For those of you who have been following this story since October 27, 2011; thank you. I have decided to revise the entirety of this story from start to finish. It is no secret that I have struggled with this story from Day One. I honestly began this piece because I was bored one day and thought: "what if Harry went to the Shire and returned to his world, how would he be touched by that and could he go back?"

However I didn't do a very good job making sense of the tale, until now. Therefore, "let's start from the very beginning." Stories much like writers can evolve and grow.

I would like to put forth some special mentions to sunsethill, gginsc, dauntlessoftheseas, Dragon Man 180, comodo50 for their constructive criticism and encouragement. Additionally to the rest your reviews, favourites and likes have been a blast. I hope that you will kindly give me one last chance to truly tell this story as it should be. I hope I will do the initial idea justice and above all, give you all something fun to read on your downtime.

Sincerely yours,
Nadine (real name)




"Who knows now the counsels of Morgoth? Who can measure the reach of his thought, who had been Melkor, might among the Ainur of the Great Song, and sat now, a dark lord upon a dark throne…"

(The Silmarillion, J.R.R. Tolkien, p.244)

We begin this tale with prophecy.

After Morgoth was imprisoned; Námo, the Lord of Mandos spoke in tones loud and clear for all to take heed of Ilúvatar's warning.

"The ages would pass; death and life would continue their dance. When at last the world is old; the Powers weary, the Door of Night to the Timeless Void would be flung wide open as the Sun and the Moon died. Then the last great enemy would stride forth."

"That cannot be!" despaired Manwë, the Lord of Aman.

"Brother there is hope." Námo intoned. "One spirit would strive from the halls of Mandos, bearing a blackened sword. To stand beside the mighty Tulkas and Eönwë; this spirit cursed by the Power of Terror and of Hate. This spirit forged and re-forged through the fires of time. So would it be that at long last that the Mighty and the Accursed could fall upon that Black Sword wielded by a child of Húrin so that all Men would be avenged."

Thus when the time came and Túrin's spirit departed the world. A boon was granted to the sorrowful child of Húrin. The spirit was bid welcome into the Halls of Mandos.

In a sacred cavern did Námo and Vairë asked the warrior's spirit: would he be willing to redeem himself through another life? Would he dare become the Swordsman destined to see the Dark Lord end? The spirit that was the belaboured child of Húrin agreed. Thus, his spirit with the blessing of Eru, the One, who in Arda is known as Illúvatar – was sent forward through all time and space to a couple of Man.

He cried loud and strong, born as the seventh month died.



"Túrin they laid in a high mound where he had fallen, and the shards of Gurthang were laid beside him."

(The Silmarillion, J.R.R. Tolkien, p. 271)

While it was so that the great sword re-forged from the sword Anglachel; the sword known as the Iron of Death was not there with its former master at the Stone of the Hapless.

It is true they laid the sword upon the mound. It is true that the Elves and Men present lamented at the warrior Túrin's fall. What most did not know was that a little-known crew of pirates – whose names have been lost through the ages made the journey to the Stone of the Hapless some three hundred years later. Far against the waves and far from home; too close to the Grey Havens – they found the ancient sword.

They brought the object with them, not realizing that until Túrin returned – they would be cursed by the blade. Its shards would taste the blood of the thieves time and time again. Through ages and countless centuries – The Iron of Death would be lost.

Except for when it would be part of the greatest wand in history.



Most magical historians agree that Herpo the Foul was the first to successfully create a horcrux roughly in the time of 500 BCE. In truth, he was not the first. Nor was his creation of any real power. The magicals who sought this form of immortality were using the equivalent of a corrupted bootleg version.

Tom Riddle Junior was the only other known wizard shortly after the telling of these events to come close. However, by the time of his demise Riddle had become less immortal and more-so consumed by The Void.

The first real horcrux was forged in secret through the fires of Mount Doom in that faraway age. Found in ancient texts in the depths of old Persia in a language not spoken or read in over two ages – those who could perceive the dead tongues could only understand its meaning.

