Uncharted Waters 8: Harry


There was a pattern to all things living; a certain elegance and symmetry to the designs around us. Plants forever dancing towards the sun. Rocks chiselled by winds and waters into similar yet never identical faces. Even decay had a constant to it, the rot and mould encroaching in a predictable pattern. Our eyes were accustomed to seeing such designs; artists tried to capture the grace, designers and architects aimed for the correct rhythm, all seeking to invoke the familiar comfort.

Magic interrupted this natural flow. Most spells remembered to mask their presence, attempting to restore the balance, only with varying degrees of success, though. A muggle might notice some of the glitches, the little irregularities, but she would shrug them off, taking them for the exception that confirmed the universal rule.

A fifth year Ravenclaw might perk up, recalling them mentioned in the side notes of her Charms books, describing their use as an outdated technique, long surpassed in reliability and precision by Revealing and Detection spells. Any house owner worth her salt would know not to plant white roses around the perimeter of the garden, though she might no longer realise it was because the Gnome-repulsing Charm made every seventh petal stunted. An old wizard with a curious mind and decades of experience would look at a cave wall and recognise that magical blood needed to be spilled in order to open the hidden passage there.

Harry stared at the solitary peak a mile from her, where Dol Guldur stuck out like a sore thumb from the sprawling sea of trees, and her trained eyes, enhanced by the falcon's keen sight, flickered from one telltale sign to another.

The winds had been favourable this morning, taking her across Mirkwood in half her usual time. She had treated herself to a generous breakfast and still, by mid-morning, she had reached the stronghold, nearing its walls enough for her peregrine eyes to distinguish the individual stones they were made of.

From within, reflections of many fires were flickering on the crumbling slabs, shadows of many bodies interrupting their dance. Yet, as during every single one of her visits, there was not a single Orc, Men or otherwise posted on the battlements. She could hear the voices and shrieks of a big host, but they had not assigned any sentries. Such confidence was worrisome. She preferred to break her flight well away from the stronghold, circling it from a careful distance, wary of other senses that might keep watch.

Finishing her second loop, she had swept down to her favourite branch and settled in for her watch.

Dol Guldur stood a mile away from her, but the odour of its magic already raked at her perception. She could see the shimmering where only lazy morning mist should rest, the malicious presence squeezing her chest in a similar way Dementors once had, but with foreboding heaviness instead of fear and dread.

There were other notable differences. She recognised an intent in the way the Nazguls' aura smothered the hill and reached further - she could easily picture its fingers eager and ever searching. She could feel the pulsing pressure in the air, not at all dormant like the mist the Dementors produced, but very much restless, conscious and always watchful. It didn't just cover the hill, it permeated the surroundings, every crumbling stone and every withering tree, and apart from the feeling of horrible wrongness that tightened her chest, a sense of absolute justification, of the Nazguls' right to be there and dominate, assaulted her, trying to coax an agreement out of her. It made her nose twitch in irritation.

She put these emotional observations and hunches aside; it was a very good thing her body still felt repulsed by dark magic, but her gut twisting with foreboding didn't exactly help her analyse the threat.

Instead, she took several deep breaths and cast her eyes wide, taking in the whole scene in front of her. She let her eyes roam through the features of the landscape, picking up the glitches in the pattern. Trios of needles sticking askew from the direction of their brethren, blades of grass in too perfect rows, a colour scheme continuing for too long a stretch of the view; she caught heaps of such details with a speed born from practice, not really cataloguing them.

It was the same practice, her decades of training, that took in the assortment of minuscule details, compiling and contrasting them, and forming conclusions. Her mind made too big leaps and too swift connections for her logic to follow. She knew she could trace back her reasoning if she tried, but she didn't bother. Instead, she trusted her instincts.

Back home, she would scold young recruits for relying on such conclusions without using the correct charmwork for exact results and confirmation. At least, here, in Middle-earth, Harry for once didn't have to feel like a hypocrite for disregarding her own orders; she genuinely had no other option available for revealing the magics at work here but her honed instincts.

It still astounded her that Arda seemed similar enough for her old eyes to perform the trick with the same smoothness. But this was not the time to ponder the implications of such parity in between the two worlds. Instead, she catalogued today's findings, comparing them to her previous scouting trips.

There were no protective enchantments shielding the hill, she was sure of it. If intruders were spotted, the defence would come in the form of arrows and swords from the horde within. And an intruder would be noticed, right away - there was a detection charmwork of some kind layered over the hill - not just a line circling its bottom, but covering the whole of the land; she'd seen signs of it even at the walls of the stronghold. She identified no revealing elements to it, though, nothing that would cancel enchantments or pierce through concealments.

She was confident that with her Animagus hiding her true form and her Occlumancy keeping her mind sharp against the Nazguls' aura, she could fly to the stronghold and register only as an ordinary bird. Unfortunately, all ordinary birds had long fled the area, so even as a falcon, her entrance would seem suspicious.

