The newly reborn Sylas, trapped in the body of a small child, quickly discovered that daily life had become a series of unexpected challenges. With his tiny arms and short legs, even climbing the stairs in Hogwarts Castle felt like an expedition. His wand was too large for his hands, and as for wielding a staff, he couldn't even lift it. At first, Butler Edward and the castle servants had been utterly bewildered. The rosy-cheeked boy with bright eyes and golden hair looked far too young to be their master. Whispers spread through the corridors. Many assumed this was Sylas's secret son, until, after much confusion and magical verification, they realized the unbelievable truth: their Lord had somehow become a child. For Arwen, the shock gave way to something entirely different, a wave of unstoppable maternal affection. She constantly tried to scoop him up into her arms, pinch his cheeks, and fuss over him as though he were an Elven toddler. She prepared him soft meals that Elven children ate, personally sewed tiny robes in delicate silk, and smiled every time he pouted in protest. Sylas, however, was horrified. If she kept treating him this way, he feared that her feelings would shift from love to… motherhood. That thought alone was enough to make him want to bury himself alive in embarrassment. So, determined to reclaim his dignity, he firmly rejected all her doting attempts and decided to brew an Ageing Potion at once. Fortunately, the ingredients were neither rare nor difficult to obtain. Sylas had Edward gather everything he needed, and within two days, the supplies were ready. He set up a cauldron nearly as tall as he was, climbed up on a stool, and began the process. Into the cauldron went two pints of red wine and half a pint of plum juice, simmered over medium flame. Standing on tiptoe, he gripped the stirring rod with both hands and began stirring counter-clockwise, puffing and straining as he worked. When the mixture darkened to a deep purple and bubbles began to rise, he crushed two ounces of Fringecup into a smooth paste and sprinkled it in, switching directions to stir clockwise for ten minutes. By the fifth minute, his small arms already ached. He scowled in frustration. His child's body was frail, and even potion brewing felt like manual labor. The potion gradually lightened to a pale violet. Next, he added two ounces of powdered turtle shell, lowering the heat to a gentle simmer. After eight more minutes, when the liquid turned a creamy color, he lifted the cauldron off the fire with a flick of his wand and let it cool. Once cooled, he filtered it through fine gauze to remove residue and returned the cauldron to the flame. Then came five thinly sliced caterpillars and powdered bat tongues, added in two equal rounds while stirring continuously, first clockwise, then counter-clockwise to finish. Finally, he extinguished the flame but continued to stir as the potion cooled, his small face flushed from the steam. After fifteen minutes, he stopped, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and smiled in triumph. The potion inside had turned milky white, the sign of success. He decanted the liquid into small crystal bottles, holding one proudly in both hands. The Ageing Potion's potency depended on its quality. A standard brew could add one month of age per drop, lasting only a single day. But Sylas had studied Professor Snape's private notes, and under the Potion Master's theoretical guidance, his concoction was far superior. Each drop could add one year of age and last for an entire month. Calculating quickly, Sylas decided on twenty drops. He raised the bottle, swallowed the shimmering liquid, and immediately felt a rush of heat course through him. His small body stretched, bones elongating, limbs strengthening. In moments, he shot upward in height. By the time the transformation stopped, he was once again a young man in his early twenties. He conjured a mirror, examined his reflection, and nodded with satisfaction. He looked slightly younger than before, but his sharp features, golden hair, and calm eyes had returned. When he stepped out of the potion room, Arwen was waiting in the corridor. The moment she saw him, a faint look of disappointment flickered across her face. Sylas froze. 'Was she… regretting something?' He sighed inwardly. "Don't tell me she actually preferred me as a toddler…" If Arwen liked children so much, then they would simply have more children in the future. That was what Sylas decided, smirking to himself at the thought. But far to the East, in the shadowed lands of Mordor, another scene was unfolding. Inside the fortress of Barad-dûr, beyond the endless plains of ash, stood an iron cage suspended by chains. Within it, a twisted, emaciated creature huddled in fear. Its limbs were frail, its skin pale and sickly, and its large, bulging eyes darted frantically, filled with terror as they gazed at the dark, shifting figure outside the cage. The prisoner was none other than Gollum, the pitiful creature who had once borne the One Ring. After the One Ring had been found by Bilbo Baggins beneath Goblin Town, Gollum had scoured Middle-earth in a desperate attempt to reclaim it. He had crept from the depths of the Misty Mountains, trailing Bilbo's scent north and east, finally reaching Dale, only to discover that the hobbit had long since returned to the Shire. So he turned back, wandering through Mirkwood, now restored under the watch of the Woodland Realm. But the forest was no longer wild and empty. Elven patrols found him first. Driven by panic, Gollum