Disclaimer: I do not own anything that was created by J. R. R. Tolkien (LotR & Silm) or J. K. Rowling (HP)

Never thought more people than I thought would like to see more of this small idea of mine... ^^; Late update - for I was lazy and sometimes lacking motivation to write.

Better news: I have graduated from High School! *dance* More free time to think... And draw. And read, I think.

Chapter 1

Canafinwë Makalaurë Fëanorion was once his name, before he took the Oath that was in vain; before he left his wife, his mother, his homeland, his Valinor behind. Now he preferred to be called Maglor – the kinslayer. Golden Cleaver – Makalaurë! – he was often called, the greatest singer among the Noldor, which was one of the reasons why he was mostly called as the Mighty Singer.

He was the second out of seven sons, and the only one to survive. He watched as his brothers fall one by one, which had his resolve to disappear until he had been willingly to break his oath. But he did not. Held their limp bodies in his hands that were coated in blood, the scent of death had hanged around him like his robes that he wore every day. Deaths of people he had slain. Countless. Tears that had fallen were unnumbered. Blank eyes would look ahead to him whenever he walked. Blood flowed like river, coloring the ground red, red, RED.

On his guilt, he has traveled the coasts, only to sing his regrets to the sea until his beautiful voice hoarse. Lived amongst the children of the sun, yet did not become one of them, as he was one of the Eldar. The immortals. Those who claimed themselves as the children of the stars, for their love to the objects in the night sky that Lady Varda Elentári had created long before they had awakened.

He would reach out to other travelers, to share their stories, to heal injuries, and give them shelter (if one of his many and scattered houses that were all near the coast was nearby). His honor was no more, and it was his guilt that had made him to safe as many people's life as he can. And he was able to disappear from the group of travelers he was in, mostly, so that people won't know of his actual name. Thus he was very advanced in healing, and stealth, now that the Age had went forward to thousands years.

He became an urban legend of the travelers of many coasts known as Noir, as his complexion and accent in many languages seemed to made people believe he was French, and the name Noir – Black, was thanks to his dark hair and weather-stained dark and tattered cloak that hangs protectively around him, giving him a fairly dark-looking demeanor – even if his skin was paler than normal people, after being under the Sun's rays for about twelve hours a day for many thousands of years.

Travelers of many places recognize him by his messy and long hair, his harp and his scarred right hand – the scar he had received from the Silmaril he had thrown to the sea. His title was known by many, but his name was known by few, save for several First Born who stayed in Arda that was now called Earth.

During his travels, he had met two of which called him their grandfather (in a sense) – Elrohir and Elladan – and they both had taught him art of healing – other than his healing of course. They had taught him of cleansing wounds from dark influences, much like Maura Labingi of the periando being saved by his foster son Elrond; Maura had been stabbed by a Ring Wraith, the dark creature of Sauron.

That healing they have taught had helped him with the scar the child he had found several days ago. He had been quite thankful to have several crebain under his command; he had sent two of them to Imladris to find the twins and help him about three days after he found the boy – and today was approximately the fifth day since he found the boy. He had hoped that they didn't thought crebain evil like during the Third Age where Sauron controlled all of those black-colored animals. The only good thing after the Dark Maia had fallen was that the crebain and those black horses had gained greater intelligence than the other animals of same species to understand speeches.

The child he had found was now sleeping deeply on his bed, while he waited for the child; sitting on a wooden chair beside him and holding the child's arm. After that blood transfusion the day he had found the child, he had seen a small and subtle change on the boy's features. Perhaps more changes would appear after that, but they would deal with it when the time comes. The boy's ears become more and more pointed like his. The small wounds, at the very least, were healing in a faster rate than mere mortals, and they were almost inexistent since a few days ago.

But what was bothering him was the scar that looked like mortal's rune.

How could a scar be dark in nature? How was he wounded by darkness? Was it similar to the stab of the Ring Wraith to the periando?

He was broken out from his reverie when he heard the boy sigh. The boy didn't show any signs of awakening then.

Maglor sang again, softly to the child, as if singing him a lullaby. He wished the child to awaken soon.

It was dark.