Infiltration wasn't possible, then. Which was a pity, because she'd deduced some sort of distorting magic at play, affecting an observer's perception of the place. She'd seen similar effects where expansion spells were in use. Did the Nazguls hide more forces inside than what was apparent? Or was it an illusion of a different kind? She'd like to know; not just for strategic reasons but for her own selfish purposes. She wished to find out what spells were being used and hopefully emulate them, because, very annoyingly, no variation of an Extension Charm she had thought to try was working for her in Arda.

The true numbers of Orcs inside notwithstanding, she was still reasonably sure she could raze the place to the ground. Fire would do the trick. The Wraiths would probably manage to flee before she got to them, but Mirkwood's infestation of Sauron's forces would be dealt with.

Did she wish to announce to this world she was capable of such a feat, though?

Oh, no no no.

She'd rather play nice with the Dwarves of Erebor and use their soldiers to explain why Dol Guldur's forces were no more. She would keep the casualties minimal, she had already revealed Harry had some talent in that regard. But she would not expose her abilities further.

She rested on her branch for several more minutes, sitting peacefully in the proximity of such awful magic and waiting for the shock of repulsion to subside. Then, finally, her senses could start picking up on more than the general feeling of wrongness. It was like walking into good old Hagrid's stables - first, you had been assaulted by the horrendous stench, and only after some time adjusting, you'd realised that every creature's dung stunk differently, and you could actually identify which stall belonged to which beast by smell alone.

As every other time she'd observed Dol Guldur, she noted three subtly different sources of the dark arts. The results seemed to be the same, but execution slightly differed. Three Nazguls, she had concluded, resting deep in the bowels of the stronghold, their wraith bodies barely moving, yet their consciousness and presence travelling far over the walls of the hill. The Hasty, The Insistent and The Overbearing, she had named them.

The Overbearing seemed to be spread a bit thinner, his usually haughty presence less domineering over the other two this morning. It wasn't clear or easy, but knowing there was something to find, she did notice a strange coil of the Overbearing's magic that seemed to reach far and yet touch nothing, like an unfinished thought or a torn string with the ends of its thread frizzed. She'd seen this happen only once before. She immediately took flight, soaring along the edges of the Overbearing's aura and heading away from Dol Guldur in the direction the cut off charm was pointing.

It took her two hours of flying to find the Orcs, and she only managed by having her eyes still attuned to signs of magic. Were she looking for signs of an Orcish horde, she might have missed it.

There were maybe fifty of them, travelling along the edges of west Mirkwood, but never leaving its skirts. The corrupted trees bent and groaned under the Nazgul's spell, hiding the noise the Orcs made. The stampeding of their boots, the clanks of their weapons and the creaks of their leather armour were lost in the routine sounds of the polluted forest. Animals stopped to watch them pass instead of fleeing, not a single jay or other bird sounded an alarm. The wind seemed to pause around the Orcs, and passed them by entirely, without carrying their stench to anyone who would appreciate the warning.

Harry had seen it happen once before, the magic providing cover to even a bigger group. Back then, they were approaching Dol Guldur, probably as fresh reinforcements. This time, the Orcs were marching from the stronghold, already some two days away.

Her eyes traced the route they were clearly heading, through the expanse of sparse forests and plains that neighboured Mirkwood, and then further to where a line of Anduin cut through the lands. There, in not such a great distance for a stampeding band of Orcs, several lines of smoke rose through the clear skies. A village.

Harry's decision was swift and easy, the entire process containing very little thought other than, Oh no, you won't.


It was tedious work to deal with Orcs. At least with no one else in sight, she could be efficient about it.

She weaved her way through the thick canopy of Mirkwood trees, passed well above the Orcs and flew ahead until she found a spot with trees growing sparse enough not to hinder her line of sight. She soared through the small clearing, turned and landed transformed on a high branch, overlooking the expanse of land in front of her. She Disillusioned herself so quickly there was barely a flick of a witch visible between a falcon and seemingly thin air.

She paused for a moment, standing still, her eyes zoning in on the magic hurling her way. She hummed in satisfaction next, reasonably sure there was no awareness to the spell - the Nazgul had released it, but he had no further control over it. He would not stand witness to what was about to happen.

Good.

The Orcs soon filled up the clearing in front of her, the front of the horde almost below her tree. She cast a Banisher, swiping the charm in a wide wave to stop their advance. The strength of her spell sent the first two rows hurtling back, crashing into their brethren behind them. And as they lay in a confused pile of bodies, Harry turned her eyes to the Orcs at the back, those still standing. She was in no mood to chase stragglers around the forest; she'd deal with the back row first.

Her eyes landed on the first of them. With a quick Levitation Charm, practised from theoretical impossibility to perfection, she forced his first vertebra, and nothing else, out of the line. The trick was to delude herself that a body was but a sum of its many parts; the very opposite of the safety concept they instilled into every young witch and wizard in Hogwarts. She still struggled with Men, but Orcs became easy to her by now.

She snapped the first Orc's atlas to the side and slightly twisted it. He slumped down in a hapless form, his spinal cord severed. Harry didn't linger to watch; by the time his body landed, she was already five Orcs down the line, proceeding from left to right, killing with one quick thought and a spark of magic.

