A/N: Not as long as last time.

The Shadow of Angmar

Chapter 9: Time He Saw Pass Like Water

It took a moment for the buzz of Dwarven conversation to return to the throne room after the White Wizard's proclamation. Despite the power of his voice, the group of Wizards were paid very little attention by the pre-occupied Dwarves.

Romestámo was the first to react. "Ah, Saruman!" he said with clear good cheer at the meeting.

Saruman strode through the parted Dwarves and his snow white robes swept gracefully across the polished floor. He was tall, far taller than either Romestámo or Morinehtar and looked much older. His beard and hair was black, though faded in places and with lonely strands of pure white to be seen here and there. In his hand he held his staff, long and made of a dark metal. At the tip was a pale white gem that seemed to glow softly even in the well-lit hall.

Compared to the other two Wizards, Harry could quickly see why Saruman was the leader. He held himself tall, his bearing proud. His eyes were dark, like Morinehtar's but where Morinehtar's eyes held a deep wisdom Saruman's also held a keen intelligence. Harry had always known Dumbledore to hold himself with authority but Saruman held himself like nothing less than a King, the polite nod he gave to King Ginnar only confirmed Harry's estimations.

"You have been gone long, old friends," he said by way of greeting to the two blue-clad Wizards. His long beard shifted as a thin smile betrayed his happiness at their meeting. Morinehtar and Romestámo both lowered their heads in deference, met by Saruman's own smaller motion.

As he did so Morinehtar spoke gravely. "Much is there to be seen, and much have we to speak of, Saruman. The hornet's nest has been disturbed and I fear that many will feel the consequences in the days to come."

"Much as I feared. And you bring with you the harbinger of this change," said Saruman before he turned to look directly at Harry again. "I will not say that your presence here is welcome, for I have no doubt that the Black Lord of Ub-khûn would be most interested to learn of your location."

Harry blinked in surprise but before he could respond, Saruman continued. "I apologise, Ginnar, but I have need of your... guest, for a time at least."

King Ginnar, still sat quietly upon his throne, looked disappointed but did not gainsay the White Wizard. Indeed, such was the power and authority of Saruman's voice that such action would seem folly to any who listened. "Then I shall meet with you later, when Lastûn is done. Come now, uddadad," said Ginnar as he returned his gaze to Romestámo. "Tell me of your latest wanderings. What news of the South? Does Ub-khûn come north?"

"Come," said Saruman simply to Harry and he turned away, clearly trusting that Harry would follow.

Nonetheless, Harry glanced towards Romestámo for guidance. The wizard smiled at him and flicked his head towards Saruman before returning his attention to the Dwarf King. His fears alleviated just a little, Harry fell into step behind Saruman as he was led easily through the crowd of Dwarves.

It was not until Harry had been led to a small antechamber set into one of the walls of the great throne room that Saruman spoke again.

The small room was lined with shelves and every shelf up to the ceiling was crammed with more books and parchments of different ages and states of disrepair. The only light in the room came from two lamps near the door, far away from the dry books. Long shadows flitted around the room as both men entered. Saruman made his way behind a heavy looking stone table, stacked high with books and scrolls and sat upon an unadorned stone chair with his staff propped against the back-rest of his seat.

He leaned back where he sat and stared at Harry for a long second. Once again Harry found himself being assessed by dark eyes possessed of a concealed power. The reflected light of the lamps glimmered, flames in the depths, Harry shifted uneasily.

Harry began speaking quickly, "I do not—"

"You do not wish to bring suffering," said Saruman, his deep and melodious voice easily cutting across Harry's own. "Yet it seems suffering has been your path for many months."

Harry frowned, "How do you know about me? You have not had the chance to speak with Romestámo, nor Morinehtar in the short time we have been here."

"There are more voices in the world than those of Wizards," said Saruman with a raised brow. "More than you know; the voices of Men may lie, but the voices of birds? Beasts? The trees themselves? They are voices that cannot lie to those who would take the time to listen."

