It was a little after daybreak that someone left the Prancing Pony. Bob the ostler had been running back and forth for a while now, so Harry creaked an unwilling eye open to watch the commotion. The horses were gone, and Butterbur himself had gone to seen the damage, dismayed and flustered. It was quite bad for business when your customers' possessions had mysteriously made off into the night, after all.

In fact, Harry realised, now fully awake as he eavesdropped on the conversations, all horses within the entire village were gone. That particular henchman was fast. It took skill to release all the equine animals from an entire village without alerting anyone. Fortunately, before Butterbur could be buried under a mound of damage claims, a new suspect arose. A horse-thief had apparently chosen this night to make off with a horse, and the blame automatically fell on him. Bad luck, bad timing.

This became the talk of the day once the sun rose a little higher and the residents began to stir. People were whispering about it, people were discussing the fact, and people were waking up to the news that yep, your horses got stolen by that no-good horse-thief who was Bill Ferny's friend. Another gossip matter, along with robbed stables and black horsemen, was that Strider the Ranger had joined the mysterious and occasionally vanishing hobbits that had arrived the previous night.

Harry perked up at that. It was unfortunate that people would talk about the vanishing, given that it was not something to be advertised, but Harry supposed that the people who should be the last to know of it already do, so there was not much point in stopping that rumour. It was mainly the "Strider" Ranger and "hobbits" bit that had caught his attention.

Rangers were good folk. A bit hard on the olfaction and mortal enemy of clean things, but trustworthy nonetheless. They kept evil at bay in the north of Eriador at the cost of their lives, only for the ones they protect to scorn and distrust them. It was a hard and thankless job. Harry sympathised for them. Perhaps he ought to visit them again soon, when everything blew over.

As for the hobbits… true, he had half-expected two hobbits, since they were, in general, as loyal as they abhor adventures, but the odds were pretty low. No one seemed entirely certain on just how many of these mysterious hobbits there were. One rumour said there were two hobbits. Another mentioned six. Most of them were about a group of three. Oh well. Harry gave a mental shrug. There's always safety in numbers, and he'd see them soon anyway.

Before long, the whole of Bree was buzzing with excitement as the rumours spread. Harry suspected that the event would likely be immortalised in Bree—the place all eventful happenings avoided—oral tradition as "that time weird things happened on Winterfilth 29, 3018".

It was almost ten, according to a passing hobbit's pocket watch, when a hobbit resembling Gandalf's descriptions finally stepped out of the inn. He was accompanied by three other hobbits, two with brown curls and one blond. A man in a travel-stained cloak of dark-green walked amongst them—Strider, most likely.

Harry caught sight of the Ranger's face as he turned to stare down one villager who came too close.

Oh.

Well. That was entirely unexpected.

Thorongil looked like he hadn't aged much for the last four decades since Harry last saw him. There was a frown on his face, and Harry could easily see the cause. It appeared as if everyone knew that a group of hobbits plus Ranger was heading out this fine day, and so everyone had brought their immediate family, their extended family, their distantly related family and their family pet along to see them go. The result was that there were people everywhere. People were crowding on the side of the road, people were hanging out of the windows, people were pressing their faces to the windows, and people were standing on boxes and other solid things to look over the heads of other people. Looking around, Harry could even recognise faces from Combe and Archet present in the crowd. Nosy bastards. How had they even gotten here so fast?

The group tramped off amid loud whispers and mutterings, the hobbits' head held high and seemingly paying no attention to the onlookers. The last one, the blond, was leading a pony, chewing on an apple at the same time and looking as if he couldn't possibly care less about what the people around him thought. Harry approved.

With a loud shriek designed to draw attention, he swooped down from the branch, flying low over the heads of the onlookers. Some people shrieked. One tried to grab his wing. Harry clipped the head of a man who had a particularly vile look on his face, then flapped his wings and rose up to a roof and stared down at the throng imperiously. You are all nosy people and I scorn you. Especially you by the fence.

A brief confrontation between the blond hobbit and Bill Ferny near the gate drew his attention back to the group. It ended with an apple landing squarely on Ferny's nose. Harry's approval rating for the blond rose.

The group strode on, determinedly ignoring their escort of children and curious stragglers who lingered even after they left the South Gate behind. Gawkers. Harry sighed and flew ahead, seeking cover in the wooded paths the group was heading to. Once he was out of human eyesight, he shifted forms again and crouched down on a thick and sturdy branch of a tree.

There, he aimed at the general vicinity of the group and fired a spell. The effect was not immediately visible, but gradually, the people following the hobbits and Thorongil slowed, their gazes sliding past the group, confused expressions on their faces as they stared into the distance. A few more steps, and most of them had turned around, giving up the ogling and finally, finally, leaving the group alone. Ah, the Confundus Charm; what would he do without it?

Now, all Harry had to do was to hang around and wait, because the paranoia of a Ranger was not to be underestimated. Thorongil would likely lead the hobbits in a roundabout route until he was confident that no one had followed them before heading directly eastwards. Harry eyeballed the group until he was certain of the path they would take, then went to fill his empty stomach.

