Author's Note- All I have to say is, "plot bunnies- they're driving me crazy." I only have the first book of the Trilogy… that'll prove to be problematic if I choose to finish this story, which will be short, I think- a bit more drabble-esque than anything, with a whole lot of time jumps because, well, it's a plot bunny, and they're driving me crazy. Cheers.

Note- Harry won't be going through 'Cedric-angst'; it takes up too much writing room and minimum 'Sirius-angst'. Let's just say that Harry learned to come in terms with his losses, showing an unusual degree of maturity that, sadly, wasn't shown in the canon. Also, the family I mention isn't exactly OC as they made a few seconds appearance in the second movie, call it authorial power. So yeah, they are pretty vital to the story, please don't skip over them. Oh, and I don't own Lord of the Rings or Harry Potter.

"Speaking"= English. 'Thoughts'= English.

&Speaking&= Parseltongue.

"Speaking"= Westron.

Summary- He was in an alien realm, surrounded by trees, rings, Malfoy-like elves, and castle kingdoms. Harry Potter doesn't know how he got here or how to get out. There's a war going on and he's determined to stay out of it, until it drags him in. Forget about the old world of Hogwarts and Voldemort, he has to survive.

A Harry Potter/ Lord of the Rings Crossover

Tales of a Wanderer: Through Middle Earth

Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,
Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.
One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.

Harry Potter lied on his back, trying to regain his bearings… He wasn't on his bed, this wasn't his room, this wasn't Surrey, and this wasn't Britain. Bloody hell, why does this always have to happen to him? 'I am Harry… just Harry…' He sat up and rubbed his eyes, no glasses… no need for them either… strange. He touched his eyelids, puzzled, and then shrugged- now wasn't the time to worry about that. The holly wand was gone from his back pocket; instead, he found a long, softly glowing phoenix feather and rolled it in his hands, contemplating. Maybe the wood was destroyed on his 'trip' and only the wand core remained? How bizarre.

This place… right; first- examine the surroundings. All around were sounds of creaking and groaning of wood, a far cry from something like the Forbidden Forest. The forest he landed in was ancient, the trees were huge and they blocked out the sun so easily, that it felt like night… or it was night already and he had slept for more than a day… or that because he was not where he was suppose to be, probably it doesn't matter anyways.

He had… he struggled to remember. It was a typical summer day at his relatives', right after Fifth Year, feeling depression and guilt over Sirius's death in the Department of Mysteries. So he had spent his days in his room in a state of sloth. He went to sleep one night, like any other night, and woke up in a forest.

He reckons that the shock should be settling in soon.

A continuous charged feeling was rippling throughout the area, singing to something in his core. The feeling was familiar, but he couldn't put a finger on it…

A low hoot interrupted his thoughts. Looking up, the boy-wizard couldn't believe his eyes, "Hedwig?" Tilting its head to the left, the snowy owl looked mildly insulted at his incredulity, flew down to his shoulder to cuff him with her wing. He patted her head, "How did you get here girl?" He mumbled, checking her for any injuries and found nothing out of the usual except for the fact that she was holding something, a flute.

The owl, sensing his curiosity, dutifully stuck out her leg and handed the instrument to him. It was a Christmas present that Hagrid gave him, hand carved, that saved his life from that dratted Fluffy in First Year. The summer after, Harry gave it to Hedwig as a trinket-gift, and though it was quite useless to an owl, she valued the thought behind the action. It looked roughly made; the wood was smooth but not even. He only knew the basics in playing the flute: it was like the recorder he had to play in music class (his teacher had supported some sort of neo-organum teaching style.) He squinted down at the sides, he hadn't noticed before, but there were little scratches of some letters from another language. They looked like the symbols that Hermione had to memorize in Ancient Runes.

"Ancient Runes is an excellent class! It's not only another language, it's understanding how specific languages, root languages, dead languages, bring forth one's magic, and how these symbols call forth and control our own and ambient magic! Oh Harry, I wish that you were with me." Hermione bemoaned to him when he spotted and asked about her homework after the First Task with the dragons.

Ambient magic… That's it! That's what probably cured his eyesight. This whole place feels like Hogwarts on a holiday, Halloween to be specific, where ambient magic is at its most concentrated. He looked around hopefully, if there's magic, there's magic people, hopefully a wizard village nearby where the locals can make him a portkey and send him to somewhere safe, maybe Diagon Alley. This whole fiasco is probably accidental magic (at age fifteen, how embarrassing). He breathed a sigh of relief, 'That's it, don't panic. Don't panic. Don't do magic for now, I don't need to be expelled from school…'

He stood up and checked his pajama pockets; he had nothing but the clothes on his back: no shoes, no socks, and no wand. He dragged a hand through his hair, "Let's go Hedwig." She hooted back and dug her claws into his shoulder.

He had been walking for so long that his feet ached like hell. The sun barely poked through the canopy of the trees, sending the occasional green beam of light, filtered through the leaves, onto the forest floor. There were sounds of groaning of bending wood in the distance; he increased his pace in that direction.

