Okay, hopefully I find some readers, considering my other crappy story.
Disclaimer: Do not own, will not own, going to cry now.
Summary: Voldemort's new goal: merge with Sauron's spirit to bring back Morgoth, and gain the One Ring. The spell he uses has one little side effect, the heroes are coming back too. One by one they wake up in their reincarnated forms, and first up is Harry Potter, otherwise known as Aragorn, son of Arathorn, King of Gondor...
Timeline: 6th year, and about 20,000 years after the War of the Ring. Will be known as the end of the Fourth Age.
Any spells used will be the result of direct English-Latin translations from an awesome site that I'll try to remember to put in my Bio.
Prologue
Riddle Manor...
July 23
It was dark.
That was probably the most noticeable part of the room.
It was dark, wet and cold.
The stones were damp with moisture, liquid dripping down the walls of the dungeon-like room. The only source of light came from the barely open door, and it's reflection upon the rat's silver hand as it prepared for the Ritual.
The candles were lit one by one, the room slowly becoming brighter with each flame added.
Soon, it was obvious that the candles were set in a pentagram, with one snake-like figure crouched in the middle, a wand on the floor in front of him.
The rat, Wormtail, he was called, held a Goblet of red liquid above his head, speaking in low, trembling tones, to the creature crouching within the pentagram.
The creature nodded to the servant, beginning to chant in low tones as well. Their combined voices rose in volume,
the rat began to pour the red liquid on the creature, who basked in it. The watcher retched as the smell of blood reached him, as the voices rose higher, as the overwhelming sense of powerful magic wrought the air and burned through those present.
The chant burned through the watcher, who awoke screaming the words in his mind as the burning became a
physical force.
An eye wreathed in flame, watching, burning, seeing...
"Spiritus mens anima liberare!"
He was awake.
Number 4 Privet Drive
2:39 AM, July 23
Little Whinging was a quaint little neighborhood, Privet Drive the epitome of normal, everyday, nonmagical lives.
Until the summer, that is.
In the smallest bedroom of number 4, Privet Dive, 15 year old Harry Potter clutched his forehead in pain, jamming his glasses over his eyes before rolling out of the bed.
He shuffled over to the mirror, his scar aflame, the words of the spell etched into his mind, "Spiritus mens anima liberare!"
He took a moment took collect himself before walking to the small mirror in the corner to inspect himself.
Bright green eyes looked back at him, through long, messy, black hair. 'Mental note: Begin putting hair up.'
Nothing wrong, except the faint throbbing of the curse scar. Nothing out of the norm.
'Elrohir would be proud.'
'Who's Elrohir?'
That was his last conscious thought for quite a while.
The eye opened.