I realized that I haven't put up the disclaimer/warnings in a while. So, here it is:

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the parts that are neither in HP nor the Inheritance Cycle. I trust you to figure out what those things are, if you legitimately believe in lawsuits for fanfiction.

Warnings: Emotional development, fighting/violence, etc. Nothing to garner an M rating.

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Chapter 8

After many hours, there came a time when roosters began cawing their greetings to the sun, and as beacons, their cries signaled the start of a new day for all the inhabitants who could hear them. Ellesmera was never quite a ghost town at night. There was always a number of elves engaged in their own affairs, and servants maintained a minimal level of activity in the palace.

Apart from the sentient beings, there was always nature. Owls would perch on branches – all the homes were trees, anyway – and hoot to each other and to strangers. The sound of running streams never abated, and low rustle of the wind picked up and died intermittently.

But with the roosters' caws greeting the sunrise, the lush forest of Du Weldenvarden – and the haven within it, Ellesmera – arose from its brief slumber.

Fires were lit to provide heat in the brisk air. Though a man would notice the lack of smoking meat, bread was baking in all the bakeries on the block. Families rose, one member followed by another, in an intricate dance of preparation for the beckoning day.

As children sat down to munch on their morning meal, the merchants were already preparing their storefronts and stands. The aspiring warriors drifted onto the practice fields to duel. The animals darted through dense foliage and lightly-covered clearings.

The bustle of Ellesmera caused a rise in the noise level of the town proper, but it never made a large stir. Some still slept on, exhausted from previous days' events, trials, and foreboding tests.

One of them, a dark-haired man with jade eyes, woke peacefully for the first time in days.

At first, he held to the notion that he was still dreaming. He was warm, the air was quiet around him, and there was a distinct lack of elves nudging him awake. Plus, a nice, warm breeze ran against his upturned cheek and closed eyes, and he wanted to sink further into the soft mattress beneath him.

It was thus bad luck that his muscles were tensing. Even if his mind wanted to drift in oblivion for a while longer, his body was beginning to protest after years of abuse. So, he groaned and shifted his weight around the bed, but couldn't relax. So Harry Black began his morning.

He considered casting a tempus charm, but decided that he didn't want to know the time. Rather, his new surroundings were more interesting.

He vaguely remembered that Arya had led him to this residence, and he ascended a large flight of stairs, but the rest of the evening eluded him. He was sure that she'd mentioned something about the home – even Arya wouldn't just drop him off in a random house – but he couldn't remember.

What he saw when he emerged from his memories surprised him. The entire house was wooden – from the floors to the walls to the ceiling. Even the doorways were surrounded by wood, and it didn't look like wood paneling either. It was as if he were in a tree house of some sort – a structure made entirely out of wood.

There were two doorways that he could see from his bed. One looked like it led to a large, empty area – he'd look at that later. The other appeared to be a bathroom, with a wooden sink. A mirror rested above it, and that was all he could make out from his position on a bed.

Harry got up and shuffled over to the sink. Green eyes peered into the reflective glass and contemplated the figure that stood before it.

Obsidian hair fell loosely, resting somewhere between his chin and his shoulders. It contrasted his pale pallor. Once, he'd been content with his slightly tan face, but he supposed that given the past three years, it would naturally have paled. Sirius, he blithely remembered, had been an almost ghostly-white color at the end of third year, and he had been out of Azkaban for almost 10 months. The pale color probably shouldn't bother him, Harry concluded.

Small tufts of black hair were sprouting around his jawline, between his mouth and nose, and developing sideburns by his ears. He'd have to get rid of it.

Yet, he'd never seen his face quite so…angular. He might have thought it was simply gaunt, but his face had somehow filled out a bit. Gone was any baby fat he possibly had. In its place…he looked striking. It was almost like the aristocratic features that royalty was espoused as possessing.

And his eyes – he leaned closer into the mirror, and noted the thin rings of gray and purple tucked in around his pupils. He expected the gray – it was part of being a Black. Every prominent magical family had certain physical traits that distinguished them, even those who didn't share blood. He had the trademark "Potter hair", impossible to tame. Mrs. Weasley had had red hair and freckles, and Narcissa had gained blond hair when she married into the Malfoy family.

He expected the gray. His hair had also gotten slightly less unruly, and darkened ever slightly by becoming Lord Black. He'd gained a couple inches when he straightened his posture later on, too.

