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.
Ginny is a beautiful bride. Her dress is a shimmering pure white with delicate lace and a long train. Her hair is even more fiery red against the contrast of her veil, and Harry knows that Fleur made it by hand just for her. The dress itself is from the other women of the now growing Weasley clan. A down payment for the wedding… well, that's a gift given to Bill with the promise to never breathe a word of where it comes from, but Harry considers it money well spent as he imagines the Black ancestors cursing his name from beyond the grave.
As for Harry and Ginny, they've maintained a lasting friendship despite everything, and it's funny how easy it is. How easy she is to talk to about everything even now. How despite the continents dividing them, he gets more messages from her now than he did when they went to the same school. How, after the war, they sat and spoke for hours about themselves, about the future. About being different people with different lives.
Ginny's forged in steel from the fires of her sixth year. From the fight against Death Eaters masquerading as faculty in the school and building a resistance.
And Harry… He's hunted horcruxes. Faced a Dark Lord. He's died. He's taken a Killing Curse and come back. He needs time. He needs to think. To figure out who he is.
He travels. He sees the world. He comes back and apprentices with Andromeda. Lives with her and Teddy as he studies for a separate Potions mastery because he's just a masochist who loves punishment.
Ginny finishes Hogwarts. Is accepted into a Defense program in western America. She plays Quidditch and Quodpot well enough that teams try to recruit her but declines all offers. Meets a Muggle man who looks at her like she personally lit the sun.
They decide to marry three years later in the same church his parents used. Her soon-to-be-husband is older with eyes that understand death and war far too well. He accepts all of her – large family, strange friends, recurring nightmares, every bit of it. He's supposedly unaware of magic until Ginny tells him, but he has a very knowing manner as he evaluates everyone they invite, and that's a problem for MACUSA to deal with. It's no concern of Harry's at all.
Luna stands as her matron of honor along with Hermione and a woman Harry doesn't know from Ginny's school here. Harry sits in the row behind the Weasleys, next to Katie Bell and her wife, but Victoire is almost-nine and restless. Turning around constantly to chat with him and dangling off the pew. He finally lifts her up into his lap right as the music changes, and Jack comes to the front of the church to await his bride.
The ceremony is brief but all the more special for it. For all the people who made it here and all who haven't. Or couldn't.
Fred for obvious reasons but Molly has a framed photograph – carefully frozen – that's tastefully set to the side.
Several of the groom's own friends lost to other conflicts. Also in frames.
Andy and Teddy couldn't make the long trip due to a variety of reasons – many of them financial since her pride still refuses to reconsider her birthright. Harry gives the happy couple their regards and a gift on their behalf. One that he admittedly pads a bit with the Black fortune, but who has to know? Living well is the best revenge along with spending all of Walburga's money.
The reception lasts all night and well into the morning. There've been enough Weasley weddings at this point that children and spouses and friends are everywhere. It's full of life and voices and kids' happy screaming.
Harry is asked to dance far too many times, but his best girl comes to his rescue, and she's a fierce opponent. She begs him to carry her afterwards, when she's grown tired of hopping on his feet, and is now in his arms as he takes her around the floor.
"Can I be your bride-made when you marry, tonton?" Victoire requests in her most winning tone. The same one she uses when asking for another sweet or to stay up just a bit later.
Harry hears it from Teddy too often for it to succeed, however.
"Bridesmaid," he corrects gently and manages a straight face. "I have to find someone first, luv."
Victoire gives in an imperious look with all the dignity that she can muster. It's a surprising amount, and Harry knows it's all from her maternal side. Bless Bill but he's far, far too much like his father sometimes. His younger daughter's fortunately like Fleur and his son hopefully will be as well. Still too early to tell though, he's not even talking yet.
Harry twirls them around again in time to the music, and Victoire shrieks eagerly in his ear.
"Maman wants you to marry tata," she tells him afterwards.
It's said very seriously. In the life or death manner of selecting one's breakfast for the day or which pair of shoes to wear.
Harry bites his lip as his eyes stray to Gabrielle where she sits at a nearby table with the best man. He's a bespeckled bloke. A widower with a scholarly air, but he speaks animatedly with her about Egyptian hieroglyphs. Gabrielle is all smiles as she chats back just as excitedly.
