Dear readers,

Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story. Your comments mean a lot to me, and I truly hope I'll have the pleasure of reading more from you in the future.

I plan to publish a new chapter roughly every two weeks. Please bear with me if there's a little variation — sometimes a bit sooner, sometimes a bit later — as I'm currently writing two fanfictions at once, and I need time to write, edit, and translate everything properly.

You may notice some inconsistencies between this fanfiction and Tolkien's universe. I try my best to respect his work, but as you know, Middle-earth is vast and complex — even Tolkien himself sometimes contradicted his earlier writings. So please don't throw stones at me 😅😉 — take it as a humble attempt to remain true to the essence of his world, while still crafting a personal story within it.

Also, not everything in this story follows the events as shown in the Harry Potter films. Certain things have changed: Kreacher is now a free elf, Bellatrix is still alive, Ginny and Luna died during the Battle of Hogwarts... It's a darker world than the one we're used to. So don't be surprised if you come across elements that differ from canon — it's intentional.

On another note, I sometimes write small scenes or fragments that don't make it into the main narrative — moments told from different perspectives, or little "what if" scenarios that don't quite fit anywhere. Would you be interested in reading those as well? Short standalone pieces to help pass the time between chapters?

In any case, I sincerely hope you enjoy the story, and I look forward to seeing you in the comments.

Happy reading!
Julie

CHAPTER 2 :

The days had passed like a fever dream.

A strange torpor hung over Number 12, Grimmauld Place—thick as the dust clinging to the whispering tapestries. It was no longer a house, but a wounded sanctuary, haunted by two survivors who couldn't look each other in the eye for too long, afraid of seeing their own pain reflected back at them.

Adjusting to the light again had proven more difficult than expected. Every beam of sunlight filtering through the velvet curtains seemed too bright, almost aggressive. Far from the dark dungeons and the cold, freedom had left a metallic taste in their mouths—like sour blood that refused to fade. The pain hadn't disappeared with the chains; it had simply moved. It had buried itself in their bones, in their breath, in the silences they shared more often than words.

Harry had been the first to try and fill that void with activity. A frenzy of movement. He searched every room in the house as if looking for an exit he'd missed—or perhaps some meaning to what they had endured. With each drawer opened, each corner revealed, he seemed to peel himself further away from the memory of darkness. Kreacher, ever quick to grumble, trailed after him at a distance, muttering about the mess but never actually stopping him. Perhaps he understood.

It was in one of the forgotten rooms on the third floor that Harry found it.

Behind a panel hidden by a threadbare curtain that had seen better days, in a chest sealed with ancient runes, lay a strange object. An old map, covered in shifting inscriptions—symbols that rearranged themselves under the gaze. And beside it, like a heartbeat nestled in the dark, a stone. Green, with an almost unreal clarity, yet threaded with golden veins, as if a star had been trapped inside.

Harry picked it up, and at once, a diffuse warmth spread through his arm—not pleasant, not painful, but old. Primordial. A low vibration echoed in his chest, a murmur he couldn't understand, but which spoke to something deeply buried within him. He stood there for a long time, transfixed, unable to look away.

The stone felt alive. It almost breathed. Every glint, every pulse of light from within seemed to call to him, to tempt him. It offered the promise of infinite power—or an endless abyss. He didn't know yet. But he knew it was beautiful. And dangerous. That looking at it for too long was like staring into sacred fire: hypnotic, but fatal.

He should have put it back.

He didn't.

From that day on, the map and the stone never left his side. He spent hours in the library, eyes burning, hand clenched around an old wand he'd found in a dusty drawer. He deciphered, compared, experimented. The Black family's books—numerous, ancient, often cursed or aggressive—were mazes unto themselves. But Harry did not falter. The work grounded him. It shielded him from the downward spiral that had threatened to consume him since the attack on Hogsmeade.

And meanwhile, Draco wandered the halls.

He didn't speak. He didn't ask questions. He didn't even make a fuss. He was simply there, in silence, like a pale shadow drifting between the walls. He never went near the windows. Even the faintest reflection on glass seemed enough to make him shiver. Sometimes, he spoke with the portraits of his ancestors—the ones Harry always avoided—but there was no hatred in his voice, no bitterness. Only a weary sadness. A need to understand.