There was a silence as Harry considered Saruman's words. Perhaps some short weeks ago he would have fallen to disbelief at the pronunciation. Now, though, after his meetings with Elves and Wizards he was willing to accept that there was more to magic here than he'd known. Hadn't he always thought that he could speak to Hedwig, if only they had learned the same tongue?

"Good," said Saruman, an approving glint in his eye. "You give my words thought, I have little time for impetuous fools."

"Then, can you get me back home?" Harry asked as hope trickled into every syllable.

Another silence fell between them while Saruman considered the question. When he spoke, his words served only to dash that feeble hope that had flickered in Harry's soul. "What of my own home? If I asked, could you return me to that which I have long missed?"

Harry furrowed his brow, then he opened his mouth, and closed it again as he realised what he was being asked. "I do not know where you home is," he said, his voice low and his eyes cast down. "And you do not know where my home is."

"This is so," agreed Saruman, and Harry thought he heard a touch of sympathy creeping into his tone. "And yet you do not yet know where you are, not truly. How do you expect to find your way home when you know only your home, not the place in which you are lost?"

A tired sigh escaped as Harry lowered himself onto one of the chairs arrayed across from where Saruman sat, it was roughly made, of a dark and heavy looking wood but at least it was more comfortable than Saruman's looked. "Then what do I do? What can I do?"

"There is only one that may know your route home," said Saruman, his voice now gaining a hard edge, "and he is the one who guided you are at the first."

"The Witch King," said Harry, his voice flat and his eyes dull.

"The Lord of Nazgûl," said Saruman in agreement. "And a power beyond you by far, as you well know, unless you have some weapon you feel you could wield against him."

Dark eyes flickered to Harry's sleeve, wherein he had concealed his wand for the last few days. He found himself reaching it, slowly he pulled the blackened and misshapen thing from his sleeve. Saruman's eyes fixed on it in an instant.

"That is an ugly thing you carry," he said as he stared at the wand. "I can feel its suffering, the pain that made it, even from here. You would do well to cast it aside for no good can come of it."

"Then how am I to defend myself? You said a storm is coming, how can I weather it without my only defence?" As he spoke Harry rose to his feet and paced back and forth across the room. "You sit there, so assured with your staff sitting at your side, you play at sympathy but you do not know what I have suffered through. The place is not yours to command me!"

There was a sudden crash as the chair that Harry had been sitting upon exploded into splinters. Smoke curled around Harry's wand hand and a baleful red light issued from the charred join between the two halves.

Harry raised his hand in shock as the smoke continued to curl from the smouldering wood, the dark tendrils whispering of half-forgotten memories.

Then the smoke was blown away by a cool, fragrant breeze and with it the memories of pain faded like shadow before the light. Harry looked up to see Saruman also standing, his staff held tightly in one hand and the other held up, palm open. Harry realised that the White Wizard was whispering, and the words were faint, unrecognizable, but soothing.

Then the breeze dropped. Saruman opened his eyes, lowered his arms and everything returned to normal, except that there was now one less chair.

"I am—" began Harry, his voice faint.

"You are ruled by your fear," said Saruman, cutting off Harry's apology. "What else have you been doing but fleeing, all this time. Like a wounded animal you strike out at all around."

"I am not afraid!" said Harry all too loudly, the lie immediately clear to him.

"You are," said Saruman simply. "But fear is no crime. Only a fool has no fear."

Harry blinked. He wasn't sure how to respond.

Saruman chuckled darkly. "You think I will upbraid you for that? No, I have little time for fools. Whatever else you may be, you are no fool. It is for that reason you will heed my words now. That device which you carry can do only ill, as rage, hatred and desperation can never bring good without suffering."

For a moment Harry's grasp on his wand loosened but then he clasped it to himself, unable to release his sole link with home. It was the only thing he owned that allowed him to remember who he was, who he once had been.