When he looked in many directions, all of the things he had seen were the same; pitch black. He had tried to walk, but his limbs weren't cooperating – he was just standing almost stiffly and his body felt strange. Was he dead? Or was this only a dream? He had vividly remembered that the last thing he remembered was – what is it – oh yes, with the Dursley on their vacation near a cliff.

It was when he was trying to recall the actual last thing he saw that he had heard a voice. No, not a voice – it would be an insult to the source of the sound. Someone singing maybe? That would make sense. But he didn't know what the person was singing about, since he didn't really catch what the person sang about.

And suddenly, his eyes felt lighter, and he opened his eyes…

…where the light assaulted his now-sensitive eyes, making him to stiffen and the person stop singing.

So he had been sleeping all this time?

Oh no, uncle Vernon will be mad at him for not waking up as early as usual and being lazy at not doing the chores – whatever it will be in the house!

But as he tried to get up from the bed, he swore someone had held him down to the bed somewhat gently, murmuring in some strange words to him softly, making him want to sleep again. He caught sight of the person who held him down. It was almost as if a star was twinkling at him in the form of a dark-haired man…
"Stay in bed, Little One," The man said, his eyes were gentle – much gentler than the nurse at school. His voice was so smooth, so he must be the one who sang to him… He wanted to hear the pretty voice singing again… "While your wounds have all healed, and I'm sad to say that they will leave more scars to your body; I fear your muscles were still quite weak for you to walk unaided." Wounds? Scars? Harry was confused.

The man took notice of it though, somehow. He had given him a small and sad smile. "Do you remember falling from some cliff, Little One?" He murmured, his left hand was touching his forehead lightly – was he having a fever? "Your wounds were so severe that I fear you will pass." Pass? What did he mean about that?

Wait, cliff?

He clutched his head as the most recent memory hit him.

Sharp rocks. Height; falling. Water. Someone laughing.

Oh. Oh. He really did fall from a cliff. It wasn't a dream. He was sure he had been lucky to be alive, but he was also sure that the Dursley would probably try and do that again. Where were Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon anyways? Were they going to be here and take him back to Little Whinging? Or will the man bring him to them?

What will happen to him?

"You will have to stay, Little One." The strange man murmured again, almost as if he knew what Harry was thinking about. "I am afraid that your current guardians did not give you what children needs, seeing that I had seen several scars in your body when I found you."

Harry blinked owlishly as he tried to digest the information the strange man gave him. "You mean I don't have to live with uncle Vernon and aunt Petunia anymore?" He asked slowly, grimacing as his voice felt and heard so hoarse. The strange man helped him to sit up on the bed and gave him water then. His body felt as if Dudley was sitting on all of them.

"That is correct." The man answered. "However, as I believe you have many more questions to me and I you, I must ask you to sleep." Before Harry had any chance to respond or contemplate about it, the man murmured some more strange words he had used earlier that had led Harry to the world of sleep once more.

"You're saying that you found a child with a dark presence in his wound, pops?" One of the twins asked, as the three of them were sitting in the living room.

"Elrohir, Eru knows how many times I ask you to not to call me that – and yes, the child has that. Would you go and check on him, for that matter?" The oldest among them sighed. "No child should be subjected with wounds and scars so grievous as that." He muttered. The twins could hear him loud and clear, though. And that was what catching their attention.

"Scars?"

"Wounds?"

They both asked at the same time, outraged. Of course; any elves alive would never, ever abuse a child, even if the said child was a mortal. Children were too precious, as elves rarely have many children thanks to their lifespan, save for the House of Finwë.

"Indeed." Maglor responded. "I have tried to heal all of his wounds, and I still fear for his life. There are several moments when the child stopped to breathe, yet it seemed to me that there is fire in his soul; he had awakened just moments ago before I sent him to sleep so that he will regain his energy and heal quickly."

"You should have told us, Maglor." Elladan said, upset. "In that letter."

"And what could you do, Elladan?" Maglor retorted. "I did say in the letter that this matter is urgent, and I am sure that you couldn't come any faster than you just did, with all of your medical equipment, even!"

"But you can at least tell us!"

