Ballad of Dusk and Dawn - AzarDarkstar (2024)

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Harry Potter has a problem. Several of them in fact. A whole list in fact. He could write an entire essay on the topic in four millimeter cursive with citations.

He snorts and hurries down the corridor at a pace that's most assuredly not a run. It's more dignified than that. Especially with the expensive robes they insist on stuffing him into. The rugs are plush and soften his footsteps, but he's already silent after all these years of escaping relatives and stalking out-of-bounds students in the hallways. Further avoiding all the jewelry they tried to foist on him certainly keep him from jingling as he ducks down the stairs.

'Forget an essay,' Harry thinks. 'Try a treatise. A book.'

He's done that before, after all. It's not nearly as hard as people make it out to be. As much correspondence as he gets nowadays, it certainly feels like he's writing another. Though admittedly, the illustrations are the best – and most amusing – part.

Harry honestly doesn't know how he keeps ending up in these situations. Life after the war had been quieter, yes. Fewer Dark Lords or death-defying stunts but certainly still odd. Even for a wizard.

Now, it's taken two hard left turns and full speed straight on ahead into the outright bizarre.

"Cousin!"

It's just the edge of his hearing, up two hallways and an entire floor. He can imagine the look on Fingon's face, can practically feel the disappointment from here. That only makes him step even lighter like a naughty student avoiding the prefects.

'Doesn't this bring back memories,' Harry muses as he turns another corner that takes him closer to the kitchens.

Running from his cousin – or in this case an alleged cousin. Though admittedly Fingon and Dudley are worlds apart. Quite literally – looks, temperament, and location. If he had to choose, Harry knows which one he'd pick. But that would open an entire sack of Kneazles he doesn't want to deal with.

His pace slows then as he passes two servants exiting the largest kitchen.

"Lord Hérion," they murmur and offer shallow bows, but at least both look him in the eye now, which is a vast improvement and has only taken several years.

Considering the timescale that the Eldar work on, that was practically as fast as a Firebolt 84. Maybe one day they'll even drop the lord part of this utter farce.

Baby steps.

Harry sighs and slips inside. The kitchen itself is a cacophony of noise despite the early hour. It's so busy that he's not noticed, and he's out the side door without any further comment. The stable's in easy distance. Indilwen, already strategically placed in a stall by the back exit, waits for him alone. There are no stable-hands in sight, but he can hear them moving in the distance for their dawn chores. She lifts her head at his approach, chewing on her breakfast of hay and oats. She flicks a judging ear his way and stamps her front foot when he starts saddling her by himself.

"I know, I know," Harry commiserates and pauses to scratch along her neck just how she likes.

A blue eye turns to glare at him. As if to ask what he thinks he's doing this early in the morning with the sun just barely peaking over the horizon.

"It's not so early that they didn't know I was leaving," Harry defends even as moves to rub behind her right ear. "I also said my goodbyes to my hosts last night".

And if they think he meant later in the week or even the month, that is in no way shape or form his fault.

It isn't.

The amount of time elves spent visiting each other is insane. Harry isn't staying here for months much less years. He has things to do. A castle to rebuild. A town to construct. Books to read. Herbal lore to learn. Potions to envision. Paints to mix. Things!

It's not his fault that travel here is so slow. He also isn't going to tell any of them that once he and Indilwen are a safe distance from prying eyes that they're going to apparate home because he's never going to explain that to anyone. Ever.

There's a flick of a horsetail behind him that swats Harry on the shoulder in warning. He feels the presence before Harry hears or sees him. Male. Elda – not Maia. Steady but not sneaking. Pausing right outside their stall.

"Hiding again, I see, Marcaunon." The voice is amused. Familiar. Too pleasant. "Or is it running?"

Harry doesn't sigh. He also doesn't bang his head on the wooden post next to him, but it's tempting.

Somehow, he should've known his luck wouldn't hold. Life is never that easy on him.

Harry turns then as is only polite. He hides his apprehension, his need to rush. Pushes away the sinking feeling of Fingon edging ever closer.

"King Gil-galad," he greets and inclines his head as respectfully as he can given that he's in the middle of saddling a horse at the crack of dawn during his great escape from far too many of Finwë's line.

That earns him a chuckle.

"I'm hardly king of anything these days," Gil-galad returns, "and I know I told you that we do not have to use titles between us. I think you prefer that even."

He's still standing by the stall door, looking impossibly royal even with their surroundings. His tunic is layers of ocean blues and white like cresting waves, and the circlet on his brow glints in silver mixed with gold in the morning light. It isn't the most elaborate Harry's seen – that honor absolutely goes to Queen Indis. The brooch for his house is apricot-size and set over his heart, and there's a glittering ring on each hand. It'd be a bit much by magical standards, but it's barely anything for a Ñoldo.

Harry, however, is a complete minimalist. The only jewelry he wears is the signet he came to this world with – not that the elves can even see it on his hand. He knows it makes the Ñoldor beside themselves that he doesn't have more – or any as far as they can tell. That coupled with his other odd behavior sets him apart, and he's seen several of them trying to hide their whispers behind their hands and interrupted many other conversations just by entering the room.

"You are far more king than I'm lord," Harry says instead, and Indilwen nudges him with her nose, black mane tickling along his cheek.

That statement earns him another laugh. Gil-galad's smiling, friendly and a little too cheerful for this time of day.

Harry is immediately suspicious. Not the least of which is why Gil-galad is here of all places. Not Tirion or even Fingon's estate – since Angrod and Irimë have been here for weeks already, and Gil-galad is supposed to be dangling off this crazed family tree somehow. But why is Gil-galad here in the stable?

"And yet, how well Formenos blossoms under your hand," the older elf comments, and it's almost idle. Like he speaks on nothing more than the weather. He's regal even as he leans on the short wall, outer robe a waterfall of silk in the faint breeze. "I'm told it was once a place of exile, punishment even, but I hear it is a town that's nearly a city now. A place of warmth in the infinite snow."

That's… true, Harry admits even if only to himself. He had a lot of experience rebuilding after the war. He'd learned to soothe instead of harm, to mend instead of rend. Formenos started as a project – as a lack of anything else better to do in this strange new world. Now it's a passion. A calling. Creating a new home for himself and others displaced to Valinor. Unable to return to the world they'd known before – though admittedly his had not been Arda like theirs.

"That doesn't make me it's lord though," Harry points out. He's standing very still with Indilwen practically nuzzling into his back. Her bridle is taunting him as it hangs just out of reach, but it'd be just a little too rude and a little too casual for him to reach for it while speaking with a Ñoldo king.

"Just the person in charge," Gil-galad says. It's very knowing as he taps his chin with a ringed finger just so.

Harry purposefully looks at him and not the bridle. He doesn't shrug; he isn't a teenager anymore, and this world is more formal than his last. Instead, he inclines his head.

Formenos needed a leader. Despite his protests over his appearance, it somehow became Harry. Perhaps it's past experience. Perhaps it's lingering humanity and their need to just do something and not just sit around. Perhaps it's just Harry himself.

"I was the only option," Harry offers as an excuse. "I don't think people become lords by default."

Gil-galad pauses, looks at him for a long moment. Harry can feel the clock ticking, can practically hear Fingon's footsteps in the distance as they draw closer.

"One would be surprised."

It isn't mocking, but there's something to his tone. Gentler now. Still warm but the amusem*nt is gone. He hasn't stopped leaning on the wall, but there's not a speck of dirt on his tunic to be seen. Repelled by some elven magic that all of them – even Harry, too, now – seem to have. His hair is layered between loose and braided as appropriate for his station, and in the morning light, the deep, rich brown holds shades of red and even gold.

"Perhaps," Gil-galad says then, interrupting his thoughts, "perhaps we can both not be lords for the day?"

Harry blinks once and again when Gil-galad enters the stall and is abruptly standing beside him. Indilwen nickers then and swishes her tail. But she allows him close, which is surprising in more ways than one. A quick escape isn't the only reason she's kept at the back of the barn and away from other strange horses or strangers in general.

"My Arthion is kept nearby," the older male clarifies. His eyes – Harry notices – are neither blue nor gray but something in-between like an oncoming storm. "A ride this morning would surely be welcome, no?"

There's mischief present. Harry's known far too many troublemakers to miss the unspoken offer.

"I plan to ride north," he allows even as Indilwen rubs her forehead against his shoulder again but doesn't chew on his robe this time. Probably because this is one he actually likes and it's comfortable to ride in.

"I haven't spent much time in the north of Aman," Gil-galad replies, amusem*nt ebbing and flowing. "So I defer to your expertise." He offers a generous wave of his hand.

Harry lets out a breath; he gives a nod. It earns him a satisfied smile.

This… This can work. He can bridle Indilwen while Gil-galad's horse is prepared, and they can leave. He can head in the direction of Formenos until Gil-galad is ready to make his own departure or stop to rest or do… whatever else he's planning to do.

But really, that would be too easy.

There's a not-so-unexpected tingle of doom then. A crawling sensation down his spine, and Harry knows his time has come even before he hears the words.

"Leaving so soon, cousin."

Fingon isn't a boggart. He isn't. Harry doesn't jump or gasp. He also doesn't sigh heavily in defeat.

And for someone that is thousands of years old with literal gold woven around his braids, Fingon somehow looks like a miserable, abandoned crup discarded in the Diagon gutter. He also manages to have an aura of a despondent grandmother with his hands folded over his chest. Harry has been many things – master, professor, head of house, headmaster – but standing before this elf, he feels all of eleven years old being gently rebuked for staying up past his bedtime while not turning in his homework and simultaneously putting them into negative house points. This is worse than upsetting Professor Flitwick and making Hagrid cry combined. Molly Weasley, bless her after all these years, never even had this sort of dastardly power.

"Good morning, Lord Fingon," Harry greets, and he fails at not feeling like he just kicked a mooncalf when it's already down.

Fingon's face saddens ever-so-slightly as he lets himself in the stall like he owns the place, which… fair. Though what's with all the fancily dressed former kings of the Ñoldor and this stable, Harry will never know.

Indilwen's ears flatten as her space is further invaded, and she backs even closer to Harry. Luckily, she calms he puts a hand on her neck.

"Hérion, cousin, no need for formalities between family," Fingon corrects with a shake of his head. He seems unconcerned about the unhappy meras, or maybe he's very confident in his ability to dodge. "No need to rush out our door. You're welcome to stay as long as you like. It really isn't an imposition."

If he were still human, Harry would be feeling his left eye twitch. That doesn't happen to the Eldar, however, it seems. He contents himself with threading his fingers through Indilwen's mane instead.

Fortunately, he's spared answering by Gil-galad.

"Fingon, well met on this fine day. We were just discussing our morning ride," he offers, and it's so smooth that Harry would believe him if he didn't know better.

Those sad silvery eyes flick from him to Gil-galad then, and Harry can actually take a deep breath.

"Gil, up so early today, I see," Fingon counters, glancing from one to the other with a dark eyebrow rising, "I didn't realize you were so eager to head out together. The household hasn't even sat down for breakfast yet."

"We had hoped to be back before then," Gil-galad returns, and really, it's ever so amiable. So nonchalant.

Fingon moves to open the stall, and it's only then that Harry belatedly recognizes that he's being led out by a firm hand on his upper arm.

"Ah, well. We'll have an early start of things then, but a ride after breakfast sounds splendid," their host replies, and there's a suspiciously shining tone now. It's appeared magically like the sun peaking out from behind the rainclouds. "I know a lovely lake to the south of the city. I'll be most happy to show it to you both."

South, huh. Thwarted again, it seems.

Somehow, Fingon's arm has come to rest on his shoulder as he's turned towards the exit. Harry can just see Gil-gald watching them out of the corner of his vision, face is a pleasant but neutral mask. A servant has miraculously appeared and is now hovering nearby, trying very hard to hide the dubious expression on his face as he sees the saddle Indilwen's already wearing. Harry knows when he's been outmaneuvered though and lets himself be tugged along. He can admit defeat gracefully.

"I didn't know you liked riding so, cousin. Surely though, the forests of Formenos present a unique challenge with the snow," Fingon continues readily, but he pauses to look at Harry then. His gaze is odd, unreadable for a tick that's gone as soon as it arrives. "Tyelkormo was always the best horseman and hunter, though the Ambarussa were nearly of equal skill. I didn't spend quite as much time with them as others in the family. Irissë was very dear to Tyelke and later the Ambarussa once they were born. Arakáno also rode with them frequently. You'll have to ask them more yourself when they arrive."

That brings Harry up short. He stops mid-stride just inside the entryway to the barn. Fingon's arm is still around his shoulder, but his grip is looser now.

"They're coming here?"

Since really, there aren't enough of them already. Harry had only come to Fingon's estate out of obligation and to keep friendly ties to the people outside of Formenos. He knows this song and dance too well. Has learned the politics of it over a lifetime in the magical world. Make the appropriate visits. Go to the right functions. Shake hands with people he would sooner hex – or would hex him. Smile for the cameras. Repeat. Ad nauseam.

Fingon honestly seems puzzled by the inquiry.

"Certainly," he adds with a small frown, "uncle as well."

There's a faint buzzing in Harry's ears that he forcefully ignores.

"Your uncle?" Harry questions more to himself.

It takes him a moment – since really, this family tree is a ridiculous as the Black's – but that must mean King Arafinwë. He's current ruler of the Ñoldor in Tirion despite all the other kings from Arda running around. Though who knows what will happen when – if Finwë – returns. Most of them have either gone back to their prior homes or formed their own cities with the influx of newcomers and rule from there.

"Our uncle," Fingon corrects gently as they resume walking back to the manor with Gil-galad trailing behind. "My father will be coming here as well, though he'll likely travel earlier."

Harry's heart doesn't skip a beat. It doesn't.

He isn't in the midst of House of Finwë family reunion. This isn't his problem. Not his Augurey, not his rainfall. He can get out of this.

"And when is this joyous occasion?" he asks. How Harry keeps the sarcasm from his voice, he'll never know.

Fingon laughs ever-so-cheerily as he tells him. And really, elves are too much sometimes.

Harry, however, does some quick math in his head even as he thinks that. He nearly blanches. There's a sudden pounding at his temple and a swaying before he steadies himself.

That's… That's over six months from now! He can't… He is not staying here for six months. He isn't!

Behind him in the rapidly growing distance, Indilwen whinnies.

It sounds all too much like a cackle.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Sleep for an elf is different. Need for true sleep is rare and usually only when exhausted or injured. Most often is a light trance, walking through memories or true dreaming.

Harry prefers sleep to be honest, but he isn't comfortable enough doing that here, outside of the privacy of his own suite in Formenos. Too much risk of being caught. Too many explanations that no one ever seems to believe anyway.

He's tired though. Politicking is always draining even when it's people he likes.

And it's close to the surface. The memory of waking up here.

It always is.

He opens his eyes to a soft light. The surface beneath him is a pillowed cloud and beckons him back to sleep, but there's a nagging itch between his shoulder blades. Harry knows he's being watched before he even sees the…

Hm… He's not a man. Not exactly. There's an otherness to him even as he leans back and tucks his hand down to his lap. As if he's just been reaching out to touch but reconsidered at the last moment. His hair is dark in the way that nighttime is dark, as are his eyes. His face is stern, brows drawn down, but he's not elderly nor young nor middle-aged. There's a timeless glint to his eyes like the oldest vampires or a phoenix. Ageless. Unending.

His expression though. It'd be comical if the situation were anything else. The being – Námo, he later learns – stares at Harry with something that can be only described as the lovechild of shock, awe, and absolute horror. Rather like watching a broom collision during a Quidditch match. Unable to look away from the spectacle as those involved plummet to the ground below in a tangle of blood, twigs, and limbs.

That expression barely changes as Harry sits up and slowly looks around. The room is… different. Grays, blues, whites. Bright but no windows and source-less light. The furniture would be like that of a bedroom, but it's made of some unknown material – not wood but also not muggle plastic, metal, or stone.

There are others in the room but only one of them is looking at Harry. A woman, hair so pale a blonde underneath her gray hood that it's white – and wouldn't the Malfoys be jealous of that? Her eyes are moist, color-obscured, and there are tear-tracks on her face as though she's recently been crying, but there's just the very faintest of smiles as she gazes at him. The look is fond, and it makes something in Harry tremble and glance away.

A second woman – diminutive, veiled – speaks delicately by the entrance. Despite her small stature, he can't see fully past her. Somehow, however, he knows that there are four – no five – more people on the other side. She steps back then and gestures before giving a small nod. Harry sees a shadow of someone just beyond her now, but the hallway is dim where his room is light. He can just make out a flash of silver – hair, he thinks – before that too is gone.

Then, they're alone. Harry feels everyone but the three in the room with him leave. There's no door, but somehow, the opening closes. It's a little too like magic for his taste.

He feels their eyes on him, but it's the male who speaks first.

"I bid you welcome to the Halls of Mandos." His voice is deep, echoing like they're in a cavern. But there's a breathless quality as if he'd forgotten how to speak.

Harry wants to ask where this is, but he hesitates. He… died. He knows he did. He'd felt it. Felt his soul separate from his body. Only there was no station this time, no train, and no Dumbledore. The other times there'd been but not now. There was the Veil and then here. Is that the difference?

He looks from one to the other and back slowly.

"I… How did I get here?" he questions instead. As that really seems the most sensible.

Only his host flinches – at least Námo does. The blonde covers her mouth with her hand and turns her head away. He can't even see the face of the veiled woman.

There's a very long pause.

"You were… delivered here personally," Námo says flatly. His eyes are blacker than the darkest shadows with the flicker of a single light.

Harry gapes at him.

What? What?

Since that makes has as much coherence as some of the homework from hungover seventh years he'd previously tried to grade. Or reading the handwriting of the first years not trained in penmanship.

"Eru Ilúvatar delivered you here," Námo continues, ever so faint, "and bid me to release you into Valinor."

That… That means absolutely nothing to Harry. But first part, the name, is said with such reverence – such devotion – that Harry's hesitant to voice more questions. And to be honest, he has no idea what to even ask.

He stares at them as they stare right back at him. Silence stretches out awkwardly.

The room around him is bright, solemn, otherwise empty. Clinical and detached in the way of hospitals. Some would find this soothing, but Harry had always preferred a more intimate setting. Cozy furniture with a cackling fire, blankets, warm drinks as the snow fell outside. If he was truly a follower of the magical ways, he should be in the Summerlands. Meadows of verdant green and endless warm weather.

This was opposite from any afterlife he'd imagine without thinking he was being punished. This certainly isn't the welcoming committee he wants. He's always expected his friends, students, colleagues, even his parents and Sirius. He's outlived so many people over the years first through war and then through time.

Instead, he gets strangers.

If he'd known this is what dying would've brought him, perhaps he should've rethought his options.

The blonde woman steps forward then, and she's by his bedside and sitting next to him before Harry can even register the action.

"You are understandably confused," she murmurs, and her voice is gentle rain on an autumn day. Calm but melancholy as it drizzles down. "This isn't the world you are used to, but we can teach you of it. This is not a punishment. I dare say it's a gift."

She takes his hands, and it's only then that Harry realizes he's made fists. Her skin is smoother than any silk as she runs her fingers over his ring, but there's a strength to her grasp underneath the softness.

'She's crying,' Harry thinks, now startled that anyone would do that for him now. When he was younger yes, but he hasn't been a child for centuries. It's been so long since anyone shed tears on his behalf.

Who was the last? Rose perhaps? Or Selene, Ginny's youngest daughter? Teddy's grandson Franklin? Harry had certainly wept for their loss and the loss of their children.

A hand strokes his hair then, infinitely tender as a stray lock is tucked behind his ear.

"All will be well," she says. There's something to her words, some hidden power. "You will see."

Somehow, despite everything, despite the fact that he doesn't even know her name, Harry believes her.

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Chapter Text

He apparates. Call him out of bounds and give him a detention, but Harry can't help himself.

He waits until nighttime – until they've all retired to their rooms – and sets wards on his suite. He knows they won't come there now unless it's dire – the city burning down, a messenger from Manwë, Morgoth escaping from the Void – so he's confident no one will notice his absence.

There's a niggle of doubt nevertheless, so he spells the room with a second layer. Just in case.

He looks around for a moment to the absurdly jewel-encrusted wardrobe to the far too enormous four-poster bed to the gilded balcony doors. Then, Harry turns in swirl of whisper-quiet magic and appears in his own tower.

It's silent there. Sensible. Not a speck of gold or a gem to be seen.

His wards murmur to him that nobody has been by since the morning before last to open the windows. There are fresh flowers – snowdrops – on the side table and again on the mantle, but the fireplace is out with a grate long gone cool. The rug seems black in the dark instead of the blue it is in truth, but there's enough moonlight to scan around the rest of the room easily.

The hymn of home settles into his bones as he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. This isn't Hogwarts. It isn't Earth, but Harry's lived here long enough, has poured magic and sweat and even some tears into this place, that it sings with his essence. It's a comfortable carol in the back of his mind. Humming as his magic flows free, and he listens to the melody in the forever winter.

Formenos is a fortress on a mountain. The eye of a storm with surrounding circles of stone walls like ripples in water. The castle is the center – a trumpet resounding in the night. A glowing, warm clarion call. Each layer after is another instrument to the orchestra. Spring flower flutes. Summer firefly violins. Fall harvest drums. Beyond the walls of the city is the tinkling of bells, of ice crystals sheering, and the somber chant of evergreens.

Through it all, many elven voices softly sing. Some in dreaming or remembrance. Some are even still awake. Harry ghosts by them on nonexistent feet. Floating through corridors and stairways and towers. Through the entrance hall and main door and out the castle gate.

He opens his eyes to find himself now standing in his office.

It's tidy as expected, moonbeams streaming through the windows. His desk is full but unoccupied, parchment in neat stacks on the top corners. Melpomaen has been hard at work in his absence, and Harry makes a mental note to encourage him to take more time off. He's honestly surprised not to find the elf here, working away in the dark after hours. Or even having drifted off with pen in hand. It's happened before.

Harry shakes his head at that as he carefully shifts through the piles. The amount of correspondence is staggering. Most is still loose, but there are a number already sealed. The inbox has an equal number also in envelopes, and many seem to bear the same crest. Harry puzzles at it for a long time. It's one he's seen before but not something he recognizes immediately. It teases at his memory; Harry'll have to ask Laerien when he properly returns. She always knows the houses. It's a point of pride for her not to never forget.

"Because they expect a Silvan not to know," she said once in perfect, unaccented Quenya. She lifted an ashen brown eyebrow with a hand on her hip. "All of those high elves are the same, and few of the others are better."

Harry hadn't known what to say to that nor had Melpomaen, but both of them were usually spared her temper. She treats them in the way – he assumes – she once did her sons. With a firm but fond hand, quick to give both censure and praise. It's a rather strange concept considering he's ostensibly the one in charge.

Laerien rather reminds him of Ginny in temperament but Luna in looks. She's small and ethereal with the same luminous gray eyes. Prone to quiet contemplation in whatever tree strikes her fancy, but that's where the similarities end. Her temper is a vicious thing, truly a sight to behold. Harry has seen her reduce more than one discourteous visitor to tears, and he's heard others speak of her in the same hushed tones that balrogs earn.

He's also watched her stare at the stars in grief, and Harry knows she has children and a husband in Arda that she longs for but knows she will only see if they travel through the Halls. On this shore, her husband's family resides in some southern city, but she cares little for them and they for her. Her parents are in the Halls still, but she has a cousin who is written to and visited often.

Melpomaen is much more of a closed book; Harry isn't even sure where on Arda he came from. Harry knows only that he sailed from the Havens recently as elves reckon and found it difficult to settle. He isn't sure the hows or whys – that hasn't been given to him yet. He's quiet and seems to have no family and few friends in Valinor. At least, none that he's willing to acknowledge, and that's likely why Melpomaen ended up here, under the elf who everyone wrongly assumes has disowned himself.

Harry's other staff is a variable mix as is Formenos itself. Some are newcomers without a clear place to go. An assortment of Silvan, Sindar, and even some Avari released by Námo. Others, he's learned, are former kinslayers. Those who are very unsure of their welcome in Tirion and other places. Some, Harry knows, are prior retainers of the House of Fëanor. Several even lived in Formenos the first time, though those seem to be few, and they are very quiet about that connection even now. Harry only knows if they confess to it or those Nienna has pointed out.

Harry sighs then as his eyes land on a very unwelcome emblem in his inbox. The envelope is unopen, but with magic, it'll be little work to reseal. He scans through, and it's indeed from King Olwë himself. An invitation to visit in the future, and Harry knows that he'll most certainly have to go. Fortunately for him, that future could be anytime in the next decade and still not be considered rude. Of course, he'll be expected to stay for at least six months to a year to avoid the same thing.

He'll also have to be on his best behavior the entire time. Not to mention that he'll probably have to deal with half the city glaring at him for his very unfortunate appearance while being perfectly polite in return.

Wonderful.

And he thought the politics of being headmaster was distasteful.

If he was still capable of getting migraines, Harry'd certainly have one after reading this. He's anticipated some type of exchange with the Falmari in the future, but he's been hoping for more neutral ground to start. He certainly didn't think they'd ever be willing to host him, not with his reported history.

A sinking sensation feels his gut. Laerien and Melpomaen will be reading this the very next day; they'll absolutely start plotting against him. They certainly won't let him put this visit off until the last moment. Laerien's going to pack his schedule with etiquette training of the Falmari for the foreseeable future, and doesn't that sounds like its own unique form of torture?

Harry exhales, slowly and steadily. Lets his magic out in a weak refrain off exhaustion. He reads the letter again, but the text doesn't change at all. With a disgusted noise, he flicks his hand. The parchment folds itself back up, and the seal magically slides back into place before the envelope floats back into the box.

Harry leans back in his chair and taps one finger on his desk, lost in thought.

He wonders why he does this. Why he puts up with these things when this wasn't his choice at all.

He'd rebuilt Formenos to have something to do, for the challenge. Hell, to even be able to be by himself. Somewhere along the way, others had shown up and he's never been able to turn anyone away who's in need.

He wonders if it's worth it. If it's worth being here at all. If he should just cut his loses and try Arda instead.

His fingertips tap in a steady rhythm as he thinks that through, but even as he does, Harry knows he'll never leave. Too much a Gryffindor at heart and a Hufflepuff in deed even if he's now a Ravenclaw in his desires. Harry just needs to call forth the Slytherin in his mind; it's served him well many times in these situations.

Harry stands then and looks around one final time. Everything is shadowed but familiar, and he could walk this room in the pitch black. Could probably walk the entire castle the same way. The song of the city is echoing in the night, welcoming him home, beckoning him to stay.

Harry shakes his head, gently offers a farewell, and apparates back to Fingon's with a twist of magic. Dawn can't come soon enough.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

The hardest thing in the beginning is that the Valar don't tell him. The Maiar are guilty of it, too. Best not forget them. But either way, the Ainur are the only ones he sees in the Halls, no Eldar at all. And it's primarily been the first three that he meets – Námo, his wife Vairë, and his sister Nienna.

The sad thing is that even though he's an elf now, Harry truly doesn't look all that different than what he did before. His ears are more pointed, and he's certainly taller than he's ever been. Tall as he possibly could've been had he not grown up with the Dursleys and a childhood of neglect. He's young again for another and no longer needs glasses. The silver in his hair is gone, and it's longer than ever, down to the top of his shoulder blades. It still tangles at this length, but it isn't the messy bird's nest it was when shorter. A single hand is enough to comb out just about any knot, and he's pretty sure one elf weeps upon seeing him do that later.

But otherwise… otherwise, he's largely unchanged.

They could've told him though.

Harry knows they don't perceive things the way he does or how Eldar do. He honestly thinks that it simply didn't occur to them. That at the end of the day, they aren't Eldar – or human – and that they simply didn't understand that he even needs a warning in the first place. That they try but the Eldar are as alien to them as they are to him.

It still would've been nice, nonetheless. It would've been good to be prepared.

He's been the Boy-Who-Lived, the Man-Who-Survived, his entire life. However, that's been a distant thing for so long now. A footnote in his history with all the other stuff that's happened since. He's always been popular, been known as a public figure, but people grew used to him. They'd chat while he was out or stop in his office or invite him to this event or that conference.

It's been centuries since he's been gawked at in the streets. Since mutters followed his every move.

Harry keeps his gait even, casual and loose, but he can feel their gazes follow him as he walks down the center. The Valar gave him supplies and even currency for this place. There's stores and stands he'd like to browse, but Harry hesitates as he notes the masses give him a wider and wider berth.

He doesn't think they can tell he isn't one of them. That he isn't also an elf by birth. It's something else, Harry can tell. But he isn't sure what. Their murmurs are too faint.

Coming to this place – Tirion, Nienna called it – is a mistake. Perhaps he should've tried one of the newer cities currently being built or Alqualondë on the coast? He hasn't been to the sea for ages, but Teddy and Victorie lived there until their passing. He thinks it would be nice to see the ocean again and feel the waves tug at his feet.

Harry slows then and scans the crowd. Some of them are very carefully not looking at him, going out of their way to avoid even a glance his direction and hurrying away. Others are staring openly. It hasn't turned hostile yet, but Harry knows that's soon to come as he turns and starts back towards the city gate.

He hears it then, however. Someone shouting close by.

"Wait!"

The crowd parts as others turn. As they search among themselves for the source, Harry uses the opportunity to slip further back the way he came. There are side streets he could apparate from, but he has no idea how many eyes watch those. The Valar are already startled by this ability; he doesn't want to think how the elves would react.

"Wait!"

Harry can see the cause now, a well-dressed elf in dark colors. He isn't running, but it's a near thing. It's obvious he's come from a distance, as if he's received news and rushed here. Harry can't get away fast enough, too hesitant to leave the main road and blocked in by people behind; the elf reaches him in long strides and grabs with both hands.

"Ma-"

The elf stops abruptly. His eyes are silver, but it's hard to see with the pupils blown so wide. The shock on his face is stark, and he'd be quite handsome without that startled expression. He's tall Harry notices, but not quite as much as Harry is now. Perhaps an inch or two shorter. His hair is just as black, falling to his middle with the inky flutter of raven feathers and the glint of golden thread woven through. He wears a circlet, also of gold with a single diamond in the center.

His grip on Harry's shoulders is firm, strong. But it starts shaking as time stretches on.

"Your… Your eyes," the elf whispers, and it's more to himself.

Harry isn't quite sure what he sees, but he knows they're drawing even more notice. A sea of elven faces that just stare at the exchange like a Quidditch match with a player down.

"You aren't…"

The elf shakes his head then like he's waking from a spell. He's still clutching Harry's shoulders tightly, and Harry is debating the best way to extricate himself from this increasingly uncomfortable encounter.

Then, suddenly as it started, he's released. The stranger drops his arms and takes an abrupt half-step back. It's still close, too close. But Harry can actually back up, too.

"My sincerest apologies," the elf says with an actual bow. It's slow and chivalric, like a knight from Merlin's court. "I am Fingon Fingolfinion."

The name is familiar to him, undoubtedly someone mentioned by Nienna or Vairë, but Harry can't quite place it yet. He's too off-balance, too reeling.

"Hérion," he replies and does remember his manners, "well met." Harry doesn't bow back, however, because this is just too weird.

"Hérion," Fingon repeats; his tone says everything and nothing, "I see."

He again examines Harry's face, and it's so intently that Harry thinks he's trying to commit it to memory. His gaze finally shifts down to the rest of Harry and then back up ever-so-slowly. It would almost be flattering if it wasn't so strange, and it leaves Harry even more discomforted. Like he's being assessed, but he's not sure on what merits.

He knows it isn't his clothes. His tunic is of even better quality than Fingon's own – a deep green with embroidery of white lilies and the gray over-cloak has an ivy pattern at the sleeves. Vairë is very particular in what he wears, and Harry humors her because it costs him nothing. A part of him admittedly likes the attention after so many years without. Likes that Nienna and she are so fastidious with his appearance and with his lessons and just finding time to spend with him.

It could be lack of ornamentation since everyone from the plainest-dressed to Fingon himself has something.

It could even be his lack of a weapon. A number of people have swords, daggers, and even bows. Fingon has all three.

Perhaps that's the most worrisome part of this whole thing.

"You look," the elf starts, but he breathes out in a rush like he can't believe the reality before him. "You look so very much like your father."

He… What?

Harry has absolutely no idea what to think. What to say to that. It's been literal centuries since anyone has compared him to James Potter – since there's been anyone alive who even knew James Potter or remembered him as a person.

"My father?" Harry finally manages; it's a question more than anything.

Since honestly, how would this elf have ever met his dad? He's reasonably sure the Valar would've mentioned that part.

"Yes." Fingon is surely still dazed, confused even as he blinks and continues searching Harry's face like it has all the answers. "My cousin. The son of my father's oldest brother."

Right…

Bespelled. This truly is a bewitched elf. Harry has only been in this city for all of an hour and this is the direction his life is headed.

But he can handle this. He has dealt with distressed, emotional people numerous times. He keeps his hands open and his voice calm, steady. The same tone he once used for overwrought students and life-threatening situations.

"I don't know what you mean."

It's soft, soothing. He doesn't push magic into it. There's no need to enthrall this elf more than he already is.

Fingon turns unexpectedly morose, however. His eyes lose their light as a shadow crosses his face.

"I… Of course. Forgive me again." He gives another, much smaller bow. "How terrible of me to assume."

He straightens slowly. His gaze is dim, sad, and he seems lost. Not uncertain but more unmoored. Untethered. Like the earth has dropped out from beneath him. It isn't the effect of a spell breaking. More like a child running up to a parent only to find a stranger.

Around them, the throng is still steadily growing; it hasn't thinned at all. If anything, there's over double than earlier, watching the exchange like a spectator sport. Harry feels their curiosity but also their anxiety pressing in on him like a wave crashing down. It jerks on this sternum like a riptide trying to push him out to sea.

"It's no matter," Harry replies almost absently, too busy trying to center himself. "No offense is taken where none's meant." But his awareness is on the other elves nearby and not the one in front.

There are more murmurings; voices rising and falling like the tide. Their energy is dense, drowning. This isn't a fire awaiting a spark. This is an ocean anticipating the tsunami.

Harry needs to get out of here.

"No, I've wronged you," Fingon insists, but he too is now watching the crowd. The light of his eyes is returning as his attention flicks from Harry to them and back. "Allow me to make this up to you."

It's less an offer and more a gentle pleading. A promise of rescue? Something more insidious? Harry doesn't know; at this rate, it may not matter. Normally, he'd advise his pupils to never go off alone with a stranger, but it's much easier to escape one than dozens.

He shifts back to Fingon. He's stock still, standing in the way one does when facing a dragon or an infuriated professor ready to assign a year's detention.

His heart is squeezing in his chest the further he fights the swell, and against his better judgement, Harry agrees.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Of course, Celebrían comes to tea. Which, Harry supposes, means she'll only stay for two months and not two years as Eldar concepts of time are incredibly skewed. She's, as always, far too delighted to see Harry, but she's much more tolerable than most of the others. There are fewer awkward pauses with her, and she doesn't seem quite as alien.

She's a vision in silver and shades of the palest pinks with actual flowers in her hair. Gil-galad matches the silver and star design of her dress but instead has opted for blue accents, which Harry knows is a color of his house.

Everyone else is a riot of colors – dark red, yellow, and white.

Harry himself is once more in green with hints of gold in an outfit that Fingon insisted he wear without clear explanation. And hadn't that been a fun experience? Opening his door that morning to an already waiting Fingon, who'd promptly shoved him back inside. His host then proceeded to rifle through his wardrobe with the look of an elf possessed, critiquing everything before ultimately deciding on Harry's current ensemble and making him change.

Green, he insisted, is Harry's signature color. And Vairë did give Harry a lot of it to the point he's starting to wonder if she wishes to match his eyes or has some other ulterior motive.

Fingon also somehow convinced Harry to allow him to braid Harry's hair. Which he reluctantly agreed to if only because he couldn't figure out which bizarre Eldar ceremony he'd somehow found himself part of. That was of course after he surreptitiously banished the circlet Fingon was trying to sneak in; he'd find that later in the kitchen and have to puzzle out for himself how it got there. Harry also manages to dodge the brooch pushed at him along with the earrings, bracelets and rings.

He feels like he's already fought a battle by the time he even makes it to tea.

Harry sips his cup slowly at the memory. It's a blend of mint and a fruit native only to Valinor, but he doesn't know the proper name of it as Findis reaches for the pot to pour him more. She's only arrived six days before to the surprise of apparently no one but him. Irimë and Aredhel chat away with her from the far side of the table on the latest gossip in Tirion; Fingon, Argon, Angrod are obvious with their absences. Harry suspects that they are with Finrod, who'd come with Celebrían.

Harry himself is seated between Celebrían and Gil-galad, wondering faintly how this has become his life. They fortunately don't expect him to know much about the general goings-on since outside the House of Finwë and its retainers, he barely knows anyone here. If only that came with true anonymity, because they need only see his face to immediately know who he is. He rather hates going into the city without his hood pulled up because the staring really needs to stop.

His cup is empty now, tea finished during his musings. The china is daintier that any he's ever seen save perhaps that made by Swiss gnomes. It's hand-painted with carnations in pink, red, and white. Harry belatedly realizes that's the same flower in Celebrían's hair.

"I know you could better," she comments from his right as she notices him inspecting the pattern, "but this set felt appropriate for the occasion. It's my grandmother's."

There's a great deal to unpack in that statement, and Harry honestly isn't sure how to start.

"Ah, that's right," Irimë chimes in next. She seems rather pleased with herself as she adds, "I hear you're an artist."

Harry – who has faced a basilisk, dragon, and Dark Lord – calmly reaches for a sandwich buy himself time. Since really, how would she've heard that? The only ones who'd really know of his hobby are the people in Formenos. And the Ainur, he supposes, but Harry doesn't know if Celebrían regularly gossips with any of them.

"I have some… passing skill," Harry decides and offers a small, self-depreciating smile.

Celebrían giggles behind her hand, but he can see her ears twitch. "Is that what you call it?"

"They said there were murals," Irimë continues, and her voice always has that ring of laughter. The sunshine of her dress isn't nearly as bright as her demeanor.

"I'd only heard about the one," Aredhel insists. She sets down her plate to put her cheek in her empty hand. "In Formenos itself."

Findis answers instead, "There's some in the city proper as well." She takes her time pouring tea in each cup, stately and demure. "There are supposedly plans for a project in the newest section, but no one seems to know the particular details."

The entire table turns to him expectantly.

Harry doesn't shift in his seat like a naughty schoolboy; he doesn't. Nor does he start when Gil-galad's knee brushes against his beneath the table.

The people in his city are free to discuss what they want with who they want, but this is a little ridiculous. He and Melpomaen only picked out the wall before he'd left to come here, and people in Tirion already know about it? Is nothing in Valinor secret?

"That has yet to be decided," Harry allows, and he takes of sip of his newly refilled cup.

"Oh, come now, Hérion," Irimë chides, but it's too merry. "You're just being coy."

He drinks from his tea again. Slow and deliberate. Channeling his inner McGonagall.

"It's still under consideration."

"I somehow find this hard to believe," Findis responds primly.

Harry merely sets his cup down. His smile is pleasant, neutral. Perfected in too many governor's meetings and Ministry functions.

"It's a matter to contemplate."

Gil-galad chuckes next to him. His knee presses more firmly against Harry's as he leans forward.

"He isn't going to say," he states and seems very delighted by this.

"You're enjoying this too much," Celebrían accuses.

She doesn't throw her napkin across the table, but Harry can tell she's tempted. Her tone is fond though as she reaches for the platter instead.

Aredhel just shakes her head, while Findis somehow manages not to roll her eyes.

Irimë lets out a sniff.

"Have it your way. I should've known you would side with him," she says. However, it's playful, teasing. "I'm sure someone here will find out eventually." Her eyes dance around the table before lingering on the two males.

Harry pretends not to notice as Celebrían offers another sandwich, and Irimë's attention is soon enough diverted by her sister and niece. Gil-galad smiles at him when she finally looks away and gives a wink.

Harry hides his laugh in his teacup.

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Chapter Text

The forests south of Tirion are summer-warm even close to the lake. As a human, Harry would've found them intolerably hot without cooling charms, but now, he's dressed in layers and barely notices the difference.

They set out before dawn, before the temperatures rise, when the sun is still sleeping and dew clings to the leaves. Fingon has turned this particular venture into a hunting trip, though Harry can't fathom why. He's out front with Aredhel just behind on her impossibly white horse. Harry and Gil-galad are in the center, near level with each other, as he's the only one Indilwen comes close to tolerating. Finrod is next, oddly enough playing a lyre as they ride. Angrod and Argon bring up the rear.

Celebrían has declined this undertaking along with most of ladies; Harry isn't given that option.

The trip itself is pleasant enough, and they pass the time singing to him silly hunting tunes and telling him childish tales from their youths. Harry knows that he makes for a good audience, and he's too practiced at this game, redirecting any questions about himself before they can even form. He learns more about the antics of the House of Finwë than an outsider should ever know, and it's a blessing to them that he isn't prone to blackmail.

Gil-galad didn't grow up with them though and wasn't born in Valinor, but he's spent more time in Arda than any of the others. It shows in his narratives of dwarves and Men, of the island of Númenor and the mines of Moria and the Haves of Sirion. He's an excellent storyteller with perfect dramatic timing and a wry sense of humor. He pauses at all the right intervals, but the mischievous sparkle in his stormy eyes usually gives his plot away.

By some mutual signal that Harry misses, they come to a stop with the lake peeking through the trees. It's turquoise and sparkling in the dawning light. If given a choice, he'd much prefer a simple ride or a swim or even a picnic, but this is Fingon's show.

There's so much game around that they have their choice of it, but Aredhel spots one in particular, and that's that. Harry usually goes after predators, so this is a bit novel. But hunting isn't a passion, more a duty. An obligation to keep the roads around Formenos safe for travelers and to prevent more aggressive animals from settling in on their doorstop.

The elves seem to enjoy the thrill of the chase. They laugh at the rush of it, galloping at breakneck speeds and pursuing their quarry. Harry much prefers the freedom of riding Indilwen. Of her fast gait as she dodges around trees and whips through paths and bushes.

He could make a broom, he supposes, but he'd have to layer it with so many concealment charms and ride far away from prying eyes that it isn't worth it. Besides, if he wants to fly, he has other, less obvious methods.

The first stag is impressive enough, and Gil-galad brings it down with a single arrow. Their second is felled by Fingon and the third by Finrod as Aredhel shoots a pheasant mid-flight. Angrod and Argon opt for rabbits for a challenge. Harry only goes for the fox when he hears the ducks shrieking for help.

The next part is the most tedious. Oromë always makes him do this by hand and never by magic. He's seen enough blood over the years that he isn't even squeamish anymore. Harry just works methodically through without complaint while Gil-galad hands him anything he needs before he can even ask.

The stream he uses for cleanup is small, barely more than a trickle of water over rocks, but it's enough to scrub down all the knives and equipment. Gil-galad is kneeling next to him as they work. He's seemed very interested in watching Harry this entire time from downing the fox all the way to now; though it occurs to Harry they've never seen him so much as touch an arrow prior to this so maybe the attention shouldn't surprise him. They admittedly don't really know very much about him, which is by his own design, so they were in all probability stunned that he had his own bow.

"You certainly do know your way around a knife," Gil-galad comments almost idly, watching as Harry inspects each one separately, dries, and then sheathes it. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone so efficient but meticulous. I'd ask if you do the same for all your blades, but you never use anything else."

Harry can't help but snort. He uses his sword only because Eönwë makes him. He has the calluses to prove it.

Gil-galad lets out a ridiculous laugh then. He seems perhaps overly intrigued in Harry's hands afterwards.

"So I can see," the older elf says, a touch too surreal.

Harry blinks at him. Replays that in his mind.

He said that out loud then.

Bother.

Gil-galad shakes his head. Bemused but ultimately pleased that Harry is revealing something of himself.

"I suppose you learned the bow from Oromë then."

It's said almost in jest, but there's a gleam in the other elf's eyes. Harry stays silent only because he isn't sure how to answer and not make that awkward or a lie.

Gil-galad chuckles again. It's half-absurd and half-thrilled. Like he's recovering after being hit by an overly powerful Cheering Charm.

He doesn't have a diadem today, and his hair is braided in a more practical style. His clothes are as simple as the Ñoldor get, pants gray and tunic cream with blue stitches and a single jay embroidered on the high collar. There's dirt underneath his fingernails and a grass-stain on his knee from earlier. He'll never have wrinkles, but his eyes crinkle when he laughs and means it. He seems realer this way, less the depiction of some heroic king and more an actual person.

Harry finds he rather prefers him this way.

Gil-galad's smile is gentler now, but he isn't turning away. He just looks at Harry.

"You aren't like any other elf I've ever met."

It's softer but no less delighted.

Harry freezes for only a heartbeat, but they're far too near for Gil-galad not to see. This is… too much. It's getting a little too close. He understands that he isn't really like the other elves; he isn't one of them at all. He just hadn't realized it was that obvious.

Gil-galad watches him, glow falling away. His gaze is assessing, searching.

Harry keeps his face neutral, but he feels exposed. Open like a book when the breeze has fluttered it to a random page.

He peeks back at the others. To see if they've noticed. To see if they've also figured out his lie.

Fingon doesn't even glance their way, too engrossed in his sweet murmurings to Indilwen as he attempts to coax her with an apple. Finrod has his head turned down as he tunes his lyre on a nearby log. Aredhel and Angrod are too busy arguing about the proper way to bundle deer to his horse to notice anything short of a dragon, while Argon does the actual work of sorting everything out.

The touch on his elbow is light, and Harry's eyes are drawn back. Gil-galad studies him again before he leans forward and pitches his tone low.

"Peredhel?"

It's only a single word, a question. It's even one Harry's considered himself more than he'll ever care to admit. It's accurate enough, he supposes. He'll never been a true, real elf, and they seemingly use this term to cover everyone that has a drop of non-elven blood.

"Yes," Harry admits, and it's halting, stilted. "I'm not fully elven."

This isn't a lie; it doesn't even feel like one. But he's laid bare by this honesty more than anything else he's said or done on Valinor.

It's liberating. It's terrifying. Both together all in one. Dizzying even. He feels like a broomstick in a tempest, spiraling in the winds.

This is the closest he's come to the truth to anyone who isn't an Ainu; he isn't entirely sure that they all know aside from the three he first met.

Gil-galad puts a hand on his wrist as if to catch him. A thumb rubs on the vulnerable skin there. Strokes steady and slow.

"There's no shame in this," the older elf murmurs, eyes such an intense storm-cloud blue that Harry half-expects lightning. "You don't have to hide what you are. Truly, they wouldn't care."

