In LOTR with Harry Potter system

"Light will always banish darkness, and Middle-earth shall welcome a new dawn, but there is no place for you in it."

The voice rang out from behind them, clear as crystal and serene as moonlight.

With it came a surge of radiant power that drove back the lingering shadows, forcing the darkness to recoil as if burned.

"Lady Galadriel!"

Everyone turned with expressions of relief and awe.

Clad in shimmering white, Galadriel stepped forward, her very presence exuding an ethereal glow. Light poured from her like the reflection of starlight on still water. The ground beneath her feet, scorched by Sauron's flames, dared not touch her. The dark magic in the air hissed and pulled away, unable to withstand the purity she carried.

At the sight of her, the Eye of Mordor narrowed.

Its burning pupil constricted, and its voice darkened to a low, bitter growl.

"You always arrive too late..."

Galadriel met its gaze without fear.

"No," she said calmly, stepping onto the charred earth, undeterred by the withering heat, "It is you who woke in the wrong place."

"Sauron, servant of Morgoth, here you hold no dominion. You have no name, no face, no form. You are nothing but a shadow of your former master. Return to the void from whence you came!"

Then she lifted her hand.

In her grasp was a small crystal phial, delicate and glowing softly, yet inside, it held something beyond mortal imagining.

The Light of Eärendil.

A radiant beam burst forth, more brilliant than any star. The starlight of the Silmaril, passed down from the legendary Fëanor, refined and preserved in this sacred vial, now ignited with full strength.

This was no ordinary light.

It was the light of the Two Trees of Valinor, the divine glow captured in the Silmarils, once coveted even by Morgoth himself. The very light that Eärendil, Elrond's father, carried upon his brow as he sailed the skies in his white ship. This was the Star of Hope, reforged into Galadriel's last weapon.

The effect was immediate, and devastating.

The holy radiance struck the Eye of Mordor like a sword of pure flame. 

The Eye shrieked.

Its surface bubbled and cracked as though scalded by acid. The fiery pupil flickered and warped, emitting a chorus of screams that split the sky.

Cracks webbed across its surface. Shadow spilled like blood from the wounds.

"You will fall into darkness yet!" the Eye howled, voice twisted with rage and fear.

And then, with one final, blinding flare, the Eye shattered.

Darkness peeled away like dying smoke, revealing only a single ember: a dark red star, glowing faintly, shot eastward like a falling comet, dragging a streak of sulfurous fire through the clouds.

Sauron was gone. Defeated once more. His body shattered, his spirit broken, fleeing into the farthest reaches of the world.

The Eye was no more.

The darkness began to lift.

Galadriel, drained of all strength, swayed on her feet. The glow surrounding her flickered and dimmed.

Elrond rushed to her side, catching her just as she collapsed.

Gandalf stepped in as well, supporting her gently.

The light in the crystal phial finally faded.

Galadriel lowered her hand, the once-blazing star of Eärendil now dimmed to a gentle flicker. Her breath was shallow, and her face pale.

"Lady Galadriel, are you alright?" Gandalf asked, stepping forward with concern.

The others gathered around her, their expressions filled with worry.

Galadriel shook her head slowly, her gaze drifting eastward, toward the dark horizon beyond the Withered Heath. Her voice was soft, but heavy with foreboding.

"Though he has been driven back… Sauron's spirit still lingers. He is not gone. He may return at any time."

"This outcome is already a blessing, my Lady," Glorfindel said gently. "Sauron suffered a grievous blow today. His form has been shattered, his strength scattered. Only a fragment of his soul remains, and it will take time for him to recover."

But Elrond's tone remained grim. "As long as the One Ring endures in this world, he can never be fully destroyed. And now, he flees east. Likely back to Mordor, his old stronghold."

He turned to the others. "We must send word to Gondor. Minas Tirith must watch the borders of Mordor with renewed vigilance."

Gandalf's gaze shifted to the Orc legions outside the ruins of Dol Guldur. Though their master had fled, the Orcs had not descended into chaos. Instead, they had retreated in alarming order, disappearing into the thick forests to the northeast like wolves following an unseen alpha.

