In LOTR with Harry Potter system

Faced with Thorin's offer to trade for the black arrow, Bard hesitated.

The legends of the treasure within the Lonely Mountain were well known, gold and jewels piled higher than towers, enough to tempt even a dragon. If Bard truly received one-fourteenth of that hoard, his life would change forever. He could lift the people of Lake-town out of poverty, rebuild the ruins of Dale, and perhaps even restore the honor of his ancestors.

But after a long pause, Bard's gaze shifted from the glitter of gold to the faces of the families outside his window. The children. The old. The sick. The ones who would burn first if Smaug rose in fury.

He shook his head.

"I cannot gamble with the lives of Lake-town's people. If that dragon survives, we'll be the first to suffer. He'll turn this town to ash."

He glanced at the black arrow, his voice firm.

"And the dragon is already awake."

The silence that followed was heavy.

Thorin's expression soured. His jaw clenched as he stared once more at the weapon on the wall, then turned away sharply and sat back down without another word. His mood had darkened again, and he brooded in silence, his thoughts a tangled storm.

The room grew cold.

Gandalf watched him with a quiet, growing unease. There was something in Thorin's eyes now, a flicker of the same madness that had taken his grandfather before him. A shadow bred not by dragons, but by gold.

Sylas, however, was distracted by something entirely different.

In the corner of his mind, the familiar ripple of the System echoed.

[Hogwarts Sign-In System: Location detected, Lake-town. Would you like to sign in?]

Mentally, he responded without hesitation. Sign in.

[Sign-in successful! Congratulations, you have obtained: The Transfiguration Notes of Minerva McGonagall.]

A thick leather-bound notebook materialized before him, its surface aged and scuffed from years of use. Sylas's eyes lit up.

Professor McGonagall's personal notes?

That was an incredible reward.

With eager hands, he opened it, and was immediately absorbed.

The pages were filled with sharp, precise handwriting and intricate diagrams. As a Transfiguration Master, Professor McGonagall had recorded a lifetime's worth of magical knowledge. The notebook covered not just basic object-to-object transformations, but also more advanced branches like animal-to-object, animal-to-animal, and even human Transfiguration.

It included detailed instructions on elemental transfiguration, a rare and powerful branch of magic. There were notes on conjuring flame serpents, animating statues for defense, reshaping terrain, and transfiguring water into fog or ice walls.

It wasn't just a spellbook, it was a Transfiguration arsenal.

Sylas's fingers traced a page on Animagus transformation. As a registered Animagus herself, McGonagall had documented everything, from the rare side effects to solutions for stalled transformation phases. She had even included her own tips for handling accidents, like temporary limb misalignment or momentary loss of self-awareness.

For Sylas, who was right in the middle of his own Animagus preparation, it was priceless.

At that moment, he felt the leaf beneath his tongue. A single Mandrake leaf, held there for nearly a month. Once the next full moon arrived, he could move on to the next phase of the Animagus ritual.

And that night wasn't far off.

Until then, he had time, and a goal.

Sylas glanced at his wand, then to the bundle of wood and metal he'd salvaged from their journey. With this knowledge and a bit of alchemy, he would finally craft what he had longed for since arriving in this world:

A broomstick.

In the days that followed, the tension between Gandalf and Thorin Oakenshield showed no signs of easing.

Gandalf continued to reason with him, urging Thorin to reconsider the expedition to the Lonely Mountain. He warned of the awakened dragon, the danger to Lake-town, and the toll such madness could take.

But Thorin would not bend.

No matter the cost, he was determined to reclaim the Arkenstone. It was more than a jewel now, it was a symbol of his destiny.

Thorin took matters into his own hands. He met with the Master of Lake-town, seeking weapons from the town's armory to equip his company. He also made several attempts, some subtle, others not, to acquire the black arrow still hanging in Bard's home. Bribes, flattery, even veiled threats. Bard resisted each time.

The Master, however, was a different story.

Greedy and shortsighted, the Master lit up at the mere mention of gold. The tales of Erebor's treasure dazzled his imagination. To him, providing weapons to the Dwarves was a small risk. It wasn't his gold, after all. The armory sat unused, and the Dwarves were offering a share in return. If they failed, no great loss. If they succeeded, the reward would be immeasurable.

It was, to him, a perfect deal.

So perfect, in fact, that he began planning a grand farewell celebration for the Dwarves. A showy parade of heroes, leaving the city with full honors.

Gandalf watched this unfold with growing unease but found himself powerless to stop it. His warnings fell on deaf ears, and Thorin no longer heeded his counsel.

