Ballad of Dusk and Dawn
Disclaimer: Definitely don't own any of this.
Warnings: AU, Crossover, Slash, Character Death, Attempted Suicide, Severe Child Abuse and Neglect
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.
"Harry Potter."
The voice calls out as he walks down the path back towards the castle in the early morning. It's just late enough for the shops to be open but only so, and barely anyone else's about as he strolls away from Hogsmeade. The air is warm, clean within the wards that rise overhead, and the birds are singing, while the bees are buzzing. It's taken him so long to be comfortable enough to come back to the village after the third Killing Curse, but he still limits his time here. His heart speeds up before he can stop himself, but the presence is known. Familiar enough to register as a non-threat. He turns to glance to the left towards a connecting byway.
And there, she is. Emerging from the shadows of the hedges.
She looks good for a grandmum. Much less the mother of four adult sons, two sets of twins. Spry. Glowing in the sunlight. As if she could climb up a mountain, chase after a snorkack, or wrestle a cockatrice. Likely all at the same time. While wearing a dress. But not heels. Ankle safety is key.
"Luna," he greets with a laugh, "it's been awhile."
Indeed, it has. Nearly a year. Since last summer when everyone met up at the Hog's Head – now run by a cousin of Aberforth and something of a tourist trap meets historical site. It's nigh impossible to find a seat, especially during the warmer months and around holidays. Private parties are exclusive, limited, and only available to members of the resistance.
Luna herself is in just as much high demand these days. Even more than before. Earth isn't the same as it was before the Muggle war, but she's been instrumental at restarting much of the animal populations while Neville works on the greenery. Magic just needs a little bit of blood. Or a fang. A claw. Some fur. The irony of necromancy helping them revive the world isn't lost on Harry, but they don't have parts of everything. At least not readily available. Luna seems to have a power all her own in finding those. In searching out hidden crevasses and hollows to discover exactly what they need and exactly when they need it.
"Too long for friends," she agrees readily, "I got your most recent letter; Fawkes didn't even scorch it this time. I apologize for not writing back sooner. We've been a bit busy on our end."
Indeed, they undoubtedly have. It isn't every day that her oldest grandkids turn eleven, another set of twins. Harry knows that there was a big celebration just the other week, but he missed the party due to an emergency board meeting over that incident with three fourth-years, a pair of fifth-years with one particular third-year, and Harry doesn't even want to contemplate all the paperwork he still has do. In the meantime, he sent his congratulations and of course gifts. A few fun things but also some in anticipation of upcoming Hogwarts days. The parents were most appreciative to have early access to the recommended shopping list.
"We missed you at the party," Luna tells him, and the smile she gives is lovely as she floats over. "I hope it wasn't anything too terrible."
Harry somehow keeps the full grimace from his face but only just.
Having an all out pranking war break out between six students with copious injuries on the sidelines isn't his ideal Saturday. Thankfully, no one was seriously hurt, but this isn't Dumbledore's days. People are actually informed of what's going on nowadays. Parents are told when their children are involved. Students are disciplined appropriately, and anything involving an out of school suspension goes before the board. All six will be spending the next week at home with their families and contemplating their actions.
"Nothing worse than Fred and George did back in the day," he comments after a pause. "Admittedly, it's taken much more seriously now."
Luna gives a solemn nod mid-stride, but her steps are light as air. As if she too has wings and doesn't just dote on beings who do. Her blond hair's still long, even more so than it was in school. But now, it's braided into a crown around her head with spring flowers woven in, and the color seems to be shifting towards silver. He can't quite decide if it's due to age or the result of some charm. Likely a mix of both. She wears pants beneath her dress, black and stretchy with the pattern of vines. Her hem ends just above her knees in the front, but her boots are mid-calf, and there's a vague sense of mud to them even without any visible.
"I'm glad that everyone's in good hands at Hogwarts," she states as she reaches him. There's a sparkle in her eyes though, even as her face shifts into a true grin and her nose crinkles. "I hear a congratulations is in order, headmaster."
The final word is said with emphasis. With a laugh of delight and happiness both.
News certainly travels fast if Luna heard about it already. Before Harry even had a chance to let her know. The decision on his promotion was only made two days ago, and it hasn't even been officially announced. Much less hit the papers yet.
"Ron told me," Luna offers then. As if reading his mind. "Hermione, too. And Susan followed by Hannah just yesterday when we were in Diagon."
Harry pinches the bridge of his nose at the antics of all his friends. Luna likely notices, but she's still listing names.
"George, Jordan, and Angelina also flagged us down. Then, we saw Fleur at Gringotts-"
He chuckles for a lack of anything else to do. "I take it that you heard."
"You could say that, yes." But her twinkle is transcendent. Radiant as her joy. "Oh, Harry. I'm so happy for you!" She takes both of her hands in his. "I know how much Hogwarts has always meant to you."
Her grip is tight. Squeezing just long enough before she releases him.
Harry isn't eleven anymore. He isn't even the same fifteen year-old-boy she first met. He still can't keep the pleased curl of his lips.
"I can't lie and say I'm surprised," he admits, "but…"
"It still doesn't quite feel real?" She giggles like a little girl. Cheerful and carefree. "When does it become official?"
