Not Quite a Maia

Neville brandished his wand at the horsemen who were encircling him and his friends.

And as their leader closed in aiming his spear at Aragorn's chest, Neville fired...

"Nay, Neville!" cried Aragorn in dismay, but it was too late.

Completely taken by surprise, the Rohirrim tugged sharply left on his horse's reins as the jet of coloured light sped towards him. But he was not fast enough to avoid his spear being turned into a...brush.

A very large brush.

Hagrid would kill for a brush that size, actually (assuming he ever took the time to stop and groom himself which, come to think of it, he'd only seen happening when Madame Maxine and her bevy of Beauxbatons beauties stayed for the Tri-Wizard Tournament).

Neville grinned, feeling very pleased with himself. Molly's Transfiguration lesson's were paying off! If Professor McGonagall could see him now!

Aragorn groaned at the man's cry of disbelief and the entire circle of horsemen drew closer still, yelling in fury and glaring at the teenager in hostility.

"Neville Longbottom, it was not necessary to act so hastily! Now you have set them on their guard and it may be more difficult to treat with them."

Treat with them? He rolled his eyes. Those shaggy gits had them rounded up like a herd of cows and were ten seconds from turning them into man-kebabs (or, in Gimli's and Legolas' case, dwarf- and elf-kebabs). What did the ranger expect him to do? Rip off his shirt and offer up his 'prime ribs' without a fight?

Anyway, it wasn't as if he'd cursed the twats; he'd merely offered them the opportunity of a good grooming (which, by the looks of it, they needed).

"What is this trickery?" demanded the furious leader, waving the enormous bristled brush around as if he were conducting Hogwarts' school choir.

"I ask your pardon for my young friend's hasty action, horse-lord," said Aragorn respectfully after throwing an exasperated glance at Neville. "He is not familiar with your lands or customs and his ignorance has led him to treat strangers with caution. No harm was intended or caused. He merely wished to protect his friends."

Ignorance? Neville was bristling almost as much as the blond man's shiny new brush, a very large version of the one Gran used to spank him with on the rare occasions he'd been naughty (like the time she took him to buy some smart new robes as a reward not long after discovering his magic. Madam Malkin was fitting him for a shirt which was the most disgusting shade of grey and he made the mistake of declaring he wouldn't wear something that was the same colour as his Gran's old safety knickers - Gran hadn't even waited to get him home before clobbering him).

He was just debating the merits of hitting the not-so-honey-tongued ranger with a Silencio when Gimli shuffled closer and whispered: "Still your temper lad. Let us see what Aragorn can do to calm these wild riders."

What? Gimli was preaching caution? Where was that 'slay now, speak later' attitude the teenager was becoming so familiar with?

As if reading his mind, the dwarf added: "We may deprive them of their heads after his efforts fail."

Ah. That was more like it.

Soothed by his friend's more familiar attitude, Neville lowered his wand (a little) and waited to see how the riders would react.

"Who are you and what are you doing in this land?" demanded the leader, throwing the oversized brush to the ground.

"I am called Strider, and I come out of the North. I am hunting Orcs."

The stranger leapt from his horse and drew his sword before approaching Aragorn. Neville was just about to turn that into a comb (because it was always nice to have a matching set) when the ranger motioned at him to stop. His dark head swivelled back to the blond man, who by now stood before him and was surveying him keenly.

"At first I thought that you yourselves were Orcs, but I see now that that is not true. Your raiment is different. Though that does not alter the fact that you will become the hunted yourselves if ever you overtake them. What name is Strider? It is none of Men that I have ever heard. There is something strange about you. How did you escape our sight? Are you Elvish folk?"

Escape their sight? How could four people sitting in plain view escape their sight?

"There is but one amongst us whom we call Elf. Legolas, here, is Prince of the Woodland Realm in distant Mirkwood. But we have passed through Lothlórien and the gifts and favour of the Lady go with us."

Of course. The elven cloaks Galadriel had given them. But they were supposed to shield from unfriendly eyes. Were these riders hostile after all? The teenager's gaze swept the large company and he saw more than a few glaring at him as if they'd like nothing better than to stick his head on their living room walls.

Right. Better not take any chances then. Neville raised his wand as casually as possible and adopted a Gimli-style scowl (impressing the natives with a look of severe constipation).

The leader's eyes widened slightly. "Then there is a Lady in the Golden Wood, as old tales tell. Few escape her nets, they say. These are strange days! But if you have her favour, then you also are net-weavers," he said, turning a cold eye on Legolas and Gimli.

"And Sorcerers."

His gaze settled suspiciously on Neville, who stared back in challenge.

"Why do you not speak, silent ones?" the man demanded.

The dwarf gruffly addressed the well-spoken aggressor.

"Give me your name, horse-master, and I will give you mine."

The rider stared down at the dwarf. "It is for the stranger to declare himself first. Yet, I am named Éomer, son of Éomund, and am called the Third Marshal of Riddermark."

Éomer? Couldn't these people come up with normal names like Paul or John?

"Then, Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshal of Riddermark," said the dwarf, rising from his seat and planting his walking axe firmly on the ground in challenge, "let Gimli the Dwarf Glóin's son warn you against foolish words. You speak evil of that which is fair beyond the reach of your thought and only little wit will excuse you."

The Rohirrim began to mutter angrily and Éomer's eyes were blazing. He advanced further, gripping his sword tightly and regarded the axe-wielding serial-killer in scorn.

"I would cut off your head, beard and all, Master Dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground."

Neville rolled his eyes. This was exactly what Gran meant by 'male posturing'.

And it was beginning to spiral out of control. Before cooler heads could prevail, Legolas sprang from the grass and had an arrow nocked and trained on the nearest rider.

"He stands not alone," the elf declared boldly. "You would die before your stroke fell."

Merlin's wand! This was ridiculous! Their friends were out there somewhere at the mercy of a bunch of raging orcs and what were the rescue party doing? Comparing the length of their...hair. Someone needed to step in here and act like a sensible adult. Abandoning his (constipated) scowl, the teenager opted for a more reasonable approach to defuse the situation.

"Look, Mr Éomer; it's probably not a good idea for you to be going about saying things like that," he advised in an even tone. "Gimli's a dab hand with an axe, you know. And Legolas here could probably take out half your friends before you even blinked. So why don't we all just take a deep breath and try to talk like civilised people, eh? I'm sure we'll be able to sort out this little misunderstanding if we all just calm down."

There! Gran would be proud of him! Of course, she always made that extra effort when mediating between warring parties at the Knitting Bee. Perhaps he should take a leaf from her tin and offer everyone a cup of tea - or would that be too much?

"So you speak, boy?" the man said scathingly.

Boy? Who was he calling boy? Neville fought his annoyance for the sake of diplomacy. He would be calm. He would smile and nod and take it like a man because his missing friends needed him more then he needed to hex this hairy git.

"Your friend has given great insult to me. I am entitled to my recompense, am I not? That is the way of civilised people."

Gimli growled in the background and Aragorn moved to prevent the dwarf from lashing out in anger.

"Lobbing someone's head off just because they annoyed you is a bit much, though. And, to be fair, you started it by casting aspersions on the woman he fancies."

Gimli growled again, but this time in Neville's direction.

Eh, okay. Maybe he should've phrased that differently.

"So, the Witch in the woods has taken the Dwarf's fancy?" Éomer asked in amusement, sharing a glance with the nearest riders (who rumbled with laughter). "A Dwarf enamoured of an Elven female! I did not think to see such a day."

"And you never shall, if you utter one more word against her!" spat the fuming dwarf.

Aragorn gripped him by the shoulder, refraining him from taking a swipe at the Rohirrim with his axe.

"Peace, Gimli. Let us attempt to settle this argument in a conciliatory manner."

Éomer favoured the dwarf with another amused glance, then turned his attention to Neville. "And what of you, boy? What is your business with these people? Are you their pet Sorcerer?"

Pet sorcerer? What a git! Neville's good intentions deserted him as he glared up at the smug man.

"For your information, a sorcerer is someone who harnesses occult forces or evil spirits to produce unnatural effects," he replied, drawing himself up from the grass and planting his feet shoulder-length apart. "I'm not a sorcerer."

The man sneered. "Is that so? Then what is that lying upon the ground by my trusty steed? For it be not the spear I held two minutes since."

Neville stole a quick look at the man's windblown locks, sticking out from underneath his helmet. It was hardly surprising that the pompous git didn't recognise a brush when he saw it.

"That's a brush. You have seen a brush before? Or don't you groom your hair? And as far as I know, no one's ever tried to use a ruddy brush to harness the occult or produce any sort of unnatural effects."

Well, perhaps that wasn't entirely true. Bellatrix Lestrange had had the maddest hair he'd ever seen in his life. Perhaps she'd spent too much time back-combing it, and all the ferocious tugging had warped her brain (resulting in her downfall into the Dark Arts)?

"Insolence!" cried one of the other riders. "I say we slay him where he stands, my Lord!"

The Third Marshal of Riddermark (whatever that was) was almost puce with anger at the glib remark and Neville watched in some alarm when he raised his sword.

Crikey! The man was built like a bull and he looked like he knew exactly what to do with the gleaming weapon.

Time for that matching set...

Gimli and Legolas took their defensive stances once more as Neville raised his wand to Transfigure the sword into a nice big comb; but before all hell could break loose, Aragorn sprang between the warring parties and raised his hand.

"Your pardon, Éomer! When you know more you will understand why you have angered my companions. We intend no evil to Rohan, nor to any of its folk, neither to Man nor to horse. Will you not hear our tale before you strike?"

The spell had been on the tip of Neville's tongue when the ranger pushed him out of the way to plead for a truce, and it was with some consternation that he watched the glowering blond reluctantly drop his sword arm and nod brusquely. Gimli growled in frustration as he lowered his axe, deprived for the moment of the opportunity of battle. The teenager completely sympathised with him.

Sometimes Aragorn could be such a spoilsport.

And so, the young wizard stood between the elf and dwarf in silence while the ranger asked where the Marshal's allegiance lay. When assured the rider was not in collusion with the Dark Forces, he proclaimed himself (a bit too dramatically in Neville's opinion) to be Aragorn, son of Arathorn, before proceeding to rattle off a long list of his other titles: Elessar, the Elfstone, Dúnadan. Neville rolled his eyes. He was a great admirer of Aragorn's, but this was hardly the time for showing off. Fortunately, the ranger ran out of names (and air) after a while, then pulled his sword from his belt for the other man to inspect.

