Ballad of Dusk and Dawn

Disclaimer: Definitely don't own any of this.

Warnings: AU, Crossover, Hinted Slash (or maybe more than hinted eventually)

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.

He apparates. Call him out of bounds and give him a detention, but Harry can't help himself.

He waits until nighttime, until they've all retired to their rooms, and sets wards on his suite. He knows they won't come there now unless it's dire – the city burning down, a messenger from Manwë, Morgoth escaping from the Void – so he's confident no one will notice his absence.

There's a niggle of doubt nevertheless, so he spells the room with a second layer. Just in case.

He looks around for a moment to the absurdly jewel-encrusted wardrobe to the far too enormous four-poster bed to the gilded balcony doors. Then, Harry turns in swirl of whisper-quiet magic and appears in his own tower.

It's silent there. Sensible. Not a speck of gold or a gem to be seen.

His wards murmur to him that nobody has been by since the morning before last to open the windows. There are fresh flowers – snowdrops – on the side table and again on the mantle, but the fireplace is out with a grate long gone cool. The rug seems black in the dark instead of the blue it is in truth, but there's enough moonlight to scan around the rest of the room easily.

The hymn of home settles into his bones as he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. This isn't Hogwarts. It isn't Earth, but Harry's lived here long enough, has poured magic and sweat and even some tears into this place, that it sings with his essence. It's a comfortable carol in the back of his mind. Humming as his magic flows free, and he listens to the melody in the forever winter.

Formenos is a fortress on a mountain. The eye of a storm with surrounding circles of stone walls like ripples in water. The castle is the center – a trumpet resounding in the night. A glowing, warm clarion call. Each layer after is another instrument to the orchestra. Spring flower flutes. Summer firefly violins. Fall harvest drums. Beyond the walls of the city is the tinkling of bells, of ice crystals sheering, and the somber chant of evergreens.

Through it all, many elven voices softly sing. Some in dreaming or remembrance. Several are even still awake. Harry ghosts by them on nonexistent feet. Floating through corridors and stairways and towers. Through the entrance hall and main door and out the castle gate. Down the path to the city itself and into a darkened but watchful building.

He opens his eyes to find himself now standing in his office. It's tidy as expected, moonbeams streaming through the windows. His desk is full but unoccupied, parchment in neat stacks on the top corners. Melpomaen's been hard at work in his absence, and Harry makes a mental note to encourage him to take more time off. He's honestly surprised not to find the elf here, working away in the dark after hours. Or even having drifted off with pen in hand. It's happened before.

Harry shakes his head at that as he carefully shifts through the piles. The amount of correspondence is staggering. Most is still loose, but there are a number already sealed. The inbox has an equal number also in envelopes, and many seem to bear the same crest. Harry puzzles at it for a long time. It's one he's seen before but not something he recognizes immediately or without actively searching through his mind. It teases at his memory; Harry'll have to ask Laerien when he properly returns. She always knows the houses. It's a point of pride for her to never forget.

"Because they expect a Silvan not to know," she said once in perfect, unaccented Quenya. She lifted an ashen brown eyebrow with a hand on her hip. "All of those Calaquendi are the same, and few of the others are better."

Harry hadn't known what to say to that nor had Melpomaen, but both of them were usually spared her temper. She treats them in the way, he assumes, she once did her sons. With a firm but fond hand, quick to give both censure and praise. It's a rather strange concept considering he's ostensibly the one in charge.

Laerien rather reminds him of Ginny in temperament but Luna in looks. She's small and ethereal with the same luminous gray eyes. Prone to quiet contemplation in whatever tree strikes her fancy, but that's where the similarities end. Her temper is a vicious thing, truly a sight to behold. Harry has seen her reduce more than one discourteous visitor to tears, and he's heard others speak of her in the same hushed tones that balrogs earn.

He's also watched her stare at the stars in grief, and Harry knows she has children and a husband in Endor that she longs for but knows she will only see if they travel through the Halls. On this shore, her husband's family resides in some southern city, but she cares little for them and they for her. Her parents are in the Halls still, but she has a cousin who is written to and visited often.

Melpomaen is much more of a closed book; Harry isn't even sure where on Endor he came from. Harry knows only that he sailed from the Havens recently as elves reckon and found it difficult to settle. He isn't sure the hows or whys – that hasn't been given to him yet. His assistant's quiet and seems to have no family and few friends in Valinor. At least, none that he's willing to acknowledge, and that's likely why Melpomaen ended up here, under the person who everyone wrongly assumes has disowned himself.

