In LOTR with Harry Potter system

Meanwhile, Sylas and Legolas were getting along quite well.

Unlike Thranduil's aloofness and pride, Legolas had a much gentler presence. Aside from his clear dislike for Dwarves, he was warm, polite, and easy to speak with. There was a refreshing quality about him, like the breeze rustling through untouched leaves.

At less than five hundred years old, Legolas was still young by Elven standards. He had lived his entire life in Mirkwood and rarely set foot beyond its borders.

He regarded Sylas with admiration, clearly fascinated by the tales surrounding the Black-Robed Wizard who had defeated Azog. Eager to hear more, Legolas asked questions about Sylas's past adventures, listening intently as they strolled through the palace gardens.

Just as Sylas was about to answer a question about his journey through the Misty Mountains, he felt a sudden ripple pass through his mind.

[Hogwarts Sign-in System: Woodland Realm detected. Would you like to sign in?]

His expression remained unchanged, though a subtle gleam flickered in his eyes.

"Yes. Sign in," he responded silently.

[Sign-in complete. Congratulations, you have acquired the Flying Broomstick Crafting Technique.]

The moment the words echoed in his mind, a stream of knowledge surged into him. Images, diagrams, and ancient crafting chants all flooded his thoughts, as if he had spent years studying the art of broom-making under a master enchanter.

Sylas's heart leapt in excitement.

This was an incredible gain.

A flying broomstick meant true mobility. No more relying on horses or Eagles. From now on, he could soar above forests, rivers, and enemy lines with ease.

Not to mention, in Middle-earth, airborne threats were rare. Only dragons, Great Eagles, and a few foul beasts of the Enemy could truly fly. That gave him an almost unbeatable advantage in scouting and escape.

As he carefully reviewed the broomstick blueprints in his mind, he realized the process shared some similarities with wand-making. Both required magical wood, precise carving, and enchantments. However, broomstick crafting was far more complex.

Beyond the basic woodwork, the crafting process demanded a deeper understanding of magical alchemy. Material selection, carving, polishing, tuning, and enchanting all had to be done in perfect harmony. Even in the best conditions, crafting a proper broomstick would take at least one to two weeks.

Still, the idea thrilled him. He even remembered that a good portion of his wand-making tree core remained untouched, perfect for this very task.

He made up his mind. Before reaching the Lonely Mountain, he would forge his very own flying broom.

When the time came, he would see just who flew faster, the Dragon in the mountain or the wizard in the sky.

For now, though, he had to set that excitement aside. They were still guests in an Elven palace, seated at a royal banquet. Sylas forced down his impatience, smiled politely, and returned to sipping wine as the music swirled gently through the hall.

But the calm didn't last long.

Before the banquet had drawn to a close, an Elf guard approached Thranduil swiftly and whispered something in Elvish.

"Your Majesty, the Dwarves have escaped."

Gandalf, who understood the language perfectly, raised his eyebrows and smiled faintly, a glimmer of amusement lighting his eyes.

Out of respect for their host, Gandalf restrained his smile, though a flicker of amusement danced in his eyes.

Thranduil set down his wine goblet with a quiet clink and frowned, his voice low and cold.

"How did they escape?"

The Elf guard bowed slightly. "Someone stole the dungeon keys, released the Dwarves, and they fled through the trapdoor in the wine cellar. They rode the empty wine barrels down the underground river."

Thranduil's expression darkened further. His gaze shifted sharply between Gandalf and Sylas, suspicion glinting in his eyes.

But in the end, he said nothing.

He simply let out a cold snort, stood up from his seat, and declared, "The banquet is over. Find those Dwarves and bring them back. This time, I will see to it they never leave that cell again."

The guard gave a crisp nod and departed. Legolas, already rising from his chair, joined the pursuit without hesitation.

Soon, only Gandalf and Sylas remained in the now-empty banquet hall, quietly overlooked by the Elves who had once treated them as honored guests.

The two wizards exchanged a glance. Neither was sure whether it was better to stay or slip away.

Gandalf, being less troubled by formality, took the initiative. He stepped forward and gave a courteous bow.