He never mentioned his father. Harry never asked. He knew that kind of silence too well. And yet, within that quiet, some form of language had taken root between them. Something fragile. Instinctive.

Draco passed by the door whenever Harry wasn't asleep. He would leave a cup of hot tea without saying a word. Harry, in turn, placed a tray of food outside the blond's room each evening, making sure he was eating, drinking. They never thanked each other. They didn't always look at one another. But they watched over each other—like two soldiers returned from a battlefield that refused to let them go.

Sometimes, their eyes met. And in those suspended moments, wordless and still, a silent truth passed between them: You're still here. So am I. That's something.

Harry wasn't sure he could call it friendship. Perhaps it was something rougher. Older. A kind of brotherhood born of pain, forged in the same cell, under the same blows. There were no words to define what he felt for Draco. At least, not easy ones. They had crossed paths on winding roads, fought each other, and then stood united in suffering. But it was more than that. It was a tacit empathy, a shared understanding of the weight each of them carried.

The days passed, but everything in Harry kept circling back to that stone.

It was there in his pocket—an insidious presence, invisible yet always tangible. He didn't touch it, but he felt it. A warmth that seemed to burn its shape into the fabric, a subtle yet insistent vibration. It called to him, gently, in waves. It whispered ancient promises, a forgotten light. Harry didn't fully understand. He didn't know what it was, where it had come from, or why it felt so alive. But somewhere deep inside, he knew it had chosen him. And in the core of his heart, a certainty began to take root: this stone would change everything.

The days dragged on, silent shadows slipping by. Time felt like a frozen river, a waiting stretched too thin. Harry couldn't tear himself away from the map. It occupied his thoughts—consumed him. He devoured it with his eyes for hours on end, in the dusty Black family library, searching for meaning. Every line, every shifting symbol seemed like an unsolvable riddle. But he couldn't stop. Each attempt held the promise of a revelation, and each new effort pulled him deeper into the secrets it guarded.

The symbols on the map lit up and warped before his eyes like mirages, distorted echoes of a world he had never known. Sometimes, it felt as though the map itself were mocking him, folding in on itself to keep its secrets hidden. But then—on a rainy evening, when even the sky seemed burdened by their endless torment—Harry stumbled upon a forgotten relic: a grimoire hidden behind a secret panel. Burning with curiosity, he tore through the pages at a speed Hermione would have no doubt envied. It was the key to everything.

Exhausted, his eyes heavy from reading too long, he finally uncovered a spell—an ancient incantation meant for translation and revelation of what is hidden. The words he spoke, deceptively simple, took on new meaning as they unveiled the truth he had been chasing for weeks.

The map was of a city. From another world. Another land. And it held the key to reaching it.

He hadn't expected it to work. Not truly. He hadn't dared believe that the incantation would deliver on its promise, that it would bring his efforts to fruition. But that hadn't stopped him from speaking the words, his voice hesitant in the musty air of the library. And as the light spread across the map, a chill raced down his spine—cold and consuming. The map slowly unfolded, its symbols glowing with a pale, spectral light, shifting before his eyes.

And then the vision came. Brithombar. A radiant city, bathed in glowing stones, its majestic arches stretching into infinity. It looked unreal—almost ethereal. A dream. A mirage. And yet, there was no doubt in his mind. Brithombar, an elven city worthy of ancient legend, existed. There was no room for error. It was real. All of it was real.

As he kept reading, a name struck him like a thunderclap. Something that shouldn't have come as a surprise—after all, he was in the Black family manor—but it shook him nonetheless.

Arcturus Black. Sirius's grandfather. A member of that cursed lineage, entangled in secrets far older than any of them could have imagined.

Harry clenched his jaw, fists tightening against his knees. Black—that single word carried an unbearable weight, a burden of shadows and secrets that even the most relentless magical historian would have struggled to unearth. This map, this nearly living scrap of parchment, breathed the will of Arcturus Black. It wasn't a forgotten artifact. It was a legacy. A message. He had meant for this map to survive the centuries, to reach them. But why? For what purpose?