Shrieks of rage and panic had started piercing the air at some point but she paid them very little mind, working through the pack one glance at a time. Some of the Orcs kept the wits to form a defensive cluster, protecting the few with bows in their middle. They searched for attackers, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. Some released arrows, one even aimed close enough she had to adjust its trajectory, but before long, the archers were also dead.

Less than thirty seconds after she landed, the horde was no more.

Well, not quite. She changed into a falcon again, rising high to check for any runaways, and indeed, she spotted movement; two Orcs were slipping away in a mad dash. Sighing inwardly, more than just a bit exasperated with this chore, she gave chase. She didn't even bother transforming to kill the first one. She dove and latched onto his collar, her talons scratching the leather. Next, she was twisting around his neck, and cutting his throat with the sharp bite of her beak.

She reached the second survivor mere seconds later. This time, she changed into a witch and snapped his neck with another Levitation Charm. As his body collapsed, she stood over his corpse and started sputtering, spitting out the Orcish blood. She fished a flask from the side of her pack, hastily rinsed the inside of her mouth and splashed the rest of the water over her face, cursing inwardly the entire time.

Belatedly, she remembered making a resolution many years before never to be lazy with her transformations to cast a simple spell, rather than going through this nasty ordeal again. Oh well, some lessons needed repeating to stick.

Rid of the yucky blood, she picked the corpse up with a charm, then the second one, and started the short trek back to the rest of the dead horde.

She didn't make it all the way; as she was about to enter the clearing splattered with bodies, her ears picked up a faint noise; of branches snapping under heavy stomps, headed her way. Her senses, heightened by the adrenalin of the fight, no matter how dull it had been, prickled at a new danger advancing.

An instant later, her alarm subsided, as she recognised the sound of the stampeding paws. She got back to work, piling the bodies up for a pyre.

With mighty cracks of splitting wood, a great bear burst onto the clearing when she was about halfway done. The great beast came to a sudden halt, his clever eyes taking in the scene. They widened as they landed on her.

She greeted him with a smile. "Beorn, my dear friend. It seems you've arrived late once again."

The giant of a bear let out a soft growl, before he shook and his fur seemed to go ashimmer. Recognising the magic underway, Harry hastily raised her hand, making him halt his transformation. "Not quite yet. Are you hunting alone, or have you come with a party?"

His shoulders slumped a bit, which was enough of an answer for her. "Well, in that case- you know what to do," she said, gesturing to the bodies still littering the ground around them.

The bear shot her an annoyed look, his furry face astonishingly expressive for an animal, but he did follow her bidding, stomping to the first corpse and slashing his massive paw across the dead Orc's torso. Beorn carried on, one Orc at a time, and she levitated the bodies he had mutilated, piling them on top of her pyre and hiding the suspiciously intact corpses underneath.

Throughout the whole ordeal, Beorn continued to convey his annoyance in eloquent growls.

"Rather dissatisfying, isn't it," Harry sent back, unsympathetic to his plight. "At least you know how it always feels to me."

Once the guise was properly staged, with all the corpses piled up and Harry's flames flickering at them at the speed and temperature she knew Orc flesh would normally burn, Beorn shifted into a tall man. He swiftly crossed the distance between them.

He enclosed her in his meaty arms, still massive even in his human form, and picked her off the ground in an eager hug. The Orc blood on his arms smeared all over her cloak, but she did not mind, knowing it would only add to the charade.

"You have been a stranger for far too long," Beorn said, his voice as pleasantly rumbling as she remembered.

She braced herself against his shoulders, to reach all the way to his forehead, and gave it a light peck. "It seems like it. You've grown fat."

She could hear Beorn's men approaching, the soft pads of their leather shoes and the rustle of foliage as they made their rushed way through the forest.

Beorn put her down. "I have been well taken care of."

She'd heard - she might have not visited, but she kept tabs on her friends. She felt her own smile widening at the unabashedly happy gleam in his eyes. Marriage did suit him.

"Was that all of them?" Beorn asked next, looking at the burning pile of Orcs.

She nodded, grimacing at the stench that started permeating the air around them. "Yes. No more Orcs as far as I could see, even from up above. How did you know to hunt for them here?" He must have been close, to have reached the site so quickly.

"They are in the habit of sending a pack every month or so, to raid the villages. The last horde came many days ago; we have been at our most vigilant for some time now. And yet, they passed through our first line of scouts, unnoticed."

"There was a spell that shrouded them quite profusely. I felt it snap only when the shrieking started."

Beorn nodded, his face suddenly grave. "That's not surprising to hear; it has happened before that they snuck to the very farms before they were spotted."

Harry clasped his shoulder and found his grave eyes with her gaze. "This land is vast to guard. You not only have the swords and teeth of Orcs to fight against, but the trickery of magic, too."

"The wizard deigned to explain during his last visit; I know who resides in the old fort in the south. Are you here to help?"

"Somewhat." She had never been more glad she'd accepted Thorin's plans. She would hate to give a negative answer to Beorn's grudgingly hopeful look.