Her mood is infectious. Harry's own is already bright, despite his meeting with the board, but it's now reaching greater heights.
"When term ends, I'll be the new headmaster, but the announcement will be May 1st."
She puts her hands over her mouth now as if to help contain her excitement. It doesn't work. Not when she's all but bouncing up on her toes. Luna somehow manages to sound sensible though.
"Filius is remaining for a year?"
He isn't surprised that she knows of the old tradition. Even with how long it's been since a retiring headmaster stayed on as a professor to ease the transition. Of course, this fell out of favor in the last several generations. Minerva passed in her sleep almost three decades ago. Prior to her, Snape and Dumbledore were both killed. Dippet simply didn't care to stay on, and his portrait doesn't even know why.
"He wants to stay on for just a while longer," Harry confirms. "The headache of dealing with the board is a little too much, I think, but I admit that I've already been helping him the last few years. He misses teaching, especially the younger years. He isn't fully ready to hang up his hat just yet."
Harry isn't the deputy, but he knows that she won't shed a single tear at being passed over for this promotion. If anything, she'll laugh at his misfortune while congratulating herself on a job well done. She's been more than willing to have Harry deal with the board and the Ministry both on Hogwarts' behalf. Argues that they like him more.
"Understandable." Luna gives a consoling sound. "He's the last of them, isn't he? From our time at school?"
Harry inclines his head. "Aurora resigned almost five years ago now."
She's enjoying her new position in Rome and still sends regular messages. Sprout left to manage Neville's vast gardens and keeps the home-front while he travels. Even Hagrid's gone now, having decided to search out any surviving giants. Madams Pince and Pomfrey departed together for warmer shores away from the harsh Scottish winters. Madam Hooch was actually caught out in the Muggle world during the blasts, and no one has seen her since. Others retired here and there for one reason or another. Filius Flitwick is the last of the old guard. The only one left who taught under Dumbledore. Who was there during the war.
Hogwarts is filled with newcomers these days. Some who were students during that last battle, but many who weren't. Who look at the memorials with only a vague since of unease. Who are the children or grandchildren or no relation at all to anyone.
It's an odd thing really. The passage of time. The memories start to fog and how easily the world seems to forget.
Now, Luna's own grandkids will be arriving in September. Harry's met them many times, just as he has their parents and Luna's other sons. All of them are much like their mother. He thinks that maybe he'll try to lure at least one of them to be faculty now that he has a real say in the management of things. Maybe one day he can even get Rolf or even Luna to stay, improbable – impossible – as that thought is. They like their wanderings too much. Live too much for the adventure and it keeps them young when some of their classmates look three steps from the grave.
Admittedly, Luna did have a slower start than them; she was the last to marry out of their friend group aside from Harry himself. A full decade, nearly two after everyone else. Harry will never admit to anyone how jealous he was when she finally did. Not for Luna herself, lovely as she is. But that they were the final two remaining – the last ones standing so to speak. It was a little disheartening to be left behind yet again. That he too wanted someone to look at him and no one else, and it was becoming more obvious that he wasn't getting any younger but nobody who truly matched him was forthcoming. Which only brought on Andromeda's increasingly unsubtle hints as the years dragged. Not to mention Hermione's more… colorful choices in matchmaking.
Luna meanwhile was living her happily-ever-after. Still is with Rolf in tow. Harry can admit that he's envious. A little more than he's comfortable with on deep soul-searching. That despite the fact he doesn't want to compromise on his choice as much as common sense and his friends urge him differently… well, perhaps he's as much an idiot as Severus Snape always said he was.
Which leaves him here, the upcoming headmaster of a school he's never had any kids attend. A godson, yes. He'd asked Teddy to be more, to be his father in truth. Twice. But was turned down both times. Once when Teddy first turned seventeen and was an adult by magical law. Then again when his oldest was poised to start Hogwarts. Harry understands why Teddy said no. Andromeda still lives, and she'd never forgive either of them for an adoption even after all this time. And now, Teddy's a grandfather himself; it's too late in the game now. They've said their piece, made their stance on things clear regardless of official titles.
Harry hasn't asked a third time. He won't. He just has to live with things as they are.
A touch on his arm brings him back. Harry doesn't start, but he does look over to see Luna watching him. Her face is unreadable, but the sparkle in her eyes has dimmed.
"Come with me to breakfast," she say then. Her voice isn't pleading, but her fingers twist in the sleeve of his robe. Like a child for all that she isn't one. "We haven't talked in ages."
It's both an invitation and a lifeline. A rope thrown to a drowning man.
"I… Yes, yes, of course," Harry responds, and his tone is deceptively light. "You've yet to tell me about South America." He offers his arm like a true gentleman.
A pause. A breath. Her hand still on his sleeve. Eyes searching his face.
Luna blinks then. Glances away before she accepts, and they walk back towards Hogsmeade. The Three Broomsticks is always open, but it shouldn't be too busy yet. Perhaps a few early birds milling about. Just right for an old pair of friends catching up.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
It doesn't take much for Harry to decide that he really don't like this side of Káno. It's not the badgering per se, though he could admittedly do without that. He's had enough of it for one lifetime and doesn't want his second go-around to have more of the same. Perhaps that's why he gives in to Fingon so easily. Some type of strange trained response to the particular tone he uses. One which does almost remind Harry of a combination of Hermione and Andromeda at times with a fair bit of Molly mixed it and just a hint of Minerva McGonagall.