Éomer and the Rohirrim appeared to be duly impressed. The Marshal was at first awestruck, proclaiming the days to be strange indeed when dreams and legends sprang so plentifully from the ground. But then he cast his grey-eyed gaze on Neville and frowned.

"So, Lord from the North: now we have the measure of you and two of your friends - but what of the boy? He has not yet given his name, Sorcerer that he is."

Oh, for crying out loud, he was not a ruddy sorcerer!

"The name's Neville. Neville Longbottom. And I'm a wizard."

"Wizards and Sorcerers - ill news I name you all!" declared a rider who sat directly behind Éomer. "Worming your way into the service of your betters - yet always plotting their downfall, that you may steal both their crowns and their land. Take heed of your heads, heir of Isildur and foreign lords, lest the devious child addle them with his arts!"

A surge of anger shot through the teenager and he flushed. What did this arrogant git know about him? Nothing!

"I'm not in the habit of 'addling' peoples' heads with my arts," he spat angrily. "But if you want, I'd be more than happy to show you what I can do with their tongues."

He pointed his wand at the man's face and was all for introducing him to the delights of a Horn Tongue hex, when Aragorn interceded.

"I will not have you speak ill against our friend, Man of Rohan," the ranger said in a deceptively soft tone. "He is no more likely to use his magic for ill gain than would Gandalf the Grey. Indeed, it is by his sword that one of the Nazgûl met its doom! Were I you, I would speak of him with more respect."

"Peace, Éothain," said Éomer, holding up a hand as the rider began to protest the ranger's claim. The tall horse-lord eyed Neville speculatively. "You say this boy slew one of the Nine?"

"Indeed. I saw it with my own eyes."

"How is such a feat possible? No Man can kill the foul servants of Sauron. How did this...boy...accomplish such a thing?"

If that overbearing git called him 'boy' one more time, he'd show him exactly how he finished off the Nazgûl...

...well, maybe not. It would mean stumbling about the field like a novice and demonstrating to the already sceptical onlookers how he'd fallen on his backside while trying to avoid a death blow.

"He accomplished it with the use of his mighty Wizard's sword!" declared Gimli loudly, glancing up at him in admiration. Suddenly, the eyes of over a hundred men landed on Neville and he squirmed.

"Indeed," said Aragorn, clapping him heartily on the shoulder. "'Twas a glorious sight to behold the swift despatch of such a fearsome creature at his hands. If ever there was a deed worthy of a song, it was his!"

Swift despatch? That wasn't how he remembered it! This was embarrassing. Everyone was looking at him in wonder, as if he was Harry Potter or something. Shifting uncomfortably on his feet, he tried to redress the situation.

"Erm, well, it was nothing, really. Stroke of luck, that's all..."

"Ever modest, lad," Gimli said, grabbing his shoulder affectionately while Legolas beamed down at him.

Sighing, he abandoned the useless attempt to dismiss their obvious admiration and hoped they would move on to other points of discussion as quickly as possible. The leader of the Rohirrim eyed him appraisingly and Neville waited for the man's (no doubt scathing) verdict.

Fortunately, Éomer's verdict was not (entirely) scathing.

"He does not seem to possess the strength to hold a sword, let alone slay one of the Nine Riders with it."

Git!

"But if the heir of Isildur himself - who roams the lands of Rohan like a vengeful legend brought to life in these dark times - says that it is so, then I must believe it. However, I know two Wizards by sight and though one is as Dark as the other is Light, neither of them have the youth of this child."

His eyes finally left the flushing wizard and landed on Aragorn. "How can you be sure that he is what he claims to be? And that his intentions are honourable?"

"Because," said Legolas unexpectedly, "the Valar themselves sent him to aid us after the passing of Gandalf the Grey."

Éomer whirled around in surprise. "Gandalf has fallen?"

"That is so. In Moria - where an evil darker than even the Nazgûl walked. He fought the terror of a Balrog and perished after slaying it."

A gasp of shock rippled through the riders. Shouts of "Curse the spawn of Morgoth," and "Valar protect us," echoed through the air as the truth of Legolas' words displayed on the grim faces of the Four Hunters.

"Of late, every visit of Gandalf Greyhame to Edoras was to bring news of strange events and his name was no longer a password to the King's favour. Yet still, it is ill news to hear of his passing! Do you, Man of the North, truly believe that this boy - who claims to be a Wizard - is fit to replace him?"

Thinking this might be a good time to show a little goodwill, Neville waved his wand at the overlarge hairbrush and soon it regained its former shape. With a quick Locomotion charm, he raised the spear and brought it floating through the silently parting crowd until it reached its owner and began to gently nudge his arm. The wide-eyed leader of the Rohirrim gazed at him in wonder before his hand closed round the weapon.

"No one can replace Gandalf and I wouldn't even try," said Neville honestly after lifting the Locomotion charm. "But I am what I claim to be and I'm not interested in power or ruling over people - I'd rather be in my greenhouse tending my plants, to be honest. I know what it's like to live in fear; to watch innocence die in the face of tyranny. So when your Valar asked for my help, how could I refuse? I may not be Gandalf, but I'm not bad - and I definitely don't use my magic to addle peoples' heads. Let me show you what it can do."

He raised his wand, pointing it away from the crowd so as not to alarm them, and hoped against hope that he would actually be able to pull off his very first Patronus. It was the first spell that came to his head as an effective way to prove his good intentions, for its comforting presence would help put everyone a little more at ease.

As he searched through his memory (always a tricky thing for him) to select a moment that made him truly happy, one of the visions he saw in Galadriel's mirror popped to the forefront of his mind: his beloved Gran giving the idiot Dawlish a right royal trouncing. A feeling of enormous pride and love flooded through him and he smiled widely.

That would do nicely. Neville flicked his wand and cried out with confidence.

"Expecto Patronum!"

A large, silver blur exploded outwards across the grassy plain, stunning the onlookers as it bounded several feet away as if searching for something. The blur turned and bounded back towards the waiting wizard. Big, hairy blonds muttered nervously all around him and several of the horses shied away, forcing their riders to grip tightly at the reins to control them. The Patronus approached with considerable speed, before it finally slowed to a steady walk.

Neville was speechless. His Patronus was a dog. A Labrador. Its tail waggled furiously as it spotted its master and ran to him.

A dog? What was all that about? He'd been expecting a king-sized version of Trevor. He didn't even know any dogs!

The Patronus pooch came to a halt at his feet and sat on its hindquarters. It stared up at him curiously - probably wondering what the ruddy hell it was doing here when there were no Dementors nearby. Oh, well. Dog it was, then. It could've been worse - Dean's was a mouse, poor sod.

"What wonder is this?" cried Éomer, mightily impressed.

"That's my Patronus, apparently," he replied, still rather shocked.

Aragorn was observing it with a slight smile on his lips. "Patronus - that is what drove the Black Rider and his beast from the sky, is it not?"

"Yeah." The question made Neville think of Molly and his face fell, wondering if she and the hobbits were safe. The Patronus, as if sensing the change in his mood, rose and pawed at his leg. Although Neville couldn't feel the physical contact of its paw, it did help to cheer him up. Molly was a formidable witch: it would take more than a group of malodorous orcs to harm her - and Merlin help them if they tried to hurt Merry or Pippin, because she'd flay them alive!

Smiling, he reached down and tried to pat his new pet, but his hand slipped through it. The Labrador appreciated the gesture, regardless, and its tail started waggling again madly.

"Well, I suppose I'll have to think of a name for you, won't I?" he said wryly. "But first, why don't you go and show the nice man what a good doggy you are, eh?"

He pointed to Éomer. "Go and say hello to a friend before you disappear."

To the Rohirrims' growing amazement, the silvery dog turned and eagerly padded towards the enormous man. Éomer's face was a picture of astonishment as it circled him, appearing to sniff at his feet (Neville fervently hoped it wasn't about to cock its leg), before settling before him and gazing quietly upwards.

"Helm's hammer!" the blond man murmured. He held out a cautious hand which the dog sniffed at. "I have never seen its equal in all my years. Its proximity lightens my heart!"

Excellent! Job done then.

The dog seemed to agree. Giving Éomer's hand one last sniff, it padded back towards Neville and gave a silent bark farewell before it dissipated into thin air.

Silence reigned for a moment or two after the Patronus' disappearance, then Éomer spoke. "I ask your pardon, young Wizard, for doubting your intentions. These are dark times for my people and we are not given to trusting strangers easily - particularly strangers who boast such powers as you have displayed."

He shared a brief look with the rider called Éothain who stared back stonily. Then he faced Aragorn again.

"Tell me, Lord, what doom do you bring out of the North?"

"The doom of choice," replied Aragorn gravely. "You may say this to Theoden son of Thengel when next you see him: open war lies before him, with Sauron or against him. None may live now as they have lived and few shall keep what they call their own. But of these great matters we will speak later. If chance allows, I will come myself to the King. Now I am in great need, and I ask for help, or at least for tidings. You heard that we are pursuing an Orc-host that carried off our friends. What can you tell us?"

Éomer's answer temporarily stunned the Four Hunters. "That you need pursue them no further. The Orcs are destroyed."

What?

With his heart racing in excitement, Neville pushed his way to the forefront and asked: "What about our friends? Did you see our friends? Are they alright?"

"Alas, young Wizard, but we saw none that were not Orc."

Aragorn opened his mouth to question the blond man further, but Neville's mind was racing. "That can't be right. If Molly took care of the orcs, then she and the hobbits would surely have made their way back to us. But they're not here. Are you sure you didn't see them? A woman and two little curly-haired hobbits with really big feet?"

"A woman? And Hobbits?" The Rohirrim had started murmuring again. "Had we seen a lady, we would not have left her body to burn with the foulness of the Orcs! And what are these Hobbits of which you speak?"

But Neville didn't answer. It seemed obvious to him that Molly and the hobbits had escaped. But where were they? He remained in silent debate for a long while, contemplating their fate. Aragorn took up the tale from there, but he heard no more of it and barely noticed when the majority of the riders moved away to prepare for departure.

Where the bloody hell were they? Obviously, she had regained her wand somehow - could she have tried to Apparate the hobbits to safety?