The pallor and the angular features of his face were manageable as well. But what did the purple ring mean? What was – oh. He felt like smacking his head in shame. His dragon. Where was the little creature? Antares. The man turned back into the bedroom and scanned it mentally. There – on the nightstand by the bed. He was curled up into a circle, his head resting on the end of his tail. Pricks of sharp white snuck out of the dragon's muzzle, but soft purrs were heard from Antares's mouth. It was a cute sight, and Harry had to crack a tiny smile. It was peaceful.

It wouldn't be like that forever, but he could savor it now and then, couldn't he?

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An hour passed, in which time Harry had fed himself from the trunk's kitchen compartment, roused Antares awake, fetched raw meat for his familiar, went through his morning ablutions, and changed his clothes. As soon as he stopped fidgeting with his hair, he'd be – in his opinion, at least – presentable.

The Black Lord had noticed a few things that morning. When he retrieved eggs, toast, and jam for a meal from his kitchen compartment's fridge, there were other empty spaces in the fridge. Empty spaces where he'd taken food for previous meals. The appliance didn't magically refill.

On second thought, there was no reason for Harry to expect it to refill. He had never paid much attention to things like fridges in the wizarding world, and he'd stopped cooking for the Dursleys after his first year at Hogwarts. He had never seen a wizarding grocery store, but almost everywhere he'd been served food – Hogwarts, Grimmauld, The Leaky Cauldron, The Three Broomsticks – had house elves to take care of the kitchen. He'd never wondered where the Weasleys got food.

This meant that he couldn't rely on his trunk forever. Even the potions lab compartment, now that he thought of it, only had ingredients that he'd already possessed. Again it meant that he couldn't rely on his trunk forever.

Yet, there was little time to dwell on it. Antares was butting his snout against his arm and nuzzling it. The sun was streaming through the room, and a tempus charm informed him that it was 9 o'clock. The Black Lord – because he wasn't going to use his Potter surname for now – had no idea when it was normal for the elves to begin their day. They weren't like muggle businesses: 8-4 workdays didn't seem to fit with a race so connected to nature.

Regardless, he might as well find out. Harry descended the countless steps of his wooden staircase.

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No sooner had he descended than a voice spoke, "#You're awake?#" Harry turned to the sound and found a male elf standing uprightly. It reminded him of the royal guards who stood around Buckingham Palace, the ones who didn't move, flinch, or speak. Though his words had been unintelligible.

Lord Black quirked an eyebrow. "What did you say?"

The guard let go of his composure, and his cerulean eyes lit up, as if remembering or realizing something. Then, he spoke: "You're awake. No one was certain when you would wake. If you are prepared, I must escort you to the base of the tree." A moment of silence, before eyes lit up again. "Have you eaten?"

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"Once one speaks in the Ancient language, he cannot break his word. Lies cannot be told, and promises cannot be broken. Vows are guaranteed."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "In other words, you could have someone state something that would destroy them." Blinking, he settled a gaze on the Queen. "What are you asking me to say, and why should I say it?"

"It is a vow not to divulge the secrets of what you see here, and will see in our land."

It sounds reasonable. "How do I know that is what I'm saying?" He avoided the gaze of the insulted monarch. "Even if you…assure me that you are truthful in the Ancient Language…I have no knowledge of it, and I cannot verify your words. Either way, I rely on faith."

His body deflated, shrinking back on himself. Even if he wasn't expected to be a masterful diplomat, he'd baldly insulted a queen. His eyes turned downward, focusing on the ground beside him.

Islanzadi's voice prevented a void of silence from pervading.

"I see that we have been perhaps, too hopeful. We expected that you would be on a comparable level to Eragon, when he joined us, in your knowledge and training. Your concern is reasonable; one cannot use one mystery to explicate another. Yet, your teacher cannot safely meet you without the oath."

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Between him and the queen, he'd given in.

Following Oromis tepidly, Harry felt lost. The old elf certainly wasn't talkative at the moment. He seemed to be deep in concentration, but the newcomer couldn't understand about what. Yes, he had appeared in Ellesmera with little warning, besides Arya, but, what was on this being's mind?

For once, Harry was reminded of Legilimency. Even if he'd never learned the art, he could understand the appeal. Especially if the victim was unaware.

No. Bad train of thought. Stop thinking, stop thinking, stop thinking. Should not be considering something so invasive and inhumane. Remember Snape. The temptation to smack himself popped into his brain, but Harry didn't want to give the impression that he was deranged. Even if everyone back in Britain thought so – insane Lord Potter-Black…Azkaban was for his own good…out of sight, out of mind…. – he had to go on. Why he had to go on, Harry wasn't sure. Surely a reason would make itself apparent?

"Harry Black." The old elf spoke. "Welcome to my home, the Crags of Tel'naeir" he said.

