Let me know if I have succeeded in maintaining the pace of the story. Thanks to all that reviewed.

Chapter Two: My Occupation is Wizardry

For a golden moment, Harry believed that he had finally died. He had after all taken a fully-powered Killing Curse directly to the chest, leaving no margin for survival. He had been unprotected, neglecting to wear either his Auror or Unspeakable battle robes.

He felt no sadness or angst, only a profound weariness that began to lift from his shoulders. His closest friends had preceded him in meeting death, and now he might have a chance to meet them again. He felt a vague guilt at leaving the Ministry to defend Britain against Voldemort, but he had gone done fighting, and had given the last years of his life to the war, and ultimately his life itself. Another prophecy would be made, bestowing the mantle of Chosen One on some other hapless boy.

The world would do without Harry Potter.

Images flashed by in his mind. Proud Aurors succumbing to curses from all directions, locked in battle against Death Eaters that were far more numerous than they. Families grieving in the aftermath of a raid on Diagon Alley.

Derisive laughter rang in his ears.

Who was he kidding?

He opened his eyes, blinking so that his eyesight could adjust to the dim lighting.

In all honesty, he hadn't given much thought to what the afterlife might be like, but had vaguely assumed that his arrival might be hailed by a heavenly choir, or at least he would wake up in a feathery mattress to the tearful welcomes of his parents, not on the uncomfortable ground.

His glasses had been broken beyond repair in a recent battle, and he had never bothered to find a replacement. He had undergone a Muggle surgery to restore his vision, and had taken to wearing useless, non-prescribed glasses an advantage to fool his enemies.

He finally did the sensible thing, and opened his eyes. Blinking to clear his vision, he pushed himself into a sitting position. He was enclosed within a room, empty of any furniture. He paused as he met the frank stare of another man seated cross-logged across from him, on the other side of a small fire. Blankly, he searched his memory for any loved one for dear friend that might have met, but could not for the life of him remember anyone he might have met.

The middle-aged man was clad in russet garb, and was armed to the teeth. A sword hung at his side, a sheathed longknife hanging at his other hip, and a bow and quiver were slung over his shoulder. His distinctive facial features, light beard, dark eyes and brown hair, struck Harry as an archetype of a larger group. His expression was stony, clearly the face of an interrogator.

Obviously, either heaven was a more complex establishment than he had thought, or he had, once again, survived.

Glancing furtively around him, he saw a ring of stones surrounding the site, recognizing it as the peak of that hill he had seen in the Mirror of Erised. The orb he had seen was absent from its place atop of the cairn in the center of the ring, however.

Being simultaneously killed and thrown through a magical mirror appeared to have adverse effects. The mirror had shown him what he had desired most, a glimpse into a world where he could belong. By breaking it, had he in fact been thrown into that world? He was drawn out of his musings as the man seated across the fire addressed him sharply.

“You were found unconscious on the Great East Road during the dusk, abnormally pale but otherwise appearing unharmed. After a patrol searched your person for weaponry, you were brought here. You are not a Ranger assigned to defending the Shire, nor Bree; that much is clear. Explain who you are, your occupation, and where your allegiance lies. I am needed elsewhere, so be swift,” the man commanded in a tone that brooked no tolerance for any hesitance or stalling.

Where to begin?

Never had he encountered such a blatantly warlike personage. Harry easily read the mistrustful expression. It was a long shot, but he wagered that wizards were less prolific in this world, and if that were true, then Muggle societies might hold magicians in high esteem. Possibly high enough so that he could avoid answering the other questions. It couldn't hurt to try.

A ghost of a smile curved Harry's lips.

“My occupation is wizardry.”

A disbelieving, though nonetheless polite, eyebrow was raised. “Care to demonstrate?”

Harry shrugged, and glanced around, spotting his wand lying beside him. Raising it, he aimed it at his interrogator.

“Accio sword.”

There was a screech of metal upon metal as the sword left its sheathe and soared through the heart of the fire to rest across Harry's knees in a shower of embers. He grimaced as the heated blade seared his knees, lightly taking it by the hilt and laying it on the ground in front of him.

The man blinked in surprise, but otherwise gave no outward reaction to the blatantly casual display of magic. Harry, stirred uneasily under his unblinking gaze, and made a show of staring at the sword, watching the reflection of the flames dance along its length.