His gaze doesn't return to the others; it's fixed on Harry's face. His touch is tender, and his hold never turns to a shackle. That more than anything calms Harry, steadies him as he circles for a safe spot to land.

"One of my truest and dearest friends is peredhel, and I gladly await the day he sails here." Gil-galad's tone is strong with affection and remembrance. "I should think he'd very much like to meet you."

His fingers are warm on Harry's wrist, touch soft, almost delicate. He's very close, Harry recognizes. His hair is a very deep brown, but his lashes are black. His eyes are so near that Harry can see there's actually a darker ring around the pupil. He smells faintly of rain and treacle and the woods and…

Then, there's a chortle from behind them. It's quickly followed by a groan as Argon is hit by something that may've been a lyre.

Harry blinks and inhales as the spell is broken. He pulls away first, moving to stand and turning away deliberately.

Fingon is still near Indilwen, but the pair of them are now sharing a very strange expression. Aredhel and Angrod have stopped arguing and are instead gaping at Finrod. He is, in turn, towering over Argon. Who is dazedly sitting on the forest floor, clutching at the steadily blossoming bruise on his forehead. The lyre is right next to him.

Harry sighs and goes over to tend to Argon.

He very carefully doesn't look at Gil-galad for the rest of the day.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

They think they're so clever.

Harry mentally shakes his head at that. At this very obvious set-up. At the convenience of a party with Celebrían and her uncle pulled away by nobles from the rebuilt Gondolin. While Fingon, his siblings, and their cousin speak to others from Nargothrond. With Findis and Irimë conspicuously absent for the last hour. Gil-galad… Harry isn't sure where he's gone. There one minute and not the next. And poor Harry left all alone now on the balcony.

He knows who this is without even needing to hear her name. He's seen her sketch tucked away in a drawer in what he can only assume was once Fëanor's desk. It certainly doesn't do justice to the vivid copper gleam of her hair or the warmth of her eyes, like clear water that can be seen all the way through.

"Lady Nerdanel," he greets softly. He doesn't sigh or wish very unfortunate things on the House of Finwë; he doesn't.

"Lord Marcaunon," she says back, and it's unexpectedly formal.

Her voice is surprisingly deep, lower in octave than he'd anticipated, but intense. Like a stream over rocks. Like she's used to calling out over the cacophony and making herself heard.

Nerdanel isn't the most beautiful elf he's ever seen – that title currently goes to Finrod though he admits Celebrían is a not so distant second. Her face is rounder than most, and he can see the roughness to her hands even from here. There's something about her that's captivating, nevertheless, and Harry finds that he can't look away.

Her dress is a soft pearl and shimmers as she leisurely walks up to him. She stops to his left – not in front – and leans on the banister much like a schoolgirl as she gazes down at the fountain below. It's an odd, dissonant picture. Especially with the soothing aura she projects. Rather like staying up late with Molly at the original Burrow drinking hot chocolate in the kitchen when all the others are asleep.

Harry exhales at that thought. At the sting of memory. At a vision of an orphaned boy whose only recollection of his mother is her screams. At a wonderful woman who had opened her home and arms to him but could never quite fill that void.

Molly had only outlived one son though. Hadn't had to deal with her brood turning to murderers and then knowing what came after.

Hadn't had to deal with an imposter who everyone tried to shove at her.

He's avoided Nerdanel for years; Harry admits that in the safety of his own mind. Everyone in the place is determined to make him their relative, but he couldn't do that to this woman who's lost everything. To pretend. To steal a place in her heart that will never be his. That's never even existed in the first place.

His heart beats painfully in his chest. It's tight and squeezing. She's as opposite from Molly Weasley as possible despite the hair, but somehow, she looks just the same as she stands beside him. Shadow long and empty for the people who should be there.

She looks at him then. As if she's sensing his thoughts. Her eyes are blue pools, so deep he might drown.

She hides it well, he realizes. Hides it so far down that only someone truly looking can hope to catch a glimpse. Buried beneath the sweet layering of the surface and the lake-calm of her soul, but Harry can hear it like she's shrieking it from the rooftops.

Her grief is so immense, there isn't even tears. But Harry's seen this before. First, in Cedric's mother after he died. Then, Molly herself when she buried first a son and then later a husband. Next, in the faces of others when they'd lost everything and everyone and were only hanging on by the thinnest thread.

He's shamed even by association that he played any part in this deception. In this farce.

"I'm sorry that I'm not who you wanted," he murmurs to her and means it with everything he is.

She smiles at him then, and it's not bitter or broken. Instead, it's lovely.

"What I want will come back to me again in time," Nerdanel replies.

It's very certain. She says it like there's absolutely no doubt in her mind. Like there can't be any other possibility.

Her husband and sons are still in confinement after two ages. Her only grandson by blood was tortured to death by Sauron and is still being healed from that horror. She's never met her foster grandsons; already, one chose humanity and is lost to death forever while the other's still on Arda with return date unknown. There are great grandchildren she may or may not ever meet.

Perhaps this needs to be true for her sanity.

"I'm very sorry for everything," Harry apologizes again. "I never meant for any of this…" He waves a vague hand at himself, the party through the doors behind them, and then entire building. "None of this to happen."

She's silent to that. Glancing from his eyes to the curve of his cheek and over his face. He doesn't know what she's searching for, but he knows she won't find it here.

"A mother knows her children when they stand before her," Nerdanel states, voice clear and sure, "and you're not my son."

Harry stops breathing. His mouth is suddenly dry; he honestly didn't think she'd believe him. None of the others have, after all.

He blinks at her once. Twice. Three times.

Nerdanel gives a little laugh but doesn't look away. She's nearly two heads shorter than him, but he feels smaller than her. Like a little boy clutching at apron strings.

"My husband has always been brash and impatient," she says next, a non sequitur. "My sons, even the gentlest of them, have always been far too much like him. You're of a different sort, I think."

She takes his hands in hers before he can even think to pull away. For all that Harry's seen him practice his sword almost daily, her grip is as strong as Fingon's. She squeezes his fingers until they're white and bloodless.

"You are very kind."

It's a declaration. An absolute confidence.

The blue of her eyes is almost glowing in the moonlight, and her hair is a metallic halo that flutters in the breeze. She's the only other Ñoldo with so little ornamentation, wearing only a simple silver ring that bites into his skin as she holds his hands.

"Don't let them take that away from you."

The hand that moves to cup his face is gentle, tender. She smooths his hair before pulling back.

"Now, let us go back inside, yes."

Only, it truly isn't a question. Her smile is wider now, happy in a way he can't quite describe. Settled, he supposes. Like she's figured out the truth, and it's eased her heart.

She releases his second hand but only to turn and slide into position like he's a proper escort. The top of her head brushes his arm, and he has to keep his breathing steady. He thinks of the final task of a tournament and funerals when another woman refused to let any of her sons and only a dark-haired orphan see her cry. Of other soft hands that offered him a place at her kitchen table but of promised-family that fell away with the weight of time and distance of association.

The color isn't quite right, and he was never this much taller than Molly. But Harry allows himself this illusion, this lie, for just a moment.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

The nicest thing he can say about it Formenos is that at least it's dry inside. That's it's far from prying eyes, hushed whispers, and judging looks.

Fingon is so nice it's painful, but Harry can't stay there. His inner Hufflepuff won't allow him to freeload indefinitely off of such generosity. The Gryffindor in him agrees, informs him this isn't honorable, that he can't pretend to be the son of a man – elf – he's never met and probably never will. He knows he isn't part of this family, and he tells them as much.

They don't believe him.

Oh, they listen.

They make all the appropriate noises and give nods, but he knows they don't believe. Not the first time. Not the tenth. Not the hundredth.

He leaves Tirion behind and breathes a sigh of relief. He doesn't tell them where he's going. Despite their best efforts, he isn't followed either.

The chill of the north isn't any worse than a Scottish winter. It's a nostalgic thing as he and Indilwen head further into the snow. He can see her become increasingly more nervous as they grow closer though. Watch her eyes dart to each shadow, and it's only her trust in him that keeps her from galloping back south.

The old road up the mountains is treacherous in places but in remarkably good order considering. Harry slowly takes Indilwen up and uses magic to reinforce everything as they go. It isn't as winding as he'd expect, as it would've been had humans made it, but the fortress itself is still a surprise when he crests the last rise and sees it towering above them.

It's dark, foreboding even in the afternoon light. A gray stain on top of the mountain like a black cloud crossing the sun. The stronghold itself is a geometrical marvel, a genius of engineering, and considering the Muggle wonders he has seen in his last life, especially at the end, that's truly saying something.

But it's stark. Cold. Haunting. Worse than a deathday party gone horribly wrong. There's a wrathful feeling here, an anger and a terrible, aching loss. Like some giant monster had reared up and torn out its heart.

It honestly looks like someone – or several someones – died here.

Ancient blood is still stained on the walls, and he can hear the echoes of screams when he presses his palm flat against the stone.

It's a terrible, foreboding place. Shaded hallways where insects and small animals haven't even dare come inside from the cold. Where the predators give a wide berth and evergreens refuse to grow too close.

It's his new home.

The second nicest thing he can say about Formenos is that since he's basically alone, he can cast as much magic as he wants. Harry uses that to his full advantage.

The structure has held up amazingly well. Say what people will about Fëanor, he certainly built things to last. Harry comes here because it's abandoned. Because he can be far away from elves and their history and their feuds and their otherness. He expected a ruin tucked away in the northern mountains. The truth is anything but. The water needs to be cleaned, but the pipes are unbroken and baths still fill perfectly. The hearths are cold with traces of ash, but a swift Scourgify has them ready; even the glass in the windows is still intact. The Ravenclaw in him wonders at it all.

The aura of the place is the true issue. The echoes, the memories of pain and despair all but crying from the walls.

He cleanses the entire structure with seven different rituals tied together over seven full moons. Scrubs the blood away by hand even as he sings an old Veela hymn that Victoire taught him so long ago. Crafts a rite that purifies the very stones themselves, which washes them all a dazzling white even purer than the surrounding snow.

Harry adds towers to the fortress to turn it into a proper castle. There's one for the four cardinal directions with another set in between each of those. The final and largest tower is in the middle, which will house him, a study, atelier, and whatever else he later decides to add.

The great hall is stripped down to its bones and reworked from the literal ground up, and he already knows how it'll be remade before he starts. The ceiling is the finishing touch, and he toils on it for nearly a year. A mix of magic and handcrafting, painstakingly painted with love and longing of a home gone but never forgotten.

The books in the library have survived to a degree. Magic restores them fully and encases them in further protection. The library itself is expanded and opened up with glass ceilings, airy walkways and arbors alternating with the shelves. His few ventures into civilization are only for new tomes and scrolls. Everything else he can make or obtain himself.

The rest of the castle is still a work in progress but coming together with his own desires and designs. He takes his time; he has plenty of it. All the time in the world to make it just so, to make it perfect, the embodiment of every childish whim he's ever had. Perhaps he'll add an owlery in one tower and train birds just to fill it. Maybe he'll enlarge the conservatory and have it take up the entire northwest tower. Or he could change another to an observatory.

It's terribly indulgent. He hasn't had this much leisure time, this much opportunity to do something for himself and no one else in so long. It's a nebulous happy thing. Waking up when he wants to do what he wants.

Harry hasn't felt this alive since… since… He doesn't even know.

Teaching had been a joy, but as the headmaster, that was limited. He'd had paperwork and meetings and politics. All things he despised. He'd only put up with it to ensure that the students had the very best. That none of them ever had to have a school experience like he did. That there would always be enough faculty, supplies, protection for them.

Harry had grown to empathize with Dumbledore more over the years and even Severus Snape and Minerva McGonagall – all of them with their multiple positions and conflicting responsibilities. He learned from their examples but even more from their mistakes. He was the headmaster before anything. The students were his top priority, and his duty was to them first always. Followed by his staff and then the castle itself. The board and ministry were far down on the list.

But this, what he does now as he builds Formenos into something new, is something for Harry only.

It keeps him busy, more absorbed than he imagined he'd be when he first awoke here. He doesn't have the time or idleness to be lonely, and he isn't alone, not truly. Indilwen is still his best companion, and a sunny, green area for her to roam and graze is a high priority. Harry finds that he likes it so much, however, that he expands the zone into a proper oasis that encircles Formenos. It's naturally charmed to be forever spring.

That isn't to say Harry is without frequent guests, even before the Eldar make themselves known.

Nienna visits regularly. Harry thinks it's mostly to make sure he isn't without non-equine company. Especially when she insists – read drags – him back to see Námo and even to the Gardens of Lórienfor her other sibling and his wife.

Vairë comes less often but still drops by routinely as if checking on everything. And it goes without saying that there's a mysteriously appearing but no less impressive tapestry that he always finds hanging up in some strategic location after she departs. His wardrobe is usually fuller, too.

Oromë is there periodically, and Harry suspects it's mostly to see Indilwen. Though he does insist on taking Harry on multiple hunts to thin the local bear and wolf populations, and Harry's cellar is so full with magically preserved food between he and Vána that Harry has to double it in size three times.

Eönwë comes whenever he feels like it, allegedly to further Harry's martial knowledge. In reality, Harry largely suspects it's because no one else is willing to spar with him.

Other Ainur appear randomly and sometimes without obvious purpose.

Harry can't decide if he's their charity case or just some type of fascinating organism that they can't quite figure out what to do with. He could almost consider them friends if he hadn't been left on their doorstep like an abandoned Kneazle kitten.

A knock sounds in the background.

Harry is in the library brush in hand as he traces out a perovskia flower. He's never them seen in Valinor, but they'd grown in greenhouse one and were the key ingredient in the potion he always made his first-years brew in their starting class.

There's another thump then, and the harp playing next to him pauses. The notes drift away as he straightens.

"Whatever could that be?" Harry inquiries as he looks around.

The harp strikes a single chord as if to question, "Why are you asking me?"

The Ainur never knock; Harry isn't sure they even know what it means. He often looks up from one task or another to find them poking around. Sometimes, he can hear them coming, feel the soft strum, but it depends on how hard he's concentrating.

Harry finally stands as he hears yet more tapping in the distance. The knocker is a novelty and only kept because it came with Formenos, undoubtedly some work of Fëanor or one of his sons. It takes Harry a moment because he's never actually heard it from inside

He tilts his head and listens not with his ears but with something deeper.

There are elves at his door. Hovering in the front courtyard, mildly anxious and… awed?

How peculiar.

Indilwen is nearby, undoubtedly drawn by the noise. She's also very territorial, so it's probably for the best that Harry goes to save them.

He puts down his brush and apparates to the entranceway. A wave of his hand refreshes his robe and wipes away stray paint droplets.

Harry exhales and takes a minute to compose himself before opening the side door. It puts him to the right of the group. Indilwen is on the left, nearer to the fountain that opens to the bamboo garden. She's glaring at the lot of them and tossing her head. Two are close to her, reaching out and speaking in soothing voices as she paws the ground. Their own mounts are on the far side of the courtyard, being tended to by other members.

This isn't a small group, he realizes. It's perhaps more than seventy.

The pair closing in on her jerk back as she rears up, and Harry decides it's time for the rescue.

"Indilwen," he calls.

Her answer is immediate. She goes from nothing to a full gallop in seconds and is through the gap between elves before they can do more than leap out of her way. She's behind Harry then, curving to stay at his flank. She stops on a Knut, perfectly positioned beyond his shoulder and looking over.

The elves stare for a second at the spectacle, but they recover soon enough and very gradually come up to greet him. The spokesman in front is the only true blond of the group with pale golden hair braided in an unusual style Harry hasn't seen before. The others are all dark-headed in variations of brown and black save for three with red – two bright and one auburn – and another six in shades of silver that range from metallic to almost gray. They all have weapons, mostly swords or daggers with some bows and spears. None are drawn, which's good for them, or they would've had a very bad time of it once his wards are through.

The blond – ostensibly the leader – offers a bow.

"Well met, I'm Inglor."

He studies Harry, but his expression says that he already suspects the name he'll be given before he hears it.

Harry inclines his head.

"Hérion."

There's a wave of quiet whispers amongst the others.

"So truly this is Findekáno's cousin?"

"All the way out here?"

"In this forsaken place?"

The last is loudest and from a woman just to the right. Harry glances to her, but she's quick to duck her head. The other elves fall silent

"Forgive us. Your disappearance was a matter of note." Inglor redirects attention to himself, and his tone is strange. "No one knew where you'd gone."

"Well," Harry replies nonchalantly, "as you can see, I've been here."

Inglor looks from the courtyard to the castle and back. His eyes trace the ivy curling up by the castle entrance and over to the myriads of butterflies flitting from the roses to the lavender. To the apple and cherry trees both blossoming and full of fruit. To the berry bushes with chirping birds stealing their prizes.

"Yes, I can certainly see that," Inglor says. It's half-bemused, half-wonderous.

Harry studies him for a long moment, studies all of them. He's Slytherin enough to see what they don't say. Their clothes are sturdy but have an aged quality, like an outfit worn and washed too many times. Their horses are drooping as they stand, lulling off to sleep, and even Indilwen has stepped out from behind him now to peer that direction. The elves themselves seem… tired. Frayed. Tattered and discarded.

It tugs at something inside Harry, and he doesn't have the heart to push that feeling down.

Every elf he's seen in Valinor is clean, tidy, and seemingly happy.

This lot looks anything but.

Inglor undoubtedly can feel the weight of his attention. Of his eyes examining every little detail.

"We're wanderers," the blond admits then like it's a shameful secret. The same way a prefect would admit to cheating on a test. "Most of us don't have set homes in Valinor and drift. We found ourselves in the north and thought to seek shelter, but this…"

Inglor hesitates. He gazes at the sunlight streaming down from the cloudless sky.

Outside the wards, it's a blizzard, a whiteout of snow and wind. Harry can feel it howling against the barrier, gnawing and snapping.

Within, it's a beautiful spring day.

"None of us ever dreamed Formenos would look like this."

Inglor laughs then like he can't believe he isn't dreaming.

The lost gleam in his eyes decides Harry more than anything. He would've offered them simple shelter to wait out the storm, but he knows that look. Recognizes it from years ago when he was an unwanted stray, a destitute orphan in rags, a discarded piece of rubbish shoved in a cupboard and forgotten about for a decade.

"Come inside," Harry says, and it's a turning point.

He can feel the weight of doors both opening and closing. Of future paths shifting and rearranging. Things won't be the same after this.

He turns and beckons them into the entryway. He doesn't have to glance back to know that all of them are following. He doesn't have to be a seer to know that all of them will stay.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)

Angrod – So what're they doing back there?

Aredhel – Whispering to each other.

Finrod – I can't hear what they're saying, but it seems promising.

Fingon – I'm looking at this horse very intently and nothing else.

Indilwen – Neigh.

Argon, who's the only elf in this group without a sweetheart – Teehee!

Everyone – ARGON!

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Námo – Your grandson is doing such a good job out there.

Fëanor – Grandson? Celebrimbor?

Námo, secretly laughing to himself – Not that one.

Fëanor – Elrond? Elros?

Námo – Not those either.

Fëanor – ???

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Inglor – What the holy hell happened to this place? Are a hoard of Maiar living here now?

Random Elf #1 – Yeah, I thought this was supposed to be a fortress of gloom?

Random Elf #2 – Isn't that supposed to be--

Random Elf #1 – I stand by what I said.

Inglor – Hey, isn't that Maglor? He cut his hair.

Random Elf #2 – And changed his eye color.

All The Elves – Wait just a minute! That's the guy that Fingon totally sent us on this wild goose-chase to find told us all about!

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

The House of Finwë, probably – Oh, look. Let's shove Fëanor's wife at him. What could possibly go wrong?

Meanwhile, Harry in Formenos, building his barbie elven dream castle, while having his Elsa montage, and the Valar looking on and sipping tea.

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Chapter Text

It's the starlings who tell Harry that another elf has come. It's late in the evening, and they're settling in to roost when a pair lands on his balcony. They're happy to help, tweeting and dancing around like little eager spies. He thanks them with some seeds he keeps for just the occasion.

It isn't his business; it isn't. He shouldn't care if Fingon has late night liaisons. This is his home. His estate. He can entertain whomever, whenever he wants.

And yet… yet…

First the surprise arrival of Findis and then being ambushed with Nerdanel…

His inner Slytherin shakes a finger at him in a manner that is not unlike a scolding Malfoy. The Ravenclaw part tells him he's being foolish and that any knowledge is good knowledge. Hufflepuff puts hands on his hips but agrees that everyone can get along only if everyone knows the plan. Gryffindor just shrugs and says he might as well.

Harry sighs.

Corvids have a poor association with elves, but fortunately for Harry, since coming to Arda, he's gained other forms. Avians are the easiest, which is not unexpected. Owls are something of a favorite and always will be.

It takes a moment to reorient himself since he hasn't changed for months; he stretches his wings and turns his head this way and that. His feathers are glossy and black, but he purposefully shifts his eyes to a luminous amber just in case. He doesn't want to be seen flying from the room though, so he appartes to the shadows of the roof. The finches nesting there are delighted enough to show him the correct room, preening against his wings and bobbing their heads for several minutes before he can finally shoo them away.

The roof itself is clean, almost unnaturally so, likely from all the recent rain. Nevertheless, Harry's grateful for it as he carefully walks over the tiles, meticulously picking his way around the edges to keep his talons from catching. His goal is an ever-darkening corner as the night deepens, and he settles in with his back between the two walls. It's warm, as it always is in Tirion, but the breeze is pleasant. The balcony door is open just as he hoped it would be.

"For surely, Ma--"

"He continues to deny him," Fingon cuts in, and his tone is very tired.

Harry obviously can't see them from this angle, but despite his form shift, his hearing is sharp as ever. He catches a loud exhale and knows that it's from Fingon.

"But Tyelpe also denied his father after the kinslayings, and he never took the oath."

The other elf sounds very similar to Fingon. Voice near enough that he must be a close relative, but Fingon has no children and has never married. Another brother then. Harry knows that this isn't Argon though. Has spent too much time around him now not to recognize him immediately.

Harry has never met Turgon, however.

"Do you think perhaps he was too young to know when they were separated?" the stranger asks next. "He may've even still been a babe."

He can hear Fingon moving in the room. Walking to the far corner where Harry knows he keeps the expensive alcohol. Sure enough, there's the sound of a cabinet opening.

"We don't know how long he was in the Halls, and I only know he was there because of how he spoke to Irissë of Lord Mandos," Fingon says, distant in a way that has nothing to do with his location in the room. There's liquid pouring into a glass, first one and then another. "We know so little of him. He tells us only hints and falters when he realizes what he's given away. I don't even know his age. Where he lived on Arda. Nothing! Celebrían was the one to tell me his craft, and she didn't even hear it from him either but her cousin through marriage."

There's a thump and the sound of a chair against the carpet. Like Fingon has fallen into it.

Harry doesn't know what to think. He scarcely dares to breathe. His heart is beating wildly, wings shivering as he tries to pull them closer. It's summer, but he's unexpectedly chilled. It feels like every happy emotion has emptied from his body. As if a dementor is standing just behind his shoulder and out of sight.

Are they… Are they really taking about…

"What do you know then?" the visitor inquires after a long pause. "Share what you have and not what you don't. Extrapolate from there."

Harry can't see them. Can't see Fingon's face or his eyes. Can only imagine how he must look in this instance as he tells this elf – this stranger – every detail he knows.

Harry can't decide which is worse. The hearing of it. The telling. Or that he could've lived on forever in blissful ignorance.

Fingon is measured, considering.

Damning.

"He's a gifted artist but shies away from acknowledgement. He rebuilt Formenos by himself and possibly before I even met him. He wears no jewelry and refuses treasures of his House, even those that uncle and Curufin didn't make. He knows how to hunt and killed a fox that not even Irissë spotted. His manners and dress are appropriate for a prince, but he rarely braids his hair and is reluctant to allow me or even Gil to do it. He knows the history of Valinor and the kinslayings chillingly well, but he hates going to Tirion unless wearing his hood. He goes only to buy books, and he spends more time reading those at night than resting."

Fingon pauses to take a sip, and the wait is agonizing.

"So Makalaurë obviously taught him something," the other elf offers, "to have all of this. What does Gil-galad say?"

There's a laugh. It's an exhausted, mirthless sound.

Harry clamps his beak shut to make sure it didn't come from him.

"He hoards his knowledge like a dragon does gold. Gil says nothing that was given in confidence, which is everything."

A tap of fingertips on wood then, but Harry isn't sure who it's from. A steady rhythm in time with his pounding heart.

"He avoids touch, and even Gil's is rarely permitted." It's halting now. Hesitant. "He steps away but never pushes, and he looks at us like he doesn't understand what's being offered."

Silence. Tense. Threadbare. Like a cloak unraveling.

Someone is breathing hard, and Harry isn't sure if it's him, Fingon, or some combination of both.

"He doesn't speak of his mother," Fingon murmurs. It's muted, distant. "Never. Not once. Not a single word of her. There's…"

He exhales. Long. Slow. Inhales again.

They're speaking from the room beneath Harry, but it's so far away even without moving.

"There's what, hinya?"

Another pause and a clank of glass.

"There's… an unusual quality to his fëa," Fingon admits.

Harry wants nothing more than to fly down. To see his expression and know what he's thinking in that very moment. It's only because his wings won't support him that he doesn't.

"…but I've met so few peredhil and never spent much time with any of them. Perhaps… perhaps his mother was the child of an Avar and an Atan?"

There's a shifting as the second elf abruptly leans up in his seat.

"You don't think his mother was Atani?"

"No Atan has eyes like that," Fingon tells him with absolute confidence, complete and utter conviction, and Harry struggles not to make a sound, can't be sure whether it'll be a laugh or a cry. "They certainly didn't come from the line of Finwë."

It earns him a snort instead from his visitor. Harry can hear him take a long drink from his wineglass before setting it on the table a little too heavily.

"Ingoldo has green eyes," the stranger reminds him. His tone is gentle. Manner like one holding a soap bubble and trying to keep it intact.

"Those are the closest in any Ñoldo," Fingon acknowledges after a minute, "but his are much lighter in shade. You'll see yourself soon enough."

Harry shivers as Fingon sighs. He can imagine him with that far off stare he often wears. Like he's gazing beyond Harry to some other time and place. Like he's lost himself and isn't quite sure how to get back.

It's an uncomfortably familiar look. One Harry has seen in the mirror too many times.

Very unexpectedly, there's a knock at the door. Sharp, agitated. It's jarring enough that Harry nearly jumps.

He hears a clink against the table.

"I'm sorry to bother you."

It's muffled behind wood and distance.

"Celebrían?" Fingon questions, and he honestly seems perplexed. "Come in, come in."

The sound of a door opening, then footsteps. Quick. Restless.

"My apologies, cousin and-"

She gives a little gasp, clearly surprised to see this elf, too.

"Niece, please, no need for that."

"Celebrían, whatever's the matter?" Fingon interrupts as his chair is being pushed back, and Harry hears him rising.

"We can't find Hérion," she answers in a rush.

"What?"

Fingon is startled, strangled.

Harry feels his heart stop. Stutter. Restart.

The wards.

They never come by his room at night. He hadn't bothered to recast them. He hasn't ever needed them.

Not until now.

"We went to see him this evening, but his room was empty. He's been quieter since your return from the lake, and he's been even more withdrawn after Nerdanel spoke with him. We… we grew concerned."

There's a roaring in his ears. His feathers are puffed up, wings stretching out as if faced with a predator.

"His horse?"

It's Fingon but further way. There's the flutter of a robe being thrown on and the jingle of sword as it's tied to a belt.

"Irissë has gone to check the stables, but his room is empty of most of his things." Celebrían moves towards him two steps. "Uncle and Arakáno are heading to the city proper in case he went there. Findis is alerting the staff to help us search. The others are all looking as we speak. Gil-"

All of three of them are far away now, hurrying off. A door opens.

"He would truly leave at night? Without saying anything?"

Then, they're gone. Whatever response is lost, never to return.

Harry is left alone. Still on the roof. In his corner. In the dark. With no clue what to do now.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Vairë sings while she weaves. Her voice is light, gauzy. More delicate than dew on leaves or gossamer made into lace. A silken soprano who never misses a single pitch and every note is a perfect seam in the fabric of her song.

Harry sits and watches her for what must be hours, but it never drags as her fingers dance. She never loses her veil, but he knows that she smiles at him as she works. She's more patient than a spider spinning a web as she teaches him the rhythms. As she corrects every hitch and smooths any missed beat.

Nienna is their most frequent companion, and the songs are more varied then. Some wordless. Others in languages he's never known. From beings. From concepts. From the universe itself.

Even more often, they simply speak with him. Ask him all manner of things. They're ever curious about the world of his birth, about the life he had before coming here. About the school and teaching and being a headmaster. About his career before that. His apprentices. The conflict with Voldemort. The devastation of the Muggles. Of Earth… Of her loss.

His magic surprises them the most, he thinks. The ease of it. The utility.

Their songs can build entire worlds, but his can light a room so simply. Can make water and flowers and a purple armchair from nothing.

The ladies are mesmerized.

Both wands have made it here, and his holly one is quite taken with Nienna. He teaches her Lumos first and then Wingardium Leviosa. She masters them perfectly with the first cast. The next is silent. The third is without the movement. Her delight is the sun on a winter day as it dries the earlier sleet.

Harry watches it in awe. He's had many students over the years. Most young but some older. Late to magic for one reason or another. Some denied it due to their blood or finances. Others forbidden until the laws relaxed and times changed.

Never has anyone cast so flawlessly. So easily in the beginning. Even those with other types of magic like goblins or gnomes or vampires had struggled at least a bit with the change to wands.

Nienna took to it like a conductor directing a symphony. A harmony rising to answer the flick of her wrist.

Harry's never seen anything like it. He doubts he ever will again. But then, the Ainur are not like anyone he's ever met before. They are magic. In a way that even Harry isn't.

While Nienna studies spells, Vairë prefers his cloak. Loves running her fingers over the invisible runes and impossibly small stitches. It truly is a work of art. Of three genius masters who turned themselves into legends. The material intrigues her, but even Harry isn't sure what it's made from. A lethifold perhaps. Or maybe even a dementor. He certainly knows it wasn't fashioned from any demiguise.

Their grimoire was old, missing key pages, so these artifacts will never be duplicated. Harry thinks it was done on purpose. Perhaps by the brothers themselves. That or one of their descendants.

It too has made its way here with him. Had been tucked into his pocket when he made his journey; it'd been too dangerous to just leave behind in the eventuality that someone in a distant future may come back to find it. The brothers were powerful wizards, necromancers who delved far too deeply in their craft. Best not leaving such tempting and damning material just laying around.

But it's protected now, given to Námo for safekeeping.

Harry has no want for it or most other things now. His needs are simple, and the Halls provide for him.

Nonetheless, the ladies repeatedly bring him gifts. Clothing is the most common, and Harry thinks Vairë enjoys having something else to make for once. The very first thing she brings is a robe of viridian with black pants and silver thread. It's an exceptionally Slytherin design, and Harry knows she's been listening to his stories very well when he spies the serpent pattern hidden in the edges. Why she chose this in particular, he isn't sure, but the material is soft, and it's finer than anything Harry's ever owned. He wears it gladly; both seem very pleased with it.

There are other things, too. Blankets. Books. A sword and spear from Eönwë that Harry takes somewhat dubiously. Oromë brings a bow with matching quiver as if trying not to be outdone. Hunting knives from Aulë but these are brought by his wife.

Even more.

Harry honestly isn't sure what he should do with all of it. If he didn't have magic, his room here would very quickly be filled to the brim. It's a puzzling thing having so many things and so little need for them but such eager gifters. Ones who seem to want absolutely nothing in return.

Then, one day, Nienna brings him a harp.

It's small. Meant to be held in his lap while played.

Harry remembers instruments in hazy recollections from primary school. He loved music and art even then, but it'd been hard to hide his drawings from the Dursleys. He never would've managed anything larger. In Hogwarts, there hadn't been time and certainly not with Voldemort. Afterwards was recovering and while he'd taken the opportunity to travel, to find himself, that had not been long in the scheme of things. He'd returned for his mastery and there was always something else to do after that. He had drawn more though; doodles in his spare time or before bed to relax. Music just never seemed to be a higher priority.

But then, other things came, and leisure was a finite thing for so long. Slightly less so as a professor. He'd actually managed to take his own art classes. They'd been added back to the curriculum by that time and expanded for adult students. He'd first done it as a show to the community, as a way to draw interest, but Harry'd found an old passion. He'd continued those classes for years. Gone to other schools on exchange for a semester or two or three with day trips whenever he could steal them – Lourdes, Boston, San Francisco, Rome, Athens, Alexandria, Lima, Kolkata, Osaka, Shangri La, Kaifeng, Xi'an, Melbourne, everywhere and anywhere that would have him . Taken up traveling again during the summer to learn more.

It was one of the few things he'd done for himself. Until the semesters away stopped. Until he was head of house and he couldn't do that to the students. Couldn't be gone so long. The summers remained his own even as headmaster, but other holidays were always spent at the school save for a day here or there. Maybe a weekend if he was truly lucky. Even those stopped in the end, too busy trying to save the world to enjoy it.

And now, he's in Mandos.

Now, the only responsibilities are the ones he takes on.

The harp in his hands is cool, a mix of metal and preserved wood kept new by some elven technique. It's old, Harry thinks, but he can't tell by how much. Only knows by some sixth sense as he moves to hand it back.

Nienna, however, refuses it.

"This isn't mine but rather for you," she says like frozen mists. Her tears are slow today, a scant trickle; there's always a lingering sadness to her, nonetheless.

"But I don't know how to play," Harry admits as he runs his finger over the unusual star carved on the head.

A noncommittal sound, neither pleased nor solemn.

"It is enchanted." Her fingers rise like fog on a lake, and harp glows golden for an instant before it fades away. "The one this belonged to before will be your teacher."

She plucks a single string. Soft and sweet. Pure.

Harry feels it then. Echoing out. Calling from a distant shore.

Harry isn't quite sure how to describe him. How to describe the sensation of someone suddenly being there without Harry even seeing his face.

Melancholy deep as the depths, dark, sinking. Salt like an ocean of sorrows. A hurricane of loss and recrimination. A swelling squall that floods his mind in a tsunami. Guilt. Grief. Despair.

But… but… but there's also sunlight on the surface. The break of gentle waves on the shore in a steady thrum. The call of gulls in flight.

Harry opens his eyes. He hadn't even realized that they were closed.

He inhales shakily. Overcome with emotions that aren't his but might as well be.

"For every sorrow, there will one day again be joy," Nienna murmurs as she places a hand over his. The autumn in her voice is greens and golds, glorious even as the leaves fall. "For every loss, we will gain."

Harry can still smell the sea as he gazes at her. The harp in his lap is heavier than it should be, weighted by history, by a past Harry doesn't even know.

His hand traces over the edges. The strings. The star.

He thinks of the elf who once held this and imagines what he must be like. What kind of life he lived to feel such a way.

Harry knows what that's like.

To lose everything.

To have it all ripped away.

To grieve until you wish you could just die from it.

"Is he…?"

"He has refused the call here when it was finally offered," Nienna tells him, and it's remote, haunting. She turns her head to look at something very far away, but the deluge of her tears is telling. "He doesn't wish for forgiveness."

"But forgiveness is given," Harry reminds her, "it's not earned." His fingers curl before he forces them open. His voice is near trembling as he fights to keep himself from remembering things best forgotten, "And sometimes, it's hardest to earn from yourself."

Nienna's hand on his stills. Her hair is white beneath the gray of her hood, but there aren't any shadows as she looks back.

"Sometimes, the burdens we take on aren't ours to carry." He can't see the color of her eyes behind her weeping, but he knows she's looking directly at him. "The blame for them rests with others, and we are only left the ashes of choices we never even made."

Harry breathes out in a rush and turns his hand over to squeeze hers. "But that's something he has to realize for himself. No matter how many times you tell him, it won't be true until he knows it here." He points with his free fingers over his chest.

She's silent for a very long time after that. Tears drip down her face in a steady stream as she gazes at him, searching. She's hazy rain on a December day as she leans up to press a kiss to his forehead.

"You are far too wise, dear, and too kind."

Then, she's gone. Evaporating like mist in the sunlight.

Harry is left behind, alone, still holding the harp.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

In the end, his decision is simple. Harry heads higher.

It's an easy matter to fly to the highest part of the roof, to very top of the dome on the property's lone tower. There's a flat area that's perfect for sitting, and he draws his knees to his chest, hands folded on top.

He's high enough that the world underneath is forgotten, is a faint memory. All he can see is a kaleidoscope of twinkling lights on all sides. Everything else is so remote. So far below.

He can think. He can breathe. He can let the last few hours fall away from him like a serpent shedding his skin. Time flows on as he tips his head back and lets the stars and the moon sing to him.

The birds are all sleeping now. The crickets have finished their serenade. Even the fireflies have given up for the night.

The top of the trees are dark green waves when he occasionally glances down, and he can't even see the lights of the estate. They don't call for him, and he's grateful for that. He hopes it means they've all gone to bed. To be honest, he's high enough to not even hear them without the help of magic. Which he definitely doesn't use. He's earned his own punishment for that earlier and doesn't care for a repeat performance, thanks ever so much.

He's such an idiot.

No matter how old Harry gets, he'll still be a boy chasing mysteries. Creeping down hallways at night. Going into secret passageways under the school. Hiding under his cloak and listening in to conversations that shouldn't concern him at all.

How much does he have to be hurt to learn this lesson?

The stars and moon don't have an answer.

He doesn't know how much time passes. He's fixed in the same spot. Frozen like an elven statue in the night.

He's so tired but can't rest. Can't find the energy to apparate. Much less climb all the way down and locate his bed.

Hours pass. Enough time for his heart to start easing. For the tapestry of starlight above him to whisper soothing melodies to his mind and lullabies to his troubles. For his worries to seem so much smaller and farther away. For his head to rest on his hands and his eyes to half-shut.

It's Gil-galad who finds him. Who Harry feels arriving with the roil of storm-clouds.

Harry looks down from the sea of stars above him to Gil-galad appearing over the edge as he pulls himself up. His coronet, bracelet, and outer robe are gone from earlier, and two of his braids are also missing. His footfalls are whisper-soft as he steps over the metal of the dome, and his shoulders are level, back straight as he climbs.

Harry finds that he's sitting up automatically.

There's a scent of ozone. Sizzling and sparking. Like the aftereffects of a lightning strike.

Anger then. He honestly isn't surprised. Harry deserves it, he supposes. Deserves their rage for hiding like a coward.

Gil-galad is next to him now. His face is pale, irises just a ring around the pupil in the dark as he kneels.

"I--"

There are arms around him then, tight, almost but not quite suffocating. They circle around his middle as forearms clench at his back. Pulling him close. Closer. Almost lifting him from the roof until he can get his knees underneath him. A face presses into his neck, and Gil-galad lets out a shuddering breath.

Harry freezes. There's thudding in his ears as he feels the elf in his arms shiver. He swallows hard. Somehow, he finds his hands lifting of their own accord. His fingertips tangle in dark hair, wrists digging into shoulder blades.

The air is heavy, dense. A brewing thunderstorm without a single cloud on the horizon.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs and means it. His throat is thick, aching, raw. "I'm sorry."

Harry's chest is tight. His eyes burn. He grips so firmly he knows he'll leave bruises.

The face in his neck pulls back. Gil-galad looks at him, unreadable, near and yet so far away. Then, a hand lifts from his middle to brush up his arm, past his shoulder, and cup his face. His head is tipped so they're the same height, but the fingers on his cheek are gentle, curling around his jaw.

"Tell me before you do this again, Mírimo."

It isn't a demand. More like pleading.

His voice is low, husky. Breath fogging. His hand trembles as he strokes Harry's skin.

"I…" Harry can hardly speak over the shards in his throat. "I will."

An exhale then. A bated breath. Hold, wait, and then release.

A forehead taps against his and remains. Fingers ghost over his face and feather through his hair. Eyes look at him in the dark, and Harry sees nothing else.

Finally, Gil-galad pulls back but not away. It's slow, deliberate. Lingering.

He brings Harry to his feet at the same time that he also stands. Leads him down the dome to the edge of the roof. They descend together to the balcony below. Gil-galad follows him silently until his feet touch down on the tiles. He takes Harry's left hand in his right, grasp firm but not unyielding as he opens the door and leads him inside.

He doesn't let go.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

The third Muggle world war lasts for four days, fifteen hours, and twenty-seven minutes. It would've been shorter, but there was no leadership left to end it. Half the population dies immediately. Another half of the remainder in the resulting chaos and famine. More still from radiation sickness, subsequent cancers, and other previously preventable issues.

Magicals make it out unsurprisingly well. They've had enough warning after all, decades of prophecies and forewarning. They've already withdrawn to the far reaches or burrowed in deep. Harry himself is sitting in the office of Steelclaw – the new, young Director of Gringotts – when it starts. They simply look at each other in horror over their teacups as the air around them screams with a billion voices and goes hollow, deathly silent.

Harry is still the chief Healer at Saint Mungo's then. He's lived through a war, but that doesn't prepare him for this. Nothing ever could. For the utter devastation. For wasteland of London. Of Paris. Of Europe. Of the world.

For the smell of blood and rot and ash that even Bubblehead Charms can't block out. For the grey haze of the landscape and the crumbling wreckage of the cities around them.

They live in tents, and there's rotating teams that do nothing but maintain the wards against the radiation and dust. The magical world helps. It isn't an island that can survive on its own with the entire Earth falling apart at the seams. Tieflings, humans, gnomes, pixiu, werewolves, the list goes on. It doesn't matter at this point. They take anyone and help anybody they find.

Harry honestly can't remember much of that first year aside from a steady stream of dying patients, pleading families, and passing out from exhaustion. Sheer will gets him through the next two before he actually has to take time to sleep, and it's because his apprentices force him. He always makes sure they have food and rest, but that's a luxury he doesn't have. There's never enough time, resources, staff, hope.

Magic is a refuge, a haven, an eye in the tempest. It's just distant enough for a sense of almost normalcy. There's still birthday parties, weddings, graduations.

Harry misses all of those.

He doesn't even return to his own house for nearly four years, and it's likely only still standing and his taxes paid because Steelclaw is truly a gentlegoblin, one who remembers every slight but always rewards every courtesy. And Harry paid his dues in full to the goblins. With interest and very sincere apologies. They don't often get those.

Harry keeps working. Keeps helping. Keeps healing and mending and training students and sleeping on a cot.

It takes nineteen years to stabilize the Muggle world into something resembling order. Magic's a pixie well out of the bag by then, but it really doesn't matter by that point. Magic is what keeps the rain from turning to acid, the lands fertile and green, the air breathable. It turns the tide in their favor and keeps the Earth habitable – for a time.

Harry retires as soon as the first election in almost two decades is held in Great Britain. He starts at an integrated Hogwarts as the new Potions Master the following September. His first class is Teddy's twin granddaughters, Rose Weasley-Turpin's youngest and only son, and Steelclaw's nephew.

It's a double class, and he spends the first hour in simple preparation. In showing them the proper way to select and process their ingredients. In cauldron checks and equipment set-up. Then, once he's sure that they're all comfortable with the process, they start brewing.

Their very first potion is the revised Wit-Sharpening Potion.

It's Harry's own creation. Made as one of his Potion's Mastery projects.

The students have no idea, of course. Have no idea the history behind this choice. The weight of it. That this potion was quintessential in saving lives because it has fewer ingredients than the original, a faster brewing time, better shelf life, and it's overall easy enough that even a novice with minimal experience can make it. That there's no risk of addiction and it's as effective if taken sparingly or regularly. That they drank this day after day for years to keep their focus as the world collapsed around them.

He adds the instructions to the board with a wave of his hand.

1. Add six pieces of ginger root to cauldron. Potion should turn from blue to green.
2. Add five grams (one third of a tablespoon) ground petals of Perovskia flowers. Potion turns to purple.
3. Add armadillo bile until potion turns yellow and stir clockwise.
4. Add seven chopped leaves of Perovskia and stir clockwise until potion turns purple again.

All of them submit complete potions. Not perfect. Not by a mile. But they're all at least variations of the correct color, and Harry knows they'll work even without testing. He praises each of them individually and as a class just as the bell rings.

They're all so bright, so eager as they file out. They're cherished children, sheltered from the harsh reality of the outside world. They'll never understand what things were like before.

They'll never know that without the new laws, their Muggleborn classmates wouldn't have been identified until age eleven. That their Muggle parents wouldn't have been approached shortly after their births or sometimes even before. That there would be no magical primary schools to prepare them.

That only humans would be in these seats.

That Squibs would still be on the fringes of magical society, shoved out the door in adolescence or stricken – sometimes literally – from memory.

That half this class would've likely never been born when their parents died in the blasts.

That the world outside these walls and magical sanctuaries is a wild, desperate, dark place but it's slowly getting better, and he'll do everything in his power for them never to see the horrors of when it was even worse.

He's told by his colleagues that the first class is always special. The first day is always the hardest.

The first night at his desk, he cries with his head in his hands, remembering all the children he couldn't save.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)

Gil-galad – My dear, I've come to spend time with you. Knock, knock.

Door – Creaks open ominously.

Room – Completely empty.

Things – Packed because Harry keeps it that way in case he needs to make a quick escape.

Gil-galad – My dear?

Bird!Harry – Up on the roof, having totally not recast his wards. I'm sure it'll be fine.

Narrator Voice – It was not fine.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Nienna – Forgive us, but Harry is…

Vairë – It doesn't sound very elvish.

Harry – Stares at them blankly.

Nienna – You said you wished to blend in as much as you could.

Harry – Had not considered the name change very much.

Narrator Voice – Several minutes later.

The Three of Them – Looking at Quenya names in a baby book.

Vairë – What about this one?

Harry – Making a terrible face. Himbo has an unfortunate translation in my first language.

Nienna – No, this one!

Harry – Making a worse face. So does Telep*rno.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Random Elf – So what's your name?

Harry – Hérion.

Nienna – At the same time. Marcaunon.

Both – Look at each other.

Nienna – In a whisper. Elves usually have two names.

Harry – Sighs. Fine!

Nienna – Teehee!

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

Chapter Text

Formenos at night is even more haunting. The wind howls like an enraged beast, clawing at the walls and rattling the doors. Demanding to be let in. Frost rimes the windows until nothing can be seen but a wash of white and fog. The shadows deepen, darken. There's a sensation of being watched but no eyes that can see him. No true ghosts or spirits.

Just screaming echoes and tormented memories

It's still warm inside, but there's a slight chill to the air that has nothing to do with the temperature. The spindly prickle of fingers down his spine. Of feet walking over a grave. Of a voice past his shoulder when no one's there.