No, it's more the hostility. Not towards Harry himself but more his house-guests. Naturally, Káno knows all about The Incident – capital letters definitely warranted. Harry wasn't planning to tell him for a while, possibly years. Not until he could find an appropriate way to word everything that is. Unfortunately, that was taken quite literally out of his hands courtesy of Indilwen. Or more frankly, Indilwen telling Oromë, who in turn mentioned it to Eönwë. Who informed Nienna. And she promptly went to Káno.
Who Harry has purposefully not talked to for a week. Just to postpone this conversation.
Of course, the elf naturally went ballistic with all the subtly of a Weasley's Wildfire Whiz-Bang. How Valinor can't hear his temper tantrum all the way from Imladris, Harry will never know. But it also means that Elrond's undoubtedly getting an earful. Probably Erestor, Arwen, and everyone else, too.
He just sighs as the sound of Káno's voice washes over him. Forever gentle to Harry at least. Despite the harsh words and volume. The elf's temper is a fierce thing, but it's not usually so evident. He's of course seen it sparked before, and retrospectively, it's almost always been in regards to this specific family. The baggage is enough for an entire train car at this point, but Harry hates being caught in the crossfire. He doesn't even want to be a spectator in the stands. He much prefers to stay at home, comfy in his castle and far away from all this nonsense.
He wasn't even hurt; Indilwen wasn't either. The elves were far more in danger than anything. Their bruises and Celegorm's hair should be enough reminder for them to behave. Not to mention that they now have over a dozen minders watching them like a student attempting to go out-of-bounds right in front of room full of prefects. Harry's more concerned about the twins' safety than anything to be honest. Especially seeing as it'd taken Finrod, Argon, and Fingolfin to pull Curufin off of them. The youngest Fëanorions are definitely the worst for wear at this point.
Gil hasn't let Harry heal them either.
So now, he's here. Contemplating what would happen if he just left the harp and went to bed. Of course, he could simply apparate it to the far northern reaches for a few weeks. Or leave it in Come and Go Room. A really strong Silencing Charm perhaps. Take it to Nienna's since this is at least partially her fault. Harry admittedly doesn't truly need the harp to talk to Káno. It's mostly for sentimental value at this point.
Another sigh.
Káno's still going, but Harry's tuned him out is the beginning. Making appropriate noises at all the right intervals. A skill he first learned in school and has carried along for centuries. It's taken him far in life and will undoubtedly take him even further.
And now, they're here. It's around the second reiteration of the exact same talking points. Like a broken transcription. At this point, Harry has actually put away his sketch pad, which he pulled out at the beginning of Kano's lecture, doodling out his ever growing collection of animalized versions of his guests. Fëanor most certainly is a black cat. Tail and ears twitching as he investigates his surroundings. Celegorm, he thinks, is a horse. Fitting definitely. And it's with no small amount glee that Harry draws the mane trailing behind him as he gallops across the page. Amras and Amrod are raccoons – red instead of gray but with the same markings. One with a head stuck in a basket and the other with a paw caught in a flower pot.
He hasn't decided on the others yet. Not even Nerdanel. But maybe an otter? Playful and splashing across a lake?
Harry's still half-contemplating this as Káno's voice flows around him. The harp is next to him. Perched on the bench in his favorite garden as the snow floats down. They're just getting to the end of the diatribe, but before the elf can take a deep breath and start back, Harry interrupts.
"What exactly do you want me to do?"
Káno abruptly stops. Scratches out like a record.
It's an honest question. For all that he's lectured, the elf hasn't offered any solutions.
"Do you want me to challenge them to a duel to avenge my honor?" Harry asks, but it's not genuinely rhetorical. "Fight them one by one in single combat? Show them the error of their dastardly ways?"
Harry can't see his face, but he knows that Káno has rolled his eyes.
"Stop being dramatic," the elf tells him ironically.
Harry snorts. Since really. Kettles and pots here.
"Really now?" he comments.
"This is serious, hinya."
As a manticore attack. Only slightly less gory. Far more boring.
"What exactly do you want me to do?" Harry repeats, and he can't keep the sharpness out. The edge that bleeds in and gleams in the moonlight. "Do you want me to kick them out? Where would they even go?" he poses, which is a legitimate question. "Who else would have them? Finarfin wouldn't even let Inglor stay in Tirion; do you honestly think he'd let them?"
Káno has no answer to that. He's silent. Still. As if finally considering this reality.
Harry's on a roll now though. He isn't Káno. He has thought about this. Contemplated the actual options. Only to realize there aren't any.
"Or do you want me to send them to Alqualondë? I'm sure Gil's uncle would love that." He breathes out in a huff. "Maybe I can have Manwë take them in? Or better yet, I'll just ask Námo to take them back. I'm sure he'll gladly do so."
He feels more than sees Káno flinch. They both know what a trip to Mandos normally means for an elf. Most don't go there voluntarily. Harry returns to visit; Aredhel for her son. If there are others, Harry doesn't really know of them.