Harry's other staff is a variable mix as is Formenos itself. Some are newcomers without a clear place to go. An assortment of Silvan, Sindar, and even some Avari released by Námo. A smattering of different groups mixed in, too. Others, he's learned, are former kinslayers. Those who are very unsure of their welcome in Tirion and other places. Some, Harry knows, are prior retainers of the House of Fëanor. Several even lived in Formenos the first time, though those seem to be few, and they are very quiet about that connection even now. Harry only knows if they confess to it or those Nienna has pointed out.

Harry sighs then as his eyes land on a very unwelcome emblem in his inbox. The envelope is unopened, but with magic, it'll be little work to reseal. He scans through, and it's indeed from King Olwë himself. An invitation to visit in the future, and Harry knows that he'll most certainly have to go. Fortunately for him, that future could be anytime in the next decade and still not be considered rude. Of course, he'll be expected to stay for at least six months to a year to avoid the same thing.

He'll also have to be on his best behavior the entire time. Not to mention that he'll probably have to deal with half the city glaring at him for his very unfortunate appearance while being perfectly polite in return.

Wonderful.

And he thought the politics of being headmaster was distasteful.

If he was still capable of getting migraines, Harry'd certainly have one after reading this. He's anticipated some type of exchange with the Falmari in the future, but he's been hoping for more neutral ground to start. He certainly didn't think they'd ever be willing to host him, not with his reported history.

A sinking sensation fills his gut. Laerien and Melpomaen will be reading this the very next day; they'll absolutely start plotting against him. They certainly won't let him put this visit off until the last moment. Laerien's going to pack his schedule with etiquette training of the Falmari for the foreseeable future, and doesn't that sounds like its own unique form of torture?

Harry exhales, slowly and steadily. Lets his magic out in a weak refrain off exhaustion. He reads the letter again, but the text doesn't change at all. With a disgusted noise, he flicks his hand. The parchment folds itself back up, and the seal magically slides back into place before the envelope floats back into the box.

Harry leans back in his chair and taps one finger on his desk, lost in thought. He wonders why he does this. Why he puts up with these things when this wasn't his choice at all. He'd rebuilt Formenos to have something to do, for the challenge. Hell, to even be able to be by himself. Somewhere along the way, others had shown up and he's never been able to turn anyone away who's in need.

He wonders if it's worth it. If it's worth being here at all. If he should just cut his loses and try Endor instead.

His fingertips tap in a steady rhythm as he thinks that through, but even as he does, Harry knows he'll never leave. Too much a Gryffindor at heart and a Hufflepuff in deed even if he's now a Ravenclaw in his desires. Harry just needs to call forth the Slytherin in his mind; it's served him well many times in these situations.

Harry stands then and looks around one final time. Everything is shadowed but familiar, and he could walk this room in the pitch black. Could probably walk the entire castle the same way. The song of the city is echoing in the night, welcoming him home, beckoning him to stay.

Harry shakes his head, gently offers a farewell, and apparates back to Fingon's with a twist of magic. Dawn can't come soon enough.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

The hardest thing in the beginning is that the Valar don't tell him. The Maiar are guilty of it, too. Best not forget them. But either way, the Ainur are the only ones he sees in the Halls, no Eldar at all. And it's primarily been the first three that he meets – Námo, his wife Vairë, and his sister Nienna.

The sad thing is that even though he's an elf now, Harry truly doesn't look all that different than what he did before. His ears are more pointed, and he's certainly taller than he's ever been. Tall as he possibly could've been had he not grown up with the Dursleys and a childhood of neglect. He's young again for another and no longer needs glasses. The silver in his hair's gone, and it's longer than ever, down to the top of his shoulder blades. It still tangles at this length, but it isn't the messy bird's nest it was when shorter. A single hand is enough to comb out just about any knot, and he's pretty sure one elf weeps upon seeing him do that later.

But otherwise… otherwise, he's largely unchanged.

They could've told him though.

Harry knows they don't perceive things the way he does or how Eldar do. He honestly thinks that it simply didn't occur to them. That at the end of the day, they aren't Eldar – or human – and that they simply didn't understand that he even needs a warning in the first place. That they try but the Eldar are as alien to them as they are to him.

It still would've been nice, nonetheless. It would've been good to be prepared.

He's been the Boy-Who-Lived, the Man-Who-Survived, his entire life. However, that's been a distant thing for so long now. A footnote in his history with all the other stuff that's happened since. He's always been popular, been known as a public figure, but people grew used to him. They'd chat while he was out or stop in his office or invite him to this event or that conference.