'If I'm so far from any sort of human civilization, the Trace shouldn't be able to detect me. Or was it that the Trace is on the wood, not the core…' Harry twirled the feather in his hands, 'It's worth a try.' He held Fawkes' feather and pointed ahead at a fallen twig, 'swish and flick', "Wingardium Leviosa!" He might have been imagining it, but if he thought about it, the feather might have turned warmer (from the heat of his hand) and the stick might have twitched (from a passing wind). A sense of horror and helplessness filled him as he stared at his results. In vain, he tried again, "Wingardium Leviosa! Alerte Ascendere! Periculum!"

No magic, he can't do magic… "Shite."

oOoOo

It's been a couple days since his arrival here. No search party had gone out to look for him, no signs of life; he found no food and no water. He felt faint. Which plants were edible? Which were poisonous? Nothing in Herbology could have prepared him for this. Harry leaned his head against a tree trunk and closed his eyes, his stomach growled angrily. Hedwig made daily trips into parts of the forest and always brought back a couple of small game for him. The woods here were too damp and therefore, no kindling for fire, everything had to be eaten raw. It was hard at first and he threw up his first mice a few minutes after he swallowed it, but he had to force the meat down, it was the only way he could survive.

He looked up at the snowy-owl on a branch above, "Good girl," he muttered, "Where would I be without you?" The owl blinked and glided down silently, landing on the tip of his foot and stared into his eyes. 'Heh, the Boy-Who-Lived died of starvation.' He smiled back and closed his eyes; just a few minutes of sleep won't hurt…

oOoOo

He was being carried by something hard and uneven and leaves brushed against his cheeks. Harry opened his eyes and saw that he was being carried by a… a… a tree, which/who seemed to be talking to him in a foreign language. …Words failed him. The tree had eyes and a nose and a mouth, half obscured by branches. His (Harry assumed that the tree was a male) language was full of slow rumbles, and switching sometimes to something utterly foreign to something that reminded him of singing. 'I wonder if there are such people who speak Arbortongue, like Parseltongue. Care of Magical Creatures never mentioned this.'

The tree handed him a half of a large nut shell, inside was filled with water. The wizard drank half of it in a greedy gulp before offering some to Hedwig, who politely declined. They were moving incredibly slowly, making soft 'thud… thud…' noises on the soft ground. In a clearing the tree passed other moving-trees; he recognized willow and hawthorn, all moving ever so slowly, without a care in the world. A smaller tree came up to them and handed him another 'cup' of water, calling him a word that he didn't quite catch.

And they moved on heading east. The leaves still covered the night sky, the air was cool and content, different from the horrible mugginess at Surrey on specific summer nights. Hedwig occasionally went off to hunt for food, but it was the tree who supplied Harry with fruits, nuts, and herbs. He wondered if this was like the feeling of being rocked to sleep…

The tree stopped at the edge of the forest, waking him up from his pleasant dreams. Gently, Harry was lowered to the ground. He looked up at the mighty expanse of the tree, bowed low, and spoke, even though he knew that he wouldn't be understood, yet hoped that his thanks would be conveyed, "Thank you. I am forever in your debt."

The tree rumbled in the unknown language and shifted back into the shadows of the forest. He heard that word again, that the trees had called him, "Istari."

oOoOo

Observing the cloudless sky, trying to recall what Professor Sinistra had said about the constellations. He looked northward and couldn't find Polaris. No Ursa Major, no Sirius, no Canopus, no Arcturus. Everything was alien to him. Panicking slightly, he tried to spy any other familiar patterns in the stars

"Hedwig? I don't think we're on Earth anymore. I have no bloody clue as to where we are." He got a hoot in response. Harry trudged up a nearby hill, feeling his hope of finding any human civilization rising; under the star light, he had spotted some vague prints on the dry grass that, to him, resembled horse prints.

Then again the horses could be a wild pack and he was just deluding himself, after all, after realizing that he might not even be on Earth anymore, he might be the only human. And even if people did ride horses here, it signifies that the nearest village might be more than a couple days walk from here. His stomach sank at the thought of minimal food and no water. The people there might not speak his language; they might be of the attack-first-questions-later sort. The trees were certainly nice to him and that set a good example to how the rest of the intelligent beings would be. Maybe what the trees spoke to him was a universal language: he wanted to know, it certainly was a beautiful vernacular, flowing very smoothly. It made him feel ashamed of English.

Well, he was a wizard, and wizards are known for their notorious survival instincts… 'Not true, sometimes it seems like only Slytherin has a healthy respect to life,' a snide voice said in his mind.

