Ch1.

Harry tried to catch his breath behind a tomb stone, but it was no use. His heart was wild in his chest as the laughter of Voldemort and his Death Eaters echoed around the graveyard. He took a deep breath, peaked around to get an eye on the Cup. It was his only hope of getting out of here. Of getting Cedric out of here.

He ducked down just in time as a diffendo whizzed past and smashed a tree stump to slithers. Harry used the dust stirred up by the explosion to move to another cover, closer to the cup. But he could feel them moving closer. If they wanted, they'd be on him already. There were so many.

"He's mine! No one touch him," came Voldemort's order. "Oh Harry, come out Harry. Would you die cowering behind the dead? I thought a brave Gryffindor like yourself would rather stand."

Harry didn't move. He was keenly aware of where the cup and Cedric was. Cedric, felled, sprawled in the clearing they arrived in. The cup was still further away, kicked to the side by Wormtail. Harry gripped his wand, trying to ignore the sweat. Too far. He needed a distraction.

Pressing the tip of his wand to his lips, Harry closed his eyes. He summoned up his favourate memory. He could almost taste the cinnamon hot chocolate, feel the chill on his skin. It was the chill from an open window on Gryffindor tower. Late winter, when the first snow of the night was drifting down. Ron and Hermione cupping mugs with both hands, laughing into the fireplace as the three of them wound down after class. There no assignments, no threats, no responsibilities. It was true freedom.

Harry opened his eyes, the flames of the fireplace existing as a split second after image. "Expecto patronum," he whispered. And even though his voice was soft, he pushed every inch of the memory into the spell. The tip of his wand glowed a faint white, soft almost, then it burst out with the force of a surpercharged lumos. Pure white light flooded out from his wand and Harry scrunched his eyes shut even as he scrambled around the tombstone, stumbled, caught himself, and continued on a dash that would take him to Cedric.

Behind him, he heard cries of pain mixed with the faint, willowy whisper of a stag's bellow. It brought him scant seconds, but it was more than he had bargained for. He closed the last few meters on Cedric, the world a blur from tears in his eyes, burning from the light of his patronus, and dropped to his knees beside his friend. Harry flung out his wand.

"Avada Kedavra."

"Accio cup!"

His eyes widened, but there was no time to look. The cup smacked into his waiting hands as the jet of green hit the cup. Harry felt a pull in the base of his stomach as the cup warped, turned black, and started to crumble. The portkey! But he could feel something pulling him. Harry gripped Cedric's arm, and before Voldemort could cast another spell, they vanished, leaving only the dusted remains of the Triwizard cup in their place.

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Harry smashed into the ground hard. He sucked in a breath, mouth dry, and looked around him. He was dimly aware that he still had Cedric's arm in an iron grip and forced himself to let go. Dead, dead. His friend was dead. But Harry couldn't afford to give the other boy much thought.

The cup should have taken him back to Hogwarts. Out the front of the maze. But, as Harry turned around in a full circle, he knew that he was nowhere near the castle. All around him, stretching out for miles, was wetlands covered in knee high reeds, short twisted trees and wild flowers. The ground under foot was damp, squelching as Harry took a tentative step. A winding river flowed from a line of harsh mountains far off in the distance, opposite to which was hilly country.

Stranger still, it was early morning, and the air had the feel of spring.

Harry went back to Cedric, stared, unthinking at the other boy's open eyes. Harry blinked, unnerved, and closed Cedric's eyes. He shook his head. Where were they? Where had the cup taken them? Harry wiped his hands on his trousers and gripped his wand tight. He couldn't be sure this wasn't a Death eater trick. An illusion? A trap? But why, and to what purpose? He stayed crouched, peaking again at the land over the top of the reeds.

They weren't in Scotland, that much he knew. The weather was much too warm, especially this early in the day. And those mountains. There was a smattering of white on their peaks, he was sure of it. Harry cursed at his knowledge of geography. Perhaps a couple more years at a muggle school and he'd have a better guess as to where he was. But no matter, Hogwarts have taught him a couple of things too.

Harry held his wand flat on the palm of his hands. "Point me, north." The wand turned, and Harry followed it until the mountain range lay square to his left. Alright, then, that didn't help him much. He tried again. "Point me, Hogwarts."