It's been centuries since he's been gawked at in the streets. Since mutters followed his every move.

Harry keeps his gait even, casual and loose, but he can feel their gazes follow him as he walks down the center. The Valar gave him supplies and even currency for this place. There's stores and stands he'd like to browse, but Harry hesitates as the masses give him a wider and wider berth.

He doesn't think they can tell he isn't one of them. That he isn't also an elf by birth. It's something else, Harry can tell. But he isn't sure what. Their murmurs are too faint.

Coming to this place – Tirion, Nienna called it – is a mistake. Perhaps he should've tried one of the newer cities currently being built or Alqualondë on the coast? He hasn't been to the sea for ages, not really, but Teddy and Victoire lived there until their passing. He thinks it'd be nice to see the ocean again and feel the waves tug at his feet.

Harry slows then and scans the crowd. Some of them are very carefully not looking at him, going out of their way to avoid even a glance his direction and hurrying away. Others are staring openly. It hasn't become hostile yet, but Harry knows that's soon to come as he starts back towards the city gate.

He hears it then, however. Someone shouting close by.

"Wait!"

The crowd parts as others turn. As they search among themselves for the source, Harry uses the opportunity to slip further back the way he came. There are side streets he could apparate from, but he has no idea how many eyes watch those. The Valar are already startled by this ability; he doesn't want to think how the elves would react.

"Wait!"

Harry can glimpse the cause now, a well-dressed elf in dark colors. He isn't running, but it's a near thing. It's obvious he's come from a distance, as if he's received news and rushed here. Harry can't get away fast enough, too hesitant to leave the main road and blocked in by people behind; the elf reaches him in long strides and grabs with both hands.

"Ma-"

The elf stops abruptly. His eyes are silver, but it's hard to see with the pupils blown so wide. The shock on his face is stark, and he'd be quite handsome without that startled expression. He's tall, Harry notices, but not quite as much as Harry himself is now. Perhaps an inch or two shorter. His hair is just as black, falling to his middle with the inky flutter of raven feathers and the glint of metallic thread woven through. He wears a circlet, also of gold with a single diamond in the center. His grip on Harry's shoulders is firm, strong. But it starts shaking as time stretches on.

"Your… Your eyes," the stranger whispers, and it's more to himself.

Harry isn't quite sure what he sees, but he knows they're drawing even more notice. A sea of elven faces that just stare at the exchange like a Quidditch match with a player down. Like a dragon attack or a manticore mauling when no one dares glance away.

"You aren't…"

The elf shakes his head then like he's waking from a spell. He's still clutching Harry's shoulders tightly, and Harry debates internally the best way to extricate himself from this increasingly uncomfortable encounter.

Then, suddenly as it started, he's released. The stranger drops his arms and takes an abrupt half-step back. It's still close, too close. But Harry can actually back up as well.

"My sincerest apologies," the elf says with an actual bow. It's slow and chivalric, like a knight from Merlin's court. "I am Findekáno… Ah, Fingon Fingolfinion."

The name is familiar to him, undoubtedly someone mentioned by Nienna or Vairë, but Harry can't quite place it yet. He's too off-balance, too reeling.

"Hérion," he replies and does remember his manners, "well met."

Harry doesn't bow back, however, because this is just too weird.

"Hérion," Fingon repeats; his tone says everything and nothing, "I see."

He again examines Harry's face, and it's so intently that Harry thinks he's trying to commit it to memory. His gaze finally shifts down to the rest of Harry and then back up ever-so-slowly. It would almost be flattering if it wasn't so bizarre, and it leaves Harry even more discomforted. Like he's being assessed, but he's not sure on what merits.

He knows it isn't his clothes. His tunic is of even better quality than Fingon's own – a deep green with embroidery of white lilies and the gray over-cloak has an ivy pattern at the sleeves. Vairë is very particular in what he wears, and Harry humors her because it costs him nothing. A part of him admittedly likes the attention after so many years without. Likes that Nienna and she are so fastidious with his appearance and with his lessons and just finding time to spend with him.

It could be lack of ornamentation since everyone from the plainest-dressed to Fingon himself has something.

It could even be his lack of a weapon. A number of people have swords, daggers, and even bows. Fingon has all three.

Perhaps that's the most worrisome part of this whole thing.

"You look," the elf starts, but he breathes out in a rush like he can't believe the reality before him. "You look so very much like your father."

He… What?

Harry has absolutely no idea what to think. What to say to that. It's been literal centuries since anyone has compared him to James Potter. Since there's been anyone alive who even knew James Potter or remembered him as a person.