"I will not ask that you surrender it for all weapons may have purpose in times of darkness; even those already born in blood." Saruman slowly sat down again and at last let go of the staff that he had still held at his side. "Sit, now, and tell me what you think is to be done, now that this road is closed to you."

In truth, Harry had given little thought to that. Instead, he had clung to the hope that aid would come to him from Saruman, and that was a hope now dashed. He pulled up another chair from one of the walls of the room and his eyes were distant as he dwelled upon the question.

"I… do not know," he eventually admitted after he sat down. "I cannot give up on my friends back home, no matter how long it may have been. I did not come here from a time of peace, it was the final battle, maybe even the final act, of a war that had claimed many lives. I need to know what happened, even if it is too late now to help."

"Good, such thought is good," said Saruman as he tapped a long finger on the table in front of him. "Had you claimed to know then I would not be able to help you. There is only one route for you now, if you wish to attempt to return. You know this."

"I need to find the Witch King."

"That is the very easiest portion of your task, the firmest road, and with the easiest footing. But it will not get you to your desired destination," said Saruman as he shook his head. "You must not only find him, but you must also find some way to have him undo his own work. If his own work this is."

Harry sagged in his seat, the impossibility of the task weighing heavily upon him. "And that is something I cannot do." He shook his head and looked across at Saruman. "Could you?"

"Never have I met the Lord of the Nazgûl, nor even pitched myself against one of his brothers in anything but wits, but it may be within my power to best him," said Saruman. "Know, though, that I cannot do what you would ask. With every day more dark creatures flock to Ub-khûn from the fall of Angmar in the West, the short-sighted lords and kings of the west may have won their petty war, but they have thought not about the ramifications to those lands beyond their sight. My presence is needed here, as I think you know."

"I… understand," said Harry before lapsing into silence. Far distant, it was as if he could hear the thunder of another door closing; another path forever closed.

"Aid you I will, though," said Saruman from across the book-strewn desk. Harry looked up in surprise. Saruman cast his arm wide in an expansive gesture that encompassed all of the many books that lined the walls of what Harry thought of as his office. "What knowledge I can give, I will, and what guidance you need, I will give."

It wasn't what Harry had hoped for, but it was better than nothing. Even the smallest step closer to home was a step nonetheless and Harry welcomed any progress, however insignificant.

"Thank you," he said earnestly, he paused for a moment before speaking again. "Do you have any guidance?"

Before Saruman could answer, though, their counsel was interrupted by a heavy rap on the door. Saruman called for them to enter.

"Lastûn!" began the Dwarf that huffed into the room, heedless of Harry's presence. "Ginnar uzbad taziri azu aryât."

Saruman rolled his eyes, though the action was barely visible in the half light. "Jalegelmâ uzbad tada e salibu." he said testily.

"Natahifmi e astu altân," said the Dwarf as he stepped back, hands raised, palms open. "Galabi nekha bi id-nud tada id-uslukhul tashfati duzlumul."

"Very well," said Saruman, now in the Westron tongue that Harry was familiar with, Saruman pinched the bridge of his nose. "Tell him I shall be along shortly, but that were-worms are the least of his concerns."

"E—, it shall be done." The Dwarf made an immediate and grateful exit.

Saruman lifted himself quickly to his feet and snatched up his staff in a single smooth motion. "Come, then, Harry. The proper introductions should be made, even if you should choose to move on as soon as you may."

"I did not understand," said Harry as he rose to follow the elder Wizard. "Of what did the Dwarf speak?"

Saruman stopped at the door to his study and glanced back, his countenance older than Harry had yet seen it. "Were-worms," he said, his voice deeper than usual, and in tones that spoke to Harry of great death and past calamity, like a great poet of myth about to recount the most terrible of tragedies. "King Ginnar has a great fear of them, perhaps not wrongly for both his father and grandfather were killed by one of that breed."

"Were-worms?" Harry asked as Saruman again began walking and they stepped back upon the path back towards the King's throne.

