*Let it be said that EllieWilson does not claim any ownership in regards to the wonderful Harry Potter or the Lord of the Rings series!*

And now for the warnings:

1) Yes, this is a fem!Harry, Elfling!Harry story. (My new obsession, you see.)

2) Rated T for now but that might change.

You're warned! Now enjoy.

She knew it would happen.

Correction.

She knew that something would happen-didn't it always?

When you were Harry James Potter, that is.

Typically it tended to involve anything from ridiculously named, giant three-headed dogs to insane and/or megalomaniac lunatics… And their stupid followers.

But this!

This couldn't be everything, could it?

She looked around-sure, she may have been drugged/spelled/taken out and then left in the middle of god forsaken nowhere… But, hypothetically, wouldn't she have also been gagged, or at least restrained?

Not a deatheater attack, then.

And not a fan attack either, Harry surmised.

Those generally seemed aimed at making her finally see the light-or what passed for it in her admirers' eyes-so that she would immediately and irrevocably fall madly in love with him/her.

Surely they wouldn't be so inconsiderate as to leave her lying unconscious on an uncomfortable patch of grass… A shiver ran down her spine.

Merlin.

Her. Unconscious. Body.

Definitely not fans.

Ron was always so bloody cavalier about it-deemed it beyond him why she wouldn't "give the poor pups a bone already".

He didn't understand.

They had designs on her flesh.

Regarding the tools as anything other than the rabid fanboys they were was utterly insane.

Then again, he was Ginny's brother-the one who took the mickey out of Harry for being so twitchy all the time.

(He never saw the predatory glint in the redhead's eyes.)

Shaking her head Harry examined her surroundings-a deserted forest clearing that didn't look anything like the Dark Forest or even the Forest of Dean. It couldn't be either of them-the trees dwarfed her to the point of stretching unendingly upwards, making her feel uncharacteristically like a child.

That or it could have been that her kidnappers had apparently decided to clothe her in a shirt and trousers so big she was basically swimming in them.

If this was one of Fred and George's-

George's jokes she thought with a pang. Fred-

No. Not thinking of him.

…

Predictably, a half hour long session of waterworks ensured.

…

After that-Alright, back to work, auror Potter! Clothes but no wand. No weapons. No enemies in sight. No food or water. Location unknown.

Harry moved to rectify all of that by summoning the knobbly wand that she disliked so much.

Point me Hogwarts! She thought, putting the wand decisively across her palm.

To her surprise it spun wildly around without settling in a direction.

Point me the Burrow!

Point me Hermione!

Point me Ron!

"Are you punishing me for ignoring you?!"

What.

She paused. What had come out of her mouth.. Certainly didn't sound like english or even Parseltongue-it was ridiculously pretty in a fancy and extremely girly way, the likes of which would have sent Lavender Brown-or any other fluff brained girl-in a squealing explosion of ecstasy.

But more importantly: did wands even experience emotions to the extent of wanting to exact revenge?

Harry glared suspiciously at the Elder Wand.

It looked harmlessly back.

…

Point me Ginny!

When even that failed to work (or to satisfy the stupid stick's appetite for revenge) Harry really began to panic.

"Aguamenti!"

At that Harry was at least reassured that she hadn't accidentally lost her magic or anything as horrifying as that, judging by the fact that the spell had worked.

Judging by the amount of water that it had generated, however, was a different matter.

One that Harry would have ample opportunity to contemplate on her return to reality, three hours later, as the tremendously powerful jet-no way that I did that!-knocked her screaming all the way from one side of the clearing to the other, right into a tree.

She was being dragged by something.

A few somethings, actually, that seemed to communicate exclusively in grunts and growling sounds.

How lovely.

Being the Auror that she was, Harry was far too well trained to open her eyes or signal in any way that she had woken up, instead settling for feeling her limbs-hands tied but no broken bones, thankfully, just a ton of bruises.

As if her thoughts had been heard, the unknowns stopped and Harry was carelessly tossed to a side into something hard but warm-a humanoid form this time, who exhaled sharply at the blow.

Her captors being behind her, she cautiously opened her eyes and looked right into stunned chocolate ones, set in a face marked by hard lines-and a blue beard.

She blinked.

To each his own, I suppose.

As she stared the stout man seemed to collect himself and looked away, muttering.

"…An elf, of all things! Curse it all, for a son of Durin to find the end like this.."

Aaaand, predictably, I understood nada of that.

"Excuse me, sir."

"Sir, my name is Harry. Are your hands tied?" Harry tried whispering.

Silence greeted her words.

…

"We're never met, we're tied up and probably about to die together and you're ignoring me?!"

The incredulous tone seemed to elicit a reaction, at least. The glare being sent her way could have frozen fiendfyre.

Progress!

"We need to cooperate. I want to live, you know? Now if you could just listen.." Harry smiled reassuringly.

He looked back in distaste.

"You think to confuse me with your flowery language, little tree hugger? Not with this dwarf!"

An affirmative?

"Excellent, glad to see we're on the same page!" Harry beamed at him.

Or not.

At this point the other seemed a little disturbed. Which wasn't actually a bad thing.

Harry had long ago learned the value of steam rolling straight over stunned/confused/incapacitated males.

The trick is to keep them off balance, Hermione had said smugly in her Teacher Voice, then, while they don't quite understand what's happening, you firmly exert your will over them. It says so in: A Witch's Guide To Power by Alexandra Merrystockings…

Harry took a moment to concentrate and focused on their hands.

Relashio!

As the rope around their wrists sagged she was once again able to regain her wand and jumped up.

And now..

She turned.

And stared.

Merlin's Pants!

There sat about twenty of the ugliest and filthiest creatures Harry could have ever imagined-wearing lurid Dobby-worthy rags, complete with stained scimitars, sallow skin and small beady eyes.

For a moment everything stood still as they stared stupidly at her and Harry did the same out of sheer appallment.

Then, of course, they were pointing and laughing at her.

She felt her cheeks inevitably heat up but tried anyway: "Might we come to an agreement… Gentlemen?"

The proper procedure when dealing with unknown Magical Creatures was clear on at least attempting to establish a diplomatic conversation in lieu of violence.

And Harry didn't really want any points off her Auror licence for not following a few small rules, silly or not. (Never mind that the Daily Prophet would have had a field day if they caught any hint of her actually doing so-the headlines would range from "The Chosen One Discriminating At Will", to "Harry Potter: A New Criminal Life" and finally "The Saviour: A Budding Dark Lord?")

Except that her rare attempt at diplomacy didn't seem to be particularly appreciated.

In fact, the very sound of her voice seemed to send them in a fit of rage.

She could only shrug as they charged.

For now:

thought

"Sindarin" (Elvish)

"Khuzdul" (Dwarvish)

R&R, please!