It took the rest of the afternoon for a trend of sorts to emerge: the hobbits munched, the Ranger marched ahead, and the stalker-bird-wizard stalked.

Finally, one week later, three hobbits and a man stepped onto Weathertop. (The wizard had gotten exasperated by the slow pace and had winged ahead to check the path.)

Harry was reasonably certain that that grey figure on the white horse was Gandalf (the staff and Glamdring were major clues). He was, however, not entirely certain how Gandalf had gotten in front of him. The Istar had probably been to Bree, only to find out they'd left, and was now en route to Imladris. How had they missed each other?

This, however, certainly explained the flashing lightshow upon Weathertop three days back—the light had been too bright for Harry to see clearly, though he had managed to identify the involvement of several Ringwraiths. The Nazgûl had disappeared when he tried to locate them again, much to his discomfort, but the remains of the fight at Weathertop had been heated, if the broken stones and charred rocks were anything to go by.

It'd be a lot safer for the Ring-bearer if the group had met up with Gandalf, but with the rate Gandalf was going, it was nigh impossible that the group would ever catch up. Even if all the hobbits and Thorongil had been fitted with the best horses, they would still be outpaced by the Mearh that bore Gandalf. With a sigh, Harry turned around and headed back to Weathertop. Night had fallen, and Gandalf was going to be much safer than the group of hobbits.

A fire was started in a dell near Weathertop, its flickering light visible even from this distance. What were they doing? Nothing shouts "I am here!" better than a flame in the dark, and it was getting quite dark indeed—dark enough for an attack, perhaps.

He scanned the area around the hill. Trees, trees, bush, rabbit—ignore that—and oh damn. Nazgûl. Five of them. Harry sped up, cursing the still air and hoping he'd reach before the black riders. Of all the days to be out of reach, it had to be this night. Fantastic timing, as always.

The sounds of yelling and metal clashing reached him before he reached the fight. Thorongil was brandishing a lit branch, drawing a wide distance between himself and two shrieking wraiths. Two hobbits were standing behind him, their faces pale and frightened, illuminated by the light of the fire. The other was shrinking back at one side. One was missing. Frodo was missing. Harry's heart skipped a beat. Where's the Ring-bearer?

Three of the wraiths were converging to a point in the shadows, when the one in the middle suddenly sprang forward and stabbed down with a blade. There was a loud cry, and then a figure flickered into being. Frodo.

The moment he was close enough, Harry shifted form, falling the remaining distance as a wizard. Without more than a thought, he had landed disillusioned. Incendio. Flames poured forth from his wand and wrapped itself around the Ringwraith coming towards him. He flicked his wand to the left and flung the wraith away.

Crack.

A wraith screeched just as he apparated beside Frodo, and the middle Nazgûl withdrew with a hiss.

The Witch-King. Now was not the time to taunt him, so Harry simply set the wraith's cloak on fire just as Thorongil approached the two from behind with burning sticks. Stuck between a Ranger with burning brands and a wizard, the Nazgûl fled.

That solved Major Problem One. On to Major Problem Two: stabbed hobbit.

Frodo was lying face down on the grass, his hand clutching a sword beneath him. His face was pale, and his breathing was harsh and rapid. Thorongil's face was grim as he ordered the others to pick him up and put him near the fire. The trio of hobbits quickly obeyed, carefully lifting Frodo's prone body and setting him down gently beside the dwindling flames.

"Keep the fire going, and keep Frodo warm!" he called to the others, and then disappeared promptly into the night. To ensure that the Nazgûl had truly left, Harry knew.

The other hobbits casted doubtful looks at each other, and one threw a log into the fire and stoked it.

Harry knelt down beside Frodo, probing the wound with gentle fingers. It was a deep but small wound, and he would have believed it unimportant if he hadn't felt the shadowy chill of dark sorcery brushing against his senses. Harry frowned, pushing his magic against the coldness. A tremble ran beneath his fingers and he drew back.

Frodo awoke with a gasp a moment after, his eyes wide, pupils blown out, and a wild look about him. He sat up and looked around, as if searching for something. "What has happened? Where is the pale king?"

One of the brown-haired hobbits cheered, scampering towards him, and relief visibly swept through the other two hobbits. Harry stood back and let the hobbits take care of Frodo. ("Care" seemed to consisted mainly of fussing, excited chattering and much cheering.)

Pale king, Frodo said. The Witch-king, he meant. Harry scowled at the ground.

Thorongil returned a while later, by which time dawn was growing in the sky and greyish light had filled the dell.

"Look!" he called out suddenly, bending down to lift a black cloak from the ground. There was large slash on the lower hem. It was the only damage Frodo would have managed to do; send the Witch-king of Angmar fleeing without clothes.

And that was one mental image he did not need. Can technically invisible skeletal corpses even be called naked?

Thorongil took two more steps and stooped down again, lifting up a long, thin knife with a notched edge and a broken off tip. Oh dear. Harry watched as the blade quickly disintegrated and vanished like smoke in the air. That was not good.