“Are you familiar with its use?”

Harry stared at the weapon ponderingly. It was not as bejeweled or as elaborate as Gryffindor's sword, but its blade shone just as brilliantly, proof of its owner's diligent care of it. Hardly noticeable notches left no room for doubt that it had seen its share of battles.

“To some extent,” he responded. “I've little experience dueling with trained swordsmen. Magic is much more efficient with dealing with enemies, given how easily people unable to use it are deprived of their weapons.”

Smiling, he tossed the sword over the fire again. The man caught it by the hilt and sheathed it, looking perhaps the slightest bit unnerved by his answer.

“You appear much… younger than your colleagues, though my dealings with your kind are admittedly limited. Forgive me if you perceived the actions of my men taken by my order a transgression.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Amlaith, Chieftain of the Dunedain. I and my kinsmen are charged with the protection of the southernmost region of the kingdom of Arnor, Eriador. This watchtower, Weathertop, is a component of a network of fortifications in the Weather Hills. An evil has risen to the east, over the river of ice, commanding legions of orcs, and has undertaken an invasion. The resistance was forced back to this stronghold, where we await them.”

Harry nodded, processing the information without a word.  

A movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention away from the questioner. A similarly dressed man stood at the open doorway, the sky outlining his back, sharp eyes casting a cursory glance at him before moving to his companion.

“The enemy vanguard has arrived. Smaller groups were roving through the trees on either side of the road, forcing back the scouting party before they could determine if they were followed by the main host.”

“If the main host marches, then they have deliberately hung back so that our scouts could not see past the vanguard. Many enemies can be overcome, many enemies under the command of an intelligent general are less likely to be,” the questioner said musingly as he rose, kicking dirt into the fire to smother it. “Give the signal for Beregon's troops to prepare for sortie.”

“Twill be done Captain.” The man inclined his head, turned on his heel, disappearing from view.

Harry followed the apparent leader of the soldiers as they left the room, feeling a slight anxiety build as they walked down a flight of steps, turning the corner to a circular contour.

 

Several bowmen stood along the wall of the uppermost level, overlooking the road.  Amlaith silently stopped behind them. Harry hesitantly followed his gaze.

His throat constricted as he distinguished the approaching mass of black bodies from the gloom. They were ugly creatures, no taller than five feet, with loping, hunched bodies that were less broad than he had expected. They wielded crude facsimiles of swords, axes, pikes, and other melee weapons he couldn't identify that lacked the refinement of human-crafted weapons, and wore spiked helms on their heads and small bucklers on their arms.

They covered width of the entire road, marching twenty abreast. From his vantage point, Harry could see that their ranks were nearly twenty deep.

“Orcs?” he found himself asking.

“No, actually. They are goblins. They breed far quicker than we can hope to slay them,” Amlaith answered resentfully. “The goblins attack foremost for no other reason than to die, and to take as many defenders as they can with them. Fodder, if you will. If the main host is come, you will see more orcs than you will care to see in your lifetime,” Amlaith raised his voice. “Abandon all levels above the northward when they reach the fortifications; your retreat mustn't be cut off. Until then, pick them off as they come.”

The Dunedain murmured their assent, and Harry quickened his pace to keep up with Amlaith. The contour winded around the entire tower like a stone serpent wrapped around a spire, steadily declining until it reached the ground. Other groups of archers were stationed along the entire length of the watchtower facing the road.

The path finally ended as they reached a clearing at the base of the tower, where a grim-looking Ranger awaited them. Harry noted that he looked a tad shadier than the others as if he regularly consorted among more unsavory characters.

“Is the Bree contingent in position?”

“Yes Captain. My men have secured the road to the Weatherheight. The outpost is prepared for battle should we fall here.”

“Pray that we don't.”

With a curt nod, the shady Ranger donned a hood, reinforcing his shady appearance, and took off.

“Who is he?”

“My son,” Amlaith said simply.

“Oh,” Harry stuttered, taken aback. “You… uh, look very young to be a father.”

“My people are long-lived.”

Amlaith said nothing more.

The clearing was defined by tall wooden walls supported by thick buttresses formed a cordon across the road, leaving only a small opening through which travelers must pass. Opposite that opening was a sturdy draw-gate constructed into the fortifications, but was heavily barricaded.

