HP/LOTRps-Fps Crossover AU
main pairings: Harry/Draco Harry/Elijah Frodo/Elijah
Rating Mature warning: explicit sexuality, angst, romance, interspecies relations, violence, character death
spoilers for: HBP
Harry Potter created by JK Rowling Lord of The Rings created by JRR Tolkien
no remuneration taken, no offense intended
text copyright 2005
Frodo Baggins becomes the latest teacher of Defense Against the Dark Arts with Draco as his protege. Harry Potter returns to Hogwarts in search of the last Horcrux and becomes involved with the young American wizard Elijah Wood
Chapter One Part One
Draco Malfoy floated high above the Quidditch Pitch on his broomstick, high enough to see over the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where he had recently been a student.
From this vantage the few wizards and witches wandering the grounds could be seen as doll-like figures, and the horizon stretched before Draco, the green clad hills of Scotland fading into the blue mountains beyond. The wards around the school kept him bound as surely as a length of chain, and what appeared to be a large bird flying in the distance was a Hippogriff named Witherwings.
The boy wizard scowled at this monstrous guardian, it was not enough that the creature had left a long scar on his arm two years previous, during the recent battle it attacked Draco, giving Harry Potter the chance to grab Draco’s leg to keep him from escaping.
At least Draco had the satisfaction of kicking Harry, for a second time that Sixth year, hard enough to break not only Harry’s nose but his glasses.
Both boys wrestled, punching, biting and kicking one another – while a few Death Eaters and Professor Snape ran out through the Gates, past the wards where they could Apparate – Draco and Harry were then grabbed by the backs of their necks like newborn kittens by Hagrid the groundskeeper.
To Draco’s surprise, Hagrid did not show favoritism to Harry as they were both shaken and walked back to the wreck of the castle. Then the trio came upon the body of Headmaster Dumbledore, sprawled on the ground where he had fallen from the tower.
Harry Potter had gone at once to the side of his beloved mentor, while Draco stood, his face pale, his wand dangling uselessly from numb fingers. Draco wondered what had become of his own mentor, Professor Snape, and if he were living or dead.
He wondered it still.
Only the intervention of the Faculty, along with Draco’s own prowess as a Wizard kept him alive through the next few days. He was not allowed to go to Dumbledore’s funeral, but watched from his broomstick as now, thrilling to the momentary white flash from the pale tomb which resolved itself into the shape of a Phoenix as it flew heavenward.
Perhaps Dumbledore isn’t dead after all.
Draco consoled himself, his hope wasn’t so much for the old Headmaster, as for his mother and his father, and the missing Potions Master.
The day after the funeral, Draco learned that there would be a council held to decide his fate. Draco’s fears were colored by the taunts of Potter and his friends and he wondered if he would indeed join his father in Azkaban, the Wizard’s prison.
The other students in Draco’s House departed, so the boy found himself alone in the Slytherin dungeon. He discovered to his surprise, that a few of his friends had left him notes of encouragement.
One from Pansy Parkinson was printed in purple ink on purple spider web stationary, rather sticky in his hand, another hardly legible scroll was from his minion Gregory Goyle, another from Vincent Crabbe, and a snide note from Blaize Zabini. Draco allowed himself a moment to indulge in the illusion of friendship, before tucking the feeling back in his heart and shutting the door.
It would never do for a Malfoy to display sentiment, his father Lucius had taught him.
It was a long day of waiting, and without anything to occupy his thoughts, Draco wandered off to the library, suspecting that it would be empty with the students gone and the Faculty and visiting dignitaries busy making plans for the future.
The boy wizard prowled for awhile amongst the stacks, pausing now and again to touch the spine of a favorite book. As he turned a corner, the young man bumped into a soft and slightly movable object.
The creature was small, and for a moment, Draco thought that he had come upon a House Elf.
“I’m glad you’re here, I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea and a raspberry scone.”
The figure looked up, and Draco gasped.
