In LOTR with Harry Potter system

The Dwarves had made a solemn promise to forge the finest blade for Sylas, and true to their word, they spared no effort.

To enhance both the sword's strength and magical potency, they brought forth one of their most treasured materials: Mithril.

Mithril, the legendary silver-steel, was lighter than a feather and harder than dragon-scale. Even a sliver of it, when melded with common steel, could birth a blade sharp enough to shear through iron as though it were parchment. The Elves once prized it highly, so much so that even Narya, the Ring of Fire, bore a band of Mithril at its heart.

Since the Balrog's occupation of Khazad-dûm, the Mines of Moria, once the sole source of Mithril, had fallen silent. No new ore had been mined in centuries, making even a pinch of the metal more precious than gold. That Thorin would willingly part with such treasure for Sylas's sword spoke volumes of his resolve.

And perhaps… his desperation to reclaim the Lonely Mountain.

For three days and nights, Thorin and his master smiths toiled without rest. Deep beneath the Blue Mountains, beside the searing veins of molten rock, they hammered and folded the blade again and again, infusing it with the essence of flame and steel.

By the end of the third day, the sword neared completion. 

That's when Sylas stepped forward.

The Dwarves paused, puzzled, as Sylas approached the glowing blade. He drew his wand, and began to trace invisible lines in the air, as though writing on the very heat rising from the forge.

Mysterious symbols shimmered into view, etching themselves onto the surface of the blade in glimmering arcs. As his magic flowed, the runes ignited with soft golden light, dancing like flowing streams of liquid knowledge across the metal's surface.

The Dwarves stared in wonder.

"What script is this?" Thorin muttered, eyes narrowed in awe. "It's not Elvish… and it's not Dwarvish either. Yet… I can feel the magic in it."

Sylas smiled slightly, lowering his wand.

"They're Runes," he replied.

"Runes?" repeated one of the smiths, stroking his beard. "But we know runes. That's not our script."

Sylas smacked his forehead, suddenly realizing the source of confusion. He had forgotten that the runes used by the Dwarves and those from his magical world were two entirely different things.

In Middle-earth, Dwarven runes originated from a script devised by the Sindar Elves, known as Cirth. Though adapted over time to suit Dwarven craftsmanship and stone carving, their roots remained Elvish. These runes were used for inscriptions, naming, and recording histories in stone and steel.

But the runes Sylas had drawn on the blade came from a much older tradition, one native to the wizarding world. According to legend, they were first discovered by Odin, a mythic wizard revered in Norse magical lore. In pursuit of ultimate wisdom, Odin had hung himself upside down from the World Tree for nine days and nights, sacrificing one of his eyes to drink from the Well of Knowledge. In return, he was granted the secrets of the runes.

Of course, in the wizarding world, Odin was not considered a literal god, just a legendary and exceptionally powerful wizard from the age of myth. Yet the magical script he uncovered had become the foundation of ancient spellcraft and alchemy.

So Sylas quickly clarified, "These aren't Dwarven Runes. They're Wizard Runes, what we call magical script."

The Dwarves exchanged intrigued looks. They understood now, but this revelation only deepened their curiosity.

Wizards in Middle-earth were rare to begin with. and now it turned out that some of them had their own written language? That was news even to the most well-traveled among them. Still, no matter how curious they were, there was work to finish.

And so, the rhythmic clang of hammers resumed. Quenching, forging, polishing, it all continued with renewed focus.

Finally, after hours of work, the weapon took form.

The new blade was over a meter long, slim and elegant, with graceful curves and perfectly balanced thickness. There was no unnecessary ornamentation, just precision, artistry, and deadly beauty.

Now infused with Mithril, it glowed with a soft golden hue overlaid with silvery patterns. It shimmered subtly, as if sunlight danced constantly across its surface. To the untrained eye, it might seem like it was forged from enchanted gold.

Sylas took the finished blade into his hands, stunned by how naturally it fit his grip. Lighter, leaner, and far better balanced than before, it felt like it had always belonged to him.

He closed his eyes and let his magic flow into it.

