Harry Potter and the One Ring of Power

After wondering at the play of light through the waterfall, with its endless combinations of colors as the setting sun’s rays passed through the liquid prisms to make an ever-changing rainbow, Ron turned to see what else there was to see.

Rather to his disappointment, the rest of the Gondorians’ hideout didn’t live up to the glorious beauty of their window. Most of it was a natural cave, but there were places where he could see that the cave had been enlarged by its inhabitants. There were piles of what looked like trail food, and stores of weapons; he could see thousands of arrowheads, swords in waxed-leather sheaths, and helmets, cloaks, brigandines, arrow shafts, and things he couldn’t have put a name to.

"Well, here we are," said Faramir. "It is no great palace, but we can at least pass the night in shelter here. There are only two ways out---one of them is the path by which we came in, and the other is out through the Window on the West, which leads to a pool filled with sharp stone knives. There were other ways in, but we’ve blocked them and concealed them well. We’ll eat shortly."

He left them together, for the first time since Ron had led his friends to the Gondorians who had tried to capture him. The other Gondorians seemed to accept their presence without comment. Harry gathered his friends around him with a gesture, and Ron went over to join him.

"This isn’t a bad hideout, at all," said Draco. He looked around with an appraising, professional air. "That window being concealed by the waterfall makes sure that there’s always fresh air. I’d bet my wand that the path we went up would puzzle even Gollum."

"You know, they seem to have forgotten him," murmured Ron. "They knew that there were five of us, and that one was barefoot. I think that our being quite a bit more than they were expecting to find threw him clean out of their minds." He shuddered, remembering how he had felt with Gollum’s lambent eyes on him, sizing him up like a turkey a week before Christmas. "The gods willing, we’ve seen the last of him."

"From your mouth, to the gods’ ears, Ron!" said Hermione fervently. "The way he looked at me---and the way he always referred to me as ‘pretty girl’---gave me the shuddering creeps. If I ever see him again, it’ll be about a hundred billion years too soon!" She shut her eyes, a look of revulsion crossing her face. "The only reason I put up with him is because he might be useful. He’s been through this country before. He’s a real expert on wilderness survival---remember those rabbits?"

"Real well, Hermione," said Harry, speaking for the first time. He put his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into him. "I remember something that Gandalf told me at Rivendell, before we set out. He talked to me at length, alone, since I’m the---bearer of the burden, shall we say?" He quirked a rather Draco-Malfoy-ish grin. "He told me a lot about Gollum. Although I loathe Gollum, I also understand him---and I pity him, from the bottom of my heart." The grin grew wider, and even less cheery. "If nothing else, he’s what Professor Binns would call a ‘memento mori,’ at least for me."

"A memento mori?" Hermione gave Harry a puzzled look, echoing Ron’s own bafflement. "A memento mori was something the Romans did at their banquets---bringing in an effigy of a skeleton in a coffin to remind the banqueters that even at the height of their fun, death was never far away. That’s where the expression ‘a skeleton at the feast’ came from." She grinned, her old flashing grin that one could miss if you weren’t looking at her at just the right time. "If there’s something I’d think was redundant, here and now, it would be a reminder that death’s not far away. Right now, I wouldn’t exactly bet my Gringotts’ account on any of us surviving."

"For me, he’s a living example of what I’d probably turn into, if I accepted the bargain the Wheel of Fire offers me, every night in my dreams," murmured Harry. "He was once a hobbit, not too different from Bilbo, but he had the---burden---for centuries, and it altered him into what you see."

Harry shut his eyes, shaking his head. "No matter what---even if I go into the Cracks of Doom myself---I don’t want to turn into another Gollum." He gave his friends a haunted look. "They call me ‘The Boy Who Lived,’ but there’s worse things than dying, I think. I think that Voldemort’s learning that, back where we came from. If he had ever met Gollum, he’d have a better idea of what he’s trying to do to himself." Harry sighed. "I can’t hate Gollum. I pity him, and I care far too much about all of you to wish that you understood why I pity him."

