Ballad of Dusk and Dawn
Disclaimer: Definitely don't own any of this.
Warnings: AU, Crossover, Slash, Character Death, 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.
"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, stray Ainur as they drifted in, select individuals in Formenos. 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 final 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 recent 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 circumstances.
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.
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.
AN: In true elvish tradition, Harry is racking up the names. I did some crazy research for this to hopefully make sense. Geez.
Also, elven marriage. The wedding itself is intercourse (and/or what the couple sees as marriageable acts for the purpose of this AU), but that leaves quite a bit of wiggle room that comes just this side of the line. Poor Fingon's wondering just what the hell he walked in on or what it was getting ready to turn into. He and Maedhros never married but were very… friendly.
I have a whole head!canon (that's not Tolkien accurate) where elves have engagements that can last anywhere from hours to centuries or even longer depending on the couple – Finrod and Amarië currently hold the record. Because having a soul-bond and instant love with someone is great, but you still have to learn to like them and even live with them. And considering this is for eternity and how some of these marriages have turned out, maybe living together ahead of time and being very sure about it is a good idea, yes?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine).
Indilwen – lily.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) + Hrívë (Winter). Derived from Metterrívë (January, aka end-winter) and Herunúmen (Lord-of-West which is a title of Manwë)
Ever Hopeful,
Azar