"Ancient creatures of Morgoth's design, or sired by those that were," said Saruman as he strode quickly through the still muttering crowds of Dwarves. "Children of Glaurung, or Draugluin, or the bastard offspring of both, perhaps. Nigh forgotten now in the West but they have long haunted the Easternmost Desert."

"I am sorry, but I do not understand, I have no knowledge of the histories and these names mean nothing to me," Harry said as he quickened his pace to match the long sweeping strides of Saruman.

"And there is little time for me to teach you now!" said Saruman, his voice cracking like a whip. "Learn, you may, in time but now just know that Ginnar is liable to send every armed Dwarf on a fruitless hunt should he be left to his own devices. He is no ill ruler, but in this his fear masters him."

"Lastûn, you are here," said King Ginnar gratefully as they approached. "And the traveller is still with you. I will let the messenger speak his piece again." He sent a commanding look towards the nervous looking Dwarf stood alone before his throne and the centre of attention of all nearby Dwarves and Wizards.

He held in his hands what looked like little better than a dirtied rag, but as the corners were crushed in the fists of the messenger Dwarf Harry noticed some dark markings on one side which may have been writing. The Dwarf's dark and heavy-lidded eyes flickered around the room before he spoke. "The desert-men have been moving west in recent months, so says Finn of Stonefoots. Word among them talks of the great rock-worms taking many to their death, and following those who flee into the West."

As the Dwarf spoke Ginnar held his gaze steady upon Saruman and it grew slowly more grim. "As Mahal would speak it, these Men will lead the were-worms to our very halls, as they did before."

"And if they did they would find the impenetrable stone of Aradi-unâ, the unbreakable doors of the Fikhîb-Izrên and the ever-sharp axes of the Zirinmazân waiting to greet them," said Saruman with such confidence that Ginnar's worried peering eyes slackened and he leaned back in his throne. Saruman continued, "Hear me, though, for they will not come so far as this mountain, and all here know it."

Dwarves all around the room, many who had moments ago borne worried or angry expressions, nodded in agreement with Saruman for his voice communicated such certainty that none would think to raise their voice in disagreement.

"The Refeshamalu cannot survive beyond the borders of their desert and they will not step beyond it into the uplands east of the Mountains. So too will the were-worms be stymied, if indeed their coming is true."

Harry looked about in wonder and he wondered how the Dwarves could even worry in the first place. Surely they knew all that Saruman knew of the history of the were-worm migrations? It was surely as Saruman had said, there could be no true cause for concern.

"You are right, of course, Lastûn," said King Ginnar now looking much more at ease. "It should have been clear. It was not here that my father and grand-father died in the maw of a were-worm, but in the eastern holds of the 'Abanbasân."

"Indeed, Ginnar," said Saruman as he smiled what appeared to be a transparently pleasant smile to Harry's eyes, even if something about it felt slightly off in the play of his heavy brows. "Now, it is time you properly greeted your new guest, he is likely to remain here for some time."

"Of course," said Ginnar quickly before turning his attention to Harry. "Uddadad has already spoken well of you and I happily welcome you to Ironhaunt."

o-o

"Look about you, Harry, and tell me what it is you see."

Harry's eyes were wide as he looked upon a great cavern hewn in the living stone of the mountain. The walls were much rougher than those of the upper halls but it was the scale that left him bereft of words.

The far wall of the cavern could not be seen, obscured by the thin mist that rose from the myriad plants and filled the space. Hundreds, thousands, more, platforms and plateaus were scattered across the cavern and the high walls were studded with broad jutting platforms of solid rock. Upon every platform was a garden, a copse, or tiny croft filled with impossible greenery. Shafts of light descended from the high ceiling; pillars from the heavens holding aloft the stone of the mountain and providing life to the myriad of plants being tended within the cavern.

Dwarves by their hundreds attended to the oasis of verdure among the cold stone of the mountain. As Harry watched a small group, far distant, was felling one of the copses of trees, their shouts carried across the great grotto clearly, though their words were unrecognisable.