A cold shiver crawled down Harry's spine as he watched the last glowing symbols fade. Silence settled around him—thick, dense, as if the house itself were holding its breath. He leaned closer, squinting at the final words, cursing the imperfect vision he had never taken the time to correct. His throat tightened. He read aloud—barely above a whisper—as though speaking the words aloud would make them more real. More irreversible:

" This spell, in conjunction with the stone, enables a journey to Middle-earth by taking possession of your counterpart's body in that dimension. However, beware. The stone must remain in the modern world for your journey to be temporary. If it leaves this world, your spirit will merge with that of your double in the other dimension. If the spell is cast while holding the stone, you will be trapped. Your essence, your memories, your thoughts — all will be blended. You will no longer be entirely yourself. You will also be him."

He read the words again and again, searching for a loophole, a way out. But there was none. It was clear. Terrifyingly so. There would be no coming back. This wasn't just a magical portal—it was transcendence. An abandonment of self. A shedding of the soul.

Harry's heart pounded in his chest—erratic, violent. He placed the map on his knees, fingers trembling. A quiet nausea rose within him. N What he had once believed to be an escape now looked more like a gleaming trap. Fear crept in—thick and sticky. Not fear of death. He had faced death, spoken to it, looked it in the eye. No. He feared forgetting himself. Becoming someone else. Forgetting the ones he had loved. Forgetting who he had been.

And yet...

And yet, the idea—mad as it was—made him want to breathe again. To escape this world grown too heavy, too full of blood, and silence, and memories that no longer brought comfort—only weight.

That night, as the shadow of Walburga Black still screamed behind her dusty curtains, Kreacher watched him for a long time. Then, without a word, the elf held out an old journal, his wrinkled hands trembling slightly. Harry hesitated to take it, but Kreacher averted his gaze, as though ashamed of the offering. It was as he flipped through the yellowed pages that Harry found the image. Of himself. From the attack on Hogsmeade. His eyes wild, casting Unforgivable Curses left and right, screaming, covered in blood and dust. Below, scrawled in red ink:

Mad. Broken mind. Dangerous. Kill on sight.

A chill of horror ran through him. He snapped the journal shut with a harsh motion, eyes stinging. He was no longer a hero. He had become the enemy. He understood Sirius better now—the slow descent into madness, into bitterness.

He needed another mind. Someone who, despite the pain, could still think clearly. And so, one evening, as the moon drew pale arabesques across the crumbling walls of the Black house, Harry slid the map in front of Draco. He said nothing at first—he simply waited. The former Slytherin lifted his gaze slowly, his features drawn, the shadows under his eyes deepening the grey of his stare.

"Read this," Harry said quietly. "Tell me I've gone mad."

Draco obeyed, his eyes moving over the lines with painful slowness. He sat motionless for a long time after reading, his breath uneven, his chin trembling ever so slightly. Then, in a low, hollow voice:

"It's not madness. But it looks a lot like it."

Silence fell between them—closer, somehow, than a thousand words. Each of them lost in thought, in the drifting motes of dust that danced through the room. Draco was broken, too. Harry could see it. Every night, he heard him thrashing in his bed, strangled whimpers echoing down the hallway. Names. Prayers. Stifled cries. And each morning, the blank stare in Draco's eyes haunted Harry just as deeply as his own nightmares.

Draco no longer spoke of his father. He didn't even say the name Malfoy anymore. Sometimes, like a mantra, he would whisper: "I'm a Black. I'm a Black. I'm a Black." Perhaps to forget. Perhaps just to survive.

One evening, after days of silence, Harry finally spoke. His voice was a mere whisper, swallowed by the dark:

"Do you really think we could leave? Walk away from everything? Merge with our double in a world we know nothing about?"

Draco slowly lifted his eyes to him. There was something strange in that gaze — fragile. A flicker of hope suffocated by resignation.

"Here, we're already dead, Potter."

He paused, swallowing hard.

"We're relics. Embarrassing memories people would rather forget. Over there... Maybe we could be someone else. Someone better."

Harry breathed in slowly. He had never thought Draco capable of speaking with such raw honesty. But he understood. Better than anyone. They had become survivors without a war. Ghosts wandering the ruins of a world they had saved at the cost of their own existence.

So he murmured, throat tight but voice steady:

"Then let's do it."

There was no flash of light. No dramatic music. Just a thick, solemn silence. A pact sealed, no less irreversible than a Forbidden Spell. They didn't know what awaited them, but what already surrounded them had become unlivable. This choice, uncertain though it was, had become their only light. A flickering candle in the dark. But enough.