Harry again glances at Victoire. He finally offers a little laugh and spins her around before putting her into a dip. She answers it back with another joyous giggle and lays her head on his shoulder.
Later, when the bride throws the bouquet, Victoire is the one to catch it.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
The rain finally stops when Aredhel and Irimë depart. They would've left the day before but didn't manage to make it up until noon – like most of the household. And are very reluctant to leave their rooms, much less travel.
Irimë doesn't appear until dinner with her hair unbraided and bloodshot eyes. Aredhel nurses tea along with Celebrían and Fingon most of the afternoon. Angrod appears for meals only but sits with his back to the windows and his head in his hands. Fingolfin and Finarfin seem to be in the best condition, but both speak in quiet voices before disappearing to parts unknown. Harry doesn't even see Findis or Argon at all.
Gil-galad is perfectly fine. He wakes refreshed with bright, alert eyes. He braids Harry's hair and presses a lingering kiss to his temple before they go down to breakfast, but they're the only ones there.
They have a rare day to themselves as everyone else seems strangely weak to lights and sounds. They could go anywhere and do anything, but really, Harry's had so little time to even draw unless it's in secret. In stolen moments in the library or up in their room when the others won't disturb him. Certainly, no one will bother them today.
Harry already has everything he needs without dipping into magic. There's a small case tucked away from an earlier trip to Tirion that he'd managed without his usual hangers-on. Most of the materials he's used so far are his own creations, so it'll be a challenge and a change to see how elven-made things do. He finds himself eager as he opens it up when they return after breakfast, and Gil-galad hovers behind him but touches nothing as he sorts through.
The older elf seems fascinated, but Harry's used to such scrutiny from the Ainur at this point. Besides, it's not like he hasn't seen Harry's doodles in his sketchbook. Even though he acts like it's some sacred text, Harry knows full well that he's peered over his shoulder before. Has heard him chuckling at the pages of animal drawings in particular.
Now, he sits in their room without even the pretext of anything else. Watching from the time Harry first mixes his paints, sets up his easel, and then selects his canvas. He's still at it hours later as Harry shades in the fortress with its foreboding stone walls.
"How do you make it seem… almost colorful?"
Harry makes a questioning sound as he moves to add a bit more to a mountain in the distance.
"You only have black, white, and gray," Gil-galad points out from behind him as he sits in the sole chair of the room. "I can see all of those. Yet, I'd swear there was more."
"It's a trick of the light," Harry tells him idly, "and the eye." He adds more shadowing to the north side.
Gil-galad just shakes his head; he simply observes as Harry continues.
He starts humming and belatedly realizes it's the same song Káno usually plays. It's odd not hearing him, odd not talking to him right now as Harry's so used to it. Has been doing it for so long now. He feels the strong urge to speak with Káno then. To pull his harp free from the secret compartment in his bag and pluck a melody.
But…
But Gil-galad doesn't know about Káno. And Harry isn't sure what he'd think. He doesn't want to spoil this moment. This time between them.
The impulse passes as Harry takes a steadying breath. More so as he bends down to start painting again.
"This is Formenos?" his audience clarifies after another five or so minutes.
Harry nods as he dabs his brush with white. "When I first found it." He adds to the drifts here, there. A little to the clouds just so. "It certainly isn't the same now."
Gil-galad makes an amused noise. "I'd heard. You're the topic of quite a manner of rumors."
"Some of them may even be true," Harry comments. He selects a lighter shade of gray next for just a little contrast.
"Most of them are about Formenos," Gil-galad tells him, but really, he's too entertained.
"You'll see yourself how different it is now."
He turns to peek behind when Gil-galad doesn't respond immediately. But he's merely sitting there. Examining Harry with a pleased expression.
"Yes," Gil-galad says at the attention, voice very soft, "I will."
Harry nods slowly before returning to his work. There's an easy atmosphere between them as he continues. The shadows of the mountains. The distant, whispering trees. The gloom across the snow. Harry carefully strokes it all in place.
