Luke set up the cauldron and lit the flames.
He added dew collected on a full moon night to the pot. Once the water boiled, he stirred in two spoonfuls of wormwood infusion, swirling it six times clockwise and then six times counterclockwise.
Next, he added six drops of earthworm juice, stirring once clockwise and once counterclockwise after each drop until the liquid fully absorbed it. The mixture turned green, emitting a bitter yet earthy fragrance.
At this stage, Luke lowered the heat and added ten drops of dragon blood one by one. The liquid turned red, then simmered at a low temperature for three days. Afterward, he added figs and continued boiling for another day.
He removed the heat, filtered the potion three times to remove impurities, then boiled it again. Seven drops of giant spider venom were added, stirred seven times clockwise and once counterclockwise. After a vigorous fifteen-minute boil, he tossed in seven strands of Legolas's generously donated hair.
Originally, unicorn hair was supposed to be used, but since unicorns didn't exist in this world, Luke improvised with elf hair—and, unsurprisingly, it worked.
He then removed the cauldron from the fire and let it cool naturally, leaving it untouched for seven days.
On the seventh day, the liquid had transformed into a bright, silvery fluid resembling mercury.
At last, the growth potion—designed to accelerate the growth of magical herbs—was complete.
Luke poured the potion into crystal vials, filling three bottles, which he stored in an empty cabinet in the potion room. Growth potion was an obscure concoction, primarily used to hasten the growth of magical plants. Only herbology experts or plantation owners specializing in magical flora were familiar with it.
Luke had only learned to brew this potion after inheriting the knowledge and memories of Professor Sprout, a master herbologist. With the potion finished, he eagerly grabbed one vial and left the potion room.
He exited the tower and stepped outside.
The dwarven craftsmen were hard at work constructing the castle, their mechanical pulleys whirring with efficiency. The foundation of a grand fortress, spanning the entire mountaintop, was already taking shape.
And then there was the dragon—cutting costs by airlifting massive stones and timber from afar, drastically reducing labor, material expenses, and logistical burdens.
Luke didn't disturb them. Instead, he headed to the garden area designated by Balin, the castle's architect.
At the garden's center lay a magically protected zone—off-limits to everyone except Luke himself.
This was where the seeds of the White Tree of Gondor and the Mallorn tree were buried.
Luke had arranged the planting sites into raised flower beds with brick borders.
Now, two tender sprouts had emerged from the soil, one in each bed, spaced a hundred meters apart.
These sprouts were extraordinary, radiating an overwhelming vitality.
The golden Mallorn sprout shimmered under the sunlight, exuding a warm energy like a tree of the sun.
Meanwhile, the silver-white White Tree sprout emanated a sacred, cool aura, resembling a tree of the moon.
Gazing at the two sprouts, Luke's eyes sparkled with anticipation.
Since planting the seeds, he had regularly watered them with the enchanted stream water gifted by Lady Galadriel. Yet, the seeds had taken an agonizingly long time to sprout, making Luke fear something had gone wrong.
It wasn't until a few days ago that the sprouts finally appeared, much to his relief.
Now, Luke took out the freshly brewed growth potion and dripped a single drop onto the Mallorn sprout.
The sprout absorbed the potion eagerly and, before Luke's hopeful eyes, began growing at a visible pace. Within moments, it transformed from a tiny sprout into a half-meter-tall sapling.
A single drop of the growth potion equaled a month's worth of growth.
Seeing the Mallorn respond so well, Luke's eyes lit up. Without hesitation, he added ten more drops.
The tree surged upward, swiftly surpassing Luke's height and continuing to expand as if time itself had accelerated.
Nearby, the dwarven craftsmen, busy with their work, suddenly noticed something blocking the sunlight. When they turned to look, their jaws dropped in shock.
A towering tree, already twenty meters tall, stood at the garden's center—and it was still growing.
The tree was majestic and breathtaking, its bark a silvery-gray, its form tall and straight.