"The only other option is for me to leave," Harry continues, but now, he goes for blunt honesty. "For me to abandon everything I've built in Formenos. All the friends I have here. Is that what you want?"
There's a gust of air. Like a sigh across the sands.
"You've made your point, hinya."
Káno doesn't sound sullen. If anything, he seems tired. As if all the earlier righteous energy has evaporated.
"No, I don't think I have." Harry's grip tightens around the harp. "You pushed all that time for me to go to Tirion and to Fingon. You wanted me to build a connection with him. I did, and well, surprise. Maedhros is his husband now. He's hardly going anywhere without him. So you don't get one without the other now."
"You don't understand-"
"Don't understand what exactly?
Maybe that's the real question. All the things Harry doesn't understand. How much of it's because no one will give a proper explanation. Has even bothered to try.
The elf doesn't answer.
"What don't I understand?" Harry repeats, but he's met with more silence. "Why won't you tell me?" His chest is heavy now. Aching. He exhales through it.
Harry knows for all Káno's praise and the soft moments, that actions speak louder than words. That what he says and what he does, those don't always align. That for all even Káno likes to coddle and pretend Harry is a fragile piece of glass, he isn't as honest as he should be. As he could be. That there are things he holds back, and Harry suspects, things he's purposefully left vague. Lets Harry reach his own – wrong – conclusions about.
It… He doesn't…
"You trust me so little even now," Harry murmurs, and he isn't sure which of them it's meant for.
The noise Káno makes is part-wounded, part-exasperated, part-fond.
"Herurrívë…"
He always says the name the way Arthur Weasley addressed his children. Like he can't decide if he's proud or on the way to a nervous breakdown.
"I do trust you," Káno insists. "I can still worry and trust you at the same time."
It even sounds sincere. His aura has settled. Sea soothing and serene waves that lap at the shore. Breeze tugging at Harry's robe as if to wrap it more fully around his shoulders. Song soft. Gentle. Sweet even.
Harry's learned how easily the Eldar can deceive with those, however. He just breathes out slowly.
"We both know that's a lie. You don't trust my judgment. You don't even trust me to se-"
Harry stops himself before he says too much. Stops so abruptly that his teeth click together.
He feels Gil stir; he's upstairs in their suite. Reading in bed. At first waiting for Harry to return but now engaged in the story in front of him. He pauses mid-sentence to reach out. To press a kiss to Harry's cheek just as real as if they sat next to each other. But he lets Harry have this moment with Káno alone.
He's not the only one to notice Harry's slip though. To turn his direction. At least Nienna allows a quick reassurance. A fleeting touch. The other Ainur look his way but hesitate when they see who he speaks with. The elves, however… They can only glimpse Harry's side, and how much of that is debatable. He can feel their attention even as he deflects them away.
Káno is the worst offender of all. He reaches for Harry like the moon does the tide, but Harry moves away. Retreats back until he only sees the garden around him and nothing of Káno's own aura. Harry can still hear him calling out; he simply ignores it. He fills the awkwardness between them with harp-music. With the opening cords of a song they both know so well. Which is ironic as it's the elf's own trick against him. A tactic that Káno himself has employed in the past before more than once when he doesn't wish to talk anymore.
How he feels being on the receiving end… well, Harry doesn't know and he doesn't care to. He simply keeps playing. Immediately starting another song when the first ends. Then a third. A fourth. Fifth. Káno gets the message sometime around the seventh, but he stays until they're nearly in double-digits. When it's well and truly clear that Harry will keep going just to keep from speaking with him. Harry feels him linger for a moment after he withdraws on his end before he retreats entirely. Fading further and further away into the hallways of Imladris. Undoubtedly to seek out Elrond. Possibly even Arwen or one of the other elves newly arrived from Lothlórien.
Harry's alone then. Still playing. Now for his peace of mind more than anything. To calm his heart. To sort out his thoughts before he goes up to bed so that he doesn't bother Gil.
His solitude doesn't last long; he knows when Maedhros and Fingon stand outside the entrance to the garden. Felt them headed his way before Káno even fully departed. But their pace was sedate. Not hesitant, more like testing the waters. Seeing if Harry's willing for them to approach. But if he wanted to disappear before their arrival, he would have. Harry allows them in, lets both sense his location and hear the music float past the hedges that separate his current position from the maze next door. He can glimpse them now, observes as Fingon brushes a hand over this husband's cheek before he follows the path inside. Maedhros, in turns, settles down just inside the boundary between areas. Back against the green, hedgerow but head turned upwards as he watches the snowfall. Fingon continues Harry's direction. It's not far at all; the garden isn't terribly large – roughly the size of a Quidditch pitch. Maedhros can hear him just fine, Harry knows, but he merely closes his eyes when the opening notes of the newest melody drift out.
It's one that his uncle also recognizes as he hums along even as he approaches. His steps slow unconsciously before he moves to sit in the empty space next to Harry, the spot Gil normally occupies. He's still wearing the same clothes from earlier in the day, which are fine enough for the rest of the castle and even the city. But it's hard for Harry to decide what's too cold for an elf even now. This area was made with Gil – and even Nerdanel – in mind, but either way, he casts a Warming Charm just in case. The motion is discreet, the barest twitch of his fingers, but somehow, it's noticed anyway.