Streams criss crossed the cavern and descended from waterfalls both short and lofty and filled the space with the music of pure mountain streams. A few Dwarf children with thin whispy beards of every colour played among the plant menagerie and the streams, and in places other Dwarves simply relaxed in the serene air and sound of nature, hidden from the world above.

Harry struggled to find words to describe it all, for none seemed to offer it justice. "Gardens," he said at last and upon giving up in his search for fitting words.

"You look upon the Gardens of Sakdîth Bazzun, one of the great wonders of Middle earth," said Saruman as he looked out over the gardens, a smile playing upon his features. "Where the Argonath are monuments to pride this is a monument to all who would tend it. It is the life of the mountain, and it is why Ub-khûn can never take this place while one Dwarf of the Zirinmazân draws breath. No siege may fell this city; no army may force entrance by the Gates of Fikhîb-Izrên. You are safe here, should you choose to stay."

"I—" Harry grimaced, once again his reason and desire for home warred across his conscience. "For a short time, at least," he allowed. "If my only path home is to be through the Witch King when it is the path for which I must prepare, and I will need much preparation."

"It is a fool's endeavour," said Saruman, and he nodded gently. "But there is more to you than any mere fool. Perhaps you will find what it is you seek."

It was an uncomfortable thought for Harry knew his words to be true. He had seen the terrible power of the Witch King up close, he had looked upon the Lord of the Nazgûl in his unseen flesh and terrible glory. His was a terror known by all Men, the fear of the eternal void of death and Harry knew that if he should ever return home he would have a new Boggart.

The greatest of powers Harry had known did not compare to the power of the Witch King, all of Dumbledore's strength would have been like a guttering candle in the dark of a storm; destined to be doused and consumed. Voldemort himself would pale into insignificance beside him.

If he was to stand even the meanest of chances he would need to strengthen himself, in body and in mind, and he would need to be prepared for even the blackest of sorcery.

o-o

He'd failed to consider, when Saruman had offered him access to the books of his library, that he would be unable to read the many scripts of Middle-earth.

It had been Romestámo who had presented the solution, in the person of Suthri, a young Dwarf scribe who was still learning his trade, but who possessed an impressive capability with the myriad languages which Harry found were assaulting him.

So, shortly before leaving again with Morinehtar, this time to roam East to investigate the rumours of Were-worm migrations, Romestámo had introduced Harry to the stocky, brown-haired Dwarf.

It seemed each was written in its own tongue, with subtly different script. Many of the books held pages heavy with the language of the Dwarves, which Suthri was happy to read to him, but which he had so far refused to teach. The Angerthas runes were completely illegible to Harry, Suthri was able to walk him through the important aspects of many of the books.

Then there were a number of books in the Elvish tongues. Of these, most were in similar runes to the Khuzdul books, though Suthri insisted the script was different. A few were in a lighter, more flowing script that seemed to Harry to suit the sounds of the language far better but that Suthri could not yet read.

Then there were the books in the myriad languages of Men: Adûnaic, Gethoede, Westron, Tor'hiska and others from even further afield, some in scripts of their own, others in the Elvish Tengwar script and still more in some variant of Angerthas.

It had left Harry's mind spinning when he'd begun the process, he hadn't even known where to start.

It had been nearly a month since Harry had stepped into the Halls of Ironhaunt and he was now able to make a reasonable attempt at understanding the scripts of Westron and Gethoede. Gethoede was rather simple, as the language didn't have any native script at all, instead the sounds had been mapped to those of Westron; with a little learning of the sounds Harry was able to read and understand with relative ease, even if it did mean he had to repeat the words under his breath like Dudley did when he read.

His attention was broken when his door rattled under the rushed knocking of someone outside.

"Come in," Harry called, as he focused back on the book he was slowly picking his way through.

The door swung open immediately and Buri huffed into the room, his beard askew. "A Black Messenger is come," he said as he tried to smooth the wayward hairs of his rich beard. "Saruman has asked that you be present, in the throne room when he is received."