It was the most beautiful tree the dwarves had ever seen!
The eldest among them, Balin, recognized it immediately.
"A Mallorn from Lothlórien! Truly as magnificent as the legends say!"
What astonished him even more was that Luke had not only managed to grow a Mallorn on Weathertop but had also made it flourish so rapidly.
But soon, another shock followed. A hundred meters away, a silver-white tree began rising just as swiftly.
Unlike the straight and regal Mallorn, this tree had twisting, dragon-like branches. Its lush leaves were emerald-green like jade, their undersides gleaming silver, casting a soft, ethereal glow under the sunlight. It exuded an aura of nobility and sanctity.
Now, two magnificent trees—one gold, one silver—stood in the garden, brightening the surroundings and freshening the air. Up close, Luke could feel the magical energy thickening around them.
The White Tree's influence was especially profound. Wherever its presence reached, life thrived—grass grew lush and evergreen, flowers bloomed endlessly, and even the air felt invigorating.
Luke still had half the growth potion left, but he refrained from further accelerating the trees' growth.
The potion wasn't a cure-all. Overuse would deplete the trees' innate vitality, doing more harm than good.
Instead, he plucked a few leaves from both trees.
The White Tree's leaves could heal wounds, neutralize toxins, and dispel dark magic.
The Mallorn leaves, meanwhile, were used by the elves of Lothlórien to wrap lembas bread, preserving it for long periods.
Lembas itself was made from Mallorn fruit—a single bite could sustain a traveler for an entire day, restoring stamina and hastening recovery. It was essentially Middle-earth's version of a super-compressed ration.
Luke planned to use the leaves as additional ingredients for future potions.
With the two trees now thriving, Luke didn't leave just yet. Instead, he reluctantly pulled out a pouch, wrinkling his nose.
After casting a Bubble-Head Charm to block the smell, he emptied the pouch's contents at the base of the trees.
It was dragon fertilizer, Smaug's number two—the most potent nourishment for magical plants.
Hogwarts' herbology classes often used dragon dung to aid growth, and Professor Sprout had been particularly fond of it. And since this batch came from Smaug himself, its effects far surpassed that of ordinary magical dragons.
To ensure the White Tree and Mallorn grew strong, Luke had no choice but to endure the stench and fertilize them.
He had even designated a special "toilet" area for Smaug, much to the dragon's bewildered amusement.
After burying the fertilizer and covering it with soil, Luke quickly retreated, casting multiple Scouring Charms on himself—yet still, a faint odor lingered.
Returning to the tower, he headed to the sixth-floor herb garden.
Stepping into the room where the King's Grass grew, he was greeted by warm air and a vast space—several times the size of a football field, with a sky-painted ceiling. Sunlight bathed the area, a gentle breeze rippling the lake's surface, where water lilies swayed.
The once-barren space had transformed into a thriving ecosystem. Grass, flowers, and shrubs covered the ground, butterflies fluttered among blossoms, and fish darted through the lake.
The King's Grass, which had once looked withered, now flourished, even sprouting new leaves.
Luke conjured a watering can, diluted some growth potion, and sprinkled it over the plants.
Under the potion's influence, the King's Grass rapidly grew, flowered, and produced seeds.
Once the seeds matured, Luke collected and scattered them in a new patch, watering them again.
Soon, the original hundred plants had multiplied into an expansive field.
"With this many, I'll never run short again," Luke murmured in satisfaction.
He then applied dragon dung fertilizer to further enrich the soil.
Remembering something else, he waved his wand. "Point me!"
A beam of light shot out, leading him to a spot on the opposite hillside.
There, hidden among the grass, was a certain plant.
Luke grinned. "So this is where you've been hiding!" He grabbed it by the leaves and yanked it out—revealing the Mandrake he had cultivated earlier.
When first planted in this room, the Mandrake had been tiny. Now, fully grown, it was furious at being uprooted.