But two at once; was that possible for her, given she had only performed Apparition twice in Merlin knew how long? Or had she taken one at a time? Were the trio back at the lawn of Parth Galen, desperately trying to locate the rest of the Fellowship?

His head was buzzing with unanswered questions and it was several minutes before he was aware that Éomer was giving orders for the spare horses to be brought to them.

"What did I miss?" he asked absently of Gimli.

"They say that many of the Orcs were wandering confused when they came upon them - as if they lay under an enchantment. No doubt the Lady Molly's work. Several were already slain and the remaining fought amongst themselves. There were not many left able-bodied enough to stand defiant against so many riders. Ah, that I missed such a battle!"

Gimli paused, lost momentarily to the fever of his own thoughts as he imagined the wonder of a Weasley mother in battle.

"And?" demanded Neville impatiently.

The dwarf shook himself from his reverie. "Ah, yes. Also, at least one of our friends lives, for they found a token from them after they slew the Orcs. It may be that all three have escaped into Fangorn, but if that be true, then let us hope the Lady Molly's magic may protect them! The Dark Forest is rumoured to be rife with untold malice - no Dwarf would willingly chance the wrath of its trees."

"But do they know the forest?" the teenager asked desperately, indicating the Rohirrim. If Molly and the hobbits were stuck in some sort of Middle Earth Forbidden Forest, then they needed a guide. "After all, it's part of their country, isn't it? One of them could take us inside and help us find them."

Gimli shook his head. "Nay, lad. Already is this Éored far from its Golden Hall - and without the blessings of its King. The riders must hasten back to explain their deeds and report the infringement of their land by the Enemy. We shall journey alone to the forest eaves and see what our own eyes may uncover from the battle it hosted."

Well that was just brilliant, wasn't it? Their friends were probably wandering through the unknown evils of hostile terrain, and all these big, scary blokes were running back home to get their knuckles rapped!

He was about to voice his disappointment when Aragorn called them over.

"Come Neville, come Gimli. Éomer has offered us the use of the spare horses. Let us take our mounts and make as swiftly as their hooves allow in search of our friends. With good fortune, we may arrive at the Orcs' pyre before dusk falls."

Pushing his concern for Molly, Merry and Pippin aside for the moment, he followed Gimli the few short steps towards the ranger and Legolas as they stood in conversation with the leader of the Rohirrim. Éomer took the reins of a great, dark-grey horse from a very unhappy-looking Éothain and offered them to Aragorn.

"Hasufel is his name. May he bear you well and to better fortune than Gárulf, his late master!"

With a nod of thanks, Aragorn sprang upon the impressive animal, looking every inch the master horseman.

Which was when Neville began to feel nervous...

Right.

Horses.

Funny that: when the Rohirrim rode by them a short while ago, the blisters on his feet had been practically popping with relief at the thought of alternate transport.

Now, however...

He watched with some trepidation as Legolas was offered a smaller, feistier steed called Arod. The elf mounted it effortlessly, stroking its mane and whispering soft words to calm the restless creature.

"Come Gimli, take your seat behind me."

"Er, aren't you taking a horse of your own, then?" he asked in growing horror.

"Nay lad. You will not catch this Dwarf riding alone on so great a beast, be it freely given or begrudged." With that, the dwarf threw a fierce glance at the disapproving Éothain before grabbing Legolas' hand and being hauled onto the back of Arod behind the elf.

Which left him.

He gulped.

Eomer led a (huge, of course) chestnut horse towards him and offered him its reins.

Bloody hell! What was he supposed to do with those? He'd never ridden anything other than the Knight Bus in his life.

The Knight Bus...

Well, why not? It was worth a try.

With a fresh surge of hope, Neville raised his wand to the right and waited.

And waited.

Hmm. Perhaps it would take a few minutes. After all, Rohan must be a fair distance from Yorkshire (or wherever the Knight Bus currently was).

He lowered his arm, then raised it again, ignoring the curious stares of the others.

"Are you well, lad?" asked Gimli, spitting out a mouthful of Legolas' cloak and craning his neck around to watch the teenager turning scarlet with the effort of (apparently) exercising his arm.

"Yep. Fine. Just a minute."

The horse snorted impatiently, breaking Neville's concentration and he watched it staring at him. It looked like it was waiting to chuck him off its back at the first opportunity - no way was he getting on it! Come on bus...

His right arm was now pumping up and down so furiously, that red sparks shot from his wand.

"Neville Longbottom, is aught amiss?" asked Éomer with a puzzled frown as the teenager raised and lowered his arm frantically.

"Er, no, just a minute..."

Come on bus - where the ruddy hell are you?

"Master Longbottom, we have not all day," declared Aragorn impatiently. "Our friends await our aid at this very moment. Clearly, whatever you are attempting is to no avail. Now, please, young Wizard, mount your steed and let us make haste."

Sighing despondently, the teenager gave up on the Knight Bus (vowing never to ride the unreliable thing again) and faced the doe-eyed horse. It blinked, then tossed its head at him.

Great. That would be the official warning of trouble to come, then.

"This is Fæleu. She is a gentle, yet brave mare who will carry you well."

Yeah, right.

Éomer watched him in some confusion when he made no move forward. "Come. Take her reins."

Did he have to?

The big brown beast pawed at the ground with its hoof.

"She grows impatient, my friend," the blond man said mildly. "As do I."

Reluctantly, he grabbed the reins and the horse took a step towards him. Neville gulped, waiting for the attack. The beast towered above him. He craned his neck upwards. Crikey! The bloody thing was enormous (and actually, from this angle, he could see right up its nose - which was, happily, horse-bogey-free)! If this was its way of intimidating him, all he could say was: it was working!

"You have sat astride a horse before, have you not?"

Hmm. Did Thestrals count? Because he'd flown one of them. But then, actual horses didn't fly as a rule. So this would be the perfect time to say 'not'.

And he was about to, really he was - until he saw the look of amused disbelief on the big man's face.

"Course I have."

Which was the truth, sort of. Once, when he was ten, Great Uncle Algie took him to something called a 'fairground' in Muggle Yorkshire. It was full of deranged, coloured horses that went up and down on fixed silver poles, and round and round in endless circles, while tinny music blasted from the canopied ceiling. But the whole experience had been so disconcertingly surreal, that he'd vomited over the spinning floorboards after only two minutes.

Still, the not-so-headless-horseman didn't need to know that...

"Then greet your horse as you would greet your friend, or she will have no faith in you."

Fair enough. He had no faith in her. The wizard offered Éomer a weak smile while taking a few casual steps backward. "You know...er...it's been a while since the last time and...em...I don't mind running, actually. I mean, these poor horses have had a hard day of it, what with fighting orcs and all. And I weigh quite a lot. What if it's knackered and wants a rest? Wouldn't be polite to...aahhh!"

Before he knew what he was about, the man had him by the scruff of the neck. He frog-marched him to the horse's flank then bodily lifted him off the ground, forcing Neville to grab on to the horse's mane as he was practically chucked onto Fæleu's back. Neville flung one leg over the side, clamped both his thighs tightly against the horse's flanks, and pinned his arms round the animal's neck as if his life depended on it.

Which it might.

"Do not fear. Rohirric horses are the strongest and hardiest of any in Middle Earth. They do not tire easily. Now, my friend, sit up and take her reins."

Neville's heart was racing. He really, really did not want to sit up. In fact, he was perfectly happy to make the rest of the journey to Fangorn with his face buried in the ruddy animal's mane - that way, he couldn't see the fall coming.

He heard, rather than saw, another horse approach him and Aragorn's voice broke through his reverie of mild panic.

"What are you doing, son of Longbottom?"

Hanging on for dear life - what did it look like?

"Erm, showing it a little affection?"

Great answer. If he hadn't been so occupied with remaining stationary, he'd have slapped his own forehead.

"Indeed?" came the dry retort. "And is this the custom from whence you hail?"

"Er, yeah. Course it is. Why? Don't you do that here?"

Aragorn's only answer was to grab him by the scruff of the neck and pull him upwards so that he sat poker-straight on the horse.

"We have no time for questionable displays of affection, Neville. Our friends await. Come, let us be on our way."

With that, the ranger gave Éomer a final nod. "You have our thanks for the use of these fine animals, Lord. Farewell, Éomer son of Éomund. May you and your riders come safely to the Golden Hall of Edoras."

Éomer dipped his head in a show of mutual respect.

"And may you know the joy of a swift reunion with your missing friends. Farewell, Lords from the North. Farewell, Nazgûl's Bane."

And with that the horse-lord left them, striding swiftly across the field and mounting his own horse (like an expert, of course) before the Rohirrim turned as one and continued on their journey.

Horse-riding was one of the worst experiences of Neville's life. When they first set off, his three companions had raced ahead of him across the grassy plains as if they were chasing some invisible Golden Snitch. He, on the other hand, had not been able to get the ruddy nag he was sitting on to move, and his heart almost fell as he watched Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli put ever more distance between them.

Not that he really wanted to chase after them, balanced as precariously as he was on Fæleu's back. The teenager was still sitting ramrod straight, reins in hand and legs glued to the animal's flanks. Still, his need to see Molly and the hobbits and assure himself of their safety was becoming more urgent, so he thought he really ought to make a bit of an effort.

But he couldn't ride for toffee and he knew it. He wouldn't get five metres before falling on his head.

Unless...

Wondering why he hadn't thought of it earlier, Neville removed his wand from its holster and pointed it at his seat. Two seconds later, he was secured to the saddle with a Sticking charm.

Hah! He was a genius!

Very pleased with himself, he re-holstered his wand and gave an experimental bounce. His posterior remained firmly on the leather saddle.

Now all he needed to do was get the horse to follow the others, which shouldn't be too difficult.

Taking a deep breath, he tugged on the reins.

Fæleu didn't move.

He tried again.

No success.

Bloody hell. At this rate, he was going to be stuck on this field until the quest was over!

"Come on, horsey. Go!"

But Fæleu merely dipped her head and began to graze on the coarse grass.

It was ignoring him! The ruddy horse was ignoring him!

Annoyed, Neville tried snapping the reins. "Giddy up, Faithless - or whatever your name is. We don't have all day, you know."

His horse raised her head briefly, as if contemplating motion, then lowered it to the ground once more to tear at the grass.