They're bedded down in what Harry assumes was once the great hall. Globes of light hover like miniature moons around the room and in all the corners, casting out every shadow. The floor is now a large grassy meadow that he's conjured for Indilwen, but she's lain down at his back to guard him even now. She doesn't trust this place yet, doubtful despite all the protections he's already woven together. Yet, she believes in him to keep her safe from wraiths or ghosts or whatever other manner of dark spirits she imagines dwell here.

A runic fire burns without smoke, wood, or risk of spreading in front of them. To his right, Káno plays a moving tune to ward off evil, sweet and pure.

His barrier of sea salt and crushed quartz has cleansed the area thoroughly, but it's only a temporary measure. Meant to buy him time to construct something more permanent. The challenge of it though… The challenge makes his heart beat a little harder and a smile tug at his lips.

The parchment setting across his knees is slightly wrinkled as he stretches out his plans. He pauses, pen on his lips.

Which crystals to use?

Salt and quartz are holding well and are easy for him to obtain. Of course, he can conjure up just about anything these days.

Onyx most definitely. Both white and black for the duality.

Moonstone for grief.

Amethyst for the soul.

Maybe bronzite? Tourmaline?

Should he include flower petals instead? Incense? Water?

He considers further, absently chewing on the tip of his pen.

A full moon will be best, yes. At moonrise though or midnight? Hm…

An eclipse would be even better though, but he doesn't even know if Valinor has those. He'll have to ask Nienna.

Or maybe something at dawn with the first light?

Decisions, decisions.

Káno's tune changes then as if sensing Harry's struggle to choose. He shifts to something more inspirational, quick and positive. Harry feels the fingers of his free hand tapping along to the beat.

The number one is an important quantity in arithmancy, but it certainly won't be enough for this place. Three is powerful and has long been Harry's go-to for ritual magic. However, there's a symbolism in seven with the family who dwelled here before. He'll already have three participants with himself, Indilwen, and Káno if he can make it all work. Or perhaps he can have Nienna or maybe even Vairë step in. They're still fascinated by his magic and having one of them certainly would give this place a zap.

Best keep the pattern simple if he's going to have to redraw it seven times. There's nothing that says he can't repurpose things, however. One of the good things about this world is that Harry can borrow whatever he wants from wizarding culture, and there's no one to argue against him because there's no one who knows any differently.

He traces out the triangle followed by the circle and finally the line in the center. Yes, a symbol of death used to cleanse a place of blood and sorrow. It has a very nice symmetry.

A circle of salt. A triangle of clear quartz dust. A line that is a mix of both with lily petals. Top corner onyx, black and white. Bottom corners moonstone and then amethyst. A side for each person in the ritual. In the full moon at midnight. Seven times for seven sons.

Yes, this will work out very nicely.

Káno's song finishes then, but it lingers in the air. He plays beautifully, as always. Even his saddest melodies are breathtaking and heartrending all in one.

"You've it worked out then," Káno asks with a pluck of three notes.

Harry smiles at him. He can't see it, obviously, but he'll hear it the same.

"Nearly so. Just some fine details here and there."

Listening to a harp exhale would be an odd thing, but Harry is still a wizard, despite all appearances and what the population of this land thinks. Instead, all he feels is sea mist as he stands by the coast.

"Are you sure about this?"

Harry's honestly expecting this question. He's asked himself it enough.

"As sure as I am of anything these days."

Another chord then. Rising then falling.

"What if something goes wrong? What if you're injured?" Káno's voice is an ocean rocking against a boat. "I'm hardly in a position to help you, and Indilwen would have to travel far for aid, leaving you behind."

It's not an unreasonable thought.

Harry shakes his head. This ritual isn't a particularly dangerous one, all things considered. It isn't like he's worried about dying either. There are further ways to mitigate harm, too. He isn't a novice. He isn't a naughty child with his family grimoire hiding in the attic.

This will work.

Before he can convince anyone else of that, he's interrupted though.

"Why are we here?" Káno questions, and it isn't the first time. "Truly? Why come here of all places?"

Harry is silent for just a second too long. Káno takes that as permission.

"Why don't we go back to Fingon?"

"I can't go back there," Harry says immediately, and it's a tad forceful. The chilliness in the air deepens, but Káno is just a harp so he can't feel it.

There's the sensation of the tide tugging at his feet. Tranquil but persistent.

"Fingon won't be angry that you left. He'll be relieved to see you."

"Tirion isn't my home," Harry insists, but he's measured now. Back in control. This is a well-worn path. An argument they've already had and will undoubtedly have again.

"Why here though? Why this place? You've all of Valinor to choose? The west is hardly settled even now. You said it yourself that you like the ocean." If a harp could have hands, Káno would surely be reaching for him. "Why not settle there? Nienna would surely love you as a neighbor."

Harry shakes his head.

There's nothing he can do or say to make Káno understand. They're similar but worlds apart.

Both are shaped by loss and tragedy. Both seeking to escape what they were before.

He knows and doesn't know Káno though, and the opposite is true.

He knows that Káno once had parents and a family who loved him dearly. Knows that he has sons who are lost to him – one dead, another he hasn't seen for an age, and a third who denies him. Knows that he joined the kinslayings and went to Arda where he still dwells. Knows that he did many terrible things that he regrets and would take back if he could. Knows that he's left behind who he used to be and wishes to be a simple musician on the shore.

Harry has also left himself, been remade into someone else, but his starting point was different. Harry's an orphan. His memories of his parents are their deaths. Of his mother screaming. Of his father fighting. Of a godfather who was more a dream, a wish, than a person. Broken beyond repair even before he died.

Harry has been alone his entire life. He's always been at the fringes. Always been outside the families of others and hovering at the edges. Unwanted by the Dursleys but grudgingly taken. Welcomed by the Weasleys but forgotten in time. Loved by Hogwarts but a distant authority figure.

He's here because Formenos is a little too much like him already. It's abandoned. Discarded. Nobody sane will ever come here. No one will think to look unless the Ainur give him away. Nobody else wants it or will take it away from him.

It can become his refuge, just like his cupboard had once been. A place of exile where no one else comes and he can finally breathe a sigh of relief.

"This isn't a good place for you, hinya," Káno tells him, but it's very kindly. He's the surf lapping on the shore now. "This is where Finwë died. Where Fëanor lost his mind. Even the Valar never healed this place. They left it to ruin for a reason."

And maybe that's why more than anything. Harry likes broken things. Likes easing their hurts and showing them how to be new again.

"Think of it like a challenge then," Harry counters, and it's Gryffindor daring filled with Hufflepuff resolve. He'll need Ravenclaw knowledge for this and more than a little Slytherin cunning to pull it off.

And what a glorious thing it'll be.

A minor fall then. The sound is startled, sad. Like Káno doesn't mean to make it.

"To you or to them?"

Harry blinks.

"Myself, naturally," he replies, puzzled. "Why would I challenge them?"

There's a long pause, but Káno's sigh is an annoyed pelican splashed by an unexpected wave.

"You sounded just like him for a moment, you know," he comments.

Harry quirks his head. Not for the first or even the tenth time, he wishes that he could see Káno's face. Could know more of this man – elf – than the sound of his voice. He knows the melody of his heart, the sorrow of his soul, but doesn't even know what he looks like.

"Who?" he asks when no further explanation is offered.

Káno laughs instead. There's both humor and sorrow. Like sunlight shining down on a shipwreck.

He plays a discordant note that rises to fill the entire room. It swells and stirs a wind that tugs at Harry's hair the same way Fred and George used to. It ruffles, sending strands this way and that before curling around his shoulder. It's warm, teasing turning gentle.

"Who indeed?" Káno mutters but it's more to himself.

o.O.o-

Harry wakes to legs tangled in his. To a face inches away but eyes closed. To breaths even and deep across his neck.

He's puzzled for a moment. His mind is still sleep-fogged and full of fluff.

Last night after they'd come down off the roof, there was shock. Worry turning to gladness. Questions. A very gripping embrace from Fingon, which Harry tolerated better than even he thought he would.

It was late then. After midnight and creeping into morning.

Gil-galad hadn't taken him back to his own suite though. Had pulled him down the hall to the corner room and bundled him in bed. Had laid down beside him just as Ron and Hermione had in another life after war and nightmares.

Harry considers this new memory. Turns it over in his mind. Studies it from this angle and that. Before putting it on a shelf with his other precious things. In between a golden snitch and an old photo album. Admires it in the bright, shining light for a moment.

He comes aware again to see Gil-galad still asleep next to him. It's an odd thing really. He's never seen another elf slumber. Not like this. He's caught them in waking remembrance around Formenos, gazing at nothing with their eyes wide open. Melpomaen, in particular, is a repeat offender at his desk, but Harry's discovered Laerien in more than one tree. But he's never seen them with their eyes shut in a true sleep.

He doesn't snore. Not like Ron or Charlie did. But he makes little noises, murmurs something that sounds more Sindarin than Quenya. His fingertips jerk, and his lashes flutter.

It's so very… human. Normal.

More so when he blearily opens his eyes to the dim light. As if even that's still too intense. Harry can't fight a chuckle from escaping.

That earns him a sleepy, slow blink.

He should offer a good morning. Or perhaps something witty or clever. Instead, he just watches as his companion focuses on him fully.

There's a pause as they assess one another.

Then…

"Do you often climb the roof at your own home," Gil-galad asks, voice surprisingly clear for having just woken.

Harry snorts before he can stop himself. Last night is so far away. The load of everything gone. Lifted away like a charmed feather, and he feels weightless.

"There's an observatory, I have you know."

It's said very primly, but he doesn't hide his smile.

The other elf is startled for a second before he laughs. Sunny and delighted.

"Do you now?" Gil-galad questions, raising slightly. "I suppose that it just appeared one day."

"Hardly," Harry replies, and feeling playful, he adds, "it took at least a whole week, I reckon."

Gil-galad leans up fully on his elbow, head in his hand. "Really now? A week? So slow?"

"It was a very tough week," Harry offers with a vague gesture. "Couldn't decide on location and then the colors, mind you."

"Obviously," Gil-galad allows solemnly, "those are very key decisions. I hope you chose well."

Harry lifts a challenging eyebrow. "I'll show it to you then."

Gil-galad is unexpectedly quiet to that. It isn't quite shock, but there's an odd cast to his face. His eyes though are now glittering.

"I look forward to it," he replies, tone slightly breathless.

They look at each other for a long second before there's a noise in the hallway. Harry sits up then, but it's already gone. The spell is broken, however, and he slips from the bed on silent feet. Gil-galad watches him as he leaves but doesn't stop him. Harry doesn't see anyone on his way back to his room; he's very glad for it. Harry bathes absentmindedly and dries himself with magic. Cleans his teeth and brushes his hair the same way, thoughts distant and drifting.

He's just finished pulling his tunic over his head – ivory today with a dark green stitching that's nearly black and the pattern of aspen leaves – when his door opens. Gil-galad slides inside and shuts it behind him without a knock or backwards glance.

Harry blinks at him once. And then again.

He's dressed, but his hair is unbraided. Harry can only stare. He's completely covered, and they've woken up together, but there's some raw in seeing him like this. Something intimate.

Even more so when he moves to the often-ignored vanity and starts rearranging the top. He has a small case, Harry belated realizes as he drifts over, and is sorting through. Out arises combs, hair ties, even beads set in a neat arrangement. Gil-galad turns the bench longways in a puzzling move before sitting down, and Harry watches, captivated as his long fingers direct their magic through his hair. There's no circlet today, but his earrings of blue lapis are carefully worked around. His movements are steady, sure, confident. Practiced like he's done this a ten thousand times before, and he undoubtedly has.

Gil-galad turns to Harry when he's finished, not even commenting on how he's been ogled this entire time. His expression is warm, soft at the edges. He gestures for Harry to sit not beside but in front of him.

"Mírimo, let me braid your hair."

That's the second time he's been called that. He knows what it means; Harry just doesn't know why.

His expression must be questioning enough, however.

"So you'll know your worth," Gil-galad tells him. His voice is even, deep. As expected of a king. But for Harry it's somehow always gentle.

Harry blushes, but blue-gray eyes just look at him guilelessly. A hand is held out to him, waiting but not rushing his decision.

Harry swallows and slowly accepts it. He starts to sit himself on the edge before he's steadily led backwards. Gil-galad settles in behind him, knees pressing against his thighs. Harry feels his face grow even hotter, and he can see the redness creep all the way down his neck to the line of his collar in the mirror.

Gil-galad wears a small smile, but he's very intent at his task of combing through Harry's hair in slow, steady strokes. His fingers are nimble but lingering, taking their time to thread and twist. It's certainly a different experience than when Fingon did this or the one other time Harry allowed Gil-galad to braid his hair. That seems like a lifetime ago but had been a week before the hunt. He isn't even sure why the offer was made or even why he accepted. It'd been odd though. With Fingon and Finrod watching like judges at the Triwizard Tournament. Or referees at a Quodpot match. Harry half-expected a score to be given at the end.

This is… more personal. More private.

Lulling as Harry watches him work in the reflection and time is measured only by their heartbeats.

Gil-galad starts to hum then. A wordless tune that's low and soothing as a lullaby. It reminds him of grassy plains and fields full of flowers, of winds through open meadows.

He stirs only at the sound of beads clacking together, opening half-lidded eyes as if waking up from a dream. He lifts his gaze back to the mirror.

Harry inhales sharply.

Behind him, Gil-galad lets out a little laugh.

Harry barely hears it as he straightens up and the reflected figure does the same. He can hardly recognize himself. Hardly recognize the person staring back at him. He's tall, regal, ethereal. Hair blacker than the darkest night and eyes greener than anything seen in nature.

No wonder they never believe him.

He looks like some fairytale lord. Like an elven prince. All he needs is the crown jewels.

He exhales deliberately. Packs that entire train of thought away in his trunk and shoves it in the cupboard under the stairs. Locks the door and throws away the key.

Instead, Harry lifts one braid to inspect it closer. His eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline.

The bead… It's lapis lazuli. Blue and gold to match the earrings Gil-galad now has and the two rings he wears, one on each hand.

His eyes meet Gil-galad's in the mirror, but he only receives a bigger smile.

"I apologize, but I didn't know what you would wear." Gil-galad reaches to brush the braid back. Hand lingering on Harry's jaw and fingertips tracing the curve. "I'll know better next time."

He pauses for a second, considering, before he slips a ring from his hand and reaches down. Harry still wears the Peverell signet on his left, but his fingers are thinner and longer. Gil-galad slides this new ring on the index finger instead.

It fits perfectly.

A second arm circles around Harry's middle, hand settling to rest on his hip as Gil-galad twists his ring into place. Then, he very deliberately lifts Harry's fingers to his mouth and presses a chaste kiss to the back; his eyes never leave Harry's reflection.

Harry doesn't even have to look to know his ears are burning crimson. Pointed tips just visible through his hair.

But he doesn't pull away.

Instead, Gil-galad gently sets his hand back down his lap and settles his own on top. His fingers dance over both rings before Harry suddenly turns in his grasp. He gives a single squeeze, palm to palm, but holds on. Fingers thread together. His ears are still blazing, cheeks now the same shade of red.

Gil-galad buries his grin in Harry's collar. He looks up only to set his chin on the shoulder in front of him.

They sit in silence, but neither moves away.

It's… strange. To have someone simply stay for the company of him. To have touch for the simple joy of it.

Harry stays. Keeps staying as they listen to the rain on the windows and the thunder in the distance.

They sit gazing at each other in the mirror for a very long time and only turn away when Celebrían finally knocks on the door. She pokes her head inside to see them still at the vanity, and Harry feels himself flush again when her ears twitch in amusem*nt.

Harry feels caught at something. They're both fully dressed, save for Harry's lack of shoes, but she looks at them like they've stripped down to nothing. Her eyes bounce from one to the other, hovering on the new additions to Harry's person. She doesn't hide her grin or her smug giggle as Harry twists on the bench to face her or as Gil-galad's hand slides from his hip to linger on his back.

"So you are up, Gil, Hérion," she comments as she comes over to them. "I'd wondered if I would find you still abed." She stops several paces away and stands with her fingers clasped behind her like a small child. "Might I say that you're very fetching today."

"A delight as always, Celebrían," Gil-galad responds, but it's cheerful.

"Good morning." Harry offers her a welcoming nod and tries not to be troubled by her attention.

"It's just about afternoon now," Celebrían informs them. "You both missed breakfast, so I thought to bring you down to lunch." She's looking at Harry very intently. Her eyes are fixed on the beads in his hair before doing a downward sweep of his outfit. "Ah, but something is missing."

Only the last is said more to herself.

Harry and Gil-galad exchange a look as she taps her chin with her index finger before turning to the wardrobe. Celebrían falters for a scant second before opening the doors. Fortunately, everything is in there as Harry had earlier magicked things back inside if only because it's much easier to sort through when he could actually see it. She's quick to rifle through and produce footwear, which she all but shoves at him. Then, she dives back inside, only to emerge with a blue and green robe that Harry doesn't think he's ever even worn before. She turns it over with satisfaction before bringing it to him in much the same manner that a king is delivered a decree.

Harry, now in the gray boots she'd chosen, slowly stands. With some reluctance, he lets her slip the robe over both shoulders for him. She smooths it over his arms next and adjusts his neckline in a manner that is far too motherly. Celebrían nods afterwards, quite satisfied with herself, but it's Gil-galad that he looks at.

His chuckle is pleased as he rises, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Harry rather feels like he's in a procession as Celebrían leads them downstairs to the family dining room. It seems the household has already gathered just outside the doorway without them.

"Well now, this is a nice surprise," Finrod announces as they arrive and he peers at Harry, gaze on his hair.

Angrod opens his mouth, seems to think the better of it, and promptly shakes his head. Irimë is laughing, which is a usual sound for her. Findis offers him a prim gesture, while Aredhel gives him a beatific smile. Argon nudges his brother. Fingon, very close to gaping, snaps his mouth shut. He turns unreadable then, moving to look over his shoulder.

There's another elf with them; he's just behind the brothers and has been quiet this entire time. Observing. Cataloging the interactions the same way Hermione once did her books. He's very familiar, but Harry doesn't know him. He carries a familial look, however. Face so similar to Argon and Fingon with the same raven black hair to his waist as the oldest brother. The elf from last night then. He'd been there when Harry and Gil-galad had come down from the roof, remaining in the background and staying silent. Watching. Waiting.

Only… only…

Harry has heard much of Turgon from his brothers and from Finrod now, too. His height was a common topic of conversation. Reportedly the tallest of the Ñoldor, greater even than Maedhros and Maglor, but Argon claims to be the same height. Perhaps even taller.

This isn't Turgon.

The elf before him is shorter than Argon by a few inches, near equal to the oldest brother instead. His diadem is plain lines and angles, color a match to his gaze. He doesn't have gold woven into his hair as Fingon typically does, but the metallic thread in his robes is likely the real deal. His bearing is dignified as fit for a prince. For a king.

Harry offers a bow. Face a polite mask but mind buzzing.

"Well met," the stranger greets. His voice is most definitely the one from last night. Tones achingly familiar.

Fingon places a hand on his shoulder to bring Harry forward. Steering him away from Gil-galad and further towards his own family.

"Hérion, I'd like you to meet my-"

Argon clears his throat, while Aredhel gives a little cough in the background.

Fingon offers a generous wave of his free hand in correction. His grip is heavy, weighted, as they come to a stop. As silver eyes look directly at Harry.

"-Our father, Fingolfin Finwëion."

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

It's a gradual thing. A creeping realization.

It starts with funerals. With the knowledge that his classmates are dying not of war or accident but of age. The Order has thinned already, but they're an older generation who lived in hard times and two wars, not even counting what happens later with the Muggles and the desolation that causes. It's different when it's Harry's contemporaries and then when it's people even younger.

It really gets to him, Harry supposes, when he sees Draco Malfoy and his son at a Ministry function and Harry looks younger than Scorpius.

That's when it truly starts to sink in.

Harry knows he's aging but slowly, slower. Then, he seemingly stops. There's gray at his temples and some wrinkles line his face, especially around his eyes, but… but…

He's never felt old. Not in the way he should.

His joints never ache or creak. His hands never shake. He can still ride his broom as well as he did at seventeen. Knows he could outfly anyone on the Hogwarts teams, blindfolded, and it's probably good that he and Ginny stopped playing pickup games long ago.

His mind is – if anything – sharper now than it was when he was younger. It's easier to remember, to get tasks done. To focus for hours despite the clamor. To read and understand the material immediately.

He needs less sleep than he should. Outlasted each of his apprentices even following the Muggle devastation when they would all stay up for days. Even the non-human ones. He could run circles around them. And it wasn't due to any potions, despite what they might think.

This… Aging… His appearance…

Everything is more like play pretend. Like dress up. Like a costume that he could throw off at any time. Like if he tried hard enough, if he wanted it, he could be young again in appearance. He could wave his wand, say the magic words and it'd stick. Maybe he'd just have to will it. Just desire it enough, and he'd wake up that way.

It's a very disturbing thought. A road Harry does not want to tread and keeps himself back from even starting down.

He doesn't want immortality. That was never his goal. Others strived for it. Coveted it. Fought for it. Murdered. Bleed for it.

Harry wants peace. Wants children to grow up in a world full of nothing but wonder. Wants friends and family to be with him and stay by his side always.

He's already had a good life. A long one in the way of wizards. And it's still going. He's no Nicholas Flamel, and magicals don't actually question things too much once one is powerful enough, but Harry knows he isn't anywhere close to dying of old age. His magic has yet to peak, is still flowing slowly but steadily like the determined stream building a canyon over the ages.

Then, one day, he realizes that he's the oldest wizard in Britain. It isn't as hard an accomplishment as one might think with two magical wars, but it's still a bitter potion to drink. He doesn't know about the rest of the world and hasn't the heart to check.

There are older beings in the world than him but fewer as time stretches on. Goblins live for centuries. So can gnomes.

Vampires, yes. But not nearly as many now since they hadn't heeded the warnings as well as other races and primarily lived in Muggle areas.

Phoenixes. Definitely them.

The dementors are all gone now, so they're out.

Maybe a stray basilisk somewhere? Hiding in some forgotten dungeon.

Other beings and creatures who avoid notice as best they can. Drow. Djinn. Naga.

They're hardly going to show up for a census. Even with laws and attitudes changing. They have long memories and don't much trust humans.

Harry wonders if he'd be one of them someday. Fading into obscurity if they ever let him retire – he's already tried twice, but there's always some new crisis. Some new problem that needs just his attention. That only Harry can solve.

Or will he still be here? In this same school? In this same office? Possibly in this same chair a millennium from now wondering where the time has gone?

Just like old Professor Binns before they'd finally exorcised him, only the living version. Haunting the great hall and eating all the treacle tart. He'd become as much a part of the scenery of the school as the Quidditch Pitch or the enchanted ceiling or the astronomy tower.

It's a morbid thought. One that lingers in his mind. Coiling and slithering into other ideas and odd moments. Growing in the shadows as time marches ever onward. As it steals everything of value he still has.

Then, it becomes a moot point.

He's outlived everyone he knew as a child, everyone he'd grown up with. Ron. Hermione. The rest of the Weasleys and their spouses. Luna and Neville. The DA. Even the oldest – and not so oldest – of his apprentices and students.

Victoire. Sweet girl he watched become a lady. Then a mother and grandmother.

Even Teddy. The closest thing to a son he’d ever had.

This loss hits him the hardest. More than his friends. More than Molly and Arthur. More than all of them combined.

It breaks something inside of him. Forms a void that gnaws at him from the inside.

Harry can't even cry. Not at first. Not even at the funeral. There's a gaping emptiness that swallows it all and leaves him hollow. Blank.

He knows that this will be the last time. The last loss.

Surviving isn't living, and he won't remain this way.

There are poisons that are nigh undetectable. That they won't search for because he's old and no one will think to look. Some are even passive, painless, like going to sleep.

They aren't hard to brew for someone of his skill level, and the ingredients aren't as rare or unusual as the Aurors would like everyone to believe.

It's the work of little effort spread out over months to obtain everything, very innocuous, very innocent. It only takes a few hours to brew and then destroy all the incriminating evidence. He doesn't even have to use the Room of Requirement.

He mixes it with a bottle of Firewhisky and waits for New Years Eve. Tom's birthday. Harry's one last gift to him. He thinks about him now and then. More frequently in recent years. How things could've been different, if maybe there was another option even at the end.

Harry has a lovely dinner with the staff and students that evening. But he does excuse himself from a nightcap with the pretext that he's been feeling poorly the last several days.

Then, it's time.

The poison will take hours, and Harry finishes the glass with time to spare. He banishes it and the rest of the bottle just in case. Cleans up his rooms to make it easier for everyone. And settles in his favorite armchair by the fireplace.

He drifts off to dreams of train stations.

Harry wakes at dawn. In his same chair. With the absolute worst migraine in his entire life. And the complete and utter certainty that he is very much not dead.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)

Harry – Hanging out in super creepy Formenos. This is totally a nice place.

Indilwen – Looking around at the dark, gloominess. Neigh.

Káno – Why can't we go back to Fingon's house?

Harry – It just needs a little TLC. Some lights, some cleaning, an exorcism.

Indilwen – Wondering what sort of elf she's gotten and if she needs to gallop him off of Estë.

Káno – You know, Fingon is nice. Normal.

Harry – I think I'll live here.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Angrod – Are they ever going to come down?

Findis – Someone should check on them.

Celebrían – I'll go. Leaves table like a little girl planning to go jump on her parent's bed.

Argon – Are they wed yet, you think?

Finrod – Sigh. No, not yet. It was very innocent.

Argon – How would you know?

Aredhel – Oh, you would've noticed.

Irimë – Perhaps there was a little kiss though.

Fingon – Not sure if he wants to think about what's going on in his house.

Fingolfin – Is this what everyone has been doing this entire time?

The Group – No!

Fingon – Yes.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Gil-galad – Celebrían, I need your help.

Celebrían – What is it, my now best friend in the world who is due a great deal of teasing/revenge?

Gil-galad – Your peredhel came fully assembled. I fear mine needs a great deal of assistance.

Celebrían – Le gasp! I knew it! We need my mother!

Gil-galad – Well, she's in Arda and won't be here for probably a long time.

Celebrían – Hm… I have some ideas of who can help us.

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

Chapter Text

Bringing life into this desolate world is always a strange but joyous thing. It's been a long thirteen months, but they've reached an odd, steady state. The camps themselves are still growing as more survivors seek safety with their magical brethren. They've rather become little towns and cities in their own right now. Only with fabric and felt instead of concrete and glass, surrounded in a bubble of wards with glowing runes. There's even the sound of children running and giggling, muted though it can be, and people are naming the rows instead of using numbers.

Harry alternates most often between the major five sites in the islands –Birmingham, Manchester, Glasglow, Dublin, and Edinburgh. London took a direct hit so the site there is devastatingly small. Staffed by Gringotts as it's just beyond the doors to one of their outside entrances.

He's at a minor location today, in Southern Ireland near the banks of a once beautiful river. The water is brackish outside the borders, but the merrow have made a sparkling lake from the ruins of the metropolis previously here. There are already fish jumping and game grazing by the shores.

The humans number just under four thousand, not counting those who've come to aid them. But they're clean, well-fed and dressed. Quiet though, save for the youngest who don't know better. Most still speak in hushed voices when they talk at all.

Today, however, is a good day. There's an excited buzz in the air even this late. The atmosphere is, for once, upbeat. Almost cheerful.

There's a new member of their group. Small – a full five weeks early, but they'll both make it, mother and child. Magic to the rescue again. Harry's grateful for it. To not have to add another orphan to their numbers. To not have yet another parent lose their child.

This time, it's a good story. A happy ending.

They've had so few victories.

He allows himself the chance to let his shoulders sag, if only for these few moments, as he sanitizes everything in the operating theater. It's getting late, well after dark, and most everyone's finally turning in. His newest patients are already tucked away, and he's sent his apprentices to bed save the overnight healer. The Muggles who have stepped up to assist are already updating their endless lists and heading off to look through their supplies with a bounce in their steps.

A new baby will be a breath of fresh air. A chance for everyone to see that there's still hope even in the ashes. Even better, spells will keep them all from hearing the cries and other things newborns bring. So they'll have all of the benefits and none of the downsides. A true win for everyone.

And if his suspicion about this child is correct, they'll be even more joy to come in the next months and years. The odds of finding a formerly unknown Muggleborn here isn't necessarily astronomical. Even with the laws changing, there are some who slipped through the cracks, but Harry had only felt magic in the baby. None in the mother. Her husband was gone, she'd told them earlier. Deceased like so many others, so it's hard to say for him. Not impossible, just improbable.

Still, Harry privately wonders about the number of Muggleborn they'll have in the coming days. If the use of magic on them, some in the womb, some as infants and small children will make a difference. Will spark their own core.

Or if Mother Magic will grant them this gift as a defense. Or possibly an apology.

But that's a thought best left to himself for now. And best not to count his salamanders before they hatch. No need to make unfortunate elements pay more attention either.

Magic and life find balance in all things. The purebloods are fewer, and Muggleborns are more with the half-bloods the most. Everyone knows that. Even purists – the few still hanging onto the broomstick with their fingertips – know it.

However, they'll certainly use the state of the world to push back. To reform with Muggle-baiting and Muggle-blaming. Their typical party-line.

He knows Hermione and Percy are on the lookout for just that scenario. The Malfoys still have some contacts in those circles and will keep them informed. There are a few others from Hogwarts who also pass along word; those who owe debts or who simply remember the terror of their schoolyears.

Harry's just finished cleaning up, is actually thinking about a very belated dinner, when his pocket buzzes. He doesn't roll his eyes or sigh; it's a very near thing, nevertheless.

Despite what magicals think, Muggles have outstripped them in a number of fields. Communication is certainly one of them. Even with the state of the world, their satellites remain intact and the clever among them – including several Weasleys – have quickly figured out ways to tap into the network now that the Statute of Secrecy has taken a long flight on a short carpet.

He reads the message with a steadily growing frown and a headache forming behind his right eye. Purists are a worry for tomorrow. It seems, there are more pressing ones for today.

A wave of his holly wand refreshes his robes, and it's vibrating, agitated. It's never liked battle or the darker aspects of magic. However, it's always been protective, almost violently so, and has allowed more than it normally would've under other circ*mstances. His wand of elder isn't particular as long as it's magic, but it prefers to remain hidden, to conceal itself as something else or as another wandwood; it's ironically taken to masquerading as black walnut for the last several decades. Harry isn't sure if it's in jest or some type of hidden message he's yet to decipher. He isn't sure which is more concerning.

Both understand that he's being called to do things one would consider outside the scope of practice. Especially for a healer. And yes, he's very much emphasized with Albus Dumbledore more as the decades have passed, most especially the last year. Harry isn't an Auror or a Hit Wizard or a Dueling Champion. He doesn't have a Defense mastery. He isn't even a member of the government. He defeated a single – one – Dark Lord as a schoolboy, and he only did that because a prophecy and the adults around him made him do it.

He shouldn't be the person in charge here outside of looking after the ill and injured. That he is qualified to do.

But there's no one else. There's no one left. The other healers look to him for guidance, even ones he knows are allegedly more experienced than him. The Muggle authority is in tatters, their world is in genuine ruins. The Magical Confederacy is too busy trying to contain the damage.

There isn't a law out here unless they make it themselves.

It started because there'd been no one else. If he hadn't done it, there literally wasn't anyone. But now, all the cites have some type of guard established by the citizens themselves once they had the breathing room. Many even have magistrates now for petty and smaller crimes, and punishment is typically the more tedious chores and loss of privileges.

But there aren't jails here or prisons. Serious crimes, those merit special attention. Usually, it means exile and notice to all other encampments in case the offender attempts to show up elsewhere.

There've been deaths. Of course, there have. Harry would be more surprised if there weren't. There would've been more and even worse if they hadn't tweaked the wards to better prevent things before they start.

This is a different dragon altogether. This isn't an accident. Or the heat of the moment. These are outsiders who'd be welcomed to join but want to steal. To take. To force.

Unfortunately, it isn't the first occasion. Not even the first one this month. Raids and would be warlords have become less frequent as time goes on. As free resources dwindle when territories are established but the offenders grow more desperate.

Harry doubts it'll be the last, but there's more than one reason why they look to him for these messes.

Muggles may have mastered communication, but magicals are still the champions of transportation. Witches and wizards best of all. Brooms, carpets, portkeys.

The last, however, takes time. And that depends on the power and skill level of the caster. Same goes for the number of passengers. The best Harry has ever been able to do is two hundred miles in five seconds for a group of thirty.

Cost, of course, for Portkeys also goes up exponentially for the same factors.

Harry could've had an outrageous fortune doing nothing for the rest of his days but making occasional Portkeys. He should know, after all. That's how he kept the Black fortune while managing to pay back the goblins. Not to mention funded his entire mastery, the house he barely remembers, Teddy's wedding to Victoire, and a number of hobbies he previously remembers enjoying.

Apparition though is near instantaneous. Distance depends on the individual, but the average witch or wizard can take at least one passenger with a little practice. Harry can take groups with him easily and move from the Atlantic to Asia in a single jump.

He shoots off a message to his apprentices and rises. Disappears in a whisper of magic. Reappears to the smell of ocean air.

He's traveled thousands of miles in an instant.

This camp is already under siege when he arrives. He can see the flash of automatic fire against the dark sky, but it's pushed back by a torrent of air. There's ricochets into the night and the heavy scent of iron and artillery before the barricade magic blows it way.

It's a medium-sized site, around thirty thousand, run by a collation of sirens and harpies. They're reinforcing the barrier with songs and storms. It's holding strong with winds swirling around a kaleidoscope of lights.

Inside is dim; it's still the middle of the night. Everyone but the defenders has withdrawn to the center into more guarded groups. All the adults have weapons of one variety or another; he even sees one human women with a harpy bow, complete with accomplishment feathers.

Harry has only been here once, but it's breathtaking during the daytime. Set on the cliffs above the dazzling waters with colorful tents and banners. Well over a third of the population are children. The rest are almost entirely women or elderly. Men, by siren law, are only allowed if married or of a certain age, and Harry fortunately has passed the second barrier of entry.

The leader is a stately siren matron with clouded eyes and white hair. She's hobbled by time, but her power is steady as she forms another layer of protection around the camp's youngest just in case.

Her second, a harpy with a spear longer than she is tall, motions him over immediately. Her words are curt, very to the point in filling him in on everything that's transpired so far. Which's about as he expected.

The raiding parting had approached well after midnight local time, but the humans on watch had spotted them. The barriers were strengthened just in case. A good thing too as they were attacked without warning or provocation. Hadn't even said a single word. All of the camp's forces were still inside the wards and only redirecting the assaults but had sent out the alert. No one on their side has been injured, not yet. But protections can only hold so long. Be it days or weeks. People get tired, anxious, make mistakes. Wards can fail.

There may even be others in the vicinity who could be caught in the crossfire. Other survivors seeking aid.

Not to mention, it'd be hard to flee. Sirens and harpies both can fly, but they don't have transportation magic like other races. Muggles don't have either.

The matriarch has been quiet so far as she listens in, and her head is bowed. The toddler in her arms is fast asleep, completely unaware of the danger raging outside.

"I know their type," she whispers then, voice still lovely despite everything, "they will kill all the hatchlings." The matriarch looks at him with sightless eyes that are far older than anything else in the room.

Her second is solemn stone carved by sea winds. Her spear is gripped in talons that should leave grooves but don't only because of enchantment.

"They'll return and keep returning," she adds, sounding both angry and very tired. A breeze swirls at her feet before she stamps it down. "They see mercy as a weakness."

Harry exhales. It's slow. Pained.

He already knows. Knew as soon as he arrived that it'd come to this. It usually does.

In this world of dust and misery, there's so little room for kindness. None for diplomacy.

But his duty is to his patients. To the innocent. To those who ask for help and will receive it.

Harry thinks about what ingredients he has in the shrunken trunk in his inside pocket; Steelclaw keeps him well-stocked, and he'll be forever grateful for that.

He thinks about what he can make and how fast it can be done. Thinks about what can be inhaled. What can be absorbed through skin. Some can just be within inches to leech into a person's aura.

Yes, that'll work best. Limited area. Limited effects. If someone can contain it…

"Your mastery of the wind," he begins.

She co*cks her head just as Fawkes once did, but he can tell she's listening.

"I think we'll find great use of it."

Her golden eyes grow large, then resolute.

Both give a nod when he asks for two hours and the tent next door to brew. Poisons aren't nearly as hard as people like to imagine. Most of the time is spent in not harming the brewer, making sure it does what they want and not blowing up immediately. When he's done, he has thirteen vials of deep purple. It's not unlike nightshade in color, but there's not a trace of that present.

He meets them by the campsite edge. The matriarch is already there, directing everyone effortlessly.

Harry looks at brigands before them; they don't even realize that they've been hemmed in. That the harpies have scouted the area fully, counted all of them, made sure that not one will be missed.

Harry thinks they may have been military once. Perhaps a unit. Protectors. Not local to here, no. All the locals are inside, guarding it, or other locations nearby.

They've traveled here; he can tell by the look and feel of them. Scouted. Searched for a camp they thought they could take. Bypassed others that either didn't have resources they wanted or they thought too strongly protected.

They'd targeted here in particular.

This'll have to be investigated. Harry knows the Magical Confederacy hasn't monitored people moving outside their areas, and that's a massive oversight. They would've spotted a group so large before this if they had. No telling what they've been doing out there, beyond sight and attention.

Even more troubling.

Harry's still observing the raiders when the matron and her second come to him. None of them have noticed him; none would likely even care if they did. He's dressed as a healer; that means little to them.

They don't even know that they're doomed.

Harry merely exchanges a grim nod before he spells the first vial outside. He sees it drop and smash against the ground. The vapor rises in a slow, black mist before a gust comes. Carrying it. Spreading it further.

Harry watches for several slow heartbeats. Then, he takes out the next vial.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Lunch is an awkward affair, at least for Harry. It's formal, of course it is. A king, even a former one merits a ceremonial luncheon. Particularly when he's the father of the host.

Everyone else there already knows each other – or are related in some capacity – so Harry's the odd one out. Gil-galad sits on his right, a steady presence who redirects attention away from him effortlessly as a Beater with a bat. Even he can't deflect every question though.

Somehow, this entire affair is only slightly less excruciating than being hit by one of Dobby's bludgers while battling the basilisk and running from Aragog. Only less fun. The meal is delicious but tedious in the way that only weddings, funerals, and conferences have managed to perfect. Harry's saved solely by all those prior Ministry dinners and meetings with the board. He speaks when spoken to, keeping his answers vague but proper, and otherwise remains quiet. Gil-galad's hand rests on the arm of his chair intermittently throughout this. Harry leans into the touch, lets it anchor him.

They watch that, too. He knows they do. Watch every little move he makes in a way not even the Ainur do or the wizarding public ever did. This is worse than after defeating Voldemort the second time when there were newspapers, magazine articles, and no small amount of marriage proposals foisted at him. Only he can't run off to New Zealand this time until everything quiets down.

What he wouldn't give to be back with the goblins? Now, those were a people who could mind their own business. If Harry was of a mind, he could've gone to the middle of Gringotts, stripped down, covered himself in stinksap, and rolled around on the floor. And they would've done nothing more than step over him. Maybe with a few words to clean up after himself whenever he was done.

Or perhaps he just needs a spar with Eönwë? Hitting something does sound vaguely appealing right now. Probably better than stabbing with his fork.

He could likely get away with sending a message and setting up a time. If he does it somewhere vaguely near here, maybe Gil-galad would come, too. So that he'd think Harry's less of a complete lunatic at least.

Better than some of the others showing up.

Harry grimaces at the thought of Námo opting to pay a visit. He had, in fact, come to Formenos on occasion. Mostly before the elves arrived but some afterwards. Those who recognized him were very… ahem… concerned. Perhaps alarmed is a more accurate term.

At that memory, Harry quickly schools his expression lest they think it's due to the conversation – the weather of all things.

Gil-galad is already glancing at him, however. Harry feels a knee lean against his under the table, sees the question in those blue-gray eyes, but he shakes his head and offers a small smile. A finger brushes against his forearm for a lingering few seconds before drifting away. He turns back to see both Fingon and Fingolfin observing them.

Harry feels his ears start to heat but successfully fights it off.

Not for the first time he wishes for Manwë to send a sudden – but small and ultimately contained – tornado. Preferably one that will blow away his chair right then.

As always, Manwë does not deliver.

Harry instead sips his wine very slowly and tries not to look at anyone in particular for the next course. If only Celebrían could be closer. She's usually more forgiving of his silence, filling it with her own chatter and not expecting much of a response.

Unfortunately, she's on Gil-galad's other side and next to her uncle, Angrod, so she's little help. Finrod is also on that end of the table, opposite his brother. Argon is on Harry's left, but he usually keeps his opinions to himself. Aredhel is across from Harry, and she's very sympathetic most of the time, but she's in between her father and Irimë and thoroughly distracted by both. Harry doesn't know the former, which is much of the problem, and the latter finds laughter in everything like life itself is a punchline. Fingon is the head of the table, inverse of Findis, with his direct kin around him. Harry rather thinks they positioned himself a little too closely. His perfect seat would be as far away from all of this as possible, ideally on the moon. Maybe he can beg a ride with Celebrían's father-in-law to get there.

Of course, he could just fly there himself. Hm…

He idly wonders how hard that would be as Angrod and Finrod begin arguing over the new caverns chosen for Nargothrond. On his other side, Aredhel is telling her father of her plans to visit her son soon while Irimë asks to go with her. Argon is very focused on his soup like it holds all the secrets of the universe, and Harry honestly isn't sure he's said a word this entire meal. He can't see Celebrían from this angle and can only hear her speak with Findis and Gil-galad about the recent heavy rains.

Harry is still considering as he drinks his wine again.

It wouldn't be so much a matter of distance as the elevation. But the moon can't be as high as it was on Earth if an Ainu could reach it, right? Would he need Warming Charms? A Bubblehead? Could he just fly there as a bird? How long would that even take? Probably not worth risking it with apparition since he'd never been there and it's a moving target. That's just asking for an accident, and he isn't dying to try that here in Valinor.

He'll have to ask Nienna if he'd be barred from going there. Oromë said it was guarded by Tilion, and it certainly seems a safer option than heading for the sun. But maybe one day there, too. They certainly don't seem to mind him going just about anywhere else in Valinor. Certainly, he hasn't taken them all on the various offers yet, but Taniquetil is on his to-do list. Aulë has also been making some rather pointed hints along with his wife.

He'd almost be tempted to use that as an excuse to finally leave Tirion, but the elves always go even stranger than usual whenever the Ainur occur in the conversation. Much less a mention of going to see any of them.

Maybe if Eönwë comes, Harry could leave with him?

No, Harry decides as he picks up his spoon, that'd probably be even worse. That definitely would spark their attention and far too many questions.

Harry bites down on a sigh and stirs his soup. He glances up only when he recognizes that conversation around him has quieted.

Fingon's looking pointedly at Harry. Fingolfin is sipping from his glass, but Harry can feel his attention also. Others are gazing at him as well; it's not the entire table, just the left half but Harry realizes that he must have missed something. A comment. A question perhaps.

"Apologies," Harry offers with a small, modest smile. "My mind wandered."

Fingon waves him off, but there's an odd expression on his face. Normally, he's open. As easy to read as a shop board or signpost. Today, it's closed off. Shuttered. The usual warmth now absent and Harry feels its loss like one does a blanket ripped from bed during the middle of sleep.

"I said that last night would've been excellent for stargazing, but we ah… unfortunately missed it."

Harry doesn't shift guilty in his seat. He isn't a naughty schoolboy.

An attendant appears to take his soup bowl then. A fortunate distraction as he offers his thanks.

"With all the rain, it'll likely be our last chance for several weeks," Aredhel acknowledges as a new plate is set out in front of her.

"A future endeavor then," Fingolfin comments, refilling his own glass and then his daughter's.

Fingon looks at Harry again even as the staff moves around the table.

"Stargazing is one venture we haven't taken you on," he says, "and I see we've been very remiss."

"There was a tradition to go at the end of lunde timpínea to a spot outside of Tirion," Finrod jumps in then from the other end of the room. His eyes are fixed on Harry though, lingering on his hair.

Fingolfin is quick to chime in. "We haven't kept it in a number of years, but this is a time for auspicious things, I think."

That earns him a titter from several people.

"Is that where you go at night?" Irimë asks then. She has her fork in one hand and uses it to point vaguely upwards. "Stargazing? You could've just said so, you know."

Harry blinks. He tilts his head, plays that statement over in his mind, but it still doesn't make any sense.

Next to him, Argon leans over and clarifies, "When you aren't in your room?"

Harry stares at them. Keeps staring.

How would they know that he isn't in his room? Do they smell him? Are they listening for his breathing? For him moving around? Is it because their rooms are on either side of his? Do they put their ears against the walls?

For Merlin's sake, his wards haven't even triggered!

He hadn't thought to add anything for noise because Harry wasn't in the room to make any. Obviously, he'll have to fix that the next go around.

They're looking at him expectantly.

But he honestly has no reply for this. No answer that isn't an outright lie.

Irimë gives a little giggle. Likely at his expression before he can conceal it.

"Oh, someone doesn't want us to know." She grins a little too wide.

"It can't be that big of a deal," Angrod adds from the other end.

Gil-galad's hand moves to settle on his wrist where it sits on the tabletop; a thumb rubs along the delicate bones there. Slow, sure strokes that are barely a brush of skin but make his entire arm tingle. A blush starts to stain Harry's cheeks as he feels every other person in the room watching. Feels the weight of every gaze the way a dragon follows its next meal.

Someone starts to laugh. Harry cant't entirely be sure whom when it begins coming from more than one direction.

"Or perhaps," Findis allows after a moment and reaches for her glass, "we don't kiss and tell."

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Harry escapes afterwards. He can call it something more dignified than that, but he has no great illusions with himself. It's an escape. A retreat.

He's had enough elves for the day. Yes, indeed he has.

Even Gil-galad leaves him alone once he's safely ensconced in the library. Tucked away in a back corner with a shield of books. His notebook is on his lap in front of him, pen in hand as he puts the finishing touches on Irimë's fennec ears. Fingon the lion and Argon the tiger stare at each other from opposite corners. He hasn't decided what to make Gil-galad or Celebrían yet. Finrod will be a majestic wolf or perhaps a hound. Findis is naturally a very posh badger in a lovely hat and dress who's having tea with Angrod the porcupine. Maybe a horse for Aredhel or… no, a bear. Definitely a bear for her, but he doesn't know Fingolfin well enough to decide yet. Harry himself is only half a form on the opposite page, black wings and beak drawn and then crossed out.

