In LOTR with Harry Potter system

Dol Guldur stood at the southern edge of Mirkwood, a shadowed relic of an age long past. Once a forgotten fortress swallowed by time, it had become something far more sinister.

Since the rise of the one known only as the Necromancer, a powerful dark force had claimed the crumbling stronghold. Shadows draped the walls like funeral veils. Orcs, wraiths, and monstrous spiders prowled its perimeter, their presence turning the land around into a haunted no-man's-land. Few dared venture near it, and none who did ever returned.

But today, five figures slipped silently through the gloom: Sylas, Gandalf, Radagast, Elrond, and Glorfindel.

Thanks to a powerful Disillusionment Charm cast by Sylas, the group passed undetected through the dense ranks of Orcs patrolling outside the fortress. They crept through ruined gates and into the ancient stronghold's outer halls.

With every step, the air grew heavier. A suffocating pressure hung in the silence, thick with ancient malice. Even the flickers of light seemed reluctant to remain, as though the shadows themselves swallowed flame.

The closer they drew to the inner keep, the more grave their expressions became.

"It seems we've been deceived all this time," Elrond said quietly, the steel in his voice unmistakable. Clad in shining elven armor, he drew his sword with a metallic whisper. The blade gleamed like starlight in the dimness.

"The Dark Enemy has returned."

At those words, Glorfindel, golden-haired and radiant, stepped forward. Gone was the calm, noble elf-lord of Rivendell. In his place stood a warrior reborn. He unsheathed a curved blade of silver and gold, runes glowing faintly along its edge.

Sylas raised his wand. Gandalf and Radagast lifted their staffs.

Five stood united, eyes sharp, weapons at the ready.

The interior of Dol Guldur was eerily empty. Its vast halls echoed with unnatural silence. Cracked stone, broken archways, and long-forgotten banners clung to walls like faded memories.

But no one let down their guard.

Gandalf moved first, striking his staff against the stone with force.

"Spirits hidden here, I command you, reveal yourselves!"

A glowing ripple of magic surged from his staff in all directions, illuminating the space in a pale shimmer. But nothing changed. The fortress remained deathly still.

Too still.

No one was fooled. If Gandalf's spell found nothing, it only meant that the force lurking here was powerful enough to mask its presence, even from a Maia.

Everyone tightened their grips.

Gandalf repeated the incantation, this time with greater force, sweeping his staff in a wide arc. The spell pulsed again;

And then the air changed.

The temperature dropped in an instant. Frost crept across the floor. The light dimmed as if night had fallen within their very bones. A deep chill, not of weather but of spirit, pressed on their chests like a vice.

And then came the sound, whispers, like dry leaves rustling in a graveyard. Words spoken in no living tongue. Words that scraped at the edge of sanity.

From the corners of the chamber, nine armored wraiths stepped out of the shadows.

Tall. Hooded. Clad in black armor that seemed to drink the light.

Their faces were hidden beneath helmets and veils of nothingness. Within their dark armor, there were no eyes, no flesh, only empty void.

Each held a long, black Morgul blade, pulsing with a sickly green aura. A wave of malice radiated from them, corrupt and ancient.

The Nazgûl.

Once nine proud kings of Men, deceived by the gifts of Sauron, whom they knew as Annatar, the Lord of Gifts. He had given them Rings of Power in the Second Age, promising glory and everlasting life. But the rings were poisoned. Over time, their souls were consumed. Their will bent. Their identities lost.

Now, they were neither living nor dead, only shadows enslaved to the will of the Dark Lord.

The nine Nazgûl surrounded the group from all directions, and dark incantations like the language of the dead echoed in their ears, attempting to corrupt their minds.

"You should not have awakened," Elrond declared, his voice echoing with the authority of the ancient Elves. 

Beside him, Glorfindel stood radiant, light poured from him in waves, golden and pure, a reflection of the Two Trees of Valinor whose light he had once walked beneath. In this place of shadows, he shone like the dawn.

"Servants of Mordor!" he shouted, his voice clear and commanding, "This land is not yours. Return to the Unseen Realm where you belong!"

The Nazgûl reeled back for a moment, startled by Glorfindel's divine light. But their retreat was fleeting. Driven by cruel will and shadowed confidence, they charged again, shrieking in eerie chorus as they descended upon the intruders.

In a flash, the battle began.

Gandalf's staff clashed with the cursed blades of two wraiths, his magic flaring like silver lightning. Elrond moved with elven grace and deadly precision, dueling two Nazgûl with an elegance that made violence seem like art. Radagast, wielding a staff entwined with living vines, summoned roots from the ground to entangle his foes. Glorfindel fought like a star incarnate, radiance swirling around him, holding darkness at bay.

But the Witch-king of Angmar, the most feared of the Nine, chose Sylas as his target.

From within the depths of his helm, a voice slithered forth: harsh, cold, and cruel.

