Harry Potter and the Heir to Gondor

A Harry Potter/Lord of the Rings fusion by Andrew J. Talon

Disclaimer: This is a fanbased parody work of prose. Please support the official release.

This excellent extra chapter was written by Kandagger, and was made canon by me.

Dudley Dursley and the Bridge of Death

Dudley Dursley found himself walking more. Ever since he had come to his Aunt Marge's estate with his father, bereft of video games, all of his toys, and even control of the telly, what else was there to do? So he walked. At first it was just around the farmstead, several bulldogs in tow. Then it was down to the highway and back. And these days it was out and beyond. Down hiking trails, following deerpaths, even meandering with the streams and brooks. Anything to keep himself busy, occupied. Anything so that by the time he returned home, he could eat dinner without thinking to complain and fall into bed immediately afterward.

He had lost weight–a lot of it. Nurse Phyllis back at Smeltings would be ecstatic.

No one else in his life, however, seemed to notice this change–not really. Aunt Marge was always busy with her dogs, Father had vanished into his work, and mother? Well…Dudley wasn't quite sure what was going on with her

It had started back at the beginning of summer holidays. His father, Vernon, had picked him up from the station by himself (which was unusual) with his face purple with anger (which was not).

"Come on son," He had said tersely, "Let's get to the car." No hugs. No cries of joy. Not even a 'welcome back.'

"Where's Mum?" He asked, only to flinch as his father flushed darker.

"We'll talk about it in the car." Vernon ground out, "Now get your things. Daylight's wasting, and I want to be at Marge's by sundown."

"We're not going home?" Dudley began, flabbergasted, "Why…"

"Not. Here." His father insisted. "Not in public. We're not going to make a scene. You hear me?"

Dudley wisely clamped his mouth shut and hustled to get his things in order. His mind whirled with questions, but he dare not voice them. Dad's temper was legendary, and without Mum there to calm him, there was no telling what he would do.

By the time he got to the car, Dudley thought he would explode with unvoiced thoughts and worries. He stowed his trunk in the boot and went to his customary seat in the back.

"What are you doing boy?" Vernon growled, "Come up to the front."

Oh yeah, Mum wasn't here. Dudley got up, moved to the passenger's seat and closed the door. He looked to his father, still fuming at the wheel, and waited for him to start talking. The car started. They backed out. And began to navigate the hell of city traffic. All in vicious silence.

"Dad?" Dudley ventured when he couldn't take it anymore, "Can we…?

"HE GOT TO HER!" his father roared, "HE REACH OUT WITH HIS GRUBBY LITTLE PAWS AND SNATCHED AWAY FROM US FOREVER!"

Dudley startled back, "What? Who?"

"YOUR RUDDY COUSIN, THAT'S WHO`!" Vernon snarled, cutting someone off on the road. "WAVED HIS STUPID MAGIC WAND AND GLAMOURED HER UP LIKE A RUDDY CHANGELING!"

It took Dudley almost the entirety of the trip to piece the story together. Apparently, his cousin, the freak, had done something extra freaky this year at school…and whatever it was was so potent, it reached back and started affecting his family, specifically his aunt–Dudley's mom. Activating old freaky things in Mum's bloodline and transforming her from a normal woman into…something. Something magical…

Old freaky things which she knew about, but never mentioned to dad.

Which meant she lied to dad…about something so fundamental its onset practically made her a different person.

What did that mean?

Well for Vernon Dursley, it meant he was done. Done with magic. Done with freaks. And done with his wife. It had taken Dudley almost two weeks to realize this, but with Mum thoroughly in the 'Freaks' camp, Vernon could simply divorce her and walk away. Wash his hands of his cousin's nonsense and leave the strangeness behind him once and for all. Sure the office might talk, but it would be normal talk–of divorces and mistresses and lawyers–all normal things for a manager at Grunnings to be dealing with…hell, he might even get a little sympathy for it

But Dudley himself still wasn't sure what to think about all this.. His mother was gone. GONE! The woman who made his lunches the way he liked them and encouraged him in everything he did was now forcibly out of his life for good. This…was not normal. This was ABnormal to the highest degree! But Dad and Aunt Marge just expected him to carry on like nothing had happened. Like it was all a bad dream that they were all just waking from.

Hence the walking.

His aunt's farm was up near the fens, and as Dudley roamed further and further afield, he found the terrain growing rougher and wilder. He also found he liked it more. The rawness of it, the treachery of step and root forced him to pay attention to every tree, every rock, and especially every puddle. It forced his mind away from his worries and into reality. Whatever else was going on with Dad, and Marge, and Mum and even cousin Harry, the fens were THERE. They were REAL. And, most importantly, they didn't care what he thought of them. Professor Hallifax and every stuffy romantic poem he had forced Dudley to read couldn't compare to even the ugliest clump of bushes out here (a fact, Dudley mused, Professor Hallifax might actually agree with).