Those who have clearance via the Department of Mysteries to even view these writings have only a basic understanding. What is understood is that the first horcux was a plain band of gold. The name of the creator has been since lost overtime, dubbed The Forgotten. Those skilled understood that within the Ring the following warning had been inscribed:

One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,

One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them

(The Lord of the Rings, J.R.R. Tolkien)



It is said that House Elves were once golems made of clay. This is not truth. Once long ago before man was corrupted by wars and the changing of the world: they were a small yet mighty people.

Indeed if it was not for the dark and inescapable magic that managed to seep its way through the latter part of the Fourth Age after all those great, wondrous heroes were at an end – the hobylta would have continued on. Indeed they would have continued on as they had for thousands of years in the lands known as the Shire.

How it happened or why – overtime, those fair folk lost their fairness. They devolved and became the servants of those who could have saved them.



Though once noble indeed, the great house of Aragorn, son of Arathorn: Elessar, the Elfstone, the Dúnadan Chieftan and heir of Elendil's son of Gondor and King of the West soon fell to the times.

Within an age, darkness that is so true to man felled that once great home. His great-grandchildren fell to the machinations of their enemies to the East. Yet there remained, as ever there was a spark. For overtime – their great home was split into three. The House of Peverell, home to Antioch, Cadmus and Ignotus. These three were the remnants of the House of Elessar, descendants of the blood of Núménor.

Through them came the legendary Deathly Hallows. How they obtained ancient relics to create new crafts that would be unrivalled for many an age remains a mystery. Was it the Lord Death who brought them these items as stories say?

Yet what many did not know was the brothers were powerful. In their blood hummed a greatly untouched power. Through their magic, they wielded weapons unseen in any age.

The eldest brother, Antioch used the shards of a great and noble sword to create the most powerful wand. The middle, Cadmus crafted from a piece of an ancient relic – broken, once known as a palantír – a powerful ring to commune with the dead. Whilst the last, Ignotus sought to use strands from a worn cloak worn by one of the Golodhrim, a powerful mythical race to create a new cloak that would truly hide its wearer from prying eyes.

The wand was lost through time, the ring – fell into corruption while the cloak? That has fallen into the hands of one that it did not belong to while waiting for its rightful master.



Of the Vala Oromë, two wizards dressed in blue were sent to calm the tides of the East. Both fell in some form or another. The one, once known as Alatar had begun cults of magic that permeate the magical community for ages upon ages. His brother, Pallando while valiant in his attempts was driven to hide and roam upon many dark paths.

However at the end the pair fought in the east, redeeming themselves only for stopping a machination of the enemy eastwards of destroying the Gates of Night. Such an action would cause the end to come.

Their names whispered upon the wind as Morinehtar and Rómestámo to the only one left to hear it.


Aiwendil's Fate

He had disappeared into the wood and fen. Rooting him-self in the deepest part of the darkest woods where he would watch. He would see many rise and fall. He would remain in the form of an old man covered by the droppings and seedlings of those he cared for. His heart would grow weary by how man never seemed to learn.

Over time, he would plead with his makers to change his shape, transform, become smaller, wizened. Until chance would come that one could mistake him for a seedling. They would plant him as gatekeeper in 1971. He would grow again, take shape again. He would transform into something new, something ancient and something completely wild. He would take on a new name. His purpose was not yet done.


The Mumurings of Curumo

He had once been a great and powerful being until his light grew dim. Then his heart grew dark and he was killed by one of his own servants. He became naught more than a spirit. He wandered the lands for age upon age; whispering foul deeds and thoughts into men. Chance came, for ancient and powerful magic to take shape. A young woman named Merope had set her eyes on a young man named Thomas. This would be where he would circumvent the rules that would be placed upon him.


Of Fangorn Forest

It had once moved yet now it resides on the hillsides and byways near an ancient ruin. The centaurs know of the forest's keepers. It is part of the reason why they guard their home with ferocity unseen. For after ages changed the shape of the lands and new tales overtook to replace an era of birthing. The Forest remembers still. Even if Fangorn napped for too long and soon became more tree than herder.