With that, there seemed to be nothing more to say. The four broke up; Ron was quite conscious that they were in the power of the Gondorians, and he didn’t want to fight them. He feared that if they knew what Harry had on him, they’d go mad and try to take it from him. Not arousing their new companions’ suspicion of them more than necessary struck him as eminently sensible.

Faramir came over. "We’ve got some bunks for you to lie up on, till dinner’s ready. Our scouts are still reporting in." As Ron sat back on the bed they offered him, the men went around the cave, working in wordless coordination that reminded Ron of the house-elves in the kitchens of Hogwarts, cooperating to put together a huge feast for the school.

By ones and twos, the scouts came in. From what Ron could catch of what they were saying, the Southron forces had been destroyed or had retreated, believing the Gondorians to be present in much greater strength than they were. The elephants---or mumakil, to give them their local name---were dead or had fled.

"Good riddance," muttered Draco. Harry had lain down on one of the bunks and was drifting off to sleep. "I’ve got to say, that ambush was well-laid, even without us helping."

Hermione was circulating among the Gondorians. Ron watched her carefully; she seemed to be enjoying being the only female in a male crowd. Some of the Gondorians were apparently competing for her attention, the younger ones in particular, and she was subtly encouraging them. Ron kept a sharp eye on things, but she seemed to have the situation well under control. He wondered where she had learned how to flirt so effectively while actually promising nothing.

Glancing over at Draco Malfoy, Ron noticed that he was watching Hermione too. "Growing up the way I did made me suspicious of my own shadow, Weasel," murmured Draco. "Even if I’d never attended a Death Eaters’ party, five years among the Slytherins would turn anybody into an intriguer." He gave Ron a rather haunted grin. "Sometime, you’ll have to tell me---what’s it like, having a family you can actually trust?"

After a while, Hermione came back over and rejoined her friends. "From what I can tell, things are on the up-and-up," she muttered. "Still and all, although a night under shelter in a safe place will be wonderful, I won’t really feel secure while we’re here." She looked around. "If things turned ugly, I wouldn’t fancy having to fight my way out of this place."

"Let’s try to keep the scene serene." Draco motioned the others to silence as one last scout came in.

He went up to Faramir, and reported. "All seems quiet, Lord Faramir. No sign of the enemy. Not even an orc-scout. I did see something odd, though---something I haven’t seen before."

"What was it that you saw?" asked Faramir. Ron strained to hear without seeming to eavesdrop; he had a sickly feeling that he knew what the scout was going to say. "If it wasn’t an orc, or a Southron, what was it, Mablung?"

Mablung looked rather puzzled. "To be honest, I don’t know. Of course, it was getting on toward evening, and it may have been something harmless. It was small, and when it saw me coming, it went up a tree as fast as a squirrel. You don’t want us shooting animals for no reason, and I couldn’t get a clear shot, so I didn’t try to shoot it. It hissed at me, or so I thought. I thought it might be one of the black squirrels of Mirkwood."

"If that’s so, it’s a bad sign. We don’t want the strays of Mirkwood here," said Faramir. Ron thought that he gave the Hogwarts students a fishy look. Ron gave him back the sort of blank look he had once used to convince his mother that he hadn’t done the things he actually had done. Bloody, bloody Gollum, he thought bitterly. I hope they never find him! Beside him, Harry and Draco had fallen asleep. Their faces were wiped free of the care and strain that had become their usual expressions on their terrible journey, and Ron envied them this moment of peace.

Hermione leaned over the sleepers. Her touch as gentle as the mother Harry had never known, she took his glasses off and slipped them into the pocket where he kept them. Feeling Ron’s eyes on her, she looked up and smiled.

"You know, Ron, I thought I knew everything important there was to know about you, and Harry---but this trip has shown me that I’ve only just scratched the surface. I didn’t know that Harry fell asleep sometimes without taking off his glasses." A soft snore came from Harry, and she looked at him, profound tenderness in her face. "I also didn’t know that you and Harry both snore." At a moan from Harry, she gently stroked his cheek, soothing him. "Or that he has nightmares."