It wriggled violently, screeching a cry that would have been lethal to anyone unprotected.
But Luke had already cast a Silencing Charm on himself. Chuckling, he teased the Mandrake, ignoring its angry glare.
Once he'd had his fun, he used a dropper to feed it three drops of growth potion.
The Mandrake stopped screaming, smacking its 'lips'—apparently enjoying the taste—and stared at him expectantly.
"Greedy little thing," Luke laughed, giving it three more drops before placing it back in the soil.
The moment it touched the ground, the Mandrake burrowed in eagerly, sprouting purple flowers almost instantly.
The flowers withered, replaced by three small, apple-like orange fruits.
Once ripe, Luke harvested them, carefully slicing them open to extract the seeds.
Mandrake fruit was a rare, top-tier potion ingredient. He stored the flesh in crystal vials and planted the seeds, watering them with more growth potion.
Soon, three new Mandrakes sprouted—naturally magical, requiring no extra effort to cultivate.
Luke didn't forget to fertilize them with dragon dung before leaving.
With the King's Grass and Mandrakes now self-sustaining, he moved on to other rooms, repeating the process—accelerating growth with potion, then enriching the soil.
By the time he exited the herb garden, both the growth potion and fertilizer were spent.
But the results were worth it.
From now on, his supply of magical plants was secure—completely self-sufficient!
After leaving the herb garden, Luke cast over a dozen Cleaning Charms and took a long, fragrant bath before finally ridding himself of the lingering stench. Then, he returned to the potion room.
This time, he intended to brew a different kind of potion—unlike the growth potion, this one was a dark magic concoction.
He switched to a silver cauldron, pouring in water tainted with dark magic from the shadowed depths of Mirkwood. Then, he added an entire crocodile heart, covered the cauldron, and let it simmer on low heat.
This went on for seven days.
At midnight on the seventh day, he added ten fertilized eggs, stirring clockwise forty-two times and counterclockwise seven times. Using a pure gold strainer, he filtered out the clumps and returned the liquid to the cauldron for reheating.
Next, he added seven drops of blood from a giant bat's heart and seven powdered venomous fangs, stirring counterclockwise thirteen times before bringing it to a rolling boil. The liquid turned a pale purple.
Luke mashed the Mandrake fruit pulp and stirred it into the potion, swirling it nine times clockwise before letting it simmer for nine hours.
After removing the cauldron from the fire, he added ten drops of giant spider venom, stirred counterclockwise ten times, and left it under the moonlight overnight.
By now, the potion had deepened into a dark purple.
Then, he added the brains of three toads, stirring three times clockwise and three times counterclockwise.
Finally, on a moonless night, he poured in seven drops of dragon blood. Without any heat, the potion began boiling violently, transforming into a cauldron of blood-red liquid.
Thus, the dark magic potion—the Birth Potion—was complete.
(T/N : Is bro inventing potions?)
As its name suggested, this potion enabled childbirth—regardless of race or gender. However, the price was steep: the offspring would consume everything from the carrier—life force, magic, even the soul.
The moment the child was born, the carrier would instantly perish.
This was why it was classified as a dark magic potion. Such a life-for-life exchange was undeniably evil.
Of course, merely drinking the potion wasn't enough. It required a specific celestial alignment and a magical ritual to take effect. And that alignment was fast approaching.
By the time the castle was half-built, an owl took flight from the tower at dusk, heading westward.
It flew past Bree, landing at the Barrow-downs, where it transformed back into human form.
Surveying the deathly, shadow-cloaked terrain, Luke nodded in satisfaction.
This place had witnessed countless deaths, tainted by the Witch-king of Angmar's evil. The lingering resentment and despair made it the perfect site for dark magic rituals, providing a natural reservoir of malevolent energy.
He then looked up at the rising star in the distant sky—Helluin.
Helluin, the blue star created by Varda, the Queen of the Stars, for the Firstborn Elves, was the first light the Elves beheld upon awakening by Lake Cuiviénen in Middle-earth's north.