"Master Longbottom - make haste! We do not have all day," cried Aragorn from several hundred yards away, echoing his impatient statement to the chestnut mare seconds ago.

Oh, well that was just great. Was that man a mind-reader?

"Come on, you daft pillock. Move!" Neville loosened his thighs enough to nudge at her flanks, with no success.

Excellent! The scrawny mule was making a laughing stock of him. How the ruddy hell was he going to persuade it to follow the others when it was too busy stuffing its face like some sort of four-legged Ron Weasley?

Stuffing its face...

Five minutes later, Fæleu was racing across the land like an animal possessed, great clouds of white breath billowing from her nostrils. It wasn't long before Neville - who, Sticking charm notwithstanding, was gripping the reins tightly in his white knuckled hands - found himself mere yards from his friends.

Gimli was now directly in front of him and the dwarf turned awkwardly in his seat to check on his young friend's progress. He nearly slipped off Arod in surprise at the sight of Fæleu chasing a carrot that was dangling centimetres from its nose...

Neville flew past Arod, flashing the dwarf a massive grin while his horse made frantic lunges towards the treat that remained always just out of reach. This riding lark was easy! Really, he couldn't think why he hadn't done it before. Who needed Firebolts? Or Floo powder? Horsepower was the real future!

Sighing contentedly, he allowed Fæleu to carry him ever forward as the Four Hunters raced through the green lands of Rohan in pursuit of their missing friends.

By the time the foursome reached the borders of the Entwash, however, Neville's grin had deserted him. His rear was aching and his spine was rattling from the consistent jarring it had suffered following Fæleu's desperate dash after the ruddy carrot. So he was more than happy when Aragorn called for them to halt while he took a solitary ride eastwards to investigate which trail they should follow next. Pulling firmly on the reins, he somehow managed to stop the horse without been thrown off. The carrot he'd charmed to bob before Fæleu's nose slowed accordingly until it, too, came to a halt.

Why hadn't he thought to put a Cushioning charm on the saddle before he stuck himself to it? Honestly, if there was a bigger idiot in Middle Earth than him, he was yet to meet him!

Legolas and Gimli dismounted their own (much nicer) steed. The elf remained by the horse's side, scratching its nose and whispering words of thanks for its toils while Gimli stomped about grateful to be rid of it for a few short minutes. Deciding that the dwarf had the right of it, Neville lifted the Sticking charm and gripped Fæleu's mane as he dragged his right leg back from her flank and slithered gracelessly to the ground. He fell on the grass in an untidy heap, aching far too much to care if the others laughed at him.

Gimli marched over and stuck out his hand. "Up you get, lad. A bit of movement should cure the ails to your rump."

"I can't."

The dwarf harrumphed loudly and planted his walking axe firmly on the ground, using it to anchor his weight as he stared down and the listless wizard.

"Whyever not?"

"I'm dying. I'm actually dying. That thing," he spat, throwing a contemptuous glance at Fæleu (who was still trying to pluck the carrot from the air), "is obviously trying to kill me. If I stand up, my spine will crumble and it will've won."

"You have only yourself to blame for that, lad," replied Gimli, face crinkling in amusement.

Neville raised himself up on his elbows. "How d'you work that one out?" he asked indignantly.

"'Twas a foolish idea to taunt your horse all the way across Rohan with a floating vegetable. You will never master the creature if you have to bribe it to do your will."

What rubbish! How was he supposed to get the stupid horse to move? Anyway, what did Gimli know? It wasn't like he'd been riding Arod - clinging on to the back of Legolas didn't count.

He scowled at him, and the dwarf laughed to see him so irked. "Since when have you been the expert equestrian?"

"Since you yourself sat on a four-legged beast, lad. You make even a Dwarf look favourable in matters of horsemanship."

Git.

Before Neville could offer a biting retort, Aragorn returned and addressed all three.

"The main trail is confused with the passage of the horsemen as they came back; their outward course must have lain nearer the river. But this eastward trail is fresh and clear. There is no sign there of any feet going the other way back towards Anduin. Now we must ride slower and make sure that no trace or footstep branches off on either side. The Orcs must have been aware from this point that they were pursued; they may have made some attempt to get their captives away before they were overtaken."

"So you think it's looking more likely that Molly, Merry and Pippin may have ran into Fangorn?" the teenager asked, discomfort temporarily forgotten.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. We must wait until we come upon the pyre, that we may search for more evidence of their flight."

But Neville's thoughts were racing once more with the possible location of their abducted friends. If they had went into Fangorn forest, how far in would they go? By all accounts, the place was huge. None of the trio knew the landscape surrounding it - well, perhaps Molly did a bit after studying Manwë's maps.

Actually, come to think of it - maybe Molly, sensible woman that she was, would have taken the hobbits and fled to the safety of the forest just until they shook the orcs off? They might not have got too far in before hearing the battle with the Rohirrim, so maybe they let the two sides slug it out and crept back once it was over? After all, they were not to know that Éomer and his men were on the side of Light and Molly may have deemed it too dangerous to chance approaching them.

There was also the fact that Pippin had left a clue for them. Obviously, they knew (or hoped) that their friends were pursuing them. And now that their foes were slain, it would make sense for the trio to double back and await the remaining Fellowship.

That must be it! Excited by the thought, he rose onto shaky legs (with help from Aragorn and Legolas) and told the others of his thoughts, but they remained ambiguous in their response.

"Let us hope that you have the right of it, Neville," said Legolas. "But for now, it would fare us better to treat hope with caution until our eyes meet those of our friends once more."

Aragorn nodded in agreement. "Indeed. We shall see what we shall see when we arrive at the forest eaves. Come let us be on our way."

Oh, well. He would be cheered by the thought of their missing friends waiting impatiently for their arrival, even if the others wouldn't allow themselves the luxury of doing so. Determined to remain positive, he straightened himself up and mentally prepared himself for the ordeal of mounting his horse once more. Aragorn remained by his side as he trudged towards Fæleu (who was still trying to snatch the carrot - only this time, Hasufel and Arod had spotted the treat, too, and all three were trotting across the plain, vying for the pleasure of grabbing it).

Shaking his head in amusement, Aragorn placed himself directly in front of Fæleu and snatched the carrot from the air. He waved it before the blushing teenager. "You must not treat your mount with such careless disregard, my friend. She will be more amenable to respect than bribes."

Yeah, right. The miserable nag wouldn't even move without a decent bribe.

Aragorn snapped the carrot in three and offered a piece to each horse. Three equine heads nuzzled at his neck, hair and chest in affectionate gratitude.

Typical. What was he supposed to do now? Molly was waiting at the edge of some seriously dodgy forest for him to show up alive, well and ready to rescue her - but he'd be too busy stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, trying to get the horse from hell to move its lazy arse.

"I do not know how you travel in your own world, young Neville, but it is clear that you do not often ride," said Aragorn as diplomatically as he could.

Neville flushed again, this time with guilt. He cast a glance at Legolas and Gimli, but they were too busy mounting Arod to hear the whispered conversation.

"You should have told me earlier," the ranger continued, holding him fast in his grey gaze. "There is no shame in it. I would have taken a few moments to teach you the basics before we left the Rohirrim."

"Sorry," he mumbled in reply. "I didn't want to hold you back. I have ridden before, but it was only one time. Wasn't even a real horse, really. And I was sick as a dog afterwards - well, more like during."

The ranger grinned. "Then it is a wonder that you have stayed upon your steed's back as long as you have - and with your stomach contents intact as well. But I am curious: Fæleu was racing at great speed: how did you manage to remain upon her, instead of trailing behind her with your foot caught in the stirrup?"

Could this day get any worse?

"Well, I erm...that is I...eh..."

Aragorn gazed at him intently.

"Oh, alright. I stuck myself to the saddle with magic. All I had to do after that was hold on to the reins. But she wouldn't move afterwards; just stood there and scoffed the grass. So I thought I'd tempt her with a carrot from my knapsack. To get her motivated, you know. And it worked, for the most part. Only now my backside's killing me - not to mention my spine..."

The ranger gave a great shout of laughter. "Ai, Neville Longbottom!" he gasped, shaking with mirth. "You are one of the most foolish, brave and imaginative people I have yet encountered. You cannot ride, yet you dare it for the sake of your lost friends. Instead of seeking instruction on the art of horsemanship after you are mounted, you stick yourself to a saddle with your magical arts. You cannot make your steed move, so you tempt it with food as if it were a four-legged Hobbit chasing a sack of floating mushrooms. Never did I think to know the grace of laughter on such a deadly quest, and certainly not after the loss of Gandalf and Boromir. But you have lightened all our hearts with your presence."

"Indeed he has."

Neville looked up to see Legolas smiling down at him.

Oh, excellent. How could he have forgotten? Elves probably had superior hearing as well as eyesight. Had he heard everything? How embarrassing!

"I second that," added Gimli, whose head was sticking out behind the elf's back. "I cannot remember the last time I laughed so hard before you slaughtered that innocent mouse."

Oh, great. Why did he have to bring that up? Neville Longbottom; scourge of Nazgûl and field mice everywhere. Just brilliant.

"Yeah, well that was an accident. Can we go now?" he muttered, mortified.

"Ever keen to leave when his praises are sung," said the dwarf, gazing at him fondly.

Wishing they would all just stop, the blushing teenager grabbed Aragorn's arm and yanked him to Fæleu's left flank. "Give us a leg up, would you?" he barked at the slightly mystified ranger, while casting a Cushioning charm on the saddle. He placed his left foot in the stirrup and the dark-haired man boosted him up by the right. He was just about to cast another Sticking charm when Aragorn stopped him.

"Have you already used your magic to secure yourself?"

"No. Just something to soften the seat."

"Good. Do not use anything else."

What? He wouldn't last five metres without the Sticking charm!

"I will lead you from here on, young Neville. Do not fear. Firstly, you must attain a balanced position. To do so, ensure you are sitting in the middle of the saddle."

Reluctantly, he allowed himself to be talked through his first lesson, still highly miffed that he couldn't rely on the safety of his beloved Sticking charm. Oh, well. So be it. Right, where was he? Ah yes - middle of the saddle...

Well, to be honest, the saddle was only so big. Surely he was sitting in the middle of it already?

Fortunately, Aragorn agreed.

"Now, bend your legs slightly and allow the balls of your feet to rest on the bars of the stirrups."