On the top of the hill, he scanned the horizons… there! In the distance, small twinkling lights: natural phenomena, volcano, or village. Giving a small whoop to himself, he set down a straight path when- &Halt! I forbid you to tread on me, human!& He paused in mid-step, almost tripping over in his surprise. The voice was a familiar hissing, not guttural like the basilisk, but younger, like the boa he had set loose in the zoo in before he went to Hogwarts. Looking under his shoe, he spotted a mid-sized, green snake staring up at his, coiled for an attack, &I may not be poisonous but I will bite. Raise your foolish feet that I have not and I will return to my slumber.&

He felt like kissing the serpent in relief as he knelt down to the animal's eye level, &I can still understand you! &

The snake uncoiled in shock, looking taken aback; Harry thought it did, for a snake, &you…You speak my language!& It sputtered out, slithering forwards and scrutinizing him. &I may not have lived long, but I know that humans such as the likes of you do not exist. Speak human…, or shall I call you, Wise One? Though no other Wise One I have seen ever deigned to converse with a creature such as I.& The wizard held out his arm and the snake obediently slid up to his shoulder, hissing contently in his ear, &Thank you, Wise One, your warmth is comfortable very so.&

He still can talk to snakes, nothing muggle can explain it. His magic still works, wherever he is! The ambient magic might have messed up his magical core… or it might be the fact that he lacked a wand. 'But…' He stared mournfully at the phoenix feather.

&May I offer my services, Wise One?& The snake rested on his head, eyeing Hedwig who claimed her perch on his shoulder warily, &As long as your companion does not attack me, I would gladly aid you.&

In the back of his mind, he wondered how his friends would react, seeing him like this: using a Dark ability. &What can you do?&Ron had been uneasy when he used Parseltongue when he opened the Chamber of Secrets and after that adventure, there had been a silent agreement between them that he won't use the ability anymore than necessary. If he hadn't agreed to those terms, he would've purchased a snake at Diagon Alley for his third year, he heard from the owner of the Magical Menagerie that some creatures were able to communicate between the species line. He didn't think that this snake would have that talent though.

&I understand, Westron, Common Speech that you humans use! I can carry messages for you, slide around corners from anyone's notice; I patrol these lands and hear by the word of humans what lies beyond. I know some castle secrets and the rumors of the Rings.& The snake said proudly, &For I am capable of intelligent thought, something very rare among my brood-mates. I even named myself and answer to the name- Arwen.&

He pondered the idea, wondering if being a Parselmouth was considered Dark in these parts before shrugging, the good outweighed the bad, &You are very smart indeed, Arwen.& He praised the preening snake as Hedwig huffed jealously, & I answer to the name Harry Potter, you may call me Harry.& The snake hissed in serious acknowledgement, &I wonder though,& he said, as a thought entered his mind, &why do you call me, Wise One.&

&Is that not what you are? You feel like one of them, those that dwell like humans but hold powers that I cannot fathom. I have only heard stories of them vanquishing the dark, overcoming foes with and without the sword.& Harry stood up and brushed himself as the snake chatted on, &I am pleased to have met a Wise One such as yourself, since I heard that your numbers are very thin. Your age has passed and you are very young for a Wise One, Harry.&

'Arwen must mean Wizards, magical people.' &Do you know where I can find my kind?&He asked as they treaded down the hill. &I am not of this land, nor do I know the speech. You must guide me.&

&Unfortunately, I have only heard stories, particularly of Gandalf the Grey.& Arwen apologetically informed, &I do not know much about the Wise Ones, as man rarely talks of them. It is the elves that sing their praises when they walk by, and I do not understand Sindarin, Elven-tongue.&

He stopped in mid-step so abruptly that he almost launched Hedwig off. &Elves?& He asked dubiously, imagining Dobby and Winky worshipping the ground where Dumbledore walked.

&Fairer beings than man, I can assure you. At least they do not outright kill my kind. But you, Harry, are fairer than them, because you are a Wise One.& The snake languidly informed as it burrowed itself under his shirt. Harry wasn't sure about that statement.

He mentally placed Dobby, Professor Dumbledore, and Uncle Vernon side by side. Above the three was a big sign, bolded red letters that asked, "Fairest?" It would certainly be interesting if Eris threw the Golden Apple at their feet.

oOoOo

&She asks for your name.&Arwen (now identified as a female snake) loftily informed from the haven of his pajama shirt. The woman was dressed in peasant clothing, hand sown and well-worn, and she had a kindly countenance about her that made him think of Mrs. Weasley.

The wizard and his two animals had managed to make it to the small village by dawn. The houses weren't built like they had modern technology, but from a combination of stone and wood. When they wandered through the streets, children were pulled to their mother's bosoms and men looked suspiciously at them, fingering knives and swords that were within reach at their belt. He listened with a sinking heart the whispers that were most definitely not English, but what Arwen said to be the Common Speech, something that the trees had spoken to him.

He eyed the buildings, wondering how he could get room and board and explain that he was willing to work diligently for food. It had been a long night, Hedwig and Arwen had both encouraged him to run to his destination as quickly as he can. Now, he could slump over in fatigue. Worst of all, he was still barefoot; his feet showed the marks of stones and plants that he had treaded upon, a wonder that he wasn't bleeding.

