Title: The Return of the Lost.
Disclaimer for all chapters: Neither The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit or Harry Potter are mine. I'm just playing make believe for a while, and I'm not doing it for any financial profit.
AN: Again, this is yet another plot bunny that popped into my head. Unlike the other plot bunnies, however, I don't know if I'll update this one. I'm thinking, in all honesty, that I will, but, well, I don't know for sure. So, a quick heads up there. Also, it's not beta.

"A Call for the Lost:

…My Blood is my Prove,

My Kin this will find,

Please help me,

O' Great Valar,

To re-cross the Great Divide."

– The Book.

1

Harry James Potter found that Professor Flitwick's new Book of Rituals called to him, like the sea sometimes had when he was younger, locked away and dreaming of a better place. It was a strange feeling to have, he knew, and an even stranger occurrence, when all things were considered, as he shouldn't have even known that The Book – as he'd taken to calling it – existed, never mind felt its call each day and every night while he stayed within the walls of Hogwarts castle. Of course, Harry had to admit, after a week or two of it happening, that The Book often called to him while outside of it too, and more so, even, whenever he stepped foot into the Forbidden Forrest – a place that Harry had been venturing more and more these passing months, ever since he'd returned for his sixth year and found that it was the only place that he could go and actually find some semblance of peace.

Actually, once he was thinking about it, Harry decided it was probably better to just acknowledge that The Book, for whatever reason, appeared to call to him every second of his life, no matter where he went, ever since his Charms Professor had brought it within reach of him – and it was, apparently, just him that it called to, for no one else that Harry had spoken to about it (not that he'd spoken to many, admittedly) had felt its aura, heard its song or felt any kind of longing for it, at all.

Nor, he thought, as he walked towards the headmaster's office, feeling a little hopeful and slightly un-nerved at being summoned so suddenly, did anybody else seem to really understand the resulting consequences of it; his new sudden feelings of restlessness and peculiarity, his wondering feet and faraway thoughts, his new and yet constant yearning for whatever that Book was telling him was his to take, if not by complete birth right, then as a gift to a child in need. A gift, which, he felt, should he choose to take, would grant another a more fulfilling life, too.

In all honesty, nobody surrounding him seemed to really understand anything that was happening to him, at all. Harry, though… well, a part of him understood just fine – even if it was only in abstract – and it was that understanding, that perfect clarity that had been slowly filling him up with a burning hope, which equalled only to the longing he'd been feeling ever since The Book had found him, that gave him a real true faith that things would finally be okay.

X

Though some people would claim differently, Harry wasn't an idiot. Sure, he did his homework last minute, hardly studied for exams, and only focused on things completely when he was interested, or, more often the case, when he was desperately needing information to starve of death for another day, but he most definitely wasn't an idiot. Or stupid. So, naturally, when he'd first felt that strange unwavering call and realised it wasn't actually apart of the Charms lesson – after asking a confused Flitwick about it – they'd gone to the headmaster, with thoughts of Voldemort and portkeys on their minds, with Hermione and Ron following worriedly behind them, as the rest of the school stared in fascination.

Five days later, though, in which Harry had been constantly watched by the professors and everyone was kept away from the Charms classroom for fear of (another) sudden kidnap or murder, Professor Dumbledore, with the help of a sneering Snape, had ruled out the murdering megalomaniac and his meryy band of Death Eaters, before moving on to other ideas of what – and where – this "calling device" could be, and what they thought it's job was.

"Alas, each idea I have is more unlikely than the last." The Headmaster had stated, a little amused, after the seventh day, as everyone around him frowned in consideration and Snape accused Harry, yet again, of lying.

Harry had pointed out, at that point – after "ignoring Snape exceptionally well", according to his head of house – that he could just follow the call and find it himself, but his Professors and the few members of the Order that were gathered around had just ignored that thought, and gone on to perform more searching spells on top of other random detecting spells, instead – much to no avail.

In fact, it was only when Professor Flitwick had moved The Book from his person (three week, four days and six hours later) that they'd finally realised where it was coming from.

Even then, though, Harry hadn't been allowed near it – it had been the Firebolt fiasco all over again, only this time, they all thought that the hexes and jinxes would probably be unleashed when he, and he alone, touched it.