Balls of feet. Stirrups. Got it.

"Good. And your legs should rest flat against the saddle, do not tauten them."

Legs relaxed. Alright, got that too.

"Make sure your heels are level with your hips, then sit straight with your head facing forward."

Hold on a minute...

"But you weren't doing that - and neither was Legolas. You were leaning over your horse's neck. Why do I have to sit a straight as an arrow, when you can hang over the horse and look really cool?"

"I do not know what you mean by 'cool' - I did not feel the chill of the air very much at all. But do not forget that both Legolas and I have many years' experience on horseback, while you," Aragorn jabbed his finger into Neville's leg, and raised his eyebrows reproachfully, "do not. Therefore, for the remainder of this journey, you will concentrate on remaining on your horse, while we concentrate on 'leaning' over ours and searching for Orc tracks. Is that clear?"

Neville nodded sheepishly and kept his mouth shut for the rest of his improvised lesson. Once finished, Aragorn whispered a few words into Fæleu's ear and left to mount Hasufel, beckoning for the teenager to follow directly behind him.

Trying desperately to remember everything he'd learned, he urged Fæleu forward with a gentle but firm kick of the heels and a hopeful "Walk on." At first, it didn't look as if the stubborn nag would obey, but just as he was getting ready for a firmer kick, it moved forward.

Success! Neville could have cheered - and would have too, if he hadn't been so busy trying to hold his reins above the withers, or keeping his thumbs forward, knuckles down, relaxing his forearms, keeping his legs bent, sitting with his back straight...

Crikey! How the ruddy hell did anyone ever manage to remember all of this? It was nothing short of a nightmare! Do this, don't do that, sit here, point there, don't jerk, keep calm, be confident. Aragorn was having a laugh, surely? Potions with Snape was easier than this!

Still, at least he was moving. Every step the horse took was a step closer to Molly. So when Aragorn felt confident enough with his progress to pick up the pace, Neville gritted his teeth and urged Fæleu to follow suit, longing for the time when he had once known the safety of an out-of-control broomstick...

It was early evening when the Four Hunters arrived at the glade before the forest eaves. What had recently been a large fire was now a small mountain of glowing ash which smouldered and glowered in the evening air. The stench was awful. Beside it, the head of an orc was impaled on a Rohirric spear, looking very much like the world's ugliest lollipop. Neville's lip curled in disgust. Much to his dismay, however, there was no sign of either the matronly witch or Merry and Pippin. If Molly and the hobbits had been hiding behind the trees, they should have spotted their approach by now and would have been rushing out to greet them with open arms (at least in the witch's case).

He pulled gently on Fæleu's reins and, to his relief, the horse stopped. Taking Aragorn's lead, he dismounted and (unlike the ranger) hobbled across the glade, searching the ground for clues of their missing friends. But though they searched until dusk fell, none of the four found any further clues to the whereabouts of Molly and the hobbits. The only other thing of note they had seen was the burial mound of the three Rohirrim warriors whose horses had carried them there.

With sinking spirits, Neville joined Legolas as they took shelter for the night under a spreading chestnut tree some distance from the battle field. Gimli was gathering wood for a small fire and Aragorn had stopped at the impromptu grave of the fallen Rohirrim to pay his respects.

"Do not despair, Neville Longbottom," said Legolas as the teenager sank awkwardly to the ground. "That we have found no token of our friends may be a blessing - for it means they may not have perished with the Orcs. Indeed, Éomer himself said that neither he nor his Éored encountered either Hobbit or woman when they battled the Enemy. Take heart that they may have been liberated and fled."

Neville appreciated the elf's words, but as he glanced at the gloomy trees of the darkening forest, he could take little comfort from them. "Yeah, you're probably right," he replied, rubbing at his stiff legs. What was wrong with him? He knew the truth of Legolas' words. Molly was a fierce protector. Plus, she still had her knapsack, so if they were trapped in the woods, she'd probably erected one of the tents and set the wards. In fact, for all he knew, all three were probably inside it right now, stuffing their faces with lamb chops and creamy mashed potatoes.

With mint dressing.

His stomach rumbled in protest.

What he wouldn't give for a lovely big pork chop. He'd maybe forgo the mint dressing for a nice thick gravy. And roast the potatoes, instead of mashing them.

His stomach rumbled again.

Merlin, he was starving!

Unhooking his knapsack, he opened it and rifled through for some lembas just as Aragorn returned. Gimli followed behind the ranger and dropped a pile of dead wood on the ground. A few minutes later, a small fire was crackling merrily away and Neville passed round the waybread. Soon, all were silently munching on the flaky pastry.

Legolas suddenly broke the silence. "Look! The tree is glad of the fire!" he said pointing up at the spreading boughs.

Curiously, his gaze followed the elf's finger and he saw that the tree did, indeed, seem to have stretched its branches towards their little blaze. How strange.

The other three fell to silence again as they warily contemplated the other surprises that Fangorn may afford them. As darkness spread its cloak over the sky and the forest plunged even further into gloom, Legolas and Aragorn began to discuss the possible dangers contained within it. Neville, however, stared at the tree in silent contemplation, wondering if he would catch it moving. Perhaps it had only been a figment of the elf's imagination? After all, everyone was knackered after their marathon sprint across (what must surely be) half of Middle Earth.

Anyway, who ever heard of a tree trying to reach a fire? Seemed a stupid thing for it to do, what with it being made of wood and all...

"Do trees in your world normally move?" he asked absently, staring at the brown leaves which seemed to rub together as if trying to warm themselves. Probably just the wind...

"Nay, not normally," confirmed Aragorn. "But this forest has an ill reputation for strange happenings. Many tales are told of it in Gondor and elsewhere. I would dismiss them as little more than fables were it not for the warning of Celeborn. Fangorn holds some secret of its own, but what it is, I do not know."

"But you don't think they can actually move, do you? I mean, I've seen a lot of funny things back home, but even I've never seen a tree that moves."

Then again, maybe he had. The Whomping Willow was, after all, a major feature of Hogwarts' school grounds. Perhaps Aragorn's tale wasn't so strange after all?

Gimli gazed upwards at the branches. "There are those who say they can move more than their branches, young Wizard. I have heard tell of trees that walk."

Walk? Now that was a bit too much. Was Gimli pulling his leg?

Neville stared at the dwarf, waiting for him to break into a teasing grin, but Gimli's face remained solemn and suspicious as he eyed the towering branches.

"But how could that be possible? Trees need to dig their roots deep into the ground - they need to be anchored, or how else could they stand? They'd just topple over. Not to mention the fact that they absorb water and other nutrients through the soil. They wouldn't be able to do that if they went stomping all over the place with their roots trailing behind them. And what about legs? Trees don't have legs, so they'd have to hop."

Wow! That was a thought: a hopping tree. Professor Sprout would kill to see that.

Come to think of it, so would he.

The possibility of meeting a moving, walking or (hopefully) hopping tree within Fangorn was enough to banish any fear the forest previously held for him. Enthralled at the countless possibilities within its eaves, he tore another piece from his lembas and tried to peer as far as he could into its depths, wondering what his chances were of spotting one out for a stroll.

"You ask many strange questions, lad," grumbled Gimli, sparing him a puzzled frown. "Man, Elf and Dwarf sit here in wary silence of the possible evils of this tree-ridden forest, and you wonder how they function without their roots in the earth?"

"Gimli, all forests are 'tree-ridden'," laughed Neville. "That's what makes them forests. And anyway, I love plants, so the possibility of a walking tree is just about the most exciting thing I could imagine. I mean, think about it: a walking tree! Isn't that great?"

Legolas and Aragorn shared a laugh at the bushy dwarf's look of disgust. "Nay, it is not. 'Tis unnatural! A tree has no business walking about the earth like a Dwarf or a Man. It should remain where nature intended it to be; still and silent in its woody borders - and far away from Dwarven reach!"

"Ah, that's right. You're not a big lover of trees, are you? You don't know what your missing. Does he, Legolas?"

Neville glanced at the elf for confirmation, but the graceful being was gazing silently and intently over the teenager's shoulder.

"Legolas?"

He did not reply. Instead, he sprang from the ground and Aragorn leapt up beside him. "Legolas, what do your keen eyes see?"

The elf held a finger up to his lips as Neville and Gimli began to twist around and look at the forest behind them.

"Speak softly, Aragorn," he said in a low voice. "It is not what my eyes see, but what my ears hear. Listen!"

All four strained their ears but only the elf seemed to hear anything.

Until Aragorn heard it too.

"By the Valar! Do my ears deceive me?" he hissed.

"What? What is it? I can't hear a thing."

"But who is the other?" Aragorn whispered, dousing the fire with his foot while Gimli and Neville exchanged confused glances.

"I know not. But they are no friend of ours. Quick, take up arms and prepare to fight!" Legolas ordered, snatching his bow from where it leaned against the chestnut tree and nocking an arrow.

"Is it the orcs?" demanded Neville, unsheathing his wand while they stormed across the glade towards he knew not what.

Aragorn shook his head as they ran. "I do not think so, but I cannot say for certain."

Could he be any less helpful? What was it? One of the hopping trees, perhaps? He hoped his friends didn't attack it - who knew what damage an angry fifty foot tree could do.

"I still can't hear anything! Gimli, can you hear..."

His words were lost as a bright flash lit the edge of the forest they were running towards. A deep voice boomed out from the forest eaves, angry and powerful. The very air shook and all four were hurled to the ground as an invisible wave swept the feet out from under them.

"That was magic!" wheezed Neville from the grass, after regaining some air into his lungs. "But it feels funny, not like any magic I've felt before."

Nobody answered, so he rotated his head gingerly to the right to see if everyone was alright. Gimli was furiously trying to push Legolas off his chest.

"Get up, you pointy-eared nuisance. I am not your bedroll!"

Aragorn had already risen and was shaking his head dazedly. He stumbled over to Neville and reached out a hand to pull him up when another wave of magic toppled him over again. The teenager gasped in alarm and frantically tried to scramble out of the way, but he wasn't quick enough and soon the ranger's six and a half feet frame was resting over his face.

"Grrf! Grrf!"

Aragorn, still rather stunned from the last wave of noisy magic, was not in too much of a hurry to relinquish the mercifully soft spot he had the great fortune of landing on until it slapped him on the ribs. He rolled over and a very relieved Neville sprang up, coughing and spluttering. The ranger's armpits were, quite possibly, the worst thing he'd ever tasted. First thing he was going to do whenever they got to a decent river was force him to take a bath - or else!