The woman in front of him apparently had taken pity, and he was very grateful for her choice to reach out to him. The woman had asked for his origins and his purpose for stepping in the village, questions which he tried to answer but could not. But then after introducing herself as Imiram, by placing her hand over her chest, she asked for his name. This he could do. "Harry." He said and repeated the gesture.

"Harry." The woman mimicked roughly, sounding more like, "Hah-RI."

A small boy, perhaps four, appeared behind the woman's skirt and tugged it insistently, pointing to his snowy owl and asking for something.

Harry couldn't understand, but apparently Hedwig did, as she suddenly glided down from the wizard's side and landed softly on the startled boy's shoulder. The boy raised a hand and petted the soft feathers, giggling as he got a hoot of contentment. The woman, who had tensed when Hedwig moved, relaxed again and laughed softly. Around them, the villagers realized that the newcomers meant no harm and went back to their businesses.

oOoOo

Imiram's son's name is Carin and her husband's, who had jovially greeted his guests after Imiram had explained the situation, is Patrix. There was another daughter, a year younger than Carin, whose name was Atricia. The family had accepted Arwen's presence, looking very surprised at the name of the snake, though they didn't say why. Harry thought that it was just the strangeness of the snake's intelligence. They had accepted his status as a Parselmouth and realized that through Arwen, they could teach Harry their language. Until he mastered Westron, the family stuck with "yes" or "no" answers, which were his first words of the language.

His jobs were to clean the house, cook foods, do some outdoor manual work with Patrix, like tending the horses, and delivering some packages using Hedwig. The family thought of him too frail to do any real farm work. The village was so rustic and simple; it had its own charm, despite the lack of electricity, air conditioning, and gas. Granted that Hogwarts didn't have those things too, but magic always did solve everything. The village, Rowin, generally kept to itself, only delivering the occasional message to the center capital of Rohan, Edoras.

He developed the reputation as the-person-there-who-keeps-the-kids-in-line. So most adults love him and they too accepted his ability to speak to snakes, as he had grouped together the local serpents and asked them to get rid of the vermin, mice, rats, and the like (&You speak!&One of them gave a snake-shriek among the dumb-founded group of hissers.). They eagerly, and sometimes overeagerly, obeyed him. The villagers had warned him through Arwen to keep his gift hidden from people outside, since snakes were apparently and unsurprisingly a symbol of evil. The occasional serpent would sometimes come up to him, to speak to him simply for the sake of speaking to him.

Other times, foreigners came from Edoras, and when that happens, the whole village comes together to not bring attention to the "Istari," wizard, or one of the Wise Ones: he had learned from his leg-less companion. When the foreigners come, he stayed outside with the hood of the cloak that Patrix had given to him as a gift over his head to hide his appearance. Arwen told him it had something to do with his appearance, something about him looking too elf-like.

At night, Imiram dutifully taught him Westron. His progress to grasp of the language was slow, but his eagerness made up for it. The Common Speech was new to him, like incantations that were derived from Latin, and like when he spoke Latin, Westron invoked a small amount of power to rise in him. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough for him to call forth his magic.

At least the lessons of the world he was in, Middle-Earth, were really interesting. Magical beings: Orcs and Trolls of Mordor, the Valar and Melkor, Elves and Dwarves, Hobbits and Ents, and rumors of the other sapient animals including a clan of spiders that would have done Aragog proud: were all commonplace in this world. The lessons were never in depth, but at least he knew that the different races existed. Middle-Earth was a strange place, but he was beginning to feel a fondness to it.

When he was with Patrix, the jovial man taught him how to hunt in the lands around them. After hearing his stint in the Forest of Fanghorn with the Ents, the elder taught him how to observe animal tracks, how to stalk and set traps, how to find water, how to build a shelter with the surrounding materials. Patrix seemed to sense the inevitability that he will leave the village, and was determined that Harry won't die due to his ignorance of the wilderness. As Harry regained his health, unlike how he was before he came to Rowin and during his time at the Dursleys (Dudley had went on a diet and Aunt Petunia thought that it was fair that everyone should starve, so his meager portions turned out to be even meager), Patrix tried to teach him some sword work. Atricia usually sat on the porch and clapped her hands as she watched. Like Westron, he had difficulty grasping the art.

On his times off of work, whenever he watched over the children, he practiced music with Hagrid's flute, the only thing besides Hedwig and Fawkes' feather that linked him back to his own world. At first, he had played simple songs by heart, allowing Carin's friends dance around by the streets. Later, out of boredom, he improvised, adding new rhythms and notes, new intervals and tempos, faster and slower, louder and softer, till the music began to vibrate and entrance. After he finished, he always noticed that the people around him looked more cheered and had an extra bounce in their step. Carin happily informed him that there were symbols on the flute that glowed.

Nothing in his magic texts mentioned music, strangely enough. Hermione probably knew something about the topic, but she wasn't here anymore. He came to appreciate the diversity of the art. With it, he could express his thoughts and feelings. Whole stories can be enacted with the right musical score. Music evokes emotions from the deepest, hidden hearts.