The creature had a beautiful face, marking it as something other than a House Elf. It had thick dark curling hair, and rosy cheeks, its large grey eyes should have belonged to a Malfoy, and unlike one of the House Elves who toiled in the underground kitchens, it wore clothes – a neat velvet jacket with matching trousers which fell three inches below the knee and a finely embroidered waistcoat with jeweled buttons. The quality of the cloth and the tailoring was evident to Draco, used to the finest that Galleons could buy.
At first the small creature was just as startled as the young wizard, then he smiled, apologizing for the collision Draco had caused, but Draco was staring at the creature’s large unshod feet covered in curling hair.
“What are you?” he asked abruptly, and then blushed faintly, his mother would have been appalled at his lack of manners, but the creature replied with it’s smile intact.
“I am a hobbit. My name is Frodo Baggins, at your service and your family’s.”
And the hobbit, as it called itself, made a short bow.
Draco gathered his scattered wits and answered with a nod of his head, “I am Draco, the son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.”
“Ah,” the hobbit said, after a moment's pause, his finger placed atop pink lips. “I have heard of you, but I should have known you on sight, as your appearance is so singular.”
Draco did not know quite how to respond to that, and was careful to keep the dismay from marring his expression of polite regard.
“Well, I would say your appearance is also … singular.”
The hobbit laughed, a sound so cheerful that it shocked Draco, it had been such a long time since he had heard such bright peals, like silver bells.
The hobbit put a book, almost as large as itself under its arm and gestured that they walk. “A spot of tea sounds like a wonderful idea, would you take some with me?”
Draco found himself answering the hobbit with a smile, and his cheeks ached with the strangeness of it. He was glad for a novelty that would take his mind off his troubles, and despite being surrounded by magical creatures all of his life, this hobbit - as it called itself - was very attractive.
Frodo Baggins led the boy out of the library and up to the third floor, where some of the visiting lecturers at times took residence. There was a bit of a bustle as the boy and hobbit entered the corridor, and not a few wizards and witches broke off conversations to stare.
The hobbit acknowleged the nods in his direction, and even a curtesy from an older witch. Draco glanced back to listen to the whispers that followed them, and thought he heard the words, “ring bearer.”
Frodo asked Draco to kindly hold his book for him, which the boy noted was the most recent printing of Advanced Potion Making as the hobbit fished the key to his door out of his waistcoat pocket.
“I’ll just put the book on the bedside table before we find somewhere to take our elvenses, if you know of somewhere suitable.”
Draco nodded and watched as Frodo took back the book and wandered into a cheerful green-wallpapered room, and as the hobbit walked by, the paper burst into large scented rose blossoms. The young wizard stared for a moment, taking in the scene of two wing back chairs warming themselves before a fire that was not too hot, even on a summer’s day.
To Draco’s astonishment, there was an eagle in the room perched on the back of one of the chairs, an American golden eagle, that eyed him warily as he approached.
“Wait until I can introduce to the two of you,” Frodo called from another room. “I wouldn’t want him to take one of your fingers for his elvenses!”
“Is he your familiar, as Fawkes was to Dumbledore?" Draco asked, eager to touch a gleaming feather, but not daring. "Surely you don’t use him to carry messages.”
The hobbit walked out from his bedroom, having shed his velvet cloak and opened his waistcoat, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up slender arms, revealing pale golden skin.
“Lincoln was a gift, and I treat him as my friend.” The hobbit held out his arm, and Draco winced as the eagle used it as a perch, but held on loosely, not digging in tender flesh with long talons that gleamed like goblin knives.
“This is Draco,” Frodo told the eagle, and the bird of prey responded by opening it’s golden wings and fanning out it’s tail, It’s large blue eyes fixed to the tall boy, noting Draco’s pale skin and shoulder length white hair, softening sharp features.
The eagle screamed once, as if marking the hobbit as his own, and resumed his perch on the back of the chair. Frodo grinned.
“He likes you.”
But Draco doubted it.