They were in a clearing situated on the edge of the cliff, just before the wall of exposed stone crumbled back into the earth. A bare path led from the precipice to the doorstep of a low hut – Hagrid - grown between the trunks of four trees, one of which straddled a stream that emerged from the moody depths of the forest. (1) When compared to the massive golden dragon, the entire structure seemed like a toy. It was perhaps twice Harry's height, but only a fraction of the dragon's.

"I am Oromis, Osthato Chetowa, The Mourning Sage, and Togiro Ikonoka, The Cripple Who Is Whole. Please wait here for a moment." Without further prompting the elf left him in the clearing, and stepped inside the hut. One minute later, Oromis returned with two stools and two…bottles…of water.

Setting the stools down, the elf handed him a bottle. Man and elf sat down, side by side, gazing into the clearing and the brush beyond it. Harry shifted Antares to his lap, waiting for the elf to speak.

And waited. (2)

Five minutes went by. Then ten.

Still, no sounds escaped the elf, save for sips of water and a slow, even breathing.

Harry turned downward, and brought his free hand – the one unoccupied with water – to Antares's scales. Soft puffs of heated air emitted out of his nostrils as Harry stroked his scales, rubbed his head, and lightly scratched at his neck.

It seemed like the dragon had grown overnight. The previous day, he would have fitted in the palm of one hand. Now, he really had to use the length of his arm to cradle the dragon against his breast.

A sip of water. Thirty minutes. Forty.

What was Oromis doing? He didn't mind waiting – a small part of him wanted to delay whatever trials the old elf would put him through. Socializing had ceased to be an enjoyable activity for Harry. Even back in the elevator with Neville…what was the point? Actions spoke louder than words. Words could only subvert an action, or raise the specter of a potential one. Or direct suspicion to an unclaimed action to a scapegoat.

Dean. Seamus. Lavender.

Fifty minutes. Leaves on tree branches rustled with a sudden breeze.

Harry continued to idly pet Antares, who drifted between sleep and wakefulness, feelings of comfort and warmth passing through his mind into his Rider's.

"It seems you have learned the value of patience." One hour.

Lord Black raised a brow, turning to his fellow nature-watcher. "Not valued, but essential. Impatience is just disapproved of, and a sign of immaturity."

Oromis let out a chuckle. "Those words are true enough. Now, let me see your hands." Answering Black's confused expression, "I find that they tell me much about a person." (2)

Really, what is there to do? Harry held his hands out, palms up, letting Oromis peruse at his leisure. Like palm-reading with Trelawney.

He examined Harry's hands, then said, "Correct me if I am wrong. You have wielded a sword on occasion."

"Technically."

"You're accustomed to writing, and you do it regularly."

"I used to."

"Mmm. You have scars on your hands, but there are few of them. You have taken risks in your life."

"True."

"And…what is this?" Oromis turned his left hand over, and was staring at a scar on the back of his hand. Deeply embedded into the skin, the marks had faded from the ruby red they used to be.

Though off-colored skin glared at him with five words. I must not tell lies

"It seems purposeful, but I do not recognize it." Flinch. "What is the significance?"

Pulling his arm back with a ferocity he couldn't remember using, Harry snarled. "It's personal." His face settled into a mockery of a smile. Lips were pursed together and they turned upward to form dimples, but the expression could have doubled for one of sickness.

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After the air was cleared between the two Riders, Oromis began to test his magical ability.

"Here is a stone. I would like you to make it rise into the air."

Is he serious? Drawing his wand – he couldn't remember which one – he gave a swish and flick. "Wingardium Leviosa" And the gray, fist-sized stone rose to eye-level for Harry.

Cancelling the spell, he let it drop onto the ground with a plop. Then, he was asked questions.

"What is that tool that you hold?"

Harry rose a brow. "It's a wand."

"What do you use it for?"

A shrug. "Everyone, where I come from, uses a wand to perform magic."

"Is it a requirement?"

"For most, it is."

Oromis's brow furrowed. "What would you do should it be lost in battle?"

Another shrug. "I can do magic without it. I could continue on, or just summon it back to my hand."

A pause ensued. "If you do not need it, why do you use this 'wand'?"

Harry Black pursed his lips with a grimace. "It's easier, and it's familiar." A lapse of silence.

"I noticed that you carry a sword with you. Technically, you could use any sword you wanted with adequate skill, but naturally you'll stay with the one you have. The same applies to me. I could do without a wand, but it wouldn't be the same," the Black Lord drew himself up to his fullest stature.

Yet, the elf seemed preoccupied by the wand. His hands clasped behind his back and his face tilted downwards. When he returned to normal, his words were cautionary ones. "It would not do for a tool to become a crutch."

