In LOTR with Harry Potter system

The book's full title shimmered faintly on the ancient cover:The Book of Abraham the Jew.

Its origin was steeped in legend, bordering on the divine. According to myth, it was not written by mortal hands, but bestowed by an angel. The book contained forbidden secrets: knowledge of celestial spheres, mystical alphabets, and most importantly… the key to eternal life.

It was through this very grimoire that Nicolas Flamel, the famed French alchemist, had crafted the Philosopher's Stone, a miraculous object capable of transmuting any metal into gold and brewing the Elixir of Immortality.

Flamel had lived for over six centuries, his name etched into the arcane annals of wizardry. And yet, in the end, he had willingly destroyed the stone and let go of his immortality. Why? No one truly knew. Perhaps even eternity had its price.

But now… the book was in Sylas's hands.

And with it, the method for crafting the Philosopher's Stone.

Immortality. The one thing he had never dared to hope for, now whispered promises to him from the parchment.

Despite his youth, a sense of urgency weighed on Sylas's heart.

In Middle-earth, time was a merciless tide. Elves, with their undying grace, were timeless. Wizards like Gandalf, veiled Istari from beyond the world, had walked Arda for millennia without aging a day. Even Dwarves could live for centuries, Thorin Oakenshield, who seemed in his prime, was already nearing 200.

The race of Men, however, were fragile. Their years brief, their decline swift. But even among them, there were exceptions, like the Dúnedain, heirs of Númenor, whose blood granted them two centuries or more. 

Even Hobbits lived longer than ordinary men, not to mention Bilbo, was already in possession of the One Ring. Its corrupting magic slowed his aging, just as it had preserved Gollum for over five hundred years in the deep shadows of the Misty Mountains.

Indeed, when Bilbo celebrated his eleventy-first birthday, he still looked no older than fifty. It was that unnatural youthfulness which had drawn Gandalf's suspicions, leading to the discovery of the Ring, and eventually, the forming of the Fellowship.

But all of that was still to come.

Now was the year 2941 of the Third Age, a full seventy-seven years before the War of the Ring.

Although Sylas had become a Wizard after transmigrating into this world, he never forgot his past life. Adding that life's years to his current age, he was still under thirty. But if he lived long enough to witness the War of the Ring, which wouldn't erupt until the year 3018 of the Third Age, he'd be nearly a centenarian.

He might survive until then, perhaps longer with magic enhancing his body.

But what use was that if he ended up as a hunched old man, clutching a staff in one hand and a pain tonic in the other?

That was not the kind of life Sylas sought.

And now, there was hope.

The Philosopher's Stone. Immortality.

True, the stone Nicolas Flamel once created granted life without aging, but not eternal youth. A long, slow decay stretched across centuries… yet it was still the only accessible method to outlive the world.

Still, this was not the time to dream of alchemical breakthroughs.

There was still a Dragon to kill.

He snapped the Book of Abraham shut, and prepared with the others to confront the dragon Smaug.

Just as expected, Smaug had recovered. The Eye-Blinding Curse, which had worked so brilliantly the first time, failed utterly now. The Dragon had shielded his eyes with a nictitating membrane, translucent but strong. Sylas's spell struck harmlessly and fizzled out in the air.

Smaug roared in contempt and fury, tearing through stone and flame in pursuit once more.

Sylas gritted his teeth, leaning low on his broom as he weaved between shattered pillars and collapsed vaults, drawing the Dragon toward the trap.

Below, the Dwarves watched anxiously as he streaked through the forge arch, the Dragon barreling behind him like a meteor of rage and fire.

Balin clenched his axe. "Is he going to make it?"

Thorin, jaw tight, said nothing.

Suddenly, Gandalf raised his staff and struck the ancient furnace three times. A deep groan echoed as molten gold surged forward like a fiery wave, pouring from the heated crucibles and channels carved into the forge floor.

Smaug, too large to stop, slammed into the rushing golden magma.

