In LOTR with Harry Potter system

Sylas was overjoyed at Smaug's submission.

Beside him, Gandalf's eyes twinkled with rare delight. "Sylas, as of this moment, you are the only being in Middle-earth to have tamed a dragon. This… is nothing short of historic."

It was no exaggeration.

Dragons, forged in flame and shadow by the dark power of Morgoth himself, had once scorched their way across the world, leaving smoldering ruins and terror in their wake. Though aligned with darkness, their strength had always been independent, untamable, even by Sauron.

The Dark Lord had once tried to bend their will, but dragons bowed to no master. They craved only wealth, hoards of gold, silver, and precious stones, and had no desire to rule.

That greed, however, had set them at eternal odds with the Dwarves, who also treasured the earth's riches. The enmity between dragons and dwarves was carved into centuries of history.

Thorin Oakenshield's ancestors once lived in the Grey Mountains, far to the north of Erebor. But their growing fortune drew the gaze of fire-breathing death. A dragon came, slaying King Dáin I and his son Frór.

Only Thráin, the eldest surviving son, escaped with a small remnant of his people. He led them east and founded the Kingdom Under the Mountain, Erebor.

But that, too, drew the eyes of another beast… and one day, Smaug came.

The great dragon razed Erebor, claiming its hoard for himself, and the descendants of Durin were cast into exile.

And now? That very same dragon had bowed his head to Sylas.

It was a shift that rippled through the fabric of the world. Sylas's power had risen to a level few could comprehend. In the eyes of both elves and men, he had become someone they could neither ignore nor provoke.

Once the contract was sealed and Smaug firmly under control, Sylas and Gandalf mounted the beast's back.

But Smaug was still wounded. One of his wings was torn, rendering him unable to fly. With heavy steps, he trudged through the shallow waters, ferrying the two across the lake toward Lake-town.

Thanks to Sylas and Gandalf's intervention, Lake-town had been spared total destruction. The death toll was mercifully low, but many homes still burned, the dragon's fire raging in timber and shingle, immune to the dousing waters.

The townsfolk were mourning their loss, working in desperation to contain the flames… when someone spotted a shape in the mist.

A massive form rising from the water.

A dragon.

Cries of horror spread like wildfire. Panic swept through the crowds. People screamed, some clutching children, others grabbing weapons. Fear had returned tenfold.

On the edge of the dock, Bard stood tall, his eyes locked on the looming shadow.

Without hesitation, he nocked another feathered arrow to his bow. Though he knew it would likely do nothing, he would not go down without a fight.

But then his sharp eyes caught something, two figures riding upon the dragon's back.

He blinked in disbelief.

"Gandalf? And… that's Sylas!"

The bowstring eased slightly as Bard's mind raced. This wasn't what he had expected. 'Could it be? Had they somehow… tamed the beast?'

The townsfolk, still trapped in fear and awe, murmured and gasped as the dragon drew closer. But Bard stepped forward, despite the tension in the air.

He made his way to the edge of the docks, stopping only a few meters from the approaching Dragon.

Though Bard had mentally steeled himself, standing face-to-face with the Dragon's towering form was something else entirely.

Smaug's mere presence exuded unbearable heat and pressure. His scales shimmered like molten steel, and every breath vibrated with restrained fury. Bard's heart pounded. If the beast so much as bared its teeth or let loose a flame, he wouldn't even have time to scream, let alone run.

"Sylas… Gandalf… what is going on here?" Bard asked, his voice tight with disbelief.

Sylas didn't answer right away. He began waving his wand in wide arcs, casting spell after spell to extinguish the fires raging through the town's rooftops and wooden piers.

Gandalf, meanwhile, slid gracefully down Smaug's lowered neck, landing on the dock with a soft thud. He turned to face Bard and the stunned townsfolk, smiling reassuringly.

"There's no need to be alarmed," Gandalf announced. "The dragon has been subdued. He is now under Sylas's command and will not harm you."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Smaug, of all creatures, subdued?

