Ballad of Dusk and Dawn
Disclaimer: Definitely don't own any of this.
Warnings: AU, Crossover, Slash, Character Deaths (Off Screen), Attempted Suicide
AN: Based on a prompt by NaTeO11 on AO3. This also has some very strong influences from The Wizarding Prince of Twilight by Marsflame18 and Scion of Somebody, Probably by Drag0nSt0rm.
Mind the warnings for the chapter please.
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 Endor 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-
-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, face also flushed. 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 amusement.
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, 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.
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 Endor and won't be here for probably a long time.
Celebrían – Hm… I have some ideas of who can help us.
AN: So hinya here… Harry understands the translation but doesn't get the cultural implications. Plenty of elder humans will call non-related younger ones something similar. Elves not so much.
Also, I can't believe I made one of the main characters of this story a horse.
And figuring out how tall certain elves is – geez, I didn't realize how hard that was going to be because sources contradict themselves. Sounds like Turgon was taller, but it was later changed to Argon. Now, it's just going to be a family joke.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Melpomaen – figwit.
Laerien – summer daughter.
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine)
Ever Hopeful,
Azar