Harry looked up from the book, a rather dry mythology of the Elvish creation myth called the Valaquenta, and focused on Buri. "Apologies, could you repeat that?"

"A messenger has been sent to King Ginnar from Ub-khûn and he has demanded to be seen. Saruman wishes that you be present for the meeting."

Harry frowned. "Why me?" He had spent much of his time detached from the Dwarves of Ironhaunt in his search for knowledge.

"I do not know," admitted Buri. "But the White Wizard was most insistent that you join the King's counsel."

"Very well," Harry sighed as he rose slowly from his chair. He rubbed at his eyes when he realised how blurry they had become after long hours of reading in the flickering light of the oil lamps.

Harry had been granted a small chamber, with a bed, a desk and a squat bookshelf. The bed was not the most comfortable that Harry had ever known, it was scarcely better than the aged and broken bed he'd had at the Dursleys, but compared to the cold bloody stones of an Angmar cell it was a luxury. His walls were adorned with tapestries and hangings of many colours and designs. Beside his desk a mirror was hung, a dark sheet draped over it so that Harry did not have to look upon himself and be reminded of his recent past.

His desk was of the simplest design available to the Dwarves, but it was still a thing of beautiful craftsmanship. Different shades of iron and other metals swam across its surface in a carefully martialled kaleidoscope. With so much metal, as there was everywhere in Ironhaunt, he was glad of the heating afforded to the living spaces by the great forges that burned fiercely through every day and night. Even in bare feet, the stone of the floor was warm to the touch.

He made his way through the many winding corridors of Ironhaunt's living spaces where many of the thousands of Dwarves lived out their lives.

"How is Onar getting on with his apprenticeship?" he asked his companion as they trecked through the many long halls.

"He complains still of the bruises, burns and callouses," said Buri enthusiastically, "and his strength is still wanting for the real smithing work but he is showing great promise with his finer work. He brought home a necklace of glass iron for his mother and it is a fine piece indeed. He says he at last understands what it means to listen to the metal, though it will be long years before he may put it into practice."

Harry nodded, a small smile on his face as he allowed the normality of daily life among the Dwarves to wash over him. "It is good that he is finding his place quickly."

Certainly it was proving easier than it was for Harry. Though the Dwarves were welcoming and accommodating in everything it was still always clear that Harry would remain an outsider from the ways of the Dwarves. In their eyes he was a Wizard, and not to be lightly engaged.

Buri nodded and scratched at his nose. "We always knew his wits were quick," he said proudly. "He got them from me, of course."

"Ha!" Harry barked at the Dwarf's unexpected joke. "I don't know if that sounds right. Would Hlíf have something to say on that, I wonder?"

"No doubt she would," said Buri with a chuckle, "but she is not here, and so mine is the final word in this matter."

Harry shook his head and smiled, loneliness forgotten. They walked a short time more before at last coming to the Ginnar's throne room, the Dumu Zirin-Aklum. As was always the case the great Hall was thronged with many Dwarves, each sporting their finest clothing and with their beard waxed into impossibly intricate shapes. This time, though, the hall was unusually quiet and the ever present Dwarvish susurration had been silenced. A shadow hung over the minds of those present.

Then it passed, for Saruman came into view and his purest white garb drove away the dark mood of all who laid eyes upon him. He stood at the side of Ginnar's throne, tall and powerful, much more the King than the Dwarf upon the crown seat of Zirin-yâdu.

Before the throne stood another man, tall and wearing clothes of dark leather and mail. Not so tall as Saruman, nor as imposing, but among the sea of Dwarves he stood like a dark island beset by storms.

"Yet another Wizard," said the dark messenger as he espied Harry's approach. "Is the Lord of Zirin-yâdu so dependent on the wisdom of old men and broken Men that he must hoard every useless advisor he may find?"

"Quiet your tongue," said Saruman firmly and the man's snapped shut with an audible click. "Yours is an honour to stand here before the King of Zirinmazân. It has been many years since a messenger of Ub-khûn was allowed to pass the Mekhem Fikhîb-Izrên, receive that honour with the same grace as it was given."