The people of Lake-town, descendants of Dale, knew this dragon's terror all too well. It was Smaug who had reduced the proud city of Dale to ashes. Their ancestors had fled downriver, settling here only because it was far enough to escape his wrath.

And yet now, their ancestral nightmare stood still, his wings folded, his jaws shut.

And on his back… a wizard calmly dousing flames with his wand.

Whispers rippled through the crowd. Fear turned into awe.

Many fell to their knees, not in submission, but in reverent disbelief.

Soon, the worst of the fires were out, the acrid smoke rising into the night sky. Still, the scorched homes and ruined buildings could not be restored, Sylas tried, but even his most powerful Repairing Charms could not undo what had been seared by dragonfire.

Sylas floated down, landing beside Gandalf on the dock. He looked over the displaced families, the weary faces staring at blackened ruins, and his heart weighed heavy with guilt.

After all, though Smaug had been the one to wreak havoc, the dragon was now his responsibility. His ally. His burden.

Reaching into his enchanted pouch, Sylas pulled out a small leather bag and handed it to Bard.

"Here," he said quietly. "Distribute this among the people who lost their homes."

Bard accepted the pouch curiously. It was no larger than his hand. But the moment he loosened the drawstring, his eyes widened.

The interior was magically expanded, nearly two meters across, and overflowing with glittering gold coins, sparkling gems, and polished jewels of every color. Enough to rebuild the entire town twice over.

Enough to make any man rich beyond imagination.

Bard blinked. Even the former Master of Lake-town, greedy and corrupt as he was, had never held this much wealth in his life.

Bard drew the string tight again and looked up at Sylas with solemn gratitude.

"Thank you," he said. "On behalf of the people of Lake-town, I accept this with a grateful heart. I promise, I'll see to it that every family receives what they need to rebuild. They'll make it through this winter."

Sylas nodded.

He could tell Bard was sincere. There was no greed in his voice, only pride and duty. And Sylas knew Bard had just gained something more valuable than gold, respect.

The timing couldn't have been better.

The Master of Lake-town, in his cowardice, had fled the moment Smaug arrived, stuffing his boat with gold and leaving the townspeople to burn. But fate had no mercy for such men, Smaug had spotted him mid-escape and incinerated him where he floated, greed and all.

Now that the Master of Lake-town was gone, reduced to ashes in his cowardly flight, it left a power vacuum among the people. But it didn't remain vacant for long.

As a direct descendant of Girion, the last Lord of Dale, Bard was the natural choice. His leadership during the crisis, his courage, and now his integrity had earned him the people's trust.

"What do you plan to do next, Bard?" Gandalf asked, his tone gentle but curious.

Bard looked around at the charred remains of homes, the ash-covered streets, and the weary faces of townsfolk. A fire ignited in his heart, not of vengeance, but of purpose.

"I want to lead the people back to Dale," Bard said firmly. "We were driven to Lake-town by fear. But now the Dragon is no longer a threat. It's time to rebuild our homeland."

He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"And as for Thorin and his company... it was they who stirred the Dragon from his slumber. Had they not entered the Lonely Mountain, Smaug would never have emerged. Because of their recklessness, my people have suffered. So I will ask the Dwarves to yield a portion of the treasure to help rebuild Dale."

He glanced at Gandalf with calm determination. "And don't forget, when Smaug first came, he pillaged Dale's wealth and hoarded it beneath the mountain. As Girion's heir, I have a rightful claim to that treasure."

Neither Sylas nor Gandalf objected.

After all, it was a matter between Bard and Thorin Oakenshield, and the Dwarves had yet to reach Erebor. What Bard chose to pursue was his own cause, and a just one, at that.

After finishing their discussion, Sylas and Gandalf didn't linger in Lake-town. They climbed onto Smaug's back and set off toward the Lonely Mountain.

Though the townspeople had been reassured that the Dragon was now tame, old fears died hard. Many still held their breath as the enormous beast turned away from the lake, its massive form trudging across the land.

Smaug's flight had been grounded, the Elven spear Aeglos, empowered by divine enchantment, had pierced his wing clean through. Though the wound was closed, it throbbed with lingering power, preventing flight.

