Disclaimer and warning: Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings belong to Rowling and Tolkien respectively.
This story plays havoc with more than one canon point from both Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings. Ah well; such is the nature of crossovers.
With a hoarse cry, Eowyn plunged her sword into the black robes before her. The Lord of the Nazgul screamed, Eowyn's voice joining his. She fell back, leaving her sword imbedded in the incorporeal body of the wraith king.
The Wringwraith King screamed in pain and fury. He clawed at his metal-clad hand, prying at the armor that hid his ring. The gauntlet would not come off. He scrabbled more frantically, even as his strength failed. He was immortal! The ring ensured it. Even after it enslaved him, tied him to this half life, it ensured that no living man could kill him. He clawed more frantically. He was a spirit! Spirits did not die!
And yet his empty armor and cloak crumpled to the earth and did not rise.
In the dead of night, when the wounded had been cleared from the field and the gathering of the dead halted to attend other matters, a dark figure appeared amidst the carnage with a soft crack. It was a man, thin and slightly stooped, face hidden by a hooded cloak. He took in the bodies surrounding him silently. A sigh whispered from the depths of the hood.
One age-spotted hand dipped into a pocket, withdrawing a slender length of wood.
"Point me," said just above a whisper. The wand swung around. The man picked his way carefully through the bodies, following the wand unerringly towards the pile of black robes that was all that remained of the wraith king.
The man shuddered. He knelt, gingerly nudging cloak and armor aside until he found what he was looking for; the right hand gauntlet. He picked up the metal glove, tilting it carefully.
Something rattled inside.
A band of gold shot out of the glove, scraping terribly. The man plucked it out of the air, wincing. The metallic ring echoed across the silent field. He wouldn't have much time- someone had to have heard that- but it had to be done here. If he took the ring back to destroy it, the original owner would be alerted. He could not afford for that to happen. Not yet.
The man drew a deep breath, steeling himself and readying mental protections. The ring would have safeguards against physical and magical attacks. This had to be done the hard way.
Breathing deeply once more, he slipped the ring onto his right middle finger.
Magic flared. The man gasped in deep pain, but made no other sound.
Long, excruciating seconds passed.
A sudden scream pierced the air as the soul shard contained in the ring was forcibly evicted, pushed away with enough force that the black magic instantly charred the finger on which it was worn. The man stumbled forward one dizzy step, wheezing. The blackening continued to spread, down across the bony knuckles, steadily tracing blue veins towards the wrist, shriveling the flesh as it went.
The man was exhausted, and this was a magic he currently lacked the strength to deal with. But the Horcrux was destroyed, his purpose here done. With another soft pop he was gone, fled home to seek aid from one dark man he knew could give it and trusted to do so with discretion.
The night fell still once more, the occupants of Middle Earth preparing themselves for their last stand against a great evil even as the Headmaster of Hogwarts had taken the first step towards his.
This is the first in a series of oneshots, each one a different Harry Potter crossover dealing with a different Horcrux. This one is unique in that it is the only one involving Dumbledore (duh) and will likely be the shortest of the lot. No telling when the rest will be out, as they don't have first priority on my little list of things to write.
But it should be noted that a large show of interest could bump it up a few notches on my priorities. (hint, hint)