"Since Your Majesty has pressing matters to attend to, we will take our leave."

Thranduil looked at them for a long moment, as if weighing whether to detain them. But at last, he gave a dismissive wave.

Wasting no time, Gandalf and Sylas exited the palace and made their way back to the riverbank near the Forest River.

The current flowed fast and cold. Both stood silently, listening to the sound of water against stone, and considered their next move.

"How good are you at rowing?" Sylas asked, eyeing the river.

Gandalf gave a half-nod. "I can manage. Though I doubt the Elves will lend us a boat after this."

Sylas said nothing in reply. He walked over to a pile of deadwood near the shore, raised his wand, and gave a smooth, practiced flick.

The logs shimmered and shifted. In seconds, they had widened, flattened, and shaped themselves into a small but sturdy boat fit for two.

Then, with two more taps of his wand, he enchanted a pair of fallen branches. They transformed into oars with curved, polished handles.

Taking one for himself, he handed the other to Gandalf.

Gandalf accepted it with a chuckle. "I nearly forgot you could do that. You truly make magic look easy."

Together, they pushed the makeshift vessel into the water and climbed in. The current caught them immediately, sending them gliding downstream.

From the treetops, several Wood Elves watched the scene unfold with wide eyes. One of them vanished silently into the trees to report to the king.

When Thranduil received the news, he said nothing. He simply closed his eyes and made a mental note: the young wizard Sylas was not one to be underestimated.

Down on the river, Sylas and Gandalf continued their journey.

The current was strong and unpredictable. The small wooden boat rocked and bobbed on the rapids, each swell threatening to overturn them.

Thanks to Gandalf's steady hands and practiced skill, the small boat wove its way through rocks and whirlpools, narrowly avoiding danger each time.

But before long, the quiet of the river was shattered.

On the banks ahead, Elves were locked in fierce combat with a pack of Orcs. Screams and clashing steel echoed through the trees. Black blood spilled into the river as Orc bodies fell one after another into the current, staining the water a murky shade of death.

"What's happening?" Sylas frowned, eyes narrowing.

He had slain Azog himself. How were Orcs still appearing here?

Just as the question crossed his mind, he spotted an Orc on the far bank raising a bow toward an Elf engaged in battle. Without hesitation, Sylas raised his wand.

"Confringo."

A jet of fiery orange light streaked across the river. The Orc was struck mid-draw, and a violent explosion erupted at his chest. Shattered armor and scorched flesh flew apart as the blast flung the remains into the brush behind him.

The Elf who had been in danger turned briefly to look. It was Legolas.

After finishing off the last Orc before him with a swift, elegant strike, Legolas glanced across the river and gave Sylas a small nod of acknowledgment. Then he vanished into the trees in pursuit of more enemies.

Though his mind swirled with questions, Sylas's hands didn't pause. Drifting downstream, he picked off Orcs with precise spells, eliminating threats from both riverbanks as they came into view.

"Sylas, behind you!" Gandalf warned sharply.

Sylas didn't look. He whipped his wand behind him and conjured a wave that rose and solidified into a wall of ice.

A heartbeat later, a dark arrow slammed into it, half-buried in the frozen surface. Black mist curled from the tip like smoke from a cursed flame.

Sylas's eyes widened.

A Morgul arrow.

That kind of weapon didn't belong in an ordinary Orc's arsenal.

He turned quickly, wand at the ready, and locked eyes on the attacker.

It was an Orc riding a Warg, snarling and drawing another black-fletched arrow.

"Confri—"

Before Sylas could finish, an arrow whistled past him. It struck the Orc squarely in the skull, dropping the creature instantly from its saddle into the churning river.

At the same moment, Sylas's own spell struck the Warg below, tearing the beast apart in a flash of emerald fire.

Legolas stood on a high root above the riverbank, lowering his bow. He gave Sylas another nod, then vanished again into the battle.

Up ahead, the chaos had spread even further.

Thorin and his company, still hidden inside their barrels, were floating helplessly downriver. The current jostled them side to side as arrows rained from above.

...

Stones Plzz