He sighs as his pen rests on the paper.

Hopefully, no one will find him here for a while. It's certainly a safer option than his room. Or even the roof apparently. Lunch was so long that dinner's an afterthought, and Harry skips it anyway. It's evening now, but Harry's honestly not sure what to do with himself since he very much doesn't want to go to bed this early – and the thought of being in his room makes him just a bit queasy now.

Maybe Indilwen won't mind company tonight? It wouldn't be the first time he's slept next to her.

He's just contemplating that when he feels the approach. It's subtle. Not wholly sneaking. But it's hard to hide the presence of such warmth. Like closing his eyes and knowing immediately where the sun is without even looking.

It's why Harry always recognizes when Fingon is around, and truly, father is very much like son.

Harry doesn't sigh. He doesn't start. He doesn't even put away his book as Fingolfin slowly sits in the other chair at his table.

A part of him has been expecting this. Has known that it'd come. Not necessarily when or where but knew that he'd be sought out. Just as Fingon himself had done. Just as Nerdanel did. Just as all of them always do.

He starts with the truth. Perhaps he'll even be believed.

"I'm not Maglor's son."

Fingolfin merely looks at him. He says nothing and only crosses his legs, settles in his seat.

"Despite what they've told you or you might think, I'm not," Harry says. Somehow, he keeps the tiredness from his voice.

It's an old routine now. A frequent denial.

He's studying Harry closely.

He has Fingon's gaze and his hair. Even, in many ways, his face. But there are subtle differences in the shape of his nose and the pout of his lips. Harry can see his other children in those though. Argon's eyes are a blue so pale it's almost gray, but the shape is the same, and his lashes are just as thick. Aredhel has his mouth and turns her head in that exact manner as she thinks.

Harry carries on, "I'm very sorry for everything that's happened between you. I know that I wasn't involved, and I know that my words don't mean much after the fact." He pauses to let that sink in before continuing. "I hope one day you can have the resolution you seek."

Silence then. Stretching out between them. Aching and growing.

Harry shivers, but it's not truly from the temperature. The library is temperate as evening turns into night, but Harry's frozen. Would see his breath if he exhaled hard enough. He's ice rimed on the inside, and the wintery bite of Formenos is under his skin. The only warm thing at his table is the elf with him.

It's growing dim though. They don't have a lantern; Harry hadn't thought to bring one. Fingolfin doesn't seem to need it.

"Nephew," he finally says.

Harry starts. He's closed his eyes and hasn't realized that he'd done so.

"Look at me."

It isn't quite a command, and this isn't his king. Harry obeys anyway.

Fingolfin's shifted. He's now leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, black hair sliding down one shoulder like spilled ink. He's closer now. Near enough that he could reach out to touch. His hands, however, are folded together almost in prayer.

"Nephew," Fingolfin repeats, and it's very firm this time.

Harry's heart beats harder, even if only for a second. He grips the pen still in his hand.

No one's ever called him that before. On paper, he'd an aunt and uncle growing up. But reality was a different beast altogether. They dubbed him freak and boy and meant it. Sirius named him Harry and sometimes James and couldn't recall the difference. Molly and Arthur called him by name and sometimes dear but nothing more familial than that.

This isn't the same; this is claiming. This is acknowledgement.

Fingon calls him cousin.

Gil-galad calls him…

Harry shakes his head.

He can't accept this; he won't. He wants to offer a denial, opens his mouth to give just that, but he's beat to it.

"I've made many mistakes in my life," Fingolfin states, "I fought my brother over the wrong things and for the wrong reasons. I let Morgoth poison us against each other." His eyes are very silver in the growing dimness, like the moon reflecting sunlight. "I won't deny any more of my family."

He fingers push together until they turn white. Until Harry thinks he might actually break them together.

"One day my brother will be free of the Halls, and my only wish… My only wish…"

He falters.

For all that he's forever young, he seems impossibly old in that moment. Tired. Defeated. Eyes looking into the past ages and remembering ashes and dust. The sun setting behind ominous clouds and dawn an uncertain night away.

His voice when he speaks again is barely a whisper.

"I only ever wanted to be his equal. To be his brother."

It's a confession. A dark secret told to a stranger.

Harry knows that it isn't his to take. That this isn't a gift he's earned or deserves. That there's an entire house of people around them who warrant this more.

"I'm not the one you need to tell," he replies delicately. Gently as if he holds a snowflake on his fingertip.

Fingolfin finally looks at him again.

"But you're the only one who will listen."

His eyes are dry, but some wounds are too deep.

Harry thinks what it must be like to lose so much family – first your father, then your son followed by your brother. To have your mother, wife, and older sister stay behind. To be on distant shores as the leader and be breaking apart while expected to lead everyone else.

But even before that, to be the second brother, the lesser and middle son. Not the golden youngest and favorite of their mother. To forever follow an older sibling who did it first, better and greater than one could ever hope to match.

To be left behind time and again. First by age and circ*mstances. Then on by shores and treachery. Last by death and oaths.

Harry should get up and walk away. He should leave. He should stop this right now. Before it goes any farther.

Instead, he sets down his pen and his notebook; he edges forward in his chair.

"Will you… Will you tell me about him?" Harry asks then.

It's more tentative than he'd like but bolder than he probably should.

Fingolfin blinks in surprise. More so when Harry continues to look at him.

"It's just that…" Harry begins, "no one ever really has anything good to say. Even will they speak of his accomplishments, there's always negative added in."

It's a miserable truth. For all that they think he is one, they almost unanimously struggle to find a kind word for the House of Fëanor.

Nienna is the only one to talk about any of the Fëanorions without a disparagement or warning added in. Námo and Vairë avoid all mention of them. Oromë cursed heartily the one time Harry dared to ask, and he hasn't again. Eönwë's always clinical, detached – honest in both his praise and his censure. Even Fingon adds a little hint of reproach. Of could-bes and should-haves. Gil-galad doesn't know them personally and has said as much, but Harry knows he's displeased by many of the events surrounding the twins, Elros and Elrond. Celebrían speaks only of Celebrimbor and the terrible fate that befell him.

Fingolfin stares at him for a long time, so long that Harry actually begins to worry. Thinks that he may have made an enormous misstep.

Then, he relaxes. Breathes out in a sigh. Lets the tension in his shoulders bleed out. It isn't a smile, but his face is softer. More at peace. His hands settle on the arms of his chair.

"What would you like to know?"

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)

Fingolfin – Studying Harry very closely at lunch. I know that look.

Cue flashback remembrance scene of Fëanor and his sons at far too many dinners during the boring parts of the conversation.

Fingolfin – He's plotting something. Nudges his oldest.

Fingon – Also knows that look. Has a sudden chill of doom.

Both – Suddenly very concerned.

Harry – The moon isn't so far, is it?

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Finrod – So…

Angrod – I see it.

Findis – He's very good.

Aredhel – Managed braids and a ring at the same time.

Irimë – Bets, anyone? No cheating, Finrod.

Fingon – Puts his head in hands and massages his temples.

Fingolfin – I've left them to this for way too long, haven't I?

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Harry – Tell me about your brother.

Fingolfin – Eyes widen excitedly.

Narrator Voice – Three weeks later.

Fingolfin – And then, he was up on the roof--

Harry – Geez. That sounds familiar.

Chapter 7: Chapter 7

Chapter Text

"Gil," Fingon announces as he all but flings open the door, "we can't find Hérion. He didn't retu--"

He abruptly stops, paralyzed as if struck by a curse, three steps inside the doorway. Which is still wide open behind him. His eyes are impossibly large, irises nearly disappearing in how his pupils have grown. Face now a fascinating marriage of fluster and surprise.

Gil-galad's also frozen. He's sitting at his vanity, comb in hand. It's poised, midway through working out a braid. He's half-dressed, out of his boots and robes completely, only wearing trousers and his innermost tunic.

Harry is in his dressing gown. He's already bathed, hair still slightly damp and loose as it curves around his shoulders. He's curled up at the foot of the bed, lying on his side on top of the quilt but watching Gil-galad. Ever fascinated. Not at all paying attention to the open sketchbook or pencil next to him, too intrigued by the subject matter to put him to paper.

He jolts up when Fingon enters the room with grace of a drunken manticore on a two-day bender. His book tumbles to the floor, forgotten. His pencil disappears underneath the bed.

They just gape at each other like some ancient tableau. A moment ticks by.

Harry's the first to move as he shifts with both annoyance and a twinge of awkwardness, knees now at the edge of the mattress. Fingon watches with a little too much intensity as his feet find the rug below.

Harry doesn't roll his eyes, but the urge is there.

It's barely been a few weeks since Harry last vanished, so he can admittedly understand the concern. Only, it's not like he's disappeared this time. Harry knows exactly where he is. And so does Gil-galad.

Besides, he's hardly going back to a room where he's spied on like some errant schoolboy in detention. This current standoff more than anything tells him that they don't watch – or listen to – Gil-galad the same. Not to mention, his room is in the corner, and only Celebrían shares a wall with him. Harry knows perfectly well that she's already aware he's staying here since she's been coming by every morning in her self-appointed quest to select his clothing. Harry's beating her at this game, however; he just gets up earlier.

He's perfectly capable of dressing himself thank you! He's been doing it for centuries before he ever came here and never suffered from the fashion blindness that seems to strike elderly wizards in particular. He's also successfully done it in Valinor well before he ever met Celebrían.

Embarrassment ebbs as frustration starts to take root. As it burrows through the soil of his mind and finds purchase.

He doesn't need Fingon following him around like an overly eager guard dog. Percy Weasley tried that once, so long ago, in his third year. Then, Sirius. And admittedly he fit the part better. If Harry truly wanted a dog, he'd just invite Huan along to the party.

Honestly, he thinks, so many little things. So many little irritations that he'd kept behind his teeth, bitten off, and swallowed down. He doesn't need or want people following him at night. Or watching his every move. Or wringing their hands when he does something unexpected.

Annoyance grows. Unfurling like leaves being fed by the daylight and watered by a deluge of memories.

Elves are too much sometimes. Really, they are.

"I do have a mother, you know," he tells Fingon then, and it's more than a bit sarcastically.

It isn't anger, not yet. Nor resentment. But it could be. It could become that; Harry knows that it could fester. Knows perfectly well that wounds can turn gangrenous if left alone long enough. And perhaps he's let them run roughshod on him too much.

Fingon, not privy to these thoughts, gives a very slow blink. Shock is nonetheless very clearly written all over him. From his face all the way through to his posture.

Gil-galad snorts. He's properly recovered himself. Now sitting and observing with the air of a king at his court.

"I'm certain she's very lovely," he says with a benevolent smile. His fingers toy with the comb in his hand, but he doesn't interfere.

Perhaps that's why he's the favorite.

"I don't need another one," Harry's still focusing on Fingon though. Still surveying him as an artic wolf does his next meal. "The position is filled."

Fingon seemingly has no answer to this. He's silent still. Surprise shifting to something like contrition. Harry would almost pity him if he weren't so irritated. If he didn't feel his magic begins to itch inside of him like a winter's wool scarf. Tingling and chilling as frost does on glass.

He knows the temperature in the room has dropped several degrees, and he very gently ravels it back in like yarn. Like a ball that's come loose and rolled across the floor.

Fingon is overbearing, much like Molly once was, but he's ultimately a good man – a good elf. His heart, though very misguided, is in the right place. He needs a flash of teeth. Not a bite to the throat.

"I have a father, too."

But it's calmer, less aggressive but still assertive. Harry's toes curl into the rug beneath him as the other foot nudges his notebook. His hands fold together in his lap to keep them from his face.

"Both of them… They mightn't be here, but they don't need to be replaced."

Fingon's shoulders don't slump, but there's a shadow to his presence. A cloud that passes in front of the sun. So many different emotions flicker across his face in the next few heartbeats that Harry can't even read them all.

He finally settles for resignation.

"I've overstepped," Fingon allows.

Harry doesn't agree nor disagree with that statement.

Fingon isn't disheveled, but there's a certain discomfort to his demeanor as he swallows. He never gets a chance to say more, however, as there's a knock at the doorway.

Fingolfin peers inside. He's without his diadem and half the jewelry Harry saw him in just an hour earlier.

"My apologies, but I've come for my wayward son."

Harry isn't surprised. He's known that Fingolfin was there the entire time. Could see him clearly from his position, while Fingon's back was turned.

Fingolfin's expression is a perfectly civil mask as he steps past the threshold, but his eyes give him away. They hold warmth mixed with a lingering sorrow. It's a knowing look, but one that Fingolfin's starting to earn with their evening talks in the library.

Of all the people in the household, especially considering he's been here the shortest amount of time, he's probably the third best Harry likes – and only because he's rather annoyed with Fingon right now. Though admittedly if Celebrían keeps trying to dress him, she might move down on list, too.

He nods in both greeting and farewell as he comes up to his oldest son. A hand goes to his shoulder.

"Good evening, Artanáro, nephew."

He deftly steers Fingon from the room, thoughtful enough to shut the door behind him. Harry closes his eyes and exhales for a second as he hears them speaking with Argon in the corridor.

"False alarm," Fingon mutters, sounding as uncomfortable as Harry previously felt.

"Truly?" Argon questions. He's exasperated and exhausted all in one. "Celebrían wasn't just having me on?"

"No," Fingon replies, voice distant as they move away, "no, he's fine. Just leave him alone."

Then, they're gone.

Harry sighs but hears a little laugh above him. He opens his eyes to see Gil-galad grinning, standing inches away. He's really too much of a niffler for his own good. Moving on soundless feet to steal gold away.

He needs a bell, Harry decides, and snickers then at his own imagination. At the silliness of it. But that does the trick. He feels lighter now. Less burdened. Buoyant and floating.

A hand tilts Harry face as Gil-galad bends down to press a kiss to his brow. A thumb brushes over his cheek as Harry looks up at him.

"Yes?" he inquires when nothing else is forthcoming.

Gil-galad taps his nose once with his index finger. Playful and bright. Before he steps back.

"Mírimo, you forever continue to surprise me."

Harry just watches him walk to the bathroom. Then, he reaches down to collect his notebook and softly snaps it shut. He doesn't even look for his pencil.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

It's strange to play again. It's been only a few months, but this is the first Harry's dared since coming to stay here. He's far enough away from the house not to be found easily, tucked into a forgotten corner of the estate and in the trees.

He's spoken with Káno, but fortunately, that had always been while back at Formenos and away from keen elvish ears. He can never be sure how good their hearing truly is. It's one reason he keeps the invisibility cloak on the back burner. Harry isn't sure he can use himself as an accurate baseline, and he hasn't trusted anyone enough to get a fair enough measure.

He could set wards, Harry supposes, as he strums the opening notes. For all the good they've done so far. He's still in the process of reworking them to include sound now and whatever other bizarre elven senses he needs to take into consideration. Perhaps x-ray vision? Some type of heat sense? Echolocation?

Harry sniffs at just the thought and the ridiculousness of it all.

He runs through opening scales to warm up, but it's a short thing. He's as quiet as he can be, further softened by the rains around him. The melody is not one of power or particular importance. It's a simple tune. One that Harry's heard hundreds of times from Káno; it's actually the first proper song he was taught. It's familiar, soothing. Often in the background when Harry's painting or played by Harry himself when he wishes to practice or simply to think.

He moves to a somber ballad next. It's mournful. Poignant. Ebbing and flowing like water. Falling like raindrops in slow sorrows. A song of love, mortality, and eventual death.

The third is a folk song, one meant for deep woods and hooting owls and mysteries in the mists. It's something Laerien taught him though hers was only sung as he's never liked an audience. No one has ever really heard him play aside from Káno, Nienna, and perhaps stray Ainur as they drifted in. Indilwen, too, he supposes.

More music follows. Some uplifting. A few melancholy. At times, Harry sings along. Others, he only strums.

He finishes with the same melody he began with. As always.

"You've improved," Káno says then, and he's ever-so-pleased. "Even with the time away."

He's an ocean and land away, but his voice is lapping waves and warm waters. He can't see Harry's expression. Can't see the way his hands grip the harp. Never has to know what such praise means to him.

It's silly, really. Harry's an adult. Has been one for ages. Has long outgrown the need for such validation.

But there's still some part of Harry who will always be a boy in a cupboard. One who sits in the dark and begs that someone will rescue him. Who listens to the Dursleys with their son and wishes with every hope and dream and prayer that he could have that himself. Even if for only a moment.

Káno hums as Harry starts a different tune, a sweet lullaby for errant children and naughty elflings who won't go to bed on time. It switches to another song from Laerien before blending into one from Oromë. There's Inglor's company, and next comes Nienna followed by Eönwë. Then a different one from the Avari, swifter, riskier than any of the others.

"You know," Káno suggests as the last notes fall away, "you could speak with Finrod. He'd be delighted to talk music with you. Certainly, he's learned much since last we met and could suggest you many songs I don't know."

Harry pauses, fingers still on the strings.

It's not an unreasonable suggestion except for the fact that it'd require Harry having to offer more than he wants to give. To reveal parts of himself that aren't theirs for the viewing. To let them flip through the pages and read the text inside.

"I've plenty of other options for now," Harry rebuffs. He starts the opening for another song.

"Ah, but they aren't here, and Finrod is just within reach," Káno counters. He's patient in the way that only water can be.

Harry keeps playing, but his tone is pitched low.

"I'm fine without him."

It's not cold. Not yet. But the dismissal is there.

He can feel Káno shift like a boat riding the waves as the storm comes in.

"Herurrívë… They won't hurt you." Káno's voice is still, deep seawater with a churning current underneath. It tugs at him like the tide even as he stands steadfast. "Let them take care of you."

There are many things Harry could say to that. Few of them are for polite company. Some may even keep Káno from speaking to him for the rest of the day – possibly the week.

Instead, he remains silent.

"Will you ever tell Fingon?" Káno asks. It's gentle, delicate like he's carrying a message in a glass bottle. "Will you ever trust any of us?"

Harry stops playing abruptly. His fingers flex; he distracts himself by running them over the carved star and tracing the pattern. Rain trails down his face at the sluggish pace of a constant drizzle, but he feels nothing from it. No chill. No incessant wetness. No need to seek warmth or to head inside.

"I trust you," he admits. "I know you. I don't need them."

Káno laughs in a half-scale. "I don't even live in this land. You've never met me face to face," he chides, but it's more lenient than even Arthur ever was. "I'm not really here; you have to hide me away most of the time."

Harry doesn't have an answer to that. The trees around him don't either. They're silent sentinels, and the only sounds are raindrops on leaves and small animals as they go about their lives.

Káno sighs. He plucks the chords of his favorite song. It's an odd tic. A nervous habit. Probably why Harry knows it so well.

"Hinya, you can't hide yourself forever," he murmurs, but it's quiet. Defeated. Sad.

Whatever Harry's going to reply is lost though as he suddenly turns his head. In the distance… past the rain but still in the trees…

There it is again.

A sense of light coming his way in the shape of a person. But not an Ainur. No, there's always a song with them. A refrain that's heard with both ears and soul.

There's another elf here. Close. Not quite upon them but approaching. Because of course why wouldn't there be a random elf in the forest at this exact moment? Harry can hardly go an hour without them. Can't even hide his harp before one magically appears.

Naturally, he steps out from between the trees into his field of vision just as Harry thinks that.

He's something out of a faerie tale, Harry decides. Like a swan prince wandering in the woods. A shining figure in white and gold as he all but materializes from the mist and walks over calm as can be.

Harry's next thought is that he's too surreal to be an actual person. That if Harry weren't so used to the Ainur at this point, he would be very concerned about sleep deprivation, spell damage, or perhaps poisoning.

The elf's a vision of shining light. His eyes are the color of sea-glass. Green and glittering. An unusual thing for elves, Harry's noticed, and far rarer still for a Ñoldo. Hair a metallic golden color but longer even than Fingon and his father. It blends so well with the true metal that Harry initially misses the circlet he wears and only notices due to the sparkle of the stones.

He's lovely. More so even than Finrod.

But his sudden appearance sets Harry on edge. Makes something inside him coil like a serpent trying to protect itself. Makes him want to shift into a bird and fly far away from here.

It's only an adamant will that keeps him in place. All side thoughts of how Eönwë and even Nienna would react if they saw him fleeing from some stranger like a terrified little boy.

So much for Gryffindor pride.

Harry feels more bolstered then. Less defensive. Leveled out as he studies this elf. He seems vaguely familiar once Harry can see him around the aura, but Harry knows they've never met. He certainly would remember a blond Ñoldo like this, there's so few of them. Inglor is shorter with a sharper, thinner face. Finrod's hair is more a mix of gold and silver, but his eyes are the same crystalline blue as Celebrían.

Fingon and Fingolfin are a glowing warmth. Like standing in the sunlight, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. Like midsummer on a cloudless day but never fearing that he'll be scorched.

This one is more like a gaze into the sun itself. Like Harry'll burn his retinas if he looks too long. Like radiant light that will char everything away.

Harry isn't quite sure what to make of him. More so as he stands there in the way of someone very confident in their place in the world. Or as if meeting strangers in the woods is of absolutely no concern to him.

"Those last notes," the elf finally says by way of greeting, voice a lower octave than Harry expected but melodic bordering on hypnotic, "it's a… familiar piece."

Harry's eyes widen, and the tips of his ears grow hot. This elf won't be able to hear Káno's voice unless he touches the harp itself, but clearly, he picked up at least the end of their exchange. Harry desperately wishes he hasn't been here long. Bad enough that he's been caught doing this. Hopefully, the elf missed the part where Harry was talking aloud to a harp.

Harry's cheeks are starting to sting now even as he thinks that, and he dreads to know what he must look like as he feels heat creeping down his neck. Honestly, if there's one thing he truly hates about Tirion, it's that everyone here insists on embarrassing him as much as possible. Like it's become some type of competition. Irimë is probably the one keeping score.

The elf in front of Harry is now looking him over thoroughly, carefully, almost systematically. Blinking thick eyelashes beneath a perfectly arched eyebrow as he sees Harry's blush deepen. He's regal. Enchanting even. Like some renaissance artwork with the contrast of the vegetation and curling fog behind him.

It'd make an interesting portrait aside from the weirdness of the whole thing.

"Ah, my apologies," the elf offers, and it's very genial. A true gentleman. "I didn't mean to catch you off guard." He gives a small but charming smile that's full of flawless, straight teeth. The illusion is only broken when his ears twitch ever-so-slightly.

Harry's heart skips a painful beat. A shiver goes down his spine that has absolutely nothing to do with the weather.

It's… He just… It's just as Celebrían does. Just as Finrod.

And Harry can see it now. Past the uncanny vision of dignity and majesty. See it in the shape of his chin, the curve of his brow, even the angle of his jaw just so.

If a lighting bolt hurled down from the sky in this very instant, Harry would welcome it. Not with the way his life has been going at this point. Not with the sudden revelation of who stands before him.

Manwë isn't so merciful, however. He never is.

"King Arafinwë," Harry greets, very belatedly, and manages to keep his voice even as he rises.

That is quickly waved away with an elegant hand.

"Just Finarfin, my nephew."

There's a pause then. Finarfin merely smiles as he searches Harry face. Gaze again going from his eyes to his hair to his entire appearance. Harry's rather resigned to such scrutiny at this point.

More than anything, the simple fact that Finarfin's here is the issue. Harry's known that he was coming for months, and he already understands that the entire household is conspiring against him. Since really, even Celebrían's failed to mention it's supposed to be today. Gil-galad can't have known, he thinks. He would've said something. Wouldn't have let Harry be caught so unawares after the last surprises.

Harry has hoped after his last talk with Fingon that they could make some progress, but it looks like they haven't. Though there's the possibility Finarfin arrived on his own and told no one. Findis did much the same before.

Finarfin finally finishes his inspection even as Harry thinks that. He sees green eyes stray to his harp.

"I was told you were an artist, not a musician."

Harry shifts slightly, uneasy at those words. "I was only practicing," he deflects.

"Indeed." Finarfin casts a look around them. "An interesting choice for harmonics, but I can't deny the ambiance."

The rainfall is now a haze. Crickets chirp while birds call out. A doe and her fawn graze not too terribly far to his left, but they've little fear of Harry. Everything is foggy, shrouded in a gray cloud. Finarfin is the brightest light around.

"It's pleasant here," Harry comments. He glances at the deer. "Peaceful."

"One can play without interruption."

Only it's said with a little, self-depreciating laugh.

"Perhaps," Harry allows, looking back at him for only a second. "Sometimes though, I don't need an audience. Sometimes, nature itself is enough."

Finarfin makes an abortive motion. Almost like he's startled but stopped himself half-way through.

"Where've I heard that before?"

But it's more of a murmur and not addressed to Harry himself.

Finarfin's smile is absent now. Expression pensive, preoccupied. He looks at Harry, but there's a very distinctive feeling that it's someone else he sees.

He blinks, however, and it's gone.

The light is back. Softer now. More like a lantern. He's still very dazzling, but it's shifted. Smoothed out to something almost approaching normal. Less surreal. Less supernatural. He looks far more like his sons and granddaughter than before, and Harry breathes easier for it.

"Shall we go back inside?" Finarfin asks, and he's closer then. Stepping right next to Harry as if he didn't have an entire forest of options.

Harry has no good way to refuse him. No excuse. He simply gives a nod and resigns himself to a long walk back.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

"Back again, Harry?" Dumbledore asks.

It's both welcoming and more than a little bit scolding. As if to say that they really need to stop meeting this way.

In Harry's defense, this time – like several other times he could mention – hadn't been by him. Hadn't been his idea at all. This'd been by the intentions and direction of someone else. Thank you every so much and don't bother to let the door hit on the way out.

At least, it's poison again. It'll be easy enough to hide since Harry knows he made it back to his rooms. Undoubtedly, no one will even notice a thing since he'll be up in the morning as usual.

But this poison… it's one he's never seen before. He hadn't even felt the effects until the very end. Until after his bath when he'd been ready for bed. Something triggered by hot water perhaps? Or a time delay? Or a chemical reaction with his bedtime tea?

So likely a new formulation just for him. How generous of them.

But it hadn't been picked up by the castle wards, which means he was dosed at the Ministry earlier in the day. Not during dinner though. He checked his cup, plate, utensils and everything around his seat because love potions are still quite popular even for someone his age, and he'd sooner cut off his own hand that be bound to some simpering idiot.

The parchment then? The ink? When he read through the new proposals? Those were under wards, but where there's gold, there's always a niffler.

Harry hadn't used as thorough a detection spell there as he had other places, so it's the most probable location. Which means, it's undoubtedly more than one person. Somebody to hold the wards, while another opens them, and a third switches everything out. Not to mention anyone else they'd need for supplies, brewing, general know-how.

A conspiracy involves trust and oaths.

Blood purists, if he has to wager. They've been making a nuisance of themselves lately.

He's been far too friendly with non-humans. Steelclaw's nephew is the new Head of Hufflepuff, and they really don't like that. Don't think that goblins should be in the school as students, much less in such a high position as a faculty member. Never mind, they've been here for decades now.

That's not even mentioning all the others Harry has championed during his tenure so far, and they know he's only getting started.

One of the school healers is a tiefling, lovely lady, planning her wedding this summer to the Defense master. Two of the Transfiguration professors are gnomes, siblings, twins in fact; their mother is the Arithmancy master. There's a History teacher on exchange, a kitsune, who Harry's trying very hard to get to stay. His entire Divination staff except one are centaurs, and the latter is married to the Astronomy master, a very venerable siren. One Art professor is a lamia and another is a vampire; two more vampires from his coven are in the Language department. Harry's own replacement in Potions was a former apprentice, one of his last, a werewolf he's known for over half her life. That's just the proverbial top of the cauldron.

And the purists certainly don't like that Muggle Studies is staffed by a quintet of actual Muggles.

This isn't even counting all the nonteaching staff. The house-elves, merfolk, hobs, and ghosts.

Hogwarts is the fullest it's ever been. There are more classes. More staff offering each subject. More students to the point, Harry's actually worried they may have to start turning them away or build new dorms for the first time since the founders.

The castle is alive. Flourishing with happy children and competent faculty. It's going to stay that way. Harry isn't going to let anyone stop that.

Not even if they keep trying to kill him. This is hardly the first time. Hardly even the first success.

He was lucky so far not to have been caught. Poison is at least less messy than some of the other ways, and it's subtler, preferred for assassinations.

Spells are flashier. Too obvious. And to be honest, for many of his enemies, most are becoming too hard to cast. They don't have the power they once did, and his is too strong to overcome. It's also not as if he goes around telling people that he's immune to the Killing Curse.

The first time everyone knows about, and they all think it was Lily Potter's devotion and cleverness. The second – again that's known but is chalked up to a prophecy and a very convenient set of circ*mstances.

The only people who saw the third time are Amycus Carrow and Neville Longbottom. One of them has been exceptionally dead since before the Muggle war, and the other swore a wizarding oath. But even he's gone now too, so Harry's confident that his secret's safe.

He was in the train station – like always – speaking with Dumbledore yet again. Then, he was waking up on the ground with a very shocked and despondent Neville kneeling next over him.

Neville was the only one with even an inkling of the truth, but even he couldn't imagine the reality. Didn't grasp that it wasn't just the Killing Curse. Harry hadn't even realized in the beginning. Hadn't put the pieces together then. All those times when he was younger.

Harry never told anyone. Not then. Not Hermione. Not Ron. No one.

Not when the third Killing Curse struck him. Not when his scar disappeared fully and he used glamour to make it seem like something was still there.

He still tells no one now. Who's left to tell?

Harry sighs. Long and hard.

The metal of the bench is stiff beneath him but somehow not as uncomfortable as it should be. The station is mostly empty today, a good sign, he supposes. A few people mill about. A family group huddles together by the closest train – parents and multiple children – as they count off members and cry in relief.

He'll have to investigate when he wakes up, Harry decides. Carefully. Cautiously. The poison will still be in his system. Preserved. He always awakens by dawn on days like this; it'll be in time.

Harry shifts, bumping his elbow on the back of the bench.

This really is a bother.

He could just stay here and sit for a while. Watch the people go by. Wander the station and see if there actually is anything beyond the doors and platform. He's tried to board the trains before, but if he climbs the steps they turn into infinite staircases and the railings disappear. Magic only works when it wants to in this place.

Time is intangible but also immutable here. He can't decide if it actually matters when he leaves. If he stayed for hours or days or even weeks would any outside notice the difference? Would it even matter?

He has much to do at the school. Proposals to make. Funding to secure. He still teaches advanced classes twice a month. Still covers for the hospital wing on occasion. Still brews back-up potions for the school supply.

How long would it take them to realize he was gone? How long until anyone came to look?

It's a Friday… A Saturday now. The weekend? Monday? Longer?

Why does he even want to go back? He's tried so hard to leave.

Harry crosses his legs and taps a foot on floor. He looks out at the other platforms. Sees a train pull away that's only half-full. Destination unknown.

This place really isn't so bad. He could stay. He could rest here and just not think. Have no worries and no responsibilities.

Beside him, Dumbledore clears his throat.

"Life isn't a punishment," his former headmaster tells him then. He's watching the family finally board, smallest children holding hands with their mother as their father helps a slightly older sister climb the stairs.

"I thought death was the next great adventure," Harry replies, and there's only a hint of sarcasm.

It earns him a chuckle as Dumbledore finally glances at him.

"Life is its own adventure," he allows before unexpectedly turning somber, "but this is hardly a place to stay forever. Neither coming nor going. I also don't want you rushing off to your death either."

Harry huffs before he can stop himself. Since really, that's too much.

"That's rich for you."

There's a definite bite to his words. The gnash of teeth. Were they anywhere else, there'd be frost riming the bench and tile floor around them from the force of his ire.

This is a different place, however. Magic works strangely here or not at all.

Dumbledore closes his eyes for a moment behind his glasses. He turns fully to Harry, not just his gaze or his head, but his entire body.

"Do you know how sorry I am for all you've gone through?" he asks. His voice is infinitely gentle, tender in the way that Harry has always wanted but never had. "For all your pain and sorrows."

Harry refuses to look at him. His left hand grips the seat so tightly his fingers are white. The metal beneath is freezing, so cold it burns.

"You do not get to tell me that. Not here and not now."

He can feel the weight of Dumbledore's eyes. Feel a thousand things unspoken and mired between them.

Harry doesn't want to hear any of them.

"Just send me back," he states flatly.

"Harry…" Dumbledore begins.

"Send me back. I don't want to be here anymore."

Dumbledore shifts beside him and lets out a small sigh.

And then…

Then…

Harry wakes to his ceiling with dawn's light creeping in his windows.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)

Manwë – I am rather concerned, my friend.

Eönwë – For what, my lord?

Manwë – I keep getting prayers for cyclones and lightning strikes.

Eönwë – Rather aghast. From someone in Valinor? Against whom?

Manwë – Shakes his head slowly and in utter sadness. Against himself.

Eönwë – Gasps. I'll go at once.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Finarfin – So…

Fingolfin – Puts a hand on his forehead. Go ahead and tell me, brother.

Finarfin – Our dear nephew has a harp.

Fingolfin – Blinks. A harp?

Finarfin – Mmmhmm. And he was playing a song we both know.

Fingolfin – I suppose I know the harp too then, don't I?

Finarfin – Gives a mischievous smile. Someone taught him quite well.

Fingolfin – Rubs his temples. Someone, eh?

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Finrod – Suddenly perks up, ears twitching.

Angrod – Pauses immediately mid-conversation. What is it?

Argon – Is it Hérion again?

Finrod – No… My music senses are tingling. Someone's playing nearby.

Argon – Puts his head on the table.

Angrod – Exhales very heavily. Fin, we talked about this.

Chapter 8: Chapter 8

Chapter Text

Painting, Harry's found, is more like a dance. At its foundation is the underlying song of creation. The beat turns to the steps of enchanting, to the rhythm of arithmancy as the picture takes form. To the back and forth of time and space as they shift into patterns. Pigments, then. Possibilities. A shuffle here. A twirl there. A dip. A swirl of light and color.

His project, his masterpiece, is only half-finished though. It's a slow process, gradual as cautious brushstrokes, but this has to be perfect. He won't accept anything else. He thinks he's been building to this his entire life. Learning to recreate it since he was eleven and looked up with wonder at his very first home.

Other pieces are completed around Formenos. Landscapes. Abstracts. A fresco he did on a lark in the kitchen. Some three-dimensional works are on various floors and walls – though Eönwë had an odd liking for the one in the entrance hall. Even a portrait or five of various Ainur who were keen and intrigued models.

Vairë's is his favorite so far. It's not, as some would think, of her halls with a loom behind her. Instead, she rests in a field of wildflowers and is weaving the world into place as she kneels with her husband's head in her lap. Námo is always sleeping. Harry hasn't once seen him open his eyes since the portrait was set, and really, Harry doesn't blame him. Running Mandos is exhausting work, and he deserves his rest.

She hangs just outside his atelier, but he thinks she won't be content to stay there forever. He has set himself up a study but has little reason to go there for now. Perhaps in the future though. She may like it there by a window. Able to gaze at the grounds below.

Eönwë, he has just about figured out. He may even take a break for it. A change of pace to relax for working overhead.

Nienna, he has yet to make one for her… but someday. When he decides the right background, when he's solidified in his mind the scene to give her.

One day, Káno will have a portrait here, too. When Harry has a face for him. When he has more than music and sorrows and a name. That's a distant future though.

For now, Harry works on his masterpiece.

He's been at this since dawn, but time is difficult to measure here. The land itself is forever winter, and the first circle of Formenos is a blooming spring equinox of equal day and night.

Fatigue as an elf is a strange thing. It decreased, oddly enough, as he aged when still human – and Harry still doesn't want to think too much on that. But now, tiredness is more a mental state than a physical one. He sleeps because his mind tells him to do so, not because his body demands it.

Previously, in Mandos, he slept due to boredom. When the Ainur were busy and before his two friends, when he'd little else to occupy himself. In Formenos, there's always something to do. Something to mend or enchant. To change or grow or paint. There's Indilwen and Káno, who always need or want his attention. Often just his company.

"Perhaps it's time for a break, dear," Nienna calls to him like a sleighbell in the snow.

She rests in the squishy purple armchair Harry conjured for her earlier. Her toes dig into the grass and flowers that still make up the ground until Harry one day creates a proper floor. Or perhaps he'll leave it, Harry thinks, as Indilwen continues to graze here more than not. Even now, she's over by the side door. Head down but ears perked.

Káno is next to Nienna, also on an armchair, playing as usual. There's an occasional pause when she speaks to him. Harry can't always hear what they say, and to be honest, he's not truly listening. Though he knows she was earlier describing his progress so far.

"You've been working nonstop for hours," Káno adds with a wash of notes.

Harry pauses to squint at them and then the windows. He's astonished to see that it's completely black outside.

The ceiling itself won't start reflecting the sky until he's finished. Until he sets the final enchantments. Currently, part of it is fluffy white clouds while the section by the doors is dark thunderheads with flashes of lightning. His present portion is a veritable tapestry of stars, but he hadn't thought that represented reality just yet.

Harry allows himself a moment to set aside his brushes and stretch before telling the ladder to lower him down, which it does cheerily enough. An absentminded flick of his fingers cleans everything off his clothes as he meanders over to them, but before Harry can even think of making another chair for himself, Nienna is already reaching. Pulling Káno to her.

"Sit here," she states, and it isn't quite a command. It's too genteel for that.

From somewhere, she produces a teacup and saucer. The contents are steaming but somehow not too hot as he sips – ginger and sweet orange with a hint of cardamom.

Harry raises an eyebrow at that one. Since she must be raiding his herb garden if not his cabinets. But no… this isn't a blend he's made. And nothing has been missing. He would've remembered both.

Nienna covers her mouth with her hand at his look. Her tears are gradual again today, barely there. Harry belatedly notices a table on her other side with a full tea service. There are other shapes underneath that he can't make out from this angle.

Where has that even come from? Where has any of this come from?

Harry looks at the cup again – white lilies on a dark blue background with gold trim. It's not one of his. Not a pattern he recognizes. He'd decorated his himself – snowdrops for the first set that he most often uses. Ivy on the newest which is actually still in the process of being finished; that one he'll probably give away.

At his very puzzled expression, Nienna finally offers, "This is a gift for you."

"For me?" he repeats.

Since this - her manner and the entire situation – is decidedly strange. The Ainur have given him many things. Nienna especially. But never quite like this. They've never made a production of it before. Harry can't quite figure it out. Can't quite put the pieces together and make the picture whole again.

Fortunately, they take pity on him.

"On your old world, you said that they celebrated the day of your birth, yes?" Káno questions with a strum. There's a scent of sea salt and the feeling of the tide at his ankles.

Harry blinks. He feels vaguely fuzzy. Like he's been hit with a hex and now can't quite think straight. Perhaps he's more tired than he thought. What time is it?

"I…"

"It's different here," Káno tells him. "Usually for elflings or special begetting days."

"Your ways are not our ways though," Nienna adds, and her tears are growing heavier now, "and you've bent to our expectations so much."

She lays a hand over the harp strings and plucks several notes. They ring out with foam and frost but warm to autumn rains.

"You said you celebrated at midnight," she continues, a little breathy with anticipation. Tipping her head back as she waits for her cue. "And midnight is-"

The clock in the hallway, one Fëanor made so long ago, chimes exactly then. Once and again. Twelve times.

Nienna's laugh is a carol of bells even through her crying.

"Now, I believe."

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Dinner, it turns out, is an interesting farewell. Aredhel leaves tomorrow, Irimë in tow, to travel to Mandos. Visitors are rare as there's usually only one way in. Námo allows few others to enter, fewer to leave, and the fewest still to roam freely. Aredhel's a special case, he's been told by multiple sources, including Námo himself. As is her son. Harry isn't sure he wants to know the details. He isn't planning to ask.

They retire to a separate area, something of a strange mishmash of a conservatory and music hall, after eating. There are braziers at intervals with the largest in the center, and Harry spends perhaps too much time evaluating the mural that extends around the entire room. The ceiling is arched glass, but all that can be seen overhead now is dark storm clouds.

Talk is light. Reminiscent more than anything. Mainly about people Harry hasn't met. Mostly relatives, to be fair. Aredhel's only child – but never her husband. Finarfin's other and youngest son, Aegnor, also still in Mandos. Celebrían's parents, both on Arda with her husband and children.

There's Queen Indis. Harry's seen her from afar, very briefly, but they've fortunately never met. He has zero desire to ever do so with all the things that Argon's said. And that Fingon and Angrod have very carefully not said.

Orodreth is apparently trying to build an underground city, and while that truthfully sounds interesting, Harry's juggling more than enough as is. The only way he'd go there currently would be as a cute, very innocuous animal that no one would ever associate with his actual form in a million years.

Same for Turgon. Though his venture seems to be the far more successful of the two.

Finduilas, Orodreth's only daughter, is with her grandmother currently as Angrod has been here.

Idril is the one who interests Harry the most – she and her husband, who's the only Man in Valinor. They live outside of Alqualondë, directly on the coast, and Celebrían is planning a visit soon as they're her in-laws. She invites Harry along when she sees him perk up at the mention of Tuor. Harry must admit he's intrigued. He has no idea if Men here are humans or something else, and really, there's a bit of homesickness at the opportunity to find out.

The conversation drifts as more alcohol is consumed. Everyone had something with dinner, and they've been rather free with the wine since moving to this new room. Everyone but Harry. He'd one sniff and known this is a much stronger concoction than earlier. He quietly charms his first cup into juice and hasn't bothered to have any refills. No one else has noticed, and that's his first clue.

The second is when Fëanor is brought up. For once, it's not entirely negative. Or a list of every terrible thing he's ever done. Or a recitation of his various adventures – sometimes misadventures – from Fingolfin. It's pleasant really to hear about his accomplishments from those who know him well.

The third occurs as Gil-galad gets progressively closer as time's gone on but not a single one of them bats an eye. Not even now as he sits with his ankle hooked around Harry's own. They share a long bench, an arm resting on the back behind Harry's head. A hand toys with his hair, fingers slipping through black strands and tangling into the ends. Of course, even Gil-galad has quickly worked his way through two wine bottles by himself and is well onto his third.

The atmosphere is relaxed, cozy despite the rain overhead that's coming down in sheets on the glass ceiling. It does make an interesting accompaniment to Finrod's lyre. Though admittedly the quality of his performance isn't quite up to standard. Harry's heard him flubbing the lines to his last two songs. He's missed part of the chord at the end just now, but no one else really seems bothered. He's sure that Beren and Lúthien probably don't mind that much either.

"Care to join him?" Finarfin inquires when he notices Harry interest in his oldest son.

He's pink-cheeked along with the rest of them, and Harry doesn't even try to count the containers scattered around him and his brother on the floor. Some are on their sides, but they're drained to the point that they don't even drip onto the rug.

"What do you say, nephew?" Fingolfin chimes in. He's beaming, pleasantly buzzed but not all the way gone. Not yet. "I'm curious of your skill."

Harry's eyes widen. He feels Gil-galad's fingers in his hair still.

When Finarfin hadn't initially made mention of the harp and the days turned into weeks, Harry thought himself safe. Oh, how wrong he was.

"Do you play?" Finrod asks then, and he's almost vibrating with excitement. Seemingly ready to shove a random instrument into his hands then and there.

"He does," Finarfin confirms before Harry can even think to deny it. "A harp."

They all look at their king in stunned shock. He lifts a shoulder in a motion that would normally be elegant but is a tad too swaying.

"I heard him the first day I was here. He was by the back corner of the property," Finarfin explains easily enough to his suddenly very intrigued audience. "I followed the sound."

"Aha! So that's where you go!" Irimë declares, and she's entirely too pleased with herself. Her reward is another round.

Finrod has risen and is now moving about the room in search of something. It's not hard to figure out what. However, he's as graceful as a fourth-year who's discovered Firewhisky a bit too early.

"Need help?" Angrod questions as he glances over the back of his chair.

"No."

There's a muffled thump from somewhere to the right, but Harry doesn't bother to look.

"Maybe."

Angrod puts his drink down with a soft clink as he goes to rescue his brother. They return a second later, thankfully without any harps, but Finrod's hair is mussed.

"Sing for us instead," he suggests as he sits a little too forcefully.

"No." Harry shakes his head in denial.

"Come on," Argon prompts. "It can't be any worse than Irissë." He smirks at his own joke safely out of range of his sister.

"No," Harry repeats and waves his hand in clear dismissal.

"Please, please," Irimë begs.

"No," he states for a third time, and it's very firm now. He puts just the barest nip of power into it. Of hoar frost that drops the temperature in the room a few degrees.

Gil-galad shivers next to him before Harry puts a hand on his arm in apology and casts a wordless Warming Charm.

There's a brief pause then. Before Findis raises her goblet at him in salute.

"Well, now," she actually sounds impressed. "You do have teeth. I was wondering when those would finally come out."

"We're going to work on this shyness," Irimë decides. Completely unperturbed. "It must be from your mother since it certainly didn't come from Makalaurë's side."

Another awkward silence. Followed by a snort from Harry's left and then laughter that's wine-twinged from all angles.

"They certainly aren't shy," Fingolfin agrees. His tone is warm though. Reflective.

Finarfin nudges him affectionately. "I can't admit that's a fault of theirs."

"Brother does like to talk about every project," Fingolfin acknowledges. It's fond, however. Said with a soft smile.

"You can't get him to be silent," Findis adds, and there's a barb beneath her prim exterior. Perhaps it's all the alcohol as there's a flush to her face and gleam to her eyes not usually present. "None of them are."

"No, Carnistir doesn't say much," Aredhel corrects, resting her face on her hand and twirling a piece of hair like a young girl. "He prefers to be left to his own devices."

"Toiling away in some forgotten corner until you practically fall on him," Argon adds as he stretches overhead.

There's a round of agreement to that. Celebrían gives a refill to everyone, regardless of how much their cup already has, before trundling off to sit in a different chair than before. She gives a momentary flash of puzzlement, but it's quickly forgotten as she discovers an empty cup that she fills for herself.

"Maitimo can be quiet," Fingon muses. His eyes are far away as he wears a dreamy expression.

Finarfin and Fingolfin both scoff at the same time.

"Nelyo is passionate," his uncle clarifies.

"And I wouldn't say that anything you do with him is quiet," Fingolfin mutters into his drink, but it's low enough that only Harry and Finarfin, who're closest to him, hear.

"Curufin never talks much either," Angrod comments then to the entire group. "Always too busy with his forge." His head's tipped back, and he looks at the rain as it hits the glass above them.

"He's just an ass," Argon disagrees. "He may look just like uncle, but he has the personality of a sodden badger with a rash." He rolls his eyes as he motions Findis to pass him another bottle.