Likewise, magic was always about willpower and intent. The flute could be his new channel, like a wand, through the concentrated amounts of ambient magic. And so he experimented, different combinations seemed to order different things, but he had to have intent at the same time. Rhythm and dynamics and phrasings paired with his emotions and will influenced the power of his spells. The actual length and notes and patterns determined the spell. Underneath, there was a certain feel to it; one has to reach the exact feeling to achieve the results. So far, he knew a musical version of the Cheering Charm and was trying to master the Hover Charm.

The villagers were ecstatic when he showed it to him. (His household jobs were traded to lifting heavy loads with magic.) Nowadays, beautiful tunes almost always drift through the streets; Harry turned into Rowin's biggest secret.

oOoOo

Almost a year had passed in this state of bliss and contentment before one day; he woke up from his bed and felt stir-crazy. He stared at the ceiling and around at his well-furnished room of the attic. 'Why am I still here?' Harry asked himself. 'Shouldn't I find a way to get back home?' Probably, but this place was a haven to him, sure he missed his friends, his godfather, Remus, and grudgingly, the teachers, but here, he had a father, a mother, a little brother, a little sister, and a whole new set of people who appreciated him, not as the Boy-Who-Lived, for they knew nothing about any Dark Lord Voldemort (Just someone named Sauron), but as Harry Potter, or just Harry.

But he knew that it was time to go, he had gotten too used to the illusion of safety. He had to go back to his world and he knew who to try to contact, the other wizards. The boy wizard rubbed at his face, still unused to his lack of glasses, and looked up to his two companions.

He suspect the two are his familiars, due to his ability to communicate to Hedwig without speaking, his ability to feel Arwen's presence, and the new development where the snake and the owl could talk to each other without his help. Hermione had once informed him about familiars, "Well obviously Dumbledore's familiar is Fawkes, showing that his heart is of the Light. Most wizards and witches have regular household pets who bonds with the entire family. Others have really unusual familiars, like Slytherin's basilisk. Powerful wizards and witches have more than one familiar, like Merlin. But more likely, the theory is that it all depends on how attuned to nature one is. Druids have familiars that are a whole family of animals, an entire species, who come at his or her beck and call to aid in some way or fashion."

"So what is their purpose?" Ron asked while stabbing his meat with a fork. "I don't think Errol is bonded to the family, neither is Pig."

Here, Hermione scrunched her nose, "It's not how long you keep them, its how closely you are bonded to them. People-animal relations, even in the Muggleworld, can be very close. I understand Crookshanks very well. I think Harry's familiar is Hedwig, or at least, is about to be." She looked over to her other friend, "from what you told me. It takes time and understanding, but when the bond finalizes, you express your thoughts without talking, you have a lifelong companion. About half of the Wizarding population has incomplete familiar bonds."

Harry shook himself out of his daze, feeling, not for the first time, a sense of home-sickness, and wiggled out of his covers. Allowing his companions to sleep, he padded softly to the quaint kitchen where Imiram was making breakfast and Atricia was giggling at the end of the table. The woman turned around and stared at Harry for a long time… causing the wizard to shift uncomfortably. She smiled sadly and said, "I knew that this would happen sooner or later, I had hoped that it wouldn't before a while." Harry nodded, able to pick up enough words to catch her general meaning. "It's time for you to leave, isn't it?"

"Yes."

oOoOo

The villagers had told him that whenever he was in the presence of others, to try and over his features with the cloak's hood. He heeded the advice and wandered through the lands, generally keeping his distance from any human being. He knew that he was really lucky to have found a place like Rowin, he didn't want to try his luck again. His familiars were reluctant to go but agreed that he had to get back home, this world isn't his. The local snakes bewailed his exit, startling some of the children from the consistent hissing.

His adopted family had helped him pack a couple of necessities, a sword, a knife, a carving tool, some money, and tearfully bided him farewell. He hugged and kissed every one of them, promising that he would return if he failed in his search home and that they would always have a special place in his heart.

The villages he entered were larger and more used to mysterious foreigners that passed by. Generally, he stayed at pubs, drinking water and asking for Gandalf the Grey as casually as he can. People around him looked at his hidden face with curiosity, usually whispering about that "Ranger with the white bird". Rumors are that the Istari is visiting the elves and doing his mysterious business, ever so slowly making his way to the North-western lands of the small people, "Hobbits" or "Halflings."

His grasp of Westron was still sketchy at best. He could ask questions decently and spit out a very short answer, but can't hold a conversation at all. Thank Merlin for Arwen, who he was sure to hide out of sight.

He drank his water from a mug that was usually used to fill with beer, tasting the alcohol that hasn't been properly cleaned off, bit his bottom lip as he thought. During his stay at Rowin, he had taken wood from different trees and carved a small tube into every one of them, then stuffed Fawkes' feather down the tube and tried to test it. Some of the woods were better than others, but the wood wasn't right. He tried so many trees that he began to feel guilty for abusing the trees, since he still owed the Ents for their help, and for his feather, which was so worn out that it was a wonder that he was still able to use it. 'Is it the wood or is it the wood's origins?' The wood of the wand would need to come from a place with more ambient magic, he finally decided, but where can he find such a place?