Again, nobody bothered to listen when he told them (for the ninth time) that the call he heard sounded more like a Phoenix song, rather than anything nefarious.

So, perhaps unsurprisingly, since that moment, every teacher – and some Ministry personnel, too – had tried to deduce all of its secrets and made sure that there were no death traps placed upon it, before deciding to finally do what Harry (and apparently The Book, too) had been waiting for them to do for months.

Just give it to him.

X

"So," Harry said slowly, after entering Professor Dumbledore's office and taking a seat. He could hear the call clear as ever now that he was closer, and couldn't quite help but eye The Book that was still in his Professor's hands with unmistakeable intrigue and yearning. It was only a slight thing, really, bound in a material he didn't quite recognise and coloured a rich shade of green that he hadn't thought existed, but none of that truly mattered. It was the fact that his heart was pounding at the very sight of it, and that he seemed to find himself simultaneously trying to shut down the sudden urge he had to just grab it and run, and encouraging himself to do just that.

"So," Harry repeated, when the former had finally won out. "What have you decided to test The Book with, now?"

He'd tried, like the last time he'd been surrounded by his Professors, to sound only mildly interested, but ended up with slight exasperation and unhidden annoyance, instead – unsurprisingly so, though, he silently admitted, as the last thing he'd found out was "secret" information from over three weeks ago, when they were all planning on coating The Book with a horrid smelling revealing potion a Potions Master had recently created – which, he had out by spying, only had a 37% success rate, anyway (a fact that had made him wince whenever he thought about it), not to mention that they hadn't even known – to his fury – what its lasting effects would be.

Biting his lip, Harry had to hold back another aggravated groan at that thought (and the sudden impulse to kick Snape – the instigator), as the man in question, who was stood behind him with the other "investigators", sneered at his "lack of respect", while the others just looked at him worriedly.

Harry had noticed they'd been doing that a lot lately – staring and worrying. He didn't find himself caring overly much about that, though.

For a moment there was a weary silence, before, finally –

"Nothing" answered Professor Dumbledore, smiling benignly, though the usual twinkle in his eyes had dimmed with seriousness. "We've done everything we can think of – even experimental ideas – and we can't find anything on it. No curses, hexes, spells of any kind, or…" He opened his hands, "whatever you hear calling you. We simply can't detect anything."

It's because it's not meant for you, Harry told them, silently, and because it wasn't made by a wizard. He didn't know how he knew that exactly, but he did.

"Does that mean I can look at it, now, then?" asked Harry, feigning calmness and knowing – and not really caring – that he was failing at it.

"Yes," Professor Flitwick squeaked at him, a little nervously, while Professor Dumbledore nodded slowly from his seat, and Professor McGonagall pursed her lips, disapprovingly. "You can. We just want you to flick through it though, and find what specific page is… 'Calling' you. There are many Rituals in here, after all –"

"Yes," Professor McGonagall interrupted, her nostrils flaring, "and don't go reading any of them out loud. Heaven knows what would happen if you did. Where you got that book from, Filius…" She trailed off, shaking her head, disgustedly, and Harry half-heartedly wondered what was supposedly wrong with it.

In truth, it felt absolutely wonderful to him, and even Fawkes seemed to agree; the phoenix had been staring at it with as much fascination as Harry wanted to. He suspected, and rightly so, that this was the only reason the headmaster hadn't just destroyed it.

"Yes," Dumbledore agreed, staring at him avidly over his spectacles, "I wouldn't read whatever it is aloud, for now – just in case, you see. If you would just find the page, or section, and let us know. Then we'll go from there and find out what it is – and why it seems to call you."

"Alright." Harry replied indifferently. He didn't mention that he didn't think reading it aloud would make any difference. All he had to do was touch it and read the words – and only the last two sentences, really, if what he felt was right, just the bits about blood and kin. Not that he had any intention of telling them that…

He held out a hand and willed it not to shake, but Dumbledore merely shook his head.

"My boy, I'll not be giving it to you." He was sounding worried again, Harry noticed, and his eyes were looking even darker, his mouth strained. "I'll carefully place it on my desk and you can just flip through it with your wand."