His shoulders dropped, almost imperceptibly so, but to her attuned eyes, the body language was still clear, portraying his relief loudly enough. She grimaced at the reaction; beware of the slippery slope should people learn to rely on her help.

"Erebor and Dale are marching against Dol Guldur," she explained. "I'm meeting with the Dwarves in three days' time, to join their forces."

She smirked when Beorn's brows rose at the last pronouncement. Apparently, her friend hadn't forgotten her rather tremulous history with the Dwarves of Erebor. He didn't comment on it, though, and, in true Beorn's fashion, focused on the practicals. "Will you stay with us until then? We'll be travelling back north, now that the latest raid has been thwarted."

She didn't have to think about the suggestion for too long; it did play well into her plans. She nodded. "I have to leave for a few hours each night, to make an appearance in Dale as Hattie, but I'll join you for the rest of your journey. The Dwarves will meet me at the mouth of the Old Forest Road; I have planned to travel to the meeting point on foot anyway, to give the Dwarves a trail to follow back, if they fancy it. I'd be happy to spend the three days with you."

He shook his head at her winded explanation, ruffling her once again short hair before she managed to step out of his reach. "Your lies and deception cost you a lot of time and effort."

She agreed, with a heartfelt, "Oh, they are a pain in the ass." She didn't explain the expression, sure he would have heard it from her by now. "But they let me live the life I want, which would be a first, in any of the worlds I ever lived in. And that's worth any extra effort and even all the lying."

They both turned quiet after that, as Beorn's party arrived at the clearing.

During her travels across the region, she would observe the Woodmen that had settled down along the upper vales of the Anduin. They'd built villages along the great river, up to the Old Ford where the now-busy trade route cut across its waters, and even further north, to Beorn's homestead. Every time her travels had taken her close, she couldn't resist making a small detour, to fly over to Carrock. With an amused delight, she'd watched as more and more homes grew around Beorn's house, encroaching on his proclaimed life of solitude.

Now, observing the fifteen or so men from up close as they entered the clearing, she confirmed what she'd deduced from up above - they were a hardy folk, hair and beards wild, their clothing of worn leather seemingly one with the forest. However, their eyes were sharp with obvious wit, as they took in the scene and stared at her back with open curiosity.

And dismissed her rather quickly. She probably looked truly pitiful standing next to Beorn's massive bulk, her lithe body once again making for an unimpressive male figure.

Whilst most of the men scrutinised the scene, their arrows still poised and swords raised, one of them approached, sheathing his blade. "Are you hurt, lad?"

Before she managed a suitably demure reply, Beorn burst into hearty chuckles. She shot her friend a warning look, but he paid it little mind.

"No need for your healing here, Grimfara," he snickered. He raised his voice next, to carry to the rest of the men. "The Orcs are all dead, sheath your blades. Let us make sure the fire won't spread, and then leave this place. There's still enough light left to begin our journey home; I'm of no mind to camp near this stench if we have no need for it."

The men lowered their weapons readily enough, but then stood paused. The closest of them, the one Beorn called Grimfara, stepped forward with a frown of confusion. "There's no leaving the fire unguarded, at least not until the morning. The wind could pick up at any moment, spreading the flames to the trees."

"Is there not?"

Harry's eyes narrowed as Beorn pointedly turned to her, and all the men's gazes followed his.

"What tales have you been telling, Beorn?" she hissed at him.

"Many, with the right part embellishments and the core of truth, as only the best stories are," Beorn answered, not a lick of remorse in him. "And yet, this one tale is only of your own making. You've let a lot of your blue fires burning back in the day - have you really thought no one would happen upon them?"

There was a difference between the risk of the Bluebell Flames being spotted, or conjuring them in plain sight; she wanted to snap back, but swallowed the words instead.

Beorn was still able to read some of them from her expression, it seemed, because he added in a far more conciliatory tone, "You will make only friends here, Harry."

She ought to feel betrayed at Beorn's breach of trust, putting her on the spot like this. Instead, she found herself only mildly surprised and mighty exasperated.

The situation was salvageable. Obliviation Charm sadly didn't work on Arda, but in its absence, she'd gotten rather crafty with Confundus. And yet, she found herself hesitating. She was no longer playing the role of a magicless Hattie; here, she could ease the restrictions of her disguise and enjoy the luxury of acting like the witch Beorn had all but proclaimed her to be.

She weighed the possible risks once more, and then waved her hand over them, inwardly uttering a soft nah.

She approached the pyre, kneeling close to its warmth, and rested her hands upon the ground there. None of these theatrics were necessary, but she'd long learnt that Muggles were more willing to accept feats of magic if they believed there was more effort involved than just a mere thought. With that in mind, she let the Bluebell Charm gently kindle up from in between her fingers, slowing its spread into a crawl instead of its normal burst, until, eventually, it encircled the whole pyre. Now, a wall of blue flames reached even higher than the original blaze, well into the roof of branches up above them, yet burning none. Where the orange fire of the burning Orcs touched the Bluebell, it shied away, not interested to burn what was already seemingly in flames. Thus, fire was stopped by fire.