He feels Gil-galad move to stand next to him as he finishes the lone wolf on the trail.
"It's so… real." The elf seems like he can't decide if he's surprised or impressed. "Like I'm looking out a window and there it is."
"Do you want it?" Harry questions almost absently as he touches up the tail and then pulls back.
He hasn't set the magic fully yet, but he's been layering it in as usual. The last will be added when he brushes in the final touch-ups. Then, Gil-galad will see what he can really do.
He earns a confused expression, however.
"The painting," Harry clarifies as if it's obvious. "Do you want the painting? To keep?"
His answer is a stunned blink. His elf gazes at him for a solid minute before glancing back at Formenos on the canvas and then to Harry again.
It's just a painting; Harry has many of them. An entire castle of them aside from the ones the Ainur gladly took at his gifting. He doesn't understand why the Eldar are so strange about this. Laerien, Melpomaen, and even Inglor reacted much the same way to the point that he stopped trying to give them anything and just started creating for the city itself.
"I was just painting to… well, paint." He glances away because he can't quite take the intensity of Gil-galad's gaze. "This is just something that I enjoy. I wanted to share that with you."
He's examining his easel when arms wrap around his waist. His own come up reflexively as a nose nudges by his cheek. Harry finally turns to look back at him.
"Woodcarving and sailing."
Harry isn't quite sure what to say to this, but Gil-galad takes mercy on him.
"I'm rather partial to both," he says with an upwards curl of his mouth. "Ada taught me, but I've been too occupied for the former, and Tirion is too landlocked for the latter." One hand slides up his side to his shoulder. "I've friends on the coast. We can go together, if you'd like."
"I love the ocean," Harry replies, but it's faint. Remembering. "My…" He pauses and reconsiders his words. "Someone very dear to me lived on the shore."
He first thinks of Teddy with Victoire and the cottage that grew to a home with the laughter of children and later grandchildren. But even this image is washed away by Káno. By harp music and lapping waves and the call of birds over the tides.
"I suppose, he still does."
Gil-galad's fingers on his skin are light. Smooth as they stroke down to his jaw. But his stare is distant, looking at something over Harry's shoulder. There's a static to his skin, crackling but painless.
"Ada taught my older brother and me to sail, but Ere politely hated it," Gil-galad says, and his eyes shut. "He hated being away from his books and ledgers. He hates anything that makes him go outside unnecessarily. He used to say he'd melt in the sun when we were children."
Harry soothes a hand up and down his back in steady strokes. "I'm sorry that you have to be away from them."
"The fact that they aren't here is a blessing, I suppose." The admission costs him though, head dipping. "Ada won't come until the last true ship sails. Erestor won't depart until Elrond does, maybe not even until afterwards. He can't leave our people. If they were here…"
He swallows, breathes out through his nose.
"Then, they came the other way," Harry supplies.
Through the Halls. Through death. And that's never a kind thing for an elf. It's pain. Or sorrow. Usually both.
"But Celebrían is here," Gil-galad murmurs, and it's sad. Guilty even. Like he admits to a crime. "She… Despite how sorry I am for that, for knowing what she lived through, it-"
He bites his lip to keep from saying more.
"It's not terrible to want your family here," Harry tells him and holds him tighter. Presses them firmly together so that there's no space between. "To miss them."
"I haven't even met my nephews or niece," Gil-galad admits, and it's halting, haunted. "I know only what Celebrían's told me. What she doesn't say." He shivers even though it isn't the least bit cold. "Elrond is peredhel. They've a choice."
His voice is muffled, face pressed into Harry's neck now, forehead against his pulse. He's dark clouds on an empty horizon. The threat not of rain or lightning but of something more dangerous indeed.
"You don't know what they'll choose yet," Harry reassures. "Surely, their family matters as much to them as it does to you."
He isn't even sure he believes his own words. There's something at the edge of it. A tinkle of bells. A silken cloak sweeping the floor. A sense of knowing. Paths laid out but yet to be chosen.
Gil-galad just nods. Just leans into his arms until Harry is supporting most of his weight. It's an easy burden. One he carries gladly.