This time, the wand didn't move an inch. Harry frowned. He turned, but the wand just turned with him.

"Point me, Albus Dumbledore." Some deal. The wand lay lifeless on his hands.

"Point me, England." Again, nothing.

Harry tried to starve off the oncoming panic. Maybe the spell had a distance limit. That would make sense, right? He didn't need to panic. Dumbledore and everyone else would be looking for him right now. They'd know something was wrong when he picked up the cup back in the maze and failed to reappear. The headmaster would know more ways of finding people than a simple point me. They'd get here in no time.

His arm and his leg was still hurting from his wounds. He'd have to wash the cut from Wormtail. Bandage it too. And there was nothing much he could do about his leg from the battle with the blast ended skewet. And then there was Cedric. Harry felt a stab of guilt. He'd left the other boy crumpled. It would have been extremely uncomfortable if… if he was alive. He righted Cedric so he was lying on his back, limbs resting by his side.

And now all he had to do was wait.

Harry was vigilant for the first hour. He kept an eye and an ear out for sounds of apparition. His wand was constantly in his hands, a stupefy on his lips. He summoned some water and cleaned his wounds. He stayed near Cedric.

The second hour was much the same, but with the gnawing worry. What was taking them so long? Did any even know that Voldemort was back? He needed to tell Dumbledore who all the death eaters were. He needed to get Cedric back.

The third hour was when the fatigue hit. As much as he wanted to continue his vigil, a bone-weary tiredness turned his limbs to lead. The quaint peacefulness of the place, filled only with bird song and the thin breeze through the reeds helped lull him into a state of drowsiness.

It was only when the reeds rustled beside him and a small green head peak out did Harry blink into alertness. He trained his wand at his feet, but his sudden moment made the creature retreat. Harry shook his head. He was jumping at the littlest things. Of course there was going to be a few small animals living in the grasses.

He heard a voice.

"No, no, no. Too big. Too big to be food. Scaring away all my prey. What are they doing in my territory?"

It sounded English to him, but Harry knew the tell-tale signs of palseltongue much better than when he first spoke to a snake. He cleared his throat.

"Excuse me?" Nope, still English. Harry grimaced. He knew he needed an actual snake, or at least a picture of one.

"What was that? Should have left. Better hide. It better not tread on me."

Harry spotted the hint of a green belly, coiling up between the roots of some reeds he'd stomped over before. That was enough. "Hello, hello, can you hear me?" The snake twitched, its tongue flickered out to dart at the air. It would have been amusing if not for Harry's nerves and his need to get back to Hogwarts.

"Yes, it's me. I'm talking. Up here," he said.

The snake uncoiled. The same green head poked out from the centre, and lifted itself up as if to get a better look. "Human? Impossible! This is-"

"Not impossible," Harry interjected. "I don't have time to explain. I'm lost. Do you know where we are?" And then he smacked himself in the face. What was he doing asking a snake where they were?

"Where? We're in my territory. Near the water edge and a short way away from the cricket breeding nest I savoured a few days ago."

"Never mind. Have you seen any people around? Like me?" It was a gamble, but one he was willing to take. He was getting nowhere by crouching in the reeds and it was not a proper place to leave Cedric.

"Like you? No, not as tall, not able to speak, either. Splashing around in the river, you'll find some there, most likely. But not my territory, no. I'll not go that way."

Harry lifted his head at the news. The river would be his best bet, then. He glanced along the water's length, but could find no evidence of habitation. He bent down to ask the snake some more questions only to find it gone. Well, he was better off than he was before. The sun was high up in the sky now, almost noon. He should get a move on.

So, with Cedric levitating low behind him, Harry made his way towards the river. He was taking a risk, that muggles would see him doing magic, but he didn't have the strength to carry Cedric, and he couldn't just leave him there. Cedric's ghost or wisp or whatever it was that came out of Voldemort's wand wanted to be brought back to his father. Harry had made a promise.