Fingon laughs then. Loud and carefree. Mirth lighting his expression entirely.

"No, my dear sweet, little brother, that was because you--"

He's abruptly cut off as Argon throws a pillow in his face. It hits him squarely before tumbling to the floor. Fingon doesn't even try to duck.

"I thought we agreed never to mention that again!"

Argon wags a finger in his general direction, but when he points, it's slightly off center. Fingon guffaws hard enough that his forehead reddens.

"You agreed maybe," Aredhel cuts in from his other side, "but the rest of us never did."

"Sister!" Argon gasps with absolute betrayal. His pupils are too blown for the light of the room and his voice is a little too loud. "You know? Did Tyelke tell you?"

"The twins," she corrects with a winning grin.

"Menaces. All of you. It was their idea in the first place." He hisses like an angry Kneazle.

"And yet," Aredhel taunts, "you went through with it."

Argon answer is a noise without words. Without real vowels or syllables.

There's more drunken laughter followed by the clink of glass bottles and metal cups. Alcohol is being consumed in such amounts that Harry's a little surprised that everyone is still coherent. But then again, he's never seen any of them imbibe to this extent before.

A knee is on top of his now, calves pressed together despite Harry repeatedly putting him back in his seat. Gil-galad's face is in his neck, breath warm across his skin but tickling when he giggles like a lad. No one seems to care about that as Irimë shakes some wine invitingly in his direction that Harry very politely redirects to Fingolfin.

"Don't worry," she tells him consolingly, "your father's a good egg."

"He's always the one they go to," Findis agrees as she sinks further and further into her chair, sliding so far down at one point that she's nearly on the floor.

"The good child," Finarfin admits.

He and his brother are arm and arm now. Giving a joyous toast.

"Well, except for… You know." Angrod gives a vague gesture that makes his drink slosh dangerously.

"The kinslaying and child-theft," Irimë says helpfully. She drains the rest of her wine in one long swallow and blearily looks around for more.

Celebrían uses her foot to nudge a container closer towards her aunt. "I don't think they were stolen," she replies.

"Rescued," Fingon insists. His chin is in his hand, and he has his coronet around one finger as he spins it in circles. "Maitimo and Laurë rescued them."

"Is it rescue when you caused the situation?" Gil-galad finally asks. He's been relatively quiet so far, ever since he put his head on Harry's shoulder the first time. One arm is now around Harry's lower back, hand settled on his side while the other still holds a goblet. At least he's not trying to climb into Harry's lap anymore, which he considers a small victory.

"What did Elrond tell you?" Finarfin questions, and he honestly seems curious.

"My husband loves his father very dearly," Celebrían says in a complete non-answer.

Apparently, it means something to the elves though.

"Wonder what Eärendil thinks about that," Finrod muses to no one in particular before going back to humming to himself. His lyre is now missing.

Celebrían rests her head back against her chair's arm and closes her eyes. "It hasn't come up."

No one seems to have an answer to that, but to be honest, no one really seems to care. Finrod and Argon start a loud song that's more in competition than in harmony. Fingon joins them part-way through but at a different verse, which grows only more confusing when Irimë does the same a minute later. Angrod is lost in his own world as he watches the rain, while Aredhel and Findis start a debate but seem to be arguing about different topics at the same time. Finarfin and Fingolfin lean against each other, speaking in low voices with the occasional boyish giggle. Celebrían is fully curled up in her chair, goblet having slipped from her hand and now turned over on the floor. Gil-galad seems content to finally stay where he is, fingers twisting and tangling Harry's hair.

Sometime after midnight, the wine runs dry. Which finally seems to be the signal for everyone to stagger off to bed.

Harry's hugged repeatedly before he can even get them out of the room. First by Fingon. Then Argon with a very masculine backslap afterwards. Celebrían is gentler but holds on the longest and kisses both cheeks. Fingon again before his father pulls him off to take his place, and he's in turn elbowed out of the way by his own daughter. Harry's not ashamed to admit that he uses Gil-galad to block Irimë and Angrod, but Findis slips in then to slide her arm in his and put her head on his shoulder. Finrod half-swoops, half-stumbles in next, and Harry's very resigned by this time. He dodges Finarfin only by turning Finrod directly into his father's waiting arms.

Then, when they're finally close enough to the door – and why had they sat in the back – Harry makes a break for it. Gil-galad, of course, is wrapped around him like the giant squid the entire time.

For a drunk who has to be helped down the corridors and up the stairs, he has a remarkably nice singing voice. He serenades Harry with what he suspects is a dwarven ballad, but admittedly, the verses keep being mixed up. So instead of winning his heart's desire, Narvi seems to be forever stuck in Moria, forging a bow for his love.

Harry's fortunately stronger as an elf and can get him through the bedroom door, into the room itself, and on the bed without much struggle. Gil-galad is minimal help at this point. Alternating between bard, cephalopod, and inert object.

Harry isn't sure if elves can drown, and he doesn't particularly want to find out. So there won't be a bath tonight; that'll be a concern for tomorrow.

The singing stops roughly around the time Harry gets him situated on the pillow. His eyes are unfocused then, but he's still awake, at least somewhat. He'll feel it tomorrow, Harry knows. Even an elven constitution won't be able to shake this off completely.

Harry sighs, but it's fond if a little exasperated. He lays a hand on Gil-galad's forehead and sends out a faint pulse of power. He can feel the alcohol there, circulating through, and gently unravels it like one would a tangled vine. Another whisper bolsters his system so that he wakes refreshed and with no nasty lingering effects.

Gil-galad blinks at him hazily as Harry pulls back but not away.

"Mírimo." Only, it's said with a yawn. "You did something."

The words are sleepy but not at all accusing.

"So you'll feel better in the morning," Harry murmurs and tucks a strand of dark hair behind his ear.

He peers at Harry with such a puzzled expression – like a jarvey faced with an Arithmancy equation. Harry struggles not to laugh. He shouldn't, but it's such a bizarre look on someone normally so poised. To see him squint stormy blue eyes like he's truly forgotten that two and two is indeed four.

Harry brushes the rest of his hair from his face, even as Gil-galad slowly starts blinking more. It's the work of only a minute – with subtle but liberal use of magic – to divest him of his jewelry and braids. Boots are at the base of the armoire, but Harry leaves his clothes the same. That's a step too far for now.

The covers are a little trickier, but it's warm inside so Harry only reaches for the quilt still folded on the foot of the bed from this morning. He draws it up but doesn't tuck it too tightly in case he moves in the night. Harry has barely even stepped away when Gil-galad calls out.

"Don't go."

But he's more than half-asleep already. Intoxicated and finally starting to slur.

"This is my room, too," Harry reminds him with just a bit of mirth. "I'm just changing."

"Yes." Gil-galad is drowsy and distant as he's pulled into dreams. "Stay with me."

He's out before Harry can even form a response.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Harry falls in love suddenly. Has his mind fill with wonder and all thoughts of anyone else fade away. His gaze follows her immediately as his heartbeat speeds up.

How can he not? How can it not? How can he not know this was the moment he's been waiting for? That his entire life has led him to this instant?

She's the most exquisite thing he's ever seen.

Her coat is a dazzling white with a dusting of black spots. Like a reverse snowfall. Her mane and tail are long and flowing, a midnight drape that trails after her as she gallops. She tosses her head like the queen she is. An empress surveying her domain as she weaves first through the trees and then leaps over the small stream in the distance. Her gait is sure, effortless, graceful. Like a dancer on stage where every move is practiced to perfection but so natural.

She rounds the field and faces them. She slows to a trot. Next to a walk. She stops. She looks at him then.

Her eyes are bluer than the sky at midsummer. Cloudless. Endless. And far too clever. Glittering with an intelligence that's undeniable even if Oromë hadn't taught him their language.

She neighs then. Paws the ground with her right front hoof three times. Part greeting and part challenge. Defiance.

Harry knows he's met his match.

"She's beautiful," he breathes.

Beside him, Oromë laughs. It's echoing as a hunting horn. Far too amused.

The form he's taken today, and many days actually, has silvery hair but a face close enough to Harry's that they could be brothers. His eyes are dark, color unfathomable. Something about this shape makes the other Ainur unexpectedly sad. Makes Vána grasp his hand and cry into his collar. She's not here today though, else he would've picked something else.

This shape doesn't seem to bother Huan at all, however. He wags his tail even as he rests on the grass on all fours. Observing everything and missing nothing at all. Huan barks as Harry absently scratches his head, and the sentiment is shared.

The other horses in the herd graze in the distance, but Harry already knows that she's different. She's more than they are. Could tell from the instant he saw her. Oromë has already promised an introduction. Has said that they could be companions if Harry can make a good enough impression. If he can win her over. Can gain her heart.

"Are you sure?" Harry thinks to question.

Because certainly someone so magnificent couldn't possibly be for him.

Oromë is watching her as she pauses to nibble the grass. As if the mere Vala in front of her is no concern and is beneath her notice. He shakes his head. Rubs a hand over his chin aggressively enough that the quiver on his back shakes.

"Yo-" There's an abrupt pause then as he finally glances at Harry. "Lady Nienna believed she would be most suited to you," he says instead.

His manner is still entertained, but there's an undertone now. A whisper of something else that Harry can't name. Perhaps on a different day. Maybe if he weren't so distracted.

Harry just lets it go. Lets it be blown away on the wind like a stray leaf. He has more important things anyway.

Harry starts walking then. Slowly. Steadily.

She stops eating, and her ears perk as her head lifts. She isn't a hippogriff, but they have the correct idea of things. People, even those with four legs instead of two, deserve respect and honor.

Harry comes to a halt several yards from her, a courteous distance for a subject to their ruler. He offers a solemn bow from the waist with his left hand over his heart.

"Milady," he states. "I'm called Hérion. Well met."

She merely looks at him and flicks an ear. Harry is still in his bow, has not risen without her permission. But he can feel the weight of her interest.

Behind him, both Oromë and Huan are silent.

A moment ticks by. Another. A third. Harry doesn't move at all.

Then, she inclines her head. He straightens but doesn't approach further.

"May I have your name?" he asks instead.

He watches her consider the request. Sees her decide if he's worth the time. The energy. The effort.

There's an equine nicker. A gust as she exhales. Her tail swishes.

And yet, he receives an impression of a meadow with flowers blooming.

"That's very lovely, milady," Harry praises, and it's genuine. Said with a smile and hint of awe. "May I call you Indilwen?"

Blue eyes look at him with consideration. Searching. Assessing. Measuring.

He meets her gaze dead on. Doesn't blink. Doesn't look away for a single second.

Then, she gives a stately nod and steps forward. Her nose in his hands is infinitely soft as she breathes in his scent. Her teeth are even gentler when he conjures an apple to feed her, running his free fingers through her mane as she eats. She allows him to scratch along her neck afterwards and nuzzles into his shoulder.

"Well done," he hears Oromë murmur behind him, sounding all-too-satisfied. "Very well done."

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)

Káno – So he's still working on the ceiling?

Nienna – It's a very nice ceiling.

Káno – Not sure what to think about this. I'm sure it's lovely.

Nienna – You could say he… Elevated it. Vaulted it even to a whole new level.

Káno – Did you just… make a ceiling pun?

Nienna – Little laugh. No, never.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Finrod – Lalala. The end.

Everyone – Claps with way too much enthusiasm.

Harry – In an aside to himself – That was terrible. How drunk is he?

Finarfin – What was that, nephew?

Fingolfin – Oh, yeah. My brother totally ratted you out said you play.

Everyone – Pretty please!

Harry – Absolutely not.

Gil-galad – Mírimo, you've been holding out on me.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Harry – Hearts and stars in his eyes.

Oromë – Oh, yeah. I'm the best matchmaker.

Huan – Bark! Tail-wag!

Indilwen – Excited neigh!

Gil-galad – What am I, chopped liver?

Chapter 9: Chapter 9

Chapter Text

Ginny is a beautiful bride. Her dress is a shimmering pure white with delicate lace and a long train. Her hair is even more fiery red against the contrast of her veil, and Harry knows that Fleur made it by hand just for her. The dress itself is from the other women of the now growing Weasley clan. A down payment for the wedding… well, that's a gift given to Bill with the promise to never breathe a word of where it comes from, but Harry considers it money well spent as he imagines the Black ancestors cursing his name from beyond the grave.

As for Harry and Ginny, they've maintained a lasting friendship despite everything, and it's funny how easy it is. How easy she is to talk to about everything even now. How despite the continents dividing them, he gets more messages from her now than he did when they went to the same school. How, after the war, they sat and spoke for hours about themselves, about the future. About being different people with different lives.

Ginny's forged in steel from the fires of her sixth year. From the fight against Death Eaters masquerading as faculty in the school and building a resistance.

And Harry… He's hunted horcruxes. Faced a Dark Lord. He's died. He's taken a Killing Curse and come back. He needs time. He needs to think. To figure out who he is.

He travels. He sees the world. He comes back and apprentices with Andromeda. Lives with her and Teddy as he studies for a separate Potions mastery because he's just a masoch*st who loves punishment.

Ginny finishes Hogwarts. Is accepted into a Defense program in western America. She plays Quidditch and Quodpot well enough that teams try to recruit her but declines all offers. Meets a Muggle man who looks at her like she personally lit the sun.

They decide to marry three years later in the same church his parents used. Her soon-to-be-husband is older with eyes that understand death and war far too well. He accepts all of her – large family, strange friends, recurring nightmares, every bit of it. He's supposedly unaware of magic until Ginny tells him, but he has a very knowing manner as he evaluates everyone they invite, and that's a problem for MACUSA to deal with. It's no concern of Harry's at all.

Luna stands as her matron of honor along with Hermione and a woman Harry doesn't know from Ginny's school here. Harry sits in the row behind the Weasleys, next to Katie Bell and her wife, but Victoire is almost-nine and restless. Turning around constantly to chat with him and dangling off the pew. He finally lifts her up into his lap right as the music changes, and Jack comes to the front of the church to await his bride.

The ceremony is brief but all the more special for it. For all the people who made it here and all who haven't. Or couldn't.

Fred for obvious reasons but Molly has a framed photograph – carefully frozen – that's tastefully set to the side.

Several of the groom's own friends lost to other conflicts. Also in frames.

Andy and Teddy couldn't make the long trip due to a variety of reasons – many of them financial since her pride still refuses to reconsider her birthright. Harry gives the happy couple their regards and a gift on their behalf. One that he admittedly pads a bit with the Black fortune, but who has to know? Living well is the best revenge along with spending all of Walburga's money.

The reception lasts all night and well into the morning. There've been enough Weasley weddings at this point that children and spouses and friends are everywhere. It's full of life and voices and kids' happy screaming.

Harry is asked to dance far too many times, but his best girl comes to his rescue, and she's a fierce opponent. She begs him to carry her afterwards, when she's grown tired of hopping on his feet, and is now in his arms as he takes her around the floor.

"Can I be your bride-made when you marry, tonton?" Victoire requests in her most winning tone. The same one she uses when asking for another sweet or to stay up just a bit later.

Harry hears it from Teddy too often for it to succeed, however.

"Bridesmaid," he corrects gently and manages a straight face. "I have to find someone first, luv."

Victoire gives in an imperious look with all the dignity that she can muster. It's a surprising amount, and Harry knows it's all from her maternal side. Bless Bill but he's far, far too much like his father sometimes. His younger daughter's fortunately like Fleur and his son hopefully will be as well. Still too early to tell though, he's not even talking yet.

Harry twirls them around again in time to the music, and Victoire shrieks eagerly in his ear.

"Maman wants you to marry tata," she tells him afterwards.

It's said very seriously. In the life or death manner of selecting one's breakfast for the day or which pair of shoes to wear.

Harry bites his lip as his eyes stray to Gabrielle where she sits at a nearby table with the best man. He's a bespeckled bloke. A widower with a scholarly air, but he speaks animatedly with her about Egyptian hieroglyphs. Gabrielle is all smiles as she chats back just as excitedly.

Harry again glances at Victoire. He finally offers a little laugh and spins her around before putting her into a dip. She answers it back with another joyous giggle and lays her head on his shoulder.

Later, when the bride throws the bouquet, Victoire is the one to catch it.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

The rain finally stops when Aredhel and Irimë depart. They would've left the day before but didn't manage to make it up until noon – like most of the household. And are very reluctant to leave their rooms, much less travel.

Irimë doesn't appear until dinner with her hair unbraided and bloodshot eyes. Aredhel nurses tea along with Celebrían and Fingon most of the afternoon. Angrod appears for meals only but sits with his back to the windows and his head in his hands. Fingolfin and Finarfin seem to be in the best condition, but both speak in quiet voices before disappearing to parts unknown. Harry doesn't even see Findis or Argon at all.

Gil-galad is perfectly fine. He wakes refreshed with bright, alert eyes. He braids Harry's hair and presses a lingering kiss to his temple before they go down to breakfast, but they're the only ones there.

They have a rare day to themselves as everyone else seems strangely weak to lights and sounds. They could go anywhere and do anything, but really, Harry's had so little time to even draw unless it's in secret. In stolen moments in the library or up in their room when the others won't disturb him. Certainly, no one will bother them today.

Harry already has everything he needs without dipping into magic. There's a small case tucked away from an earlier trip to Tirion that he'd managed without his usual hangers-on. Most of the materials he's used so far are his own creations, so it'll be a challenge and a change to see how elven-made things do. He finds himself eager as he opens it up when they return after breakfast, and Gil-galad hovers behind him but touches nothing as he sorts through.

The older elf seems fascinated, but Harry's used to such scrutiny from the Ainur at this point. Besides, it's not like he hasn't seen Harry's doodles in his sketchbook. Even though he acts like it's some sacred text, Harry knows full well that he's peered over his shoulder before. Has heard him chuckling at the pages of animal drawings in particular.

Now, he sits in their room without even the pretext of anything else. Watching from the time Harry first mixes his paints, sets up his easel, and then selects his canvas. He's still at it hours later as Harry shades in the fortress with its foreboding stone walls.

"How do you make it seem… almost colorful?"

Harry makes a questioning sound as he moves to add a bit more to a mountain in the distance.

"You only have black, white, and gray," Gil-galad points out from behind him as he sits in the sole chair of the room. "I can see all of those. Yet, I'd swear there was more."

"It's a trick of the light," Harry tells him idly, "and the eye." He adds more shadowing to the north side.

Gil-galad just shakes his head; he simply observes as Harry continues.

He starts humming and belatedly realizes it's the same song Káno usually plays. It's odd not hearing him, odd not talking to him right now as Harry's so used to it. Has been doing it for so long now. He feels the strong urge to speak with Káno then. To pull his harp free from the secret compartment in his bag and pluck a melody.

But…

But Gil-galad doesn't know about Káno. And Harry isn't sure what he'd think. He doesn't want to spoil this moment. This time between them.

The impulse passes as Harry takes a steadying breath. More so as he bends down to start painting again.

"This is Formenos?" his audience clarifies after another five or so minutes.

Harry nods as he dabs his brush with white. "When I first found it." He adds to the drifts here, there. A little to the clouds just so. "It certainly isn't the same now."

Gil-galad makes an amused noise. "I'd heard. You're the topic of quite a manner of rumors."

"Some of them may even be true," Harry comments. He selects a lighter shade of gray next for just a little contrast.

"Most of them are about Formenos," Gil-galad tells him, but really, he's too entertained.

"You'll see yourself how different it is now."

He turns to peek behind when Gil-galad doesn't respond immediately. But he's merely sitting there. Examining Harry with a pleased expression.

"Yes," Gil-galad says at the attention, voice very soft, "I will."

Harry nods slowly before returning to his work. There's an easy atmosphere between them as he continues. The shadows of the mountains. The distant, whispering trees. The gloom across the snow. Harry carefully strokes it all in place.

He feels Gil-galad move to stand next to him as he finishes the lone wolf on the trail.

"It's so… real." The elf seems like he can't decide if he's surprised or impressed. "Like I'm looking out a window and there it is."

"Do you want it?" Harry questions almost absently as he touches up the tail and then pulls back.

He hasn't set the magic fully yet, but he's been layering it in as usual. The last will be added when he brushes in the final touch-ups. Then, Gil-galad will see what he can really do.

He earns a confused expression, however.

"The painting," Harry clarifies as if it's obvious. "Do you want the painting? To keep?"

His answer is a stunned blink. His elf gazes at him for a solid minute before glancing back at Formenos on the canvas and then to Harry again.

It's just a painting; Harry has many of them. An entire castle of them aside from the ones the Ainur gladly took at his gifting. He doesn't understand why the Eldar are so strange about this. Laerien, Melpomaen, and even Inglor reacted much the same way to the point that he stopped trying to give them anything and just started creating for the city itself.

"I was just painting to… well, paint." He glances away because he can't quite take the intensity of Gil-galad's gaze. "This is just something that I enjoy. I wanted to share that with you."

He's examining his easel when arms wrap around his waist. His own come up reflexively as a nose nudges by his cheek. Harry finally turns to look back at him.

"Woodcarving and sailing."

Harry isn't quite sure what to say to this, but Gil-galad takes mercy on him.

"I'm rather partial to both," he says with an upwards curl of his mouth. "Ada taught me, but I've been too occupied for the former, and Tirion is too landlocked for the latter." One hand slides up his side to his shoulder. "I've friends on the coast. We can go together, if you'd like."

"I love the ocean," Harry replies, but it's faint. Remembering. "My…" He pauses and reconsiders his words. "Someone very dear to me lived on the shore."

He first thinks of Teddy with Victoire and the cottage that grew to a home with the laughter of children and later grandchildren. But even this image is washed away by Káno. By harp music and lapping waves and the call of birds over the tides.

"I suppose, he still does."

Gil-galad's fingers on his skin are light. Smooth as they stroke down to his jaw. But his stare is distant, looking at something over Harry's shoulder. There's a static to his skin, crackling but painless.

"Ada taught my older brother and me to sail, but Ere politely hated it," Gil-galad says, and his eyes shut. "He hated being away from his books and ledgers. He hates anything that makes him go outside unnecessarily. He used to say he'd melt in the sun when we were children."

Harry soothes a hand up and down his back in steady strokes. "I'm sorry that you have to be away from them."

"The fact that they aren't here is a blessing, I suppose." The admission costs him though, head dipping. "Ada won't come until the last true ship sails. Erestor won't depart until Elrond does, maybe not even until afterwards. He can't leave our people. If they were here…"

He swallows, breathes out through his nose.

"Then, they came the other way," Harry supplies.

Through the Halls. Through death. And that's never a kind thing for an elf. It's pain. Or sorrow. Usually both.

"But Celebrían is here," Gil-galad murmurs, and it's sad. Guilty even. Like he admits to a crime. "She… Despite how sorry I am for that, for knowing what she lived through, it--"

He bites his lip to keep from saying more.

"It's not terrible to want your family here," Harry tells him and holds him tighter. Presses them firmly together so that there's no space between. "To miss them."

"I haven't even met my nephews or niece," Gil-galad admits, and it's halting, haunted. "I know only what Celebrían's told me. What she doesn't say." He shivers even though it isn't the least bit cold. "Elrond is peredhel. They've a choice."

His voice is muffled, face pressed into Harry's neck now, forehead against his pulse. He's dark clouds on an empty horizon. The threat not of rain or lightning but of something more dangerous indeed.

"You don't know what they'll choose yet," Harry reassures. "Surely, their family matters as much to them as it does to you."

He isn't even sure he believes his own words. There's something at the edge of it. A tinkle of bells. A silken cloak sweeping the floor. A sense of knowing. Paths laid out but yet to be chosen.

Gil-galad just nods. Just leans into his arms until Harry is supporting most of his weight. It's an easy burden. One he carries gladly.

He doesn't know how long they stand like this. But he does see that the light has moved on the floor and his paints have dried.

Finally, Gil-galad straightens, pulls away. It's gradual. Like a man stooped with burdens. Nevertheless, when he glances up, his eyes are clear. He doesn't look at Harry but focuses instead on the painting.

"It's still yours," Harry tells him because he knows what it's like to want that distance, to want a subject dropped, "but I'll make you something else."

It's both a promise and a prize. A reward for this elf who's been very kind and very gentle and asked for nothing in return.

Maybe something more cheerful though next time though.

"I'm not sure what you'd like yet," he admits. "This was mostly just because I had time today, and everyone else is too busy to…"

He waves a vague hand.

"Constantly interrupt," Gil-galad suggests. He's more centered now. Dark clouds clearing to a blue sky as he finally looks over.

Harry offers a prim sniff, and it does earn him a small smile. Just as he hoped it would.

"If we hang it in here, how long do you think it'll take someone to notice?" Gil-galad questions. His voice is easier. More like himself.

Harry considers that. He's asked the staff to leave the cleaning to them, and no one else has dared barge in lately. They knock, rather frequently, but don't come inside besides one in particular.

"Aside from Celebrían? Maybe no one," he suggests hopefully.

That actually earns him a chuckle.

The sun is peeking through clouds as Gil-galad's hand seeks his. Harry squeezes back.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

If the stargazing hill has a name, Harry isn't sure what it is. They set out two evenings later, once everyone's had enough time to recover and is able to crawl from their beds for more than an hour or four. The rain hasn't returned, but it's still quite damp. Celebrían and Findis sensibly stay home. Harry'd rather wait for a later time when everything is nice and dry, but he's outvoted. Gil-galad just beams at him, packs their blanket behind his saddle, and slides around his waist to rest a chin on his shoulder. They're still standing like that when Finrod whistles as he passes by, and Harry finally steps away.

The ride is three hours at a hard clip, but this is a leisure trip. They have lunch before leaving and do a slow tour of the countryside that Harry knows is entirely for his benefit. Finarfin and Fingolfin in particular point out various landmarks or places from their youths that were spent with Finwë and even some with their older brother. It's an interesting ride through history, and he gets to hear things that Nienna and Vairë haven't mentioned. A glimpse into events he'll never see and stories that he's listens to with a quiet interest.

It's just turning into evening when they arrive, elven punctuality victorious again. The hill itself is steep, sloped on three sides with a cliff on the other. The very top has been kept free of trees purposefully, but no one else is around. Harry wonders if that was part of the reason for coming today. The horses are brought to the bottom to roam; their group is in high spirits, talkative and laughing as they dismount.

Gil-galad is very quick to get down and offer Harry a hand; Indilwen whickers at him but unhurriedly moves off to nibble on grass. They're the first to the path with the others trailing behind them in due time. It's peaceful here, but there's an unsettling feeling. Something Harry can't quite name as they start up the incline.

Gil-galad still has his hand as Harry carries their blanket in the other, but they don't speak as they walk. It's surprisingly serene, the sounds of the woods muted even so soon after sunset. Harry lingers as they come to a small break in the path and glances around; the trees are calm, swaying slightly in the breeze.

Gil-galad just focuses on him curiously.

He's very fetching in the moonlight, hair dark and color nearly indistinguishable but contrasted by the sunglow gold of his tunic. He's warm as he stands next to Harry, radiant and chasing away shadows. He studies Harry with a keen intensity.

Then, Gil-galad pulls him in tighter, arm wrapping around his back and hand ghosting up to his neck. He presses a kiss to Harry's skin. Their noses brush when Harry turns his head. They pause, but Gil-galad's just a bit higher than him on the slope. At this angle, with the hill helping, they're the same height. Harry doesn't have to tilt his head down at all to look him in the eyes. Which are currently darker in the deepening twilight but with an internal light like clouds over the moon at night. Harry feels like he could just stay in this very spot, plans forgotten.

"I'm not standing here for two hundred years while they stare at each other," Angrod comments as he walks right by them. Close enough that his cape flutters at Gil-galad's leg.

"How you ever wed, I'll never know." Finrod chortles as he goes by their other side. "Your lack of aesthetics is astounding. Eldalótë deserves far better than you, brother."

Angrod huffs and keeps going. "She'd never let me hear the end of it if I wasted my time in such a manner."

"You're one to talk, Findarato. You haven't wed at all," Argon points out. He trails behind them and doesn't even glance at Harry or Gil-galad as he passes. "Amarië has waited ages to be your bride, and she'll still be waiting when the end comes."

"Arakáno, do we truly wish to go this path?" Angrod challenges, stopping to glimpse over his shoulder. He's wearing a very interesting smile that wouldn't be out of place on a goblin; it's all white teeth.

"Oh, leave him," Fingon says as he too joins in from further back. "He's young and knows little of how such things work."

"Don't worry, cousin," Finrod tells Argon very loudly and with far too much cheer. "Your time will come. I've a good feeling for the coming yéni. It might even happen before the end of the next age."

They all laugh, even Argon, before continuing up the hill. Harry and Gil-galad exchange another look; Harry has lips brush his cheek before an elbow slips into his.

"Come, Mírimo, walk with me. We'll find a spot away from these ruffians."

They stroll side by side for a few minutes. Harry's carrying their blanket against his chest now, but it's a poor shield. Does little to chase away the prickle of foreboding.

"What is it?" Gil-galad asks in his ear.

That is the question. The same one Harry's been asking himself all day really. A nagging feeling at the back of his mind. An urge. A need. The sensation that he's forgotten to do something. Maybe something miniscule. Maybe something important.

He just can't remember.

He flexes his left hand, which tingles and prickles in the unexpected chill. The birds are quietening in the trees, but it's evening now. The crickets chirp in the background in a steady chorus. Fireflies are waking up, flashing amongst the leaves and grass. The ground is still sodden, even puddling in places. Each of them carries blankets for just that reason.

But there's something. Harry can't put his finger on it. Like a name or a song lyric that's been forgotten. One he should know but just can't seem to remember. The same something that's nagged at him all day. That mutters just beyond his back. A voiceless murmur. A songless choir.

"I don't know," he admits as they continue up the hill.

Their pace is slowed, slower. Would be meandering if Harry weren't constantly peeking above and over his shoulder. He knows that Gil-galad watches him intently while Harry looks at everything else.

The birds are progressively muted around them. They aren't saying anything at all to him, and perhaps that's the most worrisome thing. That they speak but say nothing. That their words are meaningless sounds of unease. His heart beats harder like a predator has suddenly stepped out of the shadows behind him. There's a chill that has nothing to do with Harry himself. A creeping coldness, a warning bite to the air. Like a lethifold floating across the terrain.

Harry swallows, but his throat is dry. He pinches the bridge of his nose as he steps away from Gil-galad and turns in a deliberate circle. The ground is soft, pliant beneath his feet, making little squelching noises as he moves. The starlight is pure above them. The moon is full, brilliant. Bright enough to illuminate everything in stark relief.

Nothing's here.

"What are you two doing back there?" Argon calls from somewhere in front of them. He's obscured by the bushes, but Harry can feel him settling in near his father and brother.

There's a strum of Finrod's lyre. "I can provide you a musical accompaniment."

A chorus of chuckles; all in good fun. Finrod starts a merry tune that Harry recognizes by the second line. He nearly startles as Gil-galad takes his hand and tugs him forward. They walk over to the others at a gradual gait, but Harry's foreboding only grows with each step.

He can see Indilwen in his mind's eye. She and the other horses are at the base of the hill, opposite their end, but she's not grazing. She's peering up directly at him. Her eyes are wide, ears perked. She paws the ground, but she's stationary. Doesn't turn. Doesn't gallop towards him or away. She's watching, waiting. Listening for unknown signal.

Harry blinks, and they're by the others. Gil-galad's hand is tight in his, squeezing. He doesn't know what his face is like, but Fingon's upright immediately when he sees him.

"Hérion?"

It's worried. Fingon always is. He's truly too good for this world and for Harry.

"Nephew?"

Fingolfin now. He's standing beside his son, but he's very concerned.

"Don't you feel it?" Harry asks them.

They all hesitate. Finrod stops playing immediately. Argon and Angrod exchange a glance. Finarfin has a pensive cast to his face, head co*cked. His eyes are unfocused, turned inwards. Fingolfin and Fingon murmur to each other and peer at the trees.

"The birds…" the latter begins.

He's realized now. Realized that the birds have finally gone completely silent. That the last of their chirping has died off and there's only deathly calm. That all the animals in the woods are still, unmoving. That the only sound in the trees is the rustle of leaves.

"Not just them, hinya," his father corrects with a hand on his arm.

"There's nothing here," Angrod points out; he gestures around them to the emptiness.

Finrod has now stood, lyre still in hand. "Perhaps I disturbed them."

"It wasn't that bad," Argon says, but he's approaching the ridge and squinting over into the darkness. "Nothing here either."

Harry leaves Gil-galad beside Finarfin, who's now squatting with a palm to the ground. His signet is heavy on his hand, like a noose pulling him down. His arm is starting to ache from the weight of it now that Gil-galad is further away. He walks up to the cliff edge, and every step is a sharp lance to his heart. Is a whisper. Is a warning.

Something is here. He knows it. He just can't see it.

Pebbles skim over the side as he stops right next to Argon. He hears Fingon come to his other side. Feels the grip on his shoulder as more rocks slide out from beneath his feet. It's slick here, not fully dried from the early rain.

"Careful."

"He's hardly going over the ledge. Not unless you decide to toss him," Argon scoffs, but it's good-natured.

He knocks an elbow into Harry's side. It's not hard enough to make him stagger, but Harry does feel himself slip ever-so-slightly.

He doesn't see Fingon's glare; he knows it's there, nonetheless.

"A little care is prudent," the older elf counters and gently pulls them back.

Gravels shift again. He can hear them skitter to the edge and plunge down.

Harry snorts. He can't help himself. It's so surreal. He's coiled like a snake. Like a spring wound too tightly in clock. Waiting. Anticipating.

"I have you know," he tells them both then, and it's with more than a twinge of tension, "if I fall off this and break my neck, I'm blaming b--"

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

He wakes on a bench.

It's hard. Metal and unforgiving beneath him.

The station is less crowded than usual. Harry's seen it packed so full it's standing room only, that it's shoulder to shoulder with trains running every few minutes. But now, there are just groups of two or three with stragglers here and there. Not to mention that the people don't seem to be in a particular hurry, simply meandering to their trains before boarding. Their outfits are familiar but also different than the last time Harry was here.

But admittedly, it's been a while. A different world to be completely fair. Harry can't even be sure how long he's been in Valinor either.

Harry blinks several times. Exhales once. Twice.

He slowly sits up. His neck twinges, just a little. He feels it give a soft crack before it eases. He rolls his head on his shoulders for a moment before glancing over.

Dumbledore, as usual, is next to him.

"We really need to stop meeting this way," Harry tells him with a tired sigh.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)

Harry – So that happened.

Dumbledore – Sighs.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Argon – OMG!

Finrod – OMG!

Angrod – No one will ever believe this was an accident.

Fingolfin – If brother didn't hate me before, he certainly does now.

Finarfin – If brother didn't want to kill us before, he certainly does now.

Fingon – Hysterical.

Gil-galad – … … …

Harry – (X_X)

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Eönwë – Has a sudden sensation of doom. Stops. Looks around. Looks at himself. Tries to remember if he left the oven on but decides that's not it.

Narrator voice – Several minutes later...

Eönwë – Marcaunon, what've you done?

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Somewhere in Mandos…

Fëanor – What was that?

Maedhros – Who was that?

Celegorm – Snore, snore, wake. Huh?

Caranthir – Rolls eyes. I'm not even asking.

Curufin – Hello?

Amrod – Was that you?

Amras – No, you?

Námo – Puts his head in his hands.

Chapter 10: Chapter 10

Chapter Text

He wakes to the rain. His eyelids are heavy, weightier than all the galleons in all the vaults in Gringotts, and it's the effort of a thousand dragons to lift them even a hairsbreadth. The sky is dark above him, and the stars are diamonds in the velvet sky, but droplets streak down his face.

He puzzles at that, like cogs turning in a clock, but it's toffee slow. Sticky and gummy in the same way his mind feels. The ground beneath his head is pliable. A warm pillow that rises and falls with breaths and echoes with a faint heartbeat. His ears are muffled by the buzz of voices. Some soft. One loud. Another sobbing. The last yearning just behind him as he feels his hair brushed by fingers while his left hand is grasped in another.

Something's wrong; Harry can't quite figure out what.

The sky above him is dark. And that doesn't make sense.

It isn't dawn. It's supposed to be dawn. It always is when he awakens. When he comes back from that between place.

There aren't any clouds. And that doesn't make sense either. The sky is perfectly clear, but water drips onto his cheek and down to his mouth. It tastes salty.

Not rain. Tears.

He puzzles at that for longer than he probably should. Thinking over where he is and how he's gotten here.

Where is this? Where is he?

What the hell is this?

Harry feels his breath cool. Feels his skin chill and body twitch in memory, but it's disjointed and only half-recalled.

The hand in his hair stills. Stops mid-stroke. His fingers are squeezed tightly enough that his rings cut into his skin. He feels his living pillow shift beneath his head, but it's Fingon who looks at him first. His eyes are red-rimmed, puffy, glassy. He's disheveled, braids loose, and gold thread unraveling but tangled with debris. There are streaks of dirt on his skin, soil on his tunic. He'd look like he fell off a mountain and bounced all the way down except there isn't a single sign of injury.

His gaze meets Harry's just as he thinks that. Fingon freezes like he's been hit by Petrificus Totalus. He doesn't even seem to be breathing. Seconds pass before he gives an entire body jolt, makes a noise like he's dying. Like he's taken an arrow to the heart but has somehow managed to stay upright.

"Hinya--"

Fingolfin's beside him, Harry realizes, kneeling just by his legs. Head bent with his hands griping his trousers like a lifeline. He's looking away, over Harry to his other side. But now, he's turning to his son. He follows his line of sight and sways. Actually sways like he'll faint. Shoots a hand out to steady himself on the muddy ground.

"Ara," he murmurs urgently. "Ara, look." He's now grasping Harry's leg like he can't believe this is real.

There's a sharp inhale on his right. So quick and abrupt that it can't be called anything else than a gasp. Hands are on this face then, and golden hair tickles his nose as Finarfin bends over to stare him in the eyes. He's close, too close, gaze like a gleam on glass.

"Er… Hello," Harry manages for a lack of anything else. It's slightly rough, hoarse. Surprised he's able to say anything at all, but he's very uncomfortable with the sudden invasion of his personal space. "What're we doing?"

He hears someone laugh at his feet, but there's more than a bit of hysteria. He can't see who it is as Finarfin takes up his entire field of vision.

Then… Light. Burning.

Harry feels like he's suddenly staring into the sun. Like light itself is trying to burst into his mind, rifle through the pages, blaze through the shelves, incinerate all the way through to the core. It burns. Not like fire but like staring into a supernova. A lance of pure energy through his eyes and thoughts. A voice searing through to break upon the glacier and try to echo in the depths.

Cold, pure and absolute as the deepest bite of winter, as the song of Veil, as the kiss of death, rises up from within Harry. So freezing that it burns right back. That it steals air and life until only the crackle of icicles is left. It howls out with fangs and claws from behind his shields, and he feels when it draws blood.

Abruptly, there's only one set of hands still touching him, but those are chill-free and gentle. Tender as the one in his hair glides by his ear to cup his jaw. The other slides between his fingers and curls together.

Harry's alone in his mind now. Finarfin is near breathless beside him, both palms already discoloring. He's panting, fogging the air as he bows his head in apology. He doesn't touch Harry again, but he also doesn't move away. He stays kneeling, half-frozen, with a circle of snow and ice crystals riming the ground around him.

Someone is soothing Harry as the cold growls further. There's soft humming in a melody that makes him falter. That makes the frost fold back and settle once more inside.

"He's not trying to hurt you, Mírimo," Gil-galad says from behind and above him. "He was just looking to make sure it was in fact you."

Harry peers up at him as he feels refreshing chill seep through bones. As it eats through the cobwebs in his head. As his thoughts become easier. As they shift into translucent, pure ice.

The night is sharper. Clearer.

He can remember.

The earth groaning. The shriek of Indilwen in the distance. The world falling out beneath them. A millisecond to react and the choice is obvious. Harry's so used to saving others that he doesn't even think to help himself. And why would he? He can't be hurt. Not really. He'll recover from anything if given a little time.

Now, he's here on his back with them gathered around, and it's pretty obvious what happened. He glances from one elf to the next. They're all filthy but otherwise unscathed. He can hear the horses in the background, quietly whickering, so they're seemingly fine, too.

Still, this looks like the scene of a grisly murder minus the blood. Like a funeral in the forest.

It's Harry's own.

Gil-galad has an expression that's equal parts absolute relief and joyous celebration. Like every holiday and birthday have come early and arrived right in the nick of time. He's delicate as his thumb rubs over Harry's cheek. He's the most put-together of everyone, the cleanest, but his earrings and cloak are missing. His eyes are very shiny as they look down at him.

"I'm so glad you're back," his elf whispers, but his voice breaks at the end.

Harry wants to reach for him. However, he's distracted when Fingon is suddenly there again. Edging into his sight just as Finarfin did earlier. Only there's no attack to go with it. Only the warmth of a fireplace on a winter's night.

"It is you," Fingon murmurs. Surprised but relieved. "You were hiding very hard until just now."

"I was here the entire time," Harry insists. His voice is still rough but healing the more he speaks. The more frost that coats it.

They all look at him in a stunned sort of silence. Like they don't quite know how to respond.

"Nephew," Fingolfin begins, "do you…"

But it's like he can't quite get the words out.

"You were very hurt," Gil-galad manages. He's still touching Harry's face but trembles ever-so-slightly.

"I'm fine."

It's an automatic reply. Said before Harry can stop himself. Habit built over a lifetime of pretending that he isn't a freak.

He thinks about sitting up. But fingertips move to his forehead as if to keep him down.

"You are not fine," Gil-galad counters clearly and rather firmly. His hand is kind though, gentle and yearning. "You were hurt badly, so please let us help you."

Harry doesn't roll his eyes; he very much wants to. He feels them quietly judging him, feels the weight of their thoughts and speculation, and he hates it. Hates the attention. Hates all of this.

"I'm fine," he repeats. There's a frosty bite behind it.

"You just…" Fingon opens and closes him mouth like he can't even find the words. Like he's been confronted with an impossibility and his mind refuses to accept it. "You died."

He says it like he can't believe it himself. Like this is an awful nightmare and he'll wake up in his bed any moment.

His father squeezes his shoulder hard enough to leave bruises.

"Did I?" Harry asks.

Because really, what else is he supposed to say? How is he supposed to explain this? What does he even tell them?

"You were dead," Fingon insists, and there's an edge. Sharp like a blade. Twice as deep. His eyes are still red but now wild. He's snatched Harry's left hand, gripping it like a lifeline.

"We felt you die," Finarfin adds from Harry's right.

It's the first he's spoke the entire time. His head is lifted now, but he meets Harry's gaze. He doesn't reach for him again, however. His clothes are still dusted with icicles, and his hands are folded in his lap, skin red and raw.

Harry truly feels guilty for that. He hadn't meant to cause harm. To hurt Finarfin. He'd only wanted him to stop. To keep his mind to himself.

He sends out a brush of magic. A soft healing spell.

Next to him, Finarfin starts. He flexes his fingers. Green eyes are large, unreadable, as he looks up.

Harry avoids his look.

"Nothing happened," he says then. He's tired. He just wants to get up and out of here.

Fingon makes an inarticulate sound that's half-exasperation, half-frenzy.

"I saw you die."

It's loud enough to echo through the surviving treetops. Fingon is hot, furious. With himself. With Harry. With the universe. It's hard to tell.

"It wasn't as bad this time," Harry tries to explain, but it's weak. Shaky.

"This has happened before?" Fingolfin gasps.

He's appalled, horrified. His face is bloodless and would be white but for the drying mud splatters. He's a mess of twigs and tangles, and Harry idly wonders if he'll have to cut his hair to get everything out.

"Nephew?"

All of them are staring at him again. Harry just closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look at them. So he doesn't have to see their expressions while he feels the shock and horror.

"I always get better."

But Harry isn't sure if it's to them or to himself.

He always gets better. And really, that's the problem. Isn't it? It's not the first time he's fallen. Most certainly not the first time he's died.

He was so much younger then. So innocent in the ways of the universe and the hardships that awaited him. Privet Drive was the entirety of his world, but it was still a dangerous place for him if no one else. Bleeding from his hands and leg, he slipped. It was natural. He only just turned five and was small for his age. Chased up a tree by Marge's dog.

He woke the next morning gazing at the sky as it turned from purple to pink to blue. The Dursleys left him out all night and only screamed at him to make breakfast the next morning. They hadn't even noticed or cared what happened to him.

There were other times in that house. Possibly more than even Harry remembers. More than he dares. After all, how long can someone go without water? Harry made it for two days, but he was six and poorly hydrated to start. A long weekend trapped underneath the stairs.

And a frying pan to the head? At eight, he staggered to his cupboard with a terrible headache and went to sleep.

As always, he wakes afterwards with the sunrise. With vague memories of being somewhere else, but Harry's so young then, they're little more than dreams. Even as an adult, he can't pull the recollections forward fully; he honestly doesn't try very hard to do so. Too scared of what else he might uncover.

Magic should've protected him. After all, Neville Longbottom bounced when thrown from a window, but Harry's was busy powering blood wards to keep him safe from Dark Lords and Death Eaters and all manner of nasty magical surprises; never the monsters inside of them. They drained so much from him that it's a wonder Harry managed as much accidental magic as he had. Apparition. Color-Changing Charm. Shrinking Jinx.

The wards never protected him from the things that really mattered.

Hogwarts, deathtrap that it was when Harry was a student, was somehow safer for him. He was old enough by then, had a wand who loved him, had friends to look out for him. Had teachers who – sometimes – even tried. Even the altercation with Voldemort in his first year, the basilisk in his second, dementors, a Triwizard Tournament, Death Eaters, all of it – Harry didn't die until the Killing Curse struck him. Until he offered himself up for the slaughter just like was raised to do.

A year later was the anniversary; Harry returned from abroad just to be there. The DA naturally met at the Hog's Head. There were drinks and remembrances and far too many stories. Harry bought Neville a round and somehow never left his table. The two of them were the last to go, long after even Aberforth gave up for the night. They're too drunk to apparate, and Aberforth had refused a Floo in his pub. Both were staggering off use the community one when a green light struck Harry in the back.

But it's late. They've been out all night. Dawn was scant minutes away; Harry's barely even gone before he's already waking up. Neville's hovering over him and Amycus Carrow's decapitated corpse was already cooling beside them.

Self-defense, the Aurors said. Clearest case they ever saw. Neville's Diffindo was pure reflex. He never breathed a word of what really happened; he never even hinted to it. Offered up the oath on his own and swore it that same day. Took that secret to his grave without ever mentioning it again.

Harry first suspected then, but he buried the truth down deep. It's easy to write off, after all. Easy to ignore. He'd already survived this curse before, after all. Being immune to a single spell wasn't unnecessarily unheard of, even if it was one that's before this been considered impossible.