“Is that strategically sound?” Harry inquired. “It'll block the enemy to be sure, but at the cost of your own retreat.”

“There is another path,” Amlaith spoke. “that the Dunedain from Bree guard. They will secure our retreat. The wilderness gives no passage, and thus the enemy will be forced to take the path which will lead to the Weatherheight outpost, where they will have to fight us again to proceed any further.”

“Ah.”

Barrels propped along the wall contained long spears and sheaves of arrows, and a company of over a hundred Rangers milled about, divided into two groups on either side of the opening. Outside of the protection of the wall, another company was gathered, forming a living blockade of russet green and swords.

Over their heads, Harry could see the leading line of goblins. The creatures were gaining speed, and jeered in a guttural language, weapons waving wildly in the air.

“They will soon reach the range of our bows.”

No soon had Amlaith off-handedly made the remark did the twang of bows and whistling of arrows signal the start of the battle. The goblins' cajoling quickly turned into shrieks of terror and pain as the volley of arrows fell among them. The leading ranks, which were explicitly targeted by the expert bowmen above, were thrown into disarray. Harry could barely restrain his excitement as helmeted heads went down, and the hundreds of attackers began to thin.

An answering bombardment came from either side of the road. From all directions, black blots rose rapidly above the copse of trees concealing the hidden archers, a massive wave of arrows that briefly darkened the already murky skies. Snaps rent the air as the arrowheads snapped against the stone structure of the watchtower.

Harry snapped both arms above himself to shield his head from the countless halves of snapped arrows that showered him. Amlaith looked undeterred even as an iron arrowhead grazed his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood from the abrasion.

“Fire at will!” he roared.

 

The dread in the pit of Harry's stomach gained substance as the responding fire became noticeably sporadic.

There was a shrill series of delighted screams as the goblins regained their confidence. The metaphorical dam broke, and the black tide swept towards the company of Dunedain, unheeding to the pained shrieks of the wounded comrades they trampled beneath their feet. Prepared, the swordsmen stepped into the onrushing attackers, bringing their swords down in a descending guillotine of flashing steel, decimating the leading line.

The goblins pressed against them. The line of warriors held; companions at their back moving forward to replace any that had fallen. They held firm, utilizing the reach of their longer and more durable swords to create a space between the bodies of russet and black that any goblin that dared to cross would be shredded to ribbons.

The whistling in the air signaled another volley from the hidden archers. As if breaking from a spell, the Dunedain inside the clearing leapt into action, pressing their backs to the wall. Amlaith whirled around, seizing him by the arm, and dragged him up a flight of steps into an open room in the base of the tower.

Harry detached himself from the Ranger and threw himself to the side of the open doorway. An instant later, the stone pressed to his back rattled under the impact of a cloud of arrows, and the wooden floor in front of the entryway became carpeted with deeply imbedded arrows. Each shaft was as longer than his arm. Harry's mouth became dry.

The rattling ceased, and he shakily swept through the thicket of arrows. Amlaith followed resolutely, sword naked in his grasp.

The Dunedain had weathered the assault of the goblins, but their respite was not to last. As the last of the goblins were killed off, another, more numerous force came into view, emerging from the forestry. The Dunedain, supporting their wounded and dragging their dead, poured through the opening in the wall, wading through the arrows imbedded in the ground.

The orcs were taller, and bulkier in comparison to their goblin cousins, as well as more deadly. They wielded longer swords, and more wicked axes, and long pikes formed a thicket above their heads. Their legs were squat and staunch; their bodies bent forward, their low center of gravity supporting the huge wooden shields they wore. None of them showed the slightest reluctance to tread the road paved with the bodies of the ill-fated vanguard, and stalked towards the waiting defenders with a deadly purpose.

A small detachment of Rangers escorted their wounded to safety, leaving on horses while the rest of the company that had fought the goblins regrouped, taking their position a respectable distance from the opening. The orcs, sensing blood, picked up their pace, lowering their pikes.

The opening was narrow, forcing the tide of charging orcs into a trickle. They poured from the doorway, but never reached the formation of Rangers they were making for.

The other company of Dunedain kept in reserve, leapt from their places along the wall to strike the suddenly overmatched throng of orcs. The orcs performed a rapid dual turnabout, shields turning outwards to protect from the sidelong attacks.