"His nightmares have always been pretty bad, Hermione," murmured Ron. "I’ve heard him---the gods know how often---crying out, cursing the Dursleys, or begging them to be good to him, pleading that he’s a good boy, he didn’t mean it, he’s sorry." At the memory, a spasm of impotent rage twisted Ron’s gut, and he felt his lips peel back in a snarl. "I swear, Hermione---I swear, by my life and my love of it---as the gods are my witnesses, the second Harry’s eighteen and of age, I’m going to give those Dursleys such Hell that they’ll wish You-Know-Who had taken out after them!"

He braced himself, expecting Hermione to disapprove. Instead, she reached out and covered his hands with her own. "Name the day, Ron, and I’ll be right there. I’d relish the chance to teach those swine a lesson they’d never, ever forget."

At Hermione’s reaction, Ron’s rage passed, leaving a deep, deep sadness. "What sticks in my throat the most about it is that Harry doesn’t deserve such treatment. He’s sweet-natured, polite, and a good kid. If he was as awful as---oh, say, his cousin, Dudley---I could see mistreating him, even if I couldn’t excuse it."

"You’ve met Dudley?" Curiosity lit Hermione’s face. "Is he really as awful as Harry says he is? I’ve never met him myself. Harry doesn’t like talking about him much, at least not to me. Fred and George were telling some boys and girls in their year about the Ton-Tongue Toffee Incident---" she giggled---"and from what they say, he’s horrible."

"I only met him once. He’s this repulsive, fat boy, with blonde hair and a stupid expression." Ron grinned at Hermione. "Harry told me that he always thought that Dudley looked like a pig in a wig. To my mind, that’s slander---and if I were a pig in a wig, I’d demand an apology." Hermione dissolved in giggles. Ron continued: "And, from what Harry’s said, he’s not as nice as he looks. He’s a bully---he bullied Harry for years, and every other kid he could. His parents make excuses for everything he does, and never punish him. In a way, I almost feel sorry for the poor stupid lump." At Hermione’s questioning expression, Ron explained: "Sooner or later,he’s going to have to face the big outside world without Daddy and Mummy there to make it all better, and he’s going to have the shock of his life. I can’t see any employer, wizard or Muggle, putting up with his fake tears when he doesn’t get his own way."

One of the Gondorians came over, and cleared his throat. Ron and Hermione looked up. "Forgive me, but our meal is ready. If you could let your friends know that it’s time to eat?" He held out a bowl of water. Ron gently shook Harry and Draco, and when they had awakened, the Hogwarts students plunged their hands into the water, scrubbing days of grime away and then splashing cold water on their faces. When that was done, Ron felt wonderfully refreshed, and realized just how hungry he was. Hunger had become so normal that he didn’t notice it any more.

The Gondorians showed their guests to seats on benches, on two sides of a table laden with food and drink. Before they ate, the Gondorians stood and looked west for a minute in silence, and the four wanderers followed their example.

When they sat down, Faramir saw a questioning look on Hermione’s face. "That is our custom. We look west, to Numenor that was, and beyond that, to Elvenhome that is, and beyond that, to that which is beyond Elvenhome and shall ever be. Do you have any such custom in your home?"

Hermione looked thoughtful. "Some of us pray before meals, but that custom is going out of use. Other than that, we have many, many customs. Our home is composed of many nations and peoples, and each has its own customs. Some of them will not eat meat at all, others will eat some meats but not others, and those must be butchered and prepared in specific ways."

"How strange!" said Faramir. He leaned forward, eyes alight with curiosity. "I know the ways of most of the peoples of Middle-earth, but you are something new and never seen before. How our scholars in Minas Tirith would love to question you!"

Hermione smiled broadly. "I’d love the chance, some day, as long as I get to ask questions in my turn. Of us four, I love learning the most." She gave her friends a slightly sardonic smile. "My friends here love many things, but learning for its own sake is not one of them. They’d rather be out playing games, or getting up to mischief."