"And what," Maglor asked exasperatedly, "can you do? You can't go back to the past and fix everything or having revenge towards the child's wrongdoers. We are neither Eru nor the Valar. The child I found was a product of how cruel Arda was turning into under the reign of mortals. The least we can do is to heal him and take care of him. Doing a revenge on his stead will only decrease his mental capabilities that he will need to face the past in years coming. That, I am sure. His case is different from your mother, Elladan. He still has a chance to live in this shore."

Elladan didn't respond.

"Can we see him?" Elrohir asked quietly, after a small moment of choking silence.

Maglor took a deep breath. "You may." He said steadily. "This is the reason as of why I ask of you to come in the first place, as I said earlier. I need to know what I have to do to rid of the dark presence in his scar on his forehead; I fear I do not have the experience of doing such. I know that your father had once, at least, saved a person with similar kind of darkness in a periando called Maura on his shoulder. Perhaps you have the talent of your father in healing such?"

The twins of Rivendell remembered the time Sauron's power was growing, those times when the mortal they knew as a brother and four Halflings were within Rivendell in those dark hours, as if it was just yesterday.

The twins followed the last surviving Fëanorian to the child's room and set to work on the child's scar on his forehead.

Harry was in the darkness again. Though this time, he was sure that he felt many things glowing far above him. He didn't see anything glowing, when he looked up to inquire what was glowing, however. The dark was almost comforting, he didn't think he had ever felt this good before.

"Wake up, child."

A voice!

Hmm, he was sure he had heard of this voice before... But when?

Harry thought long and hard (or so he thought), and remembered the kind man with the beautiful voice. Now he wanted to listen to the voice again...

"Wake up, child." The voice again! Harry was happy that the man didn't leave him like uncle Vernon and aunt Petunia always did. "The room is dark right now, so you can safely open your eyes without fearing light." The voice felt kinder than the nurse in his school. "I know you're awake, child." Harry can practically hear the kind smile in the voice. The man, the last time Harry looked at him, looked very kind enough.

So Harry complied.

And it was an awarding sight for Harry. There was two people behind the kind man from earlier who was sitting right beside his bed, by the way, and they both had the same face! Twins? He didn't think it mattered, they both were as kind-looking as the man with beautiful voice. They didn't seem like they would punish him as uncle Vernon always do because he was too sick to do anything. Maybe they won't do that if he did his chores later on after he was well enough?

"Sir?" Harry croaked, grimacing again at his voice. It felt almost as hoarse as when he woke up earlier!

Harry sat up slowly, finding that his body felt light and stiff.

"Do you feel better, child?" The man asked gently.

Harry nodded shyly, with him didn't trust his voice after hearing it being so hoarse. Harry observed the man who was the nearest to him. Long, messy hair and gentle dark eyes were the first things he noticed from the strangely kind man. Perhaps he was a doctor of somesort? The doctor and the nurse - well, people who healed his hurts.

"Nice to know." The man said cheerfully. "May I inquire of your name, child?" He asked, a lopsided smile was on his face, making Harry to instantly like the easy-going man who talked strangely. "My name is Maglor."

"My name's Harry, sir." Harry responded the best he could.

One of the twins came to Harry with a glass of water as the man he now know as Maglor talked, prompting him to drink. Which he did, and then looked at the fore mentioned twin curiously.

"And my name's Elrohir, young Harry." He said, almost carefully, Harry realized. "The other who bears the same face as I is my brother, Elladan." He gestured to the man who was still standing behind Maglor, then smiled at him. "Nice to meet you, young one."

Harry gave him an uncertain smile.

It took several weeks for Harry to be fully healed from the dark presence in his forehead ("Eru, it's a piece of some demented soul!" Elladan was horrified), and twice the amount of time to convince him not to do chores that his relatives had set for him for as long as he could remember. Almost every night into his full recovery, he always had a nightmare that Maglor had to sing his lullabies to calm the sleeping child. Maglor was so close into releasing the twin's wrath to the tyrants who made the child to be a slave, if it was not thanks to the child's innocence who didn't want anyone to hurt others.

