In LOTR with Harry Potter system

"What's going on? Is this orb broken?" one of the Dwarves muttered, furrowing his brow as he peered into the crystal ball.

Even Gandalf looked perplexed. He extended his hand. "Sylas, may I?"

Sylas nodded and passed him the Palantír. Gandalf held the orb gently, his eyes narrowing as he focused.

But still, the image remained unchanged, just the shadowy chasm floor, littered with stones and bones. No sign of Bilbo anywhere.

"Is it out of power?" Kíli asked uncertainly. 

Gandalf turned towards the orb, brows deeply furrowed.

"No... it's not broken," he murmured.

Sylas remained silent, but in truth, something had clicked in his mind.

The orb was functioning perfectly. The scene it displayed was accurate.

Which could only mean one thing.

Bilbo was there.

But unseen.

Sylas's eyes narrowed.

He's put on the One Ring.

That would explain everything. The Ring had shrouded Bilbo in invisibility.

But Sylas knew better than to say that aloud. The fewer people who knew Bilbo had the Ring, the better. Especially with Thorin nearby.

So he kept up the act, scratching his head in mock confusion. "Strange. Maybe it was damaged when we fell into the cave. I'll stow it for now."

He slipped the Palantír back into his pouch with practiced ease.

"We should head down and look for him," he suggested. "He couldn't have gone far."

The others agreed, and began preparing ropes and torches to descend.

But before Sylas followed them, he paused.

He had unfinished business.

The System's silent notification had been flashing in the corner of his vision ever since they'd entered the Goblin caverns. Only now, with the immediate danger passed, could he finally respond.

[Hogwarts Sign-In System Detected]

Location: Misty Mountains – Goblin-town. Would you like to sign in?

Sylas steadied his breathing, anticipation building. Confirm sign-in.

Sign-in successful!

Reward acquired: Basilisk Cultivation Method.

His eyes widened.

A Basilisk...?

His heart skipped.

That was no ordinary reward. In the wizarding world, Basilisks were legendary magical beasts of darkness, nearly impossible to tame, much less raise. Their gaze could kill instantly. They could live for centuries, even millennia, and grow to monstrous size.

In the books, only Parselmouths, those who could speak the language of snakes, had any chance of commanding one. Even then, the risk was overwhelming.

Many Dark wizards throughout history had attempted to raise a Basilisk.

Most had perished.

Their own creations had turned on them, their magic insufficient to contain the serpent's wrath. Death came swiftly, either from a fatal gaze or a single drop of venom.

But Sylas was different.

He had the rare gift of Parseltongue. With it, he could speak to serpents, command them, even befriend them. If he truly succeeded in raising a Basilisk, it would be a terrifying weapon at his disposal, one that could shift the tide of any battle.

Still, he couldn't help but pause.

'A Parselmouth, raising a Basilisk… am I not walking the same path as the Dark Wizards?'

He let out a slow breath and smiled to himself.

'So be it.'

Dark Wizard or not, power was power. And in this world of Elves, Dragons, and Rings of Doom, strength was survival.

"White wizard, dark wizard, it's like a black cat or white cat," he mused quietly. "As long as it catches mice, it's a good cat."

With that, he allowed the newly acquired knowledge to flood into his mind.

Basilisk Cultivation:

The process wasn't overly complex, but it defied all natural law.

First, a rooster, not just any rooster, but one precisely seven years old, was required.

Under the light of Sirius, the brightest star in the sky, a cursed ritual must be performed. The spellwork would draw on celestial alignment to rewrite the creature's instincts, forcing it to lay a magical egg, a paradox of nature, even in magical circles.

That egg must then be placed under a toad and left to incubate.

When it hatched, the result would be an emerald-green Basilisk, born of Dark Arts and starlight.

Its gender could be distinguished by a single trait: a scarlet plume on the crown marked a male; if absent, it was female.

The ritual was possible—but not soon.

The next time Sirius would be directly overhead was midnight on Afteryule (January)1st. And now, it was already Forelithe (June).

He'd have to wait another half-year.

By then, the Lonely Mountain would be behind them.

Sylas sighed and shelved the plan for now.

Meanwhile, the Goblin cave had fallen silent.

Not a single enemy remained.

The Dwarves, freed from danger, wasted no time. "If we've already come this far," Glóin muttered, "we'd be fools not to take a look at what the Goblins were hoarding."

"Start with the King's chamber," Thorin ordered. "That's where any proper treasure would be."

And they were not wrong.

Upon entering the grand cavern once ruled by the Goblin King, they were met with a dazzling sight.

Gold coins spilled from crude chests. Mountains of silver, goblets encrusted with rubies, amethyst rings, and sapphires glittered from every crevice. 

It wasn't quite the hoard of Smaug, but among all the caves in Middle-earth beyond Erebor, this may well have been the largest hidden trove.

Even Thorin, who had once stood before the vast treasure hoard of the Lonely Mountain, couldn't help but look stunned at the sheer wealth laid out before him.

"By Durin's beard… we're going to be rich!" gasped Dwalin, his eyes glittering with the same fervor as the golden coins before him.

"Don't drool on the gold, Dwalin. And mind your manners, these spoils belong to Sylas!" Balin barked, swatting the back of Dwalin's head with the flat of his palm.

The reminder worked. One by one, the Dwarves straightened up with sheepish expressions, reluctantly pulling their gazes away from the treasure.

Though their greed hadn't vanished, they all knew the truth: if not for Sylas's timely magic, they would have been overrun by goblins. They hadn't lifted a finger in the fight, and they knew it.

Sylas, however, didn't show much excitement over the treasure. 

With a casual wave, he offered, "Take whatever you like. It's not much use to me."

Thorin, as ever, refused politely, arms crossed and pride intact. The others, however, accepted the offer with great enthusiasm, scooping gemstones and coins into their pouches and pockets with the glee of children let loose in a candy shop.

While the Dwarves busied themselves, Sylas noticed a faint silver gleam peeking out from beneath a pile of rubies and ancient coins. His curiosity piqued, he knelt and swept the treasure aside.

What lay beneath took his breath away.

It was a spear, long and elegant, crafted entirely of silvery-white metal. Its shaft shimmered with delicate patterns and Elven runes that pulsed faintly with ancient power. The spearhead itself gleamed like freshly fallen snow, razor-sharp and cold to the touch, as though it had been forged in the heart of a glacier.

Sylas's fingers closed around the haft.

The moment he touched it, a pulse of raw magic surged through his arm. His pupils contracted as the weapon drank in his power like a thirsty beast.

A radiant burst of frost-blue light erupted from the spearhead, and the air around him grew frigid. Acting on instinct, Sylas turned and jabbed the spear toward the cavern wall.

The result was immediate, and explosive.

Immediately, a destructive force was released from the spearhead, and the entire stone wall quickly cracked and threatened to collapse.

Gandalf, who was nearby, looked very surprised when he saw the spear. "Sylas, may I see it?" he asked.

Sylas noticed the change in Gandalf's expression, handed him the spear, and asked, "Gandalf, do you recognize this spear?"