In LOTR with Harry Potter system

Sylas shifted slightly, a little embarrassed by Gandalf's praise.

He knew himself well enough. Though Gandalf's words were kind, there was no way his magic could truly surpass that of the Grey Wizard, one of the wisest and most powerful figures in all of Middle-earth.

"Ah, yes," Gandalf said, reaching into his cloak. "This is what your father left behind for you before he passed. The key and map to the secret entrance of Erebor."

He gently placed a heavy golden key and an old, rune-marked map into Thorin's calloused hands.

"You saw my father?" Thorin's voice was low, but the weight of emotion in it made Sylas glance up.

After Smaug had taken the Lonely Mountain, the line of Durin had scattered. Thorin had led his people to the Blue Mountains, but his father, Thráin, could not let go of their ancestral home. He had set out to reclaim it... and never returned.

Gandalf sighed, his eyes clouded with memory. "I once crept into Dol Guldur in secret, following the traces of dark power that were beginning to stir. There… I found Thráin."

"He had been imprisoned for years," Gandalf continued solemnly. "Worn and broken. He had little time left. Before he passed, he entrusted me with these, his final legacy, and asked me to pass them on to you."

Thorin's gaze fell to the map and key trembling in his hands, the silence around him heavy with grief.

Not pressing further, Gandalf stood. "If you decide to take up your inheritance, meet me at The Prancing Pony in Bree. I'll be waiting there in one month's time."

He didn't wait for a reply. Thorin remained silent, lost in thought.

As they exited the forge, Sylas glanced at Gandalf. "You really think he'll go?"

Gandalf gave a knowing smile, eyes twinkling behind the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat. "I saw the fire in his eyes, Sylas. The will of the Mountain still burns in his blood. He'll come."

Then, stopping at the edge of the settlement, Gandalf turned to Sylas.

"This is where we part, my friend. There are other matters I must attend to, rumors, reports, old evils stirring. I need to gather information before the Company is assembled."

Sylas nodded. He didn't ask where the wizard was headed, he understood some paths must be walked alone.

After Gandalf disappeared into the distance, Sylas looked up at the misty peaks of the Blue Mountains and whispered, "System, check-in."

He had sensed the familiar stir of magic the moment he met Thorin, but had waited until now, away from prying eyes.

[Check-in successful at: Dwarven Town, Blue Mountains.] Congratulations! You've received: The Dictionary of Runes.

Sylas blinked. "A dictionary?" he muttered, flipping open the old leather-bound tome.

But as he scanned the pages, he quickly realized how valuable it was.

The Runes of Power—ancient symbols imbued with magic. Each glyph represented a specific concept or spell. When carved in sequence and activated with magic, they could enchant objects, create protective wards, or channel elemental forces.

When crafting magical artifacts or alchemical tools, inscribing Runes onto their surfaces can imbue them with enchantments, enhancing their magical potency and overall effectiveness.

Thus, Ancient Runes could be considered a prerequisite for anyone wishing to truly master the art of Alchemy.

At Hogwarts, Ancient Runes was only offered as an elective beginning in third year, while Alchemy itself was an advanced subject, taught only in sixth or seventh year.

Unlike ordinary spells or Transfiguration, which are often temporary and can be disrupted or reversed, Alchemy produces magical effects that are permanent. Once crafted, even if dispelled, an alchemized object retains its enchantment. It's as if the magic has been permanently fused into the very structure of the item.

In the wizarding world, Alchemy is everywhere. From the everyday to the extraordinary, items like Remembralls, Quick-Quotes Quills, Sneakoscopes, Wizard Chess pieces, and Golden Snitches, to marvels such as the Knight Bus, the Hogwarts Express, the Mirror of Erised, the Pensieve, Time-Turners, and of course, the legendary Philosopher's Stone, all are masterworks of Alchemy.

One could say that Alchemy underpins much of the magical world's inventions and artifacts.

Naturally, Sylas yearned to study Alchemy deeply. The Philosopher's Stone especially fascinated him, said to be the pinnacle of alchemical achievement, capable of turning lead into gold and granting eternal life.

While Sylas, as a wizard, already possessed a lifespan longer than most mortals, it paled in comparison to the ageless Elves of Middle-earth, or even to the long-lived Dúnedain of the North. If he hoped to survive in such a world and make a lasting impact, extending his life was something worth considering. And the Philosopher's Stone... that was one path forward.

But such ambitions were still far off. For now, what Sylas needed was to build a stronger foundation in magic. And that began with mastering Ancient Runes.