Then, the remaining warriors of the first company surged forward, slamming into the orcish flank. Beset upon on three sides, the orc formation began to waver, their shield wall crumbling as Rangers hacked into them.

There was another din of warcries as the orcs separated from the battle by the wooden partition forced their entry, the body of orcs grappling with the Rangers inside the clearing expanding as reinforcements streamed in.

The inner cordon of Rangers snapped under the great pressure. Harry tightened his grip on his wand as the lines of Dunedain separating him from the ravening orcs began buckling as they struggled valiantly to contain the orcs amidst the chilling howls of bloodlust.

Finally, the green lines parted as the orcs burst outwards. Three Rangers attempted to prevent them from reaching the wizard and their chieftain, but were hewn down by the black wedge. Amlaith burst into action, charging down the steps. The nearest orc met his challenge, lunging with its pike.

Skillfully sidestepping the thrust, Amlaith dealt a blow that glanced off its shield, then whirled around rapidly with a swing that decapitated it's unprotected head. Kicking its headless corpse into the onrushing mass, he leapt backwards, brandishing his sword, fencing with three orcs simultaneously.

“Captiscindo!” Harry shouted, throwing a grey beam from his perch atop the steps into the raging black mass below.

It was impossible to miss. A misshapen head twisted off its neck, hit by his Beheading Curse that disappeared into the crowd.

The tumult ground to a halt, shocked faces staring at him. His stomach clenched nervously, and he raised his wand again.

“Incendio!”

The recipient of the Incinerator was consumed by the flash-fire, and the flames spread to the other orcs like wildfire. They shrieked, bodies flailing as they were immolated.

Orcs appeared to be flammable.

The spell reignited the furious combat. An entire group of orcs broke free of the melee, rushing towards him.

“Spiculum Mortis!”

A long obsidian spear materialized in front of him, and was launched at the charging crowd. The orcs towards which it was aimed moved its shield in front of it, but it was a futile effort. The deadly spear penetrated the wooden layer separating it from its target, and impaled the orc.

Summoning the conjuration back to him, Harry lowered the spear. The next attacker brought down a huge battleaxe on his weapon. The shaft shivered as the spear clanged against the ground. Detaching the weapon from the axe, Harry spun, bringing it for a sweeping blow towards its midsection.

The orc shifted its foot so that the spearhead missed, digging into the ground between its legs. Gritting his teeth, Harry threw his weight sideways, the shaft smashing into its knee. The orc lost its footing, and went down howling. Triumphant, Harry poised the spear for an overhead strike, and sank its tip into its jugular, ignoring the spray of black blood.

A jarring blow forced him backwards as another spearfighter engaged him next. Harry shifted his grip so that he held the shaft horizontally, bringing it down to meet the thrust of his opponent, forcing it towards the ground. The orc snarled venomously, and then with an enormous heave lifted its spear into the air, hoisting Harry above its head.

Taking advantage of his airborne position, Harry slashed at its undefended back with the spear, scoring a direct blow and sending the orc crumpling. He landed with a stumble. Once he had regained his balance, there seemed to be an uproar.

“Nazgul!”

“The Witch-King comes!”

Nightfall had arrived, and a chill seemed to befall all present. Harry swallowed as images of a pleading woman, a dark shape, and a flash of green light flitted through his mind. Beyond the wooden entryway, the orcs amassed outside had parted to form a path for a rider. The man - if man it was - was mounted atop a midnight black steed. Donned in dark attire, it wore an iron crown atop its hooded head.

It gave a low, menacing hiss, and the cacophony of steel upon steel died away as the vigor and determination of all that heard it, orc and human alike, slipped through their slackened fingers.

“Retreat!” Amlaith shouted.

The ensuing battle caused by the order was bereft of order. The Dunedain fought their way free, only loosely holding their formation in their bid for escape. They ran around the circumference of the tower.

Harry looked wildly for a path to escape, but both passages were cut off by a sea of orcs. Leering, pikes lowered, the orcs slowly closed in on him. Left with no other choice, he turned tail and reentered the room he had taken refuge from the arrow volley earlier.

Wagons lined the walls, their contents hidden under blankets, but there was no exit, no door or window.

If there was no path of escape, Harry would make one.

“Reducto!”