"Stabbed by a Morgul-blade," Thorongil said grimly, something like a sigh in his tone. "Few now have the skill in healing to match such evil weapons, but I will do what I can."

He called a hobbit—"Sam"—to him, and said something in a low voice. Harry didn't listen in, unlike the other two hobbits he could see, but it was easy to guess the topic of their conversation. They spoke for a few minutes, until at last, Thorongil said, to all three of the hobbits, "Guard him well, while I am away." Then he hurried off and disappeared once more into the darkness. Sam looked extremely upset as he turned to Frodo.

A Morgul-blade. Harry stood up, considered his options, and then dropped the disillusionment charm. The two yet unnamed hobbits started. Sam gave a strangled cry and drew his sword, running at him.

"Halt!" Harry called, raising his hands to show his lack of weapons. He looked carefully into the hobbit's dark eyes, and the hobbit slowed down.

"Mister Hobbit, I mean no harm. I am not a Black Rider, nor in league with them. The Ranger cannot vouch for me, for we have not met, but Gandalf and Lord Elrond of Rivendell are friends of mine."

"What do you want?" A slight quaver, overshadowed by the sheer amount of suspicion in his tone.

"To help." Harry broadcasted trustworthiness and sincerity until slowly, Sam lowered the sword.

"I will trust you," he said slowly, "for I believe no ally of the dark could speak of elves and Gandalf so freely, but if you harm Master Frodo…"

Harry nodded solemnly as Sam trailed off. His loyalty was commendable, but there was no time to waste. He knelt down beside Frodo again, and tore the bloody cloth around the wound, peeling it off with a nasty squelch. Harry cleaned the area with a few spells, then flooded the entire shoulder with his magic. Frodo shivered. Doing so let him have more control and also created a numbing effect in the area. A little excessive, perhaps, but it wasn't as if he was likely to be flinging powerful magic around in the immediate future.

Once that was done, he could now feel the exact location of the Morgul-shard—a silver of something chilling and shadowy that was slowly, slowly, moving downwards. Harry carefully solidified the perimeter of his small zone of magic, blocking the pathway to the heart, and then sent a little more magic to wrap around the rest. The black magic protested at that, lashing out and unfurling furiously. Harry responded by getting a good hold of the physical shard and then grimaced when he felt the sudden tiredness hit.

A belated spasm passed though Frodo's body. "Hold him down," Harry ordered, and Sam quickly knelt down on Frodo's other side. The hobbit's legs were held on by the other two, all of whom were staring at him in avid fascination. No one tried to talk yet.

"This is not going to look pleasant," Harry warned, then pulled. Frodo's body lifted almost an inch from the ground until the hobbits reacted and pushed him back down. It felt like he was gripping slime, slick and cold and wet and slipping from his fingers. This was likely a blade forged in the middle of the Second Age, when Sauron was still rising to the top—Harry twitched when he imagined trying to remove a shard from a Morgul-blade forged at the height of Sauron's powers.

His fingers were starting to numb. It was like hooking a large fish in the sea—the shard was trying to go down and deeper, and Harry was trying to bring it up and out of the flesh. The shard dug downwards resolutely in spite of his efforts, and he glowered at Frodo's shoulder, pushing more magic in and blocking the shard's downwards path.

It wouldn't be nearly this hard if he had some athelas or if there were some elves nearby he could take advantage of. Unfortunately, neither was available right at this moment, and he loathed to let the dark sorcery fester in the wound and gain more ground while he looked for either. It was fortunate that he had experience and bull-headed determination. He pulled his magic up towards him before he could drop the shard completely, and it inched upwards through the wound. There was the grey of it amidst the blood, now. The Elder Wand slipped into his hand without a thought. "Accio."

The shard dislodged and flew upwards. Harry caught it with the piece of bloody cloth he had torn from Frodo's shirt. Another accio brought the hilt of the Morgul-blade flying at him. That and the shard he wrapped together with transfigured cloth, feeling eyes following his every movement. Harry stood up abruptly, then stopped and closed his eyes against the sudden sense of vertigo.

"Bind that up and wait for the Ranger. I'm bringing this to Elrond."

Before the others could speak, he disapparated.

So I have a test tomorrow, an assignment due in two days and an interview in four, and what do I do? Dig out fanfics and continue them. Priorities: straight. This fic will be getting the regular attention it should have had for the past two years, so there won't be any more yearly updates or shiz. Probably a month, at most.

On a different note, Thorongil [eagle-star, funnily enough] is the name Aragorn took when he served as a Gondorian Captain sometime in his twenties-thirties, and that is the name Harry knows him at, so until he has been formally introduced as Aragorn, that name will still be used. Mearh, is, apparently, the singular of Mearas (the race of horses Shadowfax is from), not "Meara", since the original word came from Old English and Old English said the singular was that, so I'm using using that. Winterfilth: The hobbit's equivalent of September. I figured that Bree was close enough to the Shire to also use their calendar. Also, please pretend that Shadowfax is on some super performance-enhancement drugs while roaming around in Rohan and managed to complete a journey that originally took around two weeks in four days instead. Thanks.

[2/1/16: Edited language.]