They stood, like statues being freed from stone. Their movements were slow, heavy with strange gravity. In their eyes burned something sharp, unyielding. Adrenaline coursed through them—sweet and violent at once, like an unstoppable tide. No more morals. No more regrets. No going back.

When Kreacher understood what they were about to do, he flew into a fit of uncontrollable rage.

"Fools! Blood traitors playing at being heroes! You want to abandon this house? Abandon Black blood?! For what? A world of shadows and stories?!"

His bulging eyes gleamed with tears, with fury, with confusion. He trembled, his fist clenched around a rag he had been twisting n unconsciously. He stopped, panting, chest heaving. Then something in him gave way. Perhaps he saw, in Harry and Draco's eyes, that blazing determination—the kind of look that cannot be reasoned with.

He let out a guttural sigh—almost bestial—and, in a gravelly, resigned tone, grumbled:

"Fine. If you're both mad enough for this, then Kreacher will help you. May the spirits of the Black family take you, you sentimental idiots..."

He turned sharply, stomping away and muttering a curse under his breath every time his foot hit a floor tile. But he returned quickly, armed like a house-elf going to war—phials, rare ingredients, coarse linen clothing, and an old satchel crammed with supplies, which he dropped unceremoniously at Draco's feet.

"You're both brainless trolls! Can't even make yourselves food without blowing something up!"

Harry gave a reluctant smile. He had just realized that, despite all his complaints, Kreacher cared for them. In his own twisted, grumbling, gruff way... but it was real. Draco, on the other hand, straightened up, scandalized.

"A troll? Me? Want to end up stuffed on my mantelpiece, you little—"

"Go boil your potion, you bleached ferret," Kreacher growled without even looking back.

The preparations stretched over several days. The tension built slowly, each movement, each ingredient mixed, laden with symbolic weight. Harry fell into a quiet, aching pause as he held a thestral feather between his fingers — an essential element of the potion. He thought of Snape. Of all he owed him. Of all he had never forgiven him for. A wounded gratitude. A reluctant admiration.

"Snape would've killed us for half the mistakes we've made," Harry muttered, staring into the cauldron.

"That's true," Draco replied tiredly. "But at least he'd have done it cleanly."

At last, the day came. They donned the rustic clothes Kreacher had provided. The tunic scraped their skin, the rough canvas trousers chafed and irritated. Nothing like their old wizarding robes. But that, too, was part of the process. The letting go. The renunciation of who they had been. The air itself seemed to grow denser, charged with a heavy stillness. A silent anticipation, almost palpable. As if magic itself were holding its breath.

Draco drank the potion first. His nose wrinkled at the putrid stench. He downed it in one go, the viscous liquid sliding down his throat like tar. He turned pale, staggered slightly. Then swallowed a gag with a grimace of wounded dignity.

"I'm waiting, Potter. Let's see if you know how to drink like a man."

Harry stared at him, amused in spite of himself. He recognized that tone. It wasn't disdain anymore. It was clumsy camaraderie, lacquered in a thin coat of arrogance. He picked up his vial and drank. A searing burn sliced down his esophagus. The taste of blood and ashes flooded his mouth. He stifled a cough and caught, out of the corner of his eye, Draco smirking in triumph.

"I hope you puke. That'd make my day."

They stood at last before the map, in that old, silent drawing room where even the portraits seemed to hold their breath. Their fingers tightened around the mystical stone — that strange relic, warm against their skin, beating faintly like a living heart. It pulsed gently, a low, steady hum, as though it shared their urgency — or perhaps their fear. Its pale green color, once subdued, began to glow more intensely. Threads of light rose slowly toward the ceiling, weaving a shifting constellation in the air. No familiar stars. No recognizable skies. This was the heavens of another world.

Draco exchanged a quick glance with Harry. His expression was closed off, but his eyes were feverishly bright. Harry's own heart was hammering inside his chest as if trying to escape. It wasn't just adrenaline. It was deeper. As if the magic itself was stirring within him, awakening forgotten instincts, an ancient awareness.