Later, he can't pretend anymore. Not when he woke in his quarters at Hogwarts. When there's still the taste of poison in his mouth and on his tongue. When he brewed it himself.

Harry knew then. Didn't want to believe it. Not then. Not until he failed again six months later.

There were spells to restart a heart. Used when someone was alive, they could stop it. Especially if someone knew what they were doing. Harry, for all that hadn't been an official healer in over a century, still kept his skills intact. Still practiced and read the latest publications. Attended conferences when the opportunity arose. Gave coverage in the hospital wing and kept all his credentials up.

Harry knew what he was doing more than most. Knew that it'd be harder to cover up but not impossible. Especially if set in a temporary rune on paper that would burn away after. Better yet, it was the summer, it could be days before he was found. Long enough for the magic to dissipate.

But like always, Harry woke as the sun rose with a trace of ash on his hand. A flash of a train station in his mind. And Dumbledore's words ringing in his ears.

Harry forces that memory away. Buries it down beneath slush and snow. Surrounds himself in cloak of frost. But the world is spinning even with his eyes closed. He's beset by vertigo. Like a boat rocking in a hurricane.

"Herurrívë!"

He thinks… He thinks he hears Káno calling for him. But his harp isn't here. Is securely tucked away in their room, spelled to be secret and safe so that no one can take him away. He smells the sea on the faint breeze though. Feels the waves start to pull at him. A hand reaching for his shoulder, another for his face. Fingertips touching his cheek. Lake clear eyes framed by black hair, peering--

"Hérion."

The tides recede. Are withdrawn as someone else brushes strands from his forehead, as he sucks in air. His equilibrium resets. The universe shivers and tilts to the left.

"Mírimo, come back."

Gil-galad now.

Harry realizes he's been quiet too long as he finally opens his eyes. He won't look that way, however. Can't look that way. Has to gaze anywhere but him and the elves immediately around him. The only safe area is at his feet.

Finrod, Argon, and Angrod sit. Silently. Observing. Harry honestly forgot they were there.

Finrod's the first to notice his interest. To lift his dirty head. He inches forward, a bit closer to his father.

"So… you're a peredhel then," he says, and it's less a question and more a statement. He's oddly composed. Harry can't tell if it's shock or self-possession. His face is guileless. Calm. Candid even. Looking at Harry the same way he always has.

Argon's to his right and now behind, hands in his lap. He seems tired more than anything as he leans against Angrod, who has an arm around his upper back.

"Who--" Argon begins.

He's pinched hard by his cousin before he can get out more than a word.

"Not the time," Angrod hisses.

"But Luthien didn't--" Finrod also starts.

Angrod rounds on him, too. "Not the time," he repeats through clinched teeth.

Harry can't see his face from this angle, but both Argon and Finrod immediately hush. Fingolfin turns to them then and gestures. There's motion at Harry's feet as someone stands, but he isn't sure who it is as his own elf has leaned forward and Harry's attention is directed upwards.

"Let me up," he says then. It's more like a command.

Harry needs to stand. He needs to get up. To get out of here.

"I'm told you know some healing," Finarfin replies instead, very ironically. "So you know why I can't do that." He puts a hand on Harry's wrist more delicately than expected.

Harry makes a sound like a growling griffin in the back of his throat, but Finarfin doesn't let go. His nails are dirty and broken with dried blood underneath.

Gil-galad softly shushes him, fingers at his scalp, and starts humming again. It's the same song he gives while they sit at the vanity. It's so familiar that it makes Harry's chest ache. Makes his breathing catch in his throat and his eyes burn until he blinks it away.

But his elf keeps humming, louder now. He cards through hair in steady strokes, and something in Harry is lulled. Something inside of him slowly gives a chilling huff before curling up nose to tail and drifting off to sleep with dreams of a warmth at his back. Of sitting together as they do every morning.

Harry just lies there, a little dazed. Much of the building tension flows out. He feels lighter, calmer. Can take deeper breaths. But there's still a lingering twist in his stomach and a clench in his teeth he can't quite shake. There's a fuzziness in his vision that makes him want to shut his eyes and sleep for the next month.

Finarfin leans back over him after a few minutes. His golden mane is messy and wild, the left side is flaked with grime and bits of grass. He looks like went three rounds with a chomping cabbage and probably wasn't the victor, but his green eyes are alert and sharp like broken glass as he slips an arm underneath Harry's knees.

"Let me help you, nephew," the king says, and it's kind. Gentler than he probably deserves after earlier.

Harry doesn't even have a chance to object. He picks up Harry like he weighs nothing and stands back up just as easily. It'd be impressive if it isn't so utterly embarrassing to be carried like a blushing bride.

They're at the bottom of the hill now, Harry realizes very belatedly; he doesn't want to think too much on how that happened. The horses are there, waiting. Indilwen is unsaddled, and Harry puzzles at that for a second. More so at the fact that she's kneeling as she turns to peer at him with obvious concern in her equine face. But then, Gil-galad is settling onto her back, and she doesn't even seem fazed.

Harry's handed off in the same manner that Ron and Hermione used to exchange their sleeping children. Gil-galad takes him effortlessly and eases him in front with their knees touching. He doesn't immediately help Harry swing over, instead taking a moment to look at him. To clear away stray leaves and grass.

Harry leans into him. Into his steadiness and steadfastness.

It's too much. It's all too much. It's most of the things he didn't want people to know in this life and all the things in the last. He doesn't know if he should be afraid or relieved.

But here Gil-galad is. So noble. So gentle and kind. Still humming to soothe him. Still running a hand over his back.

His lips are by Harry's cheek. Soft, sweet.

Harry kisses him.

It isn't fully chaste. His mouth is parted, and it's more aggressive than Harry would like. But he feels static on this skin. Sees the stirring storm in Gil-galad's eyes and knows that it's his fault. That Harry did this. Put it there.

Gil-galad is frozen underneath his lips, however; Harry knows he's made a mistake. He has blood on his tongue and must taste of death. He immediately retreats.

"I'm sorry," he breathes. "I--"

Gil-galad surges forward to kiss him urgently. Desperately. His nose collides with Harry's, but it's not hard enough to cause actual pain. A hand comes to his jaw to tip him sideways and down, while the other snakes around to the back of his neck. Infinitely tender as it cups his head.

The pressing need for air is the only reason they part, but it's by less than any inch. Harry manages a single gasp before he's kissed again. Just as fiercely.

He can't think. Doesn't want to. All he can do is feel. A mouth against his, intense, yearning. Gil-galad's heart wildly beating underneath his hands as they rest on his chest, fingers clenching the collar of his tunic.

Beneath him, Indilwen shifts.

Harry is suddenly very aware of their audience as he abruptly withdraws. Finarfin, however, has turned to his own horse. Finrod is already astride, while Angrod is in the process. Fingolfin is standing by Fingon as he mounts while Argon is on his other side.

Not one of them looks their direction, but Harry isn't fooled for a second.

He finds that he just doesn't care as Gil-galad reaches for him again. Kisses him once more. Longer this time. Steals his breath until he has to pull away and inhale roughly. Then, he rests his forehead against Harry's own, hand still cradling his neck.

He gazes at Harry for a long moment but says absolutely nothing. His eyes are dark clouds, and there's a crackling of electricity in his touch.

But like always, he's careful of Harry. Cautious as he finally helps him the rest of the way over Indilwen's back. Shifting him into place so that both of them are now facing the same direction. He settles behind, knees to thighs, chest to back with his right arm around Harry's waist and his left hand on top of Harry's own. The reigns are in Harry lap, but neither bothers to pick them up.

Indilwen rises slowly then. Carefully. Doesn't even stumble under their combined weight.

Everyone else is waiting for them. Nobody says a thing as Finarfin takes the lead followed by Angrod with Gil-galad's horse, Arthion. Harry and Gil-galad are in the middle, Argon and Finrod on either side. Fingon and his father are behind them.

They ride in silence. The only noises are those of the night around them mixed with the jingle of the tack and the hooves of the horses. It'll take them three hours to get back to Fingon's estate. That's assuming nothing else happens. Harry could apparate, but… He did just die. He should probably sleep that off first. And maybe recover a little more.

Not to mention trying to explain that part. By the time he would finish, they'd likely already be back.

And well…

"Are you hurt?" Gil-galad asks in Harry's ear then. Voice pitched low enough that only he can hear.

Harry lets out a deliberate breath. He blinks his eyes, trying to clear them. But he already knows it won't work.

"Only when it happens," he allows very slowly, haltingly, "and then, I'm usually fine." The arm around him tightens, and he reluctantly adds, "Sometimes, a headache but often little else."

There's a pause.

Indilwen continues her pace unerringly but without direction from either of them. She knows the way; she'll get them home.

The hand on his traces over the delicate skin in a nonsensical pattern. Runs over the Peverell signet and the blue lapis ring that Harry still wears on his index finger.

"And now?"

Harry wants to lie. Wants to deny the migraine building behind his right eye. It's not there yet. Just lights and his vision clouding. It's the first headache he's actually had as an elf, but it's also the first time he's died as one. If he were at Hogwarts, he'd consider a potion, but they never work in this scenario no matter how much he's experimented. Nothing did but time and rest.

"Now, too," he finally admits.

He can see the aura spreading. Blurring out half his sight in a halo of brightness. The right is completely gone now, like fog on glass with light shining through. It'll be soon now, he knows. The migraine itself will be here before they make it back. It's probably less than an hour away.

It'll be bad, he thinks. Worse than usual. The longer they take to come on, the harder they are. The first he'd had with the poison had only been the top of the cauldron; he'd more severe ones than that later. But he can deal with it; he has before. The Cruciatus was still worse.

"I'm not a trained healer; none of us are here," Gil-galad states then, and Harry can feel him turning as if glancing around, "but we've learned over the ages. We can try to help you."

"I am a trained healer," Harry tells him, and it's only a little bitter. "Nothing works. I'll have to sleep it off."

He feels more than hears Gil-galad hesitate for a second before sighing. He relaxes against Harry's back and squeezes his hand tightly. A mouth presses against the side of his ear.

"Then, rest while we ride. I'll keep watch for us," he promises.

Harry just nods and lets his eyes flutter closed. It's easier when he can't see. When he doesn't have to battle the blurriness. He fortunately isn't prone to nausea, or no one would be happy on this trip. That's the one symptom he rarely has. So small favors, he supposes.

The next few hours are long though. If they had regular horses, they'd have to take breaks, but this is Valinor and nothing here is normal. They ride without stopping, and Harry manages a restless doze. It's limited by a building pressure in his skull that starts just after the first hour. It's dull, throbbing. Worsening a little bit more with every heartbeat.

By the time they make it back to the estate, it's past midnight. Harry's in quiet agony. He's wordlessly praying to Nienna for a lack of anything else to do, and he needs every bit of mercy he can get.

They don't even bother going to the stables and instead head for the courtyard outside the main door. Indilwen kneels again, but this time, Fingon is there. He smells of grass, mud, and sweat with a hint of salt. There's a scent that's uniquely him underneath though as he tucks Harry's head into his neck. One arm is beneath his knees and the other around his back, lifting him like a child being carried off to bed. As before, Harry's feet aren't even allowed to touch the ground. He's beyond caring now. He's so exhausted that he again feels distant, sluggish. Or perhaps that's the migraine talking. Screaming in his skull and battering at the doors of his head.

He can hear them murmuring around him, but his eyes are shut. Someone is stroking back his hair; he can barely feel it. There's numbness over his right forehead that's sneaking down his nose like a thief in the night; it's accompanied by an odd tingle that both burns and stings and reminds him of Hagrid's crossbreeding attempts.

"I thought he was fine."

"It started on the way back."

"How long ago?"

"Open your eyes, Mírimo. Let me see."

He bats away the hand that's reaching for his face with a frosty snap. Buries deeper into Fingon's collar. They're now inside the entryway. Harry hadn't even felt them move.

"What happened?"

It's Celebrían. Winded. Anxious.

"There was an accident. Everyone else is fine."

"Because he made sure of it."

There's an awkward pause. Harry feels Fingon shift.

"What? It's true."

"Brother?"

Findis now. Voice high-pitched with concern.

"I promise no one else's harmed."

"But you all look…"

"Fetch a healer."

Fingolfin talking to… someone.

"You knew Luthien, Findarato--"

"She certainly wasn't like this."

"Mírimo."

"Nephew."

Two people call him. Address him directly now. He feels someone carding over his scalp.

There's a pulse just behind his eyes. It's deep and rhythmic. Deteriorating with every second.

"I just want to sleep," Harry tells them.

"I'm not sure that's safe, nephew."

"Let the healer look at you."

"It'll go away if you let me rest," Harry argues, but the fingers are admittedly just a bit comforting. Tender and staying towards the back of his head.

"You're in pain."

"It isn't getting better."

"It will. Always does." Harry feels lips press to the crown, but that's fine, too. It's a welcome distraction from the numb prickle that's reached his chin.

"Prince Findekáno?"

"She can help you."

It's whispered into the top of his hair.

"Let me sleep," Harry mumbles. "Please."

It's close to begging.

Fingon sighs.

They're walking again. A long hallway. Then upwards. Stairs.

"Let me have him."

Gil-galad.

"We'll just go to our bed."

They falter as Fingon considers. As if deciding which room.

Bad enough, he's been carried through the entire house, but Harry's knows that he likely can't walk at this point without stumbling. The agony behind his eye is an anvil, pounded in time with his heart. The tingling has spread like a skrewt stinging down the side of his face and skittering to his neck. He can feel it creeping towards his arm now. If he isn't careful when he talks, he'll bite his lip.

Fingon reluctantly hands him over, more gently than if he was spun glass, and Harry doesn't even care that he's being passed around. He just wants someone to take him to his room so he can collapse in the cool, darkness and sleep until the sun burns out.

He can hear Fingon follow them until they're at the last hallway, but for once, he stops there. Harry's eyes are closed and stay that way as they pass windows. As they continue down the corridor all the way to the end.

"Do you truly want sleep first? Gil-galad asks as they enter the door. "Or perhaps a bath?"

"Bed," Harry slurs from against his chest, and his face is so numb on that side that he can't feel the fabric of the tunic across his skin anymore. His head throbs like an open wound, and he knows if he lifts his eyelids, there'll be tears from the anguish of it.

There's a pause then. A murmur of magic as the world stands still. Only, it doesn't come from Harry.

He'd know her anywhere though. Would know the winter mists of her song as she reaches for him. He opens his eyes despite the pain, despite the anguish, and there are fingertips on his cheeks.

Nienna is here.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)

Fingolfin – Sigh.

Finarfin – Heavier sigh.

Fingon – Heaviest sigh with his hands on his head.

Argon – Are we just going to ignore that happened?

Angrod – What exactly do you want us to do?

Finrod – Raises hand.

Angrod – Put your hand back down, brother.

Findis – Ignore what?

Celebrían – What happened?

The Others – Looking at each other. Pointing to Finrod. You explain.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Gil-galad – This is fine. This is totally fine. Watching his entire world fall apart, rearrange, and come back together in the span of five minutes. I'm totally fine.

Narrator Voice – He was not fine.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Nienna – Feels her spidey sense tingling while the bat signal goes off.

Vairë – What's that?

Námo – Looking around suspiciously.

Nienna – I've somewhere to be. Far away from here. Completely innocent. Nothing to see here. Nothing at all. Toodles.

Námo – Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.

Chapter 11: Chapter 11

Chapter Text

It could still be days, the healers say. Could be weeks even.

The entire family gathers in the cottage turned home by the sea. Waits for the inevitable. They had four children, eight grandchildren, and more great grandchildren. The Lupin clan is large now. Not as boisterous as the Weasleys but lively. Loving.

It's a quiet time though. Little ones weeping and not entirely sure why. Hanging on their parents' hands and tugging on his robes, asking why everyone is so sad. Why grand-père is always sleeping. The adults look at him for direction, for some sense of normalcy. For some glimmer of hope. Not ready to let go.

The mourning has already started.

Or perhaps it never ended.

Victoire's already gone, buried over two years ago. That was the beginning of the end. That was when the light started to die in Teddy's eyes. When his hands first shook and his gaze dimmed.

The loss of their son, Émeric, and their granddaughter, Élise, barely even four months later was a worse blow. A runic malfunction. An accident. Quick, they said. Likely died before either even realized something was wrong.

Such a cold comfort for the family. For an old man who's already outlived his wife, her siblings, both sets of parents. For Harry himself who helps identify the remains so that no one else has to.

Teddy spirals then. Forgets names. Birthdays. Relationships.

Asks for his wife. His granddaughter.

Most days, he thinks Harry is his son.

He takes a sabbatical from Hogwarts because they refuse his resignation. Tell him to take as long as he needs and that the school will be waiting for him when he's ready. Harry accepts; he doesn't have the energy to fight them.

Spends the next twenty-three months caring for his godson as he falls apart. Takes over his household. Manages all his affairs. Gives him his potions. Fixes his meals. Does everything for him as he stops talking. Walking. Eating. Now drinking.

It's not a burden. Teddy is his godson, his heir. Would be his son but he could never bring himself to steal that one last thing from Andromeda who was so good to him.

It could still be days, the healers say, and the lead… Harry remembers her as a bright-eyed first-year. Has it really been that long ago?

Harry knows it'll be tonight though. That Teddy won't make it to see the sunrise.

All the remaining children and grandchildren and other relatives are in bed or sleeping away their vigil. Harry is the last of his generation left, and so little of Teddy's yet lives, but he's the oldest of them. The oldest of those born to the second wave of Order members.

Harry sits by his bedside like he does every night. It's where he's slept for over a year now.

Teddy's breathing is slow but still steady. Hair wispy and white with age. He hasn't been able to shift for two years, not since Victoire. Harry knows if his eyes were open, they'd been a clouded brown, fading with time.

He doesn't see an old, sick man on his death bed, however.

Instead, Harry sees a little boy who holds his hand as they walk through Diagon. Who he visits every weekend for the nineteen months he travels the world. Who changes his coloration and even face-shape at the drop of a hat. Whose favorite thing in the world is to give himself green eyes and black hair when they go to the Muggle world and have them fawn over how much he looks like his dad.

Time has run away from him though. Has stolen everything that has ever mattered one piece at a time.

"I love you," Harry tells him.

His elbows rest on the bed; one hand is on the pulse in Teddy's neck. The inhalations are more gradual now, growing further apart. The heartbeat beneath his fingertips is thready and weak.

"I'm sorry never said it enough."

Teddy may hear him. He may not. He doesn't respond either way.

The Peverell signet is heavy on Harry's other hand as it sits on Teddy's arm. It's forever slightly chilled but cold as a winter's bite today. It's a temptation. Always is. Always will be.

Nevertheless, he promised himself when the ring returned – stone whole and perfect – that he wouldn't use it. That he'd let people go. That he wouldn't torture them by making them stay here. Neither ghost nor true spirit.

Teddy takes a breath. But there aren't any more after that. He's deathly still underneath Harry's touch, and there's a feeling of something leaving the room.

Harry sighs and falls back into his chair. At a loss of what else to do. There's nothing else, is there?

He doesn't go to wake the household. He lets them sleep. Let them have this rest.

It doesn't matter now anyways.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Nienna is by his side immediately. She appears like a vision in the snow, hooded and glowing.

Gil-galad's startled. Harry can feel his heart speed up before he can control himself. He doesn't step back, but he shifts. Like he's going to take Harry away. Like he's never been so close to an Ainu, but surely, that can't be right?

Nienna pauses. She reaches for him slower now. Movements choreographed.

"You're in pain, my dearest," she says like a sad sigh.

The hand that goes to his temple is the only reason he doesn't have to close his eyes from the brightness as she moves into his field of vision fully. Nienna always weeps, but her tears are heavy. A deluge as she leans in to inspect him. The music starts like freezing rainfall in the distance.

Nienna's song is soft, sweet. Floating around him like a gentle fog. Flowing through and easing every hurt. Soothing every ache away like it never existed at all. She ends with a kiss to his forehead, directly where his scar once sat.

Harry opens his eyes, unsure when he closed them. He lifts his head as she takes two steps back, and Gil-galad lets him slide down to the floor in the space between. There's a hand still at his waist, twisting into his tunic as if trying to pull him back, but Harry's reluctantly released forward.

"All better now, I think," Nienna murmurs as he curves his head over her and she touches his cheek.

He's filthy, Harry realizes very belatedly. Both he and Gil-galad are. Still covered in grass, dried earth, and whatever else has made it here with them. Dirt is in his hair. His outer robe is missing. He can feel blood dried along his hairline and itching on the tip of his nose. Mudslides are hardly good for the complexion, after all.

Nienna doesn't seem to notice that at all. She simply looks at him through her tears, but they now seem more from relief.

Harry flicks a finger at his side. He feels more than sees Gil-galad's sudden surprise as the spell washes over them both. As their clothes turn pristine. As everything in the last few hours is erased. As all their missing items reappear in a neat pile in their chair. As they're both left whole and new.

Nienna watches everything with an expectant air. Her expression is knowing, attentive.

"Do be careful, my dearest." Her fingertips on his face are as gentle as snowflakes. As raindrops.

Harry nods once, a tad sheepish that this even happened. That he ignored his instincts and let it go so far. That there were a million signs, and he still walked to his death yet again.

"I will," he replies, and it's more than a little contrite as he leans into her hand into the song of winter rain that curls around him in an embrace.

Nienna accepts that. Pats his cheek fondly, affectionately. She peers past him after a few heartbeats.

Harry blinks, and she's by Gil-galad now. Touching his shoulder, pausing as he nearly jumps. She allows him a second before she stands on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. She lingers there, words too faint for even Harry to hear. Gil-galad stares at her with eyes wide and pupils too dilated for even the darkness of the room as she glides back to Harry.

She caresses him in a goodbye that's come too soon. Her voice is wispy like autumn mist. Faint. Just for him.

"Look after him, yes? He needs you now."

There's lips to his cheek for just an instant. Then, she's gone as rapidly as she came.

The room is dimmer for her absence. Much emptier even with the two of them still there. Harry sighs at the loss. Gil-galad lets out a shuddering breath.

It takes Harry a second, but he supposes that he shouldn't be surprised. Truthfully, he isn't. Not really. It's been a long night already, and it's not even done yet.

"Gil." It's said tenderly, pensively like snowfall in the early spring.

His elf's head is bowed, however, turned away. Harry can't see his face, but his shoulders shake. Static sparks off of him when Harry reaches for his wrist. The air's turned heavy, dense like a coming storm.

Harry goes to him. Pulls him in. Pulls him close.

"I'm here," he murmurs with a hand on his back.

Gil-galad's face is still hidden, but Harry doesn't have to see the dampness to know it's there. To feel him tremble or hear his shaking gasps. To feel his aura swirl around them with building winds. To bear the weight leaning against him. Harry slides his other arm around Gil-galad's shoulders and puts their heads together.

"You died."

It isn't an accusation, but it's repeated like one. Murmured to his skin like an indictment.

"You died." Gil-galad's voice breaks, and he shudders to hold in a sob. "Eru above, you died."

"I'm fine," Harry says back and means it. "Really this time."

Gil-galad finally looks up at him. His irises are nearly gray, blue almost completely gone, and far too glassy.

"Stay with me," he whispers. His tone is tight, low. Ragged. Bleeding.

It's pleading. It's imploring. It's a dagger to Harry's heart. Straight between his ribs and plunging deep. It's hemorrhaging and wounded and praying for mercy.

His fingers twist into Harry's clothes and hair. He's shivering. Not from cold. From something worse. Something darker. Harder.

"Stay with me," he repeats in a beg when he doesn't get an answer.

Harry kisses him then. Gentler than they had before. A brush of mouths and breath.

It's a promise. A vow.

He'll keep it as long as he can.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Harry wakes with a head buried in the back of his neck and an arm around his waist. Gil-galad is curled behind him, a leg threaded through his. He's comfortable, cozy. Safe from the world and the reality of yesterday. He's alive. He's healed.

He's fine. Really, he is.

But somehow, he's also not.

Harry doesn't want to think about it, but he can't stop. Can't forget that everyone saw. That they know. That a secret he's held through two worlds is now out in the open. It's a very bitter potion to swallow. A hard truth to accept. If he never had to show anyone, if he never had to say it aloud, it never became fact.

He really is immortal. And that's terrifying.

"I can hear you thinking," Gil-galad says then. His voice is clear, awake.

Harry doesn't startle, but he does exhale slowly. He rolls, but the hand around his waist stays. Somehow, another snakes underneath him even as he moves.

"How are you?" Harry questions because that's a safer thing. More important anyway. He reaches up to rest fingertips on Gil-galad's throat as if feeling his pulse.

It's an important thing to ask. More important than Harry's worries. It took so long for Gil to calm down, for him to let it all out. For him to even relax enough to sleep. Harry held him through it all. Whispered reassurances for what had to be hours before his eyelids drifted shut in sheer exhaustion.

But now, this morning, Gil… just smiles at him. His eyes are back to their normal color. They're clear and warm. Bright. He even gives a little laugh at Harry's question. Leans forward to brush a nose against Harry's own.

"I think I should ask you that," his elf comments. "I wasn't the one who was hurt."

Harry can't help but flinch, retreat. He sits up, and Gil-galad lets him. Lets him slide to the side of the bed but doesn't fully let him flee.

"Mírimo," he calls after as Harry starts shifting his feet to the floor, "I already knew."

Harry stops mid-motion. Feels his heart stutter in his chest. His vision is tunneling in before he takes a breath. Inhales deeply enough that it almost hurts.

Gil-galad has inched forward. As if to catch him. He lifts his hands appealingly when Harry stares at him.

"It wasn't hard to figure out," Gil-galad explains. It's very calm, candid. "You're a peredhel, but your mannerisms aren't that of a Man. You most certainly aren't a dwarf or any other race of Arda."

Harry swallows hard. He knows he's already pinching the bridge of his nose but can't stop himself. He feels unsteady, off-balance, teetering.

"I…"

But he can't get it out. Here's his chance. His golden opportunity. But his words fail him. He wants to tell the truth; he does. Whatever Gil-galad thinks can't even be close to it.

There's a hand on his back, and Harry realizes it's to keep him from dropping off the bed. He's tugged closer to the center and away from the edge. Settled so that they're facing each other still, so that Gil-galad can stop him from falling.

"I'm still here," his elf says, and his touch is so caring. "I don't care what you are or who your parents are. It doesn't matter."

Harry swallows again. He breathes through his nose because his mouth doesn't want to work.

"I'm sorry" is all he can manage.

But he's hushed with a finger to his lips.

"Stop that." The same finger taps his nose. "You owe no explanations or apologies."

Harry wants to believe that; he does. Wants to believe that he'd still mean it if he knew the truth. Elves are immortal, but Harry shouldn't be. He isn't one of them. Not really. Not where it counts.

Gil-galad doesn't know what he's accepted. Who he's allowed in.

"It doesn't matter."

Harry knows that his face must reflect his thoughts, but a hand is tipping his chin. Tilting his face.

It's still new. Being kissed like this. Like he's something precious and fragile. Valued.

Gil-galad gazes at him afterwards, doesn't let him run away until his breathing is easier and his body relaxes. Harry slumps against him, doesn't try to say anything else. Just lets himself stay there until he finally feels strong enough to sit up.

Breakfast is on the vanity bench. Brought earlier by Celebrían when they didn't come down, and Harry hadn't even stirred at her entering the room at all. That was a little over an hour before, but Gil-galad allowed him to sleep until he awoke on his own. They eat in bed, and it's a little bit surreal. Something he hasn't done since he was a Hogwarts student, spending Boxing Day with the Weasleys. They don't talk about anything substantial, and Harry feels himself relaxing even more. Letting the tension in his gut bleed away as a hand strokes his back.

He knows their peace won't last though. Feels it – him – coming from literal miles away. Harry just can't be bothered to actually get up or dressed until mid-morning when there's a very frantic knocking on their door.

Finrod doesn't even wait for permission to burst inside.

"Lord Eönwë is here," he announces with the same voice one might use at the arrival of their firstborn.

Harry gives him a very unimpressed look. Gil just glances from one of them to the other.

"And?" Harry asks as Finrod stands in the middle of the bedroom like a small child who's come to fetch mum and dad. He idly tries to decide which one he's supposed to be.

"He's asking for you," the blond reports and rocks on his heels.

"That's friendly," Harry returns. "Tell him we'll be down in a bit." He gives a shooing motion.

Gil-galad makes a noise beside him. It's half-laugh and half-snort.

"But it's… Lord Eönwë," Finrod says as if that explains everything.

It really doesn't. Harry's known Eönwë way too long at this point and has had to put up with him the entire time. He can wait; it's not like it'll kill him.

"And we aren't even dressed," Harry points out with a gesture to the pair of them. "Or do you think he'd fancy Gil's dressing gown that much?"

Finrod splutters, and the very tip of his ears turn red. Next to Harry, his elf is shaking as he tries to repress his mirth. Harry waves Finrod out of their room, using just a little pinch of magic to speed him along, and finally slides out of bed. He makes a point of taking extra time in the bath just to be difficult. If he knows Eönwë at all, he's secretly enjoying the additional moments for the intimation factor alone. Not to mention just looking at things. The Ainur all enjoy poking around Formenos; Harry's sure he'll find something interesting here, too.

Gil-galad, already bathed, is staring in their armoire when he exits the bathroom. He's partially dressed but hasn't any outer layers or ornaments.

"Eönwë won't care if you show up in your best robes or full armor," Harry tells him as he brushes past. "Well, he may take the latter as an invitation."

That brings Gil-galad up short.

"You just…" He can't seem to find the words he wants. "You know him well?"

"He taught me how to use a sword," Harry reminds him as he inspects what's been laid out for him. It's green – of course, it is. A very pale shade with darker embroidery. The fabric itself is light, airy and breathable even with the underlayers.

"Yes, you'd said that," his elf acknowledges with a distracted and puzzled expression. He seems to be suddenly re-evaluating many things judging by the distant gleam in his gaze. "I suppose it does make sense in retrospect."

He doesn't explain that statement at all. Merely looking at Harry for a long second before turning back to his wardrobe. He mutters in Sindarin to himself as he rifles around inside and only stops when he goes to work on Harry's braids.

Eönwë awaits them in the receiving room sometime later. He's in his usual form, tall and imposing with hair that's an almost metallic bronze. It's short. Shorter than anyone else Harry's seen in Valinor. Coming only to the top of his collar and straight as a pin. He towers over everyone present, even Argon, who is more than a full head taller than Harry himself. He can tell Eönwë's already in a mood before they even came downstairs. Knew before he was even in the building. Could hear it echoing in his song when Harry was still getting dressed and the Maia chorused out a greeting.

Eönwë has his back to the door. Facing Fingon and the others like some afternoon intervention gone wrong. Probably doing the Ainur equivalent of a stare-down where they aren't sleeping but conveniently don't blink for thirty minutes straight. It's a rather effective tactic, and Harry's seen it used on quite a number of elves in Formenos when they want Harry's attention but someone just won't take a hint.

This is confirmed when he turns and immediately glances from Harry to Gil-galad. They're arm in arm as they come through the doorway, but that look might make a lesser elf rethink every choice that has led him here.

"So this is the one?"

It's neutral. Monotone and monochrome. Black and white without any other colors shaded in. As blank as the Maia's face.

Harry knows that look very well though. He's seen it so many times. Eönwë usually wears that expression; the aura gives him away like always, nevertheless. He's war-drums and the call of battle. The rising clarion call that lets Harry know he wants nothing more than to take someone out back and have a spar or three dozen. He may even break out the flames.

Harry is fireproof for the most part. His elf probably not.

"Behave," Harry tells Eönwë then with a very stern tone. He motions for Gil-galad to sit by Fingon, which he does reluctantly, while Harry faces the Ainu alone.

That earns him the barest upcurving of Eönwë's mouth. So faint it's hard to discern. Harry knows it's there along with the concern he conceals from the elves. He's somber, Eönwë. Stoic. He's still waters. A statue carved from ice. Stone hewn into a sword.

But there's always something going on underneath the surface. Always something churning within. Little tells. Cracks in the mask.

Eönwë's eyes are amber today, glowing in his face like the sun at dusk. The color is warm; the face is cold. There's no anger. No fear. Nothing is shown.

But Harry knows that he's very worried.

"You are well?" Eönwë inquires. His tone is flat, inflectionless, but he's shifted so that a hand is at Harry's elbow. It's concealed from view as long fingers curl around tightly but not enough to leave a mark.

"I was only gone for a few minutes," Harry responds.

Eönwë makes a small, noncommittal noise. Barely a whisper on the wind. His gaze is searching. His song reaches out, like a low funeral march. Too faint for the elves to hear, but they'll feel it in their bones. Will sense the vibrations in the floor.

It wraps around Harry like a feathery cloak, like an embrace. Tender in the way that he watched Ron comfort Hugo and Rose. Be comforted in turn by his brothers.

"Death isn't something to overcome lightly." His power is warm on Harry's back between his shoulder blades. "Even if one recovers quickly as you do."

Harry sighs but doesn't look away. The Maia examines his face, and it'd be clinically if he didn't know the intent behind it. Harry lets his shields relax enough, lets the glacial barrier shift so that Eönwë can peek past and see the already healing damage inside. A downy soft touch soothes over the wound, and his grip on Harry's elbow squeezes ever-slightly-more before releasing him entirely.

"All will be well then."

It's polite, distant. Eönwë has yet to step back though. He's still in Harry's personal space and leaning in. An amber gaze is still studying him.

"You've never let me braid your hair," Eönwë comments then with the very same tone, but it's almost an aside. He reaches up to touch the one at Harry's temple with a single finger. It's in full view of the elves behind him though they likely can't hear what was just said.

"I didn't know you wanted to," Harry answers for a lack of anything else to say.

Whatever Eönwë has taken it to mean, he isn't entirely sure. But he suspects it's become an invitation for the future. Especially when he feels a curl of satisfaction. There's already building expectancy as Eönwë half-turns. As if finally remembering to include the Eldar.

"No sparring today, I think. Not between you and I." Then his attention flicks to Gil-galad before drifting to Fingon and the others. It fixes on Finarfin the longest. "I think I shall find other volunteers."

Harry follows his path. The elves are making themselves appear not to stare, but it's a terrible act that he doesn't believe for a single minute.

"No flames," he orders firmly.

Eönwë does not outwardly acknowledge that. Nevertheless, there's a touch of melody against his shoulder that's a reassuring grasp as he steps forward.

Harry rolls his eyes behind him.

That's how he finds himself in the training courtyard hours later. The sun is still high in the sky but definitely past noon, blazing and radiant as Harry sits at the metal garden table they've brought out for observation. Findis and Celebrían sit on either side of him as they sip tea with ice in their glasses.

Eönwë is front and center. He's materialized his armor, white and gold, like some avenging angel. Complete with feathers patterned strategically enough that Harry almost put his palm to his forehead the first time he saw it. Fortunately, his sword is the same one he usually spares with. No fires or dazzling lights today. This is a test of strength and skill only. He doesn't need anything else to make his point. Maybe it'd be different if they allowed song into the mix, but by mutual agreement – and Eönwë's challenge – that's left off the field.

It's, in short, a massacre.

"I rather say they let themselves go," Findis comments as she sees Fingolfin hit the ground yet again.

Celebrían stifles her titter behind her hand, but Harry can see her ears twitching. They watch as Fingolfin taps out when Eönwë's blade hovers by his neck, his own sword firmly beneath the Maia's booted foot. Eönwë backs up immediately, shifting away to stand in the middle of the courtyard. The elf takes a minute to gather himself but stands on his own, refusing the hand his youngest offers to him.

Then, it's Argon's own turn. He fares better than his father, but it's still over quickly. He limps off after his brother helps him to his feet.

Harry honestly isn't sure he'd do any better. He's seen battle. Some even with makeshift spears and clubs when people were desperate enough and they came hoping to invade the camps. Admittedly, he never truly wielded anything aside from the one memorable time with the basilisk and that hardly counted. Most of his fights were either with pure magic or through use of cunning because gallantly going off to get maimed or his comrades killed while civilians depended on him was the height of stupidity.

Yes, he spars with Eönwë regularly and receives much the same treatment that the elves are getting now. Only usually, there's a lot more instruction thrown in and a lot less retribution. Eönwë doesn't pull his punches, however. Metaphorically or otherwise. Tulkas doesn't either.

Harry's shakes his head to himself even as he thinks that. He sips his tea, but it's now lukewarm in the heat. It's an easy thing to fix. The pitcher on the table is just in front of him, and he discreetly taps the side with his forefinger, feels the ice revive inside. He swirls the contents to remix everything evenly before pulling back.

Celebrían watches him from the corner of her vision but says nothing.

Harry likes her all the more for it.

The fairy's not in the proverbial sack at this point, but it's nice not to be called out. And really, he'd forgotten how pleasant it was to be so open with his magic. To not have to worry about using it. The Ainur obviously don't care aside from their obvious interest. The Eldar do have magic of their own, but it's so different. Harry's grown uncomfortable. More aware of his use in a way he hasn't since the Statute of Secrecy days.

But Harry can't really get more spectacular than coming back from the dead, and everyone here knows about that now. It'll be a matter of time before the rest of the household followed by Tirion, and then Valinor does as well. Even if the House of Finwë says nothing, the staff will. Harry knows they were there last night. That they heard much of the explanation to Findis and Celebrían. No one's confronted him directly yet, but that's largely because Eönwë is here.

Of course, having an Ainu – Manwe's own Maia – show up for him… Well, that's not discreet.

Harry knows his people in Formenos wonder about him. He's not an idiot. He sees the looks they give when they think he can't see. Nonetheless, they've kept his secrets, and Harry owes them for that.

It's all rather moot now.

Harry looks from one lady to the next. From Findis with her refined bearing to Celebrían, sweet and silvery. Both of them offer him a smile when they notice his attention – Celebrían's is warm, open. Findis is more muted, but her attention lingers longer.

Maybe it never mattered at all. He can only hope. Pray to Nienna and Manwë both.

Findis pours him tea as they watch Finarfin somehow manage to walk off the field with a kingly dignity and no hitch at all. He's not totally in armor; it's too humid, too sweltering for that. Even the elves look uncomfortable in this swampy heat. Only Eönwë and Harry don't seem to mind. The first is in full armor now, sans only his helmet, as if they could forget who this is. The latter has switched to lighter materials only because that's what Gil laid out for him this morning.

Celebrían's in an airy sun dress today, a gauzy baby blue with a bird pattern. Findis is similarly attired in lilac with embroidered flowers that Harry knows she did herself. Both have silk fans on the table in front of them that they occasionally use when the sun and clouds are being particularly obstinate. It isn't shaded at all here, and elves never seem to have gotten the hang of umbrellas. Perhaps that's something he can introduce.

Harry stirs a faint, cooling breeze around the table when he sees them reaching for their fans at the same time, and Celebrían flashes another grin his direction. Findis offers him a raised eyebrow. Regardless, he sees her lips curl upwards with approval.

Neither comments, however.

Harry takes pity and shifts the air in the entire courtyard then. Gradually, softly. A refreshing, coolness to combat the heat.

Eönwë's attention strays to him in that instant before flickering back to his current opponent. Fingon holds his blade at the ready, but he's too honorable to strike when Eönwë's distracted. Which is his first mistake.

They exchange a flurry of blows. Back and forth. Kicking up dust as Fingon ducks out of the way, but it's not quick enough. Eönwë is far too fast. Too strong. Even without music to enhance him. He isn't Morgoth, but combat is his joy. He's drilled every day in anticipation of fights to come. Of a final battle at the end of time and a role Harry doesn't quite understand yet.

Fingon has held up the best, but then, he practices routinely. Harry's seen him with Gil-galad, sword versus spear, and occasionally Argon.

Gil-galad is the next, but he's taking a breather now. Leaning against his spear nearby with his eyes closed. Harry sends a subtle healing spell his way – just a little pick-me-up to improve his energy and revitalize him. His eyes snap open immediately though, and his head rises. He offers Harry a winning smile and a salute.

The rest range in skill, but Harry would guess Finarfin and Fingolfin are about equal. They both appear rather rusty, however, and Argon is doing better overall. Of course, Finrod bowed out after the first spar and is now lounging on a bench with one hand over his face to block out the sun with his brother fanning both of them. Angrod is naturally the most sensible of the lot and has sat out this entire thing.

Finarfin is surprisingly the most determined. Coming back more than anyone. His hair is braided around his skull, but loose strands are plastered to his face with sweat and dirt. There's a large bruise forming on his cheek, the result of a hilt he hadn't been able to block swiftly enough.

Fingolfin isn't in better condition, resting on the ground with his elbows on his knees and his back against a bench. His bottom lip is swollen and bloodied.

Argon is right next to him. His left eye is already blackening, puffy but not yet obscuring his sight; Harry will heal it for him once they're done. Will heal all of them once they're done. They'll need it.

His attention drifts back to the middle.

Eönwë is poised, weapon held in an almost-salute. He's as fresh as they were when they started hours ago. As relaxed as he would be sitting in Harry's garden and watching him paint.

Fingon has a cut above his right brow that's once again slowly oozing and another near the opposite ear that he gained with a risky dodge into Eönwë's guard instead of around. It still hadn't been enough. He's dripping with sweat, and even with the sun behind him and in Eönwë's vision, he doesn't have the energy to fully press it as an advantage. The Maia is upon him almost faster than Harry can follow. He isn't even sure how Fingon can get his sword up in enough time. Eönwë bears down on him, but somehow, the elf doesn't buckle.

Harry will make one hell of a portrait from this, he knows! He already has the image fixed in his mind, locked and stored away on a shelf for later review when he's back on Formenos with the proper time to do it justice. Still, he'll probably do some sketches later when he's back in his room. He could do some now, he supposes, but he doesn't want the distraction. Doesn't want to miss out.

The earlier scene with Gil and his spear. That too will warrant special attention. Perhaps he can entice him to spar later for further material.

Harry considers that possibility.

Fingon hits the ground then and rolls towards their table but stops several feet short. His blade is in the opposite direction. Fingolfin kindly picks it up for him as Gil-galad helps him stand. Eönwë merely watches.

Harry blinks, having unfortunately missed several steps during his daydreaming. Findis and Celebrían exchange a long-suffering look as Finarfin steps up yet again.

"Grandfather and uncle both fought Morgoth personally," Celebrían tells Harry then, "but grandfather hasn't picked up a sword in an age I'd wager. Uncle may not be very far behind once you count his time in Mandos." She taps the table as her attention goes from Finarfin to Fingolfin, but then, she casts a glance at Finrod that Harry follows. "Some of them prefer music to arms."

Harry wraps his hands around his glass. Lets the coolness seep into his skin.

"Perhaps this will motivate them properly," Findis states.

Her face is perfectly composed, but Harry knows that she's groaning on the inside as she watches her youngest sibling's feet knocked from underneath him. Still, there's fondness in her face as she looks around the courtyard. At her brothers. At her nephews and niece.

Harry's known many Slytherins before, lived with Andromeda while she was his master. Findis is silk over steel, he thinks. A blade in a velvet wrapping. Concealed so that no one even knows it's there. He can feel the dagger sheathed at her left wrist. The second at her ankle. A third hidden in her dress.

Harry recognizes a serpent when he sees one. Snakes are perfectly polite until you step on them.

This is all in good fun here. Perhaps more than a bit of lesson and some penance, too. But if it truly turned serious. If Eönwë truly tried to hurt any of them… She wouldn't stab him in the back. Not this one. She'd go for the throat.

"They've grown soft," Findis adds. There's more than a hint of censure.

"It's easy to do here," Celebrían admits, but she's more forgiving. "Easy to forget what it's like out there."

"Easy to forget that Morgoth isn't truly gone," Findis murmurs, and there's an edge. Sharp but not drawing blood. Not yet. "He won't content himself to the void forever. He'll always seek a way back in."

"He'll eventually find a crack. Or make one," Harry says, and there's a prickle with his words.

Something like a walk over a grave or an echo in an empty room. It's not yet. Not now. Not even soon. But lingering just out of sight. Around the corner and down the hall a few paces. Like a shadow one knows is there but can't see.

They look at Harry then. Celebrían is concerned. Findis is… afraid. She hides it well. Beneath the exterior of regal calm, underneath a simmering anger. Even deeper down.

Morgoth did kill her father, after all. And then her middle brother, even though he's hale and hearty now, if a little bruised. Morgoth also destroyed her older brother so thoroughly he went mad and took his sons with him.

She has a right to fear him, but Harry feels her resolve harden even as he thinks that. Even as she studies him and her worry seeps through.

"And you, nephew?"

But he knows what she's really asking. He puts a hand on her hers as it rests on the tabletop.

"No lasting damage," he swears.

She lets out a slow breath. Her eyes are the same pale blue as Argon's, almost gray. Finwë's eyes, he was told before. Her hair is nearly the same golden hue as Finarfin's, but her face is almost entirely Fingolfin's and those of his children.

Harry wonders what she sees when she looks at him.

Her fingers curl around his knuckles, and she squeezes. Just once. Then, she let's go.

"Good," she says and reaches for her glass, "good."

They're just about finished Harry decides then. It's getting a little too late. A little too close to evening as he pushes back from the table.

Harry starts with Finrod as he's the closest and already reclining. He's the most intact, has barely anything at all, but he still offers an appreciative smile when Harry puts a hand on his arm. A single tingle of magic has him completely whole. Harry turns as he's sitting up, but Angrod catches his elbow. He gives a single pat before releasing him and nods his head.

Next are Argon and Fingolfin. Harry crouches between them with a hand on each. Argon bumps his shoulder affectionately in thanks, but Fingolfin wraps an arm around his upper back and tugs him closer before he can stand. He's dirty and sweaty; Harry isn't entirely sure why he allows this but doesn't push away. Fingolfin laughs next to him, in much better spirits now as Harry pulls him to his feet.

Gil-galad welcomes him with an embrace, free hand sliding around his side and pulling him in, while his other still holds his spear. Harry presses a lingering kiss to his cheek and lets the contact heal him the rest of the way.

"Having fun?" Harry queries as they watch Eönwë and Finarfin circle one another.

Gil-galad offers him a victorious grin. "Oh, he isn't angry with me. Merely testing my limits." He snuggles just a bit closer as they observe for a moment more, lifting to brush against Harry's ear. "Finish up but I'll be waiting at dinner."

He nudges Harry on then with a knowing look.

Fingon sits alone. An elbow is on his knee as his face rests in his palm, but he looks up as Harry takes his free one. He inhales at the rush of cool energy, and his expression is soft at the ends. He reaches out before Harry can leave, gripping the junction between this neck and shoulder, but it's easy. More a reassurance.