The Dictionary of Runes he had just received through his system's sign-in was a massive tome, thick, heavy, and dense with arcane symbols. Each rune held layers of meaning, and many entries included notes on pronunciation, magical resonance, and combinatory effects. It was the kind of dry, complex reading that would send most first-years running for the Quidditch pitch. But Sylas took it seriously. He knew patience and perseverance were essential to becoming a true master of magic.

Once the sign-in was complete, Sylas didn't leave the Dwarven settlement right away. Instead, he strolled through the bustling town carved into the Blue Mountains.

The Dwarves, as expected, were expert craftsmen. Their mining tunnels ran deep into the stone, where they extracted ores, smelted rare metals, and forged them into intricately designed weapons, armor, and fine goods. Hammer strikes rang like music through the stone halls.

As Sylas browsed the market, something caught his eye: among the heavy axes and chainmail suited for stout dwarves, there were swords and breastplates clearly designed for me, taller builds, longer limbs.

Curious, he pointed to a silver breastplate gleaming beneath a canvas awning and asked, "Why are you selling armor sized for Men? Do many humans come here to buy Dwarven gear?"

The shopkeeper, a broad-shouldered dwarf with a braided beard and soot-smudged hands, grinned proudly and puffed out his chest.

"Of course they do! There's not a forge in all of Arnor or Gondor that can match Dwarven steel. Men know quality when they see it. Some travel leagues just for a single dagger forged in our halls! We've even got trading routes now, custom orders, too!"

"So that's how it is," Sylas thought, finally understanding.

He hadn't expected Dwarves to be not only masters of metallurgy but also sharp-minded traders. No wonder they had once amassed such legendary wealth within the halls of Erebor. And no wonder that hoard had eventually drawn the greedy gaze of the dragon Smaug, who claimed the Lonely Mountain as his own.

Sylas picked up a Dwarf-forged longsword displayed on a nearby rack. Though it was clearly crafted for Men, its size and balance suited to a human grip, it was still a marvel of craftsmanship. Even without enchantments, the edge was flawless, the weight perfectly distributed, and the durability far superior to most human-made blades.

He returned the sword to its place and turned to the blacksmith.

"Master Dwarf, I have an ancient sword in need of restoration. I wonder if your forge could bring back its original sharpness? Price is not a concern."

The Dwarven smith's eyes gleamed at the mention of that last sentence, but he didn't rush into an answer. Instead, he scratched his beard and replied with professional caution, "If it's an ancient weapon you want restored, we'll first need to examine it. The extent of the damage determines what can be done."

His gaze flicked over Sylas with a curious frown. "And where, might I ask, is this sword of yours?"

With a wave of his hand, Sylas summoned the weapon. From the cart parked out on the cobbled street, a broad-bladed greatsword lifted into the air and drifted toward them, glimmering with a faint magical aura. It floated directly in front of the smith, its size and presence impossible to ignore.

The Dwarf startled backward a step. The sight of the blade flying unaided, carried by unseen magic, changed his demeanor at once. Whatever thoughts he had of quoting a sky-high price quickly vanished. Instead, he straightened his back, bowed slightly, and addressed Sylas with new-found reverence.

"Ah! A wizard! Forgive me for not recognizing your station sooner."

Sylas smiled politely, brushing off the change in tone. "No harm done. Now, what do you think? Can this sword be restored?"

The blacksmith adjusted his goggles and stepped closer to the floating blade. His fingers brushed the bronze-hued metal with surprising gentleness for one with such thick hands. The sword's surface was pitted and dulled by age and dark magic, its once-glorious form barely hinted beneath the rust and scars.

"Hmmm... Cast bronze alloy... A very rare composition, resilient, balanced, and forged with precision. The blade's structure... is this Númenórean work?" the Dwarf asked, his eyes wide with a mix of awe and disbelief.

A glimmer of approval lit Sylas's expression. "You're well-versed. Yes, it was once a Númenórean blade, but it suffered damage, corroded by the malice of a Barrow-wight. I've already purged the dark magic from it, but its edge has dulled. The enchantment it once held... is lost."

The Dwarf nodded slowly, still inspecting the weapon. "I see. A surface touch-up would be simple. But to fully restore its edge, its strength, its magical resonance, it would need to be reforged."

"Then reforge it," Sylas said without hesitation.

But the Dwarf raised a hand. "Easy, Wizard. It's not that simple. A Númenórean blade like this requires tremendous heat to melt, heat that my regular forge cannot produce. We'd need to use the Great Furnace."

"Then use the Great Furnace."

"That's the problem," the smith said, lowering his voice. "We only have one large furnace here."

"To use it… you'd need the owner's permission."

Sylas raised an eyebrow. "And who owns it?"

The smith straightened his back with pride. "That would be our king—Thorin Oakenshield himself."

...

You can support me on p@+reon and read advance chapters ahead @ patreon.com/Keepsmiling818