"Now, Hermione," interjected Draco, his tone dripping false innocence, "I resemble that remark! Are you saying that I’d rather play Quidditch than---than go to a History of Magic class?" At Faramir’s questioning look, he supplied "Quidditch is a game wizards and witches can play---it involves flying by magic, and several balls. The rules are a bit complicated."

Faramir looked like he would have liked to know more, but visibly mastered himself. "Tell me more about your journey here. Where did you start from?"

Hermione did the talking, and the others concentrated on their eating. Ron enjoyed every bit of the meal. By Hogwarts standards, or those of his mother, it was basic stuff---salted meats, red cheese, bread and butter, and dried fruits, washed down with a yellow wine that Ron had never had before, but quite liked. Compared to their diet since leaving Lorien, it was a Lucellan feast, and it was all he could do to not wolf down everything in sight and look around for more. He managed, with a great amount of self-control, to eat politely.

While she talked, Hermione did justice to the food, too. "We were summoned into this world---Arda, or Middle-Earth---at Rivendell. We met Gandalf, or Mithrandir, there, and also the others that were with us for a way---Legolas Greenleaf, of the elves of Mirkwood, and Gimli son of Gloin, of the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain, were two of them. At first, they were at each other’s throats---verbally, of course---but by the time we saw them last, they’d become firm friends." She paused for a big bite at her improvised sandwich, which she had constructed from two slices of the Gondorians’ bread, with slices of meats and cheese between them.

"Truly, this is a sign that great times are upon us," murmured one of the Gondorians. "Elves and dwarves have been at odds since the First Age. No dwarf, under most circumstances, would willingly associate with an elf."

"Enough about dwarves and elves," snapped Faramir, as Hermione turned to face him. "Tell me of my brother. Tell me of Boromir."

This rather worried Ron, and he looked up, to see Harry looking at him, his face a careful blank. Beside Harry, Draco was also hiding behind a poker face. Hermione’s expression became guarded, and Ron hoped that Faramir wouldn’t pick up on it. Hermione began telling Faramir about what Boromir had done. "In Moria---that’s the old dwarven city of Khazad-Dum---he fought for us and faced up to orcs, trolls, and even a horror from the First Age---a Balrog of Morgoth." Faramir looked quite impressed. "He was a key member of our group, up till the day we parted company. Several times we wouldn’t have been able to get through without him."

And we’d still be with the Company but for him---not to mention stirring up the Watcher in the Water with that stupid stone!

thought Ron, keeping his face as blank as he could---years of practice at trying to keep his mum in the dark about who was responsible for the latest pranks served him well.

"It would have grieved Boromir, to run from orcs," said Faramir. He shook his head. "Or even that awful thing you name---the Balrog of Moria." Hermione shrugged.

"Even the mightiest man can be slain by one arrow---as Isildur found out, to his cost. We were not there to fight orcs, or the Balrog. If they had not attacked us, we’d have let them be." She closed her eyes, remembering reluctantly. "When the Balrog came upon us, I had been hurt badly---a severe blow to the head. I don’t remember as much about it as my friends probably do." She looked straight at Faramir, her expression grave and serious. "What I remember, I wish I could forget. That creature could have fought a dragon easily, from what I know of dragons."

"And how---how could you have faced off with such a monster?" asked Mablung. Hermione smiled slightly.

"The same way we did against the Southrons, Mablung. With our spells. We threw every spell we knew at it, again and again and again. The spells we used would have done far more damage, some of them, than the ones we used against the Southrons. It wasn’t stopped completely, but it knew we were there."

"Where was Mithrandir?" asked Faramir. "Was he casting spells?"

