Disclaimer: I own nothing blah blah blah
Warnings: Death, Torture, Slash, rating may change
A/N: Revised, along with whole story. I was 13 when I started writing this. I am 17 now. Hopefully I have a better grasp of plot and generally technique than before, and will gain inspiration from looking over this.
It wrapped around him, suffocating, blinding him. He tried to breath, to scream, anything to break free of the bindings that held him but terror clawed at his heart, paralysing him. He stopped the relentless fight to get free, calmed himself, and started to think. He hadn't had years of training to forget it when it was of use! He brought his hands together to test the restraints on the other and felt … nothing.
Harry Potter woke up with a start, gasping for breath, his bed covers clenched in his fists. He hated the dreams that came most nights, dreams of the war, of things he would much rather forget. They seemed so real, and sometimes he woke up thinking he was back there, chained to the wall in the dark Lord's dungeon, slaughtering death eaters on the battle field, sobbing and shivering as he collapsed next to the bleeding body of another friend. He looked around his room, searching for reassurance from the familiarity but found none.
This was not his room.
Harry nearly laughed at the absurdity of that thought. How could this not be his room? He had been in his dormitory at Hogwarts; no one could be taken out of there by force, they had learned that during the war. Many times Voldemort had tried to take Harry straight out of Hogwarts and every time he failed, so why was it Harry was seeing a beautiful, mostly white room bathed in sunlight rather than the red and gold bed hangings he had grown accustomed to seeing as he awoke?
Not knowing whether he was safe or not Harry sat up straight and put his hands out, palms upwards, in front of him. Grasping the image in his mind Harry pulled it towards him, imbuing it with his magic and a few seconds later the sword of Godric Gryfindor lay across his palms. Dumbledore had bound the sword to him at the beginning of the war; a way to make sure that no matter what Harry always had access to a weapon.
"How did you do that?"
Harry shot out of the bed, sword in hand, to face the speaker and was met with four faces staring back at him. He grasped the sword handle tighter, flexing his fingers so the grip was more comfortable, giving him more control. His eyes quickly flicked over the figures watching him, assessing them, as he crouched low in a defensive stance, muscles taunt and ready to spring if the situation called for it.
The four beings were also tense, though far less obvious about it, and to a smaller degree. They outnumbered him, and it was not presumptuous to assume that they were familiar with their surrounding, giving them the advantage. They did not, however, look likely to attack without provocation, so Harry relaxed a little.
"Relax," A dark haired, stern looking man with… pointy ears, said. "We will not harm you without reason."
"And what counts as reason?" Harry asked, not moving from his position on the ground.
"Any attempt to harm those residing in this house, and evidence of consorting with the enemy."
The enemy?, Harry thought. Voldemort is dead. What other enemy is there? There were very few Death Eaters left roaming free, and they had not the strength nor the courage to confront Harry. And anyway, he was the Boy-Who-Lived. Who would suspect him of consorting with Death Eaters? He felt a slight tingling in his mind, than a silky voice spoke, to his ears only.
This is not your world… master… Their enemy is not yet yours…
Not his world? That really didn't sound good.
"Where am I?" Harry asked, voice betraying none of his nervousness, or the small trickle of fear in his mind. He was in an unknown place with no allies. All were potential enemies.
"Rivendell." The pointy-eared man answered.
"And where is that?"
He registered the shock on their faces. All except one, an old man, grey hair and beard, holding what looked to be a staff. He seemed more intrigued than shocked.
Middle Earth? Harry decided not to ask. If he was truly in another world it wouldn't help any way. He just hoped that since it bore the name 'Earth' it would have enough similarities to make it possible for him to survive.
"Any idea how I got here?"
A different man, still with pointy ears, but blond, answered this time. These people could only be elves. History books told of no other peoples that held such grace and majesty in their bearing. This was certainly something to tell Hermi- , well, something to remember.
"No. We were hoping you could tell us. It is not often strangers come to Rivendell so suddenly and unannounced. Perhaps some urgent quest drove you here, along with many others arriving, or perhaps you have other, less worthy motives…"
The name was said softly, but stern. Glorfindel bowed his head minutely.
"I apologise, dark times are coming, and we must be suspicious of all. The virtue of all who enter this realm must be certain."
Surprising them, Harry nodded, and though he kept the sword clutched in his hand, he stood up straighter.
"I understand. My own experiences have taught me as such. But who is this enemy you speak of, for I am not from these parts and have heard only rumours whispered in the dark of an evil greater than that before it?"
The truth, Harry decided, was always better than a lie. Of course, it wasn't the complete truth, embellished and manipulated as it was, but he would not then be caught out by inconsistencies and forgetfulness.
"The enemy?" This from a man, dark haired flecked with grey, tall and proud of bearing. "The enemy comes from the shadow land of Mordor, and its Lord is Sauron. War is on the horizon, and you must have come from far, far away in sheltered lands to be untroubled by this."
Harry resisted the urge to scream his frustration. Was there nowhere free from corruption and war? For truly, he was sick of fighting, sick of running and hiding and lying. His war was over. He had almost had peace, he deserved peace! Peace, at least, fram battle, if not from his own past and mind.
But now he was forced yet again to create a false past, in what could become a perilous situation. And all he really wanted was to go home, and mourn his life in peace.