As for Sylas, he kept out of it entirely.

He remained in Bard's house, isolated from the noise and festivity, spending his days in quiet focus. At a worktable by the window, he sat carving and polishing the core of a willow tree, carefully shaving it down with a silvered dagger.

One afternoon, Gandalf entered the house with a troubled look. Sylas glanced up from his carving.

"Sylas," Gandalf said, his voice heavy, "things are not going as I had hoped. Not only is the dragon awake, but I fear Thorin is unraveling."

Sylas set down his knife.

"You mean the dragon sickness."

Gandalf nodded. "It's in his blood. You can see it. The closer he draws to the mountain, the more it takes hold. He speaks of treasure more than freedom. Of vengeance more than peace."

The old wizard's eyes were full of concern.

"I fear that if we reach the mountain, it won't be the dragon's flames that destroy Thorin. It will be the greed in his heart."

Sylas looked at Gandalf for a moment. He admired the wizard's patience and loyalty. He had done everything he could for Thorin and his people. Time and again, he had tried to reason with them, even as they turned against him.

But in Thorin's increasingly stubborn mind, Gandalf's warnings no longer sounded like wisdom, they sounded like sabotage.

The wizard who once guided him had now become, in Thorin's eyes, an obstacle. 

So Thorin pushed him aside and turned to the Master of Lake-town instead, forging alliances with greed rather than guidance.

Watching it unfold, Sylas could only shake his head.

'If I were Gandalf,' he thought, 'I wouldn't waste another breath trying to stop him. Let him march into fire if that's his choice.'

"If it really comes to it," he said, glancing over at Gandalf, "why not just knock him out and let him wake up after Durin's Day? Problem solved."

Gandalf raised an eyebrow. "Knock him out?"

Sylas nodded with a half-smile. "I mean it. If you don't want to do it, I will. One charm, and he'll be quieter than a Hobbit at second breakfast."

Hearing Sylas's words, Gandalf was somewhat tempted but immediately shook his head.

"But… this is his will," Gandalf said. "However misguided, however maddening. If we start using magic to control the choices of others, even for the greater good, we step onto a path we cannot walk back from."

Gandalf's gaze drifted toward Sylas's hands, which were moving with calm precision over a smooth length of polished wood. His brows furrowed with curiosity.

"Are you… making a broom?" he asked.

Sylas nodded, then shook his head slightly. "Not just a broom," he said. "I'm crafting a flying broomstick, for transportation."

"A flying… broomstick?" Gandalf's eyes widened, the corners crinkling with fascination. "You mean, it flies?"

Sylas kept working, nodding again.

At once, the matter of Thorin was forgotten. Gandalf leaned in, eyes gleaming with excitement as he studied the nearly finished broomstick forming before him.

The concept of flight was too tempting for any wizard to ignore. Even Gandalf, who had ridden upon the backs of Great Eagles and soared through the skies, was captivated. There was a difference between being carried and controlling your own flight. This was a kind of freedom even the Eagles could not offer.

Sylas continued carving the willow wood carefully, embedding magical grooves along the grain, preparing it for runic infusion and aerodynamic balancing. The project was delicate, but every stroke brought it closer to completion.

Before Gandalf could ask more, the door burst open.

Bard strode in, breathless and tense. His coat was damp with lake mist.

"They're gone," he announced. "The Dwarves, left by boat. They're already on their way to the Lonely Mountain."

"What?" Gandalf shot upright.

"And the Hobbit too," Bard added. "They took him with them."

Gandalf's expression hardened, a flash of anger crossing his face.

"They left without even telling us? Thorin Oakenshield… Does he not trust us anymore?"

There was more than frustration in Gandalf's voice...there was disappointment.

He grabbed his staff, urgency returning to his step.

"No. I won't let them walk blindly into danger. Thorin is leading them to their deaths. We have to stop them before it's too late."

As Gandalf moved toward the door, Sylas looked up from his broom and spoke calmly.

"I'm not going with you this time."

Gandalf paused, surprised.

Sylas gestured to the broom laid across the workbench. "It's nearly finished. I need just a few more days. Once it's done, I'll fly and catch up with you. If you are willing to wait, Gandalf, we can ride the broom together to catch up with them."

Gandalf hesitated. The idea was tempting.

But he shook his head.

"Never mind, I can't sit still here either. I'll set off first to catch up with them. You can come when your broom is finished."

He then borrowed a boat from Bard and set off by boat to pursue Thorin and the others.

...

Stones PLzzz

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