When he broke free of the reeds and stepped foot onto a rocky shore, Harry saw that his initial assessment was slightly incorrect. Although the banks were empty of people, there was a small boat tied to a post. And it was a small boat. Barely wide enough for Harry to sit comfortably, it didn't look like it could even take his weight. And Harry wasn't overly large or tall. It was a child's boat, if it wasn't a toy, although it looked so out of place in the middle of nothing.

Perhaps there was a town or some farms further downstream. If the snake said he'd seen people splashing about the river, then it mustn't be too far away. So Harry continued east, following the banks of the river, Cedric floating behind him. He'd only made a little headway before he rounded a bend in the river and spotted the huts in the distance.

Situated a dozen meters away from the water's edge and elevated on stilts so even the highest reeds couldn't brush the floor, three – no four huts stood. The fourth, which Harry had nearly missed, was a smouldering wreck. The walls of the other three were scorched in black, and the pier out front was similarly damaged.

A breath caught in Harry's throat when he caught sight of figures slumped against the huts and lying on the ground. They were scattered around. It was a carnage.

A cold sweat turned his hands clammy and Harry gingerly laid Cedric back on the ground. The peace and quiet of this place for the first time turned unearthly, and Harry shivered to think he'd sat unperturbed, unknowing what had happened here.

But it was quiet. And while the fourth, destroyed hut still smoked, the fire was long out. Whatever had done this had been and gone before the portkey brought Harry and Cedric here. But those people might not have been long dead. Harry snuck through the reeds, taking care to make as little sound as he could. Perhaps there were survivors.

He could smell the burning wood now, the acrid taste of ash, mixed in with something else that made him gag. Burnt flesh. Harry paused as he neared one of the huts. By one of the stilts lay the body of a man, ripped apart. Bile rose and Harry took several deep breaths as he averted his eyes. But he couldn't get the image out of his head. It was like a wild animal had attacked. He looked back. A single large gash ran from the man's upper chest to his hip. Harry could see the white of bone and coils of bowel. Not a survivor, then.

The snake had been right, though. Even slumped over and covered in gore as the dead man was, Harry could tell that he'd just barely rise to his waist. But this was no child. There was the hints of a beard splattered with blood, and the body of someone well versed to labour. Harry knew of conditions that could stunt someone like that, though none which caused such hairy feet.

The huts faced inwards on a central clearing, where a fire pit, along with some communal supplies were gathered. Among the baskets and drying racks lay yet more bodies. This time, although there were three more of the short, hairy-feet men, there was also another creature.

Blackened skin, vaguely humanoid with claws for hands and a mouthful of fangs. It had been run through with a metal spit and its face was still twisted in agony. Despite its hideous appearance, Harry felt something for the pain the creature must have been in. Then Harry saw the curved swords in the creature's hands, still stained with blood. They'd be a perfect match for the wounds the short men had sustained.

Harry felt his breathing quicken. What manner of creature was this? Where was he, that slaughter like this could be left unattended? All at once he realised he wasn't safe. Not in the slightest. And however much he wanted to help the people who'd been killed here… he wouldn't be of any use dead.

From behind him came the sound of metal sliding on metal. Harry jumped, spun around and raised his wand at… a man, middle aged, clad in leathers, hair greasy, and with one hand gripping the pommel of a sword tethered to his belt. The man eyed Harry warily, before glancing around at the dead around them. His face grew grim before flickering back to Harry. He barked out a question, but in a language Harry had never heard of.

Harry stepped back, still with his wand trained on the man.

"I don't understand," Harry said. "English?"

The man frowned and gestured harshly at the bodies around Harry. The question was harsher this time, and repeated in what seemed like several different languages, none of which sounded familiar.

Harry shook his head, his stomach sinking. His suspicions were only growing deeper. The languages were just another knock on the head. The portkey had been hit by Voldemort's killing curse. Who knows what happened to its enchantment. Who knows where it had taken him. This was not good, not good at all.

And now there was a man, staring at him as if he had killed these people himself. Harry lowered his wand, shook his head, frantic.

"It wasn't me. I don't know what happened here. Oh Merlin, you probably have no idea what I'm even saying." Harry cut off as the man took a step towards him. He must have shown his alarm, for the man paused, and slid his sword all the way into his sheathe. He took another step, this time with hands outstretched, open.