They spoke the incantation in perfect unison. Their words, uttered with near-reverent precision, seemed to hang in the air like ribbons of black ink. They were no longer merely two wizards. In that moment, they were bridges between worlds, vessels of a power far beyond them. The magic thickened around them — tangible, electric — like a veil stretched taut over their bodies.

A shiver ran up Harry's spine — sharp and cold like a blade. His fingers began to numb, as though the stone were drawing out his vital warmth. His knees buckled slightly, and he had to concentrate not to fall. Beside him, Draco was gasping, lips colorless, features drawn tight. The potion was working. The stone was reacting. Something vast was beginning to take shape.

Then everything accelerated.

Light exploded around them.

A brilliance so pure, so violent, it felt as though they were being pierced by celestial fire. They shut their eyes instinctively, but the light passed through their lids as if it were inside them. It burned, not with pain, but with a flame that devoured doubt, fear, identity. Every memory. Every scar. Each one weighed, tested, purified by the magic now judging them.

The ground vibrated beneath their feet. The manor trembled, as if trying to push them away as if it somehow knew it was about to lose them. The wind rose suddenly, coming from nowhere, an icy current swirling around them with a dull fury. It bit at their skin, seeped into their clothes, sank all the way into their muscles, their bones. This cold was not natural. It was spectral. And it, too, was judging them.

Their breathing grew erratic. The air was thinning, too dense, too heavy. Each inhale became a battle, every exhale an effort. Their bodies shook with uncontrollable tremors, as though they were coming apart. Their hands, clenched tightly around the stone, seemed fuse — melded together. The unity was sealed.

Then came the tearing.

The world tilted.

They did not fall. They were pulled. Sucked in. Ripped away from their reality. A vast, invisible force —unstoppable, indifferent— tore them from the present like a tide tearing loose stones, grinding them in its chaotic current. Everything dissolved — air, time, body. They became nothing but naked thought, swept away in a storm of energy, a silent crash of pure light. Then came the darkness. And the silence. A silence so heavy, so thick, it felt nearly solid.

They floated. No... They drifted, unmoored, endless. And then, from the heart of that void, a dull vibration began to pulse. Rhythmic, like a heartbeat echoing from a world far greater than their own. A song without voice. A promise of destination.

And then, violently, they were flung back into existence.

Light shattered like glass and reality struck them full force.

Tall grass welcomed them in a soft rustle, wet with the dew of an unknown morning. The sharp scent of earth, rich with life, filled their lungs. Above them, a golden sun bathed the valley in warm, liquid light. Willows dipped their leafy arms toward a crystal-clear river, its gentle murmur composing a melody both strange and serene. Ivory-hued butterflies danced between the reeds. And in the distance, beneath the blue shadows of the mountains, eagles glided in utter silence.

Harry opened his eyes first. The light was too bright, too sharp as though his gaze was no longer that of a mere mortal. Every detail blazed before him: the veins in the leaves, the shifting gleam on a dragonfly's wings, the smallest speck of dust hanging in the air. He raised a hand to his forehead, dazed and disoriented. His heart was pounding—not from fear, but from something more primal. A raw, wild excitement. He felt more alive than he had ever been.

Beside him, Draco stirred. He stretched slowly, his movements fluid, almost feline. He, too, seemed startled by his own body. At first clumsy, he rose with an unfamiliar ease. It was more than posture, it was presence. A natural, ancient nobility, as if his very bones had been reshaped. He looked carved from something untamed and solemn, a wild beauty made flesh.

But it was Harry who burst out laughing first.

"Your ears, they're pointed, you idiot!"

His voice rang out, raw with joy, with a relief so sharp it nearly hurt. He hadn't laughed like that in months — deep, gut-wrenching, from somewhere real. It was loud. It was unfiltered. It was freedom.

Draco growled, wounded pride flashing in his eyes as he stood in one swift motion.

"Oh, shut up, Potter. Yours are too!"

They stared at each other, stunned.

Their faces, their silhouettes, everything had changed. They were... other. Their features, now sculpted with harmonious sharpness, radiated an unnatural beauty — too perfect to have ever belonged in their old world. Their skin gleamed softly; their hair looked thicker, brighter. And their eyes... Their eyes were abysses of light.

"Bloody hell..." Harry breathed, his fingers grazing his ears, his brow, his cheekbones. "This isn't just a transformation. It's something else."