Fingon's shoulder bumps his very gently. Not even hard enough for Harry to miss a note. It is enough, however, for him to reconsider his next choice of song, and he picks an old favorite. One of the first he mastered under Káno's guidance.
Fingon goes motionless next to him. His eyes are open but stare are nothing. Lost in distant thoughts and memories. Harry catches the briefest flickers of them, and he nearly fumbles the chorus in his surprise. It's startling really. The face he sees. How much they look alike. The sameness is eerie as Maglor even holds a silver harp just as Harry does now – one similar enough to be the same. Raven black hair flowing down his back. Fingers callused and nails bitten as if absentmindedly. His eyes are the one true difference, a lake clear blue, framed by long lashes. He even wears a familiar smile that Harry's seen in reflections and photos more than once.
Fingon shutters the image away before Harry can see more. Before he can have a deeper look. Before he can genuinely study Maglor Fëanorion for the first time. His uncle comes back to himself with a nearly audible snap just as the song fades. His hand on Harry's wrist keeps him from starting the next, not that he even thinks he's capable of doing so right now.
"That was lovely, nephew," Fingon says after a steadying breath.
Harry merely accepts the compliment. He feels off-kilter, off-balance. Strangely exposed even as he puts the harp to the side. Despite the fact that this is his own garden, the very grounds of his castle, he feels like he's out in the open. Maybe its because Maedhros still lingers. Neither leaving nor joining them. Simply sitting with his breath fogging the air.
His uncle mouth curls upwards. "You are well?"
It's phrased as a question, but Fingon's gaze is searching. Seeking. Shining silver in the moonlight.
Harry knows immediately what this is about. The same conversations he's tried to dodge the last week in fact. The very reason he'd come down here so that Gil didn't have to hear Káno's tirade about the entire line of Fëanor.
"I'm fine," Harry answers.
It's even true, but it earns him a disbelieving look. On with a wrinkle of doubt between Fingon's brows.
"They didn't lay a single finger on me and didn't even manage to hurt Indilwen either," Harry points out for what seems like the thousandth time already. "No one was really hurt. If anything, you should be looking after all three of them." He considers that for a heartbeat. "Or just the Ambarussa, really. I think Curufin may legitimately strangle them."
He feels more than sees Maedhros put a hand to his forehead. But not even Fingon argues against that. His uncle simply shakes his head.
"Curvo is… dealing with things."
Harry lifts an eyebrow at that.
"In his own way. Rather poorly," Fingon corrects and exhales to the count of seven. "He misses Tyelpë dearly, and after what happened with his son, any harm to him, real or perceived… He'll act as any concerned father would." His fingertips drum on his knee. "I can't say your father would act any differently."
Harry half-winces. It's an automatic expression. One he can't fully contain and that Fingon definitely sees.
"I wasn't hurt at all," Harry reminds him. "Besides, this is hardly the worst thing that has ever happened to me. Or even in the city."
Admittedly, crimes in Formenos are few and very far in-between. Most of the cases are handled directly by Inglor and his guard because they're so minor. Largely limited to disputes on borrowed property, a little too much rowdiness after drinking, arguments on too similar outfits, foolery gone wrong, and the occasional missing confectionery. Harry's rarely called to sit judgment on much of anything. The worst case to come before him in the last decade was a pair of sisters quarreling over ownership of a necklace and their subsequent brawl that expanded to involve their spouses, children, parents, and extended family while the neighbors cheered on from the sidelines. It wasn't even that nice a necklace before it was destroyed in the commotion, and no one could account for where it came from in the first place. Now, it's still in pieces, resting in the place of honor – shame – on the mantel of their parents' house as a reminder.
Things in the castle are dealt with by Harry personally, but those are different situations as well since most of the people there are newly from Mandos or wanderers from other regions. Harry supplies them directly with anything they'd need. None of them have ever been audacious enough to steal from him. Of course, Eönwë's normally in attendance when any of the Eldar are staying here. And if not him, then another Ainur can typically be found.
This whole situation is so absurd that Harry just wants to laugh. That feels like the only appropriate response.
"I'm still sorry that they tried." Fingon's touch on his wrist is firm but not painful. "I'm sorry that they haven't acted towards you as they should."
"Why are you apologizing for them?"
Since really? Harry doesn't roll his eyes, but it's only because of his years as a professor and then a headmaster. He's heard every excuse in the book and likely enough to fill up an entire library.
"They're all adults," he continues a second later. "You aren't their keeper. Or their father."
Though admittedly both Fëanor and Nerdanel have already apologized on behalf of their sons. The former seemed both contrite and personally offended on Harry's behalf. The latter wasn't much better, but at least, she didn't cry from frustration. Or hiss ultimatums to her own children under her breath. Or puff up like some elven cat. All of which Harry is eternally grateful for. He's learned to manage volatile teenagers and their parents. Not… whatever this is.
As for all three offenders, they haven't said anything at all. Not unexpected really. Especially when the youngest two are half-hiding from Curufin, half-mulishly glaring at everyone else. Celegorm is likely too busy mourning the loss of his locks. At least according to Celebrían, who has taken it as her personal duty to keep him apprised of everything. She's also the one to tell Harry about Findis' helpful offer to simply shave Celegorm's head. Something, he swiftly declined, and he's apparently been avoiding her as one does a boggart ever since.