The chamber lit up in a blinding glow. For a brief moment, hope bloomed in every heart.

"Did it work?" Balin asked, holding his breath as he stared into the flaming depths.

Sylas hovered mid-air on his broomstick, staring down solemnly. "I'm afraid not, Mr. Balin."

He narrowed his eyes. "But it can trap him."

With a swift motion, he pointed his wand toward the liquid gold flowing around Smaug's writhing body.

"Glacius!"

The tip of Sylas's wand erupted with a freezing gale, and the liquid gold below, still molten with blistering heat, began to cool at an unnatural speed. The air itself turned heavy with frost, and the group's breath misted before their faces in shimmering clouds of white.

What had once been a seething pool of molten gold now hardened into gleaming, jagged walls of golden crystal, trapping Smaug within a gilded tomb.

"He can't get out now, can he?" Balin asked, voice uncertain, rubbing his gloved hands together. The golden floor beneath them sparkled beneath a growing crust of frost, yet no sound came from within.

Sylas ceased casting and lowered his wand, his brows drawn tight with suspicion. He heard nothing, felt no vibration, but his instincts whispered danger. There was no way a creature like Smaug would fall so easily.

He turned to Gandalf. "What do you think?"

The old wizard's eyes narrowed beneath his hat. He studied the silence, then slowly shook his head. "Do not lower your guard. Dragons are cunning, and we've seen only a glimpse of his malice."

But Thorin could wait no longer.

"If the dragon is sealed," he said sharply, stepping forward, "then this is our moment. The arkenstone is close. Once I hold it in my hands, the Seven Clans will gather, the throne will be mine, and the debts of blood will be repaid."

Without waiting for a reply, Thorin stepped onto the golden platform, striding toward the ruined treasury.

"Stop!" Gandalf's voice rang out like a bell of warning. His eyes had widened, sensing something amiss. "Don't take another step!"

But Thorin ignored him.

The ground beneath him pulsed.

Then came the sound, a deep, groaning hiss as heat surged once more. The gold, thought to be solid, began to shimmer with renewed life. A moment later, it cracked open with a violent hiss, and liquid flame burst forth.

A column of golden liquid exploded upward like a volcanic geyser, raining fire upon the hall.

Thorin, caught in its path, barely had time to react.

"Sylas, get him out!" Gandalf shouted, his staff already raised.

Sylas flicked his wand, and Thorin was torn from the blast by a surge of magic, thrown backward through the air and slamming into a stone wall. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious but alive.

From the molten eruption, a massive shadow surged upward.

Smaug had risen.

Drenched in glowing gold, wings spread wide, his entire body burned with a metallic sheen. He roared as molten gold dripped from his fangs. With one mighty flap, he shattered the golden crust around him and hurtled toward the exit.

The Dragon snarled, his voice seething with wrath. "I will drown the skies in flame and reduce your lands to ash. Lake-town will burn for your defiance!"

His tail lashed as he crashed through the mountain's outer wall, carving a path of destruction.

Gandalf turned to Sylas, urgency burning in his voice. "He cannot be allowed to escape.!"

Sylas shot forward on his broomstick, speeding past the crumbling ledges and broken masonry. As Smaug tore through the mountainside, a deadly arc of magic blazed behind him.

"Crucio!" Sylas shouted, pouring every ounce of hatred and power into the spell.

The curse hit Smaug square in the back.

For a moment, the Dragon seized mid-air.

Agony burst through his form, his wings twitching spasmodically as he roared in pain. The Cruciatus Curse lanced through muscle, through mind, through soul. The pain was unbearable. He flailed and twisted in the air, unleashing a shriek so terrible it shook the foundations of the Lonely Mountain.

The scream echoed across the land.

In Lake-town, villagers poured into the streets, gazing fearfully toward the mountain, dread in their hearts.

In Mirkwood, the Elvenking Thranduil looked even more solemn, his sharp eyes seemingly able to pierce through the forest and see the situation on the Lonely Mountain.

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