"It's like we were sculpted by Veela," Draco murmured, almost to himself.

But their wonder didn't last. Harry's eyes fell on the stone.

The Silmaril. Still there, nestled in the grass like a fallen star. Its glow had dimmed, but it remained pulsing, alive, almost aware. He stared at it, entranced, and a wave of vertigo struck him. A dull ache bloomed in his chest. Images he had never seen surged through his mind: white towers, trees of gold and silver, armies on the march, songs by the sea...

And fire.

A sacred, devouring fire — unyielding, eternal.

He stumbled back a step, trembling, and wrapped the stone in a fold of his tunic. Without a word, he slipped it into his satchel. Draco said nothing, but nodded. He knew too. He didn't understand but he knew.

"It's drawing something," he murmured. "Something ancient."

They made their way toward the river, drawn to the water's glimmer like moths to a flame. And there, they saw.

Their reflections.

And silence fell again, heavier than ever.

Harry swayed. He saw a stranger in the water. Taller, straighter. A gaze—ancient, weary—that didn't belong to him. His green eyes were gone, replaced by a piercing steel-blue, cold and sharp. He lifted a trembling hand, brushed it across his own face. He had always carried his scars like a burden. Now, they felt etched into his soul. And yet, they didn't mar him. They spoke. They bore witness. And in this strange world, they didn't feel out of place, they legitimized him.

Draco, too, was caught off guard. He stood frozen, jaw clenched. It wasn't surprise, it was refusal. A refusal to believe that this regal figure, this fierce bearing, this near-divine presence... was his own. And yet, he knew. It wasn't a mask. It was him. Or a version of him. Perhaps the one he had always carried in silence.

"We should go," Harry said quietly, looking away.

"Yeah. Staying here... it's like sleeping in a dream that's too real."

Their gaze turned toward the mountain etched on the horizon. Vast. Commanding. Almost alive. It loomed over the plains like a sentinel. And at its feet, strange movement. Figures. Banners. A tension in the air. Something was stirring.

"There are people down there," Draco said, squinting.

"You can really see them?"

"I can feel them."

And Harry knew he was right. So they left—without looking back.

It took them three days. Three days of relentless walking, at the pace of a world that was not their own, yet already thrummed inside them like an echo, ancient and familiar, returned to haunt their steps.

Their path wound through a land vast, wild, and almost unreal in its harsh beauty. They crossed mist-covered moors, where each blade of grass seemed to hum an ancient lament. Forests of towering trees, their moss-laden trunks steeped in millennial wisdom, watched them in respectful silence. The leaves sang in a forgotten tongue and sometimes, carried by a breath of wind, they thought they heard their name.

But it wasn't their name. Not anymore.

Harry felt something moving inside him. Something vast. A buried knowledge. Fragments of memory that weren't his, but that he recognized, all the same.

Brief, searing, sublime visions: armies under silver banners, a throne blazing beneath the sun, a sword of otherworldly light raised to the stars.

He didn't dare speak of it. Not yet.

Draco, for his part, was growing increasingly withdrawn. His gaze had become distant, alert. More than once, he had stopped in his tracks, breath caught, as if listening to something no human ear could perceive. He moved now with the fluid grace of a feline, back straight, eyes narrowed toward the horizon, his gestures more assured—almost instinctive. He spoke rarely, and only to signal danger, an invisible presence, or a hunch he couldn't quite explain.

One night, as the fire they had built crackled softly beneath the cover of a steep cliff, Harry caught him murmuring in a foreign tongue. It was fluid, musical, ancient. It resembled nothing Harry had ever heard—yet somehow, he understood every word.

It was Elvish. A prayer to the stars.

He said nothing about it.

Because he too, each night, felt his mind falter—torn between fear and a strange, rising exhilaration. He dreamed of a world bathed in the light of the Trees, of a boundless sea, of silver cities and unknown faces, veiled in sorrow and majesty.

Sometimes, he awoke with tears in his eyes, unable to say why.

On the third day, everything changed. Suddenly. Without warning.

The lush meadows they had crossed until now—with their tall, supple grasses, the faint perfume of wildflowers, and the gentle caress of wind on skin—vanished, as if wiped away by a cruel hand. The landscape had transformed into a barren, mineral desert. A harsh, naked land, dirt-gray and scattered with jagged stones and deep crevices, where the ground cracked beneath their feet like ancient parchment. A dry wind blew without rest, biting at their skin, lashing their faces, lifting a fine ash-colored dust that worked its way into mouths and eyes.