'The issue isn't important now. My priority is to find Gandalf the Grey, if I can get back to my world, a quick trip to Ollivanders should solve the problem.' The wizard sighed and absentmindedly ran a finger along the rim of the mug as a brawl broke out in the pub, over the owner's protest.

And he pondered, as people hit each other with fists, clubs, feet, and glass, (fights always seem to take the extra-care to avoid him) about many things: of the Istari's magic and whether its different from his, of the elves and their rumored fairness, of the land of Mordor that was making people uneasy, the realm of Gondor… The bartender looked at him worriedly, polishing a glass, "Are you alright there, son?"

He blinked and processed the words, "I'm fine sir, thank you."

The bartender gave a small hollow laugh as more punches and raucous laughter occurred in his establishment, "Just thought that you ought to know, there's word of a young man wandering around the lands of Rohan, flitting from settlement to settlement with a cloak and a white owl on his shoulder. The young one never shows his face and all one can see are two glowing green eyes. He never acquaints himself to anyone and always asks for water at the bars. Travelers see him outside the settlements playing a flute and when they hear the melody, they feel joyful, and things, stones and branches, begin to float around the man, who they believe is an Istari. But when he returns to the pubs, no one dares to question him."

Harry blinked again and waited as Arwen hissed the translation in his shirt. He wasn't aware that he was so… talked about, even when he doesn't try; he somehow becomes the center of attention. 'Is it something I'm doing wrong?' He thought despairingly as Hedwig hooted in amusement. It was true though; he had been practicing his magic from, or so he thought, prying eyes. He had mastered the Hover charm so thoroughly that it coincides with any sort of Locomotor Spell and all the branching spells underneath (Banishing, Summoning, Lifting, Moving) and could be used as a defensive technique if he should get ambushed on his travels.

Now he was dead set on trying to find the correct music for the Aquamenti Charm because, frankly, it was ridiculous that his money was being used up for something as normal as water, which people here charge their customers if they don't buy anything else. Patrix had taught him a couple tricks to find and purify water, but it just wasn't enough to quench his thirst, and he found himself drifting back to the pubs. But his results, to his frustration, weren't succeeding. 'Maybe I'm doing it wrong, instead of conjuring it out of thin air; I can extract it from the air. Since the Aquamenti Charm is where water comes out of the wand, it won't work since I have a flute…' And then he realized that the bartender was still expecting an answer from him.

"Interesting story." He said with a shrug and downed his drink as the bartender rolled his eyes. He wonders what the date is, seeing as they follow the twelve month per year schedule and that Arwen mentions the same months from his world, January through December. (It makes him speculate whether this isn't another planet but an alternate dimension.) His birthday should've passed by now, he's seventeen.

He feels guilt and everyday, before going to sleep under the sky, he tries to send his love to his friends at home. He missed everyone there. He missed Hogwarts terribly. And sometimes, he prays for their forgiveness, because everyday he stays here is a day that his memories dim, bright faces turn monochrome and blur together and slowly, against his will, he forgets. He tries to survive in a world so different from his own, gathering more information about Istari and Gandalf the Grey's whereabouts, having no desire to go village-hopping if he can. Another year, spring, summer, fall, winter, had passed and then another year after that; Harry mastered the Aquamenti Spell and the manipulation of water in its liquid form; he is nineteen years old.

(If he gets back home, he's going to give Hagrid a full-grown dragon as a thank-you gift.) His repertoire of spells grows at a steady rate. He learned how to influence the moods of those around him, how to gather magic into a single concentrated point to use, how to conjure fire for dinner, how to create a magical shield from attacks, how to turn water into air and ice, and back again. He worked on his basic transfiguration, little rocks into insects, but he admits that it needs work. He keeps his flute clean, making sure that the rune carvings don't rub away, and treat it as his new wand.

Because he had given up using the phoenix feather any longer, having attempted to recreate his wand from wood from the Forest of Fanghorn (he met no Ents) and receiving unsatisfactory results. But he kept the feather close to him, because it reminds him of what he used to be, once upon a time.

oOoOo

&I heard of none of the non-humans you asked about except for dwarves. Though I know that evil creatures live in the land of Mordor, Orcs and the like- ugly beings, you wouldn't want to meet one.& Arwen said, curling comfortably at Hedwig's feet.

&So what about the dwarves?& Harry asked.

Arwen faltered, &I don't know them personally, per say, just that they are not on good terms with the elves and that they appear in a rhyme of lore& which she recited-

&Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,
Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.
One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.&

After a few moments of pensive silence, the snake continued, flicking her tail, &The quaint town we stayed in is ignorant of the events in the outside world, I think, which is why you weren't informed. The poem is extremely well-known in the world of Man, almost acting as a song to sing children to sleep. I heard, from my days in the field, that the Rings will rise up again soon, very soon. But that, so far, is merely talk.&

It all sounded terribly foreboding to the wizard, who kicked a small piece of stone, contemplating. This all seemed to spell out war, judging if the rumors of Mordor are right, that troops are gathering. The fates must be laughing at him right now, he shook the metaphorical finger at them and looked north, north is where, by a forest named Lorien resides, a tributary off the Anduin called Glanduin runs through the mountain, a pass where he can get to the west side of the mountains where Gandalf the Grey dwelled.