She stood up from her creation. From long years of wild camping, she knew precisely how to cast the Blue flames conjuration for it to burn throughout the whole night unattended. Her eyes honed on the pyre beyond the magical flames, and she increased its veracity; now that it was beyond the observation skills of her audience, she could disperse with some parts of the charade. The pyre would turn the bodies to ashes before a few hours passed.

"Grimgár, don't!"

She turned at the shout of alarm, a Banisher at the ready. But when she saw the young archer by her side reaching for the flames, she let him and only stood watching. The lad's features were eerily similar to the older man that had first approached Harry in concern. Most likely a father and son.

"It's as the story goes," Grimgár exclaimed a moment later, gingerly caressing the Bluebells with his palm. "The flames are warm to the touch."

As more men approached the fire, their curiosity winning over their caution, Harry let out a tired sigh.


"It's not making enemies that I fear," she told Beorn some minutes later, after the party had set off. Two scouts were sent ahead; Harry and Beorn marched in front of the rest. She could hear their hushed silence following her footsteps and feel their intense stares boring into her back. "I'd hate for people to rely on my help with matters they could very well sort out on their own."

It took Beorn a moment to answer her. "These people have met other wizards, seen them perform similar feats, and yet we never expect them to come to our aid."

She heard a matching sentiment before, from Thorin, and silently bid Beorn continue.

"Radagast barely spends a thought on anything that does not walk on all fours nor plant roots in the ground. I respect such an attitude, but a Man would have to be blind, deaf and a fool to rely on any aid from him. And the other one, Gandalf, never fails to remind us that his steps are guided by an all-important and foreboding purpose. We are a simple folk; we would only remain happy if his focus stayed forever away from us."

"You should understand, then - I also wish to stay simple in the wizard's eyes, to keep him away from me. Word carries."

"Aye, it does. But Gandalf is only one, with one pair of legs. The foul beasts are many and are more likely to chase you up. The Woodmen are a grateful people, and they'd be good friends to you against a common enemy."

"We've had this conversation many times before, my friend. I have no need to gather allies. I agree, there is a war brewing in Middle-earth, but I certainly won't be a party to it."

"Have you not just told me you're riding against Dol Guldur with the Dwarves of Erebor? What is that, if not fighting in the war?"

"That's just cleaning up my mess," Harry grumbled, reluctantly, as she didn't really want to embark on this particular discussion. Her reasoning was feeble enough, and it was well within Beorn's ability to crush it entirely.

Unlike the Dwarves, Beorn had more experience with Harry's phrasal additions to Westron, and did not pause at the expression. "And you think you will manage so by riding against Dol Guldur? This evil cannot be vanquished, only kept at bay. As long as a sliver of its power remains, it will pursue those that once opposed it. One day, you will look behind and you will realise that your sense of responsibility had you cleaning up your messes straight into the centre of the conflict."

"Yes, there's certainly a danger of that," Harry understated, as Beorn just voiced her greatest fear for how this holiday could turn sour. She had a truly abysmal record when it came to staying out of world conflicts. "I hope I'll be long gone before it escalates that far."

Soon afterwards, they arrived at the edge of the forest, where the party's horses waited. Harry watched as the huntsmen spoke in hushed tones to those that had remained behind, guarding the animals. It wasn't hard to guess they were catching them up on the matter of the blue flames - she could easily tell when the tale had been finished, as the new faces lit up with astonishment and their distrustful side eyed glances turned into hungry stares.

Just as she would with Muggles at home, she answered their curiosity with a short nod of acknowledgement, swiftly moving on to occupy her eyes with something else, as not to invite interaction.

She walked up to Beorn and his rather bulky stallion. He was already in the saddle, offering her an arm up. She eyed the steed, dubious that it could take the both of them - the horse was massive, but so was Beorn. Then, remembering that her friend would rather have her running behind than let the animal suffer more weight than it could handle, she climbed up without a word.

Perched on the bedroll behind Beorn's saddle, she settled against his back, enjoying the warmth he emitted in the otherwise brisk winter afternoon. The weather wasn't turning unforgivable as quickly here as further north, in the shadows of the Lonely Mountain, but even in the Vales of Anduin, the trees were covered in frost and the wind had turned biting with the late hour.

"You're not as wooden in the saddle as you once were," Beorn noted after a few minutes of riding, his voice making his torso rumble next to her ear.

"I finally took the time to learn," she said, and then told him of the two months she had spent in a farmstead on the edge of Dunland, and the farmer's sons who had taken great enjoyment out of torturing her into a good rider.

"I have heard of the great horse lords of Rohan," Beorn commented. "But I've seldom heard anyone speak of the Dunlendings as anything but beastly hillmen."

"I've always rooted for the underdog," she said and then explained the phrase, knowing Beorn enjoyed her adaptations. "I wanted to see for myself how much truth lies in their reputation."

"And?"

"They are perhaps more primitive than other peoples of Middle-earth, and yes, somewhat resentful of their neighbours, but it's only in times of famine that the resentment grows into aggression."

"So you have travelled down the Anduin. Where else have the years led you?"

