The Unseen Watcher
Chapter Three
For weeks, Harry wandered the wilds of Middle-earth. He did not approach the cities of men or the halls of the elves. He had no interest in their wars, their conflicts.
But he watched.
From the cliffs above Rivendell, he observed Elrond's halls, the elves moving like silver ghosts through their ancient city.
In the deep forests of Lothlórien, he felt the power of Galadriel, a presence that nearly sensed him—but could not see him.
The elves knew something had come to their world.
A whisper in the wind. A shadow among the trees.
But they did not know his name.
And then he found them.
The Fellowship.
Nine souls, bound by fate, walking toward an uncertain destiny.
Harry had no desire to join them. Their path was not his. But as he watched, unseen, from the edges of their journey, he felt the pull of something he could not name.
His gaze lingered on the elf.
Legolas Greenleaf.
He moved with silent grace, golden hair catching the light, his sharp eyes scanning the wilderness with an intensity that intrigued Harry.
And then… Legolas's gaze flickered toward the shadows.
Toward him.
Harry stilled.
For a moment—just a heartbeat—he could have sworn their eyes met.
Then Legolas turned away, his expression unreadable.
Harry exhaled slowly.
He would not interfere.
Not yet.
But when the first danger struck, when the Fellowship was ambushed in the night, when Legolas reached for his bow too late—
Harry moved.
A shadow streaked across the battlefield, silent and swift. The orcs barely had time to react before they were torn apart, clawed, crushed, erased from existence.
When the last body fell, the Fellowship stood frozen in shock.
And from the darkness, Moros emerged, his black fur slick with blood, his silver eyes gleaming like the moon.
The great wolf sat at the edge of the firelight, his massive head tilting as he regarded the stunned warriors.
Gimli gripped his axe. "By the ancestors… what in Durin's name is that?"
Aragorn stepped forward cautiously. "A beast of the wilds…" His eyes narrowed. "No. Not a beast. Something more."
Boromir's hand hovered over his sword. "A trick of the enemy?"
Legolas, however, took a slow step forward. His blue eyes locked onto the wolf's silver ones.
Moros did not move.
Neither did Legolas.
A heartbeat passed.
Then another.
And finally, Legolas whispered something in Elvish.
Something soft. Something reverent.
Moros did not answer.
But in the shadows, Harry smiled.
They were beginning to see.