The deep voice could be heard more clearly now. Whatever it was, it was coming their way. Neville reached towards his holster for the wand, but it was empty. Where the ruddy hell...of course. He'd already unholstered it. Which meant it was lying on the grass somewhere...

He dove back to the ground, frantically groping in the darkness for his cherry wand while the others resumed their chase across the glade. "Wait for me!"

A cry of fury emitted from the eaves, followed by another sweeping wave of the odd magic. Fortunately for him, he was already on the ground. The same couldn't be said for Gimli, Legolas and Aragorn. Three cries of deepest frustration echoed in the night as, once more, all three went flying backwards.

Who the bloody hell was causing that? What, or who, where they aiming for? Was it a deliberate attack on the four friends? And where the ruddy hell was his wand?

"Curse this blasted forest to oblivion!" yelled the angriest dwarf in Middle Earth as, once more, Gimli pushed his elven friend from his chest. "And curse you too, Legolas, if you do not remain at least ten leagues from me while I run! I will not break your fall again!"

"Can anyone see my wand?" yelled Neville, still groping frantically in the grass.

"The horses!" cried Aragorn, as the loud whinnies of their three mounts added to the confusion of the night. "They are breaking their tethers!"

What the bloody hell did he want him to do about it? He couldn't do anything without his wand!

A scream of anger, now very close, rang through the air and he raised himself on his knees to look over his shoulder. There! Someone - or something - in a great hooded cloak dashed from the cover of the trees. The figure turned and raised a long, white stick in the air, pointing it upwards at the treetops. It emitted a bright, white flash which raced into the sky and exploded, sending a wave of energy rushing through the air. Neville toppled onto the grass once more.

Great! The enemy, or whoever that was, was less than forty feet away and what was he doing? Chewing the cud like a ruddy cow! Instead of rising again, he stretched himself out on the grass and began to sweep his arms out to each side in wide arcs, hoping to locate his wand quicker. Why hadn't he paid more attention in class when Professor Flitwick was teaching them wandless magic?

"Neville Longbottom! This is no time for swimming!" barked Aragorn in disbelief when he spotted the teenager trying (apparently) to stay afloat in the tall grass. "We have need of your aid!"

"I'm not swimming!" he cried in defence, glaring over his shoulder at the ranger who was picking himself off the grass (again). "I'm trying to find..."

His hand skimmed over a smooth, cylindrical object lying amidst the tall grass. "...my wand!" he exclaimed, almost dizzy with relief. Grabbing it, he pulled himself off the ground and red sparks shot from the cherry wood tip.

"Longbottom?" screamed a deep voice in accusation. The teenager whipped around to see the cloaked figure staring at him in fury. "Longbottom!!" the figure cried again, hatred radiating from every pore of his being as he raised the white stick he grasped in his hand.

"It is Saruman!" cried Legolas. "Do not let him work his magic!" The elf fired a quick shot with his bow, but the figure directed it harmlessly away from himself and it thudded into a tree before he began to advance on the very startled younger wizard.

"I will wipe the name of Longbottom from the face of Middle Earth!" yelled the figure, before pointing his stick at Neville and firing.

"Everybody, DOWN!" Neville cried, too busy throwing a Shield charm to wonder why this mad stranger hated him so much. White light shot from the tip of his adversary's wand, then bounced off the teenager's glowing shield and rebounded backwards - directly into the cloaked figure. The man was lifted bodily off the ground by the force of it and hurled fifteen feet into the air past their terrified mounts.

All three horses were practically frothing in panic as the new arrival soared past them (screaming all the way) and Neville could see they had almost dragged themselves free of their pickets.

"Stupefy!" he yelled, hitting each one in turn. They froze on the spot as all four friends dashed towards the fallen enemy.

But the enemy was not yet finished. Springing from the ground with alarming speed, the man whipped round, clutching his oversized wand firmly in hand.

Well, it was typical, wasn't it?

The furious wizard raised his wand again and a jet of flame issued from its tip, heading directly for the teenager.

Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli - who were several yards nearer the stranger than Neville - dove for cover as it flashed inches away from them on its way to the intended target.

Thankful that he'd had the foresight to stun the horses, Neville lashed out with his own wand and extinguished the fire with a well-aimed Aguamenti. He raced towards the figure, determined to discover why he had it in for him (before he hexed the git into oblivion). But as he got close enough to catch a glimpse of the other wizard's face, he almost tumbled to the ground again.

Great balls of Fiendfyre! That was Saruman? No wonder the git was angry...

For Saruman's face was green. Actually green. And equally stunning was the fact that his flowing hair, now revealed in all its hoodless glory, was an oddly bright shade of yellow (which reminded Neville very much of the kitchen he shared with his Gran back in Yorkshire). As if that wasn't bad enough, he could almost swear that the man's beard was...orange?

"Bloody hell, mate," Neville said, transfixed with astonishment a few yards from the extraordinary man. "Couldn't you just have decided on one colour and went with it? Surely you realise how much you clash with...well, yourself?"

A scream of utter fury issued from the glowering man's face, and Neville thought he might have been flushing with anger (although it was hard to tell under that ghastly shade of green). The sound of his rage was enough to pull the teenager from his shock, but he was not quick enough to stop the other wizard catching him off-guard. Before he realised what was happening, Saruman had him floating away from the ground and, with one mighty shove from his giant wand, sent him spinning through the air towards the nearest tree trunk.

"Neville!" cried Legolas in alarm, trying to grab on to his feet as he flew past his friends' heads. It was to no avail.

The harsh bark of Saruman's ugly laughter followed him as he sped towards a very unpleasant fate. He threw up his hands in a vain effort to protect his face, but before he could hit the tree, a jet of violet light raced towards it, colliding with the trunk mere seconds before he did. The result was that Neville did not smash himself to pieces, but instead was enveloped in a soft cushion of air which carried him safely to the ground.

Bloody hell! That was close. He hadn't even realised he'd shot a Cushioning charm off! He'd been thinking about it, but had been rotating so much he couldn't point his wand with any accuracy. He must have done wandless, non-verbal magic!

He was an absolute genius!

Thrilled at his sudden, inexplicable rise in power, he pivoted on his heel and made a mad dash for his enemy once more, ready to hex the walking colour chart to pieces. But before he could return fire with a really good hex, a loud cry of rage pierced the night air and all eyes swivelled to the forest eaves as a dark blur shot out from the cover of the trees. Yet another new arrival began to cast spells - this time at the now-defensive form of Saruman.

"KEEP...YOUR....HANDS...OFF...MY...BOY...YOU...ANIMAL!" yelled a familiar voice, following each word with a hex that made the wizard scream in pain.

"Molly!" cried Neville ecstatically. "Molly! I knew you'd be here! I knew it! Aragorn; didn't I say she'd be here?"

Aragorn was too stunned to answer. In fact, all his friends had stopped in their tracks to gaze in stupefied awe at the spectacle of the matronly witch swooping through the air on what was, unmistakably, a broomstick.

"Take that, you unspeakable bastard!" she yelled as Saruman fled into the forest. He yelled in agony as her spell hit home and a pair of antlers shot from his head.

Gimli almost collapsed in shock.

Turning on his heel, the enraged wizard threw a final ball of energy from his staff. It almost clipped the broomstick, but Molly managed to dodge it before it could send her tumbling to the ground.

"Molly! Where are the others?" shouted Neville in a fever of excitement.

"Not now, dear!" she cried, turning the broom around to follow Saruman who was once again making a dash for the trees. A jet of blue light issued from her wand and seconds later the four friends heard a scream of absolute horror issue from the wizard's mouth. Unfortunately, the dark wizard was too far away now for them to see what she had done to him.

Molly finally stopped chasing her prey, coming to a halt just before the edge of the forest as his hurried footfalls faded from the range of even elven ears. "And don't let me catch you sniffing around my friends again, or I'll make you rue the day you were born!" she yelled in a final warning.

With a deep sigh of satisfaction, the red-haired witch leaned slightly to the left and allowed the broomstick to carry her back to her friends. She floated gently to the ground and hopped off the shabby looking broom before rushing over to Neville and throwing herself at him.

"Oh, it's so good to see you again, dear! And just in time, too! You were almost pulverised on that tree! What a good thing I saw it in time."

"You shot the Cushioning charm?"

She nodded, smiling

Ah, so he wasn't a genius after all. Oh, well. At least he had Molly back. That was more than enough to keep him happy.

"I've been imagining all sorts of things!" his Guardian exclaimed, crushing him in one of her wonderful motherly hugs.

Not that he minded. Being hugged by Molly was what he imagined being hugged by his own mum must be like and he relished it as he hugged her back.

"Bloody hell, Molly. I'm not half pleased to see you again!" he declared, breathing in the comforting scent of her tweed coat and Lovely Lilac shampoo.

"Language, dear!" she said, breaking the embrace and waggling her finger at him. She straightened his shirt and smoothed his cloak before whispering: "Do you know about poor Boromir?"

He nodded sadly. "We buried him before we followed you."

"And what about Frodo and Sam? Are they alright?"

"They crossed the river and made their way alone to take care of...it...while we were all fighting."

"What? They're going to Mordor alone?" she hissed.

"Molly, trust me when I tell you that it's for the best," he replied, recalling the effect of the Ring on their fallen friend before the elder hobbits fled across the Anduin to complete their mission alone. "I promise you, it's better off where it is."

She watched him carefully, attempting to gauge the strength of his conviction and, seeing the steely glint in his eye, nodded.

"If you say so, dear."

With that, she smiled brightly and turned to greet others. Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli were rushing over to welcome her back. Cries of "Praise the Valar for your safe delivery!" and "Wondrous lady, what a sight for Dwarven eyes you are!" rang through the air. The matronly witch's eyes misted over at the enthusiasm of her welcome.

"My Lady, is that a homely broom you flew upon?" asked Aragorn, eyes popping in disbelief as his gaze swung from the broom to the witch.

"Did my eyes deceive me, or does the traitor Wizard now sport antlers from his head?" demanded Gimli.

"How did you escape the Uruk-hai, my Lady? And how did you come upon Saruman? Were you not taken to Isengard?" queried Legolas.