They both spoke softly, cuddled close as Harry was to Beorn's back, and in the privacy of their shared ride, she told him freely of her travels since they'd last said goodbye, some six years ago. As the trees of Mirkwood's edge passed them, Beorn leading his horse and his men in a steady walk straight north, she started by describing her long flight all the way to the far east, over the Sea of Rhun and to the Orocarni mountains, to the Wild Forest on their western slopes and even further yet, to the shores of the Eastern seas.

"And what have you found there?"

"More Men and Dwarves, as rich in their variety and customs as the people of the west."

"How captivatingly you described the places so far and seldom travelled that they have fallen into legends."

She shrugged against his back. "I know how significant these places are in the histories of the races of Middle-earth, but for a stranger to these lands as I am? They can only impress with what I can see at present. It is a beautiful place, about as fascinating to me as the rest of Middle-earth."

"And yet, I bet you could give a better tale of your journeys, had you tried just a lick more," Beorn said, perhaps a bit petulantly, and Harry got reminded how much he enjoyed a good story. "And I intend to weasel it out of you, but not right now. Halt."

He raised his voice in a gentle command, stopping the whole party. By now, they had left Mirkwood far behind, the forest a dark wall of trees in the distance, and journeyed quite a length through the plains of the river. The village the Orcs had been headed to, now lay in front of them.

Beorn beckoned to two men from the very back of their party. "Lads, return home. Tell your families the raid has been thwarted."

The boys, for they were young enough to still be called that, rode forward, their faces eager. Still, one of them hesitated by Beorn's side. "The village will gladly offer hospitality for another night, should you return with us."

Beorn glanced at the rest of the party. Harry followed his eyes; seeing the older man, Grimfára, subtly shook his head.

"We plan to make haste back home," Beorn said to the lad. "We will travel further north this evening still."

The lads left the party with a farewell nod. They pushed their horses into a quick trot, evidently eager to get back home.

"What's the real reason you don't want to stay in the village?" Harry asked once the two riders galloped out of earshot.

"The village is young and not yet as rich as other settlements along the river. Seldom a boat anchors there, the traders refreshed from their night in the inn of the previous port, and in a rush to get to Old Fort and its comforts. We have imposed on them for two nights already; we don't need to stay for a third."

She noticed the men around them nodding their assent. The party got moving again.

"Are you now settled in Dale, then?" Beorn asked once they reclaimed the privacy of their shared horse.

"Yes; arrived more than a month ago."

"Maybe you should rather tell me news of my neighbours then, if you're not of the mind to describe your travels properly."

She scoffed. "As you command, my lord." She dived into a report on the state of things in Dale and Erebor, starting with the preparations to march against the Nazgul that were now well underway; then described the planned delegation east along the Celduin that aimed to open a new trade route with the Ironfists, Dwarves of the Rhun Mountains, and hopefully even with some Easterling tribes.

She paused in thought, searching for what next would be of interest to him, and Beorn used her silence, asking, "And what of your place in the city?"

"Oh, I've been keeping busy. Believe it or not, but lots of my time is spent with the Dwarves - not only am I a consultant to the planned Rhun expedition, but I've become an apprentice to a Dwarf! You might remember him - he was one of the thirteen that gave you a visit seven years ago. Ori- a redheaded young chap, rather shy."

"There were too many of them to truly remember any. What interest do you have in apprenticing to a Dwarf?"

"They possess skills I'm interested in."

"And this Ori is willing to teach them to a stranger to their race?"

Harry frowned, as Beorn's question brought the heaping frustration from the last four weeks to the forefront of her mind. "It's slow going," she admitted, "but I can be charming. He'll stop being so careful at some point."

Beorn scoffed. She shot a glare at his back.

"And what of the Lord of the City, your bargeman?"

How Beorn had caught on to her thoughts regarding Bard, Harry had never fully figured out, but she suspected his wicked sense of smell was somehow involved and rather left it at that. He had noticed her attraction fairly quickly, all those years ago, when they had first hunted Orcs together. After the Battle of Five Armies, the remnants of the Orcish troops had scattered wide and far around the Long Lake; it had taken Beorn and Harry several weeks to sniff them all out. Thankfully, Beorn had halted his advances once he'd learned of her interest in another man; unfortunately, he got into the habit of teasing her about it instead.

"That is hardly a matter of the state, even to a concerned neighbour. Admit it, it is gossip you're after."

"It is not progressing well, then."

"He is being rather stubborn," she grunted into Beorn's back, as much tired by the interest of others in her business as by the situation itself.

Beorn laughed at the frustration he must have heard in her answer. "He had refused you?"

She felt the sudden urge to pinch his sides, and chuckled at how quickly such childish antics came to her when dealing with her unfulfilled attraction. "You're not being very supportive right now, Beorn."

"Oh, I am not mocking you, Harry. I'm laughing at the fool of a man, for he surely is one, for rejecting you. What reasons could he have possibly given?"

She sighed but answered, for Beorn was probably her only friend in Arda removed enough from the situation that she could discuss this with freely, no matter how ridiculous it was to talk of feelings with this bear of a warrior. "Unfortunately, he's not comfortable enough sharing his worries to fully explain himself. But as far as I can discern, it's one part fear, one part cultural differences and finally his noble heart that's stopping him. I'm afraid I've so far failed to convince him it is truly the companionship that I'm looking for and that I won't hold it against him if such an arrangement doesn't work out. He's terrified that should it ruin our friendship, Dale would lose my support, for nothing else but his selfish desires."

"If it is mainly the good of Dale that lies on his mind, shouldn't he want to accept the offer and marry you right away? Tie you into the service of the city forever?"

Inwardly, she sighed at how quick everyone in Arda was to jump to the necessity of marriage to enjoy a relationship, but she chose not to explain her cultural differences now. "And that's where Bard's noble heart stops him," she said instead. "For he could never let himself manipulate his friends as such, even if it coincided with the happiness of everyone involved."

"How do you intend to get him rid of such notions?"

"As I said, I can be rather charming when I want to be. At least he's not blind to my flirting anymore, now that it's finally sunk in I'm not some barely-of-age lad."

At that, Beorn laughed, hard and bellowing. Harry watched the riders in front of them turn their heads towards the sound, and she fought off the sudden blush. She was reasonably sure Beorn wasn't laughing at her attempts to woo Bard; yet her rationalisation didn't entirely protect her confidence from suffering a blow at the mere thought.

She knew she wasn't a particularly smooth flirt, nor a great beauty. She had too much of her father's wide nose and square jaws to ever be called that, even in Middle-earth, where the standards appeared to be lowered; it seemed to Harry that one only had to have white teeth, healthy skin and washed hair to be considered attractive. No, rather than her average looks, her self-assurance stemmed from decades of experience, from several successful conquests and many happy years in various relationships.

And yet, as Beorn continued to guffaw, her pent-up frustration, caused by Bard's rejection, made that confidence waver.

At last, the oaf of a man finally calmed down enough to speak, still snickering. "Oh, what would I give to be in that man's place!"

For that, Harry did pinch him. "I thought you were married, my dear friend."

"Aye, happily so. But a man can still dream. It happens too rarely that a lass has the stones to chase the man she set her eyes on, but it is a great force to behold and truly formidable to stand against. Your bargeman is a very lucky man, Harry, even if it will take him a while to see it."


The Woodmen knew their path well. When dusk had fallen, they didn't need to look for a campsite; instead, they confidently led their horses to one. A copse of trees hid a groove big enough for their party and some, with a thick layer of dry grass to lie on and a scorched circle for a bonfire in the middle.

She watched as the men went about setting up the camp. No commands were spoken, yet everyone took up a task without hesitation. Her eyes searched for a way to help; they settled on a lad who was untangling four rabbits from beside his saddle. She sighed; skinning carcasses was hardly her favourite task, but it would bring about dinner faster.

The hunter startled as she stepped closer and reached for one of the rabbits. She offered a reassuring smile. "Let me help."

She felt Beorn's eyes on her as she went about her task. She chuckled at his critical stare, but she did sharpen her focus on her knife, the need to please her teachers still stirring her pride. She hung the first rabbit by its hind legs from a nearby branch and split the skin along the animal's muscle as Beorn had taught her, her cuts methodical and confident after years of practice, neither of which she had been when they had last camped together. She smirked, inordinately proud, when she felt his overbearing attention turn away without a single remark.

"I remember you have once sworn you'd only keep animals for neighbours," she told him some time later, when the men had settled around the fire and the aroma of roasting meat filled up their groove. By an unspoken agreement, Harry and Beorn sat on a log a bit afar, as if both felt they hadn't quite finished their conversation. The log sunk deep into the ground under Beorn's weight, making Harry's end stick out and the imbalance pushing her against her friend's side, but she didn't mind the closeness.

"And now I find you sharing the meat of dear rabbits, in the company of your own men," she finished.

"They are not my men," Beorn was quick to disagree. "They are Grimfára's. It's only during an Orc hunt that they turn to me to lead. And the rabbit wasn't a friend; all the Northmen know not to hurt any of the creatures at my home, but I can hardly starve them by laying claim to every animal along the Anduin."

She hid her pleased smile at his answer and continued to tease him. "And what of the village I've seen growing around your home? Are these just stables for more ponies?"

He grunted. "The Northmen came with nothing but what they could carry on their backs. Now, the trade route brings a lot of coin. The first two years were not as comfortable. I could offer help, so I did."

"And then you've found a family among them."

He nodded, his grumpiness subsiding in favour of a proud grin. "Her name is Grimwyn and she's Grimfára's oldest. She's with a child now; our first."

She squeezed Beorn's shoulder, the news bringing a wide smile onto her face. "I couldn't be happier for you, Beorn. It's a gift you most deserve."

Later, when the dinner had been eaten, the last scraps of meat licked off the bones and the remains buried away from the camp, and yet no one had retired to their bedrolls, Harry clocked in into the atmosphere of expectation with an amused snicker.

She wasn't surprised it was young Grimgár, the same lad who first touched her flames, who asked, "Would you give us a tale tonight, Master Wizard?"

She had felt the last of her apprehension leave sometime during dinner. Her full stomach and the quiet happiness seeping off of her friend next to her made her too comfortable to worry about any Galdalfs, Elves or Dark Lords chasing her. Or maybe, after more than a month of staying in the public eye as the magicless Hattie, she was eager to prove herself otherwise?

She smiled at the lad. "I have travelled far and wide, to all directions. What tale would you like to hear, young sir?"

The lad didn't take too long to contemplate his answer. "We hear many tales of the south from the Gondor traders coming up the river; and the Dwarves bring news of the west when their caravans cross the High Pass. The north is a dark place and run afoul by Orcs, but the far east is supposed to be vast and full of strange Men and stranger Dwarves, yet no one ever travels from there to give an account." The lad paused, his eyes darting across the faces of his kin, as if looking for approval, before they settled back on Harry. "If you would, I'd ask for a story of your home."

Beorn was sporting a triumphant grin next to her, she was sure of it; even if she didn't turn to meet it. With only the barest of hesitations, she slid down to kneel on the ground, leaned her back against the log and gripped a tuft of grass in each palm.

She wasn't a good storyteller; definitely not up to par with the standards of Middle-earth. Here, most histories and legends were handed down like this, in tales told over the fire. There was an art to telling a good story, or at least smoothness of practice that she would have gained by now had she truly grown up in Middle-earth, instead of reading Beedle the Bard over and over again to put the kids at home to sleep.

Aware of her limitations, she reached for the other tricks up her sleeve to impress her audience.

Blue flames flickered from between her fingers. The men all stirred at the sight, but no one rose in alarm. Under their watchful gazes, she let the flames very slowly spread away from her in two curved lines, keeping the fire low and rather dull in light, so as not to startle the horses grazing nearby. Once the two lines of flames closed in a circle that encompassed the whole company, warming their backs the same way the bright fire warmed their faces, she let go of the grass and spoke into the awed silence.

"You say no one ever travels from the East, yet you must have heard tales of the people who live there. Easterlings you call them, though we never call ourselves such. Men are called by the tribes they belong to, and there are many across the lands. They very rarely unite to need a name that would encompass them all," she started a tale she had prepared recently. She'd told it to the King of Erebor, and the Dwarves he'd picked to leave for an expedition to the Mountains of Rhun, so the words sprung easily to her tongue.

"Evil-worshippers you also call the Easterlings," she continued, "and sadly, in many cases, you'd be well justified to accuse them of such. Their children are taught to respect and fear the Shadow that dwells in the south, the Dark Lord Sauron, as their parents were taught by their parents; the same way you've been taught to respect and fear these woods. You can see that their beliefs are misguided, that they put their trust and lives into the hands of evil, but for them, that is the only truth they know. Not all of the tribes are like that, though."

She paused to take a sip from the waterskin that Holgeir, her rabbit fellow, handed to her from her left. The mead inside was sweet and heavy on her tongue and she took a second sip.

"Some tribes have been shown an alternative. Many years ago, two wizards arrived in Rhun, their clothes dark blue, and they spoke about a different life."

So Harry again went to describe the trail of the two missionaries she'd once followed in the east, though with embellishments instead of geographical details she had given in her report to the Dwarves. As she talked, a part of her mind wandered off, remembering the many evenings she'd spent under the stars like this, with the Bluebell charm warming her back as it was right now. During her wandering across Middle-earth, she'd sat by a bonfire many a night, alone, with only the sounds of the wilderness for company; seldomly lonely, though, for she had the excitement of a new world to discover keeping her occupied, and the warm thought of her friends waiting for her, paused in health and safety, chasing away her occasional maudlin mood.

And still, she couldn't help but like the addition of some human companions into the routine, at least for a little while.

Her eyes darted across the Woodmen hanging onto her words, and she returned her full focus to the story, determined to impress her audience.


AN:

I've never read the canon, neither HP nor LoTR, in the original. That explains some irregularities in my writing, since I haven't seen these worlds described in English anywhere but in fanfiction (my spotty memory and laziness still explain away more, though). I keep getting surprised: wait, wards isn't the correct translation for ochranné kouzlo? And do I really have to capitalize the name of every Bloody Charm? As we all know, fanfiction isn't the most reliable of sources and years of reading it left me with some mingled concepts of English HP terminology.

There are some noteworthy exceptions, though. Allow me to note one just now: Taure's works.

I most assuredly don't mention this author only for his language precision, but for my trust in his steadfast loyalty to the spirit of the canon. His most famous piece is another fem!Harry story, Victoria Potter, which I've heard great things about (but sadly, deprived myself of the pleasure by avoiding first year stories). He holds my respect for the amount of thought he puts into his worldbuilding, especially so when most of the observations he has made about the fundamentals of the HP world resonate with me. However, where I tend to state my instinct and flights of fancy as facts, he convinces with a logical argument.

Many years back, I read his The One He Feared and still feel impressed. In this story, we look through the eyes of a Harry who's gained 63 years of Dumbledore's memories. It's not finished, but it's still over 40k words of satisfying greatness. Go ahead! I hyped myself enough I'm going to reread it right after posting this chapter.