"Of course, Great Wizard," said the messenger as he bowed much lower than was needed. "Perhaps I forget my manners. Now are all here at last? Perhaps there are some yet in Ironhaunt who could yet be found and brought hither."

"There are people enough to hear you," said Ginnar with an edge of fire in his tone. "Now speak your piece before my patience, and that of my court, comes to its ever nearer end."

There was a rumble of agreement from the Dwarves around the room and Saruman acknowledged Ginnar's words with a subtle glance.

"I bear glad news," said the messenger in his deep and cracked voice. "For the Lord of Ub-khûn presents to you an opportunity."

He paused for a long moment, an unpleasant smile marring his pale visage. At last Saruman moved to prompt that he continue, "Speak it then, and be done."

"In his eternal wisdom and glory he offers you the chance to save your people, and to return something which was lost."

Muttering spread out across the floor and Harry could hear the words of the nearest Dwarves. "The Ring," they said, "the Ring!"

"And what would Khamûl wish of us for this grand gift?" asked Saruman with a sneer.

"Of you? Nothing. Of the great King Ginnar he asks only that trade be re-opened, that the armies of Ironhaunt join with those of Ub-khûn in putting down the troublesome tribes of Rhûn, who have long menaced trade into the West. He also asks that you reconsider your choice in allies—" dark eyes flicker to Saruman, then to Harry "—but he makes no demands in this."

Despite the import of the discussion, Harry could not restrain the snort of dark amusement that escaped him.

"You have something which you would wish to say?" the messenger said harshly and a Man who had endured less than Harry might have balked at the tone.

"I think you have said all that needs said already," said Harry, his gaze firm before the dark eyes of the messenger. He had seen much worse than they. In the darkest moments of his imprisonment in Carn Dûm he had even seen worse in his own features. "I think everyone here has heard that you have said, and also what you have been at pains to avoid."

"You find yourselves weakened and in need of quality weapons, steel and other craft. Your fruitless war against the tribes of Rhûn and your weak attempts to stamp out the embers of freedom that threaten even now to burst into new flame has bled your armies. You come here brought to your knees by 'mere' tribesmen, yet you are too proud, too fearful to kneel. You know, as do we, what you would do to any who came before you as beggars and you fear that it is what will await you here."

Whispers and nods spread out through the crowd of gathered Dwarves again and Harry could see the beginnings of a smile beneath Saruman's thick black beard. Harry continued.

"Despite that you would seek to command, to lead, to be seen as the greater when all here see only a nation brought low by greed, fear and warmongering. I think we all know the reception you deserve, and the reception you will receive."

"Darjûn speaks the truth," said Ginnar after the murmuring of the Dwarves again dwindled to near silence. "And his words speak my own better than I may. You sent your dogs, wild-men and dark creatures against my own people for decades and now you come to us for aid? You would tempt us with trinkets, replicas of treasure long lost? And know that that is the truth," he said before the messenger could interrupt. "For I saw that one of the seven burn in the maw of a were-worm; it is a day I will never forget, even should I outlive the days of Durin himself."

King Ginnar pushed himself to his feet as his anger seethed beneath the surface. "The stones beneath your feet are attainted and will have to be replaced anew from the heart of the mountain. Go, now, before the safety of the messenger wears as thin as my patience."

"This slight will not go unanswered," said the messenger as heavily armed Dwarves closed in to remove him from the mountain city. "The Lord of Ub-khûn is great, and he follows a master greater still. In time these halls will be nothing but the breeding grounds of spiders and rats."

King Ginnar did not respond but instead sat back down heavily and cradled his head in his large hands. Harry had seldom seen anyone look so young, and yet so old.

o-o

"God damn it!" Harry cried as the mixture he'd been working on for the last three days once again sputtered sadly in his cauldron, the power leeching out of the mixture like heat from a body in the snow.