Another question came, gentler this time, but no less stern. Harry could only shake his head. "I don't understand. I'm sorry, I don't know. I don't even know where I am."

As if he didn't have enough to deal with, the heat of frustrated tears started to gather in the corners of Harry's eyes. This was all too much. All that had happened today, the third trial, the graveyard, Voldemort, Cedric. Then this whole place, with all this horrible death, and no way to get back to Hogwarts.

Mortified, Harry tried to wipe them away before more could flow but it was no use. He was fed up with it all. There was only so much he could take and still be the hero everyone wanted. He stumbled back, shouted incoherently when the man moved to follow, and ran back down away from the carnage and waded into the water edge. He splashed down, cupped some water in his shaking hands and splashed his face until his tears were done.

The man, thankfully, didn't follow. After a time, when he had gotten his breathing back under control, he dried his face and his clothes and went to where he left Cedric. He stared at the other boy for a moment, unable to help comparing the peacefulness of this death with the violence of the others. It was both more and less horrible at the same time. This way, in the dimming light of evening, Cedric could have easily been mistaken for asleep. Yet his death was just as final as that of men chopped to pieces.

Harry was sure, now, that he wouldn't be able to get Cedric home. He didn't think he'd manage to get himself home. But he pushed that thought away. He couldn't afford to dwell.

A crash from the huts made him turn. The man had stayed. Had dismantled the weakened huts for wood, and had set up a pyre. On the top he had laid out the bodies of the dead, nice and neatly in a row. Harry glanced back at Cedric. He wasn't sure what the other boy would have preferred, or what wizard customs were when it came to funerals.

Burial in this land wouldn't be very dignified, Harry thought. Digging a ditch and piling mud over his friend's body didn't sound like something he wanted to do. So Harry picked up Cedric's arms, cringing slightly at the coolness of his skin, and carried him on his back all the way back to the hut.

The man was waiting for him, gaze lingering on Harry's burden, but not saying a word. Harry glanced at him, then kept his eyes down as he carried Cedric to the unlit pyre. The other boy was heavy, and Harry's arms strained at the burden. The cut, forgotten until now, was a burning presence in the nook of his elbow. Harry focused on the pain for the last few steps until he came to the foot of the pyre.

"Could I, you know?" Harry said, gesturing as best as he was able.

The man leaned down and rearranged the bodies so there would be space for one more. Harry, with a shuddering sigh, partly in gratitude, and partly for his own aches, knelt and laid Cedric next to the others. He straightened and took them in, again, struck by how different they were in death. So strange, indeed, that the man touched his fingers to Cedric's wrist and chest, before pulling back, his face unreadable.

That night, the bodies burned.

In the light of the flickering flames, Harry looked over the stillness of the river and thought back to the way Cedric was, before. He said nothing. There was nothing he could say. He knew the other boy only from a distance, a popular Hufflepuff, the competitor for Cho's affections, and then more closely as a co-champion. He could do the other boy no justice.

When the man joined Harry by the river's edge, Harry though he saw some of the same sadness and helplessness.

"Aragorn," the man said, with a hand held up to his chest. He waved at Harry with a questioning raise of an eyebrow.

Harry looked up at… Aragorn. He tapped himself. "Harry." Then, he turned back to the pyre. "Cedric," he said.

What use it was, telling the other man, Aragorn, the name of the boy burning to ash, Harry didn't know. But if it was as he feared, and he was in a different land altogether, he wanted Cedric's name known to at least one other.

Aragorn nodded, and clasped on hand on Harry's shoulder. They stayed there until the fires burned out in the early morning, and when Aragorn handed Harry a pack, Harry took it and swung it on his shoulders like the other man.

Then they travelled. Days passed as they walked south and in that time, Aragorn taught Harry his language. The words for tree, bread, danger, rest. Learning was slow, and frustrating, and Harry thought he'd never be able to ever explain his predicament. Not that he truly understood it himself. Even a week after his arrival, Harry couldn't shake the thought that perhaps this was all a dream, or that he had gone crazy in the graveyard, after Voldemort's cruciatus. But Harry didn't think his imagination was rich enough to generate the lands they passed through.