"No, he wasn’t." Harry spoke up, as eyes turned to him. "He was standing there, alone, in the middle of a narrow foot-bridge over a bottomless chasm, with his sword, Glamdring the Foe-Cleaver, in one hand, and his wizard’s staff in the other. Merely seeing him gave the Balrog pause, I think---but it came on, and the rest of us began to cast spells at it." Harry looked haunted, and Ron couldn’t blame him---the memory of the fight with the Balrog was something that could still give him the shuddering horrors.

"And then what happened?" Faramir’s voice was kindly and gentle and understanding. He had been in combat himself, and Ron knew that that experience changed people. He wondered for a second what Fred and George would think of him if---no, when, damn it!---he got back to Hogwarts.

Harry closed his eyes, remembering. "The Balrog---it had a sword, which we took out of its hands the same way we did yours---it wasn’t expecting that, and couldn’t get its sword back---it had a whip, a whip of fire. It swung the whip, and Gandalf broke the bridge---it was standing on the bridge, and it fell---but Gandalf---excuse me, Mithrandir---"

:"We know what you mean," said Faramir. "You knew him as Gandalf, and we understand you when you speak of him so."

"Gandalf---" Harry gulped, visibly took a grip on himself, and plunged onward---"Gandalf couldn’t get out of the way of the whip in time---it tangled him, and he fell!" His voice broke for a second, and then he went on, every word strained: "His last thoughts were of us---he told us to run for it!"

Ron could feel Harry’s grief, still fresh, in every word of his tale, and his own grief for the loss of the wise Gandalf responded to it. Beside him, Hermione shut her eyes, an expression of pain and loss on her face, and even Draco, the coolest of cool hands, looked stricken.

Faramir didn’t miss a thing. "I understand if you don’t want to talk about it. Still, it sounds as though Mithrandir died as he would have wanted to---facing off against a great evil, to protect those in his charge." Numbly, Ron nodded. Faramir was exactly right. Gandalf had done what he knew he had to do, and when the price had been his own life, he had paid it, and paid it willingly.

Just as we are probably going to pay, before this is over

, a voice in his head jeered. Ron shut his eyes, willing that voice to go away. He had been tempted before to abandon their quest---at Rivendell, he had been given the opportunity to go back, and he wouldn’t have minded staying in Lorien, not one bit---but he had meant what he had told Gandalf. If he abandoned the quest, if he turned his back on his friends---strange, to think of Draco Malfoy as a friend, but he had never really known Draco as a human being before this journey---somebody would survive, wearing his body, answering to his name. Somebody that Ron didn’t think he’d much like.

"I still would not mind knowing just what your errand is, that it would lure Mithrandir into the black pits of Moria to his doom," mused Faramir. "It seems to have something to do with Isildur’s Bane, even though you are not ‘halflings.’ And, before you say anything, Miss Granger---" he gave Hermione a slantendicular look, and she blushed slightly---"I do not think for one second that the references to ‘Isildur’s Bane’ have anything to do with an orcish archer."

Ron glanced at Draco; Draco mouthed cornered at last, and Ron unobtrusively loosened his wand in its sleeve-sheath, so that he could reach it in a hurry. They had managed to con the Gondorians for quite a while, as well as dazzling them with magical pyrotechnics, but Faramir was on the scent of the truth. He thought that Faramir honestly believed himself to be trustworthy, but the Ring represented temptation beyond many men’s strength.

Faramir went on: "Now, I am interested in the legends and tales of Gondor, as you seem to be, Miss Granger. We have records of the war---the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, and the overthrow of the Dark Lord in Mordor. I took an interest, the last time Mithrandir was in Minas Tirith, looking through old records. There’s only one thing so important that they would go to the trouble of summoning people from another world---a whole other world, think of the power that must have involved!---and it’s not an orcish archer or arrow. It’s the Ring---the great Ring of Power that Isildur took from Sauron, isn’t it?"

Ron felt the bottom of his stomach fall out, and he hoped he didn’t look quite as sick as he felt. He could sense his companions getting ready to fight their way out, although he frankly didn’t much fancy their chances, in the middle of the Gondorians’ hideout, and not familiar with the way out.

END CHAPTER 16