He faced Black directly. "For the remainder of these tests, at the very least, you are not permitted to use your tool. Now, let's resume."

This isn't that hard. The tasks Oromis set before the Black Lord were relatively simple ones, even without his wand. He lifted a ball of water from a nearby stream. He set a small collection of twigs on fire. He put an animal to sleep. He created a ball of light, and he launched a wooden stick into the air. He manipulated many objects into moving. He did many other knick-knacks and minor things.

And that's exactly what they were: minor. Sure, he was quizzed on many plants, which he had no idea of. They weren't the flora he'd studied in Herbology. He was asked many questions of history, but he didn't know Alagaesia's history, and could only decline the questions. In fact, his grasp on history was paltry. He knew many aspects of ancient civilizations, like the Egyptians, the Romans, the Greeks, and others. They were important to magic. He knew some muggle British history, but it wasn't anything beyond primary school level. He knew much about the World Wars – they had been key elements in researching Grindelwald and Dumbledore's pasts, while on the hunt for Horcruxes. He was familiar with the extent of the British Empire, and how many pieces had come to be autonomous, like Australia, Canada, and India.

Strangely, he knew much about American history – what little there was – because Dudley had a tendency to dump his textbooks in Harry's room when the school year ended, and, as a teacher had once said (though he couldn't remember who), nothing interested boys more than war. Something the Americans were intimately familiar with, between the Independence War, the War of 1812 (which Britain had won), and their Civil War, and in the 20th century, the Americans had been a heavyweight in the World Wars and Cold War. His primary school teachers had been ecstatic about it in the few years before Hogwarts, Harry remembered. Hadn't it ended around that time?

Putting his musing aside, Harry knew little about metal-making, woodworking, medicine, or of the Elven language – which Oromis was insistent on asking about. Harry had been incanting his spells aloud, but the elf had been flabbergasted each time, so he'd opted to go silent.

Yet, between the inane questions and the too simple magic, Harry had felt out-of-place.

When Oromis announced that he was satisfied with his skill level in magic, Harry had to swallow the "that's all?" that his mind had wondered of.

"What did you expect, Harry Black?" Perhaps it wasn't just a thought.

"You demanded so little of this test, I thought you were joking."

Oromis paused, deep in thought. What does he already know? "You believe you know all there is? Fine, release yourself." He uttered several words in gibberish.

Invisible hands of steel wrapped around his ankles, shins, and calves, stretching up to his waist and forming an iron cast.

There was no way Harry would be able to physically overcome it, even on his best days. He tried, and eyes widened in alarm when the signals his brain sent weren't materialized in movement.

He reached for his wand, forgetting that it had already been forbidden. Pointing it at his lower body, Harry yelled, "Finite Incantatem!"

The force departed instantaneously, and Harry, who'd still been in alarm over trying to move, tripped over his own feet, landing on the ground in a disheveled heap.

"What the FUCK was that!" He looked the picture of a fallen Lord now, struggling to get onto his knees, hands grasping at the earth and searching for a place to push from, to rise. His chest heaved and his mouth huffed repeatedly. His limbs shook at the suddenness of his fall and his immediate attempt to get back up.

Struggling to his feet, a full-body shiver overtook the Lord, and his entire frame vibrated violently. He swung his head to the old elf, and yelled again, "What the fuck was that!"

But the elf was too busy observing him, as if he was an alien that had fallen from the sky. Or he had two heads.

"What!" His hand shot out in a gesture towards the elf, beckoning a response. Harry looked at his outstretched limb and paused. Perhaps that was it.

Light sheens of blue and black covered his forearm and his skin clung closely to the sinew, blood, and bone of his hand. Veins seemed to not only be prominent, but stick out from the skin.

The skin lacked color, where it was unmarred by injury. It looked gray and almost transparent.

His face remained the same, but the skin was more tightly drawn around the bones and cartilage shaping it. It was the image of a gaunt man.

His glamours had been removed by the spell.

"How did you come to assume two different appearances, Harry Black?"

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"Excuse me, how much for this bread, sir?"

The street market in Ellesmera was busy in the hour before the evening meal, as elves of all ages and genders weaved through the vendors, racking up laundry lists of fruits, vegetables, and grains. When he'd seen the throngs, the immediate comparison was to Diagon Alley, or Hogsmeade. But the locations were too distinct.

Wizarding centers were focal points for a sort of orderly chaos. Though there was no rhyme or reason to witches and wizards rushing, pacing, or bustling every which way, it wasn't a broom crash either. Merlin himself couldn't have conducted the movements of Diagon Alley.