Immediately, a series of glowing symbols flared to life along the blade's edge. The runes he had carved shimmered in fiery red. In the next moment, the sword burst into flames. Heat rippled from it, distorting the air, and the fire crackled with arcane energy.

These were the fire runes Sylas had studied from the dictionary—simple symbols combined with purpose and care. He'd inscribed them onto the blade, hoping that Dwarven craftsmanship and Wizarding magic would harmonize.

And they had. Better than he had imagined.

Gripping the flaming sword, Sylas gave it a practice swing, cleaving cleanly through a thick wooden training post nearby. The blade sliced through like paper—and then the fire leapt from the steel, devouring the split wood in seconds.

Thorin, who had helped forge it with his own hands, stepped back slightly, eyes narrowing as he took in the weapon's power.

"If that thing touched an enemy," he muttered, half in awe, "they wouldn't need to be cut down. The flames alone would burn them to ash."

The other two Dwarven smiths had gone from stunned to thrilled. A weapon like this would surely become legendary. And when the songs were sung, the names of the craftsmen who had forged it would echo alongside.

Once the excitement died down a little, Thorin turned to Sylas with a serious expression.

 "What do you plan to name it?"

Sylas gently placed the sword down. As soon as it touched the ground, the flames receded, and the glowing runes faded away, disappearing into the metal like ink sinking into parchment.

"Flamme," he declared with a bright smile, his eyes gleaming with pride as he ran his fingers along the newly forged blade. "That will be its name."

Thorin gave a thoughtful nod, remembering how the sword had blazed like a living fire moments earlier. "A fitting name," he agreed. "May its flame burn bright in your hands and never falter."

"It will," Sylas replied with quiet confidence.

With the blade complete, the Dwarves spent another full day crafting a scabbard worthy of such a weapon. It was fashioned from polished ivory, reinforced with golden fittings, and etched with intricate carvings that shimmered under torchlight. Embedded into its surface were gemstones, deep garnets and sparkling sapphires, placed with the precision of master artisans.

When Sylas finally buckled the sword to his waist, sheathed in its ornate scabbard and fastened by a supple leather belt, he looked like a knight out of legend, though clad still in a Wizard's cloak.

Thorin stood beside him, arms crossed. "Why not stay a few more days? I've already sent ravens to my kin. Once they arrive, the company will be complete."

His voice was cordial, but Sylas could hear the motive behind the offer. Thorin wasn't just being friendly, he wanted to pull Sylas into his orbit, to gain leverage against Gandalf and ensure his dominance in the expedition.

Sylas saw it clearly.

During his days among the Dwarves, he had come to understand Thorin Oakenshield better. Though brave and determined, Thorin was also proud, suspicious, and quick to distrust anyone outside his own people. These traits were manageable now, but Sylas knew that once the company reached the Lonely Mountain, and once Thorin laid eyes on the dragon's hoard, the sickness would awaken.

Dragon-sickness. Greed that rotted the heart.

Whatever camaraderie they'd shared over forging the Flamme was purely transactional, bound by terms, not friendship.

"I appreciate the offer," Sylas replied with a calm smile, "but I've got things to handle before we meet again. I'll see you in the Shire."

Thorin didn't respond. He simply watched in silence as Sylas climbed into his carriage and departed, the sword at his side, its runes now dormant.

Truthfully, Sylas did have important matters to attend to.

During the journey, he had noticed that the two Mandrakes growing in the carriage planter had begun to stir. The small, wrinkled leaves had perked up, and the unsightly spots on their faces had vanished. Flower buds had even begun to form, clear signs that they were nearing full maturity.

And mature Mandrakes were dangerous. Very dangerous.

Their cries, if heard unprotected, could cause unconsciousness, or even death.

Sylas had been carefully casting Petrificus Totalus on the plants every few hours to keep them still, preventing them from flailing or attempting to emerge from the soil. But he didn't want to handle Mandrake harvesting in a Dwarven city deep in the mountains. That would be... unwise.

So, with caution and care, he made the long journey back to the Shire.

It took seven days of steady travel, the countryside gradually changing from rocky highlands to soft, rolling green hills.

... 

Stones PLzzz