He dashed through the fissure created by his Reductor Curse, mingling with the stream of russet as the Dunedain ran through the meadow. Further in the distance, he could see torchfire marking the locations of another troop of Rangers from Bree. He stopped panting as he found Amlaith, standing to the side of the path.

The chieftain had unslung his bow, and was fingering an arrow.

“What are you waiting for?” Harry questioned breathlessly.

The orcs were swarming around the tower, and would be upon them in moments.

Amlaith gave no answer, and took a fleeing Ranger aside, confiscating the man's torch. Setting the arrow alight, he calmly strung it.

Harry flinched slightly as Amlaith released the arrow with a twang, following its flight path. It flew with perfect accuracy into the aperture Harry had created with the Reductor Curse, and hit one of the wagons littering the room's interior dead-center.

The resulting explosion was defeaning. The wagon, which must have contained explosives, detonated, setting off a chain reaction. The foundation of the tower imploded, stone fragments blasting outwards through the rank and file of the unsuspecting orcs with devastating effect, creating a whirling vortex of fire that consumed all those around it. The rest of the watchtower teetered uncertainly, before toppling across the road, landing between the wooden partitions.

Harry was subjected to a chilling sense of déjà vu as the stones from the uppermost portion of the tower landed on the ground, forming the ring he had seen in the mirror. Vaguely wondering where these seemingly primitive warriors had gotten their hands on explosives apparently every bit as effective as C2, he soon got his answer.

Small burning blots shot into the air, whistling, before bursting in a magnificent display of light. Crackles rent the night, and countless sparks illuminated the darkness. The Rangers and orcs alike ceased their movements, staring entranced at the obscenely festive fireworks.

The stupor was broken as a flaming figure stalked through the inferno that was the remains of the tower. The chill and dread iconic of Dementors reasserted itself. The orcs followed their leader, bolstered by the miasma instead of hindered by it, emerging from the flames.

Amlaith watched their advance impassively, before clearing his throat.

“Now we run.”

The imperturbable chieftain broke into a run after his retreating men. Harry wasted no time, shooting hexes over his shoulder to slow their advance as he ran.

A beacon was burning brightly at the peak of another watchtower in the distance. Harry jumped as a spear thudded in front of him. Wheeling around it, he quickened his pace, conjuring an assortment of vipers and asps, ordering them to cover his retreat. The serpents slithered into the meadow on either side of the path, ready to occupy the orcs when they arrived.

The screams that broke out a few minutes afterwards were extremely gratifying. Bolstered by his small victory, he continued running, mind shifting to the thoughtless state that it reverted to whenever he focused completely on a goal.

He slowed as he reached the wooden barricade. The opening was there, resembling the watchtower all over again. He strode through into the clearing, where the Dunedain had gathered. They had taken their previous positions, standing on either side of the opening, and thus he was unhindered as he approached Amlaith, who was heatedly arguing with the Ranger he recognized at the chieftain's son.

Amlaith abruptly shut up. His son fell silent as well, glancing at Harry contemplatively.

“What's happened?” Harry asked resignedly.

Amlaith raised a hand, grinning sheepishly. “I was hoping that you would ask that.”

“The palantir was housed at Weathertop,” the other Ranger broke in, “A party was dispatched to bring it here before the battle commenced, but they have not yet arrived. The only explanation is that they were waylaid by the enemy, who had somehow infiltrated a force between the towers to intercept them. It is crucial we retrieve it.”

“The Witch-King and his host will be upon us soon,” Amlaith continued. “And all opportunity for retrieval will be lost. Could you help us?”

“Describe this palantir.”

“It is an orb, with a smooth, crystalline surface.”Harry remembered the orb nestled comfortably atop the cairn. “An orb. Crystal clear,” he said cheerfully.

Amlaith lowered his voice.

“I think you are young. Your kind appear far older, I know not what it means. I would send a veteran, but no mortal man can survive the host outside.”

“Wizards are long-lived as well, but I am more mortal than you think.”

Harry ignored the stares that followed him as he departed, mentally reeling off all ways to attempt the mission. Apparition was out of the question, he had to visualize his destination. He glanced up towards the wooden walls fortifying the site, and a smile began to form. Then, he was gone, and a peregrine falcon perched on the wall took flight.

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So I was wrong. The battle scene had a life of its own, and the palantir will come into play the next chapter.

If anything is following this, I would appreciate it if you left a review saying what you thought.