In the distance rose the Lonely Mountain.

Majestic. Terrifying. Its summit was hidden, veiled by dark clouds that clung to it like tatters of a nightmare. Its silhouette evoked that of a forgotten god, petrified by the weight of ages—a lone sentinel standing at the edge of the world, defying time itself. The closer they drew, the heavier the air became, thick with a silent pressure, as if the very atmosphere resisted their presence. Each step slowed, their movements dulled, their thoughts clouded. An unusual silence hung over the land—a living, tense silence. The kind that comes just before a scream.

It was then that the stone stirred in Harry's satchel.

At first, just a faint tremor—shy, barely perceptible, like a tickle beneath the fabric. Then it pulsed. A beat. Steady. Deep. Organic. It was no longer calling—it was demanding. Commanding. It had presence. Will. It was an entity.

Something ancient awakening in the worn hollow of that pouch.

Harry clenched his jaw. Despite the cold wind, sweat beaded at his temple.

"Do you feel it too?" Harry asked, his voice hoarse, choked by a fear he dared not name.

Draco, his features drawn and jaw clenched so tightly it seemed his bones might crack, gave a slow nod. He didn't speak. He was staring at the horizon with an intensity that bordered on supernatural, as if he could already see what was taking shape behind the mountains. His pupils, strangely dilated, glowed with a pale, unreal light.

"Something's coming," he murmured at last, voice low, heavy with gravity. "I don't know what it is, but it's not good. It's old, Potter. Old and powerful. You know you're a bloody curse, right? You and your damn luck..."

Harry gave a joyless smile. His fingers tightened around the satchel. The stone inside seemed ready to tear through the fabric, desperate to be free. He could almost hear it moaning. No—not moaning. Singing. A deep, low chant, like a funeral dirge. It wanted to be found. To be brought back. Home.

"Do you think it's them? The faces... the ones you saw?" he asked.

Draco didn't answer right away. He crouched down on a jagged outcrop, eyes narrowed, gaze lost in the distance.

"Yeah," he breathed finally. "They're here. They're waiting for us. And there are more than I thought."

A long silence stretched between them. The wind howled, snapping the edges of their cloaks. The tension that had until then crept in shadows became a beast crouched behind their backs—a suffocating presence. Harry felt a cold sweat slide down his spine. It wasn't just fear. It was a warning. An omen.

A storm.

Draco stood, slowly. His silhouette seemed taller, more solid—like a statue carved from black marble, unmoving, braced for the oncoming tempest. But Harry, who knew him better than he'd ever expected, saw the cracks beneath the stone. The fear was there—real, tangible. Not fear of immediate danger, but something deeper. The fear of facing something too vast, too ancient. Something that would force you to change.

And still, they ran.

Without a word, they broke into a sprint toward the mountain. Toward whatever was calling them. Toward war. Toward fate. Their feet pounded the dusty ground, raising a cloud behind them. The landscape twisted around them—distorted by speed, by dread, by the low, insistent pull of something older than the world itself.

The earth trembled beneath their steps. A distant, rumbling hum beat in rhythm with their strides, as if the land itself echoed the drums of an ancient war. It vibrated in their bones, hammered their hearts in time with the heavy march of unseen armies. The hum grew, deepened, widened—until it became a roar. A tumult. A flood.

And when they finally crested the last ridge overlooking the valley, the world exploded before their eyes.

The battle had begun.

Beneath a sky of steel, torn by screams and lightning, sprawled a battlefield without end. A raging sea of armor and flesh, of light and mud, of fire and blood. Arrows whistled through the air, tracing deadly arcs like black constellations. They shrieked like furious wasps, slicing through an atmosphere thick with magic and terror. The thunder of dwarven hammers pounded the earth—deep, heavy, relentless. It answered the crisp, near-musical snap of elven bows, drawn taut like war-harps.

And in the center—amid that symphony of agony—roared men, and orcs, and beasts. Steel tore through flesh. Armor shattered beneath crushing blows. The ground, spongy with snow and blood, sometimes split open beneath the weight of violence. Even the sky seemed ready to collapse—like a grey shroud, heavy with ash, with screams, with curses hurled in every tongue.

