas was away once more, this time to do business in the East. Whatever that meant. It sounded horrible, though, because Mr Legolas had looked a little worried and even the King had gone with him. So, not wanting to spend another afternoon gardening and with Mr Legolas gone, Harry thought he should explore instead. There were plenty of nooks in the palace: lots of unaccounted for rooms. The corridor Harry was now in was a new one in fact. One that he had never seen before.

It looked like all the others, he had to admit, but there was no harm in exploring.

"Where are we going now?" asked Draedan in a small, hesitant voice, as though afraid Harry would yell at him. "It tastes different here."

Harry stopped. "What do you mean?"

"It tastes nearly like the cold smelly place you made me go down last week." Draedan poked out his tongue. "I almost got stepped on, you know."

Harry ignored the grumbling tone and asked: "You mean the dungeons? It smellss like the dungeons?"

"Yess."

That was interesting. Perhaps there was some sort of entryway down here that led to a cellar. Harry knew there was an entryway leading down to the stockroom, but that was on the other side of the palace, next to the kitchen. Perhaps there was another stockroom here? It wouldn't hurt to find out.

With Draedan as a guide — poking his tongue out every so often to get a taste of the air — Harry walked down the corridor, following the many twists, entering a hidden passage that was concealed by a supposed bedroom door, (he was beginning to feel very excited now) and turning into another corridor, until finally . . .

"The air iss cold and damp here," said Draedan. "Even more than that dungeon place." He slithered up Harry's arm and draped himself about Harry's neck so that he looked like an extremely thin choker, the tip of his tail flicking Harry's collarbone in a ticklish but bearable way. "Now don't bother me anymore, I want to ssleep."

Harry put his new green hood up so that Draedan would be warmer and more unnoticeable. He felt very like an elf with his new silver and green clothes, especially with his hooded cloak — exactly like the one Mr Legolas sometimes wore.

With a leap in his stomach, Harry entered the narrow stone-stair passageway. The stairs looked as though they had been carved from the rock of the cave, but they weren't lumpy, not at all. They were smooth and gleaming, like the corridors. Harry could not see very well in the dark, and there were hardly any torches here so he had to rely on Draedan's little tongue to lead the way.

Harry stepped down, holding every so often onto the wall for balance. He was very little and the stairs were spaced very wide apart and he didn't want to fall. Seconds later — and after almost slipping down one particularly wet step — he thought he was close to the bottom because he could hear an odd sound. Trickling and plopping, and yet sometimes rushing. Like water.

Strange, he thought, pausing to listen for a moment. What's water doing in a cellar? He thought about asking his friend for help again but decided against it. Draedan was a grumpy snake. Also Harry would find out very soon. He trod cautiously down the last few steps in case he came across any elves. He'd already imagined up a good excuse in case that happened — he had become lost again because he was playing hide and seek with Draedan.

Harry was quite sure that he wasn't allowed here as it had not been shown to him by Wilwarin. He only hoped the elves would believe his excuse.

There was a kind of platform at the bottom, again made out of cave, and Harry came to a stop on it.

He gasped.

It really is water!

A faintly rushing river, perhaps as wide as a road, lay spread before him. It was coloured black by the dark of the caves and smelled faintly of breeze and freshness. Harry could only see a bit of it as the rest sort of curved on either side, rushing from the left cave and into the right, which was sloping slightly downwards. Opposite Harry lay another long platform, and here rested about five or so barrels. Harry, if he squinted, could just make out a large door beyond the torchlight. Another way out and up perhaps.

I'm underground, Harry thought in awe. I'm under the hill. It's an underground river!

So that was where all the water came from. As far as Harry knew there were only two pumps in the palace: one in the gardens that Mirdhel used to water his plants with, and another in the kitchens. But now Harry could see that there must be a lot more than he'd thought: at the far end of the stream against either side of the cave walls were twenty or so pipes leading up through the rock of the ceiling. Harry, letting his gaze follow them up, was surprised to note that there were dozens of glowing blue things on the ceiling as well. And they were wriggling!

He had no idea what they were but he had to admit they were pretty.

Also on the ceiling, directly above the rushing river, lay what looked like trap doors. There were three of them, and they were fairly large. Harry had absolutely no idea what they were for, but as he couldn't hope to reach them, he dismissed them from memory.

What really intrigued him, though, was the door on the other side of the river. Harry was certain that something great and adventurous was lying in wait behind there. But how to get to it? There should be something to cross the water with, shouldn't there? Like a bridge, similar to the one outside the palace. Eyes scrolling downwards, he walked along the stream's edge, squinting slightly in the darkness. "This is never going to work!" he said to himself irritably.