The first village they came to was a real eye opener. Squat stone buildings, none over a storey tall, with thatched straw roofs, the people worn but strong. The place reeked of fish and no wonder – from the windows of every dwelling strung fish in various stages of drying.

Aragorn swept his arms at the village. "Fieldell," he said. "Familiar?"

Harry shook his head. "No," he said in Aragorn's tongue. "Never." The place was right out of the history books. Although strange as it was seeing a place surviving without modern essentials of electricity or magic, the people were still the same.

There was only one inn in Fieldell and it doubled as its only pub. The signage outside was of a bear with a fish tail sticking out of its mouth, done in exquisitely detailed paintwork compared to the dull-grey coating on the rest of the village. Aragorn pushed the doors open and lead the way inside.

The smell came immediately. Fresh bread, warm soup, salted fish, and a roast turning on a spit in the centre of the room. On the sides of the room were long tables and benches, and most of the places were filled. Men mostly, although there were a few families and children about. A handful of single tables were scattered to the corners. And Aragorn made a beeline for an empty one.

"Sit. Stay. I'll get food."

Harry did as he was told, letting his gaze roam around the patrons of the inn. If he could tune out the differences in language, clothing and, as he wrinkled his nose, smell, Harry might as well have been in the Leaky Cauldron on a busy Saturday night. People were talking, eating, laughing. For the first time after being thrown into this world, Harry felt himself beginning to relax.

Then Aragorn returned with two steaming plates and half a loaf of bread. The man set a plate before Harry and that was all he needed. After days eating the graining rations Aragon pulled from his pack, and washing it down with a handful of bitter berries picked from the wayside, the promise of hot food was a godsend.

"Thank you. Very good," Harry said and then he didn't look up until he had the plate clean. The dish was some sort of fish stew, though the meat was tougher in texture than the varieties Harry was used to. Tough but not unpleasantly chewy, and seasoned with a strange spice and plenty of salt. Piping hot, it settled well in his stomach and Harry wasted none of it, mopping up the last morsels with a piece of bread.

The next day, they continued south. Aragorn would say nothing of where he was going, although the man became more watchful the further they travelled. A few days from Fieldell, they came to the borders of a great forest.

"Mirkwood. Caution." Aragorn tried to describe the danger within the woods, but the words were too complex and without reference, Harry understood little. But watching the trees and the shadows, he thought he could imagine the dangers within. They made camp next to some boulders and within sight of the forest, Harry for the first time keeping watch. Hours passed as he stared into the trees but nothing stirred. Harry held his wand tight anyway, remembering vividly the slashes and the destruction. There were enemies out in the night and he wasn't likely to forget any time soon.

When the moon was high, and Harry was sure the other man was sleeping, he cast a notice-me-not charm over the camp. He couldn't swing a sword or use a bow, but he hoped his spell had the same effect on monsters as it had on humans. But the weariness of several hard days trekking cross country took a greater toll than Harry realised and he soon found himself nodding to sleep.

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He was shaken awake, an agitated Aragorn looming over head. Harry blinked, his eyes widened, but before he could get an apology out, the ranger slapped a hand over his mouth.

"Quiet," Aragorn hissed. "They don't see us yet." He made sure Harry understood before withdrawing his hand.

Harry felt along the ground for his wand, cursing that he let himself fall asleep. An inhuman screech sent shivers down his spine. He turned wide eyes to Aragorn.

"Black riders. We must run. There are too many to face alone," Aragorn said. "To the Mirkwood. There will be cover behind the trees." The man's face was drawn, his blade unsheathed. In the light of the nearly full moon, it glinted deadly sharp. Harry grabbed his pack and kicked over the remains of their camp fire.

The screech came again, this time accompanied by the thudding of hooves. A black rider, Aragorn had called them. Fear chilled him to his bones, fear of something he didn't have a name, something that produced a sound that filled him with dread.

"Come, quickly!"

Impossibly, the forest which Aragorn had warned him against in the day was now meant to be their haven. The two of them ran, hunched, doing the best to muffle the sound of their packs. Aragorn fiddled with something in his arms, a long stick and a roll of cloth, but he didn't slow.

