The Halls of Mandos laid silent as the grave as Námo watched the still form of one Harry James Potter, who stood before the Veil in the Department of Mysteries. The other Valar, Námo knew, were watching as well, waiting for the boy to take his step into infinity. But the child stood motionless for a very long time, raw emotions flashing across his face as he peered intently at the Veil. Námo clenched a fist as Harry's eyes—a beautiful green, like the finest of his wife's woven silks—glistened wetly with unshed tears.

No child, thought he, no innocent should ever need to endure such pain. And he, of all the Valar, knew innocence and pain best, for it was he who judged the souls of all the dead—innocent and guilty, young and old alike. Though his countenance was stern—for he was an impartial judge, to the best of his ability—his heart wept for the boy. His attention never wavered from the mortal as he waited.

Harry moved suddenly, breaking into a sprint toward the Veil. Námo's breath caught at the wild pain in the child's eyes, the reckless madness that burned like fire within his soul. Oh, child…

And Harry passed through the Veil.

It was Námo who reached out with his power, receiving the boy's feä, his soul, into the folds of his own. His connection to the other world was sundered, gently, by Illúvatar; Harry was with them, and so it was no longer needed. And the soul he took into his own was not the same as the soul that had passed through the veil, but instead one changed at the hands of the Creator God, molded anew in the space between eternity and void. As he took the little feä—damaged, badly so, but brightly shining—his Father whispered a name in his ear. Námo smiled, for it was fitting: Calasain, the boy who shone anew.

Calasain curled into the protective eddies of Námo's power, sinking his own shining core deep into the spiritual warmth. His life flashed before the Judge's sight; the Vala was struck by the power of it as he felt, vividly, each moment.

And in his arms he held a newborn baby boy, born into the potential of a destiny so dark that it shook the very foundations of the world.

And in his arms he held the two-year-old who had survived the Killing Curse, who had been torn from the warmth and love of his family and thrust into a world altogether hostile to him.

And in his arms he held the three-year-old, innocent and trusting, who begged for the smallest scrap of love, and yet went unanswered.

And in his arms he held the eleven-year-old, never a child, who was left in ignorance until pushed into a society that idolized him like a god, and yet rejected him in the same instant—who placed upon him expectations that would break a fully-grown man, never mind a mere child.

And in his arms he held that same eleven-year-old, who had killed a man and yet still received no aid, no support from those who had a duty to protect him.

And in his arms he held a twelve-year-old, abused by his family, ostracized by his peers for a gift he had no hand in choosing, and forced—due to the negligence of those same adults who should have shielded him—to face two monsters alone; he held a child who very nearly died for his mighty deeds, and yet was left alone and unsupported once again.

And in his arms he held a hurting thirteen-year-old, who discovered a remnant of his parents, a remnant of family in the form of his Godfather, and lost it again to distance and the negligence of those in authority.

And in his arms he held a suffering fourteen-year-old, ostracized again, even by his closest friend, forced to risk his life in a competition that could have—and had—killed those years older than him, who watched a classmate executed before his eyes and faced down the Dark Lord alone—only to be called a liar and returned to his abusive caretakers, alone and without any kind of help.

And in his arms he held a bitter fifteen-year-old, tortured physically and mentally by so-called 'teachers'—only one of whom was his enemy—, forced to fight for his life, who watched the last remnant of his family fall through the veil but was left alone, bitterly alone, once more.

And in his arms he held a suffering soul, bitter, jaded, and scarred, only sixteen years old, who watched the man who was like a grandfather to him killed before his very eyes in a bitter betrayal, all whilst he could do nothing; he felt as the soul shattered irreparably.

And in his arms he held the seventeen-year-old burdened by destiny, the seventeen-year-old who had never been a child, never truly been cared for, never truly had family; he held the child who walked willingly to his own death and yet came back, sacrificing his ability to die—however unknowingly—in an act of devastating selflessness.

And in his arms he held an innocent who suffered unspeakably, so much so that even the power of the Valar could not have healed the damage to his soul.

He wept openly for the boy, holding him all the tighter.

But Námo was also struck by a sudden sense of doom—ironic and unexpected to the Doomsman of the Valar. For despite his highly pessimistic opinion of the former Master of Death's stubborn tendencies, he discovered that he had somehow managed to underestimate the child's sheer bullheadedness. Badly underestimated. His grief was diverted to exasperation.

"Oh Calasain," he said—he did not groan; the Doomsman never did silly things like groan—wrapping the sleeping feä more securely in his power. "My child, you will suffer greatly if you do not learn to yield." The little soul merely slept on contentedly in his arms.

Námo stepped forward to where the other Valar waited, passing into Estë's domain with a mere scrap of thought and power. Wordlessly, he handed the feä to Estë. Her husband Irmo, his brother, was nowhere to be seen, fully ensconced within the realm of dreams where he was busy greeting Calasain. Estë took the baby with a tender smile, and in a shower of golden sparks Calasain took on the hröa, the body, that she had so carefully designed for him. And when the sparks cleared, a tiny baby boy slept in her arm, dressed in the same clothing he had been wearing upon his 'death.' He murmured and shifted deeper into her hold, hiding his face in her chest.

Estë smiled, and as one the Valar moved to Middle-Earth. They watched as the Healer stepped alone onto the shore, shielded by Ulmo's sea. She knelt gracefully, placed a tender kiss on the baby's brow, and laid him in a cradle of sand. With a wisp of her thought, his pack and wand appeared next to him. She stood and left Middle-Earth's shore without hesitation, leaving the small, lonely figure asleep in the sand, soon to wake beneath Lady Varda's stars—just as the first of the Eldar had woken, so long ago.

Námo lingered the longest, watching the gentle rise and fall of Calasain's chest; and he wondered, just briefly, if Calasain would have been happy as one of his Maiar—if Calasain would have been happy as one of his children. Regretfully, he left the baby and faded back to Valinor, the taste impossible longing thick and bitter on his tongue.

And Calasain slept on beneath the wheeling stars.