Nine Rings for Mortal Men

Chapter 1 - Flight of the Gryffindor

If one cared to notice, he or she (or it, as the case may be) would have taken note of the icy chill that pervaded the Hogwarts grounds on this dark, autumn evening. The trees on the dark border of the Forbidden Forest seemed to close ranks against any intruders who may have thought of entering that night. The stars shone bright in the evening sky, fighting for dominance of the sky against dark clouds that threatened to pour rain over the heads of the practicing Slytherin Quidditch team. Owls hunted mice with almost magical precision on the borders of the forest. No human, man or woman, was wandering the grounds to appreciate the beauty of nature this night. No one noticed the semi-transparent streak of silver and black, fading in and out of view as it began its descent from the grand steps of Hogwarts Castle, down past the Greenhouses, past the lop-sided hut of Hagrid the Gamekeeper on the lawn, and fading into the darkness of the Forest.

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The forest was cold this evening. If he only knew one thing to be true, it was that simple fact. He couldn't see where he was going - he had lost his glasses almost half an hour earlier, just on the outskirts of the forest. Even before then, his vision was blurred by the falling of rare tears. And yet he hit no tree, tripped over no root - he was guided by instinct, into the heart of the forest, where none but the bravest or most foolhardy dared to tread. His magical cloak, partially covering his small frame, failed to completely hide him from view, but that was of no consequence - none pursued him from the castle. No one ever followed when he ran.

His breath came in great gasps, and he finally succumbed to fatigue - his legs gave out underneath him, and he collapsed in the center of a tiny clearing. Silver moonlight shone down over his crumpled form; he was still, for a moment. Then, giving vent to his rage, and especially to his loneliness, he shouted out the foulness of his feeling for the forest to hear; it heard his cry, and did not care. A small, unidentifiable rodent not five feet away ran away from a bit of carrion it had stumbled across and was promptly eaten by one of the dark inhabitants of the Forest. The forest bore witness, and did not care.

He sat, crouched, consumed by his outrage and grief. Out of the shadows came the rustling of cloaks, hissing of ancient indrawn breath, closing of a gateway to another world. The cold was still there, but he was now numbed to it - he was used to being cold. It was now a fact of life, as inevitable as pain and death.

He looked up. Eight identical cloaked figures, each facing him, barring escape, yet exuding no detectable hostility.

He could no longer think straight. He could barely see straight.

One of them, probably the leader of the eight, stepped forward, his hand outstretched. It was not visible, though, for it was gloved by a heavy iron gauntlet that looked as ancient as the garb that covered the shadow from head to armor-clad foot. In it lay cradled a ring, though it's detail escaped him; his vision was failing. An otherworldly voice spoke to him in what must have been a language, though he understood little but that it contained no menace.

The hoods of the shadow-men turned towards each another, as though they were silently conversing amongst themselves. Reaching a consensus, their captain again spoke, this time in an understandable, if broken, tongue.

"We are... friend..." A voice, high and gravelly, emanated from the recesses of it's robes. "We are... King... We are... Nazgul..."

Harry smiled.

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"Come on, you two - you don't think you overreacted, even a little?"

"Shove off, Ginny, this doesn't concern you," Ron said sharply to his sister. She glared back at him, but was cut-off from replying by Hermione.

"Ron! Honestly..." Hermione, always fast to rebuke Ron for his sharp tongue, turned to Ginny. "He had no right to be keeping secrets! It's so... irresponsible of him! Any thinking person would know how important it was for him to write Dumbledore about his dreams! In the very least, he could of told his closest friends..."

Ginny looked at them in shock. Here were two members of the infamous trio, the unbreakable friendship that survived hell and high-water, being so petty over something they didn't understand, could never understand.

"You have no idea what a burden it is, seeing every night what he sees!"

"Oh, and you're really an expert on the subject, are you?" Ron sneered.

The look she gave Ron was one of pure ice, one reserved only for Slytherins and, had she any, her enemies.

"You, of all people, should know that to be true."

Ron looked suddenly abashed as the meaning of her words sunk in, for of course she would be familiar to the terrors of the night. His anger melted away, and he was left only with a sense of deep sadness, for he then realized that he had lashed out at his friend when he was at a point of deep despair.