So for now, he walked.

Yet even on foot, the Dragon's gait was swift and thundering. With each step, the earth trembled beneath his claws.

Gandalf chuckled as he settled himself between the creature's scaled ridges.

"Thanks to you, Sylas," he said, "I've now ridden a dragon. Life still has surprises."

Sylas, gripping one of the spines behind Smaug's neck, nodded with a smile of his own. "Never imagined I'd become a Dragon Rider. But I can't lie, it feels… incredible."

He leaned forward slightly. "Though I'd prefer the full experience. Flying through the clouds, feeling the wind under my feet."

"Smaug," he called, "how long until your wing heals?"

The dragon snorted, smoke curling from his nostrils.

"It was your spear, Aeglos, that pierced me, Master," Smaug replied bitterly. "Its magic lingers. My body cannot recover while that power still infects the wound. Without a miracle elixir or divine healing, I may never fly again!"

There was no hostility in his voice, only a wounded pride and a touch of grievance. The unbreakable Vow Charm prevented him from harboring true resentment. But he could still lament his fate.

Sylas frowned. A grounded dragon was still a mighty force, but flight was Smaug's greatest asset. His aerial supremacy, his fire-breathing dives, his ability to sweep over armies like a storm, that was what made him a living catastrophe.

If he remained earthbound, they would lose a vital advantage.

Sensing Sylas's concern, Gandalf offered a reassuring nod.

"Do not worry too much. Once this is all over, we can travel to Rivendell. Lord Elrond is the most gifted healer in Middle-earth. If anyone can mend a wound wrought by divine power, it is him."

Gandalf spoke with certainty.

He had once feared Smaug would join Sauron's armies, a terrible possibility that drove him to back Thorin's quest in the first place. But now, with Smaug under Sylas's control and bound to their cause, Gandalf genuinely wished to see him restored to full strength.

After all, a tamed dragon could be a greater ally against the shadow than ten thousand swords.

Soon, Sylas, Gandalf, and the mighty dragon Smaug arrived at the foot of the Lonely Mountain.

The path was as they remembered, twisting through rocky outcrops, echoing with wind, but when they reached the main gate of Erebor, an unexpected sight greeted them.

The stone entrance was shut tight, blocked by massive slabs and reinforced barricades.

Sylas narrowed his eyes.

"That wasn't here before," Gandalf muttered, stepping forward to examine the gate. "It was open when we left. Something's happened."

Sylas let out a quiet breath, suspicion dawning in his heart. "Or maybe… someone doesn't want us coming back."

The wizard turned toward him, eyebrows rising in silent agreement. After witnessing Thorin's descent into obsession, his greed, his paranoia, this possibility seemed all too likely.

Then came a thunderous rumble behind them.

Smaug, who had been crawling along obediently, suddenly perked up. His eyes gleamed like molten gold as he gazed at the mountain's sealed gate.

"Master," he said eagerly, his voice vibrating the stone around them, "shall I take care of it? These pitiful stone walls are no match for me. Let me break them down, crush the Dwarves inside, and claim what's rightfully yours. All the treasure, ours, together!"

Gandalf immediately turned, his expression hardening in disapproval.

But Sylas was quicker. His gaze went cold, and his voice sliced through the air. "Enough. Be silent."

The reprimand struck Smaug like a whip. His neck stiffened, and he shrank back slightly, not in fear, but in reluctant obedience.

Though bound by magic, the dragon's nature hadn't changed. Greed still coiled in his heart like smoke in his lungs. He couldn't help himself, after centuries of sleeping atop mountains of gold, the very idea of losing that hoard to anyone, even his new master, was intolerable.

But he said nothing more. Not aloud.

His massive amber eyes flickered with silent calculation.

If this human owns the hoard, and I serve him… then it's still mine to watch over. Mine to guard. That's not disobedience. That's… loyalty.

He even began to imagine himself offering to "safeguard" the treasure on Sylas's behalf, perhaps curling atop it again, stretching his wings beside golden coins and jewel-laden goblets, in the name of protection, of course.