And now, here's Fingon – and Maedhros by extension. When should Harry expect Caranthir and Curufin? Since he seems to be collecting the entire House? At this rate all of them will offer an apology but the guilty parties.
That trip to see Irmo is sounding more appealing by the day.
Fingon fortunately isn't privy to his thoughts. Which is likely for the best. Particularly as the moment stretches on and Harry realizes he's yet again run into some misunderstanding. A cultural quirk that he should know but doesn't. Or maybe one he was even taught but hasn't thought to conceptualize in this regard. It seems his uncle is thinking along those same lines as they observe one another.
Harry pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand.
"Is it the part about ruling Formenos?" he inquires. "Or them staying in my castle? Or my father?"
"All of those, really," Fingon allows after a second of hesitation. "The first two make them terrible guests and certainly would earn them a boot out the door. That could even be literally depending on how close a relationship you have. The last makes it even worse as you're the youngest member of the House, without any parents around, and should be protected by the others." He holds up one finger before Harry can even think to object to that last part. "It doesn't matter how old you are; you're still the youngest. The twins were in an odd spot with Tyelpë as he was older than them, even if only by a little, but they should've all been on equal footing. You though, dear nephew…"
His uncle merely clicks his tongue. His aura is unexpectedly weighted. Heavy like flames given substance. Flickering behind the grate with a deep amber glow.
"It doesn't matter that you're the King of Formenos or have been acting as the de facto Head of the House," Fingon continues, "you're still the youngest by a large margin. That's including the entire line of Finwë as a whole." He shakes his head. "Even Celebrían's youngest is millennia older than you."
He breaths out then. Gradual. Slow to the beat of his heart. His eyes look at Harry squarely. Securely.
"Herurrívë, I'm not sure how to say this without causing you some sort of offense, but I feel that being direct is probably best with you."
Harry blinks. Once. Twice. Eyebrows lifting at that entire statement. He can't say that Fingon's wrong, but what on Arda?
"Go on," he prompts when his uncle remains quiet. "What is it?"
Fingon drums on his knee again. "Lord Eönwë is here. We've seen him several times; he even seems to live here at least partially," he states, tone steady but strange.
"What about Eönwë?"
Is this about the spar? Harry thought there weren't any hard feelings about that. Not really. He knows that Eönwë's still unhappy about Harry's death. Especially since he was ostensibly in the elves' care when it happened. And he's been very stubborn on accepting Harry's own responsibility in that matter, his own carelessness.
"You seem very close," his uncle comments. "He was exceptionally… concerned about you in Tirion."
Harry gives him a look. It's very unimpressed. Since this is the most oblique way of getting to the point possible and will likely take the rest of the night at this rate.
"I thought you were going to be direct."
Maedhros snorts in the distance, but Fingon ignores that.
"Fine then." There's a hint of challenge in his uncle's tone. "What exactly is your relationship with each other?"
"Our relationship?" Harry repeats.
Eh…
Way to put him on the spot, Fingon. Maybe Harry shouldn't have goaded him.
How to even begin to explain this one? How much to even say? What to share? Most of it isn't even his to do so? Manwë and Eönwë likely wouldn't appreciate it, and Harry's been around long enough to know a paternal connection when he sees one. To hear how they speak to one another when no outsiders are present and the conversations are mostly through song.
He also doesn't want to throw Nienna under the dragon here. Clearly, her own kinship with Manwë is a private thing, and the only ones who know – outside of the Ainur present at the beginning of the world and therefore witnesses to the whole thing – are Harry and Káno. As much as Harry's coming to like Fingon, he doesn't think it's his place to air this particular dirty robe. Not here. Not now.
"We're friends," he decides after the barest second of hesitation. "You could technically say I'm his student."
His uncle merely continues looking at him. "What does he teach you?"
It's asked almost casually, but Harry knows there's some sort of trick here. A trap. He just can't see where it is.
Honesty is probably the best policy, however. Easier to manage in the long run.
"Mostly combat. The sword and spear are his preference."
The elf gives a thoughtful hum. "Not surprising," he admits. "I suspect your father's still reluctant to touch a weapon after all that's happened. I know that he threw his sword away."
Harry wisely remains silent. Truthfully, what could he even say?
Fortunately, Fingon keeps going before he can even think of a reply.
"He stays here during your training?"
"Well, not only because of that. We're also friends, like I told you." Harry considers for a few seconds. "I thought it was fine for elves to live with their teachers?"
He's seen it in the city. When they apprentice, it isn't uncommon for them to live with their masters for sometimes decades or longer. Eönwë staying here really isn't that different.
"It can be," his uncle allows, but his gaze is far too heavy. "It does usually amount to an adoption for those orphaned or otherwise unaccompanied."
A pause as that sinks in. Silence that's unexpectedly tense. There's a breathless sense of anticipation, of expectancy. Not just from Fingon but from Maedhros, too. And Harry just wants to sigh.
So that's what this is about. Which...
"All the Ainur are family already," Harry points out since Fingon seems confused on that part. "Maybe not in the way the elves are, but that's not exactly a secret among us."
The way his uncle studies him is peculiar. Almost sad. Wistful.
"You're also Eldar, nephew."