Finarfin is last. Harry meets him before he can fully leave the middle of the courtyard and takes his elbow. Heals him even as he's steering over to the vacant seat at the table with Findis and Celebrían. The king is pensive as Harry turns away.

No one has stepped back into the center yet, so Harry walks to Eönwë. He feels them watching, but at this point, he's rather used to it.

"Are you happy now?" Harry inquires, and he already knows the answer.

Eönwë's melody is a drum in the deep. There's an echo of satisfaction as his attention sweeps over the elves arrayed in the courtyard.

"Your honor is avenged, I believe, yes."

Harry doesn't even want to start with that broom-wreck. Instead, he arches an eyebrow and asks the question that may get him assassinated in the night. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Are you staying for dinner?"

Eönwë doesn't snort. He's far too dignified for that. The corner of his mouth twitches as he inclines his head to Fingon

"That one has already invited me, so I shall."

Harry nods and motions him to follow. The others will need time to shuffle upstairs, bathe, change, and rethink their life choices. Ainur don't have to do those sorts of things, but it'll be nice to chat with him one-on-one, and Harry's prior room still stands empty.

Eönwë follows sedately. Gil-galad just laughs in the background as the others round on Fingon.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)

Everyone Downstairs – Looking at each other.

Clock – Ticking.

Fingolfin – Rubbing a hand on his face.

Finarfin – Tapping his fingers on the breakfast table.

Finrod – Do you think we should go check on them?

Fingon – Sighs heavily.

Celebrían – Immediately runs upstairs.

Gil-galad – Shhhhhhh!

Harry – Drooling.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Harry – Do you want a portrait of yourself looking awesome while you beat up my family?

Eönwë – Solemn nod. I shall hang it in the palace.

Narrator Voice – Several weeks later.

Manwë – Also nods as he studies the floor to ceiling painting. You are very dashing, my friend.

Eönwë – Hand on chin. Marcaunon captured the scene perfectly.

The Vanyar – Whispering amongst themselves with very worried expressions.

Varda – What the hell is this?

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

All The Elves – Watching as Eönwë and Harry leave to go upstairs.

Argon – So…

Angrod – You don't think…

Finrod – Nods happily. Makalaurë did very well for himself.

Findis – I'm honestly not sure I want to know how this happened.

Celebrían – My husband… Giggles to herself.

Fingolfin – Looks at his brother.

Finarfin – Looks right back at him.

Both – Shake their heads.

Fingon – Maitimo is going to lose his mind.

Gil-galad – Wisely staying silent.

Chapter 12: Chapter 12

Chapter Text

Eönwë is seated on Harry's left at dinner. It's Argon's usual spot, but he's been moved across the table, next to his father as Aredhel is absent along with Irimë. Celebrían's is in the latter's seat on Argon's other side since Finarfin is in the place she typically occupies. Everything else is as usual.

It's the most awkward dinner party Harry's been to since the engagement of Marianus Burke to Ariadne Vineshadow – his Defense master and school healer respectively.

Eönwë speaks to the elves when spoken to but has no questions and makes no other comments. His answers are rather to the point. Only Harry gets more than the bare minimum. But admittedly, he asks much better things. He's used to this from Eönwë; though the others certainly aren't. He suspects they aren't used to Ainur all that much or their tendency to rely on their personal auras more than speech. Not if this is their reaction.

Nienna and Vairë are notable exceptions, but then, they and Námo spend so much time in the Halls of Mandos. Harry supposes that they've adjusted to elven preferences along with the Maiar who frequent there. Same for Irmo and Estë. Oromë as well, but his language is that of beasts and birds. Nessa prefers dancing and music to any words at all. The others he hasn't seen interact with enough Eldar to know.

Eönwë is even less talkative in general; it's just how he is. Harry doesn't take it personally. If he doesn't have something to say, then he usually says nothing. Other times, he could wax on philosophically for hours about a particular point or relate certain events in the most minute detail.

The one who understands this the best is seemingly Finarfin, and aside from Harry, Eönwë speaks to him the most. An interesting thing as they're seated so far apart.

There's something about the entire arrangement that makes Harry pause, but he can't quite put his finger on it as he glances from one person to the next. He doesn't know if this was done by the staff, Fingon, or some type of coincidence but it does seem to make it much easier for everyone to move around Eönwë. The attendants very carefully don't touch him, Harry notes. They lay all his dishes on the table, while standing as far away as possible without making it obvious, and take nothing directly from his hands. It's a strange ballet that Harry watches from the corner of his vision.

Harry's noticed the same at Formenos. All the Ainur seemingly have a bubble around them where no elf gets too close or looks too long in their eyes. They never treat each other in this manner, even strangers or the different varieties of elves. Never treat Harry like this, not at home, and he knows that he's made a poor elf indeed.

So it's even more worrisome that some of the retainers are now doing it to Harry here. It's taken him long enough to get them to look at him properly with all this lord business, and he's still trying to get most of them to address him by name only, so this is more than troubling. He isn't sure the full scope of it yet, but he knows that it means his… accident is definitely being whispered through their ranks. Just as he feared, it'll soon be known to the entire household and then Tirion.

Harry frowns into his wineglass even as he thinks that. Even more so a minute later when the next course arrives and there's a minor debate turned dance behind him. They aren't so inexperienced as to actually argue or to flinch when Harry finally just turns to hand over his salad plate. It's taken cautiously, handled like one would a venomous tentacula, fingers kept as far away from his as possible. He knows that everyone is viewing the tableau like they'd a Quidditch accident. He simply isn't quite sure what to say, what to do aside from pretend it isn't happening. He fights to keep his hand from rising to cover his face. To keep the shame off his expression.

Gil-galad touches his wrist at the edge of the table even as the next course is set in front of him. Fingon doesn't glare, but his face is hard in a way that Harry's never seen. Fingolfin and Findis have identical expressions from opposite ends of the room; their eyes move but little else on their persons. Celebrían is poised, but her knuckles are slowly turning white on the arms of her chair. Argon doesn't hide his disapproval at all, and Harry has the feeling if Eönwë weren't here, that he'd already have gotten up. Harry can't see Finarfin or Angrod from his angle, but Finrod seems pained.

Eönwë is silent next to him. Face indifferent. Watching. Always watching. Harry feels the flicker of annoyance in his song though, a discordant note, the point of the sword. He doesn't physically reach out to Harry, but protective chords curl around and over him as they sit next to each other. He knows that Harry's increasingly discomforted; he may even understand why. However, this is Fingon's house and Fingon's staff, so he says nothing. But Harry knows he'll remember every name and every face. Knows that those amber eyes are taking in everything, but he's too disciplined to show his true emotions.

Tension rises further as the meal progresses. Gil rubs a delicate circle on Harry's elbow as the main course is brought and drinks are refilled. Celebrían and Finrod try to restart the conversation, but it's stilted.

Harry glances at Fingon as they come to him again. Sees when he's completely done, finally had enough. Fingon excuses himself and is out of the room before anyone has time to respond; Harry can feel his attendants scurrying off in front of the swelter of his power, feel him scorching down the hallway like a heatwave at midday. Argon seems a second from following, only doesn't due to the look their father gives him.

Harry just sighs and sits back in his chair. He'll eat eventually because he won't waste the food; even though he knows for a fact that no one starves in Valinor, old habits die hard. Rather, his appetite is completely gone.

He's too old for this; he is. Has too much else to deal with. He wants nothing else than to get up and leave at this very moment. He stays in his chair only because it'll upset Fingon more to find him absent when he returns.

The table is quiet; no one says anything as they gaze at each other. Gil gives up any pretext, just slides fingers through his and sets their hands on top of the armrest. The twin of Harry's own ring is warm against his suddenly chilled skin.

Eönwë sips his wine. He's a steady beat next to Harry, sharp edges sheathed for now. However, his song soothes over Harry's back and settles around him as surely as a downy blanket.

Time ticks by. Fingon is still gone, and no one else comes. Everyone picks at their food for a lack of anything else to do. Harry eats slowly but tastes nothing. Eönwë clears his plate, and Fingolfin refills his glass.

Fingon returns not long after everyone is finally finished and starting to wonder if they should go search for him. He appears much calmer now, coming in at a normal pace and with a satisfied air. Notes encircle Harry's wrist and squeeze just as the elf enters the room, and Eönwë stands. He gives Fingon a nod when he turns to leave.

Harry, having predicted this would happen, is already out of his chair. He casts a quick peek at Fingon and walks Eönwë to the door. No one follows, but they don't speak until they're outside the main entrance. Harry can feel others milling about in the distance, but no one is from their dinner party. He knows Gil will meet him upstairs. Hard to fully predict what everybody else's doing.

Eönwë simply stands next to him, looking out into the deepening twilight. He reaches out to touch Harry with his hand this time, a ghosting of fingers on his skin.

"You will stay?"

It's mostly a statement, but it borders on a question. His amber eyes flick to Harry.

"For now," Harry allows. "Celebrían promised to take me to see the ocean, and Gil-galad wants to go sailing."

It's only supposed to be for a short time, but for elves, that could end up being anywhere from three days to three months. Celebrían only came for tea initially, after all, and she's still here even now.

"Celebrían…" the Maia repeats as if considering the name. "Yes, I know the one."

He moves in front of Harry then. There's a slow beat, the march off to battle. The illumination of the house is bright on his face as he tilts his head down.

"Be well, Marcaunon," he says, and it's a soft feather against his face. Gentle as a kiss to his forehead. "I will call on you when you return home."

Eönwë offers a small bow before he turns on his heel. He walks off into the darkness, and Harry looks after him until he hears his song fade in the distance.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Breakfast is better, far more relaxed overall. Most meals aren't very strict except when family arrives or an actual visitor. The staff rarely serves them unless it's such an occasion. Of course, there's hardly a time more formal than an Ainu at one's table for an elf.

Harry can tell the staff are relieved that Eönwë's gone, nevertheless. The Maia can be rather intimating; he'll give them that. Although, their attitude towards Harry himself is still very detached, very distant. Intimidated. Almost afraid when they see him in the halls and put themselves back to the opposite wall and as far from him as possible.

It's even worse than when he first came here.

Elves are unaging, but they can still die. Harry's different, and they know that now. It's some of his fears turning into reality. Some left holdover from being a wizard and never daring to tell a soul the truth. All his unvoiced thoughts taking shape.

Gil tells him that he doesn't care, that it doesn't matter, but Harry knows deep down that it does. That there's some flaw inside him. Some defect that can never been fixed.

The rest of the day decides it for him. The looks he can feel behind his back. Not from the Houses of Fingolfin or Finarfin. Their thoughts are harder to discern, but fear isn't among them. The others in the household though. Fingon's retainers. His staff and servants and attendants. Harry can feel all of them withdraw physically and spiritually.

Harry needs to leave. He wants to leave. Really and truly this time.

He wants to go home. He wants Formenos. He wants his own castle and his own bed and his own magic surrounding him. He wants Laerien's bossiness and Melpomaen's hesitant smile and Inglor's sarcasm. He wants to be able to see Indilwen at any time, to not just leave her in the stables. He wants to speak with Káno and hear him play every day and not only in secret. He wants Nienna and Vairë and Eönwë too, to not have to worry about what anyone else thinks.

He'll go to the ocean with Celebrían and Gil-galad because he's already promised. And because, to be completely honest, it'll get him out of this house. He can return home from there. And maybe… Maybe Gil will…

Harry chases that thought away as he comes to the door. It's innocuous. Looks just like any other in the house, but perhaps it's what it represents. The room beyond is something of Fingon's office and his study. It's as private as anything ever is in this place. Set further away from the usual hustle and bustle. Tucked away in a corner of an upper floor. He hasn't been back in this room for… He can't be entirely sure when. The last time he was even close was when he perched on the roof above. Listening in to Fingon and his father. That feels like a lifetime ago.

Technically, as Harry thinks that over, one could consider that to be true.

He knocks but already knows Fingon's here. Already knows that his host is waiting for him. Has been trying to figure out how to approach him all day.

He both is and isn't surprised when he sees Harry standing there. His diadem and robe are off, and Harry can see the glint of the former on the corner of his desk. His sword is on its stand, and he knows that Fingon is already drawing up an even tougher training regimen with both his father and Argon also in the mix. Likely Finarfin as well given how their encounter with Eönwë went. Harry thinks he may even spar with them someday in some distant future. Maybe if they ever come to Formenos.

"Come in," his host invites. His voice is warm, welcoming.

He directs Harry to a seat at the table near the balcony, the same one Fingolfin sat in not so long ago. He pours them drinks without even asking. Harry idly notices that he does pull the balcony door closed before he sits in the chair across.

"I suspect this isn't just a social call," the elf says as he places the glass in front of Harry. It's a sweeter wine he's seen Harry have on multiple occasions and one he truly does enjoy.

Harry accepts the drink but holds it between his hands on the tabletop.

"You seemed like you wanted to talk earlier," he comments, tracing the pattern on the glass. "I thought maybe we could."

Fingon tips his head in acknowledgement. "Yes, there are certainly… things to discuss."

A pause as Harry considers his words. As Fingon considers him.

Some part of Harry will miss this place, he decides. Will actually miss the people here. Getting to know them. The sound of their voices. The feel of their auras like a steady thrum in the background. Formenos is populated these days, but the castle itself is empty. Only Harry lives there aside from Indilwen and Káno's harp. The elves all have their own homes in the surrounding city now and have for ages. Even his work office is in the municipal building, just down from the castle gates.

The castle is his alone. He prefers it that way, but maybe, sometimes, being alone isn't better.

"I wanted to thank you for having me," Harry begins since politeness is never out of place. "For letting me stay. For having me here."

"You're leaving?" Fingon asks. His tone is off. Shocked. Dismayed. Bruised.

"You and I both know that I don't belong here," Harry tells him, and it's an apology. "I think it's better if I leave."

Fingon closes his eyes for a long second before letting out a gusty sigh. He studies Harry, silvery gaze now focused and determined. He's a good man, and it's easy to forget the battle-forged ruler who lurks underneath.

"Running away isn't going to work, you know."

At Harry's startled expression, Fingon lets out a little snort, but there's no mirth.

"Pushing us away won't either," he adds.

Harry shakes his head. "I'm not--"

"You are," Fingon cuts him off. "You have from the beginning, but I see why better now." He doesn't blink as he looks across the table. The distance is a mere two feet but may as well be two miles. "Dying's never an easy thing."

"I didn't--" Harry starts to say.

Fingon again talks over him. "You did. You died, nephew. We both know what happened."

His tone is sterner than he's ever been with Harry. Edged. He's still the same warmth as always, however. Steady but not burning. Never scorching. Only searching. Waiting.

"What do you expect me to say?" Harry questions then, and it's nearly a demand because he doesn't understand what Fingon wants from him. "That I'm sorry for lying to you?"

He watches as Fingon's fingers flex. Once. Twice. Before flattening against the wooden surface of the tabletop.

"I want you to stop apologizing," the elf tells him, and his eyes are stronger than mithril. "I want you to stop feeling like you need to. I want to see you as you are and not just the parts you haven't managed to hide away."

"I'm not hiding." Harry doesn't raise his voice, but it's firm.

Fingon merely stares at him the same way he did at Eönwë yesterday; like this is a fight he has to win no matter what.

"You are."

It isn't an accusation. It just feels like one.

Harry sips from his wine to buy time, and that's his biggest mistake yet. He's not as steady as he should be as he sets the glass down. It's a small thing really. Or maybe a large one as it knocks Fingon's own. As both tilt onto the tabletop. Harry snatches his back, seeker reflexes still quick and sure, but the other spills out across the surface and towards the floor with a chipped rim and several scattering pieces.

Harry flicks his fingers without thinking, without pause. The wine is gone instantly as it pours for the edge, and the glass is now whole. Not a single shard out of place. He freezes as he realizes what he's done. It's so easy to fall back into old habits. To be open with his magic as he had yesterday in the courtyard.

Fingon simply watches him. Seeing everything and missing nothing.

And Harry just gave him quite a show.

His heart squeezes painfully as he peeks over at his host. He leaves his wineglass on the table, hands now gripping the armrests, frost forming beneath his fingertips at the look he receives right back. Sees fog when he exhales. As the room feels colder.

Fingon's in front of him now, and Harry isn't sure how that happened. Isn't sure how he moved so quickly from the other side of the table to kneeling right here. He doesn't touch Harry but crowds his space, places both hands on the sides of the chair. They're both silent as they stare at each other. Harry thinks of a thousand different things to say, but none of them are right. None of them are sane enough for this. It's certainly beyond a little healing, some ice and breeze. Not as bad as waking up from death.

Fingon though lays a very gentle hand on his knee. Touch as light as a feather.

"I don't know what crime you imagine you've committed to punish yourself like this," he states. His voice has eased to that of a blanket, cotton wool soft. Like he's trying to soothe a spooked chimera.

Harry doesn't shift. He isn't guilt of anything, but the feeling beats in his chest like another heart.

"What makes you think I'm punishing myself?" he asks. His fingers have moved to his elbows to create distance; the table certainly isn't a safe place for them.

Fingon just gazes up at him. His eyes are assessing. Searching and seeking. He doesn't use Legilimency. Harry doesn't even know if he even has the elvish version like Finarfin. But he feels wide open. Feels like he's being seen as thoroughly as if he stood naked in the entranceway and spun around.

"There's nothing you can possibly have done that's worse than any of us," the elf insists. "Nothing that's worse than any of the rest of the family. Existing isn't a crime, Herurrívë. Living isn't either." It's far too close to the truth.

Harry stares over his head. He can't look at Fingon any longer.

"Stop," Harry murmurs then. "Just stop."

It isn't begging, but he can't do this anymore. He feels trapped. Like a rabbit in one of Aredhel's snares. He's scooting his seat back to put more space between them. One hand is on his face rubbing his eyes and then pinching his nose so hard it'd leave bruises if he were an actual elf.

Fingon backs up, allows him room; it's only to grab his own chair and move it to Harry's side of the table. He isn't as close as he was seconds before, but it feels like too much. Like the only way out of this is a confession but he isn't exactly sure which sin Fingon wants to hear. Harry's just tired. Exhausted in a way that sleep won't fix. It has nothing at all to do with dying and everything to do with living.

He has no idea how long they sit there saying nothing to each other. Fingon, as always, is every-so-patient. Like he has all the time in the world and absolutely nothing else better to do than to witness this disaster unfolding.

Finally, Harry sighs and takes his head from his hand.

"You called me nephew," Harry says, and it's a redirection and almost an allegation both. "Just now and… that night."

He hadn't realized it initially, but looking back, it was obvious. That hadn't been Fingolfin's voice.

"I did," Fingon confesses with elbows on his thighs and fingers threaded together.

"I'm not…"

He can't get the words out. Settles for something safer, easier.

"You never married him," Harry accuses with the barest hint of frost.

"No," the older elf admits that, too. "I didn't."

He doesn't rise to the bait, however. He's still looking at Harry and his expression isn't one that Harry's ever seen directed at himself before. Not like this. Not from anyone.

"I've made a great many mistakes," Fingon proclaims then, "and I'd like to stop making the same ones. I should've told you from the start. I should've claimed you from the beginning."

Harry has zero clue how to respond. His mind is a library of overturned shelves and scattered pages. He feels his mouth open and then close. Feels time tick by. Hears the clock on the mantle. His companion lets him gather his thoughts, book by book. Would let him have all the eons in the universe.

"Why didn't you marry him?" Harry finally inquires because this is a safer topic. Because this is simpler to grasp. To voice than everything else.

Fingon allows it. He really is too good to be true.

"Because I was a fool." It's said with a laugh but absolutely no mirth. "Because I cared more about what others thought than what we felt. Because I feared what my father would think," he says, and his eyes are a silver so bright that it puts the moon to shame. "He already knew, of course. He's always known; they always do."

Harry can feel his regret. Feel the ache of it in the air like a tragedy. Feel the loss like a limb that should be there but isn't. A phantom that moves but is whisps of smoke when one looks.

"He didn't care?"

"He did," Fingon responds softly, "but he also didn't." His fingers now drum on the arm of his chair like a march across the battlefield. "He worried we'd be hurt. Not just me but Maitimo as well."

Because that's his nephew, Harry understands. This is Fingolfin's son, and that's his nephew. They're both the line of Finwë, and there's been grief and discord in it since practically the beginning.

Although, he supposes that Eldar didn't worry about a match that close. Not when they were functionally immortal and generational time could be in the millennia. Even purebloods rethought this eventually and had for much of Harry's adult life, but admittedly some of his classmates had been from generations of first cousin marriages, and he had his suspicions that some were perhaps even closer than that.

"Did he worry about your uncle?"

It's not an unreasonable question with everything Harry's learned of Fëanor, but Fingon shakes his head.

"Not as much initially. Not truly even until close to the end. Uncle is… was surprisingly kind." Fingon actually smiles at that, and it's fond. Genuine. "He's stern in many ways, but he dearly loves all his sons. I've to say he treats me much the same; for all his issues with my father, uncle has always been good to me and loves me as he does his own children." His lips quirk upwards even more. "I was very often with them. Maitimo and Makalaurë especially. Less so the others. But we three were most often found together."

Fingon hesitates then. As if pausing for breath. Pausing for memories to come.

"I had a room in their home," he adds after a moment, "and Maitimo had one at my father's – before I set up here. Even Laurë did; just as you do. Laurë usually was our alibi." He gives a chuckle. "I suppose looking back, we were so very obvious."

Harry just listens to him. Doesn't say anything as the words wash over him like warm bathwater. He can almost picture it. Picture the three of them. So young. Bright. Unknowing of what was to come. Fingon in the middle with the two brothers on either side, his dearest love and his cousin who would be his brother. They remind Harry of another trio, of three others so long ago who promised to be friends forever. Harry's kept his end of the bargain; he knows that wherever they are that Ron and Hermione do, too.

Fingon exhales, and the spell is broken. He puts his palms flat on the chair, and they only tremble faintly.

"Elves…" he begins as a way to center himself, "Elves often stay in the same household with their families even if they wed and have children. Or if not, very close by. Like I did here."

It's both an explanation and a distraction; Harry just inclines his head.

"Some will leave to establish themselves elsewhere, but that's more unusual. Not unless they can't agree on where to live." Fingon barely falters but continues on, "Or if one family has disapproved of the match. Close relatives will have rooms. Permanent ones that they'll move back and forth between, especially if they aren't settled."

That… Harry hadn't known any of that. He could guess based on what he'd observed. But no one had ever said it outright. It makes a lot of sense given the state of Fingon's household. Of the people here and how long they'd stayed so far. And how everyone seemed to have a particular place that they stayed in. Even Fingolfin and Finarfin had suites that the staff didn't so much prepare as simply air out a bit. And they hadn't really brought much with them, now that he thought about it.

There's also how they'd put him back in the same room Fingon had tried so hard to give him the first time. He wonders what they thought of him settling in Formenos. It was the former residence of Fëanor and his sons – yes, through exile. But still…

Of course, now there's the fact that Fingon felt the need to explain something that should be basic knowledge.

Harry knows that he's grimacing even as that occurs to him.

"I think we've done a disservice to you," the older elf states, and his tone is apologetic, "my only excuse is that we didn't know. Suspected, yes, I'll admit, but I didn't know for certain." He reaches out to put one hand on Harry's wrist. "You haven't spent much time with other elves. I can see it now."

Harry feels his ears grow hot. "Is it that obvious?"

"Not at first glance, no. The more time we spend with you…" Fingon gives an elegant shrug. "You hide yourself very well. Too well, I think. It's hard to feel you. We can see you; we know that you're there, but you're a blank book." His grasp is strong but not too tight. "It's only lately that you've let us read a few pages."

He's warm, welcoming. His aura would invite Harry in if he would allow himself to come to the door, but he hesitates on the sidewalk. Stands outside in the snowstorm and doesn't even dare peer in the windows.

"One day, you'll tell me, yes?" He clarifies after a moment, after Harry's obvious puzzlement, "Why you let yourself carry such a burden?"

Harry swallows. Half of him wants to say yes. Wants to confess everything. The other half wants to just lay his head down, close his eyes, and never open them again. In the war between them, it's a stalemate. Nothing's accomplished.

"When you're ready," Fingon tells him as if knowing the entirety of the battle inside him.

Harry breathes out slowly, and both of those sides quiet. Both glance at each other with this unexpected white flag.

"What if I never am?" Harry asks, and it's very tired. Weary.

There's a sensation like a mug of cocoa put into his hands. Warmth seeping through the ceramic. Chocolate after a dementor attack.

"Then, that's fine."

Fingon's quiet for a long pause. Still looking at Harry but his eyes aren't accusing. They're focused. Like a blaze contained behind glass.

"Even," Fingon suggests but hesitates, "even if he isn't your father, would it be so bad to accept us? It isn't as if you've lied to us about it." His hand is still on Harry's arm, not letting go. "Are we truly so terrible?"

Harry feels his eyes widen of their own accord. Feels something inside thaw into blooming snowdrops. Delicate. Fragile but all the more lovely for it.

It's…

The Weasleys – Molly and Arthur – considered him part of their family. Often said he was like their own son. Ron and Hermione considered him a brother. He was termed uncle by many, but this is different.

Here, they've called him cousin and nephew even after he's repeatedly told them that he isn't. And yet, there's an offer to stay even without that between them. There's welcome even after he's done nothing but push them away.

The Ainur are his friends, but he often feels like their charity case. Káno and Indilwen are his friends, too – his closest really, but one isn't on this continent and the other is a horse. His staff – Laerien and Melpomaen and Inglor and the others – he knows they all have real relatives they long for and are waiting on. Harry doesn't even remember what having a family is like. What it's like to be accepted for no other reason than being himself.

There's a little boy in a cupboard buried deep his mind. Past glaciers and castle walls of ice and snow and library shelves full of books. Down through dungeons of icicles and fog thick enough to cut with a blade. All the way hidden at the very bottom of a lonely chasm. Harry feels that cupboard door opening now. Sees a childish hand appear and a flash of green eyes.

Next to him, Fingon stirs.

"There you are," he murmurs. His voice is full of an emotion Harry isn't willing to name.

Harry meets his gaze because if he can stare down a Dark Lord, he can do this, too. Only, Tom just wanted to kill Harry. Fingon wants something else entirely. Wants him to be something and someone he can barely remember or never recall at all.

A cousin. A nephew. A son.

Somehow, that's scarier. Somehow, it's worse than curses, dragons, murderers, dementors, or even death. All of those are things he can fight. All of those are things that he's survived. Conquered.

How is he supposed to handle kindness? Honest interest? Concern? When was the last time he had any of those for him as a person? Not as a headmaster and authority figure? A curiosity to their paradise? A shelter in the eternal blizzard?

Harry lets out a long, hard sigh. Fingon allows the quiet to stretch out between them. He's said everything he wants; he's magnanimous now and grants Harry a reprieve.

"Your hair is getting long," he comments in a very clear change of the subject and casts another glance Harry's direction.

"I should cut it," Harry says back. It's offhandedly, almost an afterthought. When's the last time he had?

Fingon tips his head in thought, but ultimately, he makes a negative motion.

"Keep it," he replies. "Let it grow. You may find that you like it this way."

His expression is serene, gentle at the borders. Harry gives a considering nod but doesn't say anything else. The silence is comfortable now. No longer at all strained. Peaceful even. The elf next to him is a steady warmth. Like sitting in front of the fireplace on a winter's night.

Gil-galad is still the favorite but perhaps Fingon is higher on the list than Harry realized.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

The sea is lovely today. Calm and clear with soft waves. The sky is midsummer blue with white fluffy clouds. It's warmer than expected for just after breakfast, but the breeze from the water eases the worst of it.

This really is a beautiful place, Harry decides. The village is a short walk away but far enough for comfortable privacy. There aren't any major population centers close, and that's a definite plus with the whispers circulating. With the increasing number of predictions. With new prophecies of death, of the beginning of the end.

But that's a problem for the future. Today is a day for family.

Teddy and Victoire meet him just after nine. He greets them by the top of the dune, his designated apparition point, and they get a full glimpse of the new house to the left with the glorious ocean to the right.

She's used to living by the sea, and this is not so far away from her parents that Fleur will hunt the lot of them down for taking her pregnant daughter out for the day. It's her first grandchild to be perfectly fair, so Harry can understand her overprotective instincts which put Molly to shame.

Teddy is looking up at the cottage with an assessing eye. Taking in the wooden walkway leading up, the elevated beds of the garden behind, the second story with a balcony. Harry knows he's already evaluating potential exits and hazards, but that's just how he is. He's spent too much time on the job already and an Auror is never truly off duty.

Both of them are brimming with energy. Bright and happy with their lives, and he's pleased to share even just this moment with them. Teddy's hours have been long lately. There's been a run of difficult cases, and they haven't seen much of each other unless he's at Saint Mungo's to interview victims. He looks better now, however. Better than the last time Harry saw him. The dark shadows beneath his eyes have disappeared and his easy grin is back. He's been sleeping again, hopefully at home and not his office. That usually makes a world of difference

Victoire, Harry's truthfully seen more, as she always stops in after her prenatal appointments to have either lunch or tea before heading back to Gringotts. Harry still has his standing weekly invitation to their flat in the Alley, but Teddy hasn't been there the last three times. Hermione was there last week to help with the Expansion Runes so that a nursery can be added for their son. They still have four months before he arrives, but that time will go by so quickly. It always seems to be racing along at lightning speed.

Harry leads them down the short path to the front door, which is painted a turquoise blue in honor of the man behind him and the color he sported through most of his Hogwarts years. Victoire laughs at it, as if guessing his thoughts. Teddy's hair is Hufflepuff yellow today, but it shifts to Weasley red then just to spite them.

"Your new home is lovely," she says in congratulations as they go through the door into the kitchen, and Harry can tell she's excited by the prospect. Already planning to help him decorate. She's now gazing at empty shelves, itching to open cabinets, all but measuring out the space where the table will go.

The rest of the house is much the same from the sitting room downstairs to all the bedrooms upstairs to the potions brewing space in the basem*nt. The tour isn't much longer than Harry predicted; he knows them too well.

Victoire loves peeking into every nook and cranny. Opening every door and window. Looking at every available space.

Teddy trails after her, eyes not missing a single detail. His posture is relaxed though, easy, pleased. His cases are over; his workload has decreased back down to normal. He's getting to come home every night now. He and his wife are getting ready to have a baby; his life is good. Nearly complete.

Save for one thing.

They end up back in the kitchen. He's leaning against the sink, back to the window that overlooks the garden. There aren't chairs yet. Harry didn't see the point for it when he wasn't going to be the one sitting in them most of the time.

Keys in the magical world are different. Aren't like their Muggle counterpart. They aren't just meant to open locks or doors. They give power over wards. Over properties. Bestow ownership.

The ones in his pocket don't have his name on them. Haven't since the very beginning. He'd made that clear from the start when he'd bought the land and commissioned the house.

He offers them his best smile as he reaches out to hand them over.

"For you," Harry says and means it completely.

They blink at him. Victoire with puzzlement. Teddy with eyes that are turning a very familiar shade of green the longer he stands there.

"The cottage," Harry clarifies then, "it's for you."

There's a long pause. Filled only with the distant sound of waves and the call of gulls.

"Tonton," Victoire breathes, and her face is delighted. Eyes full of tears before she hides them behind her hand.

"Are you sure?" Teddy asks. His hair is black now, dark as raven feathers. "Are you really sure?"

"Of course. Your clan's growing," Harry returns and makes a gesture to both of them. "You'll need the space."

"But this… this is too much," Victoire tells him; her voice is shaky as Teddy takes her hand. "It's far too much."

"We'll never be able to pay you back," Teddy adds. He's a little winded, but Harry can already see his anticipation. Can see the dreams forming, taking shape in all their glory.

Harry simply keeps smiling at them both.

"Why would you ever need to repay me for this? Family takes care of each other."

Victoire's arms come around him first, but Teddy's are there a second later. Stronger. Tighter. Both silently promise to never let go.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)

Group – Watching Harry and Gil-galad look at each other with stars in their eyes.

Fingon – Were Maitimo and I every that obvious?

Argon & Fingolfin – Laughing outrageously.

Fingolfin – Son, you were worse.

Argon – Nods sagely. Auntie Findis took bets before Artanis took over for her.

Fingon – Shocked. Everyone knew?

Argon – Uncle bet it'd be when we got back from Arda.

Fingon – Wait… Which uncle? Surely Ingoldo, yes?

Argon & Fingolfin – Exchange a look and quickly start walking away.

Fingon – Calls after them. Which uncle?

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Celebrían – Sigh. He isn't doing so well.

Gil-galad – No, not after…

Both – Silent for a moment.

Celebrían – Who has only met one of her fathers-in-law in person. I know. We'll take him to see the other peredhil we know.

Gil-galad – Who has also never met any of the Fëanorions in person. Splendid. What a great idea.

Narrator Voice – Spoiler. It was not a great idea.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Attendant #1 – So he died?

Retainer #2 – But he's better now?

Servant #3 – And Lord Eönwë came to check on him?

All of Them – Jumping to all sorts of conclusions.

Retainer #2 – Oh, no. We look at him when we speak to him.

Servant #3 – I once touched him while we passed in the hallway. Do you think he's still angry?

Attendant #1 – We'll just have to try harder!

Chapter 13: Chapter 13

Chapter Text

Princess Idril and her husband live on the coast, about an hour by horse from Alqualondë. It's not an estate like Fingon has, but it's still a traditional elven home large enough for multiple generations of the family. They have staff, but none who live on site according to Celebrían. As far as he knows, there's only three full-time residents with another coming and going as the heavens will, so Harry supposes there's no real need.

Idril herself greets them at the front door with her husband coming outside behind her. Both are fair-haired, and Idril is barefoot but wearing a gown as lovely as anything Findis or Irimë would have. She has some resemblance to the others in the House of Finwë but not as close as Celebrían. Her eyes are a bit more widely spaced and blue like deep waters. Hair a glowing shade of golden that outshines any possible adornments.

Tuor, of course, isn't an elf at all. He doesn't even look like one at first glance. It isn't just the stubble on his face or the round ears that Harry can glimpse through his hair. He's handsome but it's more earthly, more real. When he moves, it's like an actual person and not a mirage. His voice is like listening to a human being and not some supernatural illusion.

It's so achingly familiar that Harry's homesick. That he has to push his mental shields up to full strength and surround himself in ice to clear his thoughts.

It's his good fortune that they get to settle the horses themselves. That he has the time to take a deep breath and center himself. He knows that Gil sees, that he's watching, but Harry is focused on himself, on the frosty cloak he's swung around his proverbial shoulders.

Indilwen nuzzles his neck and sniffs his hair as his world realigns. As he exhales to the count of five and then inhales again. As Gil leans up on his other side to press a kiss to his cheek.

Afterwards, his elf takes his arm and leads him indoors.

Harry doesn't meet Elwing until he's there. She's the first peredhel that he's known of Ainur descent. There's an air about her, an undertone he heard as soon as they came into range, but it's very subtle. A song where the radio is turned down so low that nothing can truly be heard but a murmur. It's certainly different from the others he's met. It's something else completely.

She'd be lovely, Harry thinks. As beautiful as Finarfin though in an entirely separate fashion. Hair every inch as dark as Harry's own. Black like the night. Like the void. Eyes a deep, piercing gray, almost dark as her hair but shimmering with the starlight.

She'd be lovely if not for her fear. If not for the fright that twists her features until Harry can barely tell what her face should look like. He feels her terror like a heavy weight on his chest. It's an animal clawing itself into a corner, hoping, praying it wasn't seen. She's motionless, frozen, a mouse caught in a snake's hypnotic glare. She doesn't even inhale until Idril walks in front of her and breaks her line of sight.

She doesn't come to greet them, and absolutely no one comments on it. She stays perfectly in place, petrified, in the corner of the sitting room. Still as a statue. Breaths so shallow that even Harry can't see them. Only her eyes move. Following his every movement.

He stays as far away from her as possible even as Idril leads them into the room. The princess is pleasant, an ideal hostess, soon engaged in discussion with Celebrían on the latest goings-on of their family and doing her best to drag Gil down with them. Tuor allows his wife to take the lead as his attention circles around, and Harry suspects that he misses nothing. No one makes mention of Elwing. Acknowledges her at all.

Harry can't tell if it's out of some weird elven politeness. Some attempt for her to save-face. Or something else entirely. He isn't comfortable enough to ask. Not here. Not now. Perhaps later. When it is he and Gil alone. As it is now, he can only sit in his seat next to Gil. Who has very conveniently leaned forward just enough for Elwing not to see Harry fully.

After about twenty minutes, Tuor simply shakes his head. Even his eyes don't flicker to Elwing or her best impression of a statue, but Harry knows that's what the Man is really seeing. He's kind enough to not comment though. To pick another excuse.

"They'll be at this for hours." He leans forward to say this aside, voice pitched low enough that Harry barely hears it, and he's surprised Tuor can make so little noise.

The Man just motions for Harry to stand and follow him. Harry tips his head before casting a glance back at Celebrían as she happily chats with Idril. Neither really seems to be looking their direction, but Gil does offer a smile before joining back in the conversation.

Elwing is watching them like a doe does a dragon. Her pupils are wide, breaths still too shallow. He can see sweat on her face, and she's far too stationary. He knows that look. Has seen it on too many faces but never directed at him in quite this manner; he also knows it won't even start to fade until he leaves. And nothing he says or does will make it any easier but going away.

Harry just turns to exit the room and then the house itself through a side door. He trails behind Tuor as he leads them down the path to the beach. There's a small fishing boat berthed, but the dock is big enough for a much larger ship. The Man takes them to one side where there's a hut with baskets and full shelves.

"Do you fish?" Tuor motions to his nets and other supplies.

"With a spear only, I'm afraid," Harry replies, and it's a little sheepish.

The Man looks at him incredulously. "Who taught you to fish with a spear?"

Harry fights to hide his grimace. Oromë was hardly going to use a line and hook. Eönwë tried to convince him that using a sword was perfectly reasonable. Huan wanted him to just wade in and bite one in half. The less said about Tulkas, the better.

"Maniacs," he mutters.

It's the complete truth.

Tuor seems like he can't decide if that's supposed to be a joke, but he gives a small chuckle anyway. His hair is a sandy blond in the sun, shining as he shakes his head. He's a good teacher, Harry discovers. Patient as he shows Harry the nets and traps. Even more so when he demonstrates how to thread the line, select his hook and bait. How to cast properly and reel in.
His laugh is rippling, full and deep with happiness when his newest student lands his first fish. He does seem impressed when Harry cleans and packs it away all by hand, just as Oromë always insists. He's never allowed to use magic for that sort of thing.

It's pleasant out here in the sea breeze and sun. Tuor is a good companion, good company, more than happy enough to speak in his mother tongue for hours. It's one of the benefits Harry's had from his relocation; although, he can't say why Eru saw fit to gift him with all the languages of this world, even those of Men that are no longer regularly spoken. Harry doubts anyone does at all in Aman aside from Tuor, his wife and son. Save perhaps a few elves who still remember from the First Age and those who are friends of this House and wish to humor Tuor.

It's an interesting change though. An enjoyable way to pass the day. Away from the house and the things that lead them here. Not to mention, Eldar and even Ainur can be exhausting; it's nice to talk with someone who doesn't have twenty other meanings behind what they say. Usually the one person around Harry like that is Indilwen, and isn't that sad when the only person he can rely on for a straight motive is his horse?

Better yet, he gets to spend time by the ocean. To see the shore and hear the waves in person and not just through Káno. He had so much time with Teddy and Victoire by the water. Watched so much of their lives with that as the background. Teddy wanted him to retire there, to live next to them so badly that Harry had even bought the land. But he'd grown busy with Hogwarts, with the students. Time slipped away from them. Ticked by until there was none left.

"I didn't think you'd like it here so much," Tuor even comments as they start back up the path to the house. As the sun sets.

"My--"

Harry falters. He shifts their catch of the day in his arms and reconsiders his words.

"We used to stay by the shore," he says instead. "That was a long time ago."

Tuor accepts that without any question or comment, which is nothing short of a minor miracle. Harry doesn't quite know what to do with himself when he can talk and not have to worry about alternative interpretations. Or auras pressing him for more information. Songs swirling around with questions unvoiced.

Dinner is a quiet affair. Harry's as far from Elwing as possible and still in the same room. Even arranged so she doesn't have to look across the table to see him. Harry suspects it's Idril's doing, but it's hard to say. She does give them two rooms for the night, Celebrían in one with Harry and Gil in the other. It's a familiar set-up, and Harry would think nothing of it but for Tuor's knowing grin behind his stubble.

Harry wakes right before dawn, head on his elf's shoulder. His bedmate is still in elfish sleep, eyes open and distant, arm beneath Harry's neck and across his back, but Harry's abruptly wide awake. It's not a natural stirring. He's out one moment and is completely alert the next.

He feels something approaching in the distance.

It's familiar. Like a melody he once knew and hums the chorus without thought. A person he's met and names without reintroduction. It's light. Intense and shining. Different than Finarfin. He's the brilliance of the sun without its heat. This is a radiance. A rainbow with every color of the spectrum and some he never knew existed.

It's coming closer. Ever approaching. Heading for the shore.

For the dock, Harry realizes as the seconds turn into minutes and the dawn continues to approach.

There's a sinking feeling then, a gut plunge and punch altogether. It's less like he's gone down a step that's higher up than he thought. More like a Wronski Feint. A plummet off a cliff. From the sky with nothing to stop his rapid descent or the ground speeding up to greet him.

He knows what this is. He knows what approaches.

Even drawing up his shielding to its highest doesn't fully blot it out. Doesn't stop the pull of his gaze. He should need to close his eyes, to shield his vision, but this light doesn't hurt him at all.

Gil-galad rouses beside him and blinks back to himself. Harry isn't sure if it's from his unease or something else, but he feels the arm at his back tight around him and draw him closer.

"Mírimo?"

"Eärendil's here," Harry murmurs, and he isn't entirely sure how he keeps his voice even. He's already lifting his head, unerringly turning to the ship he knows is now docked. He can almost see the Vingilot in his mind's eye, white with sails folded, like a swan coming in to roost.

Gil, bless him, understands immediately.

"We can leave," he says back softly. He sits up just as Harry does, dark hair frizzing with sudden static. "They'll understand. Celebrían will make them understand." There's an urgency to him now. A tension to his spine.

Harry momentarily puts his face in his hand, pinches the bridge of his nose, but grits his teeth. Forces himself to relax. Forces his racing heart to slow. Forces himself to straighten and steels his spine.

"I can't run away from all my problems," he replies and means it.

Since really, he hasn't been that much of a Gryffindor lately. Maybe Fingon was right about that part. Where's his lion spirit? His red and gold pride? Harry feels like he buried that along with everyone else. Sometimes, he looks in the mirror and doesn't even know who's looking back at him.

He's been many things in his life, but a coward has never been one of them.

A hand rubs across his cheek, and Gil-galad gives him a long, searching look. Then, he rises up for a kiss that steals his breath, makes him shudder. Would be very distracting indeed if incessant light didn't keep increasing.

They dress quietly but can hear the household stirring around them. Celebrían meets them in the hallway, likely awoken by the commotion of Eärendil's arrival, but she's fresh as if the early hour isn't a bother at all. As if she hasn't a care in the world, but the look she gives them, the pinching around her eyes before she can smooth it away, that betrays her. She squeezes Harry's free hand in both of hers and rubs the top of her head against his shoulder.

Eärendil is just rising from the breakfast table when they enter the room with Celebrían out in front. He greets her first as his daughter-by-marriage followed by Gil-galad, who he's met many times before. He turns to Harry last, and there's an assessing pause. Evaluating. Considering.

It's different than the glances he still gets in Tirion or how the attendants at Fingon's now look at him. It's not even the fear-filled eyes of Elwing or like the House of Finwë when they saw someone else first. It's closer to how Finarfin first gazed at him. As though looking at his soul to get the measure of him.

The Silmaril on his brow shines like the star it is in truth now. Like a small sun taken from the heavens, but Harry doesn't focus on it as Eärendil studies him. He would prefer not to even see blasted the thing, but there's nowhere in the room he can look and not see the light it casts. Instead, he looks at Eärendil himself. Fair-haired as both of his parents but his is golden like his mother. His eyes though are different; they first appear green but then shift to blue the longer Harry watches.

Eärendil smiles at him then, face morphing into cheerfulness like Harry's passed some sort of test.

"Well met, cousin," he greets and extends a bow.

It's either best or worst decision of his entire life.

The Silmaril isn't alive; Eönwë assured him of this. Nienna confirmed it. Fingolfin and Finarfin and Fingon all called them jewels. Things. Objects. Fanciful if powerful trinkets.

But Harry knows better. He knows that magic has a mind of its own. Knows his wands are alive just as his cloak and his ring are. As his paintings are.

Just as the Silmaril is. And it takes the opportunity when it's given.

It slips free from Eärendil's brow. It escapes. Jumps ship. Sails through the air.

Harry's hand snatches it on the way down thoughtlessly. He's still a seeker, after all. Even without having played for a lifetime, he'll always be the same boy who caught the golden snitch. This really isn't so different.

Only, it is.

Eä pauses. Arda holds her breath for a single instant. Then, the light pulses as Harry's fingers make contact. Something shudders. Something breaks.

Only, it's freeing. Glorious. Like a shackle he didn't even know he was wearing. Like a bird bursting free from his cage and soaring into the endless sky. He hears voices calling for him. Eight of them. All individuals but also together. Only one he truly recognizes but the others are so familiar. Like he dreamed them more than once. Like he's always known them.

He hears the words resound back to him. Phrases of an oath he's never even truly spoken.

Harry comes back to himself, and he's on his knees. Everyone else is laying on the floor in various states of disarray, but they're slowly picking themselves up. Gradually rising to a sitting or even standing position in Eärendil and Gil-galad's cases.

The Silmaril sits innocently in Harry's hand. Beautiful. Shining even brighter than it did before. Pulsing almost happily.

He tosses it thoughtlessly at Eärendil before his mind can even catch up with him, but the half-elf doesn't catch it. Doesn't even try. It hits his chest before falling and landing on the rug with a soft thump. The Silmaril lays there between them, still burning just as brightly, now casting a kaleidoscope of colors on the walls and floor as if trying to chide him for throwing it away.

They all stare at it.

Gil materializes next to him. The elf grabs Harry's hand as if looking for some visible sign of injury, but he already knows there isn't anything.

Instead, Harry feels his life flashing before his eyes because surely he's going to be murdered by someone. Fingon for sure once he figures this out. Maybe Fingolfin or Finarfin for the audacity. Eönwë when he realizes what Harry's done. That's assuming the Valar don't get to him first. Námo likes him well enough, he supposes. Nienna and Vairë will put in a good word. Oromë will either laugh or go shoot something. Manwë… it's hard to tell what he'll do, but he seems reasonable. The others… who knows?