To the Elves, it held profound significance—a witness to their birth, embodying their love for starlight and reverence for Varda.
Yet, in another world, this star—symbolizing hope and guidance—bore a different name: Sirius.
Luke had long noticed that while many things in this world had new names, they bore striking resemblances to his previous life.
For instance, Middle-earth was, in fact, a spherical world with day-night cycles, seasons, and celestial mechanics similar to Earth's. The transition from a flat world to a globe traced back to the First Age, before Númenor's downfall.
Back then, Arda was flat, with Middle-earth at its center, surrounded by endless seas. The Undying Lands of Aman in the far west had not yet been hidden—sailors could still reach Valinor by ship.
But when Númenor's last king, corrupted by Sauron, led an armada to assault Aman and challenge the Valar, the blasphemy angered the divine.
Manwë, King of the Valar, sought Eru Ilúvatar's aid. In response, Eru reshaped Arda into a sphere, sinking Númenor beneath the waves.
Aman was removed from the visible world, accessible only via the Straight Road. Any ship sailing west in search of the Undying Lands would eventually circle back east.
Thus, Arda was, in essence, a globe—much like Earth.
And while the stars bore different names, their celestial patterns mirrored those of his past world and the wizarding realm.
The alignment Luke awaited was when Sirius—Helluin—reached its zenith, shining brightest.
Finding a large clearing, he used dragon blood to draw a seven-pointed star on the ground, inscribing dark magic runes within.
Once the magic circle was complete, he retrieved a seven-year-old rooster from his pouch, forced the Birth Potion down its throat, and placed it at the center of the star.
As Sirius climbed to its highest point, Luke raised his wand, chanting dark incantations. The dragon-blood sigils ignited in crimson flames.
A tremendous suction force pulled the surrounding malevolent energy into the circle.
The vortex grew, drawing in the Barrow-downs' accumulated darkness, forming a massive black whirlwind. The barrow-wights, disturbed from their slumber, shrieked in terror as their dark power was siphoned away.
The dragon-blood flames, tainted by evil, turned a sinister black-red, radiating heat and malice.
At the exact moment Sirius peaked in brilliance, Luke hurled seven dark ingredients into the seven points of the star:
Giant spider venom
Troll's heart
Orc's liver
Warg's fang
Giant bat's wing
Cave worm's tooth
Barrow-wight's skull
The flames roared skyward, devouring the darkness for miles. The barrow-wights, drained of most of their power, collapsed back into torpor.
Above, Helluin's light—like a shooting star—streaked down into the circle.
The rooster at the center grew frantic, squawking and flailing.
Then, the combined stellar and dark energies flooded into its body, warping its physiology with magical force.
The rooster writhed in agony, its cries piercing the night.
As the last of the power was absorbed, the flames flickered out.
Silence fell.
Only the rooster remained, unharmed but eerily still.
Luke waited.
Fifteen minutes later, the rooster let out one final crow—and laid a single, ominously pulsing black egg.
With its last act, the rooster died.
Stepping into the circle, Luke picked up the egg—smaller than a normal chicken's, yet thrumming with immense, cursed power.
The fusion of dark energy and Helluin's light had birthed something profoundly sinister.
And with the right incubation, this egg would hatch into the most dangerous dark creature in the magical world—a Basilisk.
A Basilisk's gaze meant instant death—direct eye contact killed, while indirect sight (like through a mirror) petrified. Only a mature Mandrake Restorative Draught could reverse the petrification.
Its venom, too, was incurably lethal—phoenix tears were the sole antidote.
Highly resistant to magic, most spells simply bounced off its scales.
And the older it grew, the larger and more powerful it became.
Its only weakness? The crow of a rooster.
Perhaps because it was born from one, the sound terrified Basilisks—prolonged exposure could even kill them.
Though with age, this weakness faded—an ancient Basilisk might survive the sound.