It's said mildly. Soft as an evening curled up by the fireplace.
"Not really," Harry confesses. "Not where it counts. You surely know that by now. I thought that was the entire point of this intervention." He gestures vaguely. "As for living here, who else would you even want me to invite? I was on speaking terms with exactly two elves when I left Mandos."
And Káno's still a world away while Miriel has expressed no desire to ever depart. They actively kept him away from Finwë, and Harry knows now it's because they wouldn't want him sharing anything with Indis, his second wife. More recently, Elros doesn't consider himself an elf at all anymore; if he ever did in the first place. Harry's never even spoken with Elrond or his children or any of Gil's family, so none of them count.
"They're the only ones not here now in the kingdom even as we speak. Save perhaps a few stragglers of your family," Harry concludes with another motion. Wider this time. More encompassing.
Must not forget Aredhel and Irimë. Or Eärendil and Idril. Elwing too, he supposes. Tuor's not an elf, but why not?
Fingon's face remains carefully neutral throughout his entire monologue. Remaining that way as the seconds tick by. Maedhros, he knows, is still there. Sitting by the entrance. Head tilted and listening intently. Hands curled into fists in his lap.
"And your mother?"
That question both does and doesn't surprise Harry. He knew it was going to come up at some point, somewhere in here. It's more astonishing Fingon took so long to get here.
"What about her?"
His next part is actually a statement more than anything.
"She's left you here."
It's said like an accusation. Firm with a flare of heat from next to him and another from close by.
"She hasn't," Harry insists, and it's immediate, reflexive even. "She barely left me alone in Mandos if that's what you're worried about. She's here all the time now. I see her almost daily."
Fingon stares at him. His face has shifted. Gone from mournful to concerned to something else entirely. It's an odd expression. One that Harry can't quite name.
"At night," Harry adds as that look doesn't lessen. "While everyone else sleeps. She comes to see me. Most recently, we visit here. In this very garden." He motions around him in a wide circle. To the bench and snow and flowers and trees. "She stays until dawn."
His uncle keeps gaping at him. Eyes fixed as he processes this information. Both the revelation that Nienna is actually present in his life and about Harry's terrible sleeping habits.
"Does Gil-galad know?"
It's asked almost tentatively. And after a long moment.
"Yes, he's met her." Harry nods. "Several times here but also when she came to see me in Tirion."
"In Tirion?" Fingon's surprise is a burst of heat and warmth that he quickly reels back. Once more crackling in the hearth. "When?"
"You know when," Harry counters.
His uncle turns inwards as he searches his memories. "That night," he murmurs at last. "That's why you wanted us to leave you alone."
Harry doesn't disagree. "She came and healed me."
Fingon gazes at him again. Examines him with sharp, metallic eyes.
"She doesn't want to see any of us, does she?"
"That was my request," Harry admits, but he doesn't glance away. "She only came to Tirion to heal me, but I asked before that for all of them to let me go there alone. Don't blame her for that. Eönwë wouldn't have come either except for what happened."
The elf exhales sharply. "And now?"
"Now…" Harry offers a half-shrug. "I don't think she quite knows what to do with any of you."
"And isn't sure her welcome?" Fingon poses.
Harry inclines his head. "I can say that their reputation proceeds them."
"I imagine she was told even worse things. As were you." Fingon tips back to study the stars. "He likely warned her to avoid all of us. Probably even asked her to do so." He traces over the constellations. "We would've welcomed her in my home; I know atto would've as well. Just as we welcomed you."
Yes, Fingon and Fingolfin certainly would have. Even Finarfin, Findis, Irimë, and all the rest. But it would've been a political nightmare, and they both know it. Fingon doesn't even need to know her name, her identity, to realize that. To understand that an Ainu showing up to claim kinship would have repercussions.
"I know that now," Harry acknowledges, "but..."
"But?" Fingon encourages with a small curve of his mouth.
"But elves usually only come to us if they want something." Harry isn't sure if he should look at him or away. "It's not to chat and invite us to tea because they like our company."
His uncle doesn't flinch, but it's a near thing. His warmth dims. Fuzzes out at the edges. Fades the longer the silences stretches on. Maedhros is cold as ice in the background. Still like a statue.
"I think you know even better than me how complicated the relationship is between the two groups," Fingon says finally. "Particularly between our family and the Ainur."
Harry can't say that he's wrong. Can't argue against any of the whispers he's ever heard in Formenos. Or the history lessons Vairë and Nienna gave him. Or even the truths Eönwë has offered.
And now, everyone and their brother thinks he's part Ainu. Which is not a bad assumption to make given his magic. And not all that far from accurate.
"What do they know about me?" Harry asks then. "I mean, Fëanor and the rest. Has anyone…"
He makes a vague gesture.
Fingon doesn't laugh, but his smile is gentle.
"Oh, my dear husband knows. Ammë and atto both do, too. Moryo's certainly figured it out, and I suspect Curvo as well. Both of them are the clever sort." His demeanor shifts to vaguely annoyed. "As for as our three miscreants, I doubt there's any thoughts in those heads. I don't believe it's related at all. Fortunately or unfortunately, however you wish to take things."
So they're just berks. Fantastic. That means Káno was right. At least a little.