Harry froze.

His breath caught. Eyes wide.

At first, he saw only chaos. Flashes of steel. Silhouettes swept away like dead leaves. Shattered shields, severed limbs. Snow stained red. Screams. Sobs. He felt the acid burn of fear at the back of his throat.

All of it—all that carnage—hit him like a punch to the gut. A brutal return to his own demons. The shattered courtyard of Hogwarts. The faces fallen in the dust. Hogsmeade drowned in fire. Ron. Hermione. Fred. Ginny. And so many others, swallowed by the silence Death leaves in its wake.

A scream tore Harry from his memories. At his feet, a young dwarf lay half-buried beneath a corpse. His sword broken. His armor split like an empty shell. He didn't even have the strength to cry. Only wide, dilated eyes, fixed on an orc charging straight at him, axe raised high, mouth stretched in a triumphant roar.

Harry reacted without thinking.

He didn't reach for his wand. Didn't speak a word.

A burst of pure light erupted from his palm, slicing through the air like a lightning strike. The spell struck the orc squarely in the chest. The beast flew backward, shattered, twisted, slammed against a rock. The dwarf, dazed, looked up at him in disbelief—as though he'd just seen a god descend among them. Then, slowly, he nodded. And crawled toward a makeshift shelter.

"We're right in the thick of it, Potter," growled a voice behind him.

Draco.

He now held an elven blade—long, curved, inlaid with ancient runes. It looked made for him, as if it recognized something in his blood. His fingers clenched the hilt, but he wasn't trembling. Not anymore.

"You and your bloody luck..."

Harry gave him a sidelong glance.

"We have to get out of here. This isn't our war. Not our world."

But Draco didn't respond.

He wasn't listening anymore.

His gaze had shifted—and something in his face had changed. A veil had lifted from his features. He wasn't looking at the battlefield. He was looking at a figure in the distance, moving through the chaos like a blazing dream. A massive white stag bore a rider cloaked in pale gold. He was the embodiment of elegance—war made grace. Arrows bounced from his armor as if the world itself refused to harm him.

Then Draco staggered.

A shockwave hit him. Violent. Uncontainable. Like a dam breaking inside his mind. He froze, panting, pupils wide. He saw forests bathed in light. Ancient songs beneath vaulted trees. Riders galloping through falling leaves. Hands gathering golden flowers. And laughter—clear as crystal. A child's laughter. A name. Whispered with tenderness.

Thranduil.

"Oropher," he breathed, as if speaking a secret that had never dared reach the air.

Harry turned to him, brow furrowed.

"What?"

Draco blinked, trembling.

"My name... The other one. I think it's Oropher."

His knees buckled, and Harry had to catch him. His skin was ice-cold. His gaze, burning.

"He's there, Potter. On that stag. His son. My... son. And he's going to die. I know it."

Harry felt his chest twist. He saw the truth in his eyes. It wasn't fear. It wasn't madness. It was an open wound. A certainty too old to be questioned. He placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. On the man who, not so long ago, had been his sworn enemy.

But today, there were no more Slytherins. No more Gryffindors. Only two souls thrown into a foreign war, bound by something greater.

"We can't run," Draco murmured, nearly broken. "Not this time."

Harry inhaled deeply, eyes drifting back to the battlefield. An elf collapsed, pierced by a spear. A warg's howl split the air. He knew this wasn't their world. That they could turn away from all of it. That nothing was forcing them to stay.

But he wouldn't leave.

Because Draco—Oropher—was trembling with fear at the thought of losing what he had never known he had. And because he was his friend.

He turned to him.

"Then we fight," he said. "For him."

Silence. Dense. Solemn.

Then, as one, they drew their weapons. Elven blade. Raw magic. Their skin shimmered with a light this world had never known. Their footsteps left marks not meant for this land—and yet, it welcomed them.

And in the roar of war, in the tumult of the Battle of the Five Armies, two figures stood tall. Two souls from another time. Two forgotten heroes—Gil-galad and Oropher—walking side by side into a destiny they had not chosen, but would claim nonetheless.

In the distance, Thranduil still fought. Alone.

But not for much longer.