fled deeper into the darkness until he stumbled into Dol Guldur, the abandoned fortress that still reeked of old, corrupted power. There, in whispered exchanges with a wandering Orc, he heard a name, Sylas. The Black-Robed Wizard. The one who had once found him in the depths of Goblin Town, when he stalked Bilbo for his "precious." The wizard who had nearly ended his life. Thıs content belongs to 𝓷𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓵✦𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓮✦𝓷𝓮𝓽 Gollum's obsession twisted anew. If Bilbo was connected to that wizard, then perhaps the wizard knew where the Ring had gone. And so he turned south, toward Isengard, hoping to spy on the one he both feared and hated. But fate was not kind. At the borders of Isengard, the Wild Men of the plains barred his path. Too frightened to face them, he crept toward Fangorn Forest, seeking another way through. The choice nearly killed him. The ancient Ents and Huorns found the intruder first, and Gollum barely escaped with his life, haunted by the sound of groaning wood and crushing roots. Still, he lingered at the edges of Isengard, biding his time. And one day, his chance finally came. The Wild Men marched east to join the wars of Rohan, leaving the outer watch unguarded. Gollum's heart leapt. At last, the way was open. But before he could take even ten steps toward Isengard, the sky darkened. A roar split the heavens. A colossal Frost Dragon, leading a flight of lesser wyrms, descended upon Isengard. The ground quaked as the battle began, frost and fire colliding in deafening explosions that split the clouds. From afar, Gollum watched the storm of destruction, his fear drowning every thought. He saw the great dragon release an iceberg from the sky, shattering towers and flooding the plains with frozen ruin. The sight broke what remained of his courage. The need for the Ring vanished beneath sheer terror. He ran eastward, driven by instinct, by the faint whisper of the Ring still etched into his soul. He felt the Call of Mordor, a dark pull from the East, drawing him like a thread of shadow. But before he could reach the black land, he was caught in the spiraling winds of a tornado conjured by Saruman, who was fleeing toward Mordor after his fall. The storm carried both wizard and wretch across the plains, hurling Gollum like a leaf into the dark lands beyond the Ephel Dúath. The moment he touched the soil of Mordor, the ancient corruption within him flared to life. The mark of the Ring, seared into his soul from centuries of possession, resonated with the will of its master. Sauron sensed him instantly. The Dark Lord's servants seized him, dragging the trembling creature through the black gates of Barad-dûr. Now, imprisoned and bound in iron chains, Gollum trembled as the great shadow loomed before him, a formless presence of power and malice. A voice echoed through the chamber, vast and cold: "Gollum. Tell me… where is the One Ring?" The sound was like metal grinding upon stone, ancient and commanding, filled with the weight of ages. Gollum opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. His throat closed, and his mind went blank. Sauron mistook the silence for defiance. The Dark Lord's fury surged. From his shadowed form, tendrils of darkness lashed out, curling around Gollum's frail body like serpents. The creature shrieked in agony, writhing as the dark magic seared his skin. He wailed and begged and cursed, the sound echoing through the halls of Barad-dûr, but the Dark Lord did not relent. He had forgotten even the Philosopher's Stone that might have restored his physical form. Sauron could not kill Gollum, not yet. Until the truth of the One Ring's whereabouts was drawn from him, the pitiful creature still had value. After torturing Gollum to the brink of death, the Dark Lord paused. His voice rolled through the chamber like thunder laced with venom. "Speak! Where is the One Ring? Tell me, or I will turn you into a wraith and let the black fire feast upon you forever." Gollum's gaunt frame shook violently. His cheeks were wet with tears; his enormous eyes bulged with terror. When his life hung by a thread, something shifted within his fractured mind. The snarling Gollum shrank back, and the meeker, trembling Sméagol surfaced, the side that still clung to the faintest shred of humanity. Sméagol gasped, clutching his throat with shaking hands." I– I want to speak," he croaked, "but … but I can't! There's … something … stopping me! Don't kill me, please!" Sauron's burning gaze narrowed. The iron cage holding him liquefied at a thought, its molten bars vanishing into shadow. Tendrils of darkness lifted the wretch from the ground and drew him closer to the looming form of the Dark Lord. "Try again," Sauron commanded. "Say where the Ring lies." Gollum opened his mouth. His lips moved; his throat strained, but no sound emerged. Not even a whisper. And in that silence, Sauron felt it, a faint, ethereal resistance, like a spell humming beneath the skin of the world. His will flared, and realization dawned. "An Oath," he hissed. "A binding Oath of Silence. Not cast upon him alone, but upon all who know the truth." The chamber darkened as fury surged through his being. "Someone dares to seal my Ring with Oath Magic! Who is it?" The Great Eye upon the pinnacle of Barad-dûr blazed to life, its fire sweeping westward across the skies of Middle-earth. A single thought echoed from Mordor to the mountains and beyond: "Oath Magic… the Dragon Smaug… the Black-Robed Wizard Sylas, was it you?"