Behind them, the clatter of hoover paused. An echoing neigh ran through the night. Harry looked over his shoulder as he ran and caught a glimpse of a dark horse, reared up, with a rider cloaked in black robes. A dementor! To its side were two more. There were three of them.

"They've seen us!" Aragorn said as he ran. "Take this. Fire is our ally if they get near."

But not dementors, Harry realised as he accepted a make-shift torch. They weren't in his world. But perhaps the same spell could be of use. Or, as he smelled alcohol soaked into the torch, fire might work too.

They had just passed the first trees when the riders was upon them. Aragorn whirled around with his sword, shouted a word with a strangely beautiful cadence, and the riders paused. The Ranger threw a small bundle to Harry who snatched it out of the air.

"Flint. Light them!" Aragorn raised his sword, ready. But there were three, and Aragorn was on foot.

Harry looked at the satchel before dropping it to the ground. Flint? Was he a wizard or wasn't he? Any reservations he had about showing his magic faded with the danger they faced. He pointed his wand to the tip of his torch.

"Incendio!"

Fire, glorious fire, spurted out from the tip of his wand. A small explosion rocked his arm as it made contact with the alcohol on his torch, and for a moment, Harry felt the searing heat burn through his chest and face. The fireball burned the wooden handle to a smouldering stub.

He coughed to clear his lungs of smoke and became acutely aware that two of the riders had swerved past Aragorn and were heading straight for him. Aragorn too, caught by surprise, stared at him, eyes wide and bright in the aftermath of Harry's spell. The man mouthed a word, something akin to confusion on his face, but Aragarn stalled for only a split-second. The man turned around, deflected a blow, and swung at one of the two riders charging towards Harry. The horse screamed and toppled, sending the rider crashing to the ground. But there was still one coming at Harry, sword a thin, deadly sliver of metal.

Harry raised his wand and dropped the remnants of his burnt torch.

"Incendio!"

He scored only a glancing hit as the horse twisted out of the way. The sleeve of the rider caught fire, and another inhuman shriek filled the air. Harry turned to aim again, but Aragorn's barrelling form smashed into him from behind and knocked him to the ground. A sword swung by overhead and Aragorn rolled over, sword raised to send the blade of the rider careening off-course.

Harry rolled over as well, wand stabbing up. "Incendio!" He blasted back one of the riders, giving them enough time to get back onto their feet and make some headway into the forest.

His feet flew over the roots, stumbling as they grew dense. A branch whipped past his face, obscuring his view for a scant second, enough to send him crashing to the ground. Aragorn hauled him back up and the hissing shrieks from behind them urged them both into a faster run.

For a dozen racing heart beats, they ran unchallenged. The neighing echoed back in the distance. They must have dismounted. It was faintly thrilling, knowing that they were losing the riders. Then his foot twisted, sinking further into the undergrowth than Harry expected. A cry caught in his throat as Harry slipped on the loose earth. He grabbed out, pulled Aragorn with him as they tumbled down a sudden drop in the forest floor.

He landed on something soft, something soft and writhing.

"Enemies! Danger, protect the den."

A scaled head rose up, baring four sharp fangs. Around the snake rose several more. Unlike the snake he met in the wetlands, the ones around them were as thick as his thigh. Aragorn sucked in a sharp breath, scrambled to grab his sword, but the sharp movement sent more snakes rearing up.

"No!" Harry hissed. "Don't attack us, please. We mean no harm." He reached over and pushed Aragorn's sword arm down.

The snakes shuddered, heads waving, uncertain. There must have been half a dozen, but it was difficult to tell where one snake started and another ended. "It speaks. Speaker. A human speaks? Strange. What do we do? This is new." So many voices, impossible to count.

"You're talking to them? Who ar- nevermind" Aragorn shook his head and glanced around them, wildly. "The forest slows their horses but the riders will come. We must hide."

Harry nodded. "We're terribly sorry for disturbing the den. There is evil behind us. Danger to all. Please, hide us."

"Hide? Evil? Yes, let's hide the speaker. Den, hide the speaker." The snakes moved as one, shifting, rising as a wave.

Aragorn stiffened beside Harry but the wizard kept his grip on the Ranger's arm. "Trust. We hide," Harry hissed. At the look on Aragorn's face, he cleared his throat, focused, and repeated himself in Westron.