Still, even with this flaw, Basilisks remained the most feared dark creatures.
Many dark wizards had tried breeding them, only to become their first victims—for Basilisks obeyed only Parseltongue.
Thus, magical governments strictly banned their creation.
Carefully storing the egg, Luke buried the dead rooster and erased all traces of the ritual.
The Barrow-downs, once steeped in evil, now felt almost cleansed—the wights too drained to resurge anytime soon.
Then, transforming back into an owl, he flew east toward Weathertop under the cover of night.
In the magical world, the first recorded Basilisk was bred by "Herpo the Foul"—a Greek dark wizard who spoke Parseltongue. After numerous experiments, he discovered that hatching a rooster's egg beneath a toad would produce an extraordinary serpent—the Basilisk.
The Basilisk breeding method Luke obtained from his Goblin Town check-in reward originated from this very dark wizard, Herpo.
It's unclear how Herpo came up with the idea of making a rooster lay an egg and then having a toad incubate it.
Upon returning to Weathertop, Luke specifically went to the marshes at the foot of the mountain to find a large, plump toad.
He then magically bound the toad to the black rooster's egg and placed it in a sealed chamber to incubate slowly.
Barring any mishaps, the Basilisk would hatch in seven days.
With everything prepared, Luke returned to his meditation chamber.
He tossed a Mallorn leaf into the Everlasting Fire, filling the room with fragrant, sunlit mist. Leaning back on a comfortable sofa, he softly hummed a magical melody, sinking into deep meditation.
The faint yet mystical music reverberated through the room, making the Everlasting Fire in the hearth dance merrily as if affected by its rhythm.
Time always passed swiftly in meditation. By the time Luke emerged from his trance, dawn had long since broken outside the tower.
Opening his eyes, a gleam of sharp focus flashed within them. Despite staying up all night, he felt refreshed, without a trace of fatigue.
His meditation had been fruitful. Months of continuous practice had strengthened his mind and soul, and his magical reserves had grown significantly.
At this rate, it wouldn't take many years for him to reach the level of top-tier wizards like Dumbledore, Grindelwald, or Voldemort.
If he lived long enough, attaining power comparable to Elrond—or even Galadriel—wasn't out of the question.
He might even dare to hope for Maiar-level strength.
The thought ignited a fierce determination in Luke's heart, his eyes blazing with ambition.
At first glance, Gandalf the Maiar might seem less impressive than Elrond or Galadriel in Middle-earth.
But that was only because his power was severely restricted here—without his staff, he could barely perform decent magic.
In his full glory, as a demi-god of the Maiar, Gandalf's power was cataclysmic.
Though called "lesser spirits," the Maiar were still divine beings—second only to the Valar in power. Both Maiar and Valar were Ainur, the first creations of Eru Ilúvatar.
Galadriel, on the other hand, was fundamentally an Elf.
Thus, Gandalf at full strength far surpassed Galadriel—they weren't even on the same level.
Of course, such heights were still distant for Luke.
He hadn't even reached the level of Dumbledore and other master wizards yet.
Achieving Galadriel's tier seemed like a pipe dream, let alone the divine might of the Maiar.
But dreams were worth having—who knew? One day, he might just ascend to godhood.
Over the following days,
Aside from checking on the egg's progress, Luke maintained his daily meditation routine.
The rest of his time was spent crafting his first true alchemical creation.
The more he studied from The Book of Abraham, the more his alchemical skills grew.
The walking stick he had gifted to Tom Bombadil had been a mere trial piece—pretty but impractical, capable only of conjuring flowers.
Thus, he didn't consider it his first true alchemical work.
This time, he aimed to create a common magical artifact—a Quick-Quotes Quill.
For materials, he plucked a few fine feathers from Sólonor, his young eagle, who was currently molting.
Alchemy differed from other branches of magic—it was a profound and esoteric discipline involving the transformation of matter itself.