Harry admitted to himself that he had dragged the process out as long as possible- where one half demanded to go home, the other insisted on staying and going back to Rowin, no Voldemort, no Dursleys, no one to try and control him.

Yes, control him; the Light side had tried to control him. He had realized slowly, at a steady rate, so he knew that it was not because of this realm, Middle Earth as it was called, that his head was becoming clearer. He could think: his mind broke free of bonds that he couldn't see after years of neglected maintenance. The bonds and barriers felt like Dumbledore, and with a more lucid and angry mind, he replayed everything from the beginning- Hagrid's Arrival, the Weasleys at Platform Nine and Three Quarters, the horrible protection surrounding the Philosopher's Stone… Each year was a test, he was being manipulated.

Of course now the Light side had a reason for all this, some bloody prophecy that looks like it was never going to be fulfilled at the rate he was going.

Harry sat down on the grass as Hedwig groomed him and rested his elbows on his knees. See why he doesn't want to go to that place? That place where Hell was paved with Dumbledore's good intentions. 'But for everyone else,' he thought, 'I'm doing this for everyone else. And then… maybe I'll say goodbye and return here, after Voldemort's destroyed.' It was a good thought, but he didn't know if it'll come true or not.

Sometimes, he just wants to go home to people he can relate to, back where he belongs. And then again, he was perfectly content staying here. He had two warring halves, fighting one another in a never-ending battle.

It took an off-handed comment from Arwen (&You don't seem to form wrinkles in your skin&), a bowl of water, and four years to realize that the abundance in ambient magic made him age slower than if he stayed in his own world. He stared at his reflection and touched it, it rippled. He ranked the epiphany up there, right next to the realization that Hedwig was actually as old as his biological mother.

He could pass as a sixteen year old, barely. Just barely.

Harry suspected that the magic around him would continually slow down the aging process. He wondered how long he'll live; maybe he'll break Dumbledore's record of around One hundred and fifty… It was a thought.

If this is how the rest of his life would be… Harry thinks of himself now as 'not normal'. Despite all the years, his grasp on Westron haven't improved much, making him rely much on Arwen. He placed the fault at his inability to mingle with the rest of the humans.

He couldn't get along with them; there was an unexplainable rift between them.

He entered the forests of Lorien, feeling the magic that was as abundant as when he was with the Ents. So unlike Rowin, the magic around Rowin was scattered and only the music of the flute could gather the power together. Elves dwelled in the forests and if he could, if not for the fact that forests always hold more animals, food, than the open grass plains, he would've avoided them all-together. "I hope they're friendly," He muttered as he rubbed Fawkes' feather, for good luck.

oOoOo

He wandered for days, looking for the river at the west side of the woods. The forest seemed sentient, whispering and greeting him by brushing their branches before him. Hedwig flew, this time weaving around the trees, the message she gave made him wary, and there were people nearby. Are they the elves? "Hello?" No reply, he looked around, not feeling safe enough to drop his guard, "I… uh… mean no harm…" Arwen stayed silent, but shifted restlessly against his skin, causing him to squirm. He made his way northwest, ears pealed for any sound of water. He ran a hand through his hair and touched his eyes, adjusting non-existent glasses and pulling his hood even more to cover his face; old habits die hard.

And then it happened. It was almost like his experience of being possessed by Voldemort in the Department of Mysteries when a presence entered his head… Wait, it was more like looking through Nagini's eyes as she attacked Mr. Weasley. It hurts; there was too much pressure, no sound, just pressure that weighed him down. Arwen poked out of his shirt, hissing curses and trying to console him. Hedwig flew around him, agitated. He tried to resist the intrusion in his head, but the force was so old and powerful… He fell onto his knees and doubled over, clenching his head and opening his mouth to give a silent scream.

He saw a tall woman in white, so beautiful that nothing can compare, she had long blond hair that ran down her back and her face showed wisdom beyond the years, or millennia, staring down into a mirror. But she was in his mind, an intrusion that he can't forgive. Snape's Occlumency lessons rushed back with full force, "Clear your mind, Potter! Blank it out and then push the perpetrator, you nitwit!"

But he can't, he can't, he can't, he can't, he can't, he can't…

The woman looked up and her eyes widened. He took out his flue and held it to his lips, A#, and blew as hard as he could, 'Protego! Protego! Protego! Protego!"

The shrill musical note of magic pushed the woman away; she collapsed to the ground… Pulled violently back into his own body, he balanced himself on all fours; his hands clenched at the grass and ripped some away from their roots. He was sweating and he shut his eyes, gasping and trying to recover from the pain. Arwen still was silent; Hedwig handed on his shoulder and stared at him. He'll be fine. It's nothing some rest couldn't heal, he hopes at least.