Hermione, for her usual levelheadedness, desperately clung to her accusations in an attempt to avoid the coming guilt and grief.

"He should have told us..." she said, quietly, as tears formed in her eyes. "He should have..." She dissolved into tears. "It's... too hard to..."

Ron took her hand, realizing her discontent, and attempted to soothe her with quiet words. After some time passed, she was calm again.

"We... did mess up, didn't we," Hermione said, emotionlessly, to her nearest friends.

"Yes, you certainly did." Ginny sighed. She could not guess whether she would have been more comforted if her secret-love had been reporting his deeply disturbing dreams to Professor Dumbledore (or at least his friends), or if she had never had the misfortune to stumble across his slumbering form, suffering at the hands of unseen foes. She felt that, in retrospect, she could have saved him much grief if she had never let slip this information to her brother and her friend. Nevertheless, she knew that he did himself no favors by bottling inside his horrors, to torment him and leave him without release. "Ron... you should... you know, go upstairs and..." Harry had last been seen storming up to his dormitory that he shared with her brother and other Gryffindor fifth year students.

Ron paled, and nodded. His shoulders set, he walked determinedly up the stairs and out of sight. Ginny lay back in her chair, fatigued at having diffused the argument, and expecting a good half-hour of peace before her brother returned. It came as a great surprise, then, that he came down the stairs in haste, stomping as loud as his large feet could manage.

"He's not there! He's gone!"

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The leader of the Nazgul kings removed his hand from the top of Harry's head, having somehow extracted the intricacies of the English language from his mind.

"English... a queer language, young one, nevertheless it is now ours to command. We are Nazgul, Kings of men from our distant land. We have watched you for some time now, from a place of shadow, and we saw your torment... we come to offer to you our friendship..."

The Captain of the Nazgul still held out his hand, still offered the ring. It glinted strangely in the light of the moon, and seemed to radiate coldness.

"Is that not what you desire most? Friendship... that is your desire... acceptance. This you will find in our number, for only the Lords of Men shall find peers among us."

"Then you offer your friendship mistakenly, for I am no Lord!" Harry said, bewildered at the sudden return of his senses, and surprised that fear was not among them.

The Captain seemed to gaze at him, though Harry could not see his eyes to know where their focus rest.

"You are unaware of your noble blood-line, Lord Gryffindor?"

Harry, who had gained the strength to sit on his haunches, now toppled backwards. "Lord... Gryffindor?" And deep in the back of his mind, it seemed that not only was their no deception issuing forth from the lips of the Nazgul, but that it was... right. It could only be truth. "Yes... I shall be Lord Gryffindor?"

"You are Lord Gryffindor... so you do not disbelieve? And you are right not to! What is there to gain from the keeping of secrets? ...And yet, we still do not have your full trust... Accept the Ring, for then you will see us - see us, and know that we are true, sincere..."

Harry could not take his eyes off of the ring now even if he desired to look on it no more; he was enraptured with it. Slowly, his hand trembling with mild trepidation and much exhaustion, moved towards the ring... and then it was in his hand, and it was indeed cold, cold as ice; and then, as he admired the "trinket" he came to realize that his body was becoming increasingly hotter - merely warm, initially, then feverishly hot, and then he felt as though he were being scalded with boiling water. The heat was maddeningly uncomfortable, except where the ring touched the palm of his hand. Quickly, he took the ring in his left hand - the heat abated at the tips of his fingers with which he held it - and then slipped the too-large band onto his index finger. Just as suddenly as the heat came, it went; and the cold as well. The ring seemed to have shrunk to fit his finger securely, and it seemed as though it had been there always. He looked up...

...And saw not cloaks and shadows but eight tall men, pale, and knew that there was something odd about their appearance, but he did not see it; he saw only the warm smiles on the faces of the Nazgul, the acceptance written plainly on their Kingly countenances. Silver circlets, inset with jewels of varying color, adorned their heads; their hair was silvery, but did not make them appear old, though Harry knew they were indeed old.

"Welcome, Harry son of James, Lord Gryffindor. We are Nazgul."

Harry waited for him to say more, and then became aware that a response was expected of him. He cleared his throat, trying desperately to think of the proper response. Always, one thing came to mind, and, with no alternate response forthcoming, said:

"We are... Nazgul..."

They smiled.