"Boys, boys, boys!" she cried, laughing and holding her arms up. "One thing at a time." She approached each one and gave him a brief hug, stunning them all into silence (Gimli blushed like a teenage girl).

"Now," she said, satisfied that they had finally stopped talking. "No doubt you're wondering where Merry and Pippin are. Don't worry; they're perfectly safe. In fact, I'll be happy to tell you all about it once we get a fire going. And I think a nice cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit are in order, too. So let's sit down. Oh, and Neville?"

The teenager stepped forward eagerly, happy to hear her brisk, matronly voice again.

"Do be a dear and lift the Stunning spell from the horses? Maybe hit them with a Cheering charm to counter their recent fright? I could hear the poor dears whinnying in terror from inside the forest."

"Course I will. Anything you want. It's bloody brilliant to have you back again, Molly!"

Which it was. He hadn't felt this good since Gran bought him his very own wand.

"It's lovely to see you too, dear; but if you don't watch your language, you'll be spitting soap bubbles for the next hour."

The feeling of enormous relief and dizzy euphoria at their reunion was enough to take the bite from her reprimand and he practically floated towards the frozen horses to carry out her instructions. Soon, the animals were happily tearing at the grass without a care in the world and he joined the others just as Gimli relit the small fire.

"Is it wise to remain here while the Enemy lurks in the forest?" the dwarf asked, regaining his gruff normality after the first wave of joy at seeing the witch had finally ebbed.

Molly dug through her knapsack and produced five flowery mugs which she proceeded to fill with hot tea from her wand. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about him, dear. He'll be in far too much discomfort to be of any bother to us for the next few days."

"How can you be so sure, my Lady?" queried Aragorn, blowing on the steaming mug she had handed him then taking a cautious sip.

"That last hex I hit him with is one that's handed down from every mother to daughter in the Wizarding community. It's called the Burning Serpent and it gives over-amorous boys a very nasty burning itch on their, erm...well, their manly bits. Very handy for fending off unwanted advances. It'll take days to wear off. No doubt he's looking for the nearest body of water as we speak."

She blushed as all four males erupted with laughter.

"Ai, Lady Molly!" gasped Aragorn between snorts. "Truly, you are one of a kind! The 'Burning Serpent' indeed!"

Neville was torn between mirth and horror. He'd never heard of a hex by that name before and was suddenly hugely relieved at his single status. Imagine if he had a girlfriend back home and she pulled that one out of the bag just as he leaned in to kiss her? Crikey! It didn't bear thinking about!

Molly beamed at their happy faces.

"Well, boys. Now that we've established how completely safe we are, you might want to hear the rest of my news. I won't bother with the first few days because that was mainly running. Not very exciting, really."

Not very exciting? Only Molly would describe her brutal abduction and subsequent journey over several hundred miles of rough terrain as 'not very exciting'.

Ignoring their astonished faces, she continued with an account of the more recent events of earlier that day.

"...and once I'd persuaded one of the orcs to let me unbutton my coat, Varda's handy little necklace managed to stun enough of them for me to easily retrieve my wand. After that, freeing the hobbits and hiding in the forest was child's play - or it was until several of them recovered enough to follow us," she finished.

"The Hobbits - you spoke of Merry and Pippin and said that they are safe. But where are they?" Aragorn enquired as Molly sipped at her tea.

"I left them with a nice new friend I met in the forest. Oh, don't worry, dear," she said hastily, patting a very concerned Legolas on the hand. "Treebeard is a very nice...tree. He promised to take good care of them while I took care of the orcs that were chasing us."

Once again, the motherly witch managed to stun all four males into silence. Neville was the first to break it.

"You left them with a nice tree? Who promised to take care of them? Molly, are you sure Saruman didn't hit you with a Confundus or something?"

She glared at him, huffing with exasperation. "Of course he didn't, dear! I didn't run into the ghastly dark wizard until after I left the hobbits. Treebeard is a real tree who walks and talks, albeit very slowly. Then again, the fact that he's a tree and can walk or talk at all is impressive in itself, so perhaps I shouldn't really complain about the time it takes for him to do so."

Gimli was nervously fingering his axe. "I knew it! The forest is crawling with trees! Or perhaps I should say that the trees are crawling through the forest. 'Tis unnatural, I say!"

"Oh, don't be so silly, dear. It's no more unnatural for them than walking and talking is for you and I. Anyway, Treebeard was rather surprised when we stumbled into him - literally stumbled into him! Poor Pippin got a very nasty bruise after hitting his little head on the trunk. After the shock of each other's discovery wore off, he demanded to know who we were and what we were doing running through his forest. He was a bit suspicious of us at first, but we managed to explain that we'd been kidnapped by orcs before he had the chance to flatten us. He was very unhappy that Saruman had ordered our kidnapping, and even more so when he found out the dark wizard was concocting a plan to overthrow Middle Earth! Speaking of Saruman: did you know he wants to execute me for some 'great affront' I've supposedly given him? I had no idea what was going on when I heard that. Still don't, actually. Anyway, where was I?"

"You were explaining how you told this wondrous Tree of your plight," offered Legolas, looking very impressed at the thought of Treebeard. Gimli rolled his eyes disdainfully.

"Ah, yes. When he heard that, and discovered that I was a witch who was to be put to death at Saruman's command, he got very angry. He offered to take the hobbits to the safety of his home and speak with his fellow...oh, what was that word he used? - Tents, I think..."

"Ents," corrected Aragorn with a smile.

"...exactly! He's going to take them to a meeting with his fellow Ents to discuss Saruman's 'un-wizardly conduct', as he called it. He was going to take me, too, but there were so many of those horrible orcs following us that I had to stay behind and get rid of them so that the hobbits and Treebeard could get away safely. Anyway, I knew you'd be following us and I couldn't stay away from Neville any longer. I needed to know he was alright."

She smiled fondly at the teenager, who flushed in embarrassment.

"So, I stayed behind and managed to take care of all the remaining orcs - or so I thought. I was just looking for a clearing large enough to dispose of their remains when I heard voices. I Disillusioned myself and slipped in their direction..."

Legolas interrupted her. "Beg pardon, Lady Molly: Disillusioned yourself?"

Neville answered for her. "It's a spell that makes you blend in with your surroundings. Very handy for avoiding captors."

"Or listening to unsuspecting dark wizards," Molly added with a twinkle. "So, I hid behind a tree when I finally found them and what do you think I saw? One of those ugly creatures talking with a very suspicious-looking man! The orc called him 'master' and 'my Lord Saruman', so I knew straight away that this was the awful man who'd ordered our kidnapping!"

"So you fought him and chased him to the edge of the forest, where he came upon us," said Gimli.

"No, dear. I stayed where I was and listened to what they were saying. Saruman demanded to know why they hadn't arrived with his prisoners yet. He was extremely angry at having to leave Isengard to look for the orcs and his prisoners himself. The orc - well, it was an uruk, actually, as I found out a few days ago - told him that we had escaped and Saruman was livid. Well, of course, he would be, wouldn't he? He started shouting at the stupid creature, telling it how it was incompetent and how fed up he was with idiots ruining all his careful plans. Then he whipped out a knife and shoved it in its stomach before storming off in search of us. But the creature didn't die immediately, so I nipped over to it and, er, 'suggested' it tell me what his plans were. It was a very obliging uruk."

Aragorn frowned. "Obliging? No servant of Saruman - even close to death - could ever be called 'obliging', my Lady. What arts did you employ to encourage it to speak so freely?"

Neville had a fair idea what she had done. An Imperio, if his guess was correct. The thought of her using an Unforgivable was like a dose of ice cold water. Still, she hadn't used it for evil purpose and it wasn't as if she'd Crucio-ed the git. Had she?

He looked at the round face of his Guardian with its twinkling brown eyes and rosy cheeks. No. She would never use that spell. Not when she knew how much the thought of it turned his stomach - even if it was cast on a miserable orc.

"I politely suggested it should talk and it agreed to do so, that's all. Best you know no more than that," she said evasively, refusing to go into further detail. Aragorn did not look entirely thrilled with her answer, but there was little he could do to encourage her to elaborate when she point-blank refused to.

"And what did the creature say?" demanded Gimli, not particularly caring what horrors she had inflicted on the uruk before its demise as long as it shared Saruman's plans with her.

"Well, apparently Saruman has a magic stone in his tower that he uses to speak with the Dark Lord Sauron. They're in collusion to overthrow the western lands, though I believe we already knew that. But what Sauron doesn't know, is that Saruman is looking for the Dark Lord's 'mighty weapon' himself, as the creature called it. Well, it's obvious he means you-know-what. So he must be thinking that if he can get it for himself, he'll be able to rule Middle Earth alone. That's why he kidnapped two of the hobbits - he knows that one of their kind carries it. I also found out that Saruman has created a huge army which he's sending to strike at a place called Rohan in the next week or so. It's to be his first real blow against the West and he was hoping to have the...thing...before he proceeded with the attack."

"But he does not have the weapon," mused Aragorn aloud. "It is out of his reach and will remain so. Frodo is beyond his grasp now."

The ranger fixed Molly with his steady grey eyes. "And this army: did the Uruk say how large it was?"

"'Ten thousand strong' were his exact words," replied the witch solemnly.

"Ten thousand? Bloody hell! That's bigger than Voldemort's!"

She spared him a frown. "Yes, I know that. And language, dear - or have you forgotten what I said earlier?"

No. He hadn't. But having his mouth scrubbed out with soapy water wasn't nearly as alarming as the thought of the massive army Saruman had hidden at Isengard.

"So many!" said Aragorn, rising to his feet and pacing before the fire.

Legolas' fair face was a picture of concern and even Gimli looked troubled (despite the fact he would have been happy to chop Éomer and his band of hairy Rohirrim into pieces earlier that day).

"Rohan must be warned, Aragorn," the elf said, watching the ranger as he paced to and fro before him. "We can do nothing now to control the success of Frodo and Sam, other than beg the Valar to protect them. But we can do something to help the horse-lords. Théoden must know of this threat to his people."

Aragorn stopped pacing and gazed down at all four of his friends, considering their expressions.

"I had not known what our course would be after we rescued the Lady Molly and the Hobbits, for their quick return has been the only concern on my mind for the last few days. But when you came to us, my Lady, and we saw that you were well and you assured us of Merry and Pippin's safety, I had thought of riding to Gondor."