"What is it you believe you are doing?" asked Saruman from the doorway of the small cell Harry had been granted by King Ginnar.

"A potion for my teeth," said Harry distantly as he thought back over the ingredients he'd used. A pale milky root for strength and purity. A mushroom with an unbecoming resemblance to teeth, holly berries and more. All with relationships to teeth, strength or growth and yet none came together into the mixture he'd hoped to achieve.

He had returned to his potion making attempts at length after every attempt to wield his wand for anything but blood and suffering had come to an impasse. At least in potions he had control of the magic. His wand, such as it was, was more like a wild beast, untamed, injured and afraid it struck out at every opportunity. He had even been forced to lay it aside for the fearful way of thinking crept upon him as he carried it. His attempts at more complex potions, though, had left much to be desired.

Saruman walked over and sniffed at the mixture with his long nose before crouching low above it. Harry heard the Wizard whisper quietly, and he swirled the scalding potion with a single unprotected finger.

"I do not know of the craft that you practice, and your explanation to Morinehtar suggests a lack within you too," said Saruman thoughtfully. "But if I were to offer a guess I would say that you have missed something, some core and centre to the whole concoction."

Harry run a hand through his hair, now near shoulder length, and sighed. "That much is clear, but without knowing what it is that is missing I cannot hope to rectify it."

"I believe you know what it is that you are missing, but perhaps you hide from it," said Saruman as he looked away and inspected Harry's room unnecessarily for it had not changed overly in the month's Harry had been living in it. "You still have not uncovered your mirror, I note."

Harry glanced momentarily at the dusty sheet before returning to the more important matter of his potion. "If you have come only to comment again on my choice of decoration then I would ask that you leave me to my toil. I have tired of this ever present reminder of my curse. Only when I am free will I uncover the mirror."

"Then it may be that you will never come to uncover it," said Saruman flatly before sweeping again from the room.

Harry glanced again at his covered mirror before his gaze settled upon his set-aside wand laying upon his desk. Perhaps there was yet a way forward.

A/N: This chapter is a bit of a squib, in my opinion. But there was at least a lot of language stuff to keep me amused. Sadly, however, some time must pass, and here is a good place for it to happen. In the next chapter Harry will be moving onwards again.

Most Dwarvish names from again from the Völuspá but one or two are from other Old Norse sources. The Dwarvish language is from DwarrowScholar and a few helpers are below:

Lastûn - Cunning (Skillful) Man (Saruman)
Were-worms - A single throwaway mention in canon (from a Hobbit no less, so they may be mythical). However, 'worm' is a normal-ish term for Dragon with the Legendarium so were-worms are, within this story, somewhat smaller, but more intelligent dragon-like beings (were-wolves are also a thing in Tolkien, but do no transform, they are simply uncommonly smart).
Zirinmazân - Ironfists
Zirinmazn - Ironfist
Sakdîth Bazzun - Gardens of birthing shadows. Worth pointing out that Gardens of Sakdîth Bazzun is a tautology. But this is modelled on the 'Chamber of Mazarbul' which is thought to mean Chamber of Place of Records (Mazarb being records, Mazarbul being place of records).
The Argonath are the statues of Anárion and Isildur past which the Fellowship row in their boats.
'Abanbasân - Stonefoots (another clan of Dwarves)
Dumu Zirin-Aklum - Hall of Ironcrown
Darjûn - Stranger-Man
The Dwarvish exchange between Saruman and the unnamed Dwarf should be reasonably clear from context. Ginnar asked for Saruman's presence when he heard about news of were-worms in the east. Saruman has loath to leave his discussion with Harry. I should point out that Dwarves do not have an explicit problem with speaking their language around non-Dwarves, as some people believe, it is only their inner names that are never communicated outside of their race. However, they do usually use Mannish languages when any Men are near as the Dwarvish tongue proved extremely difficult for Men to learn. In this case the Dwarf is rather shaken, and Saruman doesn't have the same deference.