Harry rushed back to the steps; on the wall beside them was a long torch. He stood on tiptoe and tried to remove it. It scraped against its holding but held firm.

He would need both arms. But he was too short! He would need to stand on something. But what? As if by magic he spotted the outline of a bucket near the water's edge, in the blackness; the same kind of bucket that the elves brought water in for his nightly bath. Oh, he thought stupidly, and went to get it.

Moments later Harry (using both hands) was pointing the heavy torch near the water and walking along the platform. "Aha!" said triumphantly, but softly, aware of the echo. There, just in front of the left cave entrance, was an extremely narrow wooden plank, bobbing a little in the rushing water. It was tied to both platforms by a thin rope on either end, which was threaded through a small metal pole, jammed into the rock.

Harry was feeling very adventurous now and, despite experiencing a little fear in knowing he would have to cross the wooden plank, it did not deter him from his quest — which was to see behind the door. Uncle Vernon certainly never had underground rivers and secret doors beneath his house. But if he had Harry would have found them.

Placing the torch on the ground, he stepped hesitantly onto the plank. Immediately it wobbled. Harry jumped back. It occurred to him, after a few minutes of thinking, that the best way to do this would be to run really fast across the plank. Harry was not an elf, he could not do this like Mr Legolas or Mirdhel — who, Harry was positive, could simply stroll along as though they were walking on normal ground — but he was also little and light and that had to count for something, he was sure.

"Right, then." Heart beating furiously he clenched his fists, bit his lip, and rushed across the plank.

He wasn't going to make it. Harry knew that before he reached middle. The plank was wobbling alarmingly now and tipped dangerously to the right. His arms flailed, he locked his legs, but it was no use. He had just enough time to shout a warning to Draedan before he was falling.

The water was cold, fizzy from his fall, and the current was strong. He hadn't expected that! Harry beat upwards feverishly, legs kicking against the rushing water. He hadn't expected the depth either, but it was really deep. His heart was beating very fast now, his limbs working hard and, with bursting lungs, he finally broke the water, hands grappling for the plank, finding it, breathing in the sweet air. So sweet. So good. So tired. He was so tired. And frightened. Harry thought he had never been so scared in his life before, even when Dudley was chasing him. It took his brain a while to grasp that he had almost died. The knowledge turned him cold.

He brushed his soppy fringe from his face as he stood there, bobbing silently, a forgotten figure in the midst of the uncaring stream. Suddenly he was crying. This lasted a short while until hiccups took over, then nothing.

He had lost Draedan.

Numb. That's all Harry felt later as he walked along the corridors, shoes squelching beneath his feet and water trailing behind him. He didn't notice, but he wouldn't have cared if he did. Something burned in his stomach, and it was an unpleasant, frighteningly new feeling that made him want to cry again. The knowledge that he had killed off his friend, who had done nothing and was innocent and had been sleeping, was terrifying. He, Harry, was a monster. He was no better than Dudley. He was worse! Dudley had never killed anybody. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had been right all along: he was a freak! Hotness built behind his eyes, and Harry blinked it away. Crying would get him nowhere and would only make him feel more horrible.

But that's good, he thought nastily at himself. I deserve to feel horrible. I killed Draedan!

"Draedan," he whispered, throat croaky.

Later Harry sat huddled in the garden beneath a berry bush, knees drawn up to his chest, staring at nothing. Unwanted tears trickled down his face. Harry let them trickle. He deserved it. Mirdhel found him a while later and, spotting the wetness on Harry's smooth cheeks, the astonished elf quickly picked him up and cuddled him. He tried getting Harry to tell him what was wrong, but the boy simply shook his head and buried his face into the elf's neck.

"How did you get all wet? Hmm?"

Harry did nothing.

"You almost missed supper. I was becoming worried."

Harry shrugged.

"Where is Draedan?"

Harry burst into sobs. He could not help it; he couldn't hold it in anymore. He was a horrible, horrible person!

Mirdhel, on the other hand, was bewildered. Harry had never shown an inclination toward crying, even when Dudley had attacked him. This, both Mirdhel and Legolas had thought, was odd behaviour for a child. As was Harry's shyness at being cuddled or touched or approached in an affectionate manner. It was as if he had never been loved before, and this had confused the elves, for all elf children were treated with loving care and affection.

Of course this was before they all realised that Harry had not been loved — why, just looking at his cousin and the way he treated Harry was enough to ascertain the truth. Most humans were afraid or suspicious of anything that they did not understand; elves had been subject to this behaviour for Ages. Harry's mortal family seemed to be in the same mould — but they oft took it too far, was Mirdhel's thought on the matter. This was why Harry acted as he did.