But, this particular morning, Dudley wasn't really appreciating the treacherous beauty of the fens.

A fog had rolled in from the coast (apparently not odd at all in the summer around here) and blanketed everything in ethereal gray. The rough and tumble landscape now wore a cloak of mystery, and Dudley couldn't help but feel uneasy even though he'd walked these paths before. Things changed in the mist. The familiar had been swallowed up and only the fantastic remained.

But Dudley wasn't about to give up and go back just because things had gotten a little freaky. Marge's farm was awful, from rafter to basement, and he would rather deal with another giant (don't ask) then spend another minute in that piss-smelling house than he had to. Besides, he had dealt with freaky for years, he could handle a little more. So on he walked, carefully checking every step lest he stumble and break something.

He heard the stream before he came to it, a quiet burbling nearly drowned out by the birds and frogs that made it their home. It was a piteous thing, barely a good leap across, but someone had built an elevated footbridge over it regardless. Curious. Who would need a footbridge in such a spot? He wasn't exactly on the beaten path out here. Was it even still usable?

Dudley found himself up the small hill and at the lip of the bridge before he'd even stopped to consider if it was wise. He tested the first plank with a foot, and finding it sturdy, stepped out onto the bridge, and then stepped again. He paused, surveying his domain. With the mist and the fens and gray early morning sky, he found himself recalling an old movie his buddy Piers had practically forced him to watch. A story of King Arthur, but so unlike any other version of the character, Dudley could hardly believe it. "Irreverent garbage," his father had said, and Dudley was inclined to agree.

But the movie had done its damage and lodged its way into Dudley's brain, and he found himself chuckling at the memory of the Old Man from Scene 24 asking his baleful questions.

Ah, what the hell, there wasn't anyone around.

"He who approacheth the Bridge of Death must answer me these questions three, 'ere the other side he see!"," Dudley rasped out to no one. Not too bad an impression if he did say so himself.

He was about to keep walking when he heard something from under the bridge say, "Ask me your questions, bridgekeeper. I am not afraid!"

A hand of swarthy black with claw-like nails reached out from beneath and pulled a towering man-shaped thing to standing position. He was seven feet tall, at least, but thin and rangey. He didn't hunch or loom but stood with kingly straightness despite looking the poorest of vagabonds. He wore an old pea coat that fit him well, but had been patched and re-patched so many times over the years it was hard to tell what color it started as, and sturdy boots that had seen better decades. But, strangest of all, was the scarf. Wrapped several times around his head was a long woolen scarf of many colors that obscured his face and head completely, save for long greasy hair that fell in dark waves about his face, and dark flashing eyes that peaked out between the coils.

If he was human, he was the strangest human Dudley had ever seen. But Dudley had it on good authority that humanity wasn't the only possibility available.

He took a step back, half his nerves screaming at him to flee, but the other half screaming that to do so was suicide, "What are you? A troll?" he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Hardly" the…man grumbled as he hoisted himself on top of the bridge, "Trolls are taller, and solid, like a walking boulder. They're bout as dumb as boulders too, and getting stupider with each generation." His voice had a grit to it, like an old smoker, and an accent Dudley couldn't quite place, "Now, was that your question, bridgekeeper or are we going to do this right?"

Dudley swallowed. He felt trapped in a game of his own devising (which really wasn't fair because he didn't think anyone else was playing). He considered running, cutting his losses and bolting back to the unpleasant safety of Marge's farmstead. But the man was twice as tall as he…and most likely faster by a fair bit. If he ran, he would be caught. That left facing the problem…or just playing the game and seeing where the chips fell.

Dudley may have been a staunch fighter, but discretion was the better part of valor.

"Sorry" he said quickly, hoping to smother his fear in bravado, "What...is your name?"

"I am…" the man paused, considering, "I was Ashurz'ash–The First One–though I haven't used that name in so long even the language it comes from has died a long deserved death. I have been called many things over the years: monster, abomination, friend. And such things have lost all poignancy save in remembering which people called me what. I've always sort of liked 'Heathcliff' though…and given where we are, it seems appropriate.`

Dudley forced himself to scoff, if he showed no weakness he just might get out of this alive, "Hate to disappoint you, mate, but the heaths are miles thataway." he pointed, "Besides, you look more like a 'Magwitch' than a Heathcliff."

The man, surprisingly, laughed–bold and brassy like a donkey's bray, "Ah Dickens, you Dickens, here you are again. I suppose you are right, boy. Very well, I am Magwitch: king of nowhere, and master only of myself."

Dudley waited a beat before crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow, "Aren't you going to explode and fall in the water?"