The forest whispered unease, the birds that had chirped in the distance had flown away, the air got colder. He stumbled up and staggered, he had to get out of here. The woman he saw will be found, she will talk about somebody harming her, she was powerful, probably a leader, her subordinates will be after his blood. His sixth sense, the one that had ensured his survival since he stepped into the magical world, started to haywire, not a good sign at all. "Get out of the forest," he mumbled to himself, reaching out a hand, groping for a tree trunk, the other hand clenched at the phoenix feather that glowed softly and calmed his mind…

"Halt, in the name of the Lady!" He heard multiple sounds of bending wood and groaned as he turned around with his hands in the air in open surrender.

He sighed as Arwen translated, "I'm sorry of what I did." He said tiredly, in broken Westron, "But she invaded my head and according to …" He looked up and was completely gob smacked. He was surrounded by five archers, all aiming at his head. They were all tall, dressed in medieval tunics of forest colors, and all looked beautiful, much like his previous vision, with long blonde hair and grey eyes and… pointy ears. The woman was an elf leader! Damn it, why do these things always happen to him?

"You attacked her! What have you done, evil being?" One of them cried, eyes narrowing and letting an arrow fly. He threw himself to the ground; the arrow grazed the tips of his hair.

"Brother! What are you doing? We need to bring him alive!" Someone shouted as he wiped dirt from his face and adjusted his hood.

Arwen hissed and he stammered, fisting the hems of his hood, "No! No! It's all a mistake! I wanted to find Gandalf the Grey and…" His eyes glowed in fury at the memory of the intrusion and pointed accusingly, "and she deserves it!" And then he yelled in English, "What kind being goes around stomping through other people's minds without permission, you bastards?" Wrong thing to say, as the elves tightened their hold on their bows, he knew that he had precious seconds to act.

Screw Gryffindor courage, he scrambled to his feet and ran, whipping out his flute and playing a short and precise tune. Two elves were thrown to the side by an invisible force, that set the signal and a flurry of arrows and throwing knives flew down. He ran and ran and ran, Hedwig screeched above, leading the way to what she believed to be an exit. The wizard looked behind him, still being followed! He cursed aloud and brought the flute again to his lips.

'Protego! Wingardium Leviosa!' He floated some stones and banished them to his pursuers… and heard a solid 'thud.' He turned around and ran, this time aiming the throwing knives back to them with relative amount of accuracy. There were more shouts behind him, but he didn't care enough to listen to them.

'I must have a death wish.' His mind wailed, 'Bloody hell, I'm being chased by a clan of Malfoys!'

And he ran and ran, legs burning from the sudden strenuous activity. But he refused to stop and slow down as it would spell certain death. Merlin! He didn't realize how barbaric these elves were, a clear contrast from the stories that were nature and peace lovers and appreciators of good things. They never talked about the elves' thirst for vengeance; it wasn't like it was his fault to begin with. He continued to fling objects back at them to slow their pace and played a melancholic tune that makes the listeners feel hopeless and sorrowful.

(They called him "Istari.")

&Harry!&Arwen cried, &The river called Glanduin, I sense it ahead. Turn left! Turn left! The edge of the woods is near, we have hope!&

But his hope was dwindling, as he realized that the elves haven't tired yet and that his own stamina was about to fail him. He was concentrating too much on maintaining a steady breathing rate to manipulate the magic with his flute. The river and the edge of the forest were still at a good sized run away and he was going to give out at any moment. The elves were still yelling at him, but Arwen was too addled-brained to tell him what they said. Pulling a final sprint, Harry bent his head and ordered his legs to give it their all.

He heard the telltale sound of tightening bowstrings and closed his eyes and hoped and hoped and hoped…

He felt being pulled through a tunnel, squeezed and distorted…

oOoOo

At the foot of the mountains, Harry Potter gasped for breath, wheezing for all he was worth. He collapsed, spread eagled on his stomach, gasping. 'It settles it, all elves are barking mad. I must have apparated, explains why I'm still alive, thank Merlin for accidental magic.' Groaning, he rolled himself onto his back and stared up at the sky, lips cracked open to give a feeble croak of laughter. Hedwig sat on an alcove, hooting softly. Arwen babbled in fright about death and arrows. He wiped off the sweat from his forehead and rubbed the back of his neck, massaging his back muscles. He slowly stood up, walked around a boulder a couple of times, cooling his body from the excitement, stretching. Adrenaline still rushed in his veins; he was in a state of mind to run around and yell out in victory of escaping death by the skin of his teeth.

But he felt wrong, he felt something missing… and so he checked his pockets… and double checked them… and then triple checked them… and then gave his body a complete pat down. A stone dropped in his stomach, he felt horror.

He lost Fawkes' feather, having dropped it when he ducked under the first arrow. The feather, one of his tenuous bonds to his home world, was gone.