To see Harry now willingly cry and willingly let himself be held for more than a minute worried Mirdhel. Frighteningly so. What could have happened to change Harry's behaviour so drastically and in so short a time?

"Will you tell me what is the matter, Galenmir?" Mirdhel held his lips against the soft throat, surprised but pleased when Harry's little arms tightened about his neck.

"I-I don't . . ." Harry's voice came muffled and small. "You'll hate me."

What? "No never!" Mirdhel hugged him fiercely. "You are my little one, and I can never hate you. Now tell me what has happened."

"I-I . . ." Harry was obviously struggling, and Mirdhel patted his head soothingly, encouragingly. Harry was silent for a moment. Then: "I didn't mean to do it! It was an accident and it all happened so fast and I would have saved him if I could, but I fell and it was rushing everywhere and I couldn't breathe, and Draedan must've slipped and then he was lost and swept away and now he's gone forever, and I tried to find him I really did, and it took me ages to look, and I tried grabbing the torch but it dropped and I didn't want to go back in to get it, and it's all my fault. I killed Draedan!"

"Eru and Elbereth," Mirdhel breathed, astonished both at how quickly Harry had said that, and how confusing it had all been. He understood most of it, however. "I would never believe that you . . . lost . . . Draedan deliberately." That was right, the more delicately said the better. "You should not believe it either."

"But I don't." Harry lifted his head and looked at Mirdhel, eyes wet with unshed tears. "I know it was an accident, but it was my fault anyway. If I hadn't been there, if I hadn't done that . . ." He slumped back against Mirdhel, sniffling every now and then.

"Ah, Harry." Mirdhel smoothed out the small tufts of wet fringe, revealing the odd-looking scar, bright against the pale skin. What to do now? Harry surely could not go to supper in this vulnerable state. Best to put him to bed with some hot soup and a bath and sort it all out tomorrow. "Twill be all right, Harry. You did not intend to . . . loose . . . your snake. These things happen." Mirdhel thought on whether he should reprimand Harry for being where he clearly was not supposed to be, but considering he himself did not know where Harry had been (and if, indeed, it even had been a place where Harry was not permitted), he could hardly lay yet more blame on the little one. He did not wish to place more blame on Harry when he was plainly so distraught. He would wait before asking. At least a day or two.

xxxxxx

That night Harry couldn't sleep. Guilt at having killed his little friend itched through his chest, up his throat, coming to a rest behind his eyes. Harry stubbornly blinked back the tears. He could not believe how stupid he had acted with Mirdhel. Strangely, he couldn't bring himself to care. Remembering that he had killed Draedan overrode any feeling of embarrassment.

He sighed miserably, turned under the sheet, and hugged the pillow. There was something wrong with this room. Harry could not get comfortable, no matter how hard he tried. It was just too big and hollow. He needed something smaller, something more familiar. He felt like hiding. He felt like he should be in his cupboard. He was missing his cupboard; his cupboard which smelled of old blankets and hosted a ceiling full of cobwebs. His cupboard which he would sometimes be locked in for weeks at a time. His cupboard, which he had always hated until he'd come to this place.

I can't believe it. If I keep this up I'll be missing the Dursleys soon.

Harry's eyes shot open as he realised . . . he deserved his cupboard. If ever he had deserved to be punished for something, what had happened today was it. Maybe he should ask Mirdhel to lock him in with the gardening tools. The thought drew a sob from his throat, which he quickly squelched.

Sleep. He needed sleep. It would all be clearer in the morning.

He hoped.

xxxxxxx

He hadn't slept very much, perhaps a couple of hours, and now he was to be found yawning widely at the breakfast table. Mirdhel was buttering him a piece of honeyed toast, thick and crunchy. Harry took it and stared at it.

"Are you not hungry?" Mirdhel asked, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"I am," said Harry. It was just that he didn't feel like eating.

Mirdhel lifted a sliver jug from the centre and poured some warm milk into a goblet. He set it in front of Harry's plate. "Would you prefer something else?"

"This is good," Harry told him, and bit into the bread. Licking his lips of the sweet, slightly melted honey, he reached for his goblet to wash down the food.

Mirdhel left him to his breakfast, perhaps realising that Harry wanted to be alone for the moment. Harry wasn't surprised when he later saw a piece of toast float into the air and disappear under the table. Nor was he surprised that no one else had seemed to notice. He sighed. The ghost, or invisible person, had come back. Thinking of invisible people only made him remember Draedan and how Harry had first assumed he was an invisible person.