"My father?" Harry finally manages; it's a question more than anything.

Since honestly, how would this elf have ever met his dad? He's reasonably sure the Valar would've mentioned that part.

"Yes." Fingon's surely still dazed, confused even as he blinks and continues searching Harry's face like it has all the answers. "My cousin. The son of my father's oldest brother."

Right…

Bespelled. This truly is a bewitched elf. Harry has only been in this city for all of an hour and this is the direction his life is headed.

But he can handle this. He has dealt with distressed, emotional people numerous times. He keeps his hands open and his voice calm, steady. The same tone he once used for overwrought students and life-threatening situations.

"I don't know what you mean."

It's soft, soothing. He doesn't push magic into it. There's no need to enthrall this elf more than he already is.

Fingon turns unexpectedly morose, however. His eyes lose their light as a shadow crosses his face.

"I… Of course. Forgive me again." He gives another, much smaller bow. "How terrible of me to assume."

He straightens slowly. His argent eyes are dim, sad, and he seems lost. Not uncertain but more unmoored. Untethered. Like the earth has dropped out from beneath him. It isn't the effect of a spell breaking. More like a child running up to a parent only to find a stranger.

Around them, the throng is still steadily growing; it hasn't thinned at all. If anything, there's over double the crowd as earlier, staring, judging. Watching the exchange like a spectator sport. Harry feels their curiosity but also their anxiety pressing in on him like a wave crashing down. It jerks on his sternum like a riptide trying to push him out to sea.

"It's no matter," Harry replies almost absently, too busy trying to center himself. "No offense is taken where none's meant."

But his awareness is on the other elves nearby and not the one in front. There are more murmurings; voices rising and falling like the tide. Their energy is dense, drowning. This isn't a fire awaiting a spark. This is an ocean anticipating the tsunami.

Harry needs to get out of here.

"No, I've wronged you," Fingon insists, but he too is now watching the crowd. The light of his eyes returns as his attention flicks from Harry to them and back. "Allow me to make this up to you."

It's less an offer and more a gentle pleading. A promise of rescue? Something more insidious? Harry doesn't know; at this rate, it may not matter. Normally, he'd advise his pupils to never go off alone with a stranger, but it's much easier to escape one than dozens.

He shifts back to Fingon. He's stock still, standing in the way one does when facing a boggart or an infuriated professor ready to assign a year's detention. His heart is squeezing in his chest the further he fights the swell, and against his better judgment, Harry agrees.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Of course, Celebrían comes to tea. Which, Harry supposes, means she'll only stay for two months and not two years as Eldar concepts of time are incredibly skewed. She's, as always, far too delighted to see Harry, but she's much more tolerable than most of the others. There are fewer awkward pauses with her, and she doesn't seem quite as alien.

She's a vision in silver and shades of the palest pinks with actual flowers in her hair. Gil-galad matches the silver and star design of her dress but instead has opted for blue accents, which Harry knows is a color of his house.

Everyone else is a riot of colors – dark red, yellow, and white.

Harry himself is once more in green with hints of gold in an outfit that Fingon insisted he wear without clear explanation. And hadn't that been a fun experience? Opening his door that morning to an already waiting Fingon, who promptly shoved him back inside. His host then proceeded to rifle through his wardrobe with the look of an elf possessed, critiquing everything before ultimately deciding on Harry's current ensemble and making him change.

Green, he insisted, is Harry's signature color. And Vairë did give Harry a lot of it to the point he's starting to wonder if she wishes to match his eyes or has some other ulterior motive.

Fingon also somehow convinced Harry to allow him to braid Harry's hair. Which he reluctantly agreed to if only because he couldn't figure out which bizarre Eldar ceremony he'd somehow found himself part of. That was of course after he surreptitiously banished the circlet Fingon was trying to sneak in; he'd find that later in the kitchen and have to puzzle out for himself how it got there. Harry also manages to dodge the brooch pushed at him along with the earrings, bracelets and rings.

He feels like he's already fought a battle by the time he even makes it to tea.

Harry sips his cup slowly at the memory. It's a blend of mint and a fruit native only to Valinor, but he doesn't know the proper name of it as Findis reaches for the pot to pour him more. She's only arrived six days before to the surprise of apparently no one but him. Irimë and Aredhel chat away with her from the far side of the table on the latest gossip in Tirion; Fingon, Argon, Angrod are obvious with their absences. Harry suspects that they're with Finrod, who'd come with Celebrían.