He doesn't know how long they stand like this. But he does see that the light has moved on the floor and his paints have dried.
Finally, Gil-galad straightens, pulls away. It's gradual. Like a man stooped with burdens. Nevertheless, when he glances up, his eyes are clear. He doesn't look at Harry but focuses instead on the painting.
"It's still yours," Harry tells him because he knows what it's like to want that distance, to want a subject dropped, "but I'll make you something else."
It's both a promise and a prize. A reward for this elf who's been very kind and very gentle and asked for nothing in return.
Maybe something more cheerful though next time though.
"I'm not sure what you'd like yet," he admits. "This was mostly just because I had time today, and everyone else is too busy to…"
He waves a vague hand.
"Constantly interrupt," Gil-galad suggests. He's more centered now. Dark clouds clearing to a blue sky as he finally looks over.
Harry offers a prim sniff, and it does earn him a small smile. Just as he hoped it would.
"If we hang it in here, how long do you think it'll take someone to notice?" Gil-galad questions. His voice is easier. More like himself.
Harry considers that. He's asked the staff to leave the cleaning to them, and no one else has dared barge in lately. They knock, rather frequently, but don't come inside besides one in particular.
"Aside from Celebrían? Maybe no one," he suggests hopefully.
That actually earns him a chuckle.
The sun is peeking through clouds as Gil-galad's hand seeks his. Harry squeezes back.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
If the stargazing hill has a name, Harry isn't sure what it is. They set out two evenings later, once everyone's had enough time to recover and is able to crawl from their beds for more than an hour or four. The rain hasn't returned, but it's still quite damp. Celebrían and Findis sensibly stay home. Harry'd rather wait for a later time when everything is nice and dry, but he's outvoted. Gil-galad just beams at him, packs their blanket behind his saddle, and slides around his waist to rest a chin on his shoulder. They're still standing like that when Finrod whistles as he passes by, and Harry finally steps away.
The ride is three hours at a hard clip, but this is a leisure trip. They have lunch before leaving and do a slow tour of the countryside that Harry knows is entirely for his benefit. Finarfin and Fingolfin in particular point out various landmarks or places from their youths that were spent with Finwë and even some with their older brother. It's an interesting ride through history, and he gets to hear things that Nienna and Vairë haven't mentioned. A glimpse into events he'll never see and stories that he listens to with a quiet interest.
It's just turning into evening when they arrive, elven punctuality victorious again. The hill itself is steep, sloped on three sides with a cliff on the other. The very top has been kept free of trees purposefully, but no one else is around. Harry wonders if that was part of the reason for coming today. The horses are brought to the bottom to roam; their group is in high spirits, talkative and laughing as they dismount.
Gil-galad is very quick to get down and offer Harry a hand; Indilwen nickers at him but unhurriedly moves off to nibble on grass. They're the first to the path with the others trailing behind them in due time. It's peaceful here, but there's an unsettling feeling. Something Harry can't quite name as they start up the incline.
Gil-galad still has his hand as Harry carries their blanket in the other, but they don't speak as they walk. It's surprisingly serene, the sounds of the woods muted even so soon after sunset. Harry lingers as they come to a small break in the path and glances around; the trees are calm, swaying slightly in the breeze.
Gil-galad focuses on him curiously.
He's very fetching in the moonlight, hair dark and color nearly indistinguishable but contrasted by the sunglow gold of his tunic. He's warm as he stands next to Harry, radiant and chasing away shadows. He studies Harry with a keen intensity.
Then, Gil-galad pulls him in tighter, arm wrapping around his back and hand ghosting up to his neck. He presses a kiss to Harry's skin. Their noses brush when Harry turns his head. They pause, but Gil-galad's just a bit higher than him on the slope. At this angle, with the hill helping, they're the same height. Harry doesn't have to tilt his head down at all to look him in the eyes. Which are currently darker in the deepening twilight but with an internal light like clouds over the moon at night. Harry feels like he could just stay in this very spot, plans forgotten.
"I'm not standing here for two hundred years while they stare at each other," Angrod comments as he walks right by them. Close enough that his cape flutters at Gil-galad's leg.