When Thranduil came to visit - that Sindarin elven king hadn't any intention of going after his son towards Valinor, but instead, built his own empire in the mortal's enterprises as the Greenwood Company as one of the richest companies in the world - he immediately fell in love with Harry's emerald eyes (reminds him of his home before the darkness claimed it, he said) and fussed with the confused child, giving the boy another name (saying that the boy must have another name if he had to live with Elves): Martur. Thus, the child had insisted everyone to call him Martur instead of his old name Harry after saying that with a new life, he should have a new name since he didn't want to remember his old life with the Dursleys because of his name. Not that anyone would blame him.

Harry, or now preferring to be called Martur, was very surprised when he was told that everyone around him inside Maglor's abode were immortal, and Martur was possibly going to be one of them as well. Martur then absorbed the twin's lessons on history and ancient languages like a sponge, to their delight. How could the Dursley willingly throw away a mind with a diamond quality? -they all often ask themselves.

The twins weren't much better; they called him Makalaurion that Maglor had to resist the temptation of banging his head into the nearest wall upon finding out. They reasoned that he certainly acted like a father with Martur, with innocent faces. Young Martur became some kind of a brother to them. Thranduil was more like an uncle rather than a father to Martur, despite the fact that he gave Martur the name.

It hadn't helped that Maglor himself had a certain fondness towards the no-longer-human child as a son, similar to the twin's father and uncle many years ago.

The fact that the child now bore his blood in his veins didn't help either. Not that the boy could help it, really.

It wasn't that Maglor didn't want to have young Martur to change his name or anything, he encouraged it. But why the twins gave his newest young charge his name was what giving him heart attacks. He would like to raise the child, yes. But he still felt unworthy of raising a child again. His hands were much more bloody than the last time he raise a certain twins, and he didn't have a stable home.

Thranduil didn't bother to listen to Maglor's reasonings and immediately graced him a new house in a small village near his Greenwood Villa somewhere within Great Britain alongside papers for adopting Martur.

... How did they made that decision without asking Maglor first? Or the child's?

Better yet, he also had to wonder how was it, that the flamboyant (in his opinion), unique, Sindarin friend managed to create an empire of his own inside the mortal's community, seeing that it was mortals who had destroyed his beloved greenwood (though unintentionally), that had him within the circle of nobles in many mortal generations and enabled him to do almost practically anything (except for illegal business, of course).

"Atto?"

Maglor stopped his musing and look at the child who called him that in surprise. Surprise, not because of the young -elfling? -boy? - child sneaked up on him (since the child's footsteps were easily heard by him, who had many millenia living as an elf, who had much superior hearing than children of men; and while the child was very quiet for one that was once belonged to the race of men, Martur still had a lot to learn about stealth), but because of what the child had called him. Atto. Father. Maglor stared at Martur wide-eyed in surprise. He hadn't expected that, though the twins and Thranduil had told him about that for many times already.

"What is wrong, little one?" Maglor asked, easily manipulating his tone of voice into that of a caring person while gathering the small child into his arms seemingly without any difficulty. Such was the talent of one who always (or used to, at least) perform in front of many people.

He masked his frown with a concerned expression to Martur. The child was still too light for his age; 6 years as a mere mortal with the stature of 4 years old? Unthinkable! Perhaps he should ask Thranduil for a potion for growth? Not that he'd force that to the child; for an elven child to have a body of 6 years old, their age should be around 11 years old... And Martur was a mortal given elven blood in his veins; Elrond and Elros weren't this small when they were 6! (Maglor conveniently forgotten that they were 6 when he and his certain older brother captured them.)

Martur was wearing an unreadable expression. "Will you teach me to play?"

Maglor felt himself smiling. He taught the child right then and there, using his harp. The other residents of his house later found them sleeping peacefully under the willow tree, with a big harp beside them.

Maglor was not amused when he woke up later on, even if he did saw his son sleeping under a blanket he most certainly didn't remember putting on, as he found out what certain people had done to his face. He scowled. Make ups! Do they have imagination at all?

Maura Labingi = Frodo Baggins

Varda Elentári = Elbereth

Periando = Halfling; hobbit