"Hide the speaker. Away from the evil. Hide the speaker."

As the snakes converged on them, Harry struggled to keep himself from panicking as well. He pulled Aragorn down and they crawled into a large hollow in the roots as the snakes covered them. Cool, scaled bodies coiled loosely around his legs, his waist, his chest. A glance to his side showed Aragorn in obvious distress, although he allowed himself to be similarly restrained. Harry gulped. He still held his wand. He might manage enough wrist movement to get a diffindo out, if the snakes turned on them. But while the snakes didn't intentionally clamp around Harry, the weight of the den was enough it made movement near impossible. He didn't want to chance a backfire with a wrong wand movement.

Through the slithering flesh, Harry could see glimpses of the forest canopy, but only just. They would be totally hidden. No sooner, too. As the hisses died down, Harry could hear rustling movement through the underbush.

As the rustling drew nearer, colour leached out from their surroundings and dread returned to Harry's heart. Their cover was not enough, not nearly enough and while a diffindo needed to be sharp and precise, the notice-me-not charm was a fair deal simpler. Under his breath, Harry muttered the incantation.

The words had only just left his mouths when the dark rider shrieked. The den hissed in wordless alarm but that must have drawn the rider's attention further.

Curse it, how did they hear him?

From far off, two other shrieks echoed back, responding to the call. They'd been found. Hiding was no good anymore, they had to get up. Fight, or run. The snakes shivered around them. Harry could feel their bodies tense. They must feel the dread from the rider as well.

"Evil comes. Protect the eggs. Strike at the enemy!" A set of voices hissed.

"The speaker? Protect the speaker?" Came another set.

"Forget the speaker. The eggs are our own. Strike!"

The weight of the snakes started to ease. Above, the rider shrieked. Harry rolled over as he was released by the den and pushed himself to his knees. The snakes covered the forest floor so completely and so thickly it was like the earth itself had come to life. The size of their den was enough to give the rider pause. But only briefly. The rider's slashed its sword as the first of the snakes struck, lopping off the head.

Harry winced, trying to find an opening for an incendio but Aragorn's shout of alarm brought him around. The ranger engaged with a second rider as it came flying out from the trees. Harry scrambled to the side, over the scaled bellies of the snakes, trying to get a vantage point for a shot.

A whisper came through the trees and a vision of an eye, wreathed in fire, burned into his mind.

"Harry Potter."

The breath caught in his throat. What was that? He couldn't focus. All he could see was the eye, all he could hear was the voice. Harry blinked, and the flaming eye disappeared, only to be replaced by the shadow wreathed black rider, lunging at him with sword outstretched. As his senses returned, Harry could heard the echoing screech, mixed in with Aragorn's warning cry.

Harry's eyes widened and he started to raise his wand, a spell on his lips, but a wave of dread and fear came before him in the wake of the rider.

Then the sword slashed down and Harry instinctively raised his arm. The sword hit his wand, broke through it like it was merely a twig. A sharp, bewildering pain stabbed at Harry's chest. His wand! His holly wand! And then, with no time to recover, a second pain, deep in his thigh. This time, it was icy chill, a poison that spread the moment it made contact.

Harry crumpled as the rider yanked his sword out. All he knew was the red eye and the fell voice in his ear. Another voice, familiar but faint, yelled into the night. Through bleary eyes, Harry watched as the rider who struck him sheathed his sword. A glowing, skeletal hand reached out.

And then the trees came alive. A new voice called out orders and the undergrowth peeled back to reveal a sleek pack of wolves, their eyes bright and teeth bared but not at Harry. The leapt, their paws finding the cloak of the rider and pulled him away from Harry.

The chill in his leg had started to creep. Harry shut his eyes, pained and weary and clutched a shaking hand to his wound. Then all went black.

&&&chapterend&&&

AN: haha.. uh. Well, yeah. So I'm meant to be working on some original work, but after reading a couple awesome, awesome fics, I couldn't resist. A versions of this this story has been lurking in the planning phase for years now. Years. And I've always wanted to do a hpxlotr fic. They seem to fit so well together. So anyway. Tell me what you think!

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