"How you ever wed, I'll never know." Finrod chortles as he goes by their other side. "Your lack of aesthetics is astounding. Eldalótë deserves far better than you, brother."
Angrod huffs and keeps going. "She'd never let me hear the end of it if I wasted my time in such a manner."
"You're one to talk, Findarato. You haven't wed at all," Argon points out. He trails behind them and doesn't even glance at Harry or Gil-galad as he passes. "Amarië has waited ages to be your bride, and she'll still be waiting when the end comes."
"Arakáno, do we truly wish to go this path?" Angrod challenges, stopping to glimpse over his shoulder. He's wearing a very interesting smile that wouldn't be out of place on a goblin; it's all white teeth.
"Oh, leave him," Fingon says as he too joins in from further back. "He's young and knows little of how such things work."
"Don't worry, cousin," Finrod tells Argon very loudly and with far too much cheer. "Your time will come. I've a good feeling for the coming yéni. It might even happen before the end of the next age."
They all laugh, even Argon, before continuing up the hill. Harry and Gil-galad exchange another look; Harry has lips brush his cheek before an elbow slips into his.
"Come, Mírimo, walk with me. We'll find a spot away from these ruffians."
They stroll side by side for a few minutes. Harry's carrying their blanket against his chest now, but it's a poor shield. Does little to chase away the prickle of foreboding.
"What is it?" Gil-galad asks in his ear.
That is the question. The same one Harry's been asking himself all day really. A nagging feeling at the back of his mind. An urge. A need. The sensation that he's forgotten to do something. Maybe something miniscule. Maybe something important.
He just can't remember.
He flexes his left hand, which tingles and prickles in the unexpected chill. The birds are quietening in the trees, but it's evening now. The crickets chirp in the background in a steady chorus. Fireflies are waking up, flashing amongst the leaves and grass. The ground is still sodden, even puddling in places. Each of them carries blankets for just that reason.
But there's something. Harry can't put his finger on it. Like a name or a song lyric that's been forgotten. One he should know but just can't seem to remember. The same something that's nagged at him all day. That mutters just beyond his back. A voiceless murmur. A songless choir.
"I don't know," he admits as they continue up the hill.
Their pace is slowed, slower. Would be meandering if Harry weren't constantly peeking above and over his shoulder. He knows that Gil-galad watches him intently while Harry looks at everything else.
The birds are progressively muted around them. They aren't saying anything at all to him, and perhaps that's the most worrisome thing. That they speak but say nothing. That their words are meaningless sounds of unease. His heart beats harder like a predator has suddenly stepped out of the shadows behind him. There's a chill that has nothing to do with Harry himself. A creeping coldness, a warning bite to the air. Like a lethifold floating across the terrain.
Harry swallows, but his throat is dry. He pinches the bridge of his nose as he steps away from Gil-galad and turns in a deliberate circle. The ground is soft, pliant beneath his feet, making little squelching noises as he moves. The starlight is pure above them. The moon is full, brilliant. Bright enough to illuminate everything in stark relief.
Nothing's here.
"What are you two doing back there?" Argon calls from somewhere in front of them. He's obscured by the bushes, but Harry can feel him settling in near his father and brother.
There's a strum of Finrod's lyre. "I can provide you a musical accompaniment."
A chorus of chuckles; all in good fun. Finrod starts a merry tune that Harry recognizes by the second line. He nearly startles as Gil-galad takes his hand and tugs him forward. They walk over to the others at a gradual gait, but Harry's foreboding only grows with each step.
He can see Indilwen in his mind's eye. She and the other horses are at the base of the hill, opposite their end, but she's not grazing. She's peering up directly at him. Her eyes are wide, ears perked. She paws the ground, but she's stationary. Doesn't turn. Doesn't gallop towards him or away. She's watching, waiting. Listening for an unknown signal.
Harry blinks, and they're by the others. Gil-galad's hand is tight in his, squeezing. He doesn't know what his face is like, but Fingon's upright immediately when he sees him.
"Hérion?"
It's worried. Fingon always is. He's truly too good for this world and for Harry.
"Nephew?"
Fingolfin now. He's standing beside his son, but he's very concerned.