The man, Magwitch, he supposed, shook his head, "I'm telling you who I am, boy. The only way I can get that one wrong is if I lie to myself,"

Well, it was logical at that. Dudley pressed forward, "What…is your quest?"

"The Song called me here." Magwitch said with a gravity that almost caused the mists to recoil, "The Echoes of the Song that brought the world into being…I heard them. Me. I thought such grace would be forever denied me, and yet here I am. Hunting. Listening. Straining for notes of a melody I should have no part in." He laughed again, high and giddy this time. "There is something important around here. Something lost and tarnished, but not beyond hope. I must find it…I SHALL find it."

Dudley felt his panic start to overtake him. This Magwitch was nuts. And not in the kooky way his cousin was. Still, the game was not done, and he still had his trump card to play.

"What…is the capital of Assyria?"

"Nineveh." Magwitch said immediately.

Dudley's face fell, "Wait, really?"

"Well, yes and no," Magwitch admitted, "I actually looked this one up afte I saw the movie. Nineveh was the capital of Assyria, but the kingdom itself had vanished to the winds ages ago. By Arthur's time, the territory was part of the Cairo Caliphate…but that hardly counts, does it?"

Dudley screwed up his face, "Not really fair of the bridgekeeper in the movie."

"Oh aye," Magwitch agreed, "But life is like that sometimes. Asking questions without good answers. You just have to answer as best you can, and hope it is sufficient."

He smiled beneath his scarf, "So, is it sufficient, bridgekeeper?"

Dudley shook his head in disbelief. It looked like this bridge troll wasn't going to eat him after all. "Right…off you go then." he gestured behind him.

"Ah…no, I think I am quite comfortable where I am."

Or maybe he'd spoken too soon, "Fine. Well then if you'll excuse me, I've got more fen to hike."

He strode forward hoping to leave this crazy man to his nonsense.

"Halt!" Magwitch barked, and Dudley felt himself freeze, "He who approacheth the bridge of death must answer me these questions three, ere the other side he see."

Dudley sighed, "Listen…Magwitch, it's been fun but I have to go." He turned and began to walk in the other direction. There were other places out here to walk without bridges and trolls beneath them.

"Oho?" Magwitch scoffed, "You can dish it out but can't take it? Too afraid of three simple questions?"

Dudley felt his anger start to burble. He was many things, but a coward was not one of them. Not any more. His father had faced down a giant for him. He could deal with one crazy hobo…troll…thing.

"Ask me your questions, Bridgekeeper, I am not afraid."

Magwitch laughed his awful laugh, "Good answer. Now, what…is your name?"

"Dudley Dursley," he said immediately. The words hung in the air for a moment, conspicuous in the silence that followed.

"That it?" Magwitch scoffed, "No titles? No accomplishments? Nothing to boast about? Nothing you're proud of?"

Dudley grit his teeth. He was going to tell Magwitch exactly who he was. Dudley Dursley, son of Vernon Dursley, mightiest student in his year at Smeltings School for Boys… But as he thought about what he could say, more titles streamed into his head, ones that were much less praiseworthy. Dudley Dursley, breaker of video games, smasher of toys, disdainer of books, eater of dinners and desserts not his own, coward, bully, cad, and thief, tormentor of his cousin, lickspittle to his father and aunt, and REJECTOR OF HIS MOTHER.

Dudley shuddered and tried to blink those thoughts away. Where had all that come from? Was it true? He really didn't think that about himself, did he? Was that really who he was?

He looked up at Magwitch, standing there impassively, expecting an answer, "None that you're getting." He said, his anger forcing action where the rest of him had none.

Magwitch snorted but didn't comment further, "What…is your quest?"

Dudley paused. Just what WAS he doing out here? Walking, obviously, but where? To whom? From what? Why were these questions so hard to answer?

"I seek…" he tried, "I seek peace. My house has been upended and I don't know why. Those that do won't tell me anything, and pretend like everything's fine–even though it's clearly not. The silence there is unbearable. I never knew no sound at all could feel so…so…

"Discordant?" Magwitch supplied, dark eyes shining.

"Yeah…discordant." Dudley exhaled. He felt…better. Not a lot better, but some. Just getting the words out did a lot to put his jumbled thoughts into order.

Magwitch nodded, approvingly, "So, then Dudley Dursley. What…will you do next?"

Dudley blinked, "I…what? What kind of question is that?"

"The most important one, Dudley Dursley." Magwitch said with the same gravitas that made the mists shudder, "You have no accomplishments of note–or at least, none you'd boast of to a stranger. You are not happy at home, and that this unhappiness is only going to perpetuate if you do nothing. So, something needs to change, and you, Dudley Dursley, need to change it. So I ask again; what will you do next?"

And there it was, spelled out so simply, even he could understand it. He knew what he needed. What he wanted. He also knew he couldn't get it. Not without father or Marge finding out. That made him…powerless. He was powerless in the face of this disaster.