Urgh.
Harry sighs. "I can't say I wasn't warned about them."
Fingon actual lets out a little chuckle at that. "I suppose you were." He glances at the harp for a fleeting second. "He would've told you all manner of things about each and every one of us."
"Everything about you was good," Harry consoles, both himself and his uncle. "He always wanted me to seek you out in particular."
A myriad of emotions flash across Fingon's face in an instant. Grief, affection, regret, relief.
"I rather ruined that with our first meeting. I admit that wasn't my finest moment," his uncle remarks, and it's deceptively cheerful.
"You were surprised." Harry gently nudges him. "You recovered from it well though. Much better than some."
A hand goes to his shoulder then and squeezes tightly, but there's an echo in his aura. One that reverberates until Harry feels Maedhros reach out. Fingon's quiet then, contemplative. Content to sit in companionable silence next to him. They only leave when Harry hears Gil call for him to come inside.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Harry doesn't run. He's rather proud of himself for that. The urge to flee is admittedly stronger than he'll ever admit. He can face Dark Lords, dementors, dragons, enraged parents, and very determined admirers, but this is toeing the line. It's an entirely un-Gryffindor reaction. One he isn't even proud to have, but it's there. And he knows that Gil at least senses it when he sees Harry whip his head around in something approaching horror. That's admittedly not the normal reaction to guests, but given how things have been in the last week and a half between The Incident, then Oromë and Tulkas… Well, the last thing Harry needs is more Ainur here. Which means it's naturally the time they decide to come calling.
And really, why would he ever flee from Vairë? Much less Eönwë?
Why indeed?
He feels their approach first thing in that morning. When he's just slipped from bed and not even gotten ready yet. It isn't even dawn outside, and the only other person awake is Gil.
His only saving grace is that it'll at least take them some time to arrive, so he does have a chance to dress. But that also means that Harry's left with a quiet sort of dread. Like a clock ticking down to his demise. Even going out to intercept them won't do much good since Vairë will insist on following him back anyway. Eönwë has a room here, too. So a pointless endeavor.
Harry instead just allows Gil as much opportunity as he wants braiding his hair and even puts on boots to complete the outfit his love picks out. One person – if nobody else – will be happy with him today. And it's going to be Gil if Harry has to die trying.
His elf rolls his eyes at his dramatics as they arrive downstairs, but there's still time to burn yet. Breakfast is easy enough to make. Mostly a distraction to keep Harry busy, and they don't eat with their elven guests. Instead retreating to their private space for what would normally be a romantic meal for two but turns more into a strategy session.
Gil – traitor that he is – actually seems excited by the prospect of Vairë's arrival. He's of course met Eönwë already. He knows Nienna along with Tulkas and Oromë now too, but aside from them, the only other Vala he's met is Námo. Which was under much less fortunate circumstances. Vairë is a more mysterious figure in Eldar lore. One not often seen. Few can claim to have met her, much less hosted her personally.
Not to mention that he wants to meet more of Harry's non-Eldar kin. A fact he makes very clear as he wraps an arm around Harry's waist while one hand pulls down his chin for a long kiss.
Which is the exact moment the elves finish breakfast and head out into the castle. And Eönwë and Vairë announce themselves.
At least, they're punctual.
Outtakes (Or Bits Don't Fit Anywhere Else)
Káno – Blah, blah, blah. Lecture, lecture.
Harry – Uh huh. Yep. Totally. Continues drawing.
Káno – And another thing…
Harry – To himself. I think Celegorm would make a fine horse.
Indilwen – Somewhere else. Neigh.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Elrond – Listening to his father continue to lecture his youngest brother.
Arwen – Also standing in the background, amused and bemused.
Both – Glancing at each other.
Arwen – Has he…?
Elrond – Always been this way
Arwen – Nods slowly.
Elrond – Insert montage flashback.
Elrond!Again – He's mellowed some, but yes.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Curufin – Hunting.
Ambarussa – Running.
Celebrían – Observing.
Caranthir – Speculating.
Finrod, Angrod, Argon – Spectating.
Fingolfin – How long do you think it takes to get out of Mandos a second time?
Finarfin – You're assuming that Lord Námo would even allow them out?
Findis – Sips her wine and laughs to herself. Bets, anyone?
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Fëanor – Our sons… Hiss, mumble, grumble.
Nerdanel – Sigh. Oh, I know, dear.
Both – Furiously cleaning his old forge.
Also!Both – Studying the odd design on the floor before carefully ignoring it.
Nerdanel – Marcaunon acts like it doesn't bother him, but he's a sensitive soul.
Fëanor – Sniffs suspiciously; but it's dusty. Just like Káno then.
Nerdanel – So much like him. Continues cleaning. You haven't seen it yet, but I know Morvo mentioned the harp.
Fëanor – Nods to himself. I know just the thing for him then.
Atto – father/dad
AN: We didn't make it to the dinner from hell; I tried. Fingon wanted his discussion in this chapter though. Sigh.
-o.O.o-
-o.O.o-
Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).
Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).
Indilwen – lily.
Herurrívë – lord of winter = Heru (Lord/Master) Hrívë (Winter).
Mírimo – valuable one = Mírima (Valuable) O (Masculine).
Ever Hopeful,
Azar