His brow furrowed.

"They didn't flee in panic," he murmured. "They retreated, coordinated, disciplined. That means someone else has assumed control."

His eyes met Sylas's. A flicker of unspoken concern passed between them.

"If Azog is truly dead… then another must have risen in his place. And that is no comfort to any of us."

But Sylas didn't seem troubled by Orc politics.

Instead, his attention remained on Galadriel, who looked pale and weary despite her victory. Without a word, he reached into his enchanted satchel and pulled out a small crimson vial.

"Lady Galadriel," he said quietly, holding it out, "This is a soothing potion. I crafted it myself. It may help restore your strength."

Galadriel turned her luminous gaze toward him. Her eyes softened with warmth, and her smile glowed like moonlight on still water.

"Thank you, Sylas."

That smile nearly knocked the breath out of him.

He quickly looked away, mentally scolding himself. 

Amused by his bashful reaction, Galadriel's smile grew even brighter.

She examined the potion curiously, then uncorked it and drank the whole thing in a single smooth motion. A slight frown tugged at her lips as the bitter taste hit her tongue,but within seconds, a healthy blush returned to her cheeks. The pale weariness vanished, replaced by renewed grace and quiet strength.

"I must say," she said, gently astonished, "That worked far better than I expected. Thank you, Sylas. I feel much better already."

Her voice was filled with sincerity.

Sylas blinked, equally surprised. He knew the potion worked quickly… but not that quickly.

'Three drops should've been enough for most people,' he thought. 'She drank the whole thing, and only just recovered?'

He silently whistled in awe.

The Lady of Lórien's power must be far deeper than even he imagined.

Elrond's gaze toward Sylas had softened, warm and noble, touched with quiet respect.

"Today's victory will not be forgotten," he said with calm reverence. "The battle against Sauron shall be sung of in ages to come, and you, Wizard Sylas, have earned a place in that song. Had it not been for your spell, the one that pierced his Eye and shattered his form, we would never have gained the upper hand. It was your courage that allowed us to hold the line… and gave Lady Galadriel time to banish him."

The others nodded in agreement, their expressions sincere.

Even mighty Glorfindel gave a rare nod of approval. And Radagast, ever gentle, offered a smile of bright-eyed wonder.

In that moment, Sylas was no longer the newcomer. He stood as an equal among legends.

But Gandalf, ever the guide and guardian, stepped forward with a trace of concern still in his eyes.

"Sylas," he said, voice measured, "perhaps I speak only from caution, but I must say it: the Dark Arts are not easily wielded without cost. Pursuing strength is no sin, but do not let that strength take root in your soul. Do not let it make you a slave."

Though no one else spoke aloud, the silence was heavy with shared thought. Their gazes spoke volumes.

The spell Sylas had used, Avada Kedavra, had not gone unnoticed. That green light, that ancient death-curse, carried power born of malice. And everyone here had felt it.

Sylas was somewhat surprised and unexpected to hear this. He had originally thought that these upright figures would disapprove of his use of the Dark Arts, or even strongly oppose it.

But instead, he had been warned, not condemned.

Gandalf's words were not an accusation. They were a reminder. A kindness.

Sylas straightened, and with a firm voice, replied:

"Thank you, Gandalf. I understand, and I will be careful."

He meant it.

He knew full well the nature of the Dark Arts. Their essence was to control, to dominate, to destroy. They fed on hatred, fear, and cruelty, and in turn, they nurtured those emotions within the one who used them.

Left unchecked, the Dark Arts warped both soul and body.

Just like those Death Eaters in the Harry Potter world, each of them had a gloomy, twisted appearance and a mad, cruel personality. Some, like Voldemort, didn't even look human anymore.

Sylas would not follow that path.

The gathered heroes, wise beyond centuries, recognized the sincerity in his voice.

Throughout the long years, they had seen countless talented individuals go astray on the path of seeking power.

They did not wish for the person fighting alongside them today to one day fall into darkness or even stand on the opposing side.

...

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