Delusional

Jessylane318

The young wizard ignored the cautious glare of the librarian as he entered the library of Elrond. The elf, a great figure in the eyes of most, stared. Hawk-like eyes shrewd and calculating. A quill squawked in the silence, black ink twining in it's jar. The others turned away as he passed, backing away from him—away from one so untouchable.

Away from the wizard.

Harry stretched his legs, the sweet silence ringing in his ears. Green eyes, the color of a watermelon's empty carcass, washed against the world, soaking in the different colors and books and words and sounds. The building felt empty. Containing and obsolete.

He turned a corner and found what he'd been looking for, the smallest of books, the one with pictures and scrolls.

He opened it once more and read-watched the birds swoop and the trees grow anew; watched the frosted flowers bloom and the soft-swept clouds blunder across blue-painted skies. He watched until he could watch no more and the librarian forced him away.

"Incendio..."

"At it again young wizard?" Harry didn't bother to turn, recognizing the voice instantly. Elrohir and Elladan. Twin sons of Elrond.

"Don't you two have something to do?"

"But of course," replied one neutrally. "However, we have come to acquire you skills with a sword. Our lord father believes your presence is endangering the ale and mead. The cook has complained thrice of your fires."

He glanced at them from the corner of his eye, watching the scowling countenance of Elladan and Elrohir's shifting smile.

"I'm busy," he replied in kind, turning back to the bowl of mead, he flicked his wand sharply, feeling, as he watched, the fire roar up. He'd easily discovered that a spell, practiced enough, could be done silently. It certainly explained some of his teacher's feats.

Elrohir chuckled dryly and Elladan grunted before the sound of fabric moving caught his attention. He turned at once, only not in time. The fire was quickly blanketed and two, rough and calloused hands took hold of his arms. He had only begun to struggle when he heard Elladan's leathery voice in his ear.

"You are ridiculously light, young wizard."

Harry scowled and stopped jerking. Stupid Elves.

The bow strained against his arms, sapping his strength as he simply held it aloft. How could anyone do this? What kind of puffed up monsters used this sort of weapon?

"Concentrate," barked the elf, Elladan. "If you can't wield a sword, at least hold the bow aloft."

Harry flinched slightly. He had fared horribly against the elf, loosing his sword in the very beginning. The passing creatures had all laughed with delight and stared, reminding him of the children of Hogwarts. Reminding him of the mean-spirited people that awaited him should he return.

"Elladan," chided a voice, a new one. He looked blithely to the side to see a new elf, a she-elf. Arwen, Aragorn's admirer. "There is little need for such harsh words. He is but a boy."

"He is a wizard," answered the elf in reply, as though that solved everything. "He must defend himself with something other than the flame. Even Mithandril uses a sword. He must have a real weapon."

"Brother!" she announced in a most vicious manner. Most unladylike. "Have you spoken with Estel of this? He is twelve years of age. I do not remember you able to wield you bow or hold a sword well then either."

"He is a wizard." The words seemed a little less confident this time. Harry wondered why.

"He is," acknowledged Arwen. "But he is a boy as well."

Elladan made no reply, but he did stop yelling—somewhat.

"What makes a wizard?" asked Hermione, her bushy hair billowing. Lights blared around her and elves raised an applause. He was on a game show, but he didn't remember the answer.

"Magic?" he tried to answer, but she refused to listen. "Fire?"

"Where is your hand, Harry?" asked Ron, who was entangled in Hermione's hair. "Where's your wand?"

"It fell off," he replied back, waving the appendage. Even as he did, the other hand fell off, and a turban was winding around his feet, burning him. He tried to scream as sands swept up and fire raced around him. No...

No...

Harry jerked awake suddenly, his body entrenched in sweat. The black hair matted itself in ruffled heaps, pale lips dry and scabbed. He licked them cautiously, green eyes staring upwards still hazy and fearful.

Grabbing his glasses, Harry looked down, as though to assure himself that his body was indeed, still whole—that it all had been but a dream. He noticed at once, the darkness bluring against gray cloth, and unwound the fabric from his hand for further inspection.

The small lacerations that had earlier been simply cuts now seemed puffy and red, oozing a strange pale pus. Small lines were crawling up his hand and down his arm, obviously infected.

He cursed and got dressed ignoring that it was obviously still dark. Maybe if he left now, he could work up the courage to see one of the healers.

Harry leaned against the door, unable to enter, and to worried to leave, debating as he had for the walk up and down the great flights of stairs whether he should or should not. Should he dare go find Lord Elrond, who had already shown himself not so happy with Harry after their initial meeting, or find Aragorn, who could heal almost anything with the exception of the Nazgul wound.

Aragorn it was; albeit, reluctantly.

"He is a menace," claimed the Ranger's voice. He sounded angry, hearkening with an enthusiasm that diverted Harry's attention towards it. Who was a menace? Was something wrong, at this time of the night—or rather morning? "His fire hath consumed-"

"He has as of yet, done nothing," replied another. It sounded like an elf, eloquent and soft spoken, but Harry couldn't be certain. And besides, if it were, indeed an elf, would they not be speaking in Elvish? "So long as he refuses our attention, we shall refuse his."

Harry frowned. Fire? Attention? Could they be talking about him? Could this be why all the elves were ignoring him? But what did Aragorn have to do with it? Did he really think Harry a menace?

"The wizard is plotting, I tell you!" exclaimed Aragorn, and Harry could feel his throat constrict. The sounds of murmurs poured through the wooden door. A wizard! So Aragorn really though him plotting? A menace? Nothing but something to be squashed, like some pathetic bug, by the sound of it. "Have you listened of nothing we've told you? Gandalf is correct-"

Even Gandalf was in on this?

"Mithandril is old," replied the stranger, Harry heard approval. He felt hope and hugged his forgotten hand to his chest. "However, he has yet to be truly wrong. We shall confer amongst the others. Lord Elrond shall hear our decision, and through him you, Estel."

He heard the dismissal and backed away, his hand forgotten in his panic. They were going to kick him out? Was that why everyone was avoiding him? Where would he go, back to Old Butterbur in Bree? To the memories of Bob and the bloody grave? Would he find a new home with elves and humans and hobbits and dwarves? Would he ever return to his old one? Ginny, Hermione, Ron? The names came with the normal pang, but not so painful as they once were. Like an almost irrecoverable haze. Could he truly forget them, his old friends? Hagrid still stuck in Azkaban for a crime he never committed, Dumbledore sacked from office through Malfoy's machinations.

He turned to move away, when the door slid open. A tall figure stepped out, grabbing hold of his shoulder on instinct. Aragorn looked down, eyes hooded by the shadows. Hate and loathing undoubtedly filling them. How could he! Why?

Harry glanced upwards, feeling the fear and anger and pain draw into one. A tear leaked against his eye and he bolted from the place, shrugging off the shocked hand as he raced away. Aragorn had betrayed him. Gandalf had lied. Aragorn didn't care. None of them did.

They had lied.

The all of them, liars.