In the grand scheme of things, his crimes seem rather small though. It's not like he stole the Silmaril. He's never said the Oath, not really. At best, he mouthed the words, but magic relies on intent. The only vow he's ever taken was the one as a healer.

Surely, he wasn't under the Oath of Fëanor the entire time, was he? He'd never had the urge to steal a star and certainly didn't want to throttle Eärendil upon meeting him just now.

He lets out a shuddering breath as he feels fingers tighten around his. As the silence stretches out past shock to downright awkwardness.

"So that happened," Harry finally says because it's either that or laugh. Or possibly cry. He isn't sure yet which is worse.

Gil-galad makes a noise beside him, but there aren't words to it.

"Did… did the Oath just break?" Celebrían questions from behind them. She's still stunned but regrouping.

"Something, certainly did," Idril comments also rallying. She's upright now but holds onto the table for balance. Her fingernails dig into the wood hard enough to leave little half-moon grooves.

Tuor is mute as he stands just beside her, as if he doesn't quite know what to think. Elwing is deathly pale, hands clasped in front of her like a prayer; she's far from anyone else in the room. Eärendil… Eärendil is grinning. Laughing to himself like some great burden has lifted from his soul.

"It's no longer mine," the peredhel states. His voice is clear with relief, rejoicing. "I can feel that it won't have me anymore. It'll leave again."

There's a great deal to unpack in that statement, a whole room's worth. No one even attempts to try. Everyone's attention momentarily goes to Eärendil before their eyes stray back to the Silmaril.

"What shall we do then?" Tuor asks and rubs a hand over his face, which has even more growth than yesterday. "We can hardly leave it here on the floor."

That seems to stump everybody as no volunteers are forthcoming. Eärendil has already abdicated. Harry fears that they'll look to him next.

"I think this is a task fit for a king," Celebrían offers in that moment. Her eyes flicker to Gil-galad and stay there so that everyone knows exactly who she means.

Next to Harry, he lets out a long breath and taps his nose with his forefinger.

"I suppose no one else is volunteering."

They're silent to that. Gil looks at Harry, but it's only to squeeze his hand.

"For you, I will," he murmurs very tenderly. His mouth brushes Harry's ear.

Next, Gil-galad moves forward, bending down like he expects the Silmaril to start hissing at him. When it doesn't, he reaches out and picks it up in the same manner one does a bubotuber. It sparkles in his hand, just as luminous as before but otherwise inert. He straightens but holds it as far from this body as possible.

Tuor questions then, "Should we put it in something?"

They all turn as one to gawk at him. Even Elwing.

"'Tis very noticeable," he defends, but the suggestion is sensible enough.

Idril sighs and disappears deeper into the house, but she's only gone for a minute or two before she returns with a blue scarf, material silken with a pattern of starlings. It's thick enough that the light is concealed when wrapped by Gil. It's too large for his pocket, however, but Tuor has a fishing bag that's just the right size.

Task accomplished; they look at each other again. Not entirely sure what to do now.

"Should we give it to Lady Nerdanel? Or someone else?" Harry asks no one in particular.

"We could bring it to grandfather," Celebrían suggests slowly, tapping her fingers together. "Unless you want to take it back to one of the Valar."

"You do know them the best of all of us," Gil acknowledges as he situates the bag across his shoulder.

The others watch their discussion like a quaffle passed back and forth, but they don't add anything. Eärendil honestly doesn't seem to care. Elwing doesn't seem to be listening.

"That would mean a trip to Formenos," Harry tells them with a shake of his head. "Usually they come to me."

And really, Harry isn't entirely sure he wants to try apparating with a Silmaril. Or trying to explain that in the first place to both Gil or Celebrían while Idril's entire family is right there. He supposes that he could send Nienna a message, but he'd have to go somewhere discreet to do that, and he doesn't see that happening any time soon.

"Grandfather's still with cousin," Celebrían says, "he was planning to be there for quite a while."

Which means back to Fingon's they go. Harry's literally just left there; he's only managed a night here. A single solitary night. Harry guesses this means that he's not getting to the sailing portion of this trip.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn't glare at the Silmaril as it sets out of sight because it won't do him any good. Harry simply exchanges a glance with Gil as they start planning their immediate return to Tirion.

How splendid.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Káno is taller than Harry expected. Of course, Harry isn't really sure what he expected.

The Ñoldor as a whole are tall, but few seem to be as much as Harry himself in his – admittedly narrow – experience with them. He hasn't truly met any of the other groups, aside from his limited ventures for books, so he doesn't really have much frame of reference aside from what he was told by the Ainur.

But Káno's tall, slender even for an elf. Like he's missed a few too many meals, and really, Harry should remind him to take better care of himself. Should remind him that yes, elves are unaging, but he's pretty sure they can in fact die of hunger if they try hard enough. And that one cannot live on music alone despite what Káno might claim.

The air is serene as Harry leaves the ritual's room, harp in hand. Nienna has already said her goodbyes with a kiss to Harry's cheek, and he knows she'll head to Mandos. She's taken to apparition like a phoenix to fire or a broom to flight, and she uses it to her advantage to move between various places at her leisure.

The sacramental magic is sleepy now. Quiet as it settles into the bones of Formenos. Old ghosts are silent, almost contemplative. Almost considering as the energy of this place lightens more and more. As corruption is washed away and fresh air breathes through.

All physical remnants of his ceremony are gone save for the participants. The salt and quartz dust have permanently burned a pattern into the floor, and Harry knows that it'll always be there now. That with every rite it sinks a little deeper down, and that it's already beyond the foundation and into the bedrock now. He wonders just how far it will reach. How deep it will go with the last few.

It's after midnight now, but Harry's wide awake. Energetic with the light of the full moon and the blessings of the universe; he roams the halls aimlessly without true direction; his mind is a chorus of thoughts and ideas.

The harp is mute in his hands, and he knows that Káno's more overwhelmed by the magic than Harry himself and Nienna. That he'll be pacing the beach with excess energy or possibly even swimming until he settles enough to play. That nothing irritates Káno more than being too hyper to properly focus and he'd rather not even hold his harp at all than have it come out wrong.

It's endearing in a way. More than a bit entertaining to know he's that frazzled. He's found too much amusem*nt and exasperation with Harry at times, so the wand is in the other hand now. Harry enjoys these insights into him. The things Káno shares outright and what he gives quietly.

And now, Harry's seeing more. Seeing him finally.

It's only glimpses. A few seconds, only heartbeats of time, as the ritual reaches a crescendo around them. But it's enough for a momentary glance. For just a tiny view. For a look at the person who's likely his closest friend now and knows him the best aside from Indilwen.

And isn't that a sad state of affairs indeed? Sad that his companions in this place are an elf he's never met face to face, a sapient horse, and harmony given physical forms?

But he still hasn't truly seen Káno, only someone who's like a ghost but not. A mirage. A heat image. Smoke in the mirror. Wispy and wavering. The harp in his grasp, a single ring on his right index finger. His cloak swaying in the ocean breeze.

His features are always indistinct. Obscured by mist.

Harry can't even tell the color of his eyes. But he knows that his hair is dark. Black, Harry would guess, under the swirl of lights. Braided simply but of unclear length.

His right hand is injured. Burned, Harry would guess from the way his fingers are drawn. He hides it well, but Harry is at his core, a healer. A helper. He sees when people are in need and figures it out from there.

He's thin. One of the leanest elves Harry has spied through his short trips to the cities and that disastrous first visit to Tirion.

His clothing seems plain, rough. Enough of him materialized this time for Harry to actually see patches at the elbow and shoulder.

He wonders what he'll see next. What else will be revealed. He still has three more chances. Three more tries. They're a little over the half-way mark. Four out of seven.

His wanderings finally take him outside. To the warm, fresh air and the moon hanging amongst the stars. It's beautiful here, Harry thinks. Petals from the fruit trees in the wind. The endless sky above. The distant circle of winter beyond spring. Formenos behind him like a slumbering sentinel.

He could stay here forever and be satisfied. Be safe. Maybe even happy one day.

Harry allows himself to consider that. To turn over possibilities in his head.

Káno still isn't playing when Harry decides to pack that thought away in the trunk of his mind and put it in the cupboard under the stairs. It's unclear when he'll return; it could still be hours. Although… there's no reason that Harry can't play on his own for a while.

He doesn't even make it through the third tune before he feels Káno arrive. Drawn like a salamander to a flame. Just as Harry knew he would be.

It starts as a duet. As Káno joining in as accompaniment. As a playful back and forth before Harry shifts them into more of a challenge. It's at the edge of his skill level. Approaching and then surpassing it. Káno doesn't notice initially that Harry's ceased. That he's just listening as Káno carries on without him. Harry knows he isn't fooled by the end.

"No reason to stop," Káno admonishes after the final note, and it's ever-so-gently. A small splash of water at his legs.

"This is your show, not mine," Harry tells him. It's friendly, light. "I'm not a musician. Just a painter with a hobby."

There's a noise like a chiding dolphin. "You're hardly just anything."

His tone is affectionate. An ocean breeze that tugs but doesn't pull or push.

"Nothing wrong with a simple life," Harry challenges.

That earns him a chuckle. A strum of the harp.

"Nothing about you is simple either, hinya."

Harry snickers with that one, but he can't disagree. Nothing in his life has ever been classified as simple or easy. He need only look around him to know the truth of that.

He hears Káno laugh, likely at his own comment, and he accompanies it with a jaunty ditty. A great fondness for this elf rises in Harry even as he listens. A pleasing mix of silver sleighbells and ocean chimes.

He thinks about Káno. About his thin shoulders. His patched tunic. A care package wouldn't be that difficult. Really, it wouldn't. He's made reusable portkeys before. It's been a while, certainly, but the process wouldn't be any different here than on Earth. Harry has the power to do it, even all the way to Arda, could scry for Káno's location. Or better yet just tie to his aura directly.

Or maybe something akin to the vanishing cabinet? That would be harder initially but easier in the long-term. A bag to carry that he could blood-link to Káno alone.

As for the contents, he already cooks for himself here, meals for one unless an Ainu is present. And while it's always fascinating to watch their faces when they try some Earth dishes, the ones most dissimilar from elven cuisine, it wouldn't be hard to include Káno. Or even to include some of the excess number of clothes that Vairë and her handmaidens still foist upon him.

Káno knows about his magic already, too. Nienna told him from the beginning; Harry wouldn't have to explain much about the process.

It truly would work out rather well, Harry decides. Káno has taught him so much, has been such a good companion. A friend. The best. His best.

Harry can and will do this for him.

"Have you had dinner yet?" he asks Káno then, and he's not aiming for Slytherin subtle. He's heading right for Hufflepuff purpose.

That earns him several seconds of silence as the elf shifts like a guilty gull. One caught taking fish from the sailor's haul.

"You can't just wander the shore all night," Harry rebukes like the professor he once was.

Káno chuckles, and it's birds tittering. Chirping on the dunes.

"You sound like my mother." He snorts then, and the sound is gloriously real. "Correction, you sound like my brother. I have you know that it's near dawn now. Dinner hour's well past."

"Breakfast then," Harry corrects.

He can't see Káno roll his eyes, but there's a very distinct impression of it.

"What's brought this on?" his friend questions, but he's still cheerful. Still relaxed and lulling like the sound of waves. "You haven't fussed like this in quite some time."

Harry considers his answer. Debates it. Weighs the truth versus deflection. He's never liked lies. Knows that they always come back times three. But reality is a matter of perspective. If there's one thing he's learned in art, it's that standing a little to the left makes the picture appear very differently indeed.

Still… no house can stand on a shaky foundation. Can weather repeated storms if there are cracks.

"I can see you, you know," Harry tells him because he's a Gryffindor at the end of the day.

Káno goes completely still. Not just his music but everything. The tides and sea and sky that make up his essence are motionless. Like he's been struck by a curse. Like he's forgotten how to exist for a moment.

"What? "

It isn't said so much as thought across an echoing chasm. Across an empty shore as the water recedes in preparation for the tsunami.

Harry gazes at the ocean of Káno's being; he's both humbled and alarmed at being able to wreck someone so completely with a single phrase. It's such a terrible and great power. One he's known existed but never quite understood so entirely until now.

It's terrifying. It's all the things Tom Riddle strove to possess, to control that Harry's rejected utterly.

He knows that his eyes are wide and alarmed as he very quickly adds, "Not all of you."

Káno is silent. Deathly so. Like Harry's stabbed him through the back, through the heart, and he's bleeding out onto the sands. There's no struggle. Just horrified immobility.

"When we do the rituals," Harry continues with the insight that he's set something in motion that won't be stopped, "I can see you taking shape."

The harp shudders like Káno just took a deep inhalation. Like he suddenly remembered the need for air.

"Not your face," Harry adds, and it's said with the hope of revival. Of reconciliation. Of salvaging this growing nightmare. "I can't see that. I only see… well, you. That you're thin and don't take very good care of yourself. I didn't mean to spy on you."

"Hinya… I…"

Káno hesitates like he can't get out the words. Like he doesn't know what to say.

The fact that he's stlll here. That he hasn't put down the harp and walked off is at least a good sign. Better than Harry could and should hope for. After all, he knows what it is to need to hide. To want to pretend away the ugly parts and pray that no one ever sees. He's sorry for taking away that safety. For stealing that security.

And he shouldn't ask; it isn't his right. It's not his place. Harry hasn't earned it. Has taken more than Káno was willing to give.

But he can't quite stop himself.

"Does it hurt? When you play?"

He doesn't have to explain. Káno knows what Harry means; he always does.

Káno sighs though. A gust that blows away sea foam and stirs up sand. He sounds tired. Defeated. Like a whale stuck on the beach and unable to fight for freedom any longer.

"Not now," he murmurs after a moment. "It did for a long time but not anymore. Not with…"

Harry closes his eyes. "With the magic?"

"Yes," the older elf admits, and it's reluctantly. "Less each time. It's healing the further we go."

"Even the scar?"

For a second, he doesn't think Káno will answer, but he's too forgiving for his own good. To willing to give what Harry's seeking to take.

"All of it," Káno confirms.

"I'm glad," Harry tells him. "I don't want you to be hurt."

The silence stretching between them is less painful, but he can feel Káno shifting on the sand. Feel him pulling his knees to his chest and setting his harp next to him as surely as if Harry were actually there with him. Dawn is so close, but Káno faces the wrong direction; he's looking west over the water. The sky is still a tapestry of lights. A sea of stars. A window into the cosmos.

"Herurrívë," Káno whispers then.

The world takes a long breath and exhales. Formenos stirs, settles more comfortably on her foundations. The air shifts with a sigh of chill and ice, but it's not foreboding. It's welcoming. Like stepping out into a wonderland.

Harry merely blinks. Once and again. He puzzles at the word – a title maybe? He tilts his head this way and that because it sounds almost like a name. But that can't be right. He doesn't know who that is.

"Herurrívë," Káno repeats, and his voice curls around the syllables.

Harry can hear the faint frost in them like a winter's gentle kiss. Like the first snowfall and children laughing as they run outside the next morning. The rise and fall of their calls to each other. The lilt of Káno's tone. The slowly growing smile in his voice even without seeing it.

A name. It's definitely a name.

"It's a gift. For you," Káno says, and he's warming to tropical waters. Calm and turquoise clear. "We give names to those who are important to us."

It's… When they talked about a new name, Nienna suggested Marcaunon. He took it as a second one because that's what elves did and Harry didn't want to stand out more than necessary.

Hérion was chosen for many reasons. Not the least of which was its simplicity and similarity to his prior name. Close enough that he'd answer to it naturally. The Ainur all had relatively simple names as well. At least the ones they preferred.

This is… This is… It's…

Káno considered this. He can tell. Has put effort and time into it.

"Take it," Káno tells him when Harry doesn't answer, when he can't, "It's yours. I want you to have it."

Harry can't do anything but accept.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)

Silmaril – Yeet!

Idril – OMG!

Celebrían – OMG!

Elwing – … …

Harry – FML!

Gil-galad – Riding or dying his way through this dumpster fire.

Tuor – So that happened.

Eärendil – Eärendil is a free elf!

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Varda – Thinking loving thoughts about creation.

Varda – Vibing with the universe.

Varda – Contemplating the heavens and all her beautiful stars.

Varda – Spitting her morning tea all over herself as a shockwave goes over Aman.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Angrod – What the holy hell was that?

Argon – Picks himself off the floor.

Finrod – Is the Dagor Dagorath starting?

Findis – No, nephew. This was something else entirely.

Fingon – I think… I think the Oath just broke.

Fingolfin – But how? How is that even possible?

Finarfin – Rubs his temples. We know of only one Fëanorion currently free.

All – Look at each other in dismay and horror.

Fingolfin – He wouldn't! Not the Oath!

Fingon – Puts his head in his hands, while regretting every decision he's ever made.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Maglor – Sitting on a beach. Considering. Contemplating. Thinking. Mediating. Pondering. Debating.

Maglor – Sighs.

Maglor – This naming thing is a lot harder than I thought it'd be. How did my mother do this seven times?

Chapter 14: Chapter 14

Chapter Text

"You!"

Harry sees his life flash before his eyes. He's just to the part where he arrived in Mandos when a vengeful Ñoldo bears down on him in the downstairs hallway of Fingon's estate, three steps outside of the main entranceway as they come in from the stables. He's managed to deposit Indilwen there successfully without anyone the wiser, but Harry knows his luck wouldn't hold. It never does.

Now, he sees every bad decision that has led him here. He wonders if Nienna will have mercy on him. The other Valar really don't seem up to it right now.

Come on, Manwë! For once? A little lightning? Some thunder? Hail and a tornado to suck him away? He heard of a story like that from Hermione. Sometimes, he really feels like he's in Oz, and he wondered how Kansas is doing.

Harry can only brace himself as Argon all but tackles him to the wall. It's directly behind him, which is the sole reason that the elf hasn't brought both of them to the floor. A hand behind his head keeps him from smacking into the marble and plaster, but he still feels all the air rush from his lungs as he's half-squeezed, half-clutched to a very muscular chest like a mother does her newborn.

Gil-galad, that traitor, is too busy cackling beside him. Celebrían has disappeared for parts unknown. Either leaving him to his fate. Or, more likely, she's gone to find her grandfather like the sensible person that she is.

Argon is still gripping him like a werewolf mauls a deer, or like Grawp once hugged that spider, when Findis arrives. Harry feels her before he sees her. Can hear her sedate steps down the elaborate staircase and then against the tiles with the sharp click of her heels. She stops exactly five feet away.

"Stop suffocating him," Findis orders very calmly. Too calmly.

Argon finally pulls back, both hands now around Harry's shoulders. He's still against the wall, but he can actually breathe again. It's a welcome change.

Harry doesn't even mind the stare down he's getting.

"What were you even thinking?" Argon demands then, and his tone is unexpectedly stern, like Mr. Weasley lecturing his sons. "Were you thinking? Did cousin drop you on your head as a child?"

"I was never dropped on my head by anybody," Harry retorts as he tries – and fails – to extricate himself without using too much force, but he's held far too tightly now with fingers twisted in his tunic and robe both. It's a no go without a true struggle. Or magic.

Argon gives him a look of utter disbelief. One that Findis mirrors, though hers comes off even more sardonic. She has a fan in her hand, which she snaps against her palm as Celebrían reappears.

"And you two," Findis adds and points with her fan from Gil-galad to her niece, "helping him like this!"

Harry somehow manages a step forward, Argon dragging along. And what an interesting spectacle that must make?

Her attention rivets back to him.

"They had nothing to do with this. It was all me," Harry states immediately. "Don't take it out on them."

He hears Argon sigh right above his ear. Then, he's pulled into another hug. It isn't aggressive this time. It's quieter, gentler as arms settle around his back, and he finds his temple being pressed against a shoulder. A chin settles on top of his head.

Harry tenses immediately, but Argon is warm. Like Fingon. Like Fingolfin. Like a living fur cloak wrapping around him. However, he's Gryffindor red while they're burnished gold. Still valiant, still noble but less like a king or hero from a storybook. More like a friend at his side, a comforting grasp. He reminds Harry of the twins, honestly. Of George before Fred died. Of playfulness and easy acceptance and jokes even at the darkest hour. They supported him through Quidditch practices and ostracism during his schooling and rescued him from the Dursleys, too.

Harry finds himself relaxing despite himself. He leans in and exhales slowly as Argon rubs across his neck. Lets himself sink into this warmth, to the sentiment offered, and closes his eyes. It's so comfortable. Even… safe.

"We're not mad," the elf says then. It's soft like the swish of a tail. "Just worried."

Harry doesn't respond. Just nods against him. Just sinks in further and lets out a sigh. He isn't quite sure how long they stand like that, but Argon doesn't push him away. Allows him as long as he wants before Harry finally steps back.

He waits even more patiently for Harry's to steady himself before pulling him along upstairs. He doesn't fully let go as he escorts all of them down the corridors to everyone else. They're in Fingon's office, all the members of the House of Finwë who're in residence. Finarfin and Fingolfin stand in front of the desk while Findis marches over to the back cabinet and turns the key; she starts pulling out glasses and a wine bottle. Finrod and Angrod are at the table by the balcony as if trying to stay out of the way. Celebrían moves over to linger near them, but Finrod stands and guides her into his chair.

Fingon is in the center of the room as he waits for them. His arms are crossed, head bowed, but he glances up as soon as they enter. He strides over before they can fully finish walking inside, bumping his brother out of position and coming to stand just in front of Harry. Words seem to be failing him, however. Harry can see a thousand of them fly across his face before he's jerked forward. He thinks he's going to be struck for a fleeting second. That he's finally going to get the anger he deserves.

Instead, he's pulled down and a forehead bumps against his; Harry startles at the tenderness of it. At the affection that tugs at his shields and asks him to come outside. Summer warmth against winter snow thawing into spring soft rain. Snowdrops blossoming in the suddenly revealed green grass.

"Herurrívë," Fingon finally murmurs but says nothing else as his hand finds the back of Harry's neck.

Harry feels his throat tighten at the press of emotions. At the fear and relief and sorrow and fondness… So many that he stops being able to name them all as they drizzle through in steady drops. As they build into a surge and he's left trying to tread water against the flood. His eyes burn from the force of everything. He blinks rapidly and takes a shuddering breath. He trembles, can't stop shaking.

Fingolfin is suddenly there. He's contained heat behind a stone hearth. Not burning but definitely felt as he pulls Harry away from his son. As Fingon takes a reluctant step back. There's a pause as no one touches Harry at all, Fingolfin's hand hovering over his sleeve just out of reach but far enough away.

Winter chill rushes in. Clears the air with a blast of cold freshness. It isn't harsh, but it's centering. He's himself again. Just him in his thoughts. The snowdrops are still there, but the spring is again winter. Not terrible. More like a fresh snowfall. Gentle drifting flakes that bring children out to play. Sleighbells echoing in the background.

After a moment, Harry finally exhales. He's still alone in his mind. The emotions there are solely his own now, and he can think again.

Only then, does Fingolfin steer him forward into the room, touching only his clothes and not his skin as they go further away from the door. And a quick escape, he's certain. But Fingolfin merely squeezes his shoulder before releasing him and returning to his brother's side.

"Where is it?" Finarfin asks after he looks Harry over from head to toe with his green glass eyes; he sounds and looks tired. Like he's been up for days. Hair duller than usual and fine lines on his brow.

Harry knows exactly the distance from Idril's house to here; he's ridden it twice in as many weeks. He suspects that Finarfin has likely slept little during the time it took them to cross it.

"Here."

Behind him, Gil offers up his bag.

Everyone hesitates. They pause as they glance from Harry to Gil-galad when he walks forward unwrapping the scarf. The Silmaril's light is slow to emerge at first, but then, it bursts free like an unhooded hawk. Gil places it on the desk, between the brothers, and the entire room just stares.

Save for Harry. He has his eyes closed, but everything is shaded in red like the sun is beaming down on his face.

Save for Gil-galad. Who's returned to stand at his shoulder with a hand wrapping around his elbow.

It's possible some of them have never even seen a Silmaril before. Celebrían had only because she has visited Eärendil on multiple occasions. He isn't sure about everyone else. If any of them have seen Fëanor's creations in person or only heard about them secondhand. Certainly, Finarfin and Fingolfin have. Fingon likely has as well. Finrod probably when he was with Beren and Luthien.

The others, Harry isn't even sure.

The silence stretches out like a yawning bear awakening from hibernation. Flexing claws and opening her mouth to show all of her sharp teeth.

"You said the Oath," Fingon states at last. He's now slightly off to the side but still close enough that Harry could extend out his hand to touch if he tried hard enough.

His words aren't truly an accusation. More an assertion of fact. Like he's commenting on the color of someone's cloak or the hilt of their sword.

"I…"

How does he even start to explain this? Harry has no idea as he finally glances at them.

Showing them that the Silmaril is aware won't even be the weirdest thing they've ever seen him do. He's starting to get the feeling it won't be the last. Some part of him regrets that. Regrets that they ever saw this side of him. That the illusion of normalcy is broken. That they'll now always know what a freak he is.

It was nice while it lasted, he thinks. Being considered as one of them. An elf. Fitting in. Pretending, even if only for a time, to be anything but what he is.

A liar. A fraud. A mistake.

"You must have," Argon insists breaking his musings with a motion that asks him to come clean.

Harry doesn't shift on his feet. He was a healer who became a professor and then a headmaster. He's the one who made naughty children confess things. Not the other way around. Although he'll admit that the look the sons of Finwë are giving him right now along with Findis' raised eyebrow, Argon's crossed arms, and Fingon's head tilt… it's all very effective. He doesn't even dare turn his gaze to the rest of the room to see what Angrod, Celebrían, and Finrod are doing. He can even feel Gil's unvoiced question in the press of his hand.

"Technically…" Harry begins.

Fingolfin puts a hand on his forehead, covering his eyes, as he laughs. It's a hysterical, ironic sound. It is not the noise a sane man makes.

Finarfin has his head tipped back, gazing at the ceiling as if it has all the answers. Harry hears him murmuring a prayer to Manwë for strength, and that's just rude. Manwë never answers those and much prefers to come in person or send Eönwë, and he was just here.

"Nephew," they both say at the same time and look at each other.

Fingon makes a noise that Harry's becoming well acquainted with. Like a mix of exasperation and disbelief.

Argon just sighs.

"If there was any doubt," Findis mutters to herself, "there certainly isn't any now." She takes a long sip of her wine.

He hears Finrod chuckling uncontrollably in the background. Angrod is speaking to him, but his voice is drowned out by the sound. Gil simply steps up fully beside him and threads their fingers together.

The Silmaril just shines innocently at them all. Radiates pure brilliance like a miniature star as it hovers just above the surface of the table.

"What's done is done," Celebrían says at last. She's soft, silvery in the light, but there's a core of pure adamant in her bearing. "We all have to decide now what to do with it."

As one, they all stare at Harry.

"But… what am I even supposed to with this?" Harry asks everyone but no one in particular.

Since really? He doesn't own the Silmaril; he has no real stake in this game. Yes, he lives in Fëanor's former home, and his family has basically demanded that they get to adopt him. And there's Káno to-

"Well, it is yours," Finrod interrupts as he waves a gallant hand.

His brother nods in agreement. "If you want to know the exact statue of possession and inheritance, I'm sure atar and I could find it for you."

That isn't reassuring at all. Besides, Harry begs to differ. Completely. Utterly. Entirely.

"I don't want it," he states then. It's quite firm.

They all give him a very unimpressed look. It's almost identical on Findis and Fingolfin along with his oldest son. Finarfin's is more pained, as if he's far too sober to deal with this. Argon seems to be enjoying himself along with Finrod, and Angrod is hiding a smirk with a turn of his head. Celebrían merely rolls her eyes. Gil is at least kind enough to keep holding his hand.

Harry doesn't pinch his nose. Nor does he bang his head against the closest wall. They'd stop him before he could even get there.

He honestly, really, and truly does not want the Silmaril. It's the least subtle thing he's ever seen. And coming from a person with an enchanted ceiling in his great hall along with a meadow for a floor, that's really saying something.

"Don't put it in your desk drawer," his elf whispers to him, but it's loud enough for everyone else to hear.

Argon snickers because this truly is ridiculous.

"He would," he agrees, however.

Harry doesn't know if he should feel attacked or complimented. He feels rather put out when not even Gil comes to defend him, but he's slightly mollified when his hand is squeezed.

"I don't think anyone else will truly seek it now," Finarfin allows after a moment, fingers massaging his forehead. "The Valar cleansed it for Eärendil, and Morgoth's curse is long shed."

Findis snorts with her wine glass pressed against her cheek. "I should think you'd be able to defend it well enough regardless," she states and casts a glance at Harry. There's a gleam in her gaze as if knowing or guessing at some truth.

The air in the room is a slight bit chillier at her words. No one comments on that.

"If you truly wish to be rid of it, nephew," Fingolfin cuts in then. "I'm sure you and Nerdanel can reach some sort of arrangement." His mouth is behind his hand, but Harry can still see his smile.

Harry takes a moment to consider that as a possibility. It's even one he'd pondered before. Out of everyone on Valinor, she likely has the strongest claim. He'll have to send her a message when they get back to Formenos. Which means he'll probably have to plan a trip to bring it to her. She resides with her father, Harry believes, but he isn't entirely certain where that is. Perhaps near Aulë? Harry's never actually been to his mansions before.

It's yet more added to Harry's never-ending to-do list. Yet another thing for him to worry over and stress about. Elves don't get headaches; Harry almost thinks it'd be easier on his stress level if they did. If he had something that he could treat. That he could fix.

His free hand goes to his temples, but a palm falls on his shoulder even as Harry tries to figure out logistics. Harry doesn't startle, but he does shift his gaze to see Fingolfin in front of him again. He belatedly notices when Gil-galad frees his hand, but he doesn't look as Fingolfin is drawing his attention.

"All will be well," the older elf tells him. His eyes are silvery and assured, serene as the moon on a cloudless night. "You'll see."

Harry allows himself to be drawn in. Allows himself to be pulled forward. Accepts the reassurance offered and just exhales.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

The balcony has great lighting; Harry will give it that. The morning sun peeks perfectly over the horizon as Harry turns his easel to face south. It'll be hot today, sweltering as it has been since the rains stopped, but Harry isn't truly bothered by such things nowadays. Hot. Cold. Dry. Wet. It's all the same to him. Even darkness and light. He sees just as well. Can work just the same.

He's been laboring on this piece whenever he can steal the time, has already been up all night. Working on this ever since his canvas of Formenos. But it's still in progress, one of his more time intense projects in the last year despite the smaller size comparatively to others.

Gil hasn't told him exactly what he wants for his own painting yet, but Harry does think his next will be either Eönwë again or his favorite elf with his spear. Perhaps he can have a little spar. Or even model his armor for it as well. Purely for research purposes. Yes, definitely that.

It's a pleasant thought. An interesting diversion as the sun starts to truly rise, and Harry keeps going. A grassy plain has already taken full shape along with the trees on the left. The sky will be a miniature of his great hall, and that's what he completes first. The mountains in the distance need a little more shading but are just about done. His centerpiece, however. The stars of the show are his true focus.

Harry's almost giddy as he works. As the sun climbs higher above him. As Gil brings him tea that he's directly handed. Harry sips for a few seconds before putting it to the side and completely ignoring. Forgetting.

He's too focused. Too intent.

It's strange, really. Harry's never had a deadline before. He's always worked at his own pace. Taken his time to get it just right.

This is a different dragon. This is a broom-race, not a simmering potion. It's a sprint. A reckless dive after the snitch where a single mistake will ruin the entire game. Sure, he can start over. Sure, Harry can't truly be hurt even by breaking his neck. But he can fail. He can crash and burn.

Or he can soar.

Risk versus reward.

It's thrilling.

Harry's always performed best under pressure. Always turns certain defeat into victory. In the instant that would break others, he's always risen.

He laughs even as he strokes in gold. Here. And here. A swirl more of red. Vivid, eye-catching. Filling out the mane and tail.

Then, he switches to silver to touch up the underside of the wings. To make them even more dazzling.

Harry hears his elf moving in the room behind him. Drawers opening and closing. A door swinging. Footsteps back and forth. It's a cadence to his work. A background rhythm as he adds more black and then shifts over for a whirl of bronze.

Time loses meaning as he concentrates. As he feels Gil-galad come over periodically to peer past him before going back inside. Celebrían stops in when the sun is at its zenith. He hears them talking behind him. Lunch is mentioned, but nobody leaves. Gil walks over again to check Harry's progress.

He hesitates then. Blinks as a chin settles on his shoulder and an arm circles around his waist. Takes a surprised breath as he's pulled back against a chest. Harry's brush is dangling loosely in his fingers before it's taken and set to the side. His elf leads him off the balcony and back inside; there's a table in their room now. It's a small circle with two white chairs. On top are covered plates along with glasses, napkins, and silverware. Celebrían smiles winningly at them both as she stands and surveys her good work.

Harry looks at it all with bafflement. He has no idea when this even happened.

There should be an armchair here. There was an armchair here last he looked. It's missing now, disappeared for parts unknown. Harry doesn't know when that happened either.

There's a chuckle then; Harry knows that it's at him as Gil gently puts him in a chair and takes the other. Harry is still just looking at him as Celebrían bends down to press a kiss to his cheek. He tilts his head at her as she turns, flouncing off with a swish of her pink dress and waving over her shoulder.

Harry ponders the last time he's seen her even as Gil-galad takes the covers off their meals. How many days has it been? Three? Four? Was it in Fingon's office? When they brought the Silmaril?

That's at the bottom of Harry's trunk currently. It's wrapped in the scarf again, occasionally sending him a sleepy pulse of radiance to remind him that it's still here. Still content to be in his general vicinity.

Gil fills his glass, and the sound of it clinking on the table brings Harry back. He eats absentmindedly as he considers what else he needs to finish, and his plate is empty before he realizes it. His elf merely waves him away after that, and Harry wanders back to the balcony. Reaching for his brush, which has just started drying. He loses himself again in the colors and enhancement. In the pigments and mystique. There's a knock on the door, but Harry barely even hears it.

Everything is coming together. Is just about finished. Only a few touches left. A stroke there. A touch-up here. A little more to the mane. Fluff the feathers a bit. Refine the grass blades in front just so.

Then, he's done.

Harry pauses for a minute to look over everything, but it's exactly as he envisioned it before he started.

It's perfect.

He's smiling as he breathes the final magic in.

Everything wakes slowly. In the distance, he sees the moon set while the horizon starts brightening. The sky is still a deep, dark blue that's almost purple, and it'll take some time for the heavens to lighten fully. The circle of fur and feathers in the center is still fast asleep. Harry lets them for now; he wants someone else to be there to see it.

He lets out a happy sound then. Part satisfaction, part giddiness. Stretching his arms overhead and peering around. In the real world, the sun is nearly at the horizon with streaks of red trailing after.

Behind him, Gil stirs. His packing is completely forgotten, clothes and combs and all manner of things scattered on the bed behind them. He's been too busy watching Harry to finish, but now, he walks over and presses lips to Harry's skin. There's laughter in his ear as he watches the scene unfold. Standing behind Harry for a long time before offering another, lingering kiss and returning to his packing.

Harry watches as he goes before turning back to his now finished work. It's a fitting gift, he knows. They're leaving tomorrow, so it'll have to be now though. Dinner is soon, and there will be too much distraction after.

Fingon is easy enough to find. Harry just follows his aura unerringly down the hallway to where his room is. Harry's never been inside, but before he can even have indecision, his host is at the door. He raises a brow more at the canvas in Harry's hands than Harry himself; he steps back either way. He's still watching as Harry comes inside and looks around to find the appropriate spot.

For all that he's the master of this estate, his room truly isn't more elaborate or grander in size than anyone else's here. The bed is a darker wood, almost black, but the materials are the same quality. The wardrobe is almost identical as Gil's save for the color and detailing, and in place of an open space in front of the unlit hearth, there's two chairs with a small table and gameboard set between them. The vanity is slightly smaller but in the exact same spot, as are the balcony doors, and in the corner, by built-in bookshelves, is another very comfortable-looking armchair. This one in ivory instead of blue.

Harry ultimately chooses that as his new easel. Fingon gives him an assessing look first, but he eventually follows direction and takes everything in. Just as Harry knew it would be, his eye is drawn to the middle.

To the glorious griffin in bronze and red. To the noble hippogriff in silver and black with hints of gold in the outline of the body and wings. Harry doubts Fingon has ever seen either creature in real life – they don't exist here. The only one who's ever actually seen them before is Harry.

Until now.

Fingon stares as they lay together, entwined. Curled so tightly together that it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins save for the hues.

Until the griffin rouses and opens glowing gray eyes.

Fingon breath hitches and stops, but Harry knows that he still lives is the sound of his heart beating frantically and the blazing press of this aura. He's mesmerized. Gaze fixated as the griffin lifts his head and starts inspecting his surroundings. As he turns to the still dozing hippogriff and drapes over a wing.

The elf doesn't inhale until Harry very gently nudges him. He takes a trembling breath followed by another. He can't look away even as he blindly reaches for Harry. Even as he jerks him into his side, arm around his back. Even as he starts laughing with awe and longing in equal parts.

"You are a wonder, nephew," he whispers and then says nothing else for a very long time.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

He doesn't tell Andromeda. Not everything. Not many or even most things. He tries to keep things happier. Lighter for her sake.

She worries; Harry knows she does. As much as Molly ever has even if it's quieter, more disciplined as befitting a serpent. She worried when he traveled the world even as he came back every weekend to see Teddy. Worried more since he's been back as her apprentice despite their time officially ending and him now at Saint Mungo's for the last eighteen months.

She won't ever stop worrying, he thinks. Not after Ted. Not after Tonks. It's the nature of parents.

Still, he doesn't want to make her fears worse. She knows about some of the incidents but not all. Just the ones officially reported to the Aurors. The ones that Ron and Gawain Robards are trying so hard to track down.

There've been others. Separate events that Harry's sure are absolutely unrelated. He hardly thinks that the former Death Eaters the Ministry hunts would work alongside hags, a very peculiar vampire, two rambunctious tieflings, and a gang of goblins.

Ragnok apologized for that last one personally. Bestowed a wergild of thousand galleons, a sharp bow when Harry didn't make a fuss, and the heads of his four attackers nicely wrapped in a gilded box. It's the thought that counts, Harry supposes.

But Ragnok is old now. He knows that he'll eventually retire to a venerable position as an elder on the goblin council. His heir is a cunning-eyed gentlegoblin, Steelclaw, with the manners of a courtly noble and the throwing skills of a ninja. He's the one to finish off the last would-be assassin after Harry has wounded them but kept them all alive with no real idea of what to do next.

Harry'll never look at quills the same way after that.

Still, it's all become more of a mess than even Harry expected. He knew defeating Tom would have repercussions; he's not that much of an idiot. The power vacuum alone was appalling until Kingsley wrestled the government into submission with the help of the Order, Percy Weasley, and Lucius Malfoy of all people. But the sheer number of petty grievances, grift, and incompetence is staggering. And that's just the Ministry.

Harry was sheltered from it as a baby. Not as a newly-turned adult. Not as their savior who hadn't done things on their timeline and to their specifications.

Of course, most people are delighted. Thrilled even to be going back towards their normal, benign lives. Content to stick their heads in the sand and not notice all the changes being made in the background as long as it isn't too much of a bother for them.

But the old saying that one can't please everybody is now Harry's new catch phrase. Leaving to travel the world wasn't just to escape his fame and marriage contracts.

Not all that many Death Eaters died with their lord. Some were captured, yes. But a number of his supporters were never even marked. Few were courteous enough for actual death threats. Most just sent the curses flying – case in point Amycus Carrow.

There are even Muggleborns and half-bloods who're angry that he didn't defeat Voldemort sooner. That he didn't martyr himself for them earlier. Several non-humans take umbrage with him, too. But not many of them would actually try to hurt Harry with anything more than their words, the incident in Gringotts notwithstanding.

Harry knows he'll weather this storm like everything else, but it's a bitter potion really. Hurts as much as the dagger to the back did before he pulled it free and healed himself. Helping people is its own reward, but he never expected punishment for it.

No good deed indeed. Hmph.

One good thing, he can say though is that his mail is better screened nowadays. It should be; he pays people for it. A service definitely worth not being hexed or cursed or potioned into a relationship, and that was a very near miss on Dean's part right after the war. All of them were more than a bit paranoid about unknown senders now; Romilda vane isn't forgotten so easily either.

Not to mention there are only so many places to reach Harry in person.

Saint Mungo's is public, but it's a high priority target with Aurors and Hit Wizards permanently stationed. Plus, there are other measures after the war and just for unruly patients, anxious family members, or unstable magic.

Harry's home is unplottable, address unpublished, and warded with the sort of spells not available to the public. It also has Fidelius with Harry as his own secret keeper. Andy's residence is similar along with all Order members nowadays.

He's allowed to portkey directly to Ragnok's office or even to his vaults so that minimizes his exposure in Gringotts.

He visits most of his friends at their homes or has them come to him. He rarely goes out unless truly necessary, and Kreacher does a lot of the normal shopping.

He avoids Diagon like the plague. Hogsmeade now too after the last Killing Curse. If he has to go in person to stores, it's done by apparating to Place Cachée or heading into the Muggle London, usually the latter. He can blend in easily, and who would ever look for him there?

Or so Harry thinks.

He feels the tingle of the first spell before he sees it. He's just walking by a side street on his way to his preferred apparition point, but he's already ducking out of the way on instinct as the electric blue light is about half-way to him. His shield is cast wordlessly, before his wand even truly drops into his hand, and deflects the following curse right back. A third goes wide and above. Harry is thirty feet to the left an instant later. Crouching between two parked cars. Scanning around with eyes, ears, and magic.

It's late, sun already set, but not quite time for the shops to be closed. There are still people milling around, but not as many as there would've been earlier in the day. Some have turned to where the spells landed. Others to where they came from. A few have dropped to the ground automatically. Several haven't even noticed anything's a miss at all until another four spells fly through the area where he just was. Harry recognizes three of them but not the last. He forces all of them into the ground through a combination of indignation and sheer will.

Magic does what it wants, but it'll listen if you can plead, seduce, or outright subjugate it enough. Or if you are a favored child like Tom or Dumbledore.

He could run right now; this is his chance. Harry's probably the target, but there's always the chance that he's not. That this truly is a coincidence

He can't leave people to be injured or worse to save himself.

There's a moment of silence, like the other magicals are surprised at what happened. But Harry's not waiting on their behalf. He's already started locating them. One, two… More.

He apparates again to the rooftop that's occupied by a pair. To behind where their position should be. A healing charm that guarantees a full twenty-four hours of sleep and has no known counter takes them both out. He glues them down just in case and summons both their wands along with any back-up weapons or even portkeys, but they don't have any.

Harry finds three more together at the opening of an alleyway across the avenue. Rinse and repeat but the last one has started to turn just as she goes down. He knows he's nearly out of time.

He can feel the remaining trio starting to move, but one of them is slowed – was hit by the rebound of their earlier curse and is injured. Them separate, however, as they finally realize the danger they're in. He doesn't want them to get any bright ideas.

The summoning charm doesn't work on sapient beings but will on their clothes; a number of people are able to fight it off though. Much lesser known though is that it's possible to apparate someone else without actually touching them. To put your magic in a field around and pull.

Line of sight makes it easier. Power and practice do, too. Harry can see all three easily once he's back up high enough. And he's certainly got the power. Earth is large, and some countries are very vast or far apart from one another. Harry had a lot of practice on his world tour.

He saves the injured assailant for last, but he's down and out just like the others soon enough. Harry rolls him over, getting ready to stick him to the rooftop as well, but he freezes as he gets a better look at the face.

It's Kevin Entwhistle; Harry recognizes him. Not from school so much now, though he knows they had some classes together. He was a Ravenclaw, Harry thinks. A Muggleborn. Had graduated Hogwarts late due to the Death Eaters.

He was in the paper maybe a year or so back. A birth announcement for his son.

Harry feels his heart speed up with dawning realization. More so as he slowly rechecks his other attackers; he hadn't really bothered earlier in the heat of the moment. Nevertheless, he knows six of the eight, and the other two are enough like the rest to be family members.

It's… Never in his wildest dreams…

Harry crouches down on the roof, holly wand in his hand, even as he sends the message to Ron and the other Aurors.

He doesn't know what to feel. What to think.

It's one thing for it to be Death Eaters. He can even understand goblins being angry that he's gotten off so lightly for stealing their dragon and destroying part of the bank. The vampire was really a misunderstanding; that was all sorted out easily enough. The tiefling pair was just very determined and unable to take no for an answer. The hags… Harry didn't even want to think too hard on any of that mess; Ron still says it's taken care of now.

But this? This isn't just drunken words or an offer that's a tad too pushy or even a request for a lock of his hair, creepy as that was.

Harry exhales heavily as he feels the first brush of magic. Then, he hears the pops of others arriving.

Kevin isn't dead, but he'll be in for a very bad time of things when he wakes up. All of them will. This is a Muggle area; this is a regular street in London. The Obliviators will be going spare making sure this is contained, especially with the way more cameras are added every day. Not to mention the Aurors and Kingsley. Ron and Hermione. Andromeda. All the Weasleys. The DA. The Order.

The papers. Harry knows this will be tomorrow's headline. Would be this evening's but that's already run.

He hasn't even told Andromeda about everything else, but he knows this is too big to keep from her. Too big to contain.

Harry shakes his head. His hands tighten then. Right curling around his wand. Left clenching against his ring.

He's still shaking his head when Ron steps up to his side and puts an arm around his shoulders.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)

Argon – You said the Oath.

Harry – I didn't.

Angrod – You totally said the Oath.

Harry – I really didn't.

Fingon – Be honest here.

Harry – I totally didn't maybe kinda say the Oath. Except that one time.

Everyone – Why are you like this?!

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Harry – If Eärendil wore the Silmaril, maybe I can just…

Insert vision montage of stapling Silmaril to the sky vs making his patronus carry it around every night vs putting it on an enchanted paper airplane vs a thousand other ideas.

Harry – Opens desk drawer. I'll just put it in here for now.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Maia #1 – Walks to the cell. Come with me, prisoner.

Fëanor – Behind the bars, lying on a cot wild west style. What's going on, deputy?

Maia #2 – The warden wants to talk to you. Keep your hands where we can see 'em.

Fëanor – Walks out with boots clicking on the floor and spurs jingling. Pauses. Not without my hat.

Maia #1 – Rolls eyes.

Maia #2 – Summons it directly on his head.

Fëanor – Inspects hat for a moment. It's supposed to be black.

Maia #2 – You've been upgraded for good behavior.