Yet, Ellesmera's…market street, he'd call it, was the epitome of what elves seemed to be. Graceful. Each elf was independent, but they tread so carefully around each other, and there were many unspoken rules that hung in the air…

Though he didn't fit in. So he'd moved towards the closest stall and waited for the vendor to become free. And asked of the price for a loaf of bread.

Besides the obvious, Harry wasn't sure why the vendor was staring at him, though.

"The New Rider. I hadn't thought it was serious," the vendor bore into his eyes, emphatically intoning the phrase in English.

New Rider, he wondered. "Sir, how much should I pay you for a loaf of bread here?" Harry gestured to an innocent plate on the stall.

Suddenly, it was right up to his chest level. "For you, New Rider, it is free. Take it as a gift."

No. He couldn't. "Please, allow me to pay you. One moment," he pulled out his trunk and enlarged it to the size of a pouch, "I'll get a galleon out for you." Harry didn't notice the expression on the elf, which was just as well. It was rather blank to his eyes. "Aha! Here you go." Holding the gold coin out, the Rider waited for the elf to reach out and grasp it.

"Very well, I accept your offer." The trade was done. Now if only he could make his way back to wherever he'd been staying last night.

When he navigated through the crowded street – the stalls took up half the width of the already narrow road – there was a small group of little elves caught up in their own activities.

One of them noticed his presence, and darted toward him.

"Who are you?"

Harry looked down at the being before him. That was a child's size, but not a kid's tone. It was almost adult.

"My name is Harry."

The little elf looked up at him, and several of the other kid-sized elves made their way towards the duo.

"Are you the New Rider?"

"Er…a vendor called me a bit earlier. I suppose."

"Why do you not speak the Ancient Language?"

The Rider had to pause. What language? "I've no idea what you're talking about."

"Can't you do magic?"

A raised eyebrow. "Of course I can do magic. Sphaera colere!"

Glistening bubbles of bright colors materialized in the air, swirling around the clearing. Each caught the light at every angle, and the bubbles gleamed. They flew through the air for ten seconds before simultaneously popping.

"Cool! Will you help us?"

"Help with what?"

"You'll fight against Galbatorix for us, won't you?"

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Chapter End

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(1) p.270 in Eldest

(2) Real actions & dialogue in Eldest, adapted to this story - twice cited in story

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Reviews: Thank you for them. They've helped spur me to continue this

AnnAisu: Eragon will play a role, but he'll need to return to Ellesmera first. I haven't read Brisingr, but he promised to rescue Katrina & kill the Ra'zac to Roran at the end of Eldest. He awaits in the future.

PriyanshPotter: It took Saphira weeks before she could speak to Eragon, and Eragon had to teach her words constantly. And I won't introduce characters unless I feel like there's a legitimate argument to be made for their existence. Language spells…don't exist in HP canon, and I feel like it's a cop-out. Part of the difficulty will be adjusting to elves' language, customs, and idioms. For elven relations…that will be a theme.

xTcShade: There are no "super" characters in this story. QE2 is no exception, unfortunately.

Edana1009: I don't anticipate creating pairings. And I recognize that Harry needs a lot of character development. Saying he's in Azkaban just doesn't cut it, and it'll be a focus of the story. (There's a lot of hints in Ch8 if you look for them)

Lizziliane: Old monarchies. I'm well aware of European governmental systems. (The only royalty on Earth that plays a role in NWNH is Elizabeth II)

Tango Dancer: I love Blagden's riddle. So many interpretations…

Animegirl1994: She will play a role, I just haven't finalized it yet. Stay tuned.

RinYun913: Not spoiling this one. I prize my riddle's ambiguity too much.

Ranawe217: You're making premature assumptions, and all of which are false. Read beyond the first chapter if you want to actually understand the direction I'm taking.

Frytrix: I'm trying, but your comments encourage me to focus more on those points. Thanks.

Ryder Bellamiren: I would answer your questions, but they are central to the story's themes. Arya's conduct is foreshadowing a larger theme of assimilation/trust, though.

Yukirin-Sama: He will not return to Earth.

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Author's Note: I'm going to be incredibly busy for the rest of summer, and probably September. I'm not declaring a hiatus, but I won't promise a new chapter within a short timeframe. Sorry, but I have AP summer work & college essays.

Also: I'm keeping periodic updates on the status of NWNH's development on my profile page, if you want to see how far along I am towards the next chapter. I update it with every major development, when I stop/start writing, beta'ing, etc. It doesn't substitute the chapter itself, but at least you can check how the story's coming around without waiting for alerts, new chapters, etc.