"Gondor?" echoed Gimli incredulously. "What use can we be there when our help is needed here? It may take us longer than a week to reach the White City and by that time Rohan may be under siege!"

"Peace, son of Glóin, for I have not yet finished," Aragorn stated, holding a hand up to ward off further interruption. Gimli stopped protesting and waited for the ranger to continue.

"Now that I have heard what the Lady Molly has said, I cannot in good conscience leave the people of Rohan to their fate. Therefore, I say we leave for Edoras at first light. Théoden King must be warned at the earliest opportunity."

"Good lad!" cried Gimli, pleased at the decision, and everyone else nodded in agreement or offered words of support for the ranger's decision.

But Neville had one final question before they started setting watch shifts for the night.

"What about Merry and Pippin?"

Aragorn retook his seat across from the teenager. "They will remain safe with the Ents of Fangorn. Treebeard is the shepherd of the forest, its Guardian - very much like the Lady Molly is to you. If he promised to keep them safe, then safe they shall be."

"I know that. But what about afterwards? We are coming back for them, aren't we?"

"Be not alarmed, son of Longbottom. I am not in the habit of abandoning my friends," chided the ranger gently.

The teenager flushed.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to suggest you would. It's just, well, I don't like leaving people behind, and we've come so far to rescue them. Some of my Muggle-born friends went missing during my last year of school and not all of them have been found. I don't know what happened to them after they were taken to the Ministry - nobody does. So I'll just feel better when I can see Merry and Pippin again, that's all."

A look of understanding dawned across Aragorn's face and he regarded the teenager with gentle sympathy. "I swear to you that you will see them safe and well again, Neville Longbottom. We shall return for the Hobbits before we depart for Gondor."

"Don't worry, dear," added Molly, with a gentle squeeze of his arm. "Treebeard will take perfectly good care of them until we return. All I have to do when we come back is send him a sign that it's safe and he'll bring them to the last place I saw him."

"What sign?"

"My Patronus, of course."

"So you see, young Neville; those two young rascals shall be easily retrieved from the dreariness of Fangorn and no doubt making a very healthy Hobbit dent in our food supplies before we know what has befallen us," declared Gimli, giving the teenager a hearty slap on the back.

Feeling much better about the plan, Neville smiled gratefully at his friends. As they all rose to collect their bedrolls for the night, Gimli volunteered to take first watch. Not long after, the remaining group arranged themselves around the little fire to take their rest before setting out for Edoras the next morning.

Half an hour later, Aragorn was fast asleep (snoring) and Legolas lay in the spookily wide-eyed resting state that was, apparently, common to Elvenkind. Neville, however, tossed restlessly on the thin bedroll, unable to shut his eyes and snooze as peacefully as the others. The events of the past few days were buzzing around his head like a swarm of angry bees: the fight at Parth Galen, Boromir's death, the almost four day pursuit across the hills of the Emyn Muil and the flat plains of Rohan. There were also a few answers he still needed from his Guardian and, unable to resist any longer, he sat up and stretched the few feet of distance towards the slumbering witch. He gently prodded her in the shoulder with his index finger, fervently hoping she wouldn't hex him for waking her up.

"Molly?" he whispered.

She wiggled in her sleep but did not stir, so he tried again. "Molly!"

"Not tonight, Arthur dear," she mumbled sleepily. "Mollywobbles is tired."

Mortified, Neville snatched his hand away as if he'd been burned and scanned the sleeping figures of his friends guiltily, praying they hadn't heard her. Blimey! She'd thought he was Mr Weasley looking for a bit of 'slap and tickle' (as he'd heard Gran calling it - though he didn't much want to think about his Gran engaging in such pastimes either).

How embarrassing!

Perhaps he should just leave her and get his answers in the morning? That would be the sensible thing to do.

But he couldn't. His need for answers was an almost living thing, rushing around his brain like a starving hobbit demanding a mushroom omelette. Reluctantly, he prodded her again.

"Mrs Weasley?" he whispered, hoping the more formal mode of address would prevent further embarrassment.

It worked. The red-haired witch tried to brush his finger away at first, but he persisted and finally she rolled over, eyes fluttering open.

"Ne...ville, dear," she said, lifting her head and yawning so widely, he felt guilty for disturbing her. "Whatever is the matter? Can't you sleep?"

He shook his head and she pulled herself up to sit opposite him. "Would you like a nice cup of tea? I could put some honey in it - that always works for Ron when he dreams about spiders, you know."

Neville grinned. He was used to Ron's spider nightmares. They were legend in his dormitory after their second year of Hogwarts. "No, it's alright. I just needed to ask you something."

"Well, alright then," she said dubiously, obviously wondering what was so important that he'd had to pull her from sleep. "What is it, dear?"

"After you, er, 'questioned' that uruk..."

"I didn't use it, Neville. The Unforgivable that made your parents so poorly."

He smiled at her. "I know that. You used an Imperio, didn't you?"

She beamed back at him. "What a clever boy you are! Of course, it's an Unforgivable too, but really, I think it depends on the intentions of the caster as to whether it's a truly bad curse. And besides," she whispered, lowering her voice even further and leaning towards him conspiratorially, "I dare the Ministry to find me here and punish me for it!"

They snorted with laughter at the thought of Aurors running about Middle Earth, trying to hunt her down.

"Anyway," Neville said after they had both sufficiently recovered from their chuckles, "how did you run into Saruman again?"

She frowned in thought. "Well, it had only been about five minutes or so after Saruman left the uruk that the creature finally died, so I thought that he was probably off to try and find the hobbits. Of course, I couldn't let that happen. Treebeard had spirited them away a few hours earlier, but Saruman is a wizard and I didn't know what magic he might use to try and locate them, so it seemed safer to stop him. That's when I pulled Fred's old Cleansweep out of my bag and took to the air. It was the quickest way to locate him."

"You packed a broomstick in your knapsack?" the teenager asked incredulously. He knew she must have, because he'd seen her on it, but he didn't remember her putting it in her bag when he flooed to the Burrow.

"Well, yes. I may have done some reorganising of my supplies after you left that day."

What?

"Eh, what else did you 'reorganise', Molly?"

She blushed. "I packed a litre of Polyjuice potion..."

"Polyjuice potion? What for? And where did you get it?" he squawked in disbelief.

"From the twins' old bedroom. They have the most impressive supply of odds and ends in there and you never know when these things might come in handy. It wasn't difficult to get them - George hasn't set foot in that room since Fred...well, you know."

Her face fell slightly and, not wanting to distress her further, he nodded and encouraged her to continue.

"So, I packed that, the Cleansweep and a few other things, just to be safe. And a good thing too, because I needed the broom after all! Though, it was rather tricky navigating the forest on it, as you can imagine."

Actually, he imagined it was difficult to navigate anywhere on a broomstick, devout non-flyer that he was.

"I found the silly man ten minutes later, skulking through the forest and trying to locate Merry and Pippin. Of course, when I finally found him I became rather...angry...after the terrible few days he'd put us through and so I started cursing him like there was no tomorrow. Perhaps it wasn't very fair to spring an attack on him but, really dear, I was beyond caring. We fought and I managed to drive him far enough away from the hobbits that he finally ended up where you and the others saw him."

'Rather' angry? Neville smirked. More like blazingly angry, if her performance at the forest edge had been anything to go by.

But there was still something he needed to know.

"Did he say anything to you while you were fighting? Anything that might give you an idea why he wanted to kill you in particular?"

Molly shook her head. "Not really, dear. He was too busy defending himself, for the most part. He did look very surprised to see me, though - even asked my name." Her face screwed up in anger. "The cheek of the man! Plans to put me to death, and doesn't even know my name? Not that I imagine he'll be forgetting it now: he won't be rid of those antlers I gave him until some time in May - that's when red deer normally cast them, you know."

Neville stifled another snort of laughter so he wouldn't wake Aragorn and Legolas. Molly was absolutely priceless!

"Was there anything else, dear?" she asked, yawning again. He knew she needed her sleep after the hectic day she'd had, and he didn't want to keep her from it much longer, but there was one final thing...

"When Saruman came running out of the forest he heard Aragorn shouting my name and went completely bonkers; said he was going to 'wipe the name of Longbottom from the face of Middle Earth'. Did he mention anything about knowing me when you fought, or when he was talking to the uruk?"

"I'm afraid not, dear," Molly replied, looking as puzzled as he was. "It's all very strange. The man's obviously a few Sickles short of a Galleon, though. First he wants to kill me, then he doesn't know who I am; then he wants to kill you and you don't know who he is. Perhaps it's another Longbottom he's talking about? There must be someone else here who shares your last name. They've obviously managed to rile him up so much that the mere mention of a 'Longbottom' is enough to send him into a vindictive frenzy."

Hmm. Neville wasn't completely convinced by that - not unless his Gran was running about Middle Earth, taking on the enemy single-handedly and leaving chaos in her wake. That thought was so ridiculous, he had to laugh.

"What's so funny, dear?" Molly asked, surprised at his reaction.

"Oh, nothing," he grinned. "Just wondering who it could be. The only other time I've heard the name 'Longbottom' here was when Aragorn told me that the hobbits have a tobacco named after the farmer who grows it."

That seemed to satisfy the witch. She nodded sagely. "Well, there you have it. He's obviously been indulging a bit too much on his pipe and it's left him with a nasty case of Lung Mould. I've always said that smoking's bad for the health - and if I catch any of my lot puffing away, they'll rue the day they were born!"

With that, she gave him a pat on the hand before reclining on the thin bedroll. "Now, get some rest dear. We've a long day ahead of us tomorrow and you need to be fit for it. Goodnight." She covered herself with her thin blanket and rolled onto her side, leaving him to retire to his own rest.

As he stretched himself on the ground and pillowed his head on the crook of his arm, Neville thought about what she had told him. It was clear to him that Saruman had some sort of vendetta against both himself and Molly, but the reason for it remained a mystery. Who was it, exactly, that Saruman had wanted to execute if it wasn't his Guardian? And could he really be so furious with a tobacco-producing hobbit who lived miles away in the Shire that he'd kill every Longbottom he met?

But the answers eluded him. Before long, his eyes drifted shut and he lost himself to the rest he would need to prepare himself for the arduous task that awaited him in the morning: riding his ruddy horse all the way to Edoras.