A sudden tight wrenching pulled at his stomach.

Harry drank some more milk, as if the action alone would help quell the pain.

It didn't.

" . . . am to understand that the king believes they are hiding treasure?" Mirdhel was saying incredulously, which drew Harry's attention.

An elf opposite snorted. Harry recognised him as one who had stopped him from accessing the dungeons last week. The suspicious one. He was easy to identify because of his dark hair, which stood out very much when compared to all the other elves. And suddenly Harry knew where he had seen him before: at the merrymaking! Mr Legolas had been talking to him.

"Of course they are hiding treasure!" said the elf, gesticulating with his hand. "They are dwarves. All this sneaking about in the forest where they are not supposed to be, refusing to tell us their business when we capture them. And clearly they are in a desperate situation. Even the promise of freedom cannot get them to say anything, and Thranduil has offered countless times. It must be a mighty treasure indeed that they hide."

"We all know that the king, however fair and just and beautiful he may be, is still greedy in the end, Calaglin," said an elf next to Mirdhel. Harry had met him for the first time last week in the archery garden. "Tis a fault, yes, and a bad one, but every person's soul is tainted with these, and this is his. And yours, too, I suspect."

Calaglin sputtered. "Urúvion!"

"You can posture all you like," said Urúvion, lifting a hand, "but it is a truth that everyone at this table can see and acknowledge. Tis a pity Thranduil is not more like his son. I love him, as any subject loves and respects his king, but I am not fooled by his manner. His desires are plain: he wants the dwarves' treasure for himself. Wood-elves have a certain weakness for jewels and precious metals, and his weakness is just weaker than the rest of ours'."

This put all three elves in a thoughtful silence for a few moments, then Mirdhel lifted his head. "He holds them for selfish reasons, then. I admit I like treasure as much as the next Wood-elf — and dislike dwarves' even more! — but they have done nothing except trespass where they could not have known they trespassed."

"More than enough reason to imprison them," said Calaglin.

"Are we then to throw Harry in the dungeons?" asked Mirdhel, looking down into his plate. This silenced Calaglin immediately. "He trespassed as well. Should we lock him up?"

They all stared at Harry, who stared back.

"Ai, no," Calaglin moaned, flapping a graceful hand. "How can you even suggest it?"

"I was simply making a point," explained Mirdhel quietly. "Harry knows that I love him —" Harry didn't, in fact, know that, but now that he did it stunned him "— and he knows I mean nothing by it. In any case we should not be discussing this in front of him. He has alluded many times in conversation with me, though he may not know it, that the dwarves are his friends." Mirdhel smiled at Harry softly. "From what I understood they rescued him in the wood and looked after him for a day or so before they stumbled upon our feasting."

"They did," Harry said flatly, surprising everyone. "And I don't want them to be in the dungeons. I don't like it."

There was a delicate silence. The conversation was changed quickly to other things, and Harry ate the rest of his breakfast with a cold stomach. Now he was even more certain that he had to rescue the dwarves, though he felt as though he'd be betraying Mirdhel doing so, it just couldn't be helped. It wasn't fair that his friends were in the dungeons while he was enjoying a nice big breakfast and could walk outside anytime he pleased.

Harry spent the rest of the next couple of days in complete confusion and misery. Having killed Draedan, then finding out what the king had done to the dwarves, just made him feel helpless, guilty, and stupid. Mr Legolas still hadn't come back either, and Harry dreaded the talk he knew he would not be able to avoid.

On the afternoon on the third day since Draedan was swept away, Harry found him in the garden again.

For a moment his footsteps halted. His eyes failed him. It just couldn't be. Probably it was another snake. But no, it was Draedan, and Harry picked him up carefully and squashed him to his chest. Draedan tolerated this for a few seconds.

"Put me down, would you, I'm all ssore."

"Oh, ssorry," Harry hissed hastily and, sitting down cross-legged, placed Draedan in his lap and stroked his belly. The snake liked this, stretching and grumbling with pleasure. "What happened to you?"

"Oh, thiss and that but mostly that," he said vaguely. "And I'm sure you would like to hear it, because I have discovered ssomething very sstrange indeed."

Of course Harry wanted to hear it. He wanted to hear anything Draedan had to say, even if it sounded stupid. He was just so happy his snake was back that he could spend the next two weeks doing nothing but listening to him. "Tell me," Harry urged.

"All right, but you'd best get comfortable."

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A/N: Next chapter should be out in two weeks.