"We meet again, wizard. This time, there will be no escape."

Sylas didn't waste a second. He raised his wand and shouted, "Bombarda!"

The explosive spell burst forth in a dazzling arc of energy, but passed straight through the Witch-king's incorporeal form as if striking fog.

The Witch-king let out a bone-chilling laugh, the sound hollow and mocking.

"Foolish magic. You cannot harm what does not dwell in your world," he hissed, lifting his Morgul blade and lunging with deadly speed.

But Sylas was faster.

"Expecto Patronum!"

From his wand surged a torrent of brilliant silver mist, which rapidly coalesced into a majestic owl, a glowing sentinel with outstretched wings and fierce eyes that gleamed with pure light. It shrieked defiantly and soared forward, talons flashing.

The Patronus dove toward the Witch-king, slipping past his blade and raking its claws across his shoulder.

A hiss erupted from the wraith as the light tore into him. The wound festered immediately, smoke curling from the gash as the sacred magic of the Patronus burned through the darkness that held his form together.

The owl did not falter. It circled swiftly, dodging slashes and carving streaks of radiant energy into the Witch-king's shadowed body, wound after wound unraveling threads of black mist that had kept him bound to the world.

Sylas held his wand steady, sweat beading on his brow. The Patronus was driving the Nazgûl back. His form flickered with every strike, his power unraveling.

But the Witch-king was no ordinary wraith.

With a roar of fury, he raised his Morgul blade high and struck, not at Sylas, but at the owl.

There was a flash of darkness, a pulse of cold, and the cursed weapon pierced the Patronus clean through.

The owl let out a piercing cry, wings faltering. Then, with a shimmer of silver mist, it dissolved into the air, vanishing into glimmers of fading light.

The Witch-king of Angmar turned his hollow, lightless gaze toward Sylas. Though there were no eyes beneath the shadowed helm, the weight of that gaze pierced like ice.

"Wizard," he hissed, voice echoing like the wind in a tomb, "I will drive this Morgul blade into your heart... and remake you as one of us. A Nazgûl."

Sylas's Patronus had vanished, and ash from the battlefield still clung to his robes. A pale sheen crossed his face, but his eyes burned bright, not with fear, but with unyielding resolve.

He raised his wand again.

Golden motes of light leapt from its tip, swirling through the air like notes from a harp. They danced and sang, a radiant, cheerful melody filled with joy and life.

Music.

It rang through the cursed halls of Dol Guldur, lifting the hearts of his allies and infusing the air with warmth. For Gandalf and the others, it was invigorating. Their spirits surged, blades and spells growing stronger.

But to the Nazgûl, it was agony. The song's brightness tore at their minds like light through fog. Their forms flickered, weakened by the purity of the music.

And then—

"Expecto Patronum!"

Sylas's voice echoed like thunder. From his wand erupted a blinding surge of silver light, and a magnificent Patronus took form, an owl, far larger than before. Its wings spanned wide like the sails of a ship, its silver feathers blazing like moonlight. It soared high, casting radiant beams across the battlefield.

The giant owl screeched and dove, striking aside the Witch-king's Morgul blade with one immense talon. Then it seized the wraith in its powerful grip, lifting him into the air.

The Witch-king struggled, shrieking as the holy light of the Patronus clawed at his essence.

But Sylas was ready.

With calm focus, he drew a shining spear from within his cloak, Aeglos, the legendary spear once wielded by Gil-galad, King of the High Elves. Its head gleamed like starlight, forged to pierce darkness itself.

The Patronus owl descended, its prey clutched tightly in its claws, bringing the Witch-king directly before Sylas.

Sylas stepped forward, eyes locked on the shrieking shadow before him.

"This is where your darkness ends."

With a clean, fluid motion, he thrust Aeglos forward. The silvery spear pierced straight through the Witch-king's dark, hollow form.

There was no scream, only silence.

And then;

The Witch-king of Angmar erupted into a swirling storm of black mist. His essence unraveled, shredded by the divine light of the Patronus and the power of Aeglos. In seconds, he was gone, scattered into the void.

Sylas stumbled back, catching his breath.

The battle wasn't over.

Around him, the others still clashed with the remaining Nazgûl. But now, bolstered by the music and with the Witch-king vanquished, the tide had turned.

Sylas raised his wand again, directing his giant owl Patronus to dive and strike the others. The radiant bird moved like lightning, tearing into shadow with relentless fury.

One by one, the Nazgûl fell.

And then... silence.

The nine were gone.

Yet even in victory, unease hung heavy in the air.

The power that choked the fortress had not lessened. If anything, it felt deeper now, denser. As if the darkness had only just begun to stir.

The servants had been defeated.

But their master had yet to reveal himself.

...

Stones Plzzz

Read advance chapters ahead @patreon.com/Keepsmiling818