An alchemist had to understand the essence of materials and use runes, potions, and magical arrays to guide energy, reshaping matter into enchanted artifacts.
The pinnacle of alchemy—the Philosopher's Stone—could transmute base metals into gold.
This transformation was permanent—even if someone tried to reverse it with a counter-spell, the gold would remain gold.
Transfiguration, on the other hand, could turn objects into gold, but damaging the structure or dispelling the magic would revert them.
Spells required continuous magical input to sustain their effects, whereas alchemical creations achieved similar results—permanently.
At his current level, Luke couldn't yet alter matter's fundamental nature, but he could embed spells into ordinary objects, granting them magical functions.
The Quick-Quotes Quill's purpose was to automatically and swiftly transcribe its owner's spoken or mental words onto paper—without requiring additional magic.
Achieving this required combining multiple spells: Levitation, Legilimency, Voice Recognition, Automatic Writing, and more.
Fusing them was no easy feat.
In the alchemy lab,
a sudden explosion rocked the entire tower.
The dwarven craftsmen outside paused, glanced back, then resumed work.
They'd grown accustomed to these occasional blasts over the past few days.
Luke stared at the pile of feather ashes before him, dispelling the protective charms with a wave.
He then selected another feather and started over.
Finally, a finished quill emerged.
The feather gleamed with a metallic sheen, its shaft covered in intricate, rune-like patterns.
Luke channeled magic into the eagle-feather quill, and it sprang to life, fluttering around him eagerly.
"Now, let's see what you can do," Luke said expectantly.
The quill trembled, then darted to a blank parchment, transcribing his words in elegant calligraphy.
He continued speaking—sometimes clearly, sometimes in a murmur—and the quill captured every syllable flawlessly.
Satisfied, he pressed his wand to his temple, extracting a silvery memory strand and tossing it to the quill.
The quill absorbed the strand and flew to a blank leather-bound book, inscribing The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 in gilded letters on the cover.
It then flipped to the first page and began scribing the textbook's contents in emerald-green ink.
Leaving the quill to its task, Luke turned his attention back to the egg.
The hatching time was near, and he needed to stay vigilant.
Even a newborn Basilisk was deadly—its gaze and venom were lethal from birth.
Though a Parselmouth, Luke wasn't immune to its eyes.
One accidental glance, and he'd be dead—an embarrassing way to go.
As the seventh night arrived,
Luke stood in the sealed chamber, wearing enchanted sunglasses, watching the toad atop the black egg.
The once-plump toad now looked gaunt and listless, immobilized by magic.
Then—the egg twitched.
Luke tensed, ready.
The creature inside struggled against its shell, probing for weakness.
Finally, with a faint crack, a small hole appeared.
The moment a emerald-green snout poked out, Luke hissed in Parseltongue: "Close your eyes before emerging!"
The hatchling froze, then slithered out—a finger-thin, green serpent with a blood-red crest—its eyes tightly shut, tongue flicking.
It was hard to imagine this tiny creature would one day span 50 feet (15 meters).
True to its dark origins, the Basilisk was vicious even under Parseltongue control. Without hesitation, it sank its fangs into the toad, injecting venom.
The toad convulsed and died instantly.
Luke frowned.
No wonder Basilisks were classified as XXXXX creatures. Had he not been a Parselmouth, he'd have been its first victim.
But he'd prepared for this.
After commanding the Basilisk not to resist, he drew a drop of its blood with a syringe.
The serpent hissed in pain but obeyed.
Luke then pricked his own finger, mixing their blood while chanting an incantation.
The droplets merged midair.
"Open."
The Basilisk complied, and the blood flew into its mouth.
An invisible bond formed between them—instilling loyalty and erasing any urge to harm its master.
Watching the basilisk affectionately coil around Luke's wrist like an emerald bracelet, he couldn't help but smile.
The spell he had just cast was a type of magical contract: the Blood Oath—a powerful pact ensuring neither party could harm the other. Of course, this was his own modified version.