And almost as if it were a bomb, his mentor did just that. He placed it down gently with his fingertips, near the middle of the giant desk, then removed them just as carefully, while the other professors held their breaths behind him.

It wasn't for the first time Harry had witnessed something like this, and Harry knew that there must have been something he didn't know about The Book, that they did, and had refused to tell. It didn't surprise him, to be honest, and, as it was, Harry wasn't all that bothered about it anymore. He just tried to choke back the laugh that rose up as he watched their antics, before shuffling his chair forwards in anticipation and raising his hand – this time along with his wand – once more. Not, it turned out, that he'd needed to.

The Book, seemingly sensing his presence, flipped open and began to find the page he wanted – was being called to – itself, much to his Professors' surprise, worry and chagrin.

"How?!" Snape demanded quietly, for once sounding thoroughly shaken. Harry supposed, only half-jokingly, that this was because this proved his "Potter Lies!" theory completely false. Dumbledore and McGonagall, however, leapt forward ready to steal back The Book. Thankfully though, to Harry at least, he wasn't a seeker for nothing, and got there first, clutching it to his chest.

"It's meant for me!" He told them, furiously, finally having had enough of it. "You can't keep stopping me from reading it!"

Well, Harry silently amended, thinking quickly, they could, but not without a fight and leaving me with injuries. Which, nowadays, the ministry wouldn't approve of, and therefore would cost them their jobs.

"Harry," His transfiguration teacher whispered, raising her hands as if he were a wild cornered animal in need of aid, "please give it back to Albus."

"No."

'Potter–"

"No. It's been months – months! – of me listening to it call me and me resisting it for the single reason that you thought it wasn't safe for me, even when everything in me said it was – and even Fawkes agrees!" To back up his point, a happy trill sounded from his right. "See! Only now you've all finally agreed it isn't dangerous, and you still don't want me to read it. Why?"

"Harr–"

"No, Professor. Why don't you want me to read it?"

"Potter!" Snape butted in, suddenly, all but seething, "Just because there aren't any curses on it, doesn't mean that it isn't dangerous!"

"Ah, but it isn't dangerous for me.' said Harry. He knew that; he felt it. "Now what's your next excuse?"

"Reason." McGonagall stated, eyeing him strangely.

"Excuse." Harry repeated firmly. "They're excuses and you know it. What I don't know is why you're using them." And if they weren't going to tell him, Harry decided, it couldn't be that important. Especially considering everything that had happened last year – surely the headmaster had learnt about keeping things that he needed to know from him by now?

"A compromise then," Dumbledore suggested, staring imploringly at him, "can you return the book to the table and we'll look it over together?"

"As long as I get to keep a hold on it." Harry said, without hesitation.

That seemed to worry them all over again, though.

"Take it or leave it." Harry told them simply, clutching it all the more tightly. Everything in him seemed to hum with rightness at it.

"Fine." Professor Dumbledore agreed, quietly, almost gravely, but ushered Harry to put it down anyway.

Moving forward slowly, Harry eyed them all, evaluating their trustworthiness, before putting it down, leaving his right hand, fingers spread, across the right side of the page, as it was the left side that called, and Harry stated, aloud, as much.

Professor Dumbledore walked around his desk, nodding carefully, as the others stepped closer.

"Not out loud though!" McGonagall reminded him sternly, as they all crowded around it.

Harry nodded, "Not out loud." He agreed, and as one they looked down.

"Do you know what language this is?" Professor Dumbledore wondered, staring back up at his only current student.

"Eldarin." Said Harry, the word making no sense to him and complete sense, all at once. In truth, he had never heard of it, yet apart of him felt as if he'd always known it, somehow, somewhere, though only now just remembered it. "The language is Eldarin."

"Of course," Dumbledore stated softly, but looked as if he didn't quite know what that meant. "And can you… read this… Eldarin."

Harry eyed the page, almost fondly, and said, "Apparently", before doing just that.

And if anybody was truly surprised by him doing so… well, they clearly weren't as smart as they'd thought.

The last thing he heard, before the golden sphere coated him in light and his entire world went dark, was four voices shouting his name, furiously and with concern, and a fifth, seeming larger and kinder than life itself, laughing, softly.