"Don't you feel it?" Harry questions them.
They all hesitate. Finrod stops playing immediately. Argon and Angrod exchange a glance. Finarfin has a pensive cast to his face, head cocked. His eyes are unfocused, turned inwards. Fingolfin and Fingon murmur to each other and peer at the trees.
"The birds…" the latter begins.
He's realized now. Realized that the birds have finally gone completely silent. That the last of their chirping has died off and there's only deathly calm. That all the animals in the woods are still, unmoving. That the only sound in the trees is the rustle of leaves.
"Not just them, hinya," his father corrects with a hand on his arm.
"There's nothing here," Angrod points out; he gestures around them to the emptiness.
Finrod has now stood, lyre still in hand. "Perhaps I disturbed them."
"It wasn't that bad," Argon says, but he's approaching the ridge and squinting over into the darkness. "Nothing here either."
Harry leaves Gil-galad beside Finarfin, who is squatting with a palm to the ground. His signet is heavy on his hand, like a noose pulling him down. His arm is starting to ache from the weight of it now that Gil-galad is further away. He walks up to the cliff edge, and every step is a sharp lance to his heart. Is a whisper. Is a warning.
Something is here. He knows it. He just can't see it.
Pebbles skim over the side as he stops right next to Argon. He hears Fingon come to his other side. Feels the grip on his shoulder as more rocks slide out from beneath his feet. It's slick here, not fully dried from the early rain.
"Careful."
"He's hardly going over the ledge. Not unless you decide to toss him," Argon scoffs, but it's good-natured.
He knocks an elbow into Harry's side. It's not hard enough to make him stagger, but Harry does feel himself slip ever-so-slightly.
He doesn't see Fingon's glare; he knows it's there, nonetheless.
"A little care is prudent," the older elf counters. He gently pulls them back.
Gravels shift again. He can hear them skitter to the edge and plunge down.
Harry snorts. He can't help himself. It's so surreal. He's coiled like a snake. Like a spring wound too tightly in clock. Waiting. Anticipating.
"I have you know," he tells them both then, and it's with more than a twinge of tension, "if I fall off this and break my neck, I'm blaming b-"
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
He wakes on a bench.
It's hard. Metal and unforgiving beneath him.
The station is less crowded than usual. Harry's seen it packed so full it's standing room only, that it's shoulder to shoulder with trains running every few minutes. But now, there are just groups of two or three with stragglers here and there. Not to mention that the people don't seem to be in a particular hurry, simply meandering to their trains before boarding. Their outfits are familiar but also different than the last time Harry was here.
But admittedly, it's been a while. A different world to be completely fair. Harry can't even be sure how long he's been in Valinor either.
Harry blinks several times. Exhales once. Twice.
He slowly sits up. His neck twinges, just a little. He feels it give a soft crack before it eases. He rolls his head on his shoulders for a moment before glancing over.
Dumbledore, as usual, is next to him.
"We really need to stop meeting this way," Harry tells him with a tired sigh.
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Harry – So that happened.
Dumbledore – Sighs.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Argon – OMG!
Finrod – OMG!
Angrod – No one will ever believe this was an accident.
Fingolfin – If brother didn't hate me before, he certainly does now.
Finarfin – If brother didn't want to kill us before, he certainly does now.
Fingon – Hysterical.
Gil-galad – … … …
Harry – (X_X)
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Eönwë – Has a sudden sensation of doom. Stops. Looks around. Looks at himself. Tries to remember if he left the oven on but decides that's not it.
Narrator voice – Several minutes later...
Eönwë – Marcaunon, what've you done?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Somewhere in Mandos…
Fëanor – What was that?
Maedhros – Who was that?
Celegorm – Snore, snore, wake. Huh?
Caranthir – Rolls eyes. I'm not even asking.
Curufin – Hello?
Amrod – Was that you?
Amras – No, you?
Námo – Puts his head in his hands.
AN: I didn't study French, so apologies if this isn't correct. I'm very open to suggestions.
Also, Gil-galad's first language was Sindarin, so he'll use that as a preference.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) + O (Masculine).
Ever Hopeful,
Azar