It only bound the basilisk from harming him, while placing no restrictions on himself.
Moreover, he had made the basilisk the vessel of the oath—unless the serpent was killed, the pact would remain unbroken.
Now, he could raise the basilisk without worry.
"From now on, your name is Herpo."
Luke, terrible at naming things, simply borrowed the title of "Herpo the Foul", the first wizard to ever breed a basilisk.
He then placed the basilisk in a sealed room, reinforcing the door with magic to prevent escape or accidental intrusion.
After all, there were now thousands of dwarves outside the tower, along with villagers hired to cook for them. Inside, there was also Edward the butler and Legolas, who had just returned from Mirkwood.
Luke planned to carve a secret chamber into the mountain beneath the castle once construction was complete—a proper lair for the basilisk.
Time passed swiftly, and soon, the castle neared completion.
Atop Weathertop now stood a grand fortress.
The outermost layer was a towering, thick wall encircling the entire mountaintop, its battlements wide enough for patrols, lined with arrow slits and watchtowers at regular intervals.
The main gate was a pair of massive bronze doors, intricately engraved and mechanically fortified—impossible to open from the outside without the proper key.
Beyond the gates lay a vast courtyard, crossed by a straight white-stone path leading to a fountain at the castle's heart. The fountain's waters came from a deep underground spring, tapped after the dwarves dug nearly a kilometer down.
Atop the fountain stood a golden dragon statue—Smaug's personal request. He had even contributed gold from his hoard for its construction.
(The dwarves had initially wanted to sculpt Luke's likeness, but he vetoed the idea—the thought of guests gawking at his statue was too embarrassing.)
The fountain's overflow fed into a garden stream, passing between the Mallorn and White Tree, pooling into a small lake before cascading down the western cliffs into the marshes below.
The main keep, built around the original Amon Sûl tower, was a sprawling eight-story structure with multiple towers and annexes.
The old watchtower remained the tallest point, looming over the rest like a rocket surrounded by boosters.
Other facilities included greenhouses, stables, servants' quarters, and guest rooms.
The Great Hall, accessible from the tower, could host a thousand guests—perfect for feasts, celebrations, and official gatherings.
"How do you like it, Luke? Any changes needed?"
Balin, the project's overseer, led Luke on a full tour before asking for feedback.
Luke nodded approvingly. "Dwarven craftsmanship is unmatched. I have no complaints!"
Then he sighed. "Though I do wonder—how am I supposed to live in such a massive castle alone?"
Even the original Amon Sûl tower had been spacious. Now, with the expanded fortress, the place felt enormous.
Balin chuckled. "You're a lord now! You'll need servants, guards, and attendants—not to mention guests. This castle will fill up soon enough."
Luke considered it. He did need staff—someone to clean, tend the gardens, and feed Smaug, Herpo, and even the giant spiders.
He couldn't handle all that alone, not when his time was better spent on magic, alchemy, and meditation.
"Oh, and the underground tunnels are nearly done. Care to take a look?" Balin added.
Luke's eyes lit up. "Already? Let's go!"
They descended a hidden staircase behind the cellar, leading to a sheer, spiraling stairway carved into the mountain's heart.
At the bottom lay a concealed stone door, operable only with a special key.
When opened, it revealed a natural cavern with an underground river flowing outward.
"This connects to the marshes," Balin explained. "We can dig it into a lake, then keep boats here—an escape route if needed."
Luke nodded. "How long would that take?"
Balin grinned. "With Smaug's help? Less than half a month."
The dwarves had long realized why the dragon was so eager to assist—he wanted the construction over with, so the dwarves would stop draining his hoard on ale.
Two weeks later, a crescent-shaped lake encircled Weathertop's base, merging with the eastern and northern cliffs to form a natural moat.
The only access was now a stone bridge leading to the castle gates.
And so, the Castle was complete.
Luke named it—
Hogwarts.