Harry himself is seated between Celebrían and Gil-galad, wondering faintly how this has become his life. They fortunately don't expect him to know much about the general goings-on as outside the House of Finwë and its retainers, he barely knows anyone here. If only that came with true anonymity, because they need only see his face to immediately know who he is. He rather hates going into the city without his hood pulled up since the staring really needs to stop.

His cup is empty now, tea finished during his musings. The china is daintier that any he's ever seen save perhaps that made by Swiss gnomes. It's hand-painted with carnations in pink, red, and white. Harry belatedly realizes that's the same flower in Celebrían's hair.

"I know you could better," she comments from his right as she notices him inspecting the pattern, "but this set felt appropriate for the occasion. It's my grandmother's."

There's a great deal to unpack in that statement, and Harry honestly isn't sure how to start.

"Ah, that's right," Irimë chimes in next. She seems rather pleased with herself as she adds, "I hear you're an artist."

Harry – who has faced a basilisk, dragon, and Dark Lord – calmly reaches for a sandwich buy himself time. Since really, how would she've heard that? The only ones who'd really know of his hobby are the people in Formenos. And the Ainur, he supposes, but Harry doesn't know if Celebrían regularly gossips with any of them.

"I've some… passing skill," Harry decides and offers a small, self-depreciating smile.

Celebrían giggles behind her hand, but he can see her ears twitch. "Is that what you call it?"

"They said there were murals," Irimë continues, and her voice always has that ring of laughter. The sunshine of her dress isn't nearly as bright as her demeanor.

"I'd only heard about the one," Aredhel insists. She sets down her plate to put her cheek in her empty hand. "In Formenos itself."

Findis answers instead, "There's some in the city proper as well." She takes her time pouring tea in each cup, stately and demure. "There are supposedly plans for a project in the newest section, but no one seems to know the particular details."

The entire table turns to him expectantly.

Harry doesn't shift in his seat like a naughty schoolboy; he doesn't. Nor does he start when Gil-galad's knee brushes against his beneath the table.

The people in his city are free to discuss what they want with who they want, but this is a little ridiculous. He and Melpomaen only picked out the wall before he'd left to come here, and people in Tirion already know about it? Is nothing in Valinor secret?

"That has yet to be decided," Harry allows, and he takes of sip of his newly refilled cup.

"Oh, come now, Hérion," Irimë chides, but it's too merry. "You're just being coy."

He drinks from his tea again. Slow and deliberate. Channeling his inner Minerva McGonagall.

"It's still under consideration."

"I somehow find this hard to believe," Findis responds primly.

Harry merely sets his cup down. His smile is pleasant, neutral. Perfected in too many governor's meetings and Ministry functions.

"It's a matter to contemplate."

Gil-galad chuckles next to him. His knee presses more firmly against Harry's as he leans forward.

"He isn't going to say," he states and seems very delighted by this.

"You're enjoying this too much," Celebrían accuses.

She doesn't throw her napkin across the table, but Harry can tell she's tempted. Her tone is fond though as she reaches for the platter instead. Aredhel just shakes her head, while Findis somehow manages not to roll her eyes. Irimë lets out a sniff.

"Have it your way. I should've known you would side with him," she says. However, it's playful, teasing. "I'm sure someone here will find out eventually." Her eyes dance around the table before lingering on the two males.

Harry pretends not to notice as Celebrían offers another sandwich, and Irimë's attention is soon enough diverted by her sister and niece. Gil-galad smiles at him when she finally looks away and gives a wink.

Harry hides his laugh in his teacup.

Calaquendi - Elves of the light (high elves). Essentially the ones who were present with the Two Trees (the Vanyar, Noldor, Teleri in Aman).

AN: No, Harry, there's no reason to think that anyone in your city is spying on you. No reason at all.

This guy is nice but so effing weird; we need something safe to talk about when people ask – the elves of Formenos, definitely.

Also, borrowing the idea that Valinor doesn't have traditional seasons. Each section is a different permanent season – North is always winter, but Harry's set Formenos up as a haven from that. Does it look like some crazy mix of Hallmark card and faerie tale? Yes, yes, it does.

And fun head canon time, Celeborn and Oropher (Thranduil's father) were both supposed to be kinsmen of Thingol. I always imagine them as brothers (which makes Thranduil the nephew by marriage of Galadriel). They in turn would be the great nephews of Thingol. This makes a crazy family tree, especially for Elrond's kids.

-o.O.o-

-o.O.o-

Hérion – chief (one of the meanings of Cedric).

Marcaunon – ruler of the home (Henry/Harry).

Melpomaen – Figwit.

Laerien – summer daughter.

Ever Hopeful,

Azar