He felt tears–and not the crocodile kind–start to well in his eyes, "Well…what do you WANT me to do?" he almost screamed, "I can't run to my parents since they're part of the problem. I don't have a fucking magic wand to wave around and change things. And this definitely ain't a problem I can punch until it goes away. I've got nothing!"

"There is more you can do with your hands than punching." Magwitch said philosophically, "It took me a long long time to learn that…"

Dudley was getting exhausted of this weird man's bullshit. "Oh, spare me your platitudes old man!" he yelled, "You don't know me. You don't understand me. So why don't you just fuck off back to Narnia or whereever, because this shit ain't flying with nobody."

Those words hung in the air for far longer a moment than they should. Magwitch was silent, not even breathing as he tried to figure out the best way to approach the bomb that had gone off in his presence. And when he finally spoke it was quiet, "You feel as though you have nothing. You feel scared and alone and powerless and you hate it. You hate it with every fiber of your being. But that feeling is not the truth, Dudley Dursley. I say this not to trivialize your pain, but to help you defeat it. You are far from powerless, even now. You have freedom of movement. You have little supervision. If your tormentors planned this moment as a prison for you, then it has backfired horribly. The only thing stopping you from acting as you wish, are the chains around your spirit."

This was too much for Dudley, "Fuck off…just fuck off, old man. What do you know about anything? You don't know me! Go back to your bridge and scare off the billy goats, because you're shit at everything else!"

Magwitch held up his hands in surrender, "Very well, Dudley Dursley, you may pass." He took three steps back and the mists started to engulf him, "Just…think about what I said. And know that I will be here should you need me." The tall man was but a shadow in the mists, now–a shadow and a voice, You did well, naming me Magwitch. For, like that character, I intend to help you whether you wish it or not. Fare well for now, Dudley Dursley. Fare well."

And he was gone. Like he was never there in the first place.

Dudley collapsed into a boneless pile on the bridge. Shivering and crying with equal measure as the sadness and rage of almost a month intermingled with his recent terror, Dudley screamed into his arm to muffle the sound, and again for good measure. What kind of a man was he? He thought to himself. Reduced to a gibbering wreck over something so stupid as the three questions from Monty Python?

Because you're not a man, yet. You don't have to be. You're barely over thirteen. You can still be a little boy who needs his mother.

That thought made him cry harder, but it was a more honest cry now. Before he was trying to keep it in. Hating himself for every tear and sniffle. Now. He didn't care. He let them both flow freely.

Mum…he wanted his mum. He needed to call her.

The tears stopped abruptly. Dudley stood and ran fast as his feet could carry him, back through the fens, up the highway, down the road and past the gates of Marge's farmstead. He caught his breath in the kitchens and grabbed a glass of water. Making sure Marge was off anywhere else before he picked up the phone and dialed a familiar number.

The phone rang once…twice…three times…before his father answered.

"Dursley residence. Please leave a message." BEEP

Dudley nearly dropped the phone in shock. His father's voice. Even pre-recorded like this, the sound of his father reminded Dudley how much sway Vernon held over him, and how fanatically he fought in the past to keep that sway. If he found out what Dudley was thinking…

But he can't find out. He's nowhere near the house!

So? It's still HIS house. He's going to check his messages eventually. Might be months from now. Might be tomorrow. If he ever hears me like this, he will go ballistic. Leave. No. Evidence.

Dudley slammed the phone back on the hook and slammed his fists to the counter in frustration. Thwarted again. Powerless still. Just banging on a rock and expecting it to break.

There is more you can do with your hands than punching…

Dudley looked down at his hands a moment, still throbbing from the counter. He flexed his fingers. He'd gotten used to punching things. It was easy, it was fun. But punching things didn't help him reach his mum. So what could he do instead?

You could write a letter.

Ugh. What part about Leave No Evidence did his subconscious not understand?

The part that some letters go immediately to the recipient…by way of owl.

Oh no…

That was worse.

That was far far worse than leaving a message on an answering machine. If dad found out he was using the magical mail system to go over his head. He would do worse than go ballistic. He'd banished to the cupboard under the stairs until he was eighteen and could be kicked to the curb. The same way his cousin was, the same way his mother was.

He couldn't risk that.

Could he?

The only thing stopping you from acting as you wish are the chains around your spirit.

Dudley looked around Marge's kitchen. At her ugly porcelain dishware and the myriad of dog bowls. He didn't want any of this. He didn't want "normal." He wanted his mum…and if that made him a freak, so be it.

He finished his water and set the glass by the sink. He went back through the front door and closed it soundly behind him. There was a little town about five miles down the road. And a post office. That was as good a place to start as any.

He'd walked farther